Adam Leaves the Nest

Break It Down

2009-10-18T17:18:00.010+03:00

Flaming Man

Walking to the borehole with both gerrycans tucked under my arms, I felt accomplished with the progress of my two primary projects. The classrooms complete and the kindergarten utilizing them for the first day. The schemes translated with a simple edit before publication. If all worked out, I would finish my projects in time for my visit home, able to relax and enjoy the month holiday. Passing the usual scene of children throwing rocks on school roofs, girls washing under the mango tree and cows grazing the compound, I let out a deep exhale and smiled. Then, I saw it. The doors to the classrooms looked ajar. I dropped my gerrycans and bolted for the building, dodging the cows, jumping over the newly laundered clothes and weaving through the rock throwers to get to the entrance of the kinder classrooms.

Inside was my worst nightmare: children urinating and defecating everywhere. To increase the severity of the situation, children smeared their excretions onto the wall. Upon my arrival, silence fell in the room. I saw a boy’s eyes dart towards the door and everyone ran for their lives. Exiting the classrooms, locking them once empty, those at the borehole stared, my face tormented between breaking down and losing it. I went home and induced a Benadryl coma. It’s the Peace Corps way.

The story continues over the course of three days and involves many excuses and a request for compensation for cooperation in editing the translated schemes. However, nothing can explain the lack of responsibility, consideration and professionalism shown by the kindergarten teachers. Everyone assured me nothing like this would happen again. I responded with, “Damn right it won’t because I’m not opening myself to be taken advantage of. It’s time for you to help yourself. I’ll find work elsewhere.”

After the showdown, I didn’t leave my house. I called Peace Corps to discuss the matter, as my counterpart and supervisor have never been “in the picture” and my program director assured a call back. (Still waiting five weeks later.) I felt completely defeated. I have never wanted to come home so badly in my life. I hid in my house I was so angry. My friends came to visit, telling me to take a “mental holiday.” I convinced myself I could work through this. After all, I hadn’t taken a night away in six weeks! I could do this! And then my head teacher visited to ask for monetary assistance for his recently announced Minister of Parliament campaign. My response? “Get the fuck out of my face.” I had a choice: get away or lose it.

Southwest

Lake Bunyoni

Coming Out

The next day I got my defeated ass on the bus bound for Kampala and proceeded to the Southwest. Hills, rain, cold weather. Friends. Understanding. It was the rehab I desperately needed. Peace Corps is a strange beast. It brings experiences that push you to the brink; sometimes beyond. However, it brings people together in ways that are incredibly human. So, while it breaks your spirit, it gives you the means of healing, as well. There isn’t much to write about because its fabulousness came from being completely uncomplicated. I’d lay outside and read all day until Kelly would yell through the window, “Curry for dinner?” And I’d shake my head to accept the invitation.

This much I will write: I saw the reflection of my Peace Corps experience in Paul Theroux’s travel memoir Dark Star Safari. If you ever wanted to understand how in the hell Peace Corps changes people’s views on aid in Africa into something more conservative than when we arrived, READ THIS BOOK!

We're All Getting Bilharzia (Lake Victoria)

I Took a Fairy to the Islands

For Ugandan independence, I decided to continue with my journeys and accompany a few of my fellow volunteers to the Ssese Islands. While Uganda is a landlocked country, it is part of the Great Lakes region. In Lake Victoria is a host of islands with its own culture of people. Those people beckoned to me to take a three-day holiday. And so I took a ferry to the islands, joining countless other whites (Dutch, Boer, British, German, Ukrainian, etc.) to go and “camp” at a hostel run by a Great Dane. Seriously, the owners were too busy getting high and doing blow in the forest to run the place.

Rhiannon decided, to really see the islands and get a true experience, to rent a canoe for the day. Bad idea…

“Why are we going in a circle?” -Rhiannon

“Because the person in the back steers and Mark has no idea what he’s doing!” -Me

“Shut up, I’m doing all the rowing!” –Mark

“There is water coming in from the bottom.” -Rhiannon

“I’m going to be sick.” -Claudia

“This is Uganda. We are here.” –Mike

“I swear to God I’ll knock you unconscious if you keep the Uganglish up. Swear. To God.” –Me

(REPEAT)

As we paddled in circles for close to three hours, I laughed more than I have in months. It was exactly what I needed.

Does This Make Me Look Fat?

2009-09-11T11:22:00.004+03:00

“Omoding, you are so fat!” “You are expanding.” “Your buttocks has widened.” “You are growing fat.” These are a few of the catcalls in the village. The truth is I continue to maintain the same weight of my last five years, if not with more muscle than fat. However, to the people of my community, I’m an ever-growing beast who needs constant reminders of my expansion. If this doesn’t drive me to an eating disorder, nothing will. (No cause for alarm, my toaster oven is getting a workout.) To cope, I started playing “Bootylicious” nightly as an anthem of acceptance. I must admit it’s working pretty well.

The weight issue is a constant talking point as important as my marital status. It is the first thing pointed out after returning to the village from a trip: day, leisure or weekend. In the central region of Uganda, expanding in size is prestigious. However, I’m unsure the implication in the NE, the region experiencing famine. The Itesot people are thin and toned, known for digging in the garden through the night during the full moon. If that is what it takes to get a flat stomach, no thanks. Therefore, when the issue of weight came up in a recent conversation with Nathan, I was not surprised.

“What is your exercise program?” Nathan asks slyly to find out whether I continued running over the holiday. The truth is that I did not. Between hosting volunteers and nursing Moose back to health (now healthy and with a new family, for the best), I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do was run.

“Well, not much over break. I only run when I feel like someone is counting on me to show up. That’s you. Otherwise, I go through the same routine at night in my house: jump rope, sit-ups, push-ups, crunches and finally dips. Then I repeat. It isn’t overly strenuous but it gets a good sweat going.”

Nathan’s eyes squint in disbelief. “Hmm. But you are not like me. You are larger. How is it possible if you do all that exercise?”

“We are different people from different cultures. Everyone has a different body type. This is my body type and it is larger than yours is. In comparison, I am larger, but still healthy. The healthiest I’ve ever been,” I explain as calmly as possible, ignoring the implied fat jab.

“But nearly everyone here is thin. Why do white people differ in size?”

“As I said before, people have different body types. Some people are naturally large. Even if you consider them fat, they can still be healthy. Fat isn’t always a bad thing.”

At this comment, he sucks his teeth and lowers his head in thought. “Then why do you exercise? If fat isn’t bad, why not let yourself expand? And dislike it when people point out that you are getting fat?”

“It is important to me, as part of my culture, to maintain a healthy physique. My people hold fitness in highest esteem. It would be harder to find a partner if I let myself go. Sad fact but true. However, I refuse to starve myself for abdominal muscles and I’m too poor to hire a personal trainer.” I decide to leave out the complicated explanation of the media’s focus on thinness and the struggle many people face with eating disorders in American culture.

“What do you mean? “Your people?”

“Are all Itesot people the same? No. There are Protestants, Catholics, farmers, teachers, shopkeepers, polygamists, etc.”

“And your people? Who are they? Catholics?” Nathan asks. I tell the people of my village that I was raised Catholic. I eases the explanation of religion.

“Not exactly. We believe in style, good food, travel and music. To fit into the best clothes, some people pay a person to make them workout.”

“People pay someone to tell them how to exercise?”

“Yes, and to push them to the point of collapse. I don’t think that is an appropriate way to spend money, especially after living here,” I explain, realizing my spending habits may never be the same.

“Why don’t they go dig in the garden? That is how we maintain our bodies.”

“People at home don’t keep fields like you do here. We shop at markets and grocery stores. We exercise at fitness clubs and gymnasiums.”

“And you pay for all that?”

“Yes.”

“Too expensive. I’ll never understand Americans. I rather stay here. I can see my abdominals in the village for no money.”

“Well, now you’re just boasting,” I mock as we both laugh, holding our stomachs.

Classroom front: blackboards reach half way up all walls. No desks so the painted floor acts to group students. Hook screws on the walls to hang visual aids and student work (tape doesn't work on these walls)

Classroom back: bulletin boards to facilitate display of student work!

Moose: After three weeks of rehab, the little scout is now at his new home in the village, sharing company with another puppy... Sad but for the best!

Toto, I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore...

2009-08-29T11:57:00.003+03:00

Towards the culmination of the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy awakes from her coma (call-for-attention, if you ask me) and declares a statement concerning the location of joy. I forget the specifics, but it has something to do with happiness being in your own backyard… The last few days prove that some things are in my backyard, but I’m not entirely sure if happiness is one of those things.

* * *

“There Is No Place Like Home”

The first week of break brings a welcome calm to the school compound. The air turns from a wild quibble of schoolchildren to a calm and uninterrupted tranquility close to the likes of a rehab facility in Southern California. I approve! After detoxifying my body with copious amounts of sleep (waking at 10 AM) and healthy eating (stuffed green peppers for dinner), I decided to go to town and catch up with the world.

Set and ready for the ride into town, I throw my Jack Spade over my shoulder, slip on my shoes and exit my house. After I lock the door, I turn around and literally jump at the sight of a woman sitting on my stoop. The shock on my face is so visible the woman stands without saying anything and stares at me, waiting for a scream. When the air hangs in silence long enough for me to regain my breath, I finally ask her, “Inyo bo ikoto ijo? What do you want?”

She begins to mumble so softly I can’t hear her so I clear my throat as an indication for her to speak louder and she starts again. “Sir, my father is dead. My stepmother is evil. She chased me away from home. I have nowhere to go and my friend, Feddie, told me that you would take me in, let me live with you.”

My immediate reaction is inappropriate (both in humanity and culture): I think of every story that begins with an evil stepmother situation. Houses made of candy. Narcoleptic women. My mind wanders to Disney; a song clicks on, “Little town, it’s a quiet village. Everyday like the one before. Little town, full of little people waking up to say ‘bonjour’…” A mental kick in the pants helps me focus on the situation at hand. My mind floods with ramifications: living with a woman in my village is the same as walking down the aisle, Peace Corps sends people home for shacking up with members of the opposite sex, I don’t want to pay for another person, I don’t have room to be a boarding facility… Deep breath in, “I apologize for your unfortunate series of events but it is not possible for you to live with me. Perhaps you can talk with your stepmother?” She releases a deep sigh, slumping towards the ground a few inches but I push through, “If you need support when talking with her, I could go and stand with you in solidarity.”

“It is bad. She will never take me back.”

“You don’t know that if you don’t try. What else can you do?”

“Stay here, with you.”

“No, you can’t. I offered the maximum support I can give you. I don’t know you and I am not able to sustain you in my home. I apologize but if you refuse my offer, then I must continue on with my day.”
“What will I do? I will wait here for your return,” she held her ground, defying my request.

“No, you will not be here when I get back,” I implied, thinking better of myself afterwards. Directness was necessary for my point to come across. “When I come home, you will be gone.” Walking away, I couldn’t help but feel like the worst person in the world. I had literally told a young woman “there is no room at the inn.” However, I knew taking in a runaway would jeopardize my position as a volunteer. I saw it happen to a friend and it cost him his last eight months in Uganda. Furthermore, I didn’t know this woman. I wouldn’t invite a stranger to live with me in America, much less here in Uganda. Nevertheless, a wave of guilt spread over me like a blanket. I continued walking towards the center, refusing to look back but hearing the woman begin to cry.

* * *

“I’ll Get You, And Your Little Dog, Too!”

People define themselves in one of two ways: a dog person or a cat person. This definition is so important to many Americans that a relationship can be forfeit when interests differ. I identify as a dog person.

Whatever kind of person I may be, I didn’t actively search out an animal companion in the first umteen months (or did I hit 20?) of my service because most people in Uganda treat dogs differently than Americans. I knew by taking a dog I would have to leave it behind when I return to America. In Uganda, dogs are not companion animals; they are guard dogs. People don’t allow them in the house. People are afraid of them and often throw rocks to make them go away. They run amuck, eating scraps and chicken bones (sometimes chickens, if sneaky). In the first few weeks, I saw a horde of children stone a dog to death. I was a passenger in a bush taxi that ran a dog over. The bump in the road brought me to tears. I didn’t want a dog, or to leave a dog, in this climate.

I awake Saturday morning after sleeping in longer than appropriate. Sun high in the sky, heat radiates from my tin roof, changing my simple home into an oven. Waking up with sweat flooding into my eyes is so common, I now sleep clutching a sweat rag. A whole new meaning to the phrase “that’s hot.” Wiping my brow, I dash madly to the windows, flipping the curtains on themselves to let in the light and opening the windows to catch a breeze. However, not only do I hear the usual crowing of roosters and mooing of cows, I hear a slight whimper in the back of my house. I freeze, a bead of sweat runs down my cheek.

What could it be? Did I imagine the noise? I tiptoe to the door, creating unnecessary anxiety for myself. In the village, I’m a professional at that. Sometimes, I get so anxious just worrying about creating anxiety. Too much free time… Standing at the door, I hear a soft crying noise. Could it be the twins from next door? They cry everyday for one reason or another; however, their usual howl does not match with the hushed whimper outside. I unbolt the barricade lock and turn my skeleton key in the door.

