November 2009
on Random Uganda (Uganda), 05/Dec/2009 12:32, 34 days ago
November 4thAnother month has disappeared here.Just got back from a week in the Netherlands with Nancy. Nancy had the annual IADMS meeting in the Hague and I got to sleep in a real bed and take real baths and showers and eat good food (with the exception of a couple of IAMDS buffet functions…) for a week. The Dutch, it seems, drink cheap south African wine, so the wine was the same. And Heinekin v. Nile Special… got to say they both rank firmly in the bottom 50th percentile of the world’s beers, but I’d have to give the nod to the Nile Special (at about a buck for 500ml) onthe cost differential. Nancy and I had a very lovely belated anniversary celebration in a wonderful little inn outside of Amsterdam in the village of Broecke in Waterland. She liked the necklace.Not too much has changed in the week I was gone. Carol, the doctor I had conned into being‘team leader’ for the CME was transferred to one of the clinics… so I have to start all over again for that. Ian has been letting it be known (but not to my face) that he’s disappointed about the job I’ve been doing with the fun run… not feeling too bad about that. (apparently he’smiffed because I haven’t been spending my free time out at the lugogo mall signing up runners—but he seems to overlook the fact that I got the main corporate sponsor to double their contribution this year so that even if no one shows up to run, Hope Ward will still make twice as much money as last year). And Bob from lab came to the morning doctors’ meeting to rant about the fact that some of us don’t trust the lab results… apparently someone on the medical staff has been recommending to patient’s to get their labs done somewhere else (not me, I wouldn’t know where else to send them, but, even I notice that the lab values can oft times be hard to believe)… So Bob was haranguing the doctors not to voice their lack of confidence in the lab to the patients (apparently its okay not to trust the lab, just not okay to let your patients know about it). I tried to suggest that maybe instead of telling us to shut up, maybe the better approach would be to get some stricter quality control going in the laboratory… Nope, got shouted down on that one.My roommates are off on safari, so I have the ranch to myself for a few days. Me and wilburforce the scary night guard.November 5thThere were a trio of scroungy looking guys hanging at the compound gate when I got home from work last night. Grace, our housekeeper, wasn’t letting them in, so naturally I feared they were up to no good. But it was worse than that. They were musicians. Turns out last week, while I was up in the low country, my roommates signed up for drum lessons… and this week they are gone on safari… but a couple of the other volunteersstraggled in on Ugandan time and by 6pm or so we had a little drum circle going (actually it was more of a drum semicircle).Rhythm (along with musicality and talent with ball sports) was not something I was imprinted with genetically or picked up in early childhood or adolescence..The African drums are hollowed out tree trunks with some dead animal skin stretched over the cavity. You beat on them with your hands. The edges of the drum head give the best reverberation (thonk) while the center gives off a more muffled beat (thunk). You want to smack the drum such that your hand kind of bounces off the drum, unless you want to punctuate your drumming with the flatter beat of your hand deadening the drum head. The drumming, traditionally, at least, has to do with the dances of the various tribes. Jonathan, who is a teacher during the day, in between swigs from the gourd in his pocket, told us how the 56 tribes of Uganda originated from the 5 main ethnic groups, and how the dancing evolved among the different groups. But naturally I forgot all that. I did remember the names to a couple of the dances, the Elongay, amagongway, oowingay and the Robert. (I think they made the Robert up just to make fun of my complete arrhythmia) As far as I can remember from the stories, all of the dancing basically comes down to proving how strong you are (and it sounds as if they gauge strength along the lines of endurance) so that the pretty young women (and, more importantly, their crusty old aunties) will be impressed and think that you would be an appropriate mate.Fortunately I didn’t have to dance.But, despite, my obvious lack of talent at the activity, I will say that it was quite cathartic. And the crazy drunk guy that lives over the back fence enjoyed it, he was clapping along and shouting encouragement (along with his usual‘I love you mami.”). And for a good