Dear Friends and Family... Just a quick note to let you know that I've arrived safely from Uganda, unscathed except for the emotional bruising that comes from traveling in the developing world and, at the end, having the luxury of leaving.
The letters and farewell songs are seared in my heart. As I was traveling to town to print my ticket on Tuesday, my students followed me to the juncture with the main road.
"Madam Shannah, safe journey!"
"Madam Shannah, God bless you abundantly."
"Madam Shannah, will you come back?"
I looked at Harriet, the student who asked this last question. The others had already turned back to school, but she lingered, waiting for an answer. I felt a lump develop in my throat. There we stood, at a crossroads. Her life will always be in and around Kyabirwa. Mine heads in a different direction, and it honestly may never take me back there. But as I looked into her expectant eyes, I gave her the best answer I could.
"I will try, Harriet. I will try."
"Will you forget us?" This was almost too much to bear.
"No, I promise. I won't forget you, Harriet. I can't."
"Okay... Farewell, Madam. Safe journey."
As we held hands in the traditional Lusoga manner of greeting and parting, I fought back tears of guilt. Even today, two days later, the lump still lingers in my throat. I still don't know how I will ease it away. I do know, though, that keeping my promise to come back will have to be part of it.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Madam Shannah, "Why Are You Living?"
Here I sit, with my boarding pass in hand, less than 24 hours before my departure to Boston via London. The past few days have been dizzying and I've had little time to process the finality of leaving. A new volunteer has arrived, and just as I've been trying to pack her with all the information she needs (e.g. don't use the toilet between 6:40 and 7:20 PM, or you'll find yourself dodging nocturnal flying rats), I've been trying to tie things in a bow. I've always craved closure, and I've always made a point of leaving things right. For Uganda, that has meant setting up a mini-post office in the school's office, with $100 worth of stamps, as well as envelopes and paper, so kids can write to me. It's funny, they have lots of stories in their curriculum about "pen friends." But for nearly all of them, I think the first time they saw a stamp was today.
It seems that in the past two days the floodgates have opened as kids have realized that I'm leaving. I've received nearly 100 little notes, carefully scrawled onto torn out pages of their exercise notebooks. For those who know someone with a phone, I've gotten phone numbers of sisters, brothers, and uncles. I am leaving with no fewer than 15 "pen friends," with requests for several more (some of which I will be shortly farming out to you folks, FYI. I am particularly in need of boys. I already roped in Pratt, whose little pal Henry eagerly put his first thoughtfully penned letter in my hand to deliver to Pratt yesterday).
Yesterday was a really special day because I bought new textbooks for all 100 of my students in P6. One of the things that was hardest for me to watch was how they would fight viciously over the textbooks, straining to see, as there was only one for every four students crammed on a bench. Often the only "reading" they would get was whatever they could do over two people's shoulders. Before I left, Kristin, my dear friend and sectionmate from HBS, as well as my Mom and Doug, gave me some money to donate to the school. I decided I would pool this money and buy new textbooks for P6-- one-hundred, one so that every child could have one. Bringing the textbooks up to the school was so heartwarming. I gathered about twenty kids and walked with them down to Moeses' house to carry them up the hill to the school. As they put them on their heads, and looked around, they started chattering to themselves in Lusoga. Finally, I asked what they were saying. One girl told me, "Madam. They are many. We think maybe one for all the children." And I said, "Yes. There is one for every one of you." Then they cheered.
That day, English went amazingly well. As we read aloud, the chorous of voices was four times as loud as it had been. When I asked what words they didn't understand in the passage, tons of hands shot up (I'd asked this nearly every day before, but as no one could see, no one had any questions). It was just so wonderful to see this simple solution to a major resource gap. Kristin, Mom, Doug-- the kids say thank you. I'm bringing some little scrawled notes your way.
One of the refrains that kept coming up in the little notes that I've been getting was, "Madam Shannah, why are you living?" They obviously meant "leaving." But the question they asked by mistake is the one I will take with me. I don't know that I have the answer. What I do know, though, is that a piece of the answer lives in the children of Kyabirwa.
It seems that in the past two days the floodgates have opened as kids have realized that I'm leaving. I've received nearly 100 little notes, carefully scrawled onto torn out pages of their exercise notebooks. For those who know someone with a phone, I've gotten phone numbers of sisters, brothers, and uncles. I am leaving with no fewer than 15 "pen friends," with requests for several more (some of which I will be shortly farming out to you folks, FYI. I am particularly in need of boys. I already roped in Pratt, whose little pal Henry eagerly put his first thoughtfully penned letter in my hand to deliver to Pratt yesterday).
Yesterday was a really special day because I bought new textbooks for all 100 of my students in P6. One of the things that was hardest for me to watch was how they would fight viciously over the textbooks, straining to see, as there was only one for every four students crammed on a bench. Often the only "reading" they would get was whatever they could do over two people's shoulders. Before I left, Kristin, my dear friend and sectionmate from HBS, as well as my Mom and Doug, gave me some money to donate to the school. I decided I would pool this money and buy new textbooks for P6-- one-hundred, one so that every child could have one. Bringing the textbooks up to the school was so heartwarming. I gathered about twenty kids and walked with them down to Moeses' house to carry them up the hill to the school. As they put them on their heads, and looked around, they started chattering to themselves in Lusoga. Finally, I asked what they were saying. One girl told me, "Madam. They are many. We think maybe one for all the children." And I said, "Yes. There is one for every one of you." Then they cheered.
That day, English went amazingly well. As we read aloud, the chorous of voices was four times as loud as it had been. When I asked what words they didn't understand in the passage, tons of hands shot up (I'd asked this nearly every day before, but as no one could see, no one had any questions). It was just so wonderful to see this simple solution to a major resource gap. Kristin, Mom, Doug-- the kids say thank you. I'm bringing some little scrawled notes your way.
One of the refrains that kept coming up in the little notes that I've been getting was, "Madam Shannah, why are you living?" They obviously meant "leaving." But the question they asked by mistake is the one I will take with me. I don't know that I have the answer. What I do know, though, is that a piece of the answer lives in the children of Kyabirwa.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Universal Primary Education
Yesterday I got extremely miffed with the situation at the school. The headmistress had organized a gathering with a bunch of old guys-- the village chief, the head of the PTA, the head of the local district, and some other official-type guy-- so they could meet the volunteers who have been at the school recently and also conduct some other school business. We were told that the meeting was going to be with lunch, and it would start at noon and we would be invited in at about 1 to have lunch and converse with the officials. The other volunteer- an older British gentleman who is an engineer who has been helping put shutters and doors on the school building- and I were in place at 1, ready to be invited in. Instead, the teachers brought food into the staff room where we were waiting. The headmistress said, "Oh, we are not ready, we have not started the meeting yet... we are just waiting for these people... but you people like to eat on time, so you will eat your lunch now." As we munched on our goat, I started to get nervous. I teach at 2:10 pm every day with another teacher, and though much in Uganda is patently unreliable, this guy can be counted on like clockwork. And, it's really important to me to keep my word... so if I'm expected to teach and I've planned a lesson, I intend to deliver it.
At 1:30, David, the British guy, and I decided to pop our heads in to see if they were ready for us. The headmistress had set up two folding chairs facing a row of about 10 people behind a table. We were escorted to the chairs. It was supposed to be a 'guest of honor' thing, but it felt like an interrogation situation. The headmistress launched in with the welcoming, and told the officials in Lusoga what we had been doing. She said, "Shannah, she is so devoted... she is always here, she comes on Saturdays, she always thinks of her students...." The officials then had a chance to speak, and the ones that could speak English said, "We are very grateful. Very happy. God bless you abundantly." And we nodded, and said thank you, it is our pleasure, etc. This went back and forth for maybe 5 rounds. Us, them, us, them, etc. Same exact things being said. Finally I told the Headmistress that I would like to ask a question if that was okay. She said it was, and so I asked the officials simply, "What is your goal for the school?" They went on and on in Lusoga about having high academic expectations, about having healthy children who are self-reliant, etc. Okay. Sounds fine.
Then, at about 1:50, heaping plates of food were brought in and set up in front of the officials, and then a plate was brought in for each of the teachers. Now, besides me, there are 14 teachers at the school. So, there were in fact, 14 plates brought in. At about 1:59, 13 teachers were munching happily on their food. The child who is in charge of the bell rang the bell at 2:00 to signal that lunch was over. The yells of the schoolyard died down as one thousand children shuffled into their classrooms for the afternoon lessons. I looked around. No one made any move to get up. I shifted uncomfortably. The one teacher who was not there was my co-teacher, Mister James. Finally, at about 2:05, I said to the Headmistress, "Madam, I am so sorry, but I have planned the lesson for P5. I must go and teach now. Gentlemen, I am so grateful that you have had me as a guest here. Thank you so much." Genuflecting awkwardly, I left the room and bolted to my class.
The class went on without a hitch (well, trying to conduct a lesson in a cavernous room with a tin roof in the middle of a rainstorm would qualify as a hitch elsewhere, but not here). As my students were writing, I heard screams from both sides of our class. Mister James watched our class while I ran to my other class, P6. They were bouncing a soccer ball off the wall and yelling at the top of their lungs. It was 2:30, and they had no teacher. "P6! Sit down!" I yelled, and they meekly took their benches. I ran to the staff room and brought back baskets of readers for them. Once they had something to do, they were happily engaged. Since they never ever get to read books unless they come to my after school or Saturday sessions when I can disregard the B.S. Ugandan English curriculum that teaches only grammar, they were actually really happy. I headed back to my class, only to be disturbed by an even higher pitched round of yelling from the room on the other side. I bounded down to that class, the little guys in P4, and saw that, despite the fact that it was 2:55, they, too had no teacher. I came up with a makeshift solution for them too. Then I realized it might make sense to check every class. Every. Class. Had. No. Teacher. I ran back and forth from room to room in the rain, carrying books and writing assignments on blackboards. Essentially, one-thousand rural African students with nothing but potential sat for an hour and a half unsupervised and uneducated even though they were at school. Why? Because the teachers were having lunch with the officials at a ceremony conducted in honor of the volunteers.
After school, I encountered the Headmistress. "Ah, Shannah! We were so sorry to have you miss this last part... the teachers made speeches... but, I know, you were teaching." The idea of 13 teachers making speeches to an awkward Brit who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to work on his shutters would have made me laugh if I hadn't been so pissed. "Yes, madam. I am sorry to have missed it," I said through gritted teeth.
In Uganda, we have what is called Universal Primary Education. It is actually a relatively novel concept here, and it refers to the fact that Primary Education should be free for everyone. But what I am finding interesting is how universal it really is. It seems that across the world we put adults before kids. We talk about goals for students and then undermine them at every turn. We just don't show up for the kids. Yesterday was a deja vu experience of the worst kind for me.
And then, I think of Mister James. When I met him in the class having just left the officials, I asked him if he had taken his lunch. He said, "Yes, I have taken it. We are teaching now." Mister James is not the world's best teacher. He may, in fact, be in the bottom 1%. I'll spare you the details of his methods, but let's just say that one day I counted, and of our 90 students, 2 were listening to him as he reviewed the material the same way he has for 23 years. Moreover, his English makes me cringe. Often, when he teaches (our arrangement is that he reviews the previous day's work and I teach the new lesson each day), I need to write quietly in my journal in the back of the room, because I can't correct him-- as that would be a sign of disrespect-- but I somehow need to avoid making a grotesque face in his direction. But yesterday I gained a newfound respect for him. This old man takes pride in his profession. Despite the mud that has me wearing Wellies to school half the time, he always comes in perfectly polished shoes, with a shirt and tie. It never occured to him to leave the kids sitting there while he took lunch. He teaches every day at 2:00 pm. You can hang your hat on it.
I don't know what will fix the education system in Uganda. But, I can't help but think that leaving a thousand kids to bounce soccer balls off the walls as teachers make speeches essentially to each other won't get the job done. I also know that my self-righteousness will only get me in trouble, and that sometimes it makes sense to swallow one's sense of purpose and follow the adage of "When in Rome." In a sense, I'm a jerk: I probably offended the village chief, and the head of the PTA, and whoever else those guys were. But, ultimately, I like kids better than adults and I care more about one obligation than another. I have no doubt that I'll pay for this type of pigheadedness throughout my life. But, I have 51 avocados, 2 guavas, 6 papayas, 15 mangoes, a hen's egg, two jugs of milk, and 15 handwritten letters telling me I made the right decision.
At 1:30, David, the British guy, and I decided to pop our heads in to see if they were ready for us. The headmistress had set up two folding chairs facing a row of about 10 people behind a table. We were escorted to the chairs. It was supposed to be a 'guest of honor' thing, but it felt like an interrogation situation. The headmistress launched in with the welcoming, and told the officials in Lusoga what we had been doing. She said, "Shannah, she is so devoted... she is always here, she comes on Saturdays, she always thinks of her students...." The officials then had a chance to speak, and the ones that could speak English said, "We are very grateful. Very happy. God bless you abundantly." And we nodded, and said thank you, it is our pleasure, etc. This went back and forth for maybe 5 rounds. Us, them, us, them, etc. Same exact things being said. Finally I told the Headmistress that I would like to ask a question if that was okay. She said it was, and so I asked the officials simply, "What is your goal for the school?" They went on and on in Lusoga about having high academic expectations, about having healthy children who are self-reliant, etc. Okay. Sounds fine.
Then, at about 1:50, heaping plates of food were brought in and set up in front of the officials, and then a plate was brought in for each of the teachers. Now, besides me, there are 14 teachers at the school. So, there were in fact, 14 plates brought in. At about 1:59, 13 teachers were munching happily on their food. The child who is in charge of the bell rang the bell at 2:00 to signal that lunch was over. The yells of the schoolyard died down as one thousand children shuffled into their classrooms for the afternoon lessons. I looked around. No one made any move to get up. I shifted uncomfortably. The one teacher who was not there was my co-teacher, Mister James. Finally, at about 2:05, I said to the Headmistress, "Madam, I am so sorry, but I have planned the lesson for P5. I must go and teach now. Gentlemen, I am so grateful that you have had me as a guest here. Thank you so much." Genuflecting awkwardly, I left the room and bolted to my class.
