Starting Over

Flowers!

Deciding to attend the head teacher’s monthly meeting was a mistake. After the sixth month at site, I realized attending the powwow did not contribute to my overall health. Beginning three hours behind schedule, the two hours worth of material stretches into five hours. Tangents turn into debates over British English versus American English. My counterpart understands the cultural gap and finds no fault in my absence; he knows I prefer grassroots classroom work to trickle-down effect meetings. So, when I accepted the invitation to attend June’s meeting, he was shocked.

“Cuti? Really?”

“Eebo. Akoto eong alosit aipup aiyala na lukapolok luka isomeroi. Awolio eong eyapie ecarou loebunit kere. Yes. I want to go and hear the head teacher’s conversations. I missed nearly all of last year entirely,” I responded. In that moment, I believed it would be best to attend…

The Friday of the meeting arrived and I rode my bicycle to the host school. Immediately, the head teachers noticed me and began to guilt me like a Greek (or Catholic or Irish or Jewish or any other culture) mother.

“Iwori bo ilosi ijo osomeroka? When are you coming to my school?”

“Iwolio ijo! You are lost!”

Earlier in my PC experience, I hated this scolding but I now take it for what it is: playful. I smiled and took a seat next to my counterpart, thinking I was prepared for what was to come. The schedule was standard:

1. Prayer
2. Communication from Host School
3. Communication from Chairperson
4. Communication from CCT (my counterpart)
5. Reading of previous minutes
6. School Briefing
7. Month plan for Professional Development
8. Closing
9. Prayer

The communications took two hours alone, which prompted me to put my head in my hands and doze into a state of semi-consciousness. (A great coping mechanism.) However, a startling occurrence took place during the school briefings. The Deputy Head Teacher of my home primary school stood and announced the completion of a classroom block for the kindergarten classes. He then explained that Omoding (Adam—me) was heartily paying for the construction and the school was grateful.

I let out a gasp and whispered to myself, “Shit.” My head literally fell to the table and made a slight thump; however, I knew it culturally inappropriate to interrupt his address to make a correction. A flash of previous encounters flashed in my mind: elderly women approaching, palm out, face concocted to look upset, “Ikapun. Money.” Children running around me in a circle screaming, “Penny. School. Penny. School.” Visitors arriving at my house to skirt the issue with thirty minutes of their life stories, only to propose “business.” Church leaders coming to tell me “God sent you to give us money.” Head teachers expressing their expectations for me to “build new schools.” A thorn in my Peace Corps side, my community made great leaps over the last 14 months and presently understands that Omoding doesn’t mean money, it means bush. The Deputy’s report compromised my standing as a man, implying my standing as money.

Frustrating as it may be, I can’t blame him for his lack of awareness. Until the previous week, the Deputy was on sabbatical to care for his HIV positive brother and had no idea that I, along with many community members, wrote and was awarded a grant to complete a block of two classrooms for the kindergarten. I knew that his faux pas was the same as if I pulled the “go back to start” card while playing a board game. I was literally starting over.

Leaving the meeting, I used my American pace (“Omoding, you are a serious walker!) to distance myself from the head teachers as they departed for their respective schools. It was not successful.

“Omoding, I have a proposal for you. We are trying to build some teachers housing. I’ll send you the paperwork.”

“What do you think about giving money for a piggery? It would make good money for the school.”

Back to start.

-[-]-

Seeing the flyer in the Peace Corps Volunteer lounge, my heart skipped a beat: “Extend to Peace Corps China!” It sounded like an amazing opportunity and I immediately started to inquire within: Learn Mandarin. Continue with Peace Corps. Live in an urban area. Teach English at a university. It all sounded like an experience that would add to my rich Ugandan experience. In that moment, I decided to go for PC China and delay a return to America.

A few months later, last week to be exact, I arrived home around five o’clock from a focal school and pulled on my gum boots (think Wellingtons), my work clothes (sleeveless tee, running shorts), work gloves and I grabbed my rake. The students just finished slashing my compound and the grass left behind reminded me of a slaughtered battlefield. Working previously in the Parks Maintenance Department, I raked the grass into a large pile on the side of my house. It stood 6 feet high; my grass grows fast.

The next day was much the same story. I returned home around five o’clock from yet another focal school and prepared myself for yard work. Today, I would weed my flowerbeds and “clean my compound.” Definition: to dig up the grass around the structures of my house, (bathing area, house and latrine) leaving a dirt “patio” area. It keeps snakes away. A few minutes into the work, a group of students gathered to watch the latest movie, “Doubled Over White Man Sweating Profusely.” I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. My house is the one place where I will not tolerate being watched, mocked, stared at, etc. In addition, students are prohibited from entering the teachers’ quarter, clearly marked out of bounds.

