Notes from: Thursday March 29, 2012

Last week I went to get our vehicle serviced at a shell station.  There were a multitude of problems involving not having the right parts and failing to be able to extract the oil filter and after three hours I left just grateful that the vehicle still worked.

Today I mustered up the wherewithal to try it again this time at a different auto repair yard.  I approached the whole situation with caution knowing that things can go wrong including having the wrong parts put in or generic parts which are not good for the operation of the engine.  The previous owner and a few others have been adamant that servicing needs to happen on time and only genuine parts must be used.  They warned me that I should be present for the servicing so that I can see with my own eyes that proper oil, fluids, and parts are being used.  So, I went into this with suspicion already on my mind.  

I canvassed a little bit trying to find a mechanic that would be proficient and trustworthy.  I came upon ‘Accurate Motor Garage’.  I entered gingerly and pulled into the only possible spot left in a yard filled with vehicles whose fate did not appear to be kind.  In fact, the car next to me was upside down and looked like it had been used for crash up derby and then set on fire. 

 I made a verbal contract with the mechanic that at the very least when it was all over I would be able to start the engine and drive out of the lot.  His name turned out to be ‘Material’.  He was known to be able to find any part for any vehicle.  He and three other mechanics descended upon the vehicle and began a half day of ‘servicing’.  I was present for every bolt that was loosened and every part and every fluid that was replaced.  There was some confusion regarding the fuel filter that we got sorted out and at different times confidence wavered but the men hung in there and answered what must have been the greatest number of questions ever asked during an oil change.  I verified prices from adjacent garages to make sure I wasn’t being overbilled and came out relatively unscathed except for the guy who came to replace the bulbs in the fog lights.  He brought used parts, changed the lights, then vanished leaving only the bill showing that he was expecting to thoroughly hose me for his work.  I left the garage paying for the ‘servicing’ but not the changing of the bulbs.  I told them I would pay what I thought was a reasonable price on another day when the man was around to have words with.  They said this would be fine and were anxious to leave on friendly terms – as was I – and ‘Material’ wanted to exchange numbers and possibly have me visit him at his home.  One of the most well used phrases in Uganda is, ‘It is possible’.  I am feeling quite good about accomplishing this oil change.  I know it doesn’t sound like much but believe me it is not a straightforward matter.  I severely micromanaged something that I know very little about so it is a testimony to the longsuffering nature of these Ugandan mechanics.

I watched a young family go about their livelihood of taking the remains of the fish that have been discarded at the fishery and turn them into something that can be sold in the market.  These are essentially the heads and bones of the fish with very small pieces of flesh still stuck to the bones that are then fried and salted and sold.   

I met with Pastor Timothy to discuss going to one of the local prisons to speak with the prisoners and bring blankets, soap, scabies medicine, painkillers, and a radio.  Timothy is a giant man with hands the size of baseball gloves and an incredible life story.  He has an amazingly soft heart for the poor communities on the islands who are virtually untouched by the rest of the world.  Everyday people die in these villages from sicknesses such as parasites, typhoid, cholera, and bilharzia that we would cure with tablets that cost 50 cents.  Pastor Timothy could crush a man with his bare hands but he is smitten with kindness for those who suffer.  His integrity and presence are palpable.  I sort of tear up watching him.  Knowing the evil that can come from the human heart Pastor Timothy makes up for 100 hearts that are turned toward darkness.   

I went to town to have a hammock made so that I could rest at the baby home in the heat of the day.  This is how it ended up:

I have ordered the same meal for three nights in a row here at the guest house and each night something different has arrived.  Yesterday they washed clothes that I did not put out for washing.  The day before they did not take the clothes that I did put out for washing!   

Again today the guest staff duo that I have referred to previously, Bosco and Gerrard, have toiled over their receipting.  It is all they can do to keep up with the requests for food and drinks that come from the guests.  That said, I am virtually alone in the dining area when I’m here for supper.  Even now, I am sitting in the bar/dining area and there is not a soul in sight and only the howling of a wild dog but Bosco is flipping through his receipt book making sure he’s billed everyone and that the bills are aligned with the proper rooms.  That is the tricky part.  I also learned today from the ‘Head Matron’ that she is resigning the first of April.  There is some dissention in the ranks but that’s all I know right now.  I can also say that the staff are getting pretty tired of all her morning meetings which only used to happen once a week.  Now they are everyday.  I’ll keep you posted.  It’s pretty exciting.

