The Loss of a Sweet Spirit

 Danielle Gucciardo was 23 and filled with the kind of enthusiasm and genuine sweetness that is rare at any age. I say that because there are not many people I would describe as “sweet” without that characteristic being attached to being cloying or a bit fake, but Danielle was the real deal - an old soul in a young body. I didn’t know her well - she was part of the “new” Education Sector group based at a school a bit outside of Gulu. Because of that, our paths only crossed when she was able to get into town and we usually found each other at Coffee Hut.

No doubt her parents and sisters bid her farewell to Peace Corps and celebrated a new and exciting chapter in her life fully expecting her to come home filled with that same excitement about life - only a little more seasoned.  Even at 23 she had a passion for working with the disadvantaged.

She has gone home, but not as expected. 

Saturday, as Danielle, Jennifer and Ellen left to go to Kampala for In Service Training (IST), they walked along the same route I have taken many times and dreaded every step, to catch the Post Bus that leaves at 7 AM.  We walk in the dark to get there, along a stretch of road that wends its way through town skirting one of the main bars in town.  Our biggest fear is usually getting past the bar patrons spilling out onto the streets without being hassled.  Then there’s the long stretch flanked by a Papyrus swamp. It’s really dark and pretty spooky in its own right – the salient sound being the croaking of frogs.  We tend to walk on the left because it has a wide shoulder, avoiding  the right side (against the traffic) because you can’t see people who may be in the shadows.   The roads are pretty vacant at that time of the morning, with the random person headed to work or going home from the bars that are just closing.  So we are alert to vehicles - likely to be piloted by someone “under the influence.”

It was as these three young women walked to the bus, laughing and having a good time - headed to the first benchmark of their service: In Service Training (IST) that without warning: no lights, engine noise, squealing of breaks - in mid-sentence, a truck ploughed into them, killing Danielle instantly and injuring the other two, one seriously and the other with more minor injuries. 

The aftermath is too grim to describe, but suffice it to say there’s no 911 to deliver a sparkling clean and efficient team of paramedics and medical equipment to your rescue. I received a call at about 6:15 AM from our Country Director saying the ambulance had not arrived and could I help figure out what was happening.   It took a bit for me to understand who was involved and when I did, I knew which route they would have been taking.  Knowing the man I would call to drive me to find the accident, would take too long to get there,  I left on foot to find help and 30 minutes or so and  seven people later, I found a ride, by which time the ambulance had arrived. 

Jennifer and Ellen were taken to one of the two better hospitals in Gulu, only to be transferred almost immediately (relative term) to the best.  I arrived at that hospital at least an hour and a half after I got the call and still waited a good while before the injured arrived.   I have to say that hospital, LaCor, run by the Italians was decent, but not well equipped to handle this event.

Peace Corps sent a plane and doctor to Gulu to transport the injured back to Kampala and I along with another volunteer accompanied our friends.  It was a flawless ride, well managed and we arrived at Kampala International Hospital in good time.     By 10:30 that same night the most severely injured, was on her way to South Africa via air-ambulance (AmRef).  Seeing AmFef operate was like being back in the States: fast, efficient, state-of-the art. 

The community of Gulu rallied and has been very supportive.  I’ve received calls from the post office folks who know us all, the man who fixed my windows, a tailor with whom share mystery books, the Ugandan volunteers at the library, and so many others.  I've even received a call from S,amir, my dear Indian grocer who having missed me for the week, feared the worst. Ugandans and Muzungus alike having heard the news made their way to the hospital. Locals, who seem to come out of the woodwork at the scene even though the streets were empty the preceding moment, apprehended the driver who smelled of alcohol.

A grief counsellor sent by Peace Corp D.C. has been working with the group.  A beautiful memorial service was held at the IST training site and another is being planned at Danielle’s school. The trial is Monday. I know for most of her group, this is their first brush with death and this magnitude of loss.  It’s a cruel initiation into adulthood. I hope her family can take comfort in knowing how well loved their daughter was, that the way she lived her life has already changed lives and will be a beacon for others. As a mother my deepest grief is for her parents and sisters.  

Life Gets Complicated...

It's been waaaay too long since I posted, that is if you're interested in what's happening.  If you're getting bored with this - maybe not ;-)   As I've said before, the odd and unusual has become the mundane, though one never completely gets used to things.  Just about the time you think you've adapted, the universe comes along and throws something new at you.  Things got more complex and I've become less of an observer and more of a participant, which is what I had anticipated in Peace Corps.   One of my realizations about my time here had to do with the fact that the work I do with LABE - a lot of Organizational Development - is pretty "hands-off."  But the more time one spends here - the more time I spend here, the more involved I become in everyone's story and the harsh realities of life here.  Again: a combination of exhilarating, humbling, heartbreaking and breathtaking.  Want to FEEL something beyond your comfort zone - come to Africa. 

All of a sudden, things have become busy and complicated.  A while back, I was casually bemoaning the circumstance of my work being so "mental."  The library project whose failed attempt at starting in 2011, finally manifested and then along came Peter, who opened the door to more than I'd anticipated.   In the middle of all this, a friend of mine who was a PCV in Mali, put on Gulu's version of the TED Talks and was there to take pictures.

 The event took place on the grounds of Gulu University (above with other PCV friends) and it was quite the deal.  The purpose of the event was to tell a different story of Northern Uganda, to share something other what people know of the North: "as a place you go to die." That's a direct quote from a Ugandan in Kampala.  There's a great TED talk called "The Danger of a Single Story" (http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html) and it's worth watching. This TED talk was about some of the rather amazing projects operating in Gulu to move people forward. On the right, yours truly between Erin Morrison, good PCV friend living in Padjule and Natalie Grillion, the creator of the event (formerly in Mali).

