Kot Mwaka Maber! or Happy New Year

The closest translation to that is Happy New Year and as it turns out New Year's Eve is THE big celebration of the year.  And frankly celebrating the birth of 2012, which is supposed to be a momentous year in evolutionary and spiritual terms, in Uganda is a bit surreal.  I keep thinking I should be doing something BIG about now, but the fact is: it's 11:42 and I'm sitting here surrounded by a cacophony of sounds from all directions and I'm writing a blog...  I fear I have reached "old fartedness,"  but that fear is somewhat assuaged by the fact that some of the younger ones also opted to stay out of the fray of Gulu gone wild at midnight.    Still - we are celebrating what we've survived or transcended in the last five months and devising ways to continue same for the next twenty two.  

There are parties - no, make that bashes - in all directions.  At about 7:30 friends and I went to a little club that is literally in my front yard and the crowd was beginning to gather.  It seemed to be a private party, so we ambled through a rutted dirt road to a guest house known as Absolute Comfort (hmmmm) and had drinks on their  "patio," replete with flashing disco lighting and a sports game on a big screen in the inside bar.  We ordered a beer and two Smirnoff Ice Black Label vodka coolers.  Communication not going so well, our waitress announced that all they had was Red Label.  When she "verified" two shots, I knew something had been lost in translation.  When she showed up with two shots of Johnny Walker Red,  it was confirmed.  We finally got our drinks and as darkness fell, the crowds increased and women carrying huge pots (24" diameter)  on their heads passed in a steady stream going to a street party a few blocks away.   Others were leading a cows home on the same street and Bodas, cars, bicycles and kids jockeyed for any space remaining.  The dust soon became unbearable,  so we meandered home while we could still do it without risking life and limb.  Ugandans like their alcohol and they love to party, so we'll let them have their streets tonight.

Midnight:  Wow - this town is erupting.  I've never heard so much human noise and there are explosions in every direction.  I can see some fireworks from my window and this noise is just phenomenal for its sheer volume and scope, considering how far it seems to continue in al directions.   Times Square has nuthin' over Gulu when it comes to New Years.  The gecko on my wall has been vibrated out of stillness and it's scurrying around no doubt looking for a safe-haven.  There will be little sleep tonight... 

Christmas in the Rear View Mirror

Christmas dawned bright and clear on this little island in the middle of the Nile, reachable only by canoe. Considering that I was away from family and old friends and the familiarity of Christmas at home (including cold weather) - it was the best possible, breathtakingly gorgeous and spent with good people.  Surrounded on all sides by jungle and the fierce whitewater of this section of the Nile, it was magical.  Just the previous morning, the island was shrouded in a dense fog, giving it an eerily mystical feeling.  Peopled with genuinely gracious Uganda staff who left a Gingerbread Man on my Pillow on Christmas Eve - it's a place I hope to be able to return to at least once before Close of Service.   Being near WATER was a boost to the soul and the spirit!

So it was a rude, bumpy, dusty, hard re-entry back into my real life here in Gulu.  The dry season is upon us and that makes Gulu Town even more of a dust bin that usual.  Arrived home hot, tired and filthy from just the ride home a good portion of it spent on a "short cut" on washboard roads. As the car bounced along, cast clouds of dust billowed up from the floorboards of the van, not to mention the engulfing red clouds that threatened to consume the can when it encountered another car.  Came in to at least discover that we had WATER, which I am told was "not there" for the entire time I was away.  No electricity, but water  (thank you God) and that is precisely what we all needed.  Cold showers were had by all and spirits began to be restores. Who needs hot water!

There were myriad unpleasant surprises upon walking into the house, but most have been remedied.  Had to hobble around town and replace a fan that had been used in my absence and  was essentially "finished."  These things in the regular world are not issues, but in Uganda where everything is ten times harder to accomplish and it all has to be done "on foot," if you're a PCV,  it sometimes seems insurmountable - especially on 1.5 feet.

Still - I am re-acclimating.  After four nights of nothing but the sounds of Nile rapids, I am back to the all night thudding of an undefinable, but excruciatingly rhythmic bass beat coming from at least several directions.  Ear plugs don't cut the bass frequencies and it's so pervasive  I can't even go cut the wires!
I doubled up on a sleeping pill last night and managed to fall asleep after bouts of stomach-wars from some unknown food - or just TOO MUCH food, because I ate everything that wasn't nailed down over Christmas.  And it was all excellent!

Still - I have friends here and we are easing back into the life that will be "normal" for a while. We eased re-entry by watching three episodes of The Closer last night and it was heaven.  Have more to go tonight and then to conjure something to do for New Year's Eve.  Can I stay awake until Mid-night???   Do I even want to?  But there's something to be said about welcoming 2012 in the heart of Africa.

