The River of Ants

Raining….  Glorious long, slow rain foretold by black skies and great gusts of wind, accompanied by rolling thunder.   We’ve had a lot of this and at some point I will tire of it, but it takes me back to the excited anticipation of hurricanes in Louisiana and the quickening of my pulse when the wind began to kick up on the boat.    Actually, that trip was so  defined by storms and incredible winds, it took years for me to stop getting nauseated when the wind blew.  I was the one who did all the foredeck work and on a sailboat without fancy rigging, that’s the “gorilla work.’  i.e it takes the strength of one to haul anchors, reef sails, hoist the mainsail sometimes…   When we would peek out of a protected anchorage, Bob - having wanted to throw on as much sail area as we had - would deftly guide us out of the harbour, and immediately we'd get knocked down when we ventured out of the lee of the land into  real water. Since I did the sail changes, almost always getting sea sick, that soon wired a Pavlovian circuit: wind = nausea.   Years after we'd settled onto dry land, I got nauseated every time the wind blew – lasted about two years.   Old neural networks die hard.   Long after that stopped happening, if the wind changed at night I would sense it and stagger out of bed to  do “take compass bearings” to see if we’d pulled anchor in the night, only to realize I was safe and secure on the second floor of a house in the hills.   I was probably an Oregonian in another life.  As Brett’s girl-friend Molly mentioned, a true Oregonian runs outside when it starts to rain.  The rest of the world runs inside.   My heart sings when it rains.

In Gulu, with the start of the rains, non-Oregonian creatures  head inside.  A few nights ago, when I work up at 4:30AM AGAIN, I saw a wide-ish undulating snake like pattern moving from the closed window down the wall next to my bed.  Scrambled to find my glasses to see what this moving mass might be and it was ANTS - fortunately not a Black Mamba though.  Giant ants, not little sugar ants and they were traveling in a colony.   Eeeeuuuuwww.   These ants were easily ½ inch long.  And – as prone to exaggeration as I can be, that particular fact is actual fact. You can look it up. There is no insect repellent – we’ve used it all on the white-ant-zap-fest a week ago.  Still, BOP just blows things out of the way, instead of killing them.  So I spent the next 10 minutes whacking ants with my shoes. 

All I could think of as I am frantically slaughtering ants, was the river-of-ants scene in the Poisonwood Bible, where a literal river of ants would creep in a descimmate every living creature in their path: as in whole cows,  goats, people….   Pulled my bed away from the wall and tried to get back to sleep, but spent the next hour ruminating on a list of things I could set the legs of my bed in to keep ants from winding their way up the legs and into my bed…  There has not been a return, but I spent the next day further terrorizing myself researching Soldier Ants, giant ants in Uganda, etc.  When I got to the part about the mandible being so big they can't actually feed themselves, so have to depend on the colony shredding the victim, I stopped.  This is too much to think about…  Got a can of KILLZ the next days – hoping it does what it says and sprayed the window, the wall – you name it.  I’m happy to report that I am still alive and able to tell the tale. 

Last week held a small victory.  I have finally, after two months, been able to extract a report of sorts from the Gulu Town Police.  I can now submit this to my travel insurance. Now this would seem a straight forward matter, but even the Ugandans were horrified at the process.  It took a total of nine trips and talking to/pleading with to six different people to get this done. 

“Hello, my name is…. And I was burglarized….. and I’d like a copy of the report….”

“Oh no madam, we must first investigate. (It’s been 6 weeks – the trail is cold). And then we must type the report, and then we must…… and it must be stamped. It is not valid until it is stamped.”

“You first wait and we will come make some diagrams.” (This never happens)

A month later:  “Hello – remember me?  I MUST get a copy of ….”  "A stamped report is not necessary, just the original statement on your letterhead will do." 

“Oh no madam.  That is not possible.  We must….”

The Ugandans at my office suggested I talk to the DPC: District Police Commander.  He’s lovely, they all are… But they are very literal, and things are just done the way they are done.  That is all. I explain that charging me 60,000 shilling is equivalent to robbing me again, after I have already been robbed, it makes noimpression. Certainly this charge is not true.    This is the way it’s done.  Truly, everyone has been sympathethic,  but this Mzungu just cannot understand about Official Stamps?    All of the Ugandans I met waiting there are kind and smile and we shake hands.  And NO ONE ever questions or gets impatient.   This is an amazing trait – and is, at once, both ingratiating and infuriating. 

‘You comeback later and….”

