This will quite possibly be the last entry, given I’m boarding a Kigali-bound bus in three hours to head down to the far reaches of Rwanda. I don’t imagine I’ll have a lot of time down there to document my experiences, as I’ll be WORKED LIKE A DOG by the professor with the rest of the research team. *Sigh* I’m such a student.
The last weeks in Gulu were simultaneously quiet and absolutely chaotic. Quiet, in that interviews had died down and I was just wrapping up. Absolutely chaotic, in that I was “just wrapping up.” Both on a research-y and personal level.
It’s harder to say goodbye the second time, believe it or not. One person in particular comes to mind: Novia, the nearby restaurant worker I’d befriended. We’re about the same age, and we’d bonded a lot in between the daily servings of beans. Toward the end of my stay, we exchanged numbers. For some reason, the following day, her number showed up as “unknown” when she began calling me and I opted not to answer (you better believe I’m not going to fall for any 15-year-old shenanigans… they’re getting smarter every day, I swear it).
That evening, I popped in to Timbo Guest House to greet everyone and down the $2 meal. She quickly approached me, clearly disgruntled, though I was still unaware exactly what the problem was. She whipped out her cell phone, hurriedly hitting a few keys and thrusting it in my face.
What I saw on that small Motorola screen will forever be engrained in my memory.
I replicate it here for your convenience:
------------------------------
-Recently Dialed Calls-
1. MY LOVE
2. MY LOVE
3. MY LOVE
4. MY LOVE
5. MY LOVE
6. MY LOVE
------------------------------
HAHA!!! Someone make it stop, seriously. Nonetheless, I was flattered, and I apologized for my lack of answer and bid my “maybe-the-one?” goodbye with a heavy heart. And, of course, blatantly waved my wedding-ring-actually-my-mom’s-toe-ring-I’m-serious at her to ensure she understood I have unbreakable ties back home. Hell, I made a promise with that toe ring and I’m not one to go back on my word.
The Olympics is such an amazing phenomenon (minus the whole “wtf why does China hate human rights” thing), and it’s so great to be able to have common ground on which everyone can connect. A little friendly competition is healthy, right? Televisions everywhere broadcast the events 24/7, and in entering my guesthouse, there’s one employee who is always in the main room, eyes glued to the screen. “You’re really a fan, huh Godfrey?”
WELL, he was soon to put me in my place. “Rohbet, I should be there right now!” “…??” “It’s true, Rohbet, I’ve won all the preliminary competitions in Uganda in [track/running] [sorry I’m athlete-illiterate but it was something like that] and I should be there representing my country.”
We watched the screen together as the next race was about to begin, and he pointed at the “Best Times” displayed with disgust. “I could beat him… and him… and that one, that’s not even running.” Confused and a little skeptical, I approached his mom, coincidentally the owner of the guesthouse. “It’s true Rohbet,” she assured me, “he’s won every competition here in all of Uganda. He should be there. But we’re too poor and we don’t have the right connections… Ugandans don’t want him representing us, and the well-connected runners get to go.”
WOW, what?! I don’t really know what to take away from this experience, so here it is merely as it is for you to dissect. If there are more Godfreys in the world (which there undoubtedly are), know that the Olympics are a SHAM! Or at least not entirely representative. Right? But anyway, honored to be in the presence of someone who should have been on the screen before me, I shook Godfrey’s hand and told him I hope to see him there in four years. He didn’t hear me – he was again focused on the glow of the television. When I came back out a few hours later, he was still there.
I also had a chance to meet with the former Mozambique president and the current UN envoy to the Juba Peace Talks, the dialogue upon which the fate of the 22-year-war of Northern Uganda depends. What an experience! Tagging along with some well-connected NGO friends (college has taught me how to network and perhaps little else?), I slid into the small conference room with the other “chosen” 25 people and watched on with interest. A three-hour discussion ensued, touching upon an array of really interesting, current issues that need to be dealt with. A number of people in the displacement camps actually don’t want to return home, wishing instead to remain with the better-developed infrastructure of the Camps. Their home villages often lack access to even basic education, let alone adequate health facilities. While this used to define their way of life, many of these people have grown accustomed to having their children attend school and to having the ability to obtain malaria medicine if they get sick. There’s little incentive for some of them to return to their ancestral lands, especially as the ties of “culture” have gotten weaker over time. Interesting stuff, and I certainly don’t pretend to know how to deal with these issues.
All in all, though, these last few days were mostly defined by a single interaction – the first and last of this summer – with one of the sponsored children of The Child Is Innocent.
As I’d worked with the students last summer, I’d bonded most with this girl. Her eagerness, hope, and dedication really stood out from the already amazingly talented crowd, and I may as well just say it – she named me Nyero, my street name over here. It means “laughter”… go figure with that one? To be fair, it’s the male version of her name. Good enough for me.
Upon arriving this summer, I was excited to meet up and see what I’d missed in the past year. Sadly, I learned right away that the “one girl who had been dropped temporarily from the program because she got pregnant”… was this girl. I was totally shocked.
So without my having seen her for the entire summer due to these unfortunate circumstances, I managed to arrange an “official” meeting with her on my very last day in Gulu to check in and see how she was doing.
My boda pulled up to the gate of her aunt’s modest home (both of her parents have died) and I pushed open the iron door with the TCII employee by my side. The toddlers’ “MUNU!” cries (if it was English, it’d probably be more like “OHMIGOD NOWAY GUYZ CHECK THIS OUT!”) alerted her of my arrival, and she peeked out from around the side of the house. We exchanged warm greetings, and I was relieved to see that, even within the context of the current situation, she continued to emanate the hope and radiance of a young person ready to make change happen.
