I just tried to google my brain

Last night Hayden and I were in Target. (Woo hoo!) We needed a few things before traveling to DC. We grabbed a basket and got to the toiletries isle and placed one or two items in and then three and four and then our arms started to blur and our pulses quickened as we hurled item after item into the basket. We caught ourselves when I frantically debated which facial scrub to buy a six month supply of. “Wait, we can come back here again…and again…and again even.” We quickly found the q-tips and scurried out relatively unscathed.

I’m not sure how I feel about being home. It’s overwhelming. On the one hand I’m delighted to have access to Tar-jay on a regular basis, but on the other hand, I’m not really familiar anymore with this sort of stable access to goods and information. I’m amazed that my dog seems fine with the 60 degree drop in temperature. He’s got the same fab prance, no matter that marum has been replaced by freezing cold tarmac.

I’m trying to struggling to figure out how hip I want to be about my clothing style and my information technology. I’m not sure I dig this no pants thing going on right now in women’s fashion and I definitely need to be talked into the touch screen phenomena. The new items I do embrace are done so a bit awkwardly. For example, a few minutes ago I tried to google my brain. I literally sat in front of the computer browser thinking I just came up with the perfect Christmas gift for Hayden and I can’t remember it. All I can remember is that it cost $199.99. I thought, “maybe if I type in ‘what would Hayden like’ and ‘199.99’ I’ll get the answer.” I realize things have gotten a lot more convenient and a lot more HD since I left, but I’m pretty sure googling one’s brain is not yet possible.

Speaking of Christmas…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And so the adjustment goes. I’m not even sure if I should keep this blog going. I mean, I’m not in Gulu anymore and I feel most of my observations now are trite and cynical retorts about how crazy and glutinous America is. For example, Hayden and I went suit shopping just before the Target incident and I said to the thirty-something salesman, “Do you have any Mad Men type suits?” I got a blank stare until I explained that it was a TV show. He tried to recover by explaining several customers have come in asking for Boardwalk Empire style suits. My mouth dropped open as he pulled out a ghastly wide wale pinstriped number and then I remembered that I was on exit 11 of the New Jersey Turnpike and what did I expect.

See? What a little snot I might become with observations like that…although, come on, Boardwalk Empire suits?!

TBD

Fumbling toward Zanzibar

Since I got such a late start on my Gulu blog I’ve tried to refrain in the last couple of months from writing too much about my exit. Instead I’ve tried to capture each moment as a seasoned Gulu-ite without tainting it with my imminent departure. However, the time has come to admit to my blog that my Gulu days are numbered. In fact there are two left.

I wanted to try and capture the great Gulu close out, especially the last weeks because it’s been tough.com. Even thinking about capturing the frantic flurry makes my stomach flop. I could write a book on the office close out. For now I’ll list rather than reflect and hope with time to unpack the list. The last weeks revealed a lot of true colors from our staff. Some nasty colors of senior staff emerged. More than one pulled some yucky stunts, including abandoned their final duties, demanded pay to attend our final staff lunch and even threatened lawsuits when their regularly scheduled pay didn’t come 4 days early. There were also some heroic colors seeping in and saving the day, like George who continues until these very last days to work tirelessly and our office manager Mike who we literally left standing in the office parking lot with 11 boxes of precious documents and hoped he’d sort it out by the time we got back from our restbit in Zanzibar. Most heroic of all was Hayden who inherited an ill-managed mess on a prematurely clipped timeline. He’s been fielding waves and waves and waves of queries and dramas on everything from who’s going to get the color printer (and all of the other office assets) to drafting stern but desperate letters to rouge grantees who still hadn’t managed to send in final accountabilities despite the fact that we’re literally pulling up the sign post in the front yard to articulating how the integrated approach to stabilization will be immortalized into the annuls of development history to the rather ill-timed and late term visits from above.

I was able to dodge many of these admin bullets, but I’ve nonetheless been swamped with Gulu life close out. Agonizing decisions are still not completely made for those who’ve come to depend on me. I’ve dismantled my house by methodically parsing off its content to friends. Beatrice received a couch and a wardrobe. Emily got a fridge and a TV. Johnson, James and Dennis received beds. Perhaps a moment of comic relief in my personal asset disposition plan was from selling the car. We sold it to Betty, the woman MP of Gulu and close friend, for a cheap price as a campaign contribution. When the car left our possession without a payment, I feared the worst and there were anxious days praying that I wouldn’t be let down. It did come with relief and our precious Bessie is now a prominent campaign vessel, covered in campaign posters and parading around Gulu and countless surrounding villages. I’ve been asked several times if I’m running for office, because people recognize my car. “No,” I reply, “but my vehicle is.” Hahahaha!

Pet drama is ongoing and painful. Jeter’s coming with me. Daisy, the kitten, Issac and Sophie are not. Through many twists and turns Issac and Sophie will have a new home in Kampala. Getting them there as a pitstop to the airport is going to suck. Daisy and the kitten are going to Emily, but not before we’ve called the Vet in to fix Daisy last minute. We should have done it before. Sigh. My anxiety over my dog is too overwhelming at the moment and I’ll write more stateside…

Some good news is that the Café sale seems promising. The would-be buyers we’ve been courting for months have made an offer and we’re not going to refuse. In fact it’s ideal, because they’re an NGO and will care about taking the “community café with a conscience” forward.

There’s been other good moments too. Although he’s been relegated to dog walker, I bought Johnson a bike and I know it’ll take him far. Hayden bought Jennifer a bike too and in true Jennifer style she managed to eek out literally every bell and whistle (and basket and rack and light and pump and lock, etc etc.) I hope she knows how to ride a bike.

On Friday I’m picking up the boys from school for the weekend. This may be my toughest good-bye. We’ll always be in touch though. They have to know that.

So here I sit in magical Stonetown. It took me until the last day to muster the strength to write down some of these final Gulu moments. I’ve left out a lot I can see. I didn’t write about the antics of close out during a two-week power outage (but I guess I blogged some of that) or about the tiff I had with my beloved colleague Emily (all is ok now) or sitting on boxes at the office when all of the furniture was gone but the work continued or deleting the server (oops) or the countless other follies.

We limped into Entebbe but have restored ourselves a bit in wonderful Zanzibar. Anxiety levels remain high but staring out at the Indian Ocean, I drink it in and hope its wonder will give me the stuff to get through this final push to the US. I think I can. I think I can.

Nice Time

In Ugandan English, as in most English speaking countries, there are particular phrases associated with this particular dialect. One of my favorites is “Nice Time,” which is a phrase often used to signal the conclusion to a conversation. In much as others might use “adieu” or “see ya” or “check you later,” “Nice Time” punctuates the moment and often replaces the standard parting word “good-bye.”

On Sunday I hosted my fourth and final (at least for now) Thanksgiving Dinner in Gulu. This event has always been my big moment of the year. A time to invite the families and friends I have made throughout the years and gather and share tons of food and sodas and dancing. I must say this year’s party had a couple of twists that previous years have not. For example, knowing that I’m overwhelmed by the closing down of the project and my life in Gulu, I recruited Gulu’s top chefs Jeanne Briggs and Layla Eplett to accompany me in creating a feast de resistance (sorry Francophones…) These ladies can cook and we created delicious standards like turkey, stuffing and pumpkin pie, along with creative and super yummy additions such as artichoke dip and sweet potato pound cake. Of course, I’d be remiss not to mention our most creative helper in the kitchen, Miss Amy Karr, who brought us perennial faves like kickass mashed potatoes like her grandmother used to make, as well as new favorites shall we call them such as cheese potatoes topped with frosted flakes. Amazingly the frosted flake dish was completely finished at the end of the evening. I cannot thank them enough for contributing to the finest Thanksgiving table I have ever seen.

