Yes. This is from THE DAY.Iwatched Lukas as he stepped away from the podium having delivered his Swearing In “MUZUNGU!” speech. He had something or other about our role as proverbial Boda Men (and Women) asking people where they're going and how we can help them get there. I marinated on that for a minute and after several other event formalities we broke into fragments of small talk, photos, and hors d'ouvres.

It’s worth noting that this scenario now terrifies me. Small talk. I don’t know how to talk about much outside of literature, metaphysics,the doings and transpirings of The Group, and, well, poop.

(It was pencil thin, though completely solid, and verylightly colored the other day. Firsttime in two years it’s looked like this. It’s incredible!)

Anyways there I am in a linen suit peering through the fogof a hangover and out from a Beatle-ish mop top and over a handlebar mustachewhich I had carved the previous night. There I am. I saw the Ambassadorschmoozing his way in my direction. He paused,gave me a once over, extended his hand and said “When the going gets weird, theweird get going.” Yes sir they do. That is indeed what they do. It did get weird and we did get going and nowhere we are.

And we areweird. Really weird. Not unique, special, different or any othereuphemism. That would neuter thedescription. We’re weird.

Just agreeing to come here and do this whole thing is weird enough. Howmany of your friends took this ever so scenic route after college orretirement? Can you count them off onone hand? We are a self selectingbanditry of weirdness, as weird as a troop of monkeys. More weird than a troop of monkeys. We started out weird and for better or worsewe’ve gotten weirder.

For the worse we’ve become painfully frugal. I’ll just say flat out cheap. If it’s free we’ll eat it or drink it or packit home on the six hour bus ride. We’vedeveloped questionable hygiene practices. Like the opposite of immaculate…de-mamaculate if you will. We’ve pooped (see there it is again: pooptalk) on shoes, buses, river beds, caveras, and Lake Victorias. We’ve pooped in somany places and so many circumstances that hovering over a hole in the ground seems normal rather than cause célèbre. And after two years in the mosh pits thatpass for lines here, we often confuse boorishness with assertiveness; long ago havingdetermined dignity exchanged for “fairness”to be a reasonable bargain.

But our little band has become weirder for the better aswell. Perhaps you’ve become savvy to thecomplicated truths of the world. Maybeyou’ve become more disciplined in some regards and less uptight in others. Or maybe you’ve learned to cook or garden orraise a dog. You know your specificsbetter than me. There isn’t much that’suniversal about the Peace Corps experience. It’s a fit custom tailored for you.

But here we are a clan of 29 goofballs, husbands, hippies,warlocks, pilgrims, poofs and gurus sharing 29 iterations of one commonexperience. We’ve been away from allthose influences from back home. Awayfrom the family and friends, the career, the culture, the comforts; we havebeen forced to muddle through this whole thing as best as we could.

As onlywe could.

The things you’ve said and done and thought these past twoyears are Who You Are. It’s been twoyears. Nobody can fake it that long. I’ve never felt more true to myself than I doright now and that’s the Grand Universal Peace Corps Truth. And while that authenticity shouldn’t beweird it certainly seems to be and that’s something we all share.

So I hope we all hold on to what we’ve found inourselves. And I hope we don’t stopexploring just because we’re finishing with our service. I’ve got the emotional sophistication of a 15year old boy with a Victoria’s Secret catalogue but I hope that if you feellike crying you’re not doing it because this is the end and you’re going tomiss pooping in a hole and talking to your friends about it. Even if the end is hard, you don’t want to bein Peace Corps forever. Of that I amcertain.

Rather I hope that we can all cherish the past, accept thepresent and embrace the future. We’vegot some heavy hitters in our group and I’m so excited to see where we all endup next. I know we’ll still travelaround…meet people…get into adventures…you know, wander the Earth. Be thankfulfor the experience but don’t linger too long looking back. Look forward to all the awesome things comingour way. Keep going forward, straight on‘till dawn.

In his swearing in speech, Lukas told us that we were Boda Men(and Women) and our job was to ask people where they were going and how wecould help them get there. I think thatwe’re spaceships. Really weirdspaceships. Tearing through the heavensat the speed of light. And space shipsdon’t come equipped with rearview mirrors.These people.

Words words words. I don't know how to start. It's becoming the dry season now, daily rains giving way to long hot dusty days. The school is deserted, the teachers and students moving back into the deep village for harvesting. It's quiet.

I've found that my frustrations and cynicisms and despairs pile up over time. Like shoots of tough savanna grass they grow green and fresh in isolation and a fertile disposition, before they turn brown dead and dry as time marches on. Like an unkempt garden these frustrations grow into a prickly thicket, eventually obscuring even tomorrow's limitless promise and possibility. The process is gradual but the effect is cumulative.

But the clearance happens suddenly like a flame front across the plains. Instantaneous. An experience, a good experience, sometimes only a moment, so powerfully good that it wipes out weeks of the thorny nagging underbrush leaving behind only fresh scorched earth. Clean fertile earth to try it all over again. The lows are powerfully low, but the highs are intoxicating in their intensity. Cycles of despair and euphoria.

We finished up the term. And it finished.

Before we as a staff collectively broke huddle for the year we congregated for one last event, the end of year staff party. The event started late and there were long speeches from bloviating politicians (or rather their junior emissaries) and blah blah blah. That's not important. We ate a tremendous spread of fried chicken, cassava, pasta, rice, goat, beef, fish, salad and then Got. It. On.

A sound system was hired and several crates of beer were ordered and we started doing togetherness. In the past I've been hesitant to linger too long at these get togethers, perhaps equal parts sober concern for my reputation and a middle school boy's fear of the dance floor. The music is a reggeton/afro/acholi quick beat that made me look exactly what you think a white guy dancing with a bunch of African's would look like. Enough to shatter any delicate male ego.

With a single beer's assistance I set sail on those turbulent seas, trying to find paths of rhythms and the crests of bass lines. Mr. Okema saw me swimming (sinking) and came to my aid. "Uh huh, good!" as he choreographed "Now do like this." And I started to get it kinda. Either that or more likely I picked up another bottle of assistance.

