Snoozer

"How will you cope with the stress of constantly feeling on display?" the Peace Corps recruiter asked his second hypothetical question, looking even more serious than he did with his first one.
I'm not one for hypotheticals because it diminishes the experiences of those people actually living in the reality of that lifestyle. Knowing this wouldn't suffice for an answer, I throw out one of my favorite hobbies, "I'm a therapeutic sleeper."
Who knew. . .

-[-]-

The weekend in Kampala was better than expected. I bought 2 lamps and 2 pairs of Diesel jeans. I caught up with friends from afar. I met the National Ugandan basketball team. I went out until 4 AM each night and enjoyed the kind of fun I only experienced at home and in Brussels. Gelato for an a-bar is the closest I get to Dairy Queen. Most importantly, I had the most exhilarating surprise; definitely something I didn’t expect in Uganda. Indeed, my weekend was much better than expected. Now, I find myself walking through the streets of Kampala before sunrise, just as shopkeepers sweep garbage to the street. I near the bus park and glimpse the Teso Coach ascending the hill towards the main road leading east.
“Ajai eong. Epuda eong alosit ko Soroti! Ipupi ijo? Emere? I’m here. I need to go to Soroti. You hear? Yes?” I shout to the conductor hanging out the boarding door. He quickly waves me over as the bus slows without stopping. I start to jog to keep up while avoiding holes in the street.
“Kobia ne! Kopani. You come here. Now,” he screams as I throw my backpack onto the bus and lag a few meters behind the entrance. Running uphill, if at all, is not a part of my workout in Uganda or at home, for that matter. After a few gasps for air I catch up to the bus and jump onto the loading platform. “Kiboikin. Sit,” the conductor points to the empty seats of the bus, noticing my confusion. “Ejaasi Kiramojong ko Jinja. Kiboikin kopani. There are Kiramojong in Jinja. Now sit.” Again, he points to the back of the bus.
Slowly, I drag my tired and fabulous ass a few rows and lift my pack onto the overhead storage. Then, I fall into a seat, throw my iPod on and fall into the most relaxing nap.

“Edeke! Edeke! Jesus God. Jesus God.” Screams resonate throughout the bus, now full of Kiramojong with their tattered clothing and tribal scars spanning cheeks and foreheads. A horrifying noise echoes from below the bus; almost like a hammer striking a concrete column. I rub sleep from my eyes, press my forehead to the window of the bus and see shredded tire flying through the air. Confused, I open my window, looking to the wheel well and finding sparks flooding the concrete. People grow more hysterical as the noise grows louder. A chicken flies into the air a few rows ahead. I laugh and decide upon a playlist. Doll Revolution it is. Thanks Nicole!
The bus stops eventually and people storm the exit for a look at the damage. I open my window fully to find two tires completely shredded, the tailpipe of the bus a few meters behind and the side panel of the Teso Coach on the ground. A group of women continues to scream prayers of thanks for saving us from the swamp on either side. A chicken walks through the row by my seat and I shoo it away, rub my eyes and smile at the thought of my unexpectedly amazing weekend, falling back to sleep.

-[-]-

Every Wednesday I ride my bike 15 kilometers to the speed bumps on the dirt road, turn right and ride another 3 kilometers to my favorite primary school. I wouldn’t tell anyone the last part, but a school with a principal who takes initiative breeds a motivated staff. I usually reach my destination by 10 AM, passing the chicken coops, brick ovens, piggery and the cow pasture. Today is not usual, but is any day in the bush “normal?” I don’t dare answer the question.
I wake at 7 AM promptly. I sweep and mop while listening to BBC for a daily dose of current events, boil water for my oatmeal (sans coffee; a great envelope!) and eat breakfast while watching Sex and the City. More specifically, the episode where Carrie dates the short story writer.
A quick and warm shower later, I’m pedaling out of the village and into the bush. I make five minutes and feel beads of sweat flow down my brow and back. Running my fingers through my hair, I feel sweat saturating my scalp. Ten minutes into the trek, I pull into the shade for a rest and a chance to dry off, taking a seat in the dirt, past the point of caring.
A breeze blows and I feel my mood turn positive. Then, the bush rustles behind me, causing me to weigh the option of looking or ignoring and hoping for the best. Against my gut, I turn around and see a monkey bearing fangs. Sadly, this is not my first run-in with a bitchy monkey. Quickly, I throw my water bottle at its head, causing it to return to the bush. I laugh as I think how I responded in my first days of village life. A year past and a bit of my fear went with it. A few breezes later, I’m on the dusty road again pedaling at a leisurely pace. Forty minutes pass and I bike through a small trading center to find catcall reminders of my skin color. I notice my pedals feel loose but chalk it up to dehydration until both fall from the bottom of my feet to the ground.
“Damnit. Now what do I do?” I ask myself as I place the pedals in my bike’s basket. Without any other option, I turn around, cross to the left side of the road and start walking the 12 kilometers home.
Sweat pours from my face and drips to the ground after five minutes in the pounding sun; not a cloud in sight. People pass on their bicycles and ask why I would rather walk than ride my bike but I refuse to speak Ateso. My anger would seep into my words and punch my fellow villagers in the face. Instead, I wave my hand, clutching a pedal and continue to walk.
A few hours later, I see the monkey standing on the dirt pile where I first rested. Again, he bears his fangs as a taunting action. Without a full water bottle to use as a weapon, I settle on my pedal, hitting the monkey on the arm. The animal screams and I wait for an attack but it only climbs a tree and watches me until I’m out of sight.
That afternoon I make my valiant return to the village, ignoring the waves and questions of my impending marriage to an unknown Teso woman. Walking through my compound, I throw my bike to the ground and fill a basin of water to the rim. My neighbors analyze me, soaked through with sweat, and gasp as I dump the water over my body, still fully clothed with shoes on. They see my face and know not to question. Walking into my house, the sound of water dripping to the floor, I crawl into bed and drown myself in sleep.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:
Note: “Sympathize” by Amos Lee
Boat: It rained last night, finally
Gloat: My camera arrived today . . . pictures resume soon.

