Photos from Kibale trip - sorry no chimp shots   ¶ 1:40 PM 0 Comments

  I get schooled Last week Thursday I had a smaller English class than usual. I decided instead of coming in with a structured lesson plan, I would just to talk with my students and see where the conversation took us. I used this technique a lot in Japan when I was doing individual or small group lessons. I would teach vocabulary and grammar points that arose during the course of the conversation. It’s a much more student-centered approach. It’s a well-known maxim of language instruction that the more the lesson is centered on the teacher, the less the students are actually learning. It’s harder than you might think to resist the tendency to teach at the students. Involving them actively in the lesson takes a lot more energy and forethought. For every ounce of effort you get out of the students you have to put in at least twice that amount.

So the seven students and I sat down around a big table. I got everyone to talk about their day, and wrote down all the vocabulary and grammar that came up. One student talked about cooking, and I asked him about the steps for making millet bread. We learned boil, steam, pot, spoon, and stir. Some of the words were very similar to French, and the students were pleased to make the connection. I asked each student what languages he or she spoke and was astounded by the responses. Almost all Congolese can speak French and Swahili, plus any combination of the over 400 local languages spoken in the country. The students gave me a list of names that set my imagination wheeling. Lingala. Kinande. Aloor. Ashuku. Mushi. Temne. Kihema. Kikongo. It’s hard to fully accept in my heart that every one of those names represents an entire structure and vocabulary, complete with shades of meaning, colloquialisms, and regional differences as hotly contested as the great pop/soda divide. It seems there is no end to human creativity and inventiveness. Thinking about it, I get the sensation of staring into the depths of a deep well that may well continue down to the center of the earth. It's amazing, but at the same time it also fills me with a type of anger, a feeling of impotence. How can so many languages possibly exist in the world? What’s the point of all that duplicated effort, all those exquisitely detailed schemes and blueprints, when each one can communicate its rich and textured understanding of the world only to an extremely small group of isolated people? It certainly makes my titanic struggles with learning Spanish and Japanese (two languages out of thousands!) seem pathetic and rather futile.

The students were very interested in the languages spoken in the U.S. They were amazed that all across the country, most people speak only English. There is no regional language spoken in Texas, Ohio, Massachusetts, or Colorado. The students were very impressed they said, “This is why America can be a united country. You don’t have the problems we have in Congo.” I think they are right, to a certain extent. We don’t have the linguistic identity crisis as in Quebec or Catalunya. But we miss out on a lot as well. Most Americans never get to pull back the curtain and view the inner workings of their language. As a result they never understand how much its structures form the framework for their understanding of the world. They never learn that past, present, and future are really just one way of structuring your time. That you can have a perfectly functional language that makes no distinction between ‘now’ and ‘later.’ That masculine and feminine and singular and plural are not absolute categories. That to some people think it’s much more important to distinguish between whether one is talking about a member of one’s family or an outsider. That, even within the European languages there is a subtle but important difference between the Germanic “I like” (active, taking ownership of one’s feelings, exercising dominion over the favored object) and the Romanic “it pleases me.” The students had a very sophisticated view of language politics; not surprising considering their very personal experience with generations of conflict inspired at least in part by linguistic differences. We talked about the civil war in Congo, and about the Basques and the Quebecois. We discussed the tension between assimilation and identity, and families and individuals living in an uneasy truce between the two.

After talking about language the conversation took another interesting turn. Somehow the subject of marriage came up. We talked about traditional African polygamous marriage, Christian marriage, the American “triangular family” (mother, father, children) versus the African family which resembles more a pentagon, octagon, dodecahedron. We talked about why so many American marriages end in divorce. “It’s because they don’t know Jesus,” pronounced a middle aged man, a preacher, with the absolute certainty that is exclusive property of those who believe that the answer to every question can be found in a book. As someone not exactly on intimate terms with Jesus, I somehow still found myself defending Americans as a Christian people. I tried to tell this kind yet arrogant man that I don’t believe anybody holds the monopoly the truth. That I believe there is more than one way to be a Christian, and that one can be a good and righteous person without the benefit of any religious teaching. This is the same fight I got into with a friend in Ecuador who said of anyone whose beliefs differed slightly from her own “those people say they are Christians, but they aren’t really.” How can anyone say that? How can anyone say that of all the millions of religions in the world, and all the hundreds of sects of just Christianity, that their random tiny little sect, whose gospel has been filtered through Jews, Romans, Sun-worshipers, Medieval lords offering rewards in the afterlife for obedience in this one, Crusaders, dispensation sellers, power-hungry popes, defiant Kings, social outcasts, lunatics, business-obsessed merchants, colonizers, conquistadors, slaveholders, witch burners, cult leaders, doomsayers, holy-rollers, charlatans, faith healers, snake charmers, revivalists, missionaries, televangelists, charismatic preachers, all of whom had a finger in the pie, all of whom glorified God almost as much as they glorified themselves. All of these people had incentive to favor one interpretation over another, to add their own accent and phrasing to the trans-generational game of telephone. Can anyone really be so arrogant as to think that among all the clashing notes, the single lonely strain that was passed down to him – one theme in that garbled chorus, that ode to human ambition – is the One True Word of God?

