A few minutes in Gulu town

Recently my mom asked me to describe some of the sights and sounds in my average day......so I did, then I thought, "hey, why not put it on my blog?" So here it is- a small snipet of a few minutes of a current normal day in Gulu, staying at the Bora Bora hotel.
I wake up in my room (room "Nairobi"). The cement walls within are
painted a teal color, very chipped yet cheery nonetheless. I pull one
side of my mosquito net from being tucked under the foam mattress, and
swing my legs over the side. My feet slip into my sandals, and I walk
across cement floor which has been covered half by a plastic material
reminding me much of a vinyl tablecloth, and half by a thin dirty red
rug. My backpacks, clothes, boxes, and some packaged foods are
littered around the room and frustrate me with their lack of
organization......but there doesn't seem to be anyway to change it; no
drawers, shelves, or places to hang things make their home here in
room Nairobi. I open the door and walk into the small open outdoor
area in the center of the hotel's rooms. Some women are hanging
clothes to dry on the various lines which extend across the courtyard.
The sun is peeking hotly through a cloudy sky which promises rain
later on, and a slight breeze keeps the temperature
bearable....although I really have no idea what that temperature is.
Maybe 92? As I walk towards the dining room, I greet Francis, the
Bora's young, kind-hearted manager. "Good morning Nicky," he replies.
People call me that often- I'm not sure why. In the dining room
there are about 6 tables, each covered by a green table cloth and
joined by matching plastic chairs. The walls are adorned with posters
of New York and Dubai, mirrors, and a government agency-funded poster
promoting abstinence. The floor is bare cement, which is washed daily
by hand by either Gladys or Concy, two of the Bora's employees. When
they're not cleaning or serving, they also help Beatrice in the
kitchen. The kitchen of the Bora is a room about 8 feet by 4 feet,
with one small freezer, some wooden counter top, some shelves, and an
area for hot coals over which the meals are cooked. Hence, it takes
about 20 minutes to get some bread toasted. (slight exaggeration- but
it's slow). One of the big selling features of the Bora is its
advertised "big-screen TV," an ample 13 inch set in one corner of the
room. Usually it shows the best music videos from some of Uganda's
favorite artists- Kenny G, Celine Dion, Michael Jackson, and many
other early to mid-90s greats. Recently, however, the DVD player has
broken, so nowadays the only program broadcast through the Bora is
Aljezeera news. It's actually been quite fascinating watching it....I
always thought that this station was just radical Islamic propaganda,
but it's really not. At least the broadcast we get is in English, and
has a huge variety of shows and programs highlighting issues all
across the globe. It feels far more worlwide in its coverage than any
news we get in America, and one can actually watch for quite some time
without hearing any mention of our nation. In some ways it seems a
bit anti-American, but in others it seems decently fair and balanced,
and I'm enjoying it. Once I leave the Bora, I walk out onto one of
the many dusty streets of Gulu town. I think it is paved, but it is
so covered in dust that I haven't seen asphalt in most places. There
are many people along the street, some walking, some sitting or
standing. Middle aged women, barefoot and in loose-fitting t-shirts
and skirts, carry baskets of bananas and avocados on their heads,
ready to sell to any buyer. Young muscular men in light pants and
tank tops work unloading an old and beat-up cargo truck at a local
shop, some standing in the bed heaving down heavy boxes of soap,
water, and other household items, some carrying the boxes into the
store, and others standing around, perhaps as moral support? From
inside a movie rental/photocopy shop up the road blares modern
American hip-hop music, one of the biggest evidences of Western
influence here, and its beat seems to drown out most other sounds on
the street. As I walk along, some young children in dirty t-shirts
stop abruptly in their play to shout "Mono, bye!" and wave. I wave
back and reply "bye, Acholi!" as their mother, sitting against the
storefront nursing her youngest, laughs at the eagerness of the
children. As I near the end of the street a pack of boda drivers
waits for their next customer, and shouts to me, "Muzungi! Where are
you going? I take you?" "No, thank you, I am footing," I might say,
or perhaps, "Mira woda-woda." I don't really know the exact
translation of the latter, but it communicates that I'm walking, and
apparently it's humurous, because they always laugh when they hear
this. Then I turn onto the next street and continue on, passing
road side boda repair shops (aka- a bunch of tools on the ground under
a thatched roof), salons (one small wooden building with a chair for
cutting hair), hotels (many similar to the Bora), and other various
shops- some decently nice, others not so much...............and continue on my day.
And there you have it! An attempt to give you a bit of the sights and sounds
which take up a few minutes of my day here......hope it gave you a good picture.

