tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40535750979101825262024-03-20T14:26:53.892-07:00There and Back Again: Peace Corps UgandaHeidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-37604165010566481502015-11-28T03:37:00.000-08:002015-11-28T03:57:50.421-08:00The Last Week<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Laban, my friend and counterpart, stands in our doorway in
his scouting uniform. “Ah, but we will miss you.”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I hunch beneath the overhang of the library, reading to the kids sheltering
from the pounding rain. “And one fell off and bumped his head!” we all chant
under the tin roof.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Moses pulls his motorcycle up to our house, jogging down the
little hill to our door. “I…” he begins, struggling with his basic English. He
holds up an envelope. “For you, your husband say you like.” He tilts the
envelope forward and its contents spill into my hands. Six small, ripe,
beautiful strawberries. “I also have a chicken…”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Anitah slips me a letter. “For me I feel very sad because I
am sorrow that you are going…how will I survive.”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Maudah shows up at the door with a 5-liter jerry can. “I
want to send your parents my honey!” Kris and I try to calculate how much
weight a 5-liter jerry can of honey is going to add to our bags. Convincing her
it would take an American years to eat all that honey would be futile anyway.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
“Did you hear?” says the deputy headteacher over her posho
and beans. “Lightning hit the school down the road yesterday. 5 pupils were
killed.”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I sit around a plastic table with a cold beer in front of
me, watching the faces of the next National Directors of the Uganda Spelling
Bee light up as we talk about plans for the future, about the sustainability of
this project. Ben and I dream of flying back here in ten years to see our work
come to full fruition.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Robert, the local duka owner, cries despairingly, “Ah, but
you are leaving without having visited my home!”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The deputy principal at the college tells me, “I am going to
suggest they name the library at the primary school after you.” I can’t tell if
he’s joking or not.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
A text pops up on my phone. Amos was in a boda accident and
had to have his leg amputated. He’ll be in the hospital for the next few
months. My mind churns with the opportunities that are not available to him
here.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I stir the marinara sauce on the gas burner stovetop,
hearing echoing laughter from next door as Kris meets with his ICT club for the
last time. “Well, the first time someone asked me for a rubber here, I was very
confused…”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I stare out the taxi window as we slow down to pass through
a trading center. I catch glimpses, snapshots of life – a man wearing
sunglasses welding a gate by the road, a woman grilling maize on a sigiri, a
group of guys straddling benches and heckling a game of draughts, children
running towards the well, empty jerry cans bouncing against their legs.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I sit down to write a list of who to say goodbye to, of
things to do to wrap up my service, but my pen never even touches the page.
Where can I even start? Will my service ever really end?<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The older children beg, “I want you to take my picture with
my friend!” They pose in front of the hedges, giggling and pulling each other
in front of the camera.</div>
<br /><o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The headteacher clucks in annoyance. “The man took the money
for the bookshelves and went to <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>.
I am trying to contact one of his relatives.”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Maude types slowly on our computer, composing an email to my
mother using her newly-opened Gmail account. “They are the first Bazungu to
interact with me and the whole family at large and they never proved to us to
be special only they were people like us.”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I swirl my steaming posho porridge in my plastic mug. The P6
teacher enters the staff room and asks me in Runyankore, “You haven’t left yet?”</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The younger pupils peek shyly through the library door. “We
want to read books.” They stack the tomes neatly back on the mat without being
asked when the sound of a rock beating against a car rim rings out, signaling
the end of break time.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The woman in the bus park shakes her head sympathetically as
I desperately try to hide my tear-filled face from the crowd. I wave a ticket
in front of her that is NOT for the bus I was told it was. “You should always
get a seat before you pay,” she gently chides me. How can I still not get the rules
here?</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Our minibus rolls slowly by the twisted metal. The driver’s limp
body is being pulled through the broken window. There is no sense of urgency;
no emergency vehicles are coming.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I sit in the shade of a tree with my carrier volunteer, who
is freshly arrived to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>.
I am reinvigorated by her energy and optimism; I treat meeting her like a
therapy session. “I started this project…I never did this, but I think it’s a
great idea…I wish I had done…I wish I had known…I wish I had worked with…”
Maybe she will. Maybe I did plant a seed.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
I find a dime as I'm cleaning out our old suitcases. It's so small and light; it feels like toy money. I wonder - will everything else in America seem as strange?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wave at my pupil watching over his herd of cows as I walk home
from the post office. The sky stretches out over my head, and brilliant blues
and greens dominate the scenery.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wince at the sound of thunder in the distance. The lights
go off a minute later and I work in the dark on my last paper, my last
requirement for my Master’s degree, until my laptop dies. Five hours of power
in the last three days and still 30 pages left to write.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wait for Moses to come pick me in one of the busiest,
noisiest areas of <st1:place w:st="on">Kampala</st1:place>.
I feel something and pick a cockroach off of my shoulder.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I stare at the movie screen as the science fiction film flickers on. Screams erupt from the speakers as the CGI effects create a scene of dying children.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I buy some Internet and search for jobs. Nope, no perfect
job. Can I really justify waiting to find what I don’t even know I’m looking
for? I hear of the jobs my friends back home are getting: resident artist,
animal trainer, creative writing teacher of gifted youth, program coordinator
at a non-profit helping <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>’s
most high-risk young people. Listening to the wind rustle the banana leaves in the
distance, I wonder how I can find something truly fulfilling.</div>
<br /><o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wake up in my bed Sunday morning to the sound of drums and
singing drifting across the campus. I think about how much I’ll miss hearing
church, miss music and dancing being as much a part of life as eating
and breathing.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I hand Carmen her birthday present, “wrapped” in a black
plastic bag. She pulls out my old <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sunnydale</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">High School</st1:placetype></st1:place> t-shirt and
holds it up in the candlelight. Her eyes well with tears. We don’t have to say
anything.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wet a cloth from my water bottle and press it over a
temporary tattoo held to the arm of one of the P2 pupils. We count to 30 in
English together and I peel off the backing. Cries of excitement and
astonishment erupt. “Teacher, I want one here!” yells the smallest, pointing to
his forehead.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I give Edith the first pen pal letter
from <st1:place w:st="on">America during an exam break</st1:place>.
The whole class crowds around her, just as excited to read the letter as if it were
personally addressed to them as well. Ooohs and aaaahs break out at the rubber
band bracelet, immediately slipped on by Edith.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I hear a knock and open the door. The neighbor kids’
upturned faces greet me, the unspoken question bright in their eyes. Time to
play?</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I say goodbye. Again and again and again. I say goodbye,
probably for forever.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><i>"What's coming will come, and we'll meet it when it does."</i></i></div>
<i>
</i><i></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><i>- Hagrid </i></i></div>
<i>
</i>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-35875451846610671532015-10-08T02:56:00.000-07:002015-10-08T02:56:05.063-07:00Uganda Spelling Bee<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If you have sorted out the world in one language, it becomes much
easier to sort it out in a second language.” – Pauline Gibbons</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Language and literacy are fascinating. What a wealth of
knowledge, history, and culture that lives within just one tongue. What incredible
universes the written word has opened up to us. They are glimpses into the
human mind, snatches of the magic and power we have inside of ourselves. They
are the cornerstones of the world we have built.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In college, I was introduced to a profession where my
passion for language and literacy was combined – teaching English as a Second
Language. The English language is an intricate puzzle that, when unlocked, can
open to life-changing opportunities and insights, and few things bring me
greater joy than to work on that puzzle with others. But as much as I love
English, as much as I delight in sharing in it and despairing of it with
others, I also realize how much the world would lose if every thought
originated only in English.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">English is not meant to be a replacement, a bulldozer razing
indigenous languages and cultures; instead, it is meant to be used as a tool, a
tool to make connections and exchange knowledge. This is not always the message
that is communicated and, unfortunately, centuries of colonialism have wrongly
placed it as oftentimes higher, more valuable, more desirable than one’s own
mother tongue.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This colonial hangover is present even today in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>. Despite
a switch to education solely in local language from Primary 1 to Primary 3, with
Primary 4 being the “transition year” to instruction in English from Primary 5
to Primary 7, there is no denying that English is the language of opportunity
here; whether someone is looking for a professional job abroad or in country,
being able to speak English is a must. However, this attitude has led to a
devaluation of native languages and a misunderstanding of how best to achieve
fluency in a second language. Such unfortunate devaluation can be seen in the following
words of one Ugandan:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“Children … should learn a language which helps them in the
future. Not put them in brackets of a second community.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rural parents and community members often believe that such
a language policy, attempting to ensure that a child learns in their native
language in at least the first three grades, has been imposed for political
reasons; they are frustrated because they want their children to master the
language of wider communication, English, as quickly as possible. Some even
mistakenly think that African languages are not able to deal with scientific
and technical concepts. To them, a local language policy seems like a step
backward to the past, not forward to the future. This is detrimental because,
as any Peace Corps Volunteer knows, if a community does not embrace an idea, it
will not happen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But many in the Ugandan community, especially the rural
community, are not embracing this step because they have not been informed of
the pedagogical advantages afforded their children when they are they are
instructed in their first language before moving on to being educated in
English. It can seem contradictory, but the more time children spend learning
in local language, the better they will perform academically and the more
fluent they will become in their second language. For example, first language
speakers of Afrikaans in South Africa, in places where English is taught only
as a subject for one lesson per day, have been shown to successfully achieve
high levels of bilingual proficiency in both Afrikaans and English – not being instructed
in English was in no way detrimental.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If parents want their children to learn the language of
wider communication, in this case English, it will take these pupils six to
eight years of learning English before it can be successfully used as the medium
of instruction for academic concepts. If this process is hurried, the pupil
will learn neither the new language nor academic content well enough. Imagine
trying to learn physics or study classic French novels with only your three
years of high school French! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When it comes down to it, if a pupil is not literate in
their first language, it is incredibly difficult for them to become literate in
a second language. Literacy, in both first and second languages, is immensely
important to individuals and to countries as a whole. It has been found, using
panel data for forty-four African countries, that literacy was among the
variables with a positive effect on GDP per capita growth. Literacy skills are
fundamental to informed decision-making, critical reflection, personal
empowerment, creativity, and participation in political, social, and cultural
spheres. Furthermore, while it’s hard to separate the benefits of literacy from
education, schooling, and knowledge overall, it has been shown that literacy
among women improves livelihoods and leads to better child and maternal health
in addition to empowering those women to gain access to and challenge male
domains. The Reading Agency has even shown that reading for enjoyment can
increase empathy, improve relationships, reduce symptoms of depression and raise
wellbeing! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">However, first-language literacy and literacy in general face particular challenges in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>.
There are 63 main languages spoken, none with a large enough majority for one
to be selected as the national language. 52% of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>’s 36 million people are
children below the age of 15, and 71% are not finishing primary school in time.
This is caused by, among other reasons, low competence, low literacy rates, and
lack of interest. In fact, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
is ranked lowest in the region in literacy according to a 2012 Uwezo report.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">These are problems that many Ugandans are well aware of and
something that two amazing Ugandans in particular decided to do something
about. Peter Mugogo and Aaron Kirunda, the founders of their own business based
in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>,
decided that establishing their own microfinance company was not giving back
enough to their community. They passionately believe that <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>’s future belongs to that 52% below 15,
and they realized that the literacy rate needed to be improved, academic
achievement celebrated, and key life skills developed in these children in
order to ensure that they were motivated to stay in school and ensure a bright
future for <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>.
So, three years ago, they started Enjuba Spelling Bee, an English spelling
competition for teams of three in Primary 4 through Primary 7.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHX6QC5Xp04jrToJzZPEbKpUfrqj7Sub_x6VBa7b1B0P9-hge0fOI6bVOLDSg0a0DWaRxqJIRLp9FHCrCH8d8VLCfotpBJ7IbhCnfNu-EYkdI4vdNIWVyQfOkheoWz012Z7fjXYZQdjTc/s1600/DSCN3790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHX6QC5Xp04jrToJzZPEbKpUfrqj7Sub_x6VBa7b1B0P9-hge0fOI6bVOLDSg0a0DWaRxqJIRLp9FHCrCH8d8VLCfotpBJ7IbhCnfNu-EYkdI4vdNIWVyQfOkheoWz012Z7fjXYZQdjTc/s400/DSCN3790.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Aaron and Peter</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One year ago, Peace Corps Volunteers Loren Evans and Jason
Economou made their own realizations. For the literacy rate both in pupils’
local languages and in English to improve, communities had to embrace the
government’s local language education policy for Primary 1 to Primary 3 and
possibly even a future extension of it to Primary 5 or Primary 7. This meant
boosting the status of indigenous languages, developing the orthography of
languages if necessary, providing teachers with professional development, and
increasing the amount of available written materials in local languages. Thus,
the My Language Spelling Bee, a local language competition for Primary 3 pupils
<a href="http://thereandbackagainpc.blogspot.ug/2014/10/my-language-spelling-bee.html" target="_blank">which I wrote about last year</a>, was born. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year, as one of the National Co-Directors, I have had
the incredible privilege of being able to witness the birth of what I and my
Co-Director, Ben Ferraro, truly believe is a model Peace Corps partnership with
dedicated, hardworking, and passionate Ugandans. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSlR1Mu4p74XgeHGJ6jEWh29cm4Ep-Oub0z6dBAEQYG-FCT2DKts3kv_6nMY2LlkI5g57sSEUJdJqzxsLlWP8ZTrAAcTkaQrC9Azw3rf4emn1BM9Xiw2I2k7-CwZ6JAfqJLVA3VALD9k/s1600/11850473_10102325767435303_4431406049483378593_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSlR1Mu4p74XgeHGJ6jEWh29cm4Ep-Oub0z6dBAEQYG-FCT2DKts3kv_6nMY2LlkI5g57sSEUJdJqzxsLlWP8ZTrAAcTkaQrC9Azw3rf4emn1BM9Xiw2I2k7-CwZ6JAfqJLVA3VALD9k/s400/11850473_10102325767435303_4431406049483378593_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>My Co-Director, Ben, working on the My Language Spelling Bee in Arua district.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enjuba Spelling Bee and My
Language Spelling Bee, along with the Ministry of Education and Sports, have
joined together to create Uganda Spelling Bee, offering in-service teacher
trainings, a P3 local language spelling competition, and a P4 – P7 English
spelling competition across Uganda. We believe that this national initiative,
besides just being incredibly fun, will help primary school pupils and their
school communities understand the importance of both first and second language
literacy. This awareness and these competitions will, hopefully, in turn,
increase literacy rates by training teachers in learner-centered literacy
instructional techniques and by helping pupils learn key life skills, ignite their
curiosity, become inspired to stay in school longer, and develop pride in their
mother tongue as well as improved competences in English. It’s a lot to put on
one project, but if anyone can do it, Peter, Aaron, and their team of highly-educated,
caring Ugandan volunteers can do it. </div>
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<i>Michael and Juliet, two more volunteers from Enjuba Spelling Bee</i></div>
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This month has been the beginning of the culmination of a
year’s work for Uganda Spelling Bee. Recently, the Runyankore/Rukiga My
Language Spelling Bee finals and English Spelling Bee semi-finals were held at
the Primary Teacher’s College where Kris and I live. The response, excitement,
and anticipation of this year’s events by the community were overwhelming. Our
reach was much greater than last year due to the new partnership and due to the
fact that ownership of this project has been almost entirely taken on by
wonderful community partners in Bushenyi district, partners such as Mugisha
Laban, who have embraced Uganda Spelling Bee and taken it far past where I ever
thought it could go. In-service teacher trainings revolving around spelling bee
practices and learner-centered teaching techniques were held during the second
school term and school, district, and regional-level competitions, run almost
entirely by Ugandans, proceeded from there. The Runyankore/Rukiga My Language
Spelling Bee alone reached over 10,000 pupils, 275 teachers, and 190 schools in
the Southwest overall – and that’s just one of the six language regions Uganda
Spelling Bee is currently operating in. </div>
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The day of the competition was filled with music, word
lists, and excited pupils practicing under the shade of nearby trees. </div>
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<i>Paul Benz, the Music Man!</i></div>
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<i>Kris and Immaculate enjoying the entertainment.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ORakB05FwPL4hMW8ArOvjeJMqnYXBs3xK_Tk3_TplHTgXoU7aubsm-W18BoeMoABMIfvHxM-xxyxagQQh3zdXkzs_-XRG17ktuwFbTJNjbPvgL3brELFcOLa9P6S3MwV2wDCEOPCi6o/s1600/DSCN3883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ORakB05FwPL4hMW8ArOvjeJMqnYXBs3xK_Tk3_TplHTgXoU7aubsm-W18BoeMoABMIfvHxM-xxyxagQQh3zdXkzs_-XRG17ktuwFbTJNjbPvgL3brELFcOLa9P6S3MwV2wDCEOPCi6o/s400/DSCN3883.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Deputy Principal of the college opened the event by speaking of the importance of local language literacy and the role it plays in achieving second language competence. He urged teachers to continue the learner-centered literacy practices they had learned and praised the event as a project that supported the celebration of academic excellence and that now belonged to the community itself.</div>
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The preliminaries for My Language Spelling Bee and the
English Spelling Bee were held side by side, with brief musical interludes,
before lunch.</div>
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<i>The English Spelling Bee pupils were a bit shy and nervous at first, so the judges had the pupils take their spots and quiz their teachers!</i></div>
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<i>This adorable 8-year-old pupil did a great job in the My Language Spelling Bee.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YGHl_i-kbyXcxRI7wQU_hiZDRJMPybDqW6fkM0soI75PuoAbIi4h6hsNBERBMDC12Pip3OrQ8TXRNYpv22Xp-y-KiRED67Tk4i3JFXywO0NwcqpM2raUIlY_MoDhYerrTnxG4TD7kEg/s1600/DSCN4014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YGHl_i-kbyXcxRI7wQU_hiZDRJMPybDqW6fkM0soI75PuoAbIi4h6hsNBERBMDC12Pip3OrQ8TXRNYpv22Xp-y-KiRED67Tk4i3JFXywO0NwcqpM2raUIlY_MoDhYerrTnxG4TD7kEg/s400/DSCN4014.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>The MLSB judges conferring.</i></div>
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<i>A small break before lunch.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRL3Oc-IlVgUav3DqnsFMBaycymqwv0vA48uoa7KHTL4OSEaNhoYsnAVH7kZ0Fbu73PFY5JDPmCOXNqw6OVu9Oddy5eisYGT4Tf1nvmWxf60wpOXuzU1zWWpqYIKS8_gKht5j263MyKg/s1600/DSCN4031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRL3Oc-IlVgUav3DqnsFMBaycymqwv0vA48uoa7KHTL4OSEaNhoYsnAVH7kZ0Fbu73PFY5JDPmCOXNqw6OVu9Oddy5eisYGT4Tf1nvmWxf60wpOXuzU1zWWpqYIKS8_gKht5j263MyKg/s400/DSCN4031.JPG" width="347" /></a></div>
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<i>The college students and scouts helped us serve.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UkZBWJXC1dXiP7yba7EBVdPi6fwkgSdOGordoa6-e28JhpKGKV8g14WCiByyu4n2A1WS18mGEUmnwkSbAdRT-LL-9tiV5eqkK2heBTPureN52xvgGiAxWn1-nmbh3AZo3U5OYJXIV5I/s1600/DSCN4037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UkZBWJXC1dXiP7yba7EBVdPi6fwkgSdOGordoa6-e28JhpKGKV8g14WCiByyu4n2A1WS18mGEUmnwkSbAdRT-LL-9tiV5eqkK2heBTPureN52xvgGiAxWn1-nmbh3AZo3U5OYJXIV5I/s400/DSCN4037.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Olivia, my P3 pupil.</i></div>
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After lunch, all attending watched the My Language Spelling
Bee finals, with pupils spelling words like <i>omuhingánzima</i>
and <i>ekiteetéèyi</i>, until only one child
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Then came the English Spelling Bee finals, with the primary
school pupils impressing all of the adults present by tackling words such as <i>endogenous, paradigm,</i> and <i>xenolith</i>.</div>
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Everyone, of course, received certificates and the top three
My Language Spelling Bee finishers received donated books, games, world maps,
and academic supplies for themselves and their schools. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3UPtWWhJDPkhrsIhX4GyR8leUKk8QBII4GVLEV-wj3ly8ZXQR7TP461uNm-d_S8cSbf1gvaGEuHY5vVf5vC8zibrCKIptWWpVJsjzJoE0rwkIe0oBKxb1908badETPc5VgYYChML6w-E/s1600/DSCN4165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3UPtWWhJDPkhrsIhX4GyR8leUKk8QBII4GVLEV-wj3ly8ZXQR7TP461uNm-d_S8cSbf1gvaGEuHY5vVf5vC8zibrCKIptWWpVJsjzJoE0rwkIe0oBKxb1908badETPc5VgYYChML6w-E/s400/DSCN4165.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQH65cVnoLX1SM2uUt_57w-_81Q31vw-FHdIYmVtCWoXwGug7rtkhKt2LJEXuzLYuv0Nz5w4xLqqgb7iaxICQhEvtfdxY6XOTYbLJtLUrmBATZ_iSK5Zp6N4N9eZBAx1A_SCjK1yg0qsA/s1600/DSCN4151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQH65cVnoLX1SM2uUt_57w-_81Q31vw-FHdIYmVtCWoXwGug7rtkhKt2LJEXuzLYuv0Nz5w4xLqqgb7iaxICQhEvtfdxY6XOTYbLJtLUrmBATZ_iSK5Zp6N4N9eZBAx1A_SCjK1yg0qsA/s400/DSCN4151.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Laban closing the ceremony.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The winning pupils from my school.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpFLXDAjrBLjk2CLx-O4LFnXoBFwpFvHAPnOKFKaKu4rjbGTOhGAxQ3FejpsbeEytTmxTCeuKmzsKkeUhSH_SKFxIycDAzpxT4QOPFnsPizkTtiH-70N_N9D-820Z1__gnGbLiHylPBc/s1600/DSCN4180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpFLXDAjrBLjk2CLx-O4LFnXoBFwpFvHAPnOKFKaKu4rjbGTOhGAxQ3FejpsbeEytTmxTCeuKmzsKkeUhSH_SKFxIycDAzpxT4QOPFnsPizkTtiH-70N_N9D-820Z1__gnGbLiHylPBc/s400/DSCN4180.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The Southwest Uganda Spelling Bee team! Minus Robert Hahn, that is.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblJ7qHnpYYWa-KC6WtAaRzkdx_QNhD_fjZAir3cDpnYf2pwPoUftNAmlOEn9-LCjnBeL0uf2u03CcujZByitR7Vjznf9WDLQTGqetAFTfRXdPrtkJ6Dah0tm5q6sqsh5PNZp_J7qqnDk/s1600/DSCN4185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblJ7qHnpYYWa-KC6WtAaRzkdx_QNhD_fjZAir3cDpnYf2pwPoUftNAmlOEn9-LCjnBeL0uf2u03CcujZByitR7Vjznf9WDLQTGqetAFTfRXdPrtkJ6Dah0tm5q6sqsh5PNZp_J7qqnDk/s400/DSCN4185.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Letting off a little steam after a long day.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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The top three English Spelling Bee teams now move on to the
National Championship in Uganda’s capital, Kampala, on October 17<sup>th</sup>
- an exciting prize in and of itself for the public school children, especially
since some have never been outside of their own district or ridden a bus
before. It’s going to be an extremely exciting event, and I invite all of you
to be a part of it by liking Uganda Spelling Bee on Facebook and Twitter.
Please, follow along and give these amazing pupils your moral support on their big day!</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/UgandaSpellingBee?fref=ts">https://www.facebook.com/UgandaSpellingBee?fref=ts</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/spellingbeeug">https://twitter.com/spellingbeeug</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Website:<span style="font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><a href="http://www.spellingbee.ug/" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">http://www.spellingbee.ug/</a></span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: x-small;">References</span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0016/001611/161121e.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mother Tongue Matters: Local Language as a Key to Effective Learning</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://faculty.educ.ubc.ca/norton/Tembe%20and%20Norton%202011.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">English Education, Local Languages, and Community Perspectives in Uganda</span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0021/002126/212602e.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Optimising Learning, Education, and Publishing in Uganda: The Language Factor</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://mg.co.za/article/2013-10-18-mother-tongue-classrooms-give-a-better-boost-to-english-study-later" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mother Tongue Classrooms Give Better Boost to English Study Later</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.unesco.org/education/GMR2006/full/chapt5_eng.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Why Literacy Matters - UNESCO</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/news/6743_reading_for_pleasure_builds_empathy_and_improves_wellbeing_new_report_shows" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Reading for Pleasure Builds Empathy and Improves Well-being</span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://circle.ubc.ca/bitstream/handle/2429/5641/ubc_2008_fall_tembe_juliet_hirome.pdf?sequence=1" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Language Education Policy and Multilingual Literacies in Ugandan Primary Schools</span></a></div>
<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-42988563000685096282015-10-02T03:08:00.002-07:002015-10-02T03:08:47.635-07:00Pen Pals Wanted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7peNOl63A8rHDVibLcC0I97XSvwn99ayDTyQQW4DdRsa2qn7bNGs1H6wJ8SD1ANgXNp5qpb28y06QOHy-Jv95n-my9xJOih2eEZ7c_VIjRErVlrvuaGE9NADzMbKsyuQ6yfLI1hu9DnY/s1600/DSCF0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7peNOl63A8rHDVibLcC0I97XSvwn99ayDTyQQW4DdRsa2qn7bNGs1H6wJ8SD1ANgXNp5qpb28y06QOHy-Jv95n-my9xJOih2eEZ7c_VIjRErVlrvuaGE9NADzMbKsyuQ6yfLI1hu9DnY/s400/DSCF0338.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Primary schools consist of classes P1 - P7. Here are my super cool P7 pupils, ruling the roost at Bushenyi Demo.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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Christopher Mutarebwa, the Primary 7 Library Prefect, ducked
into the library the other day to return a textbook he had checked out (yes,
Ugandan textbooks are among our most popular books in the library – these
kids!) and take out another. As I was working to sort the newest shipment we
had received, he approached me and, after the usual greetings, eagerly asked
me, “Teacher Heidi…can you get for me a pen pal from <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>?”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJZ8rhN4Pqc9FVv2gP0NJhUd1agUYaqHx6k50WV8I2b0DCbCctHrf8Pd25VKw0RaHRtBxKfJR0wAftyAjlprnHLFg22N9bjobpQL5dR1PV-8hMmSN57HzvNzbmjQfeHQIWvx_ZkzqUjw/s1600/Christopher.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJZ8rhN4Pqc9FVv2gP0NJhUd1agUYaqHx6k50WV8I2b0DCbCctHrf8Pd25VKw0RaHRtBxKfJR0wAftyAjlprnHLFg22N9bjobpQL5dR1PV-8hMmSN57HzvNzbmjQfeHQIWvx_ZkzqUjw/s320/Christopher.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Christopher, age 14</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Christopher is a great pupil, hard worker, and incredibly
ambitious. He goes to school during the day and tends to his family’s cattle in
the mornings, evenings, and weekends. As he walks through the grassy, rolling
hills and overlooks his grazing long-horned cows, he dreams of attending university
in <st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place>.
