First Time Flyers

I think I just had one of the funniest conversations since being in Uganda. We had all gathered at our supervisor’s house to have a farewell party for a volunteer, Richard, who was going back to his home in Cameroon. We were sitting on Ketty’s porch, all huddled together to hide from the rain, eating mangos (and when I say eating, I mean people were hoarding them in their mouths—people go nuts during mango season) and drinking soda while reliving some of our good times with Richard. At some point, we got on the topic of Richard flying back to Cameroon and one of my workmates, Denis, began talking about his first experience flying. Even when he was speaking Acoli and did not translate, it was HYSTERICAL through his reenactment.

Denis first began with describing the take off, saying he felt his insides rise up with the rest of the plane and thought they were going to continue up out of his mouth once the plane leveled. I can’t really describe how funny it was because he was speaking Acoli and it was mostly in his facial expressions and body language that displayed the hilarity. Again still in Acoli, he switched to a different topic as he held his arms out sideways to imitate the wings of the airplane, and began shaking them furiously with a very troubled look on his face. He then translated in English saying, “They announced that there would be some turbulence and hopefully we would arrive safely”, and again held his arms out sideways (not fully extended, more like a T-rex) and started shaking them and wobbling side to side. He repeated this a few more times and we all laughed for about five minutes straight with this description.  “You know, when I first entered the plane, I wanted to sit by myself-I did not want to share. One side was one seat and the other had two, so I chose the one seat. But when the plane started shaking and I saw other people together, me I felt all alone. I wanted to be there with someone” and started cuddling up to Santos who was then sitting next to him. “And you know, the problem was the wing of the airplane was outside my window. So, I could see it shaking furiously,” and again Denis wipped out the flailing T-rex arms. “So me, I said, ‘Eh!’” and had a terrified, confused look on his face. Again, this was repeated multiple times and the amusement did not cease. “Then, I began to hear noises coming from the plane. ‘Weeeeeee!!!!! Ssssssssssss-Weeeeeeeeee!!!!” as he once again busted out the T-rex arms with the sincerest look of confusion on his face. “Me, I was not alone. The others on the plane were there too, not knowing what to do,” and he continued his worried, unknowing look bouncing around the plane desperately seeking safety. “And you know, the people, none of us knew what was happening. They started yelling at me, ‘Eh, you! Open the door! Open!’” to which Denis sneered back, “Me, who am I? I am one of you, I do not know!” To this, our supervisor Ketty, who has traveled to Italy many times, could not stop laughing. She said, “Eh!! You cannot open the door, you would not know how! And one cannot open it in the air! Isn’t it?” and she looked at me for confirmation. I could only shake my head, yes, as I was choking from laughing so hard. “Even before we started,” Dennis continued, “when we were waiting, me I’m seeing this liquid spilling from the wing. As I see it, I’m thinking to myself, eh, that is fuel. We are all going to blow up. And I’m just waiting.” LOL. Then Denis said, “Even at the airport. When I first arrived, they took my bag, eh. So me, I’m waiting and I thought I would take my bag. But then, I see they put my bag and psh! It went!” referring to the conveyor belts that carry the bags. “So me, I’m waiting, not knowing where my bag has gone. Even when I am getting on the plane and seeing them unload, I wait. Everyone else enters the plane but I wait outside to see. And me, I’m wondering. When I get to Kitgum, how will my bag be there?” Again, this whole conversation was repeated and elaborated for about five minutes and the whole of us could not stop laughing.

Once the hilarity died down a bit, and we were able to speak without laughter interrupting, Denis said, “Eh, but you know: we were ignorant to flying. We did not know. When it is your first time, you just do not know.” To this, Richard started sharing some of his experiences flying with first timers. “You know, one time we were going to the airport with a friend who had never flown. We came to the doors, you know, that open without you touching them?” To which Ketty and I immediately started laughing at as we knew what he was about to say. “Well, he was seeing the doors open on their own as people approached. So, when he approached,” and he started hesitating moving forward and backward imitating his friend not knowing how to proceed through the doors. “He would start and then the door opened and he would stop,” all the while everyone laughing. He repeated this a few times and Denis chimed in, “Eh, twas like he was timing it—eh?!” as he imitated the man like a girl timing when to jump into a double dutch.

It all was absolutely hilarious and I do not think I am doing it justice in my description here. The way Denis was acting out the event, dude—too fregging funny. Ketty concluded the stories by saying, “Eh, but when you have never done, you do not know. How can you know?” I never thought about it like that, but man—that would be pretty terrifying. 

Ever had your palm scratched by a man’s finger?

 --Didn’t think so.

The infamous “finger scratch,” as we, or I, like to call it here in Uganda, is the discreet but direct way that a man lets you know he wants you. We were warned about it during our training and I briefly remember it in Kenya but had never really experienced it. But then I did, and my confusion with men only continued to grow.

