Update: Surgery Program for Kids in Uganda

Sharon

It has been awhile since I've given an update on what's been happening in Uganda since I came back to Canada.  We, meaning Wendy (sister) and I, together with all of you, want to develop a child surgery program.  As you might know from following along while I was in Uganda we were able to see three children through the surgery process.  They are: Sharon who had a large growth in her lower lumbar removed, George who had a testicular hernia fixed, and Brian who went for a major hip relocation.  We have completed two more since that time, Angel and Vincent (both had hernias), through the help and facilitation of volunteers Steve and Christie Martin who were in Jinja for several weeks in July.  

George

Sharon and her Dad after surgery

The organization of this program has developed significantly in that we have found a recent nursing graduate from the Jinja School of Nursing who is now helping us facilitate the program.  Her name is Olivia.  She has done an excellent job of updating us on the follow up care of the five children that we have worked with so far.  She has a solid medical background, works well with kids, and has a generous spirit in her desire to help children in her country.  We are working out a system of intake to determine who we are looking to work with and what the process of doing surgeries will look like.  There are a lot of logistics in coordinating medical appointments and hospital stays for kids whose families have no money or resources to spare, especially if they are coming from outside of Jinja. Making sure the family and child get to the appointments at the right time on the right day, coordinating transportation, food, and accommodations before, during, and after surgery requires someone who is sharp, organized, and resourceful.  

Sharon, Brian, George: all at Rippon Clinic

Vincent

 

Olivia is starting to do this for us and we are very excited about the prospect of developing a program that will significantly improve the course of children's lives.  With a single surgery we will be able to help a child go from being an outcast and neglected even by his own family to being a healthy participant in his family and community.  We want to work with kids who would otherwise never be able to afford a surgery and for whom a surgery will change their life.  

Here are some of our primary commitments with this program:  
1) Use competent and trustworthy medical professionals to perform the exams and operations.
2) Facilitate the care of the child from the initial consultation through to complete recovery.
3) Develop trusting relationships with the medical clinics and their staff
4) Provide compassionate support to the child and his/her family

Last week: Brian in hip sipca and leg cast

The prospect of bringing a child into a clinic to be examined and prepared for surgery is a scary experience for the child and the family.  Most of those we work with will have never been in a hospital before.  One walk through Jinja Main Hospital is enough to make anyone nervous as you see line ups of people awaiting medical care and the beds filled with patients on deaths door.  I learned quickly that you don't go to the hospital in Africa unless there is something serious and it is often too late once the person finally gets the care they need.  We don't want to start pumping through surgeries but rather take things slowly making sure that each child is responding well and is receiving the ingredients necessary to make a full recovery.  Sometimes this is going to mean helping that family provide sufficient nutrition while the child is recovering.

o ya...the cast is finally off!

Brian was excited to try out his new crutches

Brian needs wound dressings where the pins were inserted and still has one more pin to come out in another week or so.  After that we will begin physiotherapy.  It will be a long road to get his hip joint active again and strengthening the muscles that have been contorted due to walking on a dislocated hip for the past two years.  I trust that if anyone is resilient it is this little guy.

Recently I've Been Visiting my Doctor...A lot:

Pre-visit there is the proud moment of being among those who have gotten through to the receptionists and the prouder moment of battling them in order to secure a good appointment time.  Upon entry there are the sanitation stations and the pamphlets on prostates, smoking cessation, and menopause.  The nurses and the curious carebear-like designs on their outfits who look like they are all heading for a sleepover at someone’s house after work.  The feeling of having your diagnosis flash up on the ticker tape as you enter the waiting room.  Then there is your file and your curiosity over what mysterious things have been written therein. 

Doctors.  I have a good one, but she is on maternity leave, so I have been rotating through all the other doctors in her clinic.  It has kind of felt like speed dating but as a patient given the number of visits I’ve had lately.  In fact I’m quite sure that I’ve come close to being labeled as one of those frequent flyer patients.  I imagine all the staff at the clinic rolling their eyes back into their heads as they see me slither in – again.  The poor doctors are trying to fix me but here I am again slumped in the chair before them.

