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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Elections lakeside
The presidential elections in Uganda are over. As are most of my projects here in the Pearl of Africa. The incumbent won big, fostering some charges of fixing, but the proposed violent response that beset Kenya a few years ago, and that grips Egypt, Tunisia and Yemen, is thankfully not evident here. So I can drink my coffee and eat my queen cake in peace.
I took three days at the lake to wait out the possible turmoil, and only a severe 5 hour morning rainstorm yesterday disturbed the lake's reflection, and mine. Tom, the old watchman, came to me at 7:30 and said, "The rain now will come." Twenty seconds later it came, with force. I sat inside the canteen, overlooking the storm and talked with Simon, a great new friend from England, about his recent romantic trials and that unreasonable pain that accompanies affairs of the heart, and eludes logic. Luckily I had called Lynette the day before and my own emotional status was serene. All these twenty-somethings have these dramas to encounter, while I am deeply contented. As the rain fell, I finished the Lee Child thriller that had entertained me since Rwanda, and finality was in the air.
Simon and I had cleaned out the nursery storeroom at Bufuka Primary School the day before, finding amazing treasures: an empty french horn case, a case of inflateable waterwings, a good telescope on a tripod, huge stores of plastic sandbox toys, several machetes and knives, a tiny sport coat that now adorns a two-year old (one of the kids who watched us work), and a dozen cans of paint that had been improperly stored and rendered unusable. For three hours the Rolling Stones accompanied our efforts on Simon's powerful little speakers, taking me back to the 60s when these songs had blasted from the VW vans that Bob Metcalf and I had taken on an early European tour. "It's all over now," still as strong today as it was then.
The Slovenian doctors had concluded their tour at the Bufuka clinic and a huge bonfire and going away party united 50 villagers, volunteers and workers from the Heart of Edirisa. A full moon, a clear sky, and a rich spirit of community embraced us all.
Today Levi phoned me from Lira, and I made a date to meet him later this week for my final court installation at Longo College. After that, I will return to Kampala and wing home, about a week early, anxious to see Santa Barbara and Lynette, Jansen, Ivy, East Beach and all the wonderful dimensions of life there. Tonight I say goodbye to Brian, the college student, Wilson, the professor, and all of the others who have animated and enriched these wonderful weeks in a southwestern Uganda and Rwanda.
Thanks to all who have written comments on this blog and shared this adventure with me.
I took three days at the lake to wait out the possible turmoil, and only a severe 5 hour morning rainstorm yesterday disturbed the lake's reflection, and mine. Tom, the old watchman, came to me at 7:30 and said, "The rain now will come." Twenty seconds later it came, with force. I sat inside the canteen, overlooking the storm and talked with Simon, a great new friend from England, about his recent romantic trials and that unreasonable pain that accompanies affairs of the heart, and eludes logic. Luckily I had called Lynette the day before and my own emotional status was serene. All these twenty-somethings have these dramas to encounter, while I am deeply contented. As the rain fell, I finished the Lee Child thriller that had entertained me since Rwanda, and finality was in the air.
Simon and I had cleaned out the nursery storeroom at Bufuka Primary School the day before, finding amazing treasures: an empty french horn case, a case of inflateable waterwings, a good telescope on a tripod, huge stores of plastic sandbox toys, several machetes and knives, a tiny sport coat that now adorns a two-year old (one of the kids who watched us work), and a dozen cans of paint that had been improperly stored and rendered unusable. For three hours the Rolling Stones accompanied our efforts on Simon's powerful little speakers, taking me back to the 60s when these songs had blasted from the VW vans that Bob Metcalf and I had taken on an early European tour. "It's all over now," still as strong today as it was then.
The Slovenian doctors had concluded their tour at the Bufuka clinic and a huge bonfire and going away party united 50 villagers, volunteers and workers from the Heart of Edirisa. A full moon, a clear sky, and a rich spirit of community embraced us all.
Today Levi phoned me from Lira, and I made a date to meet him later this week for my final court installation at Longo College. After that, I will return to Kampala and wing home, about a week early, anxious to see Santa Barbara and Lynette, Jansen, Ivy, East Beach and all the wonderful dimensions of life there. Tonight I say goodbye to Brian, the college student, Wilson, the professor, and all of the others who have animated and enriched these wonderful weeks in a southwestern Uganda and Rwanda.
Thanks to all who have written comments on this blog and shared this adventure with me.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Rwanda Reunion
Feb. 12
A land of vulcanism surrounds me here in Gisenyi, Rwanda, a mere 5 hours from Kabale. I stay at the Presbyterian Hostel recommended to me two years ago, and it is beautiful. The stern overseer who two nights ago reluctantly found me a room for 6 thousand francs (12 bucks) turned up on my volleyball team yesterday and we won four games together. We're fast friends now.