The other big change was the addition of goat slaughtering. Since my second Thanksgiving I’ve been acquiring a live turkey and having my housekeeper slaughter at dawn of the big day. The first year I did this I got a little too close to the bird and couldn’t eat the meat. The next year I kept my distance and scarfed away. This year I did entertain the idea of killing it myself, as sort of another African lifestyle rite of passage and to try to avoid what vegetarians might consider hypocritical eating habits. But after one step out the door toward the bird who was tied under Jeanne’s generator, I quickly retreated.

I got a call from SPRING’s driver and one of my favorite people in Gulu, George, who said he was bringing me a goat. “A goat?” “Yes, a small goat for your party.” Jesus. I’ve got everything carefully timed and now have to factor in the logistics of a live goat being delivered to my house. George recruited Uma the guard to slaughter it and with the dogs locked up and me literally hiding in the corner of my house, ears plugged and talking to myself (unlike turkeys, goats scream when they’re being killed) the goat was put down, skinned, gutted and taken away to be roasted. Sorry sports fans, but I couldn’t deny you the play by play. In fact I’ll get a nice pictorial sequence up in a minute. In a conversation with my dad after the event he gently hinted that slaughtering is not necessary in the US and if I return, perhaps I could leave that Gulu tradition behind. Although I played it off like it was no big deal (because it isn’t to most people here) I’ll actually be glad to leave this aspect of Gulu thanksgiving behind.

I set the time of the party at 3pm and even though I knew people would be at least 2 hours late, I fretted and fumbled until the first guests arrived, who were Johnson, my trusty/dysfunctional guard and his family, including Baby Fred who’s named after my dad. Slowly we were joined by everyone else and I believe we had the usual 45-50 people. By the end of the evening, the adults were rubbing their swollen bellies and the kids were super hopped up on sodas. One little girl was trembling with the sugar shock of at least four sodas with a great big frenzied smile on her face. I was happy to have Beatrice, Arthur and the baby there. Arthur was my photographer for the day and I felt so happy about staying connected to this family all of these years and since their father and my friend Charles was killed last year. We had a special guest star appearance by Allen Rock, who just happened to be in town. I giggled profusely at an exchange between him and our Stephen. I introduced Stephen as the future President of Uganda and neither missing a beat exchanged dignified salutations and Allen even gave Stephen his card. Stephen, never missing an opportunity, immediately quizzed him on the pronunciation of his name and made sure that his email address was on the card. Sixteen going on fifty that kid is!

The evening ended by shuttling all of the families home. I’m pretty sure I broke 500 laws by piling 20 children into the back of Mollie’s Rav 4, but what happens in Gulu stays in Gulu. Let me take this moment to conclude where I started and say with both the Ugandan and English meaning an emphatic “Nice Time.”

Packed out

Last Thursday movers came to Gulu to “pack me out.” It wasn’t too emotional, because there’s so much to do I felt it was good to check a few things off the list. It was interesting even. I’ve heard pray tell about overseas shipments for people working abroad, but until this moment I’ve always managed to move things over time and just head out with two suitcases.

Since I have no furniture worth transporting 8,000 miles and I’m giving away most of my clothes, I’ve used my 250 lbs mostly for crafts. I had a few Christmas presents made, tons of African cloth that I’ll probably not do anything with and random masks and statues. The movers came at 9am promptly and started shoving things in boxes. I was amazed at the way they created a box for my awkwardly shaped fisherman’s basket. When they finished I was 25 lbs under weight. Fine, I said to them after quickly emptying a pot of dirt and shoving it in a box to add one last thing, I’m done.

Fast forward a week later and I hear nothing from the movers. I didn’t realize it at first, because I am distracted by everything else. I called the company and got a foggy response from the person I’ve been in communication with. “Oh, I was waiting on the thing about the form about the transport…blah blah blah” Yee gads. I’m never going to see these things again. I explained that I would like to get the shipment moving as quickly as possible and to please invoice me. The invoice came a day later and it was $700 more than the quote. Awesome. It turns out that funny shaped boxes are penalized. So my fisherman’s basket and my super light but super long straw mat have forced the company to hire larger crates. It would have been nice to know that when the movers were cheering me on “come on, you have 50 kgs left, add more add more.”

Sigh. I can’t tell if this was extortion or incompetence.

I happened to be in Kampala this week and thought I’d visit my things and see if there was a way to reduce the size of the shipment. While I was informed I couldn’t visit my things, I was at least able to shift some things to surface freight and hopefully reduce my load.

This morning I was happy to find that my invoice was now within range of the quote and that all would be ok. But then I saw an attachment with the invoice, entitled “EMBARGO ON HOUSEHOLD GOODS ENTERING THE USA.” Yeah. Remember that Yemen incident a couple of weeks ago? Well, it turns out that’s going to be the reason why Christmas doesn’t come for the Hubers. Seriously? An embargo on ALL household goods from EVERYWHERE in the world? Not just the scary places? It’s for thirty days at least. Sigh again. I asked the company if this has ever happened before and she laughed and said no. Awesometastic.

I think this may be why I never trusted the shipping idea in the past. If I’m not carrying it, how do I know it will reach? It’s only stuff and truly I feel ready to accept that I may never see my packed goods again. I’m pretty sure my family will forgive a Christmas without kooky colorful crafts from Africa they have to pretend to like. As long as my dog isn’t considered a household item I’ll be ok. He’s not, right?

I don't got the power

Day 1 with no power brings audible sighs and quick action. Because my house has a battery back-up system instead of a generator it means we have a seamless transition to back up power and other than a brief flicker from the lights, all systems remain go. I move to triage the power supply, and the second fridge (yes, I have two but they're small) and the water heater are unplugged. Just in case it's a long one, I move some ice packs into the freezer so that I can use them later to keep food from spoiling if the battery goes.

In the evening a storm hits at the exact moment I drive with colleagues to dinner. We pulled over, because it's a total white out and the rain feels like it's pelting our souls. Speaking of pelting, hail starts falling from the sky and iron sheets from a construction site peel off like a banana and hurl toward us. No Ethiopian tonight. In the morning there was no evidence of the storm.

Day 2: Well it's gonna be a long one. In Gulu the power has been pretty consistent lately. When I first arrived, it wasn't uncommon to have 4-5 days without power every month or so. In the last couple of months we'd have perhaps a Saturday without power, at most a day and a half, but otherwise it's been pretty ok.

In the evening another storm hits. This one has a ferocity I've never experienced before. There is a sense that finding a basement would be a good idea.

Day 3: Um, well, a basement might have been a good idea. This was the day of our final SPRING celebration where we expected 140 people to enjoy speeches and dancing and displays of our work. It was held at the Bomah under big tents. At 7:30am I received a text that said “your tents at the Bomah are destroyed.” Oh SPRING, you are so curse-d! Panic set it when I drove out of my compound. Gulu looks like a war zone. The irony is not lost on me. Even when Gulu was a war zone it didn’t look like this. My neighbor’s tin roof blew off completely. Trees are down. Huge trees – the beautiful old oaks that line the main street by the court house came crashing down, destroying everything in their path. Power…yeah not so much. Power poles were scattered like tooth picks and the power lines were strewn like intestines everywhere. As I drove over several power lines I think I’m glad power’s been out and I hope it’s true about cars being grounded. It must have been a tornado. The damage is great.