But first, there is checking in with reception.  The receptionists at the clinic I go to are shielded behind inch thick, prison-like, plate glass, with a small hole to talk into, that seals them off as if we are either going to rob them of all their health records or are carriers of the eboli virus.  Despite being behind a glass wall they speak in hushed voices, not to mention that both of them have unusually low affect, so that it is impossible to hear unless you press your ear up to the small hole in the glass.  As you do so you wonder what gaping wound the guy ahead of you had on the side of his head as he pressed up to try and hear.  The ladies seem like they’ve been given the diagnosis of being terminally strapped to their workstations.  Letting them know that I am there seems like the most uninteresting thing they have ever heard.   Sometimes I wonder if perhaps they are deeply empathetic people who out of the necessity of self preservation have developed a powerful defense against ever getting close to a patient again.  At a certain point they’ve had to say that they just can’t afford to care anymore.

Then, you head to the waiting room where you give the audience the once-over looking for anyone you might know and sniffing out the miserable cases and the children being treated for ADD.  You find a seat that isn’t right next to anyone and watch as an out of control kid crawls under the seat of an elderly man and begins to play with the tube of his mobile breathing machine.  All the while the boy’s mother in a flurry of texts is 100% engaged with her phone.  As I settle in I do a dress rehearsal in my head of the impending encounter with whomever I am about to see next as if they’re gonna need a good convincing. 

The waits can be long or short but we are all waiting for that moment when we are called off the bench and being put into the game.  The nurse pokes her head out.  Each of us gets a hit of adrenaline.  You hear your name which parts the waters amongst the sea of fellow sufferers and you rise revealing your chosenness.  Generally speaking I think most of us are decent people and we are genuinely happy for the guy who gets to go next.  Then there’s the odd time I’ve come, and I get a twinge of guilt, because I have only been seated for a short time compared with the lady next to me with 5 screaming kids hanging off her and yet my name gets called first.  Not to worry, if it’s the other way around I’ll be the first to flip through a catalogue of ‘unfairness’ in my mind searching for creative and subtle forms of self pity.

But then once I’m in the little room I clench up as I endure the interminable wait.  There you sit: rehearsing and defending your symptoms, going over your own findings on the internet, remembering the suggestions from the pharmacist, maybe you’ve written a few things down, and hoping above all things that this time…you will find the answer to your suffering.  I assess how badly I feel on a scale of 1-10, determine how to accurately present my symptoms, any embellishment would only happen if the doctor seems to be drifting off into a stupor or reaching for her prescription pad before I’ve got through my opening line.  It’s kind of feels like a job interview.  But in this case I’m hoping that by the precise descriptions of my symptoms an accurate diagnosis and treatment plan will crystallize in my doctor’s mind.  It just so happens that in my case it relates to my sanity.  So I would say I often border on desperation in these moments because if the visit begins to wobble off course, and go in a direction I know intuitively will be unproductive, large clouds move in to obscure that energy of that pre visit hope.  The last doctor at the end of the visit said, ‘don’t worry we’re gonna get you better’, and at least for that moment it felt like an avalanche of boulders tumbling off my shoulders.

There’s the odd time when due to mysterious forces of nature I might begin to feel better just as I’m seated in the doctor’s little room.  Then I begin to scramble because I figure the doctor is going to sniff me out as a fraud who is overusing the system.  My own analysis of this phenomenon is that the adrenalin of the doctor/patient encounter acts as a narcotic that dulls the pain which causes all manner of second guessing and minimizing of symptoms.  It’s a rookie mistake to get blown off course by the easing of symptoms at that precise moment.

