“If we can’t improve on real life, we should put down our pencils and go bake bread.” Barbara Kingsolver Or cake, as is the case at Ibanda Child Development Center (CDC). This quote is sprawled across the walls of the now open and functioning “Kids Café” which all started in November of 2007 with a birthday party…. I had just begun my Peace Corps assignment when I was invited to a birthday party. Ibanda CDC sponsors over 200 orphans and each month, the birthdays are celebrated for those born in the corresponding month. Twelve eager young faces gathered around a small cake, all awaiting their small slice of sweetness. The children simultaneously blew out the candles and the director began cutting the cake. However, the cake wasn’t cutting with a simple butter knife. A machete was brought to the cake and the sawing and hacking began. No one else seemed surprised at the scene, but I couldn’t help but picture this occurring in the backyard of an American child’s birthday party- who would want that cake? Looking for work and a way to help out, I offered to bake the next cake. I began preparing a cake each month for the birthday celebration. As word spread among the caregivers of the Ibanda CDC orphans, a group approached me to ask for baking lessons. This group is the support group formed of caregivers living with HIV. And so I began giving lessons on cake baking to this group, using local materials, marking plastic cups as measuring cups, mixing in basins and cooking over fires. Soon people in the community were asking for cakes for parties, so the group began providing cakes for church members. I smelled not only a chocolate cake, but a chance for an income generating activity. As the group began to discuss the idea of a bakery, the local UPHOLD office was closing and chose Ibanda CDC to receive a refrigerator and electric oven. We were ecstatic! Now we had a real chance at operating as a bakery. I wrote a small proposal to Compassion (the umbrella organization of Ibanda CDC) requesting start up funds. The funds were enough for some tables, a bookshelf, a counter, and ingredients for our first five cakes. Around this time, I took a short visit home. While in the heartland of Omaha, NE, I stopped by a local bakery, Sweet Magnolia’s, operated by some family friends. They were interested in the bakery we were beginning at Ibanda CDC, and offered to put some information up about our efforts, thinking many of their clientele would be interested in assisting. I returned to Ibanda and began to give the caregivers in the group lessons on using an electric oven. I had also acquired some measuring cups and spoons which the group received eagerly. We translated recipes into local language and posted around the bakery. Every day was spent in the bakery from 9-5, mixing and baking and cleaning, and of course, tasting. A month after my return, I received a call from home that Sweet Magnolias had raised $750 for our bakery and they were asking to be called our “sister bakery”. When I told the caregivers the good news, some of them began to weep, and there was much clapping, whooping, singing and smiles. This group of caregivers is the board of directors for the funds and any money spent from this pool is approved by the group. They decided the bakery will be run by the caregivers and any profits earned will cycle back into funds for small income generating activities members of the group operate in the community. As we prepared cakes to celebrate our opening day, we wanted to write “Ibanda CDC” on a cake. One of the women icing, without realizing, repeated incorrectly and said “Ibanda CD4” CD4 is the count of white blood cells and an important marker for a person living with HIV. If the CD4 count is high, it means the drugs are working and the body will be able to fight most illnesses. Should the count fall, it can mean the body has built up resistance to the drugs or that no further treatment is possible, signifying the beginning of AIDS and end of life care. The women, who all have HIV, began laughing, noted their friend’s mistake. They began quoting other HIV related jargon to decorate atop the cakes. After they were done laughing, one woman mentioned that her CD4 is all she ever thinks and worries about every day and revealed that this bakery has given her a chance to think about something else. All the women agreed. The following day, June 5th, 2009- we opened Kids Café. The day was full of speeches, good food, and of course, good cakes. We even sold our very first cake! The group of caregivers stood proudly behind their work and was recognized in the community for something other than having HIV- now they are known as the bakers. By putting down our pencils, and baking cakes, it seems we have improved on real life.

Here's some pictures of the new year, afterall, they do speak louder than words...Back on the bike!

Rwanda, the most expensive park system in the world...

Wes, me, Derek, and Kate being jackasses at the volcanoesMy coworkers and me in a very Ugandan posed photo Snorkeling... sans fish and masks.

I ditched Wes for the Masai- mom and dad, meet Jackson.

Juice in my face in Lamu!

Just livin my life...

Was trying to think of a catchy way to start out my first post of 2009- which has been in all honesty, mighty fine. I began the new years with fireworks over Rwanda and new years day on a bus back to my site. Rwanda was amazingly beautiful given its horrific past, its recovery is truly inspiring. After a long month at site in Ibanda getting back into my groove, I ventured into Kenya with Wes and we island hopped- ok to 1 island on the Kenyan coast- Lamu. It's my new happy place in my mind-an ancient vacation spot with Moorish and Muslim influence, this place was filled with culture. We had a fabulous time wandering the maze of alleyways, watching donkeys pass and swimming in the crystal clear bath water warm Indian Ocean. An amazing way to start out the new year!

