For me, the beginning of August is usually a time for trite musings about the impending end of summer. I get very nostalgic about June and July, referring to the past several weeks as though they were lost like shipwrecked memorabilia. It’s all very sad and depressing. Yet, I always looked forward to these gloomy dog days of summer because of their role as a transition phase: The Wistfulness is the short period that precedes the sheer panic that accompanies the new round of the academic grind.
Regrettably, I don’t think that I’ll be able to enjoy the transition period this year, because I’ll only be home for a meager ten days before returning to sunny New Haven. It would be regrettable to squander my short time at home, clutching my Kampala city map to my chest and whimpering over pictures of the Nile. Instead I’ve transitioned into a new phase of Delaying The Panic, which has an indefinite endpoint. I’m convinced that this is a winning idea. Hopefully, I can seamlessly enter the new school year and magically have every pre-school task completed before getting to New Haven. After that, I plan on walking on water.
While I only have four days left in Kampala, I’m coming home with enough work to last at least another year. I’ve spent the past two weeks interviewing Parliamentarians about their opinions and attitudes on sexual/reproductive health (SRH) and rights. So far, the experience has been as fascinating as it’s been frustrating. As a whole, Uganda can boast a profound decrease in its HIV/AIDS percentages since the 1980s. However, I’ve been told that it’s uncertain whether the decrease can be attributed to an absurdly-high death rate in HIV/AIDS patients, or to successful HIV testing, treatment and education programs. It seems that while the SRH programs conducted by the government have been broadly received by constituencies throughout the country, I’m inclined to think that they were tailored toward spreading a common rhetoric instead of an actual plan for action. Already, my preliminary survey results are indicating that politicians tend to use the same lip service with their respective constituencies, but their actual legislative decisions rarely reflect their words. If I read one more response that uses (but fails to properly define) the terms, “mobilization”, “sensitization”, or “infrastructure”, I may lose my damn mind. I suppose I’m slowly learning the universal logic of politicians everywhere.
I hope that my results allow me to construct a rudimentary baseline for what political leaders claim to believe about reproductive health and the accorded rights. In a way, I think this is a substantial part of the battle for effecting any change within a political system: if we don’t know where our leaders are starting in regards to their beliefs, it’s impossible to move the masses anywhere. At least this is what I’m keeping in mind as I try to get this survey completed in three days. Part of me feels incredible angst toward my organization for trusting me with such a massive proposal on such a short timeframe (I’m attempting to survey 300 Parliamentarians in two weeks); but, I still count myself lucky to be involved in such a potentially valuable and wicked interesting project.
As of recent days, I’ve had a number of notable experiences and conversations regarding race. While growing up in a predominantly Caucasian town and attending a largely Caucasian university, I’ve managed to handle issues of race rather cleanly. Yet, recently I’ve been in more than one circumstance where I’ve felt that my race has counted against me, and subsequently I wasn’t treated according to the same standard as those around me. I’ve tried to be someone who doesn’t read racism into every situation in which I’ve felt unfairly treated (especially in the generation of Obama), but I had quite a bit of trouble getting around it this time.
Situational details are irrelevant here, if purely for the sake of having a constructive discussion about race. While it’s nothing novel for someone to have been treated unfairly for a melanin-based reason, my experience prompted an interesting household discussion about the use of the word, “racism” as opposed to, “discrimination.” One of my housemates referred to my experience as “reverse racism,” which didn’t seem right to me at all: to imply that racism has a customary application is of a decidedly defeatist mentality, though it’s undeniable that we tend to think of one direction of racism more than another. Another friend defined “racism” as the belief that one’s race is superior to another. But which side feels the superiority? If this is how I use the term in situations where I've felt I was treated unjustly, then do I presuppose that the unequal treatment is directly attributed to a feeling of their superiority, or my inferiority? I’ve spoken to a number of South Asians in Uganda, who feel that they are often scorned by the majority because of their power as a business class. Does that mean that the racist sentiments are derived from viewing the South Asian community as superior, if only through an economic lens? And if so, doesn’t that invert the previous definition? I think the only conclusion I arrived at by the end of this discussion was that “discrimination” can be a result of “racism”. I recognize that this really isn’t an earth-shatteringly astute conclusion. It was just very difficult to draw any other concrete inferences from such liquid interactions between people.
I suppose it’s impossible to incontrovertibly define such a malleable term—especially one which already tends to fit whatever definition is dictated by circumstance. As someone almost incessantly governed by reason, I know it’s nearly impossible to forget the powerlessness of feeling discriminated against and how such emotion can consume you and your judgment. Silver lining of the entire experience: I have a much deeper appreciation for thinkers and actors who manage to put their anger aside in order to harness the power of a constructive discussion.
How’s that for some presumptuous wisdom? Look at me, going to Africa and thinking that I can explain racism now—I promise that my intent was only to incite conversation. No more, no less.
In closing, an abridged list of things I will do when I have a 4-hour layover in JFK, en route to Raleigh, on Sunday:
- Rejoice in returning to home soil after getting through customs, though I won’t kiss the ground
- Appreciate the prevalence of indoor plumbing
- Satisfy my craving for an iced vanilla chai at one of the eight-thousand soul-sapping Starbucks
- Catch up on the electoral drivel provided by CNN
- Check my voicemail, and answer emails that I’ve failed to access/respond to in the past several weeks. Promise.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
in retrospect...
