Sad, looming departure from many things African a few matatu rides away. Sad to leave hawkers selling indefinitely borrowed road signs to cars stopped in traffic on Uhuru Highway, Nairobi. Sad to leave happy faces everywhere. Sad to leave folks who say karibu (welcome to) Kenya two months after one arrives, their eyes aglow. Sad to not share a city bus with a dozen-strong work crew that hauls hundreds of kilos worth of metal, including a steel ladder the length of a poll vault that rests in the aisle. Sad to no longer hear Mama Kikuyu halt such a bus with brash complaints as she vows to report, and does report, the public transport violation. Sad to stop eating delicious food everywhere at all times. Sad to begin not noticing so clearly a remarkable trait of human resiliency: the bleaker the living conditions, the stronger, and more selfless, people behave. Sad to walk away from streets where I must ignore nearly everyone I pass, and not because they will rob or hurt me but because they will adoringly pursuade me, as a result of their starkly transparent nobility, ingenuity, and vulnerability, to give away all my possessions and earnings to as many as I can before taking them back to America. Sad to cease being a softie in a land where potent humanity intoxicates a most sober individualist who, in principle, frowns upon spontaneous handouts.
Takin' a 48hr Nairobi layover before heading back West. My African Mama and mzungu Mama discuss tea recipes. I tie a few loose ends concerning the more scholastic aspects of Kenya history research. Hopefully, leaving the land will invigorate as it will also likely sadden. Again, I stress a point, as a I retire posts written within sub-saharan Africa, that either God(s) love this traveling American, or I've been just damn fortunate to breathe the air at the right times and places.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Matatu Mediation
Late July
A man with physique and personality akin to Sir Charles Barkley sings and dances in his seat aboard a late-night "Young Geez" matatu. Once sure he has drawn the attention of fellow passengers, he kisses a newspaper cutout of young women stuck to the vehicle's ceiling. After a few stops let enough people out of the rig to compel the conductor to halt the vehicle and wait for more commuters, a small group of properly looking elders scans the matatu scene prospecting for a lift. The conductor predictable raps the destination and fare of his matatu hoping to sell the ride. Barkley then joins in the persuasion. The outsiders seem reluctant. Barkley gets out of the car and personally offers to usher them inside. Still failing, he convinces the people riding shotgun to move to the back and let the new people board the front. He then sits down on a two-inch curb outside the matatu, refusing to re-enter the vehicle until the prospective matatans hop step inside. While on the sit-down-strike, Barkley looks to the heavens and prays to his god to send His People across the potholes to the 14-seat caravan bound, one day hopefully, for some sort of promise land. As the matatu howls with laughter, applause, and a bombastically static-prone sound system, the outsiders demonstrate an equally masterful ability to completely ignore the existence of the world around them until "Young Geez" pulls away. Barkley gets out a few moments later, revealing how he could have simply left the scene after the initial stop. This rhapsodic spirit fuels The Flying Matatu, giving it a reliable dose of didactic petrol to carry it through the longer stretches of monotony that can crop up even in the most bustling journeys across jungles both manmade and eternal.
A man with physique and personality akin to Sir Charles Barkley sings and dances in his seat aboard a late-night "Young Geez" matatu. Once sure he has drawn the attention of fellow passengers, he kisses a newspaper cutout of young women stuck to the vehicle's ceiling. After a few stops let enough people out of the rig to compel the conductor to halt the vehicle and wait for more commuters, a small group of properly looking elders scans the matatu scene prospecting for a lift. The conductor predictable raps the destination and fare of his matatu hoping to sell the ride. Barkley then joins in the persuasion. The outsiders seem reluctant. Barkley gets out of the car and personally offers to usher them inside. Still failing, he convinces the people riding shotgun to move to the back and let the new people board the front. He then sits down on a two-inch curb outside the matatu, refusing to re-enter the vehicle until the prospective matatans hop step inside. While on the sit-down-strike, Barkley looks to the heavens and prays to his god to send His People across the potholes to the 14-seat caravan bound, one day hopefully, for some sort of promise land. As the matatu howls with laughter, applause, and a bombastically static-prone sound system, the outsiders demonstrate an equally masterful ability to completely ignore the existence of the world around them until "Young Geez" pulls away. Barkley gets out a few moments later, revealing how he could have simply left the scene after the initial stop. This rhapsodic spirit fuels The Flying Matatu, giving it a reliable dose of didactic petrol to carry it through the longer stretches of monotony that can crop up even in the most bustling journeys across jungles both manmade and eternal.
A Few Weeks Worth of Plays, Stays, and Perfect Waves,
19/7 Bamburi Beach, Mombasa
The switch has been made from village volunteer to pan-E. African tourist. A week long process of re-vegetation in personal activity level, and a de-vegetation in diet, unfolded to reflect vocational transition. Kampala sewed up delightful music, food, and dessert. A dance-dominated play in the National Theatre showed off unrivaled brilliance through its choreography and sheer physical supremacy attained by its cast. I used to think nobody could dance pop music like Michael Jackson did in the mid-80s when he mastered Thriller, moonwalking to Billie Jean for the fist time. The "Heart of Desire" crew effortlessly duplicated any and all of Jacko's gyrations while moving elegantly onto hotter moves. From classical ballroom numbers to Latino steps to sweaty, primal tribe trances, the Kampalans conquered. After the show, they astoundingly performed spontaneous individual feats, each breaking it down solo at center stage one-after-the-other.
Stomach content with Indian, Chinese, and various African feasts bitten and chewed from Kampala's cosmopolitan eating establishments, I took my Ma down to the neighboring international bus terminal for a hitch across the Kenyan border to the Luo stronghold of Kisumu. Soon to be renamed Wesupportobama, Kisumu is Kenya's 3rd largest city and rests beside Lake Victoria. The settlement behaves like a town, however, suffering from mid-week doldrums. It merely acted as a populated layover en route to Nairobi and Coast. Apparently, the minister of finance, a relative of PM Raila Odinga, was robbed in central Kisumu, where we stayed, during the short duration of our visit. Next day, we reached Nairobi, saw a movie (the stupidly riveting popcorns ((Kenyans call more than one kernel of popcorn 'popcorns' just as multiple mathematic calculations are known as 'maths')) gobbler 'Incredible Hulk'), then took the night bus a few hours later to Mombasa. Fittingly, the police chose to stop every vehicle on the highway, line all passengers up on the roadside, search their bags, and kill them. A few of us miraculously escaped and hid in maize fields, using the Southern Cross constellation as our navigator. Surviving off of surprisingly tasty glow-in-the-dark earthworms and drinking our own pee, we met a band of winged acrobats riding camels with palm-tree branch wings. Together, we flew over the Tsavo man-eaters, the Turkana, and reached Somaliland. As mere warlords in the heart of Mogadishu, life is a workaday hustle. Or at least one would think it as such as silly thoughts flood the brain during an outrageously prolonged and uninteresting roadblock from the indisputably corrupt Kenya polisi. What they were searching for, nobody knew. When several people were shot and killed on the highway a few days after the inconsequential searches, nobody was surprised.
The sunrise after the police party we reached Mombasa, spent a night in a dumbly recommended hotel that would not pass muster from even the most seedy budget dwellers, before riding the coastal matatu circuit out to Bamburi beach northbound. First day, I buddied up with a few of the more articulate, less abrasive local beach bums who plan no-budget sea safaris held together by floss fishing line and sympathetically wayward tourists. Dreads make easy friends. Come eve, the Swahili, the Friday, and I toured the boys' shanty. A big bed, and a small oil candle, and little else houses the three lads. They pay 1500KSH a month, less than Mommy and I pay for one night in the luxuriously empty Fontana. After a half night of intimate discotheque in Mtwapa town, just a small ration of sleep was needed before the following day gave way to waking hours. Coast living is low and easy. Particularly if one's in a place abundant in foreign amenities. Pool, tusker keg, electricity, portions of TV with slim commercials. Besides the mindless banter with the local tourist hassler workforce, the way of life has turned distinctly private. Visits to internet cafes are on the wane, ocean romping and sea gazing on the wax.
The last instance in which I spent considerable time with my mother passed more than a year ago when we drove down to the Alvord Desert in sparse, vast SE Oregon. Once secluded, the vacationing maintained a satisfying regimen of round-the-ignored-clock reading, running, eating, and sleeping. On the Swahili coast, pesky interruptions lying in the way of transcendental Alvordian swaths of time are growing fewer but still ongoing. Orders for food must be annunciated. The room cleaner has to be told to wait when the room occupant wishes to sleep into the afternoon. This coerces the occupant into an additional morning task in accompanying the already annoying ritual of elephantine pissing that prior drinking of tropical juices and their various concoctions unabsorbed by a body awash in humidity demand. Some institutions request shirts to be worn. The wearing of pants persists, and not out of preference. Why can't we go without trousers if the climate permits? No cogent reply to this query exists outside the archaic realms of fundamentalist religious justification, I say.
The switch has been made from village volunteer to pan-E. African tourist. A week long process of re-vegetation in personal activity level, and a de-vegetation in diet, unfolded to reflect vocational transition. Kampala sewed up delightful music, food, and dessert. A dance-dominated play in the National Theatre showed off unrivaled brilliance through its choreography and sheer physical supremacy attained by its cast. I used to think nobody could dance pop music like Michael Jackson did in the mid-80s when he mastered Thriller, moonwalking to Billie Jean for the fist time. The "Heart of Desire" crew effortlessly duplicated any and all of Jacko's gyrations while moving elegantly onto hotter moves. From classical ballroom numbers to Latino steps to sweaty, primal tribe trances, the Kampalans conquered. After the show, they astoundingly performed spontaneous individual feats, each breaking it down solo at center stage one-after-the-other.
