I hear from home that it's cold. That's hard to imagine as I drip with sweat in this internet cafe in the swelter of Uganda's capital. I'll welcome the upcoming comforts of home, but cold showers are fine in this heat.
Tonight I fly home from Entebbe, where my three new college age friends and I played volleyball two days ago on the beach of Lake Victoria. The best player I've seen in Africa, Innocent, was a former Ugandan national team member and could have played college in California, but generally the level of play was strictly recreational. Good thing too, as the camel who strolled through the court would have irked the East Beach hard cores.
The breeze off the lake was welcome to the dozen people who shared Aero Beach with us in the afternoon, and attracted over 500 by the 5:00 cocktail hour. Two giant aircraft dominated the grassy flats beside the beach, one with Obama and "Yes We Can" painted on the tail. Pied kingfishers, pure white egrets, open-beaked storks, kites and eagles fished the water, while the vitality of Africa claimed the sands. Hundreds bathed in the whitecaps while groups of friends kicked soccer balls around, laid out in the sun without worry of sunburn, and hit my last volleyball over the somewhat saggy net. When play would lag due to ball retrieval, half the players would commence to dance (as no Mizungu can) to the heavy tunes that blasted from the huge speakers. It was a total party scene, a culture at play, reminding me of long ago Manhattan Opens and 6-man tournaments. My friends hustled chicks, took dips and laughed with other college friends, taking me back to the East Beach and Isla Vista of yesteryear in the late '60s and 70s. The beach still entertains.
Lira, 2/24 (my birthday)
My 3-day trip to Lira had been a stark contrast to the lush mountains and cool weather of Kabale. It was hot and flat. So room to build courts and sweat stains on my clothing were plentiful.
I crossed the raging Nile on the 6 hour trip from Kampala, to visit Lango College, and I could not have anticipated how welcome I would be. It seems that the 50ish headmaster, Albert, is a volleyball player, and while many claim this status, he actually is. So he wasted no time directing the groundwork for court construction. He wanted to play.
While eucalyptus poles were cut to size, I visited classrooms, labs and libraries where I saw the wonderful books that Vicky Harbison had bought for the school a year ago. I visited with fellow teachers who complained of poor English levels of some students, cell phones in class, and budget cuts. Imagine that. All schools here are theoretically taught in English, but any of a dozen tribal languages are the mother tongues of all Ugandans, and fluency in English defines their level of education. It seems the schools are graded on standardized test results given in English, despite the language problems in some outlying rural schools. All so much like home.
I also met leaders of All Saints University, including the chancellor who is also a Bishop in the Church of Uganda diocese. It is a small university, but growing, and a good site perhaps for research on post war recovery issues.
750 male high school aged students attend and live at Lango., a 50 year old secondary school (college). It stretches over 98 broad acres. 20 years of war in northern Uganda has eroded many institutions, including education, and most schools are trying to restore former programs. Lango is run down in some structural aspects, but boasts a brand new dining hall, a pristine library, rebuilt classrooms and an internet connection only one day old. They are looking to the future ... and a new court is part of that.
As a welcomed visitor, I addressed the mass of students in their first week of school, and their enthusiasm was familiar to any veteran coach or teacher. I'd installed the net, and this rugby powerhouse and football intensive culture seemed more than ready to accept this new sport. The 100s of dark faces would invariably smile as I made eye contact, and they humored my speech about sport uniting cultures and the relationship of academic and sports success. But they didn't really erupt until I challenged them to a game - faculty versus students.
In Lira, people are big, and there were at least 10 kids taller than my 6'3". But most were football (soccer) players and I told them that if anyone kicked the new yellow striped Wilson I'd given them he was "out". "You are out!!" became a frequent mass chant as many forgot the warning and reverted to using lower limbs.
Before long it became obvious that some of the faculty "players" weren't, and the students won the first four games. They would explode in laughter when a teacher would shank a ball or miss it entirely. Having played with the teachers, I was desperate for a win, so I invited Albert to take on the best six studs the students could offer. And like Boomer and I found out 35 years ago in Mallorca, two good players will usually beat 6 who are not so. I mercilessly served the weak passers and we notched a 15-8 victory. Very sweet. Post game I was woozy in the heat, but Albert glowed at the win he'll be able to remind kids about for years to come.
For the 20 minute bicycle taxi ride home I drank in the evening breeze, the familiar aftertaste of competition, the rich views of small town African life, and pitied the 110 pound rider who bore me -- I'm no light baggage. The fare, 70 cents. John Warren has carried me for years for even less.
The next morning I bussed back to Kampala, recrossing the Nile, and dodging the baboons loitering on the roadside. My final court had been constructed, my last student group addressed, and my last ball awarded to a school where play can now commence. I'm ready for home.
