Snoozer

"How will you cope with the stress of constantly feeling on display?" the Peace Corps recruiter asked his second hypothetical question, looking even more serious than he did with his first one.
I'm not one for hypotheticals because it diminishes the experiences of those people actually living in the reality of that lifestyle. Knowing this wouldn't suffice for an answer, I throw out one of my favorite hobbies, "I'm a therapeutic sleeper."
Who knew. . .

-[-]-

The weekend in Kampala was better than expected. I bought 2 lamps and 2 pairs of Diesel jeans. I caught up with friends from afar. I met the National Ugandan basketball team. I went out until 4 AM each night and enjoyed the kind of fun I only experienced at home and in Brussels. Gelato for an a-bar is the closest I get to Dairy Queen. Most importantly, I had the most exhilarating surprise; definitely something I didn’t expect in Uganda. Indeed, my weekend was much better than expected. Now, I find myself walking through the streets of Kampala before sunrise, just as shopkeepers sweep garbage to the street. I near the bus park and glimpse the Teso Coach ascending the hill towards the main road leading east.
“Ajai eong. Epuda eong alosit ko Soroti! Ipupi ijo? Emere? I’m here. I need to go to Soroti. You hear? Yes?” I shout to the conductor hanging out the boarding door. He quickly waves me over as the bus slows without stopping. I start to jog to keep up while avoiding holes in the street.
“Kobia ne! Kopani. You come here. Now,” he screams as I throw my backpack onto the bus and lag a few meters behind the entrance. Running uphill, if at all, is not a part of my workout in Uganda or at home, for that matter. After a few gasps for air I catch up to the bus and jump onto the loading platform. “Kiboikin. Sit,” the conductor points to the empty seats of the bus, noticing my confusion. “Ejaasi Kiramojong ko Jinja. Kiboikin kopani. There are Kiramojong in Jinja. Now sit.” Again, he points to the back of the bus.
Slowly, I drag my tired and fabulous ass a few rows and lift my pack onto the overhead storage. Then, I fall into a seat, throw my iPod on and fall into the most relaxing nap.

“Edeke! Edeke! Jesus God. Jesus God.” Screams resonate throughout the bus, now full of Kiramojong with their tattered clothing and tribal scars spanning cheeks and foreheads. A horrifying noise echoes from below the bus; almost like a hammer striking a concrete column. I rub sleep from my eyes, press my forehead to the window of the bus and see shredded tire flying through the air. Confused, I open my window, looking to the wheel well and finding sparks flooding the concrete. People grow more hysterical as the noise grows louder. A chicken flies into the air a few rows ahead. I laugh and decide upon a playlist. Doll Revolution it is. Thanks Nicole!
The bus stops eventually and people storm the exit for a look at the damage. I open my window fully to find two tires completely shredded, the tailpipe of the bus a few meters behind and the side panel of the Teso Coach on the ground. A group of women continues to scream prayers of thanks for saving us from the swamp on either side. A chicken walks through the row by my seat and I shoo it away, rub my eyes and smile at the thought of my unexpectedly amazing weekend, falling back to sleep.

