If you’ve never experienced an asthma attack, it feels sort of like the aftermath of a really vigorous run. The type of an exhaustion a first time marathoner experiences, or the first time you ever ran more than a mile. Now imagine if you aren’t running any more, you’re resting, you’re pacing, you’re breathing deeply, you gasp… But nothing works. No matter what you do, you can’t catch your breath.
An asthma attack is like going immediately to that stage of breathlessness, often while doing nothing at all.
About a month or two ago, I had what was the scariest moment of my life. Sarah and I had gone out with some friends and a few couchsurfers and had wonderful evening. It started around 2pm at a coffee shop and conversation over cookies, coffee and the roaring laughter of fifteen or odd people who had just met and instantly bonded. Then someone suggested we go to a concert featuring a number of touring francophone bands and musicians. By now it was well into the evening and we headed to a local Korean restaurant for a hearty meal.
I remember having a mild attack during the course of this. I measure the severity of my asthma attacks like so: light (eventually goes away, without medication), mild (goes away with the help of medication), heavy (medication followed by rest and a lot of deep breaths) and critical. Until, this night, a ‘critical asthma attack’ was unknown territory for me. After all, although I was born asthmatic it didn’t really manifest until I was around four or five. And by high school it was completely gone. Whatever allergen or cause (the doctors told me dust and pollen were to blame) triggered the attacks, I guess my body built up an immunity to them. Growing up among the lush florals of a south Georgia farm and the thick hazy smog of Atlanta, I suppose those extreme conditions forced me to.
I haven’t considered myself an asthmatic since I was maybe 16, that’s the last time I can remember having an attack. Although much like alcoholics, asthmatics are never cured, we’re just in lifelong recovery. Apparently over a decade later I would relapse.
The relapse happened the day I set foot in Uganda. Maybe not THE day but for someone who assumed that the days of sitting out P.E. and consulting a doctor before exercise were behind him, it was pretty clear right away that something wast right. Whether it was the dust in the air (a thin coat of red dust covers almost everything in Africa), the dense pollution, or the particles in the air here previously alien to my body, I was not prepared for the air here. If not the first day, it was only a matter of days before I needed to purchase an inhaler. The first that I’d bought in ten years. That last inhaler I bought, followed me around for six years (just in case) before I eventually threw it away in a move.
Going back to that night, although I drank a lot and had a splitting headache, there was nothing particularly wrong with me by the time Sarah and I made it home for bed. I was tired from the long day, and the two of us sank into the fake IKEA bed like we do every night.
Just past midnight I woke up with a start. My body was not in the best shape. I assumed it was the rumblings of too much Ugandan beer, which has this substance in it called sorghum, but a few trips to the bathroom didn’t help. My chest felt tight, I keep an inhaler by the bed for mild attacks during the night. I took a puff and went back to sleep. At this stage the attack was light,
Again, I woke up. My chest was tighter. I’d moved to mild. When you’re in bed and you feel like this, you start to toss and turn. You can’t breathe ob your back, side, stomach, sitting-up…but you still feel like you need to do something. Your body wants you to find a comfortable position so you can breathe. I took more puffs from the inhaler and drifted off back to sleep.
Around 4am I felt awful. This wasn’t a hangover, my stomach was convulsing and my head was swimming. This also didn’t feel like asthma but I could breathe. I made a number of trips to the bathroom and rushed over to find an inhaler (we keep several around the house in case we can’t find one when I need it). I took a puff of the inhaler. Nothing. I took another puff. Nothing. Odd. Usually two puffs from the inhaler and I’m immediately feeling better. Something was wrong.
I stumbled back to the bed, still feeling bad. At this point Sarah had woken up from all the commotion. I didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm her, so I told her I was fine and sat on the edge of the bed trying to will the attack away. There are some things that you instinctively know about a situation. I have an asthma attack, I reach for an inhaler. Even after such a long absence from my life, this is the reaction because this is what works. The inhaler was my survival so this was like drowning at sea, and reaching for a rope that’s not attached to anything. So, when I sat on the edge of our bed and tried three separate inhalers, only to have none of them do what they had always done. I was lost.
The inhalers stop the asthma.
The inhalers stop the asthma.
That’s what they do. They stop the asthma.
The asthma isn’t stopping.
That thought ran through my mind, maybe a hundred times in only a few seconds. I was panicking which is the thing all doctors try to get asthma patients NOT to do, because it only makes everything worse. But what does a doctor do when a treatment, the only thing way they know and have studied, doesn’t work? I can only assume they panic a bit too. By now I had broken into a cold sweat. The attack was getting worse and the inhalers weren’t working. The only solution I knew of in the world for a heavy attack was useless….this meant I was critical. This meant it could be fatal.
