Teachers

I am teaching some of the sisters to use their computers during this holiday. As we spent a few hours hours in a hot computer room the other day—yes there are no seasons in Uganda—I felt that I wasted two hours of my life. I could have been reading or researching or making money or taking time with friends or exercising. I could be in medical school if I really wanted to be. Then I thought about the sisters I’m teaching. They are teachers, they spend their whole lives teaching. Taking information and giving it to others—that is selfless. What about mothers? They spend endless hours prattling with their one year olds, carrying them on their backs, waking up nights, cleaning endless baby clothes (think about it—cultural taboos against nakedness+ cultural taboos against diapers+ no running water or power+ washing machine—what is that??= suffering). What would happen, however, if I only pursued things that added to me? I would do nothing, become nothing. For a person to reach anywhere, he or she must live a life of giving. When athletes reach the Olympics, they benefit their home countries and their fans. When a doctor becomes good, he is helping others. “It is in giving that we receive, it is in dying that we are born again to everlasting life.” St. Francis. When I teach others, I give myself and I live on in those students. This is why I meet so many Ugandans in their 40’s and 50’s who tell me “Yes… Peace Corps… I had a teacher from Peace Corps, his/her name was ….. and I loved him/ her so much… I really like Americans….. now I am a successful….” It is, after all, the seeds planted, not the big cement houses, not the “life changing” devices, and not the money we give, that grow into trees

Dandelion Love

Many times, when I think about all of the girls in the schools around me, all of the people in the parish, and all of the people that greet me in town, I feel as though my heart is too small to love every one. Love, however, is not a cup of water, to be poured into the dry soil of parched hearts. Love is a dandelion seed. When it is flying overhead, seeing the hundreds of grass blades around, it does nothing. But, when it lands and germinates in one small plot; it grows, it reproduces, and is eventually able to take over entire fields. I have a friend in the Peace Corps that is currently dating someone. They spend so much time together and on the phone talking to each other that I wonder how they have time for anyone else. It is, in fact, the opposite; as their love germinates, it grows, and I often feel that they do more for me than I do for them.

What am I doing?

Sorry for the delay in blogging here. . . there are a million excuses but, you’ve probably heard them all… the people at the MTN store didn’t load my internet even though I paid them… I don’t have power and the nearby town with power is undergoing indefinite grid repair, I’ve been traveling to the village where there is neither power, nor reception, nor toilet paper, etc. so I won’t go over them.
Recently, as you know, new PCV’s came to our sites. Energetic, focused, dedicated, parasite- free and oh so clean, they love to ask; “So, what are you doing?” What can I really say? That I am doing a holiday adult computer course in January and that I am planning an agricultural seminar and follow up activities for February and that my grant finally came through for improved water tanks in March, and that along the way I am continuing with my classes; that my business class is moving to the market, and my life skills class can hopefully include more schools? Then they down look at me from their lofty ambitions of changing the world and say, “Oh, is that all?”
I started wondering, what am I doing? What have I done? Well, first of all, I’ve wasted time on trial and error. Take the agric. seminars. First, we organized mens’ groups—each of which involved one visit or two; (staying in villages with no abovementioned toilet paper during weekends) and including multiple cancellations and changes. At that point, we conducted needs assessments, which identified health and agriculture. We sensitized the men about HIV/AIDs, testing, and living positively. Then everything fell apart with internal organizational politics, and now, finally, things might come together to fulfill the other part of the needs assessment; using the group structures for co-ops and improved agriculture. One part of the seminar is the small bee project I am getting involved in. I wanted to do bees when I first came to site but everyone was scared of them. Then I found a boy, named Didas, who had bees, got some wax from him and made a few candles. Then he disappeared into the village and seemed to not want to work with me. Finally, two months ago, I casually suggested bees to a teacher; he got excited and got some land (near a few monkeys?). We went to visit it and found Didas nearby. After some free honey—Didas approves of me after all-- and visits to three other bee farmers deep in the village, we are setting up one small apiary tomorrow. One year and four months after I initially got the idea. One year and four months after I tried the first time.
Don’t even ask me about applying for grants for my school’s water tanks. After applying for a grant in April (for which I was supposed to receive feedback in May, have the cash in August, and be finished with the project in September) and never hearing back or getting responses to emails, I applied for a different one with a different plan and method. After qualifying for the second grant, I heard back from the initial grant organization LAST WEEK, 6 MONTHS LATE. This was from an American organization! And we think that Ugandans are late!
So now, when they ask me what I am doing, I just say that I am eating papaya and taking long walks. When they ask me what I’ve done, I say that I’ve almost finished War and Peace. What am I going to do?.... beats me!

Seed

Blossom faded
Sweetness forgotten
Burial, Rottenness, worms
Hidden
Seed.
No one knows
Cares
Only Spark, Hope,
In black/bloody matrix
Remains.
Past death nourishing
Small miracle green
Inverse time;
Most precious last
Petals burst
Open
Again

The Psalmist says that those who go weeping, bearing precious seed, will return rejoicing with their sheaves. It seems as though sorrow, death, disappointment, pain are just that; precious seeds. They are hopes that have died and been buried, forgotten or dreams not yet taking root. As the plant world tells us, however, they are unparalleled in value. Tulips, at death, nourish the bulb, as blossoms, post mortem, the fruit. Seeds enhanced, produced, follow. Other sorrows result from unrealized dreams. Seeds which seemingly fail to sprout; requiring soaking, transplanting, years of slow growth; watching; waiting. They become the tallest trees; the most far seeing; useful plants. Those, however, that sprout quickly and grow fast; full of water and shallow rooted; die quickly, leaving little behind.
Happiness, feelings of fulfillment are the bright blossoms in our heyday. Their death marks my true beginning, while embryonic faith, despite pitch darkness, has the audacity to feed on rottenness; growing.

Going Home

I have tried but failed to write about anything else, so I guess I have to tell you what is "really goin' on". A week ago, we had mid- service training. The conference was a bit of a downer-- we all discussed the problems at site, found solidarity in our mutual frustrations, but had no answers for each other. This was followed by the even more cheerless prospect of economic opportunities (?) facing us in the US. The possibility of extending for a third year in another country was briefly discussed, in addition to extending in Uganda. I just felt exhausted the whole time.
I had, however, the presence (or absence) of mind to ask my program director about the possibility of extending in Jordan. I need some definable, specific skills, and, since surrogate motherhood is becoming less appealing as I think of women in our health center's birthing ward (ditch that epidural for a midwife with a big stick), I thought, why not go back to Arabic? Jordan is the only Middle Eastern nation which accepts Peace Corps folks, so, I asked her about it.

Peace Corps Jordan replied with an affirmative the next day, on the condition that I commit to two years, beginning in Oct. 2011 (Peace Corps would send me home for a month in September before going so that I don't lose the rest of my sanity). As I sat, reading the email, tears came to my eyes, and I thought about home. A place I feel in the wind on a dry, cool evening. A place I remember in the smell of olive wood beads when I hold them near. I place I feel as I surrender to the heat in the crammed back of a taxi without working windows. I thought, "This is it, I'm going home."
Listening to the BBC last night when they spoke of an Egyptian woman, who, after being gang raped by 6 men, was arrested for practicing illicit sex also reminded me. Her mistake? Riding in a car with a man to whom she was not related.
I remembered waking with my mother in a crowded market and the obscene remarks and spitting that would accompany the sightest lip of an ankle or wisp of hair from under her veil. I remember wondering if women were really human at all, or just a type of animals, meant for reproduction, without true intellect or souls. Angry, frustrated tears came and then died down as I finished the news program. Later, in bed, I just sobbed.

