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Some things in life are bad, they can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse. When you’re chewing on life’s grissle, don’t grumble, give a whistle. And this’ll help things turn out for the best…
That’s how the song goes. I’m not sure which is more amusing, the song or the fact that there’s a bunch of guys on crosses whistling.
Regardless, it’s been a tough week here. I’ve taken on more responsibility and have started doing entire Malaria education and Family Planning sessions on my own. It’s actually not that bad since I carry around a cheat sheet. The sessions take a while but it’s always entertaining when you whip out a big dildo from a brown paper bag. There are some things are are universally funny. Dildos are one of them. For those who were with me in South Africa, this marks the second African country I have demonstrated condom use. I think I may make it a personal goal to do it in each African country if I can. That would be an accomplishment I could brag to my grandkids about (“Did I ever tell you about the time that I put a condom on a dildo in every African country?” “For god sakes grandpa we’ve heard that story a thousand times!”).
I’ve also started to make some headway on my HIV project. Unfortunately, I got into a bit of an argument with the organization who is going to be responsible for testing. Because they receive funding from PEPFAR, they have to focus on the A (Abstenance) and B (Be faithful) aspects of HIV prevention. No discussion of condoms thanks to President Bush. Also, it is apparently illegal for children to have sex under the age of 18 so discussing condoms is out of the question. I politely told the manager that he could go fuck himself (not in those exact words since I have to work with his organization) if he thought that I was going to talk about HIV prevention and not discuss condoms. We’ll work out the details next week but I am beginning to get an understanding why it is so difficult to do something as talk about HIV prevention.
The saddest part, and most distressing, was the death of one of the patients. George was doomed from the start even though he shouldn’t have been. About four weeks ago, George, a 12 year old boy from our village,
fell out of a tree and damaged his back. From what I’ve heard, he may have fractured his spine but there was no paralysis. Unfortunately, the group of men who gathered around George while he was laying on the ground in pain decided to just throw him into the back of a mutatu (the taxis that are notorious for packing people in like sardines) and send him to Jinja hospital. Soft Power Health heard about him and decided to get him some help at IHK which is the nicer (and more expensive) of the two big hospitals in Kampala. After a week in Kampala, George was transferred to Mulago (the scary government hospital) to go to the spine ward there since IHK didn’t have one. At this point, George was in fairly decent condition. He had gotten a neck brace and was remaining stabilized so as not to cause any further damage to his spine. George’s mother, who was with him at IHK, apparently did not speak any of the local languages (or English). While she nodded and said that yes she understood what to do once getting to Mulago, did not actually understand a word of the instructions given to her. George and the mother went and sat outside the spinal ward at Mulago for a week before we were contacted by a friend working at the hospital. George’s mother had not put George on the waiting list for the ward and had just spent the week waiting for no reason in particular. We managed to put him on the waiting list hoping that someone would die so that he could get a bed (may sound cold-hearted but that’s how things unfortunately work here). When we went to check on George this week, we found him laying on the ground outside the ward without his neck brace on. His mother had thrown it away. To make matters worse, George was epileptic and was have seizures on a pretty regular basis. So there was George flopping around without his neck brace on the floor where he had spent the past two weeks. We got a call the other night saying that George had died which was a bit of a relief given how he looked the last time we saw him. He had had a seizure which had snapped his spinal cord and died suffocating and choking on his own saliva. So it goes.
Healthcare in this country is a sham and it’s difficult to point to any one thing and say, “if you do this, then things will get better.” A cancer patient asked me if she was going to get better and, because I suck at lying as many of you have witnessed (my ears tend to turn bright red), I wanted to tell her that, nope, you probably won’t get better because you don’t make enough money so you’ll be forced to go to Mulago where you’ll get shitty treatment and die of some secondary infection all because you happened to be born in Uganda. But I lied and said she’d probably improve if she got the treatment she needed which is kinda true but odds are she won’t get that treatment.
