Things That Make You Go Hmmm

----I am all for sustainability, but when a male secondary school student wears a female condom as a wristband, it is time to forget the 'reduce, reuse, recycle' mantra.

----In the first church service I attended here, they used traditional drums instead of the piano. The entire Catholic service was in Lugandan, but the priest welcomed us in English by saying "I see that we have visitors here and I welcome you, it reminds me of how Jesus must have felt about the universality of religion when he met the Greeks." I did not bother to tell him I was not religious, but just happy to be there for a cultural experience.

----Last Sunday I was out for a walk on a sunny mountain path with Leandrea, the other intern. We came across a group of primary school aged children walking home from school. They congregated on the side of the road to watch us silently and immediately following 4 inches behind us. I stopped walking and held out both hands to them. Two girls quickly grabbed on, and we made our way along the path with me singing an edited version of 'The Ants go Marching on.'

 "The ants go marching four by four hurrah, hurrah, the ants go marching four by four, hurrah, hurrah, the ants go marching four by four, the little one stopped to let out a snore, and they all go marching down...on the ground...to get out of the rain...." I'ld twirl the little girls like little ballerinas and they would yell out "Hurrah! Hurrah!" at the appropriate time.

I looked over at Leandrea who was walking silently with us, hands by her side and realised, I was acting like a weirdo. In Canada I would probably be questioned for holding young children's hands. "You're walking them home from school?" The police officer would ask, "...and you don't know them?" Still, it seems perfectly normal here and we wave them off when we get to their house and say hello to their mothers and fathers that we pass in the street.

----Standing naked in the shower I screamed at the top of my lungs for everyone in the house to hear "Don't buy Ugandan hair conditioner!" Earlier I had chosen from among 400 bottles of conditioner and 1 (one) bottle of shampoo. Hmmm, I mused in my head as I read the ingredients label: joba oil, sunscreen, vitamin A and E and aloe vera...it has to be good! Little did I know that this industrial strength conditioner is meant for women who relax their hair and dye it constantly, not unknowing muzungu women like me. Moral of the story? I am 6 days in and after washing my hair 26 times precisely, the conditioner STILL has not come out. Live and learn my friends.

----Since 150 hangings of suspected homosexual men in Uganda last year I was curious about the current social situation. Apparently according to two staff members at my organization, the Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, two spirited and queer (LGBTTQ) community is very rich. International founders have been sending money to build outreach initiatives, safety and gathering places like a members only gold-card nightclub in Kampala. I could not be happier about this financing because I know the golden rule: whoever has the gold, makes the rules.

At breakfast this morning I was asked what I thought of homosexual people. The first question was "Would you ever want to watch them have sex though?" "I wouldn't want to watch anyone have sex, especially my parents," I replied, "...but I believe everyone has the right to love and to have sex with anyone they want."
"But what would you say if your son was gay?" Was the next question. "I would say, that's cool: girl or boy, black or blue, silk or Cotton. What do you want for supper? Their eyes went huge and they sat back, not angry or judgemental of me, just surprised. I continued on, "Imagine the pain He would feel, the pain of being scared to tell his own mother something like that. He would never be able to have a relationship,to keep it hidden, the powerlessness he would feel, what a terrible way to live."

Now these are highly educated people, and more importantly my friends, that I was discussing this with, and I honestly feel like I gave them an idea to mull over, but if they can at least shift towards more liberal thinking on this topic over time, maybe not all at once, I will be satisfied.

----"He eats all the time, but he is so lazy and small for his age," the mother said. I looked at her son, his body looked more like a four year old than a ten year old, his skin was dry and cracking and his hair tinged with orange and red. His belly popped out between the buttons on his shirt. The nurse Jane and I looked at each other and looking back at the woman she said," You need to give this child some good nutrition, seriously."

Aunty

Aunty, the hired cook and cleaning lady for the house does not speak English but is easily the hardest worker in the organization. She also makes the least amount of money.  One night while talking on the phone I missed dinner. Disappointed, I took myself out for a walk to try and forget my growling stomach and  stem the emerging pity party. When I went back inside later I found on my bedroom floor, three boiled eggs that she had made for me. My attitude completely changed. Later, through a translator, I learned Aunty has children: two girls aged 9 and 6. They live a two hour bus ride away and she can only afford to visit them on Christmas and Easter. The total cost of seeing them is 40,000 shillings ($20). 