The library project is moving at a snail's pace, despite my working there every Tuesday and Thursday.  The issues seem trivial in the larger scheme of things, but the everyday log-jams that interfere with forward motion continue to be daunting.  I think one of the things that happens to volunteers here is that we want to do much and when your deafened by the sound of the chinks in the machinery of progress grinding to a halt - there's some self-reservation shut-down that occurs.  So life seems to even out - but the fact is we've just put the gone into  avoidance.  Useful sometimes.  But then there's something that matters breaks through the veneer of frustration-created-apathy and we re-engage.  This time it's the library project.  Every time I tell a Ugandan that we are creating a Children's Library (the first ever for Gulu and probably Uganda) they are moved nearly to tears over the idea - the commitment - the realization that   someone from the outside is trying to do this for THEIR children - the opportunity it represents.  It's a reminder that this is not a little thing and that it matters.  That's where the frustration comes in.  To have shelves for the children's room, we have had to liberate shelves from the adult collection, such as it is - mostly textbooks, with a little pleasure reading thrown in.  That means - for me - sorting through and organizing by category - a few thousand books.   Since this has not really been done before except for obvious categories like math, it's a walloping challenge.   And we could move those shelves if we could the years worth of duplicate papers moved out of the "children's room" - if anyone would come when they say they will - if anyone would call them back and follow-up, if anyone would......  What I can say about is:  it's a great upper-body work out and it's concrete.  When you've moved - and re-moved a few hundred books and see them i place, you can say - "I did that."  Much of what we do here is "planting seeds" that - if they grow - will come to fruition long after one leaves.    On the advice of a librarian friend, I am doing it by "book store" categories as opposed to Dewey Decimal System, because almost NO ONE shelves a book here.  What I HAVE noticed is that the more organized the collection becomes, the more people are using it as a library instead of just a place to read newspapers.  One of the first things we'll do when it's done is have a few classes on "how to  use a library." NO one really knows you can actually check out a book!  The class  -  will also include things like "IFF you shelve a book, put in spine out at least somewhere in the vicinity of where you pulled it out."  This from a librarian's daughter, but books are often put back backwards if they are re-shelved...  I know - I know - it's down in the noise, but there is just so much noise!  It's taken two months t do something I could have done in the States in 2 days. Enough of that.

And Peter. This is where the universe has thrown me a curve.  Peter is lovely:  personable, open, good hearted, works hard, is polite, committed, filled with gratitude and loved by his teachers. I'm honored to work with him.  But the Head Teacher at his school is a real piece-of-work.   There have been multiple complaints filed and no-one seems to be able to kick the bastard out.  It has not occurred to them to stop paying him - I feel pretty sure he'd get the idea.  This is a man who hates: Muzungus, women and anyone who dares to fear him - anyone with a voice.  He rules by fear, threat and vengeance. Not exaggerating.

The last time I visited with Peter on school matters,  the HT and I were in "conversation" when he simply turned his back on me and walked away.  I know men like that and am done with it.  The teacher's say "he's mental." This is a man who STILL boxes kids on the ears (he's a big man and hits them hard).  Damaged one kid's vestibular system and he couldn't walk straight for a week after.  He still canes students and when I left the last time, called Peter out in front of his class mates and called him a "piece of human wast, garbage, etc.  How dare he affiliate with Muzungus - etc."  Usually, none of the teachers will stand up to him, because he has sole power to hire-and-fire. But the latest episode has them stirred up and ready to come forward.  If only there was "someone home" at the level where this has to be handled. 

I ultimately went to the Deputy Regional District Commissioner (DRDC -  the president's representative in the District) and the District Education Officer, both of whom knew about the HT and suggested I move Peter to another school, knowing that getting the HT out would take forever, if it every happens.

This has been depressing and as I was trying to find another school, buying study aids to help Peter catch up, etc something good has emerged. Peter as so angered by HT behavior, that he has taken a stand with the HT and seems to have gained some strength and self respect.  Where people often will not stand up for themselves, they will do it for others and in doing so find the "gift" that Buddhist's say is hidden in adversity. In Uganda there are many men like this and if Peter can learn some coping methods it will serve him well in the future, but that's not what school should be about.  Still I think instead of "rescuing" him and sending him to another school where he will have to build relationships all over again, it might be in his best interest for him to  stay there because the teacher's adore him and have his back. A new school might be even more disruptive. While it's hard to get rid of a bad teacher in the States, this type of behavior would get one thrown out in a heart-beat.  It was yet another eye-opener I've managed to avoid until lately. Having gone to the high-officials in Gulu, the HT is back on their radar and there is a support system. Peace Corps tell us to "stay out of it," but thre are somethings you just can't stay out of.  You just have to be smart about how it's handled.

Because of Peter's interest in helping the street kids, yet another door was blown open. When  RDC  found out I was sponsoring Peter and trying to get his Street Kids Proposal out there, I became flooded with requests to help: money, website, donate a few hours a day.  This because the RDC referred them to me.  Good grief.  As my sister says: "No good deed goes unpunished."  I have had to set some firm boundaries - there are not enough hours in the day or energy to do all of this.  Having to communicate constantly that I need evenings and weekends to regroup and do all the things needed to self-maintain is - in itself- exhausting.  I explain I don't bring money, I have no time to research and write proposals since I HAVE a full time job and two projects - and I remind them that since I do not have a WIFE (the doer of all things here) I do all of my own cooking, cleaning, shopping and laundry - therefore don't have time for a fourth project.  Having said that at least three times to the same person), who keeps coming back like he has never heard any of it - we have at last reached an understanding.  I will do some editing and add my voice - not insignificant because they believe a Muzungu voice carries more authority. The sad truth is:  it does.  We met with higher ups today to get things moving forward.  