On another note, and I can't remember if I mentioned this - the 50 foot tall retaining wall that marks the left side of the long, steep downwardly-sloping drive into PC HQ collapsed.  Not all of it, but a good third of the portion beyond the guard house where all vehicles get the "bomb check."  It makes HQ inaccessible  and has thrown everything into more of a CF than seems reasonable.  So things like our Inservice Language Training (1 week) and the Inservice Training (another week) have been cancelled.  All this was to happen in January, giving us all a chance to re-group, if not gripe about things.

Another two people have ET'd - gone home to comfort and such.  It was not unexpected, just handled in a bizarre way.   We are told than some of this will become mundane - and that may be so, but I hope I never lose my sense of awareness of this place, never stop looking at it with the wonder of what is beautiful and poignant,  at the contradictions of filth and suffering juxtaposed with a generosity of spirit and sense of laughter that exists everywhere.  

So on that note,  I wish you a beautiful New Year filled with possibilities, discoveries and gratitude.

So You Think YOU were Robbed at the Post Office?

You all know I have two sons.  One, I communicate regularly with by phone.  That would be Brett, Director, Ski Patrol, Timberline) on the mountain, risking life-and-limb every day as I see it.  The oldest is Travis, in the city now after coming back from a lucrative IT contract job in Iraq, which you'd think would hold some danger...  it's Bagdad military zone after all.   We regularly "chat" - the on-line variety.  So when the phone rang this morning and Trav's name popped up, I knew this was no ordinary day - and it's a day before my birthday - so probably not a birthday call.  I'd not yet had coffee - and there was the usual slow getting-into-the-day clattering going on in the background as breakfast is brought out in random starts and stops.

So , I say "Travis!  How wonderful to hear your voice!  This is unusual - a call - how are you?"
Travis, savoring the moment and his news:  "Well, I thought  a call would be appropriate after the events of the day."
"Oh yeah?  What did the day bring?"
"Well - I got your package mailed!"
"Good, good - that is a big event - I know what a pain in the ass that can be..."
"Yep - and it cost be $75.00."
"Damn Travis!  That a lot!  Sorry about that!"
"Well - it's OK - the Post Office ate that one."
"Hmmm - sounds like a story behind that... knowing that the Post Office never gives anything away."
"Yeah - considering I was robbed at gun point..."

HA! The other shoe has dropped...  Proving once again, that danger is not always where you expect it.  "Oh my god Travis!  Are you alright???  Tell me!!!!"

As the story unfolds, it seems Travis has gone out on what should have been an ordinary mission of mailing a Christmas package.  In retrospect, though,  I can remember some forays to the PO during the Christmas rush that would qualify for combat pay...  and feeling like I'd been robbed after paying for the privilege.

It was 11:30 in the morning in a Prince George County PO (near Hyattsville, MD).  As he was filling out customs forms, a masked gunman came in brandishing a gun (which Travis described as a pocket pistol or some such but he knew exactly which one it was...) and started banging on the PO counter for the attendants to come out  (as he would like to rob them).  Naturally this approach didn't work real well and the employees stayed where they were (they're smart like that.)  Having failed to collect his intended stash, he decided he'd rob the captive audience of seven or so people who had come into mail packages.   I'm guessing he probably didn't think it through that well.

After some fairly frantic bounding around and collecting about $200 in cash, the bandit ran out, no shots having been fired and all are well.  Travis was  the only one who thought to call 911 and the only one with enough presence of mind to pay attention to the kind of details police want.    It was a TV scene - complete with black hoodie, black pants, black mask, shiny gun (well I'm not really sure how shiny it was).

Having donated $100 to the cause already, the PO Police evidently decided he'd already over paid for the package.  I think I'll save the wrapping on this one.

So next time you go the Post Office to mail a package and think you've been robbed - consider the price of a "refund" - in the Twilight Zone.

Merry Christmas ya'll ;-)

Magical Coincidences

First of all - it is NOT raining...  just thought I'd clear that up.  But certainly it is getting ready to - nice overcast skies - perfect for sitting outside as I hobbled (less obviously, but still enough to attract comment) to the Kabira again to enjoy another cup of fabulous coffee.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  

First was the trek to get money from an ATM.  The way we are paid:  PC deposits money into an account and we withdraw - assuming we can find an ATM and assuming that ATM has money. Neither is a given - even when one goes to the ATM outside the bank...      I was graciously escorted to the nearest Stanbic ATM - a hefty walk away through several markets, back roads and much hubbub.  I have no doubt that this is not the image that first came to mind when you think of how PCVs get our stipend (nope not a single trade bead, goat or chicken...).   This is not the Africa you might have in your mind'd eye... tho in some ways it still is - just not the ways you might predict.   It is a country of contradictions - high tech mixed with marriage dowries of 40 cows.

Back to the ATM - it is "finished."  Closed.  Out of money.