Still waiting, I hear nurses and doctors talking outside the office door as butterflies flap through my GI tract I wonder if he/she is about to enter.  Then the sound of the door opening goes off like someone cocking a shotgun and the doctor enters at a pace significantly faster than the one I’m on.  In those first 10 seconds all my senses are honed in on this healer.  Believe me if their certifications are framed on the wall I will have already given it a good looking over.  I quickly begin to sense what the rapport will be like, whether they will be helpful, and then yearn for that moment in which it becomes clear that they are going to listen and allow me to finish my sentences. 

Blasting past me through the door without eye contact, heading straight for her computer she says, ‘so what can I do for you?’  Well, for reasons that pass understanding that question rubs me the wrong way!  It shouldn’t.  I’m in a doctor’s office.  But it does.  I suppose it makes me feel like I’ve just driven into a mechanic shop and want the guy to check out a rattling in the engine.  Regardless, that first line is always the hardest.  Sputtering, very much unlike how I had rehearsed it and with astounding imprecision, I manage to say, ‘I’m not well’.  She lowers her forehead while looking at me for the first time, eyebrows rise slightly and with eyes struggling to find patience she nonverbally says, ‘that’s really good Glenn…now use your words please.’  How I wish it were as simple as having a sharp stake sticking outta my leg or a jellyfish stuck to my head.

Until my next appt…

    

First Week Back...

Can't say enough about how good my mechanic is here at home

I find myself driving on the wrong side of the road and can’t for the life of me remember which is the proper side to be on until another car or a stop sign appears.  I’m wearing a watch that shows two different times both of which are not the right time for here.  I'm desperately trying to keep track but I haven't arrived on time for anything all week.  Last sunday I arrived at church in time for the benediction.  This sunday it was half way through.  I walk with a foggy head and heart that can't fully engage yet.  Emails from Africa enter my inbox like bursting pineapples while motivation for anything else, like molasses, is thick and slow.  I’m not caring about things that I should.  Yesterday I was staring at a blank document on the screen with eyes wide and glazed when suddenly there was a clunking as my brain tried to activate.  This same thing used to happen when going from 4 wheel drive back to 2 wheel drive in the Izuzu.  It would take some time before the transmission would make an incredible snap and crack into gear.   

Farmers for Children Nutrition Program is up and running

The senses are busy processing the noise of machinery and airplanes, six lanes of Indy 500 traffic, all the cement, sirens, asphalt, curbs, the silky smooth roads, nobody walking along the roadsides, the multitude of instructional street signs, the incredible order of things like neighbourhoods and lawns, the absence of kids everywhere, the absence of red dirt, potholes, insects and sweat.  I got used to having a thin film of Uganda on my skin everyday which alters the way you feel in your body.  Only now I’m realizing how industrially and rigorously clean we keep ourselves.  No more reddish brown water coming off me and circling the shower drain - no more clothes that have changed colour during the day.  I usually ended up giving away my hand sanitizer to causes that seemed more urgent than my own cleanliness - like impromptu minor surgeries.  Here we find sanitizer dispensaries, sinks, soap, first aid kits, and alcohol swabs without even looking.

Brian's hip surgery went well but a long recovery is ahead

We are so tuned in to safety, especially for kids, and we're incredible planners for the future.  I'm struck by just how well insured we are against any eventuality - thefts, fires, floods, lost luggage, injuries, sicknesses, accidents, acts of God, even death.  At work we have so many wet floor signs that they themselves become a safety hazard while I compare that with my experiences with the precariously low hanging clothes lines in Uganda or the electrical current that ran through my shower nozzle.  That said, for all of our uptightness and order here in Canada I felt very proud to be Canadian while away.  We enjoy such a good reputation.  We are trusted as people with expertise, resources, and good hearts.  Some would even want to jokingly claim you saying, 'he's my muzungu go find your own!'  A week in and the sun is starting to burn away the thick fog.   

Coming Home...

