Adventures

South Mountain, Phoenix

2008-01-09T09:09:00.001+03:00

Day 4: Apache Junction- Phoenix Arizona- The end of the journey

2008-01-08T06:26:00.000+03:00

The morning of January 7th: Heather and Christi-Lynn "rise and shine" at 5:30 am with surprising vitality after yet another lovely night in the suburban. Why are they awake at this dark and windy hour? Why, to climb in the dark! The goal would be sunrise on the summmit, but as you will soon realize, the morning had much more in store for these intrepid hikers than even they could have anticipated. They made their breakfast in the shelter of the campground bathroom and then gathered their wits and their headlamps and headed off into the drizzly and black night.

The beginning of the trail lead through gently sloping desert terrain with a wide, well-groomed trail. After about one mile of this gentle terrain, they reached a sign that reminded them they were about to enter wilderness territory. They had an initial goal of reaching the basin, about 2 miles and 1000 feet of elevation, with hopes of reaching the actual summit, another 1 mile and additional 800 feet of elevation. As they continued to climb, the well-groomed trail gave way to- shall we say- no trail? It seems that the well mannered rangers of arizona are loathe to violate their wilderness with too many blazes. Indeed, Heather and Christi-Lynn were often at a loss to see, as the dark lifted- where exactly they were supposed to go. They found themselves staring curiously at patches of white on rocks- is it lichen? is it paint? what might it mean, if it is a blaze?

Somehow they continued to follow the canyon up, eventually reaching the basin, an area where one could imagine large volumes of water flowing out towards phoenix in a heavy rainstorm. Never ones to enter lightly into adventure, they re-checked their map and noted that "average" hikers were cautioned to not hike beyond the basin. This left Heather and Christi-Lynn with a difficult question- are they average hikers? or are they- Above Average?

Needless to say, they continued on. As they did, day light was upon them but it became very clear that there would be no sunrise on january 7th. The clouds and fog grew thicker around them as they struggled over the large boulders, the rain grew heavier, and the wind grew stronger. At times they seemed to be climbing straight up, using their somewhat rusty rock-climbing skills (and firmly ignoring the question: How Will We Ever Get Back Down?)

They climbed up and up, the rain fell harder and harder, and the wind blew, sometimes pelting their faces painfully. At 8:30am (which they had set as their turn-around time) they crested over a last, painful, vertical cliff--- to see further climbing ahead of them. Even worse, they were not even sure how much further the summit might be. Admiting to each other that there would be no hope of any view, that the rain would only get worse, that the arizona rangers most likely had not marred their landscape with something as tawdry as a sign announcing the summit, and that they had a long, hard descent ahead of them, they posed for the obligatory photo and turned back.

They made it safely, and slowly, down the worse of the vertical drops, and then began to descend into the first canyon. As they neared the bottom, they noticed several attractive waterfalls- that had not been there before. The slight trickles of water that they had encountered on their way up the mountain were now majestic streams, pouring through the canyon. Both Heather and Christi-Lynn realized- the basin could be horrible! by this point both of them were soaked to the bone, and their boots were soaked. As they entered the basin , the waterflow was luckily not as bad as they had feared, and they were able to creep their way down bracing themselves in cracks, ankle-deep in the water.

At 10:30, they finally found themselves back in the campground, shaking and shivering. Hot showers, dry clothes, and hot chocolate solved the chills and Heather and Christi-Lynn said goodbye to the Lost Dutchman state park as the sky became blue and the clouds lifted. Heather dropped CL off in downtown phoenix to seek her fortune at a youth hostel, and Heather took off with fellow med-student Jane in tow for the blizzards of northern Arizona and Tuba City.

Day 3 "We search for sunshine..." Blanding, Utah to Phoenix Arizona

2008-01-08T05:34:00.000+03:00

Another cozy night in the bedroom on wheels ended with the startling realization that the rain and sleet of the previous night had turned into...two inches of snow. More of which was falling, might we add. Faithful readers, you might ask why this meagre display of winter would disturb two such women as these, used to hard winters of shoveling cars out of snowbanks and sub-freezing temperatures. In the words of CL "I DID NOT pay to come to the SOUTHWEST for SNOW." There you have it. It took approximately five seconds to decide to drive on to flagstaff, where Heather and CL were hoping for sunnier skies and hiking delights. After a delicious breakfast cooked in the warmth and comfort of the gas station bathroom (unanimous decision that using a propane stove in the suburban would be a BAD idea), they filled up with high quality diesel and drove on. They gazed sadly over the fog and ice-filled glen canyon but knew that (in heather's case) she looked forward to eight weeks' worth of weekends to explore the canyon from her new placement in Tuba City.

Not far out of Blanding, route 163 entered Monument valley. The amazing formations jutting out of the plateau against the cloudy blue sky made the drive something of a wonder, and lead christi-lynn to attempt to take pictures leaning out of the window of a the moving vehicle (with seatbelt on, of course). The road lead onward to Tuba City and then onward to Flagstaff. Not far out of Tuba City snow started to fly. Then the fleets of plows came out, spewing salt and gravel every which way. By the time the hearty suburban reached Flagstaff, it was clear that there would be no hiking done that day- Heather and Christi-Lynn made another command decision- south until sunshine. Somewhere south of flagstaff, the mighty suburban began to demonstrate some (ahem) signs of engine discomfort. Quick consultations with all of Heather's relatives familiar with diesel vehicles brought the solution- adding some magical juice to the gas would relieve the discomfort caused to the engine by ascending and descending thousands of feet in a short period of time.

The descent into Phoenix brought with it the hoped-for sun, a lower elevation, and balmy temperatures in the 50's. Lovely! On recommendation from C-L's family members they headed to Apache Junction and the Lost Dutchman State Park, at the base of Superstious mountain. Heather greeted the Saguaro cacti with wonder (this being her first experience in the desert)and they took a sunset walk on one of the parks' shorter trails. A last check-in with CL's mom left them with these parting words: "Don't climb in the dark, christi-lynn. It is dangerous!" What a fun idea! Climbing the dark. CL was thankful that she has a mom with these wonderful ideas, and the two immediately made plans for a pre-dawn summit of Superstitious mountain.

Day 2: Moab, Utah to Blanding, Utah

2008-01-06T05:48:00.000+03:00

Who would have guessed sleeping in the back of a suburban could be so restful? After 10 hours of shuteye in the quiet and comfort of their very own bedroom on wheels, Heather and Christi-Lynn opened their eyes to overcast skies and buffeting desert winds whetting their appetite for adventure. First things first, though- where would they find wireless internet to send word home to their beloved family and friends of their trip? Miracle of miracles, the Texaco station itself had wireless- and coffee! What fun! After getting some hot water from our new friends at the Texaco station for oatmeal, we ate breakfast and cruised back down the strip in Moab to find Arches National Park. We entered the park after a great debate about whether to get an annual National Parks pass or just pay daily the entrance fee (the same for a suburban or a Hyundai, interestingly enough). However, the friendly woman ranger reassured us that we had 14 days to change our minds and could apply our entrance fee from today at any park when an annual pass was purchased. We drove along the windy road to the north end of the park, deemed the devil’s garden. Praying for the safety of our souls, we embarked on a loop trail with a goal of seeing 7 arches. Christi-Lynn soon found that her short legs were no match for Heather’s long stride- she gasped and wheezed trying to keep up with her energetic friend.
5 hours, many welling-up-within-one’s-soul moments, multiple pictures, some slippery moments on “surprise ice,” hundreds of peanuts and raisins, 7 arches, and 8 miles later, we emerged from the trailhead, feeling like we had truly earned our dinner. But then the question arose, where to? We swept our boots off with the brush on Mr. Burban’s bumper and set forth down Moab’s strip once again, continuing along on 191 through canyons, spotty cell phone service, and rain/snow on the high points. With a “phone-a-friend,” we checked the weather and received suggestions on camping in our next destination, Blanding, Utah. We heard there was a Kampark with tenting sites (i.e. sleeping in the back of Mr. Burban/our bedroom) and wireless. After driving the strip in Blanding, Heather stated, “I think I saw an office sign on the Shell station.” Yes, it was true- another campsite behind a gas station. After checking in with the gas attendant, Heather and Christy-Lynn pulled up to their campsite in the rain and looked at each other. After much debate over their status as hikers/backpackers, they decided to go to the Old Tymer Restaurant for a hot dinner and hopefully free wireless. Thus, we find our happy and full travelers, eager for another night in their bedroom behind a gas station. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Snow that forces our adventurers south into Arizona or yet another day in Utah before turning to the south?

Day 1- Denver CO to Moab, Utah

2008-01-05T18:42:00.000+03:00

It was a bright and windy day in Littleton, CO, when Heather Anderson and Christi-Lynn Brown set out on their quest to seek adventure in the canyons and wilds of Utah and Arizona. Prepared for anything with two-weeks' worth of food (for their three days of travel), an atlas, and the biggest vehicle known to man (not really, but it seemed that way) they left the warm beds and hearty food of Heather's relatives and roared off (of course, the suburban DOES have a mighty diesel engine) towards I70. Threats of avalanches not-withstanding, they feared little (except for Christi-Lynn's fear that Heather would refuse to stop and let her pee until they reached Grand Junction- this proved to be a valid fear, as grand junction found CL rocking and moaning in the passenger seat begging for a bathroom, any bathroom) and expected much out of these few days in the southwest.
After failing to spy the bright beacon of Wal-Mart to acquire some fuel for the stove, a small sign kindled the fire of hope within Christi-Lynn and Heather's hearts. REI. There had to be a bathroom, fuel, and perhaps even maps to facilitate the planning of this adventure in the Southwest (Planning? Who plans?). After the acquisition of fuel, use of the bathrooms, and frustrations with the maps, they set out once again, crossing into Utah, and soon exiting on Rt 128. Heather's heart filled with pride as they saw the sign (paraphrased): Narrow winding road with open range cattle. Moab 46 miles. This was the moment that the suburban was made for with its grill guard, diesel engine, and large brush on the back bumper to prevent mud-slinging. 46 miles, amazing views (at least by daylight, they were sure), and many bright stars later, they entered Moab.
The lights of Moab filled their adventure-loving hearts with thrill--or was it the looming shadows reaching into the sky that signaled-possibly--the mountain hiking they craved? (these shadows were not, as Christi-Lynn had first feared--the resting shapes of brontasauri and t-rex--mind you, it had been awhile since she had visited the southwest) As they cruised the Moab strip in their roaring beast of a vehicle, they reveled in the bright lights of fast food and motels. But the question begged to be asked: where would they sleep on their first night in the desert? Would it be a secluded pull-off, a back-country camping spot beneath the utah mountains?
Their weary eyes were finally drawn by this beacon of hope: "CANYONLANDS CAMPGROUND!" Nestled behind a texaco station, with the lights of the strip playing friendly games with their tired eyes, they found a welcome resting spot.
Curled up for the night in their sleeping bags in the back of the suburban, they were thankful that they had been protected from avalanches, roaming dinosaurs and sleeping in the shadowing back parking lot of the burger king--and they anticipated a great day of hiking in Arches the following day.

Ngakitalo Nyo

2007-07-28T19:39:00.000+03:00

A few months ago the husband of our neighbor died. I arrived home from work to find my host sisters preparing to go next door in order to sit with the family. I had not experienced the death of a family member or neighbor before, but I was expected to go along to express condolances. As I walked over with Sarah, she instructed me on the niceties of attending a burial. The title of this posting is "ngakitalo nyo." This is the phrase you greet everyone with at a burial or mourning, or what you greet someone with who has recently lost someone close to them. I asked my family (and later friends and coworkers) to translate this phrase for me but none of them were able. They said it is much stronger than "I'm sorry," and conveys something really heavy, a kind of dread. It somehow is expressing sorrow, fear, mutual sadness. The fact that it is said to everyone attending a burial (not just family) seems to signify that we are all similarly affected by loss.

As we entered the yard of our neighbor, we greeted each person we met with "ngakitalo nyo." We entered the living space to find the family and friends seated around the perimeter of the room, the coffin in the center. In buganda fashion, each of us too turns greeting each present with ngakitalo, and then proceeded with the rest of the greeting. "Eradde, Eradde." You are welecome. "Osibiyotano?" How has been your day? "Jabale Ko." Thanks for the work you are doing. The strange thing thing for me was that each person responded to the greeting with "balungi." It is good. I am good. Everything is fine. Even as the widow was sobbing and holding a handkerchief to her face, she answered that she was fine. There is not a negative response in the language structure.

It is common during the wake, the night before the burial, for friends and family to stay the night with those who are grieving. This places a significant financial burden on the grieving family as they are expected to provide tea and food for those in attendance. As such, some mourners bring supplies to offer to the family in attempt to lessen some of that burden.

We did not spend the night with our neighbors, but even as we were leaving a few hours later, more friends were arriving and chairs were being set out. It would be a long night for the family.

***************

I have left Uganda. It has been one week, and in those seven days I have experienced some emotions not dissimilar to those of one grieving any other loss. For the most part I have been numb and ambivalent--not missing Uganda (the memories of work and the last struggles are still too fresh for that), not really happy to experience the joys of America, anxious about all of the story telling and reunions ahead of me. I anticipate that I will wish at somepoint soon to go back to Kampala. I will probably be angry with myself, with circumstances that change and with my own decisions. I will question where I am now, and where I have been, and where I am going to be next year.

It has been good to share a few days with those other forty-odd people also returning home from their year of service. We compared notes on our goodbye-celebrations with our host communities, compared the myriad of odd and wonderful gifts we were given, and compared fears and aprehensions about returning to school, work, or job-hunting.

The heaviness expressed in Ngakitalo is the heaviness of my heart. How can I express in words what it has meant to share the lives of my friends and coworkers for the last eleven months? What can I say to try and convey the honor of witnessing life and death in places where most are not priviledged to go? How can I move on from this year in way that honors what God has done in my life, but also honors the fact that in the totality of the life he calls us to, there are no compartments or categories? My service will continue, the services of those at Mengo HIV clinic will continue. I return to Norwich VT to try and become part of that community as myself, but changed. God has called us to serve him in the place we are, right now, today. I was asked at somepoint in my year what it felt like to make a difference. My response was confusion--I did not feel that this year was making more or less of a difference than my years of nursing previously. I was just in a different location. God will call some of us to serve him in international settings. He will call some of us to serve him in Boston. Washington DC. Rochester, NY. Norwich. How will we answer that call, and how will we serve him today?

I will be asked many times (and this is an OK question), as I have been asked many times already in Uganda--when and if I am "going back." I cannot answer this question fully, but as Eric took to telling people in Uganda, "God knows." And as I told my friends, "You pray." So my only answer right now is this same response--that I will be praying, and waiting for God's direction.

Today I will enjoy the hot showers, the company of good friends, and cheddar cheese. I will be praying for those I love in Uganda, and those I love here. Tomorrow--? Who knows? I pray that I will be open to the service God has for me, and willing to do His work.

Peace

From Goodbyes to Hellos

2007-07-28T18:55:00.000+03:00

First Thoughts from the USA

2007-07-24T03:13:00.000+03:00

Folks, this will be rough, but I feel the need to record some thoughts a mere 30 hours after my reentry yesterday.

I was walking around the neighborhood surrounding MCC in the wee hours this morning (jet lag woke me up at 3:30, and refused to give me rest) and was astounded by the silence. I couldn't see any people! The houses seem really far apart, the lawns huge. The cars in every driveway are very shiny. And none of the plants growing are edible.
I don't see any animals--no dogs or cats even.

The streets are so wide, and smooth. The sidewalks are neat--no trash. Cars go so fast, and I am the only pedestrian (alright, so maybe this is normal at 6:00AM). Imagine my relief when I finally passed, around 7:30, a woman setting up a small stand to sell tomatos in her yard. I was worried about what everyone was going to eat! You have to walk at least seven blocks from MCC to find even a very small grocery store.

