Kasese Life

Cheesin' with some goats

I’ve been meaning to post for a while now, and actually have had 3 different post ideas in mind, but I’ve been so so busy this week! I’m used to being busy, and expected it, but I guess I was just surprised by the way it played out.

Most of my busyness can be attributed to my scrambling with lesson planning. I tried to be really thorough in considering my lesson plans for the first week, so I spent a lot of time thinking about that instead of planning weeks in advance. Consequently, this whole week I’ve been scrambling to prepare things the night before, even though I know the general lesson outline. It’s been exhausting. I go to school, get home by 4:30 or 5, often have to go to town for food or teaching supplies, then cook, eat, and clean up, and by the time all is said and done I have a couple hours before I need to go to sleep. And for some reason, I can’t seem to do that too well. I just don’t feel well rested even if I approach 7 ½ hours of sleep.

I hope to get a lot more planning done this weekend; I know I’ve got to just hunker down. But it will be hard because it’s Cassie’s birthday tomorrow, and we’ve got plans to swim and even eat cake!

Anyways, this post will be about my life outside of teacher-dom, because teachers do in fact have lives. Though I’ve been thinking about how privileged I am to have that life– a little distance from the school and an adventurous weekend activity. Many of the teachers at Rwentutu board there and teach classes on Saturdays. They are on duty from 6 or 7 in the morning until 10 at night. Their dedication is much greater than mine. A student of mine (Deborah) asked me what I do on the weekends here, and I felt guilty telling her about hiking and visiting the Equator and plans for swimming and exploring Queen Elizabeth National Park. Even though the Equator line is about a 10 minute drive from the school, most of my students have never been there, and they definitely can’t afford to visit a national park. Most of them don’t know how to swim, either. It makes me sad to think that some of my students may never visit a foreign country, or even know their country very well. Or that they might never know the bliss of floating in water, basking in the sun.

Visiting the Equator line with the head teacher, our driver, and our neighbor/a nursery teacher

But then again, they know so much that I don’t. I’ve led a life of constant change, filled with different places and faces, and I’ve always had options– for universities, friends, clothes I wear, homes I inhabit, and even for the foods I can eat. Here, my students eat posho (maize meal) and beans every day for lunch and dinner. Except Sunday, when beef is added. Many board there and spend the entire school year on the same school grounds (or near). They live in a house split into 2 bedrooms, 1 for girls and the other for boys, with perhaps 30 others, often sharing beds. They have their uniforms and a small trunk of personal items. They go to class and chapel and play games. I had to stop myself from asking, “that’s it?”

How do they know how to be so content? I often wonder this as I watch them playing games like netball, football (soccer), and some sort of dodgeball game, the same games they play every day. I’ve had such a rigorous schedule for the last few years, usually rushing to class and work and stressing over large assignments, that it is hard for me to imagine such a carefree life.  

Hopefully this is something I’ll become more comfortable with as I spend more time here. I already can feel myself changing, becoming more relaxed, more conscious of my privilege, and more at-home here. There’s a solid part of me that knows this will never be my home, but I’ve definitely gotten into a routine here. I know where to look for things I need in town, I know the route to get to the school like the back of my hand, and, most of all, I know people here. I know people’s personalities and stories. It’s weird to think that I’ve only been at the school for 2 weeks and I feel like I’ve known my cooperating teachers forever. I often have to remind myself–I’m in Africa right now, or I’m in Uganda- these are the mountains forming the Western border, or I’m a teacher… in Uganda.

I’m certainly reminded by people outside of the school community. The students have become more used to our presence and they, along with the staff, now know us a little better, so they don’t stare as much. But anywhere else, it’s still a parade. It’s particularly tough when you’re just a little irritated or a little tired, and it escalates with demands from men or point-blank stares. However, I’ve come to realize that that’s just what people around here do– they stare. Not just at us, but anyone or anything that is different. Any time there’s a new student, a teacher chiding a child, or a vehicle pulling into the school grounds, there’s a crowd of stare-rs (adults included). It makes me uncomfortable because of the cultural association I have with staring. I never thought that the old “it’s rude to stare” would have such a strong effect on me.

