"inter-ocean ethos"

As a friend recently noted in an email, any mail you send to me at this point (at my Ugandan posta address) is likely to get lost in the "inter-ocean ethos."
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So, if you've written something that you've been planning and planning to send me, keep planning. Instead of sending it to my Ugandan address, send it to my parents' address (email me if you need it). Or hang on to it and hand it to me when I soon get to see you in person.
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It's all part of the leaving process...

Random Snaps from April

Winnie... who has more energy than most people I've ever met.

love.

Nakaweesi Kristine & Bbaale Patrick,

on our way to funeral rites.

Wangi Micheal "Pinto" & Nakaweesi Kristine & Nakyanzi Gloria Maria.

P.4s love to write letters... :)

this is part of the gang which greets me every evening...

and plays in our compound all the time.

Nakaweesi Kristine & Nakawoojwa Brenda,

sisters at heart.

feet.

Supper time at St Jude.

Annet and Patrick celebrating Palm Sunday.

Maybe if I define it, I will understand it better...

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culture.shock.
the sense of unsettledness and out of place ness that one experiences when adjusting to the demands and norms of a new culture.
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reverse.culture.shock.
the (at times unexpected) sense of unsettledness and out of place ness that one experiences when re entering one's home culture after extended immersion in a different culture.
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Speaking Tall English

The first time they met me, a mere few days after I had arrived in Uganda, other teachers from my school were quite concerned about whether I could possibly teach their students. It wasn't my teaching qualifications they were concerned about, nor my lack of experience teaching in a traditional education system. Instead, it was my strange American accent that caused them so much anxiety. As we struggled to communicate, pardon, pardon, they feared that my students would certainly never manage to pick (understand) anything I would try to say.
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My first few weeks in Bukoto focused on trying to learn not only Luganda, but also Ugandan English. My speech slowed down, and I attempted to trade my Americanisms for Lugandacised English. I remember spending an afternoon doing my best to pronounce "cow" correctly... to the grand hilarity of my host sisters. I remember being really confused for a few minutes the first time someone talked to me about a "blain"... before I realised they meant "brain." Slowly but surely, I learnt to speak English "not properly," to the consternation of a man who hoped that I would transform the grammar and pronunciations of my students rather than the other way around.
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When school started, my students and I managed to get along fairly well. The learning process continued. I learnt to say the alphabet correctly, pronouncing "g" like "guitar" and ending with "zed." I learnt to use those same soft "g"s in words like vegetable and vegetation. I learnt to pronounce the "qui" in mosquito and squirrel like "kwee." I learnt to say "revise" instead of study, to start "evening" later, and to "foot" to school rather than walk.
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A few months later, talking to my family on the phone one night, one of my younger sisters commented that I had started to speak "tall English." It was her attempt to describe the changes in my accent, in my pronunciation, and, to some extent, in my vocabulary.
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Fast forward a few months. The occasional Americanism does still pop up in my speech. Recently, sitting with some teacher friends, I commented about the temperature, that it wasn't very "hot" that day. They looked at me in some confusion, so I repeated myself. It wasn't very "hot." It was some minutes later, after multiple attempts on both sides to make sense of what I had just said, that we connected. I had pronounced "hot" with a short "o," as I had learnt to say it as a child. They heard "hat," which is here pronounced with a short "a," a bit like that in "father." Why was I using a term about headwear when I wanted to discuss temperature? Why hadn't I just said "hot" with the proper hard "o" (like in "code")? It was a staff room joke all week!
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Now, as I prepare to soon return to the states, it should be interesting to see how long my accent lasts and how often I confuse the people I communicate with. So, as a way to prepare us all for those interactions, let me present a short primer of Ugandan English.
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--Somehow is used in place of terms like somewhat, kind of, sort of. As in, "I feel somewhat okay."
--Revise means to study. As in, "When we come to school, we begin revising our books."
--Smart does not refer to intelligence, but rather to beauty and proper dressing. As in, "You are quite smart today, Aunt."
--Designing is used to describe how someone has put together an outfit, i.e. it refers to fashion. As in, "You should get full marks for designing today."
--PLE is the short form of Primary Leaving Examinations, the national exams that students must pass to obtain a primary school certificate. As in, "Primary seven candidates will sit for their PLE in November."
--Food does not refer to just anything that can be eaten, but only to carbohydrates. Sauce and soup refer to what is eaten with food. As in, "Our staple food is matooke and our common sauces are beans and groundnuts."
--Best is not only the superlative of good, but also a synonym for favourite. As in, "Mawerere's best subject is English."
--Uncle is a term used for the male relatives in your mother's family. The female relatives in your mother's family are not aunts, but mother and grandmother. Likewise, aunt is used for female relatives in your father's family. The male relatives, however, are fathers and grandfathers. As in, "Keith is my younger father because he is the younger brother of my father."
--Sweet means delicious or tasting good. As in, "The tomato sauce was very sweet tonight."
--Beeping and flashing refer to the act of letting the phone ring only one time, often because the caller lacks airtime, as a way of requesting someone to call you back. As in, "People who always beep annoy me quite a lot."
--Cooking, as often as not, refers to stoking and blowing on a fire. It requires a good set of lungs.
--Digging is a term which describes all agricultural activities. As in, "Students have gone to dig in the school garden."
--Rain does not refer to any simple drizzle, but only to those heavy deluges which might remind Americans of hurricanes or tropical storms. As in, "I fear to move in the rain."
--Appreciating means expressing gratitude, often for having been thanked by someone else. As in, "Thank you for appreciating."

