the big cactus

a handle bar mustache bandit rides into the sunset

2012-02-06T05:37:00.000-08:00

Yes. This is from THE DAY.

This is the speech I delivered to my fellow PCVs at our Close of Service conference, the last gathering attended by everyone. During and since the conference I've felt that same feeling you feel in your stomach when you are young and in love or when something really awful happened to you or when someone has died. A heavy, dull ache. I'll write about that later. Anyways, I lot of inside jokes here. Don't worry about it.

I watched Lukas as he stepped away from the podium having delivered his Swearing In “MUZUNGU!” speech. He had something or other about our role as proverbial Boda Men (and Women) asking people where they're going and how we can help them get there. I marinated on that for a minute and after several other event formalities we broke into fragments of small talk, photos, and hors d'ouvres.

It’s worth noting that this scenario now terrifies me. Small talk. I don’t know how to talk about much outside of literature, metaphysics, the doings and transpirings of The Group, and, well, poop.

(It was pencil thin, though completely solid, and very lightly colored the other day. First time in two years it’s looked like this. It’s incredible!)

Anyways there I am in a linen suit peering through the fog of a hangover and out from a Beatle-ish mop top and over a handlebar mustache which I had carved the previous night. There I am. I saw the Ambassador schmoozing his way in my direction. He paused, gave me a once over, extended his hand and said “When the going gets weird, the weird get going.” Yes sir they do. That is indeed what they do. It did get weird and we did get going and now here we are.

And we are weird. Really weird. Not unique, special, different or any other euphemism. That would neuter the description. We’re weird.

Just agreeing to come here and do this whole thing is weird enough. How many of your friends took this ever so scenic route after college or retirement? Can you count them off on one hand? We are a self selecting banditry of weirdness, as weird as a troop of monkeys. More weird than a troop of monkeys. We started out weird and for better or worse we’ve gotten weirder.

For the worse we’ve become painfully frugal. I’ll just say flat out cheap. If it’s free we’ll eat it or drink it or pack it home on the six hour bus ride. We’ve developed questionable hygiene practices. Like the opposite of immaculate…de-mamaculate if you will. We’ve pooped (see there it is again: poop talk) on shoes, buses, river beds, caveras, and Lake Victorias. We’ve pooped in so many places and so many circumstances that hovering over a hole in the ground seems normal rather than cause célèbre. And after two years in the mosh pits that pass for lines here, we often confuse boorishness with assertiveness; long ago having determined dignity exchanged for “fairness” to be a reasonable bargain.

But our little band has become weirder for the better as well. Perhaps you’ve become savvy to the complicated truths of the world. Maybe you’ve become more disciplined in some regards and less uptight in others. Or maybe you’ve learned to cook or garden or raise a dog. You know your specifics better than me. There isn’t much that’s universal about the Peace Corps experience. It’s a fit custom tailored for you.

But here we are a clan of 29 goofballs, husbands, hippies, warlocks, pilgrims, poofs and gurus sharing 29 iterations of one common experience. We’ve been away from all those influences from back home. Away from the family and friends, the career, the culture, the comforts; we have been forced to muddle through this whole thing as best as we could.

As onlywe could.

The things you’ve said and done and thought these past two years are Who You Are. It’s been two years. Nobody can fake it that long. I’ve never felt more true to myself than I do right now and that’s the Grand Universal Peace Corps Truth. And while that authenticity shouldn’t be weird it certainly seems to be and that’s something we all share.

So I hope we all hold on to what we’ve found in ourselves. And I hope we don’t stop exploring just because we’re finishing with our service. I’ve got the emotional sophistication of a 15 year old boy with a Victoria’s Secret catalogue but I hope that if you feel like crying you’re not doing it because this is the end and you’re going to miss pooping in a hole and talking to your friends about it. Even if the end is hard, you don’t want to be in Peace Corps forever. Of that I am certain.

Rather I hope that we can all cherish the past, accept the present and embrace the future. We’ve got some heavy hitters in our group and I’m so excited to see where we all end up next. I know we’ll still travel around…meet people…get into adventures…you know, wander the Earth. Be thankful for the experience but don’t linger too long looking back. Look forward to all the awesome things coming our way. Keep going forward, straight on ‘till dawn.

In his swearing in speech, Lukas told us that we were Boda Men (and Women) and our job was to ask people where they were going and how we could help them get there. I think that we’re spaceships. Really weird spaceships. Tearing through the heavens at the speed of light. And space ships don’t come equipped with rearview mirrors.

These people.

and it all briefly comes together

2011-12-03T03:35:00.001-08:00

Words words words. I don't know how to start. It's becoming the dry season now, daily rains giving way to long hot dusty days. The school is deserted, the teachers and students moving back into the deep village for harvesting. It's quiet.

I've found that my frustrations and cynicisms and despairs pile up over time. Like shoots of tough savanna grass they grow green and fresh in isolation and a fertile disposition, before they turn brown dead and dry as time marches on. Like an unkempt garden these frustrations grow into a prickly thicket, eventually obscuring even tomorrow's limitless promise and possibility. The process is gradual but the effect is cumulative.

But the clearance happens suddenly like a flame front across the plains. Instantaneous. An experience, a good experience, sometimes only a moment, so powerfully good that it wipes out weeks of the thorny nagging underbrush leaving behind only fresh scorched earth. Clean fertile earth to try it all over again. The lows are powerfully low, but the highs are intoxicating in their intensity. Cycles of despair and euphoria.

We finished up the term. And it finished.

Before we as a staff collectively broke huddle for the year we congregated for one last event, the end of year staff party. The event started late and there were long speeches from bloviating politicians (or rather their junior emissaries) and blah blah blah. That's not important. We ate a tremendous spread of fried chicken, cassava, pasta, rice, goat, beef, fish, salad and then Got. It. On.

A sound system was hired and several crates of beer were ordered and we started doing togetherness. In the past I've been hesitant to linger too long at these get togethers, perhaps equal parts sober concern for my reputation and a middle school boy's fear of the dance floor. The music is a reggeton/afro/acholi quick beat that made me look exactly what you think a white guy dancing with a bunch of African's would look like. Enough to shatter any delicate male ego.

With a single beer's assistance I set sail on those turbulent seas, trying to find paths of rhythms and the crests of bass lines. Mr. Okema saw me swimming (sinking) and came to my aid. "Uh huh, good!" as he choreographed "Now do like this." And I started to get it kinda. Either that or more likely I picked up another bottle of assistance.

(Digression: I don't know if there's a name for it but the night's weapon of choice was a big 500ml bottle of Senator beer spiked with a shot of Waragi gin. For the home bartender: buy a bottle of the cheapest high octane beer you can find, leave it in the sun for a day or so and then, still warm, open it and add some vodka or gin (any kind that comes in a plastic bottle will do) and drink it. Hooray!)