I met Komaketch (a name meaning unlucky in Acholi) This doesn’t bode well.  I know the name because someone has suggested,  I be named Komaketch Nancy, because of my many mis-haps in Gulu.  I decline – but here’s that name again.  Komaketch is very nice and assures me he will deal with it.

Since I am now returning  to the Police Station multiple times during the day, they realize I’m serious.  Now the OC (Officer in Charge of Crimes) “requires to talk with you.” He  explains  - again -why this is “not done," and is quite put-out  with me but finally  relents and lest me know there is a middle ground that is FREE.   If  “you just first meet the DPC.”  Here we go again.  I feel like I am playing a game of Shutes and Ladders and keep getting dumped back down at the bottom of the game again.

This goes on, multiple trips, my LABE friends telling me this is bribery and that I should go see the REGIONAL Police Commander – which I do.   He listens to my story and says: “Madam let me explain ... Blah – blah  - blah. And for the official report with a stamp  you must first pay the bank 60,000 shillings and bring the STAMPED RECEIPT.  It is written.  There are no exceptions.”

I remind him I am a VOLUNTEER, not a rich Mzungu.  He is not moved, but he finally also offers the middle ground.

I return to the Police Station, feeling fully defeated, but  - in fact – someone has finally written the “To WHOM…” letter as it is called, saying that I have reported the crime to the police and the reference number is… and the best part is:

It Is STAMPED!”

I obviously need a STAMP - for something.  Then I will be officially - what?  But today, I have moved beyond getting a Police Report and have started transcribing wall charts used in Acoli Language classes  into  online modules.  It’s all in Acoli  and I’m understanding most of it and am amazed.    Gee this is one post I wouldn’t mind the CD reading.  Loucine, if you’re out there.  I AM using Acoli!  But – the most interesting thing is that I recall having dreamed this many years ago and actually telling someone I had the most bizarre dream about making charts in a language I don’t know…. 

I needed that – a little something meta-physical in my life.  How I have missed that here, but the culture itself is alive with tales of witch doctors, witchcraft and spells and mind-control.  I’m giving all that a wide berth…   Life is complicated enough with man eating ants and such.   By the way – the White Ants have arrived inside despite closed windows…  and the KILLZ sort of works!   Diana Gardens is blaring at full tilt.   And today, the Marching Band played a new piece: The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Again - only four measures.   life is - well - not GOOD exactly, but improving. 

"Westerners have watches... Africans have time."

Early morning here.  This one is quiet - oh so blissfully quiet.  The rainy season does that.  Since I was able to sleep without earplugs last night, I can awaken to these subtle sounds as slow drips become  a soft patter on the tin roof.   Jenna (housemate) is away and the young PCV who was to have been here for the next few days has made other plans - so it will be a quite weekend  if you don't count the revelry at Diane Gardens tonight.

It must be the Louisiana girl in me, but I begin to wither when there is no rain.  And it's not just my skin and hair - I was warned of this by a Ugandan woman.  My soul withers in the kind of heat and unending dust combined with lack of water and electricity, all of which typify dry-season here.  As I've said before: it's the perfect storm for the demise of spirit.  So the rain thus far is soul-mending.  I may feel differently when all my clothes begin to smell of mildew, but right now I feel like dancing in the rain. I'd better hurry tho, because the sun is beginning to share the sky.

This is also beginning to be Mango season here in the north and  I'm noticing that the green ovals on the tree in the front yard are getting fatter. No pink showing yet, so I don't know when they will be ready to harvest, but I'm keeping my eye on them.  I've been told they disappear pretty fast courtesy of the kids who scale the fence with long poles for knocking the fruit off.  There are those long poles again.  They're pretty handy here.

And speaking of long poles, I visited the Police Station yesterday in the renewed  hope of getting a copy of the Police Report on my burglary (which was conducted with those long poles).  My case was referred to a young woman named Pomela about three weeks ago, so this is our second conversation.  She's lovely, but has done nothing on the "investigation."  When I saw her newly decked out this time in full police garb complete with rifle I said, "Pomela!  You have been missing!"  "Yes, I have been down and this is my first day back."  We continue this polite conversation as a prelude to more serious business and there are wary looks from older, male police officers who clearly wonder what this Mzungu is doing taking up this woman's time.   I'm still not much closer to being able to get a report, but I have a new friend. It reminds me of a saying shared with me yesterday by Cheesburger Man, who has lived in Africa all his life.  The saying is" "Westerners have watches. Africans have time."   It's a good thing I'm adapting to this, because when I arrived at Coffee Hut yesterday, I found I was without my phone which I'd left at the Police Station.  Another two mile hike to retrieve it and I'm glad I have time, if not energy.  And time is commodity of which there is much in Africa. 

