A & K in Uganda

2007-07-17T15:04:00.000+03:00

gorillas!

2007-07-15T10:42:00.000+03:00

The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. Our last full day in Africa. Gorilla tracking day. We had been looking forward to this since we booked our permits in May. What a way to spend our last day. Now, we know we had said back in January, “Who knows when we’ll be here again?” But this time we mean it. It’s not a big secret that we’re trying to start our family this year (apologies to Harvey Bruce – expand our family). And despite the fact that one of our fellow trackers yesterday was a Dutch man who had just spent a year traveling through Africa with his wife and one year old daughter as part of a Lonely Planet project on traveling with young children, we’re thinking it’s truly going to be some time before we’re back.

Anyway, we were staying at the Kinigi guesthouse, high in the Rwanda mountains, just miles from the borders of the Democratic Republic of Congo to the West and Uganda to the North. It was a fairly simple operation at the guesthouse, but no one stayed there for the accommodations; everyone we met was there for one reason: gorillas. Of course these were the same gorilla families that Dian Fossey had made famous through her book (and eventual Hollywood film), “Gorillas in the Mist”. The permits are pricey and the philosophy that powers the operation (one which Fossey vehemently and understandably opposed) is that only through tourism dollars can the government protect these incredible creatures. Before the money was rolling in, the government (as well as the governments of Uganda and Congo) just couldn’t afford the manpower and resources needed to keep the poachers from killing the adults to sell their hands and feet in the local markets, or from kidnapping the babies to sell to zoos. Our guide told us that in order for the poachers to kidnap one baby, they have to shoot and kill ten to fifteen from the family. After seeing them, I just can’t imagine it. Gorillas share 98% of our genetic make-up; killing one would be like killing a dear relative, albeit a rather furry one…

I don’t know how many of you have seen Aimee when she is REALLLY excited, but it is a sight to behold. Aimee is not someone whom I’d call a morning person. But yesterday, as soon as that alarm sounded, she was in high gear. She sort of doesn’t know what to do with herself so she kind of buzzes all about the room, sometimes saying things in a voice that has to sort of squeaks through her constricted throat muscles. Often, the things she’s saying are not words that I recognize but rather unrecognizable patterns of tones and grunts that seem to signify excitement. Later, in the jungle, I recognized a few of those same grunts and groans coming from some of our primate cousins… At one point, on her way to the bathroom, she jumped on and off the bed for no apparent reason. At another point, she came over to me as I was packing and grabbed me in a bear hug. I have to remind her that she actually needs to get ready because her mind is going in so many different directions that nothing is really happening. While there is a lot of movement and energy, it’s sort of a spinning the wheels kind of thing. I should also mention that it is grand fun to see her in such a state…

She was still buzzing at breakfast and talking about how she hoped we would get in the Susa Group. There are about nine different families of gorillas on the volcanoes. Oh yeah, the mountains that they live on are all dormant volcanoes. All over the area, houses are built from volcanic rock. The river beds are lined with porous grey, dried lava. The paths up the mountain are littered with chunks of volcanic debris. Anyway, there are three groups of gorillas that are solely for research groups and restricted to tourists. Then there are nine groups open to tourism. There is a strict limit of eight permits granted per group per day. Each group is allowed just one hour with the family from the moment they find the group. When we were booking in May, the 14th of July (Vive la France!) was the only available day in the week, and we got the last two permits. Each permit is $500 so there weren’t a whole lot of scruffy, twenty-something backpackers here. In fact, we were among the youngest people on the trek. I’d say most people were in their forties and fifties… Anyway, the Susa group is the most famous of the families. For one, it is the largest. There are thirty-six gorillas in the family and four silverbacks. The other reason for their fame is the fact that twins were born to the family in 2004. It is the first recorded successful gorilla twin birth in history. Apparently it is very, very rare for twins to survive. Their birth was cause for great celebration in the country, and the President and his wife named them during the annual naming ceremony (called “Kwita Izina" in Rwandese). It was clear when we arrived at the Volcanoes Park Headquarters at 7 am that a lot of people wanted to be in the Susa group. Aimee and I, typically, were the last people to show up at the headquarters. We waited in line at the desk and eventually filled out our paperwork, showed our permits, and then went outside to mill about, talk to other travelers, and wait to see what happened next. There were wooden signs staked into the ground around the front lawn, each sign with the words painted, “VNP Welcomes You to (name of gorilla family) Group”. Next to each sign two guides in park ranger outfits were stationed. There were some group names we recognized. Group 13 is well-known for its friendly silverback. Pablo group is fairly well known. And of course, Susa. We met an American family from L.A. They really wanted to be in the Susa group. They tried going over to the Susa sign but were shooed away by the guides and told to wait for assignment by the officer in charge. So Aimee and I waited and watched. “Let go, Let God”, despite the cheesy bumper stickers, is a motto we travel by. So we just kind of smiled to one another and said it: Let Go, Let God. The officer in charge was randomly grabbing people and placing them in groups of eight and then asking them to follow him to one of the signs. We wondered how we would be chosen. Group after group was assigned. The mother in the American family went again to the Susa guides (note: honestly, only American travelers seem to be so pushy) and this time, the guide walked over and said something to the officer. I decided to stick close to the American woman because maybe the guide told the officer that she really wanted Susa. I figured that if I was in proximity, I could get us in. So the officer came over – there were only about three groups left, including Susa -- and asked the family how many. They said “four.” The officer had walked over with another couple so he said he needed two more. I raised my hand, holding up two fingers. Aimee raised her hand. He totally ignored us. He grabbed two other people and asked the group to walk with him. Aimee thought we had been chosen and started to walk with the group. Very disappointed I said, “Aimee, it’s not us.” We were bummed. But lo and behold, they were led to a different family! Not Susa. There were sixteen of us left on the lawn. Another group was rounded up. Again, we tried to get in but were ignored again. They went off and didn’t get Susa. There were only eight of us left and there was only Susa. We couldn’t believe it. Sure enough, the officer came over, rounded us up, and took us to Susa! We were ecstatic. Aimee was beside herself. She wanted to see those twins so badly... and as we stood at our welcome sign, we definitely sensed some Susa Envy.

Our group was interesting. An American trio: a couple in their early forties traveling with their female friend. The couple was tough. She was pretty high maintenance and kept nagging her husband about drinking enough water and putting on more sunscreen throughout the trek. He had done the trek in 1988 but had gained a little in the middle since and I thought several times that he was going to have a heat stroke or start vomiting, or both. He was beet red within minutes and I couldn’t believe he made it to the gorillas. Then there was a young guy from Seattle who was fit and very nice. There was Abbe, our Dutch friend. His wife and kid went home last month so he was solo. He was a bit chatty on the hike but a very friendly and likeable guy. Finally, there was a young Indian named Raghiv. Very sweet, very nice guy who miraculously showed up that morning and secured the one permit remaining due to a last-minute cancellation. Not only did he get a permit but he got the Susa group. What luck! But I knew Raghiv was not much of a hiker. The guides had told us that Susa was usually pretty far up the mountain and that we should be ready for quite a hike. When we arrived after a forty-five minute drive to the base of the mountain, the guides started handing out bamboo walking sticks to help us on the ascent. Raghiv asked what the sticks were for. I thought, “Hmmm… Has he ever hiked before?” Well, literally about five minutes into our 90 minute hike, Raghiv was on the ground. He sat down, dripping sweat, and needed to rest. I felt bad for him. The forty-something was in bad shape, too. He and his wife were already bickering about something. She said, “Chris, don’t be so pessimistic!” Then she yelled to the porter who was carrying her backpack, “John! I neeeed some waaater!!!” Oh boy.

But enough about our companions. I should mention that we were with two guides, a porter for whomever felt they needed a bag carried for them up the mountain, and several armed soldiers. The soldiers were there to protect us and to be on the lookout for poachers. They hiked all the way to the gorillas with us and then watched our bags as we spent our allotted one hour with the family. Before the tourists show up each day, a different group of trackers is already on the mountain tracking the families from the spot where they left them the day before. It can take several hours to find them. As we were driving to our jump off point, they still had not found them. We were traveling to a spot based on their last known whereabouts. Sometimes groups can be very close to the boundary of the forest. Let me explain. There are several different parking areas that the tourists are dropped at with the guides. From there, depending on the location, it can be a short, level walk to the boundary of the forest, or it can be a long, steep climb. Then, once you are inside the protected boundary, it can be a short or a long hike to reach the family. It is all totally random and based on where the gorillas happened to have nested the night before and where they happen to be that day. We spoke to one group of tourists the day before who got to the jump off, walked across the dirt road to the boundary and had a very short, twenty-minute walk across flat ground before finding their family. They were a bit disappointed. Of course, with everyone we spoke to, any disappointment over the nature of the hike dissipates quite quickly upon seeing the gorillas.

We were not disappointed at all. We had a real experience. Our hike felt like a 90 degree climb up the face of a mountain. It took about an hour from the cars to reach the boundary. We went fairly slowly to account for the folks who were struggling. But that was fine with us because it was easy to get winded at the altitude at which we climbing. The path went through the locals’ patches of farmland and it always feels a bit odd to be these rich, white tourists tramping through the countryside, passing shoeless peasants and their children working their land. To me, it’s uncomfortable but I think it’s the discomfort of actually having to face the gross inequities that I’m the beneficiary of. In America, too often, I think we are able to shield ourselves from those inequities a lot of the time. The unofficial, class-based zoning laws see to it that we don’t have to see what we don’t want to see. But here, there is no escape. One needs to recognize ones privilege and question that structure, question that set-up, ask why that is. And hopefully, ask how that can change. And also confront the survival instinct that wants to give… but just so much. Just enough that I’m still O.K., still living the way I’m accustomed to living. I recommend Wallace Shawn’s play, “The Fever” for a much more eloquent expression of this dilemma…

So we hike up this trail and finally get to the edge of the jungle. We rest for a moment and are told that the gorillas about another half-hour hike in. We enter. And we are in the jungle! We keep climbing upward through thick bamboo and thick, leafy foliage that the guides have to occasionally hack away with their machetes. Nettles grab at our arms and legs as we pass. With each step the jungle gets thicker. I’m not nervous but I am definitely excited. Aimee is visibly thrilled. She says her heart is pounding. Finally, the guide stops short and holds up his hand. He has been in radio contact with the mountain guides all morning and now he is talking to them again. We are standing in a clearing. All around us is thick growth that is almost impossible to see through. We are told to be still and stop talking. Then he tells us to move up and behind him, quickly! We hear the breaking of branches all around us. Crack! Crack! Everyone moves. We are told to remove our bags and leave our poles on the ground. Take out our cameras. As I am moving, I see him. A huge – I mean HUGE – silverback standing just behind the bamboo, eyeing us. He is massive but I only get a glimpse because the guide is telling us to move. Now the mountain guides come out from behind some branches, smiling. They point in and say something to our guide. The army is assigned to protect our bags. We are told to follow the guides and porters as they disappear into the bush. We do. As we walk, the guides make a very distinct gutteral sound, almost like they are clearing their throat. They say it’s the way to assure the gorillas that they are friends.

And there he is. One of the silverbacks. We can’t be more than six or seven feet away from his back. And he seems very deliberately to have decided to keep his back to us. His back is massive. I don’t even know how to describe it. He was just a mass of black muscle. Not far from him was a female, Poppy, the oldest gorilla of the family (gorilla lifespan – 40 -45 years). She was just chilling, chewing some bamboo sticks, casually checking us out. Now there was excitement but no fear. The gorillas went about their business, more or less unconcerned about us. The guides constantly checked in with them by making their throat noises. The silverback continued to “ignore” us so one of the guides called down from another spot and told us to come up. We were all to move as a group and we did. The jungle was thick and it was tough to walk but we came up to another spot where a female was sitting while a number of kids – including the toddler twins! – were playing. And they play! They were all wrestling and running around, swinging up on the bamboo poles. It was incredible. The children were running all around us, chasing each other through the jungle, mock-fighting, having a grand old time! Every once in a while we would be told to stand up straight because one of the silverbacks was approaching. Or a mother was approaching. Aimee and I were sometimes a few yards from one another and thus, saw completely different things. At one point, she later told me, she say one of the mamas carrying a pink little baby in her arms, cradling it in her arms. It was tiny. We found out later that the baby was just three weeks old and that it was very rare for a visitor to see. In fact, we never saw the baby or that mom for the rest of the hour.

Incidentally, Aimee always asks our guides about how the different animals birth. We found out that when a gorilla is giving birth, the other females make an inner circle around the mother-to-be and watch over her. The males form an outer circle facing outward as a wall of protection. If anything approaches, they charge. Our guide told us that he was bringing a group of tourists to see Susa when the males started charging them. He couldn’t figure out what was going on but sure enough, the twins were being born!

What to say? The hour was just incredible. The gorillas were at once with us and at the same time completely unconcerned with us. They allowed us into their world and it was one of the most spectacular things you could ever imagine. To look at their faces and into their eyes is like looking at a human being. The gorillas kept moving, climbing higher into the jungle and we kept following them – carefully. At one point we were on a small ridge. I think we were following one of the females. The group was kind of split in two (we were separated by about five feet or so) and the guide at the front of the line told us to stand up. We could see through the bush a huge silverback coming toward us from above. The group that I was in – the one lower on the ridge – heard a cracking from below and turned to see another silverback coming at us from below. We were in a precarious position. The guide at the top didn’t seem to know that there was another male below us. So we were getting different sets of messages from the two guides. The top guide was telling us to be still and the bottom one was telling us to move. I was third from the back. Behind me was the husband and wife. She was pushing me nervously: “Umm. Keep moving. Keep moving. He said to keep moving.” But I wasn’t scared. I wanted to see the silverback and he didn’t seem aggressive. The guide was relaxed and I knew he wasn’t scared. Again: “Keep moving. He said keep moving!” I had about had it with this one so I kind of snapped, “GO!” She hurried by me and I got to really look at this silverback as he moved by us.

Aimee was snapping away. She went through roll after roll of film. We were balancing wanting to take photos and then just being with the gorillas, without feeling the need to film. It was awesome to simply watch them. Unfortunately, we had left the roll of 400 in our bag because we thought the light would be too dark to film at such a slow speed. It was a bit of a blow to have run out of our good film at the end because the very last thing that happened was we came upon the dominant silverback – it was the first we had seen him – sitting in a nest of grass and bamboo. We must have been about three feet away from him. He just sat and ate making little grunts and snorts as he chomped his food. The guide said he was happy. He was enormous. His fingers were like large, black bananas. His head was like a watermelon. Above him a little baby swung on a bamboo pole. I snapped what I could with the digital but mostly we just wanted to be with them, to watch them and to see them. The guide told everyone to take their last snaps because the hour was up. We said thank you to the papa gorilla and then turned to go. We hiked back through the jungle and, on jelly legs, down the mountainside to the cars. I had a splitting headache at that point. The sun, the altitude, dehydration, adrenaline drop? I don’t know but both of us were totally spent and elated. It was about 1:15 p.m. We got in the jeep and went back to the hotel to pack and head back to Kigali.

So my computer battery is on 20% and we have about 10,000 francs in our pocket (US $20) and it is time to board the plane in a few hours. We are so sad to leave here. We love Africa. We’ve loved our time in Rwanda. We miss our friends in Gulu. And we also miss our friends and family. It’s time to come home.

and always the same...

