Deep Breaths

Really Africa? Why don’t you just throw some typhoid fever at me? Or maybe being attacked by a lion would be a little more creative at this point and shake it up a bit instead?

So after my joyous Monday finding out I didn’t have malaria anymore, I got back to work. Writing project proposals. Going out to the field. Same old, same old. On Thursday evening, I went over to Lyndsie’s house to discuss our projects. I had hit a bit of a wall and was trying to find my way around it; meanwhile, she was beginning her work plan. We were going to brainstorm and bounce ideas off each other like good little liberal arts students. However, work took a back burner as I started vomiting in her room. I thought I was feeling a little better and decided to leave after a few hours. As I was standing in the foyer talking to Lyndsie’s family and my host father, I realized standing was not such a good idea and decided to vomit again. Luckily, I made it to Lyndsie’s room instead of amusing her whole family with the sick mzungu. (This is the first of a couple thank yous to Lyndsie in this post. Thanks for the plastic bags love!) Since Lyndsie’s family is related to mine, everyone decided I should stay the night and probably not go to work in the morning.

As the evening progressed and I slowly developed a fever and headache, it appeared the malaria might have made its triumphant return. Turns out malaria has the exact same symptoms as septicemia. (Thank you, Lyndsie, for dragging me to the clinic again.) Bring on the new meds!

Focusing on the positives again: A. Talking the doctor out of an IV and direct anti-biotic injection equals no needles anywhere on my body this time. B. A few other interns had septicemia and the meds cleared it up quickly and efficiently. C. I now have had two negative blood tests for malaria, so I am quite sure I no longer have that. D. Any aversion I had to seeking medical attention and taking medication has been stomped out of me.

The main issue with my continuous inability to stay well longer than three days is that I am missing days at work. Granted I have only missed three thus far; however, they have been days I needed to be around. Add on the language barrier and the fact I answer to four different people, and I am getting really frustrated. After the initial weeks of observation, I presented abstracts of three projects I’d be willing to work on here to the first person I answer to. He went and discussed it with another person I answer to. They decided they liked the Afri-pad project. However, another person liked the disclosure site idea. I couldn’t get in touch with any of the manufacturers about Afri-pads so my disclosure site idea became the project. I wrote a lovely proposal, work plan, and budget then presented it to one person. She changed things around so that it wasn’t really disclosure sites but more a question answer seminar between children and parents. I tried not to let my control-freak-perfectionist side take over and went with it. But then the budget didn’t work out, two of the other people I answer to didn’t like it, and I had to work on weekends.

So things finally clicked with me today. I asked if I could meet with the three people in the organization I work with who have to okay and understand my project all at once. After outlining the various issues and several solutions I had come up with, all three people finally came to the conclusion that my original proposal, work plan, and concept was the best idea. As they were telling me this, I just wanted to ask why no one had considered this two weeks ago. But it is all good. At least we are all on the same page now. Now all I have to do is get the project passed by FSD. Once I receive the go-ahead from all sides and start putting things into motion, I will write about what I am doing here. But in all honesty, I am way too frustrated right now to try explaining the project again.

Jumping Off the Ledge

I seem to have a tendency to hurl myself off the high dive verses learning the basic back stroke. Basics and I never got along. This is why when I took calculus, I would understand the calculus but end up messing up the Algebra. When I started singing, I bypassed the 24 Italian Arias book that every soprano ever has sang out of and went straight to the Queen of the Night Aria. (Look it up on youtube, you understand how much I ignored the basics there.) My first summer out of college, I decide I should go to Uganda, work with an AIDS organization in the counseling department, and create my own project on disclosure.

So a lot of my endeavors tend to have rocky beginnings. But in all honesty, I think I thrive off my life being a series of "oh no, what have I gotten myself into?s" and then finding a way out.

After a few weeks in Uganda, not understanding what anyone is saying ever, contracting malaria, and boda boda-ing my way into too many sticky situations to count, I can say that I am loving this. Yesterday, I went back to the clinic again after finishing my second round of medication on Sunday evening. No ass injection this time! The malaria is all gone. I don't even have some. Lyndsie and I walked out of the clinic, bought some passion fruit from a street vendor, located samosas, and walked around town enjoying our lunch.

This summer is learning how to let go of notions and habits. It is finding a way to acclimate when my mere presence stands out. It is also a little of proving I am who I say I am. I say I am adventurous and like trying new things. I say I hate complacency and routine. I say I want to make a difference in the world. You reply, "Okay, sure Hilary, you also go to bed by ten o'clock most nights and own more cardigans than any sane grandma." But now I have proof!