I’m also reminded by getting pulled over in the car extremely frequently. I will never get used to that. The traffic police, immigration enforcement, or army (I don’t even know who it is because there are so many different types of unfamiliar uniforms) will just be posted on the side of the road and will flag you to pull over. Apparently it’s just to check the car’s safety and registration. But they look in the car and ask you where you’re going. We’ve even been asked to see our passports. I’d been trying to identify the source of my discomfort: Was I just used to being pulled over as being equated to being in trouble? To the strict adherence to personal freedoms in the U.S.? But then I realized, gee, this would be really problematic if there were a corrupt government. Here are armed forces, literally armed with rifles, who have the power to pull you over at any time and demand your identification and destination. What happens when a regime becomes invasive and violent, or ethnic tensions erupt, as has happened so many times in African countries? I’ve never been truly scared, though; they usually wave us on because we are bazungu and I’m mostly irritated at them wasting our time. The only time I was truly scared here was when we saw a massive convoy of UN troops. There were at least 20 tanks and cargo trucks, all in an orderly procession. Doreen and Samson hooted and hollered at the novelty of such a sight, but I was concerned; what kind of conflict could merit such a response from the UN? I thought back to the Rwandan genocides of the 90s and the meager international assistance. Was this assistance, or just training or something? I still don’t know and can’t find an answer, but I know that there are conflicts in bordering countries, so perhaps they were just en route.

But otherwise, I am adjusting to life here. I have accepted that my feet will never be clean (not until April). I’ve realized how strange it is that Americans view running water as an essential commodity, forgetting that throughout most of human history, people actually had to fetch water. And that it’s not an endless source. The water often goes out here because there isn’t enough to distribute throughout the whole city, so it comes on in certain neighborhoods at certain times, and will until it rains more. I now see it as a blessing if it is on, but never get too excited because I can’t know when it will go out again. Instead we take advantage of it and shower, wash dishes, and bottle some. Electricity is also fickle. It’s only bothersome when it is out for several days and the hot fridge allows our food to go bad, or when my computer is dead and I can’t use it for lesson planning. Oh, and it’s really hot in my bedroom without the fan running. I’m currently writing until I get tired enough to fall asleep in the heat.

I’ve been trying to be an observer, and not too much of a critic, of Ugandan society. I’ve seen the news, been to church, immersed myself in a school, one of the most crucial modes of cultural maintenance, and I even bought a newspaper this week. It’s not enough to be an expert, but I have enough to start making some conclusions. Educators talk about learners with special needs (“slow learners”) as if it were a new phenomenon (and Enoch’s commentary on wheelchair-accessible entries echoes the same feeling). Anti-gay laws are being signed into action and enforced. Religion is a central part of society and not belonging to it is unthinkable (I’ll talk more about that later). Looking presentable, with modest clothing– and stricter guidelines for women– is strongly emphasized. I feel so bad even thinking this, but it sort of reminds me of the 50s in the U.S.

 

What a headline. (Museveni is the president.)

I, by no means, mean to suggest that Uganda is “behind” the U.S., that there is an evolution of societies, that things are “backward” here, or anything of the sort. I’m simply reminded of a time in my country’s history when certain deviations from societal norms were not as accepted and similar social rules were in place. I happen to think that outlawing a sexual orientation is wrong, and that perhaps the public understanding of individuals with disabilities is underdeveloped and misunderstood, so I would not hide my approval for improvement in those areas. But I am not entitled to say how Uganda should change, if at all, and what is best for its people. But it’s interesting to think about.

Anyways, I need my sleep for another sacred weekend. I will write more about teaching soon. Thanks for reading! Here are some more pictures:

So we went hiking for 3 and a half hours in the Rwenzori Mountains last weekend.

We told Samson we could pay to go to the Rwenzori National Park, but he said going up another (free) path would be better. It was very cool to talk to people who lived along the path, and it was certainly more adventurous. The mountain in the distance is a part of the National Park. It was the only mountain we could see that was not cleared for farmland.

She was suddenly shy....

This was one of our 2 tour guides for the whole way. We often lost them because they ran barefoot down steep, sharp hills, but we always found them again.