I have been blogging, but the posts have turned out to be more personal than I intended. Also, they have been somewhat morbid, due to the nature of my experiences of late, so I have elected to reserve the entries and spare the sob stories. The last thing I want is to elicit feelings of empathy when most look to a blog for a relaxing, humorous experience.

I have recently discovered that this terrapin-esque internet connection does support the uploading of pictures, illustrated in my last post. Infatuated with my new creative outlet, I will once again share some of the more disparate photos for your own edification, and so you have some clue as to what I'm referencing without necessitating a copy of National Geographic as a visual dictionary.
Ugandan pre-funk before our most recent, wildly successful trash cleanup. These are the kids of Childhood Restoration Outreach, meaning that each and every one of these children that helped us clean Mbale were rescued from the streets, most of whom are orphans.

Joel, Luke and Brad lead a parade of village kids down the mountain after our 7 hour hike

Sunset in Tororo

Eddie lets the turkey bleed out before Rachel cut its head off in preparation for our Thanksgiving feast. This was one of two turkeys, both of which were fried because we couldn't find an oven big enough to support either.

"Cuz I'm an OG, sippin on 40 ounces of OE"

This is the rest of our support for the trash pickup, students from Islamic University In Uganda

Sunset in Moroto, Karamoja
Dennis celebrates what he refers to as "his most difficult challenge in 22 years." A 25 minute, albeit practically vertical hike up Tororo Rock.

View from my back yard. Life is good.

Luke selects the guest of honor

Luke honors the guest before the feast
Justice, Luke, Brad and Joel enjoy the sunset with some beer
The sun sets over northern Uganda through beer goggles
Words of wisdom for the children of the Northern Region
Caitlin, Brad and Joel pose for picture with trash cleanup crew. Only 1/5 of the crew stuck around for this magnificent photo.

Things Fall Apart

Not a day goes by when I don’t break something. For a while, I attributed this phenomenon to my clumsiness, which was miraculously absent before those wonderful years we fondly know as puberty. Since the 6th grade, however, klutz has become the median of my characteristics. It follows then, unsurprisingly, that I operate in a perpetual state of caution and still manage to break one out of every nine things I touch in a given day.

For all of those people who are upset about unfair competition from China’s labor force, you really don’t know the half of it. If you want something of quality in America, don’t shop at WallMart, where Chinese products smile at you dancing down the aisles. If you want something of quality in Uganda, you are in for an monotonous adventure. To the best of my recollection (a phrase I learned to utilize in depositions at the ripe age of 14; another story entirely) I have yet to examine a product label that boasted three words other than “Made in China.” Hats, Nokia and other cell phones, refrigerators, books, internet modems, illegal DVDs, Yamaha motorcycles, fabrics, posters, and wigs are all made in the land of the free [labor]. Although I make no excuses for being clumsy as a chimpanzee lacking opposable thumbs, this situation as accelerated my predicament.

Yesterday I broke two things. I was scooping fuel briquette materials into a bin to decompose when the plastic bowl I was using snapped in half. Specifically, the material was sawdust, which in my enlightened sense of precision weighed about three quarters of a pound. I just stood there with the look of failure etched into my eyes holding half a bowl while sawdust snowed over my feet. Later on, calmly cleaning up other people’s dishes, I cracked a plate all the way to the center. It looked like a physics experiment where I’d drawn the radius of the plate and was about to divide it by one over two times pi. Utterly worthless.

To my dismay and your entertainment, I must admit that breaking household items has become a regular engagement in my order of operations. The real debacles come from situations when I have to borrow something, and then I break it. This past week my comrades and I traveled to Tororo. Our insane acquaintance Simon insisted we borrow his car to accommodate our vast numbers, and he was leaving town anyway. Smitten at the opportunity to drive a Chinese-made, manual transmission Nissan March on the left side of the road and steering from the right side of the car, I accepted his offer.

