New cushions

The fan is spreading a breeze under the clothes horse, airing my machine washed clothes. The handles on my carbon frame road bike look eagerly at me, the frame ready to jump and race out the door if I even mouth the word 'ride'. The 'Beaches' soundtrack we found on vinyl on a recent op-shop fossick is adding some oomph to the scent of spiced carrot cake wax melts.

I'm not in Uganda anymore.

No, this is Australia. Where trying to find the right colour / texture combination of cushions to match your new reclining lounge suite can not only become the focus of your day, but also cause a 'domestic'.

"I said from the start that lounge suite wasn't right for the carpet."

It's been five months since I left Lugazi, Uganda. And I haven't written a blog since.

Actually, that's not true. I've written a couple, but I haven't posted them.

The readjustment and reverse culture shock has been nowhere near as difficult, and simultaneously excruciatingly harder, than I imagined it to be.

I can't even reveal to those closest to me what I really think most of the time - for fear of sounding hypocritical, offensive, holier than thou, idealistic, negative, naive, bleeding heart, optimist. And did I mention hypocrital?

I will post the unfinished blogs. It's just every time I think to write one, I tell myself I'm not allowed until I finish the one I started when I first came home.

Today, I'm throwing out my self-imposed rule and starting from here. Sometimes I'll jump back. Sometimes forward. Sometimes things are not going to make a whole lot of chronological or creative sense.

But here it is. A letter.

When I started this blog, I wrote it as letters to my grandmothers: Betty Marshall and Sylvia Toohey.  As Betty's mother's name was Ruby, and Sylvia's maiden surname was Dove, thus the name of the blog (it was either that or Silver Betty...but since I've had a penchant for ruby coloured items for some time, it seemed apt).

These women are two of my favourite story-tellers. One has a timeless and tireless imagination for fairytales - the secret lives of the creatures who live in her garden, and her thousands of dolls who chatter to each other as she sleeps. I do not doubt there are fairies under her Maidenhair ferns. The other, has a wicked memory which stores names, relationships and most importantly, moments of joy, tragedy, tears and hilarity in a filing system only she can see. For those who listen, she will work her magic so that her true stories become your own - a gift to pass on if you open it.

But tonight, I am making an exception, and addressing a letter to Doreen, in Uganda.

Dear Doreen,

I am sitting here in Yeppoon, on the woven mat you gave me, looking at a pineapple. How could I not think of you? Despite the fact I can wander downstairs to the supermarket and buy a large pineapple juice from the fridge, I am tempted to boil the skin, wait for it to cool down, drink my 'juice' and think of you. Truth be told, I prefer your ginger tea.

I am currently employed as the Digital Producer at the newspaper I work for in Queensland, which means I edit online stories and try to grow our online audience by engaging with our community through our stories, and social media. Part of the challenge of building this audience, is to inspire the community to tell their own stories.

So, one of the things I'm asking people to do in the lead-up to Christmas is write a letter. They are being asked to log onto our website and write a letter to someone they won't be spending time with this Christmas. It might be someone they are far away from, or someone who has passed away. They are also asked to upload a photo of something which reminds them of that person. They can write about a shared memory, about what they'll be doing for Christmas, or just what it is they love about that person.

This is me kicking things off.

I wanted to write to you and say even though I may not be there, even though it may seem I am caught up in my life back home, even though I may not write every day, I have not forgotten you. Sometimes, I wish I could.

If I could forget you, I could complain more. I could buy more meaningless things. I could block out what is happening in the rest of the world. I could enjoy a gelati on the beach without wondering what you were doing and wishing you were here to soak everything up with me. I could block out the fact so many people don't have the privileges, opportunities and love that is available to me. I could forget how inspiring, selfless, determined and generous you are and just get on with the job of being a cynical self-absorbed mzungu (white person).

I wish you could all come to my place for Christmas. I know Jo and Beth have never been to the beach, and I'd still love to teach you to swim. You must be nearly due to have number three, and I would love to give you a holiday, and send you off to a foot masseuse and a spa. I will never forget how much Erin had to go through to organise a massage for you. You never had the time to leave the children long enough to leave the house, so she had to bring the masseuse to you. And then you still proceeded to scrub the floors, bring us tea and cook for everyone with two children running around your feet and claiming to be 'helping' you whilst really throwing rice, knives and soapy water from one side of the kitchen to the other.

So I just wanted to let you know, I am thinking of you Christmas Day and every day, and love you and your family with all my heart.

Amy.

#AfricaTime

You know those moments when people keep saying "You should write a blog"... and you think about it, and then you don't, and then it's too late. Well I'm in Africa. And you're never too late for anything in Africa.


I'm not sure why I booked a ticket to Uganda. I'm not sure why Valence's email stood out to me from all the others. But as soon as I signed up to become the social media coordinator for the Youth Focus Africa Foundation, something pretty phenomenal happened. A man called Joseph Kony became a household name, people suddenly had a clue where Uganda was, and the relationship between social media and non-government organisations in developing nations was scrutinised as much as the relationship between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. 


So, I promise I looked for Kony. I peeked under at least one banana leaf. But I couldn't find him. 


Instead, I found a nation full of gratitude. Of hope. Of beauty. Of exploitation. Of inequality. Of corruption. Of smiles. And of generosity.


These are the letters I have written to my grandmothers.




** For more photos from my trip and to connect with the Youth Focus Africa Foundation, please visit:


My Facebook site: www.facebook.com/amyjoanne.marshall
YOFAFO's Facebook site: www.facebook.com/YOFAFO

So you think you can(not) swim?

I know there's still an 'IOU' out for part #2 of a previous blog, but I couldn't post about my superficial observations of the media's portrayal of Ugandan complex political monopoly board, without acknowledging the life of a friend I mentioned in a previous blog.

I was at the airport saying goodbye to a close friend who came to visit me for a week (the topic of another 'still to come' blog). He is one of those people who is as introverted as he is extroverted, and can fill an MCG with his company, generosity, ideas, good and bad jokes, chitter chatter and general silliness. If you can imagine going to the MCG in the midst of raucous grand final day energy, then blinking for a second, only to find that when you open your eyes the only life in the grandstand or on the ground are a few people picking up leftover chip buckets, then you'll understand what I was feeling. Sitting downstairs at the airport with a cup of tea (also conjuring up mixed emotions about the fact it would soon be me hopping on that flight), I did what most people of my generation know is the best way to fill an emotional void. I logged into Facebook.

