Letter to Mitt Romney (September 19, 2012)

September 19, 2012

Dear Mr. Romney:

President Obama is your opponent.  Not me, not other Americans, not the 47%.  We are not the “others” or “them”.  Don’t forget, we are not just potential voters, but your fellow Americans: Republican. Democrat. Black. White. Latino. Asian. Native. Gay. Straight. Jewish. Christian. Buddhist. Atheist. Agnostic. Hindu. Sikh. Muslim. Rich. Poor.  Whatever.

Those wanting to vote for you I refuse to label with a percentage or anything else, because they are not an abstract. They are my mother, my friends, my neighbors, my family, and my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers. 

Today I will be printing off my absentee ballot and mailing it in with fingers crossed that it will arrive on time so my vote actually counts.  After living in several developing countries, I’ve realized just how privileged I am as an American to participate in a democracy.  Billions will never know that great feeling of walking out of a voting booth and earning that little sticker. 

As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I often fumble until I my find way.  But I believe in what I do.  And I like to think that despite belonging to a different party, so do you.

I think about these lyrics everyday here in Uganda:

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique

Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see

And now after some thinking, I’d say I’d rather be

A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me

From the song “Helplessness Blues” by Fleet Foxes

Although I won’t be voting for you, next year you might be my president.  So please, drop the percentages and the labels.  Whether you win or lose the election, strive to become the cog that Americans need you to be in the great machinery of not only our country, but also the world. 

Sincerely,

Ashley Givan

Peace Corps Response Volunteer, Uganda

Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (2007-2009), China

Nigeria +Ghana +US+ Kenya = Uganda (September 17, 2012)

This past week I’ve had a lot to process; experiencing my first net distribution, Linda leaving Soroti, and moving into my new house. 

Distribution Drama

Our net distribution experienced shortages in the thousands, people fighting over nets, and semis getting stuck in the mud, but the real drama happened behind the scenes.  The same Ministry of Health guy, “J”, (whom I argued with about sexual harassment) was at the center of it.  He and I argued again this week, but that’s just a minute part of what unfolded.

The day before the distribution we were all busy helping each other finish calculations and allocating nets.  Sister Grace joined us to help with the paperwork.  She’s probably in her 50’s, and when I first met her two weeks ago, I was a little intimidated by her.  J walked up to where we were sitting, and out of nowhere, Grace just started telling him off:

Grace: J, you think you’re the boss of these people and everyone is complaining about working with you!  Why can’t you just be a part of the team?!  You say you’re from the Ministry of Health, but you’re not.

J: I have my appointment as a medical social worker. I am an employee of the ministry. I have my letter.

Grace: You are just an intern.  Everyone is complaining about you.  Even her (pointing at me as I just kept my head down and traced red ink over the allocation numbers).

J: I can leave now. Where is your letter? (standing in a wide stance with his hands on hips). 

Grace: You get away from me!  

In one swift motion, she took off her shoe and started hitting him with it!  I really thought that I was about to see my first fight in Africa.

Grace: Don’t play with me! You even told me that these girls f***** the drivers. 

I guess to save face, he went over to another group and started talking to them like nothing happened.  Finally, when he left the shelter, and we all just died laughing.  Stella, (whom I’ve been working with most on our subcounty), said “Ashley, I thought you were going to run away!! This was like a Nigerian movie!  Nigeria versus Ghana!”  I’ve never seen any Nigerian movies, but they are pretty popular in Africa. 

Sister Grace said that J had been saying that to get a job in the Ministry of Health you needed to have her last name. They also said that he had been spreading rumors about some of the girls getting paid to sleep with the drivers and even with their cousins.  Sister Grace said they she had even heard all the way down in Kampala about him and me arguing.  Wow! News travels fast about muzungus, I guess.  It just affirmed that J was persona non grata and that if I ever need a bodyguard, I’m calling Sister Grace.        

     

The actual day of the distribution, I was shuffled around a bit, but was finally assigned to go with Deo to Labor (Lah-Boar) Subounty.  He had eight different distribution points, which were close to each other.  We crisscrossed the subounty all. day. long.  I bet we visited each distribution point at least three times.  There was a shortage at one place of over 15 bales (1500 nets), so we went back to Obangin because there was an excess of 4 bales. Upon returning, we found out that people were angry because some of the Village Health Teams failed to register several households. Patrick, a local nurse, who had been assisting us, said that eventually people started fighting over the nets.  They overpowered him and a police officer, so he just left.  Apparently, this village has a reputation for being a bit feisty.  The local councilman said that he tried to warn us. 

