First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria

by Eve Brown-Waite

  When John returned from Armenia, we went back to Arua. I congratulated everyone for their country's peaceful return to democracy. I was sure, now that Museveni had won fair and square, the rebels would go away and things would go back to sleepy dullness for good. But my Ugandan friends said I was being naïve.

  “This is the way of Uganda,” Adam said. “The violence will return. It is our way here.” While I panicked and made plans to leave, my neighbors blithely accepted the violence and carried on with their lives.

  We also carried on with our lives while we waited to hear where we would be going next. We were watching a video shortly after we got back, when we seemed to run out of solar energy. This made no sense since it was a perfectly sunny afternoon. John went up to the roof to investigate.

  “Guess what I found up there?” he asked when he'd climbed back down.

  “A giant marabou stork carcass lying across the solar panels?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Okay, then why don't we have any power?”

  “Because there's nothing up there. Our solar panels are gone. Someone must have taken them while we were in Kampala.”

  The next day Arua's police chief came with two officers to investigate. “We are terribly sorry to have inconvenienced our white guest like this,” the chief said. “We are taking this case very seriously.” And they were, too; they fanned out around the house and snooped and sniffed as if the missing solar panels might be found behind the couch. But after a thorough investigation, for which we had to supply the vehicle and the fuel, our two solar panels were found—in our boy Richard's possession. Despite my reluctance to press charges against him, Richard was taken into custody.

  “Do you think, maybe, there's a remote possibility that Richard didn't steal from us?” I asked John. “I mean, after all we've done for him.”

  “If he didn't steal them, how do you explain our solar panels being found in his compound?”

  “Well, he said lots of the other kids are jealous because of all the stuff we've given him over the years and they did this to get him in trouble.”

  “And the fact that he was the only one who had been alone in our compound while we were away?” John continued. “Eve, don't be naïve.”

  “After all we've done for him, you really think he'd steal from us?”

  John shrugged. “Some people will, I guess. If they're poor and desperate and have the opportunity. Yeah. I know it stinks. But it happens. We have so much and they have so little, Eve.”

  I still had a hard time believing it. “Did Richard really take our solar panels?” I asked the police chief the next day at the police station. “I paid his school fees. I bought his chloroquine.”

  “Yes, I understand that Richard was your boy,” the chief said. “It was very wrong for him to do this. And by the way, madam, did you bring any food for him? He has been in our custody for two days with nothing to eat.”

  “Wait a minute! I take him in, pay his school fees, buy him whatever he needs. I took his sister to the hospital, paid her medical bills. When his father died last year, we gave money for the coffin. We went to the funeral. Now he steals from me and I'm supposed to feed him while he's in jail? No, I did not bring him any food!”

  “Yes, well, maybe tomorrow you should bring him some groundnuts and tea.”

  “Well, what's going to happen to him now?” I don't even know why I cared.

  “Ah, he has been sentenced to two years of hard labor,” the chief said.

  “Wow. That was quick!” I said.

  “Oh, yes, madam. Uganda has a new constitution.” The police chief reached into his desk and pulled out a small booklet. “This is our constitution and in here it says that we may not hold a prisoner for more than forty-eight hours if he has not been found guilty. Uganda is a democracy now and it is very important that we follow the constitution.” He proudly waved the booklet in front of us.

  “Yes, congratulations on your election,” John said.

  “In the United States court cases drag on for months or sometimes years,” I said. “But how can you manage to do that so quickly?”

  “Well, your boy confessed.” The police chief smiled.

  “He confessed?” I asked. “Two days ago he was still denying he had anything to do with it and coming up with elaborate stories to explain how the solar panels got in his compound.”

  “Well, in Uganda, we have two important tools for seeing that justice is served quickly. We have our new constitution”—he waved the booklet at me once again—“and we have this.” He picked up a thickly knotted tree branch from under his desk. “And together they work very well to bring about justice.”

