Way back before I wrote anything down about Africa, I wanted to write a blog about matches. Scintillating, I know. Admittedly, my descriptions below may not entice and compel any readers as my build up will attempt to promise. However, I think matches for me became a symbol of my crazy mixed up life in Africa. So often, everyday at least once a day, I have a completely insane yet minute and ordinary experience that reminds me that I'm a long way from my originally perceived version of home.
Africa is chaotic and communal. It is cacophony and color. It is also careless and catastrophe. Obvious images capture some of it: half naked ladies shaking their rump shakers with defying agility and speed. There's also the broken-down truck on the side of the road crazily, insanely packed to the hilt with human beings, chickens and mattresses making the impossible but commonplace journey from Gulu to Juba...not even a bandanna to keep the crippling dust from seeping into every orifice. Or of course, the perennial flies in the eyes malnourished but adorable babies.
These images really are a part of the story here. And they remain affecting. Just the other day I called my mom distraught from meeting a young boy in Atiak trading post with a massively distended belly filled with worms and neglect. I may be struggling with cynicism at the moment, but this child and the millions of ones just like him remind me quickly to reel it in and remember why I'm here.
These images define my experience, but it's the little indescribable events that I wish I could bring to life for those not here, or even for those who've come and know exactly what I mean.
Krishna matches come in old fashioned boxes brightly colored with an image either of an infant goddess or a strange blond haired, pink skinned cherub called "Baby Boy" on them. Matches: brightly colored boxes with children on them...
They are wax matches and I have no idea if that contributes to the extraordinary range of reactions one receives when striking the box. All I know is that there is a wide yet consistent variety of reactions that has made lighting my stove or candles an event.
Some include:
The Ordinary Light: strike the match, light the stove. Rare. Delightful.
The Shooting Star: As the match is struck, its lit head immediately ejects itself from the rest of the match and projects dramatically in a high arch and with impressive distance across the room.
The Rocket: Hayden pointed out this nuanced version of the shooting star. While the shooting star is elegant in it's descent, you can image that the rocket hurls its head in a straight, heat-seeking trajectory and anyone and anything in its path is singed.
The Kamikaze: Similar to the shooting star and the rocket, except that the whole match, stem and all, lights up in a well, mini explosion that compels one to drop it immediately or die.
The Dud: well, obviously, a match with no reaction at all...many of those
The Decap: one strike and the head of the match pops off, but there is no flame. A more dramatic dud.
Double trouble: two match sticks fused together by 1 head - very good for lighting candles outside as long as one does so quickly. A lot of heat comes from this sucker.
The Faux Dud: You think it's a dud so you stop paying attention to it until you realize that your hand or your table is on fire.
The Slow Burn: similar to the faux dud, except it lights, you use it, blow it out and disregard it only to realize with time that your hand or your table is on fire.
It's scary to think how much time I've taken to think about this and now write about it. But those who've experienced the Krishna match box know. These matches are a symbol or perhaps even a metaphor for life in Africa. They are chaotic, communal, color, cacophony, etc.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Why I'm thankful
In June I hit a wall. Everything about Gulu, Uganda, Africa was seriously irritating me. A lot. A lot A lot. Power outages seemed longer. Corruption seemed more deeply rooted. Internet and phone seemed more delayed. Expats seemed to be doing more harm. The world’s cutest kids seemed more annoying than cute. And I began working for one of the largest bureaucracies in the world. That last one really pushed me to the edge. While the others are largely beyond my control, I chose this box checking job.
Angry outbursts, meditation, holidays (really really nice holidays) didn’t work. I tried to appreciate the money I’m saving. Turns out I’m not motivated by money. “Jessica, you’re so non-profit” as Mary used to say. I was sleeping less and less, suffering from insufferable hayfever and headaches. My cynicism was bordering on racism. I’ve been thinking that I need to leave or Africa might quite literally kill me.
Burn out. It happens everywhere. For expats in Africa, I think burn out particularly plagues energetic and caring people. The big picture begins to seem hopeless. The small picture seems broken. Grasping at straws, expats on the verge of burn out break rules. I’ve found satisfaction in assisting individuals…buying a soccer ball for a cute kid, paying school fees, etc. Who cares about sustainability when you are trying to remember how to feel?! Unfortunately, most people who can stave burn out either do so by leaving or by switching off. The latter is very visible here. There’s lots of useless “20-year plus-ers” floating around this continent. Some are alcoholics. Some are pervs, dating Africans half their age and some are even racist. Many are employing a strategy that I describe with a borrowed phrase: “rope a dope.” In this context it means someone who no longer reacts strongly or even reacts at all to the cacophony of Africa. They dismiss the caring, energetic ones, because they know they’re leaving soon. The ropers take “hits”, like “why don’t you do anything?” or “why don’t you care?” They lean back deep into bureaucratic structures and easily shrug them off. Not quite as glamorous as Mohammed Ali’s victory. Did I mention I was struggling with cynicism?
Gradually I have been breaking down or somehow co-existing with the burn out wall. A steady mantra of self encouragement has helped. Watching my peace and justice projects begin has really helped. Understanding that this wall is part of my life has helped. Getting to the field and seeing for myself that there is less suffering and more hope has helped. Setting a date to leave has helped (aiming for December 2010.)
Most importantly, I’m remembering that the good thing about a 7 year relationship with Gulu is that I have good, local friends. This is a rarity for expats. I was reminded of the deep and meaningful connections I’ve made here this past Saturday when I hosted my 3rd Annual Thanksgiving Day Dinner in Gulu. I cooked for 49 people! Most who came were people I have known for years. I’m verklempt looking at pictures, because I see old friends, new babies, kids who doubled in size from last year and my dog scouring the compound for turkey scraps. I loved battling Samson over music selections. “Under no circumstance,” I told him, “can you play Michael Bolton or Celine Dion. I don’t care if they’re beloved in Africa. And Lil Wayne is not dinner music.” I loved presenting my one billion pack of crayons and markers to the one billion kids that were there. I loved that Hayden broke a sweat baking pies and peeling potatoes.
As thanksgiving does at home, this day truly helped me to pause and reflect gratefully for the friends and families that surround me in Gulu. It has deflected some of my burn out and I’m using the momentum of these warm feelings to appreciate rather than complain. I’ll also use it to stock up on the stuff I need to continue here in Gulu…at least until the 4th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner.
Angry outbursts, meditation, holidays (really really nice holidays) didn’t work. I tried to appreciate the money I’m saving. Turns out I’m not motivated by money. “Jessica, you’re so non-profit” as Mary used to say. I was sleeping less and less, suffering from insufferable hayfever and headaches. My cynicism was bordering on racism. I’ve been thinking that I need to leave or Africa might quite literally kill me.
Burn out. It happens everywhere. For expats in Africa, I think burn out particularly plagues energetic and caring people. The big picture begins to seem hopeless. The small picture seems broken. Grasping at straws, expats on the verge of burn out break rules. I’ve found satisfaction in assisting individuals…buying a soccer ball for a cute kid, paying school fees, etc. Who cares about sustainability when you are trying to remember how to feel?! Unfortunately, most people who can stave burn out either do so by leaving or by switching off. The latter is very visible here. There’s lots of useless “20-year plus-ers” floating around this continent. Some are alcoholics. Some are pervs, dating Africans half their age and some are even racist. Many are employing a strategy that I describe with a borrowed phrase: “rope a dope.” In this context it means someone who no longer reacts strongly or even reacts at all to the cacophony of Africa. They dismiss the caring, energetic ones, because they know they’re leaving soon. The ropers take “hits”, like “why don’t you do anything?” or “why don’t you care?” They lean back deep into bureaucratic structures and easily shrug them off. Not quite as glamorous as Mohammed Ali’s victory. Did I mention I was struggling with cynicism?
Gradually I have been breaking down or somehow co-existing with the burn out wall. A steady mantra of self encouragement has helped. Watching my peace and justice projects begin has really helped. Understanding that this wall is part of my life has helped. Getting to the field and seeing for myself that there is less suffering and more hope has helped. Setting a date to leave has helped (aiming for December 2010.)
Most importantly, I’m remembering that the good thing about a 7 year relationship with Gulu is that I have good, local friends. This is a rarity for expats. I was reminded of the deep and meaningful connections I’ve made here this past Saturday when I hosted my 3rd Annual Thanksgiving Day Dinner in Gulu. I cooked for 49 people! Most who came were people I have known for years. I’m verklempt looking at pictures, because I see old friends, new babies, kids who doubled in size from last year and my dog scouring the compound for turkey scraps. I loved battling Samson over music selections. “Under no circumstance,” I told him, “can you play Michael Bolton or Celine Dion. I don’t care if they’re beloved in Africa. And Lil Wayne is not dinner music.” I loved presenting my one billion pack of crayons and markers to the one billion kids that were there. I loved that Hayden broke a sweat baking pies and peeling potatoes.
