The Holidays, The ICC and other goings on

I have anxiety.. couldn't figure it out till I realized it's the Christmas season and I'm in the heat. That always gets me. I love the snowy postcard holidays but I'm sure not missing the shivering. I'm pleased, as well, as I've managed to get some good interviews in while in Nairobi and ... I'm healthy! There's a lot to be said for cleanliness and good food. No malaria, no colds, no nada. It's all good though I will miss my dear friends at home this year, but I know you're all warm and safe so that's good enough for me. 


Interesting developments with the post '07 election violence and indictments by the ICC of six alleged instigators of the upheaval. It's calm here though, no violence or uprising over this. For the most part the incitement from the top-down was fuel for the fire of ethnic clashes. The general sentiment is that the actual causes aren't addressed on the international level, it's the tribal pain, the displaced people, the bottom-up people who are suffering and nothing an international court does will serve to remedy that pain.  It is an important step in the process though, as impunity must be addressed at some level. Ocampo decries that it's an insurance policy against 2012 election violence, though from the information I've garnered, it's the enormous military presence that ensured a peaceful referendum and will likely be a factor in the forthcoming elections. The root causes have yet to be addressed and at this writing, there are still many living in IDP camps while their property and animals are co-opted by those who drove them out. It's not the politics, it's the age old land grab that drove that conflict.  There's little justice for them on the political scene; the ICC has no mechanisms for compensation and/ or substantial remedy for the victims. As a matter of right they deserve more realistic justice and equitable compensation but there is no legislation in place for this. Perhaps in time.


I am reading sadly of the upheaval in Cote d'Ivoire, and hoping against hope that situation is rectified soon or the implications for spillover conflict could be hugely detrimental to peace in the ECOWAS region. Further,  as the Sudan referendum approaches, unrest and rejection of the peace accord is in the news. Perhaps all this news is causing my anxiety. It's one thing to be sitting in your living room watching this stuff on TV, another to be in the region and arena of all this strife. 


Tomorrow I am heading to Kakamega to visit Susan Thompson, a  fish and wildlife biologist from Whitehorse and her project Fish 4Kenya. I'm really excited to get to visit a rural area in Kenya and to see her project. I've heard about it for a long time and am grateful for the opportunity to go and see the work for myself though I dread the 4a.m. wake up call. 


I hope everyone is having a lovely holiday season, it hardly feels like Christmas here, but it is warm and pretty and I'm not stuck in a crowded, snowed-in airport anywhere so I'm thankful for that, and I anticipate no matter what the day brings, it will be a blessing. I actually think I'm writing this to myself most days but that's ok - if you are reading - Happy Holidays and love and peace to all.  

Kenya.. sigh

2 weeks now in Nairobi.. I’ve done little but sleep and sleep and wait for unanswered email and phone contacts.. I’ve landed, seemingly, in paradise with a cloud for a bed, a monstrous bathtub and silent nights. The chaos and cacophony of Arua await my return but for now this rest is the panacea. Paradise, though, is deceiving as I surface from days of dreaming and realize how ingrained the Arua life is in me, and how deep is my affection for that life.

My Kenya landlady is what I would aptly describe as a “real broad”, in the old fashioned sense – she’s always got a cigarette within reach, drinks with gusto and swears like a truck driver when she’s not directing all manner of  expat traffic and domestic worker  details, or pounding out a report in between. She does contract work for various agencies and has jetted off to both Switzerland and Brussels within the past 2 weeks. I’d be envious if I didn’t find her shell so hard and her condescension so flummoxing.  Don't get me wrong, she's a good person, we're just not on the same page, I think her gusto and moxy are derived from her long tenure here and exposure to so much have forged that tough shell. She’s an American girl who knows her way around, lives in a palatial, Karen Blixen house with “Out of Africa” grounds and two cottages, one of which I am ensconced in as I write this. I half expect Robert Redford to come striding towards me across the lawn but settle gladly for the 3 big drooly dogs Netty, Letty and Byun.

 First night here she sized me up with a squint, and while there’s a smile on her face, her eyes are flinty and I get the feeling she’s thinking I’m green and naïve and not a right fit for her crowd. Right on all counts, as Nairobi is a slippery fish to grasp for me, but it’s ok because as I start to acclimate here, I find I’m not keen to be a part of this crowd anyways. I’m in another culture shock – white faces everywhere, palatial estates, security monitoring at every gate and monster malls make up my neighborhood. I have to admit I enjoy a good cappuccino but it feels weird – the only Kenyans I make contact with here are either making my bed or serving me something. A far cry from my Uganda home where the playing field is more level.

Nai-robbery as it’s fondly referred to, has got me spooked. I drive a wee car but always make sure the doors are locked, I don’t drive at night and heed the warnings to stay out of certain areas. Alas, I am still stung. Money goes missing from my cottage and my car is hit and run (more like impaled) in my first 10 days. I know better than to leave the money but got seduced by the setting. “Don’t trust anyone!” I’m told.  I always have a hard time with that one. And the car.. well, damn, that one sits on somebody else’s  shoulders, but either way, the African financial hemorrhage does not abate.

What’s wrong with this picture? I’m not sure but I do know it’s not the Africa I came to experience. I’ve been to the UN compound and think I think I have an inkling as to what is wrong with the picture, which I’ve been assured by a few in the know, that I’m not far off the mark. Too many entitled, spoiled and out of touch UN workers whose lives comprise of liaising with one another, spending “assessment” time in the field from the comfort of luxury hotels and air conditioned trucks and partying in all the hot spots and one another’s compounds while they complain about the corruption of the Kenyan government. All that stuff I’ve been reading about the need for UN reform materializes in a very short time – a microcosm. Imagine, these folks get hardship allowances as they clip clop around in high-end designer label clothing and Italian made shoes and frequent restaurants eating $50 meals accompanied by vintage wines. Not to mention the weekend safari excursions and flights to Mombassa and Zanzibar to escape the “horrible” traffic situation (though admittedly the traffic is really, really horrible). No doubt there are good people here too (in fact I know a couple of them) with good minds, intentions and projects; this is not to detract from them, but the system itself is dodgy at best, and seems to me those people are the ones who get lost in the fray.  At any rate,  decision made – I don’t wanna work here. This is not my scene, but I’m glad I’ve been here and seen it. I’ll take the dark and dingy rooms, bucket baths and grassroots work over this any day of the week. Loving the lessons learned though. Sometimes you’ve just gotta  see it to believe it..  and to find out just where it is I belong in this human security / peacebuilding scenario is priceless. 

