be still.

i’ve been back from Uganda for over a week now. i was a little bit sick for most of my first week back, but i’m mostly better now.

i’ve had a little bit of distance from the experience, so maybe i’ve been able to process it all a little bit—to decide how i feel about my time there, or maybe even if i learned anything about the world or about Karamoja or even about myself while i was there.

i’ve only seen a few people i know since i returned. But, of course, each friend (particularly those who haven’t themselves been to Karamoja) has questions about the culture of the people that i spent time with.

i’m not a trained anthropologist. More importantly, perhaps, i didn’t have the energy (diligence?) to devote much mental activity to noticing cultural details. But some things stood out, and those things tended not to be positive.

Now i’m back in America, and every once in a while people want to know what i think about the area. It’s hard to know what to say, but it’s easy to feel what to say. So i don’t end up saying what i think about the area—i say what i feel about the area. And when my experience is mediated to observers through my emotions, surely a darkness and misery exceeding the darkness and misery of day-to-day life in Karenga (is that a quantifiable kind of thing?) is communicated to the hearer—my emotions are clearly not a neutral medium of transmission; it is evident to me that my emotions distort the message, which i was never that careful with in the first place.

The children irritated me. They got inside my head. They would call me names. They would mock me. If i took a single step in their direction, they would cower in fear. They would sneak up behind younger children, pick them up (sometimes by their heads), and carry them toward me. Their reason for doing this was solely to frighten the younger children. And they would stare. Stare and stare and stare.

The children were cowards, and i usually hated them (i think). That’s a harsh way to feel toward kids—they’re young, you can’t expect them to behave like adults, whatever. They were cowards, and i usually hated them (if that’s what that emotion was). It wasn’t so much for their behavior that i hated them—although their behavior was usually heinous—rather, i hated them more for what their thoughts and actions suggested about their lives. It seemed that nothing was expected of them, they were held to no standards. They did not seem to be shown any love. Predictably, then, they did not seem to have the capacity to show love. And i wasn’t strong enough or wise enough or good enough in the five or six weeks that i spent in Karenga to shower the hundreds of kids i was in contact with with the love that i, in my feelings of western superiority, thought they needed. Or even one or two of the kids that i was in contact with. And i don’t think that i could ever be.

That doesn’t excuse hatred—if that’s truly what i felt toward them. In any case, it doesn’t excuse what i felt toward them, whether that was hatred or not. Whatever i felt toward the kids was wrong, but i assure you: i felt it.

This isn’t a post about what i should have felt. We could talk for ages about that. You wouldn’t come out of it saying ‘what you felt is what you should have felt, sam.’ But when i’m asked about the kids in Karenga, that’s what i know how to say right now.

There was a guy named Robert. He is about my age, maybe a little older. i think he’s around 27. Robert was really well built—even bulky, at least by local standards. He was usually one of the best players when we would go for football (or ‘play soccer’, for people who aren’t from Uganda). He’s applying at masters programs in United States—Michigan State and UConn, among others. When i returned from a week and a half of relaxation in Timu Forest, Robert stopped me in the road in front of the mission.

‘samuel! How was Timu? Do you remember my name?’

i had talked with him a little bit before we had left, but not much. Before i had the chance to vindicate my memory or to lose face by admitting that i had forgotten, he quickly followed his question with ‘anyway, it’s Robert, in case you forgot.’

We talked about Sudan—he had been there the day before—and he offered to take Stephen and me on his bike. We didn’t end up taking him up on the offer, but the offer was out there. As a friend.

‘i hope you go for football tonight,’ he said by way of parting.

i thought about Robert after unloading another round of harsh words tonight. If i didn’t see anything kind or compassionate or friendly or unselfish this summer, it’s because i wasn’t willing to see it. i’m always willing to allow a few exceptions—almost exclusively people who hosted us, be they mzungu missionaries or local priests and seminarians—but not for the culture at large. But Robert was just a piece of the culture at large, and he treated me kindly and unselfishly.

