Jump

I hate diving boards. I hate them. Why would anyone actually WANT to jump off of one? To willingly get that pit in your stomach as you look over the edge of a man-made cliff? To plunge into that cold, deep water, disoriented and unable to breathe? No thank you.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I took swimming lessons as a child. Now, I can’t prove this, nor would I try, but I’m pretty sure that I was forced off of a diving board during these lessons. As in pushed off the high dive. Would someone really do such a thing? In any case, I have hated diving boards as long as I can remember. They fill me with dread. I have very few fears I still cling to, but this, my friends, this is one of them.

Not long ago, I found myself staring up at not one, but three diving platforms. I’ve never seen anything like them in Uganda, but there they were, looming over the pool on my day off from training the new volunteers. Not surprisingly, they filled me with terror and loathing, but there was something different there that was surprising. I wanted to jump off of them. Okay…wait. “Want” is not the right word. No part of me “wanted” anything to do with jumping off a high, concrete platform. But I didn’t like that I was afraid of them. I decided I didn’t want to be scared anymore and that forcing myself to jump was the best way to face that fear.

And so, I jumped. It wasn’t quick, nor was it graceful. It took me at least a solid 5 minutes to jump once I finally convinced myself to do so. I emitted a scream as I made my way awkwardly into the water, holding my nose. I shook with fear before I jumped. I shook with fear after I jumped. But I jumped. And then, I forced myself out of the water, and I jumped again. And again. And again.

I wish I could say that the fear went away, but it didn’t. It was there Every. Single. Time. But the fear did not stop me. It moved to the side. It watched me jump.

I’ve been standing on a diving board of a different sort for the last few weeks. You see, I was offered a job. The Lead Literacy Specialist for Peace Corps Uganda. It’s an amazing opportunity to design trainings and help Peace Corps volunteers be better teachers. It’s the kind of work I see myself doing long term. It’s the kind of work I love. But still, as I look over the edge of this cliff, I see myself moving two hours away from my Peace Corps family (my Linda), and away from my Ugandan family (my Rose), and away from everything I know in this country (my apple man, my egg man, my waitress, my tailor, my taxi drivers), and I’m scared to jump. I’m really happy here, in little Wanyange. I’ve made peace with my squeaky bats and dusty floors. I’ve fallen in love with my students, with my fellow teachers, with the rice paddies and the maize gardens in back of my house. And I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to jump.

All change feels like this, at least to me. Like standing on the high dive and looking down and having your stomach lurch with fear at what’s in the water and how deep is the water and how hard will you hit going down.

I’ve been lucky so far. Unlike when I was a kid taking swimming lessons, I haven’t been forced to jump. I think everyone is forced to jump at one time or another. You get a catastrophic illness. Someone close to you suddenly dies. And there you are, on the diving board with a sword to your back being forced to walk the plank. Sometimes, you don’t get to choose whether or not you jump and your life changes. Sometimes the choice is made for you.

But this time, this day, I get to choose. I get to choose if I stay where I am, where it is comfortable, or if I jump. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that I will make a decision like this. In the past, it’s taken me years just to approach the ladder and begin climbing. I’ve even changed my mind mid-jump before and clung to the platform, my legs dangling off the edge, until my fatigued fingers gave out and I fell painfully into change. But all of this practice is helping. Yes, the fear is still there Every. Single. Time. But tonight, on my last night in my blissful little house before I move, I’m jumping anyway. The fear is there, but it doesn’t stop me anymore. It moves aside. It watches me jump.

 

525,600 Minutes

One year. I’ve lived in Uganda for one full year.

This week, I got to celebrate the introduction ceremony and wedding of a fellow teacher, Frank. The introduction ceremony, where the groom is officially introduced to his in-laws, is a very formal affair filled with tradition and ritual.

On the day of the introduction, the women at my school looked me up and down and asked in a skeptical tone, “Are you ready?” They spoke in Lusoga about my scruffy sandals, my scruffy hair, the unsightly Ace bandage on my ankle from my spill down some stairs on Halloween. Mostly they fussed over the fact that I had nothing to wear.

It’s tradition for all married women (or, in my case, women of a certain age) to wear a gomezi to these formal events. The gomezi is a strange throw-back to, I don’t know, the 1800s? It looks Victorian and, honestly, kind of ridiculous to unaccustomed American eyes. It takes shoulder pads to a whole new level with pointed, winged tips rising to the height of your cheekbones on both sides. A good 30 pounds are added to the hips thanks to a heavy cloth worn underneath the outer robe. A thick belt, made stiff with paper inside of it, is tied in a giant square knot around the waist.

I don’t have my own gomezi, so I found myself being placed in a borrowed one on the day of the introduction. I stood, arms in the air, in the small, dark office of my head mistress while my fellow teachers fussed and preened and wrapped me in cloth like a sausage. The whole process took upwards of 30 minutes, and I felt like a bride on her wedding day with not one mother, but ten. When they were finished, and after being not-so-subtly clucked at to change my shoes, pull my hair up, and put on earrings and lipstick, I felt...beautiful.