Finished Clinic Roof!

Finished the clinic roof yesterday with Stanley, his helper, and others who joined in the work.  All the timbers were replaced and (covered with oil preservative!), metal sheets put back on, ceiling tiles put back on, walls washed, ceiling repainted.  Now on to purchase 6 months worth of medications for the babies and children.  (anti malarials, anti biotics, pain medication, creams, needles, IV equipment, etc.)

I sleep in a bit but I also am working hard!

Notes from: Tuesday March 27, 2012

My Guest House

The phone in my room rang at 8am.  The lady at reception called to tell me that breakfast would be finishing soon and asked if I was hoping to have some.  I have been taking breakfast at 9 or 10 so it confused me but that’s nothing new.  I said that I definitely wanted breakfast, as I have developed a pretty serious dependency on the pineapple.  I scurried for my trousers, splashed my face, and headed for the buffet, which is included at all guesthouses/hotels.  I arrived to find no food and no staff.  Had I missed it? Eventually I caught sight of the girl who called me.  I teased her about causing me to suffer by waking me for breakfast and then not having anything ready.  This would be an obvious joke to her as there is no such thing as sleeping in around here.  In fact, I think sleeping in is equated with drunkenness and irresponsibility.  I’m quite sure I provide a great deal of fodder  for back room discussions about ‘white people’ when it comes to my sleeping patterns of late.  If roosters are crowing it’s time to get up.  It is almost like waking me up has become part of the service that is offered despite not asking for this service.  Anyway, I got my breakfast with no problem.  My experience in Uganda is that despite what is posted or what the 'rules' are everything is negotiable and can usually be done with a little persuasion.

There is a definite staff work culture here at the guesthouse and I feel like I’ve got front row seats to a real time African soap opera.  Things are run top down in Uganda from what I can tell.  It is no different here.  The manager holds a supremely powerful rank and dresses so professionally he could be in President Museveni’s detail for all I know.  He conducts himself with poise and treats the guests with a calm servitude but there’s a vibe that comes through that makes you wonder what he is really thinking about us.

Beneath him, in the role of supervisor of staff, is the head matron who is built like a fire hydrant and has the unbelievable capacity to smile sweetly to me and transition seamlessly to scolding the workers.  She walks the grounds at a slow and menacing pace as if she is tormented by her failures of her staff.  And because of their failings she has no choice but to be the pathologically disappointed parent.  Last night in fact as I arrived she was walking past a very large rock that is used to prevent vehicles from passing that point.  She barked an order into thin air for someone to ‘remove this rock’.  Sure enough the next time I turned around the rock was in a different location. 

Each time she scolds one of them I have the impulse to scold her but this way of managing employees seems to be not only what is common but the hierarchy seems to make sense of things for everyone involved.  People defer submissively to whomever is above them in rank and everyone accepts it.  As far as I can tell it goes something like this:

Owner, Manager, Head Matron, Guest staff, Kitchen staff, Cleaning staff.  The night watchman doesn’t really seem to even make it onto the radar.  The further it goes down the line the less verbal they seem to be.  The cleaning staff for instance seem to operate in a kind of ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ directive.  They happen to be my favourites.  The real drama seems to happen amongst the ‘Guest Staff’.  I can’t tell what they are saying all the time but I catch enough to know that there is squabbling over duties and failures in each other’s performance.  One will say to another, ‘why would someone do this?’ or ‘where is so and so?’ or ‘why didn’t you collect the bill from that guest yesterday?’.  Sometimes one who seems to take on a more senior role will speak in hushed tones to another offering them ‘constructive criticism’.  That said, the Ugandan way is to be happy.  Laughter is the punctuation that follows just about every circumstance after the drama has died down. 

There is one guest staff that strikes me as being beyond her station in life.  She communicates and relates well.  She has warmth that seems to elevate her beyond the rote mechanistic functioning of many of the staff.  In other words if I ask her for something she finds easy solutions rather than recite a rule that will require her to ask her superiors.  If she had the chance to continue her education I would imagine she could do just about anything. 

