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.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
By the Numbers
A more thought-out synopsis to come, but my reasoning for this schizophrenic, chronologically-reversed format becomes apparent... right... now...
4 - the number of hours I slept last night.
3:30 am - the time myself, Charlene, Arwen, Elizabeth and Ashley got into Uganda on a flight from Istanbul, Turkey today Feb 3rd.
5 - the number of planes I've been on in the past 10 days.
5 - the number of currencies I've used in the past 10 days (Turkish Lira, Euros, Dollars, Egyptian Pounds and Ugandan Shillings).
4 - the number of Visas I've used in the past 4 days (Uganda, Turkey, Greece, Egypt).
1609 - the year construction began on the Sultanahmet Mosque in Istanbul. Friggin beautiful.
1000 - the number of shops selling Turkish Delight at the Grand Bazaar; or so it seemed.
178 euros - the amount it cost me to book a last minute ticket from Athens to Istanbul because Peace Corps glitched and forgot to book it for me.
2 - the nights spent at the stupendous Sofitel hotel in Athens, after getting randomly evacuated there by the U.S. Embassy in Cairo.
10 - the pounds of food we must have eaten at the free breakfast each morning. Think Greek yogurt, lychees (finally Jacob), strawberries, pears, figs, dates, plums, granola, lox, pastries, rice pudding, mimosas, fresh bread, hazelnut and carob honey, smoothies, scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, and green tea.
40 - degrees it must have been in Athens as we wandered around the Temple of Zeus, the Acropolis, the Ampitheatre, and the baclava shops (equally as important, obviously) all in Saharan Desert-weather clothing.
3 - the bottles of Greek wine we drank while lying by the rooftop pool that night in Athens.
1,800 - the cost of our hotel rooms, in dollars, for 2 nights, totally covered by the U.S. government. Thanks tax payers!
11:00 pm - the time on Tuesday 02/01 that we finally arrived in Greece from Egypt, to be greeted with open arms by the U.S. Embassy in Greece (as opposed to the non-present U.S. Embassy in Egypt), with fresh sandwiches, water, shampoo, toothpaste and free phone calls.
9 – the hours we spent waiting with 5,000 other Americans to get out of Cairo, as per the U.S. Embassy’s evacuation procedure and exempting the 10s of 1000s of other world citizens awaiting similar bout of luck.
3rd – the flight we got out on, thanks to being considered a diplomat because of our Peace Corps status. Innumerable flights after that, I can imagine…
3 – the number of places the U.S. was evacuating to: Athens, Cyprus and Istanbul. Not too shabby.
10 – British Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Brits evacuate.
0 – U.S. Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Americans evacuate.
50 – the communication attempts, I’d say, with families, Peace Corps Uganda, Peace Corps Washington, the U.S. Embassy, the State Department, Ethiopian Air, Egypt Air, Kenya Air, whoever, that failed during those 3 days. Maybe 5 went through.
45 - the hours we spent stuck at the Cairo airport, hoping desperately for an escape.
517 – pages I read during those hours, when all else there was to do was sleep on the cold floor or avoid random anxious outbursts from 5,000 other stranded travelers.
15 – the number of M & Ms I ate for dinner Monday night, after the airport ran out of all things edible and drinkable. We hope the tap water was safe, it did smell faintly of chlorine…
12:00 am – the time Sunday night (okay Monday morning) we first realized our original flight out of Cairo was cancelled. It was a 2:35 am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
5/14 - the number of Peace Corps Volunteers remaining in Egypt after Sunday, Jan 31st (That would be the 5 of us from Uganda, or as we’ve been dubbed by PCVs in Uganda: The Egyptian Liberation Front’s Fab Five).
9 – the number of hours we spent on a bus from Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on Sunday, still hoping to make our flight.
2 – the number of hours we spend driving around the roadblocks (read: vigilante groups of Egyptian boys and men protecting their neighborhoods from looters and thugs by any means possible; read: whips, chains, 2x4s, bats, torches, meat cleavers, guns, molitov cocktails, bricks, knives, sabers, blow torches, seriously we saw it all) looking for a safe place to dock the bus.
30 – the number of said roadblocks we must have passed through during the attempt, and on the way to the airport, with bated breathe and jagged heartbeats at each.
7 – the number of Egyptians who took it upon themselves to ensure our safe passage to the airport, despite the personal risk involved (note: this riot was in no way about foreigners).
6 –days of true vacation we actually managed to get in. Amazing. More to come on the wonders of Egypt later.
6 – and finally, days over my scheduled vacation that I was away from Uganda.
4 - the number of hours I slept last night.
3:30 am - the time myself, Charlene, Arwen, Elizabeth and Ashley got into Uganda on a flight from Istanbul, Turkey today Feb 3rd.
5 - the number of planes I've been on in the past 10 days.
5 - the number of currencies I've used in the past 10 days (Turkish Lira, Euros, Dollars, Egyptian Pounds and Ugandan Shillings).
4 - the number of Visas I've used in the past 4 days (Uganda, Turkey, Greece, Egypt).
1609 - the year construction began on the Sultanahmet Mosque in Istanbul. Friggin beautiful.
1000 - the number of shops selling Turkish Delight at the Grand Bazaar; or so it seemed.
178 euros - the amount it cost me to book a last minute ticket from Athens to Istanbul because Peace Corps glitched and forgot to book it for me.
2 - the nights spent at the stupendous Sofitel hotel in Athens, after getting randomly evacuated there by the U.S. Embassy in Cairo.
10 - the pounds of food we must have eaten at the free breakfast each morning. Think Greek yogurt, lychees (finally Jacob), strawberries, pears, figs, dates, plums, granola, lox, pastries, rice pudding, mimosas, fresh bread, hazelnut and carob honey, smoothies, scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, and green tea.
40 - degrees it must have been in Athens as we wandered around the Temple of Zeus, the Acropolis, the Ampitheatre, and the baclava shops (equally as important, obviously) all in Saharan Desert-weather clothing.
3 - the bottles of Greek wine we drank while lying by the rooftop pool that night in Athens.
1,800 - the cost of our hotel rooms, in dollars, for 2 nights, totally covered by the U.S. government. Thanks tax payers!
11:00 pm - the time on Tuesday 02/01 that we finally arrived in Greece from Egypt, to be greeted with open arms by the U.S. Embassy in Greece (as opposed to the non-present U.S. Embassy in Egypt), with fresh sandwiches, water, shampoo, toothpaste and free phone calls.
9 – the hours we spent waiting with 5,000 other Americans to get out of Cairo, as per the U.S. Embassy’s evacuation procedure and exempting the 10s of 1000s of other world citizens awaiting similar bout of luck.
