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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I found an Indy hair in my lotion today a.k.a. I feel home
After the World Cup Final on Sunday night, Spain vs. Netherlands, two bombs went off in Kampala, more specifically, in White Kampala. The death toll hangs around 85; the people are saddened and suspicious. Ex-patriots fear targeting, while the Somalese terrorist group Al-Shabaab bears the brunt of the accusations. But when Peace Corps woke me up at 7am Monday morning, my first reaction was to silently plead: “don’t send us home!” Luckily our instructions were to stand fast at our sites until further notice, yet I had to ask myself how, after 5 months of uncomfortable settling in, setting out, wandering over and nearly sinking under, I could remain so obstinate in my desire to stay in Uganda. Well the explanation is clear; one has only to look to my new site: St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School in Bunyaruguru, Bushenyi.
Making the 6 hour journey to my new site last Tuesday I experienced a pendulum of emotions. Anticipation, anxiety, animosity towards the past, apathy, agitation… Got any more A words? Chances are it was there. But I was taken A-back (man I’m good) when I found my concluding and enduring emotion to be sheer, tears-in-my-eyes, uncontrollable joy. Holy balls is Bushenyi gorgeous. If Uganda is the Pearl of Africa, then surely Bushenyi is a frickin’ 20 karat blood diamond. Pictures to come, patience is a virtue you know, but for now be content with this: Acres and acres of tea plantations and untarnished, protected jungle are interrupted by fathoms-deep crater lakes sitting at the base of rocky, pine tree-studded bluffs and rolling hills. So let’s see… Bushenyi could well be hailed as the capital of lakes, tea, honey, hills, cool breezes and bananas. Oh yeah, and Queen Elizabeth National Park is 10 minutes away; I’ve already driven past savannahs teeming with antelope and wildebeest half a dozen times (one being for the lone purpose of buying “the best smoked fish in Uganda” from a roadside stand at the river connecting Lake George and Lake Edward).
And who took me to pick out fish? Fr. Charles, the director of St. Thomas and my new roommate. The “WELOME HOME!” sign on my door said it all when my 6 hour drive ended; Charles has done an immaculate job of welcoming me to St. Thomas and Bunyaruguru. Not only has he opened his house to me à la the “what’s mine is yours” philosophy (more deets on the digs to follow; ps DWE that’s all the French I’ve retained…), but the intense 1. community leaders-attended dinner party with me as the guest of honor, giving my Peace Corps/personal history spiel via powerpoint presentation created with an hour’s notice, and 2. A speech given at Sunday mass… by me… to 400 villagers… in Runyankore… with an hour’s notice (what is it with the time paradox in Africa? No one seems to accomplish anything yet everything is last minute!) have been impeccably balanced by Charles with meals at stunning Queen Elizabeth resorts and jaunts with local university kids who reinforce my conviction in Ugandans’ intelligence and good humor. Just last night, in fact, I returned home soaking wet from a walk around the Africa Lake (it’s shaped liked Africa apparently; must climb the hills and look down to believe it) with Charles’ brother Peter, to Fr. Charles unpacking a new blender from his recent shopping spree in the nearest town. “Wanna make orange/pineapple/passion fruit juice?!” he goes. Heck yes! And I see you’ve bought about 50 or so oranges to do so. I’ll just forget about the part about me having to run run run (Phoenix, anyone?), taking shelter with some pigs when the rains caught us unawares a few minutes ago.
The best, yet somehow unbelievable, part is that something similar happens every day. I suppose I ought to give a character description of Charles for you to truly understand how awesome my life has become. Charles is a Ugandan priest who just so happens to be so ridiculously intelligent that he’s spent something like 6 years in the States getting two Master’s Degrees from two universities (St. Ambrose in the Quad Cities being one) and is heading back to NYC in September for his PhD. He returned to his home of Bunyaruguru a year ago to build a much-needed secondary school for the village. In that time, he mobilized the community to raise funds for the school, which now houses 150 freshman and sophomore students (called S1 and S2). Dormitories, a health clinic, and a second classroom block for juniors and seniors are well underway. I liken him to our dear Fr. Gavin in his station in the community: everybody knows him and everybody can readily relate an anecdote illustrating his benevolence. But this man is definitely quirky: he shipped 19 4x4x4 or however big boxes to Uganda from America before he left. What was in them? Dozens of books. Hundreds of DVDs. Thousands of rosaries. And grass seed. Man he loves American lawns! And now one sprouts on the side of the house. In fact, he’s out watering it as I sit here typing…
The second day I spent in Bunyaruguru, Charles disclosed to me that because he was treated so well by those fine Americans living in Moline, IL, he wanted nothing more than an American Peace Corps volunteer to spoil in Africa. Gotta love the pay-it-forward mentality, because spoil me, he has. Even if he wasn’t ridiculously accommodating, I wouldn’t find it hard to manage in his electricity-bearing, hot shower-yielding, stove and oven-containing, flat screen with DSTV-housing residence. I try not to let the fact that I harbor no guilt towards this weigh on my conscience. But honestly, what I care most about is that my room is cozy, my bed is big, the people are wave-and-clap-their-hands-when-I-pass-by friendly, the children are gorgeous (the Banyankore people have got some mysterious beautification gene it seems), and the computer lab I teach in is connected to my house.
So this computer lab… 9 computers, one of which doesn’t work, so 8 computers. I teach six 40-minute classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday; each class harbors 16-25 students, yeah for 8 computers. It’s a challenge to say the least, and that’s when the power’s not going kaput in the middle of showing them how to minimize and maximize a tab (I kid you not, that’s the kind of information that makes up my lesson plans). Although they battle to discern my accent and they’d prefer to swap witty banter with me about life, today I was filled with pride when Charles came home with a note written by the Head Boy kindly requesting that a generator be provided for the lab so that my computer classes do not have to be cancelled when the electricity disappoints. Turns out this is an appeal far superior to their prior requests for break snacks and shortened school days to watch the World Cup. So hopefully things continue to go well. But even when they’re not, and I’m storming into my room, blasting music to drown out my frustration at the deficient education systems and electricity grid, someone like Ndisiima, Charles’ housegirl, will be there to throw me a lifesaver, this time in the form of an impromptu dance party during which she wore my bike helmet and carried my stuffed dog (he’s a boxer and he sleeps with me every night) on her back like a baby.
Welp, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Pictures are truly forthcoming, as should be emails from you to me to which I will take an unseemly amount of time responding. Or can I tempt you with a novelty? Snail mail me!
Sister Renee Vuillaume
St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School
P.O. Box 176
Bushenyi, Uganda
Making the 6 hour journey to my new site last Tuesday I experienced a pendulum of emotions. Anticipation, anxiety, animosity towards the past, apathy, agitation… Got any more A words? Chances are it was there. But I was taken A-back (man I’m good) when I found my concluding and enduring emotion to be sheer, tears-in-my-eyes, uncontrollable joy. Holy balls is Bushenyi gorgeous. If Uganda is the Pearl of Africa, then surely Bushenyi is a frickin’ 20 karat blood diamond. Pictures to come, patience is a virtue you know, but for now be content with this: Acres and acres of tea plantations and untarnished, protected jungle are interrupted by fathoms-deep crater lakes sitting at the base of rocky, pine tree-studded bluffs and rolling hills. So let’s see… Bushenyi could well be hailed as the capital of lakes, tea, honey, hills, cool breezes and bananas. Oh yeah, and Queen Elizabeth National Park is 10 minutes away; I’ve already driven past savannahs teeming with antelope and wildebeest half a dozen times (one being for the lone purpose of buying “the best smoked fish in Uganda” from a roadside stand at the river connecting Lake George and Lake Edward).
