Two weeks ago was the All-Volunteer Conference for Peace Corps Volunteers in Uganda. One-hundred and sixty kids, adults and beyond-adults (I don’t think anyone fits into the “adult” category, or would do so only begrudgingly). Last year’s conference was a Glee mash-up of corporate seminars and Spring Break pool parties. I can only imagine that this year’s proved equally as flawless. Yet it’s okay that I wasn’t there; surprisingly. True, I did have one day where I conspicuously sat alone at Jacob’s pool, feeling the isolation acutely. But in general, I become more accepting of a fragmented life in the U.S. every day. As follows is my scorecard, if you will, of those adaptations that have been facile, difficult or, if I was expecting the opposite, simply surprising.
First, those I jumped into with the fortitude of a cannonball into a cool pool on a 90+ day:
- Vegetables. Living in a village in which only cabbage, tomatoes, onions and pumpkin can be purchased with any regularity resulted in my continued over-consumption of broccoli, zucchini, red pepper, mushrooms, spinach, sweet corn, cucumbers, you name it, I’ll eat it.
- Tap water. What? No boiling or chlorine-concentration required? AND fluoride is included? Nyongeza! (Bonus!)
- Anything but the Daily Monitor or Red Pepper. For a country reticent about sex, they sure do print a lot of suggestive material in their nationally-syndicated newspapers. “Oranges help promote boob health.” Please, for the love of all that keeps me sane, please somebody pass me a Wall Street Journal!
- Fitness centers. True, I had no reason to rejoin a gym until the crutches became a little bit less obtrusive, but the wait was well worth it. The day I’m able to participate in a spin class will be a monumental occasion. Heck, I’ll even relish running on the treadmill again!
- Driving. I foolishly presumed I’d have nary a need for an automobile for, oh, 3-4 years after returning from Uganda. Not so. Things are far away! And after being hit by a car on a public road, the chances of buying a bike look scant for the time being. But anything’s better than a matatu jockeying down the road at breakneck speed, 10 over the 14 person capacity. Punch the gas and shoot for 65 in a 25; that’s what I’m digging these days.
Next, those I needed caution and uncertainty for; a gradual entrance into a scalding hot tub:
- An iPhone. I’m used to the internet being static, transmitted from looming cell phone towers at the acme of the steepest hills in the country. Don’t see a tower? Chances are you won’t have internet access either. But 3G iPhones: are you trying to tell me that you can check your email while you’re sipping on a boat drink from a raft in the middle of a pool? It may not be wise, but damnit I’m gunna do it because I sure as hell can. This is America. Although the constant barrage of Facebook status updates as a result ought to go.
- Shorts. And not just because my quads hadn’t seen the sun in 15 months. True, I was protecting you, the general public, from that display, but it honestly came down to a shift in societal norms. Shoulders, freely-growing armpit hair, breasts: all fine. But show a little kneecap in Uganda and you’re branded a hussy. I still prefer my flowing skirts and basketball shorts to anything more constricting…
- First impressions. Meeting new people is swell; I generally delight in the opportunity to understand where a person has been and where they’re heading. But lately all of that has been overshadowed by a powerful distaste for having to explain where I’ve been and where I’m heading. The interest of a first meet-and-greet is too superficial for me to really concede anything. Yet this will improve with time. Hopefully…?
- The dollar. Whoever denies the U.S. Dollar’s strength need only move to Uganda where it’s ratio against the Ugandan Shilling is $1:3,000/=. Having to pay the equivalent of 25,000/= for a mediocre lunch is terrifying. It does not help that Peace Corps left me with so little annual income that I’ve actually been denied a credit card. “No, sir, $6,000 per year is not a gross underestimation.”
- Consumerism. An obvious successor to my previous concession, laying out the dolla bills for anything now is a bit tricky. Add to that the swift propulsion into a credit-based society from one that is cash-based, and the result is an overly-prudent citizen. I am not helping reverse this recession.
Finally, those I met with the surprise of stepping into an unexpectedly warm lake:
- Ice cream. My favorite food group, without question. Yet parasites and a district teeming with cows but somehow devoid of dairy (blame it on the poor nutrition), leaves me with a queasy stomach and a knack for locating the Tums aisle in the store. But I will persevere; ice cream is too important for anything less.
- The ultra-conservative Tea Party. What is this? Where did this come from?
- Friends. I’m not sure if I’m capable of reconciling the draw to two groups of people, separated by half of the U.S., the Atlantic, and all of West Africa. Solution: everyone come to Chicago!!!
- Showering. I was asked the other day if it’s true that I had to bathe with one water bottle’s worth of water in Uganda. While this is a gross exaggeration of the sacrifices I made, I still can’t justify waiting until the water has reached an optimal temperature before stepping in; what a waste! However, I may be singing a different tune come winter...
So for now, I’m still maneuvering this transition as if driving a grocery-laden cart through an overcrowded Wal-Mart. But, instead of being frustrated, all I really need to do is shop at Target, right?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Anthem
Almost Everything
Also, while I sit at home reading book after book, bearing the Chicago humidity for the sake of a tan, Jacob sends me poignant reminders of those I love and miss in Uganda. A video of my "family", whom I've mentioned frequently and with adoration in past posts:
Family
In order of appearance: Uncle (Fr. Charles' uncle; no one calls him by any other name, it may be Bonafest...), Winnie (my counterpart/bane/sister from Chicago/best friend), Kakulu Mukulu (Peter, whose house is a pile of bricks but whose humor and compassion are fully-manifested), Fred (Fr. Charles' Uncle), Sanyu (my dearest friend), Rosie (Fr. Charles' housegirl and my neighbor; she secretly waters my plants, leaves me food and washes my clothes. She's either really kind or thinks I'm incompetent, I'd say both), Somaya (my pseudo-daughter and playmate who won't leave my side), Robert (my brother and biggest helper), Muhumuza (my second brother and stubborn little punk), and finally Uncle (again!). Missing: Kakulu Muto (my youngest brother and monkey that refuses to leave my back unless it's to hold my hand as we walk along) and Brenda (Sanyu's younger sister and my accomplice in ganging up on Sanyu when doing almost anything).
Thank you for meeting them.
Also, while I sit at home reading book after book, bearing the Chicago humidity for the sake of a tan, Jacob sends me poignant reminders of those I love and miss in Uganda. A video of my "family", whom I've mentioned frequently and with adoration in past posts:
Family
In order of appearance: Uncle (Fr. Charles' uncle; no one calls him by any other name, it may be Bonafest...), Winnie (my counterpart/bane/sister from Chicago/best friend), Kakulu Mukulu (Peter, whose house is a pile of bricks but whose humor and compassion are fully-manifested), Fred (Fr. Charles' Uncle), Sanyu (my dearest friend), Rosie (Fr. Charles' housegirl and my neighbor; she secretly waters my plants, leaves me food and washes my clothes. She's either really kind or thinks I'm incompetent, I'd say both), Somaya (my pseudo-daughter and playmate who won't leave my side), Robert (my brother and biggest helper), Muhumuza (my second brother and stubborn little punk), and finally Uncle (again!). Missing: Kakulu Muto (my youngest brother and monkey that refuses to leave my back unless it's to hold my hand as we walk along) and Brenda (Sanyu's younger sister and my accomplice in ganging up on Sanyu when doing almost anything).
