The END of an ERA!

Three days from now, the 4^th of May 2012, marks the one year commemoration of that one time, in George, South Africa, when I was hit by a car while jogging. I bet you’re dying to know how I’ve progressed throughout the year, but let’s get one thing straight first: this post, although recompensing for a 7-month void in activity, will be devoid of any and all theatrical recapitulations, morals learned along the way, and themes that hint at the “end of an era.” This post simply serves as a potential, natural conclusion to Renee on Ugandan Time, because this post, unlike any that can follow, will actually take me back to Uganda, a place in which I should not think to find myself again for quite some time.

Two and a half weeks ago I was on a plane from Chicago O’Hare International Airport en route to Entebbe, Uganda. My 25^th birthday passed in a haze of faux-darkness-induced slumber, an 8-hour time change and a 2-hour layover in Istanbul: we left on April 13 and arrived on April 15. I didn’t mind, though, birthdays aren’t my bag. A most unlikely companion sat next to me, the very person who disdained my willful persistence in joining Peace Corps, employing every tactic imaginable to inhibit my departure (I won’t tarnish her benevolence, but picture my pack and a baseball bat): my mother. But I was thrilled to have her with me as a travel buddy. This was the opportunity to show her the country I grew to concurrently love and hate so intensely!

And show her I did. She experienced Entebbe with its botanical garden rife with vervet monkeys; Kampala with its traffic, humidity, only Baha’i Temple on the continent of Africa, crumbling infrastructure, swarms of people, and foods hailing from the Middle East, Asia and Africa; the Southwest with its hills, crater lakes, cool breeze and face-upturning sunshine, fertile earth, exquisite fruits, slackened pace, and familiar faces and names of people and places that I’ve recounted dozens of stories of over the past 24 months; Queen Elizabeth National Park with its lions and grazers, muddy warthogs and herds of elephants, the Kazinga Channel demarcating Lake George from Lake Edward, the Equator, beautiful four-star lodges, alarming safari vehicles and pleasant boat rides; Fort Portal with its air of a bygone prime; and Jinja with a serenely beautiful sunset over the Source of the Nile and African drumming late at night to conjure up fantasies of tribalism and bush warfare. She met Peace Corps friends on their way to further adventures across the globe, kind Ugandan strangers, my students and fellow teachers at St. Thomas Secondary School, the villagers of Bururuma, many of whom, one year forgotten, are still family to me, and dozens of other people that made America appear small and far away, an island nation inhabited by a minute subset of the population. I’d like to think she learned a few things along the way, but I’ll leave that testament to her.

As for me, I learned a buttload (Fools! Your thought you were free from any educational musings on my part, but I suppose you can’t escape a good finale…). I realized that I had been unhealthily idealizing Uganda for the past year. I was ripped from my home and work with no notice or hope of return, unable to say goodbye, missing out on final projects and kids’ growth, forcing my dear boyfriend to clean up my mess and wander the same dusty roads without me. I existed in a fantasy state; I needed desperately to return to Uganda, if only for 10 days, to say the goodbyes that I never got the chance to say.

Yet I worried that “hello” and “goodbye” would be difficult to undertake within such a short period of time. But, luckily, Ugandans live quite transiently. Immediately upon disembarking from the plane, greeted by Arwen’s frantic jumping and Brennan’s curly blonde mop poorly hidden behind a dais, it felt more akin to a two-week absence than a 12-month expanse. The feeling continued throughout the trip. Sure, some things have changed. Three of my closest friends/teachers have welcomed little bundles: Enid with 4-month-old Alicia (Keys), Winnie with 1-month-old Cleverly (hilariously sounds like Clifford when said with a Ugandan accent), and Sanyu expecting in 5 months (she married Robert, the father and the man who so kindly buzzed my head so many months ago, this past weekend!). St. Thomas Secondary School has 250 additional students whom I know nothing about, as well as 2 new buildings and a new gate (gates are such an important part of Ugandan schools; I suppose because they not only keep out the riffraff but serve as the first glimpse of the potential within). But old and new welcomed my mom and me wholeheartedly. We received beautiful crafts, two trees planted in our honor, and numerous foodstuffs; we gave candy, presents, 60 new boys’ and girls’ soccer jerseys and our tears of happiness. It was comforting to witness everyone’s health, happiness and determination, and even more so to learn that I wasn’t forgotten.

I definitely will not be forgetting anytime soon. But I am finally capable and content with moving on (literally, I’m off to spend a few months in California soon), and in California I’ll be writing more about Uganda. I suppose that means that I will actually not be moving on... This definitely is not the last you’ve heard from me, so if you thought this was my conclusion, you were wrong! I fooled you again!

But thanks for reading.

The westward sun shining silver on the lining of the clouds as the leaves change their shade

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?

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.

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.

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!!!

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!

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.

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/

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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 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

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!

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)!

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…

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...