India, Day 1: Delhi

The morning got off to a slow start. Although people speak English, we have trouble understanding one another. For example I had trouble grasping that breakfast was complimentary, but once I found out, I was delighted, and it was Nescafe coffee powder which I am absolutely in love with, despite how weird that is. There was a man at breakfast who hovers over the toaster and gets really excited if you want toast so he can make it for you. The rest of the breakfast was parantha and some sort of aloo dish.



Food is terrifically cheap here. Dinner only cost me about $1.50 and I got a full vegetarian thali. Then I was terribly thirsty because it’s tropically hot as hell here and tried to order a sweet lassi, but they misunderstood and I got a ‘sweet lime soda’ which scared me because I drank it and was expecting yogurt. My driver was looking at me strangely because I was eyeballing this soda so carefully thinking that maybe in India, lassi is made with soda water, but there might be chunks of yogurt hidden in it, and I asked him if he thought it was safe to drink.


After a visit to the tour office where the boss plied me with anise cookies and chai, I visited several beautiful tourist sites and monuments. I was proud of myself because I only got suckered into giving a guy $1 for being my tour guide. Really I just felt bad for him, and he had really smooth moves as a fake tour guide, sidling up and just starting his tour spiel without giving you a chance to say no. Everyone at these monuments tries to get you to give them money for watching your shoes and being a tour guide and things like that, which is frustrating, but I suppose better than simply begging. Plus even though I brought conservative clothing with skirts that go below the knee, it turns out that unless the skirts are to the floor, you have to wear these ridiculous pink and orange flowery polyester robes at the temples so that all the tourists look like idiots. The people who designed this system are definitely having a laugh about it. I was lucky they even let me in, I suppose, because the signs say no unaccompanied women are allowed.


I saw a beautiful old mosque with a pool of water in the middle that was all red sandstone (which burns on bare feet but I refused to pay for temporary slippers! Note to self: have to figure out why slippers are OK but shoes are not?). Then I went to the Red Fort which also was very lovely, it is half in ruins but being restored. Again, all red sandstone. There are a lot of stray dogs and adult people who seem to just lie around and sleep at these monuments on the ground. I guess it’s not a bad life. I went to a 3rd red sandstone place called Humayun’s tomb that was quite impressive, full of little marble coffins and beautiful geometric shapes in mosaics like stars and octagons. It seemed like a mini-Taj mahal. After that I had nearly run out of money, but my driver misunderstood my request to stop for the day and we went to a place called Lotus Temple. Luckily Lotus Temple does not charge because it is run by the Baha’i, who are trying to recruit you. The Baha’i are very nice, so the recruiting is not very annoying. I didn’t know anything about Baha’i before, but it seems it is a very benign religion that just wants everyone to get along and love each other. The Lotus temple is a big white temple that looks like giant petals like a flower opening, surrounded by 9 little blue pools of water. It was gorgeous, and I tried to say a little prayer that people would all just get along, in honor of the Baha’i.


So I ended the day completely broke without even enough money for dinner, but was so tired from jet lag that I fell into bed at 6pm and woke up at 4:30am, excited for the next adventure.

India Voyage

My voyage to India was pleasant and easy, despite the fact that I had a feeling of impending doom all day on the day of departure. My husband must have been rolling his eyes the tenth time I said something like: “What is the absolute worst that could happen, is it that this is the wrong day or the wrong time and I have the wrong flight itinerary and I have to re-book my flight and it costs thousands of dollars and I have to cancel and I take the T home and walk through the pouring rain?” In any case, the flight went off without a hitch, and I had a little ‘I got a free flight to India’ spring in my step.



I even got a little lady in Heathrow to use a screwdriver to forcibly modify a plug converter I bought so that it works with grounded plugs. The only trouble was with my fellow passengers. Why are there so few good other passengers on any given flight? I fly a lot, and I can’t even think of the last time I completed a trip without some other passenger within a few seats of me causing a problem. Is it really that hard to sit quietly for a few hours without spewing something onto or whacking something into your fellow travelers? I think I need say no more. I spent most of the flight feeling guilty that I forgot to take aspirin before it as I promised one of the doctors I work with that I would, so every hour I got up and did some calisthenics in the aisle while other people stared at me.