As thanksgiving does at home, this day truly helped me to pause and reflect gratefully for the friends and families that surround me in Gulu. It has deflected some of my burn out and I’m using the momentum of these warm feelings to appreciate rather than complain. I’ll also use it to stock up on the stuff I need to continue here in Gulu…at least until the 4th Annual Thanksgiving Dinner.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Roads, where we're going we need roads
I feel like every entry I make could really be a 12 part series. Ex-pat life, do no harm, and today’s topic: roads. I suppose this is the nature of the blog. For me anyway, blogging is the the answer. It’s get a snapshot or nothing at all, because the great American novel or memoir ain’t gonna happen any time soon.
Roads in Africa are amazing. Physically, they are usually horrendous. In Uganda, there is a road that goes from the Nile River to Congo that is perfectly paved and it makes me weep when I’m on it, because it is such a rarity. Most roads, especially those where I live are a crazy bumpy calamity of potholes the size of your vehicle and pitiful scraps of colonial tarmac ceding almost entirely to marum. Marum is the other other paved road. It’s a fancy word for dirt. Admittedly it’s packed well and in some cases I prefer marum, because unlike the tarmac it’s been replaced more often than every 50 years. However, in dry season, which seems to be this entire year in Gulu, marum is a dusty nightmare. It reminds me of trying to drive in a dense fog, except fog doesn’t blow out my sinuses the way marum does. Since Gulu is more arid than the south and closer to its much more arid neighbor Sudan, dry and dusty desert winds are frequent. Only since moving to Gulu have I realized that the covered heads of many Arab people are as much about function as they are about religion. Conversely, when it rains, the road is washed away. What remains are nasty mud puddles that are impossible to avoid and threaten to ensnare your entire car like quick sand.
The physical condition is only part of the sport of traveling the roads of Africa. If you leave aside the danger of it, which I will do for only a moment, roadside life is so vibrant. There’s the livestock. Goats, goats and more goats line the streets or cross them. Chickens and cows too. The only time I have ever seen a Ugandan driver brake responsibly is when a cow is crossing. The driver yields only to cows and buses.
In addition to livestock, people line the streets. Life in Africa is lived on the side of the road. Each town you drive through is bursting with life. Rows and rows of shops line each trading center with everything for sale. From chickens and bush meat (some sort of unidentified large rodent) to furniture to spare car parts to mobile phone stores to coca cola distributors. Petty traders hawk everything to the vehicle passing through. You can buy whatever fresh produce is available. There are pineapples and mangoes in Luweero, pumpkins in Lacokacet, several different varieties of bananas – each variety located at a specific stop on the road: “gonja” in Bweyale, “matoke” in Bombo, etc. There’s a stop along the Kampala-Gulu road called Kafu that serves what I like to call dysentery on a stick, otherwise known as barbecue goat. They also serve a more ex-pat friendly roasted cassava and sometimes even fresh mushrooms, a rarity in Uganda. They have cold water and soda there. I’m not sure how they do it, because there is no sign of power for miles and miles. It’s entrepreneurial and adventurous and I never tire of watching the throngs of traders scamper quickly to our car to get the first, quick sale.
Apart from those selling are just those living life in Africa. Women, carrying babies on their backs, also carry impossibly large loads of firewood on their heads. Or they drift gracefully down the road on bikes with their long skirts flapping in the wind; apparently northern Uganda is one of the only places in all of Africa where women ride bikes. Little children struggle to carry a jerry can of water. Those lucky enough to have an adult sized bike (I’ve never seen a kid bike here) somehow manage to balance 50 lbs of water on a bike that they cannot even properly peddle. It’s amazing. Just yesterday I saw 3 children, ages perhaps 12, 7 and 3 carrying size appropriate water jugs: a jerry can, a half of jerry can and the three year old had an oil jug of about a gallon that he was somehow managing to carry. Have you ever tried to lift a jerry can of water? It takes herculean strength and yet most children here are tasked with it and carry it without complaint.
It’s glorious to travel up the road, taking in all of these sites and of course the beautiful country side. It’s glorious unless you stop and think about how freaking dangerous it is. Allan Rock said to me on his trip last year that he’d rather not take the honored front passenger seat. He commented that he’d like nothing more than to have no idea what was going on outside the vehicle, because he was convinced that an accident, involving any of the multitude of road side activities described above, was imminent.
And accidents abound. As I mentioned, drivers yield to cows and buses. Buses are lethal weapons on the road. They travel between 140-180 km/hour and they appear, as they hurl toward you, that they are literally coming apart at the seams. Countless fatal accidents on roads are caused by reckless buses careening down the road. Drivers in Uganda are a phenomenon too. They speed dangerously as well. I have to admit that I, albeit guiltily, allow my driver to speed on the Gulu-Kampala road, because I’m usually so ready to get to either location. It’s bad, especially if a goat or chicken or God forbid a three year old were to misstep. Tragically this happens too often. There exists in Uganda no road rage. None. Zip. I have seen every possible crazy move a driver could possibly make and neither the offender nor the offendee show any sign of concern, let alone anger. It’s weird. Although I guess not, considering that Ugandans are the nicest people on the planet.
Oh I forgot bodas. Again, an entire blog could be spent on bodas, our favorite guilty transport pleasure. For this blog I’ll contain it to one decision I have made that keeps me from having accident. When I first started driving in Uganda I made a rule, inspired by the 9 bijillion boda drivers on the road: Never, ever use your peripheral vision. If you do, you’re screwed because you get distracted by pretty bad driving and the rest of the road side carnival.
Allegedly there is a new project coming to northern Uganda to build roads and infrastructure. Ham Delilah. Let me suspend my disbelief and stave my cynicism for a moment and hope that road repairs are finally coming north. Now, if only they gave drivers licenses to goats, chickens and cows!
Roads in Africa are amazing. Physically, they are usually horrendous. In Uganda, there is a road that goes from the Nile River to Congo that is perfectly paved and it makes me weep when I’m on it, because it is such a rarity. Most roads, especially those where I live are a crazy bumpy calamity of potholes the size of your vehicle and pitiful scraps of colonial tarmac ceding almost entirely to marum. Marum is the other other paved road. It’s a fancy word for dirt. Admittedly it’s packed well and in some cases I prefer marum, because unlike the tarmac it’s been replaced more often than every 50 years. However, in dry season, which seems to be this entire year in Gulu, marum is a dusty nightmare. It reminds me of trying to drive in a dense fog, except fog doesn’t blow out my sinuses the way marum does. Since Gulu is more arid than the south and closer to its much more arid neighbor Sudan, dry and dusty desert winds are frequent. Only since moving to Gulu have I realized that the covered heads of many Arab people are as much about function as they are about religion. Conversely, when it rains, the road is washed away. What remains are nasty mud puddles that are impossible to avoid and threaten to ensnare your entire car like quick sand.
The physical condition is only part of the sport of traveling the roads of Africa. If you leave aside the danger of it, which I will do for only a moment, roadside life is so vibrant. There’s the livestock. Goats, goats and more goats line the streets or cross them. Chickens and cows too. The only time I have ever seen a Ugandan driver brake responsibly is when a cow is crossing. The driver yields only to cows and buses.
In addition to livestock, people line the streets. Life in Africa is lived on the side of the road. Each town you drive through is bursting with life. Rows and rows of shops line each trading center with everything for sale. From chickens and bush meat (some sort of unidentified large rodent) to furniture to spare car parts to mobile phone stores to coca cola distributors. Petty traders hawk everything to the vehicle passing through. You can buy whatever fresh produce is available. There are pineapples and mangoes in Luweero, pumpkins in Lacokacet, several different varieties of bananas – each variety located at a specific stop on the road: “gonja” in Bweyale, “matoke” in Bombo, etc. There’s a stop along the Kampala-Gulu road called Kafu that serves what I like to call dysentery on a stick, otherwise known as barbecue goat. They also serve a more ex-pat friendly roasted cassava and sometimes even fresh mushrooms, a rarity in Uganda. They have cold water and soda there. I’m not sure how they do it, because there is no sign of power for miles and miles. It’s entrepreneurial and adventurous and I never tire of watching the throngs of traders scamper quickly to our car to get the first, quick sale.
