MOLI VIEW™

We 10 interns had more or less just landed in Uganda. It was Day Three, and we were touring Jinja on foot. Imagine. A parade of mzungus meandering around downtown, fingers pointing, and heads on swivels. With stomachs full of matooke and rice, we took our time digesting as we strolled along the broken sidewalk. Shopkeepers called out, hoping that their wares could draw our attention. Boda-boda drivers offered us rides on their bicycles or mopeds. A third group called us too. Three small children, around five or seven years old, quietly implored, "Sirs, 100?" They were asking for a meager 100 shillings, and we had just spent 8,000 on lunch. Surely we could spare the equivalent of 6 American cents.

Before we could respond, our program director shooed them away in their native language. Many of the interns were heartbroken. I know I was. Here is a little kid, malnourished and poorly clothed, and all he wanted was a nickel. That's not too much to ask. I could have tossed him the coin and moved on.

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