I'll Be Home for Xmas . . . that song is dead to me.

Happy Holidays!

Confused by the "holiday" weather . . . 

Short post. Big thanks to Teenie for the packages of holiday cheer, which facilitated Sarah and myself decking the halls. Wanted to throw up some pictures. Also, we listened to holiday music and completely broke down upon the refrain of "I'll be Home for Xmas." Then we laughed as "Baby It's Cold Outside" piped in. To everyone at home,enjoy Hannukah (which starts today), Christmas, Kwanzaa and Winter Solstice. Peace on Earth . . . enjoy Cosmos.

:)

Gender bending

Baking in Uganda with . . . (bottom of post)

Every female volunteer in Uganda will say the issue of gender is a daily struggle in her community. I bear witness to this occurrence; however, I want to flip the coin in this post and show how I, as a male, struggle against the strict gender canons in my small village. The first reality check that my maleness was part of the Ugandan landscape came in the form of my house. When I moved in the walls were proof Pampers do not exist in the village and I could star gaze simply by looking up at my holey roof. When I asked my organization why they did not make repairs before my arrival, they proclaimed, “Men don’t need nice houses!” Indeed, the female volunteer in town had fresh paint, a new roof and a ceiling put in her home. In fact, Peace Corps declined my site a few times because it was too removed/ isolated for female volunteers going to my district. I guess men do not need company. When I renovated my home, (Rhiannon calls it the Ugandan version of rehab because it is "so wonderful") the village told me “it looks like you have a woman living in your house!” Another reminder of my gender dysfunction comes when I excuse myself from the evening conversations with my male friends. They cannot understand why I need to go home but I must sweep, mop, cook, clean, fetch water, wash my clothes, etc.; i.e., be an independent man. My favorite experience came when I spent the entire day baking pies over my sigiri (charcoal grill). My male friends came to tell me “Omoding, you’re more than a woman.” The hardest part about being male in Uganda is that I can’t have female friends and at home I surrounded myself with intelligent, motivated, powerful and beautiful women. Yes, being a male in Uganda gives me significantly more privilege than my female counterparts, I recognize that but I wanted to point out gender canons suppress certain identity characteristics in both men and women; nothing more, nothing less.

 

In daily life, I’m on an extended holiday. It is our version of summer: no school for 2 months and hotter than hell. I slept on my concrete floor last night to avoid sweating. I’m to go to Zanzibar for New Years with a group of other volunteers. I also plan to celebrate Christmas with the nuns at Marcy’s convent. It is strange to have holidays without snow, friends and family. Everyone plays “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” but I do not understand why. The only thing white in my village is me. . . and I know they don’t dream of me. I hope it all passes quickly so I do not fall into some depression. While sadness may come, it is crazy to say goodbye to 2008, a year consumed by Peace Corps (whether preparing for or in the actual experience). 2009 brings potential for work, growth and travel. I am excited to jump in fully to the New Year. I hope all is well with you at home. Thanks for all the correspondence/ bits of love. They give me motivation to keep walking, biking, being watched 24/7 because I am white. I’ll be in touch to tell my story entitled “3 Dry Dates: On the D/L in Uganda.” Never a dull moment in the life of HO HO HO Omoding. Love and hugs to you all. Enjoy winter’s chill. . . 

. . . my sigiri!

It’s beginning to feel a lot like hell-o from Uganda!

