My name is mud

“The worst part was that the rain was affecting everything and the driest of machines would have flowers popping out among their gears if they were not oiled every three days, and the threads in brocades rusted, and wet clothing would break out in a rash of saffron-colored moss. The air was so damp that fish could have come in through the doors and swum out the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms.”

–One Hundred Years of Solitude

So it’s the Rainy Season here in Uganda. I agree heartily with the ‘rainy’ part of this title, not so much with ‘season.’ To me, the word season implies a time span of, say, 3 – 4 months. This particular ‘season’ lasts a good 9 months, so I think it would be more appropriate to just call it The Weather. Our village is located in pretty much the rainiest spot in Uganda. We’re at a high elevation, surrounded by hills. The scenery has always been dramatic, but the rain brings giant cloud banks rolling in, obscuring any sights beyond the nearest hill and making everything misty. Sometimes it feels like our patch of land has been uprooted, and actually placed inside a large rain cloud. I can stand outside my office and watch the rain approach through the nearby valley, watch as it creeps across the compound and finally hits me in the face.

It rains every day. It usually comes hard and heavy. It falls so loudly on the aluminum roofs that you sometimes can’t hear yourself speak. We have pretty frequent thunder and lightening—maybe twice a week. The local topography does not favor us. Everything slopes. I mean everything: the roofs, the roads, the students’ playground. The rain hits, and then it washes downward. And you’re always downstream of something. Beside every building, along every path, the rain collects and creates gushing steams of muddy run-off. From above, the school compound could be mistaken for a distant aerial map of some lush wilderness: rivers and waterfalls, small lakes and swamplands.

At first, the rain made me very angry. I would wake up to the loud drops falling on our roof and silently shake my fist at the heavens. This is ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly continue, I would think as I pulled my raincoat and gumboots on over my pajamas and headed out to the latrine. It is ridiculous, and it does continue. Everything is damp and smells slightly moldy, getting to the latrine involves artful leaps and short bouts of wading, and my hair permanently looks like a small bushy animal hibernating on my head. Students coming to reading lessons in my office sprint from their classrooms and arrive shivering and tracking pounds of thick clay on their feet. I find myself spending large periods of time staring listlessly out the window. But, I am making the adjustments necessary to maintain my sanity. I have purchased a large golf umbrella, I have created a make-shift clothesline in my bedroom, I’ve perfected the hands-free gumboots to flip-flop switch, and I ALWAYS carry my raincoat. I don’t care if it is 100 degrees out, and blue sky as far as the eye can see—I bring the damn raincoat.

All the headaches associated with the frequent rainfall pale in comparison with the mud. THE MUD. I thought I knew the definition of that word, thought I had had a fair amount of experience with that substance, even have fond memories of making mud pies in some friend’s backyard. Living in the village has revolutionized the concept for me. You see, there is no paved road within an hour of here. The best we have is a sort of thin grit layer on the main road that leads to Mbale. Unfortunately that road does not pass by the school. From the guest house you walk for about five minutes on the grit road, and then make a turn for the kilometer walk on the mud road. That’s where the fun begins. The mud here has a very particular consistency. It absorbs the exact amount of rain water necessary to create a kilometer long slip and slide. It’s thick, and slick and evilly deceiving. It likes to masquerade as solid lumps that you can safely place your foot on, and then once your foot hits, whoosh—you ain’t got no traction and you’re going down. Climbing up the hill brings a strikingly literal meaning to the phrase ‘one step forward, two steps back.’ The walk down doubles as both commute home, and excellent practice for my nascent cross-country skiing career. The muzungu parade back from the school is big entertainment for the locals every evening. We gingerly pick our way along, clutching onto each other’s forearms and squealing ‘whoopsy’ every two minutes (alright, maybe that last one specifically refers to me), while the kids from school race by in blurred streams of barefoot laughter. We take half an hour to do the walk and make sure we don’t get any smudges on our kakis, while they run down the mountain in five minutes, amassing thick wet pads of mud on their bare soles. Some of the older girls take pity, take my bag, and walk patiently beside me, arms poised for a quick rescue if necessary. I have seen one AAH student fall. It was a tad surreal because it was a very grey evening, almost dark, still raining, and she was inexplicably wearing a Santa Claus hat.