The road from Kabale to Kisoro and the Kyaniko border crossing was amazing beyond belief as it climbed and fell and even touched the farthest extention of Lake Bunyoni. Dense jungles of preserved forest and gigantic bamboo overreached the road from time to time, while the steep cultivated hillsides bristled with hundreds of plots of onion and sweet potato, Peruvian style. The new road surrendered to its pitifull predecessor as the pumice and slag took control and made for very slow going. But who's in a hurry. The hulking volacno of Muhabura looked down on our feeble progress, and if we'd been zipping along in the hired taxi we'd have missed the swapland below us that hosted 50 crested cranes in their nesting homeland, majestic whenever they took wing in white splendor. Huge brown hawks and eagles swooped before our broken windshield often, defying our intrusion on their turf. It was magnificant.
I crossed into Rwanda and the contrast with Uganda was instant. Plastic bags are forbidden here, and the roadsides and construction are orderly and neat. Even the tea plantations and silver roofed villages share in this unaccustomed neatness, as opposed to the comfortable squalor of Ugandan villages.
The daily rains here in Gisenyi, are inconsequential, like Hawaii. Also familiar ore the close dramatic clouds, the tropical blooms and the piles of volcanic stone everywhere -- as walls, as foundations, and as rolling pellets of peril for a clumsy Muzungu carrying an oversized duffelbag. Gisenyi is built on a vast lava flow, and its roads are both the best (where Chinese projects are concluding) to the worst (everywhere else).
Stunned upon arrival in a new city, as travelers always are, Frederick and his smile were welcome as he zoomed up on a moto and hugged me warmly, even without hands. He'd lost his during the genocide and now worked at the Ubumwe Community Center for handicapped kids and adults. Within 15 minutes I'd be there playing volleyball with amputees, wheelchair boun, club footed, mentally challenged and deaf volleyball enthusiasts -- none disabled, all elated.
Two young blind students practiced their rap in Kinyarwandan that they would perform soon, while other with various problems learned computer skills, how to sew, knit, weave and make beads. 200 people train at this amazing center that enjoys support from several Santa Barbara organizations.
Yesterday, Zachary, Frederick's co-director, took me to his home to meet his family: Lucky (2), Christian (7), and Sylvia (10). Lucky loved the hand puppet lion I'd brought from Costco and my last pack of Starburst was a huge hit.The sky suddenly erupted and the electricity failed, but the puppet power soared in the dim light of evening as the ids taught me to count to three in Kinyaruandan.
When the sky cleared, Frederickl showed me where he lived and the wealth of photo albums that chronicled his incredible life -- the tragedy, the recovery, the surgeries and his world travels in the name of forgiveness. What a man. We rode motos past the huge football stadium set against the looming green cliff and saw the new house that he had under constuction. It awaits new funds to apply the next stage of bricks and a roof, cash he'll seek from his paintings and photograps that he sells worldwide.
He's a lucky man.
So am I. I played with some very good players both yesterday and today on a concrete court and have emerged drenched in sweat and fulfillment but uninjured. That and the dozens of Rwandan friends I made on the basketball and volleyball courts, convince me of my impossible good fortune, and that my journey is still viable, and this life a joy.
A land of vulcanism surrounds me here in Gisenyi, Rwanda, a mere 5 hours from Kabale. I stay at the Presbyterian Hostel recommended to me two years ago, and it is beautiful. The stern overseer who two nights ago reluctantly found me a room for 6 thousand francs (12 bucks) turned up on my volleyball team yesterday and we won four games together. We're fast friends now.
The road from Kabale to Kisoro and the Kyaniko border crossing was amazing beyond belief as it climbed and fell and even touched the farthest extention of Lake Bunyoni. Dense jungles of preserved forest and gigantic bamboo overreached the road from time to time, while the steep cultivated hillsides bristled with hundreds of plots of onion and sweet potato, Peruvian style. The new road surrendered to its pitifull predecessor as the pumice and slag took control and made for very slow going. But who's in a hurry. The hulking volacno of Muhabura looked down on our feeble progress, and if we'd been zipping along in the hired taxi we'd have missed the swapland below us that hosted 50 crested cranes in their nesting homeland, majestic whenever they took wing in white splendor. Huge brown hawks and eagles swooped before our broken windshield often, defying our intrusion on their turf. It was magnificant.
I crossed into Rwanda and the contrast with Uganda was instant. Plastic bags are forbidden here, and the roadsides and construction are orderly and neat. Even the tea plantations and silver roofed villages share in this unaccustomed neatness, as opposed to the comfortable squalor of Ugandan villages.
The daily rains here in Gisenyi, are inconsequential, like Hawaii. Also familiar ore the close dramatic clouds, the tropical blooms and the piles of volcanic stone everywhere -- as walls, as foundations, and as rolling pellets of peril for a clumsy Muzungu carrying an oversized duffelbag. Gisenyi is built on a vast lava flow, and its roads are both the best (where Chinese projects are concluding) to the worst (everywhere else).
Stunned upon arrival in a new city, as travelers always are, Frederick and his smile were welcome as he zoomed up on a moto and hugged me warmly, even without hands. He'd lost his during the genocide and now worked at the Ubumwe Community Center for handicapped kids and adults. Within 15 minutes I'd be there playing volleyball with amputees, wheelchair boun, club footed, mentally challenged and deaf volleyball enthusiasts -- none disabled, all elated.
