Shower in a gerry can

As I write this I am terribly hot and sweaty. I could see my shiny reflection in my laptop screen while it booted – it’s a terrible sight! Emma and I have taken to going for pre breakfast runs on a morning (which, to be fair, necessitate a pre pre breakfast snack because neither of us can run on an empty stomach) hence the hot and sweaty sight. Today when we came back from our run, I jumped into the shower, only to find that there was no water there to accompany me. This was a terrible moment! It was only 8am but I’d already managed to work up a sweat and it was currently running off me in a rather disgusting fashion. Just as I was half way through a ‘baby wipe shower’ I was presented with a plastic basin and a Gerry can full of water. (I’m not 100% sure what the basin was for as I've been told that I'm supposed simply to tip the cold Gerry can full of water all over me). The most difficult part is washing your face, because I can’t lift the can with 1 hand (it's too big), there can be no dainty splashing of water onto the temples, instead there’s just a torrent poured straight into your face. I'd like to be the hardened traveller by now but I did let out an involuntary shriek when the cold water first washed over me, which amused the girls next door.

Goodbye Claude

Possibly you've noticed that it's been a while since we had an update from Claude. Well, that's because Uganda's most forgetful volunteer has gone home!

This came as rather a surprise to me because he forgot to tell anyone that he was planning to leave the program early. It turns out that as part of his degree he is doing a term in Hong Kong...he then forgot to accept his place on the program and so lost it, but the fact remains that he still had flights home booked on the initial assumption that he would be going.

I was a bit worried that he wouldn't leave, primarily because he had decided to book his own transport and I thought he might, you know, forget. But all went off without a hitch and he has gone to cause chaos elsewhere.

I've always wanted to Milk a Cow

This morning I went to visit my neighbour, Peace. She’s a beautiful young lady with a sweet personality. She’s 23 years old and has a 7-year-old child. She lives with her mother, uncle, 3 brothers, 3 sisters, her own daughter and nephew. Anyway, I was there because she had promised me last night when we went round for dinner that I could come today and milk her cow. It was quite a different experience to milking a cow in England. For a start the cow’s back legs were tied up to stop it kicking over the bucket, there was no milking stool, we just squatted next to it, the calf was invited in to start proceedings (thereby making it easier for the human milkers) and then shooed away. When I tried milking a cow in the new forest, its udders were so big that the calf couldn’t get down low enough to drink from them! The next part was much more similar to home – I was invited in, shown how to do things, then I took over and milked diddly squat. Actually, to be fair on me, I would have been exceptionally pleased with myself if it wasn’t for the clear indication from Martin, my teacher, that he didn’t consider my efforts to be very fruitful. He kept frustratedly showing me the technique again and so I gathered that I wasn’t quite meeting his standard. It’s all a case of perception! It’s a mystery to me how some people have a natural aptitude for milking. It will take me a long time! One of these naturally good people was Emma, who showed up some way into proceedings (having been absent thus far due to her early morning run, which I had forsaken due to the cow), took a few photos and turned her hand to milking. The jets of milk coming from the cow with Emma in charge pleased Martin very much. I was impressed too. We finished proceedings with a mug of fresh milk each. It didn’t taste like normal whole milk, possibly a bit sourer, but maybe that was because it wasn’t refrigerated. After all, it’s very rare for a Brit to taste room temperature milk.

Some people will use any excuse to stop running...

Yesterday morning Emma and I went for a run before breakfast (although to be fair, we do claim that this necessitates a small pre-breakfast-breakfast so we fuelled up on bananas). As we ran some of the local children decided to run with us, one of them took my hand, which made me feel a little lopsided. It’s not easy to run while holding onto someone’s hand, at least not if you’re as unfit as me. The first interesting thing we came across was a black line across the path that on closer inspection turned out to be the most enormous trail of ants who had built up sandy barricades either side of their road to make some sort of ant-esque superhighway. As we went on I felt a sting on my leg. You guessed it, as I observed them, one of them had decided to have a closer observation of me and got inside my trousers. The child very helpfully assisted in the killing of this rather mangled ant.