I look forward to all the opportunities for communication--and miscommunication--that the next few months will surely provide. Perhaps we will all learn more about ourselves and what is important to us in the process. Regardless, it should offer many opportunities for laughter and connection.

And please bear with me when I slip into tall English... or even Luganda.

Regarding Ebisaanyi.

I first encountered ebisaanyi (the plural form of ekisaanyi) a few years ago in Zambia. There, these devious creatures operated under the pseudonym suntaboya. For those few of my readers who have yet to acquaint themselves with either of the above Bantu dialects, you will know these creatures as "caterpillars." Or, in the slang of my childhood, "wooly worms."
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Now, if memory serves me correctly, the ebisaanyi of my American childhood were harmless fun-loving creatures renowned for their skill in predicting weather patterns. A thick dark band anticipated a heavy winter. Or was it the other way around? Regardless, I never learnt any special fear or awe for these small meteorologists.
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Three years ago, during a May-term biology course in Zambia, I had the great (mis)fortune to gain a bit more respect for the ebisaanyi, or suntaboya, as they are called in CiTonga. I don't know if they shared the same meteorological interests as their American cousins--there certainly was very little snow for them to predict. They had, however, obviously put much evolutionary effort into developing a skill noticeably lacking in their American colleagues: the ability to make people itch.
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.itch. [i/ch]. noun. an uncomfortable sensation on the skin that causes a desire to scratch.
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At Macha, the research campus where we stayed in Zambia, we were warned about suntaboya. Warned that their hairs could elicit quite an itching sensation--but only if one touched them! So, most of us practised suntaboya safety techniques: checking for creatures before sitting, removing them with sticks, and generally avoiding them. One more inquisitive friend--the kind who can only learn by experience or experiment--wanted to check the actual intensity of the itching sensation. So, one day, he found a suntaboya simply minding its own business. He disturbed its royal highness (I firmly believe that any creature which inspires in one such awe and fear as these do me should surely be addressed with respect).
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My friend very carefully and scientifically rubbed a one square inch patch of his hand (though not the palm) against the suntaboya. By the next day (or hour?), he confirmed the anecdotal evidence with his own objective findings: suntaboya are quite skilled at causing humans to itch.
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I wish the story ended there.
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It was shortly after my friend's experiment that we were sent in pairs for weekend homestays with families of hospital and research center staff. A friend (though not the one who served as his own test subject) and I were dropped off together on Friday afternoon. Our host father--the only family member who really spoke English--spent the evening showing us around. After walking in the bush a bit, I managed to get some burrs or small thorns stuck in my skirt. I tried to remove them in the latrine, but it was too dark inside to see much. I decided that I would have to wait for night and the privacy of our sleeping quarters, where I could remove any remaining burrs from my skirt.
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So the evening passed and night fell. My friend and I were eventually shown to the room where we would sleep on a single mattress. Our hosts were careful to check for suntaboya and remove them with sticks before leaving us to sleep. As soon as they had departed, I remove my skirt to finish picking out the burrs that had been annoying me all evening. Suddenly, in horrified shock, I found myself staring at a suntaboya, albeit one missing half its hair! It had been crawling around in my skirt and on my thighs for hours, leaving its hairs everywhere it trod. That night became something of a bonding experience for my friend and I as she, bless her, picked caterpillar hairs out of my legs with the tweezers and duct tape she just happened to have along.
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For the next few days, my legs and hands (remember the latrine attempts to remove a "burr"?) were red, swollen, and super itchy. This is an entirely subjective observation, not nearly as controlled as my friend's, but I've known no worse poison for inducing itching.
