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.