Point, Khartoum

Actually it's two points that get Khartoum out of the red in my book.

The first is www.goodhairdaysgalore.com! The arid bone dry air of Khartoum has given me GREAT hair days. I barely have to put any product in. I do none of my usual tugging and pulling to get my curls to ease their clench a bit so that I don't look like a cupie doll or a Q tip.

Psychologically, and this is no joke, it's been a real load off not stressing about my hair. I am far too consumed I know, but it's a true source of daily stress and it's gone. In its stead is an obsession with looking in the mirror and marveling at how effortless the curls fall exactly as I've always wanted: just below my shoulders in near perfect spirals. None of the "f" word (frizz, shhh!) See exhibits below.

The other victory is in the food category. Khartoum draws its food influence far more from its Arabness than its Africaness. I've had lovely fresh baked bread every day and fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt and olives. There is this salty cream cheese that I got from the little shop down the street that is to die for.

The restaurants here don't win for esthetics, but the food has been good. I ate at GAD the other night and had very tasty grilled chicken (and given my current obsession with finding chicken that doesn't suck, it was an extra delight.) There was lots of babaganosh, hummus and fresh parsley salads. At the ex pat place, Solitaire, they have this lemon mint juice slurpy thing that is out of this world. And for some reason that makes no sense to me, they give you free desserts - I had a piece of cheese cake and a kiwi custard and chocolate tart.

At home, I have a good enough kitchen and cook fresh eggplant. Tonight I will cook my sweet potato stirfry because I have all the ingredients. And some how the cucumber yogurt salad tastes better in the Arab world.

I should have left my granola bars at home. Nice work, KRT, nice work.

KRT: The obstructionist zone

This place put the frustration in frustration. I told Jeanne it was like a lackadaisical Venus fly trap. 

The dream of traveling to Darfur is looking dim. Wait a minute, I don’t even really want to go to Darfur. I mean, professionally and programatically I do – there is a very cool project we are trying to start in Gereida. We are going to try and create communication and dialogue channels between pastrolists and farmers. We going to build markets and peace! Well, actually the town got sacked by rebels the day before I arrived, so it turns out we’re not going to do shit.

http://www.sudantribune.com/South-Darfur-town-falls-to-rebel,42535

On top of that, apparently my visa says "Khartoum only," despite me applying to go to Darfur, so it's unlikely my travel will be approved. Oh, and they changed the procedure for travel permits the day I arrived. And then again the next day. Listening to our administrative staff makes things clear as muck. In addition to the dizzying obstructionist bureaucracy, everyone's from a different country so there are thick accents, competing languages, etc. No steps forward, 42 steps back.

This is my Khartoum face:

Arrival Khartoum

Firstly, it’s friggin hot. Africa hot hot Mr. Bigglesworth. It’s 43 degrees C today – that’s a wopping 112F. But it’s ok, because there’s air condition. Oh, and the other good news is that on a scale of Juba to 10, the Khartoum airport is a solid 7.5. None of the crazy of Juba airport. The Sudanese scrum is not there. 

I get why Juba is so petulant. It has none of the infrastrure of this place. Khartoum is fairly modern, power grid. Also the food is pretty good – very Arab influence, so lots of good bread, olives and feta.

I arrived at the ARC office/guest house, which is a four story building with 24 hour electricity and most importantly, air conditioning. Seriously, I would not survive without it. I just washed some dishes with burning hot water that came out of the cold tap.

 

Making peace with Kony 2012

My initial reaction to Kony 2012 is full of typical criticisms already much analyzed and supported by friends and colleagues:

1.      It’s a neo-colonial, white father approach to Africa that astounds in its ability to arrogantly supplant indigenous solutions.

2.      It’s full of self-serving inaccuracies. (Incidentally the inaccuracy most irksome to Ugandans seems to be the geographical misrepresentation of Uganda in Central Africa. It’s minor in terms of LRA atrocities, but for a prideful Uganda set to lead the East African Community, it is an unforgivable gaffe.)

3.      It’s 30,000ft fluff that evaporates before it reaches people recovering or still suffering from the conflict.

While I cringe at the attention the makers of the video have earned, it is starting to dawn on me that this peaked attention could be directed to the many effective, responsible efforts already in place.

I think of Archbishop Odama, Bishop Ochola and the Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative who first brought this to the world when they spent the night in the Gulu bus park. They raised awareness about the night commuter children who slept huddled in bus parks and other places in town up until around 2006, hoping that their concentric circles of little defenseless bodies would somehow protect them from being snatched up in the night by the vicious Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA).

