Chunk two. Hell! Well, no, it wasn't really hell, but it was pretty hot and that's enough of a similarity to justify a bombastic title.
You'd imagine with almost a month off for the Christmas
holiday that I'd have plenty of time to write a couple of posts on a poxy blog;
you'd be entirely correct. However, rather than use the holiday productive I
did what all good procrastinators do and sunk around 200 hours into Football
Manager (in my defence I'm trying to get it out of my system before I become an
adult... 28... in April).
So now, with marking pilling up, schemes of work begging to
be written and classes in open revolt about my lack of planning*, I've decided
to take an evening out to wow you with my continuing adventures and hopefully
get you up to date.
*This is gross
exaggeration tantamount to a lie as I really can't build up a picture of any
element of stress in my life at the moment, at least not with a straight face.
For fear of boring you senseless I'm going to abandon the
chronological narrative and jump straight into the couple of juicy bits and
ignore everything else.
The biggest news is Alan.
I love dogs, we've always had dogs as a family and I have a
pretty good idea of how to train them and all the things you need to think
about when buying one. However, my purchase may have been slightly whimsical.
I'd considered getting a cat to scare off the rat that used
to lurk in the spare bedroom, but not really made a move in earnest. A chance
bit of eavesdropping revealed that one of my students had just picked up an
extremely cute puppy and that was it. Within around 6 seconds I'd decided to
join the club. Two day and $300 later I was bounding down the road carrying my
new daemon (his mum and dad live just round the corner, as does his sister).
Dogs in Uganda generally look as if they are the survivors of
some sort of zombie apocalypes: scraggy, mottled coats, ribs a model would die
for and that malnourished-I'll-eat-anything look in their eyes. Alan is about
as pedigree as they come. A black labrador with documents and a mother and
father who are also clearly black labradors (this is not as daft as it may
read). However, I'm not sure he'll be acknowledged as a lab in the UK as
apparently breeders are quite snobby about the colour of labradors' coats.
Alan's, although nominally black, is turning more and more silver every day.
Why 'Alan'?
Named after a friend from university with a fear of dogs.
Surely no one can be afraid of something that has been named in their honour,
so it's partly therapeutic. However, I've always been drawn to the idea of
having to call out such a mundane human name in busy public parks and Alan just
fit perfectly for that as well. Up yours, Fluffy, Rover, Rex.
He's now almost 4 months old and has tripled in size in the
2 months I've had him. His main interests appear to be showering, chasing huge
cow monsters (I'm fairly certain this is not the scientific name, but this is much
more apt), stealing shoes and biting feet. Walking him every day has actually
proved a really good way to get a glimpse of life in Kampala for the majority
of people.
Each day I track through people's farms, homes and fields
and have to apologise to Alan trying to destroy everything and everyone. I've
now got a small army of children that regularly come out and practice their
limited English with me and suffer my feeble attempts at Lugandan (three, maybe
four words so far...). I hope it doesn't sound condescending to say that it is
like going back in time, but a lot of the homes and lifestyles remind me of
dull social history lectures going back two, three and even four hundred years.
That's by no means the majority of homes, but certainly a good proportion. Considering
the tough, manual labouring existence I find it absurd how ridiculously terrified they are of a little
puppy. Nothing more amusing than watching a grown man of 30-40 leaping up like
he's seen a ghost straight into a ditch to avoid an 18-inch long puppy.
Ugandans!
I'll skip over a
fairly amusing story about trying to get a doghouse built for him*, as I don't
won't to go on about him too much (you
already have!), but he's pretty damn great. The pictures should give you a good idea.
*The story involves
delays, deceit, confrontation and the first time I have ever used the 'C' word
in anger and I believe the repetition of the phrase 'You are a living piece of
shit, fuck you, shit!' Apologies to any sensitive souls.
Alan showing toes that he means business (he's a right git for biting toes in the morning... 5am, when he's ready to get up.
Chilling under a bush with some grass.
Traumatised after his first shower. He now races ahead and leaps into the bath without invitation.
Blankee. Pink and manly.
Nailing a treat without permission. (You should be able to see the silvery-white bow tie under his collar. His legs and arse are the same colour, getting lighter every day)
Huge monster cows. Scary when they start to charge back at him.
Well, Alan aside, Christmas was pretty uneventful. The
vast majority of people that have become my African posse decided that they
couldn't stand the idea of a non-traditional Christmas in Africa: what a wise
decision. There was some acknowledgement that it was Christmas, enough that you were forcibly aware of the date and what you were missing out on: three or four
shops had tinsel in the windows; an 18 year old black Santa in a frozen grotto
(a cardboard box made for an unconvincing belly full of jelly); a brass band
seemed hideous misplaced, but gave Jingle Bells a good old go and there was
some sort of religious celebration in the late hours of Christmas Eve. That was
the sum total though. I've never felt as un-festive or depressed and I was
longing for miserable conditions of the North West, whilst being baked alive.
The day itself, I ventured out of my hermit-like existence
and spent the day with some friends, getting burnt whilst having an utterly
inappropriate swim. Sunbathing and swimming on Christmas Day, I've always
thought people visiting Australia and posting about Christmas on the beach were
wankers and this only served to prove me right. I'm ashamed of myself and feel
I have let a nation down.
New Years was a little more normal: a barbeque (I provided
the garden salad!), drinks and a Spanish tradition that seemed to involved
choking on too many grapes and getting annoyed with everyone.
A week later and I was back at school and grateful for it.
Things are going very well; I love my department to bits, the kids are
magnificent and my non-interactive-whiteboard teaching kicks ass. Life feels
very good at the moment.
It's been really lovely to hear from a few more people in
the last month or so. I think there have been 5 declaration of intent to visit
either this summer or next Easter. Everyone is welcome and I'm convinced you'd
fall in love with the place (especially seeing as you'd get to leave before you
could really become annoyed with the inability of anyone to do anything they
say they are going to do, mosquitoes finding their way through even the
smallest of holes, things masquerading as roads given you a very sore bottom).
Have a look at the cost of flights and see if you can convince yourself, it's
very cheap once you're over here as long as you don't expect the 5 star treatment.
My love to you all and I'll try to get the next blog up
relatively soon, although I fear as I become more settled the blog will
inevitably become more bland.