Wizards, Adventure, Bikes and Politics

Blogs are funny things. We write to entertain, to share life experiences.. our hearts, to grab someone’s attention, to expose truths and advocate causes, to let the world know that what we’re doing is fun, exciting, and important, that we’re sad/happy/bored.. anon, and we (assuming here - perhaps it should be “I”) censor constantly. Too much? Too little? Does that sound bad or biased or petty or.. or.. or ?? 

In my case, I am reluctant to share strife and loneliness and heartache and neediness.. just that I’m in Africa and look at this life I’m living! But I also write to share others stories, the things I see and feel, though I admit, not to the bone, in order to vainly shelter my vulnerability.  To be candid though, I have experienced all of the above negative emotions and more. That I’m still here, still willing and still blogging is testament that I haven’t given up or been sucked under my own wheels as of yet.

 It’s been a while though because of the very nature of that vulnerability, and some tough, tough days and nights endured – cultural differences, misplaced trust, lost money, self-doubt – fear. I just haven’t felt the need to bleed on the page or maybe more truthfully, haven’t known how to express these inner implosions or to face publicly the upside-down-ness of how to deal with me as I am in these various circumstances. To expose that at times I’ve been bad tempered, shown discourtesy, suspicion and frustration because of my own selfish belief systems isn’t pretty, but there it is. A ramble or a rant, not sure, but the over-arching conclusion from all this time away, is the admittance of fallibility and ignorance and learning curves as steep as hockey sticks. Too-hard-on-myself-edness is what I have been suffering from and a long held in exhalation comes just in time and I’m finally able to write again.

So, Arua and thoughts whilst I stew in Kenya (which I’ll get to later) flood my mind and I randomly share them.

As much as I loved the hut, I found after a time that it was time to go. The health factor was the breaking point along with a need for privacy and separation. Work/home-life lines were too blurred. And so I moved to a nearby hotel to ease the situation. It was a difficult transition and there were some hard feelings, and I while I felt bad for leaving the compound, I knew in my heart that if I did not go, I could not stay. Some cultural differences have to be acknowledged and even though change is difficult, sometimes personal survival, well-being and peace of mind have to take precedence in order to move forward.

My last night there, as I lay without sleep in the sweltering heat with only a curtain at the wide open door I hear squeaking – a mouse (Lord knows where the rat went) and I shine my headlamp to see him scurry out under the curtain. A few minutes later he’s back and again the light sends him out.. third time and away he goes, but in a flash I hear squealing and run to quickly observe a cat with squirming mouse firmly in his jaws. Something is always eating something else here, but there will be some sleep tonight after all.

I spend my afternoons and evenings enjoying company and good food at Monday’s house, my classroom for all things Ugandan. The wisdom, patience, insight, common sense and deeply ingrained propensity for survival these people have imbued me with is invaluable, and yet  it never fails to amaze me their deep seated beliefs in witches and wizards. Many nights they regale me with stories from deep in the village as to the wizards and shape-changers who visit to terrorize people. Apparently wizards appear as floating light above your bed causing instant paralysis, then a weight drops across your body as the breath is choked from you.. and then they are gone, evaporated and sent back to their human form, and you are either dead or been severely warned. Well, I argue, how can that be – I mean, after all you are Christian, how can you believe this? Apparently there is no contradiction – I am Christian but wizards are amongst us. Food for thought, belief systems, religions, ingrained, centuries old tribal customs. A child born of a virgin? Loaves and fishes? Resurrection from the dead? How farfetched is farfetched? I believe in the light and the dark and in things I don’t understand so who am I to disregard wizardry? I love that we can talk about these things and laugh and that they can look at me in wonderment that I don’t believe, and I can reflect that disbelief back with the same wonder without rancour or rejection. All can be believed or not, I am still welcome.

The work –  it’s been weeks working on the material for a workshop on democracy, governance, non-violent elections and peacebuilding for women and youth. We’ve scoured the local councils who have given us names and promise to send participants to us  and we are ready but the money isn’t there so I bite the bullet and make a bank withdrawal and the people show up and we’re on the road. We’ve got 25 people – 15 women and 10 men from various age groups and backgrounds.  I’m encouraged and impressed by the level of participation, the eagerness to voice opinions and their grasp of the materials we are presenting but the one thing that stands out to me in the end are the divisions. We had theorized that the relevant factors, that women and youth share the same difficulties of exclusion from the process, would bring a cohesiveness to their demographics. We postulated that we would be empowering two groups who shared in common a lack of education of processes and the voice to choose without persecution due to their status. This was in fact, mostly the case, but something else emerged entirely that took me off guard.. the division amongst the group became mired in traditional roles of men and women. It became very evident through discussions that the men did not view the women’s participation in governance as a high priority, that the domestic roles of women and that their place in the tribal structure was still considered inferior to that of men. But how I was impressed with the comeback from these great ladies. One woman, with a baby in her arms,  told us that she had supported an opposing candidate from her husband in the primaries; he told her that if her candidate won, she would not eat for a week. Her candidate won but she did not starve as she was squirreling away small money that fed her and her baby over that week of punishment, and her husband learned of her strength and determination not to be cowed or intimidated from her convictions. Fantastic.

Overall, we felt that we had given a good workshop, delivered some good material, had insightful interaction, and maybe didn’t change any structures or mind sets but the women that I talked to left feeling good and eager to share the materials with the women of their villages. We trained some trainers, and at the end of the day, the men also went away with newfound respect for those 15 women. I believe the person who took away the most from that workshop though, was me.