The class went on without a hitch (well, trying to conduct a lesson in a cavernous room with a tin roof in the middle of a rainstorm would qualify as a hitch elsewhere, but not here). As my students were writing, I heard screams from both sides of our class. Mister James watched our class while I ran to my other class, P6. They were bouncing a soccer ball off the wall and yelling at the top of their lungs. It was 2:30, and they had no teacher. "P6! Sit down!" I yelled, and they meekly took their benches. I ran to the staff room and brought back baskets of readers for them. Once they had something to do, they were happily engaged. Since they never ever get to read books unless they come to my after school or Saturday sessions when I can disregard the B.S. Ugandan English curriculum that teaches only grammar, they were actually really happy. I headed back to my class, only to be disturbed by an even higher pitched round of yelling from the room on the other side. I bounded down to that class, the little guys in P4, and saw that, despite the fact that it was 2:55, they, too had no teacher. I came up with a makeshift solution for them too. Then I realized it might make sense to check every class. Every. Class. Had. No. Teacher. I ran back and forth from room to room in the rain, carrying books and writing assignments on blackboards. Essentially, one-thousand rural African students with nothing but potential sat for an hour and a half unsupervised and uneducated even though they were at school. Why? Because the teachers were having lunch with the officials at a ceremony conducted in honor of the volunteers.
After school, I encountered the Headmistress. "Ah, Shannah! We were so sorry to have you miss this last part... the teachers made speeches... but, I know, you were teaching." The idea of 13 teachers making speeches to an awkward Brit who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to work on his shutters would have made me laugh if I hadn't been so pissed. "Yes, madam. I am sorry to have missed it," I said through gritted teeth.
In Uganda, we have what is called Universal Primary Education. It is actually a relatively novel concept here, and it refers to the fact that Primary Education should be free for everyone. But what I am finding interesting is how universal it really is. It seems that across the world we put adults before kids. We talk about goals for students and then undermine them at every turn. We just don't show up for the kids. Yesterday was a deja vu experience of the worst kind for me.
And then, I think of Mister James. When I met him in the class having just left the officials, I asked him if he had taken his lunch. He said, "Yes, I have taken it. We are teaching now." Mister James is not the world's best teacher. He may, in fact, be in the bottom 1%. I'll spare you the details of his methods, but let's just say that one day I counted, and of our 90 students, 2 were listening to him as he reviewed the material the same way he has for 23 years. Moreover, his English makes me cringe. Often, when he teaches (our arrangement is that he reviews the previous day's work and I teach the new lesson each day), I need to write quietly in my journal in the back of the room, because I can't correct him-- as that would be a sign of disrespect-- but I somehow need to avoid making a grotesque face in his direction. But yesterday I gained a newfound respect for him. This old man takes pride in his profession. Despite the mud that has me wearing Wellies to school half the time, he always comes in perfectly polished shoes, with a shirt and tie. It never occured to him to leave the kids sitting there while he took lunch. He teaches every day at 2:00 pm. You can hang your hat on it.
I don't know what will fix the education system in Uganda. But, I can't help but think that leaving a thousand kids to bounce soccer balls off the walls as teachers make speeches essentially to each other won't get the job done. I also know that my self-righteousness will only get me in trouble, and that sometimes it makes sense to swallow one's sense of purpose and follow the adage of "When in Rome." In a sense, I'm a jerk: I probably offended the village chief, and the head of the PTA, and whoever else those guys were. But, ultimately, I like kids better than adults and I care more about one obligation than another. I have no doubt that I'll pay for this type of pigheadedness throughout my life. But, I have 51 avocados, 2 guavas, 6 papayas, 15 mangoes, a hen's egg, two jugs of milk, and 15 handwritten letters telling me I made the right decision.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Pocket Full of "Pen Friends"
As I enter the last week of my stay here in Uganda, I'm realizing that I desperately want to keep in touch with these children and know how they do on their exams and whether they go on to further education. The kids are also realizing that my time here is ending, and they have taken to writing me letters to tell me what they think about that. The letters are so sweet they speak for themselves.
From Mutesi Sophia (here they put the last name first):
----
Dear Madam Shannah,
How are you today? I am writing this letter to thank for your paper you have send to us. It was very niece and also it was simple [this refers to an exam that I gave to them-- the fact that I made a photocopy for each child was a cause for tremendous jubilation]. Madam Shannah thank you for teaching us English. Now we are very powerful, now we can speak some English, we can write a letter. But if you leave me I will not be okay. But you better come back. But I thank you for teaching. Goodbye.
Yours faithfully,
Mutesi Sophia
-------
Mutesi Sophia is the best student in the entire 90 person class. It took me a while to figure this out, because she rarely raises her hand and when she speaks, she covers her mouth shyly, like many of the girls here. But when I correct the exercise books the kids turn in, hers always glows with accuracy and boldness. I asked about her at school, and it turns out that even though she is only 12, she lives alone with her older brother, who is 13 or 14. Her mother left them, and the father lives on a different compound with a different wife. Mutesi Sophia is totally going it alone. I decided to write back to her and tell her that I would like to be her "pen friend," which is African English for penpal, and that I was interested in what her future plans are. I just want to make sure this kid makes it all the way. In response to my letter to her, this is what she wrote back:
______
Dear Madam Shannah,
Thank you for replying to my letter I wrote to you dated 10/10/09. Thank you very much for the exams you organised for us. May God bless you abundantly.
I hereby inform you that I'm interested in studies, I hope to go in high institutions, i.e., secondary - university and if God willing I would like to be a "Doctress" when I grow up.
I'm very grateful for the parental love you have showed me a the many the many children in Primary Six to choose me as your pen friend. I'm willing to respond positively. I will be very grateful to hear from you any more.
Yours faithfully,
Mutesi Sophia
-----
So I've got myself one pen friend, and hopefully that way I can make sure this shining star doesn't fade. She has a tenaciousness that I admire deeply. She gets herself up every day, does her work faithfully, and comes to school even on Saturdays, which isn't mandatory. I just hope the Ugandan mail system doesn't foil my plan to keep up with her.
My little guy, Odongo Jacob, also offered himself up with the following request:
------
Madam, Please, I want you to be your pen friend. Am happy you teach very well. Is the reason what I want to say to you. I send to you this song:
Teacher why your leaving but what should we do? but what should we do?
Odongo Jacob Im myself. I now you are a good teacher to me to me you are live what should we do?
-----
Odongo Jacob is a sweetheart. One day when I found some time to have the kids do free writing, he wrote a beatiful piece about how much he loves his father, and how good his father is to him. I was so impressed I mentioned it to the whole class. This tiny, quiet boy completely beamed. They are never praised publicly, and I'm seeing the effect of even just a little praise as some of the quietest kids light up one by one.
Anyway, all told, I've accumulated about eight pen friends, with six more days to go. I also have two boys who have requested pen friends from my country, but they do not want it to be me (so, ah, I am taking volunteers. The good news is, the letters to these fellows can be short... as you can see, their English is somewhat... sparse).
These kids have so, so much to say. They have completely stolen my heart and are teaching me so much about joy and perseverance. And to think that they are the ones that keep telling me they are grateful! Today, for example, I received 29 avocadoes, 10 oranges, 4 mangoes, 2 massive papayas, a guava, and a jug of milk straight from a cow. As each of these gifts was presented, the children kneeled and said, "Madam, thank you for teaching us."
No, children. Thank YOU.
From Mutesi Sophia (here they put the last name first):
----
Dear Madam Shannah,
How are you today? I am writing this letter to thank for your paper you have send to us. It was very niece and also it was simple [this refers to an exam that I gave to them-- the fact that I made a photocopy for each child was a cause for tremendous jubilation]. Madam Shannah thank you for teaching us English. Now we are very powerful, now we can speak some English, we can write a letter. But if you leave me I will not be okay. But you better come back. But I thank you for teaching. Goodbye.
Yours faithfully,
Mutesi Sophia
-------
Mutesi Sophia is the best student in the entire 90 person class. It took me a while to figure this out, because she rarely raises her hand and when she speaks, she covers her mouth shyly, like many of the girls here. But when I correct the exercise books the kids turn in, hers always glows with accuracy and boldness. I asked about her at school, and it turns out that even though she is only 12, she lives alone with her older brother, who is 13 or 14. Her mother left them, and the father lives on a different compound with a different wife. Mutesi Sophia is totally going it alone. I decided to write back to her and tell her that I would like to be her "pen friend," which is African English for penpal, and that I was interested in what her future plans are. I just want to make sure this kid makes it all the way. In response to my letter to her, this is what she wrote back:
______
Dear Madam Shannah,
Thank you for replying to my letter I wrote to you dated 10/10/09. Thank you very much for the exams you organised for us. May God bless you abundantly.
I hereby inform you that I'm interested in studies, I hope to go in high institutions, i.e., secondary - university and if God willing I would like to be a "Doctress" when I grow up.
I'm very grateful for the parental love you have showed me a the many the many children in Primary Six to choose me as your pen friend. I'm willing to respond positively. I will be very grateful to hear from you any more.
Yours faithfully,
Mutesi Sophia
-----
So I've got myself one pen friend, and hopefully that way I can make sure this shining star doesn't fade. She has a tenaciousness that I admire deeply. She gets herself up every day, does her work faithfully, and comes to school even on Saturdays, which isn't mandatory. I just hope the Ugandan mail system doesn't foil my plan to keep up with her.
My little guy, Odongo Jacob, also offered himself up with the following request:
------
Madam, Please, I want you to be your pen friend. Am happy you teach very well. Is the reason what I want to say to you. I send to you this song:
Teacher why your leaving but what should we do? but what should we do?
Odongo Jacob Im myself. I now you are a good teacher to me to me you are live what should we do?
-----
Odongo Jacob is a sweetheart. One day when I found some time to have the kids do free writing, he wrote a beatiful piece about how much he loves his father, and how good his father is to him. I was so impressed I mentioned it to the whole class. This tiny, quiet boy completely beamed. They are never praised publicly, and I'm seeing the effect of even just a little praise as some of the quietest kids light up one by one.
Anyway, all told, I've accumulated about eight pen friends, with six more days to go. I also have two boys who have requested pen friends from my country, but they do not want it to be me (so, ah, I am taking volunteers. The good news is, the letters to these fellows can be short... as you can see, their English is somewhat... sparse).
These kids have so, so much to say. They have completely stolen my heart and are teaching me so much about joy and perseverance. And to think that they are the ones that keep telling me they are grateful! Today, for example, I received 29 avocadoes, 10 oranges, 4 mangoes, 2 massive papayas, a guava, and a jug of milk straight from a cow. As each of these gifts was presented, the children kneeled and said, "Madam, thank you for teaching us."
No, children. Thank YOU.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Juice, My Brother!!!
One of the most amazing things about my life here has been the conversations I've had with Ugandans. They offer such amazing insight into Africa, and they also give me a new perspective on how Africans perceive the U.S. I also am completely in love with African English which has a wonderful cadence and all kinds of interesting vocabulary and grammar constructions. One of my new favorite conversation partners is one of the taxi drivers who takes me from Jinja to my village at night. His name is Siraji. A recent conversation went like this:
Siraji: So. You have how many children?
Me: Umm... none. I don't have any children.
Siraji: Eh! But you are old! How you are old?
Me: How old am I? I'm thirty.
Siraji. And me! I am thirty. I have six children! In your country, you have the family planning?
Me: Yes, we have family planning.
Siraji: What you have? The thing that blocks?
(With this, we officially launch into what was the most intimate conversation I've ever had with a taxi driver)
Me: We have that, also many people use tabs [African English for 'pills']
Siraji: You have the tabs! Oh. Very lucky. Here, tabs are very spensive.
Me: Yes, in my country women like tabs, and they are mostly affordable. It is important so we can have jobs before we have children.
Siraji: Jobs before get children! Eh! Mzungus.
And later in the ride...
Siraji: So. Ask me something. Me, I think all mzungus are good. You come to this country, you do the work, what what, you don't get the money, you volunteering. Africans, we only want the money. So mzungus are good people. But then, ask me this. George Bush... why he go into Iraq, say the weapons is there, the weapons is not there?
Me: Well... all mzungu are not good, first of all. Some are very bad. And George Bush... that is a good question. Do you know about 9/11? There were these big buildings, and they fell down because the airplanes crashed into them?
Siraji: Oh yes! I seed it.
Me: Okay, well, many Americans were very upset, because we like to think problems only happen in other countries... and unfortunately the people who drove those airplanes were Muslims, so many people were mad at Muslims...
Siraji: Oh! They were Muslims in the airplanes? You do not have Muslims in your country?
Me: Yes, we do. A lot of Muslims. But even so, the country was mad. So George Bush decided to go to war, even though the Muslims in the airplanes were not from Iraq. What religion are you?
Siraji: Me? I'm a Muslim. You?
Me: I'm Jewish.
Siraji: Juice? What is juice?
Me: Jew-ish. Umm... okay... so, you know a man in the Qu'uran named Abraham?
Siraji: Yes! Ibrahim. Father to Ishmael, who was the father of our people.
Me: Yes, exactly! Well, he had two sons.
Siraji: Yes, other one was Isaaca.
Me: Yes. Well, the Jewish people, we are the children of Isaac.
Siraji: Eh!!! You are son of Isaac! I am son of Ishmael! We are brothers!! Juice is my brother!!
Me: Yes, we are brothers... But, sometimes Jews and Muslims are bad to each other. Do you know of Israel? There is much fighting over land.
Siraji: Yes, but that is because we are brothers. Even me, I have brother. He fight with me. He take my land. It is because he is my brother.
Me: Okay... yeah, sometimes brothers can be bad, I guess.
Siraji: Eh, mzungu... you are my juice brother!
Basking in the warm glow of brotherhood, Siraji then drove straight into (yet another) ditch full of mud. But even that couldn't dampen his joy at his new discovery.
-----
On an unrelated note, I have to share this contribution from my stepbrother, Blake. Given the juxtaposition of my life at HBS with my current life, he thought this could be my next endeavor....
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/socialites_without_borders_teach
Siraji: So. You have how many children?
Me: Umm... none. I don't have any children.
Siraji: Eh! But you are old! How you are old?
Me: How old am I? I'm thirty.
Siraji. And me! I am thirty. I have six children! In your country, you have the family planning?
Me: Yes, we have family planning.
Siraji: What you have? The thing that blocks?
(With this, we officially launch into what was the most intimate conversation I've ever had with a taxi driver)
Me: We have that, also many people use tabs [African English for 'pills']
Siraji: You have the tabs! Oh. Very lucky. Here, tabs are very spensive.
Me: Yes, in my country women like tabs, and they are mostly affordable. It is important so we can have jobs before we have children.