It’s a dream that I know is within his grasp. He has constantly impressed me
and some of my favorite cross-cultural conversations in <st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place> have been with this 14
year-old boy. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, of course, I said he could have a pen pal. His face lit
up and as he left for class, I returned to labeling the new books (OK, reading
them, reminiscing about my childhood, and then labeling them), pondering who I
knew in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region>
that would make a good match for him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The bell, an old tire rim that a lucky pupil is permitted to
beat with a rock at the beginning and end of every break, sounded for lunch. As
I put my work down, I turned around to close the library’s shutters and was
treated to the sight of a swarm of P7 pupils running down the hill towards me.
They crowded around the window, yelling and laughing in English and Runyankore,
and after a minute I finally made out the gist of what they were trying to
communicate – they all wanted pen pals from <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region> too! I grinned and promised
that if they organized themselves and gave me a list of the names and ages of
everyone who wanted a pen pal, I would try my best to get all of them one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KvL4stqARJMD3WiBgU99e8mTYTU3kX0ZQtNCb5k3wFXD5MNHY-AHTNhJD5CKVO2E9FCayRYGdKV6YIdcKEgL32qiqP3zYbtznB0Ownmd7cdFcHzSuHRkPRUYd3eBOEcSQwpFzTEACiA/s1600/DSCF0316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KvL4stqARJMD3WiBgU99e8mTYTU3kX0ZQtNCb5k3wFXD5MNHY-AHTNhJD5CKVO2E9FCayRYGdKV6YIdcKEgL32qiqP3zYbtznB0Ownmd7cdFcHzSuHRkPRUYd3eBOEcSQwpFzTEACiA/s400/DSCF0316.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Some of the P7 pupils who want pen pals, post-swarm.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Few things are more impressive to me here than the ability
of pupils, aged 4 to 14, to handle themselves and their classmates in an
orderly, mature, efficient fashion. Three minutes later I was given a
beautifully handwritten list of the P7 pupils who were dying to make a friend
in the States.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Staring at the list of hopefuls, I thought back to when I
was a child. I was lucky enough to have pen pals from all over the world. I got
air mail letters from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Australia</st1:country-region>,
the <st1:country-region w:st="on">Philippines</st1:country-region>, the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.K.</st1:country-region>, and
beyond. Nothing was more exciting than seeing those red and blue envelopes
arrive and reading stories, both strange and familiar at the same time, from
kids my age across the globe. I even kept in touch with one pen pal, Leticia,
for years and still remember her fondly. </div>
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I want, so much now, to give that experience to these
pupils, these kids who work from dawn until dusk but with any free time that
they have are always in the library studying, giggling over books with friends,
or patiently reading to the little ones. I want to help them create life-long
friendships with other kids who will share their passion and excitement.</div>
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If you know someone around the ages of 10 to 14 who is interested
in a long-term correspondence with a Ugandan around their own age, please let
me know either by commenting on this blog or emailing me at <a href="mailto:heidigramlich@gmail.com">heidigramlich@gmail.com</a>. While none
of these pupils have their own mailbox, the school does have a P.O. Box the
next town over and I can facilitate the first exchange of letters. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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I really do believe that it would not only be a wonderful chance
for my Ugandan pupils but also for American students as well. It’s an incredible
cross-cultural opportunity to learn, grow, and expand your horizons – these
kids have a lot to offer. And they’re pretty funny too. </div>
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<i>They wanted "snaps" (pictures) taken to show their future pen pals. Some of the ages are rough approximations as most rural Ugandans don't have birth certificates and, in general, don't celebrate birthdays. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNnMYn3F-NiuSlVWieKgTx6-DhIFoRchi5JxNkfnKJwf616NZOWybXCx7LTsEeCu8URB3HGsyOCSGr1AUXrQQM7JywwcW8FjJdVyom-OEM7vwcJAkRXLQGlcms19Nku6uGWix_lU0nL8/s1600/Arnold.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNnMYn3F-NiuSlVWieKgTx6-DhIFoRchi5JxNkfnKJwf616NZOWybXCx7LTsEeCu8URB3HGsyOCSGr1AUXrQQM7JywwcW8FjJdVyom-OEM7vwcJAkRXLQGlcms19Nku6uGWix_lU0nL8/s320/Arnold.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Arnold, age 14</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI1LR4Wf-R3pJMVb27JMUlNcTOl99M29TnGmCLgfiUg4nxCZh_ilWM47snf5X8xf4RyYGu-wGzyKFa_jS9owdGZZ3DXYJ8bcF6TqoH2BjqzMFMcbku7DEldM1yI-F1J2e2fyTdXZMveU/s1600/Daphine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI1LR4Wf-R3pJMVb27JMUlNcTOl99M29TnGmCLgfiUg4nxCZh_ilWM47snf5X8xf4RyYGu-wGzyKFa_jS9owdGZZ3DXYJ8bcF6TqoH2BjqzMFMcbku7DEldM1yI-F1J2e2fyTdXZMveU/s320/Daphine.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Daphine, age 12</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcCWIpT7K9RlEFKHipRl1cUNIwMYIWIy4PDeDyfWoFsAd4FONhN1YsF-XUoF52Wb9A4XPGSXjjGNJMqx9K2jNHTNzs_ckZ6hFRkEGeuiJ2ZdLCrI_I4Epk0MiqE7PE0lvuvSxZtLgXIE/s1600/Dianah.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcCWIpT7K9RlEFKHipRl1cUNIwMYIWIy4PDeDyfWoFsAd4FONhN1YsF-XUoF52Wb9A4XPGSXjjGNJMqx9K2jNHTNzs_ckZ6hFRkEGeuiJ2ZdLCrI_I4Epk0MiqE7PE0lvuvSxZtLgXIE/s320/Dianah.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Dianah, age 13</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrhP1ClDtzCI7nbmqZEu-8L4eTNdEMHQacGaQBNG3jQlmUwCiMai-FDVZkbMQwDjRN5MROs-Z9w4xHv0akS1P9FzEyATg-X_dNhlEmH0YkEQMo6E5YqJB5tpx8f8Ybs274nn7m1Rp0QE/s1600/Edith.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyrhP1ClDtzCI7nbmqZEu-8L4eTNdEMHQacGaQBNG3jQlmUwCiMai-FDVZkbMQwDjRN5MROs-Z9w4xHv0akS1P9FzEyATg-X_dNhlEmH0YkEQMo6E5YqJB5tpx8f8Ybs274nn7m1Rp0QE/s320/Edith.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Edith, age 12</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5ha6ViiJZ71So67NMVp6SeAmtOLk7Z_M_qfeJiado2shY8hMEfylLyo0wLDgtX7h4qTbR-xQ_K4Y2w7LQXuyqjnI-zo-vb6Y44kvcodi8WOWoClMHYf8b6_gJ7OWn039yFKsWLLORx0/s1600/Loyce.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5ha6ViiJZ71So67NMVp6SeAmtOLk7Z_M_qfeJiado2shY8hMEfylLyo0wLDgtX7h4qTbR-xQ_K4Y2w7LQXuyqjnI-zo-vb6Y44kvcodi8WOWoClMHYf8b6_gJ7OWn039yFKsWLLORx0/s320/Loyce.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Loyce, age 13</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O5QbtFxIMSBN72hUFOfpVQZa0A-cAi_3CeSEyNgcwKtbBAc9T6MOJ527QX1kufXdkdppmwO46bZzuxW8zAC7xxBKTjoHJ6jGO84lwSd-hCZOH6_9uvuzZsi7xNHfsgcZXfKMLxUfZRE/s1600/Rhina.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2O5QbtFxIMSBN72hUFOfpVQZa0A-cAi_3CeSEyNgcwKtbBAc9T6MOJ527QX1kufXdkdppmwO46bZzuxW8zAC7xxBKTjoHJ6jGO84lwSd-hCZOH6_9uvuzZsi7xNHfsgcZXfKMLxUfZRE/s320/Rhina.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Rhina, age 13</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhawtFrg6tHP4cSeTUxDuU_bHy-K90HUUa_pjLPJrg0Qk8WApMbrZ2XyzJoGBMsf64DhfgJxS4iRcFvGpd-ZO_IkUcKx4NITjmfHzrVhtoqd2K051yb3H7Mpx-RAsOsnHaY4BJ2tSJvYUQ/s1600/Ruth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhawtFrg6tHP4cSeTUxDuU_bHy-K90HUUa_pjLPJrg0Qk8WApMbrZ2XyzJoGBMsf64DhfgJxS4iRcFvGpd-ZO_IkUcKx4NITjmfHzrVhtoqd2K051yb3H7Mpx-RAsOsnHaY4BJ2tSJvYUQ/s320/Ruth.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Ruth, age 12</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__COBEQgS1N0MoTOUXgyjzHDwWwD5ahKm1PtrxvqEqWnRx3dtdV2OAehomw11o11isI7Zo_wHeon5JGXhBkiqg2_xv1BC5puBe7TQBPAi-IMbweyYz0GFffpchb-YoMOpigQWzBc2iVg/s1600/Sandrah.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__COBEQgS1N0MoTOUXgyjzHDwWwD5ahKm1PtrxvqEqWnRx3dtdV2OAehomw11o11isI7Zo_wHeon5JGXhBkiqg2_xv1BC5puBe7TQBPAi-IMbweyYz0GFffpchb-YoMOpigQWzBc2iVg/s320/Sandrah.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Sandrah, age 13</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbouJienQ0_emLYYhlJ4Kr7x1CEGe4KMXQxsP96bYbhxoCiWqrHwb_ZItYN3sXggZuF6Yli5PR0xNkd6LbyPSnxb4UWtO-XysDl-4SiiT5Rax9NsGffYIcAB7PYC-IXl71UzKjc6t10jk/s1600/Shanitah.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbouJienQ0_emLYYhlJ4Kr7x1CEGe4KMXQxsP96bYbhxoCiWqrHwb_ZItYN3sXggZuF6Yli5PR0xNkd6LbyPSnxb4UWtO-XysDl-4SiiT5Rax9NsGffYIcAB7PYC-IXl71UzKjc6t10jk/s320/Shanitah.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Shanitah, age 12</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGsg5Szqw3pDtbOgKFVTEVecZEMryluJN4pfepJAzxr4GgZyTyNnKaBh1jO9NIES3T0jWb1ehvB2YnFXfo1cBzz7A6CTYHlwFK8OLaJHYbYcyJ8MiTCmzhZFwBQ6LHdhTtfWYJZ7fdc0/s1600/Shinabellah.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGsg5Szqw3pDtbOgKFVTEVecZEMryluJN4pfepJAzxr4GgZyTyNnKaBh1jO9NIES3T0jWb1ehvB2YnFXfo1cBzz7A6CTYHlwFK8OLaJHYbYcyJ8MiTCmzhZFwBQ6LHdhTtfWYJZ7fdc0/s320/Shinabellah.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Shinabellah, age 12</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What a wonderful thing is the mail, capable of conveying
across continents a warm human hand-clasp. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>~Author Unknown</i></div>
</div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-48422960834609427382015-08-21T07:13:00.001-07:002015-08-21T07:13:31.921-07:00"Getting Used"<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Eh, you will get used!” It’s a refrain I, and many Peace
Corps Volunteers here, have heard time and time again from our Ugandan friends.
Whether it’s the sun, the food, or the incredibly subtle facial expressions,
we’ve all been waiting until we are “used.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s almost two years in now, and I finally feel like I have
(mostly) learned the rules, know how to play the game, and can finally tell
when someone is saying yes with their eyebrows. I get what’s going on around me
now, especially when it comes to public transportation, and it’s actually a
really great feeling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week, I hopped off of a matatu at the Mbarara bus park,
ready to head to Kampala. There weren’t any </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">buses</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> from my preferred bus line,
Global, around yet, so I headed to the waiting area. I wound my way into the
group of wooden benches covered by a plastic tarp, stepping over bags and
chickens trussed up for the journey. Pushing my way in to a seat in the middle,
I waved my money in the air, just like everybody else, desperate for the ticket
seller’s attention. It was a crazy day for travel – the bus park was jammed to
the brim and people were paying full price for all the way to Kampala, even if
they were planning on getting off halfway, just to get a seat. After I got my
ticket, one of the last available for the next trip out, I left the seating
area and stood over where I estimated the bus was going to arrive. The sun was
beating down, my shoulders were aching from carrying my backpack, and there was
a speaker blasting right behind me, but I was going to get a window seat, damn
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.newvision.co.ug/newvision_cms/gall_content/2014/12/2014_12$largeimg221_Dec_2014_162642037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.newvision.co.ug/newvision_cms/gall_content/2014/12/2014_12$largeimg221_Dec_2014_162642037.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.3999996185303px;"><a href="http://www.newvision.co.ug/news/663079-transport-fares-rise-as-christmas-draws-nearer.html" style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;" target="_blank">Source</a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After about a half hour of waiting, a Global conductor – one
of the many men and women swarming around in yellow Global lab coats – signaled
for everyone to form a line; the next bus was arriving. I dashed into the wave
of people swarming for the point in front of the conductor’s hand. The line was
starting not far from where I had guessed it would and I could practically feel
the breeze on my face from the window, taste the roasted maize that I would buy
out of it for my lunch. I held out my arms and continued to push forward,
elbowing away people who were trying to dodge ahead of me and taking full
advantage of the extra heft my backpack gave me. As the fervor died down and
the queue settled in, I stood not far from the beginning of the line with my
body pressed up against the woman in front of me and with the person behind me
directly up against my bag. The line had become almost a singular entity with
not a millimeter of space between anyone in it for, as we all knew, even the
smallest amount of space in the line would be tantamount to an invitation for
another person to try and squeeze in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I watched the Global bus unload its previous cargo and
passengers and waited for it to move forward, I leaned on the strange woman in
front of me with not a thought for my personal space and realized, with some
surprise, that it all felt completely normal. In fact, sandwiched in my prized
spot in line, I was actually calm and comfortable – and a little smug too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeah, I’m “getting used.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;"><i>"Happiness comes from...some curious adjustment to life."</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;"><i>- Hugh Walpole, Sr.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-37653580560142189872015-07-21T01:23:00.001-07:002015-07-21T01:34:56.056-07:00Peace Corps Cribs: UgandaWelcome to our home as married Peace Corps education volunteers in Uganda! This MTV-style Cribs video was filmed by our friend and fellow PCV, Matthew Dahlberg, with special guest appearances by more friends/fellow PCVs, Carmen and Amanda.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eAvV8myjjms" width="560"></iframe>Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-18798761242088481342015-07-11T08:07:00.000-07:002015-07-11T08:07:14.989-07:00The Amazing Race Comes to Bushenyi!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A new group of Health and Agriculture trainees arrived in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> two
months ago. Like my Education cohort did, they completed their “Boot Camp” and have moved
on to stay with host families for intensive language training. The Southwest
group, about 9 volunteers in total who will be placed in the Runyankore/Rukiga
language region, is staying in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bushenyi</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place>, not too far from me
and Kris. They attend language classes in town six days a week and every
Friday, Kris has arranged for them to compete in…<b>The Amazing Race: <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></b>! If
you’re not familiar with The Amazing Race, it’s reality TV show where teams of two race around the world to complete various tasks in different countries. It also turns out to be a great concept to
adapt for language learning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of Peace Corps language training is known as “community
experience." This involves the trainees being set free in the local area in which they are staying and told to use the language tasks that they have been
learning. They are supposed to practice greeting, ordering food, haggling, finding
transportation, and, of course, talking up the Peace Corps with whomever they can find. It sounds fairly simple but in reality, as any language teacher
knows, that's a monumental assignment for a student, especially when they're an adult. The uncertainty, fear, and exhaustion of being in a new culture coupled with attending classes eight hours a day, six days a week means that most students are too reluctant, too nervous, or just plain too tired to take their own
initiative to practice their new language in a real-world context. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One way to combat this is to give learners more specific assignments to complete.
Creating guidelines and a safe, predetermined space to practice mitigates a lot
of the anxiety adult learners can feel. After all, when you’re speaking a brand new
language to native speakers, you really do feel like a child again a lot of the time! Add this idea to the fact that, when you’re American, you will naturally turn these tasks into a competition, and The Amazing Race: Uganda is born. The prize?
Homemade baked goods, of course, from a selection of the six I’m able to make here.
There are few things a Peace Corps trainee dreams about more than food (sorry,
friends and family – they still love you). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, each week, Kris has been traveling around Bushenyi Town
and speaking to our Ugandan friends, asking them to provide tasks and interact
with the trainees in local language as part of the Amazing Race. In a fringe benefit that we weren't expecting, the locals have absolutely been loving it. It means a lot to them to see foreigners
really making an effort to get to know who they are while caring so obviously about their language and their culture.
Plus, it’s funny to see a bunch of Americans running around frantically, trying
desperately to remember the word for bananas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week, the race came to our trading center and schools!
Kris set up tasks around the area and I waited at my primary school while
Kris “released” the teams five minutes apart in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bushenyi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Town</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
They had to travel by public transportation to our trading center, complete four tasks and one detour, and then travel back again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-rvPAsU_jhZQQfbiINUJsRz7oq3djTvx1MNwHsD7nTT27xN2STpEsqLVw0y7zpH71ATFFwUgDy3YJiz7vNGmZVKEThtbv8sL7fEvFwQ_gxXynCpatpJhpvAJwL45WYrtbGOeKzIbTwM/s1600/IMG_1726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-rvPAsU_jhZQQfbiINUJsRz7oq3djTvx1MNwHsD7nTT27xN2STpEsqLVw0y7zpH71ATFFwUgDy3YJiz7vNGmZVKEThtbv8sL7fEvFwQ_gxXynCpatpJhpvAJwL45WYrtbGOeKzIbTwM/s400/IMG_1726.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The first clue:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQH6gffNFZXeaARVaMXUtrNfjiXUKduC0PvWKWk452WW_F8U37t-6yHdF7zI8meQg2WSt-hHY03ZYEcvcBPf_8Bh1fXca95thcUWGJVrzXjEk1RurxXGbRMBQvcdW4nOIOLyjWjB8O7D8/s1600/IMG_1729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQH6gffNFZXeaARVaMXUtrNfjiXUKduC0PvWKWk452WW_F8U37t-6yHdF7zI8meQg2WSt-hHY03ZYEcvcBPf_8Bh1fXca95thcUWGJVrzXjEk1RurxXGbRMBQvcdW4nOIOLyjWjB8O7D8/s400/IMG_1729.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>You have to haggle for almost everything here, including transport, so 10,000 shillings can go fast if you're not good at bargaining!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Second clue:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDFpQuXq1MloNKhloZglR7L7rkrGYoABl__5qfN9jTuvuT1Q6UHt7kmly0AMSqMts1cV0UFfg-ayujz6DCwizckf9bZm6IIC2YIepaPTsuGTOGEOlB5Ahhyphenhyphent0cD5xjTKNnt_BLLC59sI/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDFpQuXq1MloNKhloZglR7L7rkrGYoABl__5qfN9jTuvuT1Q6UHt7kmly0AMSqMts1cV0UFfg-ayujz6DCwizckf9bZm6IIC2YIepaPTsuGTOGEOlB5Ahhyphenhyphent0cD5xjTKNnt_BLLC59sI/s400/IMG_1727.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Those might have been our clothes that the trainees were washing...</i></div>
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Third clue:</div>
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<i>Immaculate has actually seen the Amazing Race, so she was super excited!</i></div>
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After talking to Immaculate, the trainees were given a fourth clue directing them to my primary school. Upon arriving, they had to enter the Primary One or Primary Two classroom and be taught a song by the pupils and teacher. My headteacher and deputy headteacher were there to greet them when they arrived, bemusedly shaking hands and directing the sweaty Americans to the correct classroom block. </div>
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Each class presented its own challenges and advantages. Hope, the P1 teacher, was very strict about pronunciation, but she had written down the song for the trainees and allowed them to sit in the back with the class. </div>
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Rebecca, the P2 teacher, was less strict about pronunciation, but she wouldn't let the trainees write anything down and made them stand in front of the class to learn the words.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjam4M_QImpVxjjNRmvm2jEsIGDKDXtPOIhG7rpjgsZY-QhN5FNGjm3TEv7PBXqXprABIeynMwTrjYdfdrk25XMxzD_W-4DDmOltCw4RHq6C9QSb9TsjDLNigYtvxSGyg2Yn2oJFH4T-UQ/s1600/IMG_1735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjam4M_QImpVxjjNRmvm2jEsIGDKDXtPOIhG7rpjgsZY-QhN5FNGjm3TEv7PBXqXprABIeynMwTrjYdfdrk25XMxzD_W-4DDmOltCw4RHq6C9QSb9TsjDLNigYtvxSGyg2Yn2oJFH4T-UQ/s400/IMG_1735.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Such good sports!</i></div>
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It is a simple song that the teachers sing with the little ones when it's time to practice handwriting: </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyuyXsSaBgJf3Z9MdnoC6NK9OShtHZG0-572mLX67dbMNYJEEb7wBrDnBSUYyrqJPKHUIKe3_lfMMpzlturxQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i>Kampandiike gye</i></div>
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<i>Kampandiike gye</i></div>
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<i>Kampandiike kurungi</i></div>
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<i>Ndyaba karaani!</i></div>
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<i>Let me write well</i></div>
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<i>Let me write well</i></div>
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<i>Let me write so very well</i></div>
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<i>I will be a secretary!</i></div>
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Its length didn't make it any less difficult to sing in front of a class, however! But with the promise of baked goods on the line, the trainees performed beautifully.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBM3I4nUI3lIvhYOgU6ouSHpWjIFqAq9RthOHvMOzDTxT-JkDvmoEhG7HD-zkUG3G0BlJ_u2CyyB8XDtr6N8FZRUF1BIzqzTQ-ifMGUpDA3qNzr7DKWifNsRw8v2OnQ6JEo5kh6CY1o30/s1600/IMG_1745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBM3I4nUI3lIvhYOgU6ouSHpWjIFqAq9RthOHvMOzDTxT-JkDvmoEhG7HD-zkUG3G0BlJ_u2CyyB8XDtr6N8FZRUF1BIzqzTQ-ifMGUpDA3qNzr7DKWifNsRw8v2OnQ6JEo5kh6CY1o30/s400/IMG_1745.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Receiving their next clue from the primary school secretary.</i></div>
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The last clue involved a trip to the banana stand clear at the other end of the trading center. The volunteers had to haggle the price down to a reasonable 2,000 shillings and hope that they had enough left out of their 10,000 shillings to make it back to Bushenyi Town!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8TMhRaPhyphenhypheniLsAMzNNbDrnSfrKsNZspVsqVemuI1GS9Wyct2nSTI64SzCaJrO5EKrwjV_sjzxcmgj7JlVOiD5ajoR_C_t6xffne35KO-BgJ7s57D3Md1GeuP9lmbW4n5VF8b4gVeXWYQ/s1600/IMG_1728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq8TMhRaPhyphenhypheniLsAMzNNbDrnSfrKsNZspVsqVemuI1GS9Wyct2nSTI64SzCaJrO5EKrwjV_sjzxcmgj7JlVOiD5ajoR_C_t6xffne35KO-BgJ7s57D3Md1GeuP9lmbW4n5VF8b4gVeXWYQ/s400/IMG_1728.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The set aside items might also have been from our grocery list...</i></div>
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It all ended up in a sprint to the finish line between two of the four teams, with one victoriously claiming their prizes of no-bake cookies and coffee cake. Hopefully, however, everyone also left with a better understanding of how to navigate around Uganda, a greater proficiency in Runyankore, increased confidence, and some good, albeit ridiculous, memories. </div>
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<i>"That was fun, but it wasn't fun."</i></div>
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<i>- JJ from the Amazing Race</i></div>
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<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-50768898097139745172015-07-06T07:34:00.003-07:002015-07-06T07:34:37.584-07:00When Help Is a Four-Letter Word<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve gotten into the habit of locking the door and drawing
the curtains whenever I get home. In the recesses of my house, cut off from the
world, I’ve begun to consider the vastly complex issue of a deceptively simple
word – “help.” I never realized it before, but as a society, we attach so many
intense labels to the word help. The truly astounding part is that which label we
choose to use depends on the context of the word – if the help is being given
or received. In general, if we think of help in terms of being given, it is
almost sanctified. It is a virtue to aspire to, a holy, spiritual quality of
someone good and pure and admirable. If we think of help in terms of it being
received, that picture changes. We associate the word with a sense of pity
instead; needing help is something almost shameful, an issue that we distance
ourselves from with images of homeless vets in soup kitchens or barefoot
children in <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>. But on either end of the
word, the labels attached to help are toxic and untrue. We’ll always fall when
we put ourselves on pedestals of self-righteousness and, if we attach judgment
to receiving help, we’ll also, however unconsciously, attach judgment to giving
it. Help needs to come from a place of empathy, not pity.<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Gramson" datetime="2015-07-02T12:10"><o:p></o:p></ins></span></div>
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We need to be able to acknowledge our own dark places, our
own imperfections, and allow others to see them - we need to be able to receive
help in order to give it. This is the journey that I’m on now. When you don’t
want to think of yourself as the receiver, it’s so easy to shut yourself off
from everyone else trying to help – hit silent when the phone rings, neglect
your inbox, put in your headphones when someone’s knocking at the door. But I have started to realize that when I
close my door to others, when I don’t let them in, I can’t get out either. That
closed door is not a one-way barrier to help. One of the most important things
I’m learning here is how to keep my door open, to ask for help, however small,
without shaming myself for getting it or telling myself that next time I’ll be
able to get through it alone. Because I’m not alone. We’re not alone. No one is
meant to make it through this world by themselves. Not reaching out to your
family, your friends, your community, or health care professionals doesn’t make
you strong, doesn’t make you tough, and certainly doesn’t make you better. In
fact, it almost makes you stupid, and it does make it harder for you to reach
out to others in an effective manner. I tried to make my life about helping
without even realizing that I shrank from applying that word to myself as a
receiver – and I don’t think I’m the only one. In these two years of Peace
Corps, I never thought one of the most important things I’d learn in trying to
help was how to ask for it and accept it while still feeling strong,
still feeling enough, still being who I wanted to be. In order to truly be able
