The Day I Fought the River Nile

 If you are ever in Africa and someone says to you, “Hey, here’s a great idea; let’s go whitewater rafting on the Nile!” you should really, really, really think hard about it before you say yes.  Otherwise you find yourself submerged under the rapids, swirling around like a dishrag in a washing machine thinking, “Wow, maybe I didn’t really think this through,” as you try to figure out which way is up.

That is how I found myself, on a Saturday afternoon, bobbing around in the Nile somewhere between Jinja and Egypt, waiting for a Ugandan in a kayak to rescue me and bring me back to our overturned raft.

That morning, Andrea (a visiting med student from Uof T) and I took a bus to Jinja, the second largest city in Uganda and also the home of the Source of the Nile. The rafting place was busy with mostly tourists -easy to spot because we’re all white.We paid our money and signed the waiver which, in retrospect, I should have read more closely although the guide summed it up quite simply when he said, “This here pretty much says that if you die, it’s not our fault.”

We suited up with our lifejackets, helmets, and paddles and were divided into groups based on whether you were looking for a ‘mild’ or ‘wild’ ride.  Of course we chose wild because we’re Canadians, and Canadians are hardcore.

Our guide was a Ugandan named Roberto with a full head of dreadlocks. He affectionately referred to us as “my team” and taught us the basic instructions. When Roberto yelled, “Paddle forwards my team,” we paddled forward. When he shouted “Paddle backwards my team,” we paddled backwards.  Seems easy enough, right?

Sure; if you’re Canadian, grew up around water and learned how to paddle a canoe at an early age, but not so much for the 6 other Ugandan girls that made up our rafting team and had never paddled anything in their lives. So, when Roberto yelled, “Paddle forwards my team!” it essentially wound up being Team Canada that propelled the raft forwards while our teammates dipped their paddles in the water.

We then went over what to do if the raft flipped. As Roberto explained, when he yells, “Get down!” we all crouch down in the raft and hold onto the rope that lines it. If the raft does flip, all you have to do is keep holding on to the rope and you won’t float away from the boat. If you come up under the boat, all you have to do is feel around for the air pockets that will be under there, then pop your head up inside one so you can breathe. And, if you happen to let go of the boat, all you have to do is hold your breath, stay calm and wait for the rapids to spit you up again.  Again, seems easy enough, right?

Wait, did I mention that our non-paddlers also didn’t know how to swim?

We set off; two naïve but hardcore Canadians and six non-paddling, non-swimming Ugandans along with our trusty dreadlocked guide Roberto to brave the mighty Nile.

The plan was to do seven rapids before lunch and four rapids after. The rapids ranged from Grade 2-5, where Grade 5 means that you’re for sure going to flip. We started paddling toward the first rapid, and Roberto had to yell at us to “Paddle forward my team! Paddle forward!” as we all pre-emptively started to crouch as we neared the rapid.  You hear the roar long before you even get close to it, and it’s hard to keep paddling towards a churning waterfall when every instinct is telling you to crouch down into the raft for safety!  Finally Roberto gave us the signal to get down.  I closed my eyes as a wall of water crashed down on us. I felt the raft raise and tip to my left as a wave came up from under the right side.  I held on to the safety rope with one hand and my paddle with the other as we lurched up and down and got pummeled with walls of water from all directions. And then it was over, and I was alive!

We had to paddle in between rapids which was a serious workout. (Travel tip: If ever doing rafting, ensure your team is made of competent paddlers). Every once in a while we would take a break and go for a swim in the Nile. I was assured that there were no crocodiles or hippos to worry about (although Google later told me that this is exactly where they live).

We could hear the roar of the next rapid as we approached it, but we were still pumped from our previous victory that we paddled towards it with no fear.  And this is where I learned that the Nile is definitely something to be feared. It all happened so fast that if it weren’t for the pictures, I wouldn’t even be able to explain it to you. We entered the rapid and got the usual beating, but some massive wave caught us from the side sending our raft completely vertical.  The next thing I knew I was under water. 

