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!

Cross- Cultural Learning

Here I am, again, at a Peace Corps conference with the rest of the PCV’s. Last night, I was invited out with a group of them. I went. After being amazed (I had not gone out with them before—during the whole time we have been here) I really had to think. I couldn’t even sleep because I was thinking. I don’t exactly know why I hadn’t gone out with the group before; some excuse just came up every time they asked me (Even though they went out every night for ten weeks during training). The same thing happened with the six other IPSD students during my master’s degree last year. I don’t think I ever really went out with them.
I realized that I don’t know how to get along with white American young people. The other peace corps volunteers, for the most part, are from a completely different culture than I am. Whether it was Middle Eastern culture (when I was very young) or African- American (specifically Pentecostal African American) culture during high school and undergrad; I was not formed by, or comfortable in, white, middle class, secular culture. White men, in particular, are very difficult for me to get along with. In high school, I avoided them. In undergrad and in Lesotho, they weren’t around. In Rutgers, I realized my inability to talk with my classmates and basically avoided all personal interaction. I walked to training every day with a fellow PCV and do not ever remember having a personal conversation with him. The weather, politics, Uganda, etc. were all fine professional topics. But it stopped there. There was nothing else, nothing deeper, nothing in common. Music, movies, childhood activities, values, hopes, dreams, visions of what is good—they all seemed to be so different.
So, last night, I sat between two PCV guys and we were talking, laughing, communicating, and not just about professional stuff. Granted, the conversation was not as deep or as funny as one I could have had with my sisters at the convent. Maybe, however, I will learn a culture much harder than that of the Banyancore in southwestern Uganda. Maybe, I’ll learn about white people.

Anatomy of a Day/ Success

Two weeks ago, I experienced a transformational day. I began that rainy Wednesday morning at five AM, to teach my once a week early morning life skills class at the nearby secondary school. When I reached there, I found that the students were taking exams and I was told to return the following week. I saw a girl off-- she was going to Nairobi to become a nun-- and waited until daybreak (7) to collect milk for frying donuts ( a class project that morning). The milk man was late, so I walked into town and waited on a bench outside a nice woman’s store. We talked about dried fish for a while, then he came. I made donuts with the girls for visitors that were coming and they didn’t turn out very well. -- Maybe our month- long attempt to self- sustain our canteen wasn’t very bright--
I came back to the convent for breakfast, thinking how slow a day it was, how we are trying so many things but don’t know what will work, etc, and, at that moment, my supervisor, sister Christine, came in. We discussed our dreams and what we were doing. We made some adjustments, cut the donut project, decided to call a fellow PCV for a traditional oven demonstration, and decided to call a friend, Jeff, about our water tank idea. Then Jeff invited me to a board meeting at his organization.
The day snapped. Suddenly I did not need that coffee to wake me up; I was wide awake. Meeting and planning with Jeff turned into meeting with his contractor, writing up a plan and submitting my first grant. Talking about the traditional oven turned into finding the materials, gathering people and planning, then making the oven two days ago. A mosquito net project is coming through and we are currently gathering community members.
I am transitioning from mundane day to day work (which must be done in the beginning of anything to see what is going on and to establish credibility) into what I really enjoy doing. I am now going to be reducing my time spent teaching (after all, there is a reason why I am not a teacher; it is not what I really want to do all day) and increasing my time on projects and in the village. I also have some ideas for research, which may lead to who knows what. At the same time, the senior PCV who helped us with our oven (nicknamed Jesus because of his long hair and good advice) gave me some tips. I asked, "In the Peace Corps, what is success?" He said “Learning to Cope with Failure.” Then I asked, “What is failure?” He answered “If you hate the people around you every day, that is failure. If, instead of becoming more open to a new culture, you close yourself off to it and hate the people that represent it, you have failed. Some people do a lot of development work in Peace Corps. That’s fine if it is done from genuine friendship and love, but it is not the main aim.” Good advice, especially now. --- Picture above --I spent two days in the village with a girl from school and her family. I am here with her sister sorting mushrooms.--

He is Risen

Kazo Parish Church

Happy Easter!
I have just spent about 15 hours in mass this weekend! Here we really celebrate Holy Week and Easter, with three hour long masses and all night long praer vigils. On Thursday, we began with mass and ended in a prayer vigil remembering the Agony in the Garden. Our new community hall, cement floors just installed, was covered with grass and bedecked with tree branches, etc. to be a real garden. There people took turns praying and weeping through the night. On Sunday, we walked along our town's main (only?) road, stopping to kneel (and hoping to avoid the mud filled potholes) as we did a public Way of the Cross. On Saturday, we had candles, lit from the main candle, as we passed to each other the light. The symbolism was inescapable as my candle was lit by another person then I lit many other candles. At midnight, we celebrated resurrection. The drums and dancing came to life and remained lively throughout Easter mass.
To some, this may seem like torture. Especially since none of it was in English (save a few words now and then from the compassionate priest). I can tell you, however, that it was wonderful. It was really moving through the Passion and Resurrection experientially, with people who walked miles to be there. It is now night, and the girls are still drumming and singing. He is Risen indeed!