If you have seen my refrigerator at home, you know I like collecting magnets as souvenirs when I travel.  You might have seen my magnet of the Eiffel Tower from Paris, Big Ben from London, the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, the dolphins from Cancun, La Sagrada Familia from Barcelona, the Colosseum from Rome, or the Texas flag that says, “Don’t Mess With Texas.”

My refrigerator in Uganda has only two magnets so far – the animals of Uganda (zebra, giraffe, elephant, gorilla, Uganda crane) and the coastline of Ghana (where Jim visited in March).  I have picked up other souvenirs in Uganda, like jewelry made of paper beads, wood carvings, pictures made of banana leaves, and other unique items.

But there is one souvenir that I picked up in the Nile River that was unwanted . . . a parasitic disease called Bilharzia (also known as Schistosomiasis in the U.S.).  Bilharzia is caused by a little parasitic worm that is carried by freshwater snails that are commonly found in the Nile.  The worm’s larvae can enter your skin, feed off your blood, and lay eggs in your body, which will later be passed.  Left untreated, it can cause organ damage and eventually death.

Bilharzia worms: female lives inside male while laying eggs - up to 300 per day.

Bilharzia ranks as the second most significant human parasitic disease behind malaria in terms of socio-economic and public health importance in tropical and subtropical areas.  Of the more than 207 million people that are infected worldwide, 85% live in Africa.  In sub-Saharan Africa it kills 280,000 people each year.  Many people in Uganda have been infected with the parasite, particularly those who live near the Nile River.

Before deciding to go white water rafting in the Nile in March, I asked some American friends in Uganda about their experience.  One friend said he got Bilharzia both times he went in the Nile, but no one else in his family got it.  Another friend said he had been in the Nile several times and had never got it.  They both said it wasn’t a big deal if you get Bilharzia because you just take the pills 6 – 8 weeks after exposure and you feel better within a day or two.  They recommended that we take the pills even if we didn’t have symptoms because if you are not infected, the pills don’t make you feel bad, but if you are infected, the pills make you feel horrible for a couple of days, but then you are well.  Everyone agreed white water rafting in the Nile was worth the risk of getting Bilharzia.

Since I had never gone white water rafting and didn’t want to miss the unique experience of rafting in the Nile, I agreed to go with our group of 10 (my family plus the Gregston family).  We all had a great time, even Jill who was thrown out of the raft at one of the rapids.  But I started wondering if one or more of us would end up with Bilharzia.

White water rafting in Nile River (not actually us, but we looked just like this!)

By mid-April, a few weeks after our Nile trip, I started to feel really tired and had a general sense of malaise.  It didn’t seem to matter how much sleep I got, I was still tired.   I could take a three hour nap in the middle of the day and would be ready for bed shortly after dinner.  I couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of depression – which I had never before experienced.  I tried to justify these feelings.  Maybe I was just feeling homesick.  But other symptoms started, like pains in my abdomen.  And I realized that the itchy rash on my lower back, which I assumed would go away on its own, had been there for weeks.  Thanks to the CDC website and Wikipedia, I was able to diagnose myself as having Bilharzia.  I didn’t want to waste time going to have a blood test to confirm.  I just wanted to take the pills and feel better.

Through my research, I found out that the medication I needed to take was called praziquantel.  I went to the local pharmacy and told the guy in the white coat behind the glass window that I needed praziquantel for Bilharzia.  Fortunately I knew my weight in kilograms, so he was able to give me the correct dose.  When he handed me an envelope with four huge pills, I asked if I was supposed to take them all at once.  He smiled and said yes, and to take them after dinner.  Since I was already there, I got the pills for the rest of the family, just in case they needed them in the near future.  The total cost for our family of five was 17,000 shillings (less than $7).  Well worth the money!  In the U.S., we would have paid $20 each just to talk to a doctor, then we would have needed a blood test to see if we had the disease, then we would have paid at least $10 each for the medication, if we could find a pharmacy that had it.  So my advice to anyone who swims or rafts in the Nile is to buy some praziquantel before you go back home, just in case.

Praziquantel pills: remedy for Bilharzia

Exactly six weeks after rafting in the Nile, I gladly took all the pills after dinner, even though they smelled horrible.  I began to feel dizzy almost immediately, so I went to bed.  I slept in the next morning, and felt so much better when I woke up.  I was prepared to feel bad that day, but I just kept feeling better and better.  By the next day, I was feeling almost completely well.  It was like a weight had been lifted off me.

Did I really have Bilharzia?  Was it just psychosomatic?  Did I just feel better because I thought the pills would make me better?  I don’t really care.  I’m just glad I’m back to normal.

