Happy, Happy 2012 Everyone!!

Happy New Year! I must say that this period of reflection that befalls us each and every year is taken for granted and diluted by unfulfilled promises of more time for ourselves and family, a pursuit of long lost projects and of course, smaller waistlines. I challenge each and every one of us out there, who mistakenly believes that this is the only time of year to make a meaningful pact, to keep to their guns (2nd amendment?) and not let the true wealth of an accomplished goal fall from their sights. What will happen to us, our nation, our little island of stagnancy, in the year of 2012 (and for our Islamic population out there, 1432/33)? All I can tell you is what I know (as an unrefined and unrelenting oracle more or less):

Syria is going to get worse before it gets better. The fact that the current Islamic oversight group, Arab League, is not allowed onto some of their most controversial sites and all of their military bases raising red flags to most all of the concerned Islamic world. The western world does not care obviously.

The United States and most of Europe is falling deeper into the pockets of our Chinese benefactors and it will be most extraordinary of circumstances should we ever climb back out. The US will have to learn the hard way what it is like to not be on top and her constituents will blindly believe otherwise (until they travel abroad and realize the best currency is the Indian rupee and you can’t buy a damn with a dollar).

Basic food staples will continue to rise in cost on almost a direct correlation with healthcare. As we continue to pollute and genetically modify our most basic of foodstuffs, we continue to do hurt ourselves. With 7 billion people in the world (more like 7.2) we shall start on the most bizarre of downward spirals revealing our most incriminating human nature. Shall only the strong survive or will it be just the ones who can pay for it?

Now that I’ve gotten some of the ugly out of the way, I do have good news. My significant other, Omar, has an interview with the US Consulate in Morocco. With every finger and toe crossed, hail marys muttered and prayer energy sent out to the most beguiling of gods and goddesses, I hope Omar succeeds with flying colors and is able to come join me here in the good ol’ US of A. We hope to start our life together here and are able to infect as many around us as possible with our light-hearted humor and good will.

I will start classes at UNCC come January. I need a few prerequisite courses completed in order to apply and be accepted into an ABSN program. After speaking to an old college professor of mine, I do realize that I may not be accepted just because the completion of the courses is so close to the beginning of the program. I am not afraid of being unaccepted, I just hate wasting time. I am ready to start back to school. I am ready to join the healthcare professional world. I am ready. I just need to wait.

I do hope that everyone out there has the best evening and kisses any and all who need a nice smack to start the new year. Make your promises and tell them to others. Be accountable and for goodness sake, pay attention. The world is crumbling around us, get out there with your Elmers and at least try to hold some of it together!

Leaving Uganda

The chapter to this part of the book is slowly drawing in to a close. My insides are a tangled web of emotions and physical draining: my heart beats uncontrollably, my stomach sits deep and empty, my head feels disconnected. I am excited yet sad. I feel relief but cowardly. Anxiety is an understatement. Yet my breathing is calm and controlled. My hands steady as I hold the pen. My eyes are the most obvious sign. The tears collect under my chin, leaving a wet chinstrap. As the winds rushes in the window of the mutatu, I can feel my eyelashes drying together, the skin once wet now feels tight. As I watch these things pass by, I wonder if I will ever get to relive it again as it is right now. Of course not, and I just want to crawl inside my remorse and self-pity and cry harder.

I am so uncomfortable at the thought of returning permanently. Even as I say permanently, I wanted to write semi-permanently or for the next several years or even in its defined sense, temporarily (as being the opposite of permanent).
These faces, these eyes that stare back at me, I look at hoping, wishing, that that common thread of humanity, family, needs, presence, are felt. That you and I are not so different. We both love our mothers. We both want long, happy, fulfilling lives. You and I are one in this world and despite the vast chasm of differences; you can still feel that bridge of humanity spanning the gap. I started walking across a long time ago. I pray that you are headed in my direction.

Simply Speculation

I have spent 3 months in Uganda. I am still just an amateur on the African scene and inexperienced speculator. I have little to compare Uganda. I acknowledge that my views and observations are just that, my own, and therefore of little importance to much else. I have chosen to share and hopefully not persuade or cause bias for each opinion, each story, has the opposite side and another, perhaps, more refreshing perspective.

Despite the release on life and freedom given to Ugandans once Museveni came to power (unfortunately compared to Obote and Amin), they continue to take their fortunate change of events for granted. There is a lack of pride and structure within the system and within themselves. The streets are dirty and have putrid, stagnant water in their clogged drains and run-off ditches. Their babies, naked, play less than a meter away, in the dirt and trash. Uganda was recently awarded one of the most fertile countries in the world, it also has a number of NGOs working here, and I have to ask,

“What the hell is going on?”

Where and why is the system failing these people?
Why are women continuing to have so many children? Why are there so many orphanages and street children? Where is their government intervention?

Uganda’s leaders have been filling their pockets long enough. What does it take for people to demand their most basic human rights? The quality of education here is substandard to say the least until you get into Kampala. The quality of health here is almost unmentionable. And perhaps, because of my experience in health education and prevention, I have a harsher perspective. These men and women, young girls and young men need health education immediately. The structure here has failed them. I have been told that men measure their wealth against society by how many children they produce. And trust me, I have heard the numbers. One man can have multiple wives, and within that family, I have met people with 10, 16, even 25 brothers and sisters. I met one guy yesterday with 14 brothers and sisters alone, from one mother.

Total fertility rate:

6.69 children born/woman (2011 est.)

Life expectancy at birth:

total population: 53.24 years

Median age:

total: 15.1 years
male: 15 years
female: 15.1 years (2011 est.)

(updated statistics from the CIA World Factbook)

Uganda is only beaten by Niger. It has the second highest fertility rate in the world. No cause for celebrating. This is an uproar. We need a response from the Ministry of Health, from the government immediately. What measures are we taking to protect our youth? Our women and men? Projected growth of Uganda by the year 2050 is to have around 95 million people. The current population is almost 35 million.

In this negative light, all I can think of to say at this point is,

Good Luck NGOs.

