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.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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…
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Michael Learns to Rock
Far from any lesson, this title refers to the aptly named Danish pop band currently making the rounds in most bars and discoteks. It’s rhythms were in attendance, along with myself, at the recent “Miss East Africa Beauty Pageant”. There are some pretty nice perks about working for Peace Corps, the half off chocos, the occasional free smoothie, but one of the best is being an automatic VIP at beauty pageants. For hours I sat, front row, drinking free beer, and watching African models desperately trying to outdo one other by pandering to the baying crowd. This “hootenanny”, as my father would say, lasted until 3am. Such is the depth of my dedication to the 2nd goal of Peace Corps (To help promote a better understanding of the American people on the part of the peoples served).
It has been 2 months here at site, and I feel very settled. I feel ready to begin placing my fingers in many pies, and most of them aren’t even sinister. I know almost all the names of my staff… well, their Christian names at least. People greet me by name in the town. I get taken out on more man dates than if Nathan were here. And really to top it all off, a passing boda taxi I know yelled to me in greeting: “what’s up my nigga”.
That is to say, all my new friends aren’t the locals. I now make it a point that whenever I see white people I don’t know I go and introduce myself to them and extend the Soroti brand of hospitality; several free beers. This is how I came to meet a gang of vacationing germans and convinced them to try the local brew. Sometimes I just can’t stop enabling. First freshmen, now Europeans; whether I’m moving up or down in the world is a matter of opinion now.
I now know most all the watering holes in town as well, and a select few know me be sight too. At one particular establishment, I got to revive my old college habit of spending more than 6 hours on a Sunday in a bar watching awesome movies. For whatever reason (questioning God here is hazardous to your health, so I won’t) the Oasis bar decided to have a screening of all the Indiana Jones movies (the good ones) and I was privileged to watch every moment of it. I even got delivery like we used to a the Cap. Although, instead of a pizza delivery guy bringing 3 deep dish pizzas, I had an 8 year old kid bring me gilled fish and chips.
I was Rick rolled by a passing sound van today (those annoying things that move up and down streets blasting music in the hope waking up God in space). Many Africans were treated to the sight of a lone muzungu standing dumbstruck and open mouthed, then raising his fists to the heavens and bellowing KHANNNNNN!!!!!!!!!
Speaking of music, Africa never ceases to amaze. I only heard it briefly in the club, but it was most definitely a remix of “the bird is word”. To see a seething mass of humanity oscillate to the blend of sounds they made the song in to was a fascinating experience. And just when I had come to grips with this strange incident, another one occurred. A popular song here has a repeating line “you want another rum?” Well walking through an alley I heard a child sing the canto, and was immediately answered by another child “yes, ssebo”. They repeated their exchange 19 times.
Now, all these stories and anecdotes might make it appear I haven’t been doing any work. That is far from the case. One of my most proud achievements is that I have successfully taught the catering department how to make jelly donuts. Once classes resume in January, I call have a steady supply of homemade American goodness. They have also offered to make me any dish I can find in my recipe books, and all I have to do is bring them the ingredients.
I guess I’ve done other things as well. I found the design for a self sustaining pump to use in the agriculture side of the school and am having the plumbing teachers source and price the parts. I visited another volunteer and have made schematics for a brick press machine that the welding class can build. I’ve designed an incinerator for the school’s trash that can be built by the building class. I made a prototype camp chair from scraps that the carpentry unit can mass produce. And I even have the outline for my economic design class which I will teach come the spring. Having modeled it after Dr. O’s senior design class, I don’t know whether he would be flattered, or loose all faith in his students… again.
So all in all, work has been done, fun has been done, and now I’m off for Christmas, and an inevitably futile quest for eggnog.
It has been 2 months here at site, and I feel very settled. I feel ready to begin placing my fingers in many pies, and most of them aren’t even sinister. I know almost all the names of my staff… well, their Christian names at least. People greet me by name in the town. I get taken out on more man dates than if Nathan were here. And really to top it all off, a passing boda taxi I know yelled to me in greeting: “what’s up my nigga”.
That is to say, all my new friends aren’t the locals. I now make it a point that whenever I see white people I don’t know I go and introduce myself to them and extend the Soroti brand of hospitality; several free beers. This is how I came to meet a gang of vacationing germans and convinced them to try the local brew. Sometimes I just can’t stop enabling. First freshmen, now Europeans; whether I’m moving up or down in the world is a matter of opinion now.
I now know most all the watering holes in town as well, and a select few know me be sight too. At one particular establishment, I got to revive my old college habit of spending more than 6 hours on a Sunday in a bar watching awesome movies. For whatever reason (questioning God here is hazardous to your health, so I won’t) the Oasis bar decided to have a screening of all the Indiana Jones movies (the good ones) and I was privileged to watch every moment of it. I even got delivery like we used to a the Cap. Although, instead of a pizza delivery guy bringing 3 deep dish pizzas, I had an 8 year old kid bring me gilled fish and chips.
I was Rick rolled by a passing sound van today (those annoying things that move up and down streets blasting music in the hope waking up God in space). Many Africans were treated to the sight of a lone muzungu standing dumbstruck and open mouthed, then raising his fists to the heavens and bellowing KHANNNNNN!!!!!!!!!
Speaking of music, Africa never ceases to amaze. I only heard it briefly in the club, but it was most definitely a remix of “the bird is word”. To see a seething mass of humanity oscillate to the blend of sounds they made the song in to was a fascinating experience. And just when I had come to grips with this strange incident, another one occurred. A popular song here has a repeating line “you want another rum?” Well walking through an alley I heard a child sing the canto, and was immediately answered by another child “yes, ssebo”. They repeated their exchange 19 times.
Now, all these stories and anecdotes might make it appear I haven’t been doing any work. That is far from the case. One of my most proud achievements is that I have successfully taught the catering department how to make jelly donuts. Once classes resume in January, I call have a steady supply of homemade American goodness. They have also offered to make me any dish I can find in my recipe books, and all I have to do is bring them the ingredients.
I guess I’ve done other things as well. I found the design for a self sustaining pump to use in the agriculture side of the school and am having the plumbing teachers source and price the parts. I visited another volunteer and have made schematics for a brick press machine that the welding class can build. I’ve designed an incinerator for the school’s trash that can be built by the building class. I made a prototype camp chair from scraps that the carpentry unit can mass produce. And I even have the outline for my economic design class which I will teach come the spring. Having modeled it after Dr. O’s senior design class, I don’t know whether he would be flattered, or loose all faith in his students… again.
So all in all, work has been done, fun has been done, and now I’m off for Christmas, and an inevitably futile quest for eggnog.
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