Siraji: Jobs before get children! Eh! Mzungus.
And later in the ride...
Siraji: So. Ask me something. Me, I think all mzungus are good. You come to this country, you do the work, what what, you don't get the money, you volunteering. Africans, we only want the money. So mzungus are good people. But then, ask me this. George Bush... why he go into Iraq, say the weapons is there, the weapons is not there?
Me: Well... all mzungu are not good, first of all. Some are very bad. And George Bush... that is a good question. Do you know about 9/11? There were these big buildings, and they fell down because the airplanes crashed into them?
Siraji: Oh yes! I seed it.
Me: Okay, well, many Americans were very upset, because we like to think problems only happen in other countries... and unfortunately the people who drove those airplanes were Muslims, so many people were mad at Muslims...
Siraji: Oh! They were Muslims in the airplanes? You do not have Muslims in your country?
Me: Yes, we do. A lot of Muslims. But even so, the country was mad. So George Bush decided to go to war, even though the Muslims in the airplanes were not from Iraq. What religion are you?
Siraji: Me? I'm a Muslim. You?
Me: I'm Jewish.
Siraji: Juice? What is juice?
Me: Jew-ish. Umm... okay... so, you know a man in the Qu'uran named Abraham?
Siraji: Yes! Ibrahim. Father to Ishmael, who was the father of our people.
Me: Yes, exactly! Well, he had two sons.
Siraji: Yes, other one was Isaaca.
Me: Yes. Well, the Jewish people, we are the children of Isaac.
Siraji: Eh!!! You are son of Isaac! I am son of Ishmael! We are brothers!! Juice is my brother!!
Me: Yes, we are brothers... But, sometimes Jews and Muslims are bad to each other. Do you know of Israel? There is much fighting over land.
Siraji: Yes, but that is because we are brothers. Even me, I have brother. He fight with me. He take my land. It is because he is my brother.
Me: Okay... yeah, sometimes brothers can be bad, I guess.
Siraji: Eh, mzungu... you are my juice brother!
Basking in the warm glow of brotherhood, Siraji then drove straight into (yet another) ditch full of mud. But even that couldn't dampen his joy at his new discovery.
-----
On an unrelated note, I have to share this contribution from my stepbrother, Blake. Given the juxtaposition of my life at HBS with my current life, he thought this could be my next endeavor....
http://www.theonion.com/content/news/socialites_without_borders_teach
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Visitation Day
Life is back to normal for me in the village; I spend each day thinking about a small subset of things: teaching, what device I'm going to charge, and how I'm going to make it back to my house if I venture out. This last one has become quite an ordeal, as the rainy season is bringing torrential rains twice a day, which makes it nearly impossible for boda-boda drivers to get up the steep, slippery mud hills to the village. When I ask them in town if they can take me to Kyabirwa, they say "Eh! Kyabirwa! The village? But the road is very bad!" I've had to resort to taking cars now instead of motorbikes, and the cars inevitably get stuck in the road, and then the kids in the road and I have to help push them.
Not surprisingly, then, every single piece of clothing I own is totally caked in mud. Yesterday was independence day, which meant there was nothing to do, so I figured I'd take the opportunity to wash my socks and underwear. I pay for Florence, Moses' wife, to wash my bigger clothes, but we obviously do our own undergarments. I have basically been adopted by Moses' eight-year-old, Winnie, and his four-year-old, Danny, and they were for some inexplicable reason eager to help me wash my underwear. I felt ridiculous about this, but Winnie is very stubborn. "Mbe [No], Shannah! You are not doing it right!" she says, and her spindly arms reach in between mine to grab the garment, to which she applies elbow grease worthy of a three-hundred pound person. My socks were particularly troubling, as they are totally red-earth stained. Don't ask me how. They were no match for Winnie, though. She is a machine. Danny was helpful as entertainment-- he made himself a soap-sud beard and sideburns and did a little dance for us. Being here makes me realize how much I truly enjoy the company of children. I actually think I prefer children to adults-- they are full of love and energy and fun. These children have completely stolen my heart.
Today was visitation day at the boarding high school where Moses' eldest daughter attends, and when she was home earlier she begged me to come see her on visitation day. So Moses and I set out, and after a complicated ordeal in Jinja to try to get packed lunches ordered to take with us to the school in the middle of (guess what) a torrential downpour, we finally made it to Maureen. She had nearly given up on us, and she was so excited to see us. She ran up and gave me a huge hug. I was definitely the only mzungu at visitation day, and Moses told me later that Maureen has now gained respect from the other students because a mzungu came to see her.
The secondary school thing occupies a lot of time in my head these days. I keep searching for
the "source of the problem" in Ugandan education, and I can't seem to put my finger on one thing. One huge issue, though, is that attending secondary school is tremendously costly. Moses is a teacher, which means he makes about $1100 a year. Secondary school costs between $300 and $800 a year, with boarding schools being better, and on the more expensive side. This means that more than half of Moses' salary goes to pay for Maureen's school. He also has seven more children at home, two of which are from his extended family but that he has taken responsibility for. Lydia, the second-oldest, is due to go to secondary school in January. She is incredibly sweet and clever. She wants to be a nurse and she desperately wants to go to boarding school in Kampala. Financially, though, it will literally not be possible for Moses to send her.
This issue came up over breakfast yesterday. Moses is a very proud man, who is very quiet about his own needs. He runs this volunteer program with no benefit to himself-- he makes no profit on what the volunteers pay for room and board, and any surplus is considered a donation to the school. But the Lydia issue had been weighing on him. He was very quiet as we drank our coffee yesterday. Finally, he said, "Shannah, I need to ask you something. And please. You can say no. I do not want to make you uncomfortable. And I have never asked a volunteer for something like this before. But you have mentioned wanting to sponsor a child for secondary among your students. I am just asking whether you might consider one of my children. The one I am thinking of is Lydia."
As he said it, it made perfect sense. I don't teach Lydia's class-- because she is in the highest grade, P7, and I teach P6 and P5-- but the secondary school cost issue is much more imminent for P7. If they pass their exams, they're due to go to secondary school in January. I'd been considering sponsoring one or two of my P6 students if they can pass their exams, but that won't happen until next year. So I had been wondering what sort of contribution I can make in the next year (when I'm finally earning a salary) that would be meaningful. With Lydia, I can also be assured that the money will be well spent, and that she will receive the utmost support from home. Also, Lydia has been my guide and caretaker in a lot of ways in my time here. When we go to church on Sundays, and the service is in Lusoga, she listens for cues and then directs me to where we are in the English bible. When I come home from town with my shoes caked with mud, they disappear and then magically appear mud-free the next morning. She is teaching me songs, Lusoga words, and hip-shaking dance moves (which would look much better on me if I had hips). And for about the price of my Starbucks habit, I can make sure her education continues. So... I told Moses I'd consider it... and then I told him I would be happy to be her sponsor. I'll begin paying her secondary fees in January. It will be about $600 a year, and perhaps a bit more when she goes on to college (I know, I know... that's an expensive Starbucks habit... but have you calculated yours?? It's astounding when you sit down and do it).
It's so hard to know how to make an impact here. I constantly run into mzungus working in orphanages or running programs for street children or teaching women to do arts and crafts so they can support themselves. Everyone has their cause, and everyone has their angle. Even as I've told people in the U.S. that I'm here, they've said, "Oh! I'm on the board of XYZ nonprofit that is working to empower women in Uganda by making paper beads." I'm totally supportive of the nonprofit sector, but I also think the problem is so vast and multifaceted that it's daunting to try to find a way to contribute meaningfully such that I can sleep at night. But, I look at the way Lydia cares for her six younger siblings, and I think she would be a good nurse. And when I was twelve, plotting my future career as a diplomat, no one would have dreamed of stopping me. So that's going to be my humble contribution for now-- a few sheckels laid down in support of one kid's dream. A kid who maybe I was meant to find-- she has the same name as my grandmother. A kid whose dance moves late at night can't be beat. Least of all by my own.
Not surprisingly, then, every single piece of clothing I own is totally caked in mud. Yesterday was independence day, which meant there was nothing to do, so I figured I'd take the opportunity to wash my socks and underwear. I pay for Florence, Moses' wife, to wash my bigger clothes, but we obviously do our own undergarments. I have basically been adopted by Moses' eight-year-old, Winnie, and his four-year-old, Danny, and they were for some inexplicable reason eager to help me wash my underwear. I felt ridiculous about this, but Winnie is very stubborn. "Mbe [No], Shannah! You are not doing it right!" she says, and her spindly arms reach in between mine to grab the garment, to which she applies elbow grease worthy of a three-hundred pound person. My socks were particularly troubling, as they are totally red-earth stained. Don't ask me how. They were no match for Winnie, though. She is a machine. Danny was helpful as entertainment-- he made himself a soap-sud beard and sideburns and did a little dance for us. Being here makes me realize how much I truly enjoy the company of children. I actually think I prefer children to adults-- they are full of love and energy and fun. These children have completely stolen my heart.
Today was visitation day at the boarding high school where Moses' eldest daughter attends, and when she was home earlier she begged me to come see her on visitation day. So Moses and I set out, and after a complicated ordeal in Jinja to try to get packed lunches ordered to take with us to the school in the middle of (guess what) a torrential downpour, we finally made it to Maureen. She had nearly given up on us, and she was so excited to see us. She ran up and gave me a huge hug. I was definitely the only mzungu at visitation day, and Moses told me later that Maureen has now gained respect from the other students because a mzungu came to see her.
The secondary school thing occupies a lot of time in my head these days. I keep searching for
the "source of the problem" in Ugandan education, and I can't seem to put my finger on one thing. One huge issue, though, is that attending secondary school is tremendously costly. Moses is a teacher, which means he makes about $1100 a year. Secondary school costs between $300 and $800 a year, with boarding schools being better, and on the more expensive side. This means that more than half of Moses' salary goes to pay for Maureen's school. He also has seven more children at home, two of which are from his extended family but that he has taken responsibility for. Lydia, the second-oldest, is due to go to secondary school in January. She is incredibly sweet and clever. She wants to be a nurse and she desperately wants to go to boarding school in Kampala. Financially, though, it will literally not be possible for Moses to send her.
This issue came up over breakfast yesterday. Moses is a very proud man, who is very quiet about his own needs. He runs this volunteer program with no benefit to himself-- he makes no profit on what the volunteers pay for room and board, and any surplus is considered a donation to the school. But the Lydia issue had been weighing on him. He was very quiet as we drank our coffee yesterday. Finally, he said, "Shannah, I need to ask you something. And please. You can say no. I do not want to make you uncomfortable. And I have never asked a volunteer for something like this before. But you have mentioned wanting to sponsor a child for secondary among your students. I am just asking whether you might consider one of my children. The one I am thinking of is Lydia."
As he said it, it made perfect sense. I don't teach Lydia's class-- because she is in the highest grade, P7, and I teach P6 and P5-- but the secondary school cost issue is much more imminent for P7. If they pass their exams, they're due to go to secondary school in January. I'd been considering sponsoring one or two of my P6 students if they can pass their exams, but that won't happen until next year. So I had been wondering what sort of contribution I can make in the next year (when I'm finally earning a salary) that would be meaningful. With Lydia, I can also be assured that the money will be well spent, and that she will receive the utmost support from home. Also, Lydia has been my guide and caretaker in a lot of ways in my time here. When we go to church on Sundays, and the service is in Lusoga, she listens for cues and then directs me to where we are in the English bible. When I come home from town with my shoes caked with mud, they disappear and then magically appear mud-free the next morning. She is teaching me songs, Lusoga words, and hip-shaking dance moves (which would look much better on me if I had hips). And for about the price of my Starbucks habit, I can make sure her education continues. So... I told Moses I'd consider it... and then I told him I would be happy to be her sponsor. I'll begin paying her secondary fees in January. It will be about $600 a year, and perhaps a bit more when she goes on to college (I know, I know... that's an expensive Starbucks habit... but have you calculated yours?? It's astounding when you sit down and do it).
It's so hard to know how to make an impact here. I constantly run into mzungus working in orphanages or running programs for street children or teaching women to do arts and crafts so they can support themselves. Everyone has their cause, and everyone has their angle. Even as I've told people in the U.S. that I'm here, they've said, "Oh! I'm on the board of XYZ nonprofit that is working to empower women in Uganda by making paper beads." I'm totally supportive of the nonprofit sector, but I also think the problem is so vast and multifaceted that it's daunting to try to find a way to contribute meaningfully such that I can sleep at night. But, I look at the way Lydia cares for her six younger siblings, and I think she would be a good nurse. And when I was twelve, plotting my future career as a diplomat, no one would have dreamed of stopping me. So that's going to be my humble contribution for now-- a few sheckels laid down in support of one kid's dream. A kid who maybe I was meant to find-- she has the same name as my grandmother. A kid whose dance moves late at night can't be beat. Least of all by my own.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Bella's Baby
I've just returned from a whirlwind safari which, even after considerable delay, was amazingly worth it. After a few days in Kampala, I took off Monday morning with "Team Monarch"-- basically a whole bunch of northern Europeans. Did you know most of those countries still have kings and queens, and the parliaments serve at the request of the monarchy?? Astounding. Anyway, I was the lone cowboy.
On the first day we drove for what felt like a million hours (but was really only about five) and ultimately reached the top of Murchison Falls. This place is truly surreal-- the Nile river gets squeezed by a rock formation and pushes itself through in a zigzag formation until it spurts out the other end. There is spray in the air and huge rainbows. Totally worth its spot in "1000 Places to See Before you Die." Then we headed up to the camp, where we were given a serious briefing about the gravity of keeping food in our tents. We would do so under threat of death by hippo stampede. This camp, see, is smack in the middle of the park... so it is frequented by hippo, warthogs, and baboons. Anyway, everyone happily turned over their packets of cookies.
After an awkward night during which I shared a tent with a 20 year old Dutch guy (I tried not to feel awkward about it, but he was a total stranger only that morning and our beds were about six inches apart in the tent... sometimes traveling alone produces the oddest outcomes), we were off the next day on the game drive. Within the first hour, we had already seen elephant, giraffe, tons of antelope-like creatures, water buffalo, and a gagillion birds. Before our four hours were up, we even spotted a lioness. We also drove right into the middle of a herd of elephant. It was fantastic. Then after lunch we took a cruise up the Nile to the bottom of the falls, and we saw tons of wallowing hippos as well as crocs and elephant grazing by the water. This whole experience was just like on TV... only in real life.