A twist of fate brought me into Kampala for the weekend and onto the volunteer council-where after a long meeting, we discovered a newly advertised happy hour for half priced drinks at a mexican restaurant, and a confusing tally of drinks on fingers at the end of the night....31 margaritas later. Now if that's not life saving, I don't know what is!

Twas the day before Christmas, and all through Uganda,

All the vehicles were roaring, from toyotas to hondas.

The matatus were crammed into the taxi park without care,

In hopes that passengers would pay the double fare.

The conductors each shouted their black faces red

While visions of Ugandan shillings danced in their heads.

And I in my backpack weighing me down,

Had just settled in the sweatbox, for a trip out of town.

When in my matatu, there arose such a clatter,

I paused my ipod to see what was the matter-

Which i had tucked in my purse-away and stashed,

Didn't want to pause, twas a good song by the Clash.

When what to my sun glass clad eyes should appear,

But a miniature child, selling water, soda and beer!

I knew in that moment, I'd better be quick-

A beer to get me through the ride, this can't be a trick!

The muslim and saved passengers tsked as I bought me a bottle

Of the piss warm Nile, and opened my throttle.

"Oh Allah, oh Jesus, oh Yaweh" I heard the denounces.

But to me this was bottled blood of Christ- all 16 ounces.

My eyes, then they twinkled, my cheeks were like cherries.

My demeanor once bitter was now oh so merry.

A slight buzz achieved, I threw the glass to the side

Ready to set off on this long rickety ride.

The conductor then boarded- a right angry elf.

I laughed at his price, then hiccuped to myself.

"You think I'll pay triple for this ride in a tin can??

Passengers-UNITE! Lets stand up to this man!"

The passengers all stared at the crazy muzungu

I could see the comprehension cross their faces too.

"This girl is right, it's just too much!"

The backseat of the taxi created a fuss.

Soon the righteousness spread, the conductor declared a jerk!

I couldn't believe it- the liquid courage had worked!

We paid double, not triple, and our matatu took flight.

Our united minibus, swerving left and right.

We reached our destination and paid our "discount" fare.

But no thanks did I get-just lots of blank stares.

But I swung my pack on, and staggerd back to site.

Thinking, it's Christmas in Uganda, again. It's gonna be alright.

You don't even wanna know how this photo happened.... but somewhere, in Uganda, a bride and groom have a farmer-tanned muzungu in a bikini in their photos

My neighbor, Mackenzie, and I were hiking and found a litter of abandoned pups, and after much deliberation, ok, one puppy licking my toes, we've adopted them. We're still trying to figure out what to feed them- they seem to like spanish rice and guacamole best...

One year down, one to go- less than 365 days of Africa. Looking back, I realized this past year has been the most challenging, humbling, adventurous, debilitating, most ginormous rollercoaster of my life. They tell you in Peace Corps you experience the highest highs and the lowest lows- what they don't tell you is that it occurs in the same day.

Reminiscing on these triumphs and trials, I realized - in a very cliché Footprints kind of way, that I was carried through those times by your words. So I pulled out my shoebox where I keep you all, and reviewed some of the words of encouragement, wit, hope, sarcasm, knowledge, lessons, and love. I hope to share with you a glimpse into this past year, because, as my friend Krissy wrote "While you’re there, write. Share. Because you, Diana, are an insightful, loving, witty woman." So here goes.

"Have you started working yet or are you still doing "cultural exchange" full time? writes Katie Clark of San Diego, CA. I actually do find my weeks filling up. Between making home visits to Compassion-sponsored children, preparing for Saturdays when the 265 children come to the center for 8 hours of unorganized day camp, to teaching at the nursing college and working in the HIV clinic. Not to mention meetings that start 2 hours late and run 4 hours longer.

The biggest challenge with work is realizing you can't fix everything. Some things you have to let go, and that's hard. It makes many PCV's, including myself, rather cynical about projects we tackle and surprised at success. I just try and take work in stride and heed my Aunt Maryann's advice "Perhaps you will not get rid of HIV, poverty, hunger, but for a few moments, you can help a child forget those and spend time having fun". Some days are more filled with work than others, but although work is important, Katie- cultural exchange is by no means a back burner.

My aunt Maureen wrote that "it sounds like you are doing well and adjusting to the culture." Culture is so many things, Maureen. To adjust to a culture is, at times, to leave what you knew about the way the world works, and jump in to this new world, hoping you land on your feet, but likely sprawled out, skirt up, making a fool of yourself. My greatest attribute in cultural adaptation is my ability to laugh at myself (thanks to the incessant teasing from the Kingston household- heart you guys!)

"When was the last time you had a hotdog?" asks Katie Clark. Well, I actually had a bite of a chili dog in the Nairobi airport but can assure you is not something I’ll ever find here, although I've been tempted to put ketchup onto a matooke (banana) finger (what they call 1 banana) and wrap it in a bun. The food took some getting used to, but now I actually crave the millet bread, g-nut sauce, greens, cabbage, and matooke. And its true- I have exhausted every banana recipe known to man.

