Colors of the Market ...

I went to the Nakasero market. I bought mangoes, passion fruit, and fresh spinach (which I washed in boiling water and then boiled a second time ... and a third ... and a fourth...). Here are some photos:

Challah in Kampala

Yonatan baked challah for Shabbat. An outstanding success! (even with questionable Ugandan yeast which, we discovered, is perfectly fine). We ate it warm with hummus and tabouli from the local Lebanese "sit-down or take-away" shop that lives in the food court of the Garden City mall (yes, there is a mall in Kampala). Of course, we shared the goodness with our fellow AJWS volunteers ... and now we're really popular.


Here we are, looking smiley and sharp. We are the proud creators of "Kabbalat Shabbat in Uganda: Abridged Greatest Hits (when we feel like singing them) in American and Israeli accents." Lecha Dodi and Adon Olam get a multi-melodied reprise.

Fuzzy Orphaned Chimps!

These beauties were rescued from Congo where they would have been poached. Now they live on an island off of Lake Victoria. I watched them eat their lunch, climb trees, cackle heartily at a joke I just didn't get, cuddle each other tenderly, and hold hands. One Chimp strolled into the forest with a two-legged, upright posture! My camera battery died just as we were getting acquainted, but Rozi and Mitch took other photos (and videos!) which they promise to send me soon. My apologies for the fuzziness of these images. I'm not so skilled at freezing my hands ...






This is a sign I stumbled upon in Kampala. Curious, indeed ...

3 Food Haikus ...

Posho is straight starch;
Bright white paste that has no taste
Yet people love it.

Where is the roughage?!
Runny coleslaw does not count.
Mustard greens? Bring ‘em.

Plump is beautiful
Pile your plate oh-so-high
Finish every bite.

The Health Workforce Crisis at a Glance

In my first two days of work, I got an on-the-ground glance of the health and human rights struggle in Uganda. Yesterday, I joined a group of health workers to present the “Health Professional Pledge and Call for Action” to members of Parliament. The pledge was signed by over 600 health professionals concerned about the state of the health sector and demanding help from key policy makers to improve Ugandan health services. On Tuesday, I attended a meeting with Parliament members and health NGO leaders to review the progress of the UN’s SRRH (Special Rapporteur on the Right to Health) in addressing health and human rights issues over the past five years.

A bit of background: Uganda currently has approximately 0.8 health professionals per 1,000 people; almost three times lower than the WHO minimum recommended number of health workers per population. Approximately 2,500 physicians work in Uganda – the equivalent of just one physician per 11,000 people if physicians were evenly spread throughout the country. Geographical imbalances and migration to urban areas leads to a severe lack of health workers of all cadres in rural areas, as health workers are hesitant to commit to posts with limited equipment/supplies and poor living conditions. Reports from the ground indicate that many lower health centers are staffed by unqualified health workers, as a result of qualified health workers being unavailable to fill posts.

Working conditions are also poor across health facilities. In a national survey of over 600 health workers across nine different districts carried out by the Ministry of Health in 2006, access to equipment, supplies, medicines, water, and electricity were all found to be severely compromised. And, only 36% of health workers interviewed felt that their workload was manageable.

Ultimately, it all comes down to funding. While there was recently an additional 98 billion shillings pumped into this year’s health budget, none of these funds were allocated to increasing the numbers of health workers in Uganda, improving their working conditions, or increasing pay or incentives. The health workers with whom I met hope that Parliament will consider making crucial changes to the health sector budget for 2008/2009 before it is finalized. If nothing changes, they plan to strike. Who is going to deliver the additional 60 billion shillings worth of ARV drugs allocated in this year’s budget if there are no health workers?

My Mosquito Net

Remember the Fruma Sarah scene in Fiddler on the Roof? You know, Tevye’s bad dream? Just as I was about to fall asleep last night, it twistedly occurred to me that my mosquito net bears a striking resemblance to Fruma Sarah as she rises from her grave and tears through Anatevka in her gossamer white gown. My mosquito net hangs from a safety pin from the ceiling that is positioned precisely over the center of my bed … which leaves me amused – albeit terrifiedly – at the thought of falling asleep under Fruma Sarah’s gown in the pursuit of guarding myself against malaria.

Thank you, Fruma Sarah.

My Home

I live in a quiet part of town, near a golf green, a junior boarding school for girls, the Uganda Law Society, and a large wall of tumbling ivy. The roadside is laced with fuschia and tangerine flowers. The neighbors toss used street brooms -- hand-held tufts of rigid straw -- out on their lawn and light them on fire in small, make-shift pits. In Kampala, there is always something burning. As I wrote in my scrappy, free-associating first post, the air always seems to smell like sage with a whiff of garbage and caramelized sugar.

My temporary new home (as of yesterday) is in a gated plot of land, protected by a guard who carries a gun. He has a long, bony frame, high cheek bones, a gummy, gap-toothed smile. I squeeze through a little metal green door to arrive at my flat which has an eerily cavernous, but oddly comforting quality. There are white stucco walls and creaky wooden cabinets. One room breathes into the next through lop-sided open arch-ways. The lights flicker violently and power-outages occur several times a week (not just in my home, but in the entire country). The kitchenette is well-equipped except for dish soap, so last night I washed my dishes with shampoo. Small bugs drunkenly weave in and out of the grooves of the tiled floor. There's a lizard that hangs out on the wall.

