A Slightly Tilted Universe

2013 is a different year - the planet feels tilted a bit more than usual.  During most of my life I recall transiting the shift from one year to the next without so much as a blink.  Life merged seamlessly from one year to the next, punctuated by Christmas and New Year's Celebrations; then the calendar changed, but not much else.  This year it seems I left 2012 and walked into 2013 with the distinct feeling I'd walked onto a new movie set so to speak.   Really - it is so bizarre - seems while I was in Ethiopia, someone changed the script and most of the cast, but left the scenery in place.  Re-entry was both the same and totally different simultaneously.  Can you hear the Twilight Zone music in the background?

This altered-universe feel was heralded by the realization that my organization seems to be imploding around me - the changes too numerous to address - except to say that if feels chaotic, disorganized and in peril.  My efforts to affect productive change have been for naught - despite  doing what I was "hired" to do: be a Program Adviser and advise. I wrote a very good SWOT Analysis (Strengths, Weaknesses and Threats) and submitted it prior to our annual strategic planning conference where everything in it was validated when each point was independently voiced by staff - and dismissed by management. This is a blame-first culture and change is difficult in the face of fear.   Therefore I have turned to things over which I have at least a modicum of control. Those are - in fact moving forward: the Children's Library and Peter.  There continue to be details regarding the accident.  I have gathered my friend's belongings to get them to her in South Africa and elsewhere, cleaned out her little house and distributed items.  The trial is coming up this week so there are things happening with that.  The charges have been upgraded to manslaughter with a potential sentence of life in prison.  In Uganda, when someone goes to prison, I've been told the family has to provide food and and some essentials, so the burden of the sentencing spreads across the entire family.  Not entirely sure of this as I get mixed information,  but to say the least the income stream if there was one is interrupted and there are some concerns about reprisal.   

On a happier topic, two leadership camps (BUILD for boys, GLOW for girls), both sponsored by Peace Corps happened a couple of weeks ago in the north and another two were held last week in the south.  A strange sense of calm descended on Gulu which was essentially  "empty"  because all the other PCVs were at the camps acting as counselors.  I was able to sponsor Peter to go to one of them and he excitedly washed his clothes, got all packed and left with the group.   Here's a picture of Peter (dark shirt) with the counselors and director and three little kids who scooted in thrilled to be in the picture.  

Peter returned absolutely glowing with excitement and feeling good about himself and life.  It was a first for this former child of the streets.  In the week following camp he would have no place to sleep, study, eat, etc.  A friend of his located a small grass roofed hut where he can stay safely and study.  I've paid for it and have been giving him funds for food during the day.  Much to his credit, Peter refuses to take money without giving something back in return. He'd been a big help at the library and yesterday spent the day cleaning the floors in my house (his insistence - not mine) because I don't really have any work for him.   If he works full time, as is his custom while on break to pay for food) he can't study and falls behind in school.  My house has never been this clean  even when I moved in.  Dust and bugs are so pervasive that the patina of filth builds with such unfailing exuberance that it feels futile to hand-mop concrete floors everyday. One gets accustomed to living with a layer of grime which would take a year to develop in the states.    But TODAY, I have a clean house.

Some interesting stories have emerged as we've been working in the same space. He casually told me how - before boarding school, he would find a way to hide his school uniform before returning to the street to sleep, and hand off his books to a friend to keep overnight.  The police know Peter in town because he was able to convince a rowdy gang of street kids who'd followed him up here from Kampala to return there.  He's earned the respect of police (who helped him get an ID Card) and district officials alike and it will be interesting to see who Peter becomes.  

The library has been painted courtesy of funds from Matt Boddie (a PCV who extended a year) and his malaria organization and the almost heroic efforts of a Ugandan painter friend who called me "fearing" that I has been involved in the accident.  Shelves (some) have been moved courtesy of Peter and one of the teachers from his school and almost comically leaned against each other and walls to be sure they keep standing.  They are now loaded with what children's books there are and while it's a far cry from what we in the States grew up with in terms of libraries, it's a first for Gulu. This week I hope to get table legs cut down to convert big people tables to kiddie-size tables and find homes for more duplicate sets of 15 year old text books that keep spilling out of hidden spaces.  One small step at a time...

As I write, there's a cool breeze fluttering the curtains and I am - once again surrounded by a cacophony of church sounds, a calypso beat from a local pub just tuning up, a gaggle of kids one street over and a few roosters convinced there must be people who need waking.   Friday night the club in my front yard tuned up around 6 PM and starting rattling windows around 9 PM when they were joined by ear-splitting music from a club on the other side of me about a quarter-mile away.  Together they bludgeoned my ear drums until about 3:30 AM, when one of them stopped - reducing the noise to a mere 100 dB lullaby by comparison.   No wonder roosters have to try so hard: the revelers are sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Looking forward to turning another page on the calendar that hangs in my kitchen so I can mark of each day as I fix my coffee.  Just a little over a month to Zanzabar and COS conference when there will certainly be some blood-letting amongst those who will be fighting for going home when that window of opportunity opens on September 15.  It's a ridiculous process, historically (and hysterically) characterized by infighting, plotting, secret telephone calls, negotiating and excuses.  Seems leaving early because school is starting is not an adequate reason, but leaving early for some else's wedding gets approved.  It's the insanity we know as PC Uganda.  Am so glad my kids will be here in September and I will be removed from the need to get out of here at the earliest date.   I'll leave after the dust has settled and may end up staying a few weeks longer than planned to see Peter through the finals that determine whether he can go on to high school.