 Today was Women’s Celebration Day and I spent the day coordinating an event for 150 people while aunty had to unexpectedly cook dinner for the house, even though the men were supposed to take over her duties for this meal. She sat down on the couch, looking exhausted and slumped to one side. “Poor Aunty,” I said, looking at her. I hoped my intonation of the words conveyed my meaning. Then I got up, grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around her and dished her up a plate a food. Other days we wash dishes or the floors side by side, often I feel like Snow White as the chickens, ducks and turkeys crowd around us to play in the water and the dishes, plucking at shreds of rice. Often Aunty will look at me doing my laundry and come over and show me how to do it properly. One afternoon while helping her make dinner I dropped a potato on the ground, twice, expecting her to gruffly grab it from me, she merely smiled and washed it off. Sometimes we will just sit together, not saying anything or painting each other’s nails, just enjoying a silence filled with each other’s presence. Aunty and I have never had a conversation, but we take care of each other, and that’s all the communication I need.

Recently she asked Carolyn to ask me if I could help her secure funding for one of her daughters education, three semesters of school and scholastic materials for the year would cost $300 (600,000 shillings). As a student that’s not pocket change for me but I am thinking about fundraising and fair trade initiatives, if you are interested in helping her youngest daughter have an education, either by contributing financially or holding a fundraising event in your community with a leadership team or interested group, please let me know.

Womens Clothing

If I told you the streets of Masaka are lined with fabrics of every colour, texture and cost from across India and Africa would you be interested? What if I also told you the cost of the most expensive silk you could find would run you about $20 at most and to have a custom tailored dress made from it is only another $15, would you be interested?

I had two of these dresses constructed and I’m not entirely happy with the results. The fabric is beautiful, don’t get me wrong but the measurements were not taken accurately. What I ended up with was one dress that was too large (a 34 inch waist instead of a 29 inch one) and another dress that didn’t accommodate my broad shoulders. Luckily I spent a few extra hours in town and had them fixed that day.  I felt fitted fashions for female friends and family a fabulous idea but faulty measuring would render the whole enterprise futile. A woman I work with, Naomi, recommended another tailor so perhaps in the future I will contract them for future design work.

An alternative to having a dress made for you is to buy an already made item from the many stalls in the clothing market. Much of the clothing is imported from China but occasionally you can find traditional Ugandan clothing made from tree bark. There is a fashion designer named Stella Atal, a young woman born in northern Uganda who famously uses the caramel brown fabric to create much sought after original pieces of clothing. The clothing is bought by local Ugandan celebrities, South African entertainment artists and the U2 singing sensation Bono.

If you are really looking to fit in you will want to wear a traditional dress known as a Gomez. This dress is made of silk, ribbon and two buttons and is characterized by puffy sleeves. The women that wear this dress signify a generation gap, the older generation and women in rural areas favour this dress for everyday wear, while the younger, urbanized and educated elite prefer to wear heels, jeans, skirts and blouses. There is one rule that everyone lives by here though, and that is no knees showing.  Legs, rather than breasts are considered erotic, more commonly women wear low cut blouses and tight tops and wear very long skirts to their calves or ankles, shorts are considered indecent.

I would like to take a moment to stand on my soap box and share what I have learned about women’s clothing from being in Uganda. All countries have their own culture; this culture is like a pair of sunglasses with which the citizens view the world. Many things are involved in making these sunglasses: religion, the history of the country, any violation of rights to any of the citizens, in addition to other things. Now that I am living in Uganda, I am starting to see the different parts that make up their pair of “cultural sunglasses,” and here too, there is a protocol around women’s clothing.

In my personal experience, Canadian nightclubs flaunt many women with short, too tight dresses and push up bras. Sorry ladies, I’m just calling it like I see it.  As a postmodern feminist myself, I realize women have fought for the right to equality and equity and if we choose to dress in a non-conservative fashion, we are within our rights and expect to be treated as an equal, regardless of the clothes on our bodies. Yet even with three waves of feminism in our past, as a woman, I still know how it feels to walk through a crowd of men, to ignore cat calls and stares with my head up and eyes stiffly focused ahead.

I remember talking with a friend about her hijab, and what it meant to her. She said it wasn’t so much about religion or social pressure to wear it, she wore it so that men would notice her mind before her legs, her eyes before her breasts and her worth as a person instead of whistling at her while she walked down the street.

In Canada when I used to go out dancing, I would compliment a friend for having nice legs instead of noticing how short her skirt was, and that is a cultural context for Canadian clothing in a nutshell: women are conditioned not to value conservative clothing or to have ways to determine if a dress is inappropriate. While women may view their clothing as normal and not attention seeking, I know that many men assume the women are dressing in away to attract male attention, leaving both genders confused. The rules of Uganda are explicit and easy to follow: no knees showing and no bikinis.  Everyone in the country knows these rules and if you break it, it is clear you are willing to receive attention, whether it is negative or positive.  My questions are where the line of decency is, or is there no line of decency anymore? Does that lack of boundaries make us liberated, is it just our culture or does that expectation to bare our bodies deal a blow to the feminist movement?

