In the past, I have written about events that span periods of time. This post will be a deviation from that practice. This post will cover only a single day I had last week.
The day is Sunday, and for the first time, I am attending mass at the local Catholic Cathedral. All 3 masses to be exact, each at 1.5-2 hrs long. Why would I do this you ask? Well I find myself in need of paper bead makers for a project I'm starting, and mass on Sunday provides the largest guaranteed audience. So 3 times I stand in front of a crowd 200+, to tell them I need their bead makers. What I have not told them (yet) is that this project is a copy of Smiles' project, just with a Marsh twist on the operation. Competition is beautiful.
After lunch with Father Kayaye, off to the Soroti Golf Club I went. I have been acting as a technical adviser to the businessman who is reviving the Golf Club and spent an hour or so going over improvement plans and marketing methodology.
Around 2 or 3, and my scheduled yoga lesson with Chelsea came up, so off to Eneku Village I went. Every time I do yoga here (I try to do it in public as much as possible) it always turns in to a spectacle; the white man fighting a desperate battle against gravity, which he will lose, as he does every time. However, I'm fairly well known at Eneku, as it has hosted several of my parties and some of my students work there. This led to only polite questions about why I was contorting myself in to unnatural positions and calling it "exercise". It also led to me getting a ride back to town. The people you know...
Back in town, around 5, I called my friend Gorka, the Spanish director of an emergency relief German NGO. He and I have been bonding rather hedonistically of late; we have a man date almost every week. Today however cannot be like our friday and saturday shenanigans as we both have to work the next day. So I pick up snacks in town: rolex, banana bread, and chips... also beer. About half the beer was consumed when we hiked up one of the smaller volcanic plugs in senior quarters. The view is even more spectacular when augmented with a 2 beer climb. As evening turned to night we drove back to his house where our mutual friend Achuma (a local boxing instructor and sometimes bodyguard) was babysitting Gorka's newborn daughter. After eating snacks we introduced Achuma to the video game Dead Space 2 (Gorka has an Alienware laptop). I have never this reaction before to a horror anything, but Achuma would rather play with Jen and the baby than us as (quote) "that game is too scary". In his defense Dead Space 2 is even more dismember-y than the first.
After satiating our lust for alien slaughter, we played Red Alert 3. Having played this one before I instructed Gorka in the subtle art of Uber-Mirco, in so much as to defeat an enraged Tim Curry playing the part of a Russian Premier, or conversely Lieutenant Sulu (I mean George Takei) playing the Japanese Emperor.
I have always believed that westernization is a "step at a time" process, and playing modern video games only took a year. Perhaps I'll make a beer in addition to honey wine next month...
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Vacation and other Diatribes
I have a fool’s hope that someday time will be proven not to be continuous, but a random series of moments joined together by the slimmest of probabilities. Perhaps then my frequent lapses in blogging will be forgiven.
This adventure is the story of my African vacation before my American one. The grand unified plan of leisure was to go to the Ssese Islands with many of my training group for a weekend of beach fun and then jet off to America to object to Nathan and Micaela’s wedding.
Everything was planned out, in typical Michael fashion; where to stay, when to leave, what to take, how much to spend, a logistics master thesis. However, I erred in that I had not been to Kampala in 8 months and consequently forgot that there is such a thing in life called “traffic jams”. This several hour public transport fiasco ate all my buffer time to get down to the ferry to the islands in Entebbe, and then some. Arriving at the ferry I found that it left an hour ago. After having a lovely chat with the ferry manager (Charles, a Teso man no less) he informed me that several others had also missed the ferry. They were in the process of making arrangements to stay at some local lodges to ensure their timely arrival to the ferry the following day. However, I had my heart set on getting to the islands that day, so Charles and I made a deal. He would call a couple of his friends who owned a banana boat (the giant African canoe you are picturing in your mind); I would go find and organize those passengers who missed the boat.
In total, there were 5 people who wanted to get there that day. We collected the money for fuel, life jackets, and fare (a paltry 45,000 each); all told, we set off only about 3 hours after the ferry left. The journey itself was much better than I had anticipated it would be in this rickety boat that required continuous bailing due to the unsealed keel being pressed upon by 2 foot waves. The real shame was that my Ugandan comrades had never heard of Gilligan’s Island and thus could not savor the potential irony as the trip was supposed to be a 3 hour tour.
We conversed about this and that and before we knew it, night was upon us; more than an hour from shore. Just as I was beginning to think that my earlier jovial thoughts about Gilligan were more prescient than I believed, a beautiful coincidence occurred. The reason we had booked this weekend for our trip to the islands was because the mosquitoes would be suppressed by the full moon; which rises over the eastern horizon just after dark. The last hour and a half of our fateful trip was spent watching the moon rise in to the sky and consequently guide our way in to port. This trip allowed me to see the most beautiful and striking full moon I have ever witnessed.
Arriving at the islands was equally fun. The gang there knew I had missed the ferry (yet no one had bothered to send me a message; does this mean they didn’t care enough, or that they knew I would figure it out?). So upon arriving and checking in to the hotel, I parked myself in the bar for a beer. I watched as one by one everyone came up from the beach to fetch another drink only to find their wayward companion smiling and waiting. Reactions spanned the gambit from “WHO? WAIT, WHEN? NO, HOW? MICHAEL!” to “Aw, I knew you’d make it”. Eventually people began to ask how I managed to get to the island without using the ferry, as there is only one, and they were on it. I presented 3 possible options as the method of my arrival, of which one was the truth: I swam to the island, I had myself flown to it, or I used my Gypsy magic. I would say that chartering an unimproved vessel to travel more than 50Km partially at night and finding 4 other people to agree to it counts as Gypsy magic.
The rest of the evening was spent in energetic merriment. At a certain point it was decided we should go night swimming in the moonlight, which proved to be awesome. Fresh from that I noticed that the hotel had a banana boat of their own, but sans engine. The engine was quickly replaced by Danny (and a paddle carelessly left in the boat), who readily agreed to my scheme of shanghai-ing the boat and becoming island pirates. The plan fell apart like so many others that are lured in to the high seas by the siren song of “A pirates life for me…” when it became apparent that Danny makes a terrible galley slave.
The following morning I had intended to revive a favorite childhood pastime: making sandcastles. The pace was productive until a drunken man wandered down the beach and became fascinated with my half finished construction. That was the end of the productive phase of building. I remembered that “Hey, I'm a Peace Corps volunteer”, so I goal 2ed it up and taught this very inebriated fisherman the process of making a sand castle. His attempts at soil compression and use of dry beach sand led to several structurally superfluous piles around the castle which had to be removed before additional battlements could be built. I still tried to teach him proper sand castle mechanics, and for my effort, he rewarded me with the title of “his best friend in the world”. This title was promptly removed and replaced with “mortal enemy” when I tried to bury him in the sand, alive. Around this time we got to the conversation topic of what he was doing on the island. He told me he was a fisherman supporting his family back on the mainland. This made me ask why he was drunk at 10 in the morning as the beers all cost 3000Ugx. This went back and forth for a while, until I told him that he couldn’t work on my sand castle until he went home and gave the money he had earned to his wife; only then could he come back and be my friend again. He ran off in to the forest shortly after.
And some people think getting rid of drunks is hard.
Later in the day I found a super-keen stick that Bodie and I used as a golf club. Due to its size, the only acceptable object to play golf with was a volleyball. I made par, but before Bodie could sink his Mary came and momed at us that we were going to break it. So we played old-fashioned stick ball with a tennis ball we found. During my 3rd at bat I managed to hit a grand slam out in to the lake. This marked my retirement from stick ball. I prefer to go out on a high note, never having to go before congress and defend my “natural” talent.
The rest of the holiday was lovely; gambling, drinking, eating, sightseeing, a bit of hiking, lots of swimming and the like.
On the ferry back (which I somehow managed to make) I started talking with the ship’s engineer (also an iteso). He showed me around below decks and I got to inspect the ships two deafening diesel engines. He now plans to visit my school in reciprocation.
Back on the mainland, there was a bit of business to do before leaving for the America’s. Namely, visit the National Water and Sewage Corporation of Uganda and pitch them on Miox water purification technology. I showed their head office quality manager all the spec sheets for the variously sized products, perspective costs and savings, and was generally a salesman. He told me about a big industrial trade show happening in Oct that Miox now wants to attend next year. The really interesting thing he told me was that there is already a pilot project working in Lugazi using the same purification technology as Miox; the only difference is that the firm doing it is North Korean. o_0
That evening I was finally America bound. Arriving in Amsterdam was quite a sight; paved roads as far as the eye could see. Another thing I saw was Americans in their semi-natural environment: Europe. It is very easy to identify Americans in an airport; they don’t walk, they waddle, and failing that, they ride in the airport carts.
I had intended that my first western meal would be Rudy’s barbeque, but I lost the battle of wills in Amsterdam when I found there was a McDonalds. I should be tried in The Hague for what I did to those innocent McNuggets.
On the trans-Atlantic flight, I found it is possible to be supplied with beer for the entire trip. All one needs to do is casually inform the flight staff that you are a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa teaching business skills and entrepreneurship to disenfranchised rural vocational students in a post-conflict zone. Free Heineken never tasted so good.
And then came the Atlanta airport. This is still preliminary, but I believe the Atlanta airport is larger than the Soroti Town limits. Also in Atlanta, I had the privilege of seeing monorails for transporting passengers. Otherwise they would have to walk the extra 1/4-3/4 of a mile to their gate. It was here that I got the first quizzical looks from security regarding some items I had brought with me: Ugandan waragi (gin) sachets. Being 100mls each, fully sealed in their plastic bag, they violate no airport liquid handling restrictions. All 24 100ml sachets made it through security, save for the 2 I sold to the airport screeners at $1 apiece. God I love America.
