Kot Mwaka Maber! or Happy New Year

The closest translation to that is Happy New Year and as it turns out New Year's Eve is THE big celebration of the year.  And frankly celebrating the birth of 2012, which is supposed to be a momentous year in evolutionary and spiritual terms, in Uganda is a bit surreal.  I keep thinking I should be doing something BIG about now, but the fact is: it's 11:42 and I'm sitting here surrounded by a cacophony of sounds from all directions and I'm writing a blog...  I fear I have reached "old fartedness,"  but that fear is somewhat assuaged by the fact that some of the younger ones also opted to stay out of the fray of Gulu gone wild at midnight.    Still - we are celebrating what we've survived or transcended in the last five months and devising ways to continue same for the next twenty two.  

There are parties - no, make that bashes - in all directions.  At about 7:30 friends and I went to a little club that is literally in my front yard and the crowd was beginning to gather.  It seemed to be a private party, so we ambled through a rutted dirt road to a guest house known as Absolute Comfort (hmmmm) and had drinks on their  "patio," replete with flashing disco lighting and a sports game on a big screen in the inside bar.  We ordered a beer and two Smirnoff Ice Black Label vodka coolers.  Communication not going so well, our waitress announced that all they had was Red Label.  When she "verified" two shots, I knew something had been lost in translation.  When she showed up with two shots of Johnny Walker Red,  it was confirmed.  We finally got our drinks and as darkness fell, the crowds increased and women carrying huge pots (24" diameter)  on their heads passed in a steady stream going to a street party a few blocks away.   Others were leading a cows home on the same street and Bodas, cars, bicycles and kids jockeyed for any space remaining.  The dust soon became unbearable,  so we meandered home while we could still do it without risking life and limb.  Ugandans like their alcohol and they love to party, so we'll let them have their streets tonight.

Midnight:  Wow - this town is erupting.  I've never heard so much human noise and there are explosions in every direction.  I can see some fireworks from my window and this noise is just phenomenal for its sheer volume and scope, considering how far it seems to continue in al directions.   Times Square has nuthin' over Gulu when it comes to New Years.  The gecko on my wall has been vibrated out of stillness and it's scurrying around no doubt looking for a safe-haven.  There will be little sleep tonight... 

Christmas in the Rear View Mirror

Christmas dawned bright and clear on this little island in the middle of the Nile, reachable only by canoe. Considering that I was away from family and old friends and the familiarity of Christmas at home (including cold weather) - it was the best possible, breathtakingly gorgeous and spent with good people.  Surrounded on all sides by jungle and the fierce whitewater of this section of the Nile, it was magical.  Just the previous morning, the island was shrouded in a dense fog, giving it an eerily mystical feeling.  Peopled with genuinely gracious Uganda staff who left a Gingerbread Man on my Pillow on Christmas Eve - it's a place I hope to be able to return to at least once before Close of Service.   Being near WATER was a boost to the soul and the spirit!

So it was a rude, bumpy, dusty, hard re-entry back into my real life here in Gulu.  The dry season is upon us and that makes Gulu Town even more of a dust bin that usual.  Arrived home hot, tired and filthy from just the ride home a good portion of it spent on a "short cut" on washboard roads. As the car bounced along, cast clouds of dust billowed up from the floorboards of the van, not to mention the engulfing red clouds that threatened to consume the can when it encountered another car.  Came in to at least discover that we had WATER, which I am told was "not there" for the entire time I was away.  No electricity, but water  (thank you God) and that is precisely what we all needed.  Cold showers were had by all and spirits began to be restores. Who needs hot water!

There were myriad unpleasant surprises upon walking into the house, but most have been remedied.  Had to hobble around town and replace a fan that had been used in my absence and  was essentially "finished."  These things in the regular world are not issues, but in Uganda where everything is ten times harder to accomplish and it all has to be done "on foot," if you're a PCV,  it sometimes seems insurmountable - especially on 1.5 feet.

Still - I am re-acclimating.  After four nights of nothing but the sounds of Nile rapids, I am back to the all night thudding of an undefinable, but excruciatingly rhythmic bass beat coming from at least several directions.  Ear plugs don't cut the bass frequencies and it's so pervasive  I can't even go cut the wires!
I doubled up on a sleeping pill last night and managed to fall asleep after bouts of stomach-wars from some unknown food - or just TOO MUCH food, because I ate everything that wasn't nailed down over Christmas.  And it was all excellent!

Still - I have friends here and we are easing back into the life that will be "normal" for a while. We eased re-entry by watching three episodes of The Closer last night and it was heaven.  Have more to go tonight and then to conjure something to do for New Year's Eve.  Can I stay awake until Mid-night???   Do I even want to?  But there's something to be said about welcoming 2012 in the heart of Africa.

On another note, and I can't remember if I mentioned this - the 50 foot tall retaining wall that marks the left side of the long, steep downwardly-sloping drive into PC HQ collapsed.  Not all of it, but a good third of the portion beyond the guard house where all vehicles get the "bomb check."  It makes HQ inaccessible  and has thrown everything into more of a CF than seems reasonable.  So things like our Inservice Language Training (1 week) and the Inservice Training (another week) have been cancelled.  All this was to happen in January, giving us all a chance to re-group, if not gripe about things.

Another two people have ET'd - gone home to comfort and such.  It was not unexpected, just handled in a bizarre way.   We are told than some of this will become mundane - and that may be so, but I hope I never lose my sense of awareness of this place, never stop looking at it with the wonder of what is beautiful and poignant,  at the contradictions of filth and suffering juxtaposed with a generosity of spirit and sense of laughter that exists everywhere.  

So on that note,  I wish you a beautiful New Year filled with possibilities, discoveries and gratitude.

So You Think YOU were Robbed at the Post Office?

You all know I have two sons.  One, I communicate regularly with by phone.  That would be Brett, Director, Ski Patrol, Timberline) on the mountain, risking life-and-limb every day as I see it.  The oldest is Travis, in the city now after coming back from a lucrative IT contract job in Iraq, which you'd think would hold some danger...  it's Bagdad military zone after all.   We regularly "chat" - the on-line variety.  So when the phone rang this morning and Trav's name popped up, I knew this was no ordinary day - and it's a day before my birthday - so probably not a birthday call.  I'd not yet had coffee - and there was the usual slow getting-into-the-day clattering going on in the background as breakfast is brought out in random starts and stops.

So , I say "Travis!  How wonderful to hear your voice!  This is unusual - a call - how are you?"
Travis, savoring the moment and his news:  "Well, I thought  a call would be appropriate after the events of the day."
"Oh yeah?  What did the day bring?"
"Well - I got your package mailed!"
"Good, good - that is a big event - I know what a pain in the ass that can be..."
"Yep - and it cost be $75.00."
"Damn Travis!  That a lot!  Sorry about that!"
"Well - it's OK - the Post Office ate that one."
"Hmmm - sounds like a story behind that... knowing that the Post Office never gives anything away."
"Yeah - considering I was robbed at gun point..."

HA! The other shoe has dropped...  Proving once again, that danger is not always where you expect it.  "Oh my god Travis!  Are you alright???  Tell me!!!!"

As the story unfolds, it seems Travis has gone out on what should have been an ordinary mission of mailing a Christmas package.  In retrospect, though,  I can remember some forays to the PO during the Christmas rush that would qualify for combat pay...  and feeling like I'd been robbed after paying for the privilege.

It was 11:30 in the morning in a Prince George County PO (near Hyattsville, MD).  As he was filling out customs forms, a masked gunman came in brandishing a gun (which Travis described as a pocket pistol or some such but he knew exactly which one it was...) and started banging on the PO counter for the attendants to come out  (as he would like to rob them).  Naturally this approach didn't work real well and the employees stayed where they were (they're smart like that.)  Having failed to collect his intended stash, he decided he'd rob the captive audience of seven or so people who had come into mail packages.   I'm guessing he probably didn't think it through that well.

After some fairly frantic bounding around and collecting about $200 in cash, the bandit ran out, no shots having been fired and all are well.  Travis was  the only one who thought to call 911 and the only one with enough presence of mind to pay attention to the kind of details police want.    It was a TV scene - complete with black hoodie, black pants, black mask, shiny gun (well I'm not really sure how shiny it was).

Having donated $100 to the cause already, the PO Police evidently decided he'd already over paid for the package.  I think I'll save the wrapping on this one.

So next time you go the Post Office to mail a package and think you've been robbed - consider the price of a "refund" - in the Twilight Zone.

Merry Christmas ya'll ;-)

Magical Coincidences

First of all - it is NOT raining...  just thought I'd clear that up.  But certainly it is getting ready to - nice overcast skies - perfect for sitting outside as I hobbled (less obviously, but still enough to attract comment) to the Kabira again to enjoy another cup of fabulous coffee.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  

First was the trek to get money from an ATM.  The way we are paid:  PC deposits money into an account and we withdraw - assuming we can find an ATM and assuming that ATM has money. Neither is a given - even when one goes to the ATM outside the bank...      I was graciously escorted to the nearest Stanbic ATM - a hefty walk away through several markets, back roads and much hubbub.  I have no doubt that this is not the image that first came to mind when you think of how PCVs get our stipend (nope not a single trade bead, goat or chicken...).   This is not the Africa you might have in your mind'd eye... tho in some ways it still is - just not the ways you might predict.   It is a country of contradictions - high tech mixed with marriage dowries of 40 cows.

Back to the ATM - it is "finished."  Closed.  Out of money.