“Kolototo ngina. Go away, over there,” I scolded. It worked for five minutes but the troupe returned for Act II of “DOWMSP.” Already tired, I traded Ateso for English, speaking quickly and loudly. “Do you think this is funny? Is my work that interesting? Would you go and watch your other teachers? No, they would beat you! This is teacher housing. OUT. OF. BOUNDS. Get away. GET. AWAY.” I lost control. “GET. AWAY! Now, you little monsters!”

The kids sat wide eyed for a moment and then it happened. They started laughing and mocking me. One boy faked a sob. Another girl threw a clump of grass at me. Yet another girl threw a handful of flowers forward. Flowers from my garden. And then I broke. I held back the tears because if you let them see you cry (yes, I’m talking about primary kids) they will destroy you. They already throw my clean laundry in the dirt and stomp my garden! “Why do they continue to get away with this behavior?” you may ask. I refuse to beat children, which is the medium used to instill respect (what we know as fear).

Something in my eyes, amidst the tears fighting to flow, scared the kids into running. Still in my work clothes and gum boots, I followed them calmly towards the school calling after them, “Do you think I like turning into the crazy muzungu?! No! I most definitely do not!” In the teacher’s lounge, visibly burnt out, the teachers rallied around me and promised to have the students come and work on my compound the next day as punishment.

Walking back to my house, I picked up the grass and flowers thrown by the kids and set off for the grass pile. Tossing them in with the rest of the clippings, I collapsed into the mound, exhausted with constant struggle. Struggle to integrate yet never truly able. Struggle to understand behavior yet never fully knowledgeable. Struggle to separate American racisom from Ugandan ignorance. Struggle to stay true to myself in the face of derision. The grass closed in around me and I hoped for a few precious moments truly alone.

“What the hell am I doing? Don’t be crazy,” I sniffled to myself.

It is the time in my Peace Corps experience to decide post-Uganda plans. The high of village life (the mid-point for volunteers is the honeymoon phase, I swear) compels me to continue my Peace Corps experience in another country. However, sitting in the grass pile, I questioned how much of my desire for China has to do with fear? Fear of going home? Fear of leaving all I know to start again? It was too much: the grass, the fishbowl, the future. Eyes puffed up, migraine set in, rash appeared and nose ran away. My body literally broke so I popped Benadryl to control my allergic reaction and said goodnight.

I awoke the next afternoon at 4 PM, clearly aware of my mini crisis. For the rest of the evening I sat on the couch and reflected on my time after the village. Each possibility instilled fear and I started to panic. In an effort to divert attention, I pulled out a printing of my university’s alumni newsletter and read the article about my experience in Uganda. Snippets of my educational philosophy made its way into the feature, reminding me of my pre-PC self: focused, driven, opinionated, clear about my future plans to work in short-changed urban public schools. Somehow, away from my real world, I lost sight of my intended path. In that moment, I knew delaying reality with China was unhealthy. I need to go home and start yet again.

Back to start.

Snip. Snip. Snap.

It is true Nairobi didn’t offer a proper haircut to this whitey. The only techniques known by black East Africans are the shave and the scalp. We’re talking down to the source, which goes against my religion (fashion, if you didn’t know). Further, I have an irrational fear of clippers. To avoid such treatment, I found myself the best hairstylist who never subjected me to a tearful meeting with clippers— Jason @ Cha Cha, located at East Mifflin next to Café Monmartre. Throughout the entirety of childhood, haircuts turned for the worse at the hands of clippers. The buzzing sound makes me cringe and close my eyes in terror. In Uganda, something so treacherous accompanies the sound of clippers, goose bumps raise up on my arm just thinking about it: the fade and angular shape of hairlines. Yes, the practice of fading hair to naked flesh the closer you come to the hairline. To make matters worse, the clippers shape the hairline into sharp corners. Such treatment is enough to bring this man to tears or avoid the barber chair since August.

For months, people in my village sent their subtle hints that I needed a haircut.

“Omodiŋ, you look like a woman with such long hair,” the head teacher commented, clearly trying to work shame and embarrassment into the conversation.

“The meaning of your name is now on the top of your head,” an old woman proclaimed upon hearing Omodiŋ (meaning bush) in an introduction.

“I know a man who cuts Hindi people’s hair in town. I can show you where,” Nathan offered casually when I mentioned how long hair is not conducive to warm weather.