Stomach content with Indian, Chinese, and various African feasts bitten and chewed from Kampala's cosmopolitan eating establishments, I took my Ma down to the neighboring international bus terminal for a hitch across the Kenyan border to the Luo stronghold of Kisumu. Soon to be renamed Wesupportobama, Kisumu is Kenya's 3rd largest city and rests beside Lake Victoria. The settlement behaves like a town, however, suffering from mid-week doldrums. It merely acted as a populated layover en route to Nairobi and Coast. Apparently, the minister of finance, a relative of PM Raila Odinga, was robbed in central Kisumu, where we stayed, during the short duration of our visit. Next day, we reached Nairobi, saw a movie (the stupidly riveting popcorns ((Kenyans call more than one kernel of popcorn 'popcorns' just as multiple mathematic calculations are known as 'maths')) gobbler 'Incredible Hulk'), then took the night bus a few hours later to Mombasa. Fittingly, the police chose to stop every vehicle on the highway, line all passengers up on the roadside, search their bags, and kill them. A few of us miraculously escaped and hid in maize fields, using the Southern Cross constellation as our navigator. Surviving off of surprisingly tasty glow-in-the-dark earthworms and drinking our own pee, we met a band of winged acrobats riding camels with palm-tree branch wings. Together, we flew over the Tsavo man-eaters, the Turkana, and reached Somaliland. As mere warlords in the heart of Mogadishu, life is a workaday hustle. Or at least one would think it as such as silly thoughts flood the brain during an outrageously prolonged and uninteresting roadblock from the indisputably corrupt Kenya polisi. What they were searching for, nobody knew. When several people were shot and killed on the highway a few days after the inconsequential searches, nobody was surprised.
The sunrise after the police party we reached Mombasa, spent a night in a dumbly recommended hotel that would not pass muster from even the most seedy budget dwellers, before riding the coastal matatu circuit out to Bamburi beach northbound. First day, I buddied up with a few of the more articulate, less abrasive local beach bums who plan no-budget sea safaris held together by floss fishing line and sympathetically wayward tourists. Dreads make easy friends. Come eve, the Swahili, the Friday, and I toured the boys' shanty. A big bed, and a small oil candle, and little else houses the three lads. They pay 1500KSH a month, less than Mommy and I pay for one night in the luxuriously empty Fontana. After a half night of intimate discotheque in Mtwapa town, just a small ration of sleep was needed before the following day gave way to waking hours. Coast living is low and easy. Particularly if one's in a place abundant in foreign amenities. Pool, tusker keg, electricity, portions of TV with slim commercials. Besides the mindless banter with the local tourist hassler workforce, the way of life has turned distinctly private. Visits to internet cafes are on the wane, ocean romping and sea gazing on the wax.
The last instance in which I spent considerable time with my mother passed more than a year ago when we drove down to the Alvord Desert in sparse, vast SE Oregon. Once secluded, the vacationing maintained a satisfying regimen of round-the-ignored-clock reading, running, eating, and sleeping. On the Swahili coast, pesky interruptions lying in the way of transcendental Alvordian swaths of time are growing fewer but still ongoing. Orders for food must be annunciated. The room cleaner has to be told to wait when the room occupant wishes to sleep into the afternoon. This coerces the occupant into an additional morning task in accompanying the already annoying ritual of elephantine pissing that prior drinking of tropical juices and their various concoctions unabsorbed by a body awash in humidity demand. Some institutions request shirts to be worn. The wearing of pants persists, and not out of preference. Why can't we go without trousers if the climate permits? No cogent reply to this query exists outside the archaic realms of fundamentalist religious justification, I say.
Distant Dispatch from Deep inside the Dark Pearl
High time for a belatedly transcribed, yet comforting synopsis, of teaching escapade directed from Mama. Goes like dis right heere...
Winding down our last week @T.Inn, it's hard to believe a month has passed since our arrival. We kicked off the week in the classroom. I toted along a handful of books, thinking they work effectively in a Reader's Theater situation. While I narrated the stories, the other volunteers acted out the tales' various roles much to the delight of the students. The other volunteers include 4 women from the UK, ages 19-21. As Leif mentioned, he was typecast as the male actor which often meant he was big and bad. These students rarely see a book and very rarely are involved with acting of any kind. After our story and some whole group drama exercises, we broke up into smaller groups and let the kids have turns performing in front of small audiences. At first it was like pulling teeth to get them to emote in character form and to speak above a whisper but eventually they warmed up to it. The younger kids essentially mimed while the older ones read and learned lines. Often the kids perform song, dance, drawing in groups but seldom do they have the opportunity to go solo.
In his blogs, Leif described the soccer match and cross-country run. Both were well attended and spectated, a sight to behold in this remote area where few extra-curricular activities occur.
On our final day, the headmaster and the all-male staff of 8 treated us to a morning tea time. They lugged thermoses down to our place and were especially excited because they brought along fresh, warm milk from the night watchman's cow. Wince we have no electricity, thus no refrigerator, having fresh milk with tea is the ultimate treat.
Late in the pm, the school presented a musical performance to thank us for our time and to bid us farewell. It's always striking to see how fit the children are and to observe the range of musical gifts they present.
Leif and I agree the hardest part about leaving is putting a halt to our interactions with the kids. They are very appreciative of any attention they receive and are hungry to learn, realizing more knowledge may mean a path toward a better life.
Winding down our last week @T.Inn, it's hard to believe a month has passed since our arrival. We kicked off the week in the classroom. I toted along a handful of books, thinking they work effectively in a Reader's Theater situation. While I narrated the stories, the other volunteers acted out the tales' various roles much to the delight of the students. The other volunteers include 4 women from the UK, ages 19-21. As Leif mentioned, he was typecast as the male actor which often meant he was big and bad. These students rarely see a book and very rarely are involved with acting of any kind. After our story and some whole group drama exercises, we broke up into smaller groups and let the kids have turns performing in front of small audiences. At first it was like pulling teeth to get them to emote in character form and to speak above a whisper but eventually they warmed up to it. The younger kids essentially mimed while the older ones read and learned lines. Often the kids perform song, dance, drawing in groups but seldom do they have the opportunity to go solo.
In his blogs, Leif described the soccer match and cross-country run. Both were well attended and spectated, a sight to behold in this remote area where few extra-curricular activities occur.
On our final day, the headmaster and the all-male staff of 8 treated us to a morning tea time. They lugged thermoses down to our place and were especially excited because they brought along fresh, warm milk from the night watchman's cow. Wince we have no electricity, thus no refrigerator, having fresh milk with tea is the ultimate treat.
Late in the pm, the school presented a musical performance to thank us for our time and to bid us farewell. It's always striking to see how fit the children are and to observe the range of musical gifts they present.
Leif and I agree the hardest part about leaving is putting a halt to our interactions with the kids. They are very appreciative of any attention they receive and are hungry to learn, realizing more knowledge may mean a path toward a better life.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
When we say "Agaandi," ya'll say "Ndi Gye"...
11/10
The final day at TeachInn went down as a seemingly never-ending span of time. One looks back on it the following day and marvels at all the various happenings that unfolded. Or maybe it's a normal day in the city, and it seems lengthy in rural Africa since so many days melt away with a steady ease. In the words of George Costanza, "like an old man easing into a warm bath."
Come morn, we walked into classrooms for our last lessons, my mother and I. Cumulating our invented "drama week," the white people overacted various stories for the children to laugh at. Typecast as a man character, I, a skinny, goofy mzungu, played the big, bag wolf. When most of the 80 minute lesson elapsed, and the hilarity of my falling into an imaginary pool of hot water began to subside, some kids started saying "e-f-f-e-c-t," signaling they wanted a fix as mic fiends. The younger ones' version goes something like "e-f-f-e-e-P" [speaking in tongues], "e-f-f-e-e-p" [speaking in tongues], and it don't stop like so.
Come quarter past three, we handed out the numbers for the Ryabiringye Primary Cross Country scramble. Having written their names on numbered pieces of paper earlier in the week, the kids in the young P2-P4 classes danced in the aisles upon hearing news of their inclusion in the race. Did they know they were volunteering for an exercise of intense physical pain? Indeed. The chance to compete in sports had been previously confined to the oldest three classes, P5-P7. The youngsters itched at any chance to capture athletic distinction.
Unlike their American equivalents, which tend to lazily scoff at the prospect of sustained physical activity, the Bakiga unconsciously undergo year-round long distance training. Folks run to school, run to lunch, run back to school, and run after school playing football/netball until, and then a while after, dusk. Such a schedule is only interrupted by the seasonal demands of crops, which pull students from school for hard farm labor. The local die consists of a properly heavy supply of carbohydrates courtesy of matoke, rice, and g-nut sauce on every eating occasion. Everywhere is a hill. The bottoms of bills rise more than a mile above sea level. And for the first time in their lives, a race was organized on their behalf.
After posting wazungu on various turning points throughout the course, I trotted to the starting line. Awash with yellow, hundreds awaited the go-ahead signal. An mzungu yelled "1,2,3, Go" and the kids and I clogged the sole road artery away from the school down the football pitch, around said pitch, up a segment of fairly steep hillside, up a severely steep segment of a hillside, down a treacherously skinny straight-shot down the hill, around the pitch a second time, all before ascending the long, hard slog to the finish line atop the village. My lungs convulsed with exhaustion upon course completion. Legs flimsily like overcooked pasta. I finished comfortably behind the first five finishers.
The masses of 8-12 year olds quickly followed behind the leaders, causing an intense session of results recording. Once having tabulated the results, we presented the winning boy and girl from each class, and the top three boys and girls overall, with hackey sacks and toy medal prizes at an award ceremony duly following the last finisher. The overall winner was a boy from P5 not even on the first or second football teams. The winning girl came from the P4 class, meaning she wasn't even allowed to try out for the netball team. Before giving the awards out with customary handshakes and applause, I gave a short translated speech praising the pupils' strength and eagerness to run. Kids listened looking tired, thirsty, and, since I'd mentioned it, not so eagerly conduced into thankless scrambles up and down hills.
