Election

19 February

        “Vote Museveni - send this to seven people and get 7,000 [Ugandan shillings] air time [phone credit].” I wittily studied the text message from my pal Tonny’s mobile phone. Yesterday’s Presidential elections suggest the corrupt and dictatorship-style government regime of the incumbent Yoweri Museveni will inevitably reign another five years. Controlling and manipulating a sea of Ugandans since 1986. And as fellow opposing candidates hinted at civilian protests, the chief of Uganda declared, “Uganda is not Ivory Coast. It is not Kenya. Don't expect what is happening or happened in these countries to happen here .... I have the right medicine for those who want to cause trouble.” Does his “medicine” constitute the thousands of copiously armed and forceful UPDF troops spread throughout the country? Through analytical discourse, the collective energy of northerners is that Museveni – rather than Uganda in general – has an enormous army that he will noticeably use. What is the general populace’s interpretation on the elections: A media poll recently raised the question, “Do you think that the Ugandan Electoral Commission will conduct free and fair elections come February?” The media poll was unscientific but it gave emphatic results: Yes — 27 percent, No — 73 percent.
        A few nights ago, I bumped and bruised my way along the dry and dusty Juba road with Mamma Flo en route to Lacor Hospital. Albeit speaking in broad, general sweeping terminology, my personal observations and perceptions of African hospitals are gripping. We found Christine and her three-month old baby spooning on a green mat, next to a rusty crib in the pediatric ward. Rubangakene was suffering from an initial bout of malaria. The euphoria that expelled from Christine’s mother’s face when she recognized us ignited a lukewarm fuzziness. Our crew slowly sauntered past the caged off Tuberculosis Ward of the hospital. Only hours earlier I had spent moments at that particular TB Ward while a patient from my internship wilted away from TB, bedsores and AIDS. Trouble amounted whilst trying to remove the dreary image of her horrifically emaciated, desperate face from my cognition.
        As we meandered westward up a concrete ramp, I couldn’t help but open my wide mouth and smile deeply. In a mass of female African women sleeping with straw mats on the damp, cement hospital floor Winnie’s perfectly aligned white teeth shined from afar. Winnie – another one of our neighbors/sisters – was patiently waiting amongst heaps of Ugandans for the impending surgery of her 13 month old baby. The undersized male was born without an anus, and ten months later, rumor reached Winnie that two munu doctor’s were coming back to Lacor Hospital to finish round two of his surgery. Winnie unwearyingly remained for days, but the munus never showed; they feared election violence.
        Directly after passing through the post operation ward of the hospital, I subtly and gently motioned to Mamma Flo that I needed to depart. The combination of a potent bloody urine stench mixed with the eyes of a patient whose arms weren’t thicker than the diameter of a quarter was personally enough for the day. On our mellow and wordless walk out of the open-aired hospital, I felt a smooth, reassuring flow of energy creep within my soul. On the ruffled speakers that cracked through the infrastructure was a soft, beautiful Acholi prayer song. I observed Mama Flo’s lips move with the rhythm of the tune. She was not alone. As my heads courteously wandered to the patients, family members and loved ones in the verandas under the stars, I realized almost everyone was quietly singing along.
        It wasn’t until I made eye contact with a legless man, thanks to a landmine blast, that I conceptualized religion in a benevolent, understanding and indulgent framework. As his words echoed those of the speaker, I smiled with him. Religion – especially (but not exclusively) in this area of the world – suddenly made clear sense to me. Why not believe in something higher, something more powerful, and something to else? If not, what’s the point in it all? Sure, I’ve philosophized, discoursed and written about this phenomenon. However, viscerally feeling and experiencing it directly in the soul was something foreign.
        Finally, the fine folks of northern Uganda experienced an election where they weren’t crammed in displacement camps, fearing direct assaults from rebel and government factions. While meeting with my American supervisor yesterday afternoon, we halted as a hardworking family member was decked out in a beautiful, South Pacific Ocean blue dress with off-white flowers. As she so eloquently greeted us, I commented (in Acholi) that she looked, “beautiful.” Her warm, genuine response alerted us that she had dressed up and walked through the bush to the polling station. Her smile that beamed with joy and elation exposed the large gap in between her front teeth. My supervisor smiled and tenderly commented, “It’s a big day today for many people!”
        I’m optimistic and confident that the astounding souls of Uganda will eventually be clear of violent, oppressive, and subjugating regimes. Developmental justice lurks within the confines of this country and continent. It’s about believing, communalizing, and remaining within. As a white, privileged American, I have much to learn from northern Ugandans about developmental justice. It’s here, somewhere amidst a plethora of injustice.

Walk to the polling stations.

Folks lined up to cast their votes.

Which war??