And who took me to pick out fish? Fr. Charles, the director of St. Thomas and my new roommate. The “WELOME HOME!” sign on my door said it all when my 6 hour drive ended; Charles has done an immaculate job of welcoming me to St. Thomas and Bunyaruguru. Not only has he opened his house to me à la the “what’s mine is yours” philosophy (more deets on the digs to follow; ps DWE that’s all the French I’ve retained…), but the intense 1. community leaders-attended dinner party with me as the guest of honor, giving my Peace Corps/personal history spiel via powerpoint presentation created with an hour’s notice, and 2. A speech given at Sunday mass… by me… to 400 villagers… in Runyankore… with an hour’s notice (what is it with the time paradox in Africa? No one seems to accomplish anything yet everything is last minute!) have been impeccably balanced by Charles with meals at stunning Queen Elizabeth resorts and jaunts with local university kids who reinforce my conviction in Ugandans’ intelligence and good humor. Just last night, in fact, I returned home soaking wet from a walk around the Africa Lake (it’s shaped liked Africa apparently; must climb the hills and look down to believe it) with Charles’ brother Peter, to Fr. Charles unpacking a new blender from his recent shopping spree in the nearest town. “Wanna make orange/pineapple/passion fruit juice?!” he goes. Heck yes! And I see you’ve bought about 50 or so oranges to do so. I’ll just forget about the part about me having to run run run (Phoenix, anyone?), taking shelter with some pigs when the rains caught us unawares a few minutes ago.
The best, yet somehow unbelievable, part is that something similar happens every day. I suppose I ought to give a character description of Charles for you to truly understand how awesome my life has become. Charles is a Ugandan priest who just so happens to be so ridiculously intelligent that he’s spent something like 6 years in the States getting two Master’s Degrees from two universities (St. Ambrose in the Quad Cities being one) and is heading back to NYC in September for his PhD. He returned to his home of Bunyaruguru a year ago to build a much-needed secondary school for the village. In that time, he mobilized the community to raise funds for the school, which now houses 150 freshman and sophomore students (called S1 and S2). Dormitories, a health clinic, and a second classroom block for juniors and seniors are well underway. I liken him to our dear Fr. Gavin in his station in the community: everybody knows him and everybody can readily relate an anecdote illustrating his benevolence. But this man is definitely quirky: he shipped 19 4x4x4 or however big boxes to Uganda from America before he left. What was in them? Dozens of books. Hundreds of DVDs. Thousands of rosaries. And grass seed. Man he loves American lawns! And now one sprouts on the side of the house. In fact, he’s out watering it as I sit here typing…
The second day I spent in Bunyaruguru, Charles disclosed to me that because he was treated so well by those fine Americans living in Moline, IL, he wanted nothing more than an American Peace Corps volunteer to spoil in Africa. Gotta love the pay-it-forward mentality, because spoil me, he has. Even if he wasn’t ridiculously accommodating, I wouldn’t find it hard to manage in his electricity-bearing, hot shower-yielding, stove and oven-containing, flat screen with DSTV-housing residence. I try not to let the fact that I harbor no guilt towards this weigh on my conscience. But honestly, what I care most about is that my room is cozy, my bed is big, the people are wave-and-clap-their-hands-when-I-pass-by friendly, the children are gorgeous (the Banyankore people have got some mysterious beautification gene it seems), and the computer lab I teach in is connected to my house.
So this computer lab… 9 computers, one of which doesn’t work, so 8 computers. I teach six 40-minute classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday; each class harbors 16-25 students, yeah for 8 computers. It’s a challenge to say the least, and that’s when the power’s not going kaput in the middle of showing them how to minimize and maximize a tab (I kid you not, that’s the kind of information that makes up my lesson plans). Although they battle to discern my accent and they’d prefer to swap witty banter with me about life, today I was filled with pride when Charles came home with a note written by the Head Boy kindly requesting that a generator be provided for the lab so that my computer classes do not have to be cancelled when the electricity disappoints. Turns out this is an appeal far superior to their prior requests for break snacks and shortened school days to watch the World Cup. So hopefully things continue to go well. But even when they’re not, and I’m storming into my room, blasting music to drown out my frustration at the deficient education systems and electricity grid, someone like Ndisiima, Charles’ housegirl, will be there to throw me a lifesaver, this time in the form of an impromptu dance party during which she wore my bike helmet and carried my stuffed dog (he’s a boxer and he sleeps with me every night) on her back like a baby.
Welp, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Pictures are truly forthcoming, as should be emails from you to me to which I will take an unseemly amount of time responding. Or can I tempt you with a novelty? Snail mail me!
Sister Renee Vuillaume
St. Thomas Secondary/Vocational School
P.O. Box 176
Bushenyi, Uganda
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What's the name of my new village? Oh why bother I can't pronounce it anyways!
How is it that things have been changing so fast that writing a definitive blog predicting my future has been a head-spinning impossibility, yet I have been slogging through Cross Country Challenge style, knee-deep mud for 9 weeks now in wait of a new site? Even though these weeks has shown me that nothing is certain until it’s over, so this may be a touch preemptive, but I’m moving to a new site on Tuesday! Just when things were reaching their bleakest; that is, while I was packing up my belongings from my old site, ruminating over how the scales sat unbalanced, as I was sure I caused more harm than good, Peace Corps staff was out in the West, scoping out a potential new site for me. Well the prospective had budded into the settled: Bushenyi District here I come! All I know about my new site is word of mouth from Country Director Ted, who met with the staff there, and from my nearest volunteer neighbor, who actually found my site and recommended it to Peace Corps (not a bad start...), so some of this information will inevitably have to be amended post-Tuesday when I experience everything for myself. But for now I’ve hit that “I’m just so excited, all I want to do is share my life with the people out there in bloggerland!” stage. Ever been there? Yeah, me neither. But for serious, here are the deets:
After I spend the 4th of July sporting red, white and jorts on the Ssesse Islands in Lake Victoria, a Peace Corps land cruiser will take me and my 5 months of junk on the 8-hour road trip to my new site. I’m half serious in maintaining that three months of training was utterly useless for me. I was trained to work with businesses and NGOs, speaking Luganda; I’ll be teaching computer classes at a vocational school affiliated with the nearby high school (secondary school here), speaking Runyankore. C’est la vie. But this vocational school is somewhat of an abnormality: it was not built on a pile of cash from the Western world, the community raised the funds to spearhead the project themselves. This is quite unheard of in Uganda (and probably the rest of the developing world). The director of the organization is a U.S.-educated man, on his way to Fordham for his PhD in August. My supervisor and counterpart (both women) are the principal and a teacher at the secondary school, respectively. The vocational school is brand-spankin’ new, housing only a computer lab equipped with 10 new used computers, but with space to expand into other trades, such as cosmetology, carpentry and tailoring, as time and resources allow. My lodgings, while brand new, and purportedly cozy (read: small), but size is more than compensated for with electricity and a water tap outside my door!