Rugby in the Rain

To feed into obsession and maintain my mental sanity, I have been playing rugby with a few of the local boys here, both with the Busoga University team and Nile Rugby Club in Jinja. On Mondays, I stay close and practice down the road at the university. The boys are hard-working and determined. Without a formal coach, a few of the more experienced members run various drills before we conclude with an hour long game of touch. A number of the boys are fast and try out various plays involving one-handed passes, switches and grubbers. Some of the boys play in tennis shoes or no shoes at all.

This past Monday, I got there right on time, 5:00, a feat for anyone who knows “Africa time”. A few of the other boys were already getting warmed up and stretching, a few were still doing laps around the field. I was already kitted up and ready to go, having only brought a few notes to get home, my cell phone, and a water bottle. The field is relatively flat and expansive, with only a few minor bare patches located in what would only be described as the try areas. I started jogging around the field, noticing a few sore areas from last practice. There were a few cows that were grazing off to the sides that I had to avoid, their owners languidly sleeping in the grass beside them. After we stretched and worked on a few kicks, we then ran a few hand drills; simple passing drills, pick and go’s, mauling and the like. I happened to notice that not all of our passes were the best nor was every one caught. The boys shouted words of encouragement and reprimand in Swahili (most of the team is Kenyan). I found myself being drawn into a coaching position once again, stopping drills and explaining our focus, there is so much potential and talent on this team that just needs to be directed and encouraged. I miss coaching a lot.

As we got ready to divide our teams, partnering up into X’s and Y’s, I heard the first far off rumble of an approaching storm. The air was saturated already with humidity, it now buzzed with a new static tingle which we all ignored. I couldn’t help but notice that Romeo, Tosh, Terminator and Manu were all on the same team and I was on the other, the majority of the forwards and a completely new guy. I guess the whole X and Y partnering is a little rigged…

The first rain drops fell with a fat splendor, splashing into my hair and eyes. My only regret being that I still haven’t purchased pleather cleats from the market yet, knowing I was five minutes away from slipping into the anthills-turned-mud castles. The rain fell steadily at first, Romeo jogging beside me, “See? I didn’t have to bring a water bottle,” he told me, opening his mouth to the sky. He shook his thin dreads and ran off to join the action. The rain fell harder and harder, the size of the rain drops just as big as the beginning. I was soaked. The sun was setting then and disappearing into the clouds. I looked around, our plateau giving a 360 degree view of the surrounding fields and countryside. The smell of the rain, the dirt and the verdant life filled my body. My side was losing badly. Good runs by Terminator, fast passes from Tosh to Romeo who broke through our defense and quick restarts by Manu easily exploited our team. It looked like we needed to step our game and start motivating each other. The rain made our already slippery ball almost uncatchable, high steps and fake moves ended up being wet muddy disasters and I found myself bent over, trying to catch my breath from laughing so much.

How many times can you say you played rugby in the pouring rain in Uganda?

He stole my phone!

This country is not my own. I feel very disconnected from it.

It rained yesterday afternoon, well, it poured and I got caught in it. I was on my way back to the house to find my phone. The rain pelted me and seemed to change it’s direction every minute or so. At first the air around me was warm and soft. The rain felt good on my bare arms. My shirt and skirt were getting soaked and my feet were beginning to slide in my sandals. But it felt so good. When I turned on the road to our house, the rain came in sideways and the air suddenly got colder, I hurried my pace knowing in a few seconds I would be inside and out of the capricious weather. It continued to rain for more than an hour. The streets had become mudways and their potholes red soup. I was unsuccessful finding my phone. It was a brand new one. My previous pal had been stolen at the Agricultural Fair in Jinja (as had Lyndsay’s and Claire’s). I think we were targeted, just a guess. I had immediately replaced it. This is unfortunately a lifeline to my boyfriend and my parents. When I tried to call my phone from Lyndsay’s, I had a sinking dread that it would be turned off. It was. And then it hit me. The sequence of events came flooding back and my stomach flew into my throat and my heart dropped to the floor. When I was walking through the market, less than 30m from the restaurant, a man bumped into me. I had on my backpack and he just sort of ran into me, like he didn’t see me or something. We made eye contact and he turned and walked quickly away. He stole my phone.

I’ve said this once and I will say it again, karma is a silent and sometimes painfully swift avenger. I hope that whatever bad luck befalls him, whatever truly unfortunate event finds him, I wish that he correlates the theft and his misfortune. As I said on my facebook, the man is going to fall into his pit latrine today, and I hope he has my phone in his back pocket. The last kicker is that I had just bought a significant amount of credit and registered it on my phone to be used that day, to call Omar and his family to pay my condolences for an Uncle who had recently passed away. That has to count for double karma, right?

This morning I made my way to the restaurant through the market. I went the same route, determined not to be caught off-guard if my assailant decided to strike again, or better yet, I could find and identify him and then explain to the mob of angry citizens that all of a sudden appear to my aid, that this man stole my phone and I saw him push an old lady down (or something equally terrible!). The walkways were covered in mud and drowned out pieces of trash and plastic. I picked my way slowly to avoid the slickest of areas and worst puddles of wet refuse. The road before the market is in a bad state of erosion, at times the shoulder comes close to a foot or so difference in height. Motorcycles (motos in Morocco or Bota-botas in Uganda) are taking people back and forth, bicycles slowly make their way past and an occasional car or truck dominate the better part of the blacktop. Women walk barefoot past, carefully balancing a load of food or goods on their heads. Kids with torn clothing and dirt smeared on their arms and faces continue on to their destinations, home or school or to possibly sell empty plastic bottles by the gas station. Men are outside working, fixing, repairing goods like trucks and cars, banging out dents in old oil drums, welding together window grates and doors. Small tiny food stands are preparing for their day, their smoke and smells reaching my empty, fasting nose and belly, their broken umbrellas doing little but to protect them from the near constant drizzle of the morning. I walk past men repairing old bikes and painting them a beautiful shade of blue. I keep my head high but avoid eye contact, something I learned in Morocco. I do not wish to have a conversation or to buy anything or to show any interest in anything except to be aware of my surroundings and pick my way through, avoiding the path of the other half coming towards me. I pass by a huge assortment but rarely any diversity in shoes. Shoes as far as the eye can see. Some are on display on small thigh-high tables, others are kept in large, plastic rusacks. These shoes are also individually wrapped in shiny, loud plastic. Most all of these shoes are plastic foam sandals. Colors are the only variation besides size, dark blue, baby pink, yellow-green, red, and black. These sandals do not need to fit you if you take any obvious hint from the people passing by, nor are there any gender colors like pink for girls and blue for boys. A large man could easily and acceptably be seen walking past wearing a baby pink shoe two sizes too small for him, his giant toes reaching out the front like ant feelers. We would instantly reel back in disgust, easily putting together that this man had no disregard for his daughter’s feet and their journey to school today! And then following behind the giant man, is a younger version of himself, we guess she is female because of her skirt, but her head is shaved and her features ambiguous. She is wearing large blue sandals, her toes squished to the front, the back heel wide open, slashing mud onto the backs of her legs. Eh.

