Circumcision

In December of 2010, I had the honor of witnessing the climax of a two day Bagisu circumcision ceremony: the circumcision of four boys ranging in age from 13 to 18. The experience remains the single most cultural event of my Peace Corps service. The event took place in the lush farming communities outside Mbale, a large town on the slopes of Mt. Elgon.

**WARNING** **WARNING**

The photos in this blog post are graphic. They show male genitalia during and after the procedure. There is a knife. There is human flesh. There is blood. If you have a weak stomach, are offended by the site of a man's penis unaccompanied by the vows of marriage or are simply not interested in exploring the topic, I urge you to close the page and wait for the next blog post.

**WARNING** **WARNING**

For the Bagisu tribe there are few events more important in a boy's life than his circumcision. Like the Vision Quest right of passage for a young Native American, the circumcision pushes a Mugisu over the threshold into manhood. While permitted between the ages of 9-18, the most common age range starts at 14. There are men known to dodge the ceremony, but they are viewed as cowards by their community (I was told a story by a local about a man who left Uganda on travel while young and missed his time-frame to undergo the procedure. Upon returning to the country he was captured and taken to the east where he was forced to partake... but this is likely a fabrication to engage in conversation with a white-dude.)

Circumcisions ceremonies only happen during the even numbered years. They happen all year, but December is the most popular month on account of everyone who hasn't been circumcised in the previous 11 months rushing to get it done.

Here's how it goes: You, my dear reader, are going to dance a while in their shoes...

Two days before the event, you begin to dance around, run around, walk around, dance around, run around, walk around. Slowly the crowd picks up in numbers behind you. The rules dictate that you cannot be sedated for the cut, so one can only assume that the dancing is to numb you with exhaustion.

After two days of dancing, you pay a visit to the highlands of the mesa above your villages to cover yourself in mud and yeast from the local beer that you will drink after the event, you continue to dance around, run around, walk around with what has now become a huge crowd behind you. The drums are kickin. The people are screaming, shouting, singing, talking. All of a sudden, a few white people turn up to see the spectacle. You are too tired to care, but if you could, you would probably be proud to have them along... at least, that is what the white people gather by how warmly they are welcomed into the crowd.

The oldest boy.

The youngest boy.

The group moves forward. The crowd is thick. Each boy holds a stick which he periodically slams together after jumping into the air and shouting. Intense.

The crowd behind you grows and grows. You are in the final hours now, and the intensity of the drums and dancing keeps you moving. It is your heartbeat. You are only awaiting the call from the surgeon saying he is ready for you.

The call comes. You turn down a dirt road. Suddenly, half the crowd splits to the right. Nearly all the women and children are gone now. It is just you, the boys soon to be men, encircled by other boys and men.

The procession. Almost completely boys and men now. Only a few girls remain.

Turning off the road, we cut through a banana plantation and casava field. Men began to scream and shout. Our pace quickened. Men began to beat the ground with sticks. The drums became louder.

A crowd gathers around each boy, tugging at his pants to expose his penis. It must be easily accessed for the procedure, now only a few minutes away.

More beating of the ground. More cheer. You are nearly to the huts, and you see a crowd has gathered. People use branches to sweep the ground before you. There are four rectangular pieces of fabric with dirt (to absorb) in a pile on one side and clean (for you to stand on) on the other. The two white men and woman that have been dancing behind you are now ushered directly in front of the mats. The crowd is pushing, screaming. The white people have their cameras out, they are snapping away (they are encouraged by all that are around them: "Do you see?! Take the snaps! Take, take!").

There are no speeches. The circumcisions begin immediately.

The rule (only one): Before, during and after the cutting - Not a sound, not a cringe, not a change in facial expression. You are allowed to place a stick over your shoulders to pull down upon, and that is all. If you break this rule, you are deemed a coward for the rest of your life. (People are VERY serious about this. Only the youngest of boys are granted some slack in the matter).

You look to the heavens. Say a prayer... and it begins.

