Eleven Months in Country : and still on the roller coaster

OK - It feels like I should be feeling a lightening of load - having made it through almost a year.  And in truth, it does feel like we are getting close to something that might feel like we are on the down hill side.  But that is 11 months in country and NOT 11 months at site, so we're really not at the half-way point.  Still - it does feel significant. And what follows I realize sounds like a lot of pissin'-and-moanin'.  Guilty as charged and I send my apologies ahead of time to people with real issues.  Because, honestly in the overall scheme of things and in comparison to the hardship I see here everyday - this is nothing. 

For many of us - or maybe just me, it feels like it's taken this amount of time to get fully vested in our organizations.  At least I am fully integrated into the projects and feel I'm making a difference.  Hopefully that translates to changes and information shared - being sustainable.  But I can't go there just now.  It's been an extremely tense week - huge amounts of data coming in the most random forms imaginable.  Data collection can be challenging in the best of worlds, but it is especially problematic here to get the data delivered in any truly consistent format, regardless of our efforts to standardize it.  Much of that is exposure; some of it has to do with the lack of quick and efficient communication to ask simple questions or the ability to deliver the information in an easy manner.  Community Mobilizers, the people really on the ground who are working with MANY Parent Educators scattered in small villages in the bush - some unreachable in the rainy season - and ALL significant distances away must physically deliver the handwritten data when they can arrange transport.  Some ride bicycles many miles to get here.   And then have to ride back.   The information is detailed, changes weekly and has an extreme number of data points.  And this data can only be assembled when the CM has made physical contact with EACH of hundreds of Parent Educators.  Honestly - the effort that is involved to deliver these services and collect the data necessary for continued funding is daunting.  I don't know of anyone in the States who would even think of going to this amount of effort to deliver any service.   These folks are for the most part incredibly conscientious and want to improve their lot in life.  Unlike many who are simply asking for a handout - these folks are doing the work to change themselves.   

It is just as daunting to try to translate the data to a spreadsheet,  into finite categories. Really - I could go on, but nothing I could say would adequately represent the madness of this process.  But to add another factor, which sometimes borders on the absurd, imagine trying to discuss this with a person who technically speaks the same language, but doesn't really.    My supervisor has worked with many American or "English Speaking" volunteers over the years, so he has the advantage of at least being able to "get" my accent but it is painstaking to communicate a concept.  I, on the other hand, half the time can't get HIS accent.  Never mind that I must certainly be losing some hearing, they practically whisper and there is always background noise. The other day, I just looked at him and said: "I have no idea what you just said."  Fortunately he laughed.  Laughter gets us through a lot.  He thinks frustration is funny.  Sadly, I do not.   Sometimes we will dance around a sentence for 20 minutes just trying to get on the "same page."  The fall-back question is: "Are we speaking the same language?"  Thank goodness we both have a sense of humor.  Otherwise, we could end up in a bloody heap.

So there's that....

And next week I leave Gulu for 10 days to work with PC in Kampala and to deliver training to the new PC trainees coming into Uganda.  I did not volunteer for this - I was asked.  So I'm going, but not looking forward to this multi-day stay at a school surrounded by swamp, with it's benchmark features being: hard to get to, its bumper crop of mosquitoes and bed bugs, communal showers and sometimes functioning toilets - when there ARE toilets and otherwise latrines - somewhere.  Meetings will be held outside under tents.  Evening meals will be served outside at dusk - translate prime mosquito feasting time and WE are the feast.     The only thing I can say is - that from the sound of this - it will make OUR training look like a party and that is a terrifying statement...  Somehow there is perverse pleasure in that...

To be able to do this, I must also find someone to stay in the Gulu house, because it cannot be left empty - as we are watched for signs of it being vacant.  Housemate still in Kampala with the spare set of keys.  We will cope.  Finding a house-sitter in Uganda is no small task, and in most areas it's not required.  But this is Gulu and Gulu is a "big city" with crime and everyone knows where the Muzungus live.      