This is all on the heels of a Human Rights conference that focused on the suicide issue here.  In the last 4 months there have been 95 suicides in the larger Gulu area - all people between 20-something and about 35.    These are the ones who - for the most part - were born in the war camps and have no mechanism for coping with the realities and responsibilities of life on the outside.   The group I'm trying to help is called Help a Child Uganda - and their focus is on getting the "new group" of street kids some help so they don't meet the same fate or dish out their misery to others.

So that's what's been keeping me busy and away from blogs as of late.  I understand how it is that volunteers decide to extend during their last half-year.  Not happening here, although I'm working my butt off to finish the library and get Peter's situation more stable before I leave.  This is a pivotal year for him and will determine IFF he gets into a senor school and which one...   All of that needs to be determined before I leave or at least some structure for managing it.  I'll not be here when he finishes P7 so I've got to set some things up.

Lordy - on the up side:  we have an "old farts" trip planned for Zanzabar before the Close of Service conference in July.  Seven of us are headed that way.   And I can't WAIT until the kids come in September!  Other good news: the library I helped my home-stay sponsor start is now active!  That one also makes my heart sing.  Going to try to get her a sign for it - right now it's just word-of-mouth - but people are coming and checking out books. Cool, huh! Most there have never even heard of a library!"

The power just "finished" and I've been discovered by mosquitoes - so I'm headed under the net.

Meet Peter

A few blogs ago I mentioned that I am helping a young man go back to school.  What started as an acquaintance on the street has turned into a pulling at the heart strings as I learn more about Peter and his story.  So I’d like to introduce you to this young man who has such a drive to go to school, improve his life and be a role model to others with the same plight.

I meet a lot of people on the street and we have brief casual conversations that consist mostly of greetings or “no, I’m sorry I don’t have any money to give you.”    With Peter, this became a dialog about what he was trying to do to get the 100 or so street kids in Gulu off the street, fed, back into school or at the least back with families.   It wasn’t until later that I realized Peter had also been a street kid, getting random help from random people, working at odd jobs and getting a meal when he could.  Yet Peter never asked for money or even implied that he was in need himself. It was only obliquely that I learned he was trying to get back into school.  The focus was always on "his" street kids.  He never mentioned that all of the money he had saved for school had been stolen (story to follow). That came to me quite by accident from another woman who was in Peter's life when it happened.

Fast forward to my deciding to help Peter get into Gulu Public Primary School (Grades 1 - 7) where he will have shelter and food as well as education.  Peter’s been on the street for a few years and has developed a level of autonomy that’s doesn’t fit too well in a school where you have to ask permission to go to the latrine!  Yet, he’s wants to do well  and is following all the rules.  So far - so good, and his teachers are noticing.

Last Sunday was Parent’s Day at the school – and I guess as his sponsor, I’m the closest thing Peter has to a parent, so I went, signed in as a "parent," was given his test results and stayed to visit.  I learned more about his history and had a fascinating conversation as Peter asked me about things he'd heard about the United States.  Sooo interesting to learn what Ugandans have heard and how it's been interpreted in the context of life in Uganda, half-truths and all. 

 The more I learn about Peter, the more amazed I am at how this young man has managed to hold on to such a single vision and motivation to be educated.  For the first few years of his life, Peter and his nine siblings were raised in a village on the outskirts of Gulu.   Evidently the mother left the picture early on and his father was left to raise the kids alone.  They struggled for food and all of the children were expected to work in the fields or otherwise contribute to family livelihood.  Peter made it to  P3 before it became evident that his father would not/could not continue to send him to school and it became a source of chronic conflict and later abuse from his older siblings.  So he went to live with another family after physical violence erupted as he became the  referee to keep his older brother from stealing food from the Peter's younger siblings.   The new "family" got him through another year of school, but that living arrangement fell apart as well.  (Nearly every family I meet here has at least a few extra kids living with them or has sent their kids to live with someone who is better equipped to handle them.  The nuclear family is nonexistant here for the most part.)

Once again, Peter realized if he were to have any chance of going to school, he’d have to fend for himself this time on the street and so he has – making his way through P6 with odds and ends of jobs and  “support.”  One of those “supporters” was a minister in Kampala who had the kids sleep and work on his compound, paying them the equivalent of about $40 per month out of which they would have to pay for food, medical expenses and a telephone to be at his beck and call when he needed them.   But no school….   The pastor enticed them with offers of “if you learn to drive, I’ll buy you a car”  but the pay wasn’t enough to get the training and there was no “time off.”  Again, Peter realized he had to do this on his own as the disparity between the way this man treated those under his care, and his claim of being a “man of god’ became more obvious and more disheartening.   (It's no wonder Peter became suspicious when the Church of Latter Day Saints - Mormons are prominent in Gulu - offered to pay his school fees IF he would join their church and agree to do their preaching their way and prepare to leave the country for a few years.)

Back in Gulu again, he found a bit of support from a reputable faith based organization here.  I met a Canadian woman there who knew Peter’s story and told, "Peter has had true miracles in his life,” and proceeded to tell me the story of his school money being stolen.  Seems Peter worked at digging a latrine for this organization all one school term, staying out so he could save his earnings to pay for the next term.  He put his money in the bank, an unusual thing for ANY Ugandan, much less a street kid.  On the day he went to withdraw his funds to pay for school, he discovered his account had been cleaned out by his landlady no less: filmed at the ATM.  Under the recommendation of the banker, Peter went to report the situation to the police and HE was thrown in jail, as the police assumed it HAD to be the street kid who was stealing.  After three days the banker followed a hunch and went to the police, only to find Peter in the slammer.   The fact that the banker tracked down the landlady’s crime AND followed up on Peter’s situation with the police could certainly qualify as miracle’s here in Uganda.    The money of course was gone, so there went another lost term of school. Still - Peter persists and is not an angry young man. 

