I turned around.  Tribe was standing in the doorway to the classroom we’d just left where we taught the students about the power of differentiation when launching social ventures.  During class Tribe only spoke when he was called upon and even then he was barely audible.  Now he was the one addressing the mzungu (Swahili word for “white person) by himself.  His classmates had already gone to supper.

I was stunned. Not only at who was asking the question, but also at the gravitas of it.

“What do you mean my vision?”  I stammered.

Tribe stared at me deeply.  “What is your vision for me?”

I had only been in Africa for a few days.  Tribe’s school, Gayaza Cambridge, in the rural outskirts of Kampala, was one of the first schools I visited.  To get there was an experience in itself.  On the first leg of my trip I took a matatu (large van that follows specific routes through the countryside) from my compound in Buziga to Old Taxi Park (which was the epicenter of the riots that rocked Kampala 4 days earlier).  From Old Taxi Park I hitched another matatu to Gayaza which was an hour and a half (mostly over bumpy dirt roads) away from Kampala.  We fit over 20 people in a 14-person van.  I sat next to a woman that brought a bag of hay which she laid across my lap the entire ride.  It seems like anything goes in these matatus – they have given me a newfound sense of patience and humor.

As we snaked through various provinces and neighborhoods in the matatu I was in culture shock.  We drove through places that were destitute.  There were children begging on the side of the matatu.  There were donkeys, cows, longhorn cattle, goats, monkeys and chickens walking in the street next to cars and matatus and people.  When villagers saw me in the matatu they shouted mzungu!  Children stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the odd white person.  Everywhere I went it was a spectacle.  I felt like I was dreaming.  It was surreal.

When we got off at the Gayaza stop we were greeted by 20 boda boda drivers (motorcycle drivers that take you anywhere matatus cannot) yelling “mzungu! mzungu!” and tapping their respective seats.

Amy, the program director, asked one of them if they knew where Gayaza Cambridge was.  The man sheepishly nodded and quoted us a price of 500 shillings (25 cents).  She asked him again – louder.

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE GAYAZA CAMBRIDGE IS?”

He nodded again and patted the seat for us to get on it.  She shook her head and walked to the next boda driver in the throng.  This boda boda driver was adamant that he knew where Gayaza Cambridge was and quoted us 1,500 shillings (75 cents).  We got on and within 30 seconds we were flying through the Ugandan countryside – weaving around animals and potholes and branches lying in the street.  I had never been on a motorcycle before and now I was sitting behind Amy, whipping around on the back of boda boda and entrusting my life to a man I’d never even spoken with.

“Why didn’t we get on the first one?”  I shouted to her through the wind.

“His price was too low.”  She replied.  “If they don’t know where they’re going they’ll quote you something cheap.  Once you get on the bike they drive away and ask you where to go. If you don’t know they charge you extra for getting lost and drive you back to the boda boda station.”

The boda boda dropped us off 5 minutes away from Gayaza Cambridge.  After giving him 1,500 shillings we gave him another 1,000 shillings so that he’d come back and pick us up after our session.  It was already dusk and we were worried there would be no boda boda’s waiting for us when we were done.

“Here is 1,000.  Will you come back for us?”

He shook his head vehemently.

“6:20 sebbo (sir).”  Amy said, looking him in the eyes.  “We need you to come back.  We have no way to to get back to Gayaza.  Will you come back?”

He nodded and rode off.  (He never came back).

After Tribe asked me the question he hung his head to the side and limply looked at the ground.  I looked at him a little longer, trying to figure out what my response would be.  Finally I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Well – what do you want to be?”

Of all the difficult parts of moving from Manhattan to Uganda – what I struggled with most was effectively communicating with students in the Educate! program.  I didn’t know how to speak with someone 10 years younger, from a completely different socio-economic circle and altogether different set of circumstances than myself.  It was hard.  I struggled, and I still struggle with it.

And while that was hardest part of my transition, the move to Uganda was much harder than I’d anticipated.  I’ve always been a go-with-the-flow type of person.  I usually don’t have a problem adapting to any situation. But this was different.