Apart from those selling are just those living life in Africa. Women, carrying babies on their backs, also carry impossibly large loads of firewood on their heads. Or they drift gracefully down the road on bikes with their long skirts flapping in the wind; apparently northern Uganda is one of the only places in all of Africa where women ride bikes. Little children struggle to carry a jerry can of water. Those lucky enough to have an adult sized bike (I’ve never seen a kid bike here) somehow manage to balance 50 lbs of water on a bike that they cannot even properly peddle. It’s amazing. Just yesterday I saw 3 children, ages perhaps 12, 7 and 3 carrying size appropriate water jugs: a jerry can, a half of jerry can and the three year old had an oil jug of about a gallon that he was somehow managing to carry. Have you ever tried to lift a jerry can of water? It takes herculean strength and yet most children here are tasked with it and carry it without complaint.
It’s glorious to travel up the road, taking in all of these sites and of course the beautiful country side. It’s glorious unless you stop and think about how freaking dangerous it is. Allan Rock said to me on his trip last year that he’d rather not take the honored front passenger seat. He commented that he’d like nothing more than to have no idea what was going on outside the vehicle, because he was convinced that an accident, involving any of the multitude of road side activities described above, was imminent.
And accidents abound. As I mentioned, drivers yield to cows and buses. Buses are lethal weapons on the road. They travel between 140-180 km/hour and they appear, as they hurl toward you, that they are literally coming apart at the seams. Countless fatal accidents on roads are caused by reckless buses careening down the road. Drivers in Uganda are a phenomenon too. They speed dangerously as well. I have to admit that I, albeit guiltily, allow my driver to speed on the Gulu-Kampala road, because I’m usually so ready to get to either location. It’s bad, especially if a goat or chicken or God forbid a three year old were to misstep. Tragically this happens too often. There exists in Uganda no road rage. None. Zip. I have seen every possible crazy move a driver could possibly make and neither the offender nor the offendee show any sign of concern, let alone anger. It’s weird. Although I guess not, considering that Ugandans are the nicest people on the planet.
Oh I forgot bodas. Again, an entire blog could be spent on bodas, our favorite guilty transport pleasure. For this blog I’ll contain it to one decision I have made that keeps me from having accident. When I first started driving in Uganda I made a rule, inspired by the 9 bijillion boda drivers on the road: Never, ever use your peripheral vision. If you do, you’re screwed because you get distracted by pretty bad driving and the rest of the road side carnival.
Allegedly there is a new project coming to northern Uganda to build roads and infrastructure. Ham Delilah. Let me suspend my disbelief and stave my cynicism for a moment and hope that road repairs are finally coming north. Now, if only they gave drivers licenses to goats, chickens and cows!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Turkey Trot
Well it’s that time of year again: the 3rd annual Thanksgiving in Gulu. The tradition is virtually the same as the US: turkey, stuffing, families. However, as any ex-pat knows, the traditions and comforts of home always need varying degrees of adaptation. For example, my thanksgiving happens on the Saturday after the traditional Thursday for the obvious reason that outside of the US, people work on Thursday. It still pains me though. When I was living in Ireland, I tried to keep it on Thursday, but it was too difficult. I had to work, and people came late after work and couldn’t stay long. Their energy was already expended on the day, unlike in the US where all energy, emotion and activity is focused on the bird. So I shifted to Saturday and discovered it’s actually easier on me and people can focus on the big event.
The other alternations revolve around food. There are the usual ingredient scarcity challenges. For example, cranberries are non-existent, as well as most dairy products. You can get pumpkins though. The biggest culinary challenge is the turkey. The whole reason why I’m writing a week early is because yesterday I bought my turkey…and it wasn’t from the freezer section of the supermarket. Or even from the supermarket. Or a market. I receive a call from my friend Jennifer saying that she’d scoured Gulu and finally located a turkey and wanted to bring him to my house. I panicked, not for lack of fridge space, but because there was no way my dog was going to tolerate a live turkey strutting around the backyard.
I remember when I was living in Ireland. I thought it was so thrilling that I had to go to an actual butcher rather than a supermarket to buy a turkey and I remember calling my mom in hysterics because the butcher wanted to know if I wanted it oven ready or not (not equaling feathers.) As per usual Africa takes it to the next level or 12. I’ve actually got to find a random person raising turkeys somewhere, buy it and keep it alive until the big day. Jennifer, Hayden and I threw the thing in my backseat and set off to buy turkey feed, which apparently is ground up maize husks.
Last year in Gulu I was so traumatized by having to meet my turkey. I couldn’t face the idea of looking after it. Every time it cried in my garage my stomach lurched at the thought of eating it. While I did garner the nerve to record Emily’s slaughtering process (man, she can get that thing beheaded and plucked in 5 minutes), in the end, I couldn’t eat it. Year 2 in Africa is a whole different ball game. This year, I’m going Kobe-style. I want this bird taken care of. Forget corn husks, I want this puppy milk fed. I want him fattened up so that he’s good eatin’.
Jennifer agreed to house the turkey. I made her swear up and down that she’d feed him constantly, pet him, bathe and protect him from the rain (hey, I’ve heard turkeys can drown in the rain from looking up and forgetting to look down….) Jennifer just rang me about an hour ago to inform me that she had transported the turkey to a more hospitable environment. She sent it to Veronique’s compound. The turkey can now roam free – in her compound he was kept tied up. The other good news was that at Veronique’s house, Jennifer was just next door working at her shop and she can now look in on him several times a day.
Thank goodness. This turkey has a big job next week and I need everyone on the turkey team to bring their A game.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Black Gold, Texas Tea
Well, it’s official, I’ve sold out. I just hosted a meeting with an oil company in a 5 star safari lodge. Let me try to explain. Oil has been discovered in billion dollar amounts in Uganda and this should mean good news, however, in a developing country the contrary is usually true. The meeting I hosted was a dialogue session between the one of the oil companies and local leaders from the community where the oil has been discovered in northern Uganda. I file this exercise under the Quaker testimony of “seeing God in everyone.” We used this one to talk ourselves and others into meeting Ahmedinejad a few years ago.
I’m truly hoping it’s not too late for oil to be a good thing for Uganda. This belief goes against most of the rumors permeating the country. Rumors that leaders have their fortunes locked in. Rumors that oil profits have already been carved up between the Ugandan elites. Rumors that very powerful politicians in the north and all over the country have been able to claim ancestral lands coincidently where the oil has been discovered. This belief goes against the grain of trends of oil discovery across Africa and across the world. Lack of transparency, poor communication and investment in local communities, damage to the environment are at the top of a long list of concerns related to oil discovery.
Hold please.
Sorry, the oil tycoon just revealed the trading symbol of the oil company on the London Stock Exchange, had to write it down. Hey, I’m no dummy, I’ve been writing down the estimates. Once they get those 2 billion barrels flowing, that stock’s gonna surge. Thanks for the tip! [email me if you want to know ;)]
Ahem, as I was saying, we have to give it a try. By hosting this meeting, the company and the central government have started talking with the communities where the oil has been found. The jargon in the oil biz is seeking the “social license [of local communities] to operate.” The idea is that the bottom line profits (did I just write about bottom line profits?) will improve if the community is supportive of the development project. In the peace world (which has probably rejected me by now) we call it “conflict sensitive approaches to development.”
And it’s not too late in Uganda. The odds are stacked against a positively prosperous oil discovery. For example, there are elections in 2011 that the population is already worried about. These elections will take place before oil production begins and will most likely herald in an, albeit bumpy, victory for the current President. But it’s early days in the oil discovery world. Without production, profits have not yet been pilfered. So maybe dialogue can help.
A colleague told me a story of some villagers in the area who approached the oil trucks in Murchison national safari park with a bunch of empty jeri cans. They had come to collect the old from their land. I picture some mutation of a WFP food distribution site with sacks of corn meal replaced by oozing black oil. The community has no idea how oil works. I have no idea how oil works save references to the Beverly Hillbillies and James Dean’s Giant. Basic information campaigns in the local communities about oil could go a long way to quell rumors and fears. Hosting meetings like the one today will also help. Literally every politician, including opposition leaders was there and they were like giddy school children when we ended the meeting and finally reached the site where drilling was happening. They learned that the Ministry of Energy was drafting a bill that would include, among other things, a proposal for revenue sharing with local communities. These types of meetings will boost people’s knowledge, boost their confidence and boost their access to entrée points for advocacy and informed pressure on the government to cater to their needs. It could also help oil companies and central government get out ahead of the challenges and mistakes made of other oil rich nations, like avoiding the disastrous mistakes made by oil business in Nigeria.
