Missions of the medical sort

We had a pharmacist here. His name was Joe. Joe was awesome in a lot of ways, but mostly in what he brought here, to the clinic. Joe is a really bright guy who knows a lot about medicine. One awesome thing was that he was willing to see and treat patients if he was able when they came to the clinic after hours. That was really interesting for me to see for two reasons. The first was simply that I was able to understand what he was saying and telling to the patients. That makes a BIG difference. The second was that he was really interested in treating the patients and willing to help them. That was a big contrast from the staff we have here who often seem to think it a hassle to see a patient, great them, or have something more important to be doing with their time.
From mid-January to mid-February we have two groups of medical teams coming in from the U.S. to work at the clinic. The first group, which is bigger than the second, has arrived and has started work already, seeing about 100 patients per day. It seems that the patients either rather old or younger children. Many of the older patients have ‘simple pain’ that comes with old age. Because of that, the medical team has been trying to limit the number of older patients they see in attempts to treat the kids who are more in need. Patients begin to arrive between 6 and 6:30. By the time work begins around 8:00, there are often around 40 people waiting. It’s a bit difficult to see the people waiting to be treated and not be able to do anything about it. Or want to help and really not have anyway of being helpful.
We have seen some really interesting cases so far.
On the first day a teenage boy came in with an injury that took place three months before. He had been chased by cows, nearly lost his life, and landed in a pile of wood- a piece of which pierced his leg. When he came with his mom, they said they had no idea whether or not the wood was still in his leg, but there was an open and puss-dripping wound so Dr. Carlos decided to cut it open and remove what was there. After “numbing” the surrounding area the doctors went to work, first removing a small piece of wood. Just by dumb luck, according to Carlos, he kept on digging and happened to get hold of a piece of wood. He removed a 4-inch spear from the boy’s leg. He really must have had no idea it ever went into his leg, because that’s a pretty hefty size piece of wood.
About mid-way through the week there was a girl brought in without a hole for her vagina. Her mom brought her in saying that she didn’t pee properly, as excuse probably to get the doctors to look and see for themselves what the mom was too embarrassed to say. What happened, according to Carlos, was that her labia closed together leaving a small opening at the top and causing her urine to come out a little bit funky. Luckily, it wasn’t an issue of not having the right body parts and was something that could easily be fixed by making a cut and sticking a small tube inside. Unpleasant, yes, but pretty amazing that she was able to be helped in a such a big way.
There was a young girl who was brought in by a woman who had three children of her own, all under the age of 8. She said she had found the girl on the side of the road, and in the state she was in, it’s impossible not to know something is wrong. Aside from being so completely malnourished and having no mobility or strength in her limbs, she couldn’t speak or hold herself up. It was sad to see- this little boy cradling a limb body with inattentive eyes and not being a relative to her.
Another young girl was brought in. She had developed chewing her tongue, and it eventually became so rotten they had to remove it. So now this little girl has what looks like a bite taken out of her tongue, no vocabulary, and lacking the ability to do much of anything for herself.
You know, it’s funny. The medical team commented on how they prefer to see children to adults because the adults often come in with common complaints of joint and muscle pains. One woman was concerned with the cramps she was getting every month in her stomach. Although they feel like they are making less of a difference, it’s pretty awesome that for the first time in their lives, people are explaining these things to them. That because of these visits with the muzungus, they are able to understand themselves and their health a little bit better. Pretty awesome, indeed.

Goose, Banana, or Fu Man Chu

The desire to sit in front of a computer is leaving me faster and faster.

December. Oh, December. I didn’t really know what to expect of this month. I still don’t really. It passed by quickly, with a visit from my dad and sister. I was really apprehensive about their visit. Mostly because I didn’t want to deal with sadness after they left, and knew that was pretty inevitable. We went to Queen Elizabeth National Park for a safari. I was extremely eager to see any sort of wild life in Africa, since all I had seen thus far were something akin to squirrels. It’s funny how I have been in Uganda for 6 months and still have a hard time feeling like I am in Africa. The only time the surroundings met my expectations were when we went to the park, and expansive flat lands stretched all around us, elephants strolling through the high grass, and trees with short trunks and wide reaching branches scattering our view. Yet life here, at the clinic, has never seemed difficult to me. Not as I would have thought it would be to live in Africa. There were adjustments, of course, but nothing like living on the floor of a grass hut or sleeping with cockroaches. That I know of.

We got a dog. Her name is Goose. It was first Banana, but after about five minutes of hearing, “Banana! Banana! Banana!” over and over again it got pretty tiresome and thankfully John liked Goose better, so Goose it is. It’s been interesting having a dog here. I was pretty nervous with how the kids were going tot treat her, mostly because they themselves get treated so badly. To a certain extent, I was right to be nervous. They would pull and drop and kick her if I turned a blind eye. But I’ve made it pretty clear that the dog is to be played with nicely, and if they beat the dog I will beat them. A vacant threat, really, ‘cause they know I won’t, but they understand. I think Goose is really good for the kids, though. She’s wonderful entertainment for everyone, and gives it right back to the kids when they are being brats and egging her on. Most of the people when they see her are terrified. In this area, many people do not have dogs and those that do have them mostly for hunting and safety reasons. The kids, more so than the adults, can kind of warm up to the idea of Goose as a playmate rather than a pair of teeth.

Season’s Greetings!

[1]
For a couple of weeks of our morning program there was a little girl named Joan who would come, often with Akisum. Joan was a spirited little one that often burst out in tantrums or caused trouble amongst the other kids. Truth be told, I always kind of released a sigh when Joan showed up, knowing that day would be particularly frustrating and disrupted. But, nevertheless, a fondness for her began to develop as one of our kids as I got to know her and watch her in action.
Joan hasn’t been to school for about a month, now. That’s happened with some of the kids- once coming on a semi-regular basis, there are now a handful of kids we can count on to always be there and the rest- the majority- come at will. A few nights ago John told me Susan, our cook and friend, would be unable to make us dinner that night. She had brought Joan into the clinic. Joan, it turns out, has HIV that she contracted from her parents- both of whom have died. She now is taken care of by Susan, her aunt, and her grandmother.
I went in at one point in the early evening, after having found out that Susan was here with a family member, and was struck with a feeling of sadness and solemnity. It’s awakening enough when you see patients come in who are to weak to stand, in too much pain to speak, or too sick to do much more than look at you. But to see Susan, someone I have grown fond of and have a relationship with, standing there with tears in her eyes and her hand placed gently on the wrist of a young girl whose body is so weak and consumed by malaria that she is near coma; a limp and inactive child unaware of what is going on. Well, that struck a whole different level of reality. You become almost uncomfortably aware of the challenges many people in our world face, and the little you are able to help, in whatever capacity that may be, becomes overwhelming.
About a week later, on Monday, we had a rather unusually high number of patients at the clinic. As Dr. Carlos put it, “November is malaria month.” How right he was. That night we admitted 6 patients to the clinic- the largest number of overnights Engeye has ever had. Because we do not have a nurse that stays overnight here due to lack of funding, John was the designated man on call, and was up about every hour to check on the patients. It was an active night, one of the patients first sped up her drip and then stopped it completely, only to be found later walking away from her bed. But the night ended in sadness, with the death of a young girl around three years old. I asked John the next morning why he thought the family had waited so long to bring her to the clinic for help. He described to me how most people don’t know the severe and deadly possibilities of malaria until they come to the clinic. One of the problems, and perhaps most dangerous things about malaria, is that it has symptoms that are nearly identical to the flu, and causes many people to misdiagnose themselves and believe that they will get better on their own.

