My friend Katherine has just alerted me to something I hadn’t really noticed about this blog. I’m posting all these missives from Northern Uganda, but reading them, you can’t tell why the heck I came here.
This is why Katherine is one of my dearest friends. She always has my back. She’s a “heart friend,” one of those people whose personal energy just jumpstarts your senses every time you’re near her. I met her at a boot-scootin’ cowboy bar in Kalispell, Montana, in 1992, if memory serves. I was there with a group of women journalists who belong to a group called Journalism and Women Symposium or “JAWS."
That acronym is a perfect fit. Katherine literally embodied the driving force of JAWS. When we met, she was a columnist for the St. Paul Pioneer Press, so right away, you knew girlfriend was not afraid to break you off a piece of her mind. While I watched her out on the dance floor, yeee-hawing through a chorus of “Achy Breaky Heart,” I knew I could roll with a chick like her.
We’ve been rolling ever since, though not as often as I’d like. Somehow, life and career drama always manage to consume most of your time and energy, and you look up one day and you haven’t seen or spoken to that heart friend in months…even years. But as sure as my name is Rachel, I know that the next time I see Katherine, we’ll just pick up where we left off.
I also know that within an hour or so, she’ll have me sobbing like a baby. I can go years without crying for any reason, but when Katherine and I get to gabbing, let the good red wine and the tears flow! We seem to always peel away the layers and get right to the heart of our lives. She’s my “Sister of the Prairie.” We’re both from Illinois….Cairo for me and Moline for her… and we’ve both spent the last few decades deprogramming ourselves from the ritual brain washing of a shame-based culture (a.k.a “Midwestern values.”)
Anyway, Katherine’s critique was right on time, so I’m using this post to explain how in the world I wound up in Gulu, Uganda. The quick and dirty answer is that I’m here working with an organization called “Internews.” The group’s mission is to provide training in critical issues for journalists around the world. I’ve led 4 previous short-term journalism workshops for Internews in Ethiopia and Nigeria, for print and radio reporters who cover HIV/AIDS. This time, I’m training radio journalists who are covering the recent peace talks between the Ugandan government and the rebel armies who’ve been killing and terrorizing the people for the past 20 years.
More about war and peace later. (Although I’m sure many of you out there think I’m out of my freakin’ mind for coming to a war zone for ANY reason.)
The longer answer involves making a difference. I’m 45, and by the time I’m 50, I’ll have lived more than half of my life. Personally, I plan to be the baddest, hottest 50 year old woman who ever walked the face of the earth, but even so, I'll be 50. By that point, you get to wondering what you’ve accomplished in life, and whether you’ve contributed anything of real value to the world. My work with Internews has helped tremendously…I get more fulfillment from this kind of work than any other aspect of my career.
But check this out….I have a pathological need to help. I’m a nurturer at heart. Sure, if you don’t know me, I can seem reserved and aloof. That’s because I’m intensely shy, and have waged my own war to hide that fact all my life. But once you get to know me, you realize that I’m a born cheerleader, a rally-er, purveyor of pep talks, the kind of woman who gets giddy when I can cook for a lot of people and watch them enjoy the food.
I’m a nourisher, I guess. So it makes sense that I’ve landed in a poverty stricken war zone. I mean, where else are you gonna be needed this much? And I believe the fact that I am a black woman in charge has to be a powerful influence in this town. A woman’s status in Africa is most often deplorable, e.g. less access to education, most likely to die in childbirth, vulnerable to HIV because the culture demands that a woman defer to her husband sexually, no matter who he’s been sleeping around with.
These kinds of challenges are as clear as a relief map on the faces of girls and women in Gulu . When I see them, I think that could have been me. (Not that I’m grateful for slavery or anything, but I might just as easily have been born in Africa.) So when I'm given the chance to help a female journalist in Africa strengthen her ability to use her skills to empower other women, I’m gonna take it every time.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: In the interest of full disclosure If Internews ever opens a Baghdad office, the sentiments expressed in this column are rendered null and void.)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
"Native"......NOT!!
I thought I was being really clever and profound by naming my blog “Notes of a Native Daughter.” It riffs on one of my favorite books, “Native Son,” and it also alludes to the spiritual journey my trips to Africa has launched for me.
Granted, I’m officially a native American….AFRICAN American, that is. I’ve never had a problem embracing that term. But some black people believe adding the “African” separates us, calls too much attention to our different-ness, instead of blending us into the melting pot.