By the way, in Twin Family style, my twin Jill also got Bilharzia and took the pills.  She is glad to be back to normal too.  Most of the rest of our group also took the pills, just in case.

Magnets are fun reminders of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve experienced.  I do not need nor want a magnet of Bilharzia to remind me of the experience.

After finishing his first term in “A” levels three weeks ago, Henry headed home for a two-week break with his family in Hoima.  While there, he snapped some pictures of the calf that was born during his first term, and the chickens that have grown from the baby chicks they were a couple months ago.  For more on the cool story of how Henry’s family got these cows and chickens, read this post.  Incidentally, “Big Jim” has been carrying his load, impregnating two of the females in the herd.

First-Born Calf

Chicks no More

Last weekend (at the end of his term break), Henry hopped on a bus in Hoima bound for Kampala.  From the super-crowded and crazy Kampala bus park, Henry took a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) to meet us at the mall.  We knew Henry would be transporting his backpack and the extra-large suitcase we loaned him, but when he showed up in the mall parking lot, he also had with him an additional parcel he had lugged with him.  We watched him dismount the motorcycle clutching . . . a live chicken.  The chicken’s legs were tied together and it was wearing a makeshift diaper, fashioned from a plastic bag.

Henry explained that the chicken, which wasn’t from his family’s flock (they weren’t old enough quite yet), was a gift from his mother.  She knew that we bought our chicken meat from grocery stores and really wanted us to have a fresh chicken.  While we were quite flattered that she would think to send us something, and while we were impressed that Henry had ridden the four hours on a bus while holding the live chicken, we were a bit perplexed as to what we would do with it, especially since we had planned to take Henry bowling for the first time at the mall.

“We can just leave the chicken in the car,” declared Henry.  “She will be fine while we are . . . doing what?” he asked.  “I will prepare the chicken for you when we get back to your apartment.”

So, we left “eggy” (as Jennifer had named the chicken) in the car while we went inside to bowl.  Not only had Henry never bowled, he had never even seen anyone bowl, and had never even heard of the sport.

Being a pretty good athlete, he picked it up quickly, though he opted for a two-handed delivery.

Bowling in Kampala

When we got back to the car, eggy was waiting patiently for us in the back of the car.  And when we got back to the apartment, Henry showed us city folk how to “prepare” the chicken.  I helped him hold eggy while Henry deftly separated her head from the rest of her body and then held her by the neck as she flapped around for the next thirty seconds.  (I had heard about this phenomenon, but had never witnessed it.  Jennifer opted not to witness it, and Joshua is still scarred.  Jessica was on ten-day medical mission road trip with the Gregstons).

Henry and Headless Chicken

We then plucked, skinned, gutted, and quartered the carcass.  While fresh chicken tastes materially better than frozen, the mess and work associated with the preparation has not convinced us to forego supermarket chickens.

The next day, we took Henry back to school for the beginning of his second term.  Upon arrival, Henry was given his report card.  Always at the top of class in rural schools, Henry was accustomed to receiving top marks.  For the first time, however, Henry was competing against the top of the top in the country and was clearly disappointed with his grades.  He did quite well in Physics, decently in Chemistry, but left himself plenty of room for improvement in Biology.  These scores were perfectly in line with how he had done on the national exams; biology had been his Achilles heel then also.  The saddest part of the whole scene was that he really felt like he had let us down.  We told him how proud we were of him, but he was pretty bummed.

Later in the week, he called and was in much better spirits.  He had spoken with other students and with his teachers, and was better able to understand that he hadn’t done nearly as badly as he thought.  He is determined to improve, and we are confident that he will.

Tomorrow, we are going to visit him at school after church, and then I’m . . . “Goin’ back to Cali.”

Since I became Associate Dean for Student Life in 2005, I have been the official name reader at the law school graduation.  Since I preside over first-year orientation, I really enjoy closing the loop by announcing their completion of law school by inviting them one by one to cross to stage and receive their diploma from President Benton.

When my family and I decided to come to Uganda for six months, we talked about all the things we would miss while we were gone.  One of the biggest disappointments for me was that I would miss graduation.

To my surprise and delight, Dean Tacha called me into her office just before I left and told me that a group of students had scheduled a meeting with her and encouraged her to bring me back for graduation, even offering to help fund it themselves.  She informed me that if I was willing to come home, the law school would pay for it.  Done.

So I will be home from Monday afternoon through Saturday morning.  I have a huge shopping list prepared by my family, the Gregstons, and two Ugandan judges.  My first stop?  Chipotle.  I cannot wait to see my students, my colleagues, my friends, and several members of my family.

