Cognitive Evolution

31 Jan

        Confusion lurks. Identifying the intermittent, creeping anxiety does not parallel my existing life here. Why am I finding difficulty remaining and cherishing the moment? Perhaps I need to breathe and focus on reality.
After an exhausting day on Friday co-facilitating an HIV/AIDS awareness training at the UPDF barracks, I felt slumped. The recognized image of recently murdered Ugandan gay activist, David Katos’ headshot remained implanted in my swarming head. I was brought back to my colleague/sister’s maddening and horror-struck words immediately receiving the phone call, “Imagine being killed simply because you love another person?”
        No question the heinous murder received more global attention than local. While I’d certainly argue that greater awareness was raised in Kampala, Gulu clearly didn’t skip a beat. What constitutes austere homophobia in Uganda, Africa, and the larger world is a puzzling discourse that deserves deeper, imminent humanitarian consideration. At this point in my existing reality, I believe that as a human race we simply are not quite cognitively evolved. If we are, is this sincerely humanity?
        “Being gay is not African and not what Jesus would want!” aggressively shouted a University student I observed on the national nightly news. I couldn’t help, but respond to the crooked 13 inch television, “Are Jesus and Christianity African?” Religious ideology is at the forefront of my cognition these days as I’m currently researching the Westernization of mental health with formerly abducted youth in northern Uganda. As no shock, religious factions – Christianity – is deeply embedded in the theoretical and practical framework surrounding reintegration processes with this specific population.
        The first Senegalese President (which was in 1960!), Leopold Senghor, prominently uttered the phrase, “Human Rights begins with breakfast.” Those words sat with me while strolling the forty-five minute journey simply to find transport to the hospital on Friday evening. The two month old baby who lives in our compound was struggling with a 103 degree fever, continuous diarrhea and vomiting. I acutely observed his mother humbly walk down the dirt path with the lethargic newborn strapped to her back and personal belongings for the hospital resting on her head, as the Ugandan sun turned the sky a burnt orange. After living in an Internally Displaced Persons’ camp for years, singly raising two young children, fetching water each day, remaining unemployed, sleeping on the floor of a cramped hut with her mother, nieces and nephews, etc., does this woman just not have enough time and energy to rally for gay rights? Do her human rights begin with breakfast?
        Do Senghor’s words actually resonate with the majority of locals from Gulu? Or are people instead wrapped up in Christianity which denounces homosexuality? A bit of both? “You know when you live in such poverty, religion is the only thing to hold on to … it gives you a sense of hope.” I watched the fixed eyes of my coworker diligently study the broken road as he drove his old, power steering and passenger seat window-less teeny blue car. Upon further dialogue, the dude highlighted the profound impact of Jesus and Christianity that were brought by the white man. “You see, the white people came with Jesus and us Africans saw the way the white people lived. People wanted to believe what the white people said.”

        Why does my mind wander to innocuous ideals such as, “what am I going to do after I graduate, how much money do I have in my bank account, and when will I go fetch water today?” Why not focus on the integrity and aptitude of my current surroundings. While cynically interpreting life’s insecurities at some graduation party last Saturday afternoon , I fortunately became revived. A local Ugandan pop song – that I’ve managed to memorize every lyric to – blared on the loudspeakers. Within an instant, the stale dust swiveled in the air as the barefoot kids, elderly women, men and women simultaneously hopped and glided to the music. Smiles and laughter illuminated the energetic yet serene surrounding. At once, my negativity ceased and there I was at a graduation shindig in northern Uganda. I took a breath and began my moments of being present. As I sat with a purple soda in my right hand, half a smile on my face I amusingly thought, “Well if we are not cognitively evolved, at least the Acholi people know how to have a good time!”

