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To Comings and Goings

I have finally seen the African stars. I know, I’ve been here for near upon seven weeks now, but the opportunity to catch the clear skies of 4am doesn’t often arise when you’re on lockdown come 8pm and the lights of Kampala infiltrate the distance. But trust me, they’re awesome. Even the parasites seem quelled by the way smatterings of stars swirl in loops, twinkle incessantly or streak across the night so frequently that you’d swear someone was taking pictures nearby. I’m spending the week “immersed” (Peace Corps’ word, not mine) in real Ugandan life, hence the chance to star gaze at a whim. A fellow economic development trainee, Elizabeth, and I traveled about 3 hours southeast of Wakiso to a small, rural village, Kiwangala, on Saturday to stay with a real-life volunteer (!), JP. The coaster (think school bus) ride down was one I look forward to forgetting, however. Trying to understand public transportation in Uganda is like trying to bottle fame (hey-o muggles): vehicles are jammed; random suitcases release suspicious clucks every few minutes; people come and go without ever speaking a word, yet the driver knows at which exact stop they want off at; stops are made at the driver’s impulse, and when they’re made, locals swarm the windows, selling anything from skewers of meat to pumpkins, laterns to watches. Dust, heat, spiders and speed bumps the size of Priuses come with the territory. And all of these factors were compounded on Saturday by the intestinally-induced fevers Elizabeth and I both sported for the ride. On the upside, we did manage to pop out of our stupor just as we passed over the equator! They sell lattes there to tourists for what it would cost to feed a family of 12 for a week.

We really lucked out getting placed with JP for the week. As we have only just begun our service, JP is on his way out; his two years are up, tomorrow in fact. He’s been teaching environmental science and health classes at a secondary school while working on community sanitation and agriculture practices. He’s been here for so long, he’s more of a Ugandan than an American at this point. Elizabeth and I have completely bombarded him with questions and pestered him for stories. We’re totally just what he needs: a harrying fan club to impede his packing and farewells. It’s been great though, he took me on an amazing run up and over hills and far down into valleys on paths that seemed on the brink of being covered by the looming flowers and grasses by the afternoon. And we have free time for hours, get to cook what we please, and have neither host parents nor Peace Corps to report back to at regular increments. Sure JP may have autonomy, but he pays for it in what he lacks: electricity, running water, an indoor bathing area and bathroom, reliable cell phone service, a wide food selection. But he’s made it work and is noticeably more saddened by leaving Uganda than he is happy to return to the U.S. At least I got a stack of books he was leaving behind out of the bargain.

Oh! And I also got a Ugandan name! Namata. It means “milk,” of the feminine variety. JP’s freshman environment class gave it to me, it’s from the Cow Clan (there are like 50 clans in the Buganda region, like families; everyone belongs to one, you can’t marry within your clan). I’m overlooking the possibility that the kids might have thought I looked like a cow, or am as pale as milk. But it truly is the perfect name, you’re not allowed to eat your clan. Speaking of milk, aside from cereal, the one thing I’ve been missing most these past few weeks is yogurt. Shame on me. It’s here! I just wasn’t thinking outside of the cup: Ugandans take their yogurt by bag. Think of a ziplock sandwich bag, bite a hole in it, stick in a straw and enjoy!

So I’ve been writing this post over the last couple of days, seeing as how free time is abundant at JP’s site, and each days yields a different outlook on things. I may be sitting under the African sun, alternating between typing on my netbook and reading a copy of The Economist from December 20, 2008 while sipping tea. But the Ugandan wandering spirit is contagious; the randomness is magnetic. I just danced and drummed a beat with 13-year-old Rabina, who’s here washing our clothes and running our errands so that she can earn money for her school and return to school tomorrow. She’s been unable to go to class for two weeks now, without the money; it happens far too often with kids here. JP’s counterpart, John, a 60-year-old farmer has been in and out all morning bringing pots and collard greens, sporting an “official” tag on his shirt and prepping beans to feed 20 people dinner. Godfrey, an orphan of 17 whose parents died of AIDS when he was 13, is popping more popcorn than I have ever seen in my life, with an entourage of high school girls in tow, to serve to the 1000+ students and community tomorrow at JP’s going away celebration.