[2]
The 15th of November was John’s father’s 70th birthday party. And let me tell you, that man and his family know how to throw a party. In celebration of this “Thanksgiving of life” his dad decided to kill two cows. I have never seen an animal die or be killed before, and I was inexplicably curious as to what it was like for an animal to die and what it looked like. It’s a little twisted, I know. And becomes even more of an oddity taking into consideration that I am a vegetarian. But, I feel that it is important to experience as much of life as you can, and death is certainly a part of life, thus I wanted to watch.
John came back to tell us that the first cow had just been killed, and we sped off with Peter in tow to watch the killing of the second cow. We had, perfect timing. Almost as soon as we arrived the execution took place. It was bloody- very bloody- and a little disturbing and certainly took much longer for that chosen cow to die than I anticipated, but I was interested all the same and only thought about leaving when it began to smell. We made it through the death and to the beginning of the skinning before Tom suggested we leave. Watching the decapitation of a cow isn’t really something that you make someone stay and do, so we left. I think Tom and I reacted to it differently. I had less of a problem watching the cow die because I know the people here, and they hardly ever eat meat and when they do don’t waste it frivolously or kill in excess like we do back home. And I felt a bit like I was watching it all take place on a screen in front of me- like I was watching it on a TV show or some movie rather than a few feet in front of me. I’ve never seen blood shed like that before, or something struggle for its life as it did. I won’t probably voluntarily watch an animal be killed again, but I’m glad that I’ve seen it. That sounds so morbid.

[3]
In celebration of the American Thanksgiving Tom and I went to Mbale. We were put in contact with a woman named Rachel who works with an organization, MAPLE, that is based there. They had been planning a Thanksgiving dinner and invited Tom and I to join in the festivities. We gladly accepted.
After spending a night in Kampala and sending the third shipment to New York, we were on our way to our first new destination since being in Uganda. I don’t want to dwell on the sad fact that this was our first exploring trip. It’s embarrassing and makes me blush. We had an entertaining taxi ride with complaining passengers who were upset that the taxi was full, essentially. But four and a half hours later we found ourselves in an unfamiliar town that was much quieter and in some senses nicer than both Ddegeya and Masaka. Mbale sits on the edge of the steps of mountain leading to Mount Elgon. Because of this, there are not many busy roads in Mbale, and the main roads are filled mostly with bike taxis, boda bodas, and pedestrians. It’s a long city more so than it is wide, with three main streets that run parallel to one another and many side streets intersecting the two. There are shops, a market, and nice architecture that has a bit more style to it than the drab square cement buildings you find here.
We met up with Rachel, and after dropping our things at the hotel we went back to the MAPLE house to see if there was anything that we could do to help and to get to know our hosts better. There were seven people living there regularly- many of them residents of Oregon and previously friends. In addition, they had a girl from Denmark staying with them, a friend from home, and some Ugandan friends that seemed to enjoy the open door.
Thanksgiving day was spent mostly helping in any way we were able. Which, with about 15 people and only 5 dishes to make, not much help was really needed but that was something more realized after the fact. There was trouble with the turkey from the beginning. It began with a dull knife, and a near torturous death, followed by a one-man show of plucking all the feathers of the two birds which took nearly three hours. We made our way down to Wash & Wills, the sight of our soon to be feast, only to find that the oven was disassembled and broken, but with promise of being “up and running” soon. That never happened. And thus, the symbolic bird was fried, not baked. Dinner began around 7 with about 25 people seated ‘round the table, and we shad finished eating by 9. In true American style, the tables were cleared and beruit was set up- one of the first teams up two of the staff members who lost rather fast but enjoyed dancing and jumping when it was their turn to throw.
It was really a wonderful thing to be able to talk to new people and meet so many knew faces and understand them. To understand everything. We lucked out in the sense that the MAPLE team is filled with truly generous people whom enjoy the company of others. It was interesting to be the new person in a place they were so familiar and comfortable with- to not know the kids that were hanging around the house (and in the house!).
The following day we went to Sipi Falls, an exquisitely beautifully natural place. I loved it. There are three falls, and we hiked them all. By the beginning of the first I was tired and found the hike difficult. Our guide, meanwhile, could have run up and down the mountain with barely breaking a sweat. The paths weave themselves up along the mountainside and through some of the villages, which allowed us to get a good view of the area. The only drawback was that we were fighting time- the hike takes about three hours and we left close to 3:30. The sun sets at 6:30. So we were unable to spend much of any leisure time at most of the sights, and I clicked away with my camera to compensate for the fact that I spent most of my time checking out my feet.
I realized I am much more content just sitting and reading or doing nothing when I am not in Ddegeya. This has come to feel a bit like a home, but additionally it is the place where I have come to do things- to get things done. I’ve said this so many times- that I like to be busy- that you might stop reading my blog. And, now that I am thinking about it more, I probably had more things to do on this trip because I was unfamiliar with the places we went so there was much to explore. Thus, the down time was greatly appreciated.
Here’s a bizarre and fun interesting bit of information for you. I ran into a girl from my high school at Backpacker’s in Kampala. It’s a small world, after all.

[4]
On a totally personal level, my dad and sister are coming on Friday and I would be jumping out of my boots with excitment if I was wearing them.

The ants come marching in

[1]
I am rereading the Harry Potters. The good news is that they have the first five. The bad news is that they only have the first five.

I began to reread them when I went with Tom to the Byansi clinic in Masaka. I was able to get through the first two then. We went because Tom was sick, but since he was the sick one I’ll let him elaborate on that or choose to pass by that tale. He was sick and now he is better. What better a story with a happier ending could you ask for?

[2]
I’ll get the business part of this out of the way first, and then try to share with you some of the experiences I’ve been having. Tom and I have sent the second shipment for Gyebaleko. Although it was a little late arriving in America, it’s exciting to think that this project has gotten underway. The first shipment was sold at Union Halloween weekend for Homecoming, and from what I have heard, it all went very well. To those of you who purchased and made donations- we and the women here are inexplicably grateful. Thank you for your show of support. This coming weekend I have hope of going to Kampala to learn how to do some of the crafting skills of a woman named Becky we have been trying to meet up with. If all goes well, we will be able to teach the women here how to make new sorts of crafts and get the project moving along even further.
We also are finally beginning the pen pal letter exchange. There really is little to tell about this, for all we have had time to do so far is go to Bunyere Primary School and talk to the kids in P6 and P7 and essentially give them a heads up to the fact that they will be doing this. Our first writing day is on Monday!
While I still really enjoy teaching at St. Bernard’s, it has been a slow past few weeks. I was told initially that the exams were going to take place two weeks ago, and not to come and teach. The following week I was informed that the exams had yet to take place, and that not to go that week, either. So the Wednesday before Halloween Tom came back and told me I was supposed to go teach on Friday. So I went, and would have taught except the math or physiques teacher showed up and was teaching a make up class which resulted in both Tom and I not teaching that day. This coming week we are told exams are to take place. And the date for the end of school is floating around in the air because some of the students have yet to pay their fees, and apparently, the longer it takes to accomplish that, the later they will be let out of school.

