Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Black and White Photography
Since so many of you humor my dream of someday being a fine arts photographer, I thought you might enjoy seeing a highlight of some of the black and white film that I had developed after last semester of Switzerland, Paris, Amsterdam, Ireland, Egypt, and home. Keep in mind that these are simply scanned negatives at the moment, but I am hoping to get a chance this summer to make many quality prints of these and others (so get your orders in now). Best-case scenario, I return to Washington, move out to Lummi Island, create a darkroom out of the extra bathroom, and print photographs and make pottery whenever the sun goes down, but we’ll see. Enjoy.
Eastern Uganda
As the end of March approaches, thunder and lightning is becoming a daily occurrence. The best thing about the rain is that it cleans the polluted Kampala air. The bad thing about the rain is that with it come more mosquitoes. Though we have all been taking our tablets and sleeping under mosquito nets, two kids in my group have come down with malaria. I, however, have made it 8 weeks in Uganda free of illness. I just hope that I don’t get sick next week when I am supposed to begin my practicum. Best-case scenario, by the end of next week, I will be deep in the Rwenzori Mountains, largest mountain range in Africa, with the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). Otherwise, I am happy to report that the week before last could qualify as one of my best weeks ever. We did so much in such a short period of time that I won’t even attempt to describe everything. After spending the entire Saturday prior writing one too many papers, I was more than content to leave the chaos of Kampala behind and head to rural Eastern Uganda. The first stop we made was in Mbale, a small town at the base of the foothills of Mt. Elgon National Park on the Kenya border. Uganda’s colonial past was quite evident in this former vacation destination with blooming trees outstretched over the main streets and bordered by colonial buildings overrun by ivy. We spent the evening sitting outside, next to a pool, drinking some beers at what seemed to be the remnants of an old colonial sports club that had turned into an outdoor Ugandan disco. With the music blaring and the girls swimming in the pool combined with the majestic setting, I felt a little like I was in a 90’s rap video. Fortunately, a couple of my friends will be doing their practicum in Mbale, so I look forward to returning for a weekend visit.
After visiting two NGOs and a local government, we left the hot flats and headed up into the foothills for a couple days of trekking. At sunset, after hours of driving and sitting, we hiked at the base of a cliff, which stretched along the top of the outlying hills of the National Park like a protective wall. Looking down onto the plains that continued to the horizon, we could see the farmers’ bush fires glowing orange with smoke billowing into the sky. Our destination was the last of three waterfalls called Sipi Falls.
Cascading 97 meters to a pool at the bottom, it was a hypnotizing site for a bunch of sweaty Americans. So, while some others were enjoying the mist from the side, I pretended that one cannot get the chronic disease, bilharzia, from freshwater swimming and spontaneously jumped off one of the boulders to enjoy the cold water. Naturally, I was soon joined by half of the group. When we were finally coaxed out of the water and up the hill to our directors, sweet Miriam shook her head at me and said, “When I saw you jump off that rock, part of me died inside.” They have since forgiven me for my lapse in judgment because the doctors think this particular freshwater stream was not stagnant enough. During lunch the next day, the owner of the guesthouse we were staying at asked if we would like him to arrange a soccer match with the locals. Thirty minutes later, we were walking through town to the pitch in a procession that was growing exponentially.
The pitch was on top of a plateau with the western edge dropping off to the plains below. The organizer of the match became the referee and the coach of both teams and he was not messing around. We played a full 90-minute match, with 11 on a side, free kicks, off sides, and substitutions. Tom, a former college basketball player from Brooklyn, was determined to prove that muzungus were not weak or uncoordinated, so he insisted we play the first half Americans versus Ugandans (with the exception of our driver as the goalie and one skilled local as our support). By the time the game began, all the primary school students were on the sidelines and I was convinced we were going to be humiliated. But to my surprise, we were able to hold our own quite well minus the fact that the ball was usually heading towards our goal. 
After playing defense for a while, I moved up and started kicking the ball from half field because their goalie was playing like a midfielder. One shot was so on that one of their defenders ran back and hit the ball out of the goal with his hand, giving us a penalty kick. Tom nominated our Ugandan to shoot for us, which instantly ignited a chorus of protests from the other Ugandan players who all pointed to me and said a bunch of words I didn’t understand intermixed with the word muzungu. So I stepped up to the ball and crushed it past the goalie. After always missing my penalty kicks in high school, what better place to make my first one than in Africa. All the players and onlookers thought it was especially funny seeing a muzungu put his shirt over his head and run down the field with his arms outstretched like a blind bird. 
