The 15-year-olds of a few entries ago have launched a full-fledged attack. I innocently left my guesthouse room this morning with a hankering for the slice of bread and banana that comprises the guesthouse’s “full-service breakfast each day!” As I stepped foot into the main lobby, I was met with cries of “Rohbet!” and saw THREE 15-year-olds standing at the entrance, eyes wide with soon-to-be-unfulfilled expectations. They’re multiplying! I must have appeared pretty visibly horrified, because one of the guesthouse workers took it upon himself to explain: “these are your friends, Rohbet, you know them?”
Okay, whoa. I definitely didn’t tell them where I lived.
And to top it off, the breadbasket was empty. Oh man, so not worth it. “Oh, hi,” I said in the general direction of the adolescents before casting a look of fire at the worker. “Gotta run!” Without another word, I turned around and defiantly marched back in the direction of my room, smiley-face-pajama pants and all. Had I packed my Spongebob PJ pants, I would have marched back out. Nobody messes with Spongebob. Alas, that is not the case, and I am even now writing this from the tenuous security of my little locked room, tucked away until the intimidating front-line disperses and forgets I live here. If you have received this, I’ve made it out alive.
Though not without struggling through a bout of sickness. Who gets a SORE THROAT in Uganda? Seriously. I’m actually pretty embarrassed. “How are you today, Rohbet?” the cleaning lady questions as I emerge from my cocoon of self-pity late that morning. I give a “so-so” gesture with my hand (hint: not culturally transferable) and point at my throat. “You are choking?” “Nope,” I gasp, “just a sore throat.” “Oh, sorry! I hope it is not malaria.” … me too, my dear, me too. Though perhaps that would feel more legitimate? *knocks on wood*
Luckily for my damaged ego and my masochistic desire for a few sleepless nights over here, this thing progressed into a full-blown sinus headache attack with sniffles, cough, the whole works. A common cold, Africa-style. I think it’s more intense over here? Pity me?
*cue Creed’s “My Sacrifice”*
No, I’m actually fine. It took a full two weeks to get rid of this thing, but I finally no longer carry two rolls of TP in my backpack “just in case.” Oh stop, they were for my runny nose. ;)
Reluctant to pursue the heavy “med-cocktails” informally prescribed by local friends, I opted to take the standard “cold caps.” The downing of these hefty pills makes me question my role as an officer in the infamous “I can sing real good but can’t swallow pills! LOLz!” facebook group. Look it up. And anyway, I’m my bubbling, bushy-tailed, bright-eyed self again, so all is well.
Well enough, in fact, to venture back to the Internal Displaced Persons (IDP) Camps that litter the Northern Ugandan countryside in search of true wisdom. These things are just as brutal as I remember them to be. The otherwise blissful, natural horizon is broken by these manmade abominations, arching menacingly in the distance. As we near one, I am truly overwhelmed by the sprawling monstrosity of tiny huts (maximum ~10 meters wide for an entire family), placed at most 2 meters away from one another. Thousands of these inadequate structures embody daily life for the tens of thousands of Camp residents, caught between unfamiliar neighbors in a foreign land they were quite unwillingly forced onto. (Remember the mandated mass migration of people into these camps, enforced through the burning of original huts and villages within 48 hours of the original “announcement” in order to ensure the government-sponsored initiative was taken seriously.) I can already see the crowds of idle children, drunken and dejected men, and struggling, garden-bound women on the outskirts of the Camp. Some greet me with inquisitive waves, eager to learn of the reason for this foreigner’s arrival; others, with nothing more than an apathetic, hopeless, near-bitter gaze of someone who has been promised one too many times a better future by people closely resembling myself.
Dante never visited a displacement camp in Northern Uganda.
I roll into the Camp from my two-hour boda ride, face entirely covered in dark red dust and the occasional dead insect, hair flipped back into something only a Jew-fro can truly produce. I wince as I walk, sorry I was born without a butt (there is literally nothing there). The children gather, taking my arrival as a welcomed change in the otherwise bleak scenery. Their tattered clothing ranges from the vestiges of a NY Giants jersey (how did that get here?) to a tiny little rag around the neck that may have one time been a dress, leaving their entire body exposed to the elements. I hear giggles and cries of “yesu” – “Jesus.” There are *so* many things wrong with that on so many levels, I won’t even begin to count them.
Needless to say, I try to put on a humble, “I’m here to help and I care about you but I am not a savior or hero and don’t how know much I can truly provide right this second” demeanor and make my way to the youth group meeting organized by the same NGO I’ve been tagging along with. The introductions are fairly straightforward for me now, and the locals greet my feeble attempts at communication with cries of jubilation – most people in the Camps do not understand English, so they do truly appreciate my attempts at speaking with them and thanking them for their willingness to help me in my research. I like to think that the research will ultimately help them in some way; I have promised to send my report back to all of them. Maybe it will make a difference, an impact, on the way the world envisions conceptions of forgiveness, reconciliation, and “justice.”
The interviews have been filled with the sort of insight that makes me truly thankful for the opportunity to discuss these issues, regardless of whether or not I know exactly what I’m looking for with this research. (~~Subtle cue to advisor: if you’re reading this, what am I doing?? Love, Rob~~) I’m going to compile some of the most intriguing quotes for an upcoming entry; get excited, I am. We’ve got some gems over here.
My recent NGO excursions have also taken me to local primary schools with the intention of setting up “Peace Clubs” for our sponsored children with The Child Is Innocent, initiating the program in order to further the goal of “promoting leaders” in the youth of Uganda. Why, of course I’m qualified to do this! Truth be told, I’m partnering up with a Ugandan-board member who is coincidentally a phenomenal primary school teacher and quite capable of leading the program with just a bit of direction and encouragement. We’re working together to get this thing off the ground, collaborating with local school administrators to get people excited about this new extra-curricular.
The crowded room of 50 boarding primary school students, sharply dressed in school uniforms, looked on eagerly as the timid munu stepped in front of them. “How are you?!” I enthusiastically greeted in their local language, thinking it would be a good icebreaker to hear the muzungu stumble over basic salutations. *Draws in breath through closed teeth* -- ooh, not quite the desired result. The children are prompted from day one to be extraordinarily respectful to any visitor, and such a laugh would have demonstrated otherwise. So my humble attempt at engaging the students resulted in a fairly awkward period of silence where I waited for one of them to crack a smile. …Nothing.
So I broke out into my slow English depiction of the program, encouraging them to get involved and get excited for the opportunity to become “ambassadors of peace” within their own communities at home. Nice, right? My tediously chosen words and careful pronunciation proved to be futile; the “translator” on the side of the room asked in English “do you understand this man?” to which the room replied with a collective “Noooo, Mr. Otega.” He subsequently repeated everything I said in Pidgin English, similar to my attempts at Luo, I imagine. “Rohbet from America. Peace program starting. He wants you to like Peace. You are excited?” “YES!” Success.
My partner-in-crime, the Ugandan teacher, got up after me and put me to shame. This woman knows how to lead a classroom. “Good morning, children,” she boomed, prompting the students to all stand up and recite “good morning, miss, thank you for coming, we are blessed for you” in unison. Ooh, she’s good. She continued to very effectively rally support for the program, picking up the pieces where I left off and making sure these kids were on board. All of them want to sign up!
Really interesting highlight of her speech:
“Children, if another person comes up to us and bops us, is it okay to hit him?” “Nooo.” “Do we bop him back?” “Nooo.” “Does hitting back bring peace?” “Nooo.”
So what do we do? “We forgive them.”
Does that strike you as it strikes me? Not even a “we sit with them, discuss our problems, try to work out a compromise, ask for an apology.” Just flat out forgiveness and understanding. Of course, it might be simplified a bit for the room of 10 year olds. Or a room of 10 year olds and a naïve muzungu, for that matter. But still, I’m surrounded by this ideal. It’s part of the community, embedded in daily life here from day 1.
Quick sidetrack – ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: FREEGANISM IN UGANDA (Wikipedia if you don’t know what that is. Sigh.)
I was innocently passing the 2-hour wait for my vegetable curry in a nearby muzungu café (muzungu because it serves pizza and smoothies, Uganda-style), quietly reading a local newspaper article about the Hepatitis E outbreak in the neighboring district.