For me it seemed like everything was more difficult. I don’t mean to over-generalize or suggest this is the condition in all of Uganda – but they are the circumstances specific to my lodging and environment.  Most of the items are petty, but it’s the small things in life that make one comfortable.  Suddenly I felt I had no comforts, neither big nor small.  Nothing seemed simple anymore – when I brush my teeth I can’t run my toothbrush under the faucet.  I can’t drink tap water.  Clothes have to be washed by hand.  There is no coffee machine.  To get hot water you need to flip a switch 15 minutes before you shower.  There is no light in the bathroom (I was told I need to “aim straight”).  There is a “pet mouse” named Juliet that occasionally keeps us up at night as she sifts through items left out, pads through the room at night and crawls around in the walls till the early hours of the morning.  Going to the grocery store requires a backpack and 2 boda boda’s.  When I was in Hoima I scratched my arm getting out of a matatu.  The scratch was small – but because of the hygiene difficulties (2 out of the 3 days I was in the hotel I didn’t have water) and a lack of basic medical necessities (there was no hydrogen peroxide or disinfecting ointments in the entire town of Hoima) my arm has gotten infected.

And while these inconveniences make my life difficult – my work has been fulfilling beyond my wildest expectations.  Looking at a young adults trying to start a business and knowing that my skill set will help them do that more successfully is exhilarating.

Tribe looked at the ground and shifted his weight back and forth on his two legs.  He looked at the ground and then back at me again.

“I want to be an entrepreneur and an economist.”  He said softly.

“I can help you achieve both of those goals.”  I said.  “I’ve studied both fields.”

“Can you teach me?”

I nodded.

I am in Kampala to help the Educate! students launch their social enterprises.  Specifically I have to help them figure out: how to get start up capital; how to get ongoing cash to sustain their business and how their business can address a social problem.

While there are many business principles and concepts that transcend all geographic and cultural boundaries – the more I learned about the students business plans the more I realized I had a long way to go in terms of understanding how businesses operated in Uganda.  Uganda is primarily an agricultural-based economy and many of the student’s ventures revolve around farming and livestock.  Already I’d visited tomato, cabbage, cucumber,  eggplant, chicken farms and goat rearing projects funded through the students, grown on school grounds and sold to students and community members.   The earnings were reinvested into the student groups to help defray the cost of school fees and even pay 100% of certain students schools fees.  I met one group, COBURWAS (which is made of orphan refugees from Congo, Sudan Uganda, Burundi, Kenya and Tanzania) that created simple businesses so they could afford to send themselves to secondary school.

Besides understanding the way businesses operate in Uganda I also need to understand the societal problems that afflict Uganda as a whole and thus compel students to start social enterprises to address them.  The problems in Uganda are far different than the ones in America – child sacrifice, school burning, terrorism, AIDS, children soldiers, government corruption, malaria, prostitution.

And my team and I can’t afford to make many mistakes.  95% of our students cannot afford to go to a university after secondary school.  If we are not able to help them start a social venture they will enter the work force likes the rest of the Ugandans.

Tribe looked at the ground and looked up at me again.  “Do you promise you’ll come back?”

I nodded again.

“When?”

“In a week or two.”  I said.

He smiled and walked away.

I was at JFK and a young, sharply dressed KLM representative was chirping into the microphone.  I was with the rest of the passengers on flight KL642, standing in front of the boarding gate, boorishly waiting until my row was called.

I looked at my airline ticket.  Row 31.  Seat A.  It would be my seat on the first leg of my journey to Uganda.  First an 8 hour flight to Amsterdam, then a 4 hour lay over and then a 9 hour flight to Entebbe, Uganda’s main airport.

As I stood there, I reflected on what a whirlwind the last two weeks had been.  I walked away from a stable job on Wall Street to volunteer in Africa. I always wondered what it would be like to leave corporate America, to physically walk outside the building on my last day.  How would I act?  Would I laugh?  Would I cry?  Would I emit a Howard Dean’ish “byah!” that would terrify anyone within a three-mile radius?  On August 28^th, exactly five years and two months after joining Morgan Stanley, I found out.

