I’ve always been sensitive to excess noise. Outside of a monotonous droning (ie fans, jet engines, rain on a tin roof), I cannot concentrate on anything other than what I hear. Background noise on even the smallest scale makes studying and reading an impossibility. I hate having any noise whatsoever competing with my music or television. Silence is an absolute must for sleep. In America, noise pollution was rarely a problem. Loud weekend parties of course take place, but even on college campuses, most problems are quickly taken care of by common courtesy and the invention of the government sanctioned noise citation. There were always exceptions (“ARGHH! I can’t believe the guy my landlord is paying to mow my lawn came at 8:30 on a Saturday morning!”), but my point is these exceptions are rare.

Not the case in Kisoga, Uganda. Between the preacher(s) with the PA systems who start at 5:30 AM sharp, my neighbors own stereo systems, the local cinema halls with their giant speakers inexplicably outside of the hall blasting away not into the viewers but to the town without, the constant aura of reggae-tone remakes of American songs, and the ever present whacking of rubber flip flop on bare ass followed by children’s wailing, a moment of peace and quiet is a rare treat indeed. Asking people to keep it down is out of the question here. The fact that it’s outside of local norms to do so has not stopped me from trying, but it has probably had a hand in the complete lack of results achieved by such requests. I just typed out and deleted a sentence that explained that the only time my house is quiet is when the rain is hammering on my tin roof. I was thinking that this is the only time I cannot hear noise from the town and my neighbors, but after a second’s consideration it became apparent to me that loud drumming is, in fact, the exact opposite of quiet.

A particularly upsetting development in the noise pollution saga has been the arrival of my newest neighbor. Henry recently moved in to the one room duuka (shop) in front of my own apartment. Our places were originally designed as one unit so that a shopkeeper could run his or her business in the front room and live in the two back rooms. When Peace Corps informed my landlady that requirements for Volunteer housing included just two rooms, the front was partitioned off with a wooden door in order to rent out the third room separately. The original door was just a shoddy wooden contraption, and when my friend and Peace Corps driver, Khasim, laid eyes on it, he immediately deemed it unacceptable. He told me that the door had empty gaps over an inch thick between the rotting planks. The drivers are notorious amongst Volunteers for being the most reliable staff for looking out for our needs, and true to this, Khasim insisted that the door be replaced. He wasn’t there when I moved in, but a cursory glance at the door told me that his demands had been met.

I want to say in his defense Henry is not at all a noisy neighbor compared to every other homes in my compound. He’s rarely there, he plays his music sparingly and at a reasonable volume, and has no screaming children. Despite all of this, I can hear everything Henry does when he’s at home. Literally everything. “Sounds like you just talked to your mom on the phone, Henry. Hope she’s recovering from that bout of malaria.” “Hey Henry! Once you’re done washing those dishes, maybe we could go for a game of pool.” “Hold up Henry. Did I just hear a woman’s footsteps in your place? Let me get my ear plugs…”

This went on for a while. I wasn’t sure exactly why I could hear Henry so well. He was my only neighbor which I shared a tin roof with. Maybe the tin caused something sciencey to happen (possibly through stuff involving “sound waves”, “reverberation”, and “amplification”). It could have been anything. I just didn’t know. I didn’t know, that is, until last week. I was making myself dinner, listening to my current favorite tune (The White Stripe’s Ball & Biscuit) when Henry came home for the day. I glanced at our shared door, wondering for the first time if it could be the party responsible for my noisey misery. It had always seemed solid enough to me. New paint, solid throughout, boards nailed across the frame to provide extra safety during a zombie outbreak. But now, as I looked closely at this door, it didn’t look so new after all. The fresh paint was already peeling to reveal rot. A quick push illustrated shoddy construction work. Most distressing however, was where the peeling paint did not reveal rotting wood, but newsprint. I saw clearly now the massive gaps between the planks. I have no conclusive proof of this, but I don’t think it’s a stretch for me to say that this was, in fact, the same door Khasim had deemed unfit. The gaps had been filled with a single layer of unwadded newspaper and the whole thing had been freshly painted to deceive any quick inspections. Now call me a perfectionist, but if you are going to seal a door with newspaper, you should at least have the courtesy to wad it up! Fold it over or something. A single layer of newspaper?! C’mon.

After discovering the root cause of mine and my neighbor’s intimate knowledge of one another, I feel like I should have been pretty upset. My organization and I had been hoodwinked by my landlady to save a few bucks and it had severely affected the quality of my life inside my own home. After almost two years, though, I’m past this point. I could stomp around and bitch and complain. I could lay into my landlady. Call Peace Corps. Who knows? The problem might even get fixed before I close my service. Probably not, but stranger things have happened. Now, however, I just have to laugh. Newspaper? My door is made up of about 10% newspaper? That’s hysterical. How can I not laugh?

I’ve never been a fan of pirates. As a lifelong fan of both Peter Pan and ninjas, some might say that pirates represent a sort of eternal nemesis. They’re the Wolverine to my Buckeye. This time, however, they’ve gone too far.

This is not the first time pirates have attempted to ruin my vacation. Ask my family about the time I threw up in the middle of a Disney World line while waiting to ride – you guessed it – Pirates of the Caribbean. I couldn’t have been older than ten at the time so being the fearless, resilient kid that I was, I’m pretty sure I got on that ride anyway. Like with terrorists, the second you start letting the pirates dictate your lifestyle, they win. A man of principle, even at the age of ten…

Things are unfortunately different this time around. Instead of Disney World, the destination was to be Lamu, Kenya. Lamu is, by all accounts, a breathtakingly gorgeous island off the Kenyan coast. Its combination of beautiful beaches, tasty seafood, and old Swahili culture have made Lamu a great destination for tourists in East Africa. The abundance of rich tourists, coupled with its proximity to the seemingly lawless Somalia, has also made Lamu a great destination for pirates.

A group of us were planning to spend Christmas and New Year’s on the island, but after the rash of recent kidnappings and violence attributed to the swashbuckling scallywags, Kenya in general and Lamu in particular are now off-limits to Peace Corps Volunteers. My good friend Ashley actually arrived on the island where, within hours, she was turned right around and evacuated (after her evacuation from Egypt during the Arab Spring Revolutions - she is well on track for some kind of record).

We’re considering moving the plans to Zanzibar (a second choice only due to its higher costs), but with the pirates reach continuing to extend, we’ll have to be careful about planning even this. We’ll see what happens. I really want to make it to a beach for the holidays, but we’re starting to run out of options.

Whenever I used to hear a celebrity gripe about all of their unwanted attention, my eyes would glaze over. Not only do many of the most vocally defiant celebrities make fistfuls of cash while the rest of us toil on to get by, but they then have the audacity to complain about it?! It’s obnoxious.

It’s occurred to me lately, however, that my position here in Kisoga is a lot like a celebrity back home. Everywhere I go in town, people know me. They want something from me. Where the movie star has to put up with an endless stream of scripts and the rock star gets handed countless demo tapes, I am constantly asked to attend meetings that, if they ever do take place, always start sometime after my “one hour waiting past scheduled start time” threshold. Where the producer gets bombarded with the obscure references that somehow link her to the unknown work of an aspiring actor, I get, “We should work together! Do you know Megan? She is a Dutch muzungu that came here in… was it 2007? She was my friend. So what can you do to help me?” In the same vain as the paparazzi, I have had the back end of a camera phone shoved in my face for an instant before I see someone tearing away, holding on tightly to their new treasure. This is not an isolated incident either, but happens with a fair amount of regularity. When there’s a group of us out dancing… okay it’s weird, but it’s at least a little understandable. Too many times, though, I’ve just been sitting in a taxi, covered with the dirt and sweat of the day’s travels, when I hear that chintzy little fake camera sound and look up to see the grin of my own personal paparazzo. Like many of today’s celebrities, I didn’t even do anything to deserve my newfound fame. Can someone tell me why being the stepchild of a 1980s Olympian is grounds to turn an entire family into household names? I mean, I guess I’ve done some good things here, but most of the attention comes from people who, apart from knowing me as the token white guy, have no clue who I am or what I’m doing in Uganda.

It can be exhausting. It’s a tough realization that no matter how badly you want to fit in; you are on the outside of your own community. And how do Peace Corps Volunteers respond to this? Well, quite a bit like celebrities to be honest. Some Volunteers cut loose and paint the town red in a great hazy binge, a la Lindsey Lohan. While I’ve yet to hear of anyone utilizing the classic “Woody Harrelson punchout”, I’ve definitely witnessed firsthand a few Russel Crowe like meltdowns (minus the bar fights). A few Volunteers, to even my astonishment, never seem to lose their cool. They have a Tom Hanks-esque saintliness that, while you have to appreciate, you can’t quite comprehend. One good friend, taking after the infamous Nic Cage, has coped with his stress by buying a bunch of crap that no person in their right mind would need or want. I do want to say that while almost all of the time almost all of the Volunteers act with the patience and serenity of a saint, we are all still human, and none of us are perfect.

So where do I fit into all of this when I’m having a bad day? I guess I’d have to liken myself to the enigmatic Johnny Depp. I keep to myself, staying safely within the confines of my house when I don’t feel ready to face all the staring and shouting that my celebrity brings. When I have to leave the privacy of my home, I don a pair of sunglasses and my headphones and keep my head down. It’s not that I ignore people, but on these days, it’s a brief nod and a “jambo” then I’m on my way. I even seem to watch a lot of Johnny Depp movies on these days, but I’d say that it’s more a consequence of my affinity for Tim Burton than any true allegiance to my celebrity doppelganger.

Even if you follow this blog pretty closely, there’s a strong chance you have no idea about the work I’ve done in helping to establish a vocational school in my area. I don’t often mention it because, unlike the other work I do, this project is entirely under the control of foreign donors and the Italian Sisters that they’ve appointed to keep it up. Also, it should be said that I’m not altogether fond of the project itself. I’ve done my best to implement some of my own touches to the project to help make it both successful and sustainable. Some of my ideas have been used like instituting school fees to ensure that students take their classes seriously, though, much to my chagrin, foreign donations still cover about 80% of all costs. Most of my ideas, however, are considered to lack the charitable spirit that the donors were hoping for. When it was suggested that the sewing/tailoring students be given sewing machines for completing the course, my objections fell on deaf ears. I argued that we could not only not afford to run the school for more than a few terms under such a plan, but that the vast majority of the recipients were likely to sell off their free sewing machines, taking the instant cash as opposed to the promise of long-term, slower investment. We haven’t yet given away the machines because I am still trying to reach some sort of compromise on this point, but I cringe to think of what I’ll find when they send me out from house to house to check on the machines.

In addition to the sewing/tailoring course, we also offer a certificate in hairdressing. The first term, which just ended this month, was wrought with frustration. On top of the administrative issues I was having with the way the whole school was run, our only hair dressing instructor had proven to be unreliable at best. Materials went missing, students disliked her, and her personal attendance was hovering just over the 50% mark. When the first term ended, Sister Judith expressed her concerns. “What should we do about her?” she asked. “Just don’t ask her back. She’s terrible,” I responded. “But she’s already asked me about next term!” lamented Sister. “Okay. Then tell her honestly that we’ll find someone else. I’ll even do it if you want.”

Sister told me she’d think about it, which not surprisingly meant that the hairdressing instructor was back at it for term two. After the first two days of class, she showed up at my door at 6:30 AM. “I cannot come to teach for the rest of the week.” I don’t even try to act surprised. “Oh no… why?” “You see, I am passing through a situation which is not good,” she said as if in explanation. “Wow. That doesn’t sound good at all…” I silently cursed the fact that no one was there to bear witness to my wit. “What exactly does that mean, Erin?” I asked. “It means I am passing through a bad situation,” she clarified. I’ll spare you from the rest of the conversation, but it persisted along these lines for a while.

I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had a funeral or something to go to and just didn’t want to talk about it. At any rate, she wasn’t going to tell me, and I wasn’t going to convince her to go to work, so I let it drop. I let it drop, at least, until I saw her later that day and each of the next 2 days working at her other job in town. “Erin! What are you doing working when you told you called off the rest of the week from your teaching post?! You told me you couldn’t work, and yet here you are working another job” I was really angry at this point. “I told you,” she insisted, “I am passing through a situation which is not good.”

This time, I was too mad for even my old friend, sarcasm. I stared at her for a few seconds, and then took off. I should have expected this. What else could happen you consistently pay a person in advance who consistently neglects her responsibilities? I know I shouldn’t take things to heart as much as I do, but I can’t help it. Her students have been paying for school fees (at my behest, nonetheless) without the benefit of actually learning anything. At the same time, my organization seems to only be benefitting this woman whose single proven competency is taking advantage of the system.

I want to point out that not all development agencies operate like this. Some are great, but if there’s one lesson I’d like to get across from this post, it’s that you should know where your money is going if you donate to development agencies like this. There are good programs out there. Two of my favorites are:Kiva – (Kiva.org)Peace Corps Partnership Program – (peacecorps.gov/contribute/ )Both allow you to select the individual projects that you want to contribute to, and both have good reputations when it comes to responsible financing.

It’s been inexcusably long since I last wrote on this, and the worst part is I feel like a lot has happened in that time. The big roadblock was my month-long trip back to America, which was planned as a surprise for my Mom, but there were a handful of blog-worthy happenings in there as well which I hope to eventually get to in later posts. Mainly, what I want to deal with here is the notion of culture shock, or reverse culture shock to be specific to my experience.

The initial move from Ohio to Uganda was a bit jarring to say the least, but so much of that was cushioned by my expectations. I knew I would come here and meet all new types of people and see a different way of life than I am used to (cultural norms, poverty, corruption, etc.). When you expect the unexpected, a lot of the edge can be taken out of the shock. It also didn’t hurt that I was in the same boat as 28 other future Peace Corps Volunteers. The return trip a year and a half later was something else entirely.

Setting foot on that plane was like stepping through some kind of science fiction wormhole through time and space. All of the sudden, the headaches were gone, everything was clean and functioning properly, staff were going out of their way to take care of me. It was awesome, but it didn’t feel right.

When I arrived in Chicago (after a quick overnight stay in Istanbul – I won’t go into it here, but what an amazing city! I highly recommend it.) my friend Dan was there waiting for me at the airport. The switch was unceremoniously thrown from African time, where the concept of tardiness and urgency are completely foreign to American punctuality. My little delay in Turkey had cost me a whole day in the states, and we had a schedule to keep. After a stop-off at Art of Pizza, my absolute favorite, we picked up our friend Jon and went back to Dan’s place so I could grab a quick shower. From there it was straight to the My Morning Jacket concert that was a birthday present from Dan (thanks so much again, buddy).

Surprisingly, the blaring music, flashing lights, and droves of people that make concerts what they are didn’t have much affect on me. It wasn’t until we went out to a bar afterward that I realized the full extent of the culture shock. As people sat there and talked about relatively normal things – the job market, the newest iPhone apps, HBO’s Game of Thrones – I realized that I was completely incapable of contributing to the conversation. A year and a half ago, I would have been right at home. I knew all of these people. I had talked with them about the exact same things, but something was different and I knew that something was me. What was I supposed to say when someone was talking about apartment shopping? “Oh really? A two bedroom just a block away from the Red Line with a great view? Sounds great! That reminds me. I was recently thinking about zombie proofing my own apartment. You know… Just in case.” While I didn’t go through with it or even say it out loud, yes, I was seriously considering it for a while.