Uganda 2009 Travelogue: The End

Thanks for following my travelogue about our project for maternal and neonatal health. I am now back in the United States, in awe of the profound contrast between medical care and accessibility in Uganda compared to what we experience here. I am currently working on our helicopter to pick up emergent medical cases and transport them to the nearest referral hospital. Each flight generally costs $8000-$15000 depending on distance and time spent. In Uganda, the government provides healthcare and spends about $14 per person each year. This example, for me, is very thought provoking regarding cost and impact of healthcare, how we can come to appreciate the amazing opportunities in our lives and try to share them with those who are less fortunate, and how little it can take to change the world. The day after I left Uganda, my team distributed kits to each health center at which we taught workshops, providing them with a brief refresher course on how to use the equipment, as well as bag valve masks, bulb suctions, stethoscopes, and newborn scales. The thought that these supplies will be used to save the lives of newborn babies born in these health centers brings a smile to my face every time.

For more photos of my time in Uganda and to see what I was describing here, you can visit my photo albums:
- Arrival and Safe Birth Workshops
- UDHA and Goat Roast
- Visits and Resuscitation Workshops
- Sipi Falls
- Musana Game Day

I also posted a few videos to our YouTube channel (click here to view)

Edit: since I've already gotten the question from a few people: you can buy t-shirts (like the one I am wearing in the photos) and other gear if you so desire at our online store.

If you enjoyed reading and would like to help with our work in Uganda, we are currently working hard to support our Healthy Villages Initiative in rural Uganda and are in desperate need of funding to continue the programs, which bring safe water, HIV testing, health and sanitation education, health center strengthening programs, and malaria prevention programs to villages in Uganda, among other things. Each village gets a program tailored to its own needs.

You can make a donation through the mail or online at http://www.ugandavillageproject.org/donate_online.htm

Uganda Summer 2009 Final Chapter: The Lost Is Found

On my last day in Uganda, I woke up to french toast being cooked for me by the interns: a delicious way to start off 40 hours of travel. They were inspired to cook for me since the night before, I had prepared vodka sauce and pasta for the crew staying at the office (probably because it was heavy on the vodka). I had to feel a little bit guilty about this meal, because it cost more than most Ugandans probably spend on a week's worth of meals, but I wanted to do something nice for these interns, who were spending some of their last days in Uganda working hard on their final reports and helping to clean up our incredible mountain of random items in the storeroom.

After saying many goodbyes, I hauled my two large suitcases down the dirt path towards Igangatown, creating quite a spectacle. "Mzungu, those bags are too heavy for you!" "Madame, let me assist you!" "Mzungu byeeeee!"

It took me so long to drag them around all the potholes and over the uneven ground that I arrived in town at the time when I was meant to meet my ride to the airport, instead of early, as I had hoped. I was planning to stop at the police station to try to pick up some piece of paper to certify the situation regarding my lost wallet, for insurance purposes. Instead, I just waited at the main intersection of town for my ride to show up. After 20 minutes, I was pacing in circles around my bags. After 30 minutes, I had stomach cramps, convinced I had been forgotten but with no more mobile phone to communicate, since I had donated it to UVP. After 45 minutes, just as I was ready to toss my french toast up by the side of the road in a state of panic, my ride pulled up. I decided that I needed to join this man on Africa time, and stop being such an American. I sent him to pick up the other traveling interns, and stopped at the police station.

I walked in to a crowd of people staring at me, which has stopped seeming strange. "I'd like to report a lost wallet." I said. A woman in a police uniform, scribbling in a notebook at the desk, asked "when did this wallet go missing?" I felt rather silly, realizing that it had been nearly a month since the wallet was stolen, though Dad had stopped in the day after the theft and told me that the police did not have it. "Just recently," I said, bashfully. "I know I will never get it back, but I just wanted to make a report." The crowd stared at me some more. A man leaning up against the counter next to me in a suit jacket raised an eyebrow. "Alison, you did not lose that wallet just recently." He said. This time I stared at him. "Do you know something about it?" "We have recovered your wallet." The policewoman said to me. I was incredulous. "We have spent money on your case!" She emphasized, giving me a meaningful look. She led me to a side room in the station, where a man opened a locked drawer and pulled out my wallet. I burst into tears, and then felt even more foolish. "Why are you not happy?" The woman asked me. "I thought I was never going to see it again." I blubbered nonsensically. I had cancelled all the cards inside, and the money was, of course, gone, so I have no idea why I was getting so emotional about my driver's license recovery, except that I was emotional because I was leaving Uganda.

I found out that the local councilman from one of the district villages had arrested a man carrying my wallet just that week and brought him into the station. That man was still at the station and they planned to press charges for the theft. The police claimed that they had had to pay the councilman 20,000 shillings for the return of the wallet. I wasn't sure what to make of this tale, but I was willing to give up everything I had at that point. I pressed the 15,000 shillings I had kept for emergencies on the way to the airport into the policewoman's hands. "Please, take this, thank you." "What about my gift from America?" She asked. "You own me many thanks because I have worked so hard on your case." "Yes, next time I return you can have something from America."

