“I am so sorry, Eve,” Regina said. “We did not know what to do.”
“Beijing was coughing,” Cissie said. There were tears in her eyes.
“It's nobody's fault,” I said. I vowed not to let them see me cry over a cat. After all, I knew both of them had relatives and friends who'd lost children. Everyone in Uganda did.
But Mzee John caught me weeping over the little mound under the mango tree in the yard. “I'm sorry,” I said, trying to hide my tears. “I know, it must seem crazy to be so sad over an animal.”
“Madam, I think you loved that cat. And so you are sad. In Uganda, we understand sadness.” A few days later, Erneste brought me some morning glory seeds, which Sierra and I planted on Beijing's grave. And even as we did, I sensed that we wouldn't be there to see them bloom.
Dear Mom,
I think it might be time to get the hell out of Uganda. I'm frustrated as hell and people here seem totally incapable of taking responsibility for their actions and their lives. What is it about this place that just makes people shrug their shoulders and accept their lot? No one seems to be the least bit interested in lifting a finger to change anything—unless there is something in it for them, that is.
Even Saint John is showing signs of frustration. He came home for lunch the other day and just refused to go back to work! It kills me how hard he works to create a project that will really help people and then to see all the idiotic things that his bank manager does to try to line his own pockets at the expense of the project. And don't even get me started on the state of AIDS prevention efforts up here. I spent last week at a church-sponsored AIDS education workshop where they told these poor kids that condoms that are made in America won't work in Africa! (The Bernoulli theory proves it, they said. Yeah, I know. It makes absolutely NO sense. But the young people at the conference bought it hook, line, and sinker.) I'm still working whenever I can and running the Anti-AIDS Club at the school. But I swear, I don't even know why I bother. Nothing seems to change. It also seems as if AIDS has been so destigmatized here (good) that nobody has to take any responsibility for doing anything that might have caused them to get it (bad). Like does the disease just jump out of the blue and infect people?
Your granddaughter, at least, is wonderful. She's a real source of joy in our lives—some days the only one. Yesterday she stripped off her nappie and ran around the verandah naked with a scrub brush in her hand. She kept squatting down and scrubbing the floor. Then she squatted down and peed on the floor and then scrubbed that. Then she started scrubbing all the chairs. Every time I sat down on one, she'd chase me off and scrub it! She did not learn this type of behavior from me! She's still nursing voraciously. It's a lovely diet—for me. I now weigh 109 pounds and look like tits on sticks!
This afternoon I took Sierra out to a village meeting with John. We were trying to keep her quiet in the back of the crowd, but she kept running around behind the two of us and flinging herself on our backs and giggling. Of course, she quickly became the main attraction of the meeting. But one of the nice things about this place is that no one ever seems to mind. Once the mzungu baby began giggling, everyone was giggling. And it was as if that was the entire point of the whole meeting. Who cares if nothing got accomplished? We're all happy. Let's go home.
Some days I just tell myself, well, at least it's a really lovely little corner of hell.
I'll keep you posted,
Eve
Life and Death in Uganda
“You heard about Theodore?” Adam asked as I hopped off my bicycle in front of the bank a few weeks later. I was on my way to the market but stopped when I saw Adam.
“What about Theodore?” I asked.
“Oh, I thought you knew. I thought that is why you came over here.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I noticed then that Adam's usual smile was missing. “Theodore was killed in a motorcycle accident last night.”
“What? Where?” I stammered. Adam gave me all the details as we walked into the darkened bank. A sign on the front door read “Closed due to death.” Inside, bank staff stood dazed, looking like shell-shocked refugees.
“Where's John?” I asked.
“He and the bank manager have gone to the carpenter to order a coffin,” Adam told me.
I went over and hugged Susan, one of the bank tellers, and then looked around for Nancy, the other bank teller, who was Theodore's girlfriend. Just a month before, we had all gathered at Theodore and Nancy's apartment to celebrate the birth of their daughter.
“Nancy?” I asked. “How is Nancy?”