It was the most fun that I think I’ve had playing soccer since elementary school. We combined teams for the second half and ended the game in a draw, 3 to 3. I scored a second goal off a header on a cross from the star Ugandan, and the referee later said I was MVP. But the best part about the whole experience was laughing and bonding with local kids our age. It didn’t matter that we were muzungus, they just wanted an excuse to have fun and play a real game. Next stop was our rural homestay, in the district of Busia, on the southeast border with Kenya. We were all randomly paired with one other classmate to share our experience with someone else. Since my partner Kati, from Tennessee, and I both brought film cameras, only words will be able to describe our time there until I return to the US.
After driving down dirt roads and sometimes paths through groundnuts, maize, and cassava fields, we reached a lonely grove of mango and avocado trees that protected the “compound” of Benedict and Margaret Ogulei. The compound consisted of four mud huts with thatched roofs, a thatched granary, a chicken coup, a goat pen, a thatched pit latrine, and an area designated for bathing. Benedict is one of six brothers that share 20 acres passed down from their father. They accepted us gratefully into their home and gave us so much with so little. Though we only spent three days in Abochet Village, we had too many new experiences, so I will just give you a summary.
In general, the children were either scared stiff when they saw us or followed us all day, but the best part was that they never yelled muzungu. Though they had ripped shirts, dirty dresses, and sometimes swollen bellies, these children seemed to still possess and enjoy the sweet innocence inherent to adolescence, a luxury their tough city counterparts might never get to enjoy. Fifteen of my small host cousins and I played soccer for hours with a ball made of plastic bags; the only thing stopping us from continuing was the welcomed rain.
Our host father took us to what seemed like every home in the village to discuss their subsistence agricultural practices and hardships. The hardest part was breaking it to them that we were just students there to learn and do not currently have the particular skills or knowledge they might desire. Nevertheless, everyone we spoke with thanked us over and over again for just being there. By the end of the second day, everyone knew we were in town and demanded a visit, especially after we attended a funeral with the whole community present.
We spent two nights at the trading center (looked like something out of an old country western movie) with a group of old men who were sharing a clay pot of the local brew. They drank the maize and millet liquid with long reeds as straws, asked us about America, shared stories and traditions, and offered me their brew and their daughters. In general, I think we were both surprised how comfortable the whole situation was. Since they are expecting all of their portraits to be sent to them, I will have some serious photography work to do when I return to the states, a task I will do with pleasure.
Concluding our time in the east, all the students met back up at the home of the parents of our director Miriam. The afternoon was spent reflecting on our experiences, something I find myself still in need of today. In the evening, our directors hired a DJ and invited all the young locals for a night of drinking and dancing under the stars. By midnight, I was the only muzungu left standing with a couple hundred Ugandans, and I can honestly say that the night ranked high on the “Top Ten Dance Parties” list that I have since been inspired to create for my own memory. The whole week was a reminder of why I came to Uganda and how I want to spend the next six weeks, with no regrets.
As with any time spent away from my beloved family, friends, Whatcom County, and San Francisco, I inevitably experience ups and downs, but knowing that you will all be there when I return, keeps me going. Therefore, I miss all of you and look forward to our paths crossing in one of those locations or in another.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Kibuka
Monday, March 3, 2008
Western Uganda and Rwanda
Ogamba chi? It is Saturday evening and I’m sitting in the living room of my home in Kyebando watching Premiere League football with my two host brothers. Don has been covering his mouth for ten minutes because Arsenal is down one, while Bonnie, a Liverpool fan, is just waiting indifferently for his little brother’s inevitable breakdown. Though I have yet to commit to any one team, I am hoping the baptism will bring about a decision. After the game, we are probably going to go out to the clubs (they always say Kampala has the best night life in East Africa). I will have to find out for myself.
This week and next, we are visiting grassroots organizations in different areas surrounding Kampala. We will have an opportunity to practice different interactive research methods, such as observing and facilitating focus groups, which will prepare us for our practicum. I am beginning to get nervous because by the end of next week, we are supposed to finalize our practicum ideas. On the bright side, I had a meeting with someone from the Ministry of the Environment and they presented me with a possibility if I wanted to work with their Wetlands Department. At this point, I would like to work with communities living in or around protected areas, wetlands or forests. My analysis would focus on the impact of conservation practices on local livelihoods and the implementation of community-based resource management. If