Anyway, when Parent’s Day came along – unknown to me until the last minute – I had already made plans involving the library and a group of volunteers all scheduled to work.  In trying to explain to Peter that I might not make it, he stopped me and took my hand in both of his, looked into my eyes and said, “Don’t worry – all that you’ve done for me tells me you love me.”   Oh lordy – I have no words for this. 

So of course, I made it a point to get to Parent's Day and spent a little time chatting with Peter, took some treats only to discover other kids are “disturbing” his locker.  translate that “stealing” from his locker (no lock).  I've now supplied a lock...

So this is Peter’s story.  He’s working hard, has an incredible spirit and an ability to forgive that continues to inspire me.  His story is unusual only in that he continues to get up and try again, remains positive and committed against all odds, to living a life that matters.  

Hearing Aids De Ja Vu!

This morning dawned unexpectedly quiet....   Always a welcome event here - and rare.  So beautiful was the silence that i turned off the fan and reveled in it.  Constant Karaoke...  Must be a new bare somewhere, but everytime I woke up last night, there it was again.    This morning's silence was almost deafening buy comparison ;-)

My work mates are off in Kampala this week and I'm in Gulu trying to get other projects moving forward and somehow that has not proved fruitful, but the week is young.  Trudged to the library this morning all ready to sort children's books and it was totally locked.  Where IS everyone???  So I went to the market instead, found a not totally wilted bunch of cilantro and look forward to ANYTHING with cilantro on it.   There appears to be MO meat in Gulu...  "it is not ready yet."  I don't want to know what that means.   Thank goodness for foil packed tuna in my care packages!   It seems we may be getting the fallout from the Kenya elections.  we were warned of it, but supply routes are down due to Kenya's election turmoil.  No yogurt, no pickles, no meat...  odds and ends, but things that make life here a little easier.

Managed to get my power tuned back on.  Most of Gulu was without power for 3-4 days last week. everything rotted in the fridge.  When it did come back on, Umeme - the power monopoly - flippantly decided to disconnect mine.  I got the bill one day, paid same and they unplugged me the next.  No justification.  Seemed I was going to have to pay them to reconnect, but managed to find someone reasonable there and they issued the reconnect order.    Miracles never cease, they are sometimes just long in the coming.   This all happening during the week of International  Women's Day.  Did you know there was such a thing?    Me neither 'till I came here.  This is how I "celebrated" it:

My side of a  conversation with my PCV friend Erin, from Padjule: “Really?   Starkey – (the worlds largest manufacturer of hearing aids) - is coming to town?     You’re meeting with them?  How come? When?  Can I come?  How in the world are they going to fit hearing aids in Africa???   This I have to see.”

And so it began – but first a little background. 

In a former life – in my twenties – when I’d come back from Europe totally broke and on food stamps because-I-couldn’t-find-a-job-ANYWHERE-not-even-waitressing – I had to take a job placement test at the Department of Public Welfare….    If they were going to give me an emergency ration of food stamps, they were damn sure going to try to get me employed. Before I went trekking off to Europe after my first divorce, I‘d quit my job as an audiologist doing diagnostics for an ear, nose and throat clinic in Austin, caught the cattle-car-$100-Icelandic Airlines flight to Amsterdam and visited my sister in Tunisia.     Before I left, I’d humored a friend of mine and under some duress had told him my ideal version of the job I’d like.  I told him it would be a job "managing a state-funded program for delivering hearing aids and related services to indigent elderly." Where I came up with that I’m not sure – such a program did not exist at the time.   He suggested I plug in a salary, so I did and it was unreasonable for a young audiologist with no administrative experience and almost as little experience working with hearing aids and the elderly, except that  I’d tested hundreds of them.  So I plugged that order into the great job-bank-in-the-sky and left for Europe, not giving it another thought.

When I came back to Austin, it was after Nixon’s impeachment, the first oil crisis, I  had no money, no job and no prospects for any of the aforementioned.  So I dragged myself into the exams one morning after having been out most of the preceding night and took an absolutely horrid standardized job test and did so badly I was convinced I would never be employed. 

A few weeks later, I received in the mail, a letter from the Department of Public Welfare, the gist of it being: would I like to “come interview for a n"ewly developed Title XIX (medicaid) program tasked with delivering hearing aids and related services to the indigent elderly of Texas.”  And – the salary was precisely what I’d plugged into my formula a year before as I was packing my bags for Europe.    Really – you can’t make this stuff up. 

So – somehow, I beat out several other very seasoned audiologists with administrative experience and got the job.  It was trial by fire,  but I learned a lot in the three years I ran it before leaving again – this time to live on a sailboat for a year, cruising during storm season in the Gulf of Mexico and the Bahamas.  I was beginning to suspect I had come from gypsy stock. Anyway, that was the last time I’ve had anything to do with hearing aids or audiology directly.

Bill Austin on the left

 Fast forward a few decades and a few countries... When the news about Starkey coming to Gulu found my ears, I felt history repeating itself. Of course I had to see how a fairly high-tech process requiring testing, medical screening, fitting, hearing aid batteries and counseling was going to work  in a third-world environment where virtually NONE of that could reasonably be accomplished.  Coming from the audiologist’s background where testing and “proper” fitting rules,  I first viewed this with a lot of skepticism.  I'd been told that this is the brain child and passion of Bill Austin, the founder of Starkey Hearing Foundation and that he approaches it with evangelical zeal.   He devotes most of his time and talents now to traveling around the world and dispensing hundreds of thousands of hearing aids to hearing impaired kids and adults in response to Clinton's Global Millennium Initiative.

I'm glad to report that there’s been a lot of humbling and many reality reality checks between the arrogance of my twenties and the walk along this impossibly dusty road, past the cuk-madit (main market), numerous boda stands and a slew of Ugandan’s  amused to see a Munu walking that road. When I finally arrived at Saint Monica’s orphanage and clinic, it was the scene of much going on.  There were tents set up, with hundreds of men, women and children lined up or  sitting in staging areas waiting for the next phase of what proved to be an orderly, well orchestrated process.

