When Pictures become Part of the Problem

What happens when the reason you traveled across the ocean to a foreign country becomes an obstacle to the very work you hoped to accomplish? As a passionate photographer, I was adamantly seeking opportunities to link my desire to eradicate extreme poverty with my creativity as an artist. I was under the impression that the Go Ed study abroad program would easily allow me to do this, especially during the month long practicum which was part of our program. Never in my life had reality turned out to be so different than my original expectations.
After spending the first five weeks of the semester in Kampala, Uganda, I headed towards my long anticipated practicum placement in Eastern Rwanda. My position was Community Transformation Development Officer and photo journalist. Studying at Houghton College in New York, majoring in Communications with a concentration in Visual Media and minoring in Art and International Development, these positions seemed the perfect fit for me. The goal of the community development position was to discover baseline information in the community in areas such as agriculture, income, health, education, sanitation through interviewing local leaders, technical workers, and community members. Through the information gained I hoped to understand how to then photograph the life and culture of Rwanda. I even hoped that I could add the pictures I took to my portfolio for Graduate school.
As the days passed I pulled my camera out a little bit slower and less often. I cringed as we sat in interviews asking the same exasperating questions that provided no real information about people’s lives. Frustration overwhelmed me. These emotions were an immediate physical response to a deeper struggle that I would come to understand through much thought and processing.

Mindset Obstacle

One of the impediments that we kept encountering was the mindset that placed the white man at an elevated status. This outlook was a result of the historical impact of colonialism and the later learned dependence on foreign aid such as NGO’s (non-governmental organizations). How we witnessed it surface was through the way the Rwandans acted towards us and the responses to our survey questions.
My partner Ben and I were treated like celebrities. We could not step out of house without dozens of children from the nearby school noticing our white skin and blonde hair immediately. They’d yell, “era mazungu, era mazungu!!” (see the white person, see the white person) and rush up the dusty path towards us. The strange part was that conversation did not necessarily follow these meetings. Both adults and children would often stand and stare without attempting to bridge the language divide. Walking anywhere in those first few days was near impossible because so many people would surround us, pushing and hitting each other to get closer. It got to the point that I become incredibly uncomfortable with the amount of attention we were getting. One day I asked one of our Rwandan supervisors about this and he said, “when people here see you they immediately think you are rich, educated, important, blessed, different, and incredibly special. They want to be able to say that you said “hi” to them, or shook their hand.” Ben and I just stared at each other in disbelief. Ben said what we were both thinking “that is so untrue, we are no more special than they are”. This mindset was a reoccurring theme not only in the stares and exclamations, but also in our conversations with the many local leaders, church leaders, and community members that we interviewed. One of our questions was “what is your vision for your community?” the leaders would respond with something along the lines of, “we want our city to look like Washington, New York, or Paris”. Development towards western ways seemed to be on everyone’s mind, not only the leaders. People would respond similarly even in the most remote corners of the village, areas that you could only get to by specially hired motorcycles or by walking far distances on old gaming trails. The answer was continually, “Our vision for our family and for our community is to develop and be at peace... like your country”. Even the young teachers working at the nearby school would mention how superior America’s ways were to their own in statements like “Americans are always honest and punctual. We are not. We want to become like Americans”.
Another impact that this mindset had on the community was a dependence on foreign assistance. Rwandans seemed to link the idea that if western ways were superior then their help was required for development to happen. During interviews we experienced blunt requests for provision of materials or funding. This reliance seemed to be escalating to unhealthy levels and stunting the growth of the community in many ways. Rather than asking hard questions and attempting to tackle problems themselves, people would resign to expecting NGO’s or the government to do the work for them.
Because of this mindset, the development questions we asked did not seem helpful. We were discovering problems in the community but we were not addressing the larger problems that were causing the issues. The community members were not ignorant; they understood basic things like unclean drinking water resulting in illness, education being necessary for progress and that they should save money. The real issues were that they were so overworked that little time was left for things like waiting at the overcrowded clean water pump, relocating to less swampy living areas, or finding extra money to send their children to secondary school. The deeply pitted dirt roads were awful, therefore the value of their crops at the market dropped significantly. They were unable to predict if they would have food or money in the future because it depended on their crop and if the cheap seeds they planted would grow in the fickle rainy weather. We could not provide fixes to all these problems; it was beyond our control. Therefore asking questions seemed like we were doing little more than reinforce dependence on outside help. Lists of problems and requests were laid before us while we become more aware that this community could never be cured by us but only through the empowerment of the people themselves. The long bred inferior/dependency complex needed to be addressed and therefore we needed to be asking questions that forced people to look at their strengths and how they themselves could overcome these issues. New thinking needed to be encouraged, not stereotypes reinforced.