Thank you for meeting them.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
16/06/2011
I don’t want to write. You’d think I would. You’d think the words would just be pouring out of me, ready for anyone to soak them up like the last bit of soup with the last bit of karo. In the middle of the night, when the vicodin has worn off, the nerves regenerating in my foot are sending intense pangs all the way up to my hip where I’m reminded of the fact that my skin graft donor site can’t go longer than two hours without a dousing of lotion before it feels like I’m ripping the skin off again should I shift positions, the bottle of Tums on my nightstand is empty after attempting to quell the damage done to my digestive tract from 4 weeks of IV pain-killers, 4 surgeries worth of anesthesia and 15 months of parasites, and sleep is the farthest thing from my mind, you’d think I’d haul my netbook up off the floor and onto my chest and just write. But what is there to say?
Should I talk about the fact that orthopedics tell me I’ll never run a marathon again? Or that the bones in my foot are hardly visible on the X-rays for all of the plates and screws shrouding them from view? I know! There’s the fact that all of my friends and family in the States are moving on with their lives: looking for jobs, cities, apartments and grad schools while I’m treated like a 13-year-old in my parents’ house; a burden that can’t even carry its own food. Nah. Maybe I could expand upon my feelings towards never being given the opportunity to say goodbye to anyone in Uganda, let alone the fact that I left a house, wonderful friends, a job and responsibilities for the future. And how I want, desperately, more than anything in the world, to get back there yet doctors tell me it could be anywhere from 4 months to a year before my foot is functioning anywhere near properly. Oh, but the surgeries? They’ll continue forever. I could write about how it feels being stuck, in so many ways, here in the States while my boyfriend is in my village (MY village!) in Uganda right now, working in a clinic and experiencing everything we were supposed to do together. Somehow that doesn’t pulse like a good writing topic, either.
So I think I’ll just go back to bed.
Should I talk about the fact that orthopedics tell me I’ll never run a marathon again? Or that the bones in my foot are hardly visible on the X-rays for all of the plates and screws shrouding them from view? I know! There’s the fact that all of my friends and family in the States are moving on with their lives: looking for jobs, cities, apartments and grad schools while I’m treated like a 13-year-old in my parents’ house; a burden that can’t even carry its own food. Nah. Maybe I could expand upon my feelings towards never being given the opportunity to say goodbye to anyone in Uganda, let alone the fact that I left a house, wonderful friends, a job and responsibilities for the future. And how I want, desperately, more than anything in the world, to get back there yet doctors tell me it could be anywhere from 4 months to a year before my foot is functioning anywhere near properly. Oh, but the surgeries? They’ll continue forever. I could write about how it feels being stuck, in so many ways, here in the States while my boyfriend is in my village (MY village!) in Uganda right now, working in a clinic and experiencing everything we were supposed to do together. Somehow that doesn’t pulse like a good writing topic, either.
So I think I’ll just go back to bed.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Three Weeks in the Life: woke up, got hit by a car...
Day 1: Ask Joe Mathias or John Emami.
No just kidding, I suppose the logical place for me to start is at the beginning, so that’s where I begin my script… A classic dilemma: whether to eat before a workout or not. And the classic reasoning: an athlete needs energy, but doesn’t want to throw up; wants to stay nourished, but remain slim. But for me, I was regretting the piece of whole-grain bread I’d downed at 6:50am in preparation for a 9-mile run for none of the above reasons. Rather, the bread was a lump in my stomach keeping me from surgery at noon. Because at 7:30am, as I was running along a two-lane country road in George, South Africa with my friend Joe, I was hit by a car from behind, as it made its way into the wrong lane and even onto the shoulder to recklessly pass another car. My right ankle and foot were shattered, obviously implying the total destruction of my running shoe. Gruesome details aside, I was finally ushered into surgery around 7pm that night. But those 12 hours leading up to surgery bore unbearable pain (don’t think me a wimp, it hurt like hell), two hospitals, two uncomfortable-to-the-max car rides with me strewn across the backseat, x-rays, a CT scan, multiple morphine injections followed by morphine-induced vomiting, expensive calls to PC and family, a conversation avoided with my injurer’s lawyer who showed up at the hospital in an attempt to defer blame, and unforgettable kindnesses displayed by my two good friends, John and Joe. How lucky I was to be travelling with those boys.
Day 6: It was an active day, the most active I’d been in six. I’ve learned the best way to avoid the 4am baths is to not be awake and ready for them. Sounds obvious, but I wasn’t keen on inconveniencing the nurses at first. But if you act like you’re the one being interrupted (as if 24 hrs in a bed doesn’t present enough opportunity for sleep), then the nurses will back out with a humbled “we’ll come back later.” So today 6am was able to tick by before I wrestled myself from my reverie. A solid night, considering what was anticipated: off goes to bandaging and a check at the progress is made. Dr. Barrett, my orthopedist forced me to pull my nose out of the Sudoku blocking my view of my foot, and I’m glad he did. Even though the stitching, wiring, bruising, swelling and oozing make my foot look more like a prop in a horror film, I can at least understand where my pain is coming from now. The worst part, and immediate concern, is for the extensive tissue damage done to the back of my heel (where initial impact and the hard back of my shoe made for a poor combination in exemplifying skin’s resiliency…).
Day 15: I’ve got the nuances of the hospital down. But that won’t give me anxiety over leaving when I finally can go. George Hospital has been caring to a truly great extent, but get me out! 15 days in a bed; 15 days in pain; 15 days of sleepless nights and hospital food; 15 days waiting for the next step: a next surgery, a next doctor, a next excruciating hour of bandage removal and replacement to check the progress. But it looks like Thursday’s my day! I can say goodbye with a heartfelt “thanks” to all the fine nurses and hop (ugh) on a plane; off to Pretoria, where I’ll spend a day in PC care, finalizing plans and filling paperwork for my COS (that would be Close of Service, an acronym which the pang in my gut tells me I am far from accepting as indicative of my case…). Even Rob has already been here for 11 days. Currently out enjoying the beautiful mountains by bike, as he should, he’s been a great comfort. He’s no mom, but his consistent candy-, email- and story-times have safeguarded my sanity. So he helps me move in 2 days: the critical moment between surgeries. My 3rd surgery was a damaged-to-the-point-of-death tissue-removing procedure in preparation for a skin graft. The area of concern being the swath of heel from inner to outer ankle, with little muscle and fat, will be tricky; the graft needs an excessive amount of time to settle. Which essentially means a few more weeks in the hospital after the graft surgery is done upon my return. Oh well, at least I’ll be a little more entertained than I have been for the past 15 days (I rue the day John and Joe left! [Day 7]). I think I’m going to start studying for the GMAT to keep my mind from wandering to the cruel truths lying beneath this injury, keep my mind from missing Uganda. But for the next 2 days, at least, I’ll be preoccupied with helping PC arrange for my travel. Ambulances, business class seats for my foot’s extension (far-from-worth-it perk), a speedy layover on account of a vacuum-sealed bandage with a 24hr battery life, and enough pain killers to prevent the altitude-induced swelling from reaching unbearable levels (“Who? You mean the man with the morphine shot? My dad? Sure… he’s a certified nurse…”): logistics I’ve always desired managing. How lucky for me!
