Saturday, October 9, 2010
For Jacob, Wherever I May Find Him
Exactly as the title indicates (and as Simon and Garfunkel penned): Jacob Babu, thank you for being ever there when I need you.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Recent poll: If a worm crawled out of your guava, would you still eat it? Yes.
“Assist me to become upright,” Clovis said, gesturing with open palms as if seeking help.
“I’d like to assist half the country with that one, dude...”
“No, help me to stand up.”
“Oh. Yeah... No problem.” I pull her up. Guess that can serve as my Peace Corps Duty of the Day instead?
So being south of the equator and whatnot, it’s technically Spring here. But damn, winter might as well be approaching: the rains have come, and when it rains, people hibernate. True, the maxim “when it rains, it pours” garners its literal meaning here and tin roofs and a lack of windows fall so far short of the mark in providing a conducive learning environment in schools. Okay, yeah, the rains are making my summer squash, beets and basil sprout faster than I can clear away new transplanting land. But I don’t care! To me, this meteorological alteration signifies three things: unreliable power, the disruption of playing outside all day, and boredom, eliminating any excuse I’ve had for dogging it on the blog front. The more lengthy the span between posts, the easier I find it to offer up picking mud out from underneath my fingernails as a legitimate excuse for not blogging. It would help if I took pictures…
Okay. In the two months since my last blog, I’ve been mentally torn (not to mention physically; a big “Thank you!” to Peter for steering our bicycle into that barbed wire fence): is everything different or has nothing changed? As far as adjustments I’ve made in this country go, the ones I’ve had a go at in the past 2 months have been insignificant, inconsequential, negligible. I haven’t been forced to learn a new culture, move 8 hours away, nor lived out of a backpack for longer than a week. Congratulate me. I’m feeling pretty good about this accomplishment. I’m still teaching computers to 110 13-16-year-olds. I’m still failing at learning Runyankore. I’m still loving the pace of life in the village. My head is still reeling at the possibilities for this place that stare unblinking at me through the infallible sunshine. So nothing has changed changed; unless it’s me?
There are some obvious things that have affected me. Like people. Yeah, be careful, they’ll do that to ya if you’re not obstinate. Constant vigilance, Mad-Eye, constant vigilance… But in all seriousness, I’ve had a few people really change my outlook on Uganda. I used to think that the cultural differences were too disparate, the education level gap too vast for meaningful communication, until Peter and Sanyu. Peter, a Peace Corps Volunteer from Chicago (might as well be from Timbuktu: he’s a Cub’s fan), just finished his 2 years and is extending for a third year in Botswana. He and I became fast friends over a decades-old cross-town rivalry and a knack for sarcasm. It could have also been the Hare Krishna service we strolled into one lazy Sunday in Kampala that inexplicably bonded us, religion has that power I suppose (a free lunch is always delicious, even if they were fasting from beans and grains…). But really I think I just admired his non-condescension when interacting with Ugandans. It was really refreshing and it opened my eyes to a population that enjoyed wit, toyed with the English language, and could dish out sass as easily as the best (best?) spoiled brats from suburbia. A certain lightness has to be what kept him sane during his service.
But alas, Peter is out like the Cubs and the playoffs and Sanyu is in like a new Blackhawk’s lineup. Who’s Sanyu, you say? My neighbor/school secretary/Fr. Charles’ niece/my best friend. The villagers know us to be inseperable; can I even by a tomato without Sanyu accompanying me? Nope. Why would I want to? This girl, aged 23, gets me, gets me like I’d presumed only another American could. When she’s around (which is thankfully every day, all day), I’m reminded of how generous, how understanding, how amusing Ugandans can be. I buy us a jackfruit to eat until our stomachs scream in protest and she pays be back half the next day. I help her plant beans in her garden (not even kidding, this is how it’s done: shove a handful into your mouth, store them like a chipmunk, take a swipe at the ground with a hoe, spit a seed into the hole, move on and repeat) and she’s out the next week helping me clear the knee-high weeds from mine. It seems I forget about my garden’s existence easily… I want to turn my courtyard into a dance floor and she shows up with tunes. I want to play football, jump rope, do cartwheels and handstands, learn netball, run sprints across the field, dodging grazing goats and cows all the while, and she’s right there next to me. I could go on all day, but what you need to take away from my diatribe is this: Sanyu makes me view my time in the village as so much more than “two years of service”. Her only downfall is a relentless consumption of my gum, so thanks for the dozens of packs you all have sent her way!
Right, so people have changed me. But so has the universal Ugandan contentment. Sure, sometimes it manifests itself in an lack of concern for work, children, eating, bathing, or more generally, living. But it can also surface as a “happy here in the now” attitude. Some of the best shit comes from the times you decide to cede and acquiesce to let the wind take you where it will. The power goes out before a computer lesson and instead of holing up in my room, reading a book, I play a trivia game with the kiddos. Questions I’ve received: can you kill us because all Americans know karate? Do Americans need oxygen to survive? Are Americans immortal? Is your skin 100 times softer than ours? Pretty confident those ones’ll stick with me for a while.
General contentment comes with removing stressors as well. What does that mean for me? No marathon training! And safaris! Why take 10 hours out of your week submitting yourself to harassment and hills when you can be playing football with kids? Why put in extra hours working, the only one to do so, when you can get up close and personal with elephants and lions on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park? Exactly. Exactly…
But don’t get me wrong, I am working! As proof, I’ll leave ya’ll with a little doozy from one of my girl students that left me staggering during my reproductive health and sex ed. lesson: “can you lose your virginity by riding a bike or climbing a tree?” Ha. Ha. Help me.
“I’d like to assist half the country with that one, dude...”
“No, help me to stand up.”
“Oh. Yeah... No problem.” I pull her up. Guess that can serve as my Peace Corps Duty of the Day instead?
So being south of the equator and whatnot, it’s technically Spring here. But damn, winter might as well be approaching: the rains have come, and when it rains, people hibernate. True, the maxim “when it rains, it pours” garners its literal meaning here and tin roofs and a lack of windows fall so far short of the mark in providing a conducive learning environment in schools. Okay, yeah, the rains are making my summer squash, beets and basil sprout faster than I can clear away new transplanting land. But I don’t care! To me, this meteorological alteration signifies three things: unreliable power, the disruption of playing outside all day, and boredom, eliminating any excuse I’ve had for dogging it on the blog front. The more lengthy the span between posts, the easier I find it to offer up picking mud out from underneath my fingernails as a legitimate excuse for not blogging. It would help if I took pictures…
Okay. In the two months since my last blog, I’ve been mentally torn (not to mention physically; a big “Thank you!” to Peter for steering our bicycle into that barbed wire fence): is everything different or has nothing changed? As far as adjustments I’ve made in this country go, the ones I’ve had a go at in the past 2 months have been insignificant, inconsequential, negligible. I haven’t been forced to learn a new culture, move 8 hours away, nor lived out of a backpack for longer than a week. Congratulate me. I’m feeling pretty good about this accomplishment. I’m still teaching computers to 110 13-16-year-olds. I’m still failing at learning Runyankore. I’m still loving the pace of life in the village. My head is still reeling at the possibilities for this place that stare unblinking at me through the infallible sunshine. So nothing has changed changed; unless it’s me?
There are some obvious things that have affected me. Like people. Yeah, be careful, they’ll do that to ya if you’re not obstinate. Constant vigilance, Mad-Eye, constant vigilance… But in all seriousness, I’ve had a few people really change my outlook on Uganda. I used to think that the cultural differences were too disparate, the education level gap too vast for meaningful communication, until Peter and Sanyu. Peter, a Peace Corps Volunteer from Chicago (might as well be from Timbuktu: he’s a Cub’s fan), just finished his 2 years and is extending for a third year in Botswana. He and I became fast friends over a decades-old cross-town rivalry and a knack for sarcasm. It could have also been the Hare Krishna service we strolled into one lazy Sunday in Kampala that inexplicably bonded us, religion has that power I suppose (a free lunch is always delicious, even if they were fasting from beans and grains…). But really I think I just admired his non-condescension when interacting with Ugandans. It was really refreshing and it opened my eyes to a population that enjoyed wit, toyed with the English language, and could dish out sass as easily as the best (best?) spoiled brats from suburbia. A certain lightness has to be what kept him sane during his service.
But alas, Peter is out like the Cubs and the playoffs and Sanyu is in like a new Blackhawk’s lineup. Who’s Sanyu, you say? My neighbor/school secretary/Fr. Charles’ niece/my best friend. The villagers know us to be inseperable; can I even by a tomato without Sanyu accompanying me? Nope. Why would I want to? This girl, aged 23, gets me, gets me like I’d presumed only another American could. When she’s around (which is thankfully every day, all day), I’m reminded of how generous, how understanding, how amusing Ugandans can be. I buy us a jackfruit to eat until our stomachs scream in protest and she pays be back half the next day. I help her plant beans in her garden (not even kidding, this is how it’s done: shove a handful into your mouth, store them like a chipmunk, take a swipe at the ground with a hoe, spit a seed into the hole, move on and repeat) and she’s out the next week helping me clear the knee-high weeds from mine. It seems I forget about my garden’s existence easily… I want to turn my courtyard into a dance floor and she shows up with tunes. I want to play football, jump rope, do cartwheels and handstands, learn netball, run sprints across the field, dodging grazing goats and cows all the while, and she’s right there next to me. I could go on all day, but what you need to take away from my diatribe is this: Sanyu makes me view my time in the village as so much more than “two years of service”. Her only downfall is a relentless consumption of my gum, so thanks for the dozens of packs you all have sent her way!
Right, so people have changed me. But so has the universal Ugandan contentment. Sure, sometimes it manifests itself in an lack of concern for work, children, eating, bathing, or more generally, living. But it can also surface as a “happy here in the now” attitude. Some of the best shit comes from the times you decide to cede and acquiesce to let the wind take you where it will. The power goes out before a computer lesson and instead of holing up in my room, reading a book, I play a trivia game with the kiddos. Questions I’ve received: can you kill us because all Americans know karate? Do Americans need oxygen to survive? Are Americans immortal? Is your skin 100 times softer than ours? Pretty confident those ones’ll stick with me for a while.
General contentment comes with removing stressors as well. What does that mean for me? No marathon training! And safaris! Why take 10 hours out of your week submitting yourself to harassment and hills when you can be playing football with kids? Why put in extra hours working, the only one to do so, when you can get up close and personal with elephants and lions on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park? Exactly. Exactly…
But don’t get me wrong, I am working! As proof, I’ll leave ya’ll with a little doozy from one of my girl students that left me staggering during my reproductive health and sex ed. lesson: “can you lose your virginity by riding a bike or climbing a tree?” Ha. Ha. Help me.
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Here's an article I wrote for our monthy Peace Corps Newsletter. Not exactly the same thing as a full-fledged blog post, but one is forthcoming, scout's honor. Sorry that a good 3/10 of it can't be applied to the U.S....
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Whether or not you worried about your diet in the States, I’m sure that in Uganda most of you have experienced some reservations, pangs of guilt, uncertainty, or sleepless nights for those in the high-strung group, over what you’re putting into your body. Sure, it’s a fact that posho makes you stronger than any other food, but what about the other dubious foodstuffs here? I don’t claim to be a nutritionist and some of my facts may come from questionable sources, or be entirely fabricated where research was dearth, but let me attempt to answer some of your burning (calories) questions about the Ugandan diet.
Is sugarcane good for you?
Heck yes! Sure sugar is derived from it, but in the raw and unprocessed form sugarcane has a very low glycemic index, meaning that it produces only small fluctuations in your blood glucose and insulin levels. Hence, good for diabetics, reduces the risk of heart disease and beneficial in weight loss. With a high water content , it beats soda and beer as a hydration agent. High in potassium, it works as a decent laxative, should the need arise here… Claims have been made that sugarcane strengthens the stomach, kidneys, heart, eyes, brain and sex organs, prevents sore throat, cold and flu, fights cancer and speeds up the recovery process after jaundice. Hallelujah, no more living in constant fear that your eyes are yellowing!
Ugandans never eat raw vegetables, probably to avoid germs, but does cooking eliminate all of their nutritional content?
Cooking actually boosts your body’s ability to absorb the nutrients in some vegetables. For example, the cancer-fighting nutrient lycopene is stronger in cooked tomato sauce than in raw tomatoes. However, overboiling veggies results in nutrients seeping out into the boiling water. Steaming and roasting vegetables, or using the water to make a soup, can help retain the most nutrition.
With the massive quantities of salt Ugandan’s throw into the pot, are we ingesting more salt here than we would be in the States?
Up to 75% of the sodium Americans consume comes from sodium added to processed food by manufactures. Americans on average consume 3,436mg of sodium daily. The recommended amount is under 1,500mg per day. This is equivalent to about ¾ tsp of salt. That’s not a lot, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about your own individual diets. Sure, processed cheeses, canned soups, packaged chips, and crackers are no longer available readily, but Ugandans probably could be encouraged to use spices, herbs and lemon (why do they call them "oranges"?) juice to flavor fish and chips.
Matooke: high in carbohydrates and devoid of nutrients, or does it have redeeming qualities?
Let’s get this straight, tell all your Ugandan friends: matooke contains no protein. It contains no fiber. What it does have is water, vitamin C and potassium. In fact, one matooke banana allegedly has as much potassium as 2 ½ yellow bananas. However, the method of cooking matooke in Uganda completely squanders these redeeming nutrients; it should be steamed in its peel (n.b. my writing is clearly biased here). But here’s a little known fact: matooke bananas do turn yellow when ripe and can be eaten, but are not as sweet as Kabalagala or Bagoya (baby and bigboy bananas, respectively).
Let’s here the same verdict on cassava. Add on sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes and posho while we're at it, too.
With about 330 calories per cup, cassava is a pure carbohydrate. Sure it has neither fat nor cholesterol and does contain fiber and vitamin C, but cassava has no protein and is “good for weight gain”. As far as Irish potatoes go, it clearly makes a difference whether they’re baked or boiled, with skin or without. Ala Uganda (boiled without skin), they’re more carbohydrate dense than cassava but contain more nutrients, specifically vitamins B and C, fiber and potassium. Bake 'em with skin, and they’re teeming with vitamins and minerals. What normally accompanies posho is beans. Taken together, amino acid intake is complete but protein and vitamin levels are nowhere near met. Posho doesn’t even have the calories needed to impact weight gain. What posho lacks in Vitamin A, which correlates with malnutrition, is made up for by sweet potatoes. High in calories, true, but more vitamin-dense.
