Thoughts on the destruction of a community.

I'm a chemist. I remember well the warnings my chemistry professors gave me on Mercury toxicity. They even told of a fellow professor who was working in the lab with a component of Mercury and had later been diagnosed with Mercury poisoning. Unfortunately, the period for treatment had passed and the professor died due to his exposure.

Mercury poisoning is extremely toxic because even parts per billion are lethal and destroy entire communities. Here is one article about detection in the human body as well as symptoms.

https://labtestsonline.org/understanding/analytes/mercury/tab/test/

The following article is about reducing environmental impact by reducing concentrations of mercury in aqueous solutions. It also touches on airborne contaminants.

http://www.nist.gov/tip/wp/pswp/upload/137_aqueous_phase_mercury_removal_strategies.pdf

This is merely the tip of the iceberg. Social, economic, communal and environmental concerns are daunting at this point in this micro-situation which seems to mirror all the other micro-situations of artisan mining in Africa and Asia.

Ultimately, I stand by helpless watching from a distance as a community embraces its own destruction gleefully. Joyfully. Somehow, it smacks of perfect evil, of greed.

I spoke with a young man from the community who is originally from the community pictured here. He has his degrees and is employed by an organization that monitors oil companies across Uganda, who are drilling for oil, ensuring that they do not destroy native habitat in the process of extracting oil. I asked him about this new development in his community. He responded, "Yes my father is a leader in this community and the caretaker of this property. But I am but a child in the eyes of my people and they would only say I am trying to keep them from gaining any wealth should I protest in any way at all about the artisan mining."

What does one solitary person do to stand up against the crush of a whole village of extremely eager people as well as more powerful greedy people stand waiting to exploit those people?

Documenting the destruction of a community.

Aqueous mercury baths emptied to run down the hillside into the swampy areas of the community.

A barefoot child carrying harvest walks through the path of waste drainage.

The ore that everyone is stumbling over to get their hands on the profits.

Panning in pools of aqueous mercury.

A shanty town of services supporting the miners has erupted overnight. The small rural population of farmers now supports 20,000+ extra people. As of now, the locals clasp their hands in glee as they speak of their good fortune and grab any piece of residual wealth they can get from the flow of capital. Who is to blame them, poor as they have been?

Carrying the burden of wealth.

Drama.

There is one thing Ugandans like a lot that Stephen and I try to measure our exposure to. I’m sure if it were the right kind of drama, we would get involved like everyone else but for now, I’ve asked Stephen to distance himself from especially the family drama.

For example, one Sunday, I warily sent Stephen off to a “family meeting” which was supposed to start at 10 am but he didn’t arrive till noon. At 3:30 pm he was still there and at 9:00 pm I began to worry whether somebody had gotten killed in an altercation. The topic of the meeting was to present to extended family the things the 3 uncles had been working on with respect to business and establishing the Family Foundation. The Family Foundation’s intent is to instead of chopping up the family inheritance into 3 then 100 different pieces, they keep it conjoined and run the properties as a company.

Now the 3 uncles have come into some potentially lucrative operations and these meetings have come to be attended very heavily by cousins and extended family. The 3 uncles are still alive and carry the burden of decisions and Stephen is involved because he is helping them actualize their ambitions. Stephen loves to build things, organizations, foundations, business ventures, etc. He would do this for free for the rest of his life if he could and he’d be happy as a clam but it isn’t really conducive to raising a family, when the bread winner runs around doing things for people for free during working hours.

The meeting was well attended because people had gotten wind of the potentially lucrative operations. It got really exciting as the kids to these 3 men and those of the 2 deceased men jumped up and demanded a share of their inheritance with passion and conviction. They accused those working on the project of stealing from them. They made impassioned suggestions and shared their expert opinions—everyone trying to outdo the other in demonstrating their contribution through lip service.

Eventually people just left the meeting. I didn’t go because it would have been a waste of time, since it was all in Lluganda and the translator would have been sure to forget he/she was translating for me. My wedding details were decided in this manner. Eventually, I simply told my husband, “look whoever is paying for this or that decision, may make the decisions on that detail.” Eventually, we made the decisions on pretty much all the details.”

