Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
An Adventure That Never Ends...
01/27/09
Three Weeks Later
I struggled for a bit, deciding whether to write this last post as soon as I got back in an attempt to preserve the Ugandan “purity” of the blog or to wait. I decided to wait for one selfish reason. I felt that if I closed the book the moment I returned, then I would mentally view the trip forever as an isolated adventure that I was privileged to experience at one point in my life. I wanted to make sure it meshed with my life in the “real world,” which, even after a trip like this, I need to continually remind and convince myself lends millions of real people only mud huts and underfunded clinics. I needed to ensure that the “hungry kids in Africa” remained real in my mind, with voices and laughs and cries that I heard not in a video but while holding their hands and speaking, laughing, and crying with them. So I apologize for the delay and I hope I didn’t lose anyone, but that is why I waited.
As promised, I’ll tell you about how this whole adventure came to be. This past summer, my roommate and I decided we should go to Africa and see some true, simple, non-“computerized” medicine. We are both EMT’s and figured that we could probably even do a lot more there than would be allowed here. Make your own ethical judgments but, in all honesty, that is how it began. We had a small tie to Rwanda and looked into that for a bit, making some contacts and slowly planning the trip. It was not materializing quickly enough, however, and it was discouraging when we realized that we would most likely have to cover all the costs ourselves. We gave up completely around Rosh Hashana, mid-October, and I was pretty frustrated. I was in Teaneck for the weekend and went to visit some friends at Rutgers on Saturday night. (I’m telling you the details because it is unbelievable how it all came to be.) I had planned to just go to NYC on Sunday morning from Rutgers but I forgot something in Teaneck so I went back to an empty house on Saturday night. I woke up early, called a cab, but when I was told it would cost $15 to go to the bus station to catch a $3.40 bus, I decided I would walk. So, carrying my stuff, I began the two-mile walk. As luck would have it, it began to rain…hard. I got soaked but made it to the bus station. Unfortunately, every other bus turns down the street right before the bus station at which I waited and I watched the bus I wanted to board turn and drive away. Soaking wet, I waited for the next bus which came 25 minutes later. When I got on, I paid with my wet money and started walking toward the back of the bus when an older woman dropped her coat into the aisle in front of me. I bent down to pick it up and as I handed it to her, she slapped me across the face for touching her coat. Great. I said “you’re welcome” and continued toward the back of the bus. We obviously hit a lot of traffic on the way in and then I boarded a subway…in the wrong direction. I switched trains and finally got off at 116th St. I was hoping to get to friends at Columbia on 121st but, of course, I walked south until I saw the street sign at 111th St. I turned around and started walking the half-mile (it had stopped raining by now) to 121st. That is when I ran into Maital, who was on her phone accomplishing something (on a Sunday morning) which I have come to believe is normal for her. I waited until she finished her conversation and, having not seen one another in about 5 years, we quickly caught up. She had just returned from…Uganda! The whole trip sort of bloomed from there. She helped set everything up over the next couple of weeks and it all worked out! Weeks later, about a month before the trip, thinking of how that day played out is what convinced me to buy that ticket on KLM. It was hard to argue anything other than that I was “supposed” to go on this trip.
People have asked me how the trip was. The answer is…fantastic. Scary. Real. Absolutely eye-opening. I can’t yet say I learned too much because I think it was more like being accepted to some sort of educational program; the trip was just the tour and I decided I’d like to attend. Now I can begin to learn from it. One thing I about which I might have gained some knowledge, however, is meaning. I’m no expert, but from what I’ve experienced, I am pretty confident about this. I think that there are two ways for pieces of one’s life to acquire meaning. One way is to remove oneself from whatever it is that has meaning. The lack of electricity, toilets, food on-demand, family, friends, adequate medical care – these things all gained so much more significance when I didn’t have them. But that was the obvious and easy way to assign meaning to parts of my life. The more difficult but, by far, the more rewarding and “meaningful” way of infusing meaning into an aspect of one’s life is to throw oneself entirely into a challenge. I’ve heard versions of that advice before but until I was in the dry sun, riding the back of a bicycle from village to village, and then thinking about it all to a degree which made me unable to sleep at night and consequently staying up until 4am working on a grant, I had no idea what it meant. To envelop yourself completely with a goal, and even better, a goal that is beneficial for you and others, is absolutely the most rewarding, uplifting, and energetic feeling one can attain. The more drained I became each night there, the more energy I began with the next day. I definitely look forward to finding another experience into which I can bury myself and gain so much more (Rwanda anyone?) That’s the only advice I feel comfortable giving over to the public.
To wrap it all up, I want to say thank you. Writing this blog allowed me to experience this whole trip twice over, once in doing and once in telling. To those of you who read it, thank you. Your comments, questions and related (and unrelated) anecdotes have made this experience that much more special. But please, if you feel at all inspired, don’t just look for another experience to read about. Please, please…make your own. Throw yourself into it entirely and, I promise, you will never regret it.
-jtr
Feel free to email me at jrothwax@gmail.com. And lastly, to my parents, thank you.
Three Weeks Later
I struggled for a bit, deciding whether to write this last post as soon as I got back in an attempt to preserve the Ugandan “purity” of the blog or to wait. I decided to wait for one selfish reason. I felt that if I closed the book the moment I returned, then I would mentally view the trip forever as an isolated adventure that I was privileged to experience at one point in my life. I wanted to make sure it meshed with my life in the “real world,” which, even after a trip like this, I need to continually remind and convince myself lends millions of real people only mud huts and underfunded clinics. I needed to ensure that the “hungry kids in Africa” remained real in my mind, with voices and laughs and cries that I heard not in a video but while holding their hands and speaking, laughing, and crying with them. So I apologize for the delay and I hope I didn’t lose anyone, but that is why I waited.
As promised, I’ll tell you about how this whole adventure came to be. This past summer, my roommate and I decided we should go to Africa and see some true, simple, non-“computerized” medicine. We are both EMT’s and figured that we could probably even do a lot more there than would be allowed here. Make your own ethical judgments but, in all honesty, that is how it began. We had a small tie to Rwanda and looked into that for a bit, making some contacts and slowly planning the trip. It was not materializing quickly enough, however, and it was discouraging when we realized that we would most likely have to cover all the costs ourselves. We gave up completely around Rosh Hashana, mid-October, and I was pretty frustrated. I was in Teaneck for the weekend and went to visit some friends at Rutgers on Saturday night. (I’m telling you the details because it is unbelievable how it all came to be.) I had planned to just go to NYC on Sunday morning from Rutgers but I forgot something in Teaneck so I went back to an empty house on Saturday night. I woke up early, called a cab, but when I was told it would cost $15 to go to the bus station to catch a $3.40 bus, I decided I would walk. So, carrying my stuff, I began the two-mile walk. As luck would have it, it began to rain…hard. I got soaked but made it to the bus station. Unfortunately, every other bus turns down the street right before the bus station at which I waited and I watched the bus I wanted to board turn and drive away. Soaking wet, I waited for the next bus which came 25 minutes later. When I got on, I paid with my wet money and started walking toward the back of the bus when an older woman dropped her coat into the aisle in front of me. I bent down to pick it up and as I handed it to her, she slapped me across the face for touching her coat. Great. I said “you’re welcome” and continued toward the back of the bus. We obviously hit a lot of traffic on the way in and then I boarded a subway…in the wrong direction. I switched trains and finally got off at 116th St. I was hoping to get to friends at Columbia on 121st but, of course, I walked south until I saw the street sign at 111th St. I turned around and started walking the half-mile (it had stopped raining by now) to 121st. That is when I ran into Maital, who was on her phone accomplishing something (on a Sunday morning) which I have come to believe is normal for her. I waited until she finished her conversation and, having not seen one another in about 5 years, we quickly caught up. She had just returned from…Uganda! The whole trip sort of bloomed from there. She helped set everything up over the next couple of weeks and it all worked out! Weeks later, about a month before the trip, thinking of how that day played out is what convinced me to buy that ticket on KLM. It was hard to argue anything other than that I was “supposed” to go on this trip.