However, a beautiful young woman approached, with those gorgeous weaves that Ugandan women do - in a mix of colors ranging from black, rust, burgandy and brown.  She gave us a ride to an ATM waaaay away from this one and said when we were about to climb out - you will get a taxi back, yes?  ;-0    Ahhhh -  glad I had my Ugandan escort with me to run interference with the taxi.  I could have managed, but still it reduced some of the hassle.  And the point is, one can never assume.

Once in the taxi, I got questions about "the foot."    (Merely walking down the road, people will stop, express their concern and 'tut,tut - ooooh soddiiii."  It's an endearing custom. )  Sittin practically on top of each other, I commented on her English - absolutely perfect.  Turns out she'd spent enough time in California to drop the British-ness of Ugandan English.  Here's the fun part:  she taught in Redondo Beach - where we lived for the three years during our California incarnation.  It gets better:  she lived in Torrance, where Travis was born.   Really?  In all of Africa I should find myself sitting next to a woman with such a specific cross-over of history? You can't make this stuff up.

When I arrived at Kabira and ordered coffee,  one of the staff stopped by to chat (again - about the foot) and I told him how much I love their coffee and that started a conversation about coffee production and prices in Uganda.    His home is in the very town where we did out Tech Immersion, studying the Bukonzo Coffee Coop.

I love when that happens.

Christmas Rains and a Country Club

I know what you're thinking....  Is is ALWAYS raining in Uganda?  Because in most of my entries there is a comment about rain.  So, in answer to that, it doesn't always rain, but when it rains it is always fairly torrential and all movement in any direction short of getting out of the rain ceases.   Often, that's why I am inside and have a moment to write - and yes, I almost always have the computer with me because I'm still a bit concerned it will grow legs and walk away.  I'm not quite understanding this "dry season" threat, but I hear even in areas where it's a reality, three are the "Christmas rains."  I think this is one of them.  And it's chilly - and here in my temporary refuge there is the first Christmas tree I've seen actually in place and decorated in all of Uganda.  So I'll take this as a gift.

This rain finds me having escaped the doldrums of the Bukota Guest House and hobbled to the Kabira Country Club just down the road.  And my friends, this is a side of Uganda that most of us don't see - unless you're in Kampala on Medical and you use your entire day's per-diem and then some for a meal.  I have done precisely that.  Having just moved inside,  the rain is coming down with a vengeance through a canopy of wrought iron and Bougainvillea, Palm trees and other lush tropical greenery.   The Olympic size swimming pool has emptied and an army of little kids have shrieked inside dragging their towels and floats in their wake.    I've finished my latte and it was appropriately decadent, topped with a two inch froth and a drizzle of chocolate sauce.   I am a real sucker for a good cup of dark roast coffee - in fact that is where no small portion of my per-diem has gone: to finding and imbibing in really good coffee known to chase the Grinch away.

Since Peace Corps has sent out a notice warning people showing up at HQ, this will be day three of hanging out in the burbs with myself, a stack of books, language flash cards and a computer with limited and random Internet access.  I know at some point in my life I will relish being able to sit and do nothing - but this is not that point and I'm tired of sitting and doing nothing.  (Yes - I'd like a little cheese with that whine... )  Back to the falling wall - which is serious, and with this rain, more will certainly come down.  This is not the first time it's happened, so PC is scurrying to move offices into temporary space and find a different place altogether I hear.  Dr. Quissiga (spelling - sorry doc) has called to say he is bring supplies and that he'll bring enough for me to start doing my own dressing changes which I can easily do now that I don't have to "pull" skin off.   The end is near ;-)

Kabira is a gorgeous place and I do see how it would be a sweet life as an Expat here in certain parts of Kampala.  But one would have to inure oneself against the reality of what's beyond this manufactured abundance.  It would be hard to keep those "rose tinted glasses" clean for long and I'm content with a peek through them.  I find myself missing some tastes, friends and conveniences, but oddly enough most of us - and I include myself - are really quite content (secure in the knowledge that this is not forever and that we have options) with fewer choices, just a few pairs of clothes and supply of terrible candles, etc.  I WANT things from time to time, but need is probably not a word I would use.  Still, my head is turned by some of the lovely homes with manicured tropical gardens tucked into the seven rolling hills of Kampala and I've put some effort and funds into making  home-away-from-home reasonably comfortable and functional.   But this is a Country Club in the Western sense of the word.

So - wrapping up in time to hopefully be picked up by Dr. Quissiga - (also know affectionally as Dr. Uganda) and not make him wait.   A ride anywhere is a fine thing and not to be trifled with.

Ah - the rain, which had slackened to a mere gully washer, is back up to typhoon proportions.    Again - glad I have a ride!    Oh! And I hear there's another volunteer headed to the Bukota - it is seldom tomorrow - it's seldom with a few PCVs.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

It's 5-something o'clock in the morning in my room at the Bukoto Guest House tucked down a nearly impassable road in Kampala and the music is still blaring from a club on the main road.  Nightclub noise is ubiquitous  - the only place I have not felt the throbbing of bass or the pounding, repetitive drone of club music here was at Nurse Betsy's.  When - I ask - do people sleep  in Uganda???