(Digression: I don't know if there's a name for it but the night's weapon of choice was a big 500ml bottle of Senator beer spiked with a shot of Waragi gin. For the home bartender: buy a bottle of the cheapest high octane beer you can find, leave it in the sun for a day or so and then, still warm, open it and add some vodka or gin (any kind that comes in a plastic bottle will do) and drink it. Hooray!)

The tribal dance here is incredible. The Acholi school children win the national dance competitions on the regular and for good reason. Hips neck feet and drums in a flurry of coordinated contortions and culture. It's a joy to live in this region and witness these things. What would those bored screen addled American suburbanites give to have a culture like this, all they own?

So there I was. We were. The syncopated bouncing mob. Boozy, happy, dancing. Gaining confidence and BAC I was beginning to surf the lines of music. First was the school secretary Filda, maternal, unusually exuberant, though characteristically dignified as she approached and bounced and danced, circling around ululating. She flipped off back into the mass of now sweating bodies but she had opened the floodgates. Some recently graduated A level students, staffers, teachers, wives of teachers, children of teachers, students of children of wives of teachers (just kidding) all had a go at me.

One young woman came at me gale force in a hurricane of confidence, hips and vitality. A thick woman in an ankle length dress and covered shoulders who radiated a sexuality more fierce than her thin designer jean gym toned counterparts in college bars across America. She was a force. FORCE. I've never felt anything like it. As she trailed away she glanced back over her shoulder looking like "I just launched you into outer space, huh." Raised eyebrows and a noiseless whistle was my only reply. Because I had already torn past the moon and Mars and was zipping by Neptune.

At three thousand feet per second.

As I made the solitary walk home from the party, head still buzzing from cheap alcohol and the peculiar electricity that I imagine is only felt among the flirtatious youth, I realized that this had been the best party I had ever attended. It wasn't the food, the dancing, the drinking though they all played their part. It was the sense that I had finally found the people around me and that they had found me. For one night we punted everything out the window and just became people. People with faces and fingers and toes. I didn't feel like a white guy, an American, a math teacher, any of that. I felt together.

And just like that weeks of frustration were razed to the ground and I get to start fresh all over again. Two days later and I'm still glowing. I chased off three people who thought I was away and had come to rob my house. I fished a dead rancid rotting lizard out of my sofa cushions when I noticed the horrible smell. I ate beans and rice for three hundred and eightieth sixth time. But I don't care. I love it here. The highs tower above the lows.

The next morning I woke up early and went to get a cup of milk tea and a plate of cassava. I saw a co-reveler from the night before. He politely inquired about the status of my hangover (incredibly non-existent) before, like a proud father, adding, "You learned a lot last night."

And I was like "yeah."

One of the Volunteers here had originally joined in the '60s and had served briefly in Somalia before getting evacuated to India. I bought a guitar when I first arrived here (that would be failed teach my self guitar attempt number 3) and he came over for Thanksgiving and played it. He described his guitar playing as a nice relic of his first stint in Peace Corps and it's something that made an impression on me. Relics of Peace Corps service. I've picked up a couple languages, read a bunch of good books, filled up my passport and made some life long friends.

I was in the staff room one morning preparing some of my lesson notes when the fine art teacher, Mr. Okema, pulled up at my table as asked if he could sketch me. Do I have to pose? Nope. Well sure, fire away. I continued working and he started sketching and by the time I had finished my notes he had a rough sketch on paper. He fleshed it out for two full days, then he colored it in and gave it to me as a present. I've become so image desensitized probably due to the ubiquity of digital cameras and the way they can machine-gun images out into the world. I hadn't even considered having my portrait done by an artist. I had forgotten that that was an option.

It was such a valuable thing to receive as a gift. It was a time consuming labor of love executed by a friend of mine exercising his considerable talent for my benefit. And it was unsolicited. It is, perhaps, my favorite gift and once framed will be a very tangible relic of my Peace Corps service.Candid shots are so difficult here. The only thing more conspicuous than being the one white guy at a 1,000 person strong gathering is to be a white guy holding a camera. Most shots taken by local photographers are posed portrait shots. During big events when everyone is all dressed up, there is a village photographer who goes around snapping portraits and charging about 30 cents a piece to develop them. He comes back several days later with a messenger bag full of pictures which he returns to his customers. I have no idea how he keeps track of who has paid for what photograph but he seems to be doing good business as he's got customers whenever he's around.

Now there is a very real possibility that I am missing several layers of nuance and subtlety but 90% of these posed portraits look exactly the same. It's a very formal affair. No smiling. Rigid posture. Looking off into the distance and never at the camera. It was kind of funny at first but with a memory card full of rather bland portraits I've been trying to figure a way around it. I snapped the above shot of the kids from my lap while someone was giving a speech.

Kids here are left pretty much unsupervised by around the time they can walk. The ever quotable Mr. Owiny quips that the children here "just move anyhow, as if they were goats" which probably doesn't help paint the picture for you as you're likely not familiar with free range goats. If the child is still crawling they're put under the charge of a (not much) older sibling. It is quite common to see a girl of about 8-10 years with a baby wrapped to her back with a piece of fabric while she fetches water or fire wood.

There's another aspect about the village children that I really struggle to articulate. It's like they're not really viewed as people or at least as a person with a name and personality. Any boy is called merely "boy" and girls are called "girl" in lieu of a name. It's impossible (for me) to tell which child belongs to which family and where they are supposed to be and when. Free range children I guess.

Well yeah.Before I got the new ones in a care package, I thought my orignal t-shirts were still white. Nope.Fourth of Ju-ly and long exposure sparklers.Veranda sunsets. It's something like this every night.Hell kittens from hell! 5 kittens, no cat mother, it almost broke me. IT ALMOST BROKE ME!

In my hammock trying to recreate a look of anxiety. And my hair.

I suffer increasingly powerful anxiety when I'm around...whatever, let's just say it....white people. My Peace Corps brothers and sisters don't really count because we all bathe, figuratively speaking, in the same bucket of dirty water. So generally any white person in Uganda outside of about 140 people mildly freak me out for reasons that aren't entirely clear to me.