The trip was not all fairy tales and rainbows however. My inability to throw away semi-useful things finally bit me in the ass; in this case it was the packets of coffee from my MRE’s. During transit, they broke open inside my backpack. It now smells like a rich mocha. I hate it.
This adventure is the story of my African vacation before my American one. The grand unified plan of leisure was to go to the Ssese Islands with many of my training group for a weekend of beach fun and then jet off to America to object to Nathan and Micaela’s wedding.
Everything was planned out, in typical Michael fashion; where to stay, when to leave, what to take, how much to spend, a logistics master thesis. However, I erred in that I had not been to Kampala in 8 months and consequently forgot that there is such a thing in life called “traffic jams”. This several hour public transport fiasco ate all my buffer time to get down to the ferry to the islands in Entebbe, and then some. Arriving at the ferry I found that it left an hour ago. After having a lovely chat with the ferry manager (Charles, a Teso man no less) he informed me that several others had also missed the ferry. They were in the process of making arrangements to stay at some local lodges to ensure their timely arrival to the ferry the following day. However, I had my heart set on getting to the islands that day, so Charles and I made a deal. He would call a couple of his friends who owned a banana boat (the giant African canoe you are picturing in your mind); I would go find and organize those passengers who missed the boat.
In total, there were 5 people who wanted to get there that day. We collected the money for fuel, life jackets, and fare (a paltry 45,000 each); all told, we set off only about 3 hours after the ferry left. The journey itself was much better than I had anticipated it would be in this rickety boat that required continuous bailing due to the unsealed keel being pressed upon by 2 foot waves. The real shame was that my Ugandan comrades had never heard of Gilligan’s Island and thus could not savor the potential irony as the trip was supposed to be a 3 hour tour.
We conversed about this and that and before we knew it, night was upon us; more than an hour from shore. Just as I was beginning to think that my earlier jovial thoughts about Gilligan were more prescient than I believed, a beautiful coincidence occurred. The reason we had booked this weekend for our trip to the islands was because the mosquitoes would be suppressed by the full moon; which rises over the eastern horizon just after dark. The last hour and a half of our fateful trip was spent watching the moon rise in to the sky and consequently guide our way in to port. This trip allowed me to see the most beautiful and striking full moon I have ever witnessed.
Arriving at the islands was equally fun. The gang there knew I had missed the ferry (yet no one had bothered to send me a message; does this mean they didn’t care enough, or that they knew I would figure it out?). So upon arriving and checking in to the hotel, I parked myself in the bar for a beer. I watched as one by one everyone came up from the beach to fetch another drink only to find their wayward companion smiling and waiting. Reactions spanned the gambit from “WHO? WAIT, WHEN? NO, HOW? MICHAEL!” to “Aw, I knew you’d make it”. Eventually people began to ask how I managed to get to the island without using the ferry, as there is only one, and they were on it. I presented 3 possible options as the method of my arrival, of which one was the truth: I swam to the island, I had myself flown to it, or I used my Gypsy magic. I would say that chartering an unimproved vessel to travel more than 50Km partially at night and finding 4 other people to agree to it counts as Gypsy magic.
The rest of the evening was spent in energetic merriment. At a certain point it was decided we should go night swimming in the moonlight, which proved to be awesome. Fresh from that I noticed that the hotel had a banana boat of their own, but sans engine. The engine was quickly replaced by Danny (and a paddle carelessly left in the boat), who readily agreed to my scheme of shanghai-ing the boat and becoming island pirates. The plan fell apart like so many others that are lured in to the high seas by the siren song of “A pirates life for me…” when it became apparent that Danny makes a terrible galley slave.
The following morning I had intended to revive a favorite childhood pastime: making sandcastles. The pace was productive until a drunken man wandered down the beach and became fascinated with my half finished construction. That was the end of the productive phase of building. I remembered that “Hey, I'm a Peace Corps volunteer”, so I goal 2ed it up and taught this very inebriated fisherman the process of making a sand castle. His attempts at soil compression and use of dry beach sand led to several structurally superfluous piles around the castle which had to be removed before additional battlements could be built. I still tried to teach him proper sand castle mechanics, and for my effort, he rewarded me with the title of “his best friend in the world”. This title was promptly removed and replaced with “mortal enemy” when I tried to bury him in the sand, alive. Around this time we got to the conversation topic of what he was doing on the island. He told me he was a fisherman supporting his family back on the mainland. This made me ask why he was drunk at 10 in the morning as the beers all cost 3000Ugx. This went back and forth for a while, until I told him that he couldn’t work on my sand castle until he went home and gave the money he had earned to his wife; only then could he come back and be my friend again. He ran off in to the forest shortly after.
And some people think getting rid of drunks is hard.
Later in the day I found a super-keen stick that Bodie and I used as a golf club. Due to its size, the only acceptable object to play golf with was a volleyball. I made par, but before Bodie could sink his Mary came and momed at us that we were going to break it. So we played old-fashioned stick ball with a tennis ball we found. During my 3rd at bat I managed to hit a grand slam out in to the lake. This marked my retirement from stick ball. I prefer to go out on a high note, never having to go before congress and defend my “natural” talent.
The rest of the holiday was lovely; gambling, drinking, eating, sightseeing, a bit of hiking, lots of swimming and the like.
On the ferry back (which I somehow managed to make) I started talking with the ship’s engineer (also an iteso). He showed me around below decks and I got to inspect the ships two deafening diesel engines. He now plans to visit my school in reciprocation.
Back on the mainland, there was a bit of business to do before leaving for the America’s. Namely, visit the National Water and Sewage Corporation of Uganda and pitch them on Miox water purification technology. I showed their head office quality manager all the spec sheets for the variously sized products, perspective costs and savings, and was generally a salesman. He told me about a big industrial trade show happening in Oct that Miox now wants to attend next year. The really interesting thing he told me was that there is already a pilot project working in Lugazi using the same purification technology as Miox; the only difference is that the firm doing it is North Korean. o_0
That evening I was finally America bound. Arriving in Amsterdam was quite a sight; paved roads as far as the eye could see. Another thing I saw was Americans in their semi-natural environment: Europe. It is very easy to identify Americans in an airport; they don’t walk, they waddle, and failing that, they ride in the airport carts.
I had intended that my first western meal would be Rudy’s barbeque, but I lost the battle of wills in Amsterdam when I found there was a McDonalds. I should be tried in The Hague for what I did to those innocent McNuggets.
On the trans-Atlantic flight, I found it is possible to be supplied with beer for the entire trip. All one needs to do is casually inform the flight staff that you are a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa teaching business skills and entrepreneurship to disenfranchised rural vocational students in a post-conflict zone. Free Heineken never tasted so good.
And then came the Atlanta airport. This is still preliminary, but I believe the Atlanta airport is larger than the Soroti Town limits. Also in Atlanta, I had the privilege of seeing monorails for transporting passengers. Otherwise they would have to walk the extra 1/4-3/4 of a mile to their gate. It was here that I got the first quizzical looks from security regarding some items I had brought with me: Ugandan waragi (gin) sachets. Being 100mls each, fully sealed in their plastic bag, they violate no airport liquid handling restrictions. All 24 100ml sachets made it through security, save for the 2 I sold to the airport screeners at $1 apiece. God I love America.
The trip was not all fairy tales and rainbows however. My inability to throw away semi-useful things finally bit me in the ass; in this case it was the packets of coffee from my MRE’s. During transit, they broke open inside my backpack. It now smells like a rich mocha. I hate it.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Corps Samples
I have been trying to keep up this whole “writing” gig as it seems to please people. However, I have only semi regular internet access. Hence, this post will combine several of the writings I have made over a period of time.
6/18/2011
The other night I had to correct a waiter from the best hotel in town that 20,000 minus 13,000 equals 7,000. This is not the first time. I once explained to my class the 80/20 rule; I have found an exception: 99% of problems here can be solved with a 1% dose of common sense (maybe one day they’ll develop a topical unguent). I have tried desperately to find “professional” work worthy of an engineering degree, and have been left wanting. Case and point: the bricklaying department is expanding our piggery. They are laying courses of bricks for additional pens, and I notice that they are placing the bricks with the short side facing the outside of the wall, making the wall 8” thick. When I asked the teacher why they are making the walls absurdly thick, his answer was because it’s the strongest pattern. Never mind that the wall is only supposed to hold the weight of a pig lying against its base. This project has a material waste of 50%. I determined all this in the course of 10 minutes observation.
If I was teaching a ‘real’ business class, like with calculated forecast projections, market suitability matrices’, floating average cyclical business trends (specified to individual markets), that would be challenging; I would have to put a lot of effort in to my work. But I’m not. My last class was on the importance of marketing, and for an example, I used the story of the pet rock. I might have lost weight, but I can feel my technical acumen getting a pot belly.
It is not that I tire of the work I do, for even my rainbow of morality can realize it is important and worthwhile. Yet, I find myself staring at a void in my life that I was absolutely convinced 10 months ago I could not possess. I believe normal people call it “loneliness”; I call it want of companionship. It is not even specific to a gender, but more to the role of equality a true companion represents: A bro to share my broings on about town, or a lady capable of appreciating an elaborate waltz of wooing.