So today, I will meditate on that saying.  It's one of the hardest adjustments for Westerners here.   I'll start the puzzle sent to me by Evie inside the splendid glass French Press that arrived yesterday (thank you!), go the the cuk madit (big market) for tomatoes, garlic and avocados and see if I can find the Cilantro I've heard is there. Then I'll round up some Chipati (closest thing to tortillas), get some already cooked beans from The Happy Nest Guest House and put together some soft bean tacos and for dessert: Raspberry Chocolate (Evie again!). Also must find elastic and straight pins (mine were stolen in the burglary!) to start the process of making a Pillow-case Dress for the project I'll be doing with the women here.  Finding elastic could be an all day affair, but Rose - who has a tailoring shop - has offered to help me find supplies when the project turns large scale.  One hundred firty pillow case dresses is definitely large scale when it's being done by hand.

Onward! The rain has stopped and I think I have a window of opportunity!

Owls, Jesus and Miss Uganda

It's been one of those "interesting" days.  Just about the time the unusual (hauling water, living by candle light, smacking white ants, flushing with bath water...) becomes usual, something comes along that tweaks the senses - or the sensibilities.    A little of both drifted by today.  The first came after picking up a package at the Post Office.  The guys that work there are friends now - we know each others names, greet on the street - it's nice.    I know my packages will be OK there - once they reach there...  So I picked (that's the expression here - not "picked up," just "picked) my package and paid for it as post office conversation mingled with a cacophony of sounds from seemingly everywhere outside.  A wedding, celebration, what? Things like graduations, National Handwashing Day, National Women's Day -  merit a marching band.  This is most assuredly not a marching band.  Horns - lots of horns.  Once outside I am treated to the sight of at least twelve piki-pikis (motor cycles) all decked-out with posters for Prayer Night (tonight) leading a procession of SUVs. But it's the male drivers that caught my eye.  How do I say this?  These studly guys are are wearing 18" tall pointy cone hats made from the posters. The contradiction of this hits me:  cone hats, cone heads, dunce hats, witch hats.  They mean nothing here of course, so I'm the only one that seems to find this funny.  After such a spectacle, I don't know that I could follow these folks in Prayer.   But I wasn't planning on going anyway.  I'm in for a nice quite evening at home.  (They're ALL that way unless we play a rousing game of scrabble....  or get excited about the power being on or hear water running - then it gets down right titillating.)  Read this and weep all you people stuck with having dinner out at a French restaurant, being forced to watch a first run movie...  taking a hot bath.

Moving right along, considering this parade, I wandered up to Coffee Hut with the hope of finding some of the group there and salivating over what treat I might indulge in to celebrate getting off  "mid day"  (2:30) from work.    I saw a man getting his Cheeseburger with fries and said "I'll have what he's having,"  victim of a momentary lapse - dreaming of a Fudrucker's  or Jimmy Buffetts Cheesburger in Paradise.   It was not to be, but  it was somehow  a close enough facsimile to do the trick. 

As I was waiting, storm clouds moved in and I braced for the downpour.  Before that - a medium size young man walked by clutching a smallish bird that was most definitely NOT a chicken.  What IS that?  He held up a baby owl he is trying to sell?  Oh noooooo.  I try to conceal my horror, but also know that this is livlihood or dinner.    I actually thought for a moment about buying it and releasing it or raising it, but I a don't think I would be a very good Owl-mama and know it will die if I don't figure out how to regurgitate meat for it...  Then another little boy walks by with yet another  baby owl.  I'm glad Mom's not here to see this.  The man across from me has tears in his eyes, and I know from the perspective of people needing food, this is probably a sloppy sentiment.   But we are who we are and I am bothered.  And how the hell do you rob an owl's nest?    I am informed that this is honey harvesting season and they've probably discovered the nest while foraging for bee hives.     

Where is my friend Lizzy - rescuer of all creatures great and small -  when I need her?  Lizzy, I know you're reading this and I remember your carrying around a little basket of baby birds one spring and feeding them with an eye dropper.  I know you would know what to do for these little babies.    In the overall scheme of things, we are the only ones bothered by owl babies being taken from the nest.  Here - where many small things don't get what they need, baby birds just don't matter that much, unless they are a meal, and then they matter quite a lot.

