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