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…
Friday, May 21, 2010
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!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
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
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
Saturday, March 6, 2010
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)!
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)!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
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 3rd 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)!
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