(Okay, so I will point out again that I am in Uganda. But I think you got that one by now.) This weekend, I woke up on Friday morning, packed a weekend bag, and made my way to the taxi park in Masaka. The other interns and I got on a coster (bus), drove to Kampala for three hours, grabbed a taxi (van), drove another two hours, and ended up in Jinja, the location of the source of the Nile. After enjoying a relaxing evening watching the USA v. Slovenia game at a local bar, I went to bed bright and early at 9:30. So, I am not proving myself quite yet, but just wait. Saturday morning, I get up, put on a life-vest, and white water raft the Nile. Let me put this in perspective. The Nile has class five rapids. Niagara Falls is a class six, or guaranteed injury/death. The next morning, I get up and bungee jump over the Nile. Actually, into it, up to my chest.



This weekend is rivaling all others as one of the best I have ever had. But life is all about trying make each day better than the last...

Focusing on the Positives

Focus on the positives. My lovely mama always tells me to do this when I go on a complaining tirade. Positive number one: I now have a project with my organization. Scratch that, possibly two. So now I won't feel like I am not doing much. My first project is providing reusable menstrual pads for girls in the village along with information on feminine hygiene. However, the counseling department also really liked my idea about creating sites in the villages for children to anonymously submit questions or secrets that could be answered and posted for communal reading by a reliable community leader. In this way, the communities could become self-sufficient at addressing trauma and tough issues. It would encourage conversation and disclosure.

Positive number two: I am getting used to my organization and the people so I am becoming more outspoken and forceful. I was having problems with people thinking me young and cute. It didn't seem anyone was going to take me seriously.

Positive number three: I finally found where they keep the boiled water in my house. Now, I can get to drinkable water at any time of day.

Okay, so we focused on the good things. They are at the forefront of our minds. But here is the deal: I still have malaria! Today, I went back to the clinic for another finger pricking. It is still there. I still have some malaria. Let me tell you what this means. It means I am on four more sets of medication. Stronger medication. The last set made me throw up and I haven't eaten a full meal in nearly a week. Let's guess how this round of anti-malarial meds is going to go. This also meant I needed another injection. I go up to the desk where they give out medication and get the needle and injection vials and then walk back to room five. The nurse takes the needle and vials and prepares it. Then, she ushers me into the room and motions to the bed. I lay down and ask, "is this one painful?" She laughs and then jabs it in. Let's recount. I am in a foreign country, in a medical clinic, I have malaria, and there is a needle in my ass. This injection was not painful at the onset. But as I walked down the road a little bit, I started to feel a little sore. And now, over an hour later, I can safely say, it still hurts to sit.

But we are focusing on the positives, yes?

Not Happy

It was one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, and my friend, Lyndsie, showed up at my house to take me to a medical clinic. For those of you that know me pretty well, you know I avoid all things medical if I can. Since last Tuesday, I had been getting a fever, headaches, back pain, and muscle cramps on and off. In my brilliance, I decided the best course of action was to sleep more, take cipro for a day or two, and continue working. But when I woke up this morning and my fever was returning, I figured I maybe should go to a clinic. Turns out it is closed on Sundays. This was enough for me to decide I didn't really need to go and could just sleep everything away. Alas, 'twas not to be. Lyndsie insisted I go to the 24 hour hospital.

So I got on the back of a boda boda with Lyndsie and off we went down the pot hole ridden streets to the hospital. When we got there, a very kind nurse asked me what was wrong. I told her I haven't been feeling well the past week. She decided the first thing to test me for was malaria. I thought, "That's silly. I am on anti-malaria medication and have only been bitten about three times." Furthermore, a few of the other interns had found out they had a bacterial infection and were happily taking antibiotics. I probably had the same thing. Nonetheless, the nurse pricked my finger and squeezed some blood onto a tray. I sat there waiting for her to tell me she was going to run some other tests. Instead, she looked at me and asked about my symptoms. I told her, and she replied, "You have some malaria." Some malaria? Some? It turns out having some malaria means you have to get an injection in your ass and go on two different types of pills.

I am not a happy camper.

Similarities vs. Differences

As strange as this is going to sound, sometimes I forget I am in Africa. When you live on a different continent with an ocean separating you and others, it is easy to romanticize people and problems. You picture pygmies and wandering nomads. But since arriving here, I feel as if I am in some alternate reality where I am just the constant oddity standing on the outskirts observing. My color and where I had the privilege of being born will never allow me to integrate completely. Yet, much feels similar to home because people are people regardless of place. So many of the problems here are the same as back home. Wealth is perpetuated. Class systems are constantly deepening. People are divided among ethnic lines. Disease cuts down lives long before they should have ended. Granted these problems are manifested in different ways and are far worse in Uganda than in America. However, while there are cultural differences that make finding common ground difficult at times, people all strive for the same things: love, security, and happiness. Our humanity connects all people whether Ugandan, America, French, German, Chinese, or Lebanese. Nonetheless, my mind is at constant war with knowing our similarities outnumber the differences but the differences are enough to eclipse the similarities.