When I arrive back in Kampala next Sunday, ten Pepperdine law students will already be here and will begin their internships with Ugandan judges the following day.  The day after that, our friends from Texas (Alan and Holly Brown) arrive in Kampala for three weeks in conjunction with their efforts to adopt a Ugandan orphan.  I am really looking forward to this final stretch of just over two months.  Thanks for following along on our journey.

Over the course of my time here in Africa, I have had numerous discussions with others about whether the money and services being provided by Americans (and other Westerners) are actually helping – or hurting – countries like Uganda.  In other words, does the constant flow of financial and developmental assistance to third-world countries operate as a helping hand to lift them out of poverty, or does this assistance actually have the opposite effect of creating a culture of dependence and national sense of an inability to function independently.

President Paul Kagame of Rwanda, generally thought of as a forward-thinking innovator who has helped Rwanda emerge from its darkest genocide days in the early 1990s into one of the brighter lights of Africa, is a frequent encourager of Africa reducing its dependence on Western aid and the services provided by Western NGOs (non-governmental organizations).  To be clear, he is not at all ungrateful for the support Rwanda and other African countries have received (and continue to receive).  His point is simply that African sovereignty depends upon sustainability and self-reliance, and that Africa needs to always be on the pathway toward independence.

There is, of course, no question that much of what the West has done for Africa has been very good.  For example, it is undisputed that the AIDS epidemic in Africa has been contained by assistance from the West.  Had the billions and billions spent been withheld, the devastation would have been infinitely more severe.  But other programs and expenditures leave the question more open to debate.

I will confess to wondering myself whether some of the work I have been involved in is actually helping as much as I would like to believe.  For instance, when a group of American lawyers descend upon a children’s prison and prepare their cases for resolution so the children can gain access to justice, this feels like a really good thing, and it is.  But if this act then causes the Ugandan government not to provide such services in the future because they believe Americans will keep coming back, then it can actually serve as a long-term detriment.  Accordingly, we are being as careful as possible to integrate Ugandan lawyers into these projects and we are attempting to change structures, rather than fix immediate problems.  Time will tell if these restructuring plans hold.

The challenges that can be encountered when Americans with the purest of motives are not careful when trying to help were starkly illustrated in the past couple of days.  Earlier this week, the Ugandan government closed down an “institution” that was apparently masquerading as an “orphanage.”  Those running this “orphanage” have been arrested and charged with a whole host of fraud and child neglect crimes.  The authorities are alleging this “orphanage” was funded by a civic organization in the United States, which thought it was sponsoring needy children – providing them food, shelter, and education.  Apparently, however, the children were actually not orphans, not really getting any schooling, and living in squalor (the pictures and video were quite disturbing).  In contrast, the individuals who were running this “institution” were apparently living like kings on the $35 per child per month they were receiving.  (Reportedly, most of these children were taken back to their families within hours of the raid, who professed shock and disbelief that their children had not been at a boarding school).  The allegations are that the American civic organization was duped by the Ugandan “orphanage” leaders into believing that it was supporting children in need.  Apparently photographs and descriptions were sent that were completely fabricated.  Supposedly, a member or two from the American civic organization came to Uganda within the past six months, but never actually visited the location in question.  Once again, these are the facts as alleged, which may or may not be ultimately proven.  The government (and others who have lived here in Uganda for quite some time) have no doubts that this is not an isolated incidence of unsuspecting Westerners unwittingly supporting “orphanages” that do much more harm than good.

In contrast to this, earlier this week I met with two pastors from an American church who had just flown into Uganda the day before, and who were flying back home the next day.  They were here to meet with the leaders of the sponsorship program in which many of the church’s members participated.  They met with the leaders of the program, the teachers in the school, and the kids themselves in order to ensure that the money being sent was (i) being used by its recipients to accomplish its intended purpose, and (ii) not doing more harm than good.  Fortunately, they found precisely what they hoped to find, perhaps in no small part because those to whom the money was being sent knew they would be held accountable.  Not only was their money being used in the ways represented to the donors, but this support was also revitalizing the surrounding community by providing jobs for those who were serving and teaching the children.

The contrast between these two scenarios could not be more apparent.  In both cases, there were American families who sincerely wanted to help impoverished children in need of food, shelter, and an education.  In one case, there was a lack of follow up and accountability.  Not only was the money being diverted from its intended purpose, but the fact that money was being sent affirmatively harmed those it targeted – children.  Children were (apparently) taken from their homes and used as tools to enrich unscrupulous people.  In the other case, representatives of those sending money took affirmative steps to ensure that the money was being properly used – to hold the recipients accountable.

I am by no means the first person to issue a word of caution about ensuring that money given for laudable reasons is not actually causing harm – the book “When Helping Hurts” comes to mind.  And I am certainly not an authority on this subject.  But living in Africa exposes one to the harsh realities of this more readily than living in the United States.

