Am I part of the cure or am I part of the disease?

My PC friend, Kate, just returned from a state-side visit and admitted she was excited to get back to Africa. “America’s weird” she confessed. We half joked about a few cultural adaptations we’ve adopted, accepted, and adhered to here in Uganda that may get us on the Miss Manners hit list, if not several traffic/civil responsibility violations in the states
- Public nose picking: perfectly acceptable
- Cellphone ettiquitte: definitely acceptable to answer your phone during a sermon…. That YOU'RE giving
- Power outages: power is a gift that the gods can take away at any moment, no need to worry, just continue your dinner by light of your cellphone
- Littering- no fines, just toss it out the window of the moving bus
- Bargaining over 10 cents: it’s the “principle” of the matter, really
- A compact car seats 11 comfortably: Laws of Quantum Physics are constantly tested as we attempt to defy the theory that no 2 things can exist in the same place at the same time
- A simple nod to indicate yes- too much work, just raise the eyebrows

And while much of PC is about adapting and “cultural integration”, it leaves me wondering how “used” we are getting to life here. Am I accepting even the complacency, the apathy that this is just how life is here? Have I become ok with littering just because there are no trash receptables? Why do I just shrug when the power goes out because Uganda first sells its power to neighboring countries for a profit prior to meeting its own countries needs and demands?

Sarah and I recently traveled from the local large town, Mbarara, where we watched with annoyance as our 4 door manual Toyota filled from 6, to 8, to 10- 4 of us in front with the driver sharing the seat and reaching over a passenger to shift, and 6 people in back. As we bargained the driver down since he was overcrowding the car, a woman in back offered “You see how we suffer here? Now when you go back to your country, you will ask for more funding, more aid to help us”

If Sarah and I had room to reel around and face the woman we would have. Exhausted, squished, our heads bouncing against the roof and windows, we yelled over the blown out stereo blasting, “We’re suffering with you. Why don’t YOU demand more from your government, we do provide aid, but it lands in the pockets at the top.” The car ride was silent then, except for the blaring of the radio.

But our outburst left me thinking , if 75% of Uganda’s budget is foreign aid, people here are used to receiving handouts, aid, grants with little community participation. But what is the answer as Americans? To borrow from a cheesy Coldplay song, are we part of the cure, or are we part of the disease?

As a “development worker” I may continue eyebrow raising for passive agreement, and enjoy the freedom of public nose picking, but the real disease- the apathy, complacency and helplessness that exists with extreme poverty, is something I think we’re all here to eradicate. And just maybe our enthusiasm, awareness and support can be part of the cure.

Dance Yo Pants off!

Of the many many differences I encounter here, one of the most beautiful is the traditional dancing- the costumes are the traditional wear of a married Bankole woman, and their dance moves reflect the movement of the large-horned cows (Ankole cattle) moving through the fields. They're dancing the Bishop who visited (one would have thought Jesus was coming the way they prepared) But it was an amazing thing to be a part of. I was able to help the girls into the traditional wear of a married woman as well as learn the songs. They tried to convince me to learn the dance, but I didn't want to steal their thunder with my amazing dance moves.... or not so much- Mom, remember the time you tried to take me to step areobics, definately got Dad's sense of coordination, and I apoligize to all other past dance partners whose toes I've clomped or knocked down on the dance floor. Yeah, no traditional dance for me, but here it is for you to enjoy.

Let's Hear It for The Boys

So here it is, Jon and Stoops. A shout out to my boys that put out. Ok, not really. But this is a shout out. I've been blessed/cursed here at site to have fellow Peace Corps neighbors a stone's throw away from me. All of this will soon change, as these fellas pack up, give me all of their stuff I want, and head back to America in May. However, the Peace Corps Gods have decided that another volunteer should be placed... in my yard. Literally. A new house is going up for the PCV coming in mid April. So Jon and Stoops- for the times we've laughed (mostly at each other) and the times we've cried (silently in our rooms so as not to show weakness) and especially the times we've had one too many Nile Specials and stumbled home, I'll miss you. Don't ever change.

