By Nancy Wesson Nov. 3, 2021

When I talk about my Peace Corps experience, people are often surprised to learn I entered at the age of 64. When most of my friends were planning for retirement, I was packing water purifiers, solar chargers, and a French press to sustain my coffee habit in Uganda. I’d shuttered a successful consultancy, leased my house that wouldn’t sell, and taken a leap of faith. I trusted my instincts and the toolbox of skills I’d developed over a lifetime, and hoped they’d serve me well in the Peace Corps.

Entering Peace Corps later in life after multiple careers, kids, and husbands was a life-changing experience. It stripped away at the veneer of ego and a lifetime of boundaries accumulated to navigate loss, business life, divorces, single parenting, and other transitions. The resulting vulnerability allowed both fears and strengths to surface and the gift of a rediscovered self to blossom.

I was asked if being divorced influenced my entry into Peace Corps, and the answer required a dual response. No, because by the time I joined Peace Corps, I’d been married a total of 24 years, but divorced for 15. But also, yes, because marriage to each of these brilliant, technically-minded-but-emotionally-stunted men forced me to take responsibility for my life and fulfillment in ways I likely would not have discovered otherwise. I emerged from the post-divorce dark-night-of-the-soul period as a strong, autonomous woman, willing to embrace change. Those traits certainly contributed to my desire to contribute in a more global context.

In my youth — and youth in general — we all collect data and pieces of ourselves that, ultimately, form a cohesive identity-puzzle. By my fantasized retirement age of 64, you might say I’d become a jumbo-puzzle, having amassed quite a few pieces.

The salient border pieces of my identity — the ones that were easily seen and gave me structure, included being a daughter, sister, student, wife, audiologist, administrator, mother, sailor, intuitive, and energy healer—one who works with the bio-field of a person’s body to heal them, weaver, landlord, UFO-experiencer, divorcee, and single parent. (I told you it was a big puzzle.)

Other pieces of me, the interior ones, were shaped by travel to the Middle and Far East, and experiences like the year I spent cruising the Bahamas with my second husband, living aboard a 29-foot sloop. That year, every storm seemed to know our names. Holding all these puzzle pieces together was a large body of professional work that ranged from diagnostic audiologist and mediator to Feng Shui expert, author, and consultant, with much in between.

My metaphorical puzzle was essentially formed by the time I joined the Peace Corps, and the time away from my familiar life felt like a cat batting the pieces off the table. Ego and any pretense of control were the first pieces to take a hit. Thankfully, the next piece to be jettisoned was the need to constantly reinvent myself in a slightly left-of-field business. Much of my consultancy had to do with bringing spiritual practice into the real world — before it was mainstream and marketable. Selling my skills meant selling me. The Peace Corps offered a boots-on-the-ground opportunity to simply live the work instead of trying to sell it.

After my Peace Corps service, when I returned home, I discovered many of those scattered pieces no longer fit anyway. When I tried to put them back, I found that some of the edges had changed shape, while other pieces were lost forever. Voids had appeared, creating the need for new pieces. Things that had been important to me prior to living in Uganda had lost their relevancy, while those I’d taken for granted had become sacred. I was left wondering how to recreate meaningful work without allowing the gravitational pull of the familiar to trap me. Ultimately, I came to know that fulfillment—my desire to be-of-service, offer compassion and joy as a way of living, and to share what I know— is less about what I do professionally, than the intention and energy I bring to everything I do.

In reconfiguring the puzzle of myself, it was initially hard to pin down what had occurred to create such a massive shift. However, I know much had to do with the deep immersion into a culture where my Western concept of time collided head-on with rain, mud, malaria, lack of utilities, and shifting priorities.

Collisions between time and weather showed up every moment of the rainy season in the form of buses and trucks being incapacitated in the middle of an impassable mud trough that was once a road. There were no tow trucks in the bush. My nongovernmental organization (NGO) was fortunate to have a four-wheel-drive truck named The Daughter of Japan, but even she was no match for rising water or potholes the size of Vermont. Villagers understood these factors, and all life stopped when the rain started. The fact that lightning strikes killed hundreds every year, added another layer of precaution. Only Westerners — myself included — were foolish enough to use an umbrella (aka lightning rod) just to get somewhere on time. Locals understood that being on time was not worth risking their lives.