9  February

        Last week’s visit to Amuru District personally distorted an already murky observation on reality. Riding on the back of the fire engine red, donated motorbike through bumps and craters of the reddish-brown clay dirt road was elevating. I observantly witnessed an unusually special atmosphere that was slightly dissimilar to that of Gulu town, in the fairly new formed district that boasts a shabby wooden stick trading center. I exhaled and allowed the feeling to linger.
        Our internship’s two room office – one is a bedroom and cooking space for the counselor and the other a space to meet beneficiaries – is nestled in a former internally displaced persons’ camp. Remnants of the brutal and exhausting war are unmistakably noticeable in the botched infrastructure. The official ideology of war in this region conveys the physical and mental obliteration by the LRA; one has to dig deep to educate herself on the malicious underpinnings of the government forces that clearly ignited the rebel movement. After spending the week touring the Amuru District, my immediate perceptions alert that war undoubtedly lurks. It may although depend on which type of war one is referring.
        One of our home visits landed us two hours away from Amuru town to another dilapidated former internally displaced persons’ camp. Our beneficiary – a parentless 12 year old, HIV positive boy – was slowly strolling down the path with his wide eyes fixed on the brown dust cloud immediately in front of him. Quite calm and direct, his older cousin expressed disgust with the beneficiary’s schooling system. “Teachers come from far away and need to board at the school. Most often they leave halfway through the day on Friday, and do not return until Tuesday. The students are only left with three and a half days of school a week. And now, there are only two teachers at the entire school.” This information was bluntly translated through the soft and kind words of the most beautiful, elder male counselor who has so graciously taken me under his wing. He went on, “This is the problem with government run schools, the government says they are good, but if you notice that everyone who has money - especially all government officials - send their children to private schools outside of northern Uganda. What does that say?”
        Subsequently we cruised through the vast geography and dry, searing sun’s rays to find another beneficiary at a former camp closer to our living quarters. Here was a joyful, lovely and jovial 20 year old paralyzed female. She’s been battling the virus since 2003, and was misdiagnosed with TB, which caused her present inability to move half her body. The beauty and energy this hopeful youngster expelled was simply rad. The woman sews some of the finest sweaters I’ve seen on the continent and beyond. Her oomph brought hope to a personally foreign and ominous actuality.
        The previous stories only amplified in lunacy and intensity throughout my educational and enlightening visit to Amuru. In lieu of describing the woman planning to sell her nine year old daughter, the male nurse erroneously prescribing harmful medication to a freshly diagnosed patient suffering from TB/AIDS, and a nurse’s decision to discard multiple patients’ blood samples, I aim to highlight positivity. I’m convinced that beneath the grimy and oily surface of my perceived Amuru District is a lavish daintiness.
        Sure, Amuru District was brutally wasted by decades of inhumane and gross conflict that continues to haunt its contemporary surroundings. One could also argue that Amuru is currently waged in a war against poverty, a war on education, a war on HIV/AIDS and a war on gender inequality. In the same breath, one must also recognize the absence of war in Amuru District. A war on hospitality, resilience, humanity and beauty are simply nonexistent in this unruffled district on our globe. Vast and broad smiles, receiving peanuts, jackfruit, meals and kind words were all integral aspects of my stay.

        So I presently wonder, are human beings all involved in some form of abstract or concrete war? Why do we collectively and individually choose to foolishly gauge war on ourselves, neighbors, “friends”, enemies, and loved ones? And what constitutes the ending of war? The vast global discourse suggests that when fighting is done, so is war. Without war, is there no struggle? If I was born in an internally displaced persons’ camp in northern Uganda, where would my notion and conceptualization of war fall? Distinct responses to these subjective questions are clearly open for interpretation. Instead of drilling my brain with such deliberation, I think I’ll implant the sound of hysterical laughter when a group of young men curiously observed me pull a flying “white ant” out of the sky and lie it on my moist tongue. Deep in the Amuru villages, this is a central aspect of most folks’ diet. How could I let that opportunity slide?

This is someone's door crafted out of USAID donated aluminum, cooking oil cans during the conflict.

   

Trapping the "white ants."

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.