There are two bus boy waiter types who seem to be in constant struggle to manage their duties as assigned.  It is as if waiting on the guests requires all of their skill and concentration.  It is in the long periods of downtime that they apply themselves to the intensive paperwork involved in charging guests for the drinks they consume and making receipts.  I particularly love it when one will go to the phone by the bar to call back to the kitchen to request an order knowing that the other has already done it and then watch as they sort out whose job it was to make the call.  Stuff like this produces a kind of gladness in me.  The beauty is that Ugandans can laugh at themselves and in fact spend a good portion of the day doing just that.

I have developed a bit of a bad habit in going directly to the person who I know can help me with whatever my need might be.  Otherwise, it seems to take on the feel of that game called, ‘telephone’ where you pass a message around a circle and by the time it gets to the end it is virtually unrecognizable from the original message.  My method is likely seen as ‘going over someone’s head’ in effort to get my message through clearly.  In fact, the Head Matron has rebuked me herself, but not the way she berates her staff, for going back into the kitchen to speak directly with the cook.  This gives me a much better idea of what to order.  Instead of ordering multiple times with the staff coming back to say, ‘it is finished’ (meaning: there is no more chicken/goat/beef/fish/etc.) I can see with my own eyes what they have ready.   I have more or less made peace with my approach as it is necessary for my own mental health which I can’t afford to over tax. 

Notes from: Monday March 26, 2012

As things happened, my water break with Paul at his roast pork eatery just round the plantain plants from the childrens’ home turned out to be quite a counseling session.  I have been going there every few hours for the last four days, as I‘ve been legitimately working hard, and have needed hydration and refreshment.  So I get my orange Fanta and water from Paul.  Paul is a large man in his 60’s with a grey beard and a compelling simple way about him.  He’s got a noticeably nice set of teeth, mind you Africans tend to have great teeth on the whole. 

He’s been cooking roast pork on his outdoor cooking stove since the time of Adam.  Actually, he referenced ‘Adam’ several times in our discussion.  Today, after finding out my age and being unmarried and without kids it was more than he could handle.  It was as if I had just confounded him with the most complex mindwrenching riddle that left him betwixt.  He stood firmly on the belief that the Creator has told us to multiply and produce.  Essentially he was encouraging me in the clearest of terms to ‘get with the program’.  I think, in his Ugandan accent and wording that is slightly off from how we say things, he was concerned for my wellbeing and cited a potential lack of wisdom on my part.  He wasn’t being judgmental at all and really seemed worried for me. 

I gave some haphazard attempt at defending myself suggesting that the world doesn’t really need more people right now.  This amazed Paul.  He correctly noted that the majority of the earth is covered by water and if God wanted it he could squeeze that water off and ‘poof’ there’d be more land in no time.  He went on to shred my lame attempt at convincing him to say that God has given us the program (reproduction) and if he wanted us to stop producing he would tell us.  Actually, I remember being struck at the time with the clarity of the logic here.  But Paul wasn’t quite finished with the whole overpopulation thing and he said that there are many ways in which God could solve the issue. 

He noted that God could grow the earth bigger thus creating more space.  He then quipped that Canada has vast amount of land that we don’t even use!  I said that this was true but most of it was uninhabitable.  Paul wouldn’t have any of it.  He seemed disappointed in my comment as if westerners always have excuses.  He then waddled down a path in his argument that mostly confused me.  He was eager to point out that if he has seven children and I was his brother (with not so much as a wife) and we were given a plot of land to live on -he giggled in amusement then  drove home the point-  it would follow that I’d hardly get any of the land and that he’d get the majority of it!  I agreed with him and said that if this were the case it wouldn’t bother me.  I could tell he was really mystified and it bothered him that it wouldn’t bother me.  It was a kind of up is down and down is up conversation.  Anyway he encouraged me to get a wife at least and to get things started.  As I was leaving I told him I’d have to give his counsel some serious consideration.  He was hopeful that should I return next year I’d be equipped with a wife and a small child.  I told him if that happened we name him ‘Paul’.  This idea fortified him to go and roast some more pork. 