2007-07-12T14:58:00.000+03:00

July 11, 2007 (written by Aimee and Kevin)

We’re in Kigali and feel culture shocked. Rwanda is much more developed than Uganda. It’s almost hard to believe that the two countries could be side by side. (then again, I think of the United States and Mexico.) We spent the day taking care of business (getting money exchanged, picking up our gorilla permits, etc.), and then spent the afternoon at the genocide museum learning about the horror that took place here only thirteen years ago. At that time, the tension between the two groups of people here (artificially created in the early 20th c. by the Belgian colonial government), the Hutus and the Tutsis, exploded and resulted in the death of over a million Tutsis and moderate or sympathetic Hutus in just over three months. It puts it into horrifying perspective to think that a sixth of the number of people who died in the Holocaust were killed here in just one twenty-fourth of the time…

We were with a guide, Dietier. He lost both parents during the genocide. He and his younger sister were taken into a friends house and hidden for two months. As we approached the museum – at the top of a hill overlooking a slum and the fancy, upscale city center, the latter above the former on the opposite hill – we were surprised that there was a huge line of cars and hundreds of people on foot approaching the museum. Dietier told us that the market had been closed on this day to allow the local merchants to visit the memorial. It was really something to be at the museum with these people, the survivors of the genocide, as they gathered to mourn and to remember. As we entered the gates, the mass of people weren’t going inside the museum but were instead heading down a set of stairs outside. Our guide told us that we should try to go inside first because the others would be coming in after a ceremony in the rose garden. It was very nice because we had the museum to ourselves and were able to go slowly through each section. Our hearts sank as we walked with Dietier through each room learning about the history that lead up to the genocide. Dietier explained (in French, one of the two national languages along with Kinyarwanda) about the sometimes difficult-to-understand political and cultural subtleties that led up to the genocide. We read accounts from the locals and watched many explicitly violent and heartbreaking videos of the violence that occurred during that spring and summer of 1994 (as America was transfixed by O.J. and his white Bronco). Everything in this memorial was absolutely horrifying, but a few things stand out: The women who were brutally raped and purposively infected with HIV so that their deaths would be long and painful; the tiny children (as young as a few months old) who were brutally beaten and tortured before they were killed; the fact that neighbors or family members turned on friends and relatives in what was, literally, an instant (the signal for the violence to begin was the explosion of an airplane carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Burundi); and perhaps worst of all, the fact that the West could have completely prevented this had it cared to. Our government and the U.N. had the information and intelligence to know what was happening. It is said that as little as 5,000 U.N. troops could have prevented the deaths of a million innocent lives. Not only did the French government supply the killers with 12 million dollars worth of arms, but Kofi Annan and Bill Clinton (and the rest of the world) sat idly by, knowing full well what was happening, and did nothing. Once again, the world watches as Africans die because it is too complicated or too local or too expensive; the problem is too big… But to be here and to see and meet and talk with these beautiful people (whether here or in Uganda) is to see and know them as fellow human beings, as brothers and sisters who care about and love their children, who are struggling for work and money; who worship like us, who laugh like us, who live – with the obvious exception of the unbelievable luxuries we take for granted – just like us. It is all we can do to hold back tears – really – almost every day we’re on this continent…

In one of the books we’re reading it states that 99.9% of the people of Rwanda witnessed extreme violence and killing during those 100 days. It is eerie to walk the residential streets of Rwanda and picture the scenes of a bloody genocide. We are just down the road from Hotel des Milles-Colline (made famous through the film, Hotel Rwanda), where people ran for refuge in hopes of saving their lives. One of the last rooms at the museum contained a pictorial overview of all the genocides that occurred in the twentieth century, from Armenia to Rwanda to Darfur.

What on Earth is this creature called “man”? We, who pride ourselves on our technologies and cultures and civility? We, who can travel to space and to the depths of the seas? We, the only animal to conceive of divinity and meaning, to have the ability to reflect on our own consciousness? And this? Genocide?? The attempted destruction of entire peoples based on superficial differences like color or religion or, in this case, tribe? And it keeps happening. It is happening right now. What in the f-ck are we doing here?!?!? Different eras, cultures, religions and ethnicities. And always the same…

On the drive back to our hotel, we spoke to Dietier about the process of reconciliation. What is incredible about Rwanda is that just 13 years after this genocide, there is almost complete recovery. Of course, the country has not had the resources to try to address the psychological wounds that abound in (literally) every psyche here. But the young (45 years old) leader here, Paul Kagame (a Tutsi who, from everything we’ve read and heard about him, seems loved, respected, energetic and, amazingly for sub-Saharan Africa, untainted by major scandal or corruption) and his government have implemented a sweeping reconciliation program through which the Hutus have been almost universally forgiven by the families of their victims (thousands upon thousands of Hutus are now standing or awaiting trial for their crimes; many others were able to flee). Dietier told us that in order for people to move on they must forgive. He shared with us that the man who killed his parents came to him later to ask for forgiveness. It’s unbelievable to walk the streets here and feel safe, to feel that there is a lack of tension in the air. The people are different here than in Uganda. No hearty greetings. No big smiles. They eye us as we walk by. There is a seriousness in their faces. There is no hostility toward us, just something more (perhaps understandably) reserved in their demeanor. The city center is well-developed and thriving. Investment is working. In just 13 years, this country has roared back to something resembling normalcy. Of course there is disparity. Of course the government has critics. Of course too many people beg on the streets and go to bed hungry. But considering the fact that more than about a sixth of the population was brutally murdered just over a decade ago, the state of affairs must be seen as a powerful statement to the will, determination, and capacity of these people to forgive and to love. It is awe-inspiring to us in the same way that the Acholi people are able to laugh and to love so easily so soon after they watched two generations of their people wiped out. How to fathom the duality of mankind – the great capacity to kill and the greater capacity to live? It is a fascinating planet, no?

Photo 1: Us on the Bus to Kigali
Photo 2: Welcome to Rwanda
Photo 3: Hotel des Milles-Colline

Gentle Creatures

2007-07-12T14:13:00.000+03:00

July, 6th 2007

I had to unplug from blogging and writing this week. I had no energy for it. To recall all the events of the week feels like too much, but I feel compelled to at least follow up from my last blog. My last entry was mostly about Harriet. After her cesarean and the death of her son, her body became extremely infected. She was not monitored closely enough by the doctors and ended up with an advanced case of sepsis. When we arrived last Friday morning, her mother, Catherine, was crying and was worried that her daughter was going to die. She told us that during the night Harriet’s breathing was very labored and she was completely unresponsive. It was clear to me that she needed to be transferred to Lacor hospital immediately. We had to wait around for her transfer to be signed off on by the head doctor and then we had to arrange for a car. They don’t just have an ambulance on call ready to go. Once the ambulance is arranged, you personally have to pay for petrol. We helped the family with this cost. What about the families that can’t afford the petrol to Lacor? Harriet was in really bad shape when we transferred her. She was making these deep moans but her eyes were fixed and her breathing was very shallow. Her body was in septic shock. Harriet was taken off the gurney at GRRH and placed on a straw mat in the ambulance with eight relatives crammed around her, including Rachel, who rode with her in the back. We traveled the bumpy dirt road to Lacor and were greeted with frustration by the head maternity nurse. She gave me a long lecture about how GRRH always waits until the last minute to transfer patients to them. She was angry about how this affects the records and statistics at Lacor because, unfortunately, many of the transfer patients die. After all, Gulu hospital is the “referral” hospital. It was a shock to witness the Lacor doctors at work. They moved fast and treated Harriet immediately. We talked to them about the issue of negligence in Harriet’s case. They had a lot to say on this matter and confirmed what we’ve been witnessing at GRRH. Once Harriet was stabilized the doctor told us that he felt very optimistic about her chances for recovery. I felt so relieved. We told her family the good news and left thinking that she would regain consciousness within two days. We told them that we’d come to check her the following day. Her brother, James, spoke English well and was our main way of communicating with her family. He was also a dedicated brother and had been at Harriet’s side everyday. Around 4 pm the next day Rachel and I were getting ready to go to the hospital. I decided to call James just to check in with him. To my shock he told me that Harriet died at 1 pm. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it. It was just three days before her death that we were singing and dancing together. She was a strong, funny, lively, beautiful girl. How could this have happened? Our conversation was short. I asked him to call back with details about her burial. We hung up and Rachel, Kevin, and I were dumbfounded. I was furious. It wasn’t until later on when I was alone with Kevin that I broke down. It was just too much. Rachel and I attended her burial. She was buried on a plot of land that her young husband’s family owned. The land was deep in the bush… and I mean deep. We drove to a small town and then hiked about 2 kilometers into the bush. James escorted us along with Kenny (our driver and friend from St. Monica’s). I was glad to have him with us. Her family had been waiting for us. They were about 75 people gathered in a clearing in the middle of the bush. Harriet was wrapped in blankets. One was a the katange (cloth) that she labored in at the hospital. Her mother also tore a piece of that material and was wearing it around her waist. They unwrapped her face so that we could see her. Again, I couldn’t believe she was dead. It was heartbreaking to see her mother. We had spent so much time with her mother from the time Harriet arrive in early labor, through active labor, and then post cesarean and the death of her baby. I felt very connected to her and at a loss…The burial was very simple. She was put into the ground and her cousins poured dirt over her. Then they got inside the hole and pounded the dirt on top of her with their feet. This was followed by pounding the dirt with large wooden poles. The women and men sat separately. They watched silently. Harriet’s mother cried a little, but quietly. Rachel and I sat on the straw mat with Catherine and the other mothers of Harriet and we all held hands. She had many mothers, at least four. I think her father had five wives. After the last bit of dirt was pounded down the women erupted in wailing. They began weeping, screaming, and pounding their chests. I was totally taken off guard. The women then got up and began the procession back to the village. The crying and grieving continued all the way down the path. As Catherine passed the grave she threw her flip flops on top. We took the long and sad walk back to our car. Catherine and her sister got in and we drove them back to the IDP camp. She wanted to show us where the baby was buried. We walked through the camp until we got to a hut. There, inside the outer wall of the hut, was a small mound of mud. The baby was inside the wall of the hut. It was so sad to see that little mound of mud, and hard to believe that their baby was buried inside. They took us to where Harriet lived and then we said our goodbyes. There was closure for me in attending her burial. It helped to mourn with her mothers and family. It helped to see her face.

During the week of Harriet’s and her baby’s death there were two other babies and two other mothers who died. The two babies were both women that we had been working with. Their story is equally as important and painful as Harriet’s but I don’t have the energy to retell it during this entry. Even now as I write, Kevin and I are on a bus to Kigali, Rwanda, and nine days have passed since Harriet’s burial. It feels like a long time ago.

My last week in Gulu was filled with a lot of grief and joy. I was fighting a bacterial infection and had the worse case of tonsillitis ever. My body just broke down from the stress and emotional weight of the last month. In that time Jess and Ellen arrived to Gulu. They were here for just a short time but their presence was lovely. The women and staff at the hospital appreciated them so much. They “doula-ed” each woman with great tenderness. I took them to meet the TBAs at Kongya Goka IDP camp. Again, we were greeted with song and dance. In return, Ellen belly danced and was a huge hit! They talked to them about the role of a doula and showed them some positions and pressure points that are helpful for women during labor. They appreciated our short childbirth education class and we were so grateful in return for the wisdom that they shared with us.

I learned a lot from this pilot program about what works and what doesn’t work. In our time at the hospital we witnessed what to us looked like negligence… I wrote about the lack of critical thinking in my last blog. Looking back on that blog I have to apologize to my Acholi friends. I could go back to my blog site and edit it out but I feel it’s important for it to remain. There is critical thinking here. There is self-reflection. It was arrogant of me to write otherwise. It’s hard to process and live in it at the same time. There are days of utter rage, it’s true. But that rage is mixed with the most heartbreaking compassion. The rage is not directed at anyone in particular. I think that once we start indicting the victims, we as westerners lose the wider context of the suffering of the culture. That line is a constant test. My last day at the hospital was a sobering one. I learned a lot from my midwife sisters about what is needed in order to work as a team even in the midst of negligence and death. It is easy to focus on the mistakes at the hospital. It is easy to point a finger at someone and call them incompetent. But the doctors and midwives are not to blame. The hospital is not to blame. The people of Northern Uganda have been so deeply traumatized by war and poverty. We can come in and jump into problem solving and criticizing—all in the name of “research”. But at what cost? We will never know what their reality is. I came to GRRH because the conditions are so atrocious. I came because this hospital is severely lacking in supplies, training, and staff. I came because they are my friends. The women that work in this ward everyday are completely overworked. Often they are not paid for six months. They carry heavy loads at home with orphaned children that need food on the table and school fees that need to be paid. Even the head nursing officers can barely survive. So I apologize if I simplified my own analysis of the situation. I was angry the day that I wrote that blog. I still don’t have answers. Do I need to? For me that’s not the point. I have love for my friends, even the ones that participated in Harriet’s and her baby’s deaths. I am humbled here everyday.

I learned that there is no greater human power than kindness and love. I love this place and the Acholi people so much. My own personal commitment is galvanized with each visit. I had many heartfelt and tearful goodbyes, always to the shock of my Acholi friends. Crying when saying goodbye isn’t part of the culture- as far as I can tell…The nuns at St. Monica’s threw me, Rachel, and Kevin a goodbye party. As usual, our dinner turned into a dance party and was the perfect way to celebrate our goodbye with friends that had been so loving and hospitable to us. They even baked us a beautiful Sacred Heart cake! The next day (Friday morning) we drove Rachel to the bus park to see her off. It had been a month of intense and powerful work together. This was a unique situation and one that I will never forget. I’m grateful for all that I learned from my midwife sister.

July 9th, 2007
We feel good. We’ve just returned from a day-long safari at Murchison Falls with the NYU students and Teachers for Teachers exchange program. There is nothing better than being on safari with the hot sun pouring over you riding on top of a matatu and gazing over the landscape scattered with animals---especially giraffes! I felt in love with these magnificent gentle giants. [editors note: Mrs. Brill has a documented history of falling in love with long-necked, gangly creatures with knobby knees and brown spots all over their skin.] We got to Backpackers hostel at 11:30pm and found out that there were six beds for eleven people in a shared room with ten other travelers that we didn’t know and who already were asleep. Not to mention that there were no pillows or mosquito nets on the beds. It was at this point that we had a simple choice: laugh or leave. As it was midnight already, we were over roughing it and decided to book ourselves into a decent hotel in Kampala. I took about five hot showers in two days.

…So now we’re on the long road to Kigali. It’s a nine hour bus ride and luckily we’ve got great seats up front.

We’re happy to have this time together. The jungle and gorillas are calling.

Love to everyone back home,
Aimee

photo 1 Midwives at GRRH (Sister Millie, Sister Anna, and Sister Irene)
photo 2 Jess and Ellen giving a demonstration on positions during labor
photo 3 Kevin and Sister Rosemary at our last dinner dancing calypso
photo 4 Beautiful giraffes!