I learned that time had no relevance in a world where life was about relationships. Family needs came first — and family extended to almost anyone, blood-related or not. As a Westerner, it would have been easy to fall into the trap of thinking lateness signaled a lack of interest or respect, but it was almost never the case. Time and its cousin, waiting, precipitated a lot of internal dialog regarding why we — individually and collectively — interpreted lateness as such an offense.

Around the midpoint of my service, I needed to get a document copied, signed, scanned, and emailed so that I could sell a house in the States. The process got caught in the perfect storm of resources, time, and technology. What might have taken five minutes in the States took a full week in Gulu spent mostly waiting until that moment when electricity, computer, printer, ink, and internet all aligned. The ability to be present helped me appreciate these experiences for the gifts they offered: patience, gratitude, and the opportunity to learn a different way of being in the world.

Cultures like ours in America generally do not excel at “being present,” and we spend a lot of time looking outward for the causes of our discontent. Learning to “be,” as opposed to “doing” is a lifelong endeavor for most. In Uganda, it was a coping mechanism for me that had the silver lining of bringing about a greater sense of involvement and awareness.

Living in Uganda also forced a lot of unconventional solutions — fixing a broken toilet valve with dental floss, using the filthiest laundry rinse water to flush that same toilet or to mop the floor. After all, in Uganda — where a quarter of the population lacks access to even a basic water supply — water was a treasure not to be wasted. It could “be finished” the next moment and not return for weeks. Every drop was sacred.

Another factor that contributed to the psychological shift had to do with the relationships I formed, but not in the casual way one might expect. For example, Geoffrey, my counterpart, and I had built a strong relationship founded on deep trust and mutual respect. The relationship was forged by the intense work we did together during our first year. The strength of our friendship’s foundation saved me when I accidentally sent a work-related email attachment that could have easily destroyed our relationship and gotten one or both of us fired, or worse.

When I realized my mistake, I told Geoffrey, though tears, what had happened. I apologized and offered to call the director to explain the circumstances. I even offered to resign. Geoffrey listened quietly and calmly. He had read the attachment and, as far as he was concerned, my document and the manner in which I’d described the events was simply evidence of my fairness and total commitment to improving the program.

I was aghast — had not expected this generosity, this gentleness, and was so filled with gratitude and respect for this man that I could hardly speak. This humble man, so generous in his praise, had recognized it for what it was — a terrible mistake. In that moment, I learned more about forgiveness and gratitude than I had learned during decades of spiritual practice.

At the opposite end of the continuum is “The Story of the Broken Digit” and the theater-of-the-absurd that erupted when the only way to remove a constricting ring from my broken middle-finger turned out to be an overzealous metal worker wielding a 12-inch rotary saw. (The only ring cutter in Uganda was in Kampala, a three day trip away.) My sons and a girlfriend had come to visit and, on our first day of safari, the girlfriend accidentally slammed the car door on my hand. Ironically, it was the middle finger that was broken and placed in a splint, causing me to unintentionally give an obscene gesture to everyone we passed.

Peace Corps’ medical officials said getting the metal worker to remove my ring under medical supervision should be safe. The reality was a jolly, rotund, Italian man with a 5 o’clock shadow. His button down shirt was stretched to its limit across his belly and held in place by a single button. There was an air about him that indicated a questionable relationship with personal hygiene, but his eyes twinkled and his grin was mischievous. “The Blade Master” — my new name for him — explained that he’d removed rings from “other body parts” with the same rusty, chipped blade. I’m sure I heard several men faint behind me.

He swaggered toward me holding the enormous saw high overhead like the torch on the Statue of Liberty. Cords with bare wires dangled ominously as he approached. In the exam room, a surreal atmosphere unfolded as he grabbed my hand and turned on the saw. He chuckled as he said, “If anything goes wrong, we are in the right place — the hospital.”