...it may not have been the best idea to go on a four-day hike up a volcano a week after being diagnosed with dysentery. However, hindsight is always 20-20.
I just came back from an incredible trip to Mount Elgon, an extinct volcano located in Eastern Uganda near the Kenyan border. We left from Kampala on a five-hour bus ride to the town of Mbale, where we boarded another small bus to Budadiri, a village nestled in the base of the mountain. The climbing was not of carabiner-intensity, but it was strenuous nonetheless: within the first hour I felt incredibly short of breath and almost turned back due to the seemingly unbearable altitude sickness. Luckily, I was in the company of two amazing friends who provided the energy and laughter to keep me going until the summit.
For me, the most memorable part of our hike may have been the Saturday afternoon downpour that interrupted our 37-km trek. All I can remember is a blur of the three of us, tearing through the tropical forest of Elgon when we noticed that it had started hailing. I was holding up the caboose of our train of mazungus (as expected) when I realized that we had lost our guide, Moses. We apparently thought it was a brilliant idea to keep going, and so we continued blazing through the sodden forest until we were out of breath and desperately needed to take cover under the branches of a contorted tree. I most vividly remember the heaviness in my lungs, the buckling of my knees, and the hail getting caught in my hair and eyes. In spite of being with two other people, I remember feeling strangely alone at that moment--so much so that if something had happened to any one of us, I didn't think anyone would be able to help. Then, seemingly out of nowhere I heard footsteps shake the forest floor and from out of trees came Moses, sporting a black poncho and fully resembling Batman, and I once again felt strangely safe in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps the most rejuvenating part of our journey was getting out of Kampala for a couple of days. Living in the city is definitely an exciting experience, but I was beginning to feel that it was an experience that needed to be missed before it could be appreciated again. I'm back in the city now, a little weaker than I was before I left, but much happier to be here than camping in the rain. But, if Elgon were to call again, I wouldn't shy away from another visit.
Work has picked up quite a bit over the past few weeks, ever since I was given another project. A few years ago, RHU conducted a survey of Ugandan Parliament members, regarding their knowledge of sexual/reproductive health services and rights. While the survey was conducted very swiftly, it suffered from a high rate of nonresponse and its questions were strongly directed (example: "Would you agree with the statement that family planning helps individuals to live a healthy and useful life?"). My boss approached me a week ago and asked me to perform a similar study, but with more useful questions and more quantifiable data. He wondered if I could get nearly all 360 Parliament members to respond to the survey. He also asked me if it if would be possible to publish my work in order to help RHU garner more funding for future projects.
Oh, P.S., I have less than three weeks left in Kampala.
To quote one of my friends, "you're working with some pretty sexy data," and publishing papers is a relatively distant concept for many organizations here. If it's possible, I think it would be insanely useful to at least pass on the knowledge of the process of submitting to a journal, but it seems more than foolish to anticipate salience in the data, regardless of how "sexy*" it may seem.
(*strange, yet useful, adjective to describe data, though I apologize for using it more than once)
As a result, I've found myself buried in this very interesting project. Parliament members have the potential to be incredible forces for grassroots change, particularly in family planning and health advocacy issues. But for many reasons, a substantial number of MPs remain reluctant when it comes to being actively engaged in legislation regarding reproductive health, and I'm hoping to find out why. While working on this Parliament project, I'm still in the process of handing over data collection and analysis of the quality assessments of community health outreaches to other staff members. It's a balancing act that I have yet to perfect, but I've always considered it better to be too busy than to be bored. Wait, I'm on summer vacation?
Like many of my friends, I'm perturbed by how quickly summer is passing, especially given that I consider it to be my last summer of goofing off before I succumb to being a grown-up. Granted, being a grown-up isn't the worst realization in the world, I'm still trying to put it off for as long as possible (which probably doesn't bode well for the psyche of my grown-up self). Being on a mountain for four days almost compels you to be introspective, which I suppose is healthy in small-enough doses.
While it's great to be a temporary vagabond, I'm excited to come home soon, even if it's just for a little while. Traveling is always exciting and adventurous, but I've learned to never overestimate the tranquility of being home.
I just came back from an incredible trip to Mount Elgon, an extinct volcano located in Eastern Uganda near the Kenyan border. We left from Kampala on a five-hour bus ride to the town of Mbale, where we boarded another small bus to Budadiri, a village nestled in the base of the mountain. The climbing was not of carabiner-intensity, but it was strenuous nonetheless: within the first hour I felt incredibly short of breath and almost turned back due to the seemingly unbearable altitude sickness. Luckily, I was in the company of two amazing friends who provided the energy and laughter to keep me going until the summit.
For me, the most memorable part of our hike may have been the Saturday afternoon downpour that interrupted our 37-km trek. All I can remember is a blur of the three of us, tearing through the tropical forest of Elgon when we noticed that it had started hailing. I was holding up the caboose of our train of mazungus (as expected) when I realized that we had lost our guide, Moses. We apparently thought it was a brilliant idea to keep going, and so we continued blazing through the sodden forest until we were out of breath and desperately needed to take cover under the branches of a contorted tree. I most vividly remember the heaviness in my lungs, the buckling of my knees, and the hail getting caught in my hair and eyes. In spite of being with two other people, I remember feeling strangely alone at that moment--so much so that if something had happened to any one of us, I didn't think anyone would be able to help. Then, seemingly out of nowhere I heard footsteps shake the forest floor and from out of trees came Moses, sporting a black poncho and fully resembling Batman, and I once again felt strangely safe in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps the most rejuvenating part of our journey was getting out of Kampala for a couple of days. Living in the city is definitely an exciting experience, but I was beginning to feel that it was an experience that needed to be missed before it could be appreciated again. I'm back in the city now, a little weaker than I was before I left, but much happier to be here than camping in the rain. But, if Elgon were to call again, I wouldn't shy away from another visit.