3rd – the flight we got out on, thanks to being considered a diplomat because of our Peace Corps status. Innumerable flights after that, I can imagine…
3 – the number of places the U.S. was evacuating to: Athens, Cyprus and Istanbul. Not too shabby.
10 – British Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Brits evacuate.
0 – U.S. Embassy workers we saw pre-Tuesday, helping Americans evacuate.
50 – the communication attempts, I’d say, with families, Peace Corps Uganda, Peace Corps Washington, the U.S. Embassy, the State Department, Ethiopian Air, Egypt Air, Kenya Air, whoever, that failed during those 3 days. Maybe 5 went through.
45 - the hours we spent stuck at the Cairo airport, hoping desperately for an escape.
517 – pages I read during those hours, when all else there was to do was sleep on the cold floor or avoid random anxious outbursts from 5,000 other stranded travelers.
15 – the number of M & Ms I ate for dinner Monday night, after the airport ran out of all things edible and drinkable. We hope the tap water was safe, it did smell faintly of chlorine…
12:00 am – the time Sunday night (okay Monday morning) we first realized our original flight out of Cairo was cancelled. It was a 2:35 am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
5/14 - the number of Peace Corps Volunteers remaining in Egypt after Sunday, Jan 31st (That would be the 5 of us from Uganda, or as we’ve been dubbed by PCVs in Uganda: The Egyptian Liberation Front’s Fab Five).
9 – the number of hours we spent on a bus from Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on Sunday, still hoping to make our flight.
2 – the number of hours we spend driving around the roadblocks (read: vigilante groups of Egyptian boys and men protecting their neighborhoods from looters and thugs by any means possible; read: whips, chains, 2x4s, bats, torches, meat cleavers, guns, molitov cocktails, bricks, knives, sabers, blow torches, seriously we saw it all) looking for a safe place to dock the bus.
30 – the number of said roadblocks we must have passed through during the attempt, and on the way to the airport, with bated breathe and jagged heartbeats at each.
7 – the number of Egyptians who took it upon themselves to ensure our safe passage to the airport, despite the personal risk involved (note: this riot was in no way about foreigners).
6 –days of true vacation we actually managed to get in. Amazing. More to come on the wonders of Egypt later.
6 – and finally, days over my scheduled vacation that I was away from Uganda.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Happy New Year?
I trust you’re all as resolution-free as me. Since my 2010 paraded me around with a dogged resolve that more than compensates for two years, I think I’m square in 2011. And to justify, allow me to recapitulate: I packed up and moved to Uganda with two bags of shit and an idealistic determination; spent two months becoming intimately aware of all of my bodily functions during training; packed up and moved for a second time to a NGO in the central, Buganda, region to work with dairy farmers; hit a number of snafus that prompted me to pack up and hit the open road within two weeks, branding me a vagabond for three months, after which I moved for a third time, with no less than a sense of urgent desperation, to my second site to teach computers in St. Thomas Vocational Secondary School; lived, actually lived, happy-as-a-clam, for a handful of months before being stabbed with a few more gut-punches that effectively nullified my contentment and necessitated a relocation; packed up for a fourth (fifth? I’ve lost count…) time before taking off for a little TLC in A Nice Place to Live (that would be Darien, IL, for all of those unfamiliar with its exceptional mantra), with the knowledge that I would be calling a new place home upon my return to Uganda. And that is where I sit presently: in my small, two-room crackerjack box with shoddy wall circuits, outdoor kitchen, take-your-breath-away-cold shower, pit latrine john, and bedbugs. But I love it! The privacy, sense of ownership, independence, solitude, quietude, or whatever else you want to call it, placates my single most important ability: I can eat whatever the F I want. But allow me to fill you in on a few events that have brought me to noshing on a carrot with peanut butter for lunch and cauliflower coconut curry on brown rice for dinner on my floor with Arwen.
Beginning of December. The school year ends and I head to Kampala with Sanyu (yes, still my absolute best friend in the village) as co-counselors for 150 Ugandan girls aged 12-16 during a week of empowerment, knowledge, and fun befitting your stereotypical American summer camp. Peace Corps has called it Camp GLOW: Girls Leading Our World. The girls, the majority of whom had never set foot outside of their villages, had a ball. They learned the ways of the capital and made friends from different tribes all over the country. They listened to female guest speakers who have “made it” and planned for their own future. They danced and played sports; learned about health and HIV/AIDS. I got the flu.
Three hours before my flight home. I was still on a bus coming from Mbale, a city 5 hours East of Kampala. I’d been in Uganda too long; my priorities and time-sensitivity were all out of whack. I opted to head East with one day remaining in the countdown, to keep myself from toe-tapping anxiousness and to catch the bi-annual male circumcision ceremonies (aged-16, no anesthesia, dull blade, drums, booze and costumes). I opted to wait it out when the ceremonies began at noon instead of 10am. And I opted to wait for the Elgon Flyer bus I had already bought a ticket for when it got a flat tire minutes before departure, pushing that back from 2pm to 4pm. I did not opt to sit in traffic heading into Kampala. I did not opt to sit in traffic on my way from the hotel (and a face-scratchingly panicked shower) to the airport. I did not opt to leave half of my Christmas presents at a volunteer’s site en route to the airport, poorly assuming that I’d have time to snag them on the way. I did not opt to drop my money belt with passport, credit card and cash in the airport waiting room, as I, blissfully-unaware, fiddled with the gadgetry of an international flight jumbo jet. But thanks St. Christopher medallion at the bottom of my purse: my idiocy was overlooked, my life (seriously I would have been identity-less in Istanbul without that crap) was relocated and my flight only left an hour late. Dear Mom tracking it online at home: that was because of your daughter.
Beginning of January. Home’d been great. A vacation. Eden. Idyllic. But you all know that, you live in The States, dammit. So why was I leaving? Family, friends, a pretty rad boyfriend, soy milk, yogurt and salmon, a hot shower, potable tap water, daily runs, McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes, yoga classes, you get the gist. What was making me go back to a place with daily struggles, twelve-hour bus rides without a bathroom stop, and cockroaches? And then I got off the plane at 2:30am, sans hotel room booking and thus the prospect of sleeping on an airport bench until dawn, only to find Arwen and Elizabeth jumping up and down, waving frantically at me through some glass doors. That’s why I came back to Uganda. And after an enjoyable yet sleepless and abbreviated stay with the girls, I was back on the bus to Bururuma, contemplating my judgment in returning to the place I’d struggled in for the past 2 months, only to find a village that came out in swarms to welcome me back and an extended family (that would be Sanyu, Brenda, Kakulu Mukulu, Fred, Muhumuza, Robert, Ronald, Devis, Kakulu Muto, Somiya, and Renette; seriously, there are a lot of them) who tried every day to call my U.S. phone number without success because they missed me. They’re why I came back to Bururuma.