Suddenly my ears perk up, and I manage a quick outburst: “...Did… did you say, DUMPSTER DIVING?” Wow, you know how to catch *my* attention. Not that I was featured in a picture with my roommates in a Crimson FM article eating donuts out of a dumpster. (…) I get into a 15 minute long discussion with these women about “freeganism,” the highlight being human beings waste too much. No but really. I know someone who has lived for THREE YEARS only off of “trash.” And for that matter, she has *never* gotten sick from the food. Not once. Food for thought, right? *giggles* Anyway, worth mentioning that this phenomenon is spreading across the world by word of mouth. Also, this is the mandatory “vegan” reference I have to make to keep my blog title. I’m done.
While we’re on the food-related train of thought, though, here’s a little insider info. For those who are interested, I have here the ingredients listed on my late night snack of choice/staple food more broadly, the infamous “Ginger Snaps”: “Wheat Flour, Sugar, Syrup, Vegetable Fat, Ginger Powder, Baking Agent, Salt, Permitted Flavours and Colours.”
Permitted, eh? And what’s with those “u”s in there? I just don’t really trust it. But beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.
Next subheading: ARRESTED [PART II] IN UGANDA
“Muzungu, stop right there. You’re under arrest.” Not again, I thought. How often do you get to think “not again” when you hear that? Hopefully not a lot, I guess. Hard. Core.
I had been harmlessly riding through the bustling town for a meeting, lost in thought as I gripped the back of the speeding boda, when we were met with two men holding an intimidating chain across the road and a group of curious onlookers gathering around the vehicle and preventing us from turning around.
Far from projecting any sort of comforting, “we’re official” type of atmosphere, these guys looked a little vigilante, taking justice into their own hands. No but seriously, I was shaking in my dust-filled boots [sandals]. Where was Justice when I needed him? (Emailed me again recently, actually, and he’s now writing from internet access inside some dark jail cell somewhere in central Uganda.)
“Muzungu, it’s time for jail.” Only half-sure they were kidding and not really seeing the joke in this incident, I cracked a forced smile and started uttering the equivalent of “dude, what’s up?” to lighten the mood. I really couldn’t read the situation at all, and never before had I seen anyone punished for a traffic violation. Traffic law general rule: size = right of way. Unless you’re a herd of cows: then you have the right of way, dawn til dusk. That’s pretty much it.
My bumbling around did just the trick, though, and they dropped the act. There was actually some sort of town-wide bodaboda meeting in the local common grounds, and my boda driver was skipping out for a quick shilling-fix from an oblivious munu. Not on their watch. They kicked me off the boda and made me walk the 5 kilometers to the meeting. Never before have I been so appreciative of African time, rendering me early for the gathering that had been set to start an hour and a half before my arrival.
Last ADHD mood change, and I’ll just be explicit: here comes the “downer-but-maybe-it-can-inspire-you” portion of this entry (that wasn’t the IDP camp section?).
So as a result of a bunch of miscommunications and misunderstandings, one of the NGOs I worked with all last summer and am currently working with again, The Child Is Innocent (TCII) has recently lost ties with its Canadian branch (originally both U.S. and Canadian branches existed), leading to over 50 of the 102 children being dropped from sponsorship. The situation will be remedied, but as of now, it is pretty ridiculously dire. We must keep these children in school – the prospect of their having been promised the opportunity for a well-earned ride through primary and secondary school and our having to take that away from them makes my legs weak and my skin crawl. That will simply not be the case. That said, I’m going to start up some intensive fundraising efforts in the very near future.
I went to visit a mother of one of the TCII-sponsored children this morning. Her story can only very poorly be conveyed through words, but here I do my best to articulate what I have seen:
I ride through the decrepit IDP Camp, just waiting for its residents to finally leave the veritable Hell-hole it represents, and end up at the very back edge of the thousands of “homes.” I follow the TCII employee into a nondescript hut, immediately struck by an overwhelming inhalation of smoke from the inner cooking pot (there’s nowhere else to put it). Through the haze, I see the outline of a small, older-looking woman sitting on a straw mat about half a foot away from me. I greet her, coughing, and suggest we move outside in broken Luo. She agrees, and I shift the two feet back out the door.
Sitting down, the woman looks healthy, strong even. But as I turn back to greet her again in the blazing intensity of the equatorial sun, I see she is still slowly making her way out of the doorway, bracing herself with all the force of her arms. She is severely physically disabled, hobbling at a 75-degree angle against the protest of her weakened limbs. She makes it just beyond the doorway before suddenly losing balance and dropping to the ground, a mound of dust exploding out from beneath her fallen body, pained expression on her face.
I don’t know if the severity, the true tragedy of that incident can come across in this description. It is all I can do to keep from crying right there.
I hurry to her side with the other TCII member, making sure she is okay and offering to help move her to the relocated small straw mat beside me. We slowly make our way to the seat, half-crawling, before she tells me her story, preemptively wiping at her eyes throughout the course of the conversation:
Rose is the mother of 8 children in total. She is 40 years old. Roughly 20 years ago, she is crippled; it is her belief that she has stepped on some “poison” dropped in the garden by a local witch doctor (ajwaka) with the intention to ruin her life. Upon consulting some of the local physicians, I find it is more likely that a case of tuberculosis spiraled out of control, targeting in on her spine and leaving her with a painful, debilitating, degenerative-paralysis disease.
As time goes on, Rose continues to have children, convinced that her future and wellbeing depend on an abundance of offspring as is so often the understanding of the local people here. The disease worsens, however, and she begins to lose control of her feet, her hands, her neck, her jaw. The translator strains to hear exactly what she is saying, and even I can tell the words are distinctly blurred as she determinedly spills them out with an extremely deliberate motion of her lips.
She has finally progressed to a point where she is entirely incapable of caring for herself, let alone the wellbeing of her eight children. Her alcoholic, abusive husband sometimes offers to help feed her in between bouts of beating her. He is a peasant farmer, growing only enough food to help sustain his family, but he often shirks responsibility in his regular haze of numbness. This leaves the eldest daughter to tend to the garden and supplement the meager, insufficient World Food Program rations with whatever she can reap from the family plot. Even so, the children are horribly malnourished; they watch me with bloated bellies and tiny little arms as I continue writing desperately from the three-legged chair they have provided.
The brief interview done, I stand and tell Rose I think she is “very brave and courageous,” hoping it translates and knowing it will not be able to carry the same amount of sincerity with which I mean for it to come across. I wave goodbye to Rose and the crowding children surrounding her, still sitting in the same place. When I leave, she will crawl back to her hut and sit in the smoke-filled room again. For me, this is a reality attainable only through a lengthy $2 boda ride. For Rose and her children, this is it. This is everything.
This is permanent.
And even when they move back to their original village, hopefully within the next few years as the conflict is officially resolved, Rose’s paralysis will continue to worsen.
*
Aware of this dire situation, the head of the TCII-Uganda branch has accepted the eldest daughter as a qualifying student for the sponsorship program. While she will not be able to continue supporting her family on a regular basis as the de facto sole-breadwinner of the crew, her next-in-line has taken over this role for the time being. It is TCII’s intention to continue helping relieve this family’s children of an all-too-certain future, characterized by lack of opportunity and a daily struggle for survival.
An Italian man originally committed to sponsoring this child. In fact, he vowed to secure three sponsors, leading the TCII head to place three such children in school (one of which being orphaned, her parents both having been brutally murdered by the rebel army in the recent war).
The money has yet to materialize. We speculate it is because of the formerly referred to miscommunications.
Who is going to tell this girl she can no longer go to school? That she needs to stay here in this Camp? That she needs to unpack her tiny sack, filled with ripped sheets of paper, a few meager outfits, and a surplus of new hope for the future?
Not me.
And this is why I am going to embark on a fundraising mission to end all fundraising. If you would like to be apart of this, *please* let me know. If you were looking for that “I should donate something to somewhere” place this summer/year, I’ve found your match. Every little bit helps, really. Additionally, if anyone has any suggestions at all re: good crowds to target or fundraising tactics, I’m all ears. Sponsorships themselves are fairly expensive – $750/year for as long as the kids are in school – but people often team up (i.e. big groups) in order to cover the cost. www.thechildisinnocent.org. These kids are truly amazing, inspiring, [synonym].
Of course, I can talk to you in more detail about what resulted in the sponsorship drop if you care to know – it is the most genuinely ludicrous situation I have ever come across, and I’ll spare you the details unless you want a little reassurance/NGO-dirt. *sigh* Barring a longer, tedious explanation, I ask you to take my word in my vouching for the legitimacy of this endeavor.
