Eternity at heart

As a thanks for my 27 month peace corps service, I get a plane ticket home-- or reimbursement for one-- and some “readjustment” money. But no real pressure to go home. As a result, I am free to just stay here-- or drift slowly back. I am doing the latter through Ethiopia, Egypt, and Jordan, with a fellow volunteer.
In each place-- from the 1000 year old rock hewn churches in Lalibella, Ethiopia, to the glorieous mummies and burial chambers in Luxor, Egypt, we hang between awesome structures, knick knack vendors, and petty thieves.
I just finished 2 years of modern 3rd world living. Hand washing, baking over an open fire, sweeping with straws, using an outhouse, sleeping in mud and thatch structures, and bathing with a bucket. The people who built the rock hewn churches of Ethiopia and the great temples and palaces of Egypt, however, didn't even have the plastic jerry cans, buckets, soap, or latrines that I did. Here were people for whom life hung between rainy seasons, fending off wild animals, and mysterious disease-- for whom survival required constant work-- and they were focused on the hereafter. They wanted to connect with their maker, and leave something behind for their descendants. As a result, they made beautiful, intricate, spiritual tombs, churches, and temples.
At the same places, there are people who make their livings off of overpriced papyrus, buggy rides, or cold injera (Ethiopian staple) and lentils. How about grave robbers, pocket thieves, or kidnappers? How could these great historic civilizations, hewing granite and carving intricate hieroglyphics, produce such? Standing next to these grand achievements, moreover, how do shopkeepers feel as they sell junk that no one wants?
I know that in their own ways, the shopkeepers are building their lives, etc, but I would rather be a Queen Nefertari than a fake papyrus vendor.
As I see 30% unemployment on magazines in airports, and wonder about my prospects at home, I must remember this lesson. I do not want to sink into survival mode, but instead, to keep my eye on the ultimate prize; to keep eternity at heart.

Coming Out

Coming out of foothills
Glance behind
Majesty
Now, strain
all I see
air
I am where?

Last Day

I was in the pyramids, looking at mummies with missing noses-- someone told me they were WWII soldiers – and elephants were running around “Sarah, do you still want to go running? it is 6:20!” “Where am I?” Oh yeah, the village-- starting my last day. My friend, Leah and I pulled ourselves together for jogging. On the road, a group of elementary boys laughing and shouting “muzungu” got a run for their money. I chased them down and told them I was going to eat them. Last night, when a kid asked me for money, I grabbed him by the shirt, pulled his dirty little face up to mine and explained-- in the local language-- why that was a very bad idea. Further down the road, a group of women smiled and genuinely seemed happy to see us-- nice to see women brave enough to run.
We got home and took our bucket baths-- I can bathe, wash and condition my hair, and scrub the calluses off of my feet with 3 liters of water! Over our oatmeal, peanut butter, and honey breakfast, we talked about kashi and raisin bran-- ahhhhh-- made me so hungry I ate a second bowl. I then wondered what I would do today. Would I visit a village savings group this morning? Would I do monitoring in the afternoon? It was already 9:30, so the man I was supposed to meet at 8 was not yet there. Every day really is the same. As I stood on the front porch, wondering what to do, a group of students carried a screaming, quivering student by. “She has demons-- as usual” they reported.
Within a few hours, the demons were out and by three (yes, 7 hours late), I was in the village, doing a Typhoid talk. In the between, however, some people surprised me with gifts of fabric (even though my goodbye party is over) and I had a nice talk with a friend. It never changes!

Growth

Jokes aside, there are a few good things that I learned in Uganda, which frame new commitments in life. I hope that these changes for the positive will not be reversed when I hit home.

1. Natural lifestyle. I can make bread and cakes from flour and sugar, cheese from a cow, and guacamole of about 3 varieties. When I went home for David's wedding, I could taste the fake and the corn syrup in frozen pizza and a dairy queen blizzard. When I tried eating a cinnamon bun, the sweetness made me sick. It may require more creativity and time, but I want to stay as natural as possible.
2. Environmental sustainability. Living so close to the Earth and depending on nature for everything. Like, hmmmm, should I wash my clothes? It hasn't rained, so there is no water-- or it's raining now so they won't dry. Or, the school closed early because the crops dried up and there wasn't enough food. These are everyday occurrences. I want to maintain a commitment to sustainable decision making when I get home-- especially with water and fuel (after my first long shower to wash off the grime and riding a plane home, that is). I don't need to live in a big place and I hope to take public transport and have a natural foods option. Furthermore, I love what Mayor Nutter is doing with green surfaces in Philly and what new LEED housing ideas are doing. Who knows, by the time I need a car, I might drive hydrogen- powered.
3. Deeper spiritual connections. I have been introduced to a whole new world of spirituality with Catholicism. Nouwen, Merton, St. Francis-- solitude and deeper prayer. The nuns are so hard working and happy and kind because time in prayer is their mainstay. Poverty, celibacy, and obedience-- basically denial of all that humanity craves. What do they gain? A lot of joy, for one thing, and more care for other people.
4. Human color and diversity. The Peace Corps is so diverse and colorful, it adds a great mosaic backdrop to my life. I want to continue being a part of an interesting community of people at home, whether in a city neighborhood or a small town.
5. Not worry about being “late” for something in life. I met a priest who started first grade at 17 and was ordained in his late thirties. Several people, due to family delays, etc., don't do things at the exactly correct time here. But who cares? You can't let past problems ruin you because you're afraid of a bit of delay. Besides, life is about the journey, so enjoy the scenic route!
6. Realize that every post is equal, but you have to make it your own. Some peace corps volunteers work in high powered offices and have apartments in town with running water. Ok, not in Uganda, but I'm sure it happens somewhere. Others are deep in the village, making stoves out of cow dung and baking their own bread or living on cassava flour. In the end, both are valuable and meaningful. I am returning home with an idea of a post- bac then med. School, so I have a plan. But if there are some kinks in the road, I can still have meaning in life. Plan B is bee- keeping and surrogate motherhood and Plan C. is returning to Uganda and becoming a wedding singer. So- no worries, right?
7. Commitment to the team. I did not expect other volunteers to be so wonderful, but they have been a big part of why Peace Corps is great. Sharing beer and goat's meat, jamming to local tunes, or climbing in the hills, time with my fellow peace corps volunteers, no matter how different we are from each other, has been extraordinary. When I return, I want to keep up with friends and continue in the spirit of camaraderie with my new team mates—ok, minus the goat meat.

