Throw off the Bowlines

A peacecorps flashback...

i'm sitting on a pristine  cushioned loveseat in a house made of mudbricks. the mud floor is covered in   dry grasses that feel soft on the feet. there are a few colorful grass mats as well. the walls of the living room are plastered with color pages of english-language ugandan newspapers featuring local and international celebrities.

i'm in the village of Kiho, just 21km outside Mbarara. i came here with lillian, who is 17 and the eldest of 6 and only daughter in her family. we met a number of weeks ago when we were 2 of the 7 female participants in the first ever Mbarara 5K race (i came in 1st and she came in 2nd place... yes i can say that i won a foot race in africa!) we exchanged numbers and met a few times in town to share sodas.  today she has invited me home to visit her family, and it was an offer i could not refuse.

lillian normally stays with her uncle and takes care of her grandmother while she attends secondary school in Mbarara. when we first met, i noticed that she didn't speak very good english. our phone conversations were always a little strained, as we each tried to    make ourselves understood and to understand. but today, i realize just how great her english is compared to everyone in Kiho. she acts as translator and guide as we walk from house to house through the matooke and sugar plantations. we  meet her cousins, brothers, best friends, and neighbors.

when we first arrived she took me to a house on the roadside and introduced me to a family, and a man she called her 'father.' i reached into my bag and presented him with a 1kg bag of sugar and some washing soap- gifts i was told would be appropriate to present to her family. i could see the dismay on lillian's face, quickly replaced with a timid smile. this wasn't her true 'father,' just a man whom she called father (like every other man in the village.) at this point, sitting comfortably in her home and being served by her mother and brothers, i'm still kicking myself for making such a rookie mistake.

during my short four hour visit, i am the most exciting thing in Kiho. some say i'm the first mzungu to come here (unlikely, though it's possible).  lillian parades me around proudly, and i'm happy to get a glimpse of life here, while using the few words of runyankole that i know. i can tell how special a day this is for lillian, too. she has brought the nice mzungu here, she is worldly and successful and proud. she and her select friends get to eat lunch with me on the settees in the living room while the rest of her family, mother and father included, eat on grass on the floor in another room. after a lovely meal of matooke, rice, g-nut sauce and obushera (millet porridge), the room starts to fill with curious neighbors. i am poked and petted, stared at and entertained. a boy of 5 brings a pair of rabbits into the room, gripping them by the ears. everyone laughs when i pick one up to my lap to pet it.

after a while, the smile on my face starts to feel forced and my cheeks sore. i'm growing weary of being told "say, agandi nyabo!"  (hello, ma'am) and " nashemerewa oku'kureba!" ('nice to meet you').  i'm tired of being the center of attention, of being lillian's show-and-tell doll. i remember this feeling so clearly, from peace corps. how in 2004, following maqu around naiserelagi and rakiraki, i would be exhausted after a few hours, and beg to retire to a room to read a book. i called myself his 'prada purse' as i knew my mere existance boosted his status. it helps to remember those feelings as i call upon more patience and we go to visit lillian's primary school before catching a bodaboda back to the main road, where we hail a returning matatu.

lillian's mother sends us off with a plastic bag full of papaya and sugar cane.  i feel peaceful and content squeezed into the back seat of the matatu, cruising toward Mbarara. i tell myself that no matter how old and successful i may (or maynot) become, i will always accept such invitations to be experience life in a village and to be  humbled by the generosity of people like lillian and her family.

Blame it on the alcohol...

in fiji, the beverage of choice is yaqona. in maine, it's hard cider. in cuba, rum. in italy, red wine. in west virginia, moonshine. in greece, ouzo. in vanuatu, kava. in NYC, it's beer. in uganda, it's undoubtedly waragi.

dare i call it a universal? people enjoy using substances to alter their states of mind. everywhere i've traveled, there's been some new local brew to try. it's a lucky day, however, when i get to tour the facilities- and sample.

you find few businesses in the ruhiira cluster. brickmaker--yes. matooke farmers--yes. the odd tailor, shop owner, or restauranteur are also there, although selection is limited. but there is serious business in waragi.