Yet again, here I am writing 2 days later! JP's going away party was amazing. Surreal, though, seeing as it's too hard to imagine being in his shoes in 2 years. The students sang and danced for him, both traditional and in hilarious Ugang-lish, for an hour. I cried. He didn't? He rented out the local disco to complete the night with some beat bumping dancing. A village on the brink of poverty, with a night club. Ah well, everyone's gotta have fun somehow. But it was amazing, Ugandan music is actually at the forefront of African jams; everyone listens. I'll post some tunes for your enjoyment soon (i.e., in 2 months).

Before I wrap up, I want to share a story that summarizes my constant bewilderment at Ugandan habits. We were in language class one morning last week when a hen walked into the room. This in itself is commonplace. The fun lies in the hen's attempt to seek out an adequate substitute nest to pop out an egg. Obviously, lessons were halted for 10 minutes to create a cozy place for her out of paper and a waste basket, but jokingly, I rib my teacher, Herbert, by telling him to watch his bag, if he's not careful, he'll find an egg in it later. His response: it happens. "IT HAPPENS." When, please tell me, does it ever happen that you go to pick up your bag and there just so happens to be a freshly laid egg in it, still warm, straight from the source?! In Uganda, that's where it happens.

I had a shower this morning. And last night (this morning's was superfluous). First time in 1.5 months! People say that it's the little things to make them happy. This is totally amplified in Uganda. Come what may today, I'm rollin with it, because I had a shower!

Peace love and pineapple season

Internet cafes in Kampala are hella quick

How are you bazungu?!

So Ugandans get a righteous kick out of white people (bazungu in Luganda) and love to greet us like that every time they see us. Nevermind that they see us every day, or that they have to run out of their outdoor shower/pit latrine, pants down, to shout it at us. Okay so that’s mostly the children but there’s constantly a chorus of “Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu, muzungu” (singular) trailing me wherever I go. It makes for an entertaining two mile bike ride to training early each morning. Speaking of which, my ride has me quite perplexed: it takes me past Wakiso Primary School, a day/boarding school at which my host sister, Latifah, attends. Regardless of the time I pass by the school, there are always kids coming or going. What time does class start?! Well, I asked Latifah, because she leaves for class at 6:30am, surely hours before some of her classmates. Her answer? 7am. My observations left me unconvinced, so I asked again the next day. She tells me 8am. Probably has something to do with the fact that clocks and watches are non-existent in Uganda.

It seems that ambiguity is a common thread in Ugandan life. Time is fluid, so why not children? Apparently Ugandans have a fear of counting their children; disaster will strike one down if you do so, so they lie. I guess that’s why the average offspring count in Uganda is 6.7. My host mother told me that she has three children. Well I’ve met four and am aware of the existence of at least one other. That’s fine they’re all really nice and are eager to teach me unhelpful things in Luganda (her son Robert found it critical that I repeat the word for duck until it sunk in; it didn’t). What else is ambiguous here are current news. Earthquakes, hurricanes, the Olympics, what’s happened to the cast of the Jersey Shore, all unmentioned. I got a text from my mom the other day asking if I was alright, as there were terrible mudslides in Uganda. There’s flooding in Uganda? I’m here and I didn’t even know that! My next investment is going to be a shortwave radio so that I can turn on the BBC every couple of days to make sure I’m still alive. Hopefully radios aren’t too expensive, I’m subsisting on about $18 a week. My crazy-prepared-friend Arwen brought two cameras, so buying a radio knocks a new camera out of the running for big purchases of questionable quality. Which, in turn, means that pictures will be forthcoming!

“Quality” is a funny thing in Uganda. Ugandans have prized possessions and luxury goods just as Americans do, but what denotes luxury is beyond me. Fancy chairs (good enough for the Ugandan parliament meetings): plastic lawn chairs. My hostmom’s china cabinet ware: a plastic figurine of Scar from The Lion King. My teacher, Maango’s favorite dress shirt: Dish Network logo prominently displayed on the breast. Most everything Ugandans wear is straight off the Salvation Army boat from the U.S., it’s amazing, I love seeing styles from ten years ago making a comeback.