She led me to the small corner room and over to a bundle of tiny blankets. Not empty blankets, I soon found, but a bundle hiding a tiny, beautiful infant. As I held the child in my arms, the girl told me that Blessing had been born roughly three months ago.
“Rohbet,” she said, “will I ever go back to school? I still think of school all the time, and I really need an education. I’m so sorry this all happened like this… I should have known better. But I’ve been thinking about it, and well, everyone is human. I am human. And humans make mistakes. We all make mistakes sometimes, some bigger than others.”
“This baby is not a mistake,” I adamantly assured her, handing the baby back to her young, motherly embrace.
“Oh no, Rohbet, I know that. She’s the opposite. That’s why her name is Blessing. She will grow up to do amazing things, I just know it. She’s here for a reason.”
The baby looked up at me, drooling slightly on the bracelet-gift I had just given her and giggling once in a while at the paleness of my skin or perhaps just the goofy smile on my face. She looked around the room with huge brown eyes, eagerly taking in the sights and sounds of the new, fresh world she’d been brought into.
Do you believe everything happens for a reason?
I did my best to reassure the girl, as the head of the program is currently looking for a referral to a vocational program that will allow her to get her feet back on the ground while still caring for a new baby. She is ready to adapt and do what is necessary to get back on track.
*
A few last dinners and late night, no-electricity goodbyes with some phenomenal friends who are really only a skype-call away, I was ready to go. But not before saying goodbye to the head of TCII, who wanted to make sure I thank “all your friends for their help!!” Thank you everyone for all your help!! Seriously. Done. With that, I marched past the guesthouse blaring the “NAAAAAZABENYAAAAA” intro to “Circle of Life” (I know you know what I’m talking about) and onto the crowded bus, more than ready to befriend my inevitable four-legged companion. How I’ve missed you.
I’m now back in Kampala, caught between the Limbo of the paradise-that-is-Gulu and the ever-looming Rwanda adventure before me. Caught in the chaos that is the Ugandan capital, I’ve roamed the streets and managed to get some blog material before heading out of this country.
Somehow, unbeknownst to me, to be honest, I managed to set up a last-minute meeting with the Ugandan Minister of Foreign Affairs. As in, I marched into the office on a Friday afternoon, waited two hours, and was offered a 20-minute “TALK AS FAST AS YOU CAN” slot with him in which I could ask a few questions about the national government’s conception of the traditional reconciliation mechanisms in the North.
AND, upon cautiously walking in and listening to this huge, suited man on the phone trying to rectify some pretty severe border issue with the Congo (to the west), I heard him speaking Luo, the language of the North. My in!! In between his hanging up the phone on one side of his desk and picking up one on the other side, I spilled out a “you know Luo?!!” to him in the language and tried to impress him. His otherwise poker-face expression lit up with just a hint of something I would call “emotion,” and he said “that’s nice” before dismissing my feeble attempt at dialogue. I’ll take it. That’s one “that’s nice” more than I started with.
This man seriously spoke faster English than any British person I’ve come across, and I even had trouble catching his every word. “Sotellmewhatyou’reherefor,” he spat. “Durr… I’m a student… how do you feel about... uhh…” Picture me stuttering, sitting in his opulent office at the very top of a Ugandan high-rise in my birks, rolled up cargo pants, and beaten up, dirtied “The Child Is Innocent” shirt. Yeah son. Suits suck. It went well, though, and I managed to extract some great insight from this intimidation-of-a-man before heading out, head spinning with my having met him in all his glory.
Leaving this meeting in a haze of “I’m actually doing something here” euphoria, I jumped on a bodaboda and found that the driver also spoke Luo – a rare find in this city! Backpack bouncing and arms flailing (it *really* doesn’t take much these days to do it for me), I started screaming incoherent “I love Gulu!”s at him against the rush of the wind. In all my excitement, however, I neglected to keep my rain jacket at a less-than-precarious distance from the wheels of the boda. Yup.
“OH MY GOD STOP THE BODA!” I screamed, listening to the sound of my jacket getting caught in the [axle? chain? someone needs to proofread these blog entries.] as we veered toward the side of the road and into relative safety. My bulky jacket was now entirely caught in the gears of the motorcycle, squeezed down to a quarter of its size and temporarily destroying the bike. The jacket, however, was the furthest thing from my mind. I had potentially just wrecked this man’s SOLE source of income, all with one stupid muzungu jacket. “I AM SO SORRY.” (Most of what I say here in Uganda is in caps-lock.) Naturally, I drew a crowd, and soon enough, there were about 8 Ugandans surrounding the bike, alternating between trying to console a fairly nonplussed me and dislodging the stupid jacket. Luckily, I had my third-grade paper scissors in my backpack (I’m not kidding).
Some money for repairs, a rusty blade someone found on the ground to help cut through the madness that was my jacket massacre, and thirty minutes later, the jacket was no more. We picked up the shreds of green and literally all of my dignity and tucked it all neatly into the boda-basket in front. You know, to make sure the whole world could see what had just happened. Boda, jacket, Uganda. Yup.