Puppy. A tiny brown and white dog laying on my stoop, forever scratching himself and crying in pain. Shocked, I stand in the doorway frozen, gawking at the little dog in front of me. What can I do? I’m sure the nurses would tell me to avoid the situation but the sight of the helpless thing makes my heart cave in on itself. I bend down and pick it up, aware that I could catch a few thousand bugs in the process. I feel the dog’s bones against my skin and, when I flip it over, I see countless scabs, ticks and maggots and fleas and, wait, are those lice? I put the dog down, running to my medical kit for gloves.

After two days of tweezers, citrus baths, OFF!, village medicine for de-bugging cattle (in a very low dosage), howling through the night, peeing everywhere and endless yelps of pain, the little dog looks much healthier. His scabs are healing and falling off slowly. He even accepts to drink milk. The best guess at age is 4 weeks. I decide to name him Moose (as in eMUSugut, or white person). He rides around in my bicycle basket for all the village to see. Most gasp and jump back when they see him. Everyone leers at me strangely like I am an alien. My neighbors snoop around my compound to see what I feed him or if I let him in my home.

The third day, my neighbor meets me as I weed my garden. “You spoke with yourself last night? I heard you.”

“No. Actually, I was telling Moose to stop chewing my shoes. Also, don’t come to find gossip at my house. It’s bad manners.” Moose loves my shoes. He chews them with his emerging teeth, ignoring the cow bone I found for his enjoyment. He sleeps in them and on them. He grabs them with his paws as if they are a ride a Doggyworld and rides them as I walk. The dog shares my love of shoes. Dog bless him.

“Oh, you were talking with your dog,” she eyes me suspiciously. “You white people.”

“Actually, I have black friends at home who talk with animals. It is an American thing. Oh, I totally forgot, it is also a religious thing. St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, would go into the forest and preach to animals. I thought you would know that, being a highly religious person who likes to pressure me to attend mass with you on Sunday.” The only reason I know about St. Francis of wherever is that I have oracle cards. I hide those (one thing among many) from the village. After my citation of religion, our discussion ends.

Six days into Moose, I realize caring for a thrown-away puppy is like being a parent. I awake every hour in the night to take him out for potty breaks. He whines if I don’t pay attention to him. I worry when I have to leave him to go to work. I worry how the schoolchildren will treat him. Best of all, he runs to me when he sees me. I am his protector. I am his dad. And, if I can give him a good six months before returning him to village life, then why not? After all, he did have a little piece of paper on his neck that read “Emusugut.” He was a present to me and, in Uganda, you can’t refuse a present.

[My-Fin-is] in the Lake

2009-08-12T08:25:00.002+03:00

The last few weeks bred a phase at home in the bush: muffins. A while back, I went hunting around Kampala for a muffin tin. It took me nearly a whole day but I found one at the Embassy Supermarket. After a slim-down at the village welder, life turned heavenly. Cinnamon spice. Peanut butter. Oatmeal raisin. Honey nut. Chocolate. Coffee. The best part: the recipes yield 12, or enough for 1 person and random houseguests. (Note: The presence of muffins increases the presence of random houseguests.) Each time I stand over the batter, mixing necessary ingredients until a cement-like mixture forms, I take time to ponder my Peace Corps experience. Strangely, muffins and village life have some things in common.

One bad egg can spoil a whole batch…

I awake with a headache—a sign ignored. It’s probably best to stay in bed and let the whole day pass but, where I come from, a headache is a lame excuse to take a sick day. Rolling out of bed, I walk to the kitchen where I fill the kettle half way, put it on the stove and scoop three spoonfuls of Steep and Brew coffee into my French press. Maybe caffeine will do the trick.

As I click BBC on the radio, I hear a traffic jam in the bedroom—my cell phone ring is car horns to remind me of home. I didn’t bother to look at the caller ID, “Ajai. I am.”

“Omoding, yoga. Ajai eong osomero. Ai bo ijai ijo? Hello. I’m at school. Where are you?” The head teacher, my namesake. In Uganda, head teachers often have second businesses, which causes their truancy in school. It is a national phenomenon so common BBC Africa featured it on their morning show a few weeks ago. The fact that he’s at school surprised me.

“Ajai eong. Kanukainyo bo? Inyo bo ikoto ijo? Biao bo acie? I’m here. Why? What do you want? What is the problem?” I respond as my kettle whistles and I move it to the alternate burner to cool. My headache pulses and I move the phone from my right ear to the left.

“Ejai airiamun nuikamuntios thematic. Ebeit ijo alosit ngina. Iswamai ijo imwalimun luka thematic, cuti? Inyo bo iwolio ijo aswam? There is a thematic workshop. You must go there. Don’t you work with thematic teachers? Why are you dodging work?”

I place my hand over my face to shield the morning light while my head throbs and my vision blurs. “I think it is extremely disrespectful of you to call me and disturb my morning. The children are in exams so I have nothing to attend to. My counterpart does not work with me so I don’t follow his program. Furthermore, how dare you have the nerve to call me and accuse me of dodging work when you can barely show your face at school. Do I call you to inform you of your absence? No.” In moments of frustration, English thankfully dominates. Waiting for a response, I sit down and pour the hot water onto the grounds of my coffee.

He chuckles on the phone. “You cannot talk to me like that. I am a head teacher!”

“And you have no affiliation to Peace Corps, so there is no reason for you to call and give me orders. Please refrain from doing so in the future.”

Another giggle. My head pounds. “I can do what I wish. I am your superior.”

“No you are not. You do not own me. And if you can’t respect me as a professional and have a civilized conversation with me then I will terminate the conversation.”

Another giggle shoots into my ear and I hang up the phone, putting my head on the tablecloth.

Mix only until moist, do not fully blend…

Sitting at my kitchen table, head down, I take deep breaths to quell my anger. I push my knuckles into my eye sockets to dull the pain. Even the saturated smell of strong Madisonian coffee fails to change my mood and I breathe deeper and push harder. Stars flood my field of vision and I get light headed: artificial relief. The truth is: no matter how much work I do, how well I speak the language, how long I stay in the village, I will never fully integrate into my community. It is impossible. True, it is worthwhile to go out and make the effort. To work. To speak. To fetch water. To fall into the Peace Corps category of “gone native” instead of leaving my village every weekend to find solace with other volunteers. However, on days of exhaustion and turbulence, it is best to stay in bed, which is what I proceed to do for the remainder of the day. Sometimes signs are best acknowledged instead of ignored.

Baking muffins takes endurance, especially with only 4 cups in a tin…

Awake before the sun rises, I am ready for an adventure. I jump on my bike and start pedaling to escape the village. Not exactly sure where to go, I set off in the direction of the lake. I pedal for five kilometers when I pass a friend, Okwii, who rides to and fro the lake every day to transport fish. “Okwii! Eyalama awanyun. Ikwenyunit biai? Happy to see you. How did you rise?”

“Ejokuna. Iyogai aiwalar. Ai bo lolo? Well. Greet the dawn. Where to today?”

“Akoto eong aite ecor konye mam eong ajeni eipone lo alosit. Aticepak ijo aingarakin eong? I want to see the lake but I don’t know the way. Is it possible you could help me?”

“Mam acie. Aloto. No problem. We go.”

The minutes turn into hours on my bike. One hour passes as the sun rises into the sky and the heat of the day brings sweat down my brow. Two fly by as Okwii and I converse about America, football (soccer), digging in the garden and why I’m not married (always a favorite). Three hours come and go as our conversation dwindles. By now, I’m covered head to toe with dirt as a result of sweat mixing with cattle trucks speeding by, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. I’m like an Orbitz commercial: orange in color save for my smile. **Ching**

The guidebooks that list my village as a “fishing village” are full of bullocks. The lake, while near in proximity, takes three and a half hours to reach (by bike) because of the poor roads that zigzag feebly to honor land titles. Thank goodness I started running; my legs wouldn’t hold up otherwise. Okwii sees fatigue setting in and offers encouragement, “Elemuni oni abunere. We are nearly there.” As he finishes his sentence, I can see the lakeshore emerge on the horizon.

It is a breathtaking view. Okay, in reality it is just another lake found in the world but to a man who grew up in a place known as “Lake-City-Lake” and now lives in one of a small handful of landlocked African countries, I felt curiously calm. I threw my bike down and ran to the shore, fully conscious that I was banned from jumping in on account of Bilharzia. Strangely enough, the three and a half hours of dust-filled journey to stand at the brink of water were totally worthwhile. I had changed my mood without coffee.

A good muffin can go a long way…

I stand at the lake and gaze towards the unending water for a few moments before fisherman shout at me to join them in a small thatched hut. Now nearing midday, the sun is high in the sky and the workers take break until the heat gives way to late afternoon breezes and cooling temperatures. The shouting continues until they see me turn from the lake and make my way in their direction. Unsure of what welcome I will find, I take my time and brush dust from my clothes.

“Inyo bo ikoto ijo ocor? Ingai bo irai ijo? What do you want at the lake? Who are you?” I often hear from people in my village that lake dwellers are suspicious people. The government enforces fishing laws rigorously on Lake Kyoga and fisherman often mistake visitors for government spies. I sit down in the middle of the hut on a wooden stool that rises only a few inches from the Earth and take a breath. It feels like a police questioning.

“Arai eong Itesot, da. I am an Itesot, as well.” I figure it best to start with a joke, which works. Instantly, everyone doubles over in laughter when they hear me speak Ateso. I continue with my introduction and soon the men seem relaxed and begin asking questions not resembling a cross-examination. I realize it is after lunch and I left in the morning without breakfast, so I pull a Ziploc (thanks Mom!) from my Jack Spade (also orange, originally black) and offer a few muffins for the men to share. They seem weary of the food so I show them it isn’t poisoned by taking a bite. Moments later, crumbs litter the dirt floor of the hut.

The fishermen of Mulondo were extremely warm and welcoming. I spent the majority of the day with them and went on the lake to experience their work. Half the canoe filled with water the moment it went into the water. I sat on the other end, away from any chance of schisto. After a quick how-to, I bid them farewell and started pedaling my way back from whence I came. Not two minutes passed before I heard someone shouting my name. “Omoding! Omoding! Idarak. Wait!”

I skidded to a stop and turned my bike around to find the secretary of the landing site running towards me with three great fish the size of footballs. “Koyanga agaria ngun orekon. Ejijim kwa ekonmugaati. Take these fish home with you. They’re delicious like your muffins.”

And so I continued my ride home, three and a half hours, orange with dirt and smelling of fish but happy all the way.

Muffins don’t make themselves.

The ride home (alone, Okwii made the journey earlier to get the fish to market) gave me time to reflect. Good and bad days happen no matter where we live. People are good and bad all over the world. If we let life be a reaction to things and people, we let others control our happiness. If we wait for happiness to come, we’ll probably wait for the better part of our lives, if not all. We must take control of our destiny and identity (however difficult) to find happiness. Without work, muffins couldn’t be delightful, so why do we expect life to magically become happy? So, yes, maybe muffins and Peace Corps (and beyond) are closer than I first thought.

Countdown to Home:

Days: 108

Craze: More so than anyone thought possible.

**ys: Yes, please.

Progressive Caddilac

2009-07-16T09:37:00.003+03:00

A few weeks ago, a friend (and fellow volunteer) asked me to write an article for the Peace Corps Uganda Newsletter. Apprehension overcame and I procrastinated. The newsletter is a place to talk about your work to assist others with their projects. For me it is one thing to write a blog post, a general stream-of-consciousness; however, the word newsletter raises the bar. The safe route of “look at me and my glory” isn’t my style so I turned the ignition in my progressive Cadillac. Sure, the engine turned over a few times without a full start but the old friend started eventually.

An afternoon later, I finished my article (attached below) and felt the long-lost happiness of college when the long-awaited moment comes to press the “print” button. I’m still not sure if the newsletter will publish my piece, as it doesn’t hit the usual tone of contributions. Can’t win ‘em all.

This Tuesday, I sat down for lunch at a local eating joint: a small hut that serves millet bread and meat—this occasion brought the ever-so-tasty vertebrae of beef, a long shot from fillet. In between literacy with kindergarten and life skills with 7^th graders, I began reading to pass the time. Mealtime is one of the only opportunities to read in public because it is culturally taboo to converse while eating, as it may induce choking episodes. However, the local director of an orphan project soon interrupted my reading.

Odongodia Bruce (pseudonym) runs an organization that welcomes muzungus around the world to come and work with his “kids.” Most come and build houses or churches or playgrounds, only staying a few days or a few weeks (max) before going back with the feeling of accomplishment and ties back to sponsored schoolchildren. “Hello. I’m sorry. I forgot your name?”

“Yoga, da. Biai bo ijo? Mam acie, ekakiror Omoding. Hello, as well. How are you? No problem, my name is Omoding,” I responded half-heartedly. Bruce is a traveled man and sees himself as a class higher than villagers. I didn’t wait for him to respond before gathering my book and Jack Spade to depart for a friend’s shop to wait out the remainder of break. However, after ten minutes, Bruce showed up at the shop buy a few things, sparking a discussion with other people about the failure of schools in the village.

“My kids in Kampala read at the level of a child in P7 here in the village. I think I will open my own school to show the teachers here how to properly teach. I go many places, you know. I see where education is going. I understand the turn towards the “global village,” he sighed.

I sat through the mini-homily, holding my tongue until he coined the term global village. “That is rubbish,” I began. “The children in the village can’t read English because their language of instruction is Ateso. They learn to read and write in their native language and in P3 they begin to learn in English. You can’t expect them to read at the same level as a child in Kampala because Kampala children speak English from birth. Their whole family does.”