It all started one day when I went with my workmates for a routine home visit. We were headed to the local prison to see our clients and I was following the footsteps of my mama workmate as I was unsure how to be in such an environment like a male prison. She began to greet and shake the hands and I therefore followed suit. Unexpectedly, of course, the first hand I shook gave me a violating scratch on my palm with his finger. When I tried to immediately pull away, he refused and held on tight as he gave me his eyes. I didn’t know how to react given the circumstances, and therefore I just turned my head and yanked my hand away. The remainder of the meeting was tainted and I could not focus on what was being done or said, in addition to the talk being conducted in Acoli, and I just sat uncomfortably as my nails cut into my palms from my fist clenching so tightly. It was weird how much that little finger-gesture physically disturbed me, but boy—it sure did. I could feel that scratch hours afterward and all I wanted to do was wash my hands with bleach. I tried talking to my male workmates about it but that quickly proved to be pointless. Although one was trying to understand it from my view, the other simply laughed and said, “Eh, that is not a challenge.” Bi—if only I were in America.

It again happened about a month later, when I was walking back to work from lunch. I saw a guy walking toward my path and slowed his pace to meet mine. He greeted me and seemed nice enough and I greeted back and took his extended hand to shake. Then all the sudden, he too gave me the finger scratch and clenched my hand tightly. I was immediately pissed off, and said, “No” very sternly and yanked my hand away as we passed a group of people. I put distance between us and the guy became very sorry and kept saying, “No its ok, its ok, what’s wrong?” Again, I wasn’t sure what the appropriate response was given I stand out like a sore thumb in this environment and also being that I am a female. I just kept quiet and continued walking as he tried to make small talk with me. Turns out this turd was 17 years old. Seventeen years old and he was already thinking he could do whatever he wanted to any woman walking on the road. And again, I was physically disturbed and emotionally ready to punch his face off. Of course, he followed me all the way to work asking me pointless questions and then I was finally free. This time around, I decided to consult my female workmates about this disgusting and persistent finger scratch, and the difference between men and women is clearly illustrated below:

Ugandan female 1: “Eh, me, Jose. When they scratch my hand, me, I slap. ‘PAH!’ Like that,” waving the back of her hand in the air, laughing at her behavior.

Me- “Yes! So it bothers you too?”

Ugandan female 1: “Me, I don’t like. I don’t have time for nonsense. Ever since I was young, I have been fighting them. Eh, I SLAP them. ‘PAH! PAH!’”

Ugandan male 1: Laughing, “Eh, Jose. Why do you get upset? It is just the nature of greeting you.”

Me- “No its not! Would you greet me like that?!”

Ugandan male 1- laughs only.

Ugandan female 1- “Yes, would you greet her like that? No. Jose, has anyone from the office greeted you like that? No. Because tis bad.”

Ugandan mama: The smile stops and her face becomes hard. “When men try that with me, I slap. ‘PAH!’ I just slap, ‘PAH!’ One time, I greeted a teacher we were working with, and he pet my arm up and down and I just went, ‘PAH!’, I slapped him. And then another time, a police officer did the same, and I went, ‘PAH!!’, I slapped him in front of everybody. I don’t care. They don’t need to be touching me. It is not ok.” All of this said with the meanest, serious looking face ever from a mama. “When they do that to you, Jose, you say, ‘Why do you do that? What for? What are you trying to do?’ You don’t let them do that. You cannot slap them but you question them in front of others to embarrass them, they know they should not be doing that to you.”

Ugandan men- Silent.

Me to last female workmate- “What do you do?”

Ugandan female 2- “Me? I slap,” said so matter-of-factly and obvious.

It hasn’t happened since and therefore I haven’t been tempted to pop one of these fools in their face. It does of course illuminate and prove just how amazing women here are and how strong they have to be on a daily basis to put up will bullish like that.  

Living my dream in Uganda

My Manager Mikael and I have been meeting with a local school to start our softball team here in Kitgum. We luckily were able to get the school that has a lot of OVC that my org sponsors, so I get to keep it all in the family. The first few meetings with just coaches was me trying to explain softball, the love of my life that is second nature to me, to individuals who had never heard of the game before. Every time I said things like, “field the ball,” “grounder,” or “pitch,” Mikael had to remind me that no one knew what the heck I was talking about. It was like teaching them a new language that I had been speaking my whole life and it was really, really hard. Afterwards, I sat down for about an hour and wrote out definitions to things like “out,” “safe,” “basehit,” and “strike”. And even then, Mikael had to read through my definitions and say, “Ok, but what does that mean?” Mikael was able to find a good youtube video that broke down the game pretty nicely, and after about 15 minutes of watching it buffer, we were able to show it to the bored Ugandan coaches. By the look on the female coach’s face, I though I had completely lost them both. But then the male started asking questions and I could see they were both picking it quite nicely.

Mikael and I then met with the male coach for a small demonstration with a bat and a tennis ball. I was super nervous because all the kids were at lunch and therefore watching our every move. And as they saw us with the tennis ball and bat, aka novel toys, in our hands, they all slowly started gravitating toward us in the field with their eyes on the prize. It took all of 30 seconds for the small field we had laid out to be surrounded by the entire school. The male coach went first and whiffed big time, causing a huge burst of laughter from the kids. After a few swings he made contact and ran the bases according to the rules I’d showed him. We all took our turn, Mikael of course popping a homerun out of no where, and the kids quickly found their spots in the infield and outfield and got in line in hopes of taking a cut. And as soon as the bat hit the ground and out of our hands—bam. The demonstration was over and the game was on. Although they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do, they all had a great time taking some swings and running after the ball. And dude, my Acoli friend was right—these kids can throw. Back at the camps, he told me, “You go and start a team in Kitgum, I am telling you: you will find players there. They know how to throw spears and they are strong. You look there and you will find players.” Dude was on point.