Though I really did love every minute of my trip home, it was a bit marred by my difficulties in re-acclimating. Sure, things like wastefulness and constant attention to the iPhone are things that I would have expected to annoy me, but it didn’t stop there. Nice dinners, easy transportation, time with family and friends, good customer service, even tap water caused me more than a little anxiety. At first I couldn’t understand it. These things are all positive, and I have thought about each and every one longingly since I arrived here, so why wasn’t I able to fully enjoy them without some nagging anxiety?

I have thought about it for a while, and the only thing I can come up with is a skewed sense of equilibrium. Life in Uganda can be incredible at times. Work can be so rewarding. Time with friends is so refreshing. Good food is a rare, but always much appreciated treat. I have rafted the Nile River and safaried in savannahs. The thing is, every good is paid for, and I don’t mean in shillings or dollars. For every breakthrough at work, there’s countless hours wasted waiting for people to show up, convincing (sometimes begging) them to try things your way, and doing your best to protect everything you’ve built from corruption, infighing, outside jealousies, and so many other problems. For every weekend adventure with friends, there always the cramped, smelly, agonizingly slow public transportation and the people outside of your safe community who see you as if you had a target on your back. Headaches seem to accompany just about everything here. I’ve had the opportunity to do things here that I never dreamed I would get a chance at, but, as I said, these things are paid for by a million headaches and frustrations. It’s a balance.

I think the root of my culture shock in America stems from that lack of equilibrium. I got a chance to hang out with friends and family every day. When I wanted good food, all I had to do was open my Mom’s refrigerator. On the rare occasions I didn’t find something that I was excited to eat, I could just hop in a car and go get something. I know this sounds great, but the problem was, I was experiencing all of this stuff while I think my mind was still keeping a mental tally for me. It thought that for every shower and glass of water, a grueling trip to the well loomed that much closer. For every good meal, a dirty, long matatu ride into town should be made. For every day of fun with my family and friends, at least five more would have to be spent in solitude. And that’s the way it went in America. With my good, easy times continuing to heap up on one side of the scales while the frustration and headache side remained empty. The more things that piled on the good side, the bigger the shit storm would have to be to balance it out. Luckily for me, that shit storm never came.

Even still, it’s hard for me to believe how profound the culture shock was in coming home versus that of when I came to Uganda. I guess it goes a long way in saying how we can get used to anything, even things that seem so so foreign to us.

Last week, my Peace Corps training class got together for our Mid-Service Conference (MSC in Peace Corps’ acronym happy lingo), a landmark that represents the halfway point of our service. The idea is that by the time you reach the halfway point, most of the bumps and bruises that come along with moving to a foreign country will be behind you. The first year of Peace Corps is there for you to get acclimated in your new community, run through some trial and error on your projects, and start to hone in on what works best for you. The second year is to solidify the work you are doing and make it sustainable. After ten weeks of Pre-Service Training, a year in the field, and a handful of other training sessions we’d attended, further trainings are a bit redundant. That’s why MSC is set up just as a chance for us to come together and reflect on our time so far with Peace Corps staff and friends.

You might think that the tone of a room filled with people who have given up their lives for the last year to help communities on the other side of the world would be overwhelmingly upbeat, but unfortunately that’s not always the case. In stark contrast to the optimistic, starry-eyed discussions I vividly remember from when we first got here, the current mood in regards to our work is often jaded and tired. Idealism has turned into realism and, at times, cynicism. We slam the concepts of charity, foreign aid, and especially short-term “voluntourism”, and question whether our impacts are even being felt by our communities. I was actually hesitant to write this entry because, even though these things are natural to the seasoned PCV, I feel like it might be misunderstood by someone who’s never walked a mile in our shoes.

So what happened? Why such a drastic shift in attitudes? There could be any number of reasons, I suppose. We’ve been here for so long now. We miss our homes; our families and friends. We’re tired of being outsiders. We want a decent, sand-free meal. We’re frustrated by any number of the differences that are the norm for both Uganda and Ugandans, but would be unimaginable in America.

I guess these would be the easy things to point to, and I would never completely discount any of them. Things can wear on you pretty quickly when you’re on your own the way nearly all of us are. But I think there’s a deeper reason behind the cynicism. Simply put, it’s because we still care. As a friend and I were just discussing, most Americans aren’t used to failure. We came from a country where you are expected to achieve, and all of the tools are there for everyone to make that happen. We PCVs came here with grandiose ideas about the work we were going to do and the impact we would have, and yet despite our good intentions and our American university degrees, we have all faced daunting failures. Usually things just don’t work out the way we’d hoped, but sometimes there are failures so epically catastrophic that the only possible conclusion to draw is that everyone would have been better off if we’d never even attempted the project. Everyone wants to see their efforts bear fruit and see that things are getting better. Unfortunately, for many here it can be difficult to see. It’s something that none of us was used to, and it’s definitely taken its toll.

What gives me hope, though, is that we’re still here. Not one of us has given up, and despite any bitching we might do, I know that each one of us is going to go out there and keep working for what we believe in. We aren't perfect. We get worn out and retreat within our own safe little American circle. We complain to each other because we're not sure outsiders will really understand and sometimes you need to vent. We make jokes because sometimes you just have to laugh. In the end, the people I've met through Peace Corps are still some of the best people I've ever met, and I feel incredibly lucky to count them as my friends.

I’m often asked what the most difficult part of living in Uganda is. It’s not an easy question to answer. There are, after all, a lot of difficult parts about living here, not just for me, but even for the people who have never, and probably will never, leave this place. When asked how hard it is to live without all of the amenities and luxuries I got used to in the states though, that is a question I feel like I can answer more readily. While it’s undeniable that there certainly is a very substantial gap between the US and Uganda in almost all the amenities that make up daily life, it is far from the hardest part of life here. In fact, in a lot of ways, it’s one of the best.

I don’t want to be misunderstood. I am not some kind of masochist. There are times when I feel like I am losing my mind. I would give anything for some decent food (or even some food without rocks and sand in it), my own seat in a safe, odor-free car, a sit-down toilet, a good friend to hang out with on short notice, running water, reliable electricity, really just for anything to work out on time the way it should. After enough time, you get used to these things, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still mentally and sometimes physically taxing. The really amazing part about this experience, however, is in the newfound appreciation that you gain for all of those things that were taken for granted before.

I once received a bag of Cajun trail mix in a care package that ants had burrowed into and were devouring. I wouldn’t say that the ants were the bulk of it by the time I got to the bag, but I would say they’d probably be up there on the ingredient list; behind the corn nuts and roasted peanuts, but ahead of the almonds, sesame sticks, and toffee peanuts. Well, I had been looking forward to this package for months, and I was going to be damned if I let a couple of ants piss on my parade. I put the bag into a Ziploc and sealed it to kill the little beasts off and set it aside for the night. Even I wasn’t about to eat live ants. I’m not a total heathen. The next day, after the ants had earned their just reward, I dove right in. I had originally intended to pick the ants out as I ate, but I’d be lying if I said that process lasted more than the first few minutes. In the end, I figured it would send a good message to any nearby ants that had funny ideas about the rest of that care package.

When I told my friends about this story, I heard two distinct reactions.

My friends from home: Dude… that’s pretty nasty. How gross was it?

My friends in Peace Corps: Dude… I LOVE Cajun seasoning. How good was it?

And the truth is it was fantastic. I can tell you without hesitation that I have never enjoyed trail mix as completely as I did for those next few days (the two pound bag lasted about half of a week).

In America, Cajun trail mix is one of my favorite snacks. I really enjoyed the stuff, but there’s something lost when you can run down to the supermarket anytime, anywhere, pick a bag up, and fulfill your cravings. Such a feat in Uganda is not just difficult, it is flat-out impossible. I had lived for months on crumby porridge, rice, beans, and a handful of other equally uninspired ingredients so that when something like a bag of Cajun trail mix finally did come along, it wasn’t just an enjoyable snack, it was an earth-shattering enlightenment for my deprived taste buds. The really high highs, the things that make this experience so unique, may not come from the act of living without, but they do come because of it.

****The following is an article that I wrote to hopefully be published in celebration of Peace Corps' 50th anniversary.****

I arrived in Kisoga, Uganda under a fair amount of uncertainty. The organization I was assigned to had been operating for ten years, and was essentially the philanthropic arm of a Catholic Parish in Italy. Over those ten years, Mirembe Maria had sponsored hundreds of children’s school fees, built dozens of buildings for both local individuals and the Catholic Church, founded several conventional and vocational schools, and funded countless other similarly minded ventures. Funding began to dry up with the global recession, and so I was brought in and given one task: better the economic well-being of the people of my community. It was straightforward enough, but still had no idea how I was possibly going to accomplish it.

As I integrated into Kisoga, I sat down and spoke with hundreds of individuals about their lives, their problems, and, most importantly, their goals. While people’s lives are as diverse here as anywhere else on earth, there seemed to be a very common theme in terms of their goals and most immediate problems: money. People needed money to feed their families, to buy their own land to farm, to send their children through school, to open their own businesses, and to pay for things like medical treatment and their other necessities.

It was not exactly a revelation for the ages. The question of, “how?” still loomed larger than ever, but it was a start. I looked deeper into my community for the solution. I wanted to know the types of things people were already doing, and to see if a fresh perspective might take a stale idea to new heights.

It wasn’t until my sister, Jenna, called me from Ohio that the project finally started to come together. She had told me that she seen a booth in her university student union selling African handicrafts for charity. When she told me the prices these items were fetching, I couldn’t believe it. I immediately remembered that I had spoken with a handful of women who used to be part of a group that made beaded necklaces out of recycled paper, but had stopped because the local market was completely oversaturated and profits had been nearly impossible to come by. It seemed that, if the right connections with people and businesses back in America were be formed, the paper beaded necklaces could make an ideal product to export.

I believe that, far from being at ends with it, the private sector is one of the best tools we can use for development. I knew that similar programs with craft sales had already been put into practice; after all, that was how I had the idea in the first place. I thought, however, that if we could draw on ideas from businesses as opposed to charities, we might be able improve upon their models. First of all, nothing would be given away. Group members would buy all of their own material up-front, pay for their share of shipping and handling, and would earn only as much as they were able to sell. I hoped that these measures would discourage corruption, infighting, and opportunism while building a base of real business knowledge and encouraging hard-work and quality products. I had also decided to encourage any retailers who would support us to make their own profits on our goods. In this, the goals were to provide an incentive to push sales of our jewelry as well as promote expansion into shops and even regions where we might not otherwise have a presence. All of this, I hoped, would combine to build a better, more economically sustainable business.

Things were slow in the beginning. While dozens of people in Kisoga expressed interest in forming the group, less than ten initially joined. Of those, perhaps only four showed anything in the way of commitment. Meanwhile, I had only found one American business that was interested in picking up our products: a salon in Columbus, Ohio that my aunt owns and operates with my Mom.

We pushed ahead anyway, and before long Ave Maria Bead Co. sent a shipment to the salon. That first package contained just a small number of basic necklaces and a flyer with a photo and a brief explanation of our group. I was terrified that the product wouldn’t sell and that these women, who had put their trust in me, would be rewarded with only the loss of their time and money. Less than two weeks later, however, we received word from the salon. The necklaces had sold out, back orders had been placed, and some of the customers wanted to carry our products and retail them in their own businesses.

Just a few months have passed since that first shipment, but Ave Maria Bead Co. has continued to grow by leaps and bounds since that point. The group grew seemingly overnight from its original nine members to now over forty. They have elected their own leadership and make their own rules and regulations. Another big development has been every member’s enrollment to their own mobile banking account. Savings accounts have long been perceived as inaccessible by so many in this area, but this new technology has changed that. It will give our members not only a safe, secure way to send, receive, and store money, but will hopefully encourage a culture of savings and financial responsibility.

The retail side in America has grown just as quickly as the production side, meaning more profits for everyone involved (everyone except me, of course!). Volume and revenue continue to increase. There are even two regional teams now, one in Ohio and one in Mississippi, who are dedicated to sales and distribution. Our products can be found in seven retail locations, and this number is growing all the time. The customer experience has also evolved as all jewelry now comes with a tag identifying the artisan who made the piece. The card also points buyers to a web page where photos, stories, and letters from the artist can be found.

The success of Ave Maria Bead Co. has been exhilarating for everyone involved. Our retailers in America are happy to help out a cause they believe in, while still making some profits for themselves. Many of our customers have sent encouraging words supporting our products and our goals. Our group members are better off financially, but they also take immense pride in knowing that they have earned their own money and have not taken any handouts. Some have even begun to move into their own ventures, taking with them their skills, knowledge, and new found self-confidence. As for me, I am just happy to have been a part of this. To have helped create something, watch it grow, and continue to work for its future.

Growing up as a white, middle class male in the American Midwest never exposed me to much in the way of prejudice. I can’t remember ever feeling isolated or different from the people around me. The only real way I’d ever stood out was the freakishness with which my body developed, but luckily for me, a sixth grade giant who already has to shave everyday is not exactly a target for ridicule.

My days of blending seamlessly into my surroundings ended abruptly when I moved to Uganda. The communities here are so homogenous that people can tell when you are from a different region of this country. Imagine, then, how much I stick out. I am literally the only white person in my town. A minority of one in a community of 80,000. I try to treat every experience in country, good or bad, as a learning opportunity, and what has this lifestyle taught me? Racism and prejudice is bad. You can quote me on that. It’s a revelation, I know.

The fact is that no matter how hard I try to fit in, I never will in Uganda. I will always be seen as an outsider while I am here. My name is often muzungu, the color of my skin. I am asked dozens of times per day for money. I get talked about by gossiping women in the market as if I am not standing right in front of them. I am overcharged for almost everything. I am so berated by requests that I am often suspicious of anyone who approaches me. Most days I am able to take it all in stride, at least hiding my aggravation usually by ignoring rude behavior, but sometimes stopping to address things in a constructive way. There are rare occasions though, when I’m caught on a bad day and my temper gets the best of me. By American standards, it would seem pretty mild, but I’m still not at all proud of these moments.

In the past, this is the part of my blog where I would try to come full circile and explain things away, usually citing some differences in culture. While the fact that I, along with my other Peace Corps Volunteers, get treated more like tourist attractions than people probably can be explained in terms of differences in culture, I don’t think that excuses anything. Being singled out for standing apart from the majority is a terrible thing to experience. Even on my best days it is extremely hurtful and always takes a bit of the wind of sails.

I didn’t write this blog to create some kind of pity party for myself. My suffering here is miniscule, and there hasn’t been a single day when any of it has outweighed the good parts of my service. I love it here, and for the most part I love the people here (although, like anywhere else, there are good and bad). What encouraged me to sit down and write this was a conversation I had with my friend, Jake. Like me, he’s been frustrated by the prejudice he receives in his community, but he said something that really put the whole situation into perspective. He said something to the extent that even though it was obnoxious and even hurtful at times, we get treated the way we do for two main reasons: the people in our communities perceive us to be very smart and very rich, two incredibly positive things. With that said, I realized that I can’t even imagine how alienating it must feel to be a part of a people judged for being intellectually, physically, morally, or in any other way inferior. I am not advocating that we ignore all of the differences that make us unique and interesting, as is often the case in today’s overly politically correct world. Rather, my experience has just reinforced in me the notion that we should treat everyone with the love and respect that they deserve.

I remember the first time I seriously considered becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer. I was sitting at my desk, absolutely miserable, when I received a Facebook message from my old high school buddy, Chris, a PCV in Ecuador at the time. I decided to check it out for myself at peacecorps.gov and was immediately enthralled with the idea.

