Apwoyo Dwogo

or Welcome Home (literally, thank you for coming)

I AM SO GLAD TO BE BACK IN UGANDA!

I'm so happy to be back in a country with street food and a currency that I understand.  There may not be garbage cans ANYWHERE, but at least they speak English.  Forget paved roads and street lights, I'd rather have rice and beans for $0.75 any day.

I must have lost weight in Rwanda, because several Ugandans have commented.
"You have been reduced."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You have lost some kilos."
"Oh, thanks.  In America that's a compliment, is that a compliment here?"
"It depends on what size you start out with.  We have a saying, that if this bone, collar bone, sticks out, then you need to gain weight."
"I think muno collar bones and acholi collar bones stick out differently."

It is so nice to return to a town that I am familiar with.  The seasons have changed, though.  The rainy season used to last through the end of October, but "because of global change," it hasn't rained here for over a week.  It's also become windy, so I felt like I was crossing the desert this morning when I walked across town.  I can't get over how dry the roads that used to be mud are, or how the wind blows dust across town, or dust blowing into my eyes.

ok, Rwanda isn't all bad.

It's gorgeous.  The locals call them hills, but to me they might be mountains

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The view from our hotel

Lake Kivu.  Gorgeous. 

Rwanda

Last week, my program began a two week excursion to Rwanda, to compare post-conflict Northern Uganda with post-genocide Rwanda.  I crossed my first international border overland, witnessed truly spectacular scenery, and generally marveled at the different level of development in Rwanda.

Rwanda is a relatively homogeneous, very small country with 10 million people that has received a lot of aid post-genocide, and they allocate 80% of their national budget to development.  I'm used to Uganda- a country with 35 million people, 40 languages, the highest malaria infection rate in the world, and a corruption problem so bad that the planned 2011 census didn't happen because the funding disappeared. This means that for the first few days in Rwanda I was marveling at the paved roads, street lights, stop lights, and general cleanliness and order of Kigali.

Rwanda has such a strong national identity.  The 1994 genocide was traumatic for every Rwandan.  They speak the same language, have a monthly day of national service, and collectively mourn in April for lives lost in 1994.  In contrast, while war was waging in Northern Uganda, the rest of the country continued with normal life.  They identify first as Acholi or Buganda, then as African, and only later as Ugandan.  A friend of mine introduces himself as coming from the Republic of Northern Uganda.

Both conflicts, however, have their roots in colonial divide and conquer policies.  The Belgians encouraged the divide and politicized the identities of Hutu and Tutsi.  The English stereotyped Ugandan ethnic groups for different jobs, creating resentment for northerners among Ugandans.  And both conflicts have this awful air of unfinished business.  Agathe Habyrimana, the widow of the former President of Rwanda, who by most accounts was one of the architects of the genocide, lives comfortably in France.  Many northern Ugandans will not feel safe in their communities until Joseph Kony, the leader of the LRA, is no longer waging war in the bush.

Both governments are involved with funding rebels and conflict in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  Both governments get significant military funding from the U.S. for sending their troops to places that America doesn't want to go, like Somalia.  (Both countries also have my fingerprints on file because the U.S. funded anti-terrorism technology so now to enter the country you have to be fingerprinted)  Both countries have not had a peaceful transition of power since independence.

Rwanda is also full of genocide memorials.  It's one thing to read that 1 million people were killed, quite another to stand in a room full of skeletons, and still another to see the holes in the skulls made by machetes. It is so surreal to walk the streets and imagine road blocks where identity cards were checked and so many people were killed that the streets were clogged with dead bodies.  Every memorial says never again, and yet I know that the Rwandan military is supporting rebels in the Congo.

There are always frustrating aspects of studying politics.  There are always things that do not live up to your ideals.  Bad things happen to good people.  But something about spending time in a country that uses genocide as an excuse to limit free speech, something about the way that Rwandans act as if the root causes of the conflict have been solved just gets under my skin.

