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.

TIA (August 19, 2012)

The experiences I had last Tuesday demonstrate “Africa” time and little challenges and obstacles on a typical day.  But the conversations I had also illustrate the great sense of humor that the people around me have and how they remind me to keep mine when it’s much easier to feel frustrated.

We had a SMP Quarterly Review Meeting in Kumi on Tuesday. 

This was our intended schedule:

7:00 am: Leave SMP

8:30 am: Start meeting

1:00: Leave for Kampala

This was our real schedule:

8:30: Left SMP

10:30: Started meeting

2:30: Left for Kampala

So, my American mindset is to arrive at the office at 6:55, just on the off chance that we’ll actually leave on time. Once, Chime, our Chief of Party, said to me “Don’t use Ugandan time”.  Ever since then, I’m still afraid to be late.

I have my smaller backpack stuffed into my larger one as I huff and puff on a bike to the office. The bike seat kept leaning back and up, so I kept having to stop and try to hammer it back down with my hand. It’s mostly flat and the weather is cool, but by the time I arrive I am really sweaty.  Of course, the only person there is the security guard.  Around 7:30, Paul, Ruth and Benjamin start to arrive.  When I told Ruth that I rode the bike here with my backpack she said “Now I know you’re a real African woman!” Then we joked that now I just needed to learn how to carry a bucket on my head with a baby strapped to my back.

At 8:00, Steven (one of the drivers) arrived and said he was going to pick up Badru.  I joked to Paul (the other driver) that he could have picked me up as well.  When he said that it could have been arranged, I replied that I didn’t know that was an option.  I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to hold up the group because we had such a long day of travelling.   I still struggle with the idea of being the foreigner who gets driven around and sometimes needs extra help.

When Badru finally arrived, he said “Ashley, now you know African time!”  I laughed, but told him I had been there since before seven.  He apologized, which made me feel guilty for even saying anything.  

Badru is Muslim and has been fasting the past few weeks for Ramadan. Despite not eating or drinking for 12 hours during the day, he always has a great attitude.  He has been nothing but kind, patient, and funny with me and the other team members.  I can’t imagine fasting.  So, if he can be so great during such a time of sacrifice, and I’m feeling frustrated over getting up an hour earlier for no reason, sitting in a crammed truck for five hours,  and travelling to Kampala despite our training being cancelled, I have to ask myself, “what the hell is my problem?!” 

Kampala is a five hour drive from Kumi in a private car. One hour is on an extremely bumpy road riddled with huge potholes.  When we turned onto the main road, we saw Dr. Julius (who used to be the SMP Soroti Team Leader and was the one who requested a Peace Corps Volunteer) and asked him if he was going to Kampala.  I’m thinking “NO!!! There are already 4 of us in a small truck with bags.”   When I voiced my concern about my bag potentially being stolen in Kampala out of the bed of the truck (petty concern I know), Badru said, “We can’t say no (to Dr. Julius)”.  In retrospect, he’s right.  I would hope someone would do the same for me. 

Guess who sat in the middle?  Me. While my legs were held tightly together, I kept looking over at Benjamin whose legs looked much more comfortable in a wide stance, I thought “why can men do that and I can’t?!”  But Dr. Julius was great to talk to and he helped me hold my big backpack across our laps when it started to rain.  The conversations I had with those guys was worth the stiff knees.  At one point, we talked about how many children women and families “produced” in Africa.  The best line I heard all day was when Badru turned to me and said “In Africa, we die a lot.”  We all cracked up.  What he meant was that the life expectancy is so low, that families feel the need to have many children.  

When we reached Seeta, a town about 30 minutes outside of Kampala, Badru called Agnes, his contact to ask about our training the following day.  He told us that it had been cancelled and just died laughing.  I just laughed along with him.  When he laughs, it’s almost impossible for me not to.  Agnes had emailed him, but he had been too busy with the meeting in Kumi to check it.  I’m still not sure why she just didn’t call or text, and could have saved us the trip.    Zen me ban? What can you do?

The road between Jinja and Kampala often has “jams” because it is the main road connecting the port of Mombasa, Kenya, to Kampala.  Big trucks transport cargo and fuel along this two lane road.  So, when we got into our first “jam”, Ben said “turn here, it’s a short cut”.  As we went down the crowded side street, we quickly realized a night market had been set up and that our short cut was turning into a detour.  I laughed and exclaimed “TIA!!!”  When I explained it meant “This is Africa”, we all laughed.

After getting back onto the main road and sitting in another jam, Steven, our driver pointed across to a dirt road as another potential shortcut.  I joked, “Steven, you know there’s another night market down that road”.  But, as we took it, so did a lot of other drivers, but it seemed so remote for being on the outskirts of a capital city. I was expecting to hear dueling banjos right out of Deliverance.  Badru said “TIA: This is America.” Then, I turned it into “This is Ashley”. 