hour or two, we added our own blend of noise pollution to the neighborhood—drowning out the church down the hill with the microphoned hallelujahs. My hands were sore this morning.November 6thTough day today. Dangerous medical missions.Had to go to the malls. And try to convince shop owners that they should sully their bulletin boards and windows with posters advertising the upcoming Hope Ward (the charity wing of our hospital) fun run. Reminded me of being back in boy scouts about a million years ago trying to‘sell’ jamboree tickets or some other sort of embarrassing shit. Fortunately, instead of being one of a host of skinny snot-nosed white kids lost in the trailer park selling useless crap, now I have the distinction of being a mazungu with a title… so at least the shop owners would talk to me(it must be important if IHK is sending around a doctor to hang posters—right?). But, for the most part, none of them really want to get stuck a week from now trying to get baked on masking tape goo off their glass… But I did manage to get a few of them stuck up and a couple of promises to doso when they found the proper adhesive…Additionally, I had to line up volunteers to go to the malls and register runners. Our community outreach (the Touch Namuwongo Project—namuwongo is the slum off the foot of our hospital and the TNP provides free care to the people there as well as HIV/TB/STD screening and outreach in the schools) relies on community volunteers, so I had a number to choose from, but somehow I am supposed to gauge how honest they’ll be in a position where they need to collect money… And then I was left to negotiate how much they would need to be paid to ‘volunteer’… After some pretty intense haggling we settled on 10000/= plus an extra 2000/= for transport (6 dollars a day, 3x as much as the $2/day that 75% of Uganda survives on,but a little low for living in Kampala)… Jemimah, from TNP, laughed at me and said I got robbed… sigh… so I got to go down to the MTN shops and settle our team in to register runners.And the day wasn’t over. Remember that I don’t have car, so I’m out with one of the ambulance drivers, because apparently I’m the only one at the hospital with this special expertise at poster hanging and table and chair setting up. So then I have to go to the MTN warehouse to pick up the tee-shirts. Because they aren’t going to release them to just anybody. I must say, at the very least, it was educational just to see what 600 tee shirts looks like (3 large bags weighing about 50-60 pounds each—in case you’re wondering). Naturally we are already behind the curve in getting the hope ward logo added onto the MTN tee-shirts, so we had to express the shirts to Tony the tee-shirt guy, and then I had to beg him to do a few of them tonight so the ‘volunteers’ can wear the shirts tomorrow. Which means that I’m going to get to spend at least part of my day off schlepping around to malls again. Whoo hooo. Wonder how many of the posters will still be in evidence.November 16thThe ants invaded our bathroom over the weekend. It was horrific.Living in Africa you get used to the fact that small creatures (ants, cockroaches, mice) share your kitchen. If you leave food out, you expect that it will be eaten, or at least swarming with insects by the time you get back. And it’s a good way to tell which of your housemates does a poor job washing the dishes—because if traces of food are left on a plate in the drying rack there will be a small horde of microants chomping away at it in the morning…But the bathroom?I should note that rainy season is still going on. Part of the global warming thing. There was no spring rainy season this year, so now the fall season is lingering on, turning everything to mud and washing away huge chunks of the road network. So apparently one or more of the ant colonies near the back of the house flooded and they decided to take refuge in our bathroom.On Sunday morning there was a tiny trickle of the little warriors marching up the wall and on Sunday night the tub was so covered with them you could barely see porcelain… they also swarmed the toilet, the sink, and completely overwhelmed my toothbrush…Fortunately these little guys are only a millimeter or two long, so we weren’t quite talking a Lennington vs. the ants situation, but my toothbrush had to go…And, probably choosing a large white slipperly surface with a drain and a hand shower probably wasn’t the correct evolutionary choice to make as far as taking refuge from the flood….November 17thDespite all the signs pointing to doom and despair, the‘fun run’ went off relatively smoothly. I showed up as I was told, sharp at 5am, otherwise, ‘security’ wouldn’t