I have been in Tororo almost two months now. I’ve been here long enough that I can move through town and some people recognize me and call me by name. I can walk to the bank and the post office without getting directions and without getting lost. I have my favorite vendors at the kisia (Dhopadhola for market), and I know where to go for paraffin (in the US we call it kerosene). My place is feeling safe and like home, and I know the neighbors in my compound and they know me. At night we often sit outside and chat as the sun sets and before the mosquitoes come out masquerading as harmless irritations. I have had a number of days when I’ve wondered why in the name of all the saints did I do this, but I’ve had more days when I was very certain that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing.
It is still a jolt when I walk down the street and from some recessed brain cell a thought leaps into my awareness announcing, “I’m in AFRICA! Not just for a visit, but I’m living here for the next two years!” Interestingly, my life here is very real and in focus, and my life in the US seems very far away an
d a bit fuzzy. I’m not sure how that works. I think because the experience here is so different in every way from my life in America, that in order to survive, I have to concentrate full-throttle on the here and now. From the rituals of getting up in the morning to the rituals of going to bed at night, nothing is the same as it was in Kansas City. The closest exception is church.
MASS UGANDA STYLE: I have been a regular church goer since arriving in Uganda. I think I began attending regularly because there is a degree of comfort and a sense of familiarity with the rituals and the surroundings. It is easy to go to Mass. I know what to expect. I know how to act. I know how the others will act. There is no guess work. BUT…there are some notable exceptions.
Sunday Mass in Uganda is at least two (2) hours long. And even more remarkable than that is that no one leaves until the last words of the last hymn are sung! I have been to several different churches and the shortest mass was 1 hour 55 minutes and the longest was over 3 h
ours! That was the day the Bishop came.
One Sunday I was trying to place what was missing from the Uganda experience. It was crying babies. I don’t know what the parents do to the children here, but they don’t fuss, fidget, or fight. The older children (from about 3 yrs. To 13 yrs.) are herded together inside the altar rail on either side of the altar. They sit on straw mats, and their shoes are in a pile at the far edge. There is one older woman (every church in every country has this lady) who watches them with the evil eye. She praises God when she can bustle up and yank one of the children’s arms out of its socket and slam the budding delinquent back down on the mat. Then, she casts her flint sharp gaze on the rest of the children, daring any one of them to make a move. And, they don’t!
On counterpoint is the music. The music in every church I’ve attended in Uganda is strong, joyous, and sung with a gusto that causes those little hairs on the back of my neck to stand straight up. The singers are generally accompanied by a keyboard and three or four traditional drums. When the music begins, the church actually swells with sound and everyone sings. Many of the hymns are traditional Catholic hymns that I sang when I was at Blessed Sacrament grade school, but many are in the local languages and are moved by ancient African tempos. Every time I leave Mass, I feel better than I did when I arrived.
The Offertory is the time in the Mass when the “gifts” are given and offered as a sacrifice or insurance for our pitiful souls. In American churches that always means money is collected and then a family or some other respectable looking group is asked to carry the basket up to the altar. Well, imagine my surprise when in Uganda the Offertory comes around and people begin bringing up live chickens, baskets of produce, goats, matoke, cartons of soda, and all sorts of useful, usable merchandise as well as money. When the Bishop was here, he was given a goat. I think the goat knew the drill, because he started fighting the walk to the altar from the minute he was untied, and it took three people to get the goat into the Bishop’s care. Here’s another puzzle. None of the chickens try to run off or make noise. Why is that?
I found the Palm Sunday services especially compelling. Since I was a little girl, I went to church on Palm Sunday and the ushers stood at the back of the church and gave us some palm leaves as we entered. Every now and then I would wonder how these palms got to our church. Now I know! They come from the back yard of the Twegsige’s house in Wakiso, Uganda. Early on this Palm Sunday, Pamela, Anita and I got up and went out to the backyard to select the “right and perfect” palm leaves to take with us to church. As we walked to St. Jude’s, we met and joined the throngs of people arriving from every direction carrying their palm leaves. We entered the church carrying our palm leaves high. As the priest and the altar boys walked the center aisle of the church, everyone began gently shaking their palms making a swishing melody that accompanied the entourage to the altar. The spectacle was truly moving.