As the plane took off, I read this post from John Fleming (president of the Coomealla Tri Club, and also the husband of one of my Godmothers):

"Last night one of our life members, Peter Mills peacefully passed away at the Mildura Hospital after a courageous and long battle. In 1987 we shared the vision to form the Coomealla Tri Club after an adventure to Copi Hollow for the inaugural Broken Hill Tri. No one told us Millsy could not swim a stroke, the night before the race we strapped an esky lid to his chest for buoyancy, chucked him in the channel for his first swim. Our love of this new sport of swim-ride-run filled the old van most weekends with anyone that was remotely interested in giving it a try. Millsy was a gifted athlete in many ways, he possessed a silky running style, owned a sub 3 hour marathon time, sat well on the bike and had been racing with the Mildura Cycle Club. One thing he never mastered well was the swim leg, but determined he was. The early days filled our lives with the amazing, wonderful adventures we all had. As time moved on Millsy achieved his dreams of finishing his own personal IRONMAN getting out of that 3.8k swim. Millsy represented Australia in the World Duathlon Championships, raced Ironman and completed more than 200 triathlons/duathlons/marathons & fun runs. Our first tri was held at the Rowing Club Lawns in 1988 - his love for that adventure remains today."

If you haven't met Peter Mills, you may recognise his name from my post "Beanies on the Equator". I can't say I knew Peter well. I can only say his impact on my life was great. And I know I was one of thousands. Sitting at an airport in Uganda, with Mildura four flights and more than 100,000 kilometres away, I felt winded and even the sound of rattling tea cups and luggage wheels seemed to be blurred by my tears. Even though we have no evidence to suggest that what comes after death is dark and horrific, and despite the fact the passing of someone we care about can mean their release from intense and ongoing pain or illness, we can still feel overwhelming sadness. **In varying orders, we feel for ourselves - for the things we didn't say or do, the time we wish we could still have with the person, and perhaps even fear and anger (arguably the same emotion) at being left behind without them; we can be overcome as we are confronted with our own fears about losing someone close to us, as we feel deep sadness for those who are closest to the person who has passed away; and even though we know the future and our own death have no impact on our current happiness, we are often terrified at having to contemplate our own mortality when we grieve for the individual themselves. This is especially the case if we decide they have died too young or early, as we feel a sense of loss for the things we wish they'd experienced.

But sadness isn't the only emotion one feels when someone passes away. And at Entebbe airport, my tears weren't just of sadness. In fact, they were more of an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Not just for myself, but also for every person he has come across. I also laughed out loud when I read Flemo's (the gentleman previously referred to as 'John Fleming') story about how he strapped Millsy to an esky lid (or was it the other way around). I knew Millsy preferred the run and ride leg, but this certainly explained why my introduction to triathlon began with a struggle in the water. Millsy had plenty of advice for me on how to change gears, keep my knees in, practise the bike-run transition by running 'off the bike', and the benefits of elastic shoelaces. But for the swim leg, he just lent me his wetsuit.

One thing which was very apparent to me on this particular Saturday, was the glowing example to back the argument that you no longer have to live in a small town to say "news travels fast". Social media has even changed the way we grieve death and celebrate the life of those who have passed. I was able to learn of my friend's passing, from the other side of the world, within hours. People began posting their condolences, 'Millsy' stories and photos almost immediately. The funeral details have been shared with a global audience. Facebook even allows users to 'memorialise' a person's profile, to allow people to grieve and celebrate publicly. Sites such as Facebook allow information about a death to spread like water in a sprinkler. It may save the mourning family from making hundreds of difficult phone calls, from having to manage their text message inbox on their now constantly beeping phone, and have time to repeatedly reflect on messages of support at times when they need the comfort most.

Lugazi has its own special way of announcing a death. I'd say its reach is not as broad as Facebook, but the strategy is much more efficient and less painful than a bunch of phone calls. The first time I heard it, I thought one of Musevini's cheer squad had been given a speaker phone. Or maybe war had been declared? A cyclone coming perhaps? Or could it just be the ice-cream man? There are times, when even the closest reading of tone cannot penetrate through the language, vocal morphing and distortion of someone making a community announcement in Luganda through a speaker phone. When a person in the village dies, someone is given the task of walking or driving around the place with either a speaker phone, or with a microphone and speakers, to announce the person's death. Everyone in the community hears about it, and everyone drops everything. The announcements last all night long, as members of the community move to the house to sleep around the body. Most of the women sleep inside, while the men stay outside and light small fires. They will sleep and pray around the body all night long. And in the morning, the body is taken from the house for a burial. As in many places in Australia, where 'Sorry Business' gives respect and space to people's right to grieve, many things in the person's home village will shut down on the day of the burial. But death is a regular part of life here. The demographic triangle of life and death is upside-down, with high birth rates and high death rates. Most of the young women who are members of the YOFAFO's Microfinance Loan bank have lost their husbands. The woman who comes to the house each day to help Doreen cook and clean, has lost four of her eight children and she is only in her 30s. Almost every day, I meet someone who has lost both their parents. Almost two weeks ago, mudslides killed at least 30 people in Eastern Uganda, with 100 still missing and unlikely to be found alive, and thousands displaced. Yet the government does not see the need to consider this a 'natural disaster'. Although the fact death is as much a part of life in Uganda, as barbecues are to Summer Saturdays in Australia, there is a tendency to console ourselves with the notion people are desensitised to it. But accepting death as a fact of life, and being forced to continue with your life so you can still feed your children, doesn't mean you grieve less or that it hurts less.

So today, as I start my goodbyes to Uganda, there was a huge celebration in Mildura. I know hundreds of people must have turned out for Millsy's funeral and there would have been some hilarious and uplifting stories told. I wondered today if his departure from this earth was a little like leaving Uganda. I have been torn about whether to stay longer, or go. My heart is tied to the people here, the landscape and the rhythm of it all. But I can feel a pull to somewhere else, to the next adventure, and I can see things shifting and changing around me, like a new era is beginning. The sugar cane I used to run in the shadows of, has been chopped down, revealing a magnificent view across Lugazi to the regal-looking Catholic church. Three new volunteers are here, Beth is learning new words faster than I can keep up with them, and the sunflowers which were brighter than a year's worth of Sunday Ugandan suns are dying. So I don't feel sad about leaving. I just feel grateful for the amazing experience I've had, for the people I've met, and am looking forward to what is to come. It just feels like the time has come to say goodbye.

But keep your blogging eye out for a few more stories yet :)

**I note that my experience with death has been very minimal and largely second-hand, through supporting friends and family who have lost loved ones. Also, I am not a grief counsellor, psychologist or any kind of professional in the field. Therefore these thoughts are merely my own observations and should not be interpreted as fact or even well-researched analysis.

*** Special thanks to Jesse Curran, Arron Veltre, Leanne Wright, Leah Fleming, Katrina Bolton, Ian Walker and Mum for telling me to conserve my energy and kick less, kick more so my bum doesn't sink, brush my thigh with my hand, push the water DOWN the body, kick from the hip and not hte knee, make an 'S' shape underwater, keep your shoulder to your ear, stretch forward and straight, don't twist or roll the body when you stretch, keep your head down, do awkward one-armed-no-kicking-drills, 'shut up and swim', just breathe and look to the finish line. Oh and to John Fleming... cause even if the swimming goes out the window and you have to float, at least you've organised a swim leg with a strong current.