Many of our distribution points were in front of primary schools.  The student’s uniforms are every color of the rainbow.  In one day, I can see kids at different schools running around in pink, purple, yellow, blue and orange.  At one school, all the kids in pink started gathering around the truck to take a peek at me sitting in the back.  At first, I played it cool by jotting down some notes.  But then I decided to have some fun with them.  So, I yelled “BOO!” at them and put my hands up like claws.  They all screamed and laughed and ran back a few feet.  Because there were so many of them crowding around the other staff trying to do actual work, I asked them to follow me to the other side of the tree.  I felt like the muzungu pied piper.  Although I was an English teacher for a few years, I couldn’t think of a single game or activity to play with them.  I asked them to sing something for me, but they were way too shy.  So, we took a few “snaps” together instead.      

Letting Go….

For Linda’s last day in Soroti, Joanna and I accompanied her to the Kapiri, the ancestral village of our friend Charles.  It was a bittersweet experience because as this was my first time to a village, it was Linda’s last.   After the bus dropped us, we walked about ten minutes until we “reached” (as they say in Uganda).  His mother, Margaret still lives there.  We were shown incredible hospitality by her and their other relatives.  We sipped sodas under the mango tree before dining al fresco on chicken, beef, rice, “g-nut” sauce, and atap (Teso “bread” made from millet…it’s more like a paste, really). Wind gusts from a passing storm forced us into one of the round huts, which was nice and cool.  After the storm passed, we took our beers and went on a little nature walk toward the lake.  Charles and his mother pointed out millet, rice, and cassava crops.

It was about 8:30 by the time we made it back to the road. As there weren’t many taxis or buses at that time of night, we flagged down a semi hauling fuel.  It was a really steep climb into the cab where we met two very friendly Kenyan drivers.  They had come from Nairobi and were en route to Juba, South Sudan.  Linda, Jo, and I sat on the seat behind and above them as Charles sat in between the two Kenyan men.  What usually takes about 30 minutes in a private car, took us an hour in the truck.  As I’ve said before, the road has huge potholes.  We laughed as we got bumped around and as Charles kept trying to take a “snap” of the three of us.  He has nicknames for all of us…I’m the African Queen, Linda is the Professor, and Jo is the President.  So, we joked at what an impressive international gathering we had in the truck.  When he dropped us in town, he honked the horn as he pulled away.  At thirty-two, I still get a kick out of that.  Needless to say, hitching a ride in the truck was SO FUN!!

Yesterday morning, I took Linda a “rolex” for breakfast so we could hang out before she left.  A rolex is a fried egg rolled in a chapatti that many street vendors sell.   Her good friend and coworker, Betty was also coming over to see her off.  I had been hearing about Betty for months, so I was excited to finally get to meet her.  I asked Linda if I should leave so they could have some privacy as they say their goodbyes.  After all, they had known each other for over two years.  Linda said it didn’t bother her, but thought that Betty might appreciate the gesture.  But when Betty and her sister, Kristen arrived, they both hugged me.  After a few minutes of talking, Betty wanted to have a prayer for Linda.  We all held hands and Betty started singing “Praise Him”.  I’m not incredibly religious, but just being included in that moment coupled with Linda leaving, I was really moved.  As they prayed for Linda’s safety and gave thanks for their friendship, I had tears running down my face.  For comic relief, I grabbed a roll of “KFC” toilet paper from the bathroom for wiping our eyes.  That’s right, the KFC, with a picture of Colonel Sanders on the front.  I guess the Chinese thought that ripping off KFC would be lucrative in the African toilet paper market.         

And Moving On…

Living in a developing country forces you to be resourceful and creative, especially around the house. When I arrived in my new house after 9:00 pm, I realized that only the kitchen had a light bulb.  I had no other furniture than the bed.  So, I picked up my 130 liter “Smile” brand refrigerator and moved it into the living room.  After saying a little prayer that I didn’t break my neck, I climbed up on the fridge in the dark and screwed in the light bulb.  Then, I somehow managed to tiptoe on the rail at the foot of my bed to illuminate the bedroom. 

Last night, the power went off.  With nothing else to do entertain myself, I decided to take my first real cold shower.  At the moment, I can’t even boil water for a bucket bath because the one supermarket in town that actually had gas cans for sale didn’t have the accompanying hose.  Although I took Linda and Joanna’s advice to buy an electric tea kettle as a backup, that option went out with the power.  I have “club” candles (which are just short ones that I guess look good on tables in nightclubs).  But of course, I couldn’t find the Krishna wax matches in the bottomless pit of my rolling duffle bag that I haven’t unpacked in three months.  I swear that every box of matches in Uganda has a picture of Krishna, (a Hindu god) as a child on it.  So, I wrapped my headlamp around the door handle of the bathroom. It worked pretty well and the shower was actually tolerable at the end.

