My brother recently brought it to my attention that, according to my previous posts, I am a total failure. Although my efforts have been wrought with frustrations, I have managed to do something with my time other than place my thumb up my butt. Although at times it feels like the apex of my successes has been to dislodge my thumb from my rear (only to find it wedged up there again), I would like to share some of my small victories with the rest of you.
Fuel Briquettes: I’m not sure if the general public is even aware of this project, but Joel and I have been working on constructing charcoal alternatives comprised of local, biodegradable material. The briquettes consists of sawdust, shaved corn husks, shaved rice husks, decomposed grass clippings, and paper clippings. Although using Leatherman scissors to dice used paper into thumb-size pieces is not on my list of favorite past times, it is on Joel’s. Seriously. We then compress different combinations of these materials into donut-sized briquettes, which are supposed to be economic alternatives to charcoal. After several failures, we cooked our first meal of sausages and potato fries over our very own fuel briquettes tonight. Boo-yah.
Trash Cleanup: Upon the realization that I am not a hero and cannot save the world, I decided to implement, with serious contributions from my teammates, a community trash cleanup. I’ve been told that at one point Mbale was the cleanest town in all East Africa, but now it is littered with garbage and non-biodegradables, and we wanted to reinstate the allure and prestige the town once commanded. After three weeks of empty promises, frustrations, no-shows, confusions, failed meetings, sicknesses, and every other conceivable mishap, the day finally came. We gathered over one hundred community members to clean the streets, including political leaders, Rotary members, Rotaract members, high-school students, Mbale United Women’s Association, and some dudes hanging out with nothing else to do. Simico (local music company) donated a van loaded with some serious speakers that drove around bumping oldie slow jams along the lines of Blackstreet, Boyz II Men, Mase, Mariah Carey, R Kelly and many others while we swept the streets. Somehow, watching 150 Ugandans do the street sweep dance to “I believe I can Fly” really got to me. Single tear. We are now making headway on getting Coca-Cola to sponsor the next event, and the Mayor wants to shut down businesses throughout the entire town (of 80,000) to dedicate manpower for the event. Boo-yah.
I live in a house the size of your kitchen with 8 other people, no hot water, perpetual diarrhea, and I have not killed anybody yet. Boo-yah.
Conclusion: I am living the dream. I figured out, with the help of many brown-nosers, that in spite my best intentions, I will be lucky if I influence (positively) the lives of three people during my five months here. I have netted one influence, who is our grass cutter. Chris is a high-school student who pays his school fees with the money from his entrepreneurial endeavors, who immediately took an interest to the fuel briquettes. We are teaching him the tricks of the trade and will leave him with the press and mold kit when we leave to hopefully make it an income generating activity, which will also assist in slowing the Ugandan deforestation that is the current charcoal market. Living the dream, ladies and geeks. Living the dream.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Short Stories
one
I was walking home the other day along the main street. Almost parallel to me, but slightly aft and to my right, a truck was traveling along, happily doing the speed limit. The front left axel of this particular truck snapped, and the wheel inverted itself as if to tribute Michael J. Fox’s DeLorean. Maybe it wanted to fly but the asymmetrical orientation of the remaining, still operating wheels kept it on the ground. Maybe not.
The truck slid about 50 feet before coming to a halt, leaving the gnarliest skid mark I’ve ever seen, and simultaneously leaving every 10-year-old with a brand new Huffy supremely jealous. I found myself dumb (that means speechless, before you start forming your own insights into my intellectual capacity) and unable to form any type of response to this onceinalifetime calamity.
This truck slowly nestles up next to me, and the dude riding shotgun sticks his head out of the window. He looks down at the wheel, which is looking back up at him, and then looks at me (at which point I’ve formulated a response, an audible exclamation of the four letter synonym for pooh). This was one of those events where time slows to a testudinate pace, and in those 20 minutes (.25 seconds) we just stared at each other. Then, like every child’s wonder during the apex of How The Grinch Stole Christmas, he cracked the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously, his face lit up like the first time you ever played with a balloon. Unbelievable. Obviously, this guy knows something that I do not, and possibly will never know. Bless his soul.
