bus reiki and potatoes in my armpits: excursion to the lowlands

The lowlands of Bolivia were incredible. I felt like I was back in Uganda (malaria pills included)... or at home for an Alabama summer. For the first two days of our trip we were in a town called Ascension de Guarayos and stayed in an adorable hotel with loads of hammocks and a few parrots. The town exemplifies my vision of / perfectly illustrates my affection for the developing world – wandering dirt roads lit by a star-crowded sky, drinking 15 cent beer while watching little kids play shoeless soccer, jumping into rivers to cool/clean off, wearing the same t-shirt and shorts for days without worrying because the smells around you are overpowering. Due to a lack of formal entertainment, our group did a lot of bonding... our bonding sessions usually start with intense discussion (do you believe in god? What’s the biggest mistake you’ve ever made?) and end in nudity (usually in the form of skinny dipping).

One day in Ascension de Guarayos, we waded through a river to visit a small, isolated, self-sufficient community. During rainy season, the river gets so full that most people can’t leave the community for months at a time… which makes it difficult when there’s a need for a hospital. The model of the village seemed like an Israeli kibbutz to me- the community is completely self-reliant and the people take care of each other. However, they’re starting to get development advice from the outside- the most recent advice is that they should switch all of their crops to corn so that they can profit off of biodiesel… then they’d be able to buy more things like computers. I hope that doesn’t happen. We have enough homogenous crop fields, biodeisel is a stupid idea, and if other crops disappear, goodbye to self-sufficiency and hello to malnutrition. Rural development models of orgs like World Bank should embrace the idea of a kibbutz… but then we’d have socialism, god forbid.

Ascension de Guarayos

The next day we drove to Santa Cruz – 6 hours of itchy mosquito bites and suffocating heat… not to mention the diarrhea that most of us had from lunch with the community. Santa Cruz’s climate, industry, indigenous groups, and population separate it from the rest of Bolivia and its people violently call for autonomy from the rest of the country. We had been learning about autonomy and the political happenings of Santa Cruz, but I didn’t really understand it until a conversation I had with a creepy old man in the plaza during our last day. I was sitting in the main plaza with a friend, when an old man approached me and started talking to me in broken English. He grew up in Italy and when he was 35 his father gave him ten million dollars. He spent all, yes ALL, of the money traveling the world. He landed in Bolivia and has been here since. He had some interesting perspectives of the country and Evo Morales, “Santa Cruz gives everyone eat because all money is produced here… we give to all of poor because Evo Morales makes cocaine in Cochabamba, we give food to people in the factories and Evo cocaine to Venezuela.” He continued talking about how all of Bolivia was communist except, of course, Santa Cruz.. Then, he started bashing Indios (indig people). I asked how he could tell if someone was an Indio and he replied, “all of the one who are ugly are Indios. Very ugly people.” He went on to tell me that Indios eat each other, they are “false people,” and that if an Indio sat next to us on this bench he would have waved his hands and said, “go away Indio!” Then, I pointed to a black Brazilian who was walking by and asked what he’d do if that person sat next to us. “Of course, it’s ok. No hay racismo (there isn’t racisim) en Santa Cruz.” In class, we’d watched videos of indigenous people being beat up in the streets and riots for autonomy, but I didn’t really understand the situation until then. After telling me that Indios steal, he said that there were no thieves in Santa Cruz because everyone there is rich.

That same day, I went to a photo exhibit sponsored by USAID. The photos were examples of poor public health in the lowlands. They were taken by Bolivians and had written descriptions near them. After the exhibit, there were diagrams of “good development” that were made by the Santa Cruz government in collaboration with USAID. To me it seemed like exploitative propaganda for autonomy. The weirdest thing about the whole Santa Cruz mess is that the U.S. is on their side.
But that’s why I like this country so much… outside of Santa Cruz, Bolivia doesn’t care about U.S. support. They spray paint over USAID signs, tear up roads sponsored by the U.S., and when the U.S. announced that if Evo Morales was elected they’d stop supporting Bolivia, his rankings in Bolivia went up by 40 percent. USAID’s political agenda is SO visible here.. it kind of makes me sad to be part of our country. Coming here after Uganda (which is intensely dependent on foreign aid – especially from mama US) is so refreshing. People are passionate about maintaining their culture and strongly stand against globalization. It’s just such a different experience than I had in Uganda where everything (even beer ads, “Nile, the beer of progress”) was about development and moving forward and globalization.