The debate lasted a while, spanning issues of globalization, education, voyeurism of bazungu who come to Africa for a few days only to return and perpetuate the notion of “needy Africans”, international aid in Africa, etc. It attracted a crowd of people. I came away knowing my article exactly appropriate for the kind of person I am: an idealist. We don’t all have to be the same (language, appearance, education, morals) to come together. In fact, coming together with differences is the only authentic way to unite. If the same, there is no need to unite because we already are “one.” Enjoy the article.

One Nation, Many Cultures?

The first day of school is frightening for children everywhere: separation anxiety, friendship formation and the fabulous bejeweled lunchbox (or pencil case). With all this change, imagine entering a classroom that doesn’t reflect your culture or speak your language. In both America and Uganda, this is reality for countless students; however, our education systems differ in measures taken to guarantee culturally responsible education.

Before Peace Corps, I worked in a limited English proficiency (LEP) kindergarten with multiple languages represented. Mandated by the school district, I taught using English, struggling to reach my LEP students and constantly worrying whether I participated in the eclipse of their culture.

Historically, immigrants and Native Americans in the 1700s founded bilingual schools, teaching in mother tongue while learning English. These schools preserved oral traditions of many cultures.

The push for English-only education began with WWI’s “Americanization” of settler populations and continues today. According to the US Dept. of Education (NCES, 2006), 18% of schools offer bilingual programs, a rate that continues to decrease despite increasing LEP student populations (3.8 million in 2004). Furthermore, voters overturned bilingual education laws in California, Massachusetts and Arizona, which account for half of America’s LEP student population.

America’s turn away from bilingual education questions the nature of our society: is America a melting pot with a common national identity or a mosaic of people with distinct customs and cultures? Can culture exist after language is lost and, if so, is it the same or is some culture “lost in translation?”

Arriving in Uganda, I found the rollout of thematic curriculum: a progressive education policy mandating local language instruction for Primary 1-3. An attempt to reconcile my classroom guilt, I began working with local P1 classrooms, modeling participatory methods and introducing literacy activities. Instead of witnessing cultural empowerment, teachers struggled to reclaim their culture from Uganda’s educational roots.

Missionaries began Uganda’s formal schooling system. Whether they chose English because local languages were oral rather than literate or because they lacked the cultural integration Peace Corps holds in highest regard, I don’t know. However, until thematic curriculum, teachers relied on English methods for all content areas. Now, they must rediscover and teach their culture.

Teachers have trouble finding local language equivalents to English words. When curriculum calls for “traditional song” teachers look confused. They assert methods taught at colleges don’t prepare to instruct a culture; rather, to enact curriculum. Thematic sets a foundation that teachers must relevantly modify to pass onto students. Through community outreach and teacher collaboration, the process of reclaiming culture is now in progress.

Uganda’s past may be a picture of America’s future: an effort to construct a national archetype in the name of progress but at the cost of culture. I can only hope to bring back (and share) this country’s courage: the decision to lionize all 53+ cultures to preserve unique languages, practices and histories of the past and of the people. Ultimately, this is what education is all about: the people.

Statistics from: U.S. Department of Education, National Center for Education Statistics. (2006). Public Elementary and Secondary Students, Staff, Schools, and School Districts: School Year 2003-04 (NCES 2006–307).

Attack of the White People

2009-07-08T13:23:00.004+03:00

Sunshine

Last year, first interactions with the volunteers in-country one year longer than me left one lasting impression: social dysfunction. Many friends agreed and we promised not to suffer the same fate. Somehow, we did not keep the agreement. The realization came a few weeks ago at the All Volunteer Conference…

Rhi, not excited for AVC. Hiding myself in Gossip Girl. K’la day & going to hotel late. Gouge my eye w/ spoon.

I typed a text message on the bus ride into the city. The thought of walking into a hotel of 130 white people was overwhelming, a forced interaction reminiscent of Welcome Week at university. “What’s your major?” “Where are you from?” “How many white people do you have in your village?” “Do you have work?” The same conversation on repeat until an appropriate hour for alcohol consumption and the opportunity for “deep conversation.”

In the village, I forget about my melanin level. There are few mirrors in my home and without other imusugun, my whiteness isn’t reflected back onto me. Conversations do not center on my experience as an outsider but address topics of economic independence in Africa, neocolonialism, current events and life struggles. The people I share time with welcome me into their lives completely. I am an honorary Itesot. To say I ignore race would be a lie because valuing the culture of my community is tantamount to the appreciation of their uniquely black African culture.

Throughout AVC, I spent most of my time with already-established friends; leaving an impression of indifference with volunteers not known beforehand. I endured the week, questioning whether my anxiety was reasonable. In America, I do not walk down the street and feel the need to converse with every person who shares my skin color; however, in Uganda, other white people flock towards one another and Ugandans believe we share lineage. Did the influx of white people cause my awkwardness or the uncomfortably forced situation at-hand?

Ejaasi ipejok ocaalo. Ocoiete ibongu ijo. There are visitors in the village. Be aware when you return.

(Note: ipejok synonymous with white people)

I received Nathan’s message on the return journey from Kampala, thankful to be through with the conference. I arrived back in the village to find a group of 20 Scottish scouts “on expedition,” building a playground and structures for a local orphan organization. Immediately, people in the trading center asked if I met with my “brothers” and offered to walk me to their camp for a proper reunion. I laughed it off and started walking towards Nathan’s house for a language lesson when the gaggle of Scotsmen emerged from the road with their gerrycans, clearly on their way to the borehole.

The sound of children screaming increased and my heart sank. “Emusugut. Emusugut! White people. White people,” the toddlers screamed as they ran towards the borehole to watch the foreigners pump their water. I held my breath as they crossed my path, waiting to be lumped into the crowd. However, the children stopped and turned towards me, “Omoding. Yoga noi! Eyalama abongun. Hello! Welcome back.” I smiled, savoring the small victory as an honorary Itesot.

The Competition

Starting Over

2009-06-19T10:21:00.005+03:00

Flowers!

Deciding to attend the head teacher’s monthly meeting was a mistake. After the sixth month at site, I realized attending the powwow did not contribute to my overall health. Beginning three hours behind schedule, the two hours worth of material stretches into five hours. Tangents turn into debates over British English versus American English. My counterpart understands the cultural gap and finds no fault in my absence; he knows I prefer grassroots classroom work to trickle-down effect meetings. So, when I accepted the invitation to attend June’s meeting, he was shocked.

“Cuti? Really?”

“Eebo. Akoto eong alosit aipup aiyala na lukapolok luka isomeroi. Awolio eong eyapie ecarou loebunit kere. Yes. I want to go and hear the head teacher’s conversations. I missed nearly all of last year entirely,” I responded. In that moment, I believed it would be best to attend…

The Friday of the meeting arrived and I rode my bicycle to the host school. Immediately, the head teachers noticed me and began to guilt me like a Greek (or Catholic or Irish or Jewish or any other culture) mother.

“Iwori bo ilosi ijo osomeroka? When are you coming to my school?”

“Iwolio ijo! You are lost!”

Earlier in my PC experience, I hated this scolding but I now take it for what it is: playful. I smiled and took a seat next to my counterpart, thinking I was prepared for what was to come. The schedule was standard:

1. Prayer
2. Communication from Host School
3. Communication from Chairperson
4. Communication from CCT (my counterpart)
5. Reading of previous minutes
6. School Briefing
7. Month plan for Professional Development
8. Closing
9. Prayer

The communications took two hours alone, which prompted me to put my head in my hands and doze into a state of semi-consciousness. (A great coping mechanism.) However, a startling occurrence took place during the school briefings. The Deputy Head Teacher of my home primary school stood and announced the completion of a classroom block for the kindergarten classes. He then explained that Omoding (Adam—me) was heartily paying for the construction and the school was grateful.

I let out a gasp and whispered to myself, “Shit.” My head literally fell to the table and made a slight thump; however, I knew it culturally inappropriate to interrupt his address to make a correction. A flash of previous encounters flashed in my mind: elderly women approaching, palm out, face concocted to look upset, “Ikapun. Money.” Children running around me in a circle screaming, “Penny. School. Penny. School.” Visitors arriving at my house to skirt the issue with thirty minutes of their life stories, only to propose “business.” Church leaders coming to tell me “God sent you to give us money.” Head teachers expressing their expectations for me to “build new schools.” A thorn in my Peace Corps side, my community made great leaps over the last 14 months and presently understands that Omoding doesn’t mean money, it means bush. The Deputy’s report compromised my standing as a man, implying my standing as money.

Frustrating as it may be, I can’t blame him for his lack of awareness. Until the previous week, the Deputy was on sabbatical to care for his HIV positive brother and had no idea that I, along with many community members, wrote and was awarded a grant to complete a block of two classrooms for the kindergarten. I knew that his faux pas was the same as if I pulled the “go back to start” card while playing a board game. I was literally starting over.

Leaving the meeting, I used my American pace (“Omoding, you are a serious walker!) to distance myself from the head teachers as they departed for their respective schools. It was not successful.

“Omoding, I have a proposal for you. We are trying to build some teachers housing. I’ll send you the paperwork.”

“What do you think about giving money for a piggery? It would make good money for the school.”

Back to start.

-[-]-

Seeing the flyer in the Peace Corps Volunteer lounge, my heart skipped a beat: “Extend to Peace Corps China!” It sounded like an amazing opportunity and I immediately started to inquire within: Learn Mandarin. Continue with Peace Corps. Live in an urban area. Teach English at a university. It all sounded like an experience that would add to my rich Ugandan experience. In that moment, I decided to go for PC China and delay a return to America.

A few months later, last week to be exact, I arrived home around five o’clock from a focal school and pulled on my gum boots (think Wellingtons), my work clothes (sleeveless tee, running shorts), work gloves and I grabbed my rake. The students just finished slashing my compound and the grass left behind reminded me of a slaughtered battlefield. Working previously in the Parks Maintenance Department, I raked the grass into a large pile on the side of my house. It stood 6 feet high; my grass grows fast.

The next day was much the same story. I returned home around five o’clock from yet another focal school and prepared myself for yard work. Today, I would weed my flowerbeds and “clean my compound.” Definition: to dig up the grass around the structures of my house, (bathing area, house and latrine) leaving a dirt “patio” area. It keeps snakes away. A few minutes into the work, a group of students gathered to watch the latest movie, “Doubled Over White Man Sweating Profusely.” I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. My house is the one place where I will not tolerate being watched, mocked, stared at, etc. In addition, students are prohibited from entering the teachers’ quarter, clearly marked out of bounds.

“Kolototo ngina. Go away, over there,” I scolded. It worked for five minutes but the troupe returned for Act II of “DOWMSP.” Already tired, I traded Ateso for English, speaking quickly and loudly. “Do you think this is funny? Is my work that interesting? Would you go and watch your other teachers? No, they would beat you! This is teacher housing. OUT. OF. BOUNDS. Get away. GET. AWAY.” I lost control. “GET. AWAY! Now, you little monsters!”

The kids sat wide eyed for a moment and then it happened. They started laughing and mocking me. One boy faked a sob. Another girl threw a clump of grass at me. Yet another girl threw a handful of flowers forward. Flowers from my garden. And then I broke. I held back the tears because if you let them see you cry (yes, I’m talking about primary kids) they will destroy you. They already throw my clean laundry in the dirt and stomp my garden! “Why do they continue to get away with this behavior?” you may ask. I refuse to beat children, which is the medium used to instill respect (what we know as fear).

Something in my eyes, amidst the tears fighting to flow, scared the kids into running. Still in my work clothes and gum boots, I followed them calmly towards the school calling after them, “Do you think I like turning into the crazy muzungu?! No! I most definitely do not!” In the teacher’s lounge, visibly burnt out, the teachers rallied around me and promised to have the students come and work on my compound the next day as punishment.

Walking back to my house, I picked up the grass and flowers thrown by the kids and set off for the grass pile. Tossing them in with the rest of the clippings, I collapsed into the mound, exhausted with constant struggle. Struggle to integrate yet never truly able. Struggle to understand behavior yet never fully knowledgeable. Struggle to separate American racisom from Ugandan ignorance. Struggle to stay true to myself in the face of derision. The grass closed in around me and I hoped for a few precious moments truly alone.

“What the hell am I doing? Don’t be crazy,” I sniffled to myself.

It is the time in my Peace Corps experience to decide post-Uganda plans. The high of village life (the mid-point for volunteers is the honeymoon phase, I swear) compels me to continue my Peace Corps experience in another country. However, sitting in the grass pile, I questioned how much of my desire for China has to do with fear? Fear of going home? Fear of leaving all I know to start again? It was too much: the grass, the fishbowl, the future. Eyes puffed up, migraine set in, rash appeared and nose ran away. My body literally broke so I popped Benadryl to control my allergic reaction and said goodnight.

I awoke the next afternoon at 4 PM, clearly aware of my mini crisis. For the rest of the evening I sat on the couch and reflected on my time after the village. Each possibility instilled fear and I started to panic. In an effort to divert attention, I pulled out a printing of my university’s alumni newsletter and read the article about my experience in Uganda. Snippets of my educational philosophy made its way into the feature, reminding me of my pre-PC self: focused, driven, opinionated, clear about my future plans to work in short-changed urban public schools. Somehow, away from my real world, I lost sight of my intended path. In that moment, I knew delaying reality with China was unhealthy. I need to go home and start yet again.

Back to start.

Snip. Snip. Snap.