  

  

Chocolate Chip Peanut Crunch Clif Bar

21 January

        My gaze remains fixed on the creased and crumpled “Chocolate Chip Peanut Crunch” Clif Bar my dad so caringly sent across the simmering Atlantic Ocean. The jubilation in my aura when I ripped through the brilliantly taped tan colored cardboard box at the dumpy post office was contagious. Once I realized that I was savagely biting through the clear plastic tape, I suddenly halted and noticed the smiling elderly man sitting on a brown wooden bench with a cane. I sort of childlishly smiled back, and in the Acholi language informed him it was a package from my dad in America. His smile deepened, and I noticed only one brownish tooth as he raised his right shaking, wrinkled thumb.
        I had spent the previous eight hours working with emaciated and healthy HIV/AIDS patients at Lacor Hospital. Since I’ve only purchased two pairs of pants since 1999 (one was for my internship last year), I realized it was time. Thus, that surprisingly chilly morning, I gave my little twelve year old brother – Ocaya Reagan – the equivalent of 34 cents for transportation in order to meet me at the hospital around five. Things went smoothly, and before I realized the two of us were slowly strolling through the overcrowded, sweaty market stalls brilliantly crafted out of tree branches. I could sense Ocaya’s frustration as I stopped to practice my Acholi language skills with literally 90 percent of the merchants. After 21 minutes, the usually patient and quiet natured fella, yanked my right arm and said, “Neil…wanciero!!! (Let’s go)” Leisurely, I pointed at potential bright red, neon green and mustard yellow pants as prospective winners. To my distaste, Ocaya turned down all of them, and in Acholi said, “They would look bad on you.” After purchasing a personally majestic pair of thin, dark-blue pants, a shirt for Ocaya and an outfit for the baby whose mom I drove to the hospital upon delivery, I was pumped to get home and grub down on some of the Chex mix and Combos that accompanied the Clif Bar.
        Considering the intensity and difficulty of the day’s work, I completely dissociated from my current state and fantasized on lavishly biting through the Chocolate and Peanut Butter Cliff Bar. Ocaya’s face illuminated with a curious fascination after I informed him that we would all have cheese Combos from America with our tea that evening. Not 200 yards from finally reaching home; I heard blood curling screeches from the 10 year old boy who lives only a few compounds away. The hysteria innately forced Ocaya and me to halt immediately and we observed four anxious female onlookers assessing the scene. Immediately, I noticed two skinny 50 year old local drunk men with full grasp of this kid. I’ve chatted with these guys a few times, and persistently and quickly removed myself as their words were slurred and they’re forever hammered. I was conflicted, until I saw one of the females run toward the man and in Acholi harshly demand he remove the large wooden stick from his hand. Prior to the lady’s intervention, swaying back and forth the drunken dude raised his stick as if to whack the hysterical kid on the behind. In Acholi she yelled, “He’s had enough.” With that, the inebriated fella demandingly walked toward the women, raised the stick at her and shouted, “If you don’t leave I’ll beat you, too.” “Fuck” I thought, “What should I do?” Am I stepping all over cultural boundaries if I intervene as a Western outsider who is utterly ignorant to the harsh situation?
        Without realizing it, I gently stepped closer to the man, and smiled as we made eye contact. I warmly greeted him in the Acholi language, and asked if he remembered me. Subsequently, I politely requested we calmly chat before he whacked the kid. In an intoxicated state, the chap uttered some nonsense about the boy coming home late. The other dunk guy staggered while trying to maintain the tight grip on the kid’s left forearm. As I approached the young boy whose breath was lost in an array of panic and terror, I looked at the shiny lines of wet, clear tears that drooled down either side of his dirt stained face. His eyes found mine, and his harrowing look instinctively changed me. Once I reached out my arm for the boy, the one drunk threw his arm off and said, in a slurred voice, “You take him and do something with him.” I repeatedly thanked the drunk dudes, and hurriedly scurried towards our compound where I was praying the fierce and intense female director of our organization – Mamma Florenence – was home. The child was uber-terrified and refused to respond to my initial attempt at a greeting.
        Fortunately, I joyfully found Mamma Florence sitting on the ground in the front of the grass covered compound with her well-built female cousin and one other small guy I’ve never seen before laughing, as they patiently awaited a daughter to serve them evening tea. As soon as Mamma Florence noticed us, her face distorted and in English she said, “My Neil, what’s the problem?” Before I could explain, the two drunk dudes showed up and started ranting inaudible words and Mamma Flo harshly and authoritatively commanded the guy to “shut his mouth.” Within moments, Mamma Flo was enraged at the men and stood up and for sure I thought she was gonna belt him, luckily local town folk swiftly intervened. Mamma Flo’s cousin – another proud woman I would absolutely, positively never want to see beat on anyone as she’s built like linebacker – dragged the other man out with one arm. At this moment, the entire village surrounded and frantically rolled with laughter as Mamma Flo’s cousin threw the dude out. I could not help but question if this had ensued because of my previous intervention.