Downs and Ups

2007-06-30T10:54:00.000+03:00

I have not felt like blogging this time around. As Aimee has written, this trip is very different from our first. We have come back into a network of relationships and responsibilities, both old and new. We’ve come back with the understanding that we very likely will not be back this way for quite some time, and we are trying to utilize each moment for the work we’ve come to do. One of the first things we discovered when we arrived in Gulu was that the two brothers who we’ve been sponsoring in school since February are in very different situations. Fred, the younger boy, is in his first year of secondary school in a private, Catholic school. His campus is secluded and very green. There are only 130 boys there and they have (old) computers, functional science labs and, most importantly, a feeling of normalcy. Stephen, his older brother, is twenty years old. He dropped out of secondary school seven years ago when his Aunt could no longer afford the school fees. When we met Stephen, he was driving a matatu and trying to support Fred and his Aunt. He had a terrible stutter and he seemed, in many ways, traumatized. I think that for Stephen, just the pride of being in school and wearing a uniform has contributed to a major shift in his personality. His stutter is considerably less pronounced, he is smiling a lot, and he talks positively about his future. Unfortunately, the school that Charity for Peace placed him in is in ruins. It honestly looks like a burned out squatter flat. The school consists of a single administration building pushed back from a dirt road atop a small hill on the outskirts of town. If no one were in front of the building, you would honestly think it was abandoned. There is graffiti all over the face of the building and the windows are almost completely broken out. Next to this building is the boys dorm. When we went in, the smell was enough to knock a person down. Trash and dirt is piled in every corner of the living quarters. When the power is on, there is a single lightbulb on the ceiling to illuminate the room. All of the boys sleep on thin, foam mattresses on the floor. It is quite a sight. Fifty or sixty boys to a room, crammed together like sardines. Stephen had few clothes and just a thin sheet to keep warm. Despite the fact that he had been in school for six months, they had failed to provide him with the uniform that was supposed to be included in his fees. The weather now ranges from very hot in the midday to quite cool in the evenings and throughout the night. Stephen was complaining that he was quite cold. He also told us that he had yet to be shown his report card so he had no idea how he was progressing in his studies. When I went to speak to the headmaster, a man who seemed to be in his late twenties or so, he didn’t have a very good explanation for the uniform or the report card, but both miraculously appeared within a day or two. On the day that I came by to pick up a copy of the report card, the headmaster asked if I worked for an NGO. When I said no, he said he was sorry to hear it because he was going to ask me if there were any job openings in my company. Text books are only for those who can afford the 20,000 shilling cost per book, so hardly anyone has books. That’s not just at Stephen’s school. I have only seen one or two children in any of the schools I’ve been to who have even a single book. Fred, even though he was in a “good” school, had no mosquito netting on his bed. He had only two shirts, a pair of pants, and a pair of shorts that substituted as underwear… So sponsoring a child, we’ve discovered, requires a lot more than just writing a check and sending it to some charity. There has to be some follow-up. Now we are in the process of getting Stephen into a better school where we can be somewhat sure that he is not freezing on a cement floor each night. If we hadn’t come back, Stephen may have finished his schooling in this place and he would never have mentioned anything to us because, to him, it was a better situation than he had been in…

On a completely unrelated note, I was feeling quite homesick this week. I had been getting quite a bit accomplished last week. I was plowing through a lot of reading for N.Y.U. that I had fallen behind on during the year. I was preparing some abstracts for papers and conference proposals. And I had started working with the prisoners and Gulu prison on a theater piece. Things were moving along wonderfully, but then I came down with some terrible infection. I don’t know if it was viral or bacterial or what. A lot of the locals are convinced that it was malaria. Whatever it was, it threw me for a loop! I was truly down and out for about five days. High fever, vomiting, night sweats, headache, intense joint pain, the whole nine yards. Aimee was amazing. Despite all the intense weight she was carrying on her shoulders from her days at the hospital, she really nursed me back to health. I was so out of it, I wasn’t really aware of what was going on for her. Nevertheless, she was transporting back and forth to Gulu Independent hospital to get checked, to get medication, and then sitting with me at home until she was sure I was comfortable. So after a tough, long weekend, I am feeling much, much better. But ever since I got sick, my spirits have been really low. Actually, I’m feeling a bit like myself today. We’ll see if I can maintain through the day because for the last few days, I’ve been pretty low. Dreaming of the Atlantic Ocean, Brooklyn pizza, and Brian Lehrer (my favorite NPR host in New York). Missing my niece and nephew and my brothers and my parents and my cat (!) and feeling sorry for myself about all of it…

But then I woke up this morning and the sunrise was absolutely stunning. The air was clean and fresh and I felt a bit lighter. As I walked down the red-clay roads, I tried to see the scene with fresh eyes again. I tried to remind myself that it was pretty incredible that I was strolling down this road in Central Africa. It is incredible. Aimee and I don’t know when we’ll be back here. It may be many, many years. It may be never. I know I’ll have pizza again. And I’ll swim in the ocean in a few short weeks. But when will I see this African sunrise? And when will I live with a group of singing, dancing, drumming nuns? When will I be offered a steaming bowl of white ants again as an after-dinner treat? When will I have the chance to enter a Ugandan prison and do a bilingual theater workshop with 100 inmates? It may be a while. So I’m telling myself to stop bitching and start rediscovering these landscapes. When we left in January, we said that it had been a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Well, now it’s been twice-in-a-lifetime and I don’t want to take it for granted. I still look forward to coming home in a few weeks. I really do miss everyone, and I can’t wait to get a slice and some chocolate ice cream. But it will keep. For now, we are here and I want to soak it in because I don’t know if I’ll pass this way again.

More to come…

The Privilege of Self-Reflection

2007-06-28T18:20:00.001+03:00

6.26-We’re in the middle of our third week. I can’t believe it. My days are booked. Today Rachel and I are working the evening shift at the hospital so I have the morning to write and catch up on some things around St. Monica’s. After lunch, we’re teaching a workshop with the child mothers that live and go to school here. Sister Rosemary asked us to teach them a course about mothering, focusing on the basics of washing and caring for their baby etc. We’re hoping to have more of a conversation around the joys and challenges about being a young mother. We’ll see how it goes…

Well, I’m finally feeling like I’m gaining clarity on the purpose of this trip. Our meetings with the TBAs have pointed most directly to what’s most needed and what can be most easily sustained. My heart is with them. They are a vital part of the health care system in the North. They are not compensated for their work in any way. Yet, they identified so strongly with being a TBA as a profession. It is their profession. They are proud and passionate about their work. If they’re lucky they’ll receive some sugar or sim sim (peanut) paste as payment for a birth. Most of the time they are not paid. They have been forced to move into IDP camps because of the conflict, without any support from the government at all or any supplies to protect themselves. They attend births often unprotected without any gloves. They shared with us about their concern about contracting HIV and other diseases. Some have been living in the camps for a few years, some up to twenty years. Once again, women are carrying the heaviest load for their community without any recognition, training, funding, or outside support. This is what feels important to me. Each group that we’ve met with has a leader. It would be feasible to implement a program to support the TBAs through local leadership to get them supplies, funding, and training. I believe that with long-term governmental and NGO support these women could change the structure of healthcare for women living in IDP camps. They have sincerely asked us not to forget them.

The hospital is another story. The need for supplies and training is also very great. I filmed and witnessed a cesarean birth two days ago and was horrified at what I saw. It is not their fault. To begin with, the two surgeons performing the procedure were both junior doctors. They have been trained in an outdated technique. I watched in horror as this poor woman was butchered with a 10 inch midline incision. Blood was pouring off the table as she lay with her scarred uterus on her stomach and her placenta in between her ankles (they just left it there). To everyone’s surprise she gave birth to twin girls. I honestly wasn’t sure if she would make it out alive. Thank g-d she was in the cesarean ward the following day. She is in severe pain but she is alive. This was her second cesarean. Each day at the hospital is horrifying. I wish it wasn’t this way.

One thing that I have found here is the absence of critical thinking. As a culture, they have been taught not to question. The roots of this absence come from the conditioning of being colonized. There is a formula for everything they do. Thinking outside of the box is not even an option. There is no awareness that there is a box. There is a lack of self-reflection. I see how in our culture, self-reflection is a privilege. This is extremely disturbing when it comes to birth, an art that so heavily relies on intuition. From the time we are very young, our parents ask “How do you feel, honey? Did that make you feel sad? Did your feelings get hurt?” Your feelings are a privilege. I am constantly trying to find ways to reframe that question. It just doesn’t translate here. Kevin is finding the same thing with his work at the prison. The men there are most comfortable being a collective, but to ask someone to individualize a performance is foreign to them. It took him 45 minutes the other day to have them act out something from their own experience. The removal of one’s own personal experience from the culture plays into birth in a fascinating way. You might think that women would birth silently, shamefully, or introspectively due to a lack of individualism and self-reflection in the culture. But we’re finding the opposite. Birth gives these women permission to emote and be dramatic. It gives them permission to feel, shout, scream, rage, and cry. It’s an eruption of emotion! The midwives in response will laugh and call them “stubborn”. The performance of birth comes to a screeching halt after the baby is born. A woman that was tearing at my neck and kicking me one moment becomes immediately docile and expressionless after the birth. Or she goes from a raging fit to being so lovely and sweet.

Last week, a young midwife, Beatrice, fresh out of midwifery school joined us on the maternity ward at GRRH. She is obsessed with conducting every birth and in my opinion, a little “catch obsessed”. Each birth is approached the same way as if each mother’s needs are the same. I appreciate her passion for wanting to learn. I share that passion with her. But what I’m witnessing her practice is actually dangerous to the mother. She was taught to do thorough vaginal examines after a mother has delivered. As a student in this system (British) you are taught to learn through rote memorization. That is they way to succeed. Do as the book says. So even if we have controlled a mother’s bleeding with nursing or breast stimulation, she insists on vigorously inserting her hands inside a woman after each birth. One of the last mother’s that this happened to fainted in the hallway five minutes after being examined in this way. It’s disconcerting to say the least. We are always walking such a fine line. A dangerous line. An important line. There is a time and place to step in and protect mothers, to actively train the other birth attendants and midwives, and there is a time to respect their practices and watch. I do not blame the women that I’m working with for what I see as negligence. It would be naïve and arrogant to do so. The problem runs so deep, and is a direct consequence of the effects of colonization. But at what point, as a culture, do you evolve from that history? Where does critical thinking come from? As a culture, what is the catalyst for questioning? Rachel calls it “a shell of Western medicine”. It’s true. It reminds me of how women were treated in the nineteen fifties when the medicalization of women became the trend, and sadly, remains as the dominant paradigm. So here we are…and this is the “referral” hospital that the TBAs are being told to send their women. This the place for high-risk mothers. This week one of the mothers came in with a prolapsed uterus. Her uterus was still hanging out of her vagina two days after she first came in. She left and went home untreated.

We’re filming our days here with the hope of creating a documentary that will not only tell the story of the hospital, but help to raise funding and awareness for the TBAs. Soon, two more doulas will be joining us. That said, I question if an exchange program is what is most needed here. If my intention is to create a sustainable project for TBAs I have to be honest and say that it is not about bringing more of “us” here.

July 27th – I’m returning from a very upsetting day at the hospital. It is honestly just getting worse and worse. We came for the evening shift and found out that one of the mothers lost her baby in a cesarean section. It took a few minutes to find out that it was Harriet’s, a seventeen year old girl that I was with all yesterday. When I left her at 4pm she was 8cm dilated, the heart rate of her baby was strong, and she was in good spirits. We spent most of the day walking the halls and singing a song that we made up. “Today is the day of birthday. Today is the day for your baby to come...” then I would ask her, “When will your baby come?” “Today!” When will it happen?” “Now!” and she would point to her belly. Then she would tell me that she thought we should switch bellies. She wanted me to have the big one! I asked her when this should happen and she responded “Tonight!”. We laughed together and kept on walking. Out of all the teenagers that I’ve worked with I felt most connected to her. She was responsive in a way that I hadn’t experienced with other girls. She had a large group of mothers helping her, supporting, and loving her. It was shock to come back today to the news that her baby had died. What happened?! What went wrong?! I was not satisfied with the doctor’s explanation that her pelvis was compressed. He said that he got a call at 1:30am but he was not on-call that night. He tried three other doctors and not one of them answered the call. Apparently, one was officially on-call but his phone was off. So he waited until the his morning shift and gave her the cesarean at 9am. By that time the baby had already died. I went to see her in the cesarean ward. A ward filled with about ten beds full of recovering mothers, most with infected incisions. The room smells like shit and piss and is full of flies. I don’t think the mothers get cleaned up or cared for. Usually one of their relatives is responsible for washing them. She looked at me asked about her baby. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t understand. No one had told her that baby died. It was explained to me later that the policy is to wait a few days until the mother has recovered. I spoke with the doctor again (the junior surgeon who performed the cesarean). I told him that she was awake and that she had been asking for her baby. We walked to the ward and I thought he was going to give her news. Instead, he lied to her and told her that the baby was not well but that we’re hoping he will be better by tomorrow. He was speaking in Luo so I thought the whole time that he was telling her truth. Instead, he lied to her face and to mine. There was nothing I could do except hold her hand and be with her. I left it up to her mother to tell her, but I don’t think she has. Her family had been informed and had taken the baby home after the cesarean. It wasn’t until a few hours later when Harriet was asleep that I got the real story. I took her mother outside in the hall along with a translator to find out what went wrong. The translator was this wonderful woman who has been working at GRRH in the dental ward for ten years. I was told that she was 9 cm at 9:30pm. She felt the urge to push but was told that she was going to get slapped if she cried or screamed. The midwives then went into the back room (the room were we change) and slept throughout the night. They told the mother and Harriet that they would only come out to clamp and cut the cord. They totally left her alone. They abandoned her. Her mother said that no one touched her, no one encouraged her, or helped her. About an hour later she was pushing on her own. The baby came down and was close to crowning because her mother said she could see head. Again, no one came to be her, check the fetal heart rate, or help her push her baby out. They left her in that state until morning. The baby was in distress with his head compressed in the birth canal for twelve hours. Of course, by the time they performed the cesarean in the morning he was dead. The mother said to me that she thought of us all night because she knew we would have helped her daughter. She said she knew we would have touched her. The woman translating, Janet, was extremely open and told me that this happened too often at this hospital. “The midwives hit and hurt the women. They should not treat mothers this way. They should be encouraging them, especially such a young girl.”
My blood rushed through my body. I was livid. An entire month of justifying, of playing mediator and peacemaker, came to an end. What is happening at this hospital is criminal. I’m sorry to say it. It needs to be reported to the administration. It needs to change. I apologized to Harriet’s mother. I told her this should not have happened to her daughter. I asked her if I could film her story with Janet translating and she agreed. I’m going to return to the hospital today to follow-up with that and a few other things. My heart is so heavy. There’s really no time to process here. I just seem to be moving on. There are so many issues colliding at once. I’m reflecting on my first time at GRRH. What was the difference? The majority of my time, I was working with two other midwives, Jackie and Jennifer. I haven’t worked a shift with either one of them this trip. Compared to the midwives of this trip, they both are kind, knowledgeable, and thorough in the care of mother and baby. They taught me a lot. In that time, I never witnessed a resuscitation. I never saw a baby die. I knew the conditions were atrocious but I felt that the mothers were being cared for.

This type of violence against women happens all over the world. It is another case of victim/victimizer. The truth is I have compassion for the midwives abusing these women. I see how little they have, how unsupported they are. But this can’t go on… Will my reporting them really do anything? I doubt it. But I feel like I can’t leave here without handing in a formal report on the conditions that we’ve witnessed. I do feel clearer about my own role at the hospital. I’m putting my energy into educating. I don’t want to reprimand or continue the violence I’ve witnessed by assaulting my midwife sisters. I want there to be real rehabilitation for the women and staff. I even thought about incorporating non-violent communication into the next trip (who knows when that will even be?).

Sorry for the extremely long blog. I’m really just journaling for my own sanity. It helps to write. The week in Rwanda is looking really good right now!

Love to you all. Thank you for your support and Love. I feel it. The work is hard but I love it, and it's what I came here to do.

Ps Update on Kevin:
Kevin told me that he plans to post a blog this week. He just hasn’t felt like writing. He’s working at the prison everyday from 9-12. He’s also advising the NYU students on the Teachers for Teachers program. It’s all going well. Unfortunately, he got sick last week but has made a full recovery! We have our “dates” throughout the day and week. But we’re really looking forward to an enjoyable last week together in Rwanda. And we can’t wait for gorilla tracking on our last day!