I don’t know exactly what it’s like to ride in a washing machine, but I can imagine that it is similar to this.  I held my breath as the current tumbled me around.  Then I think I went through the equivalent of the spin cycle and was left with no idea which way was up.  I was starting to run out of air when finally my life jacket popped me up to the surface….under the boat! I felt my helmet hit the boat and tried not to panic, but really, what else is there to do when you’re trapped under a boat trying to fight the Nile. I felt around for these so called air pockets in which you are supposed to find safety and oxygen.  But here’s the problem with those air pockets: the water under them is the same turbulent water that’s bashing you around outside of them.  I stuck my head up and opened my eyes just in time to see a wave come smashing into my face. I gulped a half and half mixture or air and water and was back under the river again. 

Now I was just getting mad. I’d been tossed around, trapped under a boat and clobbered by wave after wave, and I was really starting to miss being able to breathe.  But there’s no way to fight the Nile, even when you’re really ticked off about the way you’re getting beaten up.  All you can do is hope to hold your breath long enough so that you can survive to say terrible things about it afterwards. Finally, after what felt like 5 minutes but was probably closer to 20 seconds, the river spit me out somewhere downstream. I floated around thanking the good Lord for oxygen while I waited for a kayak to come and pick me up. The rest of our Ugandan teammates were scattered all over the place, and I swam over to one who looked seriously traumatized. The kayakers picked up all the non-swimming Ugandans first and left us water-faring Canadians floating around, or had us swim back to the boat while they rescued the others.

After my brush with death, I clung to the raft as if my life depended on it (which it sort of did) every time we approached a rapid. Despite this, I was thrown from the raft during another set and found myself being tossed around once again. How anyone manages to actually remain hanging on to the raft while they're falling out, flipped over, and being pummeled by water is beyond me.

Then, we came to the final and most terrifying rapid of the day. Appropriately named “The Bad Place”, this is what it looked like.

(Image from ugandandiary.blogspot.com) 

As Roberto explained to us as we approached the churning water, there are two different currents. One takes you right through the middle of The Bad Place, which they call '100%' because it is for sure going to trash your boat and dump you in the river. The other current they call '50/50' because you may or may not get tossed. To avoid getting swept into the 100% you have to paddle like crazy so the current doesn’t drag you - then you’ll end up in the 50/50.

Andrea and I looked at each other, looked at our teammates and looked back at each other as we realized that our fate was in the hands of our 6 non-paddling friends. After a serious pep-talk with our team where we emphatically spoke of our love of being alive and how we would like to stay that way, we paddled towards The Bad Place.

My heart was pounding, and I am fairly certain that the feeling I had is what people are talking about when they speak of "sheer terror". Roberto yelled “Paddle forward my team!” and I started paddling like I’ve never paddled before. I paddled as fast and hard as my little chicken arms could paddle.  Amidst the roar of the rapids I could hear Andrea yelling, “Paddle hard! Paddle hard!” as we prayed that our team was doing more than dipping their paddles in the water to keep us from being sucked in to the 100%. A wall of water crashed into me. I closed my eyes and paddled harder, silently reminding God that I was too young to go yet. Our raft took a serious beating, tipping and keeling as we were thrown from side to side with each wave that swamped us. I thought for sure that this was the end of Laura Cranna.

And then, by some miracle, we emerged from The Bad Place – alive and still in the raft. There are no words to describe our elation as Andrea and I looked at each other and realized that we had survived, but the picture below nicely captures our joy expressed by a victorious Canadian fist pump.

And that, friends, is the story of the day I fought the Nile - and won.

What I've Been Doing For The Last 3 Weeks

It’s been a while since I last wrote something on here (as my wonderful Mom has reminded me many, many times), so I feel that I should make my reappearance by telling you what exactly has kept me so busy for the last 3 weeks.

The reason that I am over in Uganda in the first place is to intern to an organization called Save the Mothers which was started by Dr. Jean Chamberlain. Dr. Chamberlain is an obstetrician and director of the international womens health program at McMaster University who has dedicated her life to making pregnancy and childbirth safer in the developing world. She is also my boss, and she is awesome.

To give you an idea about why a program like Save the Mothers is so desperately needed, take a minute and consider this fact: In a typical North American city 1 in 4,000 women die in childbirth; in sub-Saharan Africa it’s 1 in 16.

