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.