Today. I’m comfortably settled in a new house. I get my fill of the village life as I wile away the time at no more than a saunter, waiting until next week when I play the tourist in Egypt before returning to the beginning of a new school year and the prospect of 150 of my favorite students back on campus! Peace Corps 2011, you are most welcome!
Beginning of December. The school year ends and I head to Kampala with Sanyu (yes, still my absolute best friend in the village) as co-counselors for 150 Ugandan girls aged 12-16 during a week of empowerment, knowledge, and fun befitting your stereotypical American summer camp. Peace Corps has called it Camp GLOW: Girls Leading Our World. The girls, the majority of whom had never set foot outside of their villages, had a ball. They learned the ways of the capital and made friends from different tribes all over the country. They listened to female guest speakers who have “made it” and planned for their own future. They danced and played sports; learned about health and HIV/AIDS. I got the flu.
Three hours before my flight home. I was still on a bus coming from Mbale, a city 5 hours East of Kampala. I’d been in Uganda too long; my priorities and time-sensitivity were all out of whack. I opted to head East with one day remaining in the countdown, to keep myself from toe-tapping anxiousness and to catch the bi-annual male circumcision ceremonies (aged-16, no anesthesia, dull blade, drums, booze and costumes). I opted to wait it out when the ceremonies began at noon instead of 10am. And I opted to wait for the Elgon Flyer bus I had already bought a ticket for when it got a flat tire minutes before departure, pushing that back from 2pm to 4pm. I did not opt to sit in traffic heading into Kampala. I did not opt to sit in traffic on my way from the hotel (and a face-scratchingly panicked shower) to the airport. I did not opt to leave half of my Christmas presents at a volunteer’s site en route to the airport, poorly assuming that I’d have time to snag them on the way. I did not opt to drop my money belt with passport, credit card and cash in the airport waiting room, as I, blissfully-unaware, fiddled with the gadgetry of an international flight jumbo jet. But thanks St. Christopher medallion at the bottom of my purse: my idiocy was overlooked, my life (seriously I would have been identity-less in Istanbul without that crap) was relocated and my flight only left an hour late. Dear Mom tracking it online at home: that was because of your daughter.
Beginning of January. Home’d been great. A vacation. Eden. Idyllic. But you all know that, you live in The States, dammit. So why was I leaving? Family, friends, a pretty rad boyfriend, soy milk, yogurt and salmon, a hot shower, potable tap water, daily runs, McDonald’s hot fudge sundaes, yoga classes, you get the gist. What was making me go back to a place with daily struggles, twelve-hour bus rides without a bathroom stop, and cockroaches? And then I got off the plane at 2:30am, sans hotel room booking and thus the prospect of sleeping on an airport bench until dawn, only to find Arwen and Elizabeth jumping up and down, waving frantically at me through some glass doors. That’s why I came back to Uganda. And after an enjoyable yet sleepless and abbreviated stay with the girls, I was back on the bus to Bururuma, contemplating my judgment in returning to the place I’d struggled in for the past 2 months, only to find a village that came out in swarms to welcome me back and an extended family (that would be Sanyu, Brenda, Kakulu Mukulu, Fred, Muhumuza, Robert, Ronald, Devis, Kakulu Muto, Somiya, and Renette; seriously, there are a lot of them) who tried every day to call my U.S. phone number without success because they missed me. They’re why I came back to Bururuma.
Today. I’m comfortably settled in a new house. I get my fill of the village life as I wile away the time at no more than a saunter, waiting until next week when I play the tourist in Egypt before returning to the beginning of a new school year and the prospect of 150 of my favorite students back on campus! Peace Corps 2011, you are most welcome!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
For Jacob, Wherever I May Find Him
Exactly as the title indicates (and as Simon and Garfunkel penned): Jacob Babu, thank you for being ever there when I need you.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Recent poll: If a worm crawled out of your guava, would you still eat it? Yes.
“Assist me to become upright,” Clovis said, gesturing with open palms as if seeking help.
“I’d like to assist half the country with that one, dude...”
“No, help me to stand up.”
“Oh. Yeah... No problem.” I pull her up. Guess that can serve as my Peace Corps Duty of the Day instead?
So being south of the equator and whatnot, it’s technically Spring here. But damn, winter might as well be approaching: the rains have come, and when it rains, people hibernate. True, the maxim “when it rains, it pours” garners its literal meaning here and tin roofs and a lack of windows fall so far short of the mark in providing a conducive learning environment in schools. Okay, yeah, the rains are making my summer squash, beets and basil sprout faster than I can clear away new transplanting land. But I don’t care! To me, this meteorological alteration signifies three things: unreliable power, the disruption of playing outside all day, and boredom, eliminating any excuse I’ve had for dogging it on the blog front. The more lengthy the span between posts, the easier I find it to offer up picking mud out from underneath my fingernails as a legitimate excuse for not blogging. It would help if I took pictures…
Okay. In the two months since my last blog, I’ve been mentally torn (not to mention physically; a big “Thank you!” to Peter for steering our bicycle into that barbed wire fence): is everything different or has nothing changed? As far as adjustments I’ve made in this country go, the ones I’ve had a go at in the past 2 months have been insignificant, inconsequential, negligible. I haven’t been forced to learn a new culture, move 8 hours away, nor lived out of a backpack for longer than a week. Congratulate me. I’m feeling pretty good about this accomplishment. I’m still teaching computers to 110 13-16-year-olds. I’m still failing at learning Runyankore. I’m still loving the pace of life in the village. My head is still reeling at the possibilities for this place that stare unblinking at me through the infallible sunshine. So nothing has changed changed; unless it’s me?
There are some obvious things that have affected me. Like people. Yeah, be careful, they’ll do that to ya if you’re not obstinate. Constant vigilance, Mad-Eye, constant vigilance… But in all seriousness, I’ve had a few people really change my outlook on Uganda. I used to think that the cultural differences were too disparate, the education level gap too vast for meaningful communication, until Peter and Sanyu. Peter, a Peace Corps Volunteer from Chicago (might as well be from Timbuktu: he’s a Cub’s fan), just finished his 2 years and is extending for a third year in Botswana. He and I became fast friends over a decades-old cross-town rivalry and a knack for sarcasm. It could have also been the Hare Krishna service we strolled into one lazy Sunday in Kampala that inexplicably bonded us, religion has that power I suppose (a free lunch is always delicious, even if they were fasting from beans and grains…). But really I think I just admired his non-condescension when interacting with Ugandans. It was really refreshing and it opened my eyes to a population that enjoyed wit, toyed with the English language, and could dish out sass as easily as the best (best?) spoiled brats from suburbia. A certain lightness has to be what kept him sane during his service.
