Squeaky Clean

In the last (almost) nine months, my relationships have been forced to change and adapt to my new surroundings. I only get to hear about my family happenings (or is it better to call it drama?) through the phone instead of over dinner.  My boyfriend probably gets annoyed with my constant texting in between our biweekly phone calls. With my friends from college, we communicate mostly through email.  Sadly, I do feel like a number of relationships have been put on hold, and I can only hope to pick them back up once I’m stateside again.  Whenever I glance at my watch, I tend to do time zone math.  Ok, it’s 10:30 pm here, so it must be 12:30 pm in California and 1:30 pm in Colorado.  I wonder what everyone’s doing right now… Of course, I’ve developed some new relationships too- my wonderful Peace Corps friends, my neighbors and my fellow teachers

When I joined Peace Corps, I expected all of those changes.  I mean, what else could I have expected?  One relationship that I didn’t expect to change: my relationship with water.  I know that sounds silly, but we all have certain feelings about water, only we aren’t forced to face it in America.  Here, I’ve developed some bizarre feelings towards water, particularly rain.  If I had running water in my house here, I’m sure my relationship with water would have stayed relatively the same- unnoticed and uncomplicated.

I know I have talked about fetching water before, but let me explain further.  I keep two jerry cans in my house for cooking and drinking water.  When they are both full, it’s 30 liters.  A normal person consumes about two liters of drinking water (one liter is a full Nalgene bottle or four cups).  As you all know, I’m not exactly normal.  I usually drink about five liters, although yesterday I managed to consume seven.  It’s a strange habit I picked up late in high school.  I started drinking water when I was bored, and before I knew it, I was simply guzzling water.  Now, if I don’t get at least three liters, I start getting headaches and my skin drys out.  So, if I only use those 30 liters for drinking water, it should last me about five days.  But, if I use it for cooking too, the water only lasts about three days.

I don’t want to complain, but fetching water anywhere is not an easy chore.  30 liters of water is 66.6 pounds, and physically pumping water can be pretty strenuous too.  At my site though, it’s a little more annoying.  My borehole could be considered high traffic because of how many people live in the area.  On a normal day, the borehole is surrounded by 40-70 jerry cans waiting to be filled.  There is usually a long line of women and children hanging around, pumping water, carrying jerry cans, dictating who gets water in what order, etc. So, when I roll up, I have to maneuver this very political atmosphere of jerry cans, pray that someone feels bad enough for me to push me to the front, then I am for how energetically I pump water, and finally I get to lug those precious cans home.  Needless to say, fetching water is not my favorite chore.

The answers to my borehole melodrama: rainwater.  I can use rainwater for everything except drinking: bathing, washing clothes, washing dishes, cooking pasta, mopping, etc.  Before coming to Uganda, I enjoyed rain as long as I could stay inside.  Rain is the perfect nap weather.  Beyond that, I felt pretty neutral about rain, unless I was trying to play tennis or something.  Now, I have very powerful feelings about rainfall.  Not only powerful, but they are somehow complicated.  Obviously, I want to collect rainwater, but you have to set out basins and buckets in the right places to “harvest” the water.  If I’m not at home, chances are no one else set them out for me.  Also, in Uganda, no one goes outside in the rain.  This may seem like a moot point, but it’s important.  If it’s raining, no one goes to school, to work, anywhere!  So, it’s like a snow day, which can be a nice break sometimes.  The tin roofs in Uganda can act as a rain alert.  The tin magnifies the sound of rain, therefore even a slight drizzle will be detected.

Let me explain how I feel when it rains.  It all depends where I am.  If I am at:

1.     Home.  I am so happy!  I can’t tell you how much I love rain when I’m in the comfort of my own home.  I place all my basins out, which I check on frequently to see how much rainwater I’ll enjoy in the coming days.  Sometimes I will adjusts the basins because they need to be in different places depending on wind and how much rain is falling.  I can relax and watch a movie or take a nap.  For a few moments, all the guilt of not being productive enough begins to melt away because I know that no one else is doing anything either.

2.     Home, in the middle of the night.  Even if it is a light drizzle, I wake up instantly to any rain on my roof.  I am happy, but anxious.  I usually wait a few minutes as I try to decide if I should get up, unlock my door and put out my basins.  Honestly, most often I become so anxious that even if I decide it’s not worth it, I can’t go back to sleep unless I’ve put out my basins.