And regardless of financial contributions (I know many of us are poor college students), I feel confident that it’s equally as important to spread awareness about this type of thing. If nothing else, you know Rose and her daughter exist, and you can take that with you. They can use all the good thoughts they can muster up, so please keep them in your hearts.
End: shameless solicitation. (I promise I only do this because I need a BUNCH OF HELP. I also promise I will not give the money to Justice.)
And with this epic blog entry finally completed, I’m off to join in some Sunday night guesthouse debauchery. This is primarily made up of a growing group-watching of an Animal Planet-esque documentary on ferrets. I kid you not; I saw them watching it when I came in. It’s a full house.
Will sell himself & a copy of Ferret Shananigans for a donation or two,
Rob
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Dual Reality
I wake up each day a little confused. It’s a good kind of confused. My dimly lit guesthouse provides a stark contrast to the intensity of the sunlit streets outside. The African sun is blinding, stunning. I have to blink a few times before my eyes adjust to the sights and sounds of Gulu around me. And reliably, I am shocked. Each day, I am truly surprised to be back in this familiar, warmth-filled town again. The chattering newspaper vendors, the catcalling of the eager-to-cheat-you boda drivers, the impressive women carrying huge bundles of market wares on their heads and a crying baby in a wrap on their back, the uniformed school children on their way to class on foot, the huge freight trucks and the stark white of the NGO vehicles barreling by, the solitary woman walking by in a pale blue silk dress, the red dust sprinkled onto each and every surface, the indistinguishable cries of baby, goat, and chicken… it’s all still here. It’s a nice feeling – to be so very conscious and appreciative of one’s surroundings right at the start of every new day.
I recently met some friendly Scots next door who know that the NH motto is “Live Free or Die” (“you gun-freaks”) and that my state was the site of the filming of a good chunk of “Hannibal.” Go figure with that one. Coincidentally, I simultaneously discovered the origin of the “Les Miserables” singing that has kept me up many a night in this guesthouse. Oh, those Brits. They extended me an offer to come to the local district hospital and paint cartoon characters on the bleak walls of the children’s ward, a prospect I happily welcomed. It’s great to be interviewing so many people in Gulu for my personal research, but a little more of the tangible “giving back to the community” approach would do any soul good, so I’m in. Winnie the Pooh has never looked so good. That’s because I just had to color inside the lines, of course. I’ve also taken on typing up documents for NGOs after I interview their workers… just to feel better about taking up their time. Nobody here really learns how to type (the “two-handed way,” that is), so I can really help them out with a 20-minute chunk of hardcore typing. And luckily for them, I only type hardcore.
Obligatory culture shock portion of this entry: Rob’s trip to the compound of the UNHCR – the United Nations High Commissioner of Refugees. Sounds exciting, right? You have no idea. Because when my boda pulled up to the huge, ominous gate of the compound at 10:30pm, I entered the yard and was immediately SQUIRTED WITH A WATER GUN by the local HEAD of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees WEARING AN AUSTIN POWERS TOUPEE. Yes, my friends, I was attending a “Spy Party” at the UNHCR compound on Saturday night. This represents yet another “Northern Uganda WTF moment.”
I had heard about the huge muzungu gathering through the NGO-ridden grapevine and was extended an invitation to attend. Skeptical but ridiculously curious, to be honest, I followed along for the ride. You can imagine my shock when I entered the compound and found a *two-story bar* directly next to the actual UNHCR building. WHAT?! The same toupee official (commonly referred to as “Santa Claus” here in Gulu due to an apt combination of both status and appearance) led the newcomers into the bottom floor of the outdoor bar, pointing to a huge wall display of printed out 8 and ½ by 11 sheets of paper. He grinned smugly as he traced the huge font at the top of the exhibit:
“WELCOME TO THE SECRET POLICEMEN’S CONVENTION.”
“All of these are real secret police organizations,” he said urgently, signaling to the *hundreds* of incoherent acronyms and abbreviations listed below the title. “It really makes you think, huh?” he continued, trying to instill an artificial sense of fear or awe in us that really wasn’t there to begin with. “Who DID this?” I questioned, hopefully disguising any disgust in my voice. “I had one of my assistants look all this up on the internet the other day for our party.” I have a pretty weak gag reflex, I’m going to be honest, and it was all I could do to hold back my (warranted?) vomit at this statement. You had one of your assistants at the UNHCR spend a day looking up acronyms for your Spy Party?
REALLY?
Okay, to be fair, I was a little too a) enthralled and b) shell-shocked with the party to really reflect and feel as uncomfortable as I think I should have at the time, but shouldn’t I? Feel uncomfortable about this, that is? I mean, don’t you? Whose money is this? I recognize that everyone should be able to kick back a little bit once in a while and enjoy themselves, regardless of mandate or location... But really, excessive? Perhaps? Yuck. Where are the goats? I’d say the best part of the night was one of the San Diegan munus challenging me to a Golem-voice contest. Guess who won? “How do you DO that?!!” My precious indeed.
*Sigh* Anyway. Gulu is defined by the presence of two entirely separate worlds. Let’s get back to the more familiar one:
A craving for a late night snack and the dearth of body wash warranted a trip to the new local supermarket in town. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and “super”market is a relative term. In America, no market is particularly super. Let’s be serious. You sort of grow to expect whatever you’re going to find. “Mundane”market, perhaps, or “borderline-jaded”market, maybe. Let me tell you something. If you come across a supermarket in Northern Uganda, you better buckle up. They’re really not kidding around. Tucked neatly between some sort of mechanics shop and the local pub, this baby is super indeed. My munu friends and I naturally gravitated to the wall of possessed life-size baby dolls. This is what nightmares are made of. And as the dolls were all white (white AND possessed), I was downright uncomfortable. So we quickly moved on to the “no-refrigeration required” yogurt aisle, skirting past the lingerie tucked neatly beneath the “loopy nut” cereal with a smiling [bear] on the cover. Four aisles of adventure, let me tell you.
Munus (white people – have I made that clear yet? “Munu” in the north, “muzungu” in the south, though pretty interchangeable in Gulu) around here don’t set the language standards very high. One mere hello – “kopango” – unfailingly secures me a “you are learning our language very well!” in return. Seriously? “I’m no stupid muzungu!” I reply, wiping the drool from my bottom lip. I’ll show them.
And whose idea was it to teach the youngest Acholi generations to say “bye,” I ask you. Why “bye”..? On a standard four-minute bodaboda ride, a white will evoke AT LEAST six cries of “munu bye!” from the children on the side/in the middle of the street (some boda drivers fittingly term them “obstacles”). Why not “munu hi!” ??? Am I to be constantly reminded that my stay here is brief at best? Is the image of the foreigner indelibly linked to his or her imminent moving on?!
Or perhaps I’m just sensitive and emotionally charged. Next subject.
Have you ever been attacked by a swarm of children? Like literally attacked? I turn around and see them CHARGING ME. “YOU DO WHAT?” I scream in the local language, fist clenching around the Walgreens sunglasses in my pocket. If I’m going down, I’m going down with my UV-ray protection.
On that note, there are a few categories of young children in this land. As any responsible traveler knows, it is important to be able to identify potential threats before entering unknown territory. I arrange them here for your reference:
1. The Bashful. Following you at a distance, these ones will tuck their head over their left shoulder and look at the ground as soon as you glance back. And in a few minutes when you look again, they’ll still be 10 feet behind you, suddenly enthralled in a new pothole. Too long a line of these guys and you’ll end up looking a little like that piper that mesmerizes children or whatever. Um, not ideal? Not that I have any trouble blending in around here.
2. The Starers. Don’t expect any sort of response from these little guys. You can shout Luo, whisper English, or belt Celine Dion at them (Celine Dion fits into neither category. Also, I don’t sing Celine Dion here.). It really doesn’t matter. They’re going to keep looking at you, and realistically, they’re probably not going to blink. In fact, there’s an old wives tale that if you see the eyelids of one of these sprites, you’re destined to marry a Ugandan goat or something. The details escape me.
