Another World

12/03/05

I'm back in Kampala, another world. Gulu is already just a memory, though hopefully one well preserved in patterns of light burnt onto strips of celluloid, and scribbles of fading pencil led in this disintegrating journal.

But I'll need to struggle to find its permanence. Make it permanent.

I remember hearing the joyous wails of the grandma in the refugee camp, deep in rebel territory, when she saw that we had brought home her girl, her girl that had been abducted two years ago, her little girl that had been forced to spend those years fighting and fucking.

I still see the involuntary smiles of the kids, the 'unaccompanied children' they called them, those babies born in the bush, that grew up in the captivity of the rebel force, whose mothers and fathers were killed either in battle with the UPDF, or from hunger, thirst, disease, or worse. But those kids, they're just kids, and if you run with them or roll with them, play with them, laugh with them, they are just kids like any others, not the orphaned victims of a pointless rebellion.

I still smell the first IDP camp I visited, where the sewage seeped out of every crevice and mixed with the water supply, the smell permeating everything, but those 20,000 plus people crammed into the one square kilometer didn't seem to notice, because they are accustomed to it, accustomed to it because its been their home for nearly a decade, because some of them can barely remember what life was like before.

I still taste the bile that collected in that the back of my throat every time I feared, really feared the situation I was in, whether hurtling through rebel run roads or being detained and threatened and harassed by the supposedly honorable army, or finding myself in the midst of 1000 children, fighting and clawing, pushing and pulling each other to get their hands on a ten cent package of biscuits.

I can still feel what it was like to hear and see and smell and taste these things, but already that feeling is fading… Because now I hear water trickling in a porcelain pool, the wind blowing through manicured trees, soft jazz playing through expensive speakers. Now I see varnished hardwood decks and well designed architecture, potted plants and wicker lamp shades. (The word 'lamp' didn't translate in Gulu.) Now I see rows of dark oak and leather bar stools, truly handsome. Now I smell burgers grilling (avocado and bacon available at an additional charge) and bougainvillea. Now I cant taste fear, I feel only comfort, and nothing kills me quicker than comfort. But right now, I appreciate it so completely, and my comfort hasn't turned into complacency. Right now I am just reveling in this pure and unabated comfort. And look at that: They have brought my bacon and avocado salad, a salad, a real fucking salad, with lettuce and everything and its presented well and god this is going to be good. And when I'm done, maybe I'm going to order a scotch and take a swim, because I can, because tomorrow I am diving back into the deep end, diving into a bus to Kenya, back into the fray.

So today, I will just enjoy my comfort, and I will deny the guilt that will constantly try to creep in from the seams.

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