For my Aunt

It’s been a solitary weekend. Although I’ve been introduced to a veritable posse of expats here in Lira, they were all out of town this weekend, headed to Kampala for meetings, Zimbabwe for trainings or Kenya for breaks. There are a couple locals I could call, but frankly, I’m suspicious of their motives; one girl, the friend of a friend’s friend, asked for my number at a dance club at the end of the evening, even though we had not even been introduced, and the other asked if she could call me while tallying up my purchases at the grocery store where she works. Some tell me Ugandan girls are just shy, and won’t start up conversations with white girls they don’t know, and their asking for my number is just an indirect way of proposing friendship. But I don’t feel like putting myself in an unfamiliar situation right now, don’t want to be expected to take a trio of Ugandan fillies out for beers (as inevitably happens) and talk about clothes, and hair, and men.

My heart isn’t here.

My aunt is in the hospital. She’s normally the first one to read my blog entries when I post them, responding each time almost at once, with unflagging praise. Now she’s hooked up to a breathing machine, in an induced coma, fighting an abdominal infection following an extended cancer-removal surgery.

When I last saw her in LA, three months ago, neither of us knew that she was sick. We wandered through the Venice Canals, ogling ducks and display case homes. She insisted on buying me a few tops to augment my utilitarian post-Congo wardrobe. As usual, we nibbled on vegetable slices and fruit and hummus and a little cheese, and sipped wine with her neighbors at a nightly “cocktail hour” in their apartment complex’s courtyard. I kept her company as she fed and cleaned up after the sickly cat of a neighbor who was on an extended trip to Europe. One morning the cat showed signs of kidney failure, and my aunt, the most devoted cat lover I have ever known, tried her best to stay calm as she made arrangements for him to be put down.

In short, her life as I knew it was carrying on as usual.

She was diagnosed in September, shortly before I left for Uganda. Her surgery, in mid-October, went as well as could be hoped for, I was told, although the cancer was more extensive than the doctors had previously thought. I even spoke with her as she lay in the hospital, recovering. She sounded like herself, upbeat, levelheaded and even a bit image-conscious despite the sedatives. “My legs are so bloated,” she told me. “They’ve been pumping all these fluids into me.”

And then my father emailed a few days later. My aunt had returned to the hospital with debilitating pain in her abdomen. Apparently she had acquired an infection during the surgery, and in her already-weakened body it had gone systemic. She was in critical condition, and on life support. My dad was flying out to see her. 

When my 93 year-old grandmother was dying in Massachusetts two years ago, my aunt spent the better part of two months by her side, trying to ease her mother’s considerable physical pain, along with the anxiety and uncharacteristic moodiness brought about by a series of opiate-based painkillers, and her frustration with her sudden helplessness. It seems unbelievable that my aunt now needs someone to offer the same support to her.

And here I am in a rainy town in northern Uganda, carrying on with the day-to-day but acutely aware of the cruelty of distance, with five more weeks to go before my evaluation is complete and I return to the US. According to my father, my aunt’s condition, though still very serious, is slowly improving. He says there’s a good chance she’ll fight off this infection, and although there will be plenty more challenges ahead, we should have a moment to breathe and regroup.

And so, to you, my lovely aunt, I send this message from across the world. I love you. Keep fighting. Come home. Read this.

Running Under an Equatorial Sun

As we come into view of the compound, a wild-haired man cries out and launches himself towards us. The attention is nothing new; the sight of two white folks in fitness gear is quite unusual here on the footpaths of Lira's rural outskirts, and provides much hilarity, and occasional terror, for the many members of the under-10 crowd we come across. However, this is the first adult to respond to us with such enthusiasm. He's carrying a small bottle, I note, no doubt some kind of home-brewed liquor, foul and potent.


We figure he'll lose interest quickly, and so choose to ignore him, continuing our Sunday afternoon trail run. But he's pretty impressive for a drunkard, and his flip-flopped feet keep pace with us even when we speed up, hoping to lose him. All the while he mutters unintelligibly, though it's clear he's mocking us. The villagers who spot us with this unlikely third on our tail smile with a bit of sympathy, until finally his grunts fade off into the distance, and we are alone again.