The award ceremony gave way to a going-away ceremony for me and Mama Me. Headmaster Kenneth and "we have loved you" among other sentimental pronouncements. The school choir sang and danced for us on cattle-grazed lawn. Following that, we rode a minibus outta TeachInn for the last time.
Pulling into Lake Bunyoni in the late evening, excitement ran high among the volunteers. For open mic night, those of us at Teach Inn (renamed T-Unit) gave a rap performance we'd been practicing all week. From a minstrel, comedic standpoint, the performance was a huge success. 19-year old British gals sneered rhymes with all the attitude their dainty accents could muster. Necklace letters made of tin foil debuted. Dave wore a clock on his chest.
Around midnight, a skinnydipping spree in the drink cooled our desires, capping the day's excess in activity.
The final day at TeachInn went down as a seemingly never-ending span of time. One looks back on it the following day and marvels at all the various happenings that unfolded. Or maybe it's a normal day in the city, and it seems lengthy in rural Africa since so many days melt away with a steady ease. In the words of George Costanza, "like an old man easing into a warm bath."
Come morn, we walked into classrooms for our last lessons, my mother and I. Cumulating our invented "drama week," the white people overacted various stories for the children to laugh at. Typecast as a man character, I, a skinny, goofy mzungu, played the big, bag wolf. When most of the 80 minute lesson elapsed, and the hilarity of my falling into an imaginary pool of hot water began to subside, some kids started saying "e-f-f-e-c-t," signaling they wanted a fix as mic fiends. The younger ones' version goes something like "e-f-f-e-e-P" [speaking in tongues], "e-f-f-e-e-p" [speaking in tongues], and it don't stop like so.
Come quarter past three, we handed out the numbers for the Ryabiringye Primary Cross Country scramble. Having written their names on numbered pieces of paper earlier in the week, the kids in the young P2-P4 classes danced in the aisles upon hearing news of their inclusion in the race. Did they know they were volunteering for an exercise of intense physical pain? Indeed. The chance to compete in sports had been previously confined to the oldest three classes, P5-P7. The youngsters itched at any chance to capture athletic distinction.
Unlike their American equivalents, which tend to lazily scoff at the prospect of sustained physical activity, the Bakiga unconsciously undergo year-round long distance training. Folks run to school, run to lunch, run back to school, and run after school playing football/netball until, and then a while after, dusk. Such a schedule is only interrupted by the seasonal demands of crops, which pull students from school for hard farm labor. The local die consists of a properly heavy supply of carbohydrates courtesy of matoke, rice, and g-nut sauce on every eating occasion. Everywhere is a hill. The bottoms of bills rise more than a mile above sea level. And for the first time in their lives, a race was organized on their behalf.
After posting wazungu on various turning points throughout the course, I trotted to the starting line. Awash with yellow, hundreds awaited the go-ahead signal. An mzungu yelled "1,2,3, Go" and the kids and I clogged the sole road artery away from the school down the football pitch, around said pitch, up a segment of fairly steep hillside, up a severely steep segment of a hillside, down a treacherously skinny straight-shot down the hill, around the pitch a second time, all before ascending the long, hard slog to the finish line atop the village. My lungs convulsed with exhaustion upon course completion. Legs flimsily like overcooked pasta. I finished comfortably behind the first five finishers.
The masses of 8-12 year olds quickly followed behind the leaders, causing an intense session of results recording. Once having tabulated the results, we presented the winning boy and girl from each class, and the top three boys and girls overall, with hackey sacks and toy medal prizes at an award ceremony duly following the last finisher. The overall winner was a boy from P5 not even on the first or second football teams. The winning girl came from the P4 class, meaning she wasn't even allowed to try out for the netball team. Before giving the awards out with customary handshakes and applause, I gave a short translated speech praising the pupils' strength and eagerness to run. Kids listened looking tired, thirsty, and, since I'd mentioned it, not so eagerly conduced into thankless scrambles up and down hills.
The award ceremony gave way to a going-away ceremony for me and Mama Me. Headmaster Kenneth and "we have loved you" among other sentimental pronouncements. The school choir sang and danced for us on cattle-grazed lawn. Following that, we rode a minibus outta TeachInn for the last time.
Pulling into Lake Bunyoni in the late evening, excitement ran high among the volunteers. For open mic night, those of us at Teach Inn (renamed T-Unit) gave a rap performance we'd been practicing all week. From a minstrel, comedic standpoint, the performance was a huge success. 19-year old British gals sneered rhymes with all the attitude their dainty accents could muster. Necklace letters made of tin foil debuted. Dave wore a clock on his chest.
Around midnight, a skinnydipping spree in the drink cooled our desires, capping the day's excess in activity.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Ryabiringye Primary School v Nyakasiru Primary School
10-7
With no less than five organized practices under our skinny, tightly fastened belts, my squad of footballers played their first match of the year against cross-village rivals Nyakasiru. It marked my debut as football coach, and my last game as coach of Ryabiringye. The match fell on the penultimate day of TeachInn duties. With Dave, the mostly out-of-town GM, heeding requests to ref the match, the pride of the school fell squarely on my shoulders. Seriously. Numerous grown men cared deeply about the outcome. They stated it as a must-win beforehand and proved such sentiment authentic by rooting with a heavily partisan vigor during the affair.
Following a netball match between the two school in which the gals in Rya yellow trounced the visiting Nya teal 3-1, the match began. Like netball, it was held on Rya home pitch (this pre-digital computer apparently lacks an apostrophe key) and watched by two entire student bodies. Nyakasiru has no pitch. Nor did any of Nya s players have shoes, prompting the few Rya players with kicks to remove theirs in a gesture of fairness. Nyakasiru also lacked visibly distinguishable substitutes. Lacking the resources to obtain a ball of their own, Nya had to borrow one from the volunteers to practice with in the days leading up to the clash. A neutral observer who fancies underdogs would have sided with Nyakisiru. Part of me, the opposing coach, secretly pined for a spoiler, having taught a few classes down the road to Bukinda myself. But the greater bulk of me knew a Rya victory would do wonders to demonstrate the value of teaching kids to pass the ball, thereby spurring an overall improvement in local football. I also wanted to capture the glory of being part of an winning African football team.
The schools, and their respective alumni, crowded the sidelines screaming chants at each other during the opening volleys. Rya, instructed to pass, controlled the ball from the outset. But weak, motionless play from our undersized strikers denied us any more than a handful of clean looks at the goal. Cute, sloppy play from our keeper Agaba nearly coast us a couple scores as a wonderkid from Rya managed to singlehandedly maneuver around our exceptionally cautious defense. The unusual expressions of timidity from many of our players certainly were not alleviated by the antics of a dozen or so men crowded around or sideline. These faculty, distant Rya alum, and other inexplicably present old men did their best to micromanage every touch of any Rya player within earshot of their hyperpitched Bakiga jabber. Likely giving contrary orders to mine, the men attempted to make their own substitutions and position changes independent of the coach. Ref Dave at one point overheard the sideshow and threw his whistle on the ground, cursed the disruptive supporters, and demanded they back off or else operate the match, and the football programs, themselves. -you men are behaving like boys-, he memorably said. True, but our boys were also behaving like boys. Scared to run to the ball once they failed to find quick success against a team that they were repeatedly assured by adults they should beat, they left the first half at nil-nil.
At half, I mostly spared the volumes of criticism festering within me and instead tried to fire up the spirits of the team with playful punches and sing-song voice inflections. Any amusement on their part remained hidden. Yet I had a feeling a few key adjustments could eventually exert our rightful dominance of the game. I took the captain Johnson aside and told him I needed him back on defense. Usually, a defensive assignment amounts to an insult in the minds of most of my players. But I reached an understanding with Johnson that we needed some coolheadedness to quell the spirited solo runs of Nya s chief attacker. Johnson smiled dutifully and with a businesslike -yes- took the the field. I shifted a defender, Edgar, to center-midfield. Edgar wore stiff shoes and overly long jean shorts at practice, never demanding the ball or a striker assignment like the other heavies. He let the game come to him. With an actual competition underway, Edgar stripped down to short skivvies, lost the shoes, and owned the pitch. A man among boys.
The second half saw Nya chase the ball with an added sense of frenzy. Rya responded with dopey-eyed caution. The forwards continued to stand motionless, as excellent through balls from Edgar were squandered with stork-legged swipes to nobody. I pulled both starting strikers and shuffled another burly defender forward while inserting Ian, a shunned substitute, in at striker as well. Having never been awarded the striker position under my direction before, Ian played with hungry tenacity, chasing down loose balls and staring down opposing defenders. But Nya outran us on our half of the field. After 25 minutes elapsed on a 35 minute second half, Nya s star player pounded a dominating goal into us. Those in teal stormed the field. Cartwheels and backflips erupted. I clapped twice, then encouraged my boys to play hard and nothing more. They looked dejected but also more focused. As Nyakasiru fans sang and danced unopposed, reveling in a late-game lead, we willed a decent pass across the center that fortuitously bounced over enough Nya defender header attempts to give Ian an open dash to the goal with the ball. His power stroke flew over the keeper s head, prompting the yellow to take their turn in celebrations. Adults hugged each other. 8 minutes or so ticked away, packed with intense, cluster-the-ball deliberations from both sides. AS regulation expired, the Nya coach and I agreed to two 10 minute extra time sessions. My players knelt at center field as I barked instructions, only to be cut off by Dave, who said the Nya headmaster, the respected John Allen Cabanza, wanted the game called off as a draw. Dave and I passed out sought after juice boxes to the competitors, attempting to rationalize the anti-climatic justice of a tie. Then, Cabanza suggested two five minute sessions of OT. We scrambled to pick up the discarded refreshments off the pitch and resume play before the sun set. With four minutes to go, Amoni, the best individual playmaker on Rya, corralled a loose ball inside the box and rocketed it into the goal at an angle. Utter hysteria ensued. Three minutes later, time expired and my boys had rallied from behind to win. Edgar was named Man of the Match. Overcoming the burden of coaching, they eked out a dramatic victory and, in no exaggerated terms, filled Rya alum, faculty, and headmaster with pride and honer.