The tribal dance here is incredible. The Acholi school children win the national dance competitions on the regular and for good reason. Hips neck feet and drums in a flurry of coordinated contortions and culture. It's a joy to live in this region and witness these things. What would those bored screen addled American suburbanites give to have a culture like this, all they own?

So there I was. We were. The syncopated bouncing mob. Boozy, happy, dancing. Gaining confidence and BAC I was beginning to surf the lines of music. First was the school secretary Filda, maternal, unusually exuberant, though characteristically dignified as she approached and bounced and danced, circling around ululating. She flipped off back into the mass of now sweating bodies but she had opened the floodgates. Some recently graduated A level students, staffers, teachers, wives of teachers, children of teachers, students of children of wives of teachers (just kidding) all had a go at me.

One young woman came at me gale force in a hurricane of confidence, hips and vitality. A thick woman in an ankle length dress and covered shoulders who radiated a sexuality more fierce than her thin designer jean gym toned counterparts in college bars across America. She was a force. FORCE. I've never felt anything like it. As she trailed away she glanced back over her shoulder looking like "I just launched you into outer space, huh." Raised eyebrows and a noiseless whistle was my only reply. Because I had already torn past the moon and Mars and was zipping by Neptune.

At three thousand feet per second.

As I made the solitary walk home from the party, head still buzzing from cheap alcohol and the peculiar electricity that I imagine is only felt among the flirtatious youth, I realized that this had been the best party I had ever attended. It wasn't the food, the dancing, the drinking though they all played their part. It was the sense that I had finally found the people around me and that they had found me. For one night we punted everything out the window and just became people. People with faces and fingers and toes. I didn't feel like a white guy, an American, a math teacher, any of that. I felt together.

And just like that weeks of frustration were razed to the ground and I get to start fresh all over again. Two days later and I'm still glowing. I chased off three people who thought I was away and had come to rob my house. I fished a dead rancid rotting lizard out of my sofa cushions when I noticed the horrible smell. I ate beans and rice for three hundred and eightieth sixth time. But I don't care. I love it here. The highs tower above the lows.

The next morning I woke up early and went to get a cup of milk tea and a plate of cassava. I saw a co-reveler from the night before. He politely inquired about the status of my hangover (incredibly non-existent) before, like a proud father, adding, "You learned a lot last night."

And I was like "yeah."

some (other) thoughts I think

2011-11-01T03:10:00.000-07:00

One of the Volunteers here had originally joined in the '60s and had served briefly in Somalia before getting evacuated to India. I bought a guitar when I first arrived here (that would be failed teach my self guitar attempt number 3) and he came over for Thanksgiving and played it. He described his guitar playing as a nice relic of his first stint in Peace Corps and it's something that made an impression on me. Relics of Peace Corps service. I've picked up a couple languages, read a bunch of good books, filled up my passport and made some life long friends.

I was in the staff room one morning preparing some of my lesson notes when the fine art teacher, Mr. Okema, pulled up at my table as asked if he could sketch me. Do I have to pose? Nope. Well sure, fire away. I continued working and he started sketching and by the time I had finished my notes he had a rough sketch on paper. He fleshed it out for two full days, then he colored it in and gave it to me as a present. I've become so image desensitized probably due to the ubiquity of digital cameras and the way they can machine-gun images out into the world. I hadn't even considered having my portrait done by an artist. I had forgotten that that was an option.

It was such a valuable thing to receive as a gift. It was a time consuming labor of love executed by a friend of mine exercising his considerable talent for my benefit. And it was unsolicited. It is, perhaps, my favorite gift and once framed will be a very tangible relic of my Peace Corps service.

Candid shots are so difficult here. The only thing more conspicuous than being the one white guy at a 1,000 person strong gathering is to be a white guy holding a camera. Most shots taken by local photographers are posed portrait shots. During big events when everyone is all dressed up, there is a village photographer who goes around snapping portraits and charging about 30 cents a piece to develop them. He comes back several days later with a messenger bag full of pictures which he returns to his customers. I have no idea how he keeps track of who has paid for what photograph but he seems to be doing good business as he's got customers whenever he's around.

Now there is a very real possibility that I am missing several layers of nuance and subtlety but 90% of these posed portraits look exactly the same. It's a very formal affair. No smiling. Rigid posture. Looking off into the distance and never at the camera. It was kind of funny at first but with a memory card full of rather bland portraits I've been trying to figure a way around it. I snapped the above shot of the kids from my lap while someone was giving a speech.

Kids here are left pretty much unsupervised by around the time they can walk. The ever quotable Mr. Owiny quips that the children here "just move anyhow, as if they were goats" which probably doesn't help paint the picture for you as you're likely not familiar with free range goats. If the child is still crawling they're put under the charge of a (not much) older sibling. It is quite common to see a girl of about 8-10 years with a baby wrapped to her back with a piece of fabric while she fetches water or fire wood.

There's another aspect about the village children that I really struggle to articulate. It's like they're not really viewed as people or at least as a person with a name and personality. Any boy is called merely "boy" and girls are called "girl" in lieu of a name. It's impossible (for me) to tell which child belongs to which family and where they are supposed to be and when. Free range children I guess.

approximately five thousands words

2011-09-11T12:49:00.000-07:00

Well yeah.

Before I got the new ones in a care package, I thought my orignal t-shirts were still white. Nope.Fourth of Ju-ly and long exposure sparklers.Veranda sunsets. It's something like this every night.Hell kittens from hell! 5 kittens, no cat mother, it almost broke me. IT ALMOST BROKE ME!

the airport safari cowgirl

2011-08-23T04:34:00.000-07:00

In my hammock trying to recreate a look of anxiety. And my hair.

I suffer increasingly powerful anxiety when I'm around...whatever, let's just say it....white people. My Peace Corps brothers and sisters don't really count because we all bathe, figuratively speaking, in the same bucket of dirty water. So generally any white person in Uganda outside of about 140 people mildly freak me out for reasons that aren't entirely clear to me.

Sure I spend a fair amount of time at my site and those prolonged exposures naturally change the way I talk and think and act to the point where western small talk absolutely flummoxes me. Peace Corps talk inevitably devolves (evolves?) towards global politics, the weighty metaphysical, the Development Carnival or... poop (and the quality/consistency of). Village talk with my teaching colleagues usually centers around rain (the absence/presence of) and how "stubborn" our students are (very stubborn).

(Quick aside: A bunch of us were at a bar where we met this German backpacker who was traveling through East Africa. "Oh you guys are in Peace Corps? You guys are all the same, you sit around drinking beer and talking about how much you hate being in Peace Corps." He had a beer with us and then went on his merry little way. When he left, we kept drinking beer and now talked about how much we hated German backpackers. I will always grudgingly admire that man for speaking truth to power or at least truth to a bunch of smelly inebriated PCVs. In our defense I would argue that most of our complaining in merely venting and most of us cherish our experience and opportunities here.)