Village Justice

I thought I was going to witness a hanging in broad day light.

The day started out like any other Sunday, and by midday I was walking to Ketchyme for mango juice. After making my purchase I decided to walk to the village centre for something to do.  A small child came up to me and touched my hand and turned to give his group of friends a triumphant smile. He had toughed the muzungu and I had not stolen his skin. Sigh...when did I, Kirsten Cotter, become the Boogey-man? So with my entourage of two year olds, we continued walking to the main street.

Surprisingly the trading post was in an uproar, a crowd 10ft deep and equally wide of children, adults and elders had gathered in the middle of the street.  A fight broke out on one side between two men and they fell to the ground amongst laughter and screams as they strangled and fiercely hit each. Unaware of the commotion, the other side of the group forced a man to the ground and the crowd began to kick, hit and whip him with rope.

I  wondered whether I should get in there and help this man or watch what happens.  In Canada we prefer the legal system to vigilante or village justice, but as a Canadian in Uganda, I doubted the people here would care what Canadians thought. I looked for someone I knew and spied a female student I had taught. “What is going on?” I asked. Through a combination of broken English and Lugandan she told me the man had raped someone. “Her,” she said “...the one in the blue t-shirt.”  I looked over and saw a girl, no older than 14 on the outskirts of the enraged crowd, her face still as stone and twice as unreadable.

The man was finally hoisted to his feet by 6 men. He was in his late 20’s and of average height and a slender build. His hands were bound in a yellow rope resembling a noose.  Each of the men took their turn yelling a snippet of  a reprimand at the young man and slapping him, some men were very angry, others seemed almost teasing. With a combination of shaking, dragging and dragging they moved him 10 metres into a nearby house and shoved him inside. No one but the 6 men and the rapist went inside the house and the crowd quickly dispersed. What happened next inside the house is anyone’s guess.  

Rape is common in Uganda; over 50% of women experience some form of sexual violence in their lifetime. One morning at breakfast I was looking at the paper and a picture of an obese woman in an itty bitty bikini caught my attention. There were several young men in the water with her and one was trying to pull her bikini bottoms off.  Turning to Carolyn I said “I am dying to know what is going on in this picture.” She looked at the picture and quickly read the article. “Those men were trying to rape her,” She said. “Why is it is the paper?” I asked.  She told me rapists often went without punishment in Uganda and the only way to get legal intervention by the government was to get publicity from a newspaper.

Female Empowerment

Women; what does that word bring to mind?

For the young female students at Hope Academy’s Secondary school I want it to bring to mind images of empowered business owners, entrepreneurs, scholars and leaders. I want to introduce them to women that know how to protect themselves against sexually transmitted infections and unwanted pregnancies, women that have the courage to buy and encourage the use of condoms. I want them to have community role models that discourage consumption of alcohol and drug use and promote healthy lifestyles. I want to see them as soccer athletes and sports participants, instead of standing on the sidelines watching the boy’s teams play. If I have to spend the next three months stopping every single girl I see to tell her she is important, she is smart, powerful and pretty, I will, and I am starting with Women’s Day.

On March 5^th I discovered no event was planned for Women’s Day in Uganda. By March 8^th I had organized an event for 150 women from the Uganda Rural Funds Women’s Empowerment Group. In celebration of the accomplishments of the local women and female students we had the schools choir sing, , brought nail polish and gave manicures and pedicures to all the women, had juice, cookies, crackers and chapatti (a mixture of flour and water, prepared to look like naan bread) and as part of my culture, a gift giving ceremony of traditional Gomez silk material, soap to promote hygiene, school supplies, glow sticks and purses. We had an opening prayer, sang the national anthem and had speeches by my fellow intern Greg about his mother and how she is an inspiration to him, Jess about the feminist movement in Australia and myself about the upcoming fair trade projects and girls group that required members. Performing as the Mistress of Ceremonies and translator was Carolyn, a local Ugandan woman and URF member. I had hoped that the event would be organized by women, for women but I noted that whenever a local man could get hold of the microphone, whether he be teacher, student or URF staff member, He thought He knew a lot about Women’s Day and spoke for a very long time (sometimes very off point, like about the King and how He went to England to solve all of Uganda’s problems....good luck with that).