Mzungu boda-boda girl.. that’s me. My dear friend Godfrey, when he found out I ride a Harley at home, happily handed over the keys to his Chinese made “Better” bike and the liberation of wheels became a highlight in my life. Dangerous as hell though – no helmet, marauding missiles (commonly known as cars), careening at you as they avoid the pot holes and civilians, no traffic regulations, slippery, slimy mud that throws your bike down in the time it takes to utter an expletive – I’ve got the pipe burn to prove it – and dodging alcohol infused, khat chewing bikers with nothing on their minds but speed and whole-hog road ownership. I am always on my guard, a true defensive driver, dodging overturned trucks, goats, cattle, meandering pedestrians on cell phones, bottomless pot holes, trucks and buses with bigger than you attitude, and any number of odd and bizarre obstructions that pop up overnight.  Oh how I loved it! As well there’s a certain caché to being the only blonde mzungu girl on a bike so everybody thinks they know you. All the riders at the boda-boda stands whistle and thumbs up me as I ride by and warn me of any diversions that day. Initially, I didn’t feel safe around these guys, they’re a tough lot, but once I got the bike they became my go to guys. They like my bike, and I guess me by association. I also notice that when I do have to take one of their rides, the prices are better – bikers stand together everywhere.  I hope I get that bike when I go back, I miss it and the wind in my hair flying down the road feeling free and easy in the sun.

A day to remember – Spending remembrance day in Uganda – a post conflict country ravaged by war and rebels for over 30 years. A lot to reflect on. The evidence is palpable as witnessed by missing limbs, hollow eyed elders and the stories that emerge.. oh the stories. Nothing is forgotten. All is remembered but the spirit of life and survival and progression is strong and the people are hopeful. This country is so beautiful. I cannot express the lushness, the ripening bounty of flowers, fruit, vegetation, youth, and hopefulness for a peaceful future. Yet war and conflict is close by as evidenced by the refugees in refuge here. Evenings spent sitting at the door of Ma Ecora school, a steady flow of people pass through the smoke filled air and one recognizes the long lean silhouettes of  the Sudanese along with Congolese, Somalis and people from Central Africa Republic who cross borders daily to avoid the strife and terror of rebels and out of control regimes. They don’t have to reach into memories or history books to remember.. they are here to forget.

One day I decide to travel to Murchison Falls. I’m so close so why book? Off I go with my friend on the bus to Pakwach where we disembark and find out there is no car into the park and too expensive anyways. So we take a boda-boda – 23 kms through a game park on a motorcycle – brilliant. “Hey, aren’t there lions here?” as we pass giraffes and monkeys over broken, rain humped and twisted roads.. “oh yeah” boda driver says smiling. Ok, not the smartest transportation choice but was it pretty, and it felt so good I forgot all about the lions as we met up with the nasty baboons at roads end. Took a boat across to Parra and found out there were no rooms at the Inn and so ended up in a grotty, hot and smelly guest room for the night after being bombarded by thousands of flying white ants in the restaurant. Next day there is no morning boat to the falls so we gamble on cutting it close for catching the afternoon bus. See the falls, back to the boda-boda – full bore, wide open through the park.. damn the lions, I got a bus to catch! Missed the bus. Ok, so.. options.. very few. Long story short- caught a bus to Nebbe – no buses, it’s dark! 2 guys are flagging cars for us on the highway, it starts to rain. Great. A truck stops and says one of us has to ride in the back, “er, no thanks, it’s raining.” “Oh.. that was your last ride” one of the Nebbe men says. Uh-oh. The Gods smile on us -  two lovely Muslim men and a little girl stop and carry us home through the now crashing, drowning, monsooning rainstorm. Moral of the story: it is better to book through a reputable travel agent in advance than go willy-nilly through the wild on a boda-boda without a bus home. But dang we had fun and that’s what you call adventure! J

One day I’m sitting at Monday’s and a visitor is there. She has a wide-open face with an easy smile and I ask who she is. Oh that’s Yaya.. she’s Idi Amin’s granddaughter. Wow. I sit down and talk to her and we play a few chords on the guitar and I can’t help but think how weird it is to be sitting with the grand daughter of  “The Last King of Scotland”.

The next morning I hear trucks and shouting and look outside my hotel window, it’s 4 trucks of armed soldiers! Eyiee.. A coup I think! Nope. It’s election run up time so the candidates are making their rounds, Museveni is here, and there are so many soldiers, they are taking over the hotels. As I ride into town I see Museveni posters everywhere, plastered on everything that does and doesn’t move. The man himself is due to arrive tomorrow and in traffic I start to notice trucks filled with soldiers, geared out for combat, lots of them, lots and lots of them. I live by the President’s Arua compound and am forced to take a detour as spike belts and sentries are posted everywhere. Next day is the rally and reluctantly my friend Bosco accompanies me, he’s not a fan of the rhetoric, but I want to see this guy.

Funny aside - to win the young voters he’s actually put out a rap song! You vant another rap?.. you vant another rap? hacha cha..

Not so funny aside – electricity in the West Nile region is choked off every night at 11pm but during the President’s visit – no power outages – full on 24 hour power. Museveni is apparently the solution to  load shedding.

 At any rate, following a phalanx of armed trucks (there must be 200 soldiers here!) and ambulances and armoured cars to the soccer field, we park the bike and try to walk in. I am immediately stopped by a soldier and told to walk to the end – he scared me and knew it and apologized (that’s how you know it’s election time) and we carried on where I promptly had my camera confiscated and was grilled with questions by a Sergeant who erased photos from my camera but was polite. Later I asked why and my lawyer friend explained they probably thought I was a foreign journalist and weren’t taking chances.

The interesting part of all of this (as a researcher) is observing the well-oiled machinery that has been taking place since I arrived in Uganda, the cash for vote specter. Anyone who thinks this is a free and fair process at this point has not witnessed the tearing down, by soldiers, of other candidates posters, the truckloads of yellow tee-shirted NRM “supporters” – most of whom are unemployed youth and women rounded up, handed tee-shirts and envelopes and put on display for their enthusiasm for the party. Museveni has been doing this for neigh on 20 years, he doesn’t miss a trick. He travels with huge contingents of military, buses of “supporters”, hires on the spot devotees, has a fleet of yellow “Museveni” cars on display and is the only candidate who can fly from district to district handing out, for instance, houses in Gulu, and grandstanding with benevolent gifts to those in need. Further, a good many of the candidates in opposition are so tied up in courts with trumped up and facetious charges, they have no resources or freedom to campaign. This guy knows what he’s doing and I have no doubt that come general elections in February, there will be issues. Not an understatement I hope. I am glad I went even though I scared the hell out of children who hadn’t seen mzungu face before and all the other attendant hassles. This is some new African history and I get to be a part of it.