Work has picked up quite a bit over the past few weeks, ever since I was given another project. A few years ago, RHU conducted a survey of Ugandan Parliament members, regarding their knowledge of sexual/reproductive health services and rights. While the survey was conducted very swiftly, it suffered from a high rate of nonresponse and its questions were strongly directed (example: "Would you agree with the statement that family planning helps individuals to live a healthy and useful life?"). My boss approached me a week ago and asked me to perform a similar study, but with more useful questions and more quantifiable data. He wondered if I could get nearly all 360 Parliament members to respond to the survey. He also asked me if it if would be possible to publish my work in order to help RHU garner more funding for future projects.
Oh, P.S., I have less than three weeks left in Kampala.
To quote one of my friends, "you're working with some pretty sexy data," and publishing papers is a relatively distant concept for many organizations here. If it's possible, I think it would be insanely useful to at least pass on the knowledge of the process of submitting to a journal, but it seems more than foolish to anticipate salience in the data, regardless of how "sexy*" it may seem.
(*strange, yet useful, adjective to describe data, though I apologize for using it more than once)
As a result, I've found myself buried in this very interesting project. Parliament members have the potential to be incredible forces for grassroots change, particularly in family planning and health advocacy issues. But for many reasons, a substantial number of MPs remain reluctant when it comes to being actively engaged in legislation regarding reproductive health, and I'm hoping to find out why. While working on this Parliament project, I'm still in the process of handing over data collection and analysis of the quality assessments of community health outreaches to other staff members. It's a balancing act that I have yet to perfect, but I've always considered it better to be too busy than to be bored. Wait, I'm on summer vacation?
Like many of my friends, I'm perturbed by how quickly summer is passing, especially given that I consider it to be my last summer of goofing off before I succumb to being a grown-up. Granted, being a grown-up isn't the worst realization in the world, I'm still trying to put it off for as long as possible (which probably doesn't bode well for the psyche of my grown-up self). Being on a mountain for four days almost compels you to be introspective, which I suppose is healthy in small-enough doses.
While it's great to be a temporary vagabond, I'm excited to come home soon, even if it's just for a little while. Traveling is always exciting and adventurous, but I've learned to never overestimate the tranquility of being home.
Friday, July 4, 2008
verba volant, scripta manet
Sorry for the lack of updates in the past week--dysentery can really take a girl out of action for awhile. I feel a little like I’m living the game of The Oregon Trail. While I'm not entirely certain, my suspicion is that my stomach bug came in the form of undercooked eggs in a Rolex (not the luxury watch, but a type of Ugandan street food consisting of a fried egg rolled into a chapatti. Yes, it’s as good as it sounds…I’m considering opening a Rolex stand near the New Haven Green if this whole healthcare stint doesn’t work out). I suppose that if you’re going to fall ill while abroad, it might as well be with something exotic. Sadly, dysentery is only so glamorous; I would’ve preferred to say that I survived a bout of cholera or dengue fever, but apparently, choosiness is not recommended. Having taken some non-FDA approved antibiotics for the past few days, I’m almost back to my normal self. Now if only I could decide whether to take the ferry or ford my wagon across the river…
I’ve been back to work for a couple of days and things are progressing fairly well. We're currently coding the responses to the quality surveys, having conducted a very brief pilot. As I’m sorting through the logistics of this survey, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for the nuances of speech and language: for the first day of the pilot, I observed my friend (and translator) conduct the questionnaire in order to ensure that it could be completed in a realistic span of time, and that my questions were clear and relevant to my target population. My friend was kind enough to translate the patients’ answers into English for me throughout the pilot. However, I found it incredibly frustrating to hear a patient’s five-minute answer in Luganda translated to and recorded as, “It’s fine,” in English. As the interviews were being conducted, I noticed so much going on in the client’s body language and facial expressions; it killed me to find it all distilled down into two fairly meaningless words. It’s slightly disconcerting to imagine how much crucial data and testimony is lost in translation.
I could ask my friend to translate the answers sentence-by-sentence, but it would be blatantly disruptive to the flow of conversation--it wouldn’t be worth satisfying my curiosity at the expense of conducting an effective survey. I may use a voice recorder at the interviews, but many people (especially those from more vulnerable populations) become incredibly nervous and skeptical of my intentions when they see the recording device. It also seems that my physical presence may be detracting from a patient’s willingness to answer honestly: I feel that I’m an unfortunate (and confounding) distraction for many of the clients. As such, I'd like to train some local university students and RHU volunteers about the basics of conducting a survey. This way, RHU can hold onto this skill long after I leave. It would be really wonderful if the same people who conduct the survey also learn how to analyze the data. I have all these big plans (and more!) for the next month—we’ll just have to see how many of my goals are realistic and useful.
