oh, martin

I have to admit that I’m a little surprised you a) found and b) commented on my blog. I’m flattered, to be absolutely honest. I would say that I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but, with all due respect, I abhor the way you’ve gone about “educating” Makerere University students about HIV/AIDS, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t say why.

I agree with you on one thing: abstinence is the only guaranteed way to prevent the transmission of HIV.

Here’s the problem, Martin. People are having sex. Lots of people. Lots of people who have been taught that abstinence is the only way to protect themselves. But guess what? They’re still having sex, and I think it’s horrifically irresponsible of us to tell them that, since they denied themselves the first level of protection, we’re giving up on them.

Abstinence-only education has been proven (PDF) ineffective in reducing the incidence of sexually transmitted diseases among young people. It’s simple, really: they’ve never been taught about safe sex.

You’d probably say that the only “safe” sex is no sex, but I don’t want to argue semantics. The transmission rate of HIV is seven times less when using a condom. That sounds a lot safer to me. Also, you might want to check out Columbia University professor Maria Wawer’s study (PDF) of 10,000 people in Rakai, where she found that the decrease in HIV prevalence was due to an increase in condom use, not in abstinence.

So let’s talk about Engabu. In 2004 some consumers notice (DOC) that these condoms smell bad. The government sends some to Sweden for testing, where they fail the “freedom from holes” and “smell” tests (I couldn’t find anything substantiating your claim of breakage). All Engabu condoms are recalled, but further testing shows that the rest pass the hole test, and only one batch fails the odor test.

Instead of re-releasing the good condoms alongside an aggressive confidence-building and education campaign, the government decides to hold on to them all, as well as instituting a policy that requires all imported condoms to undergo an additional round of quality testing before distribution and passing heavy taxes on all non-donated condoms. NGOs can’t distribute free condoms anymore, and costs rise to anywhere between 300% and 1000% (PDF) of what they were in 2003, effectively pricing most Ugandans out of safe sex.

On top of all this, Janet Museveni decides now is a good time to bash the overall effectiveness of condoms, regardless of brand. This is where you come in, Martin — you somehow get your hands on a bunch of recalled condoms and decide to torch them on campus, which I’m sure does wonders for public morale. Think back — are you absolutely sure you talked smack only on Engabu, or could any of your actions have been construed by impressionable young bystanders as a condemnation of all condoms as a whole?

Meanwhile, Uganda’s holding on to 34 million good condoms and citing distrust of the Engabu brand and of condoms in general as their reason for not distributing them. Health and development experts have cited a “concerted effort to undermine public confidence in condoms…led, for example, by the First Lady of Uganda, Janet Museveni…and by organizations such as the Makerere Community Church, led by Martin Ssempa” as the major cause of the recent increase in Uganda’s HIV rate.

So you tell me, Martin. Was setting fire to those condoms, spoiled or not, really the best course of action if you truly care about the young people of Uganda (two-thirds of whom are sexually active)? I know the Bush administration’s current policies — such as spending a whopping 56% of their funds for prevention of sexual transmission of HIV in Uganda on abstinence-only education — make what you do pretty attractive financially, but since PEPFAR started throwing money around here, the HIV rate’s been going up.

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

gulu rebuilding through wine and cheese

In Shadow of the Sun, his literary montage of more than 40 years as a reporter in post-independence Africa, Ryszard Kapuscinski writes of the incredible ability of people in violent areas to continue with their daily lives as if war were nothing more than a mild natural disaster. I am amazed by the resilience of many of the Ugandans I have met, both those who have been affected by one or more of the many armed conflicts this country has seen since independence and those whose lives have been touched by other, less violent tragedies: the death of a parent, HIV, extreme poverty.

The people I know have carried on through things I think would have destroyed me, and whether it’s because of a difference in our hometowns and cultures or if, under similar duress, I would remain just as persistently alive, I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s some innate sense of how to feed one’s family that exists in the widowed mothers-of-many who sell avocados and cigarettes to passersby on the streets of Gulu, or if I, too, would find a way to subsist were Kansas ever to erupt into war.