Another night with Team Monarch making me defend the U.S. ("But I don't get it... what is wrong with Americans? Why don't they want health care? Why can't Americans understand what is good for them?"), and we were off to track rhinos. Basically rhino became extinct in Uganda during Idi Amin's time-- the lawlessness enabled poachers to nab them for their supposedly aprhodesiacal horns. Recently they've been trying to re-introduce them, and now there's a sanctuary that has seven of them. They had six, but then one mother, who had been donated by Disney's Animal Kingdom in the U.S., and one father, who was Kenyan, produced a seventh. By dint of his lineage, they were delighted to name the new calf... Obama. So anyway, there we were in the 7-rhino sanctuary, where an armed guard took us into the brush to see if we could see a rhino. After much trekking around (and likely disturbing countless nests of mambas) we finally reached a rhino, named Bella. She was... spherical. A huge, hulking, prehistoric looking creature. And it turned out the spherical nature of her massive body was due to the fact that she, too, was pregnant. After she gave us some brief turns of head and horn such that we could snap a million photos, she basically turned on one side, groaned, and disappered into the grass. At which point the guard took us back for our lunch. As we were leaving, there was a flurry of activity. Bella had-- mere minutes after we'd left her-- given birth to a calf, a calf which was only the second rhino to be born in Uganda in 28 years! It was a good thing we left when we did, because mother rhino are extremely protective of their offspring. Of course, we did have a briefing about "what do do when charged by a rhino." The advice was-- "Find a tree. Climb high." Anyway, we were all pretty psyched to have gone in while there were seven rhino, and to have come out while there were eight.
After another interminable ride back to Kampala, I jetted off to the world's most chaotic taxi park to squeeze through buses to find the coaster to Jinja. As I negotiated with my backpack into my infintessimal seat, I was slightly dismayed to see that the woman sitting next to me got off the bus as soon as I got on, saying something in Luganda that I didn't understand but that definitely had the word, "mzungu" in it. I don't really know how to process that... afraid of mzungu? It's the first time it has ever happened to me. And I have been showering! And using soap! Anyway. Then, the next woman who got on happened to be carrying a live chicken with its feet tied which she put under her seat. But then, because, you know, it was LIVE, it scooted on over to hang out by my feet. Nothing feels weirder than a live chicken doing rotations with one wing around your feet. For three hours.
Finally I reached Jinja, and, at long last, my little village of Kyabirwa. Moses' children were so cute, they ran up and gave me hugs and were so excited to see the pictures on my camera. They particularly loved the one of the baboon drinking out of a juice box. Then, today at school, when I walked in to teach my class, the kids jumped up and cheered for me. It was a big warm fuzzy for me. Also, before I left I'd written this long exam for them, which I had gotten copied in Jinja to the tune of $28, because there are 90 of them. Apparently they never get paper exams-- they always have to copy mountains of questions off the blackboard into their little exercise books. When the teacher told them there was an exam and then brought out the paper copies, they stood up and clapped and cheered. Imagine? "Hooray! We have a long exam, but it is on paper and we each get our very own." It really is a different world.
So now I'm off to jump in a taxi to head back to my village. Tomorrow is Independence Day, which means there is no school... I think I'll spend it working on my Lusoga and my tan. How's New England treating you guys, anyway? ;-)
On the first day we drove for what felt like a million hours (but was really only about five) and ultimately reached the top of Murchison Falls. This place is truly surreal-- the Nile river gets squeezed by a rock formation and pushes itself through in a zigzag formation until it spurts out the other end. There is spray in the air and huge rainbows. Totally worth its spot in "1000 Places to See Before you Die." Then we headed up to the camp, where we were given a serious briefing about the gravity of keeping food in our tents. We would do so under threat of death by hippo stampede. This camp, see, is smack in the middle of the park... so it is frequented by hippo, warthogs, and baboons. Anyway, everyone happily turned over their packets of cookies.
After an awkward night during which I shared a tent with a 20 year old Dutch guy (I tried not to feel awkward about it, but he was a total stranger only that morning and our beds were about six inches apart in the tent... sometimes traveling alone produces the oddest outcomes), we were off the next day on the game drive. Within the first hour, we had already seen elephant, giraffe, tons of antelope-like creatures, water buffalo, and a gagillion birds. Before our four hours were up, we even spotted a lioness. We also drove right into the middle of a herd of elephant. It was fantastic. Then after lunch we took a cruise up the Nile to the bottom of the falls, and we saw tons of wallowing hippos as well as crocs and elephant grazing by the water. This whole experience was just like on TV... only in real life.
Another night with Team Monarch making me defend the U.S. ("But I don't get it... what is wrong with Americans? Why don't they want health care? Why can't Americans understand what is good for them?"), and we were off to track rhinos. Basically rhino became extinct in Uganda during Idi Amin's time-- the lawlessness enabled poachers to nab them for their supposedly aprhodesiacal horns. Recently they've been trying to re-introduce them, and now there's a sanctuary that has seven of them. They had six, but then one mother, who had been donated by Disney's Animal Kingdom in the U.S., and one father, who was Kenyan, produced a seventh. By dint of his lineage, they were delighted to name the new calf... Obama. So anyway, there we were in the 7-rhino sanctuary, where an armed guard took us into the brush to see if we could see a rhino. After much trekking around (and likely disturbing countless nests of mambas) we finally reached a rhino, named Bella. She was... spherical. A huge, hulking, prehistoric looking creature. And it turned out the spherical nature of her massive body was due to the fact that she, too, was pregnant. After she gave us some brief turns of head and horn such that we could snap a million photos, she basically turned on one side, groaned, and disappered into the grass. At which point the guard took us back for our lunch. As we were leaving, there was a flurry of activity. Bella had-- mere minutes after we'd left her-- given birth to a calf, a calf which was only the second rhino to be born in Uganda in 28 years! It was a good thing we left when we did, because mother rhino are extremely protective of their offspring. Of course, we did have a briefing about "what do do when charged by a rhino." The advice was-- "Find a tree. Climb high." Anyway, we were all pretty psyched to have gone in while there were seven rhino, and to have come out while there were eight.
After another interminable ride back to Kampala, I jetted off to the world's most chaotic taxi park to squeeze through buses to find the coaster to Jinja. As I negotiated with my backpack into my infintessimal seat, I was slightly dismayed to see that the woman sitting next to me got off the bus as soon as I got on, saying something in Luganda that I didn't understand but that definitely had the word, "mzungu" in it. I don't really know how to process that... afraid of mzungu? It's the first time it has ever happened to me. And I have been showering! And using soap! Anyway. Then, the next woman who got on happened to be carrying a live chicken with its feet tied which she put under her seat. But then, because, you know, it was LIVE, it scooted on over to hang out by my feet. Nothing feels weirder than a live chicken doing rotations with one wing around your feet. For three hours.
Finally I reached Jinja, and, at long last, my little village of Kyabirwa. Moses' children were so cute, they ran up and gave me hugs and were so excited to see the pictures on my camera. They particularly loved the one of the baboon drinking out of a juice box. Then, today at school, when I walked in to teach my class, the kids jumped up and cheered for me. It was a big warm fuzzy for me. Also, before I left I'd written this long exam for them, which I had gotten copied in Jinja to the tune of $28, because there are 90 of them. Apparently they never get paper exams-- they always have to copy mountains of questions off the blackboard into their little exercise books. When the teacher told them there was an exam and then brought out the paper copies, they stood up and clapped and cheered. Imagine? "Hooray! We have a long exam, but it is on paper and we each get our very own." It really is a different world.
So now I'm off to jump in a taxi to head back to my village. Tomorrow is Independence Day, which means there is no school... I think I'll spend it working on my Lusoga and my tan. How's New England treating you guys, anyway? ;-)
Saturday, October 3, 2009
King Whale-Head
Yesterday I sat in the presence of the elusive African shoebill. Getting to him was no small feat. The tour book made it seem easy enough, and though I'm not really into birds, this one sounded pretty interesting. It's a massive grey pelican that is so striking that the first Europeans in Africa to spot him called him King Whale Head. So, it sounded worth seeing, and since I didn't have anything else to do, I headed out.
I first stopped at the Kisubi Tombs, which are pretty amazing-- they're the resting place of four kabakas (kings) of the kingdom of Buganda, which is the ethnicity of a large portion of Ugandans. The tombs are housed in what UNESCO has certified to be the largest thatched structure in the world. It is a massive dome with tons of finely tied pieces of hay. Really impressive. The tombs are cared for by the decendents of the wives of the kabakas, whose job it is to make the beautiful mats that are on the floor of the inside of the thatched hut. There is also an eternal fire, and some guy whose job it is to keep that going. It was kind of neat to learn about the different tribes within the Buganda kingdom... apparently there are 56, and each one has a patron animal and a dedicated task. If you are in the tribe of the colobus monkey, for example, you're responsible for the thatching of royal buildings. And whatever your patron is cannot be eaten, so there are people here who don't eat cow or goat because they are from that tribe. If I could, I'd definitely sign up for the goat tribe. The meat here is getting difficult to swallow. But, on to the shoebill.
So after a triumphant visit to an actual real no joke mall, where I was able to secure a new battery for my Ugandan cell phone, I took a motortaxi to the taxi park, where I weaved through throngs of people to find a bus leaving for Entebbe, which is where the airport is. The guidebook had said that the swamp where the shoebill is lies not far from Entebbe road, so I figured this was the best way. I got on the bus, which is really like a 12 seater van made to be a 14 seater. My seat was the exact worst, the back right corner, basically meaning that I would be the last one able to exit if there was an emergency. I'm not clausterphobic, but I still had to actively force myself not to think about it. Anyway, we went along, and eventually I asked the woman next to me when I should get off-- realizing that I actually had no idea. She looked at me and said-- "Get off right now. Otherwise you will not find a boda to the swamp." Apparently I hadn't thought this all the way through-- I would actually need someone to take me to the swamp, and the motorcycle taxis aren't available in some of these remote villages. Fair enough.
Anyway, so I climbed over everyone in the bus, got off, and asked the boda driver on the side of the road if he knew where the Mabamba swamp was. "Ah, you see the shoebill? Yes madam, I know the place." Cool. So we took off. As we were driving, the idiocy of my idea became clear. We drove for an hour into an incredibly remote area. I had a moment of panic... no one knows where I was planning to go... what incentive does this guy have to actually take me to the swamp? Etc. We rode through dozens of tiny villages where people's eyes popped out of their heads to see a mzungu. I thought-- is it really possible that we are going to the place that the guidebook mentioned? How the heck did the travel writer find this swamp in the first place?? Eventually, after an hour, we pulled over abruptly in front of a sign mostly obscured by dust, but on which someone had hand-painted the word "shoebill." This woman comes running out of the hut next to the sign. "You see the shoebill? I am Maria, the local guide. You wait, we go." With that, she ran back into her house, and within one minute had transformed from her local clothing into a bright red T-shirt that said "Save the Chimpanzees, they're our closes relatives," a cap that had red, white, and green striped running from front to back that said "Viva Mexico" on it, and a huge pair of binoculars. She jumped on the back of the motorcycle, leaving me sandwiched between her and my driver, and we headed off.
Eventually we got to a spot where a bunch of local fisherman sat idly by their boats. When we arrived, they sprang into action. She picked one guy, and she, the driver of the motorcycle, and I all got in the boat. The fisherman shoved off-- and we were off to see the shoebill. In the back of my mind, this whole time, I'm thinking-- "This is quite a production. I don't even really care about the shoebill!" Anyway, the swamp was beautiful for its own sake. There were tons of birds of different colors, shapes and sizes. It was enough to make me want to take up birdwatching as a hobby. Except I think I'm too young. And too not-loser-ish. But perhaps not. We glideded through patches of lily pads with bright pink and purple flours, and eventually steered our way into one patch that caused Maria to jump up. "He is here!" And there he was. A monstrous grey pelican, with a bill that looks like he is wearing a clog on his face (hence his name), stood before us. When he spread his wings to fly to another patch, it actually did take my breath away. This thing is a really, really big bird. So we sat and watched him for a time, and then moved along, gliding through the water looking at the other birds. I was struck by how peaceful and beautiful this part of Africa is. Eventually we turned around, and did the journey in reverse. We stopped again at Maria's house so I could sign the visitor's book. My name was the first one.
The driver miraculously was ultimately able to find the main road where this whole adventure began, and I thanked him profusely and paid him nicely for basically spending the entire afternoon with me. I hopped on a minibus to Kampala... somehow, again, in the same awful seat.
Today I think I'll take it easy, since tomorrow's long-awaited trip to the Falls promises to be another adventure. They say there's a nice resort nearby where you can pay $5 to sit by the pool all day. Sounds like a plan.
I first stopped at the Kisubi Tombs, which are pretty amazing-- they're the resting place of four kabakas (kings) of the kingdom of Buganda, which is the ethnicity of a large portion of Ugandans. The tombs are housed in what UNESCO has certified to be the largest thatched structure in the world. It is a massive dome with tons of finely tied pieces of hay. Really impressive. The tombs are cared for by the decendents of the wives of the kabakas, whose job it is to make the beautiful mats that are on the floor of the inside of the thatched hut. There is also an eternal fire, and some guy whose job it is to keep that going. It was kind of neat to learn about the different tribes within the Buganda kingdom... apparently there are 56, and each one has a patron animal and a dedicated task. If you are in the tribe of the colobus monkey, for example, you're responsible for the thatching of royal buildings. And whatever your patron is cannot be eaten, so there are people here who don't eat cow or goat because they are from that tribe. If I could, I'd definitely sign up for the goat tribe. The meat here is getting difficult to swallow. But, on to the shoebill.
So after a triumphant visit to an actual real no joke mall, where I was able to secure a new battery for my Ugandan cell phone, I took a motortaxi to the taxi park, where I weaved through throngs of people to find a bus leaving for Entebbe, which is where the airport is. The guidebook had said that the swamp where the shoebill is lies not far from Entebbe road, so I figured this was the best way. I got on the bus, which is really like a 12 seater van made to be a 14 seater. My seat was the exact worst, the back right corner, basically meaning that I would be the last one able to exit if there was an emergency. I'm not clausterphobic, but I still had to actively force myself not to think about it. Anyway, we went along, and eventually I asked the woman next to me when I should get off-- realizing that I actually had no idea. She looked at me and said-- "Get off right now. Otherwise you will not find a boda to the swamp." Apparently I hadn't thought this all the way through-- I would actually need someone to take me to the swamp, and the motorcycle taxis aren't available in some of these remote villages. Fair enough.