*
That’s a good enough story as any to end on, I suppose. Sitting in a backpackers hostel in Kampala, now 2 hours away from boarding that fateful Rwanda-bound bus, I’m trying to bring all of these experiences together in order to form some sort of cohesive “thanks for reading, hope you learned ____!” message. It’s harder than you’d think. I’ve had some pretty phenomenal experiences over here this summer; this country is truly beautiful, and I’m forever grateful for the opportunity to have met so many incredibly inspiring people.
I think the TCII girl really nailed it on the head. I’m struck by the idea of what it is to be human. Having met with people who have undergone unimaginable atrocities and who work each day to pick up the pieces and start their lives afresh, I am led to seek the similarities between myself and each of them. What is it to be human? Is it the confidence that everything will work out in the end? The universal resilience to deal with any tragedy that comes our way? The inevitability of our making mistakes and the courage to deal with those mistakes? The profound ties we have for one another as a species, leading us to live for one another, to die for one another? The love that drives us forward?
I’m not sure what it is exactly. Maybe a combination of all of it. Maybe – likely – something more. But when all’s said and done, this summer has instilled something very deep in me: the pride in being human. To be able to say I share something in common with the awe-inspiring people I’ve met. This common identity, what it is to be human, can help us connect to everyone, everywhere, and this gives me hope. Maybe it can give you hope, too.
This is likely goodbye for now, so before I jump onto a French speaking bus armed with my “je suis garcon” as promised, I want to thank you for following along with my travels this summer. Especially now, I firmly believe that sharing of meaningful experience is the best way to really live, to figure out the bigger questions, and to connect with other people. Hopefully you’ve found some meaning through this as well. If so, feel free to share. This is a collaborative effort. =D
Here’s to one last boda ride, one last glimpse of paradise.
Human,
Rob
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Will to Adapt
Another month, another district in Northern Uganda. Isn’t that the saying?
Kitgum has called, and I have eagerly answered, anxious to see more of the country and get a different community perspective on issues of forgiveness and justice. I didn’t get a chance to venture very far beyond Gulu last year, so even the prospect of a three-hour bus ride to the northeast triggered my wanderlust.
I made my way to the bus park, soothed by the sound of “Shut Up and Drive” and “Candy Shop” (I’m serious). I think they’ve seen our videos. Sitting in row meant for 4 people at the absolute maximum, I was far from surprised when people started being packed in 5 and 6 to a row. With my row already packed well beyond capacity, the conductors started herding yet another woman-and-baby duo toward the back. I patted my lap welcomingly. She didn’t call my bluff.
Surprised that the bus had taken off before waiting for three hours, I was in a pretty good mood as we got underway. Such a good mood, in fact, that I opted to ignore my neighbor who seemed to be playing footsies with me. Cultural relativism, I kept repeating to myself, sure he was just trying to be welcoming in his own way. Rationalization got more difficult, however, when I started to feel his foot nibble my leg hairs. My infallible logic took root (you can thank my liberal education for this one): feet cannot nibble. My neighbor may or may not have had a similar thought, because just then, as if out of a movie, we both turned and looked each other in the eye before simultaneously looking down. The goat craned its neck backwards, glaring back up at us on cue. I think he even blinked once.
Friends, THERE WAS NO GOAT THERE BEFORE. IT WAS NOT THERE, I SAY. Ugandan mystery #159. Not that I minded the company. 5’s a crowd, but 6 is a rave. The goat and I got some glow sticks and a techno Rihanna “Umbrella” remix going soon after that. Time flies when you’re club hopping on a mini-bus, and suddenly I was in Kitgum.
Ah yes, Kitgum:
No power? No fuel for generators? No running water? No problem.
(…3 days later…)
Okay, maybe a little problem.
(…4 more days later…)
S.O.S.
If the promise of power, internet, and running water hadn’t been there before my arrival here, I would have been fine. Emotionally prepped, you know? And research-ily prepped, too, ready to dig in and transcribe everything by hand onto paper instead of typed neatly into a little Word document. As fate would have it, I’ve spent a lot of time this week ______. (Let’s make this a Mad-Libs, I’ve got nothing).
Feels like home, though. I attribute this mostly to the “White Christmas” medley that wakes me up each morning. Though it may also have to do with the comforting sliver of light that peeks through my steel-shut windows at dawn.
My first few days in town were spent finding my feet, contacting various NGOs and exploring the surroundings like a true foreigner. The terrain is more varied in Kitgum, and I managed to find a huge hill/quasi-mountain to wander up. While trying to avoid racist/culture-ist(?) remarks, I seriously climbed Pride Rock from Lion King. Is that offensive? I’m just trying to give you a mental image here, and SERIOUSLY, that is where I was.
Perched at the top, I gazed out toward the mountains in the distance. Locals crept by the path behind me, questionable murmurs wondering what the stationary mono was doing. I guess I lost track of time. I was struck by the realization that I am actually here. Standing on a Kitgum hilltop and looking out toward the Sudanese mountains in the distance, I am able to capture what was formerly (formerly?) an area of immense human suffering, all in my line of vision. Apparently I’m only 50-100km away from the Sudanese border (no one here *really* knows). Wild.
It was during this excursion that I came across a little stick-and-mud booth set up on the side of the road. I curiously approached, a little wary of the incessant “clicking” noise I heard within, and peered over the edge of the counter. Patrick looked up from his preoccupation with something in front of him and jovially introduced himself. The woman nursing a baby in the corner nodded my way as well. “What do you do here, Patrick?” I asked.
