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.