the economics i took last year tell me that i should not be surprised, given that the capital investment costs are low, ingredients are plentiful, demand increases with consumption, and the going rate for a jerry can is 80,000 UGS... more than any restauranteur is likely to see in a day-- even more than the cost of a scrawny goat. (please note the jerry cans full of waragi are much cleaner than any jerry cans i've seen carting water around).

waragi is a crude gin, made from matooke (bananas). from what i gather, the distilling process is as follows:

1. 4 jerrycans of tonto (a milky brown juice made from  fermented matooke- your standard homebrew) are poured into the big black drums, which are constantly heated from below by a charocoal fire

 

2. as the mixture boils and steam is formed, it escapes through a metal coil at the top of the drum

 

3. the long looping coil goes through running water, and so as the steam passes through it cools and condenses, producing the waragi, which drips into the jerry can at the end of the line

4 jerry cans of tonto= 1 jerry can of waragi, hence the price tag. tonto can be taken on its own as well, although it can make the drinker blind... or at least give him bad gas.

i took a few drops of the final product in my hand, and only had just touched it with my tounge before grimacing and sputtering, much to everyone's amusement. the drink is 10x stronger than any market waragi here, reeking almost of rubbing alcohol. of course, as the men are running this business, they are also liberally 'testing' the product as well, so when we encountered them on our way to the water source committee meeting, more than a few were tripping over themselves as we made our way up to the protected spring.

which brings me to another cross-cutting trend... in so many countries (particularly developing countries) where i have worked, women are cooking, cleaning, farming, fishing, washing, all while carrying babies on their backs and sending others off to school. come 2pm in the afternoon, where are the men?

in fiji, you may find them dozing in a yaqona-induced stupor. in vanuatu, look no farther than the exclusively male nakamal. in ruhiira, uganda they are at the pool tables, saloons, and backyard benches, enjoying the fruits of their labor. though i always considered prohibition to be a paternalistic and ineffectual virtue promoted by christian crusaders, i'm just beginning to glimpse just what a triumph the law must have been for women's lib.

what progress can we make in our communities, in gender sensitization, in education, in enterprise when half the population is chronically drunk? well, at least i can tell you one business that's booming in ruhiira...

It's the great pumpkin, charlie brown

henry bought a pumpkin last week when i told him i wanted to make pumpkin curry. henry has lots of experience buying bagels and cheese and pineapple, but not so much pumpkin, so he bought one that was absurdly large. i'm talking at least 8 lbs. and this was no soft, mushy orange pumpkin of jack-o-lantern carving, but a gourd with a thick waxy skin.

not one to be daunted by produce (and, as jim's mum always says, "waste is a crime"), i was determined to make good use of this pumpkin and make people eat it! little did i know this task would take the better part of two days and give me such appreciation for pioneer housewives.

step 1: carve pumpkin into pieces with a dull knife. do not chop off your fingers. remove the waxy rind from the meat (it turns your hands brown and peely... hmm wonder what pesticides those are)

step 2: remove seeds and let them dry outside on a piece of paper (out of reach of the pesky dogs). these can be fried or baked later with salt for a tasty snack

step 3: cook raw chunks of pumpkin in the broken pressure cooker on the burner. make sure to relieve the pressure manually every few minutes, since the device is, in fact, broken.

step 4: preheat the outdoor clay oven. stoke with charcoal and use meat thermometer to determine appropriate heat.

step 5: divide the gallons of cooked pumpkin you have into a few iron chef-worthy recipes such as:

• pumpkin bread
• pumpkin cake
• pumpkin pie
• pumpkin bars
• pumpkin cookies
• thai pumpkin soup
• pumpkin curry
• pumpkin ravioli
• check this website for more ideas...

step 6: grease tins and mix your ingredients (but be careful that your tin isn't wider than the mouth of the clay oven... since most of the tins are, you may want to use a pot)

step 7: cook enough pumpkin baked goods and meals for an army

step 8: do not leave soup on the stove overnight. pumpkin moulds very rapidly...

bon appetit!