I'm in Africa, and I'm running. Anyone who has been following my humanitarian adventures in the last 16 months might guess at how significant this is, at least to me.


When I first got my job offer for South Sudan back in 2010, I had about two weeks in which to resolve my work with the census, come up with a pile of red tape-intensive documents such as a criminal record check and an international driving permit, bring a slew of vaccinations up to date and transport all of my possessions (there aren't too many of them, thankfully) from California to Massachusetts. Somewhere in the shuffle, I mistakenly chucked out my running shoes.


I figured I would just make do with the only footwear I'd brought with me, a pair of sturdy trail shoes. When I arrived at the base, the other American stationed there gave me hope. "I try to go running a few times a week," he said. "We can go tomorrow if you want."


True to his word, he approached me at around noon the next day, when the equatorial sun was directly overhead and the thermometer at 90-something degrees. "You feel like a run?"


"Sure," I replied, not wanting to appear wimpy in front of my would-be running pal, though silently questioning his sanity. I felt better once we left the compound, jogging at a reasonable clip towards an abandoned airstrip, the carcasses of decades-old plane wrecks coming into view. Scraggly grass poked through compacted orange dirt, with the figures of children in the distance, playing soccer before a net-less goal.


Suddenly, we stopped, in front of a schoolyard where two towering teams of Dinka high schoolers were facing off across a volleyball net. "So I usually stop here for a while and either play or just watch. You feel like playing?"


"Um...I guess we can watch for a bit," I muttered with ill-concealed surprise. We had been running for about seven minutes. And so we watched. The volleyball match wasn't all that impressive, but those kids were sure tall. 

After we'd watched a few points, it was time to move again...back to the base, apparently. "So, d'you wanna run back, or d'you feel like walking?" asked my compatriot. 

"Let's run," I offered, my disappointment tangible now. We took a shortcut back to the base, completing a whopping 12-minute loop, at an easy trot. 

"Yeah, so I really like running," my pal repeated. "I try to get out a few times a week. It helps keep my stress down."

He was the most athletically-inclined expat I've shared a base with since. 

Congo was no better. In fact, it was much worse. My housemates, when I had them, aspired to consume large volumes of whiskey. I managed to convince one of them, with a sizable gut, to join me for a yoga session, once. (After which we recovered over whiskey and wine.) 

When it came to running, I would definitely be on my own. 

Except that I wouldn't really be alone. The second I left the compound for a run, the alarm was sounded, and quickly spread to every single one of the hundreds of barefoot and gleeful children who inhabited our overpopulated neighborhood. Soon several dozen of them were right on my tail, giggling, poking my freakish white skin, demanding money, candy, a reaction. 

I tried to summon my inner Zen and just ignore them, figuring that they would tire after a few minutes. I was right, kind of. But when some kids tuckered out, a mob of reinforcements would emerge from thirty new doorways. I couldn't hack it; I was seeking respite from the many stressors of my cooped-in compound life, and this swarm of over-eager taggers-on behind me only stressed me out more.

So my Congolese running ambitions fizzled out.

Of course, I got back to it right away once I got back home in the States, building up to a half marathon that I ran with an old friend in September. I'd simply resigned myself to regressing for a couple of months during my stint in Uganda.

Then I met a German fella with an extensive knowledge of Lira's footpath network and ambitions to run the Kampala half marathon in late November. He's an excellent guide, and a pretty reliable deterrent, so far, to mobs of children, if not to the occasional enthusiastic drunk. 

Kampala, here we come(?)!

The Land of Barefoot Bowling

Last Friday, I joined several colleagues for a fine Italian meal at a cushy outdoor restaurant. Last night, I bowled an unimpressive 91, and this morning, I pseudo-cycled up France's Alpe d'Huez at a spin class led by a zealous Canadian triathlete. It could easily be just another weekend in Seattle...except that our table's check came out to 289,000 shillings, the bowling alley lacked rental shoes, so we bowled barefoot, and the spin class...well, it was a spin class, I guess. Now it hurts to walk up stairs.