  Despite Uganda's recent peaceful elections and the swift resolution of our robbery, CARE had decided that Arua was too unstable for an employee with dependents. We were to be the last CARE family in Arua.

  Dear Folks,

  Sorry for the form letter, but as most of you know, our lives have been incredibly hectic. The ending of John's project, the search for new employment, uncertainty about the peacefulness of the presidential elections, and rebel activity in Arua has kept us flying back and forth to Kampala the way other people take the commuter train to work! I'm sure you've stopped trying to keep up with where we think we're headed next. I know I have.

  For a while, Armenia seemed the likeliest place to end up next. It would be another job with CARE, making the transfer process nice and smooth. And since John spent three weeks there writing the project proposal, we had a bit of a background about the place, the people, and the project. But as of yesterday, the proposal was still awaiting final funding, so nothing is definite. We'd barely finished eating the cheese and butter from our last trip to Kampala when John got a radio message inviting him to Vienna to interview for the position of Income Generation Officer with the UN in the West Bank (Palestine). So back we went to Kampala, where Sierra and I stayed with the Marums while John bought a white shirt, scraped the mud from his shoes, and flew to Vienna. He was interviewed for an hour and a half by a panel of four people. Then he was eating pastries and drinking real coffee in a Viennese café. Living in Palestine would be exciting, but honestly, I think I've had enough bombings and gunfire to last a lifetime.

  When John returned to Kampala we joined the Marums on a camping trip to Queen Elizabeth National Park in southern Uganda for a last safari hurrah. We saw impala, kob, cape buffalo, and baboons by day and were kept awake at night by colobus monkeys, hyenas, and hippos in our camp. And best of all, we were finally able to see the elusive treeclimbing lions! Sierra's newest sentence: “The big cats were sleeping in the tree.”

  We camped in a spot that, apparently, was favored by hippos. Did you know that more people are killed in Africa each year by hippos than by lions? Well, we do, and now we know why. John was charged by an angry hippo, which he escaped by running through the (thankfully) narrow doorway of the cooking hut. And now I know—firsthand—what to do when you desperately have to pee in the middle of the night but hippos stand between you and the latrine. Thank God John brought us some Pampers from Vienna!

  When we returned to Kampala, John had several frantic messages from the Peace Corps. They desperately wanted to interview him for the job of Assistant Country Director in (now hold on to your hat and grab our atlas) Uzbekistan. In case you're looking for it, Uzbekistan is in the southern part of what used to be the Soviet Union, near Kazakstan, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan. In the space of two hours, John was interviewed by the country director, who called from Uzbekistan, and by three different people calling from Peace Corps headquarters in Washington. (Boy, this modern telephone technology they have in Kampala is truly amazing. I can only hope that someday the good people of Arua can benefit from it too.) It looks very positive, and the Peace Corps needs to move quickly as the new person must attend a three-week training in Washington that begins in two months. Uzbekistan is beginning to emerge from the blur as our choice for a next post. We both have fond feelings about the
Peace Corps. It is what brought us together in the first place.

  At almost two, Sierra is doing grand. The hardest part about leaving here will be separating her from all the people whom she has grown to love. How will we ever say good-bye to everyone who has become a part of our life? I can't even stand to think about it.

  John is busy, not just looking for the next job, but finishing up and passing on the old. His deputy, Adam, will be taking over, since CARE has decided not to hire another expatriate to replace him. We think this is good for Adam, who is highly capable, and for the project, which in order to be sustainable cannot continue to rely on expatriate expertise.

  Well, keep your fingers crossed, and I'll keep you posted,

  Eve

  Forever in My Blood

  “What do I hear for this roll of toilet paper? It's soft, it's gentle on the bottom, it came all the way from America.” Bernard was playing auctioneer. His eager audience was made up of just about all the expats left in Arua and plenty of our Ugandan friends and colleagues.

  “I'll give you a dollar,” Mark chimed in.

