My first work-related assignment in Uganda was attending a child labor awareness meeting in a Kampala slum. We were in the Inkere Zone of the Kabuye Parish of Kampala’s Makindye division. (Kampala is a district, and like all districts in the country, it is split up into divisions, divisions into parishes, and parishes into zones. Hence, I was wrong in my previous posting when I said that the school was located in the Kyengera district of Kampala; it actually was outside of Kampala, in the Ugandan district of Kyengera.) We headed down the slum’s unpaved rocky, potholed dirt roads, which are lined with 2 foot deep ditches that serve as make-shift sewers. In some places, there are grates over the ditches, but in most places, if you aren’t looking you will just fall in. Even areas with grates can be dangerous because the metal rods are not sufficiently close together, so a child easily can get her foot stuck, as can a slender-footed adult.
Behind the ditch-sewer system are shacks, small shacks attached to shacks attached to shacks; these are all shops peddling fruit, eggs, milk, pots and pans, potatoes, you name it. Every shack has a sign in English: “Milk”; “Coca Cola”; “Yogurt.” Every 40 feet or so, a gap between the row of shacks serves as a path (a bumpy path that looks as though it was dug up unevenly with a shovel) to the little homes behind the shacks. We stayed on the “main road” lined with shacks, so I did not get a good glimpse of the houses beyond. Hundreds of people walk down the slum’s unpaved dirt roads at any given time.
Lots of children, all wearing the same plastic sandals, often much too big for their feet, run around or just sit on the ground next to (I assume) their parents who are trying to sell something out of their shop or on the street. Too many kids are forced to work in the Makindye division. The local, independent paper (there also is a government-run paper) reported yesterday that 12,700 children are in the informal work sector in Makindye alone.
As we entered the slum, a large truck blasting music was driving down the “main road.” The passenger was screaming something from the truck’s loudspeakers. My colleague explained that the truck was advertising a concert to be performed by Jose Chameleon, a famous Ugandan musician. A few minutes later, another similar truck drove by, this time telling the locals about a Weasel concert. Weasel is Chameleon’s brother, my colleague told me. “They are brothers, but they don’t talk,” she said. “Chameleon has been around longer. Weasel is better. They hate each other.” Well, now you know about the Chameleon-Weasel brotherly rivalry...
We arrived at our destination, the only bar/club in the slum; it’s about 25 feet long by 40 feet wide. Its width is about the size of 6 or 7 of the little shop-shacks surrounding it on both sides. The walls of the building are a thin, rusting tin. A courtyard greets you as you enter. The women and children (and the few men who attended) sat in the courtyard to listen to the speaker brought by my organization. In some spots, bamboo lines the inside part of the tin walls (not sure why). The speaker stood in front of the audience and presented. Behind the speaker was a small room with a pool table. Two local men – probably in their late teens or early twenties – were playing pool, drinking beers, and smoking cigarettes throughout the three hour presentation. They ignored the sign that said “No Smoking,” not disrespectfully, but simply because, I think, it didn’t actually mean “No Smoking.” I think it was just a piece of artwork the bar had on the wall, like the “Coca Cola” sign or the sign that said “a beer balanced to perfection” or the “Car Parking Behind” sign. There certainly was no parking in the back. The joint also didn’t have a “garden for all parties and leisure times,” despite the sign saying so.
My organization was there to teach the impoverished residents of the slum about Ugandan laws relating to children. Rather than presenting themselves, my colleagues bring in outside, local experts as speakers, which I think is an effective model because the local experts have real authority. The expert that day was a probation and welfare officer who focuses on child issues. He spoke for about two and a half hours and fielded questions from the audience of mostly women. He implored the adults to teach personal information to their kids. He said that kids often don’t know who they are and when they get lost or are abandoned, it becomes very difficult to find their families. By way of example, he called on a little boy and asked him, “What’s your name, boy?” The kid responded, “Boy.” “And your mom’s name?” “Mama.” “Your dad’s name?” “Dada.” “And where do you live?” “At home.” “And your dad, where does he work?” “At the shop.” Everyone laughed, but the probation officer made his point. A worrisome point.
After that, the probation and welfare officer spent about thirty minutes speaking directly to the kids who showed up (they got free muffins for coming; the adults, free sodas). He told them how important it is to go to school, not to be stubborn, and to do their reading. He told them the story that I told the school kids the next day (alluded to in my previous post). He said, “there was a kid who came home from school with poor grades and opened a soda. His father took the soda and poured it on the ground, telling the boy that a soda is a reward for good grades. Trying to incentivize his boy, the father told his son that if he comes home with good grades, he’d buy the boy an entire crate of sodas. The boy, upset, told his dad that he would get good grades, but he’d refuse a crate of sodas. Instead, he’d do so well in school that he’d get a good job one day and buy himself an entire truck full of sodas!”