Anyways, during one of our days in Santa Cruz we went to the sand dunes. We drove our bus there and got stuck in the sand over 5 times. We’d drive, get stuck, get out and push the bus (if pushing wasn’t enough we’d crawl underneath to dig), get back in the bus, drive a few feet, get stuck again, start the process over. It was a good teamwork exercise? It was one of the funniest situations I’ve been part of. The last (and worst) time we got stuck probably lasted for at least an hour of pushing and digging. Finally, our director’s wife (the hare krishna one/my favorite person ever!) started doing reiki on the bus as we were pushing. (Side note: when ever she notices that one of us is lagging or feeling ill, she does reiki on us. Reiki consists of transmitting good energy through one’s hands… I think.) Astoundingly, she was able to transmit her energy to the bus and soon after she started doing her reiki, the bus started moving and we were able to push it out of the sand. After everything, our director admitted that buses had gotten stuck there on many previous SIT excursions. Oh Bolivia…

Lupe transmitting her energy to the bus.....

When we returned to Cochabamba, I had a fever so my mom made me stay in bed all weekend. She made me gargle manzanilla and she cut up raw potatoes and placed them in my arm-pits and on my stomach. She said I couldn’t take them off until they were brown because the brown meant that they’d soaked up the fever… She’s a nurse. It was weird, but I’m lucky to be living with someone who takes such good care of me.

El Campo

I just got back from a week-long stay in a rural village in the mountains outside Cochabamba. My week was characterized by perpetual confusion... I was placed with an old senile woman. At first I didn’t realize she was senile – most of the families in the village speak Quechua and only minimal Spanish, so our communication was limited anyway. I thought that when she’d randomly start running down a hill, or throwing sticks at the animals, it could have been a cultural thing? Someone was sent to check on us everyday and I realized she was little un-normal when the person sounded over-concerned about my living situation and said that if I wanted, I could eat meals/seek refuge with her son’s family who lived next door to us. But after lots of quality time together it ended up being great… senile old women are my favorite kind.

Our room

At the school

My days were like such: wake up around 6, eat a huge bowl of potatoes shortly thereafter, let the sheep out of the pen, do something with my old woman, eat another huge bowl of potatoes maybe mixed with noodles, sew rows of potato plants, eat another huge bowl of potatoes maybe with rice, put the sheep in the pen, in bed my 6:30. I didn’t shower or change clothes for 6 days.

My favorite thing about the week was planting time... super hard work - my legs and back are still aching. But my little old woman worked like a machine in the fields. Every once in awhile we would take breaks together – we’d sit on the hillside and she’d chat with me in Quechua and laugh at me as I nodded my head.



My least favorite part of the week was mealtime. Before we left, our directors told us that eating is really important in the village – if you finish everything the families will be super impressed and will talk about it for weeks. I was doing really well in the beginning, but one can handle only so many potatoes. Each time I’d finish my overloaded bowl, I’d be so relieved to be done, but then my bowl would be filled again! Unbearable.



The village was BEAUTIFUL. The animals we owned included sheep, cows, chickens, pigs, and dogs. Our main crops were potatoes and fava beans. It rained three days while we were there and was always too cold. I slept with 5 blankets (I could barely roll over there was so much weight on me) and in the morning my toes would still be numb. My woman’s son, who lived next door, had a family of eight children. My friend from the program, Karina, was staying with them and it was nice to have her nearby. For some reason, the family didn’t want me to sleep alone with the woman so the son made different kids sleep with us each night. They were cute. Instigated by the one video they own, Stuart Little, the kids asked, “Can animals in the United States talk?” One of the older girls, 10 yrs, treated me like her doll – most mornings she dressed me as a Cholita, in a skirt and three different layers of tops, and braided my hair.


More about my senile old woman and her greatness - She introduced me to everyone as her friend from Argentina and each time I’d correct her she’d nod her head and laugh; she would wake up several times in the middle of the night and start talking; she would run down hills for no reason, and I’d follow her; she often tried to accompany me when I’d go to the bathroom aka squat behind the house; sometimes in the middle of the day she’d turn to me and demand “dormite!” – you sleep! I went with her to the market one day... When we got there, we sat behind a huge shoe vendor for about 20 minutes. I kept asking what we were doing and all she would say was, “sit, sit!” Finally, a nicely dressed lady showed up with a stack of papers (an identity card application) and took us to a formal government building. We ended up waiting for a while and leaving with a denial to an identity card because my woman’s birth and marriage date didn’t match up. My question is how this was all arranged – how did my senile old woman find this random lady to fill out paper work… and did she just suggest, “meet me behind the shoe vendor?” The market had like 15 different shoe vendors! The experience pretty much sums up my time in the village – never understanding/knowing what was happening and following the old woman around everywhere despite my confusion.


It was overall an interesting week and I’m glad to have had the experience. The village was so different from all of the other parts of Bolivia I’ve seen, and it was cool to experience real indigenous culture before it disappears.