I'm riding home on the plane suffering from waves of sadness kind of like nausea.  I'd been forcing through the motions of my last days.  Seeing the kids at loco run after me calling, 'glennie, glennie', for the last time.  Driving through town with a stone in my throat exposed the attachments that have been forming over these months.  I wouldn't trade this sadness because it's what lets me know I am close to a people and a place.  I have been blessed with some beautiful Ugandan friends.  Last night strong lilly was crying on the phone.  Morris lamented that it 'won't be the same'.  Esther says it will be weeks before she recovers. Sarah and Shakeela hung their heads like mourners.  Damali and I will go back to skyping. Morris-same.  Ben will help coordinate our ongoing work in his cordial respectful way. Timothy will let me know how dear Brian is doing if he can figure out how his email works.  Abdu will start the farmers to children program and email me the pictures of his expanding farm and children eating eggs. 

I can't say I know what the answers are for someone like me in Uganda but it has been a sheer gift to have the chance to alleviate some suffering...if only for a little while.  It has been a dream to have this unfettered freedom and the resources to make things happen for people who are crushed by poverty.  Who gets to do that?  I was only able to do these things because people close to me back home were unbelievably generous in allowing me to use their money to best of my abilities.  I really don't know how to thank all of you who funded the work we did.  I will be giving a comprehensive account of all our spending when my head clears.  There is nothing like being present for the tears in the eyes of a father who is overwhelmed with gratitude for his daughter's surgery or the first hand experience of seeing funding support the work of a program that is saving a child from a life sniffing glue on the streets of Lira.  It has made me feel alive in places within that are often fast asleep.

You gave me the chance to provide medicine for the sick one's at the baby home, beds for street kids in Lira, school fees for children with no parents, improving sanitation for the 800 at loco village, clothes for kids with nothing on their backs, a vehicle for ATIN Afrika to do its work of resettlement, a washing machine for Sonrise baby home and their countless diapers,  supplies for young homeless pregnant mothers, surgeries for Sharon, George, and Brian, mobile medical clinics at Nanso, family kits for impoverished families in Wakisi, a new house for an old man living under maize stalks, a loan for a carpenter, the development of the 'Farmers for Children School Nutrition Program' with farmer Abdu and many more day to day opportunities to improve someone's living conditions .    

There's a gap of words and understanding with our friends in Uganda so we relied on the exposure of our hearts to tell each other who we are.  Through a tear we often understood each other much better than we could ever manage with words.  Flying home I feel the ache of having been touched by a people.  Brian's small frame hugging me as he waits for his surgery is one of the purest forms of trust I've ever felt.  His love after the harm done to him crushed me with gentleness.  The other form of communication that felt deeper and purer than words was that of laughter.  Days start and nights end with laughter in Uganda.  I will never turn on a shower knob again without wondering if there's an electrical current running through it. Boda boda drivers transporting anything...fridges, beds, whole families...the ugandan spirit fiercely wants to 'try it'...with everything they've got, they're saying, 'tugende' or 'lets go'.  

man with leprosy

I made it home Friday afternoon.  The long travel, the cold rainy weather here, the sober reality that it’s over, and Uganda swimming through my psyche make me want to curl up and take refuge under a mountain of covers while hitting a steady diet of kraft dinner and moist cake.  But I’m excited to see friends and family who I’ve been away from for three months now and to work at processing the experiences I’ve had. 

Looking out my front window it’s amazing how few people there are on the street.  The odd car passes my house but none of them are breaking down, strapping chickens to their roof racks or tying the fish they’re gonna eat for supper to their front grills.  As I drove along the 401 by my place I saw a fella pulled over relieving himself by the side of the highway.  That’s the closest things to Uganda that I saw today.  Conversely, I was out for lunch and went to the washroom and was overwhelmed by the sheer number of urinals and stalls to choose from.  I was the only one in the there…it felt like a kind of sanitation heaven.  The place sparkled, the mirrors were startlingly accurate, and the blow dry machine was propelled by a jet engine.  I think it’s clear I can stop carrying around my own TP now.  If we happen to be talking grant me some latitude for awhile.  In the process of the tectonic plates of my worlds merging back together I don't doubt that before it's over I'll be slightly different having changed in one way or another.  Also, jet lag has a way of making you look like you're under the influence of a substance.  Working where I do I trust my work mates and the men will distinguish between the two.