With no less than five organized practices under our skinny, tightly fastened belts, my squad of footballers played their first match of the year against cross-village rivals Nyakasiru. It marked my debut as football coach, and my last game as coach of Ryabiringye. The match fell on the penultimate day of TeachInn duties. With Dave, the mostly out-of-town GM, heeding requests to ref the match, the pride of the school fell squarely on my shoulders. Seriously. Numerous grown men cared deeply about the outcome. They stated it as a must-win beforehand and proved such sentiment authentic by rooting with a heavily partisan vigor during the affair.
Following a netball match between the two school in which the gals in Rya yellow trounced the visiting Nya teal 3-1, the match began. Like netball, it was held on Rya home pitch (this pre-digital computer apparently lacks an apostrophe key) and watched by two entire student bodies. Nyakasiru has no pitch. Nor did any of Nya s players have shoes, prompting the few Rya players with kicks to remove theirs in a gesture of fairness. Nyakasiru also lacked visibly distinguishable substitutes. Lacking the resources to obtain a ball of their own, Nya had to borrow one from the volunteers to practice with in the days leading up to the clash. A neutral observer who fancies underdogs would have sided with Nyakisiru. Part of me, the opposing coach, secretly pined for a spoiler, having taught a few classes down the road to Bukinda myself. But the greater bulk of me knew a Rya victory would do wonders to demonstrate the value of teaching kids to pass the ball, thereby spurring an overall improvement in local football. I also wanted to capture the glory of being part of an winning African football team.
The schools, and their respective alumni, crowded the sidelines screaming chants at each other during the opening volleys. Rya, instructed to pass, controlled the ball from the outset. But weak, motionless play from our undersized strikers denied us any more than a handful of clean looks at the goal. Cute, sloppy play from our keeper Agaba nearly coast us a couple scores as a wonderkid from Rya managed to singlehandedly maneuver around our exceptionally cautious defense. The unusual expressions of timidity from many of our players certainly were not alleviated by the antics of a dozen or so men crowded around or sideline. These faculty, distant Rya alum, and other inexplicably present old men did their best to micromanage every touch of any Rya player within earshot of their hyperpitched Bakiga jabber. Likely giving contrary orders to mine, the men attempted to make their own substitutions and position changes independent of the coach. Ref Dave at one point overheard the sideshow and threw his whistle on the ground, cursed the disruptive supporters, and demanded they back off or else operate the match, and the football programs, themselves. -you men are behaving like boys-, he memorably said. True, but our boys were also behaving like boys. Scared to run to the ball once they failed to find quick success against a team that they were repeatedly assured by adults they should beat, they left the first half at nil-nil.
At half, I mostly spared the volumes of criticism festering within me and instead tried to fire up the spirits of the team with playful punches and sing-song voice inflections. Any amusement on their part remained hidden. Yet I had a feeling a few key adjustments could eventually exert our rightful dominance of the game. I took the captain Johnson aside and told him I needed him back on defense. Usually, a defensive assignment amounts to an insult in the minds of most of my players. But I reached an understanding with Johnson that we needed some coolheadedness to quell the spirited solo runs of Nya s chief attacker. Johnson smiled dutifully and with a businesslike -yes- took the the field. I shifted a defender, Edgar, to center-midfield. Edgar wore stiff shoes and overly long jean shorts at practice, never demanding the ball or a striker assignment like the other heavies. He let the game come to him. With an actual competition underway, Edgar stripped down to short skivvies, lost the shoes, and owned the pitch. A man among boys.
The second half saw Nya chase the ball with an added sense of frenzy. Rya responded with dopey-eyed caution. The forwards continued to stand motionless, as excellent through balls from Edgar were squandered with stork-legged swipes to nobody. I pulled both starting strikers and shuffled another burly defender forward while inserting Ian, a shunned substitute, in at striker as well. Having never been awarded the striker position under my direction before, Ian played with hungry tenacity, chasing down loose balls and staring down opposing defenders. But Nya outran us on our half of the field. After 25 minutes elapsed on a 35 minute second half, Nya s star player pounded a dominating goal into us. Those in teal stormed the field. Cartwheels and backflips erupted. I clapped twice, then encouraged my boys to play hard and nothing more. They looked dejected but also more focused. As Nyakasiru fans sang and danced unopposed, reveling in a late-game lead, we willed a decent pass across the center that fortuitously bounced over enough Nya defender header attempts to give Ian an open dash to the goal with the ball. His power stroke flew over the keeper s head, prompting the yellow to take their turn in celebrations. Adults hugged each other. 8 minutes or so ticked away, packed with intense, cluster-the-ball deliberations from both sides. AS regulation expired, the Nya coach and I agreed to two 10 minute extra time sessions. My players knelt at center field as I barked instructions, only to be cut off by Dave, who said the Nya headmaster, the respected John Allen Cabanza, wanted the game called off as a draw. Dave and I passed out sought after juice boxes to the competitors, attempting to rationalize the anti-climatic justice of a tie. Then, Cabanza suggested two five minute sessions of OT. We scrambled to pick up the discarded refreshments off the pitch and resume play before the sun set. With four minutes to go, Amoni, the best individual playmaker on Rya, corralled a loose ball inside the box and rocketed it into the goal at an angle. Utter hysteria ensued. Three minutes later, time expired and my boys had rallied from behind to win. Edgar was named Man of the Match. Overcoming the burden of coaching, they eked out a dramatic victory and, in no exaggerated terms, filled Rya alum, faculty, and headmaster with pride and honer.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
4th of July
Another post courtesy of the seniormost American Southern Ugandan Ambassador, Sharon Bullock:
The school and our lodging is situated upon a slope. Every morn when it's still dark around 6am, someone beats a drum slowly from our place. This lets the kids in the surrounding area below know it's time to prepare for school. Time is a funny concept in this country. There's not the Western linear thinking, but something jumbled up in another dimension. Previous volunteer teachers have tried and failed to get students understand telling time. It's true, many activities involve standing around and waiting but it's not always an annoyance. Time isn't an issue. We continue to enjoy our teaching experience with kids. Yesterday, Leif and I were in a middle school age class and we were supposed to continue a previous lesson on germs, hygiene, proper washing, etc but it turns out most students know more about that than we do. I think they are force fed this theme many times. We decided to scrap that lesson and install one of our own. First, we taught them a song with great lyrics, rhythm. They naturally picked it up quickly. Then we gave them the writing prompt, "If I was the leader of my village I would help it by..." Wow, it was amazing what they came up with. They didn't fly off with imagination but instead managed to incorporate much of what they previously learned in essay form. Many wrote detailed facts about the environment, soil erosion, deforestation, harmful chemicals to lactating mothers, etc. No outlines, no drafts, only first and final copies written in ink with good handwriting and near-perfect spelling. There's something to say for copying factual information from the board. I plan to beef up that aspect in my classroom because I think it leads to quick and efficient note-taking in the future. Some of us learn beast when writing it down.
This morning Leif and I walked to the other school we sometimes teach at. These kids aren't as used to muzungos so a couple hundred yards before reaching the school we're met by a greeting party-- a band of 7-9 yr old boys who hold our hands and bring us along. They are really too cute. For our time here we took the class of 80 outside for game fun. Leif led them in stretches and aerobics and then we formed 10 relay teams for lots of running. At first, it was hilarious because the idea of running in TEAMS is foreign. After many false starts, they finally succeeded. It's an indescribable joy to watch kids laugh and play when you know the playing occurs so infrequently.
In a short while we will have our tree-planting ceremony. Leif bought a guava tree and I selected an avocado plant. They're planted on the school grounds with the idea that kids will have food available to them when hungry and they won't have to snitch from the neighboring fields. Shouldn't we have fruit trees on our our school grounds? Instant healthy snack.
The school and our lodging is situated upon a slope. Every morn when it's still dark around 6am, someone beats a drum slowly from our place. This lets the kids in the surrounding area below know it's time to prepare for school. Time is a funny concept in this country. There's not the Western linear thinking, but something jumbled up in another dimension. Previous volunteer teachers have tried and failed to get students understand telling time. It's true, many activities involve standing around and waiting but it's not always an annoyance. Time isn't an issue. We continue to enjoy our teaching experience with kids. Yesterday, Leif and I were in a middle school age class and we were supposed to continue a previous lesson on germs, hygiene, proper washing, etc but it turns out most students know more about that than we do. I think they are force fed this theme many times. We decided to scrap that lesson and install one of our own. First, we taught them a song with great lyrics, rhythm. They naturally picked it up quickly. Then we gave them the writing prompt, "If I was the leader of my village I would help it by..." Wow, it was amazing what they came up with. They didn't fly off with imagination but instead managed to incorporate much of what they previously learned in essay form. Many wrote detailed facts about the environment, soil erosion, deforestation, harmful chemicals to lactating mothers, etc. No outlines, no drafts, only first and final copies written in ink with good handwriting and near-perfect spelling. There's something to say for copying factual information from the board. I plan to beef up that aspect in my classroom because I think it leads to quick and efficient note-taking in the future. Some of us learn beast when writing it down.
This morning Leif and I walked to the other school we sometimes teach at. These kids aren't as used to muzungos so a couple hundred yards before reaching the school we're met by a greeting party-- a band of 7-9 yr old boys who hold our hands and bring us along. They are really too cute. For our time here we took the class of 80 outside for game fun. Leif led them in stretches and aerobics and then we formed 10 relay teams for lots of running. At first, it was hilarious because the idea of running in TEAMS is foreign. After many false starts, they finally succeeded. It's an indescribable joy to watch kids laugh and play when you know the playing occurs so infrequently.