[3]
I wish that I could think of a better way to convey some of the absurd questions and conceptions people have about Americans. The other day we were talking to some of our friends and took a drink from our water bottles. “Ah! Now why don’t you offer me some of your water?” one of them asked. “You didn’t ask- I didn’t know you wanted any,” I replied. “But your water- it is from America?” Yup, Tom and I brought over nine months of drinking water with us when we came to Uganda. Can’t trust African water. We didn’t, of course, we get our water from an internet café where it comes in those big jugs you find in offices buildings and usually have the blue and red taps.
I met a couple of girls that Tom had befriended a week or so ago. They were here to say hi and to charge their phone (something that Tom and I are not allowed to do for people and frequently are asked to simply ignore that fact and charge a person’s phone anyways).
Within maybe two minutes of conversation one of the girls asked, “Do you like me?” “Well, sure,” I said, “I only just met you and only know one of your names, but you seem like fine people to me so far,” “Me, I like you very much.” I’m sharing that story with you not show off how easy it is to make ‘friends’ here, but because of the outspokenness and directness of the questions that people ask. I have no idea if people are normally that upfront with one another because I can’t understand that much of what they are saying yet, but it always catches me off guard when people ask you something so bluntly like that- something that in American we would consider to be rude or too forward. But the frankness of their questions is only matched by the vagueness of their answers, if you are lucky enough to get an answer at all.
Yet the continual asking of questions seems to go for things in general. Kids, for example, repeatedly call your name even if you are in the middle of a conversation until you give them the attention they want. A different approach to how I was brought up- which was to wait until an adult was speaking before I asked them something, or, at least, not to call their name until they paid attention to me.
They also think that many Americans don’t eat meat because neither Tom nor I do.
On a side note- this is just some interesting behavior I have noticed. Both here and Vietnam it was culturally acceptable for men and women to be very affectionate with people of the same sex, whereas I find that in America, people are a bit more uncomfortable with that. Here, however, I have rarely seen couples being affectionate with one another. In fact, it is often difficult to determine who the couples are unless they live together.

[4]
For almost a week I had an unexpected and what turned out to be a rather unwelcome roommate- a mouse. Or a rat. I call it a mouse, John calls it a rat. Its name is Desert Rose. Either way, it’s one of the two and hopefully you know have somewhat of an accurate image in your head. I began hearing it early a few weeks ago, and, after two rather sleepless nights of me clutching my fading headlamp, John discovered evidence of it’s inhabitance- a chewed up foam star. That really was only reassuring in the sense that I was not loosing my senses, but otherwise I couldn’t have been less happy to know that a rat was living with me after Becky and Steve’s account of waking up with it on their body. No thanks. So John got some painkillers and posho and left it a midnight snack, if you will. But the noise was still there… the mystery continued only until I saw a second Desert Rose running up the kitchen wall. There were two! We also discovered a convenient little hole it had chewed threw in the wire above the window by my bed in my room- which explains how it was so easily getting in and out. The solution, obviously, was to put duck tape over the hole. A solution that was easily overcome by Desert Rose when we found a hole in it the nest morning… so another piece of duck tape and a piece of plastic was put on the hole. Again, however, the hole was ever-present the next day. Frustrated that I had been outsmarted by a rodent now for almost a week, and that my nights were still filled with broken slumber, I put two pieces of duck tape over the hole and half of a plastic case the length and width of the window that had arrived in a box sent over by Tom’s wonderful mother. It worked! Ha. Take that (unless, of course, I have now trapped him in the room…).

[5]
It is now the season of eating ants, and soon upon us will be the season of grasshoppers. The other morning I woke up to the kitchen and decided to go to the bathroom- it was one of those, “may as well” decisions. On the short stroll up the path I saw an odd number of people, both young and old, bent over the ground. They seemed to be examining it. I didn’t think much of it at the time, just that it was a bit strange and maybe they were checking out the soil or something. But then around 7:30 nearly all of the local kids were walking around the clinic, hold cups, and looking for something. I, of course, didn’t understand. When I rounded the corner to the kitchen I saw women bent over the fields with cups in their hands. “What is going on?” So I asked Susan. “Susan, do you know what all these people are doing?” “Uh…yeah.” “…What are they collecting?” “Is it, ants?” There was my answer. A delightful snack of ants, free if you are ambitious and possess fingers and 500 shillings for a large cup. A much lesser price than the going rate for a large cup of grasshoppers, which is 5,000- it seems they are ‘sweet’ and have more fat. Although someone told Tom they thought coffee was sweet, so I assume this person may only have ever had coffee with sugar.

To Give is to receive

[1]
We received about twelve boxes filled with school supplies from the generous Boght School in New York. They were able to stuff enough school supplies in there to start up a small Staples here in Uganda- pencils, pens, markers, crayons, flash cards, posters, everything. Two weeks ago, on Tuesday and Thursday, we had decided to hand out the school supplies to four different schools within Masaka District. At each of the schools it was apparent to the kids that something exciting was about to happen because muzungus were involved, and so, before we even reached the schools the kids were crowded in the doorways waiting to see what we were going to do. We had them all line up, according to the grade they were in, and then passed out the school supplies to all of the children. It was interesting to see how all of the kids reacted to the gifts. Some were incredibly thankful for what we gave them, while others wanted more, or something different, or got in line to exchange their old pencils for new ones. This kind of bothered me a little. I understand, we have all been that child or adult who has seen something they want and gone to whatever means possible to get it and come off as ungrateful when they get something else or nothing at all. And with these kids- they were just getting pencils, and they were treating them like the had just been given the most fragile and special gift- which, for them it was. I suppose I am just still getting used to people thinking that we, Tom and I (and John too to some extent), have unlimited resources. That we grow trees of pencils and shoes in addition to ones that grow food.

[2]
It’s my first night alone at the clinic. Tom went to Masaka to hear Weasel and Radio, famous for the song “Bread and Butter”, perform. I, probably regretfully, made the decision to stay behind, having spent the day at another introduction ceremony which was hot but entertaining due to the fact that a local, and most likely crazy, man sporadically interrupted the celebration. He was one of the few guests that really felt the music in a groovy kind of way, and just closed his eyes and let the rhythm tell his body what to do. I am finding that I am, well, a little scared to be honest. I mentioned above that I was suspicious of people- an unnatural reaction towards individuals for me- and I feel like someone must have seen Tom, and not me, leave, and be waiting to break in or attack. This, of course, is completely irrational, and I am probably very safe and making myself nervous just by thinking about the variety of things that could happen. But I find it easy to let my mind wander, I am very good at it, in fact. My imagination is most excitable.
Funny things happen. I wrote that above piece before I went to bed, and I, lacking a reason, had expected to wake up to someone trying to break into the clinic. Which, I did. I woke up at 4 am to the sound of someone knocking on the door and I, having been temporarily frozen with fear, lay in my bed holding my breath and waiting to make sure I was dreaming. “Monica, it’s Tom.” Of course. It turns out that there were taxis waiting to take people home after the concert, and Tom had been able to get a ride back. And assuming that I would be afraid if he tried to bang on the door in the middle of the night, he had tried to sleep outside until he got too cold to stand it and then came inside. What a guy.