Blog Revival...

Dear Friends,

A few weeks back the blog sputtered and died along the roadside as it were.  But it wasn’t for lack of things to write about.  Quite the opposite.  The good news is the blog is being attended to, as if by the Accurate Motor Garage, and is showing some vital signs at least one last time for some concluding messages. 

children fetching water before sundown

Things really sped up over the last two weeks so that I’ve become less expressive and more focused on bringing the things I’ve been involved in to a conclusion.  It was also the case that as my time narrowed the requests for assistance increased.  I have done my best to steer money in the right directions and leave a little reserve for the one’s we’ve been working with.  At times, in this last week I’ve been reminded of things that I didn’t remember promising but it’s hard to argue in the face of poverty. 

stopping for mangoes during the trek

I was once again visiting ATIN Afrika in Lira where I went along with Morris as he did his ‘street visits’ talking to street kids and giving them the option of coming to live at the house.  We went to pay for school fees for several of the kids who were resettled through ATIN.  This visit helped me appreciate the frustrations that Morris lives with as he tries to resettle kids and keep them in school in their villages.  After driving who knows how far outside of civilization we ended up not being able to pay the fees because the headmaster wasn't there that day but meanwhile the child couldn't go to school until the fees were paid.  At one point we had to walk to a boy's home to find him as he wasn't at the school when we arrived and the road to his house was impassable.  I learned then and there that when a villager from northern uganda says that a distance is 'not far' to walk it has next to no bearing on any definition of 'far' that I know.

Dennis removed 4 'Jiggers' from a street boy's toe with a safety pin

While in Lira we also ended up interceding for two 16 year old girls from Moroto who were stranded in Lira after coming with a singing group three months ago.  They didn’t get back home because their vehicle broke down and while the rest of the group had money to pay for transportation they ended up stuck in Lira and staying with a single man twice their age whose intentions were less than clear.  We went to the police station to report their situation so that they could safely stay at ATIN for the night before putting them on a bus the next morning back to Moroto.  While Morris and the other ATIN staff thought nothing of the police visit I was as nervous as the two girls thinking that at anytime we’d all be locked up for some fabricated charge and spend the rest of our days in a Ugandan jail digging ditches in the blazing heat.  Morris and the girls would probably be fine...me on the other hand...I'm sure I wouldn't make it past lunch before inquiring about an infirmary.

After Lira, I spent time developing our loan agreement with Abdu and the program that we've called, 'Farmers for Children School Nutrition Program'.  The funds for this loan came through the Source Bead Women of Kitchener Waterloo.  Their only criterion for the use of the money was that it have something to do with improving nutrition for children in Uganda.  With the loan Abdu is expanding the dairy capacity of his farm with fencing off another couple of acres and developing his system that pumps water for the cows.  

In exchange Abdu will repay the loan by delivering eggs to a school that we've chosen near his farm.  The school will receive 10 flats of eggs per week to enhance the nutrition of the children.  In addition, Abdu will be saving a portion of his farms profits which will become the loan for a second farmer who will take over once Abdu has repaid his loan.  Abdu and his wife Betty became good friends and advisers to me over the last month or so.  He is easily the most conscientious and determined ugandan business owner that I've met.

area Abdu will fence to expand his farm

Children are already starting to enjoy eggs with their posho at school and Abdu's fencing is going up even as I am writing.  He and his family are thrilled with the benefit that will come through the use of this loan and for how it helps them improve the lives of Uganda's school children.  This sizable chunk of money has been made possible through sale of beads by a handful of concerned women in the K-W area.  