In a short while we will have our tree-planting ceremony. Leif bought a guava tree and I selected an avocado plant. They're planted on the school grounds with the idea that kids will have food available to them when hungry and they won't have to snitch from the neighboring fields. Shouldn't we have fruit trees on our our school grounds? Instant healthy snack.
Ryabirengye United FC
5/7
This week, the nominal head volunteer Dave, and I, have assumed managorial and coaching duties for the just-revived school football team. On the first day of tryouts, I ordered the first-team hopefuls to run four laps around the pitch with me. When completed, I was told a few jokers hid in the bushes after the first lap, thinking they would get away with it. Losing my nice guy, "player's coach" demeanor instantly, I screamed at the lot of them, informing every aspiring Drogba that those who hid may as well leave the field immediately because I had memorized their faces (not true) and I would not permit them to join the first or second squad. From then on, the students have done what's been asked of them, provided they understand the orders, and provided the orders can realistically be followed (once Dave decreed that the ball not leave the ground during a scrimmage, an impossible task considering the treacherous topography we play on...).
screamin away
cuz 20 or so can play
with months of serious guidance
we'll stun critics into silence
the pitch affords no favors
hills and goats crowd the penalty areas
the little ones try hard
big kids kick it too far
team hardly understands me,-
my Bakiga tongue stops after "agaandi".
I tell them to run
they hide in the bushes
I tell them to pass
they kick the ball without lookin.
most say they play striker
think they're built like Adeboyar
yet just a few can explode
in that funky goal mode
certain brilliance is undefinable
amongst these peasants cutting pineapple
to slice a hot pass down the middle
is tricky like a clever riddle
the situation requires smarts
deriving from the creative arts
accuracy, precision
join forces with wisdom
to make the defense miss and bleed
timing is the most vital key.
This week, the nominal head volunteer Dave, and I, have assumed managorial and coaching duties for the just-revived school football team. On the first day of tryouts, I ordered the first-team hopefuls to run four laps around the pitch with me. When completed, I was told a few jokers hid in the bushes after the first lap, thinking they would get away with it. Losing my nice guy, "player's coach" demeanor instantly, I screamed at the lot of them, informing every aspiring Drogba that those who hid may as well leave the field immediately because I had memorized their faces (not true) and I would not permit them to join the first or second squad. From then on, the students have done what's been asked of them, provided they understand the orders, and provided the orders can realistically be followed (once Dave decreed that the ball not leave the ground during a scrimmage, an impossible task considering the treacherous topography we play on...).
screamin away
cuz 20 or so can play
with months of serious guidance
we'll stun critics into silence
the pitch affords no favors
hills and goats crowd the penalty areas
the little ones try hard
big kids kick it too far
team hardly understands me,-
my Bakiga tongue stops after "agaandi".
I tell them to run
they hide in the bushes
I tell them to pass
they kick the ball without lookin.
most say they play striker
think they're built like Adeboyar
yet just a few can explode
in that funky goal mode
certain brilliance is undefinable
amongst these peasants cutting pineapple
to slice a hot pass down the middle
is tricky like a clever riddle
the situation requires smarts
deriving from the creative arts
accuracy, precision
join forces with wisdom
to make the defense miss and bleed
timing is the most vital key.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Success in the Quest for Utter Physical Exhaustion
Lake Bunyoni Canoe Weekend
Day 1
A hire chews burned corn. It quickly tires his jaw. We feel our legs rock back and forth from canoes, though we now sit still, sneezing smoke burned off from six beanstalk-sized logs. Eerily warm ashes sneak up our jacket sleeves. Our leader Moses promises legs will ache tomorrow like our paddling muscles burn today. No land in sight lies flat.
Everyone tried to sleep before the sun set. The younger ones confess to hangovers. A poor radio signal plays bad music. We trade tales of buraucratic corruption, waiting for our lamb to lose more pinkness. Insects feast on us as we pine to feed.
Day 2
An 18k hike/run/canoe jaunt today. Nimechoka cabisa. Rest those heavy eyelids, after some on-demand campfire rapping.
Day 1
A hire chews burned corn. It quickly tires his jaw. We feel our legs rock back and forth from canoes, though we now sit still, sneezing smoke burned off from six beanstalk-sized logs. Eerily warm ashes sneak up our jacket sleeves. Our leader Moses promises legs will ache tomorrow like our paddling muscles burn today. No land in sight lies flat.
Everyone tried to sleep before the sun set. The younger ones confess to hangovers. A poor radio signal plays bad music. We trade tales of buraucratic corruption, waiting for our lamb to lose more pinkness. Insects feast on us as we pine to feed.
Day 2
An 18k hike/run/canoe jaunt today. Nimechoka cabisa. Rest those heavy eyelids, after some on-demand campfire rapping.
Friday, June 27, 2008
From my Dear Mother
The following is written by mum, Sharon Bullock:
As we rounded the last bend in the road before reaching Teach Inn, a wave of yellow-clad Ugandan children ran alongside our van, waving and smiling. It was at this moment all of the built-up pressure in prepping for this trip gave way to overwhelming relief. My heart caught in my throat, tears welled in my eyes. Like Leif had said, I will have a feeling like I was coming home.
Now, more than a week into our month long stay, we are having an unbelievable experience. People of this remote area are very poor. Parents are working in the crop fields all day long and the kids are on their own most of the time. When not in school, kids are scampering up and down the terraced slopes fetching water, collecting firewood, herding goats. It's not unusual to see 3+4 year olds wielding machetes, hacking away at bushes for burning.
Teach Inn is an oasis for these children. Since they experience little interaction with their parents, they very much appreciate the time with us volunteers. We give them attention and they are polite and welcoming with open arms.
In the classroom, we are to teach in a manner that lets them feel expressive and creative. When with their regular teacher, the students copy the written English from the board into their small exercise books. What I'm gathering is they memorize much but may not necessarily understand what they've written. For the most part, handwriting and spelling are well done.
Our lessons focus on sparking the imagination. At first the students are reluctant to open up, creatively, but after brainstorming and prodding , they usually get going. Most kids are shy, but they are warm and affectionate, always.
Some tidbits of info: since we're at 6000ft, no mosquitoes or snakes-yeah! No one here has running water, including us. Recess is all soccer—most boys are Arsenal fans. No wild animals around here except exotic birds although goats, chickens, pigs, and cows are everywhere. A motorized vehicle anywhere around is rare (very nice). The lucky ones have bicycles. It's a treat to walk around here. Fresh fruit and veggies rule! Lots of pineapple, avacado, spuds, carrots, and tomatoes. This close to the equator, it ecomes dark@7 all the time. The wet season just ended, dry season begins.
Oh, on our first day we were formally introduced in a morning assembly, complete with singing, drumming, and clapping. After I said my name and Leif his, it was noted I shall from then on be known as 'Mama Leif.' The headmaster told me this was a title of honor and my presence is greatly respected. He also said, "thank you for Leif." Most volunteers are 20-somethings. A middle -age ol' gal is a rarity. Everywhere I go, I hear, "Mama Leif."
As we rounded the last bend in the road before reaching Teach Inn, a wave of yellow-clad Ugandan children ran alongside our van, waving and smiling. It was at this moment all of the built-up pressure in prepping for this trip gave way to overwhelming relief. My heart caught in my throat, tears welled in my eyes. Like Leif had said, I will have a feeling like I was coming home.
Now, more than a week into our month long stay, we are having an unbelievable experience. People of this remote area are very poor. Parents are working in the crop fields all day long and the kids are on their own most of the time. When not in school, kids are scampering up and down the terraced slopes fetching water, collecting firewood, herding goats. It's not unusual to see 3+4 year olds wielding machetes, hacking away at bushes for burning.
Teach Inn is an oasis for these children. Since they experience little interaction with their parents, they very much appreciate the time with us volunteers. We give them attention and they are polite and welcoming with open arms.
In the classroom, we are to teach in a manner that lets them feel expressive and creative. When with their regular teacher, the students copy the written English from the board into their small exercise books. What I'm gathering is they memorize much but may not necessarily understand what they've written. For the most part, handwriting and spelling are well done.
Our lessons focus on sparking the imagination. At first the students are reluctant to open up, creatively, but after brainstorming and prodding , they usually get going. Most kids are shy, but they are warm and affectionate, always.
Some tidbits of info: since we're at 6000ft, no mosquitoes or snakes-yeah! No one here has running water, including us. Recess is all soccer—most boys are Arsenal fans. No wild animals around here except exotic birds although goats, chickens, pigs, and cows are everywhere. A motorized vehicle anywhere around is rare (very nice). The lucky ones have bicycles. It's a treat to walk around here. Fresh fruit and veggies rule! Lots of pineapple, avacado, spuds, carrots, and tomatoes. This close to the equator, it ecomes dark@7 all the time. The wet season just ended, dry season begins.
Oh, on our first day we were formally introduced in a morning assembly, complete with singing, drumming, and clapping. After I said my name and Leif his, it was noted I shall from then on be known as 'Mama Leif.' The headmaster told me this was a title of honor and my presence is greatly respected. He also said, "thank you for Leif." Most volunteers are 20-somethings. A middle -age ol' gal is a rarity. Everywhere I go, I hear, "Mama Leif."
For the Kids
Sometime in Late June?
The Roman Calender decrees a week passed at TeachInn. A week for birds cuz man has time flown. Living alongside the adoring and adorable masses of Bukiga's blessed Ugandan farmerchildren, the school fills us volunteers with vigor, pride, and utter exhaustion come sundown. Every class we teach, roars of welcome greet us as we walk in the classroom door. The kids knows us by name, as evidenced by their perpetual screaming of them. At this moment, dozens of kids have discovered my journal writing location and intently peer over this scribbly cursive I write. Their laughter rises and falls between stares of perplexed fascination. Since the children are subject to a strict regimen of route memorization in the classroom normally, the mandated role of the foreign teacher is one meant to stimulate other modes of learning. Particularly the fun ones. Games, art, song, dance, slang instruction, and the like. It seems I have marked the arrival of hip-hop in this village. When I flow a simple rhyme to beats/ these kids will move their feet / don't matter if they don't eat / we go till the end of the week...
