By now, I've settled into a routine in my teaching job. Well, as much as a routine as is possible when the word "schedule" refers to a vague set of guidelines rather than an actual plan. Almost every day, I arrive ready to teach, only to discover that at least one of my classes has been cancelled. The reasons are diverse: extra-long morning mass, sports competitions, HIV testing, sack races (I kid you not), and mandatory 3-hour choir practice called for at the last minute by a rogue priest. When one of the teachers saw me writing lesson plans, he looked at me in wonder and called me a "very serious woman." It's frustrating, but I'm trying to just accept that it is the way it is. Lax time standards are just part of the culture. Sometimes they are nice, like when everything pauses for a mid-morning snack and tea break. Other times I feel like I am going to go insane. I want more time in the classroom. The kids want more time in the classroom; they don't like the interruptions either. So who is the one forcing the interruptions? That's the mystery. No one seems to be running things. Everyone goes with the flow. The flow is in charge.
I don't want to give the wrong impression about St. Francis. The kids are incredibly bright, motivated, and friendly. Despite their very limited resources, they manage to learn a great deal. I just found out that they routinely wake up at 5 am for an hour of study before they get ready for the day. They also have class from 4-6 am on Sundays (yup, you read that correctly) because that's the only time the teacher is available. An American high school student would simply up and leave. But these kids take school very seriously. It is their way out of poverty and into a life that they choose. I asked the kids what they do in the month-long breaks between terms. "We dig," they said. That's what they do during "vacation;" they dig and plant and harvest. It is not fun. They would much rather be at school.
And indeed, they spend a lot of time at school, arriving before 8 and leaving after 5. That's a long day, but there is a lot of downtime spent just waiting for things to happen. At first, I wondered why they didn't just cut out the breaks and shorten the school day. But like I said, downtime is part of the culture, and something I would do well to learn. Plus, unlike American kids, Ugandan students don't stare at the clock and count down the seconds until dismissal. In the first place, there is no clock. Secondly, school means friends and fun and learning. Home means a long walk, followed my chores and taking care of siblings. Who wouldn't rather stay at school forever?
Last week was the annual house competition. This event, which made me think of Hogwarts, is a national secondary school phenomenon. The students divide into 3 teams and compete in a variety of events like football (soccer), netball, debate, and even a yard work contest. (Yard work, in fact was one of the biggest class-interrupting culprits.) It's a mixture of fun and seriousness. The competitive spirit pervades the whole school, and when the time comes for a new challenge, the excitement in the air is electric. On Friday, the students banded together as one school and traveled to Kayabwe High School to participate in a sports and debate competition. St. Francis was definitely the underdog. Not only did Kayabwe have A-level (the most advanced) students, but compared to St. Francis, its facilities seemed like the Taj Mahal. I never thought a Ugandan high school could seem luxurious, but perspective does funny things. The funniest part about the day was the atmosphere. It was exactly that of the high school tennis tournaments and football games of yore. There was a certain unspoken antagonism between the two sides, and even a few outspoken parents and teachers who contested Sister Estellina's netball refereeing skills. Some things are universal. In the end, St. Francis won at netball (I was proud that Sister whipped out team into shape in just a week- they were awesome) and lost football, volleyball, and the debate. This may sound disheartening, but I was so proud of the students for putting their hearts into each event and giving the better-funded Kayabwe a run for its money. Go St. Francis. Hmmm, I should find them a mascot.
As far as teaching goes, I'm enjoying it much more than I expected. When I actually do get to be in the classroom, I have so much fun. The kids are accustomed to very standard, by-the-book teaching, so every time I add a new tool like an acronym or a rhyme, they stare at me silently and then dissolve into giggles. It's gratifying to be able to show them new things and encourage them to be creative. I tried to do madlibs yesterday, and that was definitely a failure- they just didn't quite get my silly sense of humor. It's OK, though, most people don't. But I'm slowly introducing new things, and I think, for the most part, they enjoy it. I only wish I could spend al day with them. There is so much to work on, it's very difficult to choose what to cram into an hour and twenty minutes. So far, their English education has been grammar based. I am obligated to teach some grammar because of national requirements, but I really want to work on their reading and writing skills as well. I set one of my classes a composition assignment: write about a Ugandan meeting a muzungu on the road. Most of them took that as a cue to write about me. I was variously described as tall, white, big, interesting, and having an "enchanting" smile. One especially articulate boy wrote that he thought I was a tourist up until the very moment I started teaching. It was all rather enlightening. Also a little scary, being put under a microscope, even if some of the scrutiny was a little difficult to understand.
The attempt to reconcile accomplishing things with being chill is my ever-present struggle. I don't think I'll ever master it completely. But I'm trying not to let all the wasted time bother me so much. It's funny, I've never been much of a stickler for punctuality (whoops...), but here I long for some semblance of structure. I suppose it's part of the adjustment. I've been here for 3 weeks, but it seems like much longer. As much as I'm learning and enjoying (which is a LOT), there are days when I just wish I were home. Oh well, I guess it will be all the sweeter when I actually do get there. For now, know that you're all in my thoughts. Missing you.
P.S. This weekend I'm going on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park. I will return exhausted, smelly, and hopefully in possession of some good pics of animals. Can't wait for the hippos!!
P.P.S. Sorry for no pictures, the internetz is being really slow today (on a good day, pics take an hour to upload). I'll try to incorporate them into the next post. I have some awesome ones of the students and of Sister coaching. :)
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Kampala in the Rain, or, How Four Americans Survived Ugandan Public Transportation.
It was time for an adventure. Kristen, the fourth and last ND student working at UMU this summer, arrived last week. We decided to take a trip to Kampala on Saturday with Dennis, one of our friends here who is from just outside the city. Our mission: to buy some much-needed textbooks for St. Francis Secondary. The added benefits: to explore Kampala, buy souvenirs, and perhaps procure a miraculously matooke-less meal.