This is a real city

When I came back to Gulu from Kitgum, Gulu felt congested and urban and busy.  Four days later when I traveled to Kampala, it was almost too much for me.  Kampala has about 2 million people, but in an unplanned and developing city with very few traffic regulations, 2 million can be much more intimidating.  Population is also really hard to judge because the last census was in 2000, and they keep trying to do another one but there’s never funding, so the population could be much higher. 

Kampala traffic

This is also the first time I’ve really spent outside of Acholiland, which means that I no longer speak the local language or understand the local culture.  Kampala is in an ethnically Buganda area, and Uganda was actually named Uganda because the Queen of England misread some colonial correspondence and read Buganda as Uganda, so people are fond of saying that Uganda is a historical mistake.  I guess the fact that the entire country was named after a small part of it is just part of the enduring colonial heritage. 

Since we’re here in Kampala, we have visited Bugandan Parliament and the Bugandan King’s Palace.  It’s really interesting to listen to tour guides because they tell a slightly different version of history than Acholis do, and just a few minutes into conversation you can tell that people here first identify with their ethnic group, then as an African, and only later as a Ugandan.  

The only Rolls Royce in Uganda...at the Bugandan Palace

Coming home to Gulu

Coming back to Gulu after Kitgum was the first time this semester that we had ever returned somewhere.  It felt really good to come back to a place I knew at least a little.  My host family in Gulu treated me differently, more like a family member.  My 3 year old brother Ema (Emanuel) had never spoken to me, or spoken English in front of me, and now he talks to me and is much goofier around me.  Jessica and Eveline keep calling me stubborn, which I don’t really understand.  They also want me to get an Acholi boyfriend so that I don’t leave this country, which I think is funny because I could stay here and work without an Acholi man, but that’s cool.

I’m now much more comfortable whipping out my camera to take pictures, which means I can share with all of you some great pictures J

This country is soooo beautiful. 

Part of my daily walk home

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SKIES

Food Poisoning

This weekend was our rural homestay outside of Kitgum, Uganda.  I was pretty excited to spend some time in the village, sleeping in grass huts and playing with children.  I ended up getting food poisoning, which was bound to happen during three months in a country lacking clean water infrastructure, but somehow I was hoping I would make it through unscathed.

                The first night we had posho, maize flour porridge, and greens cooked in peanut and sesame sauce.  I’ve hated both dishes every other time I had them, but this time it was delicious.  I still ate a normal amount, but the next day I couldn’t keep anything down.  We only had three days in the homestay, so I was super reluctant to leave.  I tried sleeping, but every 5 minutes a kid would come into the hut and look at the white girl so I didn’t end up sleeping.  My host mother kept trying to get me to eat, because food is a Ugandan mother’s answer to everything, but it wasn’t particularly helpful.

Did a focus group with food poisoning.  This is research in Africa.

                Every family member that knew that I was sick kept talking about the weather- maybe I was sick because of the weather; I wasn’t used to their weather, it was cold today, etc.   It wasn’t that hot, maybe in the 80’s.  I told them it was me adjusting to Ugandan germs, but every way that I tried to explain it didn’t really work.  Most people responded with this air of superiority, saying that I had a weak stomach.

                My host family was a pretty prominent family in a Born Again Church, so they laid hands on me and prayed for my illness to improve.  I thought I was getting better as they day went on, so I ate some dinner with the family.  That was a bad idea.  As dusk fell, I went to the pit latrine to puke, and when I opened the door three cockroaches crawled out.  I decided I couldn’t handle being this sick in the rural homestay.

The pro-American latrine

                I called the one American working for my program so I didn’t have to deal with a language barrier.  Within minutes, they sent someone to come get me and take me to see a doctor.  The doctor did a blood test almost immediately after we got there, and I sat in the lobby of the hospital with bare cement walls drinking bottled water and watching The Sound of Music while I waited for my results.  Simon, who had picked up, said that Helen, another staff person was on her way.  I told him that two staff people weren’t necessary, but his response was, “Helen is your mother.  She is coming.  You need your mother when you are sick.”