The event went off without a hitch, even with massive trees blocking the entrance to the hotel. It seems that the storm only hit senior quarters where I live. Besides, the reliance on power in the developing world isn’t the same as it is at home. With fettuccine power lines splayed out as far as the eye can see, most people simply stepped over them and continued on their way to work or the market.

Day 4: No sign of the Umeme power company workers. Some Gulu prisoners are working on tree removal. Power in Gulu will not return in 2010 I think. At work, our massive generator collapses under the weight of expectation. It’s dead. Done. Finito. The battery back-up system at home is seriously limping and there’s not much more I can unplug.

Day 5: Power lines stay as they lay in senior quarters, but town has power. A glimmer of hope emerges and my café is back online at least. At Day 5 of a power outage, psychological effects emerge. The stress of finding a reliable power source to plug in my phone and computer is stressful. Equally stressful is light sources. I have solar lights, but will they go out? Will they go out now? How about now? Now? I’ve been prepared for the death of the battery. RIP 8:35pm.

Day 6: I’m actually afraid to look in my fridge. I think all is lost but I also think I just can’t face the mess. A brown sludge is oozing from the corner of the fridge. My kitten is happily licking it. At work we’ve got a little generator now cooking, which keeps our server and computers alive. I accidentally try to print something though for my noon presentation to multiple donors and the generator blew up. Power was lost for the rest of the afternoon.

Day 7: Power lines still on the ground? Check. Today we get a break though, because my friends and I leave Gulu and travel for the night to the Rhino Sanctuary. (Pretty cool, FYI)

Day 8: Back to Gulu and we discover that the water in the house is now gone. I have a reserve tank that I guess is now emptied. It’s jeri can splash baths from here on out. Ugh.

Day 9: It’s Monday and after a splash bath I head to the office to discover that power has returned. No it hasn’t. Yes it has. No it hasn’t. Yes. No. Generator on. Off. On. Off, etc. At home I briefly enter the fridge and extract a very fuzzy avocado. Luckily, Jeanne, who has a big government generator, has offered refuge. We eat fish tacos and drink ICED dawas (a Kenyan mojito). I haven’t imbibed anything but room temperature liquids. Ice rocks! We attempt to install a generator at my house, but the battery back-up system (RIP) will not allow it. Jose (pronounced “Joe-say”) the electrician isn’t picking his phone, which is a common response when expertise is needed at a clutch moment in Gulu. I briefly entertain calling Tonny, the café’s barista and amateur electrician, but then I just go to bed with my brain playing “no power no power no power.”

Day 10: I leave Gulu for Kampala. Woo hoo! So long Gulu, hello SERENA HOTEL. So long jeri can bucket bathe, hello infinity pool. I limp into reception complaining to everyone who asks that Gulu is not very ok. “The power is not there,” I say. They try to look sympathetic, but I guess like most things, the north-south divide applies to this situation too. A few days break from no power…ahhhhhh.

Turkish Delight

Ugh. I feel like one of those poser travelers I used to make fun of for earnestly scribbling in their journal while overlooking some majestic holiday site. I’m in Istanbul and gazing over the hustle and bustle of seafaring traffic on the Bosporus while having my breakfast. Nice life. But wait, here’s the thing, two things actually…the first is that I’m traveling alone and the second is that I’ve arrived so early here that my room’s not ready. I’d like to get out there and see the city, but I’ve got 30 minutes to kill before I can brush my teeth. Hence posery blog.

When the sun came up in Istanbul the first thing I noticed was…the food on my plate. The great thing about living in Uganda is that when I travel, the food is always so much better. Sorry Uganda, but you know it’s true. While I should be plotting my course to the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia I’m instead marveling at the feta, the yogurt, the little square pastry thingy that’s singing in my mouth right now. The divine cherry jam goes great with the no-chance-in-hell-it’s-weak Turkish coffee. Food glorious food!

This simple breakfast, this pause ‘til my room is ready, has become a celebration of my journey. Leaving Gulu yesterday felt stupid and stressful. We’re so so busy with closing down the project and moving plans. I did plan this trip before I knew the project was closing a month early and it is for my mom’s 60th birthday, but still. Things are nuts. I was feverishly typing my inputs to our final report in the car from Gulu to the airport. As I was putting on socks for the first time in months, all I was thinking was: I hate the project indicators but have to demonstrate impact. I’ve got to write niceties for some of our “challenging” projects and just can’t bring myself to do it. All the while, the paranoid traveler in me is worrying about plane crashes and transfers and making sure my mom gets to Paris and worrying about my dog’s plane ride to America. Strangely, the only thing I’m not bothered about is being alone in Istanbul. It’s only a day.

But I got on the plane and the holiday began with the catchy little Turkish airlines ditty immediately entrenching itself in my head: “We are Turkish Airlines…” I arrived at 5am and although I couldn’t see much I was already struck and delighted by the different air and trees and all of the water that flows around Istanbul between the continents. I cannot imagine life without the calming, billowing banana trees as far as the eye can see in Uganda. But looking at Turkish nature I realize that maybe other trees are cool too.

The sun is now up and it’s time to blitz the city. I’ve got 24 hours to visit thousands of years of Istanbul. Ok, maybe just a site or two this trip. But first I shall have another bite of this sesame bagel-like bready thing, with cherry jam and feta on top. Yum!

Beel Please

The other day I was at Abola La Pok with Hayden, Coy and Robi. We go there a lot for lunch, especially since Diana Gardens was overtaken by evangelicals. We ordered and then all laughed together about the very particular way one must order in Gulu to get what you want the fastest way possible.

For starters, you can never go right into ordering, something that a hungry New Yorker just doesn’t get. Instead, greetings must occur or else the server becomes completely unnerved. Ugandans are truly the most polite people on the planet.

“Hello”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” (although I didn’t ask you how you were yet, I just said hi)

Once greetings conclude you must then establish what food is ready. Normally one might use a menu for this type of thing, but menus are more inspirational than factual in Gulu. For example, the cheeseburger on the menu sounds good, but has never, ever been available. Other items could be available eventually, but certainly not in the lunch hour. So the server recites the items that the chef has prepared in advance.

“What is ready now?”
“We have goat’s stew, chicken stew, beef stew. We have potatoes. Rice.”

Once you get this list, you must probe further, because the initial recitation is often incomplete.

“Do you have malakwang (spinach in peanut sauce)?
“It is not there.”
“Do you have sweet potatoes?”
“They are not yet ready.”
“Do you have beans?”
“Beans are there.”

When you are sure you have the complete list of available items, it’s time to order. Now some words of caution. You must order 1 dish that is considered a main dish by Ugandan standards and 1 starch. You cannot, say, order chicken and beans and potatoes. Well you can, but you will be asked to select another starch and two meals will be delivered. You can’t order starch alone, say just an order of chips, without considerable effort.

“Can I have chips?”
“Chips?”
“Yes chips.”
“Plain chips?”
“Yes, plain chips and nothing else please.”
“Ok please” (eyebrow raise) He or she usually walks away confused and/or laughing.

The other ordering no no is ordering for two people at once. If you say for example that you want 1 beans, 1 chicken, 1 rice and 1 potato and that you want it for you and the person standing next to you, you will receive 2 plates of chicken, 2 beans, two rice and two potatoes. Given the portion sizes here, that’s enough for about 10 people. It is possible to order for two, say if you’re trying to impress your Gulu date. But it has to be done a particular way.