I had strived my entire life to put myself into the position I was in, working as a consultant in the big city of Chicago. I was just out of college and only three months into my job, but my thoughts were already straying toward the idea of leaving the corporate world behind forever. I wanted to experience something different. I wanted to help people, and I felt compelled because to be in a position to do so. I wanted to do something that I loved, and just as importantly, that I believed in. Peace Corps would give me the opportunity to do all of these things. Finally, after about a year and a bit of a winding road, I found myself out from behind my desk and bound for Uganda.

Despite the 27 month stint I had committed to, I still got a lot of questions from people about what I wanted to do after Peace Corps. I knew there was plenty of time to consider my options, but I told most people that I would probably end up returning to school for a master’s in some form international development or economic policy and then try for the State Department. Here I am now, though, more than a year removed from my courageous escape from corporate America, and I am set on getting an MBA and rejoining the business world (after I finish my service here, of course). What’s more, I am sure this is what I want. Absolutely positive. If you don’t believe me, consider the fact that I studied my ass off for the GMAT (just finished Thursday!), and this has got to be something that no human being would put themselves through unless they were convinced that they wanted to go to business school.

I know what this looks like. You must be thinking to yourself that old Dave sold out. The truth is, I still believe in all of those things that made me want to leave my desk job. I still believe in doing what you love and believe in and I still think that people who are lucky enough to be in a position to help others should do so, I just see the methods a bit differently now.

When I look around me, I see thousands of NGOs in Uganda dumping millions of dollars in the country. The intentions are almost always good, but as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

There are countless examples that I could point to in Uganda alone to emphasize some of the failures of gifted aid, but I will just use one here. The clean-cook stove was developed to replace the more traditional three-stone cooking fire (literally just three stones that hold pots slightly elevated over burning firewood). Clean-cook stoves burn a fraction of the wood that three-stone fires do reducing deforestation and the price of fuel, they cook things faster, and they minimize the smoke and ash that young girls and women are subjected to inhale three times per day. Countless NGOs have installed these stoves in homes all over Uganda, but I have yet to see one being used in my year in country. At my first site in, while I was still just a bush baby, I proposed the idea of installing these stoves. I figured the people as well as the park we neighbored would greatly benefit. The people were ecstatic about the idea. Everyone wanted a stove. I went to the first house to have one installed, and was shown a great place for the stove. It was so great, in fact, that there was already a clean-cook stove installed, tucked neatly behind the three-stone fire the woman was making lunch on. The next three houses were the same thing. All the members of the group had clean-cook stoves that they didn’t use, and every single one of them, without a trace of irony, wanted me to install another one for them. I still think that the clean-cook stove is a fantastic idea, but the way in which it has been implemented to this point has utterly failed.

Unfortunately, this is not a unique example. You see things like it all the time, and it used to give me a sense of hopelessness, but now I can see that changes are coming. There are actually some great things that are starting to happen in the developing world. I am seeing ideas that are lifting people, slowly by slowly, out of poverty, but perhaps surprisingly to some, they are mostly coming out of the private, for-profit, sector. Products and services such as micro-loans, mobile phones, and commoditized solar energy have already changed the face of my village. These ideas work not just because they are good for the people who consume them, but because it is in the best interest of the people who produce them to make sure the consumers are well-informed of the benefits and uses of their products.

Even my own project, Ave Maria Bead Co. has benefited greatly from using the models of the private sector. Tying the earnings of the group to direct sales and profits ensures that they stay motivated and focused on quality assurance, while allowing profits to be made by the retailers and distributors we sell to has helped us grow larger in a few short months than I thought we ever could. Ave Maria will also soon switch from cash-based transactions to mobile phone banking, another private sector idea. Within the matter of minutes that it takes to sign up, all 41 members of the group will have their own savings accounts, something few have had access to and even fewer have an understanding of its benefits. Only one of the 41 members has previous experience with banking (Sylvia’s husband has an account).

In my opinion, private business, not aid and government, is the best tool for fixing some of the pressing issues of the world. This is why I decided to return to business and get my MBA. Business school, I hope, will allow me to be a part of these solutions and be surrounded by a culture that thrives on innovation. The same ideas about making the world a better place that motivated me to leave corporate America do still exist, I am just going about realizing them a little differently now.

This past Friday, Uganda held its Presidential elections, with results Sunday declaring Yoweri Museveni the winner. Again. The next five years will mark his sixth term in office. Despite over a year of buildup, which for me started the first day I set foot in country, the elections passed with very little incident. The fairness of the vote may have been called into question by the opposition, but despite the failed candidates’ call for public outrage, nothing has materialized.

Some people will probably find it quite surprising that Museveni could peacefully win a sixth term. After all, consider the fact that Uganda sits near the top of nearly all global corruption statistics. Even the Ambassador of one their biggest allies was leaked in a memo stating the man had autocratic tendencies. Also consider the fact the claims of fraud and bribery of voters was substantiated by European overseers. Place all of this against the backdrop of the wave of political turmoil sweeping North Africa and the Middle East and serious, credible terror threats from al-Shabob and al-Qaeda, and it really does seem incredible that things went as well as they did. Although I am by no means an expert on the politics of Uganda, I do have some theories as to why.

The first reason is the Ugandans themselves. Uganda is a country, like much of Sub-Saharan, that was formerly under European colonial rule. Borders were drawn with little regard to the identity of its inhabitants, and as a result, the country is made up of dozens of different tribes and multiple ethnicities, all with their own cultures and many with their own languages. The disconnect and rivalry between these groups makes it very unlikely that a large enough band of tribes would stand together to oppose much of anything. The last time such an alliance did form, Museveni himself was leading it on his way to seizing the Presidency. Similarly, if Ugandans have a difficult time identifying with rivaling tribesmen, they have no connection whatsoever to Tunisians and Egyptians, whom most would claim aren’t Africans. The stories of protesters taking to the streets and toppling regimes is certainly news, but it does little in the way of inspiring the people to stand up themselves.

The opposition itself is probably another reason for the lack of unrest. Many Ugandans nd even the leaked Ambassador cited earlier have said that the opposition candidates did little to set themselves apart from Museveni. I heard more than a few people claim that almost all of the opposition was just as corrupt as anyone else already in office, so why vote for a change that could possibly destabilize the country? Furthermore, there were eight opposition candidates. Eight! I can’t imagine trying to defeat an entrenched incumbent with eight people splitting the opposition vote.

The final reason that I think prevented the riots and protests seen elsewhere in the region was the Mzee (old man), Museveni himself. First of all, he promised to crush any political uprising. After his brutal handling of riots in the Central region of the country in 2009, I think most people were inclined to take him at his word. Secondly, and probably the most important of all, people still like Museveni. Even in the freest, fairest elections known to man, I still think Museveni would have won easily. He is wildly popular in the West and Southwest of the country, and also amongst the elderly. I have talked to a few people who are old enough to remember what this country was like before Museveni came to power. I even met a few who fought alongside Museveni and his National Resistance Army (now the political party National Resistance Movement). I won’t go into a history lesson here, but the stories of life then are truly horrific. They still idolize their President for taking them into a time of relative stability and freedom, even if some admit that he has overstayed a bit.

There's certainly a lot of disappointment out there for people who wanted a change. This is even true amongst some Volunteers. I don’t really know enough about the political issues here to be able to comment what five more years will mean for this country. I am just relieved that things remained safe and calm in a volatile environment.

Tomorrow marks Uganda's presidential election. It marks a monumental day, not just for Uganda, but beyond as the international world looks to this nation as a pillar of democratic stability in an often turbulent region. I sat down to write something about the build-up leading to the election, however I realized that my friend had already written something that said everything I would have. I promise that after the election I will write out some thoughts and insights of my own, but if you are interested now, check Joe's blog out. He's not only a very good friend, but a great writer.

http://ugonedatomorrow.blogspot.com/2011/02/uganda-votes.html

Before I set off for Uganda, I was pretty much running the emotional gauntlet. Of course, I was excited to start a new chapter and a new adventure in life, but I also felt uncertain, scared, guilty, and pretty much any other adjective you might think of. With all of these things swimming through me, I remember one of the overwhelming feelings that I couldn’t shake was a sense of loss. I imagined that I was leaving my life completely behind for the two plus years. Even though I was resolute in my decision to come, I was afraid that I was diverging. Stepping away from the path that I was on with everyone and everything I knew, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to get back to that when I returned.

In a way, my concerns were right. I did leave behind the only way of life that I had ever known. Cultures and norms are different here. I no longer have so many of the amenities I happily took for granted in the states. Ugandans don’t eat the same food as Americans. They don’t communicate in the same way as Americans. Nothing runs the same way it did back home. Not knowing a single person on the entire continent when I arrived, I met new people and made new friends. I even had to change the way I communicate with my old friends and family. I have had more triumphs and frustrations in this single year than I can ever remember having before. With time, I have learned to adapt to these things, sometimes consciously, and sometimes without noticing it at all.

In the same way, I know that things at home have gone on in my absence. My friends’ and family’s lives have taken on exciting new changes as well. Some have struck out on their own adventures to exotic places, but all of them are in different places, figuratively and/or literally, from the time I last saw them. I continue to read about the pessimism regarding the economy. There’s apparently a new political movement in America. The iPad (which looks phenomenal, by the way) was unveiled. New music, movies, books, and trends are undoubtedly sweeping the nation. The Cleveland Cavaliers can’t win a game… Life has changed.

I have accepted all of this as true. There would be no point in denying it. The difference now, I suppose, is only in the way I view these changes. Before, I was afraid that the differences between my life now and my life before I left would create a barrier between me and everyone and everything I loved, but now I know that that is not the case. I have changed and so has everything else, but that doesn’t mean it is the end of anything. Change does not necessarily mean that things have diverged, as I once feared. They have just grown. Sure, everything will be a little different, but, to me, that’s exciting!

Exactly a year ago today I set out from Columbus, Ohio, bound for Uganda. Being so close to everything, it can be difficult to see, but looking back now I can see that so much has happened in that year. I have had four homes in four different communities, I have been on safaris, climbed volcanoes, been immersed in new cultures, worked on countless different projects in different roles, eaten hundreds of plates of rice and beans, been through thousands of bananas, and I have met so many new people, not just from Uganda, but all over the world. Many of the experiences have been incredible, and more than a few have been considerably less than that. People often ask me what’s the biggest way that I have changed since I have been here, and, a year in, I still find it hard to answer that question. The one thing I can say with certainty, however, is that I have definitely changed. But really, who hasn’t?

In just a few short months, Ave Maria Bead Co. has surpassed all of my expectations for where I thought the project would be. The group here continues it's growth in all aspects of the word, while just as importantly, our organization has taken great strides in expansion outside of Uganda. AMBC now has two people, Lindsay and Jenna, that have taken over sales and distribution, and we are constantly in talks about new directions for the group. They have a lot of great ideas for the future, and I can't wait to see where this thing goes!

The photo album is mostly for their benefit, as it was just an easy way for me to share some materials with them as they consider constructing our own website, but I thought I'd put it up on my blog just in case anyone else wanted to take a look.

When I was in college I remember returning home for holidays and being taken aback by seeing young children again. Oxford, Ohio is almost exclusively made up of the college-aged and the very old with nothing in between.

Uganda, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. It sometimes seems that over half the population here is under the age of 6. Everywhere you look, there they are. Playing, cleaning, cooking, greeting every white person they see (usually just me) sleeping, farming, running shops, fetching water, eating, shitting, yelling, herding cattle. They pretty much do it all. Sometimes I feel like I have stumbled into some insane, clothing optional bizarre-o world where children have inherited the earth.

I’ve heard it said that kids are kids, no matter where you are. I guess, in some ways, that’s true. The children here love to run around and have fun just like any other. When I was young, I would have been completely lost if I couldn’t have played with my G.I. Joes, or Nintendo, or any one of the countless other toys I had. Here, though, none of that is an option. They have to get a little more creative, and it’s always entertaining for me to see what they come up with.

(neighborhood boy with a string of cars that he made)

The other day, I walked by some of my neighbors who were playing what looked like the absolute best lawn party drinking game. Yes, possibly even better than Cornhole or Bags. They had found an old rubber flip-flop sole and a bunch of discarded batteries and devised a game where two people stood about ten meters apart, set ten batteries up, vertically, in a row, and then took turns throwing the flip-flop like a Frisbee at their opponents battery row. They first person to knock over all of his opponents batteries stayed on to play the next challenger. I sat there for about an hour watching and cheering on the game.

As I said, in some ways they are similar to your average American child. In most ways, however, they are worlds apart. Kids here are tougher and more independent than I had imagined was even possible for people of their age. Whether it is a child strapped to its mother’s back, stuffed into an impossibly uncomfortable position for a taxi ride, or one that has just fallen and hit her head, you will rarely hear them complain and you will almost never see them cry. Supervision, on the rare occasions it occurs, is usually performed by a 6-7 year old sibling, and things such safety precautions, let alone any kind of code, are completely unheard of.

A few months back, I was walking home from work when I came upon a young boy, maybe 18 months old at most. He was in the middle of the town square by himself, completely nude, chasing around a chicken with a machete. “Oh my god!” I thought to myself, as I started to run. “I’ve got to get home and grab my camera!” Even my preconceived notions about how children should or should not be raised have faded with time. (For the record, I did return with my camera, but I couldn’t find the boy anywhere)

Living alone in such a foreign country can definitely take its toll. There are always unexpected ups and downs. Sometimes the kids in my village are the best part of my. They will run right up to me after a rough day just told hold my hand while I walk home. It makes me laugh to see how proud they are to be there with me, always making sure to get their friends attention so they can rub it in a bit. Other days, and with other kids though, they can be the final nail in the coffin. “Give me my money!” they shout, or “Muzungu, mpa sweetie!” white person, give me candy! It drives me up the wall, especially when I see their parents in the background telling them what to say.

Time has helped me to do my best to ignore these negative encounters. I guess if I were in their shoes, I would be asking for something to eat too. Still though, the good more than makes up for the bad, and I really do get a lot of joy out of the crazy army of children in my village.

A while back, I briefly went over a project that I am working on with some of the women of my village where we are creating links between a crafts group here in Uganda and local small businesses stateside. While the project is still in its very early stages, I am excited to report that a lot has happened in those few short months.

Sometime in November, Ave Maria Bead Co. (their choice, not mine) sent its first shipment of paper bead necklaces to Hair Artists in Columbus, OH. I have to admit that I was initially just hoping to recoup the costs that I had sunk into the start-ups involved, and have a bit of profit leftover to give the women of the group. In a very non-Peace Corps move, I had put more than a full month’s stipend into the cost of the materials and shipping, and I was starting to feel the pinch as the holidays approached. Fortunately, my concerns were completely unwarranted, as sales with our test-shipment outstripped even my wildest expectations. We earned not just enough to overcome the start-up costs, but also about $1,000 in profit, which, even when divided amongst the 10 group members, is hugely significant considering the median national income is about $400 per year.

Distributing the money to the women in early December was one of the biggest highlights of my service to date. Each had earned a different sum based on what they had made and sold, so I called them into a private room to confidentially give them their share. They marched back, heads held high, and received their money with very dignified thanks and handshakes. Only my counterpart, Margaret, seemed to be throwing all solemnity to the wind as she helped translate and distribute. However as soon as they left an immediate cry of joy rose up, and when I had finally finished I saw that the singing was accompanied by plenty of dancing out on the veranda. Everyone was talking animatedly about the type of Christmas they were now going to be able to have.