Speaking of bananas, can a person consume a health-jeopardizing quantity of yellow bananas?
No. Unless you’re popping Potassium pills at the same time. But the big ones pack about 100 calories per shaft, so 5 or more a day can add up…
Ugandans seem to think that pumpkin is a “food” (read: carb) like matooke or potatoes. True or false?
Pumpkin is actually a vegetable, more akin to the American acorn squash than anything. That said, it is extremely low in calories (about 50 of the little guys per cup) and contains a heap of vitamins and minerals: A, B, C, K, Dietary Fiber Potassium, Folate, Riboflavin, Copper, Manganese and Iron. Pumpkin contains a high dose of the essential antioxidant beta-carotene, which may reduce the risk of developing certain types of cancer, protects against heart disease and stalls the degenerative effects of aging. That being said, you should probably try the recipe at the end of this newsletter to get your pumpkin fix.
Protein can be somewhat of an issue for Ugandan kids. What are the daily protein requirements of a growing body (that also digs, treks two miles to school and carries jerrycans of water on the head)?
The daily recommended intake of protein for children aged 1-3 years is 13 grams; aged 4-8 years is 19 grams; aged 9-13 years is 34 grams. One cup of beans/cowpeas has 14 grams of protein, as does 2 oz of meat, fish or chicken or 2 oz of nuts. One egg has 6 grams of protein and one cup of milk has 10 grams. I’d recommend tacking on some grams to the recommended intake, as these numbers are for American children, who are a great deal more sedentary than Ugandan kids. So, acquiring enough protein could be an issue for older Ugandan children, if not all children.
“Glucose is a nutrient that needs to be supplemented.”
No. Glucose is the physiological name for a simple sugar. It does not need to be supplemented; Ugandans get enough of it in porridge, tea, cakes and fruits. Glucose packets: probably not a good idea.
None of them are particularly good for you, but what’s the worst of the worst: Kimbo, Blueband or Ghee?
Here’s my translation of these products: Kimbo = Crisco vegetable shortening, Blueband = Land O Lakes margarine, Ghee = butter, somehow. Therefore, Kimbo has a higher fat content (100%) compared to Blueband and Ghee (about 80%). Ghee is unprocessed and is solely comprised of milk, according to some semi-reliable Ugandans. However, both Blueband and Kimbo are fortified with vitamins. A negligible benefit when considering the trans fat, calorie, sodium and cholesterol contents.
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Whether or not you worried about your diet in the States, I’m sure that in Uganda most of you have experienced some reservations, pangs of guilt, uncertainty, or sleepless nights for those in the high-strung group, over what you’re putting into your body. Sure, it’s a fact that posho makes you stronger than any other food, but what about the other dubious foodstuffs here? I don’t claim to be a nutritionist and some of my facts may come from questionable sources, or be entirely fabricated where research was dearth, but let me attempt to answer some of your burning (calories) questions about the Ugandan diet.
Is sugarcane good for you?
Heck yes! Sure sugar is derived from it, but in the raw and unprocessed form sugarcane has a very low glycemic index, meaning that it produces only small fluctuations in your blood glucose and insulin levels. Hence, good for diabetics, reduces the risk of heart disease and beneficial in weight loss. With a high water content , it beats soda and beer as a hydration agent. High in potassium, it works as a decent laxative, should the need arise here… Claims have been made that sugarcane strengthens the stomach, kidneys, heart, eyes, brain and sex organs, prevents sore throat, cold and flu, fights cancer and speeds up the recovery process after jaundice. Hallelujah, no more living in constant fear that your eyes are yellowing!
Ugandans never eat raw vegetables, probably to avoid germs, but does cooking eliminate all of their nutritional content?
Cooking actually boosts your body’s ability to absorb the nutrients in some vegetables. For example, the cancer-fighting nutrient lycopene is stronger in cooked tomato sauce than in raw tomatoes. However, overboiling veggies results in nutrients seeping out into the boiling water. Steaming and roasting vegetables, or using the water to make a soup, can help retain the most nutrition.
With the massive quantities of salt Ugandan’s throw into the pot, are we ingesting more salt here than we would be in the States?
Up to 75% of the sodium Americans consume comes from sodium added to processed food by manufactures. Americans on average consume 3,436mg of sodium daily. The recommended amount is under 1,500mg per day. This is equivalent to about ¾ tsp of salt. That’s not a lot, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about your own individual diets. Sure, processed cheeses, canned soups, packaged chips, and crackers are no longer available readily, but Ugandans probably could be encouraged to use spices, herbs and lemon (why do they call them "oranges"?) juice to flavor fish and chips.
Matooke: high in carbohydrates and devoid of nutrients, or does it have redeeming qualities?
Let’s get this straight, tell all your Ugandan friends: matooke contains no protein. It contains no fiber. What it does have is water, vitamin C and potassium. In fact, one matooke banana allegedly has as much potassium as 2 ½ yellow bananas. However, the method of cooking matooke in Uganda completely squanders these redeeming nutrients; it should be steamed in its peel (n.b. my writing is clearly biased here). But here’s a little known fact: matooke bananas do turn yellow when ripe and can be eaten, but are not as sweet as Kabalagala or Bagoya (baby and bigboy bananas, respectively).
Let’s here the same verdict on cassava. Add on sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes and posho while we're at it, too.
With about 330 calories per cup, cassava is a pure carbohydrate. Sure it has neither fat nor cholesterol and does contain fiber and vitamin C, but cassava has no protein and is “good for weight gain”. As far as Irish potatoes go, it clearly makes a difference whether they’re baked or boiled, with skin or without. Ala Uganda (boiled without skin), they’re more carbohydrate dense than cassava but contain more nutrients, specifically vitamins B and C, fiber and potassium. Bake 'em with skin, and they’re teeming with vitamins and minerals. What normally accompanies posho is beans. Taken together, amino acid intake is complete but protein and vitamin levels are nowhere near met. Posho doesn’t even have the calories needed to impact weight gain. What posho lacks in Vitamin A, which correlates with malnutrition, is made up for by sweet potatoes. High in calories, true, but more vitamin-dense.
Speaking of bananas, can a person consume a health-jeopardizing quantity of yellow bananas?
No. Unless you’re popping Potassium pills at the same time. But the big ones pack about 100 calories per shaft, so 5 or more a day can add up…
Ugandans seem to think that pumpkin is a “food” (read: carb) like matooke or potatoes. True or false?
Pumpkin is actually a vegetable, more akin to the American acorn squash than anything. That said, it is extremely low in calories (about 50 of the little guys per cup) and contains a heap of vitamins and minerals: A, B, C, K, Dietary Fiber Potassium, Folate, Riboflavin, Copper, Manganese and Iron. Pumpkin contains a high dose of the essential antioxidant beta-carotene, which may reduce the risk of developing certain types of cancer, protects against heart disease and stalls the degenerative effects of aging. That being said, you should probably try the recipe at the end of this newsletter to get your pumpkin fix.
Protein can be somewhat of an issue for Ugandan kids. What are the daily protein requirements of a growing body (that also digs, treks two miles to school and carries jerrycans of water on the head)?
The daily recommended intake of protein for children aged 1-3 years is 13 grams; aged 4-8 years is 19 grams; aged 9-13 years is 34 grams. One cup of beans/cowpeas has 14 grams of protein, as does 2 oz of meat, fish or chicken or 2 oz of nuts. One egg has 6 grams of protein and one cup of milk has 10 grams. I’d recommend tacking on some grams to the recommended intake, as these numbers are for American children, who are a great deal more sedentary than Ugandan kids. So, acquiring enough protein could be an issue for older Ugandan children, if not all children.
“Glucose is a nutrient that needs to be supplemented.”
No. Glucose is the physiological name for a simple sugar. It does not need to be supplemented; Ugandans get enough of it in porridge, tea, cakes and fruits. Glucose packets: probably not a good idea.
None of them are particularly good for you, but what’s the worst of the worst: Kimbo, Blueband or Ghee?
Here’s my translation of these products: Kimbo = Crisco vegetable shortening, Blueband = Land O Lakes margarine, Ghee = butter, somehow. Therefore, Kimbo has a higher fat content (100%) compared to Blueband and Ghee (about 80%). Ghee is unprocessed and is solely comprised of milk, according to some semi-reliable Ugandans. However, both Blueband and Kimbo are fortified with vitamins. A negligible benefit when considering the trans fat, calorie, sodium and cholesterol contents.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Lesson planning sucks
Mukurikeyo! Welcome back!
I am officially a teacher. Be assured, this hasn’t been on my Life List since I forced a too young and over-boisterous Carl into the basement for a summer, enticing him with phonics and fractions instead of wiffleball and chase. A failed attempt. But round two’s proving quite enjoyable. It may have something to do with these kids being so eager to learn that they literally sprint, chairs held fast over their heads, from the school to my computer lab 200 yards down the road. I suppose 8 to 9 years of schooling with nary a textbook, newspaper, novel, computer, video, science experiment or playground will weigh one down with the burden of ignorance. So, I teach, asking of my students all the while, “are you picking?” (a Uganglish corruption of “are you picking up on the meaning of what I’m saying?”). Allow me to demonstrate…
A lesson in change: of language and perceptions; potential: both human and environmental; and salvation: not eternal, merely temporary.
I’ve shifted from Luganda country to Runyankore, forcing me to start afresh with my language learning. Luckily I’m right off the main tarmac, so Luganda speakers are common. Also lucky: Ugandans get a kick out of my obvious confusion, filling in my Runyankore void with Luganda and the Luganda void with English. They tease me that I speak a language all my own: Lugandankore. But my determination to catch up has been thwarted by an unexpected difficulty in finding a tutor. I sat with the local primary school English teacher, thinking his pace would suit my beginner’s speed. Not so. Spending an hour assuring him that I did, in fact, know the alphabet was quite frustrating. He was fired. Meh, I’ll find a new one with time…
But time truly does impede upon all perceptions. I now see the human child behind the filth and rags. Eat matooke with vigor. Consider coming home after the holidays a worthwhile venture instead of a death sentence. Board a bus for an 8 hour ride with patience as if it were two. Look into the faces of 28 other volunteers and see a family, when 6 months ago these strangers could do no right in my eyes. And seek out Ugandan friends for comfort and entertainment; they are peers, no longer a different species. Two of my favorite people in Uganda (barring Fr. Charles because let’s face it: he’s American) are my counterpart, Winnie, and Deacon Dez from the local parish. Deacon Dez is in limbo between university and priesthood. So for now, he eats, sleeps, goes to church, drinks Guinness and shoots the shit with me. Winnie follows an equally taxing schedule as St. Thomas’ secretary/bursar: sleep at her desk, eat at her desk, bug me to gossip with her at her desk. The other day she asked me to throw her a graduation party (from what, I don’t know). As invitees: yellow bananas and millet porridge. My response: wft? Equally as amusing, Deacon Dez and I had a long compare-and-contrast sesh on Ugandan vs. American perceptions of medical care. He complained of a nagging toothache. I told him to see a dentist. He asked me if I’d ever seen a dentist’s office in Uganda. Um, I think not… He says: but Americans see a doctor for EVERYTHING, not so? Me: Yeah, so what? Check out our life expectancy, dude. Two days later, a phone call from Deacon Dez: “I followed your advice and saw a dentist. He pulled four teeth. I only eat porridge now, damnit.” My bad. But Winnie and Dez, constant entertainment.
One of the advantages of going to a new place is that everything is new to you. Obvious, yeah I know. But think about it: these students have been stereotyped into their personae for years, becoming self-fulfilling prophecies of brains, athletes, basket-cases, princesses, criminals or whatever (80s cult classics anyone?). Then I show up behind a cloud of dust (man the dry season really does a number on the whole breathing activity)and all of these kids have the opportunity to wholly reinvent themselves for my analysis. And hey, shame of me for thinking my Psych degree was superfluous; Howard Gardner’s theory on multiple intelligences has proved quite useful not only in teaching but also in promoting egalitarianism. Take one of my favorite students, Brian. This kid’s a pitbull of a boy: small, scowling, unmotivated and pushes his luck if he sees you waver. But the first time he registered on my radar was when I went to chide him for having a program open that was clearly not Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing. A few lessons before I had attempted to get the students to master mouse movements by showing them a math trick with the calculator accessory. No matter which number was chosen, after a series of calculations, the final solution would always be 7. I know, “wow!”, right? All I got was a lot of blank stares and repeating decimals. But here’s Brian, two weeks later, replicating the multistep process on the calculator, ending with 7. “Never mind that you’re not practicing your ASDFJKL; positioning, you remember this?” “Yes.” “And you understand it?” “Yes.” Holy mother of God this kid’s smart. Chills abound. The best part (or worst depending on how you want to look at it) is that when I told Fr. Charles about Brian over a tilapia, potatoes and avocado dinner was that he was astounded. In fact, after his initial gape, he confided that he was contemplating giving Brian the ol’ heave-ho for poor performance, insubordination, and overall lack of motivation. What a disaster. But as long as I’m here, Brian will be too. This kid’s smile blows my mind every time I see it…
Brian’s just one student; I have 114 others, and they’re all unique. Victor, Anthony, Sebuwufu and Ronald x 2 forgo break tea to goof off on the computers. That’s fine, even solitaire teaches mouse control… Fiona kicks ass at Sudoku. Desire and Josephine are indignant at the fact that only the boys have a volleyball team. Mudathru can draw like it’s nobody’s business. I’m sure the list goes on; I’ve only been at St. Thomas for a month and a half. But my list of things these students should and must experience in the next 20 months is a mile and a half long.
I don’t feel like delving into the untapped potential of my surrounds, but how access to water can be the biggest day-to-day challenge for these people when there are over 40 fresh water lakes in the district is a huge mystery to me. Hopefully a solution will be elucidated in time, finishing a damn blog post was a bigger challenge for me today…
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not over the moon, slap an “F yeah Uganda!” tattoo on my ass, Angelina Jolie an African baby happy to be here all the time. Frustrations are encountered every day, being all the more potent when they’re unforeseen. A teacher canes a student. A drunkard stumbles past the computer lab, proposing marriage. A primary school uniform-clad girl calls me a sinner as I run past. You get the gist. My salvation? Running. So you can imagine how craptacular it is when these slaps in the face turn up at the start of a 10-mile training run. But for the most part, marathon training delays my approaching lunacy. But when running fails (in the form of a pursuing punk kid), nail polish, organic lip gloss, cereal, mints and magazines from the fine people in Illinois do the trick. Bet you’ve never seen anyone cry over new body lotion before, have you? And you won’t, I’m still horrible at taking pictures.
