Off the beaten trail: North to Karamoja

Before I left for Karamoja, my friends and editors had dire warnings for me: “Be careful, it’s a war zone up there.” “They don’t wear clothes in Karamoja, you know. Are you ready?” “You’re going to Karamoja by yourself? Don’t you know how long that trip is?”

And so it was with much curiosity that I left the busy streets of Kampala on a 5am bus and set my face towards an area that was once forbidden to American citizens.

As we went further north, the food options at bus stops dwindled considerably. The chapattis disappeared, then the bananas left, followed by the gonja and maize. After Soroti, only long tubes of cassava remained, and vendors were replaced with people crowding around the bus windows begging for food or money and crying out for empty water bottles.

As the food options diminished, the landscape also changed dramatically, becoming flat and dry. Young boys walked with herds of cows on their way to protected kraals for the night. We were somewhere between Soroti and Moroto on a deserted stretch of road when the bus slowed down and stopped. The engine had overheated and everyone got off to wait for a replacement bus.

Now, I have studied what a semi-arid desert is. I have seen it on television and read about it in books. But I have never sat and waited in the short grasses, felt the ants crawl down my pants, gotten the dust in my eyes, or answered nature’s call in a semi-arid desert.


"Beauty Queen" reads the bus bumper as men crawl underneath to fix the engine.

After an hour and a half, a replacement bus can roaring down the road in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes to rescue us and take us to Kotido.

I arrived in Kotido in the late evening and the next morning we took a private car north to Kaabong town, then on to Lokwakoromai, a small Ik village. The Ik, also called the Teuso, live in small villages nestled in the mountains, their huts surrounded by a tall stick fence that is entered by one small opening. We went inside and saw short round huts to store food, women cooking on small fires, and young kids playing quietly. Everyone was extraordinarily friendly and curious about their visitors with cameras and notebooks.

When I took a picture of Komol Tubo, a woman grinding tobacco, and showed her the photo on my digital camera, her face broke into a wide grin and others gathered around, asking me to take their photos as well.

The next day in Kaabong town as I waited for a meeting to begin, I saw a small group of Karamojan in bright costumes dance down the street and proceed to the secondary school. All the sub-counties in Kaabong were gathering for a music, dance, and drama festival. Each sub-county had a representative group, most clad in colourful plaid skirts, beads bouncing on their waists and necks, whistles to direct the dance, and quick smiles.

This Karamoja “war zone” was not between raiders and soldiers but between dance troupes and drama performances. They slung beads over their shoulders instead of guns, and pounded the ground with gravity-defying jumps instead of marching steps. Their bullets were smiles and their arrows were dramatic songs as they competed in culture. The insecurity warnings I heard in Kampala felt light years away.

Back in Kotido, which now felt like a big town, I went with some friends to “sliding rock,” a giant rock slab that slanted sharply down into a pool of green-brown water. A deep but narrow path led straight down the rock, as smooth as glass after thousands of little and big bottoms slid down in glee. My friends and I put a cloth underneath us and sped down the hill, stopping just before the water as we laughed in delight. I have been sliding in snow many times, but sliding down this smooth rock was surprisingly fast and fun.

As the sun set over the low hills in the distance, two young boys climbed the rock, took off their shirts, and used them like a surfboard to cruise down the smooth rock slide. These guys kept their balance as they sped all the way to the bottom as I stared in amazement.

Instead of the insecurity, danger, and threats I expected in Karamoja, I found people working passionately for peace, people with quick laughs, beautiful clothes and beads, and people with a playful spirit despite the existing difficulties.

Beading for beauty

Whistles blow, feet stomp, and an old woman jumps high into the air as a group of Karamoja people gather for a traditional dance in northeastern Uganda. Central to the atmosphere of the energetic circle are colorful beads gracing every waist, forehead, arm, and neck. In Karamoja, beads are beauty. Beads are tradition. And for Safia Nakwang, beads are livelihood.

Nakwang runs a beading shop in Kotido, where she has lived for more than 15 years after moving from Kaabong. She cannot remember when she first started beading, but says she learned it growing up. “It’s my life,” she says. “I just know it. It is a traditional thing. All young warriors how to make beads.” Villagers buy plain beads from her, but town people who don’t know how to sew the beads buy her finished products.