  “Heck, I'll give you two dollars!” his younger brother Stephen piped up. We all laughed. Stephen was only two weeks into his summerlong visit to Uganda.

  “I've got two dollars for the toilet paper. Do I hear three? John and Eve tell us it's a collectible—left over from the Kennedy administration.”

  “Well, why didn't you say it was used, then? I'll give you four quid for it,” John Hatchard bellowed.

  “I'll give you five U.S. cash dollars,” said Stephen, waving a five-dollar bill. “I gotta have that toilet paper!”

  “Aw, all right. Let the new bottom have it. Heck, I enjoy wiping my arse with The New Vision, anyway,” Hatchard said.

  “Sold! The toilet paper goes to Stephen for five dollars. Good for you and good for Kuluva Hospital!”

  With our departure date approaching, John and I had begun the time-honored tradition of all expatriates heading home: the mad giveaway. There was nothing that someone didn't want. We still weren't sure where we were headed, but we'd have at least a brief stopover in the States first. We could replace anything that we had prematurely parted with.

  “Eve, I would like to have some of your dresses and some of Sierras things for my children,” Regina had said.

  “I would like a dress too,” Cissie had practically whispered. “And a cooking pot?” I think that was the most I'd ever heard Cissie say directly, though she chattered away like a bird to Sierra and Regina.

  “The two of you can have whatever you want. Take anything. Well, except for my cookbooks. God knows what I'll be cooking wherever we go next.”

  “What would we do with these useless American things?” Regina laughed. “Your peelers and graters and electric things. Our simple things work better than your fancy American things.”

  “Better for you, maybe. But you ought to know about us Americans by now!” All three of us laughed.

  Mzee John asked if he could have Armstrong. Since we still didn't know where our next post would be, we didn't know if we could bring the dog. But we felt sure that Mzee John—who had bonded with Armstrong much as Nassar had in our old house—would give him a good home. Several people asked if they could have Berlin. But that was never an option: I had no choice but to leave Beijing in Arua; Berlin was coming with us.

  Over the past two years, I had acquired quite a stash of luxury food items that I doled out sparingly. Somehow I felt secure knowing that if the shit really hit the fan, at least we could enjoy hollandaise sauce and daiquiris while Arua burned. Ugandans had little use for any of that, although Regina and Cissie had both acquired a taste for ranch dressing on everything. But these things—along with books, videos, and Tupperware—were in high demand among expats.

  We gave Regina, Cissie, and our askaris anything they wanted. Everything else that wasn't coming with us was auctioned off to the highest bidder with all the proceeds going to Kuluva Hospital. The novelty of the auction, which was held at the first of our three farewell parties, totally eclipsed the “farewell” part of the party. Goodies in hand, most people forgot that they had actually come to say good-bye to us.

  “What do I hear for this cake?” Bernard was now auctioning off the cake that Coby had baked for the party.

  “I'll pay ten dollars for the cake!” a Ugandan friend offered. And before I could stop him, the beautiful cake on which Coby had painstakingly spelled out “Farewell” in colored sugar, went home with the highest bidder. But I was feeling nauseous and really didn't miss the cake. I wasn't sure if the nausea was from sadness, malaria, or the fact that I might very well be pregnant again, not that I bothered trying to get anyone around here to confirm that. I had learned my lesson.

  I had come to Arua fully aware that one day I would leave. I wasn't prepared to be a permanent expatriate and had never intended to spend my whole life in a mud village in Africa. But now that it was finally time to say good-bye, I couldn't.

  CARE had assured us that professional movers would come up to Arua, pack up our household, and then bring everything down to Kampala where they would be stored in a warehouse until we knew where we were going next. I was certain that was just a joke; as if anything that efficient could ever happen here. I had a dead telephone on my wall to attest to that. But a few days after our auction, the impossible happened: a moving truck arrived at our door. Moving men in neat uniforms cheerily popped out and set about professionally packing up our personal effects. In a few hours, they were on their way back to Kampala, assuring us that our things would meet us at our next post, and I was forced to reevaluate everything I thought I knew about this country.