So at least at this stage I try to remain positive. I believe there is an opportunity, a small one, to contribute to making this discovery less of an occasion for panic and maybe just maybe an occasion for celebration. I’m not holding my breath, but I’ll take small chances that come my way to try to make oil a good thing for Uganda. Of course today’s 5 star safari location doesn’t hurt. (I got some incredible shots of an old giraffe chilling in front of an enormous rain cloud about to burst on the way to the hotel.)
I’m truly hoping it’s not too late for oil to be a good thing for Uganda. This belief goes against most of the rumors permeating the country. Rumors that leaders have their fortunes locked in. Rumors that oil profits have already been carved up between the Ugandan elites. Rumors that very powerful politicians in the north and all over the country have been able to claim ancestral lands coincidently where the oil has been discovered. This belief goes against the grain of trends of oil discovery across Africa and across the world. Lack of transparency, poor communication and investment in local communities, damage to the environment are at the top of a long list of concerns related to oil discovery.
Hold please.
Sorry, the oil tycoon just revealed the trading symbol of the oil company on the London Stock Exchange, had to write it down. Hey, I’m no dummy, I’ve been writing down the estimates. Once they get those 2 billion barrels flowing, that stock’s gonna surge. Thanks for the tip! [email me if you want to know ;)]
Ahem, as I was saying, we have to give it a try. By hosting this meeting, the company and the central government have started talking with the communities where the oil has been found. The jargon in the oil biz is seeking the “social license [of local communities] to operate.” The idea is that the bottom line profits (did I just write about bottom line profits?) will improve if the community is supportive of the development project. In the peace world (which has probably rejected me by now) we call it “conflict sensitive approaches to development.”
And it’s not too late in Uganda. The odds are stacked against a positively prosperous oil discovery. For example, there are elections in 2011 that the population is already worried about. These elections will take place before oil production begins and will most likely herald in an, albeit bumpy, victory for the current President. But it’s early days in the oil discovery world. Without production, profits have not yet been pilfered. So maybe dialogue can help.
A colleague told me a story of some villagers in the area who approached the oil trucks in Murchison national safari park with a bunch of empty jeri cans. They had come to collect the old from their land. I picture some mutation of a WFP food distribution site with sacks of corn meal replaced by oozing black oil. The community has no idea how oil works. I have no idea how oil works save references to the Beverly Hillbillies and James Dean’s Giant. Basic information campaigns in the local communities about oil could go a long way to quell rumors and fears. Hosting meetings like the one today will also help. Literally every politician, including opposition leaders was there and they were like giddy school children when we ended the meeting and finally reached the site where drilling was happening. They learned that the Ministry of Energy was drafting a bill that would include, among other things, a proposal for revenue sharing with local communities. These types of meetings will boost people’s knowledge, boost their confidence and boost their access to entrée points for advocacy and informed pressure on the government to cater to their needs. It could also help oil companies and central government get out ahead of the challenges and mistakes made of other oil rich nations, like avoiding the disastrous mistakes made by oil business in Nigeria.
So at least at this stage I try to remain positive. I believe there is an opportunity, a small one, to contribute to making this discovery less of an occasion for panic and maybe just maybe an occasion for celebration. I’m not holding my breath, but I’ll take small chances that come my way to try to make oil a good thing for Uganda. Of course today’s 5 star safari location doesn’t hurt. (I got some incredible shots of an old giraffe chilling in front of an enormous rain cloud about to burst on the way to the hotel.)
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Expat, dude
My expat guilt has evolved over these last two and a half years in Gulu. I’ve run the gambit. From extreme guilt and self-flagellation about pampering myself with ex-pat niceties such as cheese and gin-soaked dance parties to frustration and resentment of being far away from home and hitting countless cultural loggerheads. Just try to explain to someone here what “alone time” is…it’s not possible! Rather than jam my expat guilt into this one blog, I think I’ll tell an expat scene story now and revisit expat guilt on a regular basis.
So last weekend Johnny G, whose favorite word is “dude,” had a barbeque. The whole of the Gulu expat scene was there: the grumbling thirty-somethings – jaded and torn about being stuck in the middle of nowhere, but trying to justify it because of the good money (ahem, yours truly) and the silly twenty-somethings, all happy to be volunteering in Africa and making out with each other. Each group is peppered with Americans and Europeans in mostly equal parts. Miss a week of expat parties and the faces change, but the characters are perennial. The only expat not represented was the elusive bible-basher. These are usually transient expats that come to build a church or save heathens or whatever it is they do. That’s harsh, I know, especially since I have enjoyed working for faith-based organizations. However, I cannot condone evangelism. It’s just not right.
Anyway, Johnny G’s invite said: “Croquet starts at 4pm. I have 15 kilos of pork and I’m slaughtering a turkey. Dare you to bring more!” Ok Johnny G. I’m there. I arrive to an already packed house. The twenty-somethings had just finished a game of drunken angry croquet, while the thirty-somethings were dithering about with Johnny’s hootchie mama wait staff organizing the dinner. The hootchies were scantily clad and hacking away at turkey gizzards, while I stood idle but anxious and a thirty-something vegetarian friend of mine tried to edge her curried pumpkin pasta onto the meat-soaked menu. I shouldn’t diss the pumpkin curry, because when dinner was ready, it was the first to go!
After dinner, we start the dance party. Gulu and Uganda have its own sound track that varies between Akon, Rhianna, Gulu Boys and Kenny Rogers. This party was no different. We were all bumping and grinding to Akon and “Oooobama. Obama is a true African king.” Apolo was manning the Ipod. Apolo is the coolest expat in Gulu. He grew up in London, but his parents are from Gulu, so he often acts as an interpreter for us, and well, mostly he’s just really, really fun. He suddenly switched it to the Killers “Mr. Brightside.” The crowd went nuts. Twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings were shouting the lyrics and jumping up and down. I lost it myself. The Killers are my Gatorade, my Red Bull, my “do it fluid” as my mom would say. The joint was jumping.
Enter English Muppet. Now, admittedly, being Irish and all, I have a natural inclination toward annoyance around most English people except Julian. But this guy has a special place in the English doosch hall of fame. He comes up to the Ipod right at the most intense Killers crescendo and changed the song. The crowd screamed: “heeeeeeeeeeey!!!! WTF!!!” This English f-er turns toward them, and of course I just happened to be standing right next to him so got it full on, and shouted “this song f-ing sucks and you’re all wankers.”
Oh no he din’t.
Oh yes he did. I immediately launched my best De Niro “are you kidding me?” and then started plotting my revenge. It is so difficult being a pacifist with a bad temper. Kick him in the shins? The gut? Curse him with some good old Acholi “cen?” (evil spirits) As I stood there fuming and trying not to enjoy his selection, even though it was that kickass Arcade Fire song, Apolo saved me. He enacted the most wonderful revenge that was so sweet yet so gentle that it could even have been entered into the pacifist transformation power annals. Right as the song built to the incredibly frenzied “oh, oh, oh oh oh oh.” Click. He changed the song.
Genius! Right then and there I pledged by undying love for Apolo. It was the perfect move, the crowd was behind him and our “friend” skulked away. In hindsight I think the thing that was most shocking was his rude behavior. Although the twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings have different agendas and aren’t necessarily all best friends, we all get along pretty ok. We don’t really fight, save for an occasional break up. This guy’s harsh words were way out of place in Gulu expat land. And his hatred of the Killers was just stupid.
So last weekend Johnny G, whose favorite word is “dude,” had a barbeque. The whole of the Gulu expat scene was there: the grumbling thirty-somethings – jaded and torn about being stuck in the middle of nowhere, but trying to justify it because of the good money (ahem, yours truly) and the silly twenty-somethings, all happy to be volunteering in Africa and making out with each other. Each group is peppered with Americans and Europeans in mostly equal parts. Miss a week of expat parties and the faces change, but the characters are perennial. The only expat not represented was the elusive bible-basher. These are usually transient expats that come to build a church or save heathens or whatever it is they do. That’s harsh, I know, especially since I have enjoyed working for faith-based organizations. However, I cannot condone evangelism. It’s just not right.