So any illusions I had of leaving First World stress behind were pure fantasy. Here though, I am reminded that First World problems cannot compare to what we see here.  I was walking  to work the other day and a crippled man was crawling across the road.  He had shoe soles on his hands and knees and had to be in his 40s.  I am humbled by these people on a daily basis and as much as I bitch about the inconveniences, I still consider it a luxury to be able to take time from my First World life to come here and have this experience.  It's all perspective.    There are SO many people up here with missing limbs, just going about daily life.  Makes me feel like a real bitch to complain about anything else.  But I do, because - I am not in fact a saint (how I KNOW that surprises you...) and it is hard to be here because part of being  here is to witness this level of suffering and still see people going about life in ways that we could not endure for a week.   It is a daily roller-coaster ride of emotions: fury, joy, frustration, humility, gratitude, laughter and tears.

I got a call from another volunteer who admitted that he'd not been this stressed even in a high power corporate job in the states.  The good news is - I am not alone in these feeling.  The bad news is - I am not alone in these feelings. 

On a comic note, I was lured out of my office away from data-entering by the sound of a marching band in the parking area.  I love marching bands! Could be a funeral,  a parade, a dignitary being welcomed - many possibilities for a marching band here.     So I went out to discover it was the Military marching band, practicing before setting out on its route around the city being led by a dozen brightly clad motor cyclists.  The occasion:    Celebrating male circumcision.

OK folks.  Time to close up.  The mosquitoes that carry Malaria don't even give you an early warning buzz - they just come in a give you the silent bite.    Nasty little blood-suckers these...   Oh but that reminds me.  Last week  we went to the village and had the kids take pictures to go with a story I wrote on Malaria prevention.  It'll be published in their Children's Magazine in English and Acholi!  Seems I am doing more writing and editing here than I ever could have anticipated.  Just finished another article about "Educating the Girl-Child: which will be published in a quarterly journal of the Human Rights Focus NGO.    See?  Roller-coaster ride...

The Continuing Saga: Rat -1, Nancy - 0

I am sad to say that the animal rights people will be celebrating the unsuccessful termination of one rat, said to have met its demise at the time of the last post.  I celebrated prematurely it would seem.  I left the house to shop and allow the rat time to stop its thrashing before I tried to collect it.  Call me cruel.  When I came back to perform said rat's last Rites, it has managed to save itself.  Turns out that the glue constituting the trap dries out a bit too quickly.  If this were the States I would take this product back and present it with evidence of the rat having been there and gone.  But alas, this is Uganda and such recourse is not available.  Besides, no Ugandan would buy this new-fangled thing...  I shared my dilemma with Samil, my favorite store keeper. He went to great lengths to explain how to mix a poison paste using  these nasty little silver fish sold by the mound (literally - there are huge piles of them in the markets).  I wrinkled up my nose and gave an involuntary shudder, explaining that this was too messy and that the critter might just go hide someplace and stink.    But this option is seeming better and better.  There may be a use after all for these horrid silver fish which I call Rac ma rec in Acholi.  Translation: BAD FISH!  

As if failing to trap Howard (isn't that the name of the rat in 1984???)  wasn't bad enough, this morning I saw his smaller rodent cousin, a mouse, trying to hide in my bedroom wall.  Not to be outdone a second time, I placed the trap between this mouse-house and the only exit and waited...  Finally, I had him!   YES!  Afraid this might be another rodent-Houdini, I found an empty detergent tub and got the stuck-mouse and trap, trapped and took both to the pit out back.  But relax, animal lovers - this one ALSO managed to get out of the glue.  So, Blue-Glue as I think it's called is a worthless piece of !*#+ and no longer the best 6500 Sh. I've spent.  But at least I have one less mouse in the house.    This is getting old.  Peace Corps needs to raise our daily allowance for varmint control.

It has rained all day and after finishing another book, I resorted to finishing my 2011 Income Tax Return.  And yes - we are volunteers, but would you believe we have to report the "walk-around money" we get during the first three months of training.  It must translate to at least $25.00 (I haven't studied the form yet).   God bless you Danny Davila for doing these for me while I'm in PC.  To those of you in the States who think doing taxes is a pain-in-the-rear, let me give you another thing to think about.  We get so accustomed to things like calculators, printers, scanners, phone calls to get 1098's etc. we fail to think about life without them.  Danny's office sent me a perfectly good online copy of the Tax Organizer I've been using for years.  It has all of last year's data, complete with SSN and info you'd rather not share with others.  I asked them to send me a hard copy, which they did after I explained, "no I can't just print it."  Here's how that would work here.  