Monday, Monday

I have a hero.. her name is Monday and she lives in Arua, Uganda. She is 37 years old and has been in a wheelchair for the past 7 years due to a spinal cord injury she suffered in a car accident. Her mother died of HIV/AIDS and she became responsible very young for raising her siblings. Before the accident she was tall and vivacious and the envy of many young women.. but after the accident she became a true beauty.

Monday runs a school called Ma Ecora  (May Echora) which means “I Can” or “I am Able” .. and boy can she, and is she ever!  In the past she worked for several expats as a cook and learned to make delectable dishes and all the ways of working with foreign food and people. After her accident, once the physical and psychological horror had passed, she decided to share her skills and talents with those who truly needed her, those in pain; those she well understood from her own sorrowful journey.

Ma Ecora is a row block of crumbling and dilapidated buildings where Monday teaches her many students to cook and to sew and to do hair and environmental hygiene and prepares the most vulnerable in society to enter into mainstream jobs in the hotel and catering industry. Don’t get me wrong, she’s no angel, she’s very human and employs some tactics that would move a storm trooper into action, but she gets the intended results and it all comes from the very best place within her. Many students have gone on to bigger and better things all due to Monday and Ma Ecora. The office wall is covered in photos of graduates, some of whom have found success in this country of so few prosperous opportunities.

Also housed in this school is a woodworking shop where her brother Ben leads young men into the trade of carpentry. Here they make tables and chairs and benches and an assortment of furniture. As well, they have a French teacher, a driving instructor and have laid out a strict and comprehensive curriculum all on their own. They take care and house those without means, and though they charge a fee for classes, many are taken in just for the fact that they are in need, and somehow, Lord only knows how, they make room for all who come.

Ma Ecora has no money. None. This school takes in single mothers, HIV orphaned, those who lost family in the conflict and war and turn down few. Somehow, somehow (again that word) they come up with the money to pay the rent, buy the food and the wood and the hairdressing materials and make that school run. And people show up, they come to learn and they take it seriously and they leave with the skills imparted to them by a group of dedicated, unpaid, giving, loving servants to their own.

And at the flagship is Monday; always cheerful, laughing, solving problems, hugging children, directing the students and making sure that all is done right and properly. Oh yeah, and when she’s not running the school she’s baking wedding cakes, plaiting and dreading and braiding and weaving somebody’s hair or she’s doing make-up for a bride or 3. or she’s cooking for me. Monday cooks meals twice a day for me and if not for her loving touch and wonderful food, I would have been sicker than I was for a long time. She and Ben and Bosco, who lives with them, have nursed me back to psychological and physical health on more than one occasion, and I am their sister, and they are my family here, and I love them as much as you could love anyone. I came here, it seems, to rediscover love. Agape love. Real. True. Love.

When I leave here I am going to champion this school and work to bring them the funding and recognition that they so very much deserve. I have to admit that the NGO I’ve been working with has been more than a challenge and a drain on my well-being. Sometimes things just don’t work and I won’t go into the details, but to say I am rescued by Ma Ecora in my quest to do good humanitarian work. I am going to love this self assigned assignment and I am going to tell you from the outset to look out for me because I’m bringing them your way and we’re gonna take that school from running on fumes to clean and shiny floors and windows and walls. I didn’t even know I was looking for them until they found me, and for the first time in my life I love Monday!  

Long Time no See

It's been  a long time since my last post. So little has happened, and yet so much. After malaria.. or indeed, while with malaria, I contracted typhoid and went down hard. To add insult to injury, the doctor in Arua gave me wrong meds so I continued to spiral in fever and headache and worsening symptoms. For me the worst manifestation of typhoid is losing completely, any appetite. For some this is not the big issue but when you have very little body weight to deal with, it's pretty serious as it becomes a matter of will and force feeding.

I decided to travel to Kampala to get to a good doctor and hospital where they rehydrated me with a drip and gave me some good medicine after which I spent a week recuperating in a hotel. Mind you, to save money I went back to the Bat Valley Inn - a divey hotel that never has a moment's peace and found out quickly that wasn't gonna do the trick so bit the bullet and moved to a private place that greatly facilitated my healing. Typhoid taught me a lesson though, and malaria for that matter too.. as all the daily frustrations mount and you become enmeshed in so many lives and problems - all falls away to what is truly important, staying healthy in body and mind and spirit and taking time to care about yourself for I am no use to anything or anyone in a prone position. It was scary though, I will admit this, I was frightened and felt tiny and vulnerable and at times as lonely as I've ever been or will again.

Part of the reason this blog has gone silent is for lack of expression for all that occurs around me and for want of knowing next steps. I've not had an easy time of it here. Apart from sickness there are a myriad of complications to do with the work and the NGO I am working with. Some have to do with cultural differences and some have simply to do with ill conceived implementations. It is frustrating at times and defeating at others. And so plans are altered and ambitions for projects are shelved and it becomes a matter of doing what you need to do to get through the process of being an intern, of learning what you can in a short time span, and making decisions that will keep yourself healthy and sane and rational.

The compound is also a bit of a minefield as you come to know and like people, your lives begin to intertwine and the formalities drop and you are faced with the prospect daily of these personalities, all of whom are just trying to make it through another day with food and necessities. And this is where you have to make the decision of  how involved you can afford to become on both financial and personal levels.

I've been asked on several occasions to borrow a couple thousand shillings  .. 50 cents .. and I do and it happens again and again and again and there it is.. a limit. 'Look guys, I can't do this, I'm not the bank." "You cannot depend on me and I am not comfortable with this so let's just not do the money thing ok?" And then the man who looks so worried all the time, who is so quiet comes to my door. Can he borrow 5000 shillings till tomorrow when he gets paid? Oh geez. I like this guy. Ok.