      

New House...

Here's a shot of the new house for the 'Old Man' that we spoke of earlier in the blog.  

Old House...

This man lives with a great deal of bone pain after a life of working in the sugarcane fields.  He is from Rwandan and has no family.  The local chairman and his family take care of him.  It will be much easier for them to help him now that his new home is closer to the chairman's home and they can keep a better watch on him.

Also, in the last weeks we finished off the latrine project at the 'Railways'.  We're very happy with the way they turned out and for the enthusiasm of the people to use the toilets as opposed to the nearest shrub.  The first lady who used the freshly painted and renovated latrine near her block remarked, 'it's like a hospital!' which translates, 'it's clean!'.  She was so inspired she offered me her little boy to hold and then to 'take with me back to Canada'.  

my 'Railways' friends

There are 10 blocks of row houses and each block has its own toilet with their block number on the door.  Each door has a padlock.  The key is left with the 'health representative' for their block and, as it is in their own interests, the block members police their own toilet for any unsanitary practices.  Keep in mind that some in the community are still not convinced that they should be using a latrine.  Some still believe that it causes infertility amongst women.  Many from the east called 'Karamajong' were never raised with latrines and don't trust the health advisories.  Others think that it is a place to put garbage.  Some use the stall to bathe themselves.  All in all the latrines look good, people are starting to contribute their maintenance fees, and on more than one occasion I received very gratifying grins from the locals after they'd relieved themselves.      

new 5 stance latrine serving 5 blocks of 20 households

renovated 6 stance latrine

untimely death of the foreman's cow

On one of the last days of construction one of our builders' cows (he lives in the railways) got sick and died and had to be skinned and butchered immediately.  It put a halt to my painting program for that day and we chalked it up to another 'unforeseeable' delay.   

surgical unit at Jinja Main before Brian's surgery

 

One of the things I did on my last day was go to the Jinja Main Hospital to attend to 4 year old Brian whose hip surgery was set for 9:00 that morning.  I went to pay part of the bill and found that they were waiting on extra blood in case of emergencies.  Despite all of the cruelty Brian has endured he is a beautifully affectionate and gentle little guy.  These kids become the embodiment of trust and have had a melting effect on me.  Of course they are scared of what's to come with their surgeries, especially coming from the villages, but somehow find it in themselves warm up to a strange muzungu.  I've learned that Brian came through the surgery well and has woken up.  He will be in a pelvic cast for a month at home.  He will then come back to Jinja and stay at our friend Damali's children's home while he undergoes at least a month of physiotherapy.  If all goes well he will be able to walk and play like a normal little boy and ultimately grow up with a better chance at living.     

'railway's kids

'One more?'

'Grasshoppers for a chewy snack?'

my friend Michael and his undying efforts to get from me some, 'little money'

May 14: Busy Days (as they say here) 'Moving Up and Down'

Sunday I unwittingly found myself in the midst of a high voltage health and wealth gospel service, that refused to end, at the Jinja Miracle Center.  Half way through, when I thought it was nearly over, I went out to try and generate some blood supply to my brain.  When I came back it was another two hours before the preacher relented.  Each of us sat emanating heat like glowing charcoal so that the collective body heat hung like steam until the odd gentle breeze would rescue us.  It created a Sunday stupor in me but it generated a fervent hysteria in the pastor.  Her words flung like horse shoes promising riches and a long life if only one would pray earnestly enough.  She made note of her large girth as an example of what the Lord can do if you are faithful.   “Once I was small and skinny” she said, “but now I am big and fat” as the congregation looked upon her with admiration.  Her rotund figure was draped in a vibrant dress as she wore out three microphones while wiping sweat from her face with a large white towel.  Behind her the choir sang and danced like their lives depended on it.  The congregation prayed earnestly along with her like starving people lining up for food.  In this case it seemed like God’s kitchen had tight security.  It felt like the odd one would find the blessing kind of like winning a lottery.  If I lived under the conditions that people here do I'm quite sure I'd find this gospel enticing. 