Detour along the journey

Getting malaria in Africa is tough. Getting malaria in Africa while homeless is even tougher. Getting malaria in Africa while homeless, having spent the last week in a certainly less-than-luxurious hotel, with few prospects for finding permanent residence, while unsure as to the direction of my organization, and often asking God, "why am I here?" is probably one of the toughest experiences of my otherwise relatively easy life, and comes together on paper to form one of the longest run-on sentences ever. When you're sick in Africa, your mind tends to do funny things. You become more aware of every wave of heat over your body, sure that you're feverish. Every ache informs you of your frailty and tells you that soon you won't have the strength to leave your bed. And every seeming shot of fire through your veins becomes the disparaging proof that you have a potentially murderous malarial parasite infecting your bloodstream and attacking every area of your internal structure. Thoughts of dying 7000 miles away from home in an under-funded sub-Sahara African hospital try to find their way into your scattered daydreams, and it's difficult to push them out. But then you think of the ease with which you were able to have your malady diagnosed and treated, and the little it hurt you to hand over the 20,000 Ugandan shillings to receive effective medication. And then you're forced to think of the millions- millions- in this same region who die every year because for them receiving treatment is not so simple. And you are humbled. And you pray. And then you think back to your own situation, and realize that you're being very dramatic, and that if you keep it up, your mother just might get way more scared than is really necessary, and ask you to come home early. So you stop writing.

TIA.........?

So here's a fun little story for ya.........
Two nights ago a bunch of us were walking into town. It's about a mile walk along a dirt road, heavily trafficked by walkers and bikers (called bodas), some bicycle and some motorcycle. As we were talking and walking all orderly-like along the side of the road, I suddenly felt something hit my right elbow. I turned to see the guilty bicycle boda, whose course had now been altered, attempting to gain control while careening wildly into the middle of the street. Unable to right its way, it swerved into oncoming traffic and abruptly crashed into a motorcycle boda. The latter was barely affected and kept on driving, leaving the bike- and its rider- to fall to the ground. This all happened in a split second; understandably, I was still trying to comprehend what had just happened when I began hearing a high-pitched animal shriek. It was only then that I realized that there was a one hundred and fifty pound hog tied to the back of the boda, and that its head was now driven directly into the dirt. We were all momentarily stunned. What the heck did we just witness? If you've ever heard a huge distressed pig squealing for help, you know how hectic it can make any situation, much less one in which a high-speed accident (or at least mid-speed) just occurred. I was immobilized. Finally two of my companions came to their senses enough to help the biker, who was also stunned, but unhurt, to pick up the heavy-laden transport, at which point Adam rang the bike's bell and sarcastically informed the owner, "that's what this is for!" The boda driver was not happy. But seriously, I think he was an amateur; we've witnessed tons of huge loads on the backs of bodas, including one of the largest fish I've ever seen, and most seem to do just fine. So I think this guy needs some experience. Anyways, eventually we walked away, leaving him to tend to his pig, who was probably more emotionally hurt than anything, and his bike, whose handlebars now had to be turned sideways in order for the wheels to go straight. I guess he fixed it though, because later he passed us on his boda, yelling "It's ok now! Thank you! Good bye!"
Meanwhile, the hog was silent.