Anyway, so I climbed over everyone in the bus, got off, and asked the boda driver on the side of the road if he knew where the Mabamba swamp was. "Ah, you see the shoebill? Yes madam, I know the place." Cool. So we took off. As we were driving, the idiocy of my idea became clear. We drove for an hour into an incredibly remote area. I had a moment of panic... no one knows where I was planning to go... what incentive does this guy have to actually take me to the swamp? Etc. We rode through dozens of tiny villages where people's eyes popped out of their heads to see a mzungu. I thought-- is it really possible that we are going to the place that the guidebook mentioned? How the heck did the travel writer find this swamp in the first place?? Eventually, after an hour, we pulled over abruptly in front of a sign mostly obscured by dust, but on which someone had hand-painted the word "shoebill." This woman comes running out of the hut next to the sign. "You see the shoebill? I am Maria, the local guide. You wait, we go." With that, she ran back into her house, and within one minute had transformed from her local clothing into a bright red T-shirt that said "Save the Chimpanzees, they're our closes relatives," a cap that had red, white, and green striped running from front to back that said "Viva Mexico" on it, and a huge pair of binoculars. She jumped on the back of the motorcycle, leaving me sandwiched between her and my driver, and we headed off.
Eventually we got to a spot where a bunch of local fisherman sat idly by their boats. When we arrived, they sprang into action. She picked one guy, and she, the driver of the motorcycle, and I all got in the boat. The fisherman shoved off-- and we were off to see the shoebill. In the back of my mind, this whole time, I'm thinking-- "This is quite a production. I don't even really care about the shoebill!" Anyway, the swamp was beautiful for its own sake. There were tons of birds of different colors, shapes and sizes. It was enough to make me want to take up birdwatching as a hobby. Except I think I'm too young. And too not-loser-ish. But perhaps not. We glideded through patches of lily pads with bright pink and purple flours, and eventually steered our way into one patch that caused Maria to jump up. "He is here!" And there he was. A monstrous grey pelican, with a bill that looks like he is wearing a clog on his face (hence his name), stood before us. When he spread his wings to fly to another patch, it actually did take my breath away. This thing is a really, really big bird. So we sat and watched him for a time, and then moved along, gliding through the water looking at the other birds. I was struck by how peaceful and beautiful this part of Africa is. Eventually we turned around, and did the journey in reverse. We stopped again at Maria's house so I could sign the visitor's book. My name was the first one.
The driver miraculously was ultimately able to find the main road where this whole adventure began, and I thanked him profusely and paid him nicely for basically spending the entire afternoon with me. I hopped on a minibus to Kampala... somehow, again, in the same awful seat.
Today I think I'll take it easy, since tomorrow's long-awaited trip to the Falls promises to be another adventure. They say there's a nice resort nearby where you can pay $5 to sit by the pool all day. Sounds like a plan.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thwarted
As I suspected, my carefully laid plans were, of course, thwarted. I got to Kampala without a hitch... well, okay, except that I didn't have any idea when/where to get off the bus, but that worked itself out... and then, there I was, looking at the native instrument exhibit in the national museum, when I got a call from my tour company. Apparently yet again someone cancelled, dropping the trip to too few people to justify taking us out. I was really irritated because I had come all this way, and being British the woman took some sympathy on my desire for things going as they've been planned. She offered me free accomodations in the campsite/lodge that the tour company runs until the next departure, which is on Monday. This one, she says, will definitely go. There are more than enough people and they've already paid in advance. So I toyed with just going back to Jinja, but I really do need a change of scenery and I've been looking forward to seeing the Falls... so I took her up on her offer. And here I am in the Red Chilli Hideaway. It's not luxurious, but they gave me a nice room with... wait for it... electricity! I have a light AND a fan. It's amazing. There are also proper working toilets on the campsite with no bats. It's heaven in Uganda.
My big task until Monday is to try to figure out what to do with myself. There are a few things to see, like the tombs of the Baganda kings, a nice resort by Lake Victoria and some cute fishing villages, a swamp where you can see the elusive shoebill, etc. So I should be okay.
I have to say, though, I'm starting to get a bit lonely. As a verbal processor, it is really hard to be operating in an environment where everyone's English vocabulary is extremely limited, plus you are an outsider so you can't really "download" in the way I'm used to. Plus, I completely abhor the other foreigners. I just don't think white people should wear dreadlocks. And, would it kill them to smile and be friendly to the Ugandans who work here?
So all of this said, I was actually really grateful when last night I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich here at Red Chilli and a Ugandan man in a tuxedo shirt asked if he could share my table. It turns out that he is a lawyer/human rights activist who had some business with a staff person at the Red Chilli. He was fascinating to talk to, because he serves as an election observer in Uganda, and he has some really interesting insights into the current regime. He also has political ambitions himself, so it was interesting to hear about that as well. I realized how much I miss talking about politics! Or just talking in general, really. Anyway, I'll be curious to see where the Ugandan government heads, and whether this guy will end up being part of it.
Okay, off to find something to do with myself.
My big task until Monday is to try to figure out what to do with myself. There are a few things to see, like the tombs of the Baganda kings, a nice resort by Lake Victoria and some cute fishing villages, a swamp where you can see the elusive shoebill, etc. So I should be okay.
I have to say, though, I'm starting to get a bit lonely. As a verbal processor, it is really hard to be operating in an environment where everyone's English vocabulary is extremely limited, plus you are an outsider so you can't really "download" in the way I'm used to. Plus, I completely abhor the other foreigners. I just don't think white people should wear dreadlocks. And, would it kill them to smile and be friendly to the Ugandans who work here?
So all of this said, I was actually really grateful when last night I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich here at Red Chilli and a Ugandan man in a tuxedo shirt asked if he could share my table. It turns out that he is a lawyer/human rights activist who had some business with a staff person at the Red Chilli. He was fascinating to talk to, because he serves as an election observer in Uganda, and he has some really interesting insights into the current regime. He also has political ambitions himself, so it was interesting to hear about that as well. I realized how much I miss talking about politics! Or just talking in general, really. Anyway, I'll be curious to see where the Ugandan government heads, and whether this guy will end up being part of it.
Okay, off to find something to do with myself.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Off to Kampala
After a false start earlier in the week, everything seems set for me to head to Murchison Falls tomorrow. Of course, I'm half expecting to get to Kampala and hear that the trip has been cancelled... but, I'm heading off anyway. I'll jump in a minibus, called a Matatu, with lots of other hot and sweaty people also going to Kampala. The whole two-three hour trip costs about $2. Imagine!
Before I head out, I'm going with the head teacher of the school to buy some fabric and then to a tailor to have an African outfit made for myself. This was sort of random; I happened to comment on how lovely her outfit was the other day at school, and she said, "You like? We can have one made for you!" And again, the answer to that is not "no." So, off we go to the fabric store. It's a little weird of course, because it is a Friday and it's 9 am and all the kids are in school, and instead of being in school, the principal (which is what the head teacher is... she doesn't actually teach) is going to be galavanting around Jinja with me getting my outfit made. In fact, the way they drop everything for the volunteers is quite distressing. If it's a choice between helping a volunteer and teaching/fulfilling school duties, they absolutely prioritize the volunteer. It makes me feel really guilty, but I guess from their perspective, the incremental value of a happy volunteer who might become a lifelong supporter is greater than one math lesson, or one additional hour spent monitoring the school. Still, it's hard to swallow.
In other news, I had an unfortunate run in with flesh eating sand fleas. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say I don't intend to wear open toed shoes for the next three weeks. Or, ever.
Cheerio, off to the fabric store!
Before I head out, I'm going with the head teacher of the school to buy some fabric and then to a tailor to have an African outfit made for myself. This was sort of random; I happened to comment on how lovely her outfit was the other day at school, and she said, "You like? We can have one made for you!" And again, the answer to that is not "no." So, off we go to the fabric store. It's a little weird of course, because it is a Friday and it's 9 am and all the kids are in school, and instead of being in school, the principal (which is what the head teacher is... she doesn't actually teach) is going to be galavanting around Jinja with me getting my outfit made. In fact, the way they drop everything for the volunteers is quite distressing. If it's a choice between helping a volunteer and teaching/fulfilling school duties, they absolutely prioritize the volunteer. It makes me feel really guilty, but I guess from their perspective, the incremental value of a happy volunteer who might become a lifelong supporter is greater than one math lesson, or one additional hour spent monitoring the school. Still, it's hard to swallow.
In other news, I had an unfortunate run in with flesh eating sand fleas. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say I don't intend to wear open toed shoes for the next three weeks. Or, ever.
Cheerio, off to the fabric store!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Road to Bujagali
Like all good Type A endeavors in Africa, my well laid plans for my safari have been thwarted. The tour company called this morning to say that one of the other travelers who had booked for my trip had fallen sick, and without him/her, there wouldn't be enough people for the trip. So instead, I'm supposed to be going from Saturday to Monday. But, what I've realized here is that you can't really count on anything. In any case, I'm hoping to head out on Friday morning to explore Kampala- including the tombs of the kabakas (kings)- and then stay the night for a departure to Murchison Falls on Saturday. But, we'll see. I'm hoping that at some point in the next three weeks, I'll be able to make this trip happen.
Aside from that, I've very much settled into my routine here. And it is quite a routine... in that there is basically no variation from day to day. The one thing I vary is whether I go to Jinja or Bujagali in the afternoon. I had experimented with just going home at night, because at 5 pm I'm exhausted, but if I do that Moses' wife gets worried that I haven't eaten supper (which I generally don't because lunch is monstrously huge), and at 10:30 pm, when I'm already asleep, a knock will come at my door with a huge stew of a mystery meat and a pot of cormeal mash as big as my head. And I have to eat it, otherwise they'll be offended. So now I always go somewhere, just so she can assume I've eaten and not feed me supper.
Anyway, one of the parts I am most struck by about my time here is my 25 minute walk from Kyabirwa to Bujagali, where I can have a smoothie, and, when the internet is working, use the internet. It's basically a backpacker outpost filled with wazungu who are here for adventure travel. But they have pretty nice accomodations. It's the walk itself, though, that I look forward to the most.
The road to Bujagali, like all roads here, is made of the red earth that is the source of everything. It is so red, and so ubiquitous, that I have come to look like the characature of the "Red Man" in Peter Pan. I'm starting to worry that my feet are permanently stained. It takes me over an hour just to wash my feet at night. Anyway, this road runs past the school where I teach in a straight line for about a mile and a half to the little outpost of Bujagali on the Nile. It is lined with tons of plants that I'm only now beginning to be able to distinguish between-- coffee, banana, beans, cassava, potatoes, and jackfruit, for example.
As I walk along, my sandals kicking up a trail of red earth, little children look up from their compounds, and exclaim, "Mzungu!!!!" Then they come running, their little bare feet pounding the earth. Often they are only wearing a shirt, and the shirt may be adult size, so one bare shoulder sticks out through the neckhole. "Mzungu, hallo! Mzungu, what is my name!!" they call. "Mzungu, I am fine!" Essentially it's a string of all the English they've come to know. Sometimes the younger ones, who still don't speak any English at all, will wave their little hands and say "Mzungu, Jambo!"
Those who are savvier in the ways of the world will come up and hold on to the strings of my backpack. "Mzungu, give me pencil." or "sweetie," or "money." Once I made the mistake of walking along this road with a bag of freshly cut pineapple. They are very compelling, these kids-- so that time I couldn't help but put the juicy pieces of fruit in their outstretched hands. Usually I say, "sorry, don't have pencil." It sucks because... sometimes I do have pencils, and I definitely have money. But one of the challenges of Africa is figuring out how and when and why to give. It is the most difficult question I've encountered so far.
Some of the most interesting things I've seen have been along this road. Yesterday as I was walking along, I heard a horrible bleating coming from behind me. I turned just in time to see two bicycles coming by, each of which had two goats tied with all four legs together sitting on the back of the bicycle. Their cries were awful. They probably knew what was in store for them. I've definitely had more than enough goat stew for my taste. And I hate to say this, but I prefer my food distribution channel to be longer than it currently is.
On Sunday, as we were walking along this same road back from church, we heard a thundering in the distance. Soon, three cows came stampeding down the road, being whipped with sticks by some children. "EXTEND!!" they yelled. Extend means "get the hell out of the road." It took me a week and a half to figure this out. For a long time I thought everyone was yelling "X-ten! X-ten!" and I couldn't figure out what it stood for.
I'm the only white person I ever see along the road, with the one exception of the Bujagali tourists who are going to a kayaking spot along the road. They are incredibly annoying, because they come on motortaxis attached to their African guides with their kayaks strapped sideways to the back of the motorbikes. The stupid kayaks take up the whole road, and everyone has to jump into the bushes. They don't even know to yell "Extend!" I thought about doing some kayaking here, or at least some rafting, but apparently it's among the most dangerous in the world, with class 6 and 7 rapids. Last week a kayaker drowned. So, I think I'll stay along the shore sipping smoothies, thanks very much.
My favorite part of the road is when I approach huts that belong to my students. Then, rather than yell, "Mzungu!" the children yell, "Madam Shannah!" and come running. That's my favorite part of the walk. It's probably my favorite part of life, actually. In Texas, the best feeling in the world was when my littlest student would spot me across the gym in the morning and take a running leap into my arms for a hug, yelling, "Mi Baro!" Which actually meant, Miss Varon.
Anyway, many of my students live along this road, and I try to stop in and pay my respects to their parents or grandparents. Their grandparents in particular are so honored when I come by, which is a strange feeling. They sometimes bow all the way to the ground to thank me for coming to see them. It's challenging, because none of the older people speak English, so the students are stuck translating between Lasoga and English, but it's still kind of neat.
On the way back from Bujagali, the sunsets are unbelievable, streaking the sky with purple and orange and pink and red. I try to make my way back by 7 pm, when everything is officially dark.
Amazingly, the people here can all see in the dark... but I can't. It's all I can do not to step on a toad on the way to the latrine at night with my headlamp on the highest setting. Sometimes I amaze myself with my own incompetence.
Okay, I'm off now to pick up the copies of an exam that I just left to get done. It's quite a production... the other teacher for my older class suggested that we give an exam before I leave, so I painstakingly hand wrote six pages of an exam, complete with comprehension stories, and I dropped it off at this ramshakle photocopy place here in Jinja around the corner. The guy's copier has got to be from 1987. And he thinks he can get the thing done for 95 students in one hour. We'll see. It's Africa, after all-- anything is possible.
