heading north

we set the alarms for 4:30 am.

after a hasty gathering-up of stuff, we headed out through the dark, deserted streets of gulu. it was a bit surreal--the streets are usually so hot and loud and crowded, but now it was a complete ghost town. the overnight bus from kampala stopped at the edge of town, and after a heated argument with the conductor, who was trying to overcharge us by a ridiculous amount, we climbed aboard, past sleeping passengers, over the boxes and bundles and even old truck tires that filled the aisle.

we were heading to sudan. my roommate wanted to do some research on the agricultural trade between gulu and southern sudan, and the rest of us just wanted to go for the adventure of it. you see, when you see a border, it is very difficult to resist the urge to cross it.

the only flaw in our plan was that we did not have our passports. they had been confiscated by our academic directors, to prevent us from doing just this sort of thing--gallivanting about in neighboring countries, possibly getting into trouble, that sort of thing. it's true, that most of the countries surrounding uganda are pretty politically unstable, if not engaged in outright civil wars. but still. as my classmate who was researching family planning said exasperatedly, "sure, it sounds great to just say 'don't do it.' but you know no one will listen. so it's better to give people what they need to do it safely rather than putting them in danger by denying the fact that they'll do it anyway."

and this is how we came to the northern border of uganda, with nothing more than our student IDs and a few peoples' xeroxes of their passports. we approached the border guards, simply hoping for the best. if we got turned away, we would just head down along the border a few kilometers, away from the station, and get a boda-boda to sneak us across. [fun fact: the word boda-boda comes from a slurring of "border, border," as these motorcycle taxis were originally used to transport people from one border town to another.] employing a boda was our plan, anyway, if we managed not to get ourselves detained.

the man behind the counter demanded: "customs forms"

we handed them over.

"passports?" he said.

"er, well... we don't exactly have them with us."

"you see, they are in kampala. our teachers have taken them."

"we've got these copies of them. some, anyway"

"and our student ids."

"and my driver's license." we spewed out in a flurry.

he was unimpressed. "impossible," he said. you can't cross the border without a passport."

"please?"

"no! wait over there. i'm going to go get my supervisor."

we stood nervously in the office of the border guard, awaiting our fate. a much taller man came up to us and said gruffly "who is the head of this group?" and for no particular reason, everyone pointed at me. "come with me," he said.

i'm going to be detained, i'm going to be detained, oh no, i'm in trouble, i thought.

so he took me off into another room and started questioning me about who we were and what we were doing and such. at one point i answered that we were studying through makarere university in kampala.
"makarere university? which department?"
"um... development studies."
"that was my college! i'm in their grad school now, majoring in development studies!" he gestured to an article that he'd been reading, hidden underneath the customs forms. it was labeled with the makarere university development studies stamp.
"oh, yes i love the school. great professors, um... beautiful campus" i stumbled.
"oh yes!" he agreed heartily. and we chatted about the school for a while.

finally, he said. "well, as you are just students and won't be there for too long, i guuueees we can let you cross the border without passports. i'll write you a note of special permission from this border station, and hopefully when you get to the sudanese border station they'll let you across." and thus i emerged from the office, completely amazed at what had happened, holding a signed letter that would be our ticket to sudan.

after crossing the eerie no-man's-land between, we arrived at the sudanese border post. a tense conversation ensued but we were finally allowed across.

whoo! we were in sudan! although, it looked remarkably similar to northern uganda. but it was more the principle of the thing. and the people looked different, taller, slimmer, with darker completions. a sign near the crossing read "welcome to sudan! do not leave the road--beware of landmines." rebel soldiers with their armbands reading "SPLA" (sudan people's liberation army) milled about.

we walked along the road for a while, still not quite believing it "we're in sudan! we're in sudan!" well, southern sudan to be exact. it has previously rebelled against the sudanese government, and currently is semi-autonomous, basically with its own government and military (which, by the way, aided the ugandan military in fighting the LRA, who were in turn funded by the north sudanese government)--not that northern sudan likes this situation too much. in 2010 there will be a referendum to see whether the south will succeed, though whether the northern government will allow this is questionable.

i talked with a boda-boda driver about it there--"do you think that southern sudan will succeed?"

he answered, "all of us here in southern sudan pray that that is what will happen." he launched into a long explanation of the cultural and historical differences between the north and the south, the opression the people of the south have suffered at the hands of the north.