let me in. At 5am I was the only one there except for a few sleeping security guards. I just don’t learn.But by 7, the essential truck with the sound system had pulled up, and the runners were marshaled around to the correct places and by 0730 we were on the road.We had about 300 registered runners (about twice as many as last year) and a number of unregistered ones (apparently some people take the meaning of charity fun run to mean that its free).I took 3 phone calls while out doing the 10k: one from our ambulance crew, one from Jemimah from hope ward (she was late), and one from Medi (my registration volunteer—he doesn’t really call me, he just ‘flashes’ me—calls and hangs up, calls and hangs up, until I get pissed off enough to call him back—most Ugandans have at least 2 phones… but no (prepaid) airtime, so they can receive calls, but not actually make them) Fortunately I started off pretty slow. So I was still able to get enough breath to talk on the phone.The course started out roughly downhill for 2k then flat for 5k and then uphill for 3k. What’s wrong with this picture? Still, because of the slow start and the phone calls, I was able to pass people all through the race and this boosted my morale. For those of you who are into 10k times, I ran it in 47 minutes and change. Or, roughly, the same pace I ran my first marathon in 34 yearsago…I had managed to persuade one of the stores at Lugogo Mall (Game) to donate some gift certificates for prizes. Because we didn’t have official timing, or numbers, or even know who had paid their donation or not, we decided to give the prizes randomly (best looking shorts, sweatiest tee shirt, last finisher during the awards ceremony) as opposed by finish order. Mistake. Apparently the concept of ‘fun’ run and ‘everybody is a winner’ does not sit well with the Ugandan running populace. There clearly had to be a winner. But I was out running, so I had no idea who it was. One fierce looking gentleman was in my face and demanding a prize and, when it was not forthcoming, telling me that I had ‘cheated him’. I noticed that, unlike almost of the runners he was not wearing the official 'I am running for Hope' tee-shirt. But he did have one in his bag. I wound up having to pay him 80000 shillings to keep him from ruining the 'fun-run' atmosphere.Given the early start, we were pretty much wrapped up by 10am. So I and my fellow Vso volunteers (I managed to get vso to sponsor a‘corporate team’) went to La Foret and had the only breakfast available there (beer and chips). La Foret is a scroungy old hotel from the colonial era that is slowly being renovated by a Dr. Apollo (who also has his clinic on the grounds, and, unbeknownst to us, also rents the place out to a church congregation on Sundays).So we are lounging at the pool with our beers. One of my housemates, Cara, an Australian physio, is doing laps. And this large group of people filter in wearing Sunday go to meeting suits and dresses. They sing a little, pray a little, rant a little (fortunately, unlike the church down the hill from our house, they didn’t bring a PA system), sing a little more. And then they stand at the edge of the pool looking nervously at Cara doing the butterfly leg of her individual medley… until Cara finally finishes up her laps and gets out of the pool. Then they wade fully clothed into the pool—to hold a baptism for a few newly converted sheep… I guess they didn’t read the sign behind them that read ‘all bathers must shower and wear proper swimming costume before entering pool’November 19thAs part of my ongoing education into all things Ugandan, yesterday I had the privilege and honor to spend a day observing the Ugandan court system…Now, as an emergency physician in the states, it’s not that uncommon to get a subpoena from the local prosecutor demanding your presence in court as a witness to some sort of evil or stupid thing that people do to each other. But here in Uganda things work a little differently. I was coming out of the morning cme meeting when Joel, Jackie’sassistant at the clinical directorate grabs me and says I need to go to Mpigi and testify at an attempted murder trial. The victim was stabbed in the abdomen with a steak knife by a friend in an incident that involved the over use of alcohol. I saw him ever-so briefly on his way to the OR, such that I didn’t even leave a note in his chart. I mentioned to Joel that probably the court would want the testimony of Dr. Ben the surgeon, or Dr. Michael the medical officer that actually provided his care… but Joel said no, that Patricia had asked for me. Patricia (it turns out I know her from the hash, and from some salacious locally circulating