“I would like 1 beans and rice” …wait for server to scribble down the order and make eye contact again.
“And the madam will have 1 chicken stew and 1 potato.”

Once you’ve got your food order down, you can order your drink, which is straightforward. One word of caution if you order juice though: you must pronounce it “jeweese.” The good news is that if you follow these simple rules, the food comes pretty quick.

A side note on condiments: Acholi/Ugandan food is not known for its culinary nuance, but there are 3 condiments usually available to help boost the flavor: salt, Top Up Ketchup and Top Up Chili Sauce. The Top ups are gelatinous, florescent blobs of artificial flavor that make new arrivals retch. But to us seasoned folks (ha!) we rely on these and use all three with reckless abandon.

When you’re finished, asking for the check may also cause a little confusion. If you ask for the bill, the server may bring you a “Bell beer.” So make sure you pronounce what you want clearly and ask:

“Can I have the beel please.”
“Ok please.”

Gulu Vignettes

I’ve been running around a lot lately, trying to pull things together for the big move. I haven’t had much blog time. However, I’ve been blogging in my head and finally have a moment to jot a few things down.


Boomin’ System
Last night I was startled awake at 3am by music so loud that it shook my windows and I thought: “My goodness, that’s a really good sound system.” The quality of speakers in Africa is always top notch in fact. There’s a quality of sound, say for example when Michael Bolton’s silly songs are blaring, that could not be duplicated even if the man himself was performing at a Six Flags concert. Speakers are the modern expression of the African fondness for loud pulsating rhythms and magnificent, fiery speeches. Speakers are the new drums.

There are many questions that I lay thinking about when the speakers are booming. I’m past angry. That was year 1 until I realized that there ain’t no noise police in Gulu. I wonder, how come the power never goes out at 3am? How come, when everything else is a cheaply made Chinese import, the speakers are clearly Bose of the highest German standard? I wonder and wonder and wonder how people can stand being in the same room as those speakers for hours. Weddings can blare music for a solid 24 hours. Do people ever talk at weddings here?!

It’s not just night time events, but speakers are also well used at day events. When I was budgeting for all of my projects, I always had to include a line for a PA system. Even for a “traditional” fireside chat or “Wang oo,” the chiefs insisted that a PA system be dragged under the mango tree.

There is also the call to prayer, Africa style. Generally it’s the same as anywhere – the guy on the mic has an incredible stamina as we know. But once again, I am amazed that in Africa, where we often don’t have water or power or dairy products, the call echoes across the town with splendid crispness. When I worked at NRC my office was right next to the Mosque and I was often amused at the in-between prayer time mic use. The guy clearly loved his air time and could be heard randomly praising God or sound checking throughout the day.

Tonight is pub quiz night in Gulu which inevitably means big noise at the latest hippest club in town, located only a few hundred meters from my house. I look forward to lying in bed and singing along to Gaga. “Can’t read my, can’t read my. No he can’t read my pokerface, pokerface…”

Dog Capella
Staying with night time themes, I must write about things that go bump in the night in Gulu. When I lived on 8th Avenue and 18th street, I got used to the city traffic. Garbage collection, it turns out, happens around the clock. One perseveres. In the countryside, it’s mostly quiet, but there are some exceptions, usually involving wild life. Frogs, invisible plentiful frogs chirp at an incredible volume. What’s weirder is that they only seem to chirp on rainy nights. (That’s probably not weird to people who know about frogs.) They seem to sprout in water. That’s how I imagine it anyway. Sort of like seahorses I picture them as little African sun-burnt embryos that instantly become adult frogs with a deluge of rain.

By far, the most significant night time noise is dog crooning. Although the initial torrent of dog barking startles the crap out of me and makes me angry, once I’m awake, I’m somehow amused. Usually my dog Issac is the instigator. He’s got a really deep Johnny Cash bass bark. I imagine that a small noise, such as a tree branch rustle, gets him bellowing, which sets off the 4 million other dogs that live in a 100 meter radius of the house. Everyone chimes in. There’s the call and response bark: Issac barks and then the neighbor’s dog barks and then Issac and then neighbor’s dog, etc. There’s the bark down the lane, where you can literally hear the bark transfer from dog to dog to dog all the way down the street to the Acholi Inn a half a mile away. By far, the most impressive midnight dog communication is the 17 part harmony of the dog cappella. A single combined wail from all those dogs thunders through the air in perfect harmony, complete with semi tones, fifths and octaves. A giggle even escapes my mouth when the little guy from the compound next store chimes in. He’s a high soprano and really goes for it – hitting the legendary high F over C no problemo.

The chorus usually stops abruptly once everyone gets a good diaphragm stretch in. Silence returns…until the asshole rooster who can’t tell time, starts cocka doodle doodling at 4:30am. I hate roosters!


Mosqweeto Net
Mosquitoes, as we know, suck. Their malarial venom takes no prisoners. Without a doubt it is the one living organism on this continent, nay planet, which I do not hesitate to extinguish. (Ok, maybe roosters too – KFC anyone?)
Malaria is a terrible illness that is as commonplace as the flu here, except far more deadly. I thought it was an inevitable right of passage to get it until I got it. I loved that the doctor turned to me and asked, “Do you realize how sick you are?” Uh, yeah. Thanks.

It’s terrible and deadly and a cure needs to be found asap, because most people here don’t have the luxury to afford the medical treatment that I had. Although available, treatment is expensive and often means choosing meds over meals. There is nothing worse than seeing a two year old stricken with malaria. The light goes out in their eyes and the agony is so great that they can’t even cry or complain. They just lay limp in their mother’s arms waiting for relief and wondering why mommy hasn’t made it better. Sigh.

So obviously a mosquito net (Ugandans pronounce it “mosqweeto” which always cracks me up) is essential. It keeps the screaming killers at bay. It keeps a lot of things at bay I have learned. There are many, rather significant creepy crawlies here that penetrate the bedroom: geckos (and their plentiful poo), spiders, mothra-sized moths, rodents (although with 5 cats in the house I don’t see those guys anymore) and countless nameless insects that don’t understand boundaries. So when I tuck in at night I feel like I’m wrapping up in a force field and it helps me sleep better knowing there will be no unexpected company in my bed.

Lately, however, the net feels more like an iron curtain, an impenetrable shroud, a yoke I can no longer bear. It reminds me of when I was in Iran and had to wear the veil. I didn’t mind it so much at first. I picked out a really cute green silk one and rocked the eye liner, Angelina Jolie-style. But at the end of the day that thing felt like lead on my head. I used to run from the lift to my hotel room, slam the door and fling it across the room.

The net feels that way now. It’s kind of my fault. I was lazy and didn’t install a less intrusive walk-in net. I opted for the kind you have to let down and tuck in every night and tie up every morning. Every night for over 3 years, I’ve been letting that sucker down and tucking it in. When I stay at the Serena, famous for its fabulous beds, I think my favorite part is reveling in a net free night. (Apparently mosquitoes aren’t allowed into the five star Serena.)

Now that I’m leaving my patience is dwindling. It’s too late for the walk-in net. So I tuck and I untuck and tuck again. I can’t wait to not need a net!

Aspiration

After the self-flagellation of my last blog, I’m going back to my sentimental, slightly superficial and silly style of blogging.