Love,
Aimee

Photo Kevin's first night out after a week of being sick!
Photo Sister Florence, our Ugandan mother who we love so much.
Photo Harriet in labor

Birth in Question

2007-06-20T09:36:00.001+03:00

June 20th, 2007

The walls are covered in a streaked brown stain spanning seventy years worth of women laboring. They coat the corridors of Gulu Hospital and are a permanent fixture in the story of birth at the maternity ward. I feel caught in a conflict that has no resolution, only temporary ebb and flows—some positive, some negative. The more I work here, the more complex the issues become. Am I just here as a witness? Am I here to bring back the narratives of these women? Am I here to “help”? Does my very presence only solidify the constructs of Western power in a developing nation? I try to keep it simple. I take it ALL in. My heart is bursting, aching, crying in love. I don’t want to be preachy, but only G-d can hold this love and pain. I feel alive here for that reason. I am always brought closer to this presence. It is extremely humbling. The role of the midwife is just that—a role. I watch, listen, act, and care. I’m laughed at by the women that line the corridor whenever I give labor support to a birthing mother. It’s a cultural difference. Women don’t really touch the birthing mom. But the mothers in labor are very responsive to a loving touch and comfort. Many of the women don’t speak English but they respond to a kind touch. Who doesn’t?

I literally am walking in two worlds. Yesterday at the hospital, we resuscitated a baby back to life. We watched it go from blue to gray to pinkish brown. We watched its breathing go from shallow to steady. After many attempts of trying to explain that this baby needed oxygen immediately, we trained the grandmother to give mouth to mouth. She didn’t understand what that was so after several more minutes, Rachel got a glove, ripped a hole in it, placed it over the babies mouth and gave him mouth to mouth. It was the only way to save this baby. We’ve noticed that the midwives don’t assess the newborn after they are born. Have they become so apathetic to witnessing death? Has it become such a normal part of their daily experience that it no longer warrants emergency intervention? I watch this and wonder…aware of my own biases, aware of my own arrogance. But when you know you can save a life how can you just walk away and let that baby die? It is extreme. The mothers scream out. They grab you and pull on you with the force that is the tsunami of birth. My shoulders ache at the end of the day and yet I rush back to check on these mamas eager to see them holding their new baby the following day. I love these women. There is so much that I don’t understand. So much that I’m trying to put together.

I hop on a bodha and head back to St. Monica’s. Yesterday was the Feast of the Sacred Heart. It was a day of celebration for the nuns here. I go from being immersed in birth and the relationship between life and day into overflowing exuberance! Within a short time I was sweating and dancing my heart out to Ugandan music with the girls (and Kevin). They can get down! We sipped on homemade pineapple wine and resumed our dance party with the nuns after supper. Happiness, togetherness, and a sense of family envelops the convent. We spent the night rejoicing in this celebration of the sacred heart (I love that). The night ended with the earth quaking which for me was the perfect response to the type of day that I had.

The last few days were spent traveling and speaking with TBAs (Traditional Birth Attendants) in IDP camps. We heard the stories of over seventy women. These women are the villager midwives who have come into this calling through their mothers and grandmothers. One woman said she started as a midwife at the age of twelve. There is a very interesting dialogue going on between TBAs and nurse midwives in Uganda. It is now illegal to give birth in the villages and all TBAs are being trained to refer their women to the hospital. But we’ve found that the relationship between TBAs and the hospital midwives is very good. They respect each other and recognize the differences of their roles in the community. Many of the midwives are grateful for the TBAs because the truth is that they relieve a lot of pressure and work for them. The midwives are all understaffed and overworked. The TBAs are being trained through large NGO health programs. They are being trained in the Western way. We’re watching how this force comes in and undermines the ancient wisdom already present in the Acholi people. They learn their information through song, dance, and skits. They are a lively bunch! We have even exchanged cultural dances. They taught us some traditional Acholi dances and we busted out havah nagilah. We even got one of the elders bouncing up in the chair!

There is a lot more to write about our time with them but I’m at the internet café with little time…

I love you all and look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.
Afoyo!

thank you for all your comments!

xo-aimee

photos:
TBAs in Koro
TBAs in Bobbi demonstrating how when the refer a mother to the hospital

Seeing Gulu Through New Eyes

2007-06-14T10:37:00.001+03:00

Before I start writing I’d like to dedicate this trip to our dear friend Komakach Kenny Odongpiny. His absence from our lives is deeply felt. His tragic death only underlines how severe the suffering is for the people of Northern Uganda…

Wow, we’re back!

Being here a second time feels very different. What I look at, smell, hear, taste, and touch is now familiar. What was all so new the first time has rushed back into my senses and landed in a previously recorded place in my memory. It didn’t take long to jump right back in. I’m focused on the work and on the relationships that I have here with my dear friends in Gulu. Once again my heart is touched beyond all measure by their kindness and generosity. It is quite amazing to be with people who witness the worst suffering and still emanate a joy that surpasses anything I have ever witnessed before in my life. I love it here.

Kevin and I are staying at “St. Monica’s Girls Tailoring School” with our friend, Rachel, a midwife from Brooklyn. The girls here are survivors. Many of them were abducted during the war. Just the other night about twenty child-mothers were dropped off with their babies. Many look despondent. It’s as if they are somewhere else… We eat all three meals at the convent with the nuns that run St. Monica’s. There are a lively bunch! Every meal is filled with a lot of laughter. We feel like we’re in the African “Sound of Music”! Each Sister has a very distinct personality. Sister Jane is a big woman who jokes all the time. Sister LaCosta is a beautiful Sudanese woman with a fiery spirit. She is combative in a way that makes everyone in the room laugh. Assunta is another Sudanese woman with deep, dark skin. She is quiet and thoughtful and has a very caring spirit. And then there is the Mother Superior, Sister Rosemary. She is a large woman who shakes all over when she laughs… and she laughs a lot. She loves music and will sometimes turn on the radio, bust out the house-made wine and donuts, and shake her booty around the kitchen during supper. It’s been a delight to be with them. The work they do in this community is amazing. Of any group we’ve seen in the community, they are efficient and organized. The school is dedicated to the practical training of the girls in an effort to make them self-sufficient and employable upon their graduation. They study tailoring, secretarial skill, cooking, and catering. To Americans, this might seem awfully backward, dated, or sexist, but in the context of this culture, it is actually something that can help these girls to survive. In the absence of an ability to go to academic institutions, their other options are few.

The girls stay up late into the night. Our room is just on the other side of their dorm. Every night we hear them singing, talking, laughing, bathing, joking…I’m glad they have each other. After twenty years of war, and twenty years before that of the brutal dictatorships of Milton Obote and Idi Amin, we are glad they can laugh with one another now. The other day, children from the Catholic schools from around the area came to gather for mass in the assembly hall. It struck me that just a year or so ago many of these children were still night commuting, or were held captive by the rebel army. Many of them were abducted and trained to be killers. I sat looking around the room. I started noticing all the scars of different girls and boys. A machete scar on one girl’s head, another one on the neck of a teenage boy. The confusion, pain, horror, love, and joy of these child soldiers washed over me. Thank g-d they got out. But now what?

Kevin and I walked home later that afternoon. It is customary to greet someone when you see them so we walked over to the nuns who were in front of a group of little ones. The children (about 15) were singing to the nuns. When we approached the nuns asked them to sing us a song. They started “Hello friends, hello vis-i-toors, we’re so happy, we’re so grateful, we’re sooo happy to be with you…” It was the sweetest song. One of the nuns, Sister Sunta, leaned over and whispered “that one is Kony’s daughter”. I looked over at this beautiful little girl singing to me with her shining eyes. She was probably six years old. How do you reconcile being the daughter of a mass murderer and rebel leader?

June 10th – First day back at the hospital…it was a difficult day. The first baby born did not survive. She ingested a tremendous amount of meconium which, in and of itself, isn’t fatal. I worked on her for a long time. I thought she was going to make it. The power was out so we were limited with what we could use to resuscitate her. Suction tubes and a manual resuscitator machine just aren’t enough. It’s a very helpless feeling to watch a baby die knowing that her life could probably be saved back home. But the people here don’t think that way. They believe that G-d determines the outcome of every life. I believe that too. This was the fourth baby that this mother lost. She still has two living children. The hospital is in worse shape now than it was six months ago. There is a desperate need of supplies, updated medical information, structural renovations, and training. The list is endless. And this is just one small hospital in one town.

June 13th
It’s 10pm and I’m feeling wired. It’s been a long day. Rachel and I were at the hospital for 9 hours straight with only a 15 minute break. I don’t have the energy to write about the day or our experiences at the hospital. I have had to stuff so much of what I’ve witnessed today. I can’t even begin. If I launch into a story it will be out of context and seem so dramatic. Every birth is “dramatic” and is happening in a cultural context that is so different from ours. It piles on – layer upon layer upon layer. The history of colonialism impacts how the midwives are practicing which impacts the care that the women are receiving and on and on….violence against women, lack of funding, HIV, severe poverty, abuse of power – all these issues collide and I’m left with a complexity that is paralyzing to write about. I stayed up late with Rachel talking about our day. I could not have a better birth partner with me. I am learning so much from her knowledge as a midwife. It’s also a tremendous help to have a partner at the hospital. We’re conducting births as a team, processing together, and weeding through the issues to get to the heart of why we’re here. She’s a strong, loving, and determined woman. It turns out that our paths in our lives have crossed before. I put this pilot program out there and feel like what’s come back in return is perfectly aligned. It’s good to trust life!

There is so much we haven't even touched on yet so we will try to write soon!

Sending love to everyone back home.

aimee & kevin

photos: 1) Aimee with Sister Florence (senior midwife in Gulu), Grace (midwife in Gulu), and Rachel (American midwife traveling with Aimee)
2) A & K in extremely wealthy, extremely humid Dubai during our layover...

...until we meet again...

2007-01-11T20:50:00.000+03:00

Back in Kampala at Backpackers Hostel after four days on Safari. It's hard to believe that we have a 6am pick-up tomorrow morning. We don't want to leave! We'll keep our last blog short.

We had an incredible safari through Ishasha and Queen Elizabeth National Park. The photos will speak for themselves. We decided to go out in style. The Mweya Lodge, at the end of the peninsula which separates Lake Edward and the Kazinga channel is absolutely unbelievable. We did not expect, when we booked our trip, that we would be staying in a true, 5-star hotel/resort. It was wonderful, after a month of pit latrines and spider-infested lodgings, to be in total comfort. The best part of the place was that we were really in the wilderness, with the most beautiful animal friends we could ever have imagined. To wake before dawn for a game drive and stumble upon elephants, lions, hyenas, wart hogs, buffalo, and hippos -- not to mention the 601 species of birds -- was and will always be unforgettable for us.

The only way for us to leave Uganda is to believe that this is a beginning. We have made so many incredible friends and have seen such a need to serve that we can't imagine that this is a one shot deal. We don't want it to be (don't worry family we've already figured out how to get you straight from the airport to the Mweya Lodge free of matatu rides with chickens!). To be honest, we are dragging our heels home. We miss you and love you all but Africa is a magical place like none other. We are so grateful for our time here and all the lessons learned. Our hearts are full with love for humanity (and wildlife).

Thank you all for reading. Your comments were always such a treat for us, and many times we were left with tears in our eyes at random computer "caffes".

so many stories to share. But for now, so many hours to fly...see you in Brooklyn!

sending love,
aimee and kevin

ps to farrin, rylan, and marina- we are thinking of you and the arrival of your new babe.
pps-happy birthday, mom!

Farewell, Sweet Gulu...

2007-01-07T21:10:00.000+03:00

January 6th, 2007 (Aimee)

I’m feeling very heartbroken about leaving Gulu. Every person that I have meant has a story. Every person here has been deeply affected by the war. The midwives that I’ve been learning from all have 4-7 orphans living in their home. My dear friend Jackie’s husband was killed by the LRA just a little over a year ago when he was working by the Sudanese border. They have two children. She can’t afford to finish her midwifery degree. She struggles with the bare essentials. With every interaction comes a story like this one…. yesterday another midwife shared that she has been having “social problems” ever since witnessing the murder of her father. She explained that she no longer has the mental capacity to sustain her day at work. This helped me understand why, at times, I have witnessed violence in the maternity ward. The people are so traumatized. This is the psychology of war. They are the ones counseling and helping “child mothers” during obstructed pregnancies and miscarriages. These are girls who were taken by the LRA and forced to be wives/slaves. I wonder when assisting a mother at GRRH from the age of 18-25 if she was abducted? Was she a child mother? What is her story? What are those scars? I have seen so many horrifying scars. During the height of the war in Gulu, the hospital was also used as a safe haven for the children. This is all recent history. Our friend, Amy, told us last night that just six months ago it wasn’t safe to walk at night in Gulu town.

We are touched by all of our friends here. We are in constant dialogue about what to do, how to help? For myself, I can’t imagine coming to Uganda and chalking it up to an incredible “experience”. I am coming home to work on ways to collaborate and continue these relationships. There is so much to learn from these women, and they feel, they have so much to learn from us. It is hard to think of coming back home, but I know in my heart that we will return to Africa. I am invigorated by the spirit of the Acholi people. G-d is in my heart. As Sister Florence said, “You must trust birth. G-d will be with you at all times. You do not have to fear. G-d is Love!”

January 6th, 2007 (Kevin)
I, too, am heartbroken. I don’t know if it is because we are leaving, or just from what it has meant being here. Today I actually had to have a cigarette to calm myself down. And then I cried anyway. Our friend, Teddy, is getting operated on right now at the hospital. Her breast is so swollen from her mastitis (sp?) that they cannot drain it naturally. She has been unable to breastfeed and yesterday, after the family ran out of formula, the 2 month old had no food. They tried to call us for help but the phones were down all day. Until they could reach us, they fed the baby sugar water from a bottle. When we finally arrived at 5pm, the baby was screaming his head off, hungry for some nourishment. The older child, the two year old, was sleeping on the couch, having been diagnosed with Malaria the day before. Unable to keep her antibiotic down, she had been vomiting all day. We gave what money we could so that they could go to the hospital, and to get a three-day supply of formula… This morning I went with Aimee to the hospital and heard the most incredible wailing from the delivering mothers. When Aimee summoned me into the delivery room (we were there to video-interview the “in-charge nurse”, Millie) I saw great pools of blood on the floor beneath where the baby had been born. The mother was crying and holding herself while Aimee wrapped the baby in a blanket… I rushed home because I had promised Steven, the Acholi boy who had driven us all to the Christmas service in Koche Goma camp, that I would interview him and his mates so that they could tell their stories “to America” in the hopes of securing a sponsor for their school fees. I heard again the story of how Steven, only five years old at the time, watched his father get tied to a tree and hacked to pieces by LRA machetes. Then, one by one, they all told me how they just know that if they can go back to school they would be able to raise Uganda up from the ashes of the war. Steven wants to be a doctor; his brother, Fred, a teacher; his friend, an engineer. The way they shyly revealed their hopes to me was just… what else to say? heartbreaking. It is so overwhelming. And then my mind drifts across the sea, knowing that there are so many of these stories in my own backyard, in Brooklyn, in America. I want to empty my heart and my wallet trying to alleviate the suffering of everyone, but know that this suffering is what this world offers. To be in Africa is to be confronted with death. There is no hiding place; it is everywhere. It seems almost too much to take at times. I want to run into the compound, crack open a beer, and hide in my room. Every night there is some person whom I’ve just met waiting for me at the front gate. His father wants me to come to their hut; they would be honored if I could take just a few minutes to come to their home; can I please help them with school fees? I am not the first to say that perhaps America engages in war so casually because it has erected so many barriers between itself and death. Death (except the most sensational and taboid-worthy) is hidden in America. Here it is not. It is in your face. And it is real. And it is annoying to have to deal with it all the time. Realization that “annoying” is a euphemism for saying “I don’t want to have to look at this”. The survival mechanism kicks in and tries to shut my emotions down. Because how can I deal with this?!? How can I keep going about in my insulated life knowing that women with no fingers beg on the side of the street? That children with flies nibbliing at the snot and blood coming out of their noses sit naked and alone on city sidewalks? That men who might sign peace treaties decide instead to escalate the killing because the money is too good to stop? And of course, that’s not all. There are moments of such surpassing beauty, such perfection… and this, too, I think, can only happen in a place without the clean, orderly rules and comfortable environs that we are so familiar with… It is everything. Everything.