Not surprisingly, the group has grown exponentially in the month since that morning in December. The number of necklaces we have for our next shipment is almost triple what it was for our first, and the group itself has expanded to now include about 20 women, a handful of young girls, and now even a 10-11 year old boy named Douglas who is trying to earn money to pay for his own school fees. Even my friend Emma, a 17 year old secondary school student too proud to defy the strict gender roles of Uganda, has gotten in on the act. According to him, he hasn’t officially joined the group, but has taken the title of “Team Manager” for his family of about 10 women and girls who all work diligently on making necklaces in their free time.

Success, however, has come at a bit of a price. It may not seem like a problem, but I am legitimately concerned that the group is now making too much money. The last thing I want is for people to start diverting resources away from secure, local means of income in order to invest more fully into a project that I cannot guarantee will be able to continue indefinitely. Ideally, we will be able to take this money and turn it into other, sustainable projects. I am working with the group to think of ideas on how they can invest their new income into their futures instead of just “eating it”, as the local saying goes. The boon in production has also created the problem of finding new avenues for sales. The Ugandan market is already heavily oversaturated with these products, but I have some ideas on how to tackle this.

My hope is to turn this into as much of a business as possible, giving sales people in the states the opportunity to earn a profit for themselves while still assisting to support the artisans here in Uganda. In short, converting Ave Maria Bead Co. from a charity organization into a fair trade business. While it is against Peace Corps policy for me to make any profit, I think that allowing equally hardworking people outside of Uganda who do their part to do so is the way forward. I feel very strongly that enterprise, and not charity, is the best tool for sustainable development. Now I just need to find those people…

***Special thanks again to my Mom, my Aunt Elle, the women of Hair Artists, and everyone in Columbus who has helped support Ave Maria Bead Co. I wish you could be here to see what that support has meant for the people of Kisoga!

This was my first Christmas away from home. A few buddies of mine and I thought that if we couldn't be home for the holidays then we might as well go out and do something totally different than the traditional Xmas.

We ultimately decided to climb the Virungas, a chain of stand-alone volcanoes that act as a natural boundary between Rwanda, The Democratic Republic of Congo, and Uganda.

It was definitely unlike anything I had ever done before, for Christmas or otherwise. The climb was physically more challenging than anything I can remember, but it was also one of the most memorable, rewarding things I've done since being here.

Below are some of the pictures from my holiday adventure with Jake, Devon, and Cowboy Dave. Thanks for reading, and I hope all of you had as great a holiday as I did.

“You have been lost,” my neighbor and local dukka (small general stores that litter Ugandan towns by the hundreds) owner says to me.

“Lost?” I ask. “But I have been around. I see you almost every day.”

“Yes, but you used to always come to me to buy eggs and bananas and pay me for doing your laundry.”

She is telling the truth, and I had hoped that this conversation would be prevented by the usual Ugandan reserved politeness, but I was not surprised to be asked anyway. I could have easily skirted the question and gone on my way, but I decided to be honest with her. The second of three goals for every Peace Corps Volunteer is to share the culture and values of America with people of our communities, and that is exactly what I decided to do.

“Well, nnyabo (m’am), you haven’t had any bananas to sell in months.” I watched as this fact registered with her. “You sell eggs for 300 shillings each, when most places in town sell them for 250.” Again, I could see her contemplating this fact. “And I had to find someone else to do my laundry because you did not seem to be very serious about it. Even after I told you about the problem, you continued to bring my clothes back wet and smelling worse than when I gave them to you. I am not going to pay for such service.” It may sound like a ridiculous story, but this conversation actually took place, and it is an almost perfect microcosm of the state of rural Ugandan business as I have found it.

When talking with my friends and neighbors about why they shop where they do, they will usually give answers that perfectly mirror at least two or three of “The Four P’s of Marketing”; product, place, price, and promotion. Very few of them have ever heard of the concept, but they use their common sense and list them off anyway. They will say that they go this specific shop because the prices are better, or they prefer that shop because it has what they need and is conveniently located, or they always go to the other shop because the keeper is so friendly. Basically, they are the exact same things that cause anyone to choose to buy what they do from where they do it.

For some reason, though, the common sense on the customer’s end does not equate to the same knowledge on the owner’s end. If you walk down the streets of Kisoga town, you will find failing dukkas everywhere you look. They are shops that have been opened in an already oversaturated market which don’t carry the products people want to buy, are staffed by people who are negligent or flat out rude to their customers, and are located out of the way of any significant traffic. In many cases, when sales are poor the shop keeper attempts to address his or her losses, not by fixing the issues of the business, but by charging more money for the few products that they are selling.

I can’t say I have any idea why the customer’s common sense appears to be like rocket science to the people who are opening up these businesses, but I suppose it presents an interesting opportunity for me as an economic volunteer. As a friend once told me, “if it was already developed, we wouldn’t need development workers.”

Being the only outsider in my community, you can probably imagine that I am the subject of a lot of local attention. Even though I have been here for three months, and I seem to be going about my business unnoticed, I have found that I never really have privacy.

Some people in my village know me and are familiar with my Western ways, but most prefer to keep their distance and speculate. They come up with some pretty outlandish, but pretty amusing theories not just about me, but often projecting them onto all non-Africans.

Not used to manual labor, I am soft and weak.

Emma, really my only local friend, brought me a couple sections of sugar cane the other day as a treat. For those who don’t know, sugar cane looks like bamboo sectionals, and, as the name implies, tastes delicious. Two sectionals is really too much for me so I asked Emma if I could just break it in half and share it with him. “No!” he yelled, taking it away from me in a hurry. He then quickly shattered the stalk over his knee and handed one back to me before tearing into his own half. “You could not have managed,” he said.

My diet consists entirely of yellow bananas.

Being a bachelor in Uganda, I am not expected to know how to cook. I had many people apply for the position of house girl (maid), but I turned them all down, and the speculation began immediately as to how on earth I would feed myself. Often being seen walking back from the market with a bunch in hand, Emma told me that a large portion of the town believed that I was subsisting solely on bananas.

I am quite the ladies’ man.

I have said it on here before, but not being used to seeing white people, the locals really have trouble distinguishing us from one another. Despite the fact that she has been here at least seven or eight times, many people mistake my girlfriend Nicole for a new, attractive woman every time she comes to Kisoga.

I am one of the world’s greatest soccer players.

Again, the issue of recognition comes into play here. To many locals, I am the spitting image of either Cesc Fabregas or Carlos Tevez (Spanish and Argentinean international soccer superstars). This, coupled with the fact that I am in regular attendance at the cinema hall (wooden shack with satellite dish) on weekends to watch English Premier League football has caused many people to believe I have unparalleled skills. Luckily, ten minutes on the pitch was all it took to disprove this theory.

Having a different internal composition, my body is physically incapable of eating and digesting many of the foods that Africans eat.

I have no clue where this notion came from, but I think it’s hilarious.

Being born naturally smarter, I only had to attend school for 5 years.

This one is really sad. After talking with Emma and a few of his secondary schools friends about it, I found that they felt African children needed to attend school for 13 years because they weren’t born with the same intellect as children from other parts of the world. When I explained to the boys that I had actually attended 20 years of schooling, and that they had the same exact same natural gifts of any foreigner, I think their spirits lifted, but I still get upset every time I think about it.

I am not someone to be messed with.

Unfortunately, this belief is only held by young boys (it would be a useful safety deterrent if the whole town believed it). They have told me that no one will try to rob or harm me in any way because if they do, they know they will feel the wrath that all Americans are capable of dishing out. When I asked how they knew Americans were so fierce, they told me it was because of all the Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jackie Chan films they had seen.

About a week back I was in riding in a matatu (van-like taxi) while talking my sister on the phone. She had just had her birthday the day before, and due to proximity and budget issues, the best I can manage for such special occasions is to allow others the privilege of calling me. The matatu pulled over to the side of the road to give everyone the chance to buy some food or drinks, and, as I was staring out the window, talking to my sister, I saw a man on the street get struck by another man riding a bicycle. I immediately lost track of the conversation. I knew what was coming. I apologized to my sister and told her she would have to call me back, ruining what would have otherwise been my stellar gift to her.

Within seconds, people had already begun to move toward the accident. While the first man writhed around, probably emulating one his international soccer star heroes, the second man immediately hopped to his feet, grabbed his bike, and started to make a run for it. Unlike in America, people don’t hit-and-run out purely to ditch responsibility for the accident they caused, they do it for their own safety, and sometimes, if it’s bad enough, to save their own lives. At any rate, the poor guy and his bike weren’t fast enough. Too many people had seen the accident, and he was converged on from all sides. I couldn’t see the man with the bike once he went down, but I could guess what kind of justice was being administered to him in the center of that mob. The man whom had been struck, miraculously unscathed after taking a grazing from a bicycle going 5mph, quickly got up and joined in. As the matatu began to pull away, I looked around at my fellow passengers and the people on the street who hadn’t joined the mob. Some were watching the incident, but the vast majority of people didn’t appear to notice or care what was going on. This kind of thing, I’m told, just happens all the time.

This is, by no means, the first time I have heard about mob justice in Uganda. Mukono, with all of the crime I have documented on this blog already, has more than it’s fair share. Just a few weeks ago, a man was burned alive in a neighboring village. The mob had found him guilty of killing another man for his boda-boda (motorcycle). Even right here in my own village, a man had been suspected of six ritualistic killings, and while he was able to get away, all of his property was destroyed in the ensuing riot. The culture here is such that, if you harm another person, that harm will return to you.

Our own security procedures are clear. Of course, do not ever participate in the mob. Do not attempt to interfere with a mob or you may find yourself in the same boat as the accused. And finally, if you are the cause of some accident where people have been injured, flee. You can turn yourself into the police once you are safely away.

The whole practice a little Old Testament, and it is. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. It’s not that the people here are bloodthirsty (I have found just the opposite to be true), it’s just that, they tell me, there is no other form of justice for them in Uganda. Law-enforcement is, at best, under-manned and under-funded, and at worst unreliable and susceptible to payoffs.

I am not trying to justify or make excuses. I really have trouble stomaching the whole thing, but I also understand that I am not in a position to change it. While I might not call the mob justice culture, it is certainly part of life here. I may not agree with it, but It’s not an easy thing to stand by and tolerate, but for now it is something that I have to learn to live with.

Religion seems to be at the center of just about everything in Uganda. Meetings, the apparent national pastime, regardless of their purpose or lack of religious affiliation, always begin and end with a prayer,“God’s will” is credited for most things good and all things bad, and anyone can tell you that the only way to make something official, be it a speech, a letter or a business proposal, is to signoff with the national motto, “For God and my country”.

While not as diverse as America, there are a handful of different sects prevalent throughout my community with the largest constituencies being Catholics, Protestants (the term locally applies only to Anglicans), Muslims, and “Born-agains” (I’m not sure to which church these actually belong). Indian and Chinese families, both present in my area, have their Hindu, Buddhist, and Siek beliefs. There is also a small smattering of other Protestant faiths, several Jewish families, and probably the most intriguing, the traditionalists or the “witches”. The only people glaringly absent are non-believers. I have yet to meet a local who subscribes to, or even respects the concept of non-theism.

While the least populous groups tend to keep their faiths to themselves, the larger groups, perhaps emboldened by their numbers, are not content to live and let live. Every day seems an epic struggle to win as many souls as possible, and that struggle begins early. If you are familiar with Islamic tradition, you probably know that the Muslim call to prayer begins at around 5:30 every day and is repeated another 4 times throughout the day. If it’s done at a respectable volume and by someone with a good voice the tradition can actually be quite soothing even to a sleeping outsider, and, in defense of the local Muslim population, they have done just that the few times I have been able to hear them. This is a battle, though, and the reason I have only heard the mosque (which is about ½ km away from my house) a few times is because they are not the only faith who knows how to use a public address system.

About 1 km away from my humble home lie the “Born-agains”. The “Born-agains”, by far the smallest of the big four faiths of Kisoga are also by far the loudest, most in-your-face of them all. They are led by a pastor whom, according to him, grew tired of having another religion inflicted upon him and his people every morning about six months ago, and without any sense of irony he devised a plan to rectify the situation. His idea was to buy a bigger, better PA system than the one being used at the mosque and to give a daily sermon to the town starting at 5:25 AM, just before the Muslim call to prayer. The deafening roar drowns out any competing sounds throughout the town. Margaret, my counterpart who lives at least 3 km away from the source, has even told me that her family is woken by him every day. While his incessant shouting can’t quite match the musical quality of the Islamic call to prayer, he does outdo his rivals by upping the few minutes that they spend by a modest two and a half hours. I was sure things couldn’t get any worse until today when some competing sect of Christianity joined in on the fun and began playing hymnals from their own crackly PA system. I am not sure who is behind this, and I was never exactly thrilled with the situation to begin with, but I am far from pleased about this latest development.

While the worst is always over by 8 AM, the battle does not stop there. Inevitably, at various points throughout the day, I will be asked about my religion. Despite my most cunning of schemes to dodge the topic and steer the conversation in other directions, I am usually thwarted. Regardless of how I’ve answered and how unenthused I appear about the topic, it is then my privilege to listen to a diatribe on the merits of their personal beliefs. One such speech turned into a near brawl in a restaurant where I was eating. While two men were arguing over which religion was better and which I should devote my life to I walked out of the restaurant. I am not sure they even noticed. The tone of these little speeches may range from friendly to angry, but the length of the speech is always the same; however long I allow it to go on before kicking them off my porch or walking away and asking them not to follow me. Interestingly enough, the only people who don’t pry into my personal beliefs are the Catholic priests and nuns whom I work with on almost a daily basis.

If you have been keeping up with this blog, you might remember that I promised to write more about the practice of witchcraft in my community. Before I get started I will issue a disclaimer. The accounts here are all based solely on things I have seen and heard during my time in Kisoga. The facts of what I am telling you are true; however their association with witchcraft is speculation, not just by me, but nearly all townspeople as well. Additionally, I am using the words “witchcraft” and “traditionalism” interchangeably. I guess this may be considered offensive to some, but it is the language the locals use, and being that most of their practices are underground, the acts that do surface tend to be deserving of the title.

I will start by explaining that over the years, traditionalist African ideologies have been denounced (at least publicly) by all but the most devoted of followers in favor of what I would call Western religions, most notably Christianity and Islam. Despite this, there remains a small contingency of avid traditionalist, especially in my district of Mukono – considered by many to be the witchcraft capitol of Uganda. It is my theory that because the common, everyday traditionalists have moved on to other faiths, those that remain tend to be the more radical “witch doctors”. They keep their practices under wraps, not because their beliefs are unacceptable to the people of Uganda, but because of the acts that are attributed to at least some of the followers. These acts include such atrocities as child sacrifice, cannibalism, possessions, and placing human heads in building foundations. According to friends and neighbors, each form of murder serves a different function, be it for health, prosperity, or any number of reasons. Upon first hearing these claims, I was typically skeptical. I assumed that the stories were simply that. Just stories. After just a few months here, however, headless and/or filleted bodies have turned up, children have gone missing, and suspects have been lynched by mobs.

One specific incident recently caused quite a stir. A local business owner fled town right before a lynch mob could seek their vengeance. Over the course of the last two years, six headless bodies have found in the woods surrounding my town. The evidence was as follows:

-The business owner had erected six new buildings over the last two years which matched the six headless bodies.

-Two of the bodies found were former employees of the business owner which had gone missing.

-The business owner had been questioned by local authorities when each of his employees went missing (before the bodies had turned up, and had stated that each employee had quit to return to their home village.

