My presence in Gulu is starting to settle into a rhythm. The boda drivers have memorized my routine between the gym and home. Some have even had multi-ride conversations with me. The novelty of a giant muzungu (white person) walking around Gulu is beginning to fade. The stares are still omnipresent, but more often now they’re accompanied by a wave or even a short conversation. A few strangers have approached just to ask for my WhatsApp number—sometimes even for money.

The most common questions? “Where are you from?” “Who’s your football team?” “Did you vote for Trump or Obama?” I try to answer politely, even when the questions interrupt a quiet meal or a barber’s shave. Eventually, the interrogation always turns to, “So what brings you to Gulu?” And five weeks into my stay, I still don’t have a clean answer.

At first, I said, “I’m working for the GDPU this summer.” That didn’t mean much to anyone. Then I tried, “I’m working for an NGO.” That worked a little better—until it sparked follow-up questions or personal stories, often with the unspoken hope of getting help or employment.

The difficult truth is, I can’t offer much. My mission is to support two small initiatives, and I don’t have the budget or authority to expand beyond that. My scope is narrow—and my time here even more so.

Diplomatique – Appliqué

This week began with a meeting with Mama Cave, the woman who would train the WAW women in tailoring to launch their business. Like most things in Gulu, it wasn’t just a matter of setting dates and making payments—it required negotiation. Mama Cave laid out what she could offer, what she expected from the women, and what compensation she required for her time and expertise.

Much of my week unfolded in the same way: threading conversations, managing expectations, and trying to keep the seams from splitting. Between coordinating with NGOs, reworking plans with the women’s group, and laying groundwork with local officials, I’ve started to think of my role as something like diplomatique – appliqué—a patchwork of diplomacy, mediation, and improvisation, stitched onto a fragile but hopeful design.

Each day brings a new thread to pull or rethread, adjusting the tension, trying to keep things from unraveling. But if we can hold the stitch—if we can keep the structure intact—something strong, maybe even beautiful, might come from it.

Yet progress is slow. Much of my time is spent waiting—for responses, for approvals, for someone to hand me the next piece of a puzzle to solve. But that waiting time also allows space to learn. One key lesson: many of the problems stem from competing priorities. Education, health, and women’s empowerment aren’t seen as urgent investments—especially when subsistence farmers are working with razor-thin margins. That’s assuming the harvest was even good this year.

Next week, we hope to launch a malaria prevention training in partnership with local health clinics. Malaria affects everyone, and we’re hoping that will help catch people’s attention. The clinics will lead the messaging, since we’ve learned the “Western” approach to health outreach rarely lands here. With GDPU covering the clinic’s time and our contribution of 40 liters of hand soap, we hope this first WASH initiative plants a seed that grows.

This week felt like the quiet moment before everything begins to move at once. With most of our plans finalized, partners confirmed, and supplies gathered, the stage is finally set. Next week, we launch into malaria prevention training, soap-making workshops, and a fresh round of school monitoring. The pace will pick up quickly—but for now, we’ve had a moment to breathe, refocus, and prepare for the push ahead.