I’ll only be teaching 10 or so hours a week (step 1: learn computers…; I believe I’ve been through 4 in the last 5 years, does that sound right, Mom?), and with the remaining 158 hours, I get to help my community with whatever their needs and desires so happen to be! It could be anything from nutrition to water sanitation; HIV/AIDS education to fruit drying. I am so seriously jazzed about the possibilities, I can’t wait to meet all of the villagers. Finally, and quite possibly the best part about my new site, is its location. According to volunteers, staff and Ugandans alike, Bushenyi is the most beautiful area of Uganda. My site rests between two lakes, in the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains and a 15-minute ride to Queen Elizabeth National Park. Depending on who you talk to, I’ve been informed that Bushenyi has the best milk (!), honey (!) and bananas (!) in Uganda. I move Tuesday (I know, 4th time mentioned, so what, I’m excited), meaning I have 5 days to become computer savvy and Runyankore fluent. And I’m spending 3 of those days on an island in the sun with a boatful of other volunteers? Luckily orthodox island theme stands at “no worries” ("hakuna matata" for those kiswahili, Lion King fans)!
I'll keep this last part concise. Sentimentalities are my weak point. I apologize for the lack of continuous communication, whether by blog, email, phone call, snail mail, or ubiquitous facebook posts (hello Mother!); I've been all over the place, both literally and figuratively, for the past 2 months. Here's hoping stability reigns from here on out, and your relationships with me will be a lot less one-sided... Run on, runners!
After I spend the 4th of July sporting red, white and jorts on the Ssesse Islands in Lake Victoria, a Peace Corps land cruiser will take me and my 5 months of junk on the 8-hour road trip to my new site. I’m half serious in maintaining that three months of training was utterly useless for me. I was trained to work with businesses and NGOs, speaking Luganda; I’ll be teaching computer classes at a vocational school affiliated with the nearby high school (secondary school here), speaking Runyankore. C’est la vie. But this vocational school is somewhat of an abnormality: it was not built on a pile of cash from the Western world, the community raised the funds to spearhead the project themselves. This is quite unheard of in Uganda (and probably the rest of the developing world). The director of the organization is a U.S.-educated man, on his way to Fordham for his PhD in August. My supervisor and counterpart (both women) are the principal and a teacher at the secondary school, respectively. The vocational school is brand-spankin’ new, housing only a computer lab equipped with 10 new used computers, but with space to expand into other trades, such as cosmetology, carpentry and tailoring, as time and resources allow. My lodgings, while brand new, and purportedly cozy (read: small), but size is more than compensated for with electricity and a water tap outside my door!
I’ll only be teaching 10 or so hours a week (step 1: learn computers…; I believe I’ve been through 4 in the last 5 years, does that sound right, Mom?), and with the remaining 158 hours, I get to help my community with whatever their needs and desires so happen to be! It could be anything from nutrition to water sanitation; HIV/AIDS education to fruit drying. I am so seriously jazzed about the possibilities, I can’t wait to meet all of the villagers. Finally, and quite possibly the best part about my new site, is its location. According to volunteers, staff and Ugandans alike, Bushenyi is the most beautiful area of Uganda. My site rests between two lakes, in the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains and a 15-minute ride to Queen Elizabeth National Park. Depending on who you talk to, I’ve been informed that Bushenyi has the best milk (!), honey (!) and bananas (!) in Uganda. I move Tuesday (I know, 4th time mentioned, so what, I’m excited), meaning I have 5 days to become computer savvy and Runyankore fluent. And I’m spending 3 of those days on an island in the sun with a boatful of other volunteers? Luckily orthodox island theme stands at “no worries” ("hakuna matata" for those kiswahili, Lion King fans)!
I'll keep this last part concise. Sentimentalities are my weak point. I apologize for the lack of continuous communication, whether by blog, email, phone call, snail mail, or ubiquitous facebook posts (hello Mother!); I've been all over the place, both literally and figuratively, for the past 2 months. Here's hoping stability reigns from here on out, and your relationships with me will be a lot less one-sided... Run on, runners!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Namaste (I'm trying to feel peaceful, seriously, damnit)
I’ve been struggling to condense the past month into a couple of pithy paragraphs, and it only proves more challenging the longer I dawdle, so let me lay down a few anecdotes that can best serve to sum up the opportunity I’ve been given to tour the country.
The very first leg of my journey, on a sunrise bus ride from my site to Kampala, proved to be the situation that immediately set the tone for the span of the month. Before 7am, Ugandans are a groggy lot, and rightfully so: they eat dinner between 10-12pm. In fact, Ugandan’s are so serious about not moving before 7 in the morning that they call “hour 1” 7am, and the day continues on from there, so that 4pm, for example, is “hour ten.” But anyways, I boarded the bus around 6, when it was still dark and my taxi-mates were uncharacteristically sleepy. Sleepiness bears forgetfulness. About an hour into the bus ride, most people had disembarked, except for myself, two to three gentlemen, and a chicken that had been shoved into a plastic bag at my feet. This in itself is not uncommon; I was nonplussed by its presence. However at this point in the ride, the man sitting next to me starts looking around and taps me on the shoulder only to ask “is that your chicken?” No, it’s not my chicken. Do I look like the person to travel with chickens in plastic bags? …He moves onto the next person. Turns out, it’s no one’s chicken. Seriously. This chicken was just along for the ride; even the Ugandans were astonished. And that was day one, hour one, really. The astonishment pervade as I moved from my home in Mityana to my “home base” of Kampala and then on to the North, East and West.
To facilitate the establishment of a plan of action with my site, I had to hang around the Peace Corps office, and hence Kampala, for near upon 2 weeks. This was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. Aside from the fact that I came without my running shoes, barring me from that activity, truly all one can do is kill time in between meals. The city of Kampala is run in such an underground way that it’s not about what you can and cannot get, but more about knowing where to look; anything can be found if you do a little digging (sometimes literally if you have the mind to bring on back your favorite Gap shirt from 1999: it can be found in the markets that yield hundreds upon hundreds of Salvation-Army-fresh clothing from America). What would Renee do? Taste-test the greater portion of Kampala eateries. There’s a reason why Rob has complimented (your attempt at insults were wasted on me) my inability to move away from my “first meal” for all of my 23 years. So here are some of my favorites: anything Indian, man the Indian food in Uganda is phenomenal; a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant called The Sweet Dolphin; the dozens of women that carry baskets of bananas on their heads, perfect for a mid-morning … and day … snack. The Chinese restaurant with a wide-open lawn, décor exquisitely completed with live rabbits hopping around one’s toes (“Yes, our restaurant is wonderful, but it’s still missing something… oh what do we need? I’ve got it: rabbits!!”).