The second interesting thing that we came across was some men in a field standing amongst big piles of stone. If I’m honest, it was partly because I wanted an exercise break that I suggested we go over to see if they could tell us what they were up to. They could; their level of English was pretty good; they were mining stone. There was a child in the pit throwing up slabs, and a man sat on a pile of little stones with a hammer who was smashing up the big stones to aid in the proliferation of little stones. After watching for a bit, I realised that there were spare hammers and so I asked if I could have a go. The men were tickled pink that a white woman would try her hand at their work (of course, it’s easy for me, I can stop when I’ve had enough, so I don’t see it as arduous at all). I picked up a big stone, was surprised to realise it was solid granite, took a hammer in hand and handed another one to Emma (who had introduced herself to everyone as Anna as we find this new name catches on better). I hit the stone hard a few times and succeeded in nothing more than making some white marks on it, then all at once it fell apart. Not quite into pieces as small as I needed but all the same I was very pleased and kept up my hammering. As the person in charge of the health and safety of all the volunteers I was glad it was me, rather than anyone else, engaging in this extremely risky activity. Incredibly, the men were working while wearing flip flops and no eye protection, so I felt that at least my running shoes and glasses were a step in the right direction. It was probably no coincidence that most of them had missing teeth and so I reminded Emma not to smile while hitting the rock. Before leaving I looked down into the pit, and as if my mind were being read, it was suggested that maybe I’d like to climb into the mine to have a go at chipping off a bigger piece of rock. Yes, I thought that would be fun. So I lowered myself in (it was only about 8ft or so with lots of good footholds on the way) and climbed from bolder to bolder to the exposed rock face (it was quite flat, it looked like an enormous grey half-carved ham – very easy to see where you start) the footing wasn’t the best and I marvelled at the way anyone could do it in flip flops. When I was ready I planted my feet firmly each on a flat rock and was passed an enormous hammer. To be honest, this was my undoing. I could lift it easily, but wield it, not at all! I did give it a good go, but the effect of waving a weight of that magnitude unbalanced me on my feet and I struck the rock with all the force of a doctor tapping a patient’s knee to test their reflexes. I did have a couple more goes but must admit that I was not equal to the task, not by a long way. I wasn’t keen to stay in the mine as another man had started proper work some distance from me; his granite chips were flying over and able to deliver  a nasty sting when they struck me so I scampered out. Happily for my duty of care, Emma didn’t follow my example and remained the contented spectator.

When we got home I tried to act out to our host mother and aunt what we’d been up to. I’m pretty sure they thought I’d been using an overarm technique to hoe a field but they were suitably impressed.

Custard and Beans

Due to a communications error this evening there was no food at dinner time. Our host home thought we’d be cooking, we thought they’d be cooking and we’d be making pudding (something that’s nearly impossible to communicate because the concept of pudding doesn’t exist for most people in East Africa). Our host brother said that he was happy to go to bed without eating because he was used to it (which is surprising but maybe he had a tough childhood) but that he was worried about us. Frankly, so was I. Not least because the whole family might be about to go to bed hungry because of our miscommunications and that’s more than anyone’s conscience should have to bear.

I set about bringing together everything we had to hand and we put on a ‘supper of snacks’. (You have to be specific about things such as this here as even hearty foods like samosas or chapattis count as snacks). We prepared everything in the dark because someone has removed the light bulb from the kitchen (I don’t know where it’s gone but I’d question whether its destination could possibly be more critical) and eventually served hopelessly unripe avocado, Ugandan porridge, Heinz baked beans, cake, custard and 2 cups of English-style tea. The highlight of the meal were the beans, custard and cake. We struggled to persuade our hosts to separate out the sweet from savoury. It’s hard to justify the intrinsic truth that one should finish their baked beans before adding custard to the plate – that’s just the way it is. It was commented that custard is the sort of food that would make a Ugandan want to visit London, which is by way of the highest compliment around – our English food is not always much appreciated here and we’ve had a few unsuccessful introductions to it. The tea is a good example – I had put milk in it but no sugar and it was deemed undrinkable by our host mum. I considered this to be just as well because when I made the tea I had thought it was to be mine.