I can’t complain because this is what I wanted: to get a good look at healthcare in a poor African country and I’m getting it. As bad as it sounds, I’m adjusting to the sad reality that is healthcare in this country. I’m trying to get better about leaving certain problems in Kampala and learning to not think about the patients and instead think about the set of hot British twins who are now working at the clinic. I sit out at night and look at the stars pondering existence and where I could possibly find a store that sells goddamn American Q-tips. The stars and the hospitality of the people here have been my saving grace of this trip. I enjoy the education sessions but I’m not sure that would be enough to keep me sustained through what I’ve seen in the past week. But somehow my host mother and sister manage to take my mind off of things while I try to explain the physics behind stars or what exactly is a shooting star or why the moon looks like it has a woman carrying something on her head (craters).
That’s it for now. I hope everyone is doing well. Thanks for keeping up with me. Until next time…
Here are some of the recent highlights from the week so far:
- Celtics won!!!!! This isn’t Uganda related and no one here really cares about basketball but I was excited.
- Went to the big, scary Mulago hospital which is the national hospital in Kampala. If I slip into a coma, I can guarantee the last words before I lose consciousness will be “Fly me out of the country for medical care.”
- Had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I almost cried.
- There are now a set of British twins working at the clinic. Awesome.
- Did my first family planning session and was asked about a man who was pregnant. Explaining sex change operations, chromosomes, and DNA in Lusoga is difficult.
That’s it for now. Hopefully I’ll get to post something this weekend. Until then, you stay classy internet people.
Although I technically have an address, nothing would get through. The mail system here is absolutely horrid and anything that gets sent from the U.S. is usually intercepted in Kampala and winds up in the home of some lucky postal worker.
This is bad news but I think I’ll be ok. The only thing I wish I had from home was a box of Q-tips. The ones here are shotty Chinese excuses for Q-tips which break and bend leaving my ears not fully clean and unsatisfied. Such are the sacrifices I have made.
Thanks to everyone who has expressed interest in sending me something.
There’s been a lot of T.I.A. moments in the past two weeks. That may explain why I haven’t gotten a chance to post in a while so here goes a brief overview of what I’ve been up to lately…
I’ve started working with Soft Power Health on a number of projects. I’ve been going out into the field and pretty much saving thousands of little children. Actually, I’ve been doing family planning which means I’ve probably prevented thousands of little children from being born so I’m not sure what my cosmic-afterlife scorecard is looking like. I’ve also been doing malaria education sessions where we do about a 15 minute presentation and then sell nets to crowds of mothers. The crowd is similar to those people who get to J.C. Penny at 3 o’clock in the morning for a sale on wedding dresses. These mothers, fortified by working in their gardens and raising several children already, tend to overwhelm the likes of me and my fellow white people. Inevitably we run out of nets before everyone has had a chance to buy them which leads to a series of words I have not learned in Lusoga but probably wouldn’t want to use in front of my host mother.
Speaking of my host family, they are awesome. My host mother is a real African woman. She works in the gardens during the day and cooks feasts of matooke (mashed bananas), posho, rice, cabbage, and dodo (like spinach with a bit of a collard greens flavor to it) during the evening. While I probably wouldn’t have eaten any of these foods three weeks ago, my palate has quickly learned to appreciate traditional Ugandan food. I’ve limited myself to eating at The Source and other muzungu hotspots around Jinja. Having my host mother is basically like having my own Ugandan Jewish mother.
My host mother speaks a limited amount of English but we seem to have no problem communicating. She, as well as the rest of the rest of the family have been teaching me Lusoga mpola mpola (slowly slowly). When practicing my newfound phrases with children, they launch into uproarious laughter whenever I get a phrase correct. If I manage to butcher the language or phrase (something that often happens) they yell the correct phrase louder than before until I am able to make the correct pronunciation.