Next I pass through store after store, my eyes becoming blurry with déjà vu. Each store looks exactly the same save the proprietor. Each store has 7-8 russacks out front, carrying various beans, flour and rice. The inside halted by a wide counter with a scale perched on top, behind are shelves lined with various but somewhat unrelated goods like Vaseline and hair brushes. I finally burst from that scene to a muddy tarmac somewhat organized with taxis (mututus in Uganda) being unloaded and loaded with people, goods, and your occasional upside down chicken. Chickens travel well upside down. I was told that they get disoriented and calm. I would too if I had never seen the world upside down, possibly the last way I would see the world until my quick death. How interesting…. Anyways, once I finagle my way around gentlemen trying to convince me to go to villages I have never heard of, I am on the home stretch. Much like during a marathon, I imagine, because I have never actually ran one, that the very end you become somewhat delirious in your pursuit of the finish line. Bright and beautiful colors flashing by your strides getting longer and your breathing labored. I don’t exactly breathe laboriously but I’ve caught myself one or two times making little happy humming noises. This last hallway of stores are mostly owned by Indians. They sell beautiful, shiny, patterned bolts of cloth. They have a number of models on display lining the entrance to the storefront, a matching solid sash of cloth wrapped around her middle, giving the models a more feminine shape. They are faceless, not much more than a T shaped stand, but I can imagine myself in each outfit and fabric, dancing in the mud through the market, my arms open wide as I serenade each shopkeeper with my lyrics about love lost and life lived... Not.

Finally, after crossing another street I am under the Suki Hotel building. Stores selling more cloth, a barren pharmacy, and a supermarket are located on the ground floor, and rooms and apartments are available on the second and third floors. And what? A delicious and delightful restaurant and bar that serves an array of Ugandan and Indian favorites paired with local beers?! Trivia played on Thursday nights! Sunday and Monday nights movies start at 8pm with free popcorn?! With a really cool American that has lived outside of America for 2 ½ years (who’s counting?!) that is observing Ramadan and possibly facing some serious issues of culture shock (from Morocco AND America). Hello! What a cool person! What a cool place! I wish I could be there every day from like 9 until 8pm, that sounds so awesome.

Scraped Knees and Tears (of laughter)

This past Sunday, the 31st, at Musana, we had a fun birthday party for our manager, Haril, with everyone surprising him first, then by celebrating; eating cake and having sodas and singing a big Happy Birthday! Lyndsay did a great job baking three Funfetti box cakes back to back and icing them each. They turned out quiet lovely! And no one got hurt… well yet.

Brenda Down for the Count

Brenda Splenda is another volunteer at Musana. She is awesome. She hails from the almight Colorado and from a large family of girls where she was the baby. Her five older sisters taught her the ropes and put gum in her hair to excuse a new haircut from time to time. She seemed to have turned out pretty darn well. She recently decided to change her flight from October to December. Quite commendable. So she, Gala and I are going to be together for the winter (or wet season?)! I feel really lucky that she is here.

Andrea, Brenda and I decided that it would be best to have all the girls together for activities and recapping the previous week but then splitting up for small group discussion.

Girls’ Group:

Introduction:
What did we discuss last week? What were some of the lessons learned? How was your week here at Musana? Did you have to trust someone this week or did someone have to trust you? How did you feel?

Activities:

(These activites I pulled from numerous resources but mostly from my manual Team Building and Leadership Activites that I created during my Peace Corps service.)

Peek-A-Who?!

Chair Swap (with our old Happy Birthday plates as markers) Brenda is somehow bullied by a tangle of brown arms and legs and falls somewhat gracefully to the ground in her brown dress. She also lost her paper plate and was demoralized into the middle.

Claps About It

Small Discussion Groups and Journal Time

I had wanted to tie in our discussion topics with the previous weeks subject on trust. I am not as aware of the situations and problems that the girls deal with on a weekly basis seeing that my current position requires my presence at the restaurant for the better part of daylight hours (and some evenings). I was caught off-guard and my lack of preparation beforehand is not to be lauded. We split the girls into three groups; I took the youngest, four 12-year olds, Brenda took six of the 13 year olds and Andrea took the oldest and most mature of the girls, a mix of one 13 year-old, three 14 year olds and one 15 year old. They all had the same situations and problems to discuss:
1. Situation: Sarah is friends with Betty and Mariam. Mariam is having problems with Betty and comes to Sarah to talk about them. Sarah feels bad and uncomfortable when Mariam talks to her about Betty.
Why does Sarah feel this way?
What should Sarah tell or advise to Mariam?
What should Sarah do?
Have you ever been put in a similar situation? What did you do? How did it make you feel?
2. Think of one person you trust. Can you tell them anything and everything? How do they make you feel? Why are they trustworthy friends? Do they just listen to you or do they advise you too?
3. Have you or anyone you know ever had a secret? Did you keep it? Did you tell anyone? Was it hard to keep that secret? When should you tell someone’s secret and to whom?
After we had discussed each situation and problem, we gave out a journal and pen to each of the girls. We asked that the girls write in the journals anything they wanted: tell about when you came to Musana, what happened this past week, what do you want to do in the next ten years, how do you feel today, etc., These journals are the girls’ only. We will never breach that trust. The journals will stay in Andrea’s office and she let the girls know that if they ever need or want to write in them, they are free to.