The idea of “looking smart” was another reason why I decided to forgo a cut. How someone looks doesn’t measure intelligence. What if a person doesn’t have the money to buy clothes or a haircut deemed appropriately smart? Does that make him dimwitted? I think not! Some of the greatest minds have the scariest appearances. Despite all the effort to grow out my mop, after the cold weather of Nairobi, the village felt more a sauna then ever. I could take it no longer.

I took myself outside and commenced an internal pep talk. True, I could never achieve the perfect haircut Jason gave me every three weeks. I may very well annihilate my hair to the point of ruin but it would grow back. Not as quickly as Harry Potter’s hair, but still . . . Anything was better than fading and shaping and shaving. I would make sure not to cut off any digits. I would go slow, take my time, think through each cut. I set up my station on the stoop of my house, hand mirror hanging from the window. I approached my first cut and took a deep breath. After five minutes practicing moving my scissors while using a mirror to accurately position the blades to cut my hair, I felt comfortable enough.

Snip snip snip.I refused to make straight cuts along my fingers, opting to make cuts into the hair, leaving angular inclines throughout. Nothing would be of the same length but of a general ballpark range. I kept the hair wet as I snipped, trying to blend the edges to avoid the bowl cut fashion I sported throughout my middle school career. I shudder at the thought. How horrifyingly ugly. Working to the frontal bangs, I never closed the scissors but rather used the juncture where the scissors met to glide along the hair. Nearing completion, I towel dried and worked product (picked up in Nairobi) into the hair to give it shape. Then, I finalized my cuts and looked at my hands to make sure all five fingers remained. Successful in both, I smiled with pride and went to dress for the ensuing wedding of the day.

*

After waiting 20 minutes for Nathan to show, I decided to walk to his house and proceed to the wedding from there. The moment I stepped outside, my neighbor started yelling how smart I looked in my dress clothes. This was my first time wearing the only nice clothes I packed before heading to Uganda. In fact, I had to unpack them from my suitcase for the occasion. Grey trousers (pants here are underwear), a pink H&M shirt, Kenneth Cole tie and Kenneth Cole dress shoes. I felt like I was standing in a broiler, beads of sweat gathering on my brow. I rushed through the sunlight across the compound to Nathan’s house and sat down on his porch.

At this point, children gathered from the neighbor’s houses to look at me in my smart clothes. “Elai Omodiŋ. Elaete ikongoen. You look so smart. You have formal clothes,” the children showered compliments as they stared. I smiled and brushed the sweat from my brow.

Hearing conversation on the porch, Nathan walked outside to meet me, still shining his loafers with a brush and shoe polish. Usually, Ugandans make greeting their first priority but Nathan knows that Americans don’t practice such things so seriously. Concentrating on the task, he didn’t look up until Dickens, his son, came outside and shouted, “Iŋai bon ŋin, Papa? Who is that, Dad?”

He looked up and immediately smiled, “Wow! You cut your hair. Where?”

“I did it myself. I figured if no one knows how to cut muzungu hair, I might as well try. It turned out pretty nice.”

“You look smart. I think you should not have long hair again.”

“Not sure about that, but it’s nice to know the option is available for a proper haircut.”

“We should go to the wedding. It was to start at 11 this morning. It is now half passed midday,” Nathan suggested as he put on shoes.

“Yeah, I’m sure they haven’t started yet. You know, African time.”

“True. In that case, let us take a cup of tea. The ceremony may run long.”

*

We eventually made our way to the wedding around 1 PM. As we neared the church, Nathan began to set out rules for our attendance, “I will only stay until 3 PM. They will not consume my day. We leave promptly at 3.”

“Ha. Easy for you. You stand up and leave. I stand up and everyone looks at me!” I remind him while pointing to my skin, causing him to laugh and shake his head.

Coming upon the church, the pastor walked out and shook our hands, exchanging greetings. Then, he ushered us into the grass-thatched hut church and showed us to our seats. He took me to the front, just beside the guest pastor and then moved towards the congregation to show Nathan his seat. I immediately knew this would bind my attendance to the end and made a move for transfer, “I sit by him. If I sit in the front, so does he.” The pastor initially looked shocked and then turned towards the front and sat Nathan next to me on the altar.

“Thanks a lot,” Nathan whispered as the ceremony began.

When three o’clock registered on my watch, I showed him the time, hoping for an exit but he only cast his gaze downward and sighed. “We must stay to the end. People will notice our departure if we go now.”

Expecting such an answer I only smiled, “Welcome to my world, friend.”

*

The ceremony ended at 6 PM and we started our walk home.