Sure I spend a fair amount of time at my site and those prolonged exposures naturally change the way I talk and think and act to the point where western small talk absolutely flummoxes me. Peace Corps talk inevitably devolves (evolves?) towards global politics, the weighty metaphysical, the Development Carnival or... poop (and the quality/consistency of). Village talk with my teaching colleagues usually centers around rain (the absence/presence of) and how "stubborn" our students are (very stubborn).

(Quick aside: A bunch of us were at a bar where we met this German backpacker who was traveling through East Africa. "Oh you guys are in Peace Corps? You guys are all the same, you sit around drinking beer and talking about how much you hate being in Peace Corps." He had a beer with us and then went on his merry little way. When he left, we kept drinking beer and now talked about how much we hated German backpackers. I will always grudgingly admire that man for speaking truth to power or at least truth to a bunch of smelly inebriated PCVs. In our defense I would argue that most of our complaining in merely venting and most of us cherish our experience and opportunities here.)

None of these things (metaphysics, global politics, poop) really interest anyone outside of Peace Corps or at least not in the context of oh-hey-here-we-are-standing-in-line-at-the-supermarket-together conversations. I was in Gulu buying supplies (Gulu is like the regional capital of northern Uganda and the armpit of the Developement Juggernaut) and some guy noticed my Twins hat and started in with the baseball small talk. I felt a constriction in my chest and the normally free flowing opinions regarding bowel movements or the ongoing NATO led Libyan "intervention" slowed to a trickle. Nothing I was comfortable talking about fit the scenario so I stammered out some platitudes about Liriano and darted away as quickly as possible. I don't think this affliction hits all the other PCVs to the same extent as it does me but I'm positive it's there in some shape or insidious form.

Right. I'm at the Johannesburg airport to see the Africa Region Peace Corps Medical Officer (or AR PCMO in Peace Corps parlance) located in the PC regional headquarters. If you're afraid of white people airports are like the seventh circle of hell. But anyways there I am in the Johannesburg airport waiting in line to get my passport stamped and doing my best to be non-nondescript. Like actively thinking about looking non-nondescript lest some passerby make the mistake of talking to me about anything other than, for example, Ayn Rand's hypocritical rejection of idealized socialism via a book touting an idealized capitalism. I'm wearing headphones and sun glasses more to discourage potential interlocutors than for entertainment or fashion purposes respectively. My hands are tightly locked to the straps of my backpack because I've consciously decided it's likely to draw the least amount of attention while giving me the added bonus of having something to hold, tightly, on to. Occasionally I glance up from the floor to monitor the progress of the customs que lest I inadvertently am holding it up (thereby drawing attention to myself) and that's when I saw her.

She's mid forties, tall, thin, blonde and I suppose attractive, though what really catches my eye is what she's wearing. The first layer is your standard issue khaki cargo (too) shorts and muti pocketed button down short sleeve shirt which, while a bit silly on any occasion, is not out of the ordinary among safari tourists. But the "over layer" of this first layer is a distressed leather frilled frock/vest that is too large to be a vest but too short to be a free standing dress (hence my "frock"). Imagine a blonde hippy from the late '60s trying to dress like a Native American but without the beads. Frilled like that but more so. And instead of hippie think aging yuppie. I'm trying to avoid the word garish but I can't. It was garish. And expensive. There are some articles of clothing, or maybe ensembles, that you can just look at and realize "Whoa that must have cost a lot of money." She also carried a handsome canvas travel bag again in her alliterative khaki color. Naturally this whole array was crowned with oversize sunglasses and an audacious safari hat. She didn't look like she had come from a safari so much as she looked like she was trying to look like she came from a safari. An expensive safari. She was making a statement.

I should interject that from where I left I bought a banana for less than ten cents from a bare footed woman clad in what would be described in America as "rags" with a bunch of bananas carried on her head like the Chiquita banana lady. The contrast between that and the slick cleanliness of the Jo-burg airport already had me reeling even without including the airport chic fashion show.

I was mesmerized. I wish I could have taken a picture but that would have been decidedly conspicuous and anti-nondescript. No sooner had the question "is she married?" scrolled across my mind then I saw, who I assumed to be, her husband who was dressed like the spitting image of The Man in the Yellow Hat from the Curious George children's books. I can offer no improvement on that description.

Are these people real? Where are they going? Do they dress like this all the time? Maybe this is the "jet set" and they dress according to the airport they will be parading through. If that's so, is this their Africa get up? Do they have a special sub-Saharan Africa get up? Better yet, do they have an even more specific sub-Saharan Big Game Safari Outfit to contrast with a a Just General Safari Outfit? Do they also have a sub-Saharan designer Desert Nomad airport chic outfit for Addis Ababa? Freaks! FREAKS!

While these thoughts and observations are tumbling through my mind I snap back into white people paranoia mode and notice the customs que is about to pass me by. To avoid the stern looks and any chance of possible brief (!) conversations I quickly scuttle off through customs, dutifully avoiding the eye contact of any passerby.

There are millions of experiences out here for the experiencing and perhaps the most poignant is the experience of being a minority. Dispatches from the frontier: being a minority sucks.

I can't disappear, I can't fade into the background. I'm always on display. Sometimes it's not so bad and some days it's unbearable but it's something that never comes off and never goes away.

My otherness is impossible forget as each day brings subtle, flat and overt reminders addressed as offhand comments or jeering children or slurring drunks. As tiresome as these things can be, especially one year in and one to go, they bruise only. More than insults and irritation it's the isolation. There are some things that nobody in my ever really "gets." Somethings I can't explain to even the most willing, educated, kindly people in the township. The people I consider to be my closest friends. I don't have the words. And if I do, they don't have the ears. They listen politely but they don't understand.

More than the harassment it's this isolation that festers.

But like nearly every hardship I face in Peace Corps I can stand outside of it, to some extent, as my life here has a two year expiration date. None of my challenges are permanent and that's comforting. It's like in middle school when some teacher duck tapes your thumb to your palm for the day. It sucks but not too much because you know it's only for the day. Owing, perhaps, to the time bound nature of the experience I am afforded a rather clinical perspective of my own frustrations.

Sometimes.

skee doo bop bop bom-ba way ow whoa whoaoh whoa whoa

ho ho hoopatupa tupawam ba whoawhoa whoa

yeah.