        “No, Neil! You did the right thing! We don’t want drunk men beating on our children,” insisted Mamma Florence. She went on, “You see in our culture, when this happens, you sit the people down and talk like human beings.” Within moments of her statement, the 12 year old, older brother of this beaten kid arrived and he and Mamma Florence conversed for a while in the local vernacular. Turns out, the younger kid was getting an ass whopping from his older brother for consecutively failing to return home and help with the chores of daily living. The two are orphans who live with their physically inept elderly grandmother, as both parents have passed on. Quite recently, the lads had a female caretaker, but believe it or not she was struck by lightning a few months back and now these two are left to cook, clean, find food, fetch water and essentially live on their lonesome. Justifiably so, the older dude was livid that his younger brother began alienating himself from him and essentially left all the work for the older dude. Without warning, the two drunk guys showed up and attempted to control the beating. As the older boy was beating his little brother, the two drunk guys showed up and the older brother diligently aimed to distract the men and get them away from his brother. However, they angrily refused.
        Intruding on culture? Here I was – a Western outsider with no historical, social or political perceptions on the state of affairs. While intervening, I curiously wondered if I was unconsciously exercising my white, Western privilege. Clearly, the drunk dude not only ignored the local female bystander, but threatened to additionally beat her. The vigorous incident struck at my core, and was caressed quite deeper than what I originally observed on the surface. Surely, I cannot blame either one of the two boys. As usual analyzing this via a cultural lens is appropriate and imperative; however, perhaps additionally more vital is a humanitarian angle of interpretation. Present are two young parentless boys, not only supporting themselves but furthermore a physically and emotionally drained elderly grandmother. In this state of the globe, these two OVCs (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) were relatively fortunate to obtain the guidance of a caretaker. As if being born in an Internally Displaced Persons’ Camp, an over 12 percent HIV/AIDS infection rate, abject poverty, subjugation from the government, heaps of disease, being forced to drop out of school in order to live, etc. isn’t enough. The remaining backbone, support and lifeline; the final array of something to grasp, something to instill guidance and potential hope, something to believe in and be held by, suddenly and drastically is yanked from you. And, not by any of the “normal” constraints to life that were previously mentioned above. Instead from one I failed to mention, being struck by lightning. There are no words.
        The young lads were forced to quit school and maintain survival in any practical manner. I daylily witness the older barefooted boy, humbly and quietly saunter through our compound around 7am with two empty jerry cans en route to fetch the day’s supply of water. No wonder they’re both pissed off, exhausted, frustrated and emotional. Is that how any 10 and 12 year old child should be living regardless of locality on this globe? I recently bought two gigantic fresh avocados from the older boy, which had only hours earlier fallen from the tree in his compound. These two kids are the “Africans” you read about. You know, the statistics, “x amount of children in Uganda are …” Statistics that are living, inhaling, feeling, suffering and being. Are they suffering? Perhaps this is what they know, and fundamentally their sensible sense of reality. But, unconsciously the avoidance and beatings must align with some form of trepidation and insecurity.
        The universe must organically hold something abstract for these young dudes. Why is life an invariable struggle for the majority and a land of opportunity for others? Or don’t we all struggle in some concrete or abstract form? It undoubtedly emerges in the materially and economically advantaged sectors of the world. After all, how many of those beings littered with green dirty paper merely aren’t satisfied? Does unsettlement lurk if we don’t get that latest download of the new i-phone? Clearly, there is a fine distinction between “basic need unsettlement” and some cheeseburger eating mongrel whose irate about that the female employee at McDonald’s forgot to add the extra-cheese to his burger while he drives home in his SUV that’s built as if it needs to cross the Zambezi River. The universe innately holds energy and magic that we just simply cannot be familiar with. At this point in my life, I find no other way to make sense of it all, except to close my eyes and lusciously sink my white teeth into this “Chocolate Chip Peanut Crunch” Cliff Bar and bask in the immediate beauty.

