white people and trap doors.

'back' when i was in college (about four months ago), i would pass my time (and/or just procrastinate) reading all sorts of blogs. nothing like this one, more like these:
failblog.org
mylifeisaverage.com
peopleofwalmart.com (this is a new personal favorite)
and one of the best...
stuffwhitepeoplelike.com

my 6th street family in philly just recently reminded me of the latter and i spent an hour catching up on all the entries i missed. after a while, i wanted desperately to add my own entry to the list of things that white people like: africa. white people LOVE africa. we love to talk about it, we love to give money to it, and we love love LOVE to visit. if i could lose a pound for every time i've heard the phrase, 'africa has stolen my heart' come out of a white girl's mouth - i could fit into my jeans from middle school. seriously.

and it's not that i don't like africa or being here - i would say that i am enjoying myself a solid 75% of the time. but i would so be lying if i said i didn't think about home all the time or that the majority of my 'heart' was here. this place is special - obviously. it offers PLENTY of things that the western world doesn't (100% hospitality, people who are genuinely content, bodas, and the best fruit in the world). but home is home. my african friends that have been to the west say that they wouldn't give up their home in africa for one we where are. why do white people so often act like this is better than home? different, yes. have i learned more lessons here? well sure. but everyone should love their home - i don't trust people that don't.

meeting white people here has begun to exhaust me. it starts with the casual once over. if my clothes are too clean or i'm not wearing my ugandan paper beads, i already have a couple strikes against me. i obviously haven't lived here long enough to have ruined all my clothes and invested in the local merchandise. and opening questions which seem harmless are actually just a quest for superiority. 'how long have you been here' is not a simple inquiry, but a challenge. whoever has been here the longest obviously wins. once you beat around the bush long enough, eventually the question, 'what are you doing here?' comes right out in the open. if we're being honest, this can be directly translated as 'are you helping africans more or less than i am?' if you work for an n.g.o. - two points. if you work with kids - at least three points...disabled kids - 10. if you are STARTING an n.g.o. - you win, hands down. i am exaggerating, but still - it can get a little intense.

sometimes, when meeting a white person here, i feel so scrutinized/judged that i'm tempted to say, 'hi - my name is rachel. i've been here four months, i work for a great organization, but i will never come to africa alone again. if i'm honest i would give my right to have children to fly home for the weekend and eat one of my mother's cookies.' it would just take a lot of the mystery away. it's like it's an eternal competition - who is doing more for africa? who knows more about africa? who is better at living in africa? and more importantly...who LOVES africa the most? i just want to let all the other people here know, you win. you love africa the most and you win the best white person in africa award.

again, i am exaggerating. i have a lot of white friends here that i love - most of the white people i meet here are great people that are dedicated to their mission and are passionate about helping people. but the intensity of the type of white people i described above can be so daunting that it overwhelms the goodness that has happened here.

on a similar, yet different, note - i read a book recently that really just made sense. the shackled continent by robert guest. he takes a fairly conservative viewpoint and walks through the history of some of the worst corruption in different african governments and his opinion on why things are the way they are and how they can get better. his overall view is that africa won't change and it can't develop until africans decide it needs to. other nations have been giving foreign aid (billions of dollars of foreign aid) for decades. and there are small victories here and there - but facts remain. civil wars are still happening, governmental corruption is still more commonplace than not, and AIDS and malaria still take lives every single day.

this brings me to another point - i may have written about it here before, but it's worth mentioning again. who am i to tell africans that their lives are difficult? one time, i was in zambia. we traveled for hours out to this remote part of the bush (see the posts from about a month ago for photos). we pulled up to this hut - literally, a hut. there was a skinny cow and some chickens. and harold, my translator and spiritual director from the CURE hospital said, 'now rachel...these people are very poor. but they don't know that. so let's not tell them.' we both giggled, but i instantly became very self conscious about the thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment i was toting around for the day. then i realized the magnitude of what harold said and it changed my entire view of africa. it is NOT my responsibility to 'fix' the lives of these people. they do not need my pity. they do not need my money. they don't need anything from me. but they deserve it.