My first two nights in my new house have also been spent battling cockroaches.  Big ones.  Little ones.  I’ve probably killed at least 30, mostly in my kitchen and bathroom.  I chase them around with Doom (Africa’s version of Raid) and my tennis shoes when they refuse to die quickly. They prefer to party at night.  So, last night, I got the song “We Like to Party” by Beyonce stuck in my head during my killing spree.   Now, if I could just be like Princess Giselle in Enchanted, and get them to clean by singing, I would have it made.   

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. (August 26, 2012)

First, I have to give credit to Phil Arnheim, my first Peace Corps site mate, for the title.  During our winter break in Nanchong, we developed a pattern of going out to the clubs several nights a week.  One day he joked that our new routine was “Wash. Rinse. Repeat.”  I’ve never forgotten that week or that phrase.  So, it naturally came to mind considering I had almost the exact same travel schedule to Kampala two weeks in a row.  Except this time, we actually had our scheduled training. 

Considering that I spent twenty-four hours in the truck within a nine- day period, it began to felt like my office.  So here’s a sample of conversations and events from “around the water cooler” en route to/from Kampala. 

As soon as we left Soroti, our driver played a mixed country music CD.  Imagine my surprise when I hear Randy Travis singing “Daddy, won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County”.  For those of you not from Kentucky, this is only two counties away from Grayson County, where I grew up.  Never thought I’d be listening to a song about coal mines and the Green River while driving around Uganda.  What a small, globalized world. 

Several hours later, as we approached Lugazi, about an hour outside of Kampala, a traffic cop in a while uniform gestured for us to pull over.  I immediately felt like I was in trouble.  All I could think was “I don’t have my physical passport, only the copy!”  After I rolled down my window, and we exchanged niceties, he said “my job is stop speed. Your job is stop malaria.” We all chuckled.   He held up his radar and it read 61.  The sign in front of us said 50.  He also said that a previous sign said 50.  Our driver (who I won’t name here), got out of the car and looked for a copy of his permit.  Eventually he found it and then asked one of us for 5,000 shillings (about $2).  I fished a bill out of my wallet.  Basically, he bribed the cops with 5,000 to avoid getting a 100,000 fine.  Yep, yours truly indirectly supplied a bribe.  Honestly, I’m ok with it. TIA.  

Towards the end of the training, one of the facilitators was giving a session about finance and accountability.  She explained that if you can’t get a receipt for something, you need to at least write a note with the amount on it to “cover your back”.  Then, Badru, leaned over to me and said, “or your ass.”  I had to lay my head down on the table to stifle my laughter.  So much for the pious image of him I had in my head!  But it just made me like him even more.

Earlier that week in the actual office, one of my male coworkers asked me “what does douche bag mean? I always hear that in American movies.”  I couldn’t help laugh.  So, I put on my English teacher hat and tried to explain both meanings with as much dignity as possible.  Another conversation I never imagined having at Stop Malaria.  Definitely not in my job description!       

This weekend I saw some real wash, rinse, repeat action as I visited a salon with my friend Angela.  She’s the manager of the Holiday Inn in Soroti.  And no, it’s not the Holiday Inn.  First, we had lunch at the Akello hotel.  It was really just an excuse to spy on the competition.  To convince the staff to give us a tour of the rooms, she told them that we worked for an “organization” and might need to use their hotel in their future. I almost started laughing at the front desk.  A few times Angela would ask questions like “Oh, it’s so clean, do you clean everyday?” or “How many staff do you have here?” and then turn around and wink at me.

We tried to go to the Dubai Complex  to scope out cheap house wares for my new place.  But they wanted to make me not only check my backpack, but also my purse.  No way.  So, I decided if I couldn’t shop, I might as well join her at the salon.  Upon entering Sammy J’s Unisex Salon, we had to take off our shoes.  I didn’t understand this because the floor was covered in a thin red carpet you would see in a skeezy bar with combs and parts of weaves scattered all around. There were at least 10 women in the small front room gettin’ their hair did.

When I told them I wanted a pedicure, I was led into the back room.  I waited on a couch while one man filled an electric foot bath with hot water and shampoo. In the background, a bad 80’s American action movie was playing on a Kenyan TV channel.  The plug for the footbath had only two prongs.  Ugandan electric sockets have three.  To compensate, he simultaneously plugged in the two pronged one in the bottom and a comb in the top one.  I started to visualize my death via electrocution as the footbath made some pathetic sounds.  So, after dumping it out in the shampoo bowl and retrying it a few times, he eventually settled a regular basin.  After soaking my feet for about 5 minutes in the basin, a woman came over and got the electric footbath working.  My feet have never been so thoroughly scrubbed in my life. I’m pretty sure I won’t need another pedicure until I leave Africa next year.  She not only used an apricot exfoliating cream, but also a pumice and a file.  I’m pretty sure she spent a good 10 minutes on each foot while alternating my feet back in the regular basin in between scrubbings. 