I’m just torn up and depressed today… Oh, to be home thinking about football or something, pretending none of this is happening…

January 7th (Aimee)
I left the hospital yesterday with a heavy heart. The day was VERY busy. Six mothers gave birth within two hours of each other. I conducted one of the births and it went really well. The mother’s name was Kevin, which we have discovered is a popular name for a woman here in Uganda. Go figure. The women laugh when I tell them that my husband shares their name. All five beds were full the entire day with about 40 attendants (family members) outside in the hallway. I became close to one laboring mother named Sereneth. She had been at GRRH for three days laboring. She was in tremendous pain. I felt so helpless when I left and she was still in labor. We had asked her family to go to the pharmacy to buy pitocin. The cost is $3000 shillings ($2 dollars). The hospital ran out weeks ago. After administering the medicine, her contractions were unbearable. She was screaming and crying out for help. “Why do you not let G-d have his time?! Why do you fill my head with this?!” It went on like this for some time. It finally came time for me to leave. I felt so torn. I wished her well and told her that I would be praying for her. I went outside to meet Kevin but then had to go back upstairs to say goodbye to someone. By the time I returned, she had pulled her IV out and 20 relatives were swarming around the room. She was crying. They were crying. After some conversation, they all calmed down and it was decided to keep her off the pitocin. These are the moments that feel out of control. I want so much for these women to be listened to. I reiterated to her and her family that she has a right to speak up about what she wants at the hospital. That was all I could do. It is so hard to walk away not knowing what the outcome will be for these mothers…not knowing the long term effects of these births. Not knowing the best way to help. How can you serve when everyone is in such dire need? That is why I have surrendered this desire of service to Love. It feels like it is the only way. Africa is too big. The suffering too great. The alternative is just another repeat offense of colonialism. I see the good intention in the missionaries, in the NGOs, and in myself. But also see the damage we are doing…it is a huge dilemma. I trust the spirit that is here more than anything else. Perhaps that sounds naïve. But the spirit here is alive! It is beautiful, loving, kind, and strong. It is a warrior spirit, a family spirit, a gentle spirit. I have fallen in love with its capacity to hold everything. It is in the drumming and dancing that I hear every night until the wee hours. It is in the cries of the birthing mothers. It is sweet sound of the children greeting you, ”Hello. How are yooou? I am fine.”

We jetted around town on bodhas doing last minute errands and then completed our day at Sister Florence’s clinic. She has been our Ugandan mother. She called us her children and took us in with such love. We will miss her! I asked Kevin what his favorite part of Gulu was and he said “going to Sister Florence’s at the end of day.” We could unwind at her place without any pretenses, promises, or expectations. I feel so lucky to have met her. I hope she can come to New York and speak to midwives/doulas there someday. We have so much to learn from her.

We are now back in Kampala at the Backpackers Hostel. It’s good to be here. We leave tomorrow morning at 8am for four days of Safari and travel out west. We’re both looking forward time in nature and with each other.

sending love,
more soon…
k. and a.

Nywal Stories

2007-01-04T17:32:00.000+03:00

This Blog entry was written on 12.30.06

“You are welcome!” is how I am greeted on my first day at Gulu Regional Referral Hospital. It took four days before I was given permission to work as a volunteer in the maternity ward. I was interviewed by the head nurse, “Sister Grace”, and then forwarded through to an interview with the superintendent of the hosptial, Dr. Tom Otim. After reviewing my doula and childbirth education certificates, I was given a warm welcome by the “big boss”. Gulu Regional (GRRH) was built in the thirties and has not been renovated since. It is a government owned hospital so the patients do not pay for their care. Many of the women are coming in from surrounding villages or IDP camps. Many are teenagers.

There are people scattered about as you enter the gates. People looking for care, people lying down, people washing their babes, washing their clothes, eating, mothers in labor…there is a lot happening outside. The fresh air is a relief for the patients.
All the nurses refer to the highest trained midwives as “Sister”; the others go by nurse or just their first name if they are “enrolled midwives” (EM). EM have had at least 3 years of training. They still have another year or two to go before they are also considered a “Sister”. I am delighted to refer to my mentors here as Sisters. It is said with genuine love and respect. Sister Grace took me under her wing immediately. She gave me a tour the day before I was to begin. “You should come tomorrow and be free here. I want you to feel comfortable, so that you can come and go. You are one of us now.” It is hard to describe the generosity of this welcome. It warms my heart to be touched by such truly genuine people. This is Acholi land after all! If that was all I received from my time in Africa, it would be more than enough.

I meet Sister Millie (she is also a head nurse and my boss). At first she is a little more reserved with me. She wants to make sure I’m legit. This lasts only about ten minutes before she laughs, taking my hands in hers and says “You are welcome!”.
I am aware that in America this would all be an impossibility. I am humbled, truly humbled, and also confronted with the reality of being muzungu here in Uganda. I do not want to take this privilege for granted — ever. I barely slept the night before my first day. In the morning, I woke up and put on my uniform. It is formal here. The nurses all wear dresses with little white doily hats. I dress in my scrubs (thank you, Mom Bott, for hooking that up in NJ!), tie my hair back in twists, and put on my white sneakers. I’m excited, nervous, and ready to go. I call my bodha friend to come pick me up and we zip down the red dusty road.

The day that I got permission from Dr. Otim, we also received our bags (after 12 days!!). Finally!! The main thing that I was waiting for was a bag that I packed with medical supplies. I just brought the basics: latex gloves, razor blades, hand sanitizer, hand and baby wipes, Mother’s Milk tea, towels, soap…
This blog entry is now being picked up on January 2, 2007.
Happy New Year to all!

I started writing the above blog after my first day at GRRH and realized that I was totally overwhelmed and unable to write. Now, four days later, I feel just as overwhelmed but I will attempt to write.

What I am seeing daily is hard to comprehend. The conditions of GRRH are horrendous. This hospital needs serious help. The women, my Sisters, with whom I am working side by side, are teaching me more each day than years of schooling ever could. This education is invaluable. They are experts. They are strong. They work with barely any supplies, medication, or assistance. There are no antibiotics in our ward, no bandages, very little medicine, no running water, few supplies. Since July they have delivered 3074 babies and counting. Often there is only one midwife per shift. Many days there are 15-20 births during an 8 hour shift. The main ingredient for sanitizing equipment is “jik”, which is bleach. The other is one machine that boils water. They only have three delivery sets. A delivery set is a metal kidney-bean-shaped bowl that holds all of your equipment; two clamps, one scissor, and one metal tool for suturing. There are only two suctioning bulbs. There is no betadine, no alcohol. We have a short supply of latex gloves. I brought masks and protective eyewear. The beds are from the 40s or 50s and are corroded with blood, feces, rust, and dirt. One day I spent an hour down on my knees washing the beds with Sister Christine and my dear friend and mentor, Nurse Jaqueline. This is just what you do. The conditions are horrifying. And yet, I am amazed to see that the majority of these births are SVD (spontaneous vaginal births). They do cesarean births, but very few. Breech births are done vaginally, as are twins. Every once in a while there is a stillbirth. There are many “abortions”. At first I was confused but after some explanation I realized that they refer to miscarriages as abortions. Most of the abortions are brought on by malaria or a fever that has not been treated. Many of the women are also HIV positive. The first baby that I saw today was only 2 pounds born to an HIV positive mother. The mother weighed about 80 pounds. I spoke with her, stroked her hand, and admired her baby. She looked like she was going to die. There was little that I could do in this situation other than love her. I work from 9am to 4pm everyday. Throughout my day my Sisters are apologizing for the conditions of the hospital and the lack of supplies. Throughout my day I am thanking them for their wisdom. They have been so generous with me. I am learning everything first hand.

In Uganda there is no such thing as a doula. The women coming to GRRH are brought by their attendants (their family), usually their elders. Today there were four generations of women supporting one woman. They stay overnight into morning, determined to camp out until they can welcome their new family member. They line the hallway, sitting on the floor with teas prepared, some food, and straw mats (if anything at all). They are almost always barefoot. The mothers come with a kaveera which is a thick black, tarp-like sheet. This will be placed on the bed. They will not be admitted without one. The beds are just bare metal. They come in three pieces that are then pushed together with old stirrups on the side. They’re required to bring the following: a kaveera, two pieces of cloth, and a wash bin. The two pieces of cloth can also be the dress or skirt that they’re already wearing. This will be used to wrap the baby once its born, or to deliver the baby. The midwives often use the cloth as a way to protect the perineum. After they give birth they are required to clean up anything that has spilled over onto the floor. My second day, I was with a mother whose kaveera tipped completely. On the floor was a mess of feces, amniotic fluid, clots, and blood. I gestured to get the mop so that I could begin cleaning, and then was instructed not to. The nurse spilled some jik on the floor and the mother mopped up the spill with her kaveera, and soiled cloths. She then placed it all in her wash bin and left to go downstairs to the postpartum ward. This was literally 10 minutes after she delivered her placenta.

During my lunch break I was invited by the Sisters to join them to go buy some meat. I had no idea what they were talking about but out of respect I followed them. We walked through the hospital grounds to an empty plot of grass by a fence. There was a group of about 40 people in a circle surrounding a man that was hacking, hacking, hacking away at some meat with an axe. The meat was being pounding and cut atop a fallen tree. The sight of the meat actually didn’t come as much of a surprise to me; there is meat hanging from hooks under corrugated metal verandas all over town. But the hacking was new. There was a priest, I believe he was Muslim, supervising the meat distribution. They had come to the hospital to offer this meat for free to all employees. Apparently it was a Muslim holiday and I could tell that everyone at the hospital was very excited. I watched as the butcher cut off chunks of beef, rationed pieces, and weighed them on a scale hanging from a hook. He then handed everyone their rations in a black plastic bag. I was encouraged to step forward. It was only then that I realized that the cow had just been slaughtered. First I saw the remnant flesh and the four amputated hooves. I was then pushed in front, handed my own sack of meat, and then we all walked back to deliver babies. I asked them about refrigeration but they assured me that the meat would not spoil. Cautiously satisfied with their explanation, I stowed my sack on top of the nurses table next to my purse.

Kevin came to pick me up and as we were walking we met up with our friend Tony. Needless to say, Tony left with the meat sack.

In the past four days I have been taught how to check the cervix, catch a baby, support the perineum, how to tie a cord with string, how to palpate the uterus, and extract the placenta. They are no fetal heart monitors here. I have learned how to listen to a babies heart with a metal cone. They only have one and you have to listen VERY carefully. I have been thrown into the most rigorous training of my life. I am always supervised closely and walked through each procedure. I have witnessed the midwives handle emergency situations with such patience and confidence. They give women TIME to labor here. They are never rushed. Never. Sometimes they are in the labor ward for days before being brought up to delivery. They come up to delivery, labor for while, get checked, and then either it is time to have their baby or they are sent back downstairs. There is no “on the doctor’s watch” mentality here. It is surreal to be working in an environment that is so under-supplied and neglected and discover a level of “trusting the birth process” that far surpasses any US hospital experience that I’ve ever had. Again, they give their mothers and babies time.

Childbirth education comes through direct experience. But I find that many of the women don’t know what is happening to them. Today a woman needed to vomit but held it in because she feared vomiting her membranes. Many of them are afraid to open their legs. The midwives can be extremely aggressive. If a woman is not cooperating, hitting and screaming at a woman in labor seems to be normal here. I was shocked the first time I witnessed this behavior. But I am coming into such a new culture… I am perplexed by these cultural differences. I am constantly questioning how my race and class impacts this experience. I think about the ethical issues around my training. I realize this is unconventional, and yet it feels true to the craft of midwifery. These issues cannot be ignored. Very few of the women speak English. Most of my communication is being translated from Luo into English. But the truth is that birth has its own language, and most of the time I can understand without any translation needed.

When I tell my midwifery friends about what I do at home as a doula they have a hard time relating. The doulas here are the attendants, the elders. They are family. But they don’t care for a woman the way I have been trained to in US. There is very little touching. Almost none at all. When touching is involved it is a strong grab not a tender touch. The women writhe in pain, unmedicated, and praying to g-d… women cry out, ”please don’t let me die, mama!”. They get through it and usually are dressed and asking to go home within an hour after delivery. I still find myself in the role of doula. I still believe that a loving and kind touch helps. I practice comfort-measures and have taught the midwives a few things, one being counterpressure. But I also see that being a doula for a woman in the US is a privilege.

Yesterday I got off of work and walked with Jackie (my midwife partner) to the market. We looked at textiles and she showed me where her tailor is. The fabric here is incredible. There is a part of the market that is just devoted to seamstresses. I love walking there, looking at that colorful patterns that splash the market. I bought some fabric, and took a bodha to my friends’, Meg and Jess’ house.

After a few hours of brainstorming about GRRH with them, I walked to meet Kevin down the red dusty road. I relished this walk alone toward him. The sun when it sets here is the most incredible diffused light. It is a glowy orange pink. This is my favorite time of day 6:15-6:45pm. Everything radiates this light. The day was long, my feet were tired…I had witnessed so much in one day. The mother screaming in pain while we drained an infected arm and breast. Desperate for antibiotics. A woman in a coma suffering from meningitis. Giving water and supporting the body of a woman delirious with malaria while she was miscarrying. She has been bleeding for days…Catching my first girl baby (the other two babies I caught were boys). Putting her on her mama’s belly then weighing and wrapping her. In this madness there is tremendous beauty. This is life. Birth does not lie.

A few days ago, I was given the honor of naming a baby boy that I caught or as they say “conducted”. At first I resisted. How could I impose a name on a child and family that I don’t even know?! Sister Jennifer explained to me that this would be a tremendous gift for the family. They would be so grateful. She said, “Choose a good Christian name.” After a few seconds, I said, “How about Victor?”. The Grandmother then repeated the name: “Vick-tore”. They told the mother and then they all formally accepted the name with smiles and gratitude. I explained that Victor was my late Grandpa and a very strong man. I told them that he was one of my favorite people, who was dearly loved by everyone that knew him. Living to be 93 in Africa is an anomaly so they were very impressed. Victor Akoko is a strong and a BIG baby, weighing 3.7 kilograms (8.14 pounds). The average weight here 2.5-3 kg. (see photo).

Some words in Luo, the language of the Acholi people:
Birth- Nywal
Sisters- Lamego
Midwife- Lacholo
Mother-Mego
Latin Kienen- Mother & Newborn
Helping- Kony
Heart- Cwiny
Hands- Cing
Togetherness- Ribbe
Push (something I hear all day long)-Chol
Hard (the other word I hear all day long)-Matek or Chol Matek
Continue-Medii

You’ve done a good job- T’emo ma bei
Beautiful- bei
Baby is beautiful- Latin leng or latin bei

As Kevin mentioned in the last blog, I am thinking constantly about collaboration with midwives here and in the US. I have also decided to apply for midwifery school when I return.
There is a great opportunity for us to learn from the Acholi midwives. Their birth model feeds me and renews my faith in the strength and wisdom of women, everyday.

Today Kevin and I returned to the hospital (I had the day off). I wanted to check up on some of the mothers that were laboring during my day duty yesterday. They were all in tremendous pain when I left. They were happy to see me and I'm happy to announce two new "Christian"-named babies: Philip Arwot Olara and Aimee Layet Adong.
Welcome to the world, little ones!

I look forward to sharing more when I get home with family, friends, and with the doula groups in NY.

sending love to all

Afoyo!

love,
aimee

quickie!

