To Be Human

This will quite possibly be the last entry, given I’m boarding a Kigali-bound bus in three hours to head down to the far reaches of Rwanda. I don’t imagine I’ll have a lot of time down there to document my experiences, as I’ll be WORKED LIKE A DOG by the professor with the rest of the research team. *Sigh* I’m such a student.

The last weeks in Gulu were simultaneously quiet and absolutely chaotic. Quiet, in that interviews had died down and I was just wrapping up. Absolutely chaotic, in that I was “just wrapping up.” Both on a research-y and personal level.

It’s harder to say goodbye the second time, believe it or not. One person in particular comes to mind: Novia, the nearby restaurant worker I’d befriended. We’re about the same age, and we’d bonded a lot in between the daily servings of beans. Toward the end of my stay, we exchanged numbers. For some reason, the following day, her number showed up as “unknown” when she began calling me and I opted not to answer (you better believe I’m not going to fall for any 15-year-old shenanigans… they’re getting smarter every day, I swear it).

That evening, I popped in to Timbo Guest House to greet everyone and down the $2 meal. She quickly approached me, clearly disgruntled, though I was still unaware exactly what the problem was. She whipped out her cell phone, hurriedly hitting a few keys and thrusting it in my face.

What I saw on that small Motorola screen will forever be engrained in my memory.

I replicate it here for your convenience:

------------------------------
-Recently Dialed Calls-
1. MY LOVE
2. MY LOVE
3. MY LOVE
4. MY LOVE
5. MY LOVE
6. MY LOVE
------------------------------

HAHA!!! Someone make it stop, seriously. Nonetheless, I was flattered, and I apologized for my lack of answer and bid my “maybe-the-one?” goodbye with a heavy heart. And, of course, blatantly waved my wedding-ring-actually-my-mom’s-toe-ring-I’m-serious at her to ensure she understood I have unbreakable ties back home. Hell, I made a promise with that toe ring and I’m not one to go back on my word.

The Olympics is such an amazing phenomenon (minus the whole “wtf why does China hate human rights” thing), and it’s so great to be able to have common ground on which everyone can connect. A little friendly competition is healthy, right? Televisions everywhere broadcast the events 24/7, and in entering my guesthouse, there’s one employee who is always in the main room, eyes glued to the screen. “You’re really a fan, huh Godfrey?”

WELL, he was soon to put me in my place. “Rohbet, I should be there right now!” “…??” “It’s true, Rohbet, I’ve won all the preliminary competitions in Uganda in [track/running] [sorry I’m athlete-illiterate but it was something like that] and I should be there representing my country.”

We watched the screen together as the next race was about to begin, and he pointed at the “Best Times” displayed with disgust. “I could beat him… and him… and that one, that’s not even running.” Confused and a little skeptical, I approached his mom, coincidentally the owner of the guesthouse. “It’s true Rohbet,” she assured me, “he’s won every competition here in all of Uganda. He should be there. But we’re too poor and we don’t have the right connections… Ugandans don’t want him representing us, and the well-connected runners get to go.”

WOW, what?! I don’t really know what to take away from this experience, so here it is merely as it is for you to dissect. If there are more Godfreys in the world (which there undoubtedly are), know that the Olympics are a SHAM! Or at least not entirely representative. Right? But anyway, honored to be in the presence of someone who should have been on the screen before me, I shook Godfrey’s hand and told him I hope to see him there in four years. He didn’t hear me – he was again focused on the glow of the television. When I came back out a few hours later, he was still there.

I also had a chance to meet with the former Mozambique president and the current UN envoy to the Juba Peace Talks, the dialogue upon which the fate of the 22-year-war of Northern Uganda depends. What an experience! Tagging along with some well-connected NGO friends (college has taught me how to network and perhaps little else?), I slid into the small conference room with the other “chosen” 25 people and watched on with interest. A three-hour discussion ensued, touching upon an array of really interesting, current issues that need to be dealt with. A number of people in the displacement camps actually don’t want to return home, wishing instead to remain with the better-developed infrastructure of the Camps. Their home villages often lack access to even basic education, let alone adequate health facilities. While this used to define their way of life, many of these people have grown accustomed to having their children attend school and to having the ability to obtain malaria medicine if they get sick. There’s little incentive for some of them to return to their ancestral lands, especially as the ties of “culture” have gotten weaker over time. Interesting stuff, and I certainly don’t pretend to know how to deal with these issues.

All in all, though, these last few days were mostly defined by a single interaction – the first and last of this summer – with one of the sponsored children of The Child Is Innocent.

As I’d worked with the students last summer, I’d bonded most with this girl. Her eagerness, hope, and dedication really stood out from the already amazingly talented crowd, and I may as well just say it – she named me Nyero, my street name over here. It means “laughter”… go figure with that one? To be fair, it’s the male version of her name. Good enough for me.

Upon arriving this summer, I was excited to meet up and see what I’d missed in the past year. Sadly, I learned right away that the “one girl who had been dropped temporarily from the program because she got pregnant”… was this girl. I was totally shocked.

So without my having seen her for the entire summer due to these unfortunate circumstances, I managed to arrange an “official” meeting with her on my very last day in Gulu to check in and see how she was doing.

My boda pulled up to the gate of her aunt’s modest home (both of her parents have died) and I pushed open the iron door with the TCII employee by my side. The toddlers’ “MUNU!” cries (if it was English, it’d probably be more like “OHMIGOD NOWAY GUYZ CHECK THIS OUT!”) alerted her of my arrival, and she peeked out from around the side of the house. We exchanged warm greetings, and I was relieved to see that, even within the context of the current situation, she continued to emanate the hope and radiance of a young person ready to make change happen.

She led me to the small corner room and over to a bundle of tiny blankets. Not empty blankets, I soon found, but a bundle hiding a tiny, beautiful infant. As I held the child in my arms, the girl told me that Blessing had been born roughly three months ago.

“Rohbet,” she said, “will I ever go back to school? I still think of school all the time, and I really need an education. I’m so sorry this all happened like this… I should have known better. But I’ve been thinking about it, and well, everyone is human. I am human. And humans make mistakes. We all make mistakes sometimes, some bigger than others.”

“This baby is not a mistake,” I adamantly assured her, handing the baby back to her young, motherly embrace.

“Oh no, Rohbet, I know that. She’s the opposite. That’s why her name is Blessing. She will grow up to do amazing things, I just know it. She’s here for a reason.”

The baby looked up at me, drooling slightly on the bracelet-gift I had just given her and giggling once in a while at the paleness of my skin or perhaps just the goofy smile on my face. She looked around the room with huge brown eyes, eagerly taking in the sights and sounds of the new, fresh world she’d been brought into.

Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

I did my best to reassure the girl, as the head of the program is currently looking for a referral to a vocational program that will allow her to get her feet back on the ground while still caring for a new baby. She is ready to adapt and do what is necessary to get back on track.

*

A few last dinners and late night, no-electricity goodbyes with some phenomenal friends who are really only a skype-call away, I was ready to go. But not before saying goodbye to the head of TCII, who wanted to make sure I thank “all your friends for their help!!” Thank you everyone for all your help!! Seriously. Done. With that, I marched past the guesthouse blaring the “NAAAAAZABENYAAAAA” intro to “Circle of Life” (I know you know what I’m talking about) and onto the crowded bus, more than ready to befriend my inevitable four-legged companion. How I’ve missed you.

I’m now back in Kampala, caught between the Limbo of the paradise-that-is-Gulu and the ever-looming Rwanda adventure before me. Caught in the chaos that is the Ugandan capital, I’ve roamed the streets and managed to get some blog material before heading out of this country.

Somehow, unbeknownst to me, to be honest, I managed to set up a last-minute meeting with the Ugandan Minister of Foreign Affairs. As in, I marched into the office on a Friday afternoon, waited two hours, and was offered a 20-minute “TALK AS FAST AS YOU CAN” slot with him in which I could ask a few questions about the national government’s conception of the traditional reconciliation mechanisms in the North.

AND, upon cautiously walking in and listening to this huge, suited man on the phone trying to rectify some pretty severe border issue with the Congo (to the west), I heard him speaking Luo, the language of the North. My in!! In between his hanging up the phone on one side of his desk and picking up one on the other side, I spilled out a “you know Luo?!!” to him in the language and tried to impress him. His otherwise poker-face expression lit up with just a hint of something I would call “emotion,” and he said “that’s nice” before dismissing my feeble attempt at dialogue. I’ll take it. That’s one “that’s nice” more than I started with.

This man seriously spoke faster English than any British person I’ve come across, and I even had trouble catching his every word. “Sotellmewhatyou’reherefor,” he spat. “Durr… I’m a student… how do you feel about... uhh…” Picture me stuttering, sitting in his opulent office at the very top of a Ugandan high-rise in my birks, rolled up cargo pants, and beaten up, dirtied “The Child Is Innocent” shirt. Yeah son. Suits suck. It went well, though, and I managed to extract some great insight from this intimidation-of-a-man before heading out, head spinning with my having met him in all his glory.

Leaving this meeting in a haze of “I’m actually doing something here” euphoria, I jumped on a bodaboda and found that the driver also spoke Luo – a rare find in this city! Backpack bouncing and arms flailing (it *really* doesn’t take much these days to do it for me), I started screaming incoherent “I love Gulu!”s at him against the rush of the wind. In all my excitement, however, I neglected to keep my rain jacket at a less-than-precarious distance from the wheels of the boda. Yup.

