Cardboard Bars and Kalashnikovs

It’s the type of place your gut tells you stay away from; that little hole in the wall where despite how close you get to the open door you still can’t see inside. Standing from the walking trail all I could make out was the hallow dance of cigarette smoke emanating from the interior, most likely propelled by all the yelling and stomping I heard. They say curiosity killed the cat, but what would it do to a Peace Corps Volunteer? Then it struck me like how an over-caffinated, pixie stick lovin’, Ritalin poppin’, 3rd grader strikes the t-ball stand with a bat (that is to say excitingly):

Peace Corps Volunteer Handbook, Peace Corps Mission, 2nd Page, 2nd Bullet: “Goal 2: to help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of peoples served.”

Here goes nothing I thought to myself; my heart’s desires had given written documentation to my brain’s better judgement. I walked slowly to the entrance as giving my mind time to boot up for the barrage of Rufumbira that was about to be peppered on me. I whispered under my breath, “Wiriweho, Umez Ute, Hamakuru, Habomorugo Bameze Bate, Hano Hameze Hate” to make sure I had dependable, if rehearsed, conversation starters (I’m still working on the translations of “you come here often?” and “so a rabbi, priest, and monk walked into a bar…”). I would have liked to say that I burst in the door with reckless abandon, but considering that the similar effect of a jack-in-the-box has brought me post-traumatic stress to this day, I figured it best to enter at a more reserved pace. Upon passing under door’s frame, the convention of cattle hearders stopped drinking their warm beer, the bartender halted cupping local brew from the hole in the ground next to the bar made of cardboard, and even the anopheles mosquitoes resting on the walls ready to start their house party that night seemed to take pause that I had come in to a place where a person of my skin color had probably never set foot in before. I gave my verbal offering and was given a seat. I ordered a beer and shot the shit with people in the bar the best I could. One of the men in the bar had a crude instrument made out of string and a calabash gourd. I tried to find the rhythm in his playing but had no luck. My dancing looked just as uncoordinated and awkward to his melody, although I still spasm more than dance back in the U S of A. After a few beers greased my inhibitions, and the mood struck me, I decided to hold a small little informal malaria prevention outreach. Many prevention activities in Uganda are delivered through antenatal care not only out of convenience, but because it is one of the few services that are well attended (relatively speaking of course). Unfortunately, this tends to only reach women who have little decision making power. Men therefore hear prevention messages through their wives if they hear them at all. With a beer in one hand, and an open hand to shake hands with someone every time I pronounced a sentence half way decent I launched into a small talk on how to prevent malaria. Luckily I didn’t make any of the mistakes I had made in the past few weeks; confusing the verb for going home and having diarrhoea was one such unfortunate mistake (ironically both verbs were appropriate in that case). I was pretty happy how the talk went; people seemed to break into small conversations discussing how they could better manage environmental factors around there house that contribute to mosquito breeding. I left the bar no worse for wear, a little drunk, and once again reminded by the power of jumping in head first.

Like I’ve said before, the work here is really 24 hours, 7 days a week. The work at the health center is much more predictable than my encounters in the community, but nonetheless trying. I’m working to implement a Village Savings and Loan Program with the HIV Post Test groups and other community associations in the area but it’s almost impossible to do without a translator. I think the project would be extremely effective and sustainable years after I leave. The start ups costs are significant, but reinforces and engrains a sense of self-sufficiency and “we did this ourselves” feeling. In other news from work, the health center was brought a new microscope in hopes to increase TB detection in the area. The ones previously used had to be retrofitted* for use with no electricity by installing* a mirror that would reflect sunlight from the window it was positioned near. Kisoro, however, is the Seattle of Uganda so many times the lab technician didn’t have enough light to see malaria, TB, stool cultures, etc. Like trying to avoid stubbing your toe while looking for your keys in the dark, the lab was pretty ineffective at diagnosing cases. The new microscope came w/ a rechargeable battery (where it will be charged I have no idea, but it’s a start) allowing greater light and therefore detection. Quote from journal: “It’s raining like hell right now. There are 8– no, 10– no, 11 holes leaking from the ceiling of the office.” It’s amazing how things not working has become totally normal and expected since my time here. The other day when I saw a triumvirate of convicts hauling ass from the prison, it was more of an “oh, that’s interesting” moment than “they’re going to kill us all!”
*These terms far overestimate the technical expertise that was exacted on said objects

