Our First Days

We woke up in the morning at sunrise thanks to the efforts of the rooster out the back door... backed up by what we call “Jurassic Cows” because of their loud moos. It was quite beautiful. We stare at a mountain and the soft sun warmed us on the porch. We took pictures right away.

We went down to the school after breakfast and met the staff who can speak somewhat understandable English. They were most welcoming. The teachers and students are very distant from each other. They maintain a very formal British boarding school type atmosphere. We are not really into that so we were always being called away from the students to be with the teachers. They put on a special school assembly with a formal welcome from the Headmaster, Deputy Head... all with a Director of Ceremonies, national anthems, prayers, etc... The students sang a few songs in English that had obviously caused them much pain to sing. Their last number was a local song completed with bongo drums and two sticks on a piece of wood all of which had just been taken off the ground. This song garnered much more student enthusiasm and even some restrained dancing from designated students. I grew up in this kind of formal world and thought a change of pace was needed. I leaned over to our hostess (who shares my perspectives) and asked if it would be an offense for me to jump in and dance. Permission granted and with a banshee yell, I joined the dancer.

Instant pandemonium.

All the students jumped in with their own (better) war cry: “Ay yay yay yay yay...”, the fam joined in and even some of teachers let loose. We all jumped around to the beat of the drums in a raucous and unrestrained expression of joy and laughter. It was a total gas!

After the assembly we met with the Head and he had been amused by it all. We layed down some plans for what needed to be done and how we could help. The legal details of the lease had not yet been completed so we could not begin on the house for which we raised the money until that was official so we all were assigned a teaching schedule.

I was to teach on elementary financial planning, Jody was teaching math skills required for the seamstress students, Lisa helped us all and Diana taught on HIV and sexuality. For the next week or so that was our main duty. The challenge here is the accent and actual knowledge of english. They have 48 languages in Uganda but English is the official language that is supposed to tie everybody together. Nice plan. Most of them speak english about as well as the guy on the street in Prince George speaks french. The ones who do speak english have a very thick accent. For the first few days, I thought the local word for us was “Veezee-TAH.” until I realized that it was actually them calling us “visitor”.

No. We are “Mizoongos”. If you ever want to see what it's like being a celebrity, come to Uganda. Nobody can resist staring at us. The children come out of everywhere to yell “Mazoongo! Mazoongo! How ah yoo! How ah yoo!” Teenagers smirk and giggle as we pass by. Everybody flashes us with a big African smile. The kids follow us for hundreds of yards. Take their picture and show it to them and instantly you have a mob of faces fighting to get a look into the camera to see the picture. Then hysterical laughter when they see themselves.

The students at the school are older and get completely tongue tied when you first come up to talk to them. Most will come out of their shells after a few minutes but some just can't bring themselves to speak.

There is an incredible reverse discrimination. Say we come up to a full van (Bad example: There is no such thing as a full van here... but stay with me) they boot out some poor widow and insist that you come in. Line up at the hospital? When you're with a mizoongo, no problem. Head of the line, the best seats, first to get food, not allowed to carry anything, … we feel like Hollywood personified. It takes a lot of convincing to to forgo any of these privileges. Sometimes you just have to go with it because you don't have the time to talk them out of it all.

Market days are Monday and Thursday so Diana has made sure that these opportunities are not missed. One market is a 7 km walk and the local “wiki wikis” (scooter taxies-no helmets, insane drivers) ask us if we want a ride every 30 meters. The prices are flat out ridiculous. Half is nice, a third is a little weird but here in Uganda, the price is about 1/10^th. This is not an exaggeration in many cases. New watch: 75¢; beer: a buck and change but in 500 ml bottles; live in housekeeper: $5 a week; payment for 1 day's labour tilling a field or building a brick house: $3; tea and fresh chappatti bread for 3 people: 40¢; 300 ml of coke: 30¢. Diana haggling for the last 5¢ off the prices to avoid paying the “Mizoongo surcharge”: priceless.

The kids have totally taken up with the local kids as well. When the day is done, there's usually a soccer game, chasing each other, rough housing, volleyball and the like. They are adored by all the kids in this area and our house is the center of the universe. After school they collect at the gate just watching us and waiting for the appearance of “Paulo”, Jody and Lisa. They are scraggly, dirty and in torn clothes and none of them have shoes. In Kelowna, we'd call Social Services. Here, they are the sweetest of kids... all falling over themselves to see who can be the first one to be of help.

Soccer is it. I hate to say it but more so than hockey is to Canada. We brought about 20 balls kindness of our arch enemies over at the Westside YSA and these balls are raw gold. Raw gold. We made the mistake of handing out a ball to a kid that was particularly talented (and poor) and out of jealousy that evening a band of 30 kids with sticks chased him through the trails to beat him. Fortunately, a parent intervened to save the boy. Two former best friends are still barely talking to each other. All this over a used soccer ball that wouldn't be sold in a garage sale for more than a buck...

When a soccer pitch is bad in our world, you say it is nothing but a “cow field”. The local school soccer field is, in fact, a cow field... including the cows and the stuff that comes out of a cow's butt. There are 10 “ post holes randomly dug into the field as well as 12” ledges, stones, etc... It makes for some interesting strategies.

Of course they play in bare feet, run like the wind and have incredible control of the ball and can almost pound it the length of the field in a flash... and that's just the 8 year olds... Of course, they (and all the villagers that gather around to watch the Mizoongos play) all get quite a laugh watching me play. Paul is actually able to look good and Jody and Lisa shock them at how good they are. Being girls, they are not expected to be good at anything else but carrying a truck load of bananas on their heads...

So that was our usual day for the first couple of weeks: get up at dawn, have breakfast, prepare for our classes, teach, have lunch at the school, do some tilling or weeding, play soccer with the kids, eat supper and ...crrrrrrash.