The surgeon grabs the tip of your penis, stretches it outward away from your body. Lays the blade upon your skin and cuts cleanly through. Your penis snaps back into your stomach. The hand grabs it again, on the side this time, cuts towards you, 1-cut, 2-cuts, 3-cuts. It is over.

Your eye's never leave the sky. You've not even blinked an eye. You are a man.

#1. The circumcision and the final product.

Cool. Calm. Collected. Not a flinch or sound.

#2. I was taking video before this picture. Again, he is completely at peace... on the outside.

#3. During and after.

#4. The youngest boy. Some slack is granted to the youngest boys. The boy's face, before and after, says it all.

It is over. You are now a man (and you will walk around in a skirt for the next month to prevent chafing).

Finished!

Proud.

The rice-sack showing the blood absorbed into the sand.

People begin to walk up and congratulate you. Hand you money. Someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders and gives you a place to sit.

Gifts are given.

Congratulations all around.

A man arrives with soda for the youngest boys...

...and locally brewed alcohol for the older boys.

Young boys and girls look on in wonder. One day, the boys will be standing where you are now.

The surgeon returns with an egg for each boy. He smears egg yoke on the exposed skin.

More congratulations. (Notice the touching of the left hand to the right forearm, a sign of respect).

And that about sums it up.

All in all, we danced for about 2 hours before we witnessed the climax of the two days. We were pushed straight to the front where the action was, and we were told to take pictures and video so we could show our friends and family... like I said, the Bagisu are EXTREMELY proud of this event.

Afterwards, I asked for a drink the celebratory locally brewed alcohol!... it was awful. But my whoops of excitement after imbibing set the crowd off in stitches of cheers and laughter.

While talking to a village local chairperson, the inevitable question arose: "So are you circumcised," he said to me.

The moment of truth... was I man enough to confess that I am not actually a man in his eyes?

Hell no!

"Of course I am!" I replied.

Phew! Dodged that angry mob!

Quakin'

I awoke two mornings ago to a rumbling. I was buried in sleep, so when I sat up and looked around, the muffled sound coming through my ear-plugs and the strange motion of the bed confused me. Was I dreaming? Was I just experiencing that buzzing sensation that usually accompanies too few hours of rest?

As the fog cleared, I realized that my bed WAS in fact shaking. So, in my blurry state, I thought of the only possible cause:

Shit-me. There is a VERY large, very ANGRY animal under my bed going bat-shit crazy on something…

After 7 or so seconds, everything stopped. Peace returned. I was fully with it by this point. So I began rocking myself violently forward and backward trying to get my bed to shake… you know… to see if I could do what the animal had done.

“Come… on… you… stupid… bed… SHAKE!”

Nothing.

Jesus, man! No Godzilla-cockroach could have done that! No rat either! A grizzly bear, maybe.

(But that was as improbable as the cockroach-rat theory… because grizzly bears do not live in Uganda.)

So I went out on a limb, referenced a bit of 8^th grade earth science and some more advanced geological theories I’d recently read at the suggestion of Michelle, and stuck it all together with crazy glue…

EARTHQUAKE!! The spirit of California! Here in Uganda as an alarm clock!

“UHHP ‘N ATTEM’ BOY! SUNZ AWMOST UHHP!” (The spirit has a Franklin County, Virginia accent).

Crazy as it sounds… it put my grizzly theory to shame.

Wicked!

I quickly shot off a text to my safety and security officer with Peace Corps (he had already heard the news). I sent another text to Devon #2 to make sure the whole Rwenzori range had not collapsed onto its side thus flattening her and her college (Nope. Still two Devon’s hanging out in Uganda… not that I’m sad or anything. But it would have made for a great story… *sigh*)

Checking the Daily Monitor yesterday, it looks like the epicenter was north of me by a few hundred kilometers in the Rift Valley near Lake Albert. It seems the spirit of Cali, lacking energy after a long trip, only had it in him (her? it?) to rock a 5.0 on the Richter scale.

