Caring and Feeling

We have a saying out here on the east side of Uganda. “First you stop caring, then you stop feeling” It comes about from dealing with the darkness, danger, and human suffering that is part of living in a nation like Uganda.  It is not meant as a serious expression.  It’s more of a dark commentary on the psychological aspects of what it means to have this job, “The toughest job you’ll ever love”.  You learn to look past all the things that you cannot help which inhabit your existence.  It’s how you travel unrestrained in an overstuffed taxi speeding down a torn and crowded road, knowing one small mishap could be your death.  It’s how you run through traffic when the drivers are not liable and care little, then continue walking without a response even in thought when you get clipped.  It’s how you walk past a dozen street children digging through garbage on your way to a restaurant.  You can’t do any good if you go home every night and cry.  Giving all your money away to the point of your own poverty will only hurt you and perpetuate a cycle of dependence which is crippling development. 

If you want to make progress, affect change, be anything more than an economic stimulus.  You need to pick your battles.  Know what change can be made.  Know what interventions cause you to lose credibility.   As a teacher, I see caneings every day; teachers beating children, shaming; demoralizing them for what is often little reason.  If I were to stand up and try to stop these activities, I may well be successful in some small degree.  They might cease in my presence or just wait till I am gone.   But it would be the end of my effective service in my community.  They would think I am week, out of touch with their culture, trying to impose foreign values on the discipline they “know” their students need.  I am not here to protect my own sensibilities.  A Peace Corps Volunteer persists through hardship of mind and body in an attempt to make a difference.   So you take the slow route, the only route. 

You pick up a hoe, go outside, and turn over the earth around your house.  You do this because it is what those around you do.  It is there lively hood, a traditional way of life which goes beyond memory.  With sweat laden brow and blistered palm you great your neighbors as they walk past.  Sowing seeds, you tend to their growth weeding, watering, harvesting.  It’s not about being successful it’s about effort. 

Understand your best work is done sitting under a mango tree, sharing a cup of tea or ear of roasted maize.  Ask as many questions as you answer.  Open your mind, quit judging those around you.  Your moral sense, ideas of right and wrong, understanding of appropriate, image of the world and how people fit into it, these are just one interpretation on existence, an interpretation which may not be shared by those in your village.  If there is such a thing as validity in such matters, that judgment is beyond me. 

Every day you walk, greet, talk, share, laugh, and grow.  You do this without judging, condemning, or acting paternal.  You can never become one of them, but you can become accepted.  Perhaps, after six months or more you will feel it.  People smile at your presence.  Not because you are a symbol of pride for the community or the money you represent.  They smile with the warmth of friendship and trust.  You cease to be an interloper, a foreigner who does not understand or accept.  Somehow you have become a member of the community, a part of the tribe.  Reaching this point is a triumph in its own right. 

                This is when the subtle work begins.  Sitting one on one with a friend sharing a moment, you bring up a subject like alternative discipline.  In your time with them you have handled your class your own way.  Yes there have been difficulties, but there has also been success.  You have adapted to your students and they have adapted to you.  It’s just a conversation.  You are not saying one way is better.  They are simply different.  Perhaps there is some value in different.  If there is one thing I do know it is you cannot tell someone anything and expect them to take it to heart.  All the best lessons are learned through self discovery, when the genesis of action comes from within.  This may not be the fastest way to affect change.  But I do believe there is power in friendship and mutual understanding.  You do this because you do care, because you still feel, even if you can’t feel it all at once.  

It’s a hell of a thing really.  When pity and fear are replaced with understanding and acceptance, the mind becomes open to joys it would never have known.  It allows you walk down a dirty poverty ridden street in a torn city while you bite into the sweat juicy flesh of a floret of jack fruit and have the beautiful thought “this must be what sunshine taste like”.  You are free to sit in the taxi feeling the wind on your face that smells of charcoal fires and rain, enjoying the golden light of sunset casting the shadows of clouds on mountains of emerald and scarlet.  After all there is a heart behind every hand which holds a cane in violence.  If you allow yourself, you may just find that heart.  And find yourself better off with a friend. 

I was staying in Mbale one night when I was awoke at 2:30 in the morning to the sound of screaming.  A man was being beaten.  The impact of a cane clearly resonated.    The cries were broken by the fluid building in his throat.  It went on for an hour.  Eventually the screams stopped, but the impacts of the cane still cut the night air.  I sat there knowing I was safe, locked in a room, bars on the windows.  No one even knew I was there.  And I listened; it was all I could do.  My reach could not affect this. 