Well that realization is not one you want to come to when your objective is NOT to panic. Not at all.
Sarah rushed to my side, still awake and sensing trouble. It was time to put my pride aside, I couldn’t breath. I needed to breath.
I could barely speak but I managed to gasp, “They aren’t working.” I think she realized what this meant more immediately than I did.
I stumbled out onto our porch that over looks, Kampala. This time of morning everything was quiet. All I could hear was my own wheezing and the faint sounds of human traffic miles away. The sun was barely over the horizon. I’d gone out there because I thought fresh air would help. But that didn’t work either. I was confused and at this point I was breathing so little oxygen that I could feel myself threatening to blackout. My heart was pounding. My head was pounding. I was fully drenched in sweat. I’m convinced that, in a time before modern medical invention (long before most of us were born) this was how people died from asthma. Not wanting anything more than one final full, glorious breath of crisp air. I was petrified.
By now Sarah had rushed out of bed into some clothes…or maybe pajamas (I don’t remember)….and had called a taxi. The taxi driver usually stages at the bottom of the hill but it was barely 5 a.m. Where would he be? What would he be doing? Would it be a long wait? Were there ambulances in Kampala? Those thoughts raced through both of our minds as we waited.
Needless to say, the taxi driver arrived swifter than we imagined he would at that hour. He could tell by looking at me that there was no time for the normal pleasantries. “The surgery!” Sarah urged him. We went racing off towards the only 24 medical facility in Kampala that I know of. The rest is a blur, I know Sarah was urging me to relax, trying to soothe my breathing while the driver navigated early morning traffic. When we arrived at the Surgery I was rushed in and after explaining that it was severe asthma attack, I was put on some type of oxygen tank. I don’t know the name of the medicine (Beclomatsone?) but Sarah later told me it was a steroid but I was told to breath from it for several minutes. Eventually, I could feel the color coming back to my face, and with it an easing of my lungs. The treatment was working, I could breathe.
There are people in the world with worse asthma that I have. There are people here in Uganda with asthma and NO inhaler…their families can’t afford them. I don’t know the numbers, or have the research to back it up. But one day, provided I’m able to acquire the resources and the contacts, I will work on improving the air in Africa. Whether it’s natural triggers like dust and pollen, or artificial one’s like pollution, I assume that there’s little focus on such a big problem. I doubt the any of cars here would pass the same emissions tests that we have in the U.S. As annoying as it is, those tests were started for a reason.
Never in my life have I had an attack like that and I haven’t had one since. However, it was enough of a shock to me that I realize as long as I’m here I face quite a bit of risk. It’s not my motivation to leave, it’s even more motivation to improve conditions here for others.
Written by Jon in Life ~
On the way back from the U.S. for our Christmas Holiday, Sarah and I had a layover in one of my favorite cities. Here’s some pics of our outing that day.
Now that we are both back in Kampala, it’s business as usual. Sarah and I recently found and office space within walking distance from my house that we’ll share. In March I’ll be back in the U.S. to present at South by Southwest while Sarah heads off to Turkey to present at a water conference. Actually over the next month and a half we only see each other for a total of about a week!
Written by Jon in Photos, Travel ~
Friends from Kampala
Written by Jon in Photos, Uganda ~
Sausage and White Bean Stew
This is a recipe that I got from my mom when I started collecting them after moving to either Atlanta or to Kansas City. I’ve adapted it to make in Kampala, and it’s one of my favorites right now. I don’t suppose we’ll have the dreary winter that really makes a hearty stew feel nice and nurturant, but it is certainly nice on a rainy afternoon or evening. It makes enough for both of us to have a good dinner with leftovers for at least one lunch for both of us, but often two.
Ingredients
3-4 links sausage (spiced sausage is nice, but frozen pork sausage works fine)
1 head of greens*
2 cans cannelloni beans**
2 cans diced tomatoes***
1 can water
1 t beef stock
Directions
Make a shallow slice down the size of the sausage and remove the casing. Break up sausage into small pieces and add to a non-stick pot. Heat until sausage is browned and pretty well cooked through (5-7 minutes). Add greens and wilt. Add beans, tomatoes, water, and stock. Bring stew to a boil and let simmer for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally.
You’re done!
* My greens vary depending on what’s available. Broccoli is good (in which case chop into small pieces), but chard (called spinach at the store) works well, as do “kales.” If using greens, chop into small pieces, as well.
** Ironically, cannelloni beans are really hard to find in Tucson, somewhat easier in Atlanta, and I think non-existent in Kansas City. They are abundant in Kampala. If you can’t find them, any kind of white bean works fine, and I’d venture to say that you could substitute most beans and come out fine.