Crawling (and occasionally flying) out there in this fine wide world is a little beetle whose body is packed with caustic acid. When this insect is squashed, the acid smears onto the skin of the sqausher and causes a rather nasty chemical burn. It would be a decent defense mechanism except I've never even seen one. You see, I can't avoid swatting them because they crawl around on me while I'm sleeping.

(Actually, this doesn't really bother me all that much. The crawling while I'm sleeping thing. I can't say I'm pumped about it, but I'm sure there are plenty of things creeping around on all of us whether it's in Uganda or America. You see, most of the night time crawlers are considerate enough to practice "Leave No Trace" ethics and I wake up the next morning none the wiser. Great.)

For whatever reason, I have a sub-concious Kung Fu reflex and I keep swatting them dead in my sleep and waking up with these nasty chemical burns. This is my third such burn, the first on my face. When the burn is on your face it's apparently called "Nairobi Eye." I have no idea how they've managed to (repeatedly) gain access to my net covered bed.

I don't want to moan about my health problems too much, it's bad form, but I've gotten walloped pretty good the past couple months. Torn (?) ACL and meniscus, esophagus burn from my malaria meds, the flu, and these damn beetles...sheesh. Don't tell my mom but there was a case of Ebola in Uganda earlier this month. During training, while seemingly half of my group was suffering from persistant gastro-intestinal problems and I was regular as a Twins first round playoff exit, I made the mistake of bragging about my good health. This is what come-uppens feel like, it seems.

But, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have...

Sub-saharan Africa is a lot of things and one of those things happens to be the dumping ground of the consumer world. The t-shirts you donate to the Salvation Army eventually end up here (and oddly enough Japan) where they are sold in unsorted bundles to market vendors for about $100 a bundle. This phenomenon can be followed to its conclusion where local textile manufacturing has been steam rolled by the impossible task of competing with second hand goods and those firms have mostly run for the hills. The textile industry has historically been one of the first "rungs on the development ladder" for developing countries and it has been argued that the knee capping of this industry by the second hand clothing market has contributed to the rather lowsy state of economic affairs in Uganda specifically and Africa generally. But that's an argument for another day and another post.

For a variety of reasons (poor regulation and lack of domestic competition are my bets) the quality of new things is generally terrible. It's better to buy just about everything here second hand. Of course the vendors know this, because it's their business to know this, so second hand goods actually cost more than most new goods. A good example is soccer cleats. Ugandans love soccer and know the equipment very well. You can purchase crappy Chinese cleats brand new for about $10 that fall apart in a month or second hand cleats for about $20 that will last you a couple years.It's hard to get a good bargain on anything related to soccer because it's a product that is much better understood by the market vendors than it is by me. Outdoor gear is the opposite case because the vendors don't know the brands. I picked up this North Face Windstopper fleece for $3, they're going for about $125 on ebay. Though now that I'm doing a web search it is possible that mine's a fake and that's why it ended up going to the Salvation Army in the first place.I bought this Camelback backpack for about $15 and they usually go for about $75. There's something off about the bag though. The guy seems to have a supply of them as he sold identical seemingly new bags to me and my buddy on separate occasions for the same price. Originally I imagined that he hijacked a Camelback truck and was selling them off one by one. Though after a couple months of ownership we both noticed that the bags have the relatively minor defect of a crappy label. My current guess is that these bags were rejected by quality control and dumped here at a fraction of the price.

You never really know what you're getting new or second hand although you can generally be sure that whatever it is you buy is defective in one way or the other. The people here know that too and sometimes I wonder if that idea is internalized.

I don't think I've bothered to explain transportation here. The transport here is a rather large improvement over what it was in Guinea, but that says more about the sorry state of Guinea than it does about Uganda.

There is a fairly decent network of major arteries spreading through the country and plenty of vehicles to get you where you need to go. There are buses, private compact vehicles, taxi vans (matatoos) and motorcycles (forbidden!).

PCVs have an ongoing who's-been-in-the-fullest-taxi-game. Adults count as one, children count as one half, and chickens and drivers count as zero. The most I've heard is 23 in a taxi with a 14 person carrying capacity.

This what it looks like outside my front door these days. Perhaps you can compare with the photo taken a couple months ago. Same mango tree, different season.

We're in the heart of the dry season right now. It began in November and will continue until the end of February. I would previously gripe about the mud and general sogginess of the wet season but I have been reformed! The rain keeps down the dust and provides merciful coolness to the hot grasslands of northern Uganda.

The dry grass is also regularly set ablaze by the villagers for reasons not entirely understood by me. I have been told by it's done for aesthetics, replenishing soil nutrients needed for agriculture, or assisting hunters in their quest for game meat (the Ugandan Cob is a regional favorite).

I find the whole endeavor to be madness. The constant grass fires kick up waves and waves of wispy ash that coat nearly every interior part of my house. The fires quickly spread beyond the purview of the originator across vast stretches of plains. Grass thatched huts in their path can be set ablaze like dry Christmas trees. The whole territory now looks somewhat post apocalyptic.

But, hey, it is what it is.

I'm praying for rain.

Pony tail ahoy!

It may come as some surprise to those back home but until two days ago I hadn't updated my journal since August. My track record with letter writing is even worse and you can see how poorly I've been updating my blog. The first months at site have been a struggle. Though hardly the black death of loneliness and isolation I expected, it has taken all of my available faculties to tread water. Apparently these same over taxed faculties are also responsible for my journaling and letter writing.

I recently (and smugly) underlined the passage: "A neck tie is a noose inverted and if you're not careful it will hang you just the same" from the "The Life of Pi" as if it were a reaffirmation of my beard and pony tail life style.

One of the things that enticed me, and I imagine others like me, to the Peace Corps was the idea of living on the edge of the known world. Going farther, deeper, better, faster, harder, stronger than would otherwise be available via the more traditional school-to-more-school-to-cubicle-to-office-railway. In private pre-departure moments I imagined myself a yogi of the African grassland, personally growing through rich cultural experiences followed by careful meditation and quiet reflection.

As I roll up on a year and half of skipping around the the world, my experience has been more "square peg pounded through round hole" than "Buddah of the Serengeti." I run, but sometimes walk, face first into brick walls nearly every day. That is to say, rewarding though it has been, the experience has not been without it's discomfort and contortions. Some of the very basic ideas about myself and society at large have been re-opened for debate and debate can be uncomfortable because it is uncertain. I won't be quite sure until I return home to my friends and family but I feel as if squared edges are being rounded.