The next venture I am organizing is a drop in Girls Group, where the female students and boarders of the school can meet every Wednesday after classes to discuss a different female empowerment talk each week.  I will start off by facilitating the group and will be inviting local nurses, members from the women’s empowerment group, teachers and guest speakers. It is important to me that the program is culturally relevant and sustainable so I will eventually pass the group on to a URF member.  I organized a focus group to discuss which topics the youth found most important and started with a discussion on sexual education.

The Ugandan stance on sex education is the ABC’s: Abstinence, Be faithful and then wear condoms. The age of consent is 18 in Uganda but many youth have sex much earlier and there is a problem of large numbers of the women dropping out of school due to pregnancies. Many of the girls said it was difficult to get men to wear condoms because they had so many excuses. Using a deep voice imitating a male I declared “My penis is too big for this small condom!” With the girls laughing, I continued on and placed an entire condom over my fist and said “If this condom can fit over my entire fist, it can fit a penis, so remember this moment if your boyfriend or husband does not want to wear a condom.” Then not 15 seconds later, I asked a student “What would you say to a partner that said his penis was too big for a condom?” She thought for a moment, and then cried out “Abstinence!”What followed was a 3 hour face-palm moment for me. I did not think the presentation had made any difference in the way the female youth thought about sex and I knew the information had to be presented in a different way to make an impact. So through trial and error I went back to the drawing board.

The youth read a magazine about drugs, sex and relationships called ‘Straight Talk.’ It is a good way of communicating the information because the students like the many stories and can take as long as they need to translate the words; unfortunately some of the material is incorrect. I wish I could add in that homosexuality is normal and acceptable but there were 150 hangings of all persons suspected of homosexuality in Uganda last year. Another thing I found surprising was that the age for sexual consent in Uganda is 18, much later than the 14 in Canada and the United States. It is hard to supply the youth with condoms and encourage safe sex because they are not supposed to be sexually active yet. If the school makes condoms easier to use, the institution would be seen in the community’s eyes to be endorsing underage sex.  I decided that there will be no more PowerPoint presentations, but a similar newsletter with more accurate information. After collecting anonymous questions made by the students I will respond to them along with descriptions of female anatomy, sexually transmitted infections and health topics in a monthly newsletter. A “Dear Abbey” Newsletter, if you will.  I will write the information on the computer, print it off in Masaka and make a few copies available at the school library.

Cravings

Dear Reader

Friend...buddy of mine...old pal...there are a few items I really want. In fact, they are necessary. I swear. I NEED THEM MAN! Oh? You suppose you could send them? What do I want? Just a few items really...

mascara, black eyeliner, watermelon lip gloss, work gloves, food in packaging! Plastic packaging! Plastics in orange, blue, purple, red, pink, green, brown, white, polka dotted, striped, crisscrossed western food made with hormones and preservatives! I want products manufactured in additives and excessive packaging! I want the food I consume to be the furthest place from the ground food can get! I want it processed and sliced, boiled and baked, greased and microwaved. I want meat! Send me a chicken and cow, goat or rabbit, I want beef! Send me bed sheets and fluffy towels, shoes and hair dye, hair gel and nail files, toilets that flush and chocolate! Chocolate bars and chocolate protein powder, chocolate ice cream and chocolate cake, chocolate mousse and chocolate chip cookies! Oh wait....the cravings have passed...never mind...I don't really need any of those things.

The above rant may make you laugh but I promise you, every two weeks I go to a dark place where I crave all of these things, at least for an afternoon. I try to remember how burgers taste at home, how wholegrain bread does exist and how I would love a pair of pink running shorts. Then I remember that these ravings are just materialistic toxins leaving my body, and soon, maybe not 2 weeks from now, or a  month from now, the cravings will be gone, and it will benefit my life by learning to live with less material pleasures.

On this one month anniversary of my internship in Uganda I was trying to collect all the important lessons I have learned so far:

1. Most people are good, trustworthy and just want a laugh.
2. You can survive off beans, rice, cabbage and bananas. You may lose 7 pounds in one month like I did but your body will feel fine and you'll have enough energy. Most importantly you'll realize food is fuel and not a way to manage your emotions or entertain yourself when you are bored.
3. Time away from people and situations gives you time and space to work things out in your head without feeling pressure.
4. The key to happiness is being surrounded by supportive and kind family and friends and being supportive and kind in return.

Relaxed Parenting Styles

There is a baby on the stairs, accompanied only by a bare chicken bone and a baggy diaper. The diaper looks like it is weighing her down, either because she is not big enough to wear that size or because it is full of feces. I look at the other Ugandan interns, they are leaning against the wall in white plastic chairs, looking at their nails, examining the sky, staring into blank space, while I meanwhile, am riveted in my chair, bum hovering above my seat, white knuckles are the only things keeping me attached, ready to spring into action if this baby falls. I don’t want to take the baby off the stairs, lest some mother comes screaming at me for touching her baby and generally being a weirdo, so instead I sit, ready to catapult towards this child at the first hint of danger. 