"do you think the northern government will allow you to succeed?"

it was kind of hard to hear his response, because we were riding a motorcycle, but he didn't seem too optomistic. there is talk of the possibility of a renewed civil war in the south. the south hasn't even been especially peaceful even since the civil war ended (though a lot of that is the result of LRA attacks there). and considering the sudanese government's response to darfuri rebels, i don't think things look too optimistic either.

anyway, we went on to the market of nimule. predictably, it looked rather like the market in gulu--women sitting on the ground beside piles of onions and grain and tomatoes stacked in pyramids, little wooded stalls with colorful fabric and pots and hair and clothing hanging on the walls. we passed a ramshackle bar, roofed with a blue tarp reading "UNHCR" (United Nations High Commission on Refugees) and a stall selling blue tins of food labeled "WFP (World Food Programme). Not for resale." ah, the irony. i guess you've gotta do what you've gotta do to get by in a postconflict zone. still, further evidence that international aid never quite goes as planned.

as we walked, i broke my sandals. again. i went through four pairs of sandals this semester. i swear that i am not usually this clumsy, but on this trip, falling into ditches and breaking my shoes (sometimes, though not always, at the same time) have become my trademark. luckily, there was a market nearby, full of cheap clothing. i selected some brown flip flops, and began bargaining with the salesman. i was worried i would have to do a complicated conversion between sudanese pounds, ugandan shillings and us $, but they took ugandan shillings. predictably, actually. i got him down to 5,000 UGX ($2.50).

there was a woman bent over the shoes, arranging them, who came and stuck out her hand to me as soon as i established the price. assuming she was his assistant, i handed her the money. she turned instantly and walked away--or rather, stumbled, to be more accurate--she was clutching a half-empty bottle of waragi, the local liquor, and made a wobbily beeline for the UNHCR-tarped bar. lovely. i'd just contributed to a common and severe problem in postconflict areas with high levels of displacement: alcoholism. however, i soon noted another problem: she had told everyone in the bar that a stupid muzungu girl was handing out lots of money (note that what i'd just accidentally given her was more than my day's rent), and the drunken hordes would soon be upon me. i paid anothe 5,000UGX for some shoes, put them on, and ran.

the rest of the day was far less exciting. we shopped around a bit, bought some traditional waist beads, took some pictures, and headed back. it took us about 6 hours to go the 60-ish km back to gulu--the bus broke down multiple times, we baked in the sun as people tried to fix it, more people were stuffed into the already overcrowded van, people attempted to tie huge sheets of metal to the roof, which kept falling off, and about half an hour outside of gulu, the bus just stopped, proclaiming it would take us no further. we finally found a taxi and made it back to our bar.

the moral of the story is: whoo! we went to sudan!

our humble abode

i live in a bar.

not in the bar, exactly, but it's in a room behind a bar. a little sketchy, yes, but the rent is $2/night, so i'm not complaining. there are about eight rooms all surrounding a central courtyard. traditionally, ugandan families would live in clusters of huts, all inhabited by extended family members. this has shifted to family compounds, and in cities where people move away from their families, compounds of unrelated people. but i like the whole communal aspect of this living arrangement.

our place is simple, but it gets the job done. there is sometimes electricity and often water from the communal tap in the courtyard. it is quite noisy--the music videos (all five of them, played on repeat) start blasting from the bar at 7:00am and don't go off until 2:00am (unless we're lucky and there's a power outage). but the larger noise issue comes from the giant pentecostal church next door. there are services every day, which start around noon and don't end until sundown. unfortunately, they have a generator, and the most powerful amplifiers i have ever encountered. every day there is a period of "being possessed by the spirit" which sounds rather like an exorcism. for quite some time, people scream at the top of their lungs, shout in tongues, moan, cry, bang on things, etc.

but in the end, it's all part of the experience. i'm glad we're not isolating ourselves in some pseudo western lifestyle, conforming to the stereotype of the privileged muzungu expatriate. i'm glad we've had the opportunity to spend practicum living like normal ugandans.



however, we've been having some trouble with one of our neighbors, an elderly lady named christine. she is a grumpy sort, who sits outside and glowers at us for hours a day and never responds when we greet her, and likes to complain loudly to the barman about how much she hates living around muzungu researchers. she once saw one of my classmates doing sit-ups in the courtyard to train for soccer season, and chucked a chair at her.

one morning, i was sitting outside reading an article about the financing of congolese rebel groups through mineral extraction, when christine came outside. i said good morning to her, and predictably she glared at me and said nothing in response.

instead, however, she returned to her room, and came out again holding a dagger. this was no pocket or kitchen knife--it was a legit dagger, with a carved wooden handle and wicked black blade. she went over to the clothesline, and proceeded to start knifing my clothes. she had slashed my favorite headscarf to shreds before my indignant shouts brought the barman to my aid and we were able to drag her away from the laundry.

the landlord came to give her a talking-to, and she responded by raising her crutch high over her head and swinging it at the landlord's face. she went off on a rant about how she doesn't like white students. then she stood in the middle of the courtyard alternately cackling and clucking like a turkey. finally she went back into her room and peered out the window, glaring at us.

strange days indeed.