People have asked me how the trip was. The answer is…fantastic. Scary. Real. Absolutely eye-opening. I can’t yet say I learned too much because I think it was more like being accepted to some sort of educational program; the trip was just the tour and I decided I’d like to attend. Now I can begin to learn from it. One thing I about which I might have gained some knowledge, however, is meaning. I’m no expert, but from what I’ve experienced, I am pretty confident about this. I think that there are two ways for pieces of one’s life to acquire meaning. One way is to remove oneself from whatever it is that has meaning. The lack of electricity, toilets, food on-demand, family, friends, adequate medical care – these things all gained so much more significance when I didn’t have them. But that was the obvious and easy way to assign meaning to parts of my life. The more difficult but, by far, the more rewarding and “meaningful” way of infusing meaning into an aspect of one’s life is to throw oneself entirely into a challenge. I’ve heard versions of that advice before but until I was in the dry sun, riding the back of a bicycle from village to village, and then thinking about it all to a degree which made me unable to sleep at night and consequently staying up until 4am working on a grant, I had no idea what it meant. To envelop yourself completely with a goal, and even better, a goal that is beneficial for you and others, is absolutely the most rewarding, uplifting, and energetic feeling one can attain. The more drained I became each night there, the more energy I began with the next day. I definitely look forward to finding another experience into which I can bury myself and gain so much more (Rwanda anyone?) That’s the only advice I feel comfortable giving over to the public.
To wrap it all up, I want to say thank you. Writing this blog allowed me to experience this whole trip twice over, once in doing and once in telling. To those of you who read it, thank you. Your comments, questions and related (and unrelated) anecdotes have made this experience that much more special. But please, if you feel at all inspired, don’t just look for another experience to read about. Please, please…make your own. Throw yourself into it entirely and, I promise, you will never regret it.
-jtr
Feel free to email me at jrothwax@gmail.com. And lastly, to my parents, thank you.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Day 20 - Beginning of the End...For Now
01/05/09
I got up at 6:45am this morning without an alarm. I hope my jetlag destroys that habit and I can sleep until noon again when I get back. I packed a bit more and had a banana and tea for breakfast. I then went to BCC with the most of the family in the van. On the way, we picked up a lot of the staff, a routine I missed over the holiday season, and dropped Grace and Matthew off at the bus station to catch a ride to Kampala. When we got to BCC, I went on rounds and then internet-ed for a bit. At around 11:30am, I was summoned to the heads-of-department meeting where each head said a personal thank you and Mama Anne gave a long speech about my working habits and being-a-guest habits. After they were all done, I asked if I could say a few words. I told them that as much as they might think they gained from me, they could ask anyone who has read my blog about how much I’ve gained from them. I promised them that my association with BCC was not over, that this was only the end of my introduction. After the meeting, I packed up, said goodbye to the staff, gave hugs and Ugandan handshakes (they’re cool, ask me to show you) and headed home with Mama Anne and Mary. Fazi had made me lunch – potatoes, peas, and avocados – and I ate and then finished packing. I fell asleep for a bit and then Mama Anne woke me at 2:55 when she came back home with the van. We loaded my things, I said goodbye to David, and we headed to the bus station. It’s a good thing we went early. The 5pm buss was nearly full at 3:05pm and I got one of the last seats. And it must have been a miracle that I made it to Mbale in the first place because now I was actually on the Elgon Flyer, the premium bus service, and I needed Mama Anne to save me a seat while Mary and John helped me load my luggage and I stood there helpless. After saying goodbye to everyone I took my seat and waited until the bus left at around 3:45pm, still way before the scheduled time. The ride was still chaotic but much more professional than the bus service to Mbale 3 weeks ago. We drove for 4 hours, crossing over the Nile at one point, passing the Lugazi sugarcane fields, passing through Jinja, all places I have become familiar with during my time here. We made the traditional stop in the middle of some field for people to get off and find a place to relieve themselves and get back on again. I was tempted to pass around my bottle of Purell but I no longer wanted to be the silly muzungu. Street merchants sold matoke and kabobs and chicken at every stop, bombarding the sides of the bus and sticking their merchandise through the half-open windows. But this time I smiled at all of these Ugandan quirks. I’m not yet one of them, nowhere near it, but I appreciate the practicality of their ways. The sun set as I was on the bus, and I watched the sky turn multiple bright colors as the sun seemed to drown in the Nile. I arrived in Kampala at 7:45pm, carried my luggage across the bus park to meet Jen, and came to her house. We dropped off my stuff at, now that it was 8:40pm, decided we were starving and needed dinner. We walked to an Indian restaurant down the street and ordered two vegan dishes, one spinach and corn bases, the other tomato based, as well as tomato chutney rice. One thing I’ve learned in Uganda is that you can mix anything into rice as long as it can be mushed and it will taste good. So we mixed the two dishes into the rice and enjoyed. I was lucky enough to bite into the hottest pepper imaginable and I cried for a couple of minutes. That’s what I get for ending my Ugandan trip with another type of food instead of a simple dish of matoke. We ordered a few beers, stayed a bit, and then came back to her place and now I’m writing this before I go to sleep for the last time in Uganda…for now. I will spend tomorrow roaming around Kampala with Joseph, Jen’s driver, then dinner and a ride to the airport. I will hopefully get a chance to make a detour to the old Entebbe airport to see the hijacked plane and one of the rescue planes that I’ve heard remain there on display. This will probably be the last post in Uganda but remember to check in for another week or so. See you soon!
