Right now Meagan is sitting at the kitchen table writing her next blog entry on the Mac and Ginger is sitting to my right hand writing her notes for the day and both of us have our feet stretched out on the wooden coffee table. I’m sitting with my laptop in my lap, listening to Dave Matthews Band. We spend a lot of time sitting together, independently writing up our notes, occasionally stopping to verify someone’s name or a quote with the others.
I’m not sure what I’m going to miss the most about my time here, especially since I’m feeling homesick lately. I will probably need time back home to process everything. Physical distance and the distance of time help me see what I cannot when near. But I know I will miss living with Ginger and Meagan. We’ve spent so much time sitting, working together, in grad school and now here, and we are all entering times in our lives that are pulling us to different parts of the US. Meagan will be in New Orleans and Ginger will be in Oregon and from this point on in our careers research will largely be done alone. Just sitting and working with two women who I adore on a person level and implicitly trust on a professional level is something I’m trying to appreciate while I can.
I’m a bit maudlin today as we also reported our recommendations back to the foundation and I think it went quite well. We were able to document how Ginger and Meagan’s recommendations from last year have been implemented and have helped. The curriculum has become more gender balanced and inclusive of children who already are HIV+, for whom HIV education focused solely on prevention is not helpful. There are also drafts of children’s books now which were recommended from the first summer and countless other small ideas that came from their evaluation. I had a few small ideas to contribute too so who knows if they will be helpful in the coming years.
As Reverend Obed asked us about our personal sense of satisfaction beyond our professional input, I think we all got a little emotional talking about getting to be part of this organization. We are naturally critical by training and in the day to day we do focus on the weaknesses of SAS we want improved, but when you step back, it is rather inspirational. But enough sap; little less conversation, little more action!
We are also preparing for a trip to the West, which will serve as a treat to ourselves for working all summer without pay. We are going to Kabale, then Bwindi Impenetrable Forest where we will do a nature hike, then to Mhagahinga National Park where we will climb up Mt. Sabyinyo. Its peak is the international border for the DR of Congo, Rwanda, and Uganda so we will be in three counties at once atop it. After that we go to Lake Bunyonyi and will probably be exhausted and manage little more than the dug-out canoe ride to the island our hotel is on. We get back Monday evening, have two days packed with work, then leave Thursday at 11:30 pm.
I’ll try to write before I leave about the trip and be sure to check out the absurd number of pictures we will upload
The last few days have been jam packed with focus groups, observations, and interviews. It’s also been interesting politically. Last Friday South Sudan became a country and Monday the taxi drivers held a strike to protest unfair fees. There were still taxis out because the President agreed to meet the Taxi Union officials early in the strike, but the fewer taxis made prices go up and made boda boda fees almost double.
Monday I had the longest matatu ride of my life, figuratively and literally. It took me 2 hours to travel a few miles. I got on a matatu and it took forever to leave, then proceeded to stop at every possible point to pick up more passengers, sometimes passing the point and reversing back, only to eventually take off again without success. Then traffic jams made things worst and because I was in the front seat I was squished, sharing a row with three others instead of the usual two. Then the conductor thought it would be a good idea to over charge me. I had a 10,000 shilling bill and he gave me 5000 back when I should have gotten 8000 back.
Now 1000 shillings is less than 50 cents, but it is more about the principle than the price. The conductors think they can overcharge white people because we don’t know better and because they assume we are all rich and can afford it. That day I had had enough though and seeing the correct change available in his hand as he avoided my gaze spurred me to action. I got off the taxi and walked right in front of the man, demanding my balance. He gave me a 1000 bill and still refused to look at me as he called the names of the stops the taxi was about to go, attracting new customers. So I took a step back, blocking entrance to the van. That got him looking at me. I said balance and he put another 500 shillings in his hand for me to take, but didn’t extend it. To get the little gold coin I would have to step closer, allowing patrons on. I looked at his hand and then put mine across the door way, more obviously blocking entrance and said “balance sebo (sir)” in a patient, even tone. He made a smacking, tisking sound with his mouth, a common expression of disgust or disapproval here, and gave me another little gold coin.
By this point he was charging me 3000 for a 2000 ride and had tried to charge me 5000. I was happy with the situation and walked away knowing I had still been overcharged but not wanting to escalate matters further. When I told Ginger and Meagan about it they laughed, saying I was becoming a real Ugandan.