I wake up to the sounds of sweeping, peeling, roosters, and frogs. There is an outdoor patio where my flatmate, Yonatan, and I sat this morning to drink tea and eat a small container of plain yogurt with Ugandan honey before heading off to work (which begins at 8am). We have an excellent view of our neighbor’s clothesline. It wears purples, yellows, reds, and greens.

A picture will come soon when the internet is so kind as to allow for a successful upload ...

My Muzungu, Myself

I am a muzungu, a white person. In Uganda, this makes me startlingly conspicuous, and alluringly fascinating. It’s nearly impossible to be out in public without hearing the hum-like shrill of “muzungu, mpasente,” -- “white girl, give me money.” It follows me around like the sun and the chickens, and the powdery clay that tints my toes a fuzzy, red-brown-pink—mimicking the color of the roof-tops—and doesn’t wash off in the shower. Sometimes “muzungu, mpasente” is followed by “marry me, muzungu” or “I love you, muzungu.” It doesn’t feel threatening; it’s delivered with amusement, sometimes a mournful longing, but mostly out of relentless curiosity and admiration for whiteness—which is equated with wealth. So I smile and say: “Hello, how are you?” “Fine, thank you, how are you?” – the expected Ugandan greetings dressed up in a deep, penetrating gaze, sometimes child-like, and a lingering handshake that feels flirtatious, but (mostly) isn’t. I’m trying to mirror those around me … except, of course, when I don’t:

At the Zoo in Entebbe (to which I received a free pass after spending Shabbat on an island with orphaned chimpanzees), I accidentally forgot the “no eating and walking at the same time” rule. I’d just bought some red dye #7, orange dye #3 “ice-cream” from a man wheeling a wooden box down the street. It was served to me in a small paper dixie cup. I probably should have just sat down on the curb and eaten it, but for reasons that I’ll explain in a later post about my curb-side sightings, I chose not to. I proceeded to stroll into the Zoo while spooning the ice-cream. While in transit, I dripped some on my hand. Then I licked it. In a matter of moments, my conspicuous “muzungu-ism” had become prime entertainment for the group of Muslim school children on their way to see the caged white-face monkeys and the warthogs. The boys erupted in laughter. The girls whispered and pointed and muttered something in Luganda so I couldn’t understand, but it probably wasn’t flattering.

So I smiled and said: “Hello, how are you?”

“Muzungu, mpasente.”

hello, and how are your chickens?

Greetings from Uganda, friends! So, here I am in an internet cafe with the most reliable internet connection I've had in a week (I'm preparing myself for the reality of s l o w ) ... and irritatingly, I seem to not have the several days of scribbled notes I took for my first blog post ... so, like bumbling through the buzz of life here, I'll just start rambling in the raw ...

It was a bit of an adventure getting here -- a missed flight connection, lost baggage, getting re-routed through London, witnessing an injustice involving the delivery of supplies to Kenyan orphans, reporting my lost luggage in Entebbe and having my passport disappear into a back room for a solid 20 minutes, but then safely return -- but here I am ... curious, wondering, present, connected. I'm on sensory overload, trying to absorb everything, and feeling content to be whirring through newness.

The air smells like burnt sage and b.o.; sometimes it smells like sugar in the raw.
the land is green and lush, smeared with soft, red clay dust;
I sleep under a mosquito net and bull-frogs chirp me into my malaria pill-induced dreams;
the birds are enormous;
people are friendly and value time, smiling, eye contact, and lots of affection; they also zip around on motorcycles (bodah-bodahs) and laugh loudly.
people drive on the left side of the road, there are no traffic lights ...
the colors are deliciously rich.
the environment feels astoundingly safe.
the sky is clear and starry.

I'm enjoying the buzz, the gazes, learning about the history, the cultural nuances ... listening to the way people speak; the formality of introductions "hello, how are you, how are your chickens?" uttered to random people on the street ... I don't have any chickens, so I'm spared this question; but everyone asks "how are you?" and it's genuine.

I've been told not to ever use my left hand to present a gift, and never eat or drink while walking or while in transit. It's very, very rude.

I've also landed myself in a quirky community of insta-friends (instant friends, like instant coffee -- just add water, and there they are!) from all different parts of the world. My new insta-buddy, Roz, is a Philly-native and a soon-to-be, doctor-in-progress ... she is in Kampala now before returning to Kenya where she will be for a few months ...

I've ridden in matatus (shared taxis, like sheiruts, only busier and stuffier). I drank equator tea. I ate matooke (mashed banana paste) ... it's tasty, but apparently, I do not have a big enough appetite for Ugandan culture. I should be eating a lot more. Please share your appetites with me?

I might go to the Nile tomorrow ... I also might go to chimp island ...

On Monday, I begin volunteering at my NGO where I will have regular internet access and can hopefully post more often ...

My time is cutting short, so here goes my first post ...

Pictures will come soon. I promise. Really.