“OH MY GOD STOP THE BODA!” I screamed, listening to the sound of my jacket getting caught in the [axle? chain? someone needs to proofread these blog entries.] as we veered toward the side of the road and into relative safety. My bulky jacket was now entirely caught in the gears of the motorcycle, squeezed down to a quarter of its size and temporarily destroying the bike. The jacket, however, was the furthest thing from my mind. I had potentially just wrecked this man’s SOLE source of income, all with one stupid muzungu jacket. “I AM SO SORRY.” (Most of what I say here in Uganda is in caps-lock.) Naturally, I drew a crowd, and soon enough, there were about 8 Ugandans surrounding the bike, alternating between trying to console a fairly nonplussed me and dislodging the stupid jacket. Luckily, I had my third-grade paper scissors in my backpack (I’m not kidding).

Some money for repairs, a rusty blade someone found on the ground to help cut through the madness that was my jacket massacre, and thirty minutes later, the jacket was no more. We picked up the shreds of green and literally all of my dignity and tucked it all neatly into the boda-basket in front. You know, to make sure the whole world could see what had just happened. Boda, jacket, Uganda. Yup.

*

That’s a good enough story as any to end on, I suppose. Sitting in a backpackers hostel in Kampala, now 2 hours away from boarding that fateful Rwanda-bound bus, I’m trying to bring all of these experiences together in order to form some sort of cohesive “thanks for reading, hope you learned ____!” message. It’s harder than you’d think. I’ve had some pretty phenomenal experiences over here this summer; this country is truly beautiful, and I’m forever grateful for the opportunity to have met so many incredibly inspiring people.

I think the TCII girl really nailed it on the head. I’m struck by the idea of what it is to be human. Having met with people who have undergone unimaginable atrocities and who work each day to pick up the pieces and start their lives afresh, I am led to seek the similarities between myself and each of them. What is it to be human? Is it the confidence that everything will work out in the end? The universal resilience to deal with any tragedy that comes our way? The inevitability of our making mistakes and the courage to deal with those mistakes? The profound ties we have for one another as a species, leading us to live for one another, to die for one another? The love that drives us forward?

I’m not sure what it is exactly. Maybe a combination of all of it. Maybe – likely – something more. But when all’s said and done, this summer has instilled something very deep in me: the pride in being human. To be able to say I share something in common with the awe-inspiring people I’ve met. This common identity, what it is to be human, can help us connect to everyone, everywhere, and this gives me hope. Maybe it can give you hope, too.

This is likely goodbye for now, so before I jump onto a French speaking bus armed with my “je suis garcon” as promised, I want to thank you for following along with my travels this summer. Especially now, I firmly believe that sharing of meaningful experience is the best way to really live, to figure out the bigger questions, and to connect with other people. Hopefully you’ve found some meaning through this as well. If so, feel free to share. This is a collaborative effort. =D

Here’s to one last boda ride, one last glimpse of paradise.

Human,
Rob

The Will to Adapt

Another month, another district in Northern Uganda. Isn’t that the saying?

Kitgum has called, and I have eagerly answered, anxious to see more of the country and get a different community perspective on issues of forgiveness and justice. I didn’t get a chance to venture very far beyond Gulu last year, so even the prospect of a three-hour bus ride to the northeast triggered my wanderlust.

I made my way to the bus park, soothed by the sound of “Shut Up and Drive” and “Candy Shop” (I’m serious). I think they’ve seen our videos. Sitting in row meant for 4 people at the absolute maximum, I was far from surprised when people started being packed in 5 and 6 to a row. With my row already packed well beyond capacity, the conductors started herding yet another woman-and-baby duo toward the back. I patted my lap welcomingly. She didn’t call my bluff.

Surprised that the bus had taken off before waiting for three hours, I was in a pretty good mood as we got underway. Such a good mood, in fact, that I opted to ignore my neighbor who seemed to be playing footsies with me. Cultural relativism, I kept repeating to myself, sure he was just trying to be welcoming in his own way. Rationalization got more difficult, however, when I started to feel his foot nibble my leg hairs. My infallible logic took root (you can thank my liberal education for this one): feet cannot nibble. My neighbor may or may not have had a similar thought, because just then, as if out of a movie, we both turned and looked each other in the eye before simultaneously looking down. The goat craned its neck backwards, glaring back up at us on cue. I think he even blinked once.

Friends, THERE WAS NO GOAT THERE BEFORE. IT WAS NOT THERE, I SAY. Ugandan mystery #159. Not that I minded the company. 5’s a crowd, but 6 is a rave. The goat and I got some glow sticks and a techno Rihanna “Umbrella” remix going soon after that. Time flies when you’re club hopping on a mini-bus, and suddenly I was in Kitgum.

Ah yes, Kitgum:

No power? No fuel for generators? No running water? No problem.

(…3 days later…)

Okay, maybe a little problem.

(…4 more days later…)

S.O.S.

If the promise of power, internet, and running water hadn’t been there before my arrival here, I would have been fine. Emotionally prepped, you know? And research-ily prepped, too, ready to dig in and transcribe everything by hand onto paper instead of typed neatly into a little Word document. As fate would have it, I’ve spent a lot of time this week ______. (Let’s make this a Mad-Libs, I’ve got nothing).

Feels like home, though. I attribute this mostly to the “White Christmas” medley that wakes me up each morning. Though it may also have to do with the comforting sliver of light that peeks through my steel-shut windows at dawn.

My first few days in town were spent finding my feet, contacting various NGOs and exploring the surroundings like a true foreigner. The terrain is more varied in Kitgum, and I managed to find a huge hill/quasi-mountain to wander up. While trying to avoid racist/culture-ist(?) remarks, I seriously climbed Pride Rock from Lion King. Is that offensive? I’m just trying to give you a mental image here, and SERIOUSLY, that is where I was.

Perched at the top, I gazed out toward the mountains in the distance. Locals crept by the path behind me, questionable murmurs wondering what the stationary mono was doing. I guess I lost track of time. I was struck by the realization that I am actually here. Standing on a Kitgum hilltop and looking out toward the Sudanese mountains in the distance, I am able to capture what was formerly (formerly?) an area of immense human suffering, all in my line of vision. Apparently I’m only 50-100km away from the Sudanese border (no one here *really* knows). Wild.

It was during this excursion that I came across a little stick-and-mud booth set up on the side of the road. I curiously approached, a little wary of the incessant “clicking” noise I heard within, and peered over the edge of the counter. Patrick looked up from his preoccupation with something in front of him and jovially introduced himself. The woman nursing a baby in the corner nodded my way as well. “What do you do here, Patrick?” I asked.

“Let me show you,” he proposed, loading the typewriter with a fresh sheet of paper and banging away. Wow, I thought, he really can type! I’ve been through a lot of NGO offices here, but even those Ugandans who do use two hands have to plunk each key with a deliberate effort. Patrick was going for it, and without Word’s “autocorrect” to cover his butt, he was doing just fine. “Patrick, that’s really impressive! When did you learn?”

“I recently sort of had to, Rohbet,” he replied, looking up from his work and pointing over his right shoulder toward the back wall.

The woman in the corner shifted slightly to her left, revealing two large wooden crutches tucked neatly behind her. Of course. Of course there were crutches.

“Ever since that happened, I've had no other way to get by. I needed to learn to use what I have.”

I didn’t think it important to find out what “that” was, choosing instead to admire his resilience and resourcefulness even without knowing the likely-grim details of what led him to his new state. He smiled and turned back to his typing, eager to prove himself to me. He didn’t need to.

“Maybe if you need anything typed, you can come back,” he said. “You bet, Patrick,” I said, shaking his newly-trained hand and walking away to the sound of the steady “click” of his impassioned determination behind me.

*

The rest of my Kitgum stay has been happily uneventful, for the most part. Motorcycle bodabodas have been exchanged for passenger-bicycles, hot running water has been replaced with a distinct lack of bathing (just try and judge me). The torrential downpours define this area during the wet season, and each night is met with winds ripping through tiny guesthouses and phenomenal thunder and lightning making a stage of the sky every other split second.

Beyond the water-dearth, these past two weeks have been especially fortunate for me, as I got to witness TWO (2) cleansing ceremonies in the local communities. Now, I don’t mean to brag, but how many muzungus can claim they’ve seen two local cleansing ceremonies? *head inflates* Here’s a little recap if you’re at all interested in how things work around here:

The first one, called “tumu cere” or “cleaning a place,” took place in a community 20 km from the border of Sudan. I drove up with a local NGO to the very northern tip of the country, co-passenger with an out-of-control goat bent on soiling my feet and legit everything else in the van. I wasn’t quick to judge; I’d be sort of all over the place, too, if I were a soon-to-be sacrifice. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We showed up at a primary school deep in the rural “Bush,” or Ugandan grassland wilderness. Apparently, this was the site of a huge massacre of rebels, government soldiers, and civilians (children) alike during the war. As people begin to move out of the Camps and back to their ancestral lands, there is a widespread fear about the evil/restless spirits who still inhabit such places of mass atrocity and threaten to drive returnees mad without proper ceremonial rituals having taken place.

Bent on reclaiming their land, a group of 40 elders from the local clans got together and agreed to pursue this cleansing ritual in order to appease these otherwise vengeance-seeking ghosts. They called up the NGO, which provided the otherwise unaffordable goat for the ceremony. Upon arrival, we marched deep into the Bush one-by-one, a lengthy line of respected local elders followed by an ecstatic, clumsy muzungu with an extra memory chip for his digital camera. I’d say we were a “motley” crew but I can’t help but think my presence alone doesn’t warrant the use of “motley.” So I won’t say anything.