Earlier in the week the store owners shut their stores in protest and the electricity has been cutting out more than usual, the fruit of some tension between the government and the power companies. The newspapers are full of articles about the weakening shilling and the rising power of the dollar. After a focus group a mentor told us that most of the expensive apartments are sold in dollars, not shillings. Our neighbor told us her place was $650 US last year but rose to $800 this year and since our place is furnished it goes for $900 US a month! We also had to pull US dollars for our trip because the national parks take dollars if you are not a Ugandan.
It is odd to think about how much the US dollar impacts things here and how the citizens are holding their government responsible. Part of me thinks, what can the President do to control global markets? However a Kenyan doctor I interviewed that worked I humanitarian aid said in her home the price of fuel goes down when the global crude oil rate goes down. She said in Uganda it never goes down once it has risen. As the fuel price rises, so does the cost of food.
Only the well-off farmers also handle their own transportation. Instead middle men traders buy the food for low prices using the cost of gas as an excuse for why they can’t pay more. Transporting traders, not farmers, set the price. The doctor said few farmers are trained in keeping track of their inputs to get a profit and so they accept the traders’ prices. Earlier this summer I spoke with a sociologist who also farmed. He carefully kept track of things, but still only got 2 million shillings out of his crop after investing 3 million into it. He is a Ph.D., so it isn’t only about education and tracking. Many farmers are going under and that combined with the unpredictable weather in which season are shifting means crops are spoiling.
The humanitarian monitoring measures say there is a food shortage and that food prices are higher than ever recorded, though the UN recording only started in 1990. As a result people have been shifting to food that is filling but less nutritional en mass over the last two months. Basically it is a horrible situation, but opportune for me. Because I can see how this plays out on the ground. That said, all the people I’ve been trying to talk to are out of town because of this situation too, but I’m managing where I can. I was talking to a lady about it on the matatu today. You never know when you will find a helpful insight!
Well this is not everything I wanted to write about but the power is out and I’ve run out of juice. I’ll catch you on the flip side!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Milk and honey and ready made coffins...
We had the most amazing trip and I am certain that anything I can write will not do it justice. On top of that I have a lot of days to write about so please bear with this long blog.
First off, I feel like it is truly a privilege to get to travel. And I don’t even mean internationally. Many people here in Uganda never see beyond their village and the nearest town because they don’t have a car and travel is increasingly expensive with gas prices rising. So simply traveling a few hours away, which is nothing to me, is a big deal. Also, the land here is so diverse that driving an hour away means the landscape looks quite different and I have a sense of why Uganda is called the pearl of Africa. So many times I would look out the car window and think, “surely this is the land of milk and honey.”
The day before we left we did some errands and I had the most darling encounter that I must include. On the way to a grocery store we took a matatu and an old woman in traditional Buganda dress (gomes) got on and sat next to me. She seemed tickled to sit next to me and grabbed my hand with both of hers as if welcoming me to her home. We were in the front row and so the conductor was on the left side of her. She put her bag in between her and the man, squishing me into the right side of the van. Immediately upon getting on she made a huge production of looking for change in her bag, seemingly unaware of her elbows almost poking my ear. She took out two long sleeved shirts, shaking each out in case a coin fell out. She then rooted through her purse, looking perplexed at not finding a coin, and then proceeded to look on the seat around her and even on the floor incase a coin fell down there. In the process she felt my foot. It didn’t cash out.
The whole time it was evident to me and the conductor, if his smiling was any indication, that she didn’t have the coins for the ride. When it was time for me to get off I had a 1000 shilling bill in my hand for Ginger and I. The old woman at first thought I was giving it to her but I motioned that it was for us, so she continued looking in her purse. I had absolutely no doubt that she wouldn’t have to pay and when I got off the conductor made no effort to kick the lady out despite her inability to pay. She had us all smiling. She was old, thin, elbows everywhere, and working it. I adored her.
We left for Hoima, which is about 3 hours away, early Friday the 24th. As we were leaving the city I saw boda bodas that were bicycles and not motorcycles and asked if Ginger and Meagan had been on one. They had not, but it prompted Reverend telling us that boda bodas used to all be bicycles and originates from people getting transport across the border to Kenya and Sudan. Boda boda came from border-border, which was hilarious at the time. So often words we think are Luganda are actually English. Later that day we later found out what we thought was vayco was vehicle.