Truth be told my departure wasn’t that spectacular – more of a fizzle than a fireball.  While I was excited to embark on my new adventure in the nonprofit world, Morgan Stanley was the only place I’d ever worked.  The experiences I’d had, opportunities I’d been afforded and, most importantly, the friends I’d made during my time at Morgan left me feeling nostalgic and sentimental.  More than being terrified of not having a check for the next 6-12 months, I was scared to leave the only world I’d known since undergraduate school.  Within three weeks I was going from one of the most venerated financial institutions on Wall Street to a nonprofit start-up in Uganda.

“All passengers between rows 25 and 45 can now board the aircraft.”

I looked at my ticket – it was my time to get on the plane, but I wasn’t ready.  I stepped outside the line I’d been standing in for 20 minutes and walked over to the large bay windows overlooking the tarmac.  JFK was hectic as usual, with planes hustling in and out of the nooks and crannies of the airport like giant worker bees.  I looked at my plane – a big, sky blue KLM Boeing 777 Dreamliner parked right outside the window.

My sister called.

“Did you have any luck calling the US Embassy?”  She asked.

“Nope – it kept telling me the number I dialed isn’t valid.”

“I see.”

I could hear the worry and frustration in her voice.  My family, concerned with the prospect of me being in Africa without any method of communication chipped in and surprised me with a global satellite phone the day before my departure.  It is quite an intimidating piece of equipment (think of the phone Leonardo DiCaprio used in Blood Diamond).  It’s the size of a brick and the antenna alone, which flips up in either direction at 45 degree angles (so its pointing towards the sky depending on which side of your face you hold the phone) is an inch thick and extends out 12 inches.  However, despite the technology and the impressive-looking phone, for some reason during my test calls it wouldn’t allow me to call anyone in Uganda.  I’d tried both the Educate! office and the US Embassy – neither worked.

“Okay, well I just spoke with the guy at the phone company.”  She continued.  “He said that if you’re trying to dial a number outside the US you need to dial 00 first.”

That little tidbit of information was not included with the instruction manual.

“Got it.”

“Try dialing the US Embassy in Kampala now to make sure it works.”

“I cant.”

“Why not?”

“The satellite phone needs to be outside for it to work.  When you’re inside the reception to the satellite’s orbiting the earth is too weak.”  I could sense tension building up on the other side of the phone.  “But its okay.  I’m sure there will be payphones in Entebbe airport if the satellite phone doesn’t work.”

“Right.”  She said, “But that’s why we bought you this phone.  So you wouldn’t have to worry about finding a payphone in the airport.”

“I know.”  I admitted.  “I’m sure it’ll work just fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.”

We said goodbye for the millionth time and I turned off my cell phone to save the battery life.

While walking away from a stable job and a comfortable life in Manhattan was difficult – the most difficult thing about travelling to Uganda was leaving behind my friends and family.  I have been blessed with an abundance of fantastic friends and a wonderful family, including a beautiful sixteen-month-old nephew and another nephew (I’m going to be his godfather!) on the way.  I hadn’t even left JFK yet, but already I missed everyone.  It seemed like I’d been surrounded by friends, family and coworkers every waking moment for the last two weeks – whether it was getting dinner and drinks with friends or playing with my nephew – my last two weeks in the US were wonderful, and they made it even harder to leave everyone for 6 months.

“All passengers between rows 10 and 45 can now board the aircraft.”

I wasn’t ready to board yet.  There was till time to soak in the hustle and bustle of JFK airport, the wonderful Brooklyn accents, the food that didn’t look particularly appetizing, but at least it was comfortable.

There was a newsstand bordering my gate.  I walked in and flipped through the New York Times.  It brought me back to the shocking headline I’d read a few days prior, “Unrest in Uganda’s Capital, Kampala ,Centers on Local King.” A headline like this isn’t a big deal normally; it seems like a story one might come across after fingering through any media publication for five seconds.  The type of story you don’t even give a second thought.  The over-proliferation of the media has made us numb to headlines like that.  But, when one is travelling to the said destination, these fleeting headlines and interesting stories take on a whole different gravitas.

