First Update from Perú

What should I tell you?

How should I answer your question?

The dust from the unfinished streets is being blown upwards in torrents by the hundreds of small taxis weaving their way ungracefully through the throng on Avda. De Cultura. The sun is so bright that when the specks of earth shoot up into the air, they sparkle and shine like the Incan gold still hidden in these mountains. Small, dark people laugh and chat on the street and indigenous women wearing top hats and dark knee-length skirts with petticoats tote huge loads on their backs in brightly colored blankets. Flashes of red, green, blue, orange, pink, and yellow contribute to the energy of Cusco.  On one of the biggest streets in the city buildings shy below 7 stories, children play on crumbled walls and llama sized potholes keep the taxi drivers clear-minded.

I grip my bag from the pharmacy tightly and look out the window. The sun burns my eyes and I quickly glance back inside the cab. The driver, Roger, is looking at me in the rear-view mirror. I smile to make it seem like I intend on answering his question. He asks again in case I haven’t understood.

“Tell me, how do you find South America?”

What should I tell you?

Should I tell you that I find the land beautiful? The hills and mountains and rivers are all too impressive as to not be exaggerated. If National Geographic and Apollo had a child, it would be South America. The sea rolls in blue on white beaches with tiny black stones. The valleys are deep and still and cool. The stars light up the night like tiny points of hope and the mammoth snow covered mountains cause the unbelieving to question their faith.

Or should I say that the people are accommodating, sweet, and helpful? Because they mostly are. I could tell you that the men in Chile make a sucking sound when women walk by and yell horrifically vulgar things. You can’t (if fate endowed you with ovaries) cross the street without a car swerving to cut you off so that the men inside can stare-literally sit and stare-at you as you fumble to move around them. I could mention that the women are stoic looking. In Chile they are beautiful with long, loose curls and blue or green eyes.

What else do you care to know?

I like that fruits, vegetables, grains, nuts, legumes and sugar are so cheap. In Santiago, a girl can live for two weeks on $14 worth of food from La Vega, one of the largest markets in South America. The Central Market in Cusco boasts the same products but for even less. A careful girl can eat for two weeks on $10. This is a model that I wish the US could figure out a way to follow, roughly. It can’t be overlooked that the food prices are a reflection of poverty and it’s odorous reinforcement.

Did you know that I was walking by a fence and surprised a little sparrow who was sitting on the wire? It peeped and fluttered but got confused in the wire. Panicked, I peeped and fluttered and got confused by the sparrow. It stopped moving and stared at me, tiny chest inflating and deflating rapidly and I stared back, chest inflating and deflating rapidly.

Chileans spend 12-14 hours at work every day. They spend about 6 of those hours on coffee breaks, cigarette breaks, talking, walking around, looking out the window, watching youtube, eating, making-out, and ignoring customers.

Street dogs abound in Santiago. They are mostly little fatties who love to be pet and will follow you like a friend while you walk. It’s easy to forget that your hand is resting on their head, fingers slowly scratching the dip right above their eyes as you navigate the sea of busy people on the streets. The fur is soft and warmed by the pulse of blood in their foreheads. It’s the one tiny point of heat available in that winter-y city so grey and pavement-choked. They stick with you until you go into a building and then they wait for a second as though you might turn back. If you do, you’ll see them disappear into the throng of business suits. If they waited a second longer, they’d see you do the same with fingers already turning cold.

Does that make sense, Roger?

When I had a raging fever and hallucinations for the second time in Chile, I stood on my balcony fourteen floors up and gazed down on people’s heads. Maybe parents smooth their children’s hair as they sleep cuddled in blankets at night when they’re young. New lovers strive to know every part of each other in moments stolen from their responsibilities and understanding friends. Girls learn to French braid each other’s hair in grade school. But these moments are heart-breakingly brief in comparison to the duration of life. How intimate it is to gaze at the top of another person’s head! It implies a level of trust. Of comfort. Even though I lack their permission, I lean over the railing in order to get a better look. If any of these passersby die tonight, the universe will know that the tops of their heads have been seen and that no part of them was neglected. If I die tonight, the universe will know that I did not waste the gift of sight on common planes. And hopefully I’m forgiven for the intrusion.

I am ecstatically happy to be living in Perú for awhile, taking Spanish classes and working as a volunteer. I don’t like children but somehow I keep getting put with them. Their fucking genuine smiles, their sweet honest emotions, their fearless approach to love-

Damn kids.