As we got away from the city the land was utterly beautiful and I was surprised to see pine trees next to palm trees. It’s funny how two familiar things next to each other seem so foreign. As we drove we would pass little settlements of a few buildings and grass roof huts behind them. The buildings have a porch extending the whole front of the building with a roof hanging over it and the double front doors were often metal and swung open and with the dirt walkways around them and the chickens, goats, and occasionally cows walking by I sometimes felt like I was in a Western.
We stopped for chai on the way in a town called Kiboga (sounds like Cheboga) and I had my first run in with a latrine. I had been warned by Ginger and Meagan about them but somehow had not encountered one yet. Since then and now as I write this I’ve come across enough that I cheer when I find a commode. But enough of that…
The drive, while beautiful, was interspersed with Reverend slamming on the brakes because when approaching a small settlement there would be a series of speed bumps. There were no warning signs for them either. We would be doing 50mph in the country and suddenly have to come to a halt. In the bigger populated areas there would be two huge speed humps that our car would bottom out over if we didn’t take them on at an angle. So between the times the brakes were hit hard and when we had to dodge dogs, cows, and pot holes, Meagan, Ginger, and I caught each others’ gaze and smiled often. This happened so often that my hamstrings were sore that night from using my leg muscles to keep me from slamming into the seat in front of me!
We finally got to Hoima and came to an organization SAS partners with called Meeting Point. The mentors we were set to meet were not there yet, so we visited two schools. Both the visits went well and there is a picture of me posing with a bunch of kids at Hoima Mosque Primary on Picasa. Our running joke is that any picture of us with the kids is like a bad Where’s Waldo. Many kids will stare or run up and wave only to run away and giggle once we acknowledge them. Usually one brave soul comes to shake our hands, which then starts a procession of hand shaking and often kneeling or curtseying, which is a traditional sign of respect for elders.
After our school visits we drove back to Meeting Point and met with the mentors about how the pretests had gone. Turns out the pretests had never been given, so our part of the discussion was rather limited. As we got back into the car to grab some food, the car wouldn’t start. Turns out our lights were on from the morning fog and forgotten in the day’s sun.
Our reaction? Laugh and pull out the peanuts! Meagan had been predicting there would be car trouble at some point, because what cross-country trip is complete without car trouble? That it should happen in a town during the day was ideal. We decided to walk into town, grab lunch, and then get the car fixed once our bellies were full. Of course as we finished lunch it started to rain and our jackets were in the car. Reverend was gallant enough to seek out jumper cables in the rain and we eventually were picked up and taken to our hotel.
By now you should be expecting something else to go wrong…
So we get to the hotel and find out the running water isn’t running. While I’ve become accustomed to this at our apartment on occasion, this time it really threw me for a loop. My first thought was, “Not happy with this room? Try another!” Then when I remembered the collection of jerry cans outside I realized there were no rooms with running water. Then I thought, “Let’s go to another hotel.” Wrong. The water not running was probably a systemic problem, not a hotel problem.
Then I had a truly optimistic thought: “We got here early. Maybe they are conserving water by not turning it on until more guests arrived.” So I asked a maid if the water would come on later and when. She unconvincingly said it would come on around 10pm. Yeah, she pulled that out of no where. By this point I was remembering where I was and decided to be happy there was a toilet. So we had two yellow jerry cans of cold water to wash with and now it’s funny how resistant my mind was to paying for a hotel room without water. Later in the night the power went out.
The next day we got up early to meet another organization called NAWCOLA. It took about four stops to ask people for directions, but we eventually found the place only to find it empty. We waited for awhile and then people started trickling in. The meeting went very well and I think that organization and SAS will have a mutually beneficial partnership.
Then we were off to Gulu! We took a road that was unpaved at first and bought some mangoes from a road side seller. We grabbed some jackfruit and cake from a gas station too so we snacked the whole way on fresh fruit. At some point Reverend told us to look out for baboons and monkeys. Not 2 minutes later we spotted some and Reverend pulled over so we could take their picture. There were maybe 8 baboons in a field next to a herd of cattle being tended by two men on dirt bikes. We got out of the car and walked into the field to get a closer shot. Not to scare them away, only I got closer and took as many shots as I could. On my way back to the car I stuck out my thumbs singing “opposable thumbs” over and over to the tune of Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys.