Potosi and Sucre - Excursion #1

Potosi is an old colonial mining town and the highest (altitude) populated city in the world. The mines were once rich in minerals and the city used to back most of Bolivia’s industry. Side note: at one point, it was more densely populated than Paris. Now, the mines stand only as a reminder of brutal colonialism. Aside from the freezing cold and the mountainous backdrop, the architecture gave it a quaint Mediterranean feel.

Potosi

There are a lot of issues with child miners and mining unions and fair working hours, etc… the working conditions for miners are horrendous (The Devil’s Miner – put it on your documentary list). We got to enter the mines and climb for a few hours. I was a little unprepared and our guide kept making fun of me during scary steep climbs by pointing out that 10 yr olds do this everyday. I also breathed in lots of asbestos.

Cerro Rico - a once mining mountain in Potosi

El Tio - the miners worship this god with coca leaves, cigarettes, and alcohol in return for safety and minerals

Rooftop cafe in Potosi

The same day, we went to a school for miners’ children. Most children of miners start working in the mines when they’re young, and breaking out of the cycle is hard. We went to the school to play with the children and, in my opinion, it turned out to be pretty inappropriate. We entered in the middle of a teacher’s lecture and interrupted his class to announce that we were going to take the kids out to play. We started with silly games and soon the kids were out of control. Watching the teacher watch his class running around, hitting each other, misbehaving, and knowing that he could do nothing about it was sad. No matter how many years he’s taught, no matter how hard he’s worked to discipline his class and gain their respect, he can say nothing to a group of Americans who come in for a day to play with the children, except thank us for “helping.”

Potosi has a really strong history of colonialism and racism and exploitation of indigenous people and, to me, walking into that classroom and assuming authority over the children was reinforcing the power structures that are so historically saturated in the society. Yes, the kids were THRILLED to be playing with us, which is great, but what does that say about their skewed views of their positions? By “giving up our time” to play with them, how are we contributing to their oppression? I mentioned this to a friend and his response was that we were helpful - we were giving the teachers a break. Were we giving them a break by stealing their accountability and authority and allowing their classes to go wild instead of being educated?

It was only a few hours at a school, and I’m definitely over-reacting - I guess I’ve become sensitive to issues concerning “helping” and race and my role when the two collide. In eleventh grade I co-directed a one-week day camp at my private high school for students in inner-city Birmingham public schools. The kids, all African American, had mostly white, mostly VERY privileged counselors. In an already racially sensitive city, how did this contribute to the way these kids see themselves? Since then, encountering high school missionary groups in Africa, working with kids in transitional housing in downtown DC, and being viewed as a “white angel” in Kampala have steepened my awareness of how I affect the people around me. I think it’s most important for me to understand and admit that what I’m doing is mostly for my own self-development. To label myself as someone who is “helping” is dangerous, disempowering, and destructive to communities I’m involved with.

There’s not much to say about Sucre, a colonial, racist town with beautiful architecture and tasty chocolate. Sucre sparked an interesting explosion within our group. It’s racist undertones brought up a lot of issues about how we, as a group, are relating to each other and are relating to other Bolivians.

Pretty graveyard in Sucre

On a lighter note, Rosh Hashana was pretty classic. I went to synagogue with people in my program, but sat alone because of the questionable mechitza. There were more or less 40 people at services. I sat next to a woman who complained the whole time… Every time someone walked in, she would explain how they were related to everyone else in the synagogue, what their professions were, and how they were annoying. Eg, “that’s the baby… granddaughter of…. Who works as a secretary for…. The baby is always crying. Always.” Or, “those are the women who come to synagogue just to chat. They sit in the back and chat the whole time.” Afterwards we did Kiddush with the congregation… and substituted shots of whiskey for wine.
p.s. in Bolivia challah is spelled "jala"

Before the holiday, I had mentioned something to my “parents” about it. When I got home after spinning class on the first night of Rosh Hashana, my “mom” was running around and lighting candles, saying that we have to get ready. I was confused until my 14 yr old brother ran through saying “hoy es el dia de los judeos!” Translation: today is the day of the jews! Our aunt came over and my mom prepared a fancy dinner table and served the honey cake that I made with ham and cheese sandwiches. So cute.