The next day, I spent at the Peace Corps and SMP Offices.  I had to visit the Peace Corps doctor because the skin around my eyes was burning, which was really bizarre. It turned out to be fine. Throughout the day, I also felt waves of frustration as SMP staff discussed the myriad of challenges about my housing situation.  That afternoon I walked back to my guest house through the hills of Kololo, past embassies and UN offices.  The skies had cleared, the wind was blowing and as I walked among palm trees and bougainvilleas, I couldn’t help but think “this is paradise”.  TIA. 

Hips Don't Lie (August 9, 2012)

Disclaimer: Now that I’m 12 hours on the other side of the following text, I can laugh at it. 

         “Hi Ashley ope u reached well!

         I must say u struck me first time esp.

        ur round hips and bums!        

         love u."

         This was from the District Health Officer, whom I met yesterday. I didn’t even give him my phone number.  He poached it out of the visitor’s log.  Silly me!  I thought health workers and officials might want to use my number to call me to discuss, oh, I don’t know….malaria.  I’ve visited at least a dozen district and sub-county health offices and not had a problem up until this point.  Well, I’ve learned my lesson now. 

        He rubbed me the wrong way yesterday when Charles (the technical assistant from the SMP Kampala office) and I met with him.  It’s protocol to try to meet with the district health officer, even if you have an appointment with someone else.  He was almost mocking our organization.  “What does Stop Malaria mean? What does it stand for?”  He went into a spiel about how nets aren’t really effective, how people are using them for fishing nets, people in Karamoja (a neighboring province which people in Teso region have stereotypes against) use them on their cows, bla bla bla.  I’ve heard this same thing from a few other “high-ups” in various health departments.  I held my tongue the best I could because I could feel myself getting angry about how he was a physician, a leader in his community, and was going to be no support to us at all. I talked to him for a few more minutes about the Peace Corps after the other guys left the room.  We shook hands (which is really an important gesture here), and the he said “you’re not wearing a wedding band?!”  I laughed and said my usual response to this. “No, I’m too busy for that.” And I walked out the door.

        This afternoon when I showed Linda the text, she said “That’s really tacky, but I told you…hips don’t lie.”  She was referring to last night when I was also getting unwanted attention from the bike boda drivers on our walk home.  One guy said “I need you to be my wife”.  I replied, “I need you to keep riding on down the street.”   Linda said, “I swear, you get it even more than Joanna and Chelsea” (the other PCVs here about my age).  Her theory is that my body is more “African” than theirs.  I can’t argue with that.  Hips don’t lie. 

         Then on my way home, another guy decided I needed a companion for the rest of my walk.  “I see you pass by here every day.”  Great.  Every time I stopped to take a photo, he stopped with me.  I just wanted to yell at him, “Please leave me alone so I can have 5 minutes of peace and just take photos of clouds!!”

         Look, I’m not trying to toot my own horn here about the attention I get.  At first it was flattering, but now it’s just annoying and sometimes concerning.  It’s slowly causing me to form a negative opinion of Ugandan men.  The guys I work with everyday at SMP are stand-up men.  But I think I’m going to have to invest in some skirts.

Balance (August 4, 2012)

Remember the Warren G song, Regulator?  I though of these lyrics today:

      They took my rings, they took my Rolex

       I looked at the brotha’ and said “Damn, what’s next?!”

That’s what I wanted to say to Uganda, Africa, the world, universe, or whatever entity that wanted to listen and could tip the scales, not necessarily in my favor, but at least to be balanced.  It was lots of little things, really…. cracks in my Chacos, a hole getting burned into one of my new shirts (that was clean, but being ironed for the second time because it’s been rumpled up in my bag for two weeks, which I’ve not worn 10 times yet), my PC battery dying, my travel adaptor “refusing” (as they say here in Uganda) to charge my PC, (I’m convinced the adaptor and battery are in cahoots against me b/c the adaptor works with everything else and other adaptors work on my PC) and the ongoing saga of not being able to retrieve photos from my memory cards.

I left America two months ago today and I still haven’t moved into a place of my own. So, I thought to myself “Don’t I deserve for all my electronics to work, have intact comfortable Chacos (once the crack in my heel goes away), and “smart” button-down shirts without holes if I don’t have my own place?!!  Don’t I deserve these things if I don’t get the other?  No, I don’t. 

On our bike “boda” ride home, I realized how I had taken my frustrations out on Marcus and almost got defensive with him when he was just giving me suggestions about my memory card.  The Peace Corps Malaria Team is having a photo contest, but I probably won’t get to enter.  This is really frustrating and disappointing to me.  But Marcus was right. I’m not doing anything about this problem.  So, it’s not fair for me to feel like so many things are against me if I’m not being proactive about finding a solution. 

This boda ride helped me gain some perspective. The boda driver for Linda had a slightly crossed eye, which had a milky spot on it. But he had a great smile and demeanor. This immediately pained my heart, and made me realize that I should be grateful for how healthy I am.  I kept thinking, if this guy were in the U.S., some of his vision problems could have been corrected as a child.  Maybe he would have had a better job than making 1000 shillings (less than 50 cents) for taking a muzungu (foreign) woman home.

