Getting it right...the water committee

The hardest part is the follow-up visit. $1,000, $2,500, $4,000 might not seem like a lot of money, but in these villages where a house costs around $150, the price of a borehole repair or protected spring is far above what these villages can afford in one lump sum. So when we put projects together, we know the importance of creating a village water committee to maintain the project after construction. A good committee will collect enough funds to cover maintenance costs, ensure the area around the project remains clean and conduct minor follow-up maintenance (dredging the canal, repairing a broken fence, etc.).

The bad ones, well, don't. Animals roam in, out and around the water source contaminating it; drainage canals stagnate, forming algae; and women wash their clothes near the water source. Simply what was once a source of life has become the breeding grounds for diarrhea, worms and snails that carry bilharzia. Disease is all to quick to come.

When you arrive upon a site that gets it -- that understands that the spring or well is theirs and it must be maintained -- its comforting. We have spent the past few days visiting our sites as well as projects developed by other NGOs (non-governmental organizations). Getting it right, working with the local community in everything from site selection to water committee follow-up is just as important as getting a hole in the ground. That hole needs little follow-up to maintain it, clean water that comes from it, however, does.

Pictures by Jake, words by Dave. (Apookeni, Oboko and Eyame Villages, Lira District)

Christmas in Kidepo

The government offices were closing and the NGO workers were going on holiday during December 25th-26th. David and I decided to take a break of our own. We hired a car and driver and set off for the far Northeast corner of Uganda, to a national park named Kidepo. Thus the silence in the blog over the last few days.
We are now based in Lira, and have had success in meeting officials and contacts here. Until we can update further, please enjoy a sampling of photographs from the park. Cheers, and happy holidays to all back home! - Posted by Jake Herrle

The weight of water

If you are not familiar with a 'jerry can'? It is a 20 liter container, originally designed for fuel, that has been adopted as a means of transporting water. There are ubiquitous here in Uganda. People (and I mean women and children mostly) will walk great distances to fill them, stand in line to have their turn, and then return home with as many cans as one can carry - which could be two or even three (one on the head, one in each hand).

This is not an easy task. First you must manually pump a well to fill your cans. Once filled, you transport them. The approximate weight of a filled can is around...what? Well? Let's think about this. One liter is about 1 kilo, which is about 2.2 pounds? So each jerry can, at 20 liters, weighs around 44 lbs? When was the last time you had 44 pounds on your head? (Don't try this at home). Now add 44 more pounds to your hand. Maybe strap an infant to your back. Now walk a block. Think you could do it? How about walking 1km* with this weight? Now, when you get home, use this water to cook dinner for your family. When you get up tomorrow, you'll need to repeat this process. Tired yet?

Photos today are from a water point just down the street from our lodging. One of many boreholes in Gulu. This familiar routine happens every day, in every district, in all of Northern Uganda. What does one do in the dry season when your usual water point is unavailable? Tell your family you can't provide water for the day? Not really an option. You walk farther. You carry more water. You bear the weight.

*The government's aim is that no one travel further than 1km for access to a clean water point. In actuality, many still do, especially in the remote areas which are being resettled.

Posted by Jake Herrle

Gulu District

We arrived in Gulu yesterday bearing gifts, fruits of our travels --mangoes to be exact--picked up from the roadside stand along our drive north. We are staying with the very kind and generous Father Joseph Okumu, of the Catechists Training Center on the edge of town. David (rightly) thought it would be respectful and proper to greet our hosts at dinner with a small gift. He presented the bag of mangoes we picked up en route. Turns out the catechists grounds are covered in mango trees, which loudly drop their large, ripe fruits to the ground. (It sounds like a basketball crashing through tree limbs.) So, turns out, they’re already well supplied on mangoes. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

Today, Father Joe set up a number of important meetings for us, with individuals who took our calls largely because of his highly respected company and influence. We are very grateful for his friendship and his willingness to help Clearwater Initiative. Thank you, Father Joe.

