R.I.P Allah Fortunate

I must apologize for the lapse in posting, it's been a grueling few weeks for me, and the last thing on my mind is my blog.  I've somewhat lost my step and my mind is usually off wishing it were somewhere else; somewhere less cluttered and somewhere more conducive to ‘productivity.’  I think also, that all the bad news I keep receiving has a lot to do with this getting stuck, if you will.  

Last weekend one of the girls at the school passed away; malaria had its ugly way with her, and indeed all those around her.  It's stomach turning to watch this illness work with such blatant impunity.   Such a preventable, even curable ailment seems to be capable of just plucking up any life it wishes.  Since being here, I’ve heard of at least 10 other children being taken away by Malaria.

I was sitting in the office working last Tuesday morning when Robert came in with a look that I’m unfortunately becoming familiar with here.  That ‘look’ is one I see too often here.  The eyes have it: they seem to be carrying bad news, as if a ship at sea whose payload is to heavy to bear and needs harbor.  

When Robert told me the news of Allah Fortunate’s (that’s her name) passing I felt numb.  While I didn't know her well,  she was the type of little girl whose presence filled a room.  She had the most piercing little eyes, and her smile seemed to have command over others moods.  As I sat there, I remembered how she used to greet me every morning.  She would run up to me with her big smile, shake my hand and bow, then run off and play.  She repeated this process at the end of each school day as she went home.

I remember meeting a gentleman in Kampala some weeks before I came up here to Gulu who advised me that “if you don’t want to shed many, many tears, then you would be wise to avoid going to Gulu.”  I told him that I was well aware of the many tragedies that have occurred there, and that I was as well prepared as I could be.  Fast forward 2 and-a-half months, and his prediction holds true.  I have cried here, and often at that...and I honestly feel more of a “man” for having done so.  

I'm not a parent, and I can't even pretend to imagine the sense of loss that the parents of this girl feel. But as someone who has worked closely with children for the past few months, my world suddenly feels a bit darker. It just sucks how something so preventable can just wipe out a young life, it makes one feel powerless.

God Bless Uganda

I woke up on Monday feeling refreshed and well-rested.  While sipping on my coffee some minutes later, I watched the sun rise as a blanket of mist slowly lifted and exotic birds sang their usual cheerful song of welcome to the light.  The smell of Uganda in the morning is something indescribable, save to say that it taps more than your senses, but your soul as well.

Mornings have become a source of immense comfort for me, but not yesterday morning...

I'm more than a bit in shock at the events that unfolded in Kampala just a few days ago.  I was in Kampala on a weekend reprieve, as was my NGO sponsor (Robert), who freelances as a journalist here in Uganda.  It turns out that he had gone to the Rugby club that evening to cover a story on the big turn-outs for the World Cup matches.  Robert had invited me to accompany him that weekend, but I opted to stay in my hotel and watch the game from there, hoping to get some rest and relaxation whilst at it.

I wasn't even aware that Robert had been at the actual bomb site until Monday afternoon when I received a text informing me that he was there, but had left only minutes before the blast---which took the life of one of his school mates.  My spine shivered when I heard this, and when I got back to my hotel last night, I was so overcome that I cried thinking about how truly small the connections of our lives are, and how the families of these people must feel.  How their mornings will have changed... 

As anyone who has been in Uganda will agree, the newspapers here are less than tame.  The front page paper on Monday morning was slathered with a collage of pictures of dead people slouched in their chairs, covered in blood, some still holding their beer, or with hands in their pockets.  It was chilling to see pictures of what a bomb does to the human body.  Even those not in immediate range were not spared; the shockwaves from the bomb are what appeared to kill many of these people, all but instantly.

It has really dampened my experience here, if not haunted it entirely.  Although, Ugandans are resilient beyond measure, and I could stand to learn much from them.  When I asked a security guard at my hotel what he thought about what Uganda should do about this, his eyes didn't move from the front page of the newspaper he was holding, but his voice said it all....

"One love will stop the many tears that we have shed."

It doesn't get any more amazing than that....

God Bless Uganda!

Rubang kene (God Alone)  

**that's the Acholi name that was given to me by my African family.  

Today

0700 - woke up to sound of roosters, again.
0705 - feet touched the ground, tried to avoid stepping on cockroaches
0706 - brushed teeth, urinated, had cold shower
0717- realized no towel was left for me...walked into room naked looking for towel I brought in my luggage.
0718 - bent over to pick up towel from suitcase, realized curtains were wide open.
0735 - out the door, downstairs for same breakfast as the last 2 months; two slices of oversized white bread, a banana and instant orange juice....I avoided the hard-boiled eggs crusted with chicken shit, again.

0750 - breakfast completed, sipped tea while watching the same monotone British newscaster as yesterday.

0800 - 1500 - spent waiting for no-show appointments; getting requests for re-re-reschedules; getting wrong directions; going to pick up forms, given empty envelopes instead...twice @ different places.

1530 - arrived back at hotel, ordered tea to my room.
1535 - strip down to my birthday suit getting ready for a shower (you get dirty walking around this place)
1536 - sat on my toilet for weekly crunch (fiber? what's that?)
1538 - housekeeper walks in to my room without knocking to drop off laundry
1538:25 - told housekeeper in assertive tone "I'm on the toilet!"
1538:28 - housekeeper knees at the bathroom door apologizing, but still doesn't leave!
1538:35 - 10 seconds of being naked on the shitter in front of strange, kneeling African woman is bursting my 'comfort bubble.'  I ask the housekeeper to come back when I'm not busy in an angry tone.
1538:39 - crunch resumes somewhat peacefully, I feel like my chi has been disrupted.  When I'm on the shitter, I need to be in my zone....she ruined the experience.
1545 - turn on hose shower...luke warm water, no need to turn on cold water.
1547 - lukewarm water suddenly turns volcanic, while I'm cleaning my junk...ON cold water!