However, a beautiful young woman approached, with those gorgeous weaves that Ugandan women do - in a mix of colors ranging from black, rust, burgandy and brown.  She gave us a ride to an ATM waaaay away from this one and said when we were about to climb out - you will get a taxi back, yes?  ;-0    Ahhhh -  glad I had my Ugandan escort with me to run interference with the taxi.  I could have managed, but still it reduced some of the hassle.  And the point is, one can never assume.

Once in the taxi, I got questions about "the foot."    (Merely walking down the road, people will stop, express their concern and 'tut,tut - ooooh soddiiii."  It's an endearing custom. )  Sittin practically on top of each other, I commented on her English - absolutely perfect.  Turns out she'd spent enough time in California to drop the British-ness of Ugandan English.  Here's the fun part:  she taught in Redondo Beach - where we lived for the three years during our California incarnation.  It gets better:  she lived in Torrance, where Travis was born.   Really?  In all of Africa I should find myself sitting next to a woman with such a specific cross-over of history? You can't make this stuff up.

When I arrived at Kabira and ordered coffee,  one of the staff stopped by to chat (again - about the foot) and I told him how much I love their coffee and that started a conversation about coffee production and prices in Uganda.    His home is in the very town where we did out Tech Immersion, studying the Bukonzo Coffee Coop.

I love when that happens.

Christmas Rains and a Country Club

I know what you're thinking....  Is is ALWAYS raining in Uganda?  Because in most of my entries there is a comment about rain.  So, in answer to that, it doesn't always rain, but when it rains it is always fairly torrential and all movement in any direction short of getting out of the rain ceases.   Often, that's why I am inside and have a moment to write - and yes, I almost always have the computer with me because I'm still a bit concerned it will grow legs and walk away.  I'm not quite understanding this "dry season" threat, but I hear even in areas where it's a reality, three are the "Christmas rains."  I think this is one of them.  And it's chilly - and here in my temporary refuge there is the first Christmas tree I've seen actually in place and decorated in all of Uganda.  So I'll take this as a gift.

This rain finds me having escaped the doldrums of the Bukota Guest House and hobbled to the Kabira Country Club just down the road.  And my friends, this is a side of Uganda that most of us don't see - unless you're in Kampala on Medical and you use your entire day's per-diem and then some for a meal.  I have done precisely that.  Having just moved inside,  the rain is coming down with a vengeance through a canopy of wrought iron and Bougainvillea, Palm trees and other lush tropical greenery.   The Olympic size swimming pool has emptied and an army of little kids have shrieked inside dragging their towels and floats in their wake.    I've finished my latte and it was appropriately decadent, topped with a two inch froth and a drizzle of chocolate sauce.   I am a real sucker for a good cup of dark roast coffee - in fact that is where no small portion of my per-diem has gone: to finding and imbibing in really good coffee known to chase the Grinch away.

Since Peace Corps has sent out a notice warning people showing up at HQ, this will be day three of hanging out in the burbs with myself, a stack of books, language flash cards and a computer with limited and random Internet access.  I know at some point in my life I will relish being able to sit and do nothing - but this is not that point and I'm tired of sitting and doing nothing.  (Yes - I'd like a little cheese with that whine... )  Back to the falling wall - which is serious, and with this rain, more will certainly come down.  This is not the first time it's happened, so PC is scurrying to move offices into temporary space and find a different place altogether I hear.  Dr. Quissiga (spelling - sorry doc) has called to say he is bring supplies and that he'll bring enough for me to start doing my own dressing changes which I can easily do now that I don't have to "pull" skin off.   The end is near ;-)

Kabira is a gorgeous place and I do see how it would be a sweet life as an Expat here in certain parts of Kampala.  But one would have to inure oneself against the reality of what's beyond this manufactured abundance.  It would be hard to keep those "rose tinted glasses" clean for long and I'm content with a peek through them.  I find myself missing some tastes, friends and conveniences, but oddly enough most of us - and I include myself - are really quite content (secure in the knowledge that this is not forever and that we have options) with fewer choices, just a few pairs of clothes and supply of terrible candles, etc.  I WANT things from time to time, but need is probably not a word I would use.  Still, my head is turned by some of the lovely homes with manicured tropical gardens tucked into the seven rolling hills of Kampala and I've put some effort and funds into making  home-away-from-home reasonably comfortable and functional.   But this is a Country Club in the Western sense of the word.

So - wrapping up in time to hopefully be picked up by Dr. Quissiga - (also know affectionally as Dr. Uganda) and not make him wait.   A ride anywhere is a fine thing and not to be trifled with.

Ah - the rain, which had slackened to a mere gully washer, is back up to typhoon proportions.    Again - glad I have a ride!    Oh! And I hear there's another volunteer headed to the Bukota - it is seldom tomorrow - it's seldom with a few PCVs.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

It's 5-something o'clock in the morning in my room at the Bukoto Guest House tucked down a nearly impassable road in Kampala and the music is still blaring from a club on the main road.  Nightclub noise is ubiquitous  - the only place I have not felt the throbbing of bass or the pounding, repetitive drone of club music here was at Nurse Betsy's.  When - I ask - do people sleep  in Uganda???

It's raining in what is supposed to be Dry Season and I love the sound.  It was a fitful night with alternating loud music and foot pain and itching, both of which I'm told are good things.  Where is the damn pillow to elevate the foot????   Ah - tangled in thousands of yards of mosquito netting, itself tangled in the scrappy single bed sheet arranged artfully on a double bed so it's not apparent until you try to turn over.

It has been an interesting couple of weeks here at ground-zero.  Rumors fly, politics abound, diagnoses suck or don't get made.  Really,  who knew there was so much going on?  I thought I'd left some of it behind in third grade - well - maybe high school.  Who's doing what to whom, who said that?   who's got what disease - you've been sick for how long?  You have a rash wheeeere?  is it moving?  is it alive?

Brady - thanks for your re-cap of the year.  It reminded me of how much we've all been through since we arrived and how well - generally - we've acclimated.  Some are still slogging through the mud - not to get to training, but to get site.  Many are living without any amenities (no, not without hot water - without any water that's not hauled in).  Some were at the edge of a prison system with no locks on the doors.  Others though, are right near Queen Elizabeth Park or the Nile or in beautiful Ft. Portal.  But all sites have their challenges regardless of locale,  utilities or the lack of same.  They range from extreme isolation and lack of basic services (aka food other than cassava and potatoes), to chronic illness and just the vagaries learning how to live in a third-world country on a long term basis and how to get to medical in under 10 hours.

There's been no lack of drama either:  two PCVs have been flown to South Africa with broken bones needing surgery; several have had - and still do have -  unidentifiable (thus far) intestinal maladies; one has been medically separated under a cloud of controversy that has escalated into a what sounds like a law-suit; another has ET'd (Early Termination) in disgust; one has had her foot nearly burned off causing jokes of "Run Forest, RUN!"  and another has spent a week in medical with bilateral conjunctivitis caused by allowing small children in the village to touch her face - joining still another who has had a running battle with staph.  Those are the few I know about in our group and there are 175 of us in-country. As  I've said before, Africa is a veritable Smorgasbord of diseases and maladies, adventures and mis-adventures.

And yet, the majority of us are doing whatever we need to to adjust to conditions many folks don't know exist.  We are making connections and friendships, choosing to spend Christmas with a gaggle of orphans who weren't "picked" by any family to go home for Christmas (that's for you Russ) or spending their first holidays without family (many of the "young ones").  We're devising ways to ward off holiday blues (meet-ups for Christmas),  keep ants and snakes out of houses (pour paraffin/ kerosene around the house?) and avoid other calamities met by simply walking down the street.

We are getting packages from home, wonderfully supportive e-mails from friends and family, learning the languages somehow,  baking in odd contraptions so we can have our BROWNIES and in general we are thriving in spite of the challenges or perhaps because of them.  The thing that has always attracted me to experiences off the beaten path is that it calls into play personal resources one never discovers living in safer confines.  And as with many other life-lessons, what has been gained isn't always apparent until later....

So here we are and there you are on the run up to the holidays.  That's all the news from Lake Wobegone.

Re-cycle Children's Games and Toys for a Good Cause

Hey Everyone - having been away from my organization, LABE (Literacy and Adult Basic Education), for a while I got a little derailed on a project we started before I left.    I'm still not back at site, but am thinking forward to jump-starting what I know will be a fun and important program.

Northern Uganda, until about 2008, had been at war for more that two decades.  Villagers were "housed" in large camps called IDP (Internally Displace People) camps, where thousands lived together as an act of "protection" from the resistance groups who were murdering, raping and abusing women and children and conscripting every healthy male (from age 7 up)  to to go to war, often with their first act a requirement to watch or participate in  the murder of their families.  I do not exaggerate.  Many have known nothing but life in the camps and are still being reconnected with what's left of their families.

In this environment, education, health care and all social structures disintegrated.  The presence of Peace Corps in Northern Uganda has one primary purpose - to help rebuild and heal a culture.  To this end, LABE (funded largely by the Dutch)  was created in 1999 as a way of  bringing the ability to read and write to the Villages, while also teaching parenting skills, health care, gender-equity and other tools of self-governance.  The program is making a significant difference, but education in general in Uganda is woefully inadequate.

As part of the effort to build this program I have  suggested we start a "story hour" reading program to reach even more young children and their mothers in an effort to help the discover that "reading is fun."  In the States, we take this for granted because we are already a reading culture.  Uganda is not, but if it is to move forward, it must be.  Education is the key and reading is key to education.    Reading for fun is where it starts and studies show that children who are read to early in life do better in school and fare better throughout life.

Since this is a new concept and they don't know YET that reading is fun, we need to offer other games and activities as part of the start up of the program.  Therefore, we want to have games, crafts and toys available as part of our activities to entice people to come.   These toys will remain with the program and become part of what's available to play and learn with when they come for "story hour."  We have already secured the approval and support of the Gulu Town Clerk and have the venues, we just need more materials.