No need to worry. I am alive, well and only slightly shaken (sorry… I had to.), but that is better than stirred, right Grandpa? (“Boooooo!” *dodges rotten tomato*)

Mainly I am just impressed with the natural power of the earth.

Thanks for reading!

I love you all (but especially you, Michelle!)

Devon.

Death Tax

Walking to school yesterday, I heard a distant wailing. I walked onward.

Passing the hospital, I turned to my right and saw a small crowd of villagers gathered around a small building at its southwest corner.

The morgue.

A death in our town.

The wailing is unsettling. It isn't blood curdling. It is chilling. It resonates deep within you and arouses the rarely thought about fact that we are mortal.

At school, the Director of Studies walked into the teachers lounge at lunch and wrote a short message on the board. One of the staff members aunts had passed on.

"Eh! You see that?" My counterpart Chris says to me. "They want to collect money from us..."

In times past, a death, like a wedding, would be cause for living family member to ask for small donations from the community to cover burial expenses and whatever else might involve in the official wrapping up of a family members life. A small basket would be passed around, and members would donate what they could.

But fraud arose. People announced deaths that did not actually occur. They collected money for burials that would not take place. And the public grew weary of making donations unless they new the person explicitly.

"... but they will take money from our accounts whether we want to give it or not," Chris continues.

Puzzled, I ask, "They can do that?! Just take money? FORCE a donation?"

"Of course. They who pay can do whatever they want."

World AIDS Day: Arua, Uganda

In December, the US Embassy put on multiple World AIDS Day events, and one of them was in Arua, a district in northeastern Uganda which borders the Democratic Republic of Congo and nearly borders Sudan.

It is UP there.

One of the embassy workers, a returned PCV herself, asked the Peace Corps for some volunteers for the day. And she got them... a lot of them. An opportunity to go into a formerly restricted zone (due to rebel activity from both the Lords Resistance Army and DRC/Sudan overflows) where PCVs are not placed, devoid of all but HEAT? Yes please. And, it turns out that the northeast is BEAUTIFUL! Very "Africa" as you would see it in a textbook (minus the wildebeests and zebras).

Depending on who you speak with, the event itself was a success or a failure. I think it teetered between either throughout the day. I made some tremendous emotional connections with a few of the event attendees, and after 8 months in the field, my eyes were further opened to the devastating poverty that 99+% of this country suffers with from day to day (Consider this: Borderline RIOTS over free t-shirts). Looking back, I'm remain proud to have been a part of the event.

Well, I've got a story for the event, but this post is for pictures. So I'll turn off the tap... but stay tuned.

Devon

The event started with a BIG parade around the town.

All in all, 11 PCVs turned up for the event. We all got to wear/keep those snazzy red shirts.

Ecstatic spectators. Is there anything funnier than a crowd of dancing white people?

The event grounds. This is a soccer pitch and the marching field for the police.

A woman, backed by a choir sings "Oh Uganda", the national anthem, to kick things off.

A crowd of children watching "AIDS Jeopardy", a game show where all the questions are related to AIDS and HIV. Three different groups of contestants play, (1.) Kids, (2.) Adults and (3.) Local leaders. It is horrific to see just how little the adult population INCLUDING the local leaders (theoretically the most educated in the region) knows about the subject. The kids ROCKED it though! The challenge is to get them to apply all those memorized facts now.

A neighboring district showed up to build one of their traditional instruments: the biggest xylophone on the planet earth! The cross pieces are wood blocks, and the long supports are banana stalks.

The finished product.

JAMMIN'! When they started, the crowd gathered around, and a huge conga (or should I say congO line) formed, and people danced and sang around the musicians. Talk about feeling the music. I felt possessed.

A woman wears a lanyard strung with ARV containers (Antiretrovirals - the medicine to combat HIV/AIDS) ammunition-style across her chest.

The group "Woman living with HIV/AIDS", the event's host (who has lived with HIV/AIDS for 11 years) and Peace Corp Uganda's Country Director.