I have many Ugandan friends I commonly associate with: Simon, Patrick, Sam, John, Johnson, Samson. Yes, madams are conspicuously absent from that list, and I believe I have the reasoning of it if I can indulge you to read. With any conversation there are certain overarching subjects of discourse: providing new information (personal, professional, cultural), commenting on events (past, present, future), giving opinions of mutually interesting subjects, use of humor, wit, and insight. I could try for more on the topic, but it is not the point. The point is, that when engaged in conversation, with even my friends, the only item on the list they can readily articulate is the cultural information exchange. Every other aspect is found wanting, to the point where it is plausibly believable that I have found myself in possession of a cadre of yes-men. If I make a point that invites discussion, they cut that avenue off at the pass and just agree with me with prodigious use of the head nod. It is this basis that has led to my near exclusive friendship of the y-chromosome. With men, at least, we can share a common bond of manliness that transcends all cultures and peoples (with, as always, a few queer exceptions) and makes going to have drinks an altogether pleasant affair. With the women however, I can find no common ground. We can have the normal Ugandan conversation that always revolves around my culture and their culture, as it is the only subject on which they seem to be able to start, hold, or continue a conversation with. Yet through it all, I can read the message in their eyes: “you give me a baby”. They wear this look like sunglasses. It is raw, intense, and lusty. But it’s not what I am that they are cravenly coveting, it’s what I can give them: a child; the best, most efficient, most dependable way to ensure the support of the muzungu and consequently themselves. Having a child here is as common and normal, for all ages capable, as checking the oil ([pulls out dip stick and checks] Hmm? Not pregnant. Better get that fixed).
This is the bread and blue band (cheaper equivalent of butter) of my local social interactions: men who only ask me to take them to America so they can get a chick, and women who only want babies. The agony of choice.
6/26/2011
One memory of college stands out as being especially quirky: the best Asian food I have ever had came from Socorro New Mexico, specifically a combo restaurant/travel lodge named Asian Garden. Tuesdays, during the last couple of years, would always be “Tai Tuesday”, and much gorging thereof was practiced. My and Ryan’s favorite dish was the “sesame beef”, a meal so tasty that I would describe its flavor as decadent. Many was the time that we would postulate on what exactly the chef did to make the meal so delicious. We eventually settled on witchcraft and underclassmen sacrifices, as every other hypothesis was implausible (eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth).
Since those times, I have always harbored a secret dream of surreptitiously trying to recreate that magical dish. Since I lacked the requisite underclassmen to sacrifice to whatever dark God of cooking there is (of whom Martha Stewart is the only begotten son), I would have to use science to accomplish the task. This is where I began to imagine what kind of scientific implements could be substituted to perform the foul and debased rituals required for making sesame beef. Visions began to take form and solidify; I was convinced that I would need some sort of tesla cannon to fry the meat which would be operated by way of some overly elaborate baroque lever. A power source might be fashioned from the overpressure of non-speech emanating from the classrooms of the school. Teams of students, press ganged in to service, would need to haul on comically large chains and pulleys to orientate the skillet to the proper axis of cosmic alignment. All these things I convinced myself were needed; in the end, it only took a package of meat, an online recipe, and a dinner party.
Everyone who knows me knows that I am prone to flights of fancy; that I revel in the outlandish. This dinner party represented none of those things. I have thrown dinner parties before, and all have been safely ensconced in the realm of the ridiculous, but this one was different. I cooked, and had catering students help. I instructed them what needed to be done and taught them cooking techniques and lessons all the while. There was pleasant conversation aplenty with the guests (the white people gang of Soroti), with many topics discussed, both funny and serious. The meal turned out so edible as to be delicious. Then I told the students to do the dishes, and they dutifully obeyed. We enjoyed desert and all went on our way. No part of the evening was eccentric, in any way. It was downright normal (if I could spit a word in written form I would, but italics will have to do). The entire evening left me feeling very much like what I remember of my parent’s behavior and countenance when I was a child; being taught to cook and doing dishes while my parents entertained guests. At the time, I remember vowing I would never be like them; I would be fun and different and interesting. And then I had this damn dinner party. I have broken my childhood vow to be different from my parents. I have now had a: “Dear God, what have I done!?” moment in my life, the likes of which have only been seen by the editor who approved the Batman Forever script.
My vacation is just around the corner, and it’s time to return to a place where the likelihood of any given white person being a hippie will return to normal western levels. When I think of all the things I want to do while home, and then all the things I need to do while home, I come to only one conclusion: America is a world of near infinite superfluousness. Wal-Mart has a parking lot bigger than our largest hospital. Meter maids exist. Light saber battles are a phone call away. Death by intentional poisoning is not in the top ten.
I like what I do here, but, among such potent levels of do-goodery, I feel I might have taken a step too far towards the granola munching tree huggers. Yesterday, during a monsoon, I did one of my exercise regimens (Shawn T’s Insanity Deluxe), in the downpour. Afterward, I ate an MRE of vegetarian penne pasta and watched the rain fall heavy as a shower spout. Then, to regain warmth, I did a session of yoga. While listening to Elvis, and wearing a bandana. Dear God. What have I become. I knew there were risks joining the Peace Corps, but I find myself unprepared for how easily I have slipped in to this lifestyle. In order to really feel like I’m taking a break from Peace Corps duties during my vacation, I think I might have to have every meal consist of some animal that has itself eaten another animal.
7/4/2011
Next to Christmas and my birthday, July 4th is my favorite holiday. The corpulent celebration of freedom is exactly the kind of activity that I can put 100% of my effort behind. For this years’ we held the celebration of our nation’s founding in a bar/conference center named Eneku village. A scenic place, rarely patronized by simple bar folk (the Soroti gang of muzungu’s), but so patronized by us as to be at our (read: my) beck and call. For the holiday, I decided that we would have hamburgers and hot dogs. The other volunteers could provide the vegetarian items (I still hesitate to call it “food”). So in homage to our most patriotic holiday, I invaded the kitchen of Eneku village and taught the minions therein (I mean staff) how to prepare “beef burgers” and “beef hot dogs” (pork sausage is simply not available), also, as a personal snack, grilled cheese. While cooking and instructing the minions how to prepare these dishes, I was struck by how much they looked like deer. Their eyes were wide as I explained how simple it is to make beef patties; the possible profit margins; the accompanying dishes. The deer motif is really slammed home by the fact that they are all brown, and eat mostly vegetables.
The guests of our party were of course the local volunteers (me, Chelsea, Joanna, Brennan, Linda went to Amsterdam-traitor), Chelsea’s mom, another volunteer named Jam (insert bread joke here), a contingent from America’s hat (Canada), and 4 of my staff. I should note that all of us were supposed to bring members of our staff’s, but only mine actually showed up. Whether this was out of friendship, respect, fear, or the promise of free food and drink, I know not, but I’m going to believe it was the character and camaraderie of my fellow staff; Joanna believes it’s because of my corrupting influence. I’ll leave the final judgment to you, the readers, as to what the real reason was.
Anyhow, merriment was had by all. Proper hamburgers were experienced (having been raised on the grill this wasn’t difficult) and copious imbibements consumed (having gone to NMT this too wasn’t difficult). I even made a 4th mix of music for the occasion whereby all were treated to a semi-sober rendition of the national anthem. After much fun and carousing, the night came to an end, just like the power 3 hours before. Then, what I am now calling my 2nd holiday miracle occurred:
Nurse Angela, Opio, Johnson, and Samson were my guests for my 4th party this year. I tried to play a nice host but still felt as though I did not spend enough time with them, favoring the muzungu’s and our shared reverence of the holiday. However, despite this feeling, at the end of the night they all thanked me profusely, humbly, and sincerely for inviting them to this obviously very important holiday for me, and sharing with them all we had. They said that, instead of saying thanks for the free beer, and food, and the entertainment provided by drunk muzungu’s. Their thanks for the invitation had such potent solemnity as I have never in my life heard before, and truly, I was at a loss for words besides a pitifully meek reciprocal thank you.
7/11/2011
As I am writing this very sentence, I know that it is being done so only by way of our schools electric generator. “But Michael, the power is unreliable in Uganda, why is this noteworthy?” I’m glad you asked. I live near a large town, which given its population and location on a major highway, has reliable connections to electricity. Occasionally a windstorm knocks down a line, or a truck a saves nature the trouble; rarely there is load shedding. Sometimes it’s the power companies doing (ir)regular maintenance. But his time is special. We’ve been load shedding for the last week, which is the longest period of time it’s happened since I’ve been here (almost a year). Some would say that this is caused by people using their air conditioners more, or refrigerators having to work harder against the heat. I laugh in the face of those notions. The reason I, and the town, and many other town don’t have power, is because the government has failed to pay its electric bill; some 97 billion shillings (~38m USD). Until the payment is received, the electric suppliers have taken about 100MW of power off the grid.
Up to 5pm, I will have power from the generator, allowing me to do my computery things. After 5, I will be enjoying in that oh-so-Ugandan way: a warm beer drunk by candlelight, explaining what load shedding actually means, and convincing people that the sky is blue because that’s Gods favorite color, thus proving he’s a dude.
I am very much looking forward to being home for a little while. A nice vacation in America: that ethereal land where all the privations and savagery of life are subtly hidden behind a veneer of minimum wage barista’s and 24 hour emergency rooms. For at least a week and a half, I will no longer hear the everyday “So-and-so’s child died of malaria; So-and-so’s brother died of aids; there was an outbreak of ebola in central”. For a week and half, I can reasonably expect that the worst thing I will hear is that New Mexico still hasn’t balanced its budget or that the gun show was the week before I came.
6/18/2011
The other night I had to correct a waiter from the best hotel in town that 20,000 minus 13,000 equals 7,000. This is not the first time. I once explained to my class the 80/20 rule; I have found an exception: 99% of problems here can be solved with a 1% dose of common sense (maybe one day they’ll develop a topical unguent). I have tried desperately to find “professional” work worthy of an engineering degree, and have been left wanting. Case and point: the bricklaying department is expanding our piggery. They are laying courses of bricks for additional pens, and I notice that they are placing the bricks with the short side facing the outside of the wall, making the wall 8” thick. When I asked the teacher why they are making the walls absurdly thick, his answer was because it’s the strongest pattern. Never mind that the wall is only supposed to hold the weight of a pig lying against its base. This project has a material waste of 50%. I determined all this in the course of 10 minutes observation.
