September 28, 2011

September 28, 2011

            Has it been two weeks since I last posted?!?  I guess my only excuse is time escaping me; however, when it escapes you because you are so busy, I assume it is a very positive thing.

            And, my how busy I have been!

            In the last two weeks, the program has grown to include upwards of 70 girls!  Through preparations, meetings, and planning, I have had my hands full, wanting only at night to delve into a book when I can.  So, that is why there has been a lapse, but I do hope to do better in the future.

            I will try to recap on some of the highlights from the two weeks…

            I had to go to the Head Teachers at several of the schools in Kabuyanda, as the girls had informed me their schools wanted to know more about the program.  So, I went to the schools prepared to talk about what the program is doing and how we would like to be a partner with the schools, as I would love for some of the teachers to hold tutoring sessions in the future.  Anyway, the children in the school would get so excited about a muzungu being on the school grounds that one Head Teacher gave up trying to ignore it and, instead, asked me to go and visit every classroom. 

            Primary 7, Primary 6, Primary 5, Primary 4, Primary 3, Primary 1, and Primary 2 was last.  In each classroom, the children would jump up out of their seats and say in unison, “Welcome Madam to Kabuyanda Junior.  This is Primary___”.  I laughed each time I heard it and then would try to open with some phrase in Runyankori.  The kids in each class were always so surprised I would attempt their language that at first they would look slightly shocked, and then, they would erupt into laughter.  I know my pronunciation must have been horrendous, so usually I threw my hands up and started laughing to – perhaps the first time in my life where butchering words didn’t make me cringe.

            In every classroom, I would try to tell them something about myself or the country I come from, and the kids just stared at me not sure of how to respond.  I picked up the chalk in several rooms and just started writing on the boards (which I still cannot figure out what material the chalkboards were made from), and then the children would recite – as best as they could – whatever I had written.  That made me laugh, and again the classrooms would erupt! 

            It was a lovely visit, but I could not help but notice the dark skies moving slowly toward us.  And, as I was in Primary 2 (the last classroom), the rain announced itself politely with light claps upon the tin roof.  However, within minutes, its politeness turned sour, and the rain was shooting through the walls, which in this particular classroom were banana leaves woven together and missing completely in some areas.  The children were getting drenched, so I stood in front of the range of wet as best I could until the children were huddled into the opposite corner.  I felt like a giant, as these small children just looked at me, now as wet as them.

            I kept on talking – really shouting as the match continued vocally between me and the storm, and the children just kept on looking until the Head Teacher suggested they sing something for me.  They got so excited and began singing a song.  We are the children of God.  We are the children of God…

            It was like a concert for me, as I will never tire of hearing Ugandan children’s voices in song.  Beautiful.  When they were finished, I asked them if they knew the song, You are My Sunshine, as it is my personal favorite.  One boy said yes, and the Head Teacher then asked him to sing it for me.  We are the sunshine of God.  We are the sunshine of God…

            When he finished, I praised his voice, but said it wasn’t quite the song I was thinking about.  So, the Head Teacher asked me to sing!  And, if you know me at all, you may know I do not have a voice of an angel, but I’d be damned if I didn’t belt out You are My Sunshine as proudly as that little boy.  He gave me whatever it was I needed to feel comfortable.

            And, I continued to feel comfortable as I taught them the song line by line, note by note.  And, approximately 30 minutes later the kids were singing the song, beginning to end, and I was holding back tears.  This is the song I sing to my dog every night before I go to sleep in my big bed in the states and now I was standing halfway around the world singing it with children in a classroom whose walls were made of leaves.  Primary 2^nd Verse. And I held my head and I cried.  You are my Sunshine…

            After I left, the Head Teacher made the children sing the song to the entire school.  They did a really good job.  I know this, because the girls from the school who are in the program let me know about it as soon as they walked through the door.  You make me happy.

            The clouds continued to remain gray for the remainder of the afternoon, so I knew we had to leave Kabuyanda no later than 5:30pm, as the roads get very bad when it rains.  I had never been on them after a downpour like that day provided, and I knew we had to be moving.  Paved roads are not the norm, but steeps hills and sharp turns are.

            I’ll admit it.  I was nervous.  I didn’t know the back roads to get back to Mbarara, which sometimes provide a more level terrain, and I knew we only had a few hours before night took my sunshine away. 

I had every right to be nervous.  The mess of roads that lay before us was equivalent to sand when a wave decides its home is the ocean.  Your feet just sink.  A car just sinks.  Our car just sank, and moving was slow and slippery. 

And, then we saw the matooke truck.

It was stuck in the middle of the road, and there were only two small routes around it.  My driver tried to go the better of the two, but the car just started to slide, and the next thing I know the car is moving sideways on the road.  Then, the driver tried to straighten it out, but the road was too slick, and the ditch was too close.  The car slid into the ditch and came to rest against the embankment, pinning my side of the car against a mud barrier.