Nakwang’s daughter, Arupei Hindy, is eight years old and walks to her mother’s bead shop after school to make a few items. She started making the beads about a year ago and already knows many designs. Although she doesn’t get paid for her work, her beads that are sold help provide books and food for her and her siblings. “This is what they eat,” Nakwang says metaphorically.

The small shop is full of colourful necklaces, waistbands, earrings, headpieces, tablemats, and other items all carefully made from small seed beads imported from Kenya or Mbale and often sold by Somalis. When business is busy, Nakwang can hire up to 20 people, but when it is slow, she can only afford three to five beaders. Nakwang’s profit follows the seasons and provides for her, her seven children, and eight children from her deceased co-wife. “When hunger is there, nobody buys,” she says. And this year, there is hunger.

To design the beads, Nakwang says she looks for colours that match and patterns that prove popular. “It’s about just being creative. If I put this and that, it will be good,” she says as she points to a bag full of beads. If people buy a particular pattern, she makes more of it.

Some belts feature the colours of Uganda, with vibrant black, yellow and red stripes. Other belts have the black, red and green of Kenya or the red, white and black of Egypt. One large belt even features green, yellow and black with “Jamaika” spelled out in large letters.

Different tribes and clans have their own particular methods of making the bead products. The Dodoth sew the beads onto materials like plastic from jerry cans or Blue Band tubs. The Jie tend to make designs in loose strands. Some tribes form triangle patterns, while others prefer stripes.

Most people in Karamoja wear beads—at least small waist strands—every day. “Even on newborn babies they put some lines,” says Nakwang. “They cannot carry a child without the beads.” When girls are 14 or 15, she says they start wearing beads to attract men so that “the man with cows will come and carry her.”

For special occasions like weddings and dances, individuals wear a full set of beads, which includes earrings, a double necklace and a single small necklace, a head piece, a wide belt, single waist strands in solid colours, arm bands above the elbow, and leg bands on the ankle or calf.

Making the items can be quite time-consuming. Nakwang says a wide waist belt can take up to four whole days, with an entire day spent pricking the plastic bits that separate bead sections. “This work is difficult,” she says. “If you’re in a group, the work is easier. But when you’re alone, it’s tiresome.”

But the long hours pay off when dancers don the beads and display their skills. These beautiful beads capture the essence of a vibrant and proud tradition.

Let the poet come out! - The Lantern Meet of Poets

On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, 30 young people pull their chairs in a large circle at the National Theatre. One man leans forward in his chair and reads a poem called “The Greatest Love Story.” People watch him quietly and listen raptly to a story about a man who tried to love a beautiful woman but wasn’t satisfied.

Mouths drop open in shock as he reads the last line: “He concluded he preferred someone similar to him. / He preferred his own sex.”

This is a meeting of the Lantern Meet of Poets, and the author of this poem, Esther Semakula, says she wrote the poem to play with people’s expectations. “I’m a person who loves to dwell on controversial things,” she says. “Poetry is an expression of people’s thoughts and feelings.”

The Lantern Meet of Poets began meeting in April 2007 with four poets who were passionate about raising the level of writing in Uganda and restoring the value of writers. Now their membership numbers over 60 young poets from different walks of life, and more keep coming every meet.

For the bimonthly meetings, poets bring original poems either based on a theme like identity, love, poverty, or war; or based on a specific structure like sonnets, metaphorical poems, or a specific rhyming scheme. The poems are mixed up and passed out to readers anonymously. A reader recites the poem while the others listen carefully, they critique it with detailed comments, then the moderator asks the poet to come out, and he or she makes final comments on the piece.

“There’s a tendency to be soft on yourself,” says member Gome Emmanuel. “Critique helps you to grow as a writer.” Gome started coming to the meets two years ago and is now a core member. “My poetry has grown,” he says. “I’ve learned to challenge myself. It’s like a crucible—forcing you to get the best out of yourself.”

Peter Kagayi joined the group six months ago and also says his poetry has changed by “leaps and bounds” since then. Before, the only audience for his writing was his family. He had no other avenue. But now he realizes how much he loves poetry. “I understand poetry. It was a hidden talent,” he says. “From that day I’ve never missed a single meet.”

