oh Mulago.

Yeah, I went back.

It is just really difficult to say "No, I won't come help you take a dying man to a clinic to get an x-ray" when the hospital doesn't have x-ray films and haven't provided x-rays to a man who obviously has a broken skull and has been in the hospital for a week. This is also the patient who was found on the floor with one arm handcuffed to the bed the other night. No one helped him, none of the other 30 or 40 people in the ward, oh or the nurses.

So we went. And we took Charles to a clinic outside of the hospital to get x-rays of his head, arms, and chest. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong. We couldn't find a wheelchair (in the hospital). We had to convince the guard to un-handcuff him from the bed. We had to put the broken, near-death man in to a private hire (aka taxi). I held him up in the taxi. Mind you, he has plenty of open wounds that have not been attended to. He also continuously smells of urine. It was a lovely trip. ( I wore gloves and had all my vaccines and will also be getting all of the proper health screenings/tests when I get home.)

We arrived to the clinic and tried to convince them to give us a good price because we were doing charity work. They quickly realized that Charlies was a suspect in an attempted murder case and laughed at us. After some convincing and a lovely performance of  mine that included "Who are you to judge this man? Is that not God's role?" (Be impressed), they lowered the price.  A lovely nurse cleaned his wounds on his head and arms that they said were septic.

We then decided that Charles needed a catheter. Guess who was nominated to go buy a catheter? Guess which pharmacy did not have a bag for the end of the catheter? Guess who watched a nurse insert a catheter in to Charles?

Turns out Charles has a broken hand and three skull fractures.

The trip back to Mulago was accented with me leaving Alexander's phone in a taxi, then chasing after the taxi, then tracking down the taxi, and eventually retrieving the phone.

Jonathan and I then cleaned Robert. I was quite proud of myself as I cleaned his wound and handled the awful smell quite well.

The night ended seven hours later with Edith, a nurse who attends to destitute patients at Mulago day in and day out, taking me around to many female patients. It was heartwrenching because everyone needed something and due to my nice clothes and whiteness they assumed that I could help. Therefore, once I spoke to one patient every patient wanted to speak to me. I heard multiple stories of cervical and breast cancer. About the removal of a woman's uterus. And how the radiotherapy machine in the hospital did not work. All I could do was to promise to call Hospice-Africa on their behalf.

We left feeling helpless and productive at the same time, yet the feeling of utter frustration almost caused me to break down. It just cannot be that hard to keep people clean. That is all I am asking at this point. Keep patients clean and perhaps comfortable.

Robert

This is Robert who I talked about in my last post. I think his England hat is pretty fancy, but an American one would definitely be better!

Juxtapositions

Although I am attempting to not compare the United States to Uganda, I cannot help but to note the role I play here in Uganda and how I can never be and will never be a Ugandan, understand what it is to be Ugandan, or truly live in their country as they do. This is due to the color of my skin. The standards and expectations I have due to my culture. The amount of money in mine and my parents' bank accounts.

These facts and the role I play cause many interesting and contradicting juxtapositions in my everyday life.

Last night I went out to dinner with Alexander, his three guests, and our Ugandan friend, Lindsey. The restaurant we selected was an Indian restaurant and was full of non-blacks. I say this because every else I go in Kampala, besides the fancy restaurants in fancy hotels, I am the only non-black person. Seriously. The scene actually made me feel a tad uncomfortable. It felt too posh, which I am not and I did not come to Ugandan to become. Regardless of my discomfort, dinner was tasty and we had a very nice time.

After dinner, we went to Mulago Hospital, the national hospital that is ran by the Ugandan government. One of the other places in Kampala where I feel quite uncomfortable, but for totally different reasons. This seems like and actually is an odd after dinner rendezvous, but over the weekend Alexander and APP received a phone call regarding two patients who needed alot of help and Alexander's guests came to the rescue.

The first patient is Charles. He is an inmate and was somehow badly injured, as in many broken bones and scars all over his head. Up until yesterday he has been handcuffed to his bed in a large ward with many other patients. The other patients were less than thrilled that an inmate was being cared for and expressed that it was probably better we put him outside to die. Regardless of their protests, we cleaned him the best we could. See the hospital had no running water, soap, or rags for us to use, so he essentially received a cold water rub down with an old t-shirt we ripped in to pieces. Charles seemed to have a very bad fever, and also seemed delusional. I am worried that he has an infection that is causing the high fever. We brought him water and put blankets on his bed. It was all we could do.