A day goes by.. "Twaha.. where is my money?" "I've not been paid yet" .. Ok.. tomorrow. And 3 days pass and I ask and he takes me to the small feed shack and shows me his bag full of boxes and tubes and jars. "I have AIDS" He starts to cry and we stand in the dark and I put my hand on his shoulder and there are no words.  A new thing to break my heart today, and tonight our security guard is run down by a motorcycle. He will be ok but every day, every day, a new thing.

I visit a project school this afternoon and am overwhelmed by the dedication of the people who work there who I am proud to call my friends. A cooking school where Monday, a wheelchair bound lady, takes great pride in teaching cooking skills. She worked for an Italian family for a while and her food is impeccable. Ben who teaches carpentry, a driving instructor and a sewing instructor. The thing about this facility is there is NO money. It used to be funded by an Italian donor but as is the sad fact sometimes, the money walked away with a slick middle man and the school was left bereft. But the people stayed.  They show up. They charge a small fee for materials to the students who are mostly without any other prospect in life and they cheerfully keep teaching and hoping and praying for new donors. I love this place. I love that everyone shows up, that the purpose didn't die for lack of funding or outside help. I love this place so much it inspires me every time I walk in the cracked and decaying doors.

There is so much to love here, and so much to lament and so much to hope for and sometimes you don't know which is which and the days blur by and at the end of the day you wonder what, if anything, you may have done to help or if you've really grasped anything and you go to bed and it all starts.. all over .. again tomorrow.

Where fools rush in

A great  meeting with my concert co-conspirators today. Progress. I leave the cafe and head to the closest boda stand (motorcycle taxis) and as I approach I see an obviously very drunk old man being dragged around by his neck. The boda boys have noosed him with a necktie and are pulling on either end, choking and dragging him through the dirt as others kick and hit him. Oh Lord. A boda boy turns on me - "it's 1.5 (shillings) today" "Why, I ask is it 500 more today than yesterday?" He snarls at me and tells me to get my man to buy me my own boda then. "Fine" I say "I will get another ride." He flies across me at the old man who is now staggering about yelling indecipherably and ploughshares him one, two, three brutal blows and blood flies from the mans face and a mob is forming. Instinctively.. because obviously the brain has not fully engaged.. I jump between them and yell to "STOP - this old man is drunk!! He is harmless" Coincidentally, or not, I am carrying a large stick of sugarcane with me and I hold it shakily between me and the fierce, bloodthirsty face in front of me. He stops. Everyone draws back. I threaten to call police - he bolts and the filthy, bleeding old man staggers away unknowing of all that has transpired on his behalf. I know full well that the only thing between me and the slap is my mzungu face and his unknown fate if he hits me.

This is not the first time I have seen this, and probably not the last, but this was the time that I could not stop myself and I am shaken but not sorry. God protects children and drunks they say, and obviously this day a quaking, shaking, fierce and angry woman. Would I do it again knowing the outcome could have been my blood and body? I cannot say for sure. I only know that today was not a day I was prepared to stand down from my principles. I will not visit this corner again, it is notorious I am told for violence. A month ago a man had 3 nails driven through his head here.

The wonder of it to me was to stand in the face of such anger, such a blindingly hateful young man and contemplate fully what a hard life he must face to fill him with such vileness. I feel deep sorrow and pity for him, for his soul, and his heart and his future, for he is surely riding a fast rail to destruction. On another day he will make another wrong choice and succumb to a face as angry as his own or the mob behind it. Or not, there is still time for him.

I have always told my friends that the thing about Africa that draws and pulls you back is that you never know from one day to the next what will happen in front of you. And so it is.

I'm looking at the last line from my post from this morning and smiling for it was never more true than this afternoon.

Plasmodium falciparum

 I’m trying to roll a big rock up the hill this week.. the rock is winning. After the initial adjusting to a new home, project, environment, food, and getting to know the people around you is done, the what if and oh no’s set in and a mosquito called reality smacks you down with a thing called malaria to heighten the insecurities. I lay in bed with racking muscle aches, violent, convulsive shaking.. freezing!.. and the fever rises and the bed is adrift, awash in heat and sweat and the stomach heaves and on it goes in cycles for days. I take the medicine and things become less dense yet my head swims in the drugs. I think I’m in India and it takes a great deal of self dialoguing to be fully convinced I am yet in Africa.

There is clarity though in this state, at how I can afford the medicine, that I have a bed, that I have clean water and clothing and options. This is the strain that kills the most people in Africa. This is the one that kills the babies, that robs them of their mothers and I hear every day of someone who has this malaria as if it were a common cold. I try not to complain too much because of those options I have that others are denied by geography, economics and politics. I put it in another perspective though, Western guilt for being sick.. that really accomplishes a lot!

I am back on my feet now and behind the curve with so much work to do. I am at the internet café daily helping to support Bosco with ideas he has to partner with students in Canada for matching kids here with similar interests and learning partners. The Toronto District School Board are hooking us up and soon kids here will be given the advantage of distance learning and the interchange will foster understanding of similar interests and hope  for futures in disparate cultures. It’s a great project and we are excited that it is taking wing.

Our non-violent voter education training is taking shape and should soon be finished and ready for delivery to our target audience – women and youth. Our fund-raising concert is getting some good buzz and we’re off on a corporate sponsor hunt to fund the various components. So, it is out of the bed and hit the ground running but I am trying to pace myself so I don’t relapse myself back to the ozone layer.

The rat is still an issue.. or should I say rats, I suspect from the activity that there is a colony, a community building into the space above. There is a housing shortage in Arua. I set the trap.. he eats around the snapper. He takes things from the hut and leaves er.. other things. Last night in the dark I stepped on the trap. Yup! That’ll kill him if he ever stumbles into it in the dark lol.

Some of my wash is missing. My hair never gets clean and shiny – the water is hard and gritty. I am bucket bathing. There is a shower but I cannot stand underneath the cold stream without holding my breath and shivering like a little girl. I have never been able to handle cold water. I prefer pouring warm water from basin than sanding off goose pimples in the drying process. I have no idea what the sound of silence is anymore, at all. Let’s see.. rat rustling, crack of dawn roosters, call to prayer, turkeys, neighbors dog, chickens, guinea fowl (and they can let off some mean riffs let me tell you!), voices and clamour from the kitchen, banging metal gate, compound dump truck start up, boda-bodas, crying baby.. and yelling – always yelling to get one another’s attention, "for gosh sake, it’s only a small compound" I think. I long for the green trails behind my home far up north, the quiet hush of footfall and hidden thoughts I can hear in the stillness. 

