I guess it is impossible to document every single story I hear while in Gulu. If I continue the last post, it could go on for ages.
It’s 11AM in Gulu, and I’m sitting here in the office of Health Alert Uganda on a cushy couch with my laptop placed upon my lap, with the window open to my right and a fan whirring directly in front of my face on my left. Luckily, Health Alert keeps their own generator running, so I’m able to power up and Microsoft Word for as long as I please.
Last weekend, I visited Calvin in Jinja, which is located in southern Uganda Рabout a 2 hour matatu (taxi bus) ride from Kampala. After my last blog, I walked out of Kool City Internet Caf̩, bought some MTN airtime, and asked Moses to pick me from Pioneer Mall. For more than an hour, I sat on the ledge of a window at a busy intersection which strikingly resembled New York City with the shaded, briefcase carrying men, and the business women in pencil skirts and heels complete with French pedicures. The scene was vastly different from Gulu; I could see no clouds, and there were no rags in sight. Everyone was laughing and moving so quickly, in great contrast to those in Gulu who seem to take their time as they walk down the dusty roads. The dust of Gulu was replaced by the smoke and smog of Kampala Рengine exhaust soon began to circulate in my lungs, breathing in fumes instead of oxygen and exhaling black smoke instead of carbon dioxide. As I sat there watching the people move quickly past, I missed Gulu and desired a gulp of fresh air.
After a confusing exchange on my battered Nokia phone with Moses, I found myself wandering around a busy street near the large Crane Bank, scanning over the hundreds for Moses’ familiar face. Each time I stuck one toe out into the road lane, I feared that I would be swept up by a boda, pushed aside by a hurried pedestrian, or knocked to unconsciousness by an oncoming truck. The traffic was deafening as I walked along the curb of the road, desperately looking for Moses, and trying to avoid the boda’s calls and hello’s. Suddenly, a woman in a brown dress took hold of my hand, asking me quickly if I was looking for someone named Moses after which I gave a silent, grateful nod. She whisked me to the opposite side of the street, and soon threw me into a truck where I stared up and saw Moses’ face break into a smile. He introduced me to the mysterious woman who had brought me to safety – she was Agnus, his sister. From there, we drove recklessly in the direction of his home (almost killing 2 chickens, 3 goats, and 1 stubborn cow), and stopped at Agenda, a restaurant where I filled up on some Fanta, grilled chicken, and chips (French fries).
We chatted about Agnus’ opportunity to find a position as a nurse in America, and also highlighted the latest developments in the U.S. election (which plenty of people in Uganda are so keen to talk about). Soon, I met up with Calvin where we boarded a bus to Jinja. Calvin is staying with Father Picavet, a well-known and deeply admired Catholic priest who has been living in Jinja since 1970. The road his house is located on is even named after him. Jinja was so different from both Gulu and Kampala – paved roads, fresh air, hills, greenery, and houses larger than mine. We had tea with Father Picavet, and soon went to bed.
Last Saturday, we met our boda at 8:30AM, and were driven out to the Nile, where Adrift, an international rafting company, was located. The guides all seemed to have amazing stories about how they ended up with Adrift… one of the training guides was a 23-year old, blue-eyed Australian who is spending a year backpacking through Africa, while picking up random jobs (i.e. being a raft guide, doing carpentry work, waiting tables, etc). After the group of 20 from Kampala arrived, we all picked out a life jacket, paddle, helmet, and banana for energy, then set off down 100 steep slippery stairs to where our rafts were waiting. Calvin decided for us to go on the “Wild” raft (the other two were “Mild” and “Medium”), and so that is how I ended up being the only girl in our group of 9. While we were paddling, we passed by several women and children bathing, and washing clothes. We even saw As we approached Big Brother, a Grade Five rapid, we could hear the deafening sounds of the falls hitting the water underneath. 85% of the Nile flows through Big Brother. When we were going down the rapid, I held on for dear life but was knocked out by a forceful wave, and soon found my legs and elbows tangled, hoping that I would soon pop up to safety. A kayaker grabbed me, and ferried me back to the raft. A half hour later, we stopped at an island for lunch which consisted of avocado, ham, onion, and cheese sandwiches and fresh pineapple. We rafted from 10AM until close to 6PM, pausing during calm waters to jump off the raft to have a nice swim in the Nile. Around 4, after enjoying a nice lollipop during a flat stretch, angry clouds began to close in around us, though the raft remained in a spot of sunlight. For half an hour, it seemed as if the rain was chasing us, finally catching up to us during the last leg of our journey. At the end, I walked up the slope barefoot, and emerged muddy and happy to know a cold Nile Special Premium Lager was waiting for me at the top of the hill. I rode back in the front of the truck with Richard, or “Landy” and had a discussion with him about when the right age for marriage is, and prospects of me returning to Jinja for what he promised would be free accommodation and free rafting in case I came back to Adrift.