Then there is Robert. Robert was in a car accident awhile back and had surgery on his pancreas. When the doctors were closing up at the end of surgery they just so happened to forget to take the gauze out of the wound. Sometime after the surgery, the area was infected or something and Robert now has a hole in his stomach near his belly button. I will leave it up to your imagination to imagine what comes out of this hole in his stomach. It was miserable. I could barely stand the smell and the sight of this man who was all skin and bones. Laying naked, letting two strangers clean him. He is slowly dying.

I am not a doctor, but I do know a few things. Patients, human beings, deserve medicine when they are sick. They deserve to be clean and to be helped to the bathroom when they need to go. They deserve somewhere to sleep where there aren't rats and it doesn't reek of urine and feces. They deserve running water. It just shouldn't be so complex, but it somehow is.

So I spent the first part of the night at the nicest restaurant I have been to in a month and the last part in the worst place I have ever been in my life.

 

Note lack of blankets and the patient's medical notes/file taped to the end of his bed.

 

Patients or patients' family members sleeping on the floor.

 

A bloody syringe and blood bag sitting on a shelf in a treatment room.

US vs. Uganda

It is difficult to not continuously compare life in Uganda to life at home in the United States. I compare the two for obvious reasons. Life in the United States is my default. It is what I know and what I am used to. And life in Uganda is unfamiliar and for the first 22 years of my life, unknown, distant and foreign. I try my best to not create a battle between the two completely different societies. It is not only better for my psyche, but better for my experience to not pick a favorite and to not allow my home to win every comparison.

On Friday, myself and a few of my colleagues at APP visited Kigo Women and Men's Prisons. APP is looking to start a reading group in the women's prison so that the women with babies in prison with them can learn to read to their children. The presence of small children in prison is a very foreign concept to me and definitely comes along with many benefits and many disadvantages. The benefits revolve around the basic principle that babies should not be separated from their mothers, yet children living in prison lack adequate nutrition, socialization, and stimulation.

The men's prison is right next door. They were expecting us, but our greeting was far from friendly or welcoming, which is odd in Uganda where welcoming someone is of the utmost importance. We were eventually escorted in to the deputy officer in charge's office. Our interview with him was fruitful, but the tour afterwards was even more informative and even encouraging. Kigo's mens prison is very overcrowded and lacks basic resources many take for granted, such as medicine, bedding, and books, yet they are somehow making the best of what little they do have.

They have converted a dark and meek corner room in to an arts and crafts room, where four inmates and a few staff members teach candle making, tailoring, papier mache, and weaving. Two inmates have founded a primary school and a secondary school where over 100 inmates are working on a daily basis to gain basic education skills for when they are reintegrated with society. The inmates freely grow vegetables in the yard and have been granted the privilege of accessing individual pots and pans to use the vegetables to supplement the maiz and beans they are served three times a day everyday.

At the end of the tour  the headmaster and founder of the primary school, who is also an inmate, came up to me and asked me about prisons in the United States. My default answer to this questions is "veeery different". He craved more information so I stopped and explained how American inmates are kept in cells, their socialization is limited, violence is rampant, and that they are viewed and treated as dangerous. I said that I thought both systems had advantages and disadvantages. He asked if American inmates had beds to sleep in because most Ugandan inmates sleep on blankets on cement. I answered yes.

He paused and in his quiet and kind English said "I'd rather be in prison in Uganda."

The "truth"

On Tuesday, we met with Mission After Custody. They are a non-profit that does great work with ex-inmates and inmates. They work to assist inmates with the reintegration process by providing counseling with the inmate and their community. They are currently building a halfway house, which will be a tremendous help to the ex-inmates. They lack funds, but they do not lack enthusiasm or compassion. This is the Mission After Custody family, plus me!

I am pretty sure they now want a Class 6er to join their efforts next summer. No pressure or anything. They are a worthy organization and definitely need the help. And on top of that, they were the most hospitable people I have met in Uganda and that is saying alot. I was fed alot of food and taken care of very well. We even stopped for food from local vendors after they prepared a meal of irish (potatoes) for me. (Which I ate with my hands!)

That is Ronald. He decided he loved me after I took his picture. He is the son of an inmate and was literally left at the front doors of Mission After Custody. They have been taking care of him ever since. Anyone want to adopt him? Because I do!