I had to take a break from working with the coaches as we traveled to different districts, but I was very happy with the quick progress made by my coaches and more importantly their enthusiasm to learn more and start teaching kids. After the demonstration, the guy told me, “Eh, I like it. This game is easy.” Oh, just you wait, dude. Just you wait.

This past week, we visited two different softball schools to help train them in the sport. The first spot was Soroti in eastern Uganda, which is absolutely beautiful. I was able to see one of my favorite girls from the camp, Judith, and thoroughly enjoyed watching her light up as she taught the other girls what she had learned from us. The second school was in Lira, which is in the northern region of Uganda. The team is very new and still learning the game, but the coaches had attended the camp earlier this year and have done an amazing job in just a few short months. We had about 20-40 girls there and I know I’ve said this before, but really—I could not have asked for a more coachable group of girls. And my catchers. Dude. I have this young girl, Kevin (ya, I don’t know but here that is a female name), who is the tinniest little thing but can buck up and throw down. Literally. We were working on footwork to second, and she was acting all shy during the breakdown and drills but showed all the older girls up when we threw the ball. And with blocking. I can’t believe how they just do it. I say drop like this and they just drop like this. I even had a girl blocking in a skirt—that’s how awesome these girls are. My favorite though was Becky, who stood out as a leader and took every chance she could to direct her team. I had to leave the last practice a couple hours early, and when I said bye to Becky, she put her arm over her eyes and wouldn’t let go of my hand. She started getting tears in her eyes and I hugged her and promised I was coming back but she was not having it. It was the cutest, most flattering thing ever and I am so thankful for it because it reminded me that I am actually doing something here and my time away from my family is worth it. Also, I’m definitely gunna get me some catchers out of these two years and I can’t wait.

So, I thank the universe every day that I was blessed with softball here in Uganda. Without it, I don’t know what I would do. Probably, nothing-lol.

Conversation that make up my life (Part One)

1. Workmate: “Jose, why do you walk like this” and begins to march like a solider.

Me: “What do you mean?”

Workmate: “You walk like this” and begins to walk fast while lifting his feet high.

Me: “Oh, you mean because I pick my feet up when I walk?”

Workmate: “Yes.”

Me: **speechless** “Uh…I like to get where I’m going fast.”

Workmate: “Eh, you need to walk like us” and begins to slouch, while dragging his feet slowly in the dirt. “That is why you cannot walk far like us.”

Me: “Oh.”

2. Workmate 1: “Jose, I was at the club and I saw a group of munu and thought I would see you but you were not there.”

Workmate 2: “How could you tell if it was Jose in a group of munu? They all look the same.”

Me: **lol**

Workmate 1: “Eh, Jose is different, she is fat. All the others are tiny.”

Me: ……

3. Workmate: “Jose, can it fit you?” referring to a shirt.

Me: “Yes?”

Workmate: “Eh, you are big, hehehe.”

Me: ……

4. Random, drunk stranger: “I need to take you home with me. I need you to be my fifth wife, because I have none like you.

Me: “Uh, no. I can’t.”

Random, drunk stranger: “Why not?”

Me: “…I have to work.”

Random, drunk stranger: “You come after.”

Me: “..No…”

Random, drunk stranger: **Blank stare**

Me: “Sorry”

Random, drunk stranger: **clearly not comprehending the denial**

5. **Me entering the room after walking 45 min in the afternoon heat**

Workmate: “Eh, Jose. The sun really disturbs you.”

Me: “Yes, I am not white anymore, now I am red.”

**laughter from the boys**

Workmate 2: “Eh, no. You are violet. You are dark blue, like me.”

Workmate 3: “Jose, did you say you were red? AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA”

Me: “Haha…”

6. Workmate: “Eh, Jose. I like your computer. It’s a mac? I have to get one.”

Me: “Well, if you can buy it I can bring it back for you when I go home.”

Workmate: “Eh, no. I’ll just buy yours from you and you will buy a new one.”

Me: “Uh-I’m not buying a new one.”

Workmate: “Why not?”

Me: “Because I have that one and I can’t afford a new one.”

Workmate: “Eh Jose, be serious. You can afford.”

Me: “No, I don’t. I live here and I work for free, I don’t have money.”

Workmate: “No, Jose. You are funny.”

Me: “Ok.”

7. **Discussing the good and bad of American and Uganda**

Player: “Well America has all the devil worshipers!!”

Me: “…What?”

Player: “Yes, tis true. You have the most devil worshipers in the world.”

Me: “I don’t think so, I have never met a devil worshiper? America is very Christian like Uganda. Where did you hear that?”

Player: “No its true! I researched it!!”

Me: “Where did you research it?”

Player: “Google.”

Me: “Oooh. Well ok then.”

8. Workmate: “Your friend, the black, is she African or is she negro?” **referring to another PCV**

Me: **Shocked and confused** “Um… what does negro mean?”

Workmate: “Negro means, a black from America.”