-[-]-

Every Wednesday I ride my bike 15 kilometers to the speed bumps on the dirt road, turn right and ride another 3 kilometers to my favorite primary school. I wouldn’t tell anyone the last part, but a school with a principal who takes initiative breeds a motivated staff. I usually reach my destination by 10 AM, passing the chicken coops, brick ovens, piggery and the cow pasture. Today is not usual, but is any day in the bush “normal?” I don’t dare answer the question.
I wake at 7 AM promptly. I sweep and mop while listening to BBC for a daily dose of current events, boil water for my oatmeal (sans coffee; a great envelope!) and eat breakfast while watching Sex and the City. More specifically, the episode where Carrie dates the short story writer.
A quick and warm shower later, I’m pedaling out of the village and into the bush. I make five minutes and feel beads of sweat flow down my brow and back. Running my fingers through my hair, I feel sweat saturating my scalp. Ten minutes into the trek, I pull into the shade for a rest and a chance to dry off, taking a seat in the dirt, past the point of caring.
A breeze blows and I feel my mood turn positive. Then, the bush rustles behind me, causing me to weigh the option of looking or ignoring and hoping for the best. Against my gut, I turn around and see a monkey bearing fangs. Sadly, this is not my first run-in with a bitchy monkey. Quickly, I throw my water bottle at its head, causing it to return to the bush. I laugh as I think how I responded in my first days of village life. A year past and a bit of my fear went with it. A few breezes later, I’m on the dusty road again pedaling at a leisurely pace. Forty minutes pass and I bike through a small trading center to find catcall reminders of my skin color. I notice my pedals feel loose but chalk it up to dehydration until both fall from the bottom of my feet to the ground.
“Damnit. Now what do I do?” I ask myself as I place the pedals in my bike’s basket. Without any other option, I turn around, cross to the left side of the road and start walking the 12 kilometers home.
Sweat pours from my face and drips to the ground after five minutes in the pounding sun; not a cloud in sight. People pass on their bicycles and ask why I would rather walk than ride my bike but I refuse to speak Ateso. My anger would seep into my words and punch my fellow villagers in the face. Instead, I wave my hand, clutching a pedal and continue to walk.
A few hours later, I see the monkey standing on the dirt pile where I first rested. Again, he bears his fangs as a taunting action. Without a full water bottle to use as a weapon, I settle on my pedal, hitting the monkey on the arm. The animal screams and I wait for an attack but it only climbs a tree and watches me until I’m out of sight.
That afternoon I make my valiant return to the village, ignoring the waves and questions of my impending marriage to an unknown Teso woman. Walking through my compound, I throw my bike to the ground and fill a basin of water to the rim. My neighbors analyze me, soaked through with sweat, and gasp as I dump the water over my body, still fully clothed with shoes on. They see my face and know not to question. Walking into my house, the sound of water dripping to the floor, I crawl into bed and drown myself in sleep.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:
Note: “Sympathize” by Amos Lee
Boat: It rained last night, finally
Gloat: My camera arrived today . . . pictures resume soon.

My First Time

“My first time . . .” brings great stories best shared over a few glasses of wine at a mood-lit bar. Some people may resent their first time. Others may take pride in their first time. Whatever the sentiment, the first time marks the beginning of monotony because the excitement, the horror, the unknown ends and ordinary begins.

-[-]-

The first day of an academic year brings new uniforms, new pencils and new P1 students (kinder equivalent) to school. Today, 180 3, 4 and 5 year olds rush the compound of our school playing, screaming, hitting each other, wetting themselves and without any background in reading. However, it is not until they enter their classroom that tears start to flow.

The barefoot children file into the classroom, bats chirping at the penetrating sunlight, and sit on the floor, not facing the blackboard but gawking at the strange pale man in the back of the classroom. After the last child makes her way into the class, tears still running down her cheek, Madam Iliana walks in to address the immediate “situation”, “Idwe, ejai apejenon kau natukot wok. Ekekiror Emalimu Omodiŋ ka enera ŋesi Ateso kwa iso. Elosi ŋesi aswam ne ŋininaiyareit. Mam ekuriaka. Kiboikinos ejok. Children, there is a visitor in the back of our classroom. His name is Teacher Omoding and he speaks Ateso like us. He will work here every Tuesday. Don’t be afraid of him. Sit properly.”

If only a lecture made the children understand that I am as human as the rest of the village. In reality, the majority of the room has never seen a white person. Ateŋ Peter Joseph, a stout little man dressed in a “Hello, Kitty” t-shirt stands up and dashes towards me, slapping my arm and quickly running towards the door. At the entryway, he stops and wipes his hand on his own arm, expecting to see a streak of white. When nothing comes of his experiment he screams, “Isabi ijo! You lie.” A once placid face begins to tremble and tears burgeon on his eyelids. His breaths deepen until a wail of disappointment silences the fidgeting classroom, signifying my terrible mediocrity. He expected an alien and got an emsugut—a whitey.

Madam Iliana winks at me, “He fears you. These children, they are not aware. Give it time. They will come to know you.” She takes Ateŋ’s arm and leads him back to his seat on the cement floor. While the majority of the classroom faces me waving, smiling and not paying attention to their actual teacher, I get no “Hello” from Kitty.

-[-]-

“Not tonight, I’m not feeling very well,” I explain to Nathan, who came over expecting to watch a Nigerian movie on my computer. In the village, an illness usually means an increase in hospitality—after all, who wants to be alone when sick. However, Nathan understands that in my culture, solitude is the best treatment for an illness. No company necessary.

“Yes, I see you are not yourself. You are dressed in a blanket. How was Busia?” he asks of my weekend safari.

“Ah, yes. I was laying on the sofa and covering myself with the blanket. It is a security issue,” I explain the style of “dress,” forgetting to make my language explicit and concrete.

“Is someone trying to force their way into your home? I noticed the guard is no longer around. Are you nervous?” he stiffens as if to show his support.