What wasn’t a favorite? The veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. Or should I say the non-existent veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. I approach the Subway-esque counter, eager to quell my incessant raw vegetable craving, but knowing all too well that what’s on the menu holds no bearing to what you’re served. So I ask. “What’s on the vegetarian sandwich?” “Lettuce and cucumbers.” “That’s all?” “You want cheese and mayonnaise?” “No. I want vegetables. You have carrots, tomatoes and green peppers?” “They are finished.” “This is a supermarket. Every vegetable on the planet is being sold 5 feet behind us.” “They are finished.” Fine, I’ll go somewhere else, I give up. You win, Uganda!
The unforeseen best part about the many meals I’ve eaten and the many villages I’ve visited is the company that they generate. In Gulu in the North, a region where a feeling of relaxed good-will is palpable despite it being the hub of Uganda’s brutal civil war during the ‘90s, I glanced around the dinner table one night to realize that I was eating dinner with citizens of the world. Uganda, Ethiopia, Japan, China, the Pacific Islands and the U.S. were all represented. A few days later in the West, I was sitting at the base of the Rwenzoris conferring about Greece’s financial drop with Germans and Englanders. And just the other night, albeit in a distinctly more tawdry setting (I was at a casino, so what?), the first question that comes to mind to ask the person throwing their chips out next to you is “where’s your accent from?” Maybe there’s a compelling force that draws foreigners together; maybe it’s just Uganda’s venous pulse of adventurism and dearth that’s so conspicuous to outsiders. Either way, even more so than in America, I’ve found that it’s most definitely who you know that matters. Hey, if it means you get free rides from Gulu to Kampala in a private, air-conditioned Pathfinder from U.S. Embassy workers when the alternative’s an hours-longer, crowded bus ride, I’m down with the schmoozing…
Before I wrap this post up, I’d like to set a mantra to Newness. I think it’s fitting: I’m all set to get a new site, hopefully in the next week or so (I refuse to forfeit my idealism. Ain’t this Peace Corps after all?!), and in Eastern Uganda, the local language calls for a greeting of “Yoga!” in lieu of “Hello!”. Yes I think I will demonstrate a down dog, how delightful! So here’s to a new site; may it be in the central region. Because my love for Luganda goes far beyond an irregular “gyebaleko,” my hands and knees are too clean for being 4 months into my service and village life, despite the deficits, is far richer than life in Kampala. Here’s to a new wardrobe; may all of you over there in the States keep sending your gently used and new clothes, shoes and accessories to places like Owino Market. Here’s to new foods: crocodile meat, tamarind, grasshoppers, 8500 varieties of bananas, sugar cane, millet bread, and the new parasites that reside in them! Here’s to new friends; Ugandans, Americans and all of the countries in between please send your representatives. And finally, here’s to new sights: the Nile, baboons, women balancing pots bigger than themselves on their head, my first casino (in Uganda, really?!), and the faces of those near and dear to me electronically through Skype instead of in person. May each of us live our life with intention and direction, but not too much; striders reign:
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Oh and by the way, here’s also to a new phone number: 256700127545. It’s cheaper and pays ME for incoming international calls! If the old number is unavailable, try this one, and vice versa. Sula bulungi mikwano gyange (good night my friends)!
The very first leg of my journey, on a sunrise bus ride from my site to Kampala, proved to be the situation that immediately set the tone for the span of the month. Before 7am, Ugandans are a groggy lot, and rightfully so: they eat dinner between 10-12pm. In fact, Ugandan’s are so serious about not moving before 7 in the morning that they call “hour 1” 7am, and the day continues on from there, so that 4pm, for example, is “hour ten.” But anyways, I boarded the bus around 6, when it was still dark and my taxi-mates were uncharacteristically sleepy. Sleepiness bears forgetfulness. About an hour into the bus ride, most people had disembarked, except for myself, two to three gentlemen, and a chicken that had been shoved into a plastic bag at my feet. This in itself is not uncommon; I was nonplussed by its presence. However at this point in the ride, the man sitting next to me starts looking around and taps me on the shoulder only to ask “is that your chicken?” No, it’s not my chicken. Do I look like the person to travel with chickens in plastic bags? …He moves onto the next person. Turns out, it’s no one’s chicken. Seriously. This chicken was just along for the ride; even the Ugandans were astonished. And that was day one, hour one, really. The astonishment pervade as I moved from my home in Mityana to my “home base” of Kampala and then on to the North, East and West.
To facilitate the establishment of a plan of action with my site, I had to hang around the Peace Corps office, and hence Kampala, for near upon 2 weeks. This was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. Aside from the fact that I came without my running shoes, barring me from that activity, truly all one can do is kill time in between meals. The city of Kampala is run in such an underground way that it’s not about what you can and cannot get, but more about knowing where to look; anything can be found if you do a little digging (sometimes literally if you have the mind to bring on back your favorite Gap shirt from 1999: it can be found in the markets that yield hundreds upon hundreds of Salvation-Army-fresh clothing from America). What would Renee do? Taste-test the greater portion of Kampala eateries. There’s a reason why Rob has complimented (your attempt at insults were wasted on me) my inability to move away from my “first meal” for all of my 23 years. So here are some of my favorites: anything Indian, man the Indian food in Uganda is phenomenal; a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant called The Sweet Dolphin; the dozens of women that carry baskets of bananas on their heads, perfect for a mid-morning … and day … snack. The Chinese restaurant with a wide-open lawn, décor exquisitely completed with live rabbits hopping around one’s toes (“Yes, our restaurant is wonderful, but it’s still missing something… oh what do we need? I’ve got it: rabbits!!”).
What wasn’t a favorite? The veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. Or should I say the non-existent veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. I approach the Subway-esque counter, eager to quell my incessant raw vegetable craving, but knowing all too well that what’s on the menu holds no bearing to what you’re served. So I ask. “What’s on the vegetarian sandwich?” “Lettuce and cucumbers.” “That’s all?” “You want cheese and mayonnaise?” “No. I want vegetables. You have carrots, tomatoes and green peppers?” “They are finished.” “This is a supermarket. Every vegetable on the planet is being sold 5 feet behind us.” “They are finished.” Fine, I’ll go somewhere else, I give up. You win, Uganda!