Just recently I inherited a cat, actually kitten, from another PCV. Initially I named her J-Woww though after careful reflection she is now known as LeFleur the Cat. Her interests include sleeping, being insufferably noisy in the early morning and leaving disembowled rats and lizards on my living room floor. LeFleur the Cat is named as an homage to a good friend of mine with a predilection for yoga and terrible taste in movies.

The view right out my front door.

Teaching in Lira during training.

My students dug up a giant termite mound and proudly brought me the queen termite.

These guys are our friends. They eat mosquitoes.

Three months of running on dusty roads caught up to me and my lungs to the point where I could barely breathe. For the past week I've been taking an extensive battery of drugs for breakfast lunch and dinner. Six pills, a shot of cough syrup, and a beer.

1) I have, literally, had ants in my pants twice now and I can assure you that it is supremely uncomfortable. Removing your pants is the only respite in such circumstance.

2) I asked some students to tell me the characteristics of a good teacher in Uganda. "Shows up to class" and "not drunk" were their first and second responses, respectively. I paused briefly and then decided that, yes indeed, I can do both of those things.

3) I've met a man who has six toes on each foot. His name is Ojara Fabrio and the name Ojara is the name given to every Acholi born with six digits. Apparently six toe-ed-ness is a common enough occurance here to justify the creation of a specific name. Go figure.

4) All of the dogs here still have their testicles. Initially I found that mildly alarming. Of course upon careful reflection I now find our need to detesticulate every male dog to be equally (more?) alarming. In any case I find myself in a general state of alarm.

5) I've stopped smoking (6 months) and started training for a marathon. Just thought I'd throw that out there. Kigali 2011!

6) I still haven't moved into my house (it's obscenely posh by the way) though I am told it will be ready next week. It has been a week away from completion now for 6 weeks.

7) Yesterday I sat through a teachers meeting that started one and a half hours late at 10:00am and didn't finish until 4:00pm. For those scoring at home that's a six hour meeting. The meeting was described by one of my fellow teachers as a "great success." It seems the last teacher's meeting was eight hours long.

8) It's mango season but I can never beat the little children to the mango tree. They stage early morning raids on the trees often before the mangos are ripe. The parish groundskeeper tried to regulate the little fruit burglers but got a Dennis the Menace style slingshot pebble to the forehead for his troubles. The raids now continue unabated.

9) At the aforementioned staff meeting one of my colleagues arrived three hours late, heavily intoxicated and asked for a raise. Oh Uganda.

Single serving french press This would be hugely appreciated...you can't buy a french press here. The french press you send should be made of indestructable plastic because I would suffer from a nervous breakdown if I dropped it on my concrete floor. They also sell those travel mug french presses which I also think are awesome. Either would recieve heavy HEAVY use.

Heavy duty dog leash

I'm buying a dog and I'm going to buy a big one. They have leashes here but they're pretty wimpy...I need a good thick leash and maybe a collar too. The small children in my village strongly endorse this request. And they should! MUHAHAHA!

ExOfficio boxer briefs

A couple days I ago I made a post about how awesome ExOfficio boxer briefs are for travel and especially travel in warm climates. Whie writing the post I realized that I have been wearing the same three pairs of underwear for the past year (April 20th was the anniversary). It didn't bother me at the time but I must admit the thought has persisted and it has become an unhappy revelation. So please, I have a size 32" waist and I like my underwear to be in dark colors because...well figure it out.

Flash Drive with media

If you are tech savvy in the least I would love you for eternity if you sent a flash drive with a Twins home game in the new stadium. I will repeat in all caps: I WOULD LOVE YOU FOR ETERNITY IF YOU SENT A TWINS HOME GAME. I'm dying to see this new stadium. Music is also appreciated, those of you who would bother to send me music probably know what sort of things I would like.

Posters

My walls are quite bland right now and I spend enough time staring at them that I suppose it would be nice to have something that stares back at me. I especially would like posters of Keven Durant and Ricky Rubio. Ricky Rubio in particular. He looks like a Spanish basketball elf and I'm savoring the thought of him playing for the Wolves even though I'm becoming increasingly convinced he'll never suit up for the team. No matter! With athletes, careers are filled with ankle injuries and trade demands and are rarely as satisfying as the infinite possibility promised by the youthful flashes of brilliance in a rookie campaign. The promise of what could be. Rubio's enigma makes him all the more desireable.So yeah. A poster of Durant or Rubio would be nice. Actually any poster would be nice, though I'd also especially like a Twins poster (the new stadium!) and the Minneapolis skyline.

Miscellaneous Others

A decent chef's knife would be put to good use.

Recent issues of the Economist or the New Yorker are always appreciated!

Cliff bars are a wonderful treat.

Protein powder is also good stuff.

Gatorade powder is great too, while I'm at it.

Home baked cookies! Chocolate chip, Kringla, snickerdoodles in that order.

Electronics

Net book ~$230

You can get internet access with a modem (available for ~$100 brand new) anywhere you can get cell phone coverage... which is just about everywhere. There are a variety of plans that range from $25-50 per month and you can cover that with your Peace Corps living allowance.

iPod 160gb ~$220 + Sennheiser PX100 headphones ~$40

I like listening to music so I picked up a decent pair of portable headphones.

Portable 500gb hard drive ~$100

other:

I wish I would have brought a Kindle, those things seem pretty cool.

Clothes

Dress shirts x5

I brought four button down dress shirts and one polo. The best shirts are non-iron or wrinkle resistant and any color but white.

Slacks x2

One pair dark khaki and one pair black both are wrinkle resistant. I don't mind wearing the same pair of pants multiple times if they're not nasty.

Jeans x1 and cotton shorts x2

Nice to have for going out in Kampala, though I rarely wore them during training or even at site. I actually wouldn't bother packing cotton shorts if I were packing again...I rarely wear them. It sounds strange but it's a weird cultural thing. Even though it's hot everyone wears long shirts and pants. It's strange at first but I got used to it.