I don’t know what happened, who was involved or why.  I didn’t sleep anymore that night.  Instead I stayed up and wrote this.  As much as you want to be disconnected at times, no matter how much you need not to feel, the pounding waves of the world will eventually crash on the shores of your heart.  

108

I sat down with my friends and we came up with rules, suggestions, certainties, guidelines, pearls of wisdom, you know the dos and don’ts of living in Uganda.  Some are more points of meditation.  I picked my favorite 108. Why 108?  Well I like that number.  Somewhere along the line it became important to me.  Many of these come from personal experience, many from experiences of our friends, and some come from stories we have heard of wayward travelers.  If you are planning on coming to, living in, or spending a significant amount of time in Uganda, I would strongly recommend you familiarize yourself with this list.  It came about from a lot of hard lessons learned. 

1.       Watch your step.

2.       Brush your teeth.

3.       Pack a snack.

4.       Go to the restaurant well before you are hungry.

5.       Always carry toilet paper.

6.       The police are not your friends.

7.       Distribute your money among your pockets.

8.       Learn to say Hello and Thank You in the local language(s).

9.       Indian food is great for a hangover.

10.   Wear local clothes.

11.   Be nice to people with assault weapons.

12.   When using public transportation, keep your bag on your lap or by your feet.

13.   White socks are a poor choice.

14.   It is ok to show your breasts but not your thighs.

15.   Goat is delicious.

16.   Jeans are never to dirty to wear.

17.   There is no clean.

18.   It is ok for two men or two women to hold hands.

19.   It is never ok for a man and a woman to hold hands.

20.   Ask for the toilet. Bathrooms are for bathing, and occasionally onesies.

21.   Learn the early signs of a riot.

22.   A beard will make you look like a Muslim. This could be good or bad.

23.   Take advantage of the lack of copyright laws.

24.   Become comfortable with public defecation.

25.   Put your wallet in your front pocket

26.   Don’t sell your friends.

27.   There is no way to blend.

28.   When in a rural area, greet everyone.

29.   Monkeys can fuck you up.

30.   Know which local diseases can be treated and in what time frame.

31.   Stay in a place with bars on the window.

32.   It was not a bad decision if you got a story out of it.

33.   Wear practical shoes.

34.   Nothing cost as much as they say it does.

35.   Wear cheap watches.

36.   Know what makes you a prostitute in the local culture.

37.   Don’t give out your phone number or e-mail to strangers.

38.   Embrace your feminine side.

39.   Circumstance is a bitch.

40.   Breathe through your mouth.

41.   Vehicles will hit you.

42.   Underwear is replaceable.

43.   Sometimes it hurts.

44.   It won’t hurt forever.

45.   AIDS is forever.

46.   Nothing is as good as you remember it. 

47.   Don’t try to reason with crazies.

48.   Keep the conversation going.

49.   Be self aware.

50.   If someone hands you leaves to chew on, do so at your own risk.

51.   Prostitutes are never worth it.

52.   Never take a night bus.

53.   Treat your drinking water (this can be done with booze).

54.   Take your meds.

55.   Listen for the splat.

56.   Where the water is dirty, the beer is clean.

57.   The water is always dirty.

58.   Hippos are ass holes and they can run.

59.   Your limits will surprise you.

60.   Try not to be noticed.

61.   Don’t trust Rastas.

62.   It is hard to balance who you are and what you want.

63.   Tear gas happens.

64.   Most Indian people speak English.

65.   It’s better to have something new than a poor imitation of something you love.

66.   Be cautious of over friendly people.

67.   There are interesting things in alleys.

68.   Men can be and are roofied too.

69.   Frogger is a practical training exercise.

70.   Sunscreen.

71.   Know thy self.

72.   Breathe through your mouth.

73.   Carry a knife.

74.   Local pharmacies will recommend drugs that may be very harmful.

75.   Lock your bedroom door.

76.   Pick a spirit animal.

77.   Have ear plugs on hand.

78.   It is ok for guys to wear girl clothes.

79.   Don’t forget your towel.

80.   Never trust directions.

81.   Carry cigarettes at night, even if you don’t smoke, they go a long way with guards.

82.   Bars with no names are the cheapest.

83.   Never waste a sit down toilet.

84.   Familiarize yourself with local laws, they will surprise you.  

85.   1 in 10 people here are HIV positive. 