Hey, Roger? I laughed yesterday and meant it, for the first time in months. I couldn’t breathe and that made me laugh harder and then I really couldn’t breathe and that made me dizzy in this altitude.

I’m living with a sweet young married couple from Virginia and am making friends at school.

“Do you guys have a facebook? Not in like a creepy ‘I’m aggressively looking for friends’ way but in a ‘I really think y’all are interesting and we don’t have cell phones here’ way.”

What is it that you’d really like to hear in the five minutes we have left?

Warm air is streaming through the open windows in the cab. It’s bothering my contacts but lifting my mood. The radio is blaring a popular Peruvian song and the bells in the miniscule shrine to Mary that sits on the dashboard are ting ting tinging. I can feel the sun on my right ear, the soft fabric of skirt on my knees, Roger’s stare, the pills splayed in my lap, the itchy seat cover, my labored breath.

A quick note on friends, Roger, but then I won’t speak about Chile again. I didn’t like it there, which was a true maturation aid and a real bitch. Before I arrived I was generally excited to be alive and constantly smiling. After a few months I realized that No. We don’t always make the right decisions. Sometimes it really is better to just give up. We release, we proceed. Tears are recommendable. Friends are essential.

~~Hanna and her boyfriend, Jose, are incredible people. She’s smart and straightforward and a beautiful writer. Jose is as sweet a man as I’ve ever met. He loves Hanna deeply and is gentle in all his mannerisms. When she speaks, he watches her. When he smiles, she blushes. When she tries to pick fights he responds in heavily accented English, “Honnneeeeeyyyyy, what’s the matter?”. I frequently dropped my napkin when we were all at the dinner table so that I could check to see if their hands were clasped. They always were. Somehow, from meeting in Germany to her following him to Chile, from his panic about the seriousness of their relationship to her homesickness, their hands are always clasped tightly as though only love flows through the skin on their palms~~

~~Kristin saved me. A bubbly, energetic and easy-going blonde her beauty is matched by her intelligence. Although we didn’t know each other very well she flew thousands of miles to come see me in Chile. We explored Argentina, La Serena, Cajon del Maipo and “hot” springs (trying to weasel our way out of camping in winter- ick), San Jose del Maipo, Santiago, how to cook rice and veggies a million ways, drinkable yogurt, Yogashala and one of the craziest yoga classes ever, frequented La Chacra for it’s unbeatable vegan desserts and whole-wheat empanadas, taste-tested wines and piscos, avoided my roommate, and practiced Spanish. But a thousand apologies couldn’t make up for my depression the whole five weeks she was there. I was hard to make smile, preoccupied, distant, sad. Santiago was a cold, expensive city and I worked all the time. My dog, friends, family and love were all too damn far away. These fevers kept giving me intense misery and feelings of desolation. Still, Kristin never got outwardly angry or annoyed and was always willing to talk. She told stories and gossip and her unwavering belief in happiness made those weeks bearable and gave me something to look forward to. If she so embodied positivism, then there must be more out there. Now that I’m in Cuzco where it’s warm and scenic and I don’t have to work it’s hard to keep me from smiling, from laughing. Although I wish she were here with me now when I’m so much more like I used to be, nothing has ever meant more than having someone who doesn’t fear your darkest side and instead faithfully endures it with you~~

Yep, Rog-Rog, there’s nothing I could say that would be the whole truth. Honestly, you don’t care much and I’m looking forward to shaving my legs. Would you cluck your understanding when I say I miss all my sisters and one of my best friends is moving to Guam? That I’m worried my brother works too hard and that my grandma’s health is deteriorating? Or would you laugh when I tell you that I love being lost and on my own, that I ate a bug in my soup by accident and started to cry because I killed it or that I want to explore every crevice Perú has to offer whilst singing Discovery’s completely unrelated ‘Can you Discover?’...loudly?  

Would it mean anything to you to hear me say that although love falters and lovers’ eyes turn, that even though depression keeps the brightest smiles from provoking a reaction, when friends leave each others comfort for opposite points on the globe, when your loved ones’ breaths suddenly become precious, would it mean anything if I said that the world is enchanting, loving, hopeful, helpful, fateful, fascinating, endless, and a macrocosm for the beauty of human endurance? These words aren’t enough.

So I smile at Roger in the mirror and answer. 