One other thing that I learned will typically be of dubious quality, and unfortunately the hard way (hey, isn’t that how I’m learning everything here?), is walls. I will no longer presume that brick wall fences can support the weight of the average girl; bricks are too abrasive to make that mistake again. Hence, my left shin, right knee and left palm are missing significant portions of skin. I’m considering just using my first aid kit’s antiseptic soap as body wash from here on out.

Ugandans are very eager to please, a mixed blessing. You tell them once that you like something, and you’ll see it thrown at you daily. Things I made the mistake of telling my host family that I love: jackfruit, sweet potatoes, doing the dishes, dancing and fish. I can’t complain about the jackfruit, sweet potatoes and dance parties with my 11 year old host sister (she can shake her hips like no 11 year old has any business being able to), but the dishes was a blatant lie and the fish is hard to choke down. Aside from the bones, fins and internal organs for garnish, I’ve seen where it comes from in the market. Sketchy. At least they realized right away that I could make nothing of the fish head I was served on day one. Save that delicacy for the kids.

Surprisingly, what I love most about training is language learning. Luganda is a beautiful yet simple language to study. It also happens to be the most widely used language in Uganda, especially in major population areas. This puts me at a huge advantage over some of the other language groups whose languages are only spoken in small pockets in, say, the far North. Everyone speaks Luganda. I have no idea how this happened, but I’m actually pretty good at it too. I think necessity has bred comprehension: my host family’s English capacity is that of 3-year-old.

Apart from daily language lessons, training can be tedious at times. You’d think I was back in school, with the ease at which I can fall asleep during class (no worries, I’m referring to high school for all of the professors out there). Of course, much thanks can be given to the wonderful parasites in my digestive system for this. Hence, I have started purifying any and all water I come in direct contact with… We do have a qualifying project that we have free rein over, that’s to be presented on at the end of training. I’m spearheading a sanitation in the workplace initiative. I can’t decide if I really want to know what conditions are like. Other than that, everything’s starting to become routine. Including the fact that I followed a goat for a 1/2 mile on my way to school this morning. And I think that my homestay’s lack of indoor plumbing can more than be compensated for by the fact that its yard contains mango, avocado and jackfruit trees. Talk about the land of plenty!

Hope all’s well on the home front; act as standby BBCs for me; keep me updated on life; eat some cake for me. Sula bulungi (good night)!

Dust that dirt of your shoulder

Muli Mutya bassebo ne bannyabo?!

The beautiful country of Uganda has found me wandering its hills for near upon two weeks now, and trust me: it’s hilly. The earth is as red can be, but it is completely covered in green. The trees and grass are so beautiful, sometimes I catch myself marvelling at how such a gorgeous place is actually my home now. Monkeys roam around haphazardly, but livestock are the more frequent fauna. Everyone seems to own cows, goats, chickens, dogs and cats. I asked my host sister (she’s 11) about lions and giraffes and zebras and she said I can see them in the zoo. Damn.

Yeah, I moved into my homestay five days ago, and let’s just say that I’ll be relieved when my two months here are up. Before homestay, we spent 3 days at a wonderful training center in Lawesa, right outside of Kampala, the capital. We (and by we I mean the 15 girls and 14 boys that make up my training group; okay, some of the boys and girls are over 50 but you get the gist) bathed in luxury: running water; electricity about 80% of the time, hey it’s sporadic, keeps you on your toes; varied food; silly Peace Corps introduction activities; I taught yoga to the group every morning… All of that came to a screeching halt when we ventured to destination #2: Wakiso. We train at a resort-like place from 8-5 six days a week, so that’s delightful, but the hours I spend with my homestay are, well, adventurous. I live with a single grandmother. Three of her grandchildren, ages unknown but all under 11, and a housegirl (read: servant) live with her. None speak English very well, soap is a sparse commodity, the latrine is a pit outside, water is bought from a man carrying way too much of it in jugs on his bicycle, the shower is a bucket, and the cockroaches/spiders/lizards/giant millipedes are rampant.

