6:57am Awoken by Now Now the cat, who always wakes me up just at first light
7:34am Put water on for coffee, eggs on for cats (that’s right, I said it, eggs)
7:44am Take eggs to cats while fending off Now Now, whose vertical leap is 3’7’’
8:31am Jump in my 18 yr old vehicle that starts on the first turn over (woo hoo!) but who’s floor is sopping wet, because it rained last night (ugh.)
8:33am Arrive at the office a bit anxious about the meeting with the cultural leaders
8:34am Check facebook to distract me from the work. Alison’s in Dubai, Irene can feel the baby kick, Mick’s going home, and Jehan and Saad have Malaria.
9:04am Depart for meeting at the Acholi Palace
9:05am Call my gardener Johnson to ask him to retrieve some cow dung for the garden where I have just planted arugula, lettuce, broccoli and cilantro.
9:07am Stop abruptly at palace entrance because there is a nearly invisible rope across the drive way because there are workers digging the ditch for the fiber optic cable from Kenya
9:07am Arrive at the Acholi Palace and sit down in the middle of a dozen or so ancient chiefs
9:16am Call Acholi Prime Minister to ask if we were still planning to meet at 9am
9:30am Prime Minister arrives and we meet in his office. We are joined by the Program Manager for Ker Kwaro Acholi. The subject is the suspension of the project officer responsible for the “Culture as a Tool for Development” project KKA is implementing for us.
Meeting summary: the Project Officer is indisciplined. The worst they have ever seen. The problem is, I explain with fragile diplomacy, that he’s the only one that’s done any work. An awkward conversation ensues where I stubbornly refuse to look the program manager in the eye because I don’t think he’s doing any work. I also realize that Agnes and I have been played by the Project Officer who knows he’s the only one doing the work and has our support and therefore thinks he’s untouchable with his boss.
Meeting conclusion: They will write to the Project Officer to explain his crimes and misdemeanors and he will face the guillotine – I mean discipline panel – on Wednesday. Would it be terrible to remind everyone that Jesus rose this coming Sunday and the spirit of forgiveness should be profuse?
10:31am I wade through another group of chiefs, dressed in suits and leopard printed capes, with shields and depart the palace
10:37am Arrive back at the office to put the final touches on a first ever for SPRING grant cancellation that simultaneously breaks my heart and leaves me feeling resolved.
10:45am Ask my boss to sign the letter and then ask George to hand deliver the letter
10:51am Call my consultant Graham who answers the phone by saying “Are you sitting down?” Awesome. Bring it. He informs me that our Unpacking the P in PRDP partner has been quite obtuse in his presentation of the workplan on a research project whose deadline steadily approaches. I explain calmly (despite losing control of my limps which jitter and quake with each detail revealed by Graham) that I will send an email demanding that they complete section 2.1.3 of their grant agreement before proceeding to section 3.
11:14am Email to UPP partner sent, with conciliatory phrases like “worked hard and unearthed extremely interesting data” interspersed with passive aggressive phrases like “once we receive an update on these issues, we can move forward with the fund transfer request.”
11:15am Wondered why I came to work today
11:16am Told myself to buck up and get back to work
11:33am Checked yahoo email to find out that 7 of the 14 people I’m going away with this weekend had written a simple, non-committal email about logistics that further complicated and demanded from participants. I’m sure the weekend on the Ssesse Islands will be fun. No really! No, really really.
12:07pm Received a counter-signed cancellation letter from grantee
12:33pm Calculated pay roll for Café Larem not based on the “manager’s” calculations but on my own. Why are we paying him? His days may be numbered.
12:45pm Called Mollie to confer re pay roll. She shares my concerns about the manager.
1:07pm Depart for lunch via stop at my house where I confirm the cow dung dump (ha ha!) and scratch my dog on the belly for a few minutes, after which he shoves his nose in a big dirt pile and comes up white dog with a brown nose.
1:15pm Tuck into Diana Garden’s special: beans, rice, fried chicken with MSG and passion juice. Yum!
1:51pm Stop by the Café to pay who’s there and throw attitude at the manager
2:05pm Depart Café and trail behind a colleague speculating on her every move. Why did she need a driver to go to lunch? Who were those people she was with? Why did the car not turn left? Oh she must be going home? But she just passed her house. Oh, she’s going right. Interesting. I wonder what she’s up to. Swerve the goats, wave to the schmoopies “Munu, bye!!!”
2:10pm Arrive back at the office for more antics, I mean work.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
To be on time or not?
