Scenes from the Journey

Outing to the Nursery

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Mon, 21 Apr 2014 19:35:00 +0000

We went to visit NuLeaf nursery today. This is the nursery Brett has been working with for the past 6 months or so. The highlights:

The place has a homey aesthetic. Like Mukwonago.

The fertilizer hut - buy a tray of seedlings, get a free bag of fertilizer.

Brett showing his mom and dad how the plants are grown.

The squatter community right up against the back fence.

The coal-fired boiler that keeps the plants alive on cold winter nights by pumping hot water underneath the seedling hot houses.

One of the seedling hot houses.

Long view of one of the seedling hot houses. This represents "winter" plant production - "summer" production, which starts in September, is much more intensive.

Plants are sold in these styrofoam trays.

Ladies "pricking" - transferring germinated sprouts into seedling trays. This work is always done by women as they have a bit more patience with the minute detail work. The trays are moved from here into a hot house for growth.

The sales floor - the public usually picks out trays of plants from an enclosure like this. A lot of the sales are bulk sales and there is a thriving delivery business.

Pretty "winter" plants - pansies and violas.

Finishing the tour.

Broad view of the nursery office.

A few factoids: All the water is from onsite wells. Water pipes run underground all over the place; they're able to go for 2 days without power due to backup systems (like onsite water). The nursery is about 5 acres. The squatter camp (i.e. "informal settlement") is much bigger. About 35 employees ... some of whom live onsite.

Brief Reflections on Johannesburg Visit

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 09:37:00 +0000

This is the street behind the hotel, which was fairly typical of the neighborhoods we visited while in Johannesburg.

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe an embattled middle and upper class living behind their walls and guard towers with gangs of thugs roaming the streets by night and day. Certainly not this. All in all I felt more like we were in Palo Alto or Menlo Park than the South Africa of the media and reputation the country has internationally.

By the comparison with those cities I guess I mean to imply that this is full-on first world in a lot of ways. Then it has its third world aspects as well, but just more skewed on the developed side than most developing countries I've been to. In that way it feels a lot like Brazil did, with solid infrastructure, world class industry, education, culture, etc. It's an exciting place to be.

Me with statue of Nelson Mandela.

At lunch. That's Brett's nephew Colin next to me. Didn't realize until I saw this picture how much he looks like Sheldon from Big Bang Theory.

Ready to Roll

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sun, 26 May 2013 19:22:00 +0000

Testing my email-to-blog capability.

I can feel coffee again

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Fri, 03 May 2013 03:52:00 +0000

Found this draft of a blog post sitting in my blogger account. I must have written it just over a year ago. I remember the feeling of those days so vividly when I read this...

For a long time I haven't been able to feel coffee. Today I got a buzz from drinking a cup. Up to now, while dad has been sick and dying, I could drink all day and never feel anything. Numb.

We buried my dad on a brilliant, warm March day unlike any I have ever seen in the Midwest. He came home from the hospital 2 1/2 weeks earlier on the last days of winter here, snow swirling down all day. Peace and beauty of winter. Not unlike what must have been the weather when he was born in February of '27. Snow globe world. By the day of his death we had brilliant, blazing Spring. Rebirth metaphors abound.

A strange odd creature am I

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:29:00 +0000

Are we all as full of contradictions as I find myself to be? On the road, I march confidently into the heart of Africa or tackle confusing new world cities, learning as I go through. At home, I become worried when it appears I am about to run out of milk. Go figure.

That's Me

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 21:21:00 +0000

One of the things I like to do in an airport is people watch. Ponder other people's stories ... and, as I recently realized, wonder how it would be like to be like them. The character I always felt most attracted to was a traveller, most often a business traveler, with their act totally together. Tidy, compact luggage, usually black; tidy, effective mode of dress, usually in black. Buttoned down. I think I have been trying to be this person for two years as I've traveled heavily for business.

But somehow, no matter how I try, I could never quite get this image down. I've got loose ends. A red suitcase. Endess, quirky twitches, and always too much stuff. Sleek efficiency if it happens is an accident. More often I'm the business travel equivalent of the bag lady who is always sorting through her stuff to find precisely the piece she needs in every moment.

Alright, so perhaps it's time to embrace my inner loose ends. Be myself instead of those people I'm looking at whose images I admire. Not that there isn't a point in striving for more efficiency, but I've got to face it that my life story would be acted by a comedian like Sandra Bullock rather than a sleek Meryl Streep or Michelle Pfiefer.

If I'd ever learn to take myself a little less seriously I'd probably also see that my life would make a pretty fun, quirky comedy -- certainly more fun than a maudlin drama. All depends on what glasses one wears.

So rather than looking for people who look like I think I *ought* to be like when in an airport, maybe I could start looking for - and being - the kind of person I am, and enjoy being that!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

A Chicken of My Own

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 18:56:00 +0000

I have a whole chicken in my refrigerator. Cooked. Waiting for me to eat or not if I want to. This is a new thing for me. Not the chicken per se, but what I think about it. I look at the chicken in its plastic carrier tray from the deli, and my mind goes to thoughts that in Uganda this is a princely dish. It recalls the discussion with Miriam, Cure's spiritual director, about the precious gift of a chicken as a meal, and how it's reserved for very special occasions, maybe once a year, if that. And now here I am with a chicken of my very own in my own refrigerator. It feels awesome, funny, humbling, and inspiring at the same time.

Awesome because this is an amazing thing to be able to buy my own food, and take care of me, myself as a single woman.

Funny, because well, it is a deli-bought roasted chicken, a common enough thing ... in the US. It's funny to look at it in a whole new way and think "I've got a chicken of my own!"

Humbling because I am reminded of how rare a treasure this is for many.

Inspiring because I feel as if I've got these resources for a purpose, some purpose -- I know not what exactly, just say it means do not squander these resources or take them for granted. The resources go beyond a chicken ... to the home, friends and family, work, the country I live in, the education ...

Weighty thoughts for a Thursday afternoon. For now I'll go back to work, sell some more software, help a nonprofit or two get a vision of their next step. And hope that one day we will all have chickens in our refrigerators.

When Did This Shift Happen?

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 02:54:00 +0000

It's a strange turn in life when we begin to worry about our parents. Mom and dad went on a trip today to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I realized that I was preoccupied all afternoon wondering how the trip was going. I know, bad news travels faster than good, but still we wonder. How did they do at the airport, in the airplane, everything that could possibly go wrong. Finally at 6 o'clock I called mom and they had made it just fine, they were staying at a nice resort at an Indian casino, dad was napping and mom was winning her requisite few dollars from the natives ... and all was well. Took the air out of the drama.