After I said my bit the preacher launched, all hesitation at using English forgotten, into a full-throttle sermon. He lectured to me about the biblical commandment that a woman obey her husband. He said every woman who acts otherwise is denying the word of God. He said that Americans have so many divorces because we are sinners, and we must, by submitting to our husbands submit to God. I had to fight really hard against my desire to answer back with a devastating and completely unassailable argument. Being a teacher means striking a delicate balance. If I want to have a real give-and-take with my students I can’t take advantage of my position to hold myself on a different level, with my word being the last say on a topic. But if I want everyone to have a chance to talk and draw out the shyer students I have to take control of the conversation a little bit, cut people off when they start to hog too much of the class’s time. It’s really hard in teaching to avoid two things: dominating a conversation and allowing it to get out of hand. This was shaping up to be a crashing disaster: both evils at once. I took a deep breath and said to him, “thank you for sharing. But I think both of us need to remember this is English class, not preaching time.” Then I turned to the next student, a shy, quietly intelligent boy of about 25. I said “I’m very interested in your opinion.” He thought for a few moments, then responded in a soft voice that spoke of respect but also confidence. He said he believed that a woman should obey her husband, but that a husband should also respect and obey and be faithful to his wife: they should be as one unit, working together. He felt very sad at the thought of divorce, and also at the thought of the nuclear family that I grew up in, when his extended family network had been such an important part of his life. He explained how all his aunts and uncles had helped contribute to sending him to school, and how he would do the same for his cousins one day. So we all went around the table and shared our thoughts.

The class, supposed to last for two hours, ended up going on for three and a half. The students were amazing, incredible, totally engaging. I thought back to earlier lessons where I miscalculated their level, bored them with trivial sentences of no relevance to their lives, and insulted their intelligence with questions like “what is your hobby?” I should be asking them “what is the one true thing in your life?” “What does the future hold for your people?” “How has it felt to see your family become beggars in a foreign land? How do you to get up every morning to make the rounds of the circuit of humanitarian organizations (Inter-Aid, UNHCR, Jesuit Relief Services, RLP) in the hopes that maybe today someone will help you? How do you worry every night about what you will eat tomorrow, how you will clean your clothes, where you will sleep, where you can use a bathroom, whether you will be arrested, whether your family members left behind are still alive, and still find the energy to care about friends, music, football matches, love?” I worry so much that I am not doing them justice, not teaching them well enough, not giving them what they really need. I feel exhausted by the magnitude of their need, and by how little I have to offer them. English conversation, three times a week. A giant teacher’s pad covered in words by the end of each lesson. A piece of expensive paper that says “Certificate of Completion: RLP English Course, Advanced Level.”  ¶ 12:07 PM 2 Comments

  Chimpanzees in the Mist (just call me Diane)

I took advantage of a three day weekend to go to Kibale National forest and see the chimps. It was only a 4 hour bus ride away. I love, by the way, how four hours (or in fact even 6 or 8 hours) on a bus have become “only.” The fabled African patience is definitely affecting me. I stare out the window and set my mind free to roam across the plains, linger in mud houses where children pump water and old women shell peanuts in the shade, or dart among the trees with the birds and monkeys. Before I know it, the time has passed. I even half-wish the ride could go on longer, reluctant as I am to return to myself and to figuring out the logistics of the next phase of the trip.