One professor told us that "Love is not much different from hate. People often love and hate the same person, they often feel hate toward the one they love most. The opposite of love is actually indifference."

About Jordan, there is none of the latter.

New Volunteers

When I first arrived back from my visit to the US, I went to the the peace corps office. The woman guard asked where I had been and I simply said that I had not been in Kampala. She said,"You're back from the US, aren't you!" I asked how she knew and she replied that she saw the "US glow" on me. For the next three days, I recall more blind optimism, cheerfulness, and flexibility than usual. Then, things went back to normal.
The one year mark, which I just passed, is usually the time when the grime from bucket bathing has built to significant degree, the uphill walking has made us move a bit slowly, the starch overload has given us (women) a bit of bulk, and the personal and professional difficulties of being in a third world country have come out in full swing; in short, most of the glow is gone.
A few weeks ago, however, a shiny new volunteer moved into my village. Yesterday, I experienced an abundant shower of American optimism and youthful ambition-- the new volunteer and I met with motorcycle drivers and talked about STI's, we went jogging on the path that I couldn't travel on alone and tried to buy local fruit, then we made plans to visit a local orphanage and a handicapped child. My village, once again, became a world of opportunity, and my dusty Runyancore dictionary and notes are once again opened. Who knows when we will both be forbidden to jog, when our ambitions will become bogged down, and the facade of being needed will end. At least, however, I was able to take a refreshing plunge in optimism-- even though as I get out of the pool, I have to step onto the muddy, wet, washed out road-- back to Uganda. Now, at least, I might have someone to travel along that muddy road with!

Changing Gears

Some people think that life moves slowly in Africa. Life is not slow, it is just not automatic. Instead it shifts according to gear. In situations where the challenges are many and life is really hard, gears change. In such cases, you have to petal more to get anything done. We are in bikes, not sports cars, so we move more slowly, but we are sweating a lot. Conversely, when things are easy, we speed, but often find ourselves downhill.
Sometimes we are in taxis that are stuck in the mud at the bottom of a hill during rainy season and on an unpaved road. At such junctures, we move REALLY SLOWLY but we are out there pushing and sweating. Sometimes, the gears are just not working right, or the administrative choices of policemen, drivers, and other passengers are to blame leaving us stuck inside the taxi, waiting endless, hot, stuffy hours. Other times, we are squashed by really huge people (women) that have taken too much local milk and butter. Don’t forget, however, that we ourselves can cause delay, taking time to talk or have lunch with friends, or being stuck at the bank, while the taxi outside is waiting for passengers.
It amazes me how such slow situations are interspersed with really fast moving situations, when things are happening all about. I am at the one year mark—a time when the realities of Uganda come to light. I am in a crux of several great things happening and several things slowing them or closing them down. The delays, however, give time for reflection and polishing, re-evaluation of my time here and my priorities. Some days, I really want to stay another year. Some days, stuck in the hot, sweaty taxi full of obstacles, I think I will be happy to go back to the US as soon as possible. I don’t really know what will happen, but either way, it is a great learning experience. Anyway, as all of those in the US know, there are dirt roads and mudslides on that side too—along with the worst of all—rush hour traffic!

Phone took a plunge!

While in the latrine one fateful even
I thought I was in the process of leavin’
I got up to go and heard a small sound
SOMETHING
FELL
DOWN!

Feeling an emptiness inside my pocket,
Where my phone was, I MUST HAVE DROPPED IT!!!

I told the sisters about my disaster,
Hoping only for tea and a bit of small laughter
But jerry cans, banana leaves, and several poles
A soiled flashlight, and five hours old
--my phone! (and some other stuff)

The smell couldn’t be nastier

My precious phone, in critical condition
Was rushed, smell and all, to the nearest technician
I took the line, and in despair purchased another,
Only to find that the battery lasts no more than 24 hours.

The new phone, after charging daily
Refused all together, leaving me trailing
My parents frustrated, for lack of conversation
And me missing the small flashlights
for nighttime latrine visits

I plucked up my courage returned my new phone
to the store where they cheated me
and got some refund
Bought another Nokia,
just like the first,

called my friends
and edited my blog verse

Research Assistant

So, some of you may know that I am trying to finish my masters’ degree while in Uganda through a joint program between Rutgers University and the Peace Corps. Not that a person has to do the official thing; there are plenty of volunteers who found themselves with extra time and electricity (I am not one) and decided to do a masters’ degree online.
Sometimes, I feel as though everything is conspiring against me getting some alone time to really WORK! Last Sunday, I went to the closest place with regular power (2 -3 hours away) and when I got there—power was off! When power was on, I had so much to do for my official job, that my paper wasn’t touched. Then last week, I had millions of visitors—literally- in my intestines- which also hampered progress. It is the rainy season, so getting enough solar power at my school for my laptop is a bit tricky, and the list goes on because this is the Peace Corps.
This all changed last night with the introduction of a new research assistant. There was a miraculous day of sunshine, after which I charged my laptop, but I wasn’t feeling extremely well and there is a lot of drama going on in this part of the country (a new volunteer was robbed by a group of armed bandits, the parish is experiencing some “leadership changes”—just remember that transitions of power here are less smooth than our recent(?) Bush to Obama glide) so I hadn’t done what I wanted for the week.
So, last night (morning ?), at 2:30AM, a new research assistant somehow wriggled through my steel wool and duct tape sealing and began munching on bags in my room. I woke up, grabbed the broom and started banging around. Now, this is fairly normal, the unusual part is that he just would not quit! I chased him all around the outer part of my room and thought he left through the door. As soon as I laid back down, however, I discovered that he was very near my bed. It was about 3:30—and I make a rule of not sleeping with strange rodents—so it was research time! Needless to say, I accomplished what I wanted to do and it didn’t even interfere with the day’s events. Who knows, maybe this research assistant will really help!

Career Choice

Those of you who know me know that I have been facing an existential crisis; namely, that I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up (or get out of the peace corps). This all came to a head when a fellow peace corps volunteer’s mother asked me what I was going to do with my life when I got home. I replied that if I couldn’t hack the foreign service exam, I would fall back on my undergrad degree (social work) and steal people’s children. “You hach ‘em, we snach ‘em”—right? Actually, it’s very easy. You just go according to a form from the state child protection department and assess various measurements of child welfare—is there a fridge? No. Is there food in the fridge? Ummm.. no. Is there power or running water? What are those? Are there dangerous, sharp, overly hot, or other harmful objects within easy reach of the child(ren)? Of course! Is there human and/ or animal feces or urine in the living environment? What do you want, the chickens running around, the goats, or the open latrine?
So far, using this technique, I’ve managed to collect all of the children in town… if their parents don’t have the gumption to get refrigerators, they don’t deserve to keep their kids! (Of course, I don’t have a fridge or running water either : ). The biggest problem, of course, with social workers, is that parents might get a bit upset. Here in Uganda, they only have machetes, but in the US, they have guns. Since Sarah Palin didn’t make it to the white house, social workers have pretty lousy chances of being able to properly arm themselves in such situations, effectively ending my prospects as a future child snatcher.
Seeing my options grow slim, I thought about my home, in the Detroit area of Michigan. I asked myself, what are they making these days? It’s not cars; (it is a bit of weed), and it is a lot of --- babies! Sure! I should be a surrogate mother! There are plenty of sterile parents (with turkey basters ?) and rich doctors that could use a young, healthy (albeit slightly malarial) young woman to have their children. Furthermore, what pain of pregnancy have we peace corps volunteers not experienced in Uganda? Weight gain? Check. Strange things moving in our innards? Check. Morning, afternoon, and night sicknesses? Check, check, check! Besides, that wouldn’t require any real work—heck, I could even take classes during! Then, I would just pop that kid out, give it away, and move on!
So, while I was deciding to have babies and leave others to care for them for a living, it dawned on me. This is exactly what all the girls in my life skills class are planning to do. Hmmmm…… maybe they’re right after all!

