Volunteer Week Part 1- Nsambya Babies Home

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Kampala is a large, sprawling city. The roads don’t intersect as much as they rotary. What was most striking, once I was used to the traffic patterns and admirable skills of Moses, our driver, was the staggering number of NGOs established within the limits. I may even go so far to say that on every street we drove, I saw at least one sign that hinted at some cause or relevant exigency. Three of these organizations quickly became important to us.

The first full day I spent in Kampala, I spent an hour holding babies. Now, with regard to my status as a single traveler sucking the marrow out of life, you may be surprised to learn that I do not covet a little one of my own. And surely it comes as a shock that my interests have never rested in the crib or playground, but scattered about, as my life has, of late, over the world. Thus, you can perhaps begin to grasp how the ease with which I ran to pick up a little one, and the warmth I felt with the little drool machine wrapped around my hip, confounded me. We walked into the Nsambya Babies Home, a fairly recognized home of, at the moment, fifteen or so children ranging between a few months and six years. Tour organizations and missionaries are familiar with the Catholic-affiliated home, owned by a dear man named John. I would say run, but the sisters take care of all the dirty work. And in an orphanage where only the very small use diapers, most of the work is certainly dirty. The home is a large U-shaped building with an internal courtyard. There is an anteroom where a receptionist might sit, and then many bedrooms. The courtyard was speckled with colorful near-broken toys, of the donated variety. Through the yard was another building up a very short hill, where I would guess some of the sisters live. Farther back behind the main facility is a smaller house for the laundry, ironing, and baby-caretaking. There is even a small crafts shop at the back of the lot, which I assume donates proceeds to the Home. There is no electricity used except for when I saw a television on. Gender is too expensive for fashion, and thus all the clothes are designated to all the children.

Most were too young to have learned English (the educational residue of a British colony), so we communicated in the universal languages of play, song, and facial expressions. We spent most of our time in the courtyard, where it is eternal recess.

The children know when visitors are coming. They run towards the foreigners, arms raised with their fingers pointing to the sky. And for the period the guests remain, the women who run this incredible ship do not have to worry about administering affection. My first experience was mainly spent holding a youngster who couldn’t have been more than one, maybe eighteen months, who held onto my shirt with his wee little fist, lolled his beautiful face into my collarbone, and peed a lot on me.

And then, just an hour later, now holding two dear toddlers, I had to let them go. We learned about monitoring our attachment that very first day. How can you consciously conspire to only hold a child for so long that the affection is properly administered without allowing the child to develop (or yourself) a bond. That, I never mastered. And I was not a fun big white person. A few of our group showed themselves from day one to be full of energy, interesting games and songs- great babysitters or future parents. I am able to hold, rock, and sing soothingly. And so the small, bullied children always waddled over to me.

During our visits that week some of us were able to help with laundry, ironing, feeding, and chopping wood. A small staff runs the entire operation, and were constantly busy. Sometimes we felt needed, sometimes we felt in the way. It was an unusual experience, and a disillusioning one for the whole "volunteer in Africa" cliche aspect. I kept reminding myself that the babies loved being held, and that I wasn't seeking political gain and notoriety.