MOB JUSTICE: A few weeks after Palm Sunday, I saw a very disconcerting facet of life in Uganda. I still don’t know how to make sense of it. While the Ugandans I’ve met are bright, engaging, humorous, hard working, family oriented, principled, religious, smart, industrious, creative, articulate, loyal, trustworthy, polite, warm, and possess an almost endless list of positive characteristics, there is a very disturbing quality living close to the surface.
Around the middle of May, I witnessed an incident of mob justice that took place right next door to me. Kezia, Juma, Gonza (my co-workers), and I were having a meeting at the Mesage Uganda office when I heard some yelling and shouting coming from outside. I looked out and with a great deal of agitation, reported to my colleagues that there was a fight going on. They ventured out to investigate while I watched from the window.
Next door to us is a guest house—Ugandan style hotel. A young man entered the guest house, went behind the counter, and was in the process of stealing money from the cash box. He was caught. From there the story gets ugly. In less than five minutes a crowd of at least 30 people had gathered and they proceeded to beat and kick the boy. The temperament of the crowd, and the scene in general reminded me of a bad B-style movie depicting the days of Roman orgies that culminated in throwing the Christians to the lions. Even my colleagues were shouting, laughing at the spectacle, and encouraging those in front of the mob to give the boy what he deserved. I became very upset and finally convinced Juma to call the police. The police told him that they would come as soon as they could get fuel for their car!!
In the meantime, someone in the crowd decided that instead of killing the young man, it would be better to strip him naked and chase him through the streets of the town throwing rocks at him. Which they proceeded to do. Later that day, Kezia was at the hospital to see a friend, and the young man had been admitted. So, he lived.
I sometimes feel a violent current here that I haven’t felt in other places. Life in Uganda is very difficult, and there are no safety nets to protect people from falling into oblivion. If you can’t do for yourself or if your family can’t do for you, you are in a very precarious position. Police protection is spotty. Courts are for the rich. Healthcare is difficult to access. Income stabilization programs like Social Security or Unemployment Insurance are non-existent. Housing programs can’t begin to fill the need. Regulatory boards of all types are unreliable and generally impotent. NGOs (non-governmental organizations), CBOs (community based organizations) and even some of the faith based organizations are paralyzed by either a genuine lack of resources or by the siphoning off of funds by corrupt leadership. I don’t know where all of this fits yet, maybe I never will know. But people are often operating from a survival/subsistence stance. Many people don’t know when they will eat again, maybe today—maybe tomorrow--maybe not. It appears that often the prevailing attitude is get yours now, regardless of the consequences, because otherwise you won’t ever get what you need for yourself or your family. I believe it is collective rage which results from feelings of personal helplessness that promotes and fosters this particular type of violence toward strangers.
HOSPITAL VISIT: About two days after witnessing the mob justice scenario, I went with Kezia to visit Pastor’s brother. As we drove into the government hospital grounds, I noticed people having “picnics” under the trees, and I saw laundry hanging out on clothes lines strung between the buildings. The hospital compound is a collection of several low buildings, connected by walkways. Each building has a name: Maternity, Men, Children, Fractures, etc. We entered the Men’s building first. Pastor, his brother and their families live far into the village, about 20 or 25 km from Tororo. Pastor’s brother (I never did know his name, he was always referred to as Pastor’s brother) was hospitalized with a severe asthma attach. When we reached his bedside, he was gasping for air and very ill. He had an IV of some sort, and was otherwise unattended except when his family was there.