But it’s not just the poetry that changes. Members say writing and reading poetry together also affects their personal beliefs. “When we come and talk about it, my mind is affected and I change the way I think,” says Kagayi. “There’s this general aura of acceptance.” Semakula adds that the meeting on Sunday opened her eyes to different perspectives on the topic sex and sexuality. “It is sex, but we all perceive it in so many different ways,” she explains.

When members bring up harsh critiques, they are able to separate the content of the poem and its stylistic attributes. “I think I like it,” says one member. “It makes all the senses come alive.” Another adds, “The author is writing from very powerful Greek illusions that give it that epic, ancient feel.” Some talk about the structure of the poem while others consider how the audience will react to the work.

The Lantern Meet of Poets occasionally takes its work beyond the Sunday circle of chairs. They are compiling an anthology of their best poems that they hope to publish within a year at a major publishing house. They hope to reach out to schools with poetry workshops and public readings. They also hold free recitals for the public at the National Theatre.

The recitals highlight the best work of these young poets, and show us all that, as Gome says, “Poetry is the thing of the future.”

Land eviction

This is Atono Lovince. Her husband died in 2003, leaving her with six children. She lives in a Kampala suburb and had a small store to sell small fruits, vegetables, airtime, biscuits, etc. The problem is, a developer claims that he owns the right to the land she rents. They gave her about $35 to move, but that's not enough, so she stayed. Last night a group of armed men came at midnight. They broke into her store, beat up her children, stole all the goods, broke down the walls, and told her she has to get out now.

"Pray for me because now I have nothing," she said.


They say you can't understand someone's situation until you've walked in their shoes. But what if they don't have shoes?

Dancing away the pain: refugees sing their stories

In the midst of heart-breaking stories and difficult journeys, music, dance and drama often bubble to the surface in Kyaka II refugee camp. A woman walking down a red dirt road bursts into song in the morning mist. A young woman pounding papyrus keeps the beat with a simple melody. And a group of Congolese men and women gather under a simple shelter to sing and dance their experiences.

This is the Amakemi group, which means “rise up” in Swahili. As a crowd of elderly, young girls, men and women of all ages gather under the shade of trees to listen, the 10 members of the group sing “we are refugees, we have problems. In Africa, people are suffering.”

Charlotte Burungi, the leader of the group, lifts her hands in the air as they continue the song to the beat of a single drum: “We are asking all people to pray so war and torturing is stopped and refugees can return to their motherland.”

Burungi, mother of four children at age 26, fled Congo six years ago after rebels came to her village, burned houses, and slaughtered her neighbors. She began singing when she was six years old, and sang in a church choir in Congo. Although her entire life has been uprooted, she holds onto song and dance.

“When I’m singing, I’m happy,” she says with a slight smile. “But sometimes I’m sad because it reminds us of what’s still happening in Congo.”

The Amakemi group, founded two years ago, composes their own music and centers the lyrics around love. Because war is caused by lack of love, they say, they use their songs to ask people to love each other. If you love, Amakemi sings, you can’t steal, you can’t kill, and you will always have friends. They sing about change, asking their rapt listeners to leave their old violent ways and forget revenge.

This is not the only music and dance group in the camp. Travel along the bumpy red dirt roads, through many green gardens, and past mud huts with plastic and grass roofs, and the Buliti Drama Group comes into sight.

Three young men vigorously beat drums in the centre of a circle of colourfully-clothed women. The women dance around the circle with banana leaves strapped to their waists, stamping their feet, singing with strong voices, and calling out “ai-i-i-i-i-i-!” Babies strapped to some of their backs bounce along with the dance, young children run in and out of the circle as they also play with sticks and tire rims, and men fall in and out of the circle.

Like the Amakemi group, these Congolese are singing about their troubles in Congo, but how happy they are to be in the refugee camp now. They feel peaceful and happy in the camp and are grateful to be there.

The leader is Love, a 42-year-old woman who explains that the group sings and dances together every week for over an hour. Most of them have been in Kyaka for four or five years, and they are not yet ready to return to Congo because the land is still unsettled. They feel good and happy when they sing and dance, she says. It gives them a space to express their joint experiences as refugees. They don’t listen to other kinds of music, because this traditional music is an integral part of their identity. It is a place to show their gratitude, express their emotions, and share their experiences.