The car didn’t budge.

And, here in the story is an entire bit about money, men, machetes, and muzungu, but I will leave that for another time.

Just know that my driver did a wonderful job, and we were on the road again in about 25 minutes. However, the roads did not prove to get any easier.  There was about 30 yards where the car slid sideways again, and I was sure I would have to get out and push, as we are in the middle of Uganda’s countryside.  Towns are sporadic, and people can be sparse.  I would have been pushing that baby alone.

And, the darkness kept coming.

Usually, it takes approximately an hour and fifteen/thirty minutes to drive from Kabuyanda to Mbarara.  We left Kabuyanda at 5:30pm and got to Mbarara at 8pm.  It was totally dark, and I was totally spent; however, I did not have to push the car.

The last 10 kilometers I had kept thinking that we weren’t going to make it, and I held my seatbelt so tightly my hands were stiff when I finally let go.  And, I didn’t let go until I saw the back of the little circular sign, letting people coming in the opposite direction know the roads are not paved and to be cautious.  I had never been so happy to see pavement. 

I don’t like being stuck in the dark.  Not in Uganda.  Not in Kentucky.  Not in my home.  Not anywhere.  Being stuck – literally stuck – is a feeling of helplessness, which I haven’t experienced in a very long time.   I hope it is a very long time before I experience it again.

My driver and I spent yesterday learning the back roads, and now my options for getting home are a little broader, safer, and flatter, which is what I am really grateful about.  And, today after a presentation to the government, I initiate the first 25 official members into the Kabuyanda Girl Empowerment Program.  This makes me happy when skies are gray…literally.     

September 12, 2011

September 12, 2011

Oh how the mountains call me to them every once in a while.  After an intense second week of being with the girls, which went wonderfully by the way, my friend Jasmine and I decided to head to the Rwenzori Mountains in western Uganda for some hiking and relaxation.  It did not disappoint.

We arrived Friday evening at the Rwenzori Trekking Hostel, which was a simple and clean place – all you ever want from a hostel.  Because we arrived rather late in the evening, we didn’t have much time to walk around, but we did get a bit of a look at the town.  Once a mining town, Kilembe has an abandoned mining factory that sits at the base of the beginning of the mountains.  Closed around 1975, the factory as well as the still chair lift leading up into the mountains are spotted with the rust of what could have been and is now not.

The people, to some degree, wear that same face of unfulfilled hope – a distorted, half smile that is quickly cursed by the eyes.  The children still play in the streets, rolling empty bottles attached to sticks, with faces that are endearing and innocent, but the constant presence of the adults surrounding either side of the road somehow continually brought me back to the loss.  And, in my journey thus far, I had not yet experienced the begging I experienced in this town; I was fully initiated this weekend.  Children surrounded me at one point, rubbing my skin and kissing my hands, and they kept asking me to, “Give me my money.”

I know they don’t realize what those words actually mean and in no way were they offensive to me, but it was a moment of pause for me, as it made me aware of whose money it was to give.  It was almost shocking to me when that thought crossed my mind, because I have only ever been asked to “give money” and usually always do; ownership of the money was never put into question, and by somehow phrasing it in that manner, I was keenly aware of the need to teach rather than give.  The old saying – Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day.  Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. – resonated.

I will forever believe in helping other people, but I understand more and more the essential role education and training plays in really fostering sustainable “help”.  Change will only come when the fundamental issues of the problem are addressed and, if possible, amended.  Nevertheless, seeing the sign in the hostel asking guests NOT to give money to the children was somehow reassuring.

Saturday was an early morning, as we prepared for our trek up the steep doormat of the mountains’ house.  As we set off onto our hike, the initial pass was striking to me, as I was amazed by the drop-offs that attached themselves right beside our eight inches of path.  I deemed the drop a killer at certain points, and due to my fear of heights and utter clumsiness, I paid homage to its power by losing my own.  I really wondered whether or not I was capable of surpassing the fear (and shortness of breath!).  However, I somehow pushed through, taking great pleasure when we came upon the leg-breaker drop-offs.  Those I can handle…or, at least, survive.

Our six hour ascent was, luckily, uneventful, and our views throughout the climb were wonderful.  You see why Uganda was termed “the Switzerland of Africa.”  It is stunning.

We arrived at the top of our climb, which unfortunately was not in the actual park itself, but fortunately, it provided a lovely place to camp as well as a reasonable trek for someone like myself.  I was quite happy with our feat, and even more so when the next day brought climbers who had summitted the mountains into my path.  I, in no way, would have been prepared to summit, as it is a very serious climb in need of the proper gear and strength, neither of which I had this weekend.