As panic escalated, my sons intervened, commanding him to “step away from the saw.” After much cajoling, The Blade Master — crestfallen — agreed to find some diagonal pliers and removed the ring with one strong squeeze. When it was time to attempt to reset the bones, a carnival mood developed as excellent doctors asked, as they injected pain killers, to be friended on Facebook. There were hugs and handshakes, and pictures posted between shots and X-rays. It was “Saturday Night Live” in real time. In the Peace Corps, one finds comic relief and strength in the most bizarre circumstances.

Although my bones could not be rearranged, those experiences did rearrange the puzzle-pieces of my life. They also offered a new context in which to use my skills in ways that I couldn’t have in the U.S. I’d wanted to offer my skills more organically and, as it happened, I used every skill in my toolbox: organizational development, firefighting, grief counseling, writing, marketing — everything.

Who would ever have imagined I would use my brief training as a firefighter to teach my Ugandan compound-mates to use dirt to smother a brush fire in our shared yard. It happened in the middle of the night when I woke up, choking on smoke, to find the backyard ablaze and my Ugandan neighbors standing in their boxer shorts, hemming and hawing. They announced, “water is finished,”— the Ugandan expression for “no water”—as flames tickled the lower tree limbs. After some fairly hysterical language-misunderstandings when I asked if I could borrow their hoe, I finally conveyed that I needed a garden hoe, and used the tool to dig up dirt and smother the flames. We all survived to tell the tale.

Sadly, my experience in grief counseling was needed when one of our group was killed and two others injured by a hit-and-run drunk driver. These stories and others are just part of the larger gestalt that changed the lens through which I view life. That, in turn, resulted in a radically altered view of both my past and my emerging future.

I knew reentry to life in the U.S. would be a challenge, but I did not expect to fall headfirst into the wilderness of my psyche as well, to do battle with the monsters lurking there. Thankfully, the rawness of Peace Corps service prepared me to feel emotions I’d avoided all my life, and I was ready. As it turned out, most of the “monsters” (a fear of impending doom, not being enough, catastrophizing minor events) were imposters. I wouldn’t have known that had I not faced down threats — real and perceived — and learned to thrive in a culture that had encountered real monsters: Ebola; the brutal warlord Joseph Kony, his Lord’s Resistance Army and unfathomable abuses they perpetrated like requiring kidnapped children to identify their parents’ dismembered bodies before they were then forced to become child soldiers or “wives” for Kony’s men. The courage with which these children walked through life continues to astound me and give perspective to my own “monsters.”

Regardless of their stage in life, every returned Peace Corps Volunteer I know has expressed the feeling that they received more from the experience than they gave. Living in a new culture distills life into its most sacred parts and emboldens life upon return. And, while Peace Corps service has a discreet starting point, the experience itself never truly ends. It continues to inform life far into the future — if you let it.

Nancy Wesson is a human potential consultant and an award-winning author of two totally unrelated books. Her first, “Moving Your Aging Parents,” was written after moving her own mother and many others. Realizing she was quickly becoming an aging parent herself, she packed up her house and headed for Peace Corps Uganda, where she served from 2011-2013. Her experience there gave rise to her most recent book, “I Miss the Rain in Africa.” She lives in a small town in Oregon and is enjoying a fourth act as a grandmother, while also restarting her consulting business and continuing to write.

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I’m on the north end of the beach, the tail-end of the tourist district and it’s pretty tranquil. That’s a left turn when I get the sand and it’s a world apart from what I see if I turn right where there are wall-to-wall hotels, bodies, beech chairs and music.  My end is more populated by the locals fishing, couples walking hand-in-hand and sand-covered toddlers squealing with delight.   Dogs cavorting in the surf are having at least as much fun as their owners and one followed me last night with a ball in his mouth looking for a “throw.”   The only structures for a while are a few Palapas like the one at right built for a little shade.