The photos from today show David and I in meetings, and in front of the District offices with Chairman Norbert Mao. Mao was very receptive to Clearwater’s work in the region and has offered his support when we need further information on water projects in the region and in providing contacts whom can advise us in choosing the ones best fit for Clearwater Initiative.

What we know is the water needs of post-conflict Northern Uganda are changing. The Internally Displaced Persons (IDP’s) are now returning to their villages in light of the improved security environment. The North is beginning to shift focus from crisis management to development, which is an encouraging sign for the Acholi people, who have suffered through over 20 years of civil war, disruption, and displacement. Chairman Mao said today that disease prevention is key and that “access to clean water [can address] fifty percent of our health issues.” This is why the work of Clearwater is so vital; and why local officials are enthusiastic about the work we can provide.

It seems like everyone here has a connection to the conflict. The story of the driver who ferried us back to our lodging this evening was a reminder of how pervasive the war was in this region. He is a 22-year-old war orphan who dropped out of school to support himself and his family. The family collects their daily water with jerry cans from a borehole. The capability of these individuals to carry on is a testament to their strength and courage. I am thankful for the sharing of their stories and emboldened to press on with our work in their honor.

-Posted by Jake Herrle

Difficulties in developing countries can also be quite liberating

Our most reliable driver was supposed to arrive at 9:30 for our trip to Gulu; it is now 11:50; we wait. He texted us an hour ago. He left his driving permit at home and had to get it, “c u soon.”

I had a lunch appointment at 3:30 on Sunday, 30 minutes away from my house. I called five drivers. All were busy and “20 minutes away.” Finally, one came. After sitting in a “jam” (they don’t need to use traffic to describe it), I arrived at 5:10.

I went to get mobile internet for my computer at the telcom center. The technicians were on my computer and in and out of the room for an hour and a half trying to figure out how to install the necessary software on my Mac. They were dumbfounded. We restarted the computer. The internet worked.

All of this can happen in the US. All of it does (I know I owned a Gateway laptop). But the regularity of which it happens here means work arounds are common.

Meeting times are fluid, appointments are flexible and reservations dates are estimates. Some of it is a necessity. When you miss the once daily bus in the morning because it got full and left at 5:30am and not after 6am as it usually does, you wait. When the phone network is down or rain washes away the road, accommodations must be made.

It creates incentive for people to focus on the here and now. If your mobile phone rings you answer it; if your appointment is there you talk to him and if food is in front of you eat it. And for all the frustrations of planning, it is quite liberating. Such focus on the present shortens your “to do list.” Simply, when you don't have emails in your inbox and messages in your voice mail there’s less stress.

Of course, I am now late for my 3pm meeting and will likely not meet the government official I had hoped, but someone else who did not make an appointment probably got to.
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Headed North

David and I have been united in Kampala. It was a long ways to get here, thanks to an airline snafu and some inclement weather in England. Left my house in Atlanta Thursday at 5pm, and arrived in Kampala Sunday morning at about midnight. Slept in Sunday , then David I spend the afternoon discussing his productive week of meetings and research on the ground in the capital. We have decided to drive north to Gulu today, in attempts to meet officials and NGO workers before they close for the holidays.

Haven’t had a chance to explore anyplace, but the familiar sights and sounds and smokey-sage smells of the country are a welcome presence. We had the pleasure to eat dinner last evening with a local family outside of the city. Friends of friends who welcomed us and cooked a royal feast. It was a lovely welcome and a nice way to start the journey.

Northbound we go.

Overlooking the valley below

Perched half way up one of Kampala's famous hills on a ¼ acre of parcel of pristine real estate, Becca’s house, where I am staying, is by far one of the nicest places I have been. With five bedrooms in the main house (and an odd assortment of midsized rooms jutting out in odd places like the bathroom), it may also be one of the largest. And that’s not counting the “boy’s quarters” right beside the main house that has two rooms and two baths. I asked how much the place was while we were chatting on the roof deck overlooking the valley and another of Kampala’s seven hills. At roughly $2,000, it’s a bit less than my previous small one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn.