Like I said, my host mother doesn’t speak a lot of English. When she does say something, it is often in a profound and often prophetic tone. “That chicken,” she says, “is called enkoko.” I feel like I should write it down in a notebook and meditate using “Chicken is enkoko” as my mantra. She’s like Mr. Miaggi from the Karate Kid movies except instead of being a short Asian man, she’s a burly African woman.
My host sister Sylvia is also pretty awesome. Not only is she awesome, she is absolutely beautiful. To head the questions off, no there’s not going to be any incestuous host family stuff going on. That wouldn’t go over to well. That being said, we have long chats about what should get improved in Uganda and what things are like back in the United States. She yells at the neighborhood kids to stop climbing on my when it’s time to take tea and she goes out in the morning and brings me back my preferred breakfast (egg chapatis are food of the gods… at least, that’s what it tastes like in Uganda). So yes, she’s pretty much awesome.
That’s all for now. Hopefully there’ll be pictures soon (I haven’t seen myself in a mirror for a while so I’m sure I look scary with my heavy NGO scruff). Hope everyone’s doing well. Thanks for the emails from everyone! And thanks to Said for calling!
I got my phone and my number is the following
+256 (country code) 077 366 3230
Cell reception is pretty good but I don’t have electricity at my house to charge my phone so it may be dead when you call and I apologize if that happens. Email is still probably the best way to get in touch if you need to.
Until later…
Dan
I’ve been here almost a week now and so it’s about time I have a post of any substance.
I finished up FSD orientation and am now staying with my host family (more about that later) . This week was pretty calm after being stuck in traffic for about five hours because a road was washed out while we were on our way from Kampala (the capital) to Jinja (where we are now). We’ve spent the past couple of days getting to know Jinja, going to restaurants, visiting the market, and searching for reliable internet (hard to come by). To be honest, there’s not a whole lot here in Jinja. It’s only got a handful of streets downtown and only one of them (the aptly named Main Street) has any real shops. There are only four or five places I plan to frequent when I have the chance to come into town.
The first is Nile Foods. Nile Foods is the very definition of “Cheap Eats.” For 1500 schillings (less than a dollar), you can stuff yourself with matooke (mashed up and cooked bananas similar to plantains) or posho (the same as pop in South Africa), rice, sweet potatos, or regular potatos. This comes with your desired piece of uncooked meat (beef, goat, fish, chicken) which always hurts your jaw to chew. It’s ok food but you can’t argue with the price.
The Source Cafe is the local muzungu (white person) hang out. It’s everything that white people love: expensive sandwiches, world music playing in the background, chicken fingers, pita pizza, and the all-important muzungu commodity, an espresso machine. I’ll try to stay away from here as often as I can but I’m sure I’m going to need some American-style food after eating matooke for a few weeks.
The Triangle Hotel sits right on Lake Victoria. Don’t ask me why they call it the Triangle Hotel, it makes as much sense as our driver being called Galaxy. This is the place that I would take Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer for drinks at sunset while we talk of how to cure the world and I stare into her deep blue eyes.
Fast Net internet cafe is what keeps me in touch with the outside world. The place is aptly named for it’s “fast” (at least by Ugandan standards) internet. It’s located centrally in town and always has either Ugandan music or 90s American pop music playing in the background (Kiss from a Rose is playing right now).
That’s it for Jinja. I’ve got to do a few other things on the internet before I have to go. I’ll only be coming into town once a week on the weekends so you can send me emails if you want if you don’t mind a relayed response time. I’ll talk to everyone later…
Dan
Before I get into t the posts about Uganda, I figured I’d say a few things about the flight here.
My flight was fairly uneventful as flights go. No real problems at all, just a lot of sitting in the same seat for about 24 hours punctuated by brief stints in various airports. For those not familiar with the Dicker philosophy of flying, my family tends to get to the airport with enough time to go back to the house, unpack the suitcase, watch the previous night’s Daily Show rerun, have breakfast, repack, and then get to the airport with 30 minutes before boarding. Needless to say, I got there early.