Spare houre give way to lovely long-distance runs atop hills patterned with checkered-quilt patterned farms. Each evening, hours of football (termed soccer for you Yankee isolationist holdouts) organized by the Arsensal and Manchester worshipping kids elapses on a hilly, bumpy, and and brilliantly small pitch. The capricious nature of the course, along with the individualist styles and athletic upbringings of the students, often causes a level of ball-hogging that even the greediest American forwards shy from. And it's a delight to watch or imitate.
Memorable names of kids; most of which still do not sound as cool as the indigenous surnames: Fortunate, Gift, Evidence, Promise, Jericho, Happy, Apple —wait, now it is apparent Fortunate is leading a band of little twerps in requesting I "give us music". For one, they are much more melodic than I. For two, where do these snots get teh nerve to mess with my personal space with such a laborious request? I oughtta take a cue from the full-time local teachers and carry a ruler to instill some hard-knock discipline onto these selfish ingrates. jk.
The Roman Calender decrees a week passed at TeachInn. A week for birds cuz man has time flown. Living alongside the adoring and adorable masses of Bukiga's blessed Ugandan farmerchildren, the school fills us volunteers with vigor, pride, and utter exhaustion come sundown. Every class we teach, roars of welcome greet us as we walk in the classroom door. The kids knows us by name, as evidenced by their perpetual screaming of them. At this moment, dozens of kids have discovered my journal writing location and intently peer over this scribbly cursive I write. Their laughter rises and falls between stares of perplexed fascination. Since the children are subject to a strict regimen of route memorization in the classroom normally, the mandated role of the foreign teacher is one meant to stimulate other modes of learning. Particularly the fun ones. Games, art, song, dance, slang instruction, and the like. It seems I have marked the arrival of hip-hop in this village. When I flow a simple rhyme to beats/ these kids will move their feet / don't matter if they don't eat / we go till the end of the week...
Spare houre give way to lovely long-distance runs atop hills patterned with checkered-quilt patterned farms. Each evening, hours of football (termed soccer for you Yankee isolationist holdouts) organized by the Arsensal and Manchester worshipping kids elapses on a hilly, bumpy, and and brilliantly small pitch. The capricious nature of the course, along with the individualist styles and athletic upbringings of the students, often causes a level of ball-hogging that even the greediest American forwards shy from. And it's a delight to watch or imitate.
Memorable names of kids; most of which still do not sound as cool as the indigenous surnames: Fortunate, Gift, Evidence, Promise, Jericho, Happy, Apple —wait, now it is apparent Fortunate is leading a band of little twerps in requesting I "give us music". For one, they are much more melodic than I. For two, where do these snots get teh nerve to mess with my personal space with such a laborious request? I oughtta take a cue from the full-time local teachers and carry a ruler to instill some hard-knock discipline onto these selfish ingrates. jk.
Beats Update
19/6/08
A no-holds-barred Ugandan shindig went down last night at Lake Bunyoni. An assortment of teacher volunteers, hangout volunteers, and locals packed in small cloisters got cozy beside a gorgeous, "pearl" of a lake. The entire affair took place on a steep hill, with even the firepit slanted at an angle. Folks inhaled six or so crates of beer. Local pineapple-tinged firewater Waragi was absent. In its place, "africa's #1 Vodka" packets and Moramba, both of which are not recommended for non-E. african phenotype consumption. One looks like water and tastes like ato part cleaner; the other looks like auto part cleaner, and tastes like auto part cleaner.
Before we'd made a dent in the spirits, spontaneous drums and dance erupted. I met the preferred chillers on hand: Comfort, the amiable drummer and unmatched dancer, and Charity, the enthusiastic hymm singer/vodka packeteer. Tis always disappointing when you meet good folks but know you will not get to know them much thanks to modern manifestations of time and space.
Next day, we checked into the dank Teach-Inn facilities. Three hours of strenuous child immersion later, we bounced in to Kabele once again. The destination of highest anticipation: Match and Mix, the bar/dancehall for Friday celebration. A glorious venue for hours of grooves served until sunrise. Comfort led the way with a devilish looseness in his shoulders and hyperkinetic hips. His feet kept up with him, improvising countless hop-scotch sequences that reveals most contemporary U.S. hip-hop backup dancers as lame imitations of their hipper genre forefathers, and mothers. Other memorable Ukiga (local tribe) included Cle Malli, the Rasta with a shaved head, who bought me a brew in the name of freespirited Rastafarianism. He proved a good person to practice with at saying "Ethiopia" in as mystical tone as possible.
A no-holds-barred Ugandan shindig went down last night at Lake Bunyoni. An assortment of teacher volunteers, hangout volunteers, and locals packed in small cloisters got cozy beside a gorgeous, "pearl" of a lake. The entire affair took place on a steep hill, with even the firepit slanted at an angle. Folks inhaled six or so crates of beer. Local pineapple-tinged firewater Waragi was absent. In its place, "africa's #1 Vodka" packets and Moramba, both of which are not recommended for non-E. african phenotype consumption. One looks like water and tastes like ato part cleaner; the other looks like auto part cleaner, and tastes like auto part cleaner.
Before we'd made a dent in the spirits, spontaneous drums and dance erupted. I met the preferred chillers on hand: Comfort, the amiable drummer and unmatched dancer, and Charity, the enthusiastic hymm singer/vodka packeteer. Tis always disappointing when you meet good folks but know you will not get to know them much thanks to modern manifestations of time and space.
Next day, we checked into the dank Teach-Inn facilities. Three hours of strenuous child immersion later, we bounced in to Kabele once again. The destination of highest anticipation: Match and Mix, the bar/dancehall for Friday celebration. A glorious venue for hours of grooves served until sunrise. Comfort led the way with a devilish looseness in his shoulders and hyperkinetic hips. His feet kept up with him, improvising countless hop-scotch sequences that reveals most contemporary U.S. hip-hop backup dancers as lame imitations of their hipper genre forefathers, and mothers. Other memorable Ukiga (local tribe) included Cle Malli, the Rasta with a shaved head, who bought me a brew in the name of freespirited Rastafarianism. He proved a good person to practice with at saying "Ethiopia" in as mystical tone as possible.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Straddling the Southern edge of Uganda, is that some French I hear below?
The Tuskers and Pilsners have given way to Niles and Eagles. Nairobi is a memory, Kabale is around me. And my mother, who laughs at the way the whole ordeal being recorded. We shall soon rocket away from the cyberworld, Until we teach a kid enough English to send him off on foot from the bush and into town with messages to type, blog entries will dry up for some time. So if one wants to know what we are doing, use one's imagination to discover.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Myths of Mau Mau
13/6
Historians Association Conference - Day 2
-Mid morning- The first batch of presentations winds down as we prepare to hear out a just-arrived cadre of Mau Mau veterans. Or so they claim. Dr. Lote Hughes, the fierily spectacular Brit who rented the weekend’s gari for her, Nick, and I, looks at me as they walk in. I read her amused expression, knowing that unless these unsmiling gentlemen fought their own personal Mau Mau campaign around 1972, they ain’t no Mau Mau. For all the myth and controversy surrounding Mau Mau, nobody disputes that such history went down in the 1950s. These wazee need to resoundingly convince us that, despite looking like Kenyatta babies, they are at least 85.
Of course, the validity of their status as Mau Mau veterans may matter considerably less than the agenda they shall present to the association, or other matters scarcely related to historical accuracy providing certain people in high places support such potential promoters of historical farce.. We shall see. We are told these folks want us to help write not only Mau Mau history, but to help us write the history of Kenya at large.
2:00pm – Still winding down the opening batch of presentations… Oh, the repetitions in speaking. I slip in to a hypnotic stupor when someone slowly says, “Let me be brief” (talk for at least half an hour to make an already-made point).
2:15 – The first Mauist speaks. He avoids saying he himself is a veteran but says a more elderly-looking man next to him “will tell you everything you want to know about detention.” He also admits MM veterans are between 80 and 90. I recall not digging detention in middle school.
The man stands to talk, something no one else has done. He says he has government support. Then he says “don’t allow the project to be taken by the government.” Appealing to the association to help the Mau Mau War Veterans Association to write the history of MM, he now reads his own history of Mau Mau.
A professor politely tries to stop him [“we don’t want to exhaust you, just make copies for us”]. Talks louder. Slower. Supreme dullness reigns. Exotic birds, a cool breeze sound outside. A full-length swimming pool lies still. Should I just leave the room right now? No one can do to me, can they?
2:30 – It’s worth staying to hear the historians snicker at the blustery depiction of Mr. Mau Mau’s nemesis, a professor who said Mau Mau “hid” in the forests and ate untraditionally roasted animals (dogs, mbwa choma) to survive.
The chairman of MMVA, who said he fought as a young thing and is 80 now, tells his war detention story. This proves, according to prof Macharia and others, he isn’t really Mau Mau. Rule number one of Mau Mau: don’t talk about Mau Mau. But talk he does. And in truth or fabrication, the stories thrill. The general sentiment seems to be to let the old man keep his true or fabricated dignity by talking but refrain from endorsing his association. As historians, we are inclined to include just as much testimony from folks like the Kikuyu Home Guards, who supported the colonial regime and brutally tortured rebellious Africans to maintain it.
Historians Association Conference - Day 2
-Mid morning- The first batch of presentations winds down as we prepare to hear out a just-arrived cadre of Mau Mau veterans. Or so they claim. Dr. Lote Hughes, the fierily spectacular Brit who rented the weekend’s gari for her, Nick, and I, looks at me as they walk in. I read her amused expression, knowing that unless these unsmiling gentlemen fought their own personal Mau Mau campaign around 1972, they ain’t no Mau Mau. For all the myth and controversy surrounding Mau Mau, nobody disputes that such history went down in the 1950s. These wazee need to resoundingly convince us that, despite looking like Kenyatta babies, they are at least 85.