To anyone who has seen gomezis, this feeling beautiful is nothing short of miraculous. First of all, I never feel beautiful in Uganda in the first place. The constant sheen of sunscreen, the dust and dirt and sweat, the hand-washed clothes that never feel quite clean, it all leads to a ratio of feeling pretty days to feeling hideous days at a rate of about 1:90. Then you add the gomezi. When I first arrived in country, I swore up and down that I’d never be caught dead in one of those dresses. Never buying one. Never wearing one. No way. No how. But there I was, in all of my rayon-ed, glittered glory, and I. Felt. Stunning.

It was in that moment that I realized, for the first time, that I am finally integrated. That this is home. If feeling beautiful in a gomezi is not a sign of cultural integration, I just don’t know what is. And yes, the ceremony was in local language, and no, I did not understand 98% of it. And yes, I was annoyed at waiting 3 hours for the event to start, and no, I didn’t care for the food. But still. I felt happy. I felt loved.

And so marks my one year anniversary.

Raise your glass with me, will you? Raise your glass to a culture who really thinks and acts like a community. To women and men holding babies in church who are not their own, but who need to be held. To conductors on taxis who get out of the taxi to hold the hands of young children, strangers, as they cross a busy street, even though time is money. To people who go to the home of a grieving mother who lost her child and take turns sitting with her in silence, day and night.

Raise your glass with me to a culture who cares about people above all else. To people who courteously greet friends and strangers alike. To people who put other people before any task.  

Cheers, Uganda! It’s been a great year.

 

Traditional male clothing.

The groom's family line up and go under an arch where the
bride's family is waiting to receive them.

Groups of the bride's family members kneel before the groom's family and
pay them compliments and welcome them to the family. They are then given
gifts. This group, dressed up like nurses, each got a comb.

My corsage  (made out of ribbon).

This group of nieces were given sunglasses. The bride's parents are
also presented with cows, sheep and other livestock as well as monetary
gifts. Ugandans consider this bride price a way to show honor and
respect to their in-laws.



The glorious gomezi and an adorable on-looker.




 

A group of local children watch the introduction ceremony from across the street.

Me and Rose posing in our "sheds" as we move
to the wedding reception. The church wedding and
reception are the day after the introduction ceremony.

Friends enjoying the reception.

The bride and groom cut the cake and then the bride kneels before
her husband to feed him a piece of cake. He also feeds her from a chair and
they both give each other a drink. Normally they drink champagne,
but this couple doesn't drink alcohol so they are drinking Fanta. The
bride then goes around the room kneeling in front of different groups
of people and offering them a bite of cake.

Most couples are wed traditionally (meaning they live together and
have children) many years before the introduction and wedding
 ceremonies because of the high cost of the formal events. Frank &
Mary have been traditionally married for 7 years and already have
4 children together.

Food at the introduction ceremony. The food at the reception was
a full buffet with rice, sweet potatoes, boiled beef, cabbage and
matooke. I should have saved this plastic fork because we ate with
our hands at the reception and I have yet to master the art of
eating rice with my natural fork.
 

The wedding cake.




Best angle for viewing gomezi sleeves.




 

When Your Trash Can is Filled with Maggots

When you take the lid off your trash can and it’s a swimming carpet of tiny, white maggots, you know one thing is for certain: THEY ARE GOING TO GET ON YOU. It doesn’t matter how careful you are, how far you hold that can away from your body with only two disdainful fingers and an upturned nose…they are coming for you.

Sure, you can try it. Go ahead. Sit on your front porch just staring at them writhing while you rest your head in your hands and sigh. Pout. Close your eyes and imagine a friendly neighbor ambling by, wanting nothing more than to clean your trash can for you. Picture an aimless youth anxiously looking for a service project. He suddenly looks up and POW! There you and your maggots are, just waiting to be served. Enjoy your daydreams. But know that when your eyes open, they will still be there, nature’s dreaded, undulating, albino decomposers.

Tempted to argue? I understand the urge. But rest assured that the maggots will not listen to your well-formed logic as to why they should leave. “Sure,” they think, “it’s nice outside, but this green plastic is just so TEMPTING.” And no, adopting the nasally voice of a five year old and repeatedly whining, “But I don’t waaaaant to clean up maggots” will not change the reality of what you must do. It just won’t.

In the end, the tantrums finally give way to a reluctant acceptance of what must be, and you will arm yourself with gloves and bleach and a jerry can full of water. You will put on a brave face. You are a PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER. You are a SURVIVOR. You can handle ANYTHING. You are NOT DISGUSTED BY MAGGOTS. And when the water from your assault splashes and with it hundreds of maggots hit the top of your exposed, bare foot, you will pretend that it’s okay. Yes, you’ll squeal. And yes, you’ll brush them off with speed and ferocity you didn’t know you were capable of. But you’ll clean that darn trash can until it sparkles. Did they come for you? Ohhhh, yes. They came. They came in full force. They gave it all they had. But in the end the score is Steph:1, Maggots: dead.

 

 

 

 

Shake It Off

A lot has been written about waiting. We wait to become the perfect version of ourselves. To find true love. To get our dream job. For something, anything to happen.

