Nyakabande Refugee Camp

Nyakabande Refugee Camp

Sorry about not posting this sooner. I have been sick for over a week now and have not been in a writing mood. I figure it is about time I get these experiences down in writing before I forget the vividness of them.
I recently traveled out west to Kisoro with my friends Simone and Angelica (both by the way, extremely driven, passionate and fun to be around) from December 22-29. We ventured out to Nyakabande Refugee; a small UNHCR reception camp amongst the rolling hills, mountains and volcanoes of western Ugandan; a hidden beauty cornered in between Rwanda to the south and the Democratic Republic of Congo to the near west. The camp is just kilometers from the border of DRC where Nkunda and Kony are imposing bloodshed and destruction on the lives of so many innocent people.

My understanding is that fighting in the DRC stems mainly from lack of government attention to the development of western DRC, with full focus on development in the East where all the minerals and resources exist. Nkunda has formed a Tutsi rebel army that is creating havoc in the region as a revenge response to the DRC governments support in Hutu fighting in the Rwandan genocide. Kony on the other hand, a man who seems to have no determined mission, is killing and causing disruption for his own evil fancies. There exists genuinely evil people in this world, who just like to sit back and watch the world burn, and this man is one of them. So engrained in his killing spree, this man has become disillusioned, continuing on this path of destruction and continuously declining peace deals for fear of getting snatched and tried by the International Criminal Court in the Hague. He is basically only willing to cease the killing if he is given a clean slate and his countless war crimes erased, which only furthers his disillusionment as this will never be a viable solution. I hate to say this, but someone literally just needs to go in and put this man to rest, for any chance of diplomatic solution seems lost. This would also seem true with Mugabe's endless reign and utter disregard for the people of Zimbabwe who have seen the development of their country and hope for a bright future go down the drain with Mugabe's greed, lack of leadership, mass hubris, and constant cop-out of blaming all current problems on England, claiming that England has planted cholera in Zimbabwe killing thousands as a biological weapon. Again I hate to say it, but this man should be put to rest, as no diplomatic solution is present to convince him to relinquish his power over the country. Absolute power DOES corrupt absolutely. Enough of getting off topic, back to the camp…

The choice of volunteering in a refugee camp over the Christmas break was by far one of the best decisions I have ever made. The experience has touched me to the core and has left a lasting impression on my heart and soul that I will never forget. Arriving in Kisoro, we were unsure of what was to come, what role we would be given and what kind of impact we would be able to make in a week; such a short amount of time. Arriving after a 12 hour bus ride across Uganda, through National parks with zebra hiding in the distance, along thin Cliffside roads that meandered through the mountains, laced with 18 wheeler trucks that took bends around the mountains too sharply, tipped over, spilling their contents. I felt at times that our bus too would meet that fate, as we zoomed at unthinkable speeds on windy roads, whaling our irksome horn to warn on-comers of our giant, cumbersome race car approaching. The views from the bus were heavenly; sunrises summiting over cloud-filled valleys, peaks glistening with dew, endless hillsides as far as the eye could stretch. I felt like I was on top of the world, blessed with landscapes that are only imagined in movies like Lord of the Rings. As I sat in the back of that bus, looked out, time seemed to freeze, all thoughts ceased to exist, and my heart opened like a beacon, with great emotions of feeling connected and evermore thankful consistently building in that moment. I had never felt like that before.

Arriving in the town, we were met from the bus with a frenzy of motorcycle drivers, all asking repeatedly where we were headed, if they could take our things. Sitting for 12 hours in a crammed seat from 7PM-7AM, with no sleep, all I wanted to do was stretch my legs and get some space so I could let out all the gas that had built up along the trip. Hahahaha. I desperately needed fresh air, as in all truth I believe the child who was sleeping at my feet had soiled himself throughout the night, and my nose filled with putrid smells the entire night, needed a break to take in some fresh air. Not to bring humour to the situation of a child who shat himself, but with grasshopper season still in full swing, I could identify that smell from a mile away. It smelled like my lizard cage the day after a mass feeding of crickets. If I close my eyes right now, I can still think of that smell. YUCK haha! Another humorous part of the bus trip was the chicken under the chair in front of me. Anytime I would move my feet or get resituated, I would be met by screams and “bukok” sounds.. All in all with the smell of cricket dump, the sound of chickens, and the sardine-esque seating conditions, all topped with freezing cold air (and with no sweater to wear at the moment), it was once again an exciting travel experience I wont forget. This is getting way too detailed; I haven’t even started volunteering yet.. Hope you like to read, this is going to be a novel of a post. Haha

We stayed at Virunga, a quaint little hostel guest house which frequents tourists who come to the area to go gorilla trekking; one of Uganda’s most lucrative tourist ventures. Just to get a permit to see the gorillas can take months and can cost 400+USD. Rather pricey. Jane Goodall could have made a fortune. Haha good thing she has a good heart. The hostel had off and on hot water, a wide open bathroom only covered with a little floor matt hanging from the entrance, a cat that turned your leg into a best friend, squatter toilets that caused 3AM stiff legs as you tried to do your business, and a vegetable curry that would put Indian cooks to shame. Mmmm It was a great place to stay.

Our mornings to the camp were my favourite time of day. We would walk down to the town centre, met by an entourage of 20 or so motorcycle drivers who would all start their engines and race over to us (as if it were possible for 3 person to take them all) surround us and shout out that they were the one to take you “Hey don’t take him, he is young, inexperienced, and can’t balance well on the bike. Take me.” It always added some comic relief to the day. The drive to the camp took about 10-15 minutes, cost about a dollar, and was pure serenity. Speeding along dirt roads in our entourage of motorcycles, the warmth of the sun on your neck, dust heaps making your eyelashes crusted with dirt, incredible hillsides, through markets and small village towns, children running to the roadside to wave; it was blissful and I was able to be fully in the moment.