Congratulations to: Sarah Scopelianos, who has not only completed her first marathon, but is now conquering her doubts about her swimming abilities and will soon be a swimming teacher!

Putting the call out to: Sarah Scopelianos, Eleanor Marshall and Shane Browne (and anyone else): Coomealla Tri 2012.

White Interlude.

Before I head into Part #2 of the 'Booty and the Bomb' blog, I wanted to introduce you to one of my favourite writers, and a concept known as the White Saviour Industrial Complex.

In March this year, just more than a week after the Kony2012 video went viral, Teju Cole tweeted a seven-part explanation of this complex, and took an articulate and witty lead on the backlash against this video made by Invisible Children.

In a follow-up to my blog about child sponsorship (you may recognise it as the one about my expanding "Kanina Kanene"), and in the lead-up to a blog about Ugandan politics and the media (and a safari which may see me bump into some hippos) I am copy-and-pasting this American-Nigerian writer's definition of this complex as some food for thought.

"1- From Sachs to Kristof to Invisible Children to TED, the fastest growth industry in the US is the White Savior Industrial Complex.

2- The white savior supports brutal policies in the morning, founds charities in the afternoon, and receives awards in the evening.

3- The banality of evil transmutes into the banality of sentimentality. The world is nothing but a problem to be solved by enthusiasm.

4- This world exists simply to satisfy the needs—including, importantly, the sentimental needs—of white people and Oprah.

5- The White Savior Industrial Complex is not about justice. It is about having a big emotional experience that validates privilege.

6- Feverish worry over that awful African warlord. But close to 1.5 million Iraqis died from an American war of choice. Worry about that.

7- I deeply respect American sentimentality, the way one respects a wounded hippo. You must keep an eye on it, for you know it is deadly."  **

My thoughts about the irresponsibility of the Kony2012 campaign, could fill 100 pages. Its inaccuracies, its lack of consultation with Ugandan people, its promotion of the justification of militarisation in a nation whose democracy is already under threat from such ideas. And I whole-heartedly agree with Teju Cole about the way Westerners support militarisation and conflict in areas such as Haiti, but will fill their do-good egos by donating when there is an earthquake in the region. However, while acknowledging Cole is mainly pointing out the hypocrisy of it all, I wonder if (in this particular White Saviour argument) he fails to recognise the separation of long-term and immediate needs and the value of small community-driven grass-roots approaches.

My questions are:

1. Are all of our attempted contributions to the smoothing out of inequalities in the world, merely selfish acts in the pursuit of a "big emotional experience" to validate our privilege?

2. If it makes a positive difference, does it matter if part of the motivation was a selfish?

3. Do all acts of kindness carry a selfish element, in our desire for the reward of seeing a smile on someone's face and feeling their gratitude? How do we give without receiving, and do we have to to make a positive contribution to the world around us?

4. How does the everyday person, who does not have time to research the political / social / cultural context of every nation in the world, make a responsible and educated contribution?

5. Many volunteers who come to Uganda, and other parts of the world, spend the majority of their time travelling and simply playing with children. There are no doubt more productive ways for them to contribute to the world around them, and an element of them simply looking for an opportunity to 'grow as an individual' and put something on their CV. But if they make a connection, learn something about human rights and wealth distribution inequalities, become more open-minded and open-hearted human beings, and have a broader perception of their place in the world, is it worth it?

6. How do people living in the developing world tell their stories, from their own perspective, and have them heard, when Invisible Children can flood Twitter while these people often don't speak English or even have a light globe?

7. How do we do a better job of educating people not just about the world's needs, but the reasons behind those needs? And if Robinah is one of the world's 'needs', and money and advocacy would be more effectively directed at the source of why she doesn't have a pen or a pair of shoes, do we ignore her immediate needs?

8. And most importantly - since I am ego-driven, self-conscious and use technology starting with 'i' (which explains my perception about where the centre of the universe is) - do you think I am a victim / perpetrator of Cole's Complex?! :)



**http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2012/03/the-white-savior-industrial-complex/254843/

Booty and the Bomb: Part #1

“You look nice and fat”

Interesting times at the YOFAFO Chalet. Thirteen volunteers been and gone, my butt grew to a more acceptable size, there’s been a terrorist threat, Doreen washed my hair, Beth (18 months) has learnt to ask if she can drive the car, and there are 30,000 refugees just over the border in South Sudan who don’t have any water.

I am currently sitting in a hotel room in Kampala, checking out the African version of Big Brother. Biggest brotherist difference seems to be the allowance of drinking and smoking in the house. My attention span for that lasted about five minutes, at which point I flicked the channel to find a documentary about Africans teaching some white guy to use a bow and arrow. Interestingly, the guard at the house I live in has a bow and arrow. I thought he had killed someone with it the other day. It was night time and we heard a flurry of thumping and banging and came running out to try and see the robber. Turns out the guard had picked up a giant log and was bashing a snake! Erin was very happy it didn’t slither into her room. Jo was giggling hysterically and a little too excitedly (he killed a lizard recently. But we can't really blame him, because whenever he refuses to wear pants, Doreen tells him a lizard his going to eat his "pushu". I don't think I need to translate. This will also explain why Beth has a fear of frogs...)

So do you want to hear about the terrorists or my backside first? Since this is a blog and I can't actually hear your response, I'll make the call this time.

I’ll stick to wear priorities lie in Uganda.

The downside to putting on weight as a female, is Westerners give more respect to women who look malnourished. Even if men don’t find it instinctively more attractive, and if magazines say they want to support a healthier size… they do not. Waifishness has become a symbol of grace, beauty and brains. If you are skinny then you must be working hard, you must have a sense of self control, and self respect. Confusion of internal and external perceptions are things we all struggle with.

In Uganda, if you are skinny, you are just scrawny. It’s a symbol of poverty and illness. How will you carry the children, the jerry cans of water, the matooke on your head with a bottom that size?!

Dickson says my arms look “fatter” and Valence says I am looking “healthy”. So even if my weight gain is a result of bloating and fatigue in response to my body not being able to process the food it is trying to make sense of, somehow it is more attractive. Normally, I would either go into a jogging frenzy or hide in my room for a couple of days after being told “you look healthy” or “you are looking nice and fat”. Because at home, this is supposedly literally translated to “you’ve gotten fat and lazy”. Yes, I understand this warped interpretation of a compliment may in fact just be my own screwed-up-body-issue-sense-media-influenced-disordered-view-of-myself. But I don’t think I’m alone.