I got up at 6:45am this morning without an alarm. I hope my jetlag destroys that habit and I can sleep until noon again when I get back. I packed a bit more and had a banana and tea for breakfast. I then went to BCC with the most of the family in the van. On the way, we picked up a lot of the staff, a routine I missed over the holiday season, and dropped Grace and Matthew off at the bus station to catch a ride to Kampala. When we got to BCC, I went on rounds and then internet-ed for a bit. At around 11:30am, I was summoned to the heads-of-department meeting where each head said a personal thank you and Mama Anne gave a long speech about my working habits and being-a-guest habits. After they were all done, I asked if I could say a few words. I told them that as much as they might think they gained from me, they could ask anyone who has read my blog about how much I’ve gained from them. I promised them that my association with BCC was not over, that this was only the end of my introduction. After the meeting, I packed up, said goodbye to the staff, gave hugs and Ugandan handshakes (they’re cool, ask me to show you) and headed home with Mama Anne and Mary. Fazi had made me lunch – potatoes, peas, and avocados – and I ate and then finished packing. I fell asleep for a bit and then Mama Anne woke me at 2:55 when she came back home with the van. We loaded my things, I said goodbye to David, and we headed to the bus station. It’s a good thing we went early. The 5pm buss was nearly full at 3:05pm and I got one of the last seats. And it must have been a miracle that I made it to Mbale in the first place because now I was actually on the Elgon Flyer, the premium bus service, and I needed Mama Anne to save me a seat while Mary and John helped me load my luggage and I stood there helpless. After saying goodbye to everyone I took my seat and waited until the bus left at around 3:45pm, still way before the scheduled time. The ride was still chaotic but much more professional than the bus service to Mbale 3 weeks ago. We drove for 4 hours, crossing over the Nile at one point, passing the Lugazi sugarcane fields, passing through Jinja, all places I have become familiar with during my time here. We made the traditional stop in the middle of some field for people to get off and find a place to relieve themselves and get back on again. I was tempted to pass around my bottle of Purell but I no longer wanted to be the silly muzungu. Street merchants sold matoke and kabobs and chicken at every stop, bombarding the sides of the bus and sticking their merchandise through the half-open windows. But this time I smiled at all of these Ugandan quirks. I’m not yet one of them, nowhere near it, but I appreciate the practicality of their ways. The sun set as I was on the bus, and I watched the sky turn multiple bright colors as the sun seemed to drown in the Nile. I arrived in Kampala at 7:45pm, carried my luggage across the bus park to meet Jen, and came to her house. We dropped off my stuff at, now that it was 8:40pm, decided we were starving and needed dinner. We walked to an Indian restaurant down the street and ordered two vegan dishes, one spinach and corn bases, the other tomato based, as well as tomato chutney rice. One thing I’ve learned in Uganda is that you can mix anything into rice as long as it can be mushed and it will taste good. So we mixed the two dishes into the rice and enjoyed. I was lucky enough to bite into the hottest pepper imaginable and I cried for a couple of minutes. That’s what I get for ending my Ugandan trip with another type of food instead of a simple dish of matoke. We ordered a few beers, stayed a bit, and then came back to her place and now I’m writing this before I go to sleep for the last time in Uganda…for now. I will spend tomorrow roaming around Kampala with Joseph, Jen’s driver, then dinner and a ride to the airport. I will hopefully get a chance to make a detour to the old Entebbe airport to see the hijacked plane and one of the rescue planes that I’ve heard remain there on display. This will probably be the last post in Uganda but remember to check in for another week or so. See you soon!
Day 19 - Last Full Day In Mbale
01/04/09
This morning brought a late start; I was up until 2am working on a grant. I got up around 7:45am, decided I had somehow become cleaner while I slept and no longer needed a shower, and had a slow breakfast – hot water with jinga and sugar as well as a banana. I walked over to the artist next door and spent an hour creating a website business plan for him and taking pictures of his work. This guy is beyond talented and dreams big which I like. I then took a boda bicycle into town, during which the driver thought it appropriate to serenade me with some beautiful African song. That was weird but nice and when I got into town I gave him an extra 200 UGX. I met up with a kid I met this weekend, a Jew who converted from Islam (like Norah, the rest of his family did not convert), in order to copy a music video he created onto my computer to send to some guy in the States that is going to help him publicize it. We sat on the side of the street, on the steps leading up to one of the banks, with my laptop on my lap and a bunch of people gathered behind us to watch. That took about 20 minutes and then I grabbed a boda motorcycle to BCC. It was 11:15am and everyone was still in church so I didn’t have too much work to do. Even when they got back, people didn’t want to give me a project to start since I’m leaving tomorrow so I left early and headed back to the house for lunch at around 2:15pm. I ate quickly – rice, cowpeas, and avocado – and then took a boda bicycle to Mbale Main Hospital to meet Julliet for a tour.
We started out in the casualty ward, or trauma ward, which smelled like urine and was constructed of chipping, drab concrete walls. I felt like I was standing in the tunnels under the tracks of the Metro-North Railroad, the ones with walls painted two colors, divided halfway down, in order to give the place some aura of maintenance. Patients were splayed onto the metal framed-worn mattress beds, some frames half broken and looking as if they would collapse any minute. Blood transfusions were being administered everywhere and there was not much else to see so we walked outside and headed to the surgical ward. Here, patients were kept before and after surgeries for monitoring. Male and female patients were kept on opposite sides of the ward, separated by 3 or 4 private rooms which can be attained for a high fee. Many of the beds had metal frames that extended a few feet above the bed surface, allowing for a rope to be tied from the top to a patient’s fractured limb. And I don’t mean a nice, machine-wound, nylon flat strap like you would see in the States. I mean a rope, handmade, worn and tearing. Patients of all ages lay on the beds which were placed less than a foot from one another. Their families stood crowded around them, mixing with the families of the patient next to them. There was really no semblance of privacy, as we would walk up to any patient and take their medical record from the edge of their bed (there was no plastic holder for it there, it just lay on the bed). There were fractures and tumors and deformities. One patient on the female side was an eight year-old girl with burns on about 40% of her body. A pot of boiling oil fell on her. The next few sentences are graphic so skip them if you’d like. The entire right side of her body, her arm, chest and abdomen were no longer covered in black skin. There were not even blisters. It almost appeared as if she had just been skinned and was left with a useless transparent membrane over her veins and organs. Her mother held her right hand high above the rest of her body in an attempt to keep the burned regions from irritating one another. The girl was shivering, as hot as the day was, because of the heat loss from her no-longer-capable-of-insulating skin. We then moved on to the HIV ward, in which 90% of the patients were HIV+ and the other 10% had some other autoimmune diseases. Again, patients ranged from very young to very old and many had some other infection as is common with HIV. 30% of the patients in this ward had tuberculosis (TB), which is also common among HIV patients in this area of the world. As we walked through this ward, a man and woman were preaching the Bible in English and one of the Ugandan dialects. The patients and their families were joining in, mumbling prayer and crying.