We were supposed to leave at 9 a.m. on the free staff bus arranged by UMU. When we got there, however, it was already full. Instead, we took boda-bodas to Kayabwe, the main trading center, where the taxis stopped to pick up passengers on the Kampala-Masaka Road. I should explain that taxis here are more like mini-busses with four rows of seats. They have a fairly fixed route and no time schedule to speak of--they depart when they are full and try to fit in as many extra people as they can along the way. The driver has a conductor onboard, who hawks rides to bystanders and collects arbitrary fees from passengers. The vehicle itself is always the same model of old, beaten-up van and has either a religious message or a favorite soccer team's name painted on the front and back windshield.
The first taxi we approached was nearly full, and the driver tried to kick off a nun so he could squeeze in our large (mostly white) group. Obviously we weren't going to let that happen, so we found an empty taxi nearby and waited for it to fill. I was puzzled as to why the driver kept the car idling as we waited for more passengers. Gas is very expensive, even more than in the U.S., and the heat from the engine only added to the stuffiness of the van. Then he turned it off, and I regretted wondering why he hadn't done it sooner. It would not start again. No matter how many times he ruthlessly cranked the key in the ignition, the engine simply whined helplessly and painfully flipped itself over, undoubtedly causing even more damage. The driver's first solution was to have a bystander add a miniscule can of gas to the tank. Nosir, no luck. The second solution involved the ejection of the front-row passengers from the vehicle. The driver proceeded to open a hatch in the floor that presumably revealed the engine. His head and left hand disappeared into the hatch, while his right hand still groped at the key, turning it in vain. Sadly, the open-heart surgery was futile, and the remaining passengers were forced to exit and find a new ride.
The third taxi ended up taking us successfully into Kampala. It also smelled strongly of fish. The source of the smell was a large sack of not-so-fresh tilapia stored directly under my seat. We slowed several times along the route so the conductor could drop off various cargo at roadside markets. One of these deliveries was a plastic shopping bag filled with something that strongly resembled a large brain. The car never stopped completely during the recon mission; only enough for the conductor to slide open the door, jump out, run next to the moving van, throw the bag towards the market, and jump back on, landing on someone's lap as the driver suddenly accelerated.
And so we bumped our way along the busy, half-paved road to Kampala. When we arrived at the chaotic city center around noon, the sky was threatening rain. We found a nearby bookstore to buy the textbooks, and then followed Dennis to the National Theatre, which also houses a craft market. Before we'd made much progress, it started to rain. Hard. Then it poured, torrentially. We sought shelter under the roof of a gas station, squished into place by hundreds of other foul-weather refugees. Ugandans melt in the rain, you see. Judging from the shrieks of displeasure when a gust of wind blew sideways into the crowd, you'd think they were soaked with acid rather than water. I have to admit, I was rather uncomfortable myself, hearty midwesterner though I am. I'd prepared for a scorching day in the equatorial sun. Now, I was sopping and cold, and there was no prospect of a break in the flat, iron-grey sky. Every so often, a thirsty vehicle would try to inch its way into the crowd, honking the asylum-seekers away form the gas pumps. The people, though, wouldn't budge, and soon the entire block was jammed with unmoving traffic.
We ran across the road, dodging coin-sized raindrops, and found a better vantage point from a retail center's third-floor balcony. The scene below was depressingly ugly, so much that it gained a hint of unorthodox loveliness. Rivers of rich, brown water flowed over the curbs, colorful trash bobbing like dreamy jellyfish in the swift current. A line of bodas stood axle-deep in water. A splintered wooden sign, reading "never give up," floated prophetically beside them. The surrounding hills were shrouded in mist, and on the street below, women lifted colorful skirts as they picked their way delicately across the flood.
The rain never stopped, but it let up enough for us to continue our journey. Damp with drizzle, we walked for 45 minutes (a Ugandan's definition of a "short way") to the theater. Dennis guided us through the impossible tangle of unmarked streets, shepherding us across terrifying intersections and pointing out significant government buildings. I don't know what I was expecting, but Kampala is far more rundown than I imagined. Even Parliament and the Central Bank seem to be falling apart. Most buildings are unfinished and dingy; the concept of "inside" doesn't seem to exist anywhere. This is not to say that I hated the city, but the lack of beauty was startling. I've been to many towns with bad neighborhoods, sometimes extensive ones, but there were always a few places to admire. Kampala is another animal. The city grew fast right before and after independence, and it seems that no one remembered to incorporate the beautiful African landscape into the final product. Instead of banana trees and flowering bushes, there is pock-marked concrete and rusty tin roofs. Dirt and noise and street vendors selling old shoes. It was illuminating for me, but not enjoyable. I hope that doesn't make me sound terrible. Everyone speaks so highly of Kampala--even the wealthier Ugandans treat it as a haven for entertainment and culture. It's a city with jeans and ATMs and private cars. These things, though, are normal to me; the marvels that make Kampala exciting for a Ugandan are the things I take for granted at home every day. On the other hand, to a Ugandan visiting an American city, the overabundance of cars and food and fat people would be equally disconcerting. I guess discomfort is a matter of perspective.
The craft fair was nearly deserted due to the rain, but the shops were open and I bought several nice souvenirs for friends and family (that means you!). I would have gotten more, but I was fresh out of cash and planned to find an ATM later. But that's another story entirely, and not a very interesting one. Suffice it to say that no ATM in Uganda takes Mastercard. I came to Uganda with a Mastercard and about $150 in cash. Oy. Wish I had known that beforehand. I've become way too accustomed to paying for things with a narrow piece of plastic. Armed only with that now-useless symbol of capitalism, I felt pretty helpless and foolish. I obviously made it back (with--Cue Beatles soundtrack--a little help from my friends) and paid my debts with the money safely hidden in my room. But that small crisis caused significant stress.
Anyway, back to the main plot.
We grabbed lunch at a makeshift cafe behind the market. Enticing aromas wafted from the huge silver pots, and for a price of 3,000 Ugandan shillings (about $1.50), we couldn't refuse. I had a big plate of rice, matooke, fish, and groundnut sauce. We never imagined we would willfully order matooke, but this stuff was definitely a cut above the UMU dining hall version. I'm not saying I'll be craving it once I get home, but with the sauce and fish, the mashed plantain dish was pretty satisfying. I'll write another post entirely devoted to food later--you know it's one of my favorite subjects.