Finally, after some days, even weeks, have passed, I have a reaction to express: “When and where in hell am I ever going to see that again?” I’m no Nostradamus, but my vastly educated guess is never.
two
For an undetermined amount of time, I have misplaced the term self-deprecating humor. It was recently revealed to me that I have been saying “self-defecating humor,” when referring to a witty quip I’d conjured to release tension. Release tension I did, as well as imply I had the capability to stealthily release flatulents at the same time. You know when your life “flashes before your eyes?” Well, how about every conversation you’ve ever had with a potential employer flashing before you, attempting to recall if you told her you’re proud of your farts.
three
Remember the children and my favorite game Scream Scream? As I was writing this, they smashed the window of our business partner’s car. I’m back to document it after spending 30 minutes cleaning up glass and taping the window.
four
Jordan, Joel and I traveled north last week to a town called Lira. This is a brief recollection of the travels to and from, disregarding all the fun stuff that happened in between.
The bus stops halfway to Lira in Soroti to refuel/pick up passengers/bake passengers in sun/inflate tires with bike pump/so on. The three hour trip quickly (slowly) mutates into a six hour trip as we wait with a fully loaded, fueled, and inflated bus. After two hours, the story of the delay comes to fruition as we discover that the bus driver has disembarked his post in order to say what up to his girlfriend. I’ve always wondered as to what exactly would merit the derogatory label of an assclown, and I found it, halfway to Lira.
The road from Soroti to Lira was being repaved, so the detour consisted of driving along the rollercoaster that is the ditch next to the road under construction, which explains the third lost hour en route. A mere twenty minutes before we arrive, I hear what is the unmistakable symphony of a toddler throwing up. Needing visual confirmation, I look back to see Jordan and Joel, red faced with laughter and Joel standing up to join me. (I had moved three rows up because, let’s face it, I smell.) Joel informs me that the toddler had neglected rule number one about throwing up on a bus, which is to aim out the window, as opposed to aiming for the back of the muzungus’ legs sitting in front of you. Fortunately for Joel, he was wearing pants. Unfortunately for Jordan, he was wearing shorts.
This particular child’s mother was not to be outdone. I am under the impression that she felt so bad for her child loosing his lunch that she decided to share hers. This theory does not explain, however, why she adhered to bus vomit rule #1, and threw up out the window. My million dollar insight: I’m glad I did not eat lunch that day.
Some stuff happened in Lira.
Three days later, we decided not to take the bus home but to take a Matatu instead. A Matatu (Swahili for Taxi) is a Toyota van thing, required to be at least 17 years old with 600,000+ miles. There is a big plastic sticker on the back that says, “maximum capacity: 14 persons.” Any guesses? Try 20 people. What makes me really feel like a whiner is that I recently found out that Luke rode one with 27 people. Back to sympathizing with me. Joel, Jordan me and this unfortunate lady were all crammed onto one row, again driving in the ditch next to the road. There was enough room for me to sit sideways with my rump in this woman’s lap and my legs stacked on top of each other, which were stacked on Joel’s right thigh. Reference blog article “Noises and Personal Space.” Have you ever had you butt muscles fall asleep? I thought my hip was going to dislocate, so I stood up for 20 minutes, bent 90 degree at the waist over the row in front of me. I made some friends. Due to the nature of the road, I was jumping and jiving like Mohammed Ali. I had nothing to do but pretend I wasn’t there, or accept it and meditate. Choosing the latter, I have since named the position in the Kama Sutra tradition. I call it Flamingo Steals Baby Tiger Whilst Enduring Earthquake, Repents. We made it home in about four hours, which I attribute to a celibate Matatu driver.
I was walking home the other day along the main street. Almost parallel to me, but slightly aft and to my right, a truck was traveling along, happily doing the speed limit. The front left axel of this particular truck snapped, and the wheel inverted itself as if to tribute Michael J. Fox’s DeLorean. Maybe it wanted to fly but the asymmetrical orientation of the remaining, still operating wheels kept it on the ground. Maybe not.
The truck slid about 50 feet before coming to a halt, leaving the gnarliest skid mark I’ve ever seen, and simultaneously leaving every 10-year-old with a brand new Huffy supremely jealous. I found myself dumb (that means speechless, before you start forming your own insights into my intellectual capacity) and unable to form any type of response to this onceinalifetime calamity.
This truck slowly nestles up next to me, and the dude riding shotgun sticks his head out of the window. He looks down at the wheel, which is looking back up at him, and then looks at me (at which point I’ve formulated a response, an audible exclamation of the four letter synonym for pooh). This was one of those events where time slows to a testudinate pace, and in those 20 minutes (.25 seconds) we just stared at each other. Then, like every child’s wonder during the apex of How The Grinch Stole Christmas, he cracked the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously, his face lit up like the first time you ever played with a balloon. Unbelievable. Obviously, this guy knows something that I do not, and possibly will never know. Bless his soul.