Onward into the day.  I have a clean house and an empty kitchen - so a trip to the cuk madit is on the list, a little laundry-doing and some giving away of stuff.  I love that part - means things are winding down ;-) even as things intensify in terms of activity. 

Namaste my friends.

The Loss of a Sweet Spirit

 Danielle Gucciardo was 23 and filled with the kind of enthusiasm and genuine sweetness that is rare at any age. I say that because there are not many people I would describe as “sweet” without that characteristic being attached to being cloying or a bit fake, but Danielle was the real deal - an old soul in a young body. I didn’t know her well - she was part of the “new” Education Sector group based at a school a bit outside of Gulu. Because of that, our paths only crossed when she was able to get into town and we usually found each other at Coffee Hut.

No doubt her parents and sisters bid her farewell to Peace Corps and celebrated a new and exciting chapter in her life fully expecting her to come home filled with that same excitement about life - only a little more seasoned.  Even at 23 she had a passion for working with the disadvantaged.

She has gone home, but not as expected. 

Saturday, as Danielle, Jennifer and Ellen left to go to Kampala for In Service Training (IST), they walked along the same route I have taken many times and dreaded every step, to catch the Post Bus that leaves at 7 AM.  We walk in the dark to get there, along a stretch of road that wends its way through town skirting one of the main bars in town.  Our biggest fear is usually getting past the bar patrons spilling out onto the streets without being hassled.  Then there’s the long stretch flanked by a Papyrus swamp. It’s really dark and pretty spooky in its own right – the salient sound being the croaking of frogs.  We tend to walk on the left because it has a wide shoulder, avoiding  the right side (against the traffic) because you can’t see people who may be in the shadows.   The roads are pretty vacant at that time of the morning, with the random person headed to work or going home from the bars that are just closing.  So we are alert to vehicles - likely to be piloted by someone “under the influence.”

It was as these three young women walked to the bus, laughing and having a good time - headed to the first benchmark of their service: In Service Training (IST) that without warning: no lights, engine noise, squealing of breaks - in mid-sentence, a truck ploughed into them, killing Danielle instantly and injuring the other two, one seriously and the other with more minor injuries. 

The aftermath is too grim to describe, but suffice it to say there’s no 911 to deliver a sparkling clean and efficient team of paramedics and medical equipment to your rescue. I received a call at about 6:15 AM from our Country Director saying the ambulance had not arrived and could I help figure out what was happening.   It took a bit for me to understand who was involved and when I did, I knew which route they would have been taking.  Knowing the man I would call to drive me to find the accident, would take too long to get there,  I left on foot to find help and 30 minutes or so and  seven people later, I found a ride, by which time the ambulance had arrived. 

Jennifer and Ellen were taken to one of the two better hospitals in Gulu, only to be transferred almost immediately (relative term) to the best.  I arrived at that hospital at least an hour and a half after I got the call and still waited a good while before the injured arrived.   I have to say that hospital, LaCor, run by the Italians was decent, but not well equipped to handle this event.

Peace Corps sent a plane and doctor to Gulu to transport the injured back to Kampala and I along with another volunteer accompanied our friends.  It was a flawless ride, well managed and we arrived at Kampala International Hospital in good time.     By 10:30 that same night the most severely injured, was on her way to South Africa via air-ambulance (AmRef).  Seeing AmFef operate was like being back in the States: fast, efficient, state-of-the art. 

The community of Gulu rallied and has been very supportive.  I’ve received calls from the post office folks who know us all, the man who fixed my windows, a tailor with whom share mystery books, the Ugandan volunteers at the library, and so many others.  I've even received a call from S,amir, my dear Indian grocer who having missed me for the week, feared the worst. Ugandans and Muzungus alike having heard the news made their way to the hospital. Locals, who seem to come out of the woodwork at the scene even though the streets were empty the preceding moment, apprehended the driver who smelled of alcohol.

A grief counsellor sent by Peace Corp D.C. has been working with the group.  A beautiful memorial service was held at the IST training site and another is being planned at Danielle’s school. The trial is Monday. I know for most of her group, this is their first brush with death and this magnitude of loss.  It’s a cruel initiation into adulthood. I hope her family can take comfort in knowing how well loved their daughter was, that the way she lived her life has already changed lives and will be a beacon for others. As a mother my deepest grief is for her parents and sisters.