This particular bus ride went off without a serious hitch, if you don’t count the two and a half hours we spent sitting in Kampala waiting while the bus was stuffed absolutely to the gills with paying customers. Perhaps they were also waiting to give the passengers a final opportunity buy any newspapers, muffins, chapattis, portable radios, lotions, Cokes, chickens, loaves of bread, secondhand shoes, plastic jewelry, or de-worming medicine that we might need for the trip. About 10 minutes before departure they signaled their intent to leave by turning on the engine and bathing us all in diesel fumes so thick they were actually visible inside the bus. But then we were on our way, lung damage forgotten in the excitement of motion. As we pulled out of the bus station we noticed a slogan painted on the back of another bus waiting to depart: “God likes patience.”

Upon arrival in Fort Portal, despite having heavily sampled the constant array of food products offered through the window of the bus by vendors along the road including Cassava, ears of corn, and roasted bananas tasting halfway like plantains, (but avoiding the meat –on-a-stick like the plague it most likely carries) we stopped for lunch at a lovely outdoor restaurant with an extensive menu, at least a third of which was presently available. We then hiked into the town proper where we engaged in protracted negotiations to get a special hire car to take us to the park. Thanks to Tammy, we managed to bargain them down from 500,000 Ush to 25,000 for the 45 minute ride. The catch: all six of us had to ride in one small Japanese import. We managed with four in the back and two in the front, including 6’7” Mike. Forty-five extremely pothole-ridden minutes later, we pulled into the national park’s lodge where we learned that a) there were only four beds left, and b) seeing the chimps now cost over twice the price listed in our guidebook: $50 per person. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if we had brought more money. But with no credit cards accepted and no ATMs in sight, we were in serious financial straits. After huddling in a corner and adding up all the money we had in our wallets, socks, deep backpack pockets, and belly bags, we figured that we would have just enough to cover the chimps, the park entry fee (25% student discount thank heavens) 2 nights in the lodge (for 4 people), and transportation back to Kampala, with a tiny amount left for food, water, local transportation, and incidentals. I had to borrow the most money. I had discovered the night before that the stack of bills that have been hidden under my mattress since I unwittingly withdrew 10 times what I intended on my first day here had shrunk considerably, and I was only in possession of 80,000 shillings (about $40) for the whole trip. Since we were scheduled to depart at 7am, I didn’t have time to visit the ATM on the morning of, so I was relying on borrowing a bit from my friends. Fortunately Prashanth and Kara had been a lot more forward thinking than I, and had brought enough to cover the unexpected expense for themselves and for the rest of the group.

It was too late that day to see the chimps, and they were booked for the next morning. So we had dinner at the lodge’s restaurant, the first of many meals where everything was calculated to maximize the calories-to-shillings ratio. We settled on chips (aka French fries: 1500 for a huge steaming plate) and Spanish Omlette (2000, but which turned out to be just omlette so more chips were called for). Before we knew it darkness was falling, and we retired around 9pm. We’d decided to share the four beds in two bandas among the six of us, and the two boys, and by virtue of being 6’7” and about 6’, got their own beds in their own banda. The girls got to sleep two to a bed, which actually was not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. The beds were slightly wider than NYU’s hateful “extra-long twins,” and we didn’t even have to spoon. After slathering on bugspray and paying a visit to the long-drop squat toilet (following the customary female practice of always going in teams) we squeezed our bodies into bed.