Most of these children have never been "read aloud' to.  Many have never seen a picture book, but when Joy - one of the Program Specialists - at LABE and I have taken picture books to the villages and read aloud to the kids, it has been magical.  The potential is there and they are hungry for these  opportunities and experiences.

So - I am offering an outlet for used children's educational toys:  puzzles, games, building blocks, alphabet letters.  I know some of you either will be or know people who will be cleaning out kids' toy closets in preparation for  the haul that most American kids receive at Christmas.  If you do such a project and want an outlet for these toys, please send them this way.

We need durable things:  wooden or stiff cardboard puzzles and manipulative toys, games,  picture books, glue sticks,  stickers, you name it.   Puzzles - which hardly exist here - teach abstract thinking, pattern recognition, problem solving, fine motor skills and wire the brain for the type of foundational processes necessary for higher level cognition.  Schools here DO NOT offer this type of learning (all rote learning), but things are changing as a result of programs like LABE.

Shipping costs:  I know this is problematic.  It's not cheap to send to Uganda, but perhaps a local church, Rotary Clubs or other organization can assist with some of this.  If some folks don't have toys, etc. but want to support this effort, maybe a combined approach were people chip in for shipping can be helpful.

If you DO send, PLEASE mark USED TOYS and goods.  If not, I will be charged a stiff DUTY on new stuff.

The mailing address for any of you so inclined is:

Nancy Wesson, Peace Corps Volunteer
P.O. Box 914
Gulu TOWN, Uganda
AFRICA

Thanks everyone and may you enjoy the blessings of the season!
Please feel free to share this with others you may feel are interested.

Musings of a Deranged Mind

Well I think I may have been at medical too long...  I know this, because everyday when I come in and sit down on the comfy black Naugahyde couch and put my hoof up and await the process of  re-bandaging, the random comments one hears range from "Hey, howyadoin? Get those test results back? No?"  to "Oh, you need another stool sample?  I'll see what I can do..."  and this seems normal.  It's  something one can only hear in Peace Corps where the conversation turns to things biological - dysentery, parasites, stool samples, fungus, bites, bruises, and on and  on - ad nauseum.  While medical staff are very protective of privacy, the volunteers have no such compunction.  And just to be clear, this conversation is not just in medical it's at dinner tables where ever PCVs gather. 

In this petrie dish of the prurient, every morning as I sit down, immediately to my left is a beautiful Papyrus basket with bright red foil packages in it.  What are those?  They're awfully sparkly and what a nice red.  Oh - condoms - of course....  We are in a high risk AIDS culture, so you can pick up a handful of condoms like you might pick up a handful of peanuts or M&M's else where.  The other day I went to the National HIV/AIDS Prevention Celebration.  They were giving free blood tests and circumcisions.  And a woman came by with a big box, cheerfully handing out goodies.  Oh, I want some!  The men are grabbing; the women are giggling and some are grabbing them then hiding them quickly.  WHAT are they handing out in long strips?  Oh - condoms...   Well, never mind.  We got a strip in our medical boxes and they are packaged in camouflage colors of tan and brown.  Still working on that marketing ploy.

So back to medical.  I am sitting there with my foot up - all nicely wrapped in a stunning blue sterile medical pad - to protect if from dirt, mud etc.  Infection is a real threat.  And last night when I showered, this thing did little to keep the foot dry (it wasn't really designed for that after all) - even though I held it out at a completely un-natural angle during the process.  This all after hobbling up a series of really filthy dirt roads to get to the restaurant to eat.  My heel was hurting from landing on it every time I had to use that foot - since the front 3/4 of it are useless at present.

I'm thinking  there must be a way to protect this foot more effectively from water and mud and to affix some sort of rubber heel protector on it when I really have to hoof it longer distances.

Now, sitting next to these condoms and more than a little bored, my mind does what it does - starts looking for solutions - using the resources on hand.  You know where I'm going - so if this offends you stop here. While I do have duct tape, I would have to tape it to my foot and that would get awfully tiresome ripping duct tape off my foot, taking a little skin with it each time.  Rubber bands are in short supply...  well - hmmm.  Damn!  Why didn't  think of this earlier?  This is an excellent solution!  I can get some foam, cut it to the shape of a heel and tie it on with condoms!  There are PLENTY available, no one would miss a handful...   And then I thought of just slipping one over the whole foot to keep the moisture off the bandage.   Naaah - there's probably not one in a size 7  1/2 and it would be awfully constricting.

I will further research this and let you know what I decide...

Reprieve - Sort of

Good news abounds.  First my foot and mobility have improved to the point that I can move to a location where I have to fend for myself.  Now how is this good news....  The care I have received at the hands of Nurse Betsy has surpassed any care I have received anywhere.   She is a treasure and has prepared lovely meals presented with a flourish of artistry and certainly love.  She has washed clothes and ironed things that have never seen an iron (no mango flies on her watch).  She has pampered and set up a shower in a way that keeps my foot elevated!   She is every one's perfect mother away from home.

So, I am moving and will miss Betsy and her care, but will have more freedom and access to getting around.  One has to be a genie to find Betsy's and the fiasco of transportation to and from dinner on Saturday night was all I needed to let me know "not to try this alone."  Also, there are frequently other PCV's staying at the Bukoto Guest House, so it won't be as isolating.

One PVC came in today with a jigger in her foot.  No no, don't get excited - not like a jigger of tequila.  a little worm than can get in when you walk with open toed sandals through the grass.  It's a nasty little beast that literally worms its way in and sets up housekeeping until you cut it out.  Another came in yesterday looking like death warmed over - probably Malaria.  So it's busy there even if all that happened was medical.  There are 175 of us in country and something is always happening for someone.  Then there are workshops and meetings and lost passports...    So one can be "entertained" a bit while here.  But I am getting proposals for my NGO written, studying Acholi and doing other PC assignments.
They try to make sure new PCVs are not having too much fun and keep us on a short leash.  Not so much fun and much of it seems like busy work, if you've already lived a life and know how to get out there and get busy.  But some folks are at sites with too much going on and others are stationed where they are feeling like they've been dropped on the dark side of the moon.

The latest hoopla has been over the lack of a Christmas Break.  Washington D.C. has mandated that new PCV's are forbidden to leave their sites during the first 90 days of service.  This might work if we had not come at a time than when that  90 days spanned two important holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas.  For some of the younger PCVs, it's the first time every that they have spent away from friends and family and this is tough.  For the older ones who may have had some exposure to that, we have at least had the freedom to find ways to make the holidays fun or avoid feeling emotionally adrift or downright abandoned.  It's been a HUGE controversy with boat loads of discontent and today there was some give by HQ.   At first we had NO days for Christmas.  That was changed to give us two days - the 24th and 25th away from site, but ya' can't get anywhere in Uganda in a couple of hours and no one in his right mind travels at night.  So today, there was a compromise made and we how have essentially four days, two of which are travel days but we have to take annual leave...   This is where I need a bad word.

Wow - ya think that you leave some of this behind, but the bottom line is - this #!* is everywhere and there is no escape.    Still - PCVs are people who color outside the lines, and the more you try to constrain us the more hostile we get.  So now, the hostility meter is out of the danger zone and some normalcy has returned, meaning that we don't have to become totally subversive.   We will always be mildly so, because straight-arrows rarely sign onto spend two years with pit latrines,  disease and daily uncertainty.  So how do you handle 175 mildy-subversive personalities?  Carefully and with a sense of humor, a large dose of flexibility and tact.  These traits are not always in supply but sometimes they appear and pour oil on troubles waters.

So that's today's report from the Pearl of Africa, boring tho it may be.

Real Chili

Written on Saturday.  Sitting here with my hoof up - as one friend has called it,  I'm listening to the wind rustle and the first spattering of rain.   Soon I'll make an effort to get presentable for dinner with the Country Director of Peace Corps, a rare treat. What to wear - I've brought two t-shirts, two pairs of Capri pants and a skirt,  most of it is dirty and none worthy of dinner with more civilized folk. But my host while I'm in medical has accumulated quite an array of clothes from people who have been graced by her care.  She has managed to come up with a blouse that matches my skirt and I think that will work.   Hair needs cutting and I've left my salon accouterments in Gulu. But!     Help! I've fallen from grace and can't get up!  And from one night of sleeping without the net, there is a large mosquito bite on my face.  Vanity being what it is - even in Africa, this is humbling...  But then, the  sawed off sock covering the non-bandaged part of the foot is such a fashion statement,  how can anything else compete?  And the crutches are a nice touch - if not for walking then for weapons.

Anyway - I'm looking forward to meeting some new folk and have had quite a week at ground-zero aka Peace Corps Headquarters.    All the gossip and politics are there and it's rich fodder for an otherwise gossip starved volunteer, far from the world of Charlie Sheens,  the Demi Moore and Ashton Kutchers malaise and oh yes - US Politics.  But the contact with the international realm is much more real here and Ugandans are very news conscious.  They often know more about what's going on in the US and Europe than I do - a sad statement indeed.  But many of us are here precisely to detach from all the drama.

Back from the dinner now, it was very nice.  And I was totally surprised to find our host and hostess had made a huge mostly American (he is ex Peace Corps and she is Armenian) meal of Chili (the real thing - and a Texan knows Chili), potato salad, tabbouleh (Ok not American) and slaw.    There was also Armenian Apricot? vodka, a fabulous banana bread torta and CHOCOLATE CHIP OATMEAL COOKIES brought by another Armenian friend who had great tales to tell about her travels in the US.
The US is just as odd in many ways to a traveler as going elsewhere is for us.

