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.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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.
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