NO one except idiots and Muzungus (is that a redundancy?) venture out in the rain.  But we slogged through raging muddy, ankle deep, sewer tainted waters and reached the bus 4:45-ish and it was all locked up.  It’s raining – and NO ONE is going to open until it stops.  We arrived totally drenched.  We’d put our computers in plastic bags and thank goodness, because even though they were in backpacks under our parkas once we boarded the bus and commenced the trip, a shallow river of water deep to soak every piece of clothing I own and fry any electronic gear sloshed forward.

The PO guard finally opened up at about 5:45AM and we boarded a dark and empty bus.  Peering out rainy windows, we waited… No one else arrived until 6:30 and we finally pulled out at 7:20, continuing to pick up people (Ugandans who know better than to walk through water and mud) and arrived at 1:30 or so and were deposited at a police station where there was no place to sit, find food or wait.  We found a private hire and got a roller coaster tour of the innards of  Uganda slums and finally  arrived at a sandwich shop, ate and caught the PC shuttle to Masaka.  By that time I was nursing a horrid upset stomach and 3.5 hours later we finally arrived.  Fifteen hours of travel in all.  As I have said, travel in Uganda is not for the weak of heart or frail of body.  Oh – did I mention that we passed a bus that had turned over in the middle of the road not more that a few hours earlier?  Not confidence inspiring…  

My successes of the week include finding a home for Dingo, a sweet dog left in Kampala by his former family.  Rare to come across a dog in Uganda who has been a pet.  For the most part Ugandan’s are “not nice” to dogs and most are so abused by the time you find them that they have to been seriously retrained.  He looks like every other dog you see in Uganda (tan, the size of a small German shepherd – yes, just like Pinky) and now has a new home in Gulu with a new USAID worker

Off to do hand-laundry. The only way…

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It must be the Louisiana girl in me, but I begin to wither when there is no rain.  And it’s not just my skin and hair – I was warned of this by a Ugandan woman.  My soul withers in the kind of heat and unending dust combined with lack of water and electricity, all of which typify dry-season here.  As I’ve said before: it’s the perfect storm for the demise of spirit.  So the rain thus far is soul-mending.  I may feel differently when all my clothes begin to smell of mildew, but right now I feel like dancing in the rain. I’d better hurry tho, because the sun is beginning to share the sky.

This is also beginning to be Mango season here in the north and  I’m noticing that the green ovals on the tree in the front yard are getting fatter. No pink showing yet, so I don’t know when they will be ready to harvest, but I’m keeping my eye on them.  I’ve been told they disappear pretty fast courtesy of the kids who scale the fence with long poles for knocking the fruit off.  There are those long poles again.  They’re pretty handy here.

And speaking of long poles, I visited the Police Station yesterday in the renewed  hope of getting a copy of the Police Report on my burglary (which was conducted with those long poles).  My case was referred to a young woman named Pomela about three weeks ago, so this is our second conversation.  She’s lovely, but has done nothing on the “investigation.”  When I saw her newly decked out this time in full police garb complete with rifle I said, “Pomela!  You have been missing!”  “Yes, I have been down and this is my first day back.”  We continue this polite conversation as a prelude to more serious business and there are wary looks from older, male police officers who clearly wonder what this Mzungu is doing taking up this woman’s time.  

I’m still not much closer to being able to get a report, but I have a new friend. It reminds me of a saying shared with me yesterday by Cheesburger Man, who has lived in Africa all his life.  The saying is” “Westerners have watches. Africans have time.”   ( I like this image of thrown-away watches, because it’s representative of how useless a watch is here.) It’s a good thing I’m adapting to this, because when I arrived at Coffee Hut yesterday, I found I was without my phone which I’d left at the Police Station.  Another two mile hike to retrieve it and I’m glad I have time, if not energy.  And time is commodity of which there is much in Africa. 

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This is being typed to the backdrop of the marching band practicing down the road.  So imagine sitting in the middle of  a high school band practice room but they only have one melody and it repeats itself every three measures and it mostly bass drums counted in 4/4 time.  OK – now we’re ready.  And the thrill of it all is that when I arrived home today there was and still is electricity.  And I have the electric kettle heating water for tea.  Ah yes – going to fix…  back in a jiffy.  Ah – now we begin.  Oh! There has been a lull in the thudding of bass drums and now there are choral stains of some lovely “hallelujah hymn” drifting in.  Sound is everywhere here – you just can’t always pick.  But I’m getting off topic…

Yesterday was a day to remember – or more correctly put – a day I will not forget.  It was my first real day to go into the field to see what’s done there – so we set out at about 9:00AM.  I got to the office at 8:15 and no one was there.  Went to Uchumi to get treats for the trip and by the time I got back there were two small marching bands assembling in the parking lot.  I’d like to claim they were for me, but I’ve not achieved that level of fame – infamy perhaps – but not fame. Some dignitary obviously coming to town.  Remember – the last marching band was hired for National Hand Washing Day.

