Kava

Like in Provo everything shuts down in Suva (the capital) on Sunday. Unlike Provo, there is loud evangelical music bursting from churches that poka dot the city. With no work to do, David and I decide to take a bus to the beach. We knew there were tourist destinations in Navua, so we had the bus drop us off on the bridge by that town, and started walking in the direction of the sea. We barely reached town when we were flagged down by a round, friendly, barefoot man. He asked where were we going and informed us that there weren’t any nice beaches in that part. I think he felt bad for us, so he welcomed us inside and gave us a some kava (traditional drink made of root crop). He caught us a cab to Pacific Harbor and found us a beautiful beach.

As we were exploring, we ran into a group of extremely friendly Fijian men. They were from a settlement nearby and had come to the beach to smoke herbs and relax after church. They asked us our names and I practiced my newly forming Fijian on them. Minutes later our new best friends were ushering us into their home. We sat on a mat with their family and they fed us root plants and corn beef wrapped in leaves. They also offered us Kava which we drank for hours as we told each other about our family and our lives. They were interested to hear about the customs in Uganda, a country they had heard little of expect for the infamous Idi Amin. I also devulged my entire relationship history to the women while my mouth grew numb. David sat with the head of the house laughing about something.

--- When you drink kava there are rules about claping, saying "Bula! (life)", drinking it in one go, and returning the cup, saying "vinaka (thank you)", and clapping again. The kava is passed in a circle until it is finished.

There were tons of kids playing around and periodically they would muster the English to ask me a question and giggle as I tried to respond in Fijian. When the bowls of kava were finally finished, the children sang us some songs and we said our goodbyes. They pleaded for us to come back and visit again, and then they would cook us a real feast.

One of the men walked us to the bus stage and waited with us for about 45 minutes. He explained that him and his cousins, whom we had met, made their money from growing and selling “relaxing herbs”. He explained the intricacies of the business. He also taught us about Rugby, the most popular sport here, and boasted of his club team’s resent wins.

Tavua

On Saturday we decided to go to the other side of the island to check out Latoka, Ba, and Tavua. These places were hard-hit by the flooding in January and we heard that there is a lot of need on that side of the island. We started at 7:30 am and took a 4-hour bus ride to Nadi, we were then met by an Indo-Fijian man named Prakesh. Prakesh is a contact of our friend in Suva, Peter Lee, and agreed to drive us to the three sights we wanted to check out. We then spent the next 4 hours in a hot sticky car driving from location to location. We got out periodically to meet with potential partners and survey the area. Nothing jumped out until we got to Tavua. It is a beautiful town nestled between mountains and sea, with florescent green jungle outlining its edges. Tavua is small and surrounded by villages within walking distance. We met with an LDS bishop and his wife and explained the purpose of HELP. Then, David asked about different needs in the community. The bishop’s wife asked to speak and began detailing projects that fit so perfectly into what HELP is trying to do, that I got visibly giddy. Her and I spoke excitedly about possibilities to help in Tavua. We went on to discuss logistical matters with the larger group and as we stepped into the car, David and I were sold. I probably shouldn’t write that in my blog, especially since we they are a million different factors we have to look into and weigh before we make a final decision, but the reality of that moment was that I thought Tavua would be perfect.

Bula!

Bula! I will be spending this summer in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, Fiji. Again, I am a Country Director for HELP International and will be responsible for overseeing about 24 volunteers who will set up development projects here. Our vision is to empower communities to help themselves by giving them training and resources to improve their lives. As a Country Director I mentor our volunteers in development practice. They are all college students and young professionals who will match their skills with needs that are expressed by the community.
After my incredible experience in Uganda last year, I knew I wanted to do this again. HELP has an incredible impact on the ground because we listen to the partner organizations we work with and generate the ideas for our projects from the people we serve. Even more, our volunteers’ lives are changed forever. They gain insight that if found only by living among another culture and working together. They also gain the skills and experience necessary to continue to be social entrepreneurs for the rest of their lives.

This summer my co-director is David. Him and I arrived in Fiji April 23rd. We have until May 6th to choose a village to work in, rent a home, hire a cook, buy beds and other supplies, and begin making partnerships and discussing possible projects.