About a mile down is a small lagoon fed by cold water coming from the underground rivers.  You can see a bit of it at left.  The water stays deliciously cold until it merges with the sea. A few nights ago, I heard drumming and the call of a horn made from a conch shell.  There, gathered at the lagoon were about 50 locals participating in a ritual cleansing ceremony complete with feathers and smoke… and the Virgin Mary.  I was expecting a Budha, but it’s a Catholic country after all.

I waited ’till today to venture to Akumal,  Mayan for “Place of the Turtles,’ since the beaches and the water there boil with humanity even on off-season weekends.  It does live up to its name.  My  turtle researcher friends first told me about it since they have been there often to count and tag the local green turtles that like the grassy patches there. It’s a turtle sanctuary.

The collectivo  drops its riders on the highway at the mouth of a pedestrian bridge that empties onto cobble-stone walkway into the town. You know you’re getting close to the beach when the hawking of tours begins.  Luckily the dive shops rent gear, lockers and showers without requiring a guide or a tour.  What they do require is life jackets, so I paid my $15US, donned my life jacket and gear, stashed my loot and footed it to the water a little apprehensive about actually finding turtles, considering some of my previous water adventures.

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I was relieved to escorted to a big room with a balcony, AC, a deep TUB.  I’m thinking, “boy this is going to be great!”   It was already dusk when I set out to find dinner, but had no idea where to go and the desk clerk was singularly disinterested in helping even when I used my best Spanish.  So I ended up grabbing a yogurt from the little kiosk next door, just as the sky opened up and a heavy rain drenched the city.

Inside one of the bastions

The gardens

Mystery flower…

So!  Back in Bacalar, the tourists have all gone home, the rainy season is creeping in a little early and I like it.   It’s lovely to be back in this sweet little town.  Every morning I walk my three miles and see the same people building a house on the lagoon, setting up to offer tours or just tending to their chickens, riding their bikes or scooters to work.  On the right is the beginning of my route with some of what I see along the way below: gorgeous Bougainvillea, Flame Trees and bits of jungle.

Coral Bouganvillea

The Mayans are very sweet, friendly – always
have a greeting and I love seeing them with their families in the Plaza at night.  The kids are happy and there’s so much family presence.  Have met a few expats living down here, but am not sure I’m ready for that – still need to be more contributive (not sure that’s a word…) than that usually allows. Though this community seems different and more integrated into the regular town and its population than most expat communities.  Houses are tucked in along the way and spread out throughout the area as opposed to being clustered together and a neighborhood unto themselves.

A private path to the lagoon

My free month in a condo a block off the beach in Playa del Carmen is nine days away and I’m soooo excited!  Can’t remember if I mentioned that a woman I met in Merida has gifted me the use of her condo for the entire month of June, my paying only utilities.  She lives in D.C. and the condo has no one scheduled for the month.  I feel like I hit the jackpot and am eternally grateful!

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In the Ugandan vernacular, when you have been gone for a while that statement is, “You have been lost.”Yes – and it was pure heaven. I have now- unfortunately – been found back here in Uganda.We arrived back in Gulu finding neither power nor water. And several in our group came back with the flu.

But I digress.   First – more about Zanzibar.  How can I spend two years in Africa and not go to a place with such an exotic sounding name: Zanzibar!    We went in a noisy troop of six irreverent women of a “certain age” and one brave husband.

Arriving in Kampala a day early because none of us wanted to risk the very real possibility of a bus being cancelled (it is not there) or a delay due to mechanical problems (it is spoiled) or just late (it is not there) we checked into our “home away from home” – the Annex.  Disagreeing to some degree over when we should arrive at the airport (the women wanted to leave e-a-r-l-y to avoid the above mentioned list of possible calamities between Kampala and Entebbe, so we did and arrived with more than enough time to spare.