The trek up the mountain was sprinkled with stories from our guide and information about local uses for the plants surrounding the area.  I found his talk fascinating, as through his telling, I got a greater understanding of the culture.  For instance, we came upon what he termed a “bark tree,” which is a tree whose bark is used in making material for clothing, blankets, etc.  And, he went on, the tree also acts as a lawyer in local disputes; this, of course, left the three trekkers (Jasmine, a gentleman named Arnold from the Netherlands who was on the trek with us, and me) with puzzled looks on our faces.

How is the bark tree a lawyer? was the obvious next question.  Our guide explained.  The tree, you see, is the judge when two people claim the same land.  For, when a person acquires property, they plant a bark tree on that property.  They watch as the tree grows and use the tree’s bark to make clothing (and in my mind, have a relationship similar to the characters in Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree).  Should a person (the owner or otherwise) claim the land justly or unjustly, the community will challenge the man to cut the tree down.  If the property truly belongs to the man, the tree will simply fall.  If the property does not belong to the man, the tree will fall on top of him and kill him.  I think it may be the best logic I have ever heard.  The bark tree rests its case…both literally and figuratively.

The campsite where we did stay was also surrounded by children, and their interest in us was interesting to us.  They wanted us to play, and they wanted to us to talk.  They wanted us to take their picture, and they wanted us to simply be around them.  Perhaps, in some way, we provided to them what the mine had once provided to the town – an option.

                                               Playing Throw the Rock into the Hole

                                          Our campsite - Notice the tents in the bottom left

We rested and played with the children, and when night fell onto our mountain, I was quite ready for sleep.  It came and went throughout the hours of the moon, and I wasn’t sure if it was the notion of needing a guard carrying a spear or the rock in my lower back that kept it from enveloping me. 

Either way, when I woke up, I somehow wasn’t tired, as I think the rest I needed was simply a break from daily, all-consuming life. 

            Coming down the mountain only took two hours, and the little rain we encountered was just enough to say I have experienced the rain in the Rwenzori Mountains.  Other than that, our stay was dry, safe, and so enjoyable.  I needed the mountains, and maybe they needed me, too.

            Our drive home in the afternoon was lazy, and we stopped at the salt mines of Katwe before heading back to Mbarara.  Fascinatingly enough, the Salt Mine had also closed down around 1975 due to corrosion in the pipes, and the same rust and ghostly memories surrounded the building’s dilapidated structure.  I realized at this second, decaying location how stories change as they travel from person to person, year to year.  They can, virtually, decay not only metal, but also history.

            I got home late last night and crawled into bed and slumber.  Today proved to be full of go, as I went from one project/issue directly to another, leaving the office at 6pm and not even realizing everybody had left.  I had too much to do, and tomorrow is another day in the field and with my girls. 

            How funny that phrasing it that way gave me another moment of pause!  Perhaps it is good to constantly be reminded that individuals and their spirits may never be owned; they can only be loved and appreciated…which is what I do and feel for my girls.  I guess in that context the “my” is very appropriate.   

September 7, 2011

September 7, 2011

An interesting, and yet maybe humbling, lesson learned for me today.  I was “called out” for a situation deservedly, and I had to realize there are certain things I cannot or, perhaps, should not do.  I think when you come here, you want to try to do as much as you can for whoever you can; however, what I learned today is that there are going to be situations where I can’t/shouldn’t.  And, in thinking about all of these issues, I experienced my own adult form of “time out.”

In this particular reflection on the situation, I realized the answer was I shouldn’t.  Lesson learned, and I hope not to repeat my errors (I will say I don’t have to be told twice – a strong character about me…or, maybe more accurately, the fearful memory of wooden paddles behind the principal’s desk!).  I am learning so much about what I don’t know, and although my error was not intentional or a lapse in judgment, it was a moment for me to question my role and my position during my time here.  And, sometimes, a person’s role may be to respectfully step aside or, perhaps, recognize they should not have been standing there in the first place.  Like I said, lesson learned.

I am new to this world and can honestly admit that some of my mistakes are solely based on my naivety.  The exposure to the business and the public health realms here are very different from anything I have ever experienced before, and I feel I am constantly trying to soak in as much knowledge as possible to make me a better and more educated person.  I have been trying harder than I have ever tried before, and I have realized it is a different type of gumption needed to confess your weaknesses. 

I knew in and out what I did every minute of every day in my job at home, because I was extremely well versed on all it required.  And, now, I have gone from knowing and, perhaps, being comfortable to not knowing and being uncomfortable in that lack of knowledge.  It is oftentimes trial and error for me, and right now, I am simply trying to balance my time as a student with my hope for being a teacher.  I’m afraid – no actually – I’m proud of the fact I may be learning my position is on the student side of the teeter-taught her.  It means I am being honest.