Finally, after some days, even weeks, have passed, I have a reaction to express: “When and where in hell am I ever going to see that again?” I’m no Nostradamus, but my vastly educated guess is never.
two
For an undetermined amount of time, I have misplaced the term self-deprecating humor. It was recently revealed to me that I have been saying “self-defecating humor,” when referring to a witty quip I’d conjured to release tension. Release tension I did, as well as imply I had the capability to stealthily release flatulents at the same time. You know when your life “flashes before your eyes?” Well, how about every conversation you’ve ever had with a potential employer flashing before you, attempting to recall if you told her you’re proud of your farts.
three
Remember the children and my favorite game Scream Scream? As I was writing this, they smashed the window of our business partner’s car. I’m back to document it after spending 30 minutes cleaning up glass and taping the window.
four
Jordan, Joel and I traveled north last week to a town called Lira. This is a brief recollection of the travels to and from, disregarding all the fun stuff that happened in between.
The bus stops halfway to Lira in Soroti to refuel/pick up passengers/bake passengers in sun/inflate tires with bike pump/so on. The three hour trip quickly (slowly) mutates into a six hour trip as we wait with a fully loaded, fueled, and inflated bus. After two hours, the story of the delay comes to fruition as we discover that the bus driver has disembarked his post in order to say what up to his girlfriend. I’ve always wondered as to what exactly would merit the derogatory label of an assclown, and I found it, halfway to Lira.
The road from Soroti to Lira was being repaved, so the detour consisted of driving along the rollercoaster that is the ditch next to the road under construction, which explains the third lost hour en route. A mere twenty minutes before we arrive, I hear what is the unmistakable symphony of a toddler throwing up. Needing visual confirmation, I look back to see Jordan and Joel, red faced with laughter and Joel standing up to join me. (I had moved three rows up because, let’s face it, I smell.) Joel informs me that the toddler had neglected rule number one about throwing up on a bus, which is to aim out the window, as opposed to aiming for the back of the muzungus’ legs sitting in front of you. Fortunately for Joel, he was wearing pants. Unfortunately for Jordan, he was wearing shorts.
This particular child’s mother was not to be outdone. I am under the impression that she felt so bad for her child loosing his lunch that she decided to share hers. This theory does not explain, however, why she adhered to bus vomit rule #1, and threw up out the window. My million dollar insight: I’m glad I did not eat lunch that day.
Some stuff happened in Lira.
Three days later, we decided not to take the bus home but to take a Matatu instead. A Matatu (Swahili for Taxi) is a Toyota van thing, required to be at least 17 years old with 600,000+ miles. There is a big plastic sticker on the back that says, “maximum capacity: 14 persons.” Any guesses? Try 20 people. What makes me really feel like a whiner is that I recently found out that Luke rode one with 27 people. Back to sympathizing with me. Joel, Jordan me and this unfortunate lady were all crammed onto one row, again driving in the ditch next to the road. There was enough room for me to sit sideways with my rump in this woman’s lap and my legs stacked on top of each other, which were stacked on Joel’s right thigh. Reference blog article “Noises and Personal Space.” Have you ever had you butt muscles fall asleep? I thought my hip was going to dislocate, so I stood up for 20 minutes, bent 90 degree at the waist over the row in front of me. I made some friends. Due to the nature of the road, I was jumping and jiving like Mohammed Ali. I had nothing to do but pretend I wasn’t there, or accept it and meditate. Choosing the latter, I have since named the position in the Kama Sutra tradition. I call it Flamingo Steals Baby Tiger Whilst Enduring Earthquake, Repents. We made it home in about four hours, which I attribute to a celibate Matatu driver.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Noises and Personal Space
When I was a freshman at University of Oregon, I lived in the dorms adjacent to the construction site of the Living Learning Center. We were not told about this prior to moving in, and in fact, my window was about 20 feet from the fences. I was woken up every morning for 9 months to the tune of the biggest drill I have ever imagined. Come winter term, they were behind schedule. The work day went from 8am-5pm, to 7am-6pm. Then, they added Saturday. For those of you who know me well, you know what a monster I am without my sleep. My 6’6”, 220lb friend (Andy) has claimed that the only time he is ever scared of me is when he has to wake me up after an all night bender in Black Butte.
