Eating Elephants

Love.

Have you ever heard the old adage, “Get back on the horse”? You know, the idea that every time you fail, you should pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try, try again? This is the adage, the image, that keeps coming to me as of late. You see, I’m trying to do something meaningful here. Trying. One of my fellow PCVs took Yoda’s famous phrase and repurposed it for development work in Africa. It goes like this, “Try or try not, there is no do.”

The problem I’m facing is that I’m learning more and more about the culture. I’m learning more and more about the people. I’m slowly becoming more integrated, more informed. These are all good things, of course, but on par with my level of growth about the culture is a greater understanding of the deeply rooted problems I’m facing. The problems grow larger and larger, looming in my mind like giant shadows. Last week, for example, I attended a conference on gender-based violence. The statistics of violence against women here are staggering. 70% of women aged 15 to 49 have experienced violence from a partner. 24% of women experienced a forced first sexual encounter. Women here talk of “when” you are raped, not “if.”

And so, I try. I plan workshops on gender-based violence. I prepare model lessons on HIV/AIDS. I make materials to teach students about malaria. I form reading groups. I keep lifting my leg in an attempt to saddle that horse. But this is Africa, and Africa is known for its wild horses. Invariably, the horse makes a break for it before I so much as put one foot in the saddle. That wild, bucking, neighing horse is canceled classes, resistance to change, unexpected assemblies, the lack of resources, and absent teachers. This week that horse is teachers threatening to strike. Teachers who haven’t been paid in two months, who don’t know when or if they will ever be paid. Teachers who cannot afford to put their children in school. Teachers who cannot afford to feed their children.

Somewhere along the line, I learned resiliency. I am not one to give up. Only once in my recent history have I chosen not to get back on the horse, and it haunts me still. But some days, I just want to shoot that horse. I picture myself, laying in a green meadow, the sun kissing my face, a gentle breeze moving through my hair. I am curled up in the fetal position, sleeping peacefully, a dead horse laying at my side.

There’s another adage I’ve been thinking about lately. “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” In my mind’s eye, I am sitting at the foot of an elephant. I have a plastic knife and fork and I’m trying ever so hard to carve out my first bite, but the plastic tines keep on breaking.

This is development work. This is Africa. This is my chosen path. So, I've found a new adage. A Mexican proverb that says, "It is not enough for a man to how to ride; he must know how to fall." That's what I'm doing--learning how to fall. Maybe that's the first step.

The game that was inspiration for this post. Nom, nom, nom.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

This week marks my six month anniversary in country. Woo hoo! To commemorate the occasion, some mystery insect or plant decided to pay my neck a visit, but it forgot that I’ve only been here six months, not seven. Silly insectiplant.



Happy anniversary to me!

I also recently reached some important Peace Corps volunteer milestones: I ate a bug, I peed in a bucket (inside a house), and I went on a safari. Check, check, and check.


The girls at camp catching the "white ants" (termites)

 


White ants after the wings have been removed and they have been fried. Yum?

If I had a bucket list, I would also be able to cross a couple of things off the list. For one, I won a Chopped/Iron Chef competition at my PC training with my friend Matt. Our mystery ingredients were mangoes, Doritos, and matooke (green bananas). Dream come true, my friend, dream come true! I also participated in a flash mob at a camp at which I was a counselor. Surprise group dancing? Yes, please!

 

The winning dish: matooke hash with Dorito tempura battered tomatoes and mangoes

All in all, it’s been a fantastic four weeks of play time during my school break. I feel refreshed, renewed, and almost ready to start a new term. Since I’m not waxing particularly poetic today, I’ll share just a few facts, or vignettes, if you will:

1)    Fort Portal. Picture the giant mountains of Utah and the greenery of Oregon and you have this beautiful little village in western Uganda. The wind was in my hair. The crater lakes were near my feet. Jenna waited on me hand and foot. It was blissful.

2)    In-service Training. My whole crew of PC volunteers together again. Classes by day. Partying by night. No sleep. Lots of dancing and yoga and volleyball. No more cliques, just lots of love and friendship. Other than a nasty cold that decided to pay a visit and hectically planning to run some of the training sessions, it was glorious.