I started work last week and have basically been just playing the role of observer. Kitovu Mobile is well established and run so I am finding it hard to discern a sector where I can leave an impact. The last few days, the counseling branch has taken me out into the field with them. I much prefer this to being in an office. Basically, we drive into the villages and give workshops to parents, teachers, and children about sex, trauma, and certain life skills. This branch of the organization was set up after one of the sisters returned from receiving her masters degree. She had learned about the different effects trauma has on children. Since Kitovu Mobile works with HIV/AIDS support and prevention, they see a lot of children who experience trauma from losing parents to the disease or contracting it themselves. The branch spread out and covers more than just trauma relating to HIV now.

Since I would like to work in the field, I am trying to pick up Luganda quickly. Very few people in the villages are able to speak English. Aside from work, my inability to speak the language has gotten me into a few situations. In Uganda, one of the main forms of transportation is boda bodas, basically dirt bike/motorcycles. They weave in between cars and are the fastest means of getting someplace other than taxis. The second day after moving in with my family, I decided to take a boda home. So I go up to one of the drivers and ask if he speaks English. I receive a non-committal nod that I take to mean yes. We barter. I get on the back, and we set off for home. It should probably have been a bad sign when he headed in the opposite direction but I just told him to turn around and settled in for the ride. Next thing I know, I am sitting in the middle of a cornfield, on the back of a motorcycle, with a man I don’t know. I asked him take me back to Masaka where we began. He then told me he doesn’t know English. Obviously, I managed to get home okay but I have been much more selective of my boda boda drivers since.

Boda Bodas seem to provide a lot of my entertainment here. Another intern, Lyndsie, and I took a boda into town a few nights ago. As we were going up a hill, the boda stutters to a stop and the driver tells us, “sisters, sisters, I am out of gas.” When I was following Lyndsie home one day to see the school she worked at, the boda driver started saying, “mzungu, I want you, I want your love.” Ignoring him didn’t seem to work, and since he was driving I didn’t really want to upset him so I told him, “sitegedde.” (I don’t understand.) He replied with, “otegedde.” (You understand.) For the duration of the ride, we went back and forth with this exchange. Let me say how happy I was when I finally got off that boda boda. I can’t figure out if it is a better idea to just walk places or take a boda boda. But because I know my family reads this blog I am going to throwing in don’t worry, I am being careful.

Penis Envy

I don’t run around burning bras in my free time; however, I did not realize how much of a feminist I am until I came to a culture that is quite patriarchal. In Uganda, it is customary for females to kneel to men or older women when meeting them, during greetings, and after farewells. I know it is a sign of respect and part of their culture, but I can feel my insides cringe every time I witness this. Apparently, twenty years ago, boys would be beaten in school if a girl scored a higher grade on a test. Even church on Sunday was mildly segregated into mostly male and mostly female sections.

Other male interns have told me stories about having a beer with the locals. They get to learn about the culture and people in a very relaxed setting. Because I am female, I can’t go to a bar and knock back a beer with some of the guys. Granted my western appearance will get me into the bar, but no locals are going to sit there and tell me stories. I may be white, and I may be from America; nonetheless, I am still female. Also, because I am female, I am at a greater risk of being accosted here. It isn’t high, but the risk is there. I am worried about how much this will impact my work here.

Apart from developing Freudian Penis Envy, I moved in with my host family several days ago. They were incredibly welcoming and considerate. Their favorite thing to do is feed me. I am quite small for a female in this culture; weight is the equivalence to health here. Thus, I seem to be eating non-stop. Breakfast, mid-morning tea, lunch, snack, another snack, heavy tea, dinner. It is rather nice however. In America, we look at food as calories, fat, and how many minutes on the treadmill that cookie will require. Here, food is food, something to enjoy and savor.

Back to my family though. I live with my host mother, father, and one of my five sisters, Tosha. It is customary in Ugandan culture to refer to people other than your actual parent as parents. When my dad took me around Masaka so I could learn about some of the local hangouts and how to get around, he introduced me as his daughter. Every now and then, my inability to speak Luganda well bothers me. My family and those that work for them will speak in Luganda when I am around. It doesn’t bother me much as I know it is there native language and easier for them to express themselves in. Yet, I know enough Luganda to know when they are talking about the family mzungu. Tosha has a lot of energy since she is turning four next week. A few days ago, she discovered my hand sanitizer and thought it was perfume. Whenever I don’t lock my door or am in my room with her, she will cover her hands and body in the sanitizer. I had to hide it and have taken to locking my door even when I am home. I attached a photo of her to this post.



My impressions about being here go through waves of various moods. I can be frustrated, excited, happy, annoyed, confused, tired, over-stimulated, enthralled, stressed, and content in a matter of a few hours. It mainly depends on the day and what I am doing. Walking through town can invoke all of these as well. My color causes me to stand out here. A lot. All of the time. It is impossibly to be inconspicuous. Every few yards someone yells “mzungu!” I somewhat miss being able to blend in with a group.