2007-01-03T10:26:00.000+03:00

We are finding it difficult to find time to blog these last couple of days. Aimee has been volunteering -- working, really -- at the local hospital every day from 9am until 3pm. By the time she returns home, she is pretty exhausted. I know she started a blog on the laptop last night but she told me it wasn't quite ready for publication yet... My experience at the prison on New Year's day was a real trip. I started writing something about it but it, too, isn't ready for prime time yet. Suffice to say it was over three hours long and included three short 'dramas', Acholi war dances, Congolese music played on Ugandan instruments, dancing, and several competetive events amongst the inmates such as a sack race and a race to see who could drink a cup of boiling tea the fastest... I'm heading to the prison now to ask the director to explain to me some of things I couldn't understand, as the entire performance was in Luo, the local language.

We had New Year's breakfast with our Acholi friends from town. It was very nice despite the fact that they truly tried to prevent us from leaving to see the prison performance. However, we took our own advice, sat them down, and really explained that we are here to volunteer and learn, and that our time for socializing was somewhat limited. It didn't stop Kenny from begging that we stay, but he understood...

Life in the IC house is mellow. Everyone is involved in volunteer work this week, so we mostly see each other only at dinner time. Amy, a fellow PhD student from NYU, and the woman who introduced us to 'Invisible Children' arrived on Dec. 30. It's been nice having her here. We can commiserate about the fact that, despite being so far from home, our thoughts and stresses concerning our PhD work never stops. In fact, I am heading home in a little while to start working on my lines for a play I was cast in , which starts rehearsing as soon as I return. It is definitely strange working on Oscar Wilde in the middle of Africa (where I have been told repeatedly that homosexuality DOES NOT exist here)...

Amy's initiating a huge project -- partly through NYU and partly through Invisible -- that attempts to form partnerships between American schools and Gulu schools. It's called 'schools for schools' and it is a hugely ambitious project. I believe she's writing her dissertation around the work. It's really inspiring to see... And speaking of inspiring, Aimee has so many ideas about partnering with American OBs and midwives to create a support network for the midwives here (but again, I will let her tell her own tale). Her ideas are so full and her mind is so organized. It's pretty incredible to see her when she's passionate about something...

As for me, I am trying to figure out if there is any way to create some link between the prison theatre workers here and those of us in the US and Britain. After seeing what I saw, I think there is a real need to bring drama to a place where the inmates are actually reflecting on and dealing with their crimes. Right now, it seems that the point of it is just to 'give them something to do'. And on the American side, I think the men I've worked with could gain greatly from the strong sense of community and true manhood that is so clearly present in the traditional dances and chants that these men have been learning since they were children. Just ideas... just ideas...

So that's it for today. Sorry there are no new photos. Usually I have my laptop but today I was just strolling through town and decided to drop a quickie. Hope 2007 is treating everyone well so far. We are absolutely loving Africa and also absolutely missing you all. More soon...
k. and a.

A Blog from Kevin

2006-12-30T12:43:00.000+03:00

Is it better to be poor in a land of poor, or poor in the land of plenty?

No one will believe us here when we tell them there are poor in America. They laugh. We have to tell them several times with serious expressions on our faces before they start to suspect we are serious. Then they ask if everyone has a flush toilet, and we say, “Well, just about everyone,” and they laugh and laugh and say, “Don’t be ridiculous! How do you say that everyone is not rich when everyone has a flush toilet?!”

And then what? How do we respond? How to explain to these people who make… what? a dollar a day? less? How do I explain to them that we are not rich? Of course we are. In Uganda we are the richest of the rich. But then we try to explain to them how expensive it is in America. We try to explain how we are students and how the money we have is from the bank. We try to explain debt. It’s no use.

We see the struggle of these people, to be sure, but we also see the joy. We see the way that everyone greets everyone when they pass, “Good morning. Hello. How are you?” We see a kind of community that has been rare in our country since… since when? World War II? Since the television began the process of isolating and dividing families from one another and from themselves? Since what were once porches of chatting families and neighbors became silent living rooms emanating blue light onto the sidewalks of America? Perhaps I romanticize…

They tell us that their idea is that everything is great in America and that everyone is welcomed with open arms, that jobs are easily found and that everyone is wealthy. And then they see us here, buying gifts for people at home, not arguing too much with the market vendors because we realize that we are fighting for twenty-five cents. So of course we are rich and everything is better in New York… But then they screw their faces when we try to tell them that we don’t know the names of our neighbors, and that the man next door looks at the floor and grunts when we’ve tried to greet him – for three years! They can’t comprehend it. Our neighbor has not once in three years said hello to us. His great stab at communication was scotch taping the front page of the Post, “BUSH WINS!” on his door in 2004. A man tells us that it would be a great dishonor if he failed to greet his neighbor each morning: “The first thing I do is greet my neighbors. Otherwise, how can we remain at peace?” Good question. Our solution, it seems, is good fences…

We are struggling with giving. Everyone we meet asks us to help them. Children ask for money. Teenagers explain that they would like to finish school and can we help them? The chief nurse at the hospital looked Aimee in the face yesterday and said, “Can you please take me to America with you?” Each time we strike up a conversation with a bodha driver, the ride ends with a payment by us and a request by him that we help... somehow. They seem ashamed to ask for help. They stare at the ground as they explain that their father or mother or brothers and sisters were killed by the rebels and they have no money for school fees. “Can you please help me?” It is utterly heartbreaking. What to do? The price to send one child to a year of private primary school is 200,000 shillings – just over 100 dollars. For private secondary school, it is between 400,000 and 500,000 – between $250 & $300. To send someone to the top University is about $1600 per year. And the NGO we are with, IC, is supporting children to go to school. To date, they are supporting nearly 500 children. But there are so many who apply. How can we support more? (just now, I stopped writing because Aimee’s bodha driver arrived to take her to the hospital for work. She was still getting ready so I went out to greet him. We said hello and then stood for a moment. I was taking in the morning. A beautiful, cool day; the sun was just beginning to warm the red soil and the tops of the huts across from where we live. After a moment of silence, he said to me, “Yes, I want to return to school. Can you help me? Last year my mother and father were killed. I am trying to save money with this work – indicating his moped – but it is difficult to raise school fees”).

On Christmas night we ate a restaurant in town. All thirteen of the muzungus were there (it was the night of the first great spiritual/philosophical debates). We were laughing and arguing and drinking beer. A young man in a beautiful red and black African shirt came over to ask if he could take a photo with us. With him were his two brothers, his wife and his two-month old infant. We stood and snapped a photo with him. Then Aimee and I, happy and open, went over to their table to hold the baby, ask about them and their lives. We chatted for a while and snapped some more photos. Then we were invited to lunch the next day. “Please call.” I promised I would. Then he said, with a shy smile, “Don’t disappoint me. Please.” I said I would not and that we would call the next day. The next day I planned to call at the appointed time. But we awoke early and we decided to do some washing for the first time since we’d arrived. To make the story short, I washed my jeans that held the scrap of paper upon which I had written Kenny’s phone number. I had lost the number. The paper was completely white except for the name, “Kenny”. I was horrified. It was like a movie. I imagined the brothers waiting by the phone, expecting my call, thinking I was a liar. I had disappointed them after all.

We decided to take a bodha to the restaurant where we had met them; perhaps someone knew them from town. And luckily, it worked. One of the managers was an “OB”. (If you went to school with someone as a child, or grew up in the same village, and then parted ways for school or relocation or whatever, this person, upon meeting them again, was an OB – “Old Boy”. You could also have an OG – “Old Girl”.) So he drew us a map and called another bodha and we were taken to the village home. They were overjoyed and told us that, yes, in fact they had been waiting by the phone fearing that we had “deceived” them. We spent a wonderful afternoon with them. They had invited all of their relatives to the house to meet us. Apparently it was a very big honor for them to have us at their house. The family is well off compared to most we have met. They struggle, but they are able to send one child, Tonny, to university in Kampala. Kenny’s wife, Teddy, works for an HIV/AIDS organization and is able to put herself through the local university. She raises her two children and works during the week and then attends classes all day on the weekends. Through her, Aimee made her connection with Sister Florence, a head maternity nurse at the hospital. The father has begun building what he hopes will be a small hostel for local university students as a way to generate income. He was once a municipal engineer but he is now retired and his retirement package is used up. The hostel – as well as the rest of the house – stands only partially built. Piles of sand and bricks, warped planks of wood, and half constructed cement walls litter the property. The father has dreams of building a private primary school on some property he owns but again, there is no money. He asks if we can help. We say that we, personally, can’t. He asks if we would be willing to talk some more about his ideas. We say of course. What’s the harm in talking…?

Now, days later, the relationship has become somewhat overwhelming. They do not ask for anything, but they want to spend time with us everyday. The young men, Kenny and Tonny, are 26 and 24. Tonny is on holiday from school. Kenny cannot find work. Their days are free and they don’t understand that we do not have hours and hours each day to come to lunch, to spend time. The work we have come to do is beginning and our days are full. The culture here doesn’t understand “grabbing a cup of coffee” for a half hour before parting ways to do one’s own thing. When we’ve agreed to see each other, we have been together for five or six hours. Last night, Kenny called my phone eight times in a row. I had already seen them that morning, to bring Teddy some herbal tea that Aimee recommended for some lactation issues she was having. Instead of dropping off the tea and departing, I was implored to stay. Knowing I was coming they ran out and bought food especially for me. They told me that to leave would be a dishonor for them. I ate. Instead of getting to work on some NYU stuff I had been putting off, my afternoon was swallowed with this obligatory meal. Then the phone rings eight times in the evening and I am trying to avoid it. Finally I answer and he tells me that he has come to town with a traditional dish for us. He has carried it all the way from the village. I leave the compound in frustration, now angry at their generosity. Or, more precisely, angry at the complexity of relationships here. How to explain “down time”?

We are told by IC not to give away money on the street, not to give food away to the workers here. Even this was difficult for us, but we understand. We cannot solve all of the problems. While the intention is from the heart, giving handouts only breeds resentment when the next muzungu refuses to give. We will perpetuate the idea that we are all rich; then, if we don’t give, we will be seen as harsh and uncaring… And the truth is, these people have survived for centuries without Westerners here, and they will survive for many more centuries, with or without Westerners here. But how to not give from the heart? How to contain Love? Aimee and I opened our hearts, which brought us into this wonderful opportunity to know, to become friends with, and to experience the quotidian routines of an African family. And we are grateful to know them. But if we are honest with our love, we see that we must also be honest with our limits. When Kenny said that they had bought food for the new year and that they hope we will arrive on the 1st of January at 9 am and stay until 6 pm… well now, how does one explain that we are actually planning to celebrate with the other Americans that night and that, well, American New Year’s Eve parties could end at nine in the morning?!?!?

The last thing we ever want to do is disappoint anyone. Yet, we see that we need to risk disappointing for the sake of honesty. We cannot be saviors. We are not saviors.

It seems clear that so many see the Westerners as a potential way out their plight. As pleasant and kind as everyone has been, we have to remember that this year – the spring of 2006 – the rebels were still terrorizing the villages. This is a war-zone, still. This is the South after the American Civil War. People are walking around traumatized, heartbroken and angry. And many, many people are hoping to find a muzungu who will help them. As Kenny said to me on the second day, “I have wanted to have an American friend for so long, and now I finally do.” What does that mean? Why would he want an “American” friend? Because we are so innately good? Or is it, partly, as one NGO volunteer said, “…because they are looking for tickets out of hell.”

Speaking of hells, I have been visiting the prison here for the past few days, talking to the chief officers and also the head of the prison ministry program. His name is Walter. The more I spoke to him, the clearer it was that “prison theatre” wasn’t happening. It was all about preaching the gospel and hoping that by getting the inmates to “accept Jesus Christ into their hearts,” they would abstain from committing further crimes upon their release. I asked if there were services for different religions. He said, “Of course. At 8:30 am there are services for the Catholics. At 10:30, we have services for the Protestants, and at 4:30 there are services for the Pentecostals.” So much for religious diversity.

It is not my intention to continue harping on religion, but it is so much of our experience here, so much of what I am reading about, as well as so much of the experience of the African continent, that I feel compelled to write about it. The conversations with the Christian students at the IC house are both fascinating and exhaustingly mind numbing. We sit and eat, passing salt, pepper and Top-Up brand Ketchup, and having intense religious debates. I really like everyone we are living with. We both do. We laugh together a lot, and it has been wonderful to learn about their lives and aspirations. They are young, enthusiastic, and deeply desirous to find ways to give service, but I can only go with them, philosophically, to a point. I see the love of Jesus as it has been presented to us through history. I can see and deeply appreciate the message of love and service and loving one’s neighbor as oneself. I think that the message of turning the other cheek was a radical departure from the Western and Near/Middle-Eastern traditions and customs that had come before. But I can also see those same virtues in Gandhi, in Rabbi Hillel, in Gautama Buddha, in Ramana Maharshi. Shall we dismiss Gandhi because he does not call Jesus “God’s only son”? I can’t get into it. And the fact is, there is actually little room for discussions because after a time, it becomes clear that our paradigms are completely different. I am not going to be convinced that the Bible is literal, and that every word is a direct transmission from God; they won’t buy my point that it is poetry and metaphor, pointing to that which is too enormous for humans to contain in language. They will never convince me that Jesus is the “only” way to God. I will never convince them that, as Jiddu Krishnamurti says, “the path to Truth is pathless,” and that, as far as I can see, you can call yourself whatever you want – what counts is the way you treat the other creatures of the Earth. At some point, the discussion just has to end. Going around in circles for too long makes me a bit queasy. I will believe what I believe, and they will believe I’m doomed to Hell. Pass the salt, please…

But back to prison: So I’m talking to Walter and he’s telling me about the Gospel preaching. I like him. He is a big man with a wide, stained smile and a laugh that is discordantly high and giggly. When he makes a joke, he giggles and his whole big belly shakes and shakes. Then he holds out his hand and I grab it and we hold each other’s hands, laughing together. Walter finally asks what I do in the States and I tell him about my work in prison. Suddenly he says, “Oh yes! We also do drama here!” I am shocked. Maybe he’s misunderstood. Drama? Oh yes. In fact, they’ve just done a play about HIV/AIDS. I tell him that the last prison play I was involved in was an educational piece about HIV and Hepatitis C. I ask if I can observe and he says, in typical understated Acholi-speak, “It is OK.”

Next day: Walter passes me on his moped in the street and waves at me. I don’t recognize him, but think he is a bodha driver offering a ride. I dismiss him, “No thank you.” He says something and I look back to realize that it’s Walter. I tell him I thought he was a bodha bodha and he shakes and giggles and extends his fleshy hand. He tells me to come to the prison at 3pm to meet the “big boss”. I do so but Walter is at lunch and the big boss is not around. I return at 4pm. I sit and talk to Walter. He asks me what I think of the Gospels. I tell him I’m not so much of a preacher. He laughs and tells me that he likes what I am doing with the drama work and he wants me to come and work for him in Gulu. “To do ministry.” I tell him I’m not much of a missionary; I am more of a teacher. He says that he is a preacher and a teacher, “But I have no talent for drama.” I tell him that drama is my talent. He says, “So you do not have to do the Gospels to do ministry. Your drama is your ministry.” I agree with him. “I can see becoming the director of the prison drama in all of East Africa!” I laugh but he is persistent. “Why not? You love Gulu. You can do your drama work in the North here. We have twenty prisons. Then you can begin to spread out. We will bring you to Kenya and Tanzania also.” Then the kicker: “You will do some dramas about Jesus and the Gospels…”

In the words of my in-laws, oy vey!

The prisoners are performing a drama on New Year’s Day at 2pm. Aimee and I are invited. We don’t know the theme, but I have a sneaking suspicion. There is an entry fee for me, the muzungu: two boxes of mukwano, a crumbly blue soap. Apparently they have no soap for the prisoners. No extra blankets, either, and prison uniforms come from the district office when they come. The young men I’ve seen are either wearing the yellow uniform – short sleeves and loose shorts, with flip-flops, or they are barefoot and shirtless wearing whatever pants they had on when they were arrested.