I will write a whole other blog about these stats and the conditions of childbearing here in Uganda because to try and squeeze it in here would not give it justice. Suffice it to say that even when I was standing in the middle of the maternity ward surrounded by labouring women lying on the ground for lack of beds and others practically delivering babies in hallways, I could barely believe what I was seeing. It is no wonder that 6,000 Ugandan women will die this year simply for having a child. 

The understaffed, underequipped hospitals are not the only problem. The lack of transportation and lack of roadways only compounds it. Imagine being 4 hours into labour, hemorrhaging and having to ride 10 kilometers on the back of a bicycle on dirt roads to get to the nearest hospital. This is why many women are half dead by the time they arrive for help. Once they arrive at the hospital, they better hope that they remembered to bring their own gloves, drugs, and razor blade to cut the umbilical cord or else they’ll be out of luck. I could keep going, but I’ll leave it at that to give you just a glimpse of what it is like to have a baby in Uganda.

It is these factors (and many others that I’ll tell you about in another blog) that prompted Dr. Jean to start the Save the Mothers program in order to address the staggering maternal death rates. Save the Mothers is an international program that trains local professionals from developing countries in order to aid them in addressing maternal mortality from their own sphere of influence. 

It is clear that mothers dying in labour is a multi-faceted tragedy, extending far beyond the issues of the hospitals. There is great need to improve roads, policies, community education, funding, transportation etc. Thus, by educating professionals from all these areas about maternal morbidity and mortality Save the Mothers hopes to improve maternal and child health by addressing it from all angles. This is done by offering a Master of Public Health in Leadership (MPHL) degree to local professionals from all kinds of backgrounds.

And so, for the last 3 weeks I have been working in a classroom with 34 professionals from Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda and D.R. Congo as they began their first term in the Save the Mothers MPHL Program.

Our students are awesome. On the first day of classes we went around and introduced ourselves, said where we were from and why we were here. I was Laura, a nurse from Canada who had come to help out with Save the Mothers. I was the only person in the entire room who did not have a personal experience with maternal death. In fact, when I think about it, I have never in my life heard of a mother dying in childbirth back home.

As we went around the room and our students told about their professions, ranging from social worker to MP to journalist to teacher, they also told about their experiences with the tragedies of childbearing. I heard about women who had almost lost their own lives or that of their baby, men who had lost a sister or aunt and communities who had lost friends and neighbours. Recently, a Ugandan council member and her baby died during delivery after waiting 8 hours for an emergency C-section.

It was heartbreaking to hear their stories but so incredibly moving to see that they had all enrolled in this program with a passion to see a change in this disturbing trend and the desire to be a part of this through whatever way they can.

The terms are 3 weeks long, during which time the students come and stay on campus. It’s set up this way so that they can keep their jobs back home and use their vacation time to come here for classes. Since there is an entire semester compressed into 3 weeks, classes run from 8-5 Monday through Saturday. It’s a marathon of learning.  Luckily I like marathons and I love learning.

My days for the last 3 weeks have started early - up before 6 and at the track by 6:20 (oh ya, I’m training for a marathon; read future blogs for details) By 7:45 I was in the classroom setting up the AV equipment and getting everything ready for the lecturers. And then, until 5:30, I’d be in that classroom helping students, administering quizzes, assisting with field trips and doing whatever else needed to get done that day.

The courses during this term were Public Health, Epidemiology, Bioethics, Leadership, Project Planning and Foundations of Safe Motherhood. The lecturers were from a wide variety of backgrounds including physicians, statisticians, PhDs, and we even had a Canadian epidemiologist, Dr. Rob Alder, from UWO lecturing for a week. It’s really great because even though I’m here to help with running the program, I’ve learned a ton just by sitting in the back of the classroom.  Free education is awesome.

So, that is why for the last 3 weeks I have been terrible at blogging, emailing, and everything else that was not school related. It didn’t help that the place I was staying didn’t have internet. But now I’m back in my room on campus (I moved out because the students needed to stay here) and I’ve got a LOT to catch you up on!

Coming soon: ‘The Day I Almost Died on the Nile’ and ‘What It’s Like to Train for a Marathon on a Dirt Track in the Middle of an African Rainy Season’.  Stay tuned.

The Trouble With Roosters

The trouble with roosters is this: they don’t distinguish between weekdays and weekends. The result is that here, there is no such thing as sleeping in.
Ever.