3.     Not at home.  Angry and anxious.  I’m angry that I’m out when I don’t have to be!  I could be home doing nothing, but instead, I’m stuck wherever I am until the rain stops.  I’m missing out on all this wonderful rain that I could use!  I start wondering if there will be a quick break in the rain so I can dash home to harvest the rain.

4.     At school and teaching.  Angry, anxious and frustrated.  I still feel angry about being out, anxious about not getting rain water, and now frustrated because if it’s raining hard enough, you can’t teach!  The sound of the rain can be so loud that it’s impossible to hear yourself think.  I just have to stand at the front of the room and stare at the students wondering how long it will last.

This makes me sound very dramatic, but you’d be surprised.  I think Ugandans feel the same way, although for more legitimate reasons.  Crops all rely on rainfall, so if there’s too much or not enough, their crops will die.  Once the crops have been harvested, they are usually dried.  When they dry anything, it is laid in the sun all day, but rain could damage these crops.  If Ugandans see rain coming, most people immediately start going home.  At least they don’t think I’m so crazy!

Finally, my relationship with water extends past pumping, fetching, harvesting rainwater, getting “rain days” or being held hostage.  This water situation seriously affects my bathing habits.  I’m not one of those Peace Corps Volunteers that only bathes once a week… although they exist.  I usually bathe everyday, but I would be lying if I said that I religiously bathed every single day.  Some days, I’m just too tired, too lazy, feel clean enough or come home too late so it’s nearly dark.  No, I’m not afraid of the dark.  But I live in a mosquito-infested area.  I would prefer not to offer my naked body up to the swarms of mosquitoes that descend upon Butaleja at nightfall.

When I bathe, I try to conserve as much water as possible.  You never know when it will rain next, and it feels like such a waste to use borehole water for bathing, although I have done it.  So, how does one “bucket bathe”?  Well, Ugandans use their hands like cups to splash the water on themselves.  Being an America that grew up under a shower, my hands just don’t scoop water very well.  I use a cup- basically a measuring cup.  Now what?  I usually use about 16 cups of water.  10 cups of cold water and 6 cups of hot water, which I heat in my kitchen.  After a hard run or a bad day, one of my treats will be a bath with 18-20 cups.  So, how do you use these cups?

A Step-by-Step Tutorial in Chelsea’s Bucket Bathing

(This will differ for people with shorter hair.  Lucky ducks, you don’t need as much water!)

1.     2 cups of water to initially wet your hair.

2.     Apply shampoo and lather.

3.     3-4 cups of water to get the shampoo out of your hair.

4.     Apply conditioner.

5.     Soap your body.

6.     2-3 cups of water for your private region.  Let’s face it, if you run out of water, you can basically towel off the soap, but you really don’t want dried soap here.  That would just be a nightmare and probably give you some kind of nasty rash!

7.     2 cups to get the conditioner out of your hair.

8.     1 cup per arm (so 2 cups).  Half of this cup should be used for your armpits, and then the other half should be for your forearms.  Usually the 2 cups used for your hair has already rinsed your forearms.

9.     Wash your face.

10.  2 cups for your face.  If you run out of water for whatever reason by this step, you can always wash your face over the basin in your kitchen.

11. By now, you should have about 1-2 cups remaining.  Check yourself out and see where there are still suds.

Feel free to try this at home!

I don’t mind bucket bathing anymore.  Actually if I had a choice in Uganda, I would not want a shower in my house!  At least if I bucket bathe, I always know it’s hot.  But, I still don’t always feel squeaky clean.  When I do run across a hot hotel shower, I will admit that I shampoo twice and soap up about three times because you never know when you’ll get another.

At the end of my service, my relationships will transform again.  I’ll fall back into those relationships from home fairly easily, I’ll have to adjust my Peace Corps friendships to phone calls or Facebook, and I may never see my Ugandan friends again.  But, I wonder: will I be able to fall back into my indifferent relationship with water?

What's My Age Again?

Maybe the people in the older generation won't understand the reference, but there is probably only one song in existence that references being 23 years old- "What's My Age Again?" by Blink-182.  The exact lyric is "No one likes you when you're 23.... my friends keep telling me to act my age.  What's my age again?"

And yes, I crossed that threshold yesterday.  I am officially 23 years old.  One of my friends sweetly reminded me that I better enjoy it because it's the last year of my "early 20s."  Apparently 20-23 are the early 20s, 24-26 are the mid 20s and 27-29 are the late 20s.  At least I got to remind her in the same snarky tone that next year, she'll be entering the late 20s.  And no, 23 really doesn't feel much different than 22.  Not yet anyway.