None of these things (metaphysics, global politics, poop) really interest anyone outside of Peace Corps or at least not in the context of oh-hey-here-we-are-standing-in-line-at-the-supermarket-together conversations. I was in Gulu buying supplies (Gulu is like the regional capital of northern Uganda and the armpit of the Developement Juggernaut) and some guy noticed my Twins hat and started in with the baseball small talk. I felt a constriction in my chest and the normally free flowing opinions regarding bowel movements or the ongoing NATO led Libyan "intervention" slowed to a trickle. Nothing I was comfortable talking about fit the scenario so I stammered out some platitudes about Liriano and darted away as quickly as possible. I don't think this affliction hits all the other PCVs to the same extent as it does me but I'm positive it's there in some shape or insidious form.

Right. I'm at the Johannesburg airport to see the Africa Region Peace Corps Medical Officer (or AR PCMO in Peace Corps parlance) located in the PC regional headquarters. If you're afraid of white people airports are like the seventh circle of hell. But anyways there I am in the Johannesburg airport waiting in line to get my passport stamped and doing my best to be non-nondescript. Like actively thinking about looking non-nondescript lest some passerby make the mistake of talking to me about anything other than, for example, Ayn Rand's hypocritical rejection of practical socialism via a book touting an idealized capitalism. I'm wearing headphones and sun glasses more to discourage potential interlocutors than for entertainment or fashion purposes respectively. My hands are tightly locked to the straps of my backpack because I've consciously decided it's likely to draw the least amount of attention while giving me the added bonus of having something to hold, tightly, on to. Occasionally I glance up from the floor to monitor the progress of the customs que lest I inadvertently am holding it up (thereby drawing attention to myself) and that's when I saw her.

She's mid forties, tall, thin, blonde and I suppose attractive, though what really catches my eye is what she's wearing. The first layer is your standard issue khaki cargo (too) shorts and muti pocketed button down short sleeve shirt which, while a bit silly on any occasion, is not out of the ordinary among safari tourists. But the "over layer" of this first layer is a distressed leather frilled frock/vest that is too large to be a vest but too short to be a free standing dress (hence my "frock"). Imagine a blonde hippy from the late '60s trying to dress like a Native American but without the beads. Frilled like that but more so. And instead of hippie think aging yuppie. I'm trying to avoid the word garish but I can't. It was garish. And expensive. There are some articles of clothing, or maybe ensembles, that you can just look at and realize "Whoa that must have cost a lot of money." She also carried a handsome canvas travel bag again in her alliterative khaki color. Naturally this whole array was crowned with oversize sunglasses and an audacious safari hat. She didn't look like she had come from a safari so much as she looked like she was trying to look like she came from a safari. An expensive safari. She was making a statement.

I should interject that from where I left I bought a banana for less than ten cents from a bare footed woman clad in what would be described in America as "rags" with a bunch of bananas carried on her head like the Chiquita banana lady. The contrast between that and the slick cleanliness of the Jo-burg airport already had me reeling even without including the airport chic fashion show.

I was mesmerized. I wish I could have taken a picture but that would have been decidedly conspicuous and anti-nondescript. No sooner had the question "is she married?" scrolled across my mind then I saw, who I assumed to be, her husband who was dressed like the spitting image of The Man in the Yellow Hat from the Curious George children's books. I can offer no improvement on that description.

Are these people real? Where are they going? Do they dress like this all the time? Maybe this is the "jet set" and they dress according to the airport they will be parading through. If that's so, is this their Africa get up? Do they have a special sub-Saharan Africa get up? Better yet, do they have an even more specific sub-Saharan Big Game Safari Outfit to contrast with a a Just General Safari Outfit? Do they also have a sub-Saharan designer Desert Nomad airport chic outfit for Addis Ababa? Freaks! FREAKS!

While these thoughts and observations are tumbling through my mind I snap back into white people paranoia mode and notice the customs que is about to pass me by. To avoid the stern looks and any chance of possible brief (!) conversations I quickly scuttle off through customs, dutifully avoiding the eye contact of any passerby.

the (un)invisible man

2011-07-25T09:19:00.000-07:00

There are millions of experiences out here for the experiencing and perhaps the most poignant is the experience of being a minority. Dispatches from the frontier: being a minority sucks.

I can't disappear, I can't fade into the background. I'm always on display. Sometimes it's not so bad and some days it's unbearable but it's something that never comes off and never goes away.

My otherness is impossible forget as each day brings subtle, flat and overt reminders addressed as offhand comments or jeering children or slurring drunks. As tiresome as these things can be, especially one year in and one to go, they bruise only. More than insults and irritation it's the isolation. There are some things that nobody in my village ever really "gets." Somethings I can't explain to even the most willing, educated, kindly people in the township. The people I consider to be my closest friends. I wish they could just listen and understand and change their outlook seamlessly but, obviously, that's a bit of a fantasy.

I can't help but compare my experience as a minority here with my previous experience in the majority...needless to say I think I've become more sensitive.

But like nearly every hardship I face in Peace Corps I can stand outside of it, to some extent, as my life here has a two year expiration date. None of my challenges are permanent and that's comforting. It's like in middle school when some teacher duck tapes your thumb to your palm for the day. It sucks but not too much because you know it's only for the day. Owing, perhaps, to the time bound nature of the experience I am afforded a rather clinical perspective of my own frustrations.

Sometimes.
*************************Edit 19/9/2011**********************************
This is a really stupid post and some pretty lousy writing.

Basically what I wanted to say is that I'm tired of being stared at all the time. Anonymity has gone the way of, I dunno, decent cheese. It's not something I'm likely to get back until I come back Stateside. Something that I do appreciate is the perspective I have gleaned from this experience.

I mean, every possible factor is skewed in my favor. The stereo-type of white people here is that we are healthy wealthy and educated. Even the nature of the experience is finite, there's a two year window that I have to put up with all this and afterwards I'm back in the happy majority bubble. I can't help but contrast that with what minorities in the US have to put up with. Most of the stereo types are negative and the experience certainly doesn't have a two-years-and-you're-free time stamp. I can't even imagine how much weight that is to carry around. As comparatively easy the experience is for me, it still drives me up the wall.

thoughts i think

2011-07-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

skee doo bop

bop bom-ba way

ow whoa whoa

oh whoa whoa

ho ho hoopa

tupa tupa

wam ba whoa

whoa whoa

yeah.

comeuppens muffins, man

2011-05-31T08:12:00.000-07:00

Crawling (and occasionally flying) out there in this fine wide world is a little beetle whose body is packed with caustic acid. When this insect is squashed, the acid smears onto the skin of the sqausher and causes a rather nasty chemical burn. It would be a decent defense mechanism except I've never even seen one. You see, I can't avoid swatting them because they crawl around on me while I'm sleeping.