I have been warned that it’s a loooong day when we go to Amuru – the roads are bad, even on a good day and it’s well, pretty much in the bush. I’ve packed rain gear, water, phone, Acholi dictionary and notebook, PBJ sandwiches, a Snickers bar, hard candies for fellow travelers, apple, hand sanitizer and handi-wipes, hat, sunglasses…  Still, I’m sure I’ve forgotten something.  The day will tell.  Since I get car sick riding in the back seat and have lost one of the two anti-motion sickness pressure point bands that have been the saving grace of bus, taxi and car trips thus far, I improvise.  This is done by squeezing a hard candy between my turned-upside down-Timex and the pressure point, hoping that this spark of genius works.  The pecking order of Ugandan culture puts my counterpart in the front seat…  no calling “shotgun” here. Besides – here everyone would duck or run for cover.

Now on the road about 2 hours – being bounced around in the 4-wheel drive Toyota truck, I am trying to think of parallels in the states and all I can come up with is those horrid carnival rides that make any sane person want to throw up. I’m getting it for “free,” if you don’t count giving up two years of what was a pretty comfortable life.  Here – just driving is a thrill ride.  I’m not being tacky – the Ugandans feel the same way.  As we are slip-sliding around potholes and two foot deep ruts, we notice a great assembly of humanity on the road.  Easily 100 people standing around – women with monstrous baskets of ground-nuts (peanuts) balanced on their heads, men with hoes and bikes hauling HUGE bundles of charcoal or wood with chickens hanging off the handle bars, more women with babies strapped African style to their backs, many pregnant with the next one.

As we climb out of the truck to wander down and see the trouble, there – down in a trough – are not one, not two – but three mammoth vehicles all tipping precariously in different directions.  All the people have climbed out of the two busses  coming from the Sudan and a huge cargo truck has been unloaded its contents all over the ground.  There is no forward motion – just a team of six men trying to push the cargo truck upright.

We take pictures, rub our chins, ‘Hmmmmmm” (an entire conversation in Uganda) with the other observers, and realize there is no way these are going to be cleared out in time for us to make our rounds.

We turn around – a precarious act itself – and find a detour road.  This continues along happily enough for a while, but it becomes clear that this is more of a trail than an actual road.  The grass gets higher and soon reaches over the top of the truck and holes appear.  OMG – now there is no road, just the hint of one where the grass in the middle is only 4 feet high. I am trapped in a National Geographic episode and no one is filming. 

Finally – out of the jungle, a road re-appears and we continue on, stopping at learning centers that consist of some logs on the ground, set up theater style in rows – a group of men sketching a map where another organizations is contributing a bore-hole (think well) for the village.  Women sitting on the ground, nursing babies – and little kids hovering staring at the Munu.

Onward like this for the next few hours, visiting other centers one of which is very advanced because it has a thirty foot long thatch roofed, mud-dob structure and classes can be held there when it rains, which is does while we are there.  The wind is blowing like a hurricane, it’s getting down right cold (in the middle of Africa – this is a dream right?) and the roof – of course – leaks.  I realize that what  I have forgotten was a jacket.

It pours torrentially and we set out for home, the roads now worse.  At least the three busses are cleared out by the time we reach that point and I’m thinking we’re home free.  No so.  Just ahead the road “slopes down” and in the dip, the stream has swallowed  the road, but Emmanuel, the driver,  is convinced we can make it across.  Thank God, there is another vehicle stalled in the middle, so he does not (cannot) cross and we turn around again to find another detour, picking up a drowned-out motor cycle and its two passengers on the way.  They are loaded into the bed of the pickup and many hours later – in the dark – we are home.

I kiss the ground when I arrive safely home, discover a friend needs to spend the night because she has malaria and set up the air mattress and sleeping bag for her.  Starving, we attack the bread to discover it is moving….  having been discovered by millions of ants.  I suggested we make toast, thereby killing the little -uckers, but she declines, reminding me she is a vegetarian.  I scramble an egg  instead and climb in bed, mud and all.

A friend today asked what I want her to send in a care package and horrified, I realized at the top of my list was ant bait.  It seems I have not fully acclimated.

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Tomorrow we will learn the REAL short cut through the hills to school.  Rubber rain boots that come to the knee are now a requirement.  Mine are white – aren’t you just a little bit jealous???

This week we visited a farm and wore thes boots, and were allowed to wear trousers (women DON”T wear trousers here) and work gloves and learn about perma-culture farming.  No doubt I’ll have some kind of garden at site, but everyone in country depends on their farms for food, so we’ll at some point be talking and training in farming methods.  I know – you can’t see me farming????

The bins at left are manure, pic urine, etc. to use as fertilizer.

Light is fading and the solar lamp is on its last leg.  Nighty night….

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