I actually hadn’t come across the story myself.  I was on my way to Roosevelt Field Mall when, suddenly, my cell phone started ringing like crazy.  My mother (eager to spend every last second with me) was in the car.  I asked her to grab my cell phone.  The texts, from multiple people, sickened both of us: “Did you hear about the riots in Kampala?” ; “Dude, you still going to Kampala?” ; “Yo – check out NYT article on Uganda.”

As soon as we got to the mall I checked out a couple of news sources and was alarmed by what I read:  “Bands of young men burned tires, looted shops and battled with the police, and by sundown armored military trucks were rumbling through the litter-strewn streets of Kampala” ; “20 people expected dead in violent street riots.” The pictures were equally disturbing – burned out buses and cars, burning tires, people running around with machine guns.  They are images that have been burned into our collective psyche throughout the years.

When I got home from the mall I went to the State Department’s website to get an official prognostication on the events.  They didn’t make me feel any better.  After years of stability, and three days before I was supposed to fly into Kampala the State Department issued a “Travel Warning:”

“The Department of State alerts U.S. citizens to the violent demonstrations stemming from political friction between the central government and the authorities of Buganda, which is a vestige of a pre-modern kingdom located in central Uganda, inclusive of Kampala.

“As a result of these demonstrations, travel within the downtown central business district of Kampala and surrounding areas is severely restricted, and U.S. citizens should be aware that spontaneous demonstrations can occur without notice.  This potential for violent demonstrations will remain throughout the weekend of September 12-13, and may extend into the following week.

“The Kampala-Entebbe road that connects the Entebbe International Airport and Kampala was closed several times on September 10, and some roads leading north from Kampala were sporadically closed.  These sporadic closures are expected to continue to occur through the weekend, and perhaps beyond.  This means travel to and from the airport may be severely restricted and may cause lengthy delays.  U.S. citizens planning to travel out of Entebbe International Airport should be sure to give themselves at least four (4) hours to get to the airport from Kampala.

“U.S. citizens should be aware that even peaceful gatherings and demonstrations can turn unexpectedly violent.  U.S. citizens in Uganda should remain aware of their surroundings, monitor and assess their own security situations at all times, and avoid large public gatherings, protests, and demonstrations.  U.S. citizens are encouraged to report unusual events or activities to the U.S. Embassy.

I would be landing in Uganda, at night, without a reliable means of communication and the only road between Entebbe Airport and downtown Kampala (where my compound is located) was sporadically being shut down.  Things were shaping up quite nicely for my excursion.

“All passengers on KLM flight 642 are welcome to board the aircraft.”  The voice chirped again.

Everyone bustled to the KLM representative scanning tickets, but I still wasn’t ready. Although I was eager to experience a new culture and way of life, I still wanted to savor each and every moment I had in the US.  The night before, after everyone in my family had left my “bon voyage” party, I walked around Floral Park, the town I was born and raised.  It was late at night on a Sunday and most people in the town were in bed.  The town was sleepy and hazy and quiet.  I walked down Bellmore Street and looked at Our Lady of Victory School and I remembered being a student there from Kindergarten to the 8^th grade.  I walked past the schoolyard and looked at the wall where I’d practiced throwing lacrosse balls and tennis balls and playing handball and with my friends.  I walked down Tulip Avenue and looked at, Jamison’s, my favorite Irish bar that was within stumbling distance of my house.  I looked at the Tulip Bake Shop that made the best jelly donuts in the world.  I looked at the train station, busy as usual, with trains hustling in and out of Manhattan.  I looked at my barbershop where I’d gotten countless haircuts through the years.  I knew I’d have none of these comforts, even though they are petty and small, in Uganda.  I knew it would be hard to leave these small sources of happiness for a few months, but I also knew I’d appreciate them infinitely more upon my return to the US.

“Last call.  All passengers on KLM flight 642 with non-stop service to Amsterdam please board the aircraft.”

The cheerful woman looked at me.  “What took you so long hun?”

I smiled, handed her my ticket and walked onto the plane.

My friends and I were out at our summerhouse – a time-share in the East Hamptons that we’ve shared for the last three years.  Everyone was playing beer pong, or listening to music or watching the Yankees game when the mysterious man appeared outside.  He stood against the long vertical window on the side of the door peering into the house.  He didn’t knock.  He didn’t ring the bell.  Nobody knew how long he had been standing there.