It's raining in what is supposed to be Dry Season and I love the sound.  It was a fitful night with alternating loud music and foot pain and itching, both of which I'm told are good things.  Where is the damn pillow to elevate the foot????   Ah - tangled in thousands of yards of mosquito netting, itself tangled in the scrappy single bed sheet arranged artfully on a double bed so it's not apparent until you try to turn over.

It has been an interesting couple of weeks here at ground-zero.  Rumors fly, politics abound, diagnoses suck or don't get made.  Really,  who knew there was so much going on?  I thought I'd left some of it behind in third grade - well - maybe high school.  Who's doing what to whom, who said that?   who's got what disease - you've been sick for how long?  You have a rash wheeeere?  is it moving?  is it alive?

Brady - thanks for your re-cap of the year.  It reminded me of how much we've all been through since we arrived and how well - generally - we've acclimated.  Some are still slogging through the mud - not to get to training, but to get site.  Many are living without any amenities (no, not without hot water - without any water that's not hauled in).  Some were at the edge of a prison system with no locks on the doors.  Others though, are right near Queen Elizabeth Park or the Nile or in beautiful Ft. Portal.  But all sites have their challenges regardless of locale,  utilities or the lack of same.  They range from extreme isolation and lack of basic services (aka food other than cassava and potatoes), to chronic illness and just the vagaries learning how to live in a third-world country on a long term basis and how to get to medical in under 10 hours.

There's been no lack of drama either:  two PCVs have been flown to South Africa with broken bones needing surgery; several have had - and still do have -  unidentifiable (thus far) intestinal maladies; one has been medically separated under a cloud of controversy that has escalated into a what sounds like a law-suit; another has ET'd (Early Termination) in disgust; one has had her foot nearly burned off causing jokes of "Run Forest, RUN!"  and another has spent a week in medical with bilateral conjunctivitis caused by allowing small children in the village to touch her face - joining still another who has had a running battle with staph.  Those are the few I know about in our group and there are 175 of us in-country. As  I've said before, Africa is a veritable Smorgasbord of diseases and maladies, adventures and mis-adventures.

And yet, the majority of us are doing whatever we need to to adjust to conditions many folks don't know exist.  We are making connections and friendships, choosing to spend Christmas with a gaggle of orphans who weren't "picked" by any family to go home for Christmas (that's for you Russ) or spending their first holidays without family (many of the "young ones").  We're devising ways to ward off holiday blues (meet-ups for Christmas),  keep ants and snakes out of houses (pour paraffin/ kerosene around the house?) and avoid other calamities met by simply walking down the street.

We are getting packages from home, wonderfully supportive e-mails from friends and family, learning the languages somehow,  baking in odd contraptions so we can have our BROWNIES and in general we are thriving in spite of the challenges or perhaps because of them.  The thing that has always attracted me to experiences off the beaten path is that it calls into play personal resources one never discovers living in safer confines.  And as with many other life-lessons, what has been gained isn't always apparent until later....

So here we are and there you are on the run up to the holidays.  That's all the news from Lake Wobegone.

Re-cycle Children's Games and Toys for a Good Cause

Hey Everyone - having been away from my organization, LABE (Literacy and Adult Basic Education), for a while I got a little derailed on a project we started before I left.    I'm still not back at site, but am thinking forward to jump-starting what I know will be a fun and important program.

Northern Uganda, until about 2008, had been at war for more that two decades.  Villagers were "housed" in large camps called IDP (Internally Displace People) camps, where thousands lived together as an act of "protection" from the resistance groups who were murdering, raping and abusing women and children and conscripting every healthy male (from age 7 up)  to to go to war, often with their first act a requirement to watch or participate in  the murder of their families.  I do not exaggerate.  Many have known nothing but life in the camps and are still being reconnected with what's left of their families.

In this environment, education, health care and all social structures disintegrated.  The presence of Peace Corps in Northern Uganda has one primary purpose - to help rebuild and heal a culture.  To this end, LABE (funded largely by the Dutch)  was created in 1999 as a way of  bringing the ability to read and write to the Villages, while also teaching parenting skills, health care, gender-equity and other tools of self-governance.  The program is making a significant difference, but education in general in Uganda is woefully inadequate.

As part of the effort to build this program I have  suggested we start a "story hour" reading program to reach even more young children and their mothers in an effort to help the discover that "reading is fun."  In the States, we take this for granted because we are already a reading culture.  Uganda is not, but if it is to move forward, it must be.  Education is the key and reading is key to education.    Reading for fun is where it starts and studies show that children who are read to early in life do better in school and fare better throughout life.

Since this is a new concept and they don't know YET that reading is fun, we need to offer other games and activities as part of the start up of the program.  Therefore, we want to have games, crafts and toys available as part of our activities to entice people to come.   These toys will remain with the program and become part of what's available to play and learn with when they come for "story hour."  We have already secured the approval and support of the Gulu Town Clerk and have the venues, we just need more materials.