Then we moved onto the pediatric ward; even though the other wards have patients of all ages, the pediatric ward housed only children. There were two sides to the ward, A and B. Children were arranged in beds close together, some touching with the mothers lying across the crack. Ailments ranged from heart conditions to severe malaria, dehydration, malnutrition, and pneumonia. Most of the patients were referred to the hospital by a clinic that was no equipped to handle the case. From the pediatric ward we went to the maternity ward which was spacious and open. One building housed mothers pre- and post-pregnancy while another building was used for the actual deliveries. The delivery unit had approx. 12 beds separated by frosted-plastic curtains, the kind you see in the back of a butcher’s shop (not to say this was a butcher’s shop). The curtains were practical but morbid and I was uneasy my whole time in the unit. We spoke for a few minutes with the Ob-Gyn there and she told me about the 7 types of high-risk delivery which the unit was going to start handling next week – diabetic bothers, breech, premature deliveries, etc. From the maternity ward we went to the malnutrition ward, a place kept dark and quiet due to the heightened level of sensitivity of malnourished children. There were three buildings - one for the doctors and nurses, another for mild malnutrition, and the last for severe malnutrition. There was a fourth building which was used in extreme cases and as an overflow ward. Thank G-d, only two patients were in the malnutrition ward today. But even two was too many. The children were at least 1.5 yrs old and could not lift their heads on their own, they could not speak, had tubes and IV’s dripping into what seemed like every vessel in the body. I couldn’t help but notice that their teeth were the foremost part of their bodies, extending beyond any body part that should have been further forward. It was as if they didn’t even have enough flesh or fat to lower their lips over their teeth. Their eyes bulged and stayed focused on one point in space, as if they did not have the will to even move their eyes. Once again it was hard to walk away but we left the hospital from there and went to town. I got a ride back to the house, showered, and started packing. Dr. Wafula and his brother came for dinner and they, Anne, and I sat at the table while the rest of the family sat around the couch. Fazira made me rice pasta with sauce and everyone else had chicken. We had rice, peas, pumpkin soup (which was delicious), and passion fruit juice. After dinner, everyone stood around the couches and Dr. Wafula led a 15-minute long prayer thanking G-d for my visit and for the family and BCC’s good fortune in having volunteers who work so hard and wishing me a safe journey back home. They said the nicest things and I once again knew I had family in Uganda to whom I can return at any time. After the prayer and a song, I continued to pack, did some work, and went to sleep.
This morning brought a late start; I was up until 2am working on a grant. I got up around 7:45am, decided I had somehow become cleaner while I slept and no longer needed a shower, and had a slow breakfast – hot water with jinga and sugar as well as a banana. I walked over to the artist next door and spent an hour creating a website business plan for him and taking pictures of his work. This guy is beyond talented and dreams big which I like. I then took a boda bicycle into town, during which the driver thought it appropriate to serenade me with some beautiful African song. That was weird but nice and when I got into town I gave him an extra 200 UGX. I met up with a kid I met this weekend, a Jew who converted from Islam (like Norah, the rest of his family did not convert), in order to copy a music video he created onto my computer to send to some guy in the States that is going to help him publicize it. We sat on the side of the street, on the steps leading up to one of the banks, with my laptop on my lap and a bunch of people gathered behind us to watch. That took about 20 minutes and then I grabbed a boda motorcycle to BCC. It was 11:15am and everyone was still in church so I didn’t have too much work to do. Even when they got back, people didn’t want to give me a project to start since I’m leaving tomorrow so I left early and headed back to the house for lunch at around 2:15pm. I ate quickly – rice, cowpeas, and avocado – and then took a boda bicycle to Mbale Main Hospital to meet Julliet for a tour.
We started out in the casualty ward, or trauma ward, which smelled like urine and was constructed of chipping, drab concrete walls. I felt like I was standing in the tunnels under the tracks of the Metro-North Railroad, the ones with walls painted two colors, divided halfway down, in order to give the place some aura of maintenance. Patients were splayed onto the metal framed-worn mattress beds, some frames half broken and looking as if they would collapse any minute. Blood transfusions were being administered everywhere and there was not much else to see so we walked outside and headed to the surgical ward. Here, patients were kept before and after surgeries for monitoring. Male and female patients were kept on opposite sides of the ward, separated by 3 or 4 private rooms which can be attained for a high fee. Many of the beds had metal frames that extended a few feet above the bed surface, allowing for a rope to be tied from the top to a patient’s fractured limb. And I don’t mean a nice, machine-wound, nylon flat strap like you would see in the States. I mean a rope, handmade, worn and tearing. Patients of all ages lay on the beds which were placed less than a foot from one another. Their families stood crowded around them, mixing with the families of the patient next to them. There was really no semblance of privacy, as we would walk up to any patient and take their medical record from the edge of their bed (there was no plastic holder for it there, it just lay on the bed). There were fractures and tumors and deformities. One patient on the female side was an eight year-old girl with burns on about 40% of her body. A pot of boiling oil fell on her. The next few sentences are graphic so skip them if you’d like. The entire right side of her body, her arm, chest and abdomen were no longer covered in black skin. There were not even blisters. It almost appeared as if she had just been skinned and was left with a useless transparent membrane over her veins and organs. Her mother held her right hand high above the rest of her body in an attempt to keep the burned regions from irritating one another. The girl was shivering, as hot as the day was, because of the heat loss from her no-longer-capable-of-insulating skin. We then moved on to the HIV ward, in which 90% of the patients were HIV+ and the other 10% had some other autoimmune diseases. Again, patients ranged from very young to very old and many had some other infection as is common with HIV. 30% of the patients in this ward had tuberculosis (TB), which is also common among HIV patients in this area of the world. As we walked through this ward, a man and woman were preaching the Bible in English and one of the Ugandan dialects. The patients and their families were joining in, mumbling prayer and crying.
Then we moved onto the pediatric ward; even though the other wards have patients of all ages, the pediatric ward housed only children. There were two sides to the ward, A and B. Children were arranged in beds close together, some touching with the mothers lying across the crack. Ailments ranged from heart conditions to severe malaria, dehydration, malnutrition, and pneumonia. Most of the patients were referred to the hospital by a clinic that was no equipped to handle the case. From the pediatric ward we went to the maternity ward which was spacious and open. One building housed mothers pre- and post-pregnancy while another building was used for the actual deliveries. The delivery unit had approx. 12 beds separated by frosted-plastic curtains, the kind you see in the back of a butcher’s shop (not to say this was a butcher’s shop). The curtains were practical but morbid and I was uneasy my whole time in the unit. We spoke for a few minutes with the Ob-Gyn there and she told me about the 7 types of high-risk delivery which the unit was going to start handling next week – diabetic bothers, breech, premature deliveries, etc. From the maternity ward we went to the malnutrition ward, a place kept dark and quiet due to the heightened level of sensitivity of malnourished children. There were three buildings - one for the doctors and nurses, another for mild malnutrition, and the last for severe malnutrition. There was a fourth building which was used in extreme cases and as an overflow ward. Thank G-d, only two patients were in the malnutrition ward today. But even two was too many. The children were at least 1.5 yrs old and could not lift their heads on their own, they could not speak, had tubes and IV’s dripping into what seemed like every vessel in the body. I couldn’t help but notice that their teeth were the foremost part of their bodies, extending beyond any body part that should have been further forward. It was as if they didn’t even have enough flesh or fat to lower their lips over their teeth. Their eyes bulged and stayed focused on one point in space, as if they did not have the will to even move their eyes. Once again it was hard to walk away but we left the hospital from there and went to town. I got a ride back to the house, showered, and started packing. Dr. Wafula and his brother came for dinner and they, Anne, and I sat at the table while the rest of the family sat around the couch. Fazira made me rice pasta with sauce and everyone else had chicken. We had rice, peas, pumpkin soup (which was delicious), and passion fruit juice. After dinner, everyone stood around the couches and Dr. Wafula led a 15-minute long prayer thanking G-d for my visit and for the family and BCC’s good fortune in having volunteers who work so hard and wishing me a safe journey back home. They said the nicest things and I once again knew I had family in Uganda to whom I can return at any time. After the prayer and a song, I continued to pack, did some work, and went to sleep.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Day 18
01/03/09
Sorry it has taken me a while to post. No internet available for a bit so there are three new posts today beginning with "Day 16" below.