Go figure: in Kampala, one gated house; in Brooklyn a one-bed. But then again I get potable water from the tap, while they get malarial mosquitoes. Somehow, it all washes out in the end.

The most remarkable thing about the neighborhood is how mixed it is. Not racially, but economically. Just down from the house is a beautiful apartment complex that you could find in Miami.

Adjacent to those flats are one-room huts made of mud bricks where its residents travel some 500 meters to get water. They are lucky enough to live just below water towers that service the complex but unlucky to see none of it.

This morning, I walked past those shacks on my way to their watering hole, or better-termed, protected spring (see below). The water was fresh and cool and provided relief for the kids playing soccer on the field below, some off-duty soldiers traveling by “leg” -- I believe they said – and the woman who filled up jugs. (Although a protected spring in a city does not provide the cleanest source of water with septic tanks and people around likely contaminating the source to some degree.)

In speaking with the first woman I met filling her yellow jerry cans, I found out she was Achioli, meaning she was from the north -- Kitgum, to be exact, the region bordering Sudan, where we conduct our projects. It did not take much questioning for Mary to tell me her story: her father was killed in the conflict between the Lord’s Resistance Army and well, pretty much everybody else; Mary then fled south with her mother who has HIV. She couldn’t afford school. She got married and has all the while dreamt about going back to the north to see some family members who were left behind but did not have the $12 or so needed for the ride. So she makes three trips a day to get water. She still smiles a lot.

Somehow my personal narrative, where I survived the fall of Lehman Brothers, is not nearly as compelling and feels far too easy. And she was just the first woman with whom I chatted at the spring at the side of the road.

Of Guns, Birds and Water

There are three things I see all over Kampala: men with guns, large birds circling in the sky and water, usually orange brown muck filling potholes that could fit anywhere between 1 and 120 soccer balls. And I usually stay clear of all three. The thing is only one of them is a persistent killer.

The ubiquitous gun is usually slung on the arm of a uniformed security man watching a gas station, store or parking lot. The gun is usually a small rifle tough some have clips. It is not menacing. It surely won’t hold down a fort, but it is enough to make a statement.

The birds, due to my lack of training all look like pterodactyls or vultures swirling menacingly above the city. Although they look like they could scoop up a small child, I have heard of no such stories.

Then there is water.

In a city that appears to have sufficient indoor plumbing from the foreign lifestyle I am leading, it does not. Approximately, 35% of the people in Kampala are without running water according to the UN. The lucky get potable water from springs like the one that feeds the water trap at the local golf course. A good bit of the rest don’t. Of the nearly 1.2 million people that live here, nearly 500,000 live in unplanned area or slums complicating the city’s efforts to provide access to potable water and sanitation. What’s worse, the city decided not to build infrastructure to these unplanned areas to encourage more planned development. People use plastic bags as toilets and numerous families often have to share pits that tend to overflow during strong rains. It’s unpleasant to think about, difficult to imagine. (my pictures coming soon this is from East Africa online) The situation leads to bouts of dysentery, diarrhea and far worse.

As disturbing as it sounds, ClearWater does no work in urban areas. We believe that we should target the rural poor who have been affected not only by a similar plight to the people in the city, but by violence that plagued the north for nearly 20 years. Although it has died down recently (more to come on this topic), the healing is a long process.

The truth is that for all the menacing things that surround me here in Kampala and will further afield, it’s the most innocuous – water -- that is by far the biggest threat.

Kampala: feeling more and more like a home

Kampala’s international community is small; ok, I get it. But is it really that small?

I had spent the past hour speaking with Director Jack Norman of Catholic Relief Service (CRS), an impressive, down to earth development expert with diverse geographical experience. We chatted about partnership opportunities and CRS’s experience working on water projects in Northern Uganda. The meeting ended a bit after 2pm and my special hire (read: taxi) was waiting for me. I had not yet had lunch, so I decided to check out the local mall, which overlooks the city’s big golf course—yes, the city has one of those too even though the constant manicuring of the thick blades of grass still does not raise the quality of the greens above even the lowest quality public courses in the US.