Day 18: I flew to Pretoria two days ago. First leg of my journey completed. Today I catch a 8:10 flight out of Johannesburg, arriving in Atlanta 18 hours later and Chicago 4 after that; with time changes and layovers that puts me squarely in the backseat of my mom’s SUV-thing at 11am Monday morning. The Peace Corps South Africa headquarters are what’s tying me to Pretoria: all PCVs with serious medical cases find their way here to recover and receive care that can’t be found in Uganda, Rwanda, Morocco, Madagascar, Zambia, Swaziland, Lesotho, you get the gist. So we’re an interesting crew here; broken jaws, fractured skulls, food poisoning-induced arthritis, abnormal blood tests. Oh Africa. How I’ll miss you… But even though I’m coming home, and anxious to see friends, family and a good-looking boy, I’ve set my sights on August/September to find me back at St. Thomas Vocational Secondary School in the boonies of Uganda. Luckily all I’ll have is time in the States; time to dedicate to sitting in a hospital bed waiting for a skin graft to take and, more importantly, time to dedicate to rehabbing to make me run again. And for support with that, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with those I care about in the U.S. To those in Uganda: I miss you already. To those in America: see you folks soon!!!
No just kidding, I suppose the logical place for me to start is at the beginning, so that’s where I begin my script… A classic dilemma: whether to eat before a workout or not. And the classic reasoning: an athlete needs energy, but doesn’t want to throw up; wants to stay nourished, but remain slim. But for me, I was regretting the piece of whole-grain bread I’d downed at 6:50am in preparation for a 9-mile run for none of the above reasons. Rather, the bread was a lump in my stomach keeping me from surgery at noon. Because at 7:30am, as I was running along a two-lane country road in George, South Africa with my friend Joe, I was hit by a car from behind, as it made its way into the wrong lane and even onto the shoulder to recklessly pass another car. My right ankle and foot were shattered, obviously implying the total destruction of my running shoe. Gruesome details aside, I was finally ushered into surgery around 7pm that night. But those 12 hours leading up to surgery bore unbearable pain (don’t think me a wimp, it hurt like hell), two hospitals, two uncomfortable-to-the-max car rides with me strewn across the backseat, x-rays, a CT scan, multiple morphine injections followed by morphine-induced vomiting, expensive calls to PC and family, a conversation avoided with my injurer’s lawyer who showed up at the hospital in an attempt to defer blame, and unforgettable kindnesses displayed by my two good friends, John and Joe. How lucky I was to be travelling with those boys.
Day 6: It was an active day, the most active I’d been in six. I’ve learned the best way to avoid the 4am baths is to not be awake and ready for them. Sounds obvious, but I wasn’t keen on inconveniencing the nurses at first. But if you act like you’re the one being interrupted (as if 24 hrs in a bed doesn’t present enough opportunity for sleep), then the nurses will back out with a humbled “we’ll come back later.” So today 6am was able to tick by before I wrestled myself from my reverie. A solid night, considering what was anticipated: off goes to bandaging and a check at the progress is made. Dr. Barrett, my orthopedist forced me to pull my nose out of the Sudoku blocking my view of my foot, and I’m glad he did. Even though the stitching, wiring, bruising, swelling and oozing make my foot look more like a prop in a horror film, I can at least understand where my pain is coming from now. The worst part, and immediate concern, is for the extensive tissue damage done to the back of my heel (where initial impact and the hard back of my shoe made for a poor combination in exemplifying skin’s resiliency…).
Day 15: I’ve got the nuances of the hospital down. But that won’t give me anxiety over leaving when I finally can go. George Hospital has been caring to a truly great extent, but get me out! 15 days in a bed; 15 days in pain; 15 days of sleepless nights and hospital food; 15 days waiting for the next step: a next surgery, a next doctor, a next excruciating hour of bandage removal and replacement to check the progress. But it looks like Thursday’s my day! I can say goodbye with a heartfelt “thanks” to all the fine nurses and hop (ugh) on a plane; off to Pretoria, where I’ll spend a day in PC care, finalizing plans and filling paperwork for my COS (that would be Close of Service, an acronym which the pang in my gut tells me I am far from accepting as indicative of my case…). Even Rob has already been here for 11 days. Currently out enjoying the beautiful mountains by bike, as he should, he’s been a great comfort. He’s no mom, but his consistent candy-, email- and story-times have safeguarded my sanity. So he helps me move in 2 days: the critical moment between surgeries. My 3rd surgery was a damaged-to-the-point-of-death tissue-removing procedure in preparation for a skin graft. The area of concern being the swath of heel from inner to outer ankle, with little muscle and fat, will be tricky; the graft needs an excessive amount of time to settle. Which essentially means a few more weeks in the hospital after the graft surgery is done upon my return. Oh well, at least I’ll be a little more entertained than I have been for the past 15 days (I rue the day John and Joe left! [Day 7]). I think I’m going to start studying for the GMAT to keep my mind from wandering to the cruel truths lying beneath this injury, keep my mind from missing Uganda. But for the next 2 days, at least, I’ll be preoccupied with helping PC arrange for my travel. Ambulances, business class seats for my foot’s extension (far-from-worth-it perk), a speedy layover on account of a vacuum-sealed bandage with a 24hr battery life, and enough pain killers to prevent the altitude-induced swelling from reaching unbearable levels (“Who? You mean the man with the morphine shot? My dad? Sure… he’s a certified nurse…”): logistics I’ve always desired managing. How lucky for me!
Day 18: I flew to Pretoria two days ago. First leg of my journey completed. Today I catch a 8:10 flight out of Johannesburg, arriving in Atlanta 18 hours later and Chicago 4 after that; with time changes and layovers that puts me squarely in the backseat of my mom’s SUV-thing at 11am Monday morning. The Peace Corps South Africa headquarters are what’s tying me to Pretoria: all PCVs with serious medical cases find their way here to recover and receive care that can’t be found in Uganda, Rwanda, Morocco, Madagascar, Zambia, Swaziland, Lesotho, you get the gist. So we’re an interesting crew here; broken jaws, fractured skulls, food poisoning-induced arthritis, abnormal blood tests. Oh Africa. How I’ll miss you… But even though I’m coming home, and anxious to see friends, family and a good-looking boy, I’ve set my sights on August/September to find me back at St. Thomas Vocational Secondary School in the boonies of Uganda. Luckily all I’ll have is time in the States; time to dedicate to sitting in a hospital bed waiting for a skin graft to take and, more importantly, time to dedicate to rehabbing to make me run again. And for support with that, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with those I care about in the U.S. To those in Uganda: I miss you already. To those in America: see you folks soon!!!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
One month til Jacob comes! (Author's note: this post has nothing to do with Jacob's coming)
Happy Easter! It may be a few days post-peeps-overload for you, but Easter here’s a 4 day holiday: Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday. That’s a lot of mass. For most… For me, it meant a lot of yoga and The West Wing. Where was I in 1999 and why wasn’t I watching The West Wing? That show is fantastic. Yet the fact that there are 7 seasons could seriously impede my work, heck, bring it to a screeching halt; but I’m in luck (I disagree with you, Renee, this is bad luck!): I only have the first season on my computer. The West Wing’s off the air, I acquiesce, but is 30 Rock? It shouldn’t be. Tina Fey’s comedic genius mixed with perverse and often inappropriate bits that would never make the cut of a West Wing taping, make that show perfect for a rainy, or frustrating day. Can you see I’ve spent my time wisely as of late?
