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!

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.

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.)

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.