But here’s the thing. Italian Americans don’t seem to have a problem with that label. They have special societies, they laud their cuisine, they’re proud of it. (Except for the whole “Sopranos” connection, I reckon.) Most Asian Americans seem comfortable with the term. Ditto the Irish, and a host of other ethnic groups. So why do some people of African descent who were born in America think “African American” is almost a slur?
Let’s face it…..at least one of my ancestors, on both sides, was born in Africa. And for God’s sake, PLEASE don’t tell me that when you look at me, you don’t see color. Some white people actually think that’s a compliment, but I usually tell them they better run, not walk, to the nearest optometrist’s office, cuz they must have glaucoma or something. I am the color of a Hershey’s chocolate bar, richly, unmistakably, deeply brown.
Growing up in racially volatile Cairo, Illinois, I was familiar with the saying, “If you’re white, you’re alright. if you’re yellow, you’re mellow. If you’re brown, stick around. If you’re black, get back.” It’s the unspoken code in America’s turbulent racial history….skin color matters. I mean, I admire Vanessa Williams, and forgave her for the freaky photo shoots years ago. But when she won the Miss America title, black folks knew it was because she had green eyes and café-au-lait-colored skin.
She was “light, bright, and damned near white.” On the other hand, a guy I once dated told me he thought I was the whole package….smart, attractive, career oriented, funny. Then he said he wished he could take me home to meet his parents.
But he couldn’t, because I was too dark-skinned. Didn’t pass the “brown paper bag test.” (Legend has it that was the standard for some elite African American families post-slavery. Any skin tone darker than a brown paper bag was completely unacceptable for breeding purposes.) Now, I eventually got over that guy’s astounding insensitivity. In hindsight, he deserved props for being honest. His parents probably would have seen me as little more than a pickininny, and his mother would warn about the Brillo pad hair texture of any children I’d produce.
Even though I’ve had a several of those kinds of experiences, I am staunchly black and proud. And I think about these uniquely American racial psychoses a lot here in Gulu. I’ve considered my trips to Africa the perfect way for me to revel in the source of my blackness.
But that’s what’s so ironic. In Gulu, I’M light, bright, and damned near white. The average skin tone here is about 5 shades darker than my cocoa coloring. I’m talking as black as ink, as a piece of coal, as midnight. People look at me and instantly realize I’m not a native. I’m a "muzunga," or foreigner, and when I open my mouth, I seal my fate.
I’m an American muzunga, a descendent of lowly slaves. Stolen from my homeland, with no real family tree, no way to know which country or tribe I come from. The people of Gulu Town look at me with pity, while I want them to see me as a “sister.” But I know that for my entire 8 months here, they’ll always see a stranger.
It really sank in the other day, when I was trying to find some ham to cook with a big fat cabbage I’d bought at the market. I’d learned the Luo word for ham, gweno, and trekked to every reputable butcher in town. They all looked at me like I was crazy, so I figured my American accent was throwing them off. They were either yanking me around or they really didn’t understand what I was saying.
I’d intended to simmer that cabbage and ham and share it with my Ugandan co-workers, to cement our ancestral bond. I’d cook a Southern “soul food” dish to prove that even though I’m a muzunga, I can “handle my bizness” in the kitchen. I’d show them that African Americans have proud traditions, too, thus earning my cultural street cred.
I still haven’t found any ham. But I won’t stop looking. And if I stick around long enough, maybe the sun will move me a little bit away from Hershey-land toward true Mother Africa Black. As long as my sun-screen holds out, bring it on.
Granted, I’m officially a native American….AFRICAN American, that is. I’ve never had a problem embracing that term. But some black people believe adding the “African” separates us, calls too much attention to our different-ness, instead of blending us into the melting pot.
But here’s the thing. Italian Americans don’t seem to have a problem with that label. They have special societies, they laud their cuisine, they’re proud of it. (Except for the whole “Sopranos” connection, I reckon.) Most Asian Americans seem comfortable with the term. Ditto the Irish, and a host of other ethnic groups. So why do some people of African descent who were born in America think “African American” is almost a slur?
Let’s face it…..at least one of my ancestors, on both sides, was born in Africa. And for God’s sake, PLEASE don’t tell me that when you look at me, you don’t see color. Some white people actually think that’s a compliment, but I usually tell them they better run, not walk, to the nearest optometrist’s office, cuz they must have glaucoma or something. I am the color of a Hershey’s chocolate bar, richly, unmistakably, deeply brown.