"In your world, do they have holidays like Labor Day, Halloween, or Thanksgiving or like Russia has a holiday to have sex so babies can be born on June 12?"- Grandma Barb. Actually Grandma, there's no holidays like that, and trying to explain Halloween is sort of horrific, but trying to explain Easter is even harder- why do we have bunnies and eggs?? Customs and rituals and holidays are still exciting, I've just learned to take a Newsweek along to read through the long speeches that are worse than my dad with the megaphone on Memorial Day.

“So I called my dad who determined the enclosed tank top is acceptable by PC Uganda standards”- Jaime Burke. Jaime, I do wish your dad could see me now- No running short or showing of your upper thigh here, however there are boobs galore! I’ve seen more topless woman than at Girls Gone Wild Mardi Gras (yes, I was actually there, and no, there is no known footage of that…) In some villages and towns, short skirts are illegal and a woman is considering harassing the man if she is in a short skirt- ie, one inch above the knee. Other than repressing the desire to recite Eve Ensler’s “My Short Skirt” monologue, I’ve changed my wardrobe accordingly and have gotten used to the long skirts and pants to run in. Now if only I could start wearing a shirt….

My social life here is one to envy, or at least my neighbor, 5 year old Ruth, does-mostly because I can pick up her best friend Jotham and swing him around. But really, my friend Rebecca states “I hope you meet many wonderful people, volunteers and natives alike in your time there” And Rebecca, I truly have met some incredible people here- they are who keep me committed, working, growing and make my heart feel at home. My coworkers and neighbors have become dear friends, fellow volunteers-family.

I’m blessed to have found support in so many areas, most especially from my boyfriend, Wes- another PCV in the life saving biz. He won me over texting 80’s love ballads and hair band lyrics and has continued to be a source of side splitting humor, endless pop culture knowledge, travel companion extraordinaire, trained physical therapist, and a shoulder to snuggle on- and for him, I am ever grateful. He keeps my ego in line and calls me out, especially when I think I know it all (well, I still do, I just check myself momentarily). There are some amazing volunteers here who are some of the brightest, self sacrificing, clever and spirited people I’ve met, I feel luck to be kept in their company.

“Do you play cards in your free time or do your try to ride cows?” asks Joanna Charron. Well, Jo, when I’m not saving lives 24/7, I do play scrabble with my neighbor, read shelves of books, run, or chill with my penguin friends- the amazing, saintly, booze making Sisters of Good Council- the nuns that run the local hospital. Although riding cows would be a nice alternative if they didn’t come with 5 foot horns!

“I hope everyone in PC is taking good care of you.” Sister Bernadette. Well Sister, I’d like you to know I’m receiving extremely good care. I probably required a bit more care than the average PCV with my little spill in July and my one month stint in Kampala. But to have my friends, PCVs and Ugandans alike, rally around me and support me was truly humbling and a definite kick in my independent ass- sorry, Sister.

And although injury is a huge challenge, even more so are the daily issues to face. Water fetching and inconsistent electricity one can get used to- but facing extreme poverty, battling apathy, trying to improve education and health care, infectious diseases and widespread HIV- these are the real heart of the challenges. We may bitch about time management- but whose time are you wasting if, as a teacher, you’re not receiving a salary. Transport-but who as a citizen can you complain to about horrible roads if your government is corrupt. Exhausting in-your-face Christianity- but where else to find hope of a better life than the afterlife.

As volunteers, the small things bog us down, but its these higher corruption of values that are most disturbing. On November 4th, I gathered with 30 other volunteers to listen and cling to Obama’s words of hope. As we sat gathered around a 20 inch screen, tearful with joy and anticipation of new beginnings, the words that struck me were “…the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope” Its these ideals that my family, my education, my faith, my culture, instilled in me and what I, and every volunteer, struggles to bring here.We leave our contury, we adapt to the culture, we create a new social life, we work side by side in hopes that there can and will be a change for a better life here.

Through these struggles, changes and experiences, its still your words that ring true; “You are a total badass for being the whitest girl do-gooder in your jacked up Ugandan corner of the world and you know it” yes Katie, I know that. And Mom I know you’re “sending my guardian angel to you every night.” And Ann, your words stuck with me “These memories you’re making are going to stick with you and continue teaching you lessons the rest of your life”. Its these very lessons and the search for answers, a hope for change, that keep me here and looking forward to another year of service, as the whitest badass in my corner of Uganda, of course.

"Obama! You come sit on my boda and we go!" I look around over my shoulder. I'm the only one around- on the street corner and Obama's not a name I've come across here in Uganda. I look at the boda man and he grins, gives me a thumbs up "Obama?" Living in Uganda and seeing which news is filtered in from the international community is a thrilling process- for instance under "InternationaleNews" in the daily paper once, there was an article about a Wisconsin woman who was attacked by dogs in the night that entered through her dog door. But the headlines and support for a black man for the upcoming elections is overwhelming- enough to be called Obama on a street corner. In a culture where every visitor is family and everyone is related to one another, it's no surprise that Ugandans claim Obama as one of their own. Taxis are seen with slogans such as "Our Man Obama" without any formal endorsement from the democratic candidate. Or a man on the bus asking if I'm voting for "that brother of mine, Obama". As an American, it really drives home the feeling that this election, the events of today, are impacting so much more than our lives in America, but a global community right down to a Ugandan street corner. I vote today not for just me, my family, my nation, but also for the Ugandans that have become my family and friends.