 
Making all this happen were about 30 Americans and at least as many Ugandan volunteers milling around with red Starkey shirts and blue Global Health Corps t-shirts. There were also a few beefy guys around sporting Pros for Africa shirts.  Quite a group.  Global Health Corps is a Barbara Bush (daughter) initiative and Pros for Africa is consists of professionals from different areas, one of which if NFL  football players.  Witness Tommie Harris working with with a couple of different women below.

The next image that came into focus was a long, skirted table with piles of  what looked vaguely like a buffet of shrimp (wishful thinking...), but upon closer examination the piles revealed themselves to be  hearing aids divided into “power groups,” from weak to mega-strong and then body-aids for those who are profoundly deaf.   

Explaining that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer and former audiologist,  I was warmly welcomed and invited to observe and be part of the process.  What I saw there was a well-oiled machine: a very streamlined, practical process that – in the states- would be scoffed at, but was a fairly brilliant adaptation to the realities of the third world.   Lack of medical care means ear infections don’t get treated and what starts as a correctable temporary hearing loss, turns into a permanent one.  The Quinine given for treatment of Malaria is ototoxic and if given in too large a dose (common) you’re malaria (that time) may be cured, but you've lost your hearing forever…  and so it goes.  Here, the mere opportunity to hear something overrides the first-world concern of “is it perfect?”   While we were there, one child considered to be retarded immediately started mimicking the fitter's vowel sounds when the hearing aid was turned on.  Instead of being an outcast, with little hope of developing speech or integrating with his community, he'll have a chance at a normal life.  Others might just be a bit more tuned in, but here, that can save your life. 

Brady Forseth, Executive Director,  doing a fitting

Without going into a lot of detail there are a few really critical elements to the process of fitting a hearing aid.  In the States you would  start with an elaborate battery of diagnostic and fitting tests to determine type and configuration of hearing loss.   These would be performed in a multi-thousand dollar sound-proof booth with the latest tests including speech discrimination, etc.  Then you would test various hearing aids, “tune” them to reflect test results, re-test, etc. etc.  Anyone not doing all this would be considered incompetent or at the least unprofessional.  It’s a snobbery I know well and a luxury not possible here. 

As with every other service delivered in the environments of  developing countries, grass roots, practical and sustainable processes rule the day.   Just training people to respond accurately to a test – if you had an even remotely quiet place to conduct said test – would take too long and your high tech results would still have to be matched to real world limitations.  So here, the process looks more like this:

• ·      A med-tech (very skilled by the way) examines the ear canal with a photographic otoscope, where the ear canal shows up on a screen.  His job was to clear the canal, check for infection and send them for meds if he found something.   This is not a task for the squeamish:  many were totally occluded with wax that looked like tar and other stuff that had stuck there while they were trying to clean it them selves. Others have active infections.   More than a few, which I did not see,  had bugs that had taken up residence in the canal.

• ·      Ear molds were – for the most part – pre-made by an advance team that had come months earlier, taken impressions and sent the impressions for manufacturer elsewhere.  Those who arrived later without having been part of the earlier process, were fitted a well as possible from a selection of stock molds.

• ·      Some interesting screening was done to determine which power-model of an aid would be optimum, based on behavioral feedback.   Even in the States – with all of the technology in the world,   fitting of a hearing aid is still an art-form because of the variations in how people perceive sound and a myriad of other factors, both technical and perceptual. Getting useable feedback from folks who’ve never had something in the ear, who may never have heard, who not only don’t speak YOUR language, but often are non-verbal can be an adventure in subtlety.  Entire conversations here can be had with raising the eyebrows, so figuring out what that means when tuning a hearing aid can be - well - confusing.

 

• ·   After fitting, they receive some group counseling and get a bag to keep their batteries in.  This is interesting:  into each bag goes a handful of rice to absorb any excess moisture from the batteries being used.  A year’s supply is supplied by Raovac.   Once they can do everything on the checklist (put the batteries in, fit their ear-mold properly into the ear, turn it on, clean the earpiece, etc.) they are released with the contact of a local “support partner.”

The downside is, that people here – even the partners, don’t know much about hearing aids and the recipients themselves will be hard pressed to find help for the kinds of issues that routinely come up.  Two questions I was asked a few times were:

• ·        Will the hearing aid fix what is wrong with my/my child’s ear?

• ·       Are their any harmful side effects to using a hearing aid?  

The really tough questions won't show up until everyone is gone home.  So the system isn't perfect, but no system here is and this one is pretty impressive.

A few hours into the process,  the wind began to whip up a nasty dust storm followed by a grand Gulu downpour.  Chaos ensued: people scattered to move under tents, thousands of dollars of equipment had to be packed and people still ushered through the process.  And so the day ended in mud and lakes of water.  A classic early flirt with rainy season!

In a few months, I hope to help with a group being brought in from Erin/s region in the east.     Whodathunk I'd be doing this again after all these years.  You just never know where life will take you.

Children's Room Project!

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Finally – at long last – we are actually starting the project that was attempted in 2011. A burned foot, change of Town Clerk and LABE work intervened and conspired to stall the project.  And a truculent volunteer dug her heels and played the role of a power-mongering bureaucrat.  Her first question when approached in 2011 was “What will you give us?” after I’d already offered to organize the children’s collection (i.e time, expertise, all free).  Obviously that didn’t bode well.

Time passed and, as volunteers, we finally got deep enough in our projects and gained enough credibility to try again and take time away from our primary work.  Although, the library task is in line with LABE’s goals and secondary projects are encouraged, things just needed to come together.  It took a while.  Another volunteer had some university books donated  - though no funds to GET them here.  Shipping books is pricey even via the M-bag route which coast around $250 - $300 – as some of you already know!