Strengths Discovered

Part of the reason I felt so passionate to encourage a focus on strengths was because I had experienced an abundance of them. The three most prominent were; their strong relational focus, their patience and their passion
Rwandans’ relational focus came out in many unexpected ways, one of them being how they chose to spend their time. You may have heard that African’s are not known for being very time conscious, and it can certainly be true. “African time” people will affectionately or exasperatedly call it. During my time I have experienced my fair share of this in many different forms and have had my moments of frustration. Over time I realized that it was not solely a negative thing, but rather an expression of deep and beautiful value. In North America we are governed by our watches, often resulting in de-valuing of anyone or anything that gets in the way of our schedule. Rwandans are governed by their relationships, constantly taking and making time for each person they meet. This is evident in the way they greet each person they meet while walking. It is seen as severely disrespectful to walk past someone without a simple “hello” or “how are you”. Often these conversations can be quite lengthy if you allow them to, since when one asks “how are you” a real answer is given and expected.
Another strength I saw was abnormal amounts of patience. One rainy day over practicum I saw a prime example of this. It was raining, and our supervisor decided we would brave the bad weather. This was a strange occurrence, because usually if it rained in the small community we were in, life literally stopped moving. We could not travel anywhere because our only means of transportation, hired motorcycles could not drive on the muddy dirt roads. This particular day our supervisor instructed the motorcyclists to come despite the rain because we could not afford further delays in our work. No one was surprised when this resulted in much walking up hills as the motorcyclists attempted to slip and slide up the steep, muddy slopes. What was shocking was the reaction of our Rwandan drivers. Both our supervisor and the hired motorcyclist were completely calm and even laughing. There was no hint of stress or annoyance, just patience and determination to overcome the current obstacle.
A further strength I saw was the extraordinary amount of passion that people had for each other. A beautiful example of this was the young teachers working at the nearby school whom I had the privilege of befriending. Recently graduated from teachers’ school, these nineteen to thirty year olds literally dripped with passion for their students. While sitting over dinner one day I had one young male teacher explain to me why a teacher was so important in students’ lives. He said, “A teacher is not just someone who teaches you to count, a teacher is someone who shows you how to live your life. These children are intelligent; they watch and mimic how you communicate, the way you dress, and how you treat those around you. They will never exceed the teacher therefore the teacher must model every kind of integrity, patience, strength, kindness, and wisdom. Being educated does not only mean being knowledgeable, it means being a better human being in general. We want to produce high achievers but more than anything we want to produce good people who can achieve great things”. These words were restated in many ways by other teachers and displayed through their actions. Rising early to begin work at 7:15 in the morning, they taught classes of sixty plus children until 4:45 with a fifteen minute lunch break. After classes finished they organized sports for the children and led evening clubs focusing on raising awareness among the students. Anti-genocide and anti-aids were two of the biggest focuses within the clubs. Despite how underpaid and overworked they were, they never seemed to lose their stamina or passion. They were resourceful and creative, challenging their students to be critical thinkers. Care was shown in every way possible to each student through smiles, kind words, and encouragement. These children were their life; it did not seem an option to do otherwise.
These strengths and many others challenged and inspired me. My worry was that very few Rwandans seemed proud or even aware of these strengths because of the overwhelming focus on the negatives and needs.

