Pete and the ol' ladies

The end of an era is upon us… Three major forces in my life for the month of February were a 7 foot 32 yr old doctor from Michigan and two retired teachers from Virginia and Maine.
Pete was one class shy of completing med school when he got here. His last class was his time spent here, so he left as a med school grad, awaiting his residency assignment. He’s served in Cameroon in the Peace Corps, ran a hotel in Mozambique, and worked at an HIV clinic in Zambia. He’s crass and direct, but educated and well-traveled enough to get away with it. His view on development: “Sure, roads are good for an economy but more roads means more truckers. More truckers – more hookers – more hookers -- more AIDS. I’ve seen it with my own eyes in Botswana.” He’s about to start another two months on the continent before he leaves in May from Zambia.

Catherine and Cynthia taught together at in Virginia at the Arlington Public Schools for years before they both retired about five years ago. Cynthia is one of the driving forces behind our partner school, Arlington Academy of Hope. She was the head mistress (principal) for six months a few years back and has become quite the veteran of the village. Catherine has had a strong influence on the project too but prefers to dodge any and all attention that comes along with it. While Cynthia generally accepts invitations to church or tea or whatever else might come up, Catherine generally will slip away and relax with a book. Now that Catherine’s retired to New England, I give her shit any time I have the opportunity. She gives it right back and we have a good time. Over all, they’re both bitchin’ broads.

Pete left on the rest of his trip this past week. Catherine and Cynthia leave on Friday of this week. Allow me to recollect some moments from this particular era… and keepin mind that most Pete quotes are un-publishable.

On a Friday afternoon, Pete and I got caught in a national geographic moment at a circumcision dance ceremony, entering with a low-speed motorcycle crash and exiting with a high-speed Indiana Jones style escape from a mob of village children that weaved through a local drinking district where the elders temporarily held off the kids with threats of beatings. Quote from Pete, “Don’t ya love it when Nat Geo moments turn into bad acid trips?” We went back to Kiholo and drank off the emotional impact. We came home pretty deep in the bag and told the tale to Catherine and Cynthia. They were amused.

On a Sunday morning, I got a call from a woman who runs an NGO in our district. Short version: possible dead baby in a 7-month pregnant woman. Bududa Hospital was open, but their stethoscope was locked up. Publishable quote of the day was Pete, “I wouldn’t be surprised if this day ends up in me delivering a dead baby”. Un-publishable quote of the day was with regards to the “natural” method of inducing labor. Due to the unavailability of goods and services in Bududa District, labor induction was best done elsewhere so we referred her to Mbale (the city). Catherine and Cynthia were concerned, but amused.

When I got a cut on my foot, it infected pretty quickly. Dr. Pete’s diagnosis: “You know those piles of cow shit all over the road? Well those turn into dust and that dust that gets into your cut is largely cow shit.” It’s still healing slowly but surely. I might have my first Africa scar.

One day when I was heading back from the clinic, I got a text message from Pete: “The old ladies are making me go get beer. What are you doing?” We had cold beer for about 25% of the time he was here. Sometimes there’s no electricity. Sometimes there’s no beer. Sometimes the guys at the beer/chicken feed stand forget to put beer in the fridge. Just about every day with Pete ended up with a cold beer search. Catherine and Cynthia were always happy when we brought some home.

My last day in Kampala with Pete turned into a bar crawl in which we were exposed to an array of American easy listening music which seems to be the music of choice during daylight hours in Kampala. The top easy listening moment had to be when we were in Kampala’s version of Target (where all the white people shop) and Toto’s ‘80s hit “Africa” was playing. Classic. That night, we went out to a killer pork and beer joint. Since Pete has been in Kampala, I’ve been getting daily texts either asking about pork or telling me about pork. Last night he was at a place called “pork talk”. The man’s on a mission.

The Crazy, the Funny, the Cool, the Weird, and the Diet Shasta

I feel like crazy, funny, cool, weird stuff happens throughout the day, EVERY day. It’s to a point where I don’t identify things as blog entry material until somebody else points out how crazy, cool, funny, or weird something is. This is my attempt at identifying the crazy, the funny, the cool, and the weird without giving much detail on any of it.