• Email the document to a business here - so they can make a hard copy, thereby giving them access to all of the financial data, SSN, account numbers and therefore my identity.
• E-mail it to someone at at my office - and have it saved where? in THEIR files to print, if there is power, if the printer is working, if their is toner.
• Put it on Flash Drive and take it to a business that makes copies - once again allowing them access to my data AND having to dispose of a perfectly good flash drive, because once it's been inserted in a local's computer, chances are almost 100% that you'll get it back with a virus.  Cyber version of "unsafe sex." 
• Put it on a CD and take it to a business, but again trust them not to save and use in some nefarious way.

Sounding a little paranoid you say?  Until you've lived in such a place, there is simply no reference for the kinds of security issues faced every single day.  Even getting money from an ATM is fraught with risks, not including the obvious one of being robbed.   At least once every few weeks, there is another ATM scam on the front page of the paper.  Some are quite elaborate and inventive.  The most straightforward things get so complicated, it's almost embarrassing to try to explain it to someone because it sounds like you're making this stuff up.  But there it is.  Thank you Tammy for the hard copy.  You and Danny get another star in your crown of sainthood.

Back to mice - as I sit here, I'm hearing suspicious sounds.  And as a fellow PCV was describing to me yesterday, I am all-too-ready for a "mouseacre." 

Some day in the future, when I am ensconced in a comfy chair, sipping an icy drink with actual ice-cubes, having had a hot shower and then dressing in non-missionary-style-clothes, I may think back on these days and remember with fondness the rain storms, the mud, the church music, the mice But that day is far-far away in a different galaxy.   For those of you who asked how many days 'till I come home????  A rough count would be a little less than 480!    But then again - it could be tomorrow.

NOT "Ratatouille"

Saturday - I've been up officially since 5:30 AM having been tripping in and out of sleep most of the night.  That's why I love Costco's Sleep Aid (which I brazenly declined last night) - I can sometimes get through the night without hearing each new chorus of activity from God knows where - that's literal.  Several times through the night I awaken to hear what sounds like either church music or a girl's choir - but a 2:30 in the morning???  This doesn't make sense - I could almost believe it if there were a convent around here and the nuns were reciting Matins - but that would mean I'm in the Middle Ages...  Oh wait! sometimes it does feel that way!  But the Catholic church is a least a mile away; it's not a convent and this is not the standard church music.  Like a said - girls choir or young boys - lovely - but not at 2:30, then again at 4:30.

I've been tempted to go out in search of this music, but am either a coward or way to smart to go prowling around at night.   In Coffee Hut yesterday I ran into a friend who lives in what is called Senior Quarters:  think the Beverly Hills of Gulu, sans swimming pools and celebrities.  A Boda driver was robbed and his lips cut off...  Yes - here in Gulu, but that kind of news never reaches the general public, because the powers-that-be don't want to scare off the Munus and therefore the NGOs and therefore the funds and programs.  So, for many reasons, I don't go out at night.  I don't even go out my front door.  Whatever is out there can stay there...   (Clearly that excludes fire-fighting and water-tanks overflowing.)

But what's inside here right now is a very frustrated rat, trying to extricate itself from a glue trap I finally succumbed to buying and setting.  This has been building for some time....  You might recall the tale of the little mouse who likes dark chocolate granola bars.  It's grown or been replaced by a full-fledged rat.  I have purchased untold numbers of plastic containers and put everything that is even somewhat edible in them. This is the Fort Knox of food.  But yesterday, having come home from a frustrating day involving rent unpaid by my NGO to my landlady (known to Ugandans as a "hard woman" who has evicted two locals), I wanted to unwind with a nice cup of dark-roast decaf. As I was getting the container with the sugar I discovered a disgusting mess involving what I think was spilled milk, rat urine and droppings and maggots.    God deliver me....  An hour on so later, having poured several gallons of boiling water over everything, having ruined several rags and sponges with the mess, having used all the bleach and splashed some on one of my three t-shirts, I surrendered to the realization that the wild-life is winning.   (Fortunately, the water lasted just long enough for me to accomplish this task before giving a final sputter.  Water is still finished... ) Not content to set out bait and let the beast go and die in the walls and stink for the next few months - therefore continuing its winning streak - I've opted for the glue trap - a brilliant invention.  