When I finally finished making my police statement, I ran out the door, hopped into the car, and started the trek to Entebbe. We made it exactly 2 hours prior to my departure time despite the hours spent at the police station. I just couldn't believe that from some village out in the bush, my wallet had come back to me. I didn't realize until after I left that I should have urged for leniency for the thief, since stoning to death is a common local penalty for stealing.

Uganda Summer 2009 Part 11: We're Going To Die!

Jinja, the next city west of Iganga, is the location of the source of the Nile River. Though I have visited and paddled around the Source (which is often thought of in capital letters here), as well as spent some time enjoying the vistas of the Nile downstream, I have never taken part in its most famous pastime: rafting! This time I had pledged to myself that even though I was afraid to brave the rapids, I would raft the Nile. So on Sunday, my parents, my brother Brian and I took the plunge. The morning started in Jinja at the Nile River Explorers hostel, where free breakfast and trip preparation took place. I seized the opportunity to eat a mouthwateringly delicious bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast – yes, my vegetarian diet is on hiatus to some extent while in Africa, since most of the farm animals here seem to live a life of pastoral luxury. I still eat rice and beans and bread for most meals, but I have been partaking in the occasional chicken. While we ate, a video showing rafts capsizing dramatically as rafters flew through the air into the raging river played, and everyone watched nervously out of the corners of their eyes.

We donned helmets and life vests and joined the crew of Aussies, Americans, Brits, and muscle-bound Swedes for the trip to our starting point. Swedes love to show off their awesome abs, or so I have concluded after meeting several representatives of that country on this trip. We rumbled on a ‘lorry’ down the dirt road to the rafting start point. Although the kids who live along this road must see busloads of us being carted past every single day, they still run screaming like banshees towards the bus, crying out “mzunguuuu!” like it was their job. This adds evidence to my theory that we need more anthropological research on what compels the “mzungu!” phenomenon.

Upon forming a group with 2 Brits and a nervous Tanzanian, we met our rafting guide, Peter. Peter was a muscular Ugandan local with a penchant for dark humor and the use of a falsetto voice. Actually, I really need to conduct more anthropological research into why men in eastern Uganda find falsetto voices hilarious. I think it’s similar to the way Britons can’t get over transvestites in comedy. Anyhow, Peter introduced himself by saying “Nice to meet you all. I’ve never done this before, but I watched the video at the hostel very carefully, and it looks pretty easy.” The Brits looked at him with eyes like saucers. “REALLY?” Peter kept a straight face.

We floated down the peaceful initial portion of the river while learning all the rafting commands: “Forward! Harder! Lean in! GET DOWN!!!” “Get down!” means that you crouch in the bottom of the raft, clutching the side rope and your paddle. As we approached the first set of rapids, we learned that Peter’s favorite catchphrase is to scream “WE’RE GOING TO DIEEEE!” in his best falsetto just prior to the raft entering the rapids. For those who have not encountered the Nile Rapids, the class 6 rapids which are considered too dangerous to be run on a raft have names like “the Dead Frenchman” and “the Dead Dutchman”. The lower class rapids that we take on in the raft have more warm and fuzzy names, like “The Bad Place” and “Vengeance”.

Each large rapid, as we approached, was simply a crashing noise and a spray of whitewater that appeared just at the horizon line. Then just prior to falling down into the maelstrom of waves, you could see the entire rapid in front of you just in time to yell “this looks crazy!!” and be terrified. It was thrilling. As we cascaded down one of the falls, the raft crumpled underneath us and we were all thrown into the water. I felt like I was thrust down 20 feet into the water, and struggled mightily to no avail to reach the surface. It was the scariest portion of the trip, because although I could perceive through my closed eyes that the water was getting lighter, and therefore I must be approaching the sun, I had the horrible feeling I had no idea how far down I was. As my face surfaced, I tried to take a large gulp of air which became a large gulp of the Nile. I was submerged again and swirling downstream uncontrollably, unable to do anything but try to keep my mouth above water and flail and sputter and cough. Although rafting is amazing, flipping is not enjoyable to me.

We had several nice stretches of calm water where we could swim in the warm water, or observe the bird life: rows of cormorants in different colors diving underwater, stately herons and egrets, and little yellow birds that dart between a hundred nests hanging from the branches of one tree, like a hundred orbs of twigs. Of course, the bird life was punctuated by groups of women doing their laundry in the river. In most cases, it seemed to be one person doing the laundry, and twenty idle children spectating at the riverside, hoping to catch a glimpse of mzungu madness. We ate pineapple and buttery cookies called “Glucose biscuits” for our midday snack as we floated.