Upon walking in into the mall, I see an expat who I met at a pantomime performance this past weekend. As I was about to say hello to her, I heard a familiar refrain -- not “mizungu” (term for white people), or “boss” or “big man” as I am known by many here who would like to somehow grab my attention -- but I heard my name. Turns out my friend Dismas, who I saw earlier in the week had just left the bank and was calling me.

We chatted for a few minutes about our days, the merits of bus transport, as well as his connections in the north, who turn out to be a leading human rights figurehead and a contender for president whom we hope to meet in the next week. It was just a casual conversation between two Kampalaians who just casually run into each other. Those two random encounters and my confidence walking around the city make this place feel like a “home” more and more.

The odd thing is, that although I no doubt stand out being 6’3” and white, I don’t feel terribly foreign. Maybe because most everyone in Kampala speaks English to some degree; maybe it is because people are quick to smile which puts me at ease; or maybe it is because it is safe to walk around.

It could be I just enjoy the place or that I am choosing to live in a world above the realities of Kampala and turning off the clues people are giving me letting me know I am foreign. But I doubt the latter. True, that taxi and motorcycle hail me down with such regularity and vigor as if my natural resting place in life is in the passenger seat. Same with the banana and peanut sellers who can only assume I must have a strategic stockpile of their produce in my hotel and therefore always need more for all they hound me. But a simple "no" turns them off unlike elsewhere like Vietnam. The truth is I have felt far more foreign in places in Eastern Europe where superficially I blend in easier (although most locals still knew I was foreign) than I do here.

Letting the words wash over me...

“That’s Asful.” George said when explaining the water project.

I waited to understand. Sometimes if I wait, after a few seconds when I let the words wash over me, I’ll understand. I didn’t this time. I thought Asful might have been a region of the country. When he used the word twice more in the next sentence, I waited for him to finish and then I asked.

“Excuse me, What …” then I got it. Useful. His English was impeccable. He uttered words like epoch. Epoch? Ok epoch it not a word I would use, but its impressive and I can roll with it. The accent for me, however, is sometimes just hard to understand.

“…oh nothing,” I finished. We moved on.

There I times that I just don’t get it. And I know it’s me and not them. (Just like when I was in Scotland and heard two Scots speaking to each other and instinctively wondered how they can understand each other’s “jibberish” with such strong accents) The people hear speak English to a strong extent due to the colonial legacy.

The other day I was talking to my guest house attendant and had commented about the clouds. She replied and the only words I understood were “rain and goats.” I thought Uganda may have had a reference to raining goats, like we say its raining cats and dogs. Or that goats do something special before it rains -- a canary in the coal mine effect if you will. That wasn’t it. I asked her to repeat twice. I just didn’t get it. Then I smiled. She knew I didn’t get it; I knew I didn’t get it. We both tried. She smiled; it was time to move on. But weather is always the default conversation, so we paused a little bit before I complimented her about the breakfast of toast and tea.

But sometimes I get the words but the exact meaning is slightly different than what I internalize, for example when the Kenyan Air flight attendant asked me in his deep voice if “I wanted to chew on some nuts.” I got what he was offering, but it was not the way most people I know would offer cashews.

The accent is both intriguing and frustrating. There is a taxi driver I like to use, not because his car is cleaner, or he is any safer or cheaper than others, but just because he is fascinating to listen to. Not his words, so much but his rhythmic voice. I have never heard anything like it. I know the fascination will wear off as I end up at the wrong location because we miscommunicate as I have with other people, but as of now I am still appreciating.

My new-found friend Rebecca summed up the poor communication best through a story about her work directing work at a hospital elsewhere on the continent. She told her nursing staff to come get her if the patient in the other room began to have seizures. They stared blankly at her. Frustrated, she tried three different times with various word choices to make her simple point. At the end of the third time, the nurses responded to hjavascript:void(0)er request, “You know Rebecca, sometimes when you speak, all we hear is singing.”