Growing up in racially volatile Cairo, Illinois, I was familiar with the saying, “If you’re white, you’re alright. if you’re yellow, you’re mellow. If you’re brown, stick around. If you’re black, get back.” It’s the unspoken code in America’s turbulent racial history….skin color matters. I mean, I admire Vanessa Williams, and forgave her for the freaky photo shoots years ago. But when she won the Miss America title, black folks knew it was because she had green eyes and café-au-lait-colored skin.
She was “light, bright, and damned near white.” On the other hand, a guy I once dated told me he thought I was the whole package….smart, attractive, career oriented, funny. Then he said he wished he could take me home to meet his parents.
But he couldn’t, because I was too dark-skinned. Didn’t pass the “brown paper bag test.” (Legend has it that was the standard for some elite African American families post-slavery. Any skin tone darker than a brown paper bag was completely unacceptable for breeding purposes.) Now, I eventually got over that guy’s astounding insensitivity. In hindsight, he deserved props for being honest. His parents probably would have seen me as little more than a pickininny, and his mother would warn about the Brillo pad hair texture of any children I’d produce.
Even though I’ve had a several of those kinds of experiences, I am staunchly black and proud. And I think about these uniquely American racial psychoses a lot here in Gulu. I’ve considered my trips to Africa the perfect way for me to revel in the source of my blackness.
But that’s what’s so ironic. In Gulu, I’M light, bright, and damned near white. The average skin tone here is about 5 shades darker than my cocoa coloring. I’m talking as black as ink, as a piece of coal, as midnight. People look at me and instantly realize I’m not a native. I’m a "muzunga," or foreigner, and when I open my mouth, I seal my fate.
I’m an American muzunga, a descendent of lowly slaves. Stolen from my homeland, with no real family tree, no way to know which country or tribe I come from. The people of Gulu Town look at me with pity, while I want them to see me as a “sister.” But I know that for my entire 8 months here, they’ll always see a stranger.
It really sank in the other day, when I was trying to find some ham to cook with a big fat cabbage I’d bought at the market. I’d learned the Luo word for ham, gweno, and trekked to every reputable butcher in town. They all looked at me like I was crazy, so I figured my American accent was throwing them off. They were either yanking me around or they really didn’t understand what I was saying.
I’d intended to simmer that cabbage and ham and share it with my Ugandan co-workers, to cement our ancestral bond. I’d cook a Southern “soul food” dish to prove that even though I’m a muzunga, I can “handle my bizness” in the kitchen. I’d show them that African Americans have proud traditions, too, thus earning my cultural street cred.
I still haven’t found any ham. But I won’t stop looking. And if I stick around long enough, maybe the sun will move me a little bit away from Hershey-land toward true Mother Africa Black. As long as my sun-screen holds out, bring it on.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Good, The Bad, and the Totally F----ed Up......
It’s gonna be a looooong 8 months in Gulu. I finally admitted it to myself this morning, while watching a guy clutching the legs of 8 stunned chickens with both hands.
At least I think they were stunned. They were definitely alive, and some even had some serious game left, flapping and squawking the whole time. But for some reason, they weren’t able to get a grip and run like…..well, like a chicken with its head cut off when the guy placed them on the ground near my table at the open-air restaurant where I was eating “breakfast.”
Sigh. The weekend brunch at Café Atlantico in DC is a tragically far too distant dream. Hell, the daily special at I-Hop would be cool at this point. I ordered the sausage with scrambled eggs, baked beans, coffee and pineapple juice, hoping to get something that at least faintly resembled American breakfast. Well, the sausage came out pink….not as in undercooked, but as in shot through with nitrites and other cancer causing chemicals. The eggs were scrambled, but can a sister get a little salt and pepper? The coffee was instant (no more amazing machiatos like in Addis), and the pineapple juice….well, most restaurants here don’t really roll with the whole “fresh squeezed for every glass” thing. There are zillions of pineapples and passion fruit in the local markets, but it tastes like most eateries simply fill a trough with water, run a piece of fruit through it, and then serve it up lukewarm to expat suckers like me, thinking we’re so disoriented , we won’t know the difference.
And the thing is, why did it take half an hour to get instant coffee???