As I looked around the ward, it reminded me of the hospital scenes in movies from the civil war era. There were no screens or glass in the windows in any of the openings to the outside. No mosquito nets on any of the beds. Each bed had a different type of linen. When I inquired why, I learned that each patient has to bring their own linens, clothes, and food when they enter the hospital. This explained the picnic atmosphere on the grounds. Family members who come from long distances stay on the hospital grounds while their loved one is there. They cook, feed, bathe, and do laundry for their patient. As for medications, you must pay in cash each time the nurse gives you medicine. If you don’t have the money, you don’t get the medicine. This ward had about 40 patients. There was literally no privacy, no restrictions with regard to visitors, and no regulations to control contaminates brought in from the outside.
After we visited Pastor’s brother, we went to find our neighbor who had had a baby the preceding evening. It was about 2 pm and we walked right into the maternity ward. Again, no screens, no glass in the windows, and no Mosquito nets. I should point out that I sleep under a mosquito net every night. It is a Peace Corps MUST DO. Malaria is a serious problem in Uganda, and in the short time I’ve been here 11 people I know have been diagnosed with it. So, a hospital without mosquito nets is incongruous with acceptable care. The maternity ward was full, and as we walked the length of the ward I noticed a grandmother bathing an hours-old baby in a plastic basin on the floor next to the mother’s bed.
All in all, the experience made me want to go home, lock my doors, remove all sharp objects, pack myself in cotton batting, and not move until it was time to go back to the States in two years. Please God, don’t send me there for anything. It was a very depressing experience. As a side note, the medical care that Peace Corps volunteers get is excellent by all reports. If we are so ill that we need to be hospitalized, they come for us in one of the PC vehicles and take us to a surgery in Kampala or medi-vac us back to the States.
PS—Pastor’s brother survived and is back at his home.
It is still a jolt when I walk down the street and from some recessed brain cell a thought leaps into my awareness announcing, “I’m in AFRICA! Not just for a visit, but I’m living here for the next two years!” Interestingly, my life here is very real and in focus, and my life in the US seems very far away an
d a bit fuzzy. I’m not sure how that works. I think because the experience here is so different in every way from my life in America, that in order to survive, I have to concentrate full-throttle on the here and now. From the rituals of getting up in the morning to the rituals of going to bed at night, nothing is the same as it was in Kansas City. The closest exception is church.MASS UGANDA STYLE: I have been a regular church goer since arriving in Uganda. I think I began attending regularly because there is a degree of comfort and a sense of familiarity with the rituals and the surroundings. It is easy to go to Mass. I know what to expect. I know how to act. I know how the others will act. There is no guess work. BUT…there are some notable exceptions.
Sunday Mass in Uganda is at least two (2) hours long. And even more remarkable than that is that no one leaves until the last words of the last hymn are sung! I have been to several different churches and the shortest mass was 1 hour 55 minutes and the longest was over 3 h
ours! That was the day the Bishop came.One Sunday I was trying to place what was missing from the Uganda experience. It was crying babies. I don’t know what the parents do to the children here, but they don’t fuss, fidget, or fight. The older children (from about 3 yrs. To 13 yrs.) are herded together inside the altar rail on either side of the altar. They sit on straw mats, and their shoes are in a pile at the far edge. There is one older woman (every church in every country has this lady) who watches them with the evil eye. She praises God when she can bustle up and yank one of the children’s arms out of its socket and slam the budding delinquent back down on the mat. Then, she casts her flint sharp gaze on the rest of the children, daring any one of them to make a move. And, they don’t!
On counterpoint is the music. The music in every church I’ve attended in Uganda is strong, joyous, and sung with a gusto that causes those little hairs on the back of my neck to stand straight up. The singers are generally accompanied by a keyboard and three or four traditional drums. When the music begins, the church actually swells with sound and everyone sings. Many of the hymns are traditional Catholic hymns that I sang when I was at Blessed Sacrament grade school, but many are in the local languages and are moved by ancient African tempos. Every time I leave Mass, I feel better than I did when I arrived.