Tomorrow night on a lighter note, the Search for Miss Uganda contest is happening in my very own front yard - literally.  Diana Gardens, the club whose music I hear until the wee-hours is hosting the contest and it starts at 6:00 PM.  Since I won't get a wink of sleep, I may as well join the fun . Where else will I get such an opportunity?  10,000 UgX (less than $5) to get in ;-)   Tonight I can be saved and tomorow night I can help pick Miss Uganda.  That's what I call a full weekend.

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa....

There's a song to that title and I never noticed it - until....  the club in our front yard started playing it every time it rains!   And honestly - having rain is like re-birth.   Unfortunately White Ants know this and are born in the millions.   My friend Holly wrote me about the White Ant (termite) invasion at her house in Kitgum.  They woke up this morning to the floors being covered with the bodies of zillions of white ants (you know the ones they saute up with a little oil - after pulling the wings off  and serve with a little chilled white wine??? OK - I exaggerate - serve with beer).  Fortunately they'd slept with their door closed, so they were not rudely awakened by the swarm.  At the time I read this, I was basking in the wonderful cool, autumn-like breeze that blesses us during rainy season and the marching band down the street (4 measures repeated with gusto) had tuned up. For just a moment I had a nostalgic thought of foot-ball, tail-gate  parties....  crisp evenings.   A few bowls of crisp white ants,  some BBQ goat,  a few bottles of Nile Beer - and the fantasy got really weird.  So I went back to my Italian Roast Espresso, pan-made toast with Blue Band (akin to margarine - even the mice don't eat it) and the last chapter of another who-done-it.  But this afternoon, we noted that a little girl in the neighborhood was collecting white ants in an empty water bottle.  Somewhere tonight hors d'oeuvres are being served...

We had a storm of Biblical proportions a few nights ago.    The storms here out-do anything I've experienced in Texas or Louisiana  in terms of the sheer violence of the thunder, the torrential rain and duration - until you get to hurricanes.    It was spectacular and cold (meaning below 70).  Ugandans the next morning were dressed in winter coats, shawls, knitted hats.  The Mzungus were in heaven.    Getting up the morning after - in the dark, power being "finished"- I stumbled into the dining area and once again something big skittered away.    This time I saw it - a calico kitten - about 6 months or at least not old enough to look near death like the other two feral cats who live on the property.  (We've named then Yin and Yang by the way, since they are studies in black on white and white on black).  This one is not completely wild because she paused halfway out the kitchen window considering her options no doubt.  She's awfully cute, but evidently terrible at her job as mouser.  The little beast is still here looking for my  Dark Chocolate Granola Bars.  It'll be a cold day in hell before it gets another one.  They are now in a metal can..

Well damn!  There are things flying around the light-bulb!  Oh god it's White Ants!!!!!!!    Time out.

OK -  five dead white ants later - I've now had my aerobic activity for the night.  First we spray them with BOP to make 'em dizzy.  While they're distracted I whack 'em with the famed Mosquito Zapper.

They're BIG and they crunch underfoot.  You will know it's time for me to come home when I ask for Lemon Pepper to use on White Ants... 

Oh that note, I hear water trickling.  It's been on and off 4 times this afternoon - never enough for a bath or shower, but enough to fill the toilet tanks.  Tonight we flush.  How the mighty have fallen...

Six Months at Site

It's a beautiful Sunday Morning in Gulu - cool breeze and I'm sitting on the front porch with a fresh cup of Anderson's Italian Espresso Roast coffee sent by a friend (thank you Marcia!) and no particular demands on the day.  Yes - hand washing a pile of clothes and hauling water for said purpose, but these things are beginning to be mundane.  There's a certain amount of victory in this day because it means we have been at site (not just in country) for 6 months now.    That feels like a benchmark.  These things are marked on the calendar.

Kampala's recent visit now firmly past history was interesting in a lot of ways and facilitated a bit of an attitude shift.     First of all, there was the luncheon with the NODEL delegation, a wonderful, interesting, hospitable group of 28 coordinated by the folks at  a fine organization of CARE  Learning Tours. Since which some of you asked for more detail, here it is.  I was invited along with three other Peace Corps Volunteers from different areas in Uganda to come to Kampala, and talk Peace Corps with the delegation that came to see how tax dollars, policy and reality on the ground relate. Those that I was able to actually meet (time was short and tightly scheduled) included Senator Johnny Isakson, GA (co-author of the Kate Puzey Act calling for greater security for PCVs); Senator Isakson's two aids - both named Chris!, Senator Jack Kingston,  also GA, House Appropriations Committee,  Ambassador Jimmy Kolker (Uganda and Berkina Fasso); Barbara Lee, President and CEO of CARE,  Bo  Cutter, Roosevelt Institute;  Stephen Keith, MD; Catherine Connors,  one of the Directors of Babble (i.e. Disney Social Media) and Saiqa Panjsheri , Deputy Director of Learning Tours.  They are all so welcoming and gracious, conversation was good and very informal which was really a surprise and a treat. Real people.   Senator Isakson gave a beautiful introduction about PC and presented us all with Brass Medallions with the Senate Seal.  A stellar dance troupe headed by the one of the men (whose name I don't have) involved in the Award Winning Documentary, War Dance danced pretty much throughout the lunch.  The performance was exciting, but prevented any serious conversations. 

