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?