Now – for those of you who have ever griped about the NTSB procedures, which require everything from being X-Ray ed to being felt-up at the airports Stateside, please be assured things are worse elsewhere. Whereas this happens once in the US, it happens at multiple checkpoints in Africa. Entering, one puts everything on the standard conveyor built where thee is evidently some low-level scanning going on. Maybe a little feeling-up and wanding as you go through.   Then – of course there is the standard passport checking, fingerprint scanning and distrustful immigration officer whose attempts at intimidation make one feel like you’re the spy-who-came-in-from-the-cold.   Then – there is the wait. No gates are announced – one must intuit these things.   This was all relatively painless however and we were served a cold, soggy beef and cucumber sandwich as a snack on the plane – so far so good.    

We landed at Kilimanjaro airport yes – that Kilimanjaro – to get off the plane and wait around so we could get back on the same plane in 15 minutes to fly another land in ZANZIBAR.  Our ride was there ON TIME – the first fabulous difference we have discovered being out of Uganda.  we were taken to Santa Monica’s Hostel, a beautiful old convent turned hotel.  This place was the site of the last know slave-market in Africa and the history is palpable. 

Stone Town is known for its haphazard assembly of narrow, winding streets – and they feel even more  tortuous to night.   But we were a hungry tribe so found our way to a open place that served seafood, something we’ve all be salivating over for months now.  We had lovely King Prawns and fell in bed happy travelers. Stone Town is a classic old Muslim village and it was such a welcome change to see happy, carefree children running and squealing with delight.  Still, we had to dodge the ubiquitous motorcycles careening around blind corners, to get to shops filled with tempting wares from antique spice chests to Tanzinite, which I could not afford.  It’s said the supply of Tanzinite will be gone in 5-years, but this might just be a clever marketing ploy.  Also known for it’s amazing doors, it was hard to make it down an street without taking pictures.  

Zanzibar is known for its doors, the design of which originated from the need to stop elephants before that rampaged through it – therefore – all were outfitted with long spikes.  Now that elephants no longer go marauding through the streets, the spikes have become decorative brass knobs.    The next day, we were wild to get to water and shopping and good coffee and as luck would have it all were found in the same direction!  Stone Town, for all of it’s charm is still a tourist mecca so we opted out after getting our fill shops (it can happen).   

The last night though we discovered the seafood-buffet that appears in the harbor every night.  There are no words to describe it:  hundreds of tables laden with skewers of every seafood known to mankind – fish of every variety – squid – octopus all dredged in spices.

Since we’d eaten elsewhere – being a little suspicious of seafood that’s been sitting out for god knows how long – I opted for a “pizza” of chocolate and bananas grilled on a Segiri.    Interesting but not to-die-for.

Next day, after coffee on the beach we were picked up ON TIME (one could get used to this) and taken on a spice-tour before getting to our beach place in Paje.    Something like  old plantation grounds, it shared the land with a school and we were met by a gaggle of little Muslim school-girls who all wanted their pictures taken.   I can’t believe how much we learned about spices and their plants.  The Swahili meal was good and we took off for Paje and our hotel, Ndame. 

Close of Service Conference (COS) was next and we road a rowdy bus filled with our compatriots to Jinga and discovered to our great delight that we would spend the next two days at a beautiful resort on the Nile.   During our two years, we have lived like paupers, stayed a hostels sharing bathrooms and dormitory style hotel rooms  so we were pretty happy to arrive at a real honest-to-god resort with beautiful rooms overlooking the Nile, complete with a bar, decent food and monkeys. 

 “Superlative” awards were given and and yours-truly was granted a dubious moniker. I accept this PC Emmy proudly and thank all the opportunities along the way to further tweak my vocabulary. Since some readers might be offended if I printed it and I’m trying somewhat to keep this “suitable for all audiences,” you will just have to wait until I get home to hear it.Suffice it to say, that a sense humor and a few well-placed bad words are necessary tools for the insanity here.  The award will be framed and put in a prominent location in whatever place a call home next, lest I ever forget this roller-coaster-ride experience we call Peace Corps.  

Still, after all this time one go from the pits of despair to the top of the mountain in a matter of seconds.   And this morning as a friend and I plodded through ankle-deep mud from a beautiful all night rain and were cursing the process, we looked up to discover a huge herd of Ankoli cattle like the ones below being shepherded through the alley in front of my house.   And in that moment, I loved Uganda… again.