Anyway, Johnny G’s invite said: “Croquet starts at 4pm. I have 15 kilos of pork and I’m slaughtering a turkey. Dare you to bring more!” Ok Johnny G. I’m there. I arrive to an already packed house. The twenty-somethings had just finished a game of drunken angry croquet, while the thirty-somethings were dithering about with Johnny’s hootchie mama wait staff organizing the dinner. The hootchies were scantily clad and hacking away at turkey gizzards, while I stood idle but anxious and a thirty-something vegetarian friend of mine tried to edge her curried pumpkin pasta onto the meat-soaked menu. I shouldn’t diss the pumpkin curry, because when dinner was ready, it was the first to go!
After dinner, we start the dance party. Gulu and Uganda have its own sound track that varies between Akon, Rhianna, Gulu Boys and Kenny Rogers. This party was no different. We were all bumping and grinding to Akon and “Oooobama. Obama is a true African king.” Apolo was manning the Ipod. Apolo is the coolest expat in Gulu. He grew up in London, but his parents are from Gulu, so he often acts as an interpreter for us, and well, mostly he’s just really, really fun. He suddenly switched it to the Killers “Mr. Brightside.” The crowd went nuts. Twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings were shouting the lyrics and jumping up and down. I lost it myself. The Killers are my Gatorade, my Red Bull, my “do it fluid” as my mom would say. The joint was jumping.
Enter English Muppet. Now, admittedly, being Irish and all, I have a natural inclination toward annoyance around most English people except Julian. But this guy has a special place in the English doosch hall of fame. He comes up to the Ipod right at the most intense Killers crescendo and changed the song. The crowd screamed: “heeeeeeeeeeey!!!! WTF!!!” This English f-er turns toward them, and of course I just happened to be standing right next to him so got it full on, and shouted “this song f-ing sucks and you’re all wankers.”
Oh no he din’t.
Oh yes he did. I immediately launched my best De Niro “are you kidding me?” and then started plotting my revenge. It is so difficult being a pacifist with a bad temper. Kick him in the shins? The gut? Curse him with some good old Acholi “cen?” (evil spirits) As I stood there fuming and trying not to enjoy his selection, even though it was that kickass Arcade Fire song, Apolo saved me. He enacted the most wonderful revenge that was so sweet yet so gentle that it could even have been entered into the pacifist transformation power annals. Right as the song built to the incredibly frenzied “oh, oh, oh oh oh oh.” Click. He changed the song.
Genius! Right then and there I pledged by undying love for Apolo. It was the perfect move, the crowd was behind him and our “friend” skulked away. In hindsight I think the thing that was most shocking was his rude behavior. Although the twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings have different agendas and aren’t necessarily all best friends, we all get along pretty ok. We don’t really fight, save for an occasional break up. This guy’s harsh words were way out of place in Gulu expat land. And his hatred of the Killers was just stupid.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Workshops and Workshops and Workshops Oh My
Norbert Mao, or Chairman Mao as he is known here in Gulu, not because of his political leanings which seem squarely democratic, but because he is the chairman of Gulu District, famously declared a few years ago that he was never going to attend another workshop in northern Uganda again. This declaration was radical. It was radical, because it thumbed its nose at the international community’s intervention du jour: the workshop.
Workshops are perceived by the international community and now, by extension, developing countries as a good tool for quick and comprehensive learning in an emergency or development setting. People spend all day interacting with colleagues or people they don’t always have time to meet otherwise from their field of expertise. They build connections and learn from each other. The workshop topic is usually one that is of interest and of critical need to participants. For example, here are some recent topics on offer in Gulu: improving health and hygiene in villages, public-private partnership in economic recovery, assessing the current state of peace, transitional justice, etc.
Facilitators are often expert guests flown in from exotic locations like the UK, Sierra Leone, or South Africa on the dime of an eager NGO or donor wanting to demonstrate its ability to bring the most relevant experts to a situation ripe for input. It’s also a good way of advancing the goals of the project, because workshops are monitoring and evaluation darlings. When tallying up impact on the project, workshops are tangible and measurable (i.e., # of people trained in transitional justice).
You’re waiting for the “but...” Here it is:
But…word on the street, spread by Chairman Mao and others, is that workshops don’t necessarily have the good intentioned impact bestowed upon them. First of all, a one day on transitional justice does not a legal expert make. Participants do not become experts on the subject after one day of training or fraternizing with colleagues. However, and despite the fact that many facilitators issue precisely that disclaimer at the start of a workshop, many participants believe they are experts. There are increasing cases of new workshop knowledge being put wrongly into action. Just yesterday I attended a rally in Gulu on cancer awareness and one of the speakers said “If you are aware of cancer you will not get cancer.” Hmmm. I’m pretty sure he knew what he meant, but for the 1,000 people listening, I fear they may now assume they are no longer going to catch this thing called cancer, because they now know it exists. Perhaps if he had a few more workshops on cancer awareness, he’d have gotten that talking point right. (“Do no harm” alarm bells starting to ring yet?)
The flip side to the workshop eager beaver is the participant who fails to apply workshop knowledge. I feel this unintended consequence is more often a culprit. I’m not trying to be self righteous here. In fact, I’ve even issued my own disclaimer to try and circumvent this problem very recently at a workshop I myself am guilty of organizing. I said something like: “While this first step of training on conflict sensitivity is important, it is only a first step. To help you apply this knowledge, we are going to follow up with site visits, evaluations and recommendations, yada yada yada.” Workshop organizers know that a workshop does not go far enough, but very rarely does anyone have time to follow up with activities needed to deepen the knowledge and help participants apply that knowledge. I’m going to try, but time keeps on slipping…
Perhaps the most frustrating thing about the workshop these days is that since the whole international gang has arrived in Gulu and the workshop is intervention du jour, there is constantly a workshop on offer. The average civil servant in northern Uganda must be invited to at least two or three workshops a week! The steady promise of three meals and a sitting allowance (that’s right, a payment to attend a workshop) has meant that civil servants would rather attend his or her third workshop on, for instance, the nature of Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) return than actually do the work to assist the IDPs with return. Besides, workshops are fun. At my last workshop, the best part of the day was the clapping competition. Clapping competitions occur when a presenter finishes and the other participants demonstrate their appreciation by clapping. Acknowledging appreciation is fairly common, of course, but adding a layer of competition to it is, I think, a sign of workshop overdose. Participants were competing on the most creative ways to clap in appreciation. The Mosquito clap, the Mandela clap, the Macarena clap. Yes, the Macarena dance became a clap of appreciation during my last workshop. Alas, this may have been the most engaging part of the day.
It was the clapping competition that got to me. It’s so clear that we’ve workshop-ized every NGO worker or civil servant in northern Uganda. They know the drill: learn a little, eat a lot, play fun crowd engagement games, get paid for it…all in a day’s work in Gulu.
Workshops are perceived by the international community and now, by extension, developing countries as a good tool for quick and comprehensive learning in an emergency or development setting. People spend all day interacting with colleagues or people they don’t always have time to meet otherwise from their field of expertise. They build connections and learn from each other. The workshop topic is usually one that is of interest and of critical need to participants. For example, here are some recent topics on offer in Gulu: improving health and hygiene in villages, public-private partnership in economic recovery, assessing the current state of peace, transitional justice, etc.
Facilitators are often expert guests flown in from exotic locations like the UK, Sierra Leone, or South Africa on the dime of an eager NGO or donor wanting to demonstrate its ability to bring the most relevant experts to a situation ripe for input. It’s also a good way of advancing the goals of the project, because workshops are monitoring and evaluation darlings. When tallying up impact on the project, workshops are tangible and measurable (i.e., # of people trained in transitional justice).
You’re waiting for the “but...” Here it is:
But…word on the street, spread by Chairman Mao and others, is that workshops don’t necessarily have the good intentioned impact bestowed upon them. First of all, a one day on transitional justice does not a legal expert make. Participants do not become experts on the subject after one day of training or fraternizing with colleagues. However, and despite the fact that many facilitators issue precisely that disclaimer at the start of a workshop, many participants believe they are experts. There are increasing cases of new workshop knowledge being put wrongly into action. Just yesterday I attended a rally in Gulu on cancer awareness and one of the speakers said “If you are aware of cancer you will not get cancer.” Hmmm. I’m pretty sure he knew what he meant, but for the 1,000 people listening, I fear they may now assume they are no longer going to catch this thing called cancer, because they now know it exists. Perhaps if he had a few more workshops on cancer awareness, he’d have gotten that talking point right. (“Do no harm” alarm bells starting to ring yet?)