And it the same breath, I feel honored to cast my vote from overseas, that my voice is heard. This rings true in the reaction my Ugandan friends present when I've told them I voted from here. It was an eye-opening process for many Ugandans, watching volunteers fill out absentee ballots.

My friend Julie tells the story of filling her ballot out with her village. She was excited to show them the "democratic process" and explaining the ballot. The day arrived when her ballot reached, she gathered the community and opened the envelope, shaking out the ballot. People were quiet and seemed confused, finally one man spoke up " Where is the money?" Julie laughed, but quickly realized they weren't joking. "What do you get for voting" asked another.

Democracy, ssebo. This is democracy and regardless of how the elections pan out, my voice was heard, but not jsut mine, the people I represent, and leaves me here in Uganda, in the words of Lee Greenwood, proud to be an American.

I'm no Laura Dern, but seems there is a sick triceratops around...

I've been round Africa and back again from South Africa to Mozambique to Swaziland and back. I hope to post some pictures soon of my travels to the Indian Ocean as well as touring Uganda with the fabulous Jaime Burke who recently visited.

I'm also coming up on my one year of service mid service training which means I've got a year under my belt and a year to go! Hope to write more soon when they restore the powerlines in my town!

Until then, I'll here in Ibanda saving lives.

Yep, there they are- 18 pairs of panties, and leaving you to guess what I'm wearing now! I'm back at site, back to reality. And the reality is that I left a giant pile of dirty laundry. So I started with the basics, as Gap suggests, thus making my Panty Prayer Flags.

Getting back into the swing of things has taken some readjustment after my luxurious stay in Kampala regrowing my collarbone. The biggest adjustment was not being able to do all the things I could when I had the power (sorry, couldn't resist). But needing to rely on neighbors and the community to help with small things, such as fetching water, cooking and cleaning, going to town. All of these required assistance, or a large consumption of energy on my part. But the community has been more than welcoming and assisting, bringing by fruits, offering prayers and masses, all because I went too fast over a hump. I've been doing physical therapy to regain strength and doing some housework- as proved above.

Just as I started to get used to site, I'm leaving again tomorrow to go on a long planned trip with my fellow PCV's to Mozambique for 2 weeks- just as soon as my panties dry....

So, there I was (yes Brent, i owe you for that line)... flying on my pcmobile- aka Japanese made bicycle that's indecently small for my frame, think Josh Brolin biking in The Goonies on a kids bike. As I flew through trading centers, enjoying the day, I hit a speed hump and caught some air. "Weee!" I thought and imagined myself looking rather badass, in my white PC issued helmet and mini bike. I approached the second hump and as I accelerated up the hump, realized the other side of the hump was missing, creating a ramp which launched me into the air. I'm sure I at least threw a hang 10 mid air, but the next thing I remember was being pulled off the road and 30 some faces staring down at me and "muzungu yaafa" being mumbled- translated: The Muzungu died. Then more pain and the realization that I couldn't move. When I came to again, it was to see my good nun friend and nurse- Sister Venny, standing over me, calling my name.

Sister Venny happened to be passing on the road on her way to an outreach with the students and was horrified to find me lain in the back of a vehicle, and my bike on the road. She quickly moved me to the hospital vehicle and transported me to the hospital I volunteer and teach at. There, I was given multiple shots, an x-ray taken to determine my left collarbone was broken, and i received approximately 75 visitors in the next 12 hours. In fact, the whole left side of my body felt rather broken. But I was lucky for many reasons: 1) I lived, thanks to my helmet 2) I'm right-handed 3) Only my ipod headphones were stolen 4) My bike is just fine 5) Peace Corps whisked me away to Kampala where slowly by slowly, I'm healing. After a few weeks, I hope to, well, get back on my bike and ride. But maybe I'll slow hump instead.

... or continent far enough to keep my brother and Kim from visiting me! After a delayed flight and much anticipation, Dave and Kim touched down to Uganda and where thrown into a 12-day Uganda-stravaganza. A whirlwind tour of the national parks with giraffe, elephants, hippo, crocs, and cranes, time at my site teaching kids ultimate Frisbee and bead making, hiking some waterfalls, partying in a cave and getting waterboarded by the Nile- ok, rafting, I sent the kids exhausted and likely smelly, back on a plane to the states. It was a blast having them here to show off this amazing country and its highlights and challenges. After they got over the culture shock, they picked up on all the local culture, and hopefully are still annoying you all back in America with calling everyone "muzungu" and demanding "you come", passive eye-brow raising, hmmming and "Ah HUH!" exclamations.

A common question that other volunteers pose to visiting family and friends is "Has he/she changed at all?" Dave's response: "Nah- she just thinks she knows more" Thanks bro- right back at ya! Save up for Africa Round II!