Rosh Hashana dinner

The last weaving class that I went to was in a different location to those I’d been going to, in an isolated town 45 minutes outside of cochabamba. Class was at this woman’s house.. basically a small artists colony with drunk/drugged people constantly passing through. The house owner was a white woman who had grown her hair long, dyed it black, braided it, and dressed like a cholita (traditional indig woman). As she was weaving, her blond children were running around and at some point during the session a band was formed on the front porch. Very weird.

tejidos, chicha, y bodas

I go to weaving classes on Sundays taught by indigenous women. We meet in an outside area and weave for about three hours. I'm still working on simple patterns with only a few strings, but the pieces are coming out nice. The women use their toes to hold the strings when they weave, but they insert a large metal object in the ground for us to use instead. I think I'm going to refuse the metal next time and use my toe… I've gotta put my fat feet to some good use. The weavings here are incredible… unique patterns and bright colors! I've been reading a lot about weavings (patterns, symbolisms, development projects) in one of our main books (written by a GW professor, Kevin Healy) for my eventual research project and it's all so interesting! Our first travel excursion is to Sucre tomorrow, which is known for its weaving and has a whole museum dedicated to rural weavings.

Weaving class

Things are slowly getting better with Spanish. I can understand things a lot more than I could at the beginning and I'm not so lost during mealtime conversation with my family. I often substitute hand gestures and short skits for words that I don't know… my verbal skills are coming slowly. My family laughs at me a lot, but they like me because I'm a good eater. Eating a lot wins mucho points with Bolivians so maybe that will compensate for the lack of language.

My house

On Thursday, we took a day trip to a country town called Tarata. We were each assigned partners and given tasks based on our interests. I was with a friend, Amy, and we were supposed to find "weaving activities." We were really confused by the assignment so we decided to talk to random women and ask about weaving. Communication was kind of a disaster and kind of great. I stumbled with my words, but was good enough for some basic communication. People laughed at us a lot and we laughed at ourselves a lot and it was kind of fun to be forced into intense animation/ relying on body language and facial expressions. We were invited into several people's homes and saw women making yarn from wool and people tried to force the local alcohol on us (one guy dropped to his knees begging "POR FAVOR!!"). Knowing how the brew is made (it's called chicha - indig. women chew corn and spit into a vase and then their spit ferments into a fruity beer), we declined. Language really isn't necessary for communication…. But it sure does help.

Man drinking chicha in Tarata

I joined a gym here.. it's funny. The Bolivians that hang out there are super glam and jock-ish. I feel like they use the gym as a an excuse to hang out with each other in spandex rather than to exersice. But they have the same system of classes at the JCC in Birmingham… Bodypump, Bodyjam, rpm, etc. Oh, globalization…
I go to spinning classes with two other girls from my program. The instructor knows we are from the U.S. and uses every possible moment to make sure that the rest of class knows as well. He often interrupts the class for stupid translations. Example: once he started class with "Vamos!" and then turned to us, "So..a… we are.. a.. going to star the class." Thanks… we couldn't tell.

I went to a fancy catholic wedding last night and it was out of control. It was pretty similar to a bar mitzvah party (we left during the Grease medley) except that dinner was served at half past midnight and there was a lot more alcohol involved. On each table were center pieces of flowers, a bottle of rum and a bottle of whiskey. I danced with a lot of drunk old men and everyone was trying their sloppy English on me. People with babies and young children had to leave early, around 1 am. Eloisa and I left early also, around 3:30 am, because it was an outdoor wedding and it was getting really cold. I have another wedding next weekend. Oy vey.

My hermana and her boyfriend at the wedding

I just finished a first draft of a 7 page paper (in Spanish!) and my head really hurts. I'm pretty sure its just a jumble of words, but that's what 2nd drafts are for. For those of you following the news about Bolivia, don't worry! The U.S. media is blowing up the situation because of the whole mess with the ambassador, but everything is totally fine in the city I'm in. It's really interesting to be here right now and to here people's perceptions about what's going on.

Bienvenidos a Bolivia

Hola! I've made it through my first week in Bolivia. This country is way underrated. I'm living in a city called Cochabamba - a crowded valley surrounded by the Andes mountains. The city has typical "developing country" characteristics… crowded and dusty streets, mansions next to slums, street dogs, political graffiti, loud busy markets, street vendors everywhere, child beggars, colorful buildings, etc… but when I'm in a crowded street and look up to see the Andes skyline, the contrast is breathtaking. And the people here are beautiful! All of them!