I think of the Paramount Chief, Betty Bigombe and the other Acholi leaders who schlepped over and over again into various precarious bush settings to coax out the LRA commander, Joseph Kony himself, and his other commanders. They could not give up, because they peered over Kony's shoulder and into the eyes of the hordes of children surrounding this man who had been violently abducted from their people. Although these efforts were blunted in 2008 perhaps forever, they continue to look for ways to talk the LRA into peace.

I think of the opposition political heroes, such as my friends Member of Parliament Betty Achan and Presidential candidate Norbert Mao, who literally risk their lives protesting the continuing marginalization policies of the Government of Uganda.

I think of the incredibly vibrant Ugandan civil society, with inspiring organizations like the Justice and Reconciliation Project , Concerned Parents Association, Christian Counseling Fellowship, UMECS Uganda and many others.

I think of individual heroes of this conflict, like my friends Agnes Ocitti, Charles Komekech, Alice Achan, Mike Otim, George Odoki and so many many others who died or continue to fight for peace and justice regardless of their own painful experiences of conflict.

I think of UN Security Council resolution 1653 and 1663. The great impenetrable UN managed to do the right thing on this conflict with the help of a few friends from Canada, the UK, OCHA, UN DPA and international NGOs like the Quaker UN Office, Oxfam International, Save the Children, Caritas Internationalis and many others.

I think of the powerful and attentive research of Erin Baines, Ledo Cakaj, Marieke Wierda and Ron Atkinson.

I think of the many international efforts on the ground to support the recover from conflict in northern Uganda: Stability Peace and Reconciliation in Northern Uganda (USAID/SPRING), American Refugee Committee, The Uganda Fund, Norwegian Refugee Council to name just the ones for which I have proudly worked.

I think of (and still grumble about) the involvement of the International Criminal Court in indicting the LRA leadership.

I think of the US Government’s LRA Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act (2009), which passed into law due to the back breaking work of Senator Feingold, colleagues and friends at Resolve.

I believe this incredible constellation of action has paved the way for a lasting peace which is taking hold in northern Uganda.

Finally, however, I think of a comment a colleague of mine made a while back, “It would be nice if the infrastructure of recovery in northern Uganda could be transferred to DRC, South Sudan and the Central African Republic.”

I’d like to end on this very last reflection. There is yet much work to be done. But the good news is that behind the blazing, fleeting comet of K2012 is a vast cast of actors, led by those directly affected by this conflict, to end things once and for all. I will continue to be inspired by and follow their lead. I hope those who recently caught the spirit of this long effort to end the conflict will too.

Achtung Baby Covered

This morning I was listening to Achtung Baby Covered, which is a tribute album to the band that I have liked more than I’ve liked anything, ever, U2. This seminal album, which graduated me from high school and launched one of the best songs ever, “One,” is covered by The Killers, Jack White, Patti Smith, Depeche Mode, Snow Patrol among others. The man who invented Bono, Gavin Friday, sings a version of The Fly and the performance begs the question, “did Gavin Friday or Bono sing this and every other U2 song?” This question is both sacrilegious and incredulous, because it is impossible to imagine anyone coming near to Bono. I just tried to come up with words to describe Bono and failed, he’s that….again, can’t do it.

I digress.

As I meandered through my commute, I kept the usual nuttiness at bay by going deep inside the music on my iphone. I saw but did not hear the countless young moms shouting at their kids and the teenagers cursing each other out. I climbed onto a crammed bus and navigated bodies and strollers and more bodies in tune to Mysterious Ways. It was like floating above the fray, even though I was right there in it.

It got me thinking that I’ve gotten lazy about music. Music has been central to my life. I played the violin from age 5 to age 20. Orchestra after orchestra, I’ve played every classic piece of music there is. I love opera and hip hop and of course U2. But I never listen to music anymore.

When I was 12 years old and listening to the Joshua Tree in continuous rotation, I remember being in the back of my parents’ car on a weekend trip to Bear mountain in upstate New York, squeezing my ears into my walkman to get Bono’s voice deeper inside my head. This morning, as I descended into the metro, I did the same thing. Why don’t I listen to music like this every day?

At home, we have two stereos we’re planning to give away to the thrift store. But yet we have only tepid plans to replace them. Ever since I can remember the first part of setting up my living space was designing my music listening strategy. Why don’t I do that anymore? I need music in my life.

Today was a wakeup call. As I listened to the Killers, probably my second favorite band, sing a classic U2 song in their own unique style, I know I need more music. Everyday. Surely this is a guaranteed and simple way to make life better!