“Oh, she is terrible, Eve. Terrible.” Susan began to cry. “She is at the apartment. Her people are from here. Her mother is with her.”
“Theodore's family? They are from Kabale, right? Do they know?” I remembered first meeting Theodore when John, Adam, and I took our bank safari shortly after we'd first arrived. We had all liked Theodore immediately and were thrilled when he transferred up to work in Arua.
“The manager got a call through to the bank manager in Kabale this morning. They will get the message to his family. We will have a funeral here this afternoon and tomorrow morning Nancy and her father and the baby will fly with Theodore to Kabale.”
“Have some tea.” Gloria, the bank's secretary, put a cup of sugary tea in my hand. “Soon we will go over to Theodore's to prepare for the funeral.”
When John and the manager returned we all went over to the small brick building where Theodore and Nancy lived in an apartment on the second floor. A large group of people were milling about outside.
“Come inside with me, Eve,” Gloria said as she took my arm. “The women are preparing Theodore for the funeral.”
“Oh …” I hesitated. “I'll just stay out here with John.”
“No, no you should come,” Gloria said. “Since Theodore's family is not here, we must do the work of the women of his family today.”
“I think it's better for me to wait outside.” I didn't think I could handle the sight of a bloody, bashed-in, dead Theodore.
“Oh, Eve, it doesn't matter that you are a mzungu. Today we are Theodore's clan. You and John and Theodore all came to us in Arua at the same time. And you were his friend. It is fine for you to be in there.”
“No, it's not that, Gloria. I'm just squeamish.” Gloria looked confused, and I realized that, perhaps, squeamishness was a privilege reserved for those living in more developed countries. “And it's … um … it's against my religion to touch a dead body.” I was desperate and figured I'd be the only Jew Gloria would ever meet.
An hour later everyone went inside and I had no choice but to go. I tiptoed into the sitting room of the apartment, which now had Theodore in the center of it, lying on a bed, covered head to toe, much to my relief, by a bedsheet. A matronly woman sat on the floor beside the bed and periodically waved a long piece of blue cloth over the body. I didn't know if she was helping Theodore's spirit move into the afterlife or just shooing away flies.
John and I were ushered to chairs that were set up just beside Theodore's head. The room soon filled with women kneeling by the bed and moving their lips. I didn't know if they were praying or having lengthy conversations with Theodore. One old woman lovingly caressed his feet.
Why weren't you wearing a helmet? is what I would have asked. But I would have been the only one. Ugandans didn't usually think in terms of what-ifs. Most of the men came in and lifted up the sheet and had a look at Theodore's body. Some stood silently for a few minutes or sat next to John and me. But most of the men moved fairly quickly out to the balcony, where they sat and glumly smoked cigarettes.
“The coffin has failed to arrive,” someone came in and announced after we had been sitting around Theodore's body for several hours. Most Ugandan ceremonies involve a generous amount of sitting around and waiting. No one ever seemed to mind. But this was different. We had both a curfew and a decomposing body to consider.
“Why don't we take Theodore, as he is, to the church and begin the
funeral,” John suggested. “We can send a message to the carpenter to bring the coffin to the church.”
After some discussion, ten men and women gathered around the bed and lifted the mattress that held Theodore. Someone handed me Nancy and Theodore's baby and we all followed the mattress carrying Theodore through the apartment, down a twisting, uneven flight of stairs, and through a narrow alleyway to the street. Then, as gently as one can in this situation, they slid the mattress into the back of a Land Rover for an awkward procession to the church.
“Is it so, Eve? Adam's been shot? Is it so?” Coby was flushed as she stood in my doorway early the next morning. I had trouble at first comprehending what she was asking me.
“No, Adam wasn't shot. It was Theodore—you know, the tall, very friendly guy at the bank. You met him at my house. He died in a motorcycle accident.” There were always so many crazy rumors flying around. I was sure Coby had just gotten hers mixed up.
She put her hand on my arm. “Eve, I just heard it from Bernard that Adam was shot last night while going home from Theodore's funeral.”
I ran down the road to the CARE office, and the moment I saw John, I knew it was true.