86.   They will never believe you can’t take them to America.

87.   If there are too many vehicles on the sidewalk, walk on the street.

88.   Only eat hot food.

89.   Always get drunk before a riot.

90.   Showers are a commodity.

91.   Find your happy place.

92.   Have a safe word.

93.   Never accept children.

94.   Wash your hands frequently.

95.   Determine your weapon of choice.

96.   You will have to ask for the bill at least 3 times.

97.   Take advantage of the spotlight.

98.   Never underestimate the value of dental floss.

99.   Carry a torch.

100.   Know where the exits and toilets are.

101.  Handkerchiefs are handy.

102.   You will cry.

103.   When in doubt have another drink.

104.   Splurge on condoms and toilet paper.

105.   Choose who you vacation with carefully.

106.   Lower your standards.

107.   Never dry your clothes outside overnight.

108.   You will be surprised. 

Tragedy

On Saturday April 27^th Peace Corps Uganda suffered a tragic loss.  Around 6:00 a.m. Daniele Gucciardo, Jennifer Mamola, and Ellen Grim were heading to catch a bus from Gulu to Kampala.  They were getting an early start on the long journey to IST (In Service Training) when they were struck by a drunk driver.   Danielle was killed on impact, Jennifer suffered severe injuries, and Ellen escaped with minor injuries.  

It is still dark at six in Uganda; the sun makes itself known around seven.  There is a peculiar similarity to days on the equator.  Led by Danielle’s torch, my friends were walking well off the road.  Then, giving no warning in light or sound, the truck came from behind.  The force was great, scattering the trio.  The driver kept on going.  He would soon wreck and attempt to flee on foot.  The people of Gulu captured him.  Had all this not occurred near a police station the mob would likely have killed him. 

As for my friends, at first they were alone.  Ellen was the only one left standing.  Ellen the birder from Pennsylvania, the girl with the golden heart and sunshine smile, that morning she became Ellen the lion heart, protector of her friends.  She mobilized; assessed the situation, took vitals.  She made decisions that deserve to fall upon no one.  Ellen called Peace Corps security, medical, and local volunteers while tending to the others.  Soon people started to gather.  They wanted to help but didn’t know the harm they might have caused.  They tried moving Jennifer by dragging her by the arms and legs.  Not a backboard in sight.  So Ellen straddled Jennifer and kept the good Samaritans at bay until the ambulance arrived.  There is so much more to this story that I do not have the heart to tell.  It’s not the kind of thing you want to hear.  What you should know.  When the situation was dire, heads were kept level.  Everything that could have been done was.  The little consolation it is, if this accident happened in front of an American hospital the outcome would have been the same. 

When I heard the details of the accident, I found my emotions to be in opposition to my closest ideals.  I wished the mob had not been interrupted.  I wished the rock had fallen, that retribution was quick.  It is only natural to lust after vengeance, to seek immediate gratification, the diffusion of responsibility that comes with mob justice.  But there is no justice in brutality.  No service is done when the law is cast aside in the pursuit of revenge.

Danielle was an amazing person.  A huge personality, she brought a smile with her wherever she went.  Clumsy and silly, first impressions were not her best.  But to know her was to truly see her.  Her self confidence was total.  She accepted herself truly and completely.  A gift that is all too rare and special.  She made you think about your own doubts and shortcomings, gave you hope that such strength existed inside of you.  She made me laugh.  When Danielle struggled with something, she worked on it.  It was common to hear her say “Danielle you can be better”.  But it didn’t stop there.  If you were struggling she would come up to you, put her hands on your shoulders, look you in the eye and say “I need you to be better”.  It was inspiring.  More than words, somehow it got down inside of you and made you want to be better.  Despite the weeks that have passed I have trouble relegating her to a past tense.  She remains an “is” in my mind.  As long as those who knew her continue to wander this rock she will in some way remain as such.  Her spirit lives on in us.  I love you Danielle.  I miss my friend.

                Jennifer is doing well.  She was medevaced to South Africa and given excellent medical care.  Her father joined her shortly thereafter.  She is in good spirits and eating well.  Hopefully Jennifer will be tying on her running shoes and hitting the pavement again by the holidays.