Recently, I’ve been craving some independent exploration of Uganda. While it’s wonderful to be traveling with passionate, driven, interesting people, I think I have a strange appreciation for getting lost and wandering on my own in an unfamiliar place. I’ve come to understand that being able to travel alone is an incredibly useful skill and I would hope it’s something that can be cultivated in anyone who has the opportunity to travel. In addition to being immensely empowering, independent travel also forces you to address your experience, how you feel about it, and how you will change from it in a very immediate way. My father traveled throughout all of India when he was 16 years old, and he still remembers it as a time of intense introspection, fierce independence, stupid freedom, and a rare form of happiness. I get pangs of these sentiments, though I imagine that they come out in full force after extended periods of solitary travel. Perhaps I have the makings of my plans for summer 2009, or maybe it’s just the dysentery causing such rumination. The side effects are strange here, I tell you.
My apologies for the (potentially toolish) Latin title, but I’ve found myself surrounded by a lot of Latin recently. Clearly, I’m reverting back to high school when Latin was the cool thing to do (wait, that was never true?!). Loosely translated, it means, “Words fly away, but the letter remains.” This used to be one of my favorite quotes from my Latin teacher, but I think I read it with a grain of salt these days, especially given my recent tumultuous relationship with language and speech. You’re welcome to take it or leave it.
Hope you’re enjoying the 4th of July, wherever you are in the world. I’m back in the States in a month. My goal is to stay healthy until then.
I’ve been back to work for a couple of days and things are progressing fairly well. We're currently coding the responses to the quality surveys, having conducted a very brief pilot. As I’m sorting through the logistics of this survey, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for the nuances of speech and language: for the first day of the pilot, I observed my friend (and translator) conduct the questionnaire in order to ensure that it could be completed in a realistic span of time, and that my questions were clear and relevant to my target population. My friend was kind enough to translate the patients’ answers into English for me throughout the pilot. However, I found it incredibly frustrating to hear a patient’s five-minute answer in Luganda translated to and recorded as, “It’s fine,” in English. As the interviews were being conducted, I noticed so much going on in the client’s body language and facial expressions; it killed me to find it all distilled down into two fairly meaningless words. It’s slightly disconcerting to imagine how much crucial data and testimony is lost in translation.
I could ask my friend to translate the answers sentence-by-sentence, but it would be blatantly disruptive to the flow of conversation--it wouldn’t be worth satisfying my curiosity at the expense of conducting an effective survey. I may use a voice recorder at the interviews, but many people (especially those from more vulnerable populations) become incredibly nervous and skeptical of my intentions when they see the recording device. It also seems that my physical presence may be detracting from a patient’s willingness to answer honestly: I feel that I’m an unfortunate (and confounding) distraction for many of the clients. As such, I'd like to train some local university students and RHU volunteers about the basics of conducting a survey. This way, RHU can hold onto this skill long after I leave. It would be really wonderful if the same people who conduct the survey also learn how to analyze the data. I have all these big plans (and more!) for the next month—we’ll just have to see how many of my goals are realistic and useful.
Recently, I’ve been craving some independent exploration of Uganda. While it’s wonderful to be traveling with passionate, driven, interesting people, I think I have a strange appreciation for getting lost and wandering on my own in an unfamiliar place. I’ve come to understand that being able to travel alone is an incredibly useful skill and I would hope it’s something that can be cultivated in anyone who has the opportunity to travel. In addition to being immensely empowering, independent travel also forces you to address your experience, how you feel about it, and how you will change from it in a very immediate way. My father traveled throughout all of India when he was 16 years old, and he still remembers it as a time of intense introspection, fierce independence, stupid freedom, and a rare form of happiness. I get pangs of these sentiments, though I imagine that they come out in full force after extended periods of solitary travel. Perhaps I have the makings of my plans for summer 2009, or maybe it’s just the dysentery causing such rumination. The side effects are strange here, I tell you.
My apologies for the (potentially toolish) Latin title, but I’ve found myself surrounded by a lot of Latin recently. Clearly, I’m reverting back to high school when Latin was the cool thing to do (wait, that was never true?!). Loosely translated, it means, “Words fly away, but the letter remains.” This used to be one of my favorite quotes from my Latin teacher, but I think I read it with a grain of salt these days, especially given my recent tumultuous relationship with language and speech. You’re welcome to take it or leave it.
Hope you’re enjoying the 4th of July, wherever you are in the world. I’m back in the States in a month. My goal is to stay healthy until then.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
a summer solstice is irrelevant here
Thanks so much for the thoughtful conversation regarding Gulu. I'm slowly realizing the universality of such ideas and the pervasiveness of the debate among my friends around the world. In spite of having garnered all this wisdom, I'm (surprise!) still conflicted. Nevertheless, I'm fully convinced that it is an important conversation to have, and I'm so grateful that I have some stellar company as I continue thinking about it.