D-

As a student, I like A’s. I am, in fact addicted to them, and to the ideal of trying to do things in the most perfect way possible. In Uganda, people talk about passing (at 40 percent). Whether through getting a band that consists of two drummers and a trumpeter that can only play one line of one chorus, or through building structures that will topple within a decade, or using a mop that consists of a rag, or building doors and windows that don't fit in their frames, or keeping all motor vehicles at a halfway operational status, it seems as though the focus here is on D- work. If a D- takes an hour, then a C takes four and an A+ takes 20—therefore, it seems as though people really work quickly because poor quality doesn’t take time. In fact, there is a fundamental misunderstanding of why someone would spend a long time on something in pursuit of perfection. For example, no one in my community knew what good tone on a trumpet was until I demonstrated it—they were just used to the kid that blows three notes in ear- shattering volume. Furthermore, this marching band only marches down the road; formations, songs, coordination—not part of the picture. My sisters cannot understand why my master’s completion paper is taking so long, and no one fathoms why an American built a high quality, time consuming structure in my village.
I am at a loss as to what I should change and what I should leave. There are so many little things I could nitpick, but I think I need to focus on what I am doing. Doing activity plans and budgets was another thing I felt to be poor work, but at least we compiled an improved plan for one of the activities. This is why peace corps volunteers, however, are useful. If I can bring a project from a D- to a C, I will feel as though I’ve done something. Don’t worry, however, I am pursuing that A on my paper!

MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A pastor once told me that humble people have an easier time because they don’t need everything to be theirs. Well, the projects I am a part of are not mine. The community is not, in the end, mine. I talked with my program manager about this stuff and she said that the volunteers who try to start their "own" projects have a really hard time because they are not sustainable and they do not belong to the community. So, community ownership, which means the parish and priest and sisters and everything, is the main thing. I know that we cannot really move until that happens, but the exciting thing is that community ownership is what so many aid agencies, in their multi- million dollar programs, get wrong-- so I know it's not easy.
I have a friend who feels she has done very little, but she took the time to make sure that her community initiated her work. One of her accomplishments is the beginning of a vermiculture (worm- growing) project. It is done with school kids, who then learn about waste management and composting, and connects with the local fishermen who buy the worms. The whole project is completely sustainable; environmentally, economically, and socially. It is certainly not glamorous, but it is really, really good.
This week, I did a training class for incoming volunteers. I learned that there are 4 new volunteers coming to my district, and one to my town! I used to be the only muzungu (white person) I knew of in the whole place (Save some Italian missionary priests an hour away!) As we talked about doing programs together and etc, I was challenged to do so much more. Suddenly my world of myself and the parish was broadened and I was talking about all the possibilities of team efforts. I expected to be very alone in a village with no amenities, where life was hard and slow. I brought a guitar and War and Peace to site. I have not yet learned the guitar, have not finished War and Peace and sometimes miss time to blog to you—but now I think things will be a bit more busy!
I also felt inferior; will this new volunteer do more than I; will he be more successful than I? What have I really done, by the way? And that is where I need to get over myself. I am not saving the world, or Africa, or my community. I am just trying, every day, to help my community counterparts in their work and to be a positive, friendly influence on those around me. Again, I remember the rain in Uganda. Large drops fall heavily on my tin roof, and, separately, they can do little good. Gutters and tanks, however, collect them together, and then they can be used for drinking. So, my little drop will be collected with others in my community and even with other Peace Corps volunteers. May it not have the pollution of stagnant aid funds, may it not have the acid of non- sustainable work, and may it not have any toxic chemicals leached from underlying prejudices and fears.
Just to keep you updated, I usually teach, do after school activities, and do admin stuff at the vocational school during the week, which keeps me hopping. During the weekend, it is time for men’s conferences, youth talent shows, and handicapped children. When you work with six nuns, they can keep you busy! Morning mass is at 7:00 am, and after that, the day runs pretty quickly, unless I catch an afternoon nap, until 5:00pm, when I try to take some time for exercise. 7pm is evening prayer, which I like to participate in (when I can), and dinner is at 8:30pm. Now we are thinking of youth soccer in town and first aid courses with local motorcycle taxi drivers. It’s what I wanted to do and knew I could not do it alone.Here's a picture of my brother, John, and I after my brother, David's wedding. Another picture of how things are better when you are with others and appreciate their strengths!

Locked Away

The other day, as I was listening to the BBC (I start a lot of blogs this way, don’t I : ) and I was scandalized by the story of a young woman who was kidnapped as a child and then held captive in a basement for several years, enduring constant sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. I just could not understand 1. why someone would do that and 2. how she survived and stayed sane. When I was explaining these horrors to Sister Margaret, she looked at me with questioning eyes and asked, “Why did he do it?” I replied that I didn’t really know. “Hmm,” she said, “Did I ever tell you about the blind man at my last mission?”
She proceeded to tell me about a man who had become blind after finishing secondary school. Despite his brilliance in school, his mother felt ashamed of him (because of his disability) and locked him inside a room in the house where he remained for 20 years. Eating, sleeping, even the passing of waste was all done in this room as the mother cleaned the man and cleaned up after him. After the mother died, the man’s sister in law cared for him. The community at large was told that the man was dead. Sister Margaret found the man in an extremely weakened condition and brought him to a school for disabled children. There, he had trouble even sitting down for long periods of time. He learned Braille at the school, however, and began to strengthen his body. Now, he uses his braille to interact with others in the community and is no longer locked away. I thought of the man we visited who, through illness, had been in bed for three years and the woman, who, due to mental illness had not left her house, even to tend to the garden, for over two years. I also remembered the mentally disabled boy who spends much of his time locked in a dark room and his joy in seeing us. Ever present are the two local handicapped boys in town whose fathers sold them to the witch doctor for sacrifice (which means death by cutting and burning).
I then thought about so many of us “normal” people, who are locked into our 9-5s, not able to really think, explore, be creative, or even be. I have heard by now that I am independent and that I value freedom. I guess that, as I work for my own freedom, I am also passionate about the freedom of others, as we are all, in a way, locked in our own little basements and closets, no matter how lavish they may be.