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If you're not already, please laugh.
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Though I found no humour in the events, as they occurred, it truly is a funny story. Also funny is my continued subconcious fear and involuntary shudder whenever I see an American wooly worm.
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And then, ten months ago, I came to Uganda. From the beginning, I had my eyes peeled for those ghastly creatures. Months passed and I never saw--or felt--any sign of them. Good, right?
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At this point, the soundtrack in my head plays that eerie music that signals something bad about to happen. (Like a repeat occurrence of the above story? No, silly, not that bad!)
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A couple months ago, I started to see caterpillars around. Still hoping for the best, I queried Maama, what is that? Ekisaanyi--a caterpillar. Is it bad to touch? Yes. Does it make you itch (as I demonstrate scratching)? Yes. Uh oh.
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But I was more knowledgeable of their ways and wiles--surely I wouldn't be conquered by ebisaanyi again. I was also happy to note that they seem to be far less populous in this region than further south. Loud sigh of relief.
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And then, one day a few weeks ago, I woke up with extremely itchy fingers and toes. After cursing mosquitoes, I went about my day. Two days later, when I was still tempted to remove the offending limbs with my own (short) nails, I started to get suspicious. I showed Maama my red, swollen, and itchy hands. Ekisaanyi, she informed me.
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Ekisaanyi. It made sense--the itching, swelling, and redness. When I looked closely, I could note tiny hairs on the side of my finger. But, how?!?, I wondered incredulously. (Upon concluding that it probably occurred at night while I was asleep, I chose not to consider any further implications.)
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Maama suggested soaking the tormented parts of my body in paraffin to relieve the itch. (Trust me--experience had already proven the inefficacy of any oral or topical antihistamine.) We didn't have any paraffin, so I waited it out another couple days.
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Now, again, the perspective of a past event allows me to laugh at my marvelous (mis)fortune. To be blessed by a visit from such a skilled creature as the ebisaanyi--and not once but twice! Who among you can claim to know nature's defenses quite so intimately?

Our Wounded Earth

A passage I quoted in my journal months ago. From "The Warrior Song of King Gezar," as quoted by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin in Three Cups of Tea (amazing book, in case you wondered!). With photos from the last few months.
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Our earth is wounded.
Her oceans and lakes are sick;
her rivers are like running sores;
The air is filled with subtle poisons.
And the oily smoke of countless hellish fires blackens the sun.


Men and women, scattered from homeland, family, friends,
wander desolate and uncertain,
scorched by a toxic sun...
In this desert of frightened, blind uncertainty,
some take refuge in the pursuit of power.
Some become manipulators of illusion and deceit.
If wisdom and harmony still dwell in this world,
as other than a dream lost
in an unopened book,
they are hidden in our heartbeat.


And it is from our hearts that we cry out.
We cry out and our voices
are the single voice of this wounded earth.


Our cries are a great wind across the earth.

And life is a journey...

Passage from a Reform Jewish Prayer Book, as quoted by Priscilla Warner, in The Faith Club.
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Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey
From childhood to maturity
And youth to age;
From innocence to awareness
And ignorance to knowing;
From foolishness to discretion
. And then, perhaps, to wisdom;
From weakness to strength
Or strength to weakness--
. And, often, back again;
From offense to forgiveness,
From loneliness to love,
From joy to gratitude,
From pain to compassion,
And grief to understanding--
. From fear to faith;
From defeat to defeat to defeat--
Until, looking backward or ahead,
We see that victory lies
Not at some high place along the way,
But in having made the journey, stage by stage,
. A sacred pilgrimage.
Birth is a beginning
And death a destination
And life is a journey,
A sacred pilgrimage--
To life everlasting.