I may have felt a twang of illness at these comments, and perhaps text a “frown face” or two to a friend. But there came a point when I was relieved for the added padding. I am still undecided on whether the extra attention from Ugandan men (ie. “Whoah!”, “Madame, madame, I love you, you are beautiful”, “Madame, pllleaaasee, give me your number”, “Wooooowwwww”, “Madame, what is your name. Please, I love you. Where are you going? Let me come with you”) is such a good thing. But as I have recently discovered, there’s no way you can dance properly in Uganda with a bony bum. (**NOTE: This goes for men too.)

It began with the arrival of 13 volunteers from the United States. The group of girls, aged between 19 and 22, were led by university lecturer Tiffany Hammond Christian. Tiffany first met Valence about five years ago. He had been invited to visit the United States by a university professor and was due to speak at the Appachalian State University. Tiffany was lecturing in development, saw Valence’s name on the list of available invited speakers and agreed to have him present to her class. When the class was finished and Valence left the room, Tiffany started to continue the next part of her lecture. But her class was silent. And then hands went up in the air.

“We want to go,” the students said.

“Go where??,” asked a baffled Tiffany.

“We want to go where he is going. We want to go to Africa.”

Tiffany made her first trip to Africa with 10 students in tow, no one to meet her at the airport (the group was going on safari before they were going to meet with YOFAFO) and no idea if the driver she had wired money to was even going to pick them up. She was as nervous and scared as any other traveller arriving at a very foreign airport for the first time. Except she was also answerable to a university, and the parents of 10 young people. Brave move.

Tiffany brings bubbles and glitter paint and becomes the star attraction at Kitoola.

In 2012, Tiffany brought her fifth group to Uganda. Each year, the group of students has spent time working with YOFAFO on a project in the village of Kitoola, connected with the community, and also found time to take in Uganda’s “Africa condensed” wildlife and scenery. White water rafting, hand drum lessons, horse riding in the rainforest, giraffe spotting, booty shaking and chimpanzee tracking.

They built the foundations of a four-room classroom block, and built on the foundations Tiffany has set for a long-term relationship with the community of Kitoola. And I was privileged enough to be a small part of their experience.***

It was challenging to begin with. So often our images of volunteering in Africa are of white girls in their 20s, hugging black children. This is not as easy as it looks! It wasn’t until I spent the day with the group, on their first day of brick laying, that I realised I had not had the level of interaction with children in the community as most volunteers experience. I was completely overwhelmed. And feeling unwell did not help the experience. There were so many children, and they were so desperate to engage. They kept jumping right in front of the camera lens, so I couldn’t actually take a photo of anything. As I tried to capture the volunteers in action, all I had was a blur of hands reaching and waving at me. Their giant smiles even became angry as they fought for a position in front of the camera, scolding each other and slapping each other’s hands away. No matter how many times I yelled “Extend! Extend! Daio!” (move back), they smothered me. They wanted to see the photo I took, and groped at my phone, losing the pictures as they squeezed the touch-screen. Even when I sat down, they crowded around me, waiting for some kind of performance. “You bring for me what?”. I had no crayons. No face paint. Just a pair of blue eyes, staring back at a still frame of a field of big brown eyes. I tried to make the photo in front of me fade away, as nausea set in and my palms became sweaty.

The fight to have your photo taken is not easy!

 And then I heard her bright voice beside me: “Are you sick?”

Mutesi Robinah

She looked about as close to a pixie as you could find in a human being.

“Yes, I’m not feeling very well.”

She shooed the other children away, telling them I was sick.

Her name was Mutesi Robinah. She wrote her name in my red journal.

“Do you have grandmothers? There is mine over there. And that one there is my mother, and that one there is my sister. Sister, come here! She is shy, she won’t come”

Her grandmother was small and shining in a golden yellow traditional dress, and her mother was laughing with the other women, cooking our lunch.

“What is your favourite colour?”

When I came back a week later, the surprise in her voice couldn’t cover up her smile, which looked like she had been expecting me to arrive that very moment.

“You are back.”

She was tiny and her feet were bare, her school dress too big. When the rest of the children were playing soccer during a match between the teachers and volunteers, and the students, she lay down to rest. When she wasn’t resting, she was by my side. One hand held mine, and she insisted on carrying my 1.5 litre bottle of water on her head for me. She showed me how she could dance a little, at the same time as carrying it. And just let an amused smile creep from her mouth when I tried to do the same.

 

I noticed her friend and her looked very similar. I asked if they were sisters.

“We are twins.”

In fact the girls were triplets, but the third girl had died. Their mother couldn’t afford shoes for them, or school fees. But Valence is allowing the girls to attend school for free, because they are such good students and because their mother and grandmother are YOFAFO community leaders. The girls are on his list of children needing child sponsorship.

Three of the girls from Tiffany’s group are going to sponsor a child. I am going to sponsor Robinah.

When there are so many vulnerable children in the world, the advertisements about child sponsorship start to lose their impact. We become overwhelmed at how much needs to be done, how many people need help. We wonder if international development has outgrown child sponsorship programs, and know something more drastic needs to be done to address human rights and wealth inequalities. But in the meantime, Roinah still needs to go to school. And when you look at Valence and see how much difference one sponsorship can make for a community, and see the excitement on Robinah’s face at the prospect of owning a pen that works so she can do her school work, it’s a little easier to see the truth in the power of small things.

I promised Robinah I would go back to visit her before I leave, and bring her, her sister and her friend a pen. So if I haven’t written about going back to visit her in the next fortnight, please write me an email and hold me to it. *****

Now, back to bottoms. My friend Erin Burn, a girl from the UK who has been volunteering in Uganda for four months and is developing a health promotion program for YOFAFO, has been attracting a bit of attention around Lugazi for her rear-end. As it has grown steadily rounder on Doreen’s cooking, and her love for Rolex’s (prounced like Roll-eggs. Quite literally, it is fried egg rolled up in a chapatti), Erin has been hearing the words: “Kabina Kanene!”.

It means “big bum”, and is a compliment. **NOTE: Erin's bum is NOT big. Just more grabbable than when she arrived.

I am still not Ugandanised enough to render myself ready to hear those words, but I was grateful for some extra cushioning on my last visit to Kitoola. It was Tiffany’s group’s last day in the village, and it was the evening following the teachers vs. students soccer tournament. I had learnt how to say “I don’t eat meat” so I didn’t have to chew down on a goat the community had especially killed and roasted for us, and was ready for the disapproving looks. I received them, but had my moment to make up for it….