“I’m never going to a wedding with you again,” Nathan teased.

“It wasn’t so bad. Last year, the Catholic wedding ran a full 12 hours without food or drink. That was rough,” I offered as we crossed paths with the head teacher of our school. “Lokapolon, yoga. Head teacher, hello.”

“Namesake! You returned from Nairobi. Glad to see you, but I also see you did not cut your hair while on holiday. I am disappointed. You look more like a woman.”

I shook my head, “No, I actually cut my hair today.”

“No, you did not. It looks the same.”

My English became more rapid as I lost patience. “Trust me, I cut my hair with a scissors. I was there. I know. You don’t see many muzungu people so you wouldn’t notice unless I scalped myself,” I excused his dismissive remark.

“No, you’re hair is the same.”

“Okay. Whatever. Awanyunos. Good bye.” Sometimes it isn’t worth it to fight, especially when you’re having a good hair day.

(schizo)Frenic Future:
(all options subject to change, to be redundant)

a) Columbia Teacher’s College Peace Corps Fellows Program: Teaching in NYC public school during daylight, attending esteemed graduate program post-dusk.

b) Peace Corps China: Extending my PC contract to teach English at university level in a Western Province (city) for 2 years while learning Mandarin and promoting American goodwill.

c) Unemployed living on your couch: No explanation needed.

The Emerald City

Awolio eoŋ! I am lost! Life was busy: finishing up collaborations with Term One’s focal schools, writing a grant for US AID Small Project Assistance (accepted!), co-facilitating Peace Corps Life Skills workshops, attending my mid-service conference, and then . . .


“Obi!” The words became concrete as I stirred to life, my body contorted in the uncomfortable “luxury” chair that bound me for fourteen hours, save for passing through customs and waking to find the bus driver asleep at the wheel of our cruiser, in the middle of a sorghum field. “Nairobi. Hapa! Nairobi,” the conductor shouted like an alarm clock.

I quickly found my feet and struggled to unlock my bursting backpack from the overhead rack where I chained it. One cannot be too careful with a suitcase of clothes worth approximately $3000 (all secondhand, of course). Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I turned in a circle to gain my first vision of Nairobi. It looked a lot like Kampala: stucco shops that reach two or three floors max. Immediately, I felt deflated with the familiarity surrounding me; I booked a week in Kenya’s capital city for its reputation: “Manhattan of East Africa.” True, a Eurocentric notion forced upon an African metropolis but I needed a drastic holiday from the bush: a city with substance and order. My shoulders slumped under the weight of my backpack and the defeat of failed expectation. Then, I turned westward.
Soaring up from the usual African shops were crystal skyscrapers. Loads of them; well, at least enough to make a proper skyline. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I started walking towards the city centre, humming “Wonderful Wizard of Oz” the entire way. I crossed River Road, a shady thoroughfare in the old part of the city, headed down Latema until I hit Moi Avenue. I could feel the electricity of the city nearing as I turned left and joined the rapid current of urban dwellers on their morning commute. For a moment, I thought myself in an American city, only with a significantly increased Black population. I was immediately blissful.

There were no greetings, no shouts of muzungu, no beggars on the street, no motorcycles harassing me with “you sit, we go.” Only a crowd of people, individuals turning off sporadically as their journeys differed from the majority. Not paying attention, I collided with a man who stopped suddenly in the middle of the block. He turned around and immediately saw my confusion, “Bus stop.” I smiled, trying to seem like bus stops were a part of my everyday life.

I quickly apologized and continued down the street to the intersection with Mama Ngina. As the first and most exciting stop in Nairobi neared, my blood quickened and my eyes searched the storefronts for a sign. Halfway down the block I turned around to make sure I hadn’t already passed it when a door swung open and released the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans: Nairobi Java House.

I caught the door before it could close and walked in to find a proper coffee shop with café tables and fashion forward bohemians sitting next to businessmen reading the daily news. I ignored feeling awkward in my travel clothes with a huge backpack; instead, I grabbed the last available table. Within five seconds a barista approached, “Morning, something to drink? Maybe a bite to eat?” I quickly ordered a regular coffee, neither cream nor sugar, and a healthy stack of pancakes, already tasting a little slice of heaven. After taking my order the barista turned to walk to the service station but doubled back, “Where are you from?”

“Oh. I’m American but I stay in Uganda,” I answered.

“Really? My mother is from Tororo.”

“Cuti? Ijeni ijo Ateso? Really? You know Ateso?” Automatically, I began speaking Ateso. Even on holiday from my village, I couldn’t help but grasp onto all ties to my African life.