Mostly, I feel alone walking. WHen I finally pass another walker, and then two women jogging, they say hi and move on. There aren't any kids greeting me, no one yelling.

This alone-ness puzzles me because I have spent so many many hours over the last year wishing for anonimity and privacy on my early morning ventures--and now that I have it it feels bizarre.

I had to go to a department store this afternoon to pick up some things (my luggage has delayed--I think it didn't want to leave east africa!) and one other returnee and I had a small crisis in the shampoo aisle. Too many products! The bottles are so big--it seems excessive to have that much shampoo for one person.

Right now my stomach hurts because I have had ten servings of fruit and vegetables today. Apples! Lettuce! Broccoli! Orange oranges! (ours in uganda there were green oranges). The food is amazing here.

Can't think of anything else interesting. Perhaps I'll get some sleep and see the world through newer eyes tomorrow.

Love to you all!

Ah, another chance to play the fool...

2007-07-13T10:09:00.000+03:00

So last Saturday, after returning quickly from Bwindi, I was excited (thrilled, amazed, filled with wonderment) at the opportunity to attend one more Introduction (Kwanjula) ceremony before I leave this blessed country.

Once again I found myself at the mercy of my host sisters, who for lack of better supplies, wrapped my body in bedsheets and garbed me with Sarah's bisuti (which is eight inches longer than I am tall) and shod me with Sarah's high-heeled shoes (I have conveniently misplaced my own "smart" shoes to avoid having to wear them anywhere).

Because this is Uganda, it didn't seem to be a problem that we arrived at the introduction six hours late, just in time for the food. To make things better, it had been raining all day, so not only was I just navigating the normal terrain of Kampala in the bisuiti, but mud and mud puddles--trying to keep fifty pounds of dress out of this mud. The best part was trying to carry food and drink, while still managing the dress situation. This required me to bend over at the waist, clutching yards of fabric between my elbows and balance the soda on my head. Just kidding.

Since Saturday though, many unexpected people have been commenting on seeing me at the Introduction. None of them greeted me there--apparently they were just enjoying the spectacle that is me in Uganda. I knew I heard laughter from the in-law section.

Some babbling about money...

2007-06-27T08:54:00.000+03:00

Corruption happens, right? It could be a bumper sticker or a trendy t-shirt in any company or organization in any country in this world. The safe but real answer to this reality is sin, of course—we live in a fallen world and the old axiom regarding “absolute power” and my own new slogan of “what else do you expect, anyway?” belie the roots and pervasiveness of this problem.

We would all like to think though, when watching bleeding heart commercials on television or those sentiment-inducing slide-shows in church, that when we send our money to an organization (missions, relief and development, etc) it always ends up in the right hands, with minimal percentages being spend on overhead and administration. We would hate to think, for instance, that 50% of the proceeds of our donations are allowing the workers for that organization to live in the lap of luxury (through either inflated salaries and benefits or from people “eating” the money) while the other 50% fails to cover the costs and therefore sends the organization back to your doorstep begging for more money. We would also hate to think that the money we faithfully send in order to fulfill our mandate to feed the orphans and widows could be used as a source of power to oppress persons who should have been helped.

Is there an acceptable level of corruption? In order for some of our money to reach those poor and needy, is it a necessity that some of it line the pockets of those pushing it along the way? We in the west cannot deny the cost of our own bureaucracy (and therefore cannot think we are immune to this problem). Although we might not have scandals the size of ENRON in all of our workplaces, we all know the slimy details of money spent here and there that isn’t necessarily flush with the budget line.

If the answer to this question is “NO,” as I sometimes am wont to think, what is the answer? We are all sinful creatures and prone to pursuing our own motley agendas at the expense of the greater good, and so the answer cannot be just to find the “right people.” A very ethnocentric/colonialist answer is that we westerners should be present in the administration of all of these organizations whom we in our benevolence support and with our superior spiritual/accounting/organizational skills we will assure that money donated gets to where it should go without any “funny funny” business going on. We, of course, do not include in our calculations the percentage of donations it takes to keep us comfortable—our hot showers, our high fences and night guards, our imported groceries and large vehicles—while we assure that the money is all used for those needy people for whom it is meant. Besides, I have already proposed that we are not immune to this corruption; just, perhaps, less likely to take obvious opportunities as often because we are not living hand to mouth or looking every month for money to put our children through school. In short, we live far from the edge of need and so it could be that it takes greater impetus to move us to such actions.

If the answer is “YES,” as in a certain degree of corruption is allowable in our Machiavellian world of getting done what needs to be done, then is there a percentage we should aim for? For instance, assume that at least 30% of the money we send will either disappear or be used for extraneous purposes, or both. We could consider that money the cost of avoiding having to do the leg work of turning that money into the food that goes into the child’s mouth in Darfur, or Bangladesh, or Honduras. Because, lets face it, it takes a lot of work for that transformation to take place. Instead, we let the “locals” do the work, and the money they may or may not eat is compensation for the work they are doing on our behalf.

What I really want to know is—do you care? Does this matter to you? Don’t assume, by the way, that just because I’m posing this question I have evidence against all your favorite charity recipients—I don’t, I have only seen enough to raise questions.

When you write a check to Sally Spiritual or Good Works Inc, is it to assuage some guilt in your soul or out of a genuine interest in helping these very real and very human people on the other side of the world? If it is the former, than it really doesn’t matter where the money eventually goes, the process of writing the check (or using paypal, etc) has been done on your soul. You can check James 2 off the list.

However, if it matters to you how many kilos of rice your money is going to buy, and how many mouths that rice will enter(or, for that matter, which farmers grew that rice and if they were paid for it properly in the first place), we have a serious need for some accountability. Hold your church, your missionaries, and your favorite relief organizations accountable for the money they receive. Read the annual reports they send you—do a little footwork and explore their operations, what percentage of their staff are nationals or expats. You have a responsibility beyond the checkbook if only because we do live in a fallen world, and it does matter where the money goes.

In addition, we need to take a good look at the money that our government sifts out of our taxes to send for foreign aid. Where is it going? Is it going to the countries with the most need, or the countries where the governments are favorably compliant to (or complicit with) our own government? Where are these governments putting the aid money? (Case in point, the global fund scandal 2006 here in Uganda, one of the results of which was preventing our clients from having drugs for about a month.)

Corruption happens. It is true, but as donors we have a responsibility. Further engagement with the recipients of our funds will not only hopefully lead to better use of those funds, but also increase our own awareness of what the money is doing, which parties it is helping, and give us understanding beyond the 30 second commercial that got us to drag out our checkbook in the first place.

Jacob

2007-06-16T08:14:00.000+03:00

Jacob lost his wife to HIV. He has been coming to our clinic for about five years now. Apparently the staff (and his wife, before she died) had a hard time convincing him to come in for care, but he finally did. He has a few children; an older daughter called Rose is his primary caretaker now. Rose is 18 and is a full time student in University, as well as taking care of a very ill father and her six year old brother Roger who is also HIV+. Jacob probably contracted TB last fall, but the disease worked on his body for months before we caught it. Insidious weight loss, a cough that got treated like a common respiratory tract infection, fevers that weren't identified..the result of this mis-diagnosis was a two month admission (Jacob is blessed enough to have a brother with a job who footed the bill for the admission..in his own words, the investment in keeping his brother alive is keeping his brother's children out of his house...) and Jacob has now been a homecare patient, post admission, for two months. We find him almost the same every time..emaciated, depressed-looking, sitting in a wooden chair in his ten-by-ten foot living space. He has just completed the initial phase of TB therapy, and is also on antiretroviral therapy. He struggles with painful peripheral neuropathy, a common side effect both of the ARVs and one of the TB drugs.

Jacob is the perfect example of the horrific combination of TB and HIV. Because TB is a disease of the immune suppressed, and our HIV clients are immune suppressed, it is a match made in--well, not heaven for sure. TB also spreads really well in crowded conditions, which for most of our clients is their life in a nutshell (no pun intended.) TB also spreads really well in our crowded reception area, where patients often wait for hours to see the doctor. We are only lucky (is that the right word? that Uganda doesn't have a really big problem with drug resistant TB at this point.

It would behoove us to screen a little better, to have a more open waiting area--but mostly it would be good to catch the disease before we found our patients wasted and unable to move out of bed, and beyond whatever help we have to offer.

TB therapy (and I am so far from an expert on it, what I know I've learned from our client's experience) is fairly hellish. It involves a certain time frame of intensive therapy (three to four horse-sized pills a day, which often cause nausea and vomiting) and then a few more months of slightly smaller pills(that still come with their own set of side effects). If this course of treatment works, then they are finished with treatment. If it doesn't ,it means they probably have drug resistant disease, and need a second line therapy. Luckily, this therapy is available here.

However, our client's tolerance for long courses of intensive therapy is very low. This burden of medication (even if it is free) comes on top of the burden of the rest of life. Generally the caretaker is a woman,the bearer of all other responsibilities in the family. As one of our clinical officers said yesterday, it is ridiculous that people keep dying from a disease that is completely treatable--and the treatment is even free!

So what is really keeping clients from tapping into this free therapy? Is it fear of the drugs? Ignorance on their part? My boss likes to say "blame the patient last.." this is a good motto, so we could look at failures on the part of the medical system. I could list for you many different structural changes that might make it more likely that we would identify people with active TB early in the disease process (some of these changes are going to be implemented soon in our clinic, thanks to some new staff with energy to burn), but I am sadly unsure that even these hopeful interventions will make much of a difference. The disease burden here is so high, the medical staff so overworked, the support systems (labs, x-rays, medications) are so unpredictable or unreliable...

I have had a few patients pull back from being bedridden with advanced TB. One client, who I was sure (in my cynical, bitter mind) was going to die managed to recover by the grace of God, and was spotted yesterday zooming up to the clinic on a bodaboda with a new hairstyle. If anything was going to give me hope, that would be it.

So what kind of hope do I have for Jacob? As he sits in his small hut, under the shade of many papaya and guava trees, he looks at the house he was building for his family before he got sick. He has the blessing of free medication, the blessing of family (a daughter with more inner strength and reserve than anyone I have met so far, and a brother with financial resources) and the blessing of still being alive, today, which in and of itself is the biggest testimony to God's grace in his life.

Regardless of global fund scandals that steal our drugs, overwhelmed medical workers, reception areas that spread TB among our clients like the plague, and pill-burden of too many treatments, I pray grace for Jacob and his family. Grace and mercy for all of our clients who are fighting not one disease, but two. Strength for the women who care for them, and faith for those who bring the medical expertise--that we would keep working towards the elusive goal of healing.

Some random photos for your pleasure...

2007-06-02T12:27:00.000+03:00

#1-A birthday celebration with some of my friends. They were excited about the chocolate cake which Jennifer and I cooked over charcoal.
#2-Josh and Emily at their good-bye dinner celebration
#3-Eric, Arianne and I at Sipi Falls--eating our breakfast of Chapati egg rolls. Judge not until you taste-one of my favorite things to eat here in Uganda!
#4-An outing with the clinic post-test club to a mosque, thus the headcovering.

The Prouty

2007-06-02T11:51:00.000+03:00

Some of you may know that for the last two years I have had the honor of riding in the Prouty Bike Ride and Fitness walk. Each year, many people (thousands? can't remember) ride and walk in the community of Dartmouth to raise money for cancer research at the Norris Cotton Cancer Center (of which I am still a proud employee). The nurses at the cancer center have had a team for a few years now called "Team Hope" and have ridden in support of and in honor of our patients.

Sadly, I will not return from Uganda in time to join the team this year in riding, but I wanted to send them greetings and encouragement as they train and prepare for this year's ride in July. I also want them to know that I am with them in spirit, and I spent some time "training" on a bike in the village of Hoima to try and get into the spirit of the ride. The pictures of that training session are below.

Just so you know, neither the chicken, the child, or the cows were harmed in the taking of these photos.

Community HIV Testing

2007-05-30T17:03:00.000+03:00

Who ever said community medical work would be fun? I guess it goes right along with the idea that NGO work is meaningful and missionaries are more blessed than the rest of us. As we are slogging away in our north-American jobs, we look at those awesome peace-corps volunteers or long-term missionaries in the deepest jungle in Congo or flood-prone Indonesia and think “Man! What would I give to have that life? Making a difference every single day. That is where it’s at…”

Maybe I never thought it would be fun, but at least fulfilling, exciting, deeply spiritual or at the very least, interesting.

So imagine my surprise when, after spending a good five or six hours trekking around Kampala doing home-care visits, we landed in a neighborhood for our last patient and found our truck surrounded by people eager for HIV tests (i.e, this should be super exciting, community health work at its best...) As our clinic has recently started testing routinely (as opposed to voluntarily- in which you wait patiently at the clinic for people to get it into their heads that testing for HIV is a good idea) we are carrying around with us rapid test kits and are supposed to be “scaling up treatment.” As in, finding and recruiting as many HIV+ individuals as possible to meet targets set by some person in a suit sitting in an office being paid to come up with these bizarre and outlandish numbers. What this means for us is that my boss walks around the office hollering about needing to get 5 HIV+ clients registered every single day.

This leads us to Katwe, the neighborhood we were in that Tuesday. Christopher (our driver) quickly instructed me to start drawing blood. From where? Starting with whom? We had our truck, with supplies, sitting in the middle of a slum, surrounded by people. This did not look like a controlled, clean, or organized environment to me. (These are things I usually try to insist on if I’m going to being waving needles around or handling human body fluids.) Nor did we have a sharps container or a biohazard bag.

Martha took a station on one side of the truck, and I set up on the other. The first lady jumped in the back seat and stuck her arm out. I strained to reach over her to find some gloves, disinfectant, a syringe, etc etc. I ended up having to use her lap as a work space, since there was no where else to work. As I uncapped the needle, people pushed in, three deep, to check out my technique. Kids peered over the door window trying to get a glimpse of the action. I could envision someone jostling me or the door, and my arm with the needle being pushed so that we drew an arterial sample and ended up with blood spurting all over. Great. A blood fest. Just what I need at four o’clock in the afternoon when I haven’t eaten all day.

I managed to draw the first sample and hand it over to Martha (after convincing the lady that it was a bad idea for her to hold the cap while I recapped the needle!). I could barely back up for her to get out of the truck as the rest of the crowd vied for the next spot in line.

Let me stop here to demystify the situation. In case you are envisioning that there were any positive feelings or emotions in me at this moment, let me assure you that I was in a monstrously bad mood. Low blood sugar, exhaustion, frustration, fear (regarding previously mentioned uncontrolled environment) were all taking over. These are moments that make me despise myself more than anything. Who the heck goes to Africa to help out with the HIV/AIDS epidemic and goes around snapping at people and being grumpy? Is this any way to spread the love of Jesus? I should have been delighted to help a few more people in this country figure out their serostatus and be able to make informed and wise lifestyle decisions based on that information. Instead, I just wanted lunch, and a rest. At the very least a sharps container or more gloves!

Unfortunately my friends, you now know the truth. Saint I may not be, but I made it through that afternoon (by the grace of God, and also by His grace that there was no violence between those of us on the team who were equally tired and frustrated). I’ve made it through a few more days of community testing as well, not necessarily with a better attitude, but I am trying. Strange as it may sound, the struggles of the flesh do not disappear when one engages in volunteer or mission work and sometimes it feels as though I require more of God’s mercy and forgiveness here than I have ever needed before in my life.