                The rest of us found out a few hours after the accident.  I had a party the night before.   People were still waking up, just starting to handle the day’s preparations when our phones went off.  The first message was cryptic.  “Our thoughts and prayers go to their families and friends. We will provide updates.  Please continue to be safe in your service.”  And that was all.  The next message did not come for over 30 minutes.  We sat there not knowing what to think.  Our minds were going off in all the worst directions.  No one wanted to say anything out loud, but the silence was too much to bear.  Timid suggestions were made.  You never wanted to be wrong more in your life.  And then it came, my phone first this time.  I just stared at it and everyone stared at me.  I couldn’t say it and no one wanted to ask.  “Danielle Gucciardo passed away from her injuries. Jennifer Mamola has a fractured right femur and Ellen Grim has cuts.”

            People handle shock in different ways.  Some of us cried, others stood there in silence.   I went about making breakfast.  Several of us had the urge to keep busy, to find a sense of normalcy.  At one point we spent an hour on my back stoop in silence.  Quite a few cigarettes were smoked.  Breakfast started in the same tone.  But sitting there staring at each other, we couldn’t keep it up.  We talked about anything, anything else.  It was crude, vulgar, tangential, and empty.   After that people started to leave, find their way to the next bit of distracting business.   Some stayed.  We quizzed each other on GRE flashcards and started hitting the booze.  When morning came in America we called our parents.  Who knows how to act in a time like this?  There is no right, just reaction. 

                That night we piled into hotel rooms and took solace in the warmth of the group.  The four hour bus ride in the morning was almost silent, IPOD’s in, eyes to the horizon.  I bought a snifter when we reached town.  Normally we drink out of plastic bottles cut in half.  That just didn’t seem appropriate this time. 

                IST was a solemn week.  The only consolation being we were all together.  Danielle lived with the Acholi people.  She ate their food, spoke their language, and taught their children.  They spoke many beautiful words at her memorial.  When the Acholi lose someone, a fire is lit and kept burning for a week.  So we followed their tradition and lit a fire.  It brought us together. Every night we gathered around the fire: drinking, talking, dancing, and commiserating.  The days were vapid.  Most of us were of vacant mind.  Slowly coming back to ourselves as the week progressed.  But in the evenings, with nothing to do but be together, we found freedom.  On the last night of IST I found myself staring in to the memorial flames.  I threw my snifter into the fire.  The flames flashed blue with brandy as the glass bounced off a log and flew into the grass.  The moonlight traced the curves of the snifter as the glow of the fire danced across its surface.  Realizing my failure I tossed the glass into the coals.  So I sat on the wet grass with a few close friends.  We stared into the embered logs passing Julian’s Sherry telling stories of life.  All the while the snifter slowly deformed.   As the logs burned the colas piled higher and with a sudden crash it was gone and buried, just a convulsion of glass.  Smashing the snifter was supposed to turn the page on my grief.  When it bounced I knew it wouldn't be that easy.  So much of life is out of our hands, out of control.  But we can try.  When the world throws you on your ass, stand up and find the lion in your own heart.  You can be better. 

The Long and Busted Road (part 1)

Travel in Uganda is everything you never wanted it to be; crammed, dirty, unreliable, and most of all dangerous.  Traveling to Kampala (the capital) from my site can take as little as 5 hours or as long as 10. It all starts with a 5km walk.  This takes me to the road to town and my closest trading center.  It normally takes me 40 minutes.  The first few times I made this walk it was interesting.  Now it’s kind of annoying.   The whole way people stop, stare, wave, and greet.  Children freak out.  Grabbing their hair, flailing their limbs, screaming “Mzungu” they come running in herds.  Imagine teenage girls at a pop concert.  Most of the village children have never been more than a few kilometers from their homes.  For many I am the only white person they have ever gotten a good look at.  Their English is little.  “Mzungu by-eeee” with a very long “ee” Is frequently yelled.  “All righty” oddly enough finds its way into the mix.  However, “Mzungu how are you” is by far the most common.  This is repeated in quick succession to a fantastically tiresome extent.  Often I imagine a Hip Hop beat and try to remix this slanted chorus into the next YouTube sensation. Maybe not. 

            Then there is the road itself.  Most roads in Uganda are not paved and line free.  Extensive potholes are the norm. You must always keep an eye on your next step.  More than once I have met the ground sans grace or dignity, only to write myself and discover gravel in my mouth and hair.  Think back to your most embarrassing dream in High School. Be it finding yourself naked in the cafeteria or something more original but just as poignant. This pales compared to the pointing laughter supplied by village children when they see whitey bust ass.


