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.

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…