Quick dry shorts x1 and shirts x3

You can buy just about every piece of clothing you'll need in country. Dress shirts, slacks, t shirts, socks, everything...except any kind of "tech" fabric so it's a good thing to bring with you.

ExOfficio boxer briefs x3 (~$25/pair)

I cannot swear by these enough. Ideal travel and hot weather underwear. They wick away moisture and dry quickly. I wear them into the shower and they're dry by noon the next day if they're hanging in my room. I've been wearing three pair in rotation for the past year. Whoa. I didn't realize we (me and my underwear) had hit our one year anniversary. Good stuff.

Footwear

I brought a pair of brown suade Cole Haans for more formal occasions. They're going to be trashed by the time I leave but, damnit, I love those shoes.

I chose to buy the Chaco flip flops instead of the Chaco wrap with the Vibram hiking sole. The flip flops are perfect for daily wear, I think the weave/wrap style is too clunky to use on a daily basis. You can also find the weave/wrap style in the second hand market if want them are are willing to look hard enough. They can be had (after serious negotiation) for ~$20.

I brought a pair of Nike running shoes though I wish I would have done my research and bought a good pair of Asics. You can find decent second hand running shoes in the large markets but you never really know how many miles are left in 'em. If you want to be serious about running (I'm training for a marathon) you may want to consider bringing several pair or having them shipped to you from the States.

Misc. stuff and comments

I brought six pounds of protien powder. I didn't use any during training becasue my family fed me so well but it's nice to have at site. I also brought a bunch of Cliff bars and I'm hoping that more will be sent soon. While we're on food...I also brought Gatorade powder. You can't buy these things here so they're good things to bring with you.

Books books books. Hmmmm. If you're not picky you can always find something to read. I've been told there are a bunch of "classics" at the PC library but I didn't find it to be all that great. If you have something you really want to read bring it and swap it with someone later. New releases are always a hot commodity. I also brought some textbooks to keep myself occupied. It's strange how much more interesting calculus or biochemistry is when you're doing it for personal interest. It also makes me feel like I'm keeping my mind sharp.

I wish I would have brought my tent for some camping, though I think you can rent gear at the National parks here.

I didn't bring a raincoat because most of the time raincoats just make me sweaty, though I think it would be nice for when I start hiking. I guess what I mean is I'm leaning towards having one sent.

Do not bring heavy duty hiking boots. You won't wear them.

*disclaimer: I stayed with an awesome AWESOME family so maybe you'll have something like this but probably not.

I wake up at 6:00am each morning about half an hour before the sun rises. If I'm able to get myself up then I do a little yoga session in my room as the sun rises. More often than not I hit the snooze four times and get up fourty minutes past six.

Breakfast is always waiting for me at the kitchen table. The food is different each day. This morning I had corn flakes with fresh milk, a green apple, and tea. Yesterday I had two hard boiled eggs, a banana, and tea. I take my morning tea and review the notes from my language class.

I leave the house on my bike at 7:30am and bike the 5 kilometers to the training center. Along the way I greet everyone I meet. As I pass the school children walking down the road in their uniforms I give them a quick greeting in Swahili ("Jambo!") and they respond with the same. I greet those older than me with the more formal "Wasuzio oteyano, ssebo!" ("good morning, sir!").

I arrive at school ten minutes to eight. I used to need that time to stop sweating but I've learned how to exert myself only to the point before I break the sweat threshold and now I arrive at school free of perspiration. The day begins with a two hour language class in Acholi, the language commonly spoken in the north of Uganda. Language is my favorite and what I believe to be most helpful.

We break for tea and peanuts in the mid morning and continue with sessions in either health, safety/security, local culture, or technical training. These range mostly from mildly boring to excruciatingly boring.

We take lunch around noon thrity and they feed us quite well. There's usually matoke (made out of steamed bananas), baked beans, green beans, mashed potatoes, chicken or pork, and fresh fruit. Sessions continue after lunch until around 4:00 or 5:00pm. I bike home stopping at my family's shop to say hello to my mother or sometimes grabbing a beer or two with the other volunteers.

Afternoon tea is waiting, usually with fresh pineapple, and I take the time to relax by reading or journaling. After tea I hang out with my family making chapati or feeding the pigs or just sitting around talking. Sometimes I bust out the laptop and we watch a movie, my sisters really dig Disney movies.

My Luganda is really bad but I can tell my brother Ronald is a really funny guy, people are always laughing when he's around. As the sun sets my whole family gathers around the television to watch a Brazilian soap opera filmed in Portugese but (badly) dubbed into English called "La Tormenta." It's terrible. Absolutely terrible.

Dinner is served from 9:30 to 10:30pm (the Baganda like to eat late). Usually it's rice, matoke, greens, a couple pieces of beef and french fries ("chips"). Good stuff. I usually bathe before dinner, my family boils some water so I can take a warm bucket bath before going to sleep and doing it all again the next day. I mean that's really all there is to it. Rinse, wash, repeat.

In Gulu I saw a man riding a bicycle with only one finger on each hand to operate the brakes.

In Lira I saw several people with their lips cut off, leaving them forever looking like black face vaudvillians from the 1920's.

Some of my students were abducted and conscripted by the rebels as child soldiers or prostitutes. I particularly remember speaking with one student and as he turned to face me I noticed a scar running from his forehead through his eye socket to his chin.

But markets now hum with energy. School children dance and sing and laugh and study. Life is returning to normal and that's what makes it all so strange. I see the peace but can only imagine the horror that preceded it.

So this is what my feet look like these days. If you look close enough you'll notice two bands that run across the big toe which separates the nail into three sections. It's hard to tell the different textures from the photograph but each section is a different thickness reflecting the different amounts of nutrients I was getting. Each line marks the changes in my diet during the past 5 months and the nails have been getting progressively thicker the farther away I get from Guinea.

Here, I'll label them for you:

Pretty cool, huh? I wonder if any of the other refuguinean volunteers have noticed anything similar...

Anyways, I'm flying out of Hawaii tomorrow to Philly for my second staging. I've been reassigned to Uganda. I will once again be a high school science teacher. I'll be traveling a bit light...my bags still haven't made it back from Guinea...but I'm not too worried about it.