Ah well, another fine day and Africa is alive and I am grateful for my returning health, my bed, the bucket bath and all that means I am alive in Africa. 

Ack.. Sick

I've been missing home these past few days. Being sick makes me long for the familiarity of smells and sounds and comforts of home.. and a medical system that I can trust won't tell me I have malaria or typhoid or something nasty so they can sell me drugs. This is done all the time here but luckily I'm not terribly ill because the hospital itself is a grim destination. I walked through the grounds the other day with my friend Betty. "What is that dreadful smell?" I asked as we passed one section, "Oh this is the mortuary" she responded as I turned to see a gurney covered in congealed blood and secretion.. oh Lord. Further on, in the courtyard is a carpet of people sweltering in the mid-day heat, cooking, waiting, sleeping, suckling babies, either waiting to be in the hospital because there is no room, or sitting vigil for their loved ones in the hospital. I've seen this before in Ghana, but it all comes back fresh - no cash - no treatment or release. At this place I feel most helpless.

Side note: 2 days later and I am still feeling desperately horrible and get retested - flip side of the clinic coin is that false negatives are also prevalent. I've suffered for 4 days thinking it's the flu and it is actually a high strain of malaria. I am just very fortunate that I can afford the medicine.. rest and nutrition.

I miss my culture.. some people say Canada has no culture, but spending time in another certainly makes me realize that, ya, we do, we have a strong, thriving culture, socially, politically, ethnically and more.. and it's a damn good one at that. While I am accepted here, I am always, always going to be on the outside. I am always going to be mzungu - which, by the way, means white person. I would never be absorbed here into the culture as Canada absorbs minorities and assimilates them into the fabric. There are exceptions, many, I know, but overall, diversity is our hallmark. I could not imagine we would call out from the streets "Hey, black man!" lol.

Things are starting to happen on the work front.. so much that I lament being sick for even a day. People are depending on me now (it does not take long). I have a fundraiser concert that I'm working with musicians and artists to coordinate - an experiment at best - for this has never been done here before. The concept of donating time, resources, goods and talent for a cause is completely foreign to anyone's way of thinking as eking out the daily bread is tough, but slowly we are bringing people on board and the response I usually first encounter of

"no, that can't be done here", is turning tide as we use the Obama tact - YES WE CAN!

Obama is good for Africa, its idea of itself, of potential and achieving dreams. I am excited to think civil responsibility in the form of donation in increments is evolving.

The non-violent election training is moving slowly but I am invited to attend press workshops as they are briefed on effective election reportage, to the International Repulic Institute's training for politicians and am being lobbied to help on many fronts. The downside is time and money for our program. These workshops are all developed for the educated and elites, our focus is on those who don't get have opportunity or advantage of attending and getting the full meal deal (ah, yes, lunch is included - a huge draw). And so we will organize our work around the village people and those who have a vote and yet no concept of what that vote means, what their rights are and the change that can be affected by that one vote, and yes.. we will have the free lunch or biscuits and soda, and transportation money - it is the standard and the draw.

Off to the cafe to see Bosco and organize promo materials, prospectus and corporate sponsorship plea letters and in hopes we can make the concert fly. I feel better - not 100% but I am not in the hospital line-up and that is a blessing.

There is no black like as pure as the African night. It is not deigned the dark continent for naught. Pitch dark as a coal mine (and I have worked in one so I know), you cannot reach out and see your hand in front of your face. The only respite from the ebony is the blinding flash of lightening illuminating faces around you in startling clarity. I fear little and venture far, but caught out in the night when electricity is cut at 11pm is daunting and scary and yet full of intrigue. The constellations and milky way are within reach and I realize what we miss in our neon enclaves ... and yet I long sometimes for that safety net of knowing what I will find around the next corner.

As well, I wonder why I am intrigued to stay up long past the electricity has gone to bed to ponder such things.

The Work - Peace for All International (PFAI)

Thus far I've used this blog to bring some personal insight to my daily life and experiences in Uganda.. I'm not sure if I've captured the true essence as I read back through my initial entries, it all sounds a bit Western whiny and aw shucks and wow in its perspective. Truly, the accommodations are great, my hosts could not be more gracious, the sights and sounds and smells are Africa and that, after all, is why I chose this place. For all its contradiction in terms, for every complexity and seemingly impossible obstacle, there are a hundred or more positive, initiatives in the works. The work that PFAI has done here with so little is impressive in its scope and the many lives they have touched in such a short time period have shown positive results. I can only hope my small contribution will serve to assist in some growth and exposure for the organization.

And so we get down to work and formulate a plan to develop and deliver training components towards educating people, primarily women and youth, in the Arua district in transparent democratic election processes. The window leading towards the 2011 elections is finite and timing is crucial to complete programming and training components.

As was evidenced by the violence in the primary elections across Uganda, this program is essential to inaugurate as soon as funding can be procured. Primary elections in Uganda were held on August 30, 2010. According to news media reports, nationwide only 60 out of 117 polling districts held smooth elections, 30 had partial elections while 18 had their polls postponed due to improprieties by electoral offices. Some of the gravest concerns for the upcoming general elections as experienced by the primaries are the following: tampering with election materials, violence by candidates and their supporters, late delivery and disappearance of election materials, vote rigging and ballot box stuffing, amongst other violations. It is reported that over 100 party members were arrested including 8 soldiers along with students from a secondary school accused of inciting disruption and violence. Overall, the voting irregularities, on an unprecedented scale during the primaries, give indication that similar occurrences or worse may occur in the upcoming general elections in February 2011, and it is therefore imperative to put into place educational programs and to disseminate information in the promotion of transparent, violence-free electoral processes.

The project scope is designed as an ongoing educational initiative to empower women and youth in instilling leadership capacities towards the future of good governance in Uganda. Our greatest obstacle, of which most grassroots organizations can lament, is funding, so our think tank of PFAI volunteers are compiling lists of funders and sending out proposals to anyone we can think of to aid us in putting wheels underneath the program.