I am officially a teacher. Be assured, this hasn’t been on my Life List since I forced a too young and over-boisterous Carl into the basement for a summer, enticing him with phonics and fractions instead of wiffleball and chase. A failed attempt. But round two’s proving quite enjoyable. It may have something to do with these kids being so eager to learn that they literally sprint, chairs held fast over their heads, from the school to my computer lab 200 yards down the road. I suppose 8 to 9 years of schooling with nary a textbook, newspaper, novel, computer, video, science experiment or playground will weigh one down with the burden of ignorance. So, I teach, asking of my students all the while, “are you picking?” (a Uganglish corruption of “are you picking up on the meaning of what I’m saying?”). Allow me to demonstrate…
A lesson in change: of language and perceptions; potential: both human and environmental; and salvation: not eternal, merely temporary.
I’ve shifted from Luganda country to Runyankore, forcing me to start afresh with my language learning. Luckily I’m right off the main tarmac, so Luganda speakers are common. Also lucky: Ugandans get a kick out of my obvious confusion, filling in my Runyankore void with Luganda and the Luganda void with English. They tease me that I speak a language all my own: Lugandankore. But my determination to catch up has been thwarted by an unexpected difficulty in finding a tutor. I sat with the local primary school English teacher, thinking his pace would suit my beginner’s speed. Not so. Spending an hour assuring him that I did, in fact, know the alphabet was quite frustrating. He was fired. Meh, I’ll find a new one with time…
But time truly does impede upon all perceptions. I now see the human child behind the filth and rags. Eat matooke with vigor. Consider coming home after the holidays a worthwhile venture instead of a death sentence. Board a bus for an 8 hour ride with patience as if it were two. Look into the faces of 28 other volunteers and see a family, when 6 months ago these strangers could do no right in my eyes. And seek out Ugandan friends for comfort and entertainment; they are peers, no longer a different species. Two of my favorite people in Uganda (barring Fr. Charles because let’s face it: he’s American) are my counterpart, Winnie, and Deacon Dez from the local parish. Deacon Dez is in limbo between university and priesthood. So for now, he eats, sleeps, goes to church, drinks Guinness and shoots the shit with me. Winnie follows an equally taxing schedule as St. Thomas’ secretary/bursar: sleep at her desk, eat at her desk, bug me to gossip with her at her desk. The other day she asked me to throw her a graduation party (from what, I don’t know). As invitees: yellow bananas and millet porridge. My response: wft? Equally as amusing, Deacon Dez and I had a long compare-and-contrast sesh on Ugandan vs. American perceptions of medical care. He complained of a nagging toothache. I told him to see a dentist. He asked me if I’d ever seen a dentist’s office in Uganda. Um, I think not… He says: but Americans see a doctor for EVERYTHING, not so? Me: Yeah, so what? Check out our life expectancy, dude. Two days later, a phone call from Deacon Dez: “I followed your advice and saw a dentist. He pulled four teeth. I only eat porridge now, damnit.” My bad. But Winnie and Dez, constant entertainment.
One of the advantages of going to a new place is that everything is new to you. Obvious, yeah I know. But think about it: these students have been stereotyped into their personae for years, becoming self-fulfilling prophecies of brains, athletes, basket-cases, princesses, criminals or whatever (80s cult classics anyone?). Then I show up behind a cloud of dust (man the dry season really does a number on the whole breathing activity)and all of these kids have the opportunity to wholly reinvent themselves for my analysis. And hey, shame of me for thinking my Psych degree was superfluous; Howard Gardner’s theory on multiple intelligences has proved quite useful not only in teaching but also in promoting egalitarianism. Take one of my favorite students, Brian. This kid’s a pitbull of a boy: small, scowling, unmotivated and pushes his luck if he sees you waver. But the first time he registered on my radar was when I went to chide him for having a program open that was clearly not Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing. A few lessons before I had attempted to get the students to master mouse movements by showing them a math trick with the calculator accessory. No matter which number was chosen, after a series of calculations, the final solution would always be 7. I know, “wow!”, right? All I got was a lot of blank stares and repeating decimals. But here’s Brian, two weeks later, replicating the multistep process on the calculator, ending with 7. “Never mind that you’re not practicing your ASDFJKL; positioning, you remember this?” “Yes.” “And you understand it?” “Yes.” Holy mother of God this kid’s smart. Chills abound. The best part (or worst depending on how you want to look at it) is that when I told Fr. Charles about Brian over a tilapia, potatoes and avocado dinner was that he was astounded. In fact, after his initial gape, he confided that he was contemplating giving Brian the ol’ heave-ho for poor performance, insubordination, and overall lack of motivation. What a disaster. But as long as I’m here, Brian will be too. This kid’s smile blows my mind every time I see it…
Brian’s just one student; I have 114 others, and they’re all unique. Victor, Anthony, Sebuwufu and Ronald x 2 forgo break tea to goof off on the computers. That’s fine, even solitaire teaches mouse control… Fiona kicks ass at Sudoku. Desire and Josephine are indignant at the fact that only the boys have a volleyball team. Mudathru can draw like it’s nobody’s business. I’m sure the list goes on; I’ve only been at St. Thomas for a month and a half. But my list of things these students should and must experience in the next 20 months is a mile and a half long.
I don’t feel like delving into the untapped potential of my surrounds, but how access to water can be the biggest day-to-day challenge for these people when there are over 40 fresh water lakes in the district is a huge mystery to me. Hopefully a solution will be elucidated in time, finishing a damn blog post was a bigger challenge for me today…
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not over the moon, slap an “F yeah Uganda!” tattoo on my ass, Angelina Jolie an African baby happy to be here all the time. Frustrations are encountered every day, being all the more potent when they’re unforeseen. A teacher canes a student. A drunkard stumbles past the computer lab, proposing marriage. A primary school uniform-clad girl calls me a sinner as I run past. You get the gist. My salvation? Running. So you can imagine how craptacular it is when these slaps in the face turn up at the start of a 10-mile training run. But for the most part, marathon training delays my approaching lunacy. But when running fails (in the form of a pursuing punk kid), nail polish, organic lip gloss, cereal, mints and magazines from the fine people in Illinois do the trick. Bet you’ve never seen anyone cry over new body lotion before, have you? And you won’t, I’m still horrible at taking pictures.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I found an Indy hair in my lotion today a.k.a. I feel home
After the World Cup Final on Sunday night, Spain vs. Netherlands, two bombs went off in Kampala, more specifically, in White Kampala. The death toll hangs around 85; the people are saddened and suspicious. Ex-patriots fear targeting, while the Somalese terrorist group Al-Shabaab bears the brunt of the accusations. But when Peace Corps woke me up at 7am Monday morning, my first reaction was to silently plead: “don’t send us home!” Luckily our instructions were to stand fast at our sites until further notice, yet I had to ask myself how, after 5 months of uncomfortable settling in, setting out, wandering over and nearly sinking under, I could remain so obstinate in my desire to stay in Uganda. Well the explanation is clear; one has only to look to my new site: St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School in Bunyaruguru, Bushenyi.
Making the 6 hour journey to my new site last Tuesday I experienced a pendulum of emotions. Anticipation, anxiety, animosity towards the past, apathy, agitation… Got any more A words? Chances are it was there. But I was taken A-back (man I’m good) when I found my concluding and enduring emotion to be sheer, tears-in-my-eyes, uncontrollable joy. Holy balls is Bushenyi gorgeous. If Uganda is the Pearl of Africa, then surely Bushenyi is a frickin’ 20 karat blood diamond. Pictures to come, patience is a virtue you know, but for now be content with this: Acres and acres of tea plantations and untarnished, protected jungle are interrupted by fathoms-deep crater lakes sitting at the base of rocky, pine tree-studded bluffs and rolling hills. So let’s see… Bushenyi could well be hailed as the capital of lakes, tea, honey, hills, cool breezes and bananas. Oh yeah, and Queen Elizabeth National Park is 10 minutes away; I’ve already driven past savannahs teeming with antelope and wildebeest half a dozen times (one being for the lone purpose of buying “the best smoked fish in Uganda” from a roadside stand at the river connecting Lake George and Lake Edward).
And who took me to pick out fish? Fr. Charles, the director of St. Thomas and my new roommate. The “WELOME HOME!” sign on my door said it all when my 6 hour drive ended; Charles has done an immaculate job of welcoming me to St. Thomas and Bunyaruguru. Not only has he opened his house to me à la the “what’s mine is yours” philosophy (more deets on the digs to follow; ps DWE that’s all the French I’ve retained…), but the intense 1. community leaders-attended dinner party with me as the guest of honor, giving my Peace Corps/personal history spiel via powerpoint presentation created with an hour’s notice, and 2. A speech given at Sunday mass… by me… to 400 villagers… in Runyankore… with an hour’s notice (what is it with the time paradox in Africa? No one seems to accomplish anything yet everything is last minute!) have been impeccably balanced by Charles with meals at stunning Queen Elizabeth resorts and jaunts with local university kids who reinforce my conviction in Ugandans’ intelligence and good humor. Just last night, in fact, I returned home soaking wet from a walk around the Africa Lake (it’s shaped liked Africa apparently; must climb the hills and look down to believe it) with Charles’ brother Peter, to Fr. Charles unpacking a new blender from his recent shopping spree in the nearest town. “Wanna make orange/pineapple/passion fruit juice?!” he goes. Heck yes! And I see you’ve bought about 50 or so oranges to do so. I’ll just forget about the part about me having to run run run (Phoenix, anyone?), taking shelter with some pigs when the rains caught us unawares a few minutes ago.
The best, yet somehow unbelievable, part is that something similar happens every day. I suppose I ought to give a character description of Charles for you to truly understand how awesome my life has become. Charles is a Ugandan priest who just so happens to be so ridiculously intelligent that he’s spent something like 6 years in the States getting two Master’s Degrees from two universities (St. Ambrose in the Quad Cities being one) and is heading back to NYC in September for his PhD. He returned to his home of Bunyaruguru a year ago to build a much-needed secondary school for the village. In that time, he mobilized the community to raise funds for the school, which now houses 150 freshman and sophomore students (called S1 and S2). Dormitories, a health clinic, and a second classroom block for juniors and seniors are well underway. I liken him to our dear Fr. Gavin in his station in the community: everybody knows him and everybody can readily relate an anecdote illustrating his benevolence. But this man is definitely quirky: he shipped 19 4x4x4 or however big boxes to Uganda from America before he left. What was in them? Dozens of books. Hundreds of DVDs. Thousands of rosaries. And grass seed. Man he loves American lawns! And now one sprouts on the side of the house. In fact, he’s out watering it as I sit here typing…
The second day I spent in Bunyaruguru, Charles disclosed to me that because he was treated so well by those fine Americans living in Moline, IL, he wanted nothing more than an American Peace Corps volunteer to spoil in Africa. Gotta love the pay-it-forward mentality, because spoil me, he has. Even if he wasn’t ridiculously accommodating, I wouldn’t find it hard to manage in his electricity-bearing, hot shower-yielding, stove and oven-containing, flat screen with DSTV-housing residence. I try not to let the fact that I harbor no guilt towards this weigh on my conscience. But honestly, what I care most about is that my room is cozy, my bed is big, the people are wave-and-clap-their-hands-when-I-pass-by friendly, the children are gorgeous (the Banyankore people have got some mysterious beautification gene it seems), and the computer lab I teach in is connected to my house.
So this computer lab… 9 computers, one of which doesn’t work, so 8 computers. I teach six 40-minute classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday; each class harbors 16-25 students, yeah for 8 computers. It’s a challenge to say the least, and that’s when the power’s not going kaput in the middle of showing them how to minimize and maximize a tab (I kid you not, that’s the kind of information that makes up my lesson plans). Although they battle to discern my accent and they’d prefer to swap witty banter with me about life, today I was filled with pride when Charles came home with a note written by the Head Boy kindly requesting that a generator be provided for the lab so that my computer classes do not have to be cancelled when the electricity disappoints. Turns out this is an appeal far superior to their prior requests for break snacks and shortened school days to watch the World Cup. So hopefully things continue to go well. But even when they’re not, and I’m storming into my room, blasting music to drown out my frustration at the deficient education systems and electricity grid, someone like Ndisiima, Charles’ housegirl, will be there to throw me a lifesaver, this time in the form of an impromptu dance party during which she wore my bike helmet and carried my stuffed dog (he’s a boxer and he sleeps with me every night) on her back like a baby.
Welp, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Pictures are truly forthcoming, as should be emails from you to me to which I will take an unseemly amount of time responding. Or can I tempt you with a novelty? Snail mail me!
Sister Renee Vuillaume
St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School
P.O. Box 176
Bushenyi, Uganda
Making the 6 hour journey to my new site last Tuesday I experienced a pendulum of emotions. Anticipation, anxiety, animosity towards the past, apathy, agitation… Got any more A words? Chances are it was there. But I was taken A-back (man I’m good) when I found my concluding and enduring emotion to be sheer, tears-in-my-eyes, uncontrollable joy. Holy balls is Bushenyi gorgeous. If Uganda is the Pearl of Africa, then surely Bushenyi is a frickin’ 20 karat blood diamond. Pictures to come, patience is a virtue you know, but for now be content with this: Acres and acres of tea plantations and untarnished, protected jungle are interrupted by fathoms-deep crater lakes sitting at the base of rocky, pine tree-studded bluffs and rolling hills. So let’s see… Bushenyi could well be hailed as the capital of lakes, tea, honey, hills, cool breezes and bananas. Oh yeah, and Queen Elizabeth National Park is 10 minutes away; I’ve already driven past savannahs teeming with antelope and wildebeest half a dozen times (one being for the lone purpose of buying “the best smoked fish in Uganda” from a roadside stand at the river connecting Lake George and Lake Edward).