El Cristo

After we arrived, we had a welcome dinner at Ismael's, one of our Academic Directors, house. He's a Bolivian vegetarian artist and Tai-chi instructor. Before dinner his wife led a two-hour Hare Krishna/Bolivian fusion ceremony where we made offerings with Coca leaves and colorful paper, poured alcohol on the floors for Pachamama (mother earth), and sprinkled grains in a fire. After dinner we meditated. My first Bolivian experience was not what I had in mind before I left. On my third day here, I was walking with five girls to the city center. We got separated at a cross street and I got stuck behind with two girls. When we crossed the street a few seconds later, the two girls ahead of us were running into a restaurant, so we followed them. A young boy, probably eight years old, had approached the girls and robbed one of them at knifepoint. She only lost 20 US dollars, but how crazy! It was about 3pm and there were people everywhere watching. Apparently that happens a lot here…


There are 23 students in my group and everyone is super nice. I'm probably the worst Spanish speaker... It's a challenge to communicate with people because I'm not outgoing and I don't like to make mistakes in front of large groups. Our lectures are all in Spanish too! I try so hard to focus during the lectures but towards the end I get completely overwhelmed with the language. Not being able to fully understand lectures and instructions is the worst thing ever. It's hard not to get frustrated with myself, but I'm trying to look at it as a fun learning game rather than a language barrier problem.

I'm living with a family in a cute neighborhood 20 minutes by bus to my school. Although they might think I'm mentally deranged, the whole family is incredibly nice and understanding of my language skills. During meals, I feel like I'm in a skit for Spanish class or something… it doesn't feel real - I struggle to link vocabulary together and the family just smiles and nods at me. It gets a little better each day, but it's hard living with people whom I can't fully communicate with. The father, Carlos, is a farmer and the mother, Esther, is a nurse. I have two siblings, a 14 year old brother, Samuel, and a 19 year old sister, Eloisa.

Mis padres

Saturday night, Eloisa, her boyfriend, and her cousin took me to a concert. After circling around the concert area 6 or 7 times with the windows down and music blasting, we finally parked on the side of the road to join the others tailgaiting with rum and redbull and Spanish electronica. We met up with Eloisa's friends and had a street-side dance party (not listening to or seeing the concert at all) for 4 hours. All of her friends were super posh and I was little out of place... I felt like I needed to trade my outfit for clothes two sizes smaller. Lined with the Andes, the area was filled with tons of glam Bolivians and every once in a while, a street child, or an indigenous woman dressed in the traditional outfit, would come through selling gum and cigarettes. What an authentic experience.

Bolivian tailgate

Sunday was El Dia de Peatons, The Day of the Patrons. No cars or buses were allowed on the streets ad everyone had their bicycles out. There were concerts and vendors and people everywhere. It was really nice.
That's it for now. Hope everyone is doing well and for those of you who started school, buena suerte with this semester!

PARASITE!!

Some of you may or may not know this, but about three days after I got to Gulu, I was plagued with Giardia, a horrible horrible horrible parasite. It was awful. When I first got sick I was staying in a hotel with no toilets, just open latrines outside of the rooms. Giardia + latrines + having to walk far-ish to get to the latrines in the dark= worst combo ever. I finally switched hotels when I found one outside of town that offered a better deal and self contained rooms with TOILETS. Glorious. After the switch, I visited Norma, a Texan missionary, at the Favor of God clinic. She loaded me with meds and hydration fluid packets and told me not to worry about cost because the meds were from Jesus. I should have saved them to sell on Ebay. Then we prayed together.

Being sick here sucked. I tried to get some work done, but I mostly rested and organized my research on my computer. And being alone and sick is the worst, because sickness just perpetuates the problem of being alone by not being able to meet new people. But the people at my hotel checked on me and Lucy, the main tailor at One Mango Tree, kept calling to convince me to let her come visit me. Kate's ex-boyfriend's sister from Kampala is here interning at a psychiatric ward (very interesting - she sees a lot of PTSD cases from the war and Ugandan psych treatments are quite different from the ones in the U.S.) and she somehow heard that I was sick and called to check on me, which was super super nice. We met today and got along well so yay, another friend!

More about my hotel… I'm one of only four guests and the people who work here treat me like a princess. Ex. I get escorted to my room at night (I don't think they get many whities here). Oh and they have a band associated with it which performs in an outdoor, open to the public concert every Friday and Saturday. They practice everyday, all day and sound like bad, loud karaoke. Last Friday, the concert started with a Ugandan dressed in a plaid button down shirt tucked into Levi's with a cowboy hat lip-syncing to country music, climaxed with a sloppy traditional Acholi dance party in the rain, and ended with a town blackout. The concert attracted a huge crowd and I felt really out of place when I first sat down to watch, so I decided to get up and help the girls fill drink orders - they were my only friends there. As people drank more and more, the concept of a white girl serving drinks became more and more hilarious. People patted me on the head and obsessively shook my hands. When they needed drinks they would call "Munu!" (munu = white in Acholi). The drink serving ended quickly. Then came the dancing… the girls tried to teach me the traditional dance moves and of course failed. The dancing is incredible - these girls put Beyonce to shame. They assured me that my body "will move properly" by next week's concert. I doubt it. I only saw the end of Saturday's concert, but the two main performers stuffed their clothes to make them look bigger, put white powder on their faces, and lip-synced to various songs for awhile.