Notes from: Sunday March 25, 2012

I went to the Sonrise Church Service this morning which is held under a canopy in the yard of the childrens’ home.  It started at 10:30ish.  I was told because of the muzungu’s that come they start officially at 11:00 sharp and ended at 12:30 sharp.  It was a very entertaining service and time passed quite quickly.  But that said it ended sharply at 1:30 and we fellowshipped until about 2:30. 

little one's sitting in front of me

congregation

guest pastor and translator

ladies and babies from Sonrise Baby Home listening to pastor

It is my experience that the Ugandan approach to faith takes very direct shots that can swivel in one’s direction at any moment.  When the pastor rebuked the congregation for not welcoming us properly it was the first of many cannon balls that were launched this morning.  Where I come from we would experience these shots as shaming but the people don’t seem to take it in a shaming way.  Actually they revere their pastors greatly and are happy to be rebuked it seems.  People seem to take a certain pleasure in a good solid rebuke. We were asked to introduce ourselves twice in the course of the service.  On the first introduction the young pastors’ assistant wanted each visitor to say if they were ‘saved’ or not.  I felt for the girl behind me who wasn’t sure as it raised the eyebrows and rotated the heads of just about everybody for a brief moment. 

The guest pastor spoke with ease and dramatic tension that held the audience for the full hour of exhortation.  The topic actually had to do with grace and finding rest in God.  That said, he swerved pretty hard at times into judgment of various types of people.  At one point he was making a point and the options that he gave the audience for answers to his question were that the woman in his story was, ‘stupid, stubborn, or foolish.’  The audience was pretty unanimous in their assessment that the woman in question was, ‘stupid’.  I loved the service, the singing, the moments of organized chaos, the sound system that cut in and out…but my sensitivity muscles contracted with each shaming shot.  I noticed too that whenever the service started to come undone at the seams my western need for control spasmed and I ended up talking myself through these mini attacks.  Plus, the little fella in front of me kept me company by feeling the hair on my legs.  I didn’t get the memo on not wearing shorts to church but they said that for one service I’m allowed to feign being new.   

Notes from Friday March 23, 2012

Forgot to post this one:

 

Just out of the guesthouse at the main road there was an accident this morning.  I saw a large crowd had gathered and the police were doing some kind of investigation.  It is a popular spot for boda boda drivers to congregate but now there were at least 40 or 50 people gathered surveying the scene.  I learned later that there had been a serious accident where a pickup truck had hit into the back of a boda carrying the driver plus a passenger as the boda slowed down to turn right.  The truck driver evidently had not seen the boda signaling to turn and slow down.  There were skid marks at the scene – marks of blame.  The truck driver fled the scene in order to save his life.  It was his fault and Ugandans believe in localized justice which ends up being swift and violent.   It was speculated, by a man drinking at the nearby roast pork diner, that the driver probably ran for his home village wherever that might be.  He left his work vehicle right there at the scene of the accident knowing that he’d automatically lose his job.  As I thought about that group of boda drivers assembled there at the crossroad I shiver a bit knowing that the two on the boda are in critical condition fighting for their lives and that onlookers were looking for blood of justice.  I, for one, will be driving more carefully.

Notes from: Saturday March 24, 2012

We are replacing the wood frame that holds up the metal roof of the medical clinic that we came to build last year.  The wood beams have been eaten by insects because they were not treated with preservative.  So the wood is all but rotten and disintegrated.  The job is taking longer than expected which by now I should have been able to predict.  Ugandans are hungry for work.  They are quick to commit to a project and to an ambitious schedule of completion.  The exact terms of the employment is a bit of a moving target.  In my experience there has not been a project yet that the terms of payment for job completed hasn’t taken some serious detours.  Dear Stanley is a trooper of a roofer.  He was hired in part because of his back story which is that he has a very sick wife who needs an operation but he can’t afford it.  He also walks with a serious limp and looks like he has polio but it doesn’t slow him down at all when it comes to roofing.  A number of times I thought it was just a matter of time until Stanley would come sliding down the metal roof and land in a heap.  Anyway, at the end of a long dirty day Stanley looked at me with a face that kind of melts me - grounded, long suffered, weather beaten, but determined.  He wondered how we were going to work out payment for the plastering that would complete the job.  He seemed to labor as he asked.  I’m fairly certain Stanley wasn’t really wanting to charge me for plastering but rather since the job is taking an extra day longer what he is really asking is whether he will get paid for a fourth day of work when it was thought it would only take two or three.  I translated this in my mind and agreed to a price for the extra day which pleased him.  Offering employment to a dignified man like Stanley satisfies me to no end.  I can’t wait to pay him again on Monday.

