"It takes a village..."

 

A choking fog of malaise has drifted and settled over Gulu sifting into the nooks and crannies of the psyche like the cloud of fine red silt that is beginning to blow down the streets. Permeating hair, skin, nostrils, computers, clothes, sheets, mosquito net and shoes I am constantly covered in a rust-colored veneer.  I’m sure when I return to the States, people will asked when I dyed my skin because all one has to do is walk outside and whatever was washed off is instantly replaced. Dry season has hit with a vengeance.   It’s not really wicked-hot yet, but still debilitating.  Yesterday I ran errands all day with a young man I decided to sponsor for school.  Mid-afternoon I came home and stood under a cold shower for 20 minutes and was somewhat revived, but by 8:30 I was so exhausted I climbed into bed.

Several interesting events this week:

First, a couple of PCV friends were going to come to dinner on Saturday, but that was pre-empted by catastrophe.  Seems my friend and her supervisor left to go to the field in one car setting off an hour later than the car (we’ll call Car One) with a couple of co-workers.  Bad roads are legendary here and Saturday’s route took them along a road where work was being done and the road narrowed to one lane (as opposed to the 1.5 lane width usually available on a good road).  The driver of Car One, slowing to avoid oncoming traffic - swerved to avoid a pothole and in the process hit a rock which popped the car over onto its side: hitting three children in the process.  One infant being carried on the back of his older brother (still a small child himself) died on scene.   An angry mob of villagers wielding machetes and rocks instantly surrounded the car ready to exact  their pound of flesh for the death. 

The driver called the supervisor in the car following and explained the situation.  Naturally phones were either out of airtime or out of juice and that complicated matters, as the crowd was growing angrier by the moment.  Thankfully, the car’s doors locked when it flipped, so no one could get into the car and drag out the driver. The PCV called Peace Corps security (Fred) and god bless Fred – because he magically was able to contact some local official who staved off a massacre (literally) and removed the driver and passenger to a police barracks, with the crowd following.  When the threats turned to burning down the barracks,  another call was made and PC security was able to get someone to come and escort the driver to another village.

The crowd began to settle down when the driver said he would take care of the burial. The next day the brother of the infant died making matters worse.   This event is not uncommon in Uganda – in the villages.  Mob justice reigns.

In other news, nine people were beheaded in a town far south of here over some land dispute involving the church.   And yes, we actually feel quite safe here as these are local matters and have nothing to do with politics or Muzungus…  that would be us. Still – it’s a bit unsettling.  Beheadings and poisonings are not exactly routine, but they are the preferred method of doing away with people who annoy you. 

On a more cheerful note, I’m now sponsoring a young man to go back to school.  Peter (Okwir Diken Peter) is his name and I met and became friends with him after several conversations on the street.  Peter was a street kid evidently for a good while.  I don’t know what brought him to the street, but almost certainly it was related to the war or effects of war.  In Gulu, there are about 100 like him ranging in age from 5 – 21.  Peter is 17 and has made it to the 7^th grade.  Considering that he’s been on the street for a long time, his grades are good and while he has not been able to earn the money to go to school himself, he’s been working toward getting an NGO here to help the street kids: find them a group shelter, food, counseling and hopefully a way back to their families or school. This problem characterizes the north.

Peter, amazingly never asked me for help.  We just talked about his efforts to get shelter for the street kids.  In the process, I discovered he wanted to go back to school but didn’t have the funds.  We’re talking boarding school because he needs a place to sleep and a food source.   There are clearly other issues: he’s become accustomed to total freedom and lack of any authority other than himself, so it’s been a tough re-entry into the routine and requirements of school.  But – he was admitted back in to the level of P7 because he’s bright, well-mannered and motivated and has some community leaders advocating for him.  I began to have the feeling that the best way to help him with his street kids, is to help him get back in school so that he has a "voice."

So here we are.  I paid his fees for this term – part of them anyway – enough to get him in.  And as we get our PC stipend each month I’ll add to it.  He’ll work on holidays to finish it out, but the requirement with boarding school is that you don’t leave campus unescorted for the full three months of the term.    Interestingly, school fees include a contribution to: cement for repairs, a lightening rod, beans and posho, exam fees and an odd assortment of miscellany.   It amounts to 286,000 shillings (about $100 US).  The dorm consists of a large room with cement floors, where the boys lay their mattresses butted up against each other on the floor.  They share an outdoor latrine and bathing area (bucket baths) and are required to bring their own toilet paper, copy paper and broom – among other things.   He couldn’t afford the socks or the flashlight or the toilet paper or the shoe polish or Vaseline or –or –or the 6 passport pictures or the 21 notebooks - so we’re piecing that all together.   I’ll post a picture when I get one.

Today I walked to the school to take him a bag of supplies and it was an odd feeling to be helping another young man with school: a mixture of old memories of going to school for my own kids and somehow becoming a surrogate mother to a 17 year old  man-child.

This term is a test of sorts to see how he does.  Considering the fact that last year was his first year back in school and part of that time he was working to pay for it, he’s done pretty well.  In the process of getting him back in, I’ve met what amounts to a handful of people who represent his support system.   Since he has no home to go over the holidays, someone has agreed to find him “some small space.   Others have agreed to continue to seek a place for his street kids.  It’s rather daunting and the Nigerian proverb "it takes a whole village to raise a child" has become real. Here it’s quite literal.

As we were walking back to the school yesterday he asked what we do in American when the electricity goes out.  I answered that that rarely happens and he was stunned.  Then he said:  “I hear that in the UK they don’t use candles for light, they are only used for celebrations! Can that really be true?”    When I answered “yes” he was silent for a long time after uttering an almost reverent, “wow!”

And that’s my week in review. It's now Sunday morning and it's uncharacteristically quite.  The club music provided a thud all might and turned into the Call t Prayer this morning followed by church music on steroids.  I guess everyone has finally fallen asleep, because the only sound is a rooster and the wind through the trees.  Onward to another cup of coffee...