Serendipity

This last month, I decided to move to a hospital and try to see if this medicine thing is right or not. At first, I had grand illusions of shadowing a doctor friend of my parents the whole time. A fellow PCV had become an impromptu scrub nurse, and I thought “That should get me used to blood!” The doctor, however, was not interested in another scrub nurse and was combating an area typhoid epidemic, so the best thing I could do was to stay out of the way. Some German med. Students (all of 21 years old, impossibly thin, and in their final year) could not conceal a slight repulsion toward my lack of usefulness and my misdirected life. I don’t blame them-- I had no idea what I was going to do with my life at 10 yrs old.
Three hours later, I found myself scared to ask the nurse’s aide; what is a normal blood pressure reading? Boredom ensued-- you can only make so much of reading patient charts all day and trying (unsuccessfully) to look intelligent as you follow a stick thin med. student around.
I came home to a fellow pcv’s house (for whom I am puppy and cat sitting……….) and thought, a whole month of this? Good enough it was a Friday. That evening, I met some nuns nearby. A short conversation about the typhoid epidemic and they wanted me to speak in church on Sunday. I quickly put some local language teaching materials together then talked with nearly 100 people. I was then asked to return for women’s groups on Tuesday -- where I met about 80 women. The parish development coordinator found me and asked if I had free time (you bet I did!!!) and if I could climb into some mountain villages to talk there-- again a resounding YES! The next day, mountains, and then the next, a catechists’ meeting (with representatives from each village). Now I have speaking engagements sufficient to fill the next three weeks, training community groups, from savings associations, to agricultural trainings, to churches, to prevent typhoid. The material is basic-- water sterilization, water protection, basic hygiene, signs/ symptoms and treatment, but it is not yet widely known. I had to say a little prayer, thank you, God for your Church!. Of course I’m not doing anything special like taking blood pressure but, hey, I’m happy.

The Beauty and the Bruises

Yesterday, a friend, Jill, and I decided to hike to the top of a mountain/hill and look down from there on our past two years. After four hours of bright morning hiking, we reached the top, and were able to sit on the edge of our world. It looked like a movie screen surrounding us as we looked down. We talked about this experience, about how we have had so many different seasons here-- about the lack of consistency in anything. Laying on our backs to the clouds, and looking at green, stony hills of cows, we thought we would really miss this pace...... that is, until we ran out of water. Sun beaten and thinking about the Somali refugees, we had to go through two dry villages before someone was selling drinking water. As the people flocked to look at us, I tried to explain that we were not elephants in a park....When we finally reached Jill's home, in the evening, there was also no water. Dizzy, I dragged the jerry can to a community borehole and waited for the intravenous trickle to fill the 20 litre jug. Then I went to the latrine, stubbed my head on the short door frame, and reflected on the brown finger smears all over the walls (when people don't have toilet paper...). and started to cry. I finally got my bucket bath, in which I removed one layer of dirt-- but not all-- and we went to a local restaurant for dinner. Whoops-- they had no food. Thighs still throbbing, we went to a different restaurant, where a young man was very intent on talking with us. Over fried goat meat (bones and ligaments) and fries in the dark, I told him how we were Zimbabwean crocodile farmers and how lucky he is to be in Uganda where the government doesn't steal your land or kill your family.... and a bit about the basics of croc farming. This morning I rode in a 14-seater minivan with 24 other people, where a half hour ride stretched into one and a half hours and a pervasive smell of smoke and bad milk was adding to my nausea. Finally I got out, flagged down a car and hitch- hiked the rest of the way. All so I could communicate with you all. There are things that I will and others that I will not miss.

Torn

There is a young lady I know, Catherine, that has become a close friend. After siring 6 children by one wife, her father married a second wife, who bore him another 7 children. He neglected the first wife's children and allowed his second wife to chase them away from the home. My friend, at the tender age of 13, was thrown out of the home. She subsequently left school and went to work as a maid, where she was routinely abused. She contracted HIV.
Two years later, a priest heard about her plight, had her connected with the hospital, and sponsored her stay in school. She is now becoming a nurse and is healthy and productive. Her father is now trying to re- establish his relationship with her and ask her for money.

This story is so typical that I am almost bored typing it. Any Peace Corps volunteer would be bored to read it. It is the story not only of Catherine but of half of the children I run across and many of those seeking sponsorships.