Me: “Oh, yes. She is from America. But we call her African American, negro is not a good word in America.”

Workmate: “Oh, sorry.”

Stuff dumb Munus do…

So one day as I was leaving work, there were two girls standing next to a wheel barrel waiting for me to approach. I am used to this, as it happens all the time when I step out of my house. Kids, and sometimes adults, will see me coming and stop so they can wait for me or cross the street to walk past me and say, “Munu, how are you?” in the nasally voice they do to mimic munus. So, I greeted them and thought that was the end of it. But the older girl, prob about 11, said something in Acoli. All I heard was “help with water”, and as I am told quite often, “You give me water,” I assumed that was what they said. So I said back, “I don’t have.” And they looked at me in confusion. I told them I didn’t understand and began speaking in English in hopes that I could be of better assistance. And man do I regret that decision. I should have just stayed ignorant and played dumb so that I could walk away and avoid the embarrassing task that lay ahead of me.

Turns out the girl did ask if I could help them with water, only she wasn’t asking me for the water. She was asking me to help carry the wheel barrel containing 5 jerry cans of the water. I immediately thought to myself, “HELL NO! I can’t do that!” But I looked at the girls who couldn’t have been more than 11 and 9, and I said, “Well, I have to go up to hill. Where are you going?” thinking that I could somehow escape the task that way. The response, “We live on the hill, too.” BOO freaking BAM. These girls knew I lived there because they see me walk it every day. And because they see me every day, there was no way I could say no and get away with it, let alone saying no and have the 11 and 9 year old girls push that weight up that steep hill. I said yes while thinking to myself, How the eff am I gunna make it up that hill?

So, we began my walk of shame. The 11 year old girl held a string that was somehow supposed to guide the wheel barrel but did nothing of the sort, and I was trying to balance the moving weight every step. The 9 year old girl could not stop laughing, not at me, I don’t think, but just at the fact that a munu was actually fetching water. And so too were the townspeople amazed at the bright red, sweaty munu struggling to push the wheel barrel on the dirt road. Mind you, in addition to the heavy load, it is the dry season here. And that means, its bloody hell hot. So you can imagine I was EXTRA red. I had to stop a few times as my hands were going numb and my palms were cramping. And all along the way, I had Acoli people, adults and kids, stop in their tracks to watch the munu do physical labor. Literally stop walking, stop talking, turn and follow me with their eyes. It was embarrassing. I just kept thinking to myself, They are gunna see me fail to get the water up that hill, and that is going to be my identifier. And that darn string wasn’t doing any help to me and I literally almost tipped the wheel barrel four times. And of course the jerry cans had no lids. So every time it slipped, splish splash joey was taking a bath. My skirt was covered in water by the time I got home. But I digress.

So, the time came when we approached the hill. Duh, duh, DUHHHH. And so we started up the steep hill that takes my breath away every time I walk it, and I walk it at least four times a day. And of course, I’m wearing my toms with absolutely no traction whatsoever for the dirt/gravel/slippery hill. The laughter and amusement from the girls stopped at this point, because now it was serious. Twice I thought I let the wheel barrel go and I envisioned the girls hard labor just pouring down the hill, never to be recovered again. I can’t even count then number of times I had to stop, cause it was A LOT. And up that hill, there were four GROWN MEN who passed us and did nothing. They just stared and kept walking along their merry way. Those girls were 11 and 9 years old…how could you just keep walking? I was infuriated, and I think that may have given me some push for the remaining 25% of the hill. And finally, we reached the top. And it felt glorious. I almost said, ok you can push to your house over there by yourself, but decided that wasn’t very nice. So I pushed it the 30 or so feet to their compound. And again, I almost tipped it. Seriously this time, though. The patch of dirt in front of their compound was extra soft and sandy and manipulated the wheel barrel ever so swiftly. But me and the girls were able to catch it, and I decided I had done enough damage to their water supply and stopped there.

Once we reached the hill and they pointed to their house, I realized it was the mother of my workmate, Winnie. So I knew work was going to hear and that made me both happy and embarrassed at the same time. For one, they would know I’m strong and that I can do work, because they do not believe munus are capable of anything physical. But on the other hand, they would know how much I struggled and how I almost lost the water multiple times. But I didn’t care anymore, my palms were spasming, my biceps were aching and I couldn’t make a fist with my hands. My skirt was drenched and my legs were muddy. And I was red. And sweaty. I greeted the family and took off down the hill and finally made it to my house, were I pounded back water and just collapsed in exhaustion. Going pee was too hard. I had to give myself about an hour before I even thought about dinner, and by that time the spasms had stopped and I was able to grip a knife. And my biceps were sore for the next three days.

All of this only confirms my belief that the women here are a different breed. Those girls were SO small, I have no idea how the would have or how they ever do manage to get that water up the hill. But they just somehow do. I see women walking all the time up it with jerry cans on their head, making it look so easy. And that is an every day thing for them. And the men just walk past…irritating. So, whats the moral of the story? Girls rule and boys drool. And also, I hope those girls never find me on my way home again, lol. I don’t know if I can manage.

PEACE.

And I thought I wasn’t gunna coach for two and a half years..