That is the question I ask almost every day in Gulu. If I know a meeting starts 1.5 hours late, do I show up on time to prove a point or do I cave and go when I think the meeting is going to start? If it’s the latter, am I reinforcing bad practices or supporting cultural realities?
I remember when I was a teenager and I learned about “CP time.” I just thought my mom was late when I was the last one picked from soccer practice every day. I didn’t realize that my mom was genetically and/or culturally predisposed to being late. I’m struggling now with how to nuance this blog with political correctness, but the fact of the matter in my experience (*nuance*) is that black people from Gulu to Philly are late.
Last evening I arrived back from a meeting in Lira and I asked Agnes for an update on the workshop we had planned with one of our partners for the following day. She said all systems were go. That was fine until I queried a bit deeper. It was 5:25pm and one of the presenters had not yet been briefed, the materials were not printed and it was yet unclear if the head of the partner organization would be present. At 6:12pm the partner called and assured me he’d be there. Good to know since people from far away were surely already on their way.
I have learned by now that things have a way of working out in the grassroots. To have faith and patience is key in these situations and since I have neither, I have employed chanting as a technique. My chant is simple but effective when I repeat it over and over: “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.”
This morning I arrived at work at 7:50am. No one else was there even though the workshop organizers were due to meet at 8am. The workshop, according to the agenda, was due to begin at 8:30am in a different location. At 8:15 Agnes arrived. I asked her, in a neutral to almost cheerful tone that I had rehearsed, if the materials had been printed, if our staffer had been briefed and if the program manager would open the workshop that was due to begin in 15 minutes. The answer was “uh, working on, yeah, ok, oh.”
Hmm. “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.” Nope, I couldn’t hold it. Impatience broke through: “Agnes, it’s 8:15 and our agenda says 8:30 start time. I guess this is an African start time.” Ahhh! Terrible I know!
But after this outburst, I felt better and switched to triage-ing. Triage-ing is one of the most important skills I use in grassroots programming. I asked her to shift the organizers meeting to the site of the workshop and to leave the materials with our office assistance. We arrived and I tried to look busy and nonchalantly distracted by preparing my speech. That didn’t work so I held brief individual consultations with each organizer to review their role for the day. At 8:45 I thought we were moving to begin but instead the organizers were called together to discuss the agenda.
We began at 9:25am, an hour after official start time, which is actually ok and even anticipated. I was able to exhale because we had the right combination of participants: enough chiefs, enough farmers, enough women, etc. and we were ready to go. The problem was my anxiety levels for those 55 minutes and indeed the 24 hours before were fluctuating between concerned and nuts. But glancing around, the participants look ready and eager and the organizers were off to a good start. So, aside from the stability and longevity of my mental health, no harm was done.
It’s now 1:10 pm and we’re just beginning the agenda item for the 10:15 am slot. I thought about trying to skip our tea break, but I have learned some time back just how incredibly insensitive that is. The people who came for this training may be chiefs and leaders, but they are still extremely poor and any opportunity to eat should not be denied. It is an insensitive privilege to think otherwise.
So we’re 3 hours behind, but I just watched one of the organizers give a pictorial representation of my program and of the opportunities for our farmer groups. Cool! “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.”
I remember when I was a teenager and I learned about “CP time.” I just thought my mom was late when I was the last one picked from soccer practice every day. I didn’t realize that my mom was genetically and/or culturally predisposed to being late. I’m struggling now with how to nuance this blog with political correctness, but the fact of the matter in my experience (*nuance*) is that black people from Gulu to Philly are late.
Last evening I arrived back from a meeting in Lira and I asked Agnes for an update on the workshop we had planned with one of our partners for the following day. She said all systems were go. That was fine until I queried a bit deeper. It was 5:25pm and one of the presenters had not yet been briefed, the materials were not printed and it was yet unclear if the head of the partner organization would be present. At 6:12pm the partner called and assured me he’d be there. Good to know since people from far away were surely already on their way.
I have learned by now that things have a way of working out in the grassroots. To have faith and patience is key in these situations and since I have neither, I have employed chanting as a technique. My chant is simple but effective when I repeat it over and over: “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.”
This morning I arrived at work at 7:50am. No one else was there even though the workshop organizers were due to meet at 8am. The workshop, according to the agenda, was due to begin at 8:30am in a different location. At 8:15 Agnes arrived. I asked her, in a neutral to almost cheerful tone that I had rehearsed, if the materials had been printed, if our staffer had been briefed and if the program manager would open the workshop that was due to begin in 15 minutes. The answer was “uh, working on, yeah, ok, oh.”
Hmm. “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.” Nope, I couldn’t hold it. Impatience broke through: “Agnes, it’s 8:15 and our agenda says 8:30 start time. I guess this is an African start time.” Ahhh! Terrible I know!