I set out two: one in its hideout under the bookcase and another in the bedroom. A little more history - I've been awakened twice during the last week with the sounds of an ever-too-close rat near my pillow.   I sleep under a net with the edges tucked in except at the foot where it fits snug to the frame.  But one night as I rolled my head sideways  I heard a squeak and catapulted out of bed.  No mouse.  Later, a rattle on the basket by the bed and the soft plopping sound of a small creature landing on the floor.  No mouse - just signs of same.    So I plan on winning this particular war with this particular mouse/rat as visions of Orwellian rats march unbidden through my mind.

And now I have him!!  Best 6500 Shillings ever spent if I can just get it out of the house.  It's rather grim, but he is stuck in the glue and has dragged the damn trap under the bookcase.  I'll have to wait until he tires to somehow drag him out.  With Uganda being the Petri dish of diseases that it is, I'm taking no chances with this Disney-Ratatouille wannabe.  Usually I would opt for something more humane, but it's him or me.  I choose me.

On to other subjects:  Landlady Caroline has her better moments.  Today she and a helper took the hoe to clean up the yard just around the house.  Ugandans like a four-foot scraped earth boundary around a structure;  Americans do not.  Also I don't have a hoe, nor the desire to use it.  I'm not sure if this makes me a slob, a poor tenant or just clueless, but I have yet to be drawn into this ritual.  This reluctance rests in part on the fact that - when it rains this patch of dirt turns into a mud-field across which I have to leap to get out of the house. And today it rained about 6 inches in less than an hour.  A fabulous, pounding, thunderous torrential rain which created a 4-inch-deep lake around the house.   Someday, I will ask her why this scorched-earth practice is so important, but not today.  I am mouse-sitting.

Don't Try This at Home

Oh how it thrills me to see the middle of June.  It means another month at site and another month closer to Cairo and Christmas (if Egypt is not off limits by then) and another month closer to Brett’s coming over (hopefully that will happen) and then – you guessed it – another month closer to HOME.

But it’s good to be back in Gulu - somehow.  The hustle-and-bustle of Kampala gets old and it is SO expensive to be there.  There is good food to eat and things to buy and – well – our  PC stipend seems to flow out of our pockets like water through a sieve. And while Gulu is an expensive place to live compared to other areas of Uganda, it can’t hold a flame to Kampala, which is rife with escapist expenses.

The bus ride back was less traumatic than usual.  I’m learning the ropes a bit: leave the Annex early enough to get a ham-and-cheese croissant (one of the few REAL croissants in Kampala) and still get a window seat, don't drink anything the night before or the first half of the trip, bring a back pillow and a book; wear Sea Bands to avoid motion-sickness and brace self for 5.5 hours of horrid 80’s religious music played at head-pounding volume. Next time ear plugs.

On the way home, I missed the best part of the trip - crossing of the Nile (actually was able to fall asleep) but awoke in time for some local color in the form of a cow being hauled on the back of a Boda. The only thing that could have been more surprising about this is if the cow had been sitting upright.  Yes – a cow – legs roped and draped sideways behind the driver, head hanging down.  Don’t know the status of said cow; he looked awfully docile, but perhaps that’s the way a cow behaves when there is no other choice, cows being relatively docile creatures to start with.

Returned to no electricity - almost a week now with a mere burp of power at night.  It was nice to have the privacy of "home" – and not a hotel.  It was almost quiet!  And I was extremely relieved to find it had been safe the night before since I’d harbored concerns about it being vacant  – housemate being in Kampala for another round of medical.  The last time it was left vacant, it was burglarized, so PTSD being what it is, I was fearing (as the locals say) a repeat event.  But – safe-and-sound it was. 