After the first few weeks out here, I find myself longing for those soothing sounds of a jackhammer.
Animals
The rooster must die. I had envisioned this stallion of feathered birds to majestically announce the day’s break, and then dutifully retire to his nest for siesta. Wrong. Instead, that bird proceeds in a manner not unlike a drill sergeant, screaming at me until I am out of bed, and then screaming in delight at his accomplishment. Sometimes when I come home in the evening he will greet me with a screech that I am pretty sure is his way of saying, “don’t even think about a nap son. The day is not to be wasted.” It will be a glorious day when we eat that thing, but unfortunately, I recently discovered that he is our neighbors, not ours, and merely enjoys feasting on our trash fire pile.
The cow must die. This animal is unmistakably our neighbors‘, and she is none too happy about it. Growing up, I had often used the term “sounded like a dying elephant.” Much to my present chagrin, I should have been using “sounded like a dying cow” all those years. I’m not sure if this girl is hungry, sick, pregnant, dying or a combination of the above. I’m not even sure if she just sounds normal because this is the only sound I hear from her. It starts off like a normal, slightly higher-pitched moo, but it transcends pitches throughout the 10 second belch. By the end it sounds like the high-pitched scream of the woman in the shower from the movie Psycho, and it’s just as loud. This animal must not have the same sensitivity to light that the rooster has because she doesn’t know that when it gets dark it’s time for Brad to go to sleep. Bitch.
I’m surprised the cats aren’t already all dead. The only time I ever hear a cat is when I hear two or more of them fighting to the death. You all know what a cat fight sounds like, so I’ll leave it at that.
Sometimes I hear dogs howling at the moon, but other than that they are absolutely silent. I would consider one of these non-barking specimens for a domestic pet, as long as it could kill mice and wasn’t foaming at the mouth, of course.
Brady Bunch House
While I am writing this, Jaime and Caitlin are singing about the story of that lovely lady. We don’t have 9 people here, we only have 7. We don’t have a house in the suburbs, we have a small fortress on a medium sized compound. But we are definitely a family. It’s mostly love so far, and we aim to keep it that way, but it also means that there are 7 different people here who operate on 7 different schedules, professionally and personally. As previously mentioned, I am not a morning person, which I think people are beginning to realize… I have not hit anybody or exploded upon being woken up after 3 hours of sleep, but I’ve been pretty close. Lack of self-constraint is the staple of my morning routine.
Children
If it wasn’t for these bite-sized elements of my daily life, I probably would not have even bothered with this post. I can deal with animals and my crazy friends pretty much ok. But the kids that live in our compound are the absolute definition of hell raisers. They are 3, 7, 9, and 14, all boys. I had heard somewhere sometime that African children don’t cry. I’m here to confirm that they don’t cry, they scream. They start playing when the rooster wakes them up, and their favorite game is getting attention from the Muzungus. How could they ever get more attention then by screaming outside my window at 6:30 every morning? When they play, they scream with delight, and when they’re hurt or upset, earplugs with headphones on barely make a difference. One of their favorite games is to throw rocks at our garage door (I sleep in the garage, by the way), and see how long it takes before I scream back at them. Then they wait until I fall back asleep and repeat. One morning, the littlest one played this game I have since named Scream Scream, which entails him running around the house and screaming for 20 minutes straight, and then stopping outside the garage door and screaming until somebody wakes up. Scream Scream is not on my list of favorite African games.
Personal Space
With all these contributing factors, I’m sure you have already formulated an image of my capacity for nap time. Consider also the tin roof, which brings our room to a steady 110 degrees every afternoon, which leaks onto Joel’s head when it rains, and which sounds like a thunder storm when it’s rained upon. Writing or reading are about the only things I can do without an extraneous input, and right now there are 5 other people in this room, the rooster is making sure everyone knows how much respect he deserves, the cow is continuing its requiem, and the children are staring at us through the door, occasionally saying “you give me balloony.”
Conclusion
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I have come to realize that my blog posts have become an outlet to whine and moan about how hard life is. Well, it isn’t. Life here is amazing. I am reminded of this every evening while cooking dinner with no electricity during a lighting storm, when it’s 75 degrees and not raining. I’m reminded every morning after I’m rudely awakened and slowly realize that yes, I’m in Africa. The fact that I update this blog so seldom is a testimony that I only have something to complain about every once in a while. And, my dreams are so awesome. Go Malaria pills! I’ll have to start posting some of the more outrageous dreams.