Rwanda

Sometimes I think I invented Africa. I think about it daily in DC. I decorate in early modern jungle. I work on African issues. I tell tall tales to my friends and family ad nauseam. “This one time I hosted 50 people for thanksgiving dinner and we slaughtered a turkey and a goat. This one time I owned a restaurant in Gulu. This one time I drank whiskey with one of the Presidential contenders for Uganda. This one time…” It’s such a definitive part of who I am, but I don’t live there anymore.

And then I return to Africa, like arriving in Rwanda this week, and I’m reminded that it wasn’t all a figment. I stare at the bougainvillea and realize when I say “I miss bougainvillea” I remember why – it’s beautiful. I giggle at baby bananas and bodas and baby bananas on bodas.

This week I’m in Byumba Rwanda to facilitate a training on Gender-based violence at Gihembe Refugee Camp. We have staff from four of our countries: Rwanda, Uganda, South Sudan and Somalia. It’s pretty intense and productive and I’m inspired by these ladies who do this incredibly difficult work. It’s been a real boost.

But I’m most of all enjoying the everyday life of Africa that I’m always going on about. It’s so familiar and comfortable. Not boring, oh, it’s never boring here. Often times in DC I find myself saying. “The thing is you only hear about the bad news in Africa, but there’s so much good news too.” Sometimes I struggle to remember it though. And then I see the biggest smile I have ever seen in my life on the cutest five year old I’ve ever seen in my life, simply chuffed because he’s splashing about like a duckling in a borehole, playing with a plastic water bottle and I remember.

I'm not yet ready to move back, but I just picked an avocado off of an avocado tree that I had been eyeing from my hotel window. What a delight.

Get on the bus (1)

I’ve settled into my work commute. For the foreseeable future I will walk through the Checkers parking lot to the bus stop at 14th and H Northeast, take the X2 (or mythical X9) to Gallery Place Chinatown, transfer to the Metro’s Redline, disembark at Dupont circle, ascend the infamous escalator (walking!) and scurry across the street to my office. I’ve dabbled in a few other experimental routes, other bus lines, Union Station, etc, but it seems the above mentioned route is the most reliable. It takes me 37-47 minutes each way.

I like riding the bus, because I like watching the city go by, but there’s a skill to it. First of all, there are city bus-riding rules that I’ve followed since my days of riding the M14 up First Avenue to the UN in NYC. I always go as far back as possible. This is because I don’t want to have to give up a seat should I be lucky to get one. This is a guaranteed strategy, but should some elderly woman with a shopping cart or a dad with three children make it all the way to the back of a double length bus without anyone giving up their seat, I’m happy to sacrifice mine.

I also like the back of the bus, because that’s where the real crazy is. How could I miss out on the teenager playing his gansta rap ipod without plugging his headphones in? (Nothing like a little “Move B---h Get Out The Way” in the morning.) Or the semi-homeless guy taking up 3 and a half seats in the back? Or the old guy shouting about the Redskins game to both the person on the other end of his phone and the entire bus? I also follow the rule of taking the first bus that comes and not waiting for the express. This is especially necessary in DC where an express bus comes every 20 or 9 or 37 minutes every other hour three times a week. Also one must not pay attention to the individual stops or to traffic, for this could drive one postal. Yesterday for example, there was very bad traffic for a couple of blocks and as I tucked neatly into my Kindle, the guy next to me was fidgeting like mad and cursing under his breath. Amateur.

There are, however, irresistible habits of bus riding that I do succumb to, like bemoaning the wheelchair rider (that’s right I do it and you do it too!) Even though technology has improved greatly, it still wastes a good 3.5 minutes of the commute waiting for a wheelchair to get off or on and that’s not ok when you’re rushing to or from the office. Driving me equally batty is getting stuck behind the guy that pays his bus fare in nickels. Click…click…click…and so on for 30 individual nickel clicks. Really? Who even has nickels anymore?!

There are of course endearing moments on the bus, which is a bonding experience unique to the bus. The other day a woman got on a very crowded bus with three kids under the age of two. She was about 18 or 19. She wasn’t offered a seat, because there were a whole mess of grannies that were not going to get up from their precious and well earned seats, but they did offer to take the kids. One schmoopy per granny and the whole bus smiled. Another time I witnessed a brief exchange about a book a woman was holding turn into an entire nerdy sci fi conversation between a young white guy and an older black woman. Talk about May-December. These two could not stop geeking out!

It is interesting that although my commute is equal parts bus and metro, my stories come from the bus. I’m still trying to figure out if that’s because of the nature of the riders or of the vehicles. Is there some sort of subterranean depressant on the metro platform that dissipates as one ascends and fresh air rushes back into one’s lungs?

I don’t yet have my finger on why, but I sure am thinking about it as I get on the bus.