Inner Life

Inner Life
In the small blue and white chapel, with soft candle light, we sit in silence before The Eucharist. Worry of future career, desire for a demanding, meaningful job just falls away. My sisters are successful and educated, but their careers don’t make them.
What matters is here; whether in a blue or a yellow or a pink chapel, whether by candle light, solar lamp, electricity, or kerosene. It is here, before the Eucharist. It is in prayer, in meditation, in silence. I once read that if the inner life is a abundant, it will spill into the outer. So, whether I join the Foreign Service or USAID, or go for a higher degree, or just go back to my hometown and become a social worker, it doesn’t really matter. If my inner life is abundant, it will spill out. “My cup overfloweth”
Sometimes, I am disappointed by what I’ve done since high school. I know I would have been able to do anything I wanted. At other times, I am extremely grateful. Save a few instances (including some time in grad school…), I have been following not a career but a life. I have not been pursuing the thing I want to be but the person. I’ve been pursuing the inner life.
II. Today, I was distressed by my inability to play volleyball or football well; frustrated by my inability to integrate into St. Catherine’s the way I think I should, my inability to know everyone in town, my lack of fluency in Runyancore. Today, I was ashamed of my lack of expertise, knowledge and know- how. Some say we are like clay pots. Although shiny, perfect, manufactured jerry cans are more popular, I, alas, find myself to be degradable, heavy, and awkward. The valuable thing is not the pot but what is inside. If inside my awkwardness, lack of knowledge, lack of perfection there is light: peace, joy, love, hope: then it will be valuable.

Naked Life

The following poem speaks to the extremities of 3rd world living; many of the preservatives and layers of comfort are removed, leaving you with naked life. A doctor friend was doing rounds on a plastic surgery ward when she was in residency. She said it was really cool to see a liposuction because she was able to open up a very obese woman and see that, under the layers of fat, she had a very cute figure. That's what Uganda is; life stripped of the layers of comfort. Underneath, when you look past the blood and guts; it's beautiful.

Pain, heat, light
Sharp, searing, and sudden
Aggravation, like nettles
Joy, likewise, overwhelming, pure
Inspiration, simple
Food, whole
Corn syrup, preservatives
Missing
Rottenness, freshness, waste
Reality
Layers of comfort,
Enveloped humidity
Predictability, schedules
Sealed indoor structures,
Fatty cushioning
Sucked away
Exposed abdominals
Feel every sensation
Store nothing
Beauty today

Friday Night With The Guys

It’s late on Friday night, and I am sitting in the dark with a group of Ugandan men. There’s a lot of talking, a lot of laughing, and a lot of food. I will have three exhausting days and nights of this before I return to my sight, ready to teach at my all girls’ school. What on earth am I doing? Has the malaria medication finally gotten to my brain? Have I broken down, unable to take the isolation of living in a convent? Not at all; I am working with the Kazo Parish’s Catholic Men’s Associations.
Ok, now, quick quiz: Answer each of the following with either “men” or “women:”
Which group has a shorter average lifespan in Uganda and all around the world? Men. Who is more likely to commit suicide, be killed, die in a motor accident, or be involved in risky sexual behavior? Men. Who is less likely to seek health information or to be involved in positive community groups? Men. Men in Uganda and all around the world are not only at risk for numerous health problems but seem to be critically ignored by many organizations, including the Peace Corps. They, however, are leaders in our communities and in this nation. They are the ones who make decisions regarding money, reproductive health, and social structures in families and in communities.
In training, we were repeatedly taught that men in Uganda were simply bad. We women were taught to wear long skirts and to avoid men. For the first few months at site, I did this. I taught life skills at my girls’ only school, lived in my convent with nuns, and tried to avoid men. I realized, however, that I could not teach life skills to the girls at my school when their fathers were waiting to sell them for cows when they came home. I could not just ignore men in my school when the president of our PTA had over ten wives, at least one taken from our school, and some teachers were caught sleeping with the girls. I wondered, what is happening to Ugandan men to make them act this way? I read some statistics in our Uganda Statistics book and learned that more boys under the age of 12 reported experiencing sexual abuse than girls in that age bracket. I also see that many boys are subject to harsh physical punishment and have few people teaching them about the meaning of manhood.
When one of the sisters I work with decided to start men’s groups in different parish villages, therefore, I was excited. I then asked Jolie for resources and she sent me a training manual for working with men in relation to gender and HIV.
We now conduct weekend seminars in different villages where groups of men have agreed to host us. We begin by asking what the meaning of a man is; we analyze the social construction of gender with these men to discover helpful and harmful gender behaviors. We then move on to topics such as HIV and domestic violence. The men, so far, have been very appreciative and helpful; they have also invited us back. This means a lot because we do not provide them with transport or accommodations—in fact, they have to provide those things for us.
My father lived and worked in the Middle East in predominantly male centered societies for nearly fifteen years. I remember talking with him about relationships between men and their wives in such communities. He would tell me that men do not marry four wives and beat their wives, etc, because they hated women or because they were trying to be cruel. He simply said that many of them did not know how to have healthy relationships and to communication with their wives. He said that many men asked him for advice on such matters and wanted to have genuine loving relationships at home.
Following one particularly lively session regarding domestic violence, Sister Margaret and I overheard several couples talking afterward. Men were surprised that their wives cared about how much they ate at home and their attitudes during meals. Women were surprised that their husbands felt bad when they did not speak to them before meals. Both sides had simply never talked about it before.

Coming to America

So; I had the unique experience of going to America for two weeks. How was it?
First of all, I had been looking forward to several things; seeing family members, eating key foods, eating while walking, holding a clean and diapered baby, and being in a place where one can remain clean for over two minutes. Save the family members, none of the other stuff mattered. Furthermore, I could not stand the artificial flavors, corn syrup, sugar, and just chemical yuck I could taste in everything (especially the ice cream I had very much anticipated).
I enjoyed seeing my family members, but I felt a bit guilty around them. Here they are all facing the real challenges of life in the US from which I am free. I am free from their monotonous routines, their real political and public policy concerns, and their concerns of family and children. I also felt like a very irresponsible person. Here I am in Uganda just following my dreams, while my aunts, uncles, and grandparents had all settled down and done something productive with their lives by my age. One of my aunts finally asked when I would be getting a real job, to which I had no guaranteed reply.
Furthermore, my uncle (a successful engineer) was able to upgrade my seat to first class on the way back to Uganda. Between elegant sips of champagne and nibbles of roasted cashews, cheese, and crackers, I was able to glance at the man next to me. He was more of a lump than a man, but he seemed to be in his mid twenties. He talked to his wife phone, had M.D. embroidered on his belongings, and took a very self- satisfied nap in his cocoon. I sat, thinking—If I was really responsible, I would not have followed such crazy dreams; I could have become just like that doctor lump. I am a hot mess.
HOWEVER—after that brief reflection, I read Jared Diamond’s book, Collapse, and it makes me even more determined to pursue public policy and social issues globally. I also heard about the last being first and the first being last in today’s Runyancore sermon. What is the meaning of life? I still, as a crazy, irresponsible idealist, cannot accept that it is to just reach professional and monetary success, have a family, and produce children. What if it is to live a sustainable, simple lifestyle and help, in some small measure, to bring sustainability and peace to others? I read that a person in the developed world, on average, uses 32 times the resources of one in the developing world. That is not success. That is failure that overreaches the bounds of a lifetime or even a generation. And all of the stuff represented in it is absolutely meaningless.
Despite the cheese, crackers, lamb medallions and champagne—I did not sleep well in the first class. I much preferred my economy seat on which I had traveled to the US. I had the opportunity to talk and share photos with an Engineer without Borders working in Nepal, a war correspondent working in Afghanistan and Haiti, and sleep very well without any cocoon.

