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.

This is not a land dispute

On Monday I went to a mourning in Palwong parish deep in the village near Pabbo. The occasion was related to a land dispute. I’ve been at the helm of an effort to mediate a conflict over land that turned deadly last month when neighbors attacked each other and a person died. With me on the team are some local officials from Amuru District and a project manager at Ker Kwaro Acholi. We decided that before we could ask the sides to meet and mediate, we needed to visit the family of the man who died.

I was nervous about going. I’m always nervous. I worried about details of the trip, getting stuck in the bush, having enough water, enough biscuits, contracting malaria, etc. etc. To tackle at least the first worry, I called Patricia at 8:30am to make sure everything was ready for our 11am take off. She said that her boss was blocking the trip. (Unanticipated worry…of course.) After I called her boss’s boss and we got the green light, we traded several more calls before we finally took off. Our first stop was to buy salt, soap, sugar and posho to give to the family. We then set off on the Juba, Sudan road. The road to Pabbo is horrendous at the moment and we were in a very old vehicle with no shocks. We felt every single bump for 40 km and could not drive faster than 40km. We arrived at the sub-county headquarters about 2 hours late and yet no one was ready. After another hour, the mourning delegation set off into the bush. We turned off the main road, onto a secondary road and then on to a tertiary road, which was teeming with mud and puddles. We skidded and slid our way for about 45 minutes. Maybe we were in Sudan, I had no idea. Amazingly, we still had network. I was praying my mother would not call. What would I say, “no worries mom, I’m in the middle of the bush with nearly complete strangers attending a funeral of someone stabbed to death and it’s getting dark…” Probably not.

We reached the family and I was amazed to find many people, children, babies, puppies and a ginormous pig in what seemed to me to be the absolute middle of no where. Greetings were made and the priest we brought with us opened with a prayer. We first assembled under a mango tree, as is tradition in the village. But then we moved to stand by the grave, which was an informally dug site about 10 feet from the huts. The mother and brother of the deceased were there and everyone looked so sad. The sadness was clear when the speeches started. The patriarch of the family, the deceased’s uncle, told his version of the events and choked up several times. The mother, and the other women, sat on a mat some distance away from us and said nothing but naturally looked very distraught. The brother, who has been accused of marauding in the area with spears and knifes since his brother’s death, spoke at length and was very “bitter” to use a Ugandan description of his state. He recounted the events of his brother’s immediate death, as well as the historical rift between the families. The rift went back to the LRA days when his father had first been accused of being an army informant, then accused of being a rebel collaborator and finally was tortured to death by one side or the other. Somehow the family responsible for this most recent killing were involved in his father’s death too.

As I listened to these very painful accounts I wondered why I was there. I was somehow pleased when they appreciated our presence and particularly that they appreciated that our chief purpose was for mourning. A lawyer had visited them a couple of weeks ago and the brother said today, “if you had brought that lawyer with you I would have killed him.” For all my worrying, this didn’t alarm me. But I was trying to figure out why the traditional and local authorities were not really leading this. Yes, we had come with some people, but it was because my project had paid for it. I, nor anyone I brought with me, truly had the skills and knowledge needed to unravel and quell this generational conflict. So we listened. And we listened. We spoke some too. Since I obviously stood out and rather embarrassingly, the white person is always given the highest honor, I was asked to speak. I meekly tried to explain my presence. I thought I would start by explaining why I was there, our work on land, etc. I then of course expressed my deepest condolences.

The brother, who would not look at me, retorted that “this is not a land conflict.” And he was right. It was clearly a feud between families, exacerbated by war, displacement and time. A dispute over land was simply the latest manifestation of the feud. The look on his face brought that into strong relief. Suddenly I remembered the Paramount Chief talking about this in DC a couple of years ago. We were discussing what would happen when people went home after years of conflict and displacement. The PC stated his fears that once people go home, as they meet again at water points in the village for example, retributions will begin. A ha! Perhaps all of these land disputes plaguing northern Uganda are really manifestations of retribution. The land disputes are a way for people to exact revenge and return the favor anguish.

This is not a news flash for people here, but it is for me and I suspect it is for other outsiders. As I sloshed back and forth on the way back to the main Juba road, I had epiphany after epiphany. I pondered how amazing it was that I’ve learned so much living here that I would have never known from the periphery and yet how much I have yet to learn. I pondered this Prado’s terrible shock absorbers. I learned that mediation takes copious patience, empathy and nimbleness that I wondered if I could muster enough of to help the mediation team navigate this dispute. Finally I learned that the largest current destabilizing factor in northern Uganda, the land dispute, may really be a proxy for pain and suffering from the conflict.