Today was…different. I woke up at 7:30am, when the heat became too unbearable to sleep in, and read for a bit. Then I got dressed, had an egg and some fruit for breakfast and headed to the synagogue. The service was the usual but hot. I was given the first aliyah, being the only Levi for…hundreds of miles most likely. After the service, we returned to the guesthouse for lunch. Two American-Israelis from Tel Aviv joined us. The man, whose name I never got, was a doctor who taught at University of Michigan and University of Wisconsin after fighting in WWII. He has published over 65 papers in nuclear medicine and invented the test for Cushing’s disease twenty-something years ago. After lunch, we sat in on the Torah discussion for a bit and then the day started becoming different like I mentioned above. I took a walk with some friends to Semei Kakungulu’s grave. On the way, I realized how much of Nabugoya I had not yet seen. There was a huge leveled soccer field in the middle of the mountain slope, the Semei Kakungulu high school which consisted of multiple buildings (including, to my initial surprise and eventual disappointment, an ill-equipped science lab), and a dorm building for girls who would otherwise have to travel too far to school everyday. The grave of Kakungulu turned out to be more of a tomb than a grave. Kakungulu was the governor who rejected the New Testament and declared himself a Jew, and is considered by the Abayudaya to be their founder and first rabbi. His descendents live in the (relatively) massive home next to the tomb. In front of the tomb, which is marked by a huge stone extending the entire length of the body, are his three spears – one wooden with a single metal tip, one wooden with a double-headed tip, and a third which was all metal with just a cone-shaped head. The man was a warrior and spiritual leader, his family made up of Christians and self-declared Jews. Behind his tomb lay more graves, family members of both religious faiths. We walked back from the grave and the girl who guided us, Norah, told me a bit about her life. She is 17 and converted to Judaism when she was 12, because most of her friends were Jews and she wanted to share in their faith which she felt penetrated much more of their lives than Christianity did hers. Her father, a brick-layer, and her mother, a farmer, were still both Christian and, along with her siblings, did not plan on converting. I felt sorry for the girl but was extremely impressed by her courage and certainty at such a young age. Her intellect was mature way beyond her physical years which was apparent even with the language barrier between us which often makes it difficult to tell if someone is not so bright or just lacks any advanced English skills. As we neared the heart of the Jewish village, we bumped into basically the rest of the Jewish village who were walking down the mountain to a funeral. The nurse of the Jewish clinic is a Catholic (they also have a Muslim and Protestant on the Board), and her father was a well-respected community healthcare worker. He passed away yesterday morning and hundreds of people headed to the family’s property to attend the burial. We asked if it was okay to tag along, me thinking that, while this may not be the most usual Shabbat activity, I would likely never get another chance to attend a Catholic funeral, in African, with members of all religious faiths. So I went. The sun was brutal and I was sweating and dehydrated about halfway to the home. When we arrived, we found hundreds of people in bright colors, some women with their heads covered, men with kippot and the traditional Muslim head-covering. People wore suits and dresses, others wore rags. The body arrived from the cemetery in an ornate coffin lying in the back of a pickup truck. The immediate family sat around the coffin in the back of the truck. As they pulled up to the house, the family jumped out and men lifted the coffin from the truck, carrying it to the other side of the property as the crowd followed. As the coffin passed the children who were sitting outside the house, they began to wail, screaming in Lugisu. I let most of the crowd pass by me, and everyone began singing this somber tune in Lugisu. Again, though it was a sad and slow song with words I did not understand, the melody was moving and unnaturally perfect, with harmonies emitted from the natives that complemented each other with ease. A few more somber songs were sung and then a man, whom I’m guessing was the priest, spoke for a bit. At various times throughout the ceremony, old women wailed from behind me and family members in the front of the crowd broke into these horrid screams of agony and were lead away back into the house, fighting their guides and crying out. Suddenly the ceremony ended and everyone turned around, leaving me in the front of the crowd. I let a few people pass and then followed them off the property again before heading back to the Jewish village. The climb back up the mountain was once again brutal and I downed two Fantas when we got back. Then I napped for a few hours. When I woke up, I hung out with Isaac the manager for a few minutes and then went to the synagogue for the afternoon service. I was given the first aliyah again, same reason as last time. After the service, I spoke with the rabbi for a few minutes outside, possibly convincing him to visit Brandeis when he is in the States in April/May. After three stars were visible, we said maariv, the evening service, and then havdallah, the blessing signifying the separation between the Shabbat and the rest of the week. Another muzungu around had glowsticks for all the children and they had a good time with those. I returned to the guesthouse, said goodbye to everyone there, went to the rabbi’s house and watched some Israel news before saying goodbye to him and his family, and then took a boda motorcycle back to Anne’s house. I had not seen Anne since Monday when she left for Kampala and it was good to see her back home. Tomorrow I am meeting with the artist next door to take pictures of some of his work in order to possibly set up a website for him (which, if successful, I may partner in), and then meeting someone I met today who wants me to get some music of his to someone in Chicago, so I’ll copy his cd onto my computer and then email it from a US internet connection to whomever, and then head to BCC to work. It’s funny…I think I mentioned earlier that people here work to finish a certain amount of goals each day, rather than work a certain amount of time each day. Several people have asked me why I haven’t taken a day off besides for the trip to Sipi. I can’t understand why they are so surprised. I am here for 3 weeks and there is so damn much to be done, I spend some nights writing a grant until 4am. How can I stop working for a day? I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for not achieving the most I could during my short time here. But I’ve almost been…reprimanded for working too hard. In my mind, I’ve been pretty laid back work-wise here. Yet Anne told me, very kindly, that all the people at BCC have been telling her was how focused I was and how determined I am to get a job done. I know I take my work seriously and work hard but I recognized that this was my vacation and while I was exhausted most of the time, I don’t think it has been due to overworking. I’ve been enjoying myself immensely and everything I’ve seen has been fascinating and I feel rested and happy. Why should I take a day off? I guess the only answer is, once again…Welcome to Uganda. Shavua tov everyone, have a good week. I will be home soon! And if you’ve been following along, don’t stop for another week. After I get home, I plan to post one last blog – summing up the trip, the culture shock of returning to my world, and telling you about how this whole thing came together in the first place. Stay tuned for tomorrow!