In my defense, I’ve been on holiday for the past week. School term ended last Thursday. No more students (I miss them)! No more books (There never were any)! No more teachers’ dirty looks (I ruffle a few feathers)! But really, it’s been nothing but final exams, staff meetings and report card filling since my birthday (take note: April 14. I’ll be 25 next year, that’s HUGE, people). So I’ve passed my second birthday in Uganda. This one, though, has the last beat. I spent my 23rd in bed during training, nursing an unfortunate bout of giardia. I spent the 24th eating cake surrounded my lions. You might think that that kind of thing’s made only for a Malcolm in the Middle episode (F I need to update my pop culture references), but it can and did indeed happen. Here’s the long and short of it: Hayley bakes me a delicious chocolate cake, from which I really only got a small nosh because tradition has it here that the celebratee has to serve the celebrators before his or herself. Hayley has an office staff of around 15. I noted, to my dismay, that on any normal day there are about 6 loitering around. I can only conclude that the cake memorandum had leaked. So during my 5 minutes ever employed in servitude, Brian and his girlfriend Kristen showed up. (Get this story: Brian came to Uganda w/ me a year ago as a PC volunteer. The SAME DAY, his long-term girlfriend Kristen left for PC in Paraguay. Her visiting the past few weeks was the first they’ve seen of each other in over a year. A-frickin-dorable). They were meeting up with Benjamin, Hayley’s coworker and Queen Elizabeth National Park safari game guide. Now, I had finished my work there, and when the two of them offered up a free tag-along position on safari, how could I not jump into the car at the opportunity?! And luckily I did, fore it resulted in the coolest lion experience I can imagine. I don’t think Benjamin was supposed to go off the path like that…
It would logically follow that if two birthday have passed with me straddling the Equator, than two Easter’s have also elapsed. Not true! Easters are screwy. But yeah, two actually have, ha. This one was a little strange. It was the first “big” holiday I spent alone in the village. Obviously I wasn’t alone. I spent 3 hours in a church service to which we preemptively brought our own chairs. That should tell you a little about how overcrowded it was. (Ugandans are also opportunistic Christians!) Strange though: the 3 hours swam by pleasantly because my favorite little sister, Somaya, filled my lap… and also my heart…? Gross, I hate kids and I hate sentimentality. But it had to be confessed. I can’t get enough of my extended family here, even though Easter met me with a profound longing for the Vuillaume family traditions. Or maybe I just wanted my hidden chocolate eggs and quarters. 24-year-olds are still entitled to Easter baskets!
Easter ended in a homemade, hearty meal prepared lovingly with my family, which included everyone’s favorites (and ALL of mine: cabbage, millet bread and groundnut sauce). Much like everyone’s at home Stateside, I’m sure. And I actually have been doing some work. But more on that later; the project’s not finished and I’m hitting the road, than the air, than the sea in South Africa for a few days. How better to celebrate our official 1-year-as-volunteer mark, than to… well I actually don’t know what we’re going to do in South Africa, but we’ll sure as hell figure it out as we go! Nelson Mandela, the Zulu and braiis: let us in! (Us being myself, John and Joe; should be an interesting trio) Catch ya when I get back, please don’t anticipate Egypt-like accounts. Better yet, please pray that I DON’T return with Egypt-like accounts. Happy Easter and Happy Spring, kids!
In my defense, I’ve been on holiday for the past week. School term ended last Thursday. No more students (I miss them)! No more books (There never were any)! No more teachers’ dirty looks (I ruffle a few feathers)! But really, it’s been nothing but final exams, staff meetings and report card filling since my birthday (take note: April 14. I’ll be 25 next year, that’s HUGE, people). So I’ve passed my second birthday in Uganda. This one, though, has the last beat. I spent my 23rd in bed during training, nursing an unfortunate bout of giardia. I spent the 24th eating cake surrounded my lions. You might think that that kind of thing’s made only for a Malcolm in the Middle episode (F I need to update my pop culture references), but it can and did indeed happen. Here’s the long and short of it: Hayley bakes me a delicious chocolate cake, from which I really only got a small nosh because tradition has it here that the celebratee has to serve the celebrators before his or herself. Hayley has an office staff of around 15. I noted, to my dismay, that on any normal day there are about 6 loitering around. I can only conclude that the cake memorandum had leaked. So during my 5 minutes ever employed in servitude, Brian and his girlfriend Kristen showed up. (Get this story: Brian came to Uganda w/ me a year ago as a PC volunteer. The SAME DAY, his long-term girlfriend Kristen left for PC in Paraguay. Her visiting the past few weeks was the first they’ve seen of each other in over a year. A-frickin-dorable). They were meeting up with Benjamin, Hayley’s coworker and Queen Elizabeth National Park safari game guide. Now, I had finished my work there, and when the two of them offered up a free tag-along position on safari, how could I not jump into the car at the opportunity?! And luckily I did, fore it resulted in the coolest lion experience I can imagine. I don’t think Benjamin was supposed to go off the path like that…
It would logically follow that if two birthday have passed with me straddling the Equator, than two Easter’s have also elapsed. Not true! Easters are screwy. But yeah, two actually have, ha. This one was a little strange. It was the first “big” holiday I spent alone in the village. Obviously I wasn’t alone. I spent 3 hours in a church service to which we preemptively brought our own chairs. That should tell you a little about how overcrowded it was. (Ugandans are also opportunistic Christians!) Strange though: the 3 hours swam by pleasantly because my favorite little sister, Somaya, filled my lap… and also my heart…? Gross, I hate kids and I hate sentimentality. But it had to be confessed. I can’t get enough of my extended family here, even though Easter met me with a profound longing for the Vuillaume family traditions. Or maybe I just wanted my hidden chocolate eggs and quarters. 24-year-olds are still entitled to Easter baskets!
Easter ended in a homemade, hearty meal prepared lovingly with my family, which included everyone’s favorites (and ALL of mine: cabbage, millet bread and groundnut sauce). Much like everyone’s at home Stateside, I’m sure. And I actually have been doing some work. But more on that later; the project’s not finished and I’m hitting the road, than the air, than the sea in South Africa for a few days. How better to celebrate our official 1-year-as-volunteer mark, than to… well I actually don’t know what we’re going to do in South Africa, but we’ll sure as hell figure it out as we go! Nelson Mandela, the Zulu and braiis: let us in! (Us being myself, John and Joe; should be an interesting trio) Catch ya when I get back, please don’t anticipate Egypt-like accounts. Better yet, please pray that I DON’T return with Egypt-like accounts. Happy Easter and Happy Spring, kids!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Happy, Shift, F7: content, contented, pleased, glad...
