I have conflicting emotions this evening, as I sit here on the balcony of my beautiful hotel room at The Ranch overlooking Lake Victoria. We arrived here this afternoon to get ready for the first day of workshops tomorrow, which is a “residential” workshop (meaning the participants stay onsite – an added incentive to ensure high attendance).
I am told the rate is $115US per night, and for this I get three meals, impeccable service, a huge room with beautiful furniture and an exotic mosquito net (which is not needed, thank goodness), an enormous bathroom with rainshower, business desk with wireless internet, sitting area, and a tiled balcony overlooking a beautiful garden and in the distance, the Lake. Oh, and the view of a little village.
This is where the mixed feelings come in. Over the past couple of days I have been on a few road trips, and all along the roads, whether in the cities or small villages, I see people of all ages trudging to get their water for the day in gigantic yellow containers. There is no running water here, and people make daily treks to get their supply for washing, cooking, and bathing. I see crooked red-brick shacks piled together to create a neighbourhood, laundry hanging everywhere or spread on shrubs or the lawn, and chickens, goats, cows, and ducks roaming freely with barefoot (sometimes, but not always) children. Women carrying enormous baskets of bananas on their head try to sell their wares to occupants of passing cars. Tiny shacks are tilted at precarious angles, and the owner is usually perched on a stool inside waiting for someone to buy a phone card, a stick of sugar cane, a bottle of Fanta, an iron gate, a carved bedframe, a cut of beef/pork/goat, hats, clothing, or fruit. I see “Jesus is King Metalworks” and the car washing bay in the creek. And everywhere, people, boda-bodas, and diesel spewing trucks.
The view from my balcony is a little different. I just watched a man and woman walk along the path towards the little village – she with an enormous pile of clothing on her head – and a group of four or five children came running towards them, jumping around them and then clutching their hands as they continued along the path. Parents coming home at the end of the day? Perhaps. I can see them now, kicking a soccer ball around, chasing the chickens and waiting for the sun to set. (Their rooster is confused – he has been crowing all afternoon.)
What I have not seen is the sad sad World Vision images. The people I see are smiling, joking, laughing, chatting on their cell phones, and enjoying their day. They look healthy and happy, quite frankly. Food is plentiful, there is lots of activity, and tourism is on the rise.
I tell myself that it’s ok that I’m in this castle on the hill, because I’m contributing to the economy. But I can’t help feel a little guilty for complaining about my hard bed and difficulties in finding a hair dryer.
I am told the rate is $115US per night, and for this I get three meals, impeccable service, a huge room with beautiful furniture and an exotic mosquito net (which is not needed, thank goodness), an enormous bathroom with rainshower, business desk with wireless internet, sitting area, and a tiled balcony overlooking a beautiful garden and in the distance, the Lake. Oh, and the view of a little village.
This is where the mixed feelings come in. Over the past couple of days I have been on a few road trips, and all along the roads, whether in the cities or small villages, I see people of all ages trudging to get their water for the day in gigantic yellow containers. There is no running water here, and people make daily treks to get their supply for washing, cooking, and bathing. I see crooked red-brick shacks piled together to create a neighbourhood, laundry hanging everywhere or spread on shrubs or the lawn, and chickens, goats, cows, and ducks roaming freely with barefoot (sometimes, but not always) children. Women carrying enormous baskets of bananas on their head try to sell their wares to occupants of passing cars. Tiny shacks are tilted at precarious angles, and the owner is usually perched on a stool inside waiting for someone to buy a phone card, a stick of sugar cane, a bottle of Fanta, an iron gate, a carved bedframe, a cut of beef/pork/goat, hats, clothing, or fruit. I see “Jesus is King Metalworks” and the car washing bay in the creek. And everywhere, people, boda-bodas, and diesel spewing trucks.The view from my balcony is a little different. I just watched a man and woman walk along the path towards the little village – she with an enormous pile of clothing on her head – and a group of four or five children came running towards them, jumping around them and then clutching their hands as they continued along the path. Parents coming home at the end of the day? Perhaps. I can see them now, kicking a soccer ball around, chasing the chickens and waiting for the sun to set. (Their rooster is confused – he has been crowing all afternoon.)
What I have not seen is the sad sad World Vision images. The people I see are smiling, joking, laughing, chatting on their cell phones, and enjoying their day. They look healthy and happy, quite frankly. Food is plentiful, there is lots of activity, and tourism is on the rise.
I tell myself that it’s ok that I’m in this castle on the hill, because I’m contributing to the economy. But I can’t help feel a little guilty for complaining about my hard bed and difficulties in finding a hair dryer.
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