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