If I was teaching a ‘real’ business class, like with calculated forecast projections, market suitability matrices’, floating average cyclical business trends (specified to individual markets), that would be challenging; I would have to put a lot of effort in to my work. But I’m not. My last class was on the importance of marketing, and for an example, I used the story of the pet rock. I might have lost weight, but I can feel my technical acumen getting a pot belly.
It is not that I tire of the work I do, for even my rainbow of morality can realize it is important and worthwhile. Yet, I find myself staring at a void in my life that I was absolutely convinced 10 months ago I could not possess. I believe normal people call it “loneliness”; I call it want of companionship. It is not even specific to a gender, but more to the role of equality a true companion represents: A bro to share my broings on about town, or a lady capable of appreciating an elaborate waltz of wooing.
I have many Ugandan friends I commonly associate with: Simon, Patrick, Sam, John, Johnson, Samson. Yes, madams are conspicuously absent from that list, and I believe I have the reasoning of it if I can indulge you to read. With any conversation there are certain overarching subjects of discourse: providing new information (personal, professional, cultural), commenting on events (past, present, future), giving opinions of mutually interesting subjects, use of humor, wit, and insight. I could try for more on the topic, but it is not the point. The point is, that when engaged in conversation, with even my friends, the only item on the list they can readily articulate is the cultural information exchange. Every other aspect is found wanting, to the point where it is plausibly believable that I have found myself in possession of a cadre of yes-men. If I make a point that invites discussion, they cut that avenue off at the pass and just agree with me with prodigious use of the head nod. It is this basis that has led to my near exclusive friendship of the y-chromosome. With men, at least, we can share a common bond of manliness that transcends all cultures and peoples (with, as always, a few queer exceptions) and makes going to have drinks an altogether pleasant affair. With the women however, I can find no common ground. We can have the normal Ugandan conversation that always revolves around my culture and their culture, as it is the only subject on which they seem to be able to start, hold, or continue a conversation with. Yet through it all, I can read the message in their eyes: “you give me a baby”. They wear this look like sunglasses. It is raw, intense, and lusty. But it’s not what I am that they are cravenly coveting, it’s what I can give them: a child; the best, most efficient, most dependable way to ensure the support of the muzungu and consequently themselves. Having a child here is as common and normal, for all ages capable, as checking the oil ([pulls out dip stick and checks] Hmm? Not pregnant. Better get that fixed).
This is the bread and blue band (cheaper equivalent of butter) of my local social interactions: men who only ask me to take them to America so they can get a chick, and women who only want babies. The agony of choice.
6/26/2011
One memory of college stands out as being especially quirky: the best Asian food I have ever had came from Socorro New Mexico, specifically a combo restaurant/travel lodge named Asian Garden. Tuesdays, during the last couple of years, would always be “Tai Tuesday”, and much gorging thereof was practiced. My and Ryan’s favorite dish was the “sesame beef”, a meal so tasty that I would describe its flavor as decadent. Many was the time that we would postulate on what exactly the chef did to make the meal so delicious. We eventually settled on witchcraft and underclassmen sacrifices, as every other hypothesis was implausible (eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth).
Since those times, I have always harbored a secret dream of surreptitiously trying to recreate that magical dish. Since I lacked the requisite underclassmen to sacrifice to whatever dark God of cooking there is (of whom Martha Stewart is the only begotten son), I would have to use science to accomplish the task. This is where I began to imagine what kind of scientific implements could be substituted to perform the foul and debased rituals required for making sesame beef. Visions began to take form and solidify; I was convinced that I would need some sort of tesla cannon to fry the meat which would be operated by way of some overly elaborate baroque lever. A power source might be fashioned from the overpressure of non-speech emanating from the classrooms of the school. Teams of students, press ganged in to service, would need to haul on comically large chains and pulleys to orientate the skillet to the proper axis of cosmic alignment. All these things I convinced myself were needed; in the end, it only took a package of meat, an online recipe, and a dinner party.
Everyone who knows me knows that I am prone to flights of fancy; that I revel in the outlandish. This dinner party represented none of those things. I have thrown dinner parties before, and all have been safely ensconced in the realm of the ridiculous, but this one was different. I cooked, and had catering students help. I instructed them what needed to be done and taught them cooking techniques and lessons all the while. There was pleasant conversation aplenty with the guests (the white people gang of Soroti), with many topics discussed, both funny and serious. The meal turned out so edible as to be delicious. Then I told the students to do the dishes, and they dutifully obeyed. We enjoyed desert and all went on our way. No part of the evening was eccentric, in any way. It was downright normal (if I could spit a word in written form I would, but italics will have to do). The entire evening left me feeling very much like what I remember of my parent’s behavior and countenance when I was a child; being taught to cook and doing dishes while my parents entertained guests. At the time, I remember vowing I would never be like them; I would be fun and different and interesting. And then I had this damn dinner party. I have broken my childhood vow to be different from my parents. I have now had a: “Dear God, what have I done!?” moment in my life, the likes of which have only been seen by the editor who approved the Batman Forever script.
My vacation is just around the corner, and it’s time to return to a place where the likelihood of any given white person being a hippie will return to normal western levels. When I think of all the things I want to do while home, and then all the things I need to do while home, I come to only one conclusion: America is a world of near infinite superfluousness. Wal-Mart has a parking lot bigger than our largest hospital. Meter maids exist. Light saber battles are a phone call away. Death by intentional poisoning is not in the top ten.
I like what I do here, but, among such potent levels of do-goodery, I feel I might have taken a step too far towards the granola munching tree huggers. Yesterday, during a monsoon, I did one of my exercise regimens (Shawn T’s Insanity Deluxe), in the downpour. Afterward, I ate an MRE of vegetarian penne pasta and watched the rain fall heavy as a shower spout. Then, to regain warmth, I did a session of yoga. While listening to Elvis, and wearing a bandana. Dear God. What have I become. I knew there were risks joining the Peace Corps, but I find myself unprepared for how easily I have slipped in to this lifestyle. In order to really feel like I’m taking a break from Peace Corps duties during my vacation, I think I might have to have every meal consist of some animal that has itself eaten another animal.
7/4/2011
Next to Christmas and my birthday, July 4th is my favorite holiday. The corpulent celebration of freedom is exactly the kind of activity that I can put 100% of my effort behind. For this years’ we held the celebration of our nation’s founding in a bar/conference center named Eneku village. A scenic place, rarely patronized by simple bar folk (the Soroti gang of muzungu’s), but so patronized by us as to be at our (read: my) beck and call. For the holiday, I decided that we would have hamburgers and hot dogs. The other volunteers could provide the vegetarian items (I still hesitate to call it “food”). So in homage to our most patriotic holiday, I invaded the kitchen of Eneku village and taught the minions therein (I mean staff) how to prepare “beef burgers” and “beef hot dogs” (pork sausage is simply not available), also, as a personal snack, grilled cheese. While cooking and instructing the minions how to prepare these dishes, I was struck by how much they looked like deer. Their eyes were wide as I explained how simple it is to make beef patties; the possible profit margins; the accompanying dishes. The deer motif is really slammed home by the fact that they are all brown, and eat mostly vegetables.
The guests of our party were of course the local volunteers (me, Chelsea, Joanna, Brennan, Linda went to Amsterdam-traitor), Chelsea’s mom, another volunteer named Jam (insert bread joke here), a contingent from America’s hat (Canada), and 4 of my staff. I should note that all of us were supposed to bring members of our staff’s, but only mine actually showed up. Whether this was out of friendship, respect, fear, or the promise of free food and drink, I know not, but I’m going to believe it was the character and camaraderie of my fellow staff; Joanna believes it’s because of my corrupting influence. I’ll leave the final judgment to you, the readers, as to what the real reason was.
Anyhow, merriment was had by all. Proper hamburgers were experienced (having been raised on the grill this wasn’t difficult) and copious imbibements consumed (having gone to NMT this too wasn’t difficult). I even made a 4th mix of music for the occasion whereby all were treated to a semi-sober rendition of the national anthem. After much fun and carousing, the night came to an end, just like the power 3 hours before. Then, what I am now calling my 2nd holiday miracle occurred:
Nurse Angela, Opio, Johnson, and Samson were my guests for my 4th party this year. I tried to play a nice host but still felt as though I did not spend enough time with them, favoring the muzungu’s and our shared reverence of the holiday. However, despite this feeling, at the end of the night they all thanked me profusely, humbly, and sincerely for inviting them to this obviously very important holiday for me, and sharing with them all we had. They said that, instead of saying thanks for the free beer, and food, and the entertainment provided by drunk muzungu’s. Their thanks for the invitation had such potent solemnity as I have never in my life heard before, and truly, I was at a loss for words besides a pitifully meek reciprocal thank you.
7/11/2011
As I am writing this very sentence, I know that it is being done so only by way of our schools electric generator. “But Michael, the power is unreliable in Uganda, why is this noteworthy?” I’m glad you asked. I live near a large town, which given its population and location on a major highway, has reliable connections to electricity. Occasionally a windstorm knocks down a line, or a truck a saves nature the trouble; rarely there is load shedding. Sometimes it’s the power companies doing (ir)regular maintenance. But his time is special. We’ve been load shedding for the last week, which is the longest period of time it’s happened since I’ve been here (almost a year). Some would say that this is caused by people using their air conditioners more, or refrigerators having to work harder against the heat. I laugh in the face of those notions. The reason I, and the town, and many other town don’t have power, is because the government has failed to pay its electric bill; some 97 billion shillings (~38m USD). Until the payment is received, the electric suppliers have taken about 100MW of power off the grid.