The unforeseen best part about the many meals I’ve eaten and the many villages I’ve visited is the company that they generate. In Gulu in the North, a region where a feeling of relaxed good-will is palpable despite it being the hub of Uganda’s brutal civil war during the ‘90s, I glanced around the dinner table one night to realize that I was eating dinner with citizens of the world. Uganda, Ethiopia, Japan, China, the Pacific Islands and the U.S. were all represented. A few days later in the West, I was sitting at the base of the Rwenzoris conferring about Greece’s financial drop with Germans and Englanders. And just the other night, albeit in a distinctly more tawdry setting (I was at a casino, so what?), the first question that comes to mind to ask the person throwing their chips out next to you is “where’s your accent from?” Maybe there’s a compelling force that draws foreigners together; maybe it’s just Uganda’s venous pulse of adventurism and dearth that’s so conspicuous to outsiders. Either way, even more so than in America, I’ve found that it’s most definitely who you know that matters. Hey, if it means you get free rides from Gulu to Kampala in a private, air-conditioned Pathfinder from U.S. Embassy workers when the alternative’s an hours-longer, crowded bus ride, I’m down with the schmoozing…
Before I wrap this post up, I’d like to set a mantra to Newness. I think it’s fitting: I’m all set to get a new site, hopefully in the next week or so (I refuse to forfeit my idealism. Ain’t this Peace Corps after all?!), and in Eastern Uganda, the local language calls for a greeting of “Yoga!” in lieu of “Hello!”. Yes I think I will demonstrate a down dog, how delightful! So here’s to a new site; may it be in the central region. Because my love for Luganda goes far beyond an irregular “gyebaleko,” my hands and knees are too clean for being 4 months into my service and village life, despite the deficits, is far richer than life in Kampala. Here’s to a new wardrobe; may all of you over there in the States keep sending your gently used and new clothes, shoes and accessories to places like Owino Market. Here’s to new foods: crocodile meat, tamarind, grasshoppers, 8500 varieties of bananas, sugar cane, millet bread, and the new parasites that reside in them! Here’s to new friends; Ugandans, Americans and all of the countries in between please send your representatives. And finally, here’s to new sights: the Nile, baboons, women balancing pots bigger than themselves on their head, my first casino (in Uganda, really?!), and the faces of those near and dear to me electronically through Skype instead of in person. May each of us live our life with intention and direction, but not too much; striders reign:
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Oh and by the way, here’s also to a new phone number: 256700127545. It’s cheaper and pays ME for incoming international calls! If the old number is unavailable, try this one, and vice versa. Sula bulungi mikwano gyange (good night my friends)!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Hello. In case you've forgotten, my name's Renee, and I am a terrible blogger. But I have excuses, honest. First it was the lack of electricity at my new site: how was I to charge my computer? Then it was the generator’s erratic power supply: who knew that it could melt the plastic of a surge protector and fry my power cord? And now? Let’s chalk it up to my general homelessness and present nomadic existence.
Three weeks ago I left my new home and workplace, with nothing but the pack on my back, for a one night stint in Kampala to take care of some Peace Corps business and find a semi-reliable computer repair shop. Luckily I’m a smart packer, having brought enough clothes to suit my ever-changing mood, toiletries and all of my electronics, as one night quickly (slowly?) turned into twenty-one. And at least ten more to go... I’ve faced a handful of challenges at my site that snowballed out of a pair of lock-lacking doors. If only it had stopped there...
I’ll remain intentionally vague on the situation because I’m hoping to put it all behind me; water under the bridge. Peace Corps has been working hard with me and my organization to right a few wrongs and clear the air of any misunderstandings, and I am actually eager to return, provided that things are stacked in my favor. The gauge? My organization has been given an ultimatum: spend the time, energy and money to fix Renee’s doors and windows (the least of my problems, really) and we’ll take that to mean that you’ve heard our demand for transformation and are willing to work things out. If not, your shiny new Peace Corps volunteer will be moved to an identical-looking village with a new organization a few districts over.
Forgive me if this comes across as cynical, cynicism's honestly not my intention. I want to return to my site. The work and majority of the people in my organization are legitimately wonderful; two things that a Peace Corps volunteer can thank their lucky stars to have. My village is beautiful. It sits at a crossroads. Route 1 takes you to a big market and ultimately on to Kampala. Route 2 takes you to a tea plantation that rests on more acres than my vision can endure. Just when you think the tea must surely roll to the top of one last hill, you find that it proceeds into the valley on the other side. The paths that meander throughout haphazardly are ideal for my Kampala-marathon-2010-intent feet, and the way the tea is cared for by hundreds of farmers instead of a handful of machines is curiously idyllic. Route 3 takes you to a small pond, removed from the road and furnished with a few planks of wood nailed to surrounding trees as benches perfect for wasting away hours with a book. Route 4 takes you far down into the swampland where papyrus thrives but not much else; people are a rarity for once in this overpopulated country.
But what really makes me so eager to return is the overwhelming, and ever-increasing, sentiment that homelessness sucks. I’ve hopped from one hotel to the next, facing no vacancy, hiked rates that put a room beyond my meager Peace Corps stipend, and list of hotel rules that includes “no woman is to accompany a man without providing proof of marriage, in form of a marriage certificate.” I’ve been shuffled from one volunteer’s site to another’s, sleeping on couches and floors. I've barely been able to run and cooking for myself is not an option. Aside from all of this, it’s been an amazing experience and I’ve learned so much: about this amazing country, its people, my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and the wonderful work their doing, and about myself. Currently, I’m sitting in the living room of an older volunteer in a town 15 minutes from the boarder of Kenya, having just taken advantage of her fridge/freezer combo with a dish of ice cream. For the first half of the week I resided in Gulu, the “Disneyland of the North.” After a stint in Kampala this weekend, I’ll trek West, towards Congo, the Rwenzori Mountains and Murchison Falls National Park. If nothing else, I’ve encountered some pretty interesting things in the past three weeks, some of which will be selectively relayed to you in my follow-up blog, coming soon! Ah how I miss movies previews…
Three weeks ago I left my new home and workplace, with nothing but the pack on my back, for a one night stint in Kampala to take care of some Peace Corps business and find a semi-reliable computer repair shop. Luckily I’m a smart packer, having brought enough clothes to suit my ever-changing mood, toiletries and all of my electronics, as one night quickly (slowly?) turned into twenty-one. And at least ten more to go... I’ve faced a handful of challenges at my site that snowballed out of a pair of lock-lacking doors. If only it had stopped there...
I’ll remain intentionally vague on the situation because I’m hoping to put it all behind me; water under the bridge. Peace Corps has been working hard with me and my organization to right a few wrongs and clear the air of any misunderstandings, and I am actually eager to return, provided that things are stacked in my favor. The gauge? My organization has been given an ultimatum: spend the time, energy and money to fix Renee’s doors and windows (the least of my problems, really) and we’ll take that to mean that you’ve heard our demand for transformation and are willing to work things out. If not, your shiny new Peace Corps volunteer will be moved to an identical-looking village with a new organization a few districts over.
Forgive me if this comes across as cynical, cynicism's honestly not my intention. I want to return to my site. The work and majority of the people in my organization are legitimately wonderful; two things that a Peace Corps volunteer can thank their lucky stars to have. My village is beautiful. It sits at a crossroads. Route 1 takes you to a big market and ultimately on to Kampala. Route 2 takes you to a tea plantation that rests on more acres than my vision can endure. Just when you think the tea must surely roll to the top of one last hill, you find that it proceeds into the valley on the other side. The paths that meander throughout haphazardly are ideal for my Kampala-marathon-2010-intent feet, and the way the tea is cared for by hundreds of farmers instead of a handful of machines is curiously idyllic. Route 3 takes you to a small pond, removed from the road and furnished with a few planks of wood nailed to surrounding trees as benches perfect for wasting away hours with a book. Route 4 takes you far down into the swampland where papyrus thrives but not much else; people are a rarity for once in this overpopulated country.