I sat between the Ambassador and Dr. Keith and near Senator Isakson -  funny, casual and human. - all of them.  The meal was great. The observation  was made that it must be a little like being in college and having the parents come to take us out to a really great meal and entertainment.  Funny and  sadly true.  Such a treat would consume a healthy portion of our PC stipend ;-)  And - it was over in a flash.  I think we were initially all a bit nervous at being on the spot to have serious discussions about PC safety and security, effectiveness, etc. but as it turned out it to be a fun day!

From there it got terribly mundane...  From the previous blog, you know Kampala was pretty well shut down.  Still, I got a "new" tooth, shoes fixed, computer fixed, updated software, the return of my lost travel pillow, a good visit with friends and survived the bus ride back in fine form.     Easter being a time of renewal of the spirit, it was timely and appropriate.  At times it feels that if anything breaks or goes wrong, you're up the proverbial creek.  You can probably get there, but first you'd have to find an ax to cut down a tree to carve a paddle if you had a knife...   Nice to find easier options.  No, it's good to find options at all. 

Now back at "home" in Gulu, the drama of Uganda is always tapping at the door.  The young woman who helps with a few things around the house  (with her eight-month old baby on her back ) came today asking for help in working with the police who are dragging their feet in helping her get child support from the baby's daddy.  Not safe for us to get involved in a domestic dispute, so how to help her without exposing ourselves is a dilemma.  A paternity test is certainly going to be involved and it seems one must go to Kampala for such things and that means money, not only for the  test, but for transportation there and back. If she had money to do that - well you see the cycle. For every one tale of woe that makes it to your doorstep, there are hundreds or thousands out there.  Many women have voiced the desire to limit the number of children, but fear their husbands who are locked in to  long-standing cultural beliefs that make change unsafe in a different way.  No easy fix, but the younger and more educated generation - especially in the cities, are beginning to shift. 

It's raining now:  blue sky on one side of the house, rain on the other, settling dust and certainly breeding a few more mosquitoes.  Soon it will be time again to close the windows (or manage mosquito screens (not as straight forward as it sounds) and learn to make Pillow case dresses!  But for now - some form of lunch...

The Mouse Who Prefers Dark Chocolate...

 “We have a mouse,” the text says….
 “Have you named it?"  I reply.
 “Skid.” 
“Did you or did he – skid, that is?” I asked.

At the time I was half-way through my first solo bus ride back to Gulu.  I mention “solo” because I had been dreading this – we all dread travel.  But traveling with someone is always not only more fun,  it is – well – easier.  The Post Bus (the post office’s version of the Pony Express) leaves at 8AM and  to get a seat other than being sandwiched in over the rear axle means walking in Kampala in the dark.  As usual before a day of travel I have slept poorly, but it wouldn’t have mattered because the housekeeping staff woke me at 4AM by banging cleaning buckets.  I wonder if – like Nurse Ratched - they don’t all secretly harbor a dislike for the inmates in this asylum.

So I packed up, took a safe route to the bus (zero-dark-thirty now) and stopped by Brood, a bakery that makes real Croissants (not just somehow) and grabbed a ham and cheese version along with an apple muffin – both seriously good I might add.  Good bread and pastries are always a surprise and lend one an incongruous feeling of safety.  I arrived early to get a seat by a window, because like a dog, I have to have wind blowing in my face when riding in a vehicle.  (Go ahead - I know there will be commentary on this.)  Having purchased my ticket the day before, the process was made easier.  AND – I discovered with great delight and deep gratitude that the travel pillow I’d forgotten on the bus-ride from Gulu over 6 weeks ago had been turned into Lost and Found.   (Ugandans are by-in-large amazingly honest folks and I have gone back to retrieve any number of items I’ve left somewhere – from water bottles to cell-phones.)

