Mid-service Reflections

Mid-service – the date we’ve been anticipating for well  over a year now, has come and gone.  Like a herd of turtles or a turd of hurdles, depending on which way you look at it – we all migrated toward Kampala – to the world of warm showers, softer beds, good food and friends and the sharing of tales.  

And tales there were, dramas here and there, awkward alliances, unraveling romances.  All the makings of a good mini-series, except that no one would believe it…  A few more of our number have departed for various reasons, ranging from debauchery and Boda Riding to poor site selection on the part of Peace Corps to Foreign Service Induction.    It was somewhat sobering to realize that of our original group of 46, only 34 remain in country.  Sorry Russ, I know you haven’t left for Foreign Service yet, but we are all grieving your departure in advance!

We were reminded of the rules again:  being caught on a Boda  (motor cycle taxi) is a one-way ticket home as is being found in Kampala without prior permission.    There’s a lot of pissin- and moanin’ about these policies - but they are essentially there for our protection and the pocket book of the taxpayer.  It’s one of the things you sign on for when you come to Peace Corps but, in theory we are adults and some of us haven’t had any externally imposed rules for a looooong time (that would be me).  It’s just that when all starry eyed coming in we minimized the “rules” part – thinking we are going to be enthralled by either the adventure or the act of “making a contribution,” we under-estimated how much these rules and a slew of others like them, would mess with daily life.  Then we got here and discovered that bursts of insight, moments of thinking you’re making a difference, the fleeting encounters that warm your heart – are but exclamation points to an otherwise difficult and often boring, plodding two years of planting seeds we will not be around to harvest.  We’ve adapted in ways that are as different as all of the personalities here.  Some of go inside and philosophize, some try to self-medicate out of the malaise only to rediscover it once the hangover wears off, we watch movies and TV series sucked from home, we all break the rules we think we can and some are simply never at site.  Like many other things, I suspect that the real excitement, lessons and insights over our adventures – both as a group and as individuals – will only blossom in retrospect.  While I don’t think I’ll be lounging in bed fondly reminiscing about rats in the kitchen, heart-stopping bus rides, squalid latrines or slogging through the mud, I’m sure – like the boat trip – I will long for days with enough time to read a book, be surprised by life and reflect. I think I will also miss the marching band tuning up everyday at 5 PM and certainly the camaraderie of friends that comes from shared miseries.   But I’m not gone YET, and until then I reserve – or savor the right -  to vent.

LABE programs are moving forward – in fact getting busy.  Books and puzzles and pillow-case dresses are getting to the field and my input is valued.  From other reports, I think that makes me one of the lucky ones.  Many remain frustrated by the act of slogging forward  at the pace of a sloth (even here there is much “slogging”).  We were reminded by a couple of ex-PCVs who presented at Mid-service that much of our impact is on the one-to-one personal level and while Congress may not think so or be able to measure it,  there is huge value in people learning to see the light in another that will contribute to change.  I’ll spare you my diatribe over misapplied aid money, but there was an interesting article recently in the New York Times, quoting the Ugandan author of the anti-homosexual legislation rumored to be passed by the and of the year.  His statement was essentially - if there were an action to force the west to stop sending Uganda money, he would like that.   Well – this legislation might be that action according to dictates that have come from Washington.  We live in interesting times.

On a lighter note, I have finally found eggs with a yellow-yolk!  Ah HA!  And you thought they just come that way.  Well they don’t in Uganda… they are whitish grey, green and they taste like dirt because that is what the chickens eat most of the time.  So if you actually FEED a chicken, you’ll get a yellow yolk and they taste better.  Admittedly, these yolks border on orange, giving rise to the concern of WHAT they are being fed and if this will later be revealed to be some deadly long-festering carcinogen.  But for now, I have am revelling in having eggs that taste like eggs.  Small pleasures…

And we were able to see the new James Bond flick, Skyfall, while in Kampala.  It was a kick and felt almost like being in the States.   My house was still in tact from being away without a house-sitter, though the geckos and crickets had taken over. Mama kitty, Yin, welcomed me with ear-piercing,  “Where the hell have YOU been – I’m here growing a batch of babies and you have abandoned me to catching rodents!”  She was intransigent when I reminded her of her job description being just that.   She has taken to climbing through the window as an act of revenge.  Add to that a new batch of white-ants creeping through vents at night – and may regret that I have not developed a taste for the beasts sautéed and for sale in large heaps by the road. I could just catch my own.

And speaking of windows, yesterday as friends arrived in route to Murcheson Falls, we were about to go the eat, when I heard a child’s voice through my bedroom window saying something about Muzungu.  This is much too close – because I happen to know there are no pint size Ugandans living in my compound.     Once robbed, twice shy - I went to investigate and discovered a girl about 6 tending an infant and a toddler.  Neither of the two Acholi speakers (self being one and I use the term Acholi speaker loosely) were fluent enough to figure out who they were or where they were from.   I reluctantly left, because while these miniature people couldn’t mean trouble, those that left them could.  On our way out we discovered the mothers picking greens from along the alley leading to my compound.   The 6 year old had been left to care for the babies – a routine event here.   Not uncommon to see a 6-year old with one baby strapped to her back and chasing around a stair-step collection of siblings while the mother hauls water, works in the field, etc. 

I know – if that's the lighter note, I should stop.   So I will.   Thanksgiving is coming up and I have much to give thanks for.  The new USAID folks in town have invited the PCVs to celebrate at their house (a seriously fine ex-pat house with fun things like a full kitchen with contraptions like an oven and really nice bathrooms and lovely furnishings, not to mention gracious hosts!  So onward to Thanksgiving and locating an unsuspecting turkey to Christmas (and Ethiopia)!  Then… 9 months and counting!