At the same time, though, there is a difference between surviving and thriving.* The tenacity of street vendors and roadside cobblers is admirable and inspirational, but it is not necessarily the sign of a vibrant, secure economy. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised, on my last visit to Gulu, to discover an abundance of new bars and restaurants.

Josh already talked about the wave of construction washing over the city, but this is something more: the growth of the entertainment industry, I think, is an even greater signal of the growing security in northern Uganda. Several years of relative stability have convinced Gulu that it’s time to rebuild — not only in terms of microbusinesses and village huts, but also in terms of permanent establishments dependent on a clientele that can now, finally, afford a little leisure.

One of the flashiest examples is Bambu, an upscale (entrees are 10-15,000 shillings) outdoor restaurant across the street from the Bomah Hotel/Restaurant/Health Club that serves, among other things, wine and cheese. The presence of cheese in Gulu is itself a rather remarkable development, but less someone argue that Bambu is less a sign of Gulu’s return to stability and more of a growing NGO presence directly related to the conflict (admittedly, it caters to the expat crowd), allow me to present The Embassy.

Near the market, The Embassy is literally a hole-in-the-wall — if you don’t know where you’re going, it’s easy to miss the tiny, duck-your-head entrance to this local hangout. The bar bears witness to its recent construction: sawed-off boards and chicken wire are stuffed into a crawlspace behind the tables. This, combined with the blacklights and full-size cardboard man inside the door, can contribute to a vaguely haunted-house atmosphere. Still, the drinks are cheap, and the pool tables and music — country, believe it or not — make The Embassy popular with everyone from average Gulu-ans** to young development workers to Northern Uganda Peace Forum ambassadors.

Bambu and The Embassy are joined by a handful of new local restaurants, a local dance club that is rumored to rival the legendary Havana, and a general sense of wellbeing and optimism. It’s a little trite to equate a new bar with hope, I know, but I’m taking these places as a good sign.

*I like “survival and thrival” better, but Webster’s tells me thrival isn’t a word. Should be, don’t you think? [back]

**Gulu-ers? Gulu-ites? Citizens of Gulu Town? [back]

jazz night at Iguana

I am the furthest thing possible from a connoisseur of Ugandan nightlife/live music. I’ve done the basic rounds: Rouge, Fat Boyz, Just Kickin, Bubbles, Mateo’s, Steakout, Al’s Bar, Punchline, Backpackers, the now defunct Blue Mango, Slow Boat. When I got malaria I sort of lost my will to live, or at least to go out, and lately I’ve been more content to stay in bed and watch Scrubs than to get all fancied up and leave the safety of Kisementi. Besides, I can hear the music from three bars plus the restaurant downstairs from here, anyway (lending to a weird sort of aural schizophrenia), so really, what’s the point?

Which brings me to Iguana. Formerly Wagadougou (cited in Lonely Planet as “a good place to retreat to if Just Kickin is too crowded”), this bar shut down late last year for renovations — renovations that took place approximately three feet from my bedroom window, starting at 7:00 AM and accompanied by the loudest radio I have ever heard. They reopened as Iguana a few months ago, and when I stopped by mid-February to check out the art gallery downstairs, I was handed an invitation to their Wednesday Jazz Night.

A friend was down from Gulu (which has a whole new scene of its own — that’s a post that’s been a long time in coming), so we decided to check it out. The invitation was pretty and demanded “dressy-casual” clothing, and we allowed this to get our hopes up. We didn’t exactly expect a live saxophonist, but we definitely weren’t prepared for the dubious delights of Jazz Night: a single Kenny G CD, played alternately with an uncensored version of Akon’s “I Wanna F*** You.”

Glorious.

Though I definitely liked Iguana’s Blue-Mango-like couches and open-air, lofted-roof, second-story atmosphere, I wrote it off after that. Most nights they play your standard Kampala fare (that is to say, a blend of Jay-Z, East African Bashment Crew, Blu*3 and oddly hiphop-ish Toto remixes) — all audible from my flat, where I can sit anywhere I want — and Jazz Night was truly, truly awful.

But as I’m sitting in bed on Wednesday, reading, I notice that something is drowning out the screaming and bad rap from Just Kickin and Fat Boyz — something good.