Crazy stories include bulls trampling dogs, chasing down a matatu (public minibus) on a motorcycle because I left a box of meds in it, inverters bursting into smoke, cock fights, women in labor in the trading center on market day, my friend Ruth getting a drive-by bag-snatch in Kampala, getting caught with a 7 foot white guy in the middle of a drunken, sweaty circumcision ritual, cow heads cut off in public, penis heads cut off in public, having newly circumcised penises shown to me proudly on the streets, old ladies shaking their saaaggy tits, motorcycle rides that literally get people kicked out of Peace Corps, rashes, wounds, extreme malnourishment, skinny-ass babies suffering from AIDS, dirty-ass hospitals, dude attempting to scream in agony as his horribly wounded body was bussed to Kampala (his screams weren’t too loud due to a severely injured trachea), unexpected animals in the house, unexpected problems in the clinic, expected problems in the clinic, expected public transport discomfort, sharing public transport with live and dead animals, termite battles, dealings with the police, orally siphoning kerosene only to be outdone by a mechanic who drinks gasoline and the list goes on….

Most of the funny stuff is funny to ME and is primarily situational humor. Dealing with some cultural norms feels ridiculous sometimes (10 minute mud hut visits turning into unexpected 2 hour hang out sessions including meals and tea afterwards – and the hosts often don’t enter the room unless it’s to bring something which leads to a lot of staring at mud walls and funky wall hangings). Saying the same thing to every single person (“Hello, Welcome back! How is there? Well done, what’s new! How’s home? Well done again!” seems to be the conversation with everybody – people are endlessly impressed that I can memorize eight friggin phrases in almost five months). Families with uniquely funny kids that I couldn’t do justice explaining the humor in - throw dogs into the mix and a find a common and entertaining result: makin’ kids cry! Some of them cry because I’m clearly not from around there, but most kids that I see every day have passed that stage. The dogs, though… the closer I get and the younger the kid, the higher the odds… it sounds cruel, but I’m just slowly acclimating the kids to their new neighbors. Keep in mind that we cure sick kids all day at the clinic and lay off! Once the tears start, Mom’s laugh, brothers laugh, sisters laugh, dad’s laugh, I laugh, passer-bys laugh… the only ones that are usually NOT laughing are the poor damn kids that I torture. So that’s the funny stuff.

The cool stuff includes people, natural surroundings, and events that may overlap with crazy. The people are endlessly kind but like every population has its mix of personality. I have special handshakes with a good dozen or more people so I do a lot of crazy hand-slappin’ fist pumpin, hand-grabbin, jive-jammin greetings. The natural surroundings make the uphill climbs totally worth it and the views vary from endless rolling bright green mountains with blue skies to cloud-covered dark green volcanic mountains with the sun behind the clouds. Cool events that don’t overlap with the crazy ones are probably the most common nicety of living here. Every interaction can turn into a “moment”. Some interactions can be frustrating, but there are enough “moments” to turn a frustrating day right. That goes for life at home too, but the frustrating here seems to be more frustrating, making the “moments” more appreciated.

Weird stuff? Weird stuff is probably the part that I’m noticing less and less. Just before I started writing this, I was on my knees under a faucet bathing. Bathing in general… very weird. I’ve never been big on hygiene, but I end up very itchy if I slack here. Weird animal parts lying in the street, weird bones lying around in fields, weird people, weird customs, weird phrases, weird ways defecating, and weird ways of doing most things. It’s weird that I can’t get a turkey club or use a refrigerator.

Am I missing home? Yes – I miss the people, the nature, the food, the comforts, and the conveniences. Today after the generator repair man caused my inverter to go up in smoke, the latest in a frustrating series of power adventures, I took a deep breath and sat to read a series of banter between some good friends from home that included the following words and phrases:

“freakin lance bass over here”

“ass clown”

“sad sack”

“over-zealous light weight who tries to shotgun a beer only to puke in his hat”

“mark-ass marks, trick-ass marks, punk bitches, skip skaps, skanks and scallywags”

“monster truck”

“Bigfoot”

“drinking games”

“ and showed up toasted out of their minds”

“getting into a fight and knocking over our brand new condiment cart”

“I ride with the seat so far back so the po-po can't profile me. The door frame serves the dual purpose of hiding my face and protecting my dome piece if some fool tries to blast on my vehicle.”