“Eebo. Ai bo iboiei ijo? Yes. Where to do you stay?”

“Buka ŋaren na Soroti. Ejai ocaalo. I’m from near Soroti. It’s in the village.”

“Wonderful! You are a true Itesot, then. I’ll be right back with your coffee. I’m sure you’re looking forward to it. Not a lot of coffee in the village.”

“You have no idea,” I smiled and rubbed my hands together as I looked around at the red wine walls, the cedar wood countertop, people rushing to the register leaving moments later with a cup of energy in hand. I closed my eyes and listened to the fuzzy chatter of coffee beans grinding, steam machines, conversations in English, Swahili and Luo. City living, indeed.

* * *

“Morning, Adam. Going out for the day?” Angela, at the hotel’s front desk, asked as I walked towards the main entrance.

“Mmhmm. I think a little exploration is necessary,” I smiled back as I plugged in my earbuds and pressed the play button on my Ipod, feeling the total invisibility surging forth from the street.

“I can call a taxi for you it you want—“ she began.

“No need. I’ll take the bus.”

“Oh, my. Okay,” she said in disbelief.

I stood at the corner bus stop for ten minutes before my bus came. No. 24 pulled up to the curb and barely stopped as I jumped on and took a seat next to an older gentleman reading Barack Obama’s Dreams of my Father. I giggled to myself and took out my copy of the same book, a last minute decision at the Peace Corps library the day I left for my trip.

“Good read?” I asked the man as I showed him my copy.

“Yeah. Loads better than the rubbish he wrote in his second book, The Audacity of Hope. You can tell which he wrote while a politician.”

“I won’t bother with the sequel, then. I haven’t started this yet.”

“Well, a good place to read it. A whole section of the book takes place in this very city,” the man said as he spread his hands to the window’s view of the cityscape in the distance. “I’d ask if you were on your way home to Karen but white people in Nairobi don’t often take the bus.” Karen is a neighborhood within greater Nairobi that houses most of the white Kenyans who decided to stay after independence, named after Out of Africa’s author Karen Blixen. “Which begs the question, Where are you from?”

“I’m American but I currently live in NE Uganda with the Iteso people,” I gave the standard response even though most don’t have any knowledge of the Iteso people, a tiny population compared to Luo or Kikuyu.

The man digested my response with a furrowed brow and made his next question, “Did you vote in November?”

“By way of post,” I answered.

“I trust by your choice of reading that you made a smart decision. Where are you off to today?”

Just as I was about to answer, the conductor shouted the stop for Hardy, which was my destination. I stood up and quickly answered as I climbed down the stairs, “I’m going to kiss a giraffe. Doing something memorable for my 25th birthday.”

“Well, just remember to wash your face. Happy Birthday,” the elderly man waved from the window as the bus pulled away. “Enjoy the city.”

“I plan to.”

* * *

“So, you been to Masaai Mara?” Andy, my guide for the afternoon, asked as we walked to the car that would take us through Nairobi National Park.

“No. I’m not much of a nature person.” As soon as the words slipped out of my mouth, I felt their dishonesty. Now a year into village life, nature wasn’t as scary as I once thought, just not my cup of coffee. “I thought if I were to go on safari, it would be within the confines of a city.”

“Well, good choice, then. You can see the skyline of Nairobi in the distance. Most strange thing you’ll ever see. Animals running around with skyscrapers in the background. Crazy sight, indeed. You . . .” And so it went for the next five hours. Andy loves to talk about any subject. I learned his mother was from Seychelles and his father was from Uganda but he grew up in Mombasa, hunting warthogs in his boyhood.

Arriving at the vehicle, I laughed at the hybrid before us. Seeing my response, Andy harped in, “Well, as a city person, I thought you’d prefer the greenest vehicle we have. She runs like a bull, swear my life on it.”

“It is perfect. I guess green would do me well. I burn my trash in a rubbish pit. Not sure how eco-friendly that may be. This may forgive some of my Earthly sins. Off we go, then.”


“Damn lions. Making their kill before we arrive. Wish ‘em to hell, I do,” Andy swore as we finished hour four of our adventure. I lost interest after the third hour but Andy was hell-bent on finding a cat. So hell-bent that he off-roaded after passing Leopard Cliff, voyaging through mud for thirty minutes before we met with a buffalo. “This isn’t good. Let me see if I can turn around.”

“Really? The thing can’t be scared off?” I asked quietly.

“Nah, it’ll charge. Worst thing to do is piss it off. Shit, another behind us. What do we do now?”