After the first few weeks out here, I find myself longing for those soothing sounds of a jackhammer.
Animals
The rooster must die. I had envisioned this stallion of feathered birds to majestically announce the day’s break, and then dutifully retire to his nest for siesta. Wrong. Instead, that bird proceeds in a manner not unlike a drill sergeant, screaming at me until I am out of bed, and then screaming in delight at his accomplishment. Sometimes when I come home in the evening he will greet me with a screech that I am pretty sure is his way of saying, “don’t even think about a nap son. The day is not to be wasted.” It will be a glorious day when we eat that thing, but unfortunately, I recently discovered that he is our neighbors, not ours, and merely enjoys feasting on our trash fire pile.
The cow must die. This animal is unmistakably our neighbors‘, and she is none too happy about it. Growing up, I had often used the term “sounded like a dying elephant.” Much to my present chagrin, I should have been using “sounded like a dying cow” all those years. I’m not sure if this girl is hungry, sick, pregnant, dying or a combination of the above. I’m not even sure if she just sounds normal because this is the only sound I hear from her. It starts off like a normal, slightly higher-pitched moo, but it transcends pitches throughout the 10 second belch. By the end it sounds like the high-pitched scream of the woman in the shower from the movie Psycho, and it’s just as loud. This animal must not have the same sensitivity to light that the rooster has because she doesn’t know that when it gets dark it’s time for Brad to go to sleep. Bitch.
I’m surprised the cats aren’t already all dead. The only time I ever hear a cat is when I hear two or more of them fighting to the death. You all know what a cat fight sounds like, so I’ll leave it at that.
Sometimes I hear dogs howling at the moon, but other than that they are absolutely silent. I would consider one of these non-barking specimens for a domestic pet, as long as it could kill mice and wasn’t foaming at the mouth, of course.
Brady Bunch House
While I am writing this, Jaime and Caitlin are singing about the story of that lovely lady. We don’t have 9 people here, we only have 7. We don’t have a house in the suburbs, we have a small fortress on a medium sized compound. But we are definitely a family. It’s mostly love so far, and we aim to keep it that way, but it also means that there are 7 different people here who operate on 7 different schedules, professionally and personally. As previously mentioned, I am not a morning person, which I think people are beginning to realize… I have not hit anybody or exploded upon being woken up after 3 hours of sleep, but I’ve been pretty close. Lack of self-constraint is the staple of my morning routine.
Children
If it wasn’t for these bite-sized elements of my daily life, I probably would not have even bothered with this post. I can deal with animals and my crazy friends pretty much ok. But the kids that live in our compound are the absolute definition of hell raisers. They are 3, 7, 9, and 14, all boys. I had heard somewhere sometime that African children don’t cry. I’m here to confirm that they don’t cry, they scream. They start playing when the rooster wakes them up, and their favorite game is getting attention from the Muzungus. How could they ever get more attention then by screaming outside my window at 6:30 every morning? When they play, they scream with delight, and when they’re hurt or upset, earplugs with headphones on barely make a difference. One of their favorite games is to throw rocks at our garage door (I sleep in the garage, by the way), and see how long it takes before I scream back at them. Then they wait until I fall back asleep and repeat. One morning, the littlest one played this game I have since named Scream Scream, which entails him running around the house and screaming for 20 minutes straight, and then stopping outside the garage door and screaming until somebody wakes up. Scream Scream is not on my list of favorite African games.
Personal Space
With all these contributing factors, I’m sure you have already formulated an image of my capacity for nap time. Consider also the tin roof, which brings our room to a steady 110 degrees every afternoon, which leaks onto Joel’s head when it rains, and which sounds like a thunder storm when it’s rained upon. Writing or reading are about the only things I can do without an extraneous input, and right now there are 5 other people in this room, the rooster is making sure everyone knows how much respect he deserves, the cow is continuing its requiem, and the children are staring at us through the door, occasionally saying “you give me balloony.”