[3]
I found out this past Monday that school at St. Bernard’s is ending very soon. I think the actual end date is sometime in mid-November. However, my S4’s have their exams that begin very soon and my S5’s told me something about having a someone come…? Clearly, I’m not entirely sure. But I do know that school is ending within a month. And thus, so restarts my time of having free time, which, I must say, I am not looking forward to. Is that wrong to say? I really enjoy having busy days and things to do, so really all this means is that I am going to have to get creative and inventive, and hopefully really fantastic at Luganda, and pass the time in other ways. Here is what I’m thinking. Tom, John and I have been going to the art class at St. Bernard’s where the kids are learning how to tye and dye. I’m hoping that I learn, and then become an expert, or at least somewhat proficient. I also am really hoping to figure out the clothing and jewelry making for Gyebaleko (this is the name that Tom and I have decided to give to the craft project. It means, “thank you for all that you have done today”). I also hope that this proves to be an opportune time for us to travel around Uganda, which we have not done really, or rather, at all.
All the clocks are running, and no one knows where time goes.

Getting to know you

[1]
I know you. Or, I thought I did.
Have you ever had those moments, or interactions, with someone that proves them to be a very different person than you thought they were? I have had two such experiences recently.
The village of Ddegeya is small, and like most small communities, word travels fast and people know about one another’s business. Few people come or go, plant a new garden or wash their clothes, without most everyone knowing. The result of all this is little privacy, but also a vast well of knowledge that can prove to be either beneficial or detrimental. We found out, about two weeks ago, that one of the kids that spent a lot of time at the clinic, who was well known and liked by everyone from John to Steve and Becky, has been stealing from our kitchen. The little trail of gossip trickled down and the kids told John that they had seen him taking things. Actually, he was a not-too-bad thief. Being that he was well trusted by John and often did a lot of errands and such for him, it took a while, it seems, before that fishy-scent surfaced. But it did- and perhaps more disheartening than telling him he is no longer allowed at the clinic, was the fact that he not only felt that he needed to steal, but he was doing it behind the backs of people who liked and trusted him. It’s a challenge, sometimes to know when someone is just blessed with an extraordinary talent for lying or when someone is being sincere. Here’s another example.
I met this girl Angel about a month ago. She is around my and Tom’s age and seemed very excited to have met me, and I was, in return, excited to have met her. I found out quickly that it was my skin color she was excited to have found, but nonetheless, seemed like she held the qualities of a good friend. Upon our first meeting she told me a story about how she used to live in Masaka with her mom, dad, and brother, and after having graduated from secondary school, she and her brother took over her father’s shop. Shortly after that, a group of eight thieves robbed them at gunpoint, taking everything and leaving the shop in shambles. Her father banned her and her brother from their house, and now she was living with an old woman and had nothing. She wrote a letter, requesting to work for me. I took this to mean that she wanted to work for me here, in Uganda (she meant the U.S.). Which, I thought, was entirely silly because I am in no position to offer anyone any work, unless I wanted to become the laziest person alive. She told me many stories since, each getting a bit more dramatic and desperate, and I found myself in a torn position of wanting to help her but not being able to really do much of anything. When I told John the story he went ahead and did some investigation for me. I found out that my friend, Angel, is, well, nuts. She is a compulsive liar and has family in the village (after telling me she had no living relatives- it seems she had forgotten about her brother whom she said moved to Nairobi). So now, I really have no idea how to interact with her because everything that she told me in confidence is a falsity, and I don’t know who she is or what kind of person she is.
I’ve never really felt like I needed to or that I ever had judged the motives of people I met. It very likely is a cultural difference, and I, I assume, am walking around as the representation of a wealth that many of the people here will never see, or even knows exists. I hate second guessing people and the reason why they are so eager to befriend me here. Yet these two experiences with people who I thought to be genuine and sincere in actions have left me feeling overly suspicious of nearly everyone.
I should note that I wrote that nearly three weeks ago, and while I still have misgivings about certain people, it’s by no means a general mistrust of everyone. I think, when I wrote that, it was more so the fact that my faith in those two particular people was shaken, and thus I myself was feeling rather disillusioned.

[2]
“The car carrying our clothes was in an accident.” Hmm. John had invited Tom and me to an introduction ceremony of his friend while we were in Kampala for the weekend. The ceremony, which is one of the more traditional pieces of Ugandan culture and marriage, is literally the introduction of the bride’s family and friends to those of the groom. Like I have said many times, things in Uganda never go as I have planned. The accident delayed the arrival of our clothes long enough that we missed the beginning of the ceremony (which sounded like it was prayers) and the actual introduction of the groom’s family and friends- although we were able to peer through a doorway and watch them all stand in a line and enter. When our clothes finally did arrive, it was on the brink of rain and because I was wearing the traditional dress for women, I needed help putting it on and folding and wrapping it around my body. So I followed a girl into the house and awkwardly stood with one arm raised and the other kind of down by my side because I wasn’t sure which was easier for her to fold around. After I had been dressed and I felt sufficiently like a swollen mermaid, it began to rain. At this point, I had lost the girl that I came into the house with and hadn’t a clue as to whether or not John, Tom, Hudson, and Jeff had gotten dressed before the rains began to pour. So I hoisted up my garment and wandered into the living room, where I stood by a window and watched the guests try and compact themselves into the center of the tent and the men try and alleviate the weight of the water by pushing up on the tent with plastic chairs. I lost track of time. Or, rather, I had never really found time, and I was brought back to the real reason I had been standing in the window when John tapped me on the shoulder. We found ourselves a cluster of wet chairs, wiped them down, and sat, ready for the ceremony to begin. Well begin it did, and end it did not. In truth, it was all a bit more drawn out than I had expected, and aside from another interruption of rain, it was really just one introduction after another and short breaks of dancing around the center by those who were introduced. And then the giving and receiving of gifts. No big deal, right? So wrong. The family members brought in and piled up their gifts one at a time, which came to be enough to fill the entire space in the middle of the tents. Then, the MC went through each gift one at a time and told what it was to the audience and family of the bride. We left a little after six, and they still hadn’t served lunch.

One Little Speckled Frog

[1]
It’s a gut wrenching and simultaneously paralyzing thing to see a child running, consumed with fear, from their father. I have seen children being beaten twice so far, and it is quite easy to say that that is two times too many. I had never seen physical child abuse before, I ‘spose I should say that I have been lucky enough to never have witnessed it, or perhaps lived too sheltered a life from the realities many face. This morning- which oddly was an entirely peaceful passing of time other than this incident- was the more explicit demonstration of violence, as the other had taken place at night and I assume was the result of the child staying out past dark. In this particular case, I assume that the child was playing when he was supposed to be working at home, which strikes me as a bit unexpected only in the sense that this boy is more often at the clinic than at his own home. I, myself, didn’t see it coming, but the boy apparently had fair warning because he was on his way home when he encountered his father by the picnic tables. They had a short dance around a small try before the father was able to grasp the boy by his arm and drag him crying away from the clinic. I have the sense that my presence prevented immediate lashings, but as soon as they were beyond the walls of Engeye’s buildings he let go of the boys arm and began to distribute swift and severe strokes to his body whilst the boy ran home screaming. For the next five minutes all I could hear was “Tata! Tata!” (“Father! Father!”) as he continued to cry, and I assume, be beaten.