                The doctor came back and said that I didn’t have malaria, but that one particular kind of white blood cell count was high.  He couldn’t give me any more information so he told me to come back the next day when other doctors were there (it was a Sunday night).  He did, however, give me Paracetamol for my headache.  The conversation went a little like this, (imagine an African accent)

“What is this?”

“Paracetamol.  For the headache.”

“Ok, but what about the nausea?  Can I take it on an empty stomach?”

“You will not vomit.  It will be fine.”

“What about my anti-malarial drugs?  They usually make me nauseous, even if I take them with food.  Should I take them or should I wait?”

“You will not vomit.”

“There’s a sulfa drug allergy in my family.  Is this a sulfa drug?”

“No.  It will be fine.”

“ok.”

“For the consultation, 17,000 shillings.”  (20,000 shillings is $8)

“Does that include the prescription?”

“No, I am not charging you for that.”

I had to call my mother in America to ask her to Google paracetamol because I didn’t trust this doctor who couldn’t tell me what my blood test meant.  Turns out it was acetaminophen.

The next day, I went back to the hospital to see the doctor who was capable of reading my blood test.  He took one look at it and said that I had food poisoning, but he did not want to tell me over the phone last night.   I told him I had been in a rural homestay, and he said that made sense because the hygiene in the village is not good.  He really did not want me to go back to the village, but I really wanted to take advantage of my opportunity to sleep in a grass thatched hut while I had a chance.  He was really hesitant, but ended up prescribing me antibiotics to take with the food.  I went back to my host family for one more night and was so glad that I did. 

Gangdiang

My host family, with some cousins

Last week, my program spent a week in Kitgum to experience more rural life.  For three days we lived with families “in the village.” 

village life

The name of the village was Gangdiang, which literally means home cow, or the place where cows are.  I learned a lot about Acholi tradition- the men and women eat separately, Church and school are very important, and everything is “not far” away.   I really wanted to connect with my host mother, but she didn’t speak much English, so I ended up mostly sitting with the men who could speak English.  I did learn how to grind ground nut (peanut) paste.  I slept in a grass-thatched hut, bucket showered outside, and played with some very cute children.  I had the most fun practicing Acholi, because every time I would say something (right or wrong) everyone would laugh and applaud and congratulate me.

My host mama. 

Anything I did was a big deal.  I went to the borehole to get water with my mother, and all of a sudden 50 people were watching me pump water.  I would ask children how they were or what their name was in Acholi and no one would respond.  Either my accent was terrible or they just could not get over me being there.  Throughout the weekend, I was asked to be a scholarship donor for university, to pay several children’s school fees, to pay for a man to go to America, and to be someone’s white girlfriend. 

I did make some connections with my host siblings, though.  I asked my family to give me an Acholi name, and they named me after their daughter, Lakica.  Her nickname is Ayaa, because she is the only girl they have, so I think I will also take that on as an Acholi name.  Many people think that I am saying Eveline when I say Emily, so having an Acholi name will come in handy. 

My namesake 

My host family had an adorable one year old son whose Christian name was Joshua.  As the youngest born, he clearly got anything he wanted.  He was always eating, sleeping, or listening to the radio.  The only English he knew he would use to listen to the radio.  “put this on! Put this on!” he would say.  When I went to school, apparently he asked his parents where I was, and when I left the village for good, he followed me to a neighboring compound.

JOSHUA

Oshkosh is global

Spending some time there made me realize how much Ugandans value development.  The way that people talk about economic development and modernization and denigrate traditional practices as backwards is disturbing .  I just find it so interesting, because people seem so ready to part with tradition.  They see American life as idyllic, and really did not seem to understand when I tried to talk about immigrants losing their traditions or the negatives of development like materialism and a loss of community.  Americans come to Africa partially to experience traditional life and culture, and yet most people I meet would much rather be living in America, or at least in town.  They don’t seem to see the value in killing their own chickens, or growing their own food, or knowing how to build a hut or bow and arrow from scratch, or cooking a meal with no processed food, or knowing herbal remedies for malaria.