Making our way into a small clearing and allegedly the site of the most brutal murders in the area, we clustered around the few key figures who were to lead the ceremony. They said a few prayers, welcoming the spirits of their respective ancestors to watch over the ritual and bless the course of events. Shortly after, and amidst my not-so-subtle heart palpitations, they slaughtered the goat (note: I AM VEG FOR LIFE) and took a few feathers from a small chick for good measure.

The elders took the waste product from the intestines of the goat, or the “wee,” and threw it in all directions around the clearing so as to pacify the spirits (what spirit doesn’t like wee?). They also “cooked” the meat right there in a small makeshift fireplace over the course of 3 minutes before the key leaders made an offering to the same spirits and ate some themselves to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. Note that they ate the *entire* goat; nothing went to waste.

All of this done, the local people are free to return to the area without fear of spiritual possession or imminent madness. While speaking with a number of locals after the ceremony, they assured me that all would be well now upon returning. It was SO interesting to engage in conversation with people who have such a distinctly different perspective on life and meaning than anyone I’ve come across before, and I’m excited to know that this sort of variety is out there.

Then, just a few days ago, I witnessed another one called “nyonno tong gweno,” or literally “stepping on an egg.” This is different in that it is used to purify a person after he or she has been away from the community for a significant period of time and possibly contracted some evil energy throughout the travels. Specifically relevant in the case of returning, formerly abducted ex-combatants.

I sat in the car next to one such person, a 22-year-old (I’m 21) who was abducted at age 14 and spent no less than 8 years in the Bush before escaping. Of course, he witnessed/was forced to commit countless namely atrocities throughout this time. I looked over at him during the unbearably bumpy car ride, not sympathetically or with pity, necessarily, but as an equal. As another human being who has been forced into things far darker than many of us will ever see. He is finally returning to his home, his family, after 8 years in captivity and another 6 months in a rehabilitation center in Kitgum.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get back home, John?” I question, really having no idea what could be foremost on his mind. The women in the car translate, and his gentle answer leads to an unexpected eruption of laughter.

“Food,” John tells us. Fair enough. If I were gone for 8 years, you better believe I’d be first in line for mom’s soy cheese pizza. (I’m home in 25 days, mom.)

We make it to his home shortly after, sending out the alarm and witnessing the rest of his family greet him for the first time in many years. His whole extended family of at least 15 people showed up, but I was understandably most struck by the reaction of his mother. Tears in her eyes, she threw her arms up over her head exclaiming, “I never thought we’d see you again!” She made her way around the NGO crew, ending with me. Her words implied her belief that I had something to do with this glorious homecoming.

“Thank you! Thank you very, very much… very much!”

Never before have I heard those words as heartfelt as I did that day. While I didn’t really deserve this praise, I was happy to witness her raw emotion nonetheless.

Shortly after, we gathered the family together on the little dirt path a few meters from the hut for the ceremony. Low and behold, it was really just what it sounds like – stepping on an egg. A few blades of grass were cut, thrown toward the setting sun to ward off evil spirit, and John stepped on the egg. That was sort of that. An egg, because it has no mouth, is meant to represent the purity of life and the acceptance of a person back into his or her homestead. While seemingly small, this act symbolizes a repossession of innocence and a pact amongst the family members to work together to mend any fractures within the greater societal fabric as a result of John’s deeds with the rebel army.

His family welcomed him back into their home, prepared to help him deal with any dark remnants of his past that have the potential to resurface in the form of PTSD, at the very least. Ready to work with the hand they’d been dealt, his family members bound together to overcome any future troubles and were set on getting back to the way “things used to be.”

I waved goodbye and headed back down the path, though not without a few quick close-ups of the cracked egg. Do we have eggs in the West? Should we?

*

To retrace just a little bit, I’ve got some Gulu-gossip:

Finally, FINALLY I had my meeting with Gulu’s Chairman Mao. If you followed along last year, you may remember him being the political figure who stole my heart over the Fall-Out Boy crew to his left. He won hands down. This guy is a true beacon of promise in Northern Uganda – dare I compare him to the next president of the Untied States? Yes. Obamao, some call him. …No they don’t. Not yet, anyway. (That’s the malaria pills talking.)

Widely known for his commitment to truth, fighting corruption, and his firm hand against those who don’t play by the rules (um, most Ugandan politicians = understatement, though probably just “politicians” more generally). Armed with a [yale] law degree, he’s got a biting sense of logic that can run circles around his wavering counterparts in other regions of the country. This can be seen as embodied in some of the metaphors and bits of insight he pulled out in our conversation:

Referring to the way individual NGO workers can exploit people in areas of mass instability, including Gulu up to a few years ago: “A doctor who is treating a patient in a coma treats him differently than he does a patient in a waking state. Well, we are out of the coma. The doctor must now ask us how we feel: ‘where does it hurt?’ You can’t just come with some predetermined medicine box.”

“Africa is not a dumping ground. We may not have money, but we have dignity. We are poor, but we are not stupid.”

“Why do foreigners lower the bar in Africa? You change standards from your homeland. Some people thing ‘anything goes’ in Africa. But that is not in Gulu while I’m around. At least there is one corner of African with these high standards.”

*swoons*

Equally as important, I was recently shocked by a television phenomenon over here and I need you to validate my disbelief. While I was sitting in a local restaurant, a “gameshow” popped onto the television. Turns out it was a version of a jumble word puzzle where people have to call in to guess what the scrambled word is. There’s a young 20’s female hostess prompting people to call in and giving them hints as to what the letters could spell.

To give you a clearer picture of what we were dealing with, the words (in this order) were: BLUE, CHAIR, FLOWER. One of the hints for “chair”: “sometimes you sit in them!”… sometimes? And for “flower”: “a rose is an example, and a daisy, too!”

It was truly painful:

“I know you know! You just want to call in right now, don’t you? You can win 120,000 shillings if you just call! *points directly into camera* You, you pick up the phone and call. Remember, the letters are mixed up right now: this is not the word. You put them together to make a new word! Tell me, what word can you make with these letters? I see a B, L, E, U. What can you make with that? *dances to the music MAD awkwardly.* It’s not red, white, orange, or green! So what is it? Can you tell me? You just pick up that phone and give me a little call, I can’t wait! *points at flashing numbers on screen* Uganda, yeah!”

Between these three words, and entirely uninterrupted, the program lasted the entire 45 minutes I was in the restaurant.

Don’t write this off by assuming Ugandans are ridiculously illiterate or something. I was in a room with 6 or 7 and all of them got it within absolute max 10 seconds. So what is this, I ask you? My pupils actually dilated to the shape of “W.T.F.” as I looked around the room, looking for someone to meet me halfway. No one else thought it was ludicrous; they just waited patiently for the phantom caller that was never to come. It was sort of poetic. I paid and left, awed and confused by yet another one of Uganda’s natural mysteries.

*

Without further delay, I present to you: A HAIRCUT IN UGANDA

AKA

“The Great Battle of Summer 2008,”
“The Last Resort,”
“What dignity?,”

and the winning, most comprehensive tag line (is that the word?):

“Whoops!”

That’s right, kids, I took the plunge. Don’t judge me. This is not my muzungu vanity getting the best of me. I’m really not trying to impress anyone here (though of course I could use more pre-pubescent suitors – who couldn’t?). This was a public service.

Days before I was to leave Gulu, I got the call. Apparently some of the East African political leaders were starting to get nervous, worried the power-hungry beast on my head was going to start impinging upon the sovereignty of their respective countries. I guess the embassy started to receive complaints. Not one for confrontation, I agreed to do what had to be done. (You can actually just keep “My Sacrifice” on loop for the next few entries as background music.)

You get the picture. Out of control. One deep breath later, a guesthouse worker had taken me by the hand and was leading me to that fateful barbershop, already consoling me. “Either way, I’m sure it’ll be fine in a few weeks.” Great.

Skeptical but really with no expectations whatsoever, I stepped through the Mardi Gras beads and into the barber chair in a room very much reminiscent of something out of the 70s. The man grabbed the buzzer/clippers (what is it called? The thing that is *not* the scissors?) and went to town. There was NO, I repeat, NO use of scissors at all during this process. I was prepared for anything – almost. I was not prepared for a good haircut.

A good haircut in Africa = worth at least 20% of this blog entry, hands down. I figure if I can get groomed in Uganda, I can pretty much stay here forever. Right? Isn’t that the rule?

Lastly, in order to continue my stream of unfulfilled words and empty promises, I have yet to “compile those gems of wisdom” I’ve talked about. I mean, with all this WILD AND CRAZY Kitgum activity, can you blame me? Sorry, I know you’re at the edge of your seat over there. Just grab a slab of tofu and take it easy for a while. Seriously. Grab the tofu for me. NO.MORE.BEANS.HELP.ME.

Bald,
Rob

A Permanence

The 15-year-olds of a few entries ago have launched a full-fledged attack. I innocently left my guesthouse room this morning with a hankering for the slice of bread and banana that comprises the guesthouse’s “full-service breakfast each day!” As I stepped foot into the main lobby, I was met with cries of “Rohbet!” and saw THREE 15-year-olds standing at the entrance, eyes wide with soon-to-be-unfulfilled expectations. They’re multiplying! I must have appeared pretty visibly horrified, because one of the guesthouse workers took it upon himself to explain: “these are your friends, Rohbet, you know them?”

Okay, whoa. I definitely didn’t tell them where I lived.

