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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
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 :)
Monday, April 25, 2011
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!
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
CIA and Peace Corps
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.
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.
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