I cannot explain to you how these bottoms shake. Mine does a pretty good job, but I have at least taken some dance classes in my life... and it still doesn't move the way it should! In this part of Uganda, it is something children must know from birth. I have seen girls as young as three or four getting their wriggle on. There are variations on the move and beat, but it basically involves pretending you are a duck, sticking your bum out and shaking the water off your back. All the while keeping perfect posture. And even if your bum is portly enough, everyone must have a special skirt thing, or a jumper tied around their waist to accentuate the visual impact of the booty-shaking. Generally, the women do the shaking, and the men have some other moves or are performing hand percussion. The hand drumming also seems to come freakishly naturally to people here. At lunch times, you won’t find children in a computer room or playing cricket. If they are not skipping, resting, running with a bicycle wheel or playing soccer, they are playing the drums. And when I say drums, I mean there are six children standing around playing plastic bins. As they get going, even the teachers ditch their yard duty and start leading a small schoolyard festival – the children in stitches of laughter as Mr So-and-so starts shaking it with Mrs So-and-so. And the dancing and drumming are never without vocal interjections which sound something like a cross between the Aussie “Coo-eee!”, a wolf whistle, and that Indian call done when one opens their mouth, lets out a soprano note and repeatedly hits their mouth with their hand. It goes something like this:

“YOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOYOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

The school had organised special dance performances for us from the children (with the school principal giving the students the “yoyoyoyoyoyoooooo!” cheer during the dancing) , which was just amazing. But it wasn’t until after the goat (which I DID try… but spat out) that we were asked to join in.  I was privileged enough to have the school principal as my butt-shaking teacher.

The goat.

Now, no matter how many films I make in Uganda, no matter how many volunteers I recruit, no matter how much I fundraise for YOFAFO in the future, my greatest achievement has to be this one.

“You dance like a Ugandan”

*** In 2013, Tiffany will open up the opportunity to join her group trips to Uganda to all members of the community, not just students from her university. To find out more, visit www.facebook.com/youth4uganda

***** If anyone would like to sponsor a child through YOFAFO's child sponsorship program, please contact myself via this page, or Valence via info@yofafo.org

Beanies on the Equator...

“Just do your best, it doesn’t matter. You won’t come last.”

Everyone had finished the race and I was still half way down the oval, readjusting my sports skirt so it wouldn’t fall off. Pushing my legs so fast, my five-year-old freckles nearly burst off my face. I wasn’t just last. I was dead last.

My mother will attest to the fact I was never much of a sprinter. I was no faster at the school sports than I was going through the shower or putting my tights on in the morning. But from the age of five, I was determined to find a way not to come last again.

By late high school, I had worked out that if I run for long enough, the others would eventually conk out.  That’s the only strategy I had then, and the only one I have now. Fast twitch muscles and leg length are not on my side. 

In 2008 I was going through a bit of a rough patch, and jogging wasn’t high on my priority list. But then I met two people who changed my attitude to running, and in essence, my outlook on life.

I have never known anyone to be as excited about a drop of water on a tin roof as Mark Wilgar. Or sunshine. Or any incremental change in temperature. So when there is a dust storm brewing, or an impending minor flood event, this weatherman is positively peaking. And don’t even start me on long-range records and weather pattern statistics. Mark is a husband, father and all-round enthusiast. He and his wife Karen take their kids to the swimming pool, on treasure hunts through Vanuatu, outback orienteering, birdwatching or paddling kayaks in the jungle just like someone else takes eggs for breakfast. It’s hard to find Mark without a smile on his face and runners on his feet. I was reporting in Mildura, in the north-west corner of Victoria, when I went for a trip out to the weather station to interview Mark about the running event he was organising. Suddenly, I was signed up to the Mallee12. I’m not sure how he convinced me I could run 12 kilometres, but I suddenly believed it was possible.

I couldn’t walk so well the day the after the event.  But in my elated “I did it!” state, I signed up for another fun run. And then another…

In the course of chatting to people at the back end of the race, I also reconnected with an old friend of the family. Peter Mills competed for Australia in duathlon events and has been running a small gym which I think can safely boast being host to the funnest Spin classes in the world. How can you go wrong with 70-year-olds in lycra, Britney Spears tracks and a disco ball? He has trained many a group for Great Victorian Bike Rides and has managed to convince 60-somethings to take up cycling. The man is magic. He is not doing a lot of cycling at the moment as his battle with cancer is pushing him in the direction of a Harley, but that is not before he inspired me with his enthusiasm, his fun attitude to cycling and to just “having a go” and having a great time in life.

I never thought I'd be able to do a triathlon. I was not a fast runner, I could barely make it to the end of the swimming pool, and I was terrified of hopping on one of those skinny road bikes where you have to stick your feet in the pedals (let alone inflicting my lycra-clad physique on the world!).

But again, people like Mark Wilgar and Peter Mills seem to have this affect on me which finds me in an Australian representive tri-suit, trotting comfortably over the finish line!

Okay, so the Australia suit wasn’t mine – it was Millsy’s. And I was coming last in it. And he had also lent me his wetsuit, his favourite bike, and a spare tyre tube (which I still don't know what to do with)!

Since then, I have completed four triathlons, one Olympic distance triathlon, one half ironman and eight fun runs. I have run in the outback, cycled up mountains in Italy, jogged through the side-alleys of Tokyo, put sneaker to bitumen under a full moon on the Great Ocean Road, and been swimming in waters including the muddy Murray and the crystal blue northern Queensland.

And now I have my running shoes in Uganda.

You may remember me writing about the challenges of running here: boda drivers asking for your phone number, hundreds of people yelling out “Mzungu”, the mixture of confused / thoroughly amused / not at all amused faces of the women, and hoards of children running around your feet. Not to mention the fact that people don’t seem to like any form of dirt on your shoes… which means my sneakers are constantly wet as the women keep taking them to soak and scrub them after every use. Things started to become a little easier when Valence pulled out his joggers, even if we were a little slow. At least they started laughing at him more than they did me. I am told people only run in Uganda if they are trying to catch a taxi or run from the tax man. But when Valence’s “I really love walking” comments began to increase, I began to feel that perhaps this wasn’t his physical exertion of choice. He thinks it is giving him chest pains he insists is a heart strain, and other injuries. It has been pointed out to him that his heart is not actually in the centre of his chest and that the pains he is having may be indicative of anxiety. He assures me he has absolutely nothing to be anxious about in life.  I have also suggested the running could also be blamed for any eyelash losses he has had recently, but he assures me this is not the case.

Running is not for everyone, and some people will gain much more from walking.

But I found another victim. Doreen’s brother Dickson. And I think he is hooked on the crack of running endorphins. He still won’t run in shorts (always long pants), but his long legs have quickly started overtaking mine on our bi-weekly trots through the region’s tropical flowers and shady banana leaves. Thankfully for me, I have the pity of the locals on my side. They look at my skin colour, look at my gender, look at the length of my legs and just start waving their hoes about and cheering desperately for me from the sugar cane. It’s enough to ensure I can at least beat Dickson on the home run.

Merely registering for the Nile Marathon was an adventure in itself. First of all, there is no ‘marathon’. It is a half marathon. Then, when you go to the website to register online and find out more information, the website doesn’t actually exist. But at least if there is a website on the poster, then the whole event looks organised, right?