So as babies bounce to their mothers’ dances in Buliti Drama Group, and as young and old gather together under the trees to listen to Amakemi, the music and dance in Kyaka refugee camp—a place for the homeless and rejected—rings out loud and clear.

Milégé Afro Jazz Band: Proud to sound Ugandan

Seven young new faces graced the stage at the Bayimba Festival this year under the banner of Milégé Afro Jazz Band. With an energy that pulled the crowd to its feet, the band filled the air with African pulses, jazz chords, and a fusion of Ugandan sounds.

This is what they call “Afro-traditional music with a bias to jazz,” says manager and guitarist Manana Birabi Francis. “It has the basics of jazz music, but you feel the influence of our Africanness, our African cultural sounds.”

The band’s name “Milégé” comes from an ankle rattle from the Luo people. The band centers their sound on this bell-like and airy sound from the north, but adds in jazz elements and other Ugandan sounds.

Humble beginnings
Milégé is a new group still planning the path before them. It all started when Francis caught a “crazy obsession with guitar,” he explains. After performing with only basic chords in a festival, he says, “I got this interest in music, and I started playing every day of my life, up until now.” Friends gave him tips, he watched shows, joined a church band, and practiced obsessively. Little lessons every day culminated to substantial growth each year, and he began playing in various bands.

But the life of a musician is not an easy one, and he found a cold shoulder from professional groups. He spoke with three other friends who had similar experiences, and they decided to form their own ensemble. Together as partners, they found the freedom to play whatever music they like and make their own rules.

“I’ve found a home in the band,” says Francis. “It’s not just a band. It’s family. It’s not just playing music or making money. We believe in cultivating good relationships amongst each other as a band.”

The four partners spent two months talking through the details and laying the groundwork for Milégé Afro Jazz Band. Although the original vision was for an all-girls band, Francis found that women instrumentalists were not easy to find. The four formed a structure that allowed for new members to join and work their way into the band based on their level of commitment and dedication. They talked through the importance of maintaining family relationships and allowing absences due to family functions. They discussed how to minimize discrimination so that everyone has an equal chance.

They all agreed that they wanted Milégé to be one band and one brand. Instead of being centered around a vocalist and pulling in instrumentalists from other bands, guitarist Elaine Alowo Obbo explains that they “came up with a structure to build a brand and a product, to grow as a family.” They are more than individual musicians who happen to play on the same stage; they are a partnership, a band as a single entity.

At the same time, they make sure that members can pursue their own professions in order to support themselves outside of the band. “We have to hold on to our professions so we can determine what kind of music to play,” Elaine says. They did not want the pressure of the market to mold them into a particular genre.

Instead of being a weakness, the band’s side jobs have become a strength. Elaine, a lawyer for Shonubi Musoki & Co., develops the band’s contracts. Dinah Oundo, studying commerce and ACCA, organizes the band’s finance and accounts. Assimwe Paul, studying fine art, develops the band’s media and brand management. Their individual talents work together as a single unit.

The sound
Milégé Afro Jazz Band is after a new, creative sound. They compose their own pieces, slowly working through new combinations—jazz piano solo first, perhaps some vocal improvisation, Muganda drumming next, or maybe a bass solo before that—blending together each member’s unique contributions. Elaine says it’s like baking a cookie. “Everyone has this cookie that they can make,” she says. “And they all have these special ingredients that they bring. Everybody just puts your special ingredient in the pot.” The resulting pieces are infused with jazz, African rhythms, Ugandan languages, and an improvisational feel.

Their musical influences range from Geoffrey Oryeem to Hugh Maseka, Jonathan Butler, Soul Beat, and Erik Clapton. Above all, they want to create a change and show people the pride and beauty of Ugandan sounds.

“We want to create a change,” says Elaine. “For Ugandans to sing and be proud to sound Ugandan. Why aren’t we proud to sell that sound to the world? We need to do that.”

Herman Ssewanyana, the founder of African fusion band Percussion Discussion, says there are challenges for new bands to “do more for the world to understand,” but he says that Ugandans should get to hear jazz and listen to original music. “I support Milégé, and I’d like them to go far,” he says.

Milégé Afro Jazz Band may be just getting their feet wet in the East African musical community, but if the Bayimba Festival is any indicator, they are one band that will rock the music scene and push creative Ugandan fusion music to new heights.