My friend Andy walked to the door. The man stepped back onto the porch.  He was wearing a short, rounded hat and a thick cotton robe that stretched to his knees.

“Can I help you?”  Andy asked the man.

“You called a cab?”

“We called Rafiqe.”

Rafiqe was the cab driver we’d befriended during our first summer in the Hamptons.  He had the cheapest rates in the Hamptons – but he was also a kind man that knew each of us by name and would pick us up whenever we needed it.

“Rafiqe sent me today.  His van is too big to make this trip.”  He peered into the house.  “He said you only have nine people.”

“Yeah.”  Andy said.  “Slow weekend.”

The man nodded.

Andy looked at his watch.  “Its only 10:50. I told Rafiqe 11:30.”

“That’s fine.” the man smiled warmly.  “I have no problem waiting – I just wanted you to know I’m here.”

Andy thanked the man and shut the door.  “Cab is here people!”  He yelled.  Everyone began slugging down the remainder of his or her drink.  The club was a half hour away and the drink prices were through the roof.  As one of my friends says, “you don’t want to be feeling any pain when you get into the cab.”

We were going to a club named Dune.  It was founded by Noah Tepperburg, the owner of some of the biggest night spots in the world – Marque, Avenue, Avo..etcetera.  At any given time at Dune you could run into any number of celebrities from Lindsay Lohan to Fabulous to Scary Spice.   Depending on your viewpoint Dune was one of the coolest places on earth or one of the lamest and most pretentious.  I’ll leave that discernment to you.

After everyone had walked out of the house Andy asked me to shut off all the lights.  My reward for this feat was sitting “shot gun” in the van – which meant I had to lodge between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat (which was occupied by a 6’4’’ 240 pound man).  The van was so overloaded that the muffler scraped the driveway as we backed away from the house.

I looked at the driver.  “Is it okay if the muffler is dragging?”

“Its fine.  It happens occasionally.”

We drove down Montauk Highway, made a left on Old Riverhead Road and finally onto the Sunrise Parkway headed east.  By that time the sound of the muffler grating against the pavement had been erased by the chatter of everyone in the van, the Lady Gaga blasting from the stereo and the ocean breeze blowing through the open windows.

Being as I was basically sitting on the cab drivers lap I decided to make small talk.

“Hows business been?”

“Very slow this summer.  Very slow.”  He admitted.  “Last year at this time every single house was full of people looking to go to the bars.  This year every other house is empty.”

I shook my head.

“This is my first trip today!”  He exclaimed.  “What a long day.  I fasted all day and now I’ll work all night.”

I looked at him puzzled.

“Ramadan.”  He said.  “Do you know what that is?”

“I know it’s the Islamic month of fasting.”  I said.  “That’s about it.”

“Ahh.”  He replied.  “At least you know that.”

I nodded.

He continued, “It’s the ninth month of the Islamic calendar – a month of fasting and refraining from eating, drinking, smoking and anything else that’s ill-natured.  It’s supposed to teach the Muslim’s patience, modesty and spirituality.”

I nodded again.

“A time to repent of sins.”  He said, looking at me (and away from the road) for all too long.

I sat in silence, reflecting on what the man said and listening to the sounds of the people in the back of the cab.

“What do you think of the Islamic Religion?”

I was taken aback.  It was an uncomfortably direct query.  Most people don’t speak like that. They beat around the bush and ask tangential things.  There was no mincing of words here.  It was offsetting, yet refreshing.

“I think it’s beautiful.”  I said.  “I think all religions are beautiful – Judaism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Islam and so on – it turns ugly only when people use religion as a tool to carry out other agendas.”  I thought some more.  “Religion, in my opinion, is mans interpretation of divine law.  There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ religion – they’re just different mediums humans use to achieve the penultimate goal – unity with God.”

Perhaps I wasn’t quite as eloquent in the cab, nonetheless my point got across.

“My name is Dawud.”  The cab driver stuck his hand out.  “What is your name?”

I shook his hand.  “I’m Joe.”

