Jessica Simpson

13 September, 2010

        The unexpectedly smooth five hour bus journey north to Gulu, included neon green vegetation, broken red clay dirt roads, many dark skinned Ugandans smiling whilst attempting to sell cassava and bananas, and one particular road sign. Prior to boarding the coach in downtown Kampala, I purchased a national “New Vision” newspaper from some chap for the equivalent of 40 cents. After peering out the smeared, dusty windows for the first 73 minutes, I flipped through the New Vision’s articles detailing the Uganda elections which are dated for early February. As we neared Gulu, I browsed through the “Entertainment” section. There I became mortified while reading a blurb about Jessica Simpson feeling upset about the anniversary of 9/11, but additionally distraught over the recent passing of her dog. As I sat dumbfounded, I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my colleague, Sarah, point out a sign on the road. It read, “Be careful where you walk, as landmines are present.” How ironic that one country produces such sweeping contrasts.
        Experiencing Gulu for the past three days has constituted limitless conversations, feelings, and irony. Besides the absolute hospitality of the director of the Comboni Samaritan organization, we have been received with astonishing beauty by these generously appreciative and stunning local folks. While touring our gorgeous apartment, our neighbor Florence made quick mention of the steel door that leads to our dirt floor backyard which hosts pigs, chickens, and human dwelling huts. “You see, during the war everyone wanted to have steel doors to protect themselves from the LRA,” deprecatingly stated the middle aged, proud woman. As I gradually nodded my head a penchant of grueling insecure energy slowly swam through my blood. What is my particular role in this society? Am I presently residing in a place only four years free of violence, trouble and chaos?
        The war has surfaced in numerous conversations in this quiet, yet bustling town of Gulu. After 18 minutes of sitting with Amos, a gentleman in Kampala, who originates from Gulu, Sarah and I were warmly welcomed on a six hour tour and visit from his brothers and sisters here in town. The mannerisms and warmth in which we were welcomed were perhaps more kindhearted than those I engage on with friends and family in the states. Prior to this morning, we hadn’t met Amos’ brothers, and in fact spent less than 20 minutes of our lives with Amos. Today’s interactions parallel the avenues in which Sarah and I perceive throughout Gulu. As we walk down the heavily puddled and lavishly green village pathways, dark Ugandans of all ages smile and greet us with the local “Kopa’ngo.” The village children remain stunned and wide-eyed. Some yell out, “Munu (white person)” and run alongside us hoping to at least obtain a wave from the Munu, let alone a high five.. The illumination of joy and amazement when Sarah or I greet them with a “Ayi te a ma ber” radiates within my soul. Why are these folks, young and old, euphoric to be in the presence of Munus? And what was the “proper” or “appropriate” response to the former abducted child who passionately shared his story with us this afternoon? My preceding journeys on the Continent have prepped me for such behavior. However, for some fastidious notion, a deeper critical internal discourse has risen. Conversely, when a person of color visits a traditionally white area of the planet she is subjugated, chastised, and left to hang. Whiteness whiteness whiteness.
        Our debut in Gulu consisted of Sarah, five local Ugandans, and I drinking local “Nile Special” beers outside of Gulu’s version of a bodega. There critical discourse emerged regarding electricity when one fellow drinker told the owner of the bodega, “You’re really benefitting from the new bank, huh.” Curious to familiarize myself with the situation, I inquired. “What do you mean the bank?” I intuitively questioned. The man’s response was, “Look here my brother. Look at all of the light that the new Bank of Uganda illuminates. Therefore, we can sit outside of this shop without it being completely dark.” The fella continued, “And I’m real lucky because I live behind UNICEF and so my area also receives good lighting.” Finally, a third party interrupted, “I’m just waiting for the old rail station to reopen so I can have lighting as well.” This rail station has been disengaged for about 15 years due to the war. After passing by the old railway, its chances of reemerging appear as plausible as Smith College undergrad going co-ed. Dialogue concerning electricity availability is an area of discussion that my privilege has halted from my personal engagement.
        Finally, as the night persisted a discussion about collectivity began. Sarah mentioned that the United States is ideally an individualistic society where folks tend to stick to themselves. A response from one engrossed party honestly questioned, “Do you think that is why many people in the U.S. go to counseling, because they don’t talk to each other? Here in Gulu, everyone is a counselor because we all talk to each other.” As I began to marinate on that statement, a man walked up and was welcomed with the traditionally warm, grand Acholi (the people of this region) greeting. It turns out he is a Member of Parliament from Gulu. I was later told that he is “never around” and knows President Museveni “very well.” Here I was sipping a fine local beer with some tremendous individuals, one of whom is in great contact with the President of Uganda! Tomorrow begins our first day of the internship. At this point, life in Gulu is quite perplexing.