I've certainly eaten better here than I would at "home" in Gulu.  Betsy's a good cook and feeds me more than I should eat, all the time saying it's for the foot!   Yeah - well tell the hips that...

I am off to visit with one of Betsy's cancer patients who is in a local hospice.

California Redux?

I am sitting here on the balcony of Nurse Betsy’s home-away-from-home waiting for my Peace Corps ride to medical and I am lulled back to California days.  My eyes drift over the iron railing, past the explosion of color provided by huge  pink begonias, heliconia, orange and red lantana, something that looks a bit like ginger, bird of paradise, water orchids and beyond – past the spiky species of Hibiscus and lands on a red tiled roof covered with vines.  Beyond that there are the  hills draped in  gauzy mist obscuring more red roofed houses.  Birds twitter – there are huge palm trees and philodendrons, scheffalera, dracaenas, purple fountain grass.  It’s Palos Verdes or Santa Barbara….

No?  Oops there’s a water tank piercing the landscape – but given the trend toward water catchment, it could still be California.  Wait – there’s not that much rain in Southern California…  Look closer.   Ooooh – there’s the barbed wire looped at the top of the compound wall, and those are not river stones at the base of plants – those are halves of egg shells and the odd light bulb used for decoration. The cars in the compound are ancient Toyotas in need of repair, not a new Mercedes or Hybrid.  An African woman walks by wrapped in a kanga cloth skirt - her baby strapped to her back and an impossibly large woven tray of bananas exquisitely balanced on her head.  This is definitely Africa.   There are whispy tendrils of smoke wafting up from Sigiris or charcoal stoves, still used even when there is a stove available - a rarity, but this is Kampala, the big city.  

Further surveying the landscape, my eyes have just landed on an ancient ally cat with ears fringed from too many territorial battles.  His head is blue – now that’s irregular.  What is that?  Betsy, custodian of the beast, is out sweeping the compound with her traditional broom, about three feet long.  Different versions of this are used for everything – yard rakes, house brooms, spider brooms, but they are all short, requiring constant bending.  Occasionally you will find one with a handle attached, but people seem to prefer the short version.  In the distance I hear a rooster and a cacophony of bird sounds is coming from somewhere.  On never mind, I think that’s the power steering gone wrong on a car that just passed.  It’s a gift sometimes to be able to translate sounds into something more interesting…

Ants have discovered the pillows on which I have my foot propped.  There are a million different varieties here and some like computers.   Every once-in-a-while one will crawl out of my computer.  If a roach climbs out I'm coming home.

Ah!  I have the verdict on the blue head – Jerry (the cat – named after the ambassador…) has been sprayed for another cut on his ear.  Quite the ambassador, that Jerry.

This tranquil environment that looks so familiar at first glance belies what is in the heart of the city and beyond these walls.  Kampala is teeming with chaos, dirt, poverty, endless stalls lining every navigable road with every imaginable industry - all done right on the road.  There are iron works and furniture building (all of the furniture displayed at roadside) mixed in with hair salons, phone time, hardware, produce dukas (tiny shop), hair plaiting, used clothing,  road side "clinics" and pharmacies,  standing shoulder-to-shoulder with car washing done with jerricans of water and butcheries.  It is not for the weak of stomach.

So I will do what I need to in Kampala, which is get healed and then heel my way out of here as soon as possible.  And I think my chariot to medical is arriving- since that feels like the rumble a land cruiser.  There’s a joke about “unmarked white peace Corps land cruisers.”  And I think mine is just arriving.  We just had a rash of unannounced, and therefore unexpected visits from one of the trainers from head quarters, asking questions that seemed a bit like ‘big brother,’ and then we had to sign a form saying we’d been interviewed.  Being people who color outside the lines, this has created quite a stir, thus the sighting reports of “unmarked white SUVs.”  Add to that the fact that the only ones visited were those who failed their LPI (Language Proficiency Interview) and you can throw a little paranoia into the pot.

Off to another day of foot torment.  Be blessed.

Demonic Tea Kettles

So catching up...  To those of you who noticed that I have "been lost," thank you.  And the story is:

Somehow I have managed to avoid the ordinary things that bring one to medical in Peace Corps Uganda:  Malaria, Diarrhea, Falls, Mango Flies, Tsetse Flies....   Yet I have been in Kampala Medical since Saturday receiving daily care - not for any of the above, but for deep second degree burns caused by a demonic electric kettle.

Friday seemed like a really good day:  a half day at work, I rounded up metal rods for "curtains" and got them cut tho the right length, cut lengths of fabric and hemmed them using my Midget Stapler and hung "curtains" over the remaining windows - all before dark.  As I sat at my computer, the electricity came back on and this is normally a good thing - but that night had a special treat in store.

Seconds after the power arrived I sensed something askew in the kitchen. When I glanced in I saw steam/smoke rising from the kettle which was empty and which I had not turned on.  An electrical short?
So I gasped and walked over, grabbed the handle to get it off the plastic gizmo that heats water and the entire bottom of the kettle fell off.  It was kind of an "Oh shit" moment until the thing hit the floor and splattered the contents on my foot and then it turned nasty.

I instinctively grabbed my foot because of the searing pain and let go of the kettle, which was not on FIRE at that time, but burst into flames when it hit the Papyrus mat.  It would have made a great "Keystone Cops" episode had it not been for the obvious.   When I took the rubber flipflop off and rubbed whatever it was off my foot, it took the skin off the first three toes with it.    My shriek of pain brought three of my Ugandan neighbors running and they were shoulder to shoulder looking in through the kitchen window saying "You are hurt??  What has happened?"  I'd locked myself in for the night, so couldn't even unlock the damn door because that substance that was flung out of the bottom of the kettle was molten metal and plastic, which I discover when I stepped on it trying to get the key.  But the fire was in the way anyway...  I managed to find a couple of water bottles and threw water on my foot and on the fire causing sizzling on both.

Not to belabor the locked in part, but I finally located the keys to the front door and let three frantic people in to see how they could help.  Water - I needed water!  And there is NO WATER PRESSURE - which means no water from the tap.  I had managed to fill the jerricans before this fiasco so they ran around finding the plastic basins and jerricans used for bathing. I submerged my in a water bath and got a good look at the skin now furled around my toes like wood shavings.

What to do - we're not supposed to go to the local hospitals and how the hell would I get there anyway?  No one has a car.  Can't ride a Boda.  Call Medical.  Where is my purse?  Where is the PHONE?
I found both and to my great luck, a friend was coming into town with a ride we can only refer to as a miracle.  Medical approved a trip to Gulu Independent Hospital and 20 minutes later I hobbled out with my foot wrapped in a wet floral pillow case I just received in a care package that day.

I was seen by a very competent doctor who assured me "debriding" the wound did not include his stripping off skin Hannibal Lecter style.  This after asking him if he had morphene...  Not that I could have had any, because we are warned NOT to have injections (that pesky needle problem).

So several hours later, I returned home to the scene of the crime and commenced figuring out a ride to Kampala the next day.  God bless Medical, because they sent a car from a nearby (two hours) district the next morning (no one in their right mind travels in Uganda at night).

So, I am here for a couple of weeks at best and will be allowed to return to site when all burns are completely healed.  There have been some tense moments as phrases like "you want to keep the end of that second toe" and "skin grafts" are whispered.    Fortunately, we now know I will keep my toes and there will be no skin grafts.  Whew...   Karen, the nurse tending to this on a daily basis is deft with dressings and tweezers and scissors (kinda makes you wince doesn't it?) so I am in good hands.

So any of you PCVs who might be reading this, if you have a kbsatellite  kettle stick a knife thru it's heart and bury it.  It is evil in chrome.

Have You Been Lost?

When I came into after Thanksgiving and a workshop - having been gone for 5 days (they all knew where I'd been), I was greeted with "Have you been lost?"   Well, my western hackles went up...  "No, I told everyone where I'd been and.... and... and...  " The comment hit me as a little sarcastic, like my mother used to ask, when I'd not written for a while (remember written letters?) "Well, did you break your arm - you haven't written...blah, blah, blah"

Then I remembered soon enough to save myself from total humiliation, that ,"Have you been lost?"  or more literally translated, "You have been lost?" is a traditional Ugandan way of saying "Oh - you've been gone a while!"  No sarcasm intended, not accusatory, just "Hey - we've missed you (or noticed that you were not here)!"

Such are the cultural land-mines one faces, and I find it is more of an opportunity to get face-to-face with my own foibles than anyone else's.  When I came here, part of my quest was a spiritual one i.e. "Who am I in the absence of trappings, marriage, family, house, career and other shields to hide behind?" So I had to laugh at how easily my insecurity about "being late, not being responsible, etc. ad infinitum"  was triggered.  And after that is a whole list of other trigger points that really come to the surface when one is a stranger in a strange land.   One of  those is the concept of "us" and "them."  That one is interesting, because in one field of thought, each of us is but one aspect of the holographic universe and as each of us evolves, the planet evolves.  In the opposite direction, any time any one of us casts a negative aspersion on someone else or ourselves, we all are impacted as one organism. Sort of like the experiment where one plant's leaves are burned, and it is registered by other plants in the same room even though they were not burned.

Another great expression which creates a bit of a stir is:  "You've been sleeping around?"    (Uh-oh...)
That one really means, "Oh you slept somewhere else?"  (Whew!)

I could go on, but my mood has shifted as has circumstance since I wrote this 5 days ago and I'm wondering if anyone else felt the burn I got on my foot Friday night.  No one????  Well - there goes my theory.  More later.