[2]
I hate to admit that I am having trouble adjusting to the culture here. Not all of it, certainly, but I would have a nose longer than Pinocchio’s if I were to tell you that I was adjusting to everything just fine. One of the things that I am having the most trouble with is my concept of respect, and struggling between how I feel I should be treated and how, in fact, the kids treat us. It’s a difficult line to walk, because you want to absorb and accept the cultural norms and practices as much as you possibly can without adding your own preconceptions to the mix and passing cultural judgment of your own. So. It hasn’t worked out quite so seamlessly.
I understand and can appreciate that both Tom and I, and indeed any foreigner, is somewhat of a novelty and a sense of excitement and entertainment to the kids. For children who are eager to play with sticks and empty bottles and jugs, you better believe that a new face is exciting. But my difficulty lies in the place where being a foreigner is no longer just exciting, but rather a label for someone who has things and as someone who, simply because we are foreign, can be treated differently. Let me explain, because right now, even I am thinking to myself, “Well duh, Monica, you are different from them and you do have more things.” I guess my biggest issue with constantly being asked for things comes in two parts. One is with adults or kids, mostly girls my age, that ask me and Tom for things like shoes or water or food. I have a problem with this because I feel as though people I would no longer consider to be a child should know better than to ask for things like that. I would be less opposed to the continuous questioning if I knew that these girls actually needed these things, but in their cases they live very close to the water source, have food to eat, and are wearing shoes when they ask me for shoes. And our conversation every time I see them pretty much goes, “Munika! Olly otya? How are you? Me, I am hungry, give me your shoes.” Every time. I think I would mind less if that literally wasn’t the extent of our conversations, but, sadly, it is.
With the kids it’s a little bit different, because for them we do have a lot of books and toys and crafts and movies that they can play with or watch. But it bothers me, with kids from the U.S. too, when all you get for the first half hour is, “Give me, I want, where is my?” First of all, it’s not yours, it’s not even mine, and you have a ball, which I just gave you because you just asked for it, and there is a swing over there with a wonderful ladder than Tom made for you. In other words, be appreciative. I guess my biggest hesitation in just giving things out when they want them is that they will come to expect that, and I don’t believe that anyone should be given everything that they ask for. I’m a little more resistant to giving them things, as well, because (here comes that issue of respect that I mentioned way up there) I kind of feel like the kids don’t really respect Tom and I as much as they should or could. Maybe it’s just that I am selfish and want more respect than I deserve or have earned, that too is entirely possible. I probably wouldn’t have any sort of reservations or shall I say complaints aside from the fact that the way the kids behave around us and around other adults is quite different. They actually listen to the other adults for one, rather unlike how we tell them not to drink the cooking water and play with the rain water tap and they do it anyways. I know all about trying to sneak behind the back of authority. When my sister and I were little we weren’t supposed to watch TV, but when we were home alone we would flip on the TV and turn it off when we saw the car drive down the driveway. Eventually we became wise to the trick of turning it back to the same channel and previously viewed channel, so they would never know (bet that wasn’t the example you expected). The point is, when the kids are doing one thing with us, and then realize that John is on his way back to the clinic and quickly take quiet seats with looks of innocent angels, I know what they’re dooooing. But I’m bothered, not because of what they were doing, but because it makes me realize that whatever it was that they were doing was something they knew they shouldn’t do, but we are the naïve muzungus and they can get away with things like that.
Today, for example, a group of kids came over and sat down around Tom and me while we were eating lunch (again, something they don’t do if any other adult is around, especially John). They immediately asked for the soccer ball, which Tom told them to wait for, and so then they began asking for food and water and books to write in. I really have no problem giving things like paper and crayons out, but I kind of feel as though I should not make a habit of it because by month 6, more likely before, we would most likely run out. I think perhaps it was the fact that within the group there was a particular boy who always asks for things, yet he seems as though he doesn’t actually do all that much in terms of helping the family with work. He’s lazy, in other words, and rubs me the wrong way. So when he came over and asked for his list of things, I got annoyed, and my patience began to wane. After lunch we went over and sitting by the main clinic, and the kids began to recite Catholic prayers and then Muslim prayers of kneeling and standing. I thought that they were just going through the religions until I saw our neighbors- two boys- that were actually praying and are actually Muslim, and then I realized that this group of kids were standing here making fun of them. And one of the thins that bothers me the most is people being purposefully mean to others, with the intent of either causing hurt or for a laugh out of the crowd. I admit, sometimes it’s funny, but it quickly looses all humor when you are making fun of something that is important to your victim. So, I was pissed, and also feeling a little helpless because I can’t begin to tell you how to say, “Stop doing that, you are being disrespectful and not funny at all” in Luganda. But then, how do I know that was really their purpose? I mean, I assume it was, but again, these assumptions are based entirely on my own cultural standings and might cause me to completely misread situations. I spent the next hour thinking of myself as being somewhat like Scrooge and wished that instead I could ‘lighten up’. I better not be like Scrooge yet- it’s a long way ‘til Christmas.

[3]
Political rioting that has been taking place between then Buganda, the biggest tribe in Uganda, and the B… a smaller less popular tribe that lives in the same region as some Bugandans. Arguments over territories led to political leaders being threatened and believing in the attempts of gaining votes. The rioting in Kampala began when… and has spread to other areas where the Buganda tribe is located. One such area being Masaka, which Tom and I went to the day after the rioting and arrest of 46 people. 21 People have been killed in Kampala along with the suspicion of the death of two police officers (where John is right now), 100 people have been injured, and about 30 cars have been destroyed. The army has been called into action by Museveni, and for right now, the cities seem to be at peace. However, there are four popular radio stations that have been taken over and is warning that a riot may ensue as a result of this. Because Tom and I haven’t had the internet for the past two weeks (it went with John to Kampala) and we don’t listen to the radio, we have been getting information from interesting sources, such as the doctor from Kampala who comes in every Tuesday and my mom, who called me from the States to let me know that such things were taking place in Uganda.
Okay, so since then John is back and the riots are pretty much at rest for now. Tom just posted a blog that has some more info about what happened so I’m gonna go ahead and encourage you all to read that to find out more information.