Sorry it has taken me a while to post. No internet available for a bit so there are three new posts today beginning with "Day 16" below.
Today was…different. I woke up at 7:30am, when the heat became too unbearable to sleep in, and read for a bit. Then I got dressed, had an egg and some fruit for breakfast and headed to the synagogue. The service was the usual but hot. I was given the first aliyah, being the only Levi for…hundreds of miles most likely. After the service, we returned to the guesthouse for lunch. Two American-Israelis from Tel Aviv joined us. The man, whose name I never got, was a doctor who taught at University of Michigan and University of Wisconsin after fighting in WWII. He has published over 65 papers in nuclear medicine and invented the test for Cushing’s disease twenty-something years ago. After lunch, we sat in on the Torah discussion for a bit and then the day started becoming different like I mentioned above. I took a walk with some friends to Semei Kakungulu’s grave. On the way, I realized how much of Nabugoya I had not yet seen. There was a huge leveled soccer field in the middle of the mountain slope, the Semei Kakungulu high school which consisted of multiple buildings (including, to my initial surprise and eventual disappointment, an ill-equipped science lab), and a dorm building for girls who would otherwise have to travel too far to school everyday. The grave of Kakungulu turned out to be more of a tomb than a grave. Kakungulu was the governor who rejected the New Testament and declared himself a Jew, and is considered by the Abayudaya to be their founder and first rabbi. His descendents live in the (relatively) massive home next to the tomb. In front of the tomb, which is marked by a huge stone extending the entire length of the body, are his three spears – one wooden with a single metal tip, one wooden with a double-headed tip, and a third which was all metal with just a cone-shaped head. The man was a warrior and spiritual leader, his family made up of Christians and self-declared Jews. Behind his tomb lay more graves, family members of both religious faiths. We walked back from the grave and the girl who guided us, Norah, told me a bit about her life. She is 17 and converted to Judaism when she was 12, because most of her friends were Jews and she wanted to share in their faith which she felt penetrated much more of their lives than Christianity did hers. Her father, a brick-layer, and her mother, a farmer, were still both Christian and, along with her siblings, did not plan on converting. I felt sorry for the girl but was extremely impressed by her courage and certainty at such a young age. Her intellect was mature way beyond her physical years which was apparent even with the language barrier between us which often makes it difficult to tell if someone is not so bright or just lacks any advanced English skills. As we neared the heart of the Jewish village, we bumped into basically the rest of the Jewish village who were walking down the mountain to a funeral. The nurse of the Jewish clinic is a Catholic (they also have a Muslim and Protestant on the Board), and her father was a well-respected community healthcare worker. He passed away yesterday morning and hundreds of people headed to the family’s property to attend the burial. We asked if it was okay to tag along, me thinking that, while this may not be the most usual Shabbat activity, I would likely never get another chance to attend a Catholic funeral, in African, with members of all religious faiths. So I went. The sun was brutal and I was sweating and dehydrated about halfway to the home. When we arrived, we found hundreds of people in bright colors, some women with their heads covered, men with kippot and the traditional Muslim head-covering. People wore suits and dresses, others wore rags. The body arrived from the cemetery in an ornate coffin lying in the back of a pickup truck. The immediate family sat around the coffin in the back of the truck. As they pulled up to the house, the family jumped out and men lifted the coffin from the truck, carrying it to the other side of the property as the crowd followed. As the coffin passed the children who were sitting outside the house, they began to wail, screaming in Lugisu. I let most of the crowd pass by me, and everyone began singing this somber tune in Lugisu. Again, though it was a sad and slow song with words I did not understand, the melody was moving and unnaturally perfect, with harmonies emitted from the natives that complemented each other with ease. A few more somber songs were sung and then a man, whom I’m guessing was the priest, spoke for a bit. At various times throughout the ceremony, old women wailed from behind me and family members in the front of the crowd broke into these horrid screams of agony and were lead away back into the house, fighting their guides and crying out. Suddenly the ceremony ended and everyone turned around, leaving me in the front of the crowd. I let a few people pass and then followed them off the property again before heading back to the Jewish village. The climb back up the mountain was once again brutal and I downed two Fantas when we got back. Then I napped for a few hours. When I woke up, I hung out with Isaac the manager for a few minutes and then went to the synagogue for the afternoon service. I was given the first aliyah again, same reason as last time. After the service, I spoke with the rabbi for a few minutes outside, possibly convincing him to visit Brandeis when he is in the States in April/May. After three stars were visible, we said maariv, the evening service, and then havdallah, the blessing signifying the separation between the Shabbat and the rest of the week. Another muzungu around had glowsticks for all the children and they had a good time with those. I returned to the guesthouse, said goodbye to everyone there, went to the rabbi’s house and watched some Israel news before saying goodbye to him and his family, and then took a boda motorcycle back to Anne’s house. I had not seen Anne since Monday when she left for Kampala and it was good to see her back home. Tomorrow I am meeting with the artist next door to take pictures of some of his work in order to possibly set up a website for him (which, if successful, I may partner in), and then meeting someone I met today who wants me to get some music of his to someone in Chicago, so I’ll copy his cd onto my computer and then email it from a US internet connection to whomever, and then head to BCC to work. It’s funny…I think I mentioned earlier that people here work to finish a certain amount of goals each day, rather than work a certain amount of time each day. Several people have asked me why I haven’t taken a day off besides for the trip to Sipi. I can’t understand why they are so surprised. I am here for 3 weeks and there is so damn much to be done, I spend some nights writing a grant until 4am. How can I stop working for a day? I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for not achieving the most I could during my short time here. But I’ve almost been…reprimanded for working too hard. In my mind, I’ve been pretty laid back work-wise here. Yet Anne told me, very kindly, that all the people at BCC have been telling her was how focused I was and how determined I am to get a job done. I know I take my work seriously and work hard but I recognized that this was my vacation and while I was exhausted most of the time, I don’t think it has been due to overworking. I’ve been enjoying myself immensely and everything I’ve seen has been fascinating and I feel rested and happy. Why should I take a day off? I guess the only answer is, once again…Welcome to Uganda. Shavua tov everyone, have a good week. I will be home soon! And if you’ve been following along, don’t stop for another week. After I get home, I plan to post one last blog – summing up the trip, the culture shock of returning to my world, and telling you about how this whole thing came together in the first place. Stay tuned for tomorrow!