I love Catherine herself and want the best for her: from that perspective I am happy she was sponsored by some white person somewhere.
There are millions of parents, however, like her father. They just have children and believe that a muzungu somewhere will care for them. As long as this keeps happening, nothing changes.
And what happens to the role of the government and civil society when foreigners continue to support inadequate institutions and policies instead of allowing Ugandans to challenge their own institutions?

I am torn. Every day, these questions come up in a million ways. From, should I help with the money for doing X at the school? Yes there is no money, but the parents don't send money because they think the sisters have a lucrative muzungu connection. To, should I sponsor so and so when I leave? She is a good girl, great student, but her parents should also have some part in it.

The easy solutions are the worst: 1. Those poor Africans! I want to care for them! Who made you the mother or father of these people? Do you really want all these adults to act like children? That is disempowerment, that is paternalism.

2. Hot mess-- these people have to get it together, I'm out! The second is my present inclination.

I remember, however, how I have been helped in my own life. A very good friend has never given me money but she pushed me to do all I can and to "be all I can be." In fact, she made me apply for the Peace Corps in the first place. She is now on my neck for completing what I need to do. When she found out about the medical school dream, we had a planning session of how to bring it to reality. Does she belittle me? No. Does she do the easy thing and throw money? Never. This, however, is a personal relationship; requiring mentoring, time, advice, and, at times, calling me out. That is what we do as Peace Corps Volunteers. Try to befriend, try to be a part, try to bring out the best in the other. My best role for donations/ aid when I go home will probably again be these personal relationships. Becoming a big sister or friend to a parent-less American youth and keeping in touch with friends from Uganda-- these mundane, time consuming personal connections are the ones that matter.

Secondly, as one priest reminded me, those parents giving birth to 10 or more children are uneducated. My friend Catherine, for example, despite her parents' decisions, will not have many kids. In the end, despite my qualms, school sponsorships are the best forms of aid that I have seen. When I go home to the US, I will have positive comments about many school sponsorship programs in Uganda. I know a young lady that I am thinking of sponsoring for education when I leave as well. She has never asked for money, but I know her parents recently died. She is also a hard worker, a former student of mine, and consistently first in her class. I don't pity her-- I want to be a part of where this great lady is going!

My Confession

Forgive me, dear readers, I have sinned. For the past 6 months, I have been thinking and planning and praying, and consulting people. I have, inevitably, driven some of my Peace Corps friends crazy with constant talking and thinking and dreaming and planning—all about one thing. Although I have hinted about it multiple times on this blog; I was a bit afraid to bare all. You have, for all your following and reading, been completely in the dark.
Today, after my computer’s Ebola epidemic, after my friend’s computer was struck by lightning and after the internet café and hour and a half away (by cramped taxi) claimed to have “lost the network”—I decided that it was now or never. I still cannot be completely straight with you, so I will tell you by way of a story: that of my life.
After an interesting but not completely challenging liberal arts education, I decided to travel the world and learn. For a year I traveled, then I decided on a masters’ and peace corps. By the time I found myself in the Peace Corps, I had begun to visualize my future career as a dark, boring, unfulfilling gray—working for some organization where I was not challenged and where I continuously found ethical quandaries—I was only 24!
In college, several friends became doctors, a road which seemed much more interesting and challenging, but one which required an absolute calling--- something I was very unsure of. The world was so big, I did not want to think about one patient at a time, just yet.
The more I see big projects fail, and big people unwittingly feed big rotten messes, I wonder if one person at a time doesn’t constitute the whole world, after all. The people I have met here who have the most on the ground relevance and actually DO something are doctors. Whether my friend doing fistula surgeries in Kasese or MSF in my village; doctors actually stay on the ground with real people. When they do want to advocate for someone or something, furthermore, they seem to know a heck of a lot more about the subject at hand—and are listened to.
In December, I gave myself a Christmas gift. I took out a big piece of butcher paper and mapped out where I could go from here—career wise. This included becoming a social worker at home, working in the foreign service, working for international aid orgs, and medicine. Every day, at the day’s end, I voted for which one I wanted; according to my set of values also posted on the wall. I wanted to be personally helpful to someone, to be able to make ethical decisions, to become a part of a community, to have an interesting career, and to continuously learn and be challenged. I also began visiting any medical person or clinic or hospital I could find, to see if I was crazy or not. Medicine won every day (except one).
The Middle Eastern Awakening furthermore discouraged international public policy – people should be able to decide for themselves what to do; not having a foreign govt. supporting a repressive regime. I just kept thinking, when I am on my deathbed and looking back at life, what will make me feel as if I have lived well, and ethically, and used all I have? Or, instead, will I have propped up repressive regimes my whole life or just shuffled papers and done nothing?
I want to really help others, really do something challenging and life absorbing; not just nine to five.
Since that time, I have been looking into several post-bac programs to fulfil my pre- med requirements and it seems as though I could make it into several. From there to med- school (the programs I want go directly from the former to the latter); I will be 5 years behind someone coming straight from undergrad. 5 years to have lived in two foreign countries and really thought about my place in this world and what I want to do. 5 years to confirm the fact that I want to have a challenging, personally meaningful, and not world- dominating career. 5 years to banish my regrets. 5 years to have managed some projects and have the ability to take any career international, if I want.
According to Merton, one is supposed to go to a desert not of isolation of personal emotions; interpersonal interactions, and personality challenges. John F. Kennedy, for all his politics, was a Catholic when he founded this crazy peace corps idea. I am emerging from a two year desert, in Uganda, but a 4 year desert from Lesotho to Camden to here. Merton says we should emerge “great, noble, and pure.” Looking at that crucifix in mass every day; with an example of a great, knowledgeable creator who gave life painfully for me, I think about living for a calling. Dying for a calling every day. As long as I keep those motives pure, the doctor thing seems to fit. What do they say—Africa steals your heart, then it kills you. What will my med. School interviewers think when I tell them that becoming a doctor is like dying, so that you can really live? Ummm, maybe 5 years was a little too long to ruminate.