Schaffer's Glasses

One other interesting thing that’s happened recently was 2 nights ago, I went to see my host sister, Schaffer, at her boarding school. She’s 9 years old and before she went back to school she was the female that spoke the best English in our household (we can usually communicate simple things to her aunt and mother, but it’s not the same). She’s had a lot of problems at school because she has terrible eyesight. She had some glasses that enabled her to see the blackboard, but the other children thought she was being too showy, too ostentatious with her posh eyewear and so they smashed them. This is why she had to come home and how we came to meet her. She couldn’t stay forever though, blind or otherwise and so eventually she was sent back on the basis that she could still listen to the teacher even if she couldn’t see. There is a New Zealander who came to visit here in 2007. He still has very good relations with the household and funds Schaffer’s glasses. He doesn’t mind how many times she needs new ones and magnanimously replaces them as long as she gets to continue her education. As we were missing Schaffer at home, we went along to join her father as he delivered the glasses. It was a very nice task. Of course there was much excitement that 3 white ladies had shown up at the school and Schaffer was extremely shy. I felt that maybe I shouldn’t have come because the eyes of the school are more attention than any 9 year old should have to bear (particularly given that being a show off is the reason her glasses were smashed in the first place). Anyway, my moral worries aside, it was nice to be shown the classroom. It was dimly lit and there was a big blackboard. The desks, benches and floor were all made of wood; it was typical of the schools I’ve seen in Kenya and Fiji. Schaffer sat down in her usual place: the centre of the front row. She put her glasses on and we all watched as she started to read the board aloud, very slowly. The audience was big, it was composed of her father, teacher, us volunteers and then most of the children of the school, amassed in a semicircular crowd. Watching her able to read again was a very touching moment (in hindsight I’m surprised that I didn’t find it more emotional). Then I crouched down next to her, so my eyeline was the same as hers; I took my glasses off and tried to read the board. I couldn’t do it. As is often the way for people with eyes like mine, one or two words jumped out at me while others remained totally illegible. It was therefore rather unfortunate that the only thing I could read aloud to everyone was “Vomiting. Severe vomiting”. Although this was quite funny I also found it quite moving. I wondered how many children there are in this country who can’t see the board in their classroom. I’m lucky enough to be quite accomplished academically speaking, but had I been born in Uganda I certainly would have been a disaster. Probably an illiterate disaster. I’d quite like to support a charity that helps children to be able to see well enough to learn. I’ll have to look into it and see what my options are. But then at the same time, perhaps there are bigger fish to fry, like getting more children into schools at all. I’ll have to think about this… I know what my problem is – I can’t commit to any idea!

Claude in Trouble

Claude (the somewhat hapless volunteer) received his first formal warning last night (there's a 3 stage disciplinary program here: verbal warning, written warning, volunteer sent home). The trouble with him is that he has no idea what the rules are on this placement because he wasn’t paying attention when they were taught to him. He’s rarely paying attention any of the time. The key thing that he’s in trouble for, is deciding to sleep at a hotel with his new girlfriend (a relationship that sadly lasted less than a week as she had to go back to America. This is not necessarily a great loss as Claude does have another girlfriend back at home in France) without having permission to do so (the organisation are fairly strict on this - the volunteers do need to come home each night in order for us to keep them safe). While we're at it he’s also in trouble for not making an effort to fit in with cultural norms here. Specifically, he has decided that the standard of his host home’s toilet does not satisfy him and it transpires that he has regularly opted instead to defecate in his neighbour's field. Can you believe it?! We're all quite shocked but Claude can't understand why. I dread to think what would happen if he were caught and I hope to goodness that he doesn't pollute the groundwater supplying the local well. He’s also been caught riding on a motorbike as the 3^rd passenger. The trouble is that not only can he not remember the rule saying that 3 people is too many for 1 motorbike, but he can’t even remember doing it. His memory is that bad!!!!