3)    Camp GLOW. About 100 girls between the ages of 13 and 18 and a handful of counselors and staff. Classes on leadership, on human rights, on assertiveness. Matching t-shirts. With the girls 24/7. Exhausting. Rewarding. Two moments that made me realize how blessed I am to live in the U.S. and deeply sad for the women here: 1) When the girls were making the argument that if someone has money, they have the right to make you their slave and do anything they wish to you, and 2) When the girls unanimously agreed that if God gave them a choice, they would choose to be men. Genuine bonding with 7 beautiful girls who caught a glimpse of what it means to be the future leaders of Uganda.

 

 

4)    Murchison Falls National Park. Rolling, green plains covered in trees and every kind of wildlife imaginable. Two lionesses with a freshly killed kob that had a perfectly round hole in its side. A late night run-in with a giant hippo near my tent. The most powerful waterfalls I’ve ever seen. A boat ride on the Nile River. Watching stock-still crocodiles with their mouths wide open. Seeing warthogs run, tails straight in the air, then stop and simultaneously drop those tails. Watching the elegant and somehow awkward run of a giraffe. Seeing a huge elephant tromping down the road right in front of you, birds lining its back. The snorting call of hippos half submerged in the water. The best, most relaxed group of people I could ask to travel with. I have rarely felt so peaceful, and I cannot begin to describe how utterly and immeasurably happy I am to know that places like that exist in the world.

Murchison Falls

A bit of the beauty that is Murchison Falls National Park

 

Fun Fact:

When running from a predator, the hartebeest will make it about 4 km before it forgets why it was running and stops.

Hartebeest

 

Shout Out:

Just a little shout-out to my blog's biggest mom fans: Brittany's mom and Heidi's mom. Brittany is a beautifully tanned, generous host and a sweet momma to her new dog. I unlocked the vault for Heidi, which means she is trustworthy, a good listener, and a true friend. I feel so lucky to know these two lovely ladies. Good job, moms!

 

The Nature of Ghosts

Ghosts are funny creatures, aren’t they? There’s no getting rid of them completely. Every time you move, you bring them with you. You pull them from the back of your closet and fold them like a collared shirt, rectangular pieces of gauze, and place them neatly inside your suitcase. They go where you go. When you arrive at your destination, you unpack each one, shake them out, place them on hangers. Then the ghosts do what ghosts do best. They all but disappear.

My ghosts fooled me for a bit when I moved to Uganda. “Ah, ha!” I thought, “This time they didn’t follow.” But they did, my friends. They did.

When the world is dark and I am alone, they come. The ghost of a boy drawing circles in the sand. The ghost of a princess with a mole for a friend. The ghosts of a thousand memories and of the people who once mattered, who matter still.

But there’s something different about my ghosts this time. Frankly, I’m grateful for the company. It’s settling, really, to know that regardless of how much you’ve grown, or how much you’ve changed for the better, your ghosts are still there. They’ve walked the long path with you. They remember.

Certainly, I can’t walk around with them so close for forever. The gauze makes things hazy and creates a barrier between me and the rest of the world. But for now, I’m wearing my ghosts like blankets. Wrapped around my shoulders, they comfort me from the equatorial sun. From the strangers. From a ridiculously unpredictable world.

Rage & Malaria

I’ve got some bad news. I seem to have wandered into the “Distress Stage” of culture shock, also known as “Crisis,” “Hostility,” or “Disorientation.” For me at least, this means that I am often incredibly frustrated, annoyed, impatient, and/or spitting mad. Basically, the stuff that was kind of endearing or only mildly irritating about this new culture is suddenly inspiring Hulk-like rage. For example, before when I would sit in an over-crowded taxi pressed up against far too many sweaty humans, I would think, “Wow, it sure is hot and crowded in here.” Now I’m prone to think, “If I have to sit in one more sweltering, smelly taxi, I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” Or when people would not show up to meetings or show up an hour late, I used to think, “Well, we’ll get through what we need to sooner or later.” Now I think something along the lines of, “If I have to sit and wait for an hour for people to show up one more time I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” Before when I would get quoted an outrageously high price for a kilo of passion fruit, I would think, “Ah, she is doing what she can to be a successful businesswoman.” Now I think, “If another person tries to overcharge me for passion fruit, I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” You get the idea.

Hulk + Tears = Steph

When I’m not struggling to keep a lid on sudden bouts of rage, I am alternately a sad, blubbering mess. Picture the Incredible Hulk, green with rage, but crying. Can you see him futilely trying to wipe away his tears with his ridiculously large green fists? That pathetic image is me in a nutshell.