“No, no. I’m very safe in my house. No one tries to break in anymore. They know I am a serious man and will fight for myself. That and I’m loud when I yell. Thank you for your support, though. Busia was interesting; a border town. Lots of smuggling and mob justice, but a new view of Uganda,” I round back to Nathan’s question, wrapping my blanket tighter around me as the night air bites at my skin. My body’s adjustment to the weather impresses me. I never thought it would happen.

“Border towns are not safe. I am glad you are back in the village. You are safe here. I will let you rest. Let us meet tomorrow,” he excuses himself and turns to walk home. I take myself back to the comfort of my couch, lie down and resume the episode of Brothers & Sisters as the fan blows a steady breeze over my body.

The sun rises the next morning and I awaken to find myself still on the couch. Some things never change. I sit up and stretch my arms until I feel the pain. “Oww. What the hell?” I mutter as my arms instinctively fall to hold my neck, the source of the stinging pain. As consciousness spreads over my body, the full extent of my aches surface until I feel the sweat dripping from my brow causing me to worry. I stand, drop the blanket to the floor and run to my kitchen to fish my thermometer out of my Peace Corps medical kit. An old school model (with mercury), I have to shake the line below 37 degrees Celsius to take an accurate reading. Three minutes later, the verdict is in: 38.8 and then some. Translation: 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The reading itself sends a tremor of panic through my body, causing a jolt of pain to vibrate in my molars. I run to the mirror and open my mouth to find my uvula swollen and the walls of my throat a nice pinot noir color. I haven’t seen this sight since before I had my tonsils out. This is my first experience being sick in the village.

“Hello, Adam. I’ll call you back. You know the airtime is expensive,” the Peace Corps nurse speaks quickly before hanging up. Five seconds later she calls back, “How are you?”

“Hi. Thanks for calling me back. I try to call my APCD and she never picks up, much less calls me back. I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” I try to make a joke as I massage my throat.

“Yes, of course. We don’t hear from you, so for you to call means you must not feel well.”

“Ha. Well since last week I haven’t been 100% but I thought it was allergies. We had some rain, good for the ground, bad for my sinuses. However, I woke up this morning and the pain escalated along with my temperature. I’m sitting at 38.8 right now.”

“For the morning that is elevated,” she responds and we continue our medical dialogue for ten minutes until she reveals the prognosis, “You have a bacterial infection. I don’t want you to be alone. I remember you are very remote. Can you make it to town?”

“Yes. And if I pass out, I know the guys who drive the car so I’ll make sure they know to call you,” I try at another joke.

“Let your neighbors know you are going to town to stay with Chad. Tell them I ordered you to go. I know how they can try and prevent you from leaving,” she says seriously, ignoring my humor, as I already start to dress, the sweat flowing over my whole body. “And call me when you get to town and have your prescription.”

An hour later (ignoring a meeting concerning “how can we get Adam to fund the construction of our school block” without community assistance), I’m one of 12 people in a Honda Civic wagon speeding down the bumpy road to town thinking I wish I were 5 years old when sick meant a fudgicle and Mary Poppins at home with Mom.

-[-]-

“Hey, bud. You need anything from town? I’m pedaling in to pick up a few things,” Chad peeks his head in the extra room where I’m staying while ill.

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though. I’m just going to sleep and I brought a stock of passion fruit juice and water with me,” I say as I roll over in the bed.

“Let me know. Sleep it off. You’ll live. I won’t let you die in my house.”

“Thanks, Chad. That’s sweet. Oh, and do you happen to have a nail clipper?” I ask as I look at my foot. In the middle of the night, I woke up to a sharp pain in my smallest toe. In the light of the morning, I can see a slight bump and a strange black coating at the base of the nail.

“I’ll leave it out for you.”

An hour later, I wake up again to the small sting in my foot. Rather than continuing the up-and-down nature of my morning, I drag myself into the bathroom to find the nail clipper waiting for me. My foot over the toilet (yes, Chad has a toilet and a shower in his house), I make my first incision with the clipper. Nothing happens. My stomach rumbles in anticipation. “I’m glad I didn’t eat. Whatever this is, it may get ugly.” I squeeze my toe around the cut and a red sac the size of a bath bead slides out while still hanging on to my skin. I cut the stubborn thing from my skin and it spits blood like a bad horror movie for a good minute while I continue to dig the unknown creature out of my already ill body. I begin to gag and I wretch into the toilet. (I do the same while writing kopani- now.) My first jigger.