Four wheels, no gas, and ruts galore

Every day I take at least four matatus—15-passenger vans/taxis that often squeeze in 20 people on the bench seat—from home in Kanyanya to work in Namuwongo. It’s about an 80 minute commute in the morning, and up to 100 minute commute on the way home, depending on the traffic jams. So in that time, there’s a lot that can happen. Like…

--I was riding home one night when we hit a rut or something and ka-THUNK! it sounds like the floor dropped out of the matatu. The conductor was concerned, and you know when he’s concerned, that’s trouble. We limped back to the road under a warning—mpola, mpola (slowly, slowly). I thought surely we would stop for a fix-it job, but we continued on the main road with the floor rattling like hell underneath. I laughed with the others as we all rolled our eyes.

--One afternoon I was in a taxi with some friends. We were going along fine when the driver pulled over and stopped. No one was getting out, but the conductor pulled half a water bottle out of a little hole in the floor, walked back and stuck it in the gas task, then opened the back of the taxi and brought out a yellow jerry can of gas. He poured the gas through the water bottle funnel, put it all back, and off we went again.

--Late one evening I was riding a boda boda (motorcycle taxi which I ride frequently), going up a hill, when we started slowing down and finally came to a stop. It was dark and on a quiet stretch of road, and I didn’t know what was going on. The driver unscrewed the gas tank and peeped in. He jiggled the bike some and tried to start it up again. No luck. Then he asked me to get off. He laid the bike on its side and jostled it around, trying to get the last drips of gas. After righting it, we both got on, it started flawlessly, and we were off again. Perfect.

The commute is quite exhausting, but I do see a lot of LIFE happen as we go by. I can’t read because the roads are too bumpy, so I look out the window at little kids brushing their teeth, men selling chapatti at little tables by the road, and women sweeping the dust out of their yards.

Tales from a refugee camp

Last week I traveled to a refugee camp in western Uganda with a reporter. We were there to document "MakaPads," a project of refugees that makes sanitary pads from all-natural materials for women in the camps. I took over 700 photos in two days, and was overwhelmed with stories from people we met. These are not easy, light stories either.

Ibrahim is from Congo. He fled from the war after his father, mother, and whole family was killed. He’s been in the camp for five years now, and has no plans to return home since Congo is still conflict-ridden. He’s trained as a carpenter, but there’s no market for expensive furniture in a refugee camp, and no jobs outside. He used to dig a garden to keep his wife and child fed, but the school fees he’d like to complete his secondary education are just not attainable. Now he’s working at MakaPads, but that doesn’t pay particularly well.

Then there’s the family of Rwandan refugees who were just leaving the camp to be repatriated in Rwanda. They were going through medical checks and loading their few possessions into a huge UNHCR truck. The prime minister recently gave an ultimatum for all Rwandan refugees to return to their homeland by July 31. Last chance, people. But they’ve been here since the genocide in 1994 and have built up their lives on the fertile soil of Western Uganda. Fifteen years away from your land in such a small country as Rwanda, who knows if you’ll be able to reclaim the land you had before? And last time you were there, your tribe was hacking to death thousands of people with pangas (machetes)… Now the victims are in power, seeking justice, maybe revenge, and will be your neighbors.

And there’s Love, an older Congolese refugee who’s the leader of a music and dance troupe. She composed the songs they danced for us last week, singing about the horrors of Congo and how grateful they are to be in this peaceful land where they can settle and dig.

I’ve heard stories like these before, but the thing is, I’ve never shaken their hands or danced and laughed with them. I’ve never looked the 20,000 refugees in this one camp in the eye and asked if they have a family here. Or, had. And I’ve never walked the red dirt roads of a refugee camp, breathed in the dust, and seen the mud and wood houses. I’ve never eaten their food and pooped in their latrines.

It’s strange to be in the midst of the camp, hearing all these stories, with my snazzy camera, little notebook and pen that jots down names and observations, and my tidy attire. Because at the end of the day, I can drive away and return to the land of freedom, of choice. I go back to a hotel with electricity and choice of clothes for tomorrow. Then at the end of this month, I'm going to fly away to a land that is an utmost dream for so many here, and I can struggle with a decision to go for a PhD or get a job writing about music in the city of my choosing.