Now, rest assured that this is perfectly normal and is to be expected somewhere between the third and sixth month of living in a new culture. I’m at the five month mark. After this, the helpful graphs begin to climb upward into lovely new phases all about acceptance and humor. Also rest assured that my honesty about how I’m feeling should not be confused for weakness. Nor should it be confused with real unhappiness. Beneath my rage-y, weepy exterior, I am a calm pool of peace. For realsies. 

As charming as it would be for me to drone on and on about my woes or flex my giant, green fists and scream at the world via blog posts, I decided to take a different approach (albeit a bit too late). I’m going to write about malaria for a tiny minute instead. Whaaaaa? Yep, malaria. Full disclosure: I want to win a contest. You may not know this about me, but I’m a tad bit competitive. (Ha! That was a little joke for all of you who know and love me.) But seriously...I. Want. To. Win. There are a list of activities you can do for points, and writing a blog post is one of them. Ready? Here goes.

April 25^th is World Malaria Day. All month, Peace Corps is doing activities to bring awareness to this important issue. Facts:

1)    Malaria is the leading cause of death in Uganda.

2)  Malaria disproportionately affects pregnant women and young children.

3)    In Uganda, between 70,000 and 100,000 children under the age of 5 die every year from malaria.

4)    Sleeping under a mosquito net greatly reduces one’s risk of contracting malaria, but only about 13% of the population in Uganda uses mosquito nets.

There you have it. If you think of it, float me some happy thoughts across that great big ocean. Or if you’re here, battling with your own inner Hulk, help me wipe off the tears with your human hands and I’ll try to do the same for you. And lastly, tell your friends and neighbors about the ongoing struggle that the poor nations of Africa are facing in fighting that pernicious foe called malaria.

Swim, Amoeba, Swim!

Walk with me down a Ugandan street for just a minute, will you? Take a look at the green palm fronds and red dirt roads and thousands of motorcycles. Notice the giant hawks circling overhead and the rivers of ants at your feet. And the people. There are people everywhere. Life here happens outside. You cook outside and bathe outside and visit outside. You shop at outdoor markets and buy pineapple and tomatoes and bags of fresh milk on the side of the road. There are people everywhere. And then there’s me.

Unlike traveling in Europe, where the Germans thought I was French and the French thought I was Italian and the Italians thought I was German, I stand out here. A lot. Like a glowing beacon. “Look at me,” cries my skin, “notice me!” Because of that one characteristic, the color of my skin, I live my life under a microscope.

Do you remember amoebas? You know, that ever-shifting blob with a vacuole to digest the food the pseudopods encircle? That’s me. And all I want to do is swim, invisibly, through my life. But alas, I’ve been plucked out of the pond and dropped onto a slide and everything I do with my false feet is witnessed. Children notice me and excitedly cry, “Muzungu, bye!” Adults notice me and make kissy noises or politely say, “Good morning,” or excitedly cry, “Muzungu!” Boda boda (motorcycle) drivers see me and say, “We go?” or “Yeeesssss,” or “You first come,” to try to get me to ride. The man selling kilos of potatoes from Kenya hisses at me to get my attention. And, my personal favorite (as of late), men hand me notes, at an internet café or while sitting at church, that say things like, “Can I get your contacts?” or, “I want to be your friend,” and then stand there, eagerly waiting for my reaction as I read.

 

It’s all a bit much for a girl who’s not too keen on being the center of attention.

But there’s something really lovely about being an amoeba, albeit an examined one. Have you seen them move? They are slow. Really slow. Like a centimeter an hour slow. And here, in this beautiful, foreign place, I’m slow too. I’ve always been fast at everything. But not here. Here, I am languid. I saunter. My life is moving at an easy pace. And it feels both good and good for me. The things that need to happen will happen eventually. Or not. Either way.

And so, on the days when the heat from the microscope is a little too intense, I put on my headphones and drown out the world with Sufjan Stevens’ “Casimir Pulaski Day,” or Al Green’s “Tired of Being Alone,” and walk down the street. I wave my Miss America wave to the children standing on piles of garbage and the children running with bicycle tires and the children playing in giant piles of cassava flour, and I love my slow, slow life again.

Getting wooed junior high school style