Dawud and I spent the next twenty minutes discussing everything from the differences between Islam, Judaism and Christianity to his time as a Golden Gloves boxer in the seventies to the wisdom that comes with age to him almost dying after being struck by a hit-and-run driver to his newborn child to my trip to Africa in four weeks.

“You know,” Dawud, said, “There are problems between the Muslims and the Christians in Africa.”

“Not in all parts.”  I responded.  “Uganda has a peaceful interaction amongst Christians, Muslims and other religions.”

While I’m no expert on this topic, I do know that although many parts of Africa have peaceful coexistence between Religions there are also many parts where differing religions have fueled animosity.  There are tensions between some of the Northern Islamic countries and the sub-Saharan Christian countries.  This disparity between the north and the south is perhaps nowhere more evident than Sudan.  Sudan, which borders Uganda to the south, was formerly a British colony.  When the British vacated the country they left a power vacuum with two VERY different religions, people, natural resources and ways of life.  These differences, among other things, have fueled the crisis in that region for decades and resulted in the loss of countless lives.

Religious confrontation is of course not specific to Africa; indeed there are MANY places in the world where religious confrontations have been more pronounced, prolonged and devastating.  I only highlight the conflicts in Africa because that is where I’m travelling.  My pleasant conversation with Dawud, and reading about the peaceful coexistence of religions in and around Uganda reminds me of what is possible not only in other parts of Africa, but the world as a whole.  I’ve been told that the denizens of Uganda are some of the friendliest, most genuine people on the face of this earth.  I hope to learn a lot from their beautiful culture and people.

Dawud dropped us off outside Dune.  He walked around the front of his car and we shook hands and hugged – it was an odd occasion for such a deep talk and the development of such an appreciation for each other.  He gave me his card and told me to call him whenever we had fewer than ten people and Rafiqe wasn’t available.

After Dawud got into his car he rolled down the window, “Be careful and have fun Joseph!”

I gave him the thumbs up.

Having such an intense conversation on the way to Dune put me into a different mindset – I found myself more detached and reticent than usual.  Just speaking with Dawud, who’s background was vastly different than mine, opened my eyes to the fact that I was about to learn so much about a different culture AND so much about myself.

Inside the club – at the table next to ours, one of the girls gave the waitresses an earful because she brought a bottle of Absolut vodka instead of the requested Grey Goose.  And it made me think about what was important in life and just how far-removed my life was from real, palpable life and death decisions.  I looked around the rest of the club – filled with girls in backless dresses and guys dancing on the couches and bottles with sparklers attached to them so that everyone in the club knew who was dropping the big bucks.  I couldn’t help compare this sight to the pictures I’ve seen of Kyangwali refugee camp in Northern Uganda and think of how fortunate I was.  I also couldn’t help but wonder what my perspective would be like upon my return.  Would I appreciate places like Dune more or would they seem profligate?

But those experiences were still a month away and the night was young.  I grabbed a drink, walked out onto the dance floor and soaked everything in.

Shaniqua, the bubbly receptionist, was telling me about her work as a funeral director – the person charged with prepping the deceased before their open casket viewing.  It was her life’s passion.  She had accepted a position as a receptionist only because the funeral home she was working at didn’t pay her enough to support her child.

I nodded uneasily, but interested that someone could have a passion for such a morbid profession.

“Doesn’t it get hard?”  I asked.  “You know, to work with dead people all day?”

She laughed.  “Honey, I used to work as a receptionist at a Wall Street firm.  Now THAT was tough.  Dead people aren’t nasty.  The people that work at that firm are.”

I laughed, and sympathized.

“What are you doing in Africa anyways?”

I explained that I was going to work for an organization that teaches young adults how to become social entrepreneurs to pull themselves out of poverty.

“That’s nice.”  She smiled, “What do you do for a living?”

“I work for Morgan Stanley.”

“Really?!”  She screeched.  “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No.”  I said, confused.  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re so NICE!”  She laughed.  “No one in business is nice.”

“We’re not all monsters.”

“No, just most of you.”