And to top it off, the breadbasket was empty. Oh man, so not worth it. “Oh, hi,” I said in the general direction of the adolescents before casting a look of fire at the worker. “Gotta run!” Without another word, I turned around and defiantly marched back in the direction of my room, smiley-face-pajama pants and all. Had I packed my Spongebob PJ pants, I would have marched back out. Nobody messes with Spongebob. Alas, that is not the case, and I am even now writing this from the tenuous security of my little locked room, tucked away until the intimidating front-line disperses and forgets I live here. If you have received this, I’ve made it out alive.

Though not without struggling through a bout of sickness. Who gets a SORE THROAT in Uganda? Seriously. I’m actually pretty embarrassed. “How are you today, Rohbet?” the cleaning lady questions as I emerge from my cocoon of self-pity late that morning. I give a “so-so” gesture with my hand (hint: not culturally transferable) and point at my throat. “You are choking?” “Nope,” I gasp, “just a sore throat.” “Oh, sorry! I hope it is not malaria.” … me too, my dear, me too. Though perhaps that would feel more legitimate? *knocks on wood*

Luckily for my damaged ego and my masochistic desire for a few sleepless nights over here, this thing progressed into a full-blown sinus headache attack with sniffles, cough, the whole works. A common cold, Africa-style. I think it’s more intense over here? Pity me?

*cue Creed’s “My Sacrifice”*

No, I’m actually fine. It took a full two weeks to get rid of this thing, but I finally no longer carry two rolls of TP in my backpack “just in case.” Oh stop, they were for my runny nose. ;)

Reluctant to pursue the heavy “med-cocktails” informally prescribed by local friends, I opted to take the standard “cold caps.” The downing of these hefty pills makes me question my role as an officer in the infamous “I can sing real good but can’t swallow pills! LOLz!” facebook group. Look it up. And anyway, I’m my bubbling, bushy-tailed, bright-eyed self again, so all is well.

Well enough, in fact, to venture back to the Internal Displaced Persons (IDP) Camps that litter the Northern Ugandan countryside in search of true wisdom. These things are just as brutal as I remember them to be. The otherwise blissful, natural horizon is broken by these manmade abominations, arching menacingly in the distance. As we near one, I am truly overwhelmed by the sprawling monstrosity of tiny huts (maximum ~10 meters wide for an entire family), placed at most 2 meters away from one another. Thousands of these inadequate structures embody daily life for the tens of thousands of Camp residents, caught between unfamiliar neighbors in a foreign land they were quite unwillingly forced onto. (Remember the mandated mass migration of people into these camps, enforced through the burning of original huts and villages within 48 hours of the original “announcement” in order to ensure the government-sponsored initiative was taken seriously.) I can already see the crowds of idle children, drunken and dejected men, and struggling, garden-bound women on the outskirts of the Camp. Some greet me with inquisitive waves, eager to learn of the reason for this foreigner’s arrival; others, with nothing more than an apathetic, hopeless, near-bitter gaze of someone who has been promised one too many times a better future by people closely resembling myself.

Dante never visited a displacement camp in Northern Uganda.

I roll into the Camp from my two-hour boda ride, face entirely covered in dark red dust and the occasional dead insect, hair flipped back into something only a Jew-fro can truly produce. I wince as I walk, sorry I was born without a butt (there is literally nothing there). The children gather, taking my arrival as a welcomed change in the otherwise bleak scenery. Their tattered clothing ranges from the vestiges of a NY Giants jersey (how did that get here?) to a tiny little rag around the neck that may have one time been a dress, leaving their entire body exposed to the elements. I hear giggles and cries of “yesu” – “Jesus.” There are *so* many things wrong with that on so many levels, I won’t even begin to count them.

Needless to say, I try to put on a humble, “I’m here to help and I care about you but I am not a savior or hero and don’t how know much I can truly provide right this second” demeanor and make my way to the youth group meeting organized by the same NGO I’ve been tagging along with. The introductions are fairly straightforward for me now, and the locals greet my feeble attempts at communication with cries of jubilation – most people in the Camps do not understand English, so they do truly appreciate my attempts at speaking with them and thanking them for their willingness to help me in my research. I like to think that the research will ultimately help them in some way; I have promised to send my report back to all of them. Maybe it will make a difference, an impact, on the way the world envisions conceptions of forgiveness, reconciliation, and “justice.”

The interviews have been filled with the sort of insight that makes me truly thankful for the opportunity to discuss these issues, regardless of whether or not I know exactly what I’m looking for with this research. (~~Subtle cue to advisor: if you’re reading this, what am I doing?? Love, Rob~~) I’m going to compile some of the most intriguing quotes for an upcoming entry; get excited, I am. We’ve got some gems over here.

My recent NGO excursions have also taken me to local primary schools with the intention of setting up “Peace Clubs” for our sponsored children with The Child Is Innocent, initiating the program in order to further the goal of “promoting leaders” in the youth of Uganda. Why, of course I’m qualified to do this! Truth be told, I’m partnering up with a Ugandan-board member who is coincidentally a phenomenal primary school teacher and quite capable of leading the program with just a bit of direction and encouragement. We’re working together to get this thing off the ground, collaborating with local school administrators to get people excited about this new extra-curricular.

The crowded room of 50 boarding primary school students, sharply dressed in school uniforms, looked on eagerly as the timid munu stepped in front of them. “How are you?!” I enthusiastically greeted in their local language, thinking it would be a good icebreaker to hear the muzungu stumble over basic salutations. *Draws in breath through closed teeth* -- ooh, not quite the desired result. The children are prompted from day one to be extraordinarily respectful to any visitor, and such a laugh would have demonstrated otherwise. So my humble attempt at engaging the students resulted in a fairly awkward period of silence where I waited for one of them to crack a smile. …Nothing.

So I broke out into my slow English depiction of the program, encouraging them to get involved and get excited for the opportunity to become “ambassadors of peace” within their own communities at home. Nice, right? My tediously chosen words and careful pronunciation proved to be futile; the “translator” on the side of the room asked in English “do you understand this man?” to which the room replied with a collective “Noooo, Mr. Otega.” He subsequently repeated everything I said in Pidgin English, similar to my attempts at Luo, I imagine. “Rohbet from America. Peace program starting. He wants you to like Peace. You are excited?” “YES!” Success.

My partner-in-crime, the Ugandan teacher, got up after me and put me to shame. This woman knows how to lead a classroom. “Good morning, children,” she boomed, prompting the students to all stand up and recite “good morning, miss, thank you for coming, we are blessed for you” in unison. Ooh, she’s good. She continued to very effectively rally support for the program, picking up the pieces where I left off and making sure these kids were on board. All of them want to sign up!

Really interesting highlight of her speech:

“Children, if another person comes up to us and bops us, is it okay to hit him?” “Nooo.” “Do we bop him back?” “Nooo.” “Does hitting back bring peace?” “Nooo.”

So what do we do? “We forgive them.”

Does that strike you as it strikes me? Not even a “we sit with them, discuss our problems, try to work out a compromise, ask for an apology.” Just flat out forgiveness and understanding. Of course, it might be simplified a bit for the room of 10 year olds. Or a room of 10 year olds and a naïve muzungu, for that matter. But still, I’m surrounded by this ideal. It’s part of the community, embedded in daily life here from day 1.


Quick sidetrack – ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: FREEGANISM IN UGANDA (Wikipedia if you don’t know what that is. Sigh.)

I was innocently passing the 2-hour wait for my vegetable curry in a nearby muzungu café (muzungu because it serves pizza and smoothies, Uganda-style), quietly reading a local newspaper article about the Hepatitis E outbreak in the neighboring district.

Suddenly my ears perk up, and I manage a quick outburst: “...Did… did you say, DUMPSTER DIVING?” Wow, you know how to catch *my* attention. Not that I was featured in a picture with my roommates in a Crimson FM article eating donuts out of a dumpster. (…) I get into a 15 minute long discussion with these women about “freeganism,” the highlight being human beings waste too much. No but really. I know someone who has lived for THREE YEARS only off of “trash.” And for that matter, she has *never* gotten sick from the food. Not once. Food for thought, right? *giggles* Anyway, worth mentioning that this phenomenon is spreading across the world by word of mouth. Also, this is the mandatory “vegan” reference I have to make to keep my blog title. I’m done.

While we’re on the food-related train of thought, though, here’s a little insider info. For those who are interested, I have here the ingredients listed on my late night snack of choice/staple food more broadly, the infamous “Ginger Snaps”: “Wheat Flour, Sugar, Syrup, Vegetable Fat, Ginger Powder, Baking Agent, Salt, Permitted Flavours and Colours.”

Permitted, eh? And what’s with those “u”s in there? I just don’t really trust it. But beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.


Next subheading: ARRESTED [PART II] IN UGANDA

“Muzungu, stop right there. You’re under arrest.” Not again, I thought. How often do you get to think “not again” when you hear that? Hopefully not a lot, I guess. Hard. Core.

I had been harmlessly riding through the bustling town for a meeting, lost in thought as I gripped the back of the speeding boda, when we were met with two men holding an intimidating chain across the road and a group of curious onlookers gathering around the vehicle and preventing us from turning around.

Far from projecting any sort of comforting, “we’re official” type of atmosphere, these guys looked a little vigilante, taking justice into their own hands. No but seriously, I was shaking in my dust-filled boots [sandals]. Where was Justice when I needed him? (Emailed me again recently, actually, and he’s now writing from internet access inside some dark jail cell somewhere in central Uganda.)

“Muzungu, it’s time for jail.” Only half-sure they were kidding and not really seeing the joke in this incident, I cracked a forced smile and started uttering the equivalent of “dude, what’s up?” to lighten the mood. I really couldn’t read the situation at all, and never before had I seen anyone punished for a traffic violation. Traffic law general rule: size = right of way. Unless you’re a herd of cows: then you have the right of way, dawn til dusk. That’s pretty much it.