1550 - dried myself, while doing so I notice another housekeeper on my balcony washing my windows from the outside.
1551 - retreated to bathroom to get dressed.

1635 - still no tea; went downstairs to politely ask where tea was that I ordered.
1637- told "she is up" (meaning the housekeeper has my tea upstairs).
1638 - walked up 3 flights of stairs to find housekeeper with said "tea"......no housekeeper in sight.
Maybe she went to the fourth floor by accident I think cleverly.
1539 - walk to fourth floor...no housekeeper with tea.
1541 - arrived back down at the lobby, advised woman at front that "she is not up."  Told that "she will be coming up any minute, just wait for her in your room."
1542 - as walking up 2nd flight of stairs I see her going "up" with my tea.  I thank her and take the tea myself to my room, fearing that her and the tea will end up spending the rest of the day and night on the roof.

1559 - begin reading book while sipping tea.
1809 - wake up with book on my chest.

1900 - had shitty meal alone, reading shitty book.
1820 - back to hotel, began writing more of my own shitty book.
1945 - grew frustrated with writing, tried blogging instead
2000 - words wouldn't come out right, much like my earlier crunch...began writing this shitty chronology of "today"

Tomorrow: Rinse, lather and repeat above.

This whole 'blog' thing is getting really tired...and fast.  It's become nothing more than a series of experiential vomits that I project on others.  On that note, I'm shutting it down for now...good nite and thanks for reading.

A girl called Kevin

Kevin's blue dress wore the dirt kicked up from the dusty road, or rather, Kevin was wearing tiny segments of the dusty road on her blue dress.  Kevin said she didn't have to be in school today, she was excused so that she could tend to her mother whose health was quickly failing.  It was a hot day, so perhaps it was for the better that she should not have to walk in that heat, or rather that it was for the worse that she should not have to walk to school, but instead sit at home watching her dying mother.

"My mother...she is sick from the A-chh I vee," she almost whispered.

"I am sorry..." I said.

"It's ok."

Our vocal cords rested, as the sound of laughing children carried by in the breeze...breaking our awkward silence, well sort of.  We sat in the warm shade watching ants busily carry minuscule pieces of the earth back to their hills.  The odd ambitious one carried more than their fair share, while others seemed to be arguing about in which direction they should be going.  Somewhere below our seats, a queen tended to her colony, or rather a colony tended to her.

"My father said that I should be trying to become a doctor, or a nurse, so that I can take care of others."

"That is excellent." I said encouragingly.

"Yes..." came her reply, as if she had more to add, or rather, that fewer words would have meant more.

"And where would you like to work as a nurse or doctor?" I asked.

"At the hospital...there are very many sick peoples in that place...and I should help them if I can."

"Ahhh...well I'm sure you can, and will." I replied, again with an encouraging tone.

"I would very much like that." She said hopefully.

Kevin pulled a loose thread from her blue dress and released it into the now increasing breeze.  The tiny blue thread, once a piece of a school uniform worn a girl called Kevin, drifted away to meet its new destiny; perhaps welcomingly somewhere nearby as a small addition to a bird's nest, or perhaps, somewhere distant, as an annoyance tangled in a just-completed spider web.  Kevin sat looking for other loose threads, brushing off the dirt from the dusty road as she went on inspecting her blue dress.

"Do you believe in the miracles of Jesus Christ?" She asked, still looking at her blue dress.

The tables felt suddenly turned...

I felt as though my saying "no" would somehow lower her hopes.  Like it would remove all the colours in her world, her blue dress included.

"...yes, Jesus was a good man." I said mechanically.  

"When my father was dying ,I prayed and prayed that his health should improve..." Kevin's attention suddenly turned from her blue dress to the blue skies above.

"...but his health...it did not improve, and he died," she said with a tear forming in her right eye.

“Now I am fearing that if I pray and pray, that Jesus will forget about my prayers again.”

The little tear burst from Kevin’s eye and began sliding down Kevin’s dark face, leaving glistening vestiges of itself as it went.  At first, the little tear moved slowly along Kevin’s puffy cheek, then quicker as it drew closer to the edge of Kevin’s chin.  

The little tear suddenly stopped.............

                                                                                  hung on,...then p

                                                                                                              l

                                                                                                               u

                                                                                                                 n

                                                                                                                  g

                                                                                                                 e

                                                                                                               d 

                                                                                                              directly onto Kevin’s blue dress.

Kevin's eyes began to well up with other little tears, who would themselves travel along the already slick path traced out on Kevin's face, or rather, be pulled along Kevin's face by the force of gravity, and by the force of gravity alone.  

"He will hear you Kevin," I said insistingly.

"But what he hears and does are not the same things...and my older sister keeps telling me that that is what I should be understanding," she said in frustration.

Kevin's blue dress absorbed each tear as they fell from her face, her dress changing colour from blue to dark blue where ever they landed, or rather, Kevin's blue dress only appeared to change colour,...a dress changing colour and absorbing a tear are not the same thing, the former would imply a miracle.

"I think I should now go and see my mother, she is needing  to take her medicines now," Kevin said abruptly as she wiped several tears from her face.

"I understand Kevin....Affoyo matek!" I replied.*

"I will pray for your mother" I said, knowing full well that I didn't pray, but thinking that I should just this once.