And here I am, worried about my three “gadgets” that most Ugandans will never be able to afford or have the luxury of using. I know that I can afford to purchase a new PC battery, or iPad card reader, or to pay someone to fix the problem. I might have to order some of those things from America, but I am lucky enough to have a mother who can afford to pay over $50 to ship them here.  But again, I have the luxury of so many options and time. 

On that bike ride, I kept thinking about my Dad, who was seeing me off to Japan at the Nashville Airport with the rest of my family in 2003.  While the rest of us were in tears, he looked at me and said “This is your choice”.  At the time, 23 year-old Ashley was somewhat hurt because I felt he was implying that it was my fault I was crying; that it was my choice to be sad. Over the years, it’s been comical for those of you who knew my Dad was a bit of a stoic.  But, now 32 year-old Ashley is saying “You’re right, Shady”. 

I chose to come to here.  So, with it, I chose to accept all the sadness of leaving people I love, 24-hour power outages, bucket baths, “gadget” failures, cracked heels, holey shirts, all the logistical and cultural frustrations, giving up Western conveniences, and admittedly, sometimes pining for a future with marriage, kids, and a picket fence that would be my reward for enduring all this.  I know it is selfish, even foolish of me to think that I deserve these things and that life works this way.

I have the luxury of walking away from this at any time.  Ugandans can’t. They deserve more options. They deserve for hard-working people to find solutions for their myriad of health problems.  I know that in the next year, Stop Malaria won’t live up to its namesake.  I’m not even really sure how my work with them will even begin to put a dent in the problem.  But I have to give it my best shot, so the focus needs to shift on what they deserve, not me.    

When we got home, I got to listen to and discuss music with Linda and her teenage neighbor, Francis.  We listened to Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Jurassic 5, and the Sugarhill Gang.  The music and the company lifted my spirits. I guess things do balance out eventually.    

      

 

People's Tour: Episode 1

In a brief hiatus from laziness (due to no classes and too many tv shows on youku.com) 4 weeks after my last trip, 1 week before my next one, I've decided that it's time to post something about my travels in Guangxi and Guizhou. Inspired by youku, and being realistic about my laziness, posts will come in episodes.





Couchsurfing in Guilin


After a 25-hour train trip, Tasha and I met Stan, our couchsurfing host at what we considered a "fancy" restaurant. 2 other couchsurfers joined us going to another restaurant since most of them were finished. One of them was a German guy named Mark, who was one of the tallest, most talkative men I've ever met. He kept talking about us giving his eyes to him. Tasha and I were talking about playing madlibs on the train. I asked Mark if he'd ever played and he said "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about." I shot back "Now you know how I've felt for the past hour and a half talking to you!"





Stan, a Serbian has been living and teaching in China for over a year and hosting couchsurfers for just as long. Within the 48 hours that we were at his place, 4 French, 1 German, and 1 Chinese had passed through his doors. This doesn't include the pizza party which also had Australians and Canadians.




The first morning I was woken up by a phonecall from Benjamin, who needed us to let him into Stan's. We decided to climb nearby Tunnel Hill because it was free and had good views of the city. After spotting a small, secluded trail off the street, Tasha and Ben wanted to try it. Hoping for nice, smooth paved steps I suggested that we find the main entrance. But there was a guy sitting on his scooter playing the erhu (traditional instrument) and I think the lure was just too much for them. Umbrella in one hand, tea bottle in the other, I trekked up the trail. After about 5 minutes in the rain, I fell uphill on slick rock. When I stood up, my very light khaki pants were covered in mud and my knee bloodied. This reinforces my theory that it's impossible to stay clean in China. Shaken up, I followed Ben & Tasha until we literally hit a wall. We would have had to climb straight up it.



We decided to give up and meet Stan for lunch and coffee dowtown. After asking around, we got on the right bus exhausted. After about 15 minutes, we knew were going out of town the wrong way. It's like we were the deleted scene out of a National Lampoon movie. We eventually met up with Stan and I drank the best Yunnan coffee I've had.



That night we had a pizza party. About 12 other people came over. Most of them were expats who were teaching and in the couchsurfing community. Everyone was really nice, but I never felt like I had much in common with them. They spoke very little Chinese and knew very little about the geography of China. One Canadian had no idea where Sichuan was. There were two Haiwaiian girls who said they really didn't feel like Americans, which was surprising to hear. While the others attempted a jam session, I spent about 20 minutes in the bathroom scrubbing my stupid pants.



Our last morning was sunny and Tasha and I climbed up Tunnel Hill without any injuries. That afternoon, it rained again so we decided to watch a movie. When he was in high school, Stan was a professional BMX biker. So, we were surprised when he suggested we watch the rom-com "Fool's Gold". We asked him what it was about and he said "You know...nice boys...nice girls..." Tasha and I cracked up and used that line all through our trip.