My bumbling around did just the trick, though, and they dropped the act. There was actually some sort of town-wide bodaboda meeting in the local common grounds, and my boda driver was skipping out for a quick shilling-fix from an oblivious munu. Not on their watch. They kicked me off the boda and made me walk the 5 kilometers to the meeting. Never before have I been so appreciative of African time, rendering me early for the gathering that had been set to start an hour and a half before my arrival.


Last ADHD mood change, and I’ll just be explicit: here comes the “downer-but-maybe-it-can-inspire-you” portion of this entry (that wasn’t the IDP camp section?).

So as a result of a bunch of miscommunications and misunderstandings, one of the NGOs I worked with all last summer and am currently working with again, The Child Is Innocent (TCII) has recently lost ties with its Canadian branch (originally both U.S. and Canadian branches existed), leading to over 50 of the 102 children being dropped from sponsorship. The situation will be remedied, but as of now, it is pretty ridiculously dire. We must keep these children in school – the prospect of their having been promised the opportunity for a well-earned ride through primary and secondary school and our having to take that away from them makes my legs weak and my skin crawl. That will simply not be the case. That said, I’m going to start up some intensive fundraising efforts in the very near future.

I went to visit a mother of one of the TCII-sponsored children this morning. Her story can only very poorly be conveyed through words, but here I do my best to articulate what I have seen:

I ride through the decrepit IDP Camp, just waiting for its residents to finally leave the veritable Hell-hole it represents, and end up at the very back edge of the thousands of “homes.” I follow the TCII employee into a nondescript hut, immediately struck by an overwhelming inhalation of smoke from the inner cooking pot (there’s nowhere else to put it). Through the haze, I see the outline of a small, older-looking woman sitting on a straw mat about half a foot away from me. I greet her, coughing, and suggest we move outside in broken Luo. She agrees, and I shift the two feet back out the door.

Sitting down, the woman looks healthy, strong even. But as I turn back to greet her again in the blazing intensity of the equatorial sun, I see she is still slowly making her way out of the doorway, bracing herself with all the force of her arms. She is severely physically disabled, hobbling at a 75-degree angle against the protest of her weakened limbs. She makes it just beyond the doorway before suddenly losing balance and dropping to the ground, a mound of dust exploding out from beneath her fallen body, pained expression on her face.

I don’t know if the severity, the true tragedy of that incident can come across in this description. It is all I can do to keep from crying right there.

I hurry to her side with the other TCII member, making sure she is okay and offering to help move her to the relocated small straw mat beside me. We slowly make our way to the seat, half-crawling, before she tells me her story, preemptively wiping at her eyes throughout the course of the conversation:

Rose is the mother of 8 children in total. She is 40 years old. Roughly 20 years ago, she is crippled; it is her belief that she has stepped on some “poison” dropped in the garden by a local witch doctor (ajwaka) with the intention to ruin her life. Upon consulting some of the local physicians, I find it is more likely that a case of tuberculosis spiraled out of control, targeting in on her spine and leaving her with a painful, debilitating, degenerative-paralysis disease.

As time goes on, Rose continues to have children, convinced that her future and wellbeing depend on an abundance of offspring as is so often the understanding of the local people here. The disease worsens, however, and she begins to lose control of her feet, her hands, her neck, her jaw. The translator strains to hear exactly what she is saying, and even I can tell the words are distinctly blurred as she determinedly spills them out with an extremely deliberate motion of her lips.

She has finally progressed to a point where she is entirely incapable of caring for herself, let alone the wellbeing of her eight children. Her alcoholic, abusive husband sometimes offers to help feed her in between bouts of beating her. He is a peasant farmer, growing only enough food to help sustain his family, but he often shirks responsibility in his regular haze of numbness. This leaves the eldest daughter to tend to the garden and supplement the meager, insufficient World Food Program rations with whatever she can reap from the family plot. Even so, the children are horribly malnourished; they watch me with bloated bellies and tiny little arms as I continue writing desperately from the three-legged chair they have provided.

The brief interview done, I stand and tell Rose I think she is “very brave and courageous,” hoping it translates and knowing it will not be able to carry the same amount of sincerity with which I mean for it to come across. I wave goodbye to Rose and the crowding children surrounding her, still sitting in the same place. When I leave, she will crawl back to her hut and sit in the smoke-filled room again. For me, this is a reality attainable only through a lengthy $2 boda ride. For Rose and her children, this is it. This is everything.

This is permanent.

And even when they move back to their original village, hopefully within the next few years as the conflict is officially resolved, Rose’s paralysis will continue to worsen.

*

Aware of this dire situation, the head of the TCII-Uganda branch has accepted the eldest daughter as a qualifying student for the sponsorship program. While she will not be able to continue supporting her family on a regular basis as the de facto sole-breadwinner of the crew, her next-in-line has taken over this role for the time being. It is TCII’s intention to continue helping relieve this family’s children of an all-too-certain future, characterized by lack of opportunity and a daily struggle for survival.

An Italian man originally committed to sponsoring this child. In fact, he vowed to secure three sponsors, leading the TCII head to place three such children in school (one of which being orphaned, her parents both having been brutally murdered by the rebel army in the recent war).

The money has yet to materialize. We speculate it is because of the formerly referred to miscommunications.

Who is going to tell this girl she can no longer go to school? That she needs to stay here in this Camp? That she needs to unpack her tiny sack, filled with ripped sheets of paper, a few meager outfits, and a surplus of new hope for the future?

Not me.

And this is why I am going to embark on a fundraising mission to end all fundraising. If you would like to be apart of this, *please* let me know. If you were looking for that “I should donate something to somewhere” place this summer/year, I’ve found your match. Every little bit helps, really. Additionally, if anyone has any suggestions at all re: good crowds to target or fundraising tactics, I’m all ears. Sponsorships themselves are fairly expensive – $750/year for as long as the kids are in school – but people often team up (i.e. big groups) in order to cover the cost. www.thechildisinnocent.org. These kids are truly amazing, inspiring, [synonym].

Of course, I can talk to you in more detail about what resulted in the sponsorship drop if you care to know – it is the most genuinely ludicrous situation I have ever come across, and I’ll spare you the details unless you want a little reassurance/NGO-dirt. *sigh* Barring a longer, tedious explanation, I ask you to take my word in my vouching for the legitimacy of this endeavor.

And regardless of financial contributions (I know many of us are poor college students), I feel confident that it’s equally as important to spread awareness about this type of thing. If nothing else, you know Rose and her daughter exist, and you can take that with you. They can use all the good thoughts they can muster up, so please keep them in your hearts.


End: shameless solicitation. (I promise I only do this because I need a BUNCH OF HELP. I also promise I will not give the money to Justice.)


And with this epic blog entry finally completed, I’m off to join in some Sunday night guesthouse debauchery. This is primarily made up of a growing group-watching of an Animal Planet-esque documentary on ferrets. I kid you not; I saw them watching it when I came in. It’s a full house.

Will sell himself & a copy of Ferret Shananigans for a donation or two,
Rob

A Dual Reality

I wake up each day a little confused. It’s a good kind of confused. My dimly lit guesthouse provides a stark contrast to the intensity of the sunlit streets outside. The African sun is blinding, stunning. I have to blink a few times before my eyes adjust to the sights and sounds of Gulu around me. And reliably, I am shocked. Each day, I am truly surprised to be back in this familiar, warmth-filled town again. The chattering newspaper vendors, the catcalling of the eager-to-cheat-you boda drivers, the impressive women carrying huge bundles of market wares on their heads and a crying baby in a wrap on their back, the uniformed school children on their way to class on foot, the huge freight trucks and the stark white of the NGO vehicles barreling by, the solitary woman walking by in a pale blue silk dress, the red dust sprinkled onto each and every surface, the indistinguishable cries of baby, goat, and chicken… it’s all still here. It’s a nice feeling – to be so very conscious and appreciative of one’s surroundings right at the start of every new day.

I recently met some friendly Scots next door who know that the NH motto is “Live Free or Die” (“you gun-freaks”) and that my state was the site of the filming of a good chunk of “Hannibal.” Go figure with that one. Coincidentally, I simultaneously discovered the origin of the “Les Miserables” singing that has kept me up many a night in this guesthouse. Oh, those Brits. They extended me an offer to come to the local district hospital and paint cartoon characters on the bleak walls of the children’s ward, a prospect I happily welcomed. It’s great to be interviewing so many people in Gulu for my personal research, but a little more of the tangible “giving back to the community” approach would do any soul good, so I’m in. Winnie the Pooh has never looked so good. That’s because I just had to color inside the lines, of course. I’ve also taken on typing up documents for NGOs after I interview their workers… just to feel better about taking up their time. Nobody here really learns how to type (the “two-handed way,” that is), so I can really help them out with a 20-minute chunk of hardcore typing. And luckily for them, I only type hardcore.

Obligatory culture shock portion of this entry: Rob’s trip to the compound of the UNHCR – the United Nations High Commissioner of Refugees. Sounds exciting, right? You have no idea. Because when my boda pulled up to the huge, ominous gate of the compound at 10:30pm, I entered the yard and was immediately SQUIRTED WITH A WATER GUN by the local HEAD of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees WEARING AN AUSTIN POWERS TOUPEE. Yes, my friends, I was attending a “Spy Party” at the UNHCR compound on Saturday night. This represents yet another “Northern Uganda WTF moment.”