After letting the Chinese Dragon out of the bag, we were riding dirty on our way to RestVille when I hit a pothole around a turn, locked up the Chinese drum brakes and slid the front left wheel into the embankment, putting a torso sized dent into the wheel well. Before I continue, Simon is a fanatic mechanic obsessed with his vehicles who somehow managed to get his hands on one of two Nissans in all of Uganda, made in China or otherwise. The following morning I could not fit the key into the driver’s door lock. I took a step back and observed that those kids had shoved a stick into the lock and broke it off, splintering into fifteen or twenty pieces. Then I observed that they had ripped the plastic décor off the rear quarter panel. Infuriated, I complained to their mother. I will quote her response, speaking directly to Luke and I: “What is wrong with you?! When they do bad, you beat them! Don’t tell me! You get a stick and you cane them!!!” My inaudible response: “Whoa… My mother didn’t raise me to hit kids, especially not my neighbors.” Anyway, I’m sure all caning sticks are made in China and would just break at the wrist when swung forward.

On our way to Tororo bumping jams, Simon’s rear left 6x9 [Chinese] Sony speaker blows up and starts squawking at us like an ostrich trying to sing Black Rob. About five minutes later, his power steering fluid runs out and proceeds to grind harder than a Taylor’s floozy on dollar beers eve. By the time we get to Tororo, my arm is exhausted from compensating for the car’s tendency to veer left, probably chasing the illusion of proper steering alignment. Finally, the inside handle of the rear left door decided that it would be more appropriately located in Joel’s fist, detached from the door entirely. This one required behavioral change because we then had to roll the window down to obtain door-shutting leverage. Oh yeah, and we ate all Simon’s candy, which was interestingly about $10 worth. I don’t think the Candy was made in China, but it could have been.

It’s my interpretation that all goods in Uganda coalesced before jumping the boat from China and decided that if they all exercise 10% of their projected life expectancy, they can ensure perpetual demand for their heirs. Also, this cartel of worthless goods comprise half the rubbish my team and I are trying to extract from the streets. I guess this is how the world goes round, assisted by my clumsiness with my aspirations as a counterpart.

Post-Scripted November 23rd: Uganda is where electronics come to die. Joel is an artist of electronic misery, breaking more devices than I own. My iPod has been slowly dying since it was born, and it lasted all of one week in Uganda. Joel broke his Sony eBook within twenty-four hours. My flash drive lasted two months before it coughed up its PDF files and sputtered out of existence. Rachel’s computer displays the blue screen of death twice daily, usually during online board meetings or cultural journal article readings. It seems to work fine when I want to play solitaire though. Left with dwindling hard-drive space, we decided to facilitate the use of the desktop computer Caitlin dutifully carried 10,000 miles with her. Upon plugging the computer into the outlet, the power supply exploded. I opened up the case to see if it was just a fuse and stared dumbfounded at the blackened, fuse-less power supply proudly displaying those three magic words: “Made in China.”

Unbelievable

Ok, you guys have to hear this. It absolutely blew my mind, and I feel confident that it will resonate throughout the West as well.

There is this great guy out here who we’ve been hanging out with, named Eddie. He is currently in the middle of his senior high-school finals, which last about 2+ weeks. Very similar to my own experience, some of his exams are executed in the form of in-class essays. Being the helpful dude he his, Joel offered to assist him in forming the structure of his argument for his exam tomorrow. Eddie politely declined. Confused, we pressed him as to why he would decline the help of such a seasoned journalist (see Joel‘s blog). He was a little mislead, it turns out, by Joel’s offer because he does not know what the discussion topic will be until he sits for the test. He continued by mentioning the consequences of taking notes in with him (cheating).

IF YOU GET CAUGHT CHEATING ON YOUR HIGH-SCHOOL FINALS, YOU GO TO JAIL FOR SEVEN (7) YEARS.

You do not pass Go, you do not collect $200 dollars, you go to flippin prison, where you have to break your own hands by open-palm slapping them on the concrete. Furthermore, if the school board fails to recognize a cheater and the Ugandan education panel does, the entire class fails, the school board members go to prison, and the 200-300 students are never allowed to sit for any exam of any nature in Uganda for the duration of their citizenship (in other words, a lifelong wrist-slap).