Kevin kneeled in front of me, and extended her hand.**  

"Affoyo" Kevin said in return, as I shook her outstretched hand.  

As Kevin began walking back in the direction of the dusty road and her ailing mother, a gust of warm wind swept Kevin's blue dress about and pushed stubborn clouds along their way---or rather, Kevin's blue dress was swaying in the breath of her prayers being answered.  

I sat in the afternoon sun for some time, watching ants busily carry minuscule pieces of earth back to their hills, and watching  Kevin's blue dress fade from view.

*"Affoyo Matek means "Thank-you very much" in Luo/Acholi language.

**It is not uncommon for Acholi women/girls to kneel in front of men they deem as in a higher position then they.

...dusk in Gulu town

BLOATED sunset

another day is getting going,...gone.

Smoke and thunder fill the absence of the air

as the boy with a stick rolls a tire into the dawn.

...he's out of view, but worthy of a polaroid.

DISTENDED bellies 

look for their next meal; only sand & stone.

While roosters argue under crimson skies,

a mother looks tired, says she's worked to the bone...

I'd lend u a hand, but I've only 2.

...and SWOLLEN egos

debate solutions, they wanna' make a big change.

4th of July, ten-fifteen;

it's a shitty world, this life is strange.

...here's some fireworks,...clothes and toys.

UNsponsered HOPE* 

springs eternally--like a long drawn-out procession.

A dirty child sits alone in line,

says she's waiting her turn @ confession.

"...if the sun comes up again, I swear I'll do anything I can,  

just to see the Dusk in Gulu-town again."  

(*...yesterday I woke up in a dirty heap,

spent the rest of it...only 1/2 asleep.

I dreamt I didn't leave the truth alone,

but gave in, and instead looked forward to coming home.)

Western Guilt & Mid-life Crisis in Sub-Saharan Africa

It's now been nearly three months since I could hold my wife and kiss her.  Three perpetually long months since I could enjoy a meal in her company, or just walk with her hand in mine as we stroll along the ocean.  As many brownie points as I may seem to be building for future "get out of jail free" situations, the truth is that I've never truly valued these simple things as much as I do now.  And, to avoid shooting myself in the foot here, I'll add that it's not that I never valued them, I just never knew how bloody much.

From where I'm sitting, perched high upon the virtual soap box that this blog has become, my view of life has suddenly become diametrically opposite.  I crave being home, and I miss all of the luxuries that a western lifestyle brings, but I've come to learn that there is nothing quite so refreshing as finding out your assumptions about life were wrong---and often.

I've been extremely busy this week, and the previous weeks have become nothing more than peripheral blurs.  One of the goals I'm working on with the organization I'm with is to establish the socioeconomic status of the children who attend the school I'm working at.  We do this so that we can determine which children are living in the worst forms of poverty: children living in extreme poverty are lucky to eat once a day, never mind their parents dreaming about sending them to school.  So, once we determine which children are the most disadvantaged, we can send out pleas for sponsorship.  

Part and parcel of this process involves walking through the many clusters of villages in the region, shaking hands and breaking bread as we record the stories of these people's lives.  Thankfully I have one of the teachers (Lydia) accompanying me, otherwise I would quickly become lost and coerced into many meals: the people in these villages have very little, but they would give away their last meal just to let you know that you are welcome.

Lydia and I set out this afternoon under the most oppresive heat I have ever felt; the dry season is quickly approaching, and it promises to be exactly that.  The big African sun bakes any hint of moisture out of the atmosphere, and, if you have any interest in knowing what it's like, I highly suggest turning your oven broiler on high, then sticking your head in it...maybe throw on a toque while you're at it just for the full effect.  

As we walked along the many snaking trails that the villager's bare feet have carved out over the years, I could hear a chorus of children's voices in the distance.  "Muno! Muno! Muno!" they yelled (which literally means "white person").  The children here get extremely excited when they see a white person walking through their village.  Maybe it's novelty or youthful curiosity, but I'm becoming to liken it to playfulness.  As you walk by they will run right up to you and wave, the whole time saying "Hello Muno, how are you?".  Pull out a camera, and they will make all sorts of funny faces as they vie for your attention.  

Anyways, as Lydia and I trekked along the outskirts of the village, I absorbed the moment--much like my shirt did with the ceaseless flow of perspiration from my body.  There was something visceral about this moment, something profoundly awakening.  Incidentally, I'm now working on a book called "The Long Road to Lacor", which is about getting from one place to the next.  It's about the people of Northern Uganda, who have endured 20 years of conflict and who now look to the future with hope.  So, as shamelessly self-promoting as I'm being, watch out for it's release in the next year or so. (I'm crossing my fingers and knocking on wood for a publisher).

Back to my story....

"It is here" Lydia abruptly reported, referring to the home we were to visit.  Looking in the direction Lydia was pointing, I saw a mud hut which bore nothing that distinguished it from the other 50 huts, aside from a potter plant which hung smartly by the entrance.  

"You are welcome" said a voice from the darkness inside the hut.  As we entered, the smell of lunch filled the air.  In the corner of the hut two pots sizzled under a charcoal fire oven, releasing a fragrant mix of smoke and the most inviting smelling food.  Lydia and I were seated on the only two chairs in the hut, while the mother sat on a bamboo mat on the floor.  She warmly shook my hand and called for her daughter who was playing outside.  As her beautiful little daughter joined us, I thanked them for their time and began asking my usual host of questions which are difficult to ask, but must be asked nonetheless.  

"What is the father's name?" I asked.  As Lydia translated, I watched the mother's eyes scanning around the smoke filled air as if hoping an easy answer would reveal itself from the clouded room.  