Whether the evidence would have held up in a court of law was never in question. Assuming the man, who had been told of his imminent arrest, had not decided to skip town, the mob which trashed his properties would certainly have killed him before any such trial could be held. The riot happened just a few minutes walk from my house, and a few of the shops wrecked were businesses which I had patronized.

Religion. It’s definitely a focal point of life here. Whether you are a witch doctor, a pastor with a vendetta, or a foreign volunteer just trying to get some sleep it seems impossible to avoid. I do want to say, though, that despite the pressure I feel from some people and the violence that admittedly has occurred in my town, I feel safe here. I live near the center of town, and I have worked to cultivate relationships with as many people as I can. Despite their confusion that, after having point blank asked me on numerous occasions, they are still completely clueless about my religion, I feel like they have my back. Some think I look Indian and must be Hindu, some think I look Arab and am probably Muslim, some know I am American and think I have to be Christian, and others hear my name and think I could be Jewish. I might humor their guesses, but I always keep my silence on the issue.

I have been in Mukono for about two months now, and it finally feels like I have a home here. I am settling into my community, and work is starting to take shape. I realize that I haven’t talked much about work up to this point, and large part of that has been because I haven’t been anywhere long enough to actually figure things out well enough to write about it, but I think it’s finally time.

The best way to describe my role here would be to say that I am a micro-consultant. Once a week, people come to my counterpart, Margaret, and me with a veritable laundry list of issues. They come as orphans, widows, victims of HIV / AIDS / malaria / malnutrition / domestic violence. Some are physically or developmentally disabled. Some have almost no education. Some are just looking for a handout. So, every Monday we hold a group session where we hear from and speak with anywhere from 10-40 people about their stories. They may come asking for school fees, for food, for land, for just about anything, but in the end it always comes down to one basic thing. Money.

Everything Margaret and I do the rest of the week stems from that. One of the first things we do is to go through and verify each person’s story by going to their home for a sort of surprise inspection. If it weren’t for the fact that I get to walk through some beautiful areas in a tropical climate, this part of the job would be completely without reward. Only two things can happen once we actually arrive at the person’s home. They are either as impoverished and desperate as they said, or they lied and are trying to exploit us. Either way, it is usually a bit of a downer.

Before my arrival, the Catholic Church, backed by 4 Italian nuns and their benefactors from home, used to simply verify the situations of those who came asking for help and then start giving them the money/land/house/food they had asked for. When Italy was hit by the global economic crisis, the nuns remained but the funds dried up. That is why they brought me in. My main task here in Kisoga is to devise and implement programs to economically stimulate the people in need. This is what takes up the bulk of my time, and it is by far the most challenging aspect of my work.

Currently, my organization is running three programs to boost individuals’ incomes. The first is my counterpart Margaret’s project which targets mainly healthy young men and women. It is a community garden in which we have bought a large tract of land and divided it up to allow people to stake their own plot, come and work the land themselves, and keep all of the food/profits that they earn. Margaret, another coworker, and I even go help them work the land once a week. I once had a laugh with my friend from back home because her mom was under the impression that I was hacking away at the bush with a machete all day. Well, that’s pretty much exactly what you will find me doing every Tuesday now. Despite having had a lot of interest in this project initially, turnout has been beyond poor. Of the 30+ people that have shown interest, only 3 people have shown up to work, and of those, only one does so on a regular basis. It’s really disheartening to see, but at the same time it’s fairly understandable. Where is the motivation to work on a farm for years to pay for your house when my organization just built your neighbor one two years ago for free. People either don’t understand or don’t believe us when we tell them that that money is no longer there. The following is a conversation I had with a local woman just yesterday on my way to work:

Her: You have not yet come to build me my house. I asked a month ago, and still you have not come.

Me: I’m very sorry, but, as we told you, we don’t have money to build houses. You have to come to one of our programs and earn the money.

Her: But my husband died last year of AIDS.

Me: That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, but the money just is not there to build any more houses.

Her: - And I have nine children, and the three oldest removed me from the house because I have AIDS.

Me: I’m sorry. There isn’t any money right now, but -

Her: - And now I have to care for the other six children and I have no food and no money and no house.

Me: I’m very sorry, but we don’t have any money, but if you follow me to my crafts group and you work hard you will definitely be able to make enough money for your family.

Her: Why don’t you give me money? Some of my children are even having AIDS. Isn’t my story sad?

Me: It’s very sad. We still don’t have any money though.

Her: I will go to where I stay now and wait for you to come build my house.

The second project I am involved in is Sister Judith’s, my supervisor. Backed by one of the few remaining Italian benefactors we have left, we are starting up a vocational school to train young people in sewing and tailoring. My role here relates pretty exclusively to the budget. I was told outright that I was chosen for this role not only because of my financial experience in my past life, but because of the experience I had at my first site and my unwillingness to bend on certain issues. This has made me a bit of a lightning rod, as some of the outside experts that we have brought in have already let me know exactly how they feel about me and my tight control over the project’s budget. This doesn’t sound like much fun, but I know I have the support of Margaret and Sister Judith and I am glad that I can contribute something.

The final project is a crafts group made up of some of the women of Kisoga. Within my organization, we say that it is “my project” but the truth is I only asked the women what they wanted/liked to do, set up a few ground rules with them, and they have been running with it ever since. It is more theirs than mine. The basic idea behind this group is that these are women who have specific ideas on how to sustain themselves; they just need a little help to get there. The solution is to create handcrafts to sell where I have found a small market for them in America. The crafts are a means, not an end. These women know they cannot hope to continue to export handmade crafts for the rest of their lives, so we have planned out with each woman a way to take the money they earn and turn it into something that is sustainable for them in the long run. So far we are only working on paper bead necklaces, and the women are still learning, but we hope to soon have enough ready to ship to America where my Mom and Aunt Elle have very generously agreed to sell the necklaces in their salon and send every cent of profit back to the women here. The group is footing the cost of all of the materials and shipping themselves. Each necklace takes an incredible amount of time and attention to detail. I feel like these are very important things. They are working so hard and investing a lot of their time and what little money they have into their own futures. They are not looking for handouts; they are just hoping to catch a break. When they have earned enough money, the idea is that they will “graduate” from the group, take the money they have earned, and begin to work on the plan we have set up together. If you can read between the lines, it is probably fairly obvious that this is the project that I am the most excited about, and I feel like we have a real shot at being successful for these women.

So that’s basically what I do these days. I’m fairly busy right now, but I know that as my projects mature my part in them diminishes so I’m always looking for new ideas. Until then though, I’ll continue to hammer out the numerous kinks and try to keep the updates coming on the successes and failures of my current projects.

Click the link above to see my album of our rafting trip on the Nile plus a handful of other photos. The wet conditions and constant fear for our lives hindered all of our abilities to take our own photos so we paid one of the company's employees to take them. I can't take credit for any of the rafting shots, but the rest are mine.

Every day I walk to work along a meandering footpath through hills, bush and farmland. It is Ugandan custom to greet pretty much everyone in sight, and when you are the only white person for miles people will literally come running to make sure they get their dues from you. The kids are always especially excited, and I try to tell myself that it’s not just because they think I am going to give them the sweeties that they have been misguided into thinking all muzungus carry.

On this particular day a band of boys came running up to me, even more excited than usual. “Davidee!” (I haven’t figured this out yet, but when pronouncing Western names people tend to add long “e” sounds to names that shouldn’t have it and drop them from names which should i.e. “Davidee,” “Sister Doroth”) they shouted. “We have for you! You come!”

I am used to being asked for things, but this was the first time the kids were offering me something. “Mulina ki?” (you all have what?) I asked in broken Luganda.

“Monkey tail! Monkey tail!” they shouted back, jumping up and down now and waving frantically, trying to will me to quicken my pace. Wow, I thought, monkey tail… I wonder what they mean? Probably slang for some kind of toy or maybe even some bizarre food. I followed them, almost matching their excitement, anxious to see what this monkey tail was that was causing so much excitement.

The boys stopped in front of a rock and turned around to beam at me while one went around to retrieve my gift. The boy returned holding something. “MONKEY TAIL!” he screamed, holding it high and waving it around his head in circles. Oh, its some kind of vine – that makes sense. He offered it to me and I reached out to take it. Monkey tail… that’s a clever name for… THE TAIL OF A FREAKING MONKEY!?!?!

My hand retracted, and, as I stared down at the hairy, bloody tail that I had mistaken for a vine, my initial reaction was to think they were having some fun with me. When I looked around at the smiling, nodding faces though, I realized that this was not the case. In these boys’ eyes, this was the most precious gift they could possibly give me. I could tell they were so so proud to finally have something to offer me. I was torn between not wanting to hurt these kids’ feelings and not wanting to touch the dismembered tail of an animal which, according to my vast knowledge of movies and bestselling novels, was credited for starting some of the fiercest tropical diseases known to man. It also occurred to me what a great re-gift this would make to some unsuspecting member of my family at Christmas. In the end, a combination of disgust and hygiene won out over good manners and the potential look of shock on my aunt's face. I declined their offer as politely as I could.

“No, no. You remain with it. I am already having,” I lied in my best Ugandan-English. “Webale nyo nyo,” (thank you very very much) I added as I turned to continue my journey to work. They looked a bit disappointed, but when I looked back not less than a minute later I saw that they were already chasing each other around with the tail, laughing and having fun.

After receiving some good feedback from my last list about my first 100 days at site, I decided to put together another list. This one is just a random collection of revelations that I have come to. I thought that I would add some contributions from fellow PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers), not just to add to the list, but also as a fun way for you reading at home to “meet” some of the people I have come to call my friends.

- Goats sound more like people trying to sound like goats than actual goats.

- In the land of the blind, the man with one eye is king. In the land of Kisoga, the man who can speak passable English and doesn’t ask for all of my things is my new best friend (still accepting applications!)

- People who live in grass huts still have cell phones. – Alyssa, Hillsborough, NJ

- Foreign facial recognition amongst homogeneous cultures is poor. Apparently even a 25 year-old men can be consistently confused for 70+ year old Italian nuns.

- Given the circumstances, 50 GB of music (enough to listen to nonstop for over a month) is nowhere near enough.

- In America you NEVER TELL A WOMAN SHE'S FAT! Yet here in

Uganda it is not only acceptable but a compliment. – Bernadette, Los Angeles, CA

- Ants can act as effective floor cleaners if left to their own devices.

- Lizards can act as effective mosquito exterminators as long as you don’t mind cleaning their shit off of your walls.

- Rats are not much good for anything except keeping your shit cleaning skills honed for your household lizard population.

- It is possible to get so used to pests inhabiting your house that a bat which has flown inside and is now circling your head ceases to be a concern.

- I've come to view bugs in my food as nothing more than a protein supplement; cheaper and more prevalent than Whey. – “Boy” Devon, Roanoake, VA

- Even if you bathe daily, you will probably still be standing in a puddle of brown water at the end of your bucket bath.

- While local witch spells seem to be ineffective, they still pose a potential threat due to their more conventional methods of murdering people. True story. (stay posted for more on this topic at a later date)

- With enough time and no alternatives, you can get used to living without just about anything (electricity, running water, a diet consisting of more than 5 different foods). What you can not get used to, however, is having nothing to sit on to make a long call (#2).

- If the roach you see in the restaurant you are eating at is not actually IN your food, then it’s totally okay.

- It is, in fact, possible to annoy yourself with your own speech patterns. “Okay please.”

- Time is relative. Nothing starts when it is supposed to. There is only one thing on any schedule here that is constant. Never wavering. Tea time. – Grace, Fort Collins, CO & Shannon, Philadelphia, PA

- Hollywood is probably America’s most prominent ambassador to Uganda. During a random study conducted by myself, when asked “who is your favorite American?” the two most popular answers are Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jackie Chan.

- A society can exist in which grown people bathe outside in plain sight but still consider it inappropriate to hang underwear on an outdoor clothesline.

- If it is raining you are not only allowed to do absolutely nothing, you are expected to. – Ashley, San Antonio, TX

- Despite not having any hope of accessing 99% of the items, PCVs love playing the game “What do you miss most about America”. Other variations include “If you could have any (ice cream flavor, bowl of cereal, sushi roll, etc.), which would you choose?”

- To answer the above with “my family and friends” is cheating and totally unacceptable for the purposes of the game. Of course it is true, though. This is the obvious and overwhelming sentiment. It is already assumed. I have yet to meet a single volunteer that, rules permitting, would not answer in this way. So with that, I miss everyone at home and love you all! Thanks for reading!

(26/08/2010)

I have been away for the last two weeks attending a scheduled Peace Corps In-Service Training (IST). Considering I had only been at my new site for six days, the timing could have been better, but like a lot of things over here, I pretty much just had to go with it.

The first week was filled with a language training course. Unfortunately for me, these courses were designed for people who had been practicing their language for the last six months, and they were really my first exposure to Luganda, the language they speak in my new area. Again, not really ideal, but both the language I learned in training and my new language are based in Bantu and have some similarities so I was able to get by as best I could.

After language, each of the separate language groups plus all of our local counterparts came together in one hotel for technical training. For those unaware of what a counterpart is as it applies to PC, they are our local partners in everything we do. The idea is that each and every project we undertake, we are not just completing the work, but teaching our counterparts. That way, when we return to America, instead of only leaving behind isolated projects we are leaving a legacy of resources for the community to keep our projects sustainable and hopefully create new ones on their own. Anyway, the purpose of the technical training was to discuss the projects and ideas that people had been working on for the last 15 weeks at site with our fellow volunteers and Ugandan counterparts. Again, having only been at my site for six days instead of 15 weeks, my counterpart, Margaret, and I did not have a lot to contribute, however we did benefit from the work everyone else had been doing, and I think we took away some good ideas.

Despite most of the sessions being more than a little boring (I actually only wrote about them because some people have been telling me that I write too much about what I observe and interpret as opposed to what I am actually doing), I really enjoyed being able to spend two weeks straight around friends. Don’t get me wrong, the people of Uganda are usually very nice, but the differences that exist between Americans and the locals are significant. We volunteers stand out so much as it is, that most of us can’t help but try to fit in in any other way we can. My speech patterns change, my sense of humor adjusts, and huge parts of my personality disappear entirely and are replaced by characteristics that feel more like they are those of a stranger instead of my own. You can start to feel like you are losing a sense of your true self. When I finally get a chance to be around my PCV friends, none of those things are a concern anymore, and I think each one of us revels in it a bit. We are fast friends, not just because of our common ties, but also because we have to be.

After the training sessions were over, a group of 20 of us went to Jinga, the source of the Nile River, to go whitewater rafting. The power of that river was amazing at times and terrifying at others, but was always awe-inspiring. I got tossed out of the raft on three separate occasions - a trip record matched only by my good friends Renee and Brennan. After an exhausting day of getting our proverbial shops wrecked together on the rapids, many of us sat out at our campsite that night looking out over the Nile and sipping beers, sometimes talking, but often not saying anything at all.

One of my favorite parts of the weekend involves my friends Arwen and Elizabeth. Everyone except Arwen was sitting around, enjoying the rare treat of chapatti (kind of like a crepe), banana, and nutella. The problem was Arwen had chipped a tooth on a flying oar when our raft had been flipped and was in too much pain to properly bite and chew this delicacy. Elizabeth, seeing this, began to chew off manageable pieces of her own dessert, take them out of her mouth and hand them over to Arwen which she glady accepted and ate. We all, of course, laughed our asses off at this, but I still thought it was an amazing little moment all the same. I think it really illustrates just how close we've become in such a short time. After all, it takes a true friend to chew your food for you.