There were only a few locations we could register, and it meant a two hour return trip in a very squashy taxi bus. I dragged my poor friend Erin and her luggage around Jinja trying to find the registration point. Eventually, we found the event office at a service station. And were told the person who does the registrations was not around. After much coaxing, we were directed to another location. And then another, before we finally received some information. Registrations had closed. It was a week before the charity run, and even though their registration numbers were low, they apparently weren’t taking any more. I asked where on the poster there were details about the deadline for registration, and as it turns out… there weren’t any. “But didn’t you hear our announcements on the radio?”. No, no I did not. I do not even have a radio. Thankfully Ugandans are very friendly, and took my money and wrote our names on the back of a scrap piece of paper.

There were no ‘gear tents’ at the event, but there was an excellent stage and speakers. Music before Management in Uganda. Available pre-race nutrition was samosas, chapatti or cake. And even though it would have been a miracle if the race started on time, for some reason, we still all expected it.

First there was just a 10 minute delay for no apparent reason. Then they needed to call some kind of electrical specialist to come flying in on his white boda and save the day because the timing chip mat –belt thingy wasn’t working. Then it was “when we fire the gun, DO NOT RUN… I repeat DO NOT RUN, when we fire the gun. We need to test the gun is working”. Never mind the microphone is working and they could just say “run!”.

Every 21 kilometres of pleasure and pain was worth it. I was conscious of every breath as the sun came up over Lake Victoria down below. I was every part grateful for those Ugandans who were prepared to hold back their finishing time just for the opportunity to run with you for an hour or so, to connect and cross the finish line together. My heart was full of encouragement and hopeful momentum for the soccer player who had been training for just two weeks to give this event a go. My laughter was uncontrollable when at the half-way mark, a chapatti maker cheered me on with: “Go, go, go, faster, faster! You can finish! And then you come back and buy my chapatti!!”. I had my cheeky face on when young guys would come and run alongside me, and puff their chests out, have a casual chat, and then be left in the dust when I would sprint past them in front of everyone, leaving their audience rolling around in stitches of laughter at the mzungu girl who had left them behind. And my heart melted when I heard from the sideline: “Go my daughter, my daughter, go, go, go!”.

And when it really hurt, and when I wondered if I was going to have to walk it home, and if I could even do that….I thought of the beanie in my luggage at the hotel. It was my green Mallee12 beanie and it had arrived in Kampala two days before the race. It was the only mail I had received in Uganda thus far. Mark had gone to the trouble of sending me the M12 beanie so I could take a photo of myself in it and send back to him. It made me think of the people in his life who were facing challenges at the moment. And it made me think of Millsy. I know it is cliché, but I am not sure how else to describe what went through my mind. I know how much Millsy has fought, and I can’t even begin to imagine what pain his body has been through. But I know he is still here, inspiring every person he meets because he understands that even if you can’t control external influences - such as the way other people behave or what is happening to your body or the world around you – you can control yourself. And no matter how much pain he is in, this man always has a word of encouragement, a disco ball to Spin to, a laugh to share, or a daggy joke to contribute. He reminds me that even when it is hurting like hell, you can always laugh at yourself, and that it is just as much fun to come last, as it is first. 

One of my other favourite moments of the weekend was when I finished the half marathon and found Dickson. He had finished his 10km event and was on top of the world. I have been very blessed to have at least one special person slow down their training to run with me. And now I understand a little part of why that is. The reward of beating your time can never compare to the reward you receive from sharing something which makes you happy, with someone else. To watching someone else discover those endorphins. To learning about someone and from someone, and to building friendship.

I completed the 21 kilometre race and have these particular thanks to offer to four phenomenal human beings (not in order of appearance).

1. Mark Wilgar: For sucking me in in the first place.
2. Millsy: For being you, for laughing at me in your ‘Australia’ suit, and for taking photos of me on the finish line. 
3. Dickson: For waiting for me when I slept in. I still owe you that ice-cream truck... 
4. Arron: For running with me, for slowing down my jogs by making me laugh too much, and for teaching the importance of chatting while trotting. You are patient, inspiring and beautiful. x 
5. Scopes (who recently SMASHED her first marathon): For reminding me about the value of friendship and chocolate. Thankyou. Am so proud of you xox

Running on grasshoppers

Hello from Uganda!

I have written a good half of this letter in the dark under a mosquito net in my room, and another chunk with a cup of super sweet African tea under the sunshine, which is dodging and ducking through bright tropical flowers and banana leaves so it can reach me and give me yet another patch of new freckles!

The last couple of weeks have been a learning curve in all aspects of the phrase. I guess travelling is a little like “life condensed”. You can have some of the worst experiences of your life one day, the best the next day, the most shocking in the same day… and come out of it new and different and fulfilled no matter what. I am sure most of you know that feeling!

The last group of volunteers left (and left behind a big hole, but lots of nice clothes) and Erin and I had a week or so with Doreen, Valence and the kids to ourselves. And now there is a group of 13 girls here! They are from a university in the US where Valence went to speak a number of years ago. The university has since been sending a group of students each year. They are aged between 19 and 24 and are studying everything from health promotion and nutrition, to global development and teaching. They are building some new school classrooms in the village Valence grew up in. The village is called Kitoola (KIT-OHL-LAH). I haven’t had as much time to engage with this group as the other group, but it has been amazing to watch them talk at the end of the day. They are a gorgeous bunch of girls and they sit around over dinner and talk about the day’s highlights. Apart from noticing how well they listen to each other and take it in terms to speak, I am so impressed by the way they tease out how each experience made them feel, what it made them think, what it made them reconsider about their own lives, what they wish they could change about the world. And most of all, they ask questions. What does this mean? What is the rate of prevalence of this? Is it normal for women to have to go through this? They have had such a great time connecting with the kids at the school and have been blown away by the juxtaposition of a young man who has almost no concept of the internet or what snow is, who has no parents, lives on less than $2 a day, has run out of school books, but is working super hard in class, telling them he wants to be a pilot. They are still staggered by the fact six-year-old children have to walk two kilometres just to get a jerry can of water, and do so with a smile on their faces! They have said they are going to be very harsh babysitters when they go home. Quote: “Put the ipad down, stop your whingeing and go and get your own juice, you little brat!”.  It is all relative and situational though and I know they were joking. It all sounds very much like the cliché ‘African experience’… but it is a true picture of people’s lives, it is the reality of what is happening in so many parts of the world, and it would be a strange person who would come here and not be blown away by it. This is just how people live. They are mostly happy. And it’s because they don’t know anything else. There is certainly a debate there about the need to educate people about their human rights and the need for more equality in the world, versus the risk of disturbing people’s happiness through a ‘we know better’ approach. 