Since getting the books here wasn't working, we put our heads together, and re-engineered the original idea - boosting literacy and reading.  We approached the library (study center) again are were lucky enough to find the real librarian there and he was very excited about the project.  He’s not requiring us to jump through administrative hoops (you have no idea how huge this is) and embraces everything we’ve suggested.  So – we have been granted permission to claim a secondary room as a children’s room, but to do that we must clear the existing chaos:  organize thousands of newspapers for several years (back to 2009!)  into title, year, date, day, getting rid of thousands of duplicates, etc. etc.    Here's a sample of what we found:

There is no storage or shelving for them so we have been creating a makeshift system using discarded grocery boxes.  There is also no money for binding the newspapers.  So witness the current solution (below) – boxes with paper separators….    Makes us realize anew how fortunate we are in the States to have funded libraries!  When life gives you boxes - make shelves...  Samir, our favorite local grocer, gave us these.  That may not sound like much, but other places wanted $7 US for a discarded box.

After the newspapers, there are rooms full of old donated books that need sorting – and hundreds of books for the adult section have to be processed and some discarded.  Some of those will go to the new library in Wakiso my homestay host is starting and others will hopefully  go  to schools and a local youth center.

There are new shelves in the adult section and they are empty.  ALL (thousands) of books must be moved from old shelves to the new ones. When that’s done, the children’s room will get the current (more child-friendly) shelves and by then we should have at least the newspapers done and the text books figured out.  THEN we can start categorizing the hundreds of children’s books into reading level categories.  Forget Dewey Decimal System, no one will ever refile a book by number and there is no such thing as a card file or inventory of books.

Since there are not children’s chairs or tables,  we’ll shorten the legs on a few adult tables and make them available for kids.  We’ll get a few mats from the market and create play and reading areas, paint when we can get paint donated….  And!  There is a  local teenager who is a budding talent and we’d like to encourage him – sooo – we’re hoping to get him to paint fun images on the walls to brighten the place up.  Here's what it looks like now:


That blue thing you see is a huge iron gate being stored.  We have no idea about how to get it out of the building since it's both taller and wider that the door. I'm thinking of painting it and calling it the "Gateway to adventure" - or some such.

Ahhh it goes on and on.  Creating the space is only Phase I.

The bigger challenge is “mobilizing” schools, parents and children to get them to USE the room.  As I’ve said before, this is not a reading culture.  In the library, there are only text/academic books, nothing for pleasure reading.  Our goal is to provide a children’s space, so children and parents will have a place to get books, come for reading-hour,  have some puzzles available,  and plan some kids activities. This means visiting schools, holding events for children, and maybe someday creating a mobile library to get books to the field.  Some of the doors have already been open by LABE as they take the books you all have donated to the field to Home Learning Centers.  

In the meantime, life goes on.  I've visited my sponsor-student, Peter, who has now been in boarding school for about a month.  so far, so good.  He's happy having a place to sleep and three meals a day. 
His challenge seems to be math, so one of our new PC education volunteers has offered to meet with him to see if see if some tutoring will help.   

OK - gotta get to work.    House-sitting for some friends with a mischievous "teenage" cat who has managed to drag in an interesting assortment of critters over night:  I've counted one large roach, a large strange moth with a long funnel looking proboscis, a big lizard and a huge grasshopper.  And that's just what I can see scattered around and need to remove before I find them in pieces when I get back.  Seems she likes things that crunch (lizard legs....)

Onward through the dust...

Frogs in the Toilet and a Mouse in Space

I take back everything I said about this being a “kinder, gentler” dry season.    What ever relief that was rendered with the teaser of rain on Sunday (by various account – 4 drops of liquid fell from the sky and that may have been bird droppings for all I know) has been  compensated for with a vengeance.  It’s horrid.  Even the white ants have vacated. And Lizzy, thank you for your offer of a roll of duct tape to fix the holes in the screens to keep the little bastards out.  Unfortunately, there’s not enough duct tape on the planet to fix this place.   They come under the doors, through the “screened” vents, through the open places around the windows.  Too bad I can’t learn to like eating them. Next lifetime perhaps.

Soon – and it’s already getting there – it will not even cool down at night.  The upside is – there is still water, though my neighbors say they have been hauling theirs.  I think I just still have some in the tank.  Thank you God.  Climate change, whatever its origins, is also manifesting here according to the locals.  This year there has been spotty rain in the middle of dry season – almost unheard of.   Usually, when it’s dry season, there’s not a hint of moisture anywhere. 

Last weekend I spent a day playing tour guide to an Irish woman who will be here for two years with VSO (Volunteers Services Overseas). I love it because she has a potty mouth (or trucker’s mouth it’s been called) to match mine, but she does it with an Irish brogue and it is somehow … charming. You’d hardly know you’d just been told to “go to hell.”  I’ll have to work on a different accent I guess. She’s also closer to my age (i.e only 20 years younger as opposed to 40 years younger…) and it’s nice sometimes to pal around with someone in your century.  It was fun showing a new person around, but in this heat – exhausting.  I also paid a visit to Peter, my “surrogate Ugandan child” who has now finished a week plus in school.  He greeted me with a reminder that he still needs 13 notebooks.  This is costing more than I anticipated.  Silly me – I should know better.  So – in the god-awful heat, I went to find 13 more notebooks… and delivered them back to the school.  This is going to be interesting and I can only hope that it will help him change his life. Maybe just knowing someone out there cares will make a difference for him.  If he’s a good student and can stay engaged, it will be he’ll have a better shot at life. Anyway, after the errands the only respite from the heat and grit was a few minutes in the shower.  The perversity of it is, that dry season  - when all you want is a cold shower - is the ONE time of time the year that the water is hot.

