Into the Lion's Den...

Although Uganda is small, the country is called home by a surprising diversity of people. The Buganda from the central part of the state dominate the political sphere and hold fast to a tribal identity that often puts them, in their eyes, above their country mates. In the southwest we have the Buchigu, the equivalent of Ugandan Ticos, an incredibly industrious and boisterous people that inhabit the high altitude tropical region. Where we live, the easy-going Bugizu celebrate with huge circumcision ceremonies every year in which young men, aged 15 to 16, get their foreskin lopped off and run up a hill while being slapped you-know-where by the village women. Across the gender divide, the inhabitants of Kapchorwa district still occasionally practice female circumcision. In the extreme North, the towering Dinka provide one end of the extreme, while the Pygmies of the far West provide the other. Finally, the adventurous may find the reclusive Karamajong in the northeastern part of the country close to the border with Kenya. There are countless other tribes here in Uganda that I haven’t mentioned, but I must stop here because it is this last group, the Karamajong, that I am going to talk about in this posting.

Mbale-Moroto road

A brief overview of the Karamajong. One of the most distinct tribes in Uganda, these nomadic pastoralists share only a few similarities with any other tribe in Uganda, the Teso of the east. Hundreds (but probably thousands) of years ago a great tribe moved down from the Sudan and came to what is now Karamoja. Something made the tribe split, and a faction migrated away from the dry, flatlands of the North to the rain soaked central highlands. That splinter group, the Teso, shook off many of their cultural traditions and assimilated with other tribes within Uganda, and kept faithful only to their linguistic heritage, though just vaguely. (One fun fact: Karamajong means “uncles“ in Ateso language, while Teso means “dead bodies“ in the Karamajong languages.) Though they have remained very much isolated in the harsh lands of the north, the Karamajong have also shed many of their traditions. Formerly a semi-nudist collection of cattle herders, many people of Karamoja have opted for a more agrarian lifestyle and clothing handouts from international aid organizations, although many of the elders still walk around town holding the long switch used to guide cattle to grazing lands. Life has been tough for the Karamajong. It is true many of them may be seen sporting Union High School Football tee-shirts, but inter-tribal fighting is still a very real problem just as it was a thousand years ago. The Turkana from Kenya often cross illegally into Karamoja and raid villages, stealing sacred cattle and food. In a saddening tit for tat, the Karamoja villagers respond by raiding the village that had attacked them; if they do not they will surely starve. Indeed, food has increased in value enormously in recent decades, as climate change has shortened the rainy season and exacerbated the dry season, making food a precious commodity and churning out a rapidly growing number of people dependant on handouts from the World Food Program. Finally, guns smuggled into Uganda via Sudan have found their way to Karamoja, increasing the frequency of road ambushes and making one place, Kotido, a “wild east town where AK-47s are common as walking sticks and blankets.” Just last week, ten people were killed on the road from Mbale to Moroto, the regional capital. As if I hadn’t given my parents enough grey hair already, I decided I just had to go to Karamoja.

Check out the bow and arrow

There are two routes from Mbale to Moroto: the safe road and the dangerous road. The latter is shorter and loads more scenic, while the former is, well, safer. Brad, Luke, our German friend Justus and I of course wanted to take the sketchy road. Cruising into the bus park at 8 in the morning, we found out that someone was looking out for us; the dangerous bus was broken and would not be running that day, so we would be forced to take the long, dusty trip to Soroti and, from there, onward to Moroto. To our surprise, a family of heavily-perspiring Muzungus board the bus and plop down in the seats directly behind us. Gauging by the way they talked it was obvious that they were very religious Australians, therefore we wasted no time in jumping into a very loud and very personal conversation about circumcision. They turned out to be quite friendly (or forgetful) and we later spent some time talking to them and the attractive daughter. In an interesting development, we had just crossed into Karamoja district, still a couple of hours from our destination, when the bus broke down. There I sat in the Ambush Capital of the World, heart racing and with sweat pouring down my face, trying to look cool in front of the cute Australian. A few bottles of water poured on the radiator was all it took, and the bus rumbled off after only a twenty minute delay, long before any bad men could have gotten wind of us and come running. A mere three hours tardy, our bus rolled into Moroto at around five pm. After bidding the Aussies adieu we jumped off the dusty bus and began looking for a safe, reliable place to get a cold beer. Unable to find a cold beer, we ignored the voices telling us to return to Mbale where cold beer is plentiful and settled for cold sodas. Meeting us at the soda parlor was Wilbert, a young Kampalan from the International Rescue Committee who had agreed to show us around that weekend. Wilbert helped us find some accommodation, promised he would show us where to obtain cold beers later, and then led us on a walking tour of Moroto.

Moroto is an NGO town. Instead of bodas and minibuses, the streets are lined with glistening SUVs, all with some sort of giant logo plastered on the doors and bonnet. In an almost sickening display of wealth they cruise almost pointlessly around town with the air-conditioner a-blowin’ while the people they are there to help hobble barefooted on the sidewalk next to them. There is no industry, no regionally-specific produce, no substantial marketplace--only a handful of restaurants and bars which cater toward the relatively wealthy NGO staffers. The “downtown” area consists of just one quarter mile stretch of divided road, saddled on either side by new NGO offices and decaying Karamajong general stores. Up the road to the east are the two residential areas lying at the foot of the 3000 meter Mt. Moroto: the Karamajong slums and the NGO workers community. Leading us through both areas, Wilbert did not need to point out their differences. Strewn with trash, tin shacks and idlers, the slums were, for me, incredibly saddening and uncomfortable to walk through; I couldn’t help but look down at my feet, despite the shouts of from children, and walk faster. In a stark contrast to the Karamojong living conditions, the fenced-off foreigners dwelt in brand new concrete mansions, with satellite antennas and blue metal roofs. Passing through the slums area, the sun began to drop and dusk was inching closer, and Wilbert quickened his pace to almost a jog. It was not good, he said, to get caught outside after dark. I am usually skeptical of such advice when a foreigner tells me that about a place, but from a Ugandan the information, I admit, was a little unnerving but certainly heeded. Luckily for us, we had no problems, and soon found ourselves at one of the posh NGO hotels with ice cold beers sitting in front of us and watching a football match on television under generator power while the rest of Moroto lay in darkness.