For some reason I feel it necessary to report on the food I am eating every time I update this blog. This past week my gas tank ran out of juice, and the closest place to refill it is in a town 3 hours away. I decided to give a charcoal stove a try (called a sigiri). My friends, there are only a few things that I’ve done that have been harder to light that damn thing. The first couple days I was forced to use it I subsisted on an exclusive diet of cheese, apples, peanut butter, and chocolate (the only things in my house that don’t require cooking). It brought back stirring memories of my first week here when I lived off of salted rice and plain pasta. Despite having neighbors and friends show me how to light the damn thing (I will refer to it as this from now on) I just couldn’t do it. I discovered that I bought the wrong kind of damn thing at the market; it had no ventillation holes. I was basically trying to light a fire under water. Luckily, I soon discovered that copious amounts of kerosene and plastic grocery bags do the trick quite well (my apologies to Vice-President Gore) even though I feel like I smoked 5 packs of unfiltered, extra long, ultra-carcinogenic cigarettes after each attempt to light the damn thing. Any who, it is quite nice to have beans cook for 4 or 5 hours on it. They literally melt in my mouth, and make for excellent burritos. Even when I have the gas tank back I’ll continue to use the damn thing (that is with a more eco-green-save the planet-save the whales-sign the Kyoto-brought to you by NBC sigiri). I’ve been making some awesome coconut curries, occasionally adding eggplant if I can find them at the market.

Speaking of burning…I have been burning some music (sometimes Shakespeare couldn’t hold a candle to my literary muscle) from my friends computers in town and it’s been nice to have a reprieve from the local Kisoro radio station. The station is terribly awful and magnificently comical at the same time. To give you an idea: the same three commercials have been used for the last month and a half and play about 100 times a day. Songs never last longer than a minute, and it is a requirement for all the songs to include the lyrics of, “Baby I need you,” or “I need the emotion.” Ace of Base (or Bass?) gets more play than a Republican in a public restroom (of course you can tap your feet to both). Excuse my tired, expired jokes, I have been gone a while now. The local music that I have been able to catch on shortwave radio is absolutely fantastic. I think if I have time when I’m in town I’ll stop by a music studio (a place where you can pick music to be burned to a cd) and ask for some local music. I can only imagine my flawless Rufumbira now, “You make CD. I want music from here. I don’t want Jay-Z, Celine Dion, Kenny Rogers, Chris Brown, or Usher. I want music to dance. I want music to be happy. You make. I buy. How much? …No that is muzungu price.” I really speak like a 1st grader. I often find myself saying totally absurd things to people, “You are riding a bicycle!” “I am sitting!,” “We are eating potatoes!” I can only imagine what people say about me.