After lunch, a tour of the construction area, and alot of lively discussion, we were taken to visit a client of Mission After Custody. To be honest, I didn't get why this man was ever in prison or what his story was. It was very confusing and considering I usually only pick up 80% of what is said, I was very confused and just went with it.

Turns out, this man thinks he is a prophet. Seriously. I know that I am not particularly religious and that perhaps this could bias my perception. But this man thinks he is a PROPHET. He has a staff and bishop outfit. His house was FULL of pictures of Jesus and Mary. It was intense. At one point, he turned to me, stared me in the eyes, and said...

"Sister. Do you believe in the truth is?"

I was scared and confused. I mean first of all, I've never been called sister by anyone besides my actual sister. Secondly, I didn't know what he was talking about and didn't know if I should just go along with the "prophet" or not. So I did what anyone would do, I spinned it and asked him what the truth was. He then stared some more as if I was an idiot or as though he was communicating to God that I need to be directed to hell the moment I die. He never really explained "the truth" to me. I guess I will never know...

I lost flat stanley.

I cannot find him. Well I put a skirt on him so I guess he was a her but now he/she is lost so it doesn't matter.

And the ink ran out on the printer today. Obviously. Maybe I can draw one? I need Becca Swearingen!

I feel as though I am letting First Lady Beebe down.

Hakuna MATATU

Matatus are officially ridiculous. Even though the Lion King takes place in Africa and matatus exist in Africa, they have nothing else in common. (Except for the occasional animal found on a matatu) Trust me, these  awful, smelly, crowded 14 passenger pushes have nothing on Pumba and Timon's song.

On Monday, Godfrey (my research assistant/Uganda navigator/translator/lifesaver) and I traveled to Nakasongola prison. This particular prison is located in Central Uganda, 115 kilometers outside of Kampala. Say the roads were paved and we were driving my Ford Focus, we could reach Nakasongola in an hour. But due to the fact that the roads are not paved and the matatus stop every 10 minutes to either let a passenger off or pick one up, the journey all and all took about 4 hours, each way.

One note on Central Uganda, its terrible. Even the people there said so. It was hot. With no breeze. And no water. (And they said it wouldn't rain again until the end of July...)

The visit at the prison went great. The welfare officer and deputy commissioner were very hospitable and quite friendly. They seem more than willing to partner with NGOs and are eager for assistance. They have even conducted their own needs assessment! It was quite encouraging to see prison officials take interest in the welfare of the inmates and to take the time to listen to the inmates concerns and then document them in way to gain partnerships with NGOs.


The best part of the visit was when they brought in twelve inmates for us to speak with. We were all crammed in to a small room and they didn't understand my "accent". So Godfrey did the talking. They were more than willing to share their thought on the conditions at the prison and the challenges they face. They spoke of their desire for more educational materials to allow for more inmates to teach one another. They told us of the injustices they have faced in the courtroom and with the police. All in all, the conditions of the prison were not the worst I have seen, but their complete lack of water and electricity is a huge problem.

The most shocking thing is still the way prisoners are treated by prison officials. They laugh with one another. And trust one another. Handcuffs seem to be barely used. Godfrey and I were left alone in a room with twelve inmates. (I couldn't have felt more like a minority. Me, the white American woman, with twelve black Ugandan inmates, and my black Ugandan research assistant.)

It was then time to endure another matatu ride to return home. We actually got back on the same matatu we rode there in. Yet this time they crammed the 14 passenger van with about 18 people plus a few babies and some chickens! Yes, chickens! And they were under my seat! Tied up and sqwuakking, I was mortified and very concerned for the safety of my ankles! I tried to conceal my fear, but when they had a slight outburst my instinct was to squeal, immediately and permanently remove my feet from the floor and place them safely on the seat. The Ugandans thought it was quite entertaining and I can say as a matter of fact that I definitely furthered any stereotypes they had of Americans.

Besides the chickens, the overcrowdedness barely effected me because the Ugandans decided it wouldn't be right to crowd/squash the muzungu. So every other row in the van had four individuals squeezed in, while my row only had three people. I cannot decide what to call this. Backwards racism? Positive discrimination? Part of me hated it, but more of me loved having room for my entire bum on the seat.

I think I was called a muzungu 445 times today. Everyone thinks I am inherently rich due to my lack of skin pigment. They are a tad confused. Because I actually do not want to or have the means to buy everything at every market. I do not want fried grasshoppers. Or the milk in a re-used oil cannister. Or the day old crumbly dry taste like cardboard cakes. Or a pair of men's socks. Just saying.