(Actually, this doesn't really bother me all that much. The crawling while I'm sleeping thing. I can't say I'm pumped about it, but I'm sure there are plenty of things creeping around on all of us whether it's in Uganda or America. You see, most of the night time crawlers are considerate enough to practice "Leave No Trace" ethics and I wake up the next morning none the wiser. Great.)

For whatever reason, I have a sub-concious Kung Fu reflex and I keep swatting them dead in my sleep and waking up with these nasty chemical burns. This is my third such burn, the first on my face. When the burn is on your face it's apparently called "Nairobi Eye." I have no idea how they've managed to (repeatedly) gain access to my net covered bed.

I don't want to moan about my health problems too much, it's bad form, but I've gotten walloped pretty good the past couple months. Torn (?) ACL, torn meniscus, esophagus burn from my malaria meds, the flu, sleepless nights and these damn beetles. Ehhhhhh man!

During training, while seemingly half of my group was suffering from persistant gastro-intestinal problems and I was as regular as a Twins first round playoff exit, I made the mistake of bragging about my good health. This is what, it seems, come-uppens feel like.

But,

you take the good,

you take the bad,

you take them both

and then you have...

products of dubious quality may be a metaphor for something

2011-04-21T05:41:00.000-07:00

Sub-saharan Africa is a lot of things and one of those things happens to be the dumping ground of the consumer world. The t-shirts you donate to the Salvation Army eventually end up here (and oddly enough Japan) where they are sold in unsorted bundles to market vendors for about $100 a bundle. This phenomenon can be followed to its conclusion where local textile manufacturing has been steam rolled by the impossible task of competing with second hand goods and those firms have mostly run for the hills. The textile industry has historically been one of the first "rungs on the development ladder" for developing countries and it has been argued that the knee capping of this industry by the second hand clothing market has contributed to the rather lowsy state of economic affairs in Uganda specifically and Africa generally. But that's an argument for another day and another post.

For a variety of reasons (poor regulation and lack of domestic competition are my bets) the quality of new things is generally terrible. It's better to buy just about everything here second hand. Of course the vendors know this, because it's their business to know this, so second hand goods actually cost more than most new goods. A good example is soccer cleats. Ugandans love soccer and know the equipment very well. You can purchase crappy Chinese cleats brand new for about $10 that fall apart in a month or second hand cleats for about $20 that will last you a couple years.

It's hard to get a good bargain on anything related to soccer because it's a product that is much better understood by the market vendors than it is by me. Outdoor gear is the opposite case because the vendors don't know the brands. I picked up this North Face Windstopper fleece for $3, they're going for about $125 on ebay. Though now that I'm doing a web search it is possible that mine's a fake and that's why it ended up going to the Salvation Army in the first place.

I bought this Camelback backpack for about $15 and they usually go for about $75. There's something off about the bag though. The guy seems to have a supply of them as he sold identical seemingly new bags to me and my buddy on separate occasions for the same price. Originally I imagined that he hijacked a Camelback truck and was selling them off one by one. Though after a couple months of ownership we both noticed that the bags have the relatively minor defect of a crappy label. My current guess is that these bags were rejected by quality control and dumped here at a fraction of the price.

You never really know what you're getting new or second hand although you can generally be sure that whatever it is you buy is defective in one way or the other. The people here know that too and sometimes I wonder if that idea is internalized.

the time i rode a very full taxi

2011-02-11T21:30:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've bothered to explain transportation here. The transport here is a rather large improvement over what it was in Guinea, but that says more about the sorry state of Guinea than it does about Uganda.

There is a fairly decent network of major arteries spreading through the country and plenty of vehicles to get you where you need to go. There are buses, private compact vehicles, taxi vans (matatoos) and motorcycles (forbidden!).

PCVs have an ongoing who's-been-in-the-fullest-taxi-game. Adults count as one, children count as one half, and chickens and drivers count as zero. The most I've heard is 23 in a taxi with a 14 person carrying capacity.

a day in the life: site ed.

2011-02-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

I've been on this bizarre kick for the past month or so that involves getting up at 5am. I'm not sure how I've managed to continue to convince myself that this a worthy goal but I have. Initially, I believed that I would start the day off with a nice brisk morning run but the light doesn't break until 6:30 and to run and shower and break the fast wouldn't get me out the door until 8:00am at which point I've missed the 7:30 school assembly (more on this later). Instead I've become fixated on the idea that early mornings build character or happen to be a habit of highly effective people or some other such nonsense. However you cut it, I'm up every morning sometime around 5am.

First stop is a glass of water, a nice cup of coffee and breakfast then it's out the door to school. Breakfast can be anything from a handful of g-nuts (groudnuts...they're like peanuts), a potato/onion/tomato omlette or even mango crepes if the season is right.

The school day starts with the morning assembly attended by the boarding students, staff, and the "teacher on duty." If you want to put that into NGO development-speak that would be all the "stakeholders"). Of course the day scholars rarely bother to come to school for this and most of my teaching colleagues make a point of missing it but I've found a certain zen to the whole thing.

The students are gathered and lectured on a litany of topics that usually center around the main theme that they are lazy and "stubborn.*" Now, there is no shortage of lazy and stubborn students at my school, but the majority of them don't bother to get up and get lectured at 7:30 every morning. Never the less, the lecturers ramble on unabated preaching to the choir and the students patiently listen to messages clearly intended for those not present.

The assembly is only supposed to last for half an hour but quite often the chief admonisher will get a full head of steam and plough on for a good 45 minutes to a full hour causing all the morning classes for the entire school to begin 20, 30, or 40 minutes late. It used to really irritate me (I almost always teach morning classes) but like I said, I've found certain zen to the whole thing.

After going into the staff room and greeting every person there with a hand shake and "good morning" it's off to class. I take attendance every day, more to learn names than anything else, and then start my lesson. Originally, I would let late comers come into the class but now I've set a hard cap at 30 minutes after I start my lesson for admittance.

The hardest part about being teaching is varying your teaching style to reach all the different types of students in the class and keep things interesting. If I'm not careful I find myself getting all college professor-y and lecturing too much making the dry subject of mathematics positively barren to a room full of teenagers. I much prefer to break them into groups and ask them to complete an activity which is submitted to me at the end of class.

For lunch I eat in the staff room (lunch is expected to be provided by the school) with the other teachers. Lunch is usually beans and posho (pounded corn meal) but usually one day a week it's goat instead of beans.

After lunch I head over to the bursor's office. This term I've been working with him to make electronic records of the school fees due by the students. The records have previously been kept in paper ledgers and sorting and tracking which student have paid and which haven't and which have a balance and which don't has been a mess. I've created a rather simple Excel spreadsheet that I'm hoping will be a vast improvement over pen and paper. This is the first term we've worked together so I'm doing most of the data entry. I'm hoping he will appreciate how much easier it is to do these things on the computer and I can tutor him in Excel so he can continue after I leave. Things are going pretty well so far.