gossip) is the manager of the IMG’s construction company (and owner of a dress shop in kabalagala) and the sister of the man who was stabbed…It takes us some time to find the medical record. This should not be a surprise given that our medical records consist of green 4 x 6 note cards, stapled together and lie around the registration area in huge piles. Her brother is called Emmanuel. She calls me while we are searching and tells me that I don’t need the chart and that I need to be in Mpigi in a half an hour (as it turns out the medical record was not much help—the medical officer’s note suggested that the wound was in the right upper quadrant, the surgeon’s note didn’t note a location, while my recollection—and the patient’s—had it on the left flank). I ask Joel where Mpigi is. He says ‘on the other side of town.’Mpigi is actually almost 30km west of Kampala. It is its own district (roughly the same geopolitical unit as an American state). By the time I arrange a driver and we fight cross town traffic and make it to the Mpigi district court, it is 2 hours later.The courtroom is a large concrete space with a high ceiling, open windows and two aisles of six or seven creaky wooden pews. Where we got to sit for another two hours while people chatted in lugandan and I smiled and nodded and put the occasional bullungi and kale out there. (fine, or okay).And then a line of eight sullen looking young men and two young women filed in accompanied by a very large woman in combat boots and the beige uniform of the national police. I thought maybe the jury, but no, these were the defendants.I’ll just note here briefly that typically, when I am forced to testify, I have managed to make the prosecutor think that I am so overworked that I might just go postal at any moment, so when I do have to testify they usually pick a time for my testimony where I don’t have to sit around a lot.I’ll also note here, that because the justice system works so slowly at home, I rarely get subpoenaed to testify about something that I actually remember, whereas Emmanuel’s wound still hasn’t healed.And then a couple of lawyers wander in. The prosecutor, a young woman with highlighted hair extensions and a tight blue suit, and the public defender (?), a slight man with a shaved head and a shiny green pinstriped suit a few sizes larger than its occupant. And they chatted for awhile. Patricia went up and talked to them and pointed at me. And we waited some more. And then we stood up. And then the Honorable Lady Justice Elizabeth Musoke came in.Unfortunately, the stabbing case was not first on the docket. The rape case was.The honorable lady justice sat at a slightly elevated table with the two lawyers facing her. To her right was a uniformed bailiff and the court clerk. The judge and the lawyers would grunt questions to the court clerk who would translate the questions and answers to the witnesses. I don’t pretend to understand everything that went down, because my lugandan is weak and my hearing is pretty poor and the sound of the shirtless man sweeping the lawn with a handbroom under the watchful eye of a stout woman in a webbing belted beige dress toting an AK47 with the butt broken/sawed offit was the loudest thing I could hear.The defendant (the accused, he was called) stood in a box to the judge’s left—a young man of 18 or 19 in a blue checked shirt with an angry scowl fixed on his face and his eyes fixed on the girl standing in the box to the judge’s right. The plaintiff (the victim, as she was referred to in court), wore her school girl’s uniform—a pressed white shirt with emblem and a tan skirt. Mostly she looked at the rail she held tightly to.‘and then what happened?’‘mumble’‘speak louder.’‘mumble’‘you must speak louder’‘the accused used me’‘tell the court how he used you’I won’t bore you (or enrage you) with the details. Suffice it to say it was pretty painful to watch the lawyers and the court clerk berate the underage girl and make her recite in fairly anatomic detail the event in question in front of a tittering audience.I will point out a few interesting bits of the proceedings that I might not have otherwise considered:Quite a bit of the testimony (from her family and his) centered on exactly how old they were. Her family testified that she was 16 and that they had known the boy for over 20 years. Whereas his family insisted that they were both 18. Very few Ugandans have birth certificates, or even documents to prove their ages. It makes proving statutory rape kind of problematic.The defense attorney also spent quite a bit of time questioning the girl about her bicycle. How often did she ride it? What kind of seat does it have? Because, apparently, everybody