I was pleasantly surprised when I went to check on the groups and found that Andrea’s older group was still much in discussion after ore than a half hour. My younger group was finishing up their journal entries already. I will have to tweak our activites and discussion so that each group is given plenty of time to talk about these subjects and the other groups are not bored. I will compile a list of easy activities for us to do once we are finished journaling. My only hesitation is that I want to avoid their haste in completion of their journals to go on to a crafts project or something likewise.

Super Sunday at Musana

On Sunday, we had a great day at Musana Children’s Home. Inspired throughout my life by my lovely sister Becca, and my mom especially, to Reduce, Reuse and Recycle, I collected numerous water bottles my fellow housemates had used and discarded to be used as Plant Catchers. I had cut these large 1.5 and 500mL bottles in half, originally using the bottoms for another project: My Big Healthy Example Teeth. The bottoms of the bottles look exactly like molars once painted. I used another 20 or so to hold bottle caps we had collected from the Sol Café. I divided these caps up into their respective makes, Coca Cola, Pepsi, Mirinda and Fanta, Nile Gold and Club beers. These I will use later to delve into some more artistic expression. So I had a lot of top-half empty water bottles… oh what to do!

Plant Catchers:
Overturned and with careful placement of a good sized rock (something my mom used to do with her planters) to prevent the flow of soil and nutrients out when watered, we could make and hang these new lovely planters!

First, we had cut the bottles and made two holes opposite at the top where the string would be strung to be hung. Then, we had all the kids go and fetch appropriate sized rocks. This was all too easy, with numerous rocks of all shapes and sizes right outside the pavilion. The unexpected cacophony that resulted next was a bit difficult to drown out once they had these new music-making devices in hand. Luckily, we got them calmed down and distributed string and beads to be tied at the ends around the neck of the bottle and would hang off and dance in the breeze. We also distributed foam stickers that the kids carefully placed around the outside of the bottles. With the addition of their names, some soil, and a number of wildflower seeds (bought and brought from the US : / ? ) we had over 80 amazing plant catchers! Despite a few spills and thrills, the bottles these were hung outside the pavilion in clusters of 8-9. They look great and the kids loved doing them. Afterwards, they were pointing out to volunteers which bottle was theirs with nothing but pride and a sense of accomplishment. Easy enough if you ask me.

Girls’ Group
While the Plant Catchers environmental craft project was going, Andrea and I had our first girls’ group meeting. I had originally proposed this idea to Andrea and Sally when I first got here (a month ago in two days!). I really wanted to take and combine my previous work experiences and make a girls’ group to talk about healthy lifestyles and choices, personal growth, and developing a skillset to become healthy, productive and hopefully, independent women. Like I can’t praise them enough, my work throughout the years at the YMCA has really pulled through at the most random times. Now, I am using my work as a Y Teen Coordinator, teambuilding and managing to do activities and games with the girls. When we had started the Plant Catchers project, in order to get the kids calm and quiet, I used one of the easy crowd controllers, “If you can hear my voice, tap your head… If you can hear my voice, touch your nose…” without having to raise my voice once. Having taken a 3 day HIV/AIDS workshop with Peace Corps and using their LifeSkills Manual here, we are going to slowly move this group into talking and discussing some more serious issues they will be faced with as they grow into adulthood.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I have been volunteering my time at the Sol Café Restaurant, one of Musana’s sustainability projects. All profits from the restaurant go directly back to the orphanage and help cover basic needs like food, utilities, books, clothes, etc., The Sol Café does pretty well and I was brought in to help get it organized and help with bringing in new audiences on slower days. It has been a challenge because business is not my forte and I am new to the culture and attitudes of Uganda. For the first two weeks, I have been observing and learning. I help balance the books and clean and occasionally serve. It wasn’t until this past week that I wrote up my list of recommendations. I hope these will help the Café become one of the best running businesses in town.

My true passion is health care, as many of you already know. I did my first health lesson with the Musana kids Sunday afternoon about hand washing. When I have an audience, it is my sole responsibility to keep them entertained and learning. We talked about what germs were, where we can find germs, and when to wash our hands. I know this is only the beginning for sustainable health at Musana, and it helps that they employee a nurse full-time. It was a lot of fun and all of the kids washed their hands at the very end. It was great to see them scrubbing in-between their fingers and under their nails.

We each have $500 towards a project of our choice at Musana. Already I have mine dog-earred; a second well with an electric pump to have running water to sinks outside of the bathrooms. The bathrooms at Musana need some work. Right now, there is a single building with 12 individual stalls that open to the outside. They sit on top of a cement slab. Each stall has a rectangular hole cut out opening to a deep black abyss, your typical pit latrine, a good bathroom in these areas except when they have no faucets/running water to keep them flushed and clean. The kids (and myself from time to time) aim for these holes and oftentimes miss. The feces and urine sit outside the hole, attracting winged friends and creating a most unpleasant smell (as you can imagine). It doesn’t help that one of the endemic diseases in our area is diahearria, possibly because of this cycle of uncleanliness and poor sanitation from the pit latrines.

If you would like to help contribute to my project (or any others!), you can donate online at Musana.org (make a note for it to go towards sanitation projects). They currently have one pump well where they fill up large yellow jugs and truck them around to various areas like the kitchen (doesn’t even have running water!), the showers (a good 30m walk away) or the bathrooms (which I’ve never seen done). The kids wash their own clothes by hand on Sundays outside with the older kids helping the younger ones. It is quite adorable. The staff at Musana have truly done a lot since starting. These kids go to school for free every day, any supplies/clothes/shoes they need they are given, they have three meals a day, clean water, matrons who look after them, beds and sheets and mosquito nets, a social worker, a nurse, and a lot of people who lose sleep at night thinking about their health, well-being, safety and education. We just need good bathrooms, that’s all, and considering that some households don’t even have latrines and go outside, we are already a huge step ahead.