                               

 

Whose promise??

16 January

        While slowly chomping on a fried brown doughnut during “break tea” of the HIV/AIDS and Human Rights Presentation, I desperately desired to chat with one facilitator. The Director of my internship chivalrously invited me and the head of the Health Department to join her for the full day training facilitated by the Ugandan Human Rights Commission (UHRC) at some swanky hotel in Gulu town. The purpose of the gathering was to converse on the proposed HIV and AIDS Prevention and Control Bill of 2010. In brevity, the bill will circulate Parliament before President Museveni can officially declare it a law. The facilitators believed it vastly important to gather the civil society, police, local politicians, heads of NGOs, and the media to convene on the bill with hopes of sharing various recommendations to Parliament. No direct surprises that the UHRC chose to convene in Gulu, as its “official” infection percentage doubles the Ugandan national rate of six.
        Within thirty minutes of opening, the chief facilitator shared what he considered an amusing tale. “I have a friend in Kampala who is the Headmaster of a Primary School and he openly admits that the day his wife goes for an HIV test, is the day she never comes back. That would be it for her.” Small probes of laughter ensued from the general audience which included the well known District Police Commander (DPC) and the Resident District Commissioner of Gulu (RDC). Spellbinding thoughts emerged within my cognition.
        After “break tea” I noticed myself vigorously shaking my right leg and repeatedly pounding my blue bic pen up and down on my cherished black notebook. Was I anxious? And if so why? As the collective deconstructed the bill, I became educated on a law regarding the national military, Uganda’s People Defense Forces (UPDF). As one former member of the force contentedly and in agreement informed that it’s mandatory for UPDF to be HIV tested as a prerequisite to serve. If the results are positive, (s)he is inexorably disqualified. Although it wasn’t comical, this was my time to find amusement in the discussion. You see only moments earlier, I thoroughly read through section 31 of the bill that states, “A person shall not be denied access to any employment for which he or she is qualified; or transferred, denied promotion nor have his or her employment terminated on ground of his or her actual, perceived or suspected status.” Does the government’s military frankly assume that locals won’t notice their hegemonic domination? From my minor observations, I’d bet they sincerely and simply could care less.
        Not long after lunch, discourse swiveled around the effect of culture with regards to combating the steadily increasing HIV/AIDS rate of 12.4 % in northern Uganda. A major theme of the afternoon focused on whether the bill should include criminalizing those who willfully and purposely infect others, which is a continuous occurrence. I was quickly brought back to my Women and Social Policy course at Smith College last summer; the vast, passionate and eternal debate, “Cultural and human/women’s rights … when (if ever) is intervention necessary? And if so, whose intervention?” Isn’t culture constantly shifting and changing?
        Combating HIV/AIDS in this astonish country. What specifically to focus on? After all, the god damn (or is it God damn) Headmaster of a Primary School in the capital of the country is petrified of his wife getting tested, and his case is undeniably not isolated. What sort of impression and elucidation does this transfer to the students? “The principal is scared shitless of having his wife tested for the virus, so why should I ever openly subject myself to a test?” The underlying insecurities with the principal and other Ugandan males stem in the proposed belief that if their wives are getting tested, they clearly must be cheating on their husband partners. Let’s not forget the hetero-gender normative male culture of men and their multiple wives.
        What about the well respected and veteran HIV/AIDS counselor at a renowned northern Ugandan NGO? Just last week, rumors circulated that he impregnated a local student intern who he’d only known two months. An HIV/AIDS counselor and unprotected sex in a land of blazing and steadily increasing rate of HIV/AIDS?? Throughout my time in this fine section of the universe, I intermittently read signs that say, “Fight AIDS Uganda, Keep the Promise.” I’ve been forced to question ... "whose promise?"