walls going up on the latrine

Then I arrived at the Railways to see how the latrine construction was going.  At one point I was inside one of the stalls together with three others, one of whom was not fully lucid, discussing how big the hole should be.  Arguments were made on all sides.  To reduce our cleaning costs we are very keen on maximizing the success of those who use the latrine to accurately find the hole when relieving themselves.  

doors, plastering, roof, now remains...size of the hole

In meeting up with our dear friend Lillian who has helped us a great deal in the ‘Railways’ community I learned that my friend Michael, who is prone to partake in the drink, had been fervently looking for me.  Apparently, he had heard me say that I was leaving soon and he knew I had promised him some sort of compensation for the janitorial work I’d asked him to do.  So, Saturday, clouded by effects of the drink, he told Lillian that I was leaving today and that he was going to find me at my guesthouse.  He said he had packed his bags and was going to come back to Canada with me.  Somehow he was confused about our agreement, which was that I would leave him responsible to clean the latrines.  Anyway, he spent the whole day looking for me, which was not surprising because he had no idea where I was staying.  He walked all the way to the bridge, because he thought he heard me say I was staying near there, carrying two big bags one being on his head.  Having failed he returned back to the Railways well after dark exhausted and fell in a heap in front of Lillian’s veranda and promptly went to sleep.  When making a verbal agreement I guess it is important that both parties be sober. 

Abdu, our farmer, showing us his farm

From there I had a couple more meetings with people who have asked for time to show me their homes and to tell me some of their story.  We are also in the midst of working out an agreement with a model farmer who will help us get a nutrition for children’s initiative off the ground.  We will invest money into his farm and in return he will pay us back in the form of eggs and milk which will go toward feeding children in primary schools.  Once he is part way through paying back his loan he will contribute a certain amount which will come off his debt to help two other farmers develop their farms.  As his repayment decreases the new farmers will begin paying back the loans also in the form of eggs and milk.  I am excited to see if this can work.  We have found a terrific model farmer to invest in and our hope is that it will have a rippling out effect.

Adbu has 1100 layers

Monday after a very long day of meetings with people trying to get our projects completed I was taken to a program in Kakira where there are groups of women who have banded together to form business communities.  These women are very isolated and would rarely if ever have the chance to get out of their village and see the world outside.  Their husbands for the most part are not particularly helpful in making money for their families and do not allow them to venture out of the village.  In meeting them I was overwhelmed by their determination to fight against the obstacles that they faced and to do it with energy and passion.  I was so impressed by their organization, their hospitality, and their desire to make a better life for their kids.  Over the year of being together they've made contributions to the group each week and from that pool of money each member gets a sum of money to enhance their business.  If one falls in difficult times with a child being sick or a death in the family each group member will contribute toward helping that person out.  It is entirely their group.  They have been helped by a local leader who took us to see them but only in terms of mobilizing and organizing them.  I’m not sure I’ve ever received a welcome like this one.  It was not hard to come up with words to encourage them.

all ladies in the group except for one man (behind me). Paul (next to me) helped start the group

Notes from May 9: A Good Day...

If you’ve ever kept going after you’ve made a wrong turn hoping that somehow your mistake would turn serendipitously into something good you know how I feel about ‘Accurate Motor Garage’.  Once again I went only for an oil change.  It was running fine on the way in but it now travels with a rattle that could wake the dead and the engine has cut out on me once.  But we’ve been through so much together that it would be a betrayal to go anywhere else.