If you are reading this, and have any suggestions or contacts who would be able to assist in this important endeavour, your help would be most appreciated. In the mean time the team is compiling information, making appointments with electoral district officials, religious leaders, clan and tribe leaders and members of civil society to organize attendance at workshops designed to educate voters on good governance, election procedures, voter rights and peacebuilding initiatives. I've heard the word is out in Arua as to our work and that people are eager to participate. We're networking like crazy and hopefully in the next month or so we'll be well on our way to deliverables. Peace out.

Yumbe, Matatus and Eid

Where to begin? At the beginning. Hurrying to catch the matatu to Yumbe we sit for 2 hours as it cannot leave until it is full. 14 is the maximum number (as indicated in bold letters on the door – lol). And finally we are lumbering down the road. Good so far and everyone is comfortably uncomfortable but soon we are stopping and jamming people in like sausages, 15, 16, 17, 18. Ok, ok.. so I know I’m not going to change Africa or anything but I get into it with the driver along with Asina, (Asina is my Ugandan compound host) as we point out that this is not cool. He ignores us and then gets agitated - Him: ‘Hey, this is Africa, this is how it is’ Me: ‘No, it’s not, you are false advertising.’ Asina: ‘We can’t move over any more than we are – why are you stopping everywhere?’ ‘If you wanted a bus, you should buy one – we are not supposed to stop everywhere!’ Him: ‘Why are you siding with the mzungu?! Now you are becoming the Commander.’ She: ‘I know my rights!’ He to me: (after 2 bribes to cops) ‘You see mama – this is how it works in Africa.’ Me: ‘This is how it works for you, this is Your Africa, but not for all. People are not sheep!’ And so it goes and I laugh and he broods, and I can see him visibly re-inflate as we are passed to a car to continue the journey in more comfort. Ya, I know.. futile. But is it really?

We reach Yumbe at nightfall and it is dark but for the eyes of the children who light our way to the fire. I spend my evening in A,B,C’s and 1,2,3s and holding hands and laughter and welcome. They have made a lovely bed for me and heat my bath water and it is dark but the children light my night. It is the end of the 30 day fast of Ramadan and everyone is excited for tomorrow as I fall asleep to the sounds of life in the village for you hear everything when there is nothing.

Eid! Everyone is dressed in their finery and my mzungu clothes are more than lacking in appropriateness. Zam, the lady of the hut digs and hums and rustles and comes up with the shariata for me – I am transformed as my hair is hidden and I am clothed as part of this Muslim family. We are privileged as we head to the open Mosque in Ayiko’s car following masses of people on foot, on bikes, piled high on trucks; hundreds gather for the prayers. Not more than a few eyes are startled when they see me. I am told I am the first mzungu at these Eid prayers. Well, now I know how movie stars and felons must feel in public. The Imam appears and I bow and pray with the ladies and learn about Islam as they whisper to me in asides. And I think of all the similarities, rather than the differences, of devotion.

I’m thinking (yup, always thinking) now we all gather and eat, but the feast is not a huge gathering as I expected, nor is it now. At the village we have tea and I am invited to another Mosque. I pull up the headgear and trek alongside the ladies to the small building in the village. Here I experience firsthand how it is for the women of Islam as we seat ourselves behind the segregated wall. My Western brain doesn’t like this! Who are they to keep me behind a wall?! I really must learn more about this before I decide about what I think. My lasting impression though regards the wall – we are looking at World Food Program sacks hung from poles – Millet.

Finally the food. There is no big gathering; everyone eats in their own time. I spend my time with the children and when they bring my food to the hut I ask to sit with the other women, not alone, as they think I want to be. If I could live in your head, and you in mine for one day – what we would learn of one another?

Now I spend my time with little Peace – she who who leads me to the toilet and holds my hand and stands over my bed at night and she who teaches me how children are in their purest, loving form. It’s been a journey this trip, and a trip this journey. I ate the sheep; I refused the offal. I learned what it was like to don the Shariata and hide my thoughts and all but my face, to be an honoured guest; to be immediately loved and accepted by a family, a religion.. a child not my own.

Isn’t it interesting that the girl who stole my heart is named Peace and that this is 9/11?

Sad News

Tomorrow we go to Ayiko's village. His cousin was struck by lightening and he has to arrange for the body to come to Arua. The rainy season can be deadly.

Bosco

The first day I came to town I met a young man named Bosco. He is 23. I was told by my friends who had been here before that I would like him, but what I did not know, or anticipate, is how quickly I could come to love someone. He is a bright and beautiful spirit, a musician, a poet, a thinker and more. He has the soulful eyes of a sage and a smile that pulls at the corners of your own mouth when he gifts it to you. The first day we sat and talked he told about his music and played his guitar for me I knew that his was a talent that deserves to shine on the world.

He told me about the eucalyptus trees and how they rent the water table so that other trees and smaller plants can’t survive and how the atmosphere is changed because of the water they emit to the sky, and of tobacco crops that leach the soil and rob the farmers of better livelihoods because of the multicorporation that owns the rights, and of his love of computers, and people and the rights of people. All of this in one go, and then he played me his own songs of warlords and child soldiers and I let myself cry a little inside. He’s the sole employee at the Peace for All internet café which he runs with competency and great care having only learned computers not so long ago from my cohort David. He runs the café with professionalism and greets everyone warmly and takes pride in his skill and aptitude in the humblest of fashions. He told me of his dream to do his own music, his own way. To not let the popular, jingo-y, commercial music despoil his art and I nodded in solidarity because his is the kind of spirit that if it perseveres, will lead to the changes we are all hoping we are brave enough to stand for. I am honoured to know him. He brings light and music and love to everyone he touches.

Surprises

The rhythm of life here settles in on me now and I am seeing the details and complexities and simplicities instead of the seeming chaos. It's an easy place to be lazy, to let the day go by just watching and waiting for the gate to open and the next surprise to appear. Today I woke up to find workers waiting to install a flush toilet in my hut. I could not be more pleased and honoured. Ayiko asked me the most challenging thing for me here and I laughingly told him the squat was definitely at the top of the list. I don't mind shared toilets but the balancing act, the darkness, mosquitos, and the aiming and such (without going into too much detail) is an accomplishment in itself. Ok.. a chicken just roamed in to see the goings on..