But alas, Peter is out like the Cubs and the playoffs and Sanyu is in like a new Blackhawk’s lineup. Who’s Sanyu, you say? My neighbor/school secretary/Fr. Charles’ niece/my best friend. The villagers know us to be inseperable; can I even by a tomato without Sanyu accompanying me? Nope. Why would I want to? This girl, aged 23, gets me, gets me like I’d presumed only another American could. When she’s around (which is thankfully every day, all day), I’m reminded of how generous, how understanding, how amusing Ugandans can be. I buy us a jackfruit to eat until our stomachs scream in protest and she pays be back half the next day. I help her plant beans in her garden (not even kidding, this is how it’s done: shove a handful into your mouth, store them like a chipmunk, take a swipe at the ground with a hoe, spit a seed into the hole, move on and repeat) and she’s out the next week helping me clear the knee-high weeds from mine. It seems I forget about my garden’s existence easily… I want to turn my courtyard into a dance floor and she shows up with tunes. I want to play football, jump rope, do cartwheels and handstands, learn netball, run sprints across the field, dodging grazing goats and cows all the while, and she’s right there next to me. I could go on all day, but what you need to take away from my diatribe is this: Sanyu makes me view my time in the village as so much more than “two years of service”. Her only downfall is a relentless consumption of my gum, so thanks for the dozens of packs you all have sent her way!
Right, so people have changed me. But so has the universal Ugandan contentment. Sure, sometimes it manifests itself in an lack of concern for work, children, eating, bathing, or more generally, living. But it can also surface as a “happy here in the now” attitude. Some of the best shit comes from the times you decide to cede and acquiesce to let the wind take you where it will. The power goes out before a computer lesson and instead of holing up in my room, reading a book, I play a trivia game with the kiddos. Questions I’ve received: can you kill us because all Americans know karate? Do Americans need oxygen to survive? Are Americans immortal? Is your skin 100 times softer than ours? Pretty confident those ones’ll stick with me for a while.
General contentment comes with removing stressors as well. What does that mean for me? No marathon training! And safaris! Why take 10 hours out of your week submitting yourself to harassment and hills when you can be playing football with kids? Why put in extra hours working, the only one to do so, when you can get up close and personal with elephants and lions on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park? Exactly. Exactly…
But don’t get me wrong, I am working! As proof, I’ll leave ya’ll with a little doozy from one of my girl students that left me staggering during my reproductive health and sex ed. lesson: “can you lose your virginity by riding a bike or climbing a tree?” Ha. Ha. Help me.
“I’d like to assist half the country with that one, dude...”
“No, help me to stand up.”
“Oh. Yeah... No problem.” I pull her up. Guess that can serve as my Peace Corps Duty of the Day instead?
So being south of the equator and whatnot, it’s technically Spring here. But damn, winter might as well be approaching: the rains have come, and when it rains, people hibernate. True, the maxim “when it rains, it pours” garners its literal meaning here and tin roofs and a lack of windows fall so far short of the mark in providing a conducive learning environment in schools. Okay, yeah, the rains are making my summer squash, beets and basil sprout faster than I can clear away new transplanting land. But I don’t care! To me, this meteorological alteration signifies three things: unreliable power, the disruption of playing outside all day, and boredom, eliminating any excuse I’ve had for dogging it on the blog front. The more lengthy the span between posts, the easier I find it to offer up picking mud out from underneath my fingernails as a legitimate excuse for not blogging. It would help if I took pictures…
Okay. In the two months since my last blog, I’ve been mentally torn (not to mention physically; a big “Thank you!” to Peter for steering our bicycle into that barbed wire fence): is everything different or has nothing changed? As far as adjustments I’ve made in this country go, the ones I’ve had a go at in the past 2 months have been insignificant, inconsequential, negligible. I haven’t been forced to learn a new culture, move 8 hours away, nor lived out of a backpack for longer than a week. Congratulate me. I’m feeling pretty good about this accomplishment. I’m still teaching computers to 110 13-16-year-olds. I’m still failing at learning Runyankore. I’m still loving the pace of life in the village. My head is still reeling at the possibilities for this place that stare unblinking at me through the infallible sunshine. So nothing has changed changed; unless it’s me?
There are some obvious things that have affected me. Like people. Yeah, be careful, they’ll do that to ya if you’re not obstinate. Constant vigilance, Mad-Eye, constant vigilance… But in all seriousness, I’ve had a few people really change my outlook on Uganda. I used to think that the cultural differences were too disparate, the education level gap too vast for meaningful communication, until Peter and Sanyu. Peter, a Peace Corps Volunteer from Chicago (might as well be from Timbuktu: he’s a Cub’s fan), just finished his 2 years and is extending for a third year in Botswana. He and I became fast friends over a decades-old cross-town rivalry and a knack for sarcasm. It could have also been the Hare Krishna service we strolled into one lazy Sunday in Kampala that inexplicably bonded us, religion has that power I suppose (a free lunch is always delicious, even if they were fasting from beans and grains…). But really I think I just admired his non-condescension when interacting with Ugandans. It was really refreshing and it opened my eyes to a population that enjoyed wit, toyed with the English language, and could dish out sass as easily as the best (best?) spoiled brats from suburbia. A certain lightness has to be what kept him sane during his service.
But alas, Peter is out like the Cubs and the playoffs and Sanyu is in like a new Blackhawk’s lineup. Who’s Sanyu, you say? My neighbor/school secretary/Fr. Charles’ niece/my best friend. The villagers know us to be inseperable; can I even by a tomato without Sanyu accompanying me? Nope. Why would I want to? This girl, aged 23, gets me, gets me like I’d presumed only another American could. When she’s around (which is thankfully every day, all day), I’m reminded of how generous, how understanding, how amusing Ugandans can be. I buy us a jackfruit to eat until our stomachs scream in protest and she pays be back half the next day. I help her plant beans in her garden (not even kidding, this is how it’s done: shove a handful into your mouth, store them like a chipmunk, take a swipe at the ground with a hoe, spit a seed into the hole, move on and repeat) and she’s out the next week helping me clear the knee-high weeds from mine. It seems I forget about my garden’s existence easily… I want to turn my courtyard into a dance floor and she shows up with tunes. I want to play football, jump rope, do cartwheels and handstands, learn netball, run sprints across the field, dodging grazing goats and cows all the while, and she’s right there next to me. I could go on all day, but what you need to take away from my diatribe is this: Sanyu makes me view my time in the village as so much more than “two years of service”. Her only downfall is a relentless consumption of my gum, so thanks for the dozens of packs you all have sent her way!