“Wait it out? What more can we do?” I offered, the words of a true villager. Waiting for things or people is second nature now.

So, we sat in the middle of the park for an hour, waiting for something to scare the buffalos away. Being off the path, nothing came by to assist. Andy became anxious after thirty minutes and when the hour hit, he could take no more. He started to exit the car when the buffalo walked forward. I turned the key in the ignition hoping the sudden noise would startle the beast. Before I could jump the engine, the fan kicked on in a silent roar and the buffalos screeched and started running down the hill towards the ravine.

“Good thinking. Well, you may not have seen a lion, but you came face to face with a pissy buffalo. What now?”

“Take me back to the city. I’m not a nature person,” I said, this time seeing the truth in my words.

* * *

I spent the last day in Nairobi sitting in Uhuru Park, landscaped with flowers, shrubs and trees casting endless shade. I sipped an iced coffee and ate a sandwich bought from a vendor while reading the last of Obama’s book. I felt sad to leave Nairobi, a city that won my heart with its uniquely reclaimed culture, sweet coffee, delicate pastries and its friendly yet not intrusive people; however, I know one day I will return to urban lifestyle and all its cosmopolitan qualities. For now, in my 25th year, living the village life sounds like a good deal.

Lessons Learnt:

In university, my black friends would often complain about having to go hours for a decent hair appointment. I will forever understand this plight. Therefore, I cut my hair with nothing more than a scissors, my fingers, and a hand mirror.

The first time I ran in the village, children threw rocks. I again pick up the pace with reinforcements. Nathan and myself will be running at 5:45 AM four days a week. There go my kneecaps.

Read Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael. Maybe it was science fiction when published in 1992 but, in this day and age, it is spot-on.

3 AM Bus

Western Uganda is cold and hilly. Opposite of East.

Owino Market

Tea Plantation

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. My alarm clock continues to chirp as I sit up in bed and rub my eyes awake. The sunlight of the morning that usually floods through my bedroom curtain is absent today. I stretch my arm out and pat my bedside table in search of the alarm clock, still chirping. After a few moments, I press the snooze button, causing its face to shine forth the time: 2:30 AM. “Kampala awaits. You can do this. Think of the city. Get out of bed,” I convince myself as I swing my legs onto the floor and stand up. I decided not to wire power to my bedroom since I only use it to sleep, so I walk slowly into the kitchen and switch on the table lamp. The light stings, causing me to take a few steps back and rub my eyes for the second time. “Why do I have to live so far away? 9 hours on a bus is fucking ridiculous.” I usually plan trips to Kampala in advance to mentally prepare myself for city living but Peace Corps called me to the city two days ago. Not enough time to think of what to pack or re-learn how to cross a busy street. “Should I make coffee?” I ask myself as I pour water from my Gerry can into my electric kettle and switch on the power button. Bathing this early in the morning calls for warm water. “No, I’ll have to pee on the bus. Besides, I’ll fall asleep if I don’t.” After a year of living alone, I now talk to myself. I quickly bathe, dress and throw on my backpack to check my house. I’ll be gone for a week and want to make sure everything is locked. I turn on my cell phone torch, hold it in between my lips and walk around my house pushing on windows to make sure the latches are tight. I also lock the doors from the outside. “Okay, here we go. I’m outta here! Awanyunos bobo,” I wave to my house as I turn around to the empty compound. I take a deep breath for courage and begin my walk. I run through the tall grass afraid a snake might latch on to my leg. Once safely under the mango trees, I follow the path from my neighbor’s house to the school buildings. Mosquitoes swarm the security light outside the office. I stop to take a deep breath, realizing I wasn’t breathing for the first leg of my journey. “Okay, no more lights until I get to the center. I can do this. Walk fast. Walk fast, Omoding.” I tighten my backpack and set out for the center. As I walk through the school buildings I hear bats screaming as they gather in the classrooms. I clear the teacher’s houses and come to the path leading through the bush. It starts out wide and gets narrower until it opens to the main road. I skip down the eerie path, muscles tight. The sound of breathing comes from somewhere nearby. I mouth the words “Oh my God” and keep going. My feet start to run and the contents of my backpack shift, causing noise. My heart begins to pound against my shirt and my mind floods with possible situations. The breathing becomes louder and my eyes search for its location. My head whips desperately as I wait to be taken to the ground. As I point my cell phone torch into the grass, a cow’s head emerges and I let out the scream of a 5-year-old girl. “Meuh,” the cow responds before it disappears back into the bush from where it came. However, I don’t stop until I make it to the main road, where I double over, hands on my knees and my chest heaving with shame. The clouds pass and moon shines down. “You’re a little late,” I critique the sky. As I near the old mortuary, my foot catches on something and I fall to the ground face-first. “What the hell? What now?” I whisper to the dirt. “Beh. Beh.” The culprit bleats as I push myself up onto my feet. I shine my cell phone torch to find ten goats sleeping in the middle of the road. The goat I tripped over adjusts itself and falls back asleep. I contemplate throwing rocks at the animals in protest but think better of myself and continue to the center. “That’s enough. No more shit show this morning,” I order fate. Fruit bats the size of crows congregate in the center’s mango tree, showering down feces to anyone who waits below. I opt to cross the street to move out of the trajectory. The storefront lights only spread a short distance but it comforts me. I scan the center and spot a few dogs mounting each other next to the bore hole. I think of my 14 months. The sounds of footsteps come from behind and I expect to find another person coming to catch the bus. I turn around to greet the person only to find a 7-year-old boy holding Gerry cans. “Esapat, yoga. Ai bo ilosi ijo? Boy, hello. Where are you going?” I question as he passes. “Agilo. Aiga akipi. To the bore hole. I’m fetching water.” It is nearly 3 AM and a young boy is going to pump water! Furious, I say to myself, “I said enough with the bullshit. What the hell is going on this morning?” “Illiling. Ajai eong ajotoor, Shut up. I’m sleeping,” yells a deep voice from within the hollow tree stump next to me. However, I’m unable to apologize for my disruption because there is no word for “sorry” in Ateso. Instead, I continue walking through the center, distancing myself from the talking stump and the bat shit. I make it to the roundabout in the middle of the center and hear the bus horn. 3 AM. The village bus is the only thing that keeps time. “Thank goodness. I don’t think I could take much more.” I board the bus and warn the driver, “Ocoiete. Ejassi akinei nen. Be careful. There are goats just there.” He looks at me strangely and points to the back of the bus.