She grabs the iron railing and lifts herself up against it. A man walking by stops to shake her little hand and smile at her, I'm not sure if he is known to her or just touching her and this makes me anxious. The man walks away and the baby flounces to the ground, dragging her chicken bone through the gray dirt and quickly plopping it back in her mouth. An impeccably dressed woman in a white suit and black heels walks up to the baby, laughs, as if the little girl has been naughty, and grasps her hand. I watch this mother-daughter pair wobble down the steps together. At the bottom of the stairs she drops the baby’s hand and wanders alone into the internet cafe behind me. 5, 10, 15 minutes later she emerges and takes the dist encrusted infant into her arms and walks away. 

Traditional Bone Healing

Stepping out the door of the house to the hand washing station I hear a whimpering. Jordina, a 17 year old boarding student at hope academy has fractured her arm. Charles, a URF staff member stands over her, rubbing bunches of dark green herbs over her arm. Not understanding and immediately sympathetic to her pain, I ask if he wants pain killers. “No, we are using traditional medicine,” He replies with a small smile. I find myself debating whether to brush him aside and sneak her acetaminophen anyway, or to accept and watch.  I decide to watch. Charles is using traditional medicine called Akeyoyeyo . This medicine is rubbed on the skin and is supposed to eliminate pain. I am concerned that it will not be adequate but, 30 minutes later, she is eating her dinner and if not laughing with a friend, enjoying her company. Later when I ask Charles about it he says in must be applied every morning before 7am and reapplied at 7pm for 5 day duration by a left-handed person. If it is not smeared on time you must wait until the next scheduled application. I’ll admit to you, because I have three years of a health science degree completed, this left handed herb rubbing had me pessimistic, but Jordinas arm pain is under control.

Self Acceptance

I do not identify as white. Let the government label me if they choose, let people say I don’t look aboriginal, let my driver’s licence read fair skinned. These things do not bother me, because my culture is my own, I am proud to speak Secwepemc, I live by the 7 grandfather teachings, I attend pow wows and sweat lodges, my family is Saulteaux First Nations and I will always continue to learn indigenous knowledge and better my community. Now get ready for a twist; white and aboriginal means the same thing in Uganda. As long as you are a foreigner and not black, you will be called a muzungu.  So, being viewed as white, and not having the opportunity to explain that I am aboriginal, was quite difficult. I worried that some people in Uganda would view me as a colonizer, the descendant of a slave trader or worse, all of which I am not. I shared my worries with Yassein, my friend and bus driver. “Kirsten,” He said as he looked at me, “...are you proud of who you are?” I thought for minute, and then said yes. “Then it does not matter what others think,” He replied.  With those words he gave me the gift of self acceptance, regardless of my skin color.

I have heard two stories about having white skin in Uganda; please take these stories with a grain of salt, as two stories cannot represent the entire nation’s thoughts about white skin. The first story is a myth; that white people are missing a layer of skin, which is why they are not black. If they touch you, they will steal your layer of skin. Most people do not believe this story, but reserve it for naughty little children. “Careful or I’ll feed you to the muzungu,” warned a woman to her crying infant (obviously she did not think I would understand her Lugandan). On three occasions I have had older brothers or mothers hold up their small child to me, while the child released blood curdling screams and kicked their feet, terrified of me.

The second story is that white skin is superior, which strikes me as ridiculous. First of all, white skin makes us more prone to early wrinkling, sun damage, looks terrible in bright red, orange and yellow clothing and makes us glow in the moonlight like a lighthouse beacon. So while white skin is as nice a color as any, there is evidence to suggest it is of inferior quality. Even with this knowledge, many women comb the supermarket shelves looking for skin lightening cream.

It first caught my attention in the hair care aisle; a blonde haired white woman was on the label of a product for Ugandan women’s hair. This caught my attention because any hairstylist in Uganda will tell you that there is a textural difference between muzungu hair and the local women’s hair. There is a greater demand for deep conditioners, strong relaxers and holding cream that are often unnecessary for white women. Perplexed, I wondered why a white woman would be advertising a product aimed at the local women. Upon closer inspection I realized the woman had relaxed and dyed her hair blonde and was promoting a skin lightening cream. Women can’t possibly use this I thought and continued walking down the aisle, purposefully ignoring the 3 shelves of skin lightening merchandise and hoping that this product was only available because the city of Masaka had many random items in it, not due to supply and demand.  Unfortunately I saw it again in a small stall in Kyetume, peaking out between plastic cups and hair pins.