to help, I now know that I have to learn how to be helped. </div>
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We must relabel “help” as normal, not something that is only
required in extreme situations of poverty, natural disaster, or disease but
rather something that everyone is able to give and get constantly. In fact, we can’t
get through life without doing both. When we lock our door to others trying to
get in, when we refuse to receive help, it traps us as well, making it so much
more difficult when we want to give help to see who is on the other side and what they really need. It makes us vulnerable to keep that door open, to allow
people to see inside, but it also frees us to help and be helped. If we want to really, truly help, we have to
stop letting help define us, in one way or the other, and instead stand in our
open doorways, exposed but present.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TK5sQC8N5o_Uy7VkED9yGDUSsTPwYv0F2wOf2Hg39Cg3cjq27_YEwMuSIAsXsD-CFkFXDEh_yyVazq00qz0n31S8gqk5MlNgm8BhGTATaJVE_fSdQwkzI8PYNIdyOLCgfGpntDzeBlk/s1600/IMG_9794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TK5sQC8N5o_Uy7VkED9yGDUSsTPwYv0F2wOf2Hg39Cg3cjq27_YEwMuSIAsXsD-CFkFXDEh_yyVazq00qz0n31S8gqk5MlNgm8BhGTATaJVE_fSdQwkzI8PYNIdyOLCgfGpntDzeBlk/s400/IMG_9794.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>"If we’re going to find our way back to each other,
vulnerability is going to be that path. And I know it’s seductive to stand
outside the arena and think, I’m going to go in there and kick some ass when
I’m bulletproof and when I’m perfect. And that is seductive. But the truth is
that never happens. And even if you got as perfect as you could and as
bulletproof as you could possibly muster when you got in there, that’s not what
we want to see. We want you to go in. We want to be with you and across from
you. And we just want, for ourselves and the people we care about and the
people we work with, to dare greatly."</i></div>
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<i>- Brené Brown</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability?language=en" target="_blank">TED Talk: The Power of Vulnerability by Brené Brown</a></div>
<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-5058743028631860852015-06-30T10:18:00.002-07:002015-06-30T10:18:55.563-07:00ZaaAAAanzibar!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Over term break, Kris and I got the chance to meet up with our friend Quinn (who I've known for over two decades now) in amazing, magical Zanzibar! Zanzibar merged with Tanganyika in 1964 to become the United Republic of Tanzania and is also known, justifiably so, as the Spice Islands. It's a fascinating place with a complex history - Persian, Omani, Arab, Portuguese, and Indian influences can be seen everywhere, side by side. Its Bantu-speaking people are mostly Muslim, with about 98% of the population practicing Islam, and while there are a decent amount of Muslims in Uganda, it was fascinating and enlightening to visit our first Muslim country.</div>
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The architecture, food, and markets were beyond phenomenal and like nothing any of us had ever experienced before. The call for prayer from a minaret outside of our Stone Town apartment marked the rhythm of our days as we explored the narrow alleyways and small shops tucked into every corner.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQyO_1jIE6PW1z4zsuefEwkz1klC8j3g9glV-bHDKiYuSARQevcuuQOeiu-2Q2IFPUZkjJUuEZUYK21r3bWVc3F6qQJwOLcHnBdD4YhR5w4mjaWJosQakKPtXhmZC583RICMH6dIrVL0/s1600/IMG_0864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQyO_1jIE6PW1z4zsuefEwkz1klC8j3g9glV-bHDKiYuSARQevcuuQOeiu-2Q2IFPUZkjJUuEZUYK21r3bWVc3F6qQJwOLcHnBdD4YhR5w4mjaWJosQakKPtXhmZC583RICMH6dIrVL0/s400/IMG_0864.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>The view from the balcony of our Stone Town apartment.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpW76vkeI8D8vukB-XmZ2jbALsj7nlEpDZUgVRuSXEWDqiU2FX9YQ_tW8xFpaStwbCfJgnczTQuzWkAiAACQ4MzSJQ7oeTYiYOg7BcobnqJbYx6QJ4WJbbSvp8FqaQP9EKvFk_fJr9ZE/s1600/IMG_0865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpW76vkeI8D8vukB-XmZ2jbALsj7nlEpDZUgVRuSXEWDqiU2FX9YQ_tW8xFpaStwbCfJgnczTQuzWkAiAACQ4MzSJQ7oeTYiYOg7BcobnqJbYx6QJ4WJbbSvp8FqaQP9EKvFk_fJr9ZE/s400/IMG_0865.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Relaxing on our porch while the smell of cooking and spices wafted up around us.</i></div>
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<i>Heading out...with a vampire!</i></div>
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<i>"Sundowners" at a nearby restaurant overlooking Stone Town.</i></div>
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<i>Stone Town's gorgeously carved doors are famous for their intricate detail.</i></div>
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Cheetah's Rock was without a doubt one of the highlights of our experience. It is a sanctuary in Zanzibar founded by a woman who rescues both wild animals and unwanted zoo animals (apparently, when baby animals get older, they are often killed by zoos which don't have the space or money to keep them). She uses only positive reinforcement to train the animals - she has never once hit, punished, or drugged them in any way. Even when she shipped her animals from Spain to Zanziber, she spent months training with them, having the animals practice entering shipping crates so they would remain calm on the flight. We got to enter the cage of every animal, except the hyena, and feed and/or touch all of them while we heard their incredible stories of survival. I felt like a kid in the coolest dream ever the entire time.</div>
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<i>My heart was absolutely racing as I fed Aslan, the white lion. It was an incredible feeling!</i></div>
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<i>And to top off the amazing afternoon - champagne with a cheetah!</i></div>
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<i>Tyson, just like all the other animals, loved Kris.</i></div>
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We also got the opportunity to go on a spice tour to see the locally-grown crops, ending with lunch at a local woman's house.<br />
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<i>Nutmeg - apparently the outer red part that you can see here is used to make things like pepper spray!</i></div>
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<i>Everyone thought that Quinn's name was Queen, so the crown our guide made her worked perfectly!</i></div>
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Quinn brought champagne from the U.S. <u>and</u> we had a refrigerator in our apartment, so we celebrated her birthday in style! Just look at the condensation on those glasses...</div>
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<i>Birthdays are for embarrassing, no?</i></div>
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<i>The owner of the restaurant near our apartment was nice enough to make and surprise Quinn with this cake on her birthday - for free!</i></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">The next night we had dinner at the night market, a local market full of fresh-caught seafood.</span><br />
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<i>A delicious dinner topped off with a glass of sugarcane juice.</i></div>
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<i>And ending with a Snickers, Mars, and chocolate pizza!</i></div>
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For the second half of our trip, we headed to the east coast of Zanzibar to stay on the edge of a coral reef. Quinn, Kris, and I all voted the Indian Ocean our favorite ocean by far - clear, beautifully blue, and somehow scented with a delicate, gentle floral aroma.<br />
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<i>Many of the locals were harvesting seawood when we arrived - a friend we met at the hotel told us that this time of the year was exciting and busy for mother, grandmothers, and children.</i></div>
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<i>Behind us is The Rock Restaurant - balanced on a rock in the ocean!</i></div>
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While there, Kris and I went snorkeling - Quinn, unfortunately, was feeling too sick to join us that day. We went with a local man who called himself "Captain Chicken," who has been sailing in these waters for decades. Kris and I walked about a mile out to the ocean to reach his dhow at low tide. He took us to the clearest water I've ever seen and I taught Kris how to snorkel for the first time (sorry, he would like me to point out that he's snorkeled in a pool before. I would like to point out that doesn't count). We saw some incredible fish; it felt like a scene out of Finding Nemo! An underwater one, that is, not one of the ones at the dentist's office.<br />
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<i>Relaxing with a good book later in the day - some parts of our friendship just haven't changed.</i></div>
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<i>While we were reading, a monkey came by and literally jumped on our bed!</i></div>
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<i>It was a red colobus monkey, and a curious one at that! Red colobus monkeys can only be found in the archipelago of Zanzibar.</i></div>
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<i>Trying to figure out how to eat our seafood.</i></div>
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After bidding Quinn a teary goodbye, Kris and I head up the coast to spend a few more days of vacation together before heading back to work in Uganda. We stayed at a small, Italian-run hotel that was incredibly cheap because we were there during rainy season. The chef was incredible and the beach right in front of our door; we holed up there for the rest of our time.</div>
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<i>Haggling for souvenirs with some actual Maasai on the beach. One of them drew a box in the sand and he and I sat down on either side of it. He would write a number, then I would laugh and write a much lower number. He would look offended, then we would repeat the process.</i></div>
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On our last afternoon, Kris and I went for one final swim in the Indian Ocean. The sun was setting and a quintessential rainbow arched over a dhow moored not too far from land. I held Kris's hand in the water and watched as a combination of the sun's last rays and happiness made his face glow. I basked in the scene, with the rocking dhow illuminated gently behind him and the rainbow spread out breathtakingly above it. I didn't take a picture, but it was a memory I will never forget for I knew, as the warm water cradled us and the breezy, floral scent of Zanzibar caught my nose, that it was a perfect moment. It was silly and happy and open and beautiful. Then we went and ate a mountain of sushi. Good day.</div>
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On our way to the airport to head back to Uganda, we stopped by Stone Town one more time and stumbled upon this incredible antique store. It had scimitars, gorgeous glass lamps, old mariner's equipment, and even (though you can't really see Kris holding it) genie lamps!<br />
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<i>I'm not sure, but it seems like the purpose of this airplane safety card is to point out how flexible ballerinas are. </i></div>
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When we arrived in Entebbe Airport, we had to wait in line to get our temperatures taken. As I handed my health card and my passport to a motherly woman at one of the tables, she glanced at my work permit and welcomed me home in local language. I beamed and replied in the same language; it was an amazing end to a magical vacation, and it was good to be home.</div>
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<i>"I walk out, I see something, some event that would otherwise have been utterly missed or lost; or something sees me, some enormous power brushes me with its clean wing, and I resound like a beaten bell."</i></div>
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<i>- Annie Dillard</i></div>
<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-80795813018306647462015-05-22T10:35:00.000-07:002015-05-22T10:35:10.870-07:00Fun and Games, Village Style<div class="MsoNormal">
Practically from the moment they can walk, village kids
begin helping their family out,</div>
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fetching water, tending goats and cattle, and taking care of
younger siblings. Their responsibilities are a huge part of their lives – but
of course, there’s always time to play. Whether watching their family’s herd,
looking after their little sister, or hanging with friends during break time
at school, there are games to be invented. While recreation for children in the
more urbanized parts of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
bears a resemblance to American children’s toys and games, the “make it work”
spirit of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
is very much alive in its rural children. Wherever they are, my pupils are
prepared to augment their imaginations with cars made of sticks, cardboard, and
bottle caps and to make sports possible with jumpropes made out of twisted banana
fiber and soccer balls made out of plastic bags. These kids are resourceful!</div>
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<i>One of the soccer balls (footballs), made out of plastic bags and secured with twisted and knotted banana leaf fiber.</i></div>
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During break time at my school there is no official
supervision by adults. Instead the pupils self-organize games and competitions.
The activities are somewhat monitored by the prefects but for the most part, their
lifestyle has made these kids independent and responsible enough to work out
any issues that might come up. The activities are fairly segregated, with boys
playing football (the older boys get the grass while the younger boys play on
the dirt around a big tree – certainly adding to the strategy of the game!) and
girls jumping rope or playing a game with bricks and plastic bag-balls that I
still don’t entirely get.</div>
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<i>Of course, there's always time to read in the library too!</i></div>
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There are also some scheduled “games and sports” events at
school, when the time, resources, and personnel are available. This last term was
staked out for athletics – basically track and field. My husband Kris and I showed up at
the primary school one day and the library had become a storage room for jerry
cans, mysterious lengths of sticks, odd foam pieces, and, shockingly, a
javelin, a discus, and a shotput! Pretty much the last things I expected to see
in rural <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>.
The deputy headteacher explained that these were the supplies for the
sub-county athletics competition that was going to be held at the college.</div>
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<i>Kris, the javelin master. The javelin was actually pretty sharp...</i></div>
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<i>The first time I've ever personally laid eyes on a discus, and it was in Uganda. Take that, stereotypes!</i></div>
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The field day consisted of the top athletic pupils from schools
around the sub-county competing for the purpose of forming a county team from
the best performers. The economic difference amongst the schools, even within
such a small area, was readily apparent from the moment Kris and I walked down
to the college’s pitch. While my pupils wore their school uniforms when not
competing and stripped down to tank tops, biker shorts, and even boxers to race
– normally not at all acceptable in Uganda – pupils from other schools had
matching sports uniforms, some even with personalized names and numbers on the
back. </div>
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<i>Two of my pupils, Peace and Sandrah.</i></div>
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<i>Some uniformed pupils from other schools watching their classmates compete.</i></div>
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Despite the outward differences, every pupil was extremely excited and
wound up to compete. During the longer races, which were staked out with
sharpened wooden sticks around the pitch to approximate a track, the pupils not
competing ran wildly back and forth, yelling and screaming and cheering their
classmates on. Of course, aside from having a day off of school and being
allowed for once to burn off all of their youthful energy, a lot of this
probably had to do with the fact that every teacher was feeding their pupils a
steady stream of glucose from large cans. When Gatorade’s not available,
piling glucose into eager hands is the next best thing to keep your team's energy up!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijL0-yfMKa76WfFNWxh2XDprunKz1Ao3A-gtRUsFyqAK3YKmPORixbTmsKAAL5vNHcvhDeQT9oSDpIdCVVDhVfi4riQ9uPRA4VLyDcIud7K2GNEPd0aj0cw8zVBFV_P0we8DXPwMNyjyc/s1600/IMG_0509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijL0-yfMKa76WfFNWxh2XDprunKz1Ao3A-gtRUsFyqAK3YKmPORixbTmsKAAL5vNHcvhDeQT9oSDpIdCVVDhVfi4riQ9uPRA4VLyDcIud7K2GNEPd0aj0cw8zVBFV_P0we8DXPwMNyjyc/s400/IMG_0509.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Going all out - I can't remember the last time I saw someone give absolutely 100% of what they have.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMx_oW0LUClLmyO_baBa8311cwktsw_RjJgSTpQi3ozAmE2kgTPrisvzxYI75R1VpYe1tMlSty1d7cJwL2mGyjzv-7B0PI9UQV5we45LdFb0jkRn-G0Umbf235xNd6fPH2lmlzG9tjJBc/s1600/IMG_0472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMx_oW0LUClLmyO_baBa8311cwktsw_RjJgSTpQi3ozAmE2kgTPrisvzxYI75R1VpYe1tMlSty1d7cJwL2mGyjzv-7B0PI9UQV5we45LdFb0jkRn-G0Umbf235xNd6fPH2lmlzG9tjJBc/s400/IMG_0472.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Glucose for everybody!</i></div>
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When it got to the hurdle portion of the day, the purpose of
the mysterious foam pieces, jerry cans, and sticks that Kris and I had seen in
the library became clear. The foam pieces assembled to become kid-sized hurdles
and, since there weren't enough, hurdles were also made by sliding a stick
between the handles of two jerry cans. The athleticism of the kids was
unbelievable, especially since most of them didn't have the chance to train for
any of these events! Living a life outside as a child certainly has its
benefits.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyzQLpj8Z_ZXMxjNWHImA4zA_NUL1cPDs6IWQ2q56gMCdykTe2E9Ka0cJIyRG8hO8v_4pCPkox64vMGZfMdNc1aw-uGiA3B0Ar1xoA8OMTA9j16SrwJCUAWe1AbfxAr5ASKfA3AGMM_s/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyzQLpj8Z_ZXMxjNWHImA4zA_NUL1cPDs6IWQ2q56gMCdykTe2E9Ka0cJIyRG8hO8v_4pCPkox64vMGZfMdNc1aw-uGiA3B0Ar1xoA8OMTA9j16SrwJCUAWe1AbfxAr5ASKfA3AGMM_s/s400/IMG_0453.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNq7NUyhkb-x9OrR_Ju8CzkuzzGvRHFg8dKnzVGQlqXp40J-QYagtU8o6kLpyaxfv8iXc6KAWTXh3nxSdOWOMVygqiCY2uTr03UA2zKyEUTG9We7ffVFbr_2rJ8vuk2btfuecCBR6ytSc/s1600/IMG_0455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNq7NUyhkb-x9OrR_Ju8CzkuzzGvRHFg8dKnzVGQlqXp40J-QYagtU8o6kLpyaxfv8iXc6KAWTXh3nxSdOWOMVygqiCY2uTr03UA2zKyEUTG9We7ffVFbr_2rJ8vuk2btfuecCBR6ytSc/s400/IMG_0455.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioO7DhE2lDHQJ-rzqyfND-QpImYQF_DkI4Gw5gztbFo-iS59lm-J_cCyBLHLlabjIwWan15YQgjjn8ZW10zMqvVja_GZGVwFW9-RzNaEtkmmPzR1YnnNadE_mSkacxOzylqfa7pPCo0Ic/s1600/IMG_0457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioO7DhE2lDHQJ-rzqyfND-QpImYQF_DkI4Gw5gztbFo-iS59lm-J_cCyBLHLlabjIwWan15YQgjjn8ZW10zMqvVja_GZGVwFW9-RzNaEtkmmPzR1YnnNadE_mSkacxOzylqfa7pPCo0Ic/s400/IMG_0457.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Towards the end of the day, we moved to a different pitch, albeit still one without shade from the relentless sun. Many of my pupils from the school who weren’t participating had shown up once school had let out for the day. In the oppressive heat, they were practically salivating over the icees one entrepreneurial woman was selling out of a cooler under the shade of an umbrella. Two of my bolder girls, Gift and Lucky, came up to Kris and me to ask for money to buy icees. While Kris and I debated, all of my 40 pupils present slowly crept up around us, waiting for our decision. Even though we have been actively fighting against the image of Americans who come in and throw money everywhere, I was indecisive because it felt like such a universal moment to me, being a teacher at a sporting event, supporting and cheering on my pupils. Kris and I decided that since we felt like a part of the community now, and it was something we would do in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region> without thinking, that we would go ahead. Thrusting a 5,000 shilling note into a prefect’s hand, I instructed him to bring me back the change. The herd of kids sprinted away, swarming the poor saleswoman, and trickled back one by one to sit down next to us again, slurping away on their frozen treats. The prefect, Dan, carefully monitored the purchases to ensure that each child received only one icee. Once everyone had gotten their share, he brought the change back to me. I stared at the crumpled bills still remaining while my pupils chattered happily around me. The price to buy 40 children icees? About 75 cents.</div>
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Lined up on the raised edge of the pitch, our feet dangling, Kris, the kids, and I watched the next event. The javelin, shot put, and discus throw were clearly alien
to most of the pupils. Patiently waiting in line for their turn, their names
written on a piece of paper attached to a twig that would mark their farthest
shot, they listened to their teachers explain how to use these colonial-area
throwbacks. Laughter abounded as each kid tried as hard as they could to chuck
each of them as far as possible.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2MCzqQN33ivJnftKDRattaC8zHTujXzN1lso5iosnINrd0tp6gJJRMARsR8_5Fea-lLxeWwMdz7KpweJUPFxl5-eynGVTh84pimxts9pqtQym9iGfjSsADjrCfBTkqofFbOp2XulAZY/s1600/IMG_0525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2MCzqQN33ivJnftKDRattaC8zHTujXzN1lso5iosnINrd0tp6gJJRMARsR8_5Fea-lLxeWwMdz7KpweJUPFxl5-eynGVTh84pimxts9pqtQym9iGfjSsADjrCfBTkqofFbOp2XulAZY/s400/IMG_0525.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyN3qN8s6TjfwLZYFpJugYb7Pn2-UMzFJ3UlUX80C4Ao7KyuEg0KxZvQblqsrHvhfF9nRrlYOKuY-MKbJSp4zA2nix4YUeBBLj6WIe9LnXzKjf4L2J_eazZpodorAUeNj2YE72XnK6Sws/s1600/IMG_0530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyN3qN8s6TjfwLZYFpJugYb7Pn2-UMzFJ3UlUX80C4Ao7KyuEg0KxZvQblqsrHvhfF9nRrlYOKuY-MKbJSp4zA2nix4YUeBBLj6WIe9LnXzKjf4L2J_eazZpodorAUeNj2YE72XnK6Sws/s400/IMG_0530.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The final events of the day were all about jumping. First up
was a long jump in which the participants had to carefully follow a prescribed
routine of steps and hops while approaching the sand pit. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8E4ae1pUnplu5JOecXuqX7Mswle9xjpuTK240mi6xSmJ_fT1J-X7CWzmwNRcQ15RtASfY8iuEAqhyphenhyphenGG68Vdp1vZHPbdM8MFJVwunoZ0G6Une6oSkeOvpltxbHydfWID2J85nn6Fqz9Bs/s1600/IMG_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8E4ae1pUnplu5JOecXuqX7Mswle9xjpuTK240mi6xSmJ_fT1J-X7CWzmwNRcQ15RtASfY8iuEAqhyphenhyphenGG68Vdp1vZHPbdM8MFJVwunoZ0G6Une6oSkeOvpltxbHydfWID2J85nn6Fqz9Bs/s400/IMG_0542.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Still maintaining proper feminine decorum in a school uniform dress.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTne4i1LI64tdykBIJkLmE7g2sY8-p9068XgpIiMvegZ_ZFBrOSHjNz_W1KWI6rGMAQRU1vM2hypP4kDxwipkQ46bD2u5-SzwRWEMwpgIepXEKtmidQewGffDiI43OR4UlKGIk4xvJCzg/s1600/IMG_0550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTne4i1LI64tdykBIJkLmE7g2sY8-p9068XgpIiMvegZ_ZFBrOSHjNz_W1KWI6rGMAQRU1vM2hypP4kDxwipkQ46bD2u5-SzwRWEMwpgIepXEKtmidQewGffDiI43OR4UlKGIk4xvJCzg/s400/IMG_0550.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then, the teachers set up a high jump and explained to the pupils how to properly jump and land. Seeing how the landing area was just a small pile of old hay, the kids were understandably reluctant to begin at first. To Kris and I, the setup looked less like something to be encouraged and more like something an American parent would freak out about finding their kids playing with in the backyard. However, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> is certainly not the land of helicopter parents! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8X3WqqjXZk4rLDLOpgTRPa6Yi1xCFWzUjY0lJfAsKugjv726Qs9IhpqU397rkvH5m6GgzYPcyNnUey19tUXs2xUvU2iuPfSBAP-huEkzAI2Esisiiw_ZzElRT55TaL3gc0L6fOLzamk/s1600/IMG_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8X3WqqjXZk4rLDLOpgTRPa6Yi1xCFWzUjY0lJfAsKugjv726Qs9IhpqU397rkvH5m6GgzYPcyNnUey19tUXs2xUvU2iuPfSBAP-huEkzAI2Esisiiw_ZzElRT55TaL3gc0L6fOLzamk/s400/IMG_0558.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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After a few repetitions of the teachers running up to the rope and demonstrating how to leap over it (without actually doing it themselves), one brave pupil stepped up. Once she successfully did not die, the rest of the children lined up eagerly and once again proved that they were up to any task – and that American parents are, on the majority, vastly overprotective.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUFtFTt0pEfgakVbjpU3G-taB4n29etAIZPJNtrlMlRTZFugqv5-41KlPyaFNV35WHcvIIPrETPG7TomXVtfosRReL5XBx78A5oC5CU3Kl80yISGcC2Ba6CThfaEdWf0wMPuPE-nUd-I/s1600/IMG_0570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUFtFTt0pEfgakVbjpU3G-taB4n29etAIZPJNtrlMlRTZFugqv5-41KlPyaFNV35WHcvIIPrETPG7TomXVtfosRReL5XBx78A5oC5CU3Kl80yISGcC2Ba6CThfaEdWf0wMPuPE-nUd-I/s400/IMG_0570.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>That's my pupil, kicking butt in her pink dress!</i></div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31zrlVegHLCxayjhBP8JCPuJzCbiCGuYE-v7FTLh-KEX_Xc6hxrZY8LyZobvs6dgBeZu7zb0LLfPYJhSqUSrW9Uo4Tndg_oxjvqyI8xpexbUew6oUaFjK6H5KIscGWOd9uvoqhf5SGkw/s1600/IMG_0578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31zrlVegHLCxayjhBP8JCPuJzCbiCGuYE-v7FTLh-KEX_Xc6hxrZY8LyZobvs6dgBeZu7zb0LLfPYJhSqUSrW9Uo4Tndg_oxjvqyI8xpexbUew6oUaFjK6H5KIscGWOd9uvoqhf5SGkw/s400/IMG_0578.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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It was a really fun, very different day and an experience both Kris and I were so glad to have shared with my pupils. Unfortunately, the experience also ended up burning the absentminded two of us to a crisp. (Sorry Moms!) In the staff room the next day, my teachers were shocked by my striped appearance, and even more appalled when I told them that my burns were from the sun. “The sun did this to you?!? You are so fragile!” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT45XpDz2fQGlpc1KOFPLlJ_gNKElKI5xTf-yAYCoNluetDc1gtXmcXqHb9cogeRHi78CORvrAxSMz2V4tMbjevFKEL7T-OGmLhtv76DwshQJ5gb_bIS7RUF9ZndNRj6z8EDIMvew_KY/s1600/IMG_0693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlT45XpDz2fQGlpc1KOFPLlJ_gNKElKI5xTf-yAYCoNluetDc1gtXmcXqHb9cogeRHi78CORvrAxSMz2V4tMbjevFKEL7T-OGmLhtv76DwshQJ5gb_bIS7RUF9ZndNRj6z8EDIMvew_KY/s320/IMG_0693.JPG" width="270" /></a></div>
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<i>It's already starting to tan here, but I was quite stripey for a few days!</i></div>
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When I actually think about the fact that the life-giving rays of the sun can cause me severe physical harm, it really is ridiculous. Right up there with invading aliens who are killed by water. Once my counterpart got over her shock, however, for the rest of the day she delighted in showing everyone how my red, burnt skin would turn white when she pressed down on it. Good times. </div>