-[-]-

Hymn: “Taking the Long Way” by the Dixie Chicks

Him: Sean Penn in “Milk” . . . stunning

Hmm: Be jealous. I found True Religion jeans at Owino for $10

Ekiliokit lokatutubet: Half Way Man

Life is good.

My kiddos, well some of the 25,000.

Lunch!

I pedal down the dirt road unable to use my seat because the recent rains washed away the smooth surface of the road; a million bumps now frustrate my morning commute. A gust of wind whips the dust into a cyclone and moves towards me. Do I throw myself into the swamp? Do I hold my breath? No, I wipe my lips of the Bert’s Bees Lip Balm I applied before leaving the house and continue to pedal. Without thinking, I blow a bubble just as I make contact with the cyclone. As soon as I return the popped gum into my mouth, I hear the grit on my teeth.

“I’m such a fool. Great job, Omoding,” I say to myself as I spit my gum into the bush.

For my 6th grade birthday, my mother bought tickets to “Cats.” It was the year of Rum Tum Tugger, Deuteronomy and Jezebel. I ate lunch in Mr. Thompson’s classroom with friends while listening to the soundtrack, imagining my own rebirth. It took a few more years, but I got there.

Grandpa chewed his gum with an open mouth on the way to the theater. He processed at least a pack a day in both cigarettes and chewing gum until he died a few months later. His face soured and he rolled the window down, disposing of the flavorless piece by throwing it as far as his elbow would allow in my mother’s compact car.

“Dad, you can’t just throw your gum like that! It’s littering,” my mom scolded as she drove down the road.

“Jesus, LuAnn. It’s biodegradable. It’ll break down. Dust to dust,” my grandfather laughed and rolled up his window, smoothing his gray hair back into place.

I hope my hair goes with me to the grave.

“Yeah, in years,” my mother countered sarcastically. I sat in the backseat and chuckled. Children should never start an argument with their parents expecting to win. It rarely happens.

I cracked the window and let my gum fly into the spring breeze, feeling mischievous and aligned with grandpa’s philosophy. “Dust to dust,” I whispered.

-[-]-

African time is something completely different from the American reservation system. At home, if you’re late for a reservation on a Saturday night, you lose your table. Here I am, reading Water For Elephants, my second hour of waiting for the Ministry of Education officials to arrive and facilitate a workshop concerning education in war-ravaged areas. Yes, I live in a war-ravaged area.