Working it…and Representing

So the jet lag has not been so bad. No real tricks, but if I can get shut-eye within the “zone of acceptable sleep times” from 9pm to 9:30ish am, I do it. Hadn’t gotten much sleep the first night, from 1:30-5 and from 8:00 to 9:30. Not long but, enough to give me energy for the day and evening ahead.

The day’s highlights were seeing my first protected water spring of the trip in the Entebbe botanical garden as well as numerous monkeys, which I usually don’t like. (The park attendant said they wouldn’t hurt me they are used to whites. Upon questioning, I discovered the monkeys are also docile around blacks too.) Less enjoyable was the experience with ants crawling up my pants and biting after I entered a forest to see more monkeys.

Although I was sleep under-nourished and had a busy day, I was ready to meet some others. So I called my newfound friend Becca who took me to a pantomime show at the National Theater; and then the local bar.

Becca, her friend and I all chatted, hitting important topics: the shower pressure at my guest house (all the velocity of a fine warm mist); a new anti-homosexual bill in Ugandan Parliament (controversial); and why Ugandan men prefer to drink Smirnoff Ice but American males won’t touch it (odd).

As the evening grew later and the music a bit louder, I found myself talking water projects with Sean Farrell, an extremely knowledgeable water expert from Trocaire, an Irish aid agency. We discussed (read: yelled over the beats of American and Ugandan hip-hop) the merits of including local government water officials in borehole projects. Although the discussion was productive the environment for conversation was not.

It was good for dancing, and dance those at the bar did. I watched with a sense of awe. Men hit the floor with break dancing moves and rhythm that could earn them far more than a spot on the ground in a Kampala bar. The speed, the spins, the starts and stops. They could do physically, what I could not fathom mentally. It was if the music was emanating from within them. And when I heard Jay-Z’s lyrics that “Brooklyn was in the house” I looked around with a sense pride -- a sense of belonging -- as if the lyrical genius was speaking directly to me. After all I was from Brooklyn; I was representin’. No doubt Jay-Z would have been proud of me…or maybe not.

Final thoughts from Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport

It is now 8:30 pm Uganda time as I write this from the largest airport in East Africa in Kenya (for a detailed description on the scene here send me an email). I don’t translate the hour into NY time -- another of my tricks to get over jet lag -- but instead am now thinking about my itinerary for the next weeks: meeting with a National organization of water and sanitation NGOs (non-governmental organizations), the United States foreign aid mission, US Peace Corps Director, Catholic Relief Services and numerous individual contractors both domestic and international with decades of experience, in addition to our own current contractors

To put this trip together, it truly took an army of people from well, the United States Army, namely Ambassador Tony Holmes, Lt Col Tom Talley and Lt Col Luis del Valle of Africom; to the women named April (Rinne and Davies) at Water.org; Beezie Dallas, Dan Fahey, Ian Moise, Leah Bellshaw, Drop in the Bucket; Lacey Haussamen, Dan and Laurie Saft Ginsburg for their bequeath of a phone and advice and then more advice and many others. I am also grateful for the support of Congresswoman Rosa DeLauro, Jim Segaloff, Jennifer Lamb and countless others I am forgetting at this moment. And to people I have not yet met but whose unsolicited support is truly noble: Cathy Wise, Jenny Small, Glenn Ettman and Jack Schnirman.

The volunteers within our organization led by Elaina Loizou who handles many tasks including working with Cassel Kroll and Chris Guthrie who set up our online presence. And special thanks to Miki Brown, whose tireless work allowed me to spend more time focused on trip planning than administrative duties; to Elizabeth Peterson and her focus on advertising which allowed me more breathing space; and to Brett Freedman and S. Waqar Hasib, whose presence in DC is crucial for ClearWater.

Special thanks to David Bell, whose technical knowledge has been crucial in so many ways. I wanted to say here at the outset, that it really did take a team to put together a nearly month and a half long trip during the complicated planning season of Christmas and New Years. And I would be remiss if I didn’t note to the success of Alyssa Sperber’s holiday card program, which funded my flight and that of Jake Herrle, my fellow board member who will join me here in a week.