Okay, now that I’ve done a little therapeutic venting, let’s get back to the guy with the chickens. When we left off, he had placed the dazed birds on the ground and was negotiating a price with one of the kitchen staff. I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. I mean, you just don’t see the live product paraded through the dining area at most American restaurants. I resisted the urge to splash my bottled water on the hapless hens and shoo their feathered asses to freedom.
And then I realized something important. Something you’re not necessarily guaranteed in every American restaurant, even some of the pretty good ones.
When you order chicken curry at the Bambu, or the Bomah, or the Take Away restaurant in Gulu, you can be pretty sure it was alive about 12 hours ago. It’s the ultimate freshness guarantee. And talk about your free range, organic, hormone free poultry…you’d pay 8 bucks for that kind of yard bird at Whole Foods, when you can buy one here for $2.50.
Of course, Whole Foods does you the favor of plucking and gutting ‘em first, but there’s good and bad in both scenarios.
That’s the point of this particular post. For every inconvenience here, there really is something positive to replace it. There are no movie theaters in Gulu, but how much time did I spend going to movies in DC? And there’s fresh air here…palpably fresh air, as opposed to the smog and fumes in Urban America. Apart from the occasional septic assault, I’m gulping pure high test oxygen every day.
There’s no TV, but also no brain rot from watching too much mindless TV. No shopping malls, but no chance to buy the 5th pair of black shoes you don’t really need, but they were 50 percent off. No reliable Internet, but absolutely no temptation to descend into the swirling toilet of cyber desperation that is the online dating scene.
I have to keep that perspective, or some unsuspecting Gulu-ite is gonna get a royal, neck snappin’ DC-style cussin’ out any day now. That’s where the “totally f----ed up” part comes in. One thing is crystal clear….to cope over here, you need to expect, even embrace the fact that no matter how you plan, something is going to go wrong. Somebody’s gonna be late, or the order you were guaranteed will be a couple of months late, or the car you just had serviced will die about a mile after you leave the garage. That happened to me today. The first stop I made, the engine wouldn’t turn over. I’m talking cold and dead. I was about ready to set it off in downtown Gulu, before thinking,
“This is just my first week and a half here. If I let this give me an aneurysm, I won’t last 8 more hours, no less 8 months.”
So I hopped onto the back of a boda boda, went back to the garage, adopted the sharpest Ugly American tone I could muster, and had a mechanic drive me back to my stalled car with a new battery. Problem solved.
You do what you gotta do, whether it’s in Gulfport or in Gulu.
(Oh, and I’ll tell you what a boda boda is later.)
At least I think they were stunned. They were definitely alive, and some even had some serious game left, flapping and squawking the whole time. But for some reason, they weren’t able to get a grip and run like…..well, like a chicken with its head cut off when the guy placed them on the ground near my table at the open-air restaurant where I was eating “breakfast.”
Sigh. The weekend brunch at Café Atlantico in DC is a tragically far too distant dream. Hell, the daily special at I-Hop would be cool at this point. I ordered the sausage with scrambled eggs, baked beans, coffee and pineapple juice, hoping to get something that at least faintly resembled American breakfast. Well, the sausage came out pink….not as in undercooked, but as in shot through with nitrites and other cancer causing chemicals. The eggs were scrambled, but can a sister get a little salt and pepper? The coffee was instant (no more amazing machiatos like in Addis), and the pineapple juice….well, most restaurants here don’t really roll with the whole “fresh squeezed for every glass” thing. There are zillions of pineapples and passion fruit in the local markets, but it tastes like most eateries simply fill a trough with water, run a piece of fruit through it, and then serve it up lukewarm to expat suckers like me, thinking we’re so disoriented , we won’t know the difference.
And the thing is, why did it take half an hour to get instant coffee???
Okay, now that I’ve done a little therapeutic venting, let’s get back to the guy with the chickens. When we left off, he had placed the dazed birds on the ground and was negotiating a price with one of the kitchen staff. I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. I mean, you just don’t see the live product paraded through the dining area at most American restaurants. I resisted the urge to splash my bottled water on the hapless hens and shoo their feathered asses to freedom.
And then I realized something important. Something you’re not necessarily guaranteed in every American restaurant, even some of the pretty good ones.
When you order chicken curry at the Bambu, or the Bomah, or the Take Away restaurant in Gulu, you can be pretty sure it was alive about 12 hours ago. It’s the ultimate freshness guarantee. And talk about your free range, organic, hormone free poultry…you’d pay 8 bucks for that kind of yard bird at Whole Foods, when you can buy one here for $2.50.