Work at the camp was hit or miss. Nyakabande is a reception and registration camp. Refugees travel for up to 3 weeks from the DRC, some without eating for days, cross the border and make their way to Nyakabande. On average there were about 100-150 people there per day, depending on the day. Every 2 days or so, if there were enough people to fill a bus, they would be sent off to one of Uganda’s more permanent refugee settlements (Mutanda in Isasha, or Nakavali near Mbarara). Therefore with people being sent every 2 days or so, some of the days there were extremely slow with little to do in terms of productive work. On those slow days I would bury cow dung to prevent cholera, fold tarps, inspect tents, clean up garbage and wait for more people to come.

On the days that people were there it was go go go, activities all day, which was nice to be busy for once, after sitting in an office for 6 months with little to do. Our main role was events coordination. The UNHCR head of the camp was keen on occupying the children and keeping them active to get their minds engaged and to help them try and forget about the awful experiences they had just gone through. As well to keep the kids active so the parents could relax a bit and collect themselves after such a long journey. It was always a difficult moment with people arriving. You could see in their eyes that they still had fear remaining after their long journey, but at the same time were reluctant and thankful to have made it to the care and safety/security that was provided by UNHCR and the Red Cross; a final sigh of relief. Once they had settled, cooked a communal meal of corn/cassava porridge and boiled beans, the children began to fill with excitement, and you could see that wonderful playful nature of being a kid return in full swing. With the simple roll of a ball into a group of children, games would spark like wildfire. We played endless games of football (soccer), built mock villages out of volcanic rock, ran relay races (thought I was going to die after not exercising for so long), had math lessons, taught English through point and tell style teaching and learned iikinyibreisha, had my arm hair stroked by hundreds (apparently I am extremely odd for being so hairy), organized all kinds of sing alongs, taught the chicken dance and the Macarena and a whole bunch more.

The second day we were there, we had little to do, so the three of us bought some mandazi (donuts.. I swear these were little drops of heaven) and set off to climb a hill we saw in the distance. Little did we know the hill was further then we thought and a lot taller then we thought as well. We walked through random farms, down paths through tiny villages and along the way, collected a gathering of about 12 kids and a 100+ pigmy man. When entering the little village, he came down as agile as a cat, dancing, singing and bouncing his sholders at us, and then proceeded to walk the next 10 minutes holiday my hand and asking me questions; all of which I understand nothing. We gather more people along the way, who ended up being our climbing guides. This hill was set up as a giant terrace farm, with each terrace being about 8 feet vertically apart, which made the climb a challenge. Holding on to long grass, and slipping everywhere we went, we slowly made our way up this steep hill. The little pigmy grandpa outdid us all, didn’t break a sweat and wasn’t even out of breath. He climbed that hill as if he was taking a peaceful stroll down a boardwalk. One of the kids told me he may be as old as 120. Wouldn’t surprise me. We made it to the top, with angelica belting out “This is the last damn time I climb anything with white people. Y’all are crazy” (in her new york city accent). We sat on top for an hour, looking out at the breathtaking views of the DRC, Rwanda and Uganda and soaked it up like a sponge. We descended down the other side of the hill, a much easier path, reached the bottom, and then were met with 15 people asking us to pay them for hiking. We picked up our pace, explained it was not possible to pay everyone, reach the break in the village where could see the refugee camp, handed the old pigmy man our last bunch of mandazi, and parted ways. Climbing that hill and seeing the fruits of our labour to get to the top has fueled my fire to climb mt. elgon out east before returning home to Canada. Can’t wait.

My favourite moment was Christmas day, with church on the volcanic plane. I had no idea what the pastor was saying but enjoyed my time sharing crazy faces with the kids and laughing. After church there was a big communal singing/dancing circle of about 40 people. A smaller circle gathered inside the larger circle, dancing around to the songs people were whaling out with smiles. I had an urge to jump in and got right in there, forming a communal conga-line in the circle. The energy I felt in that moment was life changing. I had never felt so alive, so extremely in the moment, so carefree of the thoughts of others. I felt part of the group and it felt intensely grounding. Smiles were exchanged, laughs and dancing. It was beautiful!! A man in the center of the circle, pounding out soulful beats with sticks on a jerry can with a 2 year old girl dancing her heart out just centimeters away from the flailing sticks. The moment felt like something I could only conjure in a dream. It was perfect.

With all the joy of soulfully connecting deeply with people who had just gone through a living nightmare, I gained perspective. It was an endless surprise to me to see how people could return so quickly to being happy again. One woman had lost her husband because he was killed for being a different ethnicity. She traveled for weeks with her four children, and yet here she was, in a land not her home, with only the clothes on her and her children’s backs, and she was full of spirit, full of joy, was hopeful for positive changes to come to her life. I will never forget that. It made me think so much about how we sweat the littlest things back home. How we become aggravated and quarrel with others over nothing and how unthankful we can be back home about the blessings we have been bestowed with. I hope I wont forget what I learned there, and will from now on try and count my blessings, give thanks and feel content in the many different moments that life brings along the path. They reminded me that no matter what happens, the grass can be greener wherever you are, whatever is going on, if you consciously make it that way.

I left Kisoro with the smiling faces etched into my mind, and the warmth of their hearts as they reached out and let me be one with them. I will never forget this experience.