First put on your lifesaving uniform

Then hop on your PCmobile and you're off to save the world!

Through Health demonstrations

And Nutrition presentations

At times, it requires tricky disguises to blend in

Sometimes it works!

Other times, its obvious you're a superhero

All of this can be quite exhausting, even a superhero needs a rest

But soon you're on your feet again, nothing can hold you back from saving the world!

My PC friend, Kate, just returned from a state-side visit and admitted she was excited to get back to Africa. “America’s weird” she confessed. We half joked about a few cultural adaptations we’ve adopted, accepted, and adhered to here in Uganda that may get us on the Miss Manners hit list, if not several traffic/civil responsibility violations in the states

- Public nose picking: perfectly acceptable

- Cellphone ettiquitte: definitely acceptable to answer your phone during a sermon…. That YOU'RE giving

- Power outages: power is a gift that the gods can take away at any moment, no need to worry, just continue your dinner by light of your cellphone

- Littering- no fines, just toss it out the window of the moving bus

- Bargaining over 10 cents: it’s the “principle” of the matter, really

- A compact car seats 11 comfortably: Laws of Quantum Physics are constantly tested as we attempt to defy the theory that no 2 things can exist in the same place at the same time

- A simple nod to indicate yes- too much work, just raise the eyebrows

And while much of PC is about adapting and “cultural integration”, it leaves me wondering how “used” we are getting to life here. Am I accepting even the complacency, the apathy that this is just how life is here? Have I become ok with littering just because there are no trash receptables? Why do I just shrug when the power goes out because Uganda first sells its power to neighboring countries for a profit prior to meeting its own countries needs and demands?

Sarah and I recently traveled from the local large town, Mbarara, where we watched with annoyance as our 4 door manual Toyota filled from 6, to 8, to 10- 4 of us in front with the driver sharing the seat and reaching over a passenger to shift, and 6 people in back. As we bargained the driver down since he was overcrowding the car, a woman in back offered “You see how we suffer here? Now when you go back to your country, you will ask for more funding, more aid to help us”

If Sarah and I had room to reel around and face the woman we would have. Exhausted, squished, our heads bouncing against the roof and windows, we yelled over the blown out stereo blasting, “We’re suffering with you. Why don’t YOU demand more from your government, we do provide aid, but it lands in the pockets at the top.” The car ride was silent then, except for the blaring of the radio.

But our outburst left me thinking , if 75% of Uganda’s budget is foreign aid, people here are used to receiving handouts, aid, grants with little community participation. But what is the answer as Americans? To borrow from a cheesy Coldplay song, are we part of the cure, or are we part of the disease?

As a “development worker” I may continue eyebrow raising for passive agreement, and enjoy the freedom of public nose picking, but the real disease- the apathy, complacency and helplessness that exists with extreme poverty, is something I think we’re all here to eradicate. And just maybe our enthusiasm, awareness and support can be part of the cure.

Of the many many differences I encounter here, one of the most beautiful is the traditional dancing- the costumes are the traditional wear of a married Bankole woman, and their dance moves reflect the movement of the large-horned cows (Ankole cattle) moving through the fields. They're dancing the Bishop who visited (one would have thought Jesus was coming the way they prepared) But it was an amazing thing to be a part of. I was able to help the girls into the traditional wear of a married woman as well as learn the songs. They tried to convince me to learn the dance, but I didn't want to steal their thunder with my amazing dance moves.... or not so much- Mom, remember the time you tried to take me to step areobics, definately got Dad's sense of coordination, and I apoligize to all other past dance partners whose toes I've clomped or knocked down on the dance floor. Yeah, no traditional dance for me, but here it is for you to enjoy.

So here it is, Jon and Stoops. A shout out to my boys that put out. Ok, not really. But this is a shout out. I've been blessed/cursed here at site to have fellow Peace Corps neighbors a stone's throw away from me. All of this will soon change, as these fellas pack up, give me all of their stuff I want, and head back to America in May. However, the Peace Corps Gods have decided that another volunteer should be placed... in my yard. Literally. A new house is going up for the PCV coming in mid April. So Jon and Stoops- for the times we've laughed (mostly at each other) and the times we've cried (silently in our rooms so as not to show weakness) and especially the times we've had one too many Nile Specials and stumbled home, I'll miss you. Don't ever change.

So there we were... on a nontypical Kampala Adventure. Wes, Bunza, Sarah (3 other PCV's) and I had exhausted all things American in Kampala- bowling, pizza, movies, casinos, dancing- and decided to hop the "Glory to God III" matatu and head down to Port Bell on Lake Victoria, where Bell Breweries is located. Using our powers of persuasion (ie, pulling the "Muzungu" card) we attempted to convince the guards to allow us on a brewery tour, but were told to come back on a day that wasn't the Lord's day (hard to come by in Uganda). We then searched for the paved bike/rollerblade path that circumvents the lake, but settled for a dirt road full of debris and potholes called "Lakeshore drive". As we meandered, we came upon massive webs, and in them, equally massive spiders. Bunza risked his head to take some amazing photos while i helpfully pointed out which spiders were coming closer and closer to his face.

