Thanksgiving Has Plucked My Last Nerve....

On this Thanksgiving in Gulu, I am thankful that my sense of humor was largely shaped by MAD Magazine.

It has amply prepared me for the relentlessly aggressive absurdity of life. I’m also well-armed with the brands of sarcasm, cynicism and warped outlook one needs to navigate the Ugandan banking system.

Translation? Those fuckers at Stanbic Bank have screwed us over again, and now we’re almost flat broke.

We’re actually waiting for a wire transfer of more than $28,000 in operating cash, but by yesterday evening, it still hadn’t arrived. Since Ugandans don’t celebrate the American Thanksgiving holiday, I just assumed we’d have another crack at foolishly inquiring about money that wasn’t there once the bank opened today. Silly me-- I forgot about all the poop and circumstance surrounding the Commonwealth Head of Governments or CHOGM meeting that kicked off in Kampala today. It’s only the second time Queen Elizabeth the Second has visited Uganda, and the populace is all atwitter.

Apparently, QE2 made it to Kampala yesterday, where she and Phillip and Charles will spend two whole days pretending they still reign over most of the darker masses of the people around the world. It’s like for a brief shining moment, the British Empire is still “all that.” Naturally, Ugandan officials waited until about, oh, SEPTEMBER to start preparing for this important event, and so life in Kampala must be downright calamitous right about now….at least for everybody who isn’t a CHOGM delegate. Common folk will probably be shot and macheted on the spot if they misbehave in any way shape or form while Liz is making her royal rounds.

Anyway, what this means is that the Government decided to declare today and tomorrow federal holidays. Which means the banks are closed. Which means we ain’t got no money. Which means that this morning, midway through our latest training workshop, I had to tell the 9 journalists participating that we would have to call it quits after today. No more per diems, no more perks. Hell, they’re lucky we can afford to send them home.

Happy FREAKING Thanksgiving to me! Shit, I am really on a roll…..down a steep, rocky hill littered with broken glass, I might add. Let’s see, my birthday was tragic, Thanksgiving is the pits…..hmmm, maybe for Christmas I’ll be disemboweled by a former child soldier!

Dammit, I’m totally Grinching it this holiday season. What the hell do I have to be merry about? It occurred to me yesterday, while wandering through the local market in search of plastic clothes hangers. If you’ve never been to an African market…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT’S HOLY, DON’T GO!!!! Just kidding….it’s actually a fascinating experience. I’ve been here long enough to be used to the crush of people, the smells, the general feeling of chaos that pervades. But I remember my first view of the massive marketplace in Accra, Ghana back in 2003. It was mind-blowing…..what seemed like miles of make-shift stands selling everything from tires to fish to pottery to bras to goats. All set in some of the most squalid conditions you could ever imagine.

Yesterday, I gingerly minced through the muddy, cobblestoned paths weaving through the market, still still astounded by how much tacky, poorly made articles are produced around the world--and how much of it winds up in Africa. Watching women sprawled on woven mats breastfeeding their babies, and boisterous men sitting around talking much smack, it slowly dawned on me that at just about every stand, a radio was playing “Jingle Bells.” I'm guessing they were all tuned to the same local station. Needless to say, after decades of being nauseated by American holiday advertising and crass consumerism, it’s quite refreshing to be away from it this season. And to revel in the tinny simplicity of “Jingle Bells” being played through cheap radio handsets.

But then I thought, “Just what the hell do these people have to be merry about? What should they give thanks for….that corrupt politicians have drained the country’s resources, failed to protect them from satanic rebel forces, and still hasn’t come up with a way to give survivors of 20 years of brutal war much more than a mud and straw hut in an abysmal refugee camp?

But then it hit me….they’re thankful to be alive. No matter how much struggling and suffering and torment they’d experienced-or perhaps were STILL experiencing-they were alive, and grateful for it. And if God was willing, they’d STILL be alive when Christmas came.

That thought should have shaken me out attending of the open bar pity party I've been planning for myself. I know part of the reason I’m feeling so tense and moody is because I’m PMS-ing, so I just have to get a grip. Still, I’m boycotting the holidays this year.

Actually, I have an even better reason for opting out of Turkey Day. Before I left, The Intern had talked a big game about being determined to have our very own Thanksgiving in Gulu. I just laughed, thinking of all the times we’d sat at Bambu or Bomah restaurants, gnawing on the most emaciated, sinewy chicken this side of Hell. Northern Ugandan chicken is so traumatized and war torn, so saturated by the stress hormone cortisol, you could have a nervous breakdown just by eating a bowl of stew. And two bites is about all the meat you’ll get off of any chicken dinner in Gulu, I don’t care if they stew it, fry it, barbecue it or bake it. You’d get more nutrition sucking the marrow from the bones.

But in his usual astonishing fashion, The Intern actually managed to find some people who kept a few raggedy-looking turkeys in their yard. They don’t eat turkey; I guess they just like having them around. He said he was going to arrange to get one of those bad boys gutted and plucked in time for Turkey Day, but with all the crisis management going on the past month, there was no time to prepare a gobbler.

Come to think of it, I could have offered up the chicken I was given as a gift on Saturday night. It had to be the sweetest thing I’ve experienced in a very long time. One of our 4 guards showed up on my doorstep just after I’d arrived at the cottage, holding a chicken. When Akiiki told me they had all pitched in to buy me the bird, I laughed, “What am I supposed to do with a chicken??”

Thank goodness their English isn’t so good, because I really wasn’t trying to hurt their feelings. It’s just that the whole thing seemed like a sketch from MAD TV. I mean, I come back to Gulu after the biggest tragedy of my entire life, and someone cared enough about my feelings to try and ease my grief with……a live chicken??

But see, that’s the thing about Ugandans. The majority of them don’t have a pot to piss in, but they’ll gladly give you half of whatever they have if they like you. I’d like to think the guards and our housekeeper Pamela like me, and it’s clear they missed me by the warmth and excitment of their welcome home greetings, even before the chicken entered the picture.

So even though being a manager ain't no day at the beach, I guess I’m a GOOD one. I’ll just be thankful for that and call it a day.

P.S. My gift chicken is still alive, in case any of you readers are member of PETA. Even though I'm a devoted carnivore, even I can't eat a chicken I've actually been introduced to.