"He is...gone...just after she conceived this child, he disappeared...he has died" came the translation from Lydia, although judging from her lengthy explanation there was much more to the story.  I watched the mother's eyes go from searching the air for answers to scanning the floor for comfort, and the muddy floor of this hut promised little consolation as I continued with my pressing questions.

"How much income do you make in a month, and how many other children do you have"? Lydia again translated.  The mother's eyes again fixated on the floor.  Her tired face wore lines much like a roadmap does, and they were telling of where she had been, but more so, where she was now: sitting on her own floor being pried with uncomfortable questions whose answers might hopefully provide tangible hope for her daughter.  She stated that she had no income and had 3 other children, one of which had died after being hit by a truck on the way to school one morning.  

A jolt of discomfort hit me as the rice that had been preparing on the charcoal stove strangely boiled over at the same time.  She attended to the stove and went on to describe how she felt that education for her daughter was the most important thing in her life.  On the same day that she had purchased her son's coffin, she discovered that she was pregnant.  She said that she believed that was a sign from God that she should not give up hope, and that her son's memory would not be forgotten.    

Her daughter, Vivian, sat fidgeting with her toes as the interview went on and would look up at me with curiosity every few minutes.  I stuck my tongue out at her each time, but she didn't react until near the end of the interview, when she shyly smiled and finally stuck out her tongue in return.  

We moved on to the next interview in silence.  Myself, because it was shocking and inspired waves of western guilt for having all that I have and still managing to find complaints, and for having to have asked such absurd questions like "how much income do you have?"  Lydia's silence however, was much more comfortable and telling of her experience with such interactions.  She grew up in the same conditions, yet she had become a teacher---herself wanting to start her own school for AIDS orphans someday.

I'm hoping that I'm not inciting a new breed of Western guilt, because that's sincerely not my intention.  I think guilt operates in a space where you tend to think more of yourself than those you're trying to help---it quite literally freezes you in your tracks and is selfish more than anything else.  I've had several discussions with other westerns here, and the vast majority of them seem to be here on some "saving the world" kind of self-gratifying, hyper-socially conscious crusade.  They seem to think that the whole "Africa" thing is about getting photo ops with African babies, singing 'kumbaya' and holding hands in a circle of love---as if doing so will summon a flock of rainbow coloured unicorns who will fly overhead and sprinkle the world with magical love dust...making it all better.

I can't say I haven't myself had my own moments of utopianism...there are some days I wake up half expecting to have a unicorn shit on me from above.  Yet, I'm coming to a place where this experience has become so much more than novelty or curiosity, it has become mid-life playfulness...if I may.  Certainly there is nothing to be "playful" about where the lives of these people are concerned.  However, I would argue that one must be willing to see the world as a child does at times...to step out of their western guilt (or whatever brought them here) and see that these are people not statistics or projects that need "saving."  

As I sit here sipping a bottle of red wine (I had to celebrate, it's Canada Day), I'm not only beginning to feel it's effects, but those of the day just past.  As such, I'm a;kldjflakdjsf;alkdsjf;al   (joking, I didn't just pass out on the keyboard)...I'm going to turn in for the evening and see what the next day brings.  

As always, I thank-you for reading. 

  

On Vicarious Trauma and Joy

This week was rather tame in comparison to last, although the usual host of mishaps inherent with life in Uganda remained lurking just inches around the corner.  On a high note, I'm happy to report that I now have a full supply of 2-ply toilet paper again, and that the plumbing is in working order...they are the two staple luxuries that I am simply not willing to do without.

This week I made huge strides in my research, due largely to the incredible support I have received.  The people I have met in the course of my work here have been nothing short of amazingly open and helpful.  They have bent over backwards to assist me, and I am grateful beyond measure.  I only hope that my findings can be of some benefit to them in return.

As the title of my blog suggests, here in Uganda, you learn to take the good with the bad, and each with their own occasional dousing of sheer ugliness.  There is perpetual contrast with life in Africa: Things contradict, confuse and clash within the North American mindset.  Yet amidst the clutter and seeming chaos there is order and sense; there is happiness and hope; there is joy and beauty...at least when one is patient enough to scratch the surface.  Where the west has so often ascribed Africa's ails to "backwardness and primitivism" it is, in actually, just human survival and adaptation to dire circumstances.  It's the equivalent of squeezing complicated lives into simple headlines.
I'm far from suggesting that I've "got Africa figured out", because I see things on a daily basis that continue to frustrate me.  But it is this kind of resistance to accept the human condition in its entirety, that flags even me along the way.

A few days ago I interviewed a young girl who was abducted by the LRA at the age of 12.  Her story is both shocking and inspiring, and, it has brought real meaning to the term "vicarious trauma." (Thank-you Penny for pointing me to that one.)  When she was stolen from her family, her father was on his death-bed with AIDS.  I could sense her pain as she described this loss, because it foretold how the next 6 years of her life have unfolded: outright loss of innocence and abject loss of dignity.  The daily life of a girl-soldier within the ranks of the LRA usually entailed being raped (usually by more than one man), back-breaking labour, and being forced at gunpoint to act out a whole array of other despicable tasks ranging from the inhumane to outright evil.

'Haunting' is a word I usually associate with ghosts, not with someone breathing and seated in front of me.  But, as she told me about her experiences as a girl soldier, I felt my soul shiver---the hairs on my neck actually stood up on a few occasions.  As she continued with her story, she showed me the scars she received: one bullet wound in her arm, and another just inches above her hip.  To this day, one bullet remains in her arm because she is unable to afford the cost of extracting it, so the pain she feels is both physical, and psychological---not to mention persistent reminders of her past.  She is living her past on a daily basis, but she is now battling a new war...getting educated, on her own dime.  And believe me, that's no small mountain to climb here in Africa!