In Conclusion

With my new understanding of both the struggles and the strengths in Rwanda came the weighty realization that I was now responsible to display the real story of the country through my photographs. Currently the outside world has a skewed understanding that Rwanda is solely a poverty stricken nation where genocide took place. Part of this is ignorance, while part is also the choice photographers have made in the past to only document images of certain things that display poverty and war, like children in torn rags or brutalized bodies in mass graves. The focus has been on the atrocities and the issues while the positives have been completely overlooked. This perception does not only minimize the outside worlds understanding of the true Rwanda, but also harms Rwanda’s ability to recognize the strengths within its culture. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy. We can either help or hinder this process with the story we tell through the pictures we take.
With this mind blowing realization I decided I must stop taking pictures until I could learn how to do it properly. I will not and cannot add to a detrimental process that has already caused enough damage to this country I love. Therefore I will begin with a new challenge of exploring creative ways to discover how to justly tell the world the real story of Rwanda. I want to tell of the passionate teachers who toil and sweat to train the next generation how to respect, love, and lead their country. I want to boast about the people who care so deeply about their fellow humans that at any sign of trouble 15 people would rush to my aid. This and much more is the Rwanda I’ve come to love. This is the Rwanda I will somehow learn how to show the world.




Passion?










Hope?











Strength?

Do these pictures depict to someone who has never been here the depth they do to me? Is there more than poverty? Genocide? Underdevelopment? Do you see the beauty yet?
Is this getting closer to hitting the mark?
You tell me.

Do you want to know what happened in Rwanda?

"Do you want to know what happened in Rwanda?
I have been there. I am there now.
Come, put your hand here on my chest and I will tell you.
Close your eyes. Listen. Now push, push gently, gently.
Keep your eyes closed. Push past my skin. Through my ribs.
Let your hand move deep into my chest.
Touch my heart.
Hold it.
Feel it.
Push through its cavities to the centre of my heart.
Now, listen closely. Open your eyes, slowly, and look deep into mine.
There, can you see it? I have been lying here for some time.
I do not know what happened to my family - it depends on who I am, on
where I am.
I was a man, a woman, a child, a foetus. You know I was killed.
I was killed by the militia because I am a Tutsi.
I was killed by the army because I was Hutu and a member of an
opposition party.
I was killed by my neighbours because I would
not go with them to kill others.
I was killed by my priest because it was the price he
had to pay to keep others alive.
I was killed by my wife, my husband, my children, my parents because
they had to kill me or be killed.
They killed many like me, women, children, men who happened to be here.
I know why, but I don’t know why.

I was killed by their machetes.
I was killed by their Kalashnikovs.
I was killed by their grenades.
I was killed by their bare hands.
I was killed by the rebels’ soldiers when they arrived here.
They killed many like me, women, children, men who happened to be here.
I know why, but I don’t know why.

I was killed by illness because we are so many, because we
live so close, because there is so much sickness, because I am afraid to
return home.
I was killed when I tried to leave the camps to go back and
they did not want me to go.
I was killed when I returned home, by those I found on my land.
Was it once their land?
I was killed when another said I had participated in the massacres.
Did I? I was taken, arrested, and my family does not know where I am.
They asked, but no one will tell them.
There was no trial—just an accusation.
I was killed in the war four years ago.
I was killed in massacres in my village two years back.
I was killed earlier this year when someone
threw a grenade into my house.

I was buried here by my family.
I was buried here in this mass grave and no one knows whether I am dead.
I died here in my grave after they forced me to dig it and put me
and others inside it and shot us.
I have never been buried.
I am in my house.
I am in the woods.
I was thrown in a river.
I have been left here as a testament to what happened,
for you and for the world to see.

Now do you understand? No? Then look deeper.
Ask yourself if you would kill if you thought it could save your family.
If it would protect your neighbours. Your country.
If it would protect your way of life against
those you think would grab it away from you.
If you believed that it would save what is important to you.
Ask yourself if you have ever looked at others as being different
from who you are yourself.
You are Canadian.
Have you ever been angry at them for their differences?
Have you ever been angry at the French?
At the English? At Westerners? At Easterners?
At Americans? At Muslims?
At newcomers? At those born here? At people of colour? At whites?
When you hear about a murder here now,
do you wonder about the race of the killer?
When you are driving and someone cuts you off, do you look
and tell yourself, “They all drive like that?”
Do you wonder whether some people got jobs
because they belong to a particular group?
Do you know of people who didn’t get
a job because they are different?
If you answer “yes” to any of these questions, you will at least
understand how this began in my country.
The inhumanity we have known is human.
It is in our human differences that we have
found reasons to dehumanize one another.
This is what I want to tell you.
We have died, we have killed because we are like you.
I am like you. Now, I am dead"

-Rob Shropshire

Faith of a Child

“Yes, they live very close. But every day we pray for Jesus blood to cover and protect us,and that is exactly what He does”.