We had our chimp walk scheduled for the afternoon, so we got up early before sunrise to catch the 7:00 bus to the crater lakes, just 10k down the road. We didn’t see the bus, but a packed matatu (small bus/van sporting Japanese characters announcing the name of a school) soon came along. True to the spirit of the trip, two empty seats magically became six as the other passengers squeezed over and made room for us. We traveled out of the deep forest spotting to our great excitement (and the amusement of our Ugandan passengers) a pack of baboons by the side of the road, past rolling hills covered with tea plantations and mist. At the park we found a small guest house and restaurant offering tours of the lakes. We met an extremely kind woman who seemed thrilled that we were volunteers, and Americans to boot. She raved about a zoo in North Carolina that had sponsored several of their employees to attend an ecology conservation course, and showed us their diplomas mounted on the walls. She also showed us a framed picture of Khadafi and the local Torro king, a boy of about 14. She explained how the ancient Ugandan kingdoms had been abolished under Idi Amin, but had be reinstated under Museveni. All the kingdoms wanted their king back save one; apparently he’d been a tyrant. Khadafi had donated a lot of money to support the destitute kings and provide for their education and upkeep. “He is genius at public relations,” the woman proclaimed. “He saw what people wanted, and gave it to them.” Something to think about. We explained our financial situation to the woman, and she kindly agreed to knock the price of the walk around the lake down to 2000/ head. We eagerly agreed, and set off with our guide. It was a lovely walk past fields and forests, along an up-and-down and winding path. We passed banana plants, plots of corn, Irish potatoes, fig and avocado trees, eucalyptus groves, and peanuts growing in the earth. We saw families working in the fields, bent over their potatoes or peanuts, and they all stopped and waved to us as we passed. Small children ran up to us and smiled shyly. We asked “what’s your name?” and “how old are you?” A pair of tiny boys wielding nothing but a stick apiece herded seven of Africa’s amazing long-horned cows down the path to greener pastures. The walk took only about 2 hours, and afterwards we sat at picnic tables and split a coke and a fanta between the six of us. Several small monkeys came along and peered at us from the trees next to table. Then we set off to for our camp at about 10:30, hoping to walk a while and take photos of the tea plantations before the 11:00 bus came along. The tea plantations were gorgeous, the most stunning green imaginable. They completely cross-hatched the hills with their rows and plot divisions. We walked up and down, over the tops of the hills and through the valleys. The road was red dirt, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun was shining on the green tea leaves. We passed children with machetes and bundles of sticks balanced on their heads, and the boys with the cows again. But we saw no bus. We kept walking, enjoying the view and the road and the sunshine. We entered the forest, and the shade was cool. Butterflies fluttered ahead of us, flying up from great clods of shit when we startled them. Dead butterfly wings also lined the road, casualties of run-ins with birds or matatu grilles. Still no bus. We kept walking. Two and a half hours later, the lodge’s distinctive wood carved chimpanzee sign finally appeared around the bend. Covered in road dust, feet aching, water depleted, skins burned to crisps, with only leftover bus-muffin crumbs in our stomach from breakfast we practically ran up the road to the lodge to order our lunch. A bit of a splurge this time, with spaghetti and roasted vegetables, supplemented of course by chips. We were exhausted and the World Cup was coming on in a few hours, so we postponed the chimp walk for the next day and went to read in the shade and nap before going to watch the cup.

Kristin, Tammy, and I stayed a bit longer in bed, and got a ride into the neighboring small town at 6 to meet Prashanth, Mike, and Kara who had gone in for the 4pm game. We found them sitting on the front steps of the only bar in town, drinking homemade banana liquor out of a gas can with the mayor and his elderly uncle. Staring over curiously from neighboring stoops was a large group of equally inebriated locals. A turkey lurked in the background, puffing its feathers, while the uncle tried to convince us to buy it and cook it for Thanksgiving dinner (never mind that it’s June). We joined the party, and soon were drinking Eagle beers (made from soughum and only 1000 per bottle) and wharai, the local banana moonshine poured out by the mayor with a huge grin. Every time the turkey strutted over, Prashanth seemed to tense up. He explained that the two of them had had a run-in earlier when he’d inadvertently gotten between it and its mate. It was a huge beast, with an evil-looking head atop a long scraggly neck, and giant powerful wings. When it puffed up its feathers it appeared to be the size of German shepherd. It also appeared to be getting ready for Round Two with Prashanth. Fortunately, it never got the chance because we were soon ushered into a small room adjacent the bar where we were served heaping plates of matoke and roasted potatoes smothered in peanut sauce. Ugandan food had never tasted so good. Then it was time for the game to start, and we headed over to the bar where there was a TV set up in what appeared to be a shed, its roof and walls made of woven reeds. People were crammed onto long benches, and we squeezed in in the dark. There was no power in town, but the bar had a generator running. The TV was small but had good picture quality, and the volume was turned way up. Trinidad and Tobago played Sweden, and held them 1-1 with only ten players for most of the 2^nd half. The crowd was heavily for Trinidad and Tobago, and we were too, partially out of solidarity, and partially out of a desire not to be beaten. Sweden’s top-to-toe yellow uniforms didn’t help their case much either. While waiting for the next game, a young man, one of the guides at the national forest who we’d met when we arrived, invited us to his home a few houses down. The town itself appeared to cling tightly to the single road running through its middle, and consisted of about 30 buildings. We stumbled along in the dark to his house, where we were ushered in to a small front room. A table was set with a huge steaming plate of matoke and a pot of roasted beef. This was his dinner, prepared by his wife, but African custom would not allow him to have guests in his home without offering them something to eat. “If you do not take something, the rats will surely nibble my feet tonight.” Custom would also not allow us to decline, so we all took small helpings of matoke and meat, declaring ourselves stuffed and leaving as much as possible in the dish. The meat was excellent, savory and tender, and we didn’t have to dig very deep to sing its praises. After thanking the young man and his wife, we headed back to the bar to watch the final game of the evening: Argentina v. Ivory Coast. Argentina was dominating when we decided to leave, since certain members of our party had taken rather too much food and drink. This time it was seven of us crammed into a small car since a German girl from the lodge had joined us as well.