knows that young women can often break their hymens riding bicycles.And then there was the question to the girl’s father about what he did after he found out about the rape. Did he go to the police? Well, no, it appears he first went to the young man’s family with an inquiry about the young man’s intentions—was he going to marry her? Was he ready to pay the bride price? I guess when he refused, that’s when it became rape.The honorable lady justice scheduled her ruling in the case (no jury at this level in the justice system) for the following week. The stabbing case was postponed as well. Stay tuned.November 20thPhone log:17:45 call in. (just home from work, Ben and Rachel coming over to cook us a Ugandan dinner) Ian:‘Robert, are ye in the hospital?’ Two Belgian police officers were involved in a roll over north of Masindi. They’ll be flying in by police helicopter about 7pm. They have head injuries and one of them has a ‘dislocated shoulder’ ‘Can ye handle a dislocated shoulder Robert?’ So much for dinner plans.17:46 call out. To IHK ambulance to have them give me a heads up when the helicopter is landing.17:48 call in. from IHK ambulance (moses), our helicopter just left for Tanzania. I explain that its going to be a police helicopter. He says he’ll look into it.17:50 call in. yep. A police helicopter is coming.18:08 call in. nope. The police helicopter doesn’t fly at night. They’ll be coming by ambulance from Masindi. They’ll be here about 9p. I ask that they call me when the patients get there.20:15 call in. ambulance still hasn’t left masindi. Eta 11pm) Reiterate request that I be called when the patient gets there. (rush dinner, excuse self early to go take nap—could be a long night22:06 call in. from Ian.‘Robert, they’re bringin’ ‘em down from masindi by ambulance…’ ETA 1am. ‘I gave y’er number to the supreme chief inspector of police, he’s a good guy, that’s okay, isn’t it?’‘you’ll be there to meet the ambulance, won’ t you?’(still trying to take a nap)22:34 call in. from the supreme grand chief inspector of police. Just wanted to make sure the number ian gave him was correct. It is. He thinks the ambulance will be here about 1am. I thank him for this piece of information. He goes on about head injuries and broken bones and unstable patients. I reassure him that the men will be okay (because I know that if these men were seriously injured they will be long dead before they reach IHK).(woken from early dream sleep)23:02 call in from IHK ambulance. The ambulance has just left masindi. Eta 2am. I again repeat my request to be called when the patient gets there (ok, maybe a bit testy this time). Reset alarm for 2am.(woken from sound sleep)01:00 call in from supreme inspector‘I am at the hospital. Where can I find you?’ I explain that, slacker that I am, I am still in bed. I ask is the ambulance from masindi there yet? No it is not. I explain that I live quite close and that a driver from the hospital will come pick me up when the patient gets there.01:15 call in from chief inspector. He really thinks I should come and be at the hospital to meet the ambulance. I ask him to talk to his policemen on the ambulance and give me a call when the vehicle reaches the outskirts of town.01:30 call in from chief inspector.‘I have it on good authority that the ambulance will arrive at 2am’ sigh. I tell him I’m on my way in.01:31 call out to IHK ambulance asking for a driver to come pick me up01:32 call out to the driver01:50 call out to wake up the driver who hasn’t come to pick me yet2am—I arrive at hospital.3am—2 ambulances arrive at hospital. Each with a single patient (in doing so they have removed 100% of the functional ambulances from the masindi district as well as maybe a tenth of the medical personnel, who, in hopes of a big payout from the foreign power, choke the ambulances). None of the medical personnel on the ambulances, by the way, know how release the wheeled gurneys from the locked down position in the ambulances (in their defense the lock down mechanism was one I have never seen before and couldn’t figure out either—but, then, it wasn’t my ambulance), so, in the end, the Belgians had to get up and walk into the hospital (thus effectively ruling out the diagnoses of hemorrhagic shock, lower extremity fractures, serious head injuries and the need for 2 ambulances).6am—finally get the xrays confirming that the only injuries are a broken rib and a broken collar bone in one and a third degree acromioclavicular separation in the other. Get them checked into the hospital and curl up at desk for a nap.At least now I have the chief of the Ugandan national police’s mobile number on speed dial—might come in