The mud . . . . THE MUD!

The rain and mud have introduced a new staple into my wardrobe: the gumboot. The black rubber boots that come up to my knees have become close friends of mine, and we go everywhere together. My friend Katie warned me about the boots before I left the States, so I came to Uganda armed with several pairs of fashionable knee-socks. Think Britney Spears in the Hit me Baby One More Time video. Now think the opposite. That’s me, walking to work every morning. I call it business rugged.

Key survival tools: gumboots and mud-scraper thingy

A description of one of my own dramatic falls would make a perfect ending to this entry, but I have somehow managed to escape that fate thus far. My closest call came when I tried some tricky maneuvers to avoid a cow. I’ve developed a certain sense of ease, one could almost say friendliness, around cows in my time here. However, I have witnessed some cow-on-human violence. I was sitting in a matatu waiting for it to fill when a cow by the side of the road took objection to a certain passing woman, and began head-butting her all over the shop. The woman’s surprise quickly turned to anger, and she retaliated with several fierce jerry-can swipes to the head. It was an intense battle, and I would be hard pressed to declare a clear victor. These images were running through my mind as I walked down from school one rainy afternoon, and encountered a very distressed cow slap bang in the middle of the small bridge I have to cross to get into the trading center. The cow was white, with big black rings around her eyes. She was mooing up a storm in a very pissed off way, and struck me as vaguely demented. I decided to give her a wide berth and tried some fancy side steps. The evil mud saw its chance and began pulling me towards the stream that runs along the side of the road. I thought I was a gonner for a second, but then I called upon all of my yoga resources and executed a sort of turn-around leap which left me straddling the stream and elicited a chorus of ‘sorry, sorry’ from the local bystanders. I breathed a sigh of relief, hitched up my knee socks, and continued on my merry way.

Mud: 0

Ruth: 1

Cow: friend or foe?

I have a feeling the tables will turn before my time here is over. The evil mud is probably reading this right now and plotting its revenge. I’ll keep you updated.

Of Hope

I try to avoid photos in general over here in Uganda. I’m usually in a pretty severe state of dishevelment, which I feel would be best left unrecorded: bird’s nest hair, shiny, shiny face, stained clothing, etc. I’ve specifically worked hard to avoid the ‘white chick posing with many smiling African children’ photo. It’s clichéd and seems forced, no matter how long or how hard the white chick in question has worked with the African children.

I’m a bit of a cynic when it comes to these things, and my time here in Africa has made me think a great deal about the nature of development. It’s a murky issue that only grows in complexity the more I immerse myself in this ‘developing’ community. I’ve read a few books on the issue since I’ve been here, and had many a philosophical conversation with David and other volunteers who have passed through the village. There are lots of questions (what does Africa need, why does Africa need it, who is supposed to help Africa, does Africa even need help, hasn’t foreign aid done more harm than good, aren’t we just so many ineffectual band-aids on a wound that needs to heal internally, and what right do we have to barge in here and insist that we know what’s best anyway?). There are not so many answers.

My discomfort grows when I walk through the village and receive such automatic respect and deference from many of the villagers, not to mention the staff of the school. My skin color apparently acts as a very impressive resume. I wonder why in the world people with so much more experience and wisdom than me follow my suggestions unhesitatingly. Thankfully, this aspect of the experience is diminishing with the time I spend here. The sheen of novelty has faded from Teacher Ruth, and many people now feel comfortable openly laughing at me, especially when I try and join Teacher Nelson’s dance classes. Although, I recently found out that I’m not yet completely out of style. At a workshop attended by a lot of local politicians and head teachers, John Wanda introduced me and asked if I would ever consider living in Uganda permanently. I responded with a smart-ass comment about having to find a husband first, which John took great pleasure in relaying to the whole audience. There was much general merriment and knee-slapping. Somebody didn’t see the humor in the situation though, as two days letter I received a serious application for the position of my spouse. Credentials were listed, contact information was given, and some poetic language was thrown around. It was actually very touching. When I failed to respond, I received a second query. This guy meant business.