I want to write about my Gulu friends, who I adore. On Friday, my good friends Erin and her husband Scott hosted a costume party for her birthday, entitled “Who did you want to be when you grew up?” The only instruction given was that we could not show up as snarky disgruntled aid workers. After much fretting about choices, costume potential and suggestions from others (Princess Leia, Jane Fonda, etc) I settled on Daisy Duke. I should add a sheepish caveat to protect my inner Vassar girl, but I suspect I’m not the only smart, angry post-fem gal who liked Daisy. She was hot and very very nice. Besides, she just edged out my other perhaps more obvious fem hero, Wonder Woman, because nude tights and red boots were simply too much costume preparation.

This got me thinking though that while I loved these two ladies (and donned their Underoos with energy and pride as a kid), I don’t know that I imagined myself as them when I grew up or just liked to pretend to be them in the moment. Then I started to panic, because I really couldn’t remember wanting to be anything when I grew up. Perhaps I was in the now as a child. I cannot recall wanting to be a brain surgeon (in Jeanne’s case), a gas pumper (in Hayden’s case, despite protests from his cousins that he would not make enough money), a rock star (Coy) or a sea princess (in Erin’s wonderful, fantastical case.)

As I sit at my desk in Gulu pondering my next move and semi-urgently scan the internet for jobs, I’m really not sure where I’m headed. Part of me wants to shift gears dramatically and start a bead business and help Emily’s mom and the gang create something more sustainable. Part of me wants to take up Erin Baines’ offer of a few months as a fellow at UBC, sheltered from distraction in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and finally write something a little more substantial than a blog. Part of me wants to find the perfect career step up - as I imagine it now – a mix of project management and administrative responsibility that sees me headed to the field but based in the States. Part of me wants to chill and not have a next move yet. Part of me wants something that seems impossible to obtain…

The fact is that I have no idea what's next for me. I’m not even sure where the heck I’m going to stick my dog when I get home. Will Maggie and the cats cede some temporary space for him at 3 North Drive or will Jeter and I be hanging at the Motel 6 on Route 18?? While it feels a bit late to ask the question, “what do I want to be when I grow up?” I wonder if there is ever a point at which one knows the answer to that question. Is that what life’s like these days...or is it just me?

I really love my friends in Gulu. When I was at a wedding in Houston in May, a woman who spent her whole life in Iowa asked me if I had any friends. I looked at her in surprise, but then saw it from her perspective of ancient friendships developed over years. Indeed there is some sacrifice to the pace of friendships here in Gulu, but I think the sincerity of friendships remains the same. On Saturday, hungover and craving bacon, Mollie and I set off after dark to the evening vegetable stalls in the center of Gulu to find some veggies to make us feel less guilty about the bacon. I had never been there after dark before. I turned to Mollie and said “I’m having fun.” She seemed confused, perhaps because she didn’t hear me or perhaps because I don’t usually utter such happy phrases. I explained that it was cool to be walking with her in a funky evening market, surrounded by Africa.

The best costume of the night went to our resident laugh track, Amy, who came impeccably dressed as Hulk Hogan. An honorable mention goes to Mollie as a gold medal ice skater. She had very convincing hair and posture. We sort of have a post-tequila pact not to post pictures online, but I figure the ones below are ok, because they were pre-tequila.

Choices

Part of me uses this blog as a reminder of all of the good news that’s here in Gulu and to help me step away from the daily difficulties. I guess it is a coping mechanism. Challenging myself to find the lighter, fun moments amidst some heavy experiences is not easy. I also like to write about the escapist, superficial moments here that perhaps shed light on an unexpected version of Africa. Hence blogs about humping lions, my dogs, matches, etc. But life is tough here for people and I don’t always make the right decision in handling these challenges. Sometimes I avoid them. I must record these moments too. Here’s some samples of bad and selfish decisions I’ve made recently:

A couple of days ago I told a man that I absolutely could not give him a single penny more of assistance. When he asked, “even milk for the baby?” I said still said no, but could barely meet his eyes. His wife died of cancer a couple of weeks ago and he appeared one day at my office in tears asking me for some assistance, because he worked at Norwegian Refugee Council with me. Although I did not know him (NRC had 600 employees) I gave him money. Twice. This time, as I thought about my impending departure, I thought it was better to cut this guy off now instead of building up expectations. I don’t know why I decided I could not spend another penny on him. But I did and in moment I did so without hesitation and with a clarity that I now ponder. Would 20,000 Ugandan shillings ($10) really have stretched me? No, of course not. But it would have really helped him.

A woman I really admire asked me for some assistance with a dance competition she is hosting soon. I’ve been ducking her phone calls for 2 weeks. I love this woman Christine. She’s been the closest thing to a local friend I have had here. But I didn’t want to give her the money. Unlike the baby’s milk, Christine was asking for a substantial amount. I’m avoiding her, because I don’t want to have a relationship with her that involves money. I don’t want to change the way we feel about each other. Somehow giving her money would remove a level playing field. Of course, that field has never been level.

Yesterday I overheard Hayden giving Stephen 15,000 Ugandan shillings or about $7.50. I was enraged and confronted him about it. “Why did you sneak Stephen money? Didn't you read my blog?” Hayden looked at me slightly startled and simply said “He needed to buy some paper.” The conversation ended and for the life of me I could not figure out what Hayden had done wrong or why it had bothered me.

A while back I had a conversation with Johnson, my hapless, alcoholic guard/gardener who I struggle to keep employed despite his many disappointments. The conversation went like this:

“Johnson, why are you two and a half hours late?”
“Jessica, sorry, but the baby’s sick in the hospital with malaria.”
“Oh, is he ok?”
“Yes. He is improving.”
“Well next time, you need to call and inform me that you’re going to be late.”

My goodness. I remember walking away from that conversation thinking thank god no one heard that exchange. I felt terrible about it. I was so cold with him. Maybe I even signaled that my life was more important than his, than his baby’s. Like you see in a movie, I treated Johnson like a servant and this was not the first time.

This morning on CNN there was a story about child labor that focused on an 8 year old goat herder. I was practically rolling my eyes over the story. “Big friggin deal,” I actually said out loud, “we see that every day and then some here in Gulu.” Yikes.

I guess this is some sort of confessional. I’ve made it clear that living here is tough, but I constantly exonerate my behavior. Part of the reason I need to leave for a while is to recalibrate my relationship with Africa. I want to keep the passion and dedication to the work, but I want to lose the neocolonial chip on my shoulder. I don’t want to lobotomize my engagement with the continent, like many I have seen here do. But I don’t want to blurt out vaguely racist statements I’ve heard myself say recently like “everyone here is so damn corrupt and this place is broken!” That’s not ok.

Stephen

On Friday I had an upper wisdom tooth pulled. Luckily it had mostly descended anyway and the dentist assured me it was a simple extraction. And he was right. Despite images of goats and chickens traipsing the waiting room, I found a very modern office with x-rays beamed directly to the computer next to my chair and a delightful expert dentist.

The anticipation of the tooth extraction on the other hand was not delightful. My trepidation grew exponentially to the point at which I was in silent hysterics by the time the pliers came into view. To try and keep from leaping up out of the chair, I relied on two things a.) the tooth hurt so bad I had no choice b.) distraction techniques. I had xanax with me, but feared it might clash with whatever drugs he would give me and that was too much of an anxiety sandwich to stomach. So I started blogging in my head and decided that I needed to tell Stephen’s story.

Stephen is another beneficiary from the bead sales. With the money I collected, I bought him a bike. A bike in northern Uganda is like a car. It is a critical people and stuff mover that a household is lucky to have, because few own them. Stephen is one of my “employees” at the café. To capture the unique experience that is Stephen, I usually introduce him as the future President of Uganda. He’s cute as a button, charming and very very ambitious. With only his grandmother and little brother as family, Stephen is the head of the house at age 16, which sadly is not that uncommon in Gulu. Stephen handles this tough deal of the deck with hard work that is sometimes above board and sometimes not.