The flip side to the workshop eager beaver is the participant who fails to apply workshop knowledge. I feel this unintended consequence is more often a culprit. I’m not trying to be self righteous here. In fact, I’ve even issued my own disclaimer to try and circumvent this problem very recently at a workshop I myself am guilty of organizing. I said something like: “While this first step of training on conflict sensitivity is important, it is only a first step. To help you apply this knowledge, we are going to follow up with site visits, evaluations and recommendations, yada yada yada.” Workshop organizers know that a workshop does not go far enough, but very rarely does anyone have time to follow up with activities needed to deepen the knowledge and help participants apply that knowledge. I’m going to try, but time keeps on slipping…
Perhaps the most frustrating thing about the workshop these days is that since the whole international gang has arrived in Gulu and the workshop is intervention du jour, there is constantly a workshop on offer. The average civil servant in northern Uganda must be invited to at least two or three workshops a week! The steady promise of three meals and a sitting allowance (that’s right, a payment to attend a workshop) has meant that civil servants would rather attend his or her third workshop on, for instance, the nature of Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) return than actually do the work to assist the IDPs with return. Besides, workshops are fun. At my last workshop, the best part of the day was the clapping competition. Clapping competitions occur when a presenter finishes and the other participants demonstrate their appreciation by clapping. Acknowledging appreciation is fairly common, of course, but adding a layer of competition to it is, I think, a sign of workshop overdose. Participants were competing on the most creative ways to clap in appreciation. The Mosquito clap, the Mandela clap, the Macarena clap. Yes, the Macarena dance became a clap of appreciation during my last workshop. Alas, this may have been the most engaging part of the day.
It was the clapping competition that got to me. It’s so clear that we’ve workshop-ized every NGO worker or civil servant in northern Uganda. They know the drill: learn a little, eat a lot, play fun crowd engagement games, get paid for it…all in a day’s work in Gulu.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Charles
In June, I received a call from a friend. My good friend Charles had been murdered. I had known Charles for six years. He was working for the Quakers when I first came to visit and hosted me on several trips. Charles knew everything about the conflict in northern Uganda. He had contacts everywhere and therefore one of the most up-to-date and nuanced analysis of the conflict. The year my dad came to Gulu, Charles organized the most interesting and harrowing visit to Atiak. He negotiated with the Ugandan army along the way to allow an unarmed escort pass on a road crawling with LRA rebels.
Over the years we became friends and I got to know his family. His wife is Beatrice, a quiet woman with a fantastic smile, and his son is Arthur who was the light of his life. When Charles wasn’t working and sometimes even if he was, Arthur was with him. The last memory I have of seeing them together was running into Charles and Arthur at the Acholi Inn pool in Gulu. Arthur didn’t have a swim suit, but Charles managed to remove enough clothing and keep enough on to allow Arthur to be submerged and splashing with the other kids.
It isn’t all good memories of course. Charles was abducted when he was young and the trauma of his child soldiering days led him to a nasty battle with alcoholism. He struggled with sobriety, and when he lost that struggle it was terrible. I can only imagine how tough it must have been for Beatrice and little Arthur during those times.
Charles was on a research trip to the other big town in northern Uganda, Lira, when he was murdered. A yet-to-be identified assailant came into his hotel room and stabbed him in the back of the head and in the leg. He died of heart failure and blood lost. I know this because his autopsy report was read at his funeral. It was awful. Just awful.
The funeral was nothing like I had ever seen. As an ex-pat, I think I’m developing a perverse sense of death here in Gulu. Death is common and maybe even predictable. At least once a week I personally know someone who has had a relative or someone close to them die. Usually this is not an old person, but rather a son or daughter or cousin. It is usually a preventable death like Malaria or Typhoid, and increasingly it seems to be death by road accident. I’m worried I’m even becoming indifferent to it. I must confess more than one time I found myself feeling frustrated that yet another staff person is out due to a death in the family. Thank God I’ve managed to stave that disgusting feeling.
Murder is rare these days since the war has ended. Perhaps that is why Charles’ funeral was so dramatic. Hundreds of people were there and many were wailing. There were speeches, of course, and then a bizarre parade around the casket. The casket had a window, which I avoided. Beatrice was hysterical and had to be physically carried through the service. I couldn’t summon the nerve to look at Arthur.
A few days ago, I met Beatrice for the first time since the funeral. I’ve been dreading this meeting. I spoke to her briefly a few weeks after the funeral and she told me that Charles’ family had taken everything Charles had, even the bed they slept in. I had heard stories about widows in northern Uganda. They’re treated terribly. Beatrice was no exception. When I met her this time, she described the chain of events from the moment Charles died of how his family took everything and left her and Arthur on their own. She said it began as she was traveling to claim his body. On that day his family wanted his bank card and his motorcycle. She explained she quickly hid Charles’ computer with a neighbor, because she knew his current employer would want it back and that the family would surely take it if it was in the house. Beatrice spoke for an hour detailing the humiliating intrusion and stripping away of her life by Charles’ family. She said that they wouldn’t even look after Arthur, claiming that not enough money from the sales of Charles’ things could be mustered to pay his school fees or his hospital bill when he got malaria a few weeks ago. They’ve been living off of peanut sauce and corn mush for the past couple of months.
Did I mention that Beatrice is 5 months pregnant?
The good news is that Beatrice is in her last semester in Gulu University. She is graduating in January with a Bachelor’s in Education. With the help of one of Charles’ friends, Beatrice and Arthur have moved into a tiny flat a few meters away from Arthur’s school. She has an impossible task ahead, but she is educated, and she defiantly declares that by hook or by crook she will educate Arthur.
I wish I could say this is an extraordinary case in northern Uganda, but I think only the opposite. Beatrice and Arthur have a typical life. The only difference is that this one happens to touch me personally. I am personally invested in this family. It’s not just that I have heard their story, like you have now, and I feel sad and guilty. I feel these things based on a long friendship. I feel deep personal loss and fear for this family's future. Somehow I’ve got to find a way to help them. Immediately emptying my pockets is my instinct. However, that assistance is fleeting. I will try to help Beatrice find a job. I will make sure Arthur and the new child will have food. I will invite them both to my thanksgiving party. I guess this will help.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Fear God and Strive
On the Gulu-Kampala road, about 40 km from Kampala, I pass through the town of Wobulenzi and wave to my boys at Katikumu Secondary School. Samson and Babu are currently completing their third term of their first year there. The school’s motto is “Fear God and Strive.” Indeed. It is only now that I’m a “parent” of secondary schoolers for the first time that my interest and understanding of it are growing. Secondary school in Uganda is sort of like prison, but in a good way…I think. Samson and Babu, along with all the pupils, are instructed rise at 4:30am (pictures of army boot camp bugles. That’s right 4:30. They begin studying at that hour until breakfast at 6 and then class begins at 6:30. Classes end at 6pm, then posho (a corn like mush that is the staple for Ugandans…culinary triumph it is not) and beans for dinner, then study until bed time at 10pm. They have about 15 subjects that range from Agriculture to Christianity to Math. They have not only biology, but also physics and chemistry – all in the same year!
So I arrived at visitors’ day a few weeks back feeling like I’m putting these boys through hell. But I want more for these boys and that has meant sending them away from their home in Gulu (which is next to my home.) I used to see them every day, but like a good mom, I decided I needed to sacrifice my selfish need to have them hanging out at my house so that they could have a future. Future schmuture. I miss them!
Visitors’ day was just like it is anywhere. The kids are all spiffed up in their best uniforms. The parents’ arms are laden with food, clothes and other booty. The campus is truly beautiful. It sits on a huge hill above the town, with big beautiful trees lining the pathways. The huge imposing auditorium is boldly engraved:“FEAR GOD AND STRIVE.” In fact, that motto appears frequently across the campus and on every child’s uniform. (I can’t wait to get my hands on a school t-shirt.) We were no different from the others; my arms struggled to balance all of the items I could manage to pack up for the boys. I received a call from Babu at 5:30am that morning requesting one last item, a calculator. I tried to explain to him that a call at 5:30am on a Sunday morning was not cool, but this explanation was met with a blank stare and a meager apology. Of course he’s not sorry – 5:30am is practically lunch time for the kid. Samson got a pair of Bata school shoes, which came with a calculator. I bought a ton at the supermarket. I was so excited to feed these boys some meat. However, as I enthusiastically extracted the chicken from my satchel of goodies, I was quickly asked to put it away. Apparently, cooked food from the outside was forbidden. Oops. They explained that they could take the chicken and other morsels back to their dorms and consume them without detection from the glaring eye of the patrons.
