Lucky Me........

Several people have asked me why I call myself the African American, female Larry David. Clearly, they have never seen the horrifyingly funny HBO series, “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” It’s brilliant, and it makes me squirm every time I watch it, because the show’s character Larry David, based on the real “Seinfeld” creator Larry David, is possibly the biggest schmuck who ever lived.

But even though he’s a colossal super grande schmuck, you have to pity him for the situations he winds up having to fight, sweet talk, or grovel his way out of. It’s exquisitely painful viewing, and I always finish every show thinking, “Well, I’ve screwed some stuff up in my days, but I’ve NEVER been that much of ass.” I figure Larry’s performing a vital public service for thousands of his fellow neurotics.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Larry a lot recently, because for me, almost every day in Gulu eventually ends up like an episode of “Curb.” At LEAST once a day I find myself in some difficult situation that I have to fight, sweet talk, or grovel my way out of. I mean, I am trapped in a huge, menacing, seemingly endless maze of absurdity these days. But I’m also grateful for my finely-honed sarcasm and deeply warped sense of humor, because along with gin, they are the mainstays of my coping mechanism in Gulu.

Here’s a perfect example. I’ve been reading a bunch of stories online about how people around the world are considering today, 7/7/07, some celestially-endowed lucky day. People are galloping to churches and synagogues to get married, thinking that the alleged “good luck” of the three 7’s will guarantee them a long, happy marriage. (I can almost guarantee divorce for any couple stupid enough to believe that getting married today will counter the harsh realities of love handles, a bad case of the flu, destructive vices, infidelities, and other potential hazards that lurk along the path through matrimony.)

Restaurants are offering special romantic dinners to help people mark the fortuitous occasion, and nightclubs are throwing wild, borderline orgies inviting singles to drop by and maybe “get lucky.” (Most will be lucky if they don’t contract a particularly virulent strain of STD.) In short, people everywhere are spending all of today basking in a media-manufactured sense of hope that 7/7/07 will be chock full of good tidings.

And what did Princess Rachella wind up doing on July 7, 2007? Take a wild guess. Get even wilder if you want (just as long as your guess doesn’t involve sex because frankly, it’s been so long, I’ve forgotten how to do it). Give up yet? Okay, here it comes….

I spent all day touring refugee camps near Gulu.

Let me diagram all the lucky things that happened to me so far today. I did NOT get ambushed by rebels! I was able to suspend my bodily functions so that I didn’t have use a toilet or anything vaguely resembling one. Our vehicle did not collide with a 900 pound steer. I did NOT get my heart ripped right out of my chest and stomped on viewing the conditions that hundreds of thousands of people in Northern Uganda must endure while the government and the militants finish having their jamboree-slash-peace talks.

Best of all, I did NOT spend most of the day choking back sobs when I saw the scores of children, hungry, traumatized, filthy little children, many of whom have lost their parents, and who must battle gargantuan challenges every second of every day to keep safe, free from sexual exploitation, and even borderline sane. That was the luckiest break of all.

After all, I’d spent most of yesterday dreading my impromptu tour. As a journalist, I was obviously intrigued and even excited about the chance to bear witness to one of the worst humanitarian crises in modern history. (And PLEASE don’t worry, dear family and friends….I traveled with a highly-secure UN convoy. Lucky day or no, armored trucks and burly guards are always the smart way to go in these types of situations.)

I was convinced the experience would haunt me, possibly for weeks. I didn’t think there was enough gin in the world to erase some of the images I expected to see. I am a VERY strong woman, but my heart can only sustain so many profoundly sad psychic blows in one lifetime.

But now I’m sitting here writing about today, and I actually almost feel happy. And you know why? It’s because of those hungry, traumatized, filthy little children. If you can believe it, even in the midst of the devastation and horror 20 years of rebel warfare have left in their wake, those children were laughing, playing, tussling, and waving at the visitors with the biggest, brightest smiles you ever saw. They had the will to play around the informal graves their families had dug right outside the crude straw-thatched huts they lived in. Their clothes, when they had them, were literally falling off their backs, weighed down by filth, and yet they smiled and waved and posed for the camera. There were little girls as young as 3 carrying infants on their backs, and yet they laughed and did their chores and they looked so much like...kids.

I kept looking for reasons to weep, and on the one hand, there were plenty. There’s no way to describe the level of primitive, destitute, disease-inducing conditions the 24,000 people living in the Amuru Internally Displaced Persons camp live in, so I won’t even try. But when I looked at the children, I didn’t want to cry. I actually laughed and played with them. I felt hopeful. I was deeply humbled by the tremendous power of the human spirit, their will to survive, their ability to adapt, their belief that even amidst all of that squalor and death and hopelessness, there was still a reason to play.

So, on July 7th, 2007, y’all out there in the Developed World go ahead and play Powerball for me, or go out to one of those Triple 7 happy hours and swill a few for me. (Make sure you ask for extra ice….I haven’t had any ice since I set foot in Gulu. Ice is nice. Mmmmm.) No matter what happens to YOU, bet I’m luckier than anybody who reads this post. Today, I got to meet the strongest, most dignified, awe-inspiring people who’ve ever lived, and most of them were younger than 12 years old.