“go back to your cube and read a Dilbert comic”

“ was pissed. It was awesome.”

“classless Yankees”

“fat cat Yankees”

“A-Fraud”

“Gank Meat roster”

“The Rankmeat Years”

“spank meats

“I'm not a Yankee fan anymore”

“fair-weather yankee fan”

“yankee penant and foam finger”

“Derek Jeter is gay”

“Jorge Posada is a little bitch”

“the Hive tower which unleashes a wave of vicious bees that swarm your enemies”

“I need seven rainbows to unlock the second half of the first level and I only have three right now.”

“tribal leader with a flock of young ones who remain at your base”

“my girlfriend's therapist is talking a lot of shit about me in their weekly session and how I wouldn't be a good father”

“get a life you *#$@ sad sack. oh wait, you do have a life, eating sunchips, drinking diet shastas and thinking up funny sayings for snapple tops and packs of taco bell fire sauce”

It made my day.

Groundhog Day

6:00am – BBC Africa comes on the radio for 30 minutes in Swahili and turns over to English at 6:30…. Continues until 7 before turning off automatically.

6:15 am – my alarm clock, disguised as a sultry British broad, starts telling me “Eet eez toime to GET OP! The toime is seex feefteen. ” Hit snooze. Repeat every ten minutes until 7:15

7:15am – Let the dogs out, pet them vigorously and simultaneously. Stand and wait for them to pee and/or poo. Praise them. Feed them. Use the flush toilet.

7:45am – Cold shower when the stars align. Bring tunes so I can dance to stay warm. Party time.

8:15am – breakfast and Nescafe with creamer powder. I can literally piss on a coffee plant from my back door, but I have to drink nescafuckinfe since all of the coffee beans are sent out of the district for processing and export.

8:40am – Get the leashes, get the dogs, and walk uphill 20 minutes to the clinic. Kids scream “Muzungu, how are you?” When I answer, they keep asking. When I’m jacked up on Nescafe, I continue to respond as long as they ask. When I’m sedated on creamer power, I respond in grunts. Generally, it gets hot by this time and I’d like to go back down to my cold shower.

9am – anything goes. Let the entropy begin.

Rag Tag Crew

The following is an excerpt from an email to our Philly headquarters dated 7 FEB 2009... Milly is our "staff assistant" who doles out drugs and Edwin is our "nursing assistant" who also acts as our "ambassador of food and beverages"...

As I was about to send my monthly report yesterday morning, the police came to get Milly for a court date. On 28 Dec 2008, the assaulted Edwin's "Madame". I heard about this previously, so I wasn't shocked to have arresting officers arrive at the clinic. The police didn't use the word "allegedly" before "assaulted", but I corrected them on numerous occasions. I found that my duty as FOM required me to accompany her to the courthouse in Manafwa district. There were about 2 dozen empty benches, and dozens more plastic chairs... spread out, stacked... you name it. There were no spectators in any of these seats. The defendants, however, were forced to sit on the floor against a wall. There were six shady looking barefoot men.... and Milly, dressed like a Mugisu Barbie Doll with her new curly extensions and all. The trial was in Lumasaba and I didn't even realize that it was the trial until it was about over. It was a dude with his leg dangled over a chair, who turned out to be Milly's father, acting as her attorney. Our "local defense unit", Wambi came with us and was kind of explaining the situation to me, but not thoroughly. Turns out after an hour discussion that they needed a Grade 1 magistrate, but only a grade 2 was present. Despite our full cooperation and my ill attempt at a bribe, Milly will be in jail until Tuesday when a Grade 1 magistrate is present.

So, our drug dispenser is in the slammer and luckily I'm buddy's with a motorcycle dude who was able to bring her kid to granddad's.

So here's the monthly report ;)

Avocados and Mangoes…..

Avocados and Mangoes….. Fried flat bread (chapatti) and deep fried dough balls (mandahzi)… Rice. Potatoes. Potato fries. Cassava root. Cassava fries. Carbs. There are tons of fruits and veggies (pineapple, aforementioned mangoes and avos, cabbage, “greens” (can be bitter or sweet), papaya, passion fruits, bananas, tomatoes, onions….) but the locals LOVE the friggin’ carbs! Chapatti, rice, milled corn…. and especially matoke (mashed, flavor-deficient plantains)… those are the staples and you’ll find that four courses at a nine-course meal will be carbs. They’re good. They’re tasty. They fill my belly and I smile. Then I get tired. Then I crave something sweet. I’m just sayin’ it’s a lot of carbs! I’m not on the Atkins and never have been, but damn! I’ve literally been served FIVE carbs in ONE meal… (or “starches” as Mom used to say – and she always had ONE starch at each meal)....