I'm continuing to work with One Mango Tree and am enjoying it. The tailors are incredible and I love being able to look at textiles all the time.

At the One Mango Tree Stall

I had a weird day yesterday. Someone who I had met at the Through Art Keep Smiling Center called me to ask if I would speak to a group of kids. I was confused at his request and asked him what he wanted me to speak with them about. He said that he had told the kids about me and that they were really excited for me to speak to them. He wanted me to tell them that they can do anything that they put their mind to. And why did he choose me? I'm not a motivational speaker… at all. He kept telling me that the group was waiting and excited for me and I figured that it was a group of kids, so I went. He led me to this beautiful field area in a village where we sat under a tattered UNICEF tent with about 15 people in their early twenties… not what I was expecting. I told them a little bit about myself and then asked them to tell me about their group. It was an evangelist group with a band and they prefaced all of their comments with "praise be to God." After people spoke, they would each ask if I could sponsor/find a sponsor for the group. They needed computers to record songs, wanted to know my church so they could contact them, and wanted to know if I had friends from the U.S. in Uganda. Basically, I said that it seemed like they had a great support group there and that they were surrounded with great minds and resources and should take advantage of each other to pool ideas and creativity - a roundabout way of denying sponsorship. But it seemed like the only hope they had was depending on outside sources.













Observing these attitudes of dependency, which I've seen with organizations and individuals here, has been interesting. I've been questioning a lot of the principles behind aid and the western definition of "development." It's hard - while I try to make Ugandan friends, after giving my number or email, I'm often flooded with sponsorship requests. Even my closer friends that I trust have asked me for sponsorships. It's gotten to the point where if some one is nice to me, I suspect that it's only because they want a contact in the U.S. for sponsorship. And while it's frustrating, it's also the reality of the situation here. Maybe they really are stuck and maybe its necessary to lend a helping-hand every once in awhile. Friends asking for sponsorships shouldn't be annoying to me, because it makes sense in context. And the children in the slums of Kampala – they really do need sponsorships and they really do need to be in school. My conscience is confused. The situation here is desperate… or is that just my American perception of things? There's plenty of food here, a growing agriculture industry, and small-scale tourism, so it seems like there are plenty of resources for self-sufficiency. I don't really knowing what I'm saying. I probably should leave these questions until I finish school

welcome to Gulu

I'm in Gulu (the main town in northern Uganda) and my experience here has been quite an adventure so far. First was the bus ride…

About four hours of speeding over speedbumps and swerving around (or into) potholes, our bus was stopped at a checkpoint where it was pulled over. After all of the jerrycans were suspiciously removed from the bus, we unloaded and waited in tall grass in the middle of nowhere. Then, the police pointed to a specific jerrycan and called his colleagues to gather around it. He took a knife in his hand (all of the passengers quickly stepped backwards) and stabbed the jerrycan. Milk started pouring out of the puncture and the police kept cutting until the jerrycan was split in two pieces and the grass was soaked with milk. The police huddled around the top half of the jerrycan and, thouroughly confused, I learned something new – trafficking milk from Kampala to Gulu is a serious offense. We waited in the grass for two hours trying gauge the situation until people started loading the bus again. Ten minutes later, while on the bus, everyone got up and started yelling in their local languages. Apparently, the police were arresting our driver. Then, they changed their minds and decided to arrest the conductor since he was in charge of what went on and off the bus. As soon as he realized what was going down, the conductor ran from the police and as he was chased down the road with AK-47s, our driver hopped on the bus and followed. When we caught up to the commotion, our bus was a chaotic mess – the police were beating the conductor and the passengers were screaming out the windows. It's difficult to retell this story in the way in which it was experienced... sitting in silence with no understanding of what was happening. Finally, the bus continued after the intense drama over, yes, spilled milk.

Well, we finally arrived and I had a very full day yesterday. In the morning I went to the Through Art Keep Smiling (TAKS) center to speak with the directors and plan a schedule with them. The center was incredible – they have 7 computers, 2 printers, a scanner, projectors, TVs with satellite, easels, a dark room with projectors and film developing equipment, and tons of other supplies. This isn't the usual stuff seen in Gulu. The weird thing about TAKS is that after 7 years of existence, it hasn't implemented any major programs. They host workshops and occasional weddings, but that's about it for now. The director has tons and tons and tons of ideas, but he hasn't put any of them into practice.. Each time he told me about a different idea for the center I tried to clarify, "so is the long term goal of TAKS ____?" And each time he would respond, "yes!" It was very confusing.

