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!
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