“While I appreciate your interest in getting to know me further, I want to make sure that you understand that my comment about finding a husband was a joke. It was not a serious request.”

There’s something I never thought I’d have to write.

Marriage proposals aside, the image of the muzungu in this country leaves me perplexed and a little on edge. I think back to the second P7 debate I ever witnessed: “Foreigners have done more harm than good in Uganda.” I wonder which side I would take if asked to participate in that discussion.

But through all the theoretical intricacies, I know there is one thing I can firmly stand behind: this school and the work it is doing. I sometimes get bogged down in the operational details over here, or frustrated at the hours and hours I spend in unproductive meetings. But then there are moments when the full impact of this institution hits me smack in the face. We have a small team over here right now making a documentary about the school, and I took them to visit some of the students we are sponsoring in Miggade College—a secondary school outside Kampala. These kids all spent several years at Arlington Academy of Hope before taking their Primary Leaving Exam, passing with flying colors, and receiving a full scholarship from donors in the US to attend one of the best secondary schools in Uganda. I’m not all that familiar with these students, as they graduated from the school before I arrived, but when they saw me they literally ran over and engulfed me in giant bear hugs. The girls were all wearing their smart yellow uniforms and wide smiles almost cracked their faces. We sat in the grass and talked about their lives at secondary, and what AAH has done for them.

The bottom line is this: these young women will complete their formal education, and most likely continue on to university, because of Arlington Academy of Hope. Without the opportunities this school presents, the odds were greatly stacked against them even completing primary school, let alone moving on to secondary. But it’s more than that. These young women are confident and outgoing and eager to talk talk talk about their education and what they are learning and what they want to be. They are overflowing with possibility. It is infectious. I imagine coming back here in ten years, and finding the school staffed entirely by its own alumni. I imagine new schools they will open in the area, or clinics, or businesses, or whatever. It is tangible progress that you can grab hold of and give a big hug. You cannot argue with change of this nature.

Besides my interactions with the secondary students, there are plenty of moments in the village that make me halt and laugh with the sheer joy of being involved in such a project. We have just opened a new library at the school, and kids are literally queuing around the block to get their hands on a book. Sure the place looks like a bomb has hit it once they leave, and they always put the books back on the shelves backwards (why? WHY?), but they are practically foaming at the mouth for the love of reading and I can’t think of anything better to get excited about. Kitongo Boniface is a little imp of a child who comes by my office every break and lunch to have some one on one reading time. I’m not going to lie—he’s largely motivated by my impressive sticker collection. But reading is reading, regardless of the motivation. We’re working our way through a donated phonics series, sound by sound, and he gets better every day. When he comes across a word he doesn’t recognize his lips move frantically as he tries to decipher all the possible sounds and blend them into something familiar. He stutters through half the alphabet before looking up at me imploringly for some assistance and it’s all I can do not to dissolve in a fit of giggles or tears.

Nakuti Sarah in P1 is PSYCHED about our Reading Challenge!

Children walk two hours to school and still arrive a half hour early. Children sleep on mud floors and do their homework by lantern light and still have a clean uniform and polished shoes every day. Children come on Saturdays. Children’s parents, who never completed school themselves, sell their last cows to make sure they can pay the parent contribution every term.

Of course, children are children. There’s bickering and hollering and crying and cheating and tricksters and jokers and pranksters and wasted time and lost books and scraped knees and broken chairs and grumpy teachers and stressed cooks and it RAINS every day and the compound becomes a swamp. It wouldn’t be a school without those things. And sometimes I’m mad and sometimes I’m tired and sometimes I disagree with the US Board or the Headmaster or the Program Director and sometimes I have to go home and have a beer. But I’m halfway through my time here, and I feel a small bubble of sadness already growing inside me at the thought of leaving. I can’t speak for the UN or World Bank or IMF or USAID or any of the other countless agencies and organizations speeding along these dusty roads in their shiny pick-ups, but I can speak for Arlington Academy of Hope, and I deem it undeniably worthwhile.