Of course, the validity of their status as Mau Mau veterans may matter considerably less than the agenda they shall present to the association, or other matters scarcely related to historical accuracy providing certain people in high places support such potential promoters of historical farce.. We shall see. We are told these folks want us to help write not only Mau Mau history, but to help us write the history of Kenya at large.
2:00pm – Still winding down the opening batch of presentations… Oh, the repetitions in speaking. I slip in to a hypnotic stupor when someone slowly says, “Let me be brief” (talk for at least half an hour to make an already-made point).
2:15 – The first Mauist speaks. He avoids saying he himself is a veteran but says a more elderly-looking man next to him “will tell you everything you want to know about detention.” He also admits MM veterans are between 80 and 90. I recall not digging detention in middle school.
The man stands to talk, something no one else has done. He says he has government support. Then he says “don’t allow the project to be taken by the government.” Appealing to the association to help the Mau Mau War Veterans Association to write the history of MM, he now reads his own history of Mau Mau.
A professor politely tries to stop him [“we don’t want to exhaust you, just make copies for us”]. Talks louder. Slower. Supreme dullness reigns. Exotic birds, a cool breeze sound outside. A full-length swimming pool lies still. Should I just leave the room right now? No one can do to me, can they?
2:30 – It’s worth staying to hear the historians snicker at the blustery depiction of Mr. Mau Mau’s nemesis, a professor who said Mau Mau “hid” in the forests and ate untraditionally roasted animals (dogs, mbwa choma) to survive.
The chairman of MMVA, who said he fought as a young thing and is 80 now, tells his war detention story. This proves, according to prof Macharia and others, he isn’t really Mau Mau. Rule number one of Mau Mau: don’t talk about Mau Mau. But talk he does. And in truth or fabrication, the stories thrill. The general sentiment seems to be to let the old man keep his true or fabricated dignity by talking but refrain from endorsing his association. As historians, we are inclined to include just as much testimony from folks like the Kikuyu Home Guards, who supported the colonial regime and brutally tortured rebellious Africans to maintain it.
Any Excuse to Ditch the Perpetually Stormy Ocean of Dirt and Petrol That is Nairobi
12/6/08
Historians Association of Kenya Annual Conference
Egerton University – Nakuru, Kenya - Day 1
The Vice Chancellor of the association began his opening remarks four hours after the itinerary suggested. Reminding his fellow historians that Kenya’s history dates back further than anyone else’s, he laughed at a couple of his own unfunny jokes before letting the Keynote speaker give his self-described “facts and speculations” concerning the history of the land that “forged human existence”. Paying word-for-word attention to United States International University Professor Macharia Menune proved untenable. Macharia, like the majority of the presenters, spoke long, slow and circular. A trifecta of longwindedness factors: 1. Oldness 2. Africaness 3. Percieved encouragement from fellow historians that the speaker has something worthwhile to say and that the longer it takes to say it, the more worthwhile it is.
Macharia, and no less than a few others, did have wise words concerning the relevance of history in places where governments stands to benefit from folks forgetting the past. Using pro-historian themes laden with examples, allegories, and parallels involving pangas, bellies, and hyenas, Macharia spurred admitted anger throughout the room at the Kenyan government, and the world, for not giving history its due. The association chancellor suggested demonstrations as a means of getting respect. Then he looked at the size of his and other conference leaders’ guts before joining them in laughter.
Surrounded by other unabashed nerdlingers who love to talk, I found the conference helpful to my own research. On the opening night of the conference, Prof Macharia learned of my research game and, furthering his reputation as a class act, gave me two articles he remarkably had on his person.
I was the youngest registered attendee at the conference. But a few volunteer loiterers hung out around the conference room who attended Egerton as undergrads. Nick accredited their presence with a university desire to foster a community feel for the affair. Since the students found everything I did to be hilarious regardless of my intentions, I decided to behave comedically in order to give them the most bang for their mzungu buck. I’d greet them with whistles, peace signs, or exaggerated knuckle bumps. Busted mad slang, which confused more than amused. The best humor lay in imitating Kenyan accents in either Kiswahili or, more dynamically, in English. I speculate they cracked up from this because although I think I am nailing the impression, I in truth sound nothing like them. When E. Africans imitate American tongue, they sound like a TV anchor who has a badly congested nose, and who is mentally retarded.
Historians Association of Kenya Annual Conference
Egerton University – Nakuru, Kenya - Day 1
The Vice Chancellor of the association began his opening remarks four hours after the itinerary suggested. Reminding his fellow historians that Kenya’s history dates back further than anyone else’s, he laughed at a couple of his own unfunny jokes before letting the Keynote speaker give his self-described “facts and speculations” concerning the history of the land that “forged human existence”. Paying word-for-word attention to United States International University Professor Macharia Menune proved untenable. Macharia, like the majority of the presenters, spoke long, slow and circular. A trifecta of longwindedness factors: 1. Oldness 2. Africaness 3. Percieved encouragement from fellow historians that the speaker has something worthwhile to say and that the longer it takes to say it, the more worthwhile it is.
Macharia, and no less than a few others, did have wise words concerning the relevance of history in places where governments stands to benefit from folks forgetting the past. Using pro-historian themes laden with examples, allegories, and parallels involving pangas, bellies, and hyenas, Macharia spurred admitted anger throughout the room at the Kenyan government, and the world, for not giving history its due. The association chancellor suggested demonstrations as a means of getting respect. Then he looked at the size of his and other conference leaders’ guts before joining them in laughter.
Surrounded by other unabashed nerdlingers who love to talk, I found the conference helpful to my own research. On the opening night of the conference, Prof Macharia learned of my research game and, furthering his reputation as a class act, gave me two articles he remarkably had on his person.
I was the youngest registered attendee at the conference. But a few volunteer loiterers hung out around the conference room who attended Egerton as undergrads. Nick accredited their presence with a university desire to foster a community feel for the affair. Since the students found everything I did to be hilarious regardless of my intentions, I decided to behave comedically in order to give them the most bang for their mzungu buck. I’d greet them with whistles, peace signs, or exaggerated knuckle bumps. Busted mad slang, which confused more than amused. The best humor lay in imitating Kenyan accents in either Kiswahili or, more dynamically, in English. I speculate they cracked up from this because although I think I am nailing the impression, I in truth sound nothing like them. When E. Africans imitate American tongue, they sound like a TV anchor who has a badly congested nose, and who is mentally retarded.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Obamania
7/6/08
Exaggeration of Kenya’s excitement over Obama’s rise is impossible. Saturday, I donned my Obama T-shirt to see what interactions would transpire. As I descended the stairs of the room in the hostel where I put the shirt on, the guy manning the reception desk stopped me, politely demanding I tell him how Obama could be so successful in America. A Luo from Obama’s native province Nyanza, he recited several Barack-finds-himself-in-Kenya’s-homeland anecdotes and speculations. His friend drifted within earshot of the banter, his eyes glowing as he annunciated www.barackobama.com off the shirt printing in a voice actors use when they begin reading sacred religious texts. And he was a supposed rival Kikuyu. The two then tugged at each end of the shirt and, laughing, told me hold still. Three hours, two life stories, and one people’s history of Kenya later, I put on a long-sleeve over the hot item and headed downtown to meet up with the young, pre-eminent Kenyan historian Nicolas Githuku.
Already bubbling with U.S. primary conversation as we waded through rip tides of Saturday night street traffic, the drinking of the two Tusker Fame Eviction Party K2 Tusker pints given to each entrant at the door had us spitting perspectives at near-flow speeds, volume, and, I know on my part, creativity. Toasting to the 3rd-most famous leader named Hussein, I tried to speak from deep in the throat to be heard over the latest East African Nameless and Nonini cuts, and to be noticed over a contentiously heckled Portugal v Turkey match. My experience rasping into faint P.A. systems let me get through to Nick and other Obamaites, who tell me “thank you for Obama,” to which I respond, “thank you for Obama.”
Heading to Nick’s on Sunday, one could actually hear people shouting “Obama” from several establishments besides bars as they read a Sunday Nation that contained no less than 8 articles on the Greatest Black Man in the History of the World.
Exaggeration of Kenya’s excitement over Obama’s rise is impossible. Saturday, I donned my Obama T-shirt to see what interactions would transpire. As I descended the stairs of the room in the hostel where I put the shirt on, the guy manning the reception desk stopped me, politely demanding I tell him how Obama could be so successful in America. A Luo from Obama’s native province Nyanza, he recited several Barack-finds-himself-in-Kenya’s-homeland anecdotes and speculations. His friend drifted within earshot of the banter, his eyes glowing as he annunciated www.barackobama.com off the shirt printing in a voice actors use when they begin reading sacred religious texts. And he was a supposed rival Kikuyu. The two then tugged at each end of the shirt and, laughing, told me hold still. Three hours, two life stories, and one people’s history of Kenya later, I put on a long-sleeve over the hot item and headed downtown to meet up with the young, pre-eminent Kenyan historian Nicolas Githuku.
Already bubbling with U.S. primary conversation as we waded through rip tides of Saturday night street traffic, the drinking of the two Tusker Fame Eviction Party K2 Tusker pints given to each entrant at the door had us spitting perspectives at near-flow speeds, volume, and, I know on my part, creativity. Toasting to the 3rd-most famous leader named Hussein, I tried to speak from deep in the throat to be heard over the latest East African Nameless and Nonini cuts, and to be noticed over a contentiously heckled Portugal v Turkey match. My experience rasping into faint P.A. systems let me get through to Nick and other Obamaites, who tell me “thank you for Obama,” to which I respond, “thank you for Obama.”