I remember when I was saying my goodbyes and discussing all the necessities I would bring, people kept asking me, “So are you gunna bring your mitt?” Psh, I would think to myself. And after laughing inside my head, I would tell them, “They have NO idea what baseball is. Trust me.” Err-WRONG. Apparently baseball in Uganda, while still small of course, has been brewing for a couple decades and is very up and coming. After hearing about its existence I fortunately was given further information by my fellow volunteer about the baseball/softball camp, and have been waiting anxiously since arriving at site. And one day in, I fell in love and found my secondary project (aka, my new job for the next two years in Uganda).

So there is an older munu who has been involved with Ugandan Little League Baseball since 2002 and he’s done quite a lot for the program. He has a spot up in the hills near Kampala and it is lush, beautiful green everywhere. They cut down the side of the hill and flattened it out to make baseball fields and made is so when you are playing you are somewhat on a cliff looking into the valley and rolling hills. It’s quite lovely. But anyway, he added on dormitories for the players and coaches, guesthouses and plans to build a school with a futbol (soccer) field and other arenas for different sports. It was a pretty neat set up. And the best part about the location was that every night and every morning, it was packed with fog. I got to go to sleep and wake up feeling like I was back in the bay. The downside to this meant that there were more mosquitoes. WAY more. And they found their way inside my net the first night, and Erin and I were literally battling them the ENTIRE night. Aside from swatting them away every five minutes, I literally woke up at 2am and stayed up until 330am waiting for them to land so I could kill them. I felt like a psychopath, but it was the only way I could somehow sleep. Erin’s was so bad she looked like she had bed bug bites all over her arms. But, anyway.

I, along with my fellow PCV, Erin, have been assigned to teaching female coaches and players how to pitch. Now, I know what you may be thinking: I’ma catcher—what the eff am I doing teaching people how to pitch. And trust me, I did inform the head hancho of this and made no indication that I could teach pitchers. But, as softball is very new here in Uganda, they have no female with any experience on windmill pitching. So all my years in the bullpen sitting through hours and hours and HOURS of pitching instructions (as well as my one year of pitching lessons when I was 11) would have to somehow come in handy. And after day one, I was feeling pretty good.

The girls were great right from the start, all very anxious to learn more about the game and more importantly how to windmill pitch. I don’t think I could have asked for a better group of coachable girls. Don’t get me wrong, their lack of knowledge on American punctuality, let alone American sport punctuality, was extremely frustrating. There were a few mornings the girls were 30 minutes late and when I asked what they were doing, I was told, “They are washing.” WASHING? Wth? I felt like saying, “Are you not here to learn how to play softball? Or are you here to learn to wash your floor?” It urked my nerve but I had to take a step back and realize where I was and that in addition to teaching the game, I have to somehow learn to instill concepts like punctuality and time management. Even more frustrating, is the misunderstanding of the word, “hustle”. Now, these girls are in no was lazy. Seeing them balance 20 liter jerrycans on there head while walking up a hill is evidence enough. But, I think there is a disconnect when I yell at them to hustle. Because when I did, they all continued to walk to the same spot and were not doing it intentionally or disrespectfully and believed they were follow my instruction. As camp went along, we discussed hustle and defined the meaning and it got somehow better. The older girls were at least trying to keep the others in line by yelling “HUSTLE!” even though they themselves were trotting along and irritating the sanity out of me. Time is money, people!! And trying to get the girls to be interactive, OMG. I thought American teenage girls were a pain but this was just not fair. They are so conditioned with rouge memorization and “shut up and do” as opposed to “think and ask questions”. So anytime I said anything, all I got was blank stares and crickets. I had to individually ask them what I had said, what they thought after trying it and then wish for some questions after the minimal interaction. But towards the end, it got much better and the girls were asking me questions on their own and showing their excitement.

We coached 11-16 players as well as 19-24 year old coaches on windmill pitching. And it was so interesting to see the difficulties in trying to train fully matured adults compared to young girls who pick up new things with ease and coordination. But the excitement and effort from the girls was just awesome to be around. Minus when we put them in a game situation, then things got a little … weird. We picked three of the best pitchers to pitch in a friendly game against each other to give them some experience on the mound with a real batter. Not my idea and I had a feeling it was going to be a disaster since the girls had been throwing underhand for 5 days. But anyway. The first batter was an immediate success: STRIKE OUT. Boo-ya, I was feeling good feeling great feeling great feeling good, how are you? Then, things started to quickly unravel as a couple of girls, envious girls, who thought they should be pitching instead started getting in the head of my assigned pitcher in a language that I could not understand. Slowly by slowly, my pitcher started walking people, throwing past balls where runners scored and her teammates bashed her instead of encouraging her. The other coaches and myself kept calling time outs to talk the pitcher thru it and shut the others girls up, but they  just kept on going. The older girls kept stepping up for the pitcher and told the girls to support her and stop “abusing” her (which made me extremely proud and even more fond of them). Finally, our pitcher pulled it together and struck two more batters out and ended the inning. In the change-over, a male coach came down to see how a few of his girls were doing. When he learned that his star pitcher (a know-it-all diva who had been there for one day and not participated in any drills) wasn’t pitching, he got upset with us. And instead of talking to us aside, he decided he should scold us and tell us what to do in front of the girls. Mind you, he had been participating in all the baseball activities and had never once been in OUR practice, and I emphasize OUR because it was specifically our camp and we are the only ones who know how to windmill pitch. Now, the feminist inside of me took defense and assumed this man thought he could come over and tell the dumb girls what to do. And that urked me greatly. Whether that was the case or not, the behavior was inappropriate and offensive, and we stood our ground. We ended up calling the game after the half inning because he wouldn’t stop fighting us. We later had a meeting with the head hancho who mediated and explained that our camp was our camp and we were in charge. I inserted a few words about making sure we keep the camp and equal opportunity environment as we were there to not only train girls but also help empower them and show that they could do, and that his behavior contradicted that completely. And the head handcho had my back. So, we all made peace and nothing came of that again. But it was extremely frustrating. I’m on my way to work with his girls next week, so well see how it goes.