Up to 5pm, I will have power from the generator, allowing me to do my computery things. After 5, I will be enjoying in that oh-so-Ugandan way: a warm beer drunk by candlelight, explaining what load shedding actually means, and convincing people that the sky is blue because that’s Gods favorite color, thus proving he’s a dude.
I am very much looking forward to being home for a little while. A nice vacation in America: that ethereal land where all the privations and savagery of life are subtly hidden behind a veneer of minimum wage barista’s and 24 hour emergency rooms. For at least a week and a half, I will no longer hear the everyday “So-and-so’s child died of malaria; So-and-so’s brother died of aids; there was an outbreak of ebola in central”. For a week and half, I can reasonably expect that the worst thing I will hear is that New Mexico still hasn’t balanced its budget or that the gun show was the week before I came.
Monday, June 13, 2011
A month in the life...
Ah, another blog post, another month.
Having been here for ten months, a thought occurred to me; I have not held a weapon in 10 months. This is the longest amount of time that has happened since I first went to the shooting range as a kid. Unfortunately, PC has a strict "no guns" policy. So I've been forced to the next best option: spears. In fact, as I write this, my welding students and their teacher are diligently hammering away at their makeshift forge to produce 3 African spears for me. Soon my dream of playing full size darts will be a reality.
In the past 2 weeks we have had Martyrs Day, and Hero's day. The first celebrates when a group of the faithful were executed by the king of Buganda some few hundred years ago. The second... well, I still don't know. I asked 8 different people and still couldn't get a real answer. The by-product of these holidays is that the school puts on a party for each. These parties really amount to the same thing: sodas, meat, beer, local brew, and dancing. One of the curious things I noticed is that when we have our normal, every days meals at school, we use forks. But when we have the parties with the special lunch which includes meat, you are obligated to use your hands. I personally can't do it, and simply carry a fork with me wherever I go now. The second Kill Bill movie has ingrained in me a belief that if I eat rice with my hands, a Chinese Kung Fu master is going to come in to the room and bash my hands.
That last bit actually led to a conversation among my staff where I cemented my reputation as an unassailable muzungu. I told them I know the five point palm exploding heart technique. A little lie (or is it?) is good for security; I'm sure Fred (our Ugandan safety and security coordinator) would agree.
On another note, many volunteers talk about how many people say hi to them when they walk through the village. Indeed, the time required to walk a certain distance is not dependent on the distance, but on how many people are out in their yards on the given path. I thought I could avoid all those repetitive conversations and pleasantries because I live so close to the city. And then came yesterday. In the course of walking through town to go read at a bar I like, I was greeted and drawn in to conversation by no less than 10 people. It took me 2 hours to walk 4 blocks. I guess I'm well known in my field.
Now that we are in to the second term of the year (and my second term as a teacher), I am remembering why I never selected "teacher" as a possible future profession.
Case and point:
I gave my students the assignment of "write a letter of application asking for employment in your field". Results: Of my 35 students, 13 did the assignment. 12 were girls. 3 misspelled my name "Mr Marsh Macheal". I then think, "I am supposed to be teaching these kids the art of making money". When these two incompatible thoughts (goal vs results) meander in to the came brain cell, it makes my head hurt, and I briefly consider the merits cubicle work.
However, on the other side there's this:
The next assignment was "make a list of 10 small details that make a business successful". Results: Of my 35 students, 12 did the assignment. 10 were girls. 2 included in their lists "making puns with the customers".
Maybe this is that warm fuzzy feeling teachers tell me is their reason for doing their job.
I took a tally of all the books I've finished the other day. In total: 45*.
*39 of which are science fiction.
Curious observation: military MRE's contain an inordinate amount of processed cheese spread. This has been an incredible boon to my grilled cheese manufacturing.
I have finally found an upper limit on the ridiculous activities I perpetrate around my site. My idea was to put a variation of a Forex Bureau in the Catholic church in town. The purpose of which would be to exchange the large bills people get from the ATMs in to the small bills which are useful for the common Ugandan. They could then give a nice tithe to the church, have a sizable quantity of small change, and the change would be the new, crisp and clean currency the banks like to see in circulation. From every transaction, a small percentage (3%) would be the fee, which would go to the church, generating income. My supervisor, however, is of the opinion that we shouldn't be changing money in the temple.
It is at this time I must confess to a most sordid affair with a married lady; Mrs Dash. It is only with her flavorful ministrations that I am capable of eating posho (plain cornmeal) and beans 4 times a week.
Speaking of sordid affairs... Last weekend I went for a hike on one of Teso's rock formations in town. It was very invigorating to be able to see for more than a half a kilometer in any direction, seeing as Teso is preternaturally flat. One thing from Abq I realize now that I have always taken for granted, was that because the city is on a slope, there is always a grand vista to be had. Not so here. While the countryside is nice, you can really are not afforded sweeping landscapes to gaze upon. Which leads me to what I gazed upon the rock. There, in an alcove of granite, was a young Ugandan couple in flagrante delicto. Not a care in the world. I even asked others I saw hiking if they knew and they said yes, "those ones come here all the time". I L0Led pretty good.
And look at that, my spears are finished! Time for an afternoon session of good ol' fashioned spear chucking.
Having been here for ten months, a thought occurred to me; I have not held a weapon in 10 months. This is the longest amount of time that has happened since I first went to the shooting range as a kid. Unfortunately, PC has a strict "no guns" policy. So I've been forced to the next best option: spears. In fact, as I write this, my welding students and their teacher are diligently hammering away at their makeshift forge to produce 3 African spears for me. Soon my dream of playing full size darts will be a reality.
In the past 2 weeks we have had Martyrs Day, and Hero's day. The first celebrates when a group of the faithful were executed by the king of Buganda some few hundred years ago. The second... well, I still don't know. I asked 8 different people and still couldn't get a real answer. The by-product of these holidays is that the school puts on a party for each. These parties really amount to the same thing: sodas, meat, beer, local brew, and dancing. One of the curious things I noticed is that when we have our normal, every days meals at school, we use forks. But when we have the parties with the special lunch which includes meat, you are obligated to use your hands. I personally can't do it, and simply carry a fork with me wherever I go now. The second Kill Bill movie has ingrained in me a belief that if I eat rice with my hands, a Chinese Kung Fu master is going to come in to the room and bash my hands.
That last bit actually led to a conversation among my staff where I cemented my reputation as an unassailable muzungu. I told them I know the five point palm exploding heart technique. A little lie (or is it?) is good for security; I'm sure Fred (our Ugandan safety and security coordinator) would agree.
On another note, many volunteers talk about how many people say hi to them when they walk through the village. Indeed, the time required to walk a certain distance is not dependent on the distance, but on how many people are out in their yards on the given path. I thought I could avoid all those repetitive conversations and pleasantries because I live so close to the city. And then came yesterday. In the course of walking through town to go read at a bar I like, I was greeted and drawn in to conversation by no less than 10 people. It took me 2 hours to walk 4 blocks. I guess I'm well known in my field.
Now that we are in to the second term of the year (and my second term as a teacher), I am remembering why I never selected "teacher" as a possible future profession.
Case and point:
I gave my students the assignment of "write a letter of application asking for employment in your field". Results: Of my 35 students, 13 did the assignment. 12 were girls. 3 misspelled my name "Mr Marsh Macheal". I then think, "I am supposed to be teaching these kids the art of making money". When these two incompatible thoughts (goal vs results) meander in to the came brain cell, it makes my head hurt, and I briefly consider the merits cubicle work.
However, on the other side there's this:
The next assignment was "make a list of 10 small details that make a business successful". Results: Of my 35 students, 12 did the assignment. 10 were girls. 2 included in their lists "making puns with the customers".
Maybe this is that warm fuzzy feeling teachers tell me is their reason for doing their job.
I took a tally of all the books I've finished the other day. In total: 45*.
*39 of which are science fiction.
Curious observation: military MRE's contain an inordinate amount of processed cheese spread. This has been an incredible boon to my grilled cheese manufacturing.
I have finally found an upper limit on the ridiculous activities I perpetrate around my site. My idea was to put a variation of a Forex Bureau in the Catholic church in town. The purpose of which would be to exchange the large bills people get from the ATMs in to the small bills which are useful for the common Ugandan. They could then give a nice tithe to the church, have a sizable quantity of small change, and the change would be the new, crisp and clean currency the banks like to see in circulation. From every transaction, a small percentage (3%) would be the fee, which would go to the church, generating income. My supervisor, however, is of the opinion that we shouldn't be changing money in the temple.
It is at this time I must confess to a most sordid affair with a married lady; Mrs Dash. It is only with her flavorful ministrations that I am capable of eating posho (plain cornmeal) and beans 4 times a week.
Speaking of sordid affairs... Last weekend I went for a hike on one of Teso's rock formations in town. It was very invigorating to be able to see for more than a half a kilometer in any direction, seeing as Teso is preternaturally flat. One thing from Abq I realize now that I have always taken for granted, was that because the city is on a slope, there is always a grand vista to be had. Not so here. While the countryside is nice, you can really are not afforded sweeping landscapes to gaze upon. Which leads me to what I gazed upon the rock. There, in an alcove of granite, was a young Ugandan couple in flagrante delicto. Not a care in the world. I even asked others I saw hiking if they knew and they said yes, "those ones come here all the time". I L0Led pretty good.