And who took me to pick out fish? Fr. Charles, the director of St. Thomas and my new roommate. The “WELOME HOME!” sign on my door said it all when my 6 hour drive ended; Charles has done an immaculate job of welcoming me to St. Thomas and Bunyaruguru. Not only has he opened his house to me à la the “what’s mine is yours” philosophy (more deets on the digs to follow; ps DWE that’s all the French I’ve retained…), but the intense 1. community leaders-attended dinner party with me as the guest of honor, giving my Peace Corps/personal history spiel via powerpoint presentation created with an hour’s notice, and 2. A speech given at Sunday mass… by me… to 400 villagers… in Runyankore… with an hour’s notice (what is it with the time paradox in Africa? No one seems to accomplish anything yet everything is last minute!) have been impeccably balanced by Charles with meals at stunning Queen Elizabeth resorts and jaunts with local university kids who reinforce my conviction in Ugandans’ intelligence and good humor. Just last night, in fact, I returned home soaking wet from a walk around the Africa Lake (it’s shaped liked Africa apparently; must climb the hills and look down to believe it) with Charles’ brother Peter, to Fr. Charles unpacking a new blender from his recent shopping spree in the nearest town. “Wanna make orange/pineapple/passion fruit juice?!” he goes. Heck yes! And I see you’ve bought about 50 or so oranges to do so. I’ll just forget about the part about me having to run run run (Phoenix, anyone?), taking shelter with some pigs when the rains caught us unawares a few minutes ago.
The best, yet somehow unbelievable, part is that something similar happens every day. I suppose I ought to give a character description of Charles for you to truly understand how awesome my life has become. Charles is a Ugandan priest who just so happens to be so ridiculously intelligent that he’s spent something like 6 years in the States getting two Master’s Degrees from two universities (St. Ambrose in the Quad Cities being one) and is heading back to NYC in September for his PhD. He returned to his home of Bunyaruguru a year ago to build a much-needed secondary school for the village. In that time, he mobilized the community to raise funds for the school, which now houses 150 freshman and sophomore students (called S1 and S2). Dormitories, a health clinic, and a second classroom block for juniors and seniors are well underway. I liken him to our dear Fr. Gavin in his station in the community: everybody knows him and everybody can readily relate an anecdote illustrating his benevolence. But this man is definitely quirky: he shipped 19 4x4x4 or however big boxes to Uganda from America before he left. What was in them? Dozens of books. Hundreds of DVDs. Thousands of rosaries. And grass seed. Man he loves American lawns! And now one sprouts on the side of the house. In fact, he’s out watering it as I sit here typing…
The second day I spent in Bunyaruguru, Charles disclosed to me that because he was treated so well by those fine Americans living in Moline, IL, he wanted nothing more than an American Peace Corps volunteer to spoil in Africa. Gotta love the pay-it-forward mentality, because spoil me, he has. Even if he wasn’t ridiculously accommodating, I wouldn’t find it hard to manage in his electricity-bearing, hot shower-yielding, stove and oven-containing, flat screen with DSTV-housing residence. I try not to let the fact that I harbor no guilt towards this weigh on my conscience. But honestly, what I care most about is that my room is cozy, my bed is big, the people are wave-and-clap-their-hands-when-I-pass-by friendly, the children are gorgeous (the Banyankore people have got some mysterious beautification gene it seems), and the computer lab I teach in is connected to my house.
So this computer lab… 9 computers, one of which doesn’t work, so 8 computers. I teach six 40-minute classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday; each class harbors 16-25 students, yeah for 8 computers. It’s a challenge to say the least, and that’s when the power’s not going kaput in the middle of showing them how to minimize and maximize a tab (I kid you not, that’s the kind of information that makes up my lesson plans). Although they battle to discern my accent and they’d prefer to swap witty banter with me about life, today I was filled with pride when Charles came home with a note written by the Head Boy kindly requesting that a generator be provided for the lab so that my computer classes do not have to be cancelled when the electricity disappoints. Turns out this is an appeal far superior to their prior requests for break snacks and shortened school days to watch the World Cup. So hopefully things continue to go well. But even when they’re not, and I’m storming into my room, blasting music to drown out my frustration at the deficient education systems and electricity grid, someone like Ndisiima, Charles’ housegirl, will be there to throw me a lifesaver, this time in the form of an impromptu dance party during which she wore my bike helmet and carried my stuffed dog (he’s a boxer and he sleeps with me every night) on her back like a baby.
Welp, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Pictures are truly forthcoming, as should be emails from you to me to which I will take an unseemly amount of time responding. Or can I tempt you with a novelty? Snail mail me!
Sister Renee Vuillaume
St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School
P.O. Box 176
Bushenyi, Uganda
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What's the name of my new village? Oh why bother I can't pronounce it anyways!
How is it that things have been changing so fast that writing a definitive blog predicting my future has been a head-spinning impossibility, yet I have been slogging through Cross Country Challenge style, knee-deep mud for 9 weeks now in wait of a new site? Even though these weeks has shown me that nothing is certain until it’s over, so this may be a touch preemptive, but I’m moving to a new site on Tuesday! Just when things were reaching their bleakest; that is, while I was packing up my belongings from my old site, ruminating over how the scales sat unbalanced, as I was sure I caused more harm than good, Peace Corps staff was out in the West, scoping out a potential new site for me. Well the prospective had budded into the settled: Bushenyi District here I come! All I know about my new site is word of mouth from Country Director Ted, who met with the staff there, and from my nearest volunteer neighbor, who actually found my site and recommended it to Peace Corps (not a bad start...), so some of this information will inevitably have to be amended post-Tuesday when I experience everything for myself. But for now I’ve hit that “I’m just so excited, all I want to do is share my life with the people out there in bloggerland!” stage. Ever been there? Yeah, me neither. But for serious, here are the deets:
After I spend the 4th of July sporting red, white and jorts on the Ssesse Islands in Lake Victoria, a Peace Corps land cruiser will take me and my 5 months of junk on the 8-hour road trip to my new site. I’m half serious in maintaining that three months of training was utterly useless for me. I was trained to work with businesses and NGOs, speaking Luganda; I’ll be teaching computer classes at a vocational school affiliated with the nearby high school (secondary school here), speaking Runyankore. C’est la vie. But this vocational school is somewhat of an abnormality: it was not built on a pile of cash from the Western world, the community raised the funds to spearhead the project themselves. This is quite unheard of in Uganda (and probably the rest of the developing world). The director of the organization is a U.S.-educated man, on his way to Fordham for his PhD in August. My supervisor and counterpart (both women) are the principal and a teacher at the secondary school, respectively. The vocational school is brand-spankin’ new, housing only a computer lab equipped with 10 new used computers, but with space to expand into other trades, such as cosmetology, carpentry and tailoring, as time and resources allow. My lodgings, while brand new, and purportedly cozy (read: small), but size is more than compensated for with electricity and a water tap outside my door!
I’ll only be teaching 10 or so hours a week (step 1: learn computers…; I believe I’ve been through 4 in the last 5 years, does that sound right, Mom?), and with the remaining 158 hours, I get to help my community with whatever their needs and desires so happen to be! It could be anything from nutrition to water sanitation; HIV/AIDS education to fruit drying. I am so seriously jazzed about the possibilities, I can’t wait to meet all of the villagers. Finally, and quite possibly the best part about my new site, is its location. According to volunteers, staff and Ugandans alike, Bushenyi is the most beautiful area of Uganda. My site rests between two lakes, in the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains and a 15-minute ride to Queen Elizabeth National Park. Depending on who you talk to, I’ve been informed that Bushenyi has the best milk (!), honey (!) and bananas (!) in Uganda. I move Tuesday (I know, 4th time mentioned, so what, I’m excited), meaning I have 5 days to become computer savvy and Runyankore fluent. And I’m spending 3 of those days on an island in the sun with a boatful of other volunteers? Luckily orthodox island theme stands at “no worries” ("hakuna matata" for those kiswahili, Lion King fans)!
I'll keep this last part concise. Sentimentalities are my weak point. I apologize for the lack of continuous communication, whether by blog, email, phone call, snail mail, or ubiquitous facebook posts (hello Mother!); I've been all over the place, both literally and figuratively, for the past 2 months. Here's hoping stability reigns from here on out, and your relationships with me will be a lot less one-sided... Run on, runners!
After I spend the 4th of July sporting red, white and jorts on the Ssesse Islands in Lake Victoria, a Peace Corps land cruiser will take me and my 5 months of junk on the 8-hour road trip to my new site. I’m half serious in maintaining that three months of training was utterly useless for me. I was trained to work with businesses and NGOs, speaking Luganda; I’ll be teaching computer classes at a vocational school affiliated with the nearby high school (secondary school here), speaking Runyankore. C’est la vie. But this vocational school is somewhat of an abnormality: it was not built on a pile of cash from the Western world, the community raised the funds to spearhead the project themselves. This is quite unheard of in Uganda (and probably the rest of the developing world). The director of the organization is a U.S.-educated man, on his way to Fordham for his PhD in August. My supervisor and counterpart (both women) are the principal and a teacher at the secondary school, respectively. The vocational school is brand-spankin’ new, housing only a computer lab equipped with 10 new used computers, but with space to expand into other trades, such as cosmetology, carpentry and tailoring, as time and resources allow. My lodgings, while brand new, and purportedly cozy (read: small), but size is more than compensated for with electricity and a water tap outside my door!
I’ll only be teaching 10 or so hours a week (step 1: learn computers…; I believe I’ve been through 4 in the last 5 years, does that sound right, Mom?), and with the remaining 158 hours, I get to help my community with whatever their needs and desires so happen to be! It could be anything from nutrition to water sanitation; HIV/AIDS education to fruit drying. I am so seriously jazzed about the possibilities, I can’t wait to meet all of the villagers. Finally, and quite possibly the best part about my new site, is its location. According to volunteers, staff and Ugandans alike, Bushenyi is the most beautiful area of Uganda. My site rests between two lakes, in the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains and a 15-minute ride to Queen Elizabeth National Park. Depending on who you talk to, I’ve been informed that Bushenyi has the best milk (!), honey (!) and bananas (!) in Uganda. I move Tuesday (I know, 4th time mentioned, so what, I’m excited), meaning I have 5 days to become computer savvy and Runyankore fluent. And I’m spending 3 of those days on an island in the sun with a boatful of other volunteers? Luckily orthodox island theme stands at “no worries” ("hakuna matata" for those kiswahili, Lion King fans)!
I'll keep this last part concise. Sentimentalities are my weak point. I apologize for the lack of continuous communication, whether by blog, email, phone call, snail mail, or ubiquitous facebook posts (hello Mother!); I've been all over the place, both literally and figuratively, for the past 2 months. Here's hoping stability reigns from here on out, and your relationships with me will be a lot less one-sided... Run on, runners!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Namaste (I'm trying to feel peaceful, seriously, damnit)
I’ve been struggling to condense the past month into a couple of pithy paragraphs, and it only proves more challenging the longer I dawdle, so let me lay down a few anecdotes that can best serve to sum up the opportunity I’ve been given to tour the country.
The very first leg of my journey, on a sunrise bus ride from my site to Kampala, proved to be the situation that immediately set the tone for the span of the month. Before 7am, Ugandans are a groggy lot, and rightfully so: they eat dinner between 10-12pm. In fact, Ugandan’s are so serious about not moving before 7 in the morning that they call “hour 1” 7am, and the day continues on from there, so that 4pm, for example, is “hour ten.” But anyways, I boarded the bus around 6, when it was still dark and my taxi-mates were uncharacteristically sleepy. Sleepiness bears forgetfulness. About an hour into the bus ride, most people had disembarked, except for myself, two to three gentlemen, and a chicken that had been shoved into a plastic bag at my feet. This in itself is not uncommon; I was nonplussed by its presence. However at this point in the ride, the man sitting next to me starts looking around and taps me on the shoulder only to ask “is that your chicken?” No, it’s not my chicken. Do I look like the person to travel with chickens in plastic bags? …He moves onto the next person. Turns out, it’s no one’s chicken. Seriously. This chicken was just along for the ride; even the Ugandans were astonished. And that was day one, hour one, really. The astonishment pervade as I moved from my home in Mityana to my “home base” of Kampala and then on to the North, East and West.
To facilitate the establishment of a plan of action with my site, I had to hang around the Peace Corps office, and hence Kampala, for near upon 2 weeks. This was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. Aside from the fact that I came without my running shoes, barring me from that activity, truly all one can do is kill time in between meals. The city of Kampala is run in such an underground way that it’s not about what you can and cannot get, but more about knowing where to look; anything can be found if you do a little digging (sometimes literally if you have the mind to bring on back your favorite Gap shirt from 1999: it can be found in the markets that yield hundreds upon hundreds of Salvation-Army-fresh clothing from America). What would Renee do? Taste-test the greater portion of Kampala eateries. There’s a reason why Rob has complimented (your attempt at insults were wasted on me) my inability to move away from my “first meal” for all of my 23 years. So here are some of my favorites: anything Indian, man the Indian food in Uganda is phenomenal; a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant called The Sweet Dolphin; the dozens of women that carry baskets of bananas on their heads, perfect for a mid-morning … and day … snack. The Chinese restaurant with a wide-open lawn, décor exquisitely completed with live rabbits hopping around one’s toes (“Yes, our restaurant is wonderful, but it’s still missing something… oh what do we need? I’ve got it: rabbits!!”).
What wasn’t a favorite? The veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. Or should I say the non-existent veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. I approach the Subway-esque counter, eager to quell my incessant raw vegetable craving, but knowing all too well that what’s on the menu holds no bearing to what you’re served. So I ask. “What’s on the vegetarian sandwich?” “Lettuce and cucumbers.” “That’s all?” “You want cheese and mayonnaise?” “No. I want vegetables. You have carrots, tomatoes and green peppers?” “They are finished.” “This is a supermarket. Every vegetable on the planet is being sold 5 feet behind us.” “They are finished.” Fine, I’ll go somewhere else, I give up. You win, Uganda!
