Two for one!

Roofs, screens and fangs, oh my (Monday, July 21, 2008)

It was my first workday back at site after Language IST. I heard of the luxurious living (well, in comparison) of many volunteers in my language group, deciding to contact Peace Corps about my leaking roof since the discussions with my host organization appeared fruitless. The morning seemed routine: coffee, oatmeal and a quick (and Arctic-cold, never mind I live in Africa) splash on my face to freshen up. Walking towards the school office, my counterpart and the school’s head teacher bombarded me in what felt like a personal attack. “The Principal called and is very irritated. Peace Corps called him and told him your house is falling down. It’s a lie, and he wants us to go and evaluate your house. Why would you lie?” Anyone who knows me in times of great stress knows that I can defend myself, almost to a fault. This situation was no different, and perhaps worse because it rained the night before, causing me to mop in lieu of sleep. I scared the whole school, refusing to take the conversation into the office. I was loud. I stood my ground. I was direct. I told them my patience had run out. I was done talking. I was done waiting. Yes, it is normal to wait months for action in their culture, but this is a cultural exchange and my culture values timeliness. It was time for action. Peace Corps’ rules are very clear concerning housing, and I was to have a sound roof, and it was “not there.” I reminded them that, although a white person (who usually come in their Land Rovers to give money and leave), I was a volunteer without money to give. I was not there to renovate houses. I reminded them that I gave up a professional career and a completely different life to come and work with others. So far, I worked without the cooperation of my counterpart. Finally, I said that I didn’t feel appreciated for all the effort I give (digging in the garden, biking 20 km alone, getting lost in the bush swamps, going to all churches, etc.) and that I was disappointed that no one asked me if I am doing well, being in the middle of nowhere, so far away from home, friends and family. For an organization that asked for a volunteer, I felt unwanted, a nuisance rather than a colleague. Needless to say, the honeymoon ended and storm-and-stress ensued. After three months of talk, action happened at a frightening speed. Over the course of the day, I had a carpenter on my roof, another making screens for my window vents, and the head teacher calling to have my cabinets finished. As the first white person to live in Serere, I forgot that I have to battle the picture of a rich white man throwing money out to village people (the standard). Lastly, I must remember that cultural sensitivity does not mean that I must let others take advantage of graciousness.

 

Ejokuna aswam? Abeit?! Good work? Truly? (Friday, July 25, 2008)

What a week it was. I found myself kuju patching the nails that hold down the tin sheets of my roof. It rained most of the week, allowing me to monitor which nails proved faulty and in need of putty. While I almost never do it, I may pray with the next rain for a dry forecast indoors. The things I took for granted before Peace Corps! Throughout the course of the week, I bared my fangs to my village and killed a snake in my house that had fangs. In all, epol aswam—a lot of work. I must admit that I question the motives of my host organization’s request for a Peace Corps Volunteer. I have yet to meet with my supervisor to discuss my expected duties; I see my counterpart only a few times a week. Now in my fourth month, my self-motivation is blooming with fruit, but I wasn’t sure it my apples were meant to be oranges until today. Observing a P1 (Kindergarten) Student Teacher, I heard a diesel truck chug down the dirt road of our school compound. With a quick gaze, the college student at the front of the room gasped, “The Principal.” American Principals are Ugandan Headteachers. American Deans of Education are Ugandan Principals. Needless to say, the unexpected presence of a scholar puzzled the school. Classes ceased. Teachers walked outside to greet the visitor; all but the P1 class. I told the student teacher to complete the lesson and we’d go out together to greet the Principal. Twenty minutes later, we joined the hubbub and quickly learned the Principal came to meet with the P1 teachers to monitor their progress with Thematic Curriculum, the national curriculum that mandates local language instruction in early primary education and community-based learning. As a true-blue kindergarten teacher, I decided to focus work on P1 teachers in my cachement area to facilitate the proper implementation of the curriculum. It allows professional development and multicultural education, but it also improves my own language abilities. As he interrogated the teachers and myself, he scribbled notes on his piece of parchment. After making his assessment, he turned to me and said, “Omoding, it sounds like you keep yourself quite busy working with P1 teachers. You’re doing exactly what is needed at the moment. I know I’ll continue to see good work from you. Eyalama noi.” I wanted to cry tears of relief, but I knew it inappropriate so I sat in my seat and beamed. Despite the feeling of being lost in space, I did something right. I think I can. I think I can.