The first few nights in Uganda I barely slept. When I did finally sleep, I would wake up frequently at every new sound. I remember a similar thing happened the first few nights sleeping in my new apartment in downtown London. Eventually, of course, I got used to the traffic and sirens and slept with no problems. This is the case here, too. However, instead of traffic and sirens, I’ve finally been able to ignore the birds and bugs and animals and everything thing else - except for roosters. Every day, including weekends, I wake up to the sound of not one, but several roosters crowing... before the sun has even come up! This is the other trouble with roosters; they’re too eager.
I’m hoping that this is another one of those things that I’ll get used to. Not getting up at the crack of dawn, but learning to tune out the cock-a-doodles at 4:30 in the morning. Maybe I just haven’t adjusted entirely yet. Maybe roosters are the last thing that one adjusts to, on account of the complete absence of them at home.

Thankfully, I have managed to get used to most of the other daily events. I no longer get tangled up while sleeping under my mosquito net. In fact, I kind of like it. It’s sort of like sleeping in a fort, and really, who doesn’t like sleeping in forts?

I’ve adjusted the pace at which I walk. Time is irrelevant in Africa. Things get done whenever they get done, and as long as you show up within 2-4 hours of when you were expected, you’re still pretty much on time. I walk much slower now, and it really is quite nice. Back home I used to zip out to the store, run around and quickly check off all the things on my list. I could be there and back in less than 15 minutes. Here, I mosey down the dirt roads. I browse up and down the aisles; I stop and chat with bodaboda drivers. It takes me an hour to pick up powdered milk from a store less than two kilometers away.

I’ve learned that pedestrians do not have the right of way. In fact, when you’re walking on the road (because there’s no such thing as sidewalks) it’s your job to stay out of the way of everyone else. Essentially, whoever is driving the biggest vehicle has the right of way. So, when calculating whether or not to move out of the way to let a guy in, one has to only do a quick comparison of size. If you’re smaller, you move. Otherwise you get squashed.
Thus, semis yield to no one while pedestrians have to look out for anything with wheels (including bicycles). I learned this after a family of four on a scooter nearly took me out. Shortly after, a car ran into me. This is when I learned what to do when a car comes too close to you – you smack the hood. At the same time that the car ran into me, it also hit another guy walking behind me. He smacked the hood, so I did too. This is how you learn things.

I’ve began speaking more like a Ugandan. I say “yes please” often and always.
Example: You call me on the phone and say, “Hello, may I speak to Laura?” In response I say, “Yes please,” and wait for you to continue.
Example: We’re parting ways and you say to me, “See you later! Have a good day!” I would respond, “Yes please, you too!”

When I’m describing a list and would usually say ‘etc, etc” or “and so on, and so on” I now end with “and what what.”
Example: “The store has things like pens and pencils, etc.” becomes “The store has things like pens and pencils and what what.”

I say “Sorry” whenever someone stumbles, trips, falls; forgets, drops, or loses something, or has any other potentially adverse thing happen to them.
Example: You stub your toe and say “Owch!” I say “ Ohhh sorry, sorry!” and make you sure are ok.
Example: You are walking when you trip and drop your books. I say, “Sorry, sorry!” and rush to help you pick them up.

I’ve learned to share my room with a mouse and my office with a lizard. The mouse I’ve named Racecar because of the way he zips around. We have a pretty good arrangement; I use the apartment during the day and he runs around as much as he likes at night. My office lizard is named Herc because of the way he does pushups. He mostly supervises.

I’ve gotten used to standing under a dribbling shower with lukewarm water and a toilet than flushes 5 times out of 10 on a good day. I’ve gotten used to matooke (green plaintain paste) and groundnut sauce as a regular meal, brushing my teeth using bottled water, intermittent power, and everything (everything!) being covered in a fine layer of red dirt. I’ve gotten used to the taste of tea made from a mug of milk and ginger, the smell of crowds and diesel, the sun, and the sweat that covers me after I walk anything more than 50 steps.

And then this morning, while it was still dark and I lay under my mosquito net silently cursing the rooster crowing outside, I thought about and began to appreciate that the things that I’ve “gotten used to” are exactly the things that make living in Africa, living in Africa. That maybe, in fact, everything that I have professed to be adjusting to - the dirt, the heat, the schedule, the food, the bugs, the traffic, the smells, the language, the mice, the matooke – are in actuality the very features that draw me here and will, subsequently, be what I miss most when I go home.