I was settled into a dark night with only a couple of candles – listening to the soft rain outside and making friends with the house again, when the electricity burped on for about 30-seconds.  Have learned to wait to get excited, so didn’t’ instantly jump up to do things requiring power.  The second time it happened, I did jump up and wash hair because my only real concession to vanity here is the use of a hair-dryer when I can.    OK – so I got a pedicure in Kampala - but that's about the only way to get your feet really clean every few months ;-(

Sunday morning dawned with the usual church music (actually rather missed it in Kampala – remember it’s the Stockholm syndrome all over again).  Got up and had my own fabulous dark roast coffee and made French toast with the eggs I didn’t want to float.  Met friends about two hours later and as I sat at a little street-side cafe called Cafe Larem (friend’s cafe) the town was really just getting in gear for business. There was a group of women setting up their market of greens (called Dodo or Bo depending on the variety) and hauling huge 18-inch-diameter bundles on their heads.  Across the street some hammering (or was it drumming???) started up and the usual morning greetings peppered the background.  Nice.

Today’s full on excitement was the receipt of a package!  Thank you Kay and David!!!  I got it before lunch, came home and tore into it – immediately consuming a luscious tub of chocolate-caramel pudding.  And – since I was working at home, decided it was a great time to make the Alfredo sauce from the mix she sent and have Pasta Alfredo.  In my zeal to do this, I used the fresh box of milk in the fridge, thinking how lucky it was that I had real milk.  Whipping it up between tasks on the computer, I failed to notice that this was VANILLA MILK.  Who buys VANILLA MILK!  Did I do that?  (Jenna – if that was yours I own you one Vanilla milk.) Anyway, it became painfully clear when I tasted the Alfredo Sauce expecting the wonderful, rich and savory taste of various cheeses blended into a creamy sauce…    BLEGH!  Not Alfredo Sauce! How to save this?  I am loathe to discard any treat and this was my own stupid doing.  So Cathy  (gourmet cook who would know how to fix this culinary catastrophe) – if you’re reading this – I thought, “What would Cathy do?” - remembering her Twinkie fix.  So I dug through my box of spices for something that could turn sweet into savory and came across Curry Powder. Mixing in about a half cup - I pronounced it curry sauce and tried to pretend the sweet taste was Coconut Milk and not Vanilla.    Necessity may be the mother of invention, but catastrophe is the mother of creativity.  Don’t try this at home…  Where's the Iron Chef when you need one? It could have been worse, I suppose.  Had it happened to the Pesto Sauce, there would have been no choice but to fall on my sword.

The Stockholm Syndrome...

I think I'm slipping into the abyss...  I am beginning to enjoy - or a least be able to laugh about - some of the chaos of Kampala.  Help me.  It must be the Stockholm Syndrome - isn't that the one where abductees begin identifying with their captors?

I've been working at PC HQ for the past four days doing what I love to do - organize stuff.  I'm learning a lot about the inner workings of PC in the process.  The new PC HQ site is on a hill and has a beautiful view and constant breeze.  Today a storm blew in and it was fabulously dark and rumbly.  I was nearly drunk with delight at being able to watch it blow in (and not be IN it when it happened).   To this day, I give thanks that I'm not on a tea-cup sized sailboat in the middle of the sea - but you've heard that story.   (But I AM dreaming of being on the water at the end of all this.) I've eaten great food while here:  had a real honest to goodness fish curry complete with Mango Chutney last night.  Tonight - Hot and Sour Soup at the same place.  There is life out there.

Don't get me wrong - the chaos of Kampala is still bordering on insane.  Yesterday, I had a dental appointment and hiked back to the grand digs of the Annex (yeah - that one: concrete, noisy, communal everything) and shopped for supplies on the way.  Got gorgeous tie-dyed fabric, found some new places where I feared a bit for loss of back pack, computer, purse, etc. but  acted like I knew what I was doing and forged ahead through the mayhem of stalls and sellers to find some beautiful African designs.  My mistake was going forth and trying to find office supplies.  Many stores later, on foot - searching for a  few specific places recommended for things like hanging file boxes, colored bulletin board tacks and crochet thread....  No Office Depot like store here.  No JoAnn's fabrics.  And many people have never seen or heard of such a thing as a portable, desk top box for hanging files.  Hanging files are new to many, file folders  - ditto.  Crochet????  So to use a word no-one knows to describe something they've never seen is tricky.  It's helpful to remember that English is not always English in any case and this also confounds getting directions. Directions here almost always include:  "it is just there (accompanied by a vague sweeping wave of the arm), first you just cross, then slope down - it is just that side (that side of WHAT!?)" and so on.  After many attempts, one guard just took me.  It was, after all - just there!