I heard other volunteers discuss jiggers but never paid attention, taking the naïve approach of “if I don’t know about it then it won’t happen.” Jiggers, or chiggers, are tiny mites whose parasitic larvae live under the skin of warm-blooded animals. That animal would be me. I’m never wearing sandals again. In fact, I’ll shower with my shoes on because I will never have a jigger in my fucking body again. When I joined Peace Corps I signed up for many different things but I did not sign up for sick and disgusting.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:
Song: “Lace and Leather” by the (new and rehab’d) Britney Spears
Strong: The guys in this week’s T Magazine (of the NY Times)
Belong: Left to me by a departing volunteer: a toaster oven. Bring on the cookie, cake, muffin and all other baked good mixes. Perfect addition to my kitchen.

-[-]-
Love,
Omoding
(the “H” is silent)

Ebaluwa (mail)

Yoga kere. A quick note about mail. I now have my own P.O. Box in lieu of sharing with the volunteers in town. It is as follows:

Adam Kelley, PCV

P.O. Box 582

Soroti, Uganda

I talked with my friend, the postmaster, and he will forward my mail to the new box for a little while, so if you sent any mail to the previous P.O. Box, it will still arrive. No worries. Mam acie! Just make sure to send your new mail to the new mailbox. Love to you all. A quality post coming soon. . .

Sprinkle Splash Sinless

Wham. The dust flies in the air and I sneeze. I shouldn’t sit near the mess that is my neighbor making flour from her sorghum harvest but moving away would be an insult. Wham. Sneeze. Wham. Sneeze. The pattern continues for another few minutes before my neighbor ceases and looks up from her cloud of dust in my general direction but not directly at me.

“Tomorrow is the baptism of my granddaughter, Tracy, at the Teso mass. We will have lunch afterwards,” my neighbor, Petua, tells me as we sit in the shade of our mango tree. Immediately after her announcement, she returns to beating her sorghum and our conversation ends.

This is the common method of communication in my village: direct in the sense of a quasi-order. In my first months I felt like everyone told me what to do and I became angry; however, now I know words like “please” and the phrase “would you . . .” don’t exist. The scary thing is that I catch myself using the same style of direct language.

I remain under the mango tree with Petua for another ten minutes and the debris from the massacred sorghum saturates the air and impedes my lungs. I quickly excuse myself, go indoors for a literal breather and time to interpret her announcement over a cup of tea. As awkward as it may sound, the hot beverage helps me balance the heat. While communication seems explicit, it is indirect to the likes of outsiders. Was the conversation an invitation to the service or simply an announcement? Does this mean I have to go to church?

I’m not an intensely religious person—claiming agnosticism is a stretch. However, I did make an effort to attend the different houses of worship in my first months here. After making the rounds thrice (and sitting through a homily concerning the annihilation of demonic people . . . those who know me will understand), I abruptly stopped and the entire village started to gossip. Witchcraft? Possession? Didn’t he find his preferred religion? The reminders of Sunday/ Friday worship followed for six months thereafter in an effort to “save my soul.” Church is a different experience in the village context: it lasts anywhere from two to seven hours and the resident white man (yours truly) gets to make his own sermon. By the time I start eating the tea leaves, I decide to show my support and attend. How bad can it be?

The next morning I awake promptly at eight o’clock to bathe, have a cup of coffee (always a great surprise in the mail) and brush up on my Ateso flashcards in preparation for the “Omoding sermon.” All this used to take me an astonishing two hours but now lasts a half hour. Adaptation at its finest. By nine o’clock, I make my way to St. Mark’s for the Teso mass and reach it in two minutes. In Uganda, all schools have religious affiliations and a church on the school compound. This makes the peer-pressure factor of church attendance almost unbearable, but I somehow resist. DARE did me well.

I walk into the church to find the English service still underway. I freeze in the middle of the aisle at the back of the church. My mind failed me! The Teso mass wasn’t at nine but nine thirty. Damnit. “Omoding! Please join us,” the reverend singles me out as everyone turns to stare.

Too late to turn back, I sit in the last pew and endure the looks of the parishioners that silently scream, “You come for the last half hour? You heathen.” I shrug off the looks and act as if I can’t see the stares. The ushers stand and move through the church to take a collection. Again, the awful looks continue as I pass the basket without contributing. I don’t give money to institutions that discriminate against certain individuals. Sorry, that’s just me.