And look at that, my spears are finished! Time for an afternoon session of good ol' fashioned spear chucking.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Quarterly Reports
Working for the government has a tedious condition: Reports. And then more reports. Right about now I have to start doing my quarterlies to send in to the office so they can send their own reports to Washington, so they can send their reports to congress, so that they can send reports to their constituents, who will promptly dismiss all but the most high profile, high impact stories as the stoned ramblings of a bunch of government sponsored hippies.
This requirement of reports, combined with a viewing of Hot Fuzz, has allowed me to realize that I cannot perpetrate the amount unilateral projects I have without incurring a considerable amount of paperwork.
To this end I will now write essentially a rough draft of my last 4 months, the refined, edited, and partly censored version I will send in to Shiphrah, my program manager. And as per her visit to my site, she will be only delighted to read my reports as “Michael, your reports are always so informative and professional”. Thank you junior and senior design class, you have made me a most effective civil servant.
So, in the beginning (of Febuary), there was school. And it was empty. The kids here are under the impression that if the letter we send them home with says to report back the 31st of January, then it is acceptable to arrive and start classes on the 7th of February. This was only the beginning of the students’ trend of truancy. In mid Feb, we had elections which we released the kids for so they could go make democracy proud. Results: Museveni - 5 million votes, Besige (runner up) – 500,000. A slight anomaly? No, I wouldn’t say that Mr. Peace Corps digital media content supervisor. However, the other results of the elections were that the students didn’t come back for a week.
This proved particularly aggravating since I had arranged for a neighboring volunteer to come give a presentation to my students on Village Savings and Loan Associations. When she arrived the day the students were supposed to resume class, they were approximately 0 students to teach. Not wanting her visit to be unused, I rounded up the staff for the lecture instead. They were so taken with the idea of a VSLA that we started one the following week and have the highest share value of any VSLA I have heard of (5000Ugx).
This actually proved to be very fortuitous, as it finally allowed me to address the tardiness problem of my staff. I had myself appointed to the chairman position in the group and instituted a rule that if you were late to the weekly VSLA meeting (every wed at 1:30), you would be charged 500 Ugx. The first 3 weeks we took in 5000 Ugx in fines for being late alone. The fine for missing a meeting without apology is 1500; first three weeks took in 18000. Now, every meeting, every person is there, or has sent word ahead. I consider this to be one of my greater success stories so far. If you have ever experienced “African Time” you would agree.
After the tardiness issue among the staff was solved, I went about tackling the same issue with the students. To this end I put myself in charge of all disciplinary action for the school. I am now referred to as “the Boogeyman”. All cases of lateness in all classes are sent to me. I then send them to work in the fields digging or mulching for several days. Rate of incidence has since declined and there are days when I often find myself without laborers.
But I am not the Captain Lugard of legend reincarnated; I also have many incentive programs in place that reward initiative and dependability. In my class if you attend every lecture and/or get above a 90% you will receive a free t-shirt (2 shirts if you go double down and do both), courtesy of World Aids Day and the big bag of shirts I convinced them to give me for this exact purpose. I also pay students for various tasks: mostly field work to emphasize the fact that they’re being punished when I make them do the same work but for no pay.
“But Michael, paying students to do work for the school isn’t sustainable!”
It is when you’re using the profit from businesses you helped the school start.
Which is what I’ve been spending a lot of time doing.
I have had the school implement a program whereupon each department tries to use the work of the students to earn back some of their departmental costs. If a department can recover 25% of their departmental costs by way of providing goods, services, ect then the dept head receives 7% of the recovered sum and the other teachers 6%
The catering dept was the first to step up. They have the students practice making chapatti every morning which is then sold to staff and students. I bankrolled the project with my Peace Corps stipend to start and recovered my costs from the sales ( a mini grant if you will; take that grant committee!). The profit is then used to pay for my classes training material. This coming term they will have enough made to become independent from my support.
The next was the tailoring department. For them I began with outlandishly patriotic Peace Corps Tunics; the prototype I sent to the country director. Several volunteers have approached me asking for them. I will have them ready as soon as the tailoring department head stops being pregnant.
It was around this time that the episode with the American soldiers, specifically the 108th Cav, happened in Soroti (see previous post).
Another little project that I arranged, was for the volunteers who are running the reusable menstrual pads program to come and do their thing for my female students; no boys allowed. So all in all, about 60 girls, some staff and the school nurse/matron were trained in the manufacture of the pads and are selling the extras to other girls in their villages during holiday to supplement their school fees. What was I doing while all this talk of menstruation was going on? I was cooking calzones.
This is something I realized was happening about 2 months ago. I am swimming in a sea of estrogen. Of the volunteers in Soroti, I am the only dude. While I find this awesome, I do miss the base vulgarity of my own gender (they also are more prone to drinking games). It appears to me that I may never find any gender balance in my life. I have now gone from 4 1/2 years of 7:1 guy/girl ratio to having no less than 3 Ugandan ladies profess their love for me every time I go to the club.
And then came the Spaniards. One Friday evening me and the gang had our normal fish dinner. Just after the others left, a Spaniard name Jorge and his colleague Julius invited me to join them for dinner. I had already eaten, but was also about 3 sachets in to the night and didn’t mind having a second, liquid, dinner. Many rounds later, we decided the best thing for us to do was to go for some bit of dance at Trendz. And dance we did. Till about 4 in the morning.
While a buxom young Ugandan had me pulled away from the crowd professing how much she loved me, Jorge and Julius assumed I needed no more help from them and went home in the vehicle we all came in. They had in the back of said vehicle my bag, camera, phone, and most importantly, my HAT.
The next day I can unequivocally state that I had the worst hangover of my life.
The day after I began the search for my things (thank God for rehyrdration salts, and damn the man who made them taste like ass).
Brennan, a nearby buddy of mine took it upon himself to ceaselessly call my phone and eventually Jorge realized he had my things. Later that day I had a near tearful reunion with my hat (and the other stuff too).
The following Monday Joanna came to the school to do a lecture about Apiary (bee keeping for the uninitiated). It was very well done, and incredibly nostalgic for me as I drew heavily on the knowledge Grandpa Bill had given on the subject when I was a kid. And then, just like that, the term ended.
And so the 1 month of holiday began.
One of the first things to do was to go down to Mukono, Kokonjero village for Anna’s Easter party/world malaria day. One of the best parts was the journey there through the Lugazi sugar cane fields. That is some scenic shit, let me tell you.
The first night was general merrymaking, with most everyone arriving the next morning. They did and we all went off to a local waterfall to have a picnic and see the traditional healing spots around it. Not surprisingly, I was the only one who remembered to bring along any beer for our little hike. N00bs.
That evening we divided in to teams and set about making the perfect pizzas using the industrial ovens that Anna’s nuns use for the Bake for Life Bakery. My team managed to create the most flavorful deep dish pizza ever. Suck it dominoes.
The next day was a truly memorable one; Easter. Everyone can predict Easter, but no one could predict Nick Duncan murdering the main course: a 40 kilo pig. The use of the word “murder” is justified in this sense as has never killed an animal before, much less an animal as large as a pig. With a knife. Cherry on top: Gary took a video of the whole episode (and in deference to Mr. Duncan’s political aspirations it will never be posted).
After the pig was finally dead, I took over and carved it all up in to manageable pieces for the grill. Next problem: what do we grill it on? Solution: a metal spring bed. After sufficient time over a pit fire to sanitize it, an entire pig’s worth of meat was grilled on a bed, behind a nunnery, under the watchful scorn of a sometimes vegetarian Jew (Love ya Becca!). Being grillmaster has its perks, hence a nice slab ribs was sent my way. As usual for our group, a dance party ensued shortly after dinner.
The next day I stayed through part of World Malaria day and left for Jinja. What occurred next was a near continuous playing of “the Gambler” courtesy of Nick Duncan as we prepared to take all of the casino’s money. It ended up not the clean sweep we had imagined where we owned the place at the end of the night; it was more a distribution of wealth. From me to him. Ass. This scene was to be repeated a week later when we welcomed the newbies to the East. Also, more dancing.
Which brings us to current events: me writing this. As it’s still holiday time for the school there’s not much to do, so I go and pester Joanna at her site as her organization has a better lunch than mine. Which I will now go do.
Cheers
This requirement of reports, combined with a viewing of Hot Fuzz, has allowed me to realize that I cannot perpetrate the amount unilateral projects I have without incurring a considerable amount of paperwork.
To this end I will now write essentially a rough draft of my last 4 months, the refined, edited, and partly censored version I will send in to Shiphrah, my program manager. And as per her visit to my site, she will be only delighted to read my reports as “Michael, your reports are always so informative and professional”. Thank you junior and senior design class, you have made me a most effective civil servant.
So, in the beginning (of Febuary), there was school. And it was empty. The kids here are under the impression that if the letter we send them home with says to report back the 31st of January, then it is acceptable to arrive and start classes on the 7th of February. This was only the beginning of the students’ trend of truancy. In mid Feb, we had elections which we released the kids for so they could go make democracy proud. Results: Museveni - 5 million votes, Besige (runner up) – 500,000. A slight anomaly? No, I wouldn’t say that Mr. Peace Corps digital media content supervisor. However, the other results of the elections were that the students didn’t come back for a week.
This proved particularly aggravating since I had arranged for a neighboring volunteer to come give a presentation to my students on Village Savings and Loan Associations. When she arrived the day the students were supposed to resume class, they were approximately 0 students to teach. Not wanting her visit to be unused, I rounded up the staff for the lecture instead. They were so taken with the idea of a VSLA that we started one the following week and have the highest share value of any VSLA I have heard of (5000Ugx).
