The Far Side: A Retreat at Jinja

A pair of rainbow-colored parrots just flew past me. Monkeys are leaping from limb to limb in a nearby tree occasionally making a loud clap/yell sound that's unfamiliar to my ear. Below me, perched as I am on a cliff overlooking the White Nile newly-flowing from its Lake Victoria source, two local men are fishing from a canoe; they drop nets and then paddle away from them, circling the nets while whopping the water repeatedly with the paddle -- presumably to chase the fish into their nets.

This is a relaxing, idyllic moment -- and I'm IN it. So into these moments that it's hard to even pick up pen and write about it.

Daniel and Halle and I are spending two days and nights visiting a Dutch couple, Monique and Wim, with whom he became friends after buying his cherished rottweiler puppy from them last summer. Their 12-acre, beautifully landscaped estate (The Far Side because it's on the opposite side of the Nile from the popular rafting launch sites ...and maybe because they're also Gary Larson fans) is about 50 miles from Kampala but the drive over bumpy roads, dodging potholes, vehicles and walkers took about two hours, more if you count the traffic delays getting out of Kampala itself.

The route is scenic, rich with tropical vegetation -- banana palms, coffee bushes, casava (that's the starchy root veggie commonly enjoyed here), and spiky papyrus. There are several villages along the way, mainly rows of small shops and over-crowded vendor stalls lining the main road. Painted signs point to off-road churches, mosques, schools -- some with strangely-Americanized names like Bright Minds Magnet School or Silver Spoon Primary School -- and to numerous social service facilities such as HIV/AIDS testing sites and clinics.

And everywhere, even away from the developed communities, are people on foot, carrying the bright yellow Jerrycans used for getting water at a community well or loaded down with other commodities. Some are pushing bicycles laden with all manner of cartage -- bundles of thatching for roof-making, long stalks of sugar cane, huge bags of maize or charcoal carefully laced together at the top with long green spiky leaves, or recently-slaughtered animals of varying species. And, for all I know, still-alive animals.

Other people are transporting themselves, their families, and various odd-shaped belongings on scooter taxis -- "bodas" --but I have yet to see the load I've heard about -- a boda carrying another boda. I'll keep my eyes open though.

Thanksgiving Day had already been celebrated, before Jinja, with about 20 friends of Daniel's. They were a wonderful mix of U.S. government workers and Ugandan friends and associates. Yes, there was turkey. And yes, there was cranberry sauce, freshly made from the cranberries I had stuffed into my luggage. We had a potluck-type feast, and I was glad that after we ate someone in the crowd suggested we let each person say what he or she is grateful for. I always liked doing that with my family. Me? I feel very blessed to be here, with Daniel and Halle, and beginning this new adventure.

A Sunday at One Mango Tree

Today is my tenth day in Uganda. I am at the One Mango Tree compound on the outskirts of Gulu awaiting the arrival of the tailors who choose to work for extra pay this weekend. Usually they work five days a week but now there is some urgency. One Mango Tree's first large wholesale order, from Global Girlfriends, is running late and future orders may hinge on the success of this one.

At a meeting a couple of days ago, the women were helped to understand how Western trade works on a schedule, the importance of timing, and the potential impact of late delivery on them, personally. By missing most of the Christmas retail business, we explained to them, these goods will be slower to sell, which will delay a reorder, which could mean that come spring the volume of new products sewn by the 21 women would have inadequate sales outlets and that just possibly, in that event, One Mango Tree could not keep all 21 women employed. They listened intently, either concentrating to understand the English or to let the concept sink in. Timing and schedules are definitely not viewed with the same importance here as we westerners are accustomed to.

The women do value their jobs. They realize the One Mango Tree training has given them a valuable skill for which they are being well paid. Most of them had been living in IDP (internally displaced person) camps, in huts crowded closely together and lacking adequate basic facilities; now their lives are better and they have choices. Another motivator is that they are paid for each piece they produce, so some of them have decided they will work today, after first attending church.