The unforeseen best part about the many meals I’ve eaten and the many villages I’ve visited is the company that they generate. In Gulu in the North, a region where a feeling of relaxed good-will is palpable despite it being the hub of Uganda’s brutal civil war during the ‘90s, I glanced around the dinner table one night to realize that I was eating dinner with citizens of the world. Uganda, Ethiopia, Japan, China, the Pacific Islands and the U.S. were all represented. A few days later in the West, I was sitting at the base of the Rwenzoris conferring about Greece’s financial drop with Germans and Englanders. And just the other night, albeit in a distinctly more tawdry setting (I was at a casino, so what?), the first question that comes to mind to ask the person throwing their chips out next to you is “where’s your accent from?” Maybe there’s a compelling force that draws foreigners together; maybe it’s just Uganda’s venous pulse of adventurism and dearth that’s so conspicuous to outsiders. Either way, even more so than in America, I’ve found that it’s most definitely who you know that matters. Hey, if it means you get free rides from Gulu to Kampala in a private, air-conditioned Pathfinder from U.S. Embassy workers when the alternative’s an hours-longer, crowded bus ride, I’m down with the schmoozing…
Before I wrap this post up, I’d like to set a mantra to Newness. I think it’s fitting: I’m all set to get a new site, hopefully in the next week or so (I refuse to forfeit my idealism. Ain’t this Peace Corps after all?!), and in Eastern Uganda, the local language calls for a greeting of “Yoga!” in lieu of “Hello!”. Yes I think I will demonstrate a down dog, how delightful! So here’s to a new site; may it be in the central region. Because my love for Luganda goes far beyond an irregular “gyebaleko,” my hands and knees are too clean for being 4 months into my service and village life, despite the deficits, is far richer than life in Kampala. Here’s to a new wardrobe; may all of you over there in the States keep sending your gently used and new clothes, shoes and accessories to places like Owino Market. Here’s to new foods: crocodile meat, tamarind, grasshoppers, 8500 varieties of bananas, sugar cane, millet bread, and the new parasites that reside in them! Here’s to new friends; Ugandans, Americans and all of the countries in between please send your representatives. And finally, here’s to new sights: the Nile, baboons, women balancing pots bigger than themselves on their head, my first casino (in Uganda, really?!), and the faces of those near and dear to me electronically through Skype instead of in person. May each of us live our life with intention and direction, but not too much; striders reign:
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Oh and by the way, here’s also to a new phone number: 256700127545. It’s cheaper and pays ME for incoming international calls! If the old number is unavailable, try this one, and vice versa. Sula bulungi mikwano gyange (good night my friends)!
The very first leg of my journey, on a sunrise bus ride from my site to Kampala, proved to be the situation that immediately set the tone for the span of the month. Before 7am, Ugandans are a groggy lot, and rightfully so: they eat dinner between 10-12pm. In fact, Ugandan’s are so serious about not moving before 7 in the morning that they call “hour 1” 7am, and the day continues on from there, so that 4pm, for example, is “hour ten.” But anyways, I boarded the bus around 6, when it was still dark and my taxi-mates were uncharacteristically sleepy. Sleepiness bears forgetfulness. About an hour into the bus ride, most people had disembarked, except for myself, two to three gentlemen, and a chicken that had been shoved into a plastic bag at my feet. This in itself is not uncommon; I was nonplussed by its presence. However at this point in the ride, the man sitting next to me starts looking around and taps me on the shoulder only to ask “is that your chicken?” No, it’s not my chicken. Do I look like the person to travel with chickens in plastic bags? …He moves onto the next person. Turns out, it’s no one’s chicken. Seriously. This chicken was just along for the ride; even the Ugandans were astonished. And that was day one, hour one, really. The astonishment pervade as I moved from my home in Mityana to my “home base” of Kampala and then on to the North, East and West.
To facilitate the establishment of a plan of action with my site, I had to hang around the Peace Corps office, and hence Kampala, for near upon 2 weeks. This was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. Aside from the fact that I came without my running shoes, barring me from that activity, truly all one can do is kill time in between meals. The city of Kampala is run in such an underground way that it’s not about what you can and cannot get, but more about knowing where to look; anything can be found if you do a little digging (sometimes literally if you have the mind to bring on back your favorite Gap shirt from 1999: it can be found in the markets that yield hundreds upon hundreds of Salvation-Army-fresh clothing from America). What would Renee do? Taste-test the greater portion of Kampala eateries. There’s a reason why Rob has complimented (your attempt at insults were wasted on me) my inability to move away from my “first meal” for all of my 23 years. So here are some of my favorites: anything Indian, man the Indian food in Uganda is phenomenal; a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant called The Sweet Dolphin; the dozens of women that carry baskets of bananas on their heads, perfect for a mid-morning … and day … snack. The Chinese restaurant with a wide-open lawn, décor exquisitely completed with live rabbits hopping around one’s toes (“Yes, our restaurant is wonderful, but it’s still missing something… oh what do we need? I’ve got it: rabbits!!”).
What wasn’t a favorite? The veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. Or should I say the non-existent veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. I approach the Subway-esque counter, eager to quell my incessant raw vegetable craving, but knowing all too well that what’s on the menu holds no bearing to what you’re served. So I ask. “What’s on the vegetarian sandwich?” “Lettuce and cucumbers.” “That’s all?” “You want cheese and mayonnaise?” “No. I want vegetables. You have carrots, tomatoes and green peppers?” “They are finished.” “This is a supermarket. Every vegetable on the planet is being sold 5 feet behind us.” “They are finished.” Fine, I’ll go somewhere else, I give up. You win, Uganda!
The unforeseen best part about the many meals I’ve eaten and the many villages I’ve visited is the company that they generate. In Gulu in the North, a region where a feeling of relaxed good-will is palpable despite it being the hub of Uganda’s brutal civil war during the ‘90s, I glanced around the dinner table one night to realize that I was eating dinner with citizens of the world. Uganda, Ethiopia, Japan, China, the Pacific Islands and the U.S. were all represented. A few days later in the West, I was sitting at the base of the Rwenzoris conferring about Greece’s financial drop with Germans and Englanders. And just the other night, albeit in a distinctly more tawdry setting (I was at a casino, so what?), the first question that comes to mind to ask the person throwing their chips out next to you is “where’s your accent from?” Maybe there’s a compelling force that draws foreigners together; maybe it’s just Uganda’s venous pulse of adventurism and dearth that’s so conspicuous to outsiders. Either way, even more so than in America, I’ve found that it’s most definitely who you know that matters. Hey, if it means you get free rides from Gulu to Kampala in a private, air-conditioned Pathfinder from U.S. Embassy workers when the alternative’s an hours-longer, crowded bus ride, I’m down with the schmoozing…
Before I wrap this post up, I’d like to set a mantra to Newness. I think it’s fitting: I’m all set to get a new site, hopefully in the next week or so (I refuse to forfeit my idealism. Ain’t this Peace Corps after all?!), and in Eastern Uganda, the local language calls for a greeting of “Yoga!” in lieu of “Hello!”. Yes I think I will demonstrate a down dog, how delightful! So here’s to a new site; may it be in the central region. Because my love for Luganda goes far beyond an irregular “gyebaleko,” my hands and knees are too clean for being 4 months into my service and village life, despite the deficits, is far richer than life in Kampala. Here’s to a new wardrobe; may all of you over there in the States keep sending your gently used and new clothes, shoes and accessories to places like Owino Market. Here’s to new foods: crocodile meat, tamarind, grasshoppers, 8500 varieties of bananas, sugar cane, millet bread, and the new parasites that reside in them! Here’s to new friends; Ugandans, Americans and all of the countries in between please send your representatives. And finally, here’s to new sights: the Nile, baboons, women balancing pots bigger than themselves on their head, my first casino (in Uganda, really?!), and the faces of those near and dear to me electronically through Skype instead of in person. May each of us live our life with intention and direction, but not too much; striders reign:
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Oh and by the way, here’s also to a new phone number: 256700127545. It’s cheaper and pays ME for incoming international calls! If the old number is unavailable, try this one, and vice versa. Sula bulungi mikwano gyange (good night my friends)!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Hello. In case you've forgotten, my name's Renee, and I am a terrible blogger. But I have excuses, honest. First it was the lack of electricity at my new site: how was I to charge my computer? Then it was the generator’s erratic power supply: who knew that it could melt the plastic of a surge protector and fry my power cord? And now? Let’s chalk it up to my general homelessness and present nomadic existence.
Three weeks ago I left my new home and workplace, with nothing but the pack on my back, for a one night stint in Kampala to take care of some Peace Corps business and find a semi-reliable computer repair shop. Luckily I’m a smart packer, having brought enough clothes to suit my ever-changing mood, toiletries and all of my electronics, as one night quickly (slowly?) turned into twenty-one. And at least ten more to go... I’ve faced a handful of challenges at my site that snowballed out of a pair of lock-lacking doors. If only it had stopped there...
I’ll remain intentionally vague on the situation because I’m hoping to put it all behind me; water under the bridge. Peace Corps has been working hard with me and my organization to right a few wrongs and clear the air of any misunderstandings, and I am actually eager to return, provided that things are stacked in my favor. The gauge? My organization has been given an ultimatum: spend the time, energy and money to fix Renee’s doors and windows (the least of my problems, really) and we’ll take that to mean that you’ve heard our demand for transformation and are willing to work things out. If not, your shiny new Peace Corps volunteer will be moved to an identical-looking village with a new organization a few districts over.
Forgive me if this comes across as cynical, cynicism's honestly not my intention. I want to return to my site. The work and majority of the people in my organization are legitimately wonderful; two things that a Peace Corps volunteer can thank their lucky stars to have. My village is beautiful. It sits at a crossroads. Route 1 takes you to a big market and ultimately on to Kampala. Route 2 takes you to a tea plantation that rests on more acres than my vision can endure. Just when you think the tea must surely roll to the top of one last hill, you find that it proceeds into the valley on the other side. The paths that meander throughout haphazardly are ideal for my Kampala-marathon-2010-intent feet, and the way the tea is cared for by hundreds of farmers instead of a handful of machines is curiously idyllic. Route 3 takes you to a small pond, removed from the road and furnished with a few planks of wood nailed to surrounding trees as benches perfect for wasting away hours with a book. Route 4 takes you far down into the swampland where papyrus thrives but not much else; people are a rarity for once in this overpopulated country.
But what really makes me so eager to return is the overwhelming, and ever-increasing, sentiment that homelessness sucks. I’ve hopped from one hotel to the next, facing no vacancy, hiked rates that put a room beyond my meager Peace Corps stipend, and list of hotel rules that includes “no woman is to accompany a man without providing proof of marriage, in form of a marriage certificate.” I’ve been shuffled from one volunteer’s site to another’s, sleeping on couches and floors. I've barely been able to run and cooking for myself is not an option. Aside from all of this, it’s been an amazing experience and I’ve learned so much: about this amazing country, its people, my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and the wonderful work their doing, and about myself. Currently, I’m sitting in the living room of an older volunteer in a town 15 minutes from the boarder of Kenya, having just taken advantage of her fridge/freezer combo with a dish of ice cream. For the first half of the week I resided in Gulu, the “Disneyland of the North.” After a stint in Kampala this weekend, I’ll trek West, towards Congo, the Rwenzori Mountains and Murchison Falls National Park. If nothing else, I’ve encountered some pretty interesting things in the past three weeks, some of which will be selectively relayed to you in my follow-up blog, coming soon! Ah how I miss movies previews…
Three weeks ago I left my new home and workplace, with nothing but the pack on my back, for a one night stint in Kampala to take care of some Peace Corps business and find a semi-reliable computer repair shop. Luckily I’m a smart packer, having brought enough clothes to suit my ever-changing mood, toiletries and all of my electronics, as one night quickly (slowly?) turned into twenty-one. And at least ten more to go... I’ve faced a handful of challenges at my site that snowballed out of a pair of lock-lacking doors. If only it had stopped there...
I’ll remain intentionally vague on the situation because I’m hoping to put it all behind me; water under the bridge. Peace Corps has been working hard with me and my organization to right a few wrongs and clear the air of any misunderstandings, and I am actually eager to return, provided that things are stacked in my favor. The gauge? My organization has been given an ultimatum: spend the time, energy and money to fix Renee’s doors and windows (the least of my problems, really) and we’ll take that to mean that you’ve heard our demand for transformation and are willing to work things out. If not, your shiny new Peace Corps volunteer will be moved to an identical-looking village with a new organization a few districts over.
Forgive me if this comes across as cynical, cynicism's honestly not my intention. I want to return to my site. The work and majority of the people in my organization are legitimately wonderful; two things that a Peace Corps volunteer can thank their lucky stars to have. My village is beautiful. It sits at a crossroads. Route 1 takes you to a big market and ultimately on to Kampala. Route 2 takes you to a tea plantation that rests on more acres than my vision can endure. Just when you think the tea must surely roll to the top of one last hill, you find that it proceeds into the valley on the other side. The paths that meander throughout haphazardly are ideal for my Kampala-marathon-2010-intent feet, and the way the tea is cared for by hundreds of farmers instead of a handful of machines is curiously idyllic. Route 3 takes you to a small pond, removed from the road and furnished with a few planks of wood nailed to surrounding trees as benches perfect for wasting away hours with a book. Route 4 takes you far down into the swampland where papyrus thrives but not much else; people are a rarity for once in this overpopulated country.
But what really makes me so eager to return is the overwhelming, and ever-increasing, sentiment that homelessness sucks. I’ve hopped from one hotel to the next, facing no vacancy, hiked rates that put a room beyond my meager Peace Corps stipend, and list of hotel rules that includes “no woman is to accompany a man without providing proof of marriage, in form of a marriage certificate.” I’ve been shuffled from one volunteer’s site to another’s, sleeping on couches and floors. I've barely been able to run and cooking for myself is not an option. Aside from all of this, it’s been an amazing experience and I’ve learned so much: about this amazing country, its people, my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and the wonderful work their doing, and about myself. Currently, I’m sitting in the living room of an older volunteer in a town 15 minutes from the boarder of Kenya, having just taken advantage of her fridge/freezer combo with a dish of ice cream. For the first half of the week I resided in Gulu, the “Disneyland of the North.” After a stint in Kampala this weekend, I’ll trek West, towards Congo, the Rwenzori Mountains and Murchison Falls National Park. If nothing else, I’ve encountered some pretty interesting things in the past three weeks, some of which will be selectively relayed to you in my follow-up blog, coming soon! Ah how I miss movies previews…
Saturday, April 10, 2010
MY SITE!!!!
Today being Sunday, I’m chilling in the K-L-A (that’s Kampala for all you non-Ugandanites. Oh wait, that’s everyone, Ugandans don’t blog), but Thursday, Friday and Saturday were spent in Kakindu, visiting my site. It is relieving to know that I remain in Wakiso for another week, because a boatload of information was 90mph fast-balled at me this weekend. So naturally, I’m going to vomit a lot of it back out right now.
There are, unsurprisingly, good qualities and drawbacks to what I experienced. Shall we start with the positive? Fantastic. From what I’ve seen, I love my organization and the people within it. Fr. Athe is a revolutionary thinker. He began CIDE (Ugandans love acronyms and pronouncing them like words. In this case, “city.”) one year ago, but spent most of that time exploring the needs of the community. Kakindu is very rural and the majority of the population farms for subsistence. Therefore, he has identified the need to form a dairy farming association. Basically, individual dairy farmers are united into groups of 25-30, whereupon the 100 or so groups merge into an association. The milk of the entire association can then be processed, marketed, and sold locally and nationally. Athe has procured a defunct alcohol distillery, which is being transformed into a milk processing plant. Quite nobel really: nutrition over boozing (word is Uganda consumes more alcohol per capita than any other country in the world…).