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Despite the resulting discoloration, this relaxed, fun, unique day made something in me click. <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> is finally starting to feel like a home. Whether it’s rooting on my pupils, laughing with my teachers, being welcomed back by my neighbors after a long time away, or feeling the warm grass on my bare feet as I run a jerry can outside for the milkman to fill, I am starting to find a bit of that elusive sense of comfort.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQu5LS1nMfn-vJZ24AmH26SenfkDPhRi4d7gEO7iLSP1zra3tmKr6G49QIGlgwuVctWEYNi4EuEu8hXT7fOB4VRzU1QZoJZQqUor5HqCf674NiceSWQDpfygd_ifFdDozfRUQefcDR1o/s1600/IMG_0537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQu5LS1nMfn-vJZ24AmH26SenfkDPhRi4d7gEO7iLSP1zra3tmKr6G49QIGlgwuVctWEYNi4EuEu8hXT7fOB4VRzU1QZoJZQqUor5HqCf674NiceSWQDpfygd_ifFdDozfRUQefcDR1o/s400/IMG_0537.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>"Home isn't a fixed place; it's an earned idea, a belonging, a growing sense of knowing where you are in relation to everyone else, and it's the knowledge of the truth that everything exists in relationship."</i></div>
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<i>- South African immigrant to the U.S.</i></div>
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Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-18215505725381988472015-04-20T10:33:00.000-07:002015-04-20T10:33:58.462-07:0025 Other Things Being a PCV Is Also About<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6ina4QEy0wkt-Igs08SVQMahFipfENs00hTVFMN8vUSOTeCbievYrZGfWS-OYQKQvYQNR7aGR2mZn1knM0N5pOmns448B-l6Uta21H5ShJ_xhRX2M-4hHLSC0Iv-6bvrSktO5TCjQxw/s1600/IMG_7074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6ina4QEy0wkt-Igs08SVQMahFipfENs00hTVFMN8vUSOTeCbievYrZGfWS-OYQKQvYQNR7aGR2mZn1knM0N5pOmns448B-l6Uta21H5ShJ_xhRX2M-4hHLSC0Iv-6bvrSktO5TCjQxw/s1600/IMG_7074.JPG" height="400" width="290" /></a></div>
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In my previous post, I talked about the official parts of my
job. I also mentioned the 24/7 commitment involved in working for Peace Corps –
you’re on all day, every day. Here are some of the more unofficial parts of our around-the-clock job (and an excuse for a photo dump while I have free Internet!).<br />
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25 other things that being a PCV is also about:<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Finding
Weird Bugs</div>
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<i>OK, not a bug, but adorable.</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Food
(Cooking It, Eating It, Craving It, Anything At All To Do With Food)</div>
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<i>Jackfruit, which Peace Corps legend says is the food that Juicy Fruit based its flavor on.</i></div>
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<i>Making homemade cinnamon buns!</i></div>
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<i>A cooking competition, Top Chef style, during one of our trainings.</i></div>
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<i>Homemade potato gnocchi - when you have regular access to only four different vegetables, you start to get creative.</i></div>
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<i>Street meat!</i></div>
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<i>My ongoing list.</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->The
Most Bureaucracy Ever, Everywhere<br />
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A
half hour of my last three hour-long meeting involved listening to the minutes
from the previous four hour-long meeting. Also, if you don’t write down the
agenda that the chairperson announces, you get the evil eye.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Writing</div>
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<i>The journals I've completed since in-country.</i></div>
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5)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Being McGuyver</div>
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<i>Setting up our gas stove top.</i></div>
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<i>We make our own games!</i></div>
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<i>Gambling chips made out of tri-colored pasta.</i></div>
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<i>Five people, all their worldly possessions, and one car.</i></div>
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<i>DIY stitches removal!</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->6)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Growing
Things (Except Basil)</div>
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<i>Avocados from our backyard.</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->7)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Peace
Corps Trainings</div>
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<i>I feel like this is a good range of emotions often found at trainings...</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->8)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Hiding
in Your House<br />
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Privacy can be hard to come by when you live in a communal society...and when you live where you work.<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->9)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Making
Connections</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->10)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Care Packages!</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->11)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Touching
(PCVs Get Lonely, Y’All)</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->12)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><st1:place w:st="on">Reading</st1:place></div>
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<i>Books read in Peace Corps so far - 75.</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->13)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Camps!</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->14)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Watching TV</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->15)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Cleaning Up
Dead Things and Gecko Poop<br />
<br />
'Nough said.<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->16)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Language
Learning<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->17)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Cups of Tea
(With More Sugar Than You Thought Possible)<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->18)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Sitting in
Vehicles<br />
<br />
See <a href="http://thereandbackagainpc.blogspot.com/2014/11/motorcycles-and-monkeys-and-mobs-oh-my.html" target="_blank">Travel in Uganda</a>. After awhile, you start to look forward to the time to
think. You also come to realize that your concept of personal space has
completely been eradicated. In fact, it’s kind of nice on cold days.</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->19)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Being
Confused<br />
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<i>This is what my candy came wrapped in...</i></div>
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<i>An apple a day...because an orange a day. I was tempted to give him credit.</i></div>
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<i>Yep. Cow waiting to use our latrine, apparently.</i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->20)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Not Letting Other People Steal Your Camera<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->21)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Triumph<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs9bU3yTxTI5x2E7L4VB0tiFW3hudbMzp69nXYEBByeuv_t7kq4mBrRNR-jNTY5Np0xliSmQ0odoVwBW0P0mMcTzo_zxNvJcYmwSjf_fF5sGzjMPd70xcjjLmmZDpylW1OyBa7WpLgks/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs9bU3yTxTI5x2E7L4VB0tiFW3hudbMzp69nXYEBByeuv_t7kq4mBrRNR-jNTY5Np0xliSmQ0odoVwBW0P0mMcTzo_zxNvJcYmwSjf_fF5sGzjMPd70xcjjLmmZDpylW1OyBa7WpLgks/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->22)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Defeat (Also Accompanied by Mockery)<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->23)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Philosophizing<br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->24)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Adventure<br />
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<i>Salt mining at Katwe lake.</i></div>
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And:</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->25)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Always
remembering…</div>
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<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-24091098197226074972015-04-15T06:39:00.000-07:002015-06-24T08:11:42.901-07:00A Peace Corps What? Education Volunteer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCAWYs-41y2jZ8Gi5eb4hsvqrupys-Tz2Tlq-mzvGqP52XtaSi_TPk7t1FAqFmVgoZ-BPH0JNyACiUakBEpSxvE_XzJtoYOLxlyYvW8kyXZM3AZuTEMEk_tXSPxI8q552xNVdVjXedBM/s1600/Peace+Corps+Acceptance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCAWYs-41y2jZ8Gi5eb4hsvqrupys-Tz2Tlq-mzvGqP52XtaSi_TPk7t1FAqFmVgoZ-BPH0JNyACiUakBEpSxvE_XzJtoYOLxlyYvW8kyXZM3AZuTEMEk_tXSPxI8q552xNVdVjXedBM/s1600/Peace+Corps+Acceptance.JPG" width="312" /></a></div>
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<i>Kris and I with our invitation to serve in Peace Corps Uganda, almost two years ago. (On a related note, that was the same day we heard about Oscar and Stacie getting engaged!)</i></div>
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<i>Kris and I are in the 0, in the front right.</i></div>
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To explain my official position as Education Volunteer, I have to first talk about one of Peace Corps Uganda’s current priorities - the
Primary Literacy Project. This new model aims to be more effective and sustainable
than other past education models which mostly involved PCVs working as
classroom teachers in local schools. PC Uganda hopes to improve on this program by expanding
the responsibilities of Education PCVs, focusing on literacy at different
levels in the school system, and placing volunteers at a school for six
consecutive years. These volunteers are known as starters, carriers, and
finishers.<br />
<br />
Kris and I are starters – that means we are the first at our
schools, and our job is to work with our Ugandan counterparts to lay the
foundation for permanent change for the carriers and finishers. It also means
that we won’t some of the results of our work for six years! But we know that true change takes a long time, and so does PC Uganda. The Primary
Literacy Project is somewhat of a revolutionary model and, thanks to its
success so far, it will be adopted by other Peace Corps countries across <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>. I am excited to say that I am currently a part of
the writing team that is working to roll out our program’s curriculum for some
of the other Peace Corps Africa nations!</div>
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The Education Primary Teacher Training Project Framework,
2012 – 2017, places paired volunteers at a site. One volunteer works at a
Primary Teacher’s College (PTC) while the other works at an associated Primary
School. The goals for all Education volunteers are to:</div>
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<li class="MsoNormal">Improve
teaching</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Increase
pupils’ success</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Improve
the school community</li>
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The volunteer at the PTC, Kris in our case, is known as a
Teacher Trainer. The Teacher Trainer teaches classes at the PTC and works with the
student teachers in various ways, including focusing on literacy instructional
practices and expanding the use of ICT resources. The volunteer at the primary
school, me, is known as a Literacy Specialist. The Literacy Specialist has some
of the following responsibilities:</div>
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<b>Conducting <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Reading</st1:place></st1:city> Intervention
Groups<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Using a modified version of the Early Grade Reading
Assessment, we identify pupils in Primary 4 who need targeted reading
interventions. We focus on Primary 4 because it is the transition year from
local language to English in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
and thus a crucial time in these children’s schooling. The Literacy Specialist
creates Reading Intervention Groups which are taught several times a week with
the aim of bringing the identified pupils to the necessary reading levels for
success.</div>
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<i>One of my reading intervention groups being their silly selves.</i></div>
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<b>Teacher Observation
and Feedback<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Building the capacity of in-service teachers is also a large
part of our program. One of the ways Literacy Specialists work towards this
objective is to observe the teachers at our schools and offer them feedback
aimed towards improving literacy instruction, including gender-equitable classroom
practices, and cultivating critical thinking skills.<br />
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<i>Teacher Hope in her Primary 2 classroom.</i></div>
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<i>My counterpart, Rebecca, teaching the letter "i" in local language.</i></div>
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<i>The pupils were learning opposites (tall, short, thin, fat), and the question here was, in true blunt Ugandan fashion, "Which teacher at our school is short and fat?" </i></div>
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<b>Professional
Development Workshops<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Another way Literacy Specialists work to build the capacity
of in-service teachers is through professional development. Workshops are
geared towards a variety of topics including student-centered teaching
techniques and activities, library skills, and HIV/AIDS or malaria education.</div>
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<b>Expanding the Use of
Libraries<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Building or expanding a library is a big part of a Literacy
Specialist’s job. This often involves digging out books buried in dusty locked
cabinets, cleaning spaces filled with gecko poop, dead bats, and insects, and
creating an organizational and lending system. It’s also one of the most
rewarding parts for me personally. It provides the kind of tangible result that
is often rare in volunteer work, and the smile on the children’s faces as they
eagerly grab books off the shelves during library time is one of my favorite
things in the world.</div>
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<b>Improving the School
Environment/Community<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ugandan PCVs also work towards trying to create a safe
school culture. Part of this involves trying to implement a Positive Behavior
System (PBS). The idea behind PBS is that it provides teachers with tools to
manage classrooms and motivate pupils without resorting to caning or other
forms of corporal punishment. I have started to introduce this idea to my
school, but unfortunately, they are not quite ready for it yet. </div>
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<i>My pupils playing games as a reward for good behavior.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdQOQcpOpTqifL9eEhlbNrZI0TGZv0DW_wYNWMcBTJoImJqQjllUwgnVgs8kzZwcZB0hTdQnpJyRCIzAm3XvL9305UkD_qLxRpNfDnJLZcRORTZVJYcdwMtY1pDHPylu8qJ867BAQ-aY/s1600/IMG_8499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdQOQcpOpTqifL9eEhlbNrZI0TGZv0DW_wYNWMcBTJoImJqQjllUwgnVgs8kzZwcZB0hTdQnpJyRCIzAm3XvL9305UkD_qLxRpNfDnJLZcRORTZVJYcdwMtY1pDHPylu8qJ867BAQ-aY/s1600/IMG_8499.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Working to involve the entire community in participating in student
learning is also another important aspect of this responsibility. It's an area where I am optimistic about making a difference as one of the National Directors of the My Language Spelling Bee
(MLSB). The MLSB aims to increase first-language literacy rates among pupils
across <st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place>
and improve teachers’ literacy instructional techniques. As an academic
competition, we also hope that it will promote pride in indigenous languages as
well as stoke excitement among parents, leading to a feeling of ownership in
their children’s educations.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosStOu3HknJS01noyWHmvqiRLx7gM7WR_3-FIMdDORyjcop8Ag0UdhEuuP34a8gbQxGNA2hNnroMhZ_r3M7wvcuYic3p2wPJZOkwrcDJIBfheGxI6qBe9HibvCqCck7VSweH9-ItoDKE/s1600/IMG_9379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosStOu3HknJS01noyWHmvqiRLx7gM7WR_3-FIMdDORyjcop8Ag0UdhEuuP34a8gbQxGNA2hNnroMhZ_r3M7wvcuYic3p2wPJZOkwrcDJIBfheGxI6qBe9HibvCqCck7VSweH9-ItoDKE/s1600/IMG_9379.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>My school!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrWCEmpsHnhvrKfti3SoYrTlQVre1B75sLxZ8IU-nMqrRodmyLA1o8C7D0CvqEtuCO2hkxf2hBWuG5obK6rA8-A_Yx4xY6DbOIgL3qafVwqj8RtK8Yv_wdqhrxYLu90bp8BwKxqiXRgE/s1600/My+Language+Spelling+Bee+Winners'%2BCollage%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrWCEmpsHnhvrKfti3SoYrTlQVre1B75sLxZ8IU-nMqrRodmyLA1o8C7D0CvqEtuCO2hkxf2hBWuG5obK6rA8-A_Yx4xY6DbOIgL3qafVwqj8RtK8Yv_wdqhrxYLu90bp8BwKxqiXRgE/s1600/My+Language+Spelling+Bee+Winners'%2BCollage%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Last year's winners from seven different language regions.</i></div>
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All of the above falls under <b>Goal 1 of the Peace Corps: To help the people of interested countries
in meeting their need for trained men and women.</b> But there are two more
goals! These are what makes being a PCV a 24/7 job.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Goal 2: To help
promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.</b></div>
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This goal can involve anything from a formal training on
cross-cultural interactions, to making Easter eggs with the neighborhood kids,
to chatting with your neighbor at the market. Many of the people we encounter have
never met a foreigner in person before. As the first person someone has ever
known from another country, much less <st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place>, the pressure is on to
represent ourselves well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpn9sJrua3IXeORf8MhfgKdSvOljdilHC-mIiuWMdzVeZlPqFdQlY2NJHFcSP6pYR2IYXbwp8OjSqmmJTX3VGVU8tE4SPTe13kPOx0M6xKITADHIMhrG3I5b4TpQTpb_hzUUkgZcyP7A/s1600/10352575_10200217152187891_7131281192526368353_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpn9sJrua3IXeORf8MhfgKdSvOljdilHC-mIiuWMdzVeZlPqFdQlY2NJHFcSP6pYR2IYXbwp8OjSqmmJTX3VGVU8tE4SPTe13kPOx0M6xKITADHIMhrG3I5b4TpQTpb_hzUUkgZcyP7A/s1600/10352575_10200217152187891_7131281192526368353_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Eating with our friend and neighbor, Maude.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNwUdoYjPFMULFXX2wlXf-QzyZMX_CnJcZU1IroXJ5llFrD7V03_Ar2D7_5jCcu8waQlzcaXmhrHA9CLKDifNjGRt-OfbMzjWUGS-I69NGsQVkkMexhrIPuOrhYc2i1oxp8Wioxqi1BY/s1600/IMG_9439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNwUdoYjPFMULFXX2wlXf-QzyZMX_CnJcZU1IroXJ5llFrD7V03_Ar2D7_5jCcu8waQlzcaXmhrHA9CLKDifNjGRt-OfbMzjWUGS-I69NGsQVkkMexhrIPuOrhYc2i1oxp8Wioxqi1BY/s1600/IMG_9439.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>One of my pupils, Anitah, coming over to make friendship bracelets.</i></div>
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<i>Cooking our host family tacos during language training.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3W9t_8MFqpND7zeL-W7TmBuAevC5ZvJ4GMiMgyjLMorAzPROZRijHiRUZFYfOma-Hb_T87y7ZTDZK8iWW9LR8qImLijMoMDA6j3xBaovanGDzAHatE3jWwZJm4YH81ImYkOiWq6T0l8/s1600/IMG_6956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3W9t_8MFqpND7zeL-W7TmBuAevC5ZvJ4GMiMgyjLMorAzPROZRijHiRUZFYfOma-Hb_T87y7ZTDZK8iWW9LR8qImLijMoMDA6j3xBaovanGDzAHatE3jWwZJm4YH81ImYkOiWq6T0l8/s1600/IMG_6956.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Our host brother, Emma, very politely eating the meal we made for him.</i></div>
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<b>Goal 3: To help
promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.</b></div>
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While living in-country, writing a blog, having visits from loved ones, and even changing the
banner photo on your Facebook page can help meet this goal, PCVs do most of
the work towards Goal 3 once they return home. This makes being a PCV not
only a 24/7 job but a lifelong one as well!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDeRx8POe5KHalwebZlLqsSA1oBid4uLGSeegAg-7uO4DqkSMPjkfg-a9Gi6dRbsA0OtQH5gS7upvEFDKf8KnaYoE0dpCoBh3kzTtVPFRy6flbfKgKUCVYBDqQr9x9VBeR9Z2gB6zi1o/s1600/Goal+3+Blog+Clip.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDeRx8POe5KHalwebZlLqsSA1oBid4uLGSeegAg-7uO4DqkSMPjkfg-a9Gi6dRbsA0OtQH5gS7upvEFDKf8KnaYoE0dpCoBh3kzTtVPFRy6flbfKgKUCVYBDqQr9x9VBeR9Z2gB6zi1o/s1600/Goal+3+Blog+Clip.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDiP3DIitaC6JCxeI697Eauyb4BrP6JRtd3ZT_JKaYu8wh6XQnzoO2LbtqBHYA__2z-yADeND7HUaC62_FjLT6lEf7rIqjl2Q8oJ4eGlxKLbKd56f7bsk_nPjDnsZgS7SdE3vESY940/s1600/IMG_0351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDiP3DIitaC6JCxeI697Eauyb4BrP6JRtd3ZT_JKaYu8wh6XQnzoO2LbtqBHYA__2z-yADeND7HUaC62_FjLT6lEf7rIqjl2Q8oJ4eGlxKLbKd56f7bsk_nPjDnsZgS7SdE3vESY940/s1600/IMG_0351.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Going to Ugandan events can count as work towards Goal 3 for me! Our neighbor's giveaway ceremony for his daughter - this traditional event occurs before the more modern church wedding and is where the groom pays the bride price.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKoZ9vAhWvfuxIMF4uwn_jLe-In-GXl11kgywKHOELU4ag6BphoA9jbzYN8UvCf-W5mAn_FH0opy9MyVAk15buKmnOVurAhCHVYc1lE8RoqaaN_yZwsdnuIrKgxev1xPle3Yx7zD4LkU/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKoZ9vAhWvfuxIMF4uwn_jLe-In-GXl11kgywKHOELU4ag6BphoA9jbzYN8UvCf-W5mAn_FH0opy9MyVAk15buKmnOVurAhCHVYc1lE8RoqaaN_yZwsdnuIrKgxev1xPle3Yx7zD4LkU/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuB5F-OHZS3xptqgWzFw87STCsv3_8QTGI4KCXOU6hsTQ_om67q7GONnWw3fRExpnnOSUErwKCSkMIXXD6ZP4kAg3ersuCm5ibEW8FTODCaRCEc95NWJgQxTbLVWzcrPSVDHYSspbT988/s1600/IMG_0360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuB5F-OHZS3xptqgWzFw87STCsv3_8QTGI4KCXOU6hsTQ_om67q7GONnWw3fRExpnnOSUErwKCSkMIXXD6ZP4kAg3ersuCm5ibEW8FTODCaRCEc95NWJgQxTbLVWzcrPSVDHYSspbT988/s1600/IMG_0360.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Part of the ceremony involved "tricking" the groom by presenting different women. There was a lot of banter and good-natured bargaining.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SiNyhTcbfPYt_3DV77FuLkvuHJPxWutKSVlq0Iz_Qrj3s0-FgxkgXw9qbTidui0Y4W4UNDeToBvZnNBsOalS47BcEomc_PEamzx2i-5cYZrV5W9demoLI3viX8ARkoFsgvLS67_pe8I/s1600/IMG_6905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_SiNyhTcbfPYt_3DV77FuLkvuHJPxWutKSVlq0Iz_Qrj3s0-FgxkgXw9qbTidui0Y4W4UNDeToBvZnNBsOalS47BcEomc_PEamzx2i-5cYZrV5W9demoLI3viX8ARkoFsgvLS67_pe8I/s1600/IMG_6905.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Learning how to make chapati with our awesome host family.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikP4v4bgmePLZvbI8ygLrVCVZqCqUbFSDPpj54THU0aBt7sCbEfm9XP6-4uKhq_yojW81jBUY3siuArr8GspDmOtZeMsrTWatZsxt-rFTxdg8KyUWFwP6xPJ32BJxN9avvyUn0OTWkHJY/s1600/IMG_6908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikP4v4bgmePLZvbI8ygLrVCVZqCqUbFSDPpj54THU0aBt7sCbEfm9XP6-4uKhq_yojW81jBUY3siuArr8GspDmOtZeMsrTWatZsxt-rFTxdg8KyUWFwP6xPJ32BJxN9avvyUn0OTWkHJY/s1600/IMG_6908.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Hopefully this gives a better, if more polished and less
messy, understanding of what Kris and I are trying and hoping to do with our
time in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>.
On bad days, we tend to despair when thinking of all the things we could and
should be doing to meet these goals. But on most days, we realize that we’ve
already met them all in some way – and we’re not even done yet.</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>“Progress, not perfection.”</i></div>
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Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-89157733622478610522015-04-13T08:27:00.000-07:002015-04-13T08:27:47.590-07:00A Preface<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, what are you doing over there?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An often-asked, and for PCVs, an extremely loaded question
that unknowingly preys on our worries and insecurities.* What <u>are</u> we
doing over here? Depending on the day, we can answer our friends and family with
pride, joy, anger, tears, or a vague, evasive statement. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I began writing a couple of entries about what it’s like to
be a Peace Corps Uganda Education Volunteer and then decided that I need to
preface them with this: I’m going to focus on the good things, but I don’t want
to pretend the bad parts don’t exist. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Every PCV’s experience is different, vastly different, even
within the same country. In describing my official position, I don’t want to
seem dishonest. A lot of what PCVs do and experience is hard, and painful, and
full of heartache. While we’re in it we don’t know how to process it ourselves.
We also don’t know how to talk about it with others. We’re reluctant to explain
the things that are happening in our host country which we really disagree with
because we worry those are the only impressions you will take away. We can’t
give you all of the context, have you meet all of the people involved to make
you understand how we can disagree so strongly with something but still live
with it. We don’t want to talk about how we’ve spent days in bed trying to
understand it ourselves. We can, however, give you pictures of cute kids and
tell funny stories about how we discovered that the word for “vegetables” here
sounds just like the word for “buffalo.” Those are real things, true things,
but sometimes not mentioning the other side of our experiences can make what we
say feel like a lie.</div>
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Being in the Peace Corps also makes you question life,
yourself, and your choices constantly. And you know what? Most people don’t do
that enough. At my year mark in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>,
I battled with depression, criticizing myself for not having done enough, grown
enough. But then I realized that I haven’t questioned my life like that in
years. 365 days would go by and the only thing that would really mark the
passage of time was the ending of a lease. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed my
life – but I never really looked at it. I wasn’t worried about self-acceptance
or my personal growth. There were parts of myself I didn’t like, and it was so
easy to not think about them, to distract myself. But here, you can’t do that.