I smiled.  It used to be a source of pride when I told people that I worked in Finance.  Now, after the market meltdown and public anger towards Wall Street, I felt like I had a big scarlet F scrawled across my chest when I admitted my profession.

I was sitting in the Cornell Weill International Medical Center to get vaccinations and prophylactics to prevent a plethora of scary-sounding diseases, some of which I thought had been eradicated a long time ago: yellow fever, polio, hepatitis A, typhoid, tetanus, meningitis, malaria…etcetera.

Shaniqua called my name and walked me down to a room at the end of the hallway.  She handed me a piece of paper with her name and number on it.  “Add this to your email list.  I want to hear all about your trip.”

I smiled and promised her I would.  I sat down on a chair in the corner of the room.

The technician walked into the room.  He was a nice Filipino man who had immigrated to the United States over twenty years ago.  He looked at the chart Shaniqua had left behind.

He looked at me, “You sure you want to get all six shots today?”

“Why not?”

“Well – there are really two reasons.”  He said, “First of all nobody likes getting stuck with six different needles in one day.  Secondly, people usually get sick after getting vaccination.  If you get sick we wont know which virus is affecting you.”

Lovely.  Cast between taking another day off from work and risking infection from one of six nefarious viruses, I chose the latter, a decision I’d regret a few days later when I felt like I came down with the flu’s meaner cousin.

“What about malaria pills?”  He asked me.

“What are my options?”

“The most common and cheapest is Chloroquine” he said.  He pulled out a map of Africa with different swaths of orange running horizontally across the continent.  He pointed at Uganda.  “But malaria is resistant to that drug where you’re going.”

He put the map away.  “Another option, which you only have to take once a week and is pretty cheap, is Mefloquine.”  He looked at me and tilted his head.  “But that has side effects such as psychosis, seizures and schizophrenia among other major psychiatric disorders.”

I shook my head.  No thanks.  I’m barely sane as it is, I don’t need any further nudging down that dark path.

“What else you got?”

We eventually settled on Malarone, a once-a-day prophylactic, which is expensive but has no bizarre side effects or efficacy gaps.

“Okay.  You’re all set.”  The technician said to me.  “You’ll probably feel like you have the flu for a few days.  If it gets really bad come back and we can do some tests, but most likely you’ll just need some Tylenol.”

I left the travel clinic and walked down the street amongst the people bustling and running and hailing cabs frantically as they made their way to work.  It will be weird to leave this world, I thought to myself.  I got a cup of coffee and sat on a bench a few blocks away.  I crossed “vaccinations” off my “to-do” list.  A list which included seventy-one items I had to accomplish before I departed for Africa, everything from paying my NYU matriculation fee (sigh) to shutting my cell phone service off to haggling with insurance representatives to understand my benefits in the event something unfortunate occurred abroad.

As I glanced over the spreadsheet, I thought of what my mother said after viewing my color-coded, incredibly nerdish spreadsheet: “You’re nuts.”

Maybe she was right?  In the midst of the worst economy since the great depression I was going to walk away from a stable job at Morgan Stanley, a luxury apartment, a network of family and friends, a half-complete MBA degree and all the comforts of the developed world to volunteer in Africa for people I’d never met.

It seemed completely backwards to give up a life to help others, and yet it was one of the easiest decisions I’ve made.  There aren’t many opportunities in life to leverage your skills and use them to make a palpable difference in the lives of others.  But for me this journey was not completely selfless.  Quite the contrary – I was also going to gain perspective on life, to experience another culture and to learn who I am.  I want to experience raw humanity, removed from the prefabrications of contemporary life.  And while my main purpose is to share my knowledge of finance and entrepreneurship, for some reason, I know I will be doing much more learning than teaching.

My phone rang.  It was my best friend.

“You get all your vaccinations?”

“Yup.”

“How do you feel?”

“Excited.  Everything is getting more real.”

“You scared?”

“Yes” I admitted, “I don’t know what to expect.  This is the great unknown for a guy living in Manhattan.”

