anecdotes from a time not so long ago

First substantial blog in ages.

Currently:
I'm sitting here in Kool City Cafe in Kampala. I was awakened this morning around 5AM by the revving of the motorcycle and flashing of lights of the boda waiting outside my compound's gates, alerting me that it was time to go to to the Post Office to catch the Post Bus to Kampala. Using the lighting from my cell phone, I managed to throw a handful of clothes into my borrowed Duke Energy backpack, along with my passport, loot of Ugandan shillings, and some hastily gathered toiletries. After giving Beatrice (my 2nd mother in Gulu) a quick kiss on the cheek, and a pat on Janet's pregnant belly, I ran out to greet the boda in my Carolina shirt and flapping brown gauchos. We flew fast down the dusty road at over 100 KM towards town on his jerky motorcycle. The wind caused my eyes to water, and yet I still couldn't ignore the beauty and silence of Gulu at such an early hour, interrupted only by the crows of a rooster from the stoop of Gulu University. While weaving through ducks and goats, my boda tried to have an unsuccessful conversation with me, asking me where I would buy my plot of land in Gulu when I return. Traveling this morning was much different than that of last night, when James, my interpreter, carried me on his bicycle for more than 2 miles when the moon had come out to shine its brightest, after a long day of interviews and a quick stop to enjoy a cold Fanta and Pilsner.

This morning:
The Post Bus was terrible. The roads are littered with pot holes, and the bus drives at a dangerous slant... not to mention the 3 miles of continuous road humps which made my stomach a bit nauseous, and the chickens aboard the bus a bit rowdy. I bought a skewer of grilled beef at one of the bus stops (they shove the food in through the windows), and the woman next to me kindly handed me a half of a piece of grilled corn for me to enjoy. I was also eyeing her cassava, but dared not to ask for any. At the next stop, I witnessed that same woman keel over and throw up something awful in the grass. I hope it was the cassava, and not the corn. She then switched seats with the guy in front of me so she could lean over the window, and occassionally, she would send out a lougie (sp?) reminiscent of Leonardo DiCaprio's in Titanic. Unfortunately, she miscalculated her aim twice, and as a result, I was sprayed in the face and arms. Frustration!

During the trip:
My mind drifted effortlessly to friends and family back in NC, and most of all Greg. When I wasn't thinking about those back home, I began to review the past two weeks in my head, making sure that none of my memories had been lost. It is amazing how many stories I have heard since I have been here - I have managed to meet more than one interesting character a day. Sometimes, I feel like I am a news journalists instead of a researcher simply because of the depth I am able to learn and see in the eyes and stories of these individuals I cross paths with. I really regret not being able to blog much only because there are so many things I wish I could have documented more closely, but I really can't go back now and write everything in profound detail. Following is what's most important: my encounters with only some of the people of Gulu, Uganda.

James
Tall, sleek, intelligent, curious, ever-so helpful, hardworking James. He is Beatrice's youngest brother, and agreed to become my interpreter during his days off from exams at Gulu University, where he is studying Public Administration. Currently, he is teaching at St. Mary's College at Lacor, which is a building that was renovated by Invisible Children, made specfically for secondary school-aged kids from the neighboring Lacor IDP Camp. Twice in the past, children were abducted from the boarding hostels at the school - 48 the first time, and 90 the second. He has to bike 15KM to school everyday to teach Art and Design - I traveled there with him by boda yesterday afternoon to see Invisible Children's work and progress.

The first day I met him, we drove over to Unyama IDP Camp. At one point in time, the camp housed more than 60,000 people. At the time I visited, however, people had already started moving back to their original homes because of the lift of violence and terror - 32,000 still remain in the camp. This is 2008.

When we arrived, the local chairman of the camp set off to find people who were HIV/TB positive so that I might walk around later to sit in their respective homes to interview them. While waiting, James and I sat inside one of the grass-thatch huts, all the while waving to the curious children poking their heads in, who were calling me... "Muno! Muno!".

I asked about the history of the IDP Camps (which I will explain at a later date), and asked if he had ever had a run-in with rebels of the LRA. He laughed raucously at my question. When he was...

whoops, my internet time is running out. i've gotta run! i'll finish later.