“When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me?” I screamed.
“Don't worry, Eve. He's all right. He's all right,” John said. “I wanted to be sure that he was going to be okay before I told you. I knew you would panic. I thought this might push you over the edge.” How well my husband knows me.
John and I drove to the municipal hospital in the center of town. Anyone with transport usually went to the Kuluva Mission Hospital, where the care and conditions were usually better. I had seen such depressing conditions when I'd been to this hospital before that I was quite surprised to find Adam in a freshly painted, spotlessly clean private room. He was sitting up in bed, on crisp, clean sheets. He was in a chipper mood, his brilliant white smile radiating from his face. On one side of his bed sat his surgeon, on the other sat the resident pediatrician, both good friends of his. If it weren't for the bandages and the ammonia smell, the three of them could have been playing chess, drinking beer, and listening to the radio broadcasts of the OJ Simpson trial, like they had for months.
Adam took one look at my face and took up John's mantra. “I am all right, Eve. I am all right. I am going to be just fine.” Both doctors nodded solemnly, but Adam was almost giddy.
“Yes,” said the surgeon. “Adam here is a very lucky fellow. The bullet failed to pierce any major organs.”
“Yes,” added the pediatrician. “And he is lucky that he was on motorcycle rather than on foot. He was able to keep on his motorcycle and ride away from the direction from which the bullets were coming even after one had hit him.”
“And lucky that I am friends with the surgeon and know where he lives,” Adam added. People regularly bled to death in the hospital waiting room because the staff were reluctant to disturb the doctors at night.
I thought they were going to break into high fives all around. “Well, isn't it lucky that Adam's so lucky?” I screeched. I stormed out of the hospital room, sat down on the cement curb, and cried.
Adam had been shot so close to his own home that his wife, Sarah, later told us that she had heard the gunshots. We had probably heard them, too, but gunfire had become as common a night sound as the chirping of crickets, and unless it was really close, we hardly thought anything of it.
We never found out who shot Adam or why. Like when Stan had been shot just before we'd arrived, we never knew if it was related to rebel activity or just marauding bandits that occasionally popped up in the West Nile. But not knowing made me feel even more frightened.
“Now don't go all mushy on me,” Alison said two days later as I hugged her and wiped away my tears beside the runway. After Adam's shooting, VSO gave Alison forty-eight hours to get out of Arua. “I'm just going down to Kampala. You'll probably be down there any day yourself, knocking at my door and begging me to make you some proper crisps.”
I noticed a couple of other expat families with what looked like all of their belongings also waiting for the plane.
As I rode my bicycle back from the airstrip, I passed a military truck full of soldiers standing on the open bed in the back. One soldier had his rifle braced against his chest and it seemed like he was aiming at people on the road. For a terrifying moment, our eyes met and I knew he had me in the crosshairs of his rifle scope. Someone could get shot that way, I thought as the truck flew by. And then from behind me, I heard the sound of gunfire; as unmistakable as it was familiar now. I put my head down and pedaled home as fast as I could.
“Eve, my dear,” Adam said to me when he was released from the hospital the next day. “It just was not what? It was not my time to go. I was not meant to die at that time and in that place.” I no longer cared to wait around to find out if I was meant to die at this time and in this place.
Dear Terry and Pauline,
We haven't heard from you in a while but trust you are well. I also trust that you don't miss Arua too much. But we all miss you. A group of us got together for brunch at our house recently. It was a small group; there aren't many of us expats left up here anymore. Pauline, you would have been proud of the bush hostess I've become: I whipped up some vichyssoise and homemade bagels!
Well, it's certainly wild up here in the West Nile. The Kony rebels have been regularly attacking Gulu and Atiac, and ambushing travelers on the road between Karuma and Pakwach. And now we have our very own rebel group, the West Nile Bank Front. All the guerrilla activity has pretty much closed the road to Kampala. The only way in or out now is to fly. Because there are no buses coming from Kampala, we haven't seen a newspaper in days and the only way to get mail in or out is to send it with someone who's flying down. It's sort of eerily quiet here at the moment. And we're just hoping it stays quiet until the election.