And I am scared.  My good friend, Shiloh Harrison, who graduated from the Wagner Program in May and has been to seven African countries gave me one piece of advice: don’t read the State Department’s report that details the safety and security, crime, traffic safety and road conditions among other ominous topics.  Being the hard-headed hack I am, I ignored the advice.  I wish I had listened to her: “US citizens residing in or planning to visit Uganda should be aware of threats to their safety posed by insurgent groups operating in the Democratic Republic of Congo and southern Sudan, and the potential for cross-border attacks carried out by these armed groups” ; “US citizens traveling in the area commonly known as Karamoja in northeastern Uganda should also be aware of ongoing conflict and armed banditry in this region” ; “American citizens should exercise caution when traveling in those districts of northwestern Uganda that border the DRC and southern Sudan and which could potentially be subject to LRA incursions” ; “Local officials in northern Uganda have expressed concern for the safety and security of foreigners visiting the area to assist with relief efforts, but without any specific arrangements with a sponsoring organization” ; “American citizens are advised to restrict travel to primary roads and during daylight hours only.”

And while these reports are disturbing, allowing them to dissuade me would be like not visiting Manhattan because someone got stabbed at a nightclub in Bayonne, New Jersey.  Kampala is said to be as nuanced as Manhattan and while you must be aware and exercise caution there is a wealth of beautiful and bountiful people, culture and lifestyle beneath the hard crust that deters so many.

There is no doubt that Uganda has its own problems.  That being said the “Pearl of Africa,” as it was nicknamed by Sir Winston Churchill, is a relative bastion of security in an otherwise unstable region.  Its surrounded by some scary countries: The Democratic Republic of Congo -  where rape, disfigurement and kidnapping are still routinely practiced by Joseph Kony and the Lords Resistance Army; Sudan – where clashes between the Islamic north and the indigenous Christian Dinka tribes of the south have created a religious and civil war that has lasted decades and resulted in hundreds of thousands dead; Rwanda – where between 8,000,000 and 1,000,000 Tutsi’s and moderate Hutu’s were slaughtered by extremist Hutu’s in April 1994; Kenya – once the apotheosis of a civilized African country that has fallen into disarray after a botched election, breakout of tribal warfare and infiltration along the Somalia border of Al Shabab, the African contingent of Al Qaeda.

While I’ve never been to Africa I’ve seen enough and read enough to know Africa has experienced challenges and difficulties most Westerners (including myself) cannot begin to fathom.  And yet, the continent is filled with an extremely resilient, talented and culturally diverse cross-section of people who have made significant contributions to all aspects of society – whether through literature, culinary arts,  music or any number of other benefactions – the African culture echoes profoundly through civilizations throughout the world.  They have left an indelible imprint on the fabric of this planet and now, in the year 2009 we have a President who is a scion of Kenya (and Kansas!).

There is a dichotomy here.  Africans are a profoundly talented group of people that has struggled to keep up with the challenges of a rapidly developing world.  The organization I will be working for is called Educate.  They seek to rectify this schism between actual and realized potential by teaching a two-year curriculum on how to lead social change, provide long term mentoring and create an alumni network geared at equipping students with the skills and confidence necessary to start and scale social enterprises, financially sustainable initiatives that address community problems. The people I have met in the organization, from all walks of life and all corners of the globe, are some of the most intelligent, passionate and committed individuals I’ve ever come across.  I couldn’t be more excited to be a part of the team.

The Cornell Weill International Medical Center is located on 70^th and York.  I live on 34^th and 1^st avenue.  After finishing my coffee I walked home reflecting on all I was about to experience.  I walked past the United Nations on 42^nd and 1^st with the one hundred and ninety two flags flapping in the warm June air.  As I looked at them I pondered that which ties humans together, that which separates us and that which defines our idiosyncratic cultures and ideologies.  I know a large piece of that puzzle will be unlocked in the next couple of months when I experience life literally and figuratively on the other side of the planet.

I hope that you are all able to come along on my journey, and I don’t only mean my journey to Uganda – I mean my journey to higher plateau of understanding.  Perhaps it will also shed light on the fact that, contrary to popular belief, capitalism is one of the most powerful tools for positive social change.   And while the non-profit world is vastly different than the corporate America many of us work in these altruistic organizations are always in need of smart, educated people looking to dedicate a few months to making the world a better place.