In the afternoon, I went to meeting that was held between One Mango Tree (OMT, an org that exports tailored Ugandan textiles – yoga bags, purses, wallets, etc – to the U.S.) and an indigenous organization called Gulu Women's Economic Development and Globalization (GWEDG, an org that focuses on gender-based violence in Gulu's surrounding IDP camps). The organizations have partnered to locate, train, and mobilize women living in IDP camps so they can work as tailors and OMT can export their goods. The founder of OMT was one of my trip leaders from when I was here last summer, so it's cool to see the evolution of the org.

I went back to TAKS in the late afternoon to try to get a better sense of it. There, I met a freelance photojournalist who's had work in publications like The New York Times and the U.S. News and World Report. He was one of the first journalists to cover the war in northern Uganda with a story on a woman who got her lips, ears, and nose cut off by the LRA, the rebel army. He's here now to do a follow-up on her story and he has an interesting take on the current culture in northern Uganda (the culture "over-doing it" on peace, development, NGOs and foreign aid). He's spoken with relatives of Joseph Kony (the leader of the LRA) and told me crazy stories. He also has a lot of suspicions on why the peace agreement wasn't signed this April. He said that the Ugandan government basically depends on its continuation. For example, during the height of the war, the government took advantage of the desperate situation and bought tons of land from individuals who were then forced into IDP camps. Now, they've developed the land to build structures that cater to aid workers and foreigners like me, who need spaghetti and a hot shower every once and awhile. Out of the several hotels in Gulu, there are only two that aren't government owned. Very interesting. He was also one of the first reporters in Darfur.. what a cool job! His next goal is to start art programs for vulnerable children.

Leaving Kampala was sad . It was hard to say goodbye to the women at Bead for Life and to all of the other people I've met there. I'm continuing to work with Meredith on the project in the slums and she incorporated some of my photos with the bios that she wrote about her students on her blog, meredithinuganda.vox.com. I also created a flickr account with some photos from Bead for Life and the slum - http://www.flickr.com/photos/28365765@N05/2648593709/in/set-72157606053749575/. Gulu is so different from Kampala. More rural, the atmosphere is Gulu is peaceful and quiet compared to the chaos of Kampala. It's also way hotter. And there are a handful of white people I keep seeing around who are all super trendy.. pretty weird.
Lucy with Mangoes

My invisible knapsack

Well, I have finally gotten into the swing of things and am enjoying most moments here. I've been super busy and my research at Bead for Life has been going very well – I've met great women and have completed interesting interviews.

Here's a little bit about my time at Bead for Life:
The women LOVE getting their pictures taken, so that part is easy. The talking part is a little more challenging. Generally, the women have been very open, but I've had to get translators for individuals with rough English and even with the translators, it's sometimes difficult to understand them. A lot of their stories are also painful and while its been enlightening to listen to them, it's also hard. Almost all of the beaders I've spoken with have told me that they're "living positively." When one of the women first used this expression, I smiled and affirmed her. But then I realized that "living positively" means living with HIV/AIDS (the actual acronym is rarely spoken because of the stigma). Many of the women are driven from their villages once their positive status is realized by the community. I'm beginning to realize how lucky I am to be a woman in America... the challenges seem enormous for most of the women I've spoken with here.
I'm really enjoying getting to know the women – they are incredible and I have become quite close with several of them. I've even learned how to roll the beads! During a town meeting in the Bead for Life village today I rolled over 20 beads for someone… the beaders were shocked as they passed the beads around – I think they were quite impressed with my skills. All in all, Bead for Life is an incredible organization and I've been super impressed with everything I've seen!

Other stuff:
I'm meeting new people everyday and am having fun exploring Kampala. I run in my neighborhood often (and people point in disbelief at my fluorescent white legs – honestly, I don't blame them) and am expanding my cooking skills. There's a huge fresh fruit and veggie stand across the street from me and everything is so cheap! I eat whole avocados in one sitting. People are a little weirded-out at how excited I get about produce.
Last night, I went with friends to open-mic night at the Uganda National Theater and the night before, we went to the German Embassy to watch the Germany v Spain final match. On Saturday, I went to an outdoor market in downtown Kampala. It was like a 5 mile long dusty thrift store… with lots of yelling and grabbing and touching. I bought a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a leather purse all for $7ish. It was great fun! This weekend, I'm taking a trip to Sessi Island – a tropical Island on Lake Victoria – with Meredith and Kate and Kate's housemate, Daniel.