Justified

“No volunteer has ever been this far removed.”

I often wonder if my emotions overwhelm me as I start to weep at the end of a trying day. Do other volunteers have the same feelings and doubts running through their heads? Is anyone as deep in the bush as I seem to be? If so, without water or electricity?

“If I that wasn’t my home area, I would cry every night if I lived there.”

I usually chalk it up to my hypersensitive individuality and wish upon a shooting star for thicker skin. Nothing is easy for me, and it hasn’t been for such a long time. Not elementary school, swimming lessons, midterms, nor going to State Street Brats. All brought great strife and sometimes even physical danger. Many said I wasn’t man enough (what does that mean?), tough enough, or smart enough. This experience is no different.

“You don’t have electricity? Aren’t you afraid at night? You live in the middle of the bush.”

Of all the volunteers in my group, the one least likely to end up living in the bush (for so many reasons that you know and need not be discussed) is the one to pioneer the land unknown to Peace Corps. (Literally, my village has yet to see a PC staffer for site inspection or site visit.)

“You should have the nicest house because you’re the most removed volunteer. Instead, you live . . . in that. And it floods.”

After today, I know that all my tears and struggles are justified. My Peace Corps trainer (a Ugandan whose home village is my site) laughed as I showed her pictures of my site. She said many things to assure me that I wasn’t crazy for feeling such a range of emotions on a daily basis.

“They are making it really difficult for you, having to go an hour to town for everything. That is expensive and your village doesn’t understand because they don’t leave, ever.”

I now hold a high amount of pride in myself for the progress I’ve made in the first three months at site. Who thought this would be my life? After in-service training I will return to my bush village with a higher respect for myself and accept the tears as they come knowing that I am strong enough to cry and continue adjusting to my new life. . .

“Everyone at the office asked if I thought you’d be okay, if you’d make it, all the way out there by yourself.”

. . . even if no one else thinks it possible. After all, I’m man enough (whatever it means), tough enough, and smart enough. 

Elap iuni (3 months)

Before joining Peace Corps, I made contact with a lot of RPCVs and each proclaimed the first 6 months at site to be most difficult. Well, with five months under my belt, I’m ready for calmer waters, but that isn’t meant to be an inclination of disturbance. My third month at site in the Northeast of Uganda passed on the 10^th of July, signifying the first milestone in-country: the ability to go and visit other sites and collaborate with fellow volunteers to bring new and refreshing ideas to my own work. I’m excited to work with those near and dear to my Ateso heart, both American and Ugandan. For my friends back home, I feel as though I must illustrate the great people who surround me in my current life. I consider them my network of support and without their presence I’d be a basket case. Rather than describe their sites, personalities, and physical traits, I’ll write a quick ditty about each.

Sarah

The theater was dark and crowded but the screen illuminated our tear-stained cheeks as we watched our favorite foursome exist amongst the high-rise skyscrapers and the sea of anonymity we decided to sacrifice in the name of peace. While inappropriate, the salty waters continued throughout the two-hour event and we welcomed them as though they were packages from home. Our hands clasped to one another with the silent knowledge that we both missed our own version of brunches with Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda. Just being with Sarah brings contentment because our experience is so closely bound in character that explanation isn’t a necessity. Instead, laughter ensues and we discuss whether or not we think this will be the week that our bodies betray us and we fail to run the 30 meters to the latrine in time, sacrificing our American adulthood for a Ugandan childhood.

Chad(d)

In celebration of the Fourth of July, we sat in a row, our legs pressed to the cool wall. It was a long night of dance party and imaginary ice-skating after a dinner of Indian food and ice cream. Nearly midnight, we all felt fatigued and sat in silence, reflecting on our own thoughts when, out of nowhere, Southern drawl vernacular blurts out, “If I were Mormon, I’d marry y’all.” Chadd’s mile-a-minute mind fascinates and entertains every interaction. Jumping from Mormonism to Kentucky Derby to cave spelunking, his intellectual capacity is limitless. “Where did that come from?” I asked the wall, too tired to move my gaze to meet his. “I just love y’all.” In another second, before I am able to respond, he springs to his feet and screams, “Let’s punch each other in the face to get this party started!” Terri, your son is the rock of the Teso bunch.