Anyway, I met two girls who I absolutely fell in love with. Very smart, intelligent, kind, ATHELTIC and SO eager to learn. They both were there for pitching, but one is also a catcher (Boo-Ya) and one a lefty first-baseman. I worked with both of them on the side and had a blast. Jennet, the catcher, is just a beast behind the plate and picked things up with ease. And Judith had the time of her life when I was showing her how to slap and drag bunt. They pick things up so quickly and were so open. And, they don’t complain when a ball hits them. They really impressed me and I feel like if I could work with them on a consistent basis they could be great in no time. They just have so much potential, as did all the girls. I wish I could take them all home to America with me and start a team!! Lol.

So that is the start of my secondary project. I am headed to Entebbe next week to work with Willysha, another PCV, in training a couple teams. I am very excited and hope we are able to continue our work. Am sure I will be writing more about this very soon.

Hope you all are enjoying the new year and that you have a lovely Valentines day. Happy birthday to my baby, Coupe Douggie. I can’t believe you are already one… I miss and love you all so so much.

happy christmas and 2012!

Happy 2012 everybody!!! I hope your New Years and Christmas was filled with lots of love and more importantly, delicious home-cooked food!!

After a rocky, horrible and terrifying start, my Christmas was pretty fantastic considering I was not at home with my babies and family. The horrible details of traveling through Kampala at Christmas will soon follow, but let me first tell about the great time I had with my Peace Corps family in Rukungiri, Uganda.

Before heading to Rukungiri, my friend, Michelle, and I stopped off at Wakiso to spend some time with our host-families we hadn’t seen since October. Wakiso is still…well, there. Not much has changed minus the tile floor they put in at a local bar we used to frequent. Other than that, still the same little town with kids shouting at and chasing us as we walked to our homes. While walking to the atm (that was of course, out of money), we actually ran into my host-brother and favorite Ugandan, Ben. I have missed him dearly and it was so nice to see him again. Once I finally made it home, Ben had gone to inform the rest of my family I was home as I was unable to inform them of my visit due to shoddy Ugandan communication. And I think he first told them I had come with presents, cause I think they were all a little toooo excited to see me. Well, Winnie, my five-year-old sister, definitely was too excited to see me. She was always very shy and quiet, but unable to hide her excitement when I came home. And it was like that again, as she didn’t know whether to hug me or shake my hand with a bow. But after the awkwardness, I handed her the dress my mom had sent for her and my-oh-my. She was ecstatic. She held it up, looked it up and down and backwards, and had the cutest smile on her face. She kept walking around the living room just holding it up and looking at it. Finally Ben walked in the house, and once he did she stripped to her underwear so he could help her try it on. Ben laughed as he tried to help her find the holes for her arms because she was so excited she couldn’t manage to poke them through. The dress was a little big for her but fit her well enough, and she felt like a star. She could not hold back her smile, no matter how hard she tried, and she just kept smiling and looking at herself in the cabinet’s window reflection. Ben said something to her in Luganda, and all of the sudden, she put her hands on her hips and did a little cat-walk-strut. It was the CUTEST thing I have ever seen. Her mother, Josephine, also loved the dress and was so excited that I had brought the kids presents. I couldn’t understand a word she said as she only speaks Luganda, but her happiness was easily translated. I gave Ben his converse and his smile was priceless. Luckily the other two boys were home on break for school, and I was able to be with all the kids at once for the first time. Gerald, the youngest son who is 17 and the sweetest kid ever, was always away at school. I actually passed him on my way home, waiting at his mom’s shop. We did a quadruple take at eachother as we couldn’t tell if our run-in was real, and he gave me a big hug.  The other boys are too shy and usually just shake my hand, but Gerald never cared and always gives me hugs. He’s the cutest. Simon came back when Josephine and my other siblings did, and had a big grin as usual and said, “Oh my God, this is a surprise.” I spent the evening sitting on the stoop with my brothers as they cooked dinner and Winnie and she ran around us, making herself included. I think the time apart had made the conversation a little awkward, but, the boys took turns sitting with me and asking me questions and it was really nice being with them again. My host-father was unfortunately out of town on business and had planned to return the next morning. So, I ate dinner with my brothers at the table as usual, with Winnie asleep on the couch and my host-mother ate on the couch. Dinner was delicious, courtesy of Ben who somehow managed to make matoke and cabbage taste like Chinese food. Man, it was good. They made up my old room for me, and it was nice being back with my family again. And, when I woke up, my host-father was there. The family had called him to inform him of my visit, so instead of waiting to come back in the morning, he left that night in order to see me before I left. He got in a 230am, and woke up at 6am to get a quit chat in and say goodbye. It was really nice seeing him again and I was very thankful that he made that horrific trip so he could see me. And, they even had my favorite tea waiting for me in the morning. Mmm, it was so good. And, apparently using the pit latrine isn’t like riding a bike—you forget how to do it. Because I somehow was uncoordinated at using it again after two months with a toilet. I think it was because I used it in the dark, and I didn’t have my usual lamp with me. So, I had to awkwardly situate the torch on my phone and worry about not dropping it in the latrine while trying to aim, and, it was just all bad. But, I still have my phone, so, there ya go.