And made me think. How do people parent? How many years did my folks worry about ... and let me and my sisters take our journeys through the world all the while waiting, watching, caring, and not stopping. Never stopping us. Sometimes questioning or advising, but never stopping.

Oh the power of that support. The unappreciated complexity of the release mechanism. In the kid's eye, it's like the monologue by Sidney Poitier in "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbv41abhC3c) ... "I owe you nothing" ... and that's the impetus that gets us to go out into the world to make our own way. And somewhere along the line we learn what Sidney Poitier's character probably did in about 20 or 30 years ... that it's much more subtle and multi-textured than that. We owe our parents everything, and nothing, all at the same time. Everything to you. Enjoy the Indian country!

The Bear Clan

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 12:15:00 +0000

A discussion of clan and tribal relationships in Uganda with Miriam (spiritual director at CURE) lead her to ask me if I had a tribe or clan. Yes, I replied, though the association was not as powerful an influence in my life as her husband's clan affiliation was in hers. My father belongs to the Bear Clan. That vein of conversation did not go much farther because she was not familiar with the Bear Clan and frankly, neither was I.

What launched the whole discussion was a newspaper article about the death at age 90 of Godfrey Binaisa, the last living former president of Uganda. By all accounts he was not the nicest of men and not terribly popular as a president. His tenure lasted about 9 months before he was ousted for trying to mess with the military power structure, among other things.

Two things I found significant about the article in the paper about Binaisa. One, that he was basically a thug ... an effective if not ethical political and legal operative (IMHO). He made and lost several fortunes, when necessary for personal gain turning on the people who helped him along the way. Reference my earlier post about poor societal role models. He may have stood up to the British and helped in the fight for independence from colonial rule, but the man was no Gandhi.

Two, that he was a member of a large and powerful tribe, the Buganda. This led to a full discussion with several Ugandans about the role of tribal culture in contemporary Uganda. Unlike the Bear Clan, which plays no role in my life except as a conversation piece, tribe and clan identity still play a large role in many people's lives in Uganda today.

There seems to be a vast network of tribal / clan affiliations that underlies the modern social and political structure in Uganda, such that one cannot be considered without the other.

When an individual is born, he or she belongs to a family. That family is likely part of a clan, which is also part of a tribe. The Buganda tribe, for instance, has perhaps 50 clans. The tribe may be part of a kingdom, in some cases with its own king. (As an aside, clan identity is often patrilineal, so when a man marries a woman from a different clan, she leaves her clan and becomes a part of her husband's clan. The clan identity of a woman may also influence her price as a bride ... members of some clans / tribes expect a man to pay many, many cows for one of their women.)

Aside from the clan, a family also belongs to a village. A village usually is comprised of members of multiple clans. That village or region may also be governed by an elected political official ... so there seems to be a complex web of identity, social and political responsibility for any individual living in Uganda.

Clans select leaders to head them. A village selects its elders / leaders. They may not necessarily be the same person. Elected political officials could well be different people from the clan leaders and village elders.

The role of the clan leader and the village elders seems to be pretty similar for the population they serve -- to look out for people in their group and, when they're in need, help them solve the problem directly or connect them with another person or group who can assist. You have a problem you cannot solve within your family, you go to the village elders or the clan leader. It's their role to help you solve it. It would seem that a political structure arising out of a society based on clans would also have to take a similar role ... so that political officials are also expected to solve problems for their people using political influence.

The Kingdoms are allowed to exist within the contemporary political structure of Uganda. So the Buganda, Banyoro, and Basoga, among other tribes have their own kings who operate in a largely ceremonial vein ... but have some degree of political power as far as influencing their people to vote for candidates who will shape the governmental structure of Uganda. Members of the more powerful and influential tribes use this identity to attempt to leverage political power and gain elected office.

Wow. With all this factionalism, it's amazing the country can run at all. So many competing interests for the national politicians ... and for the individual. At the personal level, Miriam said her husband has obligations to his clan and village. Though he doesn't live in the village, if there's an event, such as a death, he is expected to participate in mourning / observing the deceased and contribute financially as necessary. Another individual I met, a taxi driver in the city of Jinja, said that he was obliged to maintain a house in his village, 200 kilometers from the city he had worked in for the past 14 or so years. His relatives live in the house he owns in the village, while he is forced to rent accomodations in Jinja. Just the way it is. Interesting.

Appreciations

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 13:08:00 +0000

I tend to winge about Libertyville -- too white, too safe. I wonder if after this trip to Africa I will still feel the same way. After all, it *is* safe. I can walk my dogs at midnight if I need to.

Folks here, especially women, are cautious about going outside at night. More often you "lock yourself in" your residence unless you have a really good reason to go out AND have and escort. Even driving on the highway at night in unpopulated area is considered unsafe. Too many thugs and highwaymen on the road.

The lovely Kingfisher Resort

Last night at the very lovely and luxurious Kingfisher Safari Resort on the shore of Lake Victoria, Maureen recommended we lock ourselves into our cottages at night and stay inside until dawn. The resort is flanked by a poorer settlement on one side and what look like riverbank squatters on the other. We lead a life of precarious balance here in Uganda.

People can have the experience of being assaulted, burgled, and all that in Libertyville. However, the fact of having white skin does not make you a target as it does in Uganda.

Route for my dog walks through Libertyville - Butler Lake

Libertyville downtown scene - lunch out in the park

All I'm saying, really, is I may appreciate Libertyville in a whole new way for having had such a contrasting experience.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

On the Road Again

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 06:02:00 +0000

Looking forward to getting back. We started out this morning and I'll get back Wednesday afternoon. Now that I don't have to get down and dirty, it's much easier to see the beauty here. It mostly centers in the people, though the landscape is also beautiful ... When it's not totally obscured by smoke. It also might be easier to relax and enjoy because I'm not intently trying to calculate where danger could lurk in the unfamiliar environment.

Me with my favorite pastime, blogging on my Blackberry

Hitting the road by bus, yet again. It's an early morning and we've done a lot of travelling!