Said Marie, the 17 year old orphan who was leading me by the hand through the orphanage, with the sweetest most trusting smile on her face. I followed her gaze over the barbed wired “fence” that separated the Jordan House Orphanage and the witch doctors domain. There was a strange hut/teepee like structure in the middle of the yard, not much more than 10 feet away from where we were standing. That was where the child sacrificing happened I was told. I saw a haggard, wrinkled old woman wearing torn traditional Ugandan dress walk unsteadily out of one of the small tin houses, leaning on a cane. I was struck by her eyes. They told me of a world I knew nothing about, of experiences and sights I could never even imagine or want to imagine. From across the yard I felt an evilness creep along the ground and up into my heart in that moment she looked at me.

All of a sudden I just was infuriated. Who was she to take the lives of my brothers and sisters? These innocent children who deserved a chance at life! Oh, the devil and his schemes to take God’s beautiful gifts! This wasn’t tradition, this was demonic.

I glared over the fence at her, not purposely, but I could not help myself. Then remembering Marie’s comment and attitude I felt humbled and a little bit silly. I was only a visitor, who was I to be righteously angry when the ones who lived in this danger were so peaceful and trusting? They knew they would be protected, and that God knew the danger they lived in. I saw that their attitude would be the one who would show Christ to these people, if anyone could.

Can you imagine that this kind of thing still happens? And it is not “rare” it is actually quite common and a big problem in Uganda and other places in Africa. All children are at risk of being kidnapped and killed as child sacrifices. Even the little ones I talked to at the Jordan House were very aware of what went on next door. They were not fearful, only cautious and made sure that they never went out in the streets alone.

How such horror could exist beside such a paradise I could not and cannot comprehend. I will try to paint you a picture of what it is like… Imagine with me.

With the squeaking of rusty metal, the gate is opened. Instantly 20 or more little black faces start yelling and laughing and rushing towards you. Their smiles tell of joy that is rare among even privileged children. Little arms wrap around your waist, legs, and arms, warmly embracing and accepting you. They ask “how are you? How are you? I am…(insert name)” with thick accents and sweet voices. Every child hugs you. Every staff member greets, hugs, and exclaims “you are welcome! You are welcome!”.

Their warmth is overwhelming. It almost makes you uncomfortable.

Soon enough, little people and big people are grabbing your hands and showing you around. “This is my bed.. This is my bear” is whispered shyly. “Here is where we eat, cook, play, and dance” is explained lovingly.
Then all of a sudden they are dancing. 15 or more beautiful little boys and girls are singing for you and smiling. They are pulling you onto the floor and teaching you their dance. You attempt, and they laugh playfully at your awkward attempts to mimic their skilled movements.
The little boys play on bongos a rhythm that fills your heart with wonder. How do they learn all of this? Where does all this joy come from? Kids that have watched their parents die of HIV or AIDS? Little ones who have seen and experienced such injustice in their short lives? Even those who had escaped some of these difficulties lived in a very small orphanage, had many responsibilities, and owned nothing of their own except maybe a small toy and two sets of very faded clothes that did not fit properly. But oh what joy in their laughter and kindness in their play! They sang songs about Jesus, about who He was to them and how they loved Him. You have never seen people so young express such obvious praise for God. You smile. You dance. You bask in the experience they invite you to share in. You are part of their community for a few short hours and in that time enjoy a little piece of heaven.

Now try to imagine that a place dripping with evil and death sits only a few feet away from this paradise. How distressing, how wrong! But oh, what a reality. It seems that is how it can be in life. The places where God is the most evident are the places that the devil attacks the most strongly. It also seems that places that are the most evil are the very same places that the most devout and pure God fearers spring up and challenge the darkness.