In the few days I have been here I have fallen in love with Fiji and its people. I have never imaged a culture that is so communal and giving.

We are staying in a backpackers’ hostel in Suva. It is managed by a German guy who came to Fiji over 8 years ago and decided to stay. There is also a UK non-profit group called Frontier that is living in the hostel. David and I went out dancing with them on Friday night. From my time in Scotland, I know the British can drink. But, ten 19 year old girls from London on holiday right after high school graduation at a bar is always an astounding sight!

When we first arrived, we had meetings with our key partners, discussing our goals and how we may work together. They also gave us recommendations of towns we might want to be based in. One such town is Nasouri. We will be introduced to provincial leaders from Nasouri on Monday, but we decided to visit Nasouri on Friday to get a feel for the place. We started walking through town and through neighborhoods to see the type of houses we might be able to rent.

As we were walking, we came upon a house that had a sign advertising Yoga lessons and free meditation sessions. Intrigued, we approached the door, but as we did the next door neighbors got our attention and motioned us towards them. After explaining our organization and the fact that we were checking out houses in the area, they offered to search for housing for us and give us a call when they found something. They also sent us to a shop in town to inquire about a large house that was inhabited by only one man.

We never found that shop, but instead ran into a man and Isaiah. Isaiah is a tattered-looking fella. He is missing some teeth and has a full beard in mourning for his recently deceased father. In spite of his disconcerting appearance he was warm and friendly to a fault. Hearing of our mission, he showed us the back of his shop for us to stay in for free. It was a concrete block that bowed down in the middle. The windows where simply square holes in the walls, the wooden door was almost falling off its hinges, the shower and toilet were shared by the other three adjoining flats, and there was no kitchen . It was a humble, to say the least, but I was absolutely touched at his willingness to let us stay for free. If this was not spectacular enough, he invited us back to his village to show us the home his family lives in. He told us that if we liked that one better he would move out that very day and his family would stay somewhere else.

We tried our best to manage his overwhelming kindness and explain our mandate to find a house large enough for 17 Americans. But his persistence and our curiosity to see a traditional village won out and we were welcomed into his home.

He taught us the customs of village life. Some of which we had read about in travel books, and some that we surprises to us and likely slightly unique to his village. Men and women must wear a sulu (skirt), no sunglasses, no hats, you must hold your bags in your hands, you must immediately sit when entering a home, you can’t stand an walk directly across a room, etc. We sat attentively on mats, asking questions about these customs and learning appropriate greetings. If you know me at all, you know that I was full of questions and anecdotes. I thought it was curious that he would direct his responses to David. After some time, I asked if there was anything I should say differently when entering a home or greeting people as a women.

He simply said, “You should not say anything.”
I responded, “Ok, I won’t say anything differently”
“No” he clarified, “As a woman you should say as little as possible”
“Oh! Well I have talked a lot today, I will have to learn to be more quiet”
“That would be good.”

Needless to say, I think I will be learning a lot in Fiji!

i fed a baboon

I am planning a trip to Gulu to hold business seminars with refugees who are relocating into villages. As Heidi and I were on our way to Kampala to meet with Hon. Betty, the MP for the Gulu district, our public taxi slowed as another taxi cross us head on and ran into the ditch. We saw the driver get out and run. All of the 20 people in our taxi looked worriedly at the passengers as they emerged from the taxi crash. One minute later our taxi approached a crowd of people. I stretched out the window and saw two little boys lying in the road surrounded by blood. They were dead. Heidi and I still have images of those boys in our minds.

Later that day in Kampala we ran into our friend Pascal who we met at the fruit market and who helps us find things when we are in Kampala. Let me tell you about Pascal. He is the flashiest dresser in Uganda. His clothes always have an image of money and some sort of metallic paint on the fabric. Somehow his shoes stay clean even on the dirt roads. He is an balla’. He talks to Heidi and I about his music career and how he is just about to make it big time. He is making a music video about racism and wants white girls in it. My dream of being a dancer in an African music video just might come true!

One night I was getting back late from a project and found everyone in the house acting rather odd. They told me to look at the bathroom. I walked in and found that the sink was gone. I turned to the girl’s room and found Hiedi laying face down on the bed with her butt exposed and Corbin leaned over her with a gloved hand bracing a syringe.