This actually proved to be very fortuitous, as it finally allowed me to address the tardiness problem of my staff. I had myself appointed to the chairman position in the group and instituted a rule that if you were late to the weekly VSLA meeting (every wed at 1:30), you would be charged 500 Ugx. The first 3 weeks we took in 5000 Ugx in fines for being late alone. The fine for missing a meeting without apology is 1500; first three weeks took in 18000. Now, every meeting, every person is there, or has sent word ahead. I consider this to be one of my greater success stories so far. If you have ever experienced “African Time” you would agree.
After the tardiness issue among the staff was solved, I went about tackling the same issue with the students. To this end I put myself in charge of all disciplinary action for the school. I am now referred to as “the Boogeyman”. All cases of lateness in all classes are sent to me. I then send them to work in the fields digging or mulching for several days. Rate of incidence has since declined and there are days when I often find myself without laborers.
But I am not the Captain Lugard of legend reincarnated; I also have many incentive programs in place that reward initiative and dependability. In my class if you attend every lecture and/or get above a 90% you will receive a free t-shirt (2 shirts if you go double down and do both), courtesy of World Aids Day and the big bag of shirts I convinced them to give me for this exact purpose. I also pay students for various tasks: mostly field work to emphasize the fact that they’re being punished when I make them do the same work but for no pay.
“But Michael, paying students to do work for the school isn’t sustainable!”
It is when you’re using the profit from businesses you helped the school start.
Which is what I’ve been spending a lot of time doing.
I have had the school implement a program whereupon each department tries to use the work of the students to earn back some of their departmental costs. If a department can recover 25% of their departmental costs by way of providing goods, services, ect then the dept head receives 7% of the recovered sum and the other teachers 6%
The catering dept was the first to step up. They have the students practice making chapatti every morning which is then sold to staff and students. I bankrolled the project with my Peace Corps stipend to start and recovered my costs from the sales ( a mini grant if you will; take that grant committee!). The profit is then used to pay for my classes training material. This coming term they will have enough made to become independent from my support.
The next was the tailoring department. For them I began with outlandishly patriotic Peace Corps Tunics; the prototype I sent to the country director. Several volunteers have approached me asking for them. I will have them ready as soon as the tailoring department head stops being pregnant.
It was around this time that the episode with the American soldiers, specifically the 108th Cav, happened in Soroti (see previous post).
Another little project that I arranged, was for the volunteers who are running the reusable menstrual pads program to come and do their thing for my female students; no boys allowed. So all in all, about 60 girls, some staff and the school nurse/matron were trained in the manufacture of the pads and are selling the extras to other girls in their villages during holiday to supplement their school fees. What was I doing while all this talk of menstruation was going on? I was cooking calzones.
This is something I realized was happening about 2 months ago. I am swimming in a sea of estrogen. Of the volunteers in Soroti, I am the only dude. While I find this awesome, I do miss the base vulgarity of my own gender (they also are more prone to drinking games). It appears to me that I may never find any gender balance in my life. I have now gone from 4 1/2 years of 7:1 guy/girl ratio to having no less than 3 Ugandan ladies profess their love for me every time I go to the club.
And then came the Spaniards. One Friday evening me and the gang had our normal fish dinner. Just after the others left, a Spaniard name Jorge and his colleague Julius invited me to join them for dinner. I had already eaten, but was also about 3 sachets in to the night and didn’t mind having a second, liquid, dinner. Many rounds later, we decided the best thing for us to do was to go for some bit of dance at Trendz. And dance we did. Till about 4 in the morning.
While a buxom young Ugandan had me pulled away from the crowd professing how much she loved me, Jorge and Julius assumed I needed no more help from them and went home in the vehicle we all came in. They had in the back of said vehicle my bag, camera, phone, and most importantly, my HAT.
The next day I can unequivocally state that I had the worst hangover of my life.
The day after I began the search for my things (thank God for rehyrdration salts, and damn the man who made them taste like ass).
Brennan, a nearby buddy of mine took it upon himself to ceaselessly call my phone and eventually Jorge realized he had my things. Later that day I had a near tearful reunion with my hat (and the other stuff too).
The following Monday Joanna came to the school to do a lecture about Apiary (bee keeping for the uninitiated). It was very well done, and incredibly nostalgic for me as I drew heavily on the knowledge Grandpa Bill had given on the subject when I was a kid. And then, just like that, the term ended.
And so the 1 month of holiday began.
One of the first things to do was to go down to Mukono, Kokonjero village for Anna’s Easter party/world malaria day. One of the best parts was the journey there through the Lugazi sugar cane fields. That is some scenic shit, let me tell you.
The first night was general merrymaking, with most everyone arriving the next morning. They did and we all went off to a local waterfall to have a picnic and see the traditional healing spots around it. Not surprisingly, I was the only one who remembered to bring along any beer for our little hike. N00bs.
That evening we divided in to teams and set about making the perfect pizzas using the industrial ovens that Anna’s nuns use for the Bake for Life Bakery. My team managed to create the most flavorful deep dish pizza ever. Suck it dominoes.
The next day was a truly memorable one; Easter. Everyone can predict Easter, but no one could predict Nick Duncan murdering the main course: a 40 kilo pig. The use of the word “murder” is justified in this sense as has never killed an animal before, much less an animal as large as a pig. With a knife. Cherry on top: Gary took a video of the whole episode (and in deference to Mr. Duncan’s political aspirations it will never be posted).
After the pig was finally dead, I took over and carved it all up in to manageable pieces for the grill. Next problem: what do we grill it on? Solution: a metal spring bed. After sufficient time over a pit fire to sanitize it, an entire pig’s worth of meat was grilled on a bed, behind a nunnery, under the watchful scorn of a sometimes vegetarian Jew (Love ya Becca!). Being grillmaster has its perks, hence a nice slab ribs was sent my way. As usual for our group, a dance party ensued shortly after dinner.
The next day I stayed through part of World Malaria day and left for Jinja. What occurred next was a near continuous playing of “the Gambler” courtesy of Nick Duncan as we prepared to take all of the casino’s money. It ended up not the clean sweep we had imagined where we owned the place at the end of the night; it was more a distribution of wealth. From me to him. Ass. This scene was to be repeated a week later when we welcomed the newbies to the East. Also, more dancing.
Which brings us to current events: me writing this. As it’s still holiday time for the school there’s not much to do, so I go and pester Joanna at her site as her organization has a better lunch than mine. Which I will now go do.
Cheers
Thursday, April 21, 2011
So I've been up to a little work...
For 2 weeks in mid April, the US Army and US Air Force did training for the Ugandan Peoples Defense Force (UPDF) in the form of aerial resupply, code named Atlas Drop 11. The idea is that troops in the field in need of supplies (food, bullets, etc) can call an airplane or helicopter for resupply instead of using vehicles that become vulnerable to attack or delay because of the remoteness of the troops they are resupplying. The aircraft need only fly overhead near the troops, find the signal panels laid out by the soldiers, drop the supplies out of the craft, and then return to the base from which they came. For this training, the US Army brought the signal panels they use from the States, called VS 17 signal panels.
The American soldiers have been staying in the Soroti Hotel, which meant that I and the other 3 local volunteers went to welcome them, give them some hospitality, and generally have a nice time.
It was then that their commanding officer, Lt Colonel Dickerson, and I had a conversation about their VS 17 panels. He remarked that he would be interested to see if there was a way to make a Ugandan VS 17 signal panel using local materials and local labor, so as to give the project a sense of sustainability. I informed the Colonel that I work at a vocational school with a tailoring department that could fulfill his wish.
The next day (Saturday), I set 9 of my year 3 (about to graduate) tailoring students to work making Ugandan VS 17 panels for sale to the US Army. That night I brought a sample of the work for the Colonel and his men. The next day we worked to finish the production run. However, at the last minute, the Colonel called me and told me that he and the Ugandan officers were so impressed with our sample panels, that they more than doubled their order to 2.3m shillings. My students then worked for another 2 days to fill their request. During those 2 days (Monday and Tuesday) the panels we had produced over the weekend were used in actual training exercises between the US Army and the UPDF in the Ugandan bush.
On Sunday, the Public Affairs officer, Cpt Akiki, of the local UPDF came to the school to see the work being done. He was given a tour of the school, explained what we do here, shown the girls and the panels they were making, and left the school very impressed. He was so impressed that he mentioned the school by name as having materially helped the UPDF during their closing ceremony of the training; he was the master of ceremonies.
The Ugandan general in charge of the training (General Kayumba who was the leader of the troops who liberated Soroti from the LRA) currently has a sample of our panels, and the school has been highly recommended as becoming the permanent supplier of these panels to the UPDF.
In order to give a more detailed picture of who the Army was helping, I made a mini-biography for the 9 girls who started the project. Details included where they were from, how many family members, what their family did for money, what they wanted to be, how many people had died in their family, and their biggest challenge in life. Every single one of them said “poverty and sickness” as their greatest challenge in life, which makes the next bit especially poignant. For every panel that one of my girls made, they earned 5,000Ugx. In total, 350,000Ugx was distributed to the students in the form of wages.
Many of the American soldiers came to the school on their 1 day off to see where the panels were being made. One of the soldiers was so affected by the tour of the school that he resolved when he returned home, he would mobilize his wife, and his church, to become permanent donors for the school; he has been referred to the school director for the implementation of his wish.
One final thing of special note; the majority of the girls who worked on the panels were displaced or otherwise affected when the LRA invaded. Two of the girls were actually abducted, and later rescued by the UPDF. These girls have now made tools the UPDF will use to hunt down the remaining LRA.
The American soldiers have been staying in the Soroti Hotel, which meant that I and the other 3 local volunteers went to welcome them, give them some hospitality, and generally have a nice time.