Grieving Night

When the dawn’s light pink begins to rise, I tend to grieve the moon. I miss the soft light of the stars, I miss the pale reflections of life. They were cold, at times chillingly lonely. Distant hopes were the bright stars, so far that only their glimmers were seen. The sun is a star drawn near. I know that it will bring warmth and give joy; exuberance even, but the night was beautiful.

I went home for my younger brother’s wedding. First the wedding; after grilling my sister- in- law (to be) at her bachelorette party; I think I like her. The wedding, however, was not easy. For as long as I can remember, David has been a part of my life; even when I did not want him there. I remember him stealing my dolls (and drowning them) when we were kids. I remember him wanting to hang out with my friends and I in high school. I remember being the only white kids in our youth groups together, and making our own cracker jokes.

We may not talk to each other regularly, but he knows me very well. I remember coming home and talking about getting an MSW and working for a homeless shelter. He looked at me and just said; “Sarah, I know that is not what you really want.” After several hours of crying and arguing, I knew he was right.

I remember the hot summer we spent at our parents’ house in Georgia together when they were gone and the AC wasn’t working (QT slushies). I remember the pineapple upside- down cakes he loved to make and the coconut curry sauce he was famous for. I remember how he loved to sing and dance around the house. Most of all, I remember not really appreciating him—always telling him to quit singing when we were crammed in the car. Quit dancing around in public. Be more practical in his house decoration ideas. I never really appreciated him for who he was.

The good thing now is that he has someone who does appreciate him—in all his artistic whims. The bad thing is that, in a way, I have lost him and I never really appreciated who he was. No, he is not dead, but he is not the same.

Charity

I hate charity. Not the greek derived word for love, but the "charity" that means giving people money. Two nights ago, I was listening to the BBC and the announcer (in perfect British English, which I can only dream of speaking) said that a group of the world's richest people are pledging percentages of their salaries (up to 50% in some cases) to international aid/ charity. How sweet! I just got mad (according to the American meaning).
I have been here in Uganda for a year. It is a land where foreigners are looked at as walking ATMs (because many of them are) and people have been taught that they cannot rely on themselves.
I get it, I really do. When I was a kid, I knew that my family was poorer than any of our relatives and that is why our relatives gave us stuff. That is why I always expected stuff from them. Did I value the expensive new clothes and shoes that were given to me? No, I just expected them. Was I grateful? No. Did I appreciate that it was also a sacrifice for my relatives to do this for me? No-- not until I was older. I was jealous of everyone and thought that they all had better lives than I did. I know people, in my family, who still look on others, including me, this way. They think that they are irreversably, unequivocably poor and can't do anything about it. They aslo believe that everyone else is automatically better off and should give them stuff and take care of them.
If Carnegie and Rockefeller would have obeyed anti- monopoloy, fair wage, and environmental conservation ethics, we probably would not have recieved Carnegie libraries and the Rockefeller foundation would not exist. Maybe, however, we would have fewer pollution problems and more of our grandparents would have been able to fulfil their dreams. Maybe workers for these guys (and the small businesses that would not have been knocked out of the market) would have been able to build their own libraries and start their own charitable groups. Maybe we would have never needed their charity.
I just feel the same way about charity in Uganda and all over the world. It's like knocking out people's legs and then subsidizing the cost of prosthetics. This does not take into account the incredible loss of humanity that results from person(s) believing that they are fundamentally infereior to and dependent upon others.
I don't like charity because of what it does to people. It justifies the excesses of wealth and at the same time dehumanizes the poor. In fact, it has nothing to do with the real word-- it is not charity.

Love in the time of Malaria

I will soon be going home because of my brother’s wedding and I have just heard that a friend at home has finally found a good boyfriend. On facebook, friends’ pictures are colliding together as two become one both in and out of matrimony. On this side of the Atlantic, love is also in the air. I’m not just talking about Peace Corps, where most of the single males were paired up before the plane from New York hit Entebbe airport; or the females, while outnumbering pc guys, still manage to find significant others in significant numbers. I am also talking about the girls at my school, who, surrounded by walls, fences security guards, and nuns, still manage to get pregnant while fetching water or while visiting home, or in other mysterious ways (i.e. eluding the nuns at night to jump fences and climb walls). I am also talking about the guys on taxis or in Kampala who say things like “I love you, I want to marry you!” or “You’re my size, I want to marry you” when they don’t know my name.

I understand the love between my brother and his fiancé a bit. They finally found the one they wanted to spend their lives with; their best friend, and they want to be with each other. I get that. I don’t, however, always understand the thing called “love” in Uganda.
Love in Uganda, I have learned, is not always exclusive. A man loves you, me, and all the other women in the world at the same time and it means absolutely nothing. When a guy proposes marriage to me, he is probably serious. He would marry me, and continue marrying others. Many women, however, believe this crap. (yes, I wrote the word, because there is no other word for it). They jump the fence. They become pregnant or get AIDS from these men that care nothing for them.
Love in Uganda, furthermore, is also not necessarily affectionate. Married people do not really associate with each other or show any public affection. A man and woman can hold hands, sit together, travel together, etc. as long as they are not married. If they are married, they don’t get within ten feet of each other or even seem to look at each other in public. When I think of women in Uganda, I don’t just feel bad that they have to carry water on their heads or do so much manual labor. I just think of how they are not held, caressed, wooed.
Love in Uganda is also unequal. Men, for example, are not looking for weak women to take care of. They know women are strong and can earn more than themselves in some cases---- and they like it. Many men, in fact, do not support their wives; they only demand work and money (you have to give your husband all your earnings)
The worst part about love in Uganda is not the Ugandans; it is the bazungu (whites). It is not uncommon to see an old, white haired white guy with some young Ugandan girl that has tight clothes, high heels, and too much to drink. Most of the time, these same guys are the ones getting your money when you contribute to campaigns trying to “end world hunger” or “empower women.” Well, at least the girl in heels gets a good meal, and if she’s drunk enough, she might feel a little powerful—who knows?
With all of this craziness, I have to ask; where is love in Uganda? Love is for the community, the society. Love is what makes men support nieces and nephews and distant cousins through school. Love makes the local council leaders work hard to keep their communities stable and peaceful. It makes people stop the middle of their work to chat with a neighbor or just an acquaintance. Love is also what makes the responsible fathers support their girls through school, even though such girls, at times, run away with boyfriends. Love is what keeps my neighbor from marrying, because she knows she has to support her dying sister’s children.
As you may have guessed, I have not found romance in Uganda, nor do I plan to. I have, however, found love; in the responsible, hard working people why try to move their families forward.

A Life Poured Out

As you know, I've been living with sisters for almost a year now. I have been able to observe and take part in their daily routines, see their moments of humanity, and witness the sacrifice of their lives. They live by three vows; poverty, chastity, and obedience. The poverty is cool-- they are not obsessed with stuff, and although they are really good at getting cute shoes that match with cute handbags, they really don't bother with material things. A few months ago, one of our sisters moved to another place. She carried two suitcases-- one of books and the other of clothes. That was all.