But what really makes me so eager to return is the overwhelming, and ever-increasing, sentiment that homelessness sucks. I’ve hopped from one hotel to the next, facing no vacancy, hiked rates that put a room beyond my meager Peace Corps stipend, and list of hotel rules that includes “no woman is to accompany a man without providing proof of marriage, in form of a marriage certificate.” I’ve been shuffled from one volunteer’s site to another’s, sleeping on couches and floors. I've barely been able to run and cooking for myself is not an option. Aside from all of this, it’s been an amazing experience and I’ve learned so much: about this amazing country, its people, my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and the wonderful work their doing, and about myself. Currently, I’m sitting in the living room of an older volunteer in a town 15 minutes from the boarder of Kenya, having just taken advantage of her fridge/freezer combo with a dish of ice cream. For the first half of the week I resided in Gulu, the “Disneyland of the North.” After a stint in Kampala this weekend, I’ll trek West, towards Congo, the Rwenzori Mountains and Murchison Falls National Park. If nothing else, I’ve encountered some pretty interesting things in the past three weeks, some of which will be selectively relayed to you in my follow-up blog, coming soon! Ah how I miss movies previews…
Saturday, April 10, 2010
MY SITE!!!!
Today being Sunday, I’m chilling in the K-L-A (that’s Kampala for all you non-Ugandanites. Oh wait, that’s everyone, Ugandans don’t blog), but Thursday, Friday and Saturday were spent in Kakindu, visiting my site. It is relieving to know that I remain in Wakiso for another week, because a boatload of information was 90mph fast-balled at me this weekend. So naturally, I’m going to vomit a lot of it back out right now.
There are, unsurprisingly, good qualities and drawbacks to what I experienced. Shall we start with the positive? Fantastic. From what I’ve seen, I love my organization and the people within it. Fr. Athe is a revolutionary thinker. He began CIDE (Ugandans love acronyms and pronouncing them like words. In this case, “city.”) one year ago, but spent most of that time exploring the needs of the community. Kakindu is very rural and the majority of the population farms for subsistence. Therefore, he has identified the need to form a dairy farming association. Basically, individual dairy farmers are united into groups of 25-30, whereupon the 100 or so groups merge into an association. The milk of the entire association can then be processed, marketed, and sold locally and nationally. Athe has procured a defunct alcohol distillery, which is being transformed into a milk processing plant. Quite nobel really: nutrition over boozing (word is Uganda consumes more alcohol per capita than any other country in the world…).
So groups of dairy farmers have already been formed and funding comes from Heifer International, which is apparently spear-headed by Bill Gates. My role will be to work with my counterpart, Justine, to train the groups in microfinance, savings and loans, capacity building, value addition, nutrition, accountability, leadership, conflict resolution and empowerment. At first I was uncertain about how I wound up here, given my general abhorrence for milk of the non-soy variety; but then I was reminded that my Kiganda name is Namata, which means milk. Definitely a weird coincidence. Still… all I can say is that I’m pushin for yogurt production…
In the next two years, though, Athe wants to branch out and help other community groups in different ways. When he talked to me about his ideas, I was giddy by how aligned they were to some of the things I had been mulling over during the past two months of training. He wants to promote nutrition and water sanitation, extend solar powered lighting to families in lieu of kerosene lamps and candles, and build a library/resource center for teens to come study and use the computer and internet after school and on the weekend. Hopefully these concepts can make it past the idea phase over the next two years.
I love the idea of traveling around the Ugandan countryside by foot or bike, visiting the many groups and farms and schools, but Kakindu is very rural. I’m not sure how I’m going to work out a comfortable food routine, as the village sells little more than tomatoes, pumpkin, matoke, potatos, onions, bananas, eggplant, rice, beans and bread. Athe told me to just buy a fridge so that I can store food I buy in the bigger towns during a weekly trip, instead of having to shop every day. But there are two kinks in this option: for one, fridges cost mucho shillings, probably more than I’ll make in a year; and two, even if I could afford a fridge, my house doesn’t have electricity. What else is my house lacking? Well it’s a two bedroom delight accompanied by a sitting room, kitchen, indoor bathing and outdoor pit latrine. However, running water, a fence, paint and furniture of any kind are all MIA. Athe has promised me a water tank, beds, couches, tables, shelves, a kitchen counter, a fence and electricity. Ten bucks on none of them being fulfilled when I return for the long haul in little over one week. At least my house is pretty cute and it’s situated on the CIDE compound, a mere 50 yards from the office. The compound comes stocked with security guard, housekeeper, lunch and teatime cook, avocado/jackfruit/mango/coffee/guava/papaya trees, random farm animals, and a Honda CRV-esque vehicle should the need arise. So overall, pros and cons. Such is life.
Because my house was not suitable for my weekend visit, I slept in the mission associated with Fr. Athe’s Catholic church. If you ever find yourself presented with the opportunity to stay with nuns, jump at it! Not only are they clean, accommodating and delightful cooks, but they’re hilarious, unhurried and constantly singing. Sure, 7am mass in Luganda everyday could become tiresome, but that’s easily overlookable. I guess you’ve finally seen me join the convent, Rob. Also on the family theme, two of the sisters’ names are Rose and Daisy. Unusual names for Ugandans, but even more so considering they are my Grandma’s two sister’s names as well. And then when I told CIDE that I wanted a Luganda tutor for the first few months, the agriculturalist, Joseph, recommended his 7-year-old daughter (I’m still not certain whether he was serious or not…). Her name? Juliana. My grandma’s name! Which I told him, and now I am calling his daughter jjajja, “grandma” in Luganda. Thank you Juliana, Daisy and Rose; such an odd connection’s got to mean something good, right?
For now, a night dancing in Kampala was needed, and probably a good run this afternoon. Boy Devon and I found the most amazing loop in Wakiso that passes through marshes, ravines, up mountains, through farms and forests...
There are, unsurprisingly, good qualities and drawbacks to what I experienced. Shall we start with the positive? Fantastic. From what I’ve seen, I love my organization and the people within it. Fr. Athe is a revolutionary thinker. He began CIDE (Ugandans love acronyms and pronouncing them like words. In this case, “city.”) one year ago, but spent most of that time exploring the needs of the community. Kakindu is very rural and the majority of the population farms for subsistence. Therefore, he has identified the need to form a dairy farming association. Basically, individual dairy farmers are united into groups of 25-30, whereupon the 100 or so groups merge into an association. The milk of the entire association can then be processed, marketed, and sold locally and nationally. Athe has procured a defunct alcohol distillery, which is being transformed into a milk processing plant. Quite nobel really: nutrition over boozing (word is Uganda consumes more alcohol per capita than any other country in the world…).
So groups of dairy farmers have already been formed and funding comes from Heifer International, which is apparently spear-headed by Bill Gates. My role will be to work with my counterpart, Justine, to train the groups in microfinance, savings and loans, capacity building, value addition, nutrition, accountability, leadership, conflict resolution and empowerment. At first I was uncertain about how I wound up here, given my general abhorrence for milk of the non-soy variety; but then I was reminded that my Kiganda name is Namata, which means milk. Definitely a weird coincidence. Still… all I can say is that I’m pushin for yogurt production…
In the next two years, though, Athe wants to branch out and help other community groups in different ways. When he talked to me about his ideas, I was giddy by how aligned they were to some of the things I had been mulling over during the past two months of training. He wants to promote nutrition and water sanitation, extend solar powered lighting to families in lieu of kerosene lamps and candles, and build a library/resource center for teens to come study and use the computer and internet after school and on the weekend. Hopefully these concepts can make it past the idea phase over the next two years.