2009-05-27T11:57:00.006+03:00

It is true Nairobi didn’t offer a proper haircut to this whitey. The only techniques known by black East Africans are the shave and the scalp. We’re talking down to the source, which goes against my religion (fashion, if you didn’t know). Further, I have an irrational fear of clippers. To avoid such treatment, I found myself the best hairstylist who never subjected me to a tearful meeting with clippers— Jason @ Cha Cha, located at East Mifflin next to Café Monmartre. Throughout the entirety of childhood, haircuts turned for the worse at the hands of clippers. The buzzing sound makes me cringe and close my eyes in terror. In Uganda, something so treacherous accompanies the sound of clippers, goose bumps raise up on my arm just thinking about it: the fade and angular shape of hairlines. Yes, the practice of fading hair to naked flesh the closer you come to the hairline. To make matters worse, the clippers shape the hairline into sharp corners. Such treatment is enough to bring this man to tears or avoid the barber chair since August.

For months, people in my village sent their subtle hints that I needed a haircut.

“Omodiŋ, you look like a woman with such long hair,” the head teacher commented, clearly trying to work shame and embarrassment into the conversation.

“The meaning of your name is now on the top of your head,” an old woman proclaimed upon hearing Omodiŋ (meaning bush) in an introduction.

“I know a man who cuts Hindi people’s hair in town. I can show you where,” Nathan offered casually when I mentioned how long hair is not conducive to warm weather.

The idea of “looking smart” was another reason why I decided to forgo a cut. How someone looks doesn’t measure intelligence. What if a person doesn’t have the money to buy clothes or a haircut deemed appropriately smart? Does that make him dimwitted? I think not! Some of the greatest minds have the scariest appearances. Despite all the effort to grow out my mop, after the cold weather of Nairobi, the village felt more a sauna then ever. I could take it no longer.

I took myself outside and commenced an internal pep talk. True, I could never achieve the perfect haircut Jason gave me every three weeks. I may very well annihilate my hair to the point of ruin but it would grow back. Not as quickly as Harry Potter’s hair, but still . . . Anything was better than fading and shaping and shaving. I would make sure not to cut off any digits. I would go slow, take my time, think through each cut. I set up my station on the stoop of my house, hand mirror hanging from the window. I approached my first cut and took a deep breath. After five minutes practicing moving my scissors while using a mirror to accurately position the blades to cut my hair, I felt comfortable enough.

Snip snip snip.I refused to make straight cuts along my fingers, opting to make cuts into the hair, leaving angular inclines throughout. Nothing would be of the same length but of a general ballpark range. I kept the hair wet as I snipped, trying to blend the edges to avoid the bowl cut fashion I sported throughout my middle school career. I shudder at the thought. How horrifyingly ugly. Working to the frontal bangs, I never closed the scissors but rather used the juncture where the scissors met to glide along the hair. Nearing completion, I towel dried and worked product (picked up in Nairobi) into the hair to give it shape. Then, I finalized my cuts and looked at my hands to make sure all five fingers remained. Successful in both, I smiled with pride and went to dress for the ensuing wedding of the day.

After waiting 20 minutes for Nathan to show, I decided to walk to his house and proceed to the wedding from there. The moment I stepped outside, my neighbor started yelling how smart I looked in my dress clothes. This was my first time wearing the only nice clothes I packed before heading to Uganda. In fact, I had to unpack them from my suitcase for the occasion. Grey trousers (pants here are underwear), a pink H&M shirt, Kenneth Cole tie and Kenneth Cole dress shoes. I felt like I was standing in a broiler, beads of sweat gathering on my brow. I rushed through the sunlight across the compound to Nathan’s house and sat down on his porch.

At this point, children gathered from the neighbor’s houses to look at me in my smart clothes. “Elai Omodiŋ. Elaete ikongoen. You look so smart. You have formal clothes,” the children showered compliments as they stared. I smiled and brushed the sweat from my brow.

Hearing conversation on the porch, Nathan walked outside to meet me, still shining his loafers with a brush and shoe polish. Usually, Ugandans make greeting their first priority but Nathan knows that Americans don’t practice such things so seriously. Concentrating on the task, he didn’t look up until Dickens, his son, came outside and shouted, “Iŋai bon ŋin, Papa? Who is that, Dad?”

He looked up and immediately smiled, “Wow! You cut your hair. Where?”

“I did it myself. I figured if no one knows how to cut muzungu hair, I might as well try. It turned out pretty nice.”

“You look smart. I think you should not have long hair again.”

“Not sure about that, but it’s nice to know the option is available for a proper haircut.”

“We should go to the wedding. It was to start at 11 this morning. It is now half passed midday,” Nathan suggested as he put on shoes.

“Yeah, I’m sure they haven’t started yet. You know, African time.”

“True. In that case, let us take a cup of tea. The ceremony may run long.”

We eventually made our way to the wedding around 1 PM. As we neared the church, Nathan began to set out rules for our attendance, “I will only stay until 3 PM. They will not consume my day. We leave promptly at 3.”

“Ha. Easy for you. You stand up and leave. I stand up and everyone looks at me!” I remind him while pointing to my skin, causing him to laugh and shake his head.

Coming upon the church, the pastor walked out and shook our hands, exchanging greetings. Then, he ushered us into the grass-thatched hut church and showed us to our seats. He took me to the front, just beside the guest pastor and then moved towards the congregation to show Nathan his seat. I immediately knew this would bind my attendance to the end and made a move for transfer, “I sit by him. If I sit in the front, so does he.” The pastor initially looked shocked and then turned towards the front and sat Nathan next to me on the altar.

“Thanks a lot,” Nathan whispered as the ceremony began.

When three o’clock registered on my watch, I showed him the time, hoping for an exit but he only cast his gaze downward and sighed. “We must stay to the end. People will notice our departure if we go now.”

Expecting such an answer I only smiled, “Welcome to my world, friend.”

The ceremony ended at 6 PM and we started our walk home.

“I’m never going to a wedding with you again,” Nathan teased.

“It wasn’t so bad. Last year, the Catholic wedding ran a full 12 hours without food or drink. That was rough,” I offered as we crossed paths with the head teacher of our school. “Lokapolon, yoga. Head teacher, hello.”

“Namesake! You returned from Nairobi. Glad to see you, but I also see you did not cut your hair while on holiday. I am disappointed. You look more like a woman.”

I shook my head, “No, I actually cut my hair today.”

“No, you did not. It looks the same.”

My English became more rapid as I lost patience. “Trust me, I cut my hair with a scissors. I was there. I know. You don’t see many muzungu people so you wouldn’t notice unless I scalped myself,” I excused his dismissive remark.

“No, you’re hair is the same.”

“Okay. Whatever. Awanyunos. Good bye.” Sometimes it isn’t worth it to fight, especially when you’re having a good hair day.

(schizo)Frenic Future:
(all options subject to change, to be redundant)

a) Columbia Teacher’s College Peace Corps Fellows Program: Teaching in NYC public school during daylight, attending esteemed graduate program post-dusk.

b) Peace Corps China: Extending my PC contract to teach English at university level in a Western Province (city) for 2 years while learning Mandarin and promoting American goodwill.

c) Unemployed living on your couch: No explanation needed.

The Emerald City

2009-05-27T10:43:00.006+03:00

Awolio eoŋ! I am lost! Life was busy: finishing up collaborations with Term One’s focal schools, writing a grant for US AID Small Project Assistance (accepted!), co-facilitating Peace Corps Life Skills workshops, attending my mid-service conference, and then . . .

“Obi!” The words became concrete as I stirred to life, my body contorted in the uncomfortable “luxury” chair that bound me for fourteen hours, save for passing through customs and waking to find the bus driver asleep at the wheel of our cruiser, in the middle of a sorghum field. “Nairobi. Hapa! Nairobi,” the conductor shouted like an alarm clock.

I quickly found my feet and struggled to unlock my bursting backpack from the overhead rack where I chained it. One cannot be too careful with a suitcase of clothes worth approximately $3000 (all secondhand, of course). Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I turned in a circle to gain my first vision of Nairobi. It looked a lot like Kampala: stucco shops that reach two or three floors max. Immediately, I felt deflated with the familiarity surrounding me; I booked a week in Kenya’s capital city for its reputation: “Manhattan of East Africa.” True, a Eurocentric notion forced upon an African metropolis but I needed a drastic holiday from the bush: a city with substance and order. My shoulders slumped under the weight of my backpack and the defeat of failed expectation. Then, I turned westward.
Soaring up from the usual African shops were crystal skyscrapers. Loads of them; well, at least enough to make a proper skyline. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I started walking towards the city centre, humming “Wonderful Wizard of Oz” the entire way. I crossed River Road, a shady thoroughfare in the old part of the city, headed down Latema until I hit Moi Avenue. I could feel the electricity of the city nearing as I turned left and joined the rapid current of urban dwellers on their morning commute. For a moment, I thought myself in an American city, only with a significantly increased Black population. I was immediately blissful.

There were no greetings, no shouts of muzungu, no beggars on the street, no motorcycles harassing me with “you sit, we go.” Only a crowd of people, individuals turning off sporadically as their journeys differed from the majority. Not paying attention, I collided with a man who stopped suddenly in the middle of the block. He turned around and immediately saw my confusion, “Bus stop.” I smiled, trying to seem like bus stops were a part of my everyday life.

I quickly apologized and continued down the street to the intersection with Mama Ngina. As the first and most exciting stop in Nairobi neared, my blood quickened and my eyes searched the storefronts for a sign. Halfway down the block I turned around to make sure I hadn’t already passed it when a door swung open and released the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans: Nairobi Java House.

I caught the door before it could close and walked in to find a proper coffee shop with café tables and fashion forward bohemians sitting next to businessmen reading the daily news. I ignored feeling awkward in my travel clothes with a huge backpack; instead, I grabbed the last available table. Within five seconds a barista approached, “Morning, something to drink? Maybe a bite to eat?” I quickly ordered a regular coffee, neither cream nor sugar, and a healthy stack of pancakes, already tasting a little slice of heaven. After taking my order the barista turned to walk to the service station but doubled back, “Where are you from?”

“Oh. I’m American but I stay in Uganda,” I answered.

“Really? My mother is from Tororo.”

“Cuti? Ijeni ijo Ateso? Really? You know Ateso?” Automatically, I began speaking Ateso. Even on holiday from my village, I couldn’t help but grasp onto all ties to my African life.

“Eebo. Ai bo iboiei ijo? Yes. Where to do you stay?”

“Buka ŋaren na Soroti. Ejai ocaalo. I’m from near Soroti. It’s in the village.”

“Wonderful! You are a true Itesot, then. I’ll be right back with your coffee. I’m sure you’re looking forward to it. Not a lot of coffee in the village.”

“You have no idea,” I smiled and rubbed my hands together as I looked around at the red wine walls, the cedar wood countertop, people rushing to the register leaving moments later with a cup of energy in hand. I closed my eyes and listened to the fuzzy chatter of coffee beans grinding, steam machines, conversations in English, Swahili and Luo. City living, indeed.

* * *

“Morning, Adam. Going out for the day?” Angela, at the hotel’s front desk, asked as I walked towards the main entrance.

“Mmhmm. I think a little exploration is necessary,” I smiled back as I plugged in my earbuds and pressed the play button on my Ipod, feeling the total invisibility surging forth from the street.

“I can call a taxi for you it you want—“ she began.

“No need. I’ll take the bus.”

“Oh, my. Okay,” she said in disbelief.

I stood at the corner bus stop for ten minutes before my bus came. No. 24 pulled up to the curb and barely stopped as I jumped on and took a seat next to an older gentleman reading Barack Obama’s Dreams of my Father. I giggled to myself and took out my copy of the same book, a last minute decision at the Peace Corps library the day I left for my trip.

“Good read?” I asked the man as I showed him my copy.

“Yeah. Loads better than the rubbish he wrote in his second book, The Audacity of Hope. You can tell which he wrote while a politician.”

“I won’t bother with the sequel, then. I haven’t started this yet.”

“Well, a good place to read it. A whole section of the book takes place in this very city,” the man said as he spread his hands to the window’s view of the cityscape in the distance. “I’d ask if you were on your way home to Karen but white people in Nairobi don’t often take the bus.” Karen is a neighborhood within greater Nairobi that houses most of the white Kenyans who decided to stay after independence, named after Out of Africa’s author Karen Blixen. “Which begs the question, Where are you from?”

“I’m American but I currently live in NE Uganda with the Iteso people,” I gave the standard response even though most don’t have any knowledge of the Iteso people, a tiny population compared to Luo or Kikuyu.

The man digested my response with a furrowed brow and made his next question, “Did you vote in November?”

“By way of post,” I answered.

“I trust by your choice of reading that you made a smart decision. Where are you off to today?”

Just as I was about to answer, the conductor shouted the stop for Hardy, which was my destination. I stood up and quickly answered as I climbed down the stairs, “I’m going to kiss a giraffe. Doing something memorable for my 25th birthday.”

“Well, just remember to wash your face. Happy Birthday,” the elderly man waved from the window as the bus pulled away. “Enjoy the city.”

“I plan to.”

* * *

“So, you been to Masaai Mara?” Andy, my guide for the afternoon, asked as we walked to the car that would take us through Nairobi National Park.

“No. I’m not much of a nature person.” As soon as the words slipped out of my mouth, I felt their dishonesty. Now a year into village life, nature wasn’t as scary as I once thought, just not my cup of coffee. “I thought if I were to go on safari, it would be within the confines of a city.”

