Lamenting a Layover Part Two

Wednesday evening, some random guy and I got into a yelling match in Luganda on the outskirts of the taxi park. It felt like my final straw was just about to snap. The previous week, the idea of leaving Uganda was far from favorable. Earlier this week, the promise of a shower, scented lotion, a curling iron, pants, my car, and continuous electricity (I am writing in the dark currently) had changed my previous sentiment into something more along the lines of “get me out of here.” So as I was standing there telling the man to leave me the hell alone and he was yelling at me to put my number in his phone, it took all my will power to not chuck his phone at the boda boda driver who was trying to cheat me.

Last week, I was stopped by a group of Tanzanians asking for directions to a good place to eat. I am white; I don’t look like I belong here. But in that moment, I started to feel like maybe I was blending in a bit. Maybe the little work I had put into learning Luganda and the ease I now have even while being catcalled made me fit in. This little high lasted less than a week. Now creepy men are coming out of the woodwork asking me for my contact information, one man was wondering if I could find him a white wife when I got home, and another guy was hoping he could have my laptop when I left.

Thus, frustration, annoyance, and a supreme desire to board a plane colored my mood as we drove out into one of villages on Thursday. First we dropped off Prose and Immy, the trauma sensitization counselors. Afterwards, Bettina and I drove to Njeru Primary School, one of the schools that received my project this Monday in the afternoon. I sat there in the truck reading through my book on the history of American intelligence gathering and craving a salad. Rose, the counselor I had been working most closely with, had arranged for me to go back to one of the schools and witness the launch of one of my sites. I should have been much more excited but instead I just wanted to take a nap and fume about the man who had the audacity to ask for my laptop.

I am so glad I didn’t take a nap. All during my internship, I kept trying to get Kitovu Mobile to tell me what they actually thought about my project and how it could be approved. The answer I always got was, “It’s okay.” The same answer I got to just about every other question I asked. Therefore, I doubted whether anyone thought it would be effective. I, myself, was worried that the teachers wouldn’t keep up with answering question and students wouldn’t take the initiative to write anything. For over an hour, Bettina and I listened to the teachers answering questions in a forum format. We had dropped this box off on Monday afternoon; that means the children had a little over two days to write questions and submissions. Even after an hour, there were still many questions left in the box. The head teacher told me that he believed the teachers learned so much from the questions and were better able to address the problems of their students. Furthermore, he promised that once a week, the teachers would sit down and answer the questions in the same manner.

When we picked Immy and Prose back up from their session, they and Bettina began speaking to each other very quickly in Luganda. After about ten minutes, Prose tapped my shoulder and told me that my project was perfectly in line with what they wanted to achieve in their work. She was thrilled with how the teachers had a better chance to utilize their counseling skills and with how the children felt so comfortable asking such sensitive questions. She then went on to tell me that based on the results they were seeing now, the counseling department would probably try to implement my project in other schools.

I am currently on cloud nine.

That being said, I am amazed by some of the questions the students asked. These children are in P5-P7 ages 10-15. The inquiries speak so much about the issues and concerns these children have. Here is a little sample of what was asked:
1. The first slip of paper pulled from the box was merely a statement written by a girl. It stated that the girls were tired of boys touching them inappropriately.
2. We were told if there was a bomb blast, we should fall to the ground and cover our heads. What should they do if we are in a car?
3. What should girls do to avoid boys that give gifts for sex?
4. My father died in the war; I now can’t get basic necessities. What can I do to provide for myself?
5. I share a room with my elder brother and he keeps demanding sex. How can I tell him no?
6. I have a sight problem and don’t feel comfortable telling people. What can I do to share this problem with people who can help me?
7. I had sex and have missed my monthly period, what do I do now?
8. Other girls told me that if I don’t start having sex now, I won’t be able to reproduce later. Is this true?
9. How did HIV start infecting humans? Where did it come from?

Friday, we dropped the fourth box off at St. Gabriel Primary School and went back to one of the other schools that is piloting my project. At this school, there are forty-five students in the P5-P7 classes. These students had about a week to write and submit their questions. When we opened up the box to look through the questions and submissions, there were over forty-five slips of paper within the box. Once again, the questions were fascinating:
1. I am pregnant and in P7, what do I do now?
2. Some of the kids can’t use the latrines without making a mess; is there any way you can teach them how to squat better?
3. Why do boys continue to touch us inappropriately even though we have told them to stop?
4. Why does the cook give us bad yams sometimes?
5. Statement: we would like the head teacher to stop caning us so much.

So now it is up to the teachers to take on the responsibility of counselor and confidant. My role is over. All things considered, if it wasn’t, I would have a much harder time packing my things and saying goodbye to my host family, co-workers, and friends.

So, here I sit, desolate and forlorn in Dulles International Airport. I have three hours left until boarding my last flight and am too tired to go in search of food. It is a good thing I typed most of this post several days ago because my head is currently not working very well. over 36 hours of no sleep is not becoming for me. Maybe in a day or two I will be capable of reflecting intelligently on returning home. But right now, I just really miss boda boda rides.