I think freedom is really about choice. I’m grateful for this freedom. I truly am. I’m not going to ditch my degree and go live in Kyaka refugee camp in order to identify with these people. No. But I am going to use my skills and freedoms for others, to help others. I don’t know how, but I’m going to start by taking good pictures that tell the stories well, and writing interesting stories that convey the dignity of the people.

[Pictures coming once I sort them all out!]

Sculptural Expressions on HIV/AIDS

Dr. Lilian Nabulime has been creating art every since she was a young girl, studying sculpture, drawing and painting from primary school all the way to a PhD at the University of Newcastle in the UK. Her exhibition Sculptural Expressions: Women and HIV/AIDS is on display at the Makerere Fine Arts Gallery from May 19 until July 31. I interviewed her about the driving force behind her artwork and what alights her passions.

What inspires your art?
It is the interest. I love sculpture. I love modeling. I love using my hands, to touch, to feel. I think I enjoy coming up with new ideas, transforming them. I really like that. I enjoy doing things. Even when there are challenges, then that helps me find out ways to overcome them.

What drives your theme for this exhibit?
I think at one time I was going through an experience. I was sad. When I went to Newcastle University, the first thing I said was, ‘let me read about men and HIV/AIDS.’ And when I read about men and HIV/AIDS, I realized I had been affected. My husband had been diagnosed with HIV/AIDS in 1998, and then it was tough caring for him. He was in denial. It was tough. And then I remember seeking help and I wasn’t getting the right help. I realized it was our own problem, me and him. No one would come out and help us...

So I thought let me do my research on women and HIV/AIDS and infections, to develop sculpture that could warm women on HIV/AIDS infections and encourage them to talk to avoid becoming victims. Or even if they are not infected, at least to warn their children. There is need for mothers to know how to bring up this subject to their children. It’s not easy to talk about such issues with children. So I thought it would be good to develop sculptures that would encourage women to talk.

What challenges do you face as an artist in Uganda?
This is the first time I’m exposing my work. When I was developing my research, because it was people living with HIV/AIDS and the vulnerable and poor people, they were very receptive. But the ones who are educated, I think they feel shy. They are not very receptive like the other group of people. Either they are shy or they just don’t feel like talking. Most of my subjects are very direct, regarding infection. And as a taboo, people don’t find it very comfortable to talk, to discuss. But at the same time the work is interesting, so by the time you’re drawn into it, you enjoy the work, and afterwards you realize you’re on subjects which are not easy to talk about.

What’s the future of HIV/AIDS in Uganda?
I think you keep on wondering why these infections are going on, are increasing. For me, it is having direct messages and being open and frank. Why don’t you come with the direct messages which show the reality of HIV/AIDS? So that people are threatened and reminded that this is a killer disease. People need strong messages which hit them right up and they see this is a destructive disease.

What life lessons have you learned as an artist?
Through art you can express your feelings, and through art you can touch other people’s lives. People don’t necessarily have to be educated. Once the work object is there and if it is attractive, it draws in people and they start asking questions. As they are asking, the information is being passed on and they are also giving you ideas. So it is not a one-way track.

You are able to learn about other people’s lives and experiences. And for me, I was able to learn about lives and experiences of vulnerable people, and especially those who have been infected and affected by HIV/AIDS. Through my art I was able to draw feelings and experiences of these people’s experiences, and that also made my work become stronger.

Even when I was in the UK, much as I had the influence of Western artists, but inside me, still I knew I was doing the work for the African. I was carrying my cultural knowledge and beliefs within the work I was doing. So much as I was getting those ideas, I still had to add on my African cultures because I knew the work was for Africans.

What’s in your future?
I still have an obligation. Because when I was doing that research, I realized the women were poor. Without fighting poverty, HIV cannot end. If women are poor, they will still be exposed to the vulnerable factors…

All I know is I have to give something to the women I did research with. Because they talk about their children--they worry too much about their children, their school fees. So honestly, I feel that it’s not right if I’m selling and I don’t remember their problems. And at the same time they also made contributions to my research. So I can give back when I sell some of my work.

[I'm having trouble uploading photos, but there are some of Dr. Nabulime in the slideshow to the left.]