“Well, good choice, then. You can see the skyline of Nairobi in the distance. Most strange thing you’ll ever see. Animals running around with skyscrapers in the background. Crazy sight, indeed. You . . .” And so it went for the next five hours. Andy loves to talk about any subject. I learned his mother was from Seychelles and his father was from Uganda but he grew up in Mombasa, hunting warthogs in his boyhood.

Arriving at the vehicle, I laughed at the hybrid before us. Seeing my response, Andy harped in, “Well, as a city person, I thought you’d prefer the greenest vehicle we have. She runs like a bull, swear my life on it.”

“It is perfect. I guess green would do me well. I burn my trash in a rubbish pit. Not sure how eco-friendly that may be. This may forgive some of my Earthly sins. Off we go, then.”

“Damn lions. Making their kill before we arrive. Wish ‘em to hell, I do,” Andy swore as we finished hour four of our adventure. I lost interest after the third hour but Andy was hell-bent on finding a cat. So hell-bent that he off-roaded after passing Leopard Cliff, voyaging through mud for thirty minutes before we met with a buffalo. “This isn’t good. Let me see if I can turn around.”

“Really? The thing can’t be scared off?” I asked quietly.

“Nah, it’ll charge. Worst thing to do is piss it off. Shit, another behind us. What do we do now?”

“Wait it out? What more can we do?” I offered, the words of a true villager. Waiting for things or people is second nature now.

So, we sat in the middle of the park for an hour, waiting for something to scare the buffalos away. Being off the path, nothing came by to assist. Andy became anxious after thirty minutes and when the hour hit, he could take no more. He started to exit the car when the buffalo walked forward. I turned the key in the ignition hoping the sudden noise would startle the beast. Before I could jump the engine, the fan kicked on in a silent roar and the buffalos screeched and started running down the hill towards the ravine.

“Good thinking. Well, you may not have seen a lion, but you came face to face with a pissy buffalo. What now?”

“Take me back to the city. I’m not a nature person,” I said, this time seeing the truth in my words.

* * *

I spent the last day in Nairobi sitting in Uhuru Park, landscaped with flowers, shrubs and trees casting endless shade. I sipped an iced coffee and ate a sandwich bought from a vendor while reading the last of Obama’s book. I felt sad to leave Nairobi, a city that won my heart with its uniquely reclaimed culture, sweet coffee, delicate pastries and its friendly yet not intrusive people; however, I know one day I will return to urban lifestyle and all its cosmopolitan qualities. For now, in my 25th year, living the village life sounds like a good deal.

Lessons Learnt:

In university, my black friends would often complain about having to go hours for a decent hair appointment. I will forever understand this plight. Therefore, I cut my hair with nothing more than a scissors, my fingers, and a hand mirror.

The first time I ran in the village, children threw rocks. I again pick up the pace with reinforcements. Nathan and myself will be running at 5:45 AM four days a week. There go my kneecaps.

Read Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael. Maybe it was science fiction when published in 1992 but, in this day and age, it is spot-on.

3 AM Bus

2009-03-28T11:15:00.004+03:00

Western Uganda is cold and hilly. Opposite of East.

Owino Market

Tea Plantation

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. My alarm clock continues to chirp as I sit up in bed and rub my eyes awake. The sunlight of the morning that usually floods through my bedroom curtain is absent today. I stretch my arm out and pat my bedside table in search of the alarm clock, still chirping. After a few moments, I press the snooze button, causing its face to shine forth the time: 2:30 AM. “Kampala awaits. You can do this. Think of the city. Get out of bed,” I convince myself as I swing my legs onto the floor and stand up. I decided not to wire power to my bedroom since I only use it to sleep, so I walk slowly into the kitchen and switch on the table lamp. The light stings, causing me to take a few steps back and rub my eyes for the second time. “Why do I have to live so far away? 9 hours on a bus is fucking ridiculous.” I usually plan trips to Kampala in advance to mentally prepare myself for city living but Peace Corps called me to the city two days ago. Not enough time to think of what to pack or re-learn how to cross a busy street. “Should I make coffee?” I ask myself as I pour water from my Gerry can into my electric kettle and switch on the power button. Bathing this early in the morning calls for warm water. “No, I’ll have to pee on the bus. Besides, I’ll fall asleep if I don’t.” After a year of living alone, I now talk to myself. I quickly bathe, dress and throw on my backpack to check my house. I’ll be gone for a week and want to make sure everything is locked. I turn on my cell phone torch, hold it in between my lips and walk around my house pushing on windows to make sure the latches are tight. I also lock the doors from the outside. “Okay, here we go. I’m outta here! Awanyunos bobo,” I wave to my house as I turn around to the empty compound. I take a deep breath for courage and begin my walk. I run through the tall grass afraid a snake might latch on to my leg. Once safely under the mango trees, I follow the path from my neighbor’s house to the school buildings. Mosquitoes swarm the security light outside the office. I stop to take a deep breath, realizing I wasn’t breathing for the first leg of my journey. “Okay, no more lights until I get to the center. I can do this. Walk fast. Walk fast, Omoding.” I tighten my backpack and set out for the center. As I walk through the school buildings I hear bats screaming as they gather in the classrooms. I clear the teacher’s houses and come to the path leading through the bush. It starts out wide and gets narrower until it opens to the main road. I skip down the eerie path, muscles tight. The sound of breathing comes from somewhere nearby. I mouth the words “Oh my God” and keep going. My feet start to run and the contents of my backpack shift, causing noise. My heart begins to pound against my shirt and my mind floods with possible situations. The breathing becomes louder and my eyes search for its location. My head whips desperately as I wait to be taken to the ground. As I point my cell phone torch into the grass, a cow’s head emerges and I let out the scream of a 5-year-old girl. “Meuh,” the cow responds before it disappears back into the bush from where it came. However, I don’t stop until I make it to the main road, where I double over, hands on my knees and my chest heaving with shame. The clouds pass and moon shines down. “You’re a little late,” I critique the sky. As I near the old mortuary, my foot catches on something and I fall to the ground face-first. “What the hell? What now?” I whisper to the dirt. “Beh. Beh.” The culprit bleats as I push myself up onto my feet. I shine my cell phone torch to find ten goats sleeping in the middle of the road. The goat I tripped over adjusts itself and falls back asleep. I contemplate throwing rocks at the animals in protest but think better of myself and continue to the center. “That’s enough. No more shit show this morning,” I order fate. Fruit bats the size of crows congregate in the center’s mango tree, showering down feces to anyone who waits below. I opt to cross the street to move out of the trajectory. The storefront lights only spread a short distance but it comforts me. I scan the center and spot a few dogs mounting each other next to the bore hole. I think of my 14 months. The sounds of footsteps come from behind and I expect to find another person coming to catch the bus. I turn around to greet the person only to find a 7-year-old boy holding Gerry cans. “Esapat, yoga. Ai bo ilosi ijo? Boy, hello. Where are you going?” I question as he passes. “Agilo. Aiga akipi. To the bore hole. I’m fetching water.” It is nearly 3 AM and a young boy is going to pump water! Furious, I say to myself, “I said enough with the bullshit. What the hell is going on this morning?” “Illiling. Ajai eong ajotoor, Shut up. I’m sleeping,” yells a deep voice from within the hollow tree stump next to me. However, I’m unable to apologize for my disruption because there is no word for “sorry” in Ateso. Instead, I continue walking through the center, distancing myself from the talking stump and the bat shit. I make it to the roundabout in the middle of the center and hear the bus horn. 3 AM. The village bus is the only thing that keeps time. “Thank goodness. I don’t think I could take much more.” I board the bus and warn the driver, “Ocoiete. Ejassi akinei nen. Be careful. There are goats just there.” He looks at me strangely and points to the back of the bus.

-[-]-

Hymn: “Taking the Long Way” by the Dixie Chicks

Him: Sean Penn in “Milk” . . . stunning

Hmm: Be jealous. I found True Religion jeans at Owino for $10

Ekiliokit lokatutubet: Half Way Man

2009-03-14T10:57:00.004+03:00

Life is good.

My kiddos, well some of the 25,000.

Lunch!

I pedal down the dirt road unable to use my seat because the recent rains washed away the smooth surface of the road; a million bumps now frustrate my morning commute. A gust of wind whips the dust into a cyclone and moves towards me. Do I throw myself into the swamp? Do I hold my breath? No, I wipe my lips of the Bert’s Bees Lip Balm I applied before leaving the house and continue to pedal. Without thinking, I blow a bubble just as I make contact with the cyclone. As soon as I return the popped gum into my mouth, I hear the grit on my teeth.

“I’m such a fool. Great job, Omoding,” I say to myself as I spit my gum into the bush.

For my 6th grade birthday, my mother bought tickets to “Cats.” It was the year of Rum Tum Tugger, Deuteronomy and Jezebel. I ate lunch in Mr. Thompson’s classroom with friends while listening to the soundtrack, imagining my own rebirth. It took a few more years, but I got there.

Grandpa chewed his gum with an open mouth on the way to the theater. He processed at least a pack a day in both cigarettes and chewing gum until he died a few months later. His face soured and he rolled the window down, disposing of the flavorless piece by throwing it as far as his elbow would allow in my mother’s compact car.

“Dad, you can’t just throw your gum like that! It’s littering,” my mom scolded as she drove down the road.

“Jesus, LuAnn. It’s biodegradable. It’ll break down. Dust to dust,” my grandfather laughed and rolled up his window, smoothing his gray hair back into place.

I hope my hair goes with me to the grave.

“Yeah, in years,” my mother countered sarcastically. I sat in the backseat and chuckled. Children should never start an argument with their parents expecting to win. It rarely happens.

I cracked the window and let my gum fly into the spring breeze, feeling mischievous and aligned with grandpa’s philosophy. “Dust to dust,” I whispered.

-[-]-

African time is something completely different from the American reservation system. At home, if you’re late for a reservation on a Saturday night, you lose your table. Here I am, reading Water For Elephants, my second hour of waiting for the Ministry of Education officials to arrive and facilitate a workshop concerning education in war-ravaged areas. Yes, I live in a war-ravaged area.

Well into the third hour, the officials arrive and begin their program, which will last for 6 hours. No meeting should last this long. I certainly don’t; I stand and make my way to the exit, bound for fresh air when – “Yes? You need to leave?” the facilitator asks, clearly keeping tabs on the only white person in the meeting. In fact, the cameraman came to take a picture of the whitey for record purposes. It made me feel like a monkey. “You’re disturbing the workshop.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was the first to arrive. I silenced my phone while watching countless others begin conversing in the middle of the conference. Could being white be a disturbance? My disturbance is bullshit.

“Zoe, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m dying of laughter over here!” I whispered in between convulsions of laughter at my stand partner’s humor. Orchestra was a favorite subject because Zoe and I laughed the horrors of high school away behind our music stand. She began a follow-up to her quip, “I’m just saying—“

“Are you two alright or do I need to move you? Adam, you really need to stop all the disruption in class. Some of us are serious musicians. I know you are with us, now show me you are with us,” our conductor/ teacher scolded as I bit my lips to prevent a malevolent smile from shining through. She tapped her stand and we raised our instruments, ready to begin another round of “Hoe Down.”

“Yeah, Adam. Show some sophistication. After all, this is a ho down.” Zoe whispered as she brought her viola to her chin. However, this time we both started laughing and our scrolls nearly knocked into each other.

Without stopping the orchestra, the conductor screamed at us, “You’re fulfilling the violist stereotypes, you two. Be serious.”

“Yeah, Zoe. Be serious. This is a serious piece of music.”

“More like a serious piece of something else!”

-[-]-

When I first moved to the village, I realized I needed to change the locks on my doors. I was not the only holder of keys and people felt at-home enough to storm into my home to keep me company. I didn’t want company, I wanted privacy. That week, I walked to the trading center and brought a carpenter to complete the work. The next morning, I awoke and walked to my bathing area, keys in hand. I turned the key in the lock and . . . nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn. I began trying to force the lock to budge. After thirty minutes, my fingers started to tingle with pain. Children who escaped from class gathered around me as I shook the door and started to cry. Their laughs grew louder and I turned in fury, “Go the fuck away!”

After my outburst, I sat down on the ground, head in hands, and sobbed, “I can’t do this. What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this!.” That was the last time I truly broke down in Uganda. After fifteen minutes of hysterics, I convinced myself to continue with my day, without bathing, and I stood up to go and dress. After all, would anyone notice? I couldn’t care less.

Every month, TPS held a dance in the Main Ballroom of the Memorial Union. Without much of a budget, the music blared to a room devoid of any inclination of celebration. No decorations except the sparkles on the clothing of those in attendance. The tighter the jeans, the better. My group of friends always arrived a stone’s throw from the porcelain goddess, a consequence of pre-barring. The night was unforgettable. Somehow, we all seemed to wake up the next morning on the floor of a friend’s apartment unable to recall the occurrences of the dance.

The TPS dances are no more, I think. Their budget ran out thanks, in part, to their underage drinkers passing out in the lobby.

“Wake up, G. Sleeping the whole day away is not an option,” Jesse shook me in an effort to bring me back to life after too much Malibu.

“I need food in my system if I’m going to make it out again tonight.”

“I’m never drinking again. I swear. Never again. I feel like death. Let me die!” I groaned as he walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

“You won’t die, drama queen. Drink this. We’re going to get breakfast. Now.”

