How the other half dies

I’m sitting in a bar in Nansanna coming up to midday. The sun is beginning to scorch down on the orange earth outside. The Mutatus kick up the dust as they pass and that distinctive high guitar melody over African drums is emanating from both sides of the street through different songs. A couple of guys lean against their bikes (solid, triangular frames) as another gets into the tunes with a little dance. The others laugh.
Two days ago we met some people who live in the remote areas of Kasengaje. Sam is about four. He has a transfixed frown, moulded by so many emotions. He is dressed in rags: a filthy, oversized t-shirt with huge holes and a pair of shorts. His feet are bare.
On his hands and arms the skin is marked by black spots and open sores. There are open sores on his legs too, like violent gashes, and filth is engorged in the thick, black-red congealed blood. Two flies feed side by side on one sore while another feasts above. Sam doesn’t notice the flies. His gaze is transfixed in a 50-yard stare in our direction.
He’s HIV positive, tested two years ago. He has received no medication or treatment since. He is malnourished and dehydrated. His grandmother squats outside the mudhut, resigned, vaguely disinterested.
The roads are bad and they have little or no money. Although medication and treatment for the child will be free, they lack the resources to get him to a hospital or medical centre.
This is an overwhelming experience. You feel nothing, numb. And then, when you return to your room and step out of the sun into the shade, an emotion shoots up from your stomach like you want to vomit, filling your eyes with tears, shortening your breath…and you push it back down, breathe in and step back out into the arid sun to meet more of Africa.
A guy sits in rags on the street outside, begging, his withered legs tucked beneath him, his knees worn to the bone. He wears his flip-flops on his hands.
The boda-boda boys hang on the corner on the other side of the street as the Mutatus honk down the road looking for business.
I have to admit, I feel quite apprehensive about Gulu. Paul, who I was introduced to at MS Uganda, a Norwegian charity, gave me two contacts: Betty Ocan (who I phoned and arranged to meet at 6 o’clock this evening) and a Reverend who is in Gulu.
He, I have been informed, works very closely with the ministers and top-ranking officials in the Government regarding finding a peace in Northern Uganda.
He has also made contact with the Lord’s Resistance Army rebels in the bush. I was told not to discuss my travel arrangements or security matters with him on the phone as it is tapped.
A bus was hijacked there yesterday and 14 civilians taken out and murdered. The charity has no vehicles travelling to Gulu so I’ll have to make my own way by public transport. Is this the wrong decision? I don’t know.
Sometimes you can feel very alone. How did I end up here, on my way to a warfront? How did I end up here, in the middle of Africa? Where’s this leading me?
I arrived in Gulu after a five-hour bus journey in an overcrowded coach. The bus went at top speed, beeping its horn loudly at anything in its way. It was stopping for no one. A dog in two halves was testament to that. It slowed down only once to avoid a group of scavenging orangutans.
As we came within 50km of Gulu town we started passing the displacement camps: hundreds, thousands of straw-thatched huts packed tightly together and stretching from the road into the bush. UPDF (Government army) officers lazed against their guns in the scorching sun.
Gulu seems like a relatively small frontier town. Almost all the buildings are only one storey high and the roads are relatively wide. Communication antennae dot the town’s horizon. The clouds seem to explode dramatically up like mushroom clouds, the sunset bleeding out behind them.
We meet the Reverend just after checking in to the Kakanyero Hotel (with its steel door and armed guard). He has a very strong presence. The window reflects in a sharp curve in his eyes, shimmering against his dark, black skin. His eyes hold you with such an intensity that you dare not ask what they’ve seen. His laugh grabs you with a sense of the absurdity of life. His voice is a barely restrained passion of the history of his people, the Acholi. And despite the fact that he sees no hope now, you get the feeling that this man will make a difference.
We leave in a few minutes to meet the ‘Commander’ of one of the camps. I’m tense, apprehensive at what I’m about to experience. In this camp alone, 27,500 people are dying from disease, malnutrition; suffering huge stress and trauma – and…I…come…with…nothing.
Pictures from Sky News remind me of the familiar – I look forward to being out of here and back in Kampala, Nansana.
I look forward to the big barbecue we’ve planned for next Saturday. I look forward to seeing all the kids playing and having a good time. I look forward to people laughing and dancing and getting drunk. I look forward to the normal.
We get up and leave for the camp.