Of course, Whole Foods does you the favor of plucking and gutting ‘em first, but there’s good and bad in both scenarios.
That’s the point of this particular post. For every inconvenience here, there really is something positive to replace it. There are no movie theaters in Gulu, but how much time did I spend going to movies in DC? And there’s fresh air here…palpably fresh air, as opposed to the smog and fumes in Urban America. Apart from the occasional septic assault, I’m gulping pure high test oxygen every day.
There’s no TV, but also no brain rot from watching too much mindless TV. No shopping malls, but no chance to buy the 5th pair of black shoes you don’t really need, but they were 50 percent off. No reliable Internet, but absolutely no temptation to descend into the swirling toilet of cyber desperation that is the online dating scene.
I have to keep that perspective, or some unsuspecting Gulu-ite is gonna get a royal, neck snappin’ DC-style cussin’ out any day now. That’s where the “totally f----ed up” part comes in. One thing is crystal clear….to cope over here, you need to expect, even embrace the fact that no matter how you plan, something is going to go wrong. Somebody’s gonna be late, or the order you were guaranteed will be a couple of months late, or the car you just had serviced will die about a mile after you leave the garage. That happened to me today. The first stop I made, the engine wouldn’t turn over. I’m talking cold and dead. I was about ready to set it off in downtown Gulu, before thinking,
“This is just my first week and a half here. If I let this give me an aneurysm, I won’t last 8 more hours, no less 8 months.”
So I hopped onto the back of a boda boda, went back to the garage, adopted the sharpest Ugly American tone I could muster, and had a mechanic drive me back to my stalled car with a new battery. Problem solved.
You do what you gotta do, whether it’s in Gulfport or in Gulu.
(Oh, and I’ll tell you what a boda boda is later.)
Friday, June 15, 2007
Blogus Interuptus......
Hi There!
I would need all week to explain why I haven’t posted anything since June 7th. There’s no way i could adequately convey all the absolutely mind-boggling experiences I’ve had since landing in Uganda on June 6th.
So I thought I’d take the easy way out by simply saying I'm typing this post from a dining table in the tidy little compound on Plot 26, Samuel Doe Rd., in Gulu Town, Uganda. There are 2 structures on this plot….the main house with four smallish bedrooms where several Internews staffers and guests will stay….and my tiny, tidy, lovely little cottage out back. It has 2 bedrooms, so come on over to Gulu and visit any time you want.
(Full disclosure: Come on out any time you want to have the flesh picked off your bones by voracious African mosquitoes. I finally stopped clawing at myself this morning, after I remembered the Bendryl capsules I’d brought. They're helping a bit, but PLEASE SEND POWERFUL ANTI-ITCH MEDICATION AT ONCE!!!)
Other than that minor nuisance, I wake up each morning to the sounds of birds chirping. There’s even the obligatory rooster crowing. Last night there were thunderstorms, and listening to the sound of rain on the corrugated tile roof is more soothing than a fistful of Valium. Check back with me 3 months from now, but at the moment, I am totally digging the solitude of this place.
In my first week, I’ve spent some time in both Kampala and Gulu. After my beloved Addis Ababa, Kampala was a bit of a let-down. It's huge and congested like your average African capital, but Kampala has little of the cosmopolitan attitude you can find in Addis. It felt much less urban to me. (However, the Speke Hotel has the best goat curry you will ever taste in this or any other lifetime, period. Yeah, I never thought I'd find myself admitting to having eaten goat meat, but life is full of unexpected twists and turns.)
A word of advice: if you EVER happen to be in this neck of the woods, puh-LEEZE don’t drink a lot of fluids before setting out on the 5 hour drive from Kampala to Gulu. I kept a vise-like grip on my bladder during the trip down to Kampala last Sunday, because I figured toilet facilities would be primitive at best.
But on the way back up to Gulu Wednesday, I couldn’t hold out. 4 hours into the trip, I had the driver pull into a Shell station before I whizzed on myself. A polite young lady handed me the key and waved me toward the toilet.
If you can, envision the 9th circle of Hell, perfumed by the acrid stench of urine. Imagine a square hole cut into a concrete floor, inside a dank, coffin-like stall. I’m gonna stop there, because I think you get the drift. Once my eyes refocused and the horror subsided, I resisted the urge to run screaming down the road back to Kampala and manage to do my business.