Next, we found some decent signage pointing the way down to the lake.... or Florida.

After paying 4 times the price to get into the beach front property, we explored the area, and settled down in some lawn chairs watching the Ugandans swim in the Trichinosis infested waters and sipped some beers. A man came up and asked if we would like to go on a boat ride out to the island and after negotiating a price, the man brought his motorboat around and we piled on board, beers and all, ready for a booze cruise.

We banked on the island and set out to explore the small fishing community. As we trekked the island, we noticed again, a group of the massive spiders. Then to our horror (and perhaps Bunza's pleasure) we noticed massive webs covering all the trees. Out guide informed us that this was known as Spider Island, but that the spiders are harmless and make silk, which apparently no one harvests. Our guide and boat driver ended up being from my village and also was working with an organization that Wes had worked closely with and as the world of Uganda became smaller, we happened upon the owner of the island, Frank, a Ugandan who had worked with Peace Corps volunteers in the National Parks. We chatted with Frank, who bid us well and ended with words of warning 'Watch out for the cobras" There'd be a different story to tell if the words of advice were needed, but alas, we left spider, and apparently cobra island fairly unscathed, although Wes had a wicked encounter with some Cassava, a local tuber that apparently can get lodged under one's toenail. ...As we drifted back to Miami Beach, reflecting upon the randomness of the adventure, one of the Ugandans floating in a tire tube near our boat welcomed us back with a "Welcome to Miami". And with that we returned to Kampala, and well, partied in the city where the heat was on.

John Boscoe's Crapping face. (Yup, that's his name)

Handmade bears donated by Mother Bear (they were on the ground 2 minutes later, in favor of the digital camera)

Teaching Nutrition at the nursing college has been not only a great way to share my passion for nutrition, but also to win 34 new admirers. I get at least 5 invitations each time I teach to either: student's birthdays, sports events, church, dinners. I mean I knew I was a big deal, but really... So I decided to take them up on the invitation to play volleyball one evening. I made arrangements to bike out to the college and then spend the night at the convent next door (no, working with the Protestant organization has NOT driven me to extreme Catholicism, I won't be putting on a habit... yet) The nuns are great company, plus they make their own booze out of lemons- yes, my stay reeks of ulterior motives. After greeting the nuns, I head out to the volleyball field, where an intense game of volleyball ensues. Being a good 3-4 inches taller than the rest of the team, (which I used as a hands on, in class example of effects of malnutrition) I was at the net as the spiker. The saucy student on the other side began a fair amount of trash talking at the net, so late in the game, the score was close, the intensity high, and I spiked it into the Ugandan girl's face, then proceeded to yell "Nogaamba ki, hati??" or "What's up, now?" Which silenced the other team. I don't think that translates.....

As a dutiful Catholic who happens to be teaching at a Catholic nursing college, where classes are scheduled around Ash Wednesday, I attended the service... along with 320 gradeschool children. I was somehow ushered into the side chapel, and found myself to be the only adult, as well as the only white person in the congregation. The usual things amused the surrounding children: the hair on my arms, playing "here is the church, here is the steeple", yes- I'm as white as cassava, yes, I can hear you when you speak Runyankore, no, I don't have money, sure you can come to America, etc, etc- all while the preists droned on about preparing ourselves for this Lenten season. Then came time for the receiving of the ashes- and a mad dash to the altar ensued, as if the ashes would run out. I get pushed and prodded, but end up being at the back of the line. As the marked children return, I strain, and can barely notice the black ashes on their equally black forheads. My turn finally arrives, and the preist scoops a generous amount of ashes and crosses my forehead- all of which is very familiar. What I wasn't prepared for was turning to face the congregation, and having the entire community burst into laughter at the contrast of the ashes on my forehead. To ashes we shall return..... after a few good laughs.

Imagine for a moment, throwing together 19 people from all walks of life, putting them into a regimented routine for 10 weeks of intensive cultural and language training in an entirely different culture, then whisking them all away from each other to all corners of the country where they are asked to stick around for 3 months without traveling and absolutely no routine or regime. They attempt the language, try and find out where the work is, start questioning why they're there, and finally begin to get some sort of clue. Then imagine bringing them all back together again. It's more entertaining than a Real World Reunion. The people that thought Uganda wouldn't affect them have braids in their hair and have permanent Luganglish. The people that were attached to their homestay family and enjoying the "cultural immersion" are now the most jaded. Relationships that started during training have diminished and new ones start budding with other volunteers. Inside jokes seem to thrive within the language regions, but somehow, we all found each other back at square one- trying to figure each other out and accepting these changes. It's like summer camp and freshman year in the dorm all rolled into a different country. Then, after spending 14 days at each other's necks, out at the bars, and dodging sessions in favor of a scum-bottom swimming pool, we are all hurtled back to site squeezed into vehicles meant for 5 and holding 11 plus 2 in the trunk.