With damp clothes and full stomachs, we set off across the city back to the taxi park. After my debit card misadventure, surrounded once more by the chaotic bustle of the city, I could feel myself getting pretty irritated. I always hope that days like this will crush the anxiety out of me, forcing me to become easy-going. The truth is, it hasn't worked yet, and I don't think it's going to. I'm a worrier, and that's OK. It's part of me. Anxiety can be channeled into some very fruitful results. I can, however, change the way I handle the outward manifestation of my stress. Without repressing and denying my emotions, I'd like to make them less obvious to the outside world, and less exhausting for myself. How? I don't know, but it's not by diving head-first into Kampala.
Before heading back for UMU, we took a short taxi ride to Dennis's house in a "suburban" village alongside the main road. After slogging through copious red clay mud, we left our shoes at the door and entered the small, cozy house. The power was off, and as we sat in the dim light listening to the rain bounce off the tin roof, I felt more relaxed than I had all day. Behind the house, huge avocado trees (they grow on trees! Who knew?) were laden with hundreds of perfectly round, green fruit. Perfection.
Dennis grabbed a few things he needed and we walked down the road to find a taxi to Kayabwe. By this point, our shoes and lower legs were covered with a comical amount of mud. Passerby stared at us in wonder, their feet miraculously spotless. Passing on a bicycle, a young boy shouted at us, "Dis is U-GAN-da. Pearl of Africa!" The first sentence is a bit of good-humored cynicism Ugandans use whenever something goes wrong, The second is straight from Winston Churchill. I sensed a certain schadenfreude in the boy's delivery.
We finally found a taxi headed in the right direction, but the driver wanted to charge us 6,000 shillings (it should have been 4,000), presumably because we were muzungus. It was starting to get dark, though, so we boarded with the secret intention of paying no more than 5,000 apiece.
It was an awful ride. More than awful. The driver made frequent stops, trying to usher more passengers into the full van. When he failed to do so, he made up for lost time by driving and blinding speeds down the potholed road. Passing is allowed, but but since the road is only two lanes and traffic is heavy, it is infrequent. Not for this driver, though. He spent more time in the opposite lane than the correct one, often swerving just in time to avoid a pair of headlights looming meters ahead. The asphalt was frequently interrupted by stretches of dirt road, deeply eroded by the heavy rain. Every time the surface changed, we crashed into a pothole with a fantastic "BOOM" that certainly should have ruptured the tires and broken the axles. Sometimes we weren't even on the road, hurtling instead down the shoulder as our heads bumped against the ceiling. It would have been terrifying, had I not been sitting in the back row with very low visibility. Instead, it was just surreal. Especially when I realized there was a live chicken in the front seat. It's hard to be scared when there's a chicken in the front seat.
When I was little, my brother and I would curl up inside a big cardboard box and roll down the hill in the backyard. The drive was kind of like that. After several hours of crashing through the darkness, our feet joyfully descended onto the clay road at Kayabwe. We'd handed the conductor 25,000 shillings-- less than his demand of 30,000, but certainly more than he and the driver deserved. We thought we were home-free when, a few seconds later, the two cronies came charging after us, screaming threats in Luganda. Dennis was not having it. Yelling equally loudly and equally Lugandan, he said they were overcharging us because we were muzungus and that he would bring the case to the police. The driver then threatened to take him to the police to report him for stealing. (I got this translation from Dennis afterwards; at the time, it was simply clear that everyone was damn angry.) Things were getting very uncomfortable, and soon enough, the driver lunged for Dennis and started pushing him. Luckily, some bystanders pulled them apart before anyone got hurt. The yelling continued. Th conductor turned to me, railing against us with a mix of English and Luganda. Finally, Curtis handed him the extra 5,000 to avert disaster. Immediately they calmed down, walked back to the taxi, and started laughing and high-fiving their friends. What bullies- they got what they wanted out of us, small sum though it was. My blood was boiling at the injustice. It wasn't jail time in Birmingham, but it was still discrimination, and it was totally alien to me.
The tension was lightened when a grown man ran by with a huge stuffed-animal snake, tapped Curtis on the back with it, and then ran away giggling. In Uganda, you don't stay mad for long. But you are pretty exhausted by the end of the day. After a final boda ride back to UMU, Kristen and I changed into pajamas, put on a season of "Friends," and ate a dinner of bananas and peanut butter (a holy relic brought over from home) before going to bed.
The next day, it took over two hours to document our adventure in my journal. This post, believe it or not, is the abridged version. Those are the kind of days I've been having--days with enough substance (and dysfunction) to fill a novel. So much happens, and yet there is endless waiting, staring absently out the window. It's a paradox of the senses. But not necessarily a bad one. You run, you rest, you eat a mango in the shade. This is Uganda.
We were supposed to leave at 9 a.m. on the free staff bus arranged by UMU. When we got there, however, it was already full. Instead, we took boda-bodas to Kayabwe, the main trading center, where the taxis stopped to pick up passengers on the Kampala-Masaka Road. I should explain that taxis here are more like mini-busses with four rows of seats. They have a fairly fixed route and no time schedule to speak of--they depart when they are full and try to fit in as many extra people as they can along the way. The driver has a conductor onboard, who hawks rides to bystanders and collects arbitrary fees from passengers. The vehicle itself is always the same model of old, beaten-up van and has either a religious message or a favorite soccer team's name painted on the front and back windshield.