Choking back laughs they told me this story: Amber, Heidi, and Tori were looking at Amber’s arm which she had injured a few days earlier. They started laughing hysterically, to the point that all three girls had to pee. I think it should be said that I have never met a group of girls with such little bladder control in my life. They all ran to the bathroom. Amber took the toilet, Tori peed in the bathtub, and Heidi just peed her pants. All continued to laugh uncontrollably. Heidi backup and rested her hand on the sink which pulled out of the wall and crashed to the ground in pieces. Heidi landed right on top of it. The house burst into chaos as everyone scrabbled to stop the bathroom from flooded as burning hot water shot from the wall. In the confusion Heidi didn’t realize that he had cut her butt until she had bled quite a bit.

Amber says that Heidi’s face went sheet white and they escorted her to the bed. Tori and Corbin went to work as doctor and nurse.

By the time I got there, everything was cleaned up, but it was clear that Heidi would need stitches. She saw our Australian doctor the next day – who probably thinks we are absolutely ridiculous by now. The whole episode was hilarious and has spawned priceless jokes about Heidi’s crack.

Our second wave of volunteers arrived Thursday 12^th. They are great. We have 3 siblings that have come Linsi, Katie, and DJ; A really great girl named Kelsi, who is DJ’s girlfriend; And three additional girls, Stephanie Christiansen, Tori Griffith and Ashley Ward. I absolutely love the new volunteers. They came with so much drive and have started some really cool projects.

One week after the new volunteers arrived I left for Tanzania for a week. It was an amazing break. We stayed in a hostel for 3 nights which had hot showers, free internet, nice couches, a restaurant… it was really nice. We were on safari for four nights and we stayed in tents. One morning we woke up with a giraffe outside our tent and another morning there was a small group of zebra grazing not 15 feet away. Even though the luxury was great, it was really hard for me to leave Lugazi, the projects, and my volunteers for so long. I have become really attached to this place, and I was really happy to get back.

Tanzania is an incredible country. As you can see from the pictures below, it is much dryer than Uganda. It looks much more like your typical picture of Africa.

We went on a hike around Kilimanjaro which ended in a gorgeous waterfall. On the way back we had to walk down a steep muddy road that had been soaked from a heavy rain. The ground was sticky and almost every single one of us fell, covering ourselves in mud. The locals thought it was hilarious and were laughing hysterically at us.

We also went to a Masai village and met an indigenous tribe (see photos below).

And… of course we went on Safari and saw all the animals. A baboon ate out of my hand. We saw a loin kill a pumba. I bought a knife of a Masai boy that we ran into….it still has blood on it!!!!

pictures 2

Rwanda Rwanda

We left for Rwanda at five a.m. on Saturday morning. We drove to Kampala and caught the bus. I sat next to Trent, and we began talking, laughing, and telling each other random stories from childhood. Once we were a ways into our journey, the conductor got up and put a video in the cassette player. I was very impressed with the level of technology on the bus and I grew excited to watch a movie. Moments later I retracted my initial excitement. Blaring loudly throughout the bus was the most graphic, repetitive, and essentially ridiculous music I have ever heard. It was accompanied by cheap and equally as explicit music videos. Probably my favorite song was titled “If you do me, I will do you” and featured a line of women standing front to back doing pelvic thrusts in unison.

It was inevitable that during the 9 hour bus ride I would have to pee. I asked the conductor if we could stop at the next town. He shot me a side glance and yelled something to the driver in Luganda. Some time later, the bus pulled over in the middle of nowhere and people began climbing out. Trent started laughing and pointed out that it is here that the us has brought us to relieve ourselves. As I stepped out of the bus, I saw a line of men a few yards in front of me all peeing into different bushes. Heidi grabbed my hand and we began search for somewhere a bit more private. We passed Trent and David, and a series of big mama booties. Heidi was nervous and we couldn’t seem to find anywhere that was concealed. Amidst our searching, two Ugandan girls warned us that if we didn’t hurry the bus would leave us. Seconds later we heard the bus start up. We peed as fast as we could and had to jump onto the bus as it was rolling away.