The reason I find this all blog worthy is this: finding the balance in Peace Corps- between the world you represent and the world you find yourself in is in constant flux. The trainings attempt to provide a forum for discussion and "development", but in the end, it feels like I was on a merry-go-round of American culture spinning with Ugandan culture, and then centripically projectiled far away from the epicenter, only to find myself back at site attempting to reconcile the differences. And that- to use another analogy- pretty much covers the first 6 months of Peace Corps, in a nutshell.

"Why do you want to climb the hill?"

"To see what's on top"

"You muzungus are all the same, always wanting to get on top of things"

And with that exchange with a coworker (that could be taken out of text), I set out with a troupe of children to climb the hill behind my house. Of the three that were accompanying me, two had excellent English skills, and definitely had an opportunity to interrogate me on the journey. The third child, Sharifa, pictured above, is HIV positive and lives with her grandmother as both of her parents died from AIDS. I've often visited her home where her grandmother treats her not much better than a maid and she is always eager to please. I had invited her in my limited Runyankore on this hike, and she showed up wearing her Sunday best. She is at an innocent coming of age stage where she runs ahead, climbs a tree, but then as if she has remembered she's supposed to be a grown up, jumps down and smooths out her dress. Her English is very poor, and she's been held behind several grades, likely due to her sporadic attendance at school as she often needs to stay at home to care for her grandmother.

As the other two bantered away, Sharifa skipped ahead, kicking off her too small patent shoes to climb barefoot, as I struggled to keep balance in my $100 Chacos. She kept throwing back shy glances and smiles at me, often taking my hand to help me up rocks. As we passed through tall grasses, I pulled out my camera, which provided a whole new level of curiosity and fascination with the children. I taught them how to take photos of the town below, and we zoomed in on their various houses. Sharifa was delighted by this and began taking photos of everything, a cow we passed, banana plantations, a caterpillar. Each one, I saved, promising to print them out from Kampala. As we sat on the top of the hill, watching the sunset, we decided to head back down. Sharifa lagged behind, and I encouraged her to hurry before it became too dark, she mumbled something in Runyankore. I asked the other children to translate. "She doesn't want to go back" We coaxed her back down, promising to climb again, but still I wondered at the type of home situation where the top of a rocky hill at dusk would seem more enjoyable then your own home, a life where you take medication twice a day to fight a disease that took away both of your parents. At the bottom of the hill, Sharifa ran up, grabbed my hand, and pressed it to her cheek, when she pulled it away, my palm was wet, and I realized she had been crying. Then she ran off into the dusk on the road to her home and a childhood fading as fast as the setting sun.

There on the mountain bed of leaves, we learned life's reasons why,

The people laugh and love and dream, they fight, they hate to die. - Woodie Guthrie

A white Midwestern girl + a 3 hour hike on the Equator - sunscreen=

And ride boldly I did. Around Ibanda hill and 2 hours later I was in the thick of "the bush" - not Eldorado, much to my dismay. I doubt many white people end up back here in these hills, so I was quite the anomaly. As I biked, enjoying the view of the mountains and passing natural springs and marshes, I began noticing splashes of blood on the ground, fairly evenly dispersed to imply dripping, and alarmingly fresh. I kept biking, the possibilities running through my mind- an injured child with a wounded foot, an animal that had been ensnared in barbed wire, or perhaps, my imagination brewing fears- a madman with a machete still dripping from his recent massacre.

As I crested the hill and sped down, I came upon the answer: none of the above. There, in front of me, was a man pushing a bicycle, with the head of a cow strapped to the back. And really- whadda Uganda do, but just bike on by.

And I bought rubbers. Not those- I do have my Catholic girl reputation to uphold, afterall, and anyway, peace corps supplies the other kind in our med kit. It's good for demonstrations on safe sex, Mom. To the point, it's the rainy season, which I think should be changed to the Muddy Season. So now whenever, I head out the door, it's with two pairs of shoes- wearing my rubber golashes, and carrying the other. I'm like the Peace Corps version of Mr. Rogers.

The weeks are flying by, and work is picking up. I spend the week making home visits and Fridays at Ibanda Hospital working in the HIV clinic. I checked out the stats on the testing- and they test 600 people/month, and about 18% are HIV positive, which is much higher than the proclaimed national average of 6%. Regardless, we have a lot of drugs to dispense. I'm becoming familiar with the different antiretroviral treatments, and have even caught some errors in dosages.

On Thursdays I'm going to begin teaching Nutrition to the Nursing students at the college associated with the hospital- which I'm really looking forward to, but have been busy trying to create a curriculum and lesson plans, as they have given me all of 2 weeks to prepare.

And on Wednesdays, I head to the Baby's Orphanage to play with the 34 some children there. Mostly the toddlers, who like to be pushed on the swings. I have no idea what they request of me in their Runyankore-babble, seeing as how I can barely pick the language from a well educated, fully grown Ugandan. But I do know that hugs, swinging kids by their arms, and chasing them around is universal, so I stick to that. I usually come back exhausted and smelling like pee from the diaperless toddlers, but perhaps I'll introduce them as the alternative method of abstinence promotion, as they're probably a better form of birth control than the "rubbers".