And so, after reflection, I conclude that I truly enjoy all of this. It hasn't been a struggle to adapt or learn to live without, and I actually like all these differences that make living in Africa unlike any other place in the world. Sure I miss things like Timbits and showers with hot water, but I am incredibly comfortable and content and I think I could really get used to this place.
Except for, maybe, the roosters.

Hockey Night in Uganda

Friday night is Hockey Night in Uganda. The only thing missing was Don Cherry and Ron MacLean.

The last time I was over for dinner at Dr. Jean’s house, her husband Thom recruited me to their Canadian hockey team for the big match against the Americans on Friday night. Never one to turn down a chance to play, of course I agreed.

I showed up at Jean and Thom’s house expecting a friendly game of makeshift road hockey, because, after all, we’re in the middle of Uganda.
I was very, very wrong.

Thom, (who you have to meet to appreciate his intensity about everything) had built a concrete hockey pad in their backyard, complete with nets, flood lights, and bleachers. As I walk up to the rink where the game is already underway, Liz (Jean’s oldest daughter) shouts at me to “grab a stick and get in here!” To my right there are at least 15 hockey sticks to choose from, varying in height and curve. I have no idea which to choose… I haven’t played hockey since I was a kid. I quickly think back to when I used to play with my childhood friends Brock and Geoff. Something comes to me…something about the stick being the height of your nose? Sounds good. I choose the appropriate nose-height stick and join Team Canada. There’s a pause in the play for introductions.

(Cut to Satellite Hotstove here)

I’m introduced to the Reverend from USA, and of course being terrible with names I can’t remember his first name so we will call him the Rev. The Rev is a middle age guy, maybe late 30’s early 40’s, with curly hair and a receding hairline. Another guy, younger than the Rev and whose name I also can’t remember, is the other grownup on Team USA. He’s tall, skinny, dark hair, probably in his early 30’s and teaches here at the university. The rest of the American team was made up of little kids. I never figured out which kid went with which adult, but between the two American families there were about six kids. The youngest little guy (Robbie) was about three and had a hockey stick with the handle cut down to about 12 inches above the blade. He mostly just walked around, dragging the stick behind him.

Team Canada was made up of Thom, Jean, their 3 kids, and now me. I’ve been signed as the new goalie. The last time I played goalie I was probably 8, in a net in Geoff MacPherson’s driveway where I took a roller-puck to the face. I retired shortly after that.
Until now, that is, where I find myself out of retirement and standing in the net looking legit with a baseball glove on one hand, goalie stick in the other. I’m thinking this won’t be too hard, just a friendly game of ball hockey with a bunch of kids and a few grownups.

Wrong again. Before I know it, I’ve got Americans charging at me, Jean shouting to her kids for the pass, and Thom sacrificing his body to block a shot. This is when I realize that Hockey Night in Uganda is serious business. I stand there with my baseball glove and stick, eyes widening as the play comes towards me. Liz, who’s about 7, shouts at me to show her my moves. The ball whizzes in front of me as the Rev centres it for one of the kids to take a shot. I react to this about a full second later (after the play is halfway down the other end) by wildly swing my stick around. Jean pulls me out of the net and puts Liz in instead. This was probably a good choice.

We play, or maybe the better word would be battle, for almost 2 hours. Thom controls the ball on our team, I mostly just run back and forth across the pad….very similar to little Robbie, except that I have a bigger stick. I did end up with an assist after Jon, who is 5, put it in the net. In the end, Team Canada came out ahead with a score of 7-6.

Travel tip #2: Practice hockey before coming to Uganda. I wouldn’t be surprised if Thom has scheduled a few extra practices for the newest member of Team Canada. Thankfully, I’ve got seven months until playoffs.

So this is Uganda......

This morning I woke up in Uganda, tangled in a mosquito net that was supposed to be hanging over my bed. Apparently I need to learn how to better secure mosquito nets.