Two young blind students practiced their rap in Kinyarwandan that they would perform soon, while other with various problems learned computer skills, how to sew, knit, weave and make beads. 200 people train at this amazing center that enjoys support from several Santa Barbara organizations.
Yesterday, Zachary, Frederick's co-director, took me to his home to meet his family: Lucky (2), Christian (7), and Sylvia (10). Lucky loved the hand puppet lion I'd brought from Costco and my last pack of Starburst was a huge hit.The sky suddenly erupted and the electricity failed, but the puppet power soared in the dim light of evening as the ids taught me to count to three in Kinyaruandan.
When the sky cleared, Frederickl showed me where he lived and the wealth of photo albums that chronicled his incredible life -- the tragedy, the recovery, the surgeries and his world travels in the name of forgiveness. What a man. We rode motos past the huge football stadium set against the looming green cliff and saw the new house that he had under constuction. It awaits new funds to apply the next stage of bricks and a roof, cash he'll seek from his paintings and photograps that he sells worldwide.
He's a lucky man.
So am I. I played with some very good players both yesterday and today on a concrete court and have emerged drenched in sweat and fulfillment but uninjured. That and the dozens of Rwandan friends I made on the basketball and volleyball courts, convince me of my impossible good fortune, and that my journey is still viable, and this life a joy.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Pineaple plus
A power outage interrupted my last installment, but at least I was able to retrieve it. Please allow me to conclude the Kamarunku affair:
I had inscribed the ball as "a gift from the students of the USA" so Stanley had a girl by the name of Gift read the dedication to the multitude. As they clapped in rhythmic pulses of gratitude, I felt fingers of nearby kids on my legs as the bolde explored my hairy white Muzungu skin. And when Stanley announced "You can touch him," the storm was unleashed. Hundreds of outstretched hands probed my arms as curiousity overpowered caution and propriety. Suddenly I was the white nucleus of an estatic writhing and squealing dark amoeba.
5 minutes later we retreated to Stanley's office where he gave me a leather passport case and four fine pineapples which filled my daypack beyond capacity.A seam gave way, but what the heck. An exchange of email addresses and a promise of future competition with Kashambya and other schools left confidence and optimism in the air, and Dennis and I mounted the moto and started down the rocky slope to cheers and waves of the kids who had lingered.
The taste of that pineapple and that experience lingers still for me, and assures me that my project is blessed by some volleyball god. Amen.
I had inscribed the ball as "a gift from the students of the USA" so Stanley had a girl by the name of Gift read the dedication to the multitude. As they clapped in rhythmic pulses of gratitude, I felt fingers of nearby kids on my legs as the bolde explored my hairy white Muzungu skin. And when Stanley announced "You can touch him," the storm was unleashed. Hundreds of outstretched hands probed my arms as curiousity overpowered caution and propriety. Suddenly I was the white nucleus of an estatic writhing and squealing dark amoeba.
5 minutes later we retreated to Stanley's office where he gave me a leather passport case and four fine pineapples which filled my daypack beyond capacity.A seam gave way, but what the heck. An exchange of email addresses and a promise of future competition with Kashambya and other schools left confidence and optimism in the air, and Dennis and I mounted the moto and started down the rocky slope to cheers and waves of the kids who had lingered.
The taste of that pineapple and that experience lingers still for me, and assures me that my project is blessed by some volleyball god. Amen.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Pineapple Paradise
40 minutes on the back of a boda-boda and 100 smiling "Muzungu!!!" salutes from villagers, landed me in pineapple country. -- Kamuronko, where Stanley is principal of a primary school. He is father to Comfort, the incredibly talented artist who was my cameraman last visit. When Stanley invited me to do a volleyball demo at his school, I accepted, of course, unaware of the gorgeous valley and the wild reception that awaited me.
The long road to Kamuronko wound through the most verdant lands I've seen in Uganda, a lazy river winding through dairy country where black and white cows graze in belly-deep grass. The soaring hills feature eucalyptus and pine, and patchworks of banana, papaya and eventually vast fields of pineapple as the land flattens. A small dam that had brought electricity to this removed area, had been dead for a decade, but was sputtering back to life in recent weeks. And the huge storks, cranes and eagles that paralleled my path kept my head spnning.
Dennis, my driver, urged his moto up the rocky slope to the open grassy hilltop featuring a ragged drooping net between eucalyptus poles, flanked by long classroom structures with windows full of faces instead of glass. A moto, strange, and a Muzungu, even stranger.
Stanley greeted us and presented me a guest book to sign, a ritual I knew well by now. Novel, however, were the mountains of freshly sliced pineapple on two plates brought in by his smiling secretary. We attacked them willingly after the long lunchless ride.
School ended and the 500 kids, clad in olive green, hastily assembled around the court, dutifully obeying Stanley's command. They were absolutely silent and attentive as I introduced myself and spoke of brotherhood through sports, and Todd Rogers' gold medal, and my family at home who taught schools full of children like them this very day. Stanley translated into Ruchiga, and the kids oohed and aahed in unison at my revelations. They erupted in screams and laughter when I ended the speech with a decent skyball, sent up only after confirming the absence of overhead airplanes. I just wish that Dana Camacho had been here to really give them a thrill.