We chatted a bit. I reviewed each of their grades, but quickly glazed over. The scoring system in Uganda is dizzying, especially when there are so many subjects. However, some creepy uncle of theirs happened to be present and seized the opportunity to scold Samson about his grades in front of everyone. It was awful. “You are not working hard enough. These grades should be much higher. How do you expect to succeed? You were given a chance by this nice young lady and you can’t screw it up.” Samson hung his head in deep shame and looked like he was going to cry. I was ready to sock this guy.
While I’m not an actual parent, I’m pretty sure that in parenting 101 this line of scolding is borderline abusive these days in the States. Not the case in Uganda, where the authoritative figure very much ascends into this role to the fullest and takes every opportunity to remind subordinates of their place. It’s a cultural difference that I struggle with, as is obvious from my description of it.
We quickly countered this scolding with words of encouragement and enthusiasm. Despite my cluelessness on the grading system, I think Samson was doing ok. He even appeared to be excelling at Chemistry. I made sure to point this out to Uncle Creepy.
As the storm clouds rolled in, we quickly gathered up the booty and packed it up for the boys to take it away. I promised them I’d call them in a week and told them I was planning a big Thanksgiving dinner a few days after they finished up their third term. It was great to see them and I think, despite my pining, they’re exactly where they should be.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Log Frame!
Today I have reached log frame carrying capacity. I simply cannot design another program for this project, which is a shame, because I’m in the home stretch with only three left.
For months I have been saying I have a desk job, it just happens to be in Africa. It’s true! When I first arrived in Gulu, I pledged to visit the “field” at least once a week and by and large, I stuck to that pledge. The “field”, by the way, means going to visit projects outside of Gulu town, where my office is. It means visiting the internal displacement camps that are now emptying and visiting communities in their villages, where most of the work is now located. It’s an important distinction, because many people come to Gulu and feel that they’re in the field. However, Gulu or “Club Gulu” as I now refer to it really doesn’t paint the picture of the challenges people face in their recovery from two decades of conflict. Gulu has a swimming pool and ethnic restaurants. (I just tried the new Ethiopian last night…not bad!) It has admittedly poor wireless internet cafes that serve cappuccinos to war tourists; the countless temporary visitors to Gulu who arrive pledging to solve or study all of northern Uganda’s problems during their short stay. Ok, that was bitchy, especially since I was one of them before I moved here. However, I am saddened to think most of their stay is in Gulu, when they need to be out in the community.
No matter what, when I travel to the field, I return re-energized and re-committed to the work.
The problem is that most of the time I’m now trapped at my desk on the damn log frame. I’m tired of coming up with x # of community dialogues in x # of sub-counties that will require x amount of fuel, stationary, flip charts, etc. etc. Although I did recently get to place bulls in the log frame. Yes bulls, as in the animals! 1 bull was budgeted for lunch for each of the 8 meetings that will take place in 8 sub-counties where traditional leaders will host community dialogues. Ok, I guess the log frame isn’t too bad. I mean, the projects that emerge from the log frame are pretty cool. The two I’m working on now are called “Unpacking the P in PRDP” and “Fortifying Families in Recovery.” The names alone sound good, right? Although just coming up with the names probably cost me a half a day on the desk. Hayden keeps asking me how I could possibly be keeping up with the new season of Mad Men when its not available here. Please don’t tell him that like all desk jobs, I’ve got the internets to distract me.
So I guess I shouldn’t despair. The end of log frames is in sight and the projects starting up are being well received so far. I’ve even managed to squeeze a trip or two to the field in the last month (see Pawel blog.) But for today, anyway, I’m flaking out…I can’t look at the thing today. Today is Maureen Dowd, facebook and a long lunch day.
For months I have been saying I have a desk job, it just happens to be in Africa. It’s true! When I first arrived in Gulu, I pledged to visit the “field” at least once a week and by and large, I stuck to that pledge. The “field”, by the way, means going to visit projects outside of Gulu town, where my office is. It means visiting the internal displacement camps that are now emptying and visiting communities in their villages, where most of the work is now located. It’s an important distinction, because many people come to Gulu and feel that they’re in the field. However, Gulu or “Club Gulu” as I now refer to it really doesn’t paint the picture of the challenges people face in their recovery from two decades of conflict. Gulu has a swimming pool and ethnic restaurants. (I just tried the new Ethiopian last night…not bad!) It has admittedly poor wireless internet cafes that serve cappuccinos to war tourists; the countless temporary visitors to Gulu who arrive pledging to solve or study all of northern Uganda’s problems during their short stay. Ok, that was bitchy, especially since I was one of them before I moved here. However, I am saddened to think most of their stay is in Gulu, when they need to be out in the community.
No matter what, when I travel to the field, I return re-energized and re-committed to the work.
The problem is that most of the time I’m now trapped at my desk on the damn log frame. I’m tired of coming up with x # of community dialogues in x # of sub-counties that will require x amount of fuel, stationary, flip charts, etc. etc. Although I did recently get to place bulls in the log frame. Yes bulls, as in the animals! 1 bull was budgeted for lunch for each of the 8 meetings that will take place in 8 sub-counties where traditional leaders will host community dialogues. Ok, I guess the log frame isn’t too bad. I mean, the projects that emerge from the log frame are pretty cool. The two I’m working on now are called “Unpacking the P in PRDP” and “Fortifying Families in Recovery.” The names alone sound good, right? Although just coming up with the names probably cost me a half a day on the desk. Hayden keeps asking me how I could possibly be keeping up with the new season of Mad Men when its not available here. Please don’t tell him that like all desk jobs, I’ve got the internets to distract me.
So I guess I shouldn’t despair. The end of log frames is in sight and the projects starting up are being well received so far. I’ve even managed to squeeze a trip or two to the field in the last month (see Pawel blog.) But for today, anyway, I’m flaking out…I can’t look at the thing today. Today is Maureen Dowd, facebook and a long lunch day.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Kampala, that toddling town
This is going to be an ex-pat living entry; the kind that can be torn apart by researchers for exemplifying the decadence of the “Aid world.” However, I think that ex-pat living, at least outside of a capital city, requires that hard work be supported by life luxuries on occasion.
I just spent the weekend in the Kampala, a lovely treat I try to do at least once a month. Kampala is probably one of the best capital cities in Africa. It has lots of western amenities, such as the fantastic Serena hotel and several great restaurants, and yet it still retains the sub-Saharan developing world feel that keeps it a bit adventurous and frustrating.
Life is far from difficult in Gulu. I have a nice three bedroom house on about an acre and a half of walled in compound, where my dog roams free. There are a couple of ok restaurants and enough ex-pats (the regulars, not the war tourists) to escape with at the weekends via house parties and the occasional trip to a night club (Club Gulu!). Where it begins to wear down on me is in the limited access to western amenities, well food mainly, like chocolate and cheese (Ween!). Also, more and more I’m beginning to realize the weather’s no picnic. It’s not bad, but without air conditioning the heat and dust really do work a number on you. I don’t even realize it until I’m sitting in a meeting in Kampala and wiping 12 layers of red dust from the laptop screen. It was somehow invisible in Gulu, where I guess everything has 12 layers of red dust on it.
This hardship justifies the journey down to Kampala, where I just simply splurge. There’s a mall here. I stock up on Italian brand pasta, juice, wine and cheese. I eat and eat. I have sandwiches. I didn’t realize how much I miss sandwiches for lunch, until I only had the option to eat big formal meals of rice, beans, potatoes, etc for lunch every day. Yes, hard core researchers, at least I have access to a choice of foods, but I’ve realized over my two years in Gulu that what sustains my ability to live there is western luxuries. I cannot go completely local. I need to set boundaries: food boundaries, social boundaries, etc. I haven’t built a fortress from the local communities, the way a lot of ex-pats have. However, I do need to escape daily life in Gulu. Often this is by eating a salad and watching an episode of Mad Men. I admit that more and more I not only enjoy watching Hayden’s satellite tv, but I go for the most outrageous and offensive programming, like the E channel. Like anyone who switches on a tv, sometimes I need a dulling sensory overload to distract you from the stress of the day.
I sound like I’m apologizing a lot. I am. It’s a dilemma and a constant source of guilt to have access to luxury when so many people around you do not. On Thursday, before I left for Kampala, I got a call from a young man I used to work with at NRC. He had been tortured by the armed forces in Gulu, which required surgery on his elbow and eye, and psycho-social counseling. I helped him access both. Two years later, he came to ask me for a job. I didn’t have one to give him and I felt really bad about it. This happens a lot. On the one hand I’m happy that I’m helping the community in northern Uganda recovery from the long conflict. On the other hand, almost daily, I feel it comes up short when I’m unable to assist the stream of individuals I’ve met over the years get jobs or pay school fees.