Stephen looks like he’s about 12 and it’s funny to watch people come into the café and gawk in stifled horror at the child laborer I’ve employed. For those who actually verbalize their concern, we assure them that he’s 16 (although in desperate need of a growth spurt) and only comes to the café after work for two hours and half days on the weekend. In fact we had to argue with Stephen about this. He was turning up all the time and I did fear he might be ditching school to hang out at the café. I quickly explained to him that the future President had to graduate from secondary school and would do so under the café’s watchful eyes. And by eyes, I mean that all seven of us at Café Larem watch out for Stephen. I told him that he had seven mothers. He tried to look pleased with this, but couldn’t mask his fear. Exactly like I like it!

I was introduced to Stephen by Hayden who has a history of picking up random people who need work and pawning them off on me. Recently he tried to get his ex-landlord’s son a job with me. I explained that with two gardeners, a housekeeper and several extraneous café workers there was simply no other job I could dream up at this stage. Hayden met Stephen while working alongside the US Military’s Veterinarian contingent. (An aside: yes, apparently there is a Vet wing of the US Military that works on the hearts and minds of farm animals.) Stephen had embedded with them as their errand boy and when they left after a few months, he let Hayden inherit him, who naturally turned him over to me. I hired him as the café’s busboy. It’s the perfect job for him. He gets a steady income moving some dishes around and generally picking up for the other staff. The other staff love it, because they give him all the jobs they hate.

When you meet Stephen it’s hard not to squeeze his cheeks and cuddle him immediately. In fact, a few minutes into meeting him you are not even paying attention to him, because you’re going through adoption strategies in your head. He’s extremely well spoken and perfectly fluent in English. His eyes and his feet are way too big for his body. And he’s usually wearing his favorite t-shirt “too cool for school.” Indeed.

The downside of Stephen’s cute ambition is that he’s always working multiple angles for stuff. Small stuff mostly, but it adds up when you factor in all the other non-essential employees on the payroll. “Can you buy me an extra pair of shoes, a bell for my bike, a chicken for my grandmother?” But then he reached too far and asked me, Hayden, Mollie and Apolo separately for school fees, school fees already paid for by Watoto Church. In addition to busting him, I told him that I provided him with a regular salary, that he better stop asking me for extras and that I was in communication with the others so he better not try to pull a fast one like that again. It’s especially exasperating, because it’s difficult to resist his fleecing when he casts those doe eyes in your direction. "Just one chicken for grandma" "No!" You see how difficult!

So the way I broke my own rule about helping Stephen too much was by bringing in the bead money. I thought that it would be very important for him to understand that this was not my money, and because it was from good people donating to a good cause he was not to take it lightly. I also made him match the gift with his own money. We agreed that the cost of the bike would be split 50-50 between the bead money and his café salary. He agreed to have half of his salary deducted each month in order to meet the match. After two months, I forgave him the remaining debt, so the split is more like 80-20, but I felt that was a reasonable cost share.

He is in love with his bike. And he’s still hard at work for us at the café. It has given him wonderful freedom of movement that will last long after I leave, which makes me relieved and happy. Thanks everyone for your help with a boy who’s going places (on a bike!)

Cool Cats

Apologies for the double safari blog but I realize I didn’t write a blog about the trip to Murchison I took with my boys, Babu and Samson, along with our friends Inbal and Pierre. We planned this trip well in advance based on the boys’ boarding school holidays. I also planned it because the next time they’re home I may be gone or going – a thought that fills me with guilt. I know the boys are also thinking about my departure with great anxiety.

I love hanging out with these boys. I have a parent-friend hybrid relationship, which means I can boss them around and download their latest hip hop music. It also fascinates me that despite the fact that these two kids are orphans and grew up night commuting to escape LRA abduction, they're really not much different than teens in the US. They’re tortured by puberty. Babu is a ladies’ man. It’s funny, because he’s not a big talker, but he’s got game. Samson is a mama’s boy or would be if he had a mom. He shares his feelings and even calls me often from school for no reason. Unfortunately, he does not have game. The other day I introduced the concept of a stalker to him as a preventative strategy. He wants a girlfriend badly and is clearly stuck in the friend zone.

As a semi-parental figure, I’m very lucky that I only receive about 30% of their potential attitude capabilities. I can almost see them reeling in the attitude and mortification when I do something that embarrasses them. We went to visit them at school recently and they were squirming when I made them pose with me for a picture in front of their friends. The mere fact that I wasn't using their cool new school names (Sammy and Ricky) was killin them. I loved it!

Another universal trait of a teenager is selfishness mixed with greed, or rather the “need” to acquire stuff. I kinda like this trait though. It's very different from the crippling corruption plaguing everyday life in Africa. These kids aren’t swindling me; they just want to be cool around their friends. The other reason I like it (and perhaps parents of teens will concur) is because I have to admit that I like spoiling them...within reason.

Samson and I got into it the other day. He called me from school and asked me to buy him a pair of shoes. I immediately refused. I told him I would buy him the wrong pair and besides he’d be home in a few weeks. He insisted, I relented and guess what? He hated them. The conversation went like this:

So what did you think of the shoes?
Well Jess, they’re not really ok.
Damn it Samson! I told you! I’m taking them back and you’re not getting another pair!
Jess…that’s not fair

Aha! The universal teenage anthem: that's not fair. I had to fight to keep the smile off my face.

So we entered the safari park and I laid out the rules 1) no ipods on safari 2) internet after dinner only. These rules had to be reiterated throughout the trip. “Babu, isn’t that giraffe cool?” “Babu?” “Damn it Babu I said no ipod!”

They loved it though. Despite the park being in their backyard their whole lives, this was the first time they had been there. I had to pry a bit for monosyllabic responses. “Wasn’t that lion cool?” “Yeah.” Did you enjoy the boat ride?” “Yeah.”

I think teenage boys are kind of like cats. (Sigh…crazy cat lady alert.) Cats often like to be near you, but they do not necessarily require physical contact or your undivided attention. The night we returned from safari, the boys came over. They didn’t talk much. Their ipods were blaring and they were combing through facebook. But they hung out all night and hugged me when they left.

Safari...boring

We’re in the last month of implementation for our project, which closes in December. I’ll leave Gulu in December after 3 ½ years, a thought that thrills me and fills me with anxiety. I manage 10 projects, which means I manage program content, logistics and administration for each. It’s been nuts. Mostly in a good way. I’ve taken part in mediation, peace days, early child care development, trainings, etc. And sometimes it’s been nuts in not so good ways: one partner has fired all of its staff and another has somehow misplaced 65 million Ugandan shillings (about $32,000).

So, as I headed back to the lovely Paraa Safari Lodge for oil dialogue number 2, I was distracted. We were supposed to leave Gulu at 2pm, but in addition to work distractions, there were the inevitable life distractions. I suppose it’s probably not that different from suburban living in the US, at least as I imagine it. I’m quite settled in Gulu. I know a lot of people in the community and am very involved in the daily hustle and bustle. This first dawned on me one evening after I got back from Christmas break in the US. I was walking my dog on our usual loop and a woman weeding her potato patch looked up and said, “welcome back,” even though we had never spoken before.