“Fine. But they better have hash browns,” I said as I gulped the water, suddenly realizing we were one shorter than last night. “Where the hell is Elliot?”

“You know how he is at TPS dances. I shouldn’t have to remind you every time.”

“So, that is why we slept in the living room. I’d apologize for not remembering, but isn’t that part of the TPS experience? Jesus, Jesse. Stop being such a bitch,” I flashed my evil grin at Jesse as he pulled on his shoes.

He immediately turned and cackled, “Correction. Diablo. I’m Diablo. Now, let’s go.” I stood up and caught my balance just as Jesse threw shoes at my head. Despite his tormenting, I considered Jesse a great friend. We ate together a few times a week and studied at the Law Library often, always finding things to talk about.

I pulled on my coat and headed for the door when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Wait. Last night, before we went out, what did we do?” I asked as I tried to brush the glitter out of my hair and off my face.

“Get over it. We’re out of here. Bye, Elliot!” he screamed and slammed the door. “It’s not like anyone will notice.” “Ha. Sure. One look and they’ll think . . .”

“Let them think what they want. We had a great night,” Jesse screamed at the traffic as we stepped outside, a patch of snow mysteriously bright red, the color of someone’s vomit.

“Did we? I don’t really remember.”

-[-]-

Track: “Stop and Stare” by OneRepublic
Mack: Andersen Cooper's memoir
Flack: “If you let your hair grow, you’ll look like a white woman.”

Snoozer

2009-02-28T10:16:00.002+03:00

"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

2009-02-13T10:03:00.004+03:00

“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)

2009-02-09T14:51:00.002+03:00

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. . .

Sprinkle Splash Sinless

2009-01-31T10:50:00.000+03:00

Wham. The dust flies in the air and I sneeze. I shouldn’t sit near the mess that is my neighbor making flour from her sorghum harvest but moving away would be an insult. Wham. Sneeze. Wham. Sneeze. The pattern continues for another few minutes before my neighbor ceases and looks up from her cloud of dust in my general direction but not directly at me.

“Tomorrow is the baptism of my granddaughter, Tracy, at the Teso mass. We will have lunch afterwards,” my neighbor, Petua, tells me as we sit in the shade of our mango tree. Immediately after her announcement, she returns to beating her sorghum and our conversation ends.

This is the common method of communication in my village: direct in the sense of a quasi-order. In my first months I felt like everyone told me what to do and I became angry; however, now I know words like “please” and the phrase “would you . . .” don’t exist. The scary thing is that I catch myself using the same style of direct language.

I remain under the mango tree with Petua for another ten minutes and the debris from the massacred sorghum saturates the air and impedes my lungs. I quickly excuse myself, go indoors for a literal breather and time to interpret her announcement over a cup of tea. As awkward as it may sound, the hot beverage helps me balance the heat. While communication seems explicit, it is indirect to the likes of outsiders. Was the conversation an invitation to the service or simply an announcement? Does this mean I have to go to church?

I’m not an intensely religious person—claiming agnosticism is a stretch. However, I did make an effort to attend the different houses of worship in my first months here. After making the rounds thrice (and sitting through a homily concerning the annihilation of demonic people . . . those who know me will understand), I abruptly stopped and the entire village started to gossip. Witchcraft? Possession? Didn’t he find his preferred religion? The reminders of Sunday/ Friday worship followed for six months thereafter in an effort to “save my soul.” Church is a different experience in the village context: it lasts anywhere from two to seven hours and the resident white man (yours truly) gets to make his own sermon. By the time I start eating the tea leaves, I decide to show my support and attend. How bad can it be?

The next morning I awake promptly at eight o’clock to bathe, have a cup of coffee (always a great surprise in the mail) and brush up on my Ateso flashcards in preparation for the “Omoding sermon.” All this used to take me an astonishing two hours but now lasts a half hour. Adaptation at its finest. By nine o’clock, I make my way to St. Mark’s for the Teso mass and reach it in two minutes. In Uganda, all schools have religious affiliations and a church on the school compound. This makes the peer-pressure factor of church attendance almost unbearable, but I somehow resist. DARE did me well.

I walk into the church to find the English service still underway. I freeze in the middle of the aisle at the back of the church. My mind failed me! The Teso mass wasn’t at nine but nine thirty. Damnit. “Omoding! Please join us,” the reverend singles me out as everyone turns to stare.

Too late to turn back, I sit in the last pew and endure the looks of the parishioners that silently scream, “You come for the last half hour? You heathen.” I shrug off the looks and act as if I can’t see the stares. The ushers stand and move through the church to take a collection. Again, the awful looks continue as I pass the basket without contributing. I don’t give money to institutions that discriminate against certain individuals. Sorry, that’s just me.

The ushers count the money, auction a chicken and announce the total income to the congregation. People clap and the women holler with glee at their success. The reverend stands and looks me in the eye, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”

I laugh to myself at the use of the term “the people” and clear my throat for optimal stage voice, “As you all know, the school year starts in only a few weeks. I urge every parent to register your children with the school of your choice to ensure the successful development of your family and our community.” I smile at my use of Ateso but feel a slight twinge of pain in my frontal lobe. My brain fears the impending three to four hours of Ateso. A few seconds pass as everyone waits for me to continue my speech with the mention of Our Savior Jesus Christ. I sit down, cross my legs and wipe my brow with my handkerchief. People in the village understand my choice to wear jeans, not slaughter chickens, bike everywhere (not a choice but everything else is against PC policy), drink water while walking (it signifies alcoholism), but they cannot wrap their minds around my concise nature. It is common to speak until your voice fails so my ten-second address left one hundred people looking at me with bewilderment.

The mass concludes with ten minutes of hymns and a few prayers for those suffering eseny—HIV. People start to congratulate each other on their prayers and file out of the church. I remain in my seat and people stop to chat with me, “Omoding. You came very late.” “Omoding, you must come every week to pray.” “Omoding, it is nice to see you at church. See you next week.” “Omoding, what are you? Catholic? Muslim? Protestant? Born Again? We are all very confused.”

I laugh each question off and wish everyone a nice day when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Sir, yes. Sorry to bother you, but I am a teacher without placement. I need to register with the CCT. He told me you could help me,” a young man dressed professionally despite the hole in his left pocket looks to the ground as he speaks. The Ministry of Education asked all teachers without placement to register with the area CCTs for consideration in the new term. Because my counterpart lives a great distance from our office, I have the great task of registering our county’s jobless teachers.

I stand and pull the culturally appropriate card, “Yes, I can help you but you show bad manners by disturbing me while I am in church. This is Sunday; the day of rest. Did you forget? Come, I’ll register you but the paperwork is at my home,” and I parade out of the church, causing the people coming for the Ateso mass to look at me as though I decided not to attend at the last minute. I march to my house determined not to be late for the next mass with the teacher walking behind me, head down, knowing his mistake.

It takes twenty minutes for the teacher to complete the paperwork, which makes me late for mass. I run through the compound towards the church when I see Amojong making her way into the church. Amojong literally means “old woman” and is a sign of respect for women in my village. I don’t know her actual name but look to her as my adopted grandmother. She recognizes me and starts to shoo me into mass, thinking I’m on my way into the trading center, “Ilosi ijo okanisa. Ipuda ijo ailip. You go to church. You need to pray.”

I gallop in a few strides in front of her determined to find my own seat that is not immediately in front of the altar. I sit down towards the back in a pew with ample legroom and a strange half-pillar in front of it. As Amojong passes, she takes my arm in her hand and tries to pull me to my feet. I start to whisper, “Mam! Mam! No. No.” If I go with her to the front, I won’t be able to escape the mass at my leisure. I resist and she accepts defeat after a few seconds of people looking at the commotion.

Minutes turn into an hour and my mind becomes mush with concentration. Ateso mass always gives me a headache. My brow permanently wrinkles as I lean forward to decipher the content. The Arch Deacon stands and walks towards me with my neighbor, her daughter and the grandbaby. Closer they come until they sit in my pew. That strange half-pillar structure in my row? The baptismal fountain. My pew? Meant for the family of the child. Damnit. All eyes turn on me. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m an attention-hungry man out to steal the moment but it’s too late to find a new seat—the church is full. The baptism continues and the village photographer holds his ancient camera to take a snap. The ceremony pauses and everyone poses, without smiling, and the Arch Deacon pulls me into the frame. “Click” and I’m permanently engrained in little Tracy’s baptism. The surprised white man. Poor girl.

After the baptism, minutes continue and hours pass. My headache pulses until, at the end of the mass, the Arch Deacon stands up and repeats the familiar request, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”

I slowly stand up and massage my forehead. The fluency of my first address escapes me. In fact, all words disappear except, “I’m not sure what to say.” I give a little giggle and attempt the same address that I gave to the first service, murdering the grammar and pronunciation but too tired to dwell on my lack of perfection. The expected stares come as I fail to continue my speech and I decide to walk out of the church and make a beeline for my house. I passed my limit.

I unlock my door and lay down for a nap. “This is why I don’t go to church,” I say to myself as I drift off to a perfect world full of ice cream and hamburgers and walks after dusk. It’s nearly 1:30 PM.

Half of an hour passes in the blink of an eye and I hear Petua screaming my name outside. Hazily, I roll out of bed and weigh my options. I can either crawl under my bed to escape the imminent intrusion of privacy (pulling back of the curtains for a game of Where’s Waldo or, in my case, Where’s Whitey) or go outside and confront the situation. I make the adult decision and go to the front door, messing my hair to rid its bedheadedness, not that anyone in the village could tell the difference. “Inyo bo? What?” I answer trying to amplify the look of fatigue on my face while simultaneously diminishing the look of annoyance.

“The lunch for Tracy. It is now. You come.”

I sigh and accept my defeat. I went to the mass and now I’m bound to the luncheon. “Of course. You wait one minute,” I pull on my shoes and walk to the house next door to find the Arch Deacon, Reverend and the chairwoman of the Mother’s Union already mid-meal.

I serve myself a plate of rice, spiced rice, atap (millet bread), chicken and cabbage. Still half asleep I shovel a first bite with my fingers as everyone stares at me in disbelief. Damnit. I broke a cardinal rule of any Ugandan event including food: I didn’t pray before eating. Rather than admit my faux-pas I continue eating, thinking if I stuff my face they will forget about my fault and focus on how much I can shovel in my mouth. Not the most rational thought process. I can only laugh as I picture how large my cheeks must look.

The meal concludes quickly and the Chairwoman of the Mother’s Union says a closing prayer, “Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please let Mother Tracy remember that it is most important to pray before she breast feeds. We must all remember to thank you for our food before consuming those gifts. It is often forgotten these days and we ask you for a kindly reminder.”

I am sure I blushed, hiccupped and then sniggered at my day; my always-interesting Ugandan life. Ejokuna naarai mam eoŋ alosenenei okanisa ŋinisaabiti naarai anyami eoŋ inyamat lu ipu. It’s for the best I don’t go to church because then I eat too much.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:

Book: The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Michael Greer (themes of race, class, sexuality, power in a WWII San Fran make a spellbinding read)

Tune: “On the Radio” by Regina Spektor (makes me weep thinking of Raccoon and Espresso Royale)

Taste: Raspberry Tea with warmed milk in lieu of water (i.e., the African way)

-[-]-

Love,

Omoding

(the “H” is silent J)

New Year's Blog

2009-01-21T10:06:00.002+03:00

Holiday was a great time for a journey to the islands. I’m trying on a new glove of writing, something more familiar and entertaining rather than a “Mother Stork regurgitation” project. Also, I want to thank everyone who contributed bits of holiday love, I’ll make sure to bring some Ugandan treasures back with me in . . wow, this year! How exciting. Onto the goods . . .

-[-]-

Our Ugandan Airways travel agent said the flight was direct. How she manipulated the truth. A two-hour flight stretched into the abyss . . . four and half hour. We stopped in Kilimanjaro and Dar El Salaam before finally getting to our island paradise. I won’t bring up the daycare that was our flight except to say that it someone forgot a binky. I still have nightmares of children screaming like death was their neighbor.

Our first night in Zanzibar, half the group with lost reservations and somewhere unknown on the island, Greg, Dan, Lisa and I decide to have a night swim. Our first journey into the Indian Ocean, waiting the standard thirty minutes after eating calamari and shrimp; a dream to our landlocked Ugandan lives. In our swimming “costumes”, we run for the water. I gallop through the shallowness until I make it out about 300 feet, the water still as deep as my ankles.

Looking back at the shore, winded, Lisa suggests, “Let’s lay in the water. I’m getting tired.” In agreement, we all float ourselves as we look to the starry skies.

“This is awesome. I never see this many stars in Uganda,” Greg observes, but I can only hear his muffled words underwater. I feel like a child half-submerged in the bathtub, not in the ocean. Then a pricking sensation.

“No, this is painful. Is anyone else being bitten?” I ask, standing to scratch my back. “What the hell is biting me?”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Lisa agrees. “I think I’m done. Splash my back to get whatever is biting off?”

“Only if you return the favor. I can’t wait to take a shower.” And so we make the twenty-minute walk back to the hotel, scratching the whole way.

“Are you kidding?” Greg screams from the bathroom. “The water in the shower is salty!”

“Bullshit,” Dan responds.

“No, I’m serious.”

Zanzibar was supposed to be the exotic escape from our Uganda: hot showers, luxurious living, seafood, ocean, and relaxation. By day three, our hair started turning green. Sometimes you cannot run far enough to escape reality; to escape home.