Day 17
01/02/09
This morning I didn’t have to do laundry. Thank G-d. I came to BCC early, wanting to make the most of my last few days. We went on rounds, saw the same types of cases, which I wish I wasn’t getting used to, and then went to the maternity ward where we found a woman who had miscarried. The doctors did some tests and determined that the miscarriage was incomplete so they gave her some drugs to finish it. I know the woman was sad but the emotions were very different here from what I would expect in the States. Maybe it was because it was more common here, or because they have more children, although I don’t think the latter would make it any easier. After feeling pretty crappy about that, I took inventory of the storage room with a clinic administrator named Judy. We went through everything in stock, from tablet-form drugs to injectables to creams to lab supplies. We recorded everything on the computer and at 1pm, we grabbed a quick lunch of…rice. Then, at around 2pm, I set off, with my heavy backpack again, to the village of Napulu with a woman who administers vaccinations at the clinic. Every Friday, another village is visited and mothers bring their children to get vaccinated. I carried the vaccines themselves in an insulated case on the back of a boda bicycle, and the nurse carried the syringes and alcohol. We came to Napulu and were brought two handmade wooden stools and a small wooden table. Little kids gathered to see the muzungu and I handed out an entire bag of orange sucking candies to the kids. When they finished the sucking candies, which often found their way out of their mouths, onto the dirt, and back into their mouths again, the children filled the wrappers with small stones and put them back in their mouths, pretending to have another sucking candy. It was sad and adorable and I wished I had brought more things for them. Then I took out my camera and took pictures of them which once again fascinated them. I don’t think that most of the children had ever seen what they look like before, not having mirrors or cameras at their disposal. So it was pretty amazing for them to see their images on a small screen, see what their smiles looked like for the first time. They were giggling for hours and, as much as I had to leave early to get to the Abayudaya, I couldn’t walk away. I sat there, recording each injection in a big register book, greeting each newcomer with Mulembe, cama ahoowa, grasila. They loved that I spoke their language and pushed me with more responses until I reached the limits of my Lugisu knowledge. We left Napulu at around 4:30pm, walking back to the road and raching it at about 5pm. I took a boda motorcycle to the house, ran inside and packed, ran back out to catch another boda motorcycle to Nabugoya. There were none near the house at that hour so I took a boda bicycle into town and caught a motorcycle from there. I got to Kakungulu hill around 6pm and took a shower and got ready for Shabbat. My friend Isaac, the manager, welcomed me with a big hello and there were 3 guests from Kampala – one Wisconsin girl volunteering in some small-business-building initiative, her sister, who is educating about AIDS in the Peace Corps. and stationed in Zambia, and an older woman from Riverdale who is volunteering for a few months with the American Jewish World Service (AJWS). We went to the synagogue together, and the Friday night service was as exciting as always. I wasn’t introduced to the community as a guest again and I felt like part of the family. I told the rabbi so after the service. Dinner was potatoes, rice, greens, veggies, and japati, the pita-like homemade bread. We talked and then got tired and I went to bed relatively early.
This morning I didn’t have to do laundry. Thank G-d. I came to BCC early, wanting to make the most of my last few days. We went on rounds, saw the same types of cases, which I wish I wasn’t getting used to, and then went to the maternity ward where we found a woman who had miscarried. The doctors did some tests and determined that the miscarriage was incomplete so they gave her some drugs to finish it. I know the woman was sad but the emotions were very different here from what I would expect in the States. Maybe it was because it was more common here, or because they have more children, although I don’t think the latter would make it any easier. After feeling pretty crappy about that, I took inventory of the storage room with a clinic administrator named Judy. We went through everything in stock, from tablet-form drugs to injectables to creams to lab supplies. We recorded everything on the computer and at 1pm, we grabbed a quick lunch of…rice. Then, at around 2pm, I set off, with my heavy backpack again, to the village of Napulu with a woman who administers vaccinations at the clinic. Every Friday, another village is visited and mothers bring their children to get vaccinated. I carried the vaccines themselves in an insulated case on the back of a boda bicycle, and the nurse carried the syringes and alcohol. We came to Napulu and were brought two handmade wooden stools and a small wooden table. Little kids gathered to see the muzungu and I handed out an entire bag of orange sucking candies to the kids. When they finished the sucking candies, which often found their way out of their mouths, onto the dirt, and back into their mouths again, the children filled the wrappers with small stones and put them back in their mouths, pretending to have another sucking candy. It was sad and adorable and I wished I had brought more things for them. Then I took out my camera and took pictures of them which once again fascinated them. I don’t think that most of the children had ever seen what they look like before, not having mirrors or cameras at their disposal. So it was pretty amazing for them to see their images on a small screen, see what their smiles looked like for the first time. They were giggling for hours and, as much as I had to leave early to get to the Abayudaya, I couldn’t walk away. I sat there, recording each injection in a big register book, greeting each newcomer with Mulembe, cama ahoowa, grasila. They loved that I spoke their language and pushed me with more responses until I reached the limits of my Lugisu knowledge. We left Napulu at around 4:30pm, walking back to the road and raching it at about 5pm. I took a boda motorcycle to the house, ran inside and packed, ran back out to catch another boda motorcycle to Nabugoya. There were none near the house at that hour so I took a boda bicycle into town and caught a motorcycle from there. I got to Kakungulu hill around 6pm and took a shower and got ready for Shabbat. My friend Isaac, the manager, welcomed me with a big hello and there were 3 guests from Kampala – one Wisconsin girl volunteering in some small-business-building initiative, her sister, who is educating about AIDS in the Peace Corps. and stationed in Zambia, and an older woman from Riverdale who is volunteering for a few months with the American Jewish World Service (AJWS). We went to the synagogue together, and the Friday night service was as exciting as always. I wasn’t introduced to the community as a guest again and I felt like part of the family. I told the rabbi so after the service. Dinner was potatoes, rice, greens, veggies, and japati, the pita-like homemade bread. We talked and then got tired and I went to bed relatively early.
Day 16 - The New Year
01/01/09
Today was fun. I got up early, did my last load of laundry, and then headed to town. Only one supermarket was open, and I bought a kilo of sugar and a kilo of flour. Then I headed to BCC, paying a good price because at this point, I think I give off the impression of a muzungo who knows his way. When I got to BCC, I discovered that most people had taken “leave” for the day but there were some nurses, nurse’s aides, and Dr. Wafula. We went on rounds, saw the usual innumerable cases of malaria, pneumonia, malnutrition, etc. At 1pm, Paul Toboti, Maital’s and Adam’s friend, picked me up from BCC to go to his house for a New Years meal. We walked to his village which must have been a mile+ away, in the beating sun, as I carried my multi-pound backpack thinking we were taking a boda. We arrived at his house which is a small mud/cement hut with a tin roof. I met his family, which included children of various ages ranging from mid-twenties to an infant. Paul told me that his parents died of AIDS so he and his siblings went to live with their uncle, who then died of AIDS, then to the next uncle, who died of AIDS. So the children were split to different homes but were still underfed and felt they belonged together. Paul lived with his grandmother who also died. When he was old enough and after many of the children were sponsored by generous donors, they arranged to build this small house so all the children, cousins, etc could live together. I’m not sure of the total number but in a 4 room hut, I met at least 7 people. This hut was in a village and the children came from old-school village culture, so the girls kneeled on the floor when they greeted me and ate on the floor in a different room. They served rice, matoke, and fish. I may have told a white lie to dismiss myself from eating the fish, something regarding a bad stomach and I felt terrible about it but I just couldn’t bring myself to eat the fish. And it was so much worse because they had meat for themselves for the celebratory meal but made fish for me because they knew I could not eat their meat. I felt so terrible every second but I felt it was the only way and better than gagging on the fish when force-feeding it to myself. Before we dug in, I was asked to say thanks to G-d. I’ve been asked before and politely declined but I already felt too guilty to say no. So now I had to figure out how to pull this off. As everyone closed their eyes and lowered their heads, the world seemed to go completely silent; there was not even a sound made by the goat or chickens outside. I hesitated for a few seconds and then said “Blessed are you , our G-d, King of the universe, who creates species of nourishment,” the exact translation of the hebrew blessing before eating grains like rice. Then, in keeping with the tradition of not making any interruption between blessing food and eating it, I made a perfunctory glance around the room, saw all eyes closed and heads down, and snuck a bite of rice into my mouth. I swallowed quickly and then continued with something they were more used to, something along the lines of “and thank you for providing us with this food and bringing us together on the beginning of this new year and bless these people who have taken me in and treated me like family, etc.” I don’t think anyone got wind of my Jew-move and I was pretty proud of pulling it off. They told me afterward that the blessing was beautiful.