Oh God help us learn what this faith in You really looks like to us who do not face the darkness so blatantly!

Lessons from the Nile

I am glad I did not know in advance all this weekend would hold.
Saturday morning I woke up at 5:30 to pack and get ready for our bus to Adrift. It was rainy and stormy and all I could do was try not to hit myself for not going to bed earlier the night before. We all stumbled around, attempting to rub the sleep out of our eyes. Our lovely friend and cook, Grace, made us our usual meal of scrambled eggs and pineapple. I don’t think we were ever happier to see a hot breakfast.

Before long after we were driving through Kampala, some sleeping, a few listening to music, and others talking excitedly about the coming events of the day. We arrived about an hour and a half later, shocked at Adrift’s site, a mixed design of African/western buildings. Very nice. Very clean… Very touristy. There was a group of white, outdoorsy looking people sitting around waiting for us. I realized that maybe they are the reason I felt so out of place… I had not spent time with white people outside my team for almost a month.

The proceeding events included getting life jackets, helmets, paddles, and walking down a billion slanted stone stairs to the river. Sandy and I sat in the front two corners of our raft. Also in our raft was Suz, Soph, Tessa, and Anna. Our guide, Josh, then lead us through instructions for how to sit, what to do when we flip, and then we practiced while floating down to the first rapid.
Finally we arrived at the rapids. It was only a class three, but still exciting since it was the first one. A few people fell out, including Soph, who came up with the most horribly pained expression on her face. Josh took us to shore, since another raft needed to stop, and we had her hand looked at. Turned out they thought it was either broken or sprained, and she needed to go to the hospital. How incredibly unlucky. Poor thing! :(

Soon enough we were off again, paddling down that ancient river. We hit a few class 3 and 4 rapids, and I was beginning to be disappointed. It was fun, sure, but I wasn’t finding much of a thrill in it. Wasn’t it supposed to be frightening? I hadn’t even really been out of the boat yet. I didn’t even flinch when I heard that the next rapid was “Big Brother”, a class 5 and possible the biggest rapid of the full day course. “Maybe this one will be more exciting”. Boy, did I not know what I was in for.

As soon as we went over the first wave I was pulled, as if from a huge living hand, from the raft. All I could feel was rushing water pulling at me every which way. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t know which was up or down. I was spinning in circles. I kept thinking “feet up, remember, you don’t want to hit into anything with your head!” but it was impossible. I couldn’t control my body at all. I felt things like bodies flying into me from the right, the left, the top. I still couldn’t breathe. The waves were more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced. Up, down over, around, I felt like a leaf being sucked up into a hurricane. My insides were beginning to panic… air, air, I needed air. I frantically pulled towards anything, hoping to get even a breath. Every time I thought I was there I’d take a huge gulp, desperate, then realizing it was still water. It was starting to hurt. I started thinking “this isn’t how I want to die. This can’t be it”. I kept flying through the water, choking, and crying if that is even possible under water. Finally, and I mean FINALLY I came up. Caught a breath, went back under. Came up again, gasping uncontrollably. I saw out of the corner of my eye a neon green mass. Then a strong African voice said, “ova here! I’m here, grab this paddle!”. The water was still rushing madly about us. It was almost deafening. I grabbed at anything I could hold, realizing it was one of the kayakers who helped the guides pull us out of the water. Before I knew it he was paddling madly but surely out of the rapids. I have never been more relieved to see anyone in the entirety of my life. It calmed down a little, but I still couldn’t control the choking and gasping and crying. He just kept saying, “it’s okay, you are safe now!” He brought me back to the boat, I was heaved in, in shock. Still shaking. I couldn’t even process what had happened, all I knew was that I was not dead. It turned out that the raft hadn’t flipped, but Sandy, Tessa, and I had been tossed out on the first wave. We’d ridden the rest of the very long rapid on our own, tumbling over each other and hitting each other. That explained the painful things that had hit me. We then stopped for lunch after a bit of paddling… a very lovely lunch of sandwiches and fruit that I enjoyed in a slight daze.
I realized that my underestimation of the river had been a mistake. Who was I to not take a power greater than myself seriously? It was uncontrollable, and it did not care if I was able to breathe or not. The guides were literal lifesavers. I realized that they really were there to make sure that we were okay. They were professional in every aspect. I questioned why we do things like this… messing with forces so far greater than ourselves for a thrill. But more than that, the fact that we pay so much money at rafting companies because us normal people don’t know what we are doing. Tourism, tourism. What did the locals think of it? All over the riverbanks were African people, bathing, washing clothes, watching us… They looked curiously at us. Some waved. My Canadian guide, Josh, said in passing, “Yeah, it’s interesting working here. There’s just naked Africans all over the shores. Ahha!” It seemed so trite to him, he didn’t even seem to give a second thought. I don’t know what to think of the whole touristy part of it. It was a terrific experience, exhilarating, terrifying, and humbling. I am thankful and glad I went, yet it leaves me with lingering questions about the stark difference between the two worlds.