It was the squawking of a bird right outside my window that woke me up at I don't know what time. It must have been early because the sun was just coming up. After untangling myself from the net, I looked out the window to see some kind of enormous black bird sitting on my balcony. I don't know what kind it was, but it did not look pretty or friendly. It had huge claws and a nasty looking beak. It stayed there squawking for a very long time. I finally got out of bed at 8am, which works out to be about midnight back home.

I arrived in Uganda yesterday morning, I think around 730. I lost track of time after two time changes and no sleep for almost 2 days. It was a 6 and a half hour flight to Heathrow, a 13 hour layover, and then another 8 and a half hours to Uganda. Travel tip #1: Do not go for a 10k run the day you are about to spend 15 hours on a plane. It is a terrible idea.

Thankfully, all my luggage made it here intact! I found it all and went out to arrivals to see a guy holding a sign with my name on it. This was the best African airport experience I've ever had. First time in many years that I have not had a) a man with an AK47 ask for bribe money b) a man with an AK47 interrogate me as to why I want to enter the country, or c) my bags searched by the same man with the AK47. Everyone should come to Uganda.

Unless, of course, you suffer from road rage (or any type of anxiety when driving), in which case you should never come here... or any African country. The airports may be nicer than Nigeria, but the driving is the same. There are no rules. Your horn means “Look out or I will run you over”. So, basically all you do is put the pedal to the metal and lay on the horn. On the 2 and a half hour drive to the University I saw my life, as well as that of several others, flash before my eyes. One time, while entering a round-about doing close to 70, we cut straight through 3 lanes (if you can call them that...more like 2 layers of bikes and scooters in between each of 3 layers of cars and trucks), only to dodge a pot hole, swerve millimeters away from 2 guys on a scooter and narrowly escape being sandwiched between another van and a truck. We emerged from the roundabout doing a little closer to 75. Interestingly, I passed 3 buildings advertising driving schools on the way in.

My room here is fantastic - by African standards. I have a great big window and balcony that looks onto the campus and my own bathroom that even has a shower with lukewarm water! I'm not being sarcastic here. This is wayyyyyy better than throwing buckets of cold water over my head like in Nigeria. Probably the best part is that there are no signs of gigantic cockroaches. Yet.

I share an office in the Save the Mothers building here at Uganda Christian University. With me is Jacq, who is an International Health Professional, and Dr. Eve, who is an OBGYN. Both are from Uganda. We went out for lunch at a canteen on campus which was.....interesting. Jacq ordered for me what appeared to be the back half of a fish (fully intact with tail, bones and all the scales) sitting in some sort of brown fishy smelling sauce. Served with it was a kind of paste that looked very similar to cassava and something that I assume is related to bananas. It wasn't all that bad actually. And it only cost 2000 shillings, which is about 1 dollar. The best thing I've had today was definitly a smoothie, made from fruit right off the trees. If you ever have the chance to try jackfruit, do it. It's good. Fresh fruit smoothie: 1000 shillings, or 50 cents.

Uganda is wonderful. My office and co-workers are also wonderful. I think the only thing that will prove difficult is the evenings. As I'm writing this right now at about 730pm, I'm a little lonely. All my co-workers, the only people I know in the whole country, leave at 5. The res I'm in is for graduate students, and they don't start until Oct 11^th, so I'm all alone in the building. It's a little lonelier still because I look out my window and I can see all kinds of students walking about campus... but I don't know any of them. This must be what it's like to be the new kid at school. But worse, because I'm not even in anyone's class. I think I'll try and make friends with some other students who are here on campus. I'm not sure how exactly I'll do that since I only really encounter them in passing. Maybe I can pretend to be a student and join some intramural teams or something. Plan B will just be walking up to someone who looks sort of friendly and saying “Hi, my name's Laura. Let's be friends?”

For my first full day, I think everything went ok. In fact, everything is pretty awesome. I still can't belive I'm in Uganda. It feels surprisingly homey, except for maybe the fishtail lunch. I'm looking forward to getting my time zones adjusted. I started work this morning at what felt to me like 1:30 in the morning, but it was really 930 over here.

I have a cell phone, but I don't know the number. I also haven't figured out my mailing address, but when I do I'll post it on here.

Missing some of the comforts of home, but all in all, my move here has been smooth. Praying that it will continue to be this way, and that this week will bring with it some new friends! Miss you guys over there. Thanks for all your prayers and encouragement :)

-L.C.