Bugging me

… And I just swallowed another mosquito. Oh joy, it’s stuck in my throat.

People here ask me, “Are you afraid of mosquitoes?” Answer: Yes. Although I’m more afraid of swallowing foreign blood.

Gulu has been … ah, how shall I put it? Interesting. Certainly more challenging to adapt to than Kampala. It’s better than Moroto, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I have a feeling this is going to be an endurance challenge, and I’m glad I began my stay in a bigger city.

The mosquitoes are only one aggravator. The dust storms are another. We’ve had them almost every day since I arrived, big clouds of dust that sweep around town for an hour or so, making people squint and cover their ears. If you open your mouth to speak, dust rushes in and coats your teeth, until you wind up chewing it. I’m not sure whether I can tolerate this for full three weeks, with my sinuses. (I had surgery in 2005 to open them up, and I still react badly to colds and allergies.) I have no idea how the locals tolerate this dust for years – and it’s not even the dry season! But lack of power I’ve gotten used to. And the water has run consistently, which is great.

The other thing driving me nuts is the tourists. You know, when I arrived here in Gulu, the staff at the Institute for Peace and Strategic Studies, as the Centre for Conflict Management and Peace Studies is now called, introduced me to an American from Louisiana named Jeffrey. Jeff wasn’t so happy to see me, and now I think I understand why. A lot of the foreign aid workers here are self righteous and annoying, not to mention ignorant. Yesterday I watched this tall American man yell at the two girls in the reception office about the lack of power like it was their fault. They didn’t respond to his complaints, only listened looking concerned, until I finally snapped. “You know, it’s out all over town,” I said.

The man looked at me oddly. “Well, I was just across town ten minutes ago, and the power was working just fine.”

“Yeah,” I retorted. “It was. Then about five minutes ago up the block at the Internet café the lights went out, and people had to start their generators. The problem with a hotel this big is that one little generator doesn’t power the whole place, so they wait until the kitchen needs electricity for cooking and then turn the motor on. This happens a lot in Gulu, and even in Kampala. It’s not their fault.”

The guy looked at me, looked at the girls, and then wandered over to the stairwell.

“How will I see the way to my room?” he asked. My internal response: Little boy, it’s plenty light still. Just walk up the stairs and quit whining! The folks at Pearl Afrique must be used to this kind of abuse, though, because they summoned a staff member with a flashlight to show the king to his royal chambers. By the time someone got there, a small crowd of these people had congregated at the base of the stairwell, looking up worriedly.

“Why are the lights off?” one twenty-something woman mewled. “Why don’t they put them back on?”

You know, when I was in undergrad a group of friends and I wrote this short story about a blackout in a grocery store in Los Angeles. We decided people wouldn’t be able to handle it, would start acting panicked and fatalistic, like death had come to their precious civilization. Meanwhile, the story went, a small group of bongo players laughed and started dancing in the produce section.

Talk about foreshadowing! I shook my head and marched upstairs, not wanting to admit that these people were actually compatriots.

Then there are the slow talkers. These guys make me want to hit my head against the wall.

“DO … YOU … HAVE … A PHONE … CHAR … GER!!!” a young man from Utah asked the internet café attendant. The Ugandan, who happens to also be named Jeff, stared at the tourist for a long time, not because he didn’t understand the man’s English, but because he was trying to figure out whether the American’s impediment was mental or physical.

“You want me to get you a plug for your phone?” Jeff clarified, perplexed that the man would be asking for phone charging service at an internet café.

“YES. THAT … WOULD … BE … VER-Y … NICE,” Utah brayed, pleased that he had succeeded in communicating. I tried really hard not to laugh out loud.

These Americans, you can spot them from a mile away. They move in groups, carry large backpacks for no reason, and do their best to dress like Jane Goodall. Their only incursions into Uganda involve posh safaris led by other Westerners in the richest areas of the land. This is why the government has been ousting people from their homes to establish wildlife parks – because tourists like these will pay anything to see an elephant.

Please tell me that I don’t act like this.

Anyway, I’ve started calling these travelers “tourists” because clearly they don’t do anything to interact with the resident population. And if you don’t know the people, how are you ever supposed to foster development suited to the community? I wonder if any of these tourists have even tasted malakwon or sim sim. And I’ve never heard one of these people say “kopango” or “afoyo.” It’s like they just want to come see this sad, war-torn land, so they can help the poor people and be enlightened.

Ego tourists. That’s all they are.

Anyway, I should curtail the bile because clearly NGOs and CSOs out here have done a great deal of good. Even a provincial, self-righteous American can be useful, under knowledgeable guidance. But I don’t think I’ll be going to a lot of fancy restaurants, even if I do want good food. Being in a room full of these people is just too grating.

And now I’ve been at least as self righteous. But it feels good to get that off my chest. I'll go be cranky in silence, now.

:)