When she finally escaped from the LRA some 2 years later, she underwent a psychosocial reintegration program---as most of the former child soldiers here have.  These reintegration programs are intended to allow former child combatants to be brought back into their families and communities.  This is no easy task given the cultural beliefs surrounding those who have killed or witnessed killing and death.  The Acholi believe that those who have done so are, in essence, haunted by the spirits of those they have killed or seen being killed etc.  Add to that the fact that many of these former child soldiers were forced to kill their own family members or neighbours...one can begin to see the complexities involved in making amends on either side of the fence.

Now, I don't want to bore you with incidentals, but this was initially going to be the focus of my research: to measure the incidence of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and determine whether traditional healing practices or western psychological methods were more effective in dealing with these "ghosts."  As another side-note, it has been estimated that the highest incidence of PTSD in the world exists right here in Northern Uganda, and looking into the eyes of the people here, I tend to agree with that assessment.

Getting back to my story, when this girl came back from 'the bush' she was given the equivalent of $100 US, a foamy mattress, and two weeks of 'psychosocial' counselling.   She was then sent on her way at the tender age of 14 to 'successfully reintegrate' back into her community.  Now, I'm not blind to the realities of this world.  I know that utopia is a planet somewhere far off in the cosmos where unicorns and rainbows flourish, and where Barack Obama's words instil immediate fear in the hearts of Republicans and BP bigwigs alike.  Yet, at the same time, I'm a firm believer in our the ability to protect children.  We can land on the moon, split atoms, and then try to fuse them back together again, but we can't at least try and take better care of our children?  Tell me that's not mad science.

If you've managed to read thus far, you've likely deduced that I'm becoming as jaded as they come.

Anyways, despite all the gloom and doom that my words are likely eliciting, the hope this girl emitted was electric.  She told me about finishing school and becoming a doctor or a teacher; and it wasn't a "if I become a doctor or teacher" type of conversation, it was a "when I become a doctor or teacher" dialogue!  Her eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree with joy...as if she knew that she was going to be either or.  That is vicarious joy, and it sure helps with the vicarious trauma.  I gratefully accept both...

As always, thanks for reading.

T.G.I.M. (Thank God It's Monday)

                                                
Laughter really is the best medicine, and I have my nutty family and wife to thank for that.  One has to be able to laugh at life, even in its seemingly darkest moments.  That's what makes them funny; that you really shouldn't be laughing, but you are...and hysterically at that!  Portions of this blog may not be for the ladies, so if you might be offended by toilet humour, please, continue reading...perhaps with time you'll develop a shared affection for it. 


Well...(chuckle), in keeping with that theme, the rest of the week has been pretty much the same as my last blog, although with a pronounced twist of black-humour to it.  Friday evening was comprised of sitting on my toilet, eventually running out of hotel toilet paper -- which incidentally has the consistency of 40 grit sandpaper -- and, ah yes...discovering that the plumbing was on the fritz.  Needless to say, Friday was no T.G.I.F.


Yesterday brought some welcome reprieve to the slushies, mainly because I downed about 3 imodium.  Bad idea. The "code brown's" may have gone, but the painful bloating and cramping sure as hell wasn't.  I spent the whole day brewing up one massive fart that I swore would never come to fruition.  As I lay in bed Saturday evening contemplating the week's many challenges, I felt trouble rumbling in my entrails.  Then, without further warning, a long, obnoxious (and gaseous) roar forced its way out of my large colon and soured the air.  Instant bio-hazard. It sounded like the scene from Titanic where the mighty iron ship finally breaks in two. Had anyone else been unlucky enough to be around, they would have jumped from my hotel window with the exact same urgency as the passengers of the fated ship. 


About the only luxury that this hotel provides in its rooms are fans.  I of course have made it a habit to have mine on full blast while I sleep.  Being trapped under a giant mosquito net with the lights out, fan on high and no planned escape route is not the most pleasing experience after you've just dumped ass in your own bed.  I've never actually 'dutch-ovened' myself, not even once out of adolescent curiosity.  But I now know the intimacy that it provides, and quite likely why women may not find it as the most endearing gesture that a man can provide. 


Anyways...I'll cut short on the toilet humour for the time being.


Sunday evening was somewhat more relaxed, and for that matter, more pleasing to the olfactory senses. I began by having my usual evening chai tea, which is delicious, while watching some world cup.  I then ate the most subpar vegetable curry that I've ever had -- which in hindsight, was probably not the most colon-friendly menu selection.  Anyways, after the match I strolled up to my room and began reading for school.  I heard a faint buzzing noise which I recognized as what they call a "white ant" here.  In reality, these are just big termites that fly.  Problem being is that they fly in swarms.  I found the culprit of the buzzing sound fluttering about helplessly on the floor (these things are very smart) and I wished him a 'good night' with the heel of my dress shoe.


I then triumphantly returned to my bed wishing that my wife was around so I could puff out my chest and show how truly useful I am to have around.  As I began reading where I left off, yet another buzzing began, and from the same general direction.  I knew I had killed it, so what gave?  I again pounced into action with my dress shoe in tote.  Again I found another flying termite who was buzzing around his (or her) now irrevocably flattened colleague.  I sarcastically wished this one a pleasant evening as well, and again felt the same sense of manhood, despite the absence of a damsel in distress.  