UGANDA

I know I haven’t submitted in quite some time. To summarize, I ended my service a week late, on top of my month long extension. I was just too busy that week tying up loose ends and doing a few final health lessons that I felt that the next week would be much easier to navigate my trip to Rabat to COS. I got permission from our country director, and then we forgot to tell everyone else I wasn’t coming in. Fail.

Omar, Gala and I traversed the country for the next month post service and enjoyed our vacation/leisure time. We visited Omar’s sister and family in Khenifra, then headed on to Ourzazate, Essouaria and Imlil/Toubkal outside of Marrakech. I was in a new transition state and did not know how to feel emotionally. I was sad to be leaving Peace Corps for sure, my service was pivotal in directing my future endeavors. Not to gloss or glamorize, but PC has and will forever change my life in my perspective of other cultures, languages, and ways of living.
We left for Uganda from the London-Heathrow airport on June 28th and arrived the morning of the 29th. We exited the plane in Entebbe via a metal staircase platform into a beautiful and humid setting. When waiting for our luggage to come, I couldn’t help but notice the amount of large plastic containers. It seemed that they outnumbered regular luggage. I watched one man I picked for a southern Baptist missionary load 5 onto a cart and head out into the sunshine. Uganda was having an early Christmas.

We were picked up by Robert and Selima, two of Musana’s employees. Robert is a driver for Musana and takes kids to the doctors, employees to functions and people to and from the airport in Entebbe, a short drive past the capital of Kampala. Selima is the Ugandan volunteer coordinator, kind of like Sally’s counterpart. She lives in the volunteer house with us. Both have easy smiles and thick accents. At least I was on repeat, “What? Excuse me? What?!” in the beginning. I still have a hard time deciphering African English and do a poor impression of it (unlike my Moroccan English accent! It’s not too bad!). I had changed my way of listening completely in Morocco. It was a part of my survival. It is fascinating what body language and small clues you start noticing when you aren’t completely sure what is going on. You also pick up on normal every day greetings and questions, what question follows what answer.

We stopped on the way in a small roadside town and were immediately flocked by people selling all sorts of goods to us through the windows. Beat that McDonald’s! They were literally RUNNING to meet cars pulled over. They sold us roasted salty chicken on a stick (which we sucked clean), whole baked bananas (hard exterior, warm soft interior), soda, samosas, chapatti (fried bread similar to Morocco’s lmslmen), and bottled water. We had shit food on the plane so these unexpected tasty treats were a great welcome!

Some of my first observations were that both men and women were out and working. Whether it was selling us food, working in the fields, behind cell phone counters or hanging clothes up for sale, it seemed as if the workforce was on equal footing. The verdant rolling hills sometimes broke away into sugar cane or tea leaves fields. Water seemed to be everywhere. Whether it was stagnant run off in ditches, small streams, irrigation in the fields or whole rivers we crossed over. There seems to be persistent, stolid clouds. The sun comes through occasionally but it never seems to be as oppressive as it was in Morocco despite our proximity to the Equator. People over the age of 15 seem indifferent to us. The younger kids point at us, yelling out and sometimes running full distances to come greet us, “Muzungu! Muzungu!” (White person! White person!) and come and give us only what can be described in our culture as “dap” or a knuckle bump called a “bunga,”. Sometimes they walk with us, holding our hands. Most the time it seems as if they had only gotten half-dressed that morning, their little cheeks a fun goodbye when we part ways. They also seem to have done some morning exfoliating, their faces and exposed skin caked in the red dirt. I tell you what though, despite the dirt and nudity, they are about as cute as you can get.

Breast Cancer Screenings: Inappropriate Time for Battle of the Head Voices

My work here has changed dramatically these past two years. With the number of good work contacts, language improvement, new or reoccurring opportunities and different venues, I've been able to do lots of different projects and programs. Within these past few months, I've been talking to women about their health, covering topics like breast cancer, STIs, common complaints concerning headaches and backaches, menstrual cycles, and hygiene.

I am almost embarrassed to have doubted and questioned not only my ability but the value of talking to women. A few bad experiences at the beginning of my service set me back in developing and pursuing work with women's groups. I had unfortunately tried my hand in women's health classes at a bad venue, at a bad time, and with a bad accent.

Now, with my confidence at an all-time high, I might think twice about doing a condom demonstration, but depending on how my audience is responding to my pictures and content of conversation, I'll don one on. We all know now how to check the expiration date, how to open it properly, what it looks like and how it is supposed to be used. I am trying to empower women by telling them that their health comes first. They are to give themselves time every day to exercise, stretch, massage sore muscles, and bathe. They are in charge of not only their health but the health of the household especially their children. They establish the rules. If one of the rules is that in order to watch TV after lunch you have to brush your teeth, all the better to start these habits early.

Recently, I worked at a small festival in Agdez, just south of Ouarzazate. Part of the activities put together by an association there included a trash pick up, mural paintings, 10K race, eyesight screenings and fittings, and a team of doctors to give free consultations and address women's health. Guess who called in absent?

My previous work with this association involved me speaking to groups of women out in smaller douars (villages) about previously-stated health topics. These talks were successful in dispelling myths, providing easy solutions for common problems and bringing awareness about the importance of women's health. The association appreciated my work and somehow construed my meager but important position as an educator to that of a doctor.

"Can you check women for breast cancer?" asked the association's president on Saturday, the day the doctors called in absent. "Yes, yes. This is important. They will come to you and you can do this,"

"I am not a doctor! I talk to women about breast cancer, how to check. We can talk about women's health."

"Ok, ok," He responded, absently nodding his head. Did he understand what I just said?!

One of the many reoccurring themes I feel most PCVs find in a country where English is not the first, second, or third language learned: problems communicating. This is perhaps why the first two ladies who came into the small office in the back of the Dar Chabab (think Boys' and Girls' Club but gov't run,) started pulling up their long house dresses as soon as we closed the door.

