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.