A couple hours later the bus stopped again. This time, it was not for the convenience of the passengers, but because it had broken down. I got out of the bus and decided to sunbathe while crew worked on the engine. At one point, they took a handful of long stands of grass and used it to tie something together. There must have a good reason, because a short time later the bus was running and we were back on our way.

When we finally reached Rwanda we were met by Auntie Peggy’s friend, Richard. Richard is the Secretary General of the national committee of town councils and had taken the Lugazi Town Council on an educational tour. Richard became our guide for the weekend.

He took us to the hotel that the movie Hotel Rwanda was based on. During the Rwandan genocide the hotel held 1,000 people seeking refuge from the chaos that was occurring just beyond the parking lot. I had expected the hotel to be a popular tourist destination because of the movie, however when we arrived, it ran just like any other hotel. There were no public tours, pamphlets, or even a plaque to commemorate the terrifying and extraordinary scene that unfolded there.

Richard spoke to the management, and a few moments later the hotel technician came to talk with us. He had also been the technician in 1994. Because there had been so many people, and thus a huge strain on all the technology in the hotel, the manager sent an armored car to pick the technician and his family. They crossed three road blocks, an extremely dangerous feat at the time. Once at the hotel, the technician only came out of the lobby twice. He hid in the hotel with his wife and children. He even had a child born there. His wife was among a group of people who got on a truck that was supposed to transfer them to a safer location in a refugee camp. On the way there, the van was stopped by militia and the passengers were almost killed. After many tense moments and heavy negotiation, the van was sent back with all of its passengers. Of the 1,000 inhabitants of the hotel, none were killed. This is an absolutely miraculous anomaly of the genocide.

The next day, we were taken to a National museum, and then we drove from about two hours out to another memorial in Murambi. As I have written in my previous blog, the memorial in situated on a hill in the most beautiful village of rolling hills that the mind could image. The memorial site was once going to be a technical school, but right before it was completed Hutus began their extermination of the Tutsi. At Murambi, 50,000 Tutsis were murdered in one day in an act of genocide. The bodies were put in mass graves dug out my machines provided for by the French government. The graves were covered in sand a used as a volleyball court for French troops. Once the government was stabilized and the threat of genocide had ceased, the villagers uncovered the graves. They did want the bodies to remain in that degrading state, and they didn’t want the mass murder to be covered up and forgotten. So, the covered the bodies in lime powder and placed them in the unfinished classrooms.

We were taken to one of the classrooms, and to our horror, the bodies were still laying there on tables. There were rows of bodies after bodies, all laying in poses of horror. Many of them still had clothes on and many still had hair. I was overwhelmed with the trauma of facing so many dead people, and I had to step out of the room. I began to walk down the pathway of classrooms and realized that they were all filled with bodies. One room was designated to little babies. As I stood in that doorway, my eyes welling with tears, one of the staff members came up to me. He explained that many of the babies were not initially killed when the Hutu attack. They were simply thrown into the mass graves alive, and left to die slowly.

We walked out to one of the fields and Linda told us her story which I have shared with you. We also heard for another one of the four survivors: He had help put up the small resistance against the Hutu when the killing first began in Murambi. During the fighting he was shot in the head and buried under a pile of bodies in near one of the classrooms. Miraculously, he did not die, but woke up at night once the Hutu had left. He crawled out towards freedom, more scared than he said is possible to explain, agonizing for his dead loved ones that were scattered all around him. He headed for the Burundi boarder crawling at night and hiding during the day. After many days and in a state of severe malnutrition and dehydration, he reached the Burundi boarder and waited out the turmoil in a refugee camp. He returned to Murambi, and says he could never leave it.

The morning we were to leave Rwanda, the taxi driver was late and we were scrabbling at the bus park. Jackie got everyone on the bus and I stayed to pay the bus driver. As I was discussing the price with him, I heard Tori yell “Ashley, get on the bus!” I turned to see the bus pulling out of the parking lot. I threw money at the taxi driver and booked it to the bus. I jumped in as the bus was rolling down the street. I got the very last seat on the bus which was next to the largest Ugandan I have seen yet. His thighs were the size of my entire body. I couldn’t even sit normally in the chair, but had to sit sideways with my feet in the aisle. As I was contemplating how uncomfortable I was going to be during that 9-hour bus ride the man in the chair across from me leaned over and peed on my foot.