Still disbelieving women use this product I forgot about it. That is until today when I went into a market with my friend Carolyn. She is a sweet woman, round faced and 23 years old, she is a university graduate. Carolyn speaks English more fluently than anyone at the Uganda Rural Fund and has a relaxed face that seems stern and intimidates the students, but if you talk to her for only a minute, you will recognize that you are in the presence of an angel (consequently she has malaria at the moment and will take pills later in the afternoon, she will be fine by tomorrow). Sitting with Carolyn, waiting for supplies of bottled water and cabbage to be loaded into our van, she began to point out women. "That woman uses skin lightening cream," she said. I looked over, there was a woman in a beautiful Gomez (a traditional Ugandan dress made of silk), she was balancing a sack of rice on one hip and holding the hands of two young children, her face was slightly lighter than her arms. “Why didn’t she apply the lightening cream to the rest of her body?” I asked. “The face is beautiful, and brown is considered prettier than black,” Carolyn says. “What if someone were very obese, but had a pretty face I asked, would she be considered pretty?” Yes, says Carolyn, only the face matters. Does the lightening cream hurt i ask her. “The bleach?” she replies, “oh yes, it hurts.” Would you ever use it I ask. “No, “she says, “people are beautiful as they naturally are.” I thought about all the Canadian women that tan their bodies, trying to get their skin darker, while women in Uganda bleach theirs lighter, while I worry that my skin may say something about me I don’t want it to say. Self acceptance appears to be the most important thing for women across cultures, land and changing ideals of beauty to embrace.

Who's the Boss?

We’re going on a trip together; pack your sunscreen, mosquito repellent and shillings. Did you remember to tuck in your mosquito net and take your malaria pill this morning? Yes? Well then we’re off! Hold my hand, dear reader, as we walk past the turkeys and children screaming “kristini!” Don’t worry that they call you muzungu, they just don’t know you yet, just yell back “Bye Bugandan!”

Always look around you, this potholed path to the highway always manages to make me queasy as the botabota driver’s ride up and down, their motorcycles inches from us.  Now at the road we need to catch a taxi. First an unmarked car pulls over, ignore him reader, unmarked taxis are infamous for taking, robbing and ditching tourists in deserted areas. We’ll wait 5 minutes for a marked taxi. 

A taxi comes by...but uh-oh, the driver is waving at us, that means there is a problem with the van and he can’t pick us up. Another taxi goes by, this time they are full, I can see as they pass, people are sitting 6 to a row where there is only seatbelts for 3. Another taxi goes by and he’s flashing his turn signal lights. That means he thinks you’re cute! Don’t blush, it’s funny. I think we should walk up to Keytgume and catch a taxi there, it might be easier.

As we walk into town a man approaches and talks to me. When he walks away I tell you he was asking for directions. Later, when we are looking at fabric in the market, I will admit to you he praised your beauty and asked you to marry him.

Waiting for the taxi you begin to look around the trading post. You see black cow with uncut horns, his back hoof is looped in a rope, and the other end is being pulled by two men. The cow is being forced to hop backwards on three feet and crashes down to the ground, on the highway. You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling angry and shocked to see this animal so poorly treated. The man goes to the cow’s tail and twists it hard; the cow emits a wail and stands. Unfortunately for the men, this cow is now upset and decides to retaliate. It discharges putrid green poo all over the man and runs into town. The men chase it and hit it with thick branches. They beat the cow again and again as the cows eye widens in terror.  Each time the cow is hit you breathe in deeply. The woman we were buying mango juice from laughs at you and yells out in Lugandan to the others “Look the muzungu doesn’t like it when you hit the cow!” Several people around us laugh. You are about to march over and beat that man with his own stick, but I hold onto your shirt and keep you close to me.  The cow sits down again, letting the men rain frenzied welts onto its body. The man stands closer, twists the cow’s tail to get it to rise again. This was a mistake. The cow jumps up and rams into a fruit stand, the pineapples, clothing and fish go flying into the air. Encouraged by the laughter of everyone in the village, (minus the two men) the cow charges in the opposite direction, a beauty salon. The men rein the rope, still attached to the cows foot, hard but the cow continues to advance, hair extensions crown his horns and he scrapes his horns left and right, inflicting damage to the cement store walls. Eventually he is pulled out of the store and forcefully led down the small street, away from the laughing crowd.

Our taxi arrives. 4,000 shillings ($2) if you please.