On the way, I was able to step back a bit a remember the abject horror which consumed me on our first group visit to Kampala during training.  So some small progress has been made.  I am on the other side of bowel-loosening horror and am now vacillating between idiot-bravery and simple-terror. I was able to be an observer this time of hundreds, nay- thousands - of matatus (built for 16 and always carrying 20 or more) competing for passengers.  While slowing (somewhat) the conductor hangs on one-handed out the open door screaming the name of the taxi's destination.  At first, as a new arrival - it seems very personal - they are all screaming at you!  Musungu! Mama!  Jenga! Bukota! and an infinity of names-of-places-I-can't-pronounce-much-less-know-where-they-are. And the Boda drivers - reaching out - calling, haranguing.  Once you get over the initial assault and learn to throw yourself in front of-between-behind the 30 or so vehicles swarming at a stage/hive/gathering place and not get crushed you're home-free.  And, by-the-way, just because you're on a sidewalk, doesn't mean you won't be run down by a Boda.  It a total free-for-all here. It actually got absurdly funny after a while.  Having a sense of humor and the ability to laugh or groan at oneself is essential battle armor.  At last I arrived at the "hotel" unscathed with a plastered on smile - repeating, "thank you-I-am-footing."  In the midst of this insanity, people were all good humored and too busy looking looking for the next fare to hassle me for very long.  I suppose I only walked a few miles, but that  combined with self-defense maneuvering,  forced cheerfulness with boda/matatu hawkers, backpack & packages, puddles, etc. -  is the perfect miasma for exhaustion.  Ah - to be able to get in a car and drive to exactly the right place is the stuff of dreams.

And that's another thing - driving here takes nerves and balls of steel.  Traffic signals, where present are merely advisory.  There are no clear lanes - or directions for that matter.  Never mind that they drive on the "wrong" side of the street, they change sides whenever there's a hole (there are many) or someone is in the way (frequently).  There was a man wheeling along in his manually operated wheel-chair today, sharing the road.  Periodically, a cow will be sleeping on the "shoulder."  And there are hawkers who poke their heads in your window when stopped in traffic.  If you are talking on the phone, watch out for it being snatched right out of your hand mid-sentence.  Window's UP!

But for now, I am tucked into my interior room, no windows - but a fan and am about to continue with Bryan Wooley's Book about Texas, "The Edge of the West."    Dental tomorrow - giving credence to the claim that dental problems are the number one health issue among PCVs in Uganda.  

Then "home" on Saturday...

Sweet dreams and shopping my friends.

Bright spots

Written a week ago....  How time creeps along.

The Venus transit of the sun on June 5^th  was supposed to cause all manner of angst and inner turmoil.  Well – it would need stand in line.  I doubt I would notice in the ambient field of angst that characterizes this journey. How would one distinguish among the plethora of other possibilities: what I ate last nigh, weekly Mefloquin anti-malarial dose, impending travel, etc. 

However there have been bright spots and yesterday was one of those.  When I wake up feeling random sadness that I often feel here, I put on my “big girl panties” and do a little meditation and set my intention to be happy and have a fulfilling day – or at least interesting.   Yesterday started with the Marching Band in full dress uniform preparing for an event.  So I stood and let the enthusiasm of their music wash over me.    The megawatt smile of one young woman drummer lit up the place.  Off to a good start!

Walking into work I received the usual good natured “Bodo-Boda?  taunts and smiles from the Boda group  that knows I don’t ride.  I miss them when they are not there – it’s become a ritual greeting.