Aside from that, I've very much settled into my routine here. And it is quite a routine... in that there is basically no variation from day to day. The one thing I vary is whether I go to Jinja or Bujagali in the afternoon. I had experimented with just going home at night, because at 5 pm I'm exhausted, but if I do that Moses' wife gets worried that I haven't eaten supper (which I generally don't because lunch is monstrously huge), and at 10:30 pm, when I'm already asleep, a knock will come at my door with a huge stew of a mystery meat and a pot of cormeal mash as big as my head. And I have to eat it, otherwise they'll be offended. So now I always go somewhere, just so she can assume I've eaten and not feed me supper.
Anyway, one of the parts I am most struck by about my time here is my 25 minute walk from Kyabirwa to Bujagali, where I can have a smoothie, and, when the internet is working, use the internet. It's basically a backpacker outpost filled with wazungu who are here for adventure travel. But they have pretty nice accomodations. It's the walk itself, though, that I look forward to the most.
The road to Bujagali, like all roads here, is made of the red earth that is the source of everything. It is so red, and so ubiquitous, that I have come to look like the characature of the "Red Man" in Peter Pan. I'm starting to worry that my feet are permanently stained. It takes me over an hour just to wash my feet at night. Anyway, this road runs past the school where I teach in a straight line for about a mile and a half to the little outpost of Bujagali on the Nile. It is lined with tons of plants that I'm only now beginning to be able to distinguish between-- coffee, banana, beans, cassava, potatoes, and jackfruit, for example.
As I walk along, my sandals kicking up a trail of red earth, little children look up from their compounds, and exclaim, "Mzungu!!!!" Then they come running, their little bare feet pounding the earth. Often they are only wearing a shirt, and the shirt may be adult size, so one bare shoulder sticks out through the neckhole. "Mzungu, hallo! Mzungu, what is my name!!" they call. "Mzungu, I am fine!" Essentially it's a string of all the English they've come to know. Sometimes the younger ones, who still don't speak any English at all, will wave their little hands and say "Mzungu, Jambo!"
Those who are savvier in the ways of the world will come up and hold on to the strings of my backpack. "Mzungu, give me pencil." or "sweetie," or "money." Once I made the mistake of walking along this road with a bag of freshly cut pineapple. They are very compelling, these kids-- so that time I couldn't help but put the juicy pieces of fruit in their outstretched hands. Usually I say, "sorry, don't have pencil." It sucks because... sometimes I do have pencils, and I definitely have money. But one of the challenges of Africa is figuring out how and when and why to give. It is the most difficult question I've encountered so far.
Some of the most interesting things I've seen have been along this road. Yesterday as I was walking along, I heard a horrible bleating coming from behind me. I turned just in time to see two bicycles coming by, each of which had two goats tied with all four legs together sitting on the back of the bicycle. Their cries were awful. They probably knew what was in store for them. I've definitely had more than enough goat stew for my taste. And I hate to say this, but I prefer my food distribution channel to be longer than it currently is.
On Sunday, as we were walking along this same road back from church, we heard a thundering in the distance. Soon, three cows came stampeding down the road, being whipped with sticks by some children. "EXTEND!!" they yelled. Extend means "get the hell out of the road." It took me a week and a half to figure this out. For a long time I thought everyone was yelling "X-ten! X-ten!" and I couldn't figure out what it stood for.
I'm the only white person I ever see along the road, with the one exception of the Bujagali tourists who are going to a kayaking spot along the road. They are incredibly annoying, because they come on motortaxis attached to their African guides with their kayaks strapped sideways to the back of the motorbikes. The stupid kayaks take up the whole road, and everyone has to jump into the bushes. They don't even know to yell "Extend!" I thought about doing some kayaking here, or at least some rafting, but apparently it's among the most dangerous in the world, with class 6 and 7 rapids. Last week a kayaker drowned. So, I think I'll stay along the shore sipping smoothies, thanks very much.
My favorite part of the road is when I approach huts that belong to my students. Then, rather than yell, "Mzungu!" the children yell, "Madam Shannah!" and come running. That's my favorite part of the walk. It's probably my favorite part of life, actually. In Texas, the best feeling in the world was when my littlest student would spot me across the gym in the morning and take a running leap into my arms for a hug, yelling, "Mi Baro!" Which actually meant, Miss Varon.
Anyway, many of my students live along this road, and I try to stop in and pay my respects to their parents or grandparents. Their grandparents in particular are so honored when I come by, which is a strange feeling. They sometimes bow all the way to the ground to thank me for coming to see them. It's challenging, because none of the older people speak English, so the students are stuck translating between Lasoga and English, but it's still kind of neat.
On the way back from Bujagali, the sunsets are unbelievable, streaking the sky with purple and orange and pink and red. I try to make my way back by 7 pm, when everything is officially dark.
Amazingly, the people here can all see in the dark... but I can't. It's all I can do not to step on a toad on the way to the latrine at night with my headlamp on the highest setting. Sometimes I amaze myself with my own incompetence.
Okay, I'm off now to pick up the copies of an exam that I just left to get done. It's quite a production... the other teacher for my older class suggested that we give an exam before I leave, so I painstakingly hand wrote six pages of an exam, complete with comprehension stories, and I dropped it off at this ramshakle photocopy place here in Jinja around the corner. The guy's copier has got to be from 1987. And he thinks he can get the thing done for 95 students in one hour. We'll see. It's Africa, after all-- anything is possible.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Going on Safari
Today I booked one of the pieces of this trip that I've been looking forward to the most-- my safari adventure in Murchison Falls National Park. Murchison Falls is supposed to be amazing-- it is a waterfall on the Nile and essentially the water shoots out horizontally through a narrow part of the river. We will also be doing the traditional safari animal stuff that you are supposed to do in Africa. I'm so excited! I've never been on safari. I leave on Thursday the 1st out of Kampala, the capital, so I'll head to the capital from Jinja after I finish my classes on Wednesday. I feel guilty about not being with my students every day of this trip, but I promised myself this safari while I'm here, so I've got to do it. I'll be back in class again on Monday with new stories for them.
Of course, for a while there, Murchison Falls wasn't the safest place in the world, because it's in the northern part of Uganda, which borders Sudan. And there was this rebel army up there called the Lord's Resistance Army, that has been coming into Uganda and ultimately became involved in a conflict that has been playing out in the International Criminal Court. So anyway. I hear all that fighting has died down now, and it's supposed to be quite safe. And this is one of two things in Uganda that were listed in my new favorite book, "1000 Places to See Before You Die." It is my personal mission to see at least half before I die. So far I've seen only about 80. So I need to tick this one off, because if I average about 8 things a year from now until I'm 80, I'll have done it! The other thing in Uganda listed in that book is to go gorilla tracking, but you have to get a permit in advance for that, and it's quite expensive, plus I hear the fact that gorillas are encountering so many human beings in their natural habitat is making them aggressive, and I'd feel bad contributing to that. Plus, I only really like stories and movies about gorillas, not live gorillas. So I figured I'd pass on that one.
Anyway, I'm off now to buy some "sweeties" (candy) for the kids in my African family and to visit the gardens at the source of the Nile. Cheerio...
Of course, for a while there, Murchison Falls wasn't the safest place in the world, because it's in the northern part of Uganda, which borders Sudan. And there was this rebel army up there called the Lord's Resistance Army, that has been coming into Uganda and ultimately became involved in a conflict that has been playing out in the International Criminal Court. So anyway. I hear all that fighting has died down now, and it's supposed to be quite safe. And this is one of two things in Uganda that were listed in my new favorite book, "1000 Places to See Before You Die." It is my personal mission to see at least half before I die. So far I've seen only about 80. So I need to tick this one off, because if I average about 8 things a year from now until I'm 80, I'll have done it! The other thing in Uganda listed in that book is to go gorilla tracking, but you have to get a permit in advance for that, and it's quite expensive, plus I hear the fact that gorillas are encountering so many human beings in their natural habitat is making them aggressive, and I'd feel bad contributing to that. Plus, I only really like stories and movies about gorillas, not live gorillas. So I figured I'd pass on that one.
Anyway, I'm off now to buy some "sweeties" (candy) for the kids in my African family and to visit the gardens at the source of the Nile. Cheerio...
Friday, September 25, 2009
Ghost Stories
When I was little the only thing that scared me really were ghost stories. Well, and horror movies. I wasn't really ever afraid of anything else. However, I have now added three more things to the list.
1) The Bats. I simply cannot deal with them. The other night I found out from Moses that there isn't one bat that comes to visit the latrine at night; in fact, there are four. And they don't just come to visit when they see my light. Oh no. THEY LIVE IN THE HOLE. Like... down there, if you know what I mean.
2) Black Mamba snakes. I've never been afraid of snakes. I was always the first one to raise my hand when the science center guy came around to our elementary class and asked who wanted to touch the boa. But these guys, these black mambas, are apparently a big deal. So Moses was talking about them the other night, and I was like, "oh, but they're not around here, are they?" And he said, "Oh no. They live in the bushes. Except one day John was bitten by one right here where we are sitting." Right. Of course. In the bushes. And then, the next day, what did they find in the sick bay at the school? A black mamba. I tried to make a joke about the black mamba... telling Moses that we have them too, only in my country they are cocktails or rollercoasters. He was excited. "You have them too?? They are black, and about this long...?" He held out his arms to full length. Um, no. We don't have them.
3) Kidnappers and Beheaders. Now, I've never been one to overreact really. So, when I asked my students to do some sentences with the construction "Let's... shall we?" (total B.S., but I don't get to decide what we teach them) , and one kid put "Let's kill the kidnappers, shall we?", my first thought was, "How clever and imaginative! I wonder how he thought of that." But then the next day I was walking to town with a student, and she told me some kidnappers had broken into her house and tried to take her and cut off her head. So then this started to sound fishy. Two inventive kids with the same story?? So I asked Moses. Apparently, there is a Bugandan tradition of kidnapping children and beheading them, and then burying the head under the foundation of a new building for good luck. My jaw dropped to the floor when I heard this. I'm all for preservation of cultural practices-- I really am. But this one was a lot to handle. My poor students!!! Apparently mzungu heads (like mine) are worthless, as is any head of a child whose ears are pierced or who has been circumcised. No wonder there are so many little girls running around with pierced ears with nothing but pieces of hay stuck through their ears. It really is amazing. It's a different world here.
So aside from my three new phobias, all is going well. I really love the teaching and I'm learning a lot. The notion of me sitting in the back of the room working with a few students-- the one I fantasized about before coming-- was total fiction, of course. I basically teach straight through the day with just a break for lunch. And I was really pissed that there were all these lovely, appropriate instructional-level storybooks just locked in a cabinet that the kids never saw, so I started an after school reading program that I do until 5 pm every day. They are just so hungry for books! Imagine sitting crammed onto a bench with four other kids, all sharing the same one stupid workbook as the ONLY reading material you see all day? It's tragic. Especially when there actually are books! I just cannot comprehend why no one wants to teach kids with, um, you know-- books.
I'm also encouraging them to write, and I love reading their stories. They are so clever. I get beautiful stories of people tending crops, and animals with personalities, and sad stories about people dying from AIDS or malaria. These kids have so much to say. I feel overwhelmed by being the only person who is listening and reading their thoughtful, painful work at the school. And then-- I'm leaving in three and a half weeks. Poof! And it's back to normal for them. It's hard to think about. I wonder if I've done more harm than good.
I'm guessing my energy should probably really be focused on helping the teachers nudge their practice along... I mean, they're the ones that are staying. But it is such a Sisyphean task. I don't even know where to begin. I started with sitting down with one teacher and talking about individual students with her-- thinking about how we could target specific students that are lower and how I could read with them before school or during the break. We broke the 80 students into groups that I could work with differently. It was clearly the only time she'd done that... and she seemed really grateful. I guess I just need to keep doing things like that. I mean, the American system is definitely broken... but I've got to say, it sure as hell doesn't look that bad from this vantage point.
Okay. Off to consume my luxury of life-- a pineapple and banana smoothie. I'll sit looking out over the Nile, and contemplate life. And snakes, bats, and beheaders, of course.
1) The Bats. I simply cannot deal with them. The other night I found out from Moses that there isn't one bat that comes to visit the latrine at night; in fact, there are four. And they don't just come to visit when they see my light. Oh no. THEY LIVE IN THE HOLE. Like... down there, if you know what I mean.
2) Black Mamba snakes. I've never been afraid of snakes. I was always the first one to raise my hand when the science center guy came around to our elementary class and asked who wanted to touch the boa. But these guys, these black mambas, are apparently a big deal. So Moses was talking about them the other night, and I was like, "oh, but they're not around here, are they?" And he said, "Oh no. They live in the bushes. Except one day John was bitten by one right here where we are sitting." Right. Of course. In the bushes. And then, the next day, what did they find in the sick bay at the school? A black mamba. I tried to make a joke about the black mamba... telling Moses that we have them too, only in my country they are cocktails or rollercoasters. He was excited. "You have them too?? They are black, and about this long...?" He held out his arms to full length. Um, no. We don't have them.
3) Kidnappers and Beheaders. Now, I've never been one to overreact really. So, when I asked my students to do some sentences with the construction "Let's... shall we?" (total B.S., but I don't get to decide what we teach them) , and one kid put "Let's kill the kidnappers, shall we?", my first thought was, "How clever and imaginative! I wonder how he thought of that." But then the next day I was walking to town with a student, and she told me some kidnappers had broken into her house and tried to take her and cut off her head. So then this started to sound fishy. Two inventive kids with the same story?? So I asked Moses. Apparently, there is a Bugandan tradition of kidnapping children and beheading them, and then burying the head under the foundation of a new building for good luck. My jaw dropped to the floor when I heard this. I'm all for preservation of cultural practices-- I really am. But this one was a lot to handle. My poor students!!! Apparently mzungu heads (like mine) are worthless, as is any head of a child whose ears are pierced or who has been circumcised. No wonder there are so many little girls running around with pierced ears with nothing but pieces of hay stuck through their ears. It really is amazing. It's a different world here.