Here, life is so much more immediate and there is so much more time on your
hands, time that you can’t fill except for with your thoughts. This job, this
place, forces you to examine your actions, your thoughts, your heart. And it
doesn’t allow you to close your eyes.</div>
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There’s no doubt that being a Peace Corps volunteer is the
hardest job you’ll ever love, and I’m only just starting to learn how to love
it – and how to love myself. But I want to think positively. I want to focus on
the growth, the self-discovery, the connections, those moments that will be the
ones shining in my memory. I will keep those other moments too, the ones full
of confusion and pain and grief, but for now, those are just for me. </div>
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<i>"I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind...At these times...I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure."</i></div>
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<i>- Albus Dumbledore</i><br />
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*But don't stop asking!</div>
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Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-60049267381500411352015-04-10T09:33:00.001-07:002015-04-10T09:33:51.571-07:00To Market, To Market<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdmI1HQPKd1VnZpaVoLQ1rb6UD1eeEcXEcuAWbjFnB6dZtWA_NHvyfOsOYp-zwOP_4xnjTxtgHhyphenhyphen6p695djeWFz7kJBmbO36DN77yQBErdLGf-i_REv91UhB462NwUYODGvmVIkGLMdg/s1600/IMG_0589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdmI1HQPKd1VnZpaVoLQ1rb6UD1eeEcXEcuAWbjFnB6dZtWA_NHvyfOsOYp-zwOP_4xnjTxtgHhyphenhyphen6p695djeWFz7kJBmbO36DN77yQBErdLGf-i_REv91UhB462NwUYODGvmVIkGLMdg/s1600/IMG_0589.JPG" height="316" width="400" /></a></div>
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Wednesdays are market days at our trading center. During the
rest of the week, it’s hard to find most fruits or vegetables in town unless you are
growing them in your own compound. But on Wednesday, the traveling market comes
to us and sets up in a big field behind the dukas (small local stores). Vendors
set up early, wheeling in their bicycles laden with pineapple or matooke. Women
lay their tarps out on the ground and string more up above, piling their fruits
and vegetables into perfect pyramids on the ground. The fish-mongers position
their products, whole, dried fish which have spent hours strung on the front of
a matatu to get there. Hawkers can be seen in the early morning trudging along
the roads to the market, carrying immense wooden boards filled with sunglasses,
watches, hair nets, toys, hats, and more. The smells of popcorn, fried banana
cakes, and samosas fill the air, ready to be snatched up by children on break
from school later in the day. Those selling clothing drive wooden poles into
the ground, making racks with banana-fiber fastenings and carefully hanging
their freshly-washed and pressed trousers, skirts, dresses, and shirts. Men
sort hundreds of shoes in enormous piles and the iron-mongers carefully arrange
pots, pans, and knives in an attractive display under their newly-erected
tarpaulin covers. Tailors bring their old-school sewing machines onto the field
and set up near the clothes, ready to alter that oversized H&M or
Abercrombie dress or top someone just picked out of the piles for sale.
Young boys similarly set up next to the home goods section with their
jury-rigged stationary bicycles, the chain attached to a grinding stone, offering to use
pedal power to sharpen your newly-purchased knife.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiea0BqLreamBDwuuW-C6xPlMU-w4nd-xwtuQuC6MNsfX5s6PjuuQcxSBgaeppVL7X3W7iH_laYJrTabqz9VPs5BToGBfhGK6ZmFTPg30QhrUfflCjRITkTCTayBTLe1NCG-aZx6xVh3IY/s1600/IMG_8046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiea0BqLreamBDwuuW-C6xPlMU-w4nd-xwtuQuC6MNsfX5s6PjuuQcxSBgaeppVL7X3W7iH_laYJrTabqz9VPs5BToGBfhGK6ZmFTPg30QhrUfflCjRITkTCTayBTLe1NCG-aZx6xVh3IY/s1600/IMG_8046.JPG" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
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I generally head to the market to meet up with Kris after
school on Wednesdays. I take the shortcut through the fields and behind the
stores to emerge into the festivity that is market day. A constant stream of
people can be seen on the roads all day, walking to our trading center to buy
food, meet with friends, swap stories, drink beer, and make deals. Dodging
low-hanging tarps, we walk around to see which village woman has brought the
best produce that week. Fruits and vegetables are sold in pyramids five or ten
deep that sell for 1,000 or 2,000 shillings (about 30 to 50 cents). The women
pack each pyramid into a small clear bag, twisting the tiny amount of plastic left
at the top into a knot with their deft hands. They offer to place the bag in
your woven basket and your money immediately disappears somewhere in their
aprons. Many times we will often also get “bonus,” an extra tomato or potato
thrown in from a random pile apart from the pyramids, for greeting and thanking
them in Runyankore – it almost never fails to make people laugh appreciatively,
as it is usually the first time they’ve ever heard a foreigner speaking their
language. We are also often parroted in well-meaning hilarity among people
around us that we aren’t even talking to. </div>
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Kris: Wassibota, nyabo! <i>Good
afternoon, ma’am.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Men hawking shawls: Haha, wassibota nyabo! Naamanya! <i>Haha, good afternoon ma’am! He knows!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Kris: Ninyenda emondi, enkumi ibiri. <i>I want Irish potatoes, for two thousand shillings.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Men: Emondi! Naayenda! Naayenda emondi, hahaha. <i>Potatoes! He wants! He wants potatoes,
hahaha.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Kris and I grin good-naturedly (most of the time) and wave
to the hawkers, moving on. Market day is very social and we often see people we know from surrounding villages. Running into Maude, she bargains
with her friend selling pineapples to get us 100 shilling discount (about 3 cents). We go with her to price beans she is planning to use in the rows of her new banana plantation. She
decides that the price per cup is too expensive and we walk with her back to
her bicycle – she is one of the only women I have ever seen around here who
rides. On our way out of the market, we browse through the clothing section and
I find a pair of jeans with a broken zipper that I really like. I bring my
purchase to the woman lying on the ground in front of the clothes and begin to
haggle. While food has more standard prices, when it comes to other goods,
haggling is expected – and enjoyed! She starts off by quoting me 7,000
shillings. After a lot of dramatic gesturing at the garment, “Eh!” noises, and
other sounds of outrage and protest made by both of us, I get her down to
4,000, a little over a dollar. Knowing Runyankore comes in very handy when
haggling for a fair price!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVexodvYkAt5QHDmikhe30m6rMFztVlhzbqz3lqqKRVZdyq2fbz676bsSfznt2MrbsCoNVkXWO2caeOnSgAMTb0fMHf3jrLFyF7cuAsvTEWY64pSraSoWBC7FadEH05AmlQ0ZVIxF7_k8/s1600/IMG_0701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVexodvYkAt5QHDmikhe30m6rMFztVlhzbqz3lqqKRVZdyq2fbz676bsSfznt2MrbsCoNVkXWO2caeOnSgAMTb0fMHf3jrLFyF7cuAsvTEWY64pSraSoWBC7FadEH05AmlQ0ZVIxF7_k8/s1600/IMG_0701.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>One of our market day hauls, complete with new pants!</i></div>
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Now it’s time to walk about the trading center to get our
daily supplies. First we go visit Donna to get our milk. She greets us happily
and ladles milk into a small plastic bag for us which we carefully
place on top of our other purchases. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorDq2Igom92CnD1xua4d9nKrSqEVbRbDd-qcTZ17BGzd1uvHpskontLuI2-Mv7dTAcrXbYIjC0RmUYzrTE34gf4BxeoKpFFkmxYXZhsXoXCBwstZMx3q9QBRyJBqHCHakrowkDnU00pA/s1600/IMG_1723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorDq2Igom92CnD1xua4d9nKrSqEVbRbDd-qcTZ17BGzd1uvHpskontLuI2-Mv7dTAcrXbYIjC0RmUYzrTE34gf4BxeoKpFFkmxYXZhsXoXCBwstZMx3q9QBRyJBqHCHakrowkDnU00pA/s1600/IMG_1723.JPG" height="358" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>No refrigeration here - just a vat of milk straight from the cow. Before drinking it, we have to make sure to boil it.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqy-F2D4Er4Ba3-eGRgLX8riIJGgTp-h_1iTyUoNFNYuZu5xTeb3Qz8jYuCujW3azKqKEoSe3dY2bBNqYzGPRJlmmI7w9Qivvkp8Sl-WD7BxZWCaPQVpyUcF2w7kwv5kxPi0L-aRpKL1Q/s1600/IMG_1724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqy-F2D4Er4Ba3-eGRgLX8riIJGgTp-h_1iTyUoNFNYuZu5xTeb3Qz8jYuCujW3azKqKEoSe3dY2bBNqYzGPRJlmmI7w9Qivvkp8Sl-WD7BxZWCaPQVpyUcF2w7kwv5kxPi0L-aRpKL1Q/s1600/IMG_1724.JPG" height="400" width="382" /></a></div>
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Across the street we buy our bananas from the women we have affectionately dubbed “The Banana Ladies,” who are always ready to chat and quiz us in local language. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wqstQBX68_jVm8_r7kcK6V2NEgWTkZigq0MaJilrea5jadx52okIJdhRClmsp-6HMX7wqIPjoc2xco8ARcc4s4KT46MrdGIIWNwmfc5j6AceHN_YD1kEKB76Uz4MkotPUAQXRcbCwGo/s1600/IMG_8075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wqstQBX68_jVm8_r7kcK6V2NEgWTkZigq0MaJilrea5jadx52okIJdhRClmsp-6HMX7wqIPjoc2xco8ARcc4s4KT46MrdGIIWNwmfc5j6AceHN_YD1kEKB76Uz4MkotPUAQXRcbCwGo/s1600/IMG_8075.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The Banana Ladies meeting my mom!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIQcjyihh8UXWG7DiN1Jy6gd5cBDZwFBHUyucUkvi0Ks1q3UFTL3dU1WmNqlqcZgiq8F3IiYfZxItlWjXfyBUc5KuHiviu6jc0j4Quzd0sSBaW6Oro_1APCyFUIMYV62Qvdbla-ZxRAo/s1600/IMG_1725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIQcjyihh8UXWG7DiN1Jy6gd5cBDZwFBHUyucUkvi0Ks1q3UFTL3dU1WmNqlqcZgiq8F3IiYfZxItlWjXfyBUc5KuHiviu6jc0j4Quzd0sSBaW6Oro_1APCyFUIMYV62Qvdbla-ZxRAo/s1600/IMG_1725.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>I bought my skirt in the U.S., Constance bought hers here, and we two people who live halfway across the world from each other randomly wore them the same day in the same tiny village.</i></div>
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Finally we head back up the road and make Robert’s duka our last stop. Robert and his family run a small general store and have made us feel welcome since we first moved here. There we purchase our bread, flour, sugar, and eggs. Looking into my purse, I realize I don’t have quite enough money and Robert waves me off, telling me to just pay the difference to whoever is there the next time we stop by. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAKGGnnGXeUcA2n9Ce5bC2DGw9YyGai4eG5xDbGZPG9CVA6p-3uMpHaiUqwbL0Vdp97sTtBX_ZctCvPNMT3eJDU56613nlIejyGDt70v0aPnsYbi6PbFHOTPii5sVO77-xE0oMQDqWYQ/s1600/IMG_0696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAKGGnnGXeUcA2n9Ce5bC2DGw9YyGai4eG5xDbGZPG9CVA6p-3uMpHaiUqwbL0Vdp97sTtBX_ZctCvPNMT3eJDU56613nlIejyGDt70v0aPnsYbi6PbFHOTPii5sVO77-xE0oMQDqWYQ/s1600/IMG_0696.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Robert! This is a fairly-typical looking duka, packed full of everyday needs with a little bit of randomness thrown in.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEgSk44RejNos-l5jsJNIowDH0z5g1yi3V8qAVpxFGDpGZXwViWNn9tqpxdiYvGYtpyrnYmnJVO2jfXSde_SC7yuv6G6h54ZoEQAWh-FMB_AVH543y3kFzz-nQvJDnWBJLMCjkXMdrMA/s1600/IMG_1722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEgSk44RejNos-l5jsJNIowDH0z5g1yi3V8qAVpxFGDpGZXwViWNn9tqpxdiYvGYtpyrnYmnJVO2jfXSde_SC7yuv6G6h54ZoEQAWh-FMB_AVH543y3kFzz-nQvJDnWBJLMCjkXMdrMA/s1600/IMG_1722.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Entrance to a duka in the trading center where we bought our charcoal stove. Yes, we are the Pied Pipers of Uganda.</i></div>
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Kris and I greet the gatekeeper as we reenter the college grounds and lug our bags up the path to our house, eagerly anticipating the fresh marinara sauce we will make that night on our gas stovetop.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNV2q77j-n4IUhxeGhlWA0AJHQxzrQOnwzhZkyUN9zrng8O1pQZS_VLjV7BB0-b87xUrjCx0tlq3zV-e-9hnGmZ_LvCXM_GLs53qGcYbh4Endr-NcQY4e4fsm_SExRwUHWXXBU_8Pjxw/s1600/IMG_0694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNV2q77j-n4IUhxeGhlWA0AJHQxzrQOnwzhZkyUN9zrng8O1pQZS_VLjV7BB0-b87xUrjCx0tlq3zV-e-9hnGmZ_LvCXM_GLs53qGcYbh4Endr-NcQY4e4fsm_SExRwUHWXXBU_8Pjxw/s1600/IMG_0694.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Our path home. Food may be limited in variety here but what they have is plentiful! Like falling-on-your-head plentiful. (This almost happened to me with an avocado once.)</i></div>
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If we want bread that isn’t sweet (unfortunately the only
kind found in most places here) to go with that pasta, however, we need to plan
ahead. When we need food and market day is too far away, or if we need
something particularly “exotic,” we make the three-hour round trip into
Mbarara, the closest town. We ask to be dropped off at the Post Office – the
great thing about public transportation here is that it will stop anywhere you
want – and walk to the daily market, a permanent setup in the heart of the
town. At its entrance are two heavy metal gates, open during the day.
Wheelbarrow men sit resting by the entrance, perched on top of their overturned
wooden vehicles, waiting to be hired. As you enter, the light turns faintly
blue from the overhanging tarps and a wave of sound rolls over you of people
greeting, bargaining, shelling, butchering. The arrangement at the daily market
is more permanent. There are long rows of wooden stalls with small doors built in below the counters that the vendors duck back and forth under, alternating
between sitting in their tri-legged wooden stools and fetching items in the
back for their customers. Areas have loose designations – a large section
for vegetables and traditional products in the front, a long, narrow, aisle along the back
for heaping bags of fruit, a wide shelter containing carcasses of
cows and goats hanging from the ceiling with shiny brass scales in front of
each, and a winding maze of smaller stalls with farming tools, foreign clothes,
and vibrant kitenge fabric. In the main section, the produce is polished and
piled in perfect formations. Towering heaps of tomatoes, Irish potatoes, and
beans are balanced perfectly in their woven baskets and the selection threatens
to overflow into the aisles. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RmrPfPcs4YtGI-k36wEiGd0HlWQ5uVkIbtSKrk_KVgYe2q8qIpsHAHYbjk6-vbyu-mZRaZj3Isrf2XNPGQmMC8pUjjzfLmb0sU1GvxcLEYz-V9t2korz8jY2ohOny8mhWkCCk6wdYeo/s1600/IMG_1631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RmrPfPcs4YtGI-k36wEiGd0HlWQ5uVkIbtSKrk_KVgYe2q8qIpsHAHYbjk6-vbyu-mZRaZj3Isrf2XNPGQmMC8pUjjzfLmb0sU1GvxcLEYz-V9t2korz8jY2ohOny8mhWkCCk6wdYeo/s1600/IMG_1631.JPG" height="400" width="342" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>We head to our favorite vendor for our regular vegetables - tomatoes, Irish peppers, carrots, onions, and green peppers. Deus has a small section in the middle of the aisle, his neighbors’ produce almost pinning him in as he relaxes in front of the counter listening to the radio. We are always greeted with a big smile, a warm welcome, and usually “bonus.” We then hit up the “exotic food” stall for things like cauliflower, zucchini, fresh cilantro, and, if we’re lucky, a head of lettuce. If there are any household items we need, we’ll head to the craft section and bargain for a new basket or woven rug before continuing our errands.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirR7kXWPvg-wQQd2CGQZ2BvsDJGnoykiagmo42oTylKGztyg7ZeTatc6H6ZqM4YmQ3VrKqHPgJ8wAyPQ2e4JOxIHbQSUkQajifWOkkLmFvb5g5NP8ZWY0y89xBQtWxiIwibFgtPMoCOjc/s1600/IMG_1629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirR7kXWPvg-wQQd2CGQZ2BvsDJGnoykiagmo42oTylKGztyg7ZeTatc6H6ZqM4YmQ3VrKqHPgJ8wAyPQ2e4JOxIHbQSUkQajifWOkkLmFvb5g5NP8ZWY0y89xBQtWxiIwibFgtPMoCOjc/s1600/IMG_1629.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Haggling for another vegetable basket - after we are quizzed to make sure we know its use.</i></div>
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We then weave in and out of bodas, taxis, minibuses and
private vehicles to cross the street to the tailors’ section. Multiple
alleyways are filled with men and women working on push-pedal Singer sewing
machines outside their shops. Every surface is strewn with beautiful, colorful
kitenge. Tables for ironing are set up in the alleys as well; people carefully
press the cleanest clothes I’ve ever seen with their charcoal irons,
occasionally wetting the fabric with water from a cleaned-out plastic soda
bottle with a hole in its cap. We get measured or pick up our new clothes from
Nick, our favorite tailor, and sometimes get to enjoy watching women try on
their glittering bridesmaid or giveaway dresses. Here, getting clothes
custom-made is extremely cheap compared to the U.S., but tailors are having a
harder time getting business because of the influx of clothes donated from
abroad that are being sold at a much cheaper price. But being a tailor is still
a good profession here, and I am constantly impressed by the incredible quality
of clothes I see being made under an umbrella in the sweltering heat of an
alleyway. </div>
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Our last stop is usually Nakumatt, an actual grocery store
in Mbarara that is extremely popular with foreigners. We step into the
air-conditioned entrance and wander around to pick up the items we can’t find
anywhere else – real butter, baguettes, brown bread (which they call “salty
bread” here), cheese, certain kinds of beer (yeah, OK, that’s just for me), and
herbs and spices. Then it’s back to the Post Office to catch a matatu back to
our trading center. Sitting six to a row, my big backpack on my lap, my right
side smushed up against a strange man and my left arm cradling a baby being nursed by her mother,
I wiggle my right hand free and snack on my street popcorn T-Rex style. Like so
many things in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>,
shopping is time-consuming, loud, noisy, hectic, and oftentimes frustrating,
but it’s always an adventure and in the end, completing it is a triumph in and
of itself.</div>
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<i>When you are discontent, you always want more, more, more. Your desire can never be satisfied. But when you practice contentment, you can say to yourself, "Oh yes - I already have everything that I really need."</i></div>
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<i>- Dalai Lama</i></div>
<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-44186392941308017432015-04-07T07:42:00.002-07:002016-10-22T16:01:54.236-07:00HIV/AIDS in Uganda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIGj4uiQgW7MC7wrkFsIQeqWt1jEGysuEPSnrWofOBBKDnb7frp0r9s4ID669Cqu3uCTg8CqJYVqE0__wEnwR9ev75mrVgtXGN3GJHuxn1sGRfDTEtTORxPyL7BytAYyFkE662boJ8-8/s1600/IMG_0430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIGj4uiQgW7MC7wrkFsIQeqWt1jEGysuEPSnrWofOBBKDnb7frp0r9s4ID669Cqu3uCTg8CqJYVqE0__wEnwR9ev75mrVgtXGN3GJHuxn1sGRfDTEtTORxPyL7BytAYyFkE662boJ8-8/s1600/IMG_0430.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Last week I gave an HIV/AIDS Education Workshop at the
primary school for the staff. It was something they had requested as they felt the
need to educate their pupils more in this area. In fact, it’s actually an area I needed more education about before Peace Corps too. I watched <st1:city w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:city> in school, I knew some of the history of it
in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region> (mostly thanks
to Rent), I knew that HIV/AIDS was "bad in <st1:place w:st="on">Africa"</st1:place>
(and that’s probably one of the world’s most general statements ever), but I
didn’t know much more than that. It seemed like a far-off, ancient problem - in
my fairly sheltered American life, I had never even met anyone who had HIV or
AIDS. Coming to <st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place>,
that all changed. Peace Corps provided me with the most thorough education on
this subject that I had ever received, an education that seemed much more
relevant and needed as I began to get to know more co-workers, students, and
friends for whom HIV/AIDS had intimately, awfully, impacted their lives.</div>
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<st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
actually was considered a success story in sub-Saharan <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>
when it came to HIV/AIDS, reducing the rate from up to 30% in the 1990s to 6.4%
in 2006. Much of this has been credited to an extensive education program in
the 90’s using the ABC approach: Abstinence, Be Faithful, Use
Condoms. However, HIV prevalence has been on the rise again since 2006. Approximately
one in 10 women now become HIV positive by their late 30s and for men, about
one in 10 are infected by their early 40s. This is in part due to the
government’s shift, somewhat under pressure from foreign countries like the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region>, towards
abstinence-only programs during the 2000’s. Some health experts also blame the
increasing rate of infection on “AIDS-fatigue,” a general complacency and
reduction in safe sex that began once <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> started to be lauded as a victor
in the battle against HIV/AIDS. </div>
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Right now, 1.4 million people in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> are living with HIV, and,
despite the nation’s early success in combating HIV/AIDS, there are 1.1 million
children that have been orphaned by this epidemic. Many of my own pupils are
part of this statistic. They live with extended family, adults who find it
difficult to pay for their own children’s school fees, uniforms, and meals, not
to mention doing the same for other young relatives, but nevertheless take them
in. </div>
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Working to educate youth about HIV/AIDS is extremely
important in Uganda, not only because HIV/AIDS is more prevalent here, but also
because the median age is 15 (15!). With so many youth and so few adults,
accurate facts and means of prevention can slip through the cracks and be
replaced by rumors and misconceptions. HIV/AIDS and sex education are clearly
urgently needed right now; only 39 percent of young people aged 15 to 24 know
all the necessary facts about how HIV can be prevented. National prevention and
treatment efforts also need to be supported, requiring a de-stigmatization of those
living with HIV. Stigma and discrimination against people with HIV is still
common in many rural areas, so even those who know their or their children’s
positive status are reluctant to seek help for fear of “outing” themselves or
their family members. The passage of the HIV and AIDS Prevention and Control
Act in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
which sanctions forced disclosure and criminalizes transmission, attempted
transmission, and “behavior that might result in transmission,” is only
continuing to add to this problem.</div>
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In Peace Corps, and at my school, Ugandans and PCVs are continuing
the fight from the ground up, working with people who
can help affect some of the most change: teachers. In fact, a quarter of the people who
are living with HIV in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
right now are a part of the school system - students or staff. At the workshop
last week, we refreshed the basics, talked about incorporating literacy into HIV/AIDS education, discussed how gender roles can affect the
spread of HIV/AIDs, detailed how to care for people with HIV, and played a lot
of games and activities that the teachers can do with their pupils. During the
games and activities, such as Jeopardy, foot races, Big Books, and play-acting,
we also did some myth-busting. And man, are there some wildly inaccurate myths
out there (and probably in the States too, unfortunately): condoms cause
cancer; virgins can’t have HIV; having sex with a virgin will cure you; when an
HIV+ mother breastfeeds, the baby dies; HIV can be transmitted by mosquitoes;
washing out with Coca-Cola after sex will prevent you from being infected; HIV
can be passed by kissing; America has a secret cure for HIV/AIDS; America
invented HIV/AIDS (oh, conspiracy theories!). </div>
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<i>The teachers got extremely competitive during the final Jeopardy review!</i></div>
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<i>One of the pre-assessments, where the average score was 70; everyone scored 100 or 95 on the post-assessments.</i></div>
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<i>Doing a "Can Transmit" and "Cannot Transmit" activities sort - it's not every day that you get to explain to your coworkers the definition of pre-ejaculate in English...</i></div>
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Overall, I like to think the workshop was a success – the
pre- and post-assessments on HIV/AIDS I gave out showed drastic improvement,
and the teachers were excited (and very competitive!) while practicing a
variety of ways to educate their pupils on HIV prevention, treatment, and care.
I’m looking forward to seeing the teachers use their new skills to give the kids an opportunity to play and learn
at the same time. It is just a start, and a small one at that, but it's one I was proud to be asked to be a part of.</div>
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<i>There is a saying in Tibetan, "Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength." No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that's our real disaster.</i></div>
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<i>- Dalai Lama</i></div>
<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-53490677196108455522015-04-06T10:26:00.000-07:002015-04-06T10:26:47.838-07:00Happy Easter!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Kris and I stayed at home for our second Easter here in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>. We had
some PCV friends over and had a great time dying eggs in the morning. As we ate
some really old candy bars Kris found, we listened to the songs and drumming floating
in through the windows from the religious gathering at the school. The majority
of Ugandans practice Christianity, so Easter is celebrated widely, with church
gatherings, parades, and crosses of all sizes being carried around on display.
It makes explaining how many Americans celebrate the holiday – with eggs and
dye and chocolate bunnies – sound a bit like we’re just trying to see how
ridiculous we can be and still get our Ugandan friends to believe us. “No
really! We tell kids that a giant bunny comes in the middle of the night and
leaves them colorful chocolate eggs! Yes, I know that bunnies don’t lay eggs.
Yes, eggs aren’t chocolate. No, you’re right, bunnies aren’t really that
giant…”</div>
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<i>Carmen had the coolest egg, by far!</i></div>
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<i>The local eggs we get in the village are brown, which we all forgot was different than the white eggs we dye back in the States, so the colors came out a bit differently.</i></div>
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<i>Disposing of the dye.</i></div>
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In the afternoon, after the five-hour church service we
skipped out on and after Ravi forced us to hide eggs so he could have an Easter
Egg hunt, the neighborhood kids came around to play matatu, the popular Ugandan
card game. It’s also actually the only Ugandan card game; Kris and I drew some
blank looks in the beginning of our time here when people asked us to play
cards and we asked what game they wanted to play. “Cards.” “Yes, but what
game?” “…cards.” Matatu is a bit like Uno with added flourishing, posturing,
and outraged sounds encouraged – in short, a lot of fun. We also taught the oldest,
Manzi, how to play Guillotine. He loved it, especially since he won! All in
all, this Easter was the perfect mix of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
and <st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place>.