That night, Calvin and I splurged and enjoyed a steak at 2Friends, and went back home to rest for the night. In the morning, we accompanied Father Picavet to a small town called Buyala where he preaches at a local church once a month. Calvin and I sat in the back next to a young boy who stared at us with open eyes throughout the duration of the service. I could not understand the majority of the worship because it was spoken in Luganda, and so my attention was easily diverted to the purple-magenta flowers poking through the windows which gave interrupted light into the small, crowded church. I just remember rising and sitting, standing and praying, not know what was going on for over an hour and a half. Baptisms took especially long, after which the Sunday school children danced and sang for Calvin and I, welcoming us as visitors… “We will never, never, never forget you”. After a mini-photo shoot out front, Father Picavet drove us out to his “holiday house” which overlooks the Nile and contains acres of forests. The view was gorgeous, and his house had a porch and even a small hut and table out on the ledge of the hill. We enjoyed some tea and cookies while appreciating the unrivaled scenery, and even caught sight of a couple of rafters floating downstream. I spent the rest of the day in P.I.L. Handicraft shop, and picked out several things for friends and family, and a couple of things for myself as well. We splurged again (but this time on a Thaali plate from an Indian restaurant), then came back to sleep.
The ride from Kampala to Gulu was fairly quick and smooth, nothing of interest except for some cassava and meat skewers bought along the way. I returned home angry with Janet for not producing a baby yet – we’ve joked around that if it were a girl, she would be named Bianca Amari. Amari means Love.
Work:I carried out more than 15 interviews last week, with each interview lasting somewhere between 45 minutes to an hour. It got so late last Thursday during our last couple interviews that a candle was lit so that I could continue taking notes on my rat-a-tat notebook. When I had finished my interview with one TB positive patient, I said my Apoyo Matek’s and goodbye’s before she remained sitting there silent before piping up with a question while still keeping her eyes on the floor in front of her, her fingers playing with the tattered lacy fringe on her green and blue-flowered dress. She directed the question to me, and James translated. She told me that she had been abandoned by her family and all of her friends, left alone in isolation because of her status of also being HIV positive. The stigma drove them away from her, and she is left with her children who are HIV negative and sometimes treat her with disregard because of her returning TB and weak health driven by the unforgivable virus. She told me that she knows she will die very soon, and fears what will happen to her children. She asked me, what should she do with her children if she dies tomorrow, or the next week, or the next month? My mind was in shock at the question… how can I address issues of mortality and care-taking when I am a university student? It was only fair of her to ask me this question when my interview demanded so much strength and memory from her. I told her about Health Alert, and also recommended S.O.S., which is a respectable orphanage in town. After she shook my hand and thanked me, she walked out the door. As soon as I saw the blue edges disappear from the door frame, I turned to my left and began to cry.
After my interviews were done for the day, I thanked the local chairwoman who had made the appointments for me, and saw that she was feeding her baby milk from a bottle. After further investigation, I found out that she had been through Health Alert’s PMTCT program, and delivered an HIV- baby, which is why she was not breast-feeding. She also told me that one of the people who had agreed to be interviewed by me long before I stepped foot in Gulu, had died the past week from TB. My days never fail to contain some dose of sadness, yet it is only expected in these surroundings.
Yesterday, I went to Parabongo IDP Camp with 2 Health Alert Counselors and 2 Concordia students. Over a hundred men, women, and children sat down in front of us underneath the shade of a mango tree, and I shakily introduced myself with an “Orii Mabe” and “Kopongo”. A baby behind me caught my eye from the very beginning, and I betrayed myself by constantly looking over my shoulder to see where the baby was. He had the most beautiful smile. At one point, my heart broke because I saw some babies in a nearby corner playing in the dirt, occasionally sticking a handful of dirt into their mouths and swallowing. I saw another baby that day eating rocks. Each patient I have spoken to has listed food support and malnutrition as their biggest challenge in obtaining TB services. Clearly, nutrition, poverty, and healthcare go hand-in-hand. It is impossible to fix one without the other, or at least without considering how the others will be affected. Going out to the field certainly is depressing when thoughts of inadequacy are all I can think about. Inadequate support, inadequate capacity, inadequate funding. How can these problems be solved in one fell swoop?
At the end of my day yesterday, I finished the Partnership Evaluation Form which Francis helped me fill out (The Director and Program Coordinator of Health Alert), and rushed to Nile Computers Limited to send it off. Calvin randomly walked in, and we went together after we were finished to Maq Foods to enjoy some samosas before catching a boda back home.