The first taxi we approached was nearly full, and the driver tried to kick off a nun so he could squeeze in our large (mostly white) group. Obviously we weren't going to let that happen, so we found an empty taxi nearby and waited for it to fill. I was puzzled as to why the driver kept the car idling as we waited for more passengers. Gas is very expensive, even more than in the U.S., and the heat from the engine only added to the stuffiness of the van. Then he turned it off, and I regretted wondering why he hadn't done it sooner. It would not start again. No matter how many times he ruthlessly cranked the key in the ignition, the engine simply whined helplessly and painfully flipped itself over, undoubtedly causing even more damage. The driver's first solution was to have a bystander add a miniscule can of gas to the tank. Nosir, no luck. The second solution involved the ejection of the front-row passengers from the vehicle. The driver proceeded to open a hatch in the floor that presumably revealed the engine. His head and left hand disappeared into the hatch, while his right hand still groped at the key, turning it in vain. Sadly, the open-heart surgery was futile, and the remaining passengers were forced to exit and find a new ride.
The third taxi ended up taking us successfully into Kampala. It also smelled strongly of fish. The source of the smell was a large sack of not-so-fresh tilapia stored directly under my seat. We slowed several times along the route so the conductor could drop off various cargo at roadside markets. One of these deliveries was a plastic shopping bag filled with something that strongly resembled a large brain. The car never stopped completely during the recon mission; only enough for the conductor to slide open the door, jump out, run next to the moving van, throw the bag towards the market, and jump back on, landing on someone's lap as the driver suddenly accelerated.
Monica, Dom, and Kristen chillin' in the back seat.
And so we bumped our way along the busy, half-paved road to Kampala. When we arrived at the chaotic city center around noon, the sky was threatening rain. We found a nearby bookstore to buy the textbooks, and then followed Dennis to the National Theatre, which also houses a craft market. Before we'd made much progress, it started to rain. Hard. Then it poured, torrentially. We sought shelter under the roof of a gas station, squished into place by hundreds of other foul-weather refugees. Ugandans melt in the rain, you see. Judging from the shrieks of displeasure when a gust of wind blew sideways into the crowd, you'd think they were soaked with acid rather than water. I have to admit, I was rather uncomfortable myself, hearty midwesterner though I am. I'd prepared for a scorching day in the equatorial sun. Now, I was sopping and cold, and there was no prospect of a break in the flat, iron-grey sky. Every so often, a thirsty vehicle would try to inch its way into the crowd, honking the asylum-seekers away form the gas pumps. The people, though, wouldn't budge, and soon the entire block was jammed with unmoving traffic.
We ran across the road, dodging coin-sized raindrops, and found a better vantage point from a retail center's third-floor balcony. The scene below was depressingly ugly, so much that it gained a hint of unorthodox loveliness. Rivers of rich, brown water flowed over the curbs, colorful trash bobbing like dreamy jellyfish in the swift current. A line of bodas stood axle-deep in water. A splintered wooden sign, reading "never give up," floated prophetically beside them. The surrounding hills were shrouded in mist, and on the street below, women lifted colorful skirts as they picked their way delicately across the flood.
Rain halts everything.
The rain never stopped, but it let up enough for us to continue our journey. Damp with drizzle, we walked for 45 minutes (a Ugandan's definition of a "short way") to the theater. Dennis guided us through the impossible tangle of unmarked streets, shepherding us across terrifying intersections and pointing out significant government buildings. I don't know what I was expecting, but Kampala is far more rundown than I imagined. Even Parliament and the Central Bank seem to be falling apart. Most buildings are unfinished and dingy; the concept of "inside" doesn't seem to exist anywhere. This is not to say that I hated the city, but the lack of beauty was startling. I've been to many towns with bad neighborhoods, sometimes extensive ones, but there were always a few places to admire. Kampala is another animal. The city grew fast right before and after independence, and it seems that no one remembered to incorporate the beautiful African landscape into the final product. Instead of banana trees and flowering bushes, there is pock-marked concrete and rusty tin roofs. Dirt and noise and street vendors selling old shoes. It was illuminating for me, but not enjoyable. I hope that doesn't make me sound terrible. Everyone speaks so highly of Kampala--even the wealthier Ugandans treat it as a haven for entertainment and culture. It's a city with jeans and ATMs and private cars. These things, though, are normal to me; the marvels that make Kampala exciting for a Ugandan are the things I take for granted at home every day. On the other hand, to a Ugandan visiting an American city, the overabundance of cars and food and fat people would be equally disconcerting. I guess discomfort is a matter of perspective.
The craft fair was nearly deserted due to the rain, but the shops were open and I bought several nice souvenirs for friends and family (that means you!). I would have gotten more, but I was fresh out of cash and planned to find an ATM later. But that's another story entirely, and not a very interesting one. Suffice it to say that no ATM in Uganda takes Mastercard. I came to Uganda with a Mastercard and about $150 in cash. Oy. Wish I had known that beforehand. I've become way too accustomed to paying for things with a narrow piece of plastic. Armed only with that now-useless symbol of capitalism, I felt pretty helpless and foolish. I obviously made it back (with--Cue Beatles soundtrack--a little help from my friends) and paid my debts with the money safely hidden in my room. But that small crisis caused significant stress.
Anyway, back to the main plot.
We grabbed lunch at a makeshift cafe behind the market. Enticing aromas wafted from the huge silver pots, and for a price of 3,000 Ugandan shillings (about $1.50), we couldn't refuse. I had a big plate of rice, matooke, fish, and groundnut sauce. We never imagined we would willfully order matooke, but this stuff was definitely a cut above the UMU dining hall version. I'm not saying I'll be craving it once I get home, but with the sauce and fish, the mashed plantain dish was pretty satisfying. I'll write another post entirely devoted to food later--you know it's one of my favorite subjects.
With damp clothes and full stomachs, we set off across the city back to the taxi park. After my debit card misadventure, surrounded once more by the chaotic bustle of the city, I could feel myself getting pretty irritated. I always hope that days like this will crush the anxiety out of me, forcing me to become easy-going. The truth is, it hasn't worked yet, and I don't think it's going to. I'm a worrier, and that's OK. It's part of me. Anxiety can be channeled into some very fruitful results. I can, however, change the way I handle the outward manifestation of my stress. Without repressing and denying my emotions, I'd like to make them less obvious to the outside world, and less exhausting for myself. How? I don't know, but it's not by diving head-first into Kampala.