Right, so people have changed me. But so has the universal Ugandan contentment. Sure, sometimes it manifests itself in an lack of concern for work, children, eating, bathing, or more generally, living. But it can also surface as a “happy here in the now” attitude. Some of the best shit comes from the times you decide to cede and acquiesce to let the wind take you where it will. The power goes out before a computer lesson and instead of holing up in my room, reading a book, I play a trivia game with the kiddos. Questions I’ve received: can you kill us because all Americans know karate? Do Americans need oxygen to survive? Are Americans immortal? Is your skin 100 times softer than ours? Pretty confident those ones’ll stick with me for a while.
General contentment comes with removing stressors as well. What does that mean for me? No marathon training! And safaris! Why take 10 hours out of your week submitting yourself to harassment and hills when you can be playing football with kids? Why put in extra hours working, the only one to do so, when you can get up close and personal with elephants and lions on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park? Exactly. Exactly…
But don’t get me wrong, I am working! As proof, I’ll leave ya’ll with a little doozy from one of my girl students that left me staggering during my reproductive health and sex ed. lesson: “can you lose your virginity by riding a bike or climbing a tree?” Ha. Ha. Help me.
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Here's an article I wrote for our monthy Peace Corps Newsletter. Not exactly the same thing as a full-fledged blog post, but one is forthcoming, scout's honor. Sorry that a good 3/10 of it can't be applied to the U.S....
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Whether or not you worried about your diet in the States, I’m sure that in Uganda most of you have experienced some reservations, pangs of guilt, uncertainty, or sleepless nights for those in the high-strung group, over what you’re putting into your body. Sure, it’s a fact that posho makes you stronger than any other food, but what about the other dubious foodstuffs here? I don’t claim to be a nutritionist and some of my facts may come from questionable sources, or be entirely fabricated where research was dearth, but let me attempt to answer some of your burning (calories) questions about the Ugandan diet.
Is sugarcane good for you?
Heck yes! Sure sugar is derived from it, but in the raw and unprocessed form sugarcane has a very low glycemic index, meaning that it produces only small fluctuations in your blood glucose and insulin levels. Hence, good for diabetics, reduces the risk of heart disease and beneficial in weight loss. With a high water content , it beats soda and beer as a hydration agent. High in potassium, it works as a decent laxative, should the need arise here… Claims have been made that sugarcane strengthens the stomach, kidneys, heart, eyes, brain and sex organs, prevents sore throat, cold and flu, fights cancer and speeds up the recovery process after jaundice. Hallelujah, no more living in constant fear that your eyes are yellowing!
Ugandans never eat raw vegetables, probably to avoid germs, but does cooking eliminate all of their nutritional content?
Cooking actually boosts your body’s ability to absorb the nutrients in some vegetables. For example, the cancer-fighting nutrient lycopene is stronger in cooked tomato sauce than in raw tomatoes. However, overboiling veggies results in nutrients seeping out into the boiling water. Steaming and roasting vegetables, or using the water to make a soup, can help retain the most nutrition.
With the massive quantities of salt Ugandan’s throw into the pot, are we ingesting more salt here than we would be in the States?
Up to 75% of the sodium Americans consume comes from sodium added to processed food by manufactures. Americans on average consume 3,436mg of sodium daily. The recommended amount is under 1,500mg per day. This is equivalent to about ¾ tsp of salt. That’s not a lot, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about your own individual diets. Sure, processed cheeses, canned soups, packaged chips, and crackers are no longer available readily, but Ugandans probably could be encouraged to use spices, herbs and lemon (why do they call them "oranges"?) juice to flavor fish and chips.
Matooke: high in carbohydrates and devoid of nutrients, or does it have redeeming qualities?
Let’s get this straight, tell all your Ugandan friends: matooke contains no protein. It contains no fiber. What it does have is water, vitamin C and potassium. In fact, one matooke banana allegedly has as much potassium as 2 ½ yellow bananas. However, the method of cooking matooke in Uganda completely squanders these redeeming nutrients; it should be steamed in its peel (n.b. my writing is clearly biased here). But here’s a little known fact: matooke bananas do turn yellow when ripe and can be eaten, but are not as sweet as Kabalagala or Bagoya (baby and bigboy bananas, respectively).
Let’s here the same verdict on cassava. Add on sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes and posho while we're at it, too.
With about 330 calories per cup, cassava is a pure carbohydrate. Sure it has neither fat nor cholesterol and does contain fiber and vitamin C, but cassava has no protein and is “good for weight gain”. As far as Irish potatoes go, it clearly makes a difference whether they’re baked or boiled, with skin or without. Ala Uganda (boiled without skin), they’re more carbohydrate dense than cassava but contain more nutrients, specifically vitamins B and C, fiber and potassium. Bake 'em with skin, and they’re teeming with vitamins and minerals. What normally accompanies posho is beans. Taken together, amino acid intake is complete but protein and vitamin levels are nowhere near met. Posho doesn’t even have the calories needed to impact weight gain. What posho lacks in Vitamin A, which correlates with malnutrition, is made up for by sweet potatoes. High in calories, true, but more vitamin-dense.
Speaking of bananas, can a person consume a health-jeopardizing quantity of yellow bananas?
No. Unless you’re popping Potassium pills at the same time. But the big ones pack about 100 calories per shaft, so 5 or more a day can add up…
Ugandans seem to think that pumpkin is a “food” (read: carb) like matooke or potatoes. True or false?
Pumpkin is actually a vegetable, more akin to the American acorn squash than anything. That said, it is extremely low in calories (about 50 of the little guys per cup) and contains a heap of vitamins and minerals: A, B, C, K, Dietary Fiber Potassium, Folate, Riboflavin, Copper, Manganese and Iron. Pumpkin contains a high dose of the essential antioxidant beta-carotene, which may reduce the risk of developing certain types of cancer, protects against heart disease and stalls the degenerative effects of aging. That being said, you should probably try the recipe at the end of this newsletter to get your pumpkin fix.
Protein can be somewhat of an issue for Ugandan kids. What are the daily protein requirements of a growing body (that also digs, treks two miles to school and carries jerrycans of water on the head)?