Then we found out we would cross over The Nile and have a view of some water falls. We had our cameras out ready for that, not expecting that more baboons would be on the other side of the bridge waiting for food. They were so used to cars and people they came 3 ft from the door. Reverend said to feed them, so I grabbed the cake and nervously threw it out the window as if I was being held up. They ate it and looked for more, standing up on their back legs in anticipation.
We eventually got to Gulu and found our hotel room had water, but of course no electricity and that the three of us we would be sharing a queen bed. We were on the fourth floor and I rested sitting on a shared common balcony that overlooked Pece Stadium. The stadium looked like a high school soccer field with a track around it, worn from running. There were people playing soccer and volleyball, as well as a relay race and someone doing summersaults into a sand pit. The stadium had a tall cement fence around it and I got a picture of kids climbing up the wall to see the action.
That evening in the common room downstairs we watched a fantastically horrible Latin telenovella called Don’t Mess with An Angel. The acting was atrocious and the American English voices dubbed over the Spanish-speaking actors were absurd, yet it was nearly addicting. How is it possible I went to Gulu and I have found myself rooting for Juan Miguel and Marichoy, who are married but whose marriage is void because his first wife, who he thought dead from a plane crash, is alive yet mentally damaged? Words cannot explain.
Sunday, the 26th, was our day to rest and see the town. I had copied a map in my notebook and we walked through town and back in very little time. We went through the labyrinth-like markets and then came across a place called Coffee Pub. We walked in and Ginger said, “Oh look, we found the white place,” meaning we always manage to find the places the expats frequent. We should have known though, because few Ugandans drink coffee. Despite it being grown in Uganda, most people drink tea instead. But we got some fruit and after talking to Brian, a guy that worked there, we got a complimentary smoothie which was to die for.
In Kampala we keep on hearing the word mzungu and we hadn’t heard that in Gulu but we hadn’t picked up on the new local word for “white person”. Brian told us it was mona and after we knew what it was we heard it a lot. Gulu was such a small town though that we ran into people we had seen before. We later saw Brian walk into the common room of our hotel, presumably to watch Don’t Mess With An Angel. We also saw an American woman in Coffee Pub that we saw later in a restaurant and then again driving over the Nile on the way back. Small world.
Sunday we also met two mentors and made plans to visit their schools on Monday. In the morning we went to Lyibi Green Primary. We took some videos of the school children congregated that I hope everyone will enjoy. Our time there was really moving and before talking to the students we spoke with the Head teacher, Deputy and Director. They said they are parents to the parentless and that with the violence and instability of the North there are some students in 4th grade who are the head of the household, with five children younger than them, all HIV positive. They were particularly appreciative that their mentor was also receiving education in nursing because they have some students with HIV collapsing and need people who can teach and treat.
That sounds horrible but the air of the place was optimistic as if things were difficult, but getting better. Just a year ago it would not have been safe to travel to Gulu and the UN Humanitarian Office that has been in Gulu for the last several years is no longer there because things have become secure. The violence of the Lord’s Resistance Army and also the spillover from Sudan is over and people are moving back. Refugee camps are getting smaller.
That said, we all felt the scar of the past years. Ginger and Meagan said it felt ominous or like there was bad juju. I couldn’t put it into words for some days, but it didn’t feel like something was going to happen, but that it already had. It wasn’t until I tried to explain it to my Dad that I found myself saying “There were people missing.” Saying it then and writing it now chokes me up a bit. It wasn’t as if I noticed a certain age group or gender missing. I guess I just felt a void and a slightly eerie ghost town sense, despite the many people and bustling market. On our way into town I saw a sign saying “Ready made coffins,” which says it all.
What is odd is that the eerie sense was really subtly underlying and only something I could identify long after leaving. Otherwise I felt more at home in Gulu than I do in Kampala. I just prefer smaller places where the physical exploration is small enough you can see it all in a few days and you can more quickly move to exploring the social terrain. You can get to know the people quicker when it takes less time to know the place. Kampala is so big you could live there your whole life and never know all its nooks and crannies.