Marcy

With every minute, the sun inched closer to the horizon. Darkness neared. . . . I decided to go home with Marcy to use her shower, a small luxury in my simplistic world. We were to meet friends at 7 PM to go to dinner, but we found delay in leaving the convent. The nuns spoke of different ways to reach the main road, deciding the best route to be the short cut through the bush villages. Now in the middle of nowhere, Marcy and I couldn’t stop our laughter despite the taunting of small children, knowing that we’d never make it before dusk. The cut was anything but short, and we relied on our cell phone torches to light the way. Upon arriving, cell service failed and our friends, who tired of waiting for us, went into town for dinner at an unknown location. We sat on the front stoop laughing over our situation and decided to make the best of our night. We caught bicycles into town just as drizzle turned to rain. The whole way, our laughter filled the night air with the occasional game of “Marco Polo” to assure our existence and safety from the lightening.

Okello Nathan and Charles Dickens

“Let me come over. Are you home?” he asked over the phone. Knowing he only lived across the grounds, I responded, “Nathan, you don’t need to waste your minutes to call and ask if you can come over to my house. You’re welcome anytime.” A minute later he knocked on my door to deliver a piece of paper that read: “Your presence is most desired for lunch of chicken and rice this Sunday afternoon.” With a chuckle, I invite him in for a glass of lemonade and accept the request for lunch, realizing it’s been years since I received a paper invitation. Nathan’s attempts to be culturally sensitive are the moments in my day when I value the thoughtfulness of my village. After the assurance that lemonade will not poison (yellow water?!), we sat down to enjoy the refreshment together as we discussed the day, only to hear the sound of a 2 year old motorcycle making his way to my house. Charles Dickens, the son of Okello Nathan, can never be far from his father— his hero. To make his presence known at every moment, he makes the sound of a motorcycle as he wobble-walks. “I apologize. I didn’t tell you of his presence. He is disturbing us now,” he apologized as the bare-bottomed Dickens climbed the concrete slab and made his way into my house. “Your family welcomes me everyday. They are free to come and visit,” I assure him as I hand Dicks a banana. “But, in America, this would be unacceptable,” Nathan states matter-of-factly. While the villagers don’t fully understand my culture, their efforts to respect mainstream American culture (thanks Hollywood for portraying such a Eurocentric notion) shows in their calls to come visit, invitations for dinner, and gifts of Irish potatoes in lieu of millet bread.

Omoding Adam

At home, it was easy to forget one’s “self” because the world at-large is so consuming of time and space and awareness. The allowance to analyze your very being is shuffled around until it reaches its destination at the bottom of a to-do list. Why are finding a mate, making money, and getting a haircut more important than discovering oneself? Living and working in Uganda brought me the best gift: a sense of identity. In the African context, people are defined in terms of others: the relationships they form, the interactions they create and sustain become the definition of existence. Yet, it is impossible to be the only white person for hours without knowing who you, alone, are and what you stand for in life. As I become comfortable at site, I find I become comfortable with the ambiguity of purpose. For now (to quote Avenue Q), I take pride in my ability to relate to others (regardless of purpose), stay true to my own set of morals and values, and continue to learn who I am. To be culturally relevant, I define myself in the African context, through my reflection in other people: I see myself in the progressive education pedagogies of Kindergarten teachers I mentor, the improved decision-making abilities of the 6^th grade boys and girls I meet with to discuss life skills, the look of doubt in the girls who, at age 14, are married and pregnant but not in school, the trust in knowing that whatever happens, life will continue. Just as everything changes, I will change with that continuation. And that is where I am now. Not to mention my testosterone’s at an all time high. . . .

As usual, I think of you all often and miss you more than you know. I save all post and read them in times of great frustration and they provide a sense of home and belonging that I'll never achieve in Uganda, no matter how hard I try. Some days I long for the easy company of friends over bottles of wine and fancy dinners that filled my life prior to my dive into the bush. However, I know that I will meet you each again over those very circumstances when I get back, only both being a bit wiser and older.

From the bush,

Omoding Adamg 

P.S. My beard. It's for you, mom.