With 10 on each side, including teachers and rotations of selected students, we played for an hour. Dozens scurried after the ball that left the dense grouping at courtside every 3rd or 4th contact at first. But as skills improved and rallies lengthened, the group began to say "boom" at each play, until someone would finaly win to wild cheers. I'd set Stanley often, who could sling it downover the low point of the net to a terminal kill. I'd roll up his sleeve , amazed at his bicep, and 500 voices would howl.
When we finished, all settled about me for my final address. I thanked them in Ruchiga for the afternoon, and presented the school with the ball that Dillan Bennet had given me, after I inscribed it "a gift from the students of Santa Barbara"
The long road to Kamuronko wound through the most verdant lands I've seen in Uganda, a lazy river winding through dairy country where black and white cows graze in belly-deep grass. The soaring hills feature eucalyptus and pine, and patchworks of banana, papaya and eventually vast fields of pineapple as the land flattens. A small dam that had brought electricity to this removed area, had been dead for a decade, but was sputtering back to life in recent weeks. And the huge storks, cranes and eagles that paralleled my path kept my head spnning.
Dennis, my driver, urged his moto up the rocky slope to the open grassy hilltop featuring a ragged drooping net between eucalyptus poles, flanked by long classroom structures with windows full of faces instead of glass. A moto, strange, and a Muzungu, even stranger.
Stanley greeted us and presented me a guest book to sign, a ritual I knew well by now. Novel, however, were the mountains of freshly sliced pineapple on two plates brought in by his smiling secretary. We attacked them willingly after the long lunchless ride.
School ended and the 500 kids, clad in olive green, hastily assembled around the court, dutifully obeying Stanley's command. They were absolutely silent and attentive as I introduced myself and spoke of brotherhood through sports, and Todd Rogers' gold medal, and my family at home who taught schools full of children like them this very day. Stanley translated into Ruchiga, and the kids oohed and aahed in unison at my revelations. They erupted in screams and laughter when I ended the speech with a decent skyball, sent up only after confirming the absence of overhead airplanes. I just wish that Dana Camacho had been here to really give them a thrill.
With 10 on each side, including teachers and rotations of selected students, we played for an hour. Dozens scurried after the ball that left the dense grouping at courtside every 3rd or 4th contact at first. But as skills improved and rallies lengthened, the group began to say "boom" at each play, until someone would finaly win to wild cheers. I'd set Stanley often, who could sling it downover the low point of the net to a terminal kill. I'd roll up his sleeve , amazed at his bicep, and 500 voices would howl.
When we finished, all settled about me for my final address. I thanked them in Ruchiga for the afternoon, and presented the school with the ball that Dillan Bennet had given me, after I inscribed it "a gift from the students of Santa Barbara"
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Kagunga Dawn
Feb. 8
At 7 AM , the sounds belong to roosters, the sky to the filtered sunbursts dodging the vast shelf of scattered cloud. Steep canyons of terraced green farmland hug me and the lake before me, in every direction, as an early mist still swaddles several distant shores.
Yesterday's magical moments return -- the 40 minute motor ride from Rukinda market to this far reach of Lake Bunyonyi, the climb to Kabunga parrish, changing discreetly into formal clothes for the church service, delivered exclusively in Rukiga. The congregation had rarely seen Muzungus (whites) and several of the younger children cried as many do upon seeing Santa Claus. They had heard stories of youngsters being eaten by Muzungus, and I was huge and frightening. But the reverend welcomed us warmly and sat us on stage in seats of honor. I spoke to the hundred wide-eyed smiling people before me of brotherhood in belief in family, friendship and sport. Dogeared Bibles and hymn books spoke of decades of intense use, and the drumbeats and dancing made for the most colorful service I've ever seen. Offerings were collected according to your community of residence, and corn, squash, bananas and eggs filled the baskets as well as coins. The goods were later raffled off and turned into cash for parrish projects.
Afterward I dined with the Reverend and showed him the magic of burning incense I'd brought from the 99 cent store in Santa Barbara. I promised to send him a Bible that the Westmont V-ball team had given me 25 years ago, and he blessed me deeply.
Later, smiling men huddled with me in a dark bar, drinking "home brew". All were warm and congenial, as another "middle born" and one of my "age-mates" became solid friends. Local characters, Mechanical John and a dozen others led us on an evening walk along a road through the villages, where tales of elephant and leopard and Pigmy archers animated the coming dark. Not a single TV or automobile intruded in this land without electrical power, but with energy in abundance.
I met the parents and family of my host, Fred, who had invited me to the baptism of his first born, Liberty, some months ago. I'd been unable to attend and this was a belated but solemn introduction to his fantastic community and loved ones.
As we walked off the next morning, his mom ran up the path after us to say another goodbye, and thank me for the fish necklace from Tonga that I'd given her. And I will never forget her smile, and the hug I gave her that embarrassed her so.