Buenvenidos a Miami

So there we were... on a nontypical Kampala Adventure. Wes, Bunza, Sarah (3 other PCV's) and I had exhausted all things American in Kampala- bowling, pizza, movies, casinos, dancing- and decided to hop the "Glory to God III" matatu and head down to Port Bell on Lake Victoria, where Bell Breweries is located. Using our powers of persuasion (ie, pulling the "Muzungu" card) we attempted to convince the guards to allow us on a brewery tour, but were told to come back on a day that wasn't the Lord's day (hard to come by in Uganda). We then searched for the paved bike/rollerblade path that circumvents the lake, but settled for a dirt road full of debris and potholes called "Lakeshore drive". As we meandered, we came upon massive webs, and in them, equally massive spiders. Bunza risked his head to take some amazing photos while i helpfully pointed out which spiders were coming closer and closer to his face.

Next, we found some decent signage pointing the way down to the lake.... or Florida.
After paying 4 times the price to get into the beach front property, we explored the area, and settled down in some lawn chairs watching the Ugandans swim in the Trichinosis infested waters and sipped some beers. A man came up and asked if we would like to go on a boat ride out to the island and after negotiating a price, the man brought his motorboat around and we piled on board, beers and all, ready for a booze cruise.
We banked on the island and set out to explore the small fishing community. As we trekked the island, we noticed again, a group of the massive spiders. Then to our horror (and perhaps Bunza's pleasure) we noticed massive webs covering all the trees. Out guide informed us that this was known as Spider Island, but that the spiders are harmless and make silk, which apparently no one harvests. Our guide and boat driver ended up being from my village and also was working with an organization that Wes had worked closely with and as the world of Uganda became smaller, we happened upon the owner of the island, Frank, a Ugandan who had worked with Peace Corps volunteers in the National Parks. We chatted with Frank, who bid us well and ended with words of warning 'Watch out for the cobras"

There'd be a different story to tell if the words of advice were needed, but alas, we left spider, and apparently cobra island fairly unscathed, although Wes had a wicked encounter with some Cassava, a local tuber that apparently can get lodged under one's toenail. ...

As we drifted back to Miami Beach, reflecting upon the randomness of the adventure, one of the Ugandans floating in a tire tube near our boat welcomed us back with a "Welcome to Miami". And with that we returned to Kampala, and well, partied in the city where the heat was on.

Saving Babies, Etc.

John Boscoe's Crapping face. (Yup, that's his name)

Handmade bears donated by Mother Bear (they were on the ground 2 minutes later, in favor of the digital camera)

Trash Talkin' Translation

Teaching Nutrition at the nursing college has been not only a great way to share my passion for nutrition, but also to win 34 new admirers. I get at least 5 invitations each time I teach to either: student's birthdays, sports events, church, dinners. I mean I knew I was a big deal, but really... So I decided to take them up on the invitation to play volleyball one evening. I made arrangements to bike out to the college and then spend the night at the convent next door (no, working with the Protestant organization has NOT driven me to extreme Catholicism, I won't be putting on a habit... yet) The nuns are great company, plus they make their own booze out of lemons- yes, my stay reeks of ulterior motives. After greeting the nuns, I head out to the volleyball field, where an intense game of volleyball ensues. Being a good 3-4 inches taller than the rest of the team, (which I used as a hands on, in class example of effects of malnutrition) I was at the net as the spiker. The saucy student on the other side began a fair amount of trash talking at the net, so late in the game, the score was close, the intensity high, and I spiked it into the Ugandan girl's face, then proceeded to yell "Nogaamba ki, hati??" or "What's up, now?" Which silenced the other team. I don't think that translates.....

Why don't white people have white ashes?

As a dutiful Catholic who happens to be teaching at a Catholic nursing college, where classes are scheduled around Ash Wednesday, I attended the service... along with 320 gradeschool children. I was somehow ushered into the side chapel, and found myself to be the only adult, as well as the only white person in the congregation. The usual things amused the surrounding children: the hair on my arms, playing "here is the church, here is the steeple", yes- I'm as white as cassava, yes, I can hear you when you speak Runyankore, no, I don't have money, sure you can come to America, etc, etc- all while the preists droned on about preparing ourselves for this Lenten season. Then came time for the receiving of the ashes- and a mad dash to the altar ensued, as if the ashes would run out. I get pushed and prodded, but end up being at the back of the line. As the marked children return, I strain, and can barely notice the black ashes on their equally black forheads. My turn finally arrives, and the preist scoops a generous amount of ashes and crosses my forehead- all of which is very familiar. What I wasn't prepared for was turning to face the congregation, and having the entire community burst into laughter at the contrast of the ashes on my forehead. To ashes we shall return..... after a few good laughs.