So today, there was another planning meeting.  Ugandans love planning meetings.  These things take on a life of their own, so I sat chatting with the only other Munu in the room, another British VSO volunteer who told me his tale of going to a workshop in Pakwach – I think.  Stayed in a hotel (loosely called – a bed and a “proper toilet.”) Went to flush the toilet and three frogs came out.  After being flushed into the bowl, they climbed back into the tank.  So of course – the entertainment value  of this frog-show being high in the village of Pakwach – he flushed again: again producing three frogs – and so on and so on this went.   Then he told the tale of going to a restaurant which he assumed would have a “proper bathroom” and found it – but had to share it with a pig.    

The other adventure was the purchase and cooking of a frozen chicken.  Yes – even cooking a chicken can be an adventure infused with mystery here.  Here, if you want a chicken – you kill it yourself.  My last effort at this – and I was just a bystander – was gruesome because cutting off a chicken’s neck with a knife that will hardly cut butter – is well – grisly for both cutter and cut-ee.  Not doing that again… So I have found two places where I can sometimes buy a very pricey frozen one.  Still – it’s not all that straight forward, because one needs to know it’s been frozen the whole time since processing.  As you know, power has the habit of going in and out, so that’s the way a lot of stomach problems happen here.  You eat something you think has been refrigerated from start-to-finish, and realize it’s been thawed several times.  So, back to the chicken.  It was a scrawny little runt of a thing, but I took it home and cooked it.  Most chicken you get here is so tough it is truly un-cuttable with anything but a bandsaw and I haven’t actually tried that.  It gives new meaning to the term rubber-chicken.  This one was edible, if a little tough. From the carcass of this entire chicken - picked absolutely clean, I got a little over a cup of meat.  With the broth I made Mexican chicken soup with fresh (or shall we say “revived) cilantro on the top and it brought me right home to Texas.  So it was worth it every shilling.  I doctored the rest of the meat with the Marsala spice Mix and have had a few meals from it. My new excitement is iceberg lettuce, which I would hardly give a second look in the States, but it’s a rare delicacy here.   So I’ve chicken salad, tuna salad, veggie salad!  Life is thrilling.

In other worthless news, but perhaps it will re-ignite the pioneer spirit deep within, is the adventure of the stopped up sink.  Normally one might hop in the car or maybe if you’re an environmentally sensitive sort – you’d hop on your bike or walk to your local supermarket-hardware-store-Jiffymart: any of which would be likely to have drain cleaner. You’d pour some of the toxic stuff down the afflicted drain, go have a cup of coffee or ICE TEA, watch an episode of Downton Abbey, do a chore – something…. And in a bit of time you would return to a clear drain. 

Not so here.  After wasting my time pouring boiling water down the drain, picking tidbits of slime out with a pair of tweezers, etc. I walked through a cloud of dust dodging Bodas, bikes, cars and goats to the nearest grocery store and tried in vain to explain drain cleaner.  Clerk: “Ah! You need JEK (local Clorox product).”  Me: “No, I don’t want to sanitize it; I want to open it up so water can move.”  Clerk: “ You first try   …. (demonstrating a plumber’s friend with great up-and-down clasped hands motion.”) No, I explained, there’s a curve in the sink and besides the last one turned up its little rubber lip and died that way.    There is no such chemical as drain cleaner in town – at least at this place.  So I left with a new plunger.  Admittedly, this one was an improvement over the last, but still pretty poor action.   Finally, I used a crochet hook, tweezers and a pair of 14-inch knitting needles (in lieu of the required wire coat hanger of which there are none in all of northern Uganda) and performed minor surgery on the drain.   I’m happy to report that both patient and surgeon survived and the drain now does what’s it’s supposed to – but slowly-slowly as they say in Uganda.

How someone can write two paragraphs on clearing a clogged drain would have been incomprehensible to me 18 months ago.  But here I am, brought to my knees by a clogged drain, white ants and dust.  How will I ever adjust to civilization again?  Better hang on to those knitting needles…

New rant: Planning ahead is not done here.  It’s always a continuing source of frustration, but for some organizations, it’s an art form.  I - along with all staff - are expected at a big regional symposium this weekend.  It’s in one of those places you can’t get to from here. So it’s a full day of travel Friday.  Meanwhile, I have made plans for the weekend that if I cancel will impact others.   Organizations do this all the time.  Failure to plan is one of the reasons Uganda is still a “developing country.”   They continue to do it because everyone just drops everything so things that were scheduled don’t get done, etc. etc. etc.  I screwed up my courage and said I could not go, due t short notice.  I anticipated horrible fall-out, but there was none.  Note to self:  don’t right short stories about consequences, just stand your ground…

And in other news not to be missed is: Uganda launches mouse into space.

http://www.newvision.co.ug/news/639792-uganda-to-launch-its-first-space-observer.html

The picture come from a FB invitation from PCVs to PCVs to help celebrate the event, consistent with at least the younger crowd's commitment to find any excuse for a party ;-) Thank you Andrew.

 Now - if I could just recruit those mice in my kitchen... for space, not partying.  All evidence would indicate they've been having one in my kitchen - and I can tell you they are not nearly this cute or well groomed.

And in closing, I have discovered quiet in Gulu.  I’m sitting at Sankofa, a little eating place on the “outskirts,” where the Ex-pats live and it is blissfully quite except for a few chickens crowing in the background. It’s still morning, so the lunch crown hasn’t hit and I’ve come here to work.  Out office is moving – theoretically sometime this year. It’s almost twice the distance for me to walk, so that means no more going home for lunch, but it’s close to this place.   I think it might be a blessing in disguise, although I’ll have to start buying lunch. 

That's all for now.   Probably should get back to work.

"It takes a village..."