I had heard about the huge muzungu gathering through the NGO-ridden grapevine and was extended an invitation to attend. Skeptical but ridiculously curious, to be honest, I followed along for the ride. You can imagine my shock when I entered the compound and found a *two-story bar* directly next to the actual UNHCR building. WHAT?! The same toupee official (commonly referred to as “Santa Claus” here in Gulu due to an apt combination of both status and appearance) led the newcomers into the bottom floor of the outdoor bar, pointing to a huge wall display of printed out 8 and ½ by 11 sheets of paper. He grinned smugly as he traced the huge font at the top of the exhibit:

“WELCOME TO THE SECRET POLICEMEN’S CONVENTION.”

“All of these are real secret police organizations,” he said urgently, signaling to the *hundreds* of incoherent acronyms and abbreviations listed below the title. “It really makes you think, huh?” he continued, trying to instill an artificial sense of fear or awe in us that really wasn’t there to begin with. “Who DID this?” I questioned, hopefully disguising any disgust in my voice. “I had one of my assistants look all this up on the internet the other day for our party.” I have a pretty weak gag reflex, I’m going to be honest, and it was all I could do to hold back my (warranted?) vomit at this statement. You had one of your assistants at the UNHCR spend a day looking up acronyms for your Spy Party?

REALLY?

Okay, to be fair, I was a little too a) enthralled and b) shell-shocked with the party to really reflect and feel as uncomfortable as I think I should have at the time, but shouldn’t I? Feel uncomfortable about this, that is? I mean, don’t you? Whose money is this? I recognize that everyone should be able to kick back a little bit once in a while and enjoy themselves, regardless of mandate or location... But really, excessive? Perhaps? Yuck. Where are the goats? I’d say the best part of the night was one of the San Diegan munus challenging me to a Golem-voice contest. Guess who won? “How do you DO that?!!” My precious indeed.

*Sigh* Anyway. Gulu is defined by the presence of two entirely separate worlds. Let’s get back to the more familiar one:

A craving for a late night snack and the dearth of body wash warranted a trip to the new local supermarket in town. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and “super”market is a relative term. In America, no market is particularly super. Let’s be serious. You sort of grow to expect whatever you’re going to find. “Mundane”market, perhaps, or “borderline-jaded”market, maybe. Let me tell you something. If you come across a supermarket in Northern Uganda, you better buckle up. They’re really not kidding around. Tucked neatly between some sort of mechanics shop and the local pub, this baby is super indeed. My munu friends and I naturally gravitated to the wall of possessed life-size baby dolls. This is what nightmares are made of. And as the dolls were all white (white AND possessed), I was downright uncomfortable. So we quickly moved on to the “no-refrigeration required” yogurt aisle, skirting past the lingerie tucked neatly beneath the “loopy nut” cereal with a smiling [bear] on the cover. Four aisles of adventure, let me tell you.

Munus (white people – have I made that clear yet? “Munu” in the north, “muzungu” in the south, though pretty interchangeable in Gulu) around here don’t set the language standards very high. One mere hello – “kopango” – unfailingly secures me a “you are learning our language very well!” in return. Seriously? “I’m no stupid muzungu!” I reply, wiping the drool from my bottom lip. I’ll show them.

And whose idea was it to teach the youngest Acholi generations to say “bye,” I ask you. Why “bye”..? On a standard four-minute bodaboda ride, a white will evoke AT LEAST six cries of “munu bye!” from the children on the side/in the middle of the street (some boda drivers fittingly term them “obstacles”). Why not “munu hi!” ??? Am I to be constantly reminded that my stay here is brief at best? Is the image of the foreigner indelibly linked to his or her imminent moving on?!

Or perhaps I’m just sensitive and emotionally charged. Next subject.

Have you ever been attacked by a swarm of children? Like literally attacked? I turn around and see them CHARGING ME. “YOU DO WHAT?” I scream in the local language, fist clenching around the Walgreens sunglasses in my pocket. If I’m going down, I’m going down with my UV-ray protection.

On that note, there are a few categories of young children in this land. As any responsible traveler knows, it is important to be able to identify potential threats before entering unknown territory. I arrange them here for your reference:

1. The Bashful. Following you at a distance, these ones will tuck their head over their left shoulder and look at the ground as soon as you glance back. And in a few minutes when you look again, they’ll still be 10 feet behind you, suddenly enthralled in a new pothole. Too long a line of these guys and you’ll end up looking a little like that piper that mesmerizes children or whatever. Um, not ideal? Not that I have any trouble blending in around here.

2. The Starers. Don’t expect any sort of response from these little guys. You can shout Luo, whisper English, or belt Celine Dion at them (Celine Dion fits into neither category. Also, I don’t sing Celine Dion here.). It really doesn’t matter. They’re going to keep looking at you, and realistically, they’re probably not going to blink. In fact, there’s an old wives tale that if you see the eyelids of one of these sprites, you’re destined to marry a Ugandan goat or something. The details escape me.

3. The Rogues. These are the ones to watch out for. “HOW ARE YOU?” they demand, literally shouting. “I AM FINE,” I say, leading to their unsolicited “I AM FINE” in return. And we’re not talking “indoor” voices, either. This is serious. “Fine” has never been so menacing. Unless you include the “fine” uttered by the resigned foreigner when the restaurant informs him that it has actually run out of everything but “rice and a banana.” Even if there’s no food, they won’t tell you that at the start. Oh no. You need to ask for everything on the menu BEFORE they tell you there’s actually no food. But I digress.

Yeah, everyone here is “fine.” How are you? “Fine.” Never “good,” “just great,” “a little pensive.” Nope. Fine. I’m fine. It can be an enthusiastic “FINE!” or an exasperated “fiiine,” but fine nonetheless. What a neutral word. In reality, I think it’s pretty hard for me to be “fine” in Uganda. I’m either pretty euphoric or a little wrapped up in what’s going on around me…

Scene: lunch in a downtown restaurant. Sitting with my two local friends, both 20 years old, Gloria and Patrick. I hung out with them a bunch last summer, so we’re catching up on missed time over a meal and a few bottles of mineral water. We laugh, we share stories… we could be anywhere right now, this feels normal, regular. I’m in a little U.S. café.

Suddenly a baby cries. Gloria reaches down and picks up her 1 year, 8 month old child, Patience. A name chosen with just a hint of irony. Patience begins to cry as her mother feeds her the food I have just bought for both of them. Gloria has gone to the hospital today to get “chest pain” checked out, so she has forfeited the paycheck for the day and has actually spent more money on transportation and the medication they have prescribed for her. “Even with the paycheck, I can usually only afford one meal a day for myself if I’m going to get food for Patience.” I watch as she spoons more bean-soaked rice into her young daughter’s mouth, knowing she is alone to care for this child. An orphan, Gloria has always had to depend upon herself – her extended family has died off one-by-one from disease and general malnutrition. I dare not ask how she ended up with this baby to care for by herself. She dares not offer. Patience begins to cry maniacally, creating a scene that draws the attention of the rest of the room. I see Gloria look down at her with what I interpret to be a flash of regret in her eye; would this be unwarranted? I ask myself. I feel for the mother, and I feel for the child.

Patrick picks up a newspaper and coughs a bit behind it. “Just a little malaria,” he says, “I’ll be fine in a day or two.” He will be, because the money he earns from his job makes him capable of buying the medication necessary to ensure that this is the case. This medication is paradoxically distressingly cheap and unaffordable for too many a Ugandan, but Patrick has enough money to take care of himself. He cuts costs by living alone in a small hut on the outskirts of town. Mid-cough, Patrick gets up to attend to the customer behind us. He is on duty; he only gets one day off every two weeks to attend to home matters, and every other day he works 8am through 10:30pm at least. “They don’t give you a day off for malaria?” I stupidly question. “I can’t afford it,” he says. “Especially as I’m hoping to open my own business this October!” He takes the customer’s order and hurries out to the small kitchen in the back of the restaurant.

It’s too easy to lose sight of where I am over here. One minute I’m sitting comfortably with two of my friends, taking for granted their presence with me at the table. The next instant, I’m surrounded by the hardships and struggles that define their days, totally encapsulated in a few all-too-normal occurrences for them. Their “normal,” however, is far different from mine, making up a different reality entirely. They’re strong, hopeful, and determined, and these people will succeed. But I need to fight back the haze of normalcy; I want to be constantly aware of their brilliance. I was inspired by these people last summer, and I am inspired by them again.

To end on a similar note of inspiration, bodabodas have again won the key to my heart. Predictably so, at that. Their “short cuts” are the best. I’m not sure what “short cut” means to them, but it usually involves our taking an out-of-the way path through the Bush, complete with an absolutely breathtaking view of the striking hills of green in the distance and the fields of tall grass, scattered trees, and the occasional picturesque hut. I write what I see: the simplicity of it all is what makes it all the more glorious.

Not the best place for an in-depth conversation, however, contrary to popular belief. Typical boda-talk:

Driver: Do you have those in America?
Rohbet: You mean that goat?
Driver: You know Luo very well!
Rohbet: There was no Luo in that sentence at all.
Driver: Apwoyo matek (“thank you”).

… 30 second pause …

Rohbet: We have goats in America.
Driver: …mumble… Obama… mumble
Rohbet: Yeah.
Driver: 45?
Rohbet: Drop me off here please.

Still, I’m charmed. Of course, it could just be me misinterpreting the adrenaline coursing through my veins as we maneuver through the pack of cows and children making their way across the path. You know the feeling you get when the Aerosmith rollercoaster first takes off in MGM Studios, Disneyworld? Add a few chickens, the exhaust of the Sudan-bound supply truck, and the one stop sign in all of Gulu. Welcome!