So, the drama continues. Let it continue as long as it doesn’t distract me from my work, I say. Even a few days ago, I was the driver, taking my twins and a van load of drama story telling men out to the property of interest, to serve court summons to people who didn’t want to pay rent to their landlords. They were serving eviction summons to men who were not too poor to pay rent but rather too greedy to pay a portion of their incredible profits to the landholders, who’s land they were definitely destroying in the process of profiting. Very involved story behind that one. Oh, the stories I could tell. Stories of intrigue and passion and demons and spirits and poisonings and bewitchings.

Broken Bread

I had a win this morning. One twin comes to me with a broken bread--a major offense, usually resulting in a meltdown and refusal to eat the offensive pieces of broken bread. I told her to come here and open her mouth. In mock horror, I told her I found broken bread in there. Then I pretended to look into her tummy and told her I found broken bread in there too. Since she loves jokes and fun, she laughed and ate her broken bread.

Mobility means adventures.

So, now that we have a car, we can go on adventures, right!? Husband came home, Wednesday of last week at about noon saying, “Get dressed! We are buying a car today and you are driving.”

Yeah! My house arrest is over! Yeah I get to drive where there doesn't appear to be any traffic laws.

It is essentially a work vehicle which will take Stephen to all the places he needs to go to manage this or that project/business/whatever. Managing the family property in Bukuya now requires another level of scrutiny, so, ease of movement has become much more necessary.

Only, one small issue. I am the only one with a drivers license. Here we drive on the left side of the road. Driver’s controls all switched around. So, I have to drive in this madness. Saturday, I experienced the range of madness that exists out there. There is Kampala and Jinja Road that leads from Kampala. This road is traffic jam central. Then there is the road that runs from Kaligi to Mukuno. My husband’s home and gardens are on this road as well as one of his businesses. This road is paved but very dangerous because since it was paved the edges of the road have receded and broken off, many places have deep ravines you could fall into and the road itself is only wide enough for one car to pass in many places. Additionally, it is heavily used by cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians. Then there is the road from Mukuno to Kisoga and Katosi. It is not paved. However, there is currently a company working on constructing a paved road through there. On Saturday we drove all these roads.

When I drive I have to get Stephen to tell me what the traffic laws are in the moment. It’s been quite the married life experience. On the road from Mukuno to Katosi after a rain, I’m driving through a stretch that has been flattened by the construction company and it is simply a wide stretch of slick red mud.

Stephen tells me, “drive in the middle of the road” I look at this span and respond, “Where is the middle? It all looks like the middle.”

On the way back from Mukono to Kaligi, after an excellent dinner at a neat, nice place with wide open spaces and freshly washed windows--This feels amazing in a place where grit and dirt and dust are the norm—Stephen tells me, “I’m going to drive the Mukono to Kaligi Road.” The cops aren’t out and somebody who knows the road should drive it in the dusk/dark. I was relived and happily took the passenger’s seat and buckled everyone in. Then he started driving that road. Naturally Stephen is trying to avoid a head on collision on the right, while a train of cars drive with their brights on. On the left side, where I am sitting, I see the pavement end and a ravine approaching me head on. I scream brace my arms and legs and we bounce hard into a pothole. Then there is the motorcycle we are about to hit and the guy on a bicycle who is barely visible next to the blinding headlights of oncoming traffic.

The twins are in the back, “Mommy, why you screaming? Mommy, you scared? It’s really bumpy.”

Sorry girls, “Mommy just scared. It’s okay. Sorry, honey. I’ll relax and just let you drive.”

Only problem is that I wasn’t drunk nor did I close my eyes. Not even 2 minutes later…I’m screaming again.

The next ravine approached, this one was much deeper and I screamed again as there is this terrible thud and a long, horrible scraping noise, as we come off the road completely and land in somebody’s grassy yard. Somehow we avoided the cycles and the people or they avoided us.

I’m panting. My heart is pounding. And Stephen is getting out of the car and telling me that I am going to drive. I agree. I get out and the car doesn’t appear to be broken. I had to calm down a bit before pulling out on the road again and obviously something was wrong. We pulled off again on a fat muddy space in front of a dark building and realize we have a flat tire. We assess the situation and realize our new to us minivan’s back hatch-back door doesn’t open and the nut to release the spare tire is in that door frame and we don’t have a jack. Otherwise, I was getting the tools out to get this done. So, Stephen took a motorcycle back to Mukono to get a mechanic to help us. The mechanic brought his own jack and worked through the issues. We examined the tire and there was a 2 inch tear in the sidewall of the tire.