But after this outburst, I felt better and switched to triage-ing. Triage-ing is one of the most important skills I use in grassroots programming. I asked her to shift the organizers meeting to the site of the workshop and to leave the materials with our office assistance. We arrived and I tried to look busy and nonchalantly distracted by preparing my speech. That didn’t work so I held brief individual consultations with each organizer to review their role for the day. At 8:45 I thought we were moving to begin but instead the organizers were called together to discuss the agenda.
We began at 9:25am, an hour after official start time, which is actually ok and even anticipated. I was able to exhale because we had the right combination of participants: enough chiefs, enough farmers, enough women, etc. and we were ready to go. The problem was my anxiety levels for those 55 minutes and indeed the 24 hours before were fluctuating between concerned and nuts. But glancing around, the participants look ready and eager and the organizers were off to a good start. So, aside from the stability and longevity of my mental health, no harm was done.
It’s now 1:10 pm and we’re just beginning the agenda item for the 10:15 am slot. I thought about trying to skip our tea break, but I have learned some time back just how incredibly insensitive that is. The people who came for this training may be chiefs and leaders, but they are still extremely poor and any opportunity to eat should not be denied. It is an insensitive privilege to think otherwise.
So we’re 3 hours behind, but I just watched one of the organizers give a pictorial representation of my program and of the opportunities for our farmer groups. Cool! “It will work out. It will work out. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. It will work out.”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
“Should we talk about the weather?”
REM has really driven me crazy over the years. I used to interpret that line from “Pop Song ’89” as a way-existential and non-conformist rejection of trite and meaningless excesses. I still do, actually. But this phrase has really needled me over the years, because I find that I talk about the weather often and sometimes with great enthusiasm and interest. And every single time I do, I feel like I am betraying the way-existential and non-conformist rejectionism that has been my beacon since 1988. Damn you Michael Stipe!
This is a defensive prelude to the fact that it is H-O-T in Gulu. I know this is not a news flash, but I’ve been rather uncomfortable the last two days in particular. I was lying in bed last night under the net in my undies afraid to move because it would raise the temperature even more. My mosquito net seemed more impenetrable than usual – more like a mosquito iron curtain. My mom asked me how it was going yesterday and I weakly replied, “hot.” She laughed and said the enthusiasm I had for the extreme conditions of Gulu seemed to have waned quite dramatically.
The first dry season I spent in Gulu I couldn’t figure out why after lunch I was completely unable to get any work done until around 5pm. I literally drooped over my desk and stared at my computer screen, trying to will (without success) my mind to type until the sun started to set. Around 5pm, I experienced a dramatic physical rejuvenation. My back straightened and my email output increasing tenfold in a matter of minutes. I had an “a ha” moment too. I realized that Siesta in Spain wasn’t some lazy European, socialist holiday, but a truly necessary and weather-related pause to maximize one’s performance. (Of course they have air con in Spain now, so maybe my New York sensibilities aren’t too far off )
Two months into dry season, people become desperate and delusional. It’s so so hot and dry. Everything is cracked and I think this has some effect on our ability to process information. What’s worse is that this year’s countdown to rainy season was interrupted by a cruel trick of nature: it rained for a week in February. It was glorious and confusing. All of Gulu was buzzing and everyone was asking two questions “Is this really rainy season?” and “Should we plant now?”
During this rainy season mirage we convinced ourselves that the global climate change had shifted rainy season by a month and a half. My garden was starting to look like the Sahara and it was bringing me down, man. I decided to trust the new rainy season and plant some lettuce and herb seeds. I was conservative – kept a few packs back, but as I started to oogle the packs of thyme and coriander and arugula, it was hard to hold back. Salads at Café Larem would be a perfect decadent addition to the menu. So I sowed some seeds, beeyotch.
I am pretty sure climate change had something to do with the week of rain in Feb – it was around the same time as the Haiti earthquake. There is certainly more and more evidence that the seasons do not fall as they used to. However, given that it’s dried up again in Gulu, I think the change was not as dramatic as we had hoped. My sowed seeds are tucked away under dry grass nursery beds, so I think they’ll make it until the rain starts.
Oy, I never wanted it to rain so bad. I’ve been fantasizing about that moment when the clouds burst and a tremendous downpour floods everything and turns my white dog burnt sienna. As a control freak it is difficult to accept that there is absolutely nothing I can do to make the rain come.
Mercy! Let it come!