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I managed to make it through last weekend without accidentally going into work on Saturday.  So my dignity has been partially restored.  I am free of termites for the time being and Yin, the pitiful white female cat, has redeemed herself by catching a mighty fine rat.    Now days she is trailed by the only one of her remaining kittens, a little calico, and she is again “with kittens.”  I fed her some left-over and getting-old (refrigeration off for a few days) tuna and she now deigns to “speak” to me.  In fact she’s quite the meow-er and has started rubbing up against my leg.  She no longer runs from me and has – in fact – become quite pushy.  MK – you have competition.  So I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.  Tho the last time I fed her she wanted more, which I wouldn’t give.  Within a few minutes I saw her out front with a big  squirming rat hanging from her mouth.  Good kitty…

A Ugandan Blessing:  “May your ride on the bus be boring and uneventful.”    On Monday I was granted such a blessing.  As is my habit (unwillingly) the night before I have to get up early to catch the bus, I awoke every hour on the hour until 5AM when I finally gave up and got up.  Mercifully the night’s rain  had quit and I walked the mile in the dark dodging puddles and mud, but without rain.  Got a decent seat and a decent seat mate.  So all-in-all a good ride if you don’t count the ensuing exhaustion.

Absolutely nothing of interest is happening, but considering the things that COULD be interesting, I suppose this is a good thing.   Those of us in the north were visited by our program officer and one of the nurses last week – along with the security officer.  As Fred (left-at swearing-in ceremony) sat taking notes and the incidents of “the foot, the fire and the burglary” came up he said “And this was all in the last year?”  Yes, Fred… and this is why a boring week can count as a good week

Our planned trip to Ethiopia has met with some resistance. It turns out that when we submit our travel requests, they are sent through the safety and security officer for that country.  Seems that the areas we want to visit in the south – the tribes that  still do body painting and wear a clay plate in the lower lip (!) are considered “out of bounds.”  Well damn!   Still going, but having to regroup yet again.  74 days and counting to departure!!

All manner of turmoil at out office in Gulu:  personnel shuffling, office demolition, relocating. Hard to get things done in such an environment.  Still – things move forward.  Got a nice article published in the Human Rights Focus Quarterly publication and it appears I will be writing more for them.  Kind of a nice surprise I had not anticipated.     In fact, none of this is what I had vaguely anticipated, but then I suppose that’s part of the adventure.    Housemate is still in the States.

Once again, my deepest thanks to all of you who have supported me – mind, body and spirit – with comments,  e-mails, calls, goody boxes, help with things at home.     Really, I could not be doing this without your love and support.   One of the sweetest discoveries here has been your presence and generosity of spirit, time and effort.   I am truly overwhelmed.  Knowing you are there is indeed the “wind beneath my wings.” 

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We have now been and come home after several faulty starts with transportation.  But that’s to be expected.  See – I’m becoming acculturated…

Predawn on the last day we were awakened by the most horrific, rusty-door-squawking of a demented chicken that went on forever.  I think the chicken must have just passed out  – or maybe made into lunch.  My roommate and I started giggling – well – I started – she followed and so the day began.  This inauspicious wake-up call followed the 3:30 crowing of innumerable roosters, synchronous with the electricity being “finished.”  It’s true what they say about Kitgum, it IS hotter than Gulu, Pader and any number of other places except summer in Texas. Because of this, and being old farts (well a few of us anyway – Carla I don’t put you in that category yet) who chose the possibility of sharing a room with just one other person – as opposed to fifteen or twenty – we stayed at a little place called Fugly’s, run by an Australian woman.  The least costly are the dorm rooms (for 2 – 3) boasting fans, communal showers and toilets, etc. – and a SWIMMING POOL!   It is not cheap by Ugandan standards, but not high end either.    And – it is quiet. That’s worth something.  And then there’s Betty-the-watchdog, a brindle Blue-heeler mix who “speaks.”