The toilet - another humbling .. I did not expect this, it is a generous and expensive thing to do. I will be more careful in the future to express any discomforts I may have. Everyone here tries to make my experience comfortable and pleasant and I am grateful. I can see it will be an easy thing to come to love them all and the short months I have now seems a short span of time to offer anything I can to help.

Oh and Rafiki is out of the dark and causing all his usual mischiefs as happy babies are wont to do.

September 6, 2010

Day 3..

Slaying dragons and spreading peace across the land is hardly on the agenda though Ayiko and I did manage to have a meeting to discuss our way forward. We hope to find some funding (always with the funding) to move forward with some non-violent election training for the youth and women. Truly, it’s not a terribly ambitious, over-reaching project but the money finding is always the obstacle. I recall with vivid clarity my first residency in ’08 crowing “where’s the money coming from? Who’s the funder? What’s their agenda? “ Bgawk! and here it is again. So, while we hammer out the theme and scope of our projects and side by each degree thematics of elections and non-violence and gender equity, the money elephant takes up residence in the room. We’re working on it to be sure but today is a bit of write off as Ayiko is summoned to take his uncles’ wife to the hospital for the third day in a row. The poor woman is suffering from some ailment and the doctors have been drunk, and the hospital wants money, and I am called into service to be the mzungu on the phone with some authority to bring the doctor to the maternity clinic for an ultrasound. And so the day goes by with murderous rain and earth shaking thunder and lightening.

Again with the barnyard, I kid you not. A dozen turkeys, one of which is being eviscerated a short distance from me. I avert my eyes knowing it’s on the menu tonight. Yep, I’m squeamish about the food thing. I’m sorry but I’m just not the type to get to know her food before she eats it. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon in the black and angry rain planted at my hut doorway outpost squaring off with a rooster in steely-eyed stare down. No question who wins that one.. cock a doodle doo is a victory cry in this yard. It seems I am fated to be amongst the noise and clatter of children and babies and critters and thinking there must be something I have to learn from that. I thought the suite I abandoned at home was the last I would have to endure of screaming children, the laugh, it seems, is on me; escaping for a cappacino isn’t even vaguely in the cards. Three months I tell myself after only 3 days! I’m not so much culture shocked as in a here we go again state of mind… my time in Ghana floats back to remind me.

It’s the monkey though that has my attention and gnaws at my conscience (as though it were my conscience to be nagged). Locked in a room in the dark without food or water with only a ratty old towel to hug and box full of yappy young chickens for company.. geezus.. a baby alone. I take my book in with some water and give her some company. A rat careens across the room and I shudder, I knew they were here… I think they’re in my roof. An email from Bruce assures me that it’s probably lizards. And so the day goes. I look at the monkey and think it’s a metaphor, we’re both locked in our rooms not knowing what is to come next and where we have landed and what if anything is on the menu tonight?

It is late now.. the creature, which we are confirming is a rat, is running rampant in the roof. My skin crawls with each frantic scuttle that passes above me. I have seen them. They are considerable and hideous. Hut living is not all it’s cracked up to be but I love the sounds from the kitchen, the singing and laughter and warmth.

September 5, 2010

First two days in “the compound” .. As it is Ramadan, the family is fasting and though they know I am not, the food is not plentiful. As I await dinner, I am offered porridge.. a thick soupy gruel made from millet. It’s sour pungent taste is completely unfamiliar to my palate and I’m not sure if I’m in the like/not like zone or if my brain is just calculating the nature of the substance my mouth has presented it with. I’m thinking, well this is just the beginning as they bring out a tray of slathery, sauce laden pumpkin and potatos only to find that this is my ration, this and a cup of tea. Damn, I’m hungry. A stashed bag of peanuts, and a bottle of water serve to quell the gurgling tummy as lights promptly shut down. Can’t help feel like I’m punished, sent to bed without dinner as resurfaces the childhood memory. And so I cheat and read with the flashlight like so many years before.

Animals, turkeys, bunnies, guinea fowl, chickens and that monkey! I’ve spent half my day chasing him around as he tries to slip thru the gate and reach what he presumes is freedom but what the rest of us know is going to be a hell of a lot worse than the pampered life he’s living behind these walls. Rafiki.. friend..his name. We’re working on it.

I’m feeling stymied and some frustration and the word dread seeping in as this “internship” seems it may be more of an idle-ship. Nothing has been done since the last interns left – 4 stalwart, inventive, vigorous students from ’08 cohort who hammered something out of nothing – an NGO for peace with ambitious programs and creating a registered charity to move forward in a variety of areas – all of which lie now dormant due to lack of funding and attention. As they say, I have my work cut out for me. I can only hope that monolithic chicken coup doesn’t come down with the avian flu or the like for the air that I’m breathing is thick with feathers and fowl exhalations. I love the idea of the farm life but this may all be a bit close for comfort. Welcome to Arua Shelley

Early Days

September 4, 2010

I think I am about to learn how little I know. Each trip to Africa has its humbling moments and I am compelled to sink further into my cache of what I don’t knows in an effort to overcome the what I think I knows and the assumptions of what I think to be and a whole new spin on perception as truth.

It is so easy to give in our society, to drive someone somewhere, to offer a meal or a bed; none of it comes at a sacrifice. The thing to watch, to become aware of in this world is the level of sacrifice to offer such things as though it were easy and yet to observe and internalize how much it truly costs each person who extends a courtesy beyond their means, well knowing that I have deeper lined pockets, a ticket home and a passport back to the life of easy give, easy take.

I don’t mean to glamorize or roll around in the generosity of the people here, but neither do I mean to trivialize or condescend to its charms for I also know that often underneath the offer is a higher price than I am prepared to pay for it differentiates me from the reason of being here. For every offer to help the mzungu places me in different category. That I cannot fend, that I am to be feted and tenderly handled keeps me from the understanding and the gap that bridges, for if I receive all that I am offered, I am above the life that I have come to try and comprehend. Every one of my fellow travelers on that bus, the mucky roads, the bank line up is as numb and sore and frustrated as I am.. I just need to learn how not to have that look on my face.. that in itself is a challenge to overcome.