How did this happen? How is the slowest year of my life actually over? And how is God’s name is this year going so fast?! Maybe it’s because I make vegetable curry every night for dinner such that the days have blurred together (seriously, I’m eating vegetable curry right now). Nah, try again. I haven’t blacked out in a malarial state of semi-being. Therefore, that has to mean that I’m actually happy; I’m enjoying this year! Holy balls. Who gave me permission to do that? Blame it on my students: they’re audacious little bastards. And Jacob: he’s an audacious bastard. And myself: I’m just audacious.
Truly, though, I welcome Mid-March (Mid-April, Mid-May, Mid-June…) with my solitary favorite phrase in vernacular: kulikyo, welcome back! These months are greeted with smiles (hi Smiles, thanks for reading) partially because I’ve nestled into a groove and partially because I’m legit keyed-up about the future. I’m hating teaching computers, and admit to that fact unabashedly to everyone within earshot at least once a week, but I’m loving my students. And the perpetuity of high school is unavoidable: I’m a Junior Peace Corps Volunteer thanks to the February group of Freshman, teaching for a Sophmore year in a school with new Freshmen at whom I catch even myself treating as the noobs right along with all of the older St. Thomas Students. Send me pennies, I have no reservations about throwing them. Just kidding… I’m their teacher… Yeah… Sigh… But I think I’ve come to fill the role of older friend/advisor to many of these kids, and I’m more than okay with that. I’d much rather encourage them to forego studying to instead play volleyball, netball, football or just shoot the shit. I spend too many 5:00ams a week threatening to beat boys and girls alike in sprinting, plank and push-up competitions (I’ve got the planks and push-ups but I’m better off feigning my starts when it comes to sprinting with the boys: they don’t fear the beach ball-size divots and cow patties [ugh, beach balls as well] on our ‘track’). I get to talk to whomever asks about good study habits (I still wish I could turn it into a career…) and when I planned an International Women’s Day program, be damn sure that it included games that involve as many people as possible getting drenched by as much water as possible and a girl’s football match, as well as lessons on puberty, menstruation, sex, HIV/AIDS and pregnancy. For the boys as well. Although maybe I should rethink my strategy; I did get a chunk of my arm gouged out by an over-zealous Drip, Drip, Drop contestant… I’m lying, it didn’t even bleed.
So when I say that I’m content, I’m being honest. Despite the fact that two of my good friends are moving away: Kakulu and Deacon Dez. Dez is becoming a full-blown priest (trust me, there are half-blown priests) this weekend. His ordination celebration should be hilarious, judging by the inside joke we share naming nothing less than a cold Guinness as “His Life.” But he’ll be heading his own parish soon, and so, alas, I lose my best guy friend. So drink a Guinness for him on St. Patty’s Day, and wish him the luck of the Irish in becoming as much of a Fr. Gavin as a non-Fr. Gavin can become. Then there’s Kakulu, damn him! This morning, after his ritualistic morning teasing, this time inviting me to tea in his house which is presently a pile of bricks, he squeezes me into a big hug and says, “when you’re in Kampala, call me.” What?! I look left: there’s a rolled-up mattress at his feet and a suitcase the appropriate size for an American’s weekend getaway. “I probably won’t be back these ends for a year.” Shit. “Couldn’t you have told me BEFORE the day you were leaving??” Nah, that’s so not Africa.
But it’s all good, I’m happy, right (have you caught the theme yet)? Yep, despite needing to recharge with the next-best comfort food after cereal, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, following most typing lessons with the “freshman”, all gauges still read “Renee’s happy!”. I’ve reached the point in my service in which I’ve come to the realization that Give! Give! Give! is just as appreciated by the community as Give Sometimes and Do What You Want the Rest of the Time! So I read a lot. I’ve become addicted to moon salutations and headstands. I ran out of new sudokus, thus I pen my own. I decided to learn how to play chess, thinking I could one-up Jacob in something (no such luck, he knows… but thankfully my determination to beat people at things can’t be deterred by minor setbacks like the fact that he knows how to play and I don’t); good game, reminds me of Carl. I brainstorm hairstyles for the impending hair-growth. I think about travelling quite regularly: off to South Africa and Rwanda with friends before the end of May. I think about life post-PC. Call the press: I’ve decided firmly how I’m going to spend my readjustment allowance (read: pittance) of like $6,000! A good road bike for the streets of Chicago, GRE and grad school apps, and flying lessons in San Diego via the airport near Elizabeth’s home where I’ll spend a lolling few months. And what of the time (may it come idly swiftly) when the school year has ended, I’ve packed a lone pack (not much should return to America after a sojourn in Africa. Plus Winnie’s already laid dibs on my mattress), and saluted the great continent? Well, I think an Ashram in India will welcome me with open arms and a chorus of “oms” for a few weeks. But I’ll be damned if I’m not home before my 25th year comes calling. April 14, 2012, people, see you then.
Truly, though, I welcome Mid-March (Mid-April, Mid-May, Mid-June…) with my solitary favorite phrase in vernacular: kulikyo, welcome back! These months are greeted with smiles (hi Smiles, thanks for reading) partially because I’ve nestled into a groove and partially because I’m legit keyed-up about the future. I’m hating teaching computers, and admit to that fact unabashedly to everyone within earshot at least once a week, but I’m loving my students. And the perpetuity of high school is unavoidable: I’m a Junior Peace Corps Volunteer thanks to the February group of Freshman, teaching for a Sophmore year in a school with new Freshmen at whom I catch even myself treating as the noobs right along with all of the older St. Thomas Students. Send me pennies, I have no reservations about throwing them. Just kidding… I’m their teacher… Yeah… Sigh… But I think I’ve come to fill the role of older friend/advisor to many of these kids, and I’m more than okay with that. I’d much rather encourage them to forego studying to instead play volleyball, netball, football or just shoot the shit. I spend too many 5:00ams a week threatening to beat boys and girls alike in sprinting, plank and push-up competitions (I’ve got the planks and push-ups but I’m better off feigning my starts when it comes to sprinting with the boys: they don’t fear the beach ball-size divots and cow patties [ugh, beach balls as well] on our ‘track’). I get to talk to whomever asks about good study habits (I still wish I could turn it into a career…) and when I planned an International Women’s Day program, be damn sure that it included games that involve as many people as possible getting drenched by as much water as possible and a girl’s football match, as well as lessons on puberty, menstruation, sex, HIV/AIDS and pregnancy. For the boys as well. Although maybe I should rethink my strategy; I did get a chunk of my arm gouged out by an over-zealous Drip, Drip, Drop contestant… I’m lying, it didn’t even bleed.
So when I say that I’m content, I’m being honest. Despite the fact that two of my good friends are moving away: Kakulu and Deacon Dez. Dez is becoming a full-blown priest (trust me, there are half-blown priests) this weekend. His ordination celebration should be hilarious, judging by the inside joke we share naming nothing less than a cold Guinness as “His Life.” But he’ll be heading his own parish soon, and so, alas, I lose my best guy friend. So drink a Guinness for him on St. Patty’s Day, and wish him the luck of the Irish in becoming as much of a Fr. Gavin as a non-Fr. Gavin can become. Then there’s Kakulu, damn him! This morning, after his ritualistic morning teasing, this time inviting me to tea in his house which is presently a pile of bricks, he squeezes me into a big hug and says, “when you’re in Kampala, call me.” What?! I look left: there’s a rolled-up mattress at his feet and a suitcase the appropriate size for an American’s weekend getaway. “I probably won’t be back these ends for a year.” Shit. “Couldn’t you have told me BEFORE the day you were leaving??” Nah, that’s so not Africa.