My book was barely back in my hand for more than 2 minutes, when another one of the little bastards flew right by me...as if toying with me.  It zipped by me twice, the second time clipping my ear with its 4" wing-span.  Now it was ON!  I don't like killing critters of any sort, but these were clear grounds for war.  I began to wonder where these things were coming from seeing as my windows and doors were closed.  They just seemed to appear out of nowhere!


I began stalking the flying provocateur and sure enough, it landed right on the floor.  I named this one "Kim Jung Ill" and gave him a proper tucking in.  My dress shoe was now collecting wings, thoraxes, and masses of gooey termite-ness on its heel, so I wiped it off and thought of re-arming myself with a shower sandal or something.  As I did, I noticed not one, two or three, but four of them swooping around in my room.  They were ganging up on me, surely the winged posse was plotting something.  It began to take on the feel of a biblical curse or an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.  I was frankly wondering who I had pissed off.


I spent the next half hour killing these things!  No exaggeration.  I went downstairs to investigate with the staff what was going on.  Upon asking what I should do about the flying termites in my room, I was advised that I should "eat them."  I was in no mood for sarcasm, but it's not appropriate to show anger in this culture, so I offered a chuckle.  They didn't laugh back.  They eat them here!  Flying termites are considered a delicacy, a rare and delicious desert.  As I looked out front of the hotel I could see a swarm of these things collecting outside.  When I say swarm, think Africa; when things swarm here, they do so in great numbers.  I've never seen anything like it in my life...as I walked back up the stairs to my room, all of the hallways were nearly covered with the things.  


Just as quickly as it began, it ended. I ended up killing roughly 50 of them in my room in total, and the resulting silence oddly provided me with laughter.  What a week it had been, I thought.  Some two hours later, a second wave of them came!  Such is Ugandi-ous, c'est la vie!


T.G.I.M.


Thanks for reading, hope you've enjoyed.

St. Jude would shrug himself

It's terrifying to see someone inside of whom a vital spring seems to have been broken.  It's particularly terrifying to see him in your mirror.  ~Mignon McLaughlin

If there's a patron saint for pessimists out there, please stand up and take notice, you've got competition...

It's been a really rough week, and it's only half finished bruising my reserve.  I've been struggling to wake up in the morning, and by the afternoon, I'm desperately in need of a nap.  I think I'm coming down with something, but I'm not sure what.  I've never felt so utterly fatigued in my life.  Despite getting an abundance of sleep, my body feels weak and my mind isn't running on all pistons (some will argue it never was!).  I wouldn't say that I'm 'sick' per sae, but I don't feel right.  My gut tells me it's a mix of many things; mild depression, a poor diet, the heat, and among other things, being overall homesick.

I also had a few incidents with some officials of the government of Uganda this week.  I was frankly quite prepared to be on the next flight home following the second run-in.  I can't go into great detail because, well, that would just be foolish of me.  People have been arrested for blogging negative things here; so, to put things more palatably...it was an uplifting and positive experience.

I'm more and more getting the sense that coming to Gulu was a mistake, especially alone.  I don't say that with any concern about my safety, I'm fine in that regard.  I just get the overwhelming impression that I'm beating a dead horse...and trying to drag it to water in the process.  The 'research fatigue' here (fatigue seems to be a theme) is huge; it's all been said and done, published in prolific academic journals, but little has changed.  I keep coming back to the angst I hold for academia---of whose benefit is this pursuit of 'knowledge' really for?

I know that my measly stint here is not going to shape future policy, nor is it likely to raise any eyebrows in the academic world.  But most importantly, it isn't going to amount to any benefit to those I'm researching...so why bother?  Is it just so I can get my MA and ride off into the sunset while these people live in squalor?  These are the types of questions that stir incessantly in my head at 1 in the morning; and they are not so easily quieted, believe me.  If I were any less committed to 'finishing what I started', I would have long ago become a raving alcoholic.

Alarming as the above may sound to some of you, fear not!  I am keeping my chin up, it's just becoming more of an art-form and less of an exercise in practicality, so there are merits to be found in optimism.

I've obviously been stewing in my own juices for a bit too long -- not sure if I'm becoming tougher, or more tender in the process.  Regardless, my inner compass keeps coming back to why I'm here...the children; not the research, not the degree, but them and only them.  Everyday I look into some 100 beautiful little sets of eyes, and I find myself wondering about the world they see through them.  Are the colours the same? Where do they fit into it?  What do they want to be?  Do they know the challenges they face?

I once asked Robert (the program director) about this very thing---do they know how unfortunate they are? What do they see themselves as when they grow up? I asked.  His response floored me. "Yes!" he said emphatically, "They do!  They want to be doctors, nurses, teachers, policemen and women, even world leaders!"

As often happens in Acholi conversations, Robert and I sat in silence as the mid-afternoon sun continued to bake the little remaining white out of my forehead.  I felt puzzled by his answer, despite its straightforwardness.  How could these children not possibly see a world with little room for ambitions as big as those?  Where do they find the strength?

I've always had a hard time getting my head around optimism, but I think that's because it's not your head that needs to do the work...it's your heart.  Children, by nature, don't rationalize things like we do.  They are too wide-eyed, too imaginative for such petty limitations such as those that we adults place on ourselves.  It's something that doesn't comport with (most) adult minds, much as they try.

As the wild horse that is this week continues to drag me along its dusty and pot-hole ridden path, I'm getting faint glimpses of hope, although even St. Jude would shrug as to why.  Here I am with dust in my face, a battered feeling body, and not much to show for my efforts.  (It's the dry season here in this part of Africa, so the dust is only going to get worse.)

I mentioned earlier that I was beating a dead horse and trying to drag it to water...it only feels like quite the adverse right about now.  This experience has been so god-damned draining.  One day I'm riding high, the next I'm being dragged along looking for my bearings.