So, here they are; the dreaded ‘white chick with African children’ pictures. Because I’m proud and I’m grateful and they are so darn cute.

I became an inadvertent Pied Piper on a visit to our sister primary school in Bupoto.

Handing out reading challenge packets to some excited P4 students

Muzungus Gone Wild

I have to admit that I didn’t have particularly high expectations for my 24^th birthday celebration. I felt there were a few obstacles to me having the alcohol soaked good time that usually characterizes June 30^th. For example, the fact that I currently live in a rural African village. Here, seventeen men sitting around an earthen pot drinking local brew through reed straws, constitutes a ‘party.’ These parties generally happen every market day, and are usually accompanied by loud, repetitive music that shakes the windows of the Guest House well into the night. I’ve flirted several times with the idea of crashing one of these communal drinking parties. I imagine striding confidently into the little mud hut of a bar, then hearing the ziiiiiiiiip of the music shutting off, as all eyes slowly swivel in my direction. Mouths gape open, a few men drop their straws . . . . Also, I’m fairly sure that the local brew is close to 100% pure alcohol and would probably make me blind. Anyhoo, I decided that it would do nothing positive for my standing in the community to attempt such an infiltration, so that option was out. I contemplated having people over to the Guest House. It probably would have amounted to a few brave souls sitting on our blue plastic chairs out near the trash pit, avoiding the regular chicken/goat/cow/dog visitors and politely declining the warm beer on offer because drinking is only for those crazy dudes with the clay pot.

So, I was stumped. That is, until Ms. Bonita Sen arrived from Washington DC with her apparently endless source of infectious energy and good humor. She’s the first AAH volunteer we’ve had in a long time, and before we had even completed the drive back from the airport we had established that we were going to take all the volunteers out in Mbale for my birthday. And so, Muzungus Gone Wild 2008 was born.

We have a pretty packed Guest House right now, so I posted a little flier letting everyone know about the planned field trip. I’m proud to say the house was abuzz. Talk of strappy tops and high heels began to circulate; concepts I hadn’t considered in months. A rumor spread that someone had a functioning hair straightener. A hair straightener for God’s sake! The night before the ladies began practicing some dance moves that we felt would really enhance our muzunguness for the largely Uganda population we expected to encounter at Club Oasis. Nirav—the sole male resident of the Guest House at the time—cowered quietly in the corner. Bonita introduced the stunningly classy ‘guitar leg,’ which is a two person dance requiring some flexibility. I’ll let you imagine the details.

The big day rolled around, bright and sunny. In the morning I decided to do an 18 kilometer hike, with no sun block or water, in order to achieve the neon red skin coloring that I know brings out my eyes so well. I also thoughtfully left my purse on at such an angle as to tattoo myself with a large, white diagonal stripe across my chest. Who needs jewelry when you can have artful tan lines instead? After recovering from the hike we all packed ridiculous amounts of non-essential items into backpacks, and invaded the next passing matatu. We hit a small snag when one of the tires punctured and we had to sit on the side of the road begging every passing vehicle to use their spare. Apparently matatus operate a sort of informal barter program with their spare tires. The other girls used the time to listen to their ipods and en-trance the locals with some sweet dance moves. David came across me standing under a very dusty bush, rubbing my arms with some dry, dirty leaves. I vaguely remember assuming that the leaves would have some moisture in them that would cool my scorched skin. We established that I seemed to have a mild case of sun stroke/temporary insanity, and he let me chug his entire water bottle. He had already given me his birthday present a few days earlier. He knows that I like to do yoga, but it’s hard when the house is so busy. He went to Mbale and bought the materials to fashion a makeshift yoga mat, cleaned out the store room behind the house, and put in a light to create a little yoga room for me. Now I can do downward facing dog facing large sacks of rice and sugar. Probably one of the most thoughtful presents of all time.