After a full day's battle, I was finally able to pull through and give his deaf-boys group a bag full of t-shirts. He was gentle, patient, honest and so thoroughly grateful. It made my day. I love this kid.

HIV NEGATIVE!!! And SO PROUD!!!

This kid gave me a ration of shit at the end of the festival for not giving him a shirt. I recorded his spiel on my recorder... something about Obama and how the people of the US need to do what Ugandans want, and that means giving them free T-shirts. Hilarious at first and damn annoying when it didn't stop. The next day, as I had just boarded a bus for Gulu when there was a knock on the window, and guess who it was? Yep. This guy. Well, he was on much more pleasant to be around (no more mob-mentality), and in exchange for a song from his recorder, I took the shirt off my back and tossed it to him. It made his day, and it made my bus ride. We were even.

An outsiders view of my world:

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the steps of a hotel near my house (I actually just moved to that hotel, but that is a different story), hanging out with some new friends from Germany who were 6 months into their From-Germany-to-Capetown-South-Africa-on-Dirt-Bikes trip, when a man road up on a LOADED touring cycle. Long story short, he needed a place to stay so I offered him the floor of my home. Before leaving the next morning, he gave me his card showing his website where he posts about various bike tours he has finished or is planning. This morning, I got around to checking the site, and I found his post about his stay at my place... I've pasted his entry below, as I think it gives a taste of what a true outsider to Uganda might feel visiting.

"At around 4pm I arrived in town after 80km of sweating my nuts off, I found a hotel where a couple of white people where drinking coffee, good start I thought!, So I ordered a beer and asked about a room, after a 15 minute wait i was informed that the hotel was full....strange. About this time 2 of the 3 people got on their motorbikes and headed off, so I asked the other guy if he had a tip for a hotel in town, the options where, cheap and nasty or a $50 hotel. Devon then offered some floor space at his house though warned me that it wasn't much.

If I'd walking into Devons house a year ago I would of walked straight back out, he's living as a local for the " peace corps" for 2 years here and his house is 2 small concrete rooms with noisy neighbours. But for 1 night this became my Oasis for rest and relaxation. After 5 dusty, thirsty days living on rice and self made bread, it was great to have some company, cold beer and some home cooking (he knows where to get the fresh vegi's from at the market). And best of all the " shower" , a 10 litre jerry can hanging on the wall is not what I'd usally call a shower, but I was so filthy, dusty and sweaty that it was probibly one of the best showers I've ever had:)

Thanks Devon for a great evening!!"

Maybe. Maybe not.

Ugandan's drive on the left side of the road. Sinister. I walk on the right side, runner-style, so I can see the cars racing towards me, weaving, their imbalanced wheels threatening to to dislocate and shoot outward like a Looney-Toon Cartoon with every wobble.

In The States, I call my method "taking precautions." In Uganda, I call my method "Death Control."

But like it's antithesis, sometimes the condom breaks. And sometimes, it only almost breaks...

On my walk to school this morning, I was nearly flattened by a bus. In my minds eye, it wouldn't have been a steam-roller flattening as in "Who Killed Roger Rabbit?" No. More like a Devon-meets-bus. Devon flattens on bus' grill and sticks. Devon screams like the after-shave scene from "Home Alone" straight through town center as Ugandan's look on and announce to no one in particular, "It was god's will", heads nodding solemnly.

But I won't pin the almost-homicide on the bus driver. You see, a safari vehicle was passing through town at the sluggish pace of ~50 mph. And 50 in a residential portion of town is GETTHEFUCKOUTOFMYWAYASSHOLE-slow. Especially when the road is lined with kids heading to school, with wo/men heading to work and drunks of all ages heading to the bars.

Gotta show 'em: might makes right. Gotta show 'em: I've got a car, and you've only got legs.

GETOUTOFMYWAY.

And a bus is bigger than a safari vehicle, and...

Might makes right.

Might makes right.

Might makes right.