So aside from my three new phobias, all is going well. I really love the teaching and I'm learning a lot. The notion of me sitting in the back of the room working with a few students-- the one I fantasized about before coming-- was total fiction, of course. I basically teach straight through the day with just a break for lunch. And I was really pissed that there were all these lovely, appropriate instructional-level storybooks just locked in a cabinet that the kids never saw, so I started an after school reading program that I do until 5 pm every day. They are just so hungry for books! Imagine sitting crammed onto a bench with four other kids, all sharing the same one stupid workbook as the ONLY reading material you see all day? It's tragic. Especially when there actually are books! I just cannot comprehend why no one wants to teach kids with, um, you know-- books.
I'm also encouraging them to write, and I love reading their stories. They are so clever. I get beautiful stories of people tending crops, and animals with personalities, and sad stories about people dying from AIDS or malaria. These kids have so much to say. I feel overwhelmed by being the only person who is listening and reading their thoughtful, painful work at the school. And then-- I'm leaving in three and a half weeks. Poof! And it's back to normal for them. It's hard to think about. I wonder if I've done more harm than good.
I'm guessing my energy should probably really be focused on helping the teachers nudge their practice along... I mean, they're the ones that are staying. But it is such a Sisyphean task. I don't even know where to begin. I started with sitting down with one teacher and talking about individual students with her-- thinking about how we could target specific students that are lower and how I could read with them before school or during the break. We broke the 80 students into groups that I could work with differently. It was clearly the only time she'd done that... and she seemed really grateful. I guess I just need to keep doing things like that. I mean, the American system is definitely broken... but I've got to say, it sure as hell doesn't look that bad from this vantage point.
Okay. Off to consume my luxury of life-- a pineapple and banana smoothie. I'll sit looking out over the Nile, and contemplate life. And snakes, bats, and beheaders, of course.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Three Good Things, A Lesson and a Caution
Three Good Things
1. Antibacterial Hand Sanitizer. I have recently become obsessed with this, after my first bout with traveler's tummy. I essentially interact with 250 children on a daily basis, none of whom wash their hands... it just isn't done here. I thought I brought enough Purell wipes, but there truly aren't enough in the world for the life that I live right now. And, there is no Purell to be found here. So the most exciting thing that happened to me this week was that I found a traveler who had hand sanitizer but no sunscreen who was willing to trade his bottle of sanitizer for my bottle of sunscreen. I brought way too much sunscreen anyway. I was elated to see the little gob of green good pass over my germ covered hands... it was heaven.
2. My head lamp. I have totally come to love my head lamp. I wear it so much-- for nearly five hours a day-- that I go to bed sometimes forgetting it is on. It's only when I realize that I can't fall asleep... and that the reason I can't fall asleep is because it is too light... that it dawns on me that my head lamp is still on, projecting forward from my head like a third eye. Kind of like not being able to find your glasses, and realizing that they are on your face.
3. My dry erase boards. Oh, the glory of dry erase boards! I couldn't teach without them. When I first broke them out in the class, it was as if I had introduced something magical. In reality, they are the $1.99 ones you can get at CVS that are for teenybopper lockers or dorm room doors. But kids and teachers here had never seen them before. Sometimes they will pay attention not because what I am saying is interesting (because it isn't... the stuff I have to teach makes me want to cry... who gives a crap about the word "unless"? Do we really need to dedicate an entire day to teaching that stupid word?), but because I write them on shiny white boards and can erase them with the flick of a finger.
A Lesson
Don't Bother Being Type A in Uganda. In the US, I am an anal retentive maniac most of the time. I am obsessed with planning. And punctuality. And I like to follow rules. These concepts are absurd here. I determine when I am teaching by triangulation... based on who isn't teaching. If the classroom is empty, you're just supposed to go in and assume it is your turn. You might teach for thirty minutes... you might teach for two hours. There is no way to know. You just wait until someone else shows up and then you stop. Life is one big "go with the flow." It's as though I've cosmically been slapped upside the head and told, "You've been way too annoying in your country. How about a little dose of African easygoingness, eh?" I can think of at least one person who will be excited to see if there is any carryover effect when I come home.
A Caution
If you ever come to Uganda, don't read the book "Last King of Scotland" while you are here, in bed, late at night with your headlamp. No one told me the main character is a doctor of tropical diseases! The descriptions are gruesome. Now I think every itch is some obscure parasite that has invaded my body. (Mom, Dad-- no obscure parasites have invaded my body). I really hope I don't come home with elephantitis. I already have monstrously big feet, for crying out loud.
1. Antibacterial Hand Sanitizer. I have recently become obsessed with this, after my first bout with traveler's tummy. I essentially interact with 250 children on a daily basis, none of whom wash their hands... it just isn't done here. I thought I brought enough Purell wipes, but there truly aren't enough in the world for the life that I live right now. And, there is no Purell to be found here. So the most exciting thing that happened to me this week was that I found a traveler who had hand sanitizer but no sunscreen who was willing to trade his bottle of sanitizer for my bottle of sunscreen. I brought way too much sunscreen anyway. I was elated to see the little gob of green good pass over my germ covered hands... it was heaven.
2. My head lamp. I have totally come to love my head lamp. I wear it so much-- for nearly five hours a day-- that I go to bed sometimes forgetting it is on. It's only when I realize that I can't fall asleep... and that the reason I can't fall asleep is because it is too light... that it dawns on me that my head lamp is still on, projecting forward from my head like a third eye. Kind of like not being able to find your glasses, and realizing that they are on your face.
3. My dry erase boards. Oh, the glory of dry erase boards! I couldn't teach without them. When I first broke them out in the class, it was as if I had introduced something magical. In reality, they are the $1.99 ones you can get at CVS that are for teenybopper lockers or dorm room doors. But kids and teachers here had never seen them before. Sometimes they will pay attention not because what I am saying is interesting (because it isn't... the stuff I have to teach makes me want to cry... who gives a crap about the word "unless"? Do we really need to dedicate an entire day to teaching that stupid word?), but because I write them on shiny white boards and can erase them with the flick of a finger.
A Lesson
Don't Bother Being Type A in Uganda. In the US, I am an anal retentive maniac most of the time. I am obsessed with planning. And punctuality. And I like to follow rules. These concepts are absurd here. I determine when I am teaching by triangulation... based on who isn't teaching. If the classroom is empty, you're just supposed to go in and assume it is your turn. You might teach for thirty minutes... you might teach for two hours. There is no way to know. You just wait until someone else shows up and then you stop. Life is one big "go with the flow." It's as though I've cosmically been slapped upside the head and told, "You've been way too annoying in your country. How about a little dose of African easygoingness, eh?" I can think of at least one person who will be excited to see if there is any carryover effect when I come home.
A Caution
If you ever come to Uganda, don't read the book "Last King of Scotland" while you are here, in bed, late at night with your headlamp. No one told me the main character is a doctor of tropical diseases! The descriptions are gruesome. Now I think every itch is some obscure parasite that has invaded my body. (Mom, Dad-- no obscure parasites have invaded my body). I really hope I don't come home with elephantitis. I already have monstrously big feet, for crying out loud.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Born Again
Today is Sunday, so it is church day in rural Uganda. Only the children from Moses' family went, though-- the two girls put on their nicest dresses and got their family bible, and the two of them, Sophie, the other volunteer, the four year old boy, Danny, and I trudged down the road to the church. On the way we passed several other churches, and the singing and clapping and drumming could be heard from quite a distance away. When we got to our "church", I saw that it was actually just a shelter, a bunch of sticks in the ground with slabs of wood slapped over them and a crude tin roof overhead. We sat down on the wooden benches, and the preacher was delighted to see two mzungu attending his service. He called on me to read... so there I was, on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, reading from the book of James in what they call a "Born Again" church in a Ugandan village. It was a nice passage, and I actually thought the message was universal, so somehow I felt quite at home. Then the people in attendance got up and gave testimonials in Lusoga. The man next to us translated for us... it turns out everyone who got up was talking about how blessed they felt that God has brought visitors to their church. I definitely felt like an imposter. Then the pastor asked us if we wanted to give a testimonial. It was clear that "no" was the absolute wrong answer. So, I got up and just thanked them for having us and talked about how blessed I felt to be able to worship with them. It went over quite well. The best part came next-- the singing and dancing. There were three boys with drums in the corner of the church, and they banged along to the songs. I obviously had no idea what we were singing because everything was in Lusoga, but I picked it up and had a fabulous time, and I think they appreciated the effort and enthusiasm.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Snow Day
Yesterday, Friday, it was pouring rain when my alarm went off at 6:50 am. Why I have an alarm when I have a perfectly adequate rooster who lives 3 feet from my door, I do not know. Anyway, I opened the door of my little room, and no one was stirring. So, I figured I'd wait... we generally don't have breakfast until 7:30... which is the time of the first class up at the school (this of course was confusing to me at first, being as anal retentive as I am. How can you start class and have breakfast at the same time? It turns out that in Ugandan time, everything is at least 1/2 an hour later than stated. So class really starts at 8. ish.). Anyway, so there I was, eagerly anticipating my breakfast of two small bananas, a muffin, and a slice of bread along with hot milk freshly milked from the cow, and no one was getting up. 8:00 came, the rains continued, no one got up. 9:00. 9:30... finally the rains stopped and people emerged. I was crazed. We had already missed nearly two hours of school! But then one of the children said-- "We do not go to school when it rains." I nearly fell over. This in a country where barely any of the 14 year olds can string together a sentence in English, the official language of the nation. But then she explained that the school worries that they will get sick if they walk in the rain... and it totally made sense. It is sometimes hard for me to think about all of the competing priorities here. But it's true, many of them walk a half an hour to school in bare feet, and doing so in the rain can't be a good idea. I'm just really troubled, because it's not like it rains here as infrequently as we get a snow storm in Boston. I mean, I bet Uganda is in the top 5 African nations in terms of rainfall. We will be sleeping in a lot in the next month, I'm guessing.
Yesterday, when we finally did get to school-- around 10:30 am-- the cutest thing happened. One of the girls who is not even in my class came up to me, knelt on the ground, bowed her head, and presented me with a small hen's egg as a gift. It had to have been the sweetest gift I have ever received. They don't have much here, but the spirit of generosity is tremendous.
Today we went up to teach the bunch of kids that show up to school on Saturday-- no rhyme or reason to this, it just so happens that some kids choose to go to school on Saturday, so some of us show up to teach them. They are working on writing letters, so I asked them to write some to students in the U.S. They are actually the cutest letters ever. My favorite quote: "So, you are American? You must love Obama. He is African, like me!" They don't have TV, but every child in this country knows about Obama and totally worships him. It's really interesting. There seems to be an "East African" identity, which I hadn't thought about. Our country is so big, we wouldn't really ever get excited about lumping ourselves in with Canada or Mexico, for example. But Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania-- it seems there is a bunch of solidarity among them. So if Obama is Kenyan, well then, he is African like me.
Today is Rosh Hashanah. As you can see, I'm not really observing it per se. Apparently there are Jews in Uganda, but they aren't close to my village, and since I've just gotten here I figured I wouldn't risk attempting a half-day journey by a series of overpacked minibuses to find out about Jews who may or may not be there and who may or may not be excited to see me. Instead, I sat by the Nile river and read some passages I brought with me and did some quiet reflection. I hope that counts. It's kind of neat because we're supposed to throw crumbs into a flowing body of water to symbolize casting off our sins. I'm thinking the Nile is a pretty badass venue for sending away some sins. Tomorrow when we go to the river to wash our clothes, I will send some crumbs along with the gobs of Ugandan mud that has caked my clothes.
I think Ugandans have as many words for mud as Eskimos have for snowflakes and Peruvians have for potatoes. Every time I point to a lump of sod and ask what the Lusoga word is for it, I get a different answer. As if I am pointing to different mud than the time before. Or something.
This mud situation makes for a really interesting approach to roads. All the roads are dirt, and instead of there being a right lane and a left lane, there is a "high road" and a "low road." The high road is the mound in the middle of the road that is less wet, and the low road is basically the two rivets on the sides that are perpetually gunky. Older people with bundles on their heads and motorbikes are given priority for the high road-- everyone else will step to the low road when they come by.
This has necessitated the immediate purchase of "Wellies" in the market (these, I guess, are boots, and the brits call them Wellies for Wellingtons). I am quite a sight in my big black Wellies and my North Face adventure pants. I feel kind of guilty showing up to teach like that, but there really isn't any deep commitment to fashion here, as long as you aren't wearing a miniskirt or showing too much of your legs. The other volunteer, Sophie, who is staying at the same place with me had an interesting experience with this leg thing. One day when we were in town she went to a tailor to ask the woman to sew up the seam of a miniskirt she had just created from jeans she had cut up. This was a serious miniskirt, and the woman was mortified. Sophie was only able to get her to do the skirt by promising not to wear it in Africa. I'll stick to my adventure pants, thank you.
So apparently this internet cafe in Bujagali where I am (not really an internet cafe, more like a campsite for adventurous mzungus who go rafting on the falls) has showers. And they are hot showers! I am so excited. Signing off for now...
Love,
Shan
Yesterday, when we finally did get to school-- around 10:30 am-- the cutest thing happened. One of the girls who is not even in my class came up to me, knelt on the ground, bowed her head, and presented me with a small hen's egg as a gift. It had to have been the sweetest gift I have ever received. They don't have much here, but the spirit of generosity is tremendous.
Today we went up to teach the bunch of kids that show up to school on Saturday-- no rhyme or reason to this, it just so happens that some kids choose to go to school on Saturday, so some of us show up to teach them. They are working on writing letters, so I asked them to write some to students in the U.S. They are actually the cutest letters ever. My favorite quote: "So, you are American? You must love Obama. He is African, like me!" They don't have TV, but every child in this country knows about Obama and totally worships him. It's really interesting. There seems to be an "East African" identity, which I hadn't thought about. Our country is so big, we wouldn't really ever get excited about lumping ourselves in with Canada or Mexico, for example. But Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania-- it seems there is a bunch of solidarity among them. So if Obama is Kenyan, well then, he is African like me.
Today is Rosh Hashanah. As you can see, I'm not really observing it per se. Apparently there are Jews in Uganda, but they aren't close to my village, and since I've just gotten here I figured I wouldn't risk attempting a half-day journey by a series of overpacked minibuses to find out about Jews who may or may not be there and who may or may not be excited to see me. Instead, I sat by the Nile river and read some passages I brought with me and did some quiet reflection. I hope that counts. It's kind of neat because we're supposed to throw crumbs into a flowing body of water to symbolize casting off our sins. I'm thinking the Nile is a pretty badass venue for sending away some sins. Tomorrow when we go to the river to wash our clothes, I will send some crumbs along with the gobs of Ugandan mud that has caked my clothes.