The long ride back across the lake gave me time to process this incredible entree to the true richness of this people, this place, and this life.
At 7 AM , the sounds belong to roosters, the sky to the filtered sunbursts dodging the vast shelf of scattered cloud. Steep canyons of terraced green farmland hug me and the lake before me, in every direction, as an early mist still swaddles several distant shores.
Yesterday's magical moments return -- the 40 minute motor ride from Rukinda market to this far reach of Lake Bunyonyi, the climb to Kabunga parrish, changing discreetly into formal clothes for the church service, delivered exclusively in Rukiga. The congregation had rarely seen Muzungus (whites) and several of the younger children cried as many do upon seeing Santa Claus. They had heard stories of youngsters being eaten by Muzungus, and I was huge and frightening. But the reverend welcomed us warmly and sat us on stage in seats of honor. I spoke to the hundred wide-eyed smiling people before me of brotherhood in belief in family, friendship and sport. Dogeared Bibles and hymn books spoke of decades of intense use, and the drumbeats and dancing made for the most colorful service I've ever seen. Offerings were collected according to your community of residence, and corn, squash, bananas and eggs filled the baskets as well as coins. The goods were later raffled off and turned into cash for parrish projects.
Afterward I dined with the Reverend and showed him the magic of burning incense I'd brought from the 99 cent store in Santa Barbara. I promised to send him a Bible that the Westmont V-ball team had given me 25 years ago, and he blessed me deeply.
Later, smiling men huddled with me in a dark bar, drinking "home brew". All were warm and congenial, as another "middle born" and one of my "age-mates" became solid friends. Local characters, Mechanical John and a dozen others led us on an evening walk along a road through the villages, where tales of elephant and leopard and Pigmy archers animated the coming dark. Not a single TV or automobile intruded in this land without electrical power, but with energy in abundance.
I met the parents and family of my host, Fred, who had invited me to the baptism of his first born, Liberty, some months ago. I'd been unable to attend and this was a belated but solemn introduction to his fantastic community and loved ones.
As we walked off the next morning, his mom ran up the path after us to say another goodbye, and thank me for the fish necklace from Tonga that I'd given her. And I will never forget her smile, and the hug I gave her that embarrassed her so.
The long ride back across the lake gave me time to process this incredible entree to the true richness of this people, this place, and this life.
Tranquil Times
Feb. 5
Now begin the days of tranquility - official self-proclaimed duties as court builder, meeting moderator and educational liason all successfully executed. I become a reader - of Lawrence Durrell, whose eloquence I hope influences my own prose ... of The Daily Monitor and New Vision, newspapers that chronicle the political and social dramas of the region, past and present, as the presidential election approaches. It is the 5th, and they will occur on the 18th. Like in the US, they will determine a great deal, and I plan on being absent for the impact. Perhaps in Rwanda with my friend Frederick, in Gisenyi on the shore of Lake Kivu. Fort Portal in the Rwenzori Mountains and a date with a school in Lira to to north are the only items on my itinerary.
I'm running low on nets and balls. The dozens of laughing orphans at the Foundations home who played yesterday on the net I brought, are all I could have intended for my cargo. Chelsea, a daughter of Kent Kitchell's neighbor, held one pole in place, while another attendant secured the other, as I played on the lawn with the kids, trying to teach technique, which surrendered to general chaos and hilarity as young bodies flew and fell, and happiness reigned in their lives ... at least for those fleeting moments.
I also play with the university team at a nearby pre-school that has a nice court. The 4-hour rain yesterday morning had soaked in by 5 PM when some talented players arrived to play. Several could make the Royals squad this year, so they're quite good. I feel lucky for the victory I earned yesterday (28-26 in a game to 21) and the chance to coach these kids who could be awesome with just a little direction. I will leave them the SB Club jerseys that KC gave me, lightening my backpack and perpetuating the legacy of Santa Barbara in this exotic corner of Uganda.
Now begin the days of tranquility - official self-proclaimed duties as court builder, meeting moderator and educational liason all successfully executed. I become a reader - of Lawrence Durrell, whose eloquence I hope influences my own prose ... of The Daily Monitor and New Vision, newspapers that chronicle the political and social dramas of the region, past and present, as the presidential election approaches. It is the 5th, and they will occur on the 18th. Like in the US, they will determine a great deal, and I plan on being absent for the impact. Perhaps in Rwanda with my friend Frederick, in Gisenyi on the shore of Lake Kivu. Fort Portal in the Rwenzori Mountains and a date with a school in Lira to to north are the only items on my itinerary.
I'm running low on nets and balls. The dozens of laughing orphans at the Foundations home who played yesterday on the net I brought, are all I could have intended for my cargo. Chelsea, a daughter of Kent Kitchell's neighbor, held one pole in place, while another attendant secured the other, as I played on the lawn with the kids, trying to teach technique, which surrendered to general chaos and hilarity as young bodies flew and fell, and happiness reigned in their lives ... at least for those fleeting moments.