After lunch I was much more fearful of the rapids. I stayed in the front, and bite my lip as we’d descend into the next rapids. I fell in twice more in the afternoon. One of those times our raft flipped right over. I flayed about in the water, gasping and fearful again, but John, one of the other rafters who was in the water grabbed my life jacket and pulled me right towards the flipped over raft, and we all clung to the rope. Josh got on top and yelled the command “UNDER!” for us to put our heads under so he could flip the boat right side up. Soon after we were back in the raft, wet, laughing, relieved, and paddling on to the next rapid. We had a few 40 minute periods of just floating and paddling at times down a completely calm river. This was just what we needed after the stress of the rapids. We were allowed to take off our lifejackets and helmets, eat lollipops, and re-apply sunscreen. There was lots of laughter and pushing each other out of the boats. We lounged on the bubbly sides of the raft, enjoying the warm sun, despite the fact that it was burning us up. The river was very wide. There were many locals on the edges. We saw farms, passed by rickety canoe like boats with African fishermen on them. Josh pointed out lots of monkeys and crazy looking birds. We saw a baby crocodile. I cannot even describe the scenery. The blue sky and billowing white clouds were familiarly beautiful, yet the trees and surrounding greenery were distinctly different. Imagine trees out of the lion king. But more of them, and slightly more jungle like. I was completely at peace. Nothing else in the world seemed to exist at that moment. Sandy and I just looked at each other with understanding eyes… we were on the freaking Nile. Could it really get better?

The second time I fell out was on the last rapid… called 50/50. It was a class 4 rapid. We had the option of a class 5, but it was called the “Bad place”, and you only chose to go there if you wanted to get violently thrown out of your raft. We decided against that since we had experienced enough of that already. 50/50 was still a huge rapid, and there was a high chance of flipping. We set out, the same team, me and sandy in front, Anna, Tessa, Suz paddling hard and Josh steering in the back. He instructed that we had to paddle hard to get over to 50/50, since “the bad place” was just a different route down the river. We tried, but the crashing waves again pulled me and Suz tumbling out of the raft. It was a similar experience to my first one… the twirling and gasping not knowing what was up or down or if you would ever find air again. This time I hit something really hard with my head. A kayaker was there, trying to help me as soon as he could. I got ripped away from him too many times for my liking, the waves were so strong. I was choking, but not as badly as the first time. All I could feel now was my head and jaw throbbing. Then I was pulled back into the raft. It turned out that after we had fallen out, the raft and remaining passengers (and Josh) went over to a very bad place in the river. They were stuck on the other side of the “bad place”, which was called the “other place”-a place that the rafts just don’t go because it is so dangerous and rocky. They got out, thankfully, and even Josh seemed a little shaken up. We all laughed a little, that kind of relieved “holy crap” laughter. I was instructed to take off my helmet and sit in the back since my head hurt so badly. As soon as we were able the paddling towards our end destination began. Stories of the day were relived.
We’d made it. We were alive. And we had white water rafted the Nile.