"Whoa, whoa! Blati schwiya. Shuf, Ur gigh tadbibt" (Wait a little-hold on- Look, I am not a doctor.) I'm sure word spread quickly about doctors being available for free consultations but the follow-up that they canceled did not. Guess who's caught in the middle? I was neither dressed nor had the place set up like a make-shift doctor's office or examination room. I was a foreigner, sitting on one side of a desk, patiently waiting their arrival, and they were desperate, I soon found out.

I was placed in a difficult and heart-breaking situation.

We talked about how to conduct self-exams for breast cancer. We talked about birth control. We addressed rashes and headaches. We talked about menopause. Despite my protests and obvious discomfort, some women insisted that I check out a lump in their breast, in their armpit, or one women's abdomen that was swollen like a bowling ball, bisected by a huge vertical scar and caused her bouts of pain and sleepless nights.

My conscience screamed at me, "

What are you doing?!

You are not a doctor. You don't know anything!"
My reasoning responded, "I told them I wasn't. What am I supposed to do? I didn't tell them to lift up their shirts. These women are scared. These women are desperate."
"You are reinforcing this impersonation by checking when they insist. Because you are talking about these things, you are in a position of authority of knowledge..."
"If I feel something or not, my advice has been the same: Go to the clinic and get checked by the doctors,"

They've been fighting back and forth since I got here in Morocco. You should be in my head when they go at it over a stray puppy. I almost got a bloody nose.

I was dizzy with emotions but had no time to sort through them. I was elated to be able to talk to so many women and address their specific questions. I could give these small groups, sometimes just one, two, or at most three women, the attention they possibly have never been given, concerning their health. I also felt helpless. These women deserved gynecological screenings, professional breast exams and mammograms, their questions addressed by professionals, (and yet, even the I cringe, hearing the advice and treatment given to women who have found lumps, medicine prescribed or given without discretion or direction, the apathetic mindset and mannerism they take with their patients). Like I said, it was this raging internal conflict and I tried my best to do no harm. I tried to dispel as much correct information that these women would remember as possible. The high school girls who were assisting in the activities and with my health presentations would address some of these questions on their own, able to reassure or give women the correct advice directly. It worked out well. They were able to reinforce the information, repeating my directions or translating into Arabic (another setback of mine,).

After I had seen the last group of women, I walked out to join the rest of the volunteers. Intercepted quickly, I was soon surrounded by young high school girls. They adored me. They asked me lots of questions about my experience in Peace Corps, my life in America, some about health. It was my own personal press conference and fan club. My ego grew as I soon realized that none of the other volunteers were being swallowed whole. Surrounded by these sweet girls who found me unbelievable and admirable, my slight ethical heart attack I had experienced earlier subsided.

What is my role here? What is my job? What are my limitations and what is within my abilities?

Donating a few days to help out a friend's festival in his site and I get an ego-boost that will last a couple of weeks. I guess I am surprised that more people aren't hooked on volunteering, mentoring, or donating. It seems as though, the longer you're in it, the stronger the karma, the bigger its rewards. I just need more time. more resources. and a scrutable financial advisor tied to big pockets. I am foolhardily reassured that things will work out and with time, I'll be able to provide more and give these self-sacrificing women the attention they need. "Give time for time," is an old Berber saying.

If only I could find the patience.

Drive to Tamtatucht

I can’t say that I am that spontaneous, but when Omar and I woke up this morning I was bound and determined to get some work done I’ve been putting off for various lame reasons. “We’re going to Tamtatucht today!” I told him with a sweet morning’s breath kiss. He barely acknowledged this information by slowly opening one eye, searched my face for an inkling of seriousness, found it, and promptly fell back asleep.

The dark olive green taxi sputtered up the French built road through one of Morocco’s most encompassing and awing destinations, Todgha Gorge. I was crammed into the backseat with 3 others, the driver not exactly spared himself from awkward discomfort, since in the front seat sat 2 with one undoubtedly pinching the stick shift with his butt cheek. Can’t be gay in Morocco but downshift groping sure is allowed.

From the speakers, what ones left that did work, came an interesting cacophony: Berber music that sounds as if recorded on some apparatus devised during Billy Holliday’s era. The static and white noise overpowers the pauses. Most of the Berber music uses an array of hand drums, a type of guitar that is plucked and not strummed, and a troupe of men and women that emit a call and response type of vocals with women reaching sharp yells supposedly inspired from the way they communicate across fields, valleys and mountains. To even the most open-minded music appreciator, these long repetitive songs can destroy the most lucid daydream and some with hearing aids have been known to turn them all the way off, preferring the silence.

The driver pushed something to make the tape deck wheeze and emit a multitude of low vibrations and what I can only liken to the noise of a loose or tired fan belt, a high-pitched scream, as we reversed or fast-forwarded to the next impressive stream of repeated rhythms and yelling. The road we were on followed the river, at this point there was no more water and only a dry river bed. The villages had long since disappeared as well as the fields. The road was getting farther into disrepair, the driver choosing to brave the gravelled washout rather than the potholed discourse parallel to it. The road had accepted its fate as a lost cause a long time ago. To think, to even humour the idea that a man-made road would survive in these conditions is ludicrous. At times, the river floods, swelling the banks and the road, and then it cracks into dry heat, the rocks melting, thirsty for rain. The road is used by a multitude of motorists: large construction trucks called cameos, dump trucks, huge, overflowing tourist buses, human-sardined transit vans, little foreign rental cars and overpriced ATV and dirt bike rentals that come roaring through, disrupting the awesome voice of the gorge walls, it’s echoes now becoming as ear-splitting as poorly recorded Berber music.

