The familiar and the new

I'm back in Pader, northern Uganda, 2 1/2 years since I left. It's a very different place. The threat of the LRA is now long gone, for Ugandans anyway. The IDP camps have dispersed or morphed into new trading centres. Pader Town's former landscape of congested mud and thatch huts is now interspersed by brick and corrugated sheeting buildings. Where once there were no boundaries and everyone lived on top of each other, now there are clearly demarcated plots and elements of the traditional family homestead life appears to have resumed for some. The town has grown out, the perimeters of town no longer associated with insecurity. Pader is no longer cut off - buses run in and out of the town and motorcycle taxis can ferry you to and fro. Routes which were narrow tracks enveloped by 2m high grasses are now open dirt roads. Electricity plyons have appeared, with the promise of power next year. The town has two banks and five very basic petrol stations, and guesthouses and restaurants now line the dirt roads. Goats and chickens wander everywhere. When once you needed to order in meat or fish from the neighbouring district a day or two in advance to stand any chance, now it's relatively easy to find chicken, fish, beef, apples, oranges, albeit still mostly from the neighbouring Districts. WFP distributions have stopped and consequently food prices in the market have soared as there's less flooding into the market and more demand for it. The military detaches have disbanded and moved onto new assignments and the police have scaled up their presence. The local government's capacity seems to have grown, with fewer vacant posts and more activities. Many old friends have moved on. A couple have passed away.

But there are still some familiar faces and experiences. I still wash by pouring a jerry can of cold water over my head. I am still covered in a thin layer of red dirt by the end of every day. The guesthouse generator still only runs 7pm-10pm. Young children still excitedly shout out 'mono, bye, mono, bye' and wave frantically as you pass by and laugh hysterically and slightly bemused at the novely of shaking a white person's hand. You can still mobilise fifty or more children in a matter of minutes with a football. They still run rings around you, despite their swollen bellies, bare feet and 30 degree heat. Livelihoods still precariously rest on the NGO community and today's erratic weather. Car journeys in and out of the District still take hours along the albeit slightly less potholed dirt roads. The music from the all night promotional events that the mobile phone and alcohol companies organise still travels kilometres on the wind. And the storms still feel like the heavens are coming crashing down.