We'll have to see what the rest of the week holds...

Thanks for reading

If Icarus tried white-water rafting instead...

If I had been Icarus, I would have tried white-water rafting instead.  Gravity works both ways of course, but at least wax and feathers float...I think. :)

In my fourth week in Uganda, I had quite possibly the most defining experience I've had in my life: going white-water rafting along the mighty River Nile.  It was, like most of my experiences here, humbling in nature.  The photo on the right is of my classmates and I navigating the rapids.  I am at the front, first from the left in appearance.  Anyways, I had never been white-water rafting before, and I quite literally thought I would break my neck on more than a few occasions during the 35km paddle up the source of the Nile.  One quickly gets an appreciation of just how 'breakable' they really are when being thrashed about in waves several times bigger than they are.  Packaging is everything, and thankfully the craft and I held our own. 

As we negotiated our way along the potentially bone crushing drops and swirls, I found myself not only hanging on for dear life, but also appreciating it for all was worth up to that point.  I wouldn't go so far as saying that I thought I was going to die: we thankfully had the benefit of having a well-seasoned guide onboard our raft, so the only threats we faced were avoiding the rocks should we have spilled, and not soiling our shorts in the process.  The latter of course, being the worst of the two--I would much rather bear the indignity of a broken bone or two then face the embarrassment of having 'shat' myself.  Nevertheless, it was exhilarating to feel the cool splash of the waves on my face, all the while staring down some of the world's most challenging rapids--guide or no guide.

The parallels to life and white-water rafting are great; we are all faced with intimidating situations where we feel as though we will surely be swept up and swallowed whole.  We all "hang on" when, despite our greatest efforts to circumnavigate the ugly situations, we are forced to face them in all their immensity.  The only difference is in our attitudes and to what degree we have been challenged beforehand.  Quite arguably, this is a rather simplistic analogy, but sometimes that is what one needs to minimize challenges and bring them down to size.

I can say with relative certainly that I have been challenged in life before--and often at that.  Yet these challenges pale in comparison to this whole experiment I'm now sarcastically dubbing Ugand-ious.  Much as my attitude keeps me afloat at times, it is ultimately at the whim of the environment it inhabits.  But, it is in the spirit of this very recognition where defeatism is given wings.  Echoing Icarus much as I may be, the point I'm attempting to make is that limitations (physical or otherwise) are constructs that our minds place on a visualized outcomes.  Gravity has always been a great de-motivator, but it is our minds that find ways of resisting it.  It is our ingenuity and perseverance that provide answers to seemingly insurmountable odds.

As I sit here typing in the faint glare that my Macbook provides, I'm reminded that I'm not exactly working for a laureate position here, I'm just trying to survive it and write something half-worthy at the finish line.  Which incidentally, won't seem to come soon enough.  And, with my escape from my own personal 'Crete' plotted, I wish you all a good evening. I'm tired and beginning to make little sense :)


PS.  If you aren't familiar with the story of Icarus, see here for a description.

A Hard Pill to Swallow

"One of the greatest diseases is to be nobody to anybody."

"We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

  Mother Teresa 

Sunday morning I woke up with a bit of a sore head; 6 litres of beer the previous evening tends to have that unfortunate effect.  Complimenting my mild hangover, a children's choir with African drums was in full effect directly in front of my hotel.  The melodic voices of the singing children seemed to dance right through my window, gently pushing the curtains as they passed.  I of course had not the slightest idea of what they were singing about, but the joy that billowed through the air could be easily understood.  There was great jubilation in their voices, and I couldn't resist but getting up to look out my window.  I've not yet heard of a certified cure for a hangover, but hearing music like this had an almost instantly sobering payoff.  It made for a nice start to an otherwise destroyed Sunday morning, I must say.

Sunday was a day of relaxation for me.  I did some reading, inquired about getting a haircut, but decided rather wisely to wait until I could find somewhere with scissors.  Call me vain, but the prospect of a haircut with rusty clippers from a guy who didn't speak English, didn't exactly tickle my fancy.  I'll gladly endure the mop on my head for the time being.

Yesterday was a genuine challenge for me.  Upon arriving at the school, I was greeted by the usual chorus of "Hello Mister Teacher Mike" from the students, when the head teacher of the school (named Susan) approached me with a rather concerned look.  My heart sank for a second, because I wasn't quite sure what bad news she had in store.  She advised me that one of the men who was building a small mud hut on the school grounds (which will be used for an 'office') had been harassing her, even physically threatening her.  She went on to tell me that this man was demanding money from her, and that he had trapped her in the existing office the day before threatening her.

Susan told me that she was willing to quit her job rather than risk finding out whether or not this man's threats were genuine.  She told me further that "many people fear him in the village." Uganda is, for the most part, a highly patriarchal society; men dominate the society with an iron fist, and it's evident when one watches how the division of labour is separated.  Violence against women in Uganda is quite common, and the look of fear in Susan's eyes provided abundant evidence of this grotesque reality.  My sense of protection kicked in and my adrenaline immediately shot up---I felt compelled to protect this woman knowing that the man who had threatened her was working only a few metres outside.

My first instinct was to go outside and have a few unsavoury words for this "man", but logic demanded that I first assess the situation.  Looking out the window, I could see the man hacking apart 6-inch-thick bamboo with his machete.  The prospect of getting into a confrontation with a man known for violence, and armed with a machete, was deterrence enough for me to sit tight for the time being.  Should he have come back into the office, I thought, I would deal with him as assertively as I could at that point.