I chose an electric blue nail polish in an OPY bottle.  Not OPI, but OPY.  I didn’t ask for sparkles, but she applied a small band of them to the top of each nail.  I mean, you can’t say no to sparkles.  Because let’s face it, life definitely needs sparkles here.  Then, she washed and dried my Chacos with an apron.  Although the polish wasn’t dry and I pointed that out to her, she helped me ease into them.  A small patch came off, but I didn’t care.  After sitting through what felt like the world’s longest pedicure, I was ready to leave.  Speaking of aprons, one of the women who worked there was sporting a green Starbucks apron.  I really wished she could have handed me an iced latte.  Another man was wearing socks fit for Halloween: orange, black, and green striped.  When I explained what Halloween was to him, he just laughed at me like I was making it all up.

Now what you all really want to hear about: underwear.  It’s not appropriate to have someone else wash your underwear in Africa, even if you pay them.  I also can’t even let them dry outside.  So, every weekend I have to soak, scrub, rinse and hang them to dry.  Two weeks ago, I made the mistake of doing three weeks worth of underwear at once.  I learned my lesson.  The sores on my knuckles have just healed. The whole process took me at least an hour.  I had to jerry-rig fishing line up in one of the unused bedrooms to have additional drying space.   This was never a problem while I travelled through South and Southeast Asia for several months.  Can we get Hillary Clinton to come back to Uganda and address this problem?

Producing (August 19, 2012)

After feeling a little bored and lonely being in the house this afternoon, I still wasn't looking forward to going into town. Two of the supermarkets I wanted to hit up and the "real" market are on Market Street (original name). This street is always crowded with people on bikes, motorcycles, and on foot carrying bunches of matooke (a type of bananas) on their head, big trucks, people selling dried fish spread out on tarps. I don't even like walking down this street. So, trying to navigate it on Linda's bike (which the basket keeps falling off to the side bring the front wheel almost to a stop) stresses me out a little. There have been a few times when just pushing off I've almost hit other bikers. And finding a place to lock it up can be hit or miss. When I go to OM Supermarket, the guard just watches it for me because there isn't anything to tie it to. Yesterday, I asked the staff at the Landmark Hotel if I could keep it there while I ran across the street into the market. The receptionist had some guy in an alley watch it for me. It worked out well yesterday, but he wasn't there today. So, a different guy was at the front desk and he just let me lock it to the rail. Why I couldn't do that yesterday, I'm not sure. TIA.

Going to the market by myself yesterday (without Linda's navigation) was kind of a big accomplishment to me. I don't know why, but vegetable/fruit/meat markets like that overwhelm me a little. But touristy, souvenir, clothing, houseware markets don't bother me. I can't explain it. I'm weird. The first time I went into this market with Linda, someone drove a motorcycle in the main entrance! Another time, someone on a bike with an oversized load went through the same entrance. I feel like it's so easy to get pushed around in that area. Although it's technically outside, it's so densely packed, that it's a little dark.

 But Juliet made it worthwhile. She is the vendor whom Linda usually buys veggies from. Juliet made me sit down so she could dole out advice on how I need to start "producing". Here's the highlights of our conversation:

 J: Do you have children? Are you married?

A: No. I'm too busy and there are enough people in the world.

J: (Touching my stomach) But you need a child in your womb. For memories.

A: Ok, good point about the memories.

J: You sit down!

A: Ok, just for a minute or two.

J: No, you sit for 5 minutes, 10 minutes.

A: Yes, ma'am.

J: You need to marry an African man so you can stay here and teach us about malaria.

A: Well, you just need to sleep under a net. There! Now you know!

J: No, you need to stay here. Buy these things (pointing to the vegetables around us) and eat them.

A: But, if I have children, I want to have them in America.

J: You conceive here, then go to America to give birth.

A: But just one way to America is almost $2000.

J: How much is that in shillings?

A: (After calculating it on my cell phone) That's 480,000 shillings. I"m a volunteer and can't afford that.

J: You will have a good paying job after this.

A: Yes, but I want to keep working in places like Uganda, so I won't make much money.

 Juliet is only twenty and already has two kids. The oldest is seven. She didn't finish high school, but I commended her on having her little business at the market. A few women with babies tied to their back started listening and laughing at our conversation.

 She had a counterpoint to everything!!

 Even though I know I'll get more unsolicited advice about my reproductive health, I'll keep going back to her because the amusement is definitely good for my mental health.