We awoke at 7:30 for our 8:00 appointment with the chips. It was a misty morning, but the rain held off. We met our guide and set off into the forest. At first we walked along the path, but soon our guide’s ears perked to distant chimp calls and he veered off without warning into the underbrush. We followed as fast as possible, tripping over low roots and ducking under heavily spiked hanging vines. The chimps were hooting, somewhere ahead. After about 15 minutes we came upon three of them, all male, eating in the brush. They were surprisingly big, especially when one stood up and shocked us with his girth and his striking resemblance to a stocky bowlegged man. They stayed for a while and then moved on, walking smoothly on their hands and back legs. We followed them at a distance, and they led us to a sort of clearing. All of a sudden, the trees around us were full of shrieking and hooting. The chimps we had been following took off at a fast run, making for a big tree in the middle of the clearing. They were joined by a steady stream of other chimps, all howling as they loped along. They ran to a big tree and rapidly climbed it, swinging their compact muscular bodies with ease. Our hearts were pounding in our chests: we were surrounded by over 30 powerful and agitated animals. All my survival instincts awoke from hibernation and started howling along with the wild calls of the chimps. I was about to take off running myself, but our guide didn’t seem to be worried all. I tried to slow my racing heart and enjoy the moment. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the group was gone. Our guide motioned us to follow him and we pursued the sounds of howling and hooting getting fainter in the dense brush. We walked for another 30 minutes without success, though we heard chimp calls periodically up ahead. Then we saw them again: of two enormous males, one almost completely grey. The guide told us he was the number three chimp in the pack of about 100, the “deputy prime minister.” The two of them were stretched out in the underbrush, seemingly taking a nap. One rolled over and scratched his belly. We were able to watch them for about 20 minutes. One woke up and started to nibble on a big piece of fruit, the other stayed asleep. Then another chimp appeared in the tree behind us, only about 5 feet away. He started hooting and the other chimps joined, and again we were awed by the power of these huge animals. Then the three took off again. This time we didn’t follow, since our hour with the chimps was up. This troop is habituated to human contact but isn’t supposed to spend more than an hour a day in our presence. We walked back through the forest, slightly shell-shocked. I don’t know what I was expecting: perhaps some cute monkeys performing adorable antics? But what I saw was a group of extremely wild animals engaged in complex behavior I understood next to nothing about. It was actually a pretty humbling experience.