My prayer, therefore, is that regardless of the context of our work, we would find meaning and blessing in being faithful to that which God has called us to do—whether it would be teaching, nursing, studying, facilitating, etc etc etc—or drawing six million blood samples in a slum in Kampala—and that he would work through us despite our very human limitations. May we be contented to do that work and not say with the apostle Peter "what about that other guy? Why aren't I doing the work s/he is doing? (John 21:21)" but would rather hear Jesus saying to us, "What is that to you? You follow me." (John 21:22)

The fastest discharge in the history of the world

2007-04-27T19:36:00.000+03:00

I wasn't too busy, so when my friend Emily called and asked me to come to the ward to check on our friend Lawrence I went right away. It helped to hurry my pace that she said something about "anesthetic" or "pain." Since Lawrence had been admitted after being hit bar a car 10 days ago, he had had plenty of pain--mostly related to significant soft tissue injury to his right arm that had been requiring daily dressing changes. In any first-world hospital he would have had proper pain control in accordance with his weight, his status as a child/teenager, and the severity of his injury. He also would have had proper dressings that wouldn't stick to the wound and rip it open afresh every day.

Instead, because he was in Uganda, in a hospital that didn't even have enough gloves to complete the dressing changes, he got various forms of pain meds depending on what the nurses could find--nothing was usually documented because there is usually one nurse for 20 patients and they are just too darn busy to document--and sometimes without much regard for whatever the doctor had bothered to write. Of course, in the hypothetical first-world hospital, he would also have been sacked with a bill probably over $10,000.00 for a stay of 10 days that included one trip to the theater (OR). Or rather, he wouldn't ahve been treated at all, since he is a street kid.

Over the duration of Lawrence's hospitalization I had bothered the nurses and clinicians quite a bit with questions about medications, dressings, care-plans, protocols, etc etc etc. However, when I came onto the floor on this particular day, a group of men I didn't recognize were gathered a short distance from Lawrence's bed, and Emily was standing protectively next to Lawrence--who looked like he was about to bolt at any time. Emily explained that one of the men had come over and started to remove the dressing as Lawrence slept--no warning, no pain meds. I did not blame Lawrence for looking ready to run.

"Have you brought it?" The leader of the white-coated men asked me. I was confused. What was I supposed to bring? Apparently he didn't know either. I'm guessing it was some sort of pain med, since he didn't seem to have any. My anger that had been building over the last ten days finally spilled over onto this nameless character. I looked him square in the face, and said "WHAT is your PLAN?" "Plan?" He answered, puzzled. "YES, your PLAN? PLEASE don't tell me you were planning to remove this dressing without pain meds." "It isn't about the pain," he retorted.

At this point I had had enough. "IT ISN"T ABOUT THE PAIN FOR YOU, BECAUSE YOU HAVE ALL YOUR SKIN STILL ON YOUR ARM. When was the LAST time he had any medicine?"

"What?" Mr. white coat was not getting me. I repeated the question, my face inches from his (really--i wonder--where do i get the nerve to speak to people like this? I really have no idea) I repeated the question again and again..to all the members of the group, to the nurse on duty. I sounded like a broken record. I was probably stamping my foot. Truly, for someone who took so long to develop documentation skills and who routinely called her workplace after midnight to ask people to document meds that she had forgotten to note...I was being a bit over the top. Maybe. At some point Mr. White coat asked me, "DO you have a medical background? Are you related to this patient?" I straightened up, raised my voice, and said, "I am a NURSE." YES. I don't think he was impressed, but I felt good.

At this auspicious moment my phone rang. My friend Glenda, who has a high-level job and connections in the city, and to whom I had poured out my frustrations with the hospital the previous day, had come up with a connection at IHK (internation hospital of kampala) where Lawrence might be able to get free (and much better) care.

With only the hint of a promise of a solution in my hand, I walked up to the group of doctors. They informed me that they would be taking lawrence to the theater to put him under general anesthesia for his dressing change. (THIS IS A SOLUTION? GENERAL ANESTHESIA?). I calmly informed them that they only place lawrence would be going was out the door, with me, and I kindly (!) asked for his discharge papers. They blinked once, twice, and filled out the paperwork within five minutes. Emily and I ran around collecting cash for the bill (in this blessed country, until you pay your hospital bill you are a prisoner of the hospital, unable to leave the grounds), paid it, and left. At some point in this frenzy of activity I remembered to ask Lawrence if he wanted to leave. His answer was to painfully hobble over to the door and ask for some sunshine. His grin was unstoppable. I knew we were doing the right thing.

We had to round up a taxi (the private kind, not the fifty-people in a fifteenpassenger van kind)and over bumpy roads, with lawrence gritting his teeth the whole way, we made our way to IHK.

Although he still had pain when the dressing was removed at IHK, the fact that he bounced up from the table at the end of the ordeal and began shaking all the nurses' hands and thanking them for helping him...this witnessed to his changed situation. I felt the entire time as though we were in some sort of medical heaven. The nurses had gloves! Saline! Dressings! At no point did they ask me to go look for or buy supplies. At no point did they refer to lawrence as "difficult" or "stubborn."

I want you to know that the medical care at IHK for everyone else who walks through those doors is extraordinarily expensive--more like western medical costs. So it still begs to be asked--is our system really that much better than what I encountered through Lawrence's hospitalization? If we have endless supplies, endless specialists, the very best in pain control...but if these are only available to the wealthy, or well insured, or if a major accident or illness leaves a family bankrupt and destitute as a result of inflated costs..is the system really that much more just? I think not. And as a side note, the problem of arrogant medical professionals does not just exist on this side of the globe. Although I was just a friend to Lawrence, being on this side of the conversation in a hospital is daunting and demeaning. I cannot imagine how dehumanizing it can sometimes be for patients who see themselves at the mercy of the all-powerful white coat.

The end of the story is good (for Lawrence)..he will most likely regain full use of his arm. He is happy to be back in the garage where he lives with 11 other street kids, and when I last saw him yesterday evening he was practicing his trumpet with one good arm and asking intreguing questions about white blood cells and the immune system.

For the rest of this country, I'm not so sure. What does justice in medical care mean? Is there a road between shoddy but affordable (for some people) care, and high-quality but unaffordable care? Do we all deserve compassiate nurses and knowledgable doctors? What would it take to transform the hospital that I work in to a place where adequate care was given and recieved? I don't know...

Food for thought.

Andy

2007-04-11T12:15:00.000+03:00

Andy showed up to Monday clinic yesterday. As many do, he has waited until he is very, very sick to come for testing and care. In triage, I find his BP is 76/50, heart rate 130, temp 39C (axillary) and weight at 48 kg (for a man who is about 5’10”). He walks only with assistance, and is so shaky I cannot trust him to make his way to the doctor’s room alone.

Later, another nurse gave him an injection of gentamycin and sent him home with an IV drip (luckily our clinic driver was around and took him home in the truck) that would hopefully rehydrate him a bit. We planned to visit him today on homecare.

Andy is staying in a house his uncle is helping to rebuild/refinish. As is common, his uncle is allowed to “squat” in the home while they are working on it. The house is un-adorned cement, windows and doors gaping holes to the world of wind, rain, and insects. We find Andy awake, on the porch slumped in a wicker chair. He is shaking, with the tremors in his left hand getting worse. The cannula that we left in the right hand is still there, but is open and dripping blood occasionally. The other nurse caps it off. I shudder.

Andy is kind of staring, kind of wide-eyed, and I wonder how mentally savvy he is right now. Because my Luganda is not up to a mini mental exam-caliber, I trust the others when they say he is “ok”. I try his blood pressure (80/60), his temp (still around 39C), and his heart-rate (about 140). In these situations I can never help but think what I might do if I was back at Dartmouth. Something, anyway. Our clinical officer opts for another two liters of IV fluid (we are out of normal saline these days, until the drug order comes in, so a combo of D5 and LR will have to do the trick). Another few antibiotics. The other nurse and Andy’s uncle help Andy out of his wicker chair, and half-carry him, half-lead him through the very empty shell of a house to a back room, where there is a well-worn mattress on the bare-cement floor, and a chair holding andy’s medications. The drip from yesterday is hanging from a nail on the wall (uncapped). Christine discards it and hangs the new drip. Explains the medications. I stand around, mute. The barren-ness is awful. Although I realize that it is great that Andy’s uncle even has a roof and a mattress to offer him, I can’t imagine that this very chilly room with a mattress on the bare floor is at all a place of rest. I pray for Andy. We are about to leave, when Francis suggests I give him some food out of our supply in the back of the truck.

Food, I’m told, is not a sustainable program. This, I realize. Nor is it fair for me to “shower” our clients with food while I’m here, and then leave the clinic staff to answer for the absence of food after I am gone.

I realize that it may be very, very selfish of me to insist that we bring food on our visits (and by the way, I am so thankful on behalf of the clients for those of you who are helping them in this way). I realize that it may be my very American/western character that wants to “hand something out,” instead of just walking away and trying to forget it all until I come the next week and enter into the private hell of Andy, or any of our other clients.

I suppose it goes with the territory, of working here. We (Americans) have a history of walking into desperate situations and trying to throw a quick solution on it, money, candy, whatever. This is one of the reasons I wanted to work with MCC—it has a history of a being a relief and development organization that emphasizes being in relationship with your community—focusing on the relationship as being the lasting impact, and the vehicle by which one can accurately assess the needs of the community and the offer assistance as a friend, rather than as a “benefactor” or “donor” or “rich white stranger that will never come again.”

Still, though, sometimes I really want to forget about sustainability and relationship (should I try to befriend Andy before I give him food? Would that make it a ‘better’ solution? In reality this is not possible- he is sick and hungry now!) and just staunch the flow of blood, if you will, so that the individual will live long enough to benefit from a “sustainable” solution to their problems.

It really doesn’t help the guy to have a fishing pole, if he is too hungry to learn how to use it.

Anyway, the end of the story is that Andy didn’t get better, he is now (as far as I know) admitted to the government hospital (from which he will be lucky if he comes out alive). I have no idea if the food we gave him helped that day, or for two days, or not at all. Do you see how it can be a bit discouraging and confusing, to know how to proceed in these situations? The jargon of development doesn’t give me much help. I pray for discernment, and for wisdom. And for healing for Andy.

Peace.

2007-04-11T11:45:00.000+03:00

Our "new" clinic in progress (demolition still)--pray for safety for the builders (and that they be honest and eficient in their work!)

Anna, of a previous blog, modeling her new sportswear.

This is one of our kids at children's club. He is sporting the lovely sunglasses my mom brought when she came!

Traveling From Masindi to Gulu with my mom and Aunt (In March, I'm catching up, sorry)

2007-04-11T11:32:00.000+03:00

It was like a road trip,in a way, but without the fun stops at Dunkin Donuts for iced-blueberry coffee. And without the comfortable family-sized air-conditioned vehicle. Oh, also without traffic rules or the requisite road trip music you can sing along to.
It was with great fear and trepidation that I even considered bringing my mom and aunt on public transport to the northern part of the country. Not because they are old—oh no, they are as young and spry as they come. Just because traveling in Uganda can push you to the very limits of sanity, the very edge of reason, the extreme, farthest-out reaches of your strength and energy. In short, it can bring you to your knees, weeping, begging for mercy (or for your mama).
We boarded the bus to Gulu, or rather, tried to board the bus to Gulu, but there wasn’t a bus going to Gulu. There was a bus going to Bweyale. I nodded knowingly as the driver told me this, and confidently lead my mom and aunt to the very back of the bus he indicated. They asked me where Bweyale was, and I had to confess that I had no idea—no map, no clue. I was just hoping it was actually North, in the general direction we wanted to go. (This reminds me of a talk I heard at Dartmouth last year, by Wangari Mathai (spelling? she won a nobel peace prize for her work in the environment, pretty cool lady)--she told as story about traveling in Africa, and how somtimes you realize you are going the exact wrong direction and just need to GET OFF. I've wondered if I would have the courage to get off? In the middle of the bush? Would that be a good idea? Luckily, friends, it hasn't happened --yet--)
The bus was almost full, so it seemed possible that we might leave in a reasonable amount of time. Meanwhile my mom kept looking behind her at a wide gap behind her. “Do you think they can close it?” She was worried. I studied the construction of the bus carefully, craning my neck around and finally saw a stick propping open what seemed to be a door. “don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” I said as someone began to cram huge bunches of bananas under our butts. “Ooh!” My aunt exclaimed. Sitting on bananas for a few hours could be interesting. The rows in front of us began to fill, and the efficient (read: greedy) conductor began instructing all the rows in front of us to sit five across. For some reason he didn’t ask this of us, which became a source of animosity as every single person boarding looked at us and said in Luganda “Why don’t the WHITE people have to sit five across?” Yeah, I felt good.
We eventually started moving—went about five feet and then stopped again to load something on top of the bus. Five more feet- took something off the bus. Six feet. A bag of charcoal on top. Four feet. The driver stopped to chat with his friend. Thirty feet (we started getting excited)—three guys jump off, run around for awhile, and three different guys get on.
It took awhile to reach Bweyale.
We eventually did- (luckily, for me, it was generally in the right direction)—upon getting out of the bus in the dusty street, we were inundated with offers for assistance. “GOING WHERE?” “WHERE GOING?” “COME HERE,MAZUNGU.” “WE GO?” I tried asking a few people where the bus for Gulu was (hoping that it did exist). I got a few different answers, several people assuring me that everyone else was just “disturbing” me, but finally found someone else who was going and said the bus was coming, in fact, would be leaving very soon.
Someone dragged up a few benches for my mom and aunt and insisted that they sit down. As soon as I got the bright idea to ask about tea though, our new friend told us to “Come quickly!” We indeed came quickly, to find the (van) empty except for, now, the four of us.
There began an hour of waiting—wishing—hoping—praying—as the hot afternoon got hotter, and the dusty town got dustier. I could tell that a few of the people standing around were also going with us, but it seemed an eternity before some secret signal was given an everyone ran for the van, piled in, and we took off.
For two feet. A woman with two chickens got in. Another ten feet. A bag of charcoal. Five feet. Someone took the bag of charcoal off. Half a kilometer. Six more people get in. My mom and aunt started voicing their frustration. “Why are we stopping?” “We’re stopping again?” “What are they DOING?”
At this point I began to seriously worry that I was doing irreparable damage to my relationship with my mom and aunt—would they ever forgive me for exposing them to such a torturous experience?
We proceeded to stop approximately ever five kilometers on the 120 kilometer trip up to Gulu. When we finally reached the fair town of Gulu, and disembarked that accursed vehicle, I was told in no uncertain terms that we would not be attempting any other forms of public transportation for at least 48 hours.
I wish I could say that was the end of our misadventures on public transport, but you’ll have to ask Aunt Carol about her experience sitting next to the Large Man with a poor understanding of personal space (and how she defended herself with well-placed jabs to the ribs.) Or how they both enjoyed riding three- to a motorcycle through bumper to bumper traffic at night in Kampala. Or how nice a private-hire taxi felt when their cheapskate niece/daughter finally was willing to shell out four dollars for a little comfort and safety!
Another time, though. Another time.

Life came over the wall

2007-04-01T14:54:00.000+03:00

I was washing dishes this morning after a particularly nice breakfast at Gann and Dale's house. I lazily took note of the tan trousers hanging from the razor wire on the back wall of the house, and alerted my co-dishwasher Eric to their presence. "They look like mine," he noticed and Gann asked if he had hung any clothes on the line that could have been his--the answer was no.

Twenty minutes later Eric came running in from the "boys quarters" (a colonialism term referring to separate housing behind the main house for the "help;" Gann and Dale use these rooms for extra guests.) "They are my shorts, I was robbed!"

Apparently someone managed to enter his room as he was sleeping last night, took his backpack that had his phone and all his money, as well as an ATM card and other various "essentials" to life here. We kind of stared at each other in shock--never once had I ever felt unsafe in this house; although Dale and Gann are very careful with their locks on the gate and on the house, and although they have a large, ferocious dog, they do not keep a night guard. All the necessary activities after this sort of event were efficiently carried out by Dale and Eric (unfortunitely keeping us from palm sunday service at church): reports filed, local council and neighbors notified, police notified.