Sometimes the Nile really is a river in Africa

Big news from the bush: I baked on Sunday. My community is already confused with the cleanliness and style of my home, so baking only makes them bewildered. How can a man do all of that? Is it possible? Yes, I bought two pots and a sigiri (charcoal grill) and baked. Not only did I bake, I made a pumpkin pie from scratch. ‘Tis true, I went Martha in the middle of nowhere. The baking time took longer than a stove, reaching nearly three hours but the fact that I baked is reason enough to celebrate. Some may wonder the occasion for such crazy behavior: Thanksgiving. Need I say more? The NE volunteers decided to host Thanksgiving and I’m in charge of pumpkin pie, apple pie, rice pilaf and buying a turkey. Since Sunday’s productivity, people in my community started demanding I bake wedding cakes (three tiers), birthday cakes and preschool graduation cakes. . . In the village I can’t do anything for myself without multiple demands to do the same for other people. To remedy the requests I invited people to come and watch me bake pies and cakes this Thursday (my SERIOUS baking day) but people rolled their eyes. It is transparent they don’t want to know how; they want me to do it for them. Frustration. Speaking of, I believe I’m unconsciously frustrated and homesick due to the looming holiday season. I use the term unconsciously because my definition of holidays includes cold weather and a chance of snow showers. Instead, I’m in hell. The weather here is 105 degrees and clear sunny skies. Not a cloud in the sky. . . As the grass dries and dies and the wind increases, dust storms form to sting my eyes. People in the village tell me life stops in the dry season. People lay under mango trees when the sun is high in the sky, only working and living in the earliest and latest moments of the day. However, it is wicked cold through the night and into the early morning. Due to this fact, I wake up at 6 AM to hang my hammock and lay in the chilly weather. It is the closest I’ll have to home. I hope everyone enjoys their Thanksgiving celebrations. I am giving thanks for having all of you in my life. Stay well and I’ll be in touch with updates and pictures of the T’giving bacchanal in Uganda.

The Uncle and the Corpse: The Story of my People

Once upon a time the rain grew less and less in the lands of what is now known as Ethiopia. The rains grew so infrequent that people who lived on the land decided to carry what little they had on their heads and backs and make for a better life. No horses to carry them, they walked until days turned to months through wind and heat so fierce many died until they reached a land with rain. However, the group of people split in their decision to settle. The older half was tired. They walked for months without much food and water. They made their decision they would stay and make their new life exactly where they were. However, the younger half wanted to walk farther Southwest. They didn’t know why, but they had the feeling life would be better if only to walk a few more days, weeks, or months until they knew it was right. The older and younger people exchanged harsh words with one another. The younger group called the elders “Uncles” and bid them farewell. The older group exclaimed the younger group would die a most painful death in their journey and gave them the name “Corpse.” That is the story of how the Kiramojong and the Teso people came into their ethnic names.

Flash forward: In the late 1980s, the Uncles made their way down into the territory of the Corpse to take cows they thought rightfully belonged to them. The Teso people lost most of their livestock, which symbolized their wealth and cultural pride. It is tradition in the Kiramojong culture to take cows as a coming-of-age for boys. Today the land of Kiramoja is semi-desert, forcing the Uncles to come down to the land of the corpse and work the field for payment of food such as maize, sorghum and cassava.

More stories to come. . .

Me Update: I’m extremely busy compiling all the translations of schemes and the information I gathered in my community interviews to create new Ateso vocabulary. My mind is in a constant state of fatigue from reading and typing Ateso. In fact, I am starting to dream in Ateso and the first language I use is Ateso. Very strange yet exhilarating. Too bad I won’t be able to use the language when I return home. . . People in my village continue to tell me I am now a true Atesot and that I look more mature. I think it is the hair, which is getting longer by the day. I caught word of a woman who cuts white people hair, which excites me to no end (even though she is a cool 7 hours away). I love and miss you all bunches. Stay well.

From the bush,

Omoding Adam G.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Sarah with a pumpkin from my garden

SIPI FALLS

SIPI FALLS

Hello all! I’m in town to collect my salary; thus, I’m posting an update. First, Happy Halloween to all you witches suffering from Western syndromes. I tried to explain the holiday, but it left most in my village thinking I'm a witch and that all 14 of my cavities are justified. Who needs a whole night to beg for candy?

Election Day is upon us. Because certain forces forbid me from being too political (sounds like traditional teaching) I only want to urge everyone to go out and vote. As a man in the village told me, "Everyone in America should vote. It isn't like leaders have chewing gum on their ass." Moving on. . .