45?,
Rob

Alternative Justice

I’m a researcher – who knew? I’ve been interviewing like nobody’s business this past week, and let me tell you, it’s been amazing. Not just on an academic level, either – we’re talking life wisdom, human-to-human. My *job* this summer is to have numerous conversations with phenomenally inspiring people … how crazy is that? I caught a glimpse of the incredible capacity for forgiveness in Northern Uganda last summer, but wow, I had a lot more to learn.

Over lunch in a guesthouse, in the middle of a huge field under the village tree, or in the back of a cluttered NGO office, these people have been talking. And I have been listening. Local government officials, traditional chiefs and elders, community leaders, psycho-social counselors, NGO employees, teachers, peasant farmers, former child soldiers – they all have something to say. Lots to say, in fact. And even throughout this diverse crowd of community stakeholders runs a common theme: the wish for peace. And the immense capacity for forgiveness that accompanies this wish. These people have already opened their arms to the returning rebels, eager to celebrate their arrivals back to the community and begin a new era in Northern Uganda. After 22 years of war, they reject the idea of punitive justice for these “returnees,” especially as most were abducted against their will. Instead, they wish to pursue alternative justice – forgiveness through traditional ceremonies. I get to witness a “cleansing” next week. That is very. very. good. But I’m jumping the gun and shouldn’t make generalizations yet, of course.

I’ve been going “into the field” to local villages with a local NGO under the auspices of World Vision: Education for Peace and Prevention of Violence and HIV/AIDS. Perfect. This team of local Ugandans heads over to these “Community Care Coalitions,” collections of people from all walks of life in the community, and trains them to advocate on behalf of themselves for a whole array of issues. Most recently was domestic violence: the team goes in, solicits conceptions of the issue at the local level (most times these are positive, initially), and then presents the other side of the argument – not limited to the long-lasting negative effects of such practices on all parties. The goal is to present the community with another perspective and have them work through the logic on their own so that they will be more convinced if they do happen to change their minds. Really interesting with regard to cultural relativism: it is the Ugandan community itself who is advocating for this change. And in this organization, it has been very effective.

Through this initiative, I’ve gotten to witness grassroots at its best – and it was a high, let me tell you. Watching tangible change happen, however gradually, on the ground within these communities was quite a sight. It was even more exciting when the presenter encouraged the American to stand up and introduce himself in Acholi-Luo to the 45 villagers in the room. With some quick thinking and the ability to pull up from memory a bit of a graduation speech I gave not long ago, I managed to spit out a “good morning, am Robert, student America, I like you and food, thank you.” Have you ever been applauded for that sentence? Is that a sentence? It was even better when the Ugandan next to me stood up and introduced herself in English.

Don’t think I missed Independence Day over here. Managed to stumble into a FREEDOM! party hosted by a few U.S. marines in the area (?). We’re talking the biggest house I’ve been in yet (mansion, relative to the rest of the community), surround sound playing hits of the 90s, flat screen TV with Playstation, and arguably more munus than I knew existed in all of Gulu. Where am I? A marine party would be total culture shock for me even within the US. Had some really interesting conversations, though – absolutely do not judge a book by its cover. Or its title. Or the number of tattoos on its body. Should I get a tattoo?

Perhaps more importantly, yes: for those who were sitting with bated breath, I am indeed still the most charming munu in all of Gulu. Two of them, this time: “How old are you, munu?” “How old do you think I am, Acholi?” “16.” “Hmm… close!” It was around this point I realized they came up to my elbow, at best. “How old are YOU?” “15. Actually I’m 15 and a half.”

WHAT?! I COULD BE YOUR FATHER! (?) “I actually don’t have a phone!” “But we saw you talking on it!” “*Long sigh* Oh, that’s just my business phone!”

I really loved the anonymity, the fresh start that last summer afforded me in Northern Uganda. Not for any particular reason; it was just exciting to be in a totally new environment with no ties or expectations. I knew that it wouldn’t be quite the same this time, but little did I know upon arrival that I had made a name for myself last summer in this town. Walking into my guesthouse yesterday, one of the new workers greeted me with a surprised “ROBERT!” (say: ROH-BET). “Hi,” I replied cautiously, “how do you know my name?” “Rohbet, I met you at [local bar here] last year … you were the crazy muzungu with the dance moves!”

My secret’s out. I promised to “shake it” later in return for a new bar of bathroom soap. It really doesn’t take much these days.

A few cultural tips for the Uganda-bound:

Yawning only sometimes means one is tired. It also tends to mean one is hungry. Muster: “You know, before lunch at primary school, everyone is yawning.” .. Me: “So don’t you think they might just be tired?!!” .. Muster: “…Americans.” The word “doof” can mean food (“let’s get some doof” – cute, I know). Raised eyebrows that would signify “shock” or “extreme flirtation” in the States is a simple “hello.” That, or you have a man-eating cockroach tucked neatly into your hair. And when you have a brillow pad, that’s no joke. Anyway, it’s worth a quick brush of the top of the head while you’re saying “hello” in reply. Finally, they have pumpkins over here. I know, right? I figured that’s worth noting.

Lastly, I forgot to mention this in the other entry, but I was pleasantly surprised to be sitting at a local restaurant recently and have a Ugandan man come up to the student-researcher and introduce himself as “Justice.” Yes, my friends, Justice of Uganda has officially welcomed me here. Is this a sign? I’m not sure how far to read into these chance meetings, however, because a few days later I was randomly introduced to “Uma,” which means “nose.” I’m an Aries if anyone wants to figure this one out. Naturally, I gratuitously gave out my email address to the inquiring man.

A few days later, Justice sent me an email to this extent:

“ dear ROBERT.

THANKS ALOT FOR MY MAIL. ITS NICE AND THANKS ALOT DEAR, HOPE YOU ARE FINE AND DOING WELL, GREET HER FOR ME, MEET IF YOU COME BACK,

THANKS ALOT

JUSTICE”


Soon after, I received another email from him:

“DEAR ROBERT. BAIL MEWITH SOME QUICK MONEY, SHS 200.000 VIA WESTERN MONEY UNION, THE WORKERS ARE BADLY ON ME

MY ACCOUNT IS JUSTICE NSUBGA,30 200 30 323 CENTENARY BANK,

I KNEEL DOWNFOR YOU, TO DAY, THANKS

JUSTICE”

SHS 200.000 is the equivalent of ~130 U.S. dollars. I mean, what the hell, what ELSE am I going to do with it? Does anyone want to pick up this tab for me? Alternative Justice indeed. Justice works in mysterious ways. I’m done.


Only has time for business calls (I’m a busy guy),
Rob

The Little Things

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not for the first time glancing down at the color of my skin with a heightened level of awareness. I am no longer listening to what is being said; instead, preemptive excuses and qualifications are already bouncing around my head. “I’m sorry, I’m just a student from America” and “I don’t have access to a lot of resources; I’m just here doing research” clutter my mind. “Why do they assume so much?” I think, frustrated with my having to let them down.

“We’ll be taking you around to show you some of our main sites,” the program coordinator explains mechanically, almost rehearsed, “and you can see the families we give our pigs to. We’ll show you some of the schools we sponsor children in, and maybe we’ll even get to show you Harriet, post-tumor.” He walks over to the only cabinet in the room and pulls out a few documents. “You see, we are fully recognized by the local government.” I feel my stomach clenching tighter in a manifestation of extreme uneasiness; I am almost watching the scene in third-person as the sincere local NGO worker tries to convince the “rich foreigner” that this is an organization worth investing in.

I am sitting in the office of a nonprofit, Adoption Uganda (http://adoptionuganda.org), with a board made up entirely of locals. We had exchanged contact information through a connection at Harvard (actually, an overnight security guard from Uganda), and I had agreed to meet the NGO heads and see what they were all about. I had not expected to have the organization sold to me, board members acting as if I were a potential partner with the ability to exponentially increase resources and capacity. I am hesitant to make a day of this, taking up the organization’s gas money, time, and human resources, especially given the fact that I do not expect I will be able to deliver in the way the organization wishes. We step out of the office and I start to present these concerns to the coordinator.

“Don’t read so far into it, my brother,” the man assures me, “One bit of good can go a long way. It’s the little things. Even your spreading awareness about this organization can really make a difference. It’s not the amount of resources we are able to obtain; it’s the strategic use of these gains within our programming. One new website can secure countless donations; similarly, one donation of $20 in the form of a new pig can multiply to hundreds of dollars worth through breeding over time. One voice can reach thousands.”

Moving from one site to the next, I find myself reframing the situation. The man’s words really resonate with me. Perhaps I had been too defensive initially, immediately closing up to what I read into as a solicitation for financial resources I just didn’t have to contribute. While I may just be a student, however, I *do* have access to amazing resources, whether in the form of a friend with the ability to draw up a quick internet site or a blog through which I can let other people know what kinds of efforts are being made over here. Somewhere between greeting the proud new owners of a modest pig breeding center who are now able to afford school fees for their children and meeting the woman whose life had been saved when Adoption Uganda paid for the removal of a devastating tumor from her jaw, it strikes me that every little contribution really does have the potential to go a long way. I can help a little, and I can help a lot.

I step out of the company van feeling honored to have witnessed firsthand all the good this organization has accomplished and privileged to have an opportunity to contribute as well. We’re going to keep in touch… and I’m going to keep an eye out for the “one bit of good” I can take on.