Most of these children have never been "read aloud' to.  Many have never seen a picture book, but when Joy - one of the Program Specialists - at LABE and I have taken picture books to the villages and read aloud to the kids, it has been magical.  The potential is there and they are hungry for these  opportunities and experiences.

So - I am offering an outlet for used children's educational toys:  puzzles, games, building blocks, alphabet letters.  I know some of you either will be or know people who will be cleaning out kids' toy closets in preparation for  the haul that most American kids receive at Christmas.  If you do such a project and want an outlet for these toys, please send them this way.

We need durable things:  wooden or stiff cardboard puzzles and manipulative toys, games,  picture books, glue sticks,  stickers, you name it.   Puzzles - which hardly exist here - teach abstract thinking, pattern recognition, problem solving, fine motor skills and wire the brain for the type of foundational processes necessary for higher level cognition.  Schools here DO NOT offer this type of learning (all rote learning), but things are changing as a result of programs like LABE.

Shipping costs:  I know this is problematic.  It's not cheap to send to Uganda, but perhaps a local church, Rotary Clubs or other organization can assist with some of this.  If some folks don't have toys, etc. but want to support this effort, maybe a combined approach were people chip in for shipping can be helpful.

If you DO send, PLEASE mark USED TOYS and goods.  If not, I will be charged a stiff DUTY on new stuff.

The mailing address for any of you so inclined is:

Nancy Wesson, Peace Corps Volunteer
P.O. Box 914
Gulu TOWN, Uganda
AFRICA

Thanks everyone and may you enjoy the blessings of the season!
Please feel free to share this with others you may feel are interested.

Musings of a Deranged Mind

Well I think I may have been at medical too long...  I know this, because everyday when I come in and sit down on the comfy black Naugahyde couch and put my hoof up and await the process of  re-bandaging, the random comments one hears range from "Hey, howyadoin? Get those test results back? No?"  to "Oh, you need another stool sample?  I'll see what I can do..."  and this seems normal.  It's  something one can only hear in Peace Corps where the conversation turns to things biological - dysentery, parasites, stool samples, fungus, bites, bruises, and on and  on - ad nauseum.  While medical staff are very protective of privacy, the volunteers have no such compunction.  And just to be clear, this conversation is not just in medical it's at dinner tables where ever PCVs gather. 

In this petrie dish of the prurient, every morning as I sit down, immediately to my left is a beautiful Papyrus basket with bright red foil packages in it.  What are those?  They're awfully sparkly and what a nice red.  Oh - condoms - of course....  We are in a high risk AIDS culture, so you can pick up a handful of condoms like you might pick up a handful of peanuts or M&M's else where.  The other day I went to the National HIV/AIDS Prevention Celebration.  They were giving free blood tests and circumcisions.  And a woman came by with a big box, cheerfully handing out goodies.  Oh, I want some!  The men are grabbing; the women are giggling and some are grabbing them then hiding them quickly.  WHAT are they handing out in long strips?  Oh - condoms...   Well, never mind.  We got a strip in our medical boxes and they are packaged in camouflage colors of tan and brown.  Still working on that marketing ploy.

So back to medical.  I am sitting there with my foot up - all nicely wrapped in a stunning blue sterile medical pad - to protect if from dirt, mud etc.  Infection is a real threat.  And last night when I showered, this thing did little to keep the foot dry (it wasn't really designed for that after all) - even though I held it out at a completely un-natural angle during the process.  This all after hobbling up a series of really filthy dirt roads to get to the restaurant to eat.  My heel was hurting from landing on it every time I had to use that foot - since the front 3/4 of it are useless at present.

I'm thinking  there must be a way to protect this foot more effectively from water and mud and to affix some sort of rubber heel protector on it when I really have to hoof it longer distances.

Now, sitting next to these condoms and more than a little bored, my mind does what it does - starts looking for solutions - using the resources on hand.  You know where I'm going - so if this offends you stop here. While I do have duct tape, I would have to tape it to my foot and that would get awfully tiresome ripping duct tape off my foot, taking a little skin with it each time.  Rubber bands are in short supply...  well - hmmm.  Damn!  Why didn't  think of this earlier?  This is an excellent solution!  I can get some foam, cut it to the shape of a heel and tie it on with condoms!  There are PLENTY available, no one would miss a handful...   And then I thought of just slipping one over the whole foot to keep the moisture off the bandage.   Naaah - there's probably not one in a size 7  1/2 and it would be awfully constricting.

I will further research this and let you know what I decide...