A mantra.

The bus swings wide, the turning radius of a freight train, and accelerates. The corner of the bus whips past me, 2 feet away. The gust of hot air pushes me sideways, off the road. My heart is pounding and my exclamation of "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!" is lost in the explosion of four or five pitches of the bus' bull horn and the diesel engine hidden beneath its tacky pink exterior.

The incident is over. I watch as the two vehicles battle for first position: the safari vehicle accelerates, the Kalita bus weaves to-and-fro.

A vision of me sprinting to the bus stop, pulling the driver from his seat and inciting the townspeople to drag him through the streets like Mussolini flashes briefly. The thought is replaced with the following:

When I leave Africa, I may decide never to return. But, by no choice of my own, I may never leave Africa.

I am shaken by the thought.

Meeting Gone Awry

The beginning of the year meeting was scheduled for 10AM today. With classes scheduled for 11, I knew that there was no way we would make it on time... meetings last forever.

For. Ev. Errrrr.

Come 10:40, the attendance had reached critical mass, so just before starting, I quickly ran to my room to let my students know that I would be late to class (after all, if we can't finish a meeting in one hour, we surely can't finish one in 20 minutes).

The meeting starts. I drop the book I am reading (The Audacity of Hope).

The speeches are drawn out and follow protocol to a TEE.

(1.) Opening Prayer.

(2.) Statement from the Chairperson, the Madam Head Teacher

(3.) Statement from the Deputy Head Teacher

(4.) Statement from the Director of Studies.

(5.) Review of Minutes from the last staff meeting sometime in November of last year ("Minutes" = Detailed report, i.e. EVERY SINGLE WORD AND HAPPENING OF THE MEETING, "Review" = Reading the "Minutes" word-for-bloody-word to a bored audience comprising 25 ecstatic.to.miss.class-teachers and one borderline suicidal Devon).

(6.) Remarks and "Way Forward"

(7.) Closing prayer

It is now approaching 12, and we are only half way through the meeting. This does not mean we are at #5. No. We are at #6, and everyone is adding their opinions to the mix... which is strange because there hasn't been a single damn thing said to rain these opinions onto. Nothing. People are literally spouting a whole lot of nothing about... nothing. Only those talking have any further interest. Everyone else is "LOST."

I too am lost. I pick up my book again and begin to read.

A few minutes go by, and in my peripheral hearing the words "Mr. Murphy" buzz.

Mr. Obama is talking about is road to the Senate. He's quite a writer.

It tries again. "Mr. Murphy, are you with us?"

The words break through, and "It" becomes "She": the new Madam Head Teacher of Kyenjojo S.S.

A bit shocked, I look up, realize what she is doing, and I take the truthful way out... and dive right in.

"No, I am not."

Giggles swell and are stifled from the crowd.

"Well, it is very rude of you to be reading while a meeting is in session."

Welp. Now you've gone and done it, lady. You've been here three days and you're all ready power-tripping on me over my desire to avoid listening to speeches that will literally de-brain me if they penetrate through the thick membrane that is my selective hearing, in front of a live audience, no less..

And, you're done.

"Well, I think it is very rude towards our students to be missing class because we could not show up to a meeting on time."

"Would you like to be somewhere else?" she poses.

"Yes. I would like to be teaching my class."

"You should ask to be excused then."

"Thats fine," I say standing up, book in hand. "May I be excused?"

"You are asking to be excused from a meeting. That is very rude."

"Yes, but I should be teaching my class. May I be excused?"

"You want to leave the meeting?"

"Yes. I want to go and teach my class. May I be excused?"

"Yes."

I walk out of the room in front of surprised, whispering faculty, faces plastered with varying degrees of awe, and head to my room to salvage what is left of my lesson.

The meeting continued straight into and through lunch...

...and early 1100 students were deprived of one-third of their studies today.

...but all the teachers got a coke or two, "so there's that!"

Thanks for reading.

I love you all (but especially you, Michelle!)

Devon.