The chastity-- well, when I see the way men are-- I don't think it's a big deal. After all, the sisters are not sitting at home with a bunch of cats and swooning over Harlequin romance novels. Sincerely, they don't seem to care much about men at all (although they have made some recommendations about who they think would be good for me-- don't worry, he was an American).

But the third, the most difficult one, is the obedience. Their lives are really poured out, broken. Not sold for the poor but poured only at the feet of Christ. They must really believe that He is and that He is God or else it would seem such a waste. They can never recover the years they have spent. They cannot choose their careers, or where they will be. They must do what the order tells them even if it is very difficult. One sister who used to be a principal in her past assignment is serving as a primary teacher now and must put up with her school's poor administration even though she knows she could do it better. Another has a hard time with the local language and the people (she is from a different region), but must stick it out here.

These women have offered their lives as a fragrance to God. We may see this and call it a waste. We may wonder whether their talents would be better used elsewhere. But really, if they were not sisters, who would they be living for? Themselves? Would that be so much better?

Yes, sisters are people. They eat sugarcane. They iron their habits. We dance, we sing, we tell stories around the dinner table. In communities where they have tv, some watch soap operas. But in the end of the day, at the back of the mind, there is a meditation, a reflectiveness, a purity. They are never very far from Christ.

Veni Sanctus Spiritus

The other week, Pentecost Sunday came, with a late night vigil and silence, followed by praying in tongues, shouting, and dancing. What impressed me was the unity I saw and that I continue to see in the Catholic Church. Those who did pray in tongues were free, as were those who didn't. Those who didn't dance and shout had patience for the extra hours we spent in church waiting for those who did. At such moments, people used to say they felt God's presence. I never knew what they meant, but I know that God was there in the unity different people had with each other.

Similarly, last weekend, Sister Margaret and I were in Kanoni. A small trading center (smaller than my home trading center) with a smaller church, we went to organize a men's group. We arrived on Saturday at 10:30 AM. Two old men were present. Soon, two younger men came. We waited to begin until 12:00 when we realized that no one else was coming. After talking about the purpose of the organization and doing a group session on the culture of manhood, its' positive impacts, and it's negative possibilities, we had lunch. It was 3:30 pm. We then walked around town visiting people and began our next session with the men at 5:00pm.

At the strengths and needs session that was done afterwards, the Holy Spirit came. No one was praying or dancing or shouting. Instead, more importantly, there was an incredible unity. The man who was an expert farmer was identified, as was the business man. The farmer stated that he had no market for his crops, the business man identified other, more profitable produce options. The farmer knew of improved growing methods. The following day, both men helped one of the old men to prune his banana and coffee plantations then they agreed to continue helping him. The teacher took notes and the following day, came to my trading center to fill out the forms. Yes, only four men, but there was another one there. One that gave them such unity, such strength in their togetherness that they can do great things. This weekend, in a banana plantation with four men pruning trees, the Holy Spirit came, and I can tell you that He was there.

Stupid

I feel so stupid, and it is the best way to feel. I am spending a week in Kampala with five other Peace Corps volunteers evaluating our program and training. When I joined Peace Corps, I thought I would be surrounded by people just finishing BAs with no knowledge about the broader world. How wrong I was. In this series of meetings, I felt the same way I did in ninth grade biology, in AP English, and in my first semester of grad. school—stupid. Not only are there some amazing credentials here—one Harvard biochemistry Ph.D., one former pro baseball player, one rising entrepreneur, several competent engineers and nurses; in short-- several people much more well informed about the world than I. In the past, when I knew I was behind, dug in my heels and really worked. It was during those times that I learned and grew the most. Yeah, my pride might have been hurt and my self- confidence questioned, metamorphosis pains. I don’t want to be at a place where I don’t feel challenged, where I am the smartest. I’ve had those too—glass aquariums, they limited my environment, my perspective, stunting and retarding. In short, I am stupid, and hope I never change.

Human

One of the biggest compliments that Sister Delphine can give a person is that “S/he was so human.” This threw me a few times until I learned that she meant humane. Either way, however, it has been a challenge. It is so easy to become consumed in oneself, even for a Peace Corps volunteer. In fact, even though they are supposed to be engaged in international service, most PCV’s (myself included) have difficulty going out of their way in the slightest manner for someone else. After being walked home by some very kind fellow volunteers last night, the same people that helped me to find a bike and have gone out of their ways multiple times, I thought about the importance of humanity in life. Even here, even in Peace Corps, it is necessary to question, what are my motivations? Who am I living for? Do I love my neighbor as myself?
The most giving, selfless volunteers are not the most outgoing or popular ones, but those that have only a few good friends. I have about three close Peace Corps friends, and I used to think I was being very hostile to everyone else. I cannot, however, be “human” to all the other PCV’s (about 200 in country), but I can focus on those few friends. After all, I am human!

Lifespan

(left: a motorcycle driver riding across an incredibly short term bridge)
According to the World Bank, the average life span in Uganda is 53. In Lesotho, it is 45 years. In the US, it is 78 years. These numbers are not merely statistics from books and from online. They are engrained into our souls as the measure of value we have for other’s lives and for our own. They are reflected in Americans’ multiple safety regulations and equipment pieces for each activity. They are reflected in Uganda’s bare footed toddlers playing in street gutters. They are reflected in the speeding, sometimes drunk, taxi drivers and the careless motorcycle drivers. They are reflected in the maternity wards where women are beaten by midwives to push must push even when the baby is wrongly positioned. They are reflected in the way that malnourished children with protruding bellies and ringwormed heads are normal. The other day, I was with a sister and a woman from the parish. They were talking about a village catechist and the woman said that the catechist’s child died a few years ago. The sister asked about the child’s age and the woman replied ten years. The sister then asked why the woman mentioned it and the woman said that this was no ordinary 10 year old, but that the boy was extremely bright and extra- ordinarily hard working. Lesson: if he had been normal, his death would have been a relative non- event, not worth remembrance. Another Peace Corps volunteer told me that a woman in her village related a story about being in a taxi that crashed. As the woman told the story, she laughed. The volunteer asked why she laughed, and the woman replied that she laughed because she was the accident’s sole survivor. They say that in Uganda’s fishing villages have HIV/AIDS infection rates of up to 80%. People, however, say that the water kills more quickly than AIDS, so why worry about getting the virus? It reminds me of Lesotho’s shepherds and miners, who, with hard work, hunger, and disease, were dying quickly. Their fear of HIV/AIDS, therefore, was diminished. The Pentecostals must have something here when they say you get what you believe. Many shepherds and miners believed they were going to die quickly and had better enjoy life now-- this translated into the world's second highest HIV/AIDS rate (around 30%) and their predictions proved more true than ever! Being here, I am still committed to living well into my 70’s and feel as if I have two lives while those around me only have one—at the same time, I am one of the only people around me wearing a bicycle helmet, watching what I eat, drinking water, sleeping under a mosquito net, and, in short, working toward the living of those two lives.