I also play with the university team at a nearby pre-school that has a nice court. The 4-hour rain yesterday morning had soaked in by 5 PM when some talented players arrived to play. Several could make the Royals squad this year, so they're quite good. I feel lucky for the victory I earned yesterday (28-26 in a game to 21) and the chance to coach these kids who could be awesome with just a little direction. I will leave them the SB Club jerseys that KC gave me, lightening my backpack and perpetuating the legacy of Santa Barbara in this exotic corner of Uganda.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Tranquil times
Feb. 5
Now begin the days of tranquility - official self-proclaimed duties as court builder, meeting moderator and educational liason all successfully executed. I become a reader, of Lawrence Durrell, an author whose eloquence I hope influences my prose; of the Daily Monitor and New Vision, newspapers that chronicle the political and social dramas of the region, past and present, as the presidential election approaches. It is now the 5th, and they wil occur on the 18th, and like in the US they will determine a great deal. I plan on being absent for the impact, perhaps in Rwanda, only an hour to the south. Only Fort Portal in the Rwenzori Mountains and a date with a school in Lira to the north, remain on my itinerary.
I'm running short on v-vall nets and balls. The dozens of laughing orphans at the Foundations home who now play daily on the net I brought are all I could have intended for my cargo. Chelsea, a daughter of Kent Kitchell's neighbor, holds one pole in place while another attendant aecures the other. I play on the lawn with the kids, trying to teach technique which surrenders to general chaos and hilarity as young bodies fly and fall, and happiness reigns in their lives ... at least for the moment.
I also play with the university team at a nearby pre-school that has a nice court. The 4 hour rain yesterday morning had soaked in by 5PM when some talented players arrived to play. Several could make the Royals squad this year, so they are quite good. I'm glad for the victory I earned the day before (28-26 in a game to 21) and the chance to coach these
Now begin the days of tranquility - official self-proclaimed duties as court builder, meeting moderator and educational liason all successfully executed. I become a reader, of Lawrence Durrell, an author whose eloquence I hope influences my prose; of the Daily Monitor and New Vision, newspapers that chronicle the political and social dramas of the region, past and present, as the presidential election approaches. It is now the 5th, and they wil occur on the 18th, and like in the US they will determine a great deal. I plan on being absent for the impact, perhaps in Rwanda, only an hour to the south. Only Fort Portal in the Rwenzori Mountains and a date with a school in Lira to the north, remain on my itinerary.
I'm running short on v-vall nets and balls. The dozens of laughing orphans at the Foundations home who now play daily on the net I brought are all I could have intended for my cargo. Chelsea, a daughter of Kent Kitchell's neighbor, holds one pole in place while another attendant aecures the other. I play on the lawn with the kids, trying to teach technique which surrenders to general chaos and hilarity as young bodies fly and fall, and happiness reigns in their lives ... at least for the moment.
I also play with the university team at a nearby pre-school that has a nice court. The 4 hour rain yesterday morning had soaked in by 5PM when some talented players arrived to play. Several could make the Royals squad this year, so they are quite good. I'm glad for the victory I earned the day before (28-26 in a game to 21) and the chance to coach these
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Kabale Kool
Feb.3
This morning I met with the deputy principal, and then the principal of the Kabale branch of Uganda Christian University, and it was incredible. Brian, a local orphan who I've been sending to the University set up the meeting. The leaders were very enthusiastic about collaboration with UCSB, and already have several American professors teaching there so it would be an easy interaction. Dean Conoley's letter from UCSB's graduate school of education is perfect and is opening doors at every hand, so many more Californian's may soon know the serenity and beauty of this little corner of Southwest Uganda, where the air is cool, Lake Bunyonyi is gorgeous, and smiles are the order of the day.
I presided over a three day meeting of Edirisa, the group I worked for two years ago, and new divisions and directions were determined. The people who attended were from all over the world, united by the mission of respecting Africa and assisting in non-traditional ways. All attendees, Ugandans, British, Irish, Swiss, Slovenians and a couple of us Americans were all such dynamic interesting folk that the friendships developed were just as gratifying as the work accomplished. It ended with Edirisa Multi Media, Tours and Hostel branching off from the Smiles primary education programs and it should make for a smoother operation. Those who would like to volunteer to teach for a month or two (or six) in a fantastic part of Africa have a new conduit to broaden your views of this awesome continent.Edirisa UK is growing and looking for energetic and talented volunteers for placements in many fields. It is inviting.
Jan 31
Eight locals died at the lake yesterday. A blast of wind overturned the loaded dugout canoe they were in and most couldn't swim. They panicked and only a couple swam to the shore. Most people here can't swim. One of Edirisa's projects is to teach kids to do so, but we are battling fears of dark water and very steep shorlines. It is tough to change the course of things in Africa. It is hard to imagine such pain with the tranquil scene of Lake Bunyoni before me, dugouts sliding left to right toward the market day at Rutinda on the lakeside. Students have already been deposited here at Bufuka and climbed the hill to school. We sit on the porch at the Heart of Edirisa, a cup of Afri-Cafe and wonderfully accented conversation to entertain us - as the oppisite terraced hillside of Chayabinga reflect on it all.