A lot of waiting happens in the Peace Corps, too. It begins with a lengthy application process and upwards of a year or more of waiting to be accepted. Then we wait for the myriad test results to come back from the doctor, giving us a clean bill of health to travel overseas. We wait for background checks and visas, passport photos and vaccination appointments. But all of this waiting is nothing compared to the waiting when the plane touches down, at last, in your country of service.

Things are great, but things are terrible (you see, all grand adventures have at least a pinch of both). Sure, you’re sharing a room with five other people and there’s no water to be found and volunteers are dropping left and right from dysentery and giardia, but just wait! It will be over soon. And yes, you haven’t slept well in days and there are cockroaches climbing all over your clothes and you’re sweating like a fat man in a sauna, but just wait! Training will end. You’ll get your own place. Things will get better.

And things do, my friend, get better. They get much, much better. Your grand adventure becomes less and less about surviving and more and more about thriving. You snuggle right into your new, happy life and find great comfort and joy in it. But still, even then, the waiting continues. This is because waiting isn’t tied to misery or contentment. Waiting just is.

Everyone experiences waiting every single day. But waiting in Uganda becomes an art form. You wait hours for a taxi to fill while your much-too-heavy backpack presses into your lap and your knees press into the metal bar in front of you. You wait for lengthy faculty meetings held in 90% local language to end. You wait for 6 hours for your first cake to bake on the sigiri. You wait 10 months for your house to be wired for electricity. You wait, anxiously, for your paycheck to FINALLY COME. You wait, and wait, and wait.

But contrary to what you’re probably thinking, all of this waiting is not a bad thing. In fact, I will argue that it’s one of the best things I’ve done in country. Let’s take a detour, shall we?

I recently came to the U.S. for a visit. On the way to the U.S. I experienced, in chronological order: 1) a 4 hour delay at the airport, 2) a 7 hour flight, 3) a 3 hour layover, 4) a two hour delay, 5) an additional two hour delay on the airplane and without air conditioning, 6) being deplaned, 7) a two hour wait in a line to get a voucher to stay overnight. This was all before I finally got on a plane that worked and had another 8 hour flight, 5 hour layover, plus another 6 hour flight. Can I get a what, what?!

Ah, but this isn’t all! On the way back from the U.S. to Uganda I experienced, in chronological order: 1) a 6 hour flight, 2) a 5 hour layover, 3) a 2 hour delay on the airplane while someone was arrested for bringing a knife on board followed by 4) another 3 hour delay due to a mechanical malfunction, 5) being deplaned, 6) a 1 hour wait in line to get a voucher to stay overnight, 7) an 8 hour wait after being kicked out of the hotel and before the flight left, 8) an 8 hour flight, 9) a 1 hour layover, 10) a 6 hour flight, 11) a 1 hour layover, 12) a 1 hour delay to get someone in a stretcher on board, 13) a 2 hour flight, and 14) luggage lost for days.

Now, if you stuck with me through those lists upon lists of tragically comic delays or maybe even tried to do the math, you discovered that waiting I did. Boy, oh boy did I wait! But here’s the thing…I DIDN’T GET ANGRY. I’m not lying to you. Unlike the Spanish woman who got hauled off by the police for angrily and repeatedly yelling at the flight attendants, unlike the hundreds of people sighing loudly and arguing with veritable steam coming out of their reddened ears, I didn’t get mad. Instead, I simply waited.

At one point, when the masses on the return flight home were their closest to grabbing pitchforks and storming the castle, I stood in the aisle, turned up my music, and danced. Literally. I smiled and danced to none other than Ms. Swift. “But the people gonna yell, yell, yell, yell, yell and the babies gonna cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, but I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, baby. Shake it off! Shake, shake it off!” I sang in my head. (Don’t judge. You know you secretly love that song.)

And that, my friends, is the beauty of knowing how to wait. The art of accepting what is, regardless of what you want. The art of acting instead of reacting. The glorious art of waiting.

I can feel this art slowly transferring to the other areas of my life too, the ones that really matter. None of us can escape the really hard kind of waiting. I know people who are waiting to finally feel at home somewhere or with someone. People who are waiting to get pregnant after years of trying. People who are waiting to heal after experiencing life-changing grief. People who are waiting for sick loved ones to get better. People who are waiting for themselves to be ready to change, to move, to grow. I’m waiting too…for lots of things. Lucky for me, I’ve got Ugandan-strength waiting power running through my veins. I have “acceptance of what is” stamped on my soul. So I’m just gonna wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, baby. (And when the frustrations and impatience creep up…) Shake them off! Shake, shake them off!

 

 

Would You Rather

You’ve all played the game “Would You Rather,” right? It typically goes something like, “Would you rather use sandpaper as toilet paper OR use hot sauce as eye drops?” and you choose between two ridiculously horrible options. It’s a stupid game, but one I played some version of a lot when I visited the states last month for my brother’s wedding. My version of the game was mostly in my head and went something like this: “Would you rather be at home with the people you love OR be alone in Uganda doing what you feel like you need to be doing?” It’s a tough question. Living here and doing this work is one of those decisions, like all really important decisions, that you don’t just make once. You make it again and again.