Before heading back for UMU, we took a short taxi ride to Dennis's house in a "suburban" village alongside the main road. After slogging through copious red clay mud, we left our shoes at the door and entered the small, cozy house. The power was off, and as we sat in the dim light listening to the rain bounce off the tin roof, I felt more relaxed than I had all day. Behind the house, huge avocado trees (they grow on trees! Who knew?) were laden with hundreds of perfectly round, green fruit. Perfection.
Dennis grabbed a few things he needed and we walked down the road to find a taxi to Kayabwe. By this point, our shoes and lower legs were covered with a comical amount of mud. Passerby stared at us in wonder, their feet miraculously spotless. Passing on a bicycle, a young boy shouted at us, "Dis is U-GAN-da. Pearl of Africa!" The first sentence is a bit of good-humored cynicism Ugandans use whenever something goes wrong, The second is straight from Winston Churchill. I sensed a certain schadenfreude in the boy's delivery.
Dennis excavating Kristen's lost shoe.
We finally found a taxi headed in the right direction, but the driver wanted to charge us 6,000 shillings (it should have been 4,000), presumably because we were muzungus. It was starting to get dark, though, so we boarded with the secret intention of paying no more than 5,000 apiece.
It was an awful ride. More than awful. The driver made frequent stops, trying to usher more passengers into the full van. When he failed to do so, he made up for lost time by driving and blinding speeds down the potholed road. Passing is allowed, but but since the road is only two lanes and traffic is heavy, it is infrequent. Not for this driver, though. He spent more time in the opposite lane than the correct one, often swerving just in time to avoid a pair of headlights looming meters ahead. The asphalt was frequently interrupted by stretches of dirt road, deeply eroded by the heavy rain. Every time the surface changed, we crashed into a pothole with a fantastic "BOOM" that certainly should have ruptured the tires and broken the axles. Sometimes we weren't even on the road, hurtling instead down the shoulder as our heads bumped against the ceiling. It would have been terrifying, had I not been sitting in the back row with very low visibility. Instead, it was just surreal. Especially when I realized there was a live chicken in the front seat. It's hard to be scared when there's a chicken in the front seat.
When I was little, my brother and I would curl up inside a big cardboard box and roll down the hill in the backyard. The drive was kind of like that. After several hours of crashing through the darkness, our feet joyfully descended onto the clay road at Kayabwe. We'd handed the conductor 25,000 shillings-- less than his demand of 30,000, but certainly more than he and the driver deserved. We thought we were home-free when, a few seconds later, the two cronies came charging after us, screaming threats in Luganda. Dennis was not having it. Yelling equally loudly and equally Lugandan, he said they were overcharging us because we were muzungus and that he would bring the case to the police. The driver then threatened to take him to the police to report him for stealing. (I got this translation from Dennis afterwards; at the time, it was simply clear that everyone was damn angry.) Things were getting very uncomfortable, and soon enough, the driver lunged for Dennis and started pushing him. Luckily, some bystanders pulled them apart before anyone got hurt. The yelling continued. Th conductor turned to me, railing against us with a mix of English and Luganda. Finally, Curtis handed him the extra 5,000 to avert disaster. Immediately they calmed down, walked back to the taxi, and started laughing and high-fiving their friends. What bullies- they got what they wanted out of us, small sum though it was. My blood was boiling at the injustice. It wasn't jail time in Birmingham, but it was still discrimination, and it was totally alien to me.
The tension was lightened when a grown man ran by with a huge stuffed-animal snake, tapped Curtis on the back with it, and then ran away giggling. In Uganda, you don't stay mad for long. But you are pretty exhausted by the end of the day. After a final boda ride back to UMU, Kristen and I changed into pajamas, put on a season of "Friends," and ate a dinner of bananas and peanut butter (a holy relic brought over from home) before going to bed.
The next day, it took over two hours to document our adventure in my journal. This post, believe it or not, is the abridged version. Those are the kind of days I've been having--days with enough substance (and dysfunction) to fill a novel. So much happens, and yet there is endless waiting, staring absently out the window. It's a paradox of the senses. But not necessarily a bad one. You run, you rest, you eat a mango in the shade. This is Uganda.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Fear and Other Friends
So you know how I was feeling guilty about not having anything to do? Well, that's over. The good news is I no longer feel guilty. The bad news is, how am I ever going to accomplish all of these things?? The short answer: I'm not. I know half the things I want to do will never come to fruition. But right now, I'm still in that hazy space between planning and implementation, the time when everything seems vaguely possible and I don't know where to begin.
I went to St. Francis Secondary School this week to observe the classes and take stock of what needs to be done. There are about 200 students from all over Nkozi parish, some of whom board at the school in two tiny rooms with broken windows. Others must walk miles to make it in time for the 8:00 bell, and they don't leave until 5 on most days. There are only 5 or 6 teachers, most of whom are part-time and work at other schools. I'm supposed to help with English, but they seem to have the subject pretty well covered, even though they had before stated the need for an English teacher. I don't want to swoop in and try to change the way the current teacher is working, but hopefully I can work with him to make the course better. Right now, none of the students have textbooks and class mainly consists of them copying down small points on grammar that the teacher dictates. The curriculum is very Anglo-centric and rather outdated-- the one textbook available (the teacher's copy) sounds straight out of pre-WWII Britain. But I can't try to change the curriculum because the students must take a national test at the end of the year, which mandates the teaching of these strange, old-fashioned grammatical oddities.
This week was supposed to be for observation. Yesterday, though, one of the teachers was not at work. When I asked another if the class would still go on, he asked if I'd like to teach it. Nothing like jumping into the deep end. I skimmed through an exercise book (there were several copies of this one) and found an excerpt of a story by Chinua Achebe, which I decided to read out loud with the class. I entered the Senior 3 room (the equivalent of high school juniors, maybe a little younger) and was met by 30 pairs of curious eyes. I introduced myself and wrote my name on the chalkboard: "Miss Katie." They still called me Madam, in keeping with traditional practice. "Madam Katie" sounds pretty awful to me, but I guess if that's what they want to call me, that's what I'll answer to.