The ushers count the money, auction a chicken and announce the total income to the congregation. People clap and the women holler with glee at their success. The reverend stands and looks me in the eye, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”

I laugh to myself at the use of the term “the people” and clear my throat for optimal stage voice, “As you all know, the school year starts in only a few weeks. I urge every parent to register your children with the school of your choice to ensure the successful development of your family and our community.” I smile at my use of Ateso but feel a slight twinge of pain in my frontal lobe. My brain fears the impending three to four hours of Ateso. A few seconds pass as everyone waits for me to continue my speech with the mention of Our Savior Jesus Christ. I sit down, cross my legs and wipe my brow with my handkerchief. People in the village understand my choice to wear jeans, not slaughter chickens, bike everywhere (not a choice but everything else is against PC policy), drink water while walking (it signifies alcoholism), but they cannot wrap their minds around my concise nature. It is common to speak until your voice fails so my ten-second address left one hundred people looking at me with bewilderment.

The mass concludes with ten minutes of hymns and a few prayers for those suffering eseny—HIV. People start to congratulate each other on their prayers and file out of the church. I remain in my seat and people stop to chat with me, “Omoding. You came very late.” “Omoding, you must come every week to pray.” “Omoding, it is nice to see you at church. See you next week.” “Omoding, what are you? Catholic? Muslim? Protestant? Born Again? We are all very confused.”

I laugh each question off and wish everyone a nice day when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Sir, yes. Sorry to bother you, but I am a teacher without placement. I need to register with the CCT. He told me you could help me,” a young man dressed professionally despite the hole in his left pocket looks to the ground as he speaks. The Ministry of Education asked all teachers without placement to register with the area CCTs for consideration in the new term. Because my counterpart lives a great distance from our office, I have the great task of registering our county’s jobless teachers.

I stand and pull the culturally appropriate card, “Yes, I can help you but you show bad manners by disturbing me while I am in church. This is Sunday; the day of rest. Did you forget? Come, I’ll register you but the paperwork is at my home,” and I parade out of the church, causing the people coming for the Ateso mass to look at me as though I decided not to attend at the last minute. I march to my house determined not to be late for the next mass with the teacher walking behind me, head down, knowing his mistake.

It takes twenty minutes for the teacher to complete the paperwork, which makes me late for mass. I run through the compound towards the church when I see Amojong making her way into the church. Amojong literally means “old woman” and is a sign of respect for women in my village. I don’t know her actual name but look to her as my adopted grandmother. She recognizes me and starts to shoo me into mass, thinking I’m on my way into the trading center, “Ilosi ijo okanisa. Ipuda ijo ailip. You go to church. You need to pray.”

I gallop in a few strides in front of her determined to find my own seat that is not immediately in front of the altar. I sit down towards the back in a pew with ample legroom and a strange half-pillar in front of it. As Amojong passes, she takes my arm in her hand and tries to pull me to my feet. I start to whisper, “Mam! Mam! No. No.” If I go with her to the front, I won’t be able to escape the mass at my leisure. I resist and she accepts defeat after a few seconds of people looking at the commotion.

Minutes turn into an hour and my mind becomes mush with concentration. Ateso mass always gives me a headache. My brow permanently wrinkles as I lean forward to decipher the content. The Arch Deacon stands and walks towards me with my neighbor, her daughter and the grandbaby. Closer they come until they sit in my pew. That strange half-pillar structure in my row? The baptismal fountain. My pew? Meant for the family of the child. Damnit. All eyes turn on me. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m an attention-hungry man out to steal the moment but it’s too late to find a new seat—the church is full. The baptism continues and the village photographer holds his ancient camera to take a snap. The ceremony pauses and everyone poses, without smiling, and the Arch Deacon pulls me into the frame. “Click” and I’m permanently engrained in little Tracy’s baptism. The surprised white man. Poor girl.

After the baptism, minutes continue and hours pass. My headache pulses until, at the end of the mass, the Arch Deacon stands up and repeats the familiar request, “Now, Brother Omoding. Please deliver a few words to the people.”

I slowly stand up and massage my forehead. The fluency of my first address escapes me. In fact, all words disappear except, “I’m not sure what to say.” I give a little giggle and attempt the same address that I gave to the first service, murdering the grammar and pronunciation but too tired to dwell on my lack of perfection. The expected stares come as I fail to continue my speech and I decide to walk out of the church and make a beeline for my house. I passed my limit.

I unlock my door and lay down for a nap. “This is why I don’t go to church,” I say to myself as I drift off to a perfect world full of ice cream and hamburgers and walks after dusk. It’s nearly 1:30 PM.

Half of an hour passes in the blink of an eye and I hear Petua screaming my name outside. Hazily, I roll out of bed and weigh my options. I can either crawl under my bed to escape the imminent intrusion of privacy (pulling back of the curtains for a game of Where’s Waldo or, in my case, Where’s Whitey) or go outside and confront the situation. I make the adult decision and go to the front door, messing my hair to rid its bedheadedness, not that anyone in the village could tell the difference. “Inyo bo? What?” I answer trying to amplify the look of fatigue on my face while simultaneously diminishing the look of annoyance.