By 6:30 people are already there for the 8AM bus.  Negotiating a bathroom stop (called a Short Call for #1, Long call for #2)) is the next challenge I’d begun dreading and the reason we like traveling in packs. Always good to have someone watching your stuff.   This probably falls under the category of TMI, but if you don’t have someone to guard your stuff, ya’ gotta’ take it with you.  It’s not the 99% of honest people you worry about, it’s that other 1%.  (I’m remembering that years ago in Italy, I was robbed in a Pension by another American tourist – not a local.) Trying to negotiate a filthy latrine with two back packs and a purse hanging off off you could mean disaster.   Stories  abound about people slipping into a latrine hole - not to mention the one about the latrine floor collapsing plunging a PCV into deep S*** literally.  No you don’t want to sit anything on the floor either. And don't forget your money - there’s a fee for going to pee – 200 Shillings.  Extra for toilet paper I presume. 

Back to the bus.  Miraculously I don’t have a seatmate so this is turning out OK.  Somewhere after the Short Call I caught a whiff of alcohol wafting up from the back of the bus.  Not long after that, someone ambled unsteadily to the front and I began hearing a voice that sounded like a bad radio on high volume.  It was just after the Hallelujahs that I discovered this dis-embodied voice was attached to the person of a snaggle-toothed disciple.  I heard – in Acholi – that “people are bad, people are rotten and people are hard.”   Sounding more and more (except for the Acholi) like the  Monte Santo Baptist church we attended growing up in Baton Rouge, I’m now grateful for – at the age of 5 -  having  chosen to sing the jingle for a beer commercial  (Hello mellow Jax little darlin’– you’re the beer for me, yessiree”…) in Sunday School one day: resulting in our excommunication from that realm of the sacred.   Our roving preacher continued, but I remained unperturbed because I’m already in Hell and … I have an empty seat next to me, Cheese Ritz crackers and a warm Coke as we inch toward my Home away from Home.  Extra variety in scenery was provided by the Baboons crouching along the   road side after the Nile - the Vervet monkeys having had squatting rights on the way over.

Staying at the Annex makes one glad to be back home where you don’t have to share a bathroom and there are no mid-night maids, though there IS the resounding thud of bass music, one of the benchmarks of Uganda life everywhere but the bush.  But water “is finished” again and this will mean hauling and flushing the toilet with bath water.

Falling into bed early, I climbed under the net and tucked into yet another murder mystery, using the book-light, because electricity is also ‘finished.” I heard an ever-so-slight munching noise coming from the bookcase in my bedroom corner.   Extricating myself from the enclosure, I tiptoed over to find the source.  Looking in three boxes of fabulous crunchy granola bars that I covet and have moved to the mouse-free-zone (mistake) in the bedroom, I noticed a tiny thread of mouse-tail sticking up in one of them.  Distinctly non-granola in nature, I surmised it to be the rat-fink that gnawed into my Crunchy Dark Chocolate Nature Valley Granola bars two weeks ago.  Stealth-like, I closed the top and held it down while the little F***er  scrambled to get out.  I called to my housemate to unlock the front door so I could humanely release the greedy little rodent into the wild.  (I’m not quite up to more visceral forms of mouse execution yet, but this event is moving me ever closer to the death-penalty. Think  of Willard, not Ratatouille.)  Finding the keys in the dark, holding both mouse-trap (aka granola box) and flashlight while we unlock the door, I put the box on the front porch – not wanting to fling it out into the bushes because I STILL HAVE GRANOLA BARS in there. The little  S*** darted out and ran across a foot and BACK INTO THE HOUSE.  And thus was pounded another nail in the coffin of humane attitudes. 

Curiously, this mouse has – to our knowledge – eaten nothing but my Dark Chocolate Granola Bars.  Damn him. I didn’t even know they (these particular granola bars) existed until Travis and Lori sent them and now I’m hooked – but so is the mouse. This means war and it will be a fight to the death.  Shall we use a standard mousetrap, the glue kind, the poison tablets???  This was a matter of great debate last night among three of us as we sat with beers in hand.  Although the walls are concrete, this tiny creature with teeth like Jaws has managed to gnaw a substantial hole into the wall next to my bedroom door. The point being,  I/we don’t want it to crawl in and die (and therefor stink).  Neither do we want to watch it die slowly – as in the glue method.  Mouse-trap???  I haven’t seen one in Uchumi…   

So it’s another day in Gulu. Today’s task is to find a mousetrap.  The Marching Band has tuned up and we’ve been treated to several rounds of the Ugandan National Anthem; there’s something like military marching chants coming from around the District Offices and Kat is looking mournful outside unbeknownst to her that  lunch awaits inside my house.   If only she could make herself trust the bizarre looking Mzungus inside – we would even serve relish.