In other words, I've arrived. And while Uganda's capitol, Kampala, is surely swankier than my digs up north will be, it's clear that this will be quite a different kind of mission from my previous two in (Congo and South Sudan). The signs of relative stability and wealth are everywhere: in the clothing donation bin at a local supermarket, in the fact that no one has yet called me out for being white, in the way the motorbikes power, rather than coast, down the hills.

To be sure, the country's northern regions, where I'm heading tomorrow, have experienced a lot more hardship in recent years than has Kampala. For almost two decades, a frightening rebel group called the Lord's Resistance Army terrorized much of the north, raping women, pillaging villages and kidnapping youths to assert their power and reinforce their troops. Most of the population sought protection in overcrowded internal displacement camps. The Ugandan army finally pushed the LRA out of the country in 2005, and while the militia's raids continue today in several neighboring countries, most of the survivors in northern Uganda have had a chance to return to their land and try to recover their lives.

I'll be based in Lira, a large district capitol with restaurants, a swimming pool and other amenities. It's an important regional center, and a logical place for a base of operations, but a far cry from the isolated rural areas where our organization actually implements programs. I will be getting out into the field as often as possible, to supervise and guide the staff who will conduct the surveys for my evaluation, but with poor road conditions and still-rigid security restrictions (no overnighting in the field allowed!), both of which will limit field time, this is destined to be a largely "comfortable" post.

So tomorrow will bring a scenic drive northwards, across the rapids of the upper Nile, past a national park with intact trees and begging baboons. It's a far cry from Congo, and although I feel slightly guilty for the luxury, I may as well enjoy it.

Back In

I'm heading back.

Not to Congo this time, but to northern Uganda instead. It's a short commitment; I'll be there just two months, to evaluate a cash transfer project and write a report on it. Barely enough time to get situated. But I'm a bit more prepared this time than I was a year and a half ago to dive right in to Africa and the NGO world. And oh-so-well rested.

Nine months in Congo took it out of me. The lack of exercise, the walled-in lifestyle, the incredibly complicated and often depressing humanitarian situation, and especially the overbearing supervisor. When I went to France for break, three months in, I could barely remember how to ski. There were weeks when I literally didn't leave the compound, an area of maybe 450 square meters. I knew that I'd need a bit of free floating once I got back to the U.S. to start feeling like myself again.

nearing the summit of Mt. Rainier

And so, since my return home at the beginning of July, I've been indulging in everything I couldn't in Congo - hipster ice cream joints, burritos, rock climbing, hikes, glaciers, Goodwill, so-awful-they're-hilarious movies with the brother, half marathon preparation, wilderness medicine courses, and lots of glorious, anonymous, walking. The novelty of feeling unremarkable as I stroll down the street has not worn off.

And I've been visiting friends, scattered throughout the major cities of both U.S. coasts. Friends with architecture degrees that feel like surprisingly useless, and unbelievably expensive, pieces of paper; friends on libertarian pig farms whose swine snort up several tons of Pixie Stix, Keebler cookies, orange juice and other assorted supermarket refuse each evening; generous friends with funds who take advantage of the slow economy to get into biking shape and take me along to sample fine restaurants; friends questioning the value of their PhD programs; friends scouting out movie storylines in Madagascar; friends bewildered by the economy who have taken to living in homeless shelters to save money during the job search, or else working jobs they never would have expected to claim as their own. 

It hardly seems the time for too much introspection, especially as concerns careers. But I knew I needed a break, and that the humanitarian world, regardless of my persistent qualms about it, would be there for me if I needed it. I still feel, as I did when I left Congo in June, that I'd like to be more stable, and settled, and that I'd probably be happiest if I lived in a place more conducive to an active lifestyle, and for several weeks now I've been scoping out Seattle as a prospective home. 