Ugh. I guess that’s all for now. There is so much more. I haven’t even mentioned the days we’ve spent at H.E.A.L.S. (I can’t remember what the acronym stands for), an NGO that serves young children using art and play as therapy. It was started by a local woman named Joely. I have begun working with a few of the children developing short dramas based on their experiences during the war. They will perform their work next week. Aimee has bonded very closely with some of the young girls at H.E.A.L.S., especially an AIDS orphan named Nancy. We suspect she has AIDS, too, and it is very sweet and melancholy to spend time with her. She and the other girls have been teaching Aimee the local Acholi songs and they have given her an Acholi name, Lakisa. It means something like, “merciful from God”.

Aimee has so much exciting news to report but I will leave it to her. She started in the hospital maternity ward yesterday and she is there again today. Her shift is from 9am until 3pm. She looks like a real nurse – scrubs, white sneakers, hair pulled back in neat braids. The nurses at the hospital are so pleased with her professionalism and appearance. They have really taken to her and have taken her under their wings. She is learning a lot! But as I say, I will leave her story to her. It’s a doozy!

Happy New Year.
Until next time,
love and blessings to you all… and a special shout-out to Messr. Harvey Bruce Brill-Bott whom we miss terribly!
kevin
p.s. - famiglia! avete visto il foto?! gli italiani sono anche in Africa! venite qua, tutti! abracci e baci! vi manchiamo moltissimo! a prestissimo...

Christmas in Gulu

2006-12-27T12:03:00.000+03:00

It is December 24th and it is 9am and we are chugging down the choked highways of Kampala toward the bus park. We are determined to get to Gulu. We have been communicating with the organization, “Invisible Children”, for some months, ever since our friend introduced the documentary of the same name to us. The film tells the story of the children who have been displaced by the civil war in northern Uganda…

A bit of history: Alice Lukwena was a woman who in the 1980s decided that she was on a holy mission. Lukwena mixed some African tribal superstition with some questionable Christian scripture to convince some of the people that a crusade was needed to make northern Uganda a Christian state. Eventually she died and a man came along, Joseph Kony, claiming to be Alice’s nephew. He took up the cause in a new and brutal way. Kony formed the LRA, the Lord’s Resistance Army, a guerrilla rebel group. This group kept their troupe numbers high by abducting children from their village homes and forcing them, many times, to kill their parents before stealing them away to fight in the rebel army. This went on for 15-20 years. Thousands of children between the ages of five and twelve were abducted. Needless to say, when a five-year-old child is forced to kill (with machete, in most cases) their family and friends (when those friends tried to escape from the rebels), that child is severely traumatized. We will be happy to let any of you have or borrow our videotape of “Invisible Children” if you have an interest – it is too much to get into here. Basically, we were both moved when we saw the film and saw the thousands of children who were displaced and orphaned as a result of the war between Kony’s rebels and the Ugandan government army. The army was hampered by the fact that Kony’s rebels moved in numbers of five or six. One former government army man told us that they were no match for the bandits, who were getting financial and arms support from the government of Sudan (who were angry with Uganda for supporting a Sudanese rebel group, the SPLA … Africa is complex, and has many of these kinds of inter-tribal wars going on).

Anyway, our initial movement toward Uganda came as a result of the film. Last Spring we started planning. Kevin has a friend at NYU who works for Invisible Children, now an NGO (non-government organization), and over the course of the last several months we have been speaking with her and also e-mailing the Ugandan staff. Aimee, who has been working as a doula for over two years, hoped to assist in some way. Kevin, who has been working in educational theater, was curious to see if there was a place for him to work with children or prisoners. Our plan was to arrive in Kampala, settle for a day, then meet up with a group from Invisible Children and take a bus with them to Gulu – 360 kilometers (1 k = 2/3 mile) to the North; just 80 kilometers from the Sudanese border.

In many ways we are so glad that our luggage never arrived. Kevin has been wearing the same jeans for eight days. Aimee has managed, somehow, to find the perfect African style. She has her African dress (see: mu-mu) and a wrap, which she manages to finagle into several strikingly different looking outfits. She’s getting a lot of compliments from Ugandan and muzungu alike.

Now: It is December 24th and it is 9am and we are chugging down the choked highways of Kampala toward the bus park. We are determined to get to Gulu. James, our private hire taxi driver is more than helpful. He is not simply dropping us at the bus park; he is asking people on the street where we can find the next bus to Gulu. We get the information and easily find the bus through the swarming Christmas crowds. Apparently, Kampala – and the rest of Uganda – is a different place at Christmas. Like anywhere else, those who are from the country, come to the Big City; those from the City take off for their homes in the country. The scene at the bus park is wild. We get on the bus at 9:15. People are prodding us in every direction, each trying to draw us to their particular bus. Others try to take our bags so that they can get the tip we will be obligated to give if we allow them to tote for us. We are happy to get to the bus early. Aimee needs a window seat to stave off bus-sickness, and we are hopeful that, having a three seater, we’ll have room for our oversize (and very heavy) camera bag.

After sitting on the bus for two hours, we depart. In the meantime, both the bus and our bladders fill considerably. Leaving the bus is not an option. Outside the safe confines of the bus (which idles along with about fifty other black-smoke-spewing busses for the entire two hours) is a mad scene. We are not firghtened, but we don’t want to risk losing our seats. Literally hundreds of vendors, both men and women, pass our window to offer us everything from water to whole loaves of white bread to socks, shoes, belts, coca cola, frozen icees, cheap plastic toys, transistor radios, jewelry, to herbal remedies promising to cure both malaria and the common cold. In the midst of this, thousands of travelers search for their busses. They are carrying bags, suitcases, chickens, linoleum flooring, bicycles, and many, many small children. The ground is red dirt and no one at all seems to notice the thick clouds of diesel smoke that blow into their faces as they talk, laugh, fight, and yell to one another, shouting directions. Behind the busses sit dirtied men, barefoot, on small piles of refuse and mud. And now, the outside scene becomes the inside scene. The vendors pass up and down the aisles of the bus, sometimes two and three at a time, and often selling the same thing. Amazingly, some would-be passengers who passed on the first woman’s loaf of bread, decided thirty seconds later, to buy the next man’s.

Finally, the bus lurches out of the bus park and we snail our way through the clogged arteries of the city. It takes nearly an hour to get out of the center of town (sound familiar, New Yorkers?) and soon enough, the tin roofs and ramshackle structures that serve as joints, shops, barbershops, furniture makers’ stands, and countless other businesses fall away. The landscape becomes increasingly greener. We start to see another side of Africa! In the not-too-far distance, beyond the trees and shrubs, we see hundreds of small thatched huts. These are the villages that dot the Ugandan landscape from Tanzania to the Sudan. The huts are made of red mud and clay. They are round and topped with conical thatches. Women may sit before the black hole of a doorway, doing some chore that is impossible to know from the confines of the speeding bus. Sometimes, children run around the yard. If and when they see us, they stare, scream, wave, yell, “muzungu! muzungu!”

Sometimes, when we reach a local town, the bus stops and vendors rush at the window. They thrust bottles of water, skewered pieces of cooked goat meat, and whole, live chickens up to the passengers. Chickens are everywhere, including what sound like five or six toward the front of the bus. They have ridden with us since Kampala, clucking all the way, unaware that their final destination is Christmas dinner in Gulu.

We start again and soon we hear a strange hissing from the window. “Are we getting a flat?” Aimee looks out the window. “I think so. It doesn’t look good.” The bus motors on. We stop again after two or three miles and the driver gets out and looks at the tire. After some time, we roll on again. Five more miles and the bus is keening noticeably to the right. On good tires, driving in Uganda has been an adventure. First of all, as a former colony of the British Empire, everyone drives on the left. This is disconcerting if one is unused to it. As pedestrians, we have both looked carefully to our right before crossing the street, only to be startled back to the sidewalk by the blaring horn of a bodha or matatu. On the road, the drivers careen down the broken and potholed corridors like race car drivers. They pass four and five other vehicles in one clip. They avoid broken stretches of road by veering all the way to the right hand side of the road, into the sandy strip separating the road from the bush, and tilt the bus so far that we are sure that we will tip. The Ugandans see our fear and laugh – but only after the bus has tilted safely back to center.

Now we are in the middle of nowhere. A long stretch of highway with no towns to be seen in either direction. Indeed, we have a flat. The bus stops. We all exit into the baking sun. It is 3 pm. We make a bet on whether they have a spare and/or the means to change the tire. We cross the road as the driver and his assistant (the man who collects the money from each passenger, and who also deals with the army officers at the various checkpoints) climb under the bus and pull out a perfectly good-looking spare tire. They proceed to unlock the bolts on the flat and we stand and bake in the road as a multitude of bicyclists and pedestrians pass the broken bus. After half an hour we are all aboard and on our way.

The rest of the trip is only eventful in the best sense. We cross the Nile at Kumba falls. The rapids rush under us as we cross into the North. On the other side, a team of clever, red-assed baboons waits by the side of the road for travelers to throw them some fruit. Everyone points and laughs to see the beautiful animals.

GULU!!! We finally arrive in Gulu on Christmas Eve at 5pm. What a day! But there is no time to rest. We are on alert because we are in a new place and expect that there will be a horde of bodha drivers waiting to bombard us with offers to drive us wherever we want to go. All we want, when we exit the bus, is to be able to look around, get our bearings, secure our backpacks, and find where we need to go. We are also dying of thirst. Though water was often offered to us on the bus, we had been warned to check the bottoms of the bottles we buy very closely; street vendors can stick a pin in the bottom of a bottle, drain the good water for themselves and refill the bottle with tap. They then melt the plastic closed. If one isn’t careful, it could be diarrhea city! We were desperate on the bus and we spent 500 shillings for a bottle. Sure enough, when we turned the bottle over, we saw the mark of a phony. But the seller was long gone. We spent the next three hours parched, feeling the cool touch of the bad water bottle on our legs…

We find a phone stand. We need to call our Invisible Children (henceforth, IC) contact and let her know we’ve arrived. Phone stands are little wooden booths behind which sit operators and atop which sit standard home telephones. They are pretty much pay phones with live assistants. We ask to make a local call and the man dials our number. We pay 200 shillings, look in vain for a bottle of water in one of the shops for a few minutes, then grab the first bodha drivers we see to take us to the IC house.

The IC house is where the volunteers stay when they come to Gulu. The house is gated and protected by a high, brick fence and barbed wire. There is a guard on duty each night whom we’ve befriended named Francis. The first night we meet him, he tells us that his 12-year-old daughter has just died of cancer. We are shocked. When? Just yesterday. We can’t understand how or why he is working. Do the others know? Does IC? We don’t know… We ask if he needs anything? Water? A blanket? He tells us he needs food. We heat up leftovers from our dinner and bring him a plate.

Each room in the house has two triple-decker bunk beds covered in mosquito netting. We’re thrown back into a dorm setting. It’s a mix between a beaten up fraternity house and an army compound, although in Gulu this house is considered high end. Strangely, the walls and the wire and the guard give us both the feeling that, rather than being protected, we are trapped. Kevin says he feels like he is in a prison. After the freedom of Kampala & Jinja, we suddenly feel that perhaps there is reason to fear.

We meet the group that will be here with us for the duration. They are a group of 10 from Illinois. They all go to the same Christian University. IC also has a strong Christian foundation. This all comes as a surprise to us, and at first is a challenge. We have been reading a lot about the missionary movement in Africa since the mid-1850s. The Christians have done wonderful work here; they have built many schools, hospitals, and of course, churches. But there is a large amount of criticism, too. Not just about the Christian aid, but the whole aid movement in general. The locals we’ve spoken to talk quite a bit about the corruption they see in many of the aid organizations, including the Christian groups. Again, too much to go into here, but suffice to say that we felt challenged. It wasn’t until the second night that we were able to break the ice and dialogue about religion, spirituality, and philosophical perspectives – a dialogue that eased the tension for all of us. Since then we have been becoming friends, many of the students expressing their gratitude for the different perspectives that we’ve brought to the group. And we must say that we, too, are grateful to have been able to see where they are coming from. Aside from our philosophical differences, we’ve discovered that we are here in Northern Uganda for essentially the same reason: to gain understanding of and to serve the people that have suffered so greatly as a result of this war.

Christmas Morning
An I.D.P. camp is an “internally displaced persons” camp. Hundreds of thousands of people from Gulu and the surrounding villages are living in these places since the war. Some, we find out, have been living in camps for almost twenty years. The IC group invites us to join them for the Christmas Mass at Koche Goma, the largest of the local camps. We are at once curious and nervous to see what we imagine will be rough conditions. We load up a matatu driven by a boy of about nineteen or twenty. His name is Steven. The IC volunteer coordinator, Valerie, found him in the bus park. Steven undercut his competitors by some thirty thousand shillings and Valerie hired him. Apparently, the older matatu drivers were not happy with him. They yelled at him as he drove away… His matatu is old and rickety. The two passenger doors are barely hanging on. They rattle and shake as we take the long drive (15k?) down the bumpy dirt road toward Koche Goma. After what seems like a very long drive, we start to pass a couple of the smaller camps. They look like the villages that we passed on the way to Gulu, but are much more densely concentrated. Thatched huts jammed together. Many people stand near the road and watch as the muzungu-filled bus passes. Finally we reach the main camp. As we reach the top of a small crest in the road, we find ourselves looking down on a canopy of the brown grass, which covers each small hut. Driving through the camp, hundreds of children, some half-naked, many dressed in surprisingly clean and new-looking church clothes, come to stare or smile as we pass. We park in front of a makeshift veranda, what we find out later is the Protestant church. As we exit the minivan, the children laugh and point. Many rush to us, touch us, shake our hands, and say “Hello. How are you?” Many only speak the local language, Acholi, but nearly every schoolchild we've met in Uganda can say, “Hello. How are you?” We say, “Fine. How are you?” They always say the same thing: “I am fine.” Soon we ask them first, because we know they will be eager to respond… “How are you?” “I am fine”.

The story of the service is a small novel in itself. In the heart of great sadness, poverty, and sorrow, what a celebration! One of the bishops from Northern Uganda comes to give the service and there are several deacons and archdeacons in attendance. The children sit in front on a small, white tarp. The adults sit under a veranda, protected by the sun. The children will come to us, but we see that the adults look at us warily. We decide to approach them, as a sign of respect. They smile warmly once contact is made. We wonder what they think of us, how many muzungus they have seen, how many people have walked into their village to help. How many have come and gone? We shake hands with them and they thank us for coming. “Afoyo. Afoyo.” Thank you. Thank you. We try to express how grateful we are to be with them on this day. We are so thankful and feel that it is a great honor. What perspective it gives us to see these barefoot people dancing and clapping with enormous smiles stretching their faces even as mucous and blood comes from the children’s noses, even as they tell us of the fact that the U.N. only provides seven days worth of food every two to three weeks. They are hungry. They are bored. There is no work, even for the strongest and healthiest of the young men. They sit around, play cards, watch the sky, wash their few articles of clothing. Kevin steals away from the service. Steven, the driver, had gone off to visit his grandmother, who lives within the camp. I (Kevin) see him return and I walk over to him. I ask how his grandmother is and he says, “fine” before casually mentioning that she’s just contracted malaria. I tell him how sorry I am. He looks at the ground. We stand for a while before he tells me that he has no parents. I look at him and he points to a large tree way off in the distance. “That is where our house was. When I was five years old, the LRA came out of the bush and tied my father to this tree. I cried and asked them to please not kill my father, but they take the machete and they cut, cut him and they kill him. I run home to tell my mother but she thinks that I am only joking. But I am crying and then she follows me and sees that my father is in many pieces.” I don’t know what to say. There is nothing to say. I tell him, again, that I am so sorry. He shows no emotion that I can discern. If I begin to see some wetness in his eye, he looks at the ground too quickly for me to be sure. He continues, “My mother screams at the LRA and they beat her very badly and she does not wake up even for one week. Then my grandmother takes care of me and my brothers.” I find out later that Steven’s mother died three years back of a heart attack. I ask if he will walk me through the camp. He agrees and we walk together and I ask him about different things we are seeing – the latrines, the fire pits, the animals, the older men and women who come to shake my hand and speak to me quickly in Acholi language.