I've been a stranger lately

It’s 7:30 in the evening and it’s sprinkling rain. Darkness has about overtaken the light and heat of the day and there are distracted people in the parking lot of the Unimarc trying to hail cabs or toting dinner home. The metro is buzzing, the feria libre’s fresh fruits and vegetables and nuts are being packed up in crates, taxi’s are whizzing by looking for patrons and a pretty young woman is leaning over trying not to laugh as she checks to see if the fall off of the curb has scraped my knees too badly.

estoy bien, gracias, estoy bien. es nada, te lo prometo.

She giggles as she chats at me and I try to shoo her away politely. It’s been a long day and my knees are stinging. Santiago sucks. Barely surviving sucks. My Spanish sucks.
But she isn’t taking the hint that my waving hands are laying down. She’s got my right knee in between her legs and is leaning forward to blow on it. I blush at the sweetness of the mother/daughter moment thinking that she really can’t be any older than me. She chats rapidly in heavily accented Chilean about how I need better shoes and how I fall gracefully and how she was scared I’d get run over by a taxi if she didn’t help me up. She looks straight at me and asks,

estas bien?

I answer embarrassed and literally trying to convey my well-being,

mi corazon esta en silencio.

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It’s proving difficult here. Santiago is a city of six million nestled against the Andes mountains. On clear days you can see that the snow-capped peaks form a bowl around the ultra-modern skyscrapers in a breath-takingly disjunctive manner. It’s as though God and humans are competing for tourists on this South American battlefield. And we are winning. Most days the pollution is so bad you can’t see the mountains at all.
With respect to a great poet, it isn’t enough just to know that something is there. We need proof of…I think we just need proof.

I somehow won a position as a tutor at a business run by two Brits. Lively and talkative, they are the kindest people I’ve met here in Santiago. They pay well and help you how and whenever they can. Considering that I showed up late to the interview, late and in tears to a trial run, and left early from the training…they’ve given me grace when I didn’t deserve it. An embarrassingly common occurrence.

I teach business men too.

“Ok. Present of do, third person. He, it, she does…”
“Oh, I love she does.”
“Oh, uh, use it in a sentence.”
“She does taste so good.”
“I…oh, goodness. She does…”
“Taste too much good.”
“Ok. I don’t think, um. Ahem. He does…”
“What are he does? I only like she does.”
“I guess it‘s a personal preference.”
“She does? The American kind are more better. They taste como queso and are snappy.”
(pause) “…Cheetos?”
“Oh she does taste so good.”

“I, you, he she it, we, you plural, they.”
“What?”
“Oh sorry, plural means…”
“What?”
“Plural. Many things…”
“What?”
“…I.”
“What?”
“…it”
“What?”
“…I‘m going to steal all your stuff if you take one more call during class.”
“What?”
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“My name is Jo…”
“What?”


But it isn’t without it’s sparkle and shine. I have made really good friends here. The girls especially are easy on the soul. We laugh while we talk and drink wine as we discuss and hold arms as we walk home. The firm root we’ve taken in each other has rooted me here to Santiago for the winter, at least. I must say though, I hear Peruvians actually speak intelligible Spanish, Argentina has Gods of Thunder masquerading as male citizens, and that there’s only a 70% of contracting a social disease in Brazil. If I keep each objective separate there stands a hearty chance of not needing a shot of penicillin when I get back to the states, and being able to say so en espanol through the silence.

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It’s silent here. The wood floor is clean and shined. The dim winter evening light has barely enough strength to push past the wall of glass at the far end of the small studio . Tiny raindrops slide down the wall lazily like they haven’t just made the longest fall of their existence. The tiny pond outside shifts and adjusts to each teensy heavens-sent addition. The statue of the Buddha that sits at it’s edge waits, and is silent. All around the statue a tiny grove of trees keep most of the precipitation at bay but droplets roll off of flame red leaves onto the statue’s face and continue their descent. And it’s silent.

I narrow my eyes watching the Buddha. Without thinking, I quietly shift into a mimicking position. I close my eyes and think…silence.
There’s the feeling of lungs expanding. Deflating. Nostrils stretching. Hips settling. Eyelids maintaining. Heart quieting. There’s the feeling of soft mat on still-cold skin. Of dark curls on bare shoulders. Of a still-learning tongue pressing against teeth. Of breath exhaling. Of silence.

I open my eyes to the serene Buddha. It occurs to me the strength of his conviction and the release of his inhibitions. It occurs to me the intensity of his quiet life and the endurance of his faith in himself. It occurs to me the silence in which he must have sat so often.