We catalogued the graces involved in this incident--his MP3 player was inside the main house(music, for us and our interminable rides on public transports and frequent bouts of stress or noise-related insomnia is essential to sanity), he did not wake up while the intruder was inside, and (later, we discovered) his backpack and everything but the phone and money was found on the other side of the wall, abandoned.

I have always felt an insular-kind of safety here, where we come for meetings or "retreating." Although right outside the wall is normal life as I know it in Kampala--yelling children, motorcycles, leering men, etc--inside the wall is quiet, peaceful, safe. I am in a womb, a cocoon, and am able to relax.

Is the wall around the house keeping out Uganda? Did the vulnerability I felt, thinking about the intruder relate to an unconcious perception of Uganda as "the other," "the enemy," or even just "the problem?"

Because MCC has such a strong emphasis on our ministry of presence and life-sharing in our communities, it occurs to me that this response might signal some spiritual pathology on my part. It is different from the vulnerability I felt last fall after almost being mugged--I was on the street, after dark, in a dangerous area--and someone chose to take advantage of my carelessness.

My question more relates to walls in general. Someone came over the wall. Moreover, they came over the wall, and into Eric's room. Why is it that I need this wall in order to relax, that here--away from Uganda, on a small bit of ground I realize I think of as 'apart' or 'separate'? Why is it that the incursion of my life outside--the life that is callous and antagonistic, into this place shakes me so much?

What is it about this world that I want to keep out with a wall? Do I have walls in my life at "home" (ie, US, Vermont, Norwich, Barn) outside of which I am pressing to keep "life" on some level--the life that has people who are willing to jump over razor wire to get money for their children's school fees, or food, or medical bills, or whatever? Why do I perceive the rest of my life as something to be overcome, or something that I have to fight against--and why is it disturbing that this life penetrated the cocoon of my rest?

Dear friends, I have no answers (nor am I sure that I have made any sense at all) but I put these questions into the great void of blog-dom, the large expanse of the internet conciousness hoping that they will return to me less than void.

Anna (not her real name)

2007-03-26T09:43:00.000+03:00

Anna is four years old and lives in a suburb outside of Kampala. She is the youngest of five siblings, born to HIV+ parents. Anna’s parents died when she was 3 years old, leaving her and her siblings in the care of her elderly grandmother.

Anna was shifted to Kampala to stay with her auntie when it was discovered that she was being neglected at her grandmother’s place. However, as her auntie worked during the day, Anna was also given little care at this new house, and was often locked out of the house during the day while her auntie worked. She was left with very little food and no certain shelter when rain came.

Anna’s younger auntie, Sherene, who is 15 years old, saw that Anna kept getting sick. She knew that Anna’s parents died of HIV and decided to bring her to Mengo’s pediatric HIV clinic for testing. Anna was indeed HIV+, and was enrolled for care in the pediatric clinic.

Anna was also enrolled in Mengo’s children’s club. Children’s Club meets one Saturday each month, and pays for school fees and uniforms for all children who are members. Anna’s young auntie Sherene who first brought her to Mengo comes with her as a caretaker, but as she is quite young herself, enjoys time with the older girls in children’s club. She is really smart and loves to share in all the teaching and playing the other kids enjoy at Children’s club.

The head of children’s club (Dorothy) at Mengo went to the primary school where Anna is in “baby class” to pay school fees—she found Anna in class but without a uniform. The school is composed of several ramshackle buildings surrounding a central courtyard. Even before entering the courtyard, however, one can hear the shouts and laughter of the 100+ children at the school, busy at their learning. One teacher is doing an English lesson with her children; she can be heard calling loudly, “WHERE are you going?” and the children’s response “We are GOING to SCHOOL.” These question and answer game/lessons are the staple of nursery school here, and a single question/answer may be repeated over and over until all the children have mastered it. Another class is singing an exuberant song, and in yet another classroom the teacher is trying in vain to get the attention of her young charges.

The headmaster’s room is cluttered with several desks, boxes of uniforms and supplies, bags of rice and maize flour, books, papers, and in one corner, a sleeping child on a mattress. He gladly fetches Anna from her classroom, and she comes in shyly, dressed in a torn red and yellow dress that is several sizes too big and the requisite sturdy black shoes worn by all school children. Dorothy asks her in Luganda if she recognizes us—Anna nods but doesn’t speak. Dorothy then instructs her to come and greet us (one of the first lessons learned by all Ugandan children as soon as they can walk and talk—the importance of formally greeting elders). She shakes my hand and silently greets me.

Dorothy asks about the uniform. The headmaster says they do have pinafores at the moment but no blouses. He brings a navy-blue jumper with the logo of the school printed in white letters on the front. Anna is summarily stripped of her dress and redressed in the pinafore. She strokes the front of her new uniform, but still doesn’t say anything. The subject of sweater is raised (the rainy season and many morning year-round are cold for Ugandans—the sweater is a key part of the school uniform.) Next comes sportswear—blue shorts and a bright red tee-shirt are produced from a box and Namata is again stripped, and redressed in her sportswear. At this point she begins to smile, obviously pleased at her good fortune to be the owner of beautiful new clothes.

Dorothy tells Anna that she is expected to come to children’s club this Saturday dressed in her uniform, and we say goodbye to her and to the headmaster, thanking him for his help. Anna goes back to her classroom, with her old dress and the new pinafore in a polythene bag clutched at her side. With her school fees paid for the term, she has a place to stay during the day while her Auntie is working, and will be fed and kept warm when it rains.

Book Club

2007-03-19T17:16:00.000+03:00

Every other Sunday afternoon finds me at my alltime favorite in-uganda activity: book club! For those of you just joining us, the idea of book club was born during a fit of insomnia last fall-it seemed like a great idea at 3:00AM--make friends, read, do something social occasionally..when i woke up, however, I realized that the idea was fraught with problems. First and foremost--I had no friends!! And no more than one copy of any one book.

The dream became real, though, over tea with a coworker (Phoebe) and her friend John. We confessed to each other our love for reading and miraculously--they also wanted to start a book club! Our plans were slowed a bit when John was hit by a drunk driver in November and suffered severe trauma to the head and a really bad broken leg (among other injuries). Happily, and thanks be to God, he is doing really well now and even walking, and working, and looking forward to the surgery that will replace all the teeth that got knocked out.

So we started meeting in December, with a few high-spirited members, a lot of ideas, and absolutely no clue how to get books. There is one high-priced bookstore here in kampala, many street vendors selling used books (of varying genres and quality)--as approximately 42% of our club was either unemployed or volunteering, buying full-priced books was not an option. We have opted for the sharing model, which works well to some extent but requires that we spend about 2 months on each book, and more depending on how long it is. Currently we are reading "We were the Mulvaneys" by Joyce Carol Oates for the simple reason that there were four copies on sale for 7000/= each (about $3.50) and I knew there was a copy in the MCC library. Five copies among 12 members is difficult but we are managing.

We meet without fail every two weeks--there is a garden in the center of town owned by the Sheraton hotel that is open to the public. So we gather, drag together a bunch of benches, break out the biscuits (cookies) and water (refreshments are a key part of our strategy for winning new members)..and start our book-related activity.

We have tried photocopying short stories to read, reading aloud short stories, discussing books (when we actually have them), and most recently, creative writing. Yesterday was our first attempt at a "writing workshop," we each brought a poem or prose in which we used a metaphor. There was a lot of laughter, as most of the members have not experimented with creative writing before, and many interruptions and editorial comments, and no end to the questions for each budding author.

Highlights included one creative member using the metaphor of winter (though she had never experienced one)for hardness and coldness of heart; a poem called "the traffic jam" or "taxi to the maxi" or "matatus suck" (the title was still under debate) using the metaphor of gridlock to talk about situations we get ourselves into but can't seem to make the decision to get out and walk; and a great poem about money by our member who is a banker.

For me, this book club is a great source of joy. Even though we spend the majority of most meetings just eating and talking, it has provided good friends who encourage and bless me with their exuberance for life and passion to see their country change for the better. They dream of taking long field-trips with the club up to IDP camps in the north, to share books and read with kids in the camps. It seems a long shot (our combined "fees" for the last four months have hit a grand total of 35,000/= or $16 US) but it could be possible.

I am so thankful for those of you who have sent books--we will soon be reading the chronicles of narnia (my relatives combined their collections and sent me quite a few copies from that series!) and To Kill a mockingbird (not, as it was first thought-HOW to kill a mockingbird)--thanks to JKB/H and CMH : ) !!

Many blessings as you read this week!

Taxi Wars

2007-02-27T16:58:00.000+03:00

Good Tuesday to all of you,

I imagine that most of you are getting to work about now, having had to warm up your car, scrape off the ice, and I do wish you a great day!

I started my morning by being startled awake by my alarm, and then became more startled when I couldn't find it.. apparently I thought it was a good idea last night to put it across the room. I have been having trouble waking up in a timely fashion, so this was my brilliant plan. It worked though, and I managed to get a taxi/bus to work at 6:50. Why this early hour? Because, dear friends, our lovely transportation system has become the bane of my existence. The issue of speed governors (those devices which keep the taxis from going at ungodly speeds and killing hordes of people) has come up again, and in protest of the high cost at installing these devices (which are worth more than the taxis, most of which have to be push started) many drivers are just refusing to drive. The result is that every single morning I wake to a battle--will I get a ride to work? Won't I? Will I decide to start hitchhiking? NO! have no fear, i have only done that once (or twice, by accident, really--I thought i knew the guy, or that someone did, or that maybe he was a cousin. really). I stand at our stop for awhile, assessing the situation. how many people are also waiting? what will be my chances if there is one seat and I have to fight these people for it? Will I win? I have tried walking to different stops to gain an advantage, I have tried to guess where people might be getting off, and wait there...to no avail.

My solution has been to leave for work earlier, and earlier, and earlier... and soon, I will just decide to sleep at work. I could, of course, decide to walk (which has happened at least once when there were absolutely no taxis at all). i might. i just might. for now though, I just hope and pray that some kind driver will allow me to try and jam myself into the doorway of an already over-crowded bus so that I can get to know a neighbor very, very well as we lurch to and fro over the rutted roads to work.

The battle also happens coming home from work. the other night I stood in the quickly darkening taxi park with at least 70 other people waiting for the bus. As I waited I geared myself up for what was sure to be quite a tussle--trying to beat down old women and small children just to secure a ride home takes work-- : ) kidding, yes, kidding. i am still a card-carrying pacifist (most of the time).

As I was standing there, though, waiting, i spied one of our buses just outside the taxi park, allowing its passengers to disembark before entering the fray of the park. a few people at the fringes of the crowd started sauntering towards the bus (as if we wouldn't catch on-HA!). then I started sprinting. then everyone was sprinting, holding up our dresses and bags, elbows out..we all reached the bus..which was moving, by the way, and by the way, there were still people getting off (or trying to). i lost my balance once, but then regained it, yelped as people uncaringly tried to get in front of me..I braced my arms against the sides of the doorway, effectively blocking my assailants...and grabbed for the handlebars, hoisted myself up the steps into the bus, and raised my arms in excitement..I was going home! I had won a seat on the bus to busega. if only we could all be so lucky...

so think of me, friends, as you head home from work tonight...think of me as I fight and claw my way to work, so that I can do the Lord's work in this blessed country...only to claw my way home again.

Peace!

Homecare

2007-02-07T16:55:00.000+03:00

We are supposed to leave for our home care visits at 9:00 AM sharp. In reality, we are usually on the road by 11:00AM, or later. Delays come from sick patients appearing at the clinic (in which case our only clinician, who is coming with us on homecare, must first see these clients), late staff (transport makes arriving at work at any consistent time nearly impossible), our driver being called away for other duties, etc …

This week our delay was the food supply. Because it is the end of a fiscal year, the money for “needy patients” that might otherwise pay for food supplements has run out. In my frustration last week, I talked to a counselor who frequently has individual donors send cheques for “poor people.” She is then in charge of distributing this money as she sees fit. She agreed to use some of the money to buy food (so let this be an encouragement to you who might be a bit cynical about the good your small cheque can do…our clients are so grateful for the goodness of those faithful few who send Marian money that buys the extra food)…so on this particular home care morning I am faced with 50 pound bags of rice, sugar, beans, maize flour and Soya. We try to pack the food in 1-2 kilo bags, but realize we have no bags. So the driver goes out, and returns an hour later with bags. We begin packing…the food seems like so much, but from my experience with our last supply of food, I know it will maybe last a month.

We eventually grab our suitcases of drugs, bags of food, and personal stuff and squash into the pickup truck. We have seven patients scheduled for today, a few of whom I know, some which are new clients. Our first visit is to a man recently started on first line anti-retroviral therapy. After a week of therapy, one of the drugs in the combination (called Neveripine) has caused a bad reaction (our clinical officer claims he has only seen four such reactions to this drug in his years of work)—the man has a horrible skin rash over his body and down his GI tract- he has open and oozing sores on his eyes and lips and hasn’t been able to eat for awhile. He visited the clinic yesterday where we started him on IV antibiotics (open sores with a CD4 count in the 100’s makes for some bad infections)…again, we could only supply a few of the doses of ceftriaxone that he needed, and none of the metronidazole (both are too expensive for use to keep on stock for very long). Luckily his family has found money to buy the remaining doses. The plastic IV tubing and empty bottle are hanging from a nail on the cement wall (the end of the tubing is open, ie, not capped off and I shudder to think what sort of crud might be floating around in the air that we are going to subsequently inject into his bloodstream…) I hang a bottle of metronidazole, and Dorothy draws up 2 grams of ceftriaxone to give by slow injection. We also give an IM injection of a pain reliever; provide a bag of food, say a prayer, and leave. The antibiotic drip will finish soon, and then our client’s wife will find a nurse in the neighborhood (each neighborhood usually has at least one small “clinic” with a nurse and a few drugs) to hang a liter of normal saline. I hope someone will take the IV out in a few days when the doses of antibiotics are done, but I have seen the IV’s left in for a week or more because no one knows who initially put it in, and doesn’t want to be responsible for taking it out.

We next visit a man who was also in clinic yesterday and started on IV quinine for malaria. We hang the next dose, make sure that he hasn’t developed any new symptoms, and pray for him—he asks for prayers for healing, and for his family.

George is a client who first appeared in clinic about a week and a half ago—his neighbors realized he was very, very sick and brought him to Mengo. He is a known TB client, but hadn’t been tested for HIV. Blood was drawn on that visit but he hasn’t been able to return to the clinic for results (I am not even sure of his sero status). His caretaker is his 15 year old daughter Flavia—his wife left some time ago. They are originally from the north, now outside their tribe and family area. They are indeed blessed to have neighbors who nevertheless are caring and concerned. When we found George at home last week, he was barely conscious, with a blood pressure of 80/52. He had been on IV injections of quinine for malaria, but hadn’t been eating or drinking. As we had sent him home from the clinic with oral rehydration salts, I asked Flavia if she had been preparing the drink for her father. She showed me that she had indeed mixed up the solution, but then said he had been refusing to drink. The clinical officer gave George a bit of a lecture about making an effort to drink and eat—it seemed a bit lost on the very, very ill man. We asked Flavia if she had food to prepare, what she was going to prepare…she had very little to say, shrugging her shoulders in response. This week we are glad to see George on the couch and awake (I had been afraid he would die in the days between visits), still not eating very much, and complaining that his daughter often runs off and leaves him alone. It is clear that this family needs intervention--soon, and we urge them both to find their way to the clinic tomorrow so that both can be counseled, and we can try and make a plan for their welfare.

In the scope of the AIDS epidemic, women bear a huge share of the burden. In Uganda specifically, women are twice as likely to be infected as men (specifically urban women are at risk) and also are generally under increased work load as they are the primary caretakers for their parents, spouses and children who are infected. Flavia represents thousands of girls who are not going to school (it has apparently been several years since she has been able to attend) and are losing their childhood caring for dying parents.