But the bank account is nearly empty, and when I got the Uganda offer, it didn't take me long to accept. It's only two months, after all. And despite everything, I'm very excited to go back.

Crisis in the Congo: A Short Film

For those of you who are interested in finding out more about how the current situation in Congo came about, and what Western countries can do to improve things, check out this short film:

Crisis in the Congo: Uncovering the Truth

All men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems...But all these stars are silent. You--you alone will have stars as no one else has them. In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night. You, only you, will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me... You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure... It will be as if, in place of the stars, I had given you a great number of little bells that knew how to laugh.  -Saint-Exupéry

Into the Blue

When we start paddling out into the lake in the early morning, the air is perfectly still. The slate waters blend into the distant mountains, obscured by dry season dust, and the hazy sky. We steer our kayaks into this surreal and sun-bleached blueness, broken only by the dark silhouette of a dugout pirogue where a lone figure hunches over, pulling in fishing net.

I am leaving the Congo at the end of June, meaning three months sooner than expected, to reduce pressure on a financially desperate mission. The news came three days ago, delivered apologetically by a country director I barely know. And so, suddenly, unexpectedly, it is almost over.

I've been on the waters of Lake Kivu only once before, during my initial trip to Minova back in October, but I spent the entire trip trapped in a tightly-packed ferry cabin, distracted by the jabberings of a stand-up comic on screen in front of the passengers and my racing thoughts as I tried to figure out where on earth I had landed. This time is different. In the kayak, I can consider this place freely, encumbered only by the memories it triggers in me and the anticipation of departure.

Departure was inevitable, of course. The when of it shouldn't really matter. I never intended to stay here forever. And yet I want to have the time to say goodbye properly. I called Ariane, the cook, yesterday to make sure she would be there for my final week in the field. Why? she asked, suspicious and shrewd as ever. Well maman, I said, I'm going home. Ariane with the cousin in the States who has invited her to come and stay, but only if she leaves her husband behind in Africa (which she can't bring herself to do, although she dreams of attending cooking school somewhere in the West). Ariane whose family takes care of eight war-orphaned children and who is an orphan herself (although I still don't have the whole story). Ariane whose hefty two year-old has clearly inherited his mother's bulk, and whose one year-old came down with mysterious sores on her tongue that prevented her from eating until we cured them with honey.

And there is Iledéfense, the night watchman who shows no sign of fatigue on our long weekend walks into the bush, despite his not having slept the night before, who took refuge in his friend's home in Bukavu during the war, fearful of a deadly encounter with the Interahamwe militias who prowled the streets, attacking anyone with the delicate facial features of a potential Tutsi, who has studied logistics and computers but makes do with the work he can get (as we all must), and spends a good chunk of his week opening and closing doors at our base, unmarried still at age 30 but with several prospects, unfailingly, excessively polite Iledéfense.

And so on.

After forty minutes of paddling, the islands we were aiming for remain distant, so we pause to take our bearings. Turning to face the shore, the city of Bukavu sprawls before us, its terraces of once-stately colonial homes succumbing to decades of neglect. Dust-filled, rust-rooved, potholed Bukavu, with hospitals full of rape victims, hotels full of mining magnates and Land Rovers toting hundreds of humanitarian workers from one gated compound to another. I have never really found my footing in Bukavu, although the occasional weekend retreat here has helped me gain much-needed perspective after long stints in the field.

Right on cue, the wind begins to blow, and the once-still waters turn choppy. We head back to shore, fighting the wind all the while. The kayak keepers chide us, politely, upon our return; apparently we had briefly ventured into Rwandan waters during our jaunt. We apologize in Swahili and head back home.

Time soothes all sorrows, as Saint-Exupéry said. And departure is inevitable, eventually, for all of us. The Congo of my day-to-day is vibrant, bold with exquistely tailored pagnes, pungent with fermenting manioc drying in the sun, heartbreaking in its hardship, inspiring in its persistence. It is not the kind of place to fade away quietly, memory blurring into memory like water into sky.