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 The curriculum is very Anglo-centric and rather outdated-- the one textbook available (the teacher's copy) sounds straight out of pre-WWII Britain.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.

 Making a new friend

TWO hemispheres at once--count 'em, two!

 Artsy photo fun. 

Sunset from the hill. 

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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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Away we go

It's 11:30 the night before I leave, and I am pretty much all packed.

This is a miracle of epic proportions.

My usual packing routine for a long trip begins about a couple hours before I'm supposed to leave for the airport. This is not ideal. As most reasonable people know. This time, I refuse to fall prey to my bad habit. At least, I hope that's the case, and that I don't wake up tomorrow and realize I forgot ALL the important things.

What does one bring to Africa? Perhaps the fact that I have no idea is the reason for my efficient packing. I'm taking simple, light clothes, sturdy shoes, several books, and plenty of shampoo (I have an ongoing complex about running out of shampoo. Call it my tragic flaw.) But I don't know what I'll meet when I land in Entebbe. I have an idea, but I still can't imagine myself standing in the sun on a dusty red road halfway across the world. Soon enough, though, I won't have to try.

I'm not worried, just eager. I want to be there, right now. But first, I have to take an overnight flight to London, wait out a 14-hour layover, and then take another overnight flight to Entebbe. I leave on Sunday and arrive on Tuesday. I'm sure I will be absolutely stunning come Tuesday morning.

My site partner, Curtis, has never been to London, so we decided to explore the city during our layover. I can't believe I'm going back already, even for a few hours. When I left  in December, I thought it would be years, decades, before I'd see it again. I thought it would be years before I left the country again. But now I'm leaving. I'll miss America this summer (American summertime is magic, as far as I'm concerned), and I'll miss my family and friends dearly, but I am so very excited for this opportunity. It still hasn't hit me all the way.

With that, I'm going to sleep, or to lie in my bed and attempt to slow my thoughts. I'll see you on the other side.