These Have I Known...

These Have I Tasted....

• the sweetness of matooke as a daily food.
• the gritty dry season dust which covers everything.
• the savour of curry, tomatoes, and onions: our basic spices.
• the smooth pleasure of soda from a glass bottle.
• Kajoba's chapatis: the best around!
• the taste of a three year old's kisses.
• water boiled over a wood fire.
• the rare indulgence of dark chocolate melting in my mouth.
• fresh passion fruit on a sunny afternoon.
• the tart flavour of unripened mangoes.
• groundnuts planted with my own sweat and labour.
• hot tea made from our garden: warmth on a cold night.
• posho and beans, posho and beans, posho and beans.

These Have I Smelt...

• the slight sweetness of dry season dust.
• sauce cooking on a charcoal fire.
• "jinga" (ginger) steeping in the tea flask.
• the newness and life of a freshly bathed infant.
• pre-adolescent boys herded back into the classroom after lunch hour football.
• rubbish burning by the road side.
• breads and cakes at Tuwereza bakery.
• meat hanging from the butcher's hook.
• the feverish sweat of a body racked by malaria.
• vegetables rotting in the market.
• rain approaching from the east.

These Have I Heard...

• forty loud voices competing to greet me as I enter a classroom.
• my brothers' humorous attempts to speak English.
• children calling to me from the roadside wherever I go: "Bye, Auntie Muzungu."
• incredulity at how non-fragile and non-weak I am.
• the comfortable sound of my mother's voice after a long day of work.
• a young baby's cooing and gurgling.
• the cries of children being beaten.
• the drums beating a kiganda rhythm.
• my students singing at holy mass.
• the strangeness when an occasional Americanism escapes my lips.
• the pleasant joy of old friends and family members on an international phone call.
• the call to prayer from the mosque loudspeakers.

These Have I Seen...

• the sudden lakes and rivers created by an afternoon downpour.
• toothless grins and smirks as nursery schoolers race to greet me first.
• the smartness of a shaved head, polished shoes, and school sweater.
• babies growing and developing before my eyes.
• my students heading off to secondary school.
• the devestations of war and of development.
• the delight and pride when a student notes his/her own improvement.
• children discussing the meaning of a rainbow.
• the horizon filled with stars peaking over the latrine wall.
• the strength of women who carry families and communities on their heads and backs.
• the hollow emptiness of water tanks during the dry season.
• the awing beauty of an equatorial sunset.
• the anxious way people scan the skies for rains that should have come.
• love in my friends' eyes.
• the hungry look, dirty feet, torn clothes, and long hair of poverty.
• committed teachers struggling on behalf of their students despite untold challenges.

These Have I Felt...

• the uneven ridges of dirt floors in my classrooms.
• small and dirty hands grasping my own.
• loving embraces as my brother welcomes me home.
• the itch of jiggers, mosquito bites, or caterpillar hairs on the soles of my feet.
• the weight of my backpack laden with a day's worth of water: 2-5 litres worth.
• the awful power of a rainy season deluge.
• the painful heat of a motorcycle burn.
• the weight of a hoe in my hands as I dig in the garden.
• the wind in my face and hair as I ride to town.
• the tiredness of a long week of work.
• chalk dust drying out my hands after every lesson.
• the quick sharp pain of the piercing gun.
• the press of bodies in the market and bus park.
• the bone-jarring speed of public transportation.
• my brothers' soft cuddling.
• a baby's fuzzy curls.
• the slickness of my hands and soreness of my arms on laundry day.
• the agonising pain of new intestinal guests.
• the shocking chill of a pre-dawn bath.

These Have I Known...

• love and sorrow.
• delight and fear.
• pride and frustration.
• comfort and confusion.
• joy and anxiety.

I have loved and been loved,
known and been known,
seen and been seen.

Bukoto, I will always carry you in my heart.