That night we enjoyed the company of our raft guides and other rafters from around the world, laughed and exchanged stories, ate good food and complained about our sun burnt knees. We met people from Australia, Switzerland, England, Ireland, India, and Canada (yay Canada!). I got a lot of interesting insight into what Europeans and other non-northamericans think of Americans and Canadians. Ask me sometime if you’d like to know. The power went out a few times, but we still had a good time around lanterns. When it came back on we watched the video that was taken of our day of rafting… the entire 30-40 of us that were staying the night at camp that night plus all our guides, enjoyed watching ourselves get thrown from the raft and do stupid things. Then it was bed. All 13 of us girls stayed in one room… there were 4 sets of bunk beds. But they were 6 beds high. Probably one of the funniest things I’ve seen. Sleeping was painful with that terrible burn… but we were so tired it didn’t really matter.

We woke up early because Eli had a time set for bungee jumping. I felt like a 90 year old woman when I tried to climb down the ladder. My incredibly burnt knees hurt to bend and the in and out sleep I got was not adequate for a restful sleep. Suz and I showered, got ready, and headed out to the opened aired restaurant/bar for breakfast. The view was breath taking. We were on a cliff overlooking the Nile. People starting filling in, sleepy eyed, getting breakfast. Eli was getting ready to bungee jump… and Sandy and I were still debating if we wanted to jump. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to, I was so sore already. We decided to stay and watch, since the restaurant had a perfect view of the tall metal structure were the bungee jumping took place. Time passed, and we saw Eli jump. It was absolutely terrifying to watch. You thought that he was diving to his death… Soon after Wes decided he wanted to go. We watched him. Then Ryan and Jordan were like, “heck lets do it”, so they went while Sandy and I hummed and hawed. Finally, I decided I was just going to go pay the 55 dollars, sign the liability form and start walking up to the tower. I did not want to think of any more pros and cons, I just decided to do it. I climbed the tall stairs, and confidently told them I was going to jump. I sat in the “kings” chair as they were tying my feet in. My stomach was starting to turn. My heart was racing faster than I’d ever experienced. I wasn’t going to think about it. Jack, the bungee master, who was from New Zealand and not much older than me, was talking me through the instructions in a think accent. “Just stand up, hop over to me, and whatever you do, don’t look down. You will get to the edge, put your toes over, then push off. Try to fall and dive. But whatever you do it will be okay, this is incredibly safe, we know what we are doing”.

I hesitated. But I got up. I kept talking. I looked out around at the cliffs, and at all my friends standing in the restaurant cheering me on. My knees were about to give. I felt like I was walking the plank. I felt I was about to die. This was the end of my life. I started to freak out. I moved away from the edge, Jack and the other bungee master helping me back and calming me down. I decided to just sit and relax for a minute and they got Sandy all set up to jump in the mean time. She did so good. She was so terrified, but she went to the edge… took a bit of time… came back and sat down for a minute, then went to the edge and jumped. That a girl! Jack looked at me and said kindly “you aren’t getting your money back, Jess, and you will regret it if you don’t go. You can do this!” I took a deep breath and told them to put the harness back on my feet. I did not think about it. I hopped over to Jack. Put my toes over the edge. He counted to three and I fell. I dived. It was perfect. It was so fast. It was unexplainable.


When I was done, untied and brought to shore I climbed up stairs (which were sooo long) with the hugest smile on my face and the happiest I’d been in a long time. I did it. And it was amazing.

I think the reason I was so happy was because I followed through with it. I realized that I could do it, no matter how hard or scary it was. In life I feel like I chicken out of the big decisions and commitments. I say I will, I know I should, but somehow I back out or only “half-ass” do it(excuse the language). But this gave me hope. I threw myself head first over a 200 foot drop. I have never been so scared in my entire life. But I did it. Maybe that saying is true, “courage isn’t lack of fear, but action in spite of it”. God give me strength to carry this out in other areas of my life.

In conclusion, what can I say? I am sitting at home in the guest house in Kampala not wanting to drink water for a week after all the water I swallowed in the rapids. I am incredibly burnt and so sore that every time I move I wince. But I am satisfied. I am happy. I experienced the Nile and faced it head on.