Irreoncible Differences

Imagine for a moment, throwing together 19 people from all walks of life, putting them into a regimented routine for 10 weeks of intensive cultural and language training in an entirely different culture, then whisking them all away from each other to all corners of the country where they are asked to stick around for 3 months without traveling and absolutely no routine or regime. They attempt the language, try and find out where the work is, start questioning why they're there, and finally begin to get some sort of clue. Then imagine bringing them all back together again. It's more entertaining than a Real World Reunion. The people that thought Uganda wouldn't affect them have braids in their hair and have permanent Luganglish. The people that were attached to their homestay family and enjoying the "cultural immersion" are now the most jaded. Relationships that started during training have diminished and new ones start budding with other volunteers. Inside jokes seem to thrive within the language regions, but somehow, we all found each other back at square one- trying to figure each other out and accepting these changes. It's like summer camp and freshman year in the dorm all rolled into a different country. Then, after spending 14 days at each other's necks, out at the bars, and dodging sessions in favor of a scum-bottom swimming pool, we are all hurtled back to site squeezed into vehicles meant for 5 and holding 11 plus 2 in the trunk.
The reason I find this all blog worthy is this: finding the balance in Peace Corps- between the world you represent and the world you find yourself in is in constant flux. The trainings attempt to provide a forum for discussion and "development", but in the end, it feels like I was on a merry-go-round of American culture spinning with Ugandan culture, and then centripically projectiled far away from the epicenter, only to find myself back at site attempting to reconcile the differences. And that- to use another analogy- pretty much covers the first 6 months of Peace Corps, in a nutshell.

It's harder on the way down

"Why do you want to climb the hill?"
"To see what's on top"
"You muzungus are all the same, always wanting to get on top of things"
And with that exchange with a coworker (that could be taken out of text), I set out with a troupe of children to climb the hill behind my house. Of the three that were accompanying me, two had excellent English skills, and definitely had an opportunity to interrogate me on the journey. The third child, Sharifa, pictured above, is HIV positive and lives with her grandmother as both of her parents died from AIDS. I've often visited her home where her grandmother treats her not much better than a maid and she is always eager to please. I had invited her in my limited Runyankore on this hike, and she showed up wearing her Sunday best. She is at an innocent coming of age stage where she runs ahead, climbs a tree, but then as if she has remembered she's supposed to be a grown up, jumps down and smooths out her dress. Her English is very poor, and she's been held behind several grades, likely due to her sporadic attendance at school as she often needs to stay at home to care for her grandmother.
As the other two bantered away, Sharifa skipped ahead, kicking off her too small patent shoes to climb barefoot, as I struggled to keep balance in my $100 Chacos. She kept throwing back shy glances and smiles at me, often taking my hand to help me up rocks. As we passed through tall grasses, I pulled out my camera, which provided a whole new level of curiosity and fascination with the children. I taught them how to take photos of the town below, and we zoomed in on their various houses. Sharifa was delighted by this and began taking photos of everything, a cow we passed, banana plantations, a caterpillar. Each one, I saved, promising to print them out from Kampala. As we sat on the top of the hill, watching the sunset, we decided to head back down. Sharifa lagged behind, and I encouraged her to hurry before it became too dark, she mumbled something in Runyankore. I asked the other children to translate. "She doesn't want to go back" We coaxed her back down, promising to climb again, but still I wondered at the type of home situation where the top of a rocky hill at dusk would seem more enjoyable then your own home, a life where you take medication twice a day to fight a disease that took away both of your parents. At the bottom of the hill, Sharifa ran up, grabbed my hand, and pressed it to her cheek, when she pulled it away, my palm was wet, and I realized she had been crying. Then she ran off into the dusk on the road to her home and a childhood fading as fast as the setting sun.

There on the mountain bed of leaves, we learned life's reasons why,
The people laugh and love and dream, they fight, they hate to die. - Woodie Guthrie

I ignored my mother's well meant advice. . ..

A white Midwestern girl + a 3 hour hike on the Equator - sunscreen=

Over the Mountains of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow

And ride boldly I did. Around Ibanda hill and 2 hours later I was in the thick of "the bush" - not Eldorado, much to my dismay. I doubt many white people end up back here in these hills, so I was quite the anomaly. As I biked, enjoying the view of the mountains and passing natural springs and marshes, I began noticing splashes of blood on the ground, fairly evenly dispersed to imply dripping, and alarmingly fresh. I kept biking, the possibilities running through my mind- an injured child with a wounded foot, an animal that had been ensnared in barbed wire, or perhaps, my imagination brewing fears- a madman with a machete still dripping from his recent massacre.
As I crested the hill and sped down, I came upon the answer: none of the above. There, in front of me, was a man pushing a bicycle, with the head of a cow strapped to the back. And really- whadda Uganda do, but just bike on by.

Gettin' Durty

And I bought rubbers. Not those- I do have my Catholic girl reputation to uphold, afterall, and anyway, peace corps supplies the other kind in our med kit. It's good for demonstrations on safe sex, Mom. To the point, it's the rainy season, which I think should be changed to the Muddy Season. So now whenever, I head out the door, it's with two pairs of shoes- wearing my rubber golashes, and carrying the other. I'm like the Peace Corps version of Mr. Rogers.
The weeks are flying by, and work is picking up. I spend the week making home visits and Fridays at Ibanda Hospital working in the HIV clinic. I checked out the stats on the testing- and they test 600 people/month, and about 18% are HIV positive, which is much higher than the proclaimed national average of 6%. Regardless, we have a lot of drugs to dispense. I'm becoming familiar with the different antiretroviral treatments, and have even caught some errors in dosages.
On Thursdays I'm going to begin teaching Nutrition to the Nursing students at the college associated with the hospital- which I'm really looking forward to, but have been busy trying to create a curriculum and lesson plans, as they have given me all of 2 weeks to prepare.
And on Wednesdays, I head to the Baby's Orphanage to play with the 34 some children there. Mostly the toddlers, who like to be pushed on the swings. I have no idea what they request of me in their Runyankore-babble, seeing as how I can barely pick the language from a well educated, fully grown Ugandan. But I do know that hugs, swinging kids by their arms, and chasing them around is universal, so I stick to that. I usually come back exhausted and smelling like pee from the diaperless toddlers, but perhaps I'll introduce them as the alternative method of abstinence promotion, as they're probably a better form of birth control than the "rubbers".

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. . .