Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Day in the Life: IDP camp
Within minutes of the whistle blowing on a Friday afternoon, after a hectic workweek, I found my office environment warping into sunset on the back of a motorbike, with papyrus mat under my arm, a bag of beans and rice in the other, trying to enjoy the immense painting of colors all around me, while staying on the bike as it drove over crazy bumps in the red dirt road. The interns and I spent the night in a large IDP camp, Awer- 40,000 people crammed into a small space. But the space is beautiful, out in the middle of nowhere with rolling green hills all around. We slept in a hut on papyrus mats- comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. The sleep for me was restful but you still wake with sore muscles from the mat.
We were woken up at sunrise to "go to the garden for digging"...A five kilometer path led us to the "garden" where my friend Opio Walter's grandfather's plot of land was. Digging meant using a ho, to dig up the bushy land and turn it into more manageable soil. Ambitiously, I started out with vigor, only to find caluses popping on my hands by an hour's worth of work. After 3 hours, Walter lied and told us it was midday, time to head back. It was really only 10:30 but the sun was hot, and under the heat, he could tell we were naive to how unprepared we were for the day. I asked him to let me stay, but he insisted I could come back another time, that I had done enough for the day. Sure enough, after another 5 km walk back to the camp, as soon as I sat down, I realized that my shoulders seemed to be forcing themselves out of my skin, they pounded like laden dinosaur bones where my usual shoulders had been. Spent the rest of the day in Walter's hut, resting like a typical Mzungu, as women twice my age worked all day long. If only I had a pair of gloves- but the women have their natural pair of glove caluses that get them through, and their shoulders, like linebackers hold unfathomable strength.
The afternoon came quick, and as I walked through the camp, it was fascinating to see families prepare for dinner. At the grainery, a line gathered where mothers, young boys and girls mosty stood with woven baskets containing small rations of food gathered, farmed and traded. Each basket contained the essentials with slight variations- Cassava and millet, which could be stretched to feed many dependents. The grainery was really a small shop with a sign that read "cheap store" on the outer door. Inside was a machine run by a monster of a fuel dripping generator. Two boys, in their teens were running the shop. The cost to grind these basket loads into fine powder for cooking was 250 shillings, equivalent to about 15 cents. Some people would come up with only 200 shillings, the boys would attempt to stick to the price, but would never turn anyone away. They never turned anyone away- women and children mostly, standing in line, with their daily collections on their heads, generally a baby tied to the back. I got to hold a two week old baby- didn't like me much. cried until his mother offered him milk. At the end of the day Saturday, I played a game of soccer (football). A huge football field lies in the middle of the camp, which surrounds it on all sides. Next to the field is the market, where balls occassionally get kicked giving the marketeers something interesting to watch for. The market is small, with colorful piles of whatever vegetable is available at the time, and some dried fish. Not very appetizing. Next to the market is
the butcher. Literally, a man that sits next to a tree, cuts open a goat, hangs it dripping from the tree until people want a hunk. His credibility as the town butcher is given by his scale, an old, blood stained rusted
scale that measures accurate rations of intestine.
The soccer ball never reaches the outdoor butchery, because in front of him is a small area where a dozen children, always sit, sporadically placed on the ground, roasting groundnuts under small piles of their own shells. A dozen mounds of embers glow from these roasting sites. And when the ball is kicked in their direction, the kids eagerly await the chance to kick it back and try out their skills in front of the older kids. Only the best kids get to play soccer on this field, reserved for the most fit in the camp. They were reluctant to let me play, as I did not qualify by their standards, but with the Acholi attitude of complete hospitality they humored me, and tried their best not to let me hear them laugh every time I missed the ball. I have never seen such skill, such vigor and offensive manuevering. It is not beautiful to witness. It is rough and rigorous and by the end of the first half, I was beat from just trying to keep up. I headed a couple balls, which I was proud of, but that doesn't merit much. Halfway through, Walter stood on the sidelines, waving me like a grandfather would to his grandson. It was time to go home. And although I made a fuss, I was secretly relieved to get out of the game without being in the center of the firecracker action that every thirty seconds hovered around the goal posts. It was time to go. I was grateful to Walter for allowing me to be there for the weekend. As fun as this day seemed, the 24 hour novelty must pale after nearly 10 years of living this way. The Acholi people, always adaptable, always hospitable, deserve better.