The last few days of Kampala were fantastic. I managed to make it here in time for my good friend’s 21st birthday, and we celebrated in style. By that, I mean we went straight from our viewing of a Parliament session (reliably a nut house with MPs openly sneering and mocking each other – glad nothing has changed!) over to one of the local dives for a quick birthday drink. I mean, how are people in Uganda *supposed* to spend birthdays?

Made a new local friend, Muster (NOT “Master” – wow, THAT was an awkward day), who showed us the ins and outs of downtown Kampala. He brought us to his local church, KPC central, one of the largest, most well equipped establishments I’ve ever been in. We’re talking state-of-the-art sound/media equipment with a full projector screen above the “stage” broadcasting everything to the supplemental side rooms all around the staggeringly large main auditorium. The two hours consisted of a full hour of African-choir singing with four mic-ed singers in the front, followed by 15 minutes of media “advertisements” on the screen for various happenings in the community and 30 minutes of sermon. “We must excel at giving.” Okay, I’ll buy that. What a ride.

While my Kampala experience was all I could ask for, I’ve had my eye on the North – where I was last year, in the town of Gulu – the entire time. Stepping onto the Gulu-bound bus was a more intense experience than even boarding the Uganda-bound plane, and adrenaline surged through my veins as the passing scenery got more rural, less developed… more real.

Arrived in the bus park to my local friends waiting with arms wide open – what a fantastic welcoming crew. Immediately boda boda-ed over to my friend Shilla’s place on the edge of town for a reunion dinner with her four brothers and mum. I forgot her mother only speaks Luo, so I bounced some of my “you do good work”s and “I like food”s off of her, politely nodding to her responses with my eyes slightly glazed over. So nice to see old friends and reestablish the relationships I had last summer – to just jump back in, no longer worried that these were superficial or fleeting friendships that would deteriorate with my leaving. And even nicer to find that they’re all devout Obama supporters (surprise!). “If you want an African for your president, why not just pick me?” Nyero Dennis for President, 2012.

First days of being back were littered with familiar sights and sounds: Mutual recognition as I pass by shop owners of my old haunts. Children giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Elders giggling as I greet them with my Luo “how are you, child?” Absolutely brilliant stars that light up the dimly lit city at night. The Naked Gulu Man, who I hear actually used to wear a shirt before kicking it up a notch to his new “I’m Totally Nude” statement (it’s retro). Riding in a taxi with a woman blasting “Big Girls” by Mika and passing a small shop playing Soldier Boy. This is globalization at its best. At its worst? Whatever.

Yes, Gulu is beautiful. But it remains the former epicenter of the armed conflict in Northern Uganda, and remnants of this all-too-recent past are still found scattered about daily life in this community. I accompanied the same friend, Shilla, to the Gulu Psychiatric Hospital where she works each day. In entering the pharmacy ward and seeing her write out medication distributions, I let my eyes wander to the seemingly endless column of checks below the “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms” category mixed in with all the rest of the diagnoses. The effects of the war are still very real and far-reaching in this area, and it’s not something that’s easily forgotten… even amidst the warm and welcoming atmosphere that defines Gulu.

I’ve made it to my ritzy hotel room in the middle of town. We’re talking working ceiling fan, bathroom (with *warm* running water!), and a TELEVISION. I don’t even have a TV in my room at school! And it has TWO CHANNELS ON IT! Decisions, decisions. Also managed to “put up” what can now only be termed a mos-ghetto net. There’s tape and string all over the ceiling and walls. One of the cleaning ladies actually came up to me wide-eyed and questioned “what happened in there?” Yup, we’re talking high class over here. I’m spoiled.

Finally, have already jumped into interviews with the locals, making my rounds to the hundreds (literally) of NGOs in the region and establishing contacts to get myself started. I’ve already conducted a few, and my favorite line so far:

“Forgiveness is the best seed in the world.”
- A very wise woman.

I like it. “It’s the little things.” Let’s plant this sucker, folks.

Definitely not the Naked Gulu Man (don’t google me),
Rob

One Long Year

It was hard for it to really hit me amidst the chaos leading up to my departure. Rushed travels, hectic goodbyes, hurried logistical preparations, and a whirlwind of last-minute packing (couldn’t forget my collection of stuffed NH moose for the locals, of course). Even after I’d boarded the plane from Amsterdam to Kenya, I still wasn’t fully aware of my soon-to-be reality.

One year of my struggling to reconcile the sights of abject poverty I had been exposed to with the extravagant, overly decadent bubble that is the Harvard experience. One year of attempting to live out the values I had identified with and defined for myself this past summer amidst the fluster and clutter of college life. One year of vivid dreams: walking through the strikingly beautiful countryside with smiling locals… or caught in the nightmare of the disease-ridden Internal Displaced Persons camps. One year of trying to justify and rationalize my presence in a university classroom, knowing what raw truth lies beyond those theories and academic speculation. One year of waiting.

After one long year, I’m back.

“Euphoria” is the only word that comes to mind when trying to describe the feeling I had as the plane touched down upon the Ugandan runway. Outside, the warm African breeze hit my face and filled my lungs with a fresh sense of idealism. I soaked up the familiar smiles in the airport as I entered incoherently babbling what broken phrases of Luganda (local language) I could muster up. While riding along in my free car ride into town with the amazing local professor I had just befriended on the flight, I was struck by the lingering feeling that I was again entering the unknown, even with the knowledge I gathered last summer. It is not a menacing unknown; it is an exhilarating and promising one.

A quick (unofficial) background on the Ugandan conflict as I am aware of it: Northern Uganda has been involved in a war for over 20 years – since 1986. Tensions between various regions of Uganda have existed for years, largely stemming from arbitrary divisions and assigned regional specializations designed by the Brits during colonization. In 1986, an originally “legitimate” rebel force, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), sprung up in the North in order to fight back against what they saw to be the discriminatory Southern/Western-led government. There was a religious element to the movement, and its stated objectives initially included rebuilding the Ugandan constitution to directly parallel the 10 Commandments (a violent resistance movement – does this seem counterintuitive?). As time went on, the growing claim that the Northern locals were collaborating with the government in the south led the rebel army to more firmly associate the locals in the Northern communities (including Gulu, where I was last summer) with the opposing national government, and the LRA began to target the very people it was fighting for. Muddled objectives and wartime casualties led to a general attrition rate of LRA troops, and the movement began resorting to the mass-abduction of child soldiers in order to maintain its numbers.

Peace processes have been initiated on a few separate occasions between the LRA and the national government (the most recent one just having fallen through, though it made far more progress than has ever before been achieved). Early into the new millennium, the government initiated a coerced mass movement of citizens in Northern communities (nearing 90% of the entire population) into government-sponsored IDP camps under the pretense that it would be safer for them there. In reality, the poorly resourced – both in terms of security and food/health measures – IDP camps have served as little more than centers for disease, malnutrition, and (for a time) easy-access mass child abduction areas. While some families have begun to move back home or to smaller satellite camps nearer to their villages, there is still a huge percentage of people in these camps. What’s more, the widespread physical destruction and failing economy throughout the war have left much of the North with nothing to return to, even when the peoplebelieve it is safe enough to go back to their points of origin.

To sum up: the situation is dire.

All that said, I’m here again this summer to conduct independent research for my senior thesis on the post-reconciliation process in the North and the reintegration of rebels back into the communities once the war has officially ended. A few years back, the government issued a blanket amnesty to the rebels in order to coax them back into the communities without fear of reprisal, and traditional Acholi (people of the North in Gulu) ceremonies have been utilized to cleanse them and welcome them back into society. This sounds a little vague, huh? I’m basically going to be conducting a bunch of interviews with people who have undergone the traditional process of Mato Oput in order to see how sustainable the reconciliation is and how much weight the local communities really put in this process. If formally institutionalized across the North, will this process adequately reintegrate the former rebels into communities while ensuring sustained peace? I’ll tell you in 6 entries ;)

I’ll also be helping out on the side with the same NGOs (non-governmental organizations) I worked with last summer: The Child Is Innocent (www.thechildisinnocent.org ⇒ now updated with my pictures and video footage from last summer!) and uNight: For the Children of Uganda (www.unight.org). Check out the sites if you’re interested, these are really fantastic organizations.

This is a pretty dry first entry. I apologize for that; I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page. Unfortunately for you (not for me), I did NOT lose my luggage, get scammed/mugged by midget Kenyans, or pee my pants upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, so I don’t really have much to report on that front. I can say that I returned to the same hostel of the final entry of last summer’s blog, and the pooping goat is still standing proudly in the exact same place on top of all his glory. Ah, home again.

I’m in Kampala now, the capital city, for a few days. Taking it easy, meeting some old friends (including the infamous Tatiana Wilson, no less), and hopefully interviewing a few Members of Parliament before the week’s out. I’ve also already gotten 2 phone numbers, and it’s only the first day. God, I’m a DOG. I’ll keep you posted re: marriage developments, round 2. Then up to Gulu and Kitgum, two rural northern districts, for two months. That’s when the fun begins. Ending with a quick two week trek to Rwanda to do some comparative work and work on my “bonjour” and “je suis le garcon.” What can I say? I have a linguistic gift.

Some contact details for the dreamers:

Skype contact (seriously, we can video chat! Google it and download. I’m serious.): Robert.jay.ross
Phone (if you’re feeling an especially zesty text coming on): (011) +256-0773-278-664 … something like that, anyway.
AIM (we’re getting sort of desperate here): chuckwood1318

Is that embarrassing? Should I be embarrassed of my screen name?

I think that’s all for now, my friends, more to come soon. Thanks for reading this thing, and hope you’re living the dream, too. =)

With optimism,
Rob