Conclusion
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I have come to realize that my blog posts have become an outlet to whine and moan about how hard life is. Well, it isn’t. Life here is amazing. I am reminded of this every evening while cooking dinner with no electricity during a lighting storm, when it’s 75 degrees and not raining. I’m reminded every morning after I’m rudely awakened and slowly realize that yes, I’m in Africa. The fact that I update this blog so seldom is a testimony that I only have something to complain about every once in a while. And, my dreams are so awesome. Go Malaria pills! I’ll have to start posting some of the more outrageous dreams.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
African Time
I am writing this because I have set a goal to blog at least one time per week. I have made a promise to myself and my diligent fans (insert stifled guffaw here) to write; to write my experiences as proof for posthumous analysis as a senile story-teller, to write as an outlet for frustration and journaling purposes, and to write just for the sake of writing. So, one of my personal goals is to blog at least once a week. Another one of my personal goals is to defecate under Joel’s mosquito net before he goes to sleep and right when he wakes up, but I’ll let him fill you in on those details.
Goals. Goals are an interesting phenomenon. It’s as if I say to myself, “Well you wrote it down, so now you really have to do it.” There’s just something about checking off the boxes next to those aspirations that really motivates me. For whatever reason, that voice in my head that tries to convince me to do stuff just doesn’t do the trick. I won’t listen to it, unless I write what it says down, no matter how loud or frequent it gets.
Goal setting is something new in my life. I have been advised as early on as the 7th grade to set goals, but I sort of just floated around it making excuses like not having a pen or not liking the way my handwriting looks. Basically, I was just the laziest sonofagun in the northwest, and my other attributes were able to make up for and even disguise this glaring shortcoming. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the secret is out. I am the worst procrastinator I know, and how I’ve ever accomplished anything in my life I did not have the answer to. Until now.
African time. Any guesses as to what that entails? It means that anybody can be late to anything in any context with absolutely zero consequences. Before I continue, it should be noted that I am attempting to write this from an un-biased perspective. I am perpetually stressed out by time in the States, and I am late to absolutely everything. I usually get lost on the way, which adds to my anxiousness like my nephew stacks legos: as high as it can get. In fact, most people I know are just stressed about something, and the wrist-watch, no matter how gaudy a commodity it may be, seems to instigate that sentiment. Therefore, I choose to reserve judgment on the contrast between the different attitudes toward time. My frustrations, however, will most definitely not be reserved.
African time simply desecrated all progress I have made since being in Africa. For example, we have been trying to organize a community-wide trash pick-up and educate the community on biodegradables, recyclables and the like. We were advised by our Uganda peers that we have to get the community to take ownership of the project, or else we will be left standing in the street with a garbage bag while people laugh at us and ponder over just exactly what the hell those crazy muzungus are doing. So we spent a full week collaborating the community leaders to meet on Friday at 2:30. The senior assistant town clerk even printed out a formal invitation for all the parties, with the explicit footnote that read, “do NOT be late.”
2:35 PM on Friday: Joel and I are sitting in the Municipal Council Office reading posters that say, “I had a bad day today. I came to work broke and I could not pay attention,” and “God looked down upon my work and smiled. Then he looked down upon my wage and God cried.”
2:36 PM: Senior Assistant Town Clerk expresses his apologies for his entire country. We have someone on our side.
3:00 PM: Henry arrives. I’m still not sure I know who Henry is.
3:15 PM: We are getting ready to leave when four of the community-appointed leaders arrive. We introduce ourselves and talk about the importance of a unified community vision. They agree. We had been preaching October 25th as the clean-up date for a full week leading up to this meeting. The clerk agreed.
3:20 PM: Quote from Senior Clerk: “Ok, it is decided then. The second meeting to discuss the environmental clean-up will be set for October 25th and I will make sure everybody who needs to be there will be there.” Everybody immediately stands up and bolts out of the conference room, leaving Joel and I sputtering nonsense, jaws flat on the floor and thumbs up our butts. October 25th is a Sunday. Nobody will be working, especially the un-paid government employees. Unbelievable.
I had a goal. I had that goal written down on paper. Together, MAPLE had a vision. We have that vision down on paper. Maybe I’m naïve, but I am going to check that box off my list no matter what it takes. If I have to be that silly muzungu at the butt of the day’s best joke, I will. The time for lethargic apathy spent at the mercy of Eugene professors is over. This is a new page, even a new book, in the story of my life, and I’m going to dance through every page of it. Whatever that means.
I told you I have figured out the only reason my procrastination has not held me back, and it’s because of goals other people have set for me. Educational, athletic, spiritual and even psychological, every goal I’ve ever really achieved was set for me by some other entity, organic or inanimate. Since I took to legibly expressing my dreams, I have come to realize that there is a LOT I want to accomplish in this life. I will live day by day staring at those unchecked boxes and chasing them straight out of the gait, a vision synonymous with that neighborhood dog that chases your car every single day like a bat out of hell, just because he wants to. A smile cracks when I see those boxes already checked, especially the one that commands I blog at least once a week. The checkmark stays for now.