“The lunch for Tracy. It is now. You come.”

I sigh and accept my defeat. I went to the mass and now I’m bound to the luncheon. “Of course. You wait one minute,” I pull on my shoes and walk to the house next door to find the Arch Deacon, Reverend and the chairwoman of the Mother’s Union already mid-meal.

I serve myself a plate of rice, spiced rice, atap (millet bread), chicken and cabbage. Still half asleep I shovel a first bite with my fingers as everyone stares at me in disbelief. Damnit. I broke a cardinal rule of any Ugandan event including food: I didn’t pray before eating. Rather than admit my faux-pas I continue eating, thinking if I stuff my face they will forget about my fault and focus on how much I can shovel in my mouth. Not the most rational thought process. I can only laugh as I picture how large my cheeks must look.

The meal concludes quickly and the Chairwoman of the Mother’s Union says a closing prayer, “Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please let Mother Tracy remember that it is most important to pray before she breast feeds. We must all remember to thank you for our food before consuming those gifts. It is often forgotten these days and we ask you for a kindly reminder.”

I am sure I blushed, hiccupped and then sniggered at my day; my always-interesting Ugandan life. Ejokuna naarai mam eoŋ alosenenei okanisa ŋinisaabiti naarai anyami eoŋ inyamat lu ipu. It’s for the best I don’t go to church because then I eat too much.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:

Book: The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Michael Greer (themes of race, class, sexuality, power  in a WWII San Fran make a spellbinding read)

Tune: “On the Radio” by Regina Spektor (makes me weep thinking of Raccoon and Espresso Royale)

Taste: Raspberry Tea with warmed milk in lieu of water (i.e., the African way) 

-[-]-

Love,

Omoding

(the “H” is silent J)

New Year's Blog

Holiday was a great time for a journey to the islands. I’m trying on a new glove of writing, something more familiar and entertaining rather than a “Mother Stork regurgitation” project. Also, I want to thank everyone who contributed bits of holiday love, I’ll make sure to bring some Ugandan treasures back with me in  . . wow, this year! How exciting. Onto the goods . . .

-[-]-

Our Ugandan Airways travel agent said the flight was direct. How she manipulated the truth. A two-hour flight stretched into the abyss . . . four and half hour. We stopped in Kilimanjaro and Dar El Salaam before finally getting to our island paradise. I won’t bring up the daycare that was our flight except to say that it someone forgot a binky. I still have nightmares of children screaming like death was their neighbor.

Our first night in Zanzibar, half the group with lost reservations and somewhere unknown on the island, Greg, Dan, Lisa and I decide to have a night swim. Our first journey into the Indian Ocean, waiting the standard thirty minutes after eating calamari and shrimp; a dream to our landlocked Ugandan lives. In our swimming “costumes”, we run for the water. I gallop through the shallowness until I make it out about 300 feet, the water still as deep as my ankles.

Looking back at the shore, winded, Lisa suggests, “Let’s lay in the water. I’m getting tired.” In agreement, we all float ourselves as we look to the starry skies.

“This is awesome. I never see this many stars in Uganda,” Greg observes, but I can only hear his muffled words underwater. I feel like a child half-submerged in the bathtub, not in the ocean. Then a pricking sensation.

“No, this is painful. Is anyone else being bitten?” I ask, standing to scratch my back. “What the hell is biting me?”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Lisa agrees. “I think I’m done. Splash my back to get whatever is biting off?”

“Only if you return the favor. I can’t wait to take a shower.” And so we make the twenty-minute walk back to the hotel, scratching the whole way.

“Are you kidding?” Greg screams from the bathroom. “The water in the shower is salty!”

“Bullshit,” Dan responds.

“No, I’m serious.”

Zanzibar was supposed to be the exotic escape from our Uganda: hot showers, luxurious living, seafood, ocean, and relaxation. By day three, our hair started turning green. Sometimes you cannot run far enough to escape reality; to escape home.

-[-]-

            Flying into Entebbe, I feel a sense of peace unexpected in Uganda. Zanzibar was a great holiday from our culturally appropriate lives. Sure, I lost my camera and wallet, vomited to ring in the New Year (don’t trust Long Islands when the bartender doesn’t know the location of the drink’s namesake), had a spat with the two volunteers I am closest with, got an offer to stay and teach English on the beach at a hospitality NGO and stuffed myself full of seafood and ice cream. Gliding over the red dirt roads and lushly green grass, I was home: a place where I know the rules of living; where I know the language; where I know how to take public transportation. Leaving was the best thing I’ve done for my Ugandan life. I no longer count the days until I leave the village to go to town. I feel content at home. I reached a new level of patience. I trust myself.