This is a defensive prelude to the fact that it is H-O-T in Gulu. I know this is not a news flash, but I’ve been rather uncomfortable the last two days in particular. I was lying in bed last night under the net in my undies afraid to move because it would raise the temperature even more. My mosquito net seemed more impenetrable than usual – more like a mosquito iron curtain. My mom asked me how it was going yesterday and I weakly replied, “hot.” She laughed and said the enthusiasm I had for the extreme conditions of Gulu seemed to have waned quite dramatically.
The first dry season I spent in Gulu I couldn’t figure out why after lunch I was completely unable to get any work done until around 5pm. I literally drooped over my desk and stared at my computer screen, trying to will (without success) my mind to type until the sun started to set. Around 5pm, I experienced a dramatic physical rejuvenation. My back straightened and my email output increasing tenfold in a matter of minutes. I had an “a ha” moment too. I realized that Siesta in Spain wasn’t some lazy European, socialist holiday, but a truly necessary and weather-related pause to maximize one’s performance. (Of course they have air con in Spain now, so maybe my New York sensibilities aren’t too far off )
Two months into dry season, people become desperate and delusional. It’s so so hot and dry. Everything is cracked and I think this has some effect on our ability to process information. What’s worse is that this year’s countdown to rainy season was interrupted by a cruel trick of nature: it rained for a week in February. It was glorious and confusing. All of Gulu was buzzing and everyone was asking two questions “Is this really rainy season?” and “Should we plant now?”
During this rainy season mirage we convinced ourselves that the global climate change had shifted rainy season by a month and a half. My garden was starting to look like the Sahara and it was bringing me down, man. I decided to trust the new rainy season and plant some lettuce and herb seeds. I was conservative – kept a few packs back, but as I started to oogle the packs of thyme and coriander and arugula, it was hard to hold back. Salads at Café Larem would be a perfect decadent addition to the menu. So I sowed some seeds, beeyotch.
I am pretty sure climate change had something to do with the week of rain in Feb – it was around the same time as the Haiti earthquake. There is certainly more and more evidence that the seasons do not fall as they used to. However, given that it’s dried up again in Gulu, I think the change was not as dramatic as we had hoped. My sowed seeds are tucked away under dry grass nursery beds, so I think they’ll make it until the rain starts.
Oy, I never wanted it to rain so bad. I’ve been fantasizing about that moment when the clouds burst and a tremendous downpour floods everything and turns my white dog burnt sienna. As a control freak it is difficult to accept that there is absolutely nothing I can do to make the rain come.
Mercy! Let it come!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Kikuuba Market
On Saturday, our driver George took us shopping in Kampala. I felt like a tourist – in a good way. I know Kampala reasonably well, but since I don’t live here there are still many places I haven’t seen. We went shopping because I needed to get the secret ingredient for our homemade ice cream, which is a special kind of powdered cream that can only be bought in one specific market in Kampala called “Kikuuba.” Every time I asked a Larem staffer where exactly this shop is, they would giggle and say “it’s deep inside there. You won’t find it. Somewhere deep deep in there.” Giggle giggle giggle.
George is a natural born fixer. He always knows a guy who knows a guy. So I asked him to come with me and sure enough he knew the place and led me “deep inside there” to the place with the secret ingredient. I thought I had struck the lottery. I literally shrieked when I saw the shop, which caused several of the thousands of very busy merchants and traders to pause, albeit only for a split second, from their feverishly paced hustle on this bustling market street. Once the pleasure of finding my treasure subsided a bit, I looked around and saw an incredible sight. Thousands of people were wading through slick muddy and winding paths of stall after stall brimming with everything from econo sized packs of my favorite Krishna matches to plastic buckets of every possible shape. It seems that Kikuuba was the place every petty trader from across Uganda comes to stock up.
After finding the cream, we moved on to Africa’s largest market, Owino. I had never been there and was on a special assignment: finding winter clothes for Samson and Babu. George led us through the narrow covered lanes that literally stretch on for miles. I’m sure there are books written about this place, so I won’t dwell on the description. We managed to find some really nice coats and hats for the boys. One of the hats was Abercrombie! For $1.50 no less! Once I finished for them, I had a gander at the ladies clothes. I spotted a great pair of designer jeans for myself. But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to agree to the merchant’s “last price” of 15,000 shillings (about $8), even though I knew the jeans originally cost about $100. As I meandered further, the sting of letting them go lingered and I thought about going back. But everyone knows that when bargaining if you pull the “walk away” and the merchant doesn’t chase you down, pride cannot allow you to turn back – no matter how bad you want it. Damn it!