So groups of dairy farmers have already been formed and funding comes from Heifer International, which is apparently spear-headed by Bill Gates. My role will be to work with my counterpart, Justine, to train the groups in microfinance, savings and loans, capacity building, value addition, nutrition, accountability, leadership, conflict resolution and empowerment. At first I was uncertain about how I wound up here, given my general abhorrence for milk of the non-soy variety; but then I was reminded that my Kiganda name is Namata, which means milk. Definitely a weird coincidence. Still… all I can say is that I’m pushin for yogurt production…
In the next two years, though, Athe wants to branch out and help other community groups in different ways. When he talked to me about his ideas, I was giddy by how aligned they were to some of the things I had been mulling over during the past two months of training. He wants to promote nutrition and water sanitation, extend solar powered lighting to families in lieu of kerosene lamps and candles, and build a library/resource center for teens to come study and use the computer and internet after school and on the weekend. Hopefully these concepts can make it past the idea phase over the next two years.
I love the idea of traveling around the Ugandan countryside by foot or bike, visiting the many groups and farms and schools, but Kakindu is very rural. I’m not sure how I’m going to work out a comfortable food routine, as the village sells little more than tomatoes, pumpkin, matoke, potatos, onions, bananas, eggplant, rice, beans and bread. Athe told me to just buy a fridge so that I can store food I buy in the bigger towns during a weekly trip, instead of having to shop every day. But there are two kinks in this option: for one, fridges cost mucho shillings, probably more than I’ll make in a year; and two, even if I could afford a fridge, my house doesn’t have electricity. What else is my house lacking? Well it’s a two bedroom delight accompanied by a sitting room, kitchen, indoor bathing and outdoor pit latrine. However, running water, a fence, paint and furniture of any kind are all MIA. Athe has promised me a water tank, beds, couches, tables, shelves, a kitchen counter, a fence and electricity. Ten bucks on none of them being fulfilled when I return for the long haul in little over one week. At least my house is pretty cute and it’s situated on the CIDE compound, a mere 50 yards from the office. The compound comes stocked with security guard, housekeeper, lunch and teatime cook, avocado/jackfruit/mango/coffee/guava/papaya trees, random farm animals, and a Honda CRV-esque vehicle should the need arise. So overall, pros and cons. Such is life.
Because my house was not suitable for my weekend visit, I slept in the mission associated with Fr. Athe’s Catholic church. If you ever find yourself presented with the opportunity to stay with nuns, jump at it! Not only are they clean, accommodating and delightful cooks, but they’re hilarious, unhurried and constantly singing. Sure, 7am mass in Luganda everyday could become tiresome, but that’s easily overlookable. I guess you’ve finally seen me join the convent, Rob. Also on the family theme, two of the sisters’ names are Rose and Daisy. Unusual names for Ugandans, but even more so considering they are my Grandma’s two sister’s names as well. And then when I told CIDE that I wanted a Luganda tutor for the first few months, the agriculturalist, Joseph, recommended his 7-year-old daughter (I’m still not certain whether he was serious or not…). Her name? Juliana. My grandma’s name! Which I told him, and now I am calling his daughter jjajja, “grandma” in Luganda. Thank you Juliana, Daisy and Rose; such an odd connection’s got to mean something good, right?
For now, a night dancing in Kampala was needed, and probably a good run this afternoon. Boy Devon and I found the most amazing loop in Wakiso that passes through marshes, ravines, up mountains, through farms and forests...
There are, unsurprisingly, good qualities and drawbacks to what I experienced. Shall we start with the positive? Fantastic. From what I’ve seen, I love my organization and the people within it. Fr. Athe is a revolutionary thinker. He began CIDE (Ugandans love acronyms and pronouncing them like words. In this case, “city.”) one year ago, but spent most of that time exploring the needs of the community. Kakindu is very rural and the majority of the population farms for subsistence. Therefore, he has identified the need to form a dairy farming association. Basically, individual dairy farmers are united into groups of 25-30, whereupon the 100 or so groups merge into an association. The milk of the entire association can then be processed, marketed, and sold locally and nationally. Athe has procured a defunct alcohol distillery, which is being transformed into a milk processing plant. Quite nobel really: nutrition over boozing (word is Uganda consumes more alcohol per capita than any other country in the world…).
So groups of dairy farmers have already been formed and funding comes from Heifer International, which is apparently spear-headed by Bill Gates. My role will be to work with my counterpart, Justine, to train the groups in microfinance, savings and loans, capacity building, value addition, nutrition, accountability, leadership, conflict resolution and empowerment. At first I was uncertain about how I wound up here, given my general abhorrence for milk of the non-soy variety; but then I was reminded that my Kiganda name is Namata, which means milk. Definitely a weird coincidence. Still… all I can say is that I’m pushin for yogurt production…
In the next two years, though, Athe wants to branch out and help other community groups in different ways. When he talked to me about his ideas, I was giddy by how aligned they were to some of the things I had been mulling over during the past two months of training. He wants to promote nutrition and water sanitation, extend solar powered lighting to families in lieu of kerosene lamps and candles, and build a library/resource center for teens to come study and use the computer and internet after school and on the weekend. Hopefully these concepts can make it past the idea phase over the next two years.
I love the idea of traveling around the Ugandan countryside by foot or bike, visiting the many groups and farms and schools, but Kakindu is very rural. I’m not sure how I’m going to work out a comfortable food routine, as the village sells little more than tomatoes, pumpkin, matoke, potatos, onions, bananas, eggplant, rice, beans and bread. Athe told me to just buy a fridge so that I can store food I buy in the bigger towns during a weekly trip, instead of having to shop every day. But there are two kinks in this option: for one, fridges cost mucho shillings, probably more than I’ll make in a year; and two, even if I could afford a fridge, my house doesn’t have electricity. What else is my house lacking? Well it’s a two bedroom delight accompanied by a sitting room, kitchen, indoor bathing and outdoor pit latrine. However, running water, a fence, paint and furniture of any kind are all MIA. Athe has promised me a water tank, beds, couches, tables, shelves, a kitchen counter, a fence and electricity. Ten bucks on none of them being fulfilled when I return for the long haul in little over one week. At least my house is pretty cute and it’s situated on the CIDE compound, a mere 50 yards from the office. The compound comes stocked with security guard, housekeeper, lunch and teatime cook, avocado/jackfruit/mango/coffee/guava/papaya trees, random farm animals, and a Honda CRV-esque vehicle should the need arise. So overall, pros and cons. Such is life.
Because my house was not suitable for my weekend visit, I slept in the mission associated with Fr. Athe’s Catholic church. If you ever find yourself presented with the opportunity to stay with nuns, jump at it! Not only are they clean, accommodating and delightful cooks, but they’re hilarious, unhurried and constantly singing. Sure, 7am mass in Luganda everyday could become tiresome, but that’s easily overlookable. I guess you’ve finally seen me join the convent, Rob. Also on the family theme, two of the sisters’ names are Rose and Daisy. Unusual names for Ugandans, but even more so considering they are my Grandma’s two sister’s names as well. And then when I told CIDE that I wanted a Luganda tutor for the first few months, the agriculturalist, Joseph, recommended his 7-year-old daughter (I’m still not certain whether he was serious or not…). Her name? Juliana. My grandma’s name! Which I told him, and now I am calling his daughter jjajja, “grandma” in Luganda. Thank you Juliana, Daisy and Rose; such an odd connection’s got to mean something good, right?
For now, a night dancing in Kampala was needed, and probably a good run this afternoon. Boy Devon and I found the most amazing loop in Wakiso that passes through marshes, ravines, up mountains, through farms and forests...
Nothing says easter like 5am chicken beheadings!
I’m not going to lie, and I might be beating this point to death, but I feel really fortunate to have been placed in Uganda by Peace Corps. The dichotomy between lifestyles and the sheer number of options with which to keep oneself busy are enough to make any vagrant content. It also enables me to fill my occasional yearning for Western life. So yes, I am sitting at the pool right now with my friend Boy Devon (there happens to be a Girl Devon in our training group too; crazy odds, I know), while he reads and I blog and “The Hills” blares on a nearby TV, I kid you not. But I love the idea of a retreat because daily life here is definitely hard. Water and food are in short supply, it takes time and physical energy to get to anywhere, and constant demands for money and visas to America wear thin on your patience very quickly. Plus, I’m pretty confident that jumping into the pool serves the purpose of getting me the cleanest I’ve been in weeks. Turns out the “sandal tan” I thought I had was actually just dirt staining my feet…
So Tuesday and Wednesday were big days for me. Wednesday I presented my qualifying project, the summation of my training experience as a Community Health and Economic Development trainee. The topic: sanitation in the workplace. Super boring, I know, but never having a place to wash my hands before eating in town acted as a powerful motivator. I won’t bore you with details, but I did well and am happy it’s over. More likely than not, I won’t do much with this gem of a project over the next 2 years. Which leads me to what happened on Tuesday: I learned the site that I’m being placed at for those 2 years!!! I didn’t receive too much information, but I’ll be working with an NGO called the Center for Indigenous Development Efforts (CIDE). It’s an organization still in its infancy, but its founder, a Catholic Priest, is an old hand when it comes to NGO development. He’s been really successful all over Uganda and internationally, actually, but this is his pet project for his golden years, as its in his home town of Kakindu (Kah-chin-due). Kikandu is a small town in the district of Mityana, only about an hour away from Kampala. I’ll actually be the second closest trainee to the city, so I’m stoked about that.
I feel like a kid anxiously awaiting Christmas right now: The 14th is my 23rd birthday (don’t do the math; I will not be 25 years old when I come home…), my final Language Proficiency Examination is the 16th, I leave my homestay for good on the 18th, I swear in as a full-fledged Peace Corps Volunteer the 21st and I leave for Kakindu the 22nd. This all may look like it’s happening very fast and that I’m going to be inundated with work shortly, but I assure you that that is not the case. In fact, we’re technically discouraged from doing any sort of “work” for the first three months at site. This is to be my time to integrate into the community and observe CIDE. Most volunteers describe this time as boasting the single-most amount of free time they’ve ever encountered in their lives. I cannot wait! Along with reading and running an inordinate amount, I plan on doing yoga, starting a garden, painting, learning to dry fruit and make soymilk, learning origami and setting up an actual home. But I’ll have many more hours to satisfy and would be extremely grateful for suggestions!? Does anyone happen to know off-hand how to build a piano?
Learning my site has certainly come at a good time: suddenly, it seems, I looked around and roots had been extended into my PC/Uganda life. Next Sunday, leaving my host family, will be a gloomy day. The kids took a few weeks to get a handle on what exactly I was, but now they provide me with the best parts of my day. Latifa (age 11) is in her shy and awkward pre-teen years. She slips me notes with drawings and a frequent “Renee, you are my best friend because you are beautiful” written on the front. She fantastic at popping out of nowhere whenever I attempt to begin washing my clothes, cleaning my bike or carrying something heavy and before I can even explain that I’m determined to flub my way through the chore, she has finished it for me. Galabuzi (age 8), on the other hand, is more of a nuisance. He’s an imp of a boy, wanting to touch everything I own with clumsy hands. Luckily that extends to bestowing upon me giant bear hugs whenever I enter a room. I leave my bike helmet on as a necessary precaution when I return home from being gone for anytime longer than a 24-hour period. Chimina (age 4; no one seems to know how to spell her name, though?), is my favorite, I’ll admit. She tails me like a shadow, peppering me with so many “ogenda kukola ki kati?”s (“what are you going to do now?) that I cannot possibly answer them all. She mimics everything I say. I tried to channel this into something amusing, but I only got as far as the following dialogue: Renee – “what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?” Renee – “no, you’re supposed to say ‘nothing!’” Chimina – “nothing!” Renee – “Nice, okay, what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?”. Ah well, it still slays me every time. I’m definitely going to miss these kids come the end of next week…
It took a while, but Wakiso became a comfort to me as well. I have “my” grocery store, “my” restaurant, “my” internet café, “my” pineapple dealer… even the families and kids on “my” street welcome me back and shout “bye Renee!” whenever I pass, even though I’ve never even introduced myself to them. Well, it more sounds like Reenay, but that’s beside the point; they know me here! It’ll be a bummer to leave.
Peace Corps has also started to morph into a long-term commitment. Before, I could only envision myself in training; my life out on my own was unfathomable. Luckily I’ve stumbled upon a few things to propel me into the great unknown. For one thing, I have an unhealthy love of the language. Conjugating verbs has become one of my favorite pastimes. I actually think in Lugandan. My knack for it directly links me with future happiness, success, safety and integration. Serious stuff. But really the funniest part about being, dare I say it, a prodigy (totally kidding, I told my housegirl this morning that I wanted to help her bathe herself on accident) is that I will be making a speech wholly in Luganda next weekend at our big end-of-training/homestay-thank-you party. Coming to a youtube channel near you: “Renee Speaks Luganda, Ugandans Don’t Understand.” My second Peace Corps leadership venture likewise caught me unawares. You are currently reading the blog of the February 2010 Peace Corps Uganda training group Volunteer Advisory Committee representative. I liken it to student council. It went down as such: in a span of maybe 30 minutes (which is unheard of for accomplishing anything in in Uganda), two of the six other members of VAC came; asked for nominations; 8 or so of my fellow trainees were nominated, myself included; speeches were made (I distinctly remember mine including the opening remarks: “I’m not sure whether I would be good at this kind of thing, as I’m quite impatient…); votes were taken; myself and a kid called Jake were elected. So now I’m representing my entire training group at all-staff meetings every three months? At least there’s a bonus: I get an all-expenses-paid weekend trip into Kampala each time!
So Tuesday and Wednesday were big days for me. Wednesday I presented my qualifying project, the summation of my training experience as a Community Health and Economic Development trainee. The topic: sanitation in the workplace. Super boring, I know, but never having a place to wash my hands before eating in town acted as a powerful motivator. I won’t bore you with details, but I did well and am happy it’s over. More likely than not, I won’t do much with this gem of a project over the next 2 years. Which leads me to what happened on Tuesday: I learned the site that I’m being placed at for those 2 years!!! I didn’t receive too much information, but I’ll be working with an NGO called the Center for Indigenous Development Efforts (CIDE). It’s an organization still in its infancy, but its founder, a Catholic Priest, is an old hand when it comes to NGO development. He’s been really successful all over Uganda and internationally, actually, but this is his pet project for his golden years, as its in his home town of Kakindu (Kah-chin-due). Kikandu is a small town in the district of Mityana, only about an hour away from Kampala. I’ll actually be the second closest trainee to the city, so I’m stoked about that.