So a weekend escape to Kampala usually comes at about the right time each month. Last night I had Szechuan tofu and it was delicious. Today, I’ll head back north and I’ll be happy to be home.
I just spent the weekend in the Kampala, a lovely treat I try to do at least once a month. Kampala is probably one of the best capital cities in Africa. It has lots of western amenities, such as the fantastic Serena hotel and several great restaurants, and yet it still retains the sub-Saharan developing world feel that keeps it a bit adventurous and frustrating.
Life is far from difficult in Gulu. I have a nice three bedroom house on about an acre and a half of walled in compound, where my dog roams free. There are a couple of ok restaurants and enough ex-pats (the regulars, not the war tourists) to escape with at the weekends via house parties and the occasional trip to a night club (Club Gulu!). Where it begins to wear down on me is in the limited access to western amenities, well food mainly, like chocolate and cheese (Ween!). Also, more and more I’m beginning to realize the weather’s no picnic. It’s not bad, but without air conditioning the heat and dust really do work a number on you. I don’t even realize it until I’m sitting in a meeting in Kampala and wiping 12 layers of red dust from the laptop screen. It was somehow invisible in Gulu, where I guess everything has 12 layers of red dust on it.
This hardship justifies the journey down to Kampala, where I just simply splurge. There’s a mall here. I stock up on Italian brand pasta, juice, wine and cheese. I eat and eat. I have sandwiches. I didn’t realize how much I miss sandwiches for lunch, until I only had the option to eat big formal meals of rice, beans, potatoes, etc for lunch every day. Yes, hard core researchers, at least I have access to a choice of foods, but I’ve realized over my two years in Gulu that what sustains my ability to live there is western luxuries. I cannot go completely local. I need to set boundaries: food boundaries, social boundaries, etc. I haven’t built a fortress from the local communities, the way a lot of ex-pats have. However, I do need to escape daily life in Gulu. Often this is by eating a salad and watching an episode of Mad Men. I admit that more and more I not only enjoy watching Hayden’s satellite tv, but I go for the most outrageous and offensive programming, like the E channel. Like anyone who switches on a tv, sometimes I need a dulling sensory overload to distract you from the stress of the day.
I sound like I’m apologizing a lot. I am. It’s a dilemma and a constant source of guilt to have access to luxury when so many people around you do not. On Thursday, before I left for Kampala, I got a call from a young man I used to work with at NRC. He had been tortured by the armed forces in Gulu, which required surgery on his elbow and eye, and psycho-social counseling. I helped him access both. Two years later, he came to ask me for a job. I didn’t have one to give him and I felt really bad about it. This happens a lot. On the one hand I’m happy that I’m helping the community in northern Uganda recovery from the long conflict. On the other hand, almost daily, I feel it comes up short when I’m unable to assist the stream of individuals I’ve met over the years get jobs or pay school fees.
So a weekend escape to Kampala usually comes at about the right time each month. Last night I had Szechuan tofu and it was delicious. Today, I’ll head back north and I’ll be happy to be home.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Pawel, Atiak
Yesterday, I traveled with colleagues to Pawel, Atiak sub-county, Amuru District, Uganda. This is a tiny little village about 25 kilometers from the Uganda-Sudan border. 25 kilometers by the way, that takes 1-1.5 hours to drive on the lovely dirt road, incidently known as the Great African highway that connects Cairo to Capetown. Let me tell you that when I watched Ewan McGregor try to motorbike it, I truly understood.
In Pawel we gathered for the land agreement signing related to one of our warehouses being built. Through the services of our implementing partner, Centre for Reparations and Rehabilitation (CRR) - a fantastic local organization made up of Acholi women lawyers, we have been working to ensure land tenure security where we are building warehouses for our cooperative farmer groups. I feel proud of this project, because while everyone's running to build things: warehouses, roads, schools, we're trying to look at ways to do this that are sustainable and even avoid future conflict. If, for example, there was no land agreement - no intentional formal process of understanding the relationship between the person who gifted the land and the farmer group that built the warehouse - the land owner could conceivable claim back the land, now with a shiny new warehouse on it. Maybe he'd wait it out a bit, say once my 3 yr project is gone.
Such is the way with so many good intended, short term projects. Things run smoothly (or relatively smoothly) while we're around, but without realizing it we cause new challenges for the community. This is do no harm 101. In a humanitarian setting it's a little easier to spot. As we move toward development projects, however, it becomes less clear. Warehouses are good. It means more capacity and moving beyond subsistence farming. But looking at the entire picture is key. And that's how we decided to ensure that the land where we're building warehouses is clearly identified and secured for this purpose.
So the scene was a typical one for northern Uganda. We were greeted by a lovely chorus of ladies singing a song that I believe they made up for the occasion: "Pawel welcomes you and thanks you for the warehouses." The signing event literally took place under the mango tree, a well-known meeting spot and image in the African country side. There was even the usual cacaphony of an obnoxious rooster, a flea bitten dog and a billion half-dressed super cute schmoopy kids.
There were speeches galore; another important Ugandan tradition that begins: "I don't have much to say." And then ends many many minutes later. The local government officials were there and the LC3 did not miss an opportunity to schmooze his constitutents and fund raise. Agnes and Mike from my office did a fantastic job trading MCing responsibilities, switching from Luo to English with a few giggles as they tried to translate words like "reparations" and "land tenure."
With much pomp and circumstance, the signing finally commence with one last speech; this time from the land owner. He ended his speech with a very earnest, very sincere: "I am doing this for God and my country." Inspiring stuff indeed.
We toured the warehouse next, which was a little ways away from the mango tree. It's a pretty cool building, complete with a room for a rice huller and grinding mill (see how far the girl is outside of NYC!) The LC3 was getting into it - at one stage he had a tape measure out so that he could corroborate the size of the gifted plot to what was specified in the land agreement. Hilarious.
Walking back was a bit tricky and I had a brief moment of disorientation which only made me think of poor lost children trying to escape in the bush while running from rebels in a place where every turn looks like the last. Probably in this very place, only a few years ago...
We took a group photo, which I'll try to post here, and then headed back on the bumpy road to Capetown. Stopping a wee bit before, in Gulu.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Dog walking, French humanitarians and bbq
775 or so days into this great northern Uganda adventure I decide to start writing about it. Awesome.
I was inspired after all of this time (in Gulu 775 days is the equivalent of about 775 years...to be discussed later) by two people.
On Thursday, my friend Steffi called me to ask if one of her students could walk my dog because she was homesick. I immediately said yes. As impatient a person as I am, I seem to have all the time in the world for the pesky "research" students that come to Gulu in the busloads and even more time for the homesick ones. Sure enough Heather calls and we set up a dog walking date. While I'm pretty sure I would trust anyone with my dog, Otim Derek Jeter, Jeter for short, I nonetheless felt I should accompany the two on the walk. Surprisingly Heather didn't say much about her homesickness, only showing brief emotion when she thanked me for spending time with Jeter. Unsurprisingly Jeter jumped on her profusely and then proceeded to pull her around the neighborhood in search of the great sniff. Anyway, she made a very side comment about blogging about her Gulu experience and I got so so jealous. "What damn Gulu experience?! You just got here." Yeah, so that got me writing.
The other person who inspired me was this FANTASTIC French woman named Marie. I ran into Marie at our reluctant regulars hangout, Fugly's (ok, critics of humanitarians: go for it). Yes, Fugly's. She is 66 years old and fabulously beautiful and passionate about the work. She's doing a short stint for Columbia University on child protection. Her tales of trapsing the world and shaking down humanitarian and development buraucracy in the name of helping children (a theme I will be returning to on a regular basis) was so inspiring. Feeling so burnt out and well, ineffective, it's nice to know that you can retain passion in this world.
I just had an idea about this space before closing. Since my other passion is cooking, I think I'm going to use this space to talk about food in addition to Uganda. Bare with me as I work out the kinks. But last night I served a really fun meal for 6 people. We used my new bbq - Hayden grilled for the first time: sausages, eggplant and peppers that were marinated in pomegranate molasses from lebanon and beer (Hayden insisted on the beer). Letha made guacamole with 3 sprigs of corriander that SHE planted in my garden. I made a salad of arugala, cucumbers, mango, feta and pine nuts in a dill dressing. I also made corn muffins and oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip cookies. In case you're wondering, this is not a typical Gulu meal. But in the past two years I have been able to shop well in Kampala and around the world and grow a lot (eggplant, peppers, lemons, corriander, dill, arugala all came from my garden.) ah food.
And first blog ever now complete!
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