Medical Camps

“It takes years to find the words to tell others your experiences of Uganda,” say many interns who have previously worked in Uganda. Sitting in the VIDEA office in Victoria, Canada I could not understand what they meant. I could only guess at what stories they could not express in words. Yesterday was one of those experiences. I am going to try to describe to you, as best I can about a medical camp the Uganda Rural Fund organized, but I don’t know if my raw feelings will come across to you as honestly as they feel to me.

As usual it was raining yesterday morning, which according to the Uganda unspoken rule, means no one leaves their house until it ends. After two hours it stopped, and our team quickly grabbed our pens, medical supplies and jumped in the van, swinging the door shut as we bounced down the road.

After a five minute car ride we stopped in Kyetume to pick up Jayhan who had gone to see what time the soccer match would be playing at the cinema (the cinema looks like a barn constructed with only 70% of the necessary wooden materials). After driving 10 minutes we stopped again so Martin could buy Rolexes. 30 minutes later we were back on the road.

After a combined total of a 20 minute car ride we arrived in a small village. I was surprised to notice that dirt and sweat caked the villager’s clothes and many adults were shoeless. I was surprised by their appearance because in most places in Uganda, tidy and pressed clothing is the last stand against poverty. Recently someone back at the organization had come into financial trouble and been advised to sell their clothes. The person had refused, saying that if they sold their clothes, they would truly become impoverished. The foreign volunteers had not understood because they thought He was already poor, even if He kept his clothes, but the locals understood, and agreed they would never sell their clothes, no matter how poor they were. Looking out across the poverty of the village, one house stood out: made in the latest design, with working windows and beautifully painted in turquoise, black, white and orange, it was a foreshadowing symbol of the juxtaposition of poverty and privilege I was going to experience that day.

Without buildings or classrooms we set up stations for the medical camp under trees and borrowed a two room mud house. People in the village quickly lined up and received their weight, temperature and blood pressure and wrote their name and age of a piece of paper. Jane (the URF nurse) and I greeted the patients, read their vitals on the card, listened to their situation and then quickly wrote out a prescription. We saw 60 people that day until 6 pm. We had a couple obstacles: firstly, no one packed the thermometer ( luckily I had an extra one in my first aid kit) and secondly, we didn`t get lunch because one of our teammates, instead of helping us with patients, fell asleep in the van and never left to get our lunch until 5pm. Later he asked me if he had saved me like Jesus Christ by getting me lunch, and all I could think was maybe if he had left 4 hours ago.

The day started off well. Our first client was 9 months pregnant and I made sure the baby was in the head down position. When I placed my stethoscope on the baby’s back and found the heartbeat I passed the ear piece over to her so she could listen to her baby’s heart. Another volunteer told me later she left with a smile on her face. The rest of the day wasn`t so productive, I could list off what we saw but it wouldn`t mean much to you. It would just be a list of terrible things that you would store away and then continue on with your day. This isn`t anything against you or your character it is just means that I do not have the right words to communicate to you how deeply these visits affected me.

 I do not want you to find excuses, to say death is a part of life over here or explain this to yourself. I don`t want you to brush it off. I don`t want you to find a way to justify this so you can feel more comfortable and better about the world. I want you to experience it, I want you to taste it, I want you to be uncomfortable and to feel sorrow. I want you to feel these things so that we can connect, it will be like the two of us were in that dark hut together, peering into a small section of someone’s life, someone just like you or I, someone that could be our aunt, our grandmother, our brother, our son. This is not “`life in Uganda,” this is a life that is affected because free healthcare and money is out of reach. I do not want anyone to be so high and mighty as to decide a girl like Josephine, whose parents died from HIV/AIDS and contracted Tuberculosis at 2 years old, should become adjusted to living with a barrel chest. Her caretakers could afford the surgery for TB but couldn’t afford the medication to fix her resulting expanded chest cavity. I want something done about it. In Canada we can afford planes that can`t fly in the arctic but we can`t afford to help Josephine. We can afford hair dye and oranges from 5 different countries and diamond necklaces and earrings but we can`t afford to help Josephine. We think Josephine should expect that in a place like Uganda and then we carry on, expecting her to adjust. I saw children with polio, malaria, children affected by malnutrition, urinary tract infections and fungal infections. A 67 year old woman with a blood pressure of 207/109 because she can`t afford the blood pressure medication. And at the end of the day, when I wanted to give a cookie to an elder, I was told `no, we`ll get swarmed, everyone will want some. When did we start becoming ‘us’ and `them?  As humans the hurt of one is the hurt of all and the triumph of one is the triumph of all.