Instead, we're having fun on this Monday morning checking out the unusual things people put on the back of bicycles and motorcycles -- aside from a family of 4, which is common. On the back of bikes we've seen (excluding driver/person pedaling) a man in a suit with a goat on his lap, 100+ bricks, 3, even 4 jerricans of water (about 135 to 180 lbs of water), baskets containing chickens and turkeys, huge bags of charcoal, bags of cassava, huge piles of reed mats, a pile of reeds (looks like a moving haystack), etc. On the back of motorcycles, the most unusual thing I've seen today -- again, aside from a family of 4 motoring along -- a full sized wooden coffin strapped on crosswise. :-)

Lots happening on the roads of Uganda, all the time

A minor load for a Ugandan bicycle

School kids all wear bright, solid-colored uniforms that differ in shade by school. We just passed the purple school, my personal favorite. Schools in other towns have kids wear bright pink, yellow, orange, blue, etc. It makes for a colorful display as bunches of kids walk along the highway to school. It also helps make the kids more visible along the roadway and let's the driver distinguish schoolkids from other pedestrians he might hit.

Schoolkids in royal purple

Our driver, Yokolum, is a kind man and more careful than most motorists. He tends to give schoolkids a wider berth than adults. The kids' behavior along the roadside is more likely to be random as they goof off on the way to and from school.

Yokolum, our star driver

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Mob Rule

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 05:23:00 +0000

Short post on disturbing scene and its backstory ... more tales from the long road trip.

As twilight deepened, more and more pedestrians and bicycles seemed to throng the roadsides, especially near the market centers, official trading area where produce, fruits, and other 'market goods' are sold. Cars, trucks and buses don't slow down in these crowded areas, and frequently pass on the right or left as other vehicles slow down. Pedestrians and bicycles weave in and out of the vehicular traffic, sharing the road in a manner seemingly unconcerned as to whether or not they get home that night.

We passed one man who wouldn't make it home last evening. Our bus slowed for a man lying sprawled face down in the road, recently hit by a vehicle. His sandals and a few belongings were lying strewn a few feet around him. A few men were frantically trying to direct motor traffic around him. There was no sign of the vehicle that hit him.

Miriam told me that that vehicle would not, could not stop. If people on the street identified the driver of the offending vehicle, they would likely kill him. The motivation might be revenge, but also a sort of class hatred for those who have vehicles by those who have not. If the vehicle had passengers, they could also be in danger from the mob that could form.

She said the only option in cases like these is to keep on driving, find the police, and they would go back and investigate. Here's where it gets uglier. Per Miriam, the driver of the offending vehicle has so few practical rights in this case, that it is frequently the case that after hitting a pedestrian they will stop, back up and roll over the person again, to make sure the victim is dead and leave one less eyewitness. Yes.

It seems the legal system here favors a "guilty until proven innocent" approach that leaves few rights for the accused. Few seem to have faith that justice will be done and so people and groups take the law into their own hands, to brutal effect.

The scene of the most-likely-dead man in the road and the explanation by my Ugandan friend left an heavy knot in my stomach. Another of those African things my mind rebels against accepting, whether or not it's part of the facts of life in Uganda.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Thoughts from the Road

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 04:38:00 +0000

On the road from Mbarara to Mbale, from the west to the east side of the country. Our bus has been stopped twice in two hours by the Ugandan equivalent of the highway patrol. Per my travelling companions, they look to shake us down for money. They examine the driver's license and registration, check the bus exterior for "safety" violations, and just generally look for an excuse for getting a bribe ... I mean collecting a fine ... from a vehicle they do not recognize as being local. Think speed trap in a small town.

Fortunately, the front of the bus is packed with the African staff, so it isn't easy to see there are mzungus on the bus. If they noticed our white faces before the bus pulled away, they would try for a larger bribe ... I mean "fine". So far, so good, they haven't had an excuse to fine us.
Interesting that on the same road on the drive out here we weren't stopped once. I speculate it's the difference between it being a Monday when we drove out and today, a Friday. The highway patrol are thinking about money for the weekend.

We stopped at a roadside meat market, where meat is 50 cents less per kilo than in Mbale. Most of the staff happily bought meat to take home to the families they haven't seen since early Monday morning. They intend to preserve it for the rest of the 10 hour journey with salt and banana leaf wrappings. No air conditioning on the bus, but they are confident it will make it as they have done this before.

Meat is an interesting topic here. I learned yesterday that the village mothers and fathers who come to the rural clinic rarely eat meat of any kind. Their steady diet consists of the foods readily available in the Mbarara area, like "matoke" (like green plantain served steamed and mashed ... I'm told it is not plantain but a different, similar member of the banana family), beans, "posho" (corn meal cooked to somewhat the consistency of polenta but served like Southern grits). Meat might be a once a year affair. *Chicken* is even more seldomly eaten and is considered part of a royal welcome for special guests. (Wish we had known that when we first arrived at the hospital in Mbale and were fed rice and chicken. I would have expressed more appreciation for the special treat.) Even rice is rare and therefore special in this part of Uganda.

Mandi showing of her eating-with-hands technique in Mbarara

Meal fit for a king

Back to the diet at the rural clinics -- food is one of the great draws to the clinic, aside from the free diagnoses, treatment and follow on care for sick and recovering spina bifida and hydrocephalus babies. Miriam, director of the spiritual life center, told me that they make great efforts to feed the families well and to make the 3 day visit a wonderful experience for the mothers. Hence, they eat meat every day, get milk tea ("African tea" made with hot milk instead of hot water), have bread and margarine (both also luxuries rarely served at home) for breakfast, and plentiful quantities of good local foods like posho, matoke and beans. To my Western eyes each plate contains enough food to feed three to four people, but they're mostly nursing mothers after all. The meals probably weigh about 5 pounds -- very solid servings.

The mothers sleep all together in a hall with their children and the fathers and occasional older boy in separate quarters. Mats are laid down on the floors, and all sleep together. The nearest reference for back home would be sleep over night at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, when dozens of strangers co-habit the large tank rooms, all happily camped out on the floor in their family units.

Mothers sewing together at the camp

It is a bit like the African equivalent of a retreat for the parents from the villages.

Since these are road notes ... We just passed through a gauntlet of road construction mayhem. The highway between Kampala and Mbarara is under construction. The old highway is a rambling, deteriorated, sometimes-2-lanes, sometimes-1-lane, most of time somewhere-in-between blacktop road. Reconstruction seems to involve grading the shoulders of the old road first, then removing the pavement in long stretches. Next gravel is laid down, and more grading takes place.

Since the old road was not very wide, sometimes there is very little room to run 2 lanes next to the area construction crews are actively working on ripping up or laying down road. We just passed a place where they were doing the laying down of gravel and grading on one side, while the other gravel lane was supposed to be where two columns of buses, trucks, and cars were supposed to share the road.