Part of the reason I joined Peace Corps was to figure out who I want to be. In the first year, I figured out who others wanted me to become: a philanthropist for my community and a confidante for other volunteers. However, I fell into old habits and became other’s expectation. I became a mirror, being the reflection others wanted or needed. I became so absorbed with other people that I forgot to ask me what do I want? This year I live for myself. It is my New Year’s commitment. (I avoid resolutions because they seem to expire after three weeks time.) It’s good to be home.

-[-]-

            Oweeno Market is my glory. Complete chaos. Opposite of the tranquil village I live in. Located in Old Kampala, you walk into what looks like a sprawling refugee camp and find an unending maze of clothes, hats, shoes, dresses, curtains, etcetera. Anything you imagine waits for you at Oweeno, if you can brave the crowds of vendors holding your arms, groping your midsection, the quick hands of pickpockets and the shouts of “Muzungu” or “Obama” (a welcome change post-election). I thrive in the environment and seem to have the direction to find the best deals. 

“You should really think about trying on a pair of Diesel jeans,” I peer pressure Eric as I navigate towards the Birkenstock stall that seems to be every volunteer’s dream. (I’m the exception. And that pair of Chaco’s I brought now act as doorstops.) “Who knows, you might like them.”

            “But I don’t—“ Eric began only to be interrupted by Kelly.

            “ ‘I don’t wear labels’ says the man as he looks through the pile of labeled Birkenstocks.” Kelly, Eric and I were fast friends the very first day of Peace Corps staging. Kelly and I share the love of everything cosmopolitan. Eric thought I was his competition for Kelly’s affection until he put two and two together to find three. How queer! After a year on opposite sides of Uganda and a glorious week of humor together, we weaved through Oweeno with renewed joy for our Ugandan lives.

“You’re trying them on. It won’t kill you.”

Leaving Eric behind, Kelly and I walked deeper into the stalls. We pass WHAM! shirts and logo tees with printings reading “Of course we come from monkeys, just look at your mom” causing a quick giggle; enough interest for the vendor to grab Kelly’s arm. “You pay now.”

“How do you find what you’re looking for in this place?” she questions as she rips her arm free and gives the look of death to the perpetrator, all in one motion without breaking her sentence. We’re used to this kind of behavior.

            I smile and hold up a knowing finger. “Watch and learn. DIESEL JEANS! What size is Eric’s waist?” I quickly ask.

            “30? Yeah, 30.”

            “DIESEL JEANS! SIZE 30! DIESEL JEANS! Not the most proper way of shopping, but it works. Trust me. I have 6 pairs of Diesels at home in the village.” I wink to Kelly.

Within a matter of three minutes, the vendors swarm us offering their goods, “Obama, you take these. Try these. Perfect.” The easiest part of the process is finding what you want. Buying takes practice. They start at insanely high prices (higher if you happen to be white) and you barter your way down to a suitable agreement. In the case of Diesel jeans, that means 20,000/=, or $10.

Eric catches up to us in time to see his options. “I’m not sure. Diesel jeans are tight. I like room to move.”

“Here. I like these. Try them on,” Kelly hands over a stack of three pairs.

“Where, though?” Eric looks around the market, searching out a private place to drop trou.

“Ssebo, he wants to try. You cover him or we go,” I get gruff with the vendors. It is how things work. Sure enough, two guys run over with sheets and hold up a makeshift dressing room for Eric to try on each pair of jeans in the middle of traffic. With each pair, the men drop the curtain to let Kelly and I investigate and decide, as if Eric can’t possibly make his own decision.

Deciding on the third pair, we get the vendor to reduce his price from 50,000/= to the standard 20,000/= and Eric bags the jeans. Then another man comes and holds up a pair of the most ridiculously fab Diesels: the denim has white clouds over a baby blue sky. I’d buy them if they weren’t size 36. Back in the eighth grade they would be perfect but a bit large for me now. I humor the man as we move for the street exit, “Ssebo. I am not married. If I buy these and go to the disco, people will laugh at me and tell me the sun shines out of my ass.” Everyone within earshot laughs at my joke. Turns out humor translates.

“Hey, Eric. What happened to no wearing labels?” Kelly smirks with a winning jab.

“Shut up, you.”