Last but surely not least:
Along with my research I've picked up another small project. Meredith, a friend who is staying in my building, works at a school for slum children in Kampala. Originally, I was going to help her out just by taking some photographs of her school and the slum, so that she could send pictures to the U.S. and fundraise. But after seeing the situation, I could not walk away from it. Working with her has been a powerful experience. Several of her students recently had to leave school because of school fees and, one of them (11 years old), left to become a prostitute in her slum. The kids' situations are quite sad. One of the girls, 12 years old, is repeatedly beaten and raped by her uncle when she goes home. One girl who I've spent time with was gang-raped on her way home from church... when she was 10 years old. And there's no counseling or support for these girls – not even from their parents. There's another family of five brothers who live in the slums by themselves with no supervision. Their clothes are tattered and they cannot afford soap or toothpaste. At least they're boys...
The school has a boarding program that Meredith is trying to get the ones who are "at risk" in. At risk would qualify as being raped, prostituted, beaten, or starved at "home."

So, she and I are thinking about starting a small project encouraging community development in the slums. It's a hard situation for me, because while I don't want to just fundraise for continuous hand-outs, a lot of the families need immediate financial help. I've been trying to think of ways that we could help the families sustain their monetary advances, so that we don't have to keep giving hand-outs, but its so hard! Maybe we could fundraise to invest in helping the families start small businesses? I had a meeting with the recruitment director at Bead for Life today, and I'm trying to set up a few of the slum women with the program there. Aside from fundraising and acquiring school fees, I think the best thing to do for these families is to match them with appropriate, local NGOs. We are also thinking of partnering with high schools in the U.S. to establish pen-pal/fundraising clubs.


Sorry for rambling, but I've been trying to process the last few days and it's a hard situation to understand. I'd like to pay for all their school fees (and at 75$ per semester for food, school, and board, I could afford to do it), but I know that paying for a few kids wont solve the problem. I guess if I'm going throw money at people, education is a good way to invest it. It's weird how I was born with every opportunity at my fingertips - I could definitely live with a lot less than I do now. I keep going back to the model of the "invisible knapsack" of privilege and wanting to shed a little weight from mine.

getting settled

Although I can't take a shower because the water isn't running right
now, I still get free wireless in my room, so here's another update. I
started at Bead for Life yesterday and it's been great so far. I first
met with several women in charge of certain programs and learned about
the organization. Then, I bundled [bundling = sitting around a huge
table of beads, putting pieces of jewelery into groups of ten while
making sure that each piece is of a different color scheme, and
chatting with the other bundlers] for hours. Next week, one of the
women has to take off work, so I'm filling in for her at the bundling
table, yay! Talking with the women was great despite the many strange
questions..."what colors do mzungus (white people) like?" When I said
that I personally like the pink and green beads, the women laughed at
me because "mzungus don't like pink!" Hmm... The women also informed
me that they were going to make a t-shirt saying "Ugandans love
Obama," and needed mzungu color suggestions for that as well. I tried
to convince them that we like the same kind of colors that they do,
but I don't think it worked.
Today I went to a life-skills workshop that Bead for Life hosts for
the women every Friday. I learned how to start a small business and to
make school-chalk. I also took lots of photos.

I take a boda (motorcycle taxi) to and from Bead for Life everyday and
my ride is usually 15-20 minutes. I still haven't gotten used to the
bodas and every time I reach my destination I wobble off debating
whether kissing the ground would be inappropriate. There's a "road
closed" construction sight that my bodas have plowed through each time
I go to and from Bead for Life. The first time it happened, I got off
my boda and insisted on walking, but since then I've learned to just
go with it. Thank god I don't get motion sickness.

I'm slowly adjusting to being here and I think I'm doing okay - I have
a cell phone, groceries in fridge, and of course, free wireless.

flying in

Hi everyone! I'm in my room in Kampala AND CAN ACCESS WIRELESS (...for now anyway). Just wanted to let you all know that I'm here and well. My flight went smoothly except for being proselytized and seated next to a pastor of a 50 person mission trip. At least I was put on a church prayer list.. I can use all the help I can get, right? Almost everyone on my flight was from North Carolina, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, etc - we Southerners have a big heart for Africa. It was pretty weird.

I made my first Ugandan friends in the Amsterdam airport. I saw a group reading Hebrew and of course approached them after presuming that they were part of the Abayudaya (Jewish Ugandans).We shmoozed for the whole five hour layover. They were musicians coming back from a Jewish music festival in Chicago and we exchanged contact info and discussed everything from Zionism to Jewish vegetarianism. I also have unlimited Shabbat invitations to their houses while I'm here. Anyways, when Kate picked me up from the airport I told her the story and it turns out that the leader of the group I was talking with, J.J., is her "Ugandan father" and she stayed with the whole family during her first time in Uganda. She then preceeded to tell me that the group had been nominated for a grammy and is slightly famous (family - I'm pretty sure we have one of the CDs from the Abayudaya). And I'm friends with them now, how cool! Maybe I'm a little too excited about this, but what a small world!