He was admittedly much wealthier and better educated than most other people in Karenga. But on the other hand, that meant that his English was much better than that of most other people in Karenga. And that, in turn, meant that i could communicate with him much more easily. Perhaps if i had been able to speak and understand Karamojong, i would have had access to more such experiences in the culture. It’s dangerous to form too strong of opinions about those that you can’t even speak with.

i don’t think i should think that Karenga culture is awesome. It’s clearly not. But i’m embarrassed by some of the things that i feel about Karenga. And when i’m asked about it, those are the things that i say.



come, be still
be together
told about the
joys and victories or
at the very least the
gracious finesse
of each blessed
failure come,
be still
be together
hold one another
in a sort
of esteem and
persuasion
of each self
will be sure to
follow
one
another
across
the
silence
would speak
and surely would to
the other
say come, be
still be together
but i don’t
even know how to
hear
what that one says
with words or not

come! smell the fish.

i’ll be on a plane departing from entebbe in less than 15 hours.

in the past four days of traveling, i’ve eaten ethiopian food, indian food, and chinese food. i have not eaten any american food (if such a thing exists) or ugandan food. i guess i had some pizza. maybe that’s ‘mer‘can.

i’ve seen the children in kitgum, the rain in gulu, and a small fishing village on lake victoria in entebbe.







when every person that you meet could probably be subject to a couple of pages of commentary after only first impressions—when every person has an elaborate backstory of hopes, expectations, wishes, disappointments, and successes—it’s hard to know which particular one to write about at a given moment.

when it’s 1:30am and you decide that you’re getting too old for such hours (at least when in africa), you don’t worry about who you’re going to write about. you just say ‘eh… i’ll write some things later.’

and then you say goodbye, africa.

goodbye, Africa.

the grind

it has been some time since i last said anything—spotty internet access and a dearth of things to say have contributed to that.

we returned to karenga on wednesday.

our plane leaves entebbe two weeks from tomorrow. we will leave karenga on either july 13 or july 14, giving us 11 or 12 more days here, during which we will wrap up our research.

everything that we have done in the past 11 days, we have done as vigorously as possible. when that was relaxing with the schrocks, we relaxed as vigorously as possible—there was not an hour of the day at which you could reliably assert that i could not possibly be in bed while i was in timu (although, of course, i was often not in bed, too). upon returning to karenga, we have similarly set back to work as vigorously as possible. we reached karenga at around 12:30pm on wednesday, and we had set off for lobalangit by 1pm. 7 miles of hitchhiking and 13 miles of walking later, we had contacted komol yet again, and he had agreed to come to karenga for another short stint. once komol arrived, i worked with him for 6-8 hours per day. he stayed three days, returning to lobalangit yesterday. i have essentially been asleep since then, although i am contemplating waking up again soon, so as to begin processing that data, collecting more mening data, and possibly giving katibong the old college try. again. (i wrote this four days ago, just as the phone network crashed for the rest of the week. retrospectively, katibong looks like it’s pretty much finished—at least as far as i am concerned.)

in timu, people spoke ik. in timu, we looked at kenya. in timu, we drank french-pressed coffee, ate popcorn or chili or pudding or poached eggs or whatever other delicious thing amber felt like preparing. i recorded two hours of ik men singing wordlists to me, in order to give me a preliminary survey of what sort of patterns of nasal coarticulation present in the ik language. we went for four hour walks in torrential downpours (or, more accurately, we went for a four hour walk in a torrential downpour). we watched movies and played scrabble and made really bad jokes (i, at least, made really bad jokes).



rainstorms have been something more of a norm since timu than they were before. apparently mid-june is a dry-spell in rainy season (not that we would possibly have known, given the great storms that would hit twice a week). so it was when we went to lobalangit.

komol was at home in puda village when we reached, so the local government officials sent a piki to fetch him. a short time later, the din of the local horde that had gathered at the door of the subcounty headquarters to spy on the mzungu visitors (the horde probably numbered ~60 or 70) was interrupted by the coughing of a tired karamojan motorcycle engine. an old man sat on the back of the bike, completely unaffected by the ride—aloof, confident, and smiling wryly. a leather hat emblazoned with ‘USA’ hung behind his head. he would come, but tomorrow. ‘metenuk!’ he proclaimed. ‘metenuk!’ i concurred.

it was getting late—maybe 330—so stephen and i decided to quickly head to the pire junction on the kitgum-karenga highway, where we were more likely to get a ride back to karenga than on the seldom-traveled lobalangit road. a man who had translated for us accompanied us.