Being the last into the vehicle, I had the privilege to squeeze my short legs and full behind onto the tiniest the piece of cushion allotted in mankind. I had a flashback to a previous time. I had jokingly wiggled into a baby’s seat on a swing set on a public playground where my sequoia thighs then got stuck and I had to be pried loose by hysterically laughing friends. Unlike then, I knew I would be stuck in a different fashion and for a longer time. My knees jamming the back of the driver’s seat, I could feel the steel bars and loose padding. Thank my lucky stars our driver was unusual in his small and light stature. It wasn’t until after we had left the gorge area and were driving along, careening through the long curves that I noticed the inevitable: swampass. Yes, we all fall victim from time to time, the most victimized being those in unventilated transportation on plastic vinyl seats wearing some God-awful fabric we thought was trendy. I had on a favourite pair of hiking pants that strangely zipped off under the knee, an aspect I hadn’t utilized in this conservative culture. And after 2 years of hiding my legs, they are translucent and white enough to cause a bad case of drop jaw and possibly be mistaken by some ex-Boy Scout tourist as a distress sign for help. How embarrassing a rescue! Like a kid who wears a hat to hide the head lice, I keep ‘em covered, for your sake and mine.

We continued on, despite my obvious discomfort. We seemed to be following a small red van, which is an absurd thought, seeing that there is only one road. The vehicle was filled with people and their market goods, bags of flour stacked precariously on top. It slipped around each corner with ease. I briefly daydreamed of the door flying open and my body flying into the boulders below, a common daydream of mine once inside public transportation. How these locks stay secure is beyond me, especially with constant pressure from my hips and those of others day in and day out.

We finally came into Tamtatucht. The valley spread out before us. It is a beautiful area and I was happy to have arrived at our destination with no casualties except a once-fresh pair of panties. We grabbed our stuff and trudged up the stairs to the Auberge Ali, a center of science and learning, now owned by AbdelKarim Kharuj, a good friend of Omar’s. The sun just peaking overhead and its blue skies contrasted the red hues of the mountains stretching out before us. A nice breeze cooled my flanks and I checked my B.O. It looks like the day was going to be a good one.

Life and Death in Morocco

Recently I returned to my site to attend the funeral of my old landlord. He was approximately late 50s or early 60s. Habitual smoker. We were neighbours and I saw him everyday. He was like a father to me; telling me what to do and not to do, warning me of walking alone at night, helping me with my butagaz, praising my language and reassuring me that I was adjusting and becoming Moroccan. His close relationship with my host mom also strengthened ties between us. He would often visit her while I was there. We were a close-knit family.
I received a text message first from my former tutor and my landlord’s son that he was in the hospital. We were about to leave for Rabat for our COS conference and Omar and I vowed to visit him if (God forbid) my landlord was still there when I got back. We never got the chance.

He passed away on the way home from the hospital in Ouarzazate. He had been there for 6 days and was released (whatever that means here: additional testing needed, expensive costs for the room and care, fatalistic view towards life and God, etc.) I used to wake up to his persistent coughing every morning. It was horrible. It made my chest hurt. I used to tell him that I hear him coughing and that he needed to stop smoking. He knew. He was addicted.

Unfortunately, the time I spent in my site I was looking forward to and planning my next departure. I was lonely and bored. I had found a number of work contacts and other associations down in my souk town, approximately 45 km away. My village is small, isolated, and was difficult for me to adjust to. First off, I am a foreigner and do not own fields (to attend to daily & harvest), I am a woman (and was not exactly welcome at the association,) and there is no internet connection that far into the mountains. I was cut off and needed work. I visited a number of times with friends and family (hence I gained a solid 20 lbs) where we drank sweet mint tea, ate homemade bread and olive oil, and gossiped. Few, if any of the people in town spoke English, my tutor was in my souk town, and the association was satisfied without me involved. My language was stagnant and I was teetering on an isolation-induced depression. I had a hard time sprinkled with a few bright patches that first year.

I found my saving grace at the Café Atlas in Boumalne on March 24, 2010. Saying my usual hellos to a group of acquaintances, a young man named Omar working at the cafe noticed me. His hazel eyes lit up when he heard me speaking Tashelheit. He asked me if we could speak English together. Wouldn’t I like to come sit and have some coffee? Unfortunately for him, a number of like-minded individuals had presented similar offers to me in the past and had ruined this genuine invitation for me. I had heard it all before! An exchange of languages: English for Berber and then inevitably an invitation back to his place or mine, or hey! Let’s just get married! I was wary of him but was curious. His English was good and when he looked at me, he looked through me. I was caught.

We arranged to meet the following Friday when I would be in town next (already planning ahead!). I blew him off. Due to some external forces (namely a mischievous girl from my village who lied to the family and hitchhiked a ride down to Boumalne with me and then preceded to turn herself into a sad puppy and followed me about my day while I ran errands to the bank, post office, and marche,) I left town early and missed our scheduled time to meet. I felt bad but really had my hands tied with Ms. Crazy Hormones Let’s Strut Up and Down Boumalne So I Can Have Every Creepo Goggling Me. I knew where to find him and made up my mind to come back as soon as I was back in town. I even made a list of English words we could discuss. This new personality left a lasting impression.

The next time we met, we hit it off. He was fascinated with me and me with him. We quickly became great friends and I was introduced to his family (all of them). The relationship we had enabled me to get to know and understand Amazigh culture and life. He was my guide and teacher. I came out of my sadness into a happier, healthier life and was me again.

Back in my site, I felt as if I hadn’t ever left. Things had not changed (I am beginning to notice this recurrent theme: I leave and come into my own, a metamorphosis if you will, and find those left behind are the same, neither good nor bad just an observance..). Just this time, everyone was in mourning. When I entered into the living room and was passing to each woman, saying my condolences it wasn’t until I had her hand in mine that I noticed whose it was. She had disappeared into a cloud of white blankets, shawls, and head wraps. She was smaller than I remembered. This was my landlord’s wife. I immediately broke down and started crying. This poor, little woman with a truckload of kids, poor hearing and bad respiratory problems was now widowed. Sitting beside her was Aisha, my landlord’s sister. Memories came flooding back to me then. I remembered all the times I had come by the house. My landlord was either there or just around the corner. The tears came swiftly and I am neither graceful nor clean when I cry. My big eyes swell up, my nose starts running and I try to stifle big sobs that escape through from time to time. I sat down next to the women where they consoled me. They told me that God wanted Lahou and it was his time to go. They said again and again that I was family and I was a daughter to Lahou. Every time a new family member came into the room my eyes started welling up, the memories came flooding back again and this new heart of mine, full of empathy, gushes forth inside my chest (just try watching the news with me sometime…)

I stayed through the evening and visited with a number of families. It was a nice visit despite the circumstances and I got to play with my girls (Sarah, Mariam, and Milu) at my host family’s house. I miss them a lot. I had some time to reflect and contemplate about my life and the lives around me. People say that this life is short and whether or not you believe in an afterlife, you should never take for granted the friends, family, health, weather, sunsets, stars, laughs, cries, and the list goes on. I guess I am trying to bring things full circle. My landlord's death caused this period of reflection and moment of gratitude. I thought back to my own family and how much they have loved and supported me. I thought back to Omar, my sunshine. I have found someone who despite our difference in cultures, languages, religion, etc., we have found something true, genuine and special within each other. Every day there is something new.