Share is a relative concept in Uganda. When it comes to the road it's every driver for himself, pot holes, lane markers, directional signs, pedestrians, bicycles, and motorcycles be damned. So we came to a place where some drivers got impatient and started to drive over the low gravel ridge separating the "driving" lane from the one currently being graded. For a while it was a big festival of trucks, buses, construction equipment, and highway workers weaving down the part of the road newly prepared for paving. The construction workers mostly looked on shaking heads and scratching chins. No wonder it takes so long to build a road here.

More road notes -- one member of our group has been sick for a good part of the journey. Caring for her has meant stopping frequently ... even by the side of the road ... for emergencies. Behavior of Ugandans toward this behavior is as I have begun to recognize as typical. They stop and stare. A crowd begins to gather. In Uganda you don't do anything alone.

We have reached our destination, after 13 hours due to the frequent stops. Fortunately our sick teammate had as good a care as one could get thanks to a busload of nurses.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Thoughts from the Road

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 20:25:00 +0000

Fortunately, the front of the bus is packed with the African staff, so it isn't easy to see there are mzungus on the bus. If they noticed our white faces before the bus pulled away, they would try for a larger bribe ... I mean "fine". So far, so good, they haven't had an excuse to fine us.

Interesting that on the same road on the drive out here we weren't stopped once. I speculate it's the difference between it being a Monday when we drove out and today, a Friday. The highway patrol are thinking about money for the weekend.

We stopped at a roadside meat market, where meat is 50 cents less per kilo than in Mbale. Most of the staff happily bought meat to take home to the families they haven't seen since early Monday morning. They intend to preserve it for the rest of the 10 hour journey with salt and banana leaf wrappings. No air conditioning on the bus, but they are confident it will make it as they have done this before.

Meat is an interesting topic here. I learned yesterday that the village mothers and fathers who come to the rural clinic rarely eat meat of any kind. Their steady diet consists of the foods readily available in the Mbarara area, like "matoke" (like green plantain served steamed and mashed ... I'm told it is not plantain but a different, similar member of the banana family), beans, "posho" (corn meal cooked to somewhat the consistency of polenta but served like Southern grits). Meat might be a once a year affair. *Chicken* is even more seldomly eaten and is considered part of a royal welcome for special guests. (Wish we had known that when we first arrived at the hospital in Mbale and were fed rice and chicken. I would have expressed more appreciation for the special treat.) Even rice is rare and therefore special in this part of Uganda.

The mothers sleep all together in a hall with their children and the fathers and occasional older boy in separate quarters. Mats are laid down on the floors, and all sleep together. The nearest reference for back home would be sleep over night at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, when dozens of strangers co-habit the large tank rooms, all happily camped out on the floor in their family units.

It is a bit like the African equivalent of a retreat for the parents from the villages.

Since these are road notes ... We just passed through a gauntlet of road construction mayhem. The highway between Kampala and Mbarara is under construction. The old highway is a rambling, deteriorated, sometimes-2-lanes, sometimes-1-lane, most of time somewhere-in-between blacktop road. Reconstruction seems to involve grading the shoulders of the old road first, then removing the pavement in long stretches. Next gravel is laid down, and more grading takes place.

Since the old road was not very wide, sometimes there is very little room to run 2 lanes next to the area construction crews are actively working on ripping up or laying down road. We just passed a place where they were doing the laying down of gravel and grading on one side, while the other gravel lane was supposed to be where two columns of buses, trucks, and cars were supposed to share the road.

Share is a relative concept in Uganda. When it comes to the road it's every driver for himself, pot holes, lane markers, directional signs, pedestrians, bicycles, and motorcycles be damned. So we came to a place where some drivers got impatient and started to drive over the low gravel ridge separating the "driving" lane from the one currently being graded. For a while it was a big festival of trucks, buses, construction equipment, and highway workers weaving down the part of the road newly prepared for paving. The construction workers mostly looked on shaking heads and scratching chins. No wonder it takes so long to build a road here.

More road notes -- one member of our group has been sick with gastroenteritis for a good part of the journey. Caring for her has meant stopping frequently ... even by the side of the road ... for emergencies. Behavior of Ugandans toward this behavior is as I have begun to recognize as typical. They stop and stare. A crowd begins to gather. In Uganda you don't do anything alone.

We have reached our destination, after 13 hours due to the frequent stops. Fortunately our sick teammate had as good a care as one could get thanks to a busload of nurses.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Closing Up Shop

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 14:10:00 +0000

The rural clinic is closed. Last night and this morning the staff broke camp and helped mothers to depart for their homes. This apparently involves working out solutions for some who say they don't have the money to get home, referring mothers to various social service agencies for more help, etc. The social workers have been very busy.

The last part of the clinic involved a good bit of organizing. Mbarara has a local support group for parents of children with spina bifida and hydrocephalus. There is even a local physical rehabilitation clinic (run by an international Christian organization) for ongoing care.

The local leader of the parents group is a firecracker who went through what most of these parents have -- their baby given up on by the local medical establishment, being referred from one place to another before finally being referred to the CURE hospital in Mbali. She, like most, had never been beyond her home region and had no idea how to get to Mbali.

Thanks to the kindness of strangers, she got to Kampala and by public transportation, then found a bus to Mbali. She arrived at 10 pm, knowing no one and nothing in the city. Dropped off at the closed gates of the CURE hospital, she appealed to the night guard.

The guard not only let her in, but surgeons were called late at night to look at the baby, which had a large bubble of spinal fluid bulging on his back due to untreated spina bifida. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning.

Things worked out. Years later, her child is well and strong. Though crippled, he is bright and lively and the light of her life.

Finding such a caring community after pursuing so many dead ends seemed like a gift. Somewhere along the way, she found her power as the mother of a helpless child no one else seemed to care for. As I mentioned above, she became the leader of the very large, active parents' group in the Mbarara area.

This last part is from a "testimony" she gave on the final day of the clinic. The other testimony I heard was by the father of the older boy I had played with at the clinic. Turns out it wasn't his father, but his uncle. When both of his parents died, the young boy with hydrocephalus was abandoned. This man took in the very ill boy as his own and pursued care for him, even selling cows to get the money for transportation to Mbali. I admire the father even more knowing these additional facts. The picture the boy colored for me is my only souvenir so far.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Confusing Contradictions

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 14:09:00 +0000

I'm not the first person to visit Africa and write about the incredible contrasts and contradictions that make up everyday life here. That doesn't stop me from having to write my part.