3. The Rogues. These are the ones to watch out for. “HOW ARE YOU?” they demand, literally shouting. “I AM FINE,” I say, leading to their unsolicited “I AM FINE” in return. And we’re not talking “indoor” voices, either. This is serious. “Fine” has never been so menacing. Unless you include the “fine” uttered by the resigned foreigner when the restaurant informs him that it has actually run out of everything but “rice and a banana.” Even if there’s no food, they won’t tell you that at the start. Oh no. You need to ask for everything on the menu BEFORE they tell you there’s actually no food. But I digress.
Yeah, everyone here is “fine.” How are you? “Fine.” Never “good,” “just great,” “a little pensive.” Nope. Fine. I’m fine. It can be an enthusiastic “FINE!” or an exasperated “fiiine,” but fine nonetheless. What a neutral word. In reality, I think it’s pretty hard for me to be “fine” in Uganda. I’m either pretty euphoric or a little wrapped up in what’s going on around me…
Scene: lunch in a downtown restaurant. Sitting with my two local friends, both 20 years old, Gloria and Patrick. I hung out with them a bunch last summer, so we’re catching up on missed time over a meal and a few bottles of mineral water. We laugh, we share stories… we could be anywhere right now, this feels normal, regular. I’m in a little U.S. café.
Suddenly a baby cries. Gloria reaches down and picks up her 1 year, 8 month old child, Patience. A name chosen with just a hint of irony. Patience begins to cry as her mother feeds her the food I have just bought for both of them. Gloria has gone to the hospital today to get “chest pain” checked out, so she has forfeited the paycheck for the day and has actually spent more money on transportation and the medication they have prescribed for her. “Even with the paycheck, I can usually only afford one meal a day for myself if I’m going to get food for Patience.” I watch as she spoons more bean-soaked rice into her young daughter’s mouth, knowing she is alone to care for this child. An orphan, Gloria has always had to depend upon herself – her extended family has died off one-by-one from disease and general malnutrition. I dare not ask how she ended up with this baby to care for by herself. She dares not offer. Patience begins to cry maniacally, creating a scene that draws the attention of the rest of the room. I see Gloria look down at her with what I interpret to be a flash of regret in her eye; would this be unwarranted? I ask myself. I feel for the mother, and I feel for the child.
Patrick picks up a newspaper and coughs a bit behind it. “Just a little malaria,” he says, “I’ll be fine in a day or two.” He will be, because the money he earns from his job makes him capable of buying the medication necessary to ensure that this is the case. This medication is paradoxically distressingly cheap and unaffordable for too many a Ugandan, but Patrick has enough money to take care of himself. He cuts costs by living alone in a small hut on the outskirts of town. Mid-cough, Patrick gets up to attend to the customer behind us. He is on duty; he only gets one day off every two weeks to attend to home matters, and every other day he works 8am through 10:30pm at least. “They don’t give you a day off for malaria?” I stupidly question. “I can’t afford it,” he says. “Especially as I’m hoping to open my own business this October!” He takes the customer’s order and hurries out to the small kitchen in the back of the restaurant.
It’s too easy to lose sight of where I am over here. One minute I’m sitting comfortably with two of my friends, taking for granted their presence with me at the table. The next instant, I’m surrounded by the hardships and struggles that define their days, totally encapsulated in a few all-too-normal occurrences for them. Their “normal,” however, is far different from mine, making up a different reality entirely. They’re strong, hopeful, and determined, and these people will succeed. But I need to fight back the haze of normalcy; I want to be constantly aware of their brilliance. I was inspired by these people last summer, and I am inspired by them again.
To end on a similar note of inspiration, bodabodas have again won the key to my heart. Predictably so, at that. Their “short cuts” are the best. I’m not sure what “short cut” means to them, but it usually involves our taking an out-of-the way path through the Bush, complete with an absolutely breathtaking view of the striking hills of green in the distance and the fields of tall grass, scattered trees, and the occasional picturesque hut. I write what I see: the simplicity of it all is what makes it all the more glorious.
Not the best place for an in-depth conversation, however, contrary to popular belief. Typical boda-talk:
Driver: Do you have those in America?
Rohbet: You mean that goat?
Driver: You know Luo very well!
Rohbet: There was no Luo in that sentence at all.
Driver: Apwoyo matek (“thank you”).
… 30 second pause …
Rohbet: We have goats in America.
Driver: …mumble… Obama… mumble
Rohbet: Yeah.
Driver: 45?
Rohbet: Drop me off here please.
Still, I’m charmed. Of course, it could just be me misinterpreting the adrenaline coursing through my veins as we maneuver through the pack of cows and children making their way across the path. You know the feeling you get when the Aerosmith rollercoaster first takes off in MGM Studios, Disneyworld? Add a few chickens, the exhaust of the Sudan-bound supply truck, and the one stop sign in all of Gulu. Welcome!
45?,
Rob
I recently met some friendly Scots next door who know that the NH motto is “Live Free or Die” (“you gun-freaks”) and that my state was the site of the filming of a good chunk of “Hannibal.” Go figure with that one. Coincidentally, I simultaneously discovered the origin of the “Les Miserables” singing that has kept me up many a night in this guesthouse. Oh, those Brits. They extended me an offer to come to the local district hospital and paint cartoon characters on the bleak walls of the children’s ward, a prospect I happily welcomed. It’s great to be interviewing so many people in Gulu for my personal research, but a little more of the tangible “giving back to the community” approach would do any soul good, so I’m in. Winnie the Pooh has never looked so good. That’s because I just had to color inside the lines, of course. I’ve also taken on typing up documents for NGOs after I interview their workers… just to feel better about taking up their time. Nobody here really learns how to type (the “two-handed way,” that is), so I can really help them out with a 20-minute chunk of hardcore typing. And luckily for them, I only type hardcore.
Obligatory culture shock portion of this entry: Rob’s trip to the compound of the UNHCR – the United Nations High Commissioner of Refugees. Sounds exciting, right? You have no idea. Because when my boda pulled up to the huge, ominous gate of the compound at 10:30pm, I entered the yard and was immediately SQUIRTED WITH A WATER GUN by the local HEAD of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees WEARING AN AUSTIN POWERS TOUPEE. Yes, my friends, I was attending a “Spy Party” at the UNHCR compound on Saturday night. This represents yet another “Northern Uganda WTF moment.”
I had heard about the huge muzungu gathering through the NGO-ridden grapevine and was extended an invitation to attend. Skeptical but ridiculously curious, to be honest, I followed along for the ride. You can imagine my shock when I entered the compound and found a *two-story bar* directly next to the actual UNHCR building. WHAT?! The same toupee official (commonly referred to as “Santa Claus” here in Gulu due to an apt combination of both status and appearance) led the newcomers into the bottom floor of the outdoor bar, pointing to a huge wall display of printed out 8 and ½ by 11 sheets of paper. He grinned smugly as he traced the huge font at the top of the exhibit:
“WELCOME TO THE SECRET POLICEMEN’S CONVENTION.”
“All of these are real secret police organizations,” he said urgently, signaling to the *hundreds* of incoherent acronyms and abbreviations listed below the title. “It really makes you think, huh?” he continued, trying to instill an artificial sense of fear or awe in us that really wasn’t there to begin with. “Who DID this?” I questioned, hopefully disguising any disgust in my voice. “I had one of my assistants look all this up on the internet the other day for our party.” I have a pretty weak gag reflex, I’m going to be honest, and it was all I could do to hold back my (warranted?) vomit at this statement. You had one of your assistants at the UNHCR spend a day looking up acronyms for your Spy Party?
REALLY?
Okay, to be fair, I was a little too a) enthralled and b) shell-shocked with the party to really reflect and feel as uncomfortable as I think I should have at the time, but shouldn’t I? Feel uncomfortable about this, that is? I mean, don’t you? Whose money is this? I recognize that everyone should be able to kick back a little bit once in a while and enjoy themselves, regardless of mandate or location... But really, excessive? Perhaps? Yuck. Where are the goats? I’d say the best part of the night was one of the San Diegan munus challenging me to a Golem-voice contest. Guess who won? “How do you DO that?!!” My precious indeed.