The next day Wilbert took us out to a school his organization was working with, which was rather impressive. Piping led the precious rainfall from rooftop gutters to a giant cistern in the center of the compound, and two new outhouse buildings, one for each sex, stood in the back. Most of the 600 students had free schooling, brand new classrooms, and a football stadium in the planning stages--all of it subsidized by the Northern Ugandan Rehabilitation Program. Administrators were even having trouble finding enough qualified teachers to keep up with demand. Actually, their biggest problem was not lack of funding, but the large three hundred yard gap in the fencing around the compound. Just recently, they informed us, some warriors had come onto their property looking for items to loot, but were confronted by the Ugandan Military. One of the warriors was killed in the ensuing shootout. Nevertheless, this was the other side of the NGO picture, which is the side my organization, MAPLE, is on. I have always been, and always will be, a huge advocate for education, and I truly believe that it can heal very deep wounds. Here was a fully-functioning school in the middle of a war-torn nowhere, providing free education to a large number of very poor children; if there ever was a way to escape the vicious cycle the Karamajong were experiencing, this was it.

Now I am certainly no English major, but...

For one to truly understand the Karamoja he or she must grasp the importance of the role security plays in their lives. Their lives revolve around it, almost to the point of being paranoiac. Enemies abound in Karamoja, though they have traded in their bow and quiver for automatic weapons and tribal dress for army fatigues and Ray Bans, and friends and family are held close while foreigners are kept at a distance. Interestingly, the Karamajong’s Nilotic cousin lived under similar conditions three thousand years ago in the Levant. Chaim Potok writes:

“When your world is a wilderness of sand and stone, a wasteland of scorpions, jackals, serpents, and enemy tribes, you need a close social organization based on ties of blood in order to stay alive and protected.”

Potok’s description of the Jew struggling to find a foothold in a hostile world accurately portrays the Karamajong’s struggle in the harsh brush of Northern Uganda. Neighboring tribes are your enemies, and the land is your enemy. Wild Turkana tribesman cross over illegally from Kenya, raid your village of food and steal your cattle. The dry season, growing in length each year as a result of climate change, makes food so scarce you have no choice but get aid from the humanitarian organizations. Should you choose to react to your situation with violence, the Ugandan military is there to quickly return fire. It is understandable, then, why it was a big deal for Wilbert to bring us to a traditional Karamajong village and ask for their permission to let us inside of their compound. Luckily for us, they said yes, and we stepped inside.

Additional security wall inside of a Karamajong village

Rather, we stooped inside. Surrounding the compound was a six foot high fence made from arm-thick poles stuck deep into the ground with brambles filling in the gaps, and only one entrance: a three foot by two foot hole in the wall. Trouble enough for me, it was pretty entertaining watching our 6’5’’ German friend duck down low enough to pass through the doorway. But we weren’t in yet. There was another defense wall just inside the first, this doorway even smaller, which was nice because it gave me an opportunity to get my camera out and take pictures of everybody crawling through. The residential block, consisting of about ten round straw huts, was found in the center of the multi-walled compound encircling an open gathering area. The villagers were extremely cautious to approach us at first, warmed up slowly when I began showing them that our cameras weren’t dangerous and that they could see pictures of themselves in seconds. It was still quite awkward; they had very few possessions, no chickens or goats running around, no bags of flour or grain, just the occasional blackened pot sitting on a couple of rocks over a charcoal pit. Brad, Luke, and I had visited a number of villages before, but this experience was very different. In the place of our usual enthusiastic and inquisitive reception, the elders almost receded, looking at us with solemn, scarred faces. Wilbert suggested we leave the compound and talk to their leader outside to ease their (and our) nerves. Back out side the compound, everybody relaxed and we finally explained who we were and where we came from, and also got to ask them some questions. We knew life for the Karamajong had been hard, Wilbert and the guide books had prepared us for that, but I don’t think anyone could have fully prepared themselves for what we heard. A drought had reduced the years crop yield, and they were starving. Indeed, many of their young men, instead of off tending to the cattle like they had done in the past, were out in the bush catching rats and rabbits for the village to eat that night. Commerce had grinded for a halt, too. The women had no produce to bring to the market, nor the supplies required to make a batch of their local brew. The drought and famine was encroaching into their heritage as well, without money coming in, men could not afford a dowry and some neighboring villages hadn’t hosted a marriage in years. One ancient women, sitting on the dirt ground, told us through the translator that, “Climate change was killing our culture.” To add insult to injury, our villagers told us that only three days prior they were raided by another tribe, much of their food and cattle stolen. Without embarrassment they told us that, given the terrible position the raid and the drought had left them in, they had no choice but to plan a raid on the same tribe. The raid was to take place in three days.

Justus at the front gate

It was not my agenda here to sensationalize. But the experience we had in that village was emotional and unforgettable, and I hope the reader gets at least some idea of how we felt, despite my brevity in telling the story. Karamoja is a sensational place, we realized, and we rode back to Moroto in silence, trying to digest this fact. For the second time in as many days, I needed a cold beer and a football match, though these served mainly to divert my thoughts.

The sun sets over Karamoja