After spending the week with mothers and their babies I am struck by the great contrast between the sublime and the offensive or distressing elements of life here in Uganda. On one hand you have the children, whose smiles could light up the night sky and infectious enthusiasm gets even me to play silly games with them on the floor.

On the other hand you have the conditions in which they seem to live, swaddled in rags smelling of urine and crawling with flies while they sleep on the floor. The spina bifida children often are paralyzed at least from the waist down. If they're lucky enough to have the use of their arms, they can get around by dragging themselves along the ground.

Some kids are quite mobile using this method. A little boy we christened "Scooter" kept escaping down the corridor at the hospital and we'd have to chase him down and carry him back (to start over again). If they're outside, such kids will drag themselves through the dirt and the dung to get where they're going. It's quite a mess, and a bit sad. They're gorgeous and living in filth.

The ones that do not have mobility in their arms have it worse. Often their mother will park them someplace, where they'll sit until moved. If nature calls, they'll sit in it. One little boy at the clinic kept being parked by his mother to sit, in the sun, in the shade, clean, dirty, until she decided to move him. He just sat. This group of children represents the lucky ones that are being cared for ... though his care was at the low end for this group. In the US it'd be borderline abuse.

It pained me to see his helplessness. He accepted his mother's treatment -- he had no choice. He would sometimes sit there and cry, his tears making tracks down the dust on his face. Not exagerrating. I won't get into the tracks in the dust and dirt on his legs.

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Preaching the Gospel of Self Help

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 20:12:00 +0000

They asked me to teach a Bible story today. Actually they asked me when we first arrived and I figured I could think about it. After all, I'm not for the parts of organized religion that teach people about what appears to be dogma and ritual for its own sake ... or that teach a hope in something beyond this life without making this one better in real, concrete ways.

Well, so this is the way my thinking went. One of the problems I have seen in Uganda, a core, underlying issue, is the inability to solve problems. Even seemingly simple ones, such as whether to give money to a n'er do well relative who asks today or save it to pay your kids' school fees that are due next week (otherwise your kids will need to drop out of school). These dilemmas may have a cultural context that I don't understand, such as a different way of prioritizing the value of community and the importance of the (large) extended family ... as I wrote about earlier. But then again, the poor problem solving skills may have a lot to do with the lack of education which perpetuates some of the low aspects of tribal culture and allows superstition to remain strong. There also seems to be a lack of societal and personal role models.

I have been exposed to several flavors of Christian thought here. I have met compassionate preachers whose ministry is to empower and raise up the low and powerless through gentle messages and encouragement. And I have met those whose words say love and yet the message is about hate and intolerance. So there are all kinds, just like in the United States.

Most of all I have seen the folks at CURE attempting to show Christianity in action by caring for babies so deformed and sick that their own parents sometimes reject them. The CURE team includes doctors, spiritual advisors and social workers to help heal the total environment within which a child lives.

The gospel story I was given to teach was that of Nicodemus, which is in John 3:1-17. (And if you think I knew that already, think again, I had to look it up.) It's about being born again. Now, there's one thing about me and it is that I do not understand poetry. Give me an abstract verse and I'll be up half the night trying to understand "what does it MEAN?" And, more likely than not, complaining "well if that's what it means, why don't they just SAY that?"

And so it was with Nicodemus. I spent days pondering what for me is an abstract passage; I also interviewed several of the pastoral staff and my team members to get their input to try to understand what the symbolism means. I figured if I didn't understand it, the mothers wouldn't either. And then, too, I wanted to deliver some positive message that could be applied in their lives rather than just asking them to believe something on faith. Let's strive for faith in *action*, doing something.

So it finally distilled down into being born again means you commit to try to be a better person, and join a COMMUNITY (key word for cultural context here) of other people, a new community where people are also trying to become better in themselves, and live more right. That's what Jesus offering us a new spiritual life means. The opportunity to be reborn means a new start today. If you have vices, like gossip or drunkenness or idleness (all huge here) you commit to start today to change these behaviors, to replace them with better ones. And you will have a community of people to help you on the path. So if you stumble, you can get back up again and try again.

So that is what forgiveness of sin means as well, the chance for a clean start, and to start today. Forgiveness of sin doesn't mean you get an okay to keep doing destructive behavior or sin. It means that you can start again. And again, and again ... Until you get it.

The way I figure it, the few paths for adults to change their lives here include education and religion. Whatever the vehicle for personal development or change, in Uganda it seems to need to be very rote, "here are the rules ... do this, don't do that". Nothing too abstract or complex, please.

People here need a rather prescribed method, and a compassionate religion offers a few. Yes there are the fire and brimstone preachers we have been treated to listen to expound on the evils of homosexuality ... But there are many who are decent and good as well. Chances are better folks will be able to lift themselves up, say no to alcohol (Uganda has the highest per capita rate of alcoholism IN THE WORLD), addictions, etc if they have both a program and a support group.

This is the way I arrived at the decision that preaching "salvation" may be a very practical idea, not just religion for religion's sake.

As a result, I told the mothers the story of Nicodemus in the context of making real changes in their lives in the community of Christian people they would join.

A microphone, an audience, an interpretor, and...

Um.

I finished and the pastor asked who among the assembly was "ready to take Jesus Christ as their lord and savior". Five women came to the front of the room. The pastor called me back up to the front of the room to lay hands on them and pray for them. I did.

I don't know if I said the right things, for I am not your traditional Christian. For one thing, I have been involved with both the Catholic church and the Protestant one. Never mind Buddhism and other spiritual paths. I tend to get my vocabulary mixed up.

I do know these women have taken tremendous steps in coming forward and seeking medical treatment for their children rather than rejecting or abandoning them which was probably something they received abundant advice to do. Let us hope that if they continue on this path that they do indeed find support of like minded individuals and continued guidance for making their world a better place, starting with themselves.
Cheers, and good night. What's next, I can't wait!

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The Mobile Clinic

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 19:57:00 +0000

Weather on the western side of Uganda this time of year reminds me of Costa Rica in the summertime, cool in the evening, at night and in the morning and biting dry heat during the day. The Mbale area was more like San Francisco, chilly and rainy or sunny and bright all in the same day, but never too hot.