I feel like a kid anxiously awaiting Christmas right now: The 14th is my 23rd birthday (don’t do the math; I will not be 25 years old when I come home…), my final Language Proficiency Examination is the 16th, I leave my homestay for good on the 18th, I swear in as a full-fledged Peace Corps Volunteer the 21st and I leave for Kakindu the 22nd. This all may look like it’s happening very fast and that I’m going to be inundated with work shortly, but I assure you that that is not the case. In fact, we’re technically discouraged from doing any sort of “work” for the first three months at site. This is to be my time to integrate into the community and observe CIDE. Most volunteers describe this time as boasting the single-most amount of free time they’ve ever encountered in their lives. I cannot wait! Along with reading and running an inordinate amount, I plan on doing yoga, starting a garden, painting, learning to dry fruit and make soymilk, learning origami and setting up an actual home. But I’ll have many more hours to satisfy and would be extremely grateful for suggestions!? Does anyone happen to know off-hand how to build a piano?
Learning my site has certainly come at a good time: suddenly, it seems, I looked around and roots had been extended into my PC/Uganda life. Next Sunday, leaving my host family, will be a gloomy day. The kids took a few weeks to get a handle on what exactly I was, but now they provide me with the best parts of my day. Latifa (age 11) is in her shy and awkward pre-teen years. She slips me notes with drawings and a frequent “Renee, you are my best friend because you are beautiful” written on the front. She fantastic at popping out of nowhere whenever I attempt to begin washing my clothes, cleaning my bike or carrying something heavy and before I can even explain that I’m determined to flub my way through the chore, she has finished it for me. Galabuzi (age 8), on the other hand, is more of a nuisance. He’s an imp of a boy, wanting to touch everything I own with clumsy hands. Luckily that extends to bestowing upon me giant bear hugs whenever I enter a room. I leave my bike helmet on as a necessary precaution when I return home from being gone for anytime longer than a 24-hour period. Chimina (age 4; no one seems to know how to spell her name, though?), is my favorite, I’ll admit. She tails me like a shadow, peppering me with so many “ogenda kukola ki kati?”s (“what are you going to do now?) that I cannot possibly answer them all. She mimics everything I say. I tried to channel this into something amusing, but I only got as far as the following dialogue: Renee – “what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?” Renee – “no, you’re supposed to say ‘nothing!’” Chimina – “nothing!” Renee – “Nice, okay, what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?”. Ah well, it still slays me every time. I’m definitely going to miss these kids come the end of next week…
It took a while, but Wakiso became a comfort to me as well. I have “my” grocery store, “my” restaurant, “my” internet café, “my” pineapple dealer… even the families and kids on “my” street welcome me back and shout “bye Renee!” whenever I pass, even though I’ve never even introduced myself to them. Well, it more sounds like Reenay, but that’s beside the point; they know me here! It’ll be a bummer to leave.
Peace Corps has also started to morph into a long-term commitment. Before, I could only envision myself in training; my life out on my own was unfathomable. Luckily I’ve stumbled upon a few things to propel me into the great unknown. For one thing, I have an unhealthy love of the language. Conjugating verbs has become one of my favorite pastimes. I actually think in Lugandan. My knack for it directly links me with future happiness, success, safety and integration. Serious stuff. But really the funniest part about being, dare I say it, a prodigy (totally kidding, I told my housegirl this morning that I wanted to help her bathe herself on accident) is that I will be making a speech wholly in Luganda next weekend at our big end-of-training/homestay-thank-you party. Coming to a youtube channel near you: “Renee Speaks Luganda, Ugandans Don’t Understand.” My second Peace Corps leadership venture likewise caught me unawares. You are currently reading the blog of the February 2010 Peace Corps Uganda training group Volunteer Advisory Committee representative. I liken it to student council. It went down as such: in a span of maybe 30 minutes (which is unheard of for accomplishing anything in in Uganda), two of the six other members of VAC came; asked for nominations; 8 or so of my fellow trainees were nominated, myself included; speeches were made (I distinctly remember mine including the opening remarks: “I’m not sure whether I would be good at this kind of thing, as I’m quite impatient…); votes were taken; myself and a kid called Jake were elected. So now I’m representing my entire training group at all-staff meetings every three months? At least there’s a bonus: I get an all-expenses-paid weekend trip into Kampala each time!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
To Comings and Goings
I have finally seen the African stars. I know, I’ve been here for near upon seven weeks now, but the opportunity to catch the clear skies of 4am doesn’t often arise when you’re on lockdown come 8pm and the lights of Kampala infiltrate the distance. But trust me, they’re awesome. Even the parasites seem quelled by the way smatterings of stars swirl in loops, twinkle incessantly or streak across the night so frequently that you’d swear someone was taking pictures nearby. I’m spending the week “immersed” (Peace Corps’ word, not mine) in real Ugandan life, hence the chance to star gaze at a whim. A fellow economic development trainee, Elizabeth, and I traveled about 3 hours southeast of Wakiso to a small, rural village, Kiwangala, on Saturday to stay with a real-life volunteer (!), JP. The coaster (think school bus) ride down was one I look forward to forgetting, however. Trying to understand public transportation in Uganda is like trying to bottle fame (hey-o muggles): vehicles are jammed; random suitcases release suspicious clucks every few minutes; people come and go without ever speaking a word, yet the driver knows at which exact stop they want off at; stops are made at the driver’s impulse, and when they’re made, locals swarm the windows, selling anything from skewers of meat to pumpkins, laterns to watches. Dust, heat, spiders and speed bumps the size of Priuses come with the territory. And all of these factors were compounded on Saturday by the intestinally-induced fevers Elizabeth and I both sported for the ride. On the upside, we did manage to pop out of our stupor just as we passed over the equator! They sell lattes there to tourists for what it would cost to feed a family of 12 for a week.
We really lucked out getting placed with JP for the week. As we have only just begun our service, JP is on his way out; his two years are up, tomorrow in fact. He’s been teaching environmental science and health classes at a secondary school while working on community sanitation and agriculture practices. He’s been here for so long, he’s more of a Ugandan than an American at this point. Elizabeth and I have completely bombarded him with questions and pestered him for stories. We’re totally just what he needs: a harrying fan club to impede his packing and farewells. It’s been great though, he took me on an amazing run up and over hills and far down into valleys on paths that seemed on the brink of being covered by the looming flowers and grasses by the afternoon. And we have free time for hours, get to cook what we please, and have neither host parents nor Peace Corps to report back to at regular increments. Sure JP may have autonomy, but he pays for it in what he lacks: electricity, running water, an indoor bathing area and bathroom, reliable cell phone service, a wide food selection. But he’s made it work and is noticeably more saddened by leaving Uganda than he is happy to return to the U.S. At least I got a stack of books he was leaving behind out of the bargain.
Oh! And I also got a Ugandan name! Namata. It means “milk,” of the feminine variety. JP’s freshman environment class gave it to me, it’s from the Cow Clan (there are like 50 clans in the Buganda region, like families; everyone belongs to one, you can’t marry within your clan). I’m overlooking the possibility that the kids might have thought I looked like a cow, or am as pale as milk. But it truly is the perfect name, you’re not allowed to eat your clan. Speaking of milk, aside from cereal, the one thing I’ve been missing most these past few weeks is yogurt. Shame on me. It’s here! I just wasn’t thinking outside of the cup: Ugandans take their yogurt by bag. Think of a ziplock sandwich bag, bite a hole in it, stick in a straw and enjoy!
So I’ve been writing this post over the last couple of days, seeing as how free time is abundant at JP’s site, and each days yields a different outlook on things. I may be sitting under the African sun, alternating between typing on my netbook and reading a copy of The Economist from December 20, 2008 while sipping tea. But the Ugandan wandering spirit is contagious; the randomness is magnetic. I just danced and drummed a beat with 13-year-old Rabina, who’s here washing our clothes and running our errands so that she can earn money for her school and return to school tomorrow. She’s been unable to go to class for two weeks now, without the money; it happens far too often with kids here. JP’s counterpart, John, a 60-year-old farmer has been in and out all morning bringing pots and collard greens, sporting an “official” tag on his shirt and prepping beans to feed 20 people dinner. Godfrey, an orphan of 17 whose parents died of AIDS when he was 13, is popping more popcorn than I have ever seen in my life, with an entourage of high school girls in tow, to serve to the 1000+ students and community tomorrow at JP’s going away celebration.
Yet again, here I am writing 2 days later! JP's going away party was amazing. Surreal, though, seeing as it's too hard to imagine being in his shoes in 2 years. The students sang and danced for him, both traditional and in hilarious Ugang-lish, for an hour. I cried. He didn't? He rented out the local disco to complete the night with some beat bumping dancing. A village on the brink of poverty, with a night club. Ah well, everyone's gotta have fun somehow. But it was amazing, Ugandan music is actually at the forefront of African jams; everyone listens. I'll post some tunes for your enjoyment soon (i.e., in 2 months).
Before I wrap up, I want to share a story that summarizes my constant bewilderment at Ugandan habits. We were in language class one morning last week when a hen walked into the room. This in itself is commonplace. The fun lies in the hen's attempt to seek out an adequate substitute nest to pop out an egg. Obviously, lessons were halted for 10 minutes to create a cozy place for her out of paper and a waste basket, but jokingly, I rib my teacher, Herbert, by telling him to watch his bag, if he's not careful, he'll find an egg in it later. His response: it happens. "IT HAPPENS." When, please tell me, does it ever happen that you go to pick up your bag and there just so happens to be a freshly laid egg in it, still warm, straight from the source?! In Uganda, that's where it happens.
I had a shower this morning. And last night (this morning's was superfluous). First time in 1.5 months! People say that it's the little things to make them happy. This is totally amplified in Uganda. Come what may today, I'm rollin with it, because I had a shower!
Peace love and pineapple season
We really lucked out getting placed with JP for the week. As we have only just begun our service, JP is on his way out; his two years are up, tomorrow in fact. He’s been teaching environmental science and health classes at a secondary school while working on community sanitation and agriculture practices. He’s been here for so long, he’s more of a Ugandan than an American at this point. Elizabeth and I have completely bombarded him with questions and pestered him for stories. We’re totally just what he needs: a harrying fan club to impede his packing and farewells. It’s been great though, he took me on an amazing run up and over hills and far down into valleys on paths that seemed on the brink of being covered by the looming flowers and grasses by the afternoon. And we have free time for hours, get to cook what we please, and have neither host parents nor Peace Corps to report back to at regular increments. Sure JP may have autonomy, but he pays for it in what he lacks: electricity, running water, an indoor bathing area and bathroom, reliable cell phone service, a wide food selection. But he’s made it work and is noticeably more saddened by leaving Uganda than he is happy to return to the U.S. At least I got a stack of books he was leaving behind out of the bargain.
Oh! And I also got a Ugandan name! Namata. It means “milk,” of the feminine variety. JP’s freshman environment class gave it to me, it’s from the Cow Clan (there are like 50 clans in the Buganda region, like families; everyone belongs to one, you can’t marry within your clan). I’m overlooking the possibility that the kids might have thought I looked like a cow, or am as pale as milk. But it truly is the perfect name, you’re not allowed to eat your clan. Speaking of milk, aside from cereal, the one thing I’ve been missing most these past few weeks is yogurt. Shame on me. It’s here! I just wasn’t thinking outside of the cup: Ugandans take their yogurt by bag. Think of a ziplock sandwich bag, bite a hole in it, stick in a straw and enjoy!
So I’ve been writing this post over the last couple of days, seeing as how free time is abundant at JP’s site, and each days yields a different outlook on things. I may be sitting under the African sun, alternating between typing on my netbook and reading a copy of The Economist from December 20, 2008 while sipping tea. But the Ugandan wandering spirit is contagious; the randomness is magnetic. I just danced and drummed a beat with 13-year-old Rabina, who’s here washing our clothes and running our errands so that she can earn money for her school and return to school tomorrow. She’s been unable to go to class for two weeks now, without the money; it happens far too often with kids here. JP’s counterpart, John, a 60-year-old farmer has been in and out all morning bringing pots and collard greens, sporting an “official” tag on his shirt and prepping beans to feed 20 people dinner. Godfrey, an orphan of 17 whose parents died of AIDS when he was 13, is popping more popcorn than I have ever seen in my life, with an entourage of high school girls in tow, to serve to the 1000+ students and community tomorrow at JP’s going away celebration.
Yet again, here I am writing 2 days later! JP's going away party was amazing. Surreal, though, seeing as it's too hard to imagine being in his shoes in 2 years. The students sang and danced for him, both traditional and in hilarious Ugang-lish, for an hour. I cried. He didn't? He rented out the local disco to complete the night with some beat bumping dancing. A village on the brink of poverty, with a night club. Ah well, everyone's gotta have fun somehow. But it was amazing, Ugandan music is actually at the forefront of African jams; everyone listens. I'll post some tunes for your enjoyment soon (i.e., in 2 months).
Before I wrap up, I want to share a story that summarizes my constant bewilderment at Ugandan habits. We were in language class one morning last week when a hen walked into the room. This in itself is commonplace. The fun lies in the hen's attempt to seek out an adequate substitute nest to pop out an egg. Obviously, lessons were halted for 10 minutes to create a cozy place for her out of paper and a waste basket, but jokingly, I rib my teacher, Herbert, by telling him to watch his bag, if he's not careful, he'll find an egg in it later. His response: it happens. "IT HAPPENS." When, please tell me, does it ever happen that you go to pick up your bag and there just so happens to be a freshly laid egg in it, still warm, straight from the source?! In Uganda, that's where it happens.
I had a shower this morning. And last night (this morning's was superfluous). First time in 1.5 months! People say that it's the little things to make them happy. This is totally amplified in Uganda. Come what may today, I'm rollin with it, because I had a shower!
Peace love and pineapple season
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Internet cafes in Kampala are hella quick
How are you bazungu?!
So Ugandans get a righteous kick out of white people (bazungu in Luganda) and love to greet us like that every time they see us. Nevermind that they see us every day, or that they have to run out of their outdoor shower/pit latrine, pants down, to shout it at us. Okay so that’s mostly the children but there’s constantly a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu, muzungu” (singular) trailing me wherever I go. It makes for an entertaining two mile bike ride to training early each morning. Speaking of which, my ride has me quite perplexed: it takes me past Wakiso Primary School, a day/boarding school at which my host sister, Latifah, attends. Regardless of the time I pass by the school, there are always kids coming or going. What time does class start?! Well, I asked Latifah, because she leaves for class at 6:30am, surely hours before some of her classmates. Her answer? 7am. My observations left me unconvinced, so I asked again the next day. She tells me 8am. Probably has something to do with the fact that clocks and watches are non-existent in Uganda.