Doreen is so rapt with her oven. I am not sure if I mentioned in my last email, but Ralph and Selma (the two Australian volunteers from the last group) pitched in $500 between them and asked me to go and find an oven for Doreen. She absolutely loves it. She can have four pots and pans going at the same time, doesn’t have to keep changing the coal over, doesn’t have to worry about Beth and Jo sticking their hands in the fire or knocking boiling kettles and saucepans off the claypots! She is cooking three meals a day for 20 people at the moment and is now wondering how she ever survived without the oven. Her only concern is that she is becoming spoilt : )   One of the main reasons people don’t have appliances is that it is too expensive to run the power. And there may come a time when Doreen and Valence can’t afford to use the oven. Some people are only able to afford to use such appliances because of the small benefits of living in a country where the systems which are put in place to make things ‘efficient’ don’t really work. For example, you can bribe the guy who comes to record the electricity meter with $5, and he will record a different number…    

Speaking of cooking…. I was reminded of a certain locust pizza and some locust cooking at the Ouyen hospital yesterday (Aunty Sue, Aunty Gayle/Uncle Tony, Gran and anyone in Mildura will know what I’m talking about here…). Doreen whipped me up her favourite snack! I came home to find her in the kitchen and she was telling me she had bought me a special treat. I was guessing and guessing… avocado, pineapple, jackfruit? She said it was a snack and it was crunchy. Did she find macademias??! No such luck. Some other kind of nut? Nope. And then she pulls out two plastic bags with jumping green things in them. GRASSHOPPERS!! A few hours later and they weren’t jumping so much any more. Except for into my mouth! Salty little crunchy things! Kind of like fries… kind of! But I took my revenge by offereing to make her breakfast in the morning. She didn’t know what was happening when she bit into her ginger-spiced omelette and found herself nibbling on a grasshopper leg!

On the downside, I have started wearing around a ring on my wedding finger and have learnt how to say “I am married” in Luganda. Not that it really seems to matter if people think you are married. Monogamy is not such a big deal here. I have had a couple of experiences which weren’t so great, and a friend of mine had a couple of uncomfortable encounters. It’s an interesting lesson in questioning why we do things the way we do them, why we value monogamy so much, in the way people ‘flirt’, in the way body language can actually mean such different things in different places, and in not judging people just because they live their lives in a way you had previously considered to only be for those intent on exploiting and being disprespectful. 

This is not an example of one of the bad experiences, but just an encounter I had which might shed some light on the perspectives I'm talking about:

I had lunch with a man who is heavily involved and respected in Uganda's arts and civil rights scenes. He very casually talked about how many wives he hopes to have. His father had seven wives. His grandfather had 17. His current wife, who he has two children with, is not really his ‘wife’. She is only his wife in the traditional tribal sense, and the mother of his first two children. She will not become his 'real' wife until he pays for her and they have a proper church wedding. Payment can range from anything like a few cows, to half a dozen sports cars. But this man doesn’t think he will make this woman his 'real' wife. And then he talked about how he would like to breed with a mzungu (white) woman, because apparently white women have good ‘genes’. You see, there are many reasons why a man needs to seek several wives (apparently). For example, the one who is good looking might not be very well educated, and the one who is well educated might not have very much money etc etc. And then he asked if I was married. And then offered to take me on a research trip to Western Uganda for the night. I'm sure his intentions were genuine, but politely declined.

Polygamy is legal in Uganda, which is one of the reasons most families tend to have an abundance of children. Although the country is predominantly Christian and thereby favours monogamous marriages, the traditional culture has not died out and it is one of the few Christian nations in the world to recognise polygamous unions. This is certainly a challenge to HIV prevention, with up to 80 per cent of rural women saying their husbands have multiple partners. And although Ugandan wives are expected to be faithful to their husbands (and also expected to give him what he wants, because he paid for it after all), some women also have extra marital affairs because they want to take revenge on their husbands. Also, women who are in polygamous marriages are often targeted by other men, who believe it is okay to try and have sex with them because those women are “used to sharing a man”.

In 2005, more than 1000 Muslims rallied against a proposed bill that would require a husband to seek permission from his first wife before marrying any more women. The bill died. In 2010, polygamy was again challenged in the constitutional court by a group of women who attempted to overhaul the polygamous culture through a petition to court. But a group of Muslim women blocked the bill.

I think if Ugandan women want to change the status quo and fight polygamy in the constitution then it is a good thing. Particularly when it is putting their health and life at risk. But I’m also trying to keep in mind it is not for me to judge any man who is entering into polygamous domestic arrangements, when that is what he has grown up with, and that is what he has been taught as not only perfectly acceptable – but ideal. Arron has been revisiting The Alchemist today, on the train from Bassano to Venice, in Italy. One of the quotes he picked out was: 

“Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives but none about his or her own”. 

It’s a good one to keep in mind when in another country, and particularly when working in development. As much as you think you might have the best idea about how to do things, but often our own lives need serious examination.

On a lighter traveller’s note, I had a beautiful mini-overnight-getaway last weekend. Erin (the other volunteer working in health promotion who is here for another three weeks) organised a night away for her birthday. So Erin, three of her friends and I trekked off to an island near Jinja for a night. It is such a bizarre feeling to be on an island, in a landlocked African country. But just for some perspective – the width of Lake Victoria is about the distance from Melbourne to Horsham.

The trip there was a bit hairy… it was bucketing down rain and I was skooting along in a taxi bus in the mud! At one point, when I couldn't see out the window, and we were sliding around on the skinny muddy road, I actually started envisioning how I would climb out of the taxi if it rolled over. Despite the rain, I wound down the window so I knew I'd have somewhere to climb out of! 

It was a bit of a hike – a taxi bus (matatu) from Kampala to Lugazi, a boda to the house in Lugazi to repack, a matatu to Jinja, a boda in Jinja to the next matatu, another matatu to another town, a boda… and then a canoe! I think the guy paddling our canoe was very used to visitors. He didn’t have a shirt on, had ridiculously large muscles, was splashing around in the water when I arrived, and offered to have his photo taken. Very cheeky. I told him I was trying to take a photo of the monkey in the tree behind him.