I come home around 5pm and if I don't have an extra curricular activity I go for a run around 6pm when the sun has begun to set and the temperature drops. I cook some food when I get back and dink around on the computer or do some reading or prep for tomorrow's classes and then I'm in bed around 9:30 (that 5am start time comes with cost!) and that's that.

*"stubborn" is the preferred, and often only, adjective used to describe anyone or anything that is difficult, non-cooperative, disobediant, or generally bad in any way. It's just one of the little wrinkles of living here that other PCVs appreciate more than anyone back home can understand.

buzzards and dreadful crows, a necessary evil I suppose

2011-01-25T07:32:00.000-08:00

This what it looks like outside my front door these days. Perhaps you can compare with the photo taken a couple months ago. Same mango tree, different season.

We're in the heart of the dry season right now. It began in November and will continue until the end of February. I would previously gripe about the mud and general sogginess of the wet season but I have been reformed! The rain keeps down the dust and provides merciful coolness to the hot grasslands of northern Uganda.

The dry grass is also regularly set ablaze by the villagers for reasons not entirely understood by me. I have been told by it's done for aesthetics, replenishing soil nutrients needed for agriculture, or assisting hunters in their quest for game meat (the Ugandan Cob is a regional favorite).

I find the whole endeavor to be madness. The constant grass fires kick up waves and waves of wispy ash that coat nearly every interior part of my house. The fires quickly spread beyond the purview of the originator across vast stretches of plains. Grass thatched huts in their path can be set ablaze like dry Christmas trees. The whole territory now looks somewhat post apocalyptic.

But, hey, it is what it is.

I'm praying for rain.

Happy New Years

2010-12-31T11:51:00.000-08:00

Mt. Muhavura

4137 m

yabba dabba do

2010-12-21T10:13:00.000-08:00

Pony tail ahoy!

It may come as some surprise to those back home but until two days ago I hadn't updated my journal since August. My track record with letter writing is even worse and you can see how poorly I've been updating my blog. The first months at site have been a struggle. Though hardly the black death of loneliness and isolation I expected, it has taken all of my available faculties to tread water. Apparently those water treading faculties are also requisite for my journaling and letter writing. Something like winning the war but losing the battle.

I recently (and smugly) underlined the passage: "A neck tie is a noose inverted and if you're not careful it will hang you just the same" from the "The Life of Pi" as if it were a reaffirmation of my beard, pony tail, and flip flop life style. Occasionally I have these moments of (mostly imagined) bohemianism. But it got me thinking about why I'm here rather than over there.

One of the things that enticed me, and I imagine others like me, to the Peace Corps was the idea of living on the edge of the known world. Going farther, deeper, better, faster, harder, stronger than would otherwise be available via the more traditional school-to-more-school-to-cubicle-to-office-railway. In private pre-departure moments I imagined myself a yogi of the African grassland, personally growing through rich cultural experiences followed by careful meditation and quiet reflection.

As I roll up on a year and half of skipping around the the world, my experience has been more "square peg pounded through round hole" than "Buddah of the Serengeti." I run, but sometimes walk, face first into brick walls nearly every day. That is to say, rewarding though it has been, the experience has not been without it's discomfort and contortions. Some of the very basic ideas about myself and society at large have been re-opened for debate and debate can be uncomfortable because it is uncertain. I won't be quite sure until I return home to my friends and family but I feel as if squared edges are being rounded.

this is my cat, i am not a cat person

2010-11-30T08:55:00.000-08:00

Just recently I inherited a cat, actually kitten, from another PCV. Initially I named her J-Woww though after careful reflection she is now known as LeFleur the Cat. Her interests include sleeping, being insufferably noisy in the early morning and leaving disembowled rats and lizards on my living room floor. LeFleur the Cat is named in homage to a good friend of mine who has a predilection for yoga and terrible movies.

I talk too much. Here are some pictures.

2010-08-12T04:23:00.000-07:00

The view right out my front door.

Teaching in Lira during training.

My students dug up a giant termite mound and proudly brought me the queen termite.

These guys are our friends. They eat mosquitoes.

Three months of running on dusty roads caught up to me and my lungs to the point where I could barely breathe. For the past week I've been taking an extensive battery of drugs for breakfast lunch and dinner. Six pills, a shot of cough syrup, and a beer.

I am a blogging derelict

2010-08-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

Between a severe shortage of internet, a busy schedule, and just honest lethargy I haven't put a post up in months. I just wrapped up my first term as a math teacher and I'll be spending my holiday attending seminars for language and technical training before starting up with school again in late August.

Morale is a few degrees over luke warm at the moment, the bad days are ceding territory to the good, though I am happy with my progress as a teacher. My frustrations are not uncommon to any teacher or parent where the 'good' isn't seen until deep into the future and the bad is a nagging daily reminder. I'm generally happy with my students as they are improving, however slowly, though there is still so much work for us to do.

In any case here's an email I sent to my Peace Corpsing colleagues that hopefully you'll find amusing...it's the Peace Corps experience in a nutshell as you often find yourself in strange positions doing unexpected things. I'll get something better up soon, I promise!

Hey you people!

For the past two months I've been attending "wedding planning
meetings" for some lawyer in Gulu who is the OB of my head teacher.
This entails mostly sitting around and nominating each other to
various offices of power which is to say we do next to nothing for
about three hours every Sunday.

Now it has thus far been a breeze...I show up, throw down some cash,
sip my VIP Coca Cola, and carefully weigh the pros and cons of whether
Mr. Ojok or Mr. Odong would make a better Deputy Secretary of Litrugy
(Mr. Odong by a landslide by the way). Things have been humming along

nicely for the past month or so but my obsolescence has been disturbed.

I have been nominated as the Wedding Photographer.

You see I have photographed a couple of the events at the school and
church with my snap shooter and apparently the Head Teacher has taken
notice. He nominated me for the post (naturally neglecting to inform
me of his intentions prior to the meeting) telling the assembly of the
Gulu business set that "Mr. Jacob is a photographer at the MASTER
LEVEL. He will take wonderful pictures I am CERTAIN."

That's actually how he talks...he always puts tons of emphasis on the
last word of any sentence.

Anyways at first I was mildly (majorly) alarmed. I've never
photographed any event seriously and certainly nothing like a wedding! The guys throwing
down this wedding have the scrilla to hire a professional so I'm
assuming they're expecting professional quality. My nomination was
immediately called into question by the chairman of the planning

commission as he questioned my experience and ability. My Head

Teacher immediately launched into an impassioned defense of my

unparalleled abilities as a photographer.

And sweet baby Jesus can my Head Teacher talk, he once gave a rousing
hour long speech to the morning assembly that touched on brochial
pnuemonia, poverty in Bolivia (of all places) and the importance of
sweeping the dirt outside your compound. Now I'm no fan of hour long
speeches but this one was down right majestic. When he gets some
momentum he can just roll like a freight train.