It occurs to me what bullshit all that is.

I’m up and out of my meditation and storming across the room. When I reach the glass I realize that, in fact, I can’t go through it. In utter helplessness and pissed offness, I drop to my knees and hold back tears. The truth is that I want to smash the Buddha into the pond and cover it in flame red leaves. I want to consecrate the burial ground with my frustration and fear and add that negative energy in the form of blood from my own sentient veins so that he knows unequivocally that not everyone can sit under a fucking tree and reach enlightenment. I want to bury myself under that fiery blanket too so that God knows that if I would condemn one soul to hell, I would justly condemn my own to burn with them.

I’m tired of people living their lives trying to reach what one man did. It would have been meaningful to watch the Buddha meditate. It would have been heartbreaking to watch Jesus die. But one renounced his human body and the other was forcibly stripped of his. I would’ve kept my riches and just started out-reach programs. I would’ve forced God to part another sea looking for the rock I’d hidden under to escape death.

I let my breath steam the window and the front of my face. Buddha, why do so many people give a shit about you when you really had no vested interest in the world? Jesus, how could you love us when we acknowledge so little what was done for us, so little of what we could do?

But there’s silence.

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“I don’t understand you American girls. All the time, I love this man I love this woman I love this man I love this woman. You think it’s ok to love both men and women. You have no shame.”

“Oh, that’s all a lie. We really only do that because the government offers tax breaks to bisexual couples. Obama is really obsessed with the fringe votes. Si se puede and all that noise.”

“En serio? You pay less taxes for loving a woman?”

“Why else would we do it?”

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This expensive apartment is always cold. My nine-year old threatened to kill himself today. I ate a bag of skittles, a bag of M&M’s and a baggie of sugar-coated peanuts from a street vendor. A woman in an adjoining barrio thinks I read nudey magazines because I mixed up the Chilean word and regular Spanish word for gum, and I almost vomit up the M&M’s while running to yoga partly because of the chilly Andean air stripping my lungs and partly because of the taxi that clips me as I dart across the road. I don’t mind the bruises but I do mind the sassy way that the driver accelerated right as I was almost to the other side.

My heart is silent and has been for weeks.
**************************************************************************************

I moved out of the apartment I shared with my host a month ago to live with a friend. While I loved her doting attention, her fantastic meals, and her helpful advice on Chilean culture and customs, she is a bit old-fashioned in some of her beliefs. She did surprise me with her candidness in such matters as sex and love. Brutally surprised me.

“It’s terrible how many American girls get pregnant and have babies. And then most of them kill them. No, no, Chilean women are better girls.”
“Have you even visited the US, Carmen?”
“No. I was always working. We work so much here…”
“Oh. We don’t all get pregnant. It’s the same as here, really.”
“No it’s not. All sex and abortions.”
“Chilean women do this. And so many young girls are pregnant here. The difference is that you make them marry the boys.”
“Babies are the result of marriage.”
“But marriage here is often the result of babies.”
“But we don’t kill the babies.”
“Oh I would never have an abortion.”
“See? You’re a good girl.”
“I hear you can get a lot of money from selling them to the Chinese.”
She choked on her porrotos and I smiled without clarifying whether or not I was joking.

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Leaves crunch beneath Hanna’s tennis shoes. To be fair, I’m kicking them into the street like a nine-year old whose been denied her favorite treat. Anything would crunch with that kind of erratic force Yogashala is just down the street but I’m early and have time to kill. Hanna’s tennis shoes are staining red and I think about washing them. I’ve been praying for a sign that I’m wasting my time in the right place. Maybe I should move to Argentina. Maybe Peru. I’ve gotten no response. I feel bad for the leaves and stand there silently asking forgiveness. It’s expensive to live here. It’s a big city. My head hurts from Spanish all the time. I miss my dog, friends and family. The poor leaves. I stained Hanna’s shoes with their color. This neighborhood quiet and beautiful and meant for people who know what the hell their doing in life. Why isn’t anyone answering me?