After my sleep that felt like a quick nap, I got up early the next morning to meet Michelle for our journey back to Kampala, with no money. Well, that’s not true. We had 6,000 shillings, equivalent to a little more than $2. But, that story shall come after the good stuff, just you wait! Anyway, we finally made it to my best friend, Khayla’s, house in the southwest. She lives in a hospital compound surrounded by hills and mountains in the beautifully green covered, tropical looking yet foggy, cloudy and chilly land of Rukungiri. After two months of living in the dry, dusty, burning hot land of Kitgum, I was finally able to enjoy my new, matching sweater my sisters sent me. And, I actually slept with a blanket—too weird. 

Anyway, it was really great being able to see my friends that I left over two months prior and catch up on our lives and of course, all the latest gossip. The main part of our fiesta consisted of food, of course. And we made some pretty bomb food, let me tell you. I had my first taste of fondue, in Afrika. And, it was grand. Oooh, and we made egg salad—mMmmmm, I miss that. Our visit was unfortunately short, as we were limited on travel time due to our still “newbie” status but was definitely well worth it. We sat around eating and drinking while watching Christmas movies on the projector Khayla set up for us. It was pretty awesome and felt like home. And, best of all, I got to see Breaking Dawn. Khayla downloaded it for me since I live too far from and am unable to go to Kampala. It was, AMAZING. Minus the weird scene where Jacob is in wolf form and rises up against Sam to take his rightful position as alpha dog…I was semi-embarrassed for a couple seconds, but it quickly passed. And I just realized I am rambling in my Uganda blog about Twilight, so, let me stop there. Our vacation of three days travel with little snippets of visits with our families was wonderful and so very needed. We did a lot of grubbing, talking, yelling, laughing hysterically and water fetching. And once again, I thought to myself, this is my life. And I love it.

Now, on to the good, drama-filled story of Kampala. So, we leave for the bus at 545am, early enough to ensure our seats on the bus. And after one million stops along the way, including the 20 min stop for passengers to get meat from the butcher alongside the road (totally bogus nonsense, btw), we finally made it to Kampala around noon. But, we didn’t get off the bus until 130, cause that’s how bad Kampala traffic sucks. We got dropped off somewhere, not near the taxi park that we needed but luckily near a pizza restaurant for a quick and much needed bite. As we sat eating pizza, I was dreading having to weave in and out of downtown Kampala with the Christmas “chaos” that every Ugandan told us about. “It’s Christmas, it is going to be bad. They think because its Christmas, you whites have expensive things and lots of money on you.” I can’t tell you how many Ugandans told us this, including both of our homestay families who are pretty level headed and legit. And of course, I had my backpack, loaded with my laptop, camera AND my fancy, new camera. So, those Ugandans were thinking right—this munu had a hefty price tag on her head. And if they really only knew what I had, ugh I don’t even wanna think about it. Anyway. So, I for some reason didn’t wanna travel with my handy-dandy backpack suitcase and decided to bring my small backpack with an un-carriable and unmanageable Afrikan bag that I had to hold with both arms against my chest. Therefore, I was unable to safeguard my backpack and blind to anything happening behind or in front of me. So you can imagine my surprise when we were fighting our way thru the foot traffic when all of the sudden I hear my friend yell, “HEY!! Get off her bag!” with a hand thrust behind my head. I turned around to see a guy put his hands in there air, say sorry and hide behind a taxi window, as if we could not see him through transparent barrier. I then thought to myself, (&#^&@, what did we get ourselves into. Not five minutes later, I heard Michelle scream again, “GET OFF HER BAG!!” and thrust another hand in the air to get yet another thief off my bag. Then I started thinking to myself, I sure am lucky that someone is paying attention, cause they would have just stole the 6,000 shillings I had left to get us anywhere, and who knows what else they would have taken. Michelle, the paranoid, protective genius that she is, had the sense to put locks on her bag so that would-be thieves would come out empty handed. So, after we realized I was the easy and obvious target, she walked behind me with her hand on my bag the rest of the way through the cluster &!!^!% that is Kampala. So, not only was I terrified, confused (as we had NO idea where we were going and just kept following the fingers of friendly Ugandans) and irritated from being such an easy target, I was carrying a heavy bag on my chest and sweating all over myself. My face was, as usual, bright red and burning my skin.