Apple tarts... and Apple parts

It finally happened...  after a pretty decent day yesterday which started with a hike across town for a Cappuccino and an apple tart (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) my trusty Mac (called ancient by some - its being a 2008 version) was put on life support today and has rallied with a cable transplant and a lot of hard drive repair. 

Good Friday (a misnomer in this case):  with fear in my heart and panic in my soul I had no choice - I found the Apple computer place that only sells hardware (for those of you in PC owning an Apple it's Elite Computers at Garden City - ground level).  Being Good Friday - Kampala was closed.  Saturday - "Oh you need the support center."   OMG there's a SUPPORT CENTER in Kampala?  Are they Authorized - well - let's not go there.  Suffice it to say that they are an Authorized Re-seller. 

Monday - still closed:  Easter MONDAY! (Uganda takes it's holidays seriously.) Tuesday dawns:  Time is running out and like the burned foot, I have to trust someone.  I have found the Support Center in the back of a building along Kampala Road.

I enter with my baby in arms.  This act is only slightly less stressful than taking your infant child to the emergency room.  I know - I've done both.   I find George, a nice Ugandan tech who speaks impeccable English that I can understand.  (I am not being sarcastic....  my ear is not yet attuned to the somehow British Ugandan English and they speak very s.o.f.t.l.y).  I am relieved and finally allow myself to breathe.  I tell him the issues:  the wheel, the recurring scary black sign emanating Darth Vader vibes saying in FIVE languages YOU MUST SHUT DOWN YOUR COMPUTER.... NOOOOOOOOW.  I do - no one messes with Darth Vader.    This morning, there was only a thready pulse...  Programs would not open.   It wasn't even whimpering - it was deathly quiet - registering not so much as the battery indicator.

George is one of those low-key high-tech types that make those of us who are neither want to do homage.  He speaks in comforting tones, smiles, nods knowingly when I make references to this being my child, gets me to step-away-from-computer saying things like "don't worry," (comforting) followed by "It's backed up - right?  (not so comforting - even if it is backed-up).  I admit to not having the back-up drive with me and he says he'll back it up to one of his....  OK, another deep breath now.  

Prior to this total act of trust and desperation, I have purged files, removed pictures, prayed, made deals with the devil, etc. - all to no avail.  I have contacted PCVs with move computer savvy that I have and acted on recommendations.  So 911 is a last resort - going to an unknown Computer hospital in Uganda could be life-threatening.  Remember - we are warned not to seek random medical care and this almost seems to qualify as emergency care in life-or-death circumstances.  No - I'm not being over-dramatic.   Computers are the life-blood of a volunteer!

When he says it will take hours, I agree not to hover. Instead, I leave and go suck my thumb.  Some three hours later he tells me he has hit a snag.  I made more deals with the devil and went in search of both chocolate and money.  (I am at the bottom of my account inasmuch as I have paid for this rather expensive trip of five days in the garden spot known as Kampala over EASTER when others of my kind are frisking around on the Nile probably eating fine food....   I have not been reimbursed.  Time to beg.) 

Having cleaned out my account, there is no money for chocolate.   The computer will take it all.  See what mothers will do to save their children?    When I return to the shop, George is out for lunch.  I decide this is a good sign because he wouldn't leave if it were dying - right?  He returns, says there is a cable that seems iffy.  I translate this to open heart surgery, hearing transplant in my mind.  And there it is: a cable.  One microscopic thread of a wire - one of many in this tiny bundle - has broken.  And - therein lies the culprit, the saboteur, the beast!  No amount of cleaning, purging, downloading, praying, etc. would have worked.  We need parts - Apple parts.  Lucky for me there is a donor in the very next room.  I will wait...

I find yet another Who-done-it to read on my Kindle and spend another two hours in the "waiting room"  with other expectant Apply owners.  Finally the doctor emerges, beaming proudly as he announces "It will live."

So I have a largely functioning computer, which will be happier when I get it home and do the Time Machine backup.  I also have the latest versions of  Office and I don't know what else.  And I have lived to tell the tale, having been pulled back from the edge by George.  Once again - what seemed dire at the outset, has proved less than fatal.  Like the burn, the fire, the tree falling and the burglary - another chapter in the adventure.  Enough already - when do we get to the fun part!  Are we there yet???