I sat there completely confused about what just happened. I grown man just peed on my foot. He peed on my foot! Right in the middle of the bus. I moaned in disgust and was so relieved when the bus stopped at the boarder and we off-boarded to go through immigration. At the boarder, we discovered that our visas were not for multiple entry and we needed to pay another $50 to reenter Uganda. Almost none of us had 50 US dollars on us. So, we began pooling out money in the random currencies that we had: Euro, Pounds, Dollars, Ugandan Shillings, Rwandan, and Francs. In the mass confusion I thought that I had got everyone a visa, and I bought one for myself. I turned to run to the bus so that I didn’t miss is again to find David and Corbin had not received visas.

I knew that I had to go to the nearby city of Kibale and get money out for the boys. A guy who I had seen talking to Jackie and Corbin, and whom I assumed was staff of the bus company rushed me into a hired car. I figured he would drive me to the bus which I would ride to Kibale. Once we had been driving a few minutes, I realized that he was not with the bus company and that he was just a private hire. I got a bit nervous, and checked my phone to discover that I was out of air time. Luckily it all worked out and I was able to get the boys across the boarder and we caught a public bus back to Kampala. However, the new bus we were on stopped at each small village to pick up new passengers, many of which would stand or sit in the aisle.

pictures

surviving murambi

Of all the landscapes I have seen, in all the places I have been, there is none as beautiful as the rolling tropical hills of Rwanda. I sat in the taxi in utter amazement of the scenes that I was taking in: patchwork fields of banana trees, cassava, and tea; women dressed in bold African prints bent at the waist as they tended the fields; borders of florescent forest; perfectly mounded hills mounted with tightly woven straw huts; a bright blue sky holding a few stacks of puffy-white clouds. It is hard to fathom that anything sinister could happen in a place so renascent of paradise.

The small clump of prisoners working on the side of the road, offered the only foreboding indication. On an April day in 1994, this seemingly peaceful place was engulfed in fear. The primarily Tutusi village had heard stories of terrible atrocities that had been carried out against their people by the Hutus. They heard whisperings of a war in the North, and of mass murder around the country. The people huddled into churches and schools for protection. The government (ran by Hutus) encouraged the people to gather at the large technical college that was currently under construction. They told the villagers that they would be better able to protect them if they were in one central location.

50,000 villagers anxiously assembled at the unfinished building. Hutu soldiers denied them food and water. The villagers were asked to count themselves and remain organized, under the pretense that this would make their protection easier. The sinister plot was to weaken the villagers while the sufficient amount of Hutu could be mobilized by local Hutu leaders and supplied weapons by French troops.

When we arrived at the technical school – turned memorial sight, we were greeted by a small handful of memorial sight workers. We were the only visitors and warmly received. They led us up the hill where there used to be a mass grave. Standing on that ground, we could look out and see the entire village stretching before us on a series of rolling mounts. Linda began to tell her story:

‘One night, they finally came. The army of Hutus descended upon us. All able-bodied men, boys, and young girls went out to fight. My husband kissed our young son, our baby, and me good-bye. I stayed in one of the classrooms pacing the floor with my baby and praying that my husband would return to me. From inside I could hear the screams of my Tutsi friends and neighbors. Four or five hours later, my husband came back to the classroom. He was exhausted and his spirit was broken.

He told me that he felt as though we all would be killed. “We are trying to keep them back, but whatever little we try to do, it will not work” he said, “Some of them have grenades and guns, others have machetes and knifes. We can only through bricks and rocks.” He told me to hold onto my identification card, so that the soldiers might take pity on me.

I am a Hutu. My husband is a Tutsi. Some of my family encouraged me to go stay with them once all this mess had begun, but I needed to stay with my husband. I could not leave him, and I could not leave my Tutsi children. My husband kept the hope that perhaps my Hutu identity could save me from the death around us. I had little faith in this hope, because a Hutu woman who married a Tutsi was seen as a traitor.