As if it couldn’t get any worse on that day, a matatu tried to kill me. The traffic around the taxi/bus park is always ridiculous, bumper to bumper, and only allows you to move inches at a time. So, you can imagine there are no crosswalks or space for pedestrians to walk, let alone having the right-away (legally, they do not, btw), so you have to finagle and weave your way through the matatus, pikipiki and buses. And like every other Ugandan, I went to walk through my 67^th matatu of the day when I somehow pissed a driver off. Maybe it was because I was munu, I’m not quite sure. But that man did not want me to pass in front of him and get to the other side. Even though he was stuck for a good 5 minutes in that spot with no possible chance of moving, with a matatu literally one foot ahead of him, that didn’t matter. And he was NOT letting me through. I went to walk forward, and he punched the gas and scared me out of the way. It was like the hokey pokey dance, every time I put a foot in I had to pull it right out or else he was gunna squish me between his matatu and the one in front of him. He was screaming something in the car with his passenger laughing hysterically, and I became very frustrated and started yelling at him. I don’t know if it was because he literally couldn’t go anywhere and came to terms with it, or if it was the other Ugandans around looking at him like, “Dude, seriously. What are you doing?”, but finally he stopped and we squeezed through with my HUGE bag. And finally, somehow, we made it to our matatu and were on our way to Wakiso. I can’t even begin to describe the relief it felt to finally be in the matatu on our way to our old homes.

Now, previously in Kampala, we tried to get more money as we had none. We had tried loading up in Gulu, but of course, the power was out and therefore the ATMs didn’t work. So we thought, Kampala, easy-lets do it. But nope, not only was it Christmas, it was also payday. So, the lines ran outside of buildings and we could not wait that long as nighttime was approaching. So we said to ourselves, “Eh, lets just pull out money in Wakiso.” Why wouldn’t it be that easy? Well because like I said, its Christmas and payday, and therefore the Wakiso ATM (and four others in Kampala, as we would later learn) was out of money. Luckily I had hung on to that 6,000 that would at least get us back to Kampala that had to have ATMs with money. Right?

Wrong. We went to four different ATMs that were completely out of money and waiting for the money-truck to bring more. After once again weaving through the masses and jam-packed vehicles, I was nearing my breaking point. I could feel my body shaking and for the first time in Uganda, I was scared. About a minute before we got to the 4^th ATM, Michelle had yet another interaction with a sticky-fingered Ugandan. We were making our way through another matatu-squeeze when we accidentally, and unavoidably, walked in front of a guy. He let us pass but immediately changed his direction and turned to follow us. (Luckily, that day,I had put clips on my zippers that made it harder, not impossible, for someone to steal and I had put my rain jacket over my backpack) We both noticed the man following us and I kept looking back to see where he was. I somehow lost him in the crowd, but Michelle saw him move to our side. So, when I went to cross the street and focused my attention on dodging matatus and pikipikis, I forgot about dude. Well, in the middle of the road I noticed Michelle was not with me and I turned around to hear her scream what I remember to be, “GET OFF OF ME!!” All I saw was a guy fly back with his hands in the air, and I waited for Michelle to cross with me. The guy that altered his path to follow us had waited until she was stuck in between two vehicles and literally tried to rip the bag off her chest. Michelle grabbed dude and threw him off, but not before he somehow managed to unzip her front zipper, which unfortunately for dude had nothing in it. So you can imagine when 20 seconds later we walk up to the last ATM only to find that it too, was empty, we were at our wits end. But, the one good thing about Uganda and Afrika in general, among all the chaos and pick-pocketing thieves, there is always someone to help you out. We managed to make friends with a woman waiting at the ATM who knew of another one some 10 minutes up the hill. We asked if we could walk with her, and as she was very aware of how blatantly terrified we, or I, was and welcomed us to join. And, instead of taking us to a closer but 100x more crowded area, she walked furter up the hill to a safe, quiet ATM that indeed had money.

After about a ten minute walk uphill, through seemingly impenetrable crowds, we finally made it to an ATM that was open and full of money. For the first time in two days, I felt relieved and like I wasn’t going to die pocketless in a crowded ally. We thanked the wonderful woman and made our way back to the bus park. But instead of walking once again through sticky-finger row, we decided to pay a private hire the ridiculous price of 15,000 shillings just to go back down the hill. And it was well worth it. We were dropped at the park entrace, immeditately shown to our bus and seated. And, we even sat next to a lovely guy named Francis. We shared our snacks with him and he shared his with us. Only, ours were better. And I’m not being rude. His were fried grasshoppers. In Uganda, it is very rude to refuse food someone has offered you, so we were very much obligated to at least try it. And it didn’t taste bad really, just hard to look at the frozen eye-balls and not imagine you were eating a whole grasshopper. I am glad it was fried grasshoppers and not fried termites, though. That bus ride was also the first time I had road-side meat-on-a-stick. And it was pretty delish. Until I had the second one, which was a liiittle too pinkish for my liking.  Nevertheless, our day that started at 7am from Wakison finally ended at 830pm in Rukungiri. And, it was well worth it.

If you got through this extremely long post, hoorah to you. I hope your holidays were lovely and your bellies were satisfied with nothing but deliciousness. Happy 2012 my lovelies.