“GOOD MORNING MUZUNGU!”

It’s 3AM. No one is awake in the village. Usually the only noise at this time would be the cacophony of crickets, grasshoppers, and frogs that seem to enjoy performing close if not next to my bedroom window. This morning however, my room is filled with a loud abrasive white noise. Under a mosquito net, tangled in a mass of blankets I find myself at the mercy of a small piece of metal– the slightest movement of which will send me into a frantic correction of a small plastic nob in hopes of finding a better alternative. I rest the radio on my chest and comb the dial across a set of shortwave bands, pausing at the slightest indication of reception, yet all my efforts lead to that empty white noise. Shifting my body out of desperation, about to give up, I hear an inkling of hope. I hoist the radio into the air locking my elbows. I summon all the precision and delicacy in my thumb and index finger and slowly turn the radio dial first left, then right. Success! I prepared myself mentally and physically to remain in this exact position for the next few hours, or at least until I heard who the next President was. Despite it’s penchant for being a voice box for US Government policy, I welcomed the “Voice of America” station’s American accents, and up to date news of returns from election night. I stared up at the blackness where my mind knew the radio to be, my eyes seeing no more than a pulsing red light that indicated the strength of radio reception. As the state by state returns were announced as they came in, I kept perfectly still imprisoned by the flickering of the red light, ready to make the smallest of adjustments to maintain what I was hearing. I kept alert for any mention of states projected, and spent the down time trying to register the magnitude of the moment. Around Africa, groups of people were affixed to dilapidated television sets, people walked to neighboring villages to huddle around a working radio, all night prayer vigils and parties were held all because of one man: Barack Obama. As Pennsylvania, Ohio, Virgina were announced it was certain, Barack Obama would be my next boss. It’s hard to explain the emotion I felt as the the village lit up with the morning sun, and his victory speech came through the radio’s speakers. It was one of overwhelming joy, happiness, and hope. My colleagues at work were just as overjoyed to see the election of an “African as president in the most powerful country in the world.” When Kenya declared a national holiday following his election, I began to worry that Obama, who ran on a platform devoted mostly to domestic and middle east issues, would disappoint many of who believe that this is the beginning of a great leap forward for development in Africa. However, Obama has said that he intends to triple the size of the Peace Corps.

I recently bought a bike from Kisoro. It’s a single speed wonder made of black steel direct from India. It is held together quite precariously by exactly 52 screws and nuts (as you have probably guessed already, I have quite a bit of time on my hands). I have named it “Freedom 1″ because it allows me to get to town when I want to, as opposed to waiting for available transport. I have absolutely no faith in it’s durability, hence the “1″ in “Freedom 1.” I fully expect there to be a second, third, maybe even forth reincarnation of it. To illustrate my point, I have taken 3 trips so far with the bike, and it has broken every single time. Bike maintenance here is quite peculiar in the fact that the main tools used are blunt instruments for violent hammering. Never before did I think that a bike could be fixed with a hammer, rock, and a safety pin. On my trip to town this time, as I was riding down hill, quite fast I may add, the front brakes decided to fall off. I can only imagine what bystanders were thinking as they saw a Muzungu hurdling down a small mountain with nothing than a look of fear on his face. Minutes after affixing the brakes back in their proper position using a folded up piece of trash and banana leaf, the chain decided to snap in half. I walked into town the rest of the way. It is a common belief here that Westerners do not know how to ride bicycles since we all own 5 cars, a boat and an airplane. Alas, whenever I am found walking my bike instead of riding I here people yelling, “Muzungu, you can’t ride.” Which I respond with the only thing relent: “Npfuye” which literally translates to “I am broken/defeated.” Once I figure out subject prefixes, I’ll be able to say it better. Riding into town, despite this, is a really great experience. It’s a fantastic way to learn language, and meet the community. I often times feel like a a mid-nineteenth century politician on the back of a train campaigning through the Midwest. I probably greet close to 700 people each way, each person surprised as the next that I “know” Rufumbira. The greeting that always gets the most praise when I use it is “Amasho,” or “I wish you many cows.” When I leave I usually say, “Nzagaruka” or “I will return,” which when I think about it sounds pretty ridiculous– something a comic book super hero would say. Along the way, I also am invited quite often to drink “ubusherra” a drink made of millet that when fermented in the ground makes a pretty potent, and cheap, local brew. I have yet to take up anyone on their offer. Most of the questions revolve around asking me if I am lost, for money, or if I know people such as Barack Obama or Kenny Rogers.