On the way out of town, I stopped at the Café for a quick drop off of bread and found Stephen, our 16 year old bus boy/manager semi-coherent and quite feverish. We piled him in the car and went to the clinic for malaria treatment. Of course the malaria test came back negative. It’s always negative, but with a 103 temp, headache and all the other hallmarks, they started him on treatment anyway. Once assured that Stephen would survive, we finally left Gulu. I tucked into my computer, bringing my head up briefly as we broke off from the tarmac road and entered the dirt road that led to the park. Before I had time to finish sifting through all of my offline email, I found myself suddenly approaching the Lodge. It felt like the quickest trip from Gulu. I’m sure it took the normal three hours, but on other occasions the trip felt longer, because my nose is usually pressed to the window spying for elephants, giraffes and maybe, just maybe, the wayward lion. I walked into the majestic, faux colonial hallways traipsed with dark mahogany pillars and superfluous colonial gear such as pith helmets and ornate looking glasses. As the view of the Nile appeared from the Lodge’s porch, I started to remember how freaking awesome this place is.

The oil meeting went well. My boss from DC arrived at noon. We’re excited for his visit. We have a lot to show him. The oil company gave another slick presentation. FYI, Uganda has a lot of oil. An estimated 2 billion barrels has recently been discovered. Ye-gads, I can only imagine the challenges ahead.

The first night I had a wee bout of food poisoning (not cypro level, but definitely immodium level). My boss and Hayden were getting up for the 6am game drive, but I thought that I would skip it to rest up and attend the last day of meetings. Besides, I just did the game drive two weeks ago with Samson and Babu. It’s cool and all, but how many giraffe shots can one take?

There is, however, a tugging allure about game drives. They’re addictive. During a drive, which is 85% uneventful, you’re always thinking that around the next bend you might strike safari gold and see an elephant wrestling a hippo while a giraffe is giving birth. So I decided to go…just in case. We were already far away from the lodge as the sun rose to full daylight. We saw lots and lots of giraffes. It turns out you can’t get enough giraffe shots. They’re just so cool. They run in slow motion! We asked our guide Dennis, who has worked in park for 14 years, to find us elephants and lions. He gave a coy remark that made me think, ugh, I should have stayed in bed. We drove and drove and saw not much other than the usual smattering of antelope.

But then unexpected treasures began to appear. We went off road to look for lions. No such luck. But we did spot two Ugandan crested cranes, the beautiful national bird. In three years here I had never seen one. A few minutes later Dennis spotted a leopard in a tree. I can’t find the words to describe this moment. Extraordinary? Surreal? Yes and yes.

After watching the leopards, we were satisfied. Anything else would be a bonus. And bonuses there were. Every kilometer or so a new gaggle of giraffes posed for us like something straight out of National Geographic. And then…the biggest prize of all, the king of the jungle himself appeared. When you see a lion in Murchison it’s sort of like crossing the finish line or hitting a home run. You exhale massively, with your arms shaking up in the air over your head in triumph while making (muted) whoops of joy. We found a male and female literally in the middle of the road and they were doing IT. I got some good lion porn video! So cool. We even got a shot of the lions with a giraffe in the background. It was a lion king moment.

As we raced back to catch the final session of our meeting, (yes, we ditched a little…but only a little!) we clapped each other on the back and assured one another that we were not that late and that we’d catch the elephants on the way out of the park. Just as we approached the lodge, a bit in the distance, we spotted a group of elephants. And scene.

So yeah, safaris are not boring at all. They rock and I’m a lucky ducky!

Bead Connection

Yesterday, I finally met the women beaders who supply my famous recycled paper beads. I’ve been selling them in clandestine nooks of family gatherings this year, like a dodgy watch salesman sells out of his coat. It’s been fun to see my family and friends get excited about the paper beads of northern Uganda. They appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty, and have even now begun to hone in on the latest styles our women beaders provide us. Most of all they appreciate the story that goes along with the beads. Buying these necklaces from me at weddings and showers is giving back to a group and community that really needs it, which I hope exonerates me from the watch salesman association. The best part is that unlike so many other giving opportunities that are heartfelt and important but inevitably go in one direction from the sympathetic donor to the needy recipient, this is an even exchange. There is a wonderful product that people genuinely go ga ga for sold at an honest price by ladies who put in a hard day’s work. Such an exchange between the women of America and the women of Uganda is rare.

I promised the women I sold the beaded necklaces to that I would provide the story of the women who made them, along with pictures. My mother often says to me that she just can’t picture Gulu. Indeed, it’s difficult to imagine Africa if you haven’t been there. There are the terrible pictures of suffering that make it to the news, albeit not often enough. But there’s more to Africa. It is poverty and suffering, but it is also vibrant and active and full of people enjoying life, even if it’s hard. The following is a brief glimpse at the beading ladies that I hope helps bring their lives and work into sharper relief.

When I met the women yesterday they were late and some never showed. The reason is that they had to walk for miles to meet me. They organize themselves at my housekeeper Emily’s mother’s homestead. Some are immediate neighbors, but one of the women who arrived late, Beatrice, had walked 10 miles in the blazing sun to meet me. I felt guilty when I saw the sheen of sweat formed all over her face. Then I remembered the package of money I was carrying and knew that while it might not sustain them forever, at least Beatrice would not have to walk home today.

The women who were absent were still digging in the field. It is difficult to expect people to turn up to a meeting before noon. It’s even irresponsible to request such a thing, because it’s planting season and people wake at first light, grab their garden ho, strap their babies to their backs and head to the field. They dig simply with a single ho for hours until the sun’s intensity (Uganda is directly on the equator) prevents them from any further work. I realize that when I read stories of pioneers in America digging on their farms, I have actual visuals now. An ox plough, an antiquated farming instrument we imagine frontiers people to have used, is like a tractor here. To acquire this antiquity is to launch oneself into a stratosphere that only a very few have reached in Gulu.

We gathered on the reed mat that had been spread out in front of the hut in anticipation of my arrival. In the village, the setting is simple, but somehow idyllic and certainly better than the refugee camps everyone was living in until 2008. The huts are usually built under a group of trees and because Uganda is so lush, there are sinewy shrubs and billowing banana trees framing the cleared plot like an enchanted forest. The women sit on mats, ceremoniously removing their shoes to keep it clean as one would from an expensive carpet, while the few chairs on the homestead are offered to the men and VIPS. (I always get a chair, because “foreign women are like men” I was told once. A compliment, I guess.) I was offered a chair on this occasion, but declined and stirred a bit of confusion when I joined them on the mat. I interviewed Emily’s mom, Catherine, who was the first to arrive. Emily was acting as translator, which was amazing to me. Three years and I still can’t speak the local language, and my poorly educated housekeeper offers this vital lifeline. But that’s Emily. She is the most dependable person in the world. I’ll try to upload the interview.

As each lady arrived, more questions were asked and the answers were given.

How did you learn how to make the beads? They paid a woman from Comboni Samaritan Sisters to train them.
How did you form the group? After the training, some never showed up again, but seven of them continue to bead together.
Where do you get the paper from? Donations from various non-profit organizations (NGOs) in town. Sometimes they have to buy it.
What are your biggest challenges? Access to a consistent market.

That they listed the challenge of a reliable market astounded me. I guess I expected to hear things like lack of capital or lack of transport. Also, the issue of market access is something my day job focuses on with great difficulty. Our economic security program teaches farmers about market access with painstaking and perpetual programming and still struggles to convey the concept. These women, who as far as I could see were not beneficiaries of any such formal development program, got it. Finally, I was amazed because this challenge was the thing foremost on my mind too. Many who have bought the necklaces from me have heard me say that although I am proud that the money goes directly to the women, I am concerned that my inconsistent ordering renders the “business” unsustainable. In this line of work, sustainability is that mythical unicorn we strive for. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so astounded. Perhaps that’s a tinge too condescending.

