Minutes of Meetings

It is very easy to become frustrated with the way meetings are organised here in Arua. On occasions a meeting announcement will contain no time at all, which at least offers a degree of flexibility in interpretation. More often, however, the advertised starting time ends up by being wildly optimistic. Certainly half-an-hour’s divergence is not unusual, and on occasions the variance can be an hour or more. At its best this arrangement offers the opportunity to chat with anyone else who happens to arrive on time. At worst you can spend long periods of time standing outside a locked door in the sun waiting for someone to appear and wondering if you’ve got the right day.

Another feature of meetings is their length which, if they begin in the morning always includes lunch. Lunch too can be a moveable feast as with the clergy chapter meeting which began at 10.15am (it had been scheduled for 10.00, so this was not too bad). It was programmed to finish by 1.00 pm in time for lunch. In practice, lunch was taken at 5.00 pm, 15 minutes after the meeting actually finished.

As I said, this can be very frustrating, and you are driven to wondering how it is possible for things to be so inefficient.

A couple of weekends ago things became much clearer to me, and I found myself having to repent of my earlier very intolerant attitude. A meeting at the diocesan office, due to begin at 10.00 am, finally began at 11.00. We agreed that the meeting should, if possible, last no longer than 90 minutes. By midday we had managed to read the minutes of the previous meeting, at which time a late-comer arrived (people had actually been drifting in for much of the morning). I thought the usual muzungu thoughts about people who couldn’t arrive at meetings on time.

The meeting finally concluded at around 2.00 and, of course, lunch was served. I fell into conversation with the midday-latecomer and discovered that he had come from Yumbe, a distance of some 90-100km from Arua, and a very bad road which we had driven on our tour of the diocese. He had set off at 4.00 am by bicycle and it had taken him rather longer to arrive than he expected. He was cheerful, made a full contribution to the meeting and had two helpings of food.

I felt chastised and rather humbled by this commitment which made me realise just how ignorant and petty was my intolerance. It doesn’t necessarily make the waiting any easier, but so far as that meeting was concerned I know why it was so important to start late, and for it to last so long.

There’s so much here that makes you think twice, thrice or............

P.S. Pictures show the Diocesan Office and the road to Yumbe (a good stretch).

A day in the life

Let me introduce you to Lucy. She is our house help and works here each day from 9.30am till about 2pm. She has six children of whom the oldest is married and the youngest, Henry, is four and joins her here at our house after a morning at the hospital kindergarten. Lucy never fails to smile and say ‘Yes, I can do’ to any requests we might make. Mostly she washes clothes, irons them, shops, cleans the house and generally tidies up after us. Washing is done by hand outside in a big bowl, with hot water boiled on a charcoal stove, and a jar of ‘Omo’. The drying is no problem at all in this hot season. Then the ironing is done on the dining room table with a rather eccentric electric iron that frightens Henry with its hissing and spluttering. Even the socks get ironed.

Cleaning involves much brushing and shaking of mats, and once a week a wash of all the cement floors – bent double and using a floor cloth, Lucy spurns any sort of labour saving devices.
She has not spurned our electric breadmaker, however. After only a couple of lessons she had mastered this device, despite never having encountered such a thing before. She has also learned to make very respectable flapjack, currant buns and ginger biscuits in our somewhat temperamental electric oven.

At lunchtime she makes a meal for herself and Henry, if he is here, and on Fridays for us too. She is an expert at ‘enya’ – the local staple food made from cassava flour which will never capture the hearts of expatriates here. The photo shows her in full flow, stirring the sticky paste over the charcoal stove in temperatures somewhere above 30 degrees. She also makes excellent beans, rice, fish stew, and, our favourite, chapattis.

Then there is Michael – he comes once a week on a Friday to help us with the garden. At the moment he is sowing seeds which will, we hope, supply us with vegetables from our own back yard. In the full sun, and barefoot, he has dug the plot, made trenches, sown seeds and then made custom built rush mats with which to protect them from the sun until they germinate once the rains begin. Michael speaks little English but Lucy acts as an able translator. He also has a ready smile and never complains.

Occasionally Lucy collects the proceeds of any tree chopping that has been going on – and then carries the booty home on her head for firewood. Home is one hour’s walk away.

We think that, given different circumstances, Lucy would have made a pretty good president of Uganda.