I think I'm being bathed

This past weekend, another volunteer- Sarah- and I packed our culturally appropriate one piece swimsuits, loaded into a tiny white pickup truck of a traditional herbal healer/monk/father- take your pick, and headed to the hot springs for a daytrip. We bumbled along the pothole pocked road, squeezed together in the front seat, Sarah trying to avoid the stick shift jamming into her leg, and me bracing myself, arm out the window, to the roof of the truck. Glancing nervously at the forming thunderheads, I wondered why the monk kept saying we were lucky, "Rain is not coming today". We passed a "trading center" aka- tourist trap Ugandan style, a block long strip of one storied storefronts painted bright colors- turquoise, red, and yellow are the cheapest paints. A sign surprisingly pointed the direction towards the hot springs "Kitagata" and we turned just as I heard people yelling "Muzungu!" We swerved downward into a valley, the Rwenzories towering above, and turned again down a road. "You have finished?" the monk called out to a woman carrying a plastic bag and moving towards us. She nodded, then gestured at us, somewhat of a confused wave. The monk shifted into park, Sarah and I spilled out of the seat and looked around. Hit with intense humidity, Sarah's curly hair immediately became tight curls. I expected a thick scent of sulphur and bubbling water, but as we walked around the bend, we came upon a shallow stream gurgling over huge black boulders, and almost camouflaged, were a large group of mostly naked Ugandans, sitting about, somehow masked by the rising steam. We were curiously watched as the monk walked us around the area, to the source. A man came up through the steam, carrying a book. He spoke surprisingly decent English, and informed us of today's Hot Springs temperature at the source- 98 degrees. He then opened his book, removed a pen from his pocket, and handed me- the guestbook. We signed the guestbook, then set our things along the bank. The monk explained that he could not enter the waters, since he was religious. Learning not to question the monk's explanations, we removed our shirts, opting to keep our wraps on to cover our thighs, we walked towards the water, feeling all eyes on us. We were motioned to the end where the women bathed, and Sarah and I settled into the water, feeling all at once completely relaxed by the warm water and completely on edge due to the 30 some pairs of eyes staring at us. Neither of us spoke, just gave awkward smiles, when suddenly, a topless woman waded towards Sarah, and began pouring water over her. Sarah turned towards me, "I think I'm being bathed." Soon there were many shirtless women, their sagging breasts all around us, pouring the hot water over us, Sarah and I, suppressing giggles. Eventually, when they thought we were clean, I suppose, they stopped. Sarah and I waded out of the springs, and turned back to stare at the springs, perhaps we were both trying to make sure it was all real, and not just a melfloquine-induced dream. On our way back, the monk navigating back and forth over the road, he said again, "Yes, you are very lucky." I'll take his word.

Which one of these things is not like the other?

My homestay family, perhaps 'say cheese' didn't translate. . .

There but for the grace of God go I.

No, the Pentecostal Christians have not gotten to me, although I think my coworkers are trying to 1-up the Muslims and pray 7 times a day – in the morning, before tea, after tea, before lunch, after lunch, at 3, after using the latrine, etc etc etc. . .I do enjoy working with them, but I miss the Catholic comforts- not knowing the books of the Bible, only singing if there’s a choir, only saying “God” and ‘Jesus” once or twice in a prayer instead of every other word. But they do good work here, in Jesus name.. jk jk.
SO, the title of this blog, although a religious message, is as well, a lyric in a Jenny Lewis song (Renaissance- that’s SYWLM for you) “Rise Up with Fists!!” and has been stuck in my head. For good reason, I believe.The majority of my work currently includes visiting some of our project children living with HIV and taking antiretroviral therapy. I hop on my mountain bike, with my helmet, of course, and follow my counterpart, who’s helmetless and sidesaddle on the back of a motorcycle and calling out encouragements to me, and we take off for various homes 3-5 km away. I bike along dirt roads past small stores, meat hanging, banana plantations, through coffee plants and up mountains where the road becomes a 6” wide dirt line.
Visiting these “homes” is always a shock. Each child in our project is an orphan- meaning they’ve lost 1 or both parents, often related to AIDS. The houses are made out of dirt, with hatched roofs, some fortunate enough to have steel sheets to keep out the rain, but lack any kind of structural support. We ask the children to get their medications, and then we count them. This happens every 2 weeks, and there are often discrepancies, meaning many of the children are not adhering to the medication, often because of the side effects or miscommunication of the medical staff, or mostly, uneducated caretakers. We counsel the child and caretakers on the correct dosage, and follow up with another visit in 2 weeks.
I both love and hate these visits. As I bike, I feel thrilled to be in Africa, to be a health volunteer, look at me: making home visits, speaking the local vernacular. But I hate them too. I sit in these homes and I look around the house and the conditions and I feel guilty. Guilty that this isn’t me suffering, that instead it’s this child who smiles shyly every time I look at them. We then pray with the child, and I find myself mumbling the responses to the prayers, but still thinking- there, but for the grace of God, go I.

RIP, Ekilame

Encounters with animals were on my list of fears for living in Uganda. However, my main interactions with other species have been rather nonthreatening, despite my reactions. For instance, returning to homestay from my first visit to site, I had not been in my room in nearly a week and when I entered the room, I found a dead mouse on the floor and its mate, quite alive, nestled under the pillow of my bed. I now have the habit of of bracing myself and checking under my pillow every night.
Since being at site, I’ve had the occasional ant bite and just a small field mouse that takes a nightly lap around my room- under the crack of my door, past a desk, my twin bed with a mosquito net, behind the bookshelf, then back out the door. However, there are little gecko lizards everywhere. I’m actually fortunate that these are my main animal infestation as they only cause a startle of unexpected movement, at times lose their footing and drop from the ceiling, and scutter away, usually leaving a turd or two behind. I especially realized how fortunate I was after visiting another volunteer who seemingly has 40 pound rats that conduct a nocturnal WWF match in her ceiling.
My lizards like to hang out on my windowsill, my desk, walls, and specifically my pit latrine. My pit latrine is about 30 feet from my house and as accustomed as I’ve become to squatting over a hole (although the female anatomy makes multi-tasking difficult) I still can’t get used to other inhabitants in there while I’m trying to take care of business. So I usually attempt to chase the lizards up the wall or out the door before I’m willing to drop trou. Everyday, it has been a showdown with me and a specific lizard that has no tail, I’ve come to nickname Ekilema (ech-ee-lay-mah)- which means an animal without an appendage. Ekilema scatters around my latrine while I make threatening advances, attempting to chase it out.
Today was no different- there sat the lizard in front of the hole, and there stood I with a full bladder. I took a step into the 5ft x 5ft room with the center hole and Ekilema took a step towards me, blocking my destination. I clapped- the creature blinked. I stomped, the lizard spun in a circle. I stomped again, the lizard stuck its tongue out at me. Frustrated, and with a full bladder, I banged the door. Ekilema spun again, then in one fatal mistake- perhaps related to the missing tale, ran straight at the hole, landing with a thud 20 feet down to the bottom of my latrine. RIP, Ekilame- Rest In Piss.