         If one eye is on the ground the other is looking for speeding cars and Bodas. In Uganda a motorcycle is called a Boda Boda. Fairly certain that's an onamanapia. They are everywhere, by far the preferred mode of transportation.  They can wind around the rain carved roads and weave through jams. Statistically speaking getting on a Boda is the most dangerous thing you can do in this country. Transportation is the greatest cause of death and injury in Uganda, Bodas being the greatest cause of incident. Helmets are plentiful but unused. Mostly they sit on the headlight. They get real creative with them. Almost everything is transported on a Boda. Here is a list of some of the more impressive things I have seen on just one. A king size matters frame complete with bed posts, five people and two chickens, ten foam mattresses, a full size couch, twelve foot rolls of corrugated steel, two large pigs, a coffin, and more jerry cans than I could count.

            Peace Corps volunteers are not allowed to ride Bodas under threat of administrative separation.  I understand this and am frankly a little scared of them.  However it does kind of suck sometimes. Regular transportation other than Bodas does not go to most of our sites. This means lots of walking. All of my supplies are carried to my house on my back. This is where I thank ULA for sending me a free replacement frame for my internal frame backpack. Without that bag I would go hungry, if you are in the market for a light weight durable hiking pack. Check them out.

           When I hit the main road it's time to catch a Matatu. 

Let's Make A Deal!

     Sorry for the delay in posting. My power has been on and off for some time now. Mostly off.  And for some unknown reason my internet connection has been almost non existent. Uploading has been pretty much impossible. But as the saying goes "This is Uganda". I promise there are several posts coming in the shortest order that connectivity will allow.

     I finally got a local P.O. Box up and running.  My group inherited it from some COSing volunteers.  COS stands for "Completion Of Service".  We're just nutty for acronyms here in the PC. I have had some test mail sent and it found its way here.  It took a month but it made it.  So here is my proposal.  Send me a letter. You can just say hi or whatever you like. If you feel like dropping some bank send a package. Not necessary but it would be totally appreciated.  Sending a letter to Uganda from the US cost $1.05.  If you send me a anything, even just a post card, I will send you a letter back and include some Ugandan Shillings.  A nice crisp bill or a shabby village bill. Your choice.  How does that sound? I think it could be fun.  Money here is really colorful and has gorillas and other interesting things on it.

My address is,

Loren G. Evans
P.O. Box 1117
Mbale, Uganda, Africa.

It might take a few months to receive your Shillings.  Please be patient.  I hope you decide to send me something.  It would make my day.  There is more content coming soon. I promise.

Cheeseburgers and Beer

Food can be a source of great comfort or incredible disappointment.  Ugandan food leaves more than a little something to be desired.  The favorite food here is Matooke, green starchy bananas mashed and steamed, often served with G-nut sauce (peanut sauce).   It has no flavor and the texture of slightly molten plastic.  As it cools it hardens and becomes something my nephew would love to bounce off a wall.  The worst thing about it, it really grows on you.  Posho is a big staple food.  It is made from maize meal cooked with just a bit of water.  It has its own peculiar texture, spongy and gritty; it breaks apart like hard clumps of soil.  The maize they eat here is what Americans consider white feed corn reserved for livestock.  I brought sweet yellow corn seeds with me.  I will be planting them soon.  The village is pretty excited about it.  To my surprise they have had it before.  There was a food shortage some years ago. The US sent aid which included yellow sweet corn.  They speak fondly of the tasty yellow posho and porridge.  The only problem is maize is grown all around my site.  Cross pollination may result in a crop that is not the tasty delight I hope for. 

A quick aside, I have been hearing some rhythmic drumming.  I went outside to investigate.  While I could not find the source of the drumming, there were two oxen in my yard engaged in the tender act of coatis.

There are a lot of Indian people in Uganda.  My closest town has three Indian restaurants.  When I go I take full advantage of the opportunity and venture to flavor country.  I live off of street food and curry for days at a time.  As enjoyable as this is, think about what Indian food can do to your G.I. tract.  Now imagine going home and feeling that uncomfortable urge, having to find your keys, fumble with a pad lock, and then run fifty feet to your out house, fumble with two more rusty padlocks and squat over a hole in the ground.  It’s enough to make you dream about posho and beans with a side of cabbage.  The cherry on this lovely adventure, my back door only latches from the inside.  Every time I return from the latrine I wonder if I will be greeted by a ten pound waddling rodent.  I have learned these cute little creatures are known as “Lesser Pouched Rats”.  This has raised a torn curiosity.  I really want to see a greater pouched rat, but I really don’t want one in my house.