So, for any of you fellow-PCV's reading this, there is Mac Help in Kampala, should you ever need it. The whole affair cost me 200,000 shillings (including cable transplant).   We are in "recovery" tonight. 

Panic is exhausting.  I've had two Orange Fantas - damn I hate that drinking gives me headache.  This would have been a good time to start.  

Roosters - somehow...

Everything around here is just different - even things that would appear somehow the same - as in the language, which is English, but different somehow.  Even the word somehow takes on meaning that is uniquely Ugandan - meanings almost, about, the-same-but-not-really, sometime, maybe, your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine, makes-no-sense etc.  So everyday, there's a bit of something that just keeps one either on edge, vigilant, shaking one's head... not "getting it" or just getting-it-wrong.   This morning it was chickens expecting entrance into the house - and this was - somehow - normal.

Early morning I heard scratching at the mat on the front porch.  I've been trying to "make friends" with the poor, pitiful white feline who seems always to be around.  At times she/he/it  stretches out completely motionless for so long, I walk over to see if there is still life in the old thing. I'd like it not to die on my watch.  It is afraid of  humans and if I get within the same solar-system, looks at me with withering distrust (or maybe disgust), just before running away.  But now I can get within about 12 feet before the great escape.  When there is extra or extra-smelly tuna fish  (which describes ANY tuna fish on the shelf in Uganda) I leave it out in a bowl at the far end of the house.  Recently however, we've left things closer to the the front door to discover the bowl licked clean by morning and we think it is Kat doing the licking. At least Kat has taken now to speaking to me through the window on rare moments, when there is the protection of a concrete wall and window between us.

So - when I heard the scratching, I thought it was Kat.  Quietly peering out the window, the source of the racket revealed itself to be the neighbor's rooster scratching the papyrus mat in search of - what?  (If you were a Ugandan, you would both ask and anwser that question:   And he was looking for what???  He was looking for ______.) Certainly the grass outside has better offerings.    Still sporting the fashionable hemp rope (worn by most cluckers here) tied to both legs and once-upon-a-time to something else to keep him from wandering, he kicked both legs as though to shake off his shackles, letting me know it was beneath his dignity to wander around with his prison clothes on.   Continuing to strut around,  he was giving me that eye that birds do - cocking the head as though to say "Yeah - and what are YOU looking at?"  Then he sidestepped in my direction,  accompanied by his lady-friend  - daring me to  block his path. Telegraphing his intention to march right through the front door and have a look around, he obviously has none of Kat's  inhibitions re: humans.

One of these days I might look around by the edges of the fence-line and see if there have been any eggs deposited there - but not today.  Caroline (landlady) has just approached with a young woman with a hoe.  Seems we have not been doing the Ugandan thing of keeping the 4-5 foot area surrounding the house scraped clear of even so much as a scrap of grass.  I don't know why they literally scrape the earth that way.  Earlier I thought it was to keep snakes away, or mosquitoes - but neither of those seem to be either encouraged or impeded by high grass. They are perhaps unaware of the implied deed restrictions regarding same.  But bare earth is the culturally proper thing and we - neither possessing a hoe nor the time or inclination to use one in this manner - are possibly bad for the neighborhood.     Odd that no one seems to consider the landfill amount of rubbish lining the streets and indeed - the alley between our house and the bar - offensive.  Just grass next to the house is against the rules.    It's just another one of those non-sequiturs of Uganda.

Today I head out again for Kampala.  There is a group - an unofficial delegation (NODEL) - here to look into US. programs:  CARE being one and Peace Corps evidently being another.  A couple of PCVs are going on their rounds of projects in the Gulu area today and  a couple of others have been invited to have lunch with them in Kampala.  I am one of that small group lunching in Kampala, which should be interesting, but I have to GET to Kampala.  Hoping not to have to ride the always-excruciating  public transport there, I've ever-so-gratefully snagged a ride in one of the caravan of vehicles headed back to the big-K this afternoon.  So it'll be Easter weekend in Kampala - staying there because on Tuesday I finally get the new (translate - permanent) crown installed. I'm fantasizing about a movie and maybe even a pedicure.

I've been guaranteed a single room in the Annex - one with a fan, but NO WINDOWS!!!!  Funny, the things one get accustomed to:  water, light, windows, clean air.  Aaaaah - I am beginning to understand why it is that people kiss the ground on landing back in the U.S.    And on that note - there's a poem written by another PCV, I'd like to share if you follow-the-link to read American Skin:  karla-offscript.blogspot.com