We were woken up at sunrise to "go to the garden for digging"...A five kilometer path led us to the "garden" where my friend Opio Walter's grandfather's plot of land was. Digging meant using a ho, to dig up the bushy land and turn it into more manageable soil. Ambitiously, I started out with vigor, only to find caluses popping on my hands by an hour's worth of work. After 3 hours, Walter lied and told us it was midday, time to head back. It was really only 10:30 but the sun was hot, and under the heat, he could tell we were naive to how unprepared we were for the day. I asked him to let me stay, but he insisted I could come back another time, that I had done enough for the day. Sure enough, after another 5 km walk back to the camp, as soon as I sat down, I realized that my shoulders seemed to be forcing themselves out of my skin, they pounded like laden dinosaur bones where my usual shoulders had been. Spent the rest of the day in Walter's hut, resting like a typical Mzungu, as women twice my age worked all day long. If only I had a pair of gloves- but the women have their natural pair of glove caluses that get them through, and their shoulders, like linebackers hold unfathomable strength.
The afternoon came quick, and as I walked through the camp, it was fascinating to see families prepare for dinner. At the grainery, a line gathered where mothers, young boys and girls mosty stood with woven baskets containing small rations of food gathered, farmed and traded. Each basket contained the essentials with slight variations- Cassava and millet, which could be stretched to feed many dependents. The grainery was really a small shop with a sign that read "cheap store" on the outer door. Inside was a machine run by a monster of a fuel dripping generator. Two boys, in their teens were running the shop. The cost to grind these basket loads into fine powder for cooking was 250 shillings, equivalent to about 15 cents. Some people would come up with only 200 shillings, the boys would attempt to stick to the price, but would never turn anyone away. They never turned anyone away- women and children mostly, standing in line, with their daily collections on their heads, generally a baby tied to the back. I got to hold a two week old baby- didn't like me much. cried until his mother offered him milk. At the end of the day Saturday, I played a game of soccer (football). A huge football field lies in the middle of the camp, which surrounds it on all sides. Next to the field is the market, where balls occassionally get kicked giving the marketeers something interesting to watch for. The market is small, with colorful piles of whatever vegetable is available at the time, and some dried fish. Not very appetizing. Next to the market is
the butcher. Literally, a man that sits next to a tree, cuts open a goat, hangs it dripping from the tree until people want a hunk. His credibility as the town butcher is given by his scale, an old, blood stained rusted
scale that measures accurate rations of intestine.
The soccer ball never reaches the outdoor butchery, because in front of him is a small area where a dozen children, always sit, sporadically placed on the ground, roasting groundnuts under small piles of their own shells. A dozen mounds of embers glow from these roasting sites. And when the ball is kicked in their direction, the kids eagerly await the chance to kick it back and try out their skills in front of the older kids. Only the best kids get to play soccer on this field, reserved for the most fit in the camp. They were reluctant to let me play, as I did not qualify by their standards, but with the Acholi attitude of complete hospitality they humored me, and tried their best not to let me hear them laugh every time I missed the ball. I have never seen such skill, such vigor and offensive manuevering. It is not beautiful to witness. It is rough and rigorous and by the end of the first half, I was beat from just trying to keep up. I headed a couple balls, which I was proud of, but that doesn't merit much. Halfway through, Walter stood on the sidelines, waving me like a grandfather would to his grandson. It was time to go home. And although I made a fuss, I was secretly relieved to get out of the game without being in the center of the firecracker action that every thirty seconds hovered around the goal posts. It was time to go. I was grateful to Walter for allowing me to be there for the weekend. As fun as this day seemed, the 24 hour novelty must pale after nearly 10 years of living this way. The Acholi people, always adaptable, always hospitable, deserve better.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
10 April 2008
I wrote this entry on the day that could have marked a historical day in Uganda, giving peace to millions of Acholi people in the North. Two years of peace talks between the LRA rebel army and the Ugandan government came to this day: 10 April 2008, the day that Joseph Kony, leader of the LRA had agreed to sign a final peace agreement, in the middle of the jungle where he and thousands of abducted children were living in the Congo. With the scratch of a pen, millions of mothers, could ease up on the grip of their children and sleep with both eyes resting. The fathers could begin the first walk back to their farms overgrown, and make the first slice into a ground, where sustainable life for his family could be cultivated. It was a long day in Acholi-land, full of unrest, causing locals to courageously dig up these old dreams and visions of a peaceful future, buried under the same jungle of chaos that has overtaken their farmland. I tried my best to understand, observe and write what this day was like.
10 April, 2008
Like ocean against sky, the mood of Gulu seems to mirror the atmosphere that hovers above it. Dark clouds, ominous and foretelling hardly allow the pink streaks of sunrise to shine through. Illuminating against the storm of 22 years of terror, a small daub of hope is all that remains on the Acholi’s palette for this day. With timid anticipation, the Acholi rise, again for their 8,030th day of war.
An older woman in her 60s, walks towards town, hunched over, by the weight of a heavy bag carried from her neck. Asked about the day, she strains to lift her tired head. Through deep wrinkles, her eyes stand out in brilliant, youthful excitement. “This day is historic for Acholi Land” she replies with glitter swimming in her eyes. “It is time. Time to go back to our Land, resume our life and farm again” she says as her eyes sink into the back of her head. Wading beyond the current tide of misery, her eyes were backstroking past thrashing breakers to reach the predictable, calm surges that lay in the distant, deep waters of her memory.