Dog Daze

Ahhh, the dog days of the African winter.

As you could have foreshadowed, the dog-house looking thing next to the kitchen spurred the purchase of two African bush puppies. In around December, just a short path through the woods from the house, there was a fat little white puppy who could barely walk and looked like a blind baby rat. I admired him for a second, moved him off of the path so he didn’t get trampled, and went to work. A few weeks later, I saw him again and brought him home to Jennipher. She feared dogs from a childhood incident. Not many people around here treat dogs well or think highly of dogs. They don’t feed them well which leads to scavenging, skinny dogs that are kept for security (I guess). The white dog was different from any other dog in the village – it was fluffy and white with a black face… kind of marked like a cow, but it’s certainly the only “fluffy” dog that I’ve seen since I’ve been here. Dirty and flea-ridden like the others, but still unique. As a result, Jennipher loved it and suggested that we get two so they could keep each other company (that’s right – I brought a puppy home to mommy and asked if we could get one). When I returned the white one to the owners, I saw the only other survivor of the litter, a proper little brown looking bush dog.

As of early January, those two dogs became the latest addition to my African family for a bargain of five bucks each. The fluffy white one is chubby, aloof, and people love his look. I aptly named him Jerry “G-nut” Garcia (G-nut is a local peanut). The brown one is smarter, feistier, and energetic but doesn’t get the recognition of Jerry. He’s aptly named Bobby “Chapatti” Weir (Chapatti is a local fried flatbread) after the eternal younger brother of the real-life Jerry. On their diet of store-bought dog food, they’re fatter, happier, and better trained than any puppy to ever live in Bududa district. They’re growing fast and kicking the shit out of each other. I took them on an all-day hike up into the national park when they were three months old.

Dogs don’t come without dog drama. First, were the fleas and worms, both of which were swiftly attacked through a trip to a back-alley vet in Mbale. Next, their mother used to come to the house and try to take them away. When she was lactating, she would tempt them with the teat and when they were small enough, she would try to lift them by their neck chub. I was pretty tolerant of her, because we both want what’s best for the dogs (and that’s living with me rather than getting kicked around a mud hut and going hungry). As they’ve gotten older, they’re actually able to follow her now if nobody’s watching them. If I’m there, they choose me on their own free will. If I’m inside and don’t see Mom, they became big enough to run off with her. Because of that, we’ve been chasing her away a little bit more forcefully. At first I was afraid I might get attacked by a disease-ridden bush dog, but have since realized that she’s afraid of humans after being kicked around a mud hut her whole life. One morning a few weeks ago, I was routinely chasing away Mom. As she was running down the front driveway and I stood in front of the house like a tough guy, I saw out of the corner of my eye Jennipher whipping a stone with the form of Pedro throwing a 100 mph fastball. She hit the thing dead-on from 20 yards as it was moving. She’s been coming by less since.

The same morning about twenty minutes after the rock-throwing incident, I heard Jerry crying on the front porch. I looked out and saw him drooling in panic. When I came out, I saw a big-ass cow eating the grass in front of our pit latrine. Knowing that Jerry is deathly afraid of cows, Jennipher was already out there, whacking the shit out of the cow with a big stick. Just another morning in rural Uganda…

Looks like Jennipher’s changed her outlook on dogs. She really loves them. She feeds them human food and I tell her to stop. She lets them tug on her skirt and I tell her to stop. She gives them washcloths to play with and I tell her to stop. She gives them chicken bones and I tell her to stop. I’m with them 90% of the day and I buy their dog food so they can suffer with my regiment of hiking to villagers homes for healthy home visits, river crossing training, and dog food. If they get special treatment from grandma, I don’t see a horrible problem with that. Also, they’re often spotted running around with unidentified objects in their mouths which I generally let slide… because… they’re African bush dogs.