It is hard to believe that one year ago my life changed with a piece of mail holding an invitation to a far off land named Uganda. Immediately upon acceptance of my placement, I didn’t go to the public library to research Uganda. I didn’t read my mother’s printings from the State Department warning of certain death or internal bleeding. No, I did none of these things. Instead, I started to hunt down blogs written by existing PC Uganda Volunteers to get a glimpse of what my life would morph into upon landing. Did all that reading give me the tools I needed to transition? Hell no. Could my blog potentially scare some prospective volunteers due to its truthful content? Perhaps. No matter, I want to extend the invitation to all those future Ugandan PCVs to get in contact with me if they have concerns about anything: packing, living, culture, logistics, anything. I remember thinking how freakish it was to read someone's personal account of feelings and experience. I didn’t want anyone to know. I’d sneak on in the middle of the night just to see what the secret world was like that I was about to come into. Sounds like high school all over again! Yes, I was completely different before jumping into the Ugandan wilderness. I liked to eat filet, drink cabernet, shop for pointed-toe shoes, wear designer and yes I wore lavender D&G glasses without prescription. My favorite question from volunteers who see pictures is, "Do you wear contacts?" Now, I live the simplistic life in the middle of nowhere enjoying my newfound tranquility (and celibacy, but talking about it won't help). I speak a mysterious African language to the point of quasi-fluency. I do things I never thought I’d do. All this amounts to a huge life change, but that is what Peace Corps offers. That is why I signed up. To push myself to the point of breakdown is a thrill, despite the tears. I love my current life, even though other volunteers may look at it with horror in their eyes. I love it, all of it. If you have questions, throw ‘em at me. As the other PCVs will tell you, my motto is “no judgment.” I’m up for it; just know I only check my e-mail when I come to town, which isn’t all that frequently anymore. In Uganda, patience comes quickly.

People keep asking me to expand on my work situation. This is my best shot. However, there are three goals to Peace Corps and international development is only one of those goals. The other two encompass cultural exchange, which is my bread and butter. I am especially proud of my community integration (language acquisition and the fact that when I walk through the village people yell “Omoding” rather than “Emusugut”). Back to the job. I’m working with a Coordinating Center Tutor. Translation: a college professor who, instead of being at a college, works with teachers in rural areas on Continuous Professional Development. While I work with him, he gives me the freedom to do what I love. I work with 4 schools closely, each one for one day once a week (the other day is for preparation or going to town for food). I bike my legs off in the morning and do class observations P1 (K) and P2 (1st ) for the first hour or so of. I think I already explained the Thematic Curriculum that exists in P1/2; its like bilingual education. I work with students on informal assessment of literacy and math after observing teaching strategies. I make it seem like special time with the emusugut so they don’t complain. Both levels are half-day instruction, so I work with teachers in the afternoon on planning, making centers (new concept here), writing leveled readers for literacy instruction (“What? Three words on a page?”), trying new teaching pedagogy (behavioral change takes the longest), and my favorite activity: translating the schemes of work. This is my BIG project. The Ugandan government produces a prescribed curriculum in English and mandates teachers to translate into the local language. I’m working with my teachers to accurately translate the volume and then I’m typing it up to publish! It enhances my literacy in Ateso, which people think is crazy. Most people in my village don't write Ateso and the white person can! However, there are English words that don’t exist in Ateso, so I go out to the community to meet with members and discuss creating words in Ateso rather than borrowing English. Shortlist of words that don't exist: simile, insect, fruit, chart. Cultural pride at its finest. In my spare time I also run HIV/ AIDS life skills trainings for 14 and 15 year olds to educate them on making healthy choices for a more successful future. I hope that satisfies those asking me about my job. It is exactly what I made it into. If I waited for work, I’d probably have gone crazy with boredom.

Last weekend found me at Sipi Falls, a bit more east towards the Kenyan border than my home. In fact, I had to take a 3 hour taxi ride southeast to take another 2 hour taxi northeast to get back up to its glory. It is known as one of the colder places in Uganda and it lived up to the reputation. I felt at home in the 60-degree weather. Our lodge was amazing: accommodations, food, local coffee and the waterfall outside. I admit I thought it was raining the whole time because of the soothing sound. I’m not a nature person but if I could live anywhere forever and do nothing but exist, it would be Sipi Falls. It is my new Ugandan getaway. Forget the tan that awaits at Mbale Resort, I’m forking out the extra money and going to Sipi. Relaxing in every way. I’ll try and post pictures with this blog, but I make no promises that they’ll work.

Okay, I’m all out of news. I hope this finds you well and wintry cold. Enjoy. It feels like Groundhog’s Day here. Vote because you can. Go on a date because you should. Amina eoŋ yesi kere. Aomoomenenei eoŋ yesi ŋiniparaan kede amuno eoŋ awanyun bobo nat sek. Akoto eoŋ ekiŋok abunere oreka lo Amerika. Not that you’ll understand any of that, but know you mean the world to me, even from the other side. That and I really want a dog when I get back. Tangents. Bygones (Ally McBeal reference). Peace Out (In for Teenie).