Have you seen “The Ten Commandments” with Charlton Heston? If not, check it out. The scene where Moses comes down from the mountain after receiving the golden tablets captures how I felt exiting that stall. My hair wasn’t lily white and flowing in the breeze like old Mo’s, but I had the same glassy-eyed stare, the same bone-chilling numbness, the same profound sense that I had just seen something that would change the course of my life forever.
Basically, from now on I’ll be wearing Depends during every road trip I make in Africa.
Anyway, I’ll try to get caught up on experiences over the next few days. The weekend looms ahead like a long vacation, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and cool breezes and rain to keep things cozy. I’ll probably do some exploring at the local market and in Gulu, and catch up on my reading. (It took me long enough, but I've finally bought both of Barak Obama's books in Kampala. I want to see if they get me inside the brother's head like other folks have claimed.)
My biggest challenge to blogging these days is processing everything I see….everything that happens is sensory overload right now. But now that my initial orientation and training phase is finished, I’m thinking this blog will be the only way for me to creativelywork through this experience, to figure out why I’m here.
I mean, I don’t think I came here solely for the purpose of being de-fleshed by mosquitos, but maybe that’s what the fates had planned for me all along…..
Naaaaaaah. I got work to do.
Hugs,
Rachel
P.S. I’ve finally figured out how to use my new camera, so I'll send a few pictures of my lovely little compound soon. Nothing fancy, but peaceful as all get out.
I would need all week to explain why I haven’t posted anything since June 7th. There’s no way i could adequately convey all the absolutely mind-boggling experiences I’ve had since landing in Uganda on June 6th.
So I thought I’d take the easy way out by simply saying I'm typing this post from a dining table in the tidy little compound on Plot 26, Samuel Doe Rd., in Gulu Town, Uganda. There are 2 structures on this plot….the main house with four smallish bedrooms where several Internews staffers and guests will stay….and my tiny, tidy, lovely little cottage out back. It has 2 bedrooms, so come on over to Gulu and visit any time you want.
(Full disclosure: Come on out any time you want to have the flesh picked off your bones by voracious African mosquitoes. I finally stopped clawing at myself this morning, after I remembered the Bendryl capsules I’d brought. They're helping a bit, but PLEASE SEND POWERFUL ANTI-ITCH MEDICATION AT ONCE!!!)
Other than that minor nuisance, I wake up each morning to the sounds of birds chirping. There’s even the obligatory rooster crowing. Last night there were thunderstorms, and listening to the sound of rain on the corrugated tile roof is more soothing than a fistful of Valium. Check back with me 3 months from now, but at the moment, I am totally digging the solitude of this place.
In my first week, I’ve spent some time in both Kampala and Gulu. After my beloved Addis Ababa, Kampala was a bit of a let-down. It's huge and congested like your average African capital, but Kampala has little of the cosmopolitan attitude you can find in Addis. It felt much less urban to me. (However, the Speke Hotel has the best goat curry you will ever taste in this or any other lifetime, period. Yeah, I never thought I'd find myself admitting to having eaten goat meat, but life is full of unexpected twists and turns.)
A word of advice: if you EVER happen to be in this neck of the woods, puh-LEEZE don’t drink a lot of fluids before setting out on the 5 hour drive from Kampala to Gulu. I kept a vise-like grip on my bladder during the trip down to Kampala last Sunday, because I figured toilet facilities would be primitive at best.
But on the way back up to Gulu Wednesday, I couldn’t hold out. 4 hours into the trip, I had the driver pull into a Shell station before I whizzed on myself. A polite young lady handed me the key and waved me toward the toilet.
If you can, envision the 9th circle of Hell, perfumed by the acrid stench of urine. Imagine a square hole cut into a concrete floor, inside a dank, coffin-like stall. I’m gonna stop there, because I think you get the drift. Once my eyes refocused and the horror subsided, I resisted the urge to run screaming down the road back to Kampala and manage to do my business.
Have you seen “The Ten Commandments” with Charlton Heston? If not, check it out. The scene where Moses comes down from the mountain after receiving the golden tablets captures how I felt exiting that stall. My hair wasn’t lily white and flowing in the breeze like old Mo’s, but I had the same glassy-eyed stare, the same bone-chilling numbness, the same profound sense that I had just seen something that would change the course of my life forever.