*Sigh* Anyway. Gulu is defined by the presence of two entirely separate worlds. Let’s get back to the more familiar one:
A craving for a late night snack and the dearth of body wash warranted a trip to the new local supermarket in town. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and “super”market is a relative term. In America, no market is particularly super. Let’s be serious. You sort of grow to expect whatever you’re going to find. “Mundane”market, perhaps, or “borderline-jaded”market, maybe. Let me tell you something. If you come across a supermarket in Northern Uganda, you better buckle up. They’re really not kidding around. Tucked neatly between some sort of mechanics shop and the local pub, this baby is super indeed. My munu friends and I naturally gravitated to the wall of possessed life-size baby dolls. This is what nightmares are made of. And as the dolls were all white (white AND possessed), I was downright uncomfortable. So we quickly moved on to the “no-refrigeration required” yogurt aisle, skirting past the lingerie tucked neatly beneath the “loopy nut” cereal with a smiling [bear] on the cover. Four aisles of adventure, let me tell you.
Munus (white people – have I made that clear yet? “Munu” in the north, “muzungu” in the south, though pretty interchangeable in Gulu) around here don’t set the language standards very high. One mere hello – “kopango” – unfailingly secures me a “you are learning our language very well!” in return. Seriously? “I’m no stupid muzungu!” I reply, wiping the drool from my bottom lip. I’ll show them.
And whose idea was it to teach the youngest Acholi generations to say “bye,” I ask you. Why “bye”..? On a standard four-minute bodaboda ride, a white will evoke AT LEAST six cries of “munu bye!” from the children on the side/in the middle of the street (some boda drivers fittingly term them “obstacles”). Why not “munu hi!” ??? Am I to be constantly reminded that my stay here is brief at best? Is the image of the foreigner indelibly linked to his or her imminent moving on?!
Or perhaps I’m just sensitive and emotionally charged. Next subject.
Have you ever been attacked by a swarm of children? Like literally attacked? I turn around and see them CHARGING ME. “YOU DO WHAT?” I scream in the local language, fist clenching around the Walgreens sunglasses in my pocket. If I’m going down, I’m going down with my UV-ray protection.
On that note, there are a few categories of young children in this land. As any responsible traveler knows, it is important to be able to identify potential threats before entering unknown territory. I arrange them here for your reference:
1. The Bashful. Following you at a distance, these ones will tuck their head over their left shoulder and look at the ground as soon as you glance back. And in a few minutes when you look again, they’ll still be 10 feet behind you, suddenly enthralled in a new pothole. Too long a line of these guys and you’ll end up looking a little like that piper that mesmerizes children or whatever. Um, not ideal? Not that I have any trouble blending in around here.
2. The Starers. Don’t expect any sort of response from these little guys. You can shout Luo, whisper English, or belt Celine Dion at them (Celine Dion fits into neither category. Also, I don’t sing Celine Dion here.). It really doesn’t matter. They’re going to keep looking at you, and realistically, they’re probably not going to blink. In fact, there’s an old wives tale that if you see the eyelids of one of these sprites, you’re destined to marry a Ugandan goat or something. The details escape me.
3. The Rogues. These are the ones to watch out for. “HOW ARE YOU?” they demand, literally shouting. “I AM FINE,” I say, leading to their unsolicited “I AM FINE” in return. And we’re not talking “indoor” voices, either. This is serious. “Fine” has never been so menacing. Unless you include the “fine” uttered by the resigned foreigner when the restaurant informs him that it has actually run out of everything but “rice and a banana.” Even if there’s no food, they won’t tell you that at the start. Oh no. You need to ask for everything on the menu BEFORE they tell you there’s actually no food. But I digress.
Yeah, everyone here is “fine.” How are you? “Fine.” Never “good,” “just great,” “a little pensive.” Nope. Fine. I’m fine. It can be an enthusiastic “FINE!” or an exasperated “fiiine,” but fine nonetheless. What a neutral word. In reality, I think it’s pretty hard for me to be “fine” in Uganda. I’m either pretty euphoric or a little wrapped up in what’s going on around me…
Scene: lunch in a downtown restaurant. Sitting with my two local friends, both 20 years old, Gloria and Patrick. I hung out with them a bunch last summer, so we’re catching up on missed time over a meal and a few bottles of mineral water. We laugh, we share stories… we could be anywhere right now, this feels normal, regular. I’m in a little U.S. café.
Suddenly a baby cries. Gloria reaches down and picks up her 1 year, 8 month old child, Patience. A name chosen with just a hint of irony. Patience begins to cry as her mother feeds her the food I have just bought for both of them. Gloria has gone to the hospital today to get “chest pain” checked out, so she has forfeited the paycheck for the day and has actually spent more money on transportation and the medication they have prescribed for her. “Even with the paycheck, I can usually only afford one meal a day for myself if I’m going to get food for Patience.” I watch as she spoons more bean-soaked rice into her young daughter’s mouth, knowing she is alone to care for this child. An orphan, Gloria has always had to depend upon herself – her extended family has died off one-by-one from disease and general malnutrition. I dare not ask how she ended up with this baby to care for by herself. She dares not offer. Patience begins to cry maniacally, creating a scene that draws the attention of the rest of the room. I see Gloria look down at her with what I interpret to be a flash of regret in her eye; would this be unwarranted? I ask myself. I feel for the mother, and I feel for the child.
Patrick picks up a newspaper and coughs a bit behind it. “Just a little malaria,” he says, “I’ll be fine in a day or two.” He will be, because the money he earns from his job makes him capable of buying the medication necessary to ensure that this is the case. This medication is paradoxically distressingly cheap and unaffordable for too many a Ugandan, but Patrick has enough money to take care of himself. He cuts costs by living alone in a small hut on the outskirts of town. Mid-cough, Patrick gets up to attend to the customer behind us. He is on duty; he only gets one day off every two weeks to attend to home matters, and every other day he works 8am through 10:30pm at least. “They don’t give you a day off for malaria?” I stupidly question. “I can’t afford it,” he says. “Especially as I’m hoping to open my own business this October!” He takes the customer’s order and hurries out to the small kitchen in the back of the restaurant.
It’s too easy to lose sight of where I am over here. One minute I’m sitting comfortably with two of my friends, taking for granted their presence with me at the table. The next instant, I’m surrounded by the hardships and struggles that define their days, totally encapsulated in a few all-too-normal occurrences for them. Their “normal,” however, is far different from mine, making up a different reality entirely. They’re strong, hopeful, and determined, and these people will succeed. But I need to fight back the haze of normalcy; I want to be constantly aware of their brilliance. I was inspired by these people last summer, and I am inspired by them again.
To end on a similar note of inspiration, bodabodas have again won the key to my heart. Predictably so, at that. Their “short cuts” are the best. I’m not sure what “short cut” means to them, but it usually involves our taking an out-of-the way path through the Bush, complete with an absolutely breathtaking view of the striking hills of green in the distance and the fields of tall grass, scattered trees, and the occasional picturesque hut. I write what I see: the simplicity of it all is what makes it all the more glorious.
Not the best place for an in-depth conversation, however, contrary to popular belief. Typical boda-talk:
Driver: Do you have those in America?
Rohbet: You mean that goat?
Driver: You know Luo very well!
Rohbet: There was no Luo in that sentence at all.
Driver: Apwoyo matek (“thank you”).
… 30 second pause …
Rohbet: We have goats in America.
Driver: …mumble… Obama… mumble
Rohbet: Yeah.
Driver: 45?
Rohbet: Drop me off here please.
Still, I’m charmed. Of course, it could just be me misinterpreting the adrenaline coursing through my veins as we maneuver through the pack of cows and children making their way across the path. You know the feeling you get when the Aerosmith rollercoaster first takes off in MGM Studios, Disneyworld? Add a few chickens, the exhaust of the Sudan-bound supply truck, and the one stop sign in all of Gulu. Welcome!
45?,
Rob
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Alternative Justice
I’m a researcher – who knew? I’ve been interviewing like nobody’s business this past week, and let me tell you, it’s been amazing. Not just on an academic level, either – we’re talking life wisdom, human-to-human. My *job* this summer is to have numerous conversations with phenomenally inspiring people … how crazy is that? I caught a glimpse of the incredible capacity for forgiveness in Northern Uganda last summer, but wow, I had a lot more to learn.