Here and there

Here I am with two other Peace Corps volunteers in the Rwenzori mountains! My travels with other volunteers this school break really made me think!
Last week, I had an incredibly large Indian dinner with two other peace corps volunteers in Kampala. Don't worry, this does not happen often! Besides the roast lamb, cumin sauce fish, and chicken tikka masala, complete with paneer, rice, and great cheese appetizers (who said that I would be starving in the peace corps?!) there was some interesting talk about our lives and service. The two volunteers work as teachers in rural areas and don’t come to town too much. One talked about his previous service in Kenya. He, an engineer volunteering as a secondary teacher, spoke fondly of his previous village, where he taught and gardened, much like he does now. He experienced that ideal service deep in the bush with no power and water, relying only on his humble radio for BBC and quarterly letters from home. Really engrained into the small, dusty community’s day to day life, he said “At first I was bored, but then I experienced a kind of nirvana, where everything became very interesting.” This is what I expected from Peace Corps. To really enter into the mundane, difficult, but natural and peaceful day to day, hand to mouth life of rural Africa.

Two weeks before that, however, I was swimming with some other volunteers (again, where is the suffering we planned). I spoke to one who spends much of his money on his internet modem and The Economist. He is able to connect his community and organization to many outside resources, and has started a big plastic recycling project. He is also learning French for two hours a day and really preparing himself for his future career.
At one extreme, I would like to completely just dwell in my community, which I did for my first three months here. Gardening, having five hour conversations with people, introducing myself to every one, walking everywhere, and drinking a lot of milk tea—it is a kind of mundane bliss. On the other extreme, I need to prepare for my future career and bring new ideas and resources into my organization and community. What I hate about this is that, to be successful, I cannot be fully in one place. I must be a bit here and a bit there. I need to finish my master’s international research while doing programs in my community, while teaching at the school, while preparing for my future career, while communicating with people back home. I am finishing my master’s, researching the funding strategies of private vocational schools in Uganda (which is more difficult but also more interesting than meets the eye). I have decided to apply to the foreign service when I finish peace corps and am now reviewing for that while re- learning Arabic, which requires some studying (thank goodness for solar power, a mini laptop, and Rosetta stone). I also want to be in shape, and am doing daily jogs/ bike rides (No, sorry, but despite that Indian food, I can still only afford one plane seat home) I must also, however, continue learning Runyancore and spending time with people in my community. I am teaching three courses (life skills in two schools, business class with three different classes, and computers) leading three after school activities (drama, writing club, and debate) organizing three community groups with a sister (men’s group, farmer’s group, and group for parents of disabled children), organizing one health seminar for both schools, doing administrative work at Mazzoldi, and, of course, enjoying the prayers, meditations, and mass at my convent and parish. Whew! I am now a bit serious about life, work, and the future. I’m sorry to say that I am moving pretty fast (despite the dusty, crowded and slow taxi system) and am not experiencing a bored nirvana. Contrary to popular belief about peace corps, I am not sleeping a lot nor am I laying out on any beaches—I, however, have to remember to fully enjoy this experience, not letting the busyness make it pass too quickly!

News!

One friend asked me to update you on the news in my place. Well, Sisters Christine and Grace visited our neighbor the witch doctor. He received them warmly and gave them two white chickens. The chickens, aptly named witch doctors, have joined the rest of the flock and continually roam our gardens. This witch doctor, who comes often to school and is very concerned about his daughter's well being, is thought by the sisters to be one of our best parents. Speaking of gardening, there has been too much rain and wind for people’s banana plants, causing many of them to collapse. In a first world country, this would mean a higher price of bananas at the grocery store. Here it means that local families (most of whom rely on subsistence farming) have nothing to eat and nothing to sell. Therefore, few girls are returning to school at the beginning of this term-- no money to pay fees. By the way, I have discovered how students can study tailoring for three years and still learn little. They come one to two weeks late for each of the year’s three terms (lack of school fees). After coming, they get malaria, and because they don’t drink enough water, they become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital. Then they go home again to try to gather the rest of their school fees, then, the short 12 week school term is done. This is done three times a year, for three years, and; wonder of wonders, little is learned. Speaking of learning little, we have discovered that three of our girls are pregnant and will not be rejoining us. The sisters are wondering if they should bring a nurse to do pregnancy tests every year – I am just amazed when I see these small girls with babies! The men, by the way, are not the only ones at fault—male volunteers have told some pretty terrifying stories about the man- chasing prerogatives of high school girls here! Other news is that there is now dried fish available in town, and over the past two months, several new shops and buildings have appeared. When you get to see 6% growth occurring, it means a lot is happening pretty fast—neat to watch!

Ode to Parents

These past two weeks, I have been doing some work related and personal travel. In these expeditions, I ran across some of the most rare and valuable resources in the world-- parents. When one thinks of countries like Lesotho, with official HIV + rates near one third of the population and millions and millions of orphans across the developing world; when one thinks of kids raised by people who don't care, who give things but not time, who do not love-- one realizes the importance of parents. The tragedy of so many orphans is not simply starvation or child exploitation, it is parentless children who grow into parentless adults. I prayed some years back for God to give me an abundance of parents and I try to stay open to older parental figures in life. They have so much to give young kids (like myself). So, last week, I visited a couple who were my mother and father's friends before I was born. Although in thier sixties, they led us (some PCV's and I) up into the Rwenzori Mountains on a grueling hike without breaking a sweat. We youngsters were about to pass out (I was sore for three or four days) but they have been hiking together for decades and thought nothing of it!
Afterwards, we talked about the past, the present, and ideas for the future. Things didn't seem so scary when I could look ahead and see that they have made it by faith, living all over the world (he is a doctor, she is a teacher) for these years, that they have raised normal, healthy children, and that they still live for a purpose and love each other. Thank you for that example!
Next, I visited my host parents in Wakiso. On thier small two acres, 2,000 well kept chickens and about 75 pigs, along with bananas, beans, and corn, greeted me in thier usual tidy, well cleaned manner. One cannot even smell the chickens and pigs from the house. My host mother manages this farm project and a store in town while my host father works in the city. On Saturday mornings, I could wake to find the whole family, with their three children, watching cartoons together and talking. Despite their wealth, they eat what is grown on the farm, minimizing outside expenses and excesses to invest in their childrens' education. When I voiced my doubts about being a white person working in international aid, my host father (who is an accountant for a prominent US NGO) gently told me of his experiences and encouraged me to continue pursuing an international aid career. For these parents also, a million thanks!
Soon, I will be going home to see my mother and father. These are the people who told me that they'd rather have me get B's in high school and care about others than get straight A's (I disobeyed that one). When I was discussing future careers with my Dad, he did not talk about money or responsibility, or even stability. He just said "If money was not an issue, and you knew you couldn't fail, what would you do?" I just want to say thanks for caring about who I become not only what I become, guys.
I also want to thank my grandparents, who have always been parents in situations and ways that my parents couldn't. Whether through tough love and practical advice, or through unexplainable tenderness, you guys have been and are so much to me, thank you. Lastly, I want to thank my adopted mom. When I saw no way out of my situation and thought I would be trapped, you were there. You continue to support, encourage, and take care of so many details for me, I thank you.
I have other, younger parents in New Jersey who were friends and parents, you guys made a new place a home. So, now I know I am incredibly blessed. While some people lack one parent, I have so so so so many;
thanks guys,
Sarah