The daily recommended intake of protein for children aged 1-3 years is 13 grams; aged 4-8 years is 19 grams; aged 9-13 years is 34 grams. One cup of beans/cowpeas has 14 grams of protein, as does 2 oz of meat, fish or chicken or 2 oz of nuts. One egg has 6 grams of protein and one cup of milk has 10 grams. I’d recommend tacking on some grams to the recommended intake, as these numbers are for American children, who are a great deal more sedentary than Ugandan kids. So, acquiring enough protein could be an issue for older Ugandan children, if not all children.
“Glucose is a nutrient that needs to be supplemented.”
No. Glucose is the physiological name for a simple sugar. It does not need to be supplemented; Ugandans get enough of it in porridge, tea, cakes and fruits. Glucose packets: probably not a good idea.
None of them are particularly good for you, but what’s the worst of the worst: Kimbo, Blueband or Ghee?
Here’s my translation of these products: Kimbo = Crisco vegetable shortening, Blueband = Land O Lakes margarine, Ghee = butter, somehow. Therefore, Kimbo has a higher fat content (100%) compared to Blueband and Ghee (about 80%). Ghee is unprocessed and is solely comprised of milk, according to some semi-reliable Ugandans. However, both Blueband and Kimbo are fortified with vitamins. A negligible benefit when considering the trans fat, calorie, sodium and cholesterol contents.
Ugandan Nutritional Myths
Whether or not you worried about your diet in the States, I’m sure that in Uganda most of you have experienced some reservations, pangs of guilt, uncertainty, or sleepless nights for those in the high-strung group, over what you’re putting into your body. Sure, it’s a fact that posho makes you stronger than any other food, but what about the other dubious foodstuffs here? I don’t claim to be a nutritionist and some of my facts may come from questionable sources, or be entirely fabricated where research was dearth, but let me attempt to answer some of your burning (calories) questions about the Ugandan diet.
Is sugarcane good for you?
Heck yes! Sure sugar is derived from it, but in the raw and unprocessed form sugarcane has a very low glycemic index, meaning that it produces only small fluctuations in your blood glucose and insulin levels. Hence, good for diabetics, reduces the risk of heart disease and beneficial in weight loss. With a high water content , it beats soda and beer as a hydration agent. High in potassium, it works as a decent laxative, should the need arise here… Claims have been made that sugarcane strengthens the stomach, kidneys, heart, eyes, brain and sex organs, prevents sore throat, cold and flu, fights cancer and speeds up the recovery process after jaundice. Hallelujah, no more living in constant fear that your eyes are yellowing!
Ugandans never eat raw vegetables, probably to avoid germs, but does cooking eliminate all of their nutritional content?
Cooking actually boosts your body’s ability to absorb the nutrients in some vegetables. For example, the cancer-fighting nutrient lycopene is stronger in cooked tomato sauce than in raw tomatoes. However, overboiling veggies results in nutrients seeping out into the boiling water. Steaming and roasting vegetables, or using the water to make a soup, can help retain the most nutrition.
With the massive quantities of salt Ugandan’s throw into the pot, are we ingesting more salt here than we would be in the States?
Up to 75% of the sodium Americans consume comes from sodium added to processed food by manufactures. Americans on average consume 3,436mg of sodium daily. The recommended amount is under 1,500mg per day. This is equivalent to about ¾ tsp of salt. That’s not a lot, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about your own individual diets. Sure, processed cheeses, canned soups, packaged chips, and crackers are no longer available readily, but Ugandans probably could be encouraged to use spices, herbs and lemon (why do they call them "oranges"?) juice to flavor fish and chips.
Matooke: high in carbohydrates and devoid of nutrients, or does it have redeeming qualities?
Let’s get this straight, tell all your Ugandan friends: matooke contains no protein. It contains no fiber. What it does have is water, vitamin C and potassium. In fact, one matooke banana allegedly has as much potassium as 2 ½ yellow bananas. However, the method of cooking matooke in Uganda completely squanders these redeeming nutrients; it should be steamed in its peel (n.b. my writing is clearly biased here). But here’s a little known fact: matooke bananas do turn yellow when ripe and can be eaten, but are not as sweet as Kabalagala or Bagoya (baby and bigboy bananas, respectively).
Let’s here the same verdict on cassava. Add on sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes and posho while we're at it, too.
With about 330 calories per cup, cassava is a pure carbohydrate. Sure it has neither fat nor cholesterol and does contain fiber and vitamin C, but cassava has no protein and is “good for weight gain”. As far as Irish potatoes go, it clearly makes a difference whether they’re baked or boiled, with skin or without. Ala Uganda (boiled without skin), they’re more carbohydrate dense than cassava but contain more nutrients, specifically vitamins B and C, fiber and potassium. Bake 'em with skin, and they’re teeming with vitamins and minerals. What normally accompanies posho is beans. Taken together, amino acid intake is complete but protein and vitamin levels are nowhere near met. Posho doesn’t even have the calories needed to impact weight gain. What posho lacks in Vitamin A, which correlates with malnutrition, is made up for by sweet potatoes. High in calories, true, but more vitamin-dense.
Speaking of bananas, can a person consume a health-jeopardizing quantity of yellow bananas?
No. Unless you’re popping Potassium pills at the same time. But the big ones pack about 100 calories per shaft, so 5 or more a day can add up…
Ugandans seem to think that pumpkin is a “food” (read: carb) like matooke or potatoes. True or false?
Pumpkin is actually a vegetable, more akin to the American acorn squash than anything. That said, it is extremely low in calories (about 50 of the little guys per cup) and contains a heap of vitamins and minerals: A, B, C, K, Dietary Fiber Potassium, Folate, Riboflavin, Copper, Manganese and Iron. Pumpkin contains a high dose of the essential antioxidant beta-carotene, which may reduce the risk of developing certain types of cancer, protects against heart disease and stalls the degenerative effects of aging. That being said, you should probably try the recipe at the end of this newsletter to get your pumpkin fix.
Protein can be somewhat of an issue for Ugandan kids. What are the daily protein requirements of a growing body (that also digs, treks two miles to school and carries jerrycans of water on the head)?
The daily recommended intake of protein for children aged 1-3 years is 13 grams; aged 4-8 years is 19 grams; aged 9-13 years is 34 grams. One cup of beans/cowpeas has 14 grams of protein, as does 2 oz of meat, fish or chicken or 2 oz of nuts. One egg has 6 grams of protein and one cup of milk has 10 grams. I’d recommend tacking on some grams to the recommended intake, as these numbers are for American children, who are a great deal more sedentary than Ugandan kids. So, acquiring enough protein could be an issue for older Ugandan children, if not all children.
“Glucose is a nutrient that needs to be supplemented.”
No. Glucose is the physiological name for a simple sugar. It does not need to be supplemented; Ugandans get enough of it in porridge, tea, cakes and fruits. Glucose packets: probably not a good idea.