“Let me show you,” he proposed, loading the typewriter with a fresh sheet of paper and banging away. Wow, I thought, he really can type! I’ve been through a lot of NGO offices here, but even those Ugandans who do use two hands have to plunk each key with a deliberate effort. Patrick was going for it, and without Word’s “autocorrect” to cover his butt, he was doing just fine. “Patrick, that’s really impressive! When did you learn?”
“I recently sort of had to, Rohbet,” he replied, looking up from his work and pointing over his right shoulder toward the back wall.
The woman in the corner shifted slightly to her left, revealing two large wooden crutches tucked neatly behind her. Of course. Of course there were crutches.
“Ever since that happened, I've had no other way to get by. I needed to learn to use what I have.”
I didn’t think it important to find out what “that” was, choosing instead to admire his resilience and resourcefulness even without knowing the likely-grim details of what led him to his new state. He smiled and turned back to his typing, eager to prove himself to me. He didn’t need to.
“Maybe if you need anything typed, you can come back,” he said. “You bet, Patrick,” I said, shaking his newly-trained hand and walking away to the sound of the steady “click” of his impassioned determination behind me.
*
The rest of my Kitgum stay has been happily uneventful, for the most part. Motorcycle bodabodas have been exchanged for passenger-bicycles, hot running water has been replaced with a distinct lack of bathing (just try and judge me). The torrential downpours define this area during the wet season, and each night is met with winds ripping through tiny guesthouses and phenomenal thunder and lightning making a stage of the sky every other split second.
Beyond the water-dearth, these past two weeks have been especially fortunate for me, as I got to witness TWO (2) cleansing ceremonies in the local communities. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but how many muzungus can claim they’ve seen two local cleansing ceremonies? *head inflates* Here’s a little recap if you’re at all interested in how things work around here:
The first one, called “tumu cere” or “cleaning a place,” took place in a community 20 km from the border of Sudan. I drove up with a local NGO to the very northern tip of the country, co-passenger with an out-of-control goat bent on soiling my feet and legit everything else in the van. I wasn’t quick to judge; I’d be sort of all over the place, too, if I were a soon-to-be sacrifice. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We showed up at a primary school deep in the rural “Bush,” or Ugandan grassland wilderness. Apparently, this was the site of a huge massacre of rebels, government soldiers, and civilians (children) alike during the war. As people begin to move out of the Camps and back to their ancestral lands, there is a widespread fear about the evil/restless spirits who still inhabit such places of mass atrocity and threaten to drive returnees mad without proper ceremonial rituals having taken place.
Bent on reclaiming their land, a group of 40 elders from the local clans got together and agreed to pursue this cleansing ritual in order to appease these otherwise vengeance-seeking ghosts. They called up the NGO, which provided the otherwise unaffordable goat for the ceremony. Upon arrival, we marched deep into the Bush one-by-one, a lengthy line of respected local elders followed by an ecstatic, clumsy muzungu with an extra memory chip for his digital camera. I’d say we were a “motley” crew but I can’t help but think my presence alone doesn’t warrant the use of “motley.” So I won’t say anything.
Making our way into a small clearing and allegedly the site of the most brutal murders in the area, we clustered around the few key figures who were to lead the ceremony. They said a few prayers, welcoming the spirits of their respective ancestors to watch over the ritual and bless the course of events. Shortly after, and amidst my not-so-subtle heart palpitations, they slaughtered the goat (note: I AM VEG FOR LIFE) and took a few feathers from a small chick for good measure.
The elders took the waste product from the intestines of the goat, or the “wee,” and threw it in all directions around the clearing so as to pacify the spirits (what spirit doesn’t like wee?). They also “cooked” the meat right there in a small makeshift fireplace over the course of 3 minutes before the key leaders made an offering to the same spirits and ate some themselves to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. Note that they ate the *entire* goat; nothing went to waste.
All of this done, the local people are free to return to the area without fear of spiritual possession or imminent madness. While speaking with a number of locals after the ceremony, they assured me that all would be well now upon returning. It was SO interesting to engage in conversation with people who have such a distinctly different perspective on life and meaning than anyone I’ve come across before, and I’m excited to know that this sort of variety is out there.
Then, just a few days ago, I witnessed another one called “nyonno tong gweno,” or literally “stepping on an egg.” This is different in that it is used to purify a person after he or she has been away from the community for a significant period of time and possibly contracted some evil energy throughout the travels. Specifically relevant in the case of returning, formerly abducted ex-combatants.
I sat in the car next to one such person, a 22-year-old (I’m 21) who was abducted at age 14 and spent no less than 8 years in the Bush before escaping. Of course, he witnessed/was forced to commit countless namely atrocities throughout this time. I looked over at him during the unbearably bumpy car ride, not sympathetically or with pity, necessarily, but as an equal. As another human being who has been forced into things far darker than many of us will ever see. He is finally returning to his home, his family, after 8 years in captivity and another 6 months in a rehabilitation center in Kitgum.
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get back home, John?” I question, really having no idea what could be foremost on his mind. The women in the car translate, and his gentle answer leads to an unexpected eruption of laughter.
“Food,” John tells us. Fair enough. If I were gone for 8 years, you better believe I’d be first in line for mom’s soy cheese pizza. (I’m home in 25 days, mom.)
We make it to his home shortly after, sending out the alarm and witnessing the rest of his family greet him for the first time in many years. His whole extended family of at least 15 people showed up, but I was understandably most struck by the reaction of his mother. Tears in her eyes, she threw her arms up over her head exclaiming, “I never thought we’d see you again!” She made her way around the NGO crew, ending with me. Her words implied her belief that I had something to do with this glorious homecoming.