Of course no place is so serious that the three of us don’t get our laughs in. We were sharing a queen size bed and the second night we slept sideways on the mattress because we would have more elbow room even though my feet hung over the bed. We woke up to a man’s voice making the most horrible sound. I can only describe it as a cross between a moan, death rattle, and the sound you make when you stub your toe really bad. So there we are, sleeping three to a bed sideways laughing hysterically at some man the floor up.
Also, the night before I really wanted a beer but wasn’t sure if Reverend would judge us if he saw us drinking. We decided to have a round and after wards I wanted to return the empty glass bottles which are refilled and resold here. So I collected our bottles as well as the beer bottles left on our table before us and walked inside the hotel, only to run into Reverend with about 6 beer bottles in my hands. When I sat back down Ginger was still laughing at my horrible timing. Also, we met a guy named Simba. I’ll let you make your own jokes.
We went to another school after Lyibi Primary, but they were awaiting governmental inspection and so their plate was full. We immediately got on the road.
On the way back from Gulu we mentioned we wanted some of the small yellow mangoes and Reverend stopped by two women along the road who were selling mangoes. He haggled for us and said the price was 2,000 shillings ($1 US). We thought that was the price for 5 and thought it was a bit steep, but agreed anyways. Then before we knew it an entire bucket of mangoes was being dumped into the passenger seat foot well because that was the only place with enough room. Turns out we were haggling for about 25 mangoes, not 5.
We had sufficiently bought out those women so Reverend stopped twice more to get mangoes for himself. But apparently the mangoes we got were for juice and not eating, so then when we said we wanted mangoes to eat in the car Reverend stopped again, getting even more mangoes for himself. We got 5 huge mangoes for 1000 shillings and they were probably the best we’ve had. They were warm from sitting in the sun and had almost a caramel flavor in addition to being tangy. Even though our hands and faces got completely covered in mango juice and pulp it was totally worth it.
When I finished mine I wanted to throw the pit out the window but my side of the car was in the middle of the road and I envisioned some car flying by and busting a tire on it. So, still with juicy hands, I made a plan to reach across the car, over Meagan, and throw the pit out the window so it would be off the road. I warned Meagan I was coming her way with mango hands and pitched it out the window. What I failed to notice was, while I executed my mango pit evacuation plan, we were passing another car. So by the time I reached across the car and tossed the pit out, it was in fact placed in the middle of the road. Best laid plans….hmph.
I’m sorry this is so long and that it is rather far behind. Honestly, it took some time to process Gulu. I don’t know if this will be pleasant to read, but I think I’m writing this as much for my own documentation and memories as I am for any audience.
The three of us are joking we should write a book, so maybe this long blog is good practice. I brought along an amazing book called Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor which is about mothers, daughters, traveling and finding what home is in a foreign land. Every other chapter is written by the mother then daughter. Getting to hear a journey from two voices is so interesting and it reminds me of how my mother and I have taken profound trips together to Europe and New England. I’ve passed it to Meagan and Ginger and they are passing it along to others. I think Ginger’s mom is reading it now.
While I don’t think we could write a book about our travels like that book, we have thought we should write a book about the realities of starting field work as a new and fledgling anthropologist. We’ve already picked a title: “You’re Gonna Crash a Wake.” To anyone who hasn’t heard me tell my wake crashing story, give me a call when I get back. It’s worth the dime and happy 4th of July!
First off, I feel like it is truly a privilege to get to travel. And I don’t even mean internationally. Many people here in Uganda never see beyond their village and the nearest town because they don’t have a car and travel is increasingly expensive with gas prices rising. So simply traveling a few hours away, which is nothing to me, is a big deal. Also, the land here is so diverse that driving an hour away means the landscape looks quite different and I have a sense of why Uganda is called the pearl of Africa. So many times I would look out the car window and think, “surely this is the land of milk and honey.”
The day before we left we did some errands and I had the most darling encounter that I must include. On the way to a grocery store we took a matatu and an old woman in traditional Buganda dress (gomes) got on and sat next to me. She seemed tickled to sit next to me and grabbed my hand with both of hers as if welcoming me to her home. We were in the front row and so the conductor was on the left side of her. She put her bag in between her and the man, squishing me into the right side of the van. Immediately upon getting on she made a huge production of looking for change in her bag, seemingly unaware of her elbows almost poking my ear. She took out two long sleeved shirts, shaking each out in case a coin fell out. She then rooted through her purse, looking perplexed at not finding a coin, and then proceeded to look on the seat around her and even on the floor incase a coin fell down there. In the process she felt my foot. It didn’t cash out.