The island itself was absolutely stunning. It is called the Hairy Lemon and it has been operating for about 10-12 years. The guy who is running it at the moment is called Paul and he is a South African. The only people on the island are the people staying at the resort, and while we were there there was only one other couple, and the people who work at the resort. The other couple was a girl who is on Britain’s national rafting team, and her boyfriend was Britain’s national rafting coach. They spend about three or four months of the year on the island, training, doing yoga, and just clearing their heads. They also do some work from the island. For most of the year they are travelling around the world, running kayaking trips and training. They are so sought after that they just travel anywhere they want to raft, and people fly in from all over the world to train with them. Many of the people who stay at the island do so for a few months, and they are quite regular visitors. Paul has been running the island for about two years, and took over its operation from a friend. The island has basically been passed around through a group of friends. Before he ran the Hairy Lemon, Paul lived in the jungle in Tanzania. Yep, I met my very own Bear Grylls! He literally walks around the island with a machete, cutting new walking sticks, trying to trim the invasive plants, and catching fish from the Nile. He is a competitive Frisbee player and I also found him doing a bit of a gym session – he was bench pressing a big log, and doing bicep curls and deadlifts with massive rocks. When he showed me what he was doing, he was telling me how I needed to ‘befriend’ the rock. Before he lived in the jungle, he sailed around on the ocean by himself for about five years. Surprisingly, his social skills are very good for someone who has been intentionally isolating themselves for so long! The island was full of monkeys and the sound of the Nile running over the rocks. There were bright tropical flowers everywhere, and it seemed you could actually smell the sunshine. I sat myself in a red-cushioned cane chair on the porch of my banda, which overlooked a waterfall, and wrote and wrote and wrote for hours. The food was also beautiful and fresh, and a nice change from matooke, potatoes and cornmeal. Was exactly what I needed at the time. Was very indulgent, and at $30 (including my food and Frisbee lesson), absolutely worth it.

On the way back, we couldn't find a boda and had been walking for a long time in the sun. So when a white water rafting tour bus came meandering past, we were very happy it responded to our 'hail' signal. We did wonder for a moment if it was a 'bus mirage', but once we were one the 'Ugandan massage' (apparently bumping along in a bus on a terrible quality road is supposed to be a bit like a massage. I'd dispute the claim, but I don't want to be impolite) we knew we were really on it. And then we heard a big smash!! One of the children on the side of the road had thrown a rock at the bus and it hit the window. Thankfully Erin's friend had just moved seats a few minutes earlier or he might have been injured. The window shattered rather than broke, and the rock didn't come in the bus. So no one was injured except for a girl who got a tiny bit of glass in her eye. The bigger problem was really, how to deal with the kids. As soon as the driver realised what had happened, the breaks went on and the bus went reversing backwards. I looked back and saw the look of terror on the culprit's face, her big eyes nearly swallowing her head before she went sprinting into the jungle. Another terrified child pointed in the direction she ran in, because he was worried he was going to be punished instead. A Lugandan guy on the bus ran like lightning after her, and brought her back through the jungle with his hand gripped tightly on her arm. She was only about nine-years-old and was wearing a purple school dress with a big collar. Two purple school-dressed girls were now on the bus with us and the one with the big eyes was pleading with me in Luganda, with tears coming down her face. I couldn't understand a word she was saying. We drove into the closest village and the girls were taken to the police station. Apparently the bus driver needed to make a report, for insurance purposes. I couldn't believe everyone was just making plans for the rafting trip while these two girls were being locked in a police cell. Some of us went into the station to see what was going to happen to them and if we could just pay for the cost of the window. I think a few of the rafting tourists started to twig that perhaps things didn't work in Uganda the same way they do at home...  I still don't know what happened to those girls. The police assured us the girls would only be kept in overnight, and someone from the community said they would not be hurt by the police. Apparently their parents would be called and then the community would deal with them in the traditional way. I don't know what this means, but I expect it means they will have received a decent hiding. The main problem is that even if the insurance paid for the cost of the window, or if we had paid for the cost of the window, the police would have kept the money, and still asked the parents to pay. Which probably would have meant the cost of half their wage for the year. It may have meant the cost of sending the girls to school. 

It’s Saturday and I am off to Jinja today. We were supposed to leave about lunch time, but it is now 6pm. It’s definitely a case of Africa time. I am just waiting for Doreen’s brother Dickson, who is coming with me. I am assuming he is late because he has been running around Kampala trying to find some medication for Rose’s mother. Rose is the woman who helps at the house every day with the cleaning and cooking. Her mother has a benign thyroid nodule, and also chronic sinusitis at the moment… but has also been having really bad headaches and keeps passing out. Rose and Doreen are really worried she has a brain tumour, but I’m not sure what the likelihood of that is. But the fact is, that if she had any form of cancer, she would die reasonably quickly. There is not really enough medication in the country to treat cancer, and even if there was, no one could afford it. Children with leukaemia just pass away. Erin is actually looking at doing a pHD on this issue. Cancer is something which isn’t given anywhere near as much support from the international community. Funnily enough, even though HIV/AIDS and malaria are massive problems here… if you contracted either of them in Uganda, you are probably in one of the best places in the (developing) world in terms of being looked after. So many resources have been injected into the problem and it is very easy to track down tests, medication and other treatment.

So the reason Dickson is running around looking for this medication is because I spent about eight hours looking for it yesterday. It’s a very basic medication, but as it is not one that people ask for every day, the pharmacists just don’t stock it. I went to every pharmacy in Lugazi and then spent four hours on public transport to go to Kampala to look for it. I took a boda all over Kampala to different pharmacies to try and find it, but no one had it. It was an interesting little window into health care in Uganda. The only reason Rose’s mother has any chance of getting this medication is because her daughter works for Doreen and Valence. It meant I could give Rose money for the medication (which wasn’t much at all. But too much for Rose), and Doreen’s brother Dickson can find it…because he happens to be a doctor. But if it was a woman in any of the villages, she probably wouldn’t have seen a doctor for a diagnosis, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to get access to the medication. The dirt tracks into the villages are hilly and pot-holed and pretty treacherous. Someone who is sick could never walk that far to get their own medication, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to afford to take a boda or pay someone else to go and collect it for them.

So… once Dickson DOES arrive, we are heading to Jinja… because in the morning, we are doing a running event along the Nile River! He is doing a 10km race and I will be attempting to do 21km. My training hasn’t been so great as I don’t feel very comfortable running by myself, and when I do find a Ugandan to run with me on the very rare occasion… they spend most of the run, walking. People don’t really run here. They just walk, and walk, and walk and walk. Apparently the only reason a Ugandan would run, is if they are chasing a matatu, chasing a thief, running away cause they stole something, or running from the tax man. Also, I have to keep running in dripping wet sneakers! The ladies who come to help at the house are always horrified at how dirty my shoes are and keep washing them in their water basins. They are very clean and the laces are whiter than ever. But they are always so wet! Makes me laugh how they keep stealing my shoes to clean and I can never find them!

But even if I have to walk, it should be pretty awesome. It starts at the source of the Nile River and then I’m not really sure where it goes. Very disorganized! They put posters up everywhere, but then there were only a few places you could register, and I had to go to Jinja last weekend just to put my name down. Then after running around all day trying to find the guy who takes the registrations (he kept moving locations) I finally find him… and he tells me registrations had closed. He said they put an announcement on the radio to say they had closed?? But there was no deadline date on the poster. So they took my money and said I needed to come and pick up my registration kit during the week. There is no map on the poster to say where the start line is, and the website on the poster doesn’t actually exist. So it should be an interesting morning!!

Hope all is well.  And thanks to everyone for your emails! Please keep sending them. I love hearing about what is happening at home.

Lots of love,

Amy.