*** In Kampala I’ve found a brand of diced tomatoes that come pre-spiced (often I can find that, but not plain diced tomatoes). There are two varieties that I’ve found: Mexican and Indian. I’ve been using the Indian variety, which has been cooked with curry leaves and cumin. It comes out nicely and doesn’t require a lot of other spices.
Written by Sarah in Food, Life, recipes ~
http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/august/7/newsid_2492000/2492333.stm
1972: Asians given 90 days to leave Uganda
The Ugandan leader, Idi Amin, has set a deadline for the expulsion of most of the country’s Asians.
General Amin said all Asians who are not Ugandan citizens - around 60,000 - must leave Uganda within 90 days.
The military ruler’s latest statement amended his original expulsion order two days ago when he said all the country’s 80,000 Asians had to go.
Asians, who are the backbone of the Ugandan economy, have been living in the country for more than a century.
But resentment against them has been building up within Uganda’s black majority.
Expulsion surprises Britain
General Amin has called the Asians “bloodsuckers” and accused them of milking the economy of its wealth.
Up to 50,000 Asians in the former UK colony are British passport holders.
In a broadcast, General Amin said he would be summoning the British High Commissioner in Kampala to ask him to arrange for their removal.
The expulsion order has taken Britain by surprise.
General Amin overthrew Uganda’s elected leader in a military-backed coup last year but the British authorities had regarded him as a man they could work with.
Currently around 1,000 Asians from Uganda settle in the UK each year under an enlarged quota allocation introduced last year.
But a growing number have been attempting to circumvent the system and enter Britain illegally.
Right-wing MPs have warned that letting more Ugandan Asians into the UK could raise racial tensions.
They are urging the government not to take them in.
Conservative MP Ronald Bell said Uganda’s Asians had no real links to Britain.
Speaking on behalf of the Monday Club’s Immigration Committee, Mr Bell said: “They were either born in India or have retained close connection with India.
“They have no connection with Britain either by blood or residence.”
Written by Sarah in Articles ~
This morning, while Jon is still sleeping, I am sitting on our porch, overlooking our yard, and then the city below. I am listening to the birds in the trees in our yard and our neighbors’ yards, the occasional boda-boda driving by outside with their motors cranking hard up the hill, and their motors turned off as they coast back down, and the faint noise of Kampala in the morning. Our house is out of the fray, but a three minute walk down the hill puts us into the Kintintale market and a mess of matatu taxis, special hire taxis, and boda-bodas. On Sunday music started early in the church at the bottom of the hill and was still going when we went to sleep last night. We love where we live.
Oh it feels good to finally have a home after two and a half months of living out of suitcases in hotels.
This weekend, Jon and I made huge strides in changing what was just us and a mattress in a big, empty house into a place that is ours and that we can call home. There are still a few pieces to come, including internet and our bed, but we are getting so close.
Friday evening, while Jon was at the TEDC dinner plugging Appfrica and making some really good contacts, I began cleaning the house. I can’t figure out why, but every surface in the house was filthy. After a trip to Uchumi, a local Safeway/Kroger equivalent to buy a trunk-load of cleaning supplies, I began cleaning the kitchen. Using a sponge and some soapy water, I washed the cabinets, and drawers, got all of our dishes out of their boxes, washed them, and put them into their new homes, and then swept and mopped. A kitchen!
Then I moved on to the closets in the bedrooms, which required similar treatments, and I scrubbed the bathrooms, and mopped them, too. Jon came home as I was unpacking my bags into my closet (we each have our own closets in the Kampala house!) and swept and mopped the rest of the house. Success!
Saturday was more of the same. Jon and I had breakfast (our first meal cooked in the new house) on the porch in our little lawn chairs, and then we swept and mopped the porch. I unpacked the remainder of the bags into the guestroom (where our medicine cabinet, Scrabble, and my yoga mat now live), and the office (where countless cords and hard drives now reside).
Sunday was our big day. Jon and I made a list of the things that we still needed in order to complete our house. We took a very long trip to Game, a South African department store with a little bit of everything at fairly high prices. We were willing to pay for the convenience of a one-stop shop. Although there were a few things that were still missing after our hour and a half spree, and 770,000 UGX later, we accomplished a lot. Among our accomplishments was the buying of several garden tools that Godfrey, our guard cum gardener, is using in the yard next to where I’m sitting.