What's it like to celebrate your birthday in Uganda?  Well, I celebrated with all my American friends, so kind of the same.  We spent the afternoon lounging by the pool, praying for the clouds and drizzle to disappear.  It only began to clear up after we gave up and showered.  I got to eat a pizza with ham, olives, and mushrooms.  I know it would be considered sub-par at best in the states, but here it's practically heaven.  From there, we all migrated to our hotel.  I hope this blows your mind: we pay UGX 26,000 for one hotel room that has two beds.  We're a close crew, so we put four people per room.  That averages to about UGX 6,000.  You may be thinking, whoa, 6,000 dollars for a hotel room.  That must be some hotel room.  And how in the world are Peace Corps Volunteers affording this?  And why are my tax dollars supporting this kind of behavior?  Well, UGX 6,000 is actually about $2.  So, it's kind of an awesome deal.  After dinner, I went and bought about 10 ice cream cones because people claimed that they wanted them.  False!  No one claimed ordering them after I brought the box back.  I ended up eating about three... hey, don't judge!  I didn't have birthday cake, so it makes up for it, right?  After becoming borderline nauseous from my overdose of ice cream, we went out for an epic night of dancing.  In the end, it was a great night, and I'm so happy that all my friends came out to celebrate with me.

My birthday in general has always been a strange one though.  Blame it on the California cut off dates for school, but having an October birthday meant that I could have been the oldest or the youngest in my class.  I must have been a promising child, right mom?  I was put in kindergarten when I was just four years old, which has lead to a complicated feeling about age and my birthday.  My friends have always been older than me, so usually by about May, I started feeling like I had already turned a year older.  I could get away with claiming 13 years old when I really was still 12 years old.  The only times I've actually had to face the fact that I was unfortunately younger: 16 years old, 18 years old and 21 years old.  It was awful when I had to beg my friends to pick me up in high school, when I had to have my college call my parents my freshman year because as a 17 year old, I was still a minor, therefore could not seek medical attention for my busted knee, and I was left at home for the first two months my senior year every Thursday when my friends went to the bars.  So, I've essentially spent my entire life desperately wishing to be older.  It's a weird feeling that now I'm suddenly expected to dread getting older, to curse birthdays and just pray that time stops so I can enjoy my youth.  I still find myself hoping to play catch up with my friends.

The most frustrating bit of all?  Apparently around 16 years old, I've stopped aging.  Every 50 year old woman that's reading this right now is probably groaning.  I can hear the lectures already, "You're really going to appreciate your youthful face in your thirties."  Yeah, alright, call me ungrateful.  I'm just saying that I'm pretty tired of being mistaken for a high school student more often than being recognized for being a teacher.  In the states, when I got carded, people usually would flex my ID, inspect it so carefully under black light, and then hand it back with some kind of backhanded comment like, "Wow girl, I would have pinned you at 15."  Awesome.  I blame my chipmunk cheeks, but who knows what exactly it is about my face that makes people think "Definitely eligible for our youth discount."  When exactly will I start to look my age?

Now, this is not just some pity party.  It actually affects my work here in Uganda.  I've noticed that when I'm teaching, it can be really difficult to keep order in the classroom.  I know for a fact that when their Ugandan teachers are in the classroom, you could hear a pin drop, they do their work and no one's slapping each other up side the head.  At first, I thought it was because I was new, novel and they were just so excited to have me in the classroom.  I began to wonder if it had to do with my lack of discipline.  I do try to discipline them: they have to move seats when they're talking, they have to write letters to me apologizing, etc.  However, I will never cane them, which is their usual form of punishment.  Still, when I threaten that they will have to do extra work, they do shut up pretty quickly.  Then, I thought maybe my strange teaching techniques that require them to work in groups, to discuss, to get out of their seats and to be more involved would also cause them to be noisy.  But, still, they know better than to talk while I'm talking.  They know they are supposed to respect a teacher.

That's when it dawned on me.  They don't respect me.  But why not?  If you ask me, I'm a pretty awesome teacher.  I just drop in their classes anyway, and teaching is technically not part of my job, so wouldn't they want me to keep coming?