If I did go to Gulu, I'd likely be involved in an IDP project regarding drug packaging and medicine disbursal. Having taken part in a couple of urban outreaches so far, I've noticed that when drugs are given to patients there seems to be a consistent lack of clear prescription directions. What usually happens is that the medicine is placed in a small ziploc bag and a ratio is scribbled on the front, indicating the frequency and duration of time for taking the medication (for example, 1:2:2 means to take one at a time, twice daily, for two days/weeks/months). It's easy to see how such "directions" could be confused or forgotten by the time a patient leaves the site. I'd like to come up with a way to provide clearer directions for the medications, including simple details like, "take with food," or "do not mix with ___." Ostensibly, it seems like a fairly simple task, but my solution needs to be sustainable. Printing out labels for the time I'm here won't be sufficient, nor will be buying a printer that will run out of expensive ink and paper within a very short time. The solution may just require the providers to spend more time with clients, to ensure that they understand how to take their medicine, but I'm skeptical of how realistic this is in an IDP camp or village. Resources are scarce, though given some time I'm hoping to come up with an idea that works for the long haul (as always, musings and ideas are more than welcome).
Last week I went to a regional conference on reproductive health in emergency/crisis situations. It was incredibly interesting to hear so many diverging opinions about how to achieve the same goals; I appreciated the chance to meet and speak to people from the International Rescue Committee, Medecins Sans Frontieres, and countless local NGOs. Because the conference was near June 21st, I remember making an off-hand comment at lunch about how it was the day with the most hours of sunlight back home. It incited some laughter about "those crazy Americans and their counting of sunlight-hours." Clearly, I should have targeted that riveting story at a different audience, preferably one that does not live on the Equator.
I'm back at RHU for the remainder of the week, putting the finishing touches on surveys to be conducted at the health outreaches. I'll be speaking with the clients, providers, and community mobilisers for each outreach, in the hope of getting a rough idea of how RHU is progressing toward the Millennium Development Goal of reducing child mortality through these outreaches.
While all this work has kept me sufficiently busy and intellectually satisfied, I think my greatest achievement thus far has been my recent experience at Ovino, the outdoor bazaar in Kampala: I successfully bartered and bought two pashminas for 3,500 shillings, which is roughly USD $2.50 . In the process, I discovered that I am pretty much the world's worst barterer, as demonstrated by the following conversation:
NB: I learned that a fairer price for a football jersey is somewhere around 5-6,000 Ugandan shillings.
This is a remarkably accurate representation of what happened. I think I'll get better with time. Hope all is well.
If I did go to Gulu, I'd likely be involved in an IDP project regarding drug packaging and medicine disbursal. Having taken part in a couple of urban outreaches so far, I've noticed that when drugs are given to patients there seems to be a consistent lack of clear prescription directions. What usually happens is that the medicine is placed in a small ziploc bag and a ratio is scribbled on the front, indicating the frequency and duration of time for taking the medication (for example, 1:2:2 means to take one at a time, twice daily, for two days/weeks/months). It's easy to see how such "directions" could be confused or forgotten by the time a patient leaves the site. I'd like to come up with a way to provide clearer directions for the medications, including simple details like, "take with food," or "do not mix with ___." Ostensibly, it seems like a fairly simple task, but my solution needs to be sustainable. Printing out labels for the time I'm here won't be sufficient, nor will be buying a printer that will run out of expensive ink and paper within a very short time. The solution may just require the providers to spend more time with clients, to ensure that they understand how to take their medicine, but I'm skeptical of how realistic this is in an IDP camp or village. Resources are scarce, though given some time I'm hoping to come up with an idea that works for the long haul (as always, musings and ideas are more than welcome).
Last week I went to a regional conference on reproductive health in emergency/crisis situations. It was incredibly interesting to hear so many diverging opinions about how to achieve the same goals; I appreciated the chance to meet and speak to people from the International Rescue Committee, Medecins Sans Frontieres, and countless local NGOs. Because the conference was near June 21st, I remember making an off-hand comment at lunch about how it was the day with the most hours of sunlight back home. It incited some laughter about "those crazy Americans and their counting of sunlight-hours." Clearly, I should have targeted that riveting story at a different audience, preferably one that does not live on the Equator.
I'm back at RHU for the remainder of the week, putting the finishing touches on surveys to be conducted at the health outreaches. I'll be speaking with the clients, providers, and community mobilisers for each outreach, in the hope of getting a rough idea of how RHU is progressing toward the Millennium Development Goal of reducing child mortality through these outreaches.
While all this work has kept me sufficiently busy and intellectually satisfied, I think my greatest achievement thus far has been my recent experience at Ovino, the outdoor bazaar in Kampala: I successfully bartered and bought two pashminas for 3,500 shillings, which is roughly USD $2.50 . In the process, I discovered that I am pretty much the world's worst barterer, as demonstrated by the following conversation:
merchant: "My Indian mazungu, please come here."
me: "Sebo, how much for the football jersey?"
merchant: "10,000."
me: "I'll give you 2,000."
(merchant laughs hysterically, gets his friends to join, mocking of Paula in Luganda ensues)
me: "Fine. 9,250."
(mocking continues, but this time, in reference to the triumphant ripping off of the mazungu)
me: "Sebo, how much for the football jersey?"
merchant: "10,000."
me: "I'll give you 2,000."
(merchant laughs hysterically, gets his friends to join, mocking of Paula in Luganda ensues)
me: "Fine. 9,250."
(mocking continues, but this time, in reference to the triumphant ripping off of the mazungu)
NB: I learned that a fairer price for a football jersey is somewhere around 5-6,000 Ugandan shillings.
