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!