The whole time it was evident to me and the conductor, if his smiling was any indication, that she didn’t have the coins for the ride. When it was time for me to get off I had a 1000 shilling bill in my hand for Ginger and I. The old woman at first thought I was giving it to her but I motioned that it was for us, so she continued looking in her purse. I had absolutely no doubt that she wouldn’t have to pay and when I got off the conductor made no effort to kick the lady out despite her inability to pay. She had us all smiling. She was old, thin, elbows everywhere, and working it. I adored her.
We left for Hoima, which is about 3 hours away, early Friday the 24th. As we were leaving the city I saw boda bodas that were bicycles and not motorcycles and asked if Ginger and Meagan had been on one. They had not, but it prompted Reverend telling us that boda bodas used to all be bicycles and originates from people getting transport across the border to Kenya and Sudan. Boda boda came from border-border, which was hilarious at the time. So often words we think are Luganda are actually English. Later that day we later found out what we thought was vayco was vehicle.
As we got away from the city the land was utterly beautiful and I was surprised to see pine trees next to palm trees. It’s funny how two familiar things next to each other seem so foreign. As we drove we would pass little settlements of a few buildings and grass roof huts behind them. The buildings have a porch extending the whole front of the building with a roof hanging over it and the double front doors were often metal and swung open and with the dirt walkways around them and the chickens, goats, and occasionally cows walking by I sometimes felt like I was in a Western.
We stopped for chai on the way in a town called Kiboga (sounds like Cheboga) and I had my first run in with a latrine. I had been warned by Ginger and Meagan about them but somehow had not encountered one yet. Since then and now as I write this I’ve come across enough that I cheer when I find a commode. But enough of that…
The drive, while beautiful, was interspersed with Reverend slamming on the brakes because when approaching a small settlement there would be a series of speed bumps. There were no warning signs for them either. We would be doing 50mph in the country and suddenly have to come to a halt. In the bigger populated areas there would be two huge speed humps that our car would bottom out over if we didn’t take them on at an angle. So between the times the brakes were hit hard and when we had to dodge dogs, cows, and pot holes, Meagan, Ginger, and I caught each others’ gaze and smiled often. This happened so often that my hamstrings were sore that night from using my leg muscles to keep me from slamming into the seat in front of me!
We finally got to Hoima and came to an organization SAS partners with called Meeting Point. The mentors we were set to meet were not there yet, so we visited two schools. Both the visits went well and there is a picture of me posing with a bunch of kids at Hoima Mosque Primary on Picasa. Our running joke is that any picture of us with the kids is like a bad Where’s Waldo. Many kids will stare or run up and wave only to run away and giggle once we acknowledge them. Usually one brave soul comes to shake our hands, which then starts a procession of hand shaking and often kneeling or curtseying, which is a traditional sign of respect for elders.
After our school visits we drove back to Meeting Point and met with the mentors about how the pretests had gone. Turns out the pretests had never been given, so our part of the discussion was rather limited. As we got back into the car to grab some food, the car wouldn’t start. Turns out our lights were on from the morning fog and forgotten in the day’s sun.
Our reaction? Laugh and pull out the peanuts! Meagan had been predicting there would be car trouble at some point, because what cross-country trip is complete without car trouble? That it should happen in a town during the day was ideal. We decided to walk into town, grab lunch, and then get the car fixed once our bellies were full. Of course as we finished lunch it started to rain and our jackets were in the car. Reverend was gallant enough to seek out jumper cables in the rain and we eventually were picked up and taken to our hotel.
By now you should be expecting something else to go wrong…
So we get to the hotel and find out the running water isn’t running. While I’ve become accustomed to this at our apartment on occasion, this time it really threw me for a loop. My first thought was, “Not happy with this room? Try another!” Then when I remembered the collection of jerry cans outside I realized there were no rooms with running water. Then I thought, “Let’s go to another hotel.” Wrong. The water not running was probably a systemic problem, not a hotel problem.
