It’s a few days ago and I awake suddenly from a horrifying dream involving screeching baboons fighting each other in the dense forest. It is 5:34am on a Saturday. I am meant to be sleeping in after a long week spent traveling in the field. As I lie there wide awake contemplating how it came to be that I am now dreaming of fighting primates, my senses perk up to the sounds all around me, the sounds of morning in Western Uganda. A virtual cacophony of noises compete to filter through my open bedroom windows: insects chirping in steady intervals; birds singing their morning melodies; stray dogs baying at the fading moon; the occasional rooster sounding; training military officers jogging through the streets chanting Swahili songs in unison; and the elegant call to prayer filtering through the trees from the mosque down the hill. At dawn on a Saturday morning, I can’t say this intrusion of the senses is initially welcome. Thoughts of why me? are present. A similar thought had floated through my mind earlier in the week.
As part of our community outreach efforts at STRIDES for Family Health we spend many long days working in the hot sun at what we call ‘nutrition fairs.’ These days are basically integrated health outreaches that include anthropomorphic screening for children under the age of five, childhood immunization services, antenatal care for pregnant women, family planning services, and nutrition demonstrations. My role at these fairs has been managing the community health workers in the screening tents – weighing upwards of 2,000 children in a day, taking their mid-upper arm circumference (MUAC) measurement, and screening for signs of malnutrition. Back in my bed, I recall a moment at one of these fairs when the chaotic chorus of dozens of frightened, screaming babies, frustrated mothers grumbling – understandably upset from waiting in long lines in the hot sun – coupled with the soundtrack of blaring Afro-pop coming from the nearby speakers hits me. Again: why me? Soon after this initial moment, however, a smile drifts across my face, I give my head a disbelieving shake, and the thoughts of why me merge seamlessly into an utterance of how me?
How me? How on earth did I get to this point? I imagine what I must look like from above, from a satellite view: the lone mzungu in a vast field among the lush hillsides of rural Uganda, surrounded by hordes of jostling community members and colleagues, sweating profusely and covered in urine (or ‘soo soo’, in the Ugandan parlance) from holding frightened children (afraid, no doubt, that this strange white man is there to give them an injection, or something worse still…). Excited squeals of delight come from children and mothers alike as they swarm from our well-formed lines to get a better glimpse of the 10 foot tall ‘puppets’ with giant heads that faintly resemble the president and his wife, swaying their mesh and wire hips provocatively to the upbeat music. With this moment of realization the events of the day come sharply into focus. What might’ve minutes ago seemed like a rather stressful situation – long lines, screaming babies, hot sun – now seems mundane. I stand back for a second and let the chaos wash over me like water off a duck’s back. Again I smile, shake my head, and get back to the work ahead.