About Comments

A few people have had trouble posting comments to my blog, so here's some advice. When you want to comment, click where it says "0 comments" (or whatever number). Type your comment into the box. If you don't have a gmail account, click the circle that says "Anonymous." You might have to type in a code that you see in a box (I can't remember if this is enabled). This is for security. Click "Publish comment." Bravo, you have now commented on my blog.
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After a slew of hateful and racist comments were published anonymously on my blog, my sister logged into my account and turned off all comments. I have since re-allowed comments, even anonymous ones, but all comments must now first be approved by the blog administrator (me) before appearing on the blog. If your comment doesn't appear on my blog for a few days or weeks, don't fear... it just means that I haven't checked my email.

Directions to my house via public transportation.

Just in case you ever want to come visit... or in case you ever thought it was complicated to direct people to your house...
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From Kampala, get a bus/taxi/coaster to Masaka. Should be between 5000sh and 10000sh, usually about 7000sh.
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Most likely, they will be going on beyond Masaka, so ask where they're headed (this is more the case for a bus/coaster, but also sometimes true for taxis).
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-If they're going to Mbarara (toward Rwanda), ask the conductor if the bus will stage at Kyabakuza ("Cha-bah-koo-zah").
From Kyabakuza, get a taxi (approx. 1000-1500sh) or a boda (about 2500sh per person) to Bukoto "Town." It's a trading centre on this same road. A longish bumpy ride, so I don't recommend sitting double. Once you get to town, I can meet you, and first take you to my house (really close to the town "centre"--really the single intersection in the village). Or you can try to get a boda (they're not always around) to bring you to the school for 500sh. They know St Jude, or tell them the Parish. And of course, anyone can direct you to the home of Chairman Katongole/Nakaweesi/the muzungu.
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-If they're going to Kyotera/Rakai/Mutukula (toward Tanzania), ask to get off at Kyanjale ("Chahn-jah-lay"). From Kyanjale, a boda to Bukoto "town" is 2000sh per person, or 1500sh to come to the school (it's on the way) (If you want this one, tell them Bukoto Parish. The Parish is at the top of a hill, and the school is on the way up, so just stop at the school). This way is a little shorter, but still bumpy and dusty.
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-If the bus will not stage at Kyanjale or Kyabakuza, they should let you off in either Nyendo (for an Mbarara bus) or Masaka Town (for a Kyotera/Rakai bus). If so...
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-From Nyendo (a suburb of Masaka), a taxi into Masaka costs 1000sh or a boda should be about 1500-2000sh. In Masaka, you want to go to the MoGas station on Kampala Rd (the same road that the bus or taxi or boda will come into town on). Don't mention this to the boda until you see the signs for Masaka, or he'll try to tell you that it is too far and you should pay more.
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-Once you get to the MoGas station, a boda to "Bukoto Town" is 4000sh. Usually, they'll say 5000sh, and they will sometimes accept 3000sh if I fight, but 4000sh is "standard". Tell them to stop at the town center (a "large" intersection with a pool table).
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If you want me to meet you in "Bukoto Town", call me from Kyanjale, Kyabakuza, or MoGas--it isn't any trouble and then I can first take you to my house.

A Reflection on My Growth...