Reprieve - Sort of

Good news abounds.  First my foot and mobility have improved to the point that I can move to a location where I have to fend for myself.  Now how is this good news....  The care I have received at the hands of Nurse Betsy has surpassed any care I have received anywhere.   She is a treasure and has prepared lovely meals presented with a flourish of artistry and certainly love.  She has washed clothes and ironed things that have never seen an iron (no mango flies on her watch).  She has pampered and set up a shower in a way that keeps my foot elevated!   She is every one's perfect mother away from home.

So, I am moving and will miss Betsy and her care, but will have more freedom and access to getting around.  One has to be a genie to find Betsy's and the fiasco of transportation to and from dinner on Saturday night was all I needed to let me know "not to try this alone."  Also, there are frequently other PCV's staying at the Bukoto Guest House, so it won't be as isolating.

One PVC came in today with a jigger in her foot.  No no, don't get excited - not like a jigger of tequila.  a little worm than can get in when you walk with open toed sandals through the grass.  It's a nasty little beast that literally worms its way in and sets up housekeeping until you cut it out.  Another came in yesterday looking like death warmed over - probably Malaria.  So it's busy there even if all that happened was medical.  There are 175 of us in country and something is always happening for someone.  Then there are workshops and meetings and lost passports...    So one can be "entertained" a bit while here.  But I am getting proposals for my NGO written, studying Acholi and doing other PC assignments.
They try to make sure new PCVs are not having too much fun and keep us on a short leash.  Not so much fun and much of it seems like busy work, if you've already lived a life and know how to get out there and get busy.  But some folks are at sites with too much going on and others are stationed where they are feeling like they've been dropped on the dark side of the moon.

The latest hoopla has been over the lack of a Christmas Break.  Washington D.C. has mandated that new PCV's are forbidden to leave their sites during the first 90 days of service.  This might work if we had not come at a time than when that  90 days spanned two important holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas.  For some of the younger PCVs, it's the first time every that they have spent away from friends and family and this is tough.  For the older ones who may have had some exposure to that, we have at least had the freedom to find ways to make the holidays fun or avoid feeling emotionally adrift or downright abandoned.  It's been a HUGE controversy with boat loads of discontent and today there was some give by HQ.   At first we had NO days for Christmas.  That was changed to give us two days - the 24th and 25th away from site, but ya' can't get anywhere in Uganda in a couple of hours and no one in his right mind travels at night.  So today, there was a compromise made and we how have essentially four days, two of which are travel days but we have to take annual leave...   This is where I need a bad word.

Wow - ya think that you leave some of this behind, but the bottom line is - this #!* is everywhere and there is no escape.    Still - PCVs are people who color outside the lines, and the more you try to constrain us the more hostile we get.  So now, the hostility meter is out of the danger zone and some normalcy has returned, meaning that we don't have to become totally subversive.   We will always be mildly so, because straight-arrows rarely sign onto spend two years with pit latrines,  disease and daily uncertainty.  So how do you handle 175 mildy-subversive personalities?  Carefully and with a sense of humor, a large dose of flexibility and tact.  These traits are not always in supply but sometimes they appear and pour oil on troubles waters.

So that's today's report from the Pearl of Africa, boring tho it may be.

Real Chili

Written on Saturday.  Sitting here with my hoof up - as one friend has called it,  I'm listening to the wind rustle and the first spattering of rain.   Soon I'll make an effort to get presentable for dinner with the Country Director of Peace Corps, a rare treat. What to wear - I've brought two t-shirts, two pairs of Capri pants and a skirt,  most of it is dirty and none worthy of dinner with more civilized folk. But my host while I'm in medical has accumulated quite an array of clothes from people who have been graced by her care.  She has managed to come up with a blouse that matches my skirt and I think that will work.   Hair needs cutting and I've left my salon accouterments in Gulu. But!     Help! I've fallen from grace and can't get up!  And from one night of sleeping without the net, there is a large mosquito bite on my face.  Vanity being what it is - even in Africa, this is humbling...  But then, the  sawed off sock covering the non-bandaged part of the foot is such a fashion statement,  how can anything else compete?  And the crutches are a nice touch - if not for walking then for weapons.

Anyway - I'm looking forward to meeting some new folk and have had quite a week at ground-zero aka Peace Corps Headquarters.    All the gossip and politics are there and it's rich fodder for an otherwise gossip starved volunteer, far from the world of Charlie Sheens,  the Demi Moore and Ashton Kutchers malaise and oh yes - US Politics.  But the contact with the international realm is much more real here and Ugandans are very news conscious.  They often know more about what's going on in the US and Europe than I do - a sad statement indeed.  But many of us are here precisely to detach from all the drama.

Back from the dinner now, it was very nice.  And I was totally surprised to find our host and hostess had made a huge mostly American (he is ex Peace Corps and she is Armenian) meal of Chili (the real thing - and a Texan knows Chili), potato salad, tabbouleh (Ok not American) and slaw.    There was also Armenian Apricot? vodka, a fabulous banana bread torta and CHOCOLATE CHIP OATMEAL COOKIES brought by another Armenian friend who had great tales to tell about her travels in the US.
The US is just as odd in many ways to a traveler as going elsewhere is for us.

