Sliver Linings

 On Tuesday, I got a sliver in my left foot. Such is the hazard of living in an old home with wood floors. The main casualty in the event should have been a beloved sock, presently kept with the intent of one day being darned, as I suppress the knowledge that it will soon find a new home in the bin. The sliver, while substantial, needed only to be plucked from the flesh of my foot with care.

But, thanks to my Father, such was not the case.

Instead, the tweezers dug and peeled, ripping apart my flesh, desperate to ensure that no remnants of my office floor remained.

I blame my Father because despite all the trials of his life, it was a wee sliver that almost cost him dearly. It was a routine job – re-shingling a roof for a friend – with a routine injury: a sliver. As I’m sure he has done hundreds of times, my dad dug out what he could, likely wrapped his wound with electrical tape, and pressed on.

In a few short days, my dad was in a hospital bed. If memory serves me, he was hospitalized for five days. The sliver not only buried deep, but the wood must have been rotten. The infection that ensued nearly cost my dad his arm. At a minimum, it cost him more forced time off of work than any other illness I am aware of, including cancer.

Whenever I get a sliver, I make certain to extricate every miniscule bit of wood possible. Many of my siblings do likewise. The slightly impaired left foot is a small price to pay to avoid catastrophic consequences, however unlikely.

It can sometimes be difficult to rationally weigh risks we face. This challenge is amplified in a place like Uganda.

For example, one has to pause and consider the risks they face when this is the view they gaze upon daily.

The razor wire makes everything feel so homey!

The iron gate to Isaac and Erica's compound. The wood Isaac cut up for our New Year's Eve bonfire.

In Kampala, homes are generally surrounded by high walls that are topped with razor wire, and entry into the property requires passing through a heavy iron gate. Windows and doors are typically barred. Feels so safe.

Isaac and Erica’s compound is guarded day and night. While the guard is unarmed – except, perhaps, for a big stick, which the night guard Henry used to kill a snake one night a few weeks prior to my arrival – there is still a need to have someone in the compound to prevent unwanted intruders. As I lay awake the one night, it is difficult to ignore the sounds of the guard making noise. Similarly, it is difficult to forget news about the guard being found asleep on numerous occasions – hard to feel protected when the protector wanders through candy land. Is that banging the guard checking the gate, or someone taking advantage of the guard’s slumber. If someone were to break into the compound, I suppose the best course of action would be to hand over valuables and hope they’d leave. Calling 911 isn’t a real option.

Water is also a pretty big risk. Even with recent disasters such as Walkerton, it is easy to take advantage of a consistent clean and safe water supply. At the very least, even when there is a problem, as recently experienced in West Virginia when an industrial chemical contaminated the water supply, you can at least expect officials to truck clean water in. Water presents numerous risks in Uganda.

Lake Victoria.

Jeremy Wade and a Goliath
 Tigerfish from the Congo

You take risks cooling off. Hippos and crocs aren’t such a big issue in the city, although there is a real risk of crocs and hippos in more rural areas. Dangerous fish are everywhere. I used to have this weird obsession when in water about turtles and big fish. If I think about them, I picture them nibbling at my toes, and I have to get out of the water. I could get right back in, but I felt compelled to exit the water. I don’t think the idea bothers much anymore. Jeremy Wade of River Monsters has identified far more brutal monsters in the rivers to fear than turtles – especially in Africa (see Goliath Tigerfish, which can grow to five feet long and 150 pounds!).

There is also the danger of the unseen in the water. The parasites one might pick up from taking a dip to swim. I relied heavily on bottled water. I drank it, used it brush my teeth, even showered with it – ok, the last part isn’t true. The locals have to get water from wells, which may require a walk (especially in rural areas). We saw lots of people gathering water on our trip back from safari, as apparently there was fear of an imminent shortage.

Hippos were everywhere in the water. Photo by Isaac Shelley

The water has to be boiled prior to being used. This is especially important in the poorer areas of the city. I didn’t take a picture of the line of people collecting water from one of the few sources in the Kampala slums, but this is a picture of the river that goes through the slums. There are small channels that cut through the slums that feed this larger stream. All of the small channels are full of trash – many of the plastic bags, we were told by our guide Michael from the Hands of Hope orphanage, are filled with human waste. The entire slum was full of waste – human and otherwise. In heavy rains, all of this will be collected in the river. Apparently, the water gets several feet high in the slums during the heavy rains, threatening to wash away homes, but also moving debris freely into every nook and cranny. I don’t know if people take any water from any of these channels, or what the source of the water was where they gathered (a well, perhaps, or maybe a direct feed from the city?), but the sight of the water has had a lasting impression.

A river of debris flows through the Kampala slum.

I love water. Many of my favourite activities involve water. I’m a fisherman. I’m a canoeist. I’m an outdoorsman. Even newfound interests, such as running, I find more enjoyable when done by the water. I love the potential of the water. I love the mystery of what may lie beneath. But never before has water so terrified and saddened me. I remember reading some years ago that Coca-Cola was more readily available than clean water in some developing countries. I can now more fully understand, as there were often towers of milk crates of Coke piled along the roadside. The only equivalent for water were the yellow jugs sold to transport water from well to home.

A young boy walks down the rural road, carrying water.

As there is no silver lining to this post – only the sad reality that people in Uganda face – I thought I’d end with some nice memories of water from my trip.

The Shelley gang at Murchison Falls.

Murchison Falls.

Karuma Falls.

Cruising the Nile!