To younger Acholi's, devoid of any memory of tranquility, this reaction is far less genuine. Lukewarm anticipation mixed realistically with doubt are natural reactions, caused by three previous peace talk flops. If dawn was the hope, vulnerable and fragile, the heat of midday is the harshness of reality. Skepticism set in as colors disappear and flatten the tone of this raw town.
Afternoon sun beats down, to intensify the anticipation. Hovering around the largest radio station in the North, locals wait in almost nonchalant expectation, as if to not be caught with their hope exposed, should today's news slash it to unrepairable pieces. Upstairs, the radio DJ sits in the news studio overlooking the people on main street. In reverence to the situation, he is silent. With one phone call, he will have a heavy responsibility. With the microphone before him, he will bring either limitless joy or painstaking grief to a fragile audience. Different from the typical final score announcements of a sports game, this outcome holds the weight of millions of people in limbo. The fate of 40 IDP camps sit waiting, straining to hear the news.
Silence is broken. The News Correspondent slumps in his chair. The angst pours down the windows of his building as rain has paradoxically began to fall. “Joseph Kony is not serious” he says in a defeated whisper. The radio clicks on across thousands of rusty radios throughout Acholi Land. Joseph Kony has delayed the peace talks to a halt. The sky, once broad with morning possibilities, now lowers itself overhead, dumping reality on withered spirits. The same heads that stood fearless against the dawn’s early light now bow in defeat to a pelting rain. Sauntering home in descending dusk, the world is still, hanging for but a very real moment. And in that moment, a realization that life must go on as it always does. The people push ahead with the day given to them. Steam swims through the night sky, a faint indication of the life that continues from the thousands of dinners cooking on open fire below. The people will rest and rise again. Tomorrow, on day 8031, they will once again find the raw courage to streak the morning sky with their bold belief in peace.
Please Pray for Peace.
10 April, 2008
Like ocean against sky, the mood of Gulu seems to mirror the atmosphere that hovers above it. Dark clouds, ominous and foretelling hardly allow the pink streaks of sunrise to shine through. Illuminating against the storm of 22 years of terror, a small daub of hope is all that remains on the Acholi’s palette for this day. With timid anticipation, the Acholi rise, again for their 8,030th day of war.
An older woman in her 60s, walks towards town, hunched over, by the weight of a heavy bag carried from her neck. Asked about the day, she strains to lift her tired head. Through deep wrinkles, her eyes stand out in brilliant, youthful excitement. “This day is historic for Acholi Land” she replies with glitter swimming in her eyes. “It is time. Time to go back to our Land, resume our life and farm again” she says as her eyes sink into the back of her head. Wading beyond the current tide of misery, her eyes were backstroking past thrashing breakers to reach the predictable, calm surges that lay in the distant, deep waters of her memory.
To younger Acholi's, devoid of any memory of tranquility, this reaction is far less genuine. Lukewarm anticipation mixed realistically with doubt are natural reactions, caused by three previous peace talk flops. If dawn was the hope, vulnerable and fragile, the heat of midday is the harshness of reality. Skepticism set in as colors disappear and flatten the tone of this raw town.
Afternoon sun beats down, to intensify the anticipation. Hovering around the largest radio station in the North, locals wait in almost nonchalant expectation, as if to not be caught with their hope exposed, should today's news slash it to unrepairable pieces. Upstairs, the radio DJ sits in the news studio overlooking the people on main street. In reverence to the situation, he is silent. With one phone call, he will have a heavy responsibility. With the microphone before him, he will bring either limitless joy or painstaking grief to a fragile audience. Different from the typical final score announcements of a sports game, this outcome holds the weight of millions of people in limbo. The fate of 40 IDP camps sit waiting, straining to hear the news.
Silence is broken. The News Correspondent slumps in his chair. The angst pours down the windows of his building as rain has paradoxically began to fall. “Joseph Kony is not serious” he says in a defeated whisper. The radio clicks on across thousands of rusty radios throughout Acholi Land. Joseph Kony has delayed the peace talks to a halt. The sky, once broad with morning possibilities, now lowers itself overhead, dumping reality on withered spirits. The same heads that stood fearless against the dawn’s early light now bow in defeat to a pelting rain. Sauntering home in descending dusk, the world is still, hanging for but a very real moment. And in that moment, a realization that life must go on as it always does. The people push ahead with the day given to them. Steam swims through the night sky, a faint indication of the life that continues from the thousands of dinners cooking on open fire below. The people will rest and rise again. Tomorrow, on day 8031, they will once again find the raw courage to streak the morning sky with their bold belief in peace.
Please Pray for Peace.
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