Digging in the Dirt

There's always dirt here - never have gotten so dirty so quickly - and that's just walking to work.  But today was real dirt and we were up ears in it.  Still picking clumps out of my hair from digging and being in the wrong place when others lobbed shovels of dirt through the air.

Uganda is still a largely agrarian culture and here in the north, much farming has been destroyed due to the fact that people have been living in IDP (Internally Displace People) camps for 20 years of war.   When they were moved (or were convinced to move) into the camps for their safety during the war, they had to abandon their crops and could not leave the camps to go and dig.  While most are back on the land now, their farming practices can't keep up with the need for food and a vast number of people are suffering from HIV/AIDS and simply don't have the strength to manage a large garden.

Enter Perma-gardening, a child of Perma-Culture.  In short, it's a method of gardening using small plots of land and natural, local resources very efficiently to increase yield.  A small garden, done this way, can feed a family or a village year round and  for years without the need for crop rotation, etc.  It's a very different way of digging and planting, so that's what we learned today.  And this day, we cleared, dug, weeded and planted  nine individual gardens and one "kitchen garden."

We discovered black ants over a half an inch long that hiss and smell funny.  Nasty creatures - when they bite, they bite like a crab and don't let go.   (More visions of Poisonwood Bible and the river of ants...)  We did double digging (digging down two feet in stages and bringing the deep soil up), water trapping, water channeling, composting, more digging, more weeding and learning how to make a central compost well in the center of a round garden, to continuously feed the garden.

There were about PCV's and their Ugandan Counterparts there and we will all go out and use these methods and teach them in community.  In the villages, these concepts put into play will offer better nutrition, more efficient farming practices that will increase yield and reduce costs associated with some other forms of high yield farming, offer HIV patients a way to manage their disease through improved nutrition and hopefully feed some school kids and have some produce left over to sell.  

So I returned at 7:00 to - once again - no power and no running water, had a ripe papaya for dinner, a cold bucket bath (which I have learned to like...)  and a visit from some PCVs close to what's called COS (Close of Service).  They all say time really flies after training when you're at site.  I'm waiting to see how this works - because I haven't seen any wings-of-time  flapping thus far, but the time is early "somehow."    Still busy trying to keep up with hauling water, lighting candles praying for power or water - or both.

Keep those e-mails and letters coming folks!  It's amazing what a difference in mood is generated when we get an e-mail from home.  It's like Christmas morning al over again ;-)

Eyes are closing at 9:30 PM - absolutely disgraceful - but true.  Nighty night ya'll.

Thar Be elephants Here!

Oh what a day - it's really what we all came for.  Yes - yes - we came to do good work, but come on...  We came to see wild rolling savannas and herds of water buffalo and wild things.  And we were not disappointed.  Up at 4:30 AM, standing in front of the Mosque for our tour pickup, we left about 6:00 but not before causing somewhat of a stir while we waited as a group of seven glow-in-the-dark Muni.  I'm sure we must (glow-in-the-dark) because even in the black of night when you can't see your hand in front of your face, we are identified as Munu.  So there may have been some suspicion of our presence there, all just hanging about.

Two carloads of us left in the dark and drove for about an hour until we discovered there was only one car.  Turning around, we discovered the other about thirty minutes back, hood open with steam pouring out of the radiator.  Not to belabor the point, but it was a real clusterf___ as they tried to jump the battery, etc.  Obvious to everyone else, the car had over heated, the engine block probably cracked because they added cold water in a steaming engine, and a battery-jump does not cure that.   Another car arrived after an hour and a half and we continued our drive over roller-coaster roads and finally reached the park gates  some hours later.  Stating that we are a group of teachers living in the country for the next two years (pretty close to the truth) we were able to  have the entry fee waived.

And finally the fun began.  The scenery was absolutely breathtaking - rolling savanna as far as the eye could see.  Totally pristine land, never developed, no remnants of camps, nothing but a dirt road through tall grass and animals.  First came the warthogs, with their funny bouncy trot and whiskers, then some giraffe spotted on the horizon, then up close, right next to the road.  Cape buffalo  looking fierce - snorting in our direction when they weren't wallowing in the mud holes, herds of Springboc, Heartebeest, Waterbucks, schools of Hippos and crocodile, flocks of saddlebill storks, a few eagles, and 450 species of birds.  Just stunning... and a real boost to the spirit to be among these fabulous creatures.  Oh yes - and elephants - up close and personal, baboons - stealing lunch and anything they can grab from tourists (one escaped with a bag of oranges).  We are fair game I suppose, but warned not to have bags with us.  Although we locked them in the car, one baboon tried to climb in a window and when that failed he simply sat on the top of the car, daring us to enter.    Later he got bored, sat down and stretched a two inch bubble gum pink penis like silly putty to a length of at least eight inches.  How do they doooo that?   Sorry, but animals are awfully entertaining.  

We took a three hour boat ride up the Nile to (Lake Albert at this point)  and went to the foot of Murchison Falls, noting hundreds of hippos along the way and 20 foot long crocs.  When we arrived back at the dock, our elephant family had moved into the parking area to munch on tree limbs, pulled down by the big bull.  

It was an 18 hour day, and I'd recommend staying in the Paraa Lodge - a gorgeous place over looking the Nile and not unreasonably priced for three meals a day.  So my friends - pack your bags.

So that's the report from Gulu Town.   Back to work Monday and two days of a Perma-gardening workshop to hopefully take some techniques back to the villages to improve crop output and maybe harvest enough excess to sell.

The marching band has tuned up down the street, and the Mosque or church is in full-tilt in the other direction.  Time for a brownie...

Turkey Day!

I'm sitting here in a too-quiet house and I never thought I'd be saying that.  But it's the calm after the storm and a fun storm it was.  Had a houseful for Thanksgiving and it was just the best - five extra people draped on an assortment of beds, air mattresses and the new couch.  Said couch was properly Christened by the watching of a movie complete with home made popcorn, managed without burning the house down.

I spoke too soon - Church and Mosque sounds have ratcheted up.. but that's certainly more normal.  Wednesday, best friends Bill and Holly  came in from the boonies (Pader - you almost can't get there from here)  and we immediately went to get the mattress for the newly purchased bed.  (They hopefully will spend a LOT of time here.)  So a bunch of Muni (plural white people) went in search of a mattress, which we found, rolled up and carried over head through the driving rain to get back to the house.  Nothing is as straight forward as it would seem here.  We shopped on foot, it had to be retrieved from a warehouse - all the while, the storm brewing and dust blowing.  They were much more interested in getting the other mattresses in than finding ours...  Drenched, we arrived home and spent the remainder of the night telling tales from our sites and drinking somewhat drinkable wine by candle light.  It is the third day without electricity, but who's counting...

Thanksgiving dawned to the call to Prayer and the realization we needed to conjure a way to cook something to take to the feast.  Thanks to Evie, I had a Jello no-bake pumpkin pie complete with crust to make.  Went to buy a whisk to beat the filing and there were none in all of Gulu, though at least twenty had been on the shelves the week before.  We are told "they are finished" or "they are not here," which is fairly obvious.  So I made one out of three forks pronged together.    I'll make a note to ask Santa for that.

We footed it two miles to the restaurant that graciously opened its doors to us to cook Thanksgiving dinner and awaited the arrival of the Turkey - not in are supply here.    Rumored to be coming at about 2:00, it met its demise in the wee hours and was cooked in a makeshift oven of a big pot, standing on its rump with a can of beer shoved up its a__, then covered with foil, and surrounded by hot coals.  May explain why it didn't trot in until 4: 00).  Pretty damn good turkey as it tuned out - and more food than one would have deemed possibly cooked in a variety of ways that would make survivalists proud.  Sixty motley PCVs in one place making guacamole salad, deviled eggs, bread, apple crisp, stuffing balls, salads, smashed potatoes, green beans, squash casserole, baked beans and an assortment of pies and cakes is quite the site.  It was great fun to see folks we'd not seen in over a month and to be in a "big brother" free zone.

Some of us are beginning to  realize we might be able to do this for ten family-absent holidays over the next two years -n especially if we can get out to see "the wild things" the next day.

We got home before dark and planned for the next day of getting up at 4:30 Am to go into the wild to see if we could find some of the wild animals (other than a bunch of crazed PCVs) we came here to see.  We have collected a few more people along the way and now have a sea of humanity still licking our fingers from the feast - again by candle light.  No electricity for the fourth day.    Now I'm counting.

Time

Sunday was a good day.  Toilet fixed, electricity, a language lesson in which I understood much and the delivery of a couch.  Life is taking form.  Even got laundry done - although the sheets did end up in the Malaria room..  It's hard to argue with a good day.  The couch was delivered on the back of a Boda and it always amazes me how they can do that, but when you see women carrying 100 pounds of fire wood  or a five litre jerrican of water precariously balanced on the top of their heads, you realize that most of life here is a matter of balancing things we've never thought about.

Trips to the bush are always a new adventure.  Yesterday's was no exception.  As we climbed into The Daughter of Japan (gee that sounds vulgar doesn't it?)  I double-checked to see that I had everything for the day: water, toilet paper at the head of the list, camera, extra battery, snacks, motion sickness wrist bands, Acholi dictionary, hand sanitizer, sunglasses, rain gear...  The mission of the day was to check in with schools to pick up forms left a few days ago, or a week ago and to basically see if they are benefiting from (or using) materials received from LABE.  The first school didn't have the forms completed.  LABE  publishes a newspaper using pictures the children draw, accompanied by their stories - all part of the process to engage children and give them a reason to read.   They've asked kids for stories about their experiences with or thoughts about  gender balance and child abuse or protection.  Some interesting pictures have come in from schools that have responded and they are revealing. You can see that the kids want an opportunity to tell their story and have a voice. A case in point:  last week a school visit where children were allowed to read aloud concluded and as staff were headed to the truck, a little boy ran after them sobbing and angry.  He was upset because he hadn't had the chance to show them that he could read - it was a point of honor for him.  So they waited and sent someone to get the book.  There on the playground,  everyone stopped and gave him the chance to read - to be heard.