And finally to Ben, who set the vision of the trip, but who could not make it. Although the trip is eight months earlier than planned, you gave me the vision, the knowledge and the tools to continue, and now expand, the work. I’m honored to have the opportunity – as I paraphrase Jake here -- to forward your simple, but beautiful idea.

The real blogging always begins on post two (the second flight)

The Kenya airlines flight from Paris to Nairobi is not recommended in any tourist books which I perused. The flight, on an aging, yet capable Boeing 767, provided one of the most spectacular flights of scenery. Just after liftoff we passed the white chasm of the Swiss Alps, whose jagged peaks danced to the horizon. We continued on through the verdant green of the Nile delta, which seemed to absorb the light shed from above and the expansive tan of the wind swept Sahara dotted with white clouds which cast dark grey shadows below. We followed the Nile down as it shimmered through a dark greenish brown in expanse until we were enveloped by a white and eventually dark gray haze where the only thing that seemed to exist was our plane hurtling through space. I have taken many long flights, but none with the diversity of landscape this trip provided.

Sadly, though, I was tired to continue appreciating the unique beauty of the flight. And with the extra comfort that the exit row provides a 6’3” individual, I stretched out and found my eyes too difficult to keep open. So I asked the flight attendant for a chocolate chip cookie, well two actually. I was hungry and figured it would keep me awake. I noticed an hour later the trick didn’t work so well.

Air France, the first flight...

Flights to Africa are rarely direct. Sure, South African Airlines flies non-stop to Johannesburg, Egypt Air to Cairo, and even Delta straight to Accra, Ghana. But many require two stops. Most three. My itinerary takes me to Paris; Nairobi, Kenya; and into Entebbe, Uganda, the former capital. It lies on the shores of Lake Victoria, the second largest body of fresh water in the world and is a 45-minute ride to the current capital of Uganda, Kampala.

The first of two 7-hour plus flights My Air France goes smoothly except for the frozen cous cous dinner and allows me time to continue reading on the recent water situation in Uganda, from rural infrastructure development to corruption, an all to common theme that permeates the country, even in the aid sector. As I have 22 hours of flight time I have a lot of time to read and ponder. But I am now thinking about how can I beat the impending jet-lag.

When I fly to Europe from the US, I usually leave at night. I try to sleep en route; it rarely works. To “beat” the jet-lag, I don’t sleep from the morning I arrive at my destination until at least 9pm. My general strategy is to stay up. It based on a simple notion: it’s easier to force consciousness than sleep. Even this summer as I journeyed 30-plus hours to Kyrgyzstan (coincidentally taking the same Berlin-Istanbul-Bishkek route that Ben took a month earlier to Afghanistan) I overcame the jet-lag relatively quickly, mostly by staying active.

My current flight poses new challenges. I arrive at 11:30 at night. And I fear a difficult jet-lag. I have no game plan for when to stay up and when to sleep.

The Ugandan Trip -- Your blogs goals

The Uganda trip blog is intended to be a mix of water, insight and culture, both Ugandan and American, as the latter is the lens of which we see others. Jake Herrle and I, your guides and ClearWater board members, hope to provoke thought, discussion and at least one “hmm” moment along the way. And maybe we can even impart some knowledge. Enjoy.

About ClearWater Initiative

ClearWater Initiative is dedicated to providing clean water to populations affected by natural or man-made humanitarian emergencies.

Applying experience and responsible judgment, we promote simple, innovative solutions for clean water in disasters. We strive to achieve this mission through technical excellence, responsible use of donor funds, and compassion for the needs of individuals overwhelmed by circumstances beyond their control.

Founded in 2007 by Ben Sklaver, an American Soldier deployed to the Horn of Africa, ClearWater projects are currently focused on conflict-affected areas of northern Uganda. By funding simple, sustainable water projects,ClearWater is on track to directly impact the lives of more than 50,000 people by 2013.