I've certainly eaten better here than I would at "home" in Gulu.  Betsy's a good cook and feeds me more than I should eat, all the time saying it's for the foot!   Yeah - well tell the hips that...

I am off to visit with one of Betsy's cancer patients who is in a local hospice.

California Redux?

I am sitting here on the balcony of Nurse Betsy’s home-away-from-home waiting for my Peace Corps ride to medical and I am lulled back to California days.  My eyes drift over the iron railing, past the explosion of color provided by huge  pink begonias, heliconia, orange and red lantana, something that looks a bit like ginger, bird of paradise, water orchids and beyond – past the spiky species of Hibiscus and lands on a red tiled roof covered with vines.  Beyond that there are the  hills draped in  gauzy mist obscuring more red roofed houses.  Birds twitter – there are huge palm trees and philodendrons, scheffalera, dracaenas, purple fountain grass.  It’s Palos Verdes or Santa Barbara….

No?  Oops there’s a water tank piercing the landscape – but given the trend toward water catchment, it could still be California.  Wait – there’s not that much rain in Southern California…  Look closer.   Ooooh – there’s the barbed wire looped at the top of the compound wall, and those are not river stones at the base of plants – those are halves of egg shells and the odd light bulb used for decoration. The cars in the compound are ancient Toyotas in need of repair, not a new Mercedes or Hybrid.  An African woman walks by wrapped in a kanga cloth skirt - her baby strapped to her back and an impossibly large woven tray of bananas exquisitely balanced on her head.  This is definitely Africa.   There are whispy tendrils of smoke wafting up from Sigiris or charcoal stoves, still used even when there is a stove available - a rarity, but this is Kampala, the big city.  

Further surveying the landscape, my eyes have just landed on an ancient ally cat with ears fringed from too many territorial battles.  His head is blue – now that’s irregular.  What is that?  Betsy, custodian of the beast, is out sweeping the compound with her traditional broom, about three feet long.  Different versions of this are used for everything – yard rakes, house brooms, spider brooms, but they are all short, requiring constant bending.  Occasionally you will find one with a handle attached, but people seem to prefer the short version.  In the distance I hear a rooster and a cacophony of bird sounds is coming from somewhere.  On never mind, I think that’s the power steering gone wrong on a car that just passed.  It’s a gift sometimes to be able to translate sounds into something more interesting…

Ants have discovered the pillows on which I have my foot propped.  There are a million different varieties here and some like computers.   Every once-in-a-while one will crawl out of my computer.  If a roach climbs out I'm coming home.

Ah!  I have the verdict on the blue head – Jerry (the cat – named after the ambassador…) has been sprayed for another cut on his ear.  Quite the ambassador, that Jerry.

This tranquil environment that looks so familiar at first glance belies what is in the heart of the city and beyond these walls.  Kampala is teeming with chaos, dirt, poverty, endless stalls lining every navigable road with every imaginable industry - all done right on the road.  There are iron works and furniture building (all of the furniture displayed at roadside) mixed in with hair salons, phone time, hardware, produce dukas (tiny shop), hair plaiting, used clothing,  road side "clinics" and pharmacies,  standing shoulder-to-shoulder with car washing done with jerricans of water and butcheries.  It is not for the weak of stomach.

So I will do what I need to in Kampala, which is get healed and then heel my way out of here as soon as possible.  And I think my chariot to medical is arriving- since that feels like the rumble a land cruiser.  There’s a joke about “unmarked white peace Corps land cruisers.”  And I think mine is just arriving.  We just had a rash of unannounced, and therefore unexpected visits from one of the trainers from head quarters, asking questions that seemed a bit like ‘big brother,’ and then we had to sign a form saying we’d been interviewed.  Being people who color outside the lines, this has created quite a stir, thus the sighting reports of “unmarked white SUVs.”  Add to that the fact that the only ones visited were those who failed their LPI (Language Proficiency Interview) and you can throw a little paranoia into the pot.

Off to another day of foot torment.  Be blessed.

Demonic Tea Kettles

So catching up...  To those of you who noticed that I have "been lost," thank you.  And the story is:

Somehow I have managed to avoid the ordinary things that bring one to medical in Peace Corps Uganda:  Malaria, Diarrhea, Falls, Mango Flies, Tsetse Flies....   Yet I have been in Kampala Medical since Saturday receiving daily care - not for any of the above, but for deep second degree burns caused by a demonic electric kettle.

Friday seemed like a really good day:  a half day at work, I rounded up metal rods for "curtains" and got them cut tho the right length, cut lengths of fabric and hemmed them using my Midget Stapler and hung "curtains" over the remaining windows - all before dark.  As I sat at my computer, the electricity came back on and this is normally a good thing - but that night had a special treat in store.