All my good energy and light,
H

My New Voice

[Eminem infamously insults and degrades women in his songs.]

What is happening out there, this great vast world of ours? I feel, despite where I am that I am so secluded, so protected from life, real life, that I lose touch with humanity. Thank Mother Earth they show real news here. The burned bodies, covered in gravel, their legs twisted unnaturally. Is this just my naivety? My initial shocked reaction? Are people here inured to it? Much like our youth to violent video games? I wonder. I still believe a human body, covered in blood, tugs at our heartstrings. It’s someone’s brother or father, sister or mother.
Omar said something the other day I found pleasantly surprising. He said that the world was changing and someday soon, women will hold all of the positions of power. (I certainly hope so.) Does that make me a feminist? Why do I hold such negative connotations with that word? Yet more and more I find the same common thread in our problems… the greed, blatant abandonment of responsibility, corruption… but look at who is holding these powerful positions? Especially in some of our most exploited countries. Men. All men. Violence. War. Especially the violence. I feel as though women are almost incapable of that animalistic, brutal violence (especially towards an unknown enemy! Be it police, who are just doing their jobs, or another country’s citizens…) the exception being of course a women’s maternal instinct to protect her children and by Mother Earth’s sake, I would fight tooth and nail to protect my loved ones. Alas, here is our difference: Women would fight to protect the family. Men seek out violence.

What can I do to help shape the youth of tomorrow to consciously decide not to destroy but seek voice, change, in a peaceful manner? Where is the Ghandi, the Martin Luther King, Jr of today?

Kaytea, one of my closest friends here, told me about a famous speaker who travels across the country speaking to various groups about violence towards women. I can’t remember his name but Kaytea says that he is a devout feminist and calls attention to our media and how it depicts violence towards women. Kaytea also told me that 7 out of 10 Hollywood movies show a woman being attacked/murdered/ raped and in very few cases do the women actually fight back.

I have a number of thoughts running through my head:

Various cultures perception of women as being seducers, sorcerers, powerful controls of the body and mind (especially of men) and therefore it “justifies” the degradation, behavior and 2nd class citizen status of women.

Peace Corps' inability to properly train men and women alike in boundary-setting and self-defense is tragic and upsetting. Too many volunteers have these invasive, harassing experiences (just watch ABC’s recent exposing programs about PC) abroad. We, as Americans, (thinking of myself and a few others,) are afraid to speak out when being violated or offended. We’re too nice. There is a clear difference between being friendly and not knowing how to say stop. What is that deep seated, ingrained guilt that each one of us carries? Our guilt for being gluttonous consumers protected within our borders, ignorant of the real world, the rest of the world. Embarrassed and ashamed of our wars in foreign countries?

I’m disturbed that women haven’t banded together to give voice to these outright repulsive behaviors. When a hip hop figure gets an award, press release, media attention, could a reporter, fellow rapper, strong voice not shame him for calling women “bitches and ho’s” promoting violence towards women and degrading women because they lack the creativity and passion in their work to fill up more space on their shitty albums?

The last time women stood together was for us to demand our right to vote. 1920. Susan B Anthony?

Who are our female role models of today?

I want to yell on the top of the world, my voice raining down on every chauvinist, his ears bleeding. He vows to respect all women, begging me to stop.

This blog may sound a little zealous and erratic. My newfound voice. I don’t hate men. I love (some) men. I am just angered that in the year 2011, women are still degraded. Women are still disrespected and it’s not upsetting more people.

The Ugliness of Violence

Recently, in the news of the world, there have been mass protests throughout the Middle East and North Africa regions. People have been flooding the streets, men and women alike, chanting, “We Want Change!” lighting vehicles on fire, throwing rocks at various government buildings and officials. Their angry faces and voices represent years upon years of bitter suffering and resentment. Ousting the President of Tunisia was a

reinforcement for the rest of watching world, as news of his corruption and greed broke. For years, Tunisia was touted as a representative for the rest of the Arab and North African areas, putting education at the top of the list, making enrollment in school mandatory until the age of 16. Now all the encomium is tainted, marred by images of Ben Ali’s wife filling her pockets with their constituents money and assets. I retch in the false assumption that the government was a role model to others. With Egypt and Yemen not too far behind, I wonder about the rest of these nations who have been placated with a false sense of democracy. A president who stays in office for over 30 years is not a president, he is a dictator. No wonder these people are enraged, and finally, they have the gumption to demand change.
Another headline that caught my eye, was the stoning of a young couple in Afghanistan. They had been convicted of committing adultery. They were fleeing to Pakistan when they received a message from their village: Come back, no harm will come to you. They returned, believing in the promise. Saving the horrific details, they were both stoned, most of the village had come out to watch or participate. She was still alive when the last stone was thrown, and a Taliban soldier fired three shots into her head.
Unfortunately, I come to draw references from these tragic stories: the ugliness of violence. Watching images of protesters throwing rocks at police, destroying buildings, engulfed by their rage that it no longer matters who is hurt, as long as the satisfactory clamor follows after their rock hits. I am as appalled as I am confused. I never have known such deep seated anger, such wrath to want to hurt and destroy. I look at the couple in Afghanistan, their crime a common story, but their punishment so unusual and barbaric. What makes us commit such violent acts?