handy some time. You never know.November 23rdSunday the 22nd was the 6th running of the Kampala International marathon. About 500 people started the marathon and about 200 finished under 6 hours when they pulled the time clock and went home… I think many of the registrants felt chose to continue with the 10km route 5km into the race and were disqualified. About 1500 people were entered in the half marathon, while 16400 were entered in the 10km race and there were thought to be another 4000 ‘rogue’ runners in the 10km as well…No, I did not run the marathon. I flirted with the idea of running the half, but IAA (IHK’s insurance arm) signed me up for the corporate team for the 10km, plus I had told the red cross I would provide backup for the medical tent (and I figured that I wouldn’t be much good to them if I was flat on my back with a saline drip…). So I ran the 10km. The same 10km as the week before. Just with twenty thousand more people on it.Each of the mobile phone providers in Uganda have their own particular color: Zain is purple, Warid is blue, Orange is, well, orange and the color of MTN, the marathon’s corporate sponsor (who still haven’t coughed up the donation for Hope Ward), is yellow gold. Sunday, the streets of Kampala were awash with yellow-gold. Most of the 20000 runners were wearing their race t-shirt as were all of the course volunteers. It was fun for me to see this huge riverof yellow in front of me (as well as the massive tsunami of gold behind me trying to run me down) out on the course—until my breathing got so ragged that my vision became blurry. I wore a blue shirt. As if being white wasn’t enough to make me stand out.Aside from the sight of the yellow‘nile’, the fact that they had 20000 runners in a race with a scant fraction of that number of officials and volunteers was problematic at best and downright scary in reality. The race start was on the same narrow 2 lane street as the week before. I managed to maneuver myself somewhat near thefront of the bunch when they were lining up in the holding area, but before we were done ‘holding’ Brownian motion and general mayhem had put me back a few thousand spots. Then there was a sprint from the holding area about 200 meters to the line where I tried not to be trampled and I lost another 1000 places as I ran smack into the thousands in front of me with the weight of 10000 behind me driving me forward. Suddenly it became hot and smelly and difficult to take a full breath. At times the pressure actually took my feet from the ground. I thought about the Liverpool football fansbeing crushed against the fence at Sheffield in 89 and wondered if this was what it felt like. Fortunately, there wasn’t a fence between me and the start line, just a few beleaguered race officials (at least one of whom was curled in a ball on the ground still when I made it to the line) who rapidly decided to fire the starters pistol and run for their lives. For what seemed like ten minutes but what was probably a minute or two we shuffled forward like some sort of thundering amoeba. Inching forward with tremendous pressure behind. And finally, as the runners in front gradually broke from shuffle to trot the force from behind suddenly became unopposed and a few runners near me were thrown to the pavement.By the end of the first kilometer I could finally run free and gradually pick my way through the pack. Given the dead sprint down the first 2-3 kilometres, most of the race I spent gradually passing thousands of runners (which is much more heartening than having thousands pass you as per my experience at Boston in 89…). The cheering as I went by almost invariably went like this: ‘blah blah blah mzungu blah blah…ha ha ha ha’ At which point the two or three guys ahead of me would look back in fear and put on a burst of speed. (So I think in lugandan the fans were saying don’t look now but there is abig fat white guy behind you) One gentleman in very short shorts and very tall stripey socks repeated the sprint process at least ten times before he finally dropped into a walk on the hill. ‘you shame me mzungu’ he muttered as I jogged by.The actual marathon was won by a trio of Kenyans in about 2:18. Not only was the course hot and hilly, but they also had to contend with thousands of the 10km walkers in their way for the last 2.5km of the run. The half was won by a Tanzanian who managed to lose the local Ugandan favorite in the horde of fun-runners in a sprint to the finish in 1:03. My time was not nearly so competitive, but was a few minutes faster than the week before, so the training program appears to be paying off.Fortunately there were no major resuscitations in the medical