Over lunch in a guesthouse, in the middle of a huge field under the village tree, or in the back of a cluttered NGO office, these people have been talking. And I have been listening. Local government officials, traditional chiefs and elders, community leaders, psycho-social counselors, NGO employees, teachers, peasant farmers, former child soldiers – they all have something to say. Lots to say, in fact. And even throughout this diverse crowd of community stakeholders runs a common theme: the wish for peace. And the immense capacity for forgiveness that accompanies this wish. These people have already opened their arms to the returning rebels, eager to celebrate their arrivals back to the community and begin a new era in Northern Uganda. After 22 years of war, they reject the idea of punitive justice for these “returnees,” especially as most were abducted against their will. Instead, they wish to pursue alternative justice – forgiveness through traditional ceremonies. I get to witness a “cleansing” next week. That is very. very. good. But I’m jumping the gun and shouldn’t make generalizations yet, of course.
I’ve been going “into the field” to local villages with a local NGO under the auspices of World Vision: Education for Peace and Prevention of Violence and HIV/AIDS. Perfect. This team of local Ugandans heads over to these “Community Care Coalitions,” collections of people from all walks of life in the community, and trains them to advocate on behalf of themselves for a whole array of issues. Most recently was domestic violence: the team goes in, solicits conceptions of the issue at the local level (most times these are positive, initially), and then presents the other side of the argument – not limited to the long-lasting negative effects of such practices on all parties. The goal is to present the community with another perspective and have them work through the logic on their own so that they will be more convinced if they do happen to change their minds. Really interesting with regard to cultural relativism: it is the Ugandan community itself who is advocating for this change. And in this organization, it has been very effective.
Through this initiative, I’ve gotten to witness grassroots at its best – and it was a high, let me tell you. Watching tangible change happen, however gradually, on the ground within these communities was quite a sight. It was even more exciting when the presenter encouraged the American to stand up and introduce himself in Acholi-Luo to the 45 villagers in the room. With some quick thinking and the ability to pull up from memory a bit of a graduation speech I gave not long ago, I managed to spit out a “good morning, am Robert, student America, I like you and food, thank you.” Have you ever been applauded for that sentence? Is that a sentence? It was even better when the Ugandan next to me stood up and introduced herself in English.
Don’t think I missed Independence Day over here. Managed to stumble into a FREEDOM! party hosted by a few U.S. marines in the area (?). We’re talking the biggest house I’ve been in yet (mansion, relative to the rest of the community), surround sound playing hits of the 90s, flat screen TV with Playstation, and arguably more munus than I knew existed in all of Gulu. Where am I? A marine party would be total culture shock for me even within the US. Had some really interesting conversations, though – absolutely do not judge a book by its cover. Or its title. Or the number of tattoos on its body. Should I get a tattoo?
Perhaps more importantly, yes: for those who were sitting with bated breath, I am indeed still the most charming munu in all of Gulu. Two of them, this time: “How old are you, munu?” “How old do you think I am, Acholi?” “16.” “Hmm… close!” It was around this point I realized they came up to my elbow, at best. “How old are YOU?” “15. Actually I’m 15 and a half.”
WHAT?! I COULD BE YOUR FATHER! (?) “I actually don’t have a phone!” “But we saw you talking on it!” “*Long sigh* Oh, that’s just my business phone!”
I really loved the anonymity, the fresh start that last summer afforded me in Northern Uganda. Not for any particular reason; it was just exciting to be in a totally new environment with no ties or expectations. I knew that it wouldn’t be quite the same this time, but little did I know upon arrival that I had made a name for myself last summer in this town. Walking into my guesthouse yesterday, one of the new workers greeted me with a surprised “ROBERT!” (say: ROH-BET). “Hi,” I replied cautiously, “how do you know my name?” “Rohbet, I met you at [local bar here] last year … you were the crazy muzungu with the dance moves!”
My secret’s out. I promised to “shake it” later in return for a new bar of bathroom soap. It really doesn’t take much these days.
A few cultural tips for the Uganda-bound:
Yawning only sometimes means one is tired. It also tends to mean one is hungry. Muster: “You know, before lunch at primary school, everyone is yawning.” .. Me: “So don’t you think they might just be tired?!!” .. Muster: “…Americans.” The word “doof” can mean food (“let’s get some doof” – cute, I know). Raised eyebrows that would signify “shock” or “extreme flirtation” in the States is a simple “hello.” That, or you have a man-eating cockroach tucked neatly into your hair. And when you have a brillow pad, that’s no joke. Anyway, it’s worth a quick brush of the top of the head while you’re saying “hello” in reply. Finally, they have pumpkins over here. I know, right? I figured that’s worth noting.
Lastly, I forgot to mention this in the other entry, but I was pleasantly surprised to be sitting at a local restaurant recently and have a Ugandan man come up to the student-researcher and introduce himself as “Justice.” Yes, my friends, Justice of Uganda has officially welcomed me here. Is this a sign? I’m not sure how far to read into these chance meetings, however, because a few days later I was randomly introduced to “Uma,” which means “nose.” I’m an Aries if anyone wants to figure this one out. Naturally, I gratuitously gave out my email address to the inquiring man.
A few days later, Justice sent me an email to this extent:
“ dear ROBERT.
THANKS ALOT FOR MY MAIL. ITS NICE AND THANKS ALOT DEAR, HOPE YOU ARE FINE AND DOING WELL, GREET HER FOR ME, MEET IF YOU COME BACK,
THANKS ALOT
JUSTICE”
Soon after, I received another email from him:
“DEAR ROBERT. BAIL MEWITH SOME QUICK MONEY, SHS 200.000 VIA WESTERN MONEY UNION, THE WORKERS ARE BADLY ON ME
MY ACCOUNT IS JUSTICE NSUBGA,30 200 30 323 CENTENARY BANK,
I KNEEL DOWNFOR YOU, TO DAY, THANKS
JUSTICE”
SHS 200.000 is the equivalent of ~130 U.S. dollars. I mean, what the hell, what ELSE am I going to do with it? Does anyone want to pick up this tab for me? Alternative Justice indeed. Justice works in mysterious ways. I’m done.
Only has time for business calls (I’m a busy guy),
Rob
Over lunch in a guesthouse, in the middle of a huge field under the village tree, or in the back of a cluttered NGO office, these people have been talking. And I have been listening. Local government officials, traditional chiefs and elders, community leaders, psycho-social counselors, NGO employees, teachers, peasant farmers, former child soldiers – they all have something to say. Lots to say, in fact. And even throughout this diverse crowd of community stakeholders runs a common theme: the wish for peace. And the immense capacity for forgiveness that accompanies this wish. These people have already opened their arms to the returning rebels, eager to celebrate their arrivals back to the community and begin a new era in Northern Uganda. After 22 years of war, they reject the idea of punitive justice for these “returnees,” especially as most were abducted against their will. Instead, they wish to pursue alternative justice – forgiveness through traditional ceremonies. I get to witness a “cleansing” next week. That is very. very. good. But I’m jumping the gun and shouldn’t make generalizations yet, of course.
I’ve been going “into the field” to local villages with a local NGO under the auspices of World Vision: Education for Peace and Prevention of Violence and HIV/AIDS. Perfect. This team of local Ugandans heads over to these “Community Care Coalitions,” collections of people from all walks of life in the community, and trains them to advocate on behalf of themselves for a whole array of issues. Most recently was domestic violence: the team goes in, solicits conceptions of the issue at the local level (most times these are positive, initially), and then presents the other side of the argument – not limited to the long-lasting negative effects of such practices on all parties. The goal is to present the community with another perspective and have them work through the logic on their own so that they will be more convinced if they do happen to change their minds. Really interesting with regard to cultural relativism: it is the Ugandan community itself who is advocating for this change. And in this organization, it has been very effective.
Through this initiative, I’ve gotten to witness grassroots at its best – and it was a high, let me tell you. Watching tangible change happen, however gradually, on the ground within these communities was quite a sight. It was even more exciting when the presenter encouraged the American to stand up and introduce himself in Acholi-Luo to the 45 villagers in the room. With some quick thinking and the ability to pull up from memory a bit of a graduation speech I gave not long ago, I managed to spit out a “good morning, am Robert, student America, I like you and food, thank you.” Have you ever been applauded for that sentence? Is that a sentence? It was even better when the Ugandan next to me stood up and introduced herself in English.
Don’t think I missed Independence Day over here. Managed to stumble into a FREEDOM! party hosted by a few U.S. marines in the area (?). We’re talking the biggest house I’ve been in yet (mansion, relative to the rest of the community), surround sound playing hits of the 90s, flat screen TV with Playstation, and arguably more munus than I knew existed in all of Gulu. Where am I? A marine party would be total culture shock for me even within the US. Had some really interesting conversations, though – absolutely do not judge a book by its cover. Or its title. Or the number of tattoos on its body. Should I get a tattoo?