there are the obvious things like clean water and food and shelter that i think that we should go out of our way to provide if at all possible. duh. but i'm just speaking about quality of life. it is not my job to judge someone's quality of life - ever. i don't say this to remove responsibility from myself. but - it is what it is. i hate that phrase. i used to think that people used it as a cop out. or just because they were really inarticulate. but sometimes i don't have anything else to say. there are still kids begging on the street. there are still riots and deaths because of disagreements between tribes. people are still living on pennies a day. and my running shoes still get stolen when i leave them outside. from the big stuff to the little stuff - it is what it is.

what was i talking about? oh yeah - white people. we.so.crazy.

story-time...this one as usual, is more fun for you guys than it was for me.

i live in what is called a 'compound.' there are four houses including mine and we live inside a fenced area and there is a gated entrance. we have a guard that 'stands duty' (or at least is supposed to) 24/7. i have gotten a little comfortable and a little too trusting lately. it's pretty muddy around where i live and my running shoes are often caked with dirt when i get back from a run. i got into the habit of leaving them outside and letting them dry out for a couple hours. some nights i would leave them out overnight, but it shouldn't be a problem. i assumed that the families i live next to wouldn't dare take my shoes, and there shouldn't be anyone else on the compound besides those of us who live there. wrong-zo. i left them out a couple weeks ago and in the morning, i had my ipod in, running clothes on, and keys in my hand, ready to lace up. i opened the door, and the shoes were just...gone. not there, not even a little. not even one. i brought my guard over and realized for the first time just how little english he speaks. i put my sambas on the porch and demonstrated someone sneaking up and taking them. miming thievery was a lot harder than i thought it would be. he didn't get it and i just looked like an idiot. it was 6:30 in the morning, both of us were tired, it was still a little dark out...bad combo. so - i stole my roomie's shoes and went on the run.

we're not even halfway done with this story yet...stick with me peeps.

a couple days later, i came to the realization that i was never going to see my shoes again and my roomie graciously gave me an extra pair that had been left behind by a former volunteer. they fit really well actually and i was super grateful that the replacement was that easy. but you know when you get a new pair of shoes and it takes a little to get the feel for them? you may do that almost trip move a couple times while you figure out the exact size of the shoe. i had a couple of those experiences the first two weeks, but me and the shoes are pretty well acquainted by now. i had a confident run yesterday - one of those where every song on the ipod is just right and you really find the groove.

i'm a firm believer in ending runs strongly. no matter how much donkey-trotting i do during the actual run - no matter how slow i take it up the hills, i always try to end with a bang. it's easy here cuz i run DOWN a massive hill to get to my house. it's nice to always feel like a champion at the end, and trust me - i take advantage of that hill to give me an ego boost, :). anyway...

so i always run fast down the hill and take a left into our little driveway. our gate to enter the compound is fairly large and a pain to open. they have conveniently designed it with a little trap door for people who just wanna walk through instead of drive. this trap door is what i use as my finish line for my runs and it's about 4 feet tall. i crouch down and run right through it (the guard kindly always leaves it open) and then i get to stop and huff and puff for about 10 minutes.

again, yesterday was a good run. it was one where you feel like you are the main character in a movie and the songs playing in your ears are the soundtrack to your life. john legend was blasting as i confidently turned into our lane and about 5 yards from the aforementioned trap door, crouched down to my entry stance. the crouch + the speed at which i was attempting + the new shoes i thought i knew = disaster. there is a small, miniscule even, mound of dirt outside the gate that proved itself worthy of recognition from now on. my shoe caught the top of this mound sending me straight into the ground hands first. i was surprised and hit the ground at a horribly awkward angle, resulting in a front somersault. i would have kept rolling had the aluminum gate not been there to stop be. i hit the gate head first, body to follow making a noise that sounded like really loud thunder...to round out the fall, an obscenely long string of snot shot out my nose and onto the ground (i'm still recovering from the flu). this all transpired in less than five seconds. as soon as i was in a sitting position and realized i wasn't actually hurt, i said out loud, 'did anyone see that?!' i looked around, there was no one. it was one of those times when i really wished someone could just laugh with me...there wasn't anyone so i just laughed by myself.