But it’s all good, I’m happy, right (have you caught the theme yet)? Yep, despite needing to recharge with the next-best comfort food after cereal, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, following most typing lessons with the “freshman”, all gauges still read “Renee’s happy!”. I’ve reached the point in my service in which I’ve come to the realization that Give! Give! Give! is just as appreciated by the community as Give Sometimes and Do What You Want the Rest of the Time! So I read a lot. I’ve become addicted to moon salutations and headstands. I ran out of new sudokus, thus I pen my own. I decided to learn how to play chess, thinking I could one-up Jacob in something (no such luck, he knows… but thankfully my determination to beat people at things can’t be deterred by minor setbacks like the fact that he knows how to play and I don’t); good game, reminds me of Carl. I brainstorm hairstyles for the impending hair-growth. I think about travelling quite regularly: off to South Africa and Rwanda with friends before the end of May. I think about life post-PC. Call the press: I’ve decided firmly how I’m going to spend my readjustment allowance (read: pittance) of like $6,000! A good road bike for the streets of Chicago, GRE and grad school apps, and flying lessons in San Diego via the airport near Elizabeth’s home where I’ll spend a lolling few months. And what of the time (may it come idly swiftly) when the school year has ended, I’ve packed a lone pack (not much should return to America after a sojourn in Africa. Plus Winnie’s already laid dibs on my mattress), and saluted the great continent? Well, I think an Ashram in India will welcome me with open arms and a chorus of “oms” for a few weeks. But I’ll be damned if I’m not home before my 25th year comes calling. April 14, 2012, people, see you then.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Sure, why not?
Of course I haven't looked into the legitimacy of my blog-mates from around the globe, but...
"We recently compiled a list of the Top 50 Volunteer/Activism Blogs, and
wanted to let you know that you made the list! The list promotes
blogs that focus on volunteer opportunities or work at the policy
level for college students interested in learning more."
http://www.onlinedegrees.org/top-50-volunteeractivism-blogs/
"We recently compiled a list of the Top 50 Volunteer/Activism Blogs, and
wanted to let you know that you made the list! The list promotes
blogs that focus on volunteer opportunities or work at the policy
level for college students interested in learning more."
http://www.onlinedegrees.org/top-50-volunteeractivism-blogs/
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
One of the coolest things I’ve done in country.
My alarm was set for 5am this morning, but I was already awake. Eager. But as I listened to the sound of the wind whistling through the banana plantations, which can only signify one thing: rain, and poked my head out my door for the briefest of seconds, enough to see the stars and moon still in full splendor, I reversed back inside. Less than a minute later, I hear a gingerly tap on my door, followed by one of my favorite laughs. “Okay, I’m coming, give me a second…” Sigh. Within the time it takes to boil a pot of coffee, Ronald, Dononzio and I were trotting along the main road, in a state of utter darkness through which you could hardly see three feet in front of your toes. But with only the light of the Southern Hemisphere’s constellations to guide us, and not a soul in sight, it was the most primordial I had ever felt. Now this was running!
Eventually, we were met along the way by the rising sun over the hills (that still confound me to this day), because what I assumed would be a 15-, 20-minute run, tops, charged on at a sprint for 7, 8 miles. With Ronald, at one point, boasting: “we can go on like this all the way to Kasese!”. Kasese being a large town about 50km away, on the opposite side of Queen Elizabeth National Park. And you know what? I swear, I think they could have. Guess I should have taken more than a swig from my water bottle before we set out. ..
So as I sit here, freshly showered (I always enjoy when my icy shower actually feels nice), breakfasting on oatmeal, my boys are already sitting in their first lecture of a 9-hour school day. And Ronald ran in dress shoes and dress pants; Dononzio in a, much more acceptable, pair of swim trunks. Damn Africans.
Eventually, we were met along the way by the rising sun over the hills (that still confound me to this day), because what I assumed would be a 15-, 20-minute run, tops, charged on at a sprint for 7, 8 miles. With Ronald, at one point, boasting: “we can go on like this all the way to Kasese!”. Kasese being a large town about 50km away, on the opposite side of Queen Elizabeth National Park. And you know what? I swear, I think they could have. Guess I should have taken more than a swig from my water bottle before we set out. ..
So as I sit here, freshly showered (I always enjoy when my icy shower actually feels nice), breakfasting on oatmeal, my boys are already sitting in their first lecture of a 9-hour school day. And Ronald ran in dress shoes and dress pants; Dononzio in a, much more acceptable, pair of swim trunks. Damn Africans.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
By the Numbers
A more thought-out synopsis to come, but my reasoning for this schizophrenic, chronologically-reversed format becomes apparent... right... now...
4 - the number of hours I slept last night.
3:30 am - the time myself, Charlene, Arwen, Elizabeth and Ashley got into Uganda on a flight from Istanbul, Turkey today Feb 3rd.
5 - the number of planes I've been on in the past 10 days.
5 - the number of currencies I've used in the past 10 days (Turkish Lira, Euros, Dollars, Egyptian Pounds and Ugandan Shillings).
4 - the number of Visas I've used in the past 4 days (Uganda, Turkey, Greece, Egypt).
1609 - the year construction began on the Sultanahmet Mosque in Istanbul. Friggin beautiful.
1000 - the number of shops selling Turkish Delight at the Grand Bazaar; or so it seemed.
178 euros - the amount it cost me to book a last minute ticket from Athens to Istanbul because Peace Corps glitched and forgot to book it for me.
2 - the nights spent at the stupendous Sofitel hotel in Athens, after getting randomly evacuated there by the U.S. Embassy in Cairo.
10 - the pounds of food we must have eaten at the free breakfast each morning. Think Greek yogurt, lychees (finally Jacob), strawberries, pears, figs, dates, plums, granola, lox, pastries, rice pudding, mimosas, fresh bread, hazelnut and carob honey, smoothies, scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, and green tea.
40 - degrees it must have been in Athens as we wandered around the Temple of Zeus, the Acropolis, the Ampitheatre, and the baclava shops (equally as important, obviously) all in Saharan Desert-weather clothing.
3 - the bottles of Greek wine we drank while lying by the rooftop pool that night in Athens.
1,800 - the cost of our hotel rooms, in dollars, for 2 nights, totally covered by the U.S. government. Thanks tax payers!
11:00 pm - the time on Tuesday 02/01 that we finally arrived in Greece from Egypt, to be greeted with open arms by the U.S. Embassy in Greece (as opposed to the non-present U.S. Embassy in Egypt), with fresh sandwiches, water, shampoo, toothpaste and free phone calls.
9 – the hours we spent waiting with 5,000 other Americans to get out of Cairo, as per the U.S. Embassy’s evacuation procedure and exempting the 10s of 1000s of other world citizens awaiting similar bout of luck.
3rd – the flight we got out on, thanks to being considered a diplomat because of our Peace Corps status. Innumerable flights after that, I can imagine…
3 – the number of places the U.S. was evacuating to: Athens, Cyprus and Istanbul. Not too shabby.
10 – British Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Brits evacuate.