Basically, from now on I’ll be wearing Depends during every road trip I make in Africa.
Anyway, I’ll try to get caught up on experiences over the next few days. The weekend looms ahead like a long vacation, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, and cool breezes and rain to keep things cozy. I’ll probably do some exploring at the local market and in Gulu, and catch up on my reading. (It took me long enough, but I've finally bought both of Barak Obama's books in Kampala. I want to see if they get me inside the brother's head like other folks have claimed.)
My biggest challenge to blogging these days is processing everything I see….everything that happens is sensory overload right now. But now that my initial orientation and training phase is finished, I’m thinking this blog will be the only way for me to creativelywork through this experience, to figure out why I’m here.
I mean, I don’t think I came here solely for the purpose of being de-fleshed by mosquitos, but maybe that’s what the fates had planned for me all along…..
Naaaaaaah. I got work to do.
Hugs,
Rachel
P.S. I’ve finally figured out how to use my new camera, so I'll send a few pictures of my lovely little compound soon. Nothing fancy, but peaceful as all get out.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Crossing the Nile.....
I've had many extraordinary experiences in my life, but I think today was a high point.
Last night at the hotel in Entebbe I was so tired, my eyes were literally crossing. But after a decent night's sleep, I opened the curtains in my hotel to the amazing view of Lake Victoria. What an absolutely glorious way to start this journey.
The drive from Entebbe to Kampala was relatively brief, about 30 minutes. My soon to be predecessor, Chris Greene, is a proper, pleasant Brit who's been very helpful to me. But I suspect he's down to his last nerve......even though he lived in Nairobi for 3 years before Gulu, I believe he's lost the love for Uganda and is ready to blow this pop stand. Three months of trying to get the office here set up has fried his neurons pretty good.
Anyway, the 4 hour drive from Kampala to Gulu just about shook my cerebellum loose from my brain pan. Some stretches are okay, but then there are miles of potholes, broken pavement, and dirt roads....but, it's all worth the effort when you round one particular bend and see the Nile River.
What is it about the river Nile that evokes such powerful emotions? Sure, it's the longest river in the world, blah blah. The section I saw looks like just about any other river you might see in Montana or Wyoming. But my heart just about leapt from my chest at the sight.
And it felt like such a symbolic crossing for me. Three days ago, I was living in Washington, DC, with access to just about anything I could possibly want. Tonight, I'm sitting in the quiet little compound on Plot 26, Samuel Doe Road in Gulu, Uganda, with no street lights, sporadic electricity, just the sound of radio and crickets out the front door. But I haven't felt this relaxed, happy, and at peace in many, many years.
I'm am so blessed.
More tomorrow.
Last night at the hotel in Entebbe I was so tired, my eyes were literally crossing. But after a decent night's sleep, I opened the curtains in my hotel to the amazing view of Lake Victoria. What an absolutely glorious way to start this journey.
The drive from Entebbe to Kampala was relatively brief, about 30 minutes. My soon to be predecessor, Chris Greene, is a proper, pleasant Brit who's been very helpful to me. But I suspect he's down to his last nerve......even though he lived in Nairobi for 3 years before Gulu, I believe he's lost the love for Uganda and is ready to blow this pop stand. Three months of trying to get the office here set up has fried his neurons pretty good.
Anyway, the 4 hour drive from Kampala to Gulu just about shook my cerebellum loose from my brain pan. Some stretches are okay, but then there are miles of potholes, broken pavement, and dirt roads....but, it's all worth the effort when you round one particular bend and see the Nile River.
What is it about the river Nile that evokes such powerful emotions? Sure, it's the longest river in the world, blah blah. The section I saw looks like just about any other river you might see in Montana or Wyoming. But my heart just about leapt from my chest at the sight.
And it felt like such a symbolic crossing for me. Three days ago, I was living in Washington, DC, with access to just about anything I could possibly want. Tonight, I'm sitting in the quiet little compound on Plot 26, Samuel Doe Road in Gulu, Uganda, with no street lights, sporadic electricity, just the sound of radio and crickets out the front door. But I haven't felt this relaxed, happy, and at peace in many, many years.
I'm am so blessed.
More tomorrow.
When Life Hands You Lemons.....
....jam those suckers down throat of any jerk who pisses you off or tries to block the path to your 5:30 PM flight to Dulles.
