An Ah-ha Moment

I had a small ah-ha moment today while running errands in the center of Gulu. Drenched with sweat on a 90-something-degree, equatorial-Africa day, I was picking my way carefully through or around the many obstacles a person who is 'footing it' must negotiate -- obstacles such as jagged, broken edges of uneven concrete here and there (never stretching far enough to be a real sidewalk) or the barriers that suddenly block your way even when you think you're walking on the most-beaten path through dirt or gravel. Two examples come to mind -- the bicycle repair area and the machine shop, both of which completely filled the space between the row of store entrances and the road itself, forcing pedestrians like me to check traffic and step out into the street to get past. I had maneuvered around several motorcycles -- some in motion and some parked at a 'boda' station waiting for clients. And always, everywhere, are the holes, bumps, mini-ditches, and toe-stubbable glitches demanding a walker's attention.

My attention was divided. I was noticing where my foot could safely take its next step, wondering what street I was on and whether I could ever find this block again if I wanted to (street name signs are rare, and most shops look the same as a dozen others with similar names), and at the same timetrying to choose a shop where I might be able to buy a frying pan -- it's hard to tell what's inside the shop without going in and asking; they are small and most of the merchandise is behind the counter and/or beyond reach on shelves that line the wall and reach to the ceiling.

A few other things were happening at the same time -- observing the people on my path, smiling and greeting at times, and popping into one of the so-called, tiny 'supermarkets' to buy vaseline for my dry, cracked-open, sandal-exposed feet. About that time I approached the vendor stalls lining the edge of the open-air local market (top photo) and realized my step had become bouncier, responding slightly to lively Afro-pop music coming from a CD vendor there. I think I smiled inside; I know I had to stop myself from dancing down the path.

As I continued on, dodging others and looking back over my shoulder to be sure a 'boda' or cyclist wasn't about to run over me, I realized one of the reasons I like living in Africa. It helps keep me in the present moment. (I think that's why the bus ride described in my December posts was so therapeutic, also. I got out of my head and into my experience of the moment.)

With my mind focused on my immediate surroundings, it's less likely I'll be cruising through my days on auto-pilot, my thoughts lingering on something in the past or jumping ahead toward something, real or imagined, in the future. I think of all those self-help books I've read (thank you, E. Tolle et al), all those attempts to quiet an overly-analytical mind and learn to live mindfully and at peace with myself. I'm sure the street scene I've just described doesn't sound 'peaceful,' and my state of mind is still a long way from enlightened, but it does feel -- to me -- that I've been gifted with a wonderful tool called 'life in gulu, uganda'

An Improvised English Lesson

Several of the One Mango Tree tailors have told us they wish to improve their English. Some of them are quite good at conversational English but need reading and writing help; others understand only a little and are afraid to speak at all, so they need the basics. In fact, there are a few who are not able to read and write in their Acholi language.

Assessing their level of proficiency has been one challenge; finding a suitable time for English classes has been another. Transportation is always an issue; most of them walk or ride bikes a fairly long distance to get to the OMT workshop and would not be able to go home and return for evening classes. Nor would they want to stay after their 8 to 5 workday; by that time they are tired and hungry and ready to go home and face their homemaker duties.

Today an opportunity arose. The women were at work but the fabric delivery had been delayed and there was nothing for them to cut and sew. Time for an English lesson, but where should I begin? There was no chalk board and no student texts and workbooks , all of which I was accustomed to using for teaching ESL classes in Dallas. Although I brought with me one copy of the ESL teaching materials, I quickly realized that even if I had enough copies, they were not appropriate for Uganda. How can people who live in round, one-room, thatch-roof huts with no electricity relate to a lesson plan built around a graphic depicting a two-story house with basement, attic, and garage -- and filled with modern appliances?

The book did give me an idea, though. I found a page listing words that describe people and things. To make it more fun, I decided I would tell them a word, make sure everyone understood how to use it and spell it and then ask for its opposite. I also found a tourist magazine with articles about Uganda that we could read aloud, taking turns, or that I could read and then quiz them for comprehension. My plan was to make this class for the more advanced English speakers and wait until another time for the women who speak little or no English.

I found a piece of poster paper to write on and some typing paper and pens for them to use, and invited 5 or 6 women to join me under a shade tree. We had barely begun when other women came to join us. Pretty soon they had all come, including the women who could not understand what I was saying. I struggled to find a middle ground, to hold the interest of the more advanced students (by throwing in some slang and some humor) while keeping it basic enough for most of them to grasp at least something.

I had fun because I love words so much. I think they did, too. I hope they learned something. I hope they will come back when we schedule the next class. They have a homework assignment --- to practice writing something, anything, and to bring it to me for feedback and corrections. I’ve already received one -- an amazing song written by Pamella about her memories of the war torn years in Northern Uganda. I am blown away by her creativity and drive. And she now knows how to spell about 10 words that she was only guessing at before our exercise.

Now, if only I could learn their Acholi (Luo) language. They keep trying to teach me and I can manage a few phrases and greetings but they usually laugh at me so I know I'm saying them incorrectly or at the wrong time.

Boys and Baby Dolls

I’m intrigued – and puzzled – by the fascination of a few small boys in Uganda for white baby dolls. I first saw the somber little guy in the top photo when I was visiting Prisca’s home back in November. He’s the child of a neighbor. When I returned for a New Year’s Day visit, there he was again. The doll was quite a bit more beat up – in fact its belly was slit open and spilling out – but the boy was still devotedly clutching his baby. He came inside with about a dozen neighborhood kids to watch videos and for a while he let an older boy hold the doll. Then he took it back and sat, apparently caressing the baby in his lap.

A few days later I spotted an older boy and two little girls playing with two Muzungu (white) dolls behind the coffee shop in town; they eagerly posed for me. This baby doll, too, was ragged and had ink marks on its face. The little Barbie-type doll was lily white – the only hint of it being an African child’s doll was the hair style – African braids. I was glad at least for that touch.

Now, that’s about all I have to present as fact – everything else will be conjecture and wonderings. Is it more acceptable for boys to play with dolls here than it is in the U.S.? It would be a good thing, but seems not to match this male-dominated, homophobic society. I do see a few boys caretaking their younger siblings, but usually that role belongs to the young girls of the household. Have these kids’ lives been so permeated by the violence in Northern Uganda that they are somehow, mysteriously, drawn to a moment in which they can give the nurturing they themselves crave? How do they feel about the color of these Muzungu dolls that someone in the U.S. probably donated? Are there no black baby dolls available here? There should be. Is there some way to engender in grown-up boys a similar loving, protective role with their real-life babies? Or will these boys become in a few years the all-too-common absentee fathers, sowing seeds and leaving several wives to care for the babies all alone?

Clearly I have more questions than answers. Anyone??