It seems that ambiguity is a common thread in Ugandan life. Time is fluid, so why not children? Apparently Ugandans have a fear of counting their children; disaster will strike one down if you do so, so they lie. I guess that’s why the average offspring count in Uganda is 6.7. My host mother told me that she has three children. Well I’ve met four and am aware of the existence of at least one other. That’s fine they’re all really nice and are eager to teach me unhelpful things in Luganda (her son Robert found it critical that I repeat the word for duck until it sunk in; it didn’t). What else is ambiguous here are current news. Earthquakes, hurricanes, the Olympics, what’s happened to the cast of the Jersey Shore, all unmentioned. I got a text from my mom the other day asking if I was alright, as there were terrible mudslides in Uganda. There’s flooding in Uganda? I’m here and I didn’t even know that! My next investment is going to be a shortwave radio so that I can turn on the BBC every couple of days to make sure I’m still alive. Hopefully radios aren’t too expensive, I’m subsisting on about $18 a week. My crazy-prepared-friend Arwen brought two cameras, so buying a radio knocks a new camera out of the running for big purchases of questionable quality. Which, in turn, means that pictures will be forthcoming!
“Quality” is a funny thing in Uganda. Ugandans have prized possessions and luxury goods just as Americans do, but what denotes luxury is beyond me. Fancy chairs (good enough for the Ugandan parliament meetings): plastic lawn chairs. My hostmom’s china cabinet ware: a plastic figurine of Scar from The Lion King. My teacher, Maango’s favorite dress shirt: Dish Network logo prominently displayed on the breast. Most everything Ugandans wear is straight off the Salvation Army boat from the U.S., it’s amazing, I love seeing styles from ten years ago making a comeback.
One other thing that I learned will typically be of dubious quality, and unfortunately the hard way (hey, isn’t that how I’m learning everything here?), is walls. I will no longer presume that brick wall fences can support the weight of the average girl; bricks are too abrasive to make that mistake again. Hence, my left shin, right knee and left palm are missing significant portions of skin. I’m considering just using my first aid kit’s antiseptic soap as body wash from here on out.
Ugandans are very eager to please, a mixed blessing. You tell them once that you like something, and you’ll see it thrown at you daily. Things I made the mistake of telling my host family that I love: jackfruit, sweet potatoes, doing the dishes, dancing and fish. I can’t complain about the jackfruit, sweet potatoes and dance parties with my 11 year old host sister (she can shake her hips like no 11 year old has any business being able to), but the dishes was a blatant lie and the fish is hard to choke down. Aside from the bones, fins and internal organs for garnish, I’ve seen where it comes from in the market. Sketchy. At least they realized right away that I could make nothing of the fish head I was served on day one. Save that delicacy for the kids.
Surprisingly, what I love most about training is language learning. Luganda is a beautiful yet simple language to study. It also happens to be the most widely used language in Uganda, especially in major population areas. This puts me at a huge advantage over some of the other language groups whose languages are only spoken in small pockets in, say, the far North. Everyone speaks Luganda. I have no idea how this happened, but I’m actually pretty good at it too. I think necessity has bred comprehension: my host family’s English capacity is that of 3-year-old.
Apart from daily language lessons, training can be tedious at times. You’d think I was back in school, with the ease at which I can fall asleep during class (no worries, I’m referring to high school for all of the professors out there). Of course, much thanks can be given to the wonderful parasites in my digestive system for this. Hence, I have started purifying any and all water I come in direct contact with… We do have a qualifying project that we have free rein over, that’s to be presented on at the end of training. I’m spearheading a sanitation in the workplace initiative. I can’t decide if I really want to know what conditions are like. Other than that, everything’s starting to become routine. Including the fact that I followed a goat for a 1/2 mile on my way to school this morning. And I think that my homestay’s lack of indoor plumbing can more than be compensated for by the fact that its yard contains mango, avocado and jackfruit trees. Talk about the land of plenty!
Hope all’s well on the home front; act as standby BBCs for me; keep me updated on life; eat some cake for me. Sula bulungi (good night)!
So Ugandans get a righteous kick out of white people (bazungu in Luganda) and love to greet us like that every time they see us. Nevermind that they see us every day, or that they have to run out of their outdoor shower/pit latrine, pants down, to shout it at us. Okay so that’s mostly the children but there’s constantly a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu, muzungu” (singular) trailing me wherever I go. It makes for an entertaining two mile bike ride to training early each morning. Speaking of which, my ride has me quite perplexed: it takes me past Wakiso Primary School, a day/boarding school at which my host sister, Latifah, attends. Regardless of the time I pass by the school, there are always kids coming or going. What time does class start?! Well, I asked Latifah, because she leaves for class at 6:30am, surely hours before some of her classmates. Her answer? 7am. My observations left me unconvinced, so I asked again the next day. She tells me 8am. Probably has something to do with the fact that clocks and watches are non-existent in Uganda.
It seems that ambiguity is a common thread in Ugandan life. Time is fluid, so why not children? Apparently Ugandans have a fear of counting their children; disaster will strike one down if you do so, so they lie. I guess that’s why the average offspring count in Uganda is 6.7. My host mother told me that she has three children. Well I’ve met four and am aware of the existence of at least one other. That’s fine they’re all really nice and are eager to teach me unhelpful things in Luganda (her son Robert found it critical that I repeat the word for duck until it sunk in; it didn’t). What else is ambiguous here are current news. Earthquakes, hurricanes, the Olympics, what’s happened to the cast of the Jersey Shore, all unmentioned. I got a text from my mom the other day asking if I was alright, as there were terrible mudslides in Uganda. There’s flooding in Uganda? I’m here and I didn’t even know that! My next investment is going to be a shortwave radio so that I can turn on the BBC every couple of days to make sure I’m still alive. Hopefully radios aren’t too expensive, I’m subsisting on about $18 a week. My crazy-prepared-friend Arwen brought two cameras, so buying a radio knocks a new camera out of the running for big purchases of questionable quality. Which, in turn, means that pictures will be forthcoming!
“Quality” is a funny thing in Uganda. Ugandans have prized possessions and luxury goods just as Americans do, but what denotes luxury is beyond me. Fancy chairs (good enough for the Ugandan parliament meetings): plastic lawn chairs. My hostmom’s china cabinet ware: a plastic figurine of Scar from The Lion King. My teacher, Maango’s favorite dress shirt: Dish Network logo prominently displayed on the breast. Most everything Ugandans wear is straight off the Salvation Army boat from the U.S., it’s amazing, I love seeing styles from ten years ago making a comeback.
One other thing that I learned will typically be of dubious quality, and unfortunately the hard way (hey, isn’t that how I’m learning everything here?), is walls. I will no longer presume that brick wall fences can support the weight of the average girl; bricks are too abrasive to make that mistake again. Hence, my left shin, right knee and left palm are missing significant portions of skin. I’m considering just using my first aid kit’s antiseptic soap as body wash from here on out.
Ugandans are very eager to please, a mixed blessing. You tell them once that you like something, and you’ll see it thrown at you daily. Things I made the mistake of telling my host family that I love: jackfruit, sweet potatoes, doing the dishes, dancing and fish. I can’t complain about the jackfruit, sweet potatoes and dance parties with my 11 year old host sister (she can shake her hips like no 11 year old has any business being able to), but the dishes was a blatant lie and the fish is hard to choke down. Aside from the bones, fins and internal organs for garnish, I’ve seen where it comes from in the market. Sketchy. At least they realized right away that I could make nothing of the fish head I was served on day one. Save that delicacy for the kids.
Surprisingly, what I love most about training is language learning. Luganda is a beautiful yet simple language to study. It also happens to be the most widely used language in Uganda, especially in major population areas. This puts me at a huge advantage over some of the other language groups whose languages are only spoken in small pockets in, say, the far North. Everyone speaks Luganda. I have no idea how this happened, but I’m actually pretty good at it too. I think necessity has bred comprehension: my host family’s English capacity is that of 3-year-old.
Apart from daily language lessons, training can be tedious at times. You’d think I was back in school, with the ease at which I can fall asleep during class (no worries, I’m referring to high school for all of the professors out there). Of course, much thanks can be given to the wonderful parasites in my digestive system for this. Hence, I have started purifying any and all water I come in direct contact with… We do have a qualifying project that we have free rein over, that’s to be presented on at the end of training. I’m spearheading a sanitation in the workplace initiative. I can’t decide if I really want to know what conditions are like. Other than that, everything’s starting to become routine. Including the fact that I followed a goat for a 1/2 mile on my way to school this morning. And I think that my homestay’s lack of indoor plumbing can more than be compensated for by the fact that its yard contains mango, avocado and jackfruit trees. Talk about the land of plenty!
Hope all’s well on the home front; act as standby BBCs for me; keep me updated on life; eat some cake for me. Sula bulungi (good night)!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dust that dirt of your shoulder
Muli Mutya bassebo ne bannyabo?!
The beautiful country of Uganda has found me wandering its hills for near upon two weeks now, and trust me: it’s hilly. The earth is as red can be, but it is completely covered in green. The trees and grass are so beautiful, sometimes I catch myself marvelling at how such a gorgeous place is actually my home now. Monkeys roam around haphazardly, but livestock are the more frequent fauna. Everyone seems to own cows, goats, chickens, dogs and cats. I asked my host sister (she’s 11) about lions and giraffes and zebras and she said I can see them in the zoo. Damn.
Yeah, I moved into my homestay five days ago, and let’s just say that I’ll be relieved when my two months here are up. Before homestay, we spent 3 days at a wonderful training center in Lawesa, right outside of Kampala, the capital. We (and by we I mean the 15 girls and 14 boys that make up my training group; okay, some of the boys and girls are over 50 but you get the gist) bathed in luxury: running water; electricity about 80% of the time, hey it’s sporadic, keeps you on your toes; varied food; silly Peace Corps introduction activities; I taught yoga to the group every morning… All of that came to a screeching halt when we ventured to destination #2: Wakiso. We train at a resort-like place from 8-5 six days a week, so that’s delightful, but the hours I spend with my homestay are, well, adventurous. I live with a single grandmother. Three of her grandchildren, ages unknown but all under 11, and a housegirl (read: servant) live with her. None speak English very well, soap is a sparse commodity, the latrine is a pit outside, water is bought from a man carrying way too much of it in jugs on his bicycle, the shower is a bucket, and the cockroaches/spiders/lizards/giant millipedes are rampant.
The foods pretty decent though. Peace Corps forks over enough money per week to feed a small army of Ugandan children (Our Dumb World, eh Laurabelle?), so they feed me lots of fruit and veggies. Jackfruit is the most amazing thing in the world, I dream about it at night. But starches and protein pretty much inundate the majority of a Ugandan diet. At one meal we were served rice, potatoes, pasta, matoke and posha (two staple foods made from a starchy unripe semi-banana that tastes like potatoes and a polenta wannabe, respectively). Beans and peanut sauce are liberally heaped over all. Oh well, still delicious. But anyways, the volunteers swear that these families afford their TVs, DVD players and cars from the PC subsidization (aka food allowance).
Training’s been pretty idyllic. We chill in buildings that can pretty much be considered outdoor (birds fly over our heads), learning a whole slew of information about medical precautions, hygiene, the history of AIDS in Uganda, the economy, gender roles, yeah it feels like college. But then we’ll spend the next 4 hours learning how to build the best outdoor shower and how to barter with the locals. We’re taught by a sampling of current Peace Corps volunteers and Ugandans. We’ve already been divided into 6 language groups that basically shed light on our future site placement. I’m learning Luganda, the main language, and the one that is found closest to the capital. Good news for me, I won’t be in the middle of the bush, a six hour matatu (crazy rickety van-taxi with way too many people crammed in) ride from anything. Language is going swimmingly, the bikes we were given are hilariously inadequate at managing the hills, and things that took 20 minutes in America now take 2 hours, or 2 days in the case of my suitcase which was pad-locked with the keys inside, fml. No worries, it’s Uganda time, punctual is not in the vernacular.
I’ve debated whether I should filter this blogging endeavor but, hey, I oppose censorship. I seem to have acquired the title of unluckiest out of all 29 of my PCT group. I can be abased no further; nothing is sacred. Day 1 at homestay: after showering, I went to grab my towel from over the basin I placed in on in the bathing area, it was soaking wet. How can this be? Turns out, I so happened to set my towel in my family’s “night call” bucket (i.e., chamber pot). Piss towel was subsequently thrown in a ditch. Day 2: locked my keys in my suitcase, finding Ugandan help and tools takes 2 days of no clothes and no bathing to undo. Day 4: Don’t step on the tin roofing on the ground, it’s there to cover up something unsightly. In my case? Shit. Shin deep into sewage draining from the pit latrine. Thank heaven my friend Arwen was with me (she’s on her 3rd year of PC service, having spent the last 2 in Togo), she sanitized my body as I threatened tears. Day 5: eh, I won’t go there, but it was an issue with what they dubbed “long calls” here. On the bright side, everyone seems to think it can only get better from here on out. Ha, at least there’s always a volunteer willing to run with me and shake-your-head-bad Uganda soap operas to keep me sane.
I have a cell phone and get service everywhere, my number is 0785781340, I have no idea how to dial it, but I can text and calling through Skype is 15 cents a minute, and there are Ugandan calling cards online that charge 10 cents a minute I believe. I’m going to wait until after my 2 months of training are up to decide what I do about internet. I’m at an internet café right now that charges like 25 cents for half an hour of internet, but its hella slow (shout out to my homies in San Fran, Vicky). There are wireless cards available that work throughout the country and are fast but they’re pretty expensive. So my 2 year site resources will determine whether I invest or not. Until then, I don’t really have time to be online anyways: we train from 8-5 every day except Sunday, and we’re locked up in our homestays when it gets dark around 7 every night, zombies.
Also, you may notice that pictures are absent from this blog. Yeah, words of advice: buy a new camera should you leave home for 2+ years. Fingers crossed I can buy a decent one in Kampala when I go back in a couple weeks. Hopefully next Sunday will bear a second blog, thanks for reading folks. Eat some cereal and ice cream for me, you’re all uber missed. Peace, love and Uganda omusera (sunshine; I’m on the equator, duh)!
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