Everything, absolutely everything about being home was shocking at first. The quiet streets. The overwhelming number of choices of delicious things to eat. The scenery that looked so brown and broad. But most shocking of all were my encounters with family and friends. I expected to be peppered with questions. “Hold on just a minute,” I imagined myself saying to the crowd of people vying for my attention, “she asked me first, you’ll get your turn in a minute.” The reality was that I heard the question, “So, is the Ebola outbreak near you?” about 10,000 times and that’s about it. (The answer, if you’re wondering, is no.) With very few exceptions, people just didn’t really ask about my life. It was strange, my friends, strange indeed.

The whole thing got me thinking about that gulf that inevitably grows between people when miles or years separate them. You run into an old high school friend and ask each other inane things about what you do for a living and where you are living now, and, truth be told, neither of you really care about the answers. That’s not to say that you don’t care about THEM, but where do you even begin? How do you ask the questions that matter to someone you haven’t spoken to in years? The whole thing feels forced, because, well, it IS forced, so oftentimes it’s easier to say nothing, to just duck behind the grocery store display and wait for him to pass.

The trouble with doing something like serving in the Peace Corps is that you NEED to talk about it. Desperately. It’s this monumentally huge life change. And all of us, even the quiet ones, need to talk about the big stuff. The stuff that alters the way we look at the world and the way we look at ourselves. And questions about Ebola, while topical, just aren’t going to cut it.

So, what’s to be done about this? I have no idea, but for me, this blog is a good place to start. I get to feel a little bit heard, even though no one may be listening. It’s kind of like yelling into a canyon. Even if no one is there to hear you, you hear your echo and it’s kind of comforting.

In the end, I decided again (as I knew I would) to come back to Uganda. Surprisingly, it genuinely feels like home here. I mean sure, the minute I set foot on Ugandan soil I turn into Charlie Brown’s friend Pig-Pen. But when given a choice of “Would you rather feel understood by others or better understand yourself?” I choose the latter.

Steph in Uganda

Steph in the U.S.

A Fair to Remember

My family has a long standing tradition of going to the state fair every fall, where we gawk at the giant pumpkins and the giant pigs and we eat giant Navajo tacos and giant funnel cakes covered in powdered sugar. I love the fair, so I jumped at the chance to visit the Jinja Agriculture and Trade Show this weekend.

I’ve never seen nylons for sale here in Uganda, but they were one of the many things being peddled on the streets lining the path to the fair. The big, twisted piles of beige sat on a small tarp next to lollipops on one side and winter hats on the other. I’ve also never seen people forming a line in Uganda, but there was one at the fair! A man wearing thick, black winter gloves and carrying a giant stick helped prod people into the queue and move women to one side and men to the other to be searched before entering.

The place was packed, and the first greeting we got upon entering was a man saying, “I want to paint your kids.” I love it here.

The fair had things for sale, but instead of hot tubs and ugly jewelry, it sold fertilizer and ugly jewelry. Instead of prize winning squash and brownies being displayed on small foam trays, blue ribbons attached, they had sugar cane plants and tomatoes on the vine and a ground nuts still in the ground.

I wasn’t expecting to see cows and goats and chickens, since I see them every day in every village in Uganda, but they were there…at least a few of them. Prisoners wearing bright yellow t-shirts and bright yellow shorts with thin, black, vertical lines on them stood in the pig pens and poked at pigs with sticks. (I really hope they were in only imprisoned for loitering, a common cause of arrest here.)

They even had carnival games! People threw blue rings at sodas, money attached to blocks of wood, or small packages of crackers, trying to win them.

The rides were limited to swings of different sizes and something kind of like a carousel, with crudely painted, squat wooden horses in black, white, or yellow. The children all sat gripping their horses in utter terror. It was hilarious. I nearly did the same on the swings when I glanced over and saw a tangled web of exposed wires, some leading toward a big tub of water.

Everything was so...uniquely Uganda that I couldn’t stop smiling, though the heat was oppressive and the crowds were massive. I cursed myself for not bringing a camera or a notepad. Desperate to remember the details of the place, I scribbled notes on the only thing I could find—the back of a band aid wrapper.

Most days these days, I love this place. I’m proud to live in a place that doesn’t feel the need to instruct you not to stand up while you’re riding the swings, or require health permits to feed you fried donuts. I like walking up the stairs to a ride and wondering if the boards are going to break or if I’m going to fall through the wide openings in between the slats. I love that a man here can wear overalls with a pink elephant on the center pocket and elastic at the ankles. I love that they inexplicably sell wool sweaters in 90 degree heat. I like seeing exposed wires and wondering just how much jerry rigging was needed to get that ride up and running. I love those ridiculous piles of nylons. Everything about this place is just seeping with character. So I scribble notes on a band aid wrapper and I watch the enormous marabou storks circle overhead and I pray I’ll remember.

 

Transformers

Do you remember the Transformers movies? How about the old Transformers TV show? Me neither, really. I do remember the catchy slogan, “Transformers, more than meets the eye,” in that odd robotic voice, and I know that there are these flashy looking cars just driving around town when BAM! Before you know it, they’ve turned into big alien robot thingies.