I love the idea of traveling around the Ugandan countryside by foot or bike, visiting the many groups and farms and schools, but Kakindu is very rural. I’m not sure how I’m going to work out a comfortable food routine, as the village sells little more than tomatoes, pumpkin, matoke, potatos, onions, bananas, eggplant, rice, beans and bread. Athe told me to just buy a fridge so that I can store food I buy in the bigger towns during a weekly trip, instead of having to shop every day. But there are two kinks in this option: for one, fridges cost mucho shillings, probably more than I’ll make in a year; and two, even if I could afford a fridge, my house doesn’t have electricity. What else is my house lacking? Well it’s a two bedroom delight accompanied by a sitting room, kitchen, indoor bathing and outdoor pit latrine. However, running water, a fence, paint and furniture of any kind are all MIA. Athe has promised me a water tank, beds, couches, tables, shelves, a kitchen counter, a fence and electricity. Ten bucks on none of them being fulfilled when I return for the long haul in little over one week. At least my house is pretty cute and it’s situated on the CIDE compound, a mere 50 yards from the office. The compound comes stocked with security guard, housekeeper, lunch and teatime cook, avocado/jackfruit/mango/coffee/guava/papaya trees, random farm animals, and a Honda CRV-esque vehicle should the need arise. So overall, pros and cons. Such is life.
Because my house was not suitable for my weekend visit, I slept in the mission associated with Fr. Athe’s Catholic church. If you ever find yourself presented with the opportunity to stay with nuns, jump at it! Not only are they clean, accommodating and delightful cooks, but they’re hilarious, unhurried and constantly singing. Sure, 7am mass in Luganda everyday could become tiresome, but that’s easily overlookable. I guess you’ve finally seen me join the convent, Rob. Also on the family theme, two of the sisters’ names are Rose and Daisy. Unusual names for Ugandans, but even more so considering they are my Grandma’s two sister’s names as well. And then when I told CIDE that I wanted a Luganda tutor for the first few months, the agriculturalist, Joseph, recommended his 7-year-old daughter (I’m still not certain whether he was serious or not…). Her name? Juliana. My grandma’s name! Which I told him, and now I am calling his daughter jjajja, “grandma” in Luganda. Thank you Juliana, Daisy and Rose; such an odd connection’s got to mean something good, right?
For now, a night dancing in Kampala was needed, and probably a good run this afternoon. Boy Devon and I found the most amazing loop in Wakiso that passes through marshes, ravines, up mountains, through farms and forests...
Nothing says easter like 5am chicken beheadings!
I’m not going to lie, and I might be beating this point to death, but I feel really fortunate to have been placed in Uganda by Peace Corps. The dichotomy between lifestyles and the sheer number of options with which to keep oneself busy are enough to make any vagrant content. It also enables me to fill my occasional yearning for Western life. So yes, I am sitting at the pool right now with my friend Boy Devon (there happens to be a Girl Devon in our training group too; crazy odds, I know), while he reads and I blog and “The Hills” blares on a nearby TV, I kid you not. But I love the idea of a retreat because daily life here is definitely hard. Water and food are in short supply, it takes time and physical energy to get to anywhere, and constant demands for money and visas to America wear thin on your patience very quickly. Plus, I’m pretty confident that jumping into the pool serves the purpose of getting me the cleanest I’ve been in weeks. Turns out the “sandal tan” I thought I had was actually just dirt staining my feet…
So Tuesday and Wednesday were big days for me. Wednesday I presented my qualifying project, the summation of my training experience as a Community Health and Economic Development trainee. The topic: sanitation in the workplace. Super boring, I know, but never having a place to wash my hands before eating in town acted as a powerful motivator. I won’t bore you with details, but I did well and am happy it’s over. More likely than not, I won’t do much with this gem of a project over the next 2 years. Which leads me to what happened on Tuesday: I learned the site that I’m being placed at for those 2 years!!! I didn’t receive too much information, but I’ll be working with an NGO called the Center for Indigenous Development Efforts (CIDE). It’s an organization still in its infancy, but its founder, a Catholic Priest, is an old hand when it comes to NGO development. He’s been really successful all over Uganda and internationally, actually, but this is his pet project for his golden years, as its in his home town of Kakindu (Kah-chin-due). Kikandu is a small town in the district of Mityana, only about an hour away from Kampala. I’ll actually be the second closest trainee to the city, so I’m stoked about that.
I feel like a kid anxiously awaiting Christmas right now: The 14th is my 23rd birthday (don’t do the math; I will not be 25 years old when I come home…), my final Language Proficiency Examination is the 16th, I leave my homestay for good on the 18th, I swear in as a full-fledged Peace Corps Volunteer the 21st and I leave for Kakindu the 22nd. This all may look like it’s happening very fast and that I’m going to be inundated with work shortly, but I assure you that that is not the case. In fact, we’re technically discouraged from doing any sort of “work” for the first three months at site. This is to be my time to integrate into the community and observe CIDE. Most volunteers describe this time as boasting the single-most amount of free time they’ve ever encountered in their lives. I cannot wait! Along with reading and running an inordinate amount, I plan on doing yoga, starting a garden, painting, learning to dry fruit and make soymilk, learning origami and setting up an actual home. But I’ll have many more hours to satisfy and would be extremely grateful for suggestions!? Does anyone happen to know off-hand how to build a piano?
Learning my site has certainly come at a good time: suddenly, it seems, I looked around and roots had been extended into my PC/Uganda life. Next Sunday, leaving my host family, will be a gloomy day. The kids took a few weeks to get a handle on what exactly I was, but now they provide me with the best parts of my day. Latifa (age 11) is in her shy and awkward pre-teen years. She slips me notes with drawings and a frequent “Renee, you are my best friend because you are beautiful” written on the front. She fantastic at popping out of nowhere whenever I attempt to begin washing my clothes, cleaning my bike or carrying something heavy and before I can even explain that I’m determined to flub my way through the chore, she has finished it for me. Galabuzi (age 8), on the other hand, is more of a nuisance. He’s an imp of a boy, wanting to touch everything I own with clumsy hands. Luckily that extends to bestowing upon me giant bear hugs whenever I enter a room. I leave my bike helmet on as a necessary precaution when I return home from being gone for anytime longer than a 24-hour period. Chimina (age 4; no one seems to know how to spell her name, though?), is my favorite, I’ll admit. She tails me like a shadow, peppering me with so many “ogenda kukola ki kati?”s (“what are you going to do now?) that I cannot possibly answer them all. She mimics everything I say. I tried to channel this into something amusing, but I only got as far as the following dialogue: Renee – “what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?” Renee – “no, you’re supposed to say ‘nothing!’” Chimina – “nothing!” Renee – “Nice, okay, what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?”. Ah well, it still slays me every time. I’m definitely going to miss these kids come the end of next week…
It took a while, but Wakiso became a comfort to me as well. I have “my” grocery store, “my” restaurant, “my” internet café, “my” pineapple dealer… even the families and kids on “my” street welcome me back and shout “bye Renee!” whenever I pass, even though I’ve never even introduced myself to them. Well, it more sounds like Reenay, but that’s beside the point; they know me here! It’ll be a bummer to leave.