All the kids in the crowd laughed and a good chunk of them seemed inspired. But nobody matched one boy who didn’t move from his seat and just stared with great focus at the speaker throughout the two and a half hour presentation. While the other boys fidgeted around, poked their friends, and only paid attention from time to time, this one boy didn’t move. He just stared and listened. When we left, I couldn’t get the little boy off my mind. I was sure that he’d learn his name, his parents’ names, where his parents’ work, and his home address. And he’d buy that truck of sodas one day, maybe even an entire warehouse.
Behind the ditch-sewer system are shacks, small shacks attached to shacks attached to shacks; these are all shops peddling fruit, eggs, milk, pots and pans, potatoes, you name it. Every shack has a sign in English: “Milk”; “Coca Cola”; “Yogurt.” Every 40 feet or so, a gap between the row of shacks serves as a path (a bumpy path that looks as though it was dug up unevenly with a shovel) to the little homes behind the shacks. We stayed on the “main road” lined with shacks, so I did not get a good glimpse of the houses beyond. Hundreds of people walk down the slum’s unpaved dirt roads at any given time.
Lots of children, all wearing the same plastic sandals, often much too big for their feet, run around or just sit on the ground next to (I assume) their parents who are trying to sell something out of their shop or on the street. Too many kids are forced to work in the Makindye division. The local, independent paper (there also is a government-run paper) reported yesterday that 12,700 children are in the informal work sector in Makindye alone.
As we entered the slum, a large truck blasting music was driving down the “main road.” The passenger was screaming something from the truck’s loudspeakers. My colleague explained that the truck was advertising a concert to be performed by Jose Chameleon, a famous Ugandan musician. A few minutes later, another similar truck drove by, this time telling the locals about a Weasel concert. Weasel is Chameleon’s brother, my colleague told me. “They are brothers, but they don’t talk,” she said. “Chameleon has been around longer. Weasel is better. They hate each other.” Well, now you know about the Chameleon-Weasel brotherly rivalry...
We arrived at our destination, the only bar/club in the slum; it’s about 25 feet long by 40 feet wide. Its width is about the size of 6 or 7 of the little shop-shacks surrounding it on both sides. The walls of the building are a thin, rusting tin. A courtyard greets you as you enter. The women and children (and the few men who attended) sat in the courtyard to listen to the speaker brought by my organization. In some spots, bamboo lines the inside part of the tin walls (not sure why). The speaker stood in front of the audience and presented. Behind the speaker was a small room with a pool table. Two local men – probably in their late teens or early twenties – were playing pool, drinking beers, and smoking cigarettes throughout the three hour presentation. They ignored the sign that said “No Smoking,” not disrespectfully, but simply because, I think, it didn’t actually mean “No Smoking.” I think it was just a piece of artwork the bar had on the wall, like the “Coca Cola” sign or the sign that said “a beer balanced to perfection” or the “Car Parking Behind” sign. There certainly was no parking in the back. The joint also didn’t have a “garden for all parties and leisure times,” despite the sign saying so.
My organization was there to teach the impoverished residents of the slum about Ugandan laws relating to children. Rather than presenting themselves, my colleagues bring in outside, local experts as speakers, which I think is an effective model because the local experts have real authority. The expert that day was a probation and welfare officer who focuses on child issues. He spoke for about two and a half hours and fielded questions from the audience of mostly women. He implored the adults to teach personal information to their kids. He said that kids often don’t know who they are and when they get lost or are abandoned, it becomes very difficult to find their families. By way of example, he called on a little boy and asked him, “What’s your name, boy?” The kid responded, “Boy.” “And your mom’s name?” “Mama.” “Your dad’s name?” “Dada.” “And where do you live?” “At home.” “And your dad, where does he work?” “At the shop.” Everyone laughed, but the probation officer made his point. A worrisome point.
After that, the probation and welfare officer spent about thirty minutes speaking directly to the kids who showed up (they got free muffins for coming; the adults, free sodas). He told them how important it is to go to school, not to be stubborn, and to do their reading. He told them the story that I told the school kids the next day (alluded to in my previous post). He said, “there was a kid who came home from school with poor grades and opened a soda. His father took the soda and poured it on the ground, telling the boy that a soda is a reward for good grades. Trying to incentivize his boy, the father told his son that if he comes home with good grades, he’d buy the boy an entire crate of sodas. The boy, upset, told his dad that he would get good grades, but he’d refuse a crate of sodas. Instead, he’d do so well in school that he’d get a good job one day and buy himself an entire truck full of sodas!”
All the kids in the crowd laughed and a good chunk of them seemed inspired. But nobody matched one boy who didn’t move from his seat and just stared with great focus at the speaker throughout the two and a half hour presentation. While the other boys fidgeted around, poked their friends, and only paid attention from time to time, this one boy didn’t move. He just stared and listened. When we left, I couldn’t get the little boy off my mind. I was sure that he’d learn his name, his parents’ names, where his parents’ work, and his home address. And he’d buy that truck of sodas one day, maybe even an entire warehouse.
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stopp blogging stay safe.and send your stories to the NY times
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