Night

Darkness
Most times I blog about things and thoughts that occur during the day, but I just realized that you are missing half of my experience. This blog, therefore, is dedicated to the other 12 hours in the 24 hour cycle. To begin with, there are not a lot of street lights, and because we depend on limited solar power, it is “lights out” at 10 pm. Secondly, just as one cannot be an atheist in a foxhole, it is difficult to not wonder about the supernatural while in Africa. This is true especially when the nuns and I stay up late talking about the witch doctor next door, the mysterious snakes that show up and their beliefs about evil spirits. (by the way, big news is that the witch doctor’s daughter is now going to our secondary school and Sister Christine is now on a mission to convert the family) There are also “night dancers,” people who dance outside naked in the dark as a witchcraft ritual, and big scary stray dogs that prowl around and howl. The worst of all are huge black ants that swarm and bite. They remind me of the Poisonwood Bible ants that eat a whole village. There are also the goats which live within ten feet of my house and sneeze/scream/bleat very strangely. Last of all, there are the endless, everlasting rats that I believe inhabit every roof, from thatch to tin to tile from the Equator to the Cape.
These converge into an orchestra of scary noises and happenings throughout the night. Whether it be night dancers scraping across windows, or rats playing rugby in the ceiling, or goats sneezing, there is a lot happening out there.
The well prepared volunteer has two main weapons against this cacophony, the mosquito net and the pee bucket. Our first day in training, the PC Uganda staff exposed us to these necessary institutions and, despite initial qualms, I have used them ever since. My mosquito net, more aptly named the mosquito/rat/ scary monster net is used faithfully, for fear of much more than malaria. The pee bucket, which I was absolutely revolted by, is used rather regularly. When the previously described creatures are lurking outside and there are no lights, going to the outhouse (latrine) in the middle of the night is not an option. Once, when I tried, I was attacked by ants, which is better than another girl on the compound who found thieves stealing bananas. It is better at night to just keep a little bucket under your bed and empty it in the morning. I recently visited another peace corps volunteer and had to use her pee bucket. The hilarious thing is that neither of us had any qualms about it. After every night, whether quiet or noisy, morning does come. Softly, at 6:00 AM the sisters begin their morning prayers and I usually wake to the soft sounds of their singing. Sunrise is between 6:30 and 7:00, at which time all of this darkness.

Forgiveness

The other day, I was washing dishes with sister Delphine and she told me that she feared muzungus (white people) because they don’t forgive. We had just been discussing one of the girls from school, an orphan, whom the nuns had to rescue because her older , HIV+ sister tried to sell her to a man (for marriage or prostitution—we don’t know) to get money to pay for treatment. Now the girl has forgiven her sister, brings her food, and plans to delay her own career to care for her nieces and nephews when her sister passes away. I went with the girl to visit her sister and her sister’s family in the village, where they seemed to get along extremely well. We also discussed Idi Amin, who, although responsible for killing numerous people and hindering development, is not hated. Sometimes we talk about Kony and the northerners, whom he has widowed, orphaned, raped, and hacked into bits. People whose lips, ears, and limbs have been cut off by Kony, women who watched their spouses and children be hacked to death then have had to cook the bodies and serve it to soldiers who then gang raped them, now talk of forgiveness. Many say that they don’t want to kill Kony, they just want him to repent and change, and to forgive him.
I asked sister Delphine how they can do this. She said that in the past, elders used sacrificial lambs between warring factions and persons, and told people that their ancestors would be angry if they did not forgive each other, so it became a part of the culture. At that moment, I felt like such a barbarian, hessian, and savage. I told sister that I could not do that, forgive some of those things. She, of course, talked about how forgiveness is for your own personal release, and that people cannot live angry at others. She also said that Christianity helps whites, with its revolutionary emphasis on forgiveness. To this, I say, help me, Lord. Who knew, that in the Ugandan bush, I, the savage, would be exposed to such deep reform?

New Friend

I am pleased and excited to announce a new and very important friend in my life. Strong, slim, light and stylish, this friend may definitely become more popular and effective than I am. She is named Benetton Formula 1, and, as you may have guessed, she is not human. She is my new bike!
Although mother superior was a bit concerned about my safety on a bike, I have been jogging distances between 3 and 10 miles and walking to villages—I have decided that bikes are safer than that; especially when you think about that all important problem for white women in Africa—sunburn!
When I arrived at site, exhausted from riding Chinese made bikes through the busy, dusty streets at training, mother superior told me that women don’t ride bicycles in this area. I was a bit relieved. Since my stay, however, I learned that the streets are not as busy out here and that I can get a much better bike than the one in training. I actually need a bike because women here ride motorcycle taxis—boda bodas—through the impassable and narrow village paths. Peace Corps volunteers, however, cannot use motorcycles because of their high injury and mortality rates. As I am transitioning from busy work at school (teaching, etc) into community outreach programs, transportation to the village is vital.
After speaking with my Peace Corps APCD, who was born and raised in my region, I had the authority to tell mother superior that the Peace Corps requires bike riding—whew! About safety—my APCD said it was absolutely fine and my bike is definitely faster than the ones guys have around here. Truthfully, though, people don’t steal wives here, they have to buy women from their parents with cows. So, as long as no cows are being surreptitiously shipped to the US—I am quite safe. I also asked several school girls who walk home to their villages if it was safe and if they had any trouble. They said it was fine.

After that, I had one afternoon in Kampala to get a bike. I went with Heidi and her Ugandan friend, Raymond, to the bike street, where we saw hundreds of used and refurbished bikes. We saw everything from a sixties era Harley Davidson bike, to a recent Walmart purple and white plastic Barbie bike. Bikes with 20 gears that didn’t work, bikes with no gears, bikes with no chains, no seats, no pedals. Bikes that were very shiny but falling apart. Raymond and Heidi knew a lot more about bikes than I did, and after two hours of shopping, we arrived at the perfect bike. Not too heavy but with gears and a recognizable European brand – not Chinese—and, of course, cute—Raymond found the best one. After that, Raymond started bargaining—a process which took over an hour and involved many frustrated sighs, walking away, feigned resignation, etc. So, now, for $85, I had a bike.
When you don’t have a vehicle, however, the purchase of a bike is the easiest part. We took a taxi back to the hotel and Raymond rode the bike back, a journey of at least 15 miles, without any hesitation. I wanted to hire transportation for the bike, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and as he is a better bargainer than I, he won. The next morning, the bike went on top of a taxi into town, where I waited with it and my luggage for a bicycle helmet, sent with a volunteer from the PC office (which is not centrally located). Another taxi, where the bike was put into but hanging out of the trunk, took me to the crowded, teeming taxi park. A man took $.50 to take the bike to my taxi for my village (why he didn’t just run off with the bike and sell it for more than $.50 I will never know), and I got in the taxi. A combination of twine ropes and cardboard pieces secured my baby to the roof of the vehicle, and, after hordes of vendors walked past with everything from bottled water and bread to hair pieces, radios, underwear, and flashlights, we were off. High speeds, teeth rattling roads, and interminable bypasses were next. I had visions of arriving with not a bike but only a souvenir of it, like one wheel, as I sat packed between inquisitive customers (you are not married? Why don’t you marry? Are you a nun? (to this I lie, and say yes—don’t worry, the nuns themselves told me to do it). Finally, I arrived at site. The girls greeted me—they are so sweet when I come home, with hugs, etc. The nuns themselves were excited about the bike and all have plans to borrow it—which I do not mind. So here is the beginning of a new chapter of my PC service—community programs, village outreach and better Runyancore speaking, all through my bike! Already, I have two community seminars and one rural needs assessment planned, I also have done a bit of plain fun exploring.—I even have plans for carrying sister Margaret on the back!