  But later that night we received word that our truck was being held up by rebels in Murchison Falls National Park. I wondered what armed guerrillas would do in the jungle with plates that said “Plate” and bowls that said “Bowl.” We kept in radio contact with the driver, encouraging him to try to bribe his way out. But the guerrillas steadfastly refused the money, claiming they didn't want to get the nasty reputation of extorting bribes from international aid agencies. After nearly a week, the truck was allowed to continue on its way. Perhaps the rebels had rummaged through our things and couldn't figure out where they'd plug in the cappuccino maker.

  Meanwhile, in Arua, the CARE staff invited the whole community to a huge farewell party in our honor. They roasted two goats and served all the beer people could hold. Which was not a lot for me. The all-too-familiar nausea was hanging on and I was pretty sure I was pregnant again. I skipped the medical runaround this time, as well as the prenatal vitamins and malaria prophylaxis. Without all the drugs in my body, I felt significantly better than I had last time.

  The entire CARE and bank staffs came to this party, as did all sorts of people from town. Local government officials, the guys from the post office, Zila and a bunch of women from the market all came to say good-bye. They gave us gifts for setting up a new household—woven mats, baskets, and cooking utensils—for which I was grateful, because at the time our household effects were still being held hostage in the park. The Catholic archbishop, who'd met John's parents when they were in town, offered John a dispensation and a Catholic wedding. But we declined, knowing all that that would entail. And besides, who would pay for the soap?

  On our last Sunday afternoon in Arua, we drove out to Regina and Steven's home for one final farewell party. A group of Steven's musician friends were playing adungus and drums. A long table was piled high with vast quantities of matoke, beans, and potatoes, there was chicken, rice, and a starchy cornmeal paste called enya—sure signs of a special occasion. Most unusual of all, there was a loaf of bread.

  “Bread?” I asked. “Regina, where did you get bread?” Bread is not part of the traditional Ugandan diet. I had taught Regina and Cissie how to make it, but few Ugandans could bake it since they had no ovens.

  “I baked it for you,” Regina answered. “In an oven that Steven built.”

  “My
Gina!” Sierra jumped into Reginas arms, while Steven introduced us to the many people gathered.

  “This is my mother,” Steven said as an ancient woman grabbed my arm. “And this one”—he gallantly bowed toward a woman I recognized from the wedding—“is Reginas mother.” Steven continued reintroducing us to a dizzying assortment of parents, in-laws, brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, and neighbors, whom we'd met at their wedding. But I hardly remembered most of them. Each one shook our hands and showered us with a chorus of “Thank you” and “God bless you.”

  Steven led us to an awning that was propped against the side of one of the huts. He motioned John and me toward two wooden chairs that were placed regally in the shade. Balloons and what looked to be pink and blue crepe paper dangled from the edges of the awning. On closer inspection I saw that the crepe paper was actually stiff and grainy Ugandan toilet paper.

  Regina carried Sierra into the cooking hut and came out a few minutes later with plastic plates and serving utensils. Sierra toddled behind her, cradling a filthy, tattered doll, its head hanging by a thread. Women bustled about laying more food on the table. The music stopped and Steven asked us all to sit down. Regina with Sierra on her lap, Steven and their children, Cissie and her sister, Coby, Bernard and their two boys all sat opposite us on a mat on the packed dirt. Everyone else sat on mats that fanned out across the compound.

  Steven stood and cleared his throat. “We thank the Lord for bringing us together today. And we thank Him for bringing John and Eve and Sierra to us. We ask Him for his continued kindness and sustenance.” Steven paused and turned to look at John and me. “John and Eve, you have come here and become part of our lives. We can never repay your kindness and goodness to us. May the Lord Jesus Christ bless you and keep you in His care wherever you go. And may He bring you back here to us again. We ask these things in the Holy Name of Jesus.”