A few have already arrived after early mass, and the soft hum of their treadle Singers is beginning to fill the workshop, interspersed with lilting soprano voices harmonizing in Acholi on what sounds like church hymns. They promise to teach me the songs, but so far my Acholi vocabulary contains only a few phrases.

I look forward to visiting the local churches but today I'm on duty at OMT, filling in for Halle, the founder and director--who is in Kampala for the weekend, and Gihan, a young man from Sri Lanka who has experience in the garment trade and who has become her important part-time adviser on design, production, and shipping. He, too, is in Kampala.

I must receive and count the finished bags, inspect them a final time for quality (alas, I had to send back several bags yesterday for repairs), write and tie onto each item a card naming the tailor who sewed it so the purchaser can feel a connection and even look for her photo on our website, bag each piece in plastic (not 'green', but a shipping requirement by the customer), stick a label on each bag showing full product description, and then -- referring to Halle's shipping list -- see how many of which product in which fabric design go into which of the 131 planned cartons. And how many are still needed to fill the order. Prisca is not here today but during the week, she acts as operations manager and oversees many of the details, including the work assignments to each tailor.

My role is not mentally challenging or physically demanding but for some reason I was exhausted and fell asleep last night at 9 p.m., happy to have done my small part. I have quickly realized that my sewing skills would qualify me to make only the simple products like aprons or herbal eye pillows. Several of the bag designs are complicated, with multiple pockets, inside and out, padding sewn into the lining, padded straps, and tricky zippers. For the more complex products, the women work in teams, with basic parts sewn together by the beginners, some of the assembling done by women with more experience, and the actual finishing entrusted to the few expert tailors. The preference, however, is for one woman to make the entire item, not only to simplify the payment scale but also to allow her a sense of pride in her creation.

Time for me to get busy now. I think I'll sit out on the porch to do the tagging; the sun is shining, the sky is fluffy blue and white, and the birds are singing. And maybe I'll be pondering the many other kinds of work I might possibly wind up doing here --God knows there are many unmet needs -- but for this moment I'm content.

Gulu and the LRA

Gulu District is in Northern Uganda, not far from the borders of southern Sudan and the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo). It has been the scene of extreme violence and human rights violations for more than 20 years. It has seen nearly two million of its inhabitants forced by the government to abandon their villages and farms to seek safety in pitifully crowded, unhealthy IDP (Internally Displaced Person) camps. It has watched while rebels burn villages, destroy schools, mutilate or murder family and friends, and abduct children to fight or serve as sex slaves.

The mere mention of Uganda to most foreigners conjurs up the name and memories of Idi Amin and his harsh comic/tragic regime of the 1970s. But to northern Ugandans, even to this day, the name Joseph Kony evokes a greater fear. Gulu, the town and surrounding district, is now the site of rebirth, with massive efforts underway to repair the damage inflicted by Kony and his LRA (Lord's Resistance Army).

To review a bit of the history, in the '80s rebel attacks and coups were common throughout the country, as distrust was the inevitable result of years of political and military abuse by two dictators (Amin and Obote) and also triggered by tribal/regional conflicts of interest. The Acholi people of northern Uganda were seen as potentially dangerous to the new government ruled by former rebel-leader Yoweri Museveni (who is still president of Uganda but facing an election in 2011), possibly ready to retaliate for past wrongs. No one seemed sure where loyalties lay or whom to trust.

Kony and his LRA entered the scene around 1987, on the heels of another cultish rebel group, the Holy Spirit Movement. Its founder, Alice Lakwena, had gained a large following among the Acholi, claiming to be a spiritual mystic. She mixed together Christianity and traditional religious beliefs including witchcraft, producing some bizarre strategic moves like covering fighters' bodies with oil to protect them against bullets. Her intention, reportedly, was to overthrow the Ugandan government army and install a government based on 'the ten commandments.' Kony stepped forward after her rebel forces were defeated by the Ugandan army, proclaiming that same mission. One big difference however is that he never received the support of the Acholi people, and his tactics for recruiting quickly turned to intimidation and then apparently-insatiable, senseless violence against them.