What did this cost? I saw money coming out of the wallet left right and center but was afraid to ask.

Dinner for 4: 28,000 UGX = $8.50

What the mechanic said he was charging for the job when Stephen got him at the shop: 3,000 UGX = $ 1

What the mechanic charged after he found a Muzungo in the car: 11,000 UGX = $3.34

Lesson learned: priceless

We proceeded down the road much more cautiously. I told Stephen, “I don’t care how slow people think I am, I prefer that to an accident, someone killed, a fine or a broken car. Because all that is a whole lot more expensive and terrible. We are lucky that we just had a flat. Also, we are not going to drive this road at night until we are seasoned at driving it during the day. And we need to take defensive driving lessons.

First Challenges

Dealing with the loneliness has been the biggest challenge. It feels like I am under house arrest. I have a very limited circle I can travel beyond and I have mostly kept within those bounds. I can navigate a taxi but the twins impede my movements. Even when we walk the short route to the supermarket, one or the other doesn’t want to walk and I end up carrying them. So, there is the issue of movement which doesn’t allow me to travel to meet someone that might want to talk to me.

Then there is the issue of understanding. Most people speak English here, however, they don’t pronounce things like I would. My maid, Sophia, was talking about “pads” the other day but somehow the way she pronounced it and it sounded like she was saying “pots.” I tell Sophia that we will have macaroni for lunch and I go to see what she is cooking and it is rice. So, I guess we will be eating rice. In all of this mis-understanding I am eager to work through it and arrive at a better understanding but it seems that most Ugandans I have around me—they look embarrassed and then shyly drop the conversation. Stephen says that they often transliterate their Lluganda language structure and just use English words on the Lluganda structure. So, usually it is I that doesn’t say things in a way they would expect.

I think the most significant conversation I’ve had since I’ve been here was with a woman while I walked along the road, near my house. I stopped to speak to a mother feeding her child from a thermos. The little girl was about 3. When I greeted the mother the first thing out of her mouth was, “Do you want to give me some clotheses?” I didn’t know how to answer, so I just didn’t and instead asked her about her child and where she lived. So, then she was more persistent and asked me for food. I decided to just bring her to my house and feed her what we had for supper. I realized this was likely a situation where it is assumed the white lady’s purpose for existence is charity but I didn’t really care. I tried to make small conversation while she ate in my back yard and I held her child. She freely asked for a whole list of things and I gave it to her if I had it and I told her I didn’t have it if I didn’t. When she had finished eating I blessed her and she went on her way and I am sure she used and was much appreciative of the things I gave her. Most people don’t have much and use the things they have far beyond when the usefulness of it has ended.

The girls are faring much better than I, now that we have landed on a few meals that they can and want to eat: chicken, rice and sometimes beans, macaroni and spaghetti sauce. They are very happy that I am at home with them all the time. They are very excited when Daddy comes home every day. They run and play inside and outside and in the mud puddles with sticks and rocks. They climb the veranda poles and peek through the hole in the back yard wall to watch another world of Ugandan kids playing in their yard. We go for short walks down the road. We walk across the street to run freely on the concrete in front of the store that sells us the occasional soda.

Washing clothes Uganda style. Obviously, two little girls have peed themselves several times today and this is the glorious consequence.

 The hole in the wall that peeks into another world.

First most Uneventful Reflection

It’s been 20 days since I got to Uganda with 2 toddlers and a ton of baggage. The flight was hard and long. Thank goodness we got a flight with only one layover. The girls slept most of the time from Amsterdam to Entebbe. I wish I had a pic of their positions in the seats. One was standing on the floor but laying in the seat, asleep. I was in the center-section pinned in by their sleeping bodies. I couldn’t get out and walk around. They didn’t want to. It made me a little crazy to sit in one place for so many hours. I hadn’t thought that through. I wasn’t thinking at all by the time I boarded. I had the 20 hours to sit and doze and sigh and feel anxiety about the mess I left behind, hoping that it was miraculously being transformed.

I haven’t been feeling much like writing recently. I’ve been lazying around and taking it easy and been forced to consider things other than sheer (First World) survival. Here, I have a maid, so things move along without me most of the time. My husband stayed at home all day the first day but has been gone attending to things every day since then.