 

A choking fog of malaise has drifted and settled over Gulu sifting into the nooks and crannies of the psyche like the cloud of fine red silt that is beginning to blow down the streets. Permeating hair, skin, nostrils, computers, clothes, sheets, mosquito net and shoes I am constantly covered in a rust-colored veneer.  I’m sure when I return to the States, people will asked when I dyed my skin because all one has to do is walk outside and whatever was washed off is instantly replaced. Dry season has hit with a vengeance.   It’s not really wicked-hot yet, but still debilitating.  Yesterday I ran errands all day with a young man I decided to sponsor for school.  Mid-afternoon I came home and stood under a cold shower for 20 minutes and was somewhat revived, but by 8:30 I was so exhausted I climbed into bed.

Several interesting events this week:

First, a couple of PCV friends were going to come to dinner on Saturday, but that was pre-empted by catastrophe.  Seems my friend and her supervisor left to go to the field in one car setting off an hour later than the car (we’ll call Car One) with a couple of co-workers.  Bad roads are legendary here and Saturday’s route took them along a road where work was being done and the road narrowed to one lane (as opposed to the 1.5 lane width usually available on a good road).  The driver of Car One, slowing to avoid oncoming traffic - swerved to avoid a pothole and in the process hit a rock which popped the car over onto its side: hitting three children in the process.  One infant being carried on the back of his older brother (still a small child himself) died on scene.   An angry mob of villagers wielding machetes and rocks instantly surrounded the car ready to exact  their pound of flesh for the death. 

The driver called the supervisor in the car following and explained the situation.  Naturally phones were either out of airtime or out of juice and that complicated matters, as the crowd was growing angrier by the moment.  Thankfully, the car’s doors locked when it flipped, so no one could get into the car and drag out the driver. The PCV called Peace Corps security (Fred) and god bless Fred – because he magically was able to contact some local official who staved off a massacre (literally) and removed the driver and passenger to a police barracks, with the crowd following.  When the threats turned to burning down the barracks,  another call was made and PC security was able to get someone to come and escort the driver to another village.

The crowd began to settle down when the driver said he would take care of the burial. The next day the brother of the infant died making matters worse.   This event is not uncommon in Uganda – in the villages.  Mob justice reigns.

In other news, nine people were beheaded in a town far south of here over some land dispute involving the church.   And yes, we actually feel quite safe here as these are local matters and have nothing to do with politics or Muzungus…  that would be us. Still – it’s a bit unsettling.  Beheadings and poisonings are not exactly routine, but they are the preferred method of doing away with people who annoy you. 

On a more cheerful note, I’m now sponsoring a young man to go back to school.  Peter (Okwir Diken Peter) is his name and I met and became friends with him after several conversations on the street.  Peter was a street kid evidently for a good while.  I don’t know what brought him to the street, but almost certainly it was related to the war or effects of war.  In Gulu, there are about 100 like him ranging in age from 5 – 21.  Peter is 17 and has made it to the 7^th grade.  Considering that he’s been on the street for a long time, his grades are good and while he has not been able to earn the money to go to school himself, he’s been working toward getting an NGO here to help the street kids: find them a group shelter, food, counseling and hopefully a way back to their families or school. This problem characterizes the north.

Peter, amazingly never asked me for help.  We just talked about his efforts to get shelter for the street kids.  In the process, I discovered he wanted to go back to school but didn’t have the funds.  We’re talking boarding school because he needs a place to sleep and a food source.   There are clearly other issues: he’s become accustomed to total freedom and lack of any authority other than himself, so it’s been a tough re-entry into the routine and requirements of school.  But – he was admitted back in to the level of P7 because he’s bright, well-mannered and motivated and has some community leaders advocating for him.  I began to have the feeling that the best way to help him with his street kids, is to help him get back in school so that he has a "voice."

So here we are.  I paid his fees for this term – part of them anyway – enough to get him in.  And as we get our PC stipend each month I’ll add to it.  He’ll work on holidays to finish it out, but the requirement with boarding school is that you don’t leave campus unescorted for the full three months of the term.    Interestingly, school fees include a contribution to: cement for repairs, a lightening rod, beans and posho, exam fees and an odd assortment of miscellany.   It amounts to 286,000 shillings (about $100 US).  The dorm consists of a large room with cement floors, where the boys lay their mattresses butted up against each other on the floor.  They share an outdoor latrine and bathing area (bucket baths) and are required to bring their own toilet paper, copy paper and broom – among other things.   He couldn’t afford the socks or the flashlight or the toilet paper or the shoe polish or Vaseline or –or –or the 6 passport pictures or the 21 notebooks - so we’re piecing that all together.   I’ll post a picture when I get one.

Today I walked to the school to take him a bag of supplies and it was an odd feeling to be helping another young man with school: a mixture of old memories of going to school for my own kids and somehow becoming a surrogate mother to a 17 year old  man-child.

This term is a test of sorts to see how he does.  Considering the fact that last year was his first year back in school and part of that time he was working to pay for it, he’s done pretty well.  In the process of getting him back in, I’ve met what amounts to a handful of people who represent his support system.   Since he has no home to go over the holidays, someone has agreed to find him “some small space.   Others have agreed to continue to seek a place for his street kids.  It’s rather daunting and the Nigerian proverb "it takes a whole village to raise a child" has become real. Here it’s quite literal.

As we were walking back to the school yesterday he asked what we do in American when the electricity goes out.  I answered that that rarely happens and he was stunned.  Then he said:  “I hear that in the UK they don’t use candles for light, they are only used for celebrations! Can that really be true?”    When I answered “yes” he was silent for a long time after uttering an almost reverent, “wow!”

And that’s my week in review. It's now Sunday morning and it's uncharacteristically quite.  The club music provided a thud all might and turned into the Call t Prayer this morning followed by church music on steroids.  I guess everyone has finally fallen asleep, because the only sound is a rooster and the wind through the trees.  Onward to another cup of coffee...