I tried to ask the class what they learned about yesterday. Silence. Were they ignoring me, or was it my accent? The kids have a lot of trouble understanding my accent. A LOT of trouble. No matter how slowly and deliberately I speak, they still can't make sense of it, especially when I say a word with an "r" in the middle. I don't know if I need to adopt a British accent or what, but something has to change, or I will be the least coherent teacher in Ugandan history. At any rate, I never did find out what they were studying, so I jumped right into the story and crossed my fingers that it wouldn't bomb. I asked for a volunteer to read aloud (of course, no one wanted to) so I started picking randomly. There were many excellent readers in the class, but I think they were puzzled by my approach. Group work/discussion doesn't really seem to happen much in the schools here; instead, teachers lecture for the entirety of the class and the students copy his words in neat handwriting.
I'm also supposed to teach a new class called "moral education" with Sister Estellina, my counterpart from UMU. There is absolutely no curriculum for this class, which could either be a blessing or a disaster. We're hoping to really get individuals involved in discussions about ethics and how they personally relate to traditional moral ideals. This could be an opportunity to recreate PLS for high schoolers, and I really hope they like it. So far, though, it's all just another vague plan floating around in my head. It takes a long time to make ideas a reality anywhere, but this is especially true in a school with few resources and minimal outside support. St. Francis has a lot of potential, but it definitely needs some attention, even in things as basic as the state of the latrines and the cleanliness of the drinking water. It's amazing to me, though, that the school is still hanging on, and doing better than many American schools, I'd say, despite these hardships that would cause the latter to shut down.
I'm sure I'll be talking a lot about St. Francis in the days to come. I'm both excited and nervous to teach. Will they like me? More importantly, will they learn from me? When I voiced my trepidation to Sr. Estellina, she relayed some advice from her father: "Look fear in the face and make it your friend." So that's what I'm going to try to do.
I went to St. Francis Secondary School this week to observe the classes and take stock of what needs to be done. There are about 200 students from all over Nkozi parish, some of whom board at the school in two tiny rooms with broken windows. Others must walk miles to make it in time for the 8:00 bell, and they don't leave until 5 on most days. There are only 5 or 6 teachers, most of whom are part-time and work at other schools. I'm supposed to help with English, but they seem to have the subject pretty well covered, even though they had before stated the need for an English teacher. I don't want to swoop in and try to change the way the current teacher is working, but hopefully I can work with him to make the course better. Right now, none of the students have textbooks and class mainly consists of them copying down small points on grammar that the teacher dictates. The curriculum is very Anglo-centric and rather outdated-- the one textbook available (the teacher's copy) sounds straight out of pre-WWII Britain. But I can't try to change the curriculum because the students must take a national test at the end of the year, which mandates the teaching of these strange, old-fashioned grammatical oddities.
Making a new friend
TWO hemispheres at once--count 'em, two!
Artsy photo fun.
Sunset from the hill.
I tried to ask the class what they learned about yesterday. Silence. Were they ignoring me, or was it my accent? The kids have a lot of trouble understanding my accent. A LOT of trouble. No matter how slowly and deliberately I speak, they still can't make sense of it, especially when I say a word with an "r" in the middle. I don't know if I need to adopt a British accent or what, but something has to change, or I will be the least coherent teacher in Ugandan history. At any rate, I never did find out what they were studying, so I jumped right into the story and crossed my fingers that it wouldn't bomb. I asked for a volunteer to read aloud (of course, no one wanted to) so I started picking randomly. There were many excellent readers in the class, but I think they were puzzled by my approach. Group work/discussion doesn't really seem to happen much in the schools here; instead, teachers lecture for the entirety of the class and the students copy his words in neat handwriting.
I'm also supposed to teach a new class called "moral education" with Sister Estellina, my counterpart from UMU. There is absolutely no curriculum for this class, which could either be a blessing or a disaster. We're hoping to really get individuals involved in discussions about ethics and how they personally relate to traditional moral ideals. This could be an opportunity to recreate PLS for high schoolers, and I really hope they like it. So far, though, it's all just another vague plan floating around in my head. It takes a long time to make ideas a reality anywhere, but this is especially true in a school with few resources and minimal outside support. St. Francis has a lot of potential, but it definitely needs some attention, even in things as basic as the state of the latrines and the cleanliness of the drinking water. It's amazing to me, though, that the school is still hanging on, and doing better than many American schools, I'd say, despite these hardships that would cause the latter to shut down.
I'm sure I'll be talking a lot about St. Francis in the days to come. I'm both excited and nervous to teach. Will they like me? More importantly, will they learn from me? When I voiced my trepidation to Sr. Estellina, she relayed some advice from her father: "Look fear in the face and make it your friend." So that's what I'm going to try to do.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Being Ugandan: an Introduction
I'm awake and eating my breakfast of bananas and malaria pills. I got up early to go to mass in Nkozi at 7, but it turns out mass isn't until 10. Do I get extra credit for trying? These types of miscommunications are not uncommon. For example, when I took a bus the other day that was supposed to leave at 2:30, but didn't until 4:15. Or when there was supposed to be a Barclay's ATM at school, but now there is just a hole in the wall. One learns to go with the flow in Uganda, and I'm sure I'll become even more accustomed to it as time goes on.
You might be thinking: OK, she's definitely there, she describes things like she's there, but what is she actually doing? To which I would answer: good question, and one I'm not entirely certain of myself. This past week has kind of been for getting my sea legs and figuring out where everything is. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to meet the nun I'll be working with this summer, visit the secondary school where I'll be teaching, and start taking Luganda lessons. Lacey, one of the directors of Ford, said that I'll probably be teaching English and science and doing some counseling. I was ready to start the day after I got here, but I'm beginning to learn how to wait. Everyone tells me that you can't go in with the intent of changing the world; you do what you can and accept what you can't. And despite all the amazing things I've already seen, I've been anxious to start my actual job. I feel guilty for being here almost a week without actually doing anything. But I guess I have been doing things-- I've been learning and listening and watching, and I'll need those experiences later on. Classic case of over-thinking. That's what happens when you have time on your hands.