John is beginning to ease himself out of the savings and loan project. Adam will take over, and the hope is that within a year, the bank will be able to run the project without outside support. I'll hate leaving this house and the friends we have here, but otherwise I'm more than ready for a change.
Of course, we have no idea what we're doing next. Remember when we first arrived in Arua and you told me that once the expat bug gets in your system you never want to go home? Well, I thought you were nuts! Back then I could hardly even imagine making it through two years. Now, I can't imagine ever living in the States again.
The termites came out a few weeks back. This year, Sierra was out there with all the other kids, snatching them right out of the air and popping them in her mouth! Who says my daughter isn't Ugandan? Last night, I even enjoyed some (fried) at a party at Adam's house. And this morning, I saw a woman walk down the road—barefoot—carrying her shoes on her head. Okay, so now I've seen—and done—it all. Maybe it really is time to leave.
I'll keep you posted,
Eve
Standing Fast and Ready to Run
After Adam's shooting, CARE put us on “standfast” status. We were told to keep the tank of our Pajero full at all times and have a bag packed in case we needed to evacuate. I thought “runfast” would have been a more appropriate name. I packed some diapers, clothes, and books for Sierra, our photo albums, my laptop computer and the disks with all my short stories and letters. Then I agonized over whether or not Id be able to take Berlin.
CARE advised us to drive over the border into Zaire if things got really bad. This raised the question of how much worse was “really bad”? And Zaire, which had its own troubles—most notably an Ebola epidemic and an impending civil war—was known locally as “the Zaire-shaped hole in the middle of Africa.”
I asked Regina what precautions she and her family were taking. “Oh, Eve, things are always like this around here. When things are good, we stay here and get on with our lives. And when things are bad, we stay here and get on with our lives.”
“My Gina!” Sierra yelled as Cissie chased her into the kitchen w
here Regina and I were talking.
“My Sierra!” Regina called back. “Look what I brought you.” She pulled a small, wrinkly ball from a pocket in her dress.
“Tunda!” Sierra said.
“Sierra now loves matunda,” Regina said as she cut the little passion fruit and handed half to Sierra, who expertly sucked out the sweet, seedy flesh. I hadn't taught her to do that.
John and I did make plans to leave, though. Since this would be easier if one of us had another job, we both applied for jobs in various countries. We were hoping that John would get another posting with CARE, but that wasn't guaranteed. Meanwhile, CARE asked John to go to Armenia for three weeks to develop a grant for a new savings and credit project, which could result in a job. With Arua's volatility, Sierra and I went down to Kampala while John was away. We stayed in what had now been dubbed “the Sierra Suite” at the Marums' house.
In the meantime, May 9, 1996, fast approached. That was the day Uganda would hold its first presidential elections since 1980. We all held our breath. In the last presidential election, Milton Obote had been charged with voter intimidation and rigging the count. No one inside or outside of Uganda accepted the results, and this led to the years of guerrilla warfare that ultimately ended with Yoweri Museveni ousting Obote and declaring himself president. Now, sixteen years later, Museveni promised a free and fair election, although he himself was the favored candidate.
On election eve, Larry, Elizabeth, and I made a champagne toast to what we hoped would be a peaceful election. Sonja, Paul, and Sierra toasted with chocolate milk. It was love at first sip for Sierra. And when Sierra said “nurse” before bed that night, I offered her a cup of chocolate milk instead. Okay, I know it's not the doctor-recommended weaning method. But I was a desperate woman. And it worked.
Despite our fears, election day was calm, with reports of people in every corner of the country standing peacefully—sometimes for hours—in long lines to cast their ballots. When we ventured out in the evening there were still long lines. But now everyone was waiting to witness the votes being counted. We watched as the paper ballots, with pictures of each candidate next to their printed name, were removed one by one and held up for all of us to see before being tallied on a huge board. It took all night for the votes to be counted this way at polling places all over Uganda. But when Yoweri Museveni was once again declared the president, everyone accepted the results.
First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria Page 28