Well into the third hour, the officials arrive and begin their program, which will last for 6 hours. No meeting should last this long. I certainly don’t; I stand and make my way to the exit, bound for fresh air when – “Yes? You need to leave?” the facilitator asks, clearly keeping tabs on the only white person in the meeting. In fact, the cameraman came to take a picture of the whitey for record purposes. It made me feel like a monkey. “You’re disturbing the workshop.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was the first to arrive. I silenced my phone while watching countless others begin conversing in the middle of the conference. Could being white be a disturbance? My disturbance is bullshit.

“Zoe, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m dying of laughter over here!” I whispered in between convulsions of laughter at my stand partner’s humor. Orchestra was a favorite subject because Zoe and I laughed the horrors of high school away behind our music stand. She began a follow-up to her quip, “I’m just saying—“

“Are you two alright or do I need to move you? Adam, you really need to stop all the disruption in class. Some of us are serious musicians. I know you are with us, now show me you are with us,” our conductor/ teacher scolded as I bit my lips to prevent a malevolent smile from shining through. She tapped her stand and we raised our instruments, ready to begin another round of “Hoe Down.”

“Yeah, Adam. Show some sophistication. After all, this is a ho down.” Zoe whispered as she brought her viola to her chin. However, this time we both started laughing and our scrolls nearly knocked into each other.

Without stopping the orchestra, the conductor screamed at us, “You’re fulfilling the violist stereotypes, you two. Be serious.”

“Yeah, Zoe. Be serious. This is a serious piece of music.”

“More like a serious piece of something else!”

-[-]-

When I first moved to the village, I realized I needed to change the locks on my doors. I was not the only holder of keys and people felt at-home enough to storm into my home to keep me company. I didn’t want company, I wanted privacy. That week, I walked to the trading center and brought a carpenter to complete the work. The next morning, I awoke and walked to my bathing area, keys in hand. I turned the key in the lock and . . . nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn. I began trying to force the lock to budge. After thirty minutes, my fingers started to tingle with pain. Children who escaped from class gathered around me as I shook the door and started to cry. Their laughs grew louder and I turned in fury, “Go the fuck away!”

After my outburst, I sat down on the ground, head in hands, and sobbed, “I can’t do this. What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this!.” That was the last time I truly broke down in Uganda. After fifteen minutes of hysterics, I convinced myself to continue with my day, without bathing, and I stood up to go and dress. After all, would anyone notice? I couldn’t care less.

Every month, TPS held a dance in the Main Ballroom of the Memorial Union. Without much of a budget, the music blared to a room devoid of any inclination of celebration. No decorations except the sparkles on the clothing of those in attendance. The tighter the jeans, the better. My group of friends always arrived a stone’s throw from the porcelain goddess, a consequence of pre-barring. The night was unforgettable. Somehow, we all seemed to wake up the next morning on the floor of a friend’s apartment unable to recall the occurrences of the dance.

The TPS dances are no more, I think. Their budget ran out thanks, in part, to their underage drinkers passing out in the lobby.

“Wake up, G. Sleeping the whole day away is not an option,” Jesse shook me in an effort to bring me back to life after too much Malibu.

“I need food in my system if I’m going to make it out again tonight.”

“I’m never drinking again. I swear. Never again. I feel like death. Let me die!” I groaned as he walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

“You won’t die, drama queen. Drink this. We’re going to get breakfast. Now.”

“Fine. But they better have hash browns,” I said as I gulped the water, suddenly realizing we were one shorter than last night. “Where the hell is Elliot?”

“You know how he is at TPS dances. I shouldn’t have to remind you every time.”

“So, that is why we slept in the living room. I’d apologize for not remembering, but isn’t that part of the TPS experience? Jesus, Jesse. Stop being such a bitch,” I flashed my evil grin at Jesse as he pulled on his shoes.

He immediately turned and cackled, “Correction. Diablo. I’m Diablo. Now, let’s go.” I stood up and caught my balance just as Jesse threw shoes at my head. Despite his tormenting, I considered Jesse a great friend. We ate together a few times a week and studied at the Law Library often, always finding things to talk about.

I pulled on my coat and headed for the door when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Wait. Last night, before we went out, what did we do?” I asked as I tried to brush the glitter out of my hair and off my face.

“Get over it. We’re out of here. Bye, Elliot!” he screamed and slammed the door. “It’s not like anyone will notice.” “Ha. Sure. One look and they’ll think . . .”

“Let them think what they want. We had a great night,” Jesse screamed at the traffic as we stepped outside, a patch of snow mysteriously bright red, the color of someone’s vomit.

“Did we? I don’t really remember.”

-[-]-

Track: “Stop and Stare” by OneRepublic
Mack: Andersen Cooper's memoir
Flack: “If you let your hair grow, you’ll look like a white woman.”

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)