It still surprises me that smoke from the cooking fires, burning off of fields, and trash disposal should cause a such a dense, continual haze to hang over the landscape. Here I am far away from city lights ... and cannot see the stars. That's going to be one of the lasting memories of Africa, the smoke of a thousand cooking fires hanging on the air anywhere I have gone. In Mbale the rains temporarily washed the smoke out of the air, but the town had consistent cloud cover from enormous Mount Elgon in the backyard.

Smokey haze on the morning landscape: Mbarara area

Evening smoky haze in Mt Elgon (Mbale) area. Photo: Samantha Chadha-George

I spent the day with the social workers at the rural clinic. One of my "duties" was riding herd on the little kids while their mothers waited to see the doctors. The clinic was set up in a very large church structure. Most churches here are unlike those in the United States. Imagine a large, maybe very large shed. This one was very nice, with brick walls and high windows (no screens or glass), cement floor, and the obligatory corrugated metal roof. It served the as a good spot to mount the temporary clinic. There were tables for the intake folks, the social work / pastoral folks, doctors and pharmacy.

Cure Clinic pharmacy, where our US nursing students got a field promotion to dispense medications when the regular pharmacist/nurse was called to Kampala. Photo: Samantha Chadha-George

Me, I was on the floor with the kids. We brought woven mats to set in the rear of the church for the children to play upon. Some were quite frightened by me — they would see my white skin and cry. That is per their mothers. I do suspect I have the same effect on many babies in the US, too.

One boy in particular caught my eye. He was maybe 11 - 13, had been treated for hydrocephalus in the past (still very enlarged head, it doesn't go down in size with age though sometimes the kid grows into the large head), and appeared to have some type of mental handicap as well. He was such a charming boy, very sweet and engaging. He asked for crayons and coloring pages to play with, and started producing really detailed work. He spoke some English, which meant that he had been to school. We played catch with some other littler kids... Something was different about this kid. I gave him a Polaroid picture of himself, and told him to give it to his mother. He just smiled (ignored me) and put it in his pocket. Later, I saw him giving it to a man ... his father. The father examined all of the coloring pages, praised his kid, and made sure the boy signed each crayon drawing.

Ben and me, with "shading" he gave me

Ben's uncle/father, checking on his progress and encouraging him to sign each page he colored

Yes, I am rambling on about this kid, but there were two things that struck me. One, his sweetness. This kid wasn't beaten or terribly neglected. Two, his father's presence in his life. I've only been in Uganda a short time, but it's been long enough to learn that fathers of hydrocephalus babies often split the scene. Having one or two decent parents could really make a difference. [I learned days later that Ben's dad was really his uncle, who adopted him after both of his parents died and no one would take the deformed little boy. He went to great lengths to pursue medical care for this boy, including facing resistance from within his own family.]

I learned a lot about this topic from the CURE social workers. They do the intake forms for the doctors and explore the socioeconomic environment in which the child lives. Many women who give birth to deformed children face social ostracism and even rejection by their husbands and families. The father may leave the woman because he thinks the birth defect is her fault. Families feel the deformed baby will bring disgrace on them and either try to lock up the baby to hide him or even neglect him hoping he'll die.

The pastoral foks/social workers counsel the mothers who have trouble at home. They give spiritual advice and practical suggestions for dealing with the social stigma and relationship disasters that so often accompany the birth of a deformed baby here.

Reactions to having a child with "big head disease" (hydrocephalus), spina bifida or similar reveal a lot of misconceptions and superstitions, a little education.

Just for fun, some of the misconceptions include "people told me I had a baby like this because...
- Used family planning pills
- Took folic acid tablets
- Saw a dead dog while pregnant
- Jumped over a grave while pregnant
- Evil spirits cursed me/ the baby

That's all I can stay awake for tonight. More tomorrow. I have a lot of photos me with a goofy grin on my face playing with or holding some little Ugandan child.

Love, Kathryn
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A Baby Died Today

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 20:07:00 +0000

(This happened Friday, 2 days ago)

A baby being treated for hydrocephalus died today. The whole hospital community was affected.

News of the death spread quickly by word of mouth. The mother was without family at the hospital or nearby, so a group of women took her aside to provide support in one of the 'spiritual life' offices. The comforters stayed by her side all day, until her husband arrived from Kampala much later in the day. In the meanwhile, a group gathering was put together for all mothers residing at the hospital to acknowlege the tragedy and provide emotional and spiritual support. All the mothers were distressed, as easily 'but for the grace of God' it could have been their baby. (Anyone who contributed a scarf for me to donate, know that the scarves were given to the mothers during this ceremony.)

Maureen, our group leader, said it wasn't unusual for the whole hospital community to mourn the loss of a child. She has been present when all the mothers in the ward took up wailing and crying their shared grief. So it is not as though they keep a stiff upper lip and do not mourn (referring to that earlier post when I discussed Ugandans seeing hardship as a normal part of life). Rather, they mourn intensely and thoroughly... then get on with the life in front of them.

Per Miriam, the director of the Spiritual Life center (chaplaincy) at the hospital, Ugandans grieve in company. It seems to me that grief, like life and child rearing, is a community affair here. So different from where I come from where people respectfully provide space to allow the family to be alone with its grief.

In some regions of Uganda, such as the village Miriam's husband is from, everyone in the community is expected to spend time with the family in its grief. A contribution is expected as well, according to people's means. It might be money or it could be food or even charcoal or firewood for cooking fires. IF a community member does not visit within a respectful amount of time, they risk punishment (or "chastisement" which I am told equates to beating).

Back to the baby ... when the grieving mother's husband arrived late in the afternoon, he came prepared with a tiny coffin strapped to the back of his motorcycle. They would transport the baby's body swaddled in cloth in the tiny coffin home for burial. I'd seen those coffins displayed along the side of the road on the drive to Mbali. I didn't realize at the time that dealing with death and the ultimate disposition of a body was a close and personal task for people.

The concept of community in Uganda fascinates me, clearly.

Note that the cause of death was determined to be an electrolyte imbalance that kept her little body from responding to treatment for the infection where her shunt (for hydrocephalus) had gone bad. Per a Columbia-trained neurosurgical resident visiting from the US, in the US it would almost certainly have been a preventable death. But this is Africa. Mothers take their children home from the hospital after major neurosurgery with instructions for care and follow on treatment. This baby did not have adequate nutrition and hygiene at home. A serious infection to the shunt developed, the mother travelled the long distance to bring the baby back to the CURE hospital. She was scheduled for surgery later in the day. She died in the ICU in the morning before she could have the operation that may or may not have saved her life.