I take off running down the street. Maybe I can run home. No, I don’t have a home anymore. Maybe I can run back to the easy life in Austin. No, there’s no running back to anything. It’s all different now. I round a corner as fast as I can. My legs are burning, my lungs are sucking in air as fast as possible. My eyes are streaming tears. My heart is still. The sprint goes on for blocks and my body is about to give out. As I round another corner the sun bounces off a house with pure white walls and the light is completely blinding. I stop short gasping for air and throw an arm over my eyes. When I look up all I can see is white and I stumble backwards. Surrounded by nothing but impenetrable shine I’m confused and exhausted and unbalanced and I hear, just once, just quietly coming from my chest,

thumpthump.

here's where we start

Firstly, don’t wear vegan deodorant on planes. No one will appreciate it and you’ll almost knock yourself out trying to pull your bags out of the overhead bin. I stepped off the plane in Santiago with three resolutions. 1) learn Spanish fluently 2) don’t let my emotions get the better of me 3) buy some real damn deodorant.

My Erin and my Tyler were kind enough to drive me to Houston to catch my flight. I can’t convey the depth of my sadness as I watched them, arms around each other, smile and wave good-bye as the airport cop found a switchblade in my camera bag. No, I don’t know how it got there and yes, I was crying when I told him as much. I burned their beautiful faces into the back of my eyelids so that I can see them every time I blink, or sleep.

The flights were short (for international travel) and vaguely comfortable although you have to pay for in-flight entertainment, which annoyed me. As I looked out the window headed towards Panama, I touched the long necklace with the Brazilian good-luck charm that always hangs around my neck and couldn’t help thinking about the person who had given it to me. Determining to be heartbroken, I laid my head back on the seat to watch the cloud ocean pass…and immediately fell asleep. Three hours later I awoke to my bubbly, Panamanian, row 17 comrade as she asked me if I wanted some gum and shoved it in my face. Why, yes, thank you. Viny and I spent the next hour talking about her love of Chicago, how long it took her to learn English, and if she’ll stay with her American boyfriend. We exchanged emails in the airport and I might actually write to her. Maybe.
The next flight was spent in and out of consciousness next to a man who really didn’t think my bumbling Spanish and self-conscious giggling was charming, so I’ll only go further to say that I was shepherded through the Santiago airport (which is a collection of tents due to damage caused by the earthquake) by an ex-marine I met on the plane with white-blonde hair and a wedding ring, which I took to mean that he was safe to trust not to hit on me. As I pulled out of his tight hug an hour later with his cell number and date invite my hand, I figured that I just can’t read men.

I started school three hours after I landed. Linguatec is located on Los Leones, in Providencia, a posh neighborhood in Santiago and is twenty minutes from where I am living. It’s modest appearance belies the kindness and warmth of the people inside. My Chinese/New Zealander instructor is young, pretty, and intensely interested in the progress of the students. The toilets flush, there is free and reliable wi-fi, and a water machine that no one monitors. The students are all travelers-three American boys who are seeing the world, one married man who looks like a Viking (erin!), one girl from Canada and another from Maine. Zach is a film grad from California who practically shuddered with excitement as we talked about editing gigs and Eric is a 28 year-old back-packing around South America alone. We discovered we have to same sense of humor when we wrote our commands in an exercise as the ten commandments and gave them all a vulgar twist. Mike is a black-sheep whose 19 and seems to idolize me because I’m from Austin and do yoga. I avoid him. Don is the Viking. That’s all about him, really. Jessica, from Canada, has a strong eh? Oooo accent and cusses when out of the class. She took me around Providencia yesterday and I’ve taken a strong liking to her pudgy straight-forwardness. Hanna speaks four languages and stares at me a lot, but she’s insistent on me learning Spanish and sits very close to me when we talk. At twenty, she moved down here to be with her boyfriend just as Jessica did. I like her too. I haven’t decided about Rafael so I won’t comment on him yet. But I think I like him.

I teach my first English class tomorrow and I am pretty anxious/want to quit and sell marzipan cookies with the vendor on the corner I visit during short breaks in the day.

Beyond that, my friends and loves, it’s gorgeous here. The weather sits in the seventies with clear skies and soft breezes. I live in a tall apartment building with a 70 year-old widow named Carmen (no senora! Carmen, mi hija!) who is small and round and smells of rose water, just like my Mexican grandmother. She talks non-stop in accented Chilean in an attempt to get me speaking the language. She has shown me all the pictures of her children, grandbabies, and dead dogs. The food she cooks is strange-I have no concept of Chilean food and so no context with which to explain it-but VERY good. There is always bread and butter with tea for breakfast and some unidentifiable vegetable entrée in the evening with bread and salad (chopped lettuce, unpitted olives which you’ll only mistake for pitted once, and a mound of beets or soft cheese). Dessert is a fruit with some drizzled honey. She comments on how little I eat and I tell her no, she isn’t fat and we get on marvelously.