Sorry for that opening salvo of negativity, but you would not even begin to believe what I went through yesterday afternoon trying to get to where I'm sitting right now.....what I'm told is the only decent coffee shop in Kampala Uganda.
Here's a brief synopsis: First, I was chewed out and out by the young Israeli movers who snapped at me for not having done enough of my own packing. A quick call to their boss got the glares and muttered curses stopped. But they had a big surprise for me at the end.....A $700 tab for the move, which was entirely reasonable, and then...
....a $980 charge for the packing materials. I had to threaten to call the police to get things straightened out.
But enough of that, because I just got a prompt saying my battery is low. I'll send a longer post when we get to Gulu, about 4 hours away. Just know that it is an absolutely beautiful day, and I'm feeling great, and I'm absolutely wired beyond belief after 2 Macchiatos that will probably keep me awake for the next 3 days.
Just another episode in the life of Rachella, a.k.a. "God's Sitcom"...
Later.
Sorry for that opening salvo of negativity, but you would not even begin to believe what I went through yesterday afternoon trying to get to where I'm sitting right now.....what I'm told is the only decent coffee shop in Kampala Uganda.
Here's a brief synopsis: First, I was chewed out and out by the young Israeli movers who snapped at me for not having done enough of my own packing. A quick call to their boss got the glares and muttered curses stopped. But they had a big surprise for me at the end.....A $700 tab for the move, which was entirely reasonable, and then...
....a $980 charge for the packing materials. I had to threaten to call the police to get things straightened out.
But enough of that, because I just got a prompt saying my battery is low. I'll send a longer post when we get to Gulu, about 4 hours away. Just know that it is an absolutely beautiful day, and I'm feeling great, and I'm absolutely wired beyond belief after 2 Macchiatos that will probably keep me awake for the next 3 days.
Just another episode in the life of Rachella, a.k.a. "God's Sitcom"...
Later.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Au Revoir, Y'all
Tomorrow evening, I begin an 8 month journey living in Uganda. If you had told me 4 months ago that this would be happening, I would have hooted like an owl. It just would have seemed so outrageous.
But I think I've finally learned that nothing is impossible. NOTHING. Perfect example, I am still alive and sane after three years of the worst case of early menopause in recorded history. That alone assures me that I am powerful beyond human imagining.
I'm calling this journey my "Midlife Crisis Tour." After all, I turned 40 just 3 weeks after 9/11, and since then everything in my life has felt like one long, intense hot flash. Most of you know the litany of personal tragedies and challenges life has tossed my way. I've been so consumed by them, I haven't really had the time to buy a red sports car, converse with a Himalayan wise man, or break up somebody's marriage.
Instead, I'm opting to plunge into an entirely new experience. Well, not ENTIRELY new. I've had some tremendous opportunities to explore Africa over the past four years. I am now totally in love with Ethiopia, as you all know. I'm even planning to adopt an Ethiopian child in the next 2 years. But this will be my first experience living overseas, chillin' with the expats in Gulu, Uganda.
But right now, I have to get myself ready to get the heck out of Dodge. If you could see how much stuff I still have to get done.....less than 24 hours before I get on a plane, you'd think it's impossible. But like I just said, NOTHING is impossible.
The next time I write, it'll be from Uganda. Can't wait!
But I think I've finally learned that nothing is impossible. NOTHING. Perfect example, I am still alive and sane after three years of the worst case of early menopause in recorded history. That alone assures me that I am powerful beyond human imagining.
I'm calling this journey my "Midlife Crisis Tour." After all, I turned 40 just 3 weeks after 9/11, and since then everything in my life has felt like one long, intense hot flash. Most of you know the litany of personal tragedies and challenges life has tossed my way. I've been so consumed by them, I haven't really had the time to buy a red sports car, converse with a Himalayan wise man, or break up somebody's marriage.
Instead, I'm opting to plunge into an entirely new experience. Well, not ENTIRELY new. I've had some tremendous opportunities to explore Africa over the past four years. I am now totally in love with Ethiopia, as you all know. I'm even planning to adopt an Ethiopian child in the next 2 years. But this will be my first experience living overseas, chillin' with the expats in Gulu, Uganda.
But right now, I have to get myself ready to get the heck out of Dodge. If you could see how much stuff I still have to get done.....less than 24 hours before I get on a plane, you'd think it's impossible. But like I just said, NOTHING is impossible.
The next time I write, it'll be from Uganda. Can't wait!
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