My First Time

“My first time . . .” brings great stories best shared over a few glasses of wine at a mood-lit bar. Some people may resent their first time. Others may take pride in their first time. Whatever the sentiment, the first time marks the beginning of monotony because the excitement, the horror, the unknown ends and ordinary begins.

-[-]-

The first day of an academic year brings new uniforms, new pencils and new P1 students (kinder equivalent) to school. Today, 180 3, 4 and 5 year olds rush the compound of our school playing, screaming, hitting each other, wetting themselves and without any background in reading. However, it is not until they enter their classroom that tears start to flow.

The barefoot children file into the classroom, bats chirping at the penetrating sunlight, and sit on the floor, not facing the blackboard but gawking at the strange pale man in the back of the classroom. After the last child makes her way into the class, tears still running down her cheek, Madam Iliana walks in to address the immediate “situation”, “Idwe, ejai apejenon kau natukot wok. Ekekiror Emalimu Omodiŋ ka enera ŋesi Ateso kwa iso. Elosi ŋesi aswam ne ŋininaiyareit. Mam ekuriaka. Kiboikinos ejok. Children, there is a visitor in the back of our classroom. His name is Teacher Omoding and he speaks Ateso like us. He will work here every Tuesday. Don’t be afraid of him. Sit properly.”

If only a lecture made the children understand that I am as human as the rest of the village. In reality, the majority of the room has never seen a white person. Ateŋ Peter Joseph, a stout little man dressed in a “Hello, Kitty” t-shirt stands up and dashes towards me, slapping my arm and quickly running towards the door. At the entryway, he stops and wipes his hand on his own arm, expecting to see a streak of white. When nothing comes of his experiment he screams, “Isabi ijo! You lie.” A once placid face begins to tremble and tears burgeon on his eyelids. His breaths deepen until a wail of disappointment silences the fidgeting classroom, signifying my terrible mediocrity. He expected an alien and got an emsugut—a whitey.

Madam Iliana winks at me, “He fears you. These children, they are not aware. Give it time. They will come to know you.” She takes Ateŋ’s arm and leads him back to his seat on the cement floor. While the majority of the classroom faces me waving, smiling and not paying attention to their actual teacher, I get no “Hello” from Kitty.

-[-]-

“Not tonight, I’m not feeling very well,” I explain to Nathan, who came over expecting to watch a Nigerian movie on my computer. In the village, an illness usually means an increase in hospitality—after all, who wants to be alone when sick. However, Nathan understands that in my culture, solitude is the best treatment for an illness. No company necessary.

“Yes, I see you are not yourself. You are dressed in a blanket. How was Busia?” he asks of my weekend safari.

“Ah, yes. I was laying on the sofa and covering myself with the blanket. It is a security issue,” I explain the style of “dress,” forgetting to make my language explicit and concrete.

“Is someone trying to force their way into your home? I noticed the guard is no longer around. Are you nervous?” he stiffens as if to show his support.

“No, no. I’m very safe in my house. No one tries to break in anymore. They know I am a serious man and will fight for myself. That and I’m loud when I yell. Thank you for your support, though. Busia was interesting; a border town. Lots of smuggling and mob justice, but a new view of Uganda,” I round back to Nathan’s question, wrapping my blanket tighter around me as the night air bites at my skin. My body’s adjustment to the weather impresses me. I never thought it would happen.

“Border towns are not safe. I am glad you are back in the village. You are safe here. I will let you rest. Let us meet tomorrow,” he excuses himself and turns to walk home. I take myself back to the comfort of my couch, lie down and resume the episode of Brothers & Sisters as the fan blows a steady breeze over my body.