I attended a Partnership for Youth Empowerment workshop this week that was all about human transformers. Well, okay, it was more like transformations inside of humans. The basic premise was this: if you really want to help people, train people, teach people, they need to experience an internal change. In addition to teaching us how to help people get to the point where they are willing to shift internally, we experienced a change ourselves.

My transformation was a big one. Through a series of activities, conversations, and buckets of tears, I burrowed my way down to a big, fat, ugly belief about myself that I’ve been walking around with for…forever. I’m no stranger to this process. I’ve gone digging for other ugly bits before. I know how to painstakingly extract them, look them in the eye, and bid them adieu. But it was still hard. Exhausting. It’s like the transformer car is all rusty and its metal frame is bent and it’s been a car for so long it’s forgotten it can be anything else at all. Still, I uncovered it. I held it up to the light. I examined it and knew that it didn’t serve me. That it had never served me (unlike some ugly bits that serve as protective little soldiers). And I knew that I needed to let it go. When the time came, however, I clung to it like a life raft.

If you have yet to go on this adventure of mining for the things that are holding you back (perhaps because you still think they are “you”), let me tell you something. No matter how putrid, how distorted, how dark the thing you’ve found is, you want to keep it. You want to curl up with it in bed and stroke it and hold it forever and ever. Why? Because it’s all you know. It’s comfortable. It’s familiar. And the thought of letting it go is terrifying. Who are you without it? If it goes, is there even anything left there at all? Scary stuff, this letting go business.

In the end, I did choose to let it go. I’m so happy that I did. I’m one step closer to being the best version of myself. But today, I want to talk about that transformation process. You see, a light bulb came on for me this week.

I was at dinner with Americans and Ugandans, discussing our workshop and our lives when one man said something that really struck me. We were talking about the caning of children in schools here, and he said, “Regardless of where it came from, it is our culture now. Letting it go would be like a death. We don’t know who we are without it.” And I got it. For the first time, I really got it. Peace Corps volunteers are not here presenting new ideas to people who are unwilling to change. We are here inviting them to let go of the only thing they know, the only thing they have ever known. And yes, a lot of what we’re asking them to give up is ugly. It’s not serving them. But it’s them, or it’s been with them for so long that it feels like them. And what will they have and who will they be without it?

When the problem is framed in this way, I think, “Who am I to judge them for not wanting to change? Who am I to criticize them for the pace at which they are willing to let go?” And my view of my role, suddenly, has changed. I’m here attempting to help people make an inner transformation. First, I need to help them feel safe enough to really look at the things they’ve always done. To hold them up to the light and see them as they are. Then my job is simply to invite them to let go, one small bit at a time, and let them choose when or if they do so. It’s a slow process. Very slow. And each person’s transformation will look different and be different. Inner transformation cannot be measured in the number of libraries built or workshops held or test scores improved. Inner transformation may not show at all at first. And, you know, I’m okay with that.

I get to work and live and be in this beautiful green Eden, with beautiful, kind people. I get to make offers of change to myself and to others. I get to slowly transform into the person I want to be. It is enough.

PYE & In Movement Workshop Participants

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Meat Heads Take Over the World

You know what a meat head is, right? The guys who hang out in gyms in their ribbed, white tank tops? The backwards ball cap wearing, neckless men who bench press ridiculous amounts of weight and have tattoos of, um, barbed wire or something around their bulging biceps? Yeah, you know them. We alllllll know them. Well, the meat heads of the insect world have staged a coup and have taken over my pantry. They are bulky little beasts, with black bodies built like tanks. In length they are shorter than the average ant, but their girth is intimidating. In front they have menacing pinchers, nearly microscopic mandibles.

I first noticed the mini meat heads as what appeared to be black dots around my container of vegetable oil. The container is always leaking oil, so I place it on a clear plastic bag on a shelf in my pantry. The oil pools there, and on closer inspection, I discovered that the black dots were really mystery insects, trapped like dinosaurs in the tar pit of my oil. And so, I started investigating. My friends, they were everywhere. Everywhere! Hiding in folds of every plastic bag. Strutting around in the bottom of my potato chip bag. Lounging with my popcorn kernels. (Yes, now that I say it out loud, I realize that my eating habits are not so great. You could have been polite enough not to notice, you know.)

The most frustrating part of the whole thing was the way they handled their imminent demise. They didn’t run. They didn’t hide. They didn’t scurry or zig or zag. They just kept soldiering around like they owned the place. It was infuriating. An insect who doesn’t run when confronted with death is just so…smug. So arrogant. It’s as if, even in death, he won’t admit that he’s in MY territory. That he doesn’t belong there at all. The teensy, tinsy spiders that had come to try to capture and eat the armored beasts had the decency to run. When the bleach water spray came and the looming wad of toilet paper started to descend, they ran. Good for them. I can respect a spider. Meat heads, on the other hand…

The whole thing begs the question, “If a giant hand with toilet paper suddenly came out of the sky and headed toward meat heads of the human variety, would they run?” I don’t think so. I picture them, walking slowly with their arms floating at their sides, barely glancing up to say in a thick Boston accent (don’t ask—my mind has a mind of its own), “Do ya worst.”

 

Eating Elephants

Love.