Abaana Babo

The title means "their children," which mothers routinely used when referring to personal offspring; I rarely hear a mother say "abaana bangye;" which means "my children."
Last weekend, I visited my best peace corps friend’s site. Along with her blossoming chicken and goat farm (she has 7 chickens and two new goats so far-- all with names), she also has a neighbor with three small children—aged 3, 2, and 1. So far, my friend has found the 3 year old locked in the latrine and has witnessed all 3 being beaten with wooden planks. As you may imagine, CPS does not exactly exist here. All of us have seen stories of school children being beaten to death by teachers—who, overwhelmingly, are only relocated to different schools. I personally know a headmaster who is accused of raping several of the girls in his primary school; one of whom recently had a baby.
In my community; I see numerous children and adults with significant scarring—as the result of a toxic mixture of abuse and negligence. Small charcoal stoves on the ground, which babies easily grab, buckets of water in which they drown; none are moved or removed. I’ll never forget visiting a friend in the village- upon observing that one of his 2 year old daughter’s fingers went missing, I was told that the 3 year old had cut it off with a knife. Sure enough; when I looked outside, the same 3 year old was playing with the same knife. Furthermore, it is not rare to find children tearing apart animals callously; one teenage boy beat the sisters’ new calf to death when it refused to go where he wanted it to.
On the other hand, many educated, wealthy Ugandans fail to discipline children whatsoever. This produces the most insipid, sniveling, entitled brats imaginable.
With my peace corps friend, however, I also visited a different new mother. A year ago, she was forcibly raped by a taxi driver; then found herself, a single career woman without children, pregnant. We came to visit both baby and mother. After a bit of pressing, she told us the birth story. The tiny woman, after the first 12 hours of labor, was found have a baby in fetal distress and rushed to the nation’s best hospital. For 12 more hours (during 5 of which she was waiting in line for registration); she waited for a C-section. When the doctor finally arrived in the ward, he proclaimed that he was tired and refused to see more than the first 5 women on the list. There were 13 women waiting, and the narrator was #12. By luck, her brother was a doctor and convinced his colleague to do the operation.
As evidence of the surgery’s success, was one of the cleanest, healthiest babies that I’ve ever seen—with ample motherly care—even though the absent and abusive father has legal rights (in this patrilineal place) to take her away when he chooses to.  

Year of the African Child

You see pictures of them, snotty nosed and ragged, on tv; accompanied by ads from organizations that cliam to need YOUR money to help them. If nothing else, Peace Corps is going to save me a lot of money in the future because (with a few exceptions) I am very unlikely to fall for it.
I feel most Westerners conceptualize African children in the same vein as puppies and kittens in the humane society commercials. They’re so cute! Awwww so sad! I just want to take him home! A group of Americans – known for tying to adopt children after spending an hour or two—ok, sometimes four—with them came last month. I side with the group calling them baby stealers. We had a small argument which included the following—But their parents didn’t care!—They don’t belong to their parents, they belong to their communities. They’re living in squalor! That fact that you call their living conditions squalor shows what you think of their culture—besides you should probably wash you feet and iron your shirt. How can you possibly love someone whose culture you don’t care one whit about?
Here, a person\s value ins not only individual; it is defined as part of their communities- families- and ethnic groups. To rip them away creates fissues in both community and child. Furthermore, I wonder if it is really so altruistic. Imagine a childless person—she wants to give a child a “better life”—but demands lifelong love and obedience from a child at the expense of his/her identity and community in return. Is that love? At this point, I’ve decided that if you really feel bad for a kid, it is less selfish to sponsor a kid through school than to kidnap.
Sponsorship, which I have done in the past and may again do in the future, is not really that great either. Research shows that as GDP goes up, which implies a monetary society, indicating wages and increased importance of educated employment instead of agricultural labor—birth rates go down. Unless, that is, a large amount of foreign aid is involved—in which case both GDP and population growth rise. My interpretation is simple—if someone else will care for your kid, don’t worry about how many you can feed and educate—let the rich muzungu do it.
In the end, the environment will suffer and the unequivocably passive- aggressive mother earth will kill us all. If I have more money than I know what to do with, I am going to buy as much land as I can and let it grow wild—for the sake of us all.

