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!