Perhaps more importantly, yes: for those who were sitting with bated breath, I am indeed still the most charming munu in all of Gulu. Two of them, this time: “How old are you, munu?” “How old do you think I am, Acholi?” “16.” “Hmm… close!” It was around this point I realized they came up to my elbow, at best. “How old are YOU?” “15. Actually I’m 15 and a half.”
WHAT?! I COULD BE YOUR FATHER! (?) “I actually don’t have a phone!” “But we saw you talking on it!” “*Long sigh* Oh, that’s just my business phone!”
I really loved the anonymity, the fresh start that last summer afforded me in Northern Uganda. Not for any particular reason; it was just exciting to be in a totally new environment with no ties or expectations. I knew that it wouldn’t be quite the same this time, but little did I know upon arrival that I had made a name for myself last summer in this town. Walking into my guesthouse yesterday, one of the new workers greeted me with a surprised “ROBERT!” (say: ROH-BET). “Hi,” I replied cautiously, “how do you know my name?” “Rohbet, I met you at [local bar here] last year … you were the crazy muzungu with the dance moves!”
My secret’s out. I promised to “shake it” later in return for a new bar of bathroom soap. It really doesn’t take much these days.
A few cultural tips for the Uganda-bound:
Yawning only sometimes means one is tired. It also tends to mean one is hungry. Muster: “You know, before lunch at primary school, everyone is yawning.” .. Me: “So don’t you think they might just be tired?!!” .. Muster: “…Americans.” The word “doof” can mean food (“let’s get some doof” – cute, I know). Raised eyebrows that would signify “shock” or “extreme flirtation” in the States is a simple “hello.” That, or you have a man-eating cockroach tucked neatly into your hair. And when you have a brillow pad, that’s no joke. Anyway, it’s worth a quick brush of the top of the head while you’re saying “hello” in reply. Finally, they have pumpkins over here. I know, right? I figured that’s worth noting.
Lastly, I forgot to mention this in the other entry, but I was pleasantly surprised to be sitting at a local restaurant recently and have a Ugandan man come up to the student-researcher and introduce himself as “Justice.” Yes, my friends, Justice of Uganda has officially welcomed me here. Is this a sign? I’m not sure how far to read into these chance meetings, however, because a few days later I was randomly introduced to “Uma,” which means “nose.” I’m an Aries if anyone wants to figure this one out. Naturally, I gratuitously gave out my email address to the inquiring man.
A few days later, Justice sent me an email to this extent:
“ dear ROBERT.
THANKS ALOT FOR MY MAIL. ITS NICE AND THANKS ALOT DEAR, HOPE YOU ARE FINE AND DOING WELL, GREET HER FOR ME, MEET IF YOU COME BACK,
THANKS ALOT
JUSTICE”
Soon after, I received another email from him:
“DEAR ROBERT. BAIL MEWITH SOME QUICK MONEY, SHS 200.000 VIA WESTERN MONEY UNION, THE WORKERS ARE BADLY ON ME
MY ACCOUNT IS JUSTICE NSUBGA,30 200 30 323 CENTENARY BANK,
I KNEEL DOWNFOR YOU, TO DAY, THANKS
JUSTICE”
SHS 200.000 is the equivalent of ~130 U.S. dollars. I mean, what the hell, what ELSE am I going to do with it? Does anyone want to pick up this tab for me? Alternative Justice indeed. Justice works in mysterious ways. I’m done.
Only has time for business calls (I’m a busy guy),
Rob
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Little Things
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not for the first time glancing down at the color of my skin with a heightened level of awareness. I am no longer listening to what is being said; instead, preemptive excuses and qualifications are already bouncing around my head. “I’m sorry, I’m just a student from America” and “I don’t have access to a lot of resources; I’m just here doing research” clutter my mind. “Why do they assume so much?” I think, frustrated with my having to let them down.
“We’ll be taking you around to show you some of our main sites,” the program coordinator explains mechanically, almost rehearsed, “and you can see the families we give our pigs to. We’ll show you some of the schools we sponsor children in, and maybe we’ll even get to show you Harriet, post-tumor.” He walks over to the only cabinet in the room and pulls out a few documents. “You see, we are fully recognized by the local government.” I feel my stomach clenching tighter in a manifestation of extreme uneasiness; I am almost watching the scene in third-person as the sincere local NGO worker tries to convince the “rich foreigner” that this is an organization worth investing in.
I am sitting in the office of a nonprofit, Adoption Uganda (http://adoptionuganda.org), with a board made up entirely of locals. We had exchanged contact information through a connection at Harvard (actually, an overnight security guard from Uganda), and I had agreed to meet the NGO heads and see what they were all about. I had not expected to have the organization sold to me, board members acting as if I were a potential partner with the ability to exponentially increase resources and capacity. I am hesitant to make a day of this, taking up the organization’s gas money, time, and human resources, especially given the fact that I do not expect I will be able to deliver in the way the organization wishes. We step out of the office and I start to present these concerns to the coordinator.
“Don’t read so far into it, my brother,” the man assures me, “One bit of good can go a long way. It’s the little things. Even your spreading awareness about this organization can really make a difference. It’s not the amount of resources we are able to obtain; it’s the strategic use of these gains within our programming. One new website can secure countless donations; similarly, one donation of $20 in the form of a new pig can multiply to hundreds of dollars worth through breeding over time. One voice can reach thousands.”
Moving from one site to the next, I find myself reframing the situation. The man’s words really resonate with me. Perhaps I had been too defensive initially, immediately closing up to what I read into as a solicitation for financial resources I just didn’t have to contribute. While I may just be a student, however, I *do* have access to amazing resources, whether in the form of a friend with the ability to draw up a quick internet site or a blog through which I can let other people know what kinds of efforts are being made over here. Somewhere between greeting the proud new owners of a modest pig breeding center who are now able to afford school fees for their children and meeting the woman whose life had been saved when Adoption Uganda paid for the removal of a devastating tumor from her jaw, it strikes me that every little contribution really does have the potential to go a long way. I can help a little, and I can help a lot.
I step out of the company van feeling honored to have witnessed firsthand all the good this organization has accomplished and privileged to have an opportunity to contribute as well. We’re going to keep in touch… and I’m going to keep an eye out for the “one bit of good” I can take on.
The last few days of Kampala were fantastic. I managed to make it here in time for my good friend’s 21st birthday, and we celebrated in style. By that, I mean we went straight from our viewing of a Parliament session (reliably a nut house with MPs openly sneering and mocking each other – glad nothing has changed!) over to one of the local dives for a quick birthday drink. I mean, how are people in Uganda *supposed* to spend birthdays?
Made a new local friend, Muster (NOT “Master” – wow, THAT was an awkward day), who showed us the ins and outs of downtown Kampala. He brought us to his local church, KPC central, one of the largest, most well equipped establishments I’ve ever been in. We’re talking state-of-the-art sound/media equipment with a full projector screen above the “stage” broadcasting everything to the supplemental side rooms all around the staggeringly large main auditorium. The two hours consisted of a full hour of African-choir singing with four mic-ed singers in the front, followed by 15 minutes of media “advertisements” on the screen for various happenings in the community and 30 minutes of sermon. “We must excel at giving.” Okay, I’ll buy that. What a ride.
While my Kampala experience was all I could ask for, I’ve had my eye on the North – where I was last year, in the town of Gulu – the entire time. Stepping onto the Gulu-bound bus was a more intense experience than even boarding the Uganda-bound plane, and adrenaline surged through my veins as the passing scenery got more rural, less developed… more real.
Arrived in the bus park to my local friends waiting with arms wide open – what a fantastic welcoming crew. Immediately boda boda-ed over to my friend Shilla’s place on the edge of town for a reunion dinner with her four brothers and mum. I forgot her mother only speaks Luo, so I bounced some of my “you do good work”s and “I like food”s off of her, politely nodding to her responses with my eyes slightly glazed over. So nice to see old friends and reestablish the relationships I had last summer – to just jump back in, no longer worried that these were superficial or fleeting friendships that would deteriorate with my leaving. And even nicer to find that they’re all devout Obama supporters (surprise!). “If you want an African for your president, why not just pick me?” Nyero Dennis for President, 2012.