After rafting, I spent one more great day exploring the city of Jinga with my friends Elizabeth and Brennan before finally returning to my site. We enoyed some great food, walked about the city, and met some interesting people from both Uganda and other parts of the world. We held onto every moment we could together knowing we would have to leave eventually. I’ll admit that I didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about returning to my tiny new village after spending two weeks amongst my friends, but once I arrived I realized that I was completely reenergized and ready to start working and integrating into my new home. Kisoga marks the fourth community I’ve lived in since moving to Uganda less than seven months ago, and you know what they say. The fourth time’s the charm.

I’ve talked before about how Peace Corps is a dichotomy. At times I think it may just be the unfamiliarity that makes everything seem this way, but sometimes I feel like this is a place where the extreme seems to thrive and both sides of the coin coexist side by side.

Since I have been in country, I have seen great savannahs, impenetrable rain forests, and vast swamps that look as if man has never even been near them, and I have seen factories pumping what looked like used motor oil directly into a roadside ditch right outside their property, forests leveled and plains burned to make way for new farmland, and entire towns coated in dust from all of the construction in the red earth.

I have had unknown children sprint up to me wanting to do nothing other than hold my hand, and I have been woken up at all hours of the morning by other children fiercely demanding that I give them money, a computer, or any number of my other possessions, which they inexplicably know I have.

I have seen life on the highway. Literally. I actually saw a woman give birth on the side of the road. But I also saw death on the highway when a man fell from his perch on top of a moving truck and had been gorily ripped open, lying with his insides spread over the road.

I am always easily recognized as someone “not from around here”. This, at times, has resulted in total strangers inviting me to take lunch or tea with them, or just thanking me for coming to help their country. At other times it has resulted in people yelling at me to “go back to (insert foreign country here)”.

I know people that work from sunrise to sunset, cooking, cleaning, farming, and getting their children off to school every single day, but I have also walked past groups of men who, despite being drunk off their asses before noon, can’t afford their own children’s school fees. When they incredulously demand “YOU GIVE ME MONEY!” they often don’t even hide the fact that they are planning to use it to buy more booze.

My complexion, darker than most Western workers but much lighter than their own, has caused total strangers to want to take a photo with their favorite international football stars Carlos Tevez or Cesc Fabregas (me), but it has also gotten me furiously accused of being a terrorist or a Muhindi (person from India), probably both of which implying equal disdain in the accusers’ eyes.

I have seen months, packed with new and exciting things every day, fly by in an instant. I have also felt the hours stretch so long they seemed like weeks where I would hardly leave my apartment or speak to anyone for days on end.

I have met people who have selflessly devoted their entire lives (not just the two years I am giving up) to the service of other people, receiving hardly anything in return outside of their own contentment, but I have also seen hordes of people who have taken jobs in aid or religious service only because they are the best paying (and most easily extorted) positions available locally.

I have met local people with hardly anything to call their own share meals, lend money, and even take in lost children to raise as their own, expecting nothing in return, but I have also seen people in power with their hands in the pockets of needy schools, orphanages, and any other number of other organizations.

Having said all of these things, I guess it’s not altogether surprising some of the mood swings that I, along with many of the other volunteers in country, experience, but I think it would be a mistake to attribute them entirely to outside forces. Sometimes I feel up when everything is going wrong, and sometimes I am down for no reason at all. I guess I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, but I’m looking into it.

***Note***

Special thanks to my friend, Devon, for the photo. He took the shot and photoshopped it. I liked it so much that I couldn't help but steal it. I feel like the photo does a great job in getting the point I wanted across. In his own words:

THIS is Peace Corps. Same pic. Flip it. Desaturate it. Sew them together. Bright, warm. Black/white Drab. It's the "ups" and it's the "downs." And when you put it all together, it's a beautiful view... sunrise on the horizon. The beginning of a truly unique day.

You can check out Devon's blog here - http://megandauganda.blogspot.com/

I also have my new address finally. Check it out on the right side of this page under "Contact Info".

More old photos. These should have gone with the stories about my birthday and the boat ride/4th of July, but I had trouble uploading them all. Hope you enjoy them anyway.

***Note***

These albums have been about halfway uploaded to the site for a while so it's possible you have looked at the album before today but not seen most of the photos now there.

Photos of my old site. I have been trying for weeks to get them up, and titled the album "Site!" when I had just moved in and was still very excited about Rwenjeru. If I were to title it now, it would probably be "site..." and would have been accompanied by an effect that sounds like "wanh wanhh waaaaaaannnnnnnhhh". You know what I mean.

Monday, I finally made my move away from Rwenjeru Campsite. The people whom I had lived with were all quite surprised to see the Peace Corps truck pulling up. They quickly set to work trying to make tea and set up a nice little outdoor meeting area to show the PC staff some hospitality, having no clue the real reason for their arrival.

I was given the option to attend the meeting where the truth would out, and PC would tell about their discovery of the corruption and their decision to remove me from the site. Looking back, I feel like I should have definitely been there, but at the time I declined to attend. I felt more nauseous than I can ever remember feeling. I just couldn't face them. Also not in attendance was Enock, who, in typical fashion, had left town for a one night trip to Kampala about a week or so ago. I elected, instead, to put all of my belongings into the truck. 90 seconds later I was all packed up and ready to go, but the meeting continued to drag on.

I knew they would try to contest the decision, and they did. I was told after that every one of them claimed to have been ignorant to what Enock had done, and each one of them severely condemned the actions despite the fact that everyone in attendance was related to the man (including his father and grandfather). Peace Corps, however, was not there to have an open dialog. They were fed up with the way things had gone from day one, and their decision was final. They told the members of the campsite that even if they had been ignorant, Enock was a representative of the campsite, and his actions were recognized as such. If I had continued to work there, it would be a serious compromise of both Peace Corps' and my own integrity. When the meeting eventually let out, they all came over to shake my hand, apologize for what had happened, and to wish me luck. I could see that some of them were crying.

By all rights, my time at Rwenjeru was absolutely awful. I spent my first two months living in a bare apartment with nothing to do and no one to talk to. The next three weeks I was happy to move into my new place, but I was hardly doing anything constructive. That was then followed by about three more weeks of dealing with the corruption issue and being forced to essentially live a lie. In my time there I saw alcoholism, laziness, corruption, and sexism taken to degrees I had never dreamed I would see. And yet, despite all of that, leaving that day was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I knew what a crushing blow it was to the dreams of the campsite, and to each one of the members personally.

After a one night stop in Kampala, the truck brought me to my new site here in the village of Kisoga in Mukono District. Despite the effect leaving Rwenjeru had on me, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my chest, and I am ready to start anew. I will be working in conjunction with the local Catholic Church doing whatever projects they and I feel will help the people. That sounds very vague, but they already have some ideas in place, and I can tell I will be more than busy during my service here. I'll have more details about what I am doing and how everything is going later. Even now, completely removed from Rwenjeru, I still feel badly about the way things turned out, but I am trying to concentrate on moving forward, and I know things will be better for me here.

*** Note ***

My new village doesn't have cell phone reception from my old provider so I had to switch back to my old number for now. You can find it to the right side of the screen under Contact Info.

It’s been 100 days now since I have been at site. I guess it doesn’t seem like that much time has gone by, but maybe that’s just because I continue to keep moving around quite a bit. Anyway, that got me thinking of exactly what 100 days means here, so I figured I would have a little fun with some other numbers.

500 – Bananas I have eaten (This is just an estimate, but I promise you, it is a VERY conservative one. I generally eat quite a bit more than 5 bananas a day. Sometimes up to around 10.)

10 – Most people seen in a single compact car

483 – Text messages sent

2 – Times woken up past 7:00 AM

1000 - Biggest “Muzungu Price” mark-up percentage (price initially offered due to conspicuous skin color)

500 – Liters of water drank

13 – Number of books read (including Infinite Jest which should count for like 10)

5 – Kilos of oatmeal eaten

33 – World Cup matches watched

7 – Meals eaten with meat

4 – Most days gone without showering

190 – Days without a haircut (this obviously goes outside of the 100 day theme, but seems worth noting)

14 – Times listened to album Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix in its entirety

9 - Average distance walked per day in kilometers

As luck would have it, it looks like these first 100 days will be my last at this site. I got the word from Peace Corps that they will be moving me to Mukono this Monday. I have no idea about what I am walking into, but I am not too worried about that at the moment. It's just something I've come to expect here.

The other day my organization, Rwenjeru Campsite, told me to visit a local primary (elementary) school because they were under-funded and were looking for help writing a grant. Even though I wasn’t exactly asked, and grant writing is not something I am all that familiar with, I agreed to help out as best I could.

As I walked around and toured the school with the headmaster, my heart went out to the place. It’s hard not to feel moved when there are hundreds of kids grinning from ear to ear, greeting you, and singing for you in every classroom you enter despite all the hardships and poor conditions that it’s obvious they are facing. I found my smile was even more permanently plastered to my face than usual.

After the tour, I went back to the headmaster’s office to ask a few questions and discuss what it was he planned to use the funds for. My supervisor, Enoch, had tagged along for the trip, although he had asked me to handle the process. After my discussion with the headmaster I got up to leave, and saw Enoch hand a paper discreetly across the desk. After looking it over, the headmaster replied, “This will be pending approval. For now, it must be transportation only.” This put me on alert. Enoch had me sit back down while he scribbled out another piece of paper, and handed it across the desk again. “100,000 seems like a lot for transport,” said the headmaster this time, and I knew he was absolutely right. It was something like three times the price of our transportation. Nevertheless, the headmaster signed and stamped the second piece of paper, and told Enoch to go collect at the cashier.

If I thought something was up before, I knew it was now. I needed to see what was on that paper. Clearly, it had something to do with money. I decided discretion would be better than throwing around accusations of corruption, so I walked around the headmaster’s desk under the guise of asking him a question about some of the estimates he had given me. I glanced down at the first paper while he talked to discover that mystery paper #1 was actually an invoice from my campsite to the school for my “consultative services” for the figure of 500,000 Ugandan Shillings (500,000 shillings exchanges to about $250, but if you consider things like average incomes and purchasing power, I’d say it’s closer in Ugandan terms to $7,000-$10,000).

I felt absolutely devastated. I am not trying to sound noble, but I came here to help as a volunteer. If I had wanted to charge people for my services, I would have continued consulting in America where I would be the one to profit off of my work. The idea that I was being used as a tool to exploit an under-funded school in Uganda for someone else’s personal gain made me sick.

Still in shock, I called some Peace Corps friends to see what I should do. They all convinced me that I had call PC administration, and when I did they were extremely helpful and understanding. They even came out to meet me in person the next day. They initially told me to leave my site for the weekend. I was obviously upset, and they told me to take the weekend to cool off, clear my head a bit, and decide if I could continue working with these people, or if it was finally time to cut ties and move on to another organization.

After spending the weekend with Charlene in Ibanda, I still felt no more certain about what I wanted to do. On the one hand, I was really starting to enjoy my life here at the campsite. I still did not have much faith in the work I was doing, but at least things were starting to move in a productive direction. It’s a beautiful place to live, and, my distaste for Enoch aside, I have gotten along great with most of the staff and the surrounding community. I felt an obligation to these people. I also had a bit of a fear of the unknown. If I were to leave, where would I go? On the other hand, I could not erase from my mind what had happened. I couldn’t stand the thought of continuing to work with these people. It just flew in the face of my values, and tolerating corruption on this level was not something I felt prepared to do.

Even though I still feel uncertain about what it is that I want, I feel fortunate that the Country Director of PC Uganda took the responsibility out of my hands. He decided that the organization had committed too serious a violation of policy to continue working with them, and that I would be leaving Rwenjeru Campsite. I still feel very conflicted about the whole thing, but I think deep down I know that this is what has to happen.

What’s next is still unknown, and more than a little awkward. The general protocol is for siteless volunteers to go to the capitol city of Kampala, however it is still off limits to volunteers due to security concerns over the recent terrorist attacks. That means that I will continue living at Rwenjeru until a replacement site is found. They still have no idea that I am being removed, and they actually don’t even know that I know about the invoice, and I am supposed to keep it that way just in case it becomes a security issue (not that I think it will, Mom). I even had to call the headmaster of the school, whom was made aware of the situation, and ask him to lie on my behalf in case someone should call trying to collect the UGX 500,000.

So for now, it looks like I am going to go on living a secret life. It’s definitely not ideal, but at the moment not much else can be done.

I have had a recent influx of calls and emails from a lot of people concerned about the bombings that took place in the capitol city of Kampala during the World Cup Finals. I am okay, and as far as I know, no Peace Corps Volunteers or staff were harmed during the attacks.

I am currently restricted from leaving my site, and, because that is fairly deep in the village, I don't have much information or insight into what is going on.

I will say that I know both the places that were attacked. One is a rugby club and the other is an Ethiopian restaurant. While I wouldn't say that either was very popular with tourists, both places were frequented by foreign residents, particularly from the West. I would have to think that whoever planned these attacks was also aware of this fact, which is pretty troubling as far as my own safety is concerned. Outside of that, I am pretty well in the dark. I will try to keep everyone posted if anything changes.

*DISCLAIMER*

The following story admittedly foul and probably the longest entry that I have written, but it’s my favorite to this point, and I hope you find reading it is worth the sacrifice of your time and potentially your appetite.

I spent the 4th of July on Banda Island, part of the Ssese Island chain just off the Ugandan coast of Lake Victoria. The only way to reach the island is by a three hour water taxi ride on what was basically an old, oversized canoe with an engine hardly fit for trawling.

There is no pier in which to board the boats, which remain tied just off shore. As I was working out in my head how I was possibly going to get on this thing without both exposing myself to schistosomaisis (a parasite found in nearly all stagnant freshwater bodies in Uganda) and getting my things completely soaked, a Ugandan man approached me, squatted next to me, and proceeded to sort of spin me around by grabbing the pocket of my jeans. Totally dumbstruck, I briefly considered telling the man, “yeah, they are Levi’s,” until, at that moment, he stuck his head in between my legs and stood up, hoisting me onto his shoulders. He then proceeded to walk me out into the lake and basically throw me on the boat.

Once on board, our spirits were very high. Somebody broke out their iPod and speakers, and we of course listened to Andy Samberg’s “I’m on a Boat”. A few others decided that rum and mango juice was appropriate considering the circumstances, and although I was inclined to agree, I didn’t partake due to the looming ride across what I could see were rough waters. As we waited to disembark, a few more people boarded the boat, all Ugandans. Then, we were off.

To call the ensuing trip a shit-show would be a severe understatement. Due to the high winds and choppy waters, it became apparent pretty quickly that our 3 hour tour would not bring us anywhere near our destination. After about two hours on the lake, things began to take a turn for the worse. From that point on, I saw things I had really never hoped to see, but this is Peace Corps, and unfortunately bodily functions are by no means sacred here.

Girl Devon (cleverly nicknamed to differentiate her from Boy Devon), along with a couple of the Ugandans, could no longer stomach the pitch and roll of the boat, and began vomiting. One might think that it is fairly obvious that the best course of action here would be to simply turn your head and do this overboard, and in Devon’s defense this was her chosen method, but such things were not so obvious to our local counterparts, who instead used buckets and bags that just sat, stinking, on the boat for the remainder of the journey.