In the mean time, I've been wandering all around the area, getting a feel for it. I went to the trading center at Nkozi and the bigger one down the road (I can't remember the name at the moment), where they sell everything from produce to cell phones; I walked to the equator; I found a beautiful hill that overlooks campus; and I attended Martyrs Day, Uganda's national holiday that brings hundreds of thousands of pilgrims to the shrine at Namungongo, in Kampala. This was an unreal experience; Curtis and I were the only Muzungus (white people) in the enormous crowd. That is, until an usher herded us to the "VIP shade" area, where a lucky couple of hundred people got to sit under an overhang on chairs while the rest of the tightly-packed audience sweated it out under the blazing sun. In the shade, we found a few other Americans amongst citizens of many different African countries. Initially, I was very uncomfortable: why did the only whites get the best seats in the house, when this was a holiday for Ugandans? Dennis, a friend from UMU, helped explain it to me. In Uganda, the guest is esteemed above everything. Those who come from far away are treated with astounding hospitality, given the best of everything; this is the custom, the culture. Ugandans are honored when travelers visit from far away, and try to make that clear in their hospitality. I still felt a little uneasy, but this helped explain the situation. Martyrs Day mass was a 5-hour long affair, and I was certainly glad for the shade during the equatorial afternoon sun.
The best thing I did so far was to visit one of the villages in Nnindye with several folks from the outreach program at UMU, which has a partnership with Ford and ND. The village was electing new leaders for several of its committees, like agriculture and finance, and UMU was helping with the logistics. In Africa, politics are huge. Especially in Uganda, where so many people enthusiastically strive to improve the country's infrastructure. When it comes to the future of government, there is so much hope in the air; it's very different from the jaded hue of American politics. The elections in the village of Luteete took place on a patch of grass outside someone's compound. The elders sat on benches, while the other candidates, including an audience of women and children, watched from the ground. There didn't seem to be a particular timeframe for the meeting. It started when everyone got there, and ended when they'd said all they wanted to say. Ballots were cast by nominating leaders and raising hands in support of them. Though the events all transpired in Luganda, I gathered that most of the speeches touched on the importance of good leaders for the community. In the end, several incumbents were sworn back in, and a few new faces joined the ranks of the leaders, including a very young man and woman.
That's all for now. Here are a few pictures of the things I've written about. I hope they help to give you an idea of what it's like here.
You might be thinking: OK, she's definitely there, she describes things like she's there, but what is she actually doing? To which I would answer: good question, and one I'm not entirely certain of myself. This past week has kind of been for getting my sea legs and figuring out where everything is. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to meet the nun I'll be working with this summer, visit the secondary school where I'll be teaching, and start taking Luganda lessons. Lacey, one of the directors of Ford, said that I'll probably be teaching English and science and doing some counseling. I was ready to start the day after I got here, but I'm beginning to learn how to wait. Everyone tells me that you can't go in with the intent of changing the world; you do what you can and accept what you can't. And despite all the amazing things I've already seen, I've been anxious to start my actual job. I feel guilty for being here almost a week without actually doing anything. But I guess I have been doing things-- I've been learning and listening and watching, and I'll need those experiences later on. Classic case of over-thinking. That's what happens when you have time on your hands.
In the mean time, I've been wandering all around the area, getting a feel for it. I went to the trading center at Nkozi and the bigger one down the road (I can't remember the name at the moment), where they sell everything from produce to cell phones; I walked to the equator; I found a beautiful hill that overlooks campus; and I attended Martyrs Day, Uganda's national holiday that brings hundreds of thousands of pilgrims to the shrine at Namungongo, in Kampala. This was an unreal experience; Curtis and I were the only Muzungus (white people) in the enormous crowd. That is, until an usher herded us to the "VIP shade" area, where a lucky couple of hundred people got to sit under an overhang on chairs while the rest of the tightly-packed audience sweated it out under the blazing sun. In the shade, we found a few other Americans amongst citizens of many different African countries. Initially, I was very uncomfortable: why did the only whites get the best seats in the house, when this was a holiday for Ugandans? Dennis, a friend from UMU, helped explain it to me. In Uganda, the guest is esteemed above everything. Those who come from far away are treated with astounding hospitality, given the best of everything; this is the custom, the culture. Ugandans are honored when travelers visit from far away, and try to make that clear in their hospitality. I still felt a little uneasy, but this helped explain the situation. Martyrs Day mass was a 5-hour long affair, and I was certainly glad for the shade during the equatorial afternoon sun.
The best thing I did so far was to visit one of the villages in Nnindye with several folks from the outreach program at UMU, which has a partnership with Ford and ND. The village was electing new leaders for several of its committees, like agriculture and finance, and UMU was helping with the logistics. In Africa, politics are huge. Especially in Uganda, where so many people enthusiastically strive to improve the country's infrastructure. When it comes to the future of government, there is so much hope in the air; it's very different from the jaded hue of American politics. The elections in the village of Luteete took place on a patch of grass outside someone's compound. The elders sat on benches, while the other candidates, including an audience of women and children, watched from the ground. There didn't seem to be a particular timeframe for the meeting. It started when everyone got there, and ended when they'd said all they wanted to say. Ballots were cast by nominating leaders and raising hands in support of them. Though the events all transpired in Luganda, I gathered that most of the speeches touched on the importance of good leaders for the community. In the end, several incumbents were sworn back in, and a few new faces joined the ranks of the leaders, including a very young man and woman.
That's all for now. Here are a few pictures of the things I've written about. I hope they help to give you an idea of what it's like here.
UMU campus, main quad. It's not usually cloudy, but when it is, the clouds are awesome.
Banana trees are everywhere. The bananas are smaller and sweeter than the kind in the States.
My room! I actually really like sleeping underneath mosquito netting- it's like being in a tent.
Voting for new leaders in Luteete.
Agnes, one of the UMU outreach workers, helped translate the meeting for us. She also took us under her wing on our first day and made sure we knew where to get food, mosquito nets, etc.