at 4, ominous clouds converged on us from all sides. ‘do you think we should go shelter in some huts?’ our companion asked. we assured him that for us, walking in the rain was no problem.

five minutes later, he said ‘maybe for my books i will shelter in these huts.’ we joined him.

rivers poured across the so-recently dry soil as soon as we ducked under the roof of a local cooking hut. rain didn’t fall, per se—it attacked or charged or surged against the hut. every 45 seconds, another roll of thunder shook the countryside.

then there was a lull. i was getting antsy—i wanted to get to pire junction to maximize our odds of getting a ride back to karenga. our companion then pointed once more to the west—‘maybe we should shelter in the house.’

we fled the open-walled cooking hut, and found ourselves in the home of an unknown family on an anonymous stretch of potholed dirt highway in an out-of-the-way corner of karamoja region, as the rain continued to beat against the bare soil.





at 430, we decided to set off once more, and we reached pire junction by 450. nobody in pire seemed to think that anybody would be able to get through from kitgum, so we set off on foot for karenga across the muddy road, as quickly as we could—occasionally breaking into a slow jog.

the sun ducked behind the nyangea mountains at 650. we strolled into karenga town at 7.

we had managed to travel from timu to kaabong to karenga to lobalangit to karenga in a single day, and had managed to inform komol that we were ready to work again.

in the three days that komol was here, i was able to record six or seven short stories. i was able to freely translate four of these stories into english, and the remaining stories into karamojong. additionally, i have been able to elicit several hundred words and some basic grammar. on the one hand, it’s amazing how much progress you can make in just three days, but on the other hand, it’s amazing how much you learn about what you don’t know anything about after three long days. at this point, i’m not sure that i know anything about the nyangi language, but i am starting to know a fair amount about what i don’t know anything about.

otherwise, being back in karenga is being back in the grind, to an extent. we wake up, we eat breakfast (which has included far more chapatis than it did before we went to timu, which is nothing but a positive development), and then we have a day to make the most of—often a stiff challenge, given the difficulty inherent in communicating our objectives to people around here.

these are some of the sorts of things that we do (some of them are productive, others of them are recreational):

we walk to the center of town, and tell 30% of the population of karenga that we are, in fact, walking to the center of town.

we buy nice beverages and make plans for their consumption (for a time, stoney cola was our beverage of choice, but we found a single shop that carries guinness. in these parts, when you can guinness, you guinness (if you’re me, at least).

we kill wasps, flies, and anything else that lives with rubber bands (if you’re stephen, at least).

we talk about food—to our shame, surely, but while in timu, we realized that this is an unavoidable pastime of mzungus karamojaside.

we each recall amusing, stupid, or embarrassing things that the other has done.

we play soccer with the local folks—the going defensive strategy seems to be a high line (as if for a hard offsides trap) with a deep sweeper. i have not yet unlocked the secret brilliance behind this defensive scheme.

we speculate that a local gentleman who likes to sit under some trees in town and listen to the radio may, in fact, be an australian aborigine in an international witness protection program. of course he appears to be komol’s closest friend in town.

we throw a frisbee on a muddy highway for an hour and a half until our hands (to halfway up our forearms) are red with oklahoma-like clay. this may or may not be preceded by watching a chameleon cross the road, suddenly becoming a much more pleasant shade of green upon reaching the foliage on the far side.

we walk to towns three or so miles away in quest for a bar that might be showing euro 2012 matches (congratulations, spain). we may find that we are in such towns at sunset, at which point i may shoot stephen and his very reflection.



we observe swarms of oversized ants carrying home their termitey spoils. in fact, we watch these ants until some of them choose to very painfully bite our feet. once my feet are bitten, i wait for a few hours until my foot swells up to a rather distasteful size and my head itches and my ears turn dark red.

we try to convince people that they are good enough speakers of karamojong to say the word ‘akirik’.

we make plans to have lunch with ryan mccabe, until his car is eaten by the roadmudmonsters. and until the network is down for days. maybe another week…

the thing that i promise we don’t do enough is write poetry.

i’m ready from this man to come back from roadinspectionfest 2012.