Finally, our group elected to walk around the last rapid, an unbelievable cyclone of water called The Bad Place, which is partially a class 6 rapid. Peter laughed at us and called our route the “chicken line”, clucking, of course, in his falsetto. We had a few regrets as we watched the rafts fly over the waves, but I did end up glad I was not trapped underneath again.

After rafting, we were taken for a banquet to the rafting company’s campsite. They had an array of amazing looking food, including – a tray of pasta! Would it surprise you if I told you I had a can of Parmesan cheese in my backpack for just such an occasion? Mmmm…. What a day.

Training For All

My last workshop was a resounding success. Aside from starting almost 3 hours late, which we can easily discount as expected, we had good turnout, we were able to get through the entire curriculum including all the hands-on skills stations, and the participants seemed to learn a lot. I noted at the beginning of the workshop that there seemed to be quite a wide spectrum of knowledge and skills amongst the participants. One participant in particular seemed to have a poorer command of English, so I tried to ensure that he had understood each point before moving on. I spent extra time with him at the skills stations. At the end of the course, I was gratified to see that his score had increased from about 20% on the pre-test to 55% on the post-test. Despite the language barrier, he had learned a significant number of the objectives of the course.

Later, I was entering in the data into my spreadsheet of participants, and I burst out laughing. Everyone working nearby stared at me. I helplessly continued to giggle while re-reading the sign-in sheet from the workshop: the participant I had struggled to train in neonatal resuscitation was the health center’s security guard.

Post-script: we had also trained the lab tech and the lab assistant. The lab tech scored 30% both before and after the course, but the lab assistant finished the course with a score of 80% (!)

Uganda Summer 2009 Part 10: The Fun Fair

As a final event to conclude my dad’s summer soccer camp for orphans, he organized a tournament between the two orphanages he worked with. The hosting orphanage has a fantastic property, a large farm with several buildings of classrooms, several dormitories, an art room, a volleyball court, and a soccer field. It houses about 40 orphans. The visiting orphanage has over 80 residents but has significantly smaller space, as well as the prior pictured soccer field, which is definitely not fit for bare feet, much less a ball that always tends to roll downhill.

Dad had an ambitious plan for teams to be made and split the day into time periods which the teams would rotate through to score points for their team by playing games against each other. Translate that into African time and African style, and we had 120 kids with a variety of colored ribbons on their heads running around squealing and having a good time and playing. The day opened with many welcome songs, so many that we started to think we would be watching performances until lunchtime. The performers basically had to be stopped to go play the games they had come to play. Mom was busy cooking banana bread on a sigiri, a small round charcoal stove. This is accomplished by placing the banana bread pan on top of two empty tuna fish cans placed inside a large metal pot, with another large metal pot placed on top to create a Dutch oven. This banana bread came out fantastically, but it took several hours to bake each loaf, so by lunchtime only one loaf for the 150 of us was cut into tiny bites of banana bread for everyone.

I was assigned to the four square station, which wasn’t a real station, it was just a four square court I drew with chalk on an uneven area of concrete and then tried to recruit wayward children. I realized as I looked at it that the squares were warped and 2nd square was far smaller than 4th square. I had to sweep the stones and goat detritus off the court before starting to play with a broom made of twigs. (The orphanage has a goat named Jennifer) After going to all this trouble, I was excited to gather several girls who had been pushed out from the volleyball court, until I realized I was trying to teach a fairly complex game to young children who did not speak my language. It took at least 45 minutes to establish rule #1: the ball can only bounce once in your square. I gave up and led them to the face painting table, where about five kids were getting each cheek, each hand, and their foreheads decorated with butterflies and hearts.

The day was a resounding success, and when it was time for farewells, we got a wonderful sendoff with many “weebales” (“way ba lay”: thank yous). Again we had singing, but this time we had special personalized songs and dances. “Mr. Dick Weebale, Mr. Dick Weebale!” was my favorite. The next best was “Mr. Dick, we are very sorry, that you are leaving, keep on remembering us!…” This was repeated verse by verse for “Maama Linda” and “Mr. Aa-rin” (which must be Brian, but we decided this might be some weird fusion between Alison and Brian since only 3 names were mentioned. We finished with some folk music and dancing, for which I would have loved a translation, since it really appeared to involve a man beating his wife with a stick, and then some children acting like monkeys and dancing in a circle. Overall, one of my happiest days in Uganda this summer. Mr. Dick weebale indeed, weebale nnyo.