None of them are particularly good for you, but what’s the worst of the worst: Kimbo, Blueband or Ghee?
Here’s my translation of these products: Kimbo = Crisco vegetable shortening, Blueband = Land O Lakes margarine, Ghee = butter, somehow. Therefore, Kimbo has a higher fat content (100%) compared to Blueband and Ghee (about 80%). Ghee is unprocessed and is solely comprised of milk, according to some semi-reliable Ugandans. However, both Blueband and Kimbo are fortified with vitamins. A negligible benefit when considering the trans fat, calorie, sodium and cholesterol contents.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Lesson planning sucks
Mukurikeyo! Welcome back!
I am officially a teacher. Be assured, this hasn’t been on my Life List since I forced a too young and over-boisterous Carl into the basement for a summer, enticing him with phonics and fractions instead of wiffleball and chase. A failed attempt. But round two’s proving quite enjoyable. It may have something to do with these kids being so eager to learn that they literally sprint, chairs held fast over their heads, from the school to my computer lab 200 yards down the road. I suppose 8 to 9 years of schooling with nary a textbook, newspaper, novel, computer, video, science experiment or playground will weigh one down with the burden of ignorance. So, I teach, asking of my students all the while, “are you picking?” (a Uganglish corruption of “are you picking up on the meaning of what I’m saying?”). Allow me to demonstrate…
A lesson in change: of language and perceptions; potential: both human and environmental; and salvation: not eternal, merely temporary.
I’ve shifted from Luganda country to Runyankore, forcing me to start afresh with my language learning. Luckily I’m right off the main tarmac, so Luganda speakers are common. Also lucky: Ugandans get a kick out of my obvious confusion, filling in my Runyankore void with Luganda and the Luganda void with English. They tease me that I speak a language all my own: Lugandankore. But my determination to catch up has been thwarted by an unexpected difficulty in finding a tutor. I sat with the local primary school English teacher, thinking his pace would suit my beginner’s speed. Not so. Spending an hour assuring him that I did, in fact, know the alphabet was quite frustrating. He was fired. Meh, I’ll find a new one with time…
But time truly does impede upon all perceptions. I now see the human child behind the filth and rags. Eat matooke with vigor. Consider coming home after the holidays a worthwhile venture instead of a death sentence. Board a bus for an 8 hour ride with patience as if it were two. Look into the faces of 28 other volunteers and see a family, when 6 months ago these strangers could do no right in my eyes. And seek out Ugandan friends for comfort and entertainment; they are peers, no longer a different species. Two of my favorite people in Uganda (barring Fr. Charles because let’s face it: he’s American) are my counterpart, Winnie, and Deacon Dez from the local parish. Deacon Dez is in limbo between university and priesthood. So for now, he eats, sleeps, goes to church, drinks Guinness and shoots the shit with me. Winnie follows an equally taxing schedule as St. Thomas’ secretary/bursar: sleep at her desk, eat at her desk, bug me to gossip with her at her desk. The other day she asked me to throw her a graduation party (from what, I don’t know). As invitees: yellow bananas and millet porridge. My response: wft? Equally as amusing, Deacon Dez and I had a long compare-and-contrast sesh on Ugandan vs. American perceptions of medical care. He complained of a nagging toothache. I told him to see a dentist. He asked me if I’d ever seen a dentist’s office in Uganda. Um, I think not… He says: but Americans see a doctor for EVERYTHING, not so? Me: Yeah, so what? Check out our life expectancy, dude. Two days later, a phone call from Deacon Dez: “I followed your advice and saw a dentist. He pulled four teeth. I only eat porridge now, damnit.” My bad. But Winnie and Dez, constant entertainment.
One of the advantages of going to a new place is that everything is new to you. Obvious, yeah I know. But think about it: these students have been stereotyped into their personae for years, becoming self-fulfilling prophecies of brains, athletes, basket-cases, princesses, criminals or whatever (80s cult classics anyone?). Then I show up behind a cloud of dust (man the dry season really does a number on the whole breathing activity)and all of these kids have the opportunity to wholly reinvent themselves for my analysis. And hey, shame of me for thinking my Psych degree was superfluous; Howard Gardner’s theory on multiple intelligences has proved quite useful not only in teaching but also in promoting egalitarianism. Take one of my favorite students, Brian. This kid’s a pitbull of a boy: small, scowling, unmotivated and pushes his luck if he sees you waver. But the first time he registered on my radar was when I went to chide him for having a program open that was clearly not Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing. A few lessons before I had attempted to get the students to master mouse movements by showing them a math trick with the calculator accessory. No matter which number was chosen, after a series of calculations, the final solution would always be 7. I know, “wow!”, right? All I got was a lot of blank stares and repeating decimals. But here’s Brian, two weeks later, replicating the multistep process on the calculator, ending with 7. “Never mind that you’re not practicing your ASDFJKL; positioning, you remember this?” “Yes.” “And you understand it?” “Yes.” Holy mother of God this kid’s smart. Chills abound. The best part (or worst depending on how you want to look at it) is that when I told Fr. Charles about Brian over a tilapia, potatoes and avocado dinner was that he was astounded. In fact, after his initial gape, he confided that he was contemplating giving Brian the ol’ heave-ho for poor performance, insubordination, and overall lack of motivation. What a disaster. But as long as I’m here, Brian will be too. This kid’s smile blows my mind every time I see it…
Brian’s just one student; I have 114 others, and they’re all unique. Victor, Anthony, Sebuwufu and Ronald x 2 forgo break tea to goof off on the computers. That’s fine, even solitaire teaches mouse control… Fiona kicks ass at Sudoku. Desire and Josephine are indignant at the fact that only the boys have a volleyball team. Mudathru can draw like it’s nobody’s business. I’m sure the list goes on; I’ve only been at St. Thomas for a month and a half. But my list of things these students should and must experience in the next 20 months is a mile and a half long.
I don’t feel like delving into the untapped potential of my surrounds, but how access to water can be the biggest day-to-day challenge for these people when there are over 40 fresh water lakes in the district is a huge mystery to me. Hopefully a solution will be elucidated in time, finishing a damn blog post was a bigger challenge for me today…
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not over the moon, slap an “F yeah Uganda!” tattoo on my ass, Angelina Jolie an African baby happy to be here all the time. Frustrations are encountered every day, being all the more potent when they’re unforeseen. A teacher canes a student. A drunkard stumbles past the computer lab, proposing marriage. A primary school uniform-clad girl calls me a sinner as I run past. You get the gist. My salvation? Running. So you can imagine how craptacular it is when these slaps in the face turn up at the start of a 10-mile training run. But for the most part, marathon training delays my approaching lunacy. But when running fails (in the form of a pursuing punk kid), nail polish, organic lip gloss, cereal, mints and magazines from the fine people in Illinois do the trick. Bet you’ve never seen anyone cry over new body lotion before, have you? And you won’t, I’m still horrible at taking pictures.