medical clinic: Stanley on the left

replaced all rafters and preserved them with oil

Just a quick side note which ties in here.  I am also hiring a fellow on a per day arrangement and we agreed to 15 thousand schillings for half days ($7) and 30 thousand for full days ($15).  These are decent wages here in Uganda and just about anyone would jump at the chance to earn this money.  Anyway, I think I’ll just say at this point that we are in the midst of defining more clearly what constitutes a full day.  He has been giving me an opportunity to sharpen my skills as a supervisor. 

Then there’s the one’s who join in on the work because they have no other place to be.  Today Cyrus worked as hard as anyone and expected nothing.  By the end of the day he was so covered in sawdust he looked like he’d been shake n’ baked.  I slipped him ten thousand schillings ($5) and gratitude fell out of him like the image I have of Stanley sliding off the roof.

On another note I suggested to one of the ladies at the childrens' home that we set fire to all the rotted wood to get it out of the way and her eyes grew as wide as twoonies.  It took her a long time to understand why I would want to do that.  Finally, she alerted some of the others what I was thinking of doing and ladies came running from every direction collecting the old wood and taking it away from my line of sight.  At one point there was a processional of girls with loads of wood on their heads trekking it away.  They would take it home with them when they left the childrens’ home and use it to cook with.  Anyway, it served my purposes just fine.  I just wanted it gone and gone it was.

Ok one last gem from the day.  I asked an African guest at the place I’m staying what he would recommend from the menu for dinner.  He said without hesitation, ‘the pepper steak with mushroom sauce’.  That settled it for me as I am easily persuaded when it comes to red meat.  I put my order in and went to shower.  About an hour later dinner came.  It looked lovely.  The chips were great.  The mushroom sauce was great.  But biting into the steak I thought I was chewing a winter tire.  It was one of those one’s that taunt you into believing that if you just chew a little longer it will eventually breakdown into something you can swallow.  I have named the dog at the baby home ‘Lefty’.  He did not have a name.  ‘Lefty’ is short for ‘Left Overs’.  When I hit upon a meal I can’t finish or something like the ‘pepper steak’ Lefty eats well that night.  My guess is even Lefty will struggle to break this meat down.  He’ll have to swallow it whole.  

seriously cool school outfit: Sonrise Children's Home

kids at children's home coming home from school

Notes from: March 16, 2012

(I have held off posting this one for the sake of family members who might worry.)

Today I have a phenomenal case of diahhrea, nausea, upset stomach, and eye socket ache.  I am lying as still as I can and swallowing cipro and even had one of the hotel staff rebuke the ailment in the name of the Lord.  I’m not sure what the cause might be.  I think I’ve eaten fairly carefully recently.  Well, that may not be true.  I’ve strayed here and there.  Trying to pin it down though is like finding a needle in a haystack.  If there is one thing that could cause it there are a thousand.  Apart from walking around in a hasmat suit you take your chances.

The symptoms got worse as the day progressed so by suppertime I was making inquiries about going to the medical clinic.  I gingerly entered a cab who took me to the International Medical Clinic across town.  I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into but as soon as I walked through the open doors a receptionist took down my name and place of residence.  She walked me over to the nurses’ room who weighed me, took my temperature and blood pressure.  We then took a few minutes to clarify that Cambridge is my hometown but I wouldn’t call it my ‘clan’ nor is it a village.  Next, I was taken almost directly to the doctors’ office where I explained the symptoms to a gentle soft spoken young man who looked like the doctor.  I showed him my cipro and he said it was good that I had started it.  He said he wanted a blood and stool sample and led me to the testing area down the hall.  The lab tech was pleasant but not chatty.  He pricked my finger and dripped some blood onto a microscope slide.  He then handed me a small bottle with a little scooper attached to the cap to extract some of my stool.  I went into the unlit men’s washroom which didn’t have a toilet but rather a hole in the floor so it was the squatting kind.  I did my business scooped what I could of the watery substance out from the hole which incidentally had a powerful flushing system.