Anyways he's going on and on about how I should be the photographer
and eventually my mild (major) alarm gives way to righteous
indignation. How dare they! Goddamnit, I am a photographer at the
MASTER LEVEL! Who are they to question my nomination!

Naturally he convinced them (and me) that I was the only one for the
job so that is how I now find myself as the wedding photographer for
an event planned for the 24th of August. Guys, all of this has been a
very long and indirect way to get to my direct point:

If I don't have a decent camera for this thing I'm boned.

So, please, please, please with extra matoke on top does anyone have a
dSLR that I can borrow for this wedding? I will guard it with my life
and guarantee payment if it is returned to you in a condition in any
way less than it was lent. Hopefully I can get it at IST or after we
go rafting and return it to you in a most expedited manner.

My life is in your hands dudes. Look at me I want to repeat that. My
life is in your hands dudes. Dudes....My. Life. Is. In. Your.
Hands.

Love,

Jacob

9 Very Short Stories Regarding Uganda

2010-05-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

1) I have, literally, had ants in my pants twice now and I can assure you that it is supremely uncomfortable. Removing your pants is the only respite.

2) I asked some students to tell me the characteristics of a good teacher in Uganda. "Shows up to class" and "not drunk" were their first and second responses, respectively. I paused briefly and then decided that; yes indeed, I can do both of those things.

3) I've met a man who has six toes on each foot. His name is Ojara Fabrio and the name Ojara is the name given to every Acholi born with six digits. Apparently six toe-ed-ness is a common enough occurance here to justify the creation of a specific name. Go figure.

4) All of the dogs here still have their testicles. Initially I found that mildly alarming. Of course upon reflection I now find detesticulated male dogs to be equally (more?) alarming. In any case I find myself in a general state of alarm.

5) I've stopped smoking (6 months) and started training for a marathon. Just thought I'd throw that out there. Kigali 2011!

6) I still haven't moved into my house (it's obscenely posh by the way) though I am told it will be ready next week. It has been a week away from completion now for 6 weeks.

7) Yesterday I sat through a teachers meeting that started one and a half hours late at 10:00am and didn't finish until 4:00pm. For those scoring at home that's a six hour meeting. The meeting was described by one of my fellow teachers as a "great success." It seems the last teacher's meeting was eight hours long.

8) It's mango season but I can never beat the little children to the mango tree. They stage early morning raids on the trees often before the mangos are ripe. The parish groundskeeper tried to regulate the little fruit burglers but got a Dennis the Menace style slingshot pebble to the forehead for his troubles. The raids now continue unabated.

9) At the aforementioned staff meeting one of my colleagues arrived three hours late, heavily intoxicated and asked for a raise. Oh Uganda.

Things I humbly request via care package

2010-04-30T22:48:00.000-07:00

Thank you Mom, Dad, Becky, Landon, and Grandma and Grandpa! I was really having a rough period and I got three packages on one day and it was a real turning point, thank you so much!

MEDIA

*Recent issues of the Economist or the New Yorker are always appreciated!

*Anything you've read recently and enjoyed.
*Music. Best to put it on a flash disk. Send anything you want although I'd really like Panda Bear "Tomboy" and whatever Top 40 music is out there these days. Shut up AJ.

CLOTHES

I'm pretty well covered as far as clothes go, the second hand markets here are a treasure trove for the intrepid, but if you'd like to send something it would be appreciated all the same. Here are my measurements:

*Shirts M or a 15-34 I've heard merino wool T-shirts are the bees knees and I wouldn't mind trying it out.

*Pants 32 x 32 although I'm probably closer to a 30x 32 on the Peace Corps diet.

*Shoes 10. Some Merino wool socks would probably be a good thing here also.

FOOD

*Cliff bars are a wonderful treat.
*Protein powder is also good stuff.

*Country Time Lemonade for Arnold Palmers.
*Gatorade powder is great too, while I'm at it.
*Home baked cookies! Chocolate chip, Kringla, snickerdoodles in that order.

*Raisins, craisins, apricots

*Blueberry pancake mix

*Velveeta Mac and Cheese

MISC

*Hair ties. Nice, good, thick hair ties. My pony tail is in full effect.

14 Piece Knife Set RECIEVED!

Whoa! This came out of the blue and these knifes are awesome! Another killer care package, Dad!

Single serving french press RECIEVED!

Dad, I use this thing every day! Thank you a thousand times!
ExOfficio boxer briefs RECIEVED!
My buddy AJ sent me an email asking if there was anything on my list that hadn't been sent. "Let me know and I'll send it...i'm not sending you underwear though. That's just weird." Duly noted AJ, that's what mothers are for. Thanks mom!

Posters RECIEVED!

I have a big giant American flag and a huge poster of Adrian Peterson doing that thing I like.

What I packed

2010-04-28T05:30:00.000-07:00

Electronics
Net book ~$230
You can get internet access with a modem (available for ~$100 brand new) anywhere you can get cell phone coverage... which is just about everywhere. There are a variety of plans that range from $25-50 per month and you can cover that with your Peace Corps living allowance.

iPod 160gb ~$220 + Sennheiser PX100 headphones ~$40 + Shure SE310 sound isolating ear buds ~$200.
I like listening to music. The Sennheisers are great for around the house and the Shures are ideal for noisy bus and taxi rides.

Portable 500gb hard drive ~$100
You can bring an empty one and fill it when you get here.

other:
I wish I would have brought a Kindle, those things seem pretty cool.

Clothes
Dress shirts x5
I brought four button down dress shirts and one polo. The best shirts are non-iron or wrinkle resistant and any color but white. You'll be wearing these everyday especially as a teacher. Dress is very important in the culture...it's weird but even though it's hot and dusty the people, especially teachers, dress very well. Most of the teachers at my school wear French cuffs. Seriously. One more endorsement for wrinkle resistant fabric goes here.

Slacks x2
One pair dark khaki and one pair black both are wrinkle resistant. I don't mind wearing the same pair of pants multiple times if they're not nasty. My Ugandan colleagues wear dress slacks that are always crisp and pressed. You won't regret bringing nice quality dress clothes. They don't have to be expensive brand names but quality material and workmanship are nice.

Jeans x1 and cotton shorts x2
Nice to have for going out in Kampala, though I rarely wore them during training or even at site. I actually wouldn't bother packing cotton shorts if I were packing again...I rarely wear them. It sounds strange but it's a weird cultural thing. Even though it's hot everyone wears long shirts and pants. It's strange at first but I got used to it.

Quick dry shorts x1 and shirts x3
You can buy just about every piece of clothing you'll need in country. Dress shirts, slacks, t shirts, socks, everything...except any kind of "tech" fabric so it's a good thing to bring with you.