It was then that their commanding officer, Lt Colonel Dickerson, and I had a conversation about their VS 17 panels. He remarked that he would be interested to see if there was a way to make a Ugandan VS 17 signal panel using local materials and local labor, so as to give the project a sense of sustainability. I informed the Colonel that I work at a vocational school with a tailoring department that could fulfill his wish.
The next day (Saturday), I set 9 of my year 3 (about to graduate) tailoring students to work making Ugandan VS 17 panels for sale to the US Army. That night I brought a sample of the work for the Colonel and his men. The next day we worked to finish the production run. However, at the last minute, the Colonel called me and told me that he and the Ugandan officers were so impressed with our sample panels, that they more than doubled their order to 2.3m shillings. My students then worked for another 2 days to fill their request. During those 2 days (Monday and Tuesday) the panels we had produced over the weekend were used in actual training exercises between the US Army and the UPDF in the Ugandan bush.
On Sunday, the Public Affairs officer, Cpt Akiki, of the local UPDF came to the school to see the work being done. He was given a tour of the school, explained what we do here, shown the girls and the panels they were making, and left the school very impressed. He was so impressed that he mentioned the school by name as having materially helped the UPDF during their closing ceremony of the training; he was the master of ceremonies.
The Ugandan general in charge of the training (General Kayumba who was the leader of the troops who liberated Soroti from the LRA) currently has a sample of our panels, and the school has been highly recommended as becoming the permanent supplier of these panels to the UPDF.
In order to give a more detailed picture of who the Army was helping, I made a mini-biography for the 9 girls who started the project. Details included where they were from, how many family members, what their family did for money, what they wanted to be, how many people had died in their family, and their biggest challenge in life. Every single one of them said “poverty and sickness” as their greatest challenge in life, which makes the next bit especially poignant. For every panel that one of my girls made, they earned 5,000Ugx. In total, 350,000Ugx was distributed to the students in the form of wages.
Many of the American soldiers came to the school on their 1 day off to see where the panels were being made. One of the soldiers was so affected by the tour of the school that he resolved when he returned home, he would mobilize his wife, and his church, to become permanent donors for the school; he has been referred to the school director for the implementation of his wish.
One final thing of special note; the majority of the girls who worked on the panels were displaced or otherwise affected when the LRA invaded. Two of the girls were actually abducted, and later rescued by the UPDF. These girls have now made tools the UPDF will use to hunt down the remaining LRA.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Beat Goes On...
So I’ve been lazy lately in writing this blog, so most of this will just be little anecdotes I have recorded here and there.
Today was a good day; many things were accomplished. Chief of which was, at my suggestion, discipline, which was a chronic issue in the school last term has been reformed in to a centralized system. Most anyone reading this I’m sure went to a school at one time or another that had a disciplinarian that students were sent to. I have made the system now in place mirror that, with the exception that to reflect the seriousness of the position, I had it given the title “Commissar”. Some would object of the use of a military officer title being used in a school, others too would object to such a communist noun, and yet others would object to me holding that position. To all those detractors, I say to you what my father said to me so many times in the face of moral outrage; Deal with it.
Class idea: Advanced Pit Latrine technique; certificates will be awarded.
I watched my first Hidden Passions dream sequence; I feel like I popped my soap opera cherry all over again.
One of the stereotypes about Africa I now realize that I came here with was that naïve one where all the animals from discovery channel are right outside your door for your own purview. Well, they’re not. Like home, here is filled bugs, birds, mice, snakes, lizards, frogs, fish and all are as furtive and predictable as the American ones. An exception is the domesticated animals: Instead of dogs and cats and house plants, Uganda has cows, chickens, and goats. The other exception is that, bar the domesticated ones, all those things are trying to eat or kill you. Jumanji wasn’t too far off the mark. Which brings me to the other day. There, on the water tower outside my door, was a 3.5ft long monitor lizard, staring me down. I have never witnessed such defiance in an animal, but then remembered he could probably kill/eat me since this is Africa. I moved on quickly.
The guard for my compound thinks digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
(In response to why a volunteer wasn’t angry at her boyfriend for something stupid he did) His hair smells like tres seme. How can you be mad at him?
(Conversation between another volunteer and her boyfriend, both will remain nameless) I realize there will be times when you see me pee. I know we’ll really be close when one day I see you pee and come over to grab your penis to see what it feels like with the liquid running through it.
(Another volunteers anecdote) Back when me and my sister were little, we were in a bathtub together and she told me it would be funny if she punched me in the face. Then she did. We never really got along well.
I recently went to a colleague’s son’s birthday party. He turned 2.
Something I am disabused to accept as normal, thanks to my father, is that a party for a child <6 is an acceptable endeavor. I was conditioned to believe such an enterprise was futile at best and naïve at worst. This particular African ceremony, to my complete surprise, bore most of the semblance to all the other ceremonies (wedding, birth, death, etc.) I have been to. Provided was: Food, drinks (continuously), company, music, offers of marriage, snacks, old people dancing, and children attempting to catch chickens, normal African life. It was very similar to the infant birthday parties of my nephews and nieces, except that ours didn’t have a 7 part ceremony which required an MC.
(In response to why he doesn’t have a life skills skit prepared) I just got back from somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
Today was a good day; many things were accomplished. Chief of which was, at my suggestion, discipline, which was a chronic issue in the school last term has been reformed in to a centralized system. Most anyone reading this I’m sure went to a school at one time or another that had a disciplinarian that students were sent to. I have made the system now in place mirror that, with the exception that to reflect the seriousness of the position, I had it given the title “Commissar”. Some would object of the use of a military officer title being used in a school, others too would object to such a communist noun, and yet others would object to me holding that position. To all those detractors, I say to you what my father said to me so many times in the face of moral outrage; Deal with it.
Class idea: Advanced Pit Latrine technique; certificates will be awarded.
I watched my first Hidden Passions dream sequence; I feel like I popped my soap opera cherry all over again.
One of the stereotypes about Africa I now realize that I came here with was that naïve one where all the animals from discovery channel are right outside your door for your own purview. Well, they’re not. Like home, here is filled bugs, birds, mice, snakes, lizards, frogs, fish and all are as furtive and predictable as the American ones. An exception is the domesticated animals: Instead of dogs and cats and house plants, Uganda has cows, chickens, and goats. The other exception is that, bar the domesticated ones, all those things are trying to eat or kill you. Jumanji wasn’t too far off the mark. Which brings me to the other day. There, on the water tower outside my door, was a 3.5ft long monitor lizard, staring me down. I have never witnessed such defiance in an animal, but then remembered he could probably kill/eat me since this is Africa. I moved on quickly.
The guard for my compound thinks digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
(In response to why a volunteer wasn’t angry at her boyfriend for something stupid he did) His hair smells like tres seme. How can you be mad at him?
(Conversation between another volunteer and her boyfriend, both will remain nameless) I realize there will be times when you see me pee. I know we’ll really be close when one day I see you pee and come over to grab your penis to see what it feels like with the liquid running through it.
(Another volunteers anecdote) Back when me and my sister were little, we were in a bathtub together and she told me it would be funny if she punched me in the face. Then she did. We never really got along well.
I recently went to a colleague’s son’s birthday party. He turned 2.
Something I am disabused to accept as normal, thanks to my father, is that a party for a child <6 is an acceptable endeavor. I was conditioned to believe such an enterprise was futile at best and naïve at worst. This particular African ceremony, to my complete surprise, bore most of the semblance to all the other ceremonies (wedding, birth, death, etc.) I have been to. Provided was: Food, drinks (continuously), company, music, offers of marriage, snacks, old people dancing, and children attempting to catch chickens, normal African life. It was very similar to the infant birthday parties of my nephews and nieces, except that ours didn’t have a 7 part ceremony which required an MC.
(In response to why he doesn’t have a life skills skit prepared) I just got back from somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Twas the Night Before Christmas…
And all through the story, Michael was unable to use, iambic pentameter. Rhyming aside, I do have a warm and fuzzy Christmas tale to tell.
I was going to go stay with the volunteers Fran and Tom Mcguirk for X-mas, so I headed off on X-mas eve to meet them in Gulu, which at the time, I thought to be the city closest to their site.
Well, I was wrong. Battery dying, I got a call in Gulu from Fran and asked when they could come to town and guide me back to their site. Well, their site is nowhere near Gulu. It’s near a place called Kamdini Corner about 70Km back towards Kampala. The time was fast approaching when the buses shut down for the holiday, but I managed to get on the very last one. I told the conductor I needed to get off at Kamdini Corner and he said that would be fine. Things seemed to be turning back in my favor. Well a couple hours later I inquired as to where we were and I was then told that we passed Kamdini Corner about 45Km ago. I forced the bus to stop and let me off, and proceeded to teach the Ugandans in earshot the meaning of the words “fuck” and “bus” and all their possible combinations.
So there I was; 8 o’clock at night; phone dead; some podunk trading center 45Km away from where I need to be; and no buses would be coming the right direction till morning. So I do the only sensible thing and stick out my thumb to hitch a ride.
About 40 min passes by when a car stops and picks me up. It was a Ugandan named Denis Okello and his family who were traveling to visit their relatives in Gulu and are willing to give me a lift up to Kamdini. We start making conversation and I remark how grateful I am that he picked me up. He then tells me that he never picks up hitchhikers, even the muzungu ones. The reason he stopped for me was that I looked exactly like an Italian missionary he knew 20 years ago in Zaire. I even dressed like him. The Italian missionary’s name, was Michael. 0_o. And it keeps on going. Denis works for a medical supply company and knows the hospital Fran works at. So instead of just getting to Kamdini, I get dropped off at the gate of the hospital where Fran and Tom live in time to enjoy the last hours Christmas Eve.
The only thing missing was a crackling fire in front of which I could tell this Yule-tide affirming story. The internet will have to do…
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