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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Becoming a Mzungu
Each time I try to write another blog entry, I stop and decide to come back to it later. I cannot begin to describe each day in a manner that will exemplify my experiences. After my last post from a mall in Kampala, Uganda’s capital, we went out and toured the city. For those who know me, you’ll realize cities are not always the best places for someone mildly haptephobic and disconcerted in large crowds. We got to this point in the tour where we crested a hill and looked out over a taxi park. (I attached a photo of the view.) I thought, “I can’t do this; I can’t be here.” Maybe it was the jet lag or the swarms of people, but I felt so inadequate and poorly prepared. Nothing in my life has primed me for the next two months. It felt like I was jumping off the high dive at an Olympic training pool after just graduating one of those plastic pools you can buy at Wal-mart.
The next day, we left Kampala to drive to Masaka where I will be working and living. The countryside here is breath taking. I am not quite sure what I was expecting but I can honestly say Uganda is one of the most beautiful places I have been. However, three hours driving past run down buildings and huts were no help in convincing me I was game for the next couple months.
Masaka changed that though. There is something about this place that makes me feel more comfortable. Regardless of the fact that people yell “mzungu” (foreigner) as I pass by, regardless of the dust and smog, regardless of the fact I can’t understand a word anyone says, I feel as if Masaka is a place I can call home for the summer. I have no idea what I will be doing daily with Kitovu Mobile and no idea what my cumulating project will be; nevertheless, I want to be here. Our lives are the product of our days and actions. We can never be the people we wish to be unless we play the part. I am not extroverted nor at ease in new situations. I have gone so far out of my comfort zone box and colored boldly outside the lines. Thus far, I would count this among one of the better decisions I have ever made.
Besides acclimating ourselves to the new culture, the other interns and I have toured an organic farm and training center, viewed past projects of various interns, and attempted to master Luganda. The latter seems to be going quite poorly for me. I greeted a man today outside a bank. He became very happy, shook my hand, and continued to talk to me in Luganda. All I could do was smile and look confused. People here are very friendly. I am trying to make an effort to grasp a good deal of the language so I can converse better with the locals. Once I move in with my host family, I should be able to do this.
At this point in time, I greatly miss reliable toilets and water pressure. So far, I haven’t started taking bucket showers but I believe those would work better than the trickle coming out of the showerhead. The hotels I have stayed at also have toilets; I really can’t complain but they won’t flush at times. One of my highlight experiences was at the organic farm. One of the interns and I really needed to use the restroom. We asked to be pointed in the direction and started along our merry way. After passing several metal doors we came to a row of four at a dead end. The first of out of the three was open and we peered inside. There was nothing there. Just a hole in the ground. Where was the bathroom? We looked around a bit bewildered. And then we saw it. Above the hole in the ground, there was toilet paper attached to the wall. We had found the bathroom. I have no idea why it was so funny to us especially since I’ve relieved myself in the woods before. Yet, dressed in skirts that would rival the Amish in conservatism in the middle of rural Africa, nothing could have been more hysterical at the time.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Two Impressions
After 17 hours of flying and about 10 hours of sitting in Airports aimlessly, I have come to two conclusions. The first being never travel without wheels attached to your duffle bag. My bag is only 45 pounds. Not too bad considering I have huge bottles of shampoo and conditioner and more than five bottles of sunscreen. However, while nearly killing my own back, a very nice Ugandan man offer to carry my bag for me from the Entebbe airport to the van parked nearby. I tried to tell him it was heavy and I didn't want him to have to carry it. Nonetheless, he did. After about fifty yards, he realized I was not lying and enlisted another man to help. First lesson from traveling to Africa: be able to carry your own luggage easily otherwise you feel like a goober.
The next conclusion I have is that American life is simply too fast pace and stressful.I may be in a new country, not understand their major language, be overheated, and have little clue about what I will be doing the next two months. But this is the least amount of stress I have felt for years. The culture here is welcoming and friendly. Take things as they go and don't worry about time or minor stressors. We'll see if I continue to like this with my North-eastern ways and continuous fast walking; but for now, it is a change that is calming.
The next conclusion I have is that American life is simply too fast pace and stressful.I may be in a new country, not understand their major language, be overheated, and have little clue about what I will be doing the next two months. But this is the least amount of stress I have felt for years. The culture here is welcoming and friendly. Take things as they go and don't worry about time or minor stressors. We'll see if I continue to like this with my North-eastern ways and continuous fast walking; but for now, it is a change that is calming.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Lamenting a Layover
Hour four of the seven hour layover commences. I have resorted to chocolate muffins and talking to strangers in the Airport. Let's backtrack a bit though, shall we?
While I have been telling people for months that I am headed to Uganda for the summer, I don't think I have quite grasped that myself. I like to plan and over-think everything. High school was my eternal planning purgatory. I planned my summers, my college career, my retirement, and all my life's recreation with a bucket list. Planning means one thing: you never actually are living. Each step taken is never noticed because you are so busying arranging your second, third, and fourth. When you are always planning, it is very strange to start living, something I was forced into this past year. For once I am in the present and not the fog covered future.
Thus with my newfound ability to not plan every step and thought, I figured I should attempt to step out of my comfort zone as much as possible. Step one: chat with other people waiting in line at the airport. Step two: fly to Uganda. Step three: try to assimilate into a new culture. Step four: swim with crocodiles in the Nile.
I have been up since 4:30am. This means other than walking around airports, most of my time has been spent reading. Since I am working for Kitovu Mobile AIDS Organization I keep trying to comprehend as much as possible in regards to AIDS in Uganda. An article here, a book excerpt there. I believe I have a bit of an understanding. However, in all honesty, I am nervous to actually face the emotion of it all. Statistics cannot capture the suffering real people face nor the aftershocks death leaves behind. In just one day, this will all no longer be foreign. It will be tangible, real, and in my face.
Hours of sleep deprivation have compelled me to search for coffee.
Mweraba! (Good bye)
While I have been telling people for months that I am headed to Uganda for the summer, I don't think I have quite grasped that myself. I like to plan and over-think everything. High school was my eternal planning purgatory. I planned my summers, my college career, my retirement, and all my life's recreation with a bucket list. Planning means one thing: you never actually are living. Each step taken is never noticed because you are so busying arranging your second, third, and fourth. When you are always planning, it is very strange to start living, something I was forced into this past year. For once I am in the present and not the fog covered future.
Thus with my newfound ability to not plan every step and thought, I figured I should attempt to step out of my comfort zone as much as possible. Step one: chat with other people waiting in line at the airport. Step two: fly to Uganda. Step three: try to assimilate into a new culture. Step four: swim with crocodiles in the Nile.
I have been up since 4:30am. This means other than walking around airports, most of my time has been spent reading. Since I am working for Kitovu Mobile AIDS Organization I keep trying to comprehend as much as possible in regards to AIDS in Uganda. An article here, a book excerpt there. I believe I have a bit of an understanding. However, in all honesty, I am nervous to actually face the emotion of it all. Statistics cannot capture the suffering real people face nor the aftershocks death leaves behind. In just one day, this will all no longer be foreign. It will be tangible, real, and in my face.
Hours of sleep deprivation have compelled me to search for coffee.
Mweraba! (Good bye)
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