Jan. 28
Kashambya. Say the word, sound it out - Kah Sham Bee Yah. That's half the un of talking about Africa - the exotic names of places and things. There is now a volleyball court in Kashambya, beneath the new secondary school of Professor Wilson, with it's blue roofs and new brick that climb the hillside. The football field (soccer pitch) beside the court, was the only sport facility within miles, but two hours of machete and hoe labor by 15 students and teachers cleared the "bush" for court construction.
A strong armed Bakiga man trimmed two eucalyptus poles, selected for their straight strength, to proper length while we layed out the court dimensions. Another man dug out the three foot deep holes with a spear. The poles rose and the net I brought from Big 5 was unfurled like that flag on Iwo Jima. Children played with the balls that Dillan Bennet had sent with me from Laguna Blanca -- crudely at first, then with more and more control. The ten-contact goal was soon passed and Andrew, an 11 year old athlete, soon emerged as the best. The string lengthened to 30 in a row amid wild celebration.
Professor Wilson dreams of bringing kids from all over the bvalled in the name of volleyball, and naming the teams Santa Barbara.
Volleyball camp Uganda is now in place ... in Kashambya ... and my ambitions realized.
This morning I met with the deputy principal, and then the principal of the Kabale branch of Uganda Christian University, and it was incredible. Brian, a local orphan who I've been sending to the University set up the meeting. The leaders were very enthusiastic about collaboration with UCSB, and already have several American professors teaching there so it would be an easy interaction. Dean Conoley's letter from UCSB's graduate school of education is perfect and is opening doors at every hand, so many more Californian's may soon know the serenity and beauty of this little corner of Southwest Uganda, where the air is cool, Lake Bunyonyi is gorgeous, and smiles are the order of the day.
I presided over a three day meeting of Edirisa, the group I worked for two years ago, and new divisions and directions were determined. The people who attended were from all over the world, united by the mission of respecting Africa and assisting in non-traditional ways. All attendees, Ugandans, British, Irish, Swiss, Slovenians and a couple of us Americans were all such dynamic interesting folk that the friendships developed were just as gratifying as the work accomplished. It ended with Edirisa Multi Media, Tours and Hostel branching off from the Smiles primary education programs and it should make for a smoother operation. Those who would like to volunteer to teach for a month or two (or six) in a fantastic part of Africa have a new conduit to broaden your views of this awesome continent.Edirisa UK is growing and looking for energetic and talented volunteers for placements in many fields. It is inviting.
Jan 31
Eight locals died at the lake yesterday. A blast of wind overturned the loaded dugout canoe they were in and most couldn't swim. They panicked and only a couple swam to the shore. Most people here can't swim. One of Edirisa's projects is to teach kids to do so, but we are battling fears of dark water and very steep shorlines. It is tough to change the course of things in Africa. It is hard to imagine such pain with the tranquil scene of Lake Bunyoni before me, dugouts sliding left to right toward the market day at Rutinda on the lakeside. Students have already been deposited here at Bufuka and climbed the hill to school. We sit on the porch at the Heart of Edirisa, a cup of Afri-Cafe and wonderfully accented conversation to entertain us - as the oppisite terraced hillside of Chayabinga reflect on it all.
Jan. 28
Kashambya. Say the word, sound it out - Kah Sham Bee Yah. That's half the un of talking about Africa - the exotic names of places and things. There is now a volleyball court in Kashambya, beneath the new secondary school of Professor Wilson, with it's blue roofs and new brick that climb the hillside. The football field (soccer pitch) beside the court, was the only sport facility within miles, but two hours of machete and hoe labor by 15 students and teachers cleared the "bush" for court construction.
A strong armed Bakiga man trimmed two eucalyptus poles, selected for their straight strength, to proper length while we layed out the court dimensions. Another man dug out the three foot deep holes with a spear. The poles rose and the net I brought from Big 5 was unfurled like that flag on Iwo Jima. Children played with the balls that Dillan Bennet had sent with me from Laguna Blanca -- crudely at first, then with more and more control. The ten-contact goal was soon passed and Andrew, an 11 year old athlete, soon emerged as the best. The string lengthened to 30 in a row amid wild celebration.
Professor Wilson dreams of bringing kids from all over the bvalled in the name of volleyball, and naming the teams Santa Barbara.
Volleyball camp Uganda is now in place ... in Kashambya ... and my ambitions realized.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Into (as opposed to out of) Africa
So much that was forgotten that is now so familiar.
After only 3 days it all becomes abundantly reminiscent of my trip two years ago: the smells of people and diesel and a hundred burning substances; the omnipresent need that only a few dollars could make go away, for a moment or a month; the general squalor of discarded bottles and plastic trash that becomes invisible in time but that shocks Western sensibilities until that day; and the beautiful timeless beauty of so many eyes and faces that erupt into smiles when you return their "Hi Mizungo" with a doffed hat and a comment.