  ¶ 7:45 AM 0 Comments

  One among the thousands Bernadette came into the research office today to ask if any of the interns could do an intake interview. The other two looked less than enthusiastic, so I volunteered. I met a tiny woman in her 30's, dressed in a bright print dress and headscarf. Her name was J*. She was Congolese. She spoke very little English, so another refugee translated as she told me her story. J was a university student in Congo and she participated in some peace demonstrations. Somehow the police got her name, and she had to hide. Then her family in the countryside was attacked: her sister was raped, and her brother was beaten so severely he developed a seizure disorder. This may have been collected to her political activity, or it may have just been a random attack by one of the DRC's many warring rebel factions. She fled to Uganda with her brothers and sisters and was sent to a refugee camp. At the camp she worked her plot of land like the other refugees. Last year she developed fibroids in her uterus. She was sent to Kampala where they told her she'd have to have her uterus removed. She refused because she wanted to have children some day. They removed only the fibroids, and she was sent back to the refugee camp after only a week. She was still recovering from the surgery and couldn't work to grow her own food. The only food they gave her to eat at the camp was maize flour, which she said upset her stomach. She became extremely ill and weak and came down with malaria. She went to the camp clinic where she languished: the doctor was in Kampala and nobody was looking after her. Other refugees found her there, and they took her to Kampala to get help from Inter-Aid (UNHCR's implementing partner in Kampala and responsible for providing services to urban refugees including healthcare) but their clinic was closed for the Christmas holidays. Finally she got help in January. But in March she developed severe pain in her uterus again. She went to Inter-Aid where the doctor said there was nothing wrong with her, and diagnosed her with a mental illness that caused her to invent her symptoms. He instructed her to return to the camp. She didn't believe him, and went back to her original doctor and to Mulago hospital. There she got a sonogram which revealed that the fibroids were back and she needed to have another surgery, this time to remove the entire uterus. She came to RLP because she is afraid of having surgery again if she is going to recieve the same shoddy post-operative care. She says she almost died last time, and she's terrified. She is reluctant to put her life in the hands of people she didn't trust, and who had almost let her die once before. I took down her story and her details, and typed it up for Bernadette. I have no idea whether RLP can help her. She doesn't have a "case" in the traditional legal sense. But our advocacy rarely goes through traditional channels. I know we often advocate for particular clients with Inter-Aid and UNHCR, trying to pressure them into providing the services they are legally supposed to be providing. They comply not because they are frightened of being brought into court, but because actually providing the service becomes less trouble than having to come up with creative reasons for denying it. Sounds pretty cynical, but I don't think it's inaccurate. They are under a lot of pressure to keep to a budget (despite the fact that human need does not politely conform itself to funding priorities), and to be working toward an ultimate "solution" to the refugee "problem": get refugees back home. Providing them with too much care is not going to encourage that. Never mind that they are fleeing very real violence that does not show signs of abating any time soon. Never mind that since goverments have committed to protect them, they are actually entitled to recieve a certain extremely basic level of support and assistance. We wouldn't want them to get too comfortable and forget that they are beholden.

J's story isn't really all that bad. She got refuge, land to farm (never mind that she was a student and had never picked up a hoe in her life before fleeing Congo), and (some) medical care. This is not a case of clear-cut injustice. Instead, it's a about a woman who used to have control over her life and her destiny who is now totally dependent on the whims of a huge and ineffective international beurocracy. I don't know what will happen to J, or what a "happy ending" would look like for her and her family. But I hope she finds it.

*Name and some details changed.  ¶ 1:31 PM 0 Comments

  a strange day This morning we woke up to an absolute deluge of rain. If sounded as if a swimming pool was being dumped on the roof. We couldn't take a boda to work, and our taxi driver Jamil called at 6am to say he couldn't make it. This was a blessing in disguise: since the roads here are dirt and turn directly to mud at a moment's notice, when it rains in Kampala nobody without a car leaves the house. The office would be deserted. So my fellow interns and I rolled over and went back to sleep until about 10 when the rain let up. We woke to blinding sunshine, had a leisurely breakfast, and walked up to the top of the road (the water had already been absorbed into the amazing sponge-like earth, and it was as if the rains had never occured) to catch a taxi. We found one who agreed to take us to RLP for 7000 shillings (about 4 dollars). Everything was going fine until the driver suddenly pulled over to the side of the road in front of two police, or possibly millitary, men with huge guns. He pretended to ask for directions to our office, but when the police/soldiers asked him for his license and registration he didn't have them. One fat policeman, extremely relaxed and leaning on his enormous gun, stuck his face in the window and looked us over. He asked us for our names. Trying to be friendly and calm, we told him. "I'm Aliza." "I'm Balkees." "Hi, I'm Sarah" <> . We asked if their was a problem, and if we should get another taxi. He said maybe, but when we made to get out of the car he said, "No no, you stay in the car." It was said politely, but it was unmistakeably an order. We obeyed. The driver started saying "you pay money," and what was really going on became readily apparnet: we were being set up for a bribe. We passed him 5000 shilling, which he gave to the police officer for his "fine." Then we were on our way. We were pretty sure, considering he had driven us straignt to this police post, that the whole thing was planned in advance. Furious, we had no intention of paying him the full 7000 on arrival at the office. Balkees texted Moses, our boss, asking him to come down and meet us in front in case there was trouble. But he never got to the office: about 10 minutes later the driver ran into and overturned a boda boda. The woman sitting sidesaddle on the back of the boda fell to the road. Fortunately her legs were on the other side so they weren't crushed. She just landed hard on her butt and bounced. I saw her get up and shake herself, then start rubbing the dirt off the back of her skirt. The driver wasn't hurt either, he managed to break his fall with his feet. But the boda was in bad shape with cracked lights and mirrors, and the seat totally broken off. The driver leaped over his mangeled bike and started yelling at our driver. A nearby policeman came running over as well. We sat there stunned in the backseat thinking "now what?" We all had the same thought at the same time: get the hell out of this taxi. We leaped out and took off down the street. Then I realized: I had left my helmet in the back seat. I really did not want this unscrupulous driver getting ahold of my 40,000 shilling helmet. I ran back, opened the back door, grabbed the helmet, and thrust the 2000 shillings (the balance of what we owed him) into his hands. We left him stitting in his car, surrounded by stopped traffic and an angry crowd. Once we had gotten a few blocks away, we found some bodas to take us the rest of the way to work. We arrived slightly shaken, but with one heck of a story to tell our co-workers.