ExOfficio boxer briefs x3 (~$25/pair)
I cannot swear by these enough. Ideal travel and hot weather underwear. They wick away moisture and dry quickly. I wear them into the shower and they're dry by noon the next day if they're hanging in my room. I've been wearing three pair in rotation for the past year. Whoa. I didn't realize we (me and my underwear) had hit our one year anniversary. Good stuff.

Footwear
I brought a pair of brown suade Cole Haans for more formal occasions. They're going to be trashed by the time I leave but, damnit, I love those shoes.

I chose to buy the Chaco flip flops instead of the Chaco wrap with the Vibram hiking sole. The flip flops are perfect for daily wear, I think the weave/wrap style is too clunky to use on a daily basis. You can also find the weave/wrap style in the second hand market if want them are are willing to look hard enough. They can be had (after serious negotiation) for ~$20.

I brought a pair of Nike running shoes though I wish I would have done my research and bought a good pair of Asics. You can find decent second hand running shoes in the large markets but you never really know how many miles are left in 'em. If you want to be serious about running (I'm training for a marathon) you may want to consider bringing several pair or having them shipped to you from the States.

Misc. stuff and comments
I brought six pounds of protien powder. I didn't use any during training becasue my family fed me so well but it's nice to have at site. I also brought a bunch of Cliff bars and I'm hoping that more will be sent soon. While we're on food...I also brought Gatorade powder. You can't buy these things here so they're good things to bring with you. If you are under your weight requirements bring food! You know what you like.

Books books books. Hmmmm. If you're not picky you can always find something to read. I've been told there are a bunch of "classics" at the PC library but I didn't find it to be all that great. If you have something you really want to read bring it and swap it with someone later. New releases are always a hot commodity. I also brought some textbooks to keep myself occupied. It's strange how much more interesting calculus or biochemistry is when you're doing it for personal interest. It also makes me feel like I'm keeping my mind sharp.

I wish I would have brought my tent for some camping, though I think you can rent gear at the National parks here. Not essential but if you have extra space, why not.

I didn't bring a raincoat because most of the time raincoats just make me sweaty, though I think it would be nice for when I start hiking. I guess what I mean is I'm leaning towards having one sent.

Do not bring heavy duty hiking boots. You won't wear them.

It's nice to bring a decent chef's knife as well as spices to cook with. I also wish I would have brought seeds for herbs...basil, oregano, rosemary, mint...stuff like that.

Batteries are a good thing to bring as well AA or AAA. You can get them here but they're either cheap and poor quality or expensive and good quality.

If you like coffee you can find great coffee here and it isn't too expensive. Just like in the States the best coffee is freshly ground whole beans but you can buy bags that are already ground. A volunteer that was leaving the country gave me his electric grinder and it's been great. Electric coffee grinders are cheap and small and I haven't seen them for sale anywhere here so if you like coffee it may be a good idea.

Don't bug out about anything on this list...you can get just about EVERYTHING in Kampala at the supermarkets. Also people are always going back and fourth to the States and most people are happy to carry small things when they come back to Uganda. That means you can buy something on Amazon and ship it to someone's house and they'll bring it over for you.

Feel free to email me if you have questions about packing.

A day in the life: training ed.

2010-04-28T05:12:00.000-07:00

*disclaimer: I stayed with an awesome AWESOME family so maybe you'll have something like this but probably not.

I wake up at 6:00am each morning about half an hour before the sun rises. If I'm able to get myself up then I do a little yoga session in my room as the sun rises. More often than not I hit the snooze four times and get up fourty minutes past six.

Breakfast is always waiting for me at the kitchen table. The food is different each day. This morning I had corn flakes with fresh milk, a green apple, and tea. Yesterday I had two hard boiled eggs, a banana, and tea. I take my morning tea and review the notes from my language class.

I leave the house on my bike at 7:30am and bike the 5 kilometers to the training center. Along the way I greet everyone I meet. As I pass the school children walking down the road in their uniforms I give them a quick greeting in Swahili ("Jambo!") and they respond with the same. I greet those older than me with the more formal "Wasuzio oteyano, ssebo!" ("good morning, sir!").

I arrive at school ten minutes to eight. I used to need that time to stop sweating but I've learned how to exert myself only to the point before I break the sweat threshold and now I arrive at school free of perspiration. The day begins with a two hour language class in Acholi, the language commonly spoken in the north of Uganda. Language is my favorite and what I believe to be most helpful.

We break for tea and peanuts in the mid morning and continue with sessions in either health, safety/security, local culture, or technical training. These range mostly from mildly boring to excruciatingly boring.

We take lunch around noon thrity and they feed us quite well. There's usually matoke (made out of steamed bananas), baked beans, green beans, mashed potatoes, chicken or pork, and fresh fruit. Sessions continue after lunch until around 4:00 or 5:00pm. I bike home stopping at my family's shop to say hello to my mother or sometimes grabbing a beer or two with the other volunteers.

Afternoon tea is waiting, usually with fresh pineapple, and I take the time to relax by reading or journaling. After tea I hang out with my family making chapati or feeding the pigs or just sitting around talking. Sometimes I bust out the laptop and we watch a movie, my sisters really dig Disney movies.

My Luganda is really bad but I can tell my brother Ronald is a really funny guy, people are always laughing when he's around. As the sun sets my whole family gathers around the television to watch a Brazilian soap opera filmed in Portugese but (badly) dubbed into English called "La Tormenta." It's terrible. Absolutely terrible.

Dinner is served from 9:30 to 10:30pm (the Baganda like to eat late). Usually it's rice, matoke, greens, a couple pieces of beef and french fries ("chips"). Good stuff. I usually bathe before dinner, my family boils some water so I can take a warm bucket bath before going to sleep and doing it all again the next day. I mean that's really all there is to it. Rinse, wash, repeat.

ooph

2010-04-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

In Gulu I saw a man riding a bicycle with only one finger on each hand to operate the brakes.

In Lira I saw several people with their lips cut off, leaving them forever looking like black face vaudvillians from the 1920's.

Some of my students were abducted and conscripted by the rebels as child soldiers or prostitutes. I particularly remember speaking with one student and as he turned to face me I noticed a scar running from his forehead through his eye socket to his chin.

But markets now hum with energy. School children dance and sing and laugh and study. Life is returning to normal and that's what makes it all so strange. I see the peace but can only imagine the horror that preceded it.

My toes are like the concentric rings of a tree stump

2010-02-06T21:40:00.000-08:00

So this is what my feet look like these days. If you look close enough you'll notice two bands that run across the big toe which separates the nail into three sections. It's hard to tell the different textures from the photograph but each section is a different thickness reflecting the different amounts of nutrients I was getting. Each line marks the changes in my diet during the past 5 months and the nails have been getting progressively thicker the farther away I get from Guinea.

Here, I'll label them for you:
Pretty cool, huh? I wonder if any of the other refuguinean volunteers have noticed anything similar...