Speaking of Guinea, there has been some hopeful news of late. Civilian rule has been restored and there is the usual talk of free and open elections. No one knows if this ultimately will lead to an effective and stable government but the important thing is that this clearly represents a de-escalation from the previous situation. Happy days!

Lastly, many many thanks to my sister and Eric. Three years ago they sold all the stuff out of their apartment and used the money from their wedding to film an independent film about malaria. A year after that they moved to China to work and explore. A year after that and they're working in the Teach for America program in Hawaii and letting me take up their space.

They gave me my first nudge into this incredible world and showed me how accessible it can be. They've been an inspiration and given me support in every way. I love you guys.

I've been in Hawaii for the past three weeks and the week prior to that I was in Australia and the three weeks prior to that I was in Malaysia and the four weeks prior to that I was in lockdown evacuation camp in Mali. It's nice to be back in the first world but sometimes I feel turned around. I feel displaced and purposeless. Living the last couple months felt like they dragged on so slow but now I look back and I feel they whipped by so fast.

I don't know how to answer some of your questions least of all the ubiquitious "how was Africa?" I don't know how the continent of Africa was because I was only in two countries (those being Guinea and Mali). Sorry I'm being irritating but that whole continent of Africa is an undistinguished land mass thing has really become a pet peeve of mine. Nevertheless I know what you mean and I hide behind a "it's hard to explain" too much. I wish I could sum everything up in a satisfying pithy pharse or four but I can't. the best i can do is:

mom! grandma! earmuffs!

"it's f'd." That's the short answer that may be the best and worst summary about the situation. I don't know. It's hard to explain. So there I am in Guinea and I'm coming to the uncomfortable realization that I do in fact harbor some ugly bits of latent racism. I walk through the markets my second day there and I see the people all around me. There's garbage and waste and smelly dried, semi-dried, and rotting fish and that was the first time that I ever thought to myself "what have I gotten myself into?" It was discomforting. I've never seen so much filth before. And on top of that the people are all black and I'm white and I can't blend in and I feel like everyone is staring at me. I've never felt like that in any place I'd been. I've never been more keenly aware of race. Why do I feel this way? Why do i feel this discomfort this anxiety? Like physically feel it. A visceral reaction. What's up with that?I actually just put it aside for a time. Put it aside for a long time actually and eventually it went away or I forgot about it or I got used to it. I mean if you don't know what to do with an uncomfortable situation what do you do? You fake it! You pretend like everything's fine and eventually it is unless it isn't and then you have to fake even harder. I do this. You do this. We all do this, right? Whatever.

As I sit here and try to illustrate this for you without coming off like a total boob I'm doing my best to put it together. My discomfort was itself discomforting. I didn't want to feel like I felt but I couldn't very well not feel what I felt. Put more formally, there are two parts to the racism game. One part intellectual and one part reptillian brain subconcious. In college I learned and studied the intellectual side and understood conciously why racism is garbage. This served me well in lily white suburbs, uptown bars, and college campuses because the whole exercise was in the theoretical realm. I could tsk tsk thoughtless comments from friends and releatives and strangers. "I know racism is bad because I read yadda yadda by some dude and he said blah blah and I agree." I mean it wasn't that brainless but it was certainly that detached from any sort of real life experience.The tricky part for me was to reconcile that with what I was feeling directly. Mostly discomfort and anxiety. My intellect tells me everything is gravy but my gut, my gut, il est pas bien la bas! Not good homes. There was a part of me that didn't respond to what I knew in my head. There was discord and it was frightening. How do you fix a knee jerk reaction that you don't control?But like Andy Dufrane I walked through a filthy market and came out clean three months later. I'm not saying it was quick or concious or that I'm even finished really learning to be tolerant. At the least I've found a new part of me that needs more work and at the most I've taken my learned beliefs out for a test drive in the world. I know now there is more to the game than intellectual theory. These things must be used and practiced. The reptillian brain must be challenged and conquered by repetition until the unfamiliar becomes routine. We fear the unfamiliar and once we get to know the world directly we might see that it's not so bad.

After a bit of a feeding frenzy, we were able to control ourselves and behave like gentlemen. Fine portraiture ensued.

1] I'm going to the Imam's house for lunch. I cut through a neighbor's compound, jump a creek and bushwack my way back to the path. I surprise a pack of monkeys who scramble back into the bush.

2] Phil had a bot fly larve living under his skin and Kevin was bitten by a spider while he was sleeping. Both injuries resemble the entry wound of a 9mm bullet except they also ooze pus.

3] I watch a bush taxi carreen around the bend. There is a driver, two people in the passanger seat, four in the middle, three in the back, a bunch of baggage and another person on the roof, and a live goat sitting placidly.

4] I'm still getting my squat toilet technique down. I imagine it's approximately as operating a diver bomber during World War II. Sometimes you're not terribly accurate and your bathroom stinks for a couple of days.

5] The village doctor (hell of a guy by the way) has a fat little third grade son. He tells me to give him my bike ("Yagouba, donne moi ton velo") and I tell him to give me his dad's TV. I tell him to give me his shirt and he demands my sandals. It's a nice little game we play and it goes on for hours.

6] I have tan lines from my thong sandals. Really bad ones. I know there's a joke in there somewhere about me, tan lines, and thongs but I can't tease it out right now.

7] We're getting evacuated to Bamako tomorrow. We were told to pack one bag of "only essentials." Did I pack my Cole Haans? Yes. Yes I did. Tragically my linen suit didn't make the cut.

8] I've got a brick of Guinean Francs in my bag. One point three million Guinean Francs actually. Official exchange rate is $1 to 5,000 GNF. You can do the math. Be sure to include the annual 15% inflation.9] Carrying around bricks of rubber banded currency makes me feel like a drug runner.10] Mr. Dioulde Barry (fluent in three languages, Oxford educated, director of the Peace Corps Education Program) and I are climbing a mountain to test out my cell phone coverage in village. He's dressed impeccably and wearing fine Italian loafers. He's in front. He looks over his shoulder and says, "Jake, when you write your memoirs" he gasps for air "make you sure you include this." He gasps for air again and thinks then adds, "But run it by me first."11] Still haven't read any French poetry. Sorry Bruss. I'm looking.12] "I'm not wearing this funny hat. It makes me look ridiculous." I said that while wearing a full on formal traditional Guinean boubou. I know there's pictures floating around somewhere. There's a video too.13] I don't want to leave. I love it here. It better work out. I hope it works out my way.14] Poop.