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A Village Indeed

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 20:47:00 +0000

We first noticed something was different when mothers would leave babies with us and wander away somewhere else on the hospital grounds. It seemed unusual because in the U.S. we're so conditioned to tracking a baby or toddler's every waking moment. These mothers seemed sure that we'd find them when we were ready to return the babies, and in reality that would happen. Even if we didn't know the mother's name or what she looked like, we could stroll through the ward and the other mothers would point us in the right direction.

Tonight our group of 10 was invited for dinner at the home of the pastor of a tiny tin-roofed church in a slum on a hill in the outskirts of Mbale. He works as a lab tech in the CURE hospital during the week, and he has built this ministry in the slum with his wife. They both live in the community; his wife works with the AIDS orphans. We were told this was an orphanage. I have seen orphanages in other countries, including spending several weeks in one in Honduras. This was nothing like that. No long corridors and common areas, much less the wards filled with beds for the children.

Instead, there were the streets. We arrived about 6:30, and were immediately mobbed by dozens of children wanting to see us ("the muzungus") and have their picture taken. We moved into the dirt-floored church, and the children followed. There are perhaps 300 orphans in the village and no sign of adults (except for Nathan and his wife), just the swirling masses of children on the hard-packed dirt street. I had a hard time understanding how the orphanage worked. As it turns out, the children are 'absorbed' by the village. If they have a house but no living parents, they might have the building to sleep in but may be fed by the ministry. The parentless children might be taken in by a living relative. Or the children may be given shelter by various good hearted people in the town. I'll need to refine this analysis as I get the time because it's still a hard concept for me to grasp.

My western mind wants rules and lines of responsibility around care of these children, but that is not the Ugandan way. Just like the mothers who wander off, leaving their babies in the hands of strangers at the hospital, there is a sense that the flow of time and tide will care for these children. The system has an internal consistency and equilibrium that defies my Western mind. There are some money lines that I do not grasp. Somewhere in the chain someone, maybe missionaries, may be paying to feed some or many of the children, to provide for their education, give them some rags to wear, etc. It was REAL clear that our western idea of taking care of people would upset the equilibrium that supports the orphans. They do not appear to need sturdy housing with indoor toilets and running water as much as they need the village. For aid to be effective in this orphan village, it would need to bouy up the systems that are already working, rather than replacing them with something that cuts off the flow of humans helping humans.

In other news, the meal reminded me of many in Costa Rica and Venezuela, where an overabundance of food is prepared for the visitors and you feel obligated to eat until your belly aches to show appreciation for the food and the tremendous effort this humble family undertook to provide for us. So bring on the potatoes, rice, chappati bread, cabbage and stewed beef!

Our group of 10 sat around the one simple yet immaculate room. The family photos were pulled out, introductions were made, and welcomes were spoken by our hosts. Once again I had reason to give thanks for having brought a small battery powered Black Diamond camping lantern, when the electricity went out before dinner, leaving us without the single bare lightbulb that had illuminated the room. Our lady host finished organizing dinner by lantern light. We all balanced plates on our knees and it was all very cozy ... and SO remniscent of Peace Corps. I was happy to see the hosts and their children stayed in the room and ate with us. In rural Costa Rica or Venezuela it would have been just as likely that they would have stayed in the other room while we ate as a sign of respect.

The orphan children crowded around outside to try to get more glimpses of us. I did not personally observe this, but several of my teammates saw children in tears outside the house as we left, apparently sorry to see us go.

Disclaimer: These are just my opinions and impressions and subject to change as I learn more about the culture, people and country.
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Early Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 21:32:00 +0000

Today I had a number of threads that I was musing on..

First of all, this seems like a terrific place to get an orientation to Africa. The director of the hospital, Derek, turns out to be a former Peace Corps Volunteer and PC trainer. So some common base of experience. Then Maureen, the leader of our mission group has lived and worked all over the world, and has traveled to developing countries with her work for many years as well. Additionally, we get free rein, within reason, to visit with hospital staff and patients. Superb for inquiry and observation.

One of the first things that blew me away about the people I have encountered in Mbale is their openness to connect. They often don't even speak the same language but they embrace you emotionally, sharing joy easily. This is true of the clinic staff who are more used to northerners / westerners, and of some people you meet randomly on the street. A question I have been asking is HOW people can have such openness when many if not most have lived very hard lives. What in the US would cause people to close up, get jaded, have an attitude at the least -- and I can count myself among these at times. Derek's response was that the people in Africa and in Uganda specifically expect suffering as a part of life. Sickness, death, unemployment, they happen and you deal with it. It is not separate from life. I'm musing on this, like I said. Experiencing this attitude could be quite a gift for me. Do we (in the US) tend to perceive hardship, accident, illness as an aberration from the way life is 'supposed to go' and therefore represents an unfairness visited upon us?

Today a lot of the "work" involved organizing and distributing the supplies and gifts brought for the hospital and staff by the team. We all carried up to 50 lbs each of supplies that ranged from medicines to computer monitors. The most humbling part of the day consisted of distributing the staff gifts. There are about 150 employees at the hospital, and each one got a pen and a bookmark. A Bic or PaperMate ballpoint pen we brought from the US that might have cost 5 cents if purchased during back-to-school time as these were. It was a valued present that people were delighted to get. Really. Trying to keep a sense of perspective and not fall into guilt at having all the pens I could want. So instead, will choose to look at it as a lesson in humility. Just is what it is.

I took a few Polaroid pictures today. One was of mother with her baby. What originally caught my eye was that a father was carrying and soothing the baby, who had just had a hydrocephalus operation. Most children are cared for by their mothers while in the ward pre- or post-op. A man providing baby care has been a rare thing. I learned from the father that this was his first child. Then I learned from the nurse that the baby not only has hydrocephalus (they call them 'big head babies' here), but when they operated they found pus in his head. He needed a long course of anti-biotics before they could operate on his big head. Given the conditions in his village, there was a good chance that the baby would not make it. So I took a picture of mother and baby (the father wanted the mother and baby) and gave them a print on the spot with the Polaroid. If the baby dies this could be the only photo they have of him.

Other random notes, "malaria" tends to be a general term to describe illness. If you don't know what it is, it's "malaria". HIV / AIDS is refered to as "being sick" -- "he's sick" means "he has HIV/AIDS". Being called fat is a complement. It means you look healthy and have enough money to feed yourself.

A high point of the day was stringing beads. I kid you not. The mothers make beads, then create necklaces, bracelets and earrings for the hospital to sell to help offset costs in a minor way. (Mothers don't typically pay for care but help in other ways.) It was a great social experience sitting around the table with the other women, and a quiet, creative and meditative activity for here.