Then I had a truly optimistic thought: “We got here early. Maybe they are conserving water by not turning it on until more guests arrived.” So I asked a maid if the water would come on later and when. She unconvincingly said it would come on around 10pm. Yeah, she pulled that out of no where. By this point I was remembering where I was and decided to be happy there was a toilet. So we had two yellow jerry cans of cold water to wash with and now it’s funny how resistant my mind was to paying for a hotel room without water. Later in the night the power went out.
The next day we got up early to meet another organization called NAWCOLA. It took about four stops to ask people for directions, but we eventually found the place only to find it empty. We waited for awhile and then people started trickling in. The meeting went very well and I think that organization and SAS will have a mutually beneficial partnership.
Then we were off to Gulu! We took a road that was unpaved at first and bought some mangoes from a road side seller. We grabbed some jackfruit and cake from a gas station too so we snacked the whole way on fresh fruit. At some point Reverend told us to look out for baboons and monkeys. Not 2 minutes later we spotted some and Reverend pulled over so we could take their picture. There were maybe 8 baboons in a field next to a herd of cattle being tended by two men on dirt bikes. We got out of the car and walked into the field to get a closer shot. Not to scare them away, only I got closer and took as many shots as I could. On my way back to the car I stuck out my thumbs singing “opposable thumbs” over and over to the tune of Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys.
Then we found out we would cross over The Nile and have a view of some water falls. We had our cameras out ready for that, not expecting that more baboons would be on the other side of the bridge waiting for food. They were so used to cars and people they came 3 ft from the door. Reverend said to feed them, so I grabbed the cake and nervously threw it out the window as if I was being held up. They ate it and looked for more, standing up on their back legs in anticipation.
We eventually got to Gulu and found our hotel room had water, but of course no electricity and that the three of us we would be sharing a queen bed. We were on the fourth floor and I rested sitting on a shared common balcony that overlooked Pece Stadium. The stadium looked like a high school soccer field with a track around it, worn from running. There were people playing soccer and volleyball, as well as a relay race and someone doing summersaults into a sand pit. The stadium had a tall cement fence around it and I got a picture of kids climbing up the wall to see the action.
That evening in the common room downstairs we watched a fantastically horrible Latin telenovella called Don’t Mess with An Angel. The acting was atrocious and the American English voices dubbed over the Spanish-speaking actors were absurd, yet it was nearly addicting. How is it possible I went to Gulu and I have found myself rooting for Juan Miguel and Marichoy, who are married but whose marriage is void because his first wife, who he thought dead from a plane crash, is alive yet mentally damaged? Words cannot explain.
Sunday, the 26th, was our day to rest and see the town. I had copied a map in my notebook and we walked through town and back in very little time. We went through the labyrinth-like markets and then came across a place called Coffee Pub. We walked in and Ginger said, “Oh look, we found the white place,” meaning we always manage to find the places the expats frequent. We should have known though, because few Ugandans drink coffee. Despite it being grown in Uganda, most people drink tea instead. But we got some fruit and after talking to Brian, a guy that worked there, we got a complimentary smoothie which was to die for.
In Kampala we keep on hearing the word mzungu and we hadn’t heard that in Gulu but we hadn’t picked up on the new local word for “white person”. Brian told us it was mona and after we knew what it was we heard it a lot. Gulu was such a small town though that we ran into people we had seen before. We later saw Brian walk into the common room of our hotel, presumably to watch Don’t Mess With An Angel. We also saw an American woman in Coffee Pub that we saw later in a restaurant and then again driving over the Nile on the way back. Small world.
Sunday we also met two mentors and made plans to visit their schools on Monday. In the morning we went to Lyibi Green Primary. We took some videos of the school children congregated that I hope everyone will enjoy. Our time there was really moving and before talking to the students we spoke with the Head teacher, Deputy and Director. They said they are parents to the parentless and that with the violence and instability of the North there are some students in 4th grade who are the head of the household, with five children younger than them, all HIV positive. They were particularly appreciative that their mentor was also receiving education in nursing because they have some students with HIV collapsing and need people who can teach and treat.
That sounds horrible but the air of the place was optimistic as if things were difficult, but getting better. Just a year ago it would not have been safe to travel to Gulu and the UN Humanitarian Office that has been in Gulu for the last several years is no longer there because things have become secure. The violence of the Lord’s Resistance Army and also the spillover from Sudan is over and people are moving back. Refugee camps are getting smaller.