Our next mission was a kitchen table. There’s a furniture place that Jon and I pass each time we go into and out of town. I had seen some pretty kitchen chairs there that I had never been able to successfully point out to Jon. We found our way to the store (not as easy as one might think), and I pointed out the chairs that I liked. Jon liked them too, and they happened to be sitting around a pretty table that we immediately took a liking to. It’s a large, square table with rounded edges. Both the table and the chairs are made of a light-colored wood, and it’s pretty striking, we think. Our interest was too high starting out to have much in the way of bargaining power, but we liked it enough to buy it anyway. We later learned that the guy who sold us the table and delivered it ran off with the money we paid him and never returned to the shop. We were warned to be careful. My immediate reaction (though not sensitive in the slightest, and I later checked myself) was, “Well, that’s a drag, but not really our problem is it?” But of course our direct problem or not, it’s a pretty strong statement on the state of things.
Once decided on the table and the deal done, we loaded the table into a hired pick-up truck, and we followed it home. We had meant to lead the way, but our taxi driver drove too slowly for the guys in the truck—a good quality in a taxi driver, but now when you’re trying to show people where your house is. We figured it out, and the guys loaded the table and chairs into the house. At the same time, Jon and I unloaded our wares from Game.
Then we were off to Gaba Road. On our first day in Kampala, Jon and I went to the US Embassy to register ourselves as present in the country, and more importantly, register to vote. On our way there, we passed stand after stand after stand of virtually a sea of furniture. A lot of it was ugly, but we decided to head back there yesterday to see what we could find.
I think that we were both a little surprised at the quality of the furniture that we saw when we got out of the taxi. Jon quickly found a sofa set that he liked. But since it was the first stand that we talked with, we decided to take a walk up and down the row a little. Immediately across the street from that stall, we found what is now our porch furniture. It’s light and made out of reads. It’s covered in an orange, sand, and brown print depicting life in Africa. We also found a little matching coffee table. At the same place, we found a shelving unit for the bathroom, so now have a place to put our toothbrushes and various bathroom paraphernalia. We loaded all of that into a truck and asked it to wait while we continued looking.
We continued our walk down Gaba Road and found two desks that we like. We put those in a truck and then road with it to the top of the hill where our other truck and taxi were parked. At the top of the hill Jon and I went back to the first place we saw our sofa set, but while looking for that set, came across another that we liked equally well (and I liked better). It’s a sand-colored set, with a three-seat sofa and two matching chairs. It’s all leatherette or some such thing. The craftsmanship isn’t stellar, but it’s totally functional and by far the least ugly stuff we found. We loaded all of that into the pick-up with the desks (because there’s no such thing as a full truck), gave half-understood instructions to the drivers, got into our taxi, and crossed our fingers.
When finally everyone made it to the house, we unloaded everything into the house and—ah-ha! A home!
We’re thrilled with our new home.
Written by Sarah in Life ~
Uganda is an amazingly beautiful, awe inspiring place. It can make you want to laugh, cry, rejoice and scream all in the same moment. Sometimes I feel it’s aplace that the world has forgotten, because things here aren’t at all like I was told to expect. People here are friendly, eager to work and succeed, proud of their achievements (no matter how big or how meager) and very much attuned to what’s going around them. It’s far more ethnically diverse here than I thought it would be. I’ve been here less than a week and every day I’ve had some interaction with people from all over Africa, Australians, British, New Zealanders, Chinese, Japanese, Indians, Saudi Arbians and more. The number of young people from other countries oputside of Africa surprised me the most. Don’t get me wrong, ethnic and racial diversity is not the norm, but it’s far higher than I initially expected it to be.
Crime seems to be low and one the first full day we spent here Sarah and I walked through what is known as the ‘taxi park’, a place where we were later told to expect to be robbed. Of course we didn’t know this going in but the fact that we walked through from top to bottom without incident is a good thing.
On day three we found and rented a huge house in Kintintale that a former NGO worker used to live in. From the outside there is a huge gate that seperates it from the rest of the world and is has a UNICEF logo on it. We’re not sure of the full history but I imagine it will be an intriguing one when we learn the full backstory.We already know that our land lord started building in this area of Kampala in the early 70’s prior to being chased out of the country by members of Edi Amin’s administration. When he returned several years later he finished his property and began work on three more houses, one of which would eventually become ours.
The most exciting aspect of being here is knowing that when I throw a rock into the ‘waters’ here, the ripples will run far, wide and deep. It’s easy to get people’s attention here, they’re looking for something better and that something better is progress. I get the general feeling that everyone in the tech scene here has been waiting for something like Appfrica. I’ve been invited to host several workshops at Makerere University. Most people from the tech community ignore the developing world so I have the opportunity to offer something Kampala is starving for. There’s unlimited potential here and it’s up to me to make my own destiny, in the same way that Ugandans embrace their roles here, I will to.
Here’s to our new lives without borders!
Written by Jon in Africa, Life ~