Have you ever heard the old adage, “Get back on the horse”? You know, the idea that every time you fail, you should pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try, try again? This is the adage, the image, that keeps coming to me as of late. You see, I’m trying to do something meaningful here. Trying. One of my fellow PCVs took Yoda’s famous phrase and repurposed it for development work in Africa. It goes like this, “Try or try not, there is no do.”

The problem I’m facing is that I’m learning more and more about the culture. I’m learning more and more about the people. I’m slowly becoming more integrated, more informed. These are all good things, of course, but on par with my level of growth about the culture is a greater understanding of the deeply rooted problems I’m facing. The problems grow larger and larger, looming in my mind like giant shadows. Last week, for example, I attended a conference on gender-based violence. The statistics of violence against women here are staggering. 70% of women aged 15 to 49 have experienced violence from a partner. 24% of women experienced a forced first sexual encounter. Women here talk of “when” you are raped, not “if.”

And so, I try. I plan workshops on gender-based violence. I prepare model lessons on HIV/AIDS. I make materials to teach students about malaria. I form reading groups. I keep lifting my leg in an attempt to saddle that horse. But this is Africa, and Africa is known for its wild horses. Invariably, the horse makes a break for it before I so much as put one foot in the saddle. That wild, bucking, neighing horse is canceled classes, resistance to change, unexpected assemblies, the lack of resources, and absent teachers. This week that horse is teachers threatening to strike. Teachers who haven’t been paid in two months, who don’t know when or if they will ever be paid. Teachers who cannot afford to put their children in school. Teachers who cannot afford to feed their children.

Somewhere along the line, I learned resiliency. I am not one to give up. Only once in my recent history have I chosen not to get back on the horse, and it haunts me still. But some days, I just want to shoot that horse. I picture myself, laying in a green meadow, the sun kissing my face, a gentle breeze moving through my hair. I am curled up in the fetal position, sleeping peacefully, a dead horse laying at my side.

There’s another adage I’ve been thinking about lately. “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” In my mind’s eye, I am sitting at the foot of an elephant. I have a plastic knife and fork and I’m trying ever so hard to carve out my first bite, but the plastic tines keep on breaking.

This is development work. This is Africa. This is my chosen path. So, I've found a new adage. A Mexican proverb that says, "It is not enough for a man to how to ride; he must know how to fall." That's what I'm doing--learning how to fall. Maybe that's the first step.

The game that was inspiration for this post. Nom, nom, nom.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

This week marks my six month anniversary in country. Woo hoo! To commemorate the occasion, some mystery insect or plant decided to pay my neck a visit, but it forgot that I’ve only been here six months, not seven. Silly insectiplant.



Happy anniversary to me!

I also recently reached some important Peace Corps volunteer milestones: I ate a bug, I peed in a bucket (inside a house), and I went on a safari. Check, check, and check.


The girls at camp catching the "white ants" (termites)

 


White ants after the wings have been removed and they have been fried. Yum?

If I had a bucket list, I would also be able to cross a couple of things off the list. For one, I won a Chopped/Iron Chef competition at my PC training with my friend Matt. Our mystery ingredients were mangoes, Doritos, and matooke (green bananas). Dream come true, my friend, dream come true! I also participated in a flash mob at a camp at which I was a counselor. Surprise group dancing? Yes, please!

 

The winning dish: matooke hash with Dorito tempura battered tomatoes and mangoes

All in all, it’s been a fantastic four weeks of play time during my school break. I feel refreshed, renewed, and almost ready to start a new term. Since I’m not waxing particularly poetic today, I’ll share just a few facts, or vignettes, if you will:

1)    Fort Portal. Picture the giant mountains of Utah and the greenery of Oregon and you have this beautiful little village in western Uganda. The wind was in my hair. The crater lakes were near my feet. Jenna waited on me hand and foot. It was blissful.

2)    In-service Training. My whole crew of PC volunteers together again. Classes by day. Partying by night. No sleep. Lots of dancing and yoga and volleyball. No more cliques, just lots of love and friendship. Other than a nasty cold that decided to pay a visit and hectically planning to run some of the training sessions, it was glorious.

3)    Camp GLOW. About 100 girls between the ages of 13 and 18 and a handful of counselors and staff. Classes on leadership, on human rights, on assertiveness. Matching t-shirts. With the girls 24/7. Exhausting. Rewarding. Two moments that made me realize how blessed I am to live in the U.S. and deeply sad for the women here: 1) When the girls were making the argument that if someone has money, they have the right to make you their slave and do anything they wish to you, and 2) When the girls unanimously agreed that if God gave them a choice, they would choose to be men. Genuine bonding with 7 beautiful girls who caught a glimpse of what it means to be the future leaders of Uganda.

 

 

4)    Murchison Falls National Park. Rolling, green plains covered in trees and every kind of wildlife imaginable. Two lionesses with a freshly killed kob that had a perfectly round hole in its side. A late night run-in with a giant hippo near my tent. The most powerful waterfalls I’ve ever seen. A boat ride on the Nile River. Watching stock-still crocodiles with their mouths wide open. Seeing warthogs run, tails straight in the air, then stop and simultaneously drop those tails. Watching the elegant and somehow awkward run of a giraffe. Seeing a huge elephant tromping down the road right in front of you, birds lining its back. The snorting call of hippos half submerged in the water. The best, most relaxed group of people I could ask to travel with. I have rarely felt so peaceful, and I cannot begin to describe how utterly and immeasurably happy I am to know that places like that exist in the world.