Dragon Tattoos

Yesterday, a four year old girl was brought into the health center. She was quite ordinary; with the normal ring worm signs on her head and big torn clothes over a small body with an oversized belly. She, however, was unique; in that she was accompanied by several police men and a seventy year old relative. Apparently, the old man had been found raping her and, miraculously, someone reported it to the police. More miraculously, the man did not have sufficient money to pay off the police, so man and child were brought into the hospital. After alleging not to have raped the girl, the man was released. After all, there were not DNA testing facilities or cameras, etc. for proof.
Upon hearing the story, I was immediately transported back in time to 2007 in Lesotho, where such occurrences seemed normal. Unlike Uganda, Lesotho was late in structuring a plan to attack HIV; allowing various rumors and witch doctors to come up with alternative healing measures instead. One such belief was that if one slept with a virgin, he/she could be cured of HIV/AIDS. Who is more likely to be a virgin than a small child, or a baby? Several babies with ruptured internal organs and small girls with traumatic stories began appearing. At the orphanage where I lived, there were several; one particularly tiny girl had been kidnapped and used for a year as a child prostitute—sold as a “virgin” to unsuspecting HIV positive men. Her kidnappers were discovered and jailed—then released after one year. She is now 13 with raving AIDS and, when I left, she wished me the one thing that she does not hope to attain—a long life.
In Lesotho, however, as in Uganda, the traditional house was a round room, where everyone did everything—without shame. In Lesotho, due to cold, grown children dressed and bathed in the presence of their parents. According to what I was told, molestation of children by parents was so rare that there was no shame in such practices. Is it not, then, insane to have rooms in your house precisely because there is so much scandal that children are afraid of their parents’ eyes? When did Westerners start hiding from their family members--- it must have been far before Freud had to invent his crazy theories in response the insane child abuse cases he came across.
Last night, I read Steig Larssen’s “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” I have to admit that the images of snow covered Sweden and old stone houses with fireplaces were heavenly. The descriptions of sexual violence, however, were more than disturbing. 1. How could Mr. Larssen have spent so much mental energy on such sadistic and misogynistic ideas—what did he DO in his free time? 2. Why on EARTH are millions of people thrilled by such images? My mind instantly flashed to the two different Austrian men found to have kept young girls in secret sex slave basement cells for decades—one of them being the perpetrator’s daughter. I also thought of my old psychotherapy professor (now in her sixties) who was kidnapped at fifteen and raped and almost killed—until she fought her way out. She said that she decided to become a big woman, an intimidating woman, and a woman whom no one else would ever think of harming again. I thought about the many strong, physically substantial women that I know who give that impression—I am tough, I am not a delicate rose, I am serious and respectable and will never be vulnerable with you. I know that I am one of them and do not intend to change.
The book was a New York Times best seller and was hailed as a sexy thriller—I would say that it had great descriptions and character development and was extremely harrowing. But sexy? I hope not—because if that type of violence is what interests people, we have more problems than Uganda’s seventy year old men. Just to take precautions, however, I am doing Kenpo X in my small room tonight and vow to take a Karate and or RADD class when I get back to the States.

Almost There!

Just a few days ago, I was ruminating about the recent digital Ebola outbreak—in which my computer fell victim. Yes, the “h” key was hemoraging. I was seated on a taxi—14 seater minivan—with 21 other adults, one of whom was a very obese man complete knocked out and snoring—drunk?-- and leaning heavily on my shoulder. So far, pretty normal, except for the 50 fluttering chickens underfoot, and, therefore, all of my traveling possessions on my lap. Pretty light, except the large tub of local peanut butter for one of my nuns, and the fact that it was all on one hip (that’s the only way to fit 5 to a seat). For any anatomy and physiology people out there—the human hip is incredibly durable, but it does protest a bit.
Flash forward to a room the size of my village house doubled, with an attached bathroom containing a toilet, shower, bathtub and sink (not all one bucket and ALL WORKING!). There is also real air conditioning, hard wood closets, a bed with a duvet and a real mattress! Have I begun an unofficial liason with some political crony? Not that it has not been suggested, but NO! Did I find an oil field on my land? —again, not impossible, but NO! Instead, I am at the Close of Service (they call it Continuation of Service, after which an involuntary “Oh Lord!” came shooting out of my mouth!) We are at one of the nicest hotels in Uganda, many, including yours truly with fresh razor burn, following drain clogging less than annual shaves, to discuss ending our time in Uganda and moving forward.
The focus is on the future—what next? I remember someone telling me that life after college just goes downhill and I refused that. I also refuse for life after peace corps to be downhill. Some of us have been accepted into Ph.D. programs, some have interviews at NASA and financial firms, others seek careers as Wal- Mart greeters, still others are hopping on a bus headed south and seeing where they get between here and South Africa. I was going to be in the last group but now have a different thought. In between discussing our medical procedures for leaving (testing for a variety of intestinal and/ or blood visitors and back to the US insurance costs) a sort of panic sets in. They gave us brochures about thoroughly inculturated PCV’s (women in missionary gear; men in long beards, trying to become normal again—unsuccessfully.
Videos of happy, successful cubicle workers, like hamsters on treadmills, in the US spell only one thing—--fear. This experience has been beautiful, variegated, and most of all, completely unpredictable. The second night of the conference, I didn’t sleep. The third night, I only cried. I don’t want to lose the color and the freedom. That’s why the other volunteers are here. It doesn’t have to fade to grey the other side. You choose what you want. We can choose to live in beautiful, unpredictable communities—yours truly hopes for Philly—we can join RPCV groups, we can choose interesting, demanding careers. Like any other infectious and fatal disease, the fade to grey is preventable, with proper cautions.
Back to my site, someone stole someone else’s phone, someone is dying and can’t get to the doctor, I wake up in the morning with no control of my day; life in Uganda is not perfect either, but I will miss it.