as i type this i have both my hands doused in neosporin and bandaged on the open gashes. tomorrow i plan to take on the mound of dirt for round two. i'll let ya know how it turns out...

meet chunk.

sometimes, i meet kids that need to be called chunk. so i hang out with them a lot and call them that. i think that they like it...i know i do, :). here are a few of my favorites...

explanations...

i didn't really explain the previously posted photos. so now i will...

they are all from this weekend when i played in the monthly football match with the employees from the hospital. apparently, in this league, having a girl on your team proves monumentally beneficial. you see, having a girl allows the team to just have an extra player. so in a game that would have been 7 v. 7, it was 8 v. 7 because of my presence on the field. not only was i the only female, but also the only mzungu. this was just too much for the fans to handle. every time i touched the ball, the 100 or so people lining the field would erupt. obviously, i had no idea what they were saying, but it made me laugh pretty hard. i swear, i could have gone out there and pooped and they would have been impressed. it was hilarious. i didn't really do anything - i just kinda ran around in circles in the middle of the field because i was open the whole time. i wish soccer was like that in the states...

anyway...the day was full of funny moments, so i posted a few pics for your perusal.

today i walked into the ward here at the hospital and all the mommas were gathered in the middle, listening to a frustrated nursing staff. it was me and derek, our american executive director, and we were both confused as to what was happening. derek walked over to the nurses station and asked what the meeting was all about. she casually explained to us that the mothers have 'soiled the bathroom.' when i asked derek for a more descriptive explanation, he laughed and said: 'well, rachel...some tribes here in uganda believe that when you are pregnant, a woman should not poop into a toilet because the soul of the child will go with it. so some of the mommas have been pooping all over the floors.' i tried not to laugh, but it didn't work. who knew that some people just preferred a hole in the ground for doin their business? shame on CURE for putting in modern toilets, :).

i referred to poop twice (oops, now three times) in this post. if any of you have a problem with this, i apologize. but i technically haven't graduated college/become a real person yet so i'm entitled to reference bodily functions for at least another year...

one of these things is not like the other...

too many thoughts to name one specifically in the title...

it's been a while...sorry bout that.

i'm in mbale now, for week two of my stay here. i'm staying at the guest house at CURE's hospital and i have internet 24/7...which means no sleep for me, :). i've been skyping with people every night, catching up on all the youtube videos i've missed, and generally just been a creeper and stalked people on various networking sites - if you're reading this, you've probably fallen victim to it. at least i'm honest, :).

i love mbale for many more reasons than the internet though. it's a smaller, less dusty, less crowded version of kampala (the city i live in). it's much easier to breathe and much less confusing to navigate my way around here. and the staff at our hospital are sincerely some of the nicest people i've ever met. they are so welcoming and so accepting. i always mess up words when i try to talk to mommas and patients in their language and the staff just laughs and translates for me. i definitely feel most comfortable here in mbale - well, maybe comfortable isn't the word. maybe relaxed? it's comparable to the feeling i have when i'm in morgantown. i love being in philly, but it can get exhausting sometimes and going home is just so nice cuz i can really relax. that's how mbale and kampala are. kampala is more convenient, i feel more active there, and i have more friends in the immediate area. but mbale is just...nice. i'm out of adjectives - my brain is fried from too much internet t.v.

i'm not really updating, but i just had a reallllly funny day and wanted to write about it. i had to go back to kampala for a day to try and get the video camera fixed (which didn't happen...) so i had to take the public bus from and to mbale. the first trip took a little less than 6 hours and i practically sat on the guy's lap next to me cuz we were crammed in there. today's bus ride took less time, but was MUCH more eventful.

picture the dirtiest and most run down coach bus you have ever seen. these are the public buses that i ride in. i actually love it most of the time cuz there is always a funny story and usually i can just sit and read while listening to some good tunes. and the ride is really pretty between kampala and mbale...not too shabby. also, i'm always the only white person, which also makes for interesting dynamics.