First days of being back were littered with familiar sights and sounds: Mutual recognition as I pass by shop owners of my old haunts. Children giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Elders giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Absolutely brilliant stars that light up the dimly lit city at night. The Naked Gulu Man, who I hear actually used to wear a shirt before kicking it up a notch to his new “I’m Totally Nude” statement (it’s retro). Riding in a taxi with a woman blasting “Big Girls” by Mika and passing a small shop playing Soldier Boy. This is globalization at its best. At its worst? Whatever.
Yes, Gulu is beautiful. But it remains the former epicenter of the armed conflict in Northern Uganda, and remnants of this all-too-recent past are still found scattered about daily life in this community. I accompanied the same friend, Shilla, to the Gulu Psychiatric Hospital where she works each day. In entering the pharmacy ward and seeing her write out medication distributions, I let my eyes wander to the seemingly endless column of checks below the “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms” category mixed in with all the rest of the diagnoses. The effects of the war are still very real and far-reaching in this area, and it’s not something that’s easily forgotten… even amidst the warm and welcoming atmosphere that defines Gulu.
I’ve made it to my ritzy hotel room in the middle of town. We’re talking working ceiling fan, bathroom (with *warm* running water!), and a TELEVISION. I don’t even have a TV in my room at school! And it has TWO CHANNELS ON IT! Decisions, decisions. Also managed to “put up” what can now only be termed a mos-ghetto net. There’s tape and string all over the ceiling and walls. One of the cleaning ladies actually came up to me wide-eyed and questioned “what happened in there?” Yup, we’re talking high class over here. I’m spoiled.
Finally, have already jumped into interviews with the locals, making my rounds to the hundreds (literally) of NGOs in the region and establishing contacts to get myself started. I’ve already conducted a few, and my favorite line so far:
“Forgiveness is the best seed in the world.”
- A very wise woman.
I like it. “It’s the little things.” Let’s plant this sucker, folks.
Definitely not the Naked Gulu Man (don’t google me),
Rob
“We’ll be taking you around to show you some of our main sites,” the program coordinator explains mechanically, almost rehearsed, “and you can see the families we give our pigs to. We’ll show you some of the schools we sponsor children in, and maybe we’ll even get to show you Harriet, post-tumor.” He walks over to the only cabinet in the room and pulls out a few documents. “You see, we are fully recognized by the local government.” I feel my stomach clenching tighter in a manifestation of extreme uneasiness; I am almost watching the scene in third-person as the sincere local NGO worker tries to convince the “rich foreigner” that this is an organization worth investing in.
I am sitting in the office of a nonprofit, Adoption Uganda (http://adoptionuganda.org), with a board made up entirely of locals. We had exchanged contact information through a connection at Harvard (actually, an overnight security guard from Uganda), and I had agreed to meet the NGO heads and see what they were all about. I had not expected to have the organization sold to me, board members acting as if I were a potential partner with the ability to exponentially increase resources and capacity. I am hesitant to make a day of this, taking up the organization’s gas money, time, and human resources, especially given the fact that I do not expect I will be able to deliver in the way the organization wishes. We step out of the office and I start to present these concerns to the coordinator.
“Don’t read so far into it, my brother,” the man assures me, “One bit of good can go a long way. It’s the little things. Even your spreading awareness about this organization can really make a difference. It’s not the amount of resources we are able to obtain; it’s the strategic use of these gains within our programming. One new website can secure countless donations; similarly, one donation of $20 in the form of a new pig can multiply to hundreds of dollars worth through breeding over time. One voice can reach thousands.”
Moving from one site to the next, I find myself reframing the situation. The man’s words really resonate with me. Perhaps I had been too defensive initially, immediately closing up to what I read into as a solicitation for financial resources I just didn’t have to contribute. While I may just be a student, however, I *do* have access to amazing resources, whether in the form of a friend with the ability to draw up a quick internet site or a blog through which I can let other people know what kinds of efforts are being made over here. Somewhere between greeting the proud new owners of a modest pig breeding center who are now able to afford school fees for their children and meeting the woman whose life had been saved when Adoption Uganda paid for the removal of a devastating tumor from her jaw, it strikes me that every little contribution really does have the potential to go a long way. I can help a little, and I can help a lot.
I step out of the company van feeling honored to have witnessed firsthand all the good this organization has accomplished and privileged to have an opportunity to contribute as well. We’re going to keep in touch… and I’m going to keep an eye out for the “one bit of good” I can take on.
The last few days of Kampala were fantastic. I managed to make it here in time for my good friend’s 21st birthday, and we celebrated in style. By that, I mean we went straight from our viewing of a Parliament session (reliably a nut house with MPs openly sneering and mocking each other – glad nothing has changed!) over to one of the local dives for a quick birthday drink. I mean, how are people in Uganda *supposed* to spend birthdays?
Made a new local friend, Muster (NOT “Master” – wow, THAT was an awkward day), who showed us the ins and outs of downtown Kampala. He brought us to his local church, KPC central, one of the largest, most well equipped establishments I’ve ever been in. We’re talking state-of-the-art sound/media equipment with a full projector screen above the “stage” broadcasting everything to the supplemental side rooms all around the staggeringly large main auditorium. The two hours consisted of a full hour of African-choir singing with four mic-ed singers in the front, followed by 15 minutes of media “advertisements” on the screen for various happenings in the community and 30 minutes of sermon. “We must excel at giving.” Okay, I’ll buy that. What a ride.
While my Kampala experience was all I could ask for, I’ve had my eye on the North – where I was last year, in the town of Gulu – the entire time. Stepping onto the Gulu-bound bus was a more intense experience than even boarding the Uganda-bound plane, and adrenaline surged through my veins as the passing scenery got more rural, less developed… more real.
Arrived in the bus park to my local friends waiting with arms wide open – what a fantastic welcoming crew. Immediately boda boda-ed over to my friend Shilla’s place on the edge of town for a reunion dinner with her four brothers and mum. I forgot her mother only speaks Luo, so I bounced some of my “you do good work”s and “I like food”s off of her, politely nodding to her responses with my eyes slightly glazed over. So nice to see old friends and reestablish the relationships I had last summer – to just jump back in, no longer worried that these were superficial or fleeting friendships that would deteriorate with my leaving. And even nicer to find that they’re all devout Obama supporters (surprise!). “If you want an African for your president, why not just pick me?” Nyero Dennis for President, 2012.
First days of being back were littered with familiar sights and sounds: Mutual recognition as I pass by shop owners of my old haunts. Children giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Elders giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Absolutely brilliant stars that light up the dimly lit city at night. The Naked Gulu Man, who I hear actually used to wear a shirt before kicking it up a notch to his new “I’m Totally Nude” statement (it’s retro). Riding in a taxi with a woman blasting “Big Girls” by Mika and passing a small shop playing Soldier Boy. This is globalization at its best. At its worst? Whatever.
Yes, Gulu is beautiful. But it remains the former epicenter of the armed conflict in Northern Uganda, and remnants of this all-too-recent past are still found scattered about daily life in this community. I accompanied the same friend, Shilla, to the Gulu Psychiatric Hospital where she works each day. In entering the pharmacy ward and seeing her write out medication distributions, I let my eyes wander to the seemingly endless column of checks below the “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms” category mixed in with all the rest of the diagnoses. The effects of the war are still very real and far-reaching in this area, and it’s not something that’s easily forgotten… even amidst the warm and welcoming atmosphere that defines Gulu.
I’ve made it to my ritzy hotel room in the middle of town. We’re talking working ceiling fan, bathroom (with *warm* running water!), and a TELEVISION. I don’t even have a TV in my room at school! And it has TWO CHANNELS ON IT! Decisions, decisions. Also managed to “put up” what can now only be termed a mos-ghetto net. There’s tape and string all over the ceiling and walls. One of the cleaning ladies actually came up to me wide-eyed and questioned “what happened in there?” Yup, we’re talking high class over here. I’m spoiled.
Finally, have already jumped into interviews with the locals, making my rounds to the hundreds (literally) of NGOs in the region and establishing contacts to get myself started. I’ve already conducted a few, and my favorite line so far:
“Forgiveness is the best seed in the world.”
- A very wise woman.
I like it. “It’s the little things.” Let’s plant this sucker, folks.
Definitely not the Naked Gulu Man (don’t google me),
Rob
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