Peace Corps has also started to morph into a long-term commitment. Before, I could only envision myself in training; my life out on my own was unfathomable. Luckily I’ve stumbled upon a few things to propel me into the great unknown. For one thing, I have an unhealthy love of the language. Conjugating verbs has become one of my favorite pastimes. I actually think in Lugandan. My knack for it directly links me with future happiness, success, safety and integration. Serious stuff. But really the funniest part about being, dare I say it, a prodigy (totally kidding, I told my housegirl this morning that I wanted to help her bathe herself on accident) is that I will be making a speech wholly in Luganda next weekend at our big end-of-training/homestay-thank-you party. Coming to a youtube channel near you: “Renee Speaks Luganda, Ugandans Don’t Understand.” My second Peace Corps leadership venture likewise caught me unawares. You are currently reading the blog of the February 2010 Peace Corps Uganda training group Volunteer Advisory Committee representative. I liken it to student council. It went down as such: in a span of maybe 30 minutes (which is unheard of for accomplishing anything in in Uganda), two of the six other members of VAC came; asked for nominations; 8 or so of my fellow trainees were nominated, myself included; speeches were made (I distinctly remember mine including the opening remarks: “I’m not sure whether I would be good at this kind of thing, as I’m quite impatient…); votes were taken; myself and a kid called Jake were elected. So now I’m representing my entire training group at all-staff meetings every three months? At least there’s a bonus: I get an all-expenses-paid weekend trip into Kampala each time!
So Tuesday and Wednesday were big days for me. Wednesday I presented my qualifying project, the summation of my training experience as a Community Health and Economic Development trainee. The topic: sanitation in the workplace. Super boring, I know, but never having a place to wash my hands before eating in town acted as a powerful motivator. I won’t bore you with details, but I did well and am happy it’s over. More likely than not, I won’t do much with this gem of a project over the next 2 years. Which leads me to what happened on Tuesday: I learned the site that I’m being placed at for those 2 years!!! I didn’t receive too much information, but I’ll be working with an NGO called the Center for Indigenous Development Efforts (CIDE). It’s an organization still in its infancy, but its founder, a Catholic Priest, is an old hand when it comes to NGO development. He’s been really successful all over Uganda and internationally, actually, but this is his pet project for his golden years, as its in his home town of Kakindu (Kah-chin-due). Kikandu is a small town in the district of Mityana, only about an hour away from Kampala. I’ll actually be the second closest trainee to the city, so I’m stoked about that.
I feel like a kid anxiously awaiting Christmas right now: The 14th is my 23rd birthday (don’t do the math; I will not be 25 years old when I come home…), my final Language Proficiency Examination is the 16th, I leave my homestay for good on the 18th, I swear in as a full-fledged Peace Corps Volunteer the 21st and I leave for Kakindu the 22nd. This all may look like it’s happening very fast and that I’m going to be inundated with work shortly, but I assure you that that is not the case. In fact, we’re technically discouraged from doing any sort of “work” for the first three months at site. This is to be my time to integrate into the community and observe CIDE. Most volunteers describe this time as boasting the single-most amount of free time they’ve ever encountered in their lives. I cannot wait! Along with reading and running an inordinate amount, I plan on doing yoga, starting a garden, painting, learning to dry fruit and make soymilk, learning origami and setting up an actual home. But I’ll have many more hours to satisfy and would be extremely grateful for suggestions!? Does anyone happen to know off-hand how to build a piano?
Learning my site has certainly come at a good time: suddenly, it seems, I looked around and roots had been extended into my PC/Uganda life. Next Sunday, leaving my host family, will be a gloomy day. The kids took a few weeks to get a handle on what exactly I was, but now they provide me with the best parts of my day. Latifa (age 11) is in her shy and awkward pre-teen years. She slips me notes with drawings and a frequent “Renee, you are my best friend because you are beautiful” written on the front. She fantastic at popping out of nowhere whenever I attempt to begin washing my clothes, cleaning my bike or carrying something heavy and before I can even explain that I’m determined to flub my way through the chore, she has finished it for me. Galabuzi (age 8), on the other hand, is more of a nuisance. He’s an imp of a boy, wanting to touch everything I own with clumsy hands. Luckily that extends to bestowing upon me giant bear hugs whenever I enter a room. I leave my bike helmet on as a necessary precaution when I return home from being gone for anytime longer than a 24-hour period. Chimina (age 4; no one seems to know how to spell her name, though?), is my favorite, I’ll admit. She tails me like a shadow, peppering me with so many “ogenda kukola ki kati?”s (“what are you going to do now?) that I cannot possibly answer them all. She mimics everything I say. I tried to channel this into something amusing, but I only got as far as the following dialogue: Renee – “what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?” Renee – “no, you’re supposed to say ‘nothing!’” Chimina – “nothing!” Renee – “Nice, okay, what’s up?” Chimina – “what’s up?”. Ah well, it still slays me every time. I’m definitely going to miss these kids come the end of next week…
It took a while, but Wakiso became a comfort to me as well. I have “my” grocery store, “my” restaurant, “my” internet café, “my” pineapple dealer… even the families and kids on “my” street welcome me back and shout “bye Renee!” whenever I pass, even though I’ve never even introduced myself to them. Well, it more sounds like Reenay, but that’s beside the point; they know me here! It’ll be a bummer to leave.
Peace Corps has also started to morph into a long-term commitment. Before, I could only envision myself in training; my life out on my own was unfathomable. Luckily I’ve stumbled upon a few things to propel me into the great unknown. For one thing, I have an unhealthy love of the language. Conjugating verbs has become one of my favorite pastimes. I actually think in Lugandan. My knack for it directly links me with future happiness, success, safety and integration. Serious stuff. But really the funniest part about being, dare I say it, a prodigy (totally kidding, I told my housegirl this morning that I wanted to help her bathe herself on accident) is that I will be making a speech wholly in Luganda next weekend at our big end-of-training/homestay-thank-you party. Coming to a youtube channel near you: “Renee Speaks Luganda, Ugandans Don’t Understand.” My second Peace Corps leadership venture likewise caught me unawares. You are currently reading the blog of the February 2010 Peace Corps Uganda training group Volunteer Advisory Committee representative. I liken it to student council. It went down as such: in a span of maybe 30 minutes (which is unheard of for accomplishing anything in in Uganda), two of the six other members of VAC came; asked for nominations; 8 or so of my fellow trainees were nominated, myself included; speeches were made (I distinctly remember mine including the opening remarks: “I’m not sure whether I would be good at this kind of thing, as I’m quite impatient…); votes were taken; myself and a kid called Jake were elected. So now I’m representing my entire training group at all-staff meetings every three months? At least there’s a bonus: I get an all-expenses-paid weekend trip into Kampala each time!
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