Serious and Not So

I’d like to quickly address a few concerns over all that is happening in my absence. Specifically, this is a call for self-reflection. Even in the Ugandan bush I hear about the crisis that is happening on both Wall Street and in many neighborhoods across America. I agree that it is a travesty to fall into such horrible fiscal status. I agree it absolutely unforgivable to allow so many people to lose their homes. Everyone is trying to find a way to bailout the American economy, whether through the government’s takeover of banks or legislation worth billions of dollars. While something needs to be done, we need to call these measures what they are: welfare and the socialization of the American banking system.

Welfare carries a stigma with it throughout the United States. The welfare that comes to mind involves food stamps, single mothers and stereotypes of Cadillac vehicles. Over the last few decades, citizens, active voters, politicians on the state and national level argued, reformed, diminished and ignored the welfare rights of women. However, we overlook the many other kinds of welfares that exist in America, such as tax breaks for homeowners. Now, in the spotlight of the global media is a huge welfare package to come to the assistance of many banks and homeowners. Why are we calling it a bailout package instead of welfare? Will it be more successful if certain terminology remains avoided? Can we, as a collective population, still criticize the welfare that gained such a horrible reputation? I certainly hope that those receiving assistance in their moment of need gain a new perspective and support coming to the rescue of others.

With the take over of two major private banks we enter an age where the government, in essence, is socializing lending. This now adds to the library system, fire and police response and education. However, we still fail to provide adequate health care to all people living in America. What does this say about our country? Do we value money more than the health of the general population? People are dying because they don’t have proper access to treatment for curable and treatable diseases; yet, we focus on the fact that people are losing their homes and may have to live a lifestyle that can’t keep up with the Jones’s. Does this seem democratic? Is this humane?

Can I get a witness?

Moving on . . . My blog is dormant, but definitely not hibernating because the weather is always the same: hot and sunny. It’s like Groundhog’s Day. I ask forgiveness for anyone who actually reads this rubbish pile that is my version of podcasting. I could blame it on the unusually slow Internet in town as of late or the fact that I’m sitting comfortable in the village which lacks Internet entirely. However, things that shocked me 8 months ago no longer make me jump. Without that fear in my heart, my writing continues to suffer. I apologize.

Thelma: I decided to lie down for a nap a few weeks ago. Naturally, I left the doors open in my house to catch a breeze. Deep in REM, I heard heavy breathing (think asthmatic) on the other side of my head. I rolled over, groggy, and opened my eyes to find myself face-to-face with a cow. It was eating the Kleenex my mother sent in a care package. I let out a 5-year-old scream and the cow seized. Due to its size, it was stuck in the doorway, going back and forth in an attempt to turn around. Eventually I pushed it back outside and it fell down the stoop. Now, the cow hangs out around my house and occasionally comes to take a drink of water from my mopping bucket. When Marcy came to visit, she named the cow Thelma. A white chicken follows Thelma around all day, so her name is Louise. We’re one happy family.

Frog Flossing: I’d like to comment on the treachery that is dental work. While flossing last night, one of my fillings flew out of my mouth and on the floor. Now I have a huge hole in my lower left molar to expose my nerve to food, beverage, and air. It hurts, to say the least. Thus, I am in town on my way to Kampala: the big city of Uganda. While I love larger cities, I’m a villager and I don’t like making the 9-hour trip into chaos, especially for dental work. Back to flossing . . . My filling fell to the floor. In an effort to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, I knelt down to collect it. What I found was a bright orange tree frog sleeping. Not a big fan of jumpy things, I retrieved my broom and tried to sweep it outside. It turns out the little guy wasn’t sleeping and escaped by scaling up my door with his sticky fingers. I was swatting the frog as it climbed higher, holding my cheek with the pain of having a holey smile. It all worked out in the end. The jumper lived. I’m still here. What more can I ask for?

Moral of my post: We all have homes. Some feel at home throughout life. Some feel at home in other’s homes. Some need to travel the world to find their home. Some have to lose homes they can’t afford in order to find ones they can. Some need to be pushed out of my home to be reminded of their home. I miss home. I miss you all.

Stay well,

With love from the bush,

Omoding Adamg.

addition to wish list. . .

Hammocks don't exist in Uganda, but the perfect spot for one does: between my two mango trees. . .