I was given a fork to eat with but everyone else ate old-school style, removing food from the big plate with their right hands and delivering it straight into their mouths. I was honored as the American guest to have utensils but honestly, I wanted to be absorbed in the culture so I put down my fork and joined them, which they thought was pretty funny. Paul showed me pictures of his Ugandan family and his American family (Maital’s family, who came to visit when she and Adam were here). I had a great time and when I left, everyone over 17 y/o walked me to the road. Then Paul walked me down the road a bit until a boda motorcycle drove by, which I boarded (with a word from Paul to the driver about driving slowly and safely), and took to town. I went to the market which I had heard so much about and was slightly disappointed. The only other market I have seen has been the shuk in Israel, which is 100x better than this market. Now I understand that this is a town in a third-world country as opposed to a major city in a first-world country, but still I wanted a market. This was a number of old ladies sitting under umbrellas in the sun selling matoke, bananas, rice, etc. There were men calling to me “muzungu, muzungu! 500 Schilling!” I don’t even know what they were selling but I guarantee, if they said muzungu before it, than it was sold to Ugandans for a tenth of the price they were calling out to me. After the market I came home and passed out until dinnertime. I can’t remember what we ate, probably some variety of rice and beans and cabbage and greens. Now it is bedtime. Not sure when I will have internet next; the people I am with, who share the account with BCC, haven’t paid January internet yet so maybe I’ll get to the internet café sometime this weekend but I don’t want to waste any time with only a few days left! Goodnight!
Today was fun. I got up early, did my last load of laundry, and then headed to town. Only one supermarket was open, and I bought a kilo of sugar and a kilo of flour. Then I headed to BCC, paying a good price because at this point, I think I give off the impression of a muzungo who knows his way. When I got to BCC, I discovered that most people had taken “leave” for the day but there were some nurses, nurse’s aides, and Dr. Wafula. We went on rounds, saw the usual innumerable cases of malaria, pneumonia, malnutrition, etc. At 1pm, Paul Toboti, Maital’s and Adam’s friend, picked me up from BCC to go to his house for a New Years meal. We walked to his village which must have been a mile+ away, in the beating sun, as I carried my multi-pound backpack thinking we were taking a boda. We arrived at his house which is a small mud/cement hut with a tin roof. I met his family, which included children of various ages ranging from mid-twenties to an infant. Paul told me that his parents died of AIDS so he and his siblings went to live with their uncle, who then died of AIDS, then to the next uncle, who died of AIDS. So the children were split to different homes but were still underfed and felt they belonged together. Paul lived with his grandmother who also died. When he was old enough and after many of the children were sponsored by generous donors, they arranged to build this small house so all the children, cousins, etc could live together. I’m not sure of the total number but in a 4 room hut, I met at least 7 people. This hut was in a village and the children came from old-school village culture, so the girls kneeled on the floor when they greeted me and ate on the floor in a different room. They served rice, matoke, and fish. I may have told a white lie to dismiss myself from eating the fish, something regarding a bad stomach and I felt terrible about it but I just couldn’t bring myself to eat the fish. And it was so much worse because they had meat for themselves for the celebratory meal but made fish for me because they knew I could not eat their meat. I felt so terrible every second but I felt it was the only way and better than gagging on the fish when force-feeding it to myself. Before we dug in, I was asked to say thanks to G-d. I’ve been asked before and politely declined but I already felt too guilty to say no. So now I had to figure out how to pull this off. As everyone closed their eyes and lowered their heads, the world seemed to go completely silent; there was not even a sound made by the goat or chickens outside. I hesitated for a few seconds and then said “Blessed are you , our G-d, King of the universe, who creates species of nourishment,” the exact translation of the hebrew blessing before eating grains like rice. Then, in keeping with the tradition of not making any interruption between blessing food and eating it, I made a perfunctory glance around the room, saw all eyes closed and heads down, and snuck a bite of rice into my mouth. I swallowed quickly and then continued with something they were more used to, something along the lines of “and thank you for providing us with this food and bringing us together on the beginning of this new year and bless these people who have taken me in and treated me like family, etc.” I don’t think anyone got wind of my Jew-move and I was pretty proud of pulling it off. They told me afterward that the blessing was beautiful.
I was given a fork to eat with but everyone else ate old-school style, removing food from the big plate with their right hands and delivering it straight into their mouths. I was honored as the American guest to have utensils but honestly, I wanted to be absorbed in the culture so I put down my fork and joined them, which they thought was pretty funny. Paul showed me pictures of his Ugandan family and his American family (Maital’s family, who came to visit when she and Adam were here). I had a great time and when I left, everyone over 17 y/o walked me to the road. Then Paul walked me down the road a bit until a boda motorcycle drove by, which I boarded (with a word from Paul to the driver about driving slowly and safely), and took to town. I went to the market which I had heard so much about and was slightly disappointed. The only other market I have seen has been the shuk in Israel, which is 100x better than this market. Now I understand that this is a town in a third-world country as opposed to a major city in a first-world country, but still I wanted a market. This was a number of old ladies sitting under umbrellas in the sun selling matoke, bananas, rice, etc. There were men calling to me “muzungu, muzungu! 500 Schilling!” I don’t even know what they were selling but I guarantee, if they said muzungu before it, than it was sold to Ugandans for a tenth of the price they were calling out to me. After the market I came home and passed out until dinnertime. I can’t remember what we ate, probably some variety of rice and beans and cabbage and greens. Now it is bedtime. Not sure when I will have internet next; the people I am with, who share the account with BCC, haven’t paid January internet yet so maybe I’ll get to the internet café sometime this weekend but I don’t want to waste any time with only a few days left! Goodnight!
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