This past Friday was a pretty interesting day. I was having a rough patch of days after returning from the land of internet, cold beer, English also known as town. I woke up still feeling full from an awesome meal I had made the night before (I am sure having lighted the damn thing in less than 45 minutes had to do something with it). Soon after I heard a knock on my gate, it was a family member of the chairman of the HIV Post-Test Group delivering a note telling me to meet her at the sub-county office. No big deal I thought, it’d be nice to go for a little cycle down the road. Once I arrived I greeted the policemen, the Local Chairman, and the sub-county chief. Greetings are one of the most important things here…that and polished shoes. No sign of the Post-Test Group chairman. I sat and read the Village Savings and Loan Manual I had recently got my hands on. Slowly, people started filtering into the building, all of them particularly well dressed. I saw one of my friends and she said that they were having visitors today. No big deal I thought, I was here for something else. I continued reading. Then all of a sudden I heard the distant roar of vehicles (the noise of a purring engine is quite distinct, every time a vehicle goes by in the village is an event in itself. I’ve gone a week without seeing a car before). I kept reading, no big deal I thought, just a car. Then a convoy of 4 brand new army green pick up trucks pulled up; their flatbeds filled with military personnel all carrying guns bigger than me. One guy even had a gun that looked like it came from the set of Saving Private Ryan, fubar and all. Closely following them were a collection of motorcycles, land rovers, and a minibus filled with more military officers. The scene would have been perfect with “Ride of the Valkeryie” playing in the background. My mind was thinking, “What the #@$@#%,” but my mouth uttered, “Excuse, are these the visitors you were talking about?” The soldiers jumped out of the trucks and set up a perimeter, all to the amusement of the villagers digging the fields for Irish potatoes. The high ranking officers sauntered out of the land rovers every other one having a gold watch and a pocket sized digital camera. I soon learned that these were representatives from the President’s Office coming to check up on the local government agricultural initiatives. What guns and beans have in common I’m still unsure. I shook hands with most everyone, and soon realized that the English of the high ranking officers was probably among the best I’ve heard since being in Uganda. As the saying goes around here, “these were big men.” The chairman of the Post Test Group still had not shown up, so I decided it wouldn’t be right of me to pass up the opportunity to go around with these guys. I got in the back of the truck (back seat I should say, don’t worry Peace Corps I haven’t forgotten), wedged a small brigade of soldiers on our way to a farm. As I sat in the back every now and then the barrel of a Soviet-era Kalashnikov would bump my left cheek, while the butt of the gun to the left rubbed against my thigh. The rocky, volcanic road that the truck navigated through made me thankful for the safety switch. I spoke with the soldiers, even correcting their Rufumbira (most were from Uganda’s central region); what gave me the courage to correct someone with a gun I’m still not sure. Maybe it was the Language In-Service Training the week before. We arrived at a small house to visit a chicken farmer that had gotten support from an agricultural initiative started by the government that provided him with roosters and chicken feed. I still was not sure why a big group of soldiers came from all over Uganda to see these chickens. The man thanked the government and dropped hints and requests for more help. The visitors were more than willing to agree with him. I was amazed there was no talk of sustainability and self-sufficiency. Despite my venture into courage in the truck, I didn’t think it was my place to bring up the issue here. After our short visit with the farmer, we boarded the vehicles. I picked the one with the most soldiers–the one I thought was going back to the sub-county. One of the soldiers who had remembered my name congratulated me on having a new president. Shortly thereafter the carload of camo was embroiled in a political discussion of whom they had supported. “I was for Clinton,” “I was 100% for McCain,” “You just like Obama because he is black” were some of the comments I heard. Reminder: I’m in the back of a tin-foil passenger van with a lawnmower engine bumpin through a village in rural Uganda wedged between a good portion of the Ugandan military talking about Hilary, Barack, and John. If Dennis Kucinich was mentioned I think a parrallel dimension probably would have opened up and swallowed the car. I then realized that we were in fact not going back to the subcounty, but were headed to town. I promptly told the driver to stop, said my farewell to the military and began footing back to the sub-county a good 10k away. I decided to take a short cut in the direction that I thought was right. I meandered through farms, small paths, over hills, and through people’s compounds. It was a great way to see the countryside, and once again a cool feeling to set foot somewhere no other American had before. I knew the rain was coming; it’s amazing how perceptive I’ve become of local weather patterns. The rain started with a Reagan trickle (that is to say very very little, almost non-existent). I took cover under a small tree next to a small house. The trickle picked up (Milton Friedman would not pleased) and turned into a pretty heavy downpour. For a moment I thought I was going to have to re-enact the scene in Lord of the Rings where Frodo and Sam hide from those crazy ghosts on horses to avoid the rain (I think they are called Ring-Wraths; sorry I’m not as ner–I MEAN–informed as some of you that read this blog. Still got that map Nate?). Most likely prompted by the calls of “muzungu, muzungu” that are ever present in the hills of Kisoro, a woman came out of the small house and motioned me to come into her house. Upon entering soaking wet, she was dusting off the only chair in the one room mud house. The chair was small and delicate; it would have made perfect kindling for lighting the damn thing. I sat there as she got back to sorting the handful of beans she was preparing for who knows how many mouths. Her child was standing inches from me looking at me with his crossed eyes utterly stunned. We talked for a little bit, her not knowing a word of English, me not knowing how to correctly pronounce a word in Rufumbira. It was the type of cross cultural experience I read about in the books that made me want to join Peace Corps in the first place. Not once did she ask for money, and continued thanking me for my work. It was an incredibly humbling and motivating experience.

Wrapping up, the rebel leader Nkunda has been “captured,” some refugees are going home from the nearby camp, and Kisoro remains oddly unaffected by the whole ordeal. At the end of February I’ll be going to Kampala for our 6 month In-Service Training. It’ll be the first time I will have been there since swearing-in in early October. It’ll be really interesting to see my reaction to the big city. It’ll be fun to see everyone’s tans, beards, buzzed heads and weight loss. Today is Museveni Day in Uganda (I forgot the official name). Some volunteers are thinking about celebrating by throwing their opponents in jail, rigging elections, and not caring about the north. We’ll see I might just buy a coke.

Nzavuze ubundi. Talk to you another time. Thanks for all the emails, packages, facebook messages, calls, and texts. They keep me going.