The man who checked me in at Logan seemed too old to be working for an airline. His hands were weathered and his coke-bottle glasses magnified his eyes to the size of small grapefruits. As I stood there while he resentfully checked my luggage all the way through to Entebbe, I guessed that he wanted to retire several years ago when his son got out of college but was forced to keep his job when his son came home for Thanksgiving senior year and said that he wanted to be an actor. The man behind the counter was not happy about his son’s decision and tried to convince him to pursue another career path. The son’s mind could not be changed and so the man sends his son money every month so that the son can support himself as a actor in the local community theater.
After creating that whole narrative in my head, the man behind the counter gave me my ticket. My mother waved teary-eyed as her first-born son disappeared in the security line on his way to Africa for a second summer in a row.
I managed to drift in an out of consciousness waiting for and then on the flight to New York. It was all I could do at that point. I wanted to conserve the batteries on my iPod and I didn’t feel like starting any of the six books I brought with me. I’m not sure whether I had just woken up or just the design of the airport, but I had no idea where to go once I got to JFK. After a few minutes of walking around the terminal, I determined that I would have to go to another building to catch my next flight. I finally found a map of the airport and hopped on the Jetsons-inspired train that took people from one terminal to the next. Terminal number 4 at JFK was heavily populated with what I’m pretty sure were kids about to go on Birthright. There were Jews of every shape and size there, enough so that there should have been a Dr. Seuss book written about it. I couldn’t really imagine myself in the middle of that without at least knowing one person already. As I passed through the terminal, I had a deja vu of years at Camp Tel Noar.
The nostalgia ended quickly as I stood waiting for an hour for the KLM agents to show up. I stood in line with half the population of Amsterdam all the while trying to listen to them speaking Dutch. I know it’s culturally insensitive, but Dutch sounds a lot like Swedish and I am always disappointed when a person speaking Swedish is not a blond woman named Olga or a Muppet chef. There were two American girls who looked around my age clearly going to Amsterdam as a graduation present to themselves to smoke a lot of weed, drink, party, hook up with European men, and visit the occasional museum they learned about when they took that Art History class sophomore year.
The flight from New York to Amsterdam was long but bearable. I sat next to a man who looked like the guy in Dave Matthews Band who plays the fiddle. I slept, started Seven Types of Ambiguity, and watched American Gangster and National Treasure: Book of Secrets. I thought about pursuing careers in heroine dealing and treasure hunter if being a doctor/public health person didn’t work out.
The Amsterdam airport was a blur. My sleeping pattern was all off after the flight. What I do remember is Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer. For those who know me, and if you’re reading this you probably do know me, I probably wouldn’t have started to talk with Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer had sleep deprivation not knocked out my ability to reason. We got to talking and I discovered that she was in fact, in the Peace Corps and was on her way back to her primary school for orphaned children in Uganda. I asked her about her experience and what the application and training was like and she asked me about what I hoped to do working for Soft Power. It was generally pleasant and helped to pass the time until we got on the flight.
I was not, unfortunately, sitting next to Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer on the plane. I read and played Reversi on my little TV. That game is addicting. There was a long time to think about what the trip was going to be like and how I’d get along with my host family and how I was going to put together a project and implement it in nine weeks.
By the time we got to Entebbe, I was ready to lay down. I breezed through customs only to wait for an hour for my one checked bag. Between the moments of panic that my bag was sitting on the Amsterdam airport runway next to two pot-smoking Dutchmen, I talked with Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer and friend of Jenny the Peace Corps volunteer. They said good-bye and I got my bag a few minutes later. There was a man waiting to take me to my hotel so I hopped in his minibus van and we sped off into the Ugandan night. I was exhausted and very glad to get to bed once at the hotel.
So that was my trip to the airport. I hope everyone is doing well. I’ll try to put up more stories soon. Until then…
Dan