This is a remarkably accurate representation of what happened. I think I'll get better with time. Hope all is well.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
the specter of development tourism
At some point in March, I remember reading a post on Chris Blattman's blog and feeling strongly dissuaded from coming to Uganda for several weeks of spring. Upon reading his piece, I gathered that Blattman was explaining the potential (yet, decidedly unintentional) harm one could inflict on a population by engaging in what one of my friends refers to as, "conflict tourism". I suppose that the concept can best be oversimplified by looking at the imbalance between one's broader usefulness and one's personal enrichment, while traveling to areas of the world that are most well-known for their helplessness. While it may seem admirable for someone to want to experience hands-on field work and become exposed to these vulnerable populations in the hopes of learning from them, I guess I couldn't help but wonder, "Who are you really doing this for?" and "Are you going to cause more harm than good throughout the course of your experience?"
I dreaded becoming another college student who traveled to the Equator because it sounded sexy, or foolishly thought she could save Africa in a summer. Like Blattman says,
"...these towns increasingly feel like circuses, and I think you have to ask yourself whether you want to really help out or become part of the sideshow."
After much thought in April and May, I decided that I wouldn't let myself be a part of the problem. I took the mild admonition to heart, and came here with the following mindset: I am someone with skills that are meant to be used by those who know how best to use them here. A concept or skill which I might consider transferable may prove to be utterly worthless in this contrasting environment where I am the most conspicuous component. As such, I guess I could best describe my purpose in Uganda as that of a "tool" (ha).
The whole debate returned to the forefront of my thoughts when a friend asked me if I'd like to travel to the district of Gulu next week with RHU. Gulu is the birthplace of Joseph Kony, the leader of the Lord's Resistance Army, which is the group currently responsible for terrorizing parts of northern Uganda (for the historically curious). Kony is arguably credited for much of the violence and internal displacement in the region, though it truly depends on whom you're talking to here. As a result of this regional instability, there's great need for health services, immunization outreaches, and family planning education. Were I to go to Gulu, I would be a part of these efforts. I expect that I'd work with the nurses to help immunize children, diagnose and treat patients to the best of my ability (which is again, limited as an undergrad). I expect that I could get much more done for my organization were I to remain in Kampala. Yet, it's remarkably difficult to ignore the potentially incredible nature of the experience: I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to see regions of former IDP camps, or help out as part of the UN Food Programme for displaced persons. But doesn't that make me just another circusgoer?
My potential trip would last no more than three days, so I'm really just blowing my impending repercussions out of proportion (i.e., whatever I choose to do is really not that critical, nor will it have any profound impact on anyone else). I'd return to Kampala to continue my job in evaluating current processes and outputs, which is where I think I'm being put to greatest and best use. I guess I'm just unsure about what degree of detraction from these responsibilities will leave me with a clear conscience--if any.
In the end I'm glad I'm experiencing this internal turmoil (though at a reader's expense), because at least now I'm constantly aware of using my time as wisely as possible while I'm here. Also, the silver lining of conflict tourism may lie in its ability to provide perspective for those who will hopefully be in positions to effect change in the future. How else am I supposed to alter the state of things if I never see/hear/breathe/feel what is going on?
At this point, I'm hoping for a pretty amazing epiphany in the near future (I hear there's a full moon tonight, so maybe that will help with the clarity). In the mean time, I'd love to hear any sage advice that comes my way.
I dreaded becoming another college student who traveled to the Equator because it sounded sexy, or foolishly thought she could save Africa in a summer. Like Blattman says,
"...these towns increasingly feel like circuses, and I think you have to ask yourself whether you want to really help out or become part of the sideshow."
After much thought in April and May, I decided that I wouldn't let myself be a part of the problem. I took the mild admonition to heart, and came here with the following mindset: I am someone with skills that are meant to be used by those who know how best to use them here. A concept or skill which I might consider transferable may prove to be utterly worthless in this contrasting environment where I am the most conspicuous component. As such, I guess I could best describe my purpose in Uganda as that of a "tool" (ha).
The whole debate returned to the forefront of my thoughts when a friend asked me if I'd like to travel to the district of Gulu next week with RHU. Gulu is the birthplace of Joseph Kony, the leader of the Lord's Resistance Army, which is the group currently responsible for terrorizing parts of northern Uganda (for the historically curious). Kony is arguably credited for much of the violence and internal displacement in the region, though it truly depends on whom you're talking to here. As a result of this regional instability, there's great need for health services, immunization outreaches, and family planning education. Were I to go to Gulu, I would be a part of these efforts. I expect that I'd work with the nurses to help immunize children, diagnose and treat patients to the best of my ability (which is again, limited as an undergrad). I expect that I could get much more done for my organization were I to remain in Kampala. Yet, it's remarkably difficult to ignore the potentially incredible nature of the experience: I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to see regions of former IDP camps, or help out as part of the UN Food Programme for displaced persons. But doesn't that make me just another circusgoer?
My potential trip would last no more than three days, so I'm really just blowing my impending repercussions out of proportion (i.e., whatever I choose to do is really not that critical, nor will it have any profound impact on anyone else). I'd return to Kampala to continue my job in evaluating current processes and outputs, which is where I think I'm being put to greatest and best use. I guess I'm just unsure about what degree of detraction from these responsibilities will leave me with a clear conscience--if any.
