Uganda I love you.... I take that back I hate you.

My blog is very long so I have also included an abridged version for those of you who don’t enjoy reading as much as I.


Short Version

I’m moving to Uganda! I love this place!
How can teachers think it is okay to miss classes, just no show?
I am defiantly not moving to this place!
“You must come to school on Saturday morning and don’t be late” said Ugandan teacher Jennifer as if it was the students fault that she missed class.
FRUSTRATION!!! CLUTURAL CONFLICT!!
Hurricane and stabbing in my stomach, again…
Power out, again…
Blank looks, do you understand me? Why aren’t you saying anything???
You said my clothes would be ready by Friday and you haven’t even started? Really… I didn’t walk a mile down the dirty road to be told I need to come back on Tuesday!
Coffee, I want my coffee, I really want my coffee, WHAT THE F**K IS WRONG WITH YOU, WHAT IS SO DIFFICULT ABOUT POURING ME A CUP OF COFFEE?
I know I am white but that doesn’t give you the right to touch me, please please stop touching me.
Babies- lonely sad babies. I can’t help them. I am powerless- they are powerless.
I want to come home.

I don’t really want to come home.



Long Version

Hello, my name is Michelle Perkins and I consider myself a stable, logical, and very rational person. I am not overly emotional and believe that I am 95% of the time driven by reason. However, I was faced with the reality that my emotional stability is largely connected with the “normalcy” and comforts of home.

This weekend I felt a wide range of emotions as I hit my Africa breaking point. On Thursday I had resolved that I was never leaving Uganda. I had completely fallen in love with the people and landscape. For twenty-four hours I convinced myself that Uganda would be my new home.

By Friday I reevaluated my “move” and started to think it may be a better idea to simply return to Uganda for vacation during my summer breaks. This idea was much more sound. I could work in the states to earn enough to make Uganda my summer home.

By Friday afternoon my patience was tested as my Ugandan teacher’s cultural differences became very apparent. I teach from a place of love. I teach with the belief that if a student has an attitude he/she is using that attitude to mask a vulnerable emotion, the attitude is simply a defense mechanism. I teach with the belief that if a student does not complete an assignment it is because he/she does not have the skills or ability to complete the assignment. I teach with the belief that I am not a superior who is always right; holding some magical key to knowledge but rather my role is that of a facilitator and ally in the educational process. I teach knowing that I am as much of a learner as the students who occupy the desks. I realize that some my find by beliefs naïve but without those beliefs I wouldn’t be able to continue to persist. My Ugandan teaching partner is a wonderful women but the tone in which she addresses her students puts me at unease. On Thursday, she missed class (a common practice) and needed to make up the class on Saturday morning. When she informed the students that they would need to come to class Saturday morning to make up a class SHE decided to miss, she did so in a way that that made it sound like it was somehow their fault. My gut desire was to jump at the defense of the class and yell, “they didn’t do anything wrong, YOU DID, stop giving them a hard time,” but instead I bit my tongue. I left work Friday questioning my role in Uganda, what am I doing here and does it even matter? I am one person, what can I really do? If the goal is modernization, the system needs to be broken down and recreated not given a band-aid fix.

Saturday was our first an only day off during our six-week stay. I was ecstatic. I made some serious plans. First, I would go to the Acholi Inn to go swimming and soak up some African rays (It is the only place in Gulu with a swimming pool). Second, I would go to the Internet café to email, Facebook, and enjoy a real cup of coffee. After the café, I would go to the market to pick up the clothes that I had tailored and finally I would enjoy an evening out with my teaching friends.

Well plans never seem to go as intended, especially in Africa. I went to the Acholi Inn but it was cold and overcast and just as the sun was pushing though the clouds I was faced with an unfortunate reality- something was seriously wrong with my stomach. My stomach and I were at war and I knew that I was not going to win. I rushed home and tended to my queasy stomach. After I emptied my body of all fluids I ventured into town to the Internet café only to find that the power was out and not only could I not get online but I also couldn’t get a cup of coffee. The day was not all lost; I was still going to pick up my awesome handmade African clothes. I was having clothes made by two separate tailors, Florence and another women. Florence was making me a skirt, dress, and top. The other woman was making me a dress and top. Florence only had the skirt done, it was to big, I guess she is inexperienced in making skirts for white women who don’t have hips. She completely forgot my dress and top. Again, all way not lost, I still had a top and dress to pick up from another woman. I walked to the other stall to find that my top was cropped to my belly button and the dress a complete disaster. Saturday was not my day. I was nearing my breaking point; all I wanted was a stable stomach, electricity, coffee, and an outfit. Is that too much to ask? Maybe, spending my summers in Uganda was not the best idea.

Sunday morning I woke up grumpy and still annoyed from the previous day. I decided to go to breakfast and get as close to an American meal as possible, the small comfort would surely perk my spirits. I ordered two breakfasts, two cups of coffee, water, and juice. I was in need of serious comfort! If you know me at all you know that coffee is more important to me then, well, anything. The place I went for breakfast is notorious for taking an obscene amount of time to make food but I was okay with that as long as I had my precious glorious coffee. After about 20 minutes I asked if I could have my coffee while I was waiting for my food, the waitress simply looked at me with a blank face and walked away. As the minutes clicked by my anxiety level increased and I started to get uncomfortable and pace. Every time the waitress passed I would glare at her and mutter under my breath, “are you fucking kidding me!!” Two hours later I received half of my food order and still no coffee. My muttering was replaced with a very audible, “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!!” At this point I was drained and almost in tears. I decided it was in my best interest to leave since I was on the verge of going completely insane. As I marched back to the IC compound. Everything was annoying me. I was annoyed by the Ugandan children who yelled “Muzungo” at me, I know that I am white; you don’t need to point it out! I was annoyed that everyone feels the need to talk to and shake hands with the Muzungo. I found this quality so endearing last week, this week not so much. I was annoyed that I can’t walk down the street without becoming completely covered in dirt. I just want to be clean. Arg…

Since IC keeps the volunteers super busy I was not able to wallow in my self-pity. IC scheduled a day visit to St. Jude’s orphanage. About fifteen of us went to the orphanage in a van. When we entered the orphanage grounds the van was instantly surrounded by a mob of young children. As we opened the door, we were met with groping outstretched arms longing for affection. Since my emotions were already on overload this was too much. I was not prepared for the experience.

My experience has been somewhat sheltered here. I live in a compound and work at a boarding school. The boys that attend the boarding school come from poverty but it is not as overt because of uniforms and decent living accommodations. Seeing the children at St. Jude’s orphanage crushed me. I was angry and sad. I was angry and sad that these poor children had to live in such conditions. Small babies covered in snot and urine were freely roaming around the property. I was angry with IC for taking me there; it was strange and inappropriate. I felt like a voyeur. A group of white people come and hold babies for a few hours, take pictures of themselves holding a black baby, and leave. What purpose does this serve? Who is benefiting from this exchange? I was no okay with the experience and couldn’t handle my emotions- they were on overload. I was also so mad at myself for being so bratty during the weekend over poor weather and a lack of coffee. I literally threw a temper tantrum over coffee. It seemed so selfish and outrageous. How do I resolve my own personal wants with what I am witnessing? Is it okay for me to still indulge when others have nothing? On Thursday I never wanted to leave Uganda by Sunday I was ready to get on a plane and leave immediately. I wanted to forget everything I witnessed and return to my comfortable bubble.

Today I am better. I am glad that there was not a plane available and I am glad that I am still here. I expected to have inner conflicts and questions but I guess I overestimated my ability to handle an excess of emotions.