David and Bonita chillin with our broke-ass matatu

We got to Mbale in one piece and located the Kaddo Guest House (for Executive Accommodation). Apparently executives don’t require luxuries like bathroom doors or shower stalls, but do appreciate cable TV. I also appreciate cable TV, and watched the last 30 minutes of the Zorro movie. Is it meant to be a comedy? I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.

The night out was a pretty big success. Our first stop after dinner was the notorious Wimpy Restaurant which has a sort of courtyard-pool hall-amusement park vibe going on out the back. Beer is the main beverage on offer, but if hard liquor is your thing then you have to order it by the bottle. It’s quite efficient actually, if slightly dangerous for undisciplined drinkers like myself. Some of the school and clinic staff came and joined, and at midnight we made our merry way over to the club. Some haggling and frisking and arguing over cameras later we were in. We had a big enough mixed-gender group to form a circle and participate in a good old middle-school style dance moves contest. There was some running-man, and some funky chicken (Ugandan style), although sadly, guitar leg never made an appearance. Our guy friends acted as sentries against the other, creepier men. Women tossed their hair and sang along loudly and guarded the door for each other in the bathroom. I harassed the DJ at ten minute intervals, until my new friend, Simple Freddy, led Bonita and I through a Narnia-like labyrinth of corridors which led straight into his booth. Then I actually flicked through his collection and handed him the CD I wanted him to play. He was very good natured about it, and yelled ‘Happy Birthday Ruth’ over the speaker system a lot. I made frequent return trips to the booth, just because I could.

David and I hanging at Wimpy before the club (exhibit A in the ‘Ruth has an abnormally large head’ debate)

An amazing thing about clubs in Uganda is that they generally have a small restaurant somewhere in the establishment. Several plates of late-night French fries and a few greasy samosas later we were all ready to head back to our guest house. I had the number of the night manager who the day manager had guaranteed would be available at any hour to open the gate for us. It was 4:30am by the time we made it there, and it took three phone calls, but sure enough he begrudgingly opened it up for us. The lingering effects of gin-by-the-bottle bathed the hotel room in a rosy glow, and I slept like a log.

The ladies hanging outside the famed (and grotty) Club Oasis

In terms of a birthday celebration, I was highly satisfied. But it didn’t end there. On Monday morning the entire school sang to me during the morning assembly. If you haven’t ever had Happy Birthday sung to you by 325 Ugandan children, you should try it sometime. They also do the whole ‘how old are you now’ bit, and add in an extra verse, which at first listen sounds like ‘you look like a mango,’ and left me vaguely insulted. Turns out it’s actually ‘you look like an angel,’ which is much better.

Godfrey leads the school in a rousing chorus of ‘You Look Like a Mango.’

Then teacher Godfrey handed me a large pile of packages he’d been holding for the day. My sister Kate, and friends Rebecca, Kristina and Jack get a major shout out for those. I sat at my desk happily for an hour, sorting through my new treasures. My mom and friend Cynthia had already sent stuff with other visitors, so I was loaded. I had a lot of work to do for the rest of the day, so I was running around a bit. I’d occasionally see Bonita slinking around with a quiet little smile on her face, and ran into a few teachers who quickly thrust red envelops behind their backs upon spotting me. Finally I was summoned to the staff room in the middle of the lunch hour, and found everyone assembled around a big white cake with ‘Happy Birth Ruth’ written on it in smeared icing. Everyone sang, and the headmaster placed a white napkin with happy birthday written on it over my head. Ugandan tradition perhaps? I was prepared for the ‘you look like a mango’ bit, and smiled appropriately. Then I received a thick stack of red envelops filled with birthday cards signed by every student in the school.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better birthday celebration that I’ve had in my life. It combined many of my great loves: dancing, alcohol, late-night food, children, and friends. It worries me that I chose to write those loves in that order. Anyway. I’m over five months in now, and still largely avoiding the homesickness demons. It’s times like those that help.