We continued for a bit, being harassed at every step. The harassment ranged on the verbal side from friendly shouts of “Mzungu, I have nice t-shirts for you,” to not so friendly shouts of “Hey Mzungu, get out of the way.” Physical contact was also frequent and ranged from hand grabs to shoves aside from merchants carrying heavy loads of used clothing (donated from America and Europe) down rain-drenched crooked and dark paths. Once we had everything on the list, we asked George to lead us back onto the street. He seemed a little surprised and disappointed, because according to George we barely scratched the surface of the place. We emerged from the market a little over an hour after entering, back into the brilliant African sun, temporarily blinded and just narrowly avoiding cars and bodas and bikes and people zooming by. The Owino experience must definitely be included in the Let’s Go Uganda guide, should that ever be written.
My stomached started to growl and so I asked George if he knew of a pork joint in Kampala. George, of course, knew the best pork joint in Kampala and claimed it was even the best pork joint in the country in Wandega, the University section of Kampala. Pork joints are a fun experience. Personally I get a thrill out of entering a “joint” which ranges anywhere from a literal shack on the side of the road to a proper restaurant. I love that you come for one reason and one reason only: pork. It is always barbequed on an open flame and although tough by US standards I have found pork joint pork to be the tastiest and least chewy of all meat in Africa. I’m not a fan of beef here, which is usually so tough that TJM sets in halfway through the meal. (By the way, it works in reverse. I’ve had Ugandan friends visiting the States complain that the meat was too soft…)
After asking some bank guards to guard our vehicle (hey, I had my secret ice cream ingredient to protect), we wandered through the University area. It reminded me of any university area anywhere in the world. Lots of students and lots of fast food joints. The only difference was these joints were all pork joints, whereas in Beirut at AUB it would be Kebab joints and at NYU in NYC it would be pizza joints. We entered the acclaimed joint and each ordered “a plate,” which has a skewer or two of pork, some roasted cassava next to a big pile of spicy salt, and a salad or two. We sat down in the seating area. This particular joint was closer to a shack than a restaurant, although they somehow managed to still get satellite tv piped through it. There were dozens of people crammed into the tiny joint and they were all chewing on pork. George kept pointing out the pork ears, but pragmatically I imagined that the “ear cut” would probably be quite chewy and devoid of delicious pork fat.
I took delight in dipping the juicy pork pieces into the mound of salt with my hands. For some reason at a pork joint it’s totally legal to forget about healthy eating habits and tuck into a plate full of fatty pork, with lots of salt and a soda or beer on the side. And forks are PNG’d. Somehow it just tastes better when you’re shoveling all that pork in with your hands. In fact it’s the preferred option for all patrons. As further encouragement for hands only, the meal is preceded by one of my favorite rituals of meals in Uganda: washing hands at the table. A lady with a pitcher of water and a bowl gently tips the water over your hands as you reach for the soap and take good care to wash them without ever leaving your seat.
Once our bellies were full, George drove us back to the beloved Serena where we unloaded the precious payload from our day on the streets of Kampala.
P.S. For dinner that evening we were invited to our new friend Sarah’s house where she cooked a roast chicken and some amazing vegetable dishes. It was the first time I’ve had dinner at someone’s house in Kampala. It was so nice and cozy. It felt like the perfect cap to a very sociable day in the big city.
George is a natural born fixer. He always knows a guy who knows a guy. So I asked him to come with me and sure enough he knew the place and led me “deep inside there” to the place with the secret ingredient. I thought I had struck the lottery. I literally shrieked when I saw the shop, which caused several of the thousands of very busy merchants and traders to pause, albeit only for a split second, from their feverishly paced hustle on this bustling market street. Once the pleasure of finding my treasure subsided a bit, I looked around and saw an incredible sight. Thousands of people were wading through slick muddy and winding paths of stall after stall brimming with everything from econo sized packs of my favorite Krishna matches to plastic buckets of every possible shape. It seems that Kikuuba was the place every petty trader from across Uganda comes to stock up.
After finding the cream, we moved on to Africa’s largest market, Owino. I had never been there and was on a special assignment: finding winter clothes for Samson and Babu. George led us through the narrow covered lanes that literally stretch on for miles. I’m sure there are books written about this place, so I won’t dwell on the description. We managed to find some really nice coats and hats for the boys. One of the hats was Abercrombie! For $1.50 no less! Once I finished for them, I had a gander at the ladies clothes. I spotted a great pair of designer jeans for myself. But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to agree to the merchant’s “last price” of 15,000 shillings (about $8), even though I knew the jeans originally cost about $100. As I meandered further, the sting of letting them go lingered and I thought about going back. But everyone knows that when bargaining if you pull the “walk away” and the merchant doesn’t chase you down, pride cannot allow you to turn back – no matter how bad you want it. Damn it!