“Thank you! Thank you very, very much… very much!”
Never before have I heard those words as heartfelt as I did that day. While I didn’t really deserve this praise, I was happy to witness her raw emotion nonetheless.
Shortly after, we gathered the family together on the little dirt path a few meters from the hut for the ceremony. Low and behold, it was really just what it sounds like – stepping on an egg. A few blades of grass were cut, thrown toward the setting sun to ward off evil spirit, and John stepped on the egg. That was sort of that. An egg, because it has no mouth, is meant to represent the purity of life and the acceptance of a person back into his or her homestead. While seemingly small, this act symbolizes a repossession of innocence and a pact amongst the family members to work together to mend any fractures within the greater societal fabric as a result of John’s deeds with the rebel army.
His family welcomed him back into their home, prepared to help him deal with any dark remnants of his past that have the potential to resurface in the form of PTSD, at the very least. Ready to work with the hand they’d been dealt, his family members bound together to overcome any future troubles and were set on getting back to the way “things used to be.”
I waved goodbye and headed back down the path, though not without a few quick close-ups of the cracked egg. Do we have eggs in the West? Should we?
*
To retrace just a little bit, I’ve got some Gulu-gossip:
Finally, FINALLY I had my meeting with Gulu’s Chairman Mao. If you followed along last year, you may remember him being the political figure who stole my heart over the Fall-Out Boy crew to his left. He won hands down. This guy is a true beacon of promise in Northern Uganda – dare I compare him to the next president of the Untied States? Yes. Obamao, some call him. …No they don’t. Not yet, anyway. (That’s the malaria pills talking.)
Widely known for his commitment to truth, fighting corruption, and his firm hand against those who don’t play by the rules (um, most Ugandan politicians = understatement, though probably just “politicians” more generally). Armed with a [yale] law degree, he’s got a biting sense of logic that can run circles around his wavering counterparts in other regions of the country. This can be seen as embodied in some of the metaphors and bits of insight he pulled out in our conversation:
Referring to the way individual NGO workers can exploit people in areas of mass instability, including Gulu up to a few years ago: “A doctor who is treating a patient in a coma treats him differently than he does a patient in a waking state. Well, we are out of the coma. The doctor must now ask us how we feel: ‘where does it hurt?’ You can’t just come with some predetermined medicine box.”
“Africa is not a dumping ground. We may not have money, but we have dignity. We are poor, but we are not stupid.”
“Why do foreigners lower the bar in Africa? You change standards from your homeland. Some people thing ‘anything goes’ in Africa. But that is not in Gulu while I’m around. At least there is one corner of African with these high standards.”
*swoons*
Equally as important, I was recently shocked by a television phenomenon over here and I need you to validate my disbelief. While I was sitting in a local restaurant, a “gameshow” popped onto the television. Turns out it was a version of a jumble word puzzle where people have to call in to guess what the scrambled word is. There’s a young 20’s female hostess prompting people to call in and giving them hints as to what the letters could spell.
To give you a clearer picture of what we were dealing with, the words (in this order) were: BLUE, CHAIR, FLOWER. One of the hints for “chair”: “sometimes you sit in them!”… sometimes? And for “flower”: “a rose is an example, and a daisy, too!”
It was truly painful:
“I know you know! You just want to call in right now, don’t you? You can win 120,000 shillings if you just call! *points directly into camera* You, you pick up the phone and call. Remember, the letters are mixed up right now: this is not the word. You put them together to make a new word! Tell me, what word can you make with these letters? I see a B, L, E, U. What can you make with that? *dances to the music MAD awkwardly.* It’s not red, white, orange, or green! So what is it? Can you tell me? You just pick up that phone and give me a little call, I can’t wait! *points at flashing numbers on screen* Uganda, yeah!”
Between these three words, and entirely uninterrupted, the program lasted the entire 45 minutes I was in the restaurant.
Don’t write this off by assuming Ugandans are ridiculously illiterate or something. I was in a room with 6 or 7 and all of them got it within absolute max 10 seconds. So what is this, I ask you? My pupils actually dilated to the shape of “W.T.F.” as I looked around the room, looking for someone to meet me halfway. No one else thought it was ludicrous; they just waited patiently for the phantom caller that was never to come. It was sort of poetic. I paid and left, awed and confused by yet another one of Uganda’s natural mysteries.
*
Without further delay, I present to you: A HAIRCUT IN UGANDA
AKA
“The Great Battle of Summer 2008,”
“The Last Resort,”
“What dignity?,”
and the winning, most comprehensive tag line (is that the word?):
“Whoops!”
That’s right, kids, I took the plunge. Don’t judge me. This is not my muzungu vanity getting the best of me. I’m really not trying to impress anyone here (though of course I could use more pre-pubescent suitors – who couldn’t?). This was a public service.
Days before I was to leave Gulu, I got the call. Apparently some of the East African political leaders were starting to get nervous, worried the power-hungry beast on my head was going to start impinging upon the sovereignty of their respective countries. I guess the embassy started to receive complaints. Not one for confrontation, I agreed to do what had to be done. (You can actually just keep “My Sacrifice” on loop for the next few entries as background music.)
You get the picture. Out of control. One deep breath later, a guesthouse worker had taken me by the hand and was leading me to that fateful barbershop, already consoling me. “Either way, I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few weeks.” Great.