I am officially a teacher. Be assured, this hasn’t been on my Life List since I forced a too young and over-boisterous Carl into the basement for a summer, enticing him with phonics and fractions instead of wiffleball and chase. A failed attempt. But round two’s proving quite enjoyable. It may have something to do with these kids being so eager to learn that they literally sprint, chairs held fast over their heads, from the school to my computer lab 200 yards down the road. I suppose 8 to 9 years of schooling with nary a textbook, newspaper, novel, computer, video, science experiment or playground will weigh one down with the burden of ignorance. So, I teach, asking of my students all the while, “are you picking?” (a Uganglish corruption of “are you picking up on the meaning of what I’m saying?”). Allow me to demonstrate…
A lesson in change: of language and perceptions; potential: both human and environmental; and salvation: not eternal, merely temporary.
I’ve shifted from Luganda country to Runyankore, forcing me to start afresh with my language learning. Luckily I’m right off the main tarmac, so Luganda speakers are common. Also lucky: Ugandans get a kick out of my obvious confusion, filling in my Runyankore void with Luganda and the Luganda void with English. They tease me that I speak a language all my own: Lugandankore. But my determination to catch up has been thwarted by an unexpected difficulty in finding a tutor. I sat with the local primary school English teacher, thinking his pace would suit my beginner’s speed. Not so. Spending an hour assuring him that I did, in fact, know the alphabet was quite frustrating. He was fired. Meh, I’ll find a new one with time…
But time truly does impede upon all perceptions. I now see the human child behind the filth and rags. Eat matooke with vigor. Consider coming home after the holidays a worthwhile venture instead of a death sentence. Board a bus for an 8 hour ride with patience as if it were two. Look into the faces of 28 other volunteers and see a family, when 6 months ago these strangers could do no right in my eyes. And seek out Ugandan friends for comfort and entertainment; they are peers, no longer a different species. Two of my favorite people in Uganda (barring Fr. Charles because let’s face it: he’s American) are my counterpart, Winnie, and Deacon Dez from the local parish. Deacon Dez is in limbo between university and priesthood. So for now, he eats, sleeps, goes to church, drinks Guinness and shoots the shit with me. Winnie follows an equally taxing schedule as St. Thomas’ secretary/bursar: sleep at her desk, eat at her desk, bug me to gossip with her at her desk. The other day she asked me to throw her a graduation party (from what, I don’t know). As invitees: yellow bananas and millet porridge. My response: wft? Equally as amusing, Deacon Dez and I had a long compare-and-contrast sesh on Ugandan vs. American perceptions of medical care. He complained of a nagging toothache. I told him to see a dentist. He asked me if I’d ever seen a dentist’s office in Uganda. Um, I think not… He says: but Americans see a doctor for EVERYTHING, not so? Me: Yeah, so what? Check out our life expectancy, dude. Two days later, a phone call from Deacon Dez: “I followed your advice and saw a dentist. He pulled four teeth. I only eat porridge now, damnit.” My bad. But Winnie and Dez, constant entertainment.
One of the advantages of going to a new place is that everything is new to you. Obvious, yeah I know. But think about it: these students have been stereotyped into their personae for years, becoming self-fulfilling prophecies of brains, athletes, basket-cases, princesses, criminals or whatever (80s cult classics anyone?). Then I show up behind a cloud of dust (man the dry season really does a number on the whole breathing activity)and all of these kids have the opportunity to wholly reinvent themselves for my analysis. And hey, shame of me for thinking my Psych degree was superfluous; Howard Gardner’s theory on multiple intelligences has proved quite useful not only in teaching but also in promoting egalitarianism. Take one of my favorite students, Brian. This kid’s a pitbull of a boy: small, scowling, unmotivated and pushes his luck if he sees you waver. But the first time he registered on my radar was when I went to chide him for having a program open that was clearly not Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing. A few lessons before I had attempted to get the students to master mouse movements by showing them a math trick with the calculator accessory. No matter which number was chosen, after a series of calculations, the final solution would always be 7. I know, “wow!”, right? All I got was a lot of blank stares and repeating decimals. But here’s Brian, two weeks later, replicating the multistep process on the calculator, ending with 7. “Never mind that you’re not practicing your ASDFJKL; positioning, you remember this?” “Yes.” “And you understand it?” “Yes.” Holy mother of God this kid’s smart. Chills abound. The best part (or worst depending on how you want to look at it) is that when I told Fr. Charles about Brian over a tilapia, potatoes and avocado dinner was that he was astounded. In fact, after his initial gape, he confided that he was contemplating giving Brian the ol’ heave-ho for poor performance, insubordination, and overall lack of motivation. What a disaster. But as long as I’m here, Brian will be too. This kid’s smile blows my mind every time I see it…
Brian’s just one student; I have 114 others, and they’re all unique. Victor, Anthony, Sebuwufu and Ronald x 2 forgo break tea to goof off on the computers. That’s fine, even solitaire teaches mouse control… Fiona kicks ass at Sudoku. Desire and Josephine are indignant at the fact that only the boys have a volleyball team. Mudathru can draw like it’s nobody’s business. I’m sure the list goes on; I’ve only been at St. Thomas for a month and a half. But my list of things these students should and must experience in the next 20 months is a mile and a half long.
I don’t feel like delving into the untapped potential of my surrounds, but how access to water can be the biggest day-to-day challenge for these people when there are over 40 fresh water lakes in the district is a huge mystery to me. Hopefully a solution will be elucidated in time, finishing a damn blog post was a bigger challenge for me today…
Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not over the moon, slap an “F yeah Uganda!” tattoo on my ass, Angelina Jolie an African baby happy to be here all the time. Frustrations are encountered every day, being all the more potent when they’re unforeseen. A teacher canes a student. A drunkard stumbles past the computer lab, proposing marriage. A primary school uniform-clad girl calls me a sinner as I run past. You get the gist. My salvation? Running. So you can imagine how craptacular it is when these slaps in the face turn up at the start of a 10-mile training run. But for the most part, marathon training delays my approaching lunacy. But when running fails (in the form of a pursuing punk kid), nail polish, organic lip gloss, cereal, mints and magazines from the fine people in Illinois do the trick. Bet you’ve never seen anyone cry over new body lotion before, have you? And you won’t, I’m still horrible at taking pictures.
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