Heading to Nick’s on Sunday, one could actually hear people shouting “Obama” from several establishments besides bars as they read a Sunday Nation that contained no less than 8 articles on the Greatest Black Man in the History of the World.
"Ole Ole Oliech"
6/6/08
2010 World Cup Qualifier – Guinea v Kenya
Despite taking the bourgeoisie route into Nyayo International Stadium by way of a 300Ksh ($4.25) “V.I.P.” ticket, the primo seats in the shade and center do not place me amidst any sort of stuffy, anti-rowdiness fan base that one encounters amongst many wealthy American observers of spectacle. Decked in sparkling Premier League knockoff jerseys and sub-Saharan tight designer jeans, the overwhelmingly young male partners in noise are whipped into a fist-pounding, miraa-chewing frenzy. It’s an hour before kickoff and a Mkenya both full-body painted in Kenya colors and dressed in drag runs laps around the track prompting roars. In one hand, he holds a flag. In the other, a (I think) novelty banana. “We salute Obama” is painted in red across his chest, a phrase the stadium p.a. announcer often repeats.
The crowd claps/chants a rhythm long-short-short-short [hoo!]. Dancing can, and does, accompany. Folks fill the stairways, though seats behind the goal remain open. It seems against the Kenyan national character to boo the other side before the match. At 3:30 in the afternoon, even the drunks carry an air of dignity in their swaggers and stutters. A few give jeers, but they are politely petite boos that one hears at a kindergarten haunted house.
As the game begins, I notice that the end-zones have not only filled completely but that more watu are coming in than ever before. In the opening minutes Dennis “the Menace” Oliech splits two defenders and nets one for the home squad. A stadium has never been so loud. Groups of dancers prowl the faraway. A man takes off his shirt and rubs his belly like a jeanie lamp as he spins around. Spiderman descends from afar as folks instruct him to fly. He unmistakably considers attempting going airborne off a lengthy drop-off, then cowers away. Everyone laughs at him. The announcer then announces that newly-stated Prime Minister Raila Odinga has just entered the building about 30 yds to my left. Textbook African leadership. Wait until a moment of mass euphoria before showing up. Let the people viscerally associate you with good times.
The first half is tactically dominated by the Guineans. But they miss several clean looks by inches and are held scoreless. The Kenya side fruitlessly presses on with an offense entirely comprised of deep through balls to the forwards. The strategy proves not the stupidest, as a sensational behind-the-back pass from Oliech set the Harambee Stars up with a shot they shanked badly as the half closed. The announcer begs security to close the gates. The stadium is packed like the slums. More continue to pour into Gate 6. The announcer has to name a guard by name to get it closed. Others pound gate three from the outside, nearly shaking it open before tardy Askari interfere. Inside, we yell “Karibuni,” welcoming the late arrivals in. As halftime, the announcer thanks the crowd for “coming out and showing how sports can demonstrate national unity.” The loud system then pumps an East African produced response-and-response Barack Obama song. The verses describe his idolized life story. People shout the chorus (his name) with a gleeful timber not found even among us U.S. Daily Show liberals.
The second half is all Stars. The Guinean coach claimed before the match that the Brave Warriors would be lucky to escape with a draw because Kenya is “unbeatable at home.” Of course, the Harambee Stars have recently played, as the Daily Nation describes, “like garbage” on whatever pitch will host their corrupt, previously Fifa-banned squad. But today, the coach’s complement proves sincere. Oliech menaces his way past two defenders again to score. The crowd, far exceeding the 35,000-person guideline, changes the “Ole” chant to an “Oliech” chant. Oliech responds with another pro strike that hits the top bar, just a bit too high for the hat trick.
Either the high elevation above sea level and/or the high level of noise exhausts the Warriors. The African Cup quarterfinalists fall 2-0. Fans storm the field, grabbing fifa.com signs and holding officials’ chairs upside down over their heads. Way too many climb a small terrace and begin dancing. Some climb over the barbed wire into the V.I.P. zone, realize nobody cares enough to do anything about it, then climb back on the filed to rejoin to central fracas. The announcer ever-so-politely points out that Fifa officials are in attendance and may be apt to re-ban Kenya if the scene turns too spontaneously awesome, wildly African, or hooligan ugly. Apparently, it doesn’t. The crowd is hailed in the coming days as an example of how Kenyans should behave: united and jubilant in the absence of motivated law enforcement.
Barring further, increasingly-probable collapse of its government, Zimbabwe comes to Africa’s capital this Saturday.
2010 World Cup Qualifier – Guinea v Kenya
Despite taking the bourgeoisie route into Nyayo International Stadium by way of a 300Ksh ($4.25) “V.I.P.” ticket, the primo seats in the shade and center do not place me amidst any sort of stuffy, anti-rowdiness fan base that one encounters amongst many wealthy American observers of spectacle. Decked in sparkling Premier League knockoff jerseys and sub-Saharan tight designer jeans, the overwhelmingly young male partners in noise are whipped into a fist-pounding, miraa-chewing frenzy. It’s an hour before kickoff and a Mkenya both full-body painted in Kenya colors and dressed in drag runs laps around the track prompting roars. In one hand, he holds a flag. In the other, a (I think) novelty banana. “We salute Obama” is painted in red across his chest, a phrase the stadium p.a. announcer often repeats.
The crowd claps/chants a rhythm long-short-short-short [hoo!]. Dancing can, and does, accompany. Folks fill the stairways, though seats behind the goal remain open. It seems against the Kenyan national character to boo the other side before the match. At 3:30 in the afternoon, even the drunks carry an air of dignity in their swaggers and stutters. A few give jeers, but they are politely petite boos that one hears at a kindergarten haunted house.
As the game begins, I notice that the end-zones have not only filled completely but that more watu are coming in than ever before. In the opening minutes Dennis “the Menace” Oliech splits two defenders and nets one for the home squad. A stadium has never been so loud. Groups of dancers prowl the faraway. A man takes off his shirt and rubs his belly like a jeanie lamp as he spins around. Spiderman descends from afar as folks instruct him to fly. He unmistakably considers attempting going airborne off a lengthy drop-off, then cowers away. Everyone laughs at him. The announcer then announces that newly-stated Prime Minister Raila Odinga has just entered the building about 30 yds to my left. Textbook African leadership. Wait until a moment of mass euphoria before showing up. Let the people viscerally associate you with good times.
The first half is tactically dominated by the Guineans. But they miss several clean looks by inches and are held scoreless. The Kenya side fruitlessly presses on with an offense entirely comprised of deep through balls to the forwards. The strategy proves not the stupidest, as a sensational behind-the-back pass from Oliech set the Harambee Stars up with a shot they shanked badly as the half closed. The announcer begs security to close the gates. The stadium is packed like the slums. More continue to pour into Gate 6. The announcer has to name a guard by name to get it closed. Others pound gate three from the outside, nearly shaking it open before tardy Askari interfere. Inside, we yell “Karibuni,” welcoming the late arrivals in. As halftime, the announcer thanks the crowd for “coming out and showing how sports can demonstrate national unity.” The loud system then pumps an East African produced response-and-response Barack Obama song. The verses describe his idolized life story. People shout the chorus (his name) with a gleeful timber not found even among us U.S. Daily Show liberals.
The second half is all Stars. The Guinean coach claimed before the match that the Brave Warriors would be lucky to escape with a draw because Kenya is “unbeatable at home.” Of course, the Harambee Stars have recently played, as the Daily Nation describes, “like garbage” on whatever pitch will host their corrupt, previously Fifa-banned squad. But today, the coach’s complement proves sincere. Oliech menaces his way past two defenders again to score. The crowd, far exceeding the 35,000-person guideline, changes the “Ole” chant to an “Oliech” chant. Oliech responds with another pro strike that hits the top bar, just a bit too high for the hat trick.
Either the high elevation above sea level and/or the high level of noise exhausts the Warriors. The African Cup quarterfinalists fall 2-0. Fans storm the field, grabbing fifa.com signs and holding officials’ chairs upside down over their heads. Way too many climb a small terrace and begin dancing. Some climb over the barbed wire into the V.I.P. zone, realize nobody cares enough to do anything about it, then climb back on the filed to rejoin to central fracas. The announcer ever-so-politely points out that Fifa officials are in attendance and may be apt to re-ban Kenya if the scene turns too spontaneously awesome, wildly African, or hooligan ugly. Apparently, it doesn’t. The crowd is hailed in the coming days as an example of how Kenyans should behave: united and jubilant in the absence of motivated law enforcement.
Barring further, increasingly-probable collapse of its government, Zimbabwe comes to Africa’s capital this Saturday.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Itinerary
June is upon us yet the sun shines nowhere in this pasty land of trite expressions and petty bloggers. Time to eat an early, massive dinner to stalk up in case Africa runs out of food by the time Friday rolls around.
5/6 - Leave Portland
6/6 - Arrive Nairobi, haggle unsuccessfully with cab driver, decide to take chances with matatu transport, get lost.
15/6 - Find sokoni, buy new pair of (used) shoes, take bus to Kampala, Entebbe.
16/6 - Meet mother, teach Ugandans.
23/6 - Realize Ugandan children should be the ones teaching us, resign to a life of an ex-pat DRC hillbilly, try to live off land, starve, allow soul to migrate to African ancestral homeland.
So just a couple short weeks for entries. It sure is relaxing not having to worry about deadlines and such.
5/6 - Leave Portland
6/6 - Arrive Nairobi, haggle unsuccessfully with cab driver, decide to take chances with matatu transport, get lost.
15/6 - Find sokoni, buy new pair of (used) shoes, take bus to Kampala, Entebbe.
16/6 - Meet mother, teach Ugandans.
23/6 - Realize Ugandan children should be the ones teaching us, resign to a life of an ex-pat DRC hillbilly, try to live off land, starve, allow soul to migrate to African ancestral homeland.
So just a couple short weeks for entries. It sure is relaxing not having to worry about deadlines and such.
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