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<i>Ravi's triumph.</i></div>
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<i>Kris shuffling on people's heads - always good for a giggle.</i></div>
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<i>The kids enjoyed playing with the guitar and rocking Kris' $1 bus park shades. </i></div>
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<i>Good people aren't hard to find,</i></div>
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<i>they're right around the corner</i></div>
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<i>at the end of the line, it's true.</i></div>
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<i>Good people got peace of mind,</i></div>
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<i>and I'd like to spend some time with you.</i></div>
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<i>- Great Big Sea</i></div>
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<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-48230239180031507882015-03-05T10:52:00.000-08:002015-03-05T10:52:12.053-08:00Fighting with Gorillas<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bwindi</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Impenetrable</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>
– the name itself (while technically untrue) has an air of mystery, an allure
that conjures up images of a vine-choked jungle, a chattering canopy, a distant
rustle of an unseen animal. </div>
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Visiting Bwindi and its mist-covered hills with Mom, Paul, and Kris was one of the amazing, precious times when reality lived up to my imagination.</div>
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Leaving in the dawning light of the early morning to go
gorilla tracking, we followed our guide through the dense brush for hours,
slipping on vines as we clambered through the path he left with his deft, sure
machete hacks. Two armed military members brought up the front and rear and a
porter tailed close behind us – a small, local woman carrying a backpack of our
food and water almost half her size, offering up her tiny hand to guide me down
through the hollowed-out tree that my taller, broader, exercise-5-days-a-week
self couldn’t seem to get up the energy to get through. As I almost collapsed
into her arms, three hours into our trek, we exchanged grins and I thought for
the millionth time how ridiculous it was that there wasn’t some sort of fitness
requirement for foreigners to do this. The local villagers accompanying us were
barely breathing heavily – the guard behind me had the impressive, admirable,
but slightly-irksome habit of pausing to take in the scenery while I trekked 15
minutes ahead of him and then dashing down the hill, around and over trees to
catch up with me in about 1 minute, stopping just before he ran full-tilt into
me. I, however, had two hands wrapped around my walking stick and was using it
to drag myself forward, inwardly starting to debate with myself about how many
people it would take to carry me out in one of those woven stretchers they have
when I collapsed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bvEmnfm-mVeh5_HSFvZgVZmqRQ3PfItE3yDlN3u_FxWZpXn3HA1ojtQu-EFMcv28MVsutp6xk6fxPWUSTDg0i02as-EoeZ7wsqyGLdJhvO0JKRKPx8Ti10kR7xu0vggod4zYnNWpF4M/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bvEmnfm-mVeh5_HSFvZgVZmqRQ3PfItE3yDlN3u_FxWZpXn3HA1ojtQu-EFMcv28MVsutp6xk6fxPWUSTDg0i02as-EoeZ7wsqyGLdJhvO0JKRKPx8Ti10kR7xu0vggod4zYnNWpF4M/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" height="400" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Our amazing porter, Immaculate.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3xzc-eyH4k4VZlw0LbDUQdB8e-3QAPu-8aFNh0Wks0Z530SLd-Mxfu1-4s1gpRI_IHuecWhoyXkMlqZUEGibEL21pk5xZ4qXcS3GATOWX4ModEVeD64GQda_FP6ZfG_bgPeXQHYWaOk/s1600/IMG_8042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3xzc-eyH4k4VZlw0LbDUQdB8e-3QAPu-8aFNh0Wks0Z530SLd-Mxfu1-4s1gpRI_IHuecWhoyXkMlqZUEGibEL21pk5xZ4qXcS3GATOWX4ModEVeD64GQda_FP6ZfG_bgPeXQHYWaOk/s1600/IMG_8042.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKOTH10lqp9Uucx2JZlw3SlPhP5_r5cCJ23IAyXuKwFs9xfwiWp7DVtuudddHPQjpqQb77lVbueCYg6PCIV5iSrYWtnvVtUrnj38ug0pUdkD2kU7YA2fc4D7-ALnHZOHKA_9Dx_gvuAw/s1600/IMG_9959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKOTH10lqp9Uucx2JZlw3SlPhP5_r5cCJ23IAyXuKwFs9xfwiWp7DVtuudddHPQjpqQb77lVbueCYg6PCIV5iSrYWtnvVtUrnj38ug0pUdkD2kU7YA2fc4D7-ALnHZOHKA_9Dx_gvuAw/s1600/IMG_9959.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Bwindi is one of Uganda's oldest and most biologically diverse rainforests, home to 400 species of plants, 120 mammals including baboons, chimps, antelopes, and elephants, 350 species of birds, and half of the world's mountain gorilla population.</i></div>
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But then our guide, after chatting on his walkie talkie to
the trackers ahead and checking his GPS, announced that we were almost to the
gorillas and I caught my second wind. As we carefully navigated our way down
what could more accurately have been described a cliff than a hill, I strained
to discern some sort of gorilla-like sound from the hoots and calls all around
us, sure that they were behind the very next tree. Yet it wasn’t until almost
an hour later (good trick, guide) that we finally heard an echoing, bellowing
sound. Exchanging excited glances, we looked to our guide for confirmation and
he gave us a big grin – we were there.</div>
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We met up with the two trackers who had been ahead of us,
trying to locate the gorilla group for the day for a visiting research group. We
left our supplies and walking sticks with them and moved cautiously forward
with our guide, coming to stand on a steep slope covered in thick undergrowth.
Our guide hacked down a screen of plants in front of us with his machete and there,
behind it, not twenty feet from us, was a female gorilla with her infant. As we
stood there, entranced by the mother holding her baby in one hand and using the
other to help her rip branches apart with her teeth, we realized that we were,
in fact, surrounded. A male gorilla rested in nettle leaves to our left; two
more gorillas wandered on the hill above us; a silverback called to his group,
responses coming from every direction; a baby gorilla tumbled down the incline,
crushing small trees and plants in his path, rolling to a stop and jumping up
joyfully. All in all, we were in the midst of a gorilla group of more than
twenty members.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRyZ6EAKgVjC8afOinj23bhOx9pewPKEflZ6kMY9KTIL6SFKkbBsb88Q7D4-Ce_BiphUvTAobrLKjJlcAa_tHhuRmUF-nqJ6kdeQ4I3jWOixzvwAbXbEAQNqJhVhybVus2U9V5m11Ksg/s1600/IMG_9993.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRyZ6EAKgVjC8afOinj23bhOx9pewPKEflZ6kMY9KTIL6SFKkbBsb88Q7D4-Ce_BiphUvTAobrLKjJlcAa_tHhuRmUF-nqJ6kdeQ4I3jWOixzvwAbXbEAQNqJhVhybVus2U9V5m11Ksg/s1600/IMG_9993.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
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<i>Newborn mountain gorillas are tiny. They weigh about four
pounds and are able only to cling onto their mother’s fur. They ride on her
back starting at about four months until they are two or three years old. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOqWMMQSkgPo4WAs9i-UzEkBTFOVvI7aIM_xbc3RM26KFkQiZwC_EwsP3jZ5gJ-ZCWBDLHt64kcR_4u8VPhuAd_vhs86YQXIx9uy2ggWDOK4444JWTzE2dgA7QR9eTXMVq0gnlw61M6c/s1600/IMG_9994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOqWMMQSkgPo4WAs9i-UzEkBTFOVvI7aIM_xbc3RM26KFkQiZwC_EwsP3jZ5gJ-ZCWBDLHt64kcR_4u8VPhuAd_vhs86YQXIx9uy2ggWDOK4444JWTzE2dgA7QR9eTXMVq0gnlw61M6c/s1600/IMG_9994.JPG" height="400" width="376" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1fuSx31amvCPuQYkJl1KDi8inSSu0mL4ZrvJ2CzhJPdAx_EDSjZiJs_41brnJ4gOcOh7lXyHvfiYfKoaaa3RFNK5koTviZa8InpCzMwrMJF3QLtf4_3hFTDeJjNhyphenhyphenDYpCPLWFCjRWNY/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1fuSx31amvCPuQYkJl1KDi8inSSu0mL4ZrvJ2CzhJPdAx_EDSjZiJs_41brnJ4gOcOh7lXyHvfiYfKoaaa3RFNK5koTviZa8InpCzMwrMJF3QLtf4_3hFTDeJjNhyphenhyphenDYpCPLWFCjRWNY/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" height="400" width="332" /></a></div>
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<i>Young gorillas, from three to six years old, spend most of
their day playing – climbing trees, chasing one another, swinging from
branches, and rolling down hills. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sp0oHRWIod0lzos0jNYL4hMjKZ8lJnN70HhI4zMoU5ZopvxLiJ-3xKCpgmn9-nXxGm2ZYaSLtCFkCEMD906DDY4OStJGlhYEQQtHdOwvrJQAGeJDsXTuw0sV5iOLfjaGgRn8w26yu_o/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sp0oHRWIod0lzos0jNYL4hMjKZ8lJnN70HhI4zMoU5ZopvxLiJ-3xKCpgmn9-nXxGm2ZYaSLtCFkCEMD906DDY4OStJGlhYEQQtHdOwvrJQAGeJDsXTuw0sV5iOLfjaGgRn8w26yu_o/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG" height="352" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfgVkEpAiUMcaCCa59o9kvpg_jBJPc4ZJBGYj8eyzH5KKVGO0vce2bQIoTZN5KaD_cbnR3aGhyphenhyphen4UbEbvZaPbFf85OUMfpqeuNdr7BDkAkxbhhKzN7XY65cmyM9S3hQ3AJFpLhunjhpl4/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDfgVkEpAiUMcaCCa59o9kvpg_jBJPc4ZJBGYj8eyzH5KKVGO0vce2bQIoTZN5KaD_cbnR3aGhyphenhyphen4UbEbvZaPbFf85OUMfpqeuNdr7BDkAkxbhhKzN7XY65cmyM9S3hQ3AJFpLhunjhpl4/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG" height="400" width="316" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>Gorillas are herbivores and can eat up to 66
pounds of food a day!</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrAA6nrXhjOIALWl5ZXhW7HKHg7M1-6sg1IwPMmZw4rl34w1Dkqm1sNBhTVvDlOtWz75EvZNUnO6HZBaIXKu6ItGoo31bstuzqvMs5I1QlTgYNmsLTjVeDNQZH2D5EQ2M0Ds4EdiVW_Q/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrAA6nrXhjOIALWl5ZXhW7HKHg7M1-6sg1IwPMmZw4rl34w1Dkqm1sNBhTVvDlOtWz75EvZNUnO6HZBaIXKu6ItGoo31bstuzqvMs5I1QlTgYNmsLTjVeDNQZH2D5EQ2M0Ds4EdiVW_Q/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>There are only about 700 mountain gorillas remaining on
Earth. They live in the green volcanic slopes of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>,
<st1:place w:st="on">Rwanda</st1:place>,
and the Democratic Republic of Congo.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4VF_5Jb-Jk664MkSeHPC1G6bgTgT4hjxzn-9E48MiCBGwxJ6LaUQkdBMq0kXZ2mpxMlT1xX-kTB6xoo3zLOVbPrkIuBOJCVPeFTg0NXCViGMUTqQ43drOj3GnWrtNk9xUwScWOovmKY/s1600/IMG_1543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4VF_5Jb-Jk664MkSeHPC1G6bgTgT4hjxzn-9E48MiCBGwxJ6LaUQkdBMq0kXZ2mpxMlT1xX-kTB6xoo3zLOVbPrkIuBOJCVPeFTg0NXCViGMUTqQ43drOj3GnWrtNk9xUwScWOovmKY/s1600/IMG_1543.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSZmUcjJJmRQCp74jFlkZaiGkM-PDlqrBHh4-xFFXM-bFF4bQRKmpn5lLfdoNmcldvu6B330gO2f7Kg2CS5rlzxO-igFxAUt5i2je9c33Qk9vLL1cCeoOJBu8S2COAqZOBCVW8aAxjuo/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSZmUcjJJmRQCp74jFlkZaiGkM-PDlqrBHh4-xFFXM-bFF4bQRKmpn5lLfdoNmcldvu6B330gO2f7Kg2CS5rlzxO-igFxAUt5i2je9c33Qk9vLL1cCeoOJBu8S2COAqZOBCVW8aAxjuo/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHZvN-g_Usy5cMIgGUbDtcIRViQ-YCf3TksPJfBjS9fWcuTwvZXeboTDfDswvPJ7UiIN0usSA9yaMke4YfTznVzTaZZdlOzZ2wrG-uirihYRVe9Kt5h_DCr1pGqgsySbeqIzn3oUt4ZU/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHZvN-g_Usy5cMIgGUbDtcIRViQ-YCf3TksPJfBjS9fWcuTwvZXeboTDfDswvPJ7UiIN0usSA9yaMke4YfTznVzTaZZdlOzZ2wrG-uirihYRVe9Kt5h_DCr1pGqgsySbeqIzn3oUt4ZU/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" height="400" width="313" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1HBRZpvQaX-cvnLpIaJNBLfKLaIM1iRzRbG7zXgpmtOmYq9Og0LZb8Gmu0oED3EVvlKoWkv2n0PlWr_kXKMLgOkkymvNV4mVaP4pCAPe220UAY9btmCWjsdjwi2c1U0dmAl7Yfc8HVpk/s1600/IMG_1537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1HBRZpvQaX-cvnLpIaJNBLfKLaIM1iRzRbG7zXgpmtOmYq9Og0LZb8Gmu0oED3EVvlKoWkv2n0PlWr_kXKMLgOkkymvNV4mVaP4pCAPe220UAY9btmCWjsdjwi2c1U0dmAl7Yfc8HVpk/s1600/IMG_1537.JPG" height="400" width="353" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKQluDHBoCdwCEJVvoD24FY_y3Meqx3b170LkAnKGfPJFy3mZPOoXv30mRVwW0BJ5coUSVQCw-GRJMHN0cIByahOQqS5sOVAzmNoOCWu7YrjIp9ijOc6NHGJsRNVluymIeGC4Q2oqbNU/s1600/IMG_8037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKQluDHBoCdwCEJVvoD24FY_y3Meqx3b170LkAnKGfPJFy3mZPOoXv30mRVwW0BJ5coUSVQCw-GRJMHN0cIByahOQqS5sOVAzmNoOCWu7YrjIp9ijOc6NHGJsRNVluymIeGC4Q2oqbNU/s1600/IMG_8037.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>The alpha male is usually a silverback – the hair of older
adult males turns a distinctive silver as they mature – and leads the group with
impressive shows of physical power. Mountain gorillas stand four to six feet
tall, can live for 40 – 50 years, and weigh from 300 to 485 pounds! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieT4m2gtk-juj4G44z4l4WHbwtDge60758beWzwXRFfYEj9wmskJMsxKEvTbKVceOv3PoIj0Miv9xLmDmhwrkItJ1BtYSUGsqXeHs2auxeDmwsqrdNmGHRwnfb0OAFcmOdg032426thdE/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieT4m2gtk-juj4G44z4l4WHbwtDge60758beWzwXRFfYEj9wmskJMsxKEvTbKVceOv3PoIj0Miv9xLmDmhwrkItJ1BtYSUGsqXeHs2auxeDmwsqrdNmGHRwnfb0OAFcmOdg032426thdE/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG" height="351" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Certificates are a big deal in Uganda (smiling for pictures is not). Here we are, "graduating" from gorilla tracking!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
It was like every dream I had as a kid that involved
researching animals, being Jane Goodall or Diane Fossey, living in the wild –
it helped that we had two real-life scientists right next to us, actively
engaged in the work that I avidly read about in elementary school. I could
almost pretend that this was my career too, spending days among the gorillas,
filling a notepad with precise observations as I also mused about the social
life of these impressive, massive animals, affectionately naming each one,
celebrating their victories and mourning their losses along with them.</div>
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As we stood along a beat-down path, lined up, I noticed a
silverback beginning to move all the way to my left. I started filming, hoping
I could get a picture of him walking around, when all of a sudden, he sped up.
The guide pulled me back as the male sprinted by Kris, lashing out with his
legs in two vicious kicks. Kris stumbled but remarkably kept his balance (must
be all those times he got kicked in Capoeira). The gorilla continued running,
right towards Paul, who had his back turned watching a gorilla farther up the
slope. We softly cried out warnings, but it was too late – the silverback
hip-checked Paul in passing, sending him sprawling to the ground after getting
hit with the equivalent of a 350-pound sack of bricks. Paul lay on the ground, stunned, unsure
whether or not he was injured. I knew I had just the thing to bring him out of
his shock: “Hey Paul! I got that on video!” The two scientists chuckled next to
me. “Now that’s a story!”</div>
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwigmXMprc1WsZ7WGxC131Rwo7hOgAQCdZg-JTbE2p990FmVh5_xTNibkS_9ReTYOXTnLkw-XCo8utSJIQFcA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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After we hit the time limit we were allotted to spend with
the gorillas, who are habituated but still wild, we began the slightly shorter
two and a half hour hike back to the park center. Exhilarated and exhausted by
our encounter, we dug deep to find the energy to get back, teasing each other
as we went. </div>
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“Looks like the girls are smart and fast enough to get out
of the way of a 350-pound gorilla!” </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Looks like the boys are the only ones who got to touch a
gorilla!”</div>
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We finally made it back to the lodge, changing out of our
sweaty clothes and slumping on the front porch of the main building with the
beers that the hotel staff had put in the icebox for us that morning. I could
feel my body already starting to stiffen in the cooler, high-altitude
temperatures, tighten up in that wonderful way that meant I had pushed it as
hard as I possibly could. I sank back into my chair while we sipped our beers –
and Kris sipped his water – enjoying the view of the sunset over the forest and
the broad swath of rich green terrace farming beyond. As I glanced over and saw
Mom, Paul, and Kris slowly nodding off, I smiled, picked up by book, and put my
feet up on the wooden railing – one of the best days ever.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySrj0xOEu0txlyWTAmfMrtHbfpq1c750oXgN4t3Jr0p4gnoUWyh4P9SKR8OXMp5Dji0A4vYOpK9yQIgJS241lR_tXDzVzFMTaDDAPAycuDkK8Hb-sHaOsXSIPZeL25fCbl2AUhHbO0Ck/s1600/IMG_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgySrj0xOEu0txlyWTAmfMrtHbfpq1c750oXgN4t3Jr0p4gnoUWyh4P9SKR8OXMp5Dji0A4vYOpK9yQIgJS241lR_tXDzVzFMTaDDAPAycuDkK8Hb-sHaOsXSIPZeL25fCbl2AUhHbO0Ck/s1600/IMG_0102.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Our rewards.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2B_0yQojrDdW3g8aUkbUetwhevHxzbriwyEb2G-neetqPiCaQhm_P-YZAyFBuR6q11pU3dubsJ6AGQsOWjDFv4v3ZAmZg-JZLUtwHYe96ylzefgT1lzbTs8Pzrwn1vhy1I4xM90OyDbI/s1600/IMG_0104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2B_0yQojrDdW3g8aUkbUetwhevHxzbriwyEb2G-neetqPiCaQhm_P-YZAyFBuR6q11pU3dubsJ6AGQsOWjDFv4v3ZAmZg-JZLUtwHYe96ylzefgT1lzbTs8Pzrwn1vhy1I4xM90OyDbI/s1600/IMG_0104.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrK5SrPkoxn4HV6kFQC7_xv8p9IZG9ZbTxa37XboRS8fnqdMAsw37EUgzEZ3L0d1hKQfw4w9KlvDS3Ao3HU-JiP008ROiWrOq_5Xc1YMGpaTAZdU-c8v4m1M3VvUbBr6pPD0szAjQIoM/s1600/IMG_0106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrK5SrPkoxn4HV6kFQC7_xv8p9IZG9ZbTxa37XboRS8fnqdMAsw37EUgzEZ3L0d1hKQfw4w9KlvDS3Ao3HU-JiP008ROiWrOq_5Xc1YMGpaTAZdU-c8v4m1M3VvUbBr6pPD0szAjQIoM/s1600/IMG_0106.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>Dreaming of mountain gorillas.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKz1SBUJ1OepbRxxmvjhnRSf_eBa9ly7MSwhRp5ill8uDvWBjxSzq4PzK-wzUff8ReWUioXiOq-2npzKUSKoY23mGvcZwxSEVHDEAYpa1TPdY2olYRc_g2Jwm3v9akxrmSSPBnVUiRJI/s1600/IMG_9948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKz1SBUJ1OepbRxxmvjhnRSf_eBa9ly7MSwhRp5ill8uDvWBjxSzq4PzK-wzUff8ReWUioXiOq-2npzKUSKoY23mGvcZwxSEVHDEAYpa1TPdY2olYRc_g2Jwm3v9akxrmSSPBnVUiRJI/s1600/IMG_9948.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlbN9n3xFBXIut2DBmDRPRY7rIO-DjUE2LjkrtcFdUj1Y5LrYyQA0JsPQCuhV6EQBVdTSH8YwG69jcpb68YmKZ9_71ZgadLzmKOFWC535Zb6mdPkhXO1n29Qm7sjyo0h_R2rYiibSzKU/s1600/IMG_1444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlbN9n3xFBXIut2DBmDRPRY7rIO-DjUE2LjkrtcFdUj1Y5LrYyQA0JsPQCuhV6EQBVdTSH8YwG69jcpb68YmKZ9_71ZgadLzmKOFWC535Zb6mdPkhXO1n29Qm7sjyo0h_R2rYiibSzKU/s1600/IMG_1444.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i> “It is the peace of
the forest that I carry inside.” </i></div>
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<i>– Jane Goodall</i></div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-53354953520711806502014-11-29T08:56:00.000-08:002014-11-29T09:02:25.248-08:00The Illusion of Separateness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeUYqPU5jPY2xnLo0JAKv3fPkbaC4b66KEKpGTUQCr23XNihq_LVWYqCxLE0lFMaAQBNCHTo7pQIYLiQnSlpC49H-d5SOwASlDpxg3GrcfMH5XV7lYRhtP1tWe9xTqrWRw2Sqdway8k4/s1600/IMG_9533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeUYqPU5jPY2xnLo0JAKv3fPkbaC4b66KEKpGTUQCr23XNihq_LVWYqCxLE0lFMaAQBNCHTo7pQIYLiQnSlpC49H-d5SOwASlDpxg3GrcfMH5XV7lYRhtP1tWe9xTqrWRw2Sqdway8k4/s1600/IMG_9533.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Happy Thanksgiving! Kris and I ended up staying at home for
the holiday, but we still managed to have a fairly respectable feast. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xt4OuoYGEros993soZH9CZKGhlUbx2zO5Tgz-UQ-iYGhpyqEnSC20c_D-1z2crtOFNWhDVOh3H-r5ycfcrWsrOsS7rQSHIfNJrKzHY7-q2wIr-oCcBfe_Siic0Bddvwri42omDoxq7g/s1600/IMG_9535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xt4OuoYGEros993soZH9CZKGhlUbx2zO5Tgz-UQ-iYGhpyqEnSC20c_D-1z2crtOFNWhDVOh3H-r5ycfcrWsrOsS7rQSHIfNJrKzHY7-q2wIr-oCcBfe_Siic0Bddvwri42omDoxq7g/s1600/IMG_9535.JPG" height="400" width="335" /></a></div>
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We picked
up some necessary ingredients from the “exotic foods” stall – celery, parsley,
and cauliflower - at the market in the closest town about an hour and a half
away. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz49gM4WgJz173VCXLnEsMqlipSs8zCp4_G0IV_lRqnWluTpSlfA-8dpsWE5vsCgvAtt9-MVKLiK72SqgvYWzQ7MVFW-G7s4JOGWrzeCfgsX3cv0qDw8FZMbvGt8Z88A78Qk_ZEscIRbY/s1600/IMG_9523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz49gM4WgJz173VCXLnEsMqlipSs8zCp4_G0IV_lRqnWluTpSlfA-8dpsWE5vsCgvAtt9-MVKLiK72SqgvYWzQ7MVFW-G7s4JOGWrzeCfgsX3cv0qDw8FZMbvGt8Z88A78Qk_ZEscIRbY/s1600/IMG_9523.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Not your typical cooking-on-Thanksgiving view, but still gorgeous!</i></div>
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We also picked up some wine and TONS of butter and cheese. In the
afternoon, we made some DIY Thanksgiving decorations – a turkey, a sign, and a
thankfulness pumpkin, all made out of cardboard, paper, and nails in true
make-it-work Ugandan style. We also managed to download the Macy’s
Thanksgiving Day Parades from 2013 while in town so, at exactly the
time the parade started in the States, we set up the Nexus and the laptop to
play the 2013 parade in the kitchen and living room in surround-sound. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxkWf8CD0d1ygn1oUjQKqVvZTU5rvlaL7TiXM_A1zpcCO0VQA3gAJquEcWrOIHizA7_mhcRnMkCTijcjlhjXCT3n2J0TpsisGF9-gMQXDHuBNb7_-qQ33gbPgvVLNgBLlkRc8xkL0_zw/s1600/IMG_9518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxkWf8CD0d1ygn1oUjQKqVvZTU5rvlaL7TiXM_A1zpcCO0VQA3gAJquEcWrOIHizA7_mhcRnMkCTijcjlhjXCT3n2J0TpsisGF9-gMQXDHuBNb7_-qQ33gbPgvVLNgBLlkRc8xkL0_zw/s1600/IMG_9518.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">With a two-burner gas range, one pot,
one saucepan, a toaster oven, and a shoe, we made cookies, rolls,
cauliflower, stuffing, potatoes au gratin, and opened a bottle of wine to
celebrate our second Thanksgiving in Uganda. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEM8ls7mKFOYoAEnX73G_RDan_VIBtvHYYKEM2BhF5VEHf-sC_Z9Bu0Xd7yLyi7TT3sv1x_P1D6V9UwHGo7N7Sw2qDU72SVXxzjx8JVz2J-PNF4eH2tXWYHICkQSNEJY0v5wkJfpJiaA/s1600/IMG_9524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEM8ls7mKFOYoAEnX73G_RDan_VIBtvHYYKEM2BhF5VEHf-sC_Z9Bu0Xd7yLyi7TT3sv1x_P1D6V9UwHGo7N7Sw2qDU72SVXxzjx8JVz2J-PNF4eH2tXWYHICkQSNEJY0v5wkJfpJiaA/s1600/IMG_9524.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Finally got the dough for the rolls to rise!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfSqZp5blTIa8w-8984oEpD1oSHwg3vt9led3GRKMWCNfuL__n3qqhvrcktVt1fqi4ArqSJk_d01v4xRpibO0BMnrOn1wuBFV3u70YO1btRSuFaDqBPPBE23PFkTGGdGo2jwRKGn0QPM/s1600/IMG_9525+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfSqZp5blTIa8w-8984oEpD1oSHwg3vt9led3GRKMWCNfuL__n3qqhvrcktVt1fqi4ArqSJk_d01v4xRpibO0BMnrOn1wuBFV3u70YO1btRSuFaDqBPPBE23PFkTGGdGo2jwRKGn0QPM/s1600/IMG_9525+(2).jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqq2fCUEWKKGdmvMJG7p17pM2EfI8SykGmInJehCZOzOEtrLJuoSHW0TsTtdpkFIe2ytcksXl_f89XyMFFMAKLt626RH8-JMuOrHAygaWvswSZHZZ7Nlomm_PQ-_GzsT71avi_GbUkQ4/s1600/IMG_9522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqq2fCUEWKKGdmvMJG7p17pM2EfI8SykGmInJehCZOzOEtrLJuoSHW0TsTtdpkFIe2ytcksXl_f89XyMFFMAKLt626RH8-JMuOrHAygaWvswSZHZZ7Nlomm_PQ-_GzsT71avi_GbUkQ4/s1600/IMG_9522.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;">No, this didn't work.</i></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5oPSvNYEJo53vBhCk4rvjv_c2qU5R_7s-nsd00E0MwHxI_XABVxHCUaMNiu9Wu7FXlL68HU-md4Cum9G8rhyphenhyphen46arazBFkvINplYLZLOE8qjqSIRertpsJpOPAfLPvalCXmZvZzzaBRE/s1600/IMG_9546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5oPSvNYEJo53vBhCk4rvjv_c2qU5R_7s-nsd00E0MwHxI_XABVxHCUaMNiu9Wu7FXlL68HU-md4Cum9G8rhyphenhyphen46arazBFkvINplYLZLOE8qjqSIRertpsJpOPAfLPvalCXmZvZzzaBRE/s1600/IMG_9546.JPG" height="320" width="271" /></a></div>
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<i>It wouldn't be Ugandan Thanksgiving without malaria medicine!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6dBjUflzuyCWbUmhwoUK2y00vOcuVZumzbgD3KhyphenhyphenGOQyFwYNqKYyVuTk2Di0Vp3bj9JWOpTSUkgSHK9Jd5qE7dXMZm-D9Q500MaXfS5mHRqtjtVU483RrSs2bH3HD4O4Bfn2fSE6tgk/s1600/IMG_9540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6dBjUflzuyCWbUmhwoUK2y00vOcuVZumzbgD3KhyphenhyphenGOQyFwYNqKYyVuTk2Di0Vp3bj9JWOpTSUkgSHK9Jd5qE7dXMZm-D9Q500MaXfS5mHRqtjtVU483RrSs2bH3HD4O4Bfn2fSE6tgk/s1600/IMG_9540.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Kris is dreaming of how delicious the food will taste once I'm done making him take pictures.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMK2IMOt1hYoiaDOR9H0RPkG91p0Eh6gAGyr3mr3kCplhOTibIYR3BQkqDj9A85wLliK41GF7AR_SJeGphjtIn3lnyBSXHJ0_hcBlq-a6sRM_qpnT9NVGoR92-uSNatfbNj4FMUB71nY/s1600/IMG_9545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMK2IMOt1hYoiaDOR9H0RPkG91p0Eh6gAGyr3mr3kCplhOTibIYR3BQkqDj9A85wLliK41GF7AR_SJeGphjtIn3lnyBSXHJ0_hcBlq-a6sRM_qpnT9NVGoR92-uSNatfbNj4FMUB71nY/s1600/IMG_9545.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Happy Thanksgiving!</i></div>
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While Thanksgiving is not a Ugandan holiday, giving thanks
is engrained into every day here. As a collectivistic culture, expressing
appreciation and acknowledgment is a part of everyday interaction in Ugandan life.
