The Party's Over.......

I think I’ve developed an ulcer. Which makes it all the more appropriate that February 8th will be my last day as Project Director for Internews Gulu.

I am sitting in the training room at Plot 21, Eden Road, Gulu Town, Northern Uganda, and I feel like somebody poured boiling oil down my gullet, and it’s roiling in my stomach like a witches’ brew. I’ve felt like this for about three weeks now, with severe nausea, to boot. (Someone asked me if I could be pregnant….sadly, that is NOT an option.)

Yesterday morning, I woke up moaning in pain. So I decided to Google my symptoms. Nausea, burning gut, no appetite. (Don't worry….I had blood and other tests too gross to describe in Kampala last week, and they cleared me of anything more scary.)

Actually, I wrote about this same feeling just before I was headed back to Uganda in mid November, following Julie’s funeral. At the time, I just dismissed the burning as intense grief pangs. But now I realize I’ve spent the past two years agonizing about Julie’s colon cancer diagnosis….and the past 20 or so years worrying about her OVERALL health challenges.

We were so close, I think I had sympathy pains that matched everything she felt. That’s GOTTA cause some corrosive action in the old stomach lining.

Obviously, living in Gulu for 8 months only made the gut-gnawing worse. Let’s see, during my stint as Gulu Project Director, I’ve had to fire a psycho slut, been threatened by a wild-eyed contractor and harangued by a vindictive nun, watched our studio be flooded, endured extremely poor access to email and phone communication, had my spine reconfigured bumping along the rutted roads of Northern Uganda, been virtually defleshed every single day by greedy, aggressive, American blood-addicted mosquitoes…….all while being responsible for a hefty chunk of US Federal Government money.

Let's just keep it real, people, I’ve never quite gotten the hang of balancing my check book, so managing a half-million dollar project would not crack the top ten of “Things Rachel Jones Performs Flawlessly.” In other words, I suck ass as an administrator.

But here's the thing. As I type these words, I’m leading a workshop about what’s in store for the hundreds of thousands of people who have spent the past 20 years in the squalid IDP camps of Northern Uganda. I’m trying to make the reporters embrace their role as interpreter of events. I’m pushing them to be more than just stenographers. I want them to tap into their creativity and create vivid images with their stories, to relish being the conduit of the hopes fears and aspirations of people praying for peace in a war-torn region.

Wow, I just impressed myself writing that last paragraph. DAMN, I’m good!! As a journalism teacher. As a mentor. As a drill sergeant. As a nurturer. As a visionary. As someone who can inspire the best in people. That’s why I’m not viewing this departure as an ending. It’s the beginning of a whole new chapter in my life.

It’s also the beginning of me swilling Cosmos like a drunken floozy very soon after I touch down at Dulles on February 10th. I’m almost embarrassed by how relieved I am at the prospect of leaving Gulu in my rear view mirror. Don’t get me wrong….I’m not talking about leaving the project, or the amazing people I’ve developed close friendships with. It’s going to be extremely hard to close the door on those things.

But it won’t really be goodbye, because I’ve learned so much, and grown as a journalist and a human being so much in the past 8 months, I’m fully prepared to morph into the role of media consultant for any of the groups working on the peace and reconciliation process in Northern Uganda. I expect to earn a lot of frequent flier miles traveling between Washington and Africa doing it, too.

And here’s the best thing of all….Internews is looking for a “roving trainer” of sorts, someone who would be based in an African country, but who would travel to all the projects across the continent to lead journalism workshops. I think I may have a shot at that gig. For a girl from Cairo, Illinois, that would feel like Dorothy chillin' at the Beauty Salon in the Merry Old Land of Oz. It would be such an amazing opportunity, if the funding is located and I were lucky enough to be chosen.

Meanwhile, back to my ulcerous innards. Or at least what I think are my ulcerous innards. I’m not looking forward to being one of those neurotic twits who swill antacid like Kool-aid, but I gotta do something about my gut. Having ready access to decent medical care will be an enormous relief. (And hell, my COBRA self-paid health insurance payments just went up, so I SWEAR TO GOD I’m gonna visit every doctor in the Kaiser Permanente Health System during my first month back in the States. I gotta get my money’s worth from the monthly reaming of my bank account.) The only good thing about this situation is that between grief and stress and a burning belly, I’ve probably lost about 20 pounds in the past 8 months. I’m also probably mildly malnourished. I also need to be exercising more, and to find a yoga or Pilates class to limber myself up. I’m tired of feeling like a 78 year old arthritic couch potato.

These are all things you pampered, spoiled Americans have been taking for granted these past 8 months, while I’ve been over here simmering in my own gastric juices. Well, shove over sisters and brothers, cuz Rachella’s heading home. It’s my turn to live like a shallow, materialistic, overfed narcissist.

Don’t hate the playa, hate the game! Rachella’s gon’ get her groove, and her guts, back in a couple of weeks. Y’all ain’t seen nothing yet!