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.