Tonight, we sat in her apartment looking at the Andes and talking about her life. We laughed about things, I’m not sure what, and she explained how Chilean food is not spicy, it’s fresh, there aren’t many fat people here, the youth are revolting in words and dress, and how Chilean Spanish drops the “s” from plurals. I asked gently about her deceased husband and she told me of his blackened lungs and adamant addiction. I clucked my sympathy until she looked straight ahead and murmured, “Eight years he’s been gone. Eight whole years. It feels like a saw him just the other day. How quick…you’re too young to know, mi hija, how much one person can miss another. Keep that youth”.

I put my palm over my necklace and clutched it, thinking of you guys. 

I'm Published!!/Where the hell are you all?

Hello Family,

I just received word that I am going to be published in J-Source, an online journal! The paper that's being published is Extraterrestrials and Salvation, the paper that I presented at a St. Edward's symposium. I'm not sure on the details, but the editors will be sending more info along soon.

On a side note, is anyone actually reading this? We set this up for all of us to stay in touch, but Emee is the only one blogging!

...,

Erin

Uganda

Hello Family,

Now that we are back safe and sound and have a reliable internet connection again, I thought I would take a stab at telling you all what when down in Uganda. Get ready; it isn't pretty.

Let me begin by saying that a missionary trip is nothing like a vacation. In fact, at many points during our stay one of the four of us would adamantly declare that never again in our life would we come back to this godforsaken country. When it was me making said declaration, I decorated my speech with a few more swear words. We are not all missionaries, I know this now from experience and accept it without the shame and guilt that I think at times we all felt for not loving the work we were doing. Let me tell you what it was like:

First, we would wake early and eat a not-so-good breakfast (which eventually turned into watermelon only for me because I was sick for about 5 days). The first night in Uganda the group of about 30 doctors, PAs, nurses, and volunteers was divided into three teams: the surgical team which would perform operations at Kanginima hospital (about 25 minutes outside of Mbale, the city in which we stayed), and two outreach teams which would drive out to new locations each day, set up in a local church or school, and attempt to help the roughly 500+ people that would show up each day to be seen by the doctor and given medicine at the makeshift pharmacy. Jordan, Camden, and I were "floaters"--because we were shooting the doc we would be allowed to alternate teams to film all aspects of the mission. Jordan and Camden worked together mostly and I would join whichever team they weren't with.

The O.R. team (surgical team) was my favorite. We worked in a hospital set up by Dr. Patrick, the Ugandan doctor who works directly with Mercy Trips, organizes things (his wife really does this part), and who was our link to the Ugandan people. The hospital was nothing like an American one--overcrowded, understaffed and undersupplied, un-air conditioned, and the operating rooms suffered from roach and gecko infestations and the undereducated surgical techs and anesthesiologist made me sure that I would take my chances with a sincere prayer, a sharp stick and a few band aids before I would ever let that group perform on operation on me. The surgical team was made up of many funny characters, however, and I enjoyed hanging around them. I spent three days at Kanginima and witnessed two successful c-sections, a goiter operation on a thyroid, two hysterectomies, and an operation on a little boy's penis that went very smoothly. I think, though, that the real success of the surgical team was that they taught and advised the undereducated staff with patience, encouraging words, and a palpable sense of urgency because of the limited amount of time we had there.

The outreach clinics were, for me, madly frustrating. We were always swamped and often disorganized, we never saw as many people as showed up, we ran out of medicine every.single.day, and the doctors struggled with inadequate translators. To the horror of the American women especially, men would push women and children out of line or cut in front of them in order to assure that they themselves were seen though many of the children were very ill. This is part of the culture, Dr. Patrick's son informed me. I felt this sexism myself when after a long, hot, and defeating day at clinic I was asked to get photos of the surgical team at work for the local paper. We were way out in the middle of nowhere and I needed a ride from one of the van drivers to get back to Kanginima hospital. Though the male drivers flirted shamelessly, when I asked for this favor I was absolutely refused. When one of the male doctors asked that I be taken to Kanginima, the men quickly offered their services.