I've returned a thousand eye contacts walking through the ramshakle but invigorating mud based communities around my home, found some fabulous string trick talent in kids I've met, and learned some new string moves from a maid at the house where people have been hosting me. To the children, Philip and Petra, I'm "Unka Jon", a large, sweaty but very entertaining Mizungo.
Today I pumped 6 jerry cans full of water from a well, at 100 shillings (5 cents) per, for the right to do so. The entrepeneur justs sits there and watches the cash roll in. He's the envy of all.
Yesterday I hired a driver for 30 dollars (note the disparity in value) to drive me to and around Makarere University where I tried to make inroads with the teacher education community. It was graduation day, so I unexpectedly got a first row seat at the very colorful proceedings as professors read off lists of names in radiant robes festooned with brilliant reds and greens and golds. Maribu storks in the hundreds animating every view, hats on dignitaries out of that Dr. Seuss book, and students cheering hysterically in the flush of pride and accomplishment, and blissfully unaware of their sad job prospects. Ruth, my guide and a teacher grad of Makarere, is still looking for a job 2 years later. But it was a glorious grad day as I've seen the world over, with proud parents and young adults, anxious for the party to begin.
I made 5 or 6 great contacts with professors and administerative secretaries who were awed by the letter from Jane Conoley, Dean of UCSB's Grad School of Education. A meeitng may be forthcoming in mid-Feb when I return to Kampala. Perhaps something rich and enduring will materialize. Teachers of several schools are eagerly awaiting my visits in the north for net construction and coaching clinics, and those results I can almost guarantee. And I will soon head back to Kabale in the south for the General Edirisa Meeting, and reunions with a dozen friends. I'm anxious.
I sit at a tour camp in Kampala, with a nice internet facility, anticipating a three day trip to the headwaters of the Nile, where hippos, lions, wildebeast, giraffes and exotic feathered wildlife awaits I'm told. With my Birds of East Africa, and my binoculars, I'm somewhat of a tourist again, and it will be enlightening on many fronts, I''m sure. Photos to come ...
After only 3 days it all becomes abundantly reminiscent of my trip two years ago: the smells of people and diesel and a hundred burning substances; the omnipresent need that only a few dollars could make go away, for a moment or a month; the general squalor of discarded bottles and plastic trash that becomes invisible in time but that shocks Western sensibilities until that day; and the beautiful timeless beauty of so many eyes and faces that erupt into smiles when you return their "Hi Mizungo" with a doffed hat and a comment.
I've returned a thousand eye contacts walking through the ramshakle but invigorating mud based communities around my home, found some fabulous string trick talent in kids I've met, and learned some new string moves from a maid at the house where people have been hosting me. To the children, Philip and Petra, I'm "Unka Jon", a large, sweaty but very entertaining Mizungo.
Today I pumped 6 jerry cans full of water from a well, at 100 shillings (5 cents) per, for the right to do so. The entrepeneur justs sits there and watches the cash roll in. He's the envy of all.
Yesterday I hired a driver for 30 dollars (note the disparity in value) to drive me to and around Makarere University where I tried to make inroads with the teacher education community. It was graduation day, so I unexpectedly got a first row seat at the very colorful proceedings as professors read off lists of names in radiant robes festooned with brilliant reds and greens and golds. Maribu storks in the hundreds animating every view, hats on dignitaries out of that Dr. Seuss book, and students cheering hysterically in the flush of pride and accomplishment, and blissfully unaware of their sad job prospects. Ruth, my guide and a teacher grad of Makarere, is still looking for a job 2 years later. But it was a glorious grad day as I've seen the world over, with proud parents and young adults, anxious for the party to begin.
I made 5 or 6 great contacts with professors and administerative secretaries who were awed by the letter from Jane Conoley, Dean of UCSB's Grad School of Education. A meeitng may be forthcoming in mid-Feb when I return to Kampala. Perhaps something rich and enduring will materialize. Teachers of several schools are eagerly awaiting my visits in the north for net construction and coaching clinics, and those results I can almost guarantee. And I will soon head back to Kabale in the south for the General Edirisa Meeting, and reunions with a dozen friends. I'm anxious.
I sit at a tour camp in Kampala, with a nice internet facility, anticipating a three day trip to the headwaters of the Nile, where hippos, lions, wildebeast, giraffes and exotic feathered wildlife awaits I'm told. With my Birds of East Africa, and my binoculars, I'm somewhat of a tourist again, and it will be enlightening on many fronts, I''m sure. Photos to come ...
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Pre-Departure Reflections and Images
I'm testing my blog abilities: posting and photo-fluency. It will all become quite a bit more difficult as I enter the land of "power cuts", limited internet acces and glacial computer speeds. So I need to bolster my confidence. All this techno stuff is tough for one who just recently (and with a daughter's help) learned how to change the image on his facebook profile. Alas.
So here are some photos of highlights of my last trip to Uganda, where I met fabulous friends that I will revisit, a beautiful city (Kabale) that I will reinhabit, and novelty that I relish.
So here are some photos of highlights of my last trip to Uganda, where I met fabulous friends that I will revisit, a beautiful city (Kabale) that I will reinhabit, and novelty that I relish.
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