Meanwhile, Boy Devon’s bladder of rum and mango juice had reached its limit. Not wanting to expose himself to everyone or take the risk of literally pissing into the wind with a boatful of people behind him, we cut open a 1.5 liter water bottle and let him do his thing. As he held up the nearly full bottle (amazing… I know), the look on some of the locals faces told me that we should probably be embarrassed, but to be honest, I was mostly just impressed.

Shortly thereafter, a friend next to me mentioned that she had stomach cramps (I am going to leave her name out of this one for reasons that will become obvious). In the middle of the lake, I knew her options were pretty much limited to one of the following: (A) Hanging her ass overboard; (B) Using a plastic bag/bottle in the middle of the boat; or (C) Jumping overboard and taking care of things there. When she spoke up again five minutes later, I came to the realization that there was in fact an option (D). “Guys,” she said, “I really need to go… and I actually kind of already did a little.” It was in the same instant that I smelled something and looked down to find that, to my horror, she had shat her dress and diarrhea was now spilling on the floor of the boat. I was quite literally frozen with a mixture of terror, nausea, and embarrassment on her behalf. I knew that I should do something to help out this girl that was obviously too sick to help herself out but I couldn’t. I just sat there with, what I was later told, a completely blank stare on my face.

Boy Devon had apparently missed the action to this point, but caught on that something was amiss when he saw my face. “Dude,” he whispered, “what happened? Did she pee her pants?” Still in too much shock to speak, I shook my head no. “She didn’t puke, did she?” I shook my head again. “Well, then… what did she… oh…. OHHHH!”

At this point Renee took over. The girl was surrounded by only me and the Ugandans, and it was apparent that neither parties were capable of lifting a finger to help. Luckily for everyone (myself most of all), Renee’s first move was to switch seats with me. She then proceeded to help the girl cut off her underwear with a knife and get her a plastic bag to contain the torrential flow of shit now being produced. The storm continued until we had run out of plastic bags, at which point Boy Devon passes up the pee bottle that he had now filled twice with urine and dumped overboard. I had done a good job of avoiding looking and staying as much out of the way as possible, out of both respect for the girl and my own well-being, but for some reason something caught my eye at the worst possible moment. It was one of the moments where you don’t even mean to look. It’s just a reaction. As I instinctively looked over I saw the former pee bottle, now filled to the brim with shit, being tossed overboard. What I saw then will be scarred in my memory forever… Even from upwind, it smelled something awful, but I can’t even imagine what the downwind Ugandans were going through.

While all of this was going on, Elizabeth had also had her fill of rum and mango juice, and decided that she would not be able to wait any longer. Wanting to avoid another embarrassing showing of bodily function, she cut the top off of a juice box (the only suitable receptacle not already filled and tossed into the lake) and had us put up a wall for privacy. Her plan would have probably worked had the boat not rocked violently in midstream, knocking her over and causing her to pee all over herself and in her pants.

The rest of the weekend went by without much event, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth remembering. We sat and relaxed on what was basically our own deserted beach, ate good food, read, drank a bit, enjoyed eachother’s company after months of isolation, and celebrated America’s independence in style. We even brought Jortstock to Uganda, which, for those of you who don’t know, is a theme party I used to throw in college with my housemates. It’s pretty similar to most college parties except it’s awesomer and everyone wears cut-off jeans shorts (or jorts). All in all, it was an amazing time.

The poor victims of this story recovered quickly, and despite our constant reminders to them about the events on the boat, took everything well in stride.

I celebrated my birthday this past Saturday, and I want to first and foremost thank everyone for all of the love they showed me that day. Before I came here, I worried that out of sight would mean out of mind. That I would live my life here and people would go on living their lives at home with the time and distance creating a rift between us. Luckily, I have never felt that way since I actually arrived, and in fact have come to feel and appreciate those bonds now more than ever. I have already talked a lot about this, and I am sure I will do so even more in the future, but I had to say it again here.

This past weekend I went to the neighboring town of Ibanda to visit two of my losest PCV friends Charlene and Brian and to celebrate my birthday.

Before I go on with my day, I need you to know something about me. One of my favorite ways to mark special occasions is by severe overeating. Whether it be exclusively eating Chicago deep-dish pizza during a 3 day trip with Danimal, a gluttonous Super Bowl eating competition with Ian, Mix, and Fro, ungodly amounts of protein after the completion of a particularly brutal day of lifting legs with Pat, ludicrous amounts of Grandma’s Pizza + Katzinger’s Deli for the OSU football game with Luke, Rees, Ally and Katie, ice cream for just about any movie night with Mike, and especially the incomparable feasts during holidays with the Lebanese Mafia. Although I generally do my best to always eat healthy, these special occasions are one of my favorite ways to celebrate.

Anyway, this past birthday was no different. After a relatively nutritious breakfast of banana, cocoa, and peanut butter oatmeal, we made our way from Brian’s to Charlene’s. There, we dined on a lunch of GIANT chocolate chunk and banana pancakes. Lacking syrup, we topped them off with a selection of powdered sugar, honey, and/or peanut butter.

After lunch, Charlene dragged Brian and my bloated asses out of the house to meet up with a Brother from a nearby church. The Brother had asked if we would attend some school celebration with him, and against our urges to immediately take an afternoon nap, we went. We appeared to be right on-time because as we walked in the MC announced that the celebration had officially begun as the guests of honor had arrived. I looked around to see who the guests of honor were, both curious and a bit embarrassed that we were entering a room of tuxedo and dress clad teens and probably even more elaborately dressed guests of honor while we had on only our t-shirts and jeans. To both my horror and amusement, I saw every head in the house turn toward us as cameras’ flash bulbs began to pop. For a few seconds I felt bad for the real guest of honor as clearly these misinformed kids had thought that the only white people in the room must surely be the guests of honor. Unfortunately, I was the misinformed one. Apparently the Brother, along with his three American friends were, in fact, said guests of honor to these students’ prom. After taking our seats on stage, we introduced ourselves over the microphone to the student body, where much to the chagrin of mine and Brian’s bellies, we were served lunch and cake, which, knowing our manners better then to refuse a Ugandan’s offer of food, we accepted and ate. Feeling even more stuffed than before and still largely uncomfortable, we began hatch out our exit strategy. Before we could put our plan into motion, however, the MC announced that the ceremony part of the celebration was over and that the dance would officially begin with the guests of honor taking the stage first to “show everyone how they dance in America”. Dancing on stage in front of hundreds of people I don’t know could probably best be described under the heading: My Worst Nightmare, but I did it anyway, and at the very least lived to laugh about it.

After the dance, we got the hell out there and headed back to Charlene’s. We had only a couple hours before we had to head into town to watch the then highly anticipated US Soccer match vs. Ghana. Before we went, however, we were obligated to eat the peanut butter cake with chocolate icing that Charlene had made for my birthday. Apparently they had caught on to my affinity for chocolate and peanut butter. We had all thought that we were completely stuffed, but our three-man destruction of that cake implied otherwise.

We then headed into town for dinner (I was contractually obligated to continue the gluttony) and the match. We ate rolex’s (basically like egg burritos), drank a few beers, and when Landon Donovan equalized we absolutely lost our minds with euphoria. I was having one of the best birthdays I can remember. Our ultimate loss to Ghana, on the other hand, was a bit hard to swallow. I tried to joke that at least my first son’s name was still up in the air as Landon Danger Szaronos would not be made obligatory by a US World Cup title (Danger, however, is definitely still on the table). By the time the final seconds ticked off from the match in extra time my euphoric mood had completely disipated. An almost perfect birthday. I looked down at my watch to discover that it was 12:03, June 27th. Maybe my birthday had ended on a high note.

(23/06/2010)

I know the entries are coming fewer and further between as of late, but since I have finally moved to my site out in the village power and internet have been much harder to come by. Like I said though, I am here now, and after nearly two months of idle doldrums I am ready to get to work.

My house is pretty small and very simple. It’s essentially two rooms that measure about 6’X15’ with two 4’x4’ outcroppings for a bathing area and a kitchen. There’s no power and no running water and my furnishings are minimalist at best, but to be honest, out of all the adjustments I’ve had to make since coming to country, acclimating to the lack of amenities has been the easiest.

I said I was ready to work, and I meant it, yet my move to site has not meant a move from the continent, and things here still move slower than I’d thought possible. After a little more than a week my only real contribution has been to write a letter to the Ugandan Ministry of Tourism announcing the launch of our campsite (the organization officially started 4 years ago, but my arrival marks the “real launch” according to the other members) and asking them for technical advice and resources. The letter took me about 30 minutes to write, however it took me about three days to go around with my supervisor Enoch and listen to him read it to people. I am not sure if there was a point to it other than for them to tell me it was the greatest letter any of them had ever heard.

So what have I done with my days since arriving at site? Well each morning I wake up, exercise, make breakfast, and read for about an hour. By 10-11 everyone else is just about ready, and we have our daily meeting. The meetings revolve around what we are going to do for that day, although to date, 60% of these meetings have been to tell me why the other members are too busy to do work for the day. From there, I either find ways to keep myself busy (reading, cleaning, cooking) or do whatever work I can for the day. 2:00 marks lunch time, and what seems to mean the definite end of all work to be done by every man in the village for the day. I’m hoping that this is only because of the ongoing World Cup, however I can’t say at all for sure. And so after lunch each day I have gone into the nearby trading center (small town) with the two closest people to friends I have so far (Allen and Eddison) to watch a match or two. Despite having run out of money to finish my house on time, the chairman of my organization has just opened a new bar with a 15 foot HD projection screen with a satellite dish. I won’t jump to any conclusions, but you are free to speculate on that… Regardless, at least I have a good place to watch soccer from. Anyway, I try to get home by dark, eat my dinner, watch a show on my laptop if I have power, and call it a day.

So that’s it. That’s my life for the time being. The situation is by no means perfect, but I have been really happy so far. If things were perfect there would be no need for me to be here. I have to look at each problem as an opportunity, whether it be an opportunity to help someone else or an opportunity to step outside of my comfort zone.

It's been over four months now, and at some point not long ago I crossed the 'longest-I've-ever-been-outside-of-the-country" barrier. In crossing this invisible threshold, my mind has also shifted a bit in it's way of thinking. Being away from my home, America, has always made me stop and appreciate how many great opportunities there outside. There are different sights to see, people to meet, and cultures to experience. The world is filled with all kinds of amazing things, and I think it would be unfortunate to live inside of a bubble and never get to see them.

I have never been one to be terribly patriotic, and if truth be told, I found the entire concept a bit tacky. That is not to say that I despised America or anything even close to that, but I just considered it the place where I happened to be born as opposed to any other. Patriotism was something for older generations maybe, or perhaps something for the politicians to make a show of. A pin on a lapel. With that being said however, my time away has now led me to rethink my conceptions.

America, I've come to realize after all, is a pretty amazing place. I will leave aside the obvious things that people would want to associate with America's greatness like "freedom", "equality" and whatever other catchphrase you want to throw in. Those things all may be true, but it's not really what I want to focus on here. What I have come to value the most is our people. It is a country filled with good people who are hard-working and never give up. They care about what's right, and are willing to sacrifice for it.

These are all pretty lofty sounding ideals that I think probably sound cliche, and if you would have presented them to me just a few months ago I would have agreed with you, but not anymore. When I say these things, I am not thinking about some generic concepts that the founding fathers wrote on some document and that get regurgitated at a national convention. I am thinking of very specific examples where I see people putting these ideas into practice every day (and for the record, I am not speaking of myself here, because to be honest I haven't done shit yet). I see friends and family who have sacrificed so much of their lives to teach our children, to revive our communities, to care for and heal the underprivileged, trying to make our political system better, or are dedicating themselves in so many other ways. These are more the rules than the exceptions.

I want to sign off with two quotes that have been in my mind quite a bit lately. The first was said by a Ugandan to a group of us Peace Corps Volunteers that I think is relevant to what I have been trying to say. He said, "America is a country that is more than willing to sacrifice it's greatest resource. It's people." The second is a bit more simple, and I am going to have to apologize to some, but I just have to say it anyway...

"America. Fuck yeah."

After fighting a losing battle with my previous mobile provider, I have switched, and now have a new number. You can find me at (256) 701-325-324

I also have Skype on my computer, and, for the time being, I have fast enough internet for video. You can find me there at david.szaronos

I've been away from my apartment in Mbarara for a week now and haven't been to my campsite at Rwenjeru for over two now, hence my absence. The first few days of my holiday I met up with my friend Renee to stay with another Volunteer in a town called Kasese near Queen Elizabeth National Park. From there, Renee and I went on to Kampala to meet up with some of our other friends from our training class, and to deal with a few issues we were both having with our sites at the Peace Corps Office.

Whether it was seeing all of my friends, eating a few good meals, finally feeling some support from the PC administration, or the complete lack of Enock in my life, I feel so refreshed right now. The problems I am facing at my site are all still here, and may have even grown in number since I have been away as my landlord is threatening to evict me for late rent. I just feel more ready to deal with all of those things now.

Kampala gave me a much needed break from the monotony of my daily routine. I got a chance to do do some things that I thought I wouldn't even get a whiff of for the next two years. I had the three best meals I have eaten since I left America in early February including one of roasted crocodile (surprisingly delicious!), I went to the local clothing market and indulged a bit in my two favorite articles of clothing (jeans and a pair of high tops - second hand, but still...This is Uganda), and I even threw down and won a few bets at a nearby casino. More importantly, I got a chance to spend some time with some good friends (namely Renee and Joe). I think we reminded each other of why we came here in the first place and the fact that, even thuogh it sometimes feels like it, we aren't in this alone.

All in all, the last week or so has in no way resembled what a Peace Corps experience normally is or even should be. None of us came here to continue the lives we left back in America. High-end meals, new (used) clothes, and gambling are not things that you ever want to rely on to keep your sanity, especially when you are spending two years in East Africa. We also have to learn how to find contentment within ourselves, and not rely on other people for our happiness as we move on. We all know this, and we are still learning, but that doesn't mean that it is wise to deny ourselves these much needed respites when we need them, and as far as I am concerned, the timing of this last trip couldn't have been better.

Last week a group of students from the University of London came to visit my site for a research project on the role of tourism in development. I have to say that their visit was really my saving grace last week. The truth is things have kind of ground to a halt lately here. My house is still not finished, and I find myself with less and less to do as each day goes by, and because of the restrictions on travel, I will often just sit in my Mbarara apartment for days on end. Even when I do get to go out to site, my organization frustrates me in almost every conceivable way, but I won't go into that now.

I actually wasn't even supposed to be there for the student visit, as I was going to travel to visit my friends Charlene and Brian in a neighboring town, but due to my supervisors unrelenting insistence, I ended up cancelling the trip. I was a little upset about having to cancel, but when a van rolled up and I saw that the group of visiting students were all girls my mood picked up slightly. I was only supposed be with them for a few hours, but after my supervisor Enock hijacked everything and turned their two hour morning visit into an all-day affair. Even though I embarrassed by Enock's imposition, I was actually relieved to have someone else to talk to that day. The alternative being just Enock and me...

I ended up hanging out with the group for the rest of the week, and I got to be pretty close with some of them despite only having met them a few days ago. I actually even went on a Safari with one of the girls (Lorraine- from Zimbabwe but has lived in England for the past 7 years) and a couple of other friends that live here in town. These past few days have easily been the best I've had since coming to site. It made me feel like myself again.