Tis not the season

[1]
Well, I’m sitting here on what I would like to call a rainy day, but it has been deceptively cloudy with simple drizzles. And as I do my best to keep to the truth of the matter, I won’t embellish with torrential rains we have been only having in dreams. I assume most of the villagers in the area are dreaming about rain, or at least a more abundant supply of water. The rainy season, which was supposed to start on August 15 (that is the unofficial official start, or so we’ve been told), has only been able to squeeze a few drops from the clouds. As a result, the water sources in the area, which are unreliable to begin with, have become… well, dry, and many people have to travel farther distances to fetch water.
The well by the clinic was getting alarmingly low- a fact John continuously pointed out by asking, “Have you noticed how low the well is getting? It’s almost dry…” Luckily, for us and many people in the area, the pump is still working, and as a result one of the cleaner sources of water is up and functioning and supplying more and more people with water. It has really been interesting, sitting at the picnic tables that overlook the watering hole, and seeing an increasingly large number of people coming to fetch water. More and more motorbikes (piki piki) have been driven, in addition to cars coming with either large water tanks or a car load of people to fetch water. And yet I began to worry, and wonder, that if all these people from neighboring villages are coming to fetch water here, then what will happen if this borehole breaks, or the well dries up? To interrupt the story, let me give you an anecdote. For a few nights in a row, Tom and I had come up with what I thought was the brilliant idea of getting our water at night. Not only were we able to skip the lines, but we were also able to avoid having people fill our jerry cans before others and thus cutting people who had been waiting for water. I really did, think it was quite an original idea. We only had one other companion, an older man who smoked a cigarette while getting water and often repeated himself in English, who appeared to have had the same idea. But with the hot sun and lack of rain, along with the increase in flow to the water source, many people had begun getting water as early as 5 o’clock in the morning and as late as 10 o’clock at night. It appears that what I thought was brilliant and original was certainly a good idea but not unique to the muzungus.
To try and remedy the drying well, along with calming some community concerns with the children who were fetching water and the danger of them possibly falling into the water, they decided to clean out the old well and dig a new one. I had been going about the morning like nothing was any different then it ever is- I simply assumed that all the people headed down the hill were on their way to fetch water. And perhaps half of them were. But the project was to remove much of the access dirt that had fallen into the well and to begin digging a new well sort of off to the left and behind the existing one. In addition, they created a better drain and a trench to prevent more mud from slipping down into the well. I went down with John to investigate everything that was going on, and to my surprise there were about 200 jerry cans, 150 people, and many bikes and motorcycles. Nearly everyone was in action, either digging or directing or pouring water or removing dirt. Primarily there were men doing the work, which I realized when a teenage boy came over and told me he wanted to see me dig. I looked around and very quickly realized that if I began digging, everyone else would stop and watch me dig, so I declined his and his friend’s offer, telling them that I had tried to dig before, and was told that I was no good. It seems that I am not supposed to move all of my body with the hoe but rather just my arms.

[2]
Tom and I had the honor of being invited to the ‘graduation party’ of Sophie, the nurse here at the clinic. Conveniently, it happened to fall on the day that the clinic was to be closed, and having nothing else to do, we gladly excepted her invitation. Having said graduation party, I am sure that all of you have a picture in your head of what you think it is that this means, as did both Tom and I. I expected a somewhat intimate party at her house with family and friends and home cooked food and not many people I would be able to hold a conversation with that would last no longer than five or ten minutes. But right off the bat, it was clear that it was somewhat of a big deal. Sophie came to pick us up at 9:30 in the morning in a taxi she hired for the transportation. We then went to pick up her sister and possibly her niece (I get very confused with the family terminology here. She was the sister of Sophie’s sister but not a sister to Sophie and said she called Sophie Aunt). Whatever the relationship, the six of us were in the car and on our way to the party.
When we arrived I immediately realized that this was, in fact, an event, and most likely not just for Sophie, as there were tents and chairs and sectioned off parking and graduation gowns hanging from a tent. It seems we were invited to the actual graduation ceremony. As we took our seats we were given a schedule of the day, which was filled with a mass, speeches, entertainment, lunch, more entertainment, and finally the distribution of the diplomas. According to that piece of paper, it was to last from 10 in the morning to as late as 6:30 in the evening. A significantly longer amount of time than I had even dreamed of, but nevertheless a day that was sure to promise intrigue and new experiences.
After the mass, of which I understood very little other than the general gist of the mass and songs. The mass was followed by a series of alternating speeches and entertainment. Like the mass, there was little of the speeches (aside from the ones in English) that I was able to comprehend. The short skits, however, were easier to grasp the general idea of what sort of message they were trying to convey. According to Sarah (Sophie’s relative who is not a sister but a sister to her sister) they were about HIV and circumcision. An interesting topic, I thought, for the skits in the midst of a graduation ceremony, but just goes to show you how important constant education and reminders are to individuals in the community. In the midst of the final speech it began to rain, and although there were tarps covering the chairs, there was no lack of holes in the tarps, and so many people ran for cover under the roofs by the school.
Lunch was next on the schedule, and was distributed by the current students to the audience whom remained in their seats. A performance was put on by the drama students while lunch was eaten. I ‘spose I should fill you all in and say that throughout all of this, there was much movement going on other than the people you were supposed to be watching. Wires were being hung, final decorations were being put up, people were yelling in the background or walking back and forth in front of the entertainment. So I paid attention about half of the time and the other half I was busily watching people move about with no seeming concern for taking the attention off the point of focus.
The handing out of the diplomas was similar, yet extremely different, than how it is done in the U.S. The important faculty members of the college stand up front and call the names of the students one by one. The differentiation is in the moment when the student walks up to physically receive the diploma, at which point family and friends walk or run or dance up to give them hugs or gifts and congratulations for all that they have accomplished. Inevitably, this made the whole giving and receiving process a bit longer, and for 61 students it took over an hour.

[3]
I feel as though I have been mentioning tirelessly the up and coming morning program. For perhaps only myself, it has been much an anticipated event, or shall I just call it staple in my schedule. So, to continue with what tradition, let me update yee on its most recent status. We began the morning program on Monday. Monday, the day I anticipated be the beginning of the end of me rather illusive schedules. ‘Class’ began with Peter, Mercy, and their baby sister Anita. Not a surprise of any sort, as they are almost without fail the first children to arrive at the clinic. Soon appeared the smiling faces of Fizo and Akisamu (I just found out I’ve been spelling his name wrong this whole time, I think, but am not positive, this is right. I can promise only that is in the same direction). I don’t need to embellish much other than saying that not one of them know a large amount of English by any means. Peter can count and say the ABCs but has difficulty recognizing letters and writing. Fizo is a bit better but also has trouble with identifying what each letter looks like. Tom wrote out twinkle twinkle little star and they did their best to re-write it (they being Peter and Fizo. Mercy and Askisamu pretty much looked on, kicked at each other, all the while Akisamu sucking on the first two fingers of his right hand- an unbreakable habit of his).
Our second day, today, began a bit later because John had asked Peter to go around and gather some of his friends to come and attend our Muzungu esomera. We did, in fact, have a much bigger group, with many new faces and a rather large age range which made it a bit more of a challenge to really teach much of anything. The night before I had made alphabet flashcards, so we used those and went through the alphabet forwards and backwards and sideways many times. By the end of an hour (that was as long as their attention lasted before people began to crawl under the table, go to the bathroom both in the bathroom and on the ground, and roll around on the grass) they didn’t seem to know any of the letters any better than when we began. There are at the very least two good things. The first being that the older kids will be going to school presumably starting next week. This hopefully will level out the ‘playing field’ and prevent just one child from knowing all the answers and everyone else simply repeating what they have said. There is also a very large number of weeks left for Tom and I to be here. Which means an even larger number of days, and thus plenty of time to, at the very least, teach them to write out and recognize the alphabet.
I would gladly fill you in on recent tales of teaching at St. Bernards, but I’m afraid that will be in the next post. I was supposed to teach Senior 5 on Monday but they had not yet come to school. My next day was Wednesday, but that also happens to be the day they begin practice exams, and thus, I begin (tentatively) next Monday.