My husband left a second time to fight. Again, I was left with in the classroom comforting my tiny baby. The old women and the young children, even my son, fell asleep. At dawn, turmoil outside grew louder, and there was a sudden crack of brink against concrete. The Hutus had reached the classroom, and began throwing bricks at those who were sleeping. I shielded my children and watched in horror as skulls were crushed by incoming bricks.

My husband was able to reach me just as the Hutu began flooding into the classroom. They were executing people on my every side. My husband stepped between me and a Hutu soldier and held out my identification card. “Please” he strained, “You do not kill her. We are Tutsi, but she is a Hutu. You cannot kill your Hutu sister.” The soldiers yelled back a forth, a few in the room told the soldier just to kill me. My husband tried again, “You can kill me. You can kill us all. But, not this one. You let her live.” I stood paralyzed with fear. I could not comprehend what was happening, what the words my husband spoke could mean.

The soldier took my ID and let me leave the classroom. He told me he would let me live if I proved I were loyal to Hutu Power. He told me I must kill my Tutsi baby if I wanted to live. The terror of that moment was absolute. I all could do was pray. With all my energy from fear, with all my love for my baby, with all my hate for our enemies, with all my longing for my husband, I cried out to God. The Hutu soldier, scared by such an appeal to God, did not kill my baby or me. I was separated from the classroom and guarded by soldiers. I could do nothing but watch as the people I have lived with my whole life, were slaughtered. I do not wish to detail that evil. I could never explain what I saw. There was not humanity.

I was taken back to the Hutu camp, where I my baby and I were threatened throughout the night. One of the soldiers tried to cut my neck, but was stopped, by one of the soldiers who I had known before.

The following morning, that soldier took me to the classroom where I had been when the massacre began. I wanted to see if maybe my husband and son had survived. As we approached, I had to climb over dead bodies that had been heaped on the ground. I kept looking for moving bodies, hoping one would be that of my family. I entered the classroom and turned over a few of the bodies. In almost exactly the place I had left them, lay the broken and lifeless bodies of my son and my husband.

The shreds of purpose and hope that I had held onto to keep my baby and I alive slipped away. I had no reason to live. No hope. No emotion. I was just an empty thing waiting to be discarded. I asked the soldier to kill me. He look back at me with tired and pained eyes. “I have done enough killing,” he said, “I will not do it again.” After a moment paused, he continued, “what can I do for you?”

“Nothing” I replied. “The only place for me to go is back with my parents and family, but my ID was taken and I will be killed before I reach them.”

“I am going that way. I will use whatever influence I have to get you passed the roadblocks and check points.” He concluded.

I did reach my family as did my baby. That child is not is secondary school. As for me, I never truly left this place. As soon as the genocide was over I came back here.

There are no words in my language for such violence.‘

As Linda finished her story, I felt utterly overwhelmed. I have studied this genocide, read various accounts, seen documentaries, written about it extensively, but I had only felt an ambiguous sorrow. As I listened to Linda’s story, my heart was touched with an acute pain. Linda shared, at least to some small extent, the grief in her heart. What happened to her and her family is inconceivable. The inhumanity in it is only shadowed by the fact that there are millions of people in Rwanda with similar and even more horrific stories. Of the 50,000 at Murambi that day, only 4 survive. And even that number is nothing to the 1 million that were ruthlessly murdered during the Rwandan genocide.

cultural experience

Last Saturday, May 31^st, Amber, Natialie, Trent, and I went to Mukono to see our friend Lydia’s introduction ceremony. In Buganda culture, the women must present her boyfriend to her family before they get engaged. The man will bring cows, goats, furniture, food, ect as an offering to the family in exchange for their daughter. The girl’res family teases the man severely and makes him do many ritual proofs of affection for the woman. These rituals are different for every clan. In turn, the woman cooks for the man and his family. The most important dish that she cooks is matoke. All of the visitors scrutinize how efficiently she peels the matoke. It is a symbol of womanhood and maternal ability.

Trent and Amber have been working with Lydia on the accounting in the bakery she works in. We were told that the introduction would begin at 12. We figured that we would have just enough time to see a majority of the ceremony before we caught a taxi to meet the rest of our volunteers at the Uganda vs. Niger football game. Unfortunately, the whole thing was running on African time, and once we got to the venue of the introduction we learned that it would not be starting until four o’clock. Serendipitously, the taxi bringing the other group drove by us while we were wandering through town, and we were able to all travel to the game together.