We continued for a bit, being harassed at every step. The harassment ranged on the verbal side from friendly shouts of “Mzungu, I have nice t-shirts for you,” to not so friendly shouts of “Hey Mzungu, get out of the way.” Physical contact was also frequent and ranged from hand grabs to shoves aside from merchants carrying heavy loads of used clothing (donated from America and Europe) down rain-drenched crooked and dark paths. Once we had everything on the list, we asked George to lead us back onto the street. He seemed a little surprised and disappointed, because according to George we barely scratched the surface of the place. We emerged from the market a little over an hour after entering, back into the brilliant African sun, temporarily blinded and just narrowly avoiding cars and bodas and bikes and people zooming by. The Owino experience must definitely be included in the Let’s Go Uganda guide, should that ever be written.
My stomached started to growl and so I asked George if he knew of a pork joint in Kampala. George, of course, knew the best pork joint in Kampala and claimed it was even the best pork joint in the country in Wandega, the University section of Kampala. Pork joints are a fun experience. Personally I get a thrill out of entering a “joint” which ranges anywhere from a literal shack on the side of the road to a proper restaurant. I love that you come for one reason and one reason only: pork. It is always barbequed on an open flame and although tough by US standards I have found pork joint pork to be the tastiest and least chewy of all meat in Africa. I’m not a fan of beef here, which is usually so tough that TJM sets in halfway through the meal. (By the way, it works in reverse. I’ve had Ugandan friends visiting the States complain that the meat was too soft…)
After asking some bank guards to guard our vehicle (hey, I had my secret ice cream ingredient to protect), we wandered through the University area. It reminded me of any university area anywhere in the world. Lots of students and lots of fast food joints. The only difference was these joints were all pork joints, whereas in Beirut at AUB it would be Kebab joints and at NYU in NYC it would be pizza joints. We entered the acclaimed joint and each ordered “a plate,” which has a skewer or two of pork, some roasted cassava next to a big pile of spicy salt, and a salad or two. We sat down in the seating area. This particular joint was closer to a shack than a restaurant, although they somehow managed to still get satellite tv piped through it. There were dozens of people crammed into the tiny joint and they were all chewing on pork. George kept pointing out the pork ears, but pragmatically I imagined that the “ear cut” would probably be quite chewy and devoid of delicious pork fat.
I took delight in dipping the juicy pork pieces into the mound of salt with my hands. For some reason at a pork joint it’s totally legal to forget about healthy eating habits and tuck into a plate full of fatty pork, with lots of salt and a soda or beer on the side. And forks are PNG’d. Somehow it just tastes better when you’re shoveling all that pork in with your hands. In fact it’s the preferred option for all patrons. As further encouragement for hands only, the meal is preceded by one of my favorite rituals of meals in Uganda: washing hands at the table. A lady with a pitcher of water and a bowl gently tips the water over your hands as you reach for the soap and take good care to wash them without ever leaving your seat.
Once our bellies were full, George drove us back to the beloved Serena where we unloaded the precious payload from our day on the streets of Kampala.
P.S. For dinner that evening we were invited to our new friend Sarah’s house where she cooked a roast chicken and some amazing vegetable dishes. It was the first time I’ve had dinner at someone’s house in Kampala. It was so nice and cozy. It felt like the perfect cap to a very sociable day in the big city.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Cafe Larem Update
This blog is for Kate, because I think you are the only one reading this. Thanks KG x
Month 2 of running the Café has just begun and I have learned the following:
#1: You cannot assume that if you ask the cook to stick the pizza in the toaster oven to re-heat it that the cook will know how to turn the toaster oven on
#2 No one can tell really the difference between a Latte and a Cappuccino (or at least they don’t care to, because they’re enjoying the rare pleasure of having it in Gulu.)
#3 Using strawberry cream for the base of your chocolate and mocha ice cream fools everyone except Amanda
#4 Inventory’s a bitch
#5 When you hire a manager and the power goes out on his first day, he may not show up
#6 The Beatitudes poster is the source of great debate
#7 Jesus isn’t
#8 The customer is always right, even if it’s a war tourist up for the weekend from Jinja to “hang out” or the fulbright scholar who stole my friend Mollie’s house or a lonely clingy ex-pat who’s trying to steal Emily’s pizza sauce recipe or a missionary who’s a regular and who you’re afraid to tell you’re opening up a wine bar because that’s where the real money is
It was an ok first month. We suffered a loss, but we knew we would. Business is low and we had to re-stock everything. I am beginning to make peace with the fact that all the big ideas we had for the place will take a lot more time than anticipated. We have had to prioritize. First we find a manager, and then we open a wine bar, for example. Also, we can’t advertise until we are officially registered. I’ve developed a sincere and healthy appreciation for the risk that is involved in private business. Money’s not coming from an employer or a donor government. If you don’t inject your own personal cash into this thing, it ain’t gonna happen. I may become a republican at the end of this venture. Not.