That said, we all felt the scar of the past years. Ginger and Meagan said it felt ominous or like there was bad juju. I couldn’t put it into words for some days, but it didn’t feel like something was going to happen, but that it already had. It wasn’t until I tried to explain it to my Dad that I found myself saying “There were people missing.” Saying it then and writing it now chokes me up a bit. It wasn’t as if I noticed a certain age group or gender missing. I guess I just felt a void and a slightly eerie ghost town sense, despite the many people and bustling market. On our way into town I saw a sign saying “Ready made coffins,” which says it all.
What is odd is that the eerie sense was really subtly underlying and only something I could identify long after leaving. Otherwise I felt more at home in Gulu than I do in Kampala. I just prefer smaller places where the physical exploration is small enough you can see it all in a few days and you can more quickly move to exploring the social terrain. You can get to know the people quicker when it takes less time to know the place. Kampala is so big you could live there your whole life and never know all its nooks and crannies.
Of course no place is so serious that the three of us don’t get our laughs in. We were sharing a queen size bed and the second night we slept sideways on the mattress because we would have more elbow room even though my feet hung over the bed. We woke up to a man’s voice making the most horrible sound. I can only describe it as a cross between a moan, death rattle, and the sound you make when you stub your toe really bad. So there we are, sleeping three to a bed sideways laughing hysterically at some man the floor up.
Also, the night before I really wanted a beer but wasn’t sure if Reverend would judge us if he saw us drinking. We decided to have a round and after wards I wanted to return the empty glass bottles which are refilled and resold here. So I collected our bottles as well as the beer bottles left on our table before us and walked inside the hotel, only to run into Reverend with about 6 beer bottles in my hands. When I sat back down Ginger was still laughing at my horrible timing. Also, we met a guy named Simba. I’ll let you make your own jokes.
We went to another school after Lyibi Primary, but they were awaiting governmental inspection and so their plate was full. We immediately got on the road.
On the way back from Gulu we mentioned we wanted some of the small yellow mangoes and Reverend stopped by two women along the road who were selling mangoes. He haggled for us and said the price was 2,000 shillings ($1 US). We thought that was the price for 5 and thought it was a bit steep, but agreed anyways. Then before we knew it an entire bucket of mangoes was being dumped into the passenger seat foot well because that was the only place with enough room. Turns out we were haggling for about 25 mangoes, not 5.
We had sufficiently bought out those women so Reverend stopped twice more to get mangoes for himself. But apparently the mangoes we got were for juice and not eating, so then when we said we wanted mangoes to eat in the car Reverend stopped again, getting even more mangoes for himself. We got 5 huge mangoes for 1000 shillings and they were probably the best we’ve had. They were warm from sitting in the sun and had almost a caramel flavor in addition to being tangy. Even though our hands and faces got completely covered in mango juice and pulp it was totally worth it.
When I finished mine I wanted to throw the pit out the window but my side of the car was in the middle of the road and I envisioned some car flying by and busting a tire on it. So, still with juicy hands, I made a plan to reach across the car, over Meagan, and throw the pit out the window so it would be off the road. I warned Meagan I was coming her way with mango hands and pitched it out the window. What I failed to notice was, while I executed my mango pit evacuation plan, we were passing another car. So by the time I reached across the car and tossed the pit out, it was in fact placed in the middle of the road. Best laid plans….hmph.
I’m sorry this is so long and that it is rather far behind. Honestly, it took some time to process Gulu. I don’t know if this will be pleasant to read, but I think I’m writing this as much for my own documentation and memories as I am for any audience.
The three of us are joking we should write a book, so maybe this long blog is good practice. I brought along an amazing book called Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor which is about mothers, daughters, traveling and finding what home is in a foreign land. Every other chapter is written by the mother then daughter. Getting to hear a journey from two voices is so interesting and it reminds me of how my mother and I have taken profound trips together to Europe and New England. I’ve passed it to Meagan and Ginger and they are passing it along to others. I think Ginger’s mom is reading it now.
While I don’t think we could write a book about our travels like that book, we have thought we should write a book about the realities of starting field work as a new and fledgling anthropologist. We’ve already picked a title: “You’re Gonna Crash a Wake.” To anyone who hasn’t heard me tell my wake crashing story, give me a call when I get back. It’s worth the dime and happy 4th of July!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)