There was a man who was blind and used a walking stick but his right eye was equal and reactive to light, if he could afford glasses, he would be able to see, a child who had polio who would be really helped by a pair of shoes available at the hospital. A woman who had a botched abortion and now has an infection that has been raging for 2 months. “Can we get her to the hospital today?”  I asked. I was told that it takes a week of waiting to receive care at the hospital, so you have to pack a bag and then you need to buy your own food for the stay and pay medical bills. The person describing it to me made it sound like an almost insurmountable feat.  A modest trip to the hospital costs 10,000 shillings, about $5, and no one can afford it here. $5. Five dollars to better or save a life.

The answer is not to send money because I see that when people get a lot of money that they have never had before, they quickly spend it all on frivolous things. I have only been here two weeks and do not pretend to know the solution, but believe a sustainable healthcare service with lab testing, nurses and doctors with an outreach system is more important to build than donating money to short term fixes. Saying I do not believe in short term solutions makes me a hypocrite because I secretly donated a bit of money so that woman, who reminds me of my grandmother, can afford her blood pressure medication. But that money will run out and she`ll be no better off in the long term. It is not that I want you to send money to this project, I just want you to know it is out there, that  you can travel and volunteer somewhere and help or just appreciate what you have at home in Canada.

After our day at the village our organization wanted group pictures taken, to document all our good work and pat each other on the back. Maybe we did do good work today, maybe it was a contribution, but all I can think of is that woman with an infected uterus.

At the end of our day we headed home, quickly ate dinner and went out dancing at a night club, where few people can afford to go visit. Much like that expensive house surrounded by poverty, I spent the day in one of the most impoverished rural villages and ended the night in luxury. It is not hard being in poverty, or luxury, but it is hard to see the inequalities. I wonder what the cost of a pop would afford someone else.

Josephine

Dry Stands

Thursday and Friday mornings are dry stand day at the Uganda Rural Fund. A team of 6 loads up garden tools, chicken wire and hammers and travels to a nearby village to make dry stands; a hygienic place to place washed cutlery and utensils as they dry. We dig 4 holes in the dry dirt, cut down trees and cut them to size to fit in the holes (sorry Uganda deforestation but at least the dry stands are easily repairable). Then hammer in chicken coop wiring and logs for the dishes to stand on. Each dry stand takes about 1 hour to make. The handsaw and machetes are so dull you could slide them along your skin without cutting yourself but human sweat makes up for the lacking sharpness of the tools. Jayhan and I sawed down an entire tree with the hand saw.

Yes that is me with a new hairstyle that took 5 hours for Mariah "Momma Tia", to complete.

Jayhan, Charles and Martin, in order of left to right with a dry stand.

Wednesdays we travel to child-headed households and build houses, kitchens and gardens. We are currently working on a kitchen, fashioned form banana leaves, mud and reeds for a kitchen for Olivia, Sasoon and Ronald.

The Racist Turkeys

Ladies and gentlemen,
I have a new hero. Her name is Prossi and she is 5 years old. Prossi, delightful and kind as she is, is the muzungu (white person) protector. Laugh as you will, when turkeys come chasing after you, you will feel fear. Luckily, Prossi is armed with a tree branch and a vindictive smile and happily chases those turkeys away, showing them whose boss. When I grow up I want to be like Prossi.

A few days ago the turkeys saw me and decided to chase me down, puffing up their feathers like a peakock they charged at me. Seeing as how it was 6am I was slower than usual and stood there, slightly curious to see how this would go down. One of the turkeys leaped at me and it felt like being hit by a pillow during a pillow fight. Alas, our other volunteer Jessica wasn't so lucky, as she was clawed by the turkeys.
I'm all for animal rights but these turkeys had to be shown who was boss. At the moment, they were boss and I was plotting for thanksgiving.

Walking to work one day the turkeys came after me and I threw little pebbles at them. Undeterred they continued advancing. So, Prossi style, I picked up a stick. Still advancing (no muzunga has ever done anything but run away) I tapped one with the stick. They didn't stop. I hit one turkey harder. Then they stopped. Every now and then I can feel them watching me around the chicken coop, deciding if they should come closer or not, and every now and then I have to show them whose boss again. Now most of the volunteers delay their schedule a little so they can walk with me down to the office and huddle around me when the turkeys are out walking.

Eyes and Ears

VIDEOS:
Traditional Mens Dance. The object is to dance in front of other men until they hand over money to make the dancers go away- very entertaining

Crowded buses called Taxis- someone is transporting their goat. They stuffed him in the trunk and his head is by our legs, Jessica can feel him licking her feet.

A man buying meat in Kyetume

PICTURES:

Our House- pictured with Greg and Leandrea

Baskets and crafts available for sale at the Uganda Rural Fund, made by the Women's Empowerment Group

Mariah (Momma Tia), Myself and Carol in the living room

A primary school