Inch Deep and Mile Wide

Last week, I went to church with a friend in her village. On the wall of the simple building were pictures of St. Daniel Comboni and the Uganda Martyrs, respectively. The building was obviously unfinished, with no windows or outside paint. It was, however, already cracking, with large cracks up and down the floor and a large crack from ceiling to floor. The cracks were patched up but obviously endemic. Sometimes I think this is a perfect illustration of religious faith in Uganda. Not yet to the point of reasoning, not past the point of “everyone is doing this,” and many times not to the point of personal behavioral change, but already with serious fundamental cracks. Moreover, the priest emphasized that the parish could no longer depend on outsiders for funding, but had to stand on its own. He set a challenge for each person to give $0.50 that month. I know that this is half of the cost of a motorcycle ride across town—which most people can achieve quite easily. It seemed, however, to be a great challenge.
I would be the first to say that I wanted my experience here to be spiritual, and it has been. It has been much more spiritual than I ever imagined, but I am a bit unique in that. I have met some Ugandans who speak of faith in a cogniscent manner and are able to talk about philosophy. For the masses flooding football stadiums to see big TV preachers—hand in hand with prominent politicians—however, I wonder.
The sisters usually say that still waters run deep; I completely agree. For the masses of people shouting the gospel on street corners and dancing in Pentecostal churches; multiple wives are still the norm, the alcohol consumption rate is still the highest in the world, and the rate of HIV infection is still increasing. Speaking of my sisters, moreover, their order was founded in the 1970’s, at which time, it received many new novices. That stream of young women has already begun to atrophy. When the great old orders, begun in the 1500’s in Europe took at least half a millennium to decrease, this one is struggling to reach 50 years strong. The obvious corollary exists—noisy waters are usually shallow.
This is not to discount the great work done by missions and missionaries in Africa. As I know several missionary priests and work at Catholic institutions, I admire their efforts. I am certainly unable to start several schools and hospitals and religious orders, changing a completely foreign people into baptized converts on my own. I admire the old missionaries still around who speak the local language better than locals and are responsible for the faiths of thousands if not more. My question, however, is one—what is the foundation? Inculturation teaches us that the African philosophy on God does not ask what is true; it seeks merely to relate to deity in the best way possible. My nuns tell me that the Christian God is appealing because He is kinder than the vengeful ancestors of traditional beliefs. Maybe the gifts of schools and hospitals don’t hurt, either.
At the end, there is still Sister D. in the garden, who saw fellow teachers hacked to death by rebels in Gulu. She doesn’t speak much, but spends at least 4 hours a day with her Jesus in the prayer room. When I hear her pray the luminous mysteries, I know she speaks from a relationship. The loud PTA chairman, however, with his big crucifix, recently married his 16th and 17th wives, respectively, and tried to sell his handicapped son for human sacrifice. The other week tried to make a big public donation in church. The priest, who is a fan of Buddhism and psychology, as they relate to Christ—made him sit down and put the donation away. What a place!

You WISH you only had Malaria!

The other week, I was with two other volunteers in a part of the country where you travel for 12 hours-- part of it through windy, mountainous roads-- to reach Kampala. Needless to say, we did not want to reach Kampala. Until, that is, a friend kept getting progressively ill. First, she was burping and complainging of stomach pain-- I smelled the burps and decided against Ghiardia (Most of us are INTIMATELY acquainted with the smell). So we continued; then she started laying on the floor in pain and vomiting. Another volunteer and I went to get groceries, only to find her angry at us because of the pain she was in. At this point, we were on standfast (not allowed to travel because of riots in Kampala)and the patient kept repeating that she could not travel due to pain.
By then, it was a very dark 7pm; our midnight, and we had to do something. The helpful nurse 12 hours away suggested that we bring her to a local hospital where we could test for Malaria. Not hard in a booming tourist town; right? Four hours, a hospital, two clinics, and one private Muzungu doctor later-- no one was able to do the tests. The hospital staff, though neatly dressed, could not locate their own reception area, let alone a doctor. The clinics both lacked lab services and tests; although one contained a kindly old German speaking doctor (with very unsterile equipment). Finally, we found the number of an expat Dutch doctor and asked him to help us. His response-- I am a surgeon, I don't do that! was less than encouraging. Finally we found a Scottish anthropologist (doctor of a different type) that had suffered from Malaria so many times that he had rapid test kits (no pcv's don't have them-- thank Washington's budget cuts for that!). The patient was negative, and I mean in more ways than one! Despite further concern's about Washington's budget and the fact that we weren't supposed to travel, the other healthy volunteer and I decided that, despite the teargas, doctors in Kampala would be better able to help our freind.
In true 007 style, therefore, we bundled her in the back of a private hire, with the phone number of the peace corps driver. They had to meet in passing somewhere along that 12 hour journey-- without a disclosed location-- remember we are not supposed to move because of protests rocking the capital! She reached Kampala safely and, thankfully, the muzungu doctor there was a bit more helpful (and sterile) in pronouncing----- appendicitis! Good thing we did not delay any more. After an incredibly invasive surgery (no lasers here, guys), she is alive; but it was close. If she was a Ugandan, would she have made it? Sorry to say, but this bright, wonderful young lady, if a Ugandan would probably not be with us and when a muzungu like me would have asked why she died, the reply would have been, "She was sick for a while, probably Malaria, or the Disease (AIDS)." Just another example of WHY life expectancy is 20 yrs less here than in the US.