Ice does not exist in Uganda. Air conditioning is rare. The roads are worse than any my tailbone has ever had to suffer on. The food is plain, the water caused everyone on the trip to have diarrhea. Some of the Ugandan people were wonderful, others were suspicious and unwelcoming, nearly all wanted something. The children were at times the cutest things I've ever seen and at others demon spawn. Sometimes they would throw things at the van and yell, "Give me money!" or "Give me sweets!" Jordan, Camden, and I all at points fought with one another not because of any real issues in our relationships but because we were exhausted, sick, hot, and attempting to deal with the harsh reality of a third world country. We were all thrown into the trenches of a war we didn't understand.

What good can come from this awful experience? I asked myself this every hour it seemed and it wasn't until I returned to the States that I had an answer that didn't include a blasphemous swear word.

1. We got to track, see, film, and play with wild gorillas. A worthwhile experience, especially since only about 700 gorillas are left in the wild jungles of Uganda, Rwanda, and the D.R. of the Congo--all countries that are too densely populated and that suffer from prolonged warfare. The gorillas are getting the short end of the stick on this one, and though their populations have increased over the past decade, they are still in real danger of extinction.

2. The Mercy Trips volunteers were some of the most enjoyable people I've had the pleasure of knowing. They were kind to the three of us and included us in everything they did--we made some really great friends and I feel honored to have met Dr. Daniel, the American doctor who headed this shindig. He is a man who truly lives out the very best of his faith in every word he speaks and action he takes. He was kind, humble, tireless, funny, motivating, and devoted to his Christian calling of caring for the poor and suffering. I literally followed the man around trying to soak up his energy. He's so kind he didn't even mind.

3. Though I speak only for myself, I dare to say that Jo, Cammy, and Ma would say the same: I no longer see the world the same way. When we came to Uganda I carried around an American's sense of guilt and arrogant duty. I was here to help these poor, black, Africans--three of the most disadvantageous things one can be in this world. I now realize that I had idealized these people beyond personhood. I had, in fact, dehumanized them just as poverty, politics, and hard-hearted ignorance and racism has. I was worse even because of the very fact that I thought I was helping. That I was on "their team". I wasn't. We aren't. After day 3 I stopped treating the people like porcelain dolls. I told them "No, leave me alone" right to their faces and was stern and unsmiling with some of the children. I gave the staring masses (they were always staring at us) hard, cold looks. Just as much as Ugandans deserve our respect and love, we deserve theirs. And when this wasn't forthcoming, we quickly learned that a bleeding heart only serves to create a relationship in which they both despise us and want something from us and in which we despise them but feel as though we owe them. I myself learned that people must be treated as people, not objects of guilt and pity, in order to see themselves as human beings with rights and inherent value. Conversely, at times we foreigners must demand respect in order that these people also see us as human beings with real lives and real struggles, not just rich Muzungus here to hand out money, board our airplanes with guilt relieved and peace out for a more comfortable home.

4. Stop giving money to Africa unless you KNOW it's getting to the people. Because unless you follow your check there, chances are government officials are buying a new jet or war tank with your money and the people never see a shilling of it. Education is what is needed. Infrastructure. Stable government. In the end, I would argue that only Ugandans can save Uganda. Though some foreigners are doing great and godly things there, the revolution will have to boil up through the people or they will perish in mass poverty and warfare.

5. The moon is only slightly less bright than the sun and we straddled the equator. Don't worry, we have pictures.

6. The kids. For as much as they could be little bastards, kids are kids everywhere and they were funny and loving and snotty and jonesin' for sugar.

7. I will personally slap anyone who argues that kids shouldn't be immunized. We have the luxury of such an argument because kids HAVE been immunized. Mothers in Uganda would tear out their own hearts to get their babies immunized because they're little ones are dying of diseases like polio. "Have you seen a baby dying of polio?" I'd like to ask all those naysayers out there. Because we have. That's something you don't un-see, my loved ones. Plus, if one actually looks up the evidence and talks to medical professionals, at this point the dangers of immunization just do not outweigh the benefits. Thank you, I'll get off my soapbox now.

8. When I critique American society and/or government, I do it out of love and a desire to make this nation as great as we pretend to be. I am thankful to have been born in this country; I will no longer feel guilty about these blessings I've received. In fact, I know now that by receiving the gifts of our first-world lives, we have also taken on a great responsibility. I keep hearing this famous line run through my mind: To whom much is given, much is owed. And we have been given more than I ever knew. We have such an awesome responsibility to care for the world that I tremble thinking of the day I have to stand in front of the heavenly hosts and make an account of my life. I stupidly asked myself where God was in Africa--then I realized that PEOPLE are unjust, PEOPLE are selfish, PEOPLE kill other people. God does not do these things. God does not allow these things. People do. We do. But that doesn't mean the Universe isn't watching. And we may be proper F-ed if the Universe turns out to be more just than merciful.