UPDF Military Wedding

21 December

        “An AK-47 is the most important aspect of being a part of the military.” Those roaring words blared from the oversized black speakers at the open field in the Lira District of northern Uganda. My patience was running low as it was nearly 6:31 pm, and no food was in sight. Hundreds of natives and I assembled eight and a half hours earlier for the wedding of a Ugandan (UPDF) Captain. I purposely chose to phrase it “the wedding of a Ugandan Captain” due to the unyielding nature of the event. Throughout the ceremony – which was partially translated in English – the official discourse solely and specifically revolved around the Captain. “Now that the Captain is marrying … We wish to congratulate the Captain for taking such a step with his wife … I’ve worked with the Captain for years and he always remains calm on the battlefield …” I consistently wondered, isn’t it equally important to acknowledge the female partaking in this ceremony? Why weren’t her friends allowed to give speeches like the four cronies and military personnel of the Captain?
        The UPDF propaganda was subtly and overtly infiltrated into the cognition of the massive audience. Throughout the event glimmering statements soared. “The UPDF is here to protect every civilian from harm, and the best way to do that is with the gun … President Museveni and our military work diligently each day to protect and support each and every one … With the help of the AK-47, we are able to carry out successful missions in this country …”
        A swarm of comical and provoking thoughts swam throughout my psyche. I instantaneously thought of the regular political engagements I’m associated with in Gulu. Intense research is clearly not necessary to recognize the concerted and palpable subjugation of the Acholi collective by the UPDF. Talk to the grand majority of locals about the UPDF’s role in the recent 20 plus year conflict with the LRA. Perceptions from the general Acholi consensus in Gulu; “The UPDF stayed in the center of the internally displaced persons’ camps so when the rebels came in, they killed many civilians prior to reaching the UPDF. And that is even if the UPDF stayed, because they usually ran when the rebels came … Many of our women were raped by the UPDF during the conflict which helped spread HIV to our community … The UPDF demanded that we go into an internally displaced persons camps and if not they would beat us and even kills us while calling us rebel collaborators …”
        I clearly understand that underlying Saturday’s wedding is simply the fact that it took place a couple of months prior to another heated Ugandan Presidential election. Although, I pryingly wondered how the propaganda will radiate across northern Uganda. For instance, only a couple of days earlier while snacking on some roasted cassava I sat on a broken red bench and glanced through the Daily Monitor newspaper. A headline of the national media outlet stated, “Acholi MPs Say Government Arming Militias.” As I dove into the jargon, I found that Members of Parliament in Acholiland claim the UPDF is supplying arms to NRM (the President’s party) mobilizers and former child combatants to instill fear in the population to vote NRM and President Museveni.
        As if aiding guns and ammunition to formerly abducted children in an area wasted by war and all of its side effects isn’t problematic enough, won’t this continue to instill the idea that the north is filled with rebels? Perhaps it’s no revelation that loads of southern Ugandans seem petrified to venture to the north of the country. Basically when interpreting this article, I’m forced to analyze who essentially gains by reporting this and ultimately who has something to lose.
        Another headline on the same day, but in the New Vision paper shared, “UPDF to Sue Beisgye Group.” Besigye is a rival Presidential candidate running against President Museveni in February. The accusations claimed Besigye reported the UPDF was unfaithfully siding with the NRM and Museveni. Luckily, I was hanging out with an extremely involved political ally of the Acholi and thus we had a solid chuckle over the headline and article. My pal chimed in, “Isn’t a Government’s military supposed to stay neutral and not sue a competing political group?” He went on, “You see Neil, all you can do is really laugh at the absurdity of Ugandan politics.” I marinated on that sentence for some time. Sure politics in all corners of the round globe are shaggy, but the military suing a political group is one I presently haven’t heard of. Could the U.S. Army sue the Democratic Party in my homeland?
        Perhaps the most mind altering scenario of Saturday’s wedding was not the refreshingly cold “Bell Beer” that was proudly snuck to me by the relaxed driver of our vehicle. Instead, if I had any food in my stomach at that point, it may have resurfaced when I saw one of the numerous wedding cakes. “Since the AK-47 is the most important aspect of being in the military, we have designed a cake in the shape of one,” pretentiously stated some military official. At once I grabbed the right arm of our younger neighbor/brother and told him, “Hurry up and go take a picture of that cake before they cut it or give it away.” I certainly wasn't prepared to be the only munu at the wedding snapping photos of the AK-47 cake.
          An AK-47 wedding cake; that about did it for me. Problematic? From my contorted Western view on the situation, I was dumbfounded. In effect, do the folks of northern Uganda desire to share bits of a Kalashnikova cake? What was the consensual reaction from the crowd? I curiously waited and heard scores of folks laughing. To me this wasn’t in fact funny, but instead sort of gross, disrespectful and patronizing. How many folks at the wedding or in the present area had loved ones killed by the AK-47 by those exact UPDF service members? What does this signify and represent to the young children at the wedding? “Guns are cool; we even make wedding cakes representing them!” Perhaps it’s no shocker that youngsters in my home village craft AK-47 replicas out of banana trees, leaves and whatever vegetation they get their hands on. After all, the UPDF couldn’t speak highly enough of it at the wedding for Christ sakes.

The AK-47 cake

Coincidence or do "all boys play with guns"? If so, why?