Skeptical but really with no expectations whatsoever, I stepped through the Mardi Gras beads and into the barber chair in a room very much reminiscent of something out of the 70s. The man grabbed the buzzer/clippers (what is it called? The thing that is *not* the scissors?) and went to town. There was NO, I repeat, NO use of scissors at all during this process. I was prepared for anything – almost. I was not prepared for a good haircut.
A good haircut in Africa = worth at least 20% of this blog entry, hands down. I figure if I can get groomed in Uganda, I can pretty much stay here forever. Right? Isn’t that the rule?
Lastly, in order to continue my stream of unfulfilled words and empty promises, I have yet to “compile those gems of wisdom” I’ve talked about. I mean, with all this WILD AND CRAZY Kitgum activity, can you blame me? Sorry, I know you’re at the edge of your seat over there. Just grab a slab of tofu and take it easy for a while. Seriously. Grab the tofu for me. NO.MORE.BEANS.HELP.ME.
Bald,
Rob
Kitgum has called, and I have eagerly answered, anxious to see more of the country and get a different community perspective on issues of forgiveness and justice. I didn’t get a chance to venture very far beyond Gulu last year, so even the prospect of a three-hour bus ride to the northeast triggered my wanderlust.
I made my way to the bus park, soothed by the sound of “Shut Up and Drive” and “Candy Shop” (I’m serious). I think they’ve seen our videos. Sitting in row meant for 4 people at the absolute maximum, I was far from surprised when people started being packed in 5 and 6 to a row. With my row already packed well beyond capacity, the conductors started herding yet another woman-and-baby duo toward the back. I patted my lap welcomingly. She didn’t call my bluff.
Surprised that the bus had taken off before waiting for three hours, I was in a pretty good mood as we got underway. Such a good mood, in fact, that I opted to ignore my neighbor who seemed to be playing footsies with me. Cultural relativism, I kept repeating to myself, sure he was just trying to be welcoming in his own way. Rationalization got more difficult, however, when I started to feel his foot nibble my leg hairs. My infallible logic took root (you can thank my liberal education for this one): feet cannot nibble. My neighbor may or may not have had a similar thought, because just then, as if out of a movie, we both turned and looked each other in the eye before simultaneously looking down. The goat craned its neck backwards, glaring back up at us on cue. I think he even blinked once.
Friends, THERE WAS NO GOAT THERE BEFORE. IT WAS NOT THERE, I SAY. Ugandan mystery #159. Not that I minded the company. 5’s a crowd, but 6 is a rave. The goat and I got some glow sticks and a techno Rihanna “Umbrella” remix going soon after that. Time flies when you’re club hopping on a mini-bus, and suddenly I was in Kitgum.
Ah yes, Kitgum:
No power? No fuel for generators? No running water? No problem.
(…3 days later…)
Okay, maybe a little problem.
(…4 more days later…)
S.O.S.
If the promise of power, internet, and running water hadn’t been there before my arrival here, I would have been fine. Emotionally prepped, you know? And research-ily prepped, too, ready to dig in and transcribe everything by hand onto paper instead of typed neatly into a little Word document. As fate would have it, I’ve spent a lot of time this week ______. (Let’s make this a Mad-Libs, I’ve got nothing).
Feels like home, though. I attribute this mostly to the “White Christmas” medley that wakes me up each morning. Though it may also have to do with the comforting sliver of light that peeks through my steel-shut windows at dawn.
My first few days in town were spent finding my feet, contacting various NGOs and exploring the surroundings like a true foreigner. The terrain is more varied in Kitgum, and I managed to find a huge hill/quasi-mountain to wander up. While trying to avoid racist/culture-ist(?) remarks, I seriously climbed Pride Rock from Lion King. Is that offensive? I’m just trying to give you a mental image here, and SERIOUSLY, that is where I was.
Perched at the top, I gazed out toward the mountains in the distance. Locals crept by the path behind me, questionable murmurs wondering what the stationary mono was doing. I guess I lost track of time. I was struck by the realization that I am actually here. Standing on a Kitgum hilltop and looking out toward the Sudanese mountains in the distance, I am able to capture what was formerly (formerly?) an area of immense human suffering, all in my line of vision. Apparently I’m only 50-100km away from the Sudanese border (no one here *really* knows). Wild.
It was during this excursion that I came across a little stick-and-mud booth set up on the side of the road. I curiously approached, a little wary of the incessant “clicking” noise I heard within, and peered over the edge of the counter. Patrick looked up from his preoccupation with something in front of him and jovially introduced himself. The woman nursing a baby in the corner nodded my way as well. “What do you do here, Patrick?” I asked.
“Let me show you,” he proposed, loading the typewriter with a fresh sheet of paper and banging away. Wow, I thought, he really can type! I’ve been through a lot of NGO offices here, but even those Ugandans who do use two hands have to plunk each key with a deliberate effort. Patrick was going for it, and without Word’s “autocorrect” to cover his butt, he was doing just fine. “Patrick, that’s really impressive! When did you learn?”
“I recently sort of had to, Rohbet,” he replied, looking up from his work and pointing over his right shoulder toward the back wall.
The woman in the corner shifted slightly to her left, revealing two large wooden crutches tucked neatly behind her. Of course. Of course there were crutches.
“Ever since that happened, I've had no other way to get by. I needed to learn to use what I have.”
I didn’t think it important to find out what “that” was, choosing instead to admire his resilience and resourcefulness even without knowing the likely-grim details of what led him to his new state. He smiled and turned back to his typing, eager to prove himself to me. He didn’t need to.