I’m currently strategizing on how to turn the business over to my local friends, which is more difficult than I thought. I was expecting an Acholi business partner to emerge obviously from my friends, but I have had to be proactive in courting a partner. I have felt a bit slimy when I’ve made my pitch, “We want to set up a business model that is built on local capital and local commerce. We aren’t making money yet, but with a little advertising and a little more capital, we’re going to be sailing.” I mean, I hope that’s the case. I have four women on staff at the moment. Two cooks, a barista/assistant manager, and a barista in training (the infamous Jennifer of early blogs.) They are great. Truly. They are keeping the place running as we blunder through the trials of business ownership. I’ve got my housekeeper Emily on board too, as principal (and currently sole) pizza chef and Café Larem shopper. Now I’ve got the daunting task of figuring out how to turn it over to them. If I just hand it over, they’ll be out of business as soon as they suffer their first loss. So much preparation and innovation is needed to complete this altruistic but naïve and intimidating intention.
The irony of all of this is that in my current “day job” we teach community groups all about income-generating activities, financial management and marketing. I now understand that their failure, which is not uncommon, isn’t necessary the result of not working hard enough. In fact, I’d say most of the small business owners we’ve supported are hustling for their lives. Private venture is complex. It’s risky and exciting at the same time. It’s unpredictable yet somehow also intuitive. It is certainly addictive. It reminds me of learning how to hit a golf ball or a tennis ball. 99 times out of 100 you hit them shite, but on that 100th time if you hit the sweet spot and you hear the ball sing as it soars, it’s all worth it. I got the same feeling when I walked in last Saturday and saw all the tables full and THE cutest five year old eating chocolate (strawberry) ice cream. He was covered in it and delighted. This café is about simple pleasures, but delivering those simple pleasures sure is tough stuff.
Month 2 of running the Café has just begun and I have learned the following:
#1: You cannot assume that if you ask the cook to stick the pizza in the toaster oven to re-heat it that the cook will know how to turn the toaster oven on
#2 No one can tell really the difference between a Latte and a Cappuccino (or at least they don’t care to, because they’re enjoying the rare pleasure of having it in Gulu.)
#3 Using strawberry cream for the base of your chocolate and mocha ice cream fools everyone except Amanda
#4 Inventory’s a bitch
#5 When you hire a manager and the power goes out on his first day, he may not show up
#6 The Beatitudes poster is the source of great debate
#7 Jesus isn’t
#8 The customer is always right, even if it’s a war tourist up for the weekend from Jinja to “hang out” or the fulbright scholar who stole my friend Mollie’s house or a lonely clingy ex-pat who’s trying to steal Emily’s pizza sauce recipe or a missionary who’s a regular and who you’re afraid to tell you’re opening up a wine bar because that’s where the real money is
It was an ok first month. We suffered a loss, but we knew we would. Business is low and we had to re-stock everything. I am beginning to make peace with the fact that all the big ideas we had for the place will take a lot more time than anticipated. We have had to prioritize. First we find a manager, and then we open a wine bar, for example. Also, we can’t advertise until we are officially registered. I’ve developed a sincere and healthy appreciation for the risk that is involved in private business. Money’s not coming from an employer or a donor government. If you don’t inject your own personal cash into this thing, it ain’t gonna happen. I may become a republican at the end of this venture. Not.
I’m currently strategizing on how to turn the business over to my local friends, which is more difficult than I thought. I was expecting an Acholi business partner to emerge obviously from my friends, but I have had to be proactive in courting a partner. I have felt a bit slimy when I’ve made my pitch, “We want to set up a business model that is built on local capital and local commerce. We aren’t making money yet, but with a little advertising and a little more capital, we’re going to be sailing.” I mean, I hope that’s the case. I have four women on staff at the moment. Two cooks, a barista/assistant manager, and a barista in training (the infamous Jennifer of early blogs.) They are great. Truly. They are keeping the place running as we blunder through the trials of business ownership. I’ve got my housekeeper Emily on board too, as principal (and currently sole) pizza chef and Café Larem shopper. Now I’ve got the daunting task of figuring out how to turn it over to them. If I just hand it over, they’ll be out of business as soon as they suffer their first loss. So much preparation and innovation is needed to complete this altruistic but naïve and intimidating intention.