I think Ugandans have as many words for mud as Eskimos have for snowflakes and Peruvians have for potatoes. Every time I point to a lump of sod and ask what the Lusoga word is for it, I get a different answer. As if I am pointing to different mud than the time before. Or something.
This mud situation makes for a really interesting approach to roads. All the roads are dirt, and instead of there being a right lane and a left lane, there is a "high road" and a "low road." The high road is the mound in the middle of the road that is less wet, and the low road is basically the two rivets on the sides that are perpetually gunky. Older people with bundles on their heads and motorbikes are given priority for the high road-- everyone else will step to the low road when they come by.
This has necessitated the immediate purchase of "Wellies" in the market (these, I guess, are boots, and the brits call them Wellies for Wellingtons). I am quite a sight in my big black Wellies and my North Face adventure pants. I feel kind of guilty showing up to teach like that, but there really isn't any deep commitment to fashion here, as long as you aren't wearing a miniskirt or showing too much of your legs. The other volunteer, Sophie, who is staying at the same place with me had an interesting experience with this leg thing. One day when we were in town she went to a tailor to ask the woman to sew up the seam of a miniskirt she had just created from jeans she had cut up. This was a serious miniskirt, and the woman was mortified. Sophie was only able to get her to do the skirt by promising not to wear it in Africa. I'll stick to my adventure pants, thank you.
So apparently this internet cafe in Bujagali where I am (not really an internet cafe, more like a campsite for adventurous mzungus who go rafting on the falls) has showers. And they are hot showers! I am so excited. Signing off for now...
Love,
Shan
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Bat in the Latrine
Wasuzotia (good morning), everyone...
All is well here in Kyabirwa. A few tidbits for the past few days are:
1) Porridge is as bland tasting as it sounds. And you have to eat it when it is offered to you.
2) When you see these flying ants crawling around these banana leaf wrapped bundles, which look to you like yummy tamales, guess what? The bundles are actually just packages of the flying ants, wrapped up in a package to save you from having to catch them yourselves.
3) It is actually possible to shower in two minutes (family, you should be impressed). It helps when your water is freezing rainwater that you pour over your head.
4) It is best to try to get to the latrine either before or after the monsoon rains. Not in the middle of them.
5) If you are going to the latrine in the night, and you are wearing your headlamp so you don't trip over the cow, it is QUITE LIKELY that you will be followed by a bat. And he will get there first. And then, it is him or you. Probably him.
Another thing I've been thinking a lot about is being a mzungu... which means white person (really, it means white European, but the children on the road don't distinguish). It's quite interesting. You'll be walking along and they will just call out, "mzungu!" It makes me wonder which is worse... someone noticing a difference and not saying anything, or having it be so out in the open that it is totally okay to call it out. White people here refer to ourselves as mzungus, too.
This whole "white minority" experience reminds me a lot of my time in the Rio Grande Valley. Actually, Kyabirwa has a lot in common with Mercedes, Texas, in how insular it feels, and how much like an outsider I feel. This whole thing is giving me a lot to chew on.
The teaching is going really well, and is really interesting. My day starts like this. I go in to the class. They stand up and say, "You are welcome, madam." Then I say, "Good morning, children." They say, "Good morning, madam." Then I say, "How are you today?" Then they say, "We are very well thank you, madam." Then I tell them they can be seated. The whole time, I am wondering if they have any idea what the exchange has been about. It is very sweet, and extremely programmed. The teachers do this the same way every day.
All the classes are taught out of these Ugandan textbooks. That is great, of course, in that they are culturally relevant to an extent, but what is interesting is that even so, a lot of the concepts are over the heads of these particular Ugandan children because of how rural their lives are. We read a story about a girl who goes with her grandfather to a hospital, and they couldn't conceptualize it. The grandfather in the story is supposed to write down that his occupation is "farmer." How do you explain to children for whom farming is just LIFE-- kids who milk cows in the morning and pick potatoes or cassava or beans at night every day of their lives-- that for some people it is a job, and you should write it on a f0rm in the line that says "occupation"? Seriously, teaching in rural Uganda is stretching my mind tremendously in terms of what sort of assumptions we can and can't make about what children know.
The songs continue to be a big hit. I have begun to invent them-- because we had another lesson on carpentry and I didn't know any songs with the words foundation and scaffolding in them, so I had to make one up. I have also dipped into my deep reserve pool of childhood classics and spread "Head, shoulders, knees and toes" widely as well. The other teachers seem to get a kick out of the songs (er, out of me?) as well.
Okay, got to run back to the village now. It gets dark at 7 pm, so that's when I turn into a pumpkin.
Love to all.
All is well here in Kyabirwa. A few tidbits for the past few days are:
1) Porridge is as bland tasting as it sounds. And you have to eat it when it is offered to you.
2) When you see these flying ants crawling around these banana leaf wrapped bundles, which look to you like yummy tamales, guess what? The bundles are actually just packages of the flying ants, wrapped up in a package to save you from having to catch them yourselves.
3) It is actually possible to shower in two minutes (family, you should be impressed). It helps when your water is freezing rainwater that you pour over your head.
4) It is best to try to get to the latrine either before or after the monsoon rains. Not in the middle of them.
5) If you are going to the latrine in the night, and you are wearing your headlamp so you don't trip over the cow, it is QUITE LIKELY that you will be followed by a bat. And he will get there first. And then, it is him or you. Probably him.
Another thing I've been thinking a lot about is being a mzungu... which means white person (really, it means white European, but the children on the road don't distinguish). It's quite interesting. You'll be walking along and they will just call out, "mzungu!" It makes me wonder which is worse... someone noticing a difference and not saying anything, or having it be so out in the open that it is totally okay to call it out. White people here refer to ourselves as mzungus, too.
This whole "white minority" experience reminds me a lot of my time in the Rio Grande Valley. Actually, Kyabirwa has a lot in common with Mercedes, Texas, in how insular it feels, and how much like an outsider I feel. This whole thing is giving me a lot to chew on.
The teaching is going really well, and is really interesting. My day starts like this. I go in to the class. They stand up and say, "You are welcome, madam." Then I say, "Good morning, children." They say, "Good morning, madam." Then I say, "How are you today?" Then they say, "We are very well thank you, madam." Then I tell them they can be seated. The whole time, I am wondering if they have any idea what the exchange has been about. It is very sweet, and extremely programmed. The teachers do this the same way every day.
All the classes are taught out of these Ugandan textbooks. That is great, of course, in that they are culturally relevant to an extent, but what is interesting is that even so, a lot of the concepts are over the heads of these particular Ugandan children because of how rural their lives are. We read a story about a girl who goes with her grandfather to a hospital, and they couldn't conceptualize it. The grandfather in the story is supposed to write down that his occupation is "farmer." How do you explain to children for whom farming is just LIFE-- kids who milk cows in the morning and pick potatoes or cassava or beans at night every day of their lives-- that for some people it is a job, and you should write it on a f0rm in the line that says "occupation"? Seriously, teaching in rural Uganda is stretching my mind tremendously in terms of what sort of assumptions we can and can't make about what children know.
The songs continue to be a big hit. I have begun to invent them-- because we had another lesson on carpentry and I didn't know any songs with the words foundation and scaffolding in them, so I had to make one up. I have also dipped into my deep reserve pool of childhood classics and spread "Head, shoulders, knees and toes" widely as well. The other teachers seem to get a kick out of the songs (er, out of me?) as well.
Okay, got to run back to the village now. It gets dark at 7 pm, so that's when I turn into a pumpkin.
Love to all.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
First Two Days
Jambo, loved ones!
I am safely in Uganda. It is amazing, I totally love it! I live in a
small village called Kyabirwa, which is pronounced "Chabirwa."
What to tell you... okay, so my lodgings are at Moses' house in a
cement block structure next to the main house. It is a small room
(but, I still think it is a smidge bigger than Kathy's room in our
apartment in New York!). I have a bed with a foam mattress and a
mosquito net (even though I haven't seen any mosquitoes), a table, a
chair, and a set of shelves. Taking a shower involves taking a bucket
of boiled rainwater out to a open air cement structure in the back
yard and pouring it over my head. This is actually less awful than it
must sound. I brought nice soap and shampoo, so it is all good. The
bathroom is a latrine, which is really a pit in the ground in a mud
hut a bit away from the house. To get there, I need to maneuver around
a large cow, but other than that it totally works.
Moses is incredibly nice, as is his wife Florence. They have eight
children and I adore them, especially the four year old, Daniel. They
are teaching me Lusoga, which is the native dialect. So far my
favorite word is chicken, which is n'koko. I can also say good
morning, how are you, I am fine, good afternoon, and a host of other
important words- like jackfruit. My goal is to learn 1000 words before
I leave, and to be basically conversational in lusoga. Wish me luck.
I adore the school. I will be teaching English (which is really
English as a Second Language) to Primary 5 and Primary 6, which is
basically students who range from 12-16. I'll be standing in for and
tag teaming with their regular teachers. There are about 100 students
per class. I'm working really hard to learn their names. Today we did
prepositions in Primary 6, which necessitated a rousing rendition of
"The Wheels on the Bus." Envision 100 15-16 year olds singing while I
jumped around at the front conducting. It is hard to engage 100
children at a time, but they were into it-- they went to lunch singing
the song and teaching it to other kids. Anyway, I really hope I do a
good job. The expectations for the volunteers are quite low, so I need
to figure out another way of figuring out if I am doing a good job.
The teaching they are used to is mostly rote instruction and copying.
The kids do not know how to answer the question, "Why?" This whole
thing will be quite challenging, I think.
One thing that is interesting is that it gets really dark really early
here, so even if I go out in the afternoon after school (and by "go
out" there are very few places to go... but I mean, to Jinja where I
am now, to use the internet, for example), I have to be home by 7 pm.
Then I am in bed by 9 pm. I am very glad I brought 3 LED lamps with
lots of batteries, and a bunch of books. I am also journaling a lot,
which I love. The roosters start cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5:30 am, but
it isn't light until 7 am, so it makes for some great thinking time as
well.
The food is pretty good so far. Yesterday for lunch we had rice and
beans, and then for dinner I had the best french fries ever with pork.
Today for lunch we had mashed plantains, sweet potato (which is not
orange, but is somehow still different from "Irish potato"), and
cabbage with tomato sauce. The portions are huge. Please don't expect
an emaciated Shannah upon return.
So, my life has pretty much found its rhythm for the next five weeks.
It's all pretty simple. The one aberration will likely be that I will
go on a 3 or 4 day safari to Murchison Falls National Park sometime in
the next few weeks... both to see the waterfall and to see some large
game. I'll keep you posted.
I miss you guys. Pratt, the children were fascinated by pictures of
Speaker on my phone. They had a hard time understanding that in the US
we have dogs as pets... here the dogs are wild, and you don't keep
them as pets. Animals are also not named here (probably because we eat
them). When I asked Florence what the name of the calf was, she looked
at me quizzically and said "calf." Of course.
Lots of love, and thanks for your patience with my adventure.
I am safely in Uganda. It is amazing, I totally love it! I live in a
small village called Kyabirwa, which is pronounced "Chabirwa."
What to tell you... okay, so my lodgings are at Moses' house in a
cement block structure next to the main house. It is a small room
(but, I still think it is a smidge bigger than Kathy's room in our
apartment in New York!). I have a bed with a foam mattress and a
mosquito net (even though I haven't seen any mosquitoes), a table, a
chair, and a set of shelves. Taking a shower involves taking a bucket
of boiled rainwater out to a open air cement structure in the back
yard and pouring it over my head. This is actually less awful than it
must sound. I brought nice soap and shampoo, so it is all good. The
bathroom is a latrine, which is really a pit in the ground in a mud
hut a bit away from the house. To get there, I need to maneuver around
a large cow, but other than that it totally works.
Moses is incredibly nice, as is his wife Florence. They have eight
children and I adore them, especially the four year old, Daniel. They
are teaching me Lusoga, which is the native dialect. So far my
favorite word is chicken, which is n'koko. I can also say good
morning, how are you, I am fine, good afternoon, and a host of other
important words- like jackfruit. My goal is to learn 1000 words before
I leave, and to be basically conversational in lusoga. Wish me luck.
I adore the school. I will be teaching English (which is really
English as a Second Language) to Primary 5 and Primary 6, which is
basically students who range from 12-16. I'll be standing in for and
tag teaming with their regular teachers. There are about 100 students
per class. I'm working really hard to learn their names. Today we did
prepositions in Primary 6, which necessitated a rousing rendition of
"The Wheels on the Bus." Envision 100 15-16 year olds singing while I
jumped around at the front conducting. It is hard to engage 100
children at a time, but they were into it-- they went to lunch singing
the song and teaching it to other kids. Anyway, I really hope I do a
good job. The expectations for the volunteers are quite low, so I need
to figure out another way of figuring out if I am doing a good job.
The teaching they are used to is mostly rote instruction and copying.
The kids do not know how to answer the question, "Why?" This whole
thing will be quite challenging, I think.
One thing that is interesting is that it gets really dark really early
here, so even if I go out in the afternoon after school (and by "go
out" there are very few places to go... but I mean, to Jinja where I
am now, to use the internet, for example), I have to be home by 7 pm.
Then I am in bed by 9 pm. I am very glad I brought 3 LED lamps with
lots of batteries, and a bunch of books. I am also journaling a lot,
which I love. The roosters start cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5:30 am, but
it isn't light until 7 am, so it makes for some great thinking time as
well.
The food is pretty good so far. Yesterday for lunch we had rice and
beans, and then for dinner I had the best french fries ever with pork.
Today for lunch we had mashed plantains, sweet potato (which is not
orange, but is somehow still different from "Irish potato"), and
cabbage with tomato sauce. The portions are huge. Please don't expect
an emaciated Shannah upon return.
So, my life has pretty much found its rhythm for the next five weeks.
It's all pretty simple. The one aberration will likely be that I will
go on a 3 or 4 day safari to Murchison Falls National Park sometime in
the next few weeks... both to see the waterfall and to see some large
game. I'll keep you posted.
I miss you guys. Pratt, the children were fascinated by pictures of
Speaker on my phone. They had a hard time understanding that in the US
we have dogs as pets... here the dogs are wild, and you don't keep
them as pets. Animals are also not named here (probably because we eat
them). When I asked Florence what the name of the calf was, she looked
at me quizzically and said "calf." Of course.
Lots of love, and thanks for your patience with my adventure.
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