Later I received a fabulous box of good coffee, chocolates and other goodies from Evie and when I arrived back at the office after lunch (worked most of the day out the office – to access electricity and internet) my nice soft, contoured chair had been delivered!  Since Ive been using a straight-back un-padded wooden straight-jacket-sort-of-chair all this time, this is a huge deal to have something more user-friendly! Miracles abound. Even got a packet of sewing needles from the Director.  There were other little treasures that appeared through the day, but what was so lovely were the number of people who shouted out greetings and stopped to talk.  Periodically there are sweet reminders that I am part of this community and well received.  I loaned a good mystery to a waiter in the Coffee Hut and even recognized the smiling-drummer (Helen) somewhere else in town and we chatted.  This doesn’t seem big, unless you’re HERE and are in a constant state of embarrassment owing to the fact  of being unable to distinguish one new person from another.  The subtle differences that we use in the States are somehow confounded by Ugandan's shared characteristics.    It’s useful to note that to them, all Munus look alike:  all glaringly white, funny hair, paler eyes.  The distinguishing characteristics of blue or green or brown eyes and different hair color just don’t make the short list.  Yes - all us white folks look alike...

I’ve been reading an excerpt on Uganda from a book by Richard Dowden, Africa: Altered States, Ordinary Miracles  and at the very least I am realizing that my experiences and insights are in sync – at least in large part – with those felt by a person with a lot more experience with Africa and Uganda than mine.  So, when I feel out of place, frustrated , angry and out-of-step while also feeling humbled by the grace and generosity of spirit I experience daily from Ugandans here – I am a bit relieved to discover I’m not totally screwed up - just living in a state of constant contradictions.

Last Saturday, when I performed my ritual trip to the cuk madit (main market) to get produce, salt and a random assortment of goods, I  met a woman my friend Karla had met the week before and  who had given her a whole bag full of free goodies, because it was their first meeting. Mary Ester is about my age and has a little shop there.  She sits outside the entrance shared with an isle narrowed by huge stalks of Matoke (think green bananas/plantains).    Before realizing she was the same woman, I greeted her in Acholi, asked her name and as we chatted I realized the connection.     The items she gave Karla were not expensive by American standards, but a really significant expense for an Acholi shop keeper.  She gave them as an act of new-friendship and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  To refuse would have wounded her.    So when I met Mary Ester, I wanted to purchase something from her shop.    I started with salt, the only thing I really needed but she asked me what else I might need.  Before I left, she had gifted me a large package of spaghetti. Again, it was her way of honoring the meeting of a new friend.  It was also very good business!  I walked out having purchased a 10 pack of toilet paper as a thank you. 

Other produce sellers are always giving us a little extra - 5 tomatoes for the price of 4, an extra scoop of rice, another onion.    This is a “fixed price” market for the most part,  so this is what in Louisiana would be called Laignaippe – extra.  This in a culture where the average daily income is somewhere around 3,000 shillings  (25,000 sh = $10)  - to give away 2000 shillings  (Mary Ester)  of goods means most of a day’s wage.   I don't recall this ever happening in Safeway or Whole Foods.  

On the communication front, there are rituals here that slow things down, but must be honored regardless of circumstance.  To circumvent ritual for the sake of expediency and dive directly into a conversation by stating the purpose of the visit or the problem at hand would not only be rude, but ultimately counter-productive.  Moving forward requires that the social be acknowledged first.  One greets:    "How was the night? Ah - the night was good.  And you - did you sleep well?  Yes – and you?  How are the people at your home?  Fine. Thank you.  How are your people?" And so on.   It is rude not to stand, greet, shake hands, ask and answer many variations of greetings and offer a chair regardless of how long a person is staying or the purpose of their visit.  Many Apwoyos (thank you, hello, you're welcome) , mabers (good) , ayas (yes, or your greeting was received, I have heard you, etc) later, one may venture into the cause of the visit.   But one ALWAYS starts with the good first.  You would only acknowledge a problem or difficulty later.     To alter that would create problems you don’t need.  Even in the police station, where issues abound, greeting and nicities precede any inquiry.