In all of these villages, children are getting excited about learning.  And this is what will make these two years worth whatever it takes to be here.   But back to our travels - we tell the school folks we will return on the way back into Gulu and head next village is down a series of roads and paths so hidden and over grown I can't for the life of me tell how Emma knows where he's going.  At one point we have a herd of goats running in front of us, on another we wait for a herd of cattle to go around us.  They are not impressed with The Daughter of Japan so we end up having to thread our way through  them.

When we arrive at schools, we surrounded by kids and shouts of excitement at the  arrival of a vehicle and a Munu/Muzungu.  We all pile out, go into a small office and chairs are brought for everyone.  Everyone greets with handshakes (a three part process) and introductions.  It is very poor form to fail to greet anyone and the standard greeting we receive is: "You are most welcome."  A few teachers are rounded up and then we get to the purpose of the meeting.  signing the Visitors Book is a must for documentation for audits and there is the matter of prestige.  This is repeated at every school, without fail.  It takes some time.

At some schools with several hundred students, only two teachers might be on site.  They are many reasons for teachers coming:  they may not have been paid in two months, it's rainy season or digging season,  they are discouraged, don't see the point...  Even though education is "free,"  it's not free.  Parents are still expected to come up with fees for teacher's residences (they often live on site), utilities, medical services, transport for teachers, etc.  so often, kids are sent home because their folks don't have the $5,000 shilling for the term (less than $10 US.  It gets more expensive as they get into upper grades.

Then there are the villages where LABE teaches parent educators and where truly free classes are held.  Some are picture postcard images:  meticulously swept and anywhere from two to ten clean mud huts with thatched roofs.  One we passed had a wide road lined with plantings.  Another was tucked so deep in the bush we had no hint of its being there until we popped out of enveloping grass into a burst of color offered by a tall hedge of zinnias and Papaya trees!  Others are so poor it's heartbreaking.

It's Saturday, the day villages can hold their learning sessions, but it's a rather loosely scheduled event. When we arrive we are greeted with excitement and Papyrus mats are brought out for students (two are there) and chairs for teachers and important people.  There is the usual chat, introductions, etc. and news of our visit is somehow telegraphed to the surrounding area. Gradually more people arrive.  There's an invisible communication system that operates in the bush and over the next hour or so people continue to drift in and become part of the class.  By the time we wrapped up, there were over 60 children and adults, not counting a dozen or so village officials, assorted chickens pecking around in the midst of everything, a few goats, maybe the occasional pig grunting through.   Learners range in age from toddlers to elderly (65+).  Making it to the ripe old age of 60+  is still are and those with grey hair are shown respect.  I am often called grandmother or Mama - a term of admiration and recognition.

We brought out a couple of children's books to test the potential interest in our idea of a Story Hour.   Even though they couldn't read the English words, they all gathered around to share the book.  Reading aloud was even  better - they seldom experience reading as anything other that an academic or testing process.

Toward the end of the day, we go back by those schools who have promised to have their forms completed and about half are no there.  It was 5:00 after all and this made sense to me, but not to anyone else.  People work late here - in fact they work until dark in most cases.

Time is a slippery slope and it would be easy to be offended by it in that western way, to assume that being late is a passive-agressive act of dis-respect, simply not caring or gross mis-management of time.  Here -  while it could be any of those, it is most often not.  Culturally, it is just not high on the awareness scale and there are so many un-foresen obstacles that really do come into play.  So the American asks - why didn't you just call?    That's not so straight forward either.  Most folks are operating shilling to shilling so they can't afford air time or there was no power to charge the phone.  several hours late or a no-show? -  the "road was spoiled,"  family emergency  (family trumps all else here and it a legitimate excuse), no-transportation, my village flooded (very real).   So when we go out to the field, one prepares for all day and any eventuality.

Today is not a field-visit day, but it started with everyone being late and I must not only adjust, but find ways of tempering my straightforwardness (not always welcome or understood here)  and still try to establish some structure where I can function.  While we are continually asked to help create a culture where business can thrive, people can get the services they need, the education they need and the tools to build the infra-structure required to move forward,  all of  those things require a different relationship to time.   It is an interesting cross-cultural challenge to tip-toe through and around and I just hope I can do that without offending and hurting feeling of people I care about.   I'm not sure I passed that test this morning, but.. there will be plenty of other opportunities ;-)

Carl Sandburg said, "Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you."  So do I go with this sentiment or  New York Times writer, Bonnie Friedman, "An unhurried sense of time is in itself a form of wealth."  Seems it might be related to what we have the least of and want more of - or once again, achieving some balance.   Your thoughts?

Toilets...

Good morning - it's Sunday morning and as usual I've been awakened by the morning Call to Prayer. But they're going full tilt here and I can't quite figure it out.  It's a Muslim Mosque, but the sounds emanating from it are distinctly southern Baptist gospel (I recognize this from my youth) and broadcast for all of Gulu to hear.

If I were smart I'd be out doing my laundry and hanging sheets in the hope they'll dry before the afternoon rains start and.... there is WATER flowing through inside pipes.  We already have a sheet set, rescued from the rain yesterday, hanging in the Malaria room (so called because it housed a friend with Malaria). I discovered it (running water - not the sheets) after getting home late from a harrowing trip to the bush yesterday.  Thrilled at the prospect of being able to flush my toilet without having to haul water, I did what people do after no access to facilities for 9 hours, then flushed!

What is that water fall sound??   That would be water gushing from the tank.  I removed the lid - to fix whatever ails it and got splatted in the face when a mini-Yellowstone geyser of  6 inches exploded from  a broken plastic fitting I've never seen on any other toilet.  There is no water turn off valve - so when you have water - you have water like it or not.   Now what!  I rummage around and found one of those butter-soft half inch pieces of crap that double as candles and shoved it in tip first to stop the geyser.  Good to know they have some secondary function - like shoving candle wax into a tooth when there's no dentist around.   Well - I can't stand here and hold it all night.  Run - get the housemate.  Two heads - and four hands will certainly find something.  He graciously separated himself from his book and only seconds later, a full flood has formed in the bathroom.  "Wait!  What's that blue thing floating - looks like a toy... No? Stick it on top of the geyser! " Ah - success.  Guess all that new found water pressure was too much for it.  Crisis averted, I have to clean up.  Nothing like a real mop here and towels are in short supply, so I was left with having to re-distribute the water and found what  passes for a mop (it has about 6 strings on it) and decided to use this newfound excess of water  to "mop" the floors  One never lets water go to waste in a country with a water shortage.  Nevermind that the house was in the full grip of darkness - I can always find the floor.  And so went the homecoming.

Ah - now I can fix dinner.  Too tired to do much more, I washed the S--- off the eggs I purchased yesterday in the grocery store and cut up a tomato to fix a scrambled egg.  Walking back to the room I sliped and fell on the still slick floors.  Certainly I am being punished for some transgression...  Perhaps it was the thoughts held in the back seat of the Toyota truck in the three hours it took to go 50 miles through mudpits and ponds and high grass to get back.  The truck, by the way, is affectionately known as "The Daughter of Japan," the term "Son of Japan" being reserved for the big range rover vehicles typical of the  large NGO's like USAID, UN, UNICEF, etc.    But the Daughter of Japan knows how to handle a road and god bless him, so does Emma, the driver.  I will not even THINK in derisive tones again about road conditions.

More on the trip to the bush later.  I have to go do laundry.
N

Ants on the Move

I’m sitting here on the front porch -  a gift in and of itself – listening to a gentle rain falling against the backdrop of a rolling thunder and the 4:00 Call to Prayer.  As I’ve said before, rain softens life around here.  Yes—sometimes it also stops it dead in its tracks, but today it's just a soft, slow patting down of the dust and stilling of the frenetic pace of a Friday afternoon.  As I sit here, I’m noticing that the ground seems to be moving and looking closer realize that it is a lacework pattern of ants on the move.  There are a lot of ants and I am reminded of the scene in The Poisonwood Bible where a river of big ants moves across the landscape like a tidal wave and consumes a village somewhere in Tanzania, decimating everything in their path.  I’m mentally calculating:  just how far away IS the border of Tanzania…

As I type, a cool breeze is carrying a thistle across my field of vision and it’s a bit surreal.  Some rustling to my left turns out to be the neighbor kids having discovered the Munu on the porch.  We are still the object of some scrutiny, but more and more, I’m becoming part of the fabric.  This could be because the parts of me that are exposed are tuning the color of a pecan and my feet – always in sandals – are the color of dirt.  It’s damn near impossible to get them really clean and it involves considerable effort, soap, pumice and a scrub brush.  Remember—there is no soaking in a tub; no pedicures. Even though I rarely had a pedicure in the States, I’m beginning to see how it might be a necessary periodic clean up requirement here. Rumor has it that there is a Spa coming and even on a Peace Corps stipend, this might be deemed necessary expense.  Still - as soon as you step outside, any act of cleanliness becomes null and void.

There’s a soccer game  somewhere a few “blocks” away with those weird sounding horns and lots of cheering.  I should go and see if I can watch, but honestly I’m too happy sitting.  Tomorrow (Saturday) is a work day as we head into the field to visit and observe some home learning centers and since I have the only camera at the moment, I’m going with. 