The irony of all of this is that in my current “day job” we teach community groups all about income-generating activities, financial management and marketing. I now understand that their failure, which is not uncommon, isn’t necessary the result of not working hard enough. In fact, I’d say most of the small business owners we’ve supported are hustling for their lives. Private venture is complex. It’s risky and exciting at the same time. It’s unpredictable yet somehow also intuitive. It is certainly addictive. It reminds me of learning how to hit a golf ball or a tennis ball. 99 times out of 100 you hit them shite, but on that 100th time if you hit the sweet spot and you hear the ball sing as it soars, it’s all worth it. I got the same feeling when I walked in last Saturday and saw all the tables full and THE cutest five year old eating chocolate (strawberry) ice cream. He was covered in it and delighted. This café is about simple pleasures, but delivering those simple pleasures sure is tough stuff.
Mao for President!
Last week Norbert Mao, Chairman of Gulu District was elected the President of one of Uganda’s political parties, the Democratic Party (DP). It means that he is now officially in the race for President of Uganda. National elections will be held in 2011. His election to DP President is a big deal. It’s a big deal to have a northerner head the party, which has its base in central Uganda. It’s a big deal for Gulu, because Mao is the son of Gulu. THE son of Gulu. And it’s a big deal for Uganda, because Uganda may have finally found a contender to give the sitting President a run for his money.
I remember when I first met Mao. I’m sure everyone remembers when they first met him – even with his slight frame he’s larger than life. It was in New York City about five years ago. He was passing through, as many Ugandan leaders do, on his way to some really important international conference about some really important international issue. He came to Quaker House with Olara Otunnu’s brother, to meet the Northern Uganda Working Group. The NUWG was my policy baby – an advocacy coalition of 25 international NGOs trying to get some attention on the conflict in northern Uganda. Mao came in with a grace and a smile as if he’d known us forever and it was perfectly commonplace for him to pitstop at Quaker House. He sunk into the famous Quaker House sofa and began to talk.
Mao can talk, as people say. I cherish this memory, because I had no idea what to expect and if you aren’t expecting his preacher-cum-prosecutor schtick, you are really blown away. For 40 minutes he spoke and a Cheshire cat-like grin never left his face. He stated the facts of the conflict more clearly than I had ever heard them stated. He skewered the international community and the Government of Uganda for their inaction. I’ll never forget his description of the UN as “an impenetrable fortress.” It was a perfect description that I still use. He provocatively dangled statements like “if the government of Uganda does not assist us, we shall secede. We shall even go to the bush if we have to.”His grin did not diminish as he spoke these harsh words (another Mao trademark), even as my colleagues and I shifted nervously in our seats. Were we suddenly in the midst of a revolutionary? Was historically, proudly pacifist Quaker House suddenly hosting a rebellion? Beads of sweat formed on my brown as I thought about that irony. At the meeting in Quaker House Mao told us he would run for President. And after 40 minutes he had my vote.
Of course now having the chance to get to know Mao over the years, I know that in this first meeting he was equal parts gravely serious and excessively provocative. The revolution he laid out was going to happen, but through a very calculated, patient, systemic (and for the relief of Quakers) non-violent way. His style frustrates some (especially INGOs and opposition government officials). He’s not afraid to contradict himself to win an argument and does so frequently. He’s difficult to pin down for a meeting, but if you get him you feel like you’ve won the lottery.
I have had the privilege to go as far as to hope that Mao is my friend. Once, on a very bad day when Gulu was getting the better of me, I ran into him at a restaurant. My distress must have been visible, because he leapt from his seat where he was keeping court and sat with me for over an hour. I kept glancing up at the increasingly perturbed queue forming behind him and making excuses for him to return to his business. But he didn’t flinch. His trademark Cheshire grin gave way to a gentle countenance that appreciated my frustration and affirmed my relevance in Gulu. He was far from condescending when he compared my frustrations to his own. (It is beyond an obvious understatement that the inertia of my current employer was no match for contemplating the challenges of running a country.) He simply ended by saying, “Don’t go Jessica. Not yet. We need you in Gulu for a little bit longer.”
I’ll never forget that. He’s in an incredibly high stakes game of Ugandan politics and yet had time to talk me off the ledge. His bombastic and dogged nature is what has given him success. Indeed, these are essential ingredients for running for President. You can say what you want about Mao, but I have seen his concern for individuals, from villager to even an ex-pat, and I have never heard anyone refute his genuine concern for Uganda. His candidacy, whether successful or not, represents the promise of the future of this country.
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