“Maybe if you need anything typed, you can come back,” he said. “You bet, Patrick,” I said, shaking his newly-trained hand and walking away to the sound of the steady “click” of his impassioned determination behind me.
*
The rest of my Kitgum stay has been happily uneventful, for the most part. Motorcycle bodabodas have been exchanged for passenger-bicycles, hot running water has been replaced with a distinct lack of bathing (just try and judge me). The torrential downpours define this area during the wet season, and each night is met with winds ripping through tiny guesthouses and phenomenal thunder and lightning making a stage of the sky every other split second.
Beyond the water-dearth, these past two weeks have been especially fortunate for me, as I got to witness TWO (2) cleansing ceremonies in the local communities. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but how many muzungus can claim they’ve seen two local cleansing ceremonies? *head inflates* Here’s a little recap if you’re at all interested in how things work around here:
The first one, called “tumu cere” or “cleaning a place,” took place in a community 20 km from the border of Sudan. I drove up with a local NGO to the very northern tip of the country, co-passenger with an out-of-control goat bent on soiling my feet and legit everything else in the van. I wasn’t quick to judge; I’d be sort of all over the place, too, if I were a soon-to-be sacrifice. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We showed up at a primary school deep in the rural “Bush,” or Ugandan grassland wilderness. Apparently, this was the site of a huge massacre of rebels, government soldiers, and civilians (children) alike during the war. As people begin to move out of the Camps and back to their ancestral lands, there is a widespread fear about the evil/restless spirits who still inhabit such places of mass atrocity and threaten to drive returnees mad without proper ceremonial rituals having taken place.
Bent on reclaiming their land, a group of 40 elders from the local clans got together and agreed to pursue this cleansing ritual in order to appease these otherwise vengeance-seeking ghosts. They called up the NGO, which provided the otherwise unaffordable goat for the ceremony. Upon arrival, we marched deep into the Bush one-by-one, a lengthy line of respected local elders followed by an ecstatic, clumsy muzungu with an extra memory chip for his digital camera. I’d say we were a “motley” crew but I can’t help but think my presence alone doesn’t warrant the use of “motley.” So I won’t say anything.
Making our way into a small clearing and allegedly the site of the most brutal murders in the area, we clustered around the few key figures who were to lead the ceremony. They said a few prayers, welcoming the spirits of their respective ancestors to watch over the ritual and bless the course of events. Shortly after, and amidst my not-so-subtle heart palpitations, they slaughtered the goat (note: I AM VEG FOR LIFE) and took a few feathers from a small chick for good measure.
The elders took the waste product from the intestines of the goat, or the “wee,” and threw it in all directions around the clearing so as to pacify the spirits (what spirit doesn’t like wee?). They also “cooked” the meat right there in a small makeshift fireplace over the course of 3 minutes before the key leaders made an offering to the same spirits and ate some themselves to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. Note that they ate the *entire* goat; nothing went to waste.
All of this done, the local people are free to return to the area without fear of spiritual possession or imminent madness. While speaking with a number of locals after the ceremony, they assured me that all would be well now upon returning. It was SO interesting to engage in conversation with people who have such a distinctly different perspective on life and meaning than anyone I’ve come across before, and I’m excited to know that this sort of variety is out there.
Then, just a few days ago, I witnessed another one called “nyonno tong gweno,” or literally “stepping on an egg.” This is different in that it is used to purify a person after he or she has been away from the community for a significant period of time and possibly contracted some evil energy throughout the travels. Specifically relevant in the case of returning, formerly abducted ex-combatants.
I sat in the car next to one such person, a 22-year-old (I’m 21) who was abducted at age 14 and spent no less than 8 years in the Bush before escaping. Of course, he witnessed/was forced to commit countless namely atrocities throughout this time. I looked over at him during the unbearably bumpy car ride, not sympathetically or with pity, necessarily, but as an equal. As another human being who has been forced into things far darker than many of us will ever see. He is finally returning to his home, his family, after 8 years in captivity and another 6 months in a rehabilitation center in Kitgum.
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get back home, John?” I question, really having no idea what could be foremost on his mind. The women in the car translate, and his gentle answer leads to an unexpected eruption of laughter.
“Food,” John tells us. Fair enough. If I were gone for 8 years, you better believe I’d be first in line for mom’s soy cheese pizza. (I’m home in 25 days, mom.)
We make it to his home shortly after, sending out the alarm and witnessing the rest of his family greet him for the first time in many years. His whole extended family of at least 15 people showed up, but I was understandably most struck by the reaction of his mother. Tears in her eyes, she threw her arms up over her head exclaiming, “I never thought we’d see you again!” She made her way around the NGO crew, ending with me. Her words implied her belief that I had something to do with this glorious homecoming.
“Thank you! Thank you very, very much… very much!”
Never before have I heard those words as heartfelt as I did that day. While I didn’t really deserve this praise, I was happy to witness her raw emotion nonetheless.
Shortly after, we gathered the family together on the little dirt path a few meters from the hut for the ceremony. Low and behold, it was really just what it sounds like – stepping on an egg. A few blades of grass were cut, thrown toward the setting sun to ward off evil spirit, and John stepped on the egg. That was sort of that. An egg, because it has no mouth, is meant to represent the purity of life and the acceptance of a person back into his or her homestead. While seemingly small, this act symbolizes a repossession of innocence and a pact amongst the family members to work together to mend any fractures within the greater societal fabric as a result of John’s deeds with the rebel army.