The Offertory is the time in the Mass when the “gifts” are given and offered as a sacrifice or insurance for our pitiful souls. In American churches that always means money is collected and then a family or some other respectable looking group is asked to carry the basket up to the altar. Well, imagine my surprise when in Uganda the Offertory comes around and people begin bringing up live chickens, baskets of produce, goats, matoke, cartons of soda, and all sorts of useful, usable merchandise as well as money. When the Bishop was here, he was given a goat. I think the goat knew the drill, because he started fighting the walk to the altar from the minute he was untied, and it took three people to get the goat into the Bishop’s care. Here’s another puzzle. None of the chickens try to run off or make noise. Why is that?
I found the Palm Sunday services especially compelling. Since I was a little girl, I went to church on Palm Sunday and the ushers stood at the back of the church and gave us some palm leaves as we entered. Every now and then I would wonder how these palms got to our church. Now I know! They come from the back yard of the Twegsige’s house in Wakiso, Uganda. Early on this Palm Sunday, Pamela, Anita and I got up and went out to the backyard to select the “right and perfect” palm leaves to take with us to church. As we walked to St. Jude’s, we met and joined the throngs of people arriving from every direction carrying their palm leaves. We entered the church carrying our palm leaves high. As the priest and the altar boys walked the center aisle of the church, everyone began gently shaking their palms making a swishing melody that accompanied the entourage to the altar. The spectacle was truly moving.
MOB JUSTICE: A few weeks after Palm Sunday, I saw a very disconcerting facet of life in Uganda. I still don’t know how to make sense of it. While the Ugandans I’ve met are bright, engaging, humorous, hard working, family oriented, principled, religious, smart, industrious, creative, articulate, loyal, trustworthy, polite, warm, and possess an almost endless list of positive characteristics, there is a very disturbing quality living close to the surface.
Around the middle of May, I witnessed an incident of mob justice that took place right next door to me. Kezia, Juma, Gonza (my co-workers), and I were having a meeting at the Mesage Uganda office when I heard some yelling and shouting coming from outside. I looked out and with a great deal of agitation, reported to my colleagues that there was a fight going on. They ventured out to investigate while I watched from the window.
Next door to us is a guest house—Ugandan style hotel. A young man entered the guest house, went behind the counter, and was in the process of stealing money from the cash box. He was caught. From there the story gets ugly. In less than five minutes a crowd of at least 30 people had gathered and they proceeded to beat and kick the boy. The temperament of the crowd, and the scene in general reminded me of a bad B-style movie depicting the days of Roman orgies that culminated in throwing the Christians to the lions. Even my colleagues were shouting, laughing at the spectacle, and encouraging those in front of the mob to give the boy what he deserved. I became very upset and finally convinced Juma to call the police. The police told him that they would come as soon as they could get fuel for their car!!
In the meantime, someone in the crowd decided that instead of killing the young man, it would be better to strip him naked and chase him through the streets of the town throwing rocks at him. Which they proceeded to do. Later that day, Kezia was at the hospital to see a friend, and the young man had been admitted. So, he lived.
I sometimes feel a violent current here that I haven’t felt in other places. Life in Uganda is very difficult, and there are no safety nets to protect people from falling into oblivion. If you can’t do for yourself or if your family can’t do for you, you are in a very precarious position. Police protection is spotty. Courts are for the rich. Healthcare is difficult to access. Income stabilization programs like Social Security or Unemployment Insurance are non-existent. Housing programs can’t begin to fill the need. Regulatory boards of all types are unreliable and generally impotent. NGOs (non-governmental organizations), CBOs (community based organizations) and even some of the faith based organizations are paralyzed by either a genuine lack of resources or by the siphoning off of funds by corrupt leadership. I don’t know where all of this fits yet, maybe I never will know. But people are often operating from a survival/subsistence stance. Many people don’t know when they will eat again, maybe today—maybe tomorrow--maybe not. It appears that often the prevailing attitude is get yours now, regardless of the consequences, because otherwise you won’t ever get what you need for yourself or your family. I believe it is collective rage which results from feelings of personal helplessness that promotes and fosters this particular type of violence toward strangers.