In the end I'm glad I'm experiencing this internal turmoil (though at a reader's expense), because at least now I'm constantly aware of using my time as wisely as possible while I'm here. Also, the silver lining of conflict tourism may lie in its ability to provide perspective for those who will hopefully be in positions to effect change in the future. How else am I supposed to alter the state of things if I never see/hear/breathe/feel what is going on?
At this point, I'm hoping for a pretty amazing epiphany in the near future (I hear there's a full moon tonight, so maybe that will help with the clarity). In the mean time, I'd love to hear any sage advice that comes my way.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
jinja (not the weed) and outreaches
I think one of my favorite things so far is my morning walk to buy a newspaper: inevitably, a small group of schoolchildren congregates behind me, and collectively whispers about whether or not I'm a mazungu (which translates from the language of Luganda to, "white person"). Sometimes they erupt into a pretty heated discussion, and I tend to settle the debate as soon as I leave the vendor's stand. One boy seemed a little disappointed by the fact that I was just a visitor, and subsequently asked if I was sure that I wasn't just a really pale Ugandan.
Last weekend, I opted for whitewater rafting instead of bungee jumping when we were in Jinja. Our guide was a forty-year old Zimbabwean man, who shared stories about his hippopotamus-wrestling days as he led us for 30 km down the Nile. In his non-rafting spare time, he was singlehandedly doing everything possible to cause further collapse to Mugabe's economy in the hope that it would drive him out of office. In fact, I'm pretty sure that he spent the past four months in the "money laundering" business. Jinja was beautiful, and the picture below is a view from our point of portage . I'm hoping to go back during a lazy weekend and reconsider bungee jumping.
I'm excited that my project is becoming more lucid as I get a better grasp of the situation here. I've spent the past few days working on outreach visits, which are supplied by UNICEF and orchestrated by RHU. We drive to the slums of Kampala and post up an office, consisting of two benches, a cooler with vaccines, and a duffel bag of generic drugs. For four hours each day, I sat with a nurse as we diagnosed and treated patients as they came to our post. I learned that in order to get babies to take their oral polio drops, I have to make the strangest facial contortion before they'll open their mouths to laugh. I also learned how to give a subcutaneous measles shot, and recognize malaria from a mile away. While I'm almost certain that I'm entirely unqualified to do most of these things, I discovered that it really doesn't matter. Dire need trumps almost all else.
I've spent the remainder of my time researching different types of health indicators in order to write evaluations on the quality of these outreaches. Assessing quality of care is pretty difficult when you have to make immunization cards out of post-it notes, but I'm working on figuring that out. I think I lucked out with my job in that I'm being exposed to both sides of a constantly growing, yet flawed, system. I get the feeling that there is a serious disconnect between the administrators of projects and the actual implementors, and I'm not sure on which side I'd fit best at this point. It definitely makes for some interesting conversation with the doctors here.
My Luganda is getting better with time. I can now ask, "What is your name?" and "Have you been tested for HIV?"
Thanks for the emails, and for checking to make sure I'm still alive. My internet connection is sporadic at best, so I apologize for my delayed responses (though they're actually fairly characteristic of me when I'm in the US, too...). Let me know about life and everything else when y'all get a chance.
Last weekend, I opted for whitewater rafting instead of bungee jumping when we were in Jinja. Our guide was a forty-year old Zimbabwean man, who shared stories about his hippopotamus-wrestling days as he led us for 30 km down the Nile. In his non-rafting spare time, he was singlehandedly doing everything possible to cause further collapse to Mugabe's economy in the hope that it would drive him out of office. In fact, I'm pretty sure that he spent the past four months in the "money laundering" business. Jinja was beautiful, and the picture below is a view from our point of portage . I'm hoping to go back during a lazy weekend and reconsider bungee jumping.
I'm excited that my project is becoming more lucid as I get a better grasp of the situation here. I've spent the past few days working on outreach visits, which are supplied by UNICEF and orchestrated by RHU. We drive to the slums of Kampala and post up an office, consisting of two benches, a cooler with vaccines, and a duffel bag of generic drugs. For four hours each day, I sat with a nurse as we diagnosed and treated patients as they came to our post. I learned that in order to get babies to take their oral polio drops, I have to make the strangest facial contortion before they'll open their mouths to laugh. I also learned how to give a subcutaneous measles shot, and recognize malaria from a mile away. While I'm almost certain that I'm entirely unqualified to do most of these things, I discovered that it really doesn't matter. Dire need trumps almost all else.
I've spent the remainder of my time researching different types of health indicators in order to write evaluations on the quality of these outreaches. Assessing quality of care is pretty difficult when you have to make immunization cards out of post-it notes, but I'm working on figuring that out. I think I lucked out with my job in that I'm being exposed to both sides of a constantly growing, yet flawed, system. I get the feeling that there is a serious disconnect between the administrators of projects and the actual implementors, and I'm not sure on which side I'd fit best at this point. It definitely makes for some interesting conversation with the doctors here.
My Luganda is getting better with time. I can now ask, "What is your name?" and "Have you been tested for HIV?"
Thanks for the emails, and for checking to make sure I'm still alive. My internet connection is sporadic at best, so I apologize for my delayed responses (though they're actually fairly characteristic of me when I'm in the US, too...). Let me know about life and everything else when y'all get a chance.