His family welcomed him back into their home, prepared to help him deal with any dark remnants of his past that have the potential to resurface in the form of PTSD, at the very least. Ready to work with the hand they’d been dealt, his family members bound together to overcome any future troubles and were set on getting back to the way “things used to be.”
I waved goodbye and headed back down the path, though not without a few quick close-ups of the cracked egg. Do we have eggs in the West? Should we?
*
To retrace just a little bit, I’ve got some Gulu-gossip:
Finally, FINALLY I had my meeting with Gulu’s Chairman Mao. If you followed along last year, you may remember him being the political figure who stole my heart over the Fall-Out Boy crew to his left. He won hands down. This guy is a true beacon of promise in Northern Uganda – dare I compare him to the next president of the Untied States? Yes. Obamao, some call him. …No they don’t. Not yet, anyway. (That’s the malaria pills talking.)
Widely known for his commitment to truth, fighting corruption, and his firm hand against those who don’t play by the rules (um, most Ugandan politicians = understatement, though probably just “politicians” more generally). Armed with a [yale] law degree, he’s got a biting sense of logic that can run circles around his wavering counterparts in other regions of the country. This can be seen as embodied in some of the metaphors and bits of insight he pulled out in our conversation:
Referring to the way individual NGO workers can exploit people in areas of mass instability, including Gulu up to a few years ago: “A doctor who is treating a patient in a coma treats him differently than he does a patient in a waking state. Well, we are out of the coma. The doctor must now ask us how we feel: ‘where does it hurt?’ You can’t just come with some predetermined medicine box.”
“Africa is not a dumping ground. We may not have money, but we have dignity. We are poor, but we are not stupid.”
“Why do foreigners lower the bar in Africa? You change standards from your homeland. Some people thing ‘anything goes’ in Africa. But that is not in Gulu while I’m around. At least there is one corner of African with these high standards.”
*swoons*
Equally as important, I was recently shocked by a television phenomenon over here and I need you to validate my disbelief. While I was sitting in a local restaurant, a “gameshow” popped onto the television. Turns out it was a version of a jumble word puzzle where people have to call in to guess what the scrambled word is. There’s a young 20’s female hostess prompting people to call in and giving them hints as to what the letters could spell.
To give you a clearer picture of what we were dealing with, the words (in this order) were: BLUE, CHAIR, FLOWER. One of the hints for “chair”: “sometimes you sit in them!”… sometimes? And for “flower”: “a rose is an example, and a daisy, too!”
It was truly painful:
“I know you know! You just want to call in right now, don’t you? You can win 120,000 shillings if you just call! *points directly into camera* You, you pick up the phone and call. Remember, the letters are mixed up right now: this is not the word. You put them together to make a new word! Tell me, what word can you make with these letters? I see a B, L, E, U. What can you make with that? *dances to the music MAD awkwardly.* It’s not red, white, orange, or green! So what is it? Can you tell me? You just pick up that phone and give me a little call, I can’t wait! *points at flashing numbers on screen* Uganda, yeah!”
Between these three words, and entirely uninterrupted, the program lasted the entire 45 minutes I was in the restaurant.
Don’t write this off by assuming Ugandans are ridiculously illiterate or something. I was in a room with 6 or 7 and all of them got it within absolute max 10 seconds. So what is this, I ask you? My pupils actually dilated to the shape of “W.T.F.” as I looked around the room, looking for someone to meet me halfway. No one else thought it was ludicrous; they just waited patiently for the phantom caller that was never to come. It was sort of poetic. I paid and left, awed and confused by yet another one of Uganda’s natural mysteries.
*
Without further delay, I present to you: A HAIRCUT IN UGANDA
AKA
“The Great Battle of Summer 2008,”
“The Last Resort,”
“What dignity?,”
and the winning, most comprehensive tag line (is that the word?):
“Whoops!”
That’s right, kids, I took the plunge. Don’t judge me. This is not my muzungu vanity getting the best of me. I’m really not trying to impress anyone here (though of course I could use more pre-pubescent suitors – who couldn’t?). This was a public service.
Days before I was to leave Gulu, I got the call. Apparently some of the East African political leaders were starting to get nervous, worried the power-hungry beast on my head was going to start impinging upon the sovereignty of their respective countries. I guess the embassy started to receive complaints. Not one for confrontation, I agreed to do what had to be done. (You can actually just keep “My Sacrifice” on loop for the next few entries as background music.)
You get the picture. Out of control. One deep breath later, a guesthouse worker had taken me by the hand and was leading me to that fateful barbershop, already consoling me. “Either way, I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few weeks.” Great.
Skeptical but really with no expectations whatsoever, I stepped through the Mardi Gras beads and into the barber chair in a room very much reminiscent of something out of the 70s. The man grabbed the buzzer/clippers (what is it called? The thing that is *not* the scissors?) and went to town. There was NO, I repeat, NO use of scissors at all during this process. I was prepared for anything – almost. I was not prepared for a good haircut.
A good haircut in Africa = worth at least 20% of this blog entry, hands down. I figure if I can get groomed in Uganda, I can pretty much stay here forever. Right? Isn’t that the rule?
Lastly, in order to continue my stream of unfulfilled words and empty promises, I have yet to “compile those gems of wisdom” I’ve talked about. I mean, with all this WILD AND CRAZY Kitgum activity, can you blame me? Sorry, I know you’re at the edge of your seat over there. Just grab a slab of tofu and take it easy for a while. Seriously. Grab the tofu for me. NO.MORE.BEANS.HELP.ME.
Bald,
Rob
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