Why is Jerry deathly afraid of cows you ask? Well, after a week or two of dog ownership, I decided to see if they’d be able to follow me up to the clinic without a leash. They did very well primarily because they were chasing me for dear life. One day on a walk, a bull wandered up to them and started to charge. They ran and escaped. On the second or third trip to the clinic, we came across a big ol’ nasty big-horned, big-balled black bull right at the beginning of the path to the clinic. He charged Jerry. Jerry froze. The bull ran up to him, jumping up and down like a rodeo bull, trying to trounce Jerry. The first time, I wasn’t sure if Jerry was hit or not, but I immediately ran up to the bull and gave him a couple of kidney punches as Jerry escaped. The bull turned to me, but didn’t charge. I was getting ready to punch him in the face, but was too concerned about Jerry’s well being, and ran to his aid. He was certainly shaken up, but he’ll be fine. I think the reason behind “no fluffy dogs live in Bududa” is that they’re good-lookin’, but they’re not the brightest.

Update

Clinic: In an effort to tighten up clinical operations, we've implemented an inventory system and are currently in the process of creating job descriptions and work agreements with the staff

Volunteers: I received my first group of three volunteers in November and they were great. The next group of three is in the village now and I'm in Kampala to receive three more. This will be my biggest group so far, so we'll see how it goes... I've created a volunteer orientation document to get people up and running quickly and I decided to create "missions" for volunteers to attempt. They'll vary from "creating new missions" to "maintaining the new inventory system" to "starting a juice company" to "getting the road from Mbale to Bududa paved". Some are simple... some a little more challenging (like the road thing).

Locals: The locals are warm and welcoming. Now that I've been here a while, I get offered an invitation for tea just by walking by homes. Jennipher and I have bonded. She changed her hair. I've befriended Rashid, a cool modern-type dude in the village. Such a thing is rare. The volunteers love him and he loves hanging out with them. He knows the ropes around Bududa district so he's a good "in". For example, when I called him and asked him if he could get me a hen to give Jennipher for Christmas, he was in the house ten minutes later with a big, beautiful hen that we named Jennipher.

Chicken Farming: What started with buying Jennipher a Christmas hen has turned into a small-scale chicken farm. After Rashid brought the hen, I decided it would be a shame to eat it (and I knew Jennipher would just feed it to us anyhow) so Rashid and I ventured off to find a suitable mate.

The ones behind the trading center were too young and the guy wasn't coming down in price. As we were searching, we came across a guy who had a "laying" hen. At the same time, I saw our local defense unit, Charles Wambi who's known for catch phrases "home is best", "Nothing bad" and "We are together". He has a small bandaid on his pinkey. When I probed, it turned out that he had delivered a baby cow at the school (Arlington) the night before. This is the third baby cow that he's delivered in a month. As a "Watchinyala" ("Well done"), I decided to thank him with the laying hen.

So after the sidebar task of Wambi's hen, Rashid and I set back to find a worthy cock for Jennipher (the hen, not my Ugandan mom). As we were waiting for Wambi's hen to be captured, I found a crazy-feathered cock that I decided I needed to have. Since that one wasn't for sale, we went a trading center over, Rashid sent out four agents or so to find said crazy-feathered cock. After some time hangin' in Bunamubi (the next trading center), we went back home to Kiholo (our trading center). Lo and behold, there was a crazy-feathered cock that we bought right in our own neighborhood for 17,000 shillings ($8)! That was the beginning.

Now the chickens needed a home, so I made them what looks just like a dog house next to Jennipher's kitchen. Now that we had a proper house, we needed another hen. When a local carpenter saw that I was buying a hen and a feeder, he asked me about my house. I proudly said, "go talk to Jennipher" expecting him to be impressed with my handy-work. When I came back, he and Jennipher had decided that we need a new house built further away from the kitchen. So three days later, we had a professionally built hen house fit for a poultry farm. To celebrate, we added another bird to make four. Two nights ago, I was challenged by a dinner host to catch one of their hens. After running full speed through the woods, up and down hills, and over a river of cow manure (biogas?), I finally caught it with some assistance. As a reward, they gave it to me to take home and add to my farm.

Now we have three hens, a crazy-feathered cock, an adolescent white cock and a hen house build for 30.

...but what about the old hen house that looks like a dog house...? Time will tell.