When the kids at school started greeting me “teacher” Mike or “doctor” Mike, I quickly spread word around to the more adept students that the proper label would be “health administrator” Mike. Not as pretty sounding, but far more accurate. So…. what exactly does a health administrator do in a village like Busongi in a district like Bududa in a country like Uganda? Well…
When the generator starts smoking after an otherwise infamously lazy employee suddenly got motivated to change the oil unsupervised: it’s the health administrator’s problem
When we run out of prescription envelopes but nobody mentions a damn thing until the absolute last envelope is used: it’s the health administrator’s problem
When the Babylon shows up to arrest the drug dispenser…
When the inverter blows through fuses like the diceman does buttskis…
It’s the health administrator’s problem.
When we run out of water from weeks without rain shower…
or stuck in Kampala traffic when volunteers land in an hour.
When the pit latrine has a leak…
or the path to the clinic turns into a creek.
When registering as an NGO turns into five months of frustrating bore…
especially when we haven’t paid taxes since we opened our door.
When visitors get harassed by the town crazy…
When employees are lazy…
When the staff drama mama finds new material…
When plain oats are the only cereal…
When bad carpenters pout…
When baby patients scream and shout…
When there’s no close place to get a CD4 count…
When some old lady gets the gout…
When the drugs run out…
In the face of constant doubt...
It pays shit, but I get to bring my dogs to work and I wear what I want.
I haven't abandoned writing. It's just.... internet access, prioritization, and the like. It's not because Cynthia found my blog. Hi, Cynthia. The dogs say hi. They're getting big.
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.
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”
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.
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.
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)....