Whether you’re a teacher walking to school, a worker digging a ditch, or a
woman working in the field, passersby – both friends and strangers – call out, “<i>Webare murimo</i>!” which means “Thank you
for your work!” It doesn’t matter if you aren’t teaching <u>their</u> children,
digging <u>their</u> ditch, or harvesting <u>their</u> food; people appreciate
the work you are doing because they know that what affects one person affects
all.</div>
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As Americans, we sometimes can see interdependence as
weakness. Being strong, independent, and self-supporting are desirable values in
our culture – it’s a point of pride to be able to “make it on your own.” These values are exemplified in the Burger King slogan, "Have it your way!" As Howard C. Cutler puts it, the message is, "America, the land where not only <i>every man</i> and <i>every woman</i> is an individual but also where <i>every hamburger</i> is an individual!"<br />
<br />
While
self-confidence, independence, and individuality are certainly admirable qualities, this point of view, coupled with the
technologically-drenched society we live in, leads us to lose sight of how we
benefit from others. Standing in a crowded, silent elevator while everyone
checks their phone gives us the illusion that we are in our own worlds. Online,
we can shop, order meals, get answers, and even work without interacting with a
single person, but also without ever giving a thought to who made our computer,
who built our house, who harvested our food, or who ensures that we have
electricity. In our day-to-day lives, it's difficult for us to see our common connections and all too easy to feel like we live in our own personal, self-sustaining bubbles.</div>
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In <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>,
however, neighbors, friends, and co-workers are acutely aware of how they are connected; their ties are strong and clearly evident. There is a deep sense of community and each member is supported daily by that community in a myriad of ways, from economic to social. So when I’m walking to school, the gatekeeper thanks me for
teaching the children in his village because he knows that an educated
population can bring more to his home. The boda driver passing the ditch digger thanks
him because he knows that he is making the road safer for everyone when the
next heavy rain comes. The store owner passing the woman working in the fields
thanks her because even though he will not eat that food, he knows that to make
the community stronger makes him stronger as well. </div>
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This is not to say that Uganda has the perfect culture or that we should adopt their culture. Neither individualistic or collectivistic cultures are beneficial in their extremes. Connections among individuals in a community, known as social capital, can have positive consequences such as mutual support, cooperation, trust, and institutional effectiveness, but it can also have negative results such as sectarianism, ethnocentrism, and corruption. But this doesn't mean that we can't learn from the good and try to leave the bad behind; both individualism and collectivism have something to teach each other. I think that maintaining or even regaining our connection to others and our sense of community is something that American individualistic culture can benefit from. <a href="http://www.livescience.com/16879-close-friends-decrease-today.html" target="_blank">On average, Americans report that they have only two close friends or confidantes.</a> <a href="http://infed.org/mobi/robert-putnam-social-capital-and-civic-community/" target="_blank">Yet school performance, public health, clinical depression, race relations, community development, teen suicide, economic productivity, and even happiness are all demonstrably affected by how (and whether) we connect with the people around us.</a> While we certainly are not socially isolated, are we socially rich? How connected do we really feel to our fellow human beings?<br />
<br />
Perhaps adopting the spirit of <i>webare murimo</i>, and therefore an acknowledgement of each other's, and our own, contributions can be a beginning to a stronger connection in our communities once again. So <i>webare murimo</i> to all of my loved ones back home that I miss so much.
Thank you for everything that you do to make me, your friends, your family, strangers,
and yourself stronger, healthier, and happier. Remember that even when you are
helping yourself, you are helping others; your daily actions are far more
widespread and impactful than you could imagine. Appreciate that, and take a
moment to appreciate others as well.<br />
<br />
We are not all the same, but we are all connected.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>“Just as the wave cannot exist for itself, but must always
participate in the swell of the ocean, so we can never experience life by
ourselves, but must always share the experience of life that takes place all
around us.” </i></div>
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<i>~ Albert Schweitzer</i></div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-71484854062383636462014-11-10T07:57:00.001-08:002014-11-25T03:58:11.105-08:00Travel in Uganda<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
There can be many words used to describe traveling in <st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place>
– chaotic, packed, boring, sweaty, amazing, hysterical, animal-ridden,
fascinating, interminable, thought-provoking, reflective, beautiful – but short
is never one of them. Although the country is about the size of <st1:place w:st="on">Oregon</st1:place>, the condition of
the roads and people-to-vehicles ratio ensure that any journey you want to
embark upon is going to take up a sizable chunk of your day. Therefore, you must
prepare accordingly. </div>
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The morning of a travel day, we have to be very careful to only use as much water as
is required to brush our teeth. Pit stops on public transportation are rare and
always unpredictable, and it’s not uncommon to take a five hour bus ride
without ever getting a chance to go to the bathroom. Even though I’m travelling
outside the village, as a woman, I should still dress in a long skirt. A bathroom
break does not always guarantee a restroom, and it’s a lot easier and much less
indecent to go in the bushes wearing a skirt rather than jeans. We also have to
make sure that you have small bills, for while there are always people selling
food (and chickens and headphones and toilet paper and newspapers and solar
chargers and kitchenware and geese) through the bus windows, the bus driver
will not necessarily wait until everyone gets their change. After all, he has a
schedule to keep and the hawker should be fast enough to keep running alongside
until he can throw his customer’s change back through the window.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXwtuFc86HdSHBnmN7PTw2B5czn66ADmx66E83KB_r5hyphenhyphenyu26XupiEdgbm-1c-BBoqBbVF0FvtGcEdhaCmf0gfqCzYZCSm2kBX3Il4i4alep44AuQKRRtR0S-AtsXjMUH_xL7XZWNRn4/s1600/IMG_9450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXwtuFc86HdSHBnmN7PTw2B5czn66ADmx66E83KB_r5hyphenhyphenyu26XupiEdgbm-1c-BBoqBbVF0FvtGcEdhaCmf0gfqCzYZCSm2kBX3Il4i4alep44AuQKRRtR0S-AtsXjMUH_xL7XZWNRn4/s1600/IMG_9450.JPG" height="252" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get to the capital, Kris and I have to leave around 7:30
a.m. to catch a matatu (mini-bus) at our local stage to the nearest town, about
an hour and a half away.<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It is quite the fashion in </span><st1:place style="font-size: 12pt;" w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> for matatus to have large decals
on their rear windows, usually something along the lines of </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">God/Allah Is Good/Great/Fair/Just</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> or
generally mystifying, like </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Good Mother</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.
When I can, I like to choose my preferred matatu according to its decal: </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Try Again.</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> OK, I will. </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Thank You Jesus.</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Is that what I’m going
to exclaim if I actually get to my destination? </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Rash Hour. </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Definitely not. </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Use
Skin Care.</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Well, it’s good advice… </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Safe
Journey.</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Bingo!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLRyGuk6eo5LND-TziSga8Daimztl4ukMiUwV8tInjiB5EUZETgxRE-tzH1OOaSOT0QeDfMNp4YrLcp2IRFTste7u7OL05WgqbdB3uGdhCCu-_1rSuYUY8YWfGsDA3OMx9O0zlBJDGQA/s1600/Minibus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLRyGuk6eo5LND-TziSga8Daimztl4ukMiUwV8tInjiB5EUZETgxRE-tzH1OOaSOT0QeDfMNp4YrLcp2IRFTste7u7OL05WgqbdB3uGdhCCu-_1rSuYUY8YWfGsDA3OMx9O0zlBJDGQA/s1600/Minibus.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://hoggsinuganda.blogspot.com/2010_03_01_archive.html" target="_blank">Source</a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhijohU_eoCLqZuUJsxDaGB4FjQhoDJQFz6QsRQ9C4LxH8beoXeT_NMhpEyh6Ui-SvKrdgDWHjIDLcV-TAd08Iqvh1jWJae1XnF4QTa7quzmymw6p6Byjf-tkY5lXy0UFILbA2Nqcf3QY/s1600/Rachel+Minibus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhijohU_eoCLqZuUJsxDaGB4FjQhoDJQFz6QsRQ9C4LxH8beoXeT_NMhpEyh6Ui-SvKrdgDWHjIDLcV-TAd08Iqvh1jWJae1XnF4QTa7quzmymw6p6Byjf-tkY5lXy0UFILbA2Nqcf3QY/s1600/Rachel+Minibus.jpg" height="295" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Taken by Lindsay Carrera)</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we reach town, we must then either wait at the Post
Office for the Post Bus, which delivers both people and mail, or head to the
bus park to find another bus. Whether you are Ugandan or foreign, whenever you
enter the bus park you are immediately swarmed by drivers and conductors
shouting and pulling at you. Their determination is remarkable and they will
not be swayed; to them, even your choice of destination is negotiable. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Conductor: “Kabale!
Kabale! Where are you going?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: “<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kampala</st1:place></st1:city>, not Kabale.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Conductor: “No,
Kabale! You come.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: “No thanks.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Conductor: “You come
to Kabale!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: ::shakes head::<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Conductor: “Why not
Kabale?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: “Oh, good point!
Let’s go!”<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_7rtDs2El07r4R_tiN58oaXJD5JCE1ISo8QPaSMcq1A3juBTIo369ukC-ygSlKJN5AlqZRwlrccjyi0VdlOv9Wq6ZTK3eei8mU9jzWok253VpKL1Xd_ItBEF9dLvm3X1Y_1wW_6cjBA/s1600/Bus+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_7rtDs2El07r4R_tiN58oaXJD5JCE1ISo8QPaSMcq1A3juBTIo369ukC-ygSlKJN5AlqZRwlrccjyi0VdlOv9Wq6ZTK3eei8mU9jzWok253VpKL1Xd_ItBEF9dLvm3X1Y_1wW_6cjBA/s1600/Bus+Park.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.iteams.us/2014/07/images-from-kampala-uganda/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Source</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once you do convince them that you are pretty set on going
to <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>,
then you have to continue to be very firm on what bus line you want to take.
When Andrea came to visit, we were mobbed by representatives from both the Link
Bus and Global, shouting at us and at each other and at that goat over in the
corner about how their buses were better. As we walked through the park being
buffeted by conductors on both sides, the crowd grew as I kept firmly stating
that we were taking Global. When we finally maneuvered around the Link people
and boarded the Global bus, the entire bus burst into applause. While you don’t
get mauled taking the bus in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region>, I also bet you’ve never been
greeting by a wave of cheering while you find your seat either. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For any driver or conductor looking for fares here, nothing
is impossible. “Make it work” should be <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>’s official slogan. You have
a coffin you need to transport? The boda (motorcycle taxi) guy can strap it
behind him and deliver it to your house! 9 people already crammed into a
5-person car when it pulls over for a mother and her child? The driver will
share his seat, and remember, babies are floaters! You want to ride in this
minibus but you have five suitcases and half a dozen live chickens? The
suitcases can go on top of the bus, under people’s seats, and on the front
dash. The chickens can go anywhere – just tie up their feet and distribute them
on people’s laps! You want to get on this bus to <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city> but you have your motorcycle with
you? Don’t worry – we can totally fit it under the bus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBPKz-8CnQ7AQYZwRqv-kh1-Z970EdxZiXjJK4qnGv3WX6j5WNbhxzTWFejfcaeJrAiAaYeE2q5USqi8koH5gph9tBavy0ZvLcBamx3V25ykqWiB8PeyP9LkXsmXz0qoYJ9H2zUOM7u4/s1600/IMG_8979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBPKz-8CnQ7AQYZwRqv-kh1-Z970EdxZiXjJK4qnGv3WX6j5WNbhxzTWFejfcaeJrAiAaYeE2q5USqi8koH5gph9tBavy0ZvLcBamx3V25ykqWiB8PeyP9LkXsmXz0qoYJ9H2zUOM7u4/s1600/IMG_8979.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBMNE2Nh585aBowvF9WDanKKw8MumJxB2658GjgZ-ffqQAaQm578aP7n3YWlo__rD7_E6kAzUd7q-smY7muwRijIyFAKwULoomflPvMQE2iW4jbWxP6z8z1gQvsajNdSacWhTqBS2jGQU/s1600/Boda+Driver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBMNE2Nh585aBowvF9WDanKKw8MumJxB2658GjgZ-ffqQAaQm578aP7n3YWlo__rD7_E6kAzUd7q-smY7muwRijIyFAKwULoomflPvMQE2iW4jbWxP6z8z1gQvsajNdSacWhTqBS2jGQU/s1600/Boda+Driver.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://hoggsinuganda.blogspot.com/2010_03_01_archive.html" style="font-size: x-small;" target="_blank">Source</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dynEADq9XeTxJyhXStjYx3WR7orPq4m87bGNwpx8E6tQgbQI3OEKw-cA1J3ewXRbj8uMl9m9iMAzikzX3XABA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
Once we’re actually on the bus, and all luggage, chickens,
motorcycles, and various foodstuffs have been stowed away, it’s a six-hour ride
with one stop for a bathroom break - if we’re lucky. TVs on the bus are rare,
but there is generally always entertainment, whether it’s a snake-oil salesman
selling deworming medication or a man who hops on the bus for awhile to play a
traditional instrument and sing songs that range from mocking to Amazing Grace.
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKMzr7eFAAVX-_l7CsQvpyKlRrQWXwrZGcNJP6xPAK7Los2mlxVHlGCRXiJcsHbBDPzF8V4RI5L7HaRfhKFXs5tjQrzD84Zs7e9z78E-RpWZgw4R6sgYaymO1hWYj9eqcs7VS52WqYsA/s1600/IMG_9076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKMzr7eFAAVX-_l7CsQvpyKlRrQWXwrZGcNJP6xPAK7Los2mlxVHlGCRXiJcsHbBDPzF8V4RI5L7HaRfhKFXs5tjQrzD84Zs7e9z78E-RpWZgw4R6sgYaymO1hWYj9eqcs7VS52WqYsA/s1600/IMG_9076.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Street signs and posted notices are also a good source of
entertainment during a long day of travel. <i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Obama Washing Bay, Hotel B+, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and <i>Sande’s
Fresh Diary</i> are some of my favorites.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span>And don’t forget the monkeys!<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytfqd7-jg8FmcNa5vPBa49BeLvp-7hyphenhyphenIzSYunCHuMJuKf674QxBkia7wFi8_V_wQ15I4SFC5b8nV33s1nOfLc7ABCmAh52bZKmYdr1W5hEj8l81hJS96VacCiEhR_K1uHRb-pD3OMnqg/s1600/IMG_8959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytfqd7-jg8FmcNa5vPBa49BeLvp-7hyphenhyphenIzSYunCHuMJuKf674QxBkia7wFi8_V_wQ15I4SFC5b8nV33s1nOfLc7ABCmAh52bZKmYdr1W5hEj8l81hJS96VacCiEhR_K1uHRb-pD3OMnqg/s1600/IMG_8959.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>"Please, there is no parking here" - most polite sign ever!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSszU6dT9AzybHQMZg60HxtyA_PCJE1kml9cNkeSwITFe36GDQ0zGaCDlXWjuHd5DGbPYJXuhe7RhF7SGb2BGMYP2BCUvDQCQ68QsVkRep2ZRlOjM8jN360p81cX1pnqCpsy1c1NYhNk/s1600/IMG_9075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSszU6dT9AzybHQMZg60HxtyA_PCJE1kml9cNkeSwITFe36GDQ0zGaCDlXWjuHd5DGbPYJXuhe7RhF7SGb2BGMYP2BCUvDQCQ68QsVkRep2ZRlOjM8jN360p81cX1pnqCpsy1c1NYhNk/s1600/IMG_9075.JPG" height="172" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>No nosy behavior here, no ma'am.</i></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqrXcH1pXhc6-ah3X62WVzED06KD_zlMg0B56xshMNuw3Mb4tJ_LJPBr965Qex1rJC-xHFeIFkS5CJr35wwwIANbzibXDf3V6ZmVb0Gfn1bAIx94xrY_JaETd1RgHnRTNJco268dq3tk/s1600/IMG_8961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqrXcH1pXhc6-ah3X62WVzED06KD_zlMg0B56xshMNuw3Mb4tJ_LJPBr965Qex1rJC-xHFeIFkS5CJr35wwwIANbzibXDf3V6ZmVb0Gfn1bAIx94xrY_JaETd1RgHnRTNJco268dq3tk/s1600/IMG_8961.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
Going home, it’s the same thing all over again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travel is always an adventure here, but also always
exhausting. When we finally arrive home from a hectic trip to the capital and
back, lugging our backpacks and bags of groceries we picked up along the way,
it’s still not quite over. There is one custom left to observe. After a long
time away, or a just a quick run to the banana stand, the always-smiling gatekeeper
at the college never fails to engage us in the Ugandan tradition of greeting in
the local language. Translated into English, it has the faint edge of the
maniacal in it…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: You’ve returned!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: Yes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: You’ve returned well?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: Yes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: You’re back!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: We’re back.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: You’re back?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: Yes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: Did you spend your day well?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: Yes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: How did you spend your day?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: We spent it well.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: Thank you!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: OK, thank you too.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gatekeeper: OK, OK, spend the night well.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Us: Yes, OK, OK.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s long, it’s repetitive, it’s confusing, and it’s
incredibly welcoming and wonderful to come home to. I wouldn’t have it any
other way (most days, at least). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i> Smiling in photos is <u>not</u> a Ugandan custom. He's pretty close though!</i></div>
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<i>“Travel does what good novelists also do to the life of
everyday, placing it like a picture in a frame or a gem in its setting, so that
the intrinsic qualities are made more clear. Travel does this with the very
stuff that everyday life is made of, giving to it the sharp contour and meaning
of art.” – Freya Stark</i></div>
</div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-26814594314879538422014-10-29T05:41:00.000-07:002014-11-02T22:32:36.484-08:00My Language Spelling Bee<div class="MsoNormal">
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In Ugandan primary schools, children are taught in their
local language until Primary 4, where they switch to learning in English. This
“transition year,” as it is known, can be very difficult for pupils. This,
coupled with the fact that being fluent in English is seen as the key to
success in many areas, has led parents and communities to push for all-English
classes at younger and younger ages. However, when classes are taught in
English beginning at Primary 1, many pupils never become literate in their first
language. This is a major detriment because skills in literacy transfer from the first language to the second language only if completely learned. As an ESL teacher, I know that the best predictor of reading proficiency in someone's second language is their level of literacy in their native language. English is important to learn, but it should not come at the expense of a child's native language. In addition to the many social, economic, and cognitive benefits first-language literacy offers, a pupil who is literate in their native language <a href="http://www.p12.nysed.gov/biling/resource/CH02.PDF" target="_blank">takes considerably less time to achieve competency in English</a>. Despite all of this, an initial lack of focus on English can seem counter-intuitive to many people. This has led to a devaluing of indigenous languages in Uganda and an uncertainty about what role, if any, local languages should play in schooling.<br />
<br />
Enter the My Language Spelling Bee
(MLSB). The MLSB is a spelling competition created this year by Peace Corps
Volunteers in partnership with the Ministry of Education and Sports. Pupils
from different regions all over <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>
are competing this month and the next in their local languages – Acholi,
Luganda, Runyankore/Rukiga, Runyoro/Rutooro, and more. The goal of MLSB is to
increase the levels of literacy in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>, promote a love of reading
and writing, and help to preserve indigenous languages. It’s a project
centering around all of the causes that I am most passionate about, and I am so
happy that I was able to be a small part of it in the Runyankore/Rukiga language region.<br />
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The idea of a spelling bee is a new concept here and
introducing it to the community was certainly a challenge, one that earned me
many “crazy muzungu” looks at first. However, after an explanation of the
educational benefits of events such as this one, the strong support of local
community members such as the District Education Officer and the Coordinating
Centre Tutors led to my entire district embracing the idea. Over 150 schools in
my area held school-level spelling bees in September. The winner of each school
spelling bee traveled to their local Coordinating Centres in mid-October to
compete in the district-level competitions. The top five pupils from each
district competition, in addition to 12 pupils from two other districts, went
on to compete in the final regional competition on October 27<sup>th</sup>, one
of the best days of my service.</div>
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39 pupils, their P3 teachers, and a mix of parents and
headteachers from the Southwest of Uganda arrived at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bushenyi</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Core</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Primary</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Teachers’
College</st1:placetype></st1:place> at 10:30 a.m., some from as far as five
hours away. As each pupil registered, they received the homemade registration
bibs that Hannah, Kris, Codie, and I had made assembly-line style the previous
day out of scrap paper, duct tape, and yarn.<br />
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While they were waiting for break
tea, Paul and an amazing P3 teacher from a nearby school organized games,
songs, and icebreakers for the pupils. In no time at all, pupils in uniforms of
all different colors were sharing seats, running to the latrines together, and
gesticulating wildly as they debated the spellings of different words. </div>
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After break tea, the other PCVs and I stepped back and from
there on out, it was entirely Ugandan-run. The Ugandan MC, an amazing man named
Lebon, opened the competition with a prayer and the national anthem and the
principal of the college and the District Education Officer gave heartfelt
speeches in Runyankore. Their amplified voices, however, coupled with the rain that had begun
to fall made many of the pupils' heads sink lower and lower onto their chests.
But soon the rain cleared, and the entrance of the college’s Music Dance
and Drama group made everyone snap back to eager attention. Many of the
audience rose to their feet and began clapping and even dancing along with the
group’s songs, dances, and drumbeats.<br />
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After the Music, Dance, and Drama presentation, the rules
were explained and the pupils divided into two groups for a preliminary round.