The question MCC asked: Did you grow personally, spiritually and vocationally? Be specific.
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I feel that it’s a bit hard to be “specific” when I’m still here and still living and experiencing this assignment as a present reality. That said…
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Personal Growth
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-Early in my assignment, when my relationships here were still new (or even, in many cases, non-existent), I realized how much I have always relied on other people—friends, professors, family members—to buoy my self-esteem and confidence when I faced challenges or adversity. That realisation, at a point when my relationships here were still developing and as I was about to begin teaching for the first time, was an insight which helped me face struggles and find strength within myself. Even though my relationships here are now much stronger—and more numerous—this assignment has helped me to develop more confidence in my own strength and abilities.
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-I don’t think I’ve ever been a short-tempered person, but this assignment has taught me to shrug my shoulders and laugh in situations where I might once have been quite frustrated or angry. Rare is the day when I actually get to teach all of the lessons allotted to me on the time table. Where this used to frustrate me greatly, I’ve learnt to let it go. Letting go of any expectations that a schedule will be followed, that people will translate long speeches for me, that I will be charged a fair price, or that people won’t judge me first by the tone of my skin has been a freeing experience. And how sweet it has become to savour the times when things do go as planned, when resources are available, when children greet me by name, and when people relate to me simply as a friend.
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-I think my understanding of poverty and climate change have both been transformed as well. Where I once understood these as abstract concepts, they now have faces, names, and stories. I teach students who walk to school with empty stomachs but plead for homework, know families who live on far less than $1 per day, and see gardens dried up because the rains haven’t come. I have pumped and carried my own water; taught in classes lacking windows, doors, and cement floors, during the rainy season; and sat beside illiterate eighteen year olds struggling to finish primary school. With all of this in my heart and memories, I know I won’t go back the same, though what specific changes I will make remain yet to be seen.
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Spiritual Growth
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-A year ago, I graduated from college with a degree in “Christian Ministry,” bitterness regarding the fundamentalism I once adhered to, a million questions about theology, and a belief that faith exists not in the space where all those questions are answered, but where they are simply lived with. This year, I have lived amongst people who characterise faith not as specific beliefs, but as tradition and practice. In a Catholic community where I can never understand the homily but am always invited to take the Eucharist, it has been refreshing to simply live faith. Live and let live. Love each other and do what you can to assist. These are not simply philosophical ideals for my neighbours and friends here—regardless whether the “other” is Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, or that strange unknown, “Mennonite.” I hope I will take much of this same “practice of faith” with me when I return.
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Vocational Growth
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-Awhile ago, I read some passages by an author (whose name currently escapes me) who talked about vocation as a never-ending journey, as a “calling” that can only be understood years later when a person looks back on it. So, in that context, yes, I have grown vocationally. I have journeyed further along my life’s path—I have been a teacher, a friend, a daughter—and I have learnt more about myself in the process. I have worked hard to love others, even in the midst of conflict and cultural misunderstanding, so perhaps my capacity to love has been stretched in the process. I have embraced the role of teacher (a role which once seemed far bigger than I felt qualified for), but continued to learn. I have shared the same struggles and frustrations as my colleagues, and I admire their commitment to their work. I know now that I could not work in this role long-term (i.e. more than a few years), simply because the constraints of the syllabus and the lack of resources would eventually overwhelm me. And yet, it has certainly been a growing experience to work in a position where the needs—academically, physically, emotionally—are in reality too great to be met. It is difficult and humbling to see needs and not be able to meet them, to not be able to provide much more than love to these dear children. Any idealistic hopes I may once have had to “change the world” have given way to a desire to simply walk alongside and love the people I meet.
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And also, my hair has grown. A lot.

Advice to a SALTer...

-Don’t expect people to be specific about details, schedules, your responsibilities, etc. Even if they are, don’t expect things to often work out the way they have been planned.
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-Come to learn. The people you meet may not even expect to teach you anything. But they will.
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-You will encounter a lot of needs—physical, emotional, academic—but you are one person with limited energy and limited resources. Focusing on the needs, or even on your attempts to meet them, will overwhelm you. Do what you can, but, most of all, focus on loving people.
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-Not every action or tradition you will encounter is “good” or even “cultural.” Don’t be afraid to challenge people to overcome their own stereotypes or change their behaviours. But, first build relationships. Never challenge without the foundation of a strong relationship or without having taken the time to really observe and try to understand. Always affirm before you challenge. And know that change takes time, sometimes a lot of time.
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-Learn to shrug your shoulders and laugh. Laugh with the children who point and stare. Laugh with your host family over your own mistakes. Laugh when your lessons get cancelled because the school garden needs to be dug or there is no water in the tank. Laugh when you pay too much. Laugh the first time you find yourself in a latrine without toilet paper (and the second). Laugh when the electricity is off on the day that you really must print something. At the end of the day, laughter is far less exhausting than anger or bitterness.
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-Put effort—a lot of effort—into learning the local language. Let people teach you—not just your “tutor,” but also your colleagues, your host family, your students, your neighbours, village shopkeepers, market vendors, boda drivers, and anyone else you encounter. Your relationships will be deeper (and far more numerous) and your experience richer if you invest yourself in learning the local language.
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this exercise was part of the end of term reporting that MCC requires of SALTers...
just thought you might find it interesting.