0 – U.S. Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Americans evacuate.
50 – the communication attempts, I’d say, with families, Peace Corps Uganda, Peace Corps Washington, the U.S. Embassy, the State Department, Ethiopian Air, Egypt Air, Kenya Air, whoever, that failed during those 3 days. Maybe 5 went through.
45 - the hours we spent stuck at the Cairo airport, hoping desperately for an escape.
517 – pages I read during those hours, when all else there was to do was sleep on the cold floor or avoid random anxious outbursts from 5,000 other stranded travelers.
15 – the number of M & Ms I ate for dinner Monday night, after the airport ran out of all things edible and drinkable. We hope the tap water was safe, it did smell faintly of chlorine…
12:00 am – the time Sunday night (okay Monday morning) we first realized our original flight out of Cairo was cancelled. It was a 2:35 am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
5/14 - the number of Peace Corps Volunteers remaining in Egypt after Sunday, Jan 31st (That would be the 5 of us from Uganda, or as we’ve been dubbed by PCVs in Uganda: The Egyptian Liberation Front’s Fab Five).
9 – the number of hours we spent on a bus from Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on Sunday, still hoping to make our flight.
2 – the number of hours we spend driving around the roadblocks (read: vigilante groups of Egyptian boys and men protecting their neighborhoods from looters and thugs by any means possible; read: whips, chains, 2x4s, bats, torches, meat cleavers, guns, molitov cocktails, bricks, knives, sabers, blow torches, seriously we saw it all) looking for a safe place to dock the bus.
30 – the number of said roadblocks we must have passed through during the attempt, and on the way to the airport, with bated breathe and jagged heartbeats at each.
7 – the number of Egyptians who took it upon themselves to ensure our safe passage to the airport, despite the personal risk involved (note: this riot was in no way about foreigners).
6 –days of true vacation we actually managed to get in. Amazing. More to come on the wonders of Egypt later.
6 – and finally, days over my scheduled vacation that I was away from Uganda.
4 - the number of hours I slept last night.
3:30 am - the time myself, Charlene, Arwen, Elizabeth and Ashley got into Uganda on a flight from Istanbul, Turkey today Feb 3rd.
5 - the number of planes I've been on in the past 10 days.
5 - the number of currencies I've used in the past 10 days (Turkish Lira, Euros, Dollars, Egyptian Pounds and Ugandan Shillings).
4 - the number of Visas I've used in the past 4 days (Uganda, Turkey, Greece, Egypt).
1609 - the year construction began on the Sultanahmet Mosque in Istanbul. Friggin beautiful.
1000 - the number of shops selling Turkish Delight at the Grand Bazaar; or so it seemed.
178 euros - the amount it cost me to book a last minute ticket from Athens to Istanbul because Peace Corps glitched and forgot to book it for me.
2 - the nights spent at the stupendous Sofitel hotel in Athens, after getting randomly evacuated there by the U.S. Embassy in Cairo.
10 - the pounds of food we must have eaten at the free breakfast each morning. Think Greek yogurt, lychees (finally Jacob), strawberries, pears, figs, dates, plums, granola, lox, pastries, rice pudding, mimosas, fresh bread, hazelnut and carob honey, smoothies, scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, and green tea.
40 - degrees it must have been in Athens as we wandered around the Temple of Zeus, the Acropolis, the Ampitheatre, and the baclava shops (equally as important, obviously) all in Saharan Desert-weather clothing.
3 - the bottles of Greek wine we drank while lying by the rooftop pool that night in Athens.
1,800 - the cost of our hotel rooms, in dollars, for 2 nights, totally covered by the U.S. government. Thanks tax payers!
11:00 pm - the time on Tuesday 02/01 that we finally arrived in Greece from Egypt, to be greeted with open arms by the U.S. Embassy in Greece (as opposed to the non-present U.S. Embassy in Egypt), with fresh sandwiches, water, shampoo, toothpaste and free phone calls.
9 – the hours we spent waiting with 5,000 other Americans to get out of Cairo, as per the U.S. Embassy’s evacuation procedure and exempting the 10s of 1000s of other world citizens awaiting similar bout of luck.
3rd – the flight we got out on, thanks to being considered a diplomat because of our Peace Corps status. Innumerable flights after that, I can imagine…
3 – the number of places the U.S. was evacuating to: Athens, Cyprus and Istanbul. Not too shabby.
10 – British Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Brits evacuate.
0 – U.S. Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Americans evacuate.
50 – the communication attempts, I’d say, with families, Peace Corps Uganda, Peace Corps Washington, the U.S. Embassy, the State Department, Ethiopian Air, Egypt Air, Kenya Air, whoever, that failed during those 3 days. Maybe 5 went through.
45 - the hours we spent stuck at the Cairo airport, hoping desperately for an escape.
517 – pages I read during those hours, when all else there was to do was sleep on the cold floor or avoid random anxious outbursts from 5,000 other stranded travelers.
15 – the number of M & Ms I ate for dinner Monday night, after the airport ran out of all things edible and drinkable. We hope the tap water was safe, it did smell faintly of chlorine…
12:00 am – the time Sunday night (okay Monday morning) we first realized our original flight out of Cairo was cancelled. It was a 2:35 am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
5/14 - the number of Peace Corps Volunteers remaining in Egypt after Sunday, Jan 31st (That would be the 5 of us from Uganda, or as we’ve been dubbed by PCVs in Uganda: The Egyptian Liberation Front’s Fab Five).
9 – the number of hours we spent on a bus from Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on Sunday, still hoping to make our flight.
2 – the number of hours we spend driving around the roadblocks (read: vigilante groups of Egyptian boys and men protecting their neighborhoods from looters and thugs by any means possible; read: whips, chains, 2x4s, bats, torches, meat cleavers, guns, molitov cocktails, bricks, knives, sabers, blow torches, seriously we saw it all) looking for a safe place to dock the bus.
30 – the number of said roadblocks we must have passed through during the attempt, and on the way to the airport, with bated breathe and jagged heartbeats at each.
7 – the number of Egyptians who took it upon themselves to ensure our safe passage to the airport, despite the personal risk involved (note: this riot was in no way about foreigners).
6 –days of true vacation we actually managed to get in. Amazing. More to come on the wonders of Egypt later.
6 – and finally, days over my scheduled vacation that I was away from Uganda.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Happy New Year?
I trust you’re all as resolution-free as me. Since my 2010 paraded me around with a dogged resolve that more than compensates for two years, I think I’m square in 2011. And to justify, allow me to recapitulate: I packed up and moved to Uganda with two bags of shit and an idealistic determination; spent two months becoming intimately aware of all of my bodily functions during training; packed up and moved for a second time to a NGO in the central, Buganda, region to work with dairy farmers; hit a number of snafus that prompted me to pack up and hit the open road within two weeks, branding me a vagabond for three months, after which I moved for a third time, with no less than a sense of urgent desperation, to my second site to teach computers in St. Thomas Vocational Secondary School; lived, actually lived, happy-as-a-clam, for a handful of months before being stabbed with a few more gut-punches that effectively nullified my contentment and necessitated a relocation; packed up for a fourth (fifth? I’ve lost count…) time before taking off for a little TLC in A Nice Place to Live (that would be Darien, IL, for all of those unfamiliar with its exceptional mantra), with the knowledge that I would be calling a new place home upon my return to Uganda. And that is where I sit presently: in my small, two-room crackerjack box with shoddy wall circuits, outdoor kitchen, take-your-breath-away-cold shower, pit latrine john, and bedbugs. But I love it! The privacy, sense of ownership, independence, solitude, quietude, or whatever else you want to call it, placates my single most important ability: I can eat whatever the F I want. But allow me to fill you in on a few events that have brought me to noshing on a carrot with peanut butter for lunch and cauliflower coconut curry on brown rice for dinner on my floor with Arwen.