The celebration goes on for over three hours. We dance and clap with the children. We are laughing and, yes, being laughed at. We are curiosities to them at first but soon a genuine warmth grows between us. Without the hindrance of language, we communicate heart to heart, human to human. At one point, the bishop calls up all of the muzungus to the front of the congregation. Kevin is talking to Steven, but he watches Aimee and the rest as they are thanked and applauded by the whole group. The people seem so grateful for our presence. Perhaps they see us as a sign that the rest of the world has not completely forgotten them. We are not so sure. How can this ever get fixed? Is it naïve to ask how this modern world can allow such degradation?

Communion is broken pieces of sweet biscuits dipped in red wine. The Ugandan musicians play one more wonderful, jubilant song, and then we thank everyone we see. They think that it is special that we have come to visit them, but they can’t know how much it means to us to be with them on this Christmas morning. They have nothing but they make every attempt to give us everything they have. We in the West have everything and make only pitiful attempts to give anything to anyone. How much we’ve learned today… Every child of the village comes to touch us. Out of respect, they kneel to the ground when they shake our hands. And not only to the muzungus, but also to their own elders. We ask how long they will continue to do this and we are told that it will never end. Even a grown man or woman will kneel before an elder.

We pile back into the matatu and drive away. As we drive toward the main road we see one teenage boy make a violent gesture toward the van as we pass. This young man sees us and feigns throwing a punch. A joke or a genuine, if crude, attempt to express some rage or anger he feels toward us or about his situation? We drive. Did anyone else notice? No one says so if they do. We ride back to the IC house. The day has been long. We arrived at the camp at 11am. It is now nearly 5pm. Oddly, no one speaks about the day. We (a. & k.) do, with each other. Perhaps the others do, too, without us. But it is strange that there is no debrief of the day.

We are both filled with so many ideas, so many questions. What can we do to help, really? What can we do to make some meaningful contribution to try to alleviate this suffering? And what of the suffering in our own backyards? In Brooklyn and New York? We are faced with so many… what? contradictions? realities? All of it… All of it…

Today (12/27) Aimee meets with Sister Florence, the head midwife at the Gulu Regional Hospital. Kevin has been invited to assist with a nascent theater program where one of the students is struggling to organize a performance. We are excited... And they tell us that our luggage has arrived in Entebbe and that British Air is sending it to us here. We'll believe it when we see it!

Until next time…
Sending love to all.
a & k

2006-12-24T08:04:00.000+03:00

Back in Kampala... Again...

Hello! It the 24th and we're back in Kampala, the capital. still no bags! you'd be amazed how far one pair of jeans and underwear will get you these days...basically, we've resigned to thinking that we'll never see our bags again. Fine by us. After a few days of going back and forth to the airport, we decided to move on with things and head to Jinja, a town along the Nile. Everywhere we go we meet other travelers, each with their own recommendations. Our friends Annie and Winter recommended the Haven so off we went for two days. We took a matatu up (the trip was two hours). A matatu is the way that most people travel around in Uganda. It's a mini-van that probably holds 12 people normally but most are filled with 16-18. We got to the bus park and found Jinja "stage". At first we thought it was gong to be a roomy ride but after 45 minutes we were 16 adults, 4 children, and one chicken. We thought the chicken was dead but we came to realize it was just sedated...we got off in Njeru and took bodhas (mopeds) to the Haven. It was about a five mile ride...we turned off a dirt road and rode through a local, traditional village. The children scream, "Muzungo, how are you? I am fine" all at once, huge smiles on their faces. They cheer at the sight of muzungos. The Haven felt like a total oasis. Huge grass huts that peered out to the roaring rapids of the Nile. Absolutely beautiful! After being in Kampala and dealing with the luggage this was the perfect respite. We made friends with a man named Charles from the village (he works at the Haven). The next day he took us into the village for a 3 hour walk. Again, the children run out to greet but this time we were able to spend time with them. Their genuine joy is contagious--they seem to live a very simple life that is sustained mainly by farming and the selling of their crops. There are also a few shops and a few "joints" - places to get some beer and sugarcane liquor that they make in the village... We wonder what the effect of The Haven will be on these people. Rainer, the German owner and visionary of the resort, is 33 years old and bought the land for a song. He says that the locals find it worthless. It is just a view of the Nile. No place to plant crops. He says, "They don't even see the river; it's just water to them." We can't begin to decipher the reality of his perspective. of course, we will never hear the other side of the story. Anyway, he is worried that the local way of life will be too disrupted and he seemed genuinely upset when we told him that we bought the children biscuits (or, as they say, "bee-squeets") when we passed one of the village shops with them. He said that we really just need to "leave these people alone". Hmmm... We buy biscuits for a few children; he builds a hotel and offers tours through it via a local guide... Who is affecting the village more, we wonder? Kevin tells him that the natural impulse is to offer something when asked. He is silent.

The villagers asked us again and again for "snaps" - wanting their photos taken. Charles tells us that some are fearful that we are photojournalists who will return to the West and sell their images. We tell Charles that it is a legitimate fear on their part but that we will not sell anything. They ask if we can send back "copy-ays" - copies. We agree and take Charles last name and promise to send photos to him via the Haven... The people are so proud and dignified. The older men button up their shirts and take a very serious look on their faces when we aim the camera. The children smile shyly but with a bright gleam in their eyes. The women call and gesture for all of the family and neighbors to gather for the photos. Those who have been working and who have mud on their dresses, refuse.

Have we interacted too much? Should we not give? Should we walk through the village as if it is a theme park -- only taking what we want from them -- great memories, great stories to tell to all of you -- and giving nothing back? Contact has already been made. The Haven made sure of that. Is it wrong? The living standard of so many has been raised through work at the place. The villagers tell us what great pride they have that The Haven is there. "We are the only village where the muzungo come. We are very proud of this. The other villages look up to this village." But parts of their lifestyles, we feel sure, are already lost. It is complicated. More to say about this, to be sure. We will write again soon. And we promise, many photos to come!

A taxi is on the way to the Backpacker's Hostel, where we stayed last night, to take us to the old bus park downtown. It is 9 am. We are finally ready to go to Gulu. And we will really get there today! The newspapers say that all of the prices in the North have been doubled because the muzungos come for Christmas... Oy! Our taxi has been waiting for 20 minutes! We are off now. We think there is a computer shop in Gulu but it will most likely be closed for the holiday. More after...

Happy holidays to you all.

we miss you and love you. thanks to those who have commented. so fun to read. makes us feel connected. more soon..
aimee and kevin.

adventures in smog

2006-12-19T21:44:00.000+03:00

Day 2 –
How to even begin? Let me first say how we’ve decided to write this blog. This is Kevin writing now. For those who know me well, you know how much I enjoy writing and how I could go on and on. So I’m aware that I could definitely hog the computer. I proposed to Aimee that I write my observations and then she write her observations, but she decided that we’ll both just sort of write it together, side-by-side… I’ll just be doing the actual, physical typing. So we’ll give it a go. The other thing I’ll say is that, at least at the Blue Mango, we buy an internet access card to get online with our own laptop. The cards cost 5000 Ugandan shillings and give an hour’s worth of internet service. One US dollar is worth about 1750 shillings. So what I’m doing now is writing the blog in Word. When I’m finished I’ll buy the card, get online, and copy and paste this entry into the blogsite.

So! Africa! Gosh, how do I start? We have been simply bombarded with so many sensational sounds, sights, smells, and experiences in the first 24 hours that I just don’t know how to slice it up into a coherent narrative. However, if I try to make excuses for not being able to find the words, Margot Ely, my friend and qualitative research professor, will have my head. So here it goes:

The roads are red. Red is the color of the thick dirt that creeps and climbs into and onto every pore and crevice. White smoke screams from the exhaust pipes of a million, billion bodhas, the one-stoke mopeds that act as the cheapest mode of transportation between two points. We could take matatus, the minivans that stuff themselves with people and stop every few hundred feet to drop off or pick up. They are slightly more expensive. Then there are the private taxis, which we took from the airport into the city. They are the most expensive way to fly, but probably the safest. We take bodhas today. Our new friends, four American women who have been here from two weeks to seven months, teach us how to bargain. We go to the end of the road and wave down one of the many mopeds that whizz past. They are all quick to stop. They see Westerners, who clearly have money – more money than they. They stop and we say something in a kind of clipped, British accent with questionable syntax, that they seem to understand much better than New York-ese: “We go to British Airways office. You know it?” He says, “British Airways. Yes, I know.” We say, “OK. We go. You take 3000 for two.” I nod toward Aimee, and I and I don’t ask; I tell. He smiles playfully and rolls his eyes, “No. It is too far. You pay me 5000.” Aimee protests gently (the MUCH better bargainer of the two of us), “No. It is close. You take 3500 to British Airways. For two.” The bodha driver explains that we are two and petrol is very expensive. “No. Please 4000.” We all agree and Aimee and I squeeze behind the man. We are Muzungu, “White Man”. He is Mudugav, “Black Man.”

Now we are flying, squeezing, somehow managing to make it through the wild streets of Kampala. I sit behind Aimee and see her pulling her shirt up above her nose to try and screen some of the ubiquitous black and white smoke that pours from every tailpipe. We nearly hit everything, but never do (except the one time our driver looked right to see how well he could manage the circle and wound up braking too late and hit our friend on another bodha). Laura, our friend from Blue Point, Long Island, scolded him in a clipped, British accent with questionable syntax. He reached and put her leg from one moped peg to another, as if it was her positioning that had caused the incident. She laughed and said, “Still you would have hit me. It is not my fault.” And as we sped further down the road, Aimee says in a loud, British voice, “Now you drive careful, yes?” “OK, OK”, he nodded.

Now, despite the fact that he assured us he knew the way back to Blue Mango, we are stopped on the side of the road in a random neighborhood street. Rows of houses painted in indigos and oranges line the red-clay road. Stopped, the two muzungos on the back of the bodha attract great attention from the residents, who now gather around to find out what’s going on. “Do you not know where is the Blue Mango?” He does not answer but gets off and asks some of the children if they know. There is a lot of pointing and gesticulating. They all speak the one of the main languages of the region, Luganda. After some discussion, he returns: “Now I know. I know.” Laura and Deb, our friends who had hired a bodha at the same time we did, but who were going to a different hostel, are somehow with us now. They are angry because they have tried to explain that, despite the fact that we are all muzungu, we are not all going to the same place. Now they are off their bodha, and walking away. Their bodha man is telling our man, who speaks better English, that they are not paying. A bit of tension ensues, Eventually, Laura and Deb flag another bodha and hop on. Laura says, “We do not know where we are and you do not know where we are. We will not pay.” They ride off and I am afraid that now, somehow we are in the middle. Out of fear, I say that we do not know them. Our bodha man drives off and we are again flying down the road, this time safely to the Mango. We get indoors, pull the mosquito net over the bed and sleep hard for three hours. I said I wanted to try to stay awake because I wanted to beat the jetlag, but I sleep. We wake up at 6pm and come to the restaurant, to write and relax. We meet some folks from Ottawa who are also waiting to see if their luggage arrives tomorrow. They are awaiting kayaks and are disappointed that their plan, to kayak down the Nile, has been delayed. It is night. A light rain falls as we eat outside, under a canopy. We hear loud drumming in the distance, through the palm trees. We are tired again. Tomorrow morning we will take a taxi to the airport to see if our luggage has arrived. If not, we will have to wait here in Kampala until Friday. We want desperately to head north to start our volunteer work. At the same time, what else can we do? I am reminded of my time in India. The only option is to surrender; fighting is useless. Nothing will come from resisting. Aimee has already mastered the art of insistence without pushiness. I am learning. We are a good team. We laugh a lot and marvel at all of the newness, all of the chaos and beauty.

We will write again tomorrow, unless we head to Gulu. We are told the trip north will be one that can take as few as four and as many as eight hours. We also understand that internet access is spotty up there. So we’ll see. More to come. Love to all at home.
A & K

hello friends and family, this is Aimee. As you can already tell, we are on a true adventure! I am excited to get up to Gulu and start volunteering in the Gulu Regional Hosptial. Our friends Jess and Meg have started a program called RENEW ( a program to rejuvenate the local hospital) and Valerie, from Invisible Children, has set up work for me once I get. The situation sounds dire and dramatic. They have so few resources. Jess and Meg are working on trying to get running water at the hospital. That’s one of their main goals. They can use all the help they can get. I remind myself that I am here to offer myself completely, and I am already receiving the gift of learning from everyone that I meet. In such a short time, this trip has fulfilled me, challenged me, and exhilirated me. The world is big! I’m reminded of the abundance back home, and humbled by the tenacity of the human spirit that I witness here. It is wonderful to be with my best friend and partner. We’re lucky to have crossed paths with so many helpful and kind hearted people. We haven’t even been here for two full days! I’ll write again soon…jetlag has caught up and I’m ready for a solid night of rest. sending love-a

arrival!

2006-12-18T19:07:00.000+03:00

Whew! We made it. It is 7pm here on Monday (11am EST) night in the capital city of Uganda. We left JFK at 8pm on Saturday night and arrived in Kampala some 38 hours later... only to find that they failed to load our luggage onto our flight from London! Oy! Somehow, this doesn't feel like too big a deal. We have all of our camera equipment, our computer and, most importantly, our malaria medication. There were about 30 other people who were in the same predicament. Some had stowed their malaria pills under the plane and were stressing out!

We are going to keep this short tonight. Basically we want our families to know we are here and we are safe, but since all of our power converters for the computer are in the luggage, we don't want to use up too much energy. The next flight in from London is Wednesday morning. If our luggage comes in then, we will travel north to Gulu with the volunteer organization, Invisible Children. But if not, we will have to wait here in the smoky, congested, crazy(!)capital (which has been pretty amazing) until Friday.

Since we lost our bags, we had to decide whether to head straight to the hotel (The Blue Mango) or to try to head to town and buy some clothes. Neither of us had any spare underwear, socks, flip flops... We were still in our winter clothes. We had the taxi driver drop us off at the local market (where, among the tens of thousands of people, we were the only who seemed to be Westerners) which we found out was called the "Nashville Exchange", and left looking like natives. I am now wearing a loose-fitting, blue African print short-sleeve shirt, my own jeans, and plastic shower sandals. Aimee wears a moo-moo that will fit perfectly should she ever get pregnant with triplets.

Thanks to Karen and Edward for your one-day London itinerary (we had a 12 hour layover there). We hit all the spots -- Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden (where we enjoyed some delicious mulled wine), Spitalsfield market, Spitz restaurant, Westminster, Trafalgar square, the Thames, Big Ben... It was a full day and I have the painful blisters to prove it!

So we are in the lovely Blue Mango now, settling down for a relaxing evening after a long, beautiful (!!) nap. We are refreshed and looking forward to adventures to come.

Just a note to family. Cell phone access may be a problem for a few days. It's more of a hassle than we were told it would be. So check this site for updates. As long as we are here in Kampala, e-mail will be easy and we will check everyday.

Alright, time for a delicious meal and a well-deserved beverage. We love you all and we will write soon with a richer description of this amazing place!

yours-
Aimee and Kevin