The remainder of the group shared the school’s dorm quarters and a distant latrine.   Having been without the fans (electricity is finished) for two of our four nights, on the last day of the workshop we “footed” the four miles or so down an impossibly dusty road to get to Fugly’s in time to enjoy the fruits of our 50,000 UgX accommodations – namely the swimming pool. As we rounded the corner, practically tearing off our clothes in anticipation of submerging in cold water, we discovered – to our horror – that they were in the advanced stages of draining said pool.  This is because of the vast quantities of ash  falling from the sky – fallout from the rampant burning of harvested crops.  Bereft, filthy, hot and not too happy, we stripped and stood under cold showers for thirty minutes instead.  It could have been worse – the pump for the bore hole broke that night…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Arriving at the venue for this 4-day workshop we were escorted to a Mango tree with mats under it.  

The agenda was taped to the wall of the mud hut that represents home to the organizer of the event.  Call me crazy, but I had anticipated some sort of a classroom, with actual chairs.  See what I mean – there’s always a surprise around the corner.  

After the first day, it seemed completely normal to have a diminishing clutch of freshly hatch chicks escorted by a very protective mother hen pecking through our midst.  A drove of pigs oinked as they uprooted the field next to us and goats occupied the tops of ant heaps and the random brick wall.  Various critters periodically fell  in our laps from the mango tree as the breeze dislodged them from their perches, but all in all it was thoroughly entertaining.  Moving into the computer lab for one of the sessions was a drag.  

Every moment of Africa is a new “surprise,” in part because after six months we can still be surprised.

To get from Gulu to Kitgum, we hired a taxi, which arrived an hour late, having to deliver charcoal before we could get in, then get gas (a second attempt).  Bumping along washboard roads, and tilting at impossible angles for several hours to get here, we were thrilled at the possibility of showers and a meal served at a table.  It was to be our last meal time elegance for several days, other meals eaten balancing our plates on our laps while sitting on  mats,  assorted chairs, bricks or tree stumps.

But the evening meals were truly delicious.  How several people managed to cook for a group of almost thirty on two Sigiris and one propane burner is amazing.  It was Chinese food one night and Indian the next.  Some of the best I’ve had in Uganda!  I appreciated having my little micro-light from Travis and Brett, to occasionally check what I was eating – sitting there in the dark.  I avoided crunching down on a grasshopper sitting on the Nan bread at one point.  Don’t know what else I might  have eaten in the interim though.

Transport away from this garden spot was another eyeopener.  We had planned (no I mean really PLANNED) to ride with PCV Response  (former PCV’s who return in response to some specific need – this one being malaria prevention) Volunteer who rated a driver and a vehicle. We certainly felt plans had been made abundantly clear, having told the volunteer in the presence of the driver that two of us would be joining them.  We even gave the driver our phone number.    All planned – to leave at 9:00 the next morning.  We tried to give him details of where, but this was not to be as he insisted on calling us in the morning…    Ah – that was the crux of the problem.    Never do this again.

Next morning –  the network?  It is finished.  There will be no telephone calls.  But we are certain that our fellow volunteers will NOT let them leave without us – everyone knows where we are staying after all.  We waited – and waited – and  were left.

 Fugly’s owner, brenda, tok mercy on us and finally drove us to the bus park where we discovered all three busses to Gulu were booked. – There was no room for these Munus.  So we eyed an almost full Matatu, 10 in a vehicle made for 12 and we made 12  because it claimed to be going to Gulu “non-now.”  (Now-now in the local vernacular means really NOW.  Now just means sometimes today…)  Ah HA!  We negotiated a price and paid – a mistake.  We were then informed that they are waiting for another 10 people before leaving.  Full is never full in the world of Ugandan transportation.  It’s not full till it leaves – and it ain’t leavin’ till it’s full.  And that means 24 in a vehicle made for 12.  

We waited…. more people came.   Women with small children piling in and on top of each other.  In a last ditch effort to get this thing moving, I found they were finally only waiting for 2 and one was in the process of paying.  I offered to pay for the last seat so we can leave – and selfishly, so we can sit only three to a row, instead of  – well one never knows.