My friends, it appears that I am developing quite the celebrity status here in the village. On more than one occasion, people have come up to me to verify stories that they have heard about me. “I heard that you escaped Kenya during the election riots, and have been on the run ever since;” “Someone told me that you are in charge of all the hospitals now;” “We heard that you rode a bike here from Kampala.” I find all of it fascinating, and must admit I have done little to discourage such mythologies. My barometer for the diffusion of information about me has been a recent development. A few weeks ago, I was riding to town on the back of a bicycle. It was about 11:30am, and I happened to call out to one person, at one trading center, “Waramse,” the morning greeting. However, as I would later find out, it usually goes out of use around 10am since everyone is up since the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Over the courses of the next few days I found that that people were shouting the morning greeting my way even in the afternoon and night followed by laughter. Slowly, the the people that did it expanded from this one trading center to a 5km radius. Using rough math, I’d estimate 15,000 people have heard the story about me using the morning greeting near noon and now believe it is the only word I know. They are quite astonished when I ask about their family and where they are coming from.

Work has been going pretty well. I have been campaigning local village leaders to begin a hand-washing campaign that involves the construction of “Tippy Taps,” which are basically hand washing stations made out of locally available materials and are operated by your feet. Diarrheal disease is quite a problem in the area. The volcanic soil and rock make it almost impossible to dig a deep pit latrine, so during the rainy season many of these latrines floods and get into water sources. A local NGO has been distributing tables with iron sheet tops where one places plastic bottles of dirty water which with a half a day of sun becomes clean through UV radiation. I still question how much of the plastic degrades and enters the water, but I guess it’s better than dying from cholera. I have also begun to work the HIV support group for the sub-county. Currently, there are only 10 members. All are widows and are taking care of orphans. Our first meeting lasted 6 hours, and was mostly devoted to requests that I provided sponsors for food, clothing, soap. It has been hard to establish my position here as someone who makes people self-reliant through sustainable, village directed programs. It seems there has been quite a bit of “donor abuse” in the area, to the point where people expect money just to come from large external organizations. I will be working to help the group identify challenges, and assisting them in developing strategies to face them. It seems we will need to develop some sort of income generation activity. I continue on insisting that it be accessible by all in the group (even for low-energy, low-health HIV positive persons) and that it doesn’t rely on dependent external relationships (I am talking here about making crafts for tourists in town). Slowly by slowly, I think the group will come to not see me as a potential donor or funding source but rather as a catalyst for positive, sustainable change. At least that is my hope.

Village life is going well. I have added Indian food to my menu at home, and soon will be cooking tortillas and making bean burritos. I also discovered that cheese can last much longer out of the refrigerator than you think, it lasted a whole week. I hope to make some panir, and cream cheese at some point if I can find a cheese cloth in town. It is grasshopper season, so I plan on setting up a trap to collect them daily for a nice protein source. I do need to learn how to remove their legs correctly, I am told that they can cause esophageal tears if not removed in a certain way. With the grasshoppers come the Nairobi Fly, an insect about the size of a clipped pinky toe nail. When it urinates on you it causes an intense allergic reaction of which can cause scarring, and if done on your face will cause irreversible blindness. I’ll be crossing my fingers. I bought some curtains, so I now have a little more privacy in my house. I’m still waiting on buying some furniture from the local carpenter. It astonishes me the second hand clothing that ends up here in the markets around here. You can find pretty much anything; everything from a Snohomish High School Volleyball shirt, to a sweet authentic Led Zeppelin concert shirt I snagged for 50 cents. My time here in Uganda will not be complete until I find a Kurt Rambis Lakers jersey. I know it exists somewhere here, and I am determined to find it. I’ll make sure to update you if I have any luck. As some of you may have heard there has been quite the conflict across the border in the Congo. From radio reports it sounds like it is getting worse and worse. Refugee camps have been cleared, and children have been kidnapped and enlisted in the army. About 5,000 refugees have to come to Uganda and are being temporarily housed in a village a few kilometers away. Every day I see UN cargo planes flying above, and UNHCR as well as other aid groups drive by in large white Land Rovers. None of the Ugandans I have talked to seem concerned, and I can assure you that I am completely safe. My purchase today of a machete is completely unrelated.

Thank you so much for your emails, comments, and well wishes. They mean the world to me. Remember you can always see what I’m up to at twitter.com/classicglassock

My mailing address here is:
Mark Glassock
P.O. Box 200
Kisoro, Uganda

I’d sweep, scrub, and mop your floor when I come back if any of you feel inclined to send me some mix CD’s of all the good music I am missing out on, or any good books you have read lately. I’ve gotten quite good at it, and I can assure you that it would be the cleanest your floor has ever been.

I have to be hittin’ up the market for food then the road back to the bush before the rains roll in, I hope all is well with you and that all of you are healthy and happy. Until next time, Good Morning.