Low point was a very graphic sermon by a Ugandan pastor (not affilated with CURE) about the grave sin against God that is the abomination of homosexuality. Reminded me of the law in Uganda making homosexuality a capital offense. I just keep my mouth shut if I disagree while I'm in their country.

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Another First

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 09:34:00 +0000

Well this is a first for me. For the last 20 years, anywhere I went in the world, I would tell people I was from Chicago, and they would say, "Ah, Chicago. Michael Jordan". With knowing smiles and nods that signified knowing about Chicago. Before MJ's time it was, "Ah, Chicago. Al Capone. Bang bang".

Today, at a rural gas station, an older gentleman introduced himself to me in excellent English and asked where in the world I was from. This time the response was "Ah, Chicago. Obama". With a big smile.

It is plain that there is a sense of pride in Africa's first American president. First I noticed was that behind the cash register in the restaurant this morning a framed photo of Obama hung right next to the framed photo of Ugandan leader. His face is on billboards, the sides of buildings, etc.

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First Impressions

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 05:53:00 +0000

We arrived at Entebbe airport at night. After the initial shuffle of getting bags and organizing people into two vehicles, we headed out toward Kampala, about 40 kilometers away. It was full on dark, so all I could tell of the countryside was that we were driving across a vast dark space punctuated by small towns and open areas.

My first impressions therefore, were olfactory. The strong smell of vehicle exhaust hit me first. Is it the dearth of catalytic converters? A different gasoline blend? At any rate, there's this that heavy, unmistakable exhaust scent that tells me I'm in the developing world.

As we pulled away from the airport, the next scent was smoke, a gentle hint of wood burning fires on the air. This was more than the occasional campfire we have in the midwest, it seemed more like the smoke of a thousand cooking fires that perfumed the air all along the road from Entebbe to Kampala.

There was a heavy, moist, slightly fishy smell as we drove by Lake Victoria.

And finally, as we pulled into the American Recreation Association (ARA) compound we're staying at tonight, the heavy, damp earthy smell of the dirt road we drove in on. Like the scent of a riverbed, yet mixed in with the spice of the wood fires and car exhaust. Fascinating. I could see enough to tell there were high walls topped by concertina wire. Safe enough for now.

So many more smells, sounds, and sights to take in. Forgive spelling errors and dopey turns of phrase, I'm writing this from my Blackberry.

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In Love with the German Train System

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 15:22:00 +0000

In my family we were aware from a very early age that we were of our American Indian descendency on my father's side of the family. It was a source of pride and cultural identity. It wasn't until much later in childhood that I learned that while I was only *1/16* Indian, I'm fully *1/2* German.

And that was a big disappointment. What's the fun and glamour in being German, with virtues of thrift and industriousness, compared to being Native American and having that rich cultural and historical ancestry my dad could describe for us in such loving detail? The German part, from my mother's side of the family, had long ago settled in Wisconsin and became productive members of their communities. And that always struck me as ... kind of bland.

So no joy in my German heritage ... until I met the German long distance train system this weekend. I suddenly discovered a reason to be proud of being German, along with developing a geeky sort of crush on the ICE trains.

This love affair began with the *signage* in the Frankfurt train station. Oh, the diectional signs, the platform maps and train schedules. Such exquisite detail on those posters using internationally recognizeable symbols to communicate complicated concepts simply and efficiently. Without speaking German you could quickly grasp essential details on each car that comprises every train. Who knew order and effectiveness could be such a thing of beauty?

Oh, the joy of compact and efficient yet thorough communication. Did I say I adore the signage? And then the most beautiful trains I have ever seen, with sleek exteriors, lots of windows, blonde wood grain paneling, smooth sliding doors, comfortable seating, and soft yet effective lighting. Even the bathrooms are beautiful.

I'm sure the Germans could complain for days about how things are just not right, or not as well run as they used to be. That's their right, and probably why things are as effective as they are; these people are darn critical and have high standards for the way things ought to work. I'm going to lump myself in with that group now, for "we Germans" are darn critical and have high standards. ;-)

In closing, I think I could spend days riding the trains, just to get my fill of the system and find that happy place about 'being German'.

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Strasbourg Tourist

noreply@blogger.com (Kategorical) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 13:21:00 +0000

I have finally been to France, for the first time in my life. Of course, I was enchanted by the sheer french-ness of it. Far from being the scary place where people are mean to you (because you do not know the language), I've found people to be perfectly charming and happy to bob and nod heads with me as I lisp out my varied phrases in French, dominated mostly by 'merci' and 'pardon'. Perhaps because the town I'm in lives and dies by tourism, they're very nice to this tourist.

French really is a beautiful language. I've tried to study it and come up short; I wish I had an excuse to really learn it by living where it is spoken as a primary language. Seems that would be the only way to get past the mysterious shyness that freezes my tongue and chokes the words in my throat when I go to speak.

In other news...
Slept until noon on Saturday, the first full day here. NOON. Felt like a sloth, but a refreshed sloth.

As I arrived in picturesque Strasbourg Saturday the ladies in the information office at the train station gave me directions to my hotel and wished me luck. I'd arrived on the day of Le Grande Braderie, which roughly translates to 'big flea market'. The town was indeed wall-to-wall market booths hawking goods ... a flea market. Fortunately as I made my way the mile from train station to hotel through streets jammed with vendors and shoppers, I didn't run into any Oliver Twists or Artful Dodgers. And the street sweepers did work late into the night to clean up the trash, so the next day dawned and the town was back to tourism as usual.

Second sight I saw after arriving in town ... Bar Gruber, and Restaurant Gruber right next to the hotel. Apparently Gruber is a big name in Strasbourg. Can't get away from reminders of work that fast, apparently.

Sunday afternoon I 'rented' a seat at a sidewalk cafe in Strasbourg to people watch for almost 2 hours. They seem happy to let you sit forever until you ask for the check. Works for me, having no particular place to go. Lots of people watching time when you travel solo. Strasbourg seems like a big European tourism town, with all its half-timbered cuteness and within a short trip from half a dozen countries. No hordes of camera-toting Americans with big tennis shoes and loud voices I expected from France in the summer. Either that, or we have grown much more adept at blending in. The camera toters are French, German, Spanish and English. The people wearing t-shirts with US logos and fims / cultural references generally seem to be French. The Harley Davidson dudes, German.

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