Work was great, and my English class went fabulously. We broke the group up into two levels, and I took the more advanced students and we sat around a table in the conference room. Genevive, the undergrad intern, took the beginner students. outside on the patio. She was so excited to be teaching on her own for the first time. I listened throught the window as she had them repeat names of fruits and vegetables. It sounded like she was doing a fabulous job, and she was buzzing when the class finished. I really enjoyed teaching the more advanced students because I wasn't hampered by my lack of French. I also liked the format of us sitting around a table and talking like adults. It was very different from the teaching style I used most often in Japan: me bopping around in the front of the room, clapping my hands and gesticulating, coaxing a chorus of English phrases from my students like an orchestra conductor.

After work, Genevive wanted to show Balkees and me a shopping center she had just discovered with a deli, a wine shop, and, the icing on the cake, a patisserie with chocolate croissants. It's in Kabalagala by the American embassy. We walked through town to get to the Matatu (taxi bus) stand. Every journey in Kampala is a bit of an adventure, there is no such thing as simply strolling down the street. The "street" itself is either heavily rutted dirt road shared by pedistrians, goats, cows, and bicycles, or a road made up of more potholes than pavement with sporadic areas along the edge that could be considered sidewalks except that they are used without a second thought by taxis and motorycles to bypass stopped traffic. Nevertheless, schoolkids and ladies in skirts with cheap plastic high heeled sandals walk along, calmly dodging the constant traffic and weaving around the crevives that frequently yawn along the side of the path. All of the sudden, down this type of road, came a young man running at full tilt, pursued by an angry mob. Someone grabbed the back of his white collared shirt, but he kept on going. He ran right out of the shirt, turning it inside out as he shed it like a second skin. "Oh damn," said Genevive "they're chasing a thief." Then the crowd was upon him, and he was corralled against a brick wall and hidden from sight by a mass of assailants. Genevive said "they'll either beat him unconscious, or kill him." Bakees and I stared at her, uncomprehending. She said, "the people know the police here won't do anything to stop crooks. So they take things into their own hands. What happens to him will probably depend on how much he stole." She told us that when they first arrived they were told in their study abroad program orientation that they needed to be very careful about accusing someone of theft on a crowded street. They could inadvertantly cause a young man to be beaten to death over a few hundred thousand shillings. We stared in the direction of the mob. I made a few uncertain steps towards the crowd (aiming to do what? To throw my body between the man and his assailants?). Then I looked back at my friends, who had already turned and were continuing on their way. I followed, filled with relief to be shown how to react. My thoughts and emotions were completely disordered. How should I feel after witnessing this? I searched the backs of my companions for clues, and found none. To be honest, though the unsaid words "we should help him" echoed in my head for hours, I hadn't even seriously considered resisting the flow. The whole thing had a surreal quality like something I was watching on TV: completely unconnected to me, and completely unsucceptible to being influenced by my actions. I know this wasn't actually true. I know that when I walked away I was making a choice. Still, I don't know what I realistically could have done. What would have happened if I had waded into that mob of kicking and punching vigilantes? It wasn't my country, it wasn't my place to intervene. I don't know what happened to the young man, and I don't know whether I fully believe Genevive's overly-dramatic prediction of his death. I think that it's possible the director of her program told his charges the worst-case-scenario in order to scare them. I've heard about mob justice in Uganda before, but I'd always heard that people were beaten only severely enough to teach them a lesson, or that their clothes were taken and they were forced to walk home naked: punishment by humiliation, not death. Then again, maybe that is just the cute anecdotal version provided by guidebooks to give the readers a taste of "local color." Maybe the reality is far harsher. Based in what I saw today, I really don't know.  ¶ 6:28 AM 0 Comments