It seems like we're wrapping things up here in Mali. People are putting together all the things required to move on. Some people are transferring to other posts, others are looking for jobs in the US and some are going home. Yup.

boogers.

I went salsa dancing at an expat club in Bamako. That was nice. And sweaty.

I've been spending my days putting together paperwork for the impending transfers, working on my French with the language trainers (free personal tutoring...why not?) and begining to learn Arabic. I'm thinking we've got about a week before we start shooting off in different directions.

Boogers.

Well oh well oh well. I bing bang boogied across the boarder to Mali along with all the other volunteers. Virtually every NGO, Volunteer, and missionary has evactuated the country and the embassies are running skeleton crews in Conakry. We're in limbo right now and there are plenty of things to think about and time to marinate. Yesterday was a pretty tough day for me...I don't really believe in pouting in public and there isn't much privacy with 90 people packed together. Guinea can cut pretty deep. I guess it's crushing because even the kids who do everything right really don't have any options. If they finish school, don't have kids, and stay healthy they do what? There are no jobs. There is no legal protection. The future doesn't even look all that promising. Here you have kids who learn in a second language with no classroom supplies and teachers who show up occasionally. You have hours of chores to do before and after school and you're done studying when the sun goes down. Then some goofy white guy from the Peace Corps shows up...his French sucks, he's never taught before but hey and least he gives a shit and he'll show up everyday. Then "your" military guns down 157 people at a peaceful demonstration and that goofy Yagouba Bah boogies right out of your country along with all 90 of his buddies. I'll be fine. I'm going to get placed in another country and my adventure continues after a couple days of pouting. But man. Guinea is going backwards and the people I know deserve so much better.

I'm officially a full fledged volunteer. I'm not sure what else to say about that. I'm in Conakry right now and I'm set to leave for my village on Sunday.

I'm not really in a blogging mood right now so I'd like to direct your attention to the Failed States Index website. Do notice that Guinea clocks in at a respectable #9 overall behind Somolia, Iraq, Sudan, and A-Stan. Tough competition for sure. Happily Guinea is a more failed state than Pakistan and North Korea. Take that Kim Jong Il!

It's kind of an inside joke with the other volunteers (we feel like we get hardcore points!) and I don't want to trivialize the very real issues that Guinea needs to confront...and here it comes....BUT there's so much that's wonderful about where I am and what I've seen/done/lived and the people I've met. I'll try to get a more coherent thought down to paper sometime soon.

I'll be out of email/phone contact for the next month or so. Take care! I love the letters and care packages! You really don't know how good it feels to get something/anything from home.

i got hit by a motorcycle. no joke. full head on collision. me on foot verses a speeding motorbike. i didn't even hit the deck, just a gash on the leg and a limp for a couple days. it's alright ma! i'm only bleeding!

there are two malaria medications. one is taken weekly and gives you night terrors and pale skin. the other is taken daily and makes you a lovely shade of sunburn pink. it also causes the birth control i'm not taking to cease function. anyways, i'm a well rested pink skinned volunteer.

they say you always forget to pack something. i forgot a headlamp and a shamwow. c'est la vie.

after two separate tours in asia and one month in country, i lost my squat toilett virginity today. i was originally going to store "it" for a couple days but...well, i guess i couldn't.

Barak Obama's face is everywhere here. everywhere.

i'm out.

This one time (against the spirit of the blog) I'm not going to joke around too much with this one.

BBC has posted a story today that a military junta (financed by drug traffickers) has massed along the boarders of Guinea. Despite the political instability of Guinea (coup free since 2007!) this is seen by most in country as a diversionary tactic by the current government to stall promissed democratic elections. Internet access will be extemely erratic, this will probably be the last current events update sent with any immediacy.

In the future, please don't be worried.

Life is good, my Yogi Bear immune system is proving to be smarter than the average bear as I'm one of the few not to be...well...eh...exploding one way or another.

My fellow trainees are all terribly interesting people that will prove to be incredible people by the time the service is over. I know this because the wily veterens (who have been here only a year) may be the finest collection of people that I have met.

Brevity.

The end.

Greetings friends!

I'm leaving tomorrow early in the AM for illadelphia, PA for my staging event. They'll vaccinate me, re-affirmate me, and caffinate me for one day and then it's off to Conakry via Brussels.

I'll keep you posted.

What am I bringing? A linen dress suit, some clothes, toilettries, a bottle of single malt scotch, a basketball, a football, some reading materials and some notebooks.

One day you're here (baby) and the next day you gone!

(-)Purpose

This is where I'll post updates, clever witticisms, and half baked insights collected during the coming years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Guinea.

(I) Brevity.

I don't like writing long posts and you don't like reading them. We can build on that.

(II) Humor

If you can watch this Journey video straight through without cracking a smile...I dunno. You probably won't get this blog.

(III) Input

I do not intend for this to be a one way conduit of information.

This blog serves limited purpose if my writing isn't worth your reading.

Leave anonymous comments telling me I'm a boor and a hack when it's deserved. Likewise send flowering praise or clever haiku for a particularly inspired dialogue.

(IV)

And that's that.

Here I am. It is good to see you old friend. I will be here momentarily. Only momentarily. Then I will leave. I may be back but then I'll be gone again. I will not sleep. Soon I will purchase a dog. I may name this dog Cunningham. Or perhaps Juan-Pablo. But not right now. I don't have time. I won't stay long.

....

Thank you for your hospitality. Now I have to go.

Guinea'd up actually.

This man is Linus Pauling and he is a hero in chemistry.

So what I'm really going for here is that I received my invitation from the Peace Corps and I'll be teaching 7-10th grade chemistry in Guinea. I leave July 7th. Thar she blows.

Taken from the 2007 Playoffs where Mr. Davis was doing this to the hapless Russian Andre Kirlenko after completely dismantling number one seeded German marshmallow Dirk Nowitzki* and the Dallas Mavericks in the first round.

*shamefully also the regular season MVP