I found my answer in a very surprising manner.  I asked my pupils to write autobiographies.  "But MADAM, we don't understand!"  That made sense.  How could they write something like that?  They had no idea what I was asking for.  So I wrote one about myself.  They thoroughly enjoyed it.  They couldn't believe that I didn't like sugarcane, or that my favorite fruit is jackfruit (an indescribable experience that can only be explained as the perfect combination of pineapple, bananas and bubblegum), or that my favorite color this week is purple, but next week it might change.  I did hear some murmurings when I explained that I finished secondary school in 2006 and spent four years in university in some magical place called St. Louis.  Of all the things I wrote, it didn't seem like a very interesting point.  I mean, c'mon, I wrote that usually I wear trousers in America, and that I didn't even have an appropriate skirt or dress to wear in Uganda.  That's just downright scandalous.  When I had finished reading, I asked them if they had any questions.  At least three hands shot up.  "But, Madam how old are you?"  That's when I realized what all the whispering was about.  They couldn't figure out how I had finished secondary school in 2006.  "Well, how old do you think I am?"

What kind of answers do you think I got?

13
12
15

When they noticed that I was getting flustered, one girl finally said, "Ok, Ok Madam.  You're not that young of course.  You're 16."

Problem solved.  After a quick survey of my other four classes, I realized that they all think I'm between 12-16 years old.  You're probably thinking, well, in a primary school you should still be able to pull rank, right?  WRONG.  The average age in my P-7 class is 15 years old, and I definitely have at least three 18 year olds!  These 18 year old kids think that some 13 year old is trying to teach them?  Isn't it absurd?

Despite my big reveal, that no, in fact, I'm an ancient 23 years, I haven't noticed too much of a change in the kids attitudes.  Maybe it will take time.  It's nearly impossible to change a first impression though.  I know that kids have a hard time telling people's age, but ends up most of the teachers can't believe how old I am either.  Most of them think that I'm 18 years old.  Even after I tell them about my education.  The average age of university graduate here is about 25 years old, so why in the world would they think that I was any less than that?  I'm really not sure.  So, I'm not exactly reaping any benefits yet from my god given youthful looks.  In fact, I'm having to offensively defend myself by trying to act wise, regal and serious.  I might fit the bill for seriousness, but it's been difficult to convince anyone that I'm wise or no longer a pre-teen once they've seen me dance in class.

So, I do have to ask myself every so often, what is my age again?

Location Location Location

Recently, I’ve discovered that I may not have accurately described my whereabouts.  I managed to make this discovery because my mother still refers to my trading center as the middle of nowhere or “the bush.”  Yes, there are volunteers that live in the middle of nowhere, but I’m not one of them.

I live in something called a “trading center.”  That doesn’t really mean much back home, in the states, but here, that means it’s kind of a big deal.  In my district, we have multiple trading centers, the largest one being Busolwe, which has the largest hospital, guesthouse and Saturday market.  Busolwe is my connection to Jinja and Tororo “towns,” which we would call cities, but in Uganda, the only “city” is Kampala, the capital.  Busolwe is only a 15-minute taxi ride from me to the west.

The next largest and it could be argued, the most important trading center, is Butaleja (that’s me!).  Butaleja Town Council is the headquarters for the district; therefore it has all the district offices for education, health, justice, etc.  It also means that we have the district prison.  Side note: our prisoners wear yellow.  Thankfully, none of our schools have chosen yellow as their school uniform, otherwise it would be total chaos!  I honestly have no idea how many people live in the trading center.  The only indicator I can give you: we have two huge government primary schools, which each have about 1000 children.  In addition, we have a number of private schools, which have about 100-300 pupils each.  Also, we have two secondary schools, although I have no idea what their population is.

Most of my trading center’s business is along the “main” road.  This road is not tarmacked, which means paved, but it’s the road that takes us to Mbale, the nearest town.  I’m one of those lucky volunteers to live off the main road because we have taxis coming through every 20 minutes going in both directions, to Mbale and to Busolwe.  I just have to wait on the side of the road until one comes, and I can just jump on and go!  Many volunteers have very limited means of transportation, such as only being able to get a bus out of their site at 8 am.  For me, I can get taxis from 6:30 am to 7 pm.