Runyankole for beginners

i've been picking up useful bits of the local language, runyankole. it comes in very handy in the office, at the market, when greeting people in Ruhiira, and catching local bodaboda drivers by surprise. 

nishoma runyankole mpolampola-- "i'm learning runyakole slowly"

ekiteteyi kyawe nikirungi-- "your dress is nice"

ninkukunda kicazi-- "i love you baby"

tinkunda kurya omuchuchu-- "i don't like to eat dust"

yegendesereze- "you watch out!"

and then driving back from one of the water committee meetings with the community development facilitators yesterday, james shared a new word with me. pointing to an overgrown plantation, he said, 'that man is okufisa' and all the ugandans shared a knowing chuckle.

okufisa is runyankole for a big important person who is so busy running around doing this and traveling there that his gardens at home have become overgrown, his cattle have wasted away, and his wife is off with another man. i raised my eyebrows and nodded in agreement, understanding that some traits are cross-cultural. an okufisa man has confused his priorities. he's busy planting seeds here and there, but he cares for none of them, so his gardens wither and die. such a man leaves the world with many stamps in his passport, but no place to call home.

and then i started to wonder... am i okufisa? granted i have no garden to wither. i own no land, not even a car, only a few pieces of ikea furniture. but is it wise to travel the world, helping in many places, but neglecting my own hometown? missing my family and friends, missing my fiance and his children, missing the important moments in their lives even as my network grows and i am privy to important moments in the lives of relative strangers.

is it possible to work in this field without being okufisa? if i join state department or an international NGO, spending 2-3 years in every country, staying just long enough to make superficial friendships and then saying goodbye...is this the life i'm signing up for? is this the life i want?

i only have a few more weeks here in uganda, and then i'll be heading home to spend time with my parents. mom, maybe while i'm home you can show me some of your gardening techniques. i love my wings, but i also want my roots to grow deep and strong.

And then there was water...

in preparation for the arrival of Professor Jeffrey Sachs and a delegation of MVP donors and friends, the infrastructure team has been operating in high gear to get water flowing in time for the commissioning of the Ruhiira pumped water system.

in the rush there have been some hitches along the way. faulty pumps, touchy generators, and bursting pipes have all prevented the team from getting a good night's sleep for over a week. 

but in addition to mechanical issues, community conflicts have posed challenges to the preparations. last wednesday, without prior notice, the contractors started filling in the unsightly cattle watering hole that occupied the space between the pumphouse and the generator shed- the same area where the delegation would stand throughout the pump commissioning ceremony. when the unknowing farmers arrived with their thirsty herds, they threatened to arrest the contractors and nearly caused a brawl on site. with quick thinking, community development and local leaders intervened with a temporary solution- lending a cattle trough for use in the area until a more permanent cement watering hole could be constructed post-ceremony. still, this could have been avoided with better communication of the plan and a meeting with farmers to discuss options and agree upon a solution prior to the backfilling of the cattle watering hole.

i wondered how community members felt about the imminent promise of piped water. this was their first priority when the project entered 5 years ago. from accounts i gathered, some believed that despite all the work going on, water would never come to Ruhiira. some refused to donate land for the public good, or stop using the catchment area for grazing, despite the fact that this would compromise the quality for everyone. some hoped for water, but declared they would never pay for it- making the scheme unsustainable. some even secretly hoped that the project would fail, spiteful of the team who had made so many demands of them, hoping to gain political traction when their leaders were exposed as charlatans.

what do they say? no good deed goes unpunished? certainly, no project- however necessary and seemingly uncontestable- is without its controversies. perhaps this is why engineers prefer working with pipes and generators and pumps to working with people- their unpredictable moods do not follow the laws of physics.

  then on thursday, T minus 1 day until commissioning,  i was down at the kakoni source when the pumps were first tested. we raced the water up to the Ruhiira trading center to find a crowd had gathered with all manner of containers, jerry cans, pots and buckets to collect the water pouring forth through the pipes laid by community members from the protected source hundreds of meters below.

this was one of those rare moments of sincere gratitude that made this work worthwhile. it was a revelation to realize that this was the first day in the history of Ruhiira when women and children would not make the 1-3km trek downhill to return carrying full jugs on their heads. the first day when every drop of water consumed or used for cooking would not require at least 40 minutes of labor.

it was over just as suddenly as it started- it was, afterall, only a test pumping. a few stragglers with empty jerry cans looked around, asking if someone could turn the water back on. but something has changed forever in Ruhiira. though development tends to happen at an imperceptible trickle pace, today it was a torrent.