Another client, Godfrey, is cared for by his elderly mother—she also is not at a stage of life where she should be doing hard labor, trying to care for her dying son and his seven children (Godfrey’s wife died a few years ago). Godfrey has been unable to gain weight (tips the scales at 40 kg, or 88 pounds). He has been tested for TB (negative) and had a chest x-ray (suggestive of pneumonia). We leave food with him, give him some vitamin supplements and antibiotics for the pneumonia, and again, pray—this time for provision of food and money for his family. He says his mother has been working so hard trying to make ends meet, but without very much success.

James has been attending the clinic since I started working in August; he started antiretroviral therapy with a CD4 count of 4. Unfortunately, after six months of therapy he has a CD4 count of 2, has developed Kaposi’s sarcoma and is racked with intense abdominal pain (most likely from metastases. We had referred him to hospice care, which provided him with a supply of liquid morphine. However, he has been only taking it every 12 hours for fear of running out--and so is in incredible pain, taking very small gasping breaths and is understandably angry and depressed. It seems that since the first line ARV therapy failed to boost his CD4 count, he needs to start second line therapy- soon. Mengo, however, does not have any 2nd line therapy available so James will have to be referred the government hospital. Another problem is that since he is having chemotherapy injections of vincristine and bleomycin for his cancer, he can’t start on new ARV drugs for fear of drug interaction/reaction. A definite catch-22- without the ARV’s, he could die very soon from opportunistic infections. Without the chemo, he will die very soon from cancer.

To make everything more complicated, he is now being cared for (and given medicine by) Mengo, hospice, and the cancer center at the government hospital. He has no paperwork from any of these three that might inform the other two what the plan is, which medicines were prescribed when…etc…in short, a care management nightmare. The clinical officer tells James to come to the clinic tomorrow morning for consultation with a physician and possible referral. When James does come in the morning, he appears haunted, and begs me to pray that he be released from the “devils” that tell him to kill himself. He fears so much for the safety and well being of his eight children, four of whom are still in school and four of whom have finished—but don’t have jobs yet.

By 4 pm we have still not finished our patient visits, so we stop at the hospital for lunch. On the way to our last home visit, we stop at the burial service for the brother of one of our coworkers. Like so many Ugandans, he fell sick very quickly and died yesterday. It gives one pause, when looking at statistics of HIV/AIDS to know that there are many people who die without ever being tested. The 6.5% infection rate begins to look more and more erroneous the longer I work here, and I wonder what good these statistics are?

After our last visit we return to the clinic, exhausted and sore (from bouncing on bad roads in a pick-up truck whose shocks have long since ceased to work). I get discouraged sometimes, looking at how few patients we managed to see (6) in an 8 hour day and knowing how many, many HIV+ people are dying each day without any chance of receiving care. Most of our homecare clients could indeed use visits every day; we manage to go once a week, if that.

I gain some hope from individuals making progress towards health, from smiles of clients who improve, gain strength and return to work, and from stories told by my coworkers about life in Uganda pre-antiretroviral therapy. Kind of like that lame starfish story, we work with one person at a time, and pray that God will use our efforts for His glory, that we will in fact be his hands and feet in this community.

Half-way

2007-02-07T16:49:00.000+03:00

Dearest friends, I want you to know that I have completed half of my service here in Kampala. (well, half as determined by time spent here...) I am overwhelmed daily with the great love and compassion our God has shown to me as I have been learning and struggling and growing here! Not to mention, I am overwhelmed that he has managed to preserve my life through all of my antics and mishaps : )

As I have been commuting to work the last few days (because the kids started the new school term this week, the taxis have been overcrowded and the rows in the bus that are meant to hold three people, but usually hold four people, are now holding five people... It really encourages a sense of "family" and "togetherness" when you get to sit on your neighbors' lap for the thirty minute ride!) I have been reflecting on the things that I love so much about living here.

1. I love pineapples! Did you know that I can eat a whole pineapple, by myself? I can!
2. I love that the men that sell the pineapples out of the pickup truck in the taxi park recognize me and have the same conversation in Luganda every time I come by: "Hey, this mazungu knows Luganda." "this is the one that knows luganda?" "Yes, this one." "Hey you! (to me) YOu know luganda?" I respond with the typical ugandan responseof "I try." I found I can get a lot of mileage out of pretending that I understand everything, while straining to get one of the 50 or so words that I do know...
3. I love our clients, who are so appreciative of the care we provide. One of our homecare patients gifts us with groundnuts, or papaya, or whatever happens to be around when we visit her at home. A few of the homecare clients have started requesting that I pray for them before I offer it. One gentleman this past week said "You prayed that I would have an appetite, and now I do! Now pray that we will have food to eat." So we prayed (and also gave him food out of our supply.)
4. I love that my coworkers are passionate about the work they do. They frequently have ideas for improving our services, improving care, changing systems...as always, change is slow and painful but it is wonderful to be in an environment where small changes can make a difference. At our weekly CME meetings, we are discussing "quality improvement," how can we make the experience of coming to the clinic, when you are one client out of 120 that day, be faster and more pleasant??
5. I really love the bootleg movie collections that can be purchased from the street vendors for 5000 Ush (about 3.00$)...you can buy the Brad Pit collection, the Julia Roberts collection, or my personal favorite, The JLO collection (have YOU ever watched three JLO movies in a row??)
6. I love our MCC team here...no where else can you have a party based around the fact that someone has received cheese in the mail, and someone else has splurged on a can of pringles!
7. I love the afternoons after we have had rain all morning...the sun is bright, but the air is cool and clear of dust..the banana trees are washed clean and everything is so green.
8. I love all of you! Thank you for your prayers, support, packages, letters, calls... I look forward to the work that God has for me to do in the next six months.

Peace!

Backlogging...Mt Kenya Pictures!!!!!

2007-01-28T08:42:00.000+03:00

Packages!

2007-01-06T15:26:00.000+03:00

A story from my saturday morning adventures...

this week has been the week of packages! Christmas has come a bit late to my small life in Kampala, but it has surely arrived. I have received no less than five packages in one week! (granted, one of them is the box of books that I mailed to myself back in july when I was paranoid that there would be no reading material available to me in the 'outback' of metropolitan kampala. haha.) anyway, it was nice to get the books, although a little surreal to see the same 'm-bag' (large plastic sack) come through the door at the post office here in Uganda that I, six months ago, saw go through the door of the P.O> in Vermont with the promise from the friendly counter-assistant that it would arrive in Uganda in six weeks. ha!

so now I am rich with all sorts of good things, cheese (which, surprisingly enough, arrived seemingly in good shape), cookies (three kinds, home-made, and only a little stale!) etc etc. two different groups of friends sent fall leaves (which amused and confused my host family), and I received pictures from the two weddings I had to miss last fall (emily's and amy's)... among many other wonders to numerous to mention in this small space.

this morning i had the happy job of picking up the latest, (from my family!) so i arrived at the P.O, package slip in hand, ready to claim my prize. I had no trouble with the first round of presenting my ID, signing my name in several places, and paying, but there was a hold-up at the second of three present ID/sign/stamp stations. the man in charge of that particular stamp, it seemed, had decided not to come to work yet. so i waited at the counter with a line of people growing behind me, impatient because i was going to meet Jennifer at the market at 10:00. !! As my impatience grew I started to pick at the tape on the package. I finally threw out all inhibition and started tearing at the box. I finally got a flap opened, and peeked inside. glory, halleluja! reading material! my dad had sent a back issue of 'First things'. i was content for about five minutes before I started peeking again. granola bars!i immediately ate one. then i saw chocolate! i wondered, if i ate the whole contents of the box, would i have to continue waiting?

i asked the guard several times if the man with the stamp intended to come. he assured me that yes, he was coming. one woman asked, has he ever failed to come to work? ever? the guard assured her, no, the man has never failed to come on a saturday. jennifer called at 10:00. where was I?i apologized and said i had no idea when i would meet her, she should probably carry on with her day.

it occured to me then that i had a plastic bag in my purse. what if i took the contents of the box, put it in the bag, and then walked out the door?this man with the stamp would have the box, which he could stamp to his hearts' delight, and then do with it what he wanted! brilliant! i realized (and realize that those family members of mine who have lived or are living in rather ridgid police states are right now shuddering at my audacity) that i could get in trouble, but my stubborn, independent, custumer-oriented world-view took over. i began slyly emptying the box, pretending that non of the other thirty people in the room realize what i was doing.

i retaped the box and, somewhat more heavily-ladened, casually walked out the door farthest from the guard. i managed to get about 15 paces down the sidewalk (freedom was almost mine!) when i heard someone calling 'madam! madame!' i turned to find the guard, running in my direction.

'this is not a good thing you are doing!' he sputtered at me. as he was my height, about my age, and carried no weapon, i was not so afraid (yet). he repeated again 'this is not a good thing!' 'you have taken the things from the box and left it empty!'

i began arguing with him (yes, very smart, i know). i told him the truth, that the things were mine, that i had already paid, that i had signed my name, and that i wanted to leave. he told me again that it still wasn't right. he then said 'what will they say to me when they find the empty box?' i agreed with him on this point, i had no desire to cause this man trouble. it appeared though, that he would be in trouble. he then said 'if i was a bad person i would have you arrested!'

although my blood ran cold at this point, i continued arguing (why? why?!!!) i repeated, the things were mine, i had paid, i didn't want to wait, etc etc...

but... i followed him into the post office and shame-faced, took my place back by my (now empty) box. he related the events to two ugandan women sitting near his desk. they said, 'why don't you throw the box away?' i wanted to cheer! yes! yes! logic was finally on my side. but i had been chastised, and i really had no desire to cause problems for this vigilant guard.

as i stood there, i realized that, should the man with the stamp arrive, he would probably question an empty box. so i put a few items back in. then i put a few more back in. soon, i was whole-sale stuffing that box full and trying to retape it to its original condition. the guard came over and whispered in my ear 'why don't you repack the box, and then put it in the bag, and then leave?'

now, this was thinking. i appreciated his idea, but i also realized (as i now was worried for his sake) that the other disgrunteled expats (it occurs to me that maybe we expats were the only ones silly enough to expect service at the time the post office was slated to open?) in the waiting area would probably want to do the same, and this would cause no end of trouble for my new friend, the guard.

happily, ten minutes later a stir ran through the assembled crowd. the man was here! the man was coming! well, it turned out to be a woman, and yes she arrived, all smiles, stamp in hand, and freed me from my bondage. as i finished the final station with the guard, signed my name, and collected my ID and receipts, I apologized for causing trouble. I wished him a good day, and walked out.

Mount Kenya #1

2007-01-01T15:45:00.000+03:00

It was a dark and stormy night..

ok, just kidding. The night was actually not stormy (this would be christmas eve)but it certainly was dark, without any moon or stars. i was convinced that we would reach the summit and see--fog, fog, more fog--which, after climbing to 16,500 ft would be a bit depressing! more on that later though..

We started hiking at 3:00am on christmas eve, after getting up at 2:30, drinking a quick cup of instant coffee and downing six cookies each (ah, breakfast of champions!) our guide Charles urged us out the door and up the trail, ahead of the fifty other people planning to summit that morning as well. Looking behind us as we headed up the trail, i could see a line of headlamps and flashlights winding up the (very!) steep trail. i had prepared myself for the intensity of hiking at night, and so the first hour and a half i managed to stay fairly upbeat. We didn't talk much, and it actually wasn't that cold (Charles commented- "It feels like Mombasa tonight!"-mombasa is a beach town in kenya-).

We took a few short breaks, but by the time we reached the snow line (probably 15,000 ft) I was whipped! In addition, my feet were wet and frozen, and as we started hiking along a narrow trail with a long, steep plunge to black oblivion on my left, I started to become more and more nervous. With my nervousness growing and my feet slowly freezing ( i pictured the feet of persons suffering from frostbite, i pictured myself crippled with stubs at the end of my calves as a result of this hair-brained adventure...) I became, well, a bit ornery. Eric said I was grumpy, actually. I may have said something like 'Do we have to follow him?????' as Charles went to lead us around the pack to the front of the line. Eric's calm response was, 'well, he is the guide you know.' sheesh.

i panted and struggled, and it seemed the trail would never end...i resorted to counting my steps 'one, two, three, four, five. repeat!' we were shoving our feet into the packed snow, trying to gain purchase and not fall into the aformentioned valley of the shadow of mount kenya.

we finally (as the air around us became grey with first-light)scrambled over the last cliff in our way and saw the peak of Mt kenya looming before us (the one we weren't climbing, as it required ropes, axes, experience, etc) We were on Point Lenana, at 16,500.

I cannot quite describe the scene. I wish I didn't have to, but i have not managed to get pictures up yet (promise, I will keep trying). Our dear white mountains in new hampshire are the definition of beauty, but they are also, somehow, comforting. this mountain inspires fear, awe- it made me want to go belly-down on the peak and hold on for dear life (and not just because the alittude was making me so dizzy that the horizon shifted alarmingly).

Sadly to say, I was still a bit (or a lot) grumpy. (i'm really blaming it on the altitude, you know that oxygen deprivation can make people obstinate!) Eric kept insisting that I take off my gloves and take pictures of him (in reality, this probably only happened twice, but i felt like he made me take about twenty pictures). then he tried to make me sing 'joy to the world.' did he think i had any extra breath for that sort of nonsense?

just so you don't think it was all bad, i was in a kind of awe, the snow-covered peaks and rocky valleys played out around us was one of the most beautiful things i have ever seen in my life, and an extraorinary way to greet the day in which we celebrate the birth of Christ (and just so you know, i did spend some more reverent time in worship later that day--at a lower alititude, when i wasn 't in danger of losing limbs to frostbite).

however, i was somewhat glad when charles led us off the summit and towards the sunnier valley. i was even gladder when he sat down for a rest near a small hut, wiped his brow and said 'i am so glad when i finish that part of the hike. so many people get injured hiking there!' well thanks, charles! i am so glad he waited to share that until we were safely down.

we hiked for a few more hours, the mountain still enjoying the sunshine we had been missing for the last few days and we enjoying the warmth that came slowly as we slid down the shale path that led to our breakfast.

December Eating

2006-12-14T12:17:00.000+03:00

Ah, holiday season! I can almost forget that it is December, and only a few days to Christmas--what with the palm and banana trees, sunny 80-degree weather, and nary a christmas decoration in sight in my neck of the woods. All I have to do, though, to remember what Christmas season means in the greater western world is journey across town to Garden City, the "american/european" shopping mall. This I did unthinkingly last weekend, hoping to pick up a few things for friends here. I walked in the door and almost fell over from shock. I thought I was home! Christmas trees (fake but of the pine variety, which you don't find alive here), lights, frantic(well, not really--who can be frantic in the tropics? you sweat too much!) shoppers, families with hyperactive kids, and stuff, stuff stuff everywhere you turn. Those who know me well know my tolerance for shopping is very thin, and it only took about 7.24 seconds to become overwhelmed. My eyes glazed over, I wandered up and down the aisles of Uchumi (the "big" department store)unable to focus on the task at hand, and eventually walked out with...a muffin? Yes, it is true that even in a crisis situation (shopping) food remains my highest priority and as I ended up in the bakery section (and who wouldn't)and found a banana muffin (!!!) for 700 shillings ($.40) it was clear that I should grab the muffin and get to safety, quickly.

Other food adventures--you know of my love for hummous. It has been a long four months here, searching for garbanzo beans (yes, I know you thought I came to africa to save the world, but when the going gets rough, the tough..they eat, right?)Which apparently have to be imported. As I was wandering through a bit of Kampala the other day (ok, I was lost)I stumbled upon (ran in for safety)a small indian grocery store. What appeared before my wondering eyes? a small bag of garbanzo beans! Images of lebanese food began to dance through my head...