HOSPITAL VISIT: About two days after witnessing the mob justice scenario, I went with Kezia to visit Pastor’s brother. As we drove into the government hospital grounds, I noticed people having “picnics” under the trees, and I saw laundry hanging out on clothes lines strung between the buildings. The hospital compound is a collection of several low buildings, connected by walkways. Each building has a name: Maternity, Men, Children, Fractures, etc. We entered the Men’s building first. Pastor, his brother and their families live far into the village, about 20 or 25 km from Tororo. Pastor’s brother (I never did know his name, he was always referred to as Pastor’s brother) was hospitalized with a severe asthma attach. When we reached his bedside, he was gasping for air and very ill. He had an IV of some sort, and was otherwise unattended except when his family was there.
As I looked around the ward, it reminded me of the hospital scenes in movies from the civil war era. There were no screens or glass in the windows in any of the openings to the outside. No mosquito nets on any of the beds. Each bed had a different type of linen. When I inquired why, I learned that each patient has to bring their own linens, clothes, and food when they enter the hospital. This explained the picnic atmosphere on the grounds. Family members who come from long distances stay on the hospital grounds while their loved one is there. They cook, feed, bathe, and do laundry for their patient. As for medications, you must pay in cash each time the nurse gives you medicine. If you don’t have the money, you don’t get the medicine. This ward had about 40 patients. There was literally no privacy, no restrictions with regard to visitors, and no regulations to control contaminates brought in from the outside.
After we visited Pastor’s brother, we went to find our neighbor who had had a baby the preceding evening. It was about 2 pm and we walked right into the maternity ward. Again, no screens, no glass in the windows, and no Mosquito nets. I should point out that I sleep under a mosquito net every night. It is a Peace Corps MUST DO. Malaria is a serious problem in Uganda, and in the short time I’ve been here 11 people I know have been diagnosed with it. So, a hospital without mosquito nets is incongruous with acceptable care. The maternity ward was full, and as we walked the length of the ward I noticed a grandmother bathing an hours-old baby in a plastic basin on the floor next to the mother’s bed.
All in all, the experience made me want to go home, lock my doors, remove all sharp objects, pack myself in cotton batting, and not move until it was time to go back to the States in two years. Please God, don’t send me there for anything. It was a very depressing experience. As a side note, the medical care that Peace Corps volunteers get is excellent by all reports. If we are so ill that we need to be hospitalized, they come for us in one of the PC vehicles and take us to a surgery in Kampala or medi-vac us back to the States.
PS—Pastor’s brother survived and is back at his home.
MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS:
- African women have beautiful posture. I haven’t seen a woman yet who slouches. And they really do carry all sorts of cargo on their heads while small babies are tied on their backs.
- Yesterday I was in a matatu (public taxi transport). 99% of the matatu's are converted VW vans consisting of 5 rows of seats and a small luggage compartment. There were 23 people crammed into the vehicle!! AND one chicken…
- It is against the law to punish children by caning in the schools. However, it is still a popular means of discipline which is generally supported by the parents.
- Domestic violence is a serious problem here. In a recent research study, a majority of the men surveyed in Uganda believe that women want to be beaten by their husbands. It shows that they are loved.
- There are mud huts with thacthed roofs throughout the country and people do live in them. In fact two weeks ago, I helped re-mud the walls of one for a senior-senior citizen.The huts pictured in National Geographic are not just in some rare, out of the way place. They are everywhere.
- Cows come by my place almost daily and eat the grass in the vacant lot next door. I’m not sure, but maybe the owner of the lot pays the cows for lawn service.
- I’m having my first “dinner party” on Tuesday night. I’ll be making FROM SCRATCH spaghetti sauce! There is no Ragu available here.