[4]
Being here has made me realize many things about myself. One being that I wish, perhaps more than ever, I was more of an outgoing person. My nature is to observe and listen before I jump in and participate, and here these observative and quiet tendencies I have are more dominant than I would like. Part of the problem is that I also really dislike having the attention on myself, and here that is nearly unavoidable. Walking from the clinic to the bathroom at 7 in the morning produces not just greetings but also people stopping from going up or down the hill to fetch water so they can simply watch me walk to the bathroom door. Thus, when I do anything like playing a game or running or fetching water, I feel entirely uncomfortable with the amount of eyes on my movements. But at the very same time, I am annoyed at the fact that this has held me back from doing things, and wish that I had a little more disregard for the attention we have been getting only for the purpose of giving more of my own attention to the people and children here in the village.

[5]
John said he might get a dog. I don’t want to get my hopes up to believing it will happen. But if it does, I will be the happiest girl in Ddegeya. Possibly even all of Uganda.

Oh, and also. I cannot figure out how to put this on the website itself yet… So I will just put it here at the end of the blog.
Here is my contact information for those of you back home:
email: rowettm@union.edu
phone: 011256779175450
mail: Monica Rowett
c/o John Kalule
P.O. Box 26592
Kampala, Uganda

There’s Beauty in Every Inch

[1]
It’s funny how sometimes you feel as though you have nothing to say. Yet, as I look over what we have been doing for the past couple of weeks, it’s really been quite a lot, and rather different from our typical daily schedules. I ’spose that may contribute to my lack of want to sit down and write an account of what has been on, but I shall do my best to paint a picture of what we have been up to.
It is probably best to begin where I left off, which would mean telling you about our exploratory trip to Kampala. for me, going to Kampala was necessary in more ways than one. Having little in terms of things to do on a daily basis, I was really probably over eager for the chance to get the ball rolling on a potential project that I could dedicate time to and looking forward to getting away from the clinic for a few days. On Friday John took us to two craft villages in the city. They sold nearly identical things, with the exception of a few variations from shop to shop. It was clear that the crafts were targeting tourists, and John told us that not all the good are ‘Made in Uganda’ as they claim; many of them originate in Kenya. Either way, for me it was a feast for the eyes, and I was enjoying myself immensely going from shop to shop looking at pretty much the same things in different places and writing down a list of things that caught my eye.
In thinking about the craft project we are trying to start with women from the village, a couple of things are becoming more and more clear. The first being that it is necessary to think og a few crafts that the women will be able to make and make well. I got a little carried away at first sight, and was left thinking, “They can make everything!” which, undoubtedly, is not the case. After deciding on the crafts that we are going to ask the women to make, there comes the questions of materials (for example, making clothes would require a sewing machine, which no one here has) and bringing the made crafts back to the U.S. We also have to answer the initial question of, “Who will be making these crafts?” Well, the obvious answer is the women, but to give all the women in the village the opportunity to make ans sell crafts would most likely result in an overabundance of things to sell and a lack of people to sell them to. So, the challenge in that front then became selecting the women and how to go about doing so.
There was a group of four here from Engineers Without Borders (EWB) and there were doing community surveys to gather information about families and water. We took this opportunity to sort of tag along, and at the end of the survey ask the women about what sort of crafts they make. In doing this, we discovered nearly everyone makes baskets and mats. Aside from that, we were also able to identify, so far, two women who would benefit tremendously from involvement in this sort of project. So, as of right now, we have two women and baskets and mats and many many more ideas. Hopefully, at some point in early September we will be able to go to Kampala again and talk to a woman who went to school for craft making and another who works with Bead for Life (), and through them, we will be able to get the ball rolling at a faster pace and in the right direction.

Mrs. Trelawney, shining shoes, and new foods

[1]
Imagine a room filled with about 40 students. All African American students. All wearing a worn collared shirt and sporting a buzzed haircut. All the girls wearing long, indiscript navy blue skirt that hit about four inches below their knees. Two inches below begins the sock, which is sheer and white and often rolling down to their ankles and tucked neatly into black loafers or Mary Janes. In walks a white woman, their supposed teacher for the next handful of months, although what they are capable of and what she has to teach them is unbeknownst to them both. This woman, this white woman that walks in slightly uncertain and definitely sweaty, is possibly the most bizarre looking art teacher they have ever or will ever have. Her hair, brown not black, is nearly to her waist. She has three earrings in each ear and a turquoise necklace around her neck. Unlike the collared shirts the students wear, she strolls in wearing some sort of ill-fitting t-shirt with non-sensical designs on them that is invariably partially stuck to her body from the heat (did she… walk here?) Her skirt is bright and hits about two inches below the knee. Her feet covered with dust and secured into Tevas, with a piece of rope on her ankle and a ring…on her toe… Who hired Mrs. Trelawney?
Mrs. Trelawney is a character in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. Her appearance is always somewhat disjoined and her students are never quite sure what to make of this teacher, a ‘seer’, who asks them to read tealeaves and predict the future. For all of those who have never read Harry Potter, she is the token ‘misfit’ teacher. Or, in my case, the ‘crazy art teacher’ that seems somewhat off-kilter but is a necessity in the faculty makeup at each school. I came to realize that I fit nicely into this category when I compared my own appearance to that of the students. This is not to say that the self-titled crazy art teacher bothers me- not in the slightest, really. I have learned some of the most important things from people who look as thought they are unaware of the rest of the world’s eyes. But one of the things I have forgotten, was how bizarre I thought everything was at first when the teacher first began giving out assignments. For example.
The first class I taught for both S4 and S5 was simply for me to see their abilities with a pencil and paper. A way for me to understand what it was that they needed to work on and get ideas as to what sort of exercises we could do to really develop their skills. The first activity I decided to give them was to practice contour drawings. A foreign idea to them, and one that seems to still be so, after the lesson. The point of contour drawings was to get them to really look at the object they were drawing and to go slowly. Many of them look almost exclusively at their paper, and spend hardly any time observing the object in front of them- you know, the one they are supposed to be drawing. So I assigned them three contour drawings, each getting progressively more difficult (I began with a jug and ended with a chair), thinking that it would be doable and assuming that they would grasp the concept of what contour drawing entails. I was wrong on both accounts. They didn’t understand me, and they especially didn’t understand why I wanted them to draw something that didn’t look much at all like the object I had placed in front of them. I tried to explain that it wasn’t about the accuracy of the drawing, just that you were taking you time and observing the lines and shapes that make up the object. That the slower you went, the more you would have to really focus on each part of the jug, and the more accurate you would be. I think maybe four students understood what I was asking them to do, and maybe two students actually attempted to do what I had assigned. It seems both the learning process and the teaching process are slow.