With some new friends at UMU: Grace, Moses, and Josinta. Ugandans don't smile for pictures, but they laugh a lot the rest of the time.
The path up to the hill. A lot of children ran down to greet us along the way-- apparently it's a big deal to see a muzungu!
The view from the hill behind campus. Check out Lake Victoria.
Typical market stall at the trading center.
Thursday, 2 June 2011
The eagle has landed.
I'm here!! I wrote an epic blog post about everything on Tuesday night, but the wifi turned out to be mythical until today. Here are some belated first impressions. N.B.: The title of this post refers to the line my father used to alert his family of my birth many years ago. Gotta keep up the Buetow legacy.
Sunday night through Tueday night comprised one continuous day with a few catnaps in between. I survived the epic journey and even managed to escape Heathrow for a bit during my layover and walk around London with Curtis, my site partner. I guess it's relevant that I went from London to Entebbe, because the British controlled Uganda until 1962. Still, not even reading about Uganda's history and culture could prepare me for my first step off the plane.
Sunday night through Tueday night comprised one continuous day with a few catnaps in between. I survived the epic journey and even managed to escape Heathrow for a bit during my layover and walk around London with Curtis, my site partner. I guess it's relevant that I went from London to Entebbe, because the British controlled Uganda until 1962. Still, not even reading about Uganda's history and culture could prepare me for my first step off the plane.
The first thing I noticed when I walked onto the blacktop runway was the smell. The warm air carried the scent of wood, flowers, water, and that faint tropical mustiness that reminds me of southern California. It was refreshing beyond belief after 8 hours of recycled air. Entebbe airport comes up out of nowhere; you think you’re going to land in Lake Victoria until the runway appears under you at the very last minute. In the distance, hills covered with acacia rise to the gentle blue sky. The dirt is a bright rusty red and the brush is lush green. The colors are more vivid here than anywhere else.
Outside the airport, Gelvan met us to bring us to our accommodations at Uganda Martyrs University. Gelvan works with the university’s outreach program and is closely involved in Ford’s project with the parish of Nnindye. More on that later. The drive was a 3-and-a-half hour sojourn that took us from the rolling countryside, to the crowded streets of Kampala, through the swamplands, and finally back to the hills where UMU is nestled. Sanity dictates that the passenger in a Ugandan vehicle not dwell on what is happening before his eyes. Paying too much attention to the continual near-catastrophes with cars, pedestrians, produce-bearing trucks, and boda-boda motorcycle taxis will make you prematurely gray. So will the common sight of policemen in blue camouflage fatigues toting AK-47s. There are an astounding number of these officers, and most of them seem to just stand by the road or sit in the bed of a truck and watch casually. They are just “keeping the peace,” said Gelvan, with a grin that could have been sardonic or sincere. He said their guns function more as walking sticks than anything else, leading Curtis to ask the excellent question of why they didn’t just use actual sticks. None of the Ugandans seemed phased by the outward presence of intimidation; in fact, Gelvan sped past a truck full of policemen and almost grazed its rear-view window. Neither he nor the police did so much as blink.
When we finally got to UMU, we were crashing; our two and a half days of traveling were hitting hard. We met with the rest of the outreach program, who introduced us to a common and lovely Ugandan greeting to strangers: “You are most welcome.” We were escorted to our rooms, which are spare but certainly functional. In fact, the whole set-up reminds me of a combination of Interlochen and Lewis Hall. When I walked in the room, it had the woodsy, slightly dusty scent of a camp cabin. The two bare beds were set up in the L-shape so reminiscent of empty dorm rooms, with a table in the corner and a Lewis-like open wardrobe. I feel like I’m half inside and half outside. Even now, the smell of the room, my soap, and the lingering odor of sweat that pervades the whole dorm is giving me bizarre flashbacks to working at camp. It’s so funny how the most unexpected things connect.
A little more on my dorm (yes, I'm bragging a little about roughing it): the showers are cold and the water comes out in a single torrent, like a kitchen sink. The toilets are BYOTP, and mosquitoes like to hang out there and feast on one’s—ahem---more exposed flesh. There are big sinks for doing laundry, and I just rigged up a bright green mosquito net to keep the bugs away at night. It’s amazing to me, though, that in this atmosphere that reminds me so much of a summer camp, the students are as serious and passionate as any I’ve ever met. Many in my hall are finishing their exams this week in subjects like business ethics and social welfare. They are engaging and very well-dressed and put-together, despite the fact that I have yet to find a mirror and can’t even imagine walking on the rocky pathways in heels. There is so much success taking place here, in conditions at which an American university student would cringe. At the same time, there are many modern accoutrements: a library with internet (though the wi-fi still doesn’t like me), the staff pub, where I had a delicious lunch of tilapia stew and rice while American music videos played in the background, and a little convenience store that sells everything from toilet paper to shoes. I can’t absorb it all, can’t connect these discrepancies and surprises. Not yet, anyway.
I managed to commit a social gaffe already. We met two girls in our dorm who invited us to dinner at the dining hall, and afterwards offered to buy us sodas from the counter in the corner. (Note: soda here is de-licious. It comes in a glass bottle, it’s made with natural cane sugar, and it is the prefect refreshment for a hot afternoon.) I responded to this generous offer by asking if we could buy them sodas tomorrow in return. They looked surprised and immediately started shaking their heads. “No, no, in our culture, we do not do that. We like to share; it is a gift.” Whoops. In the U.S., you go through that whole stupid dance of oh-you-shouldn’t-have-let-me-pay-you-back. In retrospect, the Ugandan way is more respectful and sincere. You give, you receive, you say thanks. Then you go and enjoy a Coke together.
I know this is long, and there’s so much more I could say, but I’m going to get ready for bed. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go to 7 AM mass (people get up pretty early here), eat breakfast, and then hopefully follow the outreach people to Nnindye. I still can’t believe I’m here. In Africa. I stick out like a sore thumb with my pale skin and casual clothes and too-fast speech. But I’m very happy to be here and happy to see what unfolds.
I miss you all and I wish you could be here with me. Goodnight for now. xoxox
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