Hopefully my comrades-in-arms will be posting their experiences and reflections on here so that you all get a varied perspective. On a lighter note, Amsterdam is the place to be. We'd all live there if we could afford it.

Also, I got the interview for the JET program! I'm not in yet, but it is one encouraging step closer.

All my sleepy, mangled, bruised up love,

Your Ery-berry (always)

Saturday 12:30 p.m.

Hi! Bobbi said she got a text from Karen that you all are in Amsterdam now and been to a couple of museums. Bobbi has been texting back to your Mom everytime she gets a text from her but apparently your Mom isn't getting them. Please tell your Mom this.

I don't know why no one else is posting. I'm having to go back through your original e-mail invitation each time to get on.....so maybe there is a problem.

Your Mom texted that you all saw a lot of gorillas close up and that one touched you Jordan. Hope you got a lot of good pictures.

Are you all returning on Monday? If you don't want to make anymore postings....have your Mom text Bobbi on that. Bobbi asked her in the answer she sent today but your Mom may not have gotten Bobbi's text. Have fun in Amsterdam and we can't wait to see you all. Lots of love, Emee

See any Silverbacks?

Hi all - It's Weds morning here. Just checking to see if you have made any new postings. According to your schedule, I guess you are on the gorilla trck. I hope you are seeing lots of them and getting lots of pictures. All is well here. Cold and rainey. The groundhog saw his shadow yesterday so we will probably get 6 mores weeks of winter. Oh joy!

This is the fun part of the trip....so have lots of it. Luv ya' all, Char (Emee)

Hi everyone

I enjoyed your posting Ery-berry. I can't believe you filmed 2 c-sections and didn't pass-out. I'm sure I would have. I'll be anxious to see all the pictures you and Jo are taking. Sounds like you all are keeping very busy. Where are they riding the motorcycles?

No news here except that it is a little warmer now. I'm keeping busy with my projects and my bookkeeping. Take care and keep safe! I love you all. Emee

Hey Emee!

We're doing well here. We pushed through the first few days of culture shock, exhaustion, and vertigo and come out on the other side for the better! Everyone had a great day--Jo, mama, and cammy rode motorcycles. Mama and I and a small group visited a village, a fish farm, got some great footage. Unexpectedly I was called in to film TWO c-sections (I have the footage if anyone wants to see it) and I didn't even faint! One off the coolest experiences i've ever had. Miss you and Buster and the rest of the family (ehem, where is everyone?). Lots of love from Africa!

<3 Ery-berry

Hi from the COLD land,

I enjoyed reading your postings. I'm sorry conditions are so bad there but you all are doing somethng wonderful for those poor people. I know it is heartbreaking to see the great need and only be able to do a little, but hang in there and do what you can. I'm praying for them and for all of you. It does make us realize how truly blessed we are.

Buster and I are fine. It's really cold here . I called Care-a-lot to check on your boys. They are all doing great....eating well, etc. Everything at the house is okay too.

Love ya' lots, Char (Emee)

Update

Tired and drained. It's tough here. Wish I could post pictures, but the internet is a bit too slow. Miss everyone. Love to all,

Erin

impressions from uganda

uganda is really tough. today we went out into the villages to dispense healthcare to the locals. i'm so emotionally drained that i cant write much, but it was basically a mob of suffering people. our team didnt have enough meds for everyone and the staff was worked raw trying to see patients, fill prescriptions, take vitals, and dispense the meds. the heat was intense and the suffering of the crowd was almost unbearable. camden worked half the day in the heat helping with vitals and half of the day in the pharmacy with me, we were literally running to get meds and figure out what went where. i was only able to shoot a bit (lots of kids smiling) with the amount of work that had to be done, mama saw so many patients that they nearly pushed her into the wall by sheer numbers. i am very glad to have the healthcare we do have in the US, no matter the political debates. i just wont be able to take it for granted again.

i love you all. i'm having the hardest time of everyone else here adjusting. i've wanted to come home the whole time, which i know makes me the douche bag of the group. but its physically difficult here and the sadness is suffocating. after today, i am glad that we are here.

jo