Beginning of December. The school year ends and I head to Kampala with Sanyu (yes, still my absolute best friend in the village) as co-counselors for 150 Ugandan girls aged 12-16 during a week of empowerment, knowledge, and fun befitting your stereotypical American summer camp. Peace Corps has called it Camp GLOW: Girls Leading Our World. The girls, the majority of whom had never set foot outside of their villages, had a ball. They learned the ways of the capital and made friends from different tribes all over the country. They listened to female guest speakers who have “made it” and planned for their own future. They danced and played sports; learned about health and HIV/AIDS. I got the flu.
Three hours before my flight home. I was still on a bus coming from Mbale, a city 5 hours East of Kampala. I’d been in Uganda too long; my priorities and time-sensitivity were all out of whack. I opted to head East with one day remaining in the countdown, to keep myself from toe-tapping anxiousness and to catch the bi-annual male circumcision ceremonies (aged-16, no anesthesia, dull blade, drums, booze and costumes). I opted to wait it out when the ceremonies began at noon instead of 10am. And I opted to wait for the Elgon Flyer bus I had already bought a ticket for when it got a flat tire minutes before departure, pushing that back from 2pm to 4pm. I did not opt to sit in traffic heading into Kampala. I did not opt to sit in traffic on my way from the hotel (and a face-scratchingly panicked shower) to the airport. I did not opt to leave half of my Christmas presents at a volunteer’s site en route to the airport, poorly assuming that I’d have time to snag them on the way. I did not opt to drop my money belt with passport, credit card and cash in the airport waiting room, as I, blissfully-unaware, fiddled with the gadgetry of an international flight jumbo jet. But thanks St. Christopher medallion at the bottom of my purse: my idiocy was overlooked, my life (seriously I would have been identity-less in Istanbul without that crap) was relocated and my flight only left an hour late. Dear Mom tracking it online at home: that was because of your daughter.
Beginning of January. Home’d been great. A vacation. Eden. Idyllic. But you all know that, you live in The States, dammit. So why was I leaving? Family, friends, a pretty rad boyfriend, soy milk, yogurt and salmon, a hot shower, potable tap water, daily runs, McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes, yoga classes, you get the gist. What was making me go back to a place with daily struggles, twelve-hour bus rides without a bathroom stop, and cockroaches? And then I got off the plane at 2:30am, sans hotel room booking and thus the prospect of sleeping on an airport bench until dawn, only to find Arwen and Elizabeth jumping up and down, waving frantically at me through some glass doors. That’s why I came back to Uganda. And after an enjoyable yet sleepless and abbreviated stay with the girls, I was back on the bus to Bururuma, contemplating my judgment in returning to the place I’d struggled in for the past 2 months, only to find a village that came out in swarms to welcome me back and an extended family (that would be Sanyu, Brenda, Kakulu Mukulu, Fred, Muhumuza, Robert, Ronald, Devis, Kakulu Muto, Somiya, and Renette; seriously, there are a lot of them) who tried every day to call my U.S. phone number without success because they missed me. They’re why I came back to Bururuma.
Today. I’m comfortably settled in a new house. I get my fill of the village life as I wile away the time at no more than a saunter, waiting until next week when I play the tourist in Egypt before returning to the beginning of a new school year and the prospect of 150 of my favorite students back on campus! Peace Corps 2011, you are most welcome!
Beginning of December. The school year ends and I head to Kampala with Sanyu (yes, still my absolute best friend in the village) as co-counselors for 150 Ugandan girls aged 12-16 during a week of empowerment, knowledge, and fun befitting your stereotypical American summer camp. Peace Corps has called it Camp GLOW: Girls Leading Our World. The girls, the majority of whom had never set foot outside of their villages, had a ball. They learned the ways of the capital and made friends from different tribes all over the country. They listened to female guest speakers who have “made it” and planned for their own future. They danced and played sports; learned about health and HIV/AIDS. I got the flu.
Three hours before my flight home. I was still on a bus coming from Mbale, a city 5 hours East of Kampala. I’d been in Uganda too long; my priorities and time-sensitivity were all out of whack. I opted to head East with one day remaining in the countdown, to keep myself from toe-tapping anxiousness and to catch the bi-annual male circumcision ceremonies (aged-16, no anesthesia, dull blade, drums, booze and costumes). I opted to wait it out when the ceremonies began at noon instead of 10am. And I opted to wait for the Elgon Flyer bus I had already bought a ticket for when it got a flat tire minutes before departure, pushing that back from 2pm to 4pm. I did not opt to sit in traffic heading into Kampala. I did not opt to sit in traffic on my way from the hotel (and a face-scratchingly panicked shower) to the airport. I did not opt to leave half of my Christmas presents at a volunteer’s site en route to the airport, poorly assuming that I’d have time to snag them on the way. I did not opt to drop my money belt with passport, credit card and cash in the airport waiting room, as I, blissfully-unaware, fiddled with the gadgetry of an international flight jumbo jet. But thanks St. Christopher medallion at the bottom of my purse: my idiocy was overlooked, my life (seriously I would have been identity-less in Istanbul without that crap) was relocated and my flight only left an hour late. Dear Mom tracking it online at home: that was because of your daughter.
Beginning of January. Home’d been great. A vacation. Eden. Idyllic. But you all know that, you live in The States, dammit. So why was I leaving? Family, friends, a pretty rad boyfriend, soy milk, yogurt and salmon, a hot shower, potable tap water, daily runs, McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes, yoga classes, you get the gist. What was making me go back to a place with daily struggles, twelve-hour bus rides without a bathroom stop, and cockroaches? And then I got off the plane at 2:30am, sans hotel room booking and thus the prospect of sleeping on an airport bench until dawn, only to find Arwen and Elizabeth jumping up and down, waving frantically at me through some glass doors. That’s why I came back to Uganda. And after an enjoyable yet sleepless and abbreviated stay with the girls, I was back on the bus to Bururuma, contemplating my judgment in returning to the place I’d struggled in for the past 2 months, only to find a village that came out in swarms to welcome me back and an extended family (that would be Sanyu, Brenda, Kakulu Mukulu, Fred, Muhumuza, Robert, Ronald, Devis, Kakulu Muto, Somiya, and Renette; seriously, there are a lot of them) who tried every day to call my U.S. phone number without success because they missed me. They’re why I came back to Bururuma.
Today. I’m comfortably settled in a new house. I get my fill of the village life as I wile away the time at no more than a saunter, waiting until next week when I play the tourist in Egypt before returning to the beginning of a new school year and the prospect of 150 of my favorite students back on campus! Peace Corps 2011, you are most welcome!
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