The schools, parents, pupils, and judges, a mix of teachers, tutors, and local
language experts, were more excited and involved in the competition than I ever
could have dreamed.<br />
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The children repeated words they were given silently to
themselves, looks of concentration on their faces as they
decided exactly how many <i>a</i>’s were in
the middle of the word <i>okutaaha </i>before starting to spell<i>.</i> The
parents and teachers actually mouthed the letters along with their pupils,
giving satisfied nods and triumphant looks as their child decided that there
were, in fact, two <i>a</i>’s. The judges
smiled as they gestured successful pupils on to the next round and consulted
their word lists and dictionaries seriously and often. I was struck by how much
this could easily resemble a scene at a similar event anywhere around the
world. An hour later, the arrival of the kitchen staff bearing giant pots of
matooke and beans on their heads shattered this illusion somewhat. At the lunch
break, 15 pupils were left to continue on to the final round after eating. And man, could these kids eat!<br />
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The pupils clamored in front of the serving tables for their
favorites, which they so rarely get – matooke, g-nut sauce, rice, beef, "soup",
and soda. Once everyone had consumed plates of food larger than their heads (the
Ugandan appetite is truly remarkable), tables were placed in the middle of the
two tents, the much duct-taped and only rarely on fire sound system was
switched on, and the last 15 competitors, after an impromptu dance party while the judges were preparing. lined up for a
series of much more difficult words.<br />
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Teachers scribbled furiously on their
copies of the word lists as the children tackled words like<i> amashémererwa,</i> <i>omunyongororwa</i>,
and <i>ekiharáàni</i>. <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dywyJSfglvf-A05BCxQ4t_Q4bSn6Jl4x_HAMTFVhZV_ZQksWbqtFqyFF59lfroydn9sViyxClS0e3mgaRg77w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Soon, only two pupils were left and as competitor number 9
correctly spelled the word competitor number 2 had missed, the audience burst
into applause. Gilbert, aka number 9, was swept into the arms of his teacher
and handed over to the MC, who proudly declared him the winner of the first
ever My Language Spelling Bee for Runyankore/Rukiga and therefore the recipient of an
all-expenses paid trip to Kampala, the capital of Uganda, along with his
teacher and parents. <br />
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The competition wrapped up as certificates were awarded, hands were shaken, and books in Runyankore were given to the 1<sup>st</sup>, 2<sup>nd</sup>, and 3<sup>rd</sup> place pupils. As Codie, Paul, and I took down the MLSB banner in front of the now empty tents, we couldn’t stop grinning. We had spent the whole day surrounded by excited and eager children and adults whose enthusiasm for spelling, reading, and writing surpassed anything we’ve ever seen here before. As we headed back to the house for a debriefing and well-deserved relaxation, we reminisced over our favorite moments – children clapping, smiling, and laughing during the traditional songs and dances; a parent confidently quizzing his son while they waited for the competition to begin; a headmaster with a big goofy grin waving his arms in triumph across the tent as his pupil correctly spelled an especially difficult word; a judge gently asking if a competitor understood a word and beaming when he received an affirmative answer; a group of pupils muttering letters under their breath as they watched the final children compete; a teacher making copious notes about every word for next year’s competition. </div>
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It was a day that I will never forget, a day where I began to truly understand that we are just here to plant the seed of literacy in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>’s fertile soil. Her people have asked it and her people will sow it. They are ready, they are capable, and they are remarkable.</div>
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<i>To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is
spelled out is a spark. </i></div>
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<i>—Victor Hugo</i></div>
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Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-14206696367951845082014-10-13T11:57:00.000-07:002014-10-13T11:57:42.585-07:00Surgery in Uganda<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week, I had knee surgery to try to remove the two pins
in my knee that were starting to bother me here in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> – you certainly have to be
much more physically active here on a daily basis than in the States! Hauling water,
traveling with backpacks, walking everywhere, using pit latrines…
Unfortunately, the knee surgery was unsuccessful, through no fault of the doctor’s.
The bone had already closed over the pins, and because of the extensive probing
they had to do, my recovery time was much longer than expected. There still are
some options for my discomfort that the Peace Corps is going to pursue; this
just wasn’t my solution. </div>
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However, my operation did lead me to discover a wonderful
organization in <st1:place w:st="on">Uganda</st1:place>,
CoRSU, the place where I had my surgery. CoRSU stands for Comprehensive Rehabilitation
Services Uganda. It’s a non-profit hospital that uses donations, international funding,
and money from private clients to provide free life-changing orthopaedic
and plastic surgery to children. 80% of physical disability in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region> can be prevented, reduced or
cured, but often the families simply can’t afford it. Children with physical
disabilities and their families face a difficult time here. Ongoing medical
treatments and accommodations for disabilities can only be a part of it – in some
(but definitely not all) communities, physical deformity can still be seen as
the fault of the parents or the result of witchcraft, which can result in
rejection of the child and family by relatives and friends. </div>
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While I was at CoRSU, I saw children with all kinds of conditions - clubfeet, cleft lips, limb deformities, tumors, burns, and something I learned was called post injection paralysis. Seeing what so many of them faced certainly put my own issues into perspective.The operations that
CoRSU provides truly change these children’s lives in almost every possible
way. While my surgery wasn’t successful, at least I know that the money that
was paid for it went to an amazing cause.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGZ5-tmXX3nQd0o_IDC5WXGU1naKiR07oeezBpekGOWAvqAFqybs_7kcBUiJuuzo7zsewkHuUYFby49pUKhWKAdyYfGhz8GprS2gTu2xhQW3BcdN-uCaF_-Dkcb-rRldVmx643DQ3Qes/s1600/CoRSU+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGZ5-tmXX3nQd0o_IDC5WXGU1naKiR07oeezBpekGOWAvqAFqybs_7kcBUiJuuzo7zsewkHuUYFby49pUKhWKAdyYfGhz8GprS2gTu2xhQW3BcdN-uCaF_-Dkcb-rRldVmx643DQ3Qes/s1600/CoRSU+1.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://corsu-uganda.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sources</span></a></div>
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On the sillier positive side, using Kris as my human crutch
allowed me to show him physical affection in public! PDA is a big no-no here,
even for married couples. Last week, I saw a sign from a major newspaper on the
way out of <st1:place w:st="on">Kampala</st1:place>
that read “Government warns against kissing in public.” Check – we’ve been duly
warned. The sight of me limping down the street while Kris supported me also
garnered many, “Sorry, sorry,” comments from almost every Ugandan I passed and
a lot of sympathetic inquiries into my health. It was an interesting difference from
the U.S., where I feel that in many cases it would be rude to even show you had
noticed. There is certainly something to be said for living in such a communal
country as Uganda; the support from friends and strangers, phone calls asking after my health, and
offers to make cow’s leg soup have truly been touching – if also sometimes a
little unappetizing. </div>
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And, on the cool side, I got to remove my own stitches! With
Kris’s steady hand on our wind-up flashlight and a variety of tools sterilized
with supplies from our Peace Corps medkits, I snipped, sawed, and pulled out
the three blue stitches. It’s the small triumphs that keep you going!</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Before...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Our assortment of tools.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
...and after!</div>
</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>“Always seek out the seed of triumph in every adversity.”</i></div>
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<i>- Og Mandino</i></div>
</div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-11386635844275388802014-09-24T08:12:00.001-07:002014-09-28T07:20:14.445-07:00Andrea Visits Africa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It has been a long time since my last post, and Andrea coming to visit us in Uganda happened an even longer time ago! So long, in fact, that when I sit at our living room table (our only piece of furniture in the living room), it seems surreal that at one point she was sitting across from me at that same table, helping me make instructional materials by candlelight.<br />
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Unfortunately, electricity has been a scarce commodity recently, and Internet even scarcer, making posting next to impossible. While I have managed to upload quite a few photos, I can't actually see what all of them are. I have faith in you though, dear readers, that you will be able to still grasp what is happening in some of the pictures without the usual captions.<br />
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Having Andrea here was amazing, and she got to experience what life is like in Uganda both as a PCV (hard but an adventure) and as a tourist (also hard but an adventure - with hot showers!). We had a great time working with the pupils at my school and on the implementation of a Positive Behavior System as a replacement for corporal punishment. Andrea helped me set up games from a Base Pack, a backpack full of
sports equipment provided by the Kings Volunteer Foundation, for the
first time as a new reward for my pupils' good behavior. Everyone was so excited that she was there! Walking to the staff room during break was like being in a zombie movie as literally hundreds of pupils froze in their tracks to watch Andrea pass by, only moving so that they could always keep her in sight. And while the teachers didn't stare when we reached the staff room, some of them did propose marriage - which Andrea gracefully declined despite her long twenty-minute history with one of the male teachers.<br />
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Next, we set off to Murchison Falls on what was just one of the many long bus rides of the two weeks - while public transportation is an experience all to itself here, you certainly will never have any personal space to yourself. We went on an amazing safari which included a boat cruise on the Nile and white rhino-tracking, and then headed down to Rwanda, a beautiful country where we encountered some of the most resilient people I have ever met. On Andrea's last night there, we had a swoon-worthy meal - at least to my Ugandan tastebuds - overlooking the capital at the aptly-named Heaven.<br />
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Views so good even the driver was taking a picture!</div>
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These guys were serious about their photos.</div>
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Even though I had seen them in zoos before, I don't think I ever really realized just how tall giraffes are. Look at that one on the right tower over the car ahead of us!</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
This employee had an amazing story - after both his parents were killed
during the genocide, he started playing the guitar after a visiting
American left one at his orphanage. He is still pursuing his musical
passion today, working hard and playing whenever he can.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
We found a drink - or "medicine," apparently - that Kris likes!</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Saying goodbye at the airport was incredibly hard. As Kris and I watched
Andrea pass through airport security, I couldn't help myself and began
to cry. Public tears are unheard of here, so as a weeping white woman I
was even more of a spectacle than usual. A soldier with a rifle slung
over his shoulder clasped his hands and bowed to me as he went by,
whispering, "Sorry, sorry!" The guilt from the fact that he probably
thought I had just heard horrible news about my entire family, when in
fact I'm crying because my friend is on a flight back to America, did a
lot to cure my tears. At least until I got home.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="st"><i>Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure</i>.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="st"> </span><span class="st"><i></i> <i>-Albus Dumbledore</i></span></div>
</div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-38132073057183662812014-08-15T08:11:00.001-07:002014-08-15T08:11:40.360-07:00Maude's Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Maude showed up at our door that Sunday to take us to her
home, her brother beside her on a bicycle, bearing a bunch of green bananas and
a bright blue basin full of jackfruit and avocados. She was there to bring us
to her home and show us her new business, an apiary she started two years ago. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walked along the road towards her village, Kris carrying
the empty basin she had brought us food in. We passed by two women digging in
the fields, just back from church in their best kitenge. Maude went to greet
them and came back with the basin, now full of Ugandan sweet potatoes, balanced
on her head. Laughing at Kris’s offer to keep carrying the basin, his ability
to carry it while full of potatoes clearly hilarious, Maude led us onward,
branching at a dirt path leading deeper into the hills. While we walked, Maude
asked us what Americans know about Uganda, and I struggled to find a way to
tell her that the only things most Americans associate with Uganda are Idi Amin,
AIDS, and the nickname of the Pearl of Africa…if that. </div>
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As we paused on top of one of the lush green hills, a small
girl approached us. Maude explained that Shivan was actually her niece, but Maude
has been taking care of her since her mother died. She handed over the
apparently too-heavy-for-Kris basin full of potatoes to the eight-year-old with
instructions to run ahead and begin the preparation for lunch. As Shivan
balanced the basin on her head and nimbly moved ahead, Kris and I took a moment
to exchange a glance and a laugh at Ugandans’ constant low estimation of our
physical abilities. </div>
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We stopped one more time as Maude pointed out her village.
It is small, with perhaps a couple dozen homes scattered across the rolling
land and a one-building trading center where the villagers can buy soap and
other necessities. As we climbed the last hill to Maude’s house, we paused at
the top and she pointed out the lines of the property her family has held for
generations, spreading out over banana plantations and sprawling fields. </div>
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We entered Maude’s compound, a cleanly swept dirt area consisting
of three different buildings. The first contains a sitting room and several
bedrooms, while the second contains a storage room and more bedrooms for the
variety of children that live there, beds piled high with foam mattresses and
the ubiquitous Ugandan blankets. The last is a kitchen separated into a cooking
area and an eating area with a dirt floor covered in grass. Maude pointed out
the nesting chickens in the corners of the kitchen; this is where they lay
their eggs when they are ready. She then brought us around the corner and
showed us the neighboring mud and wood constructions housing hundreds of goats
and chickens.</div>
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After the tour, Maude introduced us to her aging mother,
various nieces and nephews, and her grandnephew. Kris and I settled into two
wooden chairs brought outside for us, playing peek-a-boo with the grandnephew. We
were presented with about a dozen bananas and told that we were expected to
finish them while Maude bustled around, preparing for lunch, slaughtering a
chicken, shooing the dog out of the kitchen, and instructing her nieces. Once
she was satisfied that the meal she had begun over the open wood fires in her
kitchen could be continued by her family without her direct supervision, she
took us to see her apiary.</div>
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Maude began her apiary as an income-generating activity two
years ago with only the help of a local boy whom she is able to pay, as she
says, “not nearly enough.” With almost no knowledge of beekeeping, she managed
to produce almost 100 liters of honey in her first year using traditional
methods such as hand-held smokers and hive baskets she wove herself. She admitted
to us that she is still learning as she goes; her first year, she threw away
all of the empty comb, having no idea she could sell it at a profit to candle
makers. This year, she is expanding her twenty hives to fifty and building more
modern, “but still not very modern”, frame hives made of timber, nails, and
screening. </div>
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As we inspected the woven hives plastered in clay and
covered with aluminum sheeting, it began to rain. Maude brought us back to the
kitchen to check on lunch and we were promptly ousted by her mother, who was
outraged at the idea of making visitors eat in the kitchen. Maude showed us to
the sitting room and Shivan brought the three of us our lunch of matooke,
boiled sweet potatoes, and the freshly-slaughtered chicken with a Ugandan
sauce. When we finished, we relaxed with some homemade lemongrass tea and, of
course, honey, listening to the sound of the rain beating down on the tin roof.</div>
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Maude excused herself for a moment and returned with a pile
of yellowed photographs wrapped in a fading campaign poster. She carefully
spread them out on her lap and began to tell us about her life.</div>
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Maude was born the youngest of ten children. Her parents
were farmers, as their parents before them and their parents before them. As
the youngest, however, Maude had more opportunity as her older siblings grew up
and also began to earn money. She graduated secondary school and went to
business school in <st1:place w:st="on">Kampala</st1:place>,
the capital city. Her life early on, as she put it while showing us a picture
of her in a Banyankore-style gown, was easy. “I could have chicken and fish
whenever I wanted!” she remarked, laughing and patting her now much-smaller
stomach. </div>
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She stayed in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>
for 19 years, working various office jobs. However, during her time there,
tragedy began to strike her family. Maude explained that her father had been a
polygamist who died during her time in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>,
leaving behind three different families in as many villages. She then pulled
out a photograph of a solemn-looking man, her brother, explaining that he had
been killed during a robbery. Two more of her siblings, a carpenter relaxing
casually on a newly-made cabinet, his leg thrown over the side, and a beautiful
woman laughing happily atop a truck, passed away in the following years. At
that time in her life, Maude began to receive phone calls from her surviving
brothers and sisters, exhorting her to return to the farm to take care of the
plantation and their mother, only in her fifties but crippled by diabetes.
Maude told us that she resisted at first – give up her office life in the
capital she had worked so long for to move back to the village? </div>
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Maude then pulled out a picture of her and one of her
sisters sitting on a hospital bed. Between them was a woman, leaning forward
towards the camera, clearly suffering but surrounded by love. Maude told us
that was her first sister to die of AIDS. Years later, AIDS took another,
leaving her family of ten children with only five. The sisters left behind
children of their own which their mother took in. However, their mother was
having trouble supporting the orphans, and Maude finally decided to give up her
life in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>
and return home to the village.</div>
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Maude took charge of the farm, raising the hundreds of
chickens and goats and several dairy cattle along with taking care of the
banana plantation. Still unwed, which is unheard of here in Uganda, she is
looking after the children her siblings left behind as if they were her own,
paying for their school fees and proudly boasting to us about the ones first in
their classes. Her mother is relieved to have her home, but, now in her
sixties, is losing her battle with diabetes and has sunk into a depression
after the decimation of half the family. Maude is ever-optimistic, however, and plans on continuing to expand
the apiary and using the income to relieve some of the hardships poverty has forced upon her family. She is confident that her lack of beekeeping experience will not hold her back; she will leverage the business education she gained in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city> along with the knowledge and
traditions that she has learned in the village to make it work.</div>
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“I have suffered,” Maude told us, “but I am bold.”</div>
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A sample batch Maude brought out for us.</div>
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She wraps the netting around a pot to allow the honey to drain out of the combs.You can also see the smoker she uses on the bees.</div>
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Giving us a taste of honeycomb! Apparently you are not supposed to swallow the comb itself...whoops.</div>
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Maude's hopeful expression was rewarded after Kris declared it the best honey he's ever tasted!</div>
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One of the traditional hives that Maude made herself, woven from papyrus reeds and covered in mud. The aluminum siding is used the cover the hive during rain and keep it warm.</div>
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This hive has been plastered with mud to close it in preparation for the bee's honey production.</div>
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The more traditional frame hives Maude has started to build.</div>
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Bees starting their hive!</div>
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She drills holes in the back to allow the bees to fly in and out.</div>
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Matching hats!</div>
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All of the food that Maude left us with, including a long piece of sugarcane. Which you are also not supposed to swallow.</div>
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As we were leaving, Maude was pouring her last gift for us; a jar of her very own honey. As she presented it to us, letting the light filter through the now-golden jar, she proudly said, “One day, you will see this on a supermarket shelf in <st1:city w:st="on">Kampala</st1:city>.” Then she slipped back into her mismatched, mud-covered sandals, ducked under the dripping clothes hanging out to dry, and took the bag of sweet potatoes from my hands to guide us home, her mother’s chiding voice floating in the air behind her, reminding her to always carry a guest’s things.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>When we focus on ourselves, our world contracts as our
problems and preoccupations loom large. But when we focus on others, our world
expands. Our own problems drift to the periphery of the mind and so seem
smaller, and we increase our capacity for connection – or compassionate action.</i></div>
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<i>-Daniel Goleman</i></div>
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<br />Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-2610895996787195682014-08-07T05:03:00.000-07:002014-08-11T05:20:56.894-07:00Mailtime!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Almost every Saturday, Kris and I wake up, fry up some eggs and toast, and then make the 45-minute trek to the nearest post office. It’s actually a really nice walk with beautiful views, and it passes by a place I suspect is a vineyard. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet gotten up the courage to follow through on my plan of climbing the mountain it’s on, knocking on the door, asking if they are actually a vineyard, and then gracefully accepting a few free bottles of wine.</div>
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After my weekly longing glance at Wine Mountain, we reach
the post office and are enthusiastically greeted by the post master who we
forever ingratiated ourselves with by speaking to him in hesitant, stumbling
Runyankore when we first met him. He ducks into the back of the two-room
building and, on the best days, comes out looking like a Ugandan Santa Claus,
his arms full of letters and packages and his face beaming. We stuff our loot
into Kris’s backpack, pay the delivery fees, and race back home where we allow
ourselves to open one letter or package upon arrival. We then try to space out
the opening of any other mail we’ve received for the rest of the day. Sometimes
we even save a letter for the upcoming week when we know that one or both of us
has a potentially rough or stressful day coming up. Mail from home is, without
a doubt, one of the best outlets we have here.</div>
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Life is a new kind of stressful as Peace Corps Volunteers,
and we have to find new ways to deal with it. A lot of outlets come from within
– exercise, meditation, yoga, creative cooking, crafting, journaling,
decorating. This inner dependence is not initially by choice; with unreliable electricity
(I’ve discovered that I have the magical ability to make the house go dark by
shaving my legs), limited grocery options, and expensive airtime, a lot of
these are our only options for free-time activities. But those limited choices
are actually one of the amazing things about being a PCV. You are pushed to
reflect, rely upon yourself, and grow in a way that you have never been able to
before.</div>
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However, there is only so much meditation and
friendship-bracelet making you can do before you go insane. Luckily, we have
incredible friends and family who have helped us to keep going, day after day,
with our new-found appreciation of the lost art of mail. There is just nothing
like a long, handwritten letter, the crack of the tape on a package as you tear
into it, or the feeling of pulling one over on the postal system by stuffing as
many things as possible into an envelope without having to add any more stamps.</div>
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This blog is a thank you for that appreciation, that outlet,
that sanity. A thank you to not just those mentioned in this blog but to everyone out there who has brightened our day,
helped us continue our work, and made us feel like we are still a part of their
lives with a letter, a package, a card, a donation, an email, a Facebook
message, a comment, or even a 12-year-old scotch. <i>Webare munonga, banwanyi
baitu.</i></div>
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Care packages galore! Ben, Laurel, Mom, Amanda, Grandma, Aunt Susie, Becky - you guys know how to pack a box! </div>
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Letters, cards, and assorted goodies from home - including several from Nita, our most avid pen pal.</div>
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Pen, paper, and a wine cork, and Andrea made one of the most inspiring and treasured possessions we have.</div>
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A letter from Steve and Amanda doubling as both wall decoration and crazy awesome emotional support.</div>
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Unk Ritchie - making us laugh, think, and appreciate, all at the same time.</div>
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Every time I look at this, it makes me smile.</div>
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One of the best presents I've ever gotten, Shawn - really.</div>
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My pupils are reaping the benefits of our care packages too!</div>
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Although it is leading to the perpetuation of some American stereotypes...</div>
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Marilyn, Amanda, and Mom - they absolutely love the books you sent! My library is more flooded with excited readers than ever.</div>
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<i>"Happiness is only real when shared." - Christopher McCandless</i></div>
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A coworker’s
brother killed in a car crash. A friend’s family member dead from a snake bite. A counterpart’s baby who was stillborn. A pupil’s parents taken by AIDS. My headteacher’s child dying in a traffic accident. And
just this past week, eight primary school pupils killed instantly by a
lightning strike that hit a classroom in a nearby school. </div>
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In Uganda, everyone goes to burials - families, villages, districts. They leave schools, shops, fields, vegetable stands and sewing machines. And they return the next day. </div>
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Death is different here. It’s everywhere, and it's more a part of life than I have ever seen. </div>
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Pupils
still attend class and work for a future, a better future, any future. They play
football and netball and a game with bricks they invented. They clean and dig
and serve their extended families, many of their parents long gone. Teachers
wake up early, harvest their subsistence gardens, tell jokes in the staff room,
give chalkboard exams, make dinner from maize flour and beans by the light of
small solar lamps. Men doze off on benches by storefronts, women shade
themselves and their produce from the beating sun by the roadside, children
ride on bicycles far too big for them, balancing jerry cans full of water or
huge bunches of bananas on the back. Coffin makers sand and smooth in front of their outdoor
displays, sunlight glinting off the windows on the caskets. A boda driver coasts
silently down a large hill, conserving gas, a new coffin strapped precariously
to the back of his motorcycle, and children race by him to school, barefoot and
laughing. </div>
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Death is different here. Life is too.</div>
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<i>Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when
you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be
wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when
you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon
enough.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>― William Saroyan</i></div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4053575097910182526.post-67813807664342013242014-07-06T04:23:00.000-07:002014-07-06T04:23:17.333-07:00Confessions of a Language GeekAfter our month and a half of Peace Corps language training, a time I also refer to as heaven, Kris and I continued to study Runyankore on our own while searching for a tutor to help us. This is a more difficult task than you might imagine because simply knowing the language does not necessarily mean that person can explain it to us. For example, you might know that the sentence, “He got on the car,” is wrong but "He got on the bus" is right, yet you would probably be hard put to say why or give a concrete rule that would help your student.<br />
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Finally, after months of self-study and well-meaning tips from our Runyankore-speaking neighbors and friends (“Don’t ask ‘What?’ so quickly! Look where I pointed! At my nose! I said I have the flu! Now repeat."), we have finally found a tutor! As the first agglutinative language I have studied, advancing in Runyankore has been pretty fun.<br />
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Words can be incredibly long; for example, the three-word sentence <i>Tindamuhandiikiire nkamugambira bugambizi</i> means <i>I didn't write to him, I just told him. </i>Some of the words are also fascinating, and looking through my Runyankore/English dictionary has become a favorite pastime of mine during those long lunch hours where I can grasp about 1 out of 25 words of the staff-room conversations.<br />
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Like in many languages, a lot of the words in Runyankore relate deeply to its culture and illustrate aspects of its history and daily life of its people.<br />
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Cattle, for instance, are extremely important and valued - hence the 50-odd specific words to describe their markings, horns, and patches.</div>
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<i>emishubyo: </i>n. milk of a second milking</div>
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<i>emishura-ibiba: </i>n. night jars</div>
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For those of you wondering, night jars are what you use when you have a pit latrine and don't want to venture outside during the night.</div>
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<i>enkundwakazi: </i>n. favourite wife</div>
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<i>ekikondooro: </i> n. lap opened for grain; piece of cloth overhanging the belt</div>
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Family relationships are also extremely important, and you must be extremely specific about how someone is related to you. Kris uses a different word for his brother than I do for my brother because he is a man and I am a woman. When I say <i>banyaanya, </i>for example, it means brothers, but when Kris says it, it means sisters. Irritating or fascinating? All depends on my mood.</div>
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Other words are slightly more mystifying to me and my American background…<br />
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<i>omushuuzi:</i> n. visitor of lonely people; one who checks on a trap</div>
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Now is this an either/or or both situation in terms of the definitions? Maybe these people are so lonely because their friends are fed up with all the traps they've been setting.</div>
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<i>kusinda: </i>v. be drunk; not say one's husband's name; sigh with pain, roar</div>
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Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.</div>
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<i>kujwarirana: </i>v. hide inside one's clothes</div>
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<i>kugongyera:</i> v. whimper; low; moan when dying; moan when drunk</div>
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I think we actually could have used this word in college...</div>
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And some are downright incomprehensible.<br />
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<i>obumeeza:</i> n. occasional tables</div>
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Huh.</div>
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And then, of course, there are some that just make me giggle.<br />
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<i>enkooko:</i> n. bogeys</div>
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Heheh. Bogeys.</div>
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Interestingly enough, <i>enkoko</i> with one <i>o</i> and a slightly different tone actually means chicken. This leads to unfortunate sentences such as, "I was thinking about buying some bogeys."</div>
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One of my favorites though, is this one:<br />
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<i>okutongoza: </i>v. to walk slowly, especially when one is in his happy moments</div>
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On my walks home from school, listening to the wind rustle through the drying leaves of the banana trees, I think about this word and take some time to enjoy the beauty and culture that surrounds me here.</div>
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<i>"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything." - Steven Wright</i></div>
Heidihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261657243708570102noreply@blogger.com0