tent. Aside from a few dramatic, fling yourself to the ground finishers, most of the injured were security guards and race officials. Near the middle of the packs’ finish, the rumor went out that there were not enough of the coveted MTN water bottles (cheesy yellowgold plastic bike bottles, of course) to go around. The race officials were trying to trade the bottles for the ‘disposable’ timing chips tied to peoples’ shoes, but they couldn’t get the chips off fast enough and the crowd make a move for the bottles—a couple of volunteers and security guards tried to stop them and things didn’t go well for them.But by noon everything was under control and it was time to hang out at the kampala hash house harriers tent and test the properties of nile special as a recovery drink.The hashers were fairly impressed with my run. Parasite (I know most of these folks by their hash names, Parasite got his because when he started hashing he was mooching heavily off an expat girlfriend), fresh from his 1:15 in the half, summed it all up:‘given your age… and given your weight… and given you don’t train… and (wave hand in front of Rob’s physique) given your body type… you should be very happy running a 43 minute 10k.’ (!)A couple of related links:http://www.newvision.co.ug/D/8/12/702026http://www.monitor.co.ug/artman/publish/sports/Kampala_marathon_The_good_bad_and_ugly_95040.shtmlNovember 24thUpdate on the trial…I spent almost all of Monday with Patricia schlepping to Mpigi and back once more on the stabbing thing. Travelling with Patricia gave me even more insight into the Ugandan justice system.For one thing, it wasn’t a rape case I was observing, it was a defilement case. The judge still hasn’t ruled.It turns out, that, except in high profile cases (http://www.monitor.co.ug/artman/publish/news/Shock_as_Gen_Kazini_is_murdered_94417.shtml for instance), the burden of seeking justice falls on the victim or the victim’s family. After the stabbing, Patricia’s family went to the stabber’s family to ask for apology and restitution for Emmanuel’s 1.6M shilling hospital bill, but apparently they were rebuffed and the defendant went into hiding at his sisters. So Patricia had to find out where the boy was and bribe the police to go arrest him. She had to ‘facilitate’ the arrest by paying for their gas, their lunch, their airtime (prepaid mobile calls), etc… She then had to ‘facilitate’ the witnesses to come forward and make statements and facilitate the clerk in the printing of the documents for the trial.Yesterday she had to pick up the two arresting officers and drive them to the court house, but not until we stopped at the mpigi dry cleaners and Patricia had to pay for one of them to get his go-to-court suit back from the cleaners. They reminded her that they would need facilitation for lunch, and then the one with the suit extorted another 10000 shillings from her saying he needed a bota back into town to get the fingerprint cards which, after pocketing the money without so much as a webale nnyo (thank you very much), miraculously appeared in his pocket…(I should note, that I love the use of the word facilitation as it is used in Uganda for a payoff or bribe or a perk that you need to give in order to get someone to do their job. Partly I derive pleasure from this use because much of the last 4 days of pre-departure training I had from the VSO in Ottawa was based on participatory facilitation and how to be a good facilitator… and I’m sure that this may be one of the VSO—and other similar organizations—lasting impact on Uganda and the developing world: the gift of the word facilitation.)After waiting around for another 3-4 hours, I did get to give testimony. I got to go stand in the little booth. That’s when things kind of got off on the wrong foot. The bailiff looks at me and says, ‘church.’ I say, ‘excuse me?’He says,‘what church do you belong to?’ You can see where this is going, I didn’t feel that my typical response of ‘recovering catholic’ would be appropriate, and I didn’t think that secular humanist would fly, so...‘I don’t belong to any church.’Stunned silence on the bench and in the courtroom. Patricia is pretending to look at something in her purse.Finally‘Do you believe in God or Allah?’tough question.‘Uhhh… yes?’more silence‘Will you swear on the bible or the Koran?’‘Either is fine your honor.’‘Pick up the bible.’ There are 2 books on the rail. Neither of which have any words on the cover. I choose the paperback.It turns out that shortly into my testimony, the defense attorney decides that they need to talk to the surgeon. Not me. Patricia is a bit miffed. She knows that it will take many more shillings to facilitate the surgeon…