i was the last person that squeezed onto the bus this morning around 11:30. this is always a bad sign because you are going to get an aisle seat and there will be no space for your bags except on your lap. but the only seat was next to a 100 (AT LEAST) year old woman who didn't speak a word of english. i was pumped because i knew i wouldn't feel obligated to talk to her, cuz i couldn't. i popped in my headphones and dug my book out of my backpack. she smiled at me and the bus started moving only 10 minutes after i sat down (i sat for over an hour in a sweaty bus on friday before we finally moved). we were having a good ride, or at least i was, and then all of a sudden, the 100 year old woman started removing things from her plastic bag and casually placing them on my lap. i was definitely confused and just accepted the baby doll, the hard candies, the toy car, and even the huge bag of flour. i looked at her daughter across the aisle to get an idea of what was going on and i realized that this woman was about to be sick...either in the plastic bag or all over my feet. so i grabbed the bag from her and literally started throwing the items inside at her daughter across the aisle. i shoved it back into her hands just in time for her to heave into it...loudly.

now, i had been in a great john mayer/jack johnson/gavin degraw groove. very mellow, pretty quiet actually. at this point, i was trying not to puke up my own breakfast so i put some m.j. on my ipod and cranked it as loud as it would go to avoid the noise of this woman throwing up. i still heard every noise she made...thank the good LORD i didn't lose it. so i realized that when she was done, we still had a solid three hours left of this trip. what in the world was she going to do with that bag? oh, you know...HOLD IT. she held that thing the rest of the trip. next to me. i was wearing a skirt and every once in a while i would feel a warmth on my left calf - it was the bag...touching me. every five minutes i would make sure she wasn't gonna fall asleep because i knew she would drop it and the contents would be all over my feet. one time, i heard her start to snore and i kindly (and ever so gently) elbowed her so she would tighten the grip on the pukey-bag.

there is a whole story (right before the puking) about the old woman's daughter leaning out the window and putting her double d breasts inches from my face. but it pales in comparison to the fact that 30 seconds after the removal of her chest from my face, she turned and literally knocked off my hat with her ever larger bum. why was she leaning out the window and lying on top of me? to buy chicken on a stick. details of this story overwhelm me, so this paragraph will have to suffice.

but the story that realllly needs to be told is about the creeper on the bus. on the subway at home, sometimes you have bands that are trying to sell you their cd, people collecting money for a homeless organization, or a man trying to sell you perfume. but you only have to deal with them for a couple minutes - you give them one 'i'm not interested in whatchu got' look and they leave you alone, and most likely move on to the next car. well, today, we had one of these transportation salesmen on the bus. but there was nowhere else to go, so he just stood there yelling trying to sell his products for an hour. lucky me was sitting smack dab in the middle of the bus so he stood right next to me. he was speaking luganda and throwing in a couple english words here and there. i ignored him for the most part but he said the word 'shaving' and then 60 seconds later said the phrase 'private parts' in english. of COURSE, i whipped my head up and started giggling like the fabulously mature adult that i am. he looked at me, winked, and said, 'you think i'm funny?' i stopped laughing and looked down. he leaned down (far too close to my face) and said, 'don't worry - i'll be back to talk to you soon.' i looked up, rolled my eyes, and said, 'can't wait' forgetting that ugandans typically don't understand sarcasm. he proceeded to walk back and forth for the next 20 minutes, brushing himself up against my shoulder with each passage. i gave him a nice shoulder to walk right into the one time and instead of getting the impression that i was pretty mad, he thought i was flirting with him...AWESOME.

so he comes over to me and this is our conversation:
creeper: mzungu, i need your contact information.
me: sorry, i don't give my contact information to anyone.
creeper: but what if i want to see you and move around town when we get to mbale?
me: welp, i'm going back to america this weekend - sorry!
creeper: to your mother and father?
me: no, to my wonderful husband.
creeper: you have a husband? i see no ring.
me: i don't wear one in africa...i'm afraid of losing it.
creeper: you see, in america you may be married. but in africa, you are FREE.
me: (laughing) oh, is that how it works?
creeper: yes...how many children do you have?
me: none, yet.
creeper: when are you going to have them? and how many?
me: as soon as possible, i'm sooo ready to be a mother...and at least four.
creeper: i would like to produce one of them with you.
me: i think this conversation is over. now.

and he laughed and walked away. NOT FUNNY.