I took it back to the lab tech and then waited out front.  Within ten minutes the doctor had seen the family ahead of me and motioned straight for me to come into his office.  He went over the finding very thoroughly.  He told me my white blood cells were high and some were deteriorated and explained something about mucus in my stool.  He said that I didn’t have to worry I wasn’t going to die and that I just had a bad case of gastroenteritis, which is an infection in my GI tract from something I ate.  He said I should keep on the cipro, he gave me an additive to help with the antibiotic, buscopan for my stomach, and paracetamol for the achiness.   I was so happy to hear these results I wanted to give him a hug.  He was an amazingly supportive doctor.  He said if I had any trouble to call him back any time and wrote his name and number on a piece of paper along with the results of my blood and stool sample.  He then said to come back tomorrow evening just so he could check on me to make sure I was getting better.

From the moment I entered the clinic to the time I was collecting my prescriptions was less than half an hour.  I received two bills: one for the consultation fee which included the nurses’ information, the tests, and seeing the doctor for explanation and one for the prescriptions.  The cost for consultation was 20 000 schillings which is equal to $10.  The medications themselves cost 6000 schillings which is equal to $3 for a total of $13 for the whole visit.  I’m not sure I have ever had as good and efficient medical care before.  I was so happy it wasn’t malaria or typhoid or some other death inducing disease I was filled with the need to show gratitude.  I thought of paying the doctor and staff for their service but thought the better of it so I paid for the medication of the little girl who was ahead of me.  Her parents were delighted in a way that will never grow old on me.  The amount I paid for their medication was equal to a small coffee at home. 

Now I’m getting back to the hotel and glad I’m going to live but still feeling really rough.  Nausea held me at gun point.  I lay as still as I could as if hiding in a closet while the gestapo walk by.  You hold yourself in an effort to keep everything contained.  The bucket is beside the bed and the toilet is just around the corner.  My stomach felt like a fire fight in Kandahar.  Like a strong man wringing out a wet towel my stomach tightened leaving my body with nothing to do but obey and take the express route to the toilet.  Nausea is a playground bully doing with you what it wants.  Take whatever metaphor you like.

That night I lay motionless trusting in the fight that my white blood cells were waging on these foreign invading bodies.  I am reduced to a puddle here in Lira.  For all the beauty and vibrancy Africa is welcoming me with another of its gifts.  It brings me to reflect on being sick and being in need. 

First off the Ugandan people are just tougher in every way.  Me, at the first hint of sickness, I believe that my days are now numbered.  Then I have a need to be nurtured, attended to, nursed but I don’t want to appear to need these things.  I don’t want to have to ask for them.  So, there is a fairly small window in which I can tolerate being helped when I am sick.  Perhaps men need to preserve the appearance that they can ‘handle’ their weakness on their own but if you have ever seen a man regress to being 6 looking for the care of his mom it isn’t pleasant.  Everyone’s stomach begins to turn at that point.  Being sick in Africa shows me how little control I have.  How dependent I am on others.  It is humiliating for a man to be sick.  It show us our need.  It forces us to lie still – unproductive and useless.  Face to face before a ceramic throne one realizes he is just an organism fighting off foreign invasion.  The unbelievably contradictory décor of the room no longer matters, time of day, whether it’s sunny out or not or whether anything else in life makes sense.  One is reduced to his basic nature as a creature just like all the rest obeying his survival instincts. 

All this has happened to me while a young street boy was brought into ATIN having been badly beaten for stealing.  He had both his arms broken and was battered.  No home.  10 years old.  And, ‘I’, would like everyone to come to a screeching halt to observe my stomach ache.

(I believe I have made a full recovery from this particular stomach bug but the g.i. tract is not impressed with the workout it's getting.)