In fact, just last evening, I was talking with a friend I have gotten to know fairly well since arriving in Africa.  We were chatting about the differences between street children in Jinja versus street children in Kampala.  We both have a sincere faith and a desire to follow the teachings of Jesus, which includes caring for those in desperate need.  (Though she is younger than I, her life demonstrates a firm understanding of this better than mine does).  I was telling her about my internal struggle every time a child, pregnant mother, or mother holding a small child comes up to our car window to beg at an intersection.  The traffic here is so congested, motorists are constantly harassed by those who seem to be in dire need of food and money.  Aren’t these children and mothers “the least of these” Jesus instructs us to help?  Don’t I have the means to help?  Aren’t I being selfish or self-righteous (even judgmental) if I refuse to help?  On the other hand, doesn’t Jesus also instruct us to be wise and shrewd?

What would Jesus do?

I firmly believe he would instruct us to help.  Perhaps he would want us to provide immediate relief to those in need and leave the judging to him.  I don’t know for sure, but I think, however, he would want us to help in ways that actually help, rather than prolong or exacerbate the pain.  I think he would have us consider both the immediate and long-term consequences of our actions.  And I think he would encourage us to take steps to ensure what we gave was being used to help those it was designed to help.

So what is my point?  Simply this – it seems to me we are called upon to act on the instinct to help, but also to take steps to ensure what we are doing is actually helping.  We should partner with organizations (like World Vision and others) where there are no doubts about how our money is being used.  In the alternative, we should recognize and accept the responsibility to verify how our funds are being used when our giving creates risks of abuse and harm to those we seek to help.

Hello again, readers. I know I haven’t posted in a while; not since I was eleven. Oh, ya. I had a birthday! I’ve been twelve for almost a month, actually. Anyway, today I want to share something really important with you. And that’s the idea of giving generously.  2 Corinthians 8:2 says: Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. A few weeks ago, I met a girl named Joann at church. I met her when the pastor asked everyone to find a partner and ask them what they wanted you to pray about with them. After that, you got to pray with them. Now, as most of you know, I’m not shy when it comes to meeting new people. But praying with them? That one isn’t quite as easy. Especially when they’re not always praying in English. The first thing I did was turn to my dad. I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to pray with a Ugandan, but I was so wrong. Just then, as if he heard my thoughts, the pastor said, “Not just the person next to you. Find someone that you don’t know.” That was one of those “Really??” moments when I was like, “Okay, God. You want me to meet someone new. I’ll meet someone new. So I turned around and behind me was Joann. She looked to be about thirteen, but after talking with her a while, I found out she was 16 and going to turn 17 in the same week Jessica was. I thought that was pretty cool. We prayed together for a while, and then I went back to my seat. She motioned for me to come sit next to her, and I did. I found out that she came to church with her little sister almost every week. No mother or father was with her. I brought my bible with me, and she started looking at it. I showed her where it had my name engraved on it. She looked through it and I told her why some of the words were red. They were the teachings of Jesus. I asked her if she had a bible, and she shook her head no. My first thought was, “Give Joann the bible.” It seemed like the sort of thing Bob Goff would do. My second and third thoughts were, “No way. This is my bible. It’s been to so many different countries with me, and that was the bible I read when I was thinking about baptism.” And then, “It has my name on it. What would she do with a bible that said Jennifer Gash on the cover?” Was that selfish? Me not giving her my bible? God says that we should give with a grateful heart, and I didn’t. It’s not that my heart wasn’t grateful; I just didn’t give. Flash-forward to a few weeks later. We were doing health screenings at a place called Luzira. Not the prison, Luzira, the community. The first day, there was a group of girls giggling and constantly coming over to speak with the man that was helping me with registration.  One of the girls had on a navy blue windbreaker, even though it was hot outside. They called him Uncle Savoi. (Pronounced like Savior but without the r on the end. The next day, we came back to do more health screenings. The same girls were still crowding him. Later, I got a chance to talk to them. The girl in the windbreaker was named Grace. She was just so nice, one of the only girls brave enough to ask me questions like, “What classes do you take in school?” She was in P7 (seventh grade) and REALLY tall. For a Ugandan, at least.  Grace wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up. I played games with the girls and boys there, like their own version of hopscotch. I lost every game and they would just crack up. At the end of the day, I wanted to buy some gum from the “convenience store” on the corner. Grace was there, too. She asked me if I liked biscuits, and I said yes, thinking this was another one of her questions, but it turned out to be more than that. Grace bought a biscuit and took it out of the bag. She broke it and held out half to me. Thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. That was all she had for that day. She used her pocket money to buy something to share with me. We shouldn’t be selfish with our giving, because it is all to God. Every last cookie crumb is for God.

Thanks, Jennifer