A Night On The Town

So it's been awhile, hasn't it? Some combination of a workaday malaise and...well, you can call it either laziness or 'bloggers block' (that one's mine, in case you were wondering). But last night I wanted to share with you; it was both typical and exciting.

First a rundown of an afternoon in town: From the office, Rachael and I caught a ride to town in Care, Int'ls sporty Subaru sedan. This is real style in Gulu, somehow better than the LandRovers and Toyota trucks everyone's used to. After stopping by the ATM, we took a quarter-pint of vanilla ice cream ($1), both the best and worst bargain in Gulu. Then, since I hadn't eaten lunch (at 4pm) we went to an Indian-run restaurant called KPS where I had a delicious plate of chicken and chips/fries ($2). Rachael took a boda home, and I picked up a chocolate doughnut($.35) I'd seen in the bakery window and headed over to Kope Cafe, the local 'muzungu' dive where I'm always likely to see a familiar face. Daniel, an Acholi friend and co-worker, was meeting me there at 7 for a night on the town.

I'm not sure if word has reached Gulu concerning exactly what defines a 'doughnut', but this was definitely just a dinner roll lovingly coated in very dark, bitter chocolate. Ok, I didn't really complain. Daniel rolled up about 6:30 and we headed out

So we're riding on his Yamaha DT motorbike, on our way to his house so he can change. Along the backstreets near his house, two goats enter the road. The first is a good judge of speed and briskly crosses. The second, like my sister driving, waits until we're almost upon him before sprinting. He doesn't make it across. We hit him (or her?), the wheel turns to the left, we're thrown to the right, me on top of Daniel, on the rocky dirt road now filled with amazed onlookers (not only is a muzungu passing through, on a DT - not a boda, but they just hit a goat and were thrown off). Fortunately, everything was fine, including the bike, the goat, and the passengers. We dusted ourselves off and headed to the show.

Across from Pece (peche) Stadium is a 5-story hotel, whose guests can presumably take in a free soccer match the one or two times a year a pro or semi-pro match may be played here. The first floor is all entertainment tonight. On the patio outside, by the street, a reggae band of unknown name or origin entertained a modest crowd of forty or fifty locals with hits from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube, with dancers in front and requests from the crowd (including Daniel's). The lead guitarist, dressed in Clark Kent's trousers, button-down shirt and tie, was clearly outclassing his mates. Very smooth, complicated licks he was playing while gazing off somewhere, like this was just what he did. His face didn't for a moment belie the music his hands were making.

So, that's a night in Gulu. Often the same, never ordinary.

Remembering Omarra

Here is what I saw...
Our Monday at the office was cruising to a close. About 3pm, it was hot out. I was going between MS Hearts (the card game) and MS Word (the grant proposal). Rachael was at the computer next to me looking on the computer for dress designs she could make herself. "You know, if I make one I'll have to make three, don't you think? One for my Ph.D. (laughs), one for Omarra's graduation and one for his wedding." "Sure" I respond, "might as well make one for his Inauguration Ceromony as well." "Good idea!" It's always been clear that Rachael's drive to graduate from university, start lecturing and work at the diocese, and to apply to grad schools in America, was to give a better life to Omarra, her son, just a year old (pics and video from Sept.).

An older man burst into the room, out of breath, barely able with a whispering heave to beckon Rachael to follow him to the compound. A few seconds later, a girl from the bishop's compound runs up looking for Rev. Willy, to whom she explains what's going on. As they begin to leave I ask what's happening. "Omarra has fallen into water." "Well is he going to be OK?" I ask. "No, he's not OK, he has already fainted."

Reality came running, up the trail from the compound I take twice a day. Apiya, who helps around the main house and my own, with a bundle in her arms, desperation, panic and tears on her face, and two lifeless legs exposed under the blankets. Simultaneously, the Diocesan Sec. Rev. David and Rev. Willy climb into the truck without a word, Apiya enters, and the women climb in the back as it pulls out for the hospital. Rachael, who must have met Apiya along the way, came running just as the truck sped off, as inconsolable as any mother would be. As she and Job made their way to the hospital, everything was suddenly quiet at the Diocese, and we were left to realize what had just happened. Twenty minutes later, Pamela, the Information Officer's' assistant, emerges from her office. "He's passed away." She begins making her calls.

Here is what happened...
The compound is also a sort of free-range farm: cows, chickens, pigs, goats, guinea fowl. Omarra woke from his afternoon nap and walked outside, past the women doing chores and passing time in the kitchen. He found the bathtub by the pig pens, which served as the water trough for the animals, and fell in. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes before anyone began to wonder where he was, but that apparently was more than enough.

The truck that left for the hospital was back within the hour. The same women that rode in the truck, plus many more from the community, were gathering with the body in the living room. Wailing, singing, preparing. Meanwhile the men gathered in the front yard, on plastic chairs and straw mats, first to commiserate, and then to plan the funeral. Quickly a chairman was named from among the elders, and tasks and members divided into sub-committee. The money was collected and the work began, solemnely but urgently.

Back in the living room, the diocesan Health Coordinator embalmbed the body. The women wailed spontaneaously, earnestly, but also ceremonially, and the cries fell into hymns. Rachael was there, the focus of sympathy, but not the center of attention. She was the first mother among many mourning the death of a son.

Most of the men went home or to the burial site, to be used the next day. The women, including extended family and friends, slept in the living room, on the veranda, or by campfire in the front yard. They kept Rachael among them, sometimes consoling, but always present. That night stretched through one week of mourning.

Omarra was a beautiful child. He lived each day around family who loved him, and I think that allowed him to love and trust others all the more eagerly. The simplest of objects or gestures would return a smile that would just melt your heart; I know it did mine. I'm going to miss him. I looked forward to coming home from the office because I knew I could find him somewhere in the yard playing with Apiyo or Atim, splashing in his bathwater, or begging to see the pigs or lambs (which he vocalized with a snort or 'maa', respectively). And if judged by the number of unannounced visits to my house, he'd clearly be my best friend.

It's been a few weeks now since all this happened, and life has returned to normal. Rachael is taking a week in Kampala to get away from all-too-familiar sights. The December pictures on the website contain some great ones of Omarra at his 1st birthday party. He's every bit as playful as he looks in the pictures. That's how we'll remember him.