We arrived at Mendel stadium and walked into an absolute circus. The entire crowd of people outside the game were buzzing with excitement. All of us bought shirts and a group of teenage boys ran up to us and painted our faces and bodies with. We only understood half of the cheers that they wrote on us. The other half were probably profane, but it is not like we were in danger of blending in anyway. The game really fun. Cranes won!

On Sunday, the mayor, Deo, took us to the village he grew up in. His villages was very isolated, but somehow more well off than any area in Uganda that I had seen so far. There was no electricity or water, but the people seemed well taken care of. In Lugazi almost all of the children run around naked, or in rags. In Deo’s village, the children were all dressed with shoes. Even more, all of the women were wearing elegant Gomezes (traditional Ugandan dress) of fancy and varying fabrics. We visited a Catholic church that Deo helped pay for. The youth group preformed for us. Typical of Deo, he put me on the spot and asked me to speak to the congregation. When I was finished, they asked me in front of everyone if my group would come back and help their community. Of course, I could not agree, so it was a pretty awkward moment.

Deo took us to a few different churches. At the last one, he was given two local chickens to take back to Lugazi. Heidi and Lauren do not like chickens. They told Deo not to bring the chickens in the car with us. I can not properly express the confusion on Deo face. First of all, I don’t think anyone has forbade him from doing something in a very long time. Let alone a young girl. More over, he couldn’t understand why someone would fear a chicken. He looked at them in utter amazement and then turned to me to explain. When I told him they were scared he burst out in a loud, robust laugh and stuffed the chickens in the back.

Later, we were brought to Deo’s father’s house and introduced to his family. When meeting elders and men, Buganda women kneel to show respect. Additionally, they sit on mats, instead of in chairs to show submission and admiration. I did both of these things and the family loved it. When it was time to go, they asked me to stay with them and told me they have many sons they would like to give me to. I told them I wasn’t very good at peeling matoke, so it might not work out. I am not going to lie, the house and the village were so utterly beautiful and peaceful, that it was hard to turn down the offer.

The drive home was incredibly long and uncomfortable. By the time we home, all I wanted to do was eat dinner and go to sleep. The town council members who had traveled with us, Auntie Peggy, Steven, and Zacha, decided they wanted to come inside and visit for a while. Peggy, noticing that I was not in a social mood, announced to everyone that I must be sick and she was sure I had malaria. As she made this diagnosis she pressed her hand on my chest, exactly where my left breast is. Feeling awkward, I backed up an inch. A few minutes later, she did the same thing to the other side. Trent saw the whole exchange and him and I exchanged amused glances. This was Buganda custom that we had not yet become aware of.

Deo and Auntie Peggy are two of the most eccentric people I have ever met. In the town of the Lugazi they are irrefutably the best dressed and the most popular. They walk through the streets larger than life, demanding respect and saying hello to anyone important enough to consider. Classic politicians. They don’t even seem like real people to me. I swear they were written and illustrated in a comic book before they gained human bodies.

Monday, Heidi and I went to Kampala so that we could met with Hamis. Hamis is the personal assistant to Honorable Fred, my contact in Parliament. Hamis is an invaluable resource. In spite of his political affiliation, he gives me what I feel is very unbiased insight to issues in Uganda. Every time we speak, I spend hours asking him questions. After talking business we all went to lunch and had a hilarious conversation about music, culture, and why black and white men like women with big butts. Heidi recited the lyrics of “Baby Got Back”. I about died of laughter.

Hamis introduced us to Honorable Betty, the Member of Parliament from Gulu. Gulu is a region in Northern Uganda that was particularly devastated by the Lord’s Resistance Army. The LRA is an insurgent group that has been fighting against the Ugandan government. Is it a semi-spiritual movement led by Joseph Kony. They run their army by kidnapping young children, torturing, and brainwashing them until they join the army and become child soldiers. They are then forced to abduct other children. The LRA absolutely decimated the Gulu region and sent hundreds of thousands of people to refugee camps. Some have lived in these camps for over ten years. Just recently, there has been a peace agreement and some of the refugees are resettling. The problem is, many of the children have been orphaned by violence, and no one is used to functioning in a market economy. Most haven’t had the opportunity for education. Betty is helping me take ten volunteers to Gulu to do a business seminar with some of the women there. It should be a powerful experience.