Murchison Falls

A bit of the beauty that is Murchison Falls National Park

 

Fun Fact:

When running from a predator, the hartebeest will make it about 4 km before it forgets why it was running and stops.

Hartebeest

 

Shout Out:

Just a little shout-out to my blog's biggest mom fans: Brittany's mom and Heidi's mom. Brittany is a beautifully tanned, generous host and a sweet momma to her new dog. I unlocked the vault for Heidi, which means she is trustworthy, a good listener, and a true friend. I feel so lucky to know these two lovely ladies. Good job, moms!

 

The Nature of Ghosts

Ghosts are funny creatures, aren’t they? There’s no getting rid of them completely. Every time you move, you bring them with you. You pull them from the back of your closet and fold them like a collared shirt, rectangular pieces of gauze, and place them neatly inside your suitcase. They go where you go. When you arrive at your destination, you unpack each one, shake them out, place them on hangers. Then the ghosts do what ghosts do best. They all but disappear.

My ghosts fooled me for a bit when I moved to Uganda. “Ah, ha!” I thought, “This time they didn’t follow.” But they did, my friends. They did.

When the world is dark and I am alone, they come. The ghost of a boy drawing circles in the sand. The ghost of a princess with a mole for a friend. The ghosts of a thousand memories and of the people who once mattered, who matter still.

But there’s something different about my ghosts this time. Frankly, I’m grateful for the company. It’s settling, really, to know that regardless of how much you’ve grown, or how much you’ve changed for the better, your ghosts are still there. They’ve walked the long path with you. They remember.

Certainly, I can’t walk around with them so close for forever. The gauze makes things hazy and creates a barrier between me and the rest of the world. But for now, I’m wearing my ghosts like blankets. Wrapped around my shoulders, they comfort me from the equatorial sun. From the strangers. From a ridiculously unpredictable world.

Rage & Malaria

I’ve got some bad news. I seem to have wandered into the “Distress Stage” of culture shock, also known as “Crisis,” “Hostility,” or “Disorientation.” For me at least, this means that I am often incredibly frustrated, annoyed, impatient, and/or spitting mad. Basically, the stuff that was kind of endearing or only mildly irritating about this new culture is suddenly inspiring Hulk-like rage. For example, before when I would sit in an over-crowded taxi pressed up against far too many sweaty humans, I would think, “Wow, it sure is hot and crowded in here.” Now I’m prone to think, “If I have to sit in one more sweltering, smelly taxi, I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” Or when people would not show up to meetings or show up an hour late, I used to think, “Well, we’ll get through what we need to sooner or later.” Now I think something along the lines of, “If I have to sit and wait for an hour for people to show up one more time I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” Before when I would get quoted an outrageously high price for a kilo of passion fruit, I would think, “Ah, she is doing what she can to be a successful businesswoman.” Now I think, “If another person tries to overcharge me for passion fruit, I’M GOING TO LOSE IT!” You get the idea.

Hulk + Tears = Steph

When I’m not struggling to keep a lid on sudden bouts of rage, I am alternately a sad, blubbering mess. Picture the Incredible Hulk, green with rage, but crying. Can you see him futilely trying to wipe away his tears with his ridiculously large green fists? That pathetic image is me in a nutshell.

Now, rest assured that this is perfectly normal and is to be expected somewhere between the third and sixth month of living in a new culture. I’m at the five month mark. After this, the helpful graphs begin to climb upward into lovely new phases all about acceptance and humor. Also rest assured that my honesty about how I’m feeling should not be confused for weakness. Nor should it be confused with real unhappiness. Beneath my rage-y, weepy exterior, I am a calm pool of peace. For realsies. 

As charming as it would be for me to drone on and on about my woes or flex my giant, green fists and scream at the world via blog posts, I decided to take a different approach (albeit a bit too late). I’m going to write about malaria for a tiny minute instead. Whaaaaa? Yep, malaria. Full disclosure: I want to win a contest. You may not know this about me, but I’m a tad bit competitive. (Ha! That was a little joke for all of you who know and love me.) But seriously...I. Want. To. Win. There are a list of activities you can do for points, and writing a blog post is one of them. Ready? Here goes.

April 25^th is World Malaria Day. All month, Peace Corps is doing activities to bring awareness to this important issue. Facts:

1)    Malaria is the leading cause of death in Uganda.

2)  Malaria disproportionately affects pregnant women and young children.

3)    In Uganda, between 70,000 and 100,000 children under the age of 5 die every year from malaria.

4)    Sleeping under a mosquito net greatly reduces one’s risk of contracting malaria, but only about 13% of the population in Uganda uses mosquito nets.

There you have it. If you think of it, float me some happy thoughts across that great big ocean. Or if you’re here, battling with your own inner Hulk, help me wipe off the tears with your human hands and I’ll try to do the same for you. And lastly, tell your friends and neighbors about the ongoing struggle that the poor nations of Africa are facing in fighting that pernicious foe called malaria.