Rather than reviewing the years of fighting, political intrigue, and false spurts of hope, let's jump forward to some positive news. In the spring of 2007, Kony took his forces and moved to a forest area in northeast DRC. Although he has continued to carry out atrocities against the Congolese and also made attacks in southern Sudan, the Acholi community in Uganda is beginning to regain its strength. Children are no longer having to walk long distances each day from their villages into town shelters so as not to be captured during the night. People who have spent up to 20 years living in IDP camps are returning to their farms and villages; as of 2009, fewer than 400,000 people remain in the camps, which are officially closed by the government.

Gulu has grown quickly in the last few years, to become Uganda's second largest city with an estimated population of more than 140,000. One reason for the growth has been the number of humanitarian and relief organizations that have flooded into the district; an estimated 200 NGOs (non-government organizations) are working to restore medical, social, and educational services and to provide vocational training and counseling. And, it's none too soon.

For more in depth stories about the struggles of Northern Uganda, I suggest:
irinews
enough

Traveling to Gulu

I've crossed the Nile! I had heard that the source is Lake Victoria, Uganda side, but it came as a surprise when we suddenly were crossing it during the drive from Kampala northward to Gulu; this part of the river is called the Victoria Nile, a section of the White Nile. Picture beautiful, sparkly-clear water plunging rapidly past boulders on its 3-month, 2,300-mile trip to the Mediterranean. Sadly I did not get to view it for long or get a photo as no stopping is allowed. Personal confession moment: I'm having trouble grasping that this mighty river is flowing south to north, but I do know it goes to Cairo! Having spent my young years near the Mighty Mississippi and watching it flow lazily down to the Gulf, my brain is wired to think of rivers as flowing north to south. I'm trying to get those brain cells rearranged. I think I need to google 'geography, rivers, 5th grade level.'

The trip to Gulu was exciting before we even got out of Kampala. Halle was skillfully (and bravely) negotiating her place in one of the free-for-alls they call roundabouts or traffic circles when a driver in front of her jumped out of his car,yelling that she had hit him. Not accepting her "no, I did not hit you," he got out a note pad as if to write her license and report her. We backed up and left him there. Apparently this kind of thing happens to foreigners who, if they feel intimidated enough, will pay just to avoid further delays and potential fines if a crooked policeman shows up.

During the 200-mile trip (4-1/2 hour drive) we were passing grassy savannah land and also lush green growing things -- some of which I recognized as coffee bushes and banana palms. They painted a colorful contrast to the orange-red soil that creates a Ugandan canvas. We passed traditional round thatch-roof huts, usually grouped together into small enclaves, and small villages or trading centers with rows of stalls lining the road or goods spread out on the ground. And, of course, people -- people walking or riding bicycles (or pushing them). The walkers, even small children, are usually carrying things, as often as not a couple of heavy, water-filled 'jerrycans' and often their heavy loads are balanced on their head.

Scarily-deep pot holes are everywhere -- sometimes you can swerve around them but often you have no option but to bump over them and hope you don't fall in. Parts of this main road that goes north to Sudan are quite smooth.

Road construction was underway at some point, with heavy equipment and vehicles blocking half the road. We were tentatively flagged down by a pretty, dressed-up woman wearing a floppy straw hat and a fluorescent green vest. She was holding red and green flags but didn't seem to know quite when or how to wave them. We waited until she signaled for us to go -- only to then be yelled at, scolded, or glared at by every construction person we slowly passed. At the other end of this stretch, several cars were waiting their turn. Maybe our traffic director miscued us. Who knows? The woman waving flags at the other end also looked to be a timid trainee. Good thing everyone was driving slowly, and tentatively.