The next task (of course) was to find tahini. Tahini, of course, is sesame seed paste. I hadn't seen it in grocery stories, but I had found a small restaurant "Cowboyz," where the unfortunite wait staff are forced to wear cowboy hats, and they serve a mixture of ugandan snacks, american fast food, and...lebanese food! I wandered in yesterday to get the low-down on hummous ingredients. I asked the young ugandan man, "Do you make your own hummous here?" "No", he replied, "we get it from lebanon." Disappointed I tried again. "Do you have tahini?" When he replied in the affirmative, I almost began to jump for joy. He disappeared into the back to find the blessed tahini. He returned with a jar and charged me an exorbitant price (8,500 Ush= $4.00 : ) which I immediately forked over. Ah, the world has become a brighter place!

So I'm looking forward to this weekend, when the rest of the MCC staff will descend upon Kampala as we plan to go to Kenya on Sunday. I plan to head for kenya with my largest tupperware container stuffed full of hummous...it will (hopefully) make the 12 hour, overnight bus ride a little more bearable. That, and Catch-22 which I have been reading--don't remember the last time a book made me laugh so hard (probably A Prayer for Owen Meany..)We'll be with the East Africa MCC staff for a week of retreat-ish activities and then I'll head to Mt Kenya with Eric to attempt to climb (not the actual peak) but one of the shorter peaks. Although we won't be going up where crampons or ice axes are required, we will see snow. I had to go last weekend to Owino market to look for winter clothes since I neglected (silly me!) to bring them to sunny Uganda. I scored a pair of burton snowboarding pants and jacket and went home happy. Finding hiking boots was a little more difficult but luckily Eric called the other day and said "I'm in the market, I found some size 37 boots, do you want them?" So, i'll be climbing the biggest mountain of my life so far in hiking boots from a market in the village... : ) Oh well. Adventure, right?

I hope all of you are finding time this month in the midst of work, christmas preparations and eating (!!) to enjoy the people around you and preparations for the celebration of Christ's birth. I am so thankful this year for God's provisions and protection, for the Joy we can find in knowing him! Many blessings.

World Aids Day

2006-12-08T15:26:00.000+03:00

For those of you who didn't know, last friday (1st December) was WORLD AIDS DAY!! We at Mengo HIV clinic chose to celebrate on 2nd December, at the request of the DMD (deputy medical director) who thought we might be disruptive towards the nursing students and patients with our singing, the marching band's music and the general mayhem that tends to ensue when you gather two hundred people and then attempt to give them all (one) free soda. !!
So our preparations had begun about three weeks beforehand, at a staff meeting, when the subject was first raised. It seemed easy at the time: plan an event to observe this special day. It must include marching, a band, free food, entertainment, and some special guests to give inspiring speeches. No problem!

The problems actually began when we contacted the director regarding our plans: apparently the budget is tight at this time of the year, so she nixed the band, tee-shirts, celebratory baseball caps for the kids, and expensive food. Coming up with a fun event with these limitations seemed a bit more daunting.
But we dug in, I tried to write things down in order to figure out what was actually getting done (this was pointless, as most of the office conversations happen in luganda-I miss most of the important stuff). We ran into a few glitches in the process: the letters I wrote to invite the administration and directors of the hospital mysteriously got lost between our department and theirs; the program changed every five minutes, so that there were multiple versions with starting times varying from 8:00AM to 10:00AM floating around. AND, the guests of honor gave us a scare by not RSVP'ing until that week.
Our director relented on a few of the budget restrictions; we were able to hire a band, and bought not only a soda but a muffin for each of the attendees.

Our day was meant to start at 8:00AM with a march. Our children's club (65 kids) more or less straggled in on time, as did a good number of our adult clients. 8:45 found us waiting--9:00AM found us waiting-- In order to "take to the streets" of kampala we were required to have a police escort (not a bad idea when you consider our streets!) They had been sent a letter, had given their consent and agreed to meet us at 8:00 AM. At 9:00 when they hadn't arrived, I was feeling faint from lack of coffee and breakfast and ran to the clinic for a snack. At 9:10 I heard the marching band playing nearby- I chucked the coffee and sprinted after the parade, which had already left the hospital grounds and was making its way downtown!! 9:15 found me running like a crazy mazungu down the street trying desperately to catch up with the kids, whom I was supposed to be protectiing from the mad motorists.
The kids and adults were marching jubilantly behind the band-our kids showed a remarkable amount of energy for (probably) not having had breakfast and having waited an extra hour in the sun. I had been instructed by the director to be in charge of first aid. Wondering aloud what first aid might be necessary in a parade, my coworker had responded that I should bring bandaids and ibuprofen. We were also stocked with extra water and sugar packets in case dehydration or low blood sugar became an issue. Luckily none of this was a problem, even heading back up Mengo Hill towards the hospital, we didn't lose anybody!

It was really one of the most moving experiences I've had since coming to Kampala--the theme of this year's day was "Stop Aids. Keep the promise." The intention of this theme was to encourage all of us to hold our communities, our governments, and international organizations accountable to the promises that have been made to make treatment and therapy available to all people with HIV, regardless of nationality, economic status, race, religion, or gender. As you know, our resources here in Kampala for anti-retroviral therapy are limited-we have three regiments available here at Mengo-at Mulago (the government hospital) there are a few second line regiments available. Resources to people in the villages (or especially in the north) are even more limited. If you were to do a web search for anti-retroviral therapy, you would most likely find 10 or more different drug combinations that are on the market and available in most developed countries. The first line therapy we use now is not even used in the first world any more due to bad side effects. It is all we have though, and sometimes we don't even have that.
The march was followed by a program. I, in my ignorance, had thought that having a candle lighting ceremony to symbolize the promise we were making and the hope we have in Christ--would be a good idea. However, it doesn't take much thinking to realize that 65 children+fire+a windy day= TROUBLE! Luckily there were no serious burns, but giving each child a candle meant that their attention to the rest of the program was completely lost.
We had a few songs by our children's club (who had spent hours and hours practicing for the last few weekends) a play by our post-test club (adults who are HIV+ but are training to be educators in the community) and speeches by the medical director, the director of the clinic, and the donor(MCC CR Dale Herman-MCC supports the entire drug budget for our clinic and several othe projects, including children's club and the home care program).
It was hard to believe things went so well-even passing out 200 sodas (and collecting all the empty bottles for refunds!) was not that traumatic. We finished on time, and everyone was proud of the job they had done.
After a month of planning and a crazy week leading up to this great day, all I wanted to do saturday afternoon after the program was SLEEP! However, I had made plans with eric to meet up and go white water rafting the next day.. But...that will have to be another story!

Blessings to you all, and a joyous advent season! Thanks for your prayers.

Kwanjula picture

2006-12-02T13:51:00.000+03:00

This is a picture from the Kwanjula I attended, back in September (yes, I'm just catching up with technology!!)

Hoima

2006-11-22T16:44:00.000+03:00

How to make a pizza in Hoima--
1. First, find yeast. This is not as easy as it might sound. One must go to the "Lucky 7" on mainstreet in Hoima and ask the surly clerk. She will, of course, tell you that of course they don't have yeast (first, in order to communicate what yeast is, you must pantomime bread rising). Next you will go to the other good-sized grocery store in town (the other side of town, mind you)thinking that they will have yeast (each time, you must do the bread-rising pantomime). They will not. They will, though, have honey! You shall be amazed and immidiately purchase a large quantity. You shall then successively go to three more grocery stores, the last of which will tell you that it might be found in the taxi park. ???? Don't ask, just go. Ask the bodaboda drivers if they know where yeast is. They will say, "E-42" After figuring out that this is, in fact, an address, you will go to the obsure shop where this man is selling toothpaste, laundry soap, biscuits, and---YEAST!The quantity they are selling is huge, sufficient for making pizzas for the entire town of hoima and probably the surrounding villages--however, you must buy it.

2) Second, go to the market and buy the ingredients for pizza sauce. Tomatos, onions, garlic, green peppers. You must visit no less than six different market women to get all the needed ingredients, and at each stall you must answer questions regarding your marital status and how many children you intend to have.

3) Return home with aquired items. Locate a saucepan big enough for the dough. Make the pizza dough. Realize that it is not rising, and move it very close to the charcoal stove. Realize ten minutes later that it has risen over the edge of the saucepan and move it away from the charcoal stove.

4)Supervise Eric while he makes the pizza sauce, with the assistance of Linda, a precocious four year old. Eric must neglect to tell you that he, in fact, worked for two years in a pizza shop and must continue to ask you questions about the recipe.

5)Realize that there is no pizza pan. Tell Eric "NO" when he suggests that you steam the pizza. Tell him that that is a disgusting idea.

6)Realize that there is no cheese grater. Instead, mangle the cheese you paid a months's wages for and distribute somehow evenly over the top of the pizza.

7) Assemble the pizza, in the process you must get oil all over yourself. (thus, you will look weird and repulsive the picture you choose to post for the world to see on your blog!)

8) CHeck the pizza which is cooking over a charcoal stove every ten minutes for the next hour. When it is finally done you must find out how to remove it from the bottom of the saucepan. Rip it into six pieces in the process. Put it back together for the picture.

9)Discover that your gracious Ugandan hosts do not like pizza. Eat the entire thing yourself (give some to Eric).

The Race

2006-11-22T15:55:00.000+03:00

On running a 10K in Kampala, Uganda... You will remember my early mention of trying to stay fit in the land of starch. It has become increasingly difficult to complete my AM runs since the beginning of the rainy season. Our wonderful Busega roads which before were merely full of potholes and ruts (nearly deep enough to lose a small child in)have now become lakes and rivers (I've promised Jennifer to catch a fish for her from my favorite lake, "Lake Busega" which spans the entire road, is approximately three feet deep and has cliffs on either side. Did I mention that I've been wearing a life jacket while jogging?) The only thing that has kept me diligent in running has been the spectre of the MTN Kampala marathon/10K--which happened to be last weekend.

Esther came down from Soroti for the weekend, and we randomly were invited to a pre-race "carb-loading" party hosted by a guy named "Queenie" who I had never seen before and will probably never see again. One might wonder why, in the name of all that is good on this earth, I might need to "carb load" when I haven't eaten anything BUT carbs since arriving three months ago...Anyway, so we loaded up with carbs, and at 6:15 AM set out for parliament ave in kampala. We had stayed the night with our friend who works at the embassy and was running the marathon and so didn't have to fight public transport to get to the race. We did have to fight for the right to use the port-o-potty, however, of which there were two (2!!!) dear runner friends, please offer me your sympathies. You all know that the bathroom is the single most important thing one needs before a race. Sadly, when I did fight my way to the front I found that the pot was not, shall we say, hygenic. I was forced to evacuate as quickly as possible.

I found myself standing in the pre-race crush, listening to the fuzzy announcer shouting in a combination of english and luganda, staring at the sea of yellow around me. Most of the runners had chosen to wear their race shirts to run in, unlike most of the mazungus who were all dressed, typically, in their high-tec wicking running outfits. At some point the crowd began moving forward, the announcer yelling "start, START!" and we shuffled along towards the starting line. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the line--crossed the mat that supposedly recorded the time I started from the chip I wore on my sneaker (I really wonder that they could be so high tech but couldn't arrange for one more toilet?????)and set off.

The course was blessedly flat for the most part, and the police managed to keep the taxis and bodas "mostly" out of our race lane..there was one point where a taxi cut me off and I was forced to reprimand him in an appropriate manner (ie, I banged my fists on the side of the bus: ) There were several water stops (it wasn't that hot, maybe high 80's by the time we finished at 8:30)but there were no distance markers along the way so it was a bit difficult to pace oneself. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself (in that way you enjoy yourself during times of extreme discomfort which you have brought upon yourself by your own bad judgement and poor training)and enjoyed the variety of responses that the bystanders gave us. In US it is common for spectators to cheer, clap, encourage. Here it seems more standard to stare at runners sweating and panting as if they are a new type of circus entertainment or a bizarre cult.

At the end of the race I stumbled across the finish line, turned in my computer chip and looked for the requisite post-race food. It turns out that the equivalent of the oranges, banana and bagels we often find after races in US is a packet of sugar. So we grabbed our packets of sugar, bottles of water, and chugged. Delicious!

The bathroom situation turned ugly again at the end of the race, so Esther and I decided not to stick around for the award ceremony and caught taxis back to Bulobi. Our times weren't too bad, especially since I have no idea how far I've been running in the mornings (and because half the time I'm not running, I'm fording streams and dodging traffic)all in all, a good time.

The Exciting Weekend

2006-11-04T15:57:00.000+03:00

Hello everyone and welcome to the world of "just when you think you have everything under control..." I learned a valuble lesson last weekend about thinking before you speak, and about taking things for granted. I had a surprise visit from coworker Eric, who was brought to the big city by computer problems (IT folks in the village seem to be few and far between apparently)...So the story starts when I commented (or one of us did, at least) and how much we appreciated that most people we've met in Uganda have been helpful in the extreme. IF one is on a bus, for example, going to a place for the first time, it isn't hard to get the entire load of passengers involved in a discussion about exactly where the correct stop is, and how exactly to get there from the bus stop. Asking directions on the street is the same way, people are always willing to help. In addition, we have been felt very safe everywhere we have been so far, taking, of course, the proper precautions.

So this talk about how safe and helpful Ugandans are happened over dinner, and then walking home from dinner I was taken by surprise when a man flew out of nowhere and attempted to remove my bag from my person. You might say I was surprised. Actually, there are no words to describe how offended I was! This bag (forgetting whatever was in it) I have had for six years, and has traveled with me to at least 12 different countries. I wasn't about to let go--NO WAY! Because I wear my bag over my shoulder, the gentleman (?) had to first get it over my head. Which he did, but then was forced to engage me in a game of tug o' war. I am no lightweight, remember, I have density.

As I was fighting with all my might, I began to remember the MCC rules for dealing with crime or theft. I believe the key sentance is "Whatever you have, it isn't worth your life. Just let it go." This ran through my mind as I continued to hold on to said bag, and (confession) deliberately disobeyed the MCC rules. At this point Eric started shouting "Hey, what do you think you are doing?" ..and stepped up to the "gentleman." I'm not sure what he was going to do, but at that point the strap on my bag broke, and I fell to the ground. Eric apparently got clocked on the ear by our new friend and also fell to the ground--also at this point, the traffic had stopped, and our crowd of onlookers began shouting.

It seems that the pressure of an audience, and the fact that he had lost a tug o'war match with a mere mazungoo woman was too much for mr.grabby, and he took off at quite a fast pace (without my bag-). I tried to collect my wits (and the bag of oranges I had also been carrying, that were now scattered around me--but please don't ask why I was concerned about my oranges at that point)The drivers of the taxis which had stopped started yelling to find out if we were ok--which we were--dazed, but OK--and to ask if the thief had succeeded in his theft--which he hadn't--

A minute or two later, we found two bodas, and took off for home, me clutching my broken bag and sack of oranges.

Now boys and girls, what lessons can we learn from this experience? First, I am so thankful for God's protection. The truth is that I shouldn't have fought for my bag (which everyone has told me already, so don't even bother telling me again, I KNOW!), if the man had had a weapon, it could have been more trouble than I bargined for. Secondly, my host mother and everyone else in this town have been telling me from the day I arrived that it is unsafe for white people to walk around after dark- especially white women. Now, for the most part I have been very obedient. But being somewhat stubborn and independent, I never quite believed the stories. Now- I do.
I also realize that if Eric hadn't been there to distract the guy, I probably wouldn't have won the tug of war.

So the moral is, I appreciate all of your prayers for my safety here (although I still do feel safe most of the time, I am sobered and much more careful now to definitely be in before dark), and I am thankful for the watchcare for our loving God--even when I feel as though my work isn't accomplishing much, He has chosen to preserve my life and bring me to this day.."for such a time as this..."