The shops along the main road extend for about 500 meters- that’s an estimate, and I’m really bad at estimating distance, so that’s the best I can do.  We have shops that sell all your basic needs, such as eggs, flour, soap, candles, cooking oil, soda, etc.  We have shops for medicines (humans and animals), a small dairy shop, clothing shops, bike repair shops, music shops- I actually don’t understand these, but they have huge sound systems that play music during the afternoon.  I guess they rent the sound systems to weddings and functions.  As you enter our trading center, you’ll pass our new gas station.  It looks like an American gas station (I could actually be wrong considering it’s been a while since I’ve seen one) complete with the overhang, four pumps and a “supermarket”- a convenience store.  Currently, they don’t stock anything in their supermarket, but I’m looking forward to the day that they do!  Directly next to the gas station, we have a lovely “hotel” that always looks so cool because the patio is covered in vines.  I say “hotel” because I actually don’t think they offer rooms, but it is a restaurant with satellite TV to show the football games.  I’ve actually never been there, but I’m sure it’s quite nice.

On both sides of the main road, there are parallel streets that are not as busy, but do offer a variety of things.  On the south side, we have a daily outdoor market that sells vegetables and fruits.  Everyday, I can find onions, tomatoes, cabbage and eggplant.  On good days, I can find green peppers, avocados, greens and “oranges” (it is a very bizarre blend of an orange and a lime.  With some salt, it’s quite nice).  On the very best days, I can find bananas, pineapples and papaya!  On Mondays, the market comes to our trading center, which means vendors bring used clothes, basins, pots, towels, etc. to sell.  It’s a big deal, and people come from pretty big distances to go to the market.  I pass the market every day as I go to my center school and office.  On the way, I find what I can only describe as the “sugar cane party.”  It’s a clearing where everyone comes to eat sugarcane, and it’s always busy!  If you’ve never had sugarcane, it’s quite an experience.  From my point of view, if you’re not used to it, I think it can be a very unpleasant experience.  You have to first strip the sugarcane with your teeth, and then you try to rip off bites.  Once you’ve sucked all the juice from the fibers, you spit it out.  Believe me, there’s no graceful way to eat sugarcane.  Plus, if you’re a newbee, like me, you usually end up with bleeding gums, which turns your piece of sugarcane noticeably red, which you try to hide as sugarcane juice drips down your arms and face, which just makes everything sticky.  When people saw me struggling, all they could say is “oh, sorry.”  So, despite everyone’s calls for Madam Negesa to come and take sugarcane, I don’t partake any more.

The side street to the north is where I live.  On our street, you’ll find two more guesthouses that offer food, although one is expanding to actually offer rooms!  We also have two small private schools, so as I eat breakfast in the morning, I can hear kids yelling their ABCs at the top of their lungs.  I technically live in a shop, therefore my front doors face the street.  My back door faces the side of my landlady’s house.  From my back door, if I go right, I come to a gate, which leads outside the compound.  If I turn left and follow the alleyway, I will come to the veranda of my landlady’s house, an open space in the compound where we hang our laundry, the bathing areas, the latrines and the main gate to the compound.  I love the fact that I live in a compound!  It means that I feel safe at night, I never worry about my laundry being stolen, and I can walk around in trousers without feeling completely inappropriate because I’m still at home.  As for fetching water, my borehole is located on the main road.  Like I said, I can’t estimate distances, but I would guess it’s maybe 100-200 meters.  If I’m feeling strong that day, I can manage to carry my 66 lbs of water to the front of the compound without setting it down!

Even to other Peace Corps Volunteers, it can be difficult to explain exactly what my site is like.  Well, any site for that matter.  But, to answer your questions, I don’t look out my window to the rolling green fields and swaying banana trees.  Actually, if you look out either of my windows, you’ll be staring at a boring wall.  Most days, I just see orange dirt roads, shops, schools and people.  On lazy days, I may only see the inside of the compound walls.  Only on my runs do I actually get a chance to appreciate my surroundings and the beauty of the district.

So, I hope you have a better idea of where I live.  After I post this, I know the response I’ll get from my family.  “I just can’t picture it.  No matter how much you describe it, I still can’t picture it.”  Well, sorry, I can’t provide pictures of the whole trading center.  Plus, during most daylight hours, it would look like a ghost town because people are avoiding the heat.  The best I can do is put up photos of my house!

This is the main gate to the compound

This is the compound that I stay in.  The veranda to the left is not my veranda, but that is my land lady's house.  See those blue doors?  I live in one of those "shops."

This alleyway is how I get to my house everyday.  My "backdoor" is the last one on the right.  I say "backdoor" because I never use my frontdoor!

This is my "kitchen."  The yellow and blue jerry cans are where I store all my water.  I use a gas stove.  The green basins are where I wash my dishes.  The front is wash water, the back is rinse water.  And no, I don't think I'll paint my house again.  I think it gives it character, don't you?