-[-]-

Flying into Entebbe, I feel a sense of peace unexpected in Uganda. Zanzibar was a great holiday from our culturally appropriate lives. Sure, I lost my camera and wallet, vomited to ring in the New Year (don’t trust Long Islands when the bartender doesn’t know the location of the drink’s namesake), had a spat with the two volunteers I am closest with, got an offer to stay and teach English on the beach at a hospitality NGO and stuffed myself full of seafood and ice cream. Gliding over the red dirt roads and lushly green grass, I was home: a place where I know the rules of living; where I know the language; where I know how to take public transportation. Leaving was the best thing I’ve done for my Ugandan life. I no longer count the days until I leave the village to go to town. I feel content at home. I reached a new level of patience. I trust myself.

Part of the reason I joined Peace Corps was to figure out who I want to be. In the first year, I figured out who others wanted me to become: a philanthropist for my community and a confidante for other volunteers. However, I fell into old habits and became other’s expectation. I became a mirror, being the reflection others wanted or needed. I became so absorbed with other people that I forgot to ask me what do I want? This year I live for myself. It is my New Year’s commitment. (I avoid resolutions because they seem to expire after three weeks time.) It’s good to be home.

-[-]-

Oweeno Market is my glory. Complete chaos. Opposite of the tranquil village I live in. Located in Old Kampala, you walk into what looks like a sprawling refugee camp and find an unending maze of clothes, hats, shoes, dresses, curtains, etcetera. Anything you imagine waits for you at Oweeno, if you can brave the crowds of vendors holding your arms, groping your midsection, the quick hands of pickpockets and the shouts of “Muzungu” or “Obama” (a welcome change post-election). I thrive in the environment and seem to have the direction to find the best deals.

“You should really think about trying on a pair of Diesel jeans,” I peer pressure Eric as I navigate towards the Birkenstock stall that seems to be every volunteer’s dream. (I’m the exception. And that pair of Chaco’s I brought now act as doorstops.) “Who knows, you might like them.”

“But I don’t—“ Eric began only to be interrupted by Kelly.

“ ‘I don’t wear labels’ says the man as he looks through the pile of labeled Birkenstocks.” Kelly, Eric and I were fast friends the very first day of Peace Corps staging. Kelly and I share the love of everything cosmopolitan. Eric thought I was his competition for Kelly’s affection until he put two and two together to find three. How queer! After a year on opposite sides of Uganda and a glorious week of humor together, we weaved through Oweeno with renewed joy for our Ugandan lives.

“You’re trying them on. It won’t kill you.”

Leaving Eric behind, Kelly and I walked deeper into the stalls. We pass WHAM! shirts and logo tees with printings reading “Of course we come from monkeys, just look at your mom” causing a quick giggle; enough interest for the vendor to grab Kelly’s arm. “You pay now.”

“How do you find what you’re looking for in this place?” she questions as she rips her arm free and gives the look of death to the perpetrator, all in one motion without breaking her sentence. We’re used to this kind of behavior.

I smile and hold up a knowing finger. “Watch and learn. DIESEL JEANS! What size is Eric’s waist?” I quickly ask.

“30? Yeah, 30.”

“DIESEL JEANS! SIZE 30! DIESEL JEANS! Not the most proper way of shopping, but it works. Trust me. I have 6 pairs of Diesels at home in the village.” I wink to Kelly.

Within a matter of three minutes, the vendors swarm us offering their goods, “Obama, you take these. Try these. Perfect.” The easiest part of the process is finding what you want. Buying takes practice. They start at insanely high prices (higher if you happen to be white) and you barter your way down to a suitable agreement. In the case of Diesel jeans, that means 20,000/=, or $10.

Eric catches up to us in time to see his options. “I’m not sure. Diesel jeans are tight. I like room to move.”

“Here. I like these. Try them on,” Kelly hands over a stack of three pairs.

“Where, though?” Eric looks around the market, searching out a private place to drop trou.

“Ssebo, he wants to try. You cover him or we go,” I get gruff with the vendors. It is how things work. Sure enough, two guys run over with sheets and hold up a makeshift dressing room for Eric to try on each pair of jeans in the middle of traffic. With each pair, the men drop the curtain to let Kelly and I investigate and decide, as if Eric can’t possibly make his own decision.

Deciding on the third pair, we get the vendor to reduce his price from 50,000/= to the standard 20,000/= and Eric bags the jeans. Then another man comes and holds up a pair of the most ridiculously fab Diesels: the denim has white clouds over a baby blue sky. I’d buy them if they weren’t size 36. Back in the eighth grade they would be perfect but a bit large for me now. I humor the man as we move for the street exit, “Ssebo. I am not married. If I buy these and go to the disco, people will laugh at me and tell me the sun shines out of my ass.” Everyone within earshot laughs at my joke. Turns out humor translates.

“Hey, Eric. What happened to no wearing labels?” Kelly smirks with a winning jab.

“Shut up, you.”

“May I remind you that I’m approaching a year since I could have these little showcases of romance. I may have to kill you both if you continue.” I joke as we emerge back into the daylight. Back home.

-[-]-

The Ugandan school calendar runs from February to December with three terms lasting about three months each and about a month of break between. The big break is 2 months. I am closing down the big break now. The first week after term closed, Umeme (the power company) came and wired power from our poles to the high school down the road. Something happened in that process leaving us without power. I expected a quick fix. I mean, it couldn’t take too long to figure out the issue. Could it?

After five days floating in and out of consciousness on my cold cement floor to escape the massive heat, I went to Kampala for PC training. I left thinking I’d come home to find the lights on but, a week later, I came home to find the only thing “on” was burnt grass on my couch, meaning the village burned every inch of surviving grass. I swept and returned to the life of floored semi-consciousness. Two weeks passed and I left for Zanzibar, saying a silent prayer that Umeme come and fix the “fucking thing” or that a miracle happens and the power restore itself. After all, if the geckos can grow a new tail, the power can step up to the challenge.

Sure, I came home fresh and inspired, at peace with my new Ugandan life. Well, not new; it’s been a year. Despite the awakening, I still said a silent prayer for power as I opened my door. None to be found on the other side. Instead of taking to the floor, I started biking around my community and forcing myself on friends, acquaintances, and random strangers. Let me lay in your shade. Tell me about yourself. Feed me. Will you be my friend? The days flew by into two full weeks. I started thinking I’d be totally fine if power never came back. . . That is a lie.

I sat myself under my friend Yusuf’s tree and we started discussing the usual topic: Obama. Yusuf is a great man, helping me not electrocute myself when doing electrical work on my house. I asked him for assistance because I bore witness to my father shaking with that scary light-in-his-eyes every time we put up new light fixtures or ceiling fans. “Mom, Dad did it again!” I was nervous for good reason. My big new idea is wiring power to my kitchen/dining area. “Would you mind helping me again with my house?”

“Sure. You have your wires, socket and tower clips?” he knows his stuff.

“I’m going to town on Wednesday to gather everything I need. I figure we can use the school’s ladder to put the wire through the gap in the walls.” My walls go all the way up to the ceiling, which is a good things to isolate bat intrusions but not when you want to put a wire to the other side of your house. Luckily, the point where the roof sheets meet has an opening just large enough to run a wire.

“When do you want to work on it?”

“Thursday?” I pose as an option.

“Sure, let’s go look at the situation,” he mumbles as he goes to his bike, clearly on a mission to maison d’emusugut. Yusuf likes to visit my house because he knows I have bananas (the sweet ones, not the green ones baked and mashed; sick) and lemonade (well, it is Crystal Lite). We cycle through the dust storms pulled up by the winds on the dirt roads until we reach the currently abandoned compound that is my neighborhood. Yusuf crosses his arms, “No problem. The way it will pass is really high, but we’ll be careful. No death for us. How long have you been powerless?” He says as beads of sweat drip down his brow, pointing to the fan that isn’t oscillating or blowing cool air.

“Two months? Wow. Two months. I don’t mind usually, but sometimes I feel like offing myself I’m so bored. Especially at night.”

“Let us go look at the transformer,” he says seriously as he again walks to his bike and sets off towards the power pole. I quickly lock up and pedal hard to catch him. We throw our bikes to the ground and climb the nearby mango tree until we’re eye-to-eye with the transformer. “Hmm,” Yusuf exudes an all-knowing sigh, “I am not sure what to do next.”

“How about this one?” I say blindly as I jiggle a wire, causing sparks to fly about three feet in every direction. “Nope.”

“Try that one,” he points to a small frayed wire. I wasn’t sure if he was too afraid to touch it himself. Was I the sacrificial lamb? Hell, I went to church yesterday for my neighbor’s grandbaby’s baptism. I had faith on my side. I jiggle the wire and nothing happens until my phone vibrates.

“Yoga?” I answer.

“Ejai akim. Ejai akim. There is power. There is power,” my neighbor screams so loud I move the phone a few inches from my ear.

“No, no death for us. Only light. Light in your home. We want you to be happy at home.” Yusuf laughs as he jumps from the flowering mango tree.

-[-]-

NOTE: New camera coming . . . pictures resume soon.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:

Book: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell

Show: Gossip Girl because one of it's reviews declares it "Mind-blowingly inappropriate."

Tune: “Bag Lady” by Erykah Badu

-[-]-

Love,

Omoding

(the “H” is silent)

I'll Be Home for Xmas . . . that song is dead to me.

2008-12-22T10:15:00.004+03:00

Happy Holidays!

Confused by the "holiday" weather . . .

Short post. Big thanks to Teenie for the packages of holiday cheer, which facilitated Sarah and myself decking the halls. Wanted to throw up some pictures. Also, we listened to holiday music and completely broke down upon the refrain of "I'll be Home for Xmas." Then we laughed as "Baby It's Cold Outside" piped in. To everyone at home,enjoy Hannukah (which starts today), Christmas, Kwanzaa and Winter Solstice. Peace on Earth . . . enjoy Cosmos.

Gender bending

2008-12-17T09:58:00.004+03:00

Baking in Uganda with . . . (bottom of post)

Every female volunteer in Uganda will say the issue of gender is a daily struggle in her community. I bear witness to this occurrence; however, I want to flip the coin in this post and show how I, as a male, struggle against the strict gender canons in my small village. The first reality check that my maleness was part of the Ugandan landscape came in the form of my house. When I moved in the walls were proof Pampers do not exist in the village and I could star gaze simply by looking up at my holey roof. When I asked my organization why they did not make repairs before my arrival, they proclaimed, “Men don’t need nice houses!” Indeed, the female volunteer in town had fresh paint, a new roof and a ceiling put in her home. In fact, Peace Corps declined my site a few times because it was too removed/ isolated for female volunteers going to my district. I guess men do not need company. When I renovated my home, (Rhiannon calls it the Ugandan version of rehab because it is "so wonderful") the village told me “it looks like you have a woman living in your house!” Another reminder of my gender dysfunction comes when I excuse myself from the evening conversations with my male friends. They cannot understand why I need to go home but I must sweep, mop, cook, clean, fetch water, wash my clothes, etc.; i.e., be an independent man. My favorite experience came when I spent the entire day baking pies over my sigiri (charcoal grill). My male friends came to tell me “Omoding, you’re more than a woman.” The hardest part about being male in Uganda is that I can’t have female friends and at home I surrounded myself with intelligent, motivated, powerful and beautiful women. Yes, being a male in Uganda gives me significantly more privilege than my female counterparts, I recognize that but I wanted to point out gender canons suppress certain identity characteristics in both men and women; nothing more, nothing less.

In daily life, I’m on an extended holiday. It is our version of summer: no school for 2 months and hotter than hell. I slept on my concrete floor last night to avoid sweating. I’m to go to Zanzibar for New Years with a group of other volunteers. I also plan to celebrate Christmas with the nuns at Marcy’s convent. It is strange to have holidays without snow, friends and family. Everyone plays “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” but I do not understand why. The only thing white in my village is me. . . and I know they don’t dream of me. I hope it all passes quickly so I do not fall into some depression. While sadness may come, it is crazy to say goodbye to 2008, a year consumed by Peace Corps (whether preparing for or in the actual experience). 2009 brings potential for work, growth and travel. I am excited to jump in fully to the New Year. I hope all is well with you at home. Thanks for all the correspondence/ bits of love. They give me motivation to keep walking, biking, being watched 24/7 because I am white. I’ll be in touch to tell my story entitled “3 Dry Dates: On the D/L in Uganda.” Never a dull moment in the life of HO HO HO Omoding. Love and hugs to you all. Enjoy winter’s chill. . .

. . . my sigiri!

It’s beginning to feel a lot like hell-o from Uganda!