I must say it was difficult for me to not act on the anger I felt.  I decided that my skills as a conflict mediator/negotiator were much better suited in this case, however untried.  I called up Robert (the director of the school and program) and advised him of the situation.  Given that I didn't quite have a full grasp on the cultural context, I thought I would see if he could resolve this himself.  Sure enough, Robert called his "Momma" and she came storming over to the school within minutes.  I must tell you, a displeased looking, near-300 pound African mother is not something to be trifled with, machete or not.

"Momma" immediately began scolding this "man" and I've never seen someone's exterior be cut down to size so quickly.  It was as if Momma's words were themselves a machete, skillfully chopping this "man" down to the size and stature of a boy--and fittingly so in this case.  The figure that once resembled a man began bowing in front of Momma, and his look was like that of a terrified dog after being called "bad" for shitting on the rug.  Susan and the other women teachers began laughing, and I had to laugh along with them watching this ordeal play itself out.

There may not be a tremendous respect for women in Uganda, but I've never witnessed such respect for elders.  Acholi society thrives on their elders.  They are, like in many indigenous societies, the lifeblood of the society, and outright respect is afforded to them, or else.  So, it occurred to me that being chastised by your elders in Acholi society is more effective than any 'peace-building' skills I could bring to the table; yet, it was my initiative of calling Robert that brought big Momma over in the first place....so perhaps I had learned a thing or two about conflict mediation after all.  I gave myself a mental pat on the back, and felt as though I had actually just helped to avert what could have been an ugly situation.

Today brought another mentally pressing, if not heart-breaking dilemma.  As I was sitting in the classroom today, I watched one of the little girls who was sitting in front of me pick at her open sores.  She must have had about 4 of them, each about 4cm in diameter.  The children here are not well kept--the only clothing many of them have are their school uniforms, and it's not unusual for parents to send their children to the school stark-naked, hoping that the school will provide a uniform for them.  There is little to no basic sanitation here, so a small wound can quickly turn into advanced infection if not treated properly.

As I sat watching this young girl pick at her wounds, I wondered what sort of malady she had picked up.
The sores were circular in nature, and she was littered with scars of previous sores.  My heart was breaking in front of me thinking of what this could mean for this girl should she have picked up leprosy or something of the sort.  I stepped out of the room and went to speak to Susan, letting her know that I wanted to help this girl as had a first aid kit (as I always carry) in my bag.  I told Susan that this child's parents should take her to a hospital ASAP!  Susan immediately went and pulled this girl out of class, and I went from being a rudimentary conflict negotiator the day before, to an ad hoc medic the next.  Oh the hats I wear here!

I put on my latex gloves and started cleaning her wounds--painful as it was for her--it needed to be done. I then placed iodine on each sore to disinfect, waited for it to dry, then placed a small patch of topical antibiotic on them and bandaged them up.  The little girl seemed embarrassed by this whole process, but I couldn't just sit there and watch her pick at her sores, all the while watching flies land on her sores.  Incidentally, when I scraped my shin last week, within seconds flies immediately swooped in and landed on my bleeding leg.  They are proficient, I'll give them that.

I advised the teacher to tell the little girl that she was not to pick at the bandages and to see me tomorrow. My suspicion is that she has picked up a nasty bacteria, perhaps leprosy in its early stages. Nevertheless, following my short tenure as a field nurse, I felt a temporary sense of accomplishment.  I say temporary, because given the realities of this place, I know that there are thousands of children just like her.  There are no free 'clinics' that one can take their children to here.  There is however, a private hospital called "St. Mary's Lacor" which was started by a brave Canadian woman who ended up, sadly, contracting HIV/AIDS in the field from her tireless work.

I visited the hospital some weeks ago, and I've never been so overwhelmed in my life.  People wait not hours, but sometimes weeks for treatment there.  The government provides ZERO medical coverage, so this private hospital is the only free option.  Needless to say, the wait times are a direct result of the lack of funding on the part of the government.  So in short, this little girl's small sores would likely have her and her mother waiting weeks for treatment in the hospital.  To my knowledge, you can't make an appointment; you either wait, or you lose you place in line.  There are government facilities, but they cost a lot of money that people here simply can't afford.

One word sums up this experience...grim.  It's a heart-breaking exercise to walk through the infant ward.  Hearing babies suffer, watching their mothers sit on the floor beside them, rocking back and forth, frantically praying...I had a massive lump in my throat the entire time.  While I was there, I heard one mother whaling uncontrollably.  Her screams were like nails on a chalk board---easily the most ghastly thing I've ever heard from another human.  I can only assume that the worst happened in this case, but it's something that happens nearly daily here.  I don't want to sound like an activist, because I'm not, but I simply can't witness things such as this and not at least attempt to convey it to others.  Uganda has the highest Malaria infection rate in the entire world, and it consumes roughly 100,000 infant deaths every year alone.  This doesn't include the deaths from HIV/AIDs, TB, and a whole array of other treatable diseases.

It's both disgusting and inspiring to witness these kinds of things with your own eyes.  I say inspiring because you simply can't call yourself 'human' and not want to do something about this kind of misery.  So, forgive me if I tend to sound like Bono on a rant...I would beg to argue that any sane person who walked through that kind of misery, would not themselves, be sitting in the same ill-fitted shoes that I am right now.  It's an impossibly hard pill to swallow, and it leaves one feeling quickly powerless.  Probably not the most palatable way to end a blog, I admit.  Yet, as I turn in for bed lately, I've begun to wonder: for how many children in Uganda would it be their last night?  All for the lack of a few pills, which in their case wouldn't be so hard to swallow.





Thanks for reading....

Mike