Tuesday

2006-10-25T17:11:00.000+03:00

2:00AM: (approximately) What are my bedroom lights on? WHY ARE THEY ON? I am squinting at the bare florescent bulb through the haze of my mosquito net. Ah. The power has come on, thanks to some benevolence on the part of the electricity gods here in Kampala. Of course one might be up in the middle of the night and find the electricity useful NOW. I'm guessing i forgot to flip my switch off last night when the power went off (and I was using the lights) which is why I am now awake--I untangle the net, stumble across the floor, off with the lights..blindly try to tuck the net back in to where it was. sleep....
5:30 AM: The alarm is going off. Already? Yup. I can hear Rebecca getting up to bathe, say prayers and start boiling tea water.
5:50: really, time to get up. I light a candle and start the morning office.
7:10: I am struggling up martyr's hill again. Two months, you think this hill would be getting easier to run up. The same kids are still greeting me, though, as I pant and sweat up the hill, the same shop-keeper is still staring at me like I am a blooming idiot(which, actually, I am--come to think about it), and yes, there is the bodaboda that always tries to run me over. And I am still in pain.
7:50-mentally thanking God AGAIN for the miraculous MSR coffee filter the Coats' gave me before leaving. Caffeine, a wonderful drug.
8:30-Arrive at work, on time (amazing)Breathe deep, get ready to lead prayers. This AM we are looking at Ecclesiastes 4:8 and following-our call as believers to live in relationship. My coworkers seem mildly interested (or they are just pretending well this morning). We are praying every day for our sick coworker Ann, for peace in the northern part of the country, for the expansion project for our department (we are woefully short of space for counselling and seeing clients).
9:30-I am grabbing some free time on the computer to check email and make changes on some MCC paperwork while at the same time trying to get ready for homecare (I try and have a verse ready to read to the clients and have it written out in Luganda). Because multi tasking is not my strong point I copy the wrong verse (it is difficult when writing in a language one does not know) something out of Job (now that would be uplifting for an HIV patient!)Finally get it right and go in search of a kind soul to help me learn how to pronounce it.
10:15-Is it tea time yet? (by far my favorite time of day-I usually go and buy groundnuts from Salima, one of our clients). Henry comes in search of me. Asks me if I have a "minute." Inward groan; a minute to henry can mean hours of hard labor behind a computer...turns out he has a scanning project. I point out to him that just because i have white skin doesn't I naturally have scanning ability. He ignores me and confidently begins trying to make the thing work. I'm watching, offering unhelpful advice, as he tries to make the inane software do the job. A few more people join in the fun, all offering advice. Ah, life is never without excitement.
12:30-We are finally leaving for homecare. We drag the suitcases of drugs and IV equiptment out the door, to the pickup truck where Christopher the driver is waiting.
1:00-Bouncing along the bad roads at incredible speeds; Christopher's driving skills amaze me. We have a new patient, which means it will take a while to find. OUr directions usually say things like "turn left at the third mango tree, stop at Caliban Salon, ask for Mama Samuel or Teddy." So we make a lot of wrong turns but surprisingly, almost always find the patient. This family is deep in the slums, to find the house a man leads us through narrow corridors (walking sideways) over heaps of trash and around naked babies. We find the man sleeping, emaciated and obiously exausted. His children play around the outside, near the sewage that flows right outside. Wilson and his wife are both HIV+, both also are being treated for TB. I ask about his children; he says they are all negative. We talk for awhile, Francis (the medical officer) writes some prescriptions for vitamin supplements and an antibiotic. Christine (the other nurse)goes to get the drugs. I offer Wilson the scripture I have brought for today, from Psalms 3. I read in halting luganda, hoping that through my bad pronunciation he understands some of it. We talk about the Lord being our shield, and the lifter of our head, what that might mean for him and his family. We pray. As always, I hope, wonder, pray, beg, that God will use this small thing, bring provision that this family needs. That they would find hope.
2:00-We have seen a few more clients, are heading for Irene-the client I know the best. She has huge, beautiful eyes and a smile that doesn't bear forgetting. Her English is good ,and I enjoy the chance to pray and read with her more freely. This day, though, we find that she isn't home. Her son tells us that she has been admitted to the hospital. I groan inwardly. This is not a good sign. She has been struggling, and developed a condition in the last week where she has a fistula from her rectum whereby she has continuous leakage of stool. She cried telling us about it, about the indignity and discomfort. I hope she is admitted to try and get the condition corrected, but I am afraid that something else is wrong.
3:30- Finally heading back to the hospital. I am ready for lunch!
4:00-my favorite lunch today, Kalo and beans! Kalo is millet and cassava flour made into a stiff porridge. It is rather flavorless alone, but becomes amazing with a good bowl of beans.
4:30-I have decided to try and start walking home (the long commute-1 hour-to go a distance of 4 km is killing me, plus i realize i could save 1000 shillings -$.50 US!! a day!)The walk is hot-the distance feels a lot longer here than it does in vermont! I'm walking past the usual assortment of children getting out of school, market ladies selling various vegetables, bodaboda drivers trying to convince me to give up my walking ways and ride home..at one point a group of children swarm me, holding my hands and talking a mile a minute. I enjoy their chatter and they eventually leave me when we get far from their home. As I pass a school, about 50 children all begin chanting in unison "mazungoo BYE!" over and over again. louder, and louder. yikes. i feel every eye on me as i try to walk as fast as possible.
5:30-home. a relief! busega's quiet is soothing to my tired spirit. I find my host mom home, peeling potatos for dinner. Sharon and Daniella are home too, Daniella as usual running around chasing the cat, or chicken, or trying to escape through the banana trees to the neighbors. As she is 18 months old, she requires constant surveilance!
7:30-Rebecca and I sit down to dinner. I have made the chapatis tonight; I am slowly learning how not to make them the consistancy of shoe leather, but the process is slow and my host family generous with their compliments. Rebecca made the sweet potatos and groundnut sauce. Yum!
8:15-working on my meditation for tomorrow (by candle), as usual struggling with the closing. I tend to start strong and then just kind of drift towards and ending. I have a whole new appreciation for preachers these days. It is tiring coming up with new and interesting material everyday-and I only have to talk for 10 minutes!
9:00-I am going to bed, as we don't have power tonight the temptation to stay up and read by candle light is low. Sarah comes home (she has long days at the hospital as an OB/GYN) followed soon by Jennifer, who has, it seems, a rather busy social life.
9:30-Sleep! Tomorrow, another day...

The Long Silence

2006-10-22T14:27:00.000+03:00

I have no excuses for this long of a pause in updating ya'll on my amazingly exciting life!!! Really, the only excuse is the lack of time for writing interesting stories for you to read. So the other option is just to tell you what I've been eating (intestines, yum), about the amazing taxi rides I get to take every day(the one where I sat next to the lady with the baby, the suitcase and the chicken on her lap was the highlight so far) and about my most favorite adventure, "navigating the taxi park after dark." Seriously, if you ever thirst for adventure, please come to Kampala and I will introduce you to a game that will make every thing else in life seem tame. On Thursdays I go and hang out with the Bakulye boys after work(previously introduced to you as the orphans who live in a garage but have a great brass band, play some wicked football, raise chickens, carve wooden things to raise money, and of late, make this MCC volunteer sweat with such science-related questions as you have never heard the likes)..anyway--so I tend to have to go home after dark, and thus the taxi park. So I am dropped off at the western end of the park, and the objective of the game is to make it to the far east end of the park without 1)having my bag stolen or 2)being run over by a taxi. These may seem like easy objectives. They are not. The first thing is to assume the "tuck and run" position. Head down, bag to the chest, now focus! I forgot to mention that what makes the game more difficult is that there are no real roads patterns to the way the taxis drive, they come from nowhere, very fast, sometimes from all directions at once. Screaming will not help, my friend. No, you must just be strong. The addition of being blinded by the headlights makes things especially fun. One must be diligent to ignore all of those attempting to distract from the objectives by hollering "mazugoo!" and offering many cows in return for your hand in marriage, or trying to sell you their delicious fried cassava. Do not be tempted! The reward for reaching the east end of the park is to get on the bus going home, and then sit in it for an hour while it is stuck in traffic. Ah, life in Kampala. Never dull!

Other transportation news: When I visited Hoima several weeks ago (town several hours to the west), I had the opportunity to experience "bicycle bodas." Now, remember a boda boda is a motorcycle taxi (which I ride with great trepidation and only as a last resort). So a bicycle boda is a bike (duh) with a seat on the back. Hoima, being a bucolic little town (about 30,000 people), is a great place to experiment with riding these environmentally friendly taxis. The bigger bonus is riding them after dark when there is no power. What a rush! Eric has admired the skill and prowess of these wizards of navigation for several months now, and when I visted he decided he could try and ride me around town on his bicycle. I had watched several people mount bikes as they were already going, so I decided that I could try this, as I wasn't sure eric could begin peddling with my hefty weight already on the back. So he started peddling his MCC bike as slow as its tortured frame and un-truewheels would allow him to go..and I tried to jump on. We both ended up in the dirt, much to the amusement of his family and neighbors. Second try, it worked. However, he was so winded by the end of our journey I declined a ride on the way home and chose to walk. We celebrated our semi-success by making banana bread over a charcoal fire (the most challenging part was getting the charcoal fire started!!). We mixed the dough, put it in a pot wrapped in banana leaves, and then put that pot inside a bigger pot with some water in the bottom, and covered the whole contraption with a big lid. What resulted was steamed semi-bread--you might think this sounds gross--but for us, heaven. We actually made it twice in a row, it was so delicious.
Other Hoima adventures included delivering two babies at the local hospital and building a duck house.

I'll have to leave it there, though... keep it real, my friends. I'm missing you!

Dressing "Smart"

2006-09-28T14:55:00.000+03:00

A source of tension has arisen between myself and my host sisters (most specifically my eldest, Sarah) regarding my favoured style of dress. It seems, strangely enough that my clothes are not stylish enough for life here in Africa—or “smart,” as being well dressed is termed. They look at my combination of ugly American (generally dirty) sandals with whichever shirt and skirt I have managed to throw on for work (usually ironed and clean!) and shake their well-groomed heads at me in shame. I have explained to them that Americans coming to Africa generally assume that they will be a safari from the moment they step off the plane, and so dress accordingly (Americans are known here for their ugly clothes, ugly shoes, and dirty backpacks). I frequently see them cleaning and polishing their shoes (which I have never had occasion to do in my life) and turning themselves out in fine fashion for any and every occasion. And I frankly admit, the majority of Uganda is better dressed than I.
So, when it came time to attend the wedding of Gloria (whose Kwanjula you have read about on a previous post), Sarah was in telling me that I would not be attending in any of my current clothing lest I shame the family name. My clothes had, as it were, been found wanting.
Doing my best to keep a good humour about the situation (because, in reality, this isn’t an attack on my person, per say, but on my clothes…) I agreed to go with Jennifer to the market to look for an appropriate “dinner dress” (which I later found, meant “prom dress”—more to come on that, though.
Jennifer was a bit taken aback by the limiting factor of my very small MCC stipend (and I really wasn’t comfortable digging into the coffers of my support money, believing that those who have been so generous have done so not with the intention of clothing me in prom dresses but rather to help the poor and needy), so she took me to Owino, the biggest market in the city, which happens to have more used clothes and shoes than I have ever seen in one place—it would be a delight to my heart, having been a thrift-store shopper from a very young age—except that looking for clothes involves marching through miles and miles of muddy stalls, being hollered at from all directions and bargaining until you are blue in the face, with nary a guarantee of success.
So we set off through the market, there were perhaps hundreds of small stalls with dresses of all types and many men and women anxious to clothe me for the occasion. Jennifer would occasionally stop (I really don’t know how she chose where to look) and we would peer upward at the hundreds of dresses hanging, trying to guess the size, occasionally taking one down, going over it to look for stains and most of the time rejecting it. Fatigue set in quickly(I have never liked shopping in the first place) as all the dresses began to look the same, and Jennifer kept asking me what exactly I wanted. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care what the dress looked like, as long as it was gotten for the specified amount of money (Ush 10,000, about the equivalent of $5.00 US, or half of my weekly stipend.) We finally located one that appeared to my size, and I would have happily taken it and run as fast as I could—but then Jennifer was pushing me into the stall (which was about five feet wide by seven feet long) and telling me to try on the dress. She had to be kidding…but she wasn’t. And so I found myself behind a sheet held up by the helpful salesman, changing into this dinner dress so that the whole of Owino market, and Jennifer, could decide if it was smart enough to wear to a wedding. This was one of those wonderful moments in your life when you believe that the world has gone mad, and you along with it. Will life ever return to normal? What is normal?
However, my efforts were in vain as the salesperson failed to drop his price to our price. In all the bargaining I had been deferring to Jennifer’s good judgement but at that point I would have been glad to pay him twice the amount of money he wanted if only I could get out of that market.
But…we kept walking, and walking. And walking. Eventually we located a dress, which now, I can’t remember why it seemed like a good idea, as it is at least four sizes too big and a style that I would never choose to wear under normal circumstances (i.e, a mirror within fifty miles of my person)..but the woman came down to our price, and overtop all my clothes (for I refused to again strip behind a sheet) it seemed ok.
So we went home. And then the next day we went back to buy shoes… (and the wedding was fine, by the way, but my camera "mysteriously" stopped working so sadly, tragically, there are NO pictures of that particular event or that dress.

Give us this day our daily Matoke

2006-09-19T16:16:00.000+03:00

I was conversing with myself (in a non-mental illness kind of way) last week about the consistancy in my diet here. I get all four food groups regularly: bananas, potatos, rice and posho (maize flour chunks). It is very, very easy for me to slip into a mode of thinking where I am "deprived"--especially after a weekend like this last, where I was spending time with our MCC group, enjoying the richness of cheese, vegetables, whole-wheat bread and other delicacies. It is quite usual for me to go several days and see ground nut sauce at every meal, with the starch being varied according to the above-mentioned food group rotation.

However, it seems that viewing my position as being "deprived" is not the most beneficial or realisitic attitude. Jesus did not teach us to pray "give us this day our daily spinach salad, dannon yogurt with granola and stir fry with tofu." (excuse me while I pause to wipe the drool off the keyboard...) He instead taught us to pray "Give us this day our daily bread...or matoke" In other words, that which we need to be sustained. I am so thankful that I have food, but I confess it is difficult day after day to eat Matoke (steamed bananas)..and not remember the variety of foods I have eaten in the past.

So my prayer is that I would be given grace to appreciate my daily matoke (and it is true that I, like my Ugandan friends somehow feel a bit cheated at the end of the day if there isn't a rock of matoke sitting in my stomach) and not see myself as deprived, but as utterly and completely blessed.

I have so many other things to be thankful for as well: I've just finished my second day with the home-care team, visiting five patients in town who are too weak to make it to clinic. I was blessed again to be able to pray with the patients and share with them a verse I learned in Luganda (Psalm 46:1). Please pray with me for Norah, Mary, Muhummad, and Sandra. A key theme in their requests for prayer are school fees (many children above primary level don't get to attend school because of the hefty associated costs-and if they are attending the family undergoes a huge financial burden) and for relief from pain.

Because children are going back to school this week after their holidays (thus the frequent prayers regarding school fees!) the city is in a bit of upheaval. The "jam" downtown is worse than ever, and finding transport anywhere is very difficult. Our normally 45-60 minute commute home yesterday took around two hours! In addition, there was a crack-down last week by the government on vehicles not having a "speed governor" (device which won't allow the taxi to go above a certain speed- needed because of the all to frequent fatal car crashes here). The device is very expensive, and the government took the method of forcibly removing license plates from 200 vehicles one day last week in order to make them comply with the rules. The results of that decision were utter mayhem downtown; people not being able to find rides or if they found rides, being charged exorbitant amounts of money.(I had one scary moment last week in the rain, and the dark, standing the taxi park downtown trying to figure out why hundreds of people were standing around!!!) Someone, somewhere, decided at the end of the week to relent in time for kids to go back to school and the drivers now have a longer "grace period." All this to say that life is never without excitement here--even commuting is adventurous!