Their presence, both when they were here and in their absence, has highlighted what my life has actually become. It made me think of what things must look like to somebody just stepping off a plane from London, and it also helped me remember what life outside of this place for a few days. "Yes, I do see this kind of poverty every day." "Yes, I do actually work with this man." "Yes, I do eat this every day." "Yes, I spend every waking hour either alone or with people that treat me as more of a novelty than an actual person." "Yes, I will be here for the next two years..." The list goes on, and while more than one of them told me they think what I am doing is noble, I also know that not one of them envies my position. It's probably safe to say that many of you reading this at home wouldn't trade positions with me either.

The point is that this is my life, and it's what I've come to know and accept. Hopefully it will get better as I continue to integrate into my community more fully (assuming my house ever gets finished), but for now it's my reality. It can be lonely, boring, difficult, and definitely frustrating, but I also hope it's giving me the chance to experience something unique. Even if those experiences are hard, and the good ones only happen by every once, and even those are often short-lived, they are all experiences nonetheless.

Check out the photos from my safari with Lorraine, Brendon and Dennis here:

So I have been getting some requests to add some more about my day-to-day life as well as some pictures. Here's my attempt at doing both of those at the same time. I tried to create an album that takes you through a typical day in my life, and at the bottom of each picture there is a caption explaining it. I tried to set up it so you could view it from here, but it didn't really work out so you have to view it from my Picasa page.

I don't know what to say. I am saddened, shocked, and disappointed. I have worked so hard. Wanted it so badly. I felt like this time, I really deserved it. I have even been waking up at 3:00 AM with this one goal in mind. Now I see it was all for nothing.

I guess I just thought that if I put my whole heart into something, devoted the time to it, and believed with my entire being that maybe this time would be different that it actually would be.

Then the Cavs go and put on a performance like that...

(23/02/2010)

Pretty much all of my life I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by so many people that genuinely care about me. From the start there has always been a familiar face right there to pick me up when I’m down or catch me when I fall. Sure, I have always continued to make new friends and form new relationships, but that safety net was always there. When I first started school way back when there was my family and my neighbors. When I went away to college , I went in with some of my best friends from high school. When I went to Luxembourg two of my best friends were there with me. In Chicago there were two great friends from my studies in Lux (now there must be a dozen of them there).

I think the Peace Corps marks the first time that I am truly trying something on my own. It’s definitely an exciting feeling, but coming into it was more than a little nerve-racking. I think I did a good job focusing on the excitement, but the anxiety was there whether I chose to admit it to anyone, or not.

I ran a fever today. It wasn’t anything too serious, but I felt like shit pretty much all day, and in Africa a fever can mean countless different things that are pretty much terrifying to even think of. I bring this up because as I sit here writing this, texts and calls from my fellow PCTs are pouring in just to check on how I am feeling. I realize now that I am not alone. A few weeks ago, I had never met a single one of these people, and yet today they are willing to take time out from what they are doing, drop a couple hundred shillings which they don’t really have just to make sure I am okay. In just a few short weeks we have already formed some very real bonds of friendship, and I couldn’t be more grateful that we have each other. I know that in a about two months we will all go our separate ways and head out to site, but I still feel encouraged. I am sure that it will take a bit more effort, but I see now that I can do this again. I think that I can continue to make friends and build relationships despite whatever barriers lay between me and my future community. I guess time will be the ultimate judge of this, but for now I am looking forward with optimism.

20/02/2010

I had planned on going to bed without writing as nothing today seemed particularly “blog-worthy”, but as I was lying here inside of my mosquito-netted bed I remembered a conversation I had with my host dad, Festo earlier this evening. When I told him about my language selection and my probable site placement in the southwest he asked me if I was familiar with what happened near there in Rwanda in the early 90s. I said that I was aware, and expressed my utter disgust about the tragedy. He agreed that the genocide that took place there was terrible, but what has me thinking tonight is that he quickly replied that while this was bad, his opinion is that the most horrifying act of terror in his lifetime was the destruction of the Twin Towers in NYC.

I will tread very carefully here because I don’t want to be misunderstood. What happened on September 11 was an awful, awful tragedy. I do not mean to take away from that at all. Still, I was shocked to hear him say this. Thinking that maybe he was saying it for my benefit, I reminded him that 800,000 people (many of them women and children) were murdered in Rwanda in a matter of weeks mere miles away from his hometown village. He agreed that what happened in Rwanda was terrible, but he stood firm that 9/11 was the worst. Trying to understand, I asked him why he thought this. While he never came right out and said it, I feel like the implications of his responses were clear.

The sad truth that I’ve already come to realize is that tragedy is a fact of life here in Africa and the people accept their plot as such. There’s a sense of fatalism that I have never seen before. As Festo was showing me his photo albums he glossed over a picture of Simon, one of his children that was lost during infancy. When I tried to express my sympathy it was quickly shaken off and I was told these kinds of things just happen. After all, he lives in a country where 300,000+ die each year from malaria, malnutrition runs rampant, HIV/AIDS infects about 1 in 10 people, and 3 of the 5 bordering nations have been host to some of the worst crimes against humanity in my lifetime. For many Ugandans, life is a daily struggle that I haven’t experience for a single day in America. He may not like any of these things, but he accepts them in his way. What he cannot accept, however, is that anything as terrible as any of that should happen thousands of miles away in a country that he has never been to, and in all likelihood will never get to see. These types of things simply do not happen in America. Africa, I guess, is a different story.

(19/02/2010)

Ok, it hasn’t been too long, but already I see myself describing my experiences and what’s exciting to me here while most of you reading this are probably curious about what exactly day to day is like for me so this post will be dedicated to that.

Training:

-Time

10 weeks

8-5 Monday-Friday; 8-1 Saturday; Off Sunday

- Subjects

Language - Each trainee was selected to learn a language based on the region they are going to be in. I will be learning Runyankore/Rukiga (technically two languages, but I’m told they are 98% the same). I think there are six languages our group is being trained in.

Program - There are two programs in my group. Community Health and Economic Development (CHED) and Education (both primary and secondary). I am a CHED volunteer.

Cross Culture - Understanding differences between Ugandan and American culture.

Miscellaneous - Workshops on sanitation, gardening, living with host families, safety, healthcare, etc.

Hygiene

Bathing - Bucket baths… This is pretty much what it sounds like. I get my jerry-can of water, pour it into my bucket, and head outside to my families bathing area. It’s walled in, but yeah, it’s outside. I then poor cups of cold water onto myself to wash and rinse.

Laundry - Everything is hand washed in buckets and line dried. If you are thinking that this doesn’t sound too bad then you have probably never hand washed anything outside of delicates, and you almost certainly had running water to do it with. My words cannot give justice to this absolute nightmare. I will definitely be brining someone onto the payroll for this once I am at site.

Nature Calls - Known locally as long/short calls. You can figure it out. Running water is rare and toilets are even rarer. Instead we use pit latrines. Imagine an outhouse, but instead of a seat there is a 4”X 6” hole in the concrete floor that drops what must be 10 feet (judged based on sound delay…). I am going to try to attach a diagram of this.

Shaving - Get real.

Diet:

Breakfast - Each trainee eats at homestay. For me, breakfast is tea, chapatti (delicious Ugandan flatbread) or bread, and a banana. I bought peanut butter the other day, and I think a PB and banana chapatti sandwich is something I could live with for quite a while.

Lunch / Dinner - Identical to each other and to every other lunch/dinner everyday of every week. Pick 3-5 of the following starches: sweet potatoes (look and taste nothing like American cousin), Irish (regular) potatoes, matooke (mashed plantain - looks like banana, but is much closer to potatoes in both taste, texture, and nutrition (or lack thereof)), cassava (read: sweet potatoes), posho (cornmeal), spaghetti noodles, and rice. Pick 1-2 of the following vegetables: cabbage, peas, greens. Pick 1 of the following proteins: beans, groundnut (African peanut) sauce, chicken sauce (infrequent) beef (infrequent). Fruit is definitely the highlight here with always fresh options of 1-2 of the following: banana, pineapple, avocado, jackfruit, papaya, watermelon, guava, and mango.

Social:

I have met some really great people already, and we get to talk a lot during training, but we don’t have a ton of time to be social outside of class as we tend not to stay out after dark for safety reasons. Usually, we will find something to do for a couple of hours after class. When this doesn’t involve studying it usually does involve hanging out at a bar. No one has really let loose yet as we are all still so new to Africa and to each other. It’s usually just one beer and then back home for dinner. Most experienced volunteers assure me that this is bound to change.

Weather:

It’s actually been a little colder than I expected, but I would blame that on the rain. When the sun is out, I would say the high is upper 80s. When it’s raining the highs might be low 70s, but it feels much colder because everyone is wet and muddy from the bike ride into training. It’s rained maybe 30-40% of the days we’ve been here, and I think that is going to pick up more as we get more into rainy season.

Life of the Muzungu:

Muzungu is the word in almost all Bantu languages for white person. When any group or individual Muzungu goes anywhere we are quickly singled out for what is hopefully an obvious reason to you. This can be both a blessing and a curse. For safety issues it can be a bit of a concern. Our skin associates us with both new visitors (which we basically are as of now) and money. This basically puts a target on our backs for anyone wishing to make our pockets a bit later, although this hasn’t happened to any PC Uganda trainee or volunteer for some time. Violent crimes are even rarer here. Probably most concerning to the PCT/PCV is that our skin color will never change. Unlike America, Uganda is racially homogeneous and we will never be able to fully integrate into our communities because of this.

In my opinion, the other side of this coin far outweighs any negative aspects. Unlike what happened in other African nations, the British did a decent job during and after colonialism and Muzungus still enjoy a good reputation because of this. Unlike what you might think, Americans are actually one of the most loved people in Uganda. I’m not sure of all of the reasons behind this, but I think that both Peace Corps (pronounced “Peace Corpse” in local tongue) and Barrack Obama have a lot to do with it. Every time I ride my bike or take a walk anywhere in the village children come running out of their houses (pants optional) yelling, “Bye, Muzungu!” or “See you, Muzungu!” in the hope that we might turn our heads and wave at them or even respond with an, “Oli Otya?” (how are you?). I will try to get some video of this sometime so you can see it, but for now it will suffice to say that these kids are pretty much losing their minds at the sight of us. Even the adults are pretty amused by our presence. With maturation comes a great deal of humility that seems to be the standard in Uganda, so they do not put on quite the show that the little ones do, however they are always very eager to talk to us and flex some English skills.

(17/2/2010)

I’ve moved in with my host family, and so far it’s better than I could have hoped for! I am living with the Iranukunda’s, a Catholic family made up of five children, the mother, and the father...

(At this point I was writing in my journal outside when I was interrupted by my host mother Gertrude. She handed me an enormous papaya and a knife sans handle. She speaks very little English, but she made it quite obvious that she wanted me to start peeling and gutting this monstrous fruit. The Ugandans don’t have cutting boards, nor do they do anything on counters or tabletops. Instead, they hold whatever they are cutting in their off-hand and just start going at it. To no one’s surprise including my own, the entire family, the neighbors who were watching from outside of the fence, and most likely you reading this, I was absolutely terrible at preparing exotic fruit in this way. We all had quite a laugh at the muzungu failing miserably at doing the simplest of house chores.)

...Anyway, my new family is made up of Festo and Gertrude and their five kids: Innocent (21), Gloria (18), Barbara (12), Dixon (9), and Janet (6). I have yet to meet Barbara who is away at boarding school, but I am already scheming how to win my way into each of their hearts. When Innocent picked me up yesterday, he was wearing his Arsenal - Fabergas shirt. Seizing this opportunity, I decided to unload all of the English football (yeah, I am not going to call it soccer as I have already been ridiculed for this by the locals) knowledge I had on him (thanks Luke and Joshie). when I exhausted that avenue 30 seconds later, I explained to him that it was simply not a popular sport in America. He let me know that he was aware of this particular deficiency, but that he would be willing to watch any matches I cared to so long as I wanted to and was willing to cheer for Arsenal whenever they played. I am excited for both the football and the chance to bond with Inno a bit more. Festo should be easy. He speaks great English, and is always willing to chat with my about the differences between our cultures. I feel as if he has already taken me under his wing. The two young ones were also quite easy. All it took was an iPod full of American music. Dixon loves hip-hop and Bob Marley which is basically what I expected, and while Janet will listen to anything I give to her, she only dances around when I play indie dance and ska which I am fairly sure she has never heard before. Gertrude may be a bit more difficult because of both the language barrier and the separation of gender roles here. She is always smiling, though, and if the past two days is any indication, she seems to find me the most amusing whenever I am trying to help her around the house despite the fact that I’m consistently failing to do anything that could be construed as constructive. Gloria is also proving to be hard to get to know. It has only been a couple of days, but she really only talks to me or even looks at me when I am saying something directly to her. I am not sure if this an issue with gender, or if she is just being an average teenage girl.

There’s plenty more I could say, and I still haven’t even mentioned my fellow trainees, trainers, or even the town I am staying in, but I am tired. I just wanted to get some thoughts down about my first impressions while they were still fresh. For now, just know that I am doing very well.

(10/02/2010)

In a matter of hours I’ll be on my way to Africa for what will undoubtedly be a life changing two years. While I expect I am about to face both triumphs and challenges unlike anything I can imagine, my mind is hardly focused on the future. Instead, I find myself looking back at everything and everyone that I am leaving behind.

I understand that my commitment to join the Peace Corps came as a shock to more than a few of you. I don’t expect that many will ever fully understand why I did this, and I am actually fine with that. What matters to me is that when it came down to it I felt all the support and love that I could have ever asked for. I know there are some out there who may think that I am running away from something, but I would never want anyone to believe that. To put it shortly, this is just something that I feel like I have to do, for better or worse. Running away implies that I am trying to get away from something, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. Thinking back now on my life and what I am leaving behind I am filled with so much happiness and so many fond memories. At about this point in my journal I list a lot of those memories, and while they are too many and too sappy to put here, please know that I am still thinking of them and you all everyday.

Home is always home. That means Columbus (ask my left arm), Chicago, and Oxford, but mostly it means the people I met there along the way. These next two years will be trying, but that has nothing to do with the lack of amenities or the food or anything like that. The only thing that worries me is being away from everyone that I love.

“The road might take me away, but it’s sure enough to bring me home.”

I apologize to everyone for taking so long to get this blog going. It’s been two weeks since I left, and I know for almost everyone this is my first contact. I will try my best to be more prompt from now on, however, if I am unable to, I will write in my journal or type entries on my computer and upload them here when I can.

Before I get started, I thought I’d type a little bit about what I hope to get out of this and what I want this account to become. First and foremost I want an account of my Peace Corps service here in Uganda for both myself and for my friends and family. Unfortunately, I will not have the time or internet access to write lengthy emails to everyone I love and be as much a part of their lives as I was back in the states (sorry Mom). For those of you wishing to keep tabs on me, this is probably the easiest way for me to keep you in the loop. That way, when I do have time to email with you, I can actually have a conversation instead of me just talking at you. Second, I hope that by sharing my experiences with you, you may be able to come up with new insights and perspectives about what’s going on over here that hadn’t occurred to me. I really do value all of your input, and I think it will help me continue to learn and grow throughout this whole process. If you can learn something from this then I think that’s wonderful, but I am not writing to inspire or even to seek attention.

I am sure that in the beginning this will mostly be an account of day to day events, and I will try to always keep some of that, but my hope is to also include some cultural perspectives and attitudes that occur to me through that days events as opposed to just a record of that days events. I will try to be as honest as I can, and I know that that’s going to mean that some people aren’t going to like some of the things they read, but censoring myself is not something I care to do, or even do well when I try.