Soil and Spirit

Dirt-- in the US it is something we hear about, or we vacume up, or we wash off of our cars. Sometimes a child brings dirt in from that totally separate world-- the OUTSIDE. Even in yards and lawns, a person can roll around on the grass without getting dirty. The first thing I think about in Uganda, however, is dirt. Dust, mud, crud, stuff that smells like urine and excrement (and I know partially is)-- especially when less than half of the population has access to an outhouse, when goats and chickens and naked children roam freely, is everywhere. In houses made of dirt, and where doors and door frames, windows and window frames, ceilings and walls don't fit, you cannot escape. I mop my house every day, and after a few barefoot steps, my feet are always filthy.
Dirt is also soil, however, and in the rich, red- black soil in which I garden lies the food I eat. In a country of over 80% subsistence farmers, this soil is life. Sometimes I think that people come from it, and I know that when they die, they don't go to cemented cemetery plots. Instead, they are buried under the garden, in a wooden coffin, into the soil.
This is why, when the sisters found that a member of the parish refused to leave her house, they visited her. For a person to stay indoors and refuse the soul (and body) nourishing act of gardening-- something is serious! A recent widow, it pertained to the death of her husband, but was a more serious reaction than anyone else they had seen. After four long years of trying and pleading, she remained inside (yes, I want to diagnose according to the DSM-IV, but you find the psychiatrist that can come out here!)
Last year, therefore, one sister had an idea, bring the muzungu (white person)! Sure enough, when I came, with a camera, we made a deal-- if she can come out, she gets a picture. She came out and took a picture OUTSIDE of her house with her children and one of the sisters, as shown above.
For Easter, we were in for a special surprise, as she came to mass and decided to end her days inside. So, last week, I went with two sisters to re-initiate that very essential task-- gardening. Her daughter had been previously farming their 7 acres -by hand- alone. We came out and did a gardening bee.
We walked about 5 miles guided by small, swift children (there is no childhood obesity in this village!) to her house. There, after a prayer, we begun the work. We were six women in all, weeding beans, swiftly, barefoot, and with laughter and giggles. I am afraid that I uprooted three bean plants, but, all in all, I wasn't so bad. After the 5 mile walk home again, and beans and maize for supper, I was in paradise. What if every person suffering from depression and any other mental illness could be cared for in the same way? I swear that this soil is better than the mental wards I've seen. I was also, however, ready for a long bucket bath-- guess I'm not totally in love with all of the soil :)

Resurrection

After the choice to die, after the death, after the vigil, there is resurrection. Like new grass growing through old, cracked sidewalks, or new flower bushes and trees from the skeletons of burned down crackhouses, resurrection is better than the original; it has discarded what was meaningless and become beautiful.

What strikes me in church on Easter is the beauty. Whether in women's dresses, and small kids suits, or in the sisters' chapel, now adorned with fresh flowers and bows, resurrection is beauty. Beauty I could see on Gladstone st. in Detroit, where the empty lots had fields of purple flowers and broken mansions had vines and trees protruding from the strangest places. So much better than the new northern suburbs with their coffin- like row houses, plush, sealed, and completely, identically, comfortable.

I'll never forget the brightly painted, slightly sagging row houses in Camden; orange, red, and blue, or the mosaics of street art on the sides of corner stores.

This unconventional, reborn beauty, has a different set of values that the old, pre death world. Instead of status, neat, orderly, wealth, sex, and power, we have an inverted world, a bigger perspective. Blessed are the ...... poor, the meek, the mourning, the man who locks up the corner park every night and chases away the drug dealers, the pastor who visits her flock of drug addicts in under- street tunnels, the surgeon who spends his retirement fixing Congolese fistulas.

This beauty is what I want. If I would have had a nice, cookie cutter, normal childhood, and had obtained a practical bachelors degree and gone straight into a marriage and career and suburban house, I would not have attained it. Despite all the retirement cruises and safaris, I would know that I was deeply, comfortable, vacum- packed, white, and grey. As it is, I am, despite the flies, and the latrine, and the rabid dogs, and the dusty, muddy, dirty, dirty feet-- colorful, resurrected!

Good Friday and Saturday Vigil

On Good Friday, the people in my parish do the way of the cross up and down the dirt road of our village. Apart from all the shouts of muzungu! from small children, it is quite meaningful. On Saturday, we lit a bonfire and had a vigil until Easter Morning. Anyone who thinks that Catholicism is about mass twice a year for 30 minutes is sorely mistaken!
I forgot to bring my candle, so I had to run back to the convent by starlight and grab it.

What is this vigil and this way of the cross? I thought about those disciples praying and afraid that the Romans would kill them on the first Saturday vigil. They did not think of a resurrection or a worldwide Church. They were simply praying. Who were they praying to? the Jewish God that they had known their whole lives, because they certainly did not think that Jesus was beyond mortal.

I think that is what faith is. It is not seeing the Sunday morning or even believing that you will stay alive to see it. It is simply believing that God is and is good and remaining faithful to your commitment, although you are terrified. That is what Job did, after all. He did not have faith in a change of situation -- but he did not his change his commitment to the Situator.

I have experienced several deaths in my time here, and before I came. Faith doesn't necessarily mean believing in a resurrection, because we are often unable to even go that far. It is believing that my Father is here, even now, and in that way, seeing through the death.

Eventually, after I came back into the church, panting from my run, I had my candle lit. That is what a candle is, after all. It doesn't allow you to see the sun, but it guides you through the night.

Holy Thursday

At my parish in Uganda, the Christians decorate the church hall with branches and straw, so you feel as though you are in a garden, and have prayer until midnight after Holy Thursday service.

You are to be waiting with Jesus in the garden, as he makes his decision whether or not to be crucified.