Onward – after yesterday’s lovely day, a night of electricity and rain, snacking on Evie’s chocolate macaroons and reading more of a good mystery, I ventured into work this morning to find that I am to represent LABE in a quarterly meeting.  I don’t like last minute things like this and not being fully prepared.  This is clearly one of my life lessons and I’m getting the opportunity to practice things being less than in perfect order.  (Hysterical laughter...)   I waited around to get some printed updates (printer not working as planned) and wandered down to the place of the meeting which was to start somewhere between 9AM and 10AM.  I arrived at 9:35 to an empty building.  It is now 10:35 and two people have arrived.  You are beginning to understand why I have read 60 books already and others have read more.  But I didn’t bring a book, so I am blogging and working.

I’m moving onto a Power Point Project and writing an article for the Human Rights Focus Quarterly publication that I researched most of yesterday.  Thank you God for computers,  internet access  and - at least this month - beautiful weather.

Of Cow Tales and Cocks

In the absolutely random world we know as Peace Corps the odd or merely unusual is not far from our doorstep.  Sometimes, it is ON the doorstep, but not this time.    These are mostly tales of cows with a rooster thrown in for good measure.  The cows here in Uganda are unusual; except for the occasional Brahmin, most that we see are Ankoli – with beautiful, long (sometimes 3.5 feet) rather bowlegged horns.  You’ll find a picture of a herd at the end of my alley on Nancy’s Pics. The Roosters (a term never used - it's "Cock" here), are - well - obnoxious and deserve whatever fate befalls them - hopefully a stew-pot.   And not mine, thank you.  These are some tough birds.

Back to cows...  Recently, one PCV reported that he’d hung his hammock outside and run off to do an errand.  Rounding the corner to his humble abode, he returned to discover an Ankoli bull with a nice  set of horns doing battle with the hammock, having pretty well torn it to shreds.  

Bull - 1

Hammock - 0

Then there was the one who ate – or at least tried to eat, the hoodie belonging to a young Australian volunteer near Gulu.  He’d done his laundry, hung it on the line and gone about his business.  When he returned later, the cow was feasting on what remained of his hoodie.  Only the tail end of it was hanging out of the cow’s mouth.  He’d had trouble with cow’s sucking on his laundry during dry season, but not devouring it. Ugandan by-standers rescued the hoodie (and maybe the cow…) by pulling it (yeeees….) back out of the cow, the hoodie now boasting tooth marks and a goopy mix you might expect coming up from inside a cow’s seven stomachs.  Don’t think he’ll be wearing that anymore, but it’s a helluva souvenir.  You can’t make this stuff up.

Another volunteer, probably gone by now, reported waking up from a nap to a cow standing over her in bed and nuzzling her while she slept.  Hmmmm – Instinctively, she grabbed a book on the bed at whacked it on the nose and  watched it gallumph away and out of the house. 

Makes mine about the bull who wandered through the door in the gate to my house, grazed his way around the yard until finally being chased out by his exhausted herder - tame.  Unless you are the herdsman who was seen still chasing this bull a half-hour later down the streets of Gulu. Probably all in a days work.

Language also presents some interesting conversational results, meaning nothing untoward here, but none-the-less pregnant with possibilities in the American-English lexicon.  One conversation with a Villager looking for his - cock:

“Madam, madam!  Have you seen my cock? 

No I can’t say that I have.   Where do you think it is?

It is the bush I think!

Really? Whose bush?

Yes - it is in your bush…  Can you help me find it?”

You might ask how these tales come to me…   Well,  it’s Peace Corps and we are hungry for relevance of any kind: being relevant, hearing something relevant, construing something that is totally irrelevant  into something that is somehow relevant.  And not unlike being being a little stoned, to survive in PC means being able to turn into absurd in funny – or relevant – or at least entertainment.   So – recently in conversation I’m sure must have been terribly relevant (these only last so long amid the interruptions of our ambient insanity here)  a couple of these tidbits came to me from “The Cock Whisperer,” a moniker bestowed on a young PCV after she quelled the early morning crowing of a noisy cock by whispering “sssshhhhhhh” out her window. 

                        THE END – or in local vernacular:  IT IS FINISHED