Vacation

6 January 2011

        Well it took a full four months and a day, but I was finally offered to blaze down on some local Ugandan grass. Politely chatting with the courageous tall baseball cap wearing, toothless Ugandan dealer forced a trivial smile. Considering this was the initial proposal of cannabis on this specific excursion to the continent, I contemplated my state of affairs. What does this say about Gulu? How about the lifestyle I lead in Gulu? More so, how does this speak to touristy, munu swarming areas of Uganda?
        After an ugly and tiresome battle with malaria, I demanded out of Gulu and all I was familiar with. Thanks to some fantastic guidance I left Gulu and gleefully voyaged south to Bujagali Falls with the fine intent of sitting cross-legged and meditating beside the gracious and commanding Nile River. The previous evening at the munu haven camping grounds/guest house was the initial weed discourse my ears have been exposed to while in Uganda during this jaunt. “What are ya up to tonight, braaa?” “Smokin’”, pompously stated the bare-chested, board short wearing, blonde chap with red sunglasses perched on his head as if it’s midday, but in actuality the sun set approximately 42 minutes earlier. “Sounds good, braaa … just the usual, right? Smokin’ the ganj and sippin’ on some cold ones.” Those were the calm yet thriving words of the similarly bare-chested, mid 20 year old Aussie. As I diligently and patiently attempted at a relaxation and forgiving breath, I serenely reminded myself, “No judgments Neil, you don’t know these dudes. And also, you’re on vacation!”
        Shortly after the munu’s mind numbing conversation, I quickly bounced from the munu frenzied vicinity in search of scoring some far better tasting authentic local food. As I blasted through matoke, beans and posho in the dingy, candle lit shack I observed two locals enjoying the same food that I took pleasure in. “Mzunugu (munu) thank you for supporting us,” faintly stated the 36 year old co owner of the 20’ by 20’ square wooden construction. With slight confusion I asked, “Do mzungu’s eat here?” “Sometimes we get muzungu’s but not much.” I struggled to not negatively criticize the munu travelers that inhabit this area. Again, I had to remind myself that the purpose of this retreat was to not overanalyze life.
        All of these munus in Uganda. It appears us outside, Western, white privileged souls journey here for widely distinct reasons. Ninety percent of the time, I actively and critically analyze the role of the bro braaas at my current guest house. However, since that warrants a significant chunk of my present life, if I did that on vacation, wouldn’t that simply contradict my personal socially constructed definition of the term “vacation”? Ideally, I certainly did not venture to this physically breathtaking and magical spot on our globe to bitch up ungracious and unappreciative Westerners. How do I even know they’re “ungracious” or “unappreciative”? How ungracious and unappreciative my “vacation” would be if I all I thought of was the lifestyle of the bro braaas. Am I implying that they are wrong and I am right? After all, is there an objective concrete definition of wrong and right, anyway?
        Well now that my incredibly mesmerizing holiday has terminated, exploring assorted munu instances while in Jinja is personally necessary. While sitting on a wooden chair reading Okot p’Bitek in front of my spacious room one serene evening, I marveled as the sun headed west, but was suddenly interrupted by a munu’s farcical words. “All I want out of life is to just have loads of sex and a pocket full of money.” This stemmed from the Kiwi raft guide - Incredible Hulk replica - who was trying to bring a lovely local Ugandan woman into his living quarters.
        The previous day I heard an English raft guide mutter some nonsense. “Well I know the car will also be packed with like four Ugandans who won’t contribute any money. It happens every time and I starting to get f*cking tired of it.” Then there’s the shaggy looking munu who took a boda ride the equivalent of three New York City blocks to the “junction” so he can board another boda to town. All the while three young Ugandans waved to him as he gazed towards the children, and chose not to wave back, but instead take an extended drag from his cigarette. Finally, after feeling enthusiasm to survey three munus in the local eatery I frequented, I swiftly realized they were watching their local Ugandan companion finish his rice and fish, so he could escort them to the local pub where a pool table sat. No local food for these munus.
        Why are the majority of rafting guides munus and not local Ugandans? Did the munus grow up with the Nile River as their backyard? Frantz Fanon would be both mesmerized and nauseous by this place. In a plethora of ways, it was sort of thwarting to associate with that collective. It highly resonates to the ways in which munus are perceived not only in Uganda, not only in Africa, but further globally. As a collective we are a horde of money flaunting, pretentious people. This experience reified the notion of why locals consistently and successively request money from munus. How can I pretend it’s absent, when my people (munus) continuously act like discourteous, pompous and confused souls? This vacation reintroduced me to whiteness. It is no wonder some local Ugandans view us as money symbols when we eat overly priced western food, take bodas two blocks, and when we desire Ugandans to pay for rides in their land of waterfalls and Nile Rivers. What would it mean if only locals could be rafting and kayak guides? Where would the Incredible Hulk bro braa be able to find his “loads of sex” and “pockets full of money”? Sure, the break away from Gulu was much needed and a savior in a small sense. But, I’m enchanted to be home in Gulu where I don’t continuously encounter haughty munus who do not believe they are outsiders in a foreign land.

     Fishermen on the Nile, while a munu receives kayaking lessons. What do they think of each other?
                            

                Perhaps this sign was directed towards the Incredible Hulk bro braaaa.