In Uganda, high-school is a paid for, voluntary institution, which accepts only academically and financially fortunate students. It carries with it the potential for ruining lives, possibly even resulting in death and decay at the hands of the state. Note: Ugandan prisons do not feed their inmates, so you perish if your family is not willing to bring you food every day. Also, they are so overcrowded that people sleep in shifts, one hour at a time.

Moral of the story: DON’T CHEAT. Secondary moral: BRAD DOES NOT WANT TO GO TO JAIL IN UGANDA.

The Language Barrier

Many of you may be confused by this title, which is warranted considering that 97% of Ugandans speak English. It is the spoken business language, the written commercial language, and children start studying it when they are in pre-school. The high-school education system even demands an American style English course, where students study English literature and complex grammatical structures. It still catches me off guard when somebody from another culture asks me a question about a reflexive past-participle clause. My typical reaction is a blank, stupefied stare followed by a sly change of subject.

Before I get into my primary language short-comings, a brief background of the Ugandan primary language is necessary. Someone asked me before I came here what language is spoken, and my response, after expressing my true knowledge with that same blank stare, was, “I dunno. Swahili?” Little did my antagonist know, it was a trick question. There is no national language. The most widely spoken tribal dialect is Bugandan, but I gawk at the proposition of suggesting this as a national language. It is my understanding that there are now 31 tribes in Uganda (there used to be many, many more), each with its own dialect. Although some share similarities, most are radically different. For example, both our interns are from Kampala and speak Bugandan. They can roughly communicate with the Mbale locals, each speaking the native language, although that situation is hardly universal. There are many tribes with whom they simply have no platform for communication. In fact, they might as well be speaking Swahili, one said. This situation has been best described to me as a Bermuda Triangle of romantic languages. An Italian conversing with a Spaniard, each in his native tongue, and each quietly loathing the other for no apparent reason. It’s possible, but ridiculous. Of course, my plans for acquiring another language have been thwarted by this preposterous conundrum.

English. Problem solved? Not a chance. Simple accents are the smallest barrier in what I’ve come to know as a ludicrous circus of communication. The most frustrating interactions are with waitresses, and the second debacle on the list is any telephone conversation with anyone, concerning any subject. It is almost worthless to order food because: 1) They never write anything down, and are subsequently doomed to forget half your order or just bring you something else entirely and 2) White people all look the same, which leads to a roundabout of plate swapping. Until today, our own compound family thought Joel and I were brothers (which I can understand) and that Rachel, Caitlin and Jamie were sisters (which is outlandish at best considering their attributes).

Last week I was visiting the Islamic University In Uganda, which kindly appointed me a tour guide. After spending close to two hours with this gentleman, it gradually became apparent that he did not understand a word I said, which worked fine considering he was the guide. I didn’t really have to speak. However, during lunch I was trying to ask whether the restaurant boiled their water before serving it to customers. Ecstatic at the opportunity to shed his knowledge upon this visitor one last time, he tapped the glass whilst wearing a grin I can compare only to that of a child in a candy store, looked at me and exclaimed, “it’s called water!”

I don’t think my words have fallen upon anything but deaf ears over the phone, and I am certain that I have yet to decipher a solitary sentence. Text messages are critical, and that’s all I can say without the experiences coercing me to through this computer across the room and just sit on the floor to cry.

I call it a language barrier because this division of oral understanding, coupled with the illusion of anything getting done on time (African Time) has left me enthralled by MAPLE’s accomplishments. As an ignorant, third party observer, I would guffaw at the preposition of this situation resulting in anything but failure segued into perversity. In conclusion, I’m rather proud of what this organization, recently accused of being a “summer camp for post-graduate yahoos experiencing quarter-life crises,” has accomplished. I challenge anyone to suggest otherwise while considering that every Ugandan NGO I’ve encountered has spent the last 50 years promoting the concept that white people double as an ATM and their withdrawals solve every known problem.

Bragging Rights

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.

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.