The foods pretty decent though. Peace Corps forks over enough money per week to feed a small army of Ugandan children (Our Dumb World, eh Laurabelle?), so they feed me lots of fruit and veggies. Jackfruit is the most amazing thing in the world, I dream about it at night. But starches and protein pretty much inundate the majority of a Ugandan diet. At one meal we were served rice, potatoes, pasta, matoke and posha (two staple foods made from a starchy unripe semi-banana that tastes like potatoes and a polenta wannabe, respectively). Beans and peanut sauce are liberally heaped over all. Oh well, still delicious. But anyways, the volunteers swear that these families afford their TVs, DVD players and cars from the PC subsidization (aka food allowance).

Training’s been pretty idyllic. We chill in buildings that can pretty much be considered outdoor (birds fly over our heads), learning a whole slew of information about medical precautions, hygiene, the history of AIDS in Uganda, the economy, gender roles, yeah it feels like college. But then we’ll spend the next 4 hours learning how to build the best outdoor shower and how to barter with the locals. We’re taught by a sampling of current Peace Corps volunteers and Ugandans. We’ve already been divided into 6 language groups that basically shed light on our future site placement. I’m learning Luganda, the main language, and the one that is found closest to the capital. Good news for me, I won’t be in the middle of the bush, a six hour matatu (crazy rickety van-taxi with way too many people crammed in) ride from anything. Language is going swimmingly, the bikes we were given are hilariously inadequate at managing the hills, and things that took 20 minutes in America now take 2 hours, or 2 days in the case of my suitcase which was pad-locked with the keys inside, fml. No worries, it’s Uganda time, punctual is not in the vernacular.

I’ve debated whether I should filter this blogging endeavor but, hey, I oppose censorship. I seem to have acquired the title of unluckiest out of all 29 of my PCT group. I can be abased no further; nothing is sacred. Day 1 at homestay: after showering, I went to grab my towel from over the basin I placed in on in the bathing area, it was soaking wet. How can this be? Turns out, I so happened to set my towel in my family’s “night call” bucket (i.e., chamber pot). Piss towel was subsequently thrown in a ditch. Day 2: locked my keys in my suitcase, finding Ugandan help and tools takes 2 days of no clothes and no bathing to undo. Day 4: Don’t step on the tin roofing on the ground, it’s there to cover up something unsightly. In my case? Shit. Shin deep into sewage draining from the pit latrine. Thank heaven my friend Arwen was with me (she’s on her 3^rd year of PC service, having spent the last 2 in Togo), she sanitized my body as I threatened tears. Day 5: eh, I won’t go there, but it was an issue with what they dubbed “long calls” here. On the bright side, everyone seems to think it can only get better from here on out. Ha, at least there’s always a volunteer willing to run with me and shake-your-head-bad Uganda soap operas to keep me sane.

I have a cell phone and get service everywhere, my number is 0785781340, I have no idea how to dial it, but I can text and calling through Skype is 15 cents a minute, and there are Ugandan calling cards online that charge 10 cents a minute I believe. I’m going to wait until after my 2 months of training are up to decide what I do about internet. I’m at an internet café right now that charges like 25 cents for half an hour of internet, but its hella slow (shout out to my homies in San Fran, Vicky). There are wireless cards available that work throughout the country and are fast but they’re pretty expensive. So my 2 year site resources will determine whether I invest or not. Until then, I don’t really have time to be online anyways: we train from 8-5 every day except Sunday, and we’re locked up in our homestays when it gets dark around 7 every night, zombies.

Also, you may notice that pictures are absent from this blog. Yeah, words of advice: buy a new camera should you leave home for 2+ years. Fingers crossed I can buy a decent one in Kampala when I go back in a couple weeks. Hopefully next Sunday will bear a second blog, thanks for reading folks. Eat some cereal and ice cream for me, you’re all uber missed. Peace, love and Uganda omusera (sunshine; I’m on the equator, duh)!