The conversation meandered over many topics, all the while the women sat with their heads down, focused on rolling the beads. I imagined that these women come together often to work and catch up on the latest gossip and news in the village. The social aspect of beading had never occurred to me until that moment. I suppose knitting circles would be akin to what I was watching. I also noticed that half of the members, like Emily’s mother and another lovely woman called Agnes were quite old. Most people in Gulu subsistence farm for a living, but obviously given the backbreaking labor required that is impossible for older people. I was pleased that beading provided these ladies with an occupation when so few were available to them anymore.

After three years in Africa, I have learned that many programs with great intentions have little real impact. Conversely I have learned that many other programs are extremely important and save lives, like hygiene or HIV/AIDS programs. Increasingly I have come to realize that focusing on livelihoods projects that offer sustainable occupations and income are critically important. In the US, we are at the receiving end of such programs, for example, when we buy “fair trade” items. Fair trade has become trendy and eases the guilt of our excesses, but I hope this story reminds us and informs us of what fair trade actually is striving for and how important the industry of fair trade really is. Of course, my beading exchanges are hardly an industry, but the general sentiment remains the same: making decisions to buy is contributing to a helpful hand up for communities in need while leveling the playing field a bit for developing countries.

As I departed, I said I would continue to avail them of their bead making services sporadically, but more importantly, I pledged to work with them to find a reliable market for their beads. I have no idea how I will do this. In turn, the women offered to cook me chicken before I headed back to the US in December. A chicken dinner is a pretty high honor, because they are so expensive and meat is only cooked on very special occasions at quite a sacrifice. I thanked them profusely for such a gesture and told them I would look forward to eating with them next time I visited.

Cafe Larem Update August

The day before Mollie left Gulu for 5 weeks, we fired our latest manager. We liked her, but we weren’t entirely sure of her value addition for some time. We had an intervention a few weeks before and gave her a very explicit list of things to do in the hopes that we’d see improvement. We didn’t.

Two days before Mollie left, Emily my housekeeper of three years and the Café’s pizza maker and shopper, came into my house in tears. This is extraordinary because showing much emotion isn’t Emily’s thing. In fact in three years I can’t remember ever seeing her upset. She got into a fight with the manager, cursed her mother (a big no no here, apparently) and swore never to go back to the café. I have a very small trusted circle in Gulu and Emily’s in it. She has never let me down. Mollie was with me on this and together we decided this was the catalyst for a cut and run with the manager. In her tenure, our expenses were up and sales were down. Nice lady. Nice time.

Sigh, what was I to do without a manager and much more importantly without Mollie?!

Well, three weeks in and we’re surviving. Letting the manager go strangely was like lifting a major weight off the café and off of me. Maybe our expectations were too high, but the silver lining is that I’ve actually relaxed a hell of lot since the manager left. It’s like, at least we know where our chips lay, as opposed to constantly second guessing. And the other staff have stepped up. Emily’s even more reliable and stepping up to newly assigned responsibilities. Perhaps this is pride (or remorse) for her stance on the manager. I’m not sure. Our temperamental barista has stepped up too. She’s still not talking to anyone, but she’s helping me and not not speaking to me for once. Tonny continues his very interesting feat as our resident café electrician. He has fixed an exploded stereo and both ice cream machines. He has designed Wine Bar lightening and spliced and diced wires to wonderful effect. Stephen rides his Café Larem-subsidized bike to Gulu hotels to deliver fliers to tour bus drivers. (Yes, tour bus drivers.) Alice, who’s been struggling, seems un-rebuffed (a word?) by a reduction in her hours and Jackie has stepped up to her increase in hours.

At the beginning of the year I would have expected us to have a lot more Ugandan customers by now, great advertisement campaigns, delivery service and be moving toward devolving ownership. These things will come or maybe not. For now, knowing that our food is consistently delicious, our staff can handle customers reasonably well and that we’re more or less in the black is good enough for me.

All Protocols Observed

One of the amazing customs in Uganda and across Africa I’m sure is speech making. Ugandans are extremely formal. The utmost respect is given to even the most minor of events or meetings. Men are in suits, women are in traditional dresses and all are impeccable. An agenda, or “program” as it is called here is always drafted, even for a meeting of two people or for a birthday party. I once popped in to Gulu University to get a quick update from the Librarian and found myself formally convened by a chair person (the librarian) and was referred to as “member” throughout the meeting (member of what, I so desperately wanted to ask.)

A speech in Uganda follows a certain structure. There is usually a bow to the dais before beginning a very long list of acknowledgments of all of the VIPs in attendance. In another place, the VIPs are usually kept to a small minority of specially recognized individuals, like say Ambassadors or the Guest of Honor. In Uganda, the acknowledgment section of the speech can sometimes be its longest part. I think this is in large part due to some neo-colonial mutation of the British class system, where everyone here has a title. Honorable Chair person of this event, of the local government, the deputy honorable chair person, honorable speaker, Ladit Rwot, Honorable woman MP, woman representative of the district production office, madam secretary, honorable donor representative, ladies and gentlemen, all protocols observed. Do you need to say that if you’ve actually observed all of the protocols?

Once everyone, and I mean everyone, is acknowledged, the speech begins with the phrase “I don’t have much to say.” This phrase makes me smile and cringe at the same time. Yes you do! You have a ton to say and you’re going to talk for as long as you’re allowed and you’re going to say things that were already said by the past 5 speakers and you’re going to say them nearly verbatim!

Despite my mocking, I admire the uniformity of events anchored by the speeches. Many people are good speakers. I can’t help but observe that oratory is one of those traits that has crossed over to African Americans somewhere along the way. Every once in a while you get a great speech. Mao, of course, is a famous speaker. The man can talk (as they say.) I always find myself at the edge of my seat as he deftly navigates the issue du jour. There is also the mythical parable usage. It’s not really mythical, but lately that’s the word I use to express my utmost respect and awe. The best way to capture the attention of the audience here is by incorporating a parable. My first and rather grand experience with this was when the Archbishop of northern Uganda addressed the UN Security Council and said “when elephants fight it is the grass that gets trampled.” What an impression he left! The lobotomized and playboys were in unison that day in their admiration for his impassioned pleas for the people of northern Uganda. My goal before I leave Gulu is to plausibly insert a relevant parable into a speech. I relish the thought of the moment I’ll do it and the guaranteed warm reception I will receive from the audience.

Many speeches, however, are a litany of dull regurgitations whose purpose is not to entertain or even to engage the audience. But rather the purpose is to stick lockstep within the protocols being observed and complete the important task bestowed upon them to elucidate the moment with their presence and prose and do so for as long as it takes or longer.

Of course, I’ve had to make plenty of speeches myself. It used to make me really panic – like heart rate increase and sweats panic. But now, I know that if I go an event that I’m somehow involved in its inception, I’m going to have to speak. My heart rate still accelerates a bit, but the element of surprise (that I’m expected to speak) is gone. As dull a speaker as I am, I cannot bear it if I think I’m losing my audience, so I over compensate by cutting my speech to mere minutes. It’s only recently that I noticed that this dumbfounds my audience. I think perhaps it is even a bit rude. Once I get my parable down, though, I’m going to be great. Or a bit more entertaining at least.

The speeches end as they begin, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t have much to say.” And sometimes, given either the gravity of the event or its profile, the speaker will end with a deadly serious, “For God and my country.” Exit stage left.