This past weekend, another volunteer- Sarah- and I packed our culturally appropriate one piece swimsuits, loaded into a tiny white pickup truck of a traditional herbal healer/monk/father- take your pick, and headed to the hot springs for a daytrip. We bumbled along the pothole pocked road, squeezed together in the front seat, Sarah trying to avoid the stick shift jamming into her leg, and me bracing myself, arm out the window, to the roof of the truck. Glancing nervously at the forming thunderheads, I wondered why the monk kept saying we were lucky, "Rain is not coming today". We passed a "trading center" aka- tourist trap Ugandan style, a block long strip of one storied storefronts painted bright colors- turquoise, red, and yellow are the cheapest paints. A sign surprisingly pointed the direction towards the hot springs "Kitagata" and we turned just as I heard people yelling "Muzungu!" We swerved downward into a valley, the Rwenzories towering above, and turned again down a road. "You have finished?" the monk called out to a woman carrying a plastic bag and moving towards us. She nodded, then gestured at us, somewhat of a confused wave. The monk shifted into park, Sarah and I spilled out of the seat and looked around. Hit with intense humidity, Sarah's curly hair immediately became tight curls. I expected a thick scent of sulphur and bubbling water, but as we walked around the bend, we came upon a shallow stream gurgling over huge black boulders, and almost camouflaged, were a large group of mostly naked Ugandans, sitting about, somehow masked by the rising steam. We were curiously watched as the monk walked us around the area, to the source. A man came up through the steam, carrying a book. He spoke surprisingly decent English, and informed us of today's Hot Springs temperature at the source- 98 degrees. He then opened his book, removed a pen from his pocket, and handed me- the guestbook. We signed the guestbook, then set our things along the bank. The monk explained that he could not enter the waters, since he was religious. Learning not to question the monk's explanations, we removed our shirts, opting to keep our wraps on to cover our thighs, we walked towards the water, feeling all eyes on us. We were motioned to the end where the women bathed, and Sarah and I settled into the water, feeling all at once completely relaxed by the warm water and completely on edge due to the 30 some pairs of eyes staring at us. Neither of us spoke, just gave awkward smiles, when suddenly, a topless woman waded towards Sarah, and began pouring water over her. Sarah turned towards me, "I think I'm being bathed." Soon there were many shirtless women, their sagging breasts all around us, pouring the hot water over us, Sarah and I, suppressing giggles. Eventually, when they thought we were clean, I suppose, they stopped. Sarah and I waded out of the springs, and turned back to stare at the springs, perhaps we were both trying to make sure it was all real, and not just a melfloquine-induced dream. On our way back, the monk navigating back and forth over the road, he said again, "Yes, you are very lucky." I'll take his word.

No, the Pentecostal Christians have not gotten to me, although I think my coworkers are trying to 1-up the Muslims and pray 7 times a day – in the morning, before tea, after tea, before lunch, after lunch, at 3, after using the latrine, etc etc etc. . .I do enjoy working with them, but I miss the Catholic comforts- not knowing the books of the Bible, only singing if there’s a choir, only saying “God” and ‘Jesus” once or twice in a prayer instead of every other word. But they do good work here, in Jesus name.. jk jk.

SO, the title of this blog, although a religious message, is as well, a lyric in a Jenny Lewis song (Renaissance- that’s SYWLM for you) “Rise Up with Fists!!” and has been stuck in my head. For good reason, I believe.The majority of my work currently includes visiting some of our project children living with HIV and taking antiretroviral therapy. I hop on my mountain bike, with my helmet, of course, and follow my counterpart, who’s helmetless and sidesaddle on the back of a motorcycle and calling out encouragements to me, and we take off for various homes 3-5 km away. I bike along dirt roads past small stores, meat hanging, banana plantations, through coffee plants and up mountains where the road becomes a 6” wide dirt line.

Visiting these “homes” is always a shock. Each child in our project is an orphan- meaning they’ve lost 1 or both parents, often related to AIDS. The houses are made out of dirt, with hatched roofs, some fortunate enough to have steel sheets to keep out the rain, but lack any kind of structural support. We ask the children to get their medications, and then we count them. This happens every 2 weeks, and there are often discrepancies, meaning many of the children are not adhering to the medication, often because of the side effects or miscommunication of the medical staff, or mostly, uneducated caretakers. We counsel the child and caretakers on the correct dosage, and follow up with another visit in 2 weeks.

I both love and hate these visits. As I bike, I feel thrilled to be in Africa, to be a health volunteer, look at me: making home visits, speaking the local vernacular. But I hate them too. I sit in these homes and I look around the house and the conditions and I feel guilty. Guilty that this isn’t me suffering, that instead it’s this child who smiles shyly every time I look at them. We then pray with the child, and I find myself mumbling the responses to the prayers, but still thinking- there, but for the grace of God, go I.