Through the Looking -Glass

After living with Africans for nearly a year I was beginning to feel trapped in a wonderland; a wonderland of surreal characters speaking another language, some there to genuinely help me, others to genuinely hurt me, but all completely, utterly ununderstandable, their words at time falling on my ears like jibberish. I had to get away for a few days. I was finally, just absolutely having it – having it with Africans and their bizzare ways. I needed to step outside the looking-glass, outside the closing in absurdity that was Africa, outside my projects and their web of problems and regroup, refocus, re-energize; gain a brighter, bigger , more beautiful perspective. I felt myself growing hard, weighted, cynical; I felt trapped on the other side of a looking-glass.

The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

So I spent a few days at The Red Chili Hideaway – a compound just outside of Kampala frequented by ex-pats, back-backers and aid workers galore. I found solace in speaking with a menagerie of interesting travelers and volunteers from all over the globe: a young British lawyer working death penalty cases in Malawi who revealed the horrors the prisoners and people awaiting trial endure: 180 people packed into a cell maybe 30 by 15 feet, sleeping at night sitting up with their legs on the shoulders of the people next to them, a whistle being blown every few hours so they can all turn at the same time and rest in a different position on the concrete, dying in prison en mass because they only receive one meal of beans and maize meal a day and medical treatment days too late, all the while waiting five, six, ten years for trial; or the South African woman working outside Gulu in the north of Uganda on a rehabilitation project for former child soldiers/child mothers and her work in getting the community to learn a marketable skill, her teaching them bead-making so that they might earn their own living after receiving hand-outs from aid agencies for nearly a quarter a century, many not ever learning how to provide for themselves; then there was the crazy young British man driving his car by himself from England down to Cape Town, having received 15 flat tires through a rugged expanse of Northern Africa alone, and then of course the equally crazy couple of energetic South Africans on a similar journey, riding their bikes from England to Cape Town, and, of course, the even crazier American doing the same north to south journey on his bike, but alone, but the most insane of all I didn’t actually meet, I only heard of him as a bit of a backpacker’s legend: a single man of an unknown origin, paddling, yes, paddling his canoe or kayak through the war-torn, collapsed-government Congo.

Their stories were fascinating, invigorating, inspiring and soothing; swapping tales and thoughts with the aid workers was particularly therapeutic:

Yes, you just need to get away sometimes; it’s the only way to cope. Yes, you grow a bit hard, not entirely befriending the people around you. Yes, everyone is always trying to get something from you. Yes, it’s hard going back home; nobody else quite understands what you’ve been through. Yes, development books can’t really teach you about how to run sustainable projects. No. No. I don’t know what I am doing in a few weeks when my project is over either. I’ll figure it out when I get home. I don’t know what kind of life I want anymore.

And so it was. A gated compound filled with Western food, a miniature swimming pool, dorms, tents, flushing toilets, beat-up vehicles, and, most importantly, people who spoke the same language, who had the same dreams, fears, passions, challenges, hopes, worries, aspiration, uncertainties, highs and lows; a walled-in sanctuary, a brief encounter with serenity and understanding. But. Then. Back to the ridiculous and the duplicitous looming outside…

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

But going back through the looking-glass this time I felt more at peace, more in piece, with a clearer perspective like glass perfectly cleaned remembering all of the good and not just the bad around me, and my conversation with my real family waiting patiently in California, just six more weeks and you’ll be home!, as always offered important reminders; you’ve helped so many people already, you have to expect some of these things are going to happen, even major corporations suffer losses.

And, as always, the best reminder was the children. Despite anything else going on, stealing, cheating, lying, backstabbing, rumors, gossip, power-plays, insincerity, lapses in logic, lapses in integrity, I can always, always find solace and happiness in the kids, their laughter, honesty, purity and genuine gratitude are a constant source of strength and joy.

“Sylvia. Put on your new uniform so I can take a picture,” I asked my eight year old yesterday after returning from Red Chili, my little girl who didn’t know a single letter or digit when we took her in last summer and within a period of a few months learned enough to spell simple words and complete basic arithmetic; I was incredibly proud of her as she was of herself. She had been advanced from nursery school to primary school after one three month term and I knew she loved her new, big-girl school’s red and white gingham uniform.

Sylvia ran inside the house to put on the dress then me and her and the rest of the kids played and laughed in the late Sunday sun before I slipped to the children’s village with Aunt Jennifer to check on the land we had cleared and planted on behalf of the kids to ensure their food security when I leave in just a few weeks; happy children, growing food, bright futures… I felt okay despite all the troubles, all the absurdity...

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

part of the land we have cleared to plant crops for the children