Miraculously we left almost “now-now,” but not before  another man piled in, leaving the conductor (who I call a referee because he referees where people will sit) to squeeze in a spot where only a chicken will fit.  He was relatively small…

We started and bumbled back along the washboard road, stopping to pick up another 6 or so people and all their luggage on the way back to Gulu.  I stopped counting at 20, but god bless the referee – he protected the sanctity of our three seats – so, Ugly Americans that we were, we arrived three hours later, covered with grime, hair caked in dust, luggage coated in dirt – but in better shape than we would have had we not bought that seat.

The crowning piece of the trip was that when we arrived in Gulu, there were the folks we were supposed to have ridden with (in a nice comfy vehicle) already there enjoying lunch.   Stunned, we approached – wondering WTF,  and how did you think we might get home???  It seems communication debacles are not just the province of  locals.  Americans can claim equal bragging rights to total screw-ups.  There was nothing malicious about our being stranded, just assumptions and mis-communication.  One is left wondering if there is any way to override such possibilities when the channels we are accustomed to  are simply “finished.”  We are creatures of convenience and in a country were nothing can be relied on except that it will be “finished” when you need it, well – all bets are off.

One must rely on wits and goodwill.   I remind myself that I chose this adventure and the nature of adventure is constant exposure to the unknown, some hazards, some danger, but mostly just stuff you don’t encounter in the safety of your known world.   This qualifies.

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We also appreciate this belatedly as we hurl down roads and swerve around “slow” traffic announcing the driver’s intention with much honking of horns. Relieved that we are entering flat country where – ay least – we cannot fall off the mountain, we are soon dis-abused of this false sense of security when we pass an 18 wheeler that has just jack-knifed left and tumbled off the cliff  before crossing the bridge over the NILE!!  

Yes – it is a trip to realize one is crossing the Nile that every child has grown up learning about in history and geography class.  It is a raging white water river in this part of the world and explains why white water rafting is big sport here. The danger in white water rafting is not what you’d expect – is getting Shistomosiasis. Don’t think I spelled that right, but spelling aside, Shisto is the disease caused by the little worms that get inside you flesh and wreak havoc on the liver and other body organs.   I think I will bypass rafting…

Onward to Gulu, which we have been told is a lovely little town.  One must put on the Uganda lenses to hold this view.  It is filthy by US standards and although the countryside is lush, there is little else around to lessen the feeling of despair when one enters.  Although some of the roads are paved, nowhere in Uganda is any evidence of the concept of cleaning up trash or just not throwing it wherever the urge strikes.  There are Boda-Bodas, some cars (mostly those owned by the hundreds of NGO’s here) bicycles, people, critters, hand-hauled carts, etc.

If you can look past that you see an amazingly industrious people, carving out commerce and life in every parch of land, every square inch of available space and every moment.  

This market (right) and the ingenuity of this mobile-carwash pictured below stand in stark contrast to the open dump.

The Acholi people are just emerging from 25 years of war and the NGOs rushed in to assist three entire generations who have known nothing but life in war camps.  Once released, most could not return to family land as there was no family left to locate said land.  Children born in war camps gave birth to and raised other children in those same camps.  So society is being rebuilt, education is re-starting from the ground up, and trauma being addressed in a million different ways.

That’s the landscape.  I’m working with an NGO called LABE: Literacy and Basic Adult Education, aimed at bringing education to the villages – mud huts with thatched roofs housing about 5 – 10 people per hut.  (When these programs are started in one of these communities, it doesn’t take long before there are 140 learners, flooding in from surrounding areas, to learn to read and write their native tongue sitting under a tree in the dirt.  In the rainy season, school is displaced by – rain, lightening, and crop demands.)  In direct contrast to the larger towns, these hut compounds are meticulously clean.  Where there is no money to buy goods and plastic, there’s no debris and the Ugandans are very clean people in their personal care.  I think it will be a great project to support and can’t wait to get started, but for the next four weeks or so, we’re back in Wakiso training.  

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