Seconds after the power arrived I sensed something askew in the kitchen. When I glanced in I saw steam/smoke rising from the kettle which was empty and which I had not turned on.  An electrical short?
So I gasped and walked over, grabbed the handle to get it off the plastic gizmo that heats water and the entire bottom of the kettle fell off.  It was kind of an "Oh shit" moment until the thing hit the floor and splattered the contents on my foot and then it turned nasty.

I instinctively grabbed my foot because of the searing pain and let go of the kettle, which was not on FIRE at that time, but burst into flames when it hit the Papyrus mat.  It would have made a great "Keystone Cops" episode had it not been for the obvious.   When I took the rubber flipflop off and rubbed whatever it was off my foot, it took the skin off the first three toes with it.    My shriek of pain brought three of my Ugandan neighbors running and they were shoulder to shoulder looking in through the kitchen window saying "You are hurt??  What has happened?"  I'd locked myself in for the night, so couldn't even unlock the damn door because that substance that was flung out of the bottom of the kettle was molten metal and plastic, which I discover when I stepped on it trying to get the key.  But the fire was in the way anyway...  I managed to find a couple of water bottles and threw water on my foot and on the fire causing sizzling on both.

Not to belabor the locked in part, but I finally located the keys to the front door and let three frantic people in to see how they could help.  Water - I needed water!  And there is NO WATER PRESSURE - which means no water from the tap.  I had managed to fill the jerricans before this fiasco so they ran around finding the plastic basins and jerricans used for bathing. I submerged my in a water bath and got a good look at the skin now furled around my toes like wood shavings.

What to do - we're not supposed to go to the local hospitals and how the hell would I get there anyway?  No one has a car.  Can't ride a Boda.  Call Medical.  Where is my purse?  Where is the PHONE?
I found both and to my great luck, a friend was coming into town with a ride we can only refer to as a miracle.  Medical approved a trip to Gulu Independent Hospital and 20 minutes later I hobbled out with my foot wrapped in a wet floral pillow case I just received in a care package that day.

I was seen by a very competent doctor who assured me "debriding" the wound did not include his stripping off skin Hannibal Lecter style.  This after asking him if he had morphene...  Not that I could have had any, because we are warned NOT to have injections (that pesky needle problem).

So several hours later, I returned home to the scene of the crime and commenced figuring out a ride to Kampala the next day.  God bless Medical, because they sent a car from a nearby (two hours) district the next morning (no one in their right mind travels in Uganda at night).

So, I am here for a couple of weeks at best and will be allowed to return to site when all burns are completely healed.  There have been some tense moments as phrases like "you want to keep the end of that second toe" and "skin grafts" are whispered.    Fortunately, we now know I will keep my toes and there will be no skin grafts.  Whew...   Karen, the nurse tending to this on a daily basis is deft with dressings and tweezers and scissors (kinda makes you wince doesn't it?) so I am in good hands.

So any of you PCVs who might be reading this, if you have a kbsatellite  kettle stick a knife thru it's heart and bury it.  It is evil in chrome.

Have You Been Lost?

When I came into after Thanksgiving and a workshop - having been gone for 5 days (they all knew where I'd been), I was greeted with "Have you been lost?"   Well, my western hackles went up...  "No, I told everyone where I'd been and.... and... and...  " The comment hit me as a little sarcastic, like my mother used to ask, when I'd not written for a while (remember written letters?) "Well, did you break your arm - you haven't written...blah, blah, blah"

Then I remembered soon enough to save myself from total humiliation, that ,"Have you been lost?"  or more literally translated, "You have been lost?" is a traditional Ugandan way of saying "Oh - you've been gone a while!"  No sarcasm intended, not accusatory, just "Hey - we've missed you (or noticed that you were not here)!"

Such are the cultural land-mines one faces, and I find it is more of an opportunity to get face-to-face with my own foibles than anyone else's.  When I came here, part of my quest was a spiritual one i.e. "Who am I in the absence of trappings, marriage, family, house, career and other shields to hide behind?" So I had to laugh at how easily my insecurity about "being late, not being responsible, etc. ad infinitum"  was triggered.  And after that is a whole list of other trigger points that really come to the surface when one is a stranger in a strange land.   One of  those is the concept of "us" and "them."  That one is interesting, because in one field of thought, each of us is but one aspect of the holographic universe and as each of us evolves, the planet evolves.  In the opposite direction, any time any one of us casts a negative aspersion on someone else or ourselves, we all are impacted as one organism. Sort of like the experiment where one plant's leaves are burned, and it is registered by other plants in the same room even though they were not burned.

Another great expression which creates a bit of a stir is:  "You've been sleeping around?"    (Uh-oh...)
That one really means, "Oh you slept somewhere else?"  (Whew!)

I could go on, but my mood has shifted as has circumstance since I wrote this 5 days ago and I'm wondering if anyone else felt the burn I got on my foot Friday night.  No one????  Well - there goes my theory.  More later.