Anyways, I'm flying out of Hawaii tomorrow to Philly for my second staging. I've been reassigned to Uganda. I will once again be a high school science teacher. I'll be traveling a bit light...my bags still haven't made it back from Guinea...but I'm not too worried about it.

Speaking of Guinea, there has been some hopeful news of late. Civilian rule has been restored and there is the usual talk of free and open elections. No one knows if this ultimately will lead to an effective and stable government but the important thing is that this clearly represents a de-escalation from the previous situation. Happy days!
Lastly, many many thanks to my sister and Eric. Three years ago they sold all the stuff out of their apartment and used the money from their wedding to film an independent film about malaria. A year after that they moved to China to work and explore. A year after that and they're working in the Teach for America program in Hawaii and letting me take up their space.

They gave me my first nudge into this incredible world and showed me how accessible it can be. They've been an inspiration and given me support in every way. I love you guys.

(1)When everything is foreign, nothing is strange and (2)Nobody knows anything

2010-01-18T16:38:00.000-08:00

(1)

One of the weirdest things about going to Guinea was losing the ability to distinguish what was weird. Since there were so many new things to see and smell and eat and do; it was hard to tell the mundane from the truly bizarre. I felt emotionally monotone on a day to day basis but when I'd sit down to write a letter or pick up the phone to talk to people back home I would have a mental log jam of ideas. There was an overwhelming amount of context required for each story and so many stories to tell. I didn't even know where to start. I still don't know where to start. I guess my host family may be the best place to begin.

The Bah's were good people. They opened their home to me. They fed me and scolded me for coming home too late. They invited me to Ramadan prayer and diligently helped me with my French. They treated me with an incredible kindness and hospitality and I didn't realize how amazing it was until I left.

They took someone into their house who looked different and displayed an embarrassingly small understanding of social decorum. This someone lacked even the most basic ability to communicate. With infinite patience and good humor they polished my manners and language and sent me on my merry way. I wonder if I would have taken in a non-English-speaking-mildly-rude-strange-looking-person into my home. I doubt it. Guineans are great people.

(2)

It's because of part (1) that I am so frustrated with part (2). In the year preceding my departure to Guinea I read a handful of books about the development world. I had the thought that we had poverty and development on the run. It seemed as if these things were beginning to be solved as if they were a particularly complicated algebra problem.

Sachs writes that if the developed world were to commit .7% of their GDP to the developing world they would escape their "poverty traps." Easterly thinks Sachs is a grandstanding buffoon. Collier argues that smartly timed and targeted investments will lead countries slowly out of poverty. Bornstein writes about empowering locally minded social entrepreneurs.

Unsurprisingly they could all be right, they could all be wrong, or they could be a little bit of both. Even though they all argue with tremendous conviction, none of them (or any of us) really has any idea what's going on. There are too many moving parts.

I've really struggled with that since leaving the country, knowing that something needs to change but not knowing how to change it. I've read strong arguments for and against democracy or education or business development as the pathways out of poverty and now I've actually seen a small part of where those arguments come from and why. This drives me crazy. I like to believe that solutions to most problems are within the reach of our reason but I can't wade through the development morass and I'm skeptical of someone who says they can.

At times the difficulties facing the development world at large and particularly Guinea seem cyclical and overwhelming but occaisionaly good news trickles out and I'm reminded that even in tough times there's always hope for the future.

KABLAMMO!

2009-12-14T12:24:00.000-08:00

I've been in Hawaii for the past three weeks and the week prior to that I was in Australia and the three weeks prior to that I was in Malaysia and the four weeks prior to that I was in lockdown evacuation camp in Mali. It's nice to be back in the first world but sometimes I feel turned around. I feel displaced and purposeless. Living the last couple months felt like they dragged on so slow but now I look back and I feel they whipped by so fast.

I don't know how to answer some of your questions least of all the ubiquitious "how was Africa?" I don't know how the continent of Africa was because I was only in two countries (those being Guinea and Mali). Sorry I'm being irritating but that whole continent of Africa is an undistinguished land mass thing has really become a pet peeve of mine. Nevertheless I know what you mean and I hide behind a "it's hard to explain" too much. I wish I could sum everything up in a satisfying pithy pharse or four but I can't. The best I can do is:

Mom! Grandma! Earmuffs!

"It's f'd." That's the short answer that may be the best and worst summary about the situation. I don't know. It's hard to explain.

So there I am in Guinea and I'm coming to the uncomfortable realization that I do in fact harbor some ugly bits of latent racism. I walk through the markets my second day there and I see the people all around me. There's garbage and waste and smelly dried, semi-dried, and rotting fish and that was the first time that I ever thought to myself "what have I gotten myself into?"

It was discomforting. I've never seen so much filth before. And on top of that the people are all black and I'm white and I can't blend in and I feel like everyone is staring at me. I've never felt like that in any place I'd been. I've never been more keenly aware of race. Why do I feel this way? Why do i feel this discomfort this anxiety? Like physically feel it. A visceral reaction. What's up with that?

I actually just put it aside for a time. Put it aside for a long time actually and eventually it went away or I forgot about it or I got used to it. I mean if you don't know what to do with an uncomfortable situation what do you do? You fake it! You pretend like everything's fine and eventually it is unless it isn't and then you have to fake even harder. I do this. You do this. We all do this, right? Whatever.

As I sit here and try to illustrate this for you without coming off like a total boob I'm doing my best to put it together. My discomfort was itself discomforting. I didn't want to feel like I felt but I couldn't very well not feel what I felt.

Put more formally, there are two parts to the racism game. One part intellectual and one part reptillian brain subconcious.

In college I learned and studied the intellectual side and understood conciously why racism is garbage. This served me well in lily white suburbs, uptown bars, and college campuses because the whole exercise was in the theoretical realm. I could tsk tsk thoughtless comments from friends and releatives and strangers. "I know racism is bad because I read yadda yadda by some dude and he said blah blah and I agree." I mean it wasn't that brainless but it was certainly that detached from any sort of real life experience.

The tricky part for me was to reconcile that with what I was feeling directly. Mostly discomfort and anxiety. My intellect tells me everything is gravy but my gut, my gut, il est pas bien la bas! Not good homes. There was a part of me that didn't respond to what I knew in my head. There was discord and it was frightening. How do you fix a knee jerk reaction that you don't control?

But like Andy Dufrane I walked through a filthy market and came out clean three months later. I'm not saying it was quick or concious or that I'm even finished really learning to be tolerant. At the least I've found a new part of me that needs more work and at the most I've taken my learned beliefs out for a test drive in the world.

I know now there is more to the game than intellectual theory. These things must be used and practiced. The reptillian brain must be challenged and conquered by repetition until the unfamiliar becomes routine. We fear the unfamiliar and once we get to know the world directly we might see that it's not so bad.