“May I remind you that I’m approaching a year since I could have these little showcases of romance. I may have to kill you both if you continue.” I joke as we emerge back into the daylight. Back home.

-[-]-

The Ugandan school calendar runs from February to December with three terms lasting about three months each and about a month of break between. The big break is 2 months. I am closing down the big break now. The first week after term closed, Umeme (the power company) came and wired power from our poles to the high school down the road. Something happened in that process leaving us without power. I expected a quick fix. I mean, it couldn’t take too long to figure out the issue. Could it?

After five days floating in and out of consciousness on my cold cement floor to escape the massive heat, I went to Kampala for PC training. I left thinking I’d come home to find the lights on but, a week later, I came home to find the only thing “on” was burnt grass on my couch, meaning the village burned every inch of surviving grass.  I swept and returned to the life of floored semi-consciousness. Two weeks passed and I left for Zanzibar, saying a silent prayer that Umeme come and fix the “fucking thing” or that a miracle happens and the power restore itself. After all, if the geckos can grow a new tail, the power can step up to the challenge.

Sure, I came home fresh and inspired, at peace with my new Ugandan life. Well, not new; it’s been a year. Despite the awakening, I still said a silent prayer for power as I opened my door. None to be found on the other side. Instead of taking to the floor, I started biking around my community and forcing myself on friends, acquaintances, and random strangers. Let me lay in your shade. Tell me about yourself. Feed me. Will you be my friend? The days flew by into two full weeks. I started thinking I’d be totally fine if power never came back. . . That is a lie.

I sat myself under my friend Yusuf’s tree and we started discussing the usual topic: Obama. Yusuf is a great man, helping me not electrocute myself when doing electrical work on my house. I asked him for assistance because I bore witness to my father shaking with that scary light-in-his-eyes every time we put up new light fixtures or ceiling fans. “Mom, Dad did it again!” I was nervous for good reason. My big new idea is wiring power to my kitchen/dining area. “Would you mind helping me again with my house?”

“Sure. You have your wires, socket and tower clips?” he knows his stuff.

“I’m going to town on Wednesday to gather everything I need. I figure we can use the school’s ladder to put the wire through the gap in the walls.” My walls go all the way up to the ceiling, which is a good things to isolate bat intrusions but not when you want to put a wire to the other side of your house. Luckily, the point where the roof sheets meet has an opening just large enough to run a wire.

“When do you want to work on it?”

“Thursday?” I pose as an option.

“Sure, let’s go look at the situation,” he mumbles as he goes to his bike, clearly on a mission to maison d’emusugut. Yusuf likes to visit my house because he knows I have bananas (the sweet ones, not the green ones baked and mashed; sick) and lemonade (well, it is Crystal Lite). We cycle through the dust storms pulled up by the winds on the dirt roads until we reach the currently abandoned compound that is my neighborhood. Yusuf crosses his arms, “No problem. The way it will pass is really high, but we’ll be careful. No death for us. How long have you been powerless?” He says as beads of sweat drip down his brow, pointing to the fan that isn’t oscillating or blowing cool air.

“Two months? Wow. Two months. I don’t mind usually, but sometimes I feel like offing myself I’m so bored. Especially at night.”

“Let us go look at the transformer,” he says seriously as he again walks to his bike and sets off towards the power pole. I quickly lock up and pedal hard to catch him. We throw our bikes to the ground and climb the nearby mango tree until we’re eye-to-eye with the transformer. “Hmm,” Yusuf exudes an all-knowing sigh, “I am not sure what to do next.”

“How about this one?” I say blindly as I jiggle a wire, causing sparks to fly about three feet in every direction. “Nope.”

“Try that one,” he points to a small frayed wire. I wasn’t sure if he was too afraid to touch it himself. Was I the sacrificial lamb? Hell, I went to church yesterday for my neighbor’s grandbaby’s baptism. I had faith on my side. I jiggle the wire and nothing happens until my phone vibrates.

“Yoga?” I answer.

“Ejai akim. Ejai akim. There is power. There is power,” my neighbor screams so loud I move the phone a few inches from my ear.

“No, no death for us. Only light. Light in your home. We want you to be happy at home.” Yusuf laughs as he jumps from the flowering mango tree.

-[-]-

NOTE: New camera coming . . . pictures resume soon.

-[-]-

From my life to yours:

Book: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell

Show: Gossip Girl because one of it's reviews declares it "Mind-blowingly inappropriate."

Tune: “Bag Lady” by Erykah Badu

-[-]-

Love,

Omoding

(the “H” is silent)

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!