Swim, Amoeba, Swim!

Walk with me down a Ugandan street for just a minute, will you? Take a look at the green palm fronds and red dirt roads and thousands of motorcycles. Notice the giant hawks circling overhead and the rivers of ants at your feet. And the people. There are people everywhere. Life here happens outside. You cook outside and bathe outside and visit outside. You shop at outdoor markets and buy pineapple and tomatoes and bags of fresh milk on the side of the road. There are people everywhere. And then there’s me.

Unlike traveling in Europe, where the Germans thought I was French and the French thought I was Italian and the Italians thought I was German, I stand out here. A lot. Like a glowing beacon. “Look at me,” cries my skin, “notice me!” Because of that one characteristic, the color of my skin, I live my life under a microscope.

Do you remember amoebas? You know, that ever-shifting blob with a vacuole to digest the food the pseudopods encircle? That’s me. And all I want to do is swim, invisibly, through my life. But alas, I’ve been plucked out of the pond and dropped onto a slide and everything I do with my false feet is witnessed. Children notice me and excitedly cry, “Muzungu, bye!” Adults notice me and make kissy noises or politely say, “Good morning,” or excitedly cry, “Muzungu!” Boda boda (motorcycle) drivers see me and say, “We go?” or “Yeeesssss,” or “You first come,” to try to get me to ride. The man selling kilos of potatoes from Kenya hisses at me to get my attention. And, my personal favorite (as of late), men hand me notes, at an internet café or while sitting at church, that say things like, “Can I get your contacts?” or, “I want to be your friend,” and then stand there, eagerly waiting for my reaction as I read.

 

It’s all a bit much for a girl who’s not too keen on being the center of attention.

But there’s something really lovely about being an amoeba, albeit an examined one. Have you seen them move? They are slow. Really slow. Like a centimeter an hour slow. And here, in this beautiful, foreign place, I’m slow too. I’ve always been fast at everything. But not here. Here, I am languid. I saunter. My life is moving at an easy pace. And it feels both good and good for me. The things that need to happen will happen eventually. Or not. Either way.

And so, on the days when the heat from the microscope is a little too intense, I put on my headphones and drown out the world with Sufjan Stevens’ “Casimir Pulaski Day,” or Al Green’s “Tired of Being Alone,” and walk down the street. I wave my Miss America wave to the children standing on piles of garbage and the children running with bicycle tires and the children playing in giant piles of cassava flour, and I love my slow, slow life again.

Getting wooed junior high school style

Lonely Hearts Club

Peace Corps volunteers are a lonely bunch. When I first arrived in country, I viewed my Peace Corps trainers as strange creatures indeed. They hung all over one another. They were always giving and receiving impromptu massages. They were constantly hugging. They held hands and played with one another’s hair. “What’s wrong with them?” I would wonder. I had never seen so much PDA in my life, much less among people who were not romantically involved. “Is that what we’re going to end up like?” my friends and I would ask.

Well, here I am fourth months later and I can say, definitively, that excessive PDA is in my immediate future. You see, the Peace Corps is a lonely venture. You leave everyone behind. Everyone. And with them, you leave behind every casual hug and squeeze and touch that you don’t even think about from day to day. No more kissing the fat cheek of your little niece or receiving the obligatory hug from your mom. Instead, you land smack dab in the middle of a foreign country on a foreign continent where no one knows you well enough to love you. To make matters worse, when you land in Uganda, you land in a culture so vastly different from your own that you sometimes feel like an alien. Sometimes I picture myself as E.T., that wrinkly, adorable alien, dying in my bed with my plant shriveling next to me. “Stephy phone home?” I think, before realizing that I’m out of long distance phone credit.  

And so, when we are together, united for some sort of training, we become one another’s Eliot. We reach out. We connect. We give and receive affection, and we hope that it’s enough to last us until the next time.

I always thought I had a secret weapon when I joined the Peace Corps. You see, I’m really, really good at being alone. As long as I can remember, I’ve relished my alone time. It likely stems from growing up in a household with eight wailing children. Sixteen years of sharing a bedroom and never having a single quiet moment (including late at night when my dad would practice playing his instruments) and I left the house, determined to carve out a quiet space for myself. Two years of peace and quiet in Uganda sounded fantastic.

I’m also incredibly good at being lonely, which is an entirely different skill set. I think this skill comes from lots and lots of practice, and, as anyone with any real talent in this area will attest to, has nothing to do with the number of people who are around you. With these two hidden talents under my belt, I anticipated wild success in the Peace Corps.

Here’s the problem: I’m changing. Much like the daydreams I had of running away to the mountains on my pink sea shell bike when I was ten, I now daydream about cuddling with someone in a room with electricity and sharing a drink (any drink) that contains ice. You see, just like I was saturated with sound and people as a child, I am now saturated with alone time. It drips off of me. Without even a computer or phone to distract me (when I haven’t been able to find a place to charge them), I have way too much time in my own company. I like myself and all, but enough’s enough.

And so, here I am, back at site after a week-long training and a  little bit of cuddling, wondering how to keep my plant alive until the next time.