Burger is a misunderstood art form in Uganda.  So many times I have seen a picture of a beautiful cheese burger on a menu.  Then you get some unknown cheese and vegetables on a bun, no delicious ground beef patty in site.  It’s tragic. They think burger refers to the bun, resulting in a literal interpretation of “cheese burger”. 

Pizza is a total crap shoot.  It is almost nonexistent.  When you do find it you typically wish you hadn't.  One of my favorite Indian restaurants serves something they call pizza.  It is really its own creation, quite tasty, nothing like American pizza.  When everything around you is unfamiliar it is often better to find comfort in new things, rather than be disappointed by a poor facsimile of something you love.

I had high hopes for the beer, perhaps too high.  I’m no beer snob.  High life and PBR are no strangers to my pallet.  But I do enjoy a good brew.  Trying a new and tasty mixture of hops and barley has always been top on my list of beloved weekend activities.  IPA’s are my favorite.  Sadly ale is nonexistent here.  If an establishment claims to have a good selection, they mean four types.  I have yet to see a beer tap.  On the bright side, the normal bottle size is 0.5 liters.  I was here for two weeks before I had a beer.  It was a NILE Special “Brewed at the Source”.   It tasted like honey.  After two weeks of jet lag, new food, and stressful days a warm, flat, and stale Natural Ice would have tasted like honey.  Nile has become my Ugandan beer of choice.  Never been one for a libation.  At first I was excited to be drinking beer made at the source of the Nile.  When I learned about the terrible water pollution here, I really hoped they had a quality water filtration system.  Now I am just happy when I have the chance to grab a cold one, which you have to ask specifically for.  Otherwise you get a room temperature beer.  That is room temperature on the equator where air conditioning is just another thing no one has ever heard of.

Training Is Over

There was rain today, a nice strong storm.   My windows were open. The curtains blew in and papers flew.  The sound was amazing.  For an hour I was home again, lost in what could have been an afternoon Florida downpour.  There was more than nostalgia in those clouds.  All the water I use is collected off the back half of my house.  This is the dry season and my cistern has been getting dangerously low, as grateful as I was my neighbors find it to be a mixed blessing.  The rain makes it harder to prep the fields for planting.  Much of their tilling was undone today.  They still took what they could from it. I looked outside to find buckets lined up along the front half of my roof, collecting the run off.  There is no such thing as private property in the village.  If you are not using a resource on your land someone will.  My neighbor’s animals graze in my grass; they collect fallen branches from my trees, and wander through my yard.  Not that I mind, but if I did I couldn’t do anything about it.

Things are different here. People take their time. No one is in a hurry in Uganda.  In my village I have become known as the mzungu in the hat who walks fast.  There are animals everywhere.  Last night a rat the size of a large cat snuck into my house.  No lie; it was at least 10 pounds.  This morning a small goat wandered into my kitchen.  The goat was only slightly bigger than the rat. The rat was really easy to get rid of, but the goat kept coming back. I have had to hunt down rats a few times since I have been here.   As creepy as the giant one was, I’ll take it over a normal one.  A little rat can hide all over the place and runs really fast.  A 10 pound rat has considerably fewer places to go and is much slower, they kind of waddle when they walk.  It’s pretty amusing.

Training, what do I have to say about training?  I learned a lot. For example Uganda is really hard on things like computers. My keyboard broke almost upon arrival. That’s why I have not been posting.  It took a while to find a replacement.  Training was intense.  There were sessions on everything, and they just kept coming.  Stress and frustration were mounting among all of us.  It forces you to depend on the other volunteers, which is exactly what you need. It’s not something you can understand from the outside.  Living in this culture, learning how to communicate in the local languages, how to handle the food and navigate the country.  Along the way you will stumble into situations that defy your ability to comprehend.  All you can do is think on it and laugh.  This place is nothing like I imagined.  Of all things it is the similarities that amaze me.  I learned much in training.  More than I thought I could have in two months.  Now I find myself sitting in my house in my village being contented by things I didn’t know of just a short time ago.  Sometimes I stop and realize just how different my life is and how much is similar. Neither of those is what I imagined.

I started applying for the Peace Corps a year before I left.  Now 14 months later my first day as a teacher in Uganda is 2 nights away.  I still don’t know what level I will be teaching, just the subjects, Chemistry and Biology.  I am not nervous or scared.  Training prepared me very well.  Beyond that, I feel that almost every job and experience in my life have been setting me up for this.  There is so much potential here.  I am ready for it to begin.