There's always at least one stretch of road being resurfaced. This is progress, a good thing, but today it means driving several miles at about 5 mph in order to drive over big speed bumps placed about every 5 to 10 yards. Apparently the loose aggregate they are spreading would be displaced if people drove over it at normal speed, so the road bumps force drivers to slow down to a creep, plus it creates jobs. Once it's packed down, weeks or months later, road workers return with pick axes to hack away the 'bumps' and allow normal traffic flow.

A favorite few moments of the trip came when we encountered four or five baboons along the edge of the road. They seemed relatively unperturbed by our proximity -- one nursing her baby did move a few feet away and was, I perceived, glaring at us for capturing her private activity, digitally.

My Barely-Ugandan First Few Days

Uganda introduced itself to me slowly. Arriving as I did, late at night on the 12th, I saw little more that first day than the airport at Entebbe and an hour's worth of death-defying chaotic traffic on the drive to Kampala. (I'll discourse on the traffic separately -- it impressed itself on me that much!)

The next day while Daniel was at work at the Embassy and his girlfriend, Halle, was out taking care of One Mango Tree business, I rested up from the 20-hour trip, got acquainted with Daniel's gracious and well-spoken housekeeper, Aisha, and his playful, young rottweiler, Neilos, and sat on the verandah from which I had a view of downtown Kampala surrounded by hills. From this distance it looked much like any other modern city and I might have thought I was just visiting a friend in the States had it not been for the faint calls to prayer sung by the muezzin at a mosque somewhere in the distance, the curled barbed wire atop the fence around Daniel's yard, and the armed guard patiently stationed at the gated entrance. I'm unsure if those last two touches make me feel more secure or more vulnerable.

We left the house after dark to meet friends for dinner, and again the ride itself was interesting. Danny was having trouble with both of his rugged Uganda-friendly vehicles; in fact, one was sitting dead in his driveway and now the one we were taking to the restaurant decided to die right in the middle of a busy traffic circle. We were rescued by a friend who towed the car to a safe spot and drove us to the 'best Mexican/Asian restaurant in Kampala" (their advertising claim, and I can't disagree). It was fun meeting Danny's friends who had gathered -- at least partially -- to welcome Danny's Mom. They were a mix of USAID or embassy staff, international development professionals, and business people sent to Uganda from headquarters in Canada, Europe, or the United States.

Other than a walk to the nearby Italian food store for breakfast makings, no sightseeing was feasible Saturday because we had no operable vehicle. The day's big event had nothing to do with my being in Uganda and everything to do with animal rescue. Danny had gone for an early evening run while Halle and I timed our stroll to meet up with him. The three of us were edging our way between the perpetual-motion street scene and a drainage trench along the edge where one might have hoped for a sidewalk if one were in another part of the world. A faint meow caught our attention. There, in the ditch, was a small kitten covered in slushy red mud and looking pathetic. Of course we took it home, how could we not? After bathing and de-fleaing our foundling, what emerged was a funny-cute kitten, mostly white with awkwardly-placed black splashes. Kitty appeared to be about three weeks old. Kitty could not move its back legs. The crippled kitten and a very jealous-but-curious Neilos dominated the evening.

My first Sunday in Uganda was spent at a shaggy dog show, staged by the Uganda SPCA and held at the country club. About 50 dogs and their owners showed up for the fundraiser, which bore little resemblance to formal dog shows. The categories were things like waggiest tale, or highest jumper. The only category Danny could find in which to enter Neilos was "best large dog.' He won -- over nine imposing competitors. Now, things got exciting because Neilos became eligible for the Best of Show category. To avoid making this a long shaggy dog story, I'll cut right to the chase. Neilos was taken home by his proud papa, wearing not one but TWO red ribbons on his collar.

We think Neilos was proud to be Best of Show and hoped that his ego-boost would help him to better tolerate sharing attention with the crippled new pet at home. (On Monday, a Ugandan vet paid a home visit. She could detect slight response in the back legs and gave us some hope that with stimulation and time, kitty might regain use. Meanwhile, she had shown how quickly she can scoot around the floor dragging her back half. )

On Monday will come the drive to Gulu, where I will see the 'real' Uganda.