God Bless America

Somebody’s gon’ get called out their name today. I am about ready to set it OFF up in this village!

Remember when I said that to survive in Gulu, you have to expect, even embrace the fact that no matter how much you try to plan ahead, something will go wrong? Well, EVERYTHING has gone wrong these past few days, and you can stick a fork in me, ‘cuz I am DONE.

I never thought I would miss the surly, slack-jawed expressions on the face of the average American teenager standing behind a fast food or grocery counter, but I do. I’d like to grab one of those young slackers and give him or her a big wet kiss on the cheek. Because at their worst, they’re better than the people who aim to “serve” at some of just the finest establishments in Gulu.

Actually, most people aren’t really surly or rude, they’re lethargic. Borderline comatose. Granted, sometimes they don’t speak English, so that part I understand and am patient about. But the kid sitting down behind the MTN phone service counter today spoke perfect English, and knew exactly what I was asking about. But he answered my every question with the most opaque, bottomless stare I have ever seen. He mumbled something about a certain “Kenneth” being on the road from Kampala, and that he would be able to help me with my problem.

“So, when is Kenneth expected?” I asked.

Baleful stare. “He is on the road.”

“That doesn’t tell me very much. When will he get here?”

“He is on the road.” Another baleful gaze, and then he turned away from me to talk to somebody else.

Aw, sookie SOOKIE, now! Homey just opened up a can of whoop ass up in this joint! I walked in front of the man he was talking to, bent down so we were looking eye to eye, and I said in my crispest, coldest, “I will slap the TASTE out yo’ mouth” voice,

“Please don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you. I was here first, and I’m not finished.” Spoken like a true-blue, grown-assed, middle-aged black American woman who can act a pure-dee FOOL when the occasion calls for it.

Both guys were visibly shocked. I just know they were thinking that a couple of decades ago, they could have beaten the crap out of me for such impertinence, and gotten off scot free. But the way I felt, if they’d tried something, I’d have pulled out an eye or two before the fight was over. DC is in the HIZ-ouse, y’all, and I was about to go straight-up Chocolate City on those muthas!

I’m back home now, and the phone service still isn’t working, and I’ll have to go back into town later to see if the elusive Kenneth has arrived from Kampala. The guy who’s supposed to be installing the computers in our office just called to say that after 3 weeks of waiting, he STILL hasn’t received his wire payment, thanks to the mysteries of the Ugandan banking system. The mosquitoes are still biting the ever lovin’ shit out of me, and I’m sitting on my bed eating the Gulu equivalent of a ham sandwich. (I believe the local name for this lunch entrée is the “Trichinosis Special.”) And I’m thinking about all the barbecues and fireworks and cold beer being enjoyed back in the good old U S of A, and I’m asking myself, ‘

“What the F*&# was I thinking about coming over here?”

I know for certain that this, too, shall pass. But tomorrow marks my one-month anniversary in Gulu, and I don’t feel like celebrating. I want a slightly charred hot dog, for Christ’s sake!

All this is to say that I love to travel, and this is an amazing experience for me to be having, but thank GOD I hold an American passport. As much as I think Dulles Airport sucks, it will be the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in months the next time I touch down there. America really IS the coolest country in the world, warts and all.

So Happy Fourth of July to all the lucky Capitalist Running Dogs reading this post. Save a barbecued chicken leg for me. Just hold the growth hormones; I’m starting to like this organic, free range poultry over here.