Tuesday, was Martyr’s Day. In the late 1800s, when the Kabaka (king) still ruled over the Buganda, he banned the practice of Christianity. When 25 refused to give up the practice of Christianity they were tortured and killed. Now, people make pilgrimages to Namengogo. We also made a pilgrimage there. Never in my life have I seen so many people. The cathedral was swarming with people, selling, praying, dancing, buying. An even more spectacular was the view from the bottom of the street where we had parked. From there, we saw the street stretch up the hill for about two miles absolutely packed with people. The whole day we only saw one other Muzungu.

It is now Friday, June 06, and I there is a torrential down-pour outside. It is as if someone is just continuously dumping buckets of water over us. You can’t even really distinguish rain drops. Water is seeping through the cracks in the walls and under the doors. It is pretty spectacular. We were going to build another stove today, but it looks like that will have to wait.

The small white bird that moves with cows

Yesterday, Thursday May 29^th, was super productive. We started out by meeting with the Persons with Disabilities group. The mothers were lead in a discussion of goal-setting, while we played with the children. I left a few moments early so that I could be on time to the first business training meeting. We are teaching a group of local businessmen basic business skills and concepts. Their businesses range from hardware, wholesale, carpentry, retail, ect. Jeff and I taught about analyzing you business and creating a business plan. This following week we will be visiting the individual businesses and advising the owners as they create their business plans and set goals.

Following that meeting, Jeff, Trent, Tori, and I went to the market. Trent and I bought fruit and came back to the house to make a smoothie. Our smoothie was amazing. We then went to a neighborhood called Nmango where we taught Janet’s women’s group how to build an Adobe Stove. Those women are awesome. Each of the women brought a bucket of clay to contribute. The type of social capital that exists here is really inspiring. 20 plus neighbors volunteered to help build a stove for the nearby school. All of them were actively engaged in the construction. The stove will not only help to provide the school children with lunch. Adobe stoves conserve firewood, which is in short supply here. In addition, they channel smoke away from the lungs of the women who cook the meals, and the small children who play nearby. Acute repertory infection is one of the main causes of preventable death for young children in the developing world. Our hope is that as we build stoves with community members they will learn to make them, and be able to replicate them all over Lugazi even after we leave.

We had a great time with the women’s group. We took off our shoes and stomped on the mud and clay to mix it. The women thought that I looked silly and they taught me the word for funny in Luganda. They laughed with me as I tried to speak to them in Luganda. They told me that they would build me a house so I could stay in Lugazi forever. They told me all I would have to do is learn to peal matoke (a really important skill for women here). They gave me a Buganda name, Nnaneojo. It means: small white bird that moves with cows.

Last week we made a disgusting discovery: As we were walking home one evening we noticed that all of the children had little white whistles. When we asked to see them they laughed at us and ran away. Lauren picked up one of the kids and realized that the small whistles were made from the tampon applicators that our volunteers had thrown away. That night in a team meeting, Heidi recounted the story, “We tried to convince the children to throw them away, but they just wouldn’t… that was when I realized there was not hope for Africa.”

Today, once I am finished posting this blog, I am going to lunch with a Peace Corp volunteer named Grant. He has been in Lugazi for one year. I ran into him a couple days ago and found out that he is working with micro-businesses. He actually introduced the idea of paper-bead necklaces to Faith and the PWD group which I am going to try to sell to you guys in the US. Increasingly, I have been interested in private-sector solutions to poverty. Before I came, I read two books by Muhammad Yunus who champions microfinance. Sadly, it seems that micro-loans in Uganda have been all but criminal – require large collateral, charging huge interest rates, and giving almost no grace period to pay loans back. I have heard no triumphs, only horror storied of mirco-finance here. I am anxious to talk to Grant about micro-loans and run over some ideas I had for the business training we are doing. It is going to be so helpful to the ideas of someone who has been here trying to do a similar thing.