Keeping it real in Kampala--- : )

Kwanjula

2006-09-14T14:55:00.000+03:00

My host family is part of the Baganda tribe, which is located mainly around the Kampala area. I expect that I'll learn a good bit about this tribe during the year that IÂm hereÂinitially I have been given a clan name (Nakito) and know only that I am not allowed to marry others from my clan, as they are all considered brothers and sisters of some variety, and that we are not supposed to eat the animal for which our clan is named (monkey).

I have had the opportunity, my first Saturday here to attend a ceremony called Quanjuba, or "introduction." In the course of a couple getting married, this ceremony is the first time that the bride-to be's family meets the family of the groom-to-be. The bride price is offered and either accepted or rejected. (Although it seems that in many cases, it truly is ÂceremonialÂ with the understanding that the couple are going to be married; in essence, the price has already been set).

On the chosen Saturday we got up extra early because transport to the village where the introduction was to be held was a bit of a journey, and Jennifer and I were to meet up with other relatives in the Kampala area to share transport to the site. We arrived at the appointed time but ended up waiting several hours while relatives accumulatedÂbut no bus arrived. At some point a "take-charge" sort of woman called Dorothy walked out the road and flagged down one of the passing taxi busses (Matatus) that comprise the majority of public transport here. After convincing the driver that we were willing to pay a worthy price for his services, he ejected his other passengers (I have no idea where they might have been going or how they eventually got there) and we climbed aboard. It seems though, that his bus was not equipped with a particular piece of required equipment so we took the "bonus" route to the village around any possible police check pointsÂa one hour trip took several hours. In addition, it was discovered that there were varying opinions on where exactly the village was located to begin with, so there was friendly banter at every turn debating the merits of each possibility. Much to my surprise, we actually arrived at the site for the ceremony. The family's compound was large with several huge tents set up festooned with bows and ribbons. There were couches decorated for the elders in each family, and several hundred chairs for the relatives and friends of the bride, and a goodly number for the grooms' family as well.

Blessedly we were fed as soon as we arrived (since it was now around 1:00pm), in one corner of the compound several women were slaving over large vats of Matoke (steamed plaintains), rice, beef stew and the delicacy I soon had the chance to enjoy- cow intestine. Yum.

I was taken to a small partitioned area made of cement and instructed to enter with a plastic jug of water and bathe. Bathe? With what? And what for, I had already showered that morning. The ride wcoalitionty, but I couldn't figure what exactly I was supposed to be doing. Everyone else seemed to be bathing though, so I spent what I hoped was an appropriate amount of time in the "shower" washed my face and hoped it would be enough.

I was then taken by the arm into a darkened garage full of women in all stages of dress. The traditional women's attire for the Baganda people is a "bisuti." It consists of a robe-like dress with puffy/pointy shoulders and several yards of material that gather at one side to create a ruffle- the outfit is held together by a belt about six inches wide generally made from stiff, shiny fabric that ties across your middle and hangs attractively down the front. Once in the garage it was requested that I remove my clothes. AH! Not sure what would happen if I refused, I grudgingly stripped. Several women gathered around me and began wrapping layers of cloth around my middle, tying it several times with lengths of string. The purpose of this ÂundergarmentÂ as far as I can tell was to increase the size of my bum thereby increasing my attractiveness. Following the layers of cloth came the bisuti- it took them a while to figure out how to tie the belt around my middle. I was then given shoes that were several sizes too big because my tevas were apparently not "smart" enough for the occasion--so i spent the rest of the day tottering around on these shoes, trying not to drag the too-long bisuti in the mud and dirt--generally feeling about five years old!

I was marched out to the tent, much to the amusement of all three hundred guests- who apparently appreciated that a "mazungu" (white person) would go to the effort of putting on a bisuti. The master of ceremonies thanked me several times during his pre-ceremony banter with the crowd, and then continued to make reference to me throughout the ceremony. The only way I knew he was talking about me was that suddenly everyone in the crowd would turn and smile/laugh at me. It is a good thing I'm not self-conscious at all (ha, ha).

At some point Jennifer and I went and joined the female relatives of the bride to be in the house. As Jennifer is a somehow- cousin of Gloria, and as am somehow related to Jennifer due to my current living arrangement, we were to participate in the ceremony. After the platoon of cars arrived carrying Ronald (the groom-to be) and his entourage, Gloria's aunts lined up and danced out of the house towards the relatives to greet and "choose" Ronald from the sea of males. Greeting here involves (for women) a bow, and several rounds of "how are you? "we are fine" "thank you for the work you are doing" "fine, thank you." We got to parade out with the rest of the girl cousins and sisters, bow and greet (in Luganda!) the male relatives of Ronald.

At that point my part of the ceremony was over, and I was able to enjoy the festivities. I watched the parade (and it was a parade!) of gifts that constituted the bride price-in addition to a cow and a goat, several-hundred pound bags of sugar, flour and rice, new clothes for everyone in the family, baskets (no-bushels!) of fruits and vegetables, vats of special Ugandan brew and crates upon crates of soda. By the end of the procession, the pile was so high I could no longer see Gloria behind the pile of gifts. The cow, meanwhile, stool placidly by (unaware that he played such an important role in the life of this new couple!)

The bride price was (of course) accepted, the certificate of transfer signed by GloriaÂs father, and the meal commenced. I found myself in a crush of people vying for a front spot in the queue. Not really believing that I could be where I found myself (as darkness closed in, smashed face-to back in a line of people waiting for food in the middle of a village- in Uganda!). Food was piled on my plate (being dark, I couldnÂt figure out exactly what I was eating but dutifully- I complied and ate.

We all (after awhile) piled back into our bus for the long ride home. It turns out that our bus did not have functioning windshield wipers, and as it had been raining for the first time since I arrived in Uganda, it made the drive all the more exciting (which I got to enjoy fully from my front-row seat). Dorothy made the trip all the more fun by leading the group in a rousing series of praise choruses for the entirety of the hour and a half home. My favourite song was "This is the day" which they adjusted (or added to) by singing, "this is the taxi/that the Lord has made" "this is the driver/that the Lord has made!" and "this is the country/that the Lord has made."

Truly!

Week 3

2006-09-07T17:25:00.000+03:00

Friends, I had every intention of being diligent about posting at least once a week, and writing well-thought out epistles about my life here. It isn't going to happen!
Since I have started working it seems to take a minor miracle to get anywhere near the internet, for reasons of electricity being on only every 24 hours and a limited number of places to access said internet. In addition, this new "work five days a week" thing is pretty difficult for me-- it turns out I really miss the old 12 hour shift program : ) I am TIRED! Life has pretty much been chugging alongthough, no sickness (praise the LORD) only minor side effects related to my malaria med that will hopefully clear up soon...

I spent last weekend relaxing/recovering from the busy week (I had my first MCC meeting at the end of week 2, enjoying the company of my MCC team and the benefit of some more orientation to life here--ie, we were shown where the "white people" grocery stores were so we can find things like cheese and ice cream if needed this year ; )I also continued the laundry learning process, which requires several buckets and amazing amounts of soap--and tenacity. If I didn't have assistance, let me tell you I would take days to get my clothes clean-and they wouldn't really be clean.

On Sunday I went with some of the other mazungoos (white people) that I have met at the hospital to meet this group of orphans in town. They have a brass band that is organized by the eldest of the boys, live in a garage and generally take care of themselves. I haven't gotten to hear them play yet, but I watched them play football(soccer) and in general enjoyed their company. They are trying to get NGO status at this point and are hoping that I and one of the other guys will give them a hand. Being a novice at Ugandan burocracy, this could take a serious amount of prayer. I am excited about spending more time with them and hearing them play this weekend-it sounds like they do several shows a week at various churches and other venues-- from what I hear they are fantastic. Abbey (the "director") has them practicing 3-4 hours a day, since most of them don't have money for school fees and so aren't enrolled anywhere.

Work has been typical for a first week in a very busy HIV/AIDS clinic in Uganda : ) I am very impressed with everyone I'm working with at the clinic--I couldn't even get near the nurses until today (they move to fast and have no time for talking!) I was oriented to general policies and clinic schedule on monday by Marian (who has been a counselor at the center since the HIV/AIDS epidemic began) and tuesday and wednesday were mostly spent bumbling around, helping out with vitals, weights, paperwork and patient flow where I was needed (but probably mostly getting in the way). Thursdays are study trial clinic day(patients are enrolled in a particular trial and come back for checkups and refills of their study med), so I was able to help with dispensing meds--given that every med here has a different name than I have previously known and that the meds are not what you would call "organized"- and the doctors have different abbreviations here-- I needed a lot of help! The biggest thrill though, was when I was allowed to draw blood! Nice to handle a needle again.. : ) Tomorrow is ART (antiretroviral therapy) clinic day- which judging by last friday, is the most hectic/stressful of the week. I'll probably be dispensing Septrine (DSBactrim) again, and taking BPs.

I'm not sure what I thought my work here would be like...but I'll get used to it! In a few weeks I'm going to go with a group of doctors out to a village and help with a clinic there. By then hopefully I'll have learned the equiptment and procedures a little better so I can help with IV meds and procedures. We'll see!

Thinking about the last three weeks (and it seems like it has been much longer than that) I am so thankful for God's caretaking and mercy as I have been adjusting. HE has blessed me with people supporting and encouraging me everywhere I turn. My biggest frustrations have been feeling inadequate for the tasks I have before me (which often aren't even clear) and I have been having to continually ask for humility and patience as I learn new definitions of service and what MCC calls "ministry of presence." Another MCC worker here reminded me this week that the relationships I am building with my coworkers, family and (eventually) patients, are the most important investments I am making--coming from a task oriented profession and lifestyle, it is hard to feel "unproductive"--but I am trusting that God's will will be done in this place and in this year.

Here in Kampala-A day in my life

2006-08-29T16:45:00.000+03:00

I'm a little unsure of how to begin with twelve days of new things and adventures to share with you. I'll start, however, by giving you an idea of a typical day for me (at this point, while I'm doing language study.) I get up at 6:15, generally it is still dark but one of my sisters is also up, starting the sweeping. I try to go for a "trot" as my family calls it--I've discovered by trial and error that if I go "trotting" this early, I don't have so many bodabodas (motorcycles), buses or people to run around. Things are just starting to wake up in Busega, a suburb of Kampala. Busega is very green, with many banana, avacado, jackfruit and palm trees. From our street you can see across the valley to Mengo, the hospital I'm working at-the sun rises over the hill and the sky is beautiful! The roads here are badly rutted from the rain, so this is more like a trail-run than anything else. I'm greeted all along the way--the children call out "BYE, Mazungoo!" and I try to greet them back in my rudimentary Luganda.

When I arrive home, everyone is awake getting ready for work. My host mom, "Aunty Kalugi" will greet me and thank me for running (it is generally the custom here to thank people for whatever they happen to be doing--Aunt K's explanation is that some people are lazy and might stop working if you don't thank them for it!)My sister Sarah, an OBGYN generally drives cousin Liz and sister Jennifer to their respective jobs. Sarah does have a car- not very common here. I'll either be riding with them or taking a bus to work when I start next week. Brothers Steven and Herbert also go to work, early--so I rarely see them.

Our house has running (cold) water, (but no shower), so everyone takes turns having a bucket bath before having tea and bread for breakfast. Uganda grows its own tea--it is quite good! Since the only coffee I've found so far is instant(although coffee is also grown), I am now a tea drinker.

I have lessons with Aunty from 9-12, with a tea break in the middle. Aunty is a preschool teacher by trade, and has been teaching english mostly, so occasionally forgets that I'm learning Luganda and is very impressed by my speaking and writing skills in English! Luganda has proved to be quite difficult! The greetings and responses vary depending on whom you are addressing, and at what time of day. There are many words that sound similar but vary in tone and pitch. We spend a lot of our lesson on pronounciation, but I still have a lot of work to do.

Sharon is a "sister in law" who lives in our compound, and she and Aunty K generally make lunch ( I try to help) from 1-2. The food here is good- the staple is Matoke (steamed bananas), with other options being posho (cornmeal) or rice. They generally have a "sauce" to go with the "staple", which is some combination of onions, tomatos, whatever vegetable is on hand, and beef (if they have it). We occasionally also have cabbage, pumpkin (yum!)or avacado (which grow in the yard).

I try and spend the afternoon practicing what I've learned-either in Busega or Mengo. My conversations are very short at this point, and produce a lot of laughter. Occasionally Jennifer and I will venture downtown to Owino Market in Kampala for vegetables. I'm learning how to navigate the bus system independently--they haven't let me stray to far on my own yet, but this weekend I'll get a chance when I go to the MCC office for a meeting.

Dinner is usually not until 9:00 pm, and is very similar to lunch. One exciting feature about life in Kampala is "load sharing"--this means that there isn't enough power at any one time for the whole city, so each section gets power for 24 hours, and then has no power for 24 hours. I have come to appreciate so much those evenings when we have lights! Otherwise we are preparing food, reading, getting ready for bed by candle (or with my headlamp, which is indispensible!) One also has to be diligent at remembering to charge cell phones, iron clothes and do other things (email!) that require power during the time the lights are on.

I'll begin working at Mengo Hospital this friday. I'll be initially in the HIV Clinic/counseling center, but they are hoping (!) I'll also teach at the nursing school and work with the nurses in the premature special care unit, to teach them some of my "advanced" skills (which haven't, as of yet, been practiced on infants! Yikes.

I am so thankful for the Kalungi family, for their hospitality and generosity in hosting me. Please continue to pray for our mutual "adjustment", and we all learn to live together! I would also appreciate prayers for my continued efforts at communication, and starting work this friday.

Be well and may God bless you.

More...

2005-11-16T19:19:00.000+03:00

A random collection of more photos, mostly from Dakar and Gorree Island. The photos with the pickup truck are in Kaffreine, at Geoff and Esther's house. Also some rooftop gardening (Lisa is in an urban agriculture program with peace corps).

Senegal #3

2005-11-15T22:47:00.000+03:00

This is a beach about 30Km from lisa's house. We were lucky enough to have it to ourselves for the day! The water was beautiful but the undertow was strong so we didn't venture out too far.

Lisa and lori enjoying a delicious breakfast of oatmeal.

Lisa and I as bandits on the road to Mbour (the dust was pretty intense!)>

We spent a day on Gorre Island off the coast from Dakar. The boat ride out was great! : ) Lori is loving it.

Lisa, Lori and Lisa's co-PCV (Zach) at his house in Mbour.

Senegal #2

2005-11-15T22:42:00.000+03:00

Lisa (right) and Lori (left) on a walk around Kebemer (lisa's town) close to dusk. Due to the intense african heat (that is, intense to american weaklings such as myself) we stayed indoors or in the shade during the hottest part of the day. As you can see, we were there at the end of the rainy season so things look fairly green. Apparently in a month or so, all the grass will die and there will be fields of garbage as far as the eye can see : (

This is a picture of one of the households in a village called Djida outside of Kaffreine. We spent a few days in Djida helping with a health survey (in reality, lisa helped with the health survey and I trailed along behind--ah, language barrier).

A microenterprise at work! Last year Geoff and Esther helped Ajji set up a bread making business at his home. He has subsequently trained several of the young men in the village how to make bread as well, and they now have a fully operational business (and fresh bread in the village every day).

Geoff (missionary with SIM) and Aji. Ajji is Djida's health care worker, and Geoff and Esther are working with him to start their community health evangelism program.

Awa (Ajji's wife), Esther, Lori and Lisa (along with assorted children!).