“We all are the hero of our own story.”
~no idea
Goals. Goals are an interesting phenomenon. It’s as if I say to myself, “Well you wrote it down, so now you really have to do it.” There’s just something about checking off the boxes next to those aspirations that really motivates me. For whatever reason, that voice in my head that tries to convince me to do stuff just doesn’t do the trick. I won’t listen to it, unless I write what it says down, no matter how loud or frequent it gets.
Goal setting is something new in my life. I have been advised as early on as the 7th grade to set goals, but I sort of just floated around it making excuses like not having a pen or not liking the way my handwriting looks. Basically, I was just the laziest sonofagun in the northwest, and my other attributes were able to make up for and even disguise this glaring shortcoming. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the secret is out. I am the worst procrastinator I know, and how I’ve ever accomplished anything in my life I did not have the answer to. Until now.
African time. Any guesses as to what that entails? It means that anybody can be late to anything in any context with absolutely zero consequences. Before I continue, it should be noted that I am attempting to write this from an un-biased perspective. I am perpetually stressed out by time in the States, and I am late to absolutely everything. I usually get lost on the way, which adds to my anxiousness like my nephew stacks legos: as high as it can get. In fact, most people I know are just stressed about something, and the wrist-watch, no matter how gaudy a commodity it may be, seems to instigate that sentiment. Therefore, I choose to reserve judgment on the contrast between the different attitudes toward time. My frustrations, however, will most definitely not be reserved.
African time simply desecrated all progress I have made since being in Africa. For example, we have been trying to organize a community-wide trash pick-up and educate the community on biodegradables, recyclables and the like. We were advised by our Uganda peers that we have to get the community to take ownership of the project, or else we will be left standing in the street with a garbage bag while people laugh at us and ponder over just exactly what the hell those crazy muzungus are doing. So we spent a full week collaborating the community leaders to meet on Friday at 2:30. The senior assistant town clerk even printed out a formal invitation for all the parties, with the explicit footnote that read, “do NOT be late.”
2:35 PM on Friday: Joel and I are sitting in the Municipal Council Office reading posters that say, “I had a bad day today. I came to work broke and I could not pay attention,” and “God looked down upon my work and smiled. Then he looked down upon my wage and God cried.”
2:36 PM: Senior Assistant Town Clerk expresses his apologies for his entire country. We have someone on our side.
3:00 PM: Henry arrives. I’m still not sure I know who Henry is.
3:15 PM: We are getting ready to leave when four of the community-appointed leaders arrive. We introduce ourselves and talk about the importance of a unified community vision. They agree. We had been preaching October 25th as the clean-up date for a full week leading up to this meeting. The clerk agreed.
3:20 PM: Quote from Senior Clerk: “Ok, it is decided then. The second meeting to discuss the environmental clean-up will be set for October 25th and I will make sure everybody who needs to be there will be there.” Everybody immediately stands up and bolts out of the conference room, leaving Joel and I sputtering nonsense, jaws flat on the floor and thumbs up our butts. October 25th is a Sunday. Nobody will be working, especially the un-paid government employees. Unbelievable.
I had a goal. I had that goal written down on paper. Together, MAPLE had a vision. We have that vision down on paper. Maybe I’m naïve, but I am going to check that box off my list no matter what it takes. If I have to be that silly muzungu at the butt of the day’s best joke, I will. The time for lethargic apathy spent at the mercy of Eugene professors is over. This is a new page, even a new book, in the story of my life, and I’m going to dance through every page of it. Whatever that means.
I told you I have figured out the only reason my procrastination has not held me back, and it’s because of goals other people have set for me. Educational, athletic, spiritual and even psychological, every goal I’ve ever really achieved was set for me by some other entity, organic or inanimate. Since I took to legibly expressing my dreams, I have come to realize that there is a LOT I want to accomplish in this life. I will live day by day staring at those unchecked boxes and chasing them straight out of the gait, a vision synonymous with that neighborhood dog that chases your car every single day like a bat out of hell, just because he wants to. A smile cracks when I see those boxes already checked, especially the one that commands I blog at least once a week. The checkmark stays for now.
“We all are the hero of our own story.”
~no idea
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