I am, quite possibly, the her after the taught!

Maybe being able to recognize my own shortcomings is the balance needed to tip me in the other direction.  Or, maybe I need every once in a while to be pushed by another to learn more about my own position in life’s fascinating playground.  Or, maybe it is equal parts of the two which make us stronger, more enlightened people.  Trying to do the best you can on the one seat, and embracing and learning from your errors/faults on the other.

Could that very well be the teeter-taught her’s equilibrium?

Cheers to hoping the answer doesn’t play hide and go seek!

September 5, 2011

September 5, 2011

Am I already into another month?!?  It is so difficult to believe that this week marks my 2 month milestone here in Uganda.  How much I have experienced and grown.  I don’t think I even fully realize it yet.

I will admit to being a bit tired, as last week proved to be very exciting and very challenging combined.  As mentioned in my last entry, I held my first focus group with the girls last Monday, and then I had to prepare for another focus group with the parents as well as another meeting with the girls on Thursday.  AND, I had to give a presentation about the project to UNAIDS on Friday!  Needless to say, I worked my tail off, as I wanted all of it to be exceptional.  And, not to toot my own horn, I think it was…

Now, I will not say I did it alone, as there were several individuals who helped me to succeed last week, and to them, I owe thanks.  Whether it be through ideas or constructive criticism or help with the logistics, I feel these people got me through.  So, to those who provided the help, I am forever grateful.

I look back on all that occurred in a week’s time, and I can’t help but to be proud.  The girls were beginning to open up, the focus groups were informative and productive, the program was growing, and the presentation to UNAIDS was, I thought, a big win.  It was a good, demanding week.  And, due to the fact I was an eye in the week’s constant storm of activity, I pulled several late nights and early mornings, and by the end of the week, I was exhausted. 

So, although I did have some friends over for dinner on Friday evening, the weekend was spent relaxing, sleeping, reading, and doing a whole lot of nothing.  It was the rejuvenation I craved, and I was amazed at how much I slept, as I have never been one for long slumbers or lazy afternoons.  I relished the simplicity of allowing myself to stop and reflect and simply be, and my two days of doing so were lovely. 

I do want to go back to the events of Thursday though and quickly delve into the mothers who showed up to the focus group.  Surprisingly to me, they were much more vocal than I expected, and when I probed for information about the girls, the community, or the female situation, they readily gave their opinions.  One woman, who had the lines of hardships and joys on her face, fascinated me.  Her eyes would get big and then her brow would furrow, and even though I couldn’t understand a word she spoke, I loved her story.

Her story, when translated, directed the program to address exactly the issues we have been trying to focus on, and I was relieved to hear her tell me I had the group’s permission to do as I see fit with the program and their thanks for what I am trying to accomplish with their daughters.  I think this gratitude toward me and what I am trying to do with the program is something I have just not allowed myself, as I have been working nonstop and can only see everything that still needs to be done.  And, although I feel I have been fully aware of what is happening on a day to day basis and the overarching goals of the entire process, it took these mothers pointing out the greater meaning and potential that started to make me view things a little differently.

You see, it started raining after the parental focus group last Thursday, and it was a rain that shakes the trees and your nerves.  Moreen (the girl who is helping me to begin the program) and I took shelter in one of the Sub-county town hall’s waiting rooms and looked out into the blinding rain.  She told me her story, too, and I am forever in awe of the resiliency of people.  I went outside to capture the rain, but it slipped out of my hand, as it isn’t meant to be caught.

The downpour lasted for quite some time, and soon after it let up, I saw a woman approaching the hall.  At first, I did not know whether to approach her or not, but I saw her looking around as if she were lost.  So, I asked Moreen to go and speak to her, and sure enough, she had come (a few hours late) to attend the parental focus group.  I kept looking at her and thinking to myself, what about the storm?

After she learned the focus group had been earlier that morning, she took my hand and starting speaking.  Moreen translated, saying the woman claimed to be very, very happy and was giving me many thanks because her daughters were going to have an opportunity.  I nodded my head and smiled, saying thank you for coming, and after many handshakes, she left, walking away in the continued drizzle.  What about the storm?

I think that was the moment I finally got what I had been missing.  I was able to answer the question.  I understood.

I watched her walking away, hoping she would turn into one of the nearby houses so I knew she hadn’t walked very far, but somewhere inside me, I knew she wasn’t going to make any close turns.  I knew she had a long walk.  I craned my head to see how far she was going, and the further I saw her walking into the distance, the harder it was for me to breath.  I knew that woman had survived a down/poor I will never understand to give her daughters the possibility of a future.

What about the storm? 

The mother got wet.  The rain slips away.

She isn’t meant to be caught.

Perhaps such blindness has enabled me to see.

She isn’t meant to be caught.

Focus.