2008-11-25T10:36:00.002+03:00

Sometimes the Nile really is a river in Africa

Big news from the bush: I baked on Sunday. My community is already confused with the cleanliness and style of my home, so baking only makes them bewildered. How can a man do all of that? Is it possible? Yes, I bought two pots and a sigiri (charcoal grill) and baked. Not only did I bake, I made a pumpkin pie from scratch. ‘Tis true, I went Martha in the middle of nowhere. The baking time took longer than a stove, reaching nearly three hours but the fact that I baked is reason enough to celebrate. Some may wonder the occasion for such crazy behavior: Thanksgiving. Need I say more? The NE volunteers decided to host Thanksgiving and I’m in charge of pumpkin pie, apple pie, rice pilaf and buying a turkey. Since Sunday’s productivity, people in my community started demanding I bake wedding cakes (three tiers), birthday cakes and preschool graduation cakes. . . In the village I can’t do anything for myself without multiple demands to do the same for other people. To remedy the requests I invited people to come and watch me bake pies and cakes this Thursday (my SERIOUS baking day) but people rolled their eyes. It is transparent they don’t want to know how; they want me to do it for them. Frustration. Speaking of, I believe I’m unconsciously frustrated and homesick due to the looming holiday season. I use the term unconsciously because my definition of holidays includes cold weather and a chance of snow showers. Instead, I’m in hell. The weather here is 105 degrees and clear sunny skies. Not a cloud in the sky. . . As the grass dries and dies and the wind increases, dust storms form to sting my eyes. People in the village tell me life stops in the dry season. People lay under mango trees when the sun is high in the sky, only working and living in the earliest and latest moments of the day. However, it is wicked cold through the night and into the early morning. Due to this fact, I wake up at 6 AM to hang my hammock and lay in the chilly weather. It is the closest I’ll have to home. I hope everyone enjoys their Thanksgiving celebrations. I am giving thanks for having all of you in my life. Stay well and I’ll be in touch with updates and pictures of the T’giving bacchanal in Uganda.

The Uncle and the Corpse: The Story of my People

2008-11-12T09:45:00.003+03:00

Once upon a time the rain grew less and less in the lands of what is now known as Ethiopia. The rains grew so infrequent that people who lived on the land decided to carry what little they had on their heads and backs and make for a better life. No horses to carry them, they walked until days turned to months through wind and heat so fierce many died until they reached a land with rain. However, the group of people split in their decision to settle. The older half was tired. They walked for months without much food and water. They made their decision they would stay and make their new life exactly where they were. However, the younger half wanted to walk farther Southwest. They didn’t know why, but they had the feeling life would be better if only to walk a few more days, weeks, or months until they knew it was right. The older and younger people exchanged harsh words with one another. The younger group called the elders “Uncles” and bid them farewell. The older group exclaimed the younger group would die a most painful death in their journey and gave them the name “Corpse.” That is the story of how the Kiramojong and the Teso people came into their ethnic names.

Flash forward: In the late 1980s, the Uncles made their way down into the territory of the Corpse to take cows they thought rightfully belonged to them. The Teso people lost most of their livestock, which symbolized their wealth and cultural pride. It is tradition in the Kiramojong culture to take cows as a coming-of-age for boys. Today the land of Kiramoja is semi-desert, forcing the Uncles to come down to the land of the corpse and work the field for payment of food such as maize, sorghum and cassava.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

2008-10-31T10:38:00.004+03:00

Sarah with a pumpkin from my garden

SIPI FALLS

Hello all! I’m in town to collect my salary; thus, I’m posting an update. First, Happy Halloween to all you witches suffering from Western syndromes. I tried to explain the holiday, but it left most in my village thinking I'm a witch and that all 14 of my cavities are justified. Who needs a whole night to beg for candy?

Election Day is upon us. Because certain forces forbid me from being too political (sounds like traditional teaching) I only want to urge everyone to go out and vote. As a man in the village told me, "Everyone in America should vote. It isn't like leaders have chewing gum on their ass." Moving on. . .

It is hard to believe that one year ago my life changed with a piece of mail holding an invitation to a far off land named Uganda. Immediately upon acceptance of my placement, I didn’t go to the public library to research Uganda. I didn’t read my mother’s printings from the State Department warning of certain death or internal bleeding. No, I did none of these things. Instead, I started to hunt down blogs written by existing PC Uganda Volunteers to get a glimpse of what my life would morph into upon landing. Did all that reading give me the tools I needed to transition? Hell no. Could my blog potentially scare some prospective volunteers due to its truthful content? Perhaps. No matter, I want to extend the invitation to all those future Ugandan PCVs to get in contact with me if they have concerns about anything: packing, living, culture, logistics, anything. I remember thinking how freakish it was to read someone's personal account of feelings and experience. I didn’t want anyone to know. I’d sneak on in the middle of the night just to see what the secret world was like that I was about to come into. Sounds like high school all over again! Yes, I was completely different before jumping into the Ugandan wilderness. I liked to eat filet, drink cabernet, shop for pointed-toe shoes, wear designer and yes I wore lavender D&G glasses without prescription. My favorite question from volunteers who see pictures is, "Do you wear contacts?" Now, I live the simplistic life in the middle of nowhere enjoying my newfound tranquility (and celibacy, but talking about it won't help). I speak a mysterious African language to the point of quasi-fluency. I do things I never thought I’d do. All this amounts to a huge life change, but that is what Peace Corps offers. That is why I signed up. To push myself to the point of breakdown is a thrill, despite the tears. I love my current life, even though other volunteers may look at it with horror in their eyes. I love it, all of it. If you have questions, throw ‘em at me. As the other PCVs will tell you, my motto is “no judgment.” I’m up for it; just know I only check my e-mail when I come to town, which isn’t all that frequently anymore. In Uganda, patience comes quickly.

People keep asking me to expand on my work situation. This is my best shot. However, there are three goals to Peace Corps and international development is only one of those goals. The other two encompass cultural exchange, which is my bread and butter. I am especially proud of my community integration (language acquisition and the fact that when I walk through the village people yell “Omoding” rather than “Emusugut”). Back to the job. I’m working with a Coordinating Center Tutor. Translation: a college professor who, instead of being at a college, works with teachers in rural areas on Continuous Professional Development. While I work with him, he gives me the freedom to do what I love. I work with 4 schools closely, each one for one day once a week (the other day is for preparation or going to town for food). I bike my legs off in the morning and do class observations P1 (K) and P2 (1st ) for the first hour or so of. I think I already explained the Thematic Curriculum that exists in P1/2; its like bilingual education. I work with students on informal assessment of literacy and math after observing teaching strategies. I make it seem like special time with the emusugut so they don’t complain. Both levels are half-day instruction, so I work with teachers in the afternoon on planning, making centers (new concept here), writing leveled readers for literacy instruction (“What? Three words on a page?”), trying new teaching pedagogy (behavioral change takes the longest), and my favorite activity: translating the schemes of work. This is my BIG project. The Ugandan government produces a prescribed curriculum in English and mandates teachers to translate into the local language. I’m working with my teachers to accurately translate the volume and then I’m typing it up to publish! It enhances my literacy in Ateso, which people think is crazy. Most people in my village don't write Ateso and the white person can! However, there are English words that don’t exist in Ateso, so I go out to the community to meet with members and discuss creating words in Ateso rather than borrowing English. Shortlist of words that don't exist: simile, insect, fruit, chart. Cultural pride at its finest. In my spare time I also run HIV/ AIDS life skills trainings for 14 and 15 year olds to educate them on making healthy choices for a more successful future. I hope that satisfies those asking me about my job. It is exactly what I made it into. If I waited for work, I’d probably have gone crazy with boredom.

Last weekend found me at Sipi Falls, a bit more east towards the Kenyan border than my home. In fact, I had to take a 3 hour taxi ride southeast to take another 2 hour taxi northeast to get back up to its glory. It is known as one of the colder places in Uganda and it lived up to the reputation. I felt at home in the 60-degree weather. Our lodge was amazing: accommodations, food, local coffee and the waterfall outside. I admit I thought it was raining the whole time because of the soothing sound. I’m not a nature person but if I could live anywhere forever and do nothing but exist, it would be Sipi Falls. It is my new Ugandan getaway. Forget the tan that awaits at Mbale Resort, I’m forking out the extra money and going to Sipi. Relaxing in every way. I’ll try and post pictures with this blog, but I make no promises that they’ll work.

Okay, I’m all out of news. I hope this finds you well and wintry cold. Enjoy. It feels like Groundhog’s Day here. Vote because you can. Go on a date because you should. Amina eoŋ yesi kere. Aomoomenenei eoŋ yesi ŋiniparaan kede amuno eoŋ awanyun bobo nat sek. Akoto eoŋ ekiŋok abunere oreka lo Amerika. Not that you’ll understand any of that, but know you mean the world to me, even from the other side. That and I really want a dog when I get back. Tangents. Bygones (Ally McBeal reference). Peace Out (In for Teenie).

Serious and Not So

2008-10-01T11:23:00.004+03:00

I’d like to quickly address a few concerns over all that is happening in my absence. Specifically, this is a call for self-reflection. Even in the Ugandan bush I hear about the crisis that is happening on both Wall Street and in many neighborhoods across America. I agree that it is a travesty to fall into such horrible fiscal status. I agree it absolutely unforgivable to allow so many people to lose their homes. Everyone is trying to find a way to bailout the American economy, whether through the government’s takeover of banks or legislation worth billions of dollars. While something needs to be done, we need to call these measures what they are: welfare and the socialization of the American banking system.

Welfare carries a stigma with it throughout the United States. The welfare that comes to mind involves food stamps, single mothers and stereotypes of Cadillac vehicles. Over the last few decades, citizens, active voters, politicians on the state and national level argued, reformed, diminished and ignored the welfare rights of women. However, we overlook the many other kinds of welfares that exist in America, such as tax breaks for homeowners. Now, in the spotlight of the global media is a huge welfare package to come to the assistance of many banks and homeowners. Why are we calling it a bailout package instead of welfare? Will it be more successful if certain terminology remains avoided? Can we, as a collective population, still criticize the welfare that gained such a horrible reputation? I certainly hope that those receiving assistance in their moment of need gain a new perspective and support coming to the rescue of others.

With the take over of two major private banks we enter an age where the government, in essence, is socializing lending. This now adds to the library system, fire and police response and education. However, we still fail to provide adequate health care to all people living in America. What does this say about our country? Do we value money more than the health of the general population? People are dying because they don’t have proper access to treatment for curable and treatable diseases; yet, we focus on the fact that people are losing their homes and may have to live a lifestyle that can’t keep up with the Jones’s. Does this seem democratic? Is this humane?

Can I get a witness?

Moving on . . . My blog is dormant, but definitely not hibernating because the weather is always the same: hot and sunny. It’s like Groundhog’s Day. I ask forgiveness for anyone who actually reads this rubbish pile that is my version of podcasting. I could blame it on the unusually slow Internet in town as of late or the fact that I’m sitting comfortable in the village which lacks Internet entirely. However, things that shocked me 8 months ago no longer make me jump. Without that fear in my heart, my writing continues to suffer. I apologize.

Thelma: I decided to lie down for a nap a few weeks ago. Naturally, I left the doors open in my house to catch a breeze. Deep in REM, I heard heavy breathing (think asthmatic) on the other side of my head. I rolled over, groggy, and opened my eyes to find myself face-to-face with a cow. It was eating the Kleenex my mother sent in a care package. I let out a 5-year-old scream and the cow seized. Due to its size, it was stuck in the doorway, going back and forth in an attempt to turn around. Eventually I pushed it back outside and it fell down the stoop. Now, the cow hangs out around my house and occasionally comes to take a drink of water from my mopping bucket. When Marcy came to visit, she named the cow Thelma. A white chicken follows Thelma around all day, so her name is Louise. We’re one happy family.

Frog Flossing: I’d like to comment on the treachery that is dental work. While flossing last night, one of my fillings flew out of my mouth and on the floor. Now I have a huge hole in my lower left molar to expose my nerve to food, beverage, and air. It hurts, to say the least. Thus, I am in town on my way to Kampala: the big city of Uganda. While I love larger cities, I’m a villager and I don’t like making the 9-hour trip into chaos, especially for dental work. Back to flossing . . . My filling fell to the floor. In an effort to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, I knelt down to collect it. What I found was a bright orange tree frog sleeping. Not a big fan of jumpy things, I retrieved my broom and tried to sweep it outside. It turns out the little guy wasn’t sleeping and escaped by scaling up my door with his sticky fingers. I was swatting the frog as it climbed higher, holding my cheek with the pain of having a holey smile. It all worked out in the end. The jumper lived. I’m still here. What more can I ask for?

Moral of my post: We all have homes. Some feel at home throughout life. Some feel at home in other’s homes. Some need to travel the world to find their home. Some have to lose homes they can’t afford in order to find ones they can. Some need to be pushed out of my home to be reminded of their home. I miss home. I miss you all.

Stay well,

With love from the bush,

Omoding Adamg.

addition to wish list. . .

2008-09-04T16:05:00.002+03:00

Hammocks don't exist in Uganda, but the perfect spot for one does: between my two mango trees. . .

FAST

2008-09-01T14:38:00.005+03:00

Marcy

A quick post to give updates . . .

1. In-Service Training in Kampala for the whole of last week. Learned quite a bit. Quite a bit of fun. Thank goodness for returning to the village.

2. Peace Corps came to rectify the challenges of my site. After discussing the issues with the correct people, they sprang into action. The Safety and Security Coordinator is "the man."

3. While in Kampala, I went to Oweeno Market. Imagine Central Park filled with kiosks to the point of chaos, selling everything imaginable. I bought 2 pairs of Diesel jeans for 40,000 Ush, or $20.

4. After all my Meflo dreams, fevers and migraines, they finally switched me to Doxy.

5. I returned to find that my garden exploded with life. My pumpkins are quickly taking over all of Serere. . .

6. My beard is coming along. . . . I'll be a lumberjack someday.

7. Life is good.

Vinay

Home Sweet Home

2008-08-19T13:55:00.003+03:00

My home no longer scares me. It is a good feeling. That is all I need to write.

Why my hands hurt. But worth the fresh salads.