Today was an exceptional day in that it started at the Rippon Medical Clinic where we are helping three children with operations.  Sharon, who you know, we are thrilled about.  Her operation is finished and the results of the biopsy are negative for cancer.  Dr. Philip thinks she’ll make a full recovery and the remaining scar tissue will eventually dissipate so that she won’t have any abnormality.  When I entered the clinic she and her dad were there both smiling like two suns.  Her dad hugged me on one side and then the other with each of them lasting for as long as was comfortable.  For a man who didn’t speak and was without expression of any kind he has become the epitome of warmth and gratitude.  Today he handed me a lined piece of paper with a letter that he had someone write for him thanking us for the operation for Sharon.  I’ve had lots of thank you’s in the work we’ve been doing but nothing has felt quite like the joy of Sharon and her Dad.    

Sharon, Brian, and George (don't be fooled by the pink shirt and skirt)

The next boy is Brian who was mistreated by a step father when he was about 2 years old and suffered a dislocated hip which was never corrected so that he walks with a severe limp and even his growth seems to be stunted.  He has come for an X ray and requires reconstructive surgery which will likely be followed by fairly lengthy treatment of being in traction.  Brian is a tender little boy who greets you with deference and the softest of manners.  However, he has the same look of fear that Sharon had when she first came for the initial tests for her operation. 

The baby is George who is just 2 years old and has an intestinal hernia which has sunk down into his scrotal sack which is now the size of a mango.  His mom seemed scared and doesn’t speak any English.  Being in the city seems to draw out the look of the village in her.  I think of how our parents at home would be googling everything that a doctor says, educating themselves on their child’s condition, asking questions, getting second opinions, and following every decision that is made.  Here there is an unquestioning faith in the mystery of medical treatment.  No one knows what medication they’re taking but they simply refer to it as taking their ‘tabs’.  I can’t think of a better place to utilize the power of placebo.  It seems to be inherent in the mindset that as long as I am taking something it is going to heal me.  There is the ubiquitous use of ‘Panadol’ which is like our Ibuprofen but it is remarkable what ailments people seem to overcome with only one dose. 

family of four kids: not yet sporting their new outfits

The rest of the day was just as satisfying as it was spent helping children with school fees.  There is a family of four children (4, 6, 9, 12) at the Railways who are exceptionally poor.  They don’t live in one of the block units but stay in a make shift bamboo structure in between the barracks.  The whole family (6 in total) live in this 10x10 hut which contains all their earthly possessions.  The best part of the morning with them was going to the market to get their school uniforms, shoes, socks, notebooks and pencils.  If you ever need an infusion of perspective and wonder I suggest taking a child who has rarely been to school and register him in his class, shop for his school clothes, buy him shoes, and let pure joy have its way with you.  I kept wanting the children’s shoes to fit properly but the father and James (my helper/translator) kept pushing for shoes that were several sizes too big for each of the four kids.  It was made very clear to me, as if I needed careful instruction, that there is no sense in buying shoes that fit because you’ve got to anticipate that the kids feet are going to grow.  Eventually, I gave up and accepted that we were now walking through the market with four kids wearing shoes like waterskis.  As we passed by certain shops the shopkeepers would be laughing, calling out ‘well done’, and clapping knowing that something good was happening for children that have one set of tired clothes and rarely, if ever, have gone to school or worn shoes. 

The market is a place that unwittingly reminds me that I’m blindingly white.  I being the odd one out enter into everyone’s radar as misplaced, unexpected, or simply different.  No one means any harm by it in fact I get a thrill playing with the curious onlookers by holding a somewhat stern glance which builds a dramatic tension until a breaking moment in which I slip out a grin to the amusement of the audience.  The sewing ladies seem to love this the most.  When I do something like hit my head on the iron sheets that hang down way too low it is as if I am a traveling circus that just arrived to perform for them.  In those moments I feel like I’ve just been pushed out from behind the curtain and I’m now on stage with a rapt attentive crowd keen on knowing that the strange mzungu is going to do next. 

I’ve said this before but some days are really good.  Today was another one of those.  It felt like the best of my culture and Ugandan culture could meet, embrace, and just find each other amusing.