It’s jazz. Real jazz. Played by a real, live band. With an incredible female lead singer whose voice is sultry and smoky and sexy and kind of reminds me of the woman who sang in the bar in The Last King of Scotland, in a very good way (I told you I wasn’t a connoisseur).

Sweet.

I think about heading next door, but I decide to open my window instead. I’m closer to the band than I would be sitting in the back of the bar, and besides, I have a book to finish.

P.S. An hour later, they started playing Meghana Bhat, and when the band came back on after midnight, someone had acquired a cowbell. I will never understand the culture of music here.

whine, iraq, whine, whine, stupid government, hiphop

I’m going to pull a Whitman (do I contradict myself? Very well, then…) and take the wonderful opportunity afforded me by Sunday’s New York Times to bash a little on American foreign policy. 27th Comrade, if you’re reading, this still doesn’t mean I think the VA Tech killings were justified.

James Glanz wrote a fun little exposé about the spectacular failure of American-sponsored reconstruction projects in Iraq.

Like every other American who’s ever traveled with aid and development in mind, I find myself questioning my purpose here so frequently that it’s easy to fall into despair. Dante asked why I don’t write a more personal blog — it’s because no one wants to read my self-inquisition:

What am I doing here? Am I helping anyone? Am I even capable of helping anyone? Why did I think I could do that? What skills or magic knowledge did I think I had? I’m 22 and have a Russian degree, of all things. Idiot.
Break out a few racks, some rusty chains and a vat of boiling oil, and you have a close approximation of the inner workings of, I’d venture, most development workers’ minds.

I read a book last month that threw in red-hot pincers and a guillotine: Michael Maren’s The Road to Hell: The Ravaging Effects of Foreign Aid and International Charity. It’s mostly about (surprise) America’s blunderings in Somalia, but the broader message is that the vast majority of aid and charity is nothing more than a self-serving industry that ends up harming more than it helps.

A real upper.

Maren writes exclusively about Africa, but Glanz points out that this trend isn’t unique to the continent: seven out of eight “successful” projects designed to rebuild Iraq are non-operative due to technical problems, lack of maintenance, looting, misuse and local distrust. Millions of dollars worth of generators at the Baghdad International Airport aren’t running because of missing batteries or broken fuel lines. A medical waste incinerator at a maternity hospital isn’t being used (and the waste contaminating the water supply) because no one can find the key. Meanwhile, the U.S. is proudly touting these “successes” to the public.

I try to stay optimistic, and every once in a while I hear about a project that reminds me of the wonderful things that a little concerted, locally-initiated and externally-sponsored effort can do. Glanz quotes Rick Barton, co-director of the postconflict reconstruction project at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, as saying that “What ultimately makes any project sustainable is local ownership from the beginning in designing the project, establishing the priorities.” How are we still not getting this?

Um, hello? Government? Elected officials? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I’m not saying that I could do this any better, but an 87.5% failure rate isn’t exactly screaming “Great job, Team USA!” to me.

May Day resolution: stop reading depressing books and spend more time around people like Abramz, starting with this weekend’s Hiphop For a Cause festival.

hiphop for a cause


photo © Glenna Gordon

I’ve written before about Abramz, a Ugandan hiphop artist and community activist whose work with disadvantaged children and youth throughout Uganda makes me squeal like the little, breakdancing-wannabe I am.

This weekend his Breakdance Project Uganda is presenting HIPHOP FOR A CAUSE on Sunday, May 6th at the Sharing Youth Centre, Nsambya. The festival aims to show people the positive role that hiphop plays in Ugandan societies and to encourage youth and children to participate in community work. It will feature breakdancers and hiphop artists, most of whom are youth and disadvantaged children, from Gulu (H.E.A.L.S), Kampala & andother areas of Uganda.

RAP PERFORMANCES BY: Sylvester & Abramz, Lyrical G, Swamp Kamp, DE.P.P.I Static from Belgium and many more

VENUE: Sharing Youth Centre, Nsambya
TIME: 2 to 6:30 PM
DATE: Sunday, May 6th
COST: 3,000 shillings