I was taken around to meet some of the district biggies today:  the Mayor, Town Clerk (head of the municipality), District Education Officer, and a few others. We presented our plan to introduce reading programs into local libraries and schools, knowing we will have to have at least their nod of approval to carry it off.  After some discussion of why it’s important to teach children and their parents to read and write in their native language (as opposed to English) we began to make some headway and got a resounding “yes” vote for our projects.  I can start working in the library organizing the collection immediately, so I feel like I’m doing something a little more concrete.  There are literally hundreds of donated kids books in this library all shoved into shelves in a “truck fell over” fashion.  Peter rabbit is tucked right in there with a book on Poverty and the Law.  There is no one there who has a clue as to how to group topics, reading level, etc. 

This library which has a World Vision sign on the front, is tucked back behind the market and is called a Study Center.  It’s unusual for a coupe of reasons.  First: it EXISTS  and second:  there are actually books there.  Most schools do not have libraries and when there are, there are few books.  If there are books, often the kids don’t know there is a library and if they do, the teachers don’t know how to really use it or know where things are.  So there is much work to be done.  Finally, in some places where there are libraries, the books are not available to have  borrow, because they historically grown legs and walked off. 

So there you have it.  I’m off to se if I can get into a little mischief before life shuts down at 6:30 when there is no light.  There must be some Munus in Coffee Hut, the local gathering place.  Really – THE local gathering place.

Post Script:  I did find my Acholi Language Teacher in the Hut and stayed there till dusk when the REAL rain came. The still, soft patter mentioned above turned out to be just the appetizer.  This one was the Supersized Big-Mac with all the trimmings.  Wanting to arrive home before 0-dark-thirty, I wrapped myself in my rain poncho and "footed it, (as he Ugandas say) home through torrents of muddy red water.  I used to think this flooding was an anomaly, but there is no place for water to go, so all of the unpaved roads that don't turn into mud, float into the "paved" streets.     So, hop-scotching over several 6" potholes later and landing in a few, I arrived home wet, but in-tact.  I was rewarded with a few hours of electricity that came on a few minutes after fumbling for my keys in an almost dark house. 

Morning Sounds

It's 5:30 in the morning and the air is full of distant  sounds...  I have a feeling some of them are originating in my old noisy stomping grounds.  Crickets - now that's nice, something that sounds vaguely like the call to prayer, a rooster off in the distance and for a while something that sounded so much like a water tank filling that  I got all excited and climbed blindly out of the mosquito net only to re-discover that sucking sounds that comes when "water is finished."    Guess that means another trip to the borehole.  I swear I just heard a duck quack...   Obviously I'm up early and sitting in the am rummaging through thoughts.

I've been struck lately by the re-discovery that everything one does in life comes back around at some point to contribute.  I'd hoped that my "toolbox" of skills would be useful here.  Some of you heard me say that I wanted an opportunity to put those to work in a really organic way, one that didn't require me to re-design them to make them more commercial or temper them in some way so as not to step on toes.  Basically I wanted to put them into play in a manner which didn't involve income generation.  So here I am and and I will say that everything comes around.

The point is, the next time you think you've been doing something that doesn't matter, a job that's not taking you anywhere or where you might be bored or spinning your wheels, you're probably learning something or experiencing something that will be useful later.  I call it a body-of work, but as someone who's name I can't recall said, "It all matters."

Thus far, I've helped re-write three resumes, am consulting to help a Ugandan finish book - starting with editing, have taught a woman to knit and make dolls to sell, am re-organizing an office and creating a filing system,  consulting on a literacy program, re-vamping a website, have fixed a toilet,
taught a healing class, written a proposal for starting reading programs and will soon embark on organizing a book collection in a local library and a project to set up libraries in schools.  I've used skills I didn't know I had, like a tiny widget  that fell into the bottom of the box and you find it when nothing else will work.    Sometimes one has to dig deep and use skills in new ways, but they all matter.

The most surprising thing is that as I find myself working in a literacy program, the "skills" I'm relying on are not those I consciously developed.  These are things I learned from my mother, a life long advocate of early childhood reading and a career librarian.  Mom went back to get her graduate degree when I was about still young.  She actually saved money from baking pies to save her tuition for LSU.  I didn't know this at the time it was happening - I just knew there were a lot of pies being baked! And I couldn't understand why she sat in the middle of the floor and sobbed one day when our cat (who mysteriously disappeared the next day) managed to jump down from a perch and land with each foot in a different pie. Note: it was the last cat we ever had.  Anyway - from that point on we were hauled around the LSU campus trying to keep up.  We did our homework in the library and shelved books in the main library where she worked as a Reference Librarian to keep out of mischief.  My first job at University of Texas was writing the Dewey Decimal Numbers on the spine of the book, but they didn't like my printing so that was the end of that.

Years passed and she became the Children's Librarian, starting and managing story hour and passing on her love of reading.  Evie and I practically raised our kids reading to them from discarded library books sent our way by the box load.  I've always known this background shaped my children's lives and informed my adulthood, but I'd not thought I would be so directly using every shred of it in Africa.  I can just about hear my mother's voice and feel her excitement over the chance to get into a library and organize a collection.

So - Mom, this one's for you.  Are there cat's in heaven?

A Few Realities

Had a lovely day yesterday - went to the market, got veggies; went to a kitchen store and bought some mighty fine - and expensive cook wear - more than I need because it's a set - but I've scalded the skin off one hand using the local stuff with no handles.  Handles are not done here - I'm not sure why, but the local cookware looks to be molded from a piece of tin or aluminum.

My first step out the door should have been a "heads up" to expect the unexpected.  Walking outside to go collect a friend new to the house,  I encountered a bull - a young one with shorter horns than the more mature and mean tempered long horn cattle, but a bull nonetheless. Seems he had taken off at a trot, escaping his herdsman,  hooked it down the alley and threaded the eye of the needle otherwise identified as the small door opening part of our gate.  He was looking pretty wild-eyed (ahead of the curve I'd say on getting that mean look), so I stepped back inside and watched from inside as he circumnavigated the yard.  Finding no exit and looking more crazed than ever - he dodged the herdsman who tracked him down.  As I walked into town to find my friend, the herdsman was still chasing him with rope in hand.    Where's a good cowboy when you need one?  Thinking my tale was unique, I shared it with a group of other PCV's at lunch. A more seasoned young woman told one better - and there is ALWAYS one better here - truth really is stranger than fiction.  She had heard some rustling in her house, waking up from a nice afternoon nap.  As she rolled over, there was the snout of a bull inches away from her face.  Instinctively, she smacked him on the nose with a book she'd been reading before she dozed off and he ambled out, no doubt put-off by this unwarranted re-buff.

So back to cooking - the multi-piece set of non-local cookware deserved a good Christening, so another friend spending the night and I whipped up a mean pot of spaghetti that didn't just taste "somehow like" spaghetti, but the real deal.  We even had electricity to see how to chop veggies and eat. Used a package of vanilla pudding mix and found boxed milk to make pudding and rescued smashed bananas sacrificed in transport from the market yesterday.  The universe was clearly smiling on us because we also got to watched what is no doubt a bootlegged copy of Midnight in Paris.  In short - it was a stellar evening.

Payback:  This morning, with a house full of PCV's I awoke with the usual Call to Prayer from the Mosque in the next block and got up to make coffee.  The other shoe has dropped - paradise  interrupted. There is no water.  In the local jargon: "water is finished."  I had water - it quit in midstream.  It is a mystery explained by any number of anomalies: there is no electricity at the Gulu pump station that feeds the city; there is no water in Gulu (a certainty in the dry season - but it is NOT the dry season yet), my tank did not fill - for any number of vague reasons...   Fortunately, a strapping young male PCV from near here (yes Cowboy Dave - that's you and no he's not the calf-ropeing kind of Cowboy) crashed on the floor last night and carried two jerricans of water from a local bore hole. Too bad CBD doesn't wrestle cattle...   But apparently he can fix nearly everything else 'cuz he fixed a door and has built a huge water tank on rollers he's going to loan us.   This Texas girl says God bless cowboys...

Water is purchased here (this is a business man who owns this bore hole) - so I will have SOME water this week.  I'm hoping this was not the price we paid for one really nice day.  And I know it is just a reality of Uganda I have not had to face just yet. Still, I have been practically rationing water - trying to make what we have go as far as possible.  Water used for washing clothes is saved for mopping the floor, washing muddy shoes, flushing a toilet... watering a garden maybe.

Takes me back a bit to living on the boat when we paid to fill water tanks...  But the presence of water or the absence of same changes the game in every respect.

In the process of helping and conversation, Cowboy asked if I could direct him to a tailor who can make a shirt.   Yes - yes - I've met an expert tailor who can do the job.  He explains that in the process of washing his shirt and leaving it out to dry for a second day, a storm came and blew it onto the ground.  In the few hours of being on the ground the termites,  recognizing a good lunch when one fell on the ground,  ate most of it - the shirt.  I have not really encountered termites in that way - and I hope there's not a YET in that statement.

So moving along through the day, I've negotiated the purchase of a couch, some repairs have been made on the house and some have not.   Night is here and with it mosquitoes. Water is finished. Electricity is finished.  And the day is almost finished... and I need to go close windows to fend off the gathering cloud of blood suckers.

Trapped in a National Geographic special...

This is being typed to the backdrop of the marching band practicing down the road.  So imagine sitting in the middle of  a high school band practice room but they only have one melody and it repeats itself every three measures and it mostly bass drums counted in 4/4 time.  OK - now we're ready.  And the thrill of it all is that when I arrived home today there was and still is electricity.  And I have the electric kettle heating water for tea.  Ah yes - going to fix...  back in a jiffy.  Ah - now we begin.  Oh! There has been a lull in the thudding of bass drums and now there are choral stains of some lovely "hallelujah hymn" drifting in.  Sound is everywhere here - you just can't always pick.  But I'm getting off topic...