This year, I thought about all the ways we try to cling to life. Sometimes, I just want so badly for my life to transcend my limited earthly existence. I think that money and power and sex are, many times, the ways we try to move beyond our limited existences and influence others or be a part of others' lives. Most of all, we do not want to be alone, or limited to our own lives.

That is what death shows us; our limitedness, our loneliness. When you are a believer, however, you realize that you are incapable of changing it on your own. You see that no matter how much money, power or sex you have, you can not change your mortal status. Instead, you embrace the crucifixion, the death-- the poverty, the chastity, the obedience. Hope is believing that out of this will spring resurrection. It is believing that our attempts are just ashes but that someone greater can make beauty of them.

In undergrad, I remember writing a paper about the spirituality of HIV+ persons. Research has shown that, after the diagnosis of HIV, people (especially in the western world, where we have time to spend researching this)reported greater sense of life purpose and spirituality. In realization of mortality, we sluff off the old, dead body and begin to find the spirit, the purpose.

In the end, unless I die, unless I give up my grip on this life, I cannot live again, or even live fully here and now.

CIA and Peace Corps

This year, Peace Corps celebrated it's 50th anniversary. I was told that there were rousing speeches hailing JFK and a lot of Nile beer and dancing at the Peace Corps Uganda event-- I wasn't there.
When I think about what this experience does for us, however, I would recommend it to anyone because it is life changing, politics changing, and career changing.
That is why I don't think that it was just JFK's idea. What better plot from those 60's era CIA guys to quell potential uprisings and conservatize the most radical elements of society than this? Take the most hippy dippy liberal and liberal arts kids and stick them in the third world. You like socialism? Try a country where you cannot find fruit! You want equal pieces of the pie? Look at how tiny those pieces will be! You want more civil liberties? Try a place where you are not even allowed to walk! You want to help the poor-- watch your ideas fall apart!
Furthermore, apart from all this saving the world and enriching worldwide peace and friendship and making the world safe for democracy-- our democracy-- stuff, Peace Corps volunteers do a lot of monotonous things. Filing, typing (because no one here can touch type) putting together reports, and fixing computers are all routinely asked of us. This is apart from the endless speeches and mind- numbingly boring parties that we have to attend. Wait, I even forgot, cooking, endless cleaning, and washing clothes by hand (yes you can hire someone, but that is usually how you end up at the peace corps nurse with strange warts and rashes or intestinal parasites) We are, in effect, thought of as living ATM machines, mythological brownie elves, superstars, and computer geniuses, all in one. Makes you think twice about that awe inspiring liberal arts education which didn't even teach you to change a light bulb, let alone help one sick person!

Instead of attending the 50th celebration, therefore, I was visiting with a friend who is a British urologist and has worked for much of his career in the third world. I have realized (thanks to the CIA??) that I don't want to be part of a political aid game forever and I really want to be able to practically do something for someone and have skills that lead to a salary, even if that means becoming much more conservative with my life and changing my career.

Running in the dark

As some of you know, I am posted in a rural ranching area in the southwest of Uganda. I have calculated a population of about 6000 (I counted all the children in my trading center's schools-- 3000-- and doubled it as children are half of the population, then I figured the kids boarding here from other areas make up for those not in school at all). I used to think that this would be like my grandparents' small farming town in the US, also with 6000 people (but far fewer children and more streetlights, pavement, a sewage system, and electricity).

I, therefore, began jogging down different roads and exploring the area, confident of my safety and of the population's purportedly amicable nature. (No matter what country you go to, Peace Corps sends you an "informational" booklet about your destination, which invariably starts with the words "The people of _______ are the friendliest people on earth!" and a picture of a random white kid with what looks to be a traditionally dressed country national.)
This was all in early 2010--- before the elderly watchman of our school was assaulted on his bicycle on my jogging path. This was before a different elderly man was killed by his daughter in law for his money (about $2,000)on another jogging path. This was before someone told my nuns that men were planning to assault me on my jogging path. Honestly, I wouldn't think much of it but my buddy in the hospital lab keeps telling me that a third to a half of the people he tests are positive for HIV. Then someone stole a motorcycle and a few motorcycle drivers ganged up, doused him with gasoline and lit him ablaze (he did not survive). Oh yeah, and then a fellow pcv was ambushed and robbed at rifle- point (they don't seem to have handguns here-- or maybe they are hidden under those huge polyester dresses-- no that's where the armored tanks are).
Following many rounds of P90X --and people knocking on my door only to find an inexplicably sweaty girl emerge at random times in the afternoon-- the athletics teacher from the nearby secondary school asked me to go jogging with him. Excited for an opportunity to jog again, I readily accepted. So what I originally thought would be two years of long, leisurely late afternoon jogs turned into fast paced, pre-dawn running through an extremely hilly course. It doesn't help that the BBC told me East Africans are genetically predisposed to and environmentally preconditioned for fast running.
When we met in Philadelphia for staging, before leaving for Uganda, my room-mate was jumping on her bed shouting that she was "Going to Africa!" I, already in chacos and a long skirt, said "This is going to be fun-- fun like a marathon." After the initial excitement and naivete of the first 7 miles has worn off, after you are used to everything falling apart, then things coming back together, and falling apart again, I now add "An extremely hilly marathon in the dark where you hope that you trust the guy next to you." At month 22, I wonder if I am close to hitting my "wall"-- then a wonderful surprise will happen, like the sun coming up as you break the top of the hill, or avocado season, or a new project-- ok haven't hit it yet.