Going to Gulu

This week has been long, so I apologize because this blog entry is lengthy and scattered. It will not be my best. Anyway, the beginning of the week we went to a Mango orphanage in Kampala that housed several children from the Gulu area, a northern district in Uganda. When we met the director of the orphanage, he warned us that these children come from a war-torn area and they have to deal with the psychological consequences. The children have a lot of anger, fear and confusion. The orphanage focuses the children’s energies towards something positive and healing, like song and dance. The kids sang songs pleading for the war’s end, “Enough is Enough, No More War, Bring Peace on Earth.” After we left the orphanage we scheduled a trip to visit the Gulu area and see for ourselves the devastating effects that the LRA rebels have had on Uganda.

Who are the LRA and what war am I talking about? Brief background: The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) is a rebel group that refused to recognize the Ugandan government and have committed atrocities by kidnapping, raping, and maiming civilians, primarily children. In the northern districts of Gulu and Kitgum, the LRA kidnap children and recruit them for their guerilla army. Their young captive recruits undergo abominable rites of passage into their army. They force these traumatized children to kill or be killed. Some children are made to drink and bathe in blood, and others are used for target practice. The LRA direct their violent wrath on children to underscore the government’s weakness in protecting the Ugandan people. In response to the attacks the government created displacement camps, and relocated over 500,000 people to these guarded areas.

We wanted to see these camps and what programs were at work to aid these children. So, we left behind the packed streets of Kampala and were entering the open fields of northern Uganda. Ah, Africa. Goodbye crumbling shacks, hello mud huts with straw roofs. In the back of my head I had a flashing image of a passage I read in a Fodor’s’ Travel Guide to Uganda…it read something like, “It is strongly advised that you avoid travel to Northern Uganda.” That message was now neon-red and screaming at me. What was I doing going to Gulu!? I guess it’s too late to turn back now. (I know that you have figured out that if I am writing this now I am most likely still alive. I was trying to create an element of suspense, people. Sigh. I don't think it worked)

When we arrived in Gulu we first met with some non-profits in the area that were to be our escorts through the camps. These local organizations had hesitations in showing us around. The camps had opened up to white visitors before; white people who made empty promises. They were referring to the students that came and filmed Invisible Children. I reassured them I was only going to be filming their programs. I was interested in the ground organizations at work and not to exploit some child’s sob story to fulfill my aspirations of appearing on Oprah.

I further restored their confidence in my intentions by offering to include their organizations on my website. Most of the small non-profits in Gulu do not have websites and they all desperately need money. I told them I could put videos on my Project Suubi website illustrating their programs and include their contact information for prospective donors, networking their names in the States. These promises I know I can keep. I cannot promise money; I cannot financially provide. Sometimes they look at me and they see white, but what they really see is green. They think they smell money, but what they really smell is my body odor from sweating so much in this friggin country. I have to remind them I don’t have a job.

The Gulu non-profits were excited at the networking prospects and willingly took us to the first camp. They pointed out current projects happening and I absorbed all information. As we walked through the camp, a labyrinth of mud huts, I looked over my shoulder and realized the number of children following behind me was increasing. I had become a pied piper with my own personal parade. I turned around and greeted them, “Hey.” “Hey,” they all repeated. Wow, what a friendly bunch. Then it dawned on me that they didn’t understand a word I was saying. They were just happily repeating in unison. “Copycats,” I shouted, testing them. “Copycats,” they repeated again. A mischevious smile spread across my face at the possibilities of my new discovery. “Lauren is Queen.” “Lauren is Queen,” they shouted back. “Kelli stinks.” “Kelli stinks,” they yelled louder, loud enough for Kelli to pop her head around a hut corner and shake her head at me.

That wasn’t the only fun game I played with the kids. There’s the one where I swing my arms around violently and sporadically, while dancing in place. Most of them fall to the ground laughing at that. But little do they know that’s not a dance, I am just swatting at flies and mosquitoes hovering around me. Another personal favorite game of mine is the one where I try to inconspicuously hide my digital camera after it’s been spotted in my hand. They love having their picture taken and their relentless enthusiasm for being my next photographic subjects always wears my batteries out faster than my cameras.

While we were touring around the camp with the children, an older man saw that I was filming and came over and grabbed me by the arm. He led me to a muddy fountain area that is the camp’s drinking supply. It’s a water source that also is not constantly available. He looked down at the water and looked up at me. He was trying to communicate that he wanted me to film this insanitary condition. This camp had the hardest of living conditions, but there were improvements being made here. The Dream Center, one non-profit, had installed bread ovens and was teaching camp women how to sew and sell clothes. Another organization had donated dairy cows. The wheels toward self-sustainability were a turnin’!

We left Gulu today and returned to Kampala. I was leaving Gulu knowing there was progress happening. Good hardworking people were making a difference. I came and left Gulu at a period of time when they are waiting to exhale. The LRA have agreed to peace talks, but peace has not been discussed yet. And as the bus drove further and further into southern Uganda, I could finally exhale. I will wait along with the rest of the country to see if this war will end and the people of Gulu can finally return to their homes.

P.S. I really wanted to write a lot more right now, like about how the guy in front of me on the bus ride back pulled a live chicken out from overhead storage and ended up dumping an entire box of chicken feed on a passenger’s head below. Or about how a group of pickpockets stole James’s wallet and almost stole mine. But alas, my attention is waning. I am now too distracted by the kaleidoscope of sunburn lines that the previous days have left on my arm. I would kill for aloe vera! That and maybe a bath tub filled with Purell Anti-bacterial hand gel.