Yesterday was a day to remember - or more correctly put - a day I will not forget.  It was my first real day to go into the field to see what's done there - so we set out at about 9:00AM.  I got to the office at 8:15 and no one was there.  Went to Uchumi to get treats for the trip and by the time I got back there were two small marching bands assembling in the parking lot.  I'd like to claim they were for me, but I've not achieved that level of fame - infamy perhaps - but not fame.  Some dignitary obviously coming to town.  Remember - the last marching band was hired for National Hand Washing Day.

I have been warned that it's a loooong day when we go to Amuru - the roads are bad, even on a good day and it's well, pretty much in the bush. I've packed rain gear, water, phone, Acholi dictionary and notebook, PBJ sandwiches, a Snickers bar, hard candies for fellow travelers, apple, hand sanitizer and handi-wipes, hat, sunglasses...  Still, I'm sure I've forgotten something.  The day will tell.  Since I get car sick riding in the back seat and have lost one of the two anti-motion sickness pressure point bands that have been the saving grace of bus, taxi and car trips thus far, I improvise.  This is done by squeezing a hard candy between my turned-upside down-Timex and the pressure point, hoping that this spark of genius works.  The pecking order of Ugandan culture puts my counterpart in the front seat...  no calling "shotgun" here. Besides - here everyone would duck or run for cover.

Now on the road about 2 hours - being bounced around in the 4-wheel drive Toyota truck, I am trying to think of parallels in the states and all I can come up with is those horrid carnival rides that make any sane person want to throw up. I'm getting it for "free," if you don't count giving up two years of what was a pretty comfortable life.  Here - just driving is a thrill ride.  I'm not being tacky - the Ugandans feel the same way.  As we are slip-sliding around potholes and two foot deep ruts, we notice a great assembly of humanity on the road.  Easily 100 people standing around - women with monstrous baskets of ground-nuts (peanuts) balanced on their heads, men with hoes and bikes hauling HUGE bundles of charcoal or wood with chickens hanging off the handle bars, more women with babies strapped African style to their backs, many pregnant with the next one.   As we climb out of the truck to wander down and see the trouble, there - down in a trough - are not one, not two - but three mammoth vehicles all tipping precariously in different directions.  All the people have climbed out of the two busses  coming from the Sudan and a huge cargo truck has been unloaded its contents all over the ground.  There is no forward motion - just a team of six men trying to push the cargo truck upright.

We take pictures, rub our chins, 'Hmmmmmm" (an entire conversation in Uganda) with the other observers, and realize there is no way these are going to be cleared out in time for us to make our rounds.

We turn around - a precarious act itself - and find a detour road.  This continues along happily enough for a while, but it becomes clear that this is more of a trail than an actual road.  The grass gets higher and soon reaches over the top of the truck and holes appear.  OMG - now there is no road, just the hint of one where the grass in the middle is only 4 feet high. I am trapped in a National Geographic episode and no one is filming.

Finally - out of the jungle, a road re-appears and we continue on, stopping at learning centers that consist of some logs on the ground, set up theater style in rows - a group of men sketching a map where another organizations is contributing a bore-hole (think well) for the village.  Women sitting on the ground, nursing babies - and little kids hovering staring at the Munu.

Onward like this for the next few hours, visiting other centers one of which is very advanced because it has a thirty foot long thatch roofed, mud-dob structure and classes can be held there when it rains, which is does while we are there.  The wind is blowing like a hurricane, it's getting down right cold (in the middle of Africa - this is a dream right?) and the roof - of course - leaks.  I realize that what  I have forgotten was a jacket.

It pours torrentially and we set out for home, the roads now worse.  At least the three busses are cleared out by the time we reach that point and I'm thinking we're home free.  No so.  Just ahead the road "slopes down" and in the dip, the stream has swallowed  the road, but Emmanuel, the driver,  is convinced we can make it across.  Thank God, there is another vehicle stalled in the middle, so he does not (cannot) cross and we turn around again to find another detour, picking up a drowned-out motor cycle and its two passengers on the way.  They are loaded into the bed of the pickup and many hours later - in the dark - we are home.

I kiss the ground when I arrive safely home, discover a friend needs to spend the night because she has malaria and set up the air mattress and sleeping bag for her.  Starving, we attack the bread to discover it is moving....  having been discovered by millions of ants.  I suggested we make toast, thereby killing the little -uckers, but she declines, reminding me she is a vegetarian.  I scramble an egg  instead and climb in bed, mud and all.

A friend today asked what I want her to send in a care package and horrified, I realized at the top of my list was ant bait.  It seems I have not fully acclimated.

Flooding.... rain has over done it

OK - I take back what I said about rainy season being a good thing.  Today I start home at a good trot, having brought only my umbrella and seeing black skies moving in.  Big fat drops - up with the umbrella.  Three school girls in the blue uniforms appear under my arm and giggle about walking with the Munu - and openly admit their friends will be jealous.  This is the big time - walking under an umbrella - the Munu is just an added attraction.  I stop at Uchumi, but am told I have to check my bag and NO ONE keeps my bag when the computer is in it, so I forego shopping.  Now it's pouring and already muddy streams are covering my shoes.  Up the hill, jumping over puddles already, I finally give it up and stand under the awning of a bar.  No one is on the streets - Uganda stops when there is rain and this is torrential.  Soon people move inside and off the porch because the porch is flooding - the ditches overflow and bring boxes, bottles, school books, crates, large pieces of wood - screaming down the street.  The water continues to rise and this is a real frog strangler - thunder and lightning.  I wait this out about 30 minutes and head out when the rain abates and I can jump across river and slog on through.  I follow a gaggle of boys as they navigate the least flooded parts.

So, Geoffrey, my counterpart is traveling to Amaru tomorrow and I'm invited to go see what happens in the really rural village home learning centers.  It's all day - I told to bring food, water, toilet paper, rain gear and boots.  OK - that means I have to shop for non-perishables:  eggs to boil,  large bottles of water, Peanut Butter (hope it's not rancid) and jelly - and another store for bread.  I continue on and hope I make it without breaking any eggs - no cartons here, just all piles in a plastic bag and thrown in with the hard stuff.

Through some fairly deep puddles in my sandals (and I have chose this day to wear long pants - bad move) dreading the access to my house, I am relieved that most of the mud I was anticipating plowing through has actually washed down the hill where I witnessed it roiling down the street in front of the bar.  The point is - I have now made it home without having to take my shoes OFF and have incurred no major damage.  My big worry was that the computer would get damp.  All else pales in comparison - even the broken egg.

Still raining - had power for 10 minutes.   Will see what I can conjure for dinner.  Something I ate today (Rolex - the Ugandan version of a breakfast taco cooked on an iron skillet, in a way that one tries to trust - and is usually OK - but today maybe not so much) did a number on my stomach.  Friends, I cannot tell you what a luxury it is to have bathrooms in every office or at least nearby.  Here, if you're caught out with tummy-troubles, pray that you can FIND a toilet or a latrine. TP is a plus and like the American Express Card - "never leave home without it..."   My trouble began as I was borrowing the power across the street from the office which is also across a different street from the only toilet in the vicinity.   No fun...

But all warm and cozy now - under my net - clean thanks to a cold shower. Thinking of dinner and hoping for power.

N

A normal day?

Some days feel something like normal - or what normal might feel like in Northern Uganda. And the day is winding down as I sit on the floor in the living room on a woven mat I bought in the market today.  Here in the world of papyrus, it is not a papyrus mat, but woven with plastic strands.  It’s hard to find anything that’s not plastic in fact.  One has to adjust... still, it’s pretty – purple and green.  It’s an 8x10 and I got another in pink and brown for the bedroom.  The floor is gritty concrete – so these really help.   And it’s raining – again.  This is not a bad thing.  When we first arrived we thought rainy season would be a drag.  Here in Gulu it’s a blessing - settling the dust, cleaning the town a bit and bringing a hush of calm. Knowing what’s coming – dry season – makes one appreciate this even more.  I got a taste of what dry season will be when the wind kicked up this afternoon and I got a another face full of dust.   his will be a dust-bowl by mid-December and I may be putting those bandanas to use as a dust mask. 

Floor sitting is NOT going to cut it.  Don’t know if it’s age, or sitting on concrete – leaning against concrete that’s doing it, but my back is rebelling.  Couches are hard to negotiate – they have to be made and there is much discussion around cost and wood and is it seasoned and how would I know until three months down the road it splits. Also, they say “It is much because it is mahogany.” You cannot convince them that you don’t need or want mahogany. “Yes you do you are Muzungu/Munu.”  But I am realizing that two years on the floor, even with cushions is probably not going to cut it.   So the search goes on.

Am bit-by-bit feeling more a part of this place.  Went to the market and bought veggies, mats, a beautiful woven straw hamper and oil for the lantern – all using my Acholi.  People are patient letting me practice with them – they’d rather speak English, but tell me “Ha! You a fluent!  How long have you been here?”  God I wish my language tester could here this…  Interesting what happens in town when the locals see you carrying things like a mop, local broom, mats and household things.  It signals that you’re not a Mzungo staying in a hotel – that you’re living here in their neighborhood as opposed to the high end compounds. A Mzungu who does her own laundry and cleaning???  Always met with surprise.

Well – certainly there is a good mystery on my Kindle.  So this was written Tuesday and published today.  Never did bite into a good mystery - still working on Obama's The Audacity of Hope.