The sun rises the next morning and I awaken to find myself still on the couch. Some things never change. I sit up and stretch my arms until I feel the pain. “Oww. What the hell?” I mutter as my arms instinctively fall to hold my neck, the source of the stinging pain. As consciousness spreads over my body, the full extent of my aches surface until I feel the sweat dripping from my brow causing me to worry. I stand, drop the blanket to the floor and run to my kitchen to fish my thermometer out of my Peace Corps medical kit. An old school model (with mercury), I have to shake the line below 37 degrees Celsius to take an accurate reading. Three minutes later, the verdict is in: 38.8 and then some. Translation: 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The reading itself sends a tremor of panic through my body, causing a jolt of pain to vibrate in my molars. I run to the mirror and open my mouth to find my uvula swollen and the walls of my throat a nice pinot noir color. I haven’t seen this sight since before I had my tonsils out. This is my first experience being sick in the village.

“Hello, Adam. I’ll call you back. You know the airtime is expensive,” the Peace Corps nurse speaks quickly before hanging up. Five seconds later she calls back, “How are you?”

“Hi. Thanks for calling me back. I try to call my APCD and she never picks up, much less calls me back. I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” I try to make a joke as I massage my throat.

“Yes, of course. We don’t hear from you, so for you to call means you must not feel well.”

“Ha. Well since last week I haven’t been 100% but I thought it was allergies. We had some rain, good for the ground, bad for my sinuses. However, I woke up this morning and the pain escalated along with my temperature. I’m sitting at 38.8 right now.”

“For the morning that is elevated,” she responds and we continue our medical dialogue for ten minutes until she reveals the prognosis, “You have a bacterial infection. I don’t want you to be alone. I remember you are very remote. Can you make it to town?”

“Yes. And if I pass out, I know the guys who drive the car so I’ll make sure they know to call you,” I try at another joke.

“Let your neighbors know you are going to town to stay with Chad. Tell them I ordered you to go. I know how they can try and prevent you from leaving,” she says seriously, ignoring my humor, as I already start to dress, the sweat flowing over my whole body. “And call me when you get to town and have your prescription.”

An hour later (ignoring a meeting concerning “how can we get Adam to fund the construction of our school block” without community assistance), I’m one of 12 people in a Honda Civic wagon speeding down the bumpy road to town thinking I wish I were 5 years old when sick meant a fudgicle and Mary Poppins at home with Mom.

-[-]-

“Hey, bud. You need anything from town? I’m pedaling in to pick up a few things,” Chad peeks his head in the extra room where I’m staying while ill.

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though. I’m just going to sleep and I brought a stock of passion fruit juice and water with me,” I say as I roll over in the bed.

“Let me know. Sleep it off. You’ll live. I won’t let you die in my house.”

“Thanks, Chad. That’s sweet. Oh, and do you happen to have a nail clipper?” I ask as I look at my foot. In the middle of the night, I woke up to a sharp pain in my smallest toe. In the light of the morning, I can see a slight bump and a strange black coating at the base of the nail.

“I’ll leave it out for you.”

An hour later, I wake up again to the small sting in my foot. Rather than continuing the up-and-down nature of my morning, I drag myself into the bathroom to find the nail clipper waiting for me. My foot over the toilet (yes, Chad has a toilet and a shower in his house), I make my first incision with the clipper. Nothing happens. My stomach rumbles in anticipation. “I’m glad I didn’t eat. Whatever this is, it may get ugly.” I squeeze my toe around the cut and a red sac the size of a bath bead slides out while still hanging on to my skin. I cut the stubborn thing from my skin and it spits blood like a bad horror movie for a good minute while I continue to dig the unknown creature out of my already ill body. I begin to gag and I wretch into the toilet. (I do the same while writing kopani- now.) My first jigger.

I heard other volunteers discuss jiggers but never paid attention, taking the naïve approach of “if I don’t know about it then it won’t happen.” Jiggers, or chiggers, are tiny mites whose parasitic larvae live under the skin of warm-blooded animals. That animal would be me. I’m never wearing sandals again. In fact, I’ll shower with my shoes on because I will never have a jigger in my fucking body again. When I joined Peace Corps I signed up for many different things but I did not sign up for sick and disgusting.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:
Song: “Lace and Leather” by the (new and rehab’d) Britney Spears
Strong: The guys in this week’s T Magazine (of the NY Times)
Belong: Left to me by a departing volunteer: a toaster oven. Bring on the cookie, cake, muffin and all other baked good mixes. Perfect addition to my kitchen.

-[-]-
Love,
Omoding
(the “H” is silent)

Ebaluwa (mail)

Yoga kere. A quick note about mail. I now have my own P.O. Box in lieu of sharing with the volunteers in town. It is as follows:

Adam Kelley, PCV

P.O. Box 582

Soroti, Uganda

I talked with my friend, the postmaster, and he will forward my mail to the new box for a little while, so if you sent any mail to the previous P.O. Box, it will still arrive. No worries. Mam acie! Just make sure to send your new mail to the new mailbox. Love to you all. A quality post coming soon. . .