Friday, June 6, 2008
politics, prostitution, and a pen
I was smiling for the greater part of yesterday because almost everywhere I looked, Ugandan newspaper headlines celebrated Obama's nomination. As a result of the news, I was stopped multiple times on the street by people who were curious about my opinion of the man and US politics. One woman asked me why the American people are more sexist than they are racist; another man wondered whether it was safe for people to be projecting their hopes and dreams on an inexperienced politician. Most people were excited by the potential for profound policy shifts from a man who can find Kenya (and probably Uganda) on a world map. I'd like to think that the fact that people are paying such close attention to American politics--before the general campaign is even in full swing--can't be a bad thing.
Yesterday, I also went on a site visit to a part of Kampala's red-light district, and sat in on a focus group discussion among a group of commercial sex workers, their "aunties" (the brothel owners and bosses), my coworkers, and a program funding consultant from Toronto. The experience put me on sensory-overload and even as I write about it now, I expect to have trouble extricating my thoughts. The sex workers, who prefer to be referred to as "moonlight stars", had all completed an extensive peer educator training session. They were responsible for going back to their respective communities and educating their colleagues about disease transmission, safe practices, sound family planning methods, and their individual rights. In the middle of the discussion I was left wondering, what rights could they really claim as their own? Prostitution is illegal in Uganda, and law enforcement officials are far from sensitive to their lifestyle. Regardless of what international declarations will claim, are their rights really secure? Sadly they likely are not, but I still think it's important for the women to understand the concept of unalienable human rights. I would think that such mental empowerment is essential to developing the internal motivation to ultimately demand a better life.
I learned that becoming a peer educator was seen as somewhat of an honor among the workers, and that they really enjoyed the training sessions. I was surprised at how open the discussion was: no one (except perhaps the woman from Toronto) seemed afraid of causing offense or asking too much. I had a hard time reconciling my feelings about the "aunties," and our decision to work with them. It turns out that these women act as gatekeepers, and if any of our efforts are to permeate the target population, we have to work through them. The "aunties" spoke very articulately, and I found it slightly bothersome that I couldn't help but like them. They also seemed to be very interested in me, my age, and what I was doing with my life; I'm inclined to think it was because the majority of their workers were around my age, give-or-take a few years. After the session, they said a prayer for me, and invited me to come back soon. I'll try to take them up on it.
I'm in the process of reading some papers on maternal mortality, and community-based reproductive health services. Apparently, surveyed households were chosen by the following method: "the direction to follow was selected by tossing a pen in the air and following the direction where it pointed. The starting household was the one nearest to the starting point." I'm fairly certain this is how I'm going to perform all my future studies. I might just use it to make all life choices from now on.
Finally, I just noticed that the time of my last posting was at a ridiculously early hour (and decidedly uncharacteristic of my normal diurnal habits). I think it's worth noting that whenever I travel, regardless of how long I'm away, I keep the clock on my laptop set to the time at home. It's fairly irrational, I realize, but for some reason I get this twinge of disloyalty if I try to change it. For clarity's sake, Kampala is seven hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.
Yesterday, I also went on a site visit to a part of Kampala's red-light district, and sat in on a focus group discussion among a group of commercial sex workers, their "aunties" (the brothel owners and bosses), my coworkers, and a program funding consultant from Toronto. The experience put me on sensory-overload and even as I write about it now, I expect to have trouble extricating my thoughts. The sex workers, who prefer to be referred to as "moonlight stars", had all completed an extensive peer educator training session. They were responsible for going back to their respective communities and educating their colleagues about disease transmission, safe practices, sound family planning methods, and their individual rights. In the middle of the discussion I was left wondering, what rights could they really claim as their own? Prostitution is illegal in Uganda, and law enforcement officials are far from sensitive to their lifestyle. Regardless of what international declarations will claim, are their rights really secure? Sadly they likely are not, but I still think it's important for the women to understand the concept of unalienable human rights. I would think that such mental empowerment is essential to developing the internal motivation to ultimately demand a better life.
I learned that becoming a peer educator was seen as somewhat of an honor among the workers, and that they really enjoyed the training sessions. I was surprised at how open the discussion was: no one (except perhaps the woman from Toronto) seemed afraid of causing offense or asking too much. I had a hard time reconciling my feelings about the "aunties," and our decision to work with them. It turns out that these women act as gatekeepers, and if any of our efforts are to permeate the target population, we have to work through them. The "aunties" spoke very articulately, and I found it slightly bothersome that I couldn't help but like them. They also seemed to be very interested in me, my age, and what I was doing with my life; I'm inclined to think it was because the majority of their workers were around my age, give-or-take a few years. After the session, they said a prayer for me, and invited me to come back soon. I'll try to take them up on it.
I'm in the process of reading some papers on maternal mortality, and community-based reproductive health services. Apparently, surveyed households were chosen by the following method: "the direction to follow was selected by tossing a pen in the air and following the direction where it pointed. The starting household was the one nearest to the starting point." I'm fairly certain this is how I'm going to perform all my future studies. I might just use it to make all life choices from now on.
Finally, I just noticed that the time of my last posting was at a ridiculously early hour (and decidedly uncharacteristic of my normal diurnal habits). I think it's worth noting that whenever I travel, regardless of how long I'm away, I keep the clock on my laptop set to the time at home. It's fairly irrational, I realize, but for some reason I get this twinge of disloyalty if I try to change it. For clarity's sake, Kampala is seven hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.
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