[2]
Tom and I have decided to make a rope swing. The image in my head was that of a rope swing I used to swing on all the time at my friend’s house that went off a hill and over their garden. While there are hills aplenty here, there aren’t really all that many trees on the hills in the surrounding areas that would suffice for a rope swing. Luckily, or possibly unluckily, for us, there is a mango tree to the right of the clinic that was used as a stacking place for bamboo and wood and a nesting place for caterpillars and centipedes. We chose this as our jump-off point. It wasn’t long after Tom and I began clearing the wood that a few kids showed up (we joke that regardless of where we go, they will find us). As Steve had told us, they seem interested in helping when you don’t ask for help. Although, as more and more kids came, they seemed just as content in watching us as they were in assisting us. After removing the pile from against the tree to beside the tree, we spent a half an hour looking for the machete and unable to ask the children, Do you know where the machete it? Tom finally realized the smart idea of asking John to ask the kids, and we found out they had taken it home, thinking we were done. How wrong you are, buck-o. With some garden hoes and a machete, we began to clear out the underbrush from the tree. A slow process that involved a lot of raking and re-raking and chopping and moving and piling things up. Entertainment came when the kids came over and showed us how we were using the tools wrong, taking charge and whacking at the weeds, more aggressively and with determination once Tom brought out his video camera. Smile for the camera, Renaldo.

[3]
One, two Sundays ago breakfast was eaten earlier than usual and activities began at the unlikely hour at 8:30 AM. A school in Guilderland, NY (I believe) had donated about five boxes of shoes that we were going to hand out that day. It took about a half an hour to get all of the shoes from boxes to the more easily transported sacks- filling a total of three, if I remember my numbers correctly. Now, I had seen pictures from last year’s distribution, which took place at the clinic and looked like it had all been laid out and planned in a rather orderly fashion. In other words, I anticipated unloading the shoes and lining them up in increasing size order (an activity, I am a little embarrassed to say, I would have enjoyed doing). That is quite nearly the opposite of what happened. We went about 15, maybe 10, minutes up the road to a small village. Out dumped the shoes and over came the people. John had a list of names of to-be shoe recipients, and began calling out the names of the lucky barefoot individuals. Well, turns out not everyone on that list had heard our pounding feet and shoe-filled sacks, and as a result many of the names on the list did not find themselves with covered toes. The ridding of the shoes took four hours, so let me sum the highs and save the details for a later date of telling: We created a new list, and eventually lines, in which one person came up and sifted through the shoes in attempts to find a sneaker that fit like Cinderella’s glass slipper. While we had few Cinderellas, we did have many kids who wandered off with shoes slightly too big on their feet and a tremendous smile on their face.

[4]
I am a gym goer. I have been going to the gym almost daily for the past many years of my life. I knew, before coming to Uganda, that they had no gym facilities. I also knew, from Vietnam, that if they had gyms they were likely to hold almost exclusively weights and be meant mostly for men. Becky mentioned, both to me and to the world through her blog, that she took up running in the mornings with John. I thought that sounded like a swell idea and very early on announced to John my intentions in joining him on these morning jogs up and around and hopefully the whole way. Let me back-peddle a bit, and inform those reading that I am not a runner. I admire those with the discipline to do so, but get very little pleasure from the activity itself and have always enjoyed running while playing much more than running for a chunk of time. As of today, I have been running with John twice. Due in part to his thinking that I should not run and walk to Kiswera on the same day, to his frequent trips to Kampala on the weekends, and to my discomfort in running alone. Hopefully, by Thursday afternoon my outings on the road will have increased by two. Doubled in size. Grown two-fold.
All that about running being said, we do walk a fair amount here. This past Saturday Tom and I found ourselves in need of a few moments of separation from the children. It had been a long day of patience, protecting two helpless frogs, building a ladder and digging five holes for the two poles. We tossed them the ball, said our goodbyes, and began down the road towards Kiswera, really with no direction or intentions in mind, simply the stillness of our own thoughts for a few moments. Our ploy came somewhat to a defeat when Peter and Fiza (that’s how I pronounce it, and quite possibly not how you spell it) decided to come with us. All the way. Since we hadn’t anticipated needing a destination, we had none, and Peter’s continuous questioning of, “Where are you going?” was met with ever-changing answers, for we quite honestly did not know and were not worried about finding out. We walked half way towards Kiswera, and turned left at the road to head in the direction of the church Dean McEvoy spoke so fondly of when he visited. Peter, as he has a tendency to be, was as much of a theatrical performance as you could expect, whining, dawdling along the path, and having a scowl on his face that would make anyone question his thoughts. Fiza, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more game to the whole idea. He talked to Peter and ran to catch up, the whole time smiling and seemingly happy to be trotting along just for the sake of a stroll, as stroll often have no purpose or intended destination other than to enjoy one’s surroundings. When we were nearly to Engeye, Fiza recommended that we go up a path, a clearly defined path, I should add. Tom and I were both unwilling to admit defeat, and quite honestly not in a rush to go anywhere fast, so we opted for an alternative route, thinking that we going a different but nonetheless passable way. At times it pays to bury your stubbornness and listen to the advice of those who give it freely. We ended up, with two following and tolerant boys, going through brush, ash and thorns. And thanks to Fiza, finding a pathway through the corn and coming out by Engeye.
The following day we decided to go for another walk, this time to Kinoni to buy oil. The oil was both for Susan and for the chippatis that we intended to learn how to make. Now, Kinoni is not too far away, but not many people walk from Ddegeya to Kinoni. In all honesty, I cannot, after the fact, tell you how long the walk is, although it took us three hours. We made it to Kinoni, bought our cooling oil without incident, and also managed to purchase a pen and a couple of notebooks. Yet on the way there we, or Tom rather, was approached by an elderly man who was in the mood for talking and walking and escorted us a short distance, leaving us with hugs and the parting promise of delivering passion fruit from his very own tree some time this week. On our return journey we were again stalled by a conversational man, younger in age, and delighted to have set eyes on, well, again, mostly Tom. Tom, who he thought, was a music producer and would be able to go with him to Kampala and help him record music, for he wanted to be like 50 Cent or Jay Z. He told us all of these between serenading us his music, quite unabashedly. When Tom tried to describe that he would be able to merely record his voice and then give the recording to his friends in New York in April, but was unwilling to pay for the costs, the boy took that to mean that Tom would be taking him to New York, where he had friends that were talented with music, and also, “Let me ask you, why do you want me to come with you?”
I might add that we made the chippatis, under the heavy guidance of John and Susan. They are quite delicious fried dough, and really rather easy to make. It proved to be an ideal time to make the chippatis, for there was a motorbike accident that evening and the two women and their family came to the clinic around 7:00 to receive treatment. Unable to do much else, I gave some of the food to the waiting family members, with slight hesitation for I had not idea if they were tasty or wretched. But, according to John, they were extremely grateful and I am happy to say all said distributed chippatis were eaten.

[5]
We are going to be going to Kampala with John to do two things. The first, simply to become more familiar with the city and hopefully not wander around like two lost souls the next time we go there. The other, and more important of the two, is to visit the craft markets that are in Kampala and hopefully get some ideas about what sorts of crafts might be able to be made here and also talk with the women and ask them what sort of crafts are their best sellers. I am particularly excited about this visit and its potential to bring crafts and potential money to the people in Ddegeya but also to learn, for myself, more about the crafts made in Africa. I am also interested in the fabrics in Africa. Many of the women wear these vibrant and intricate dresses. We have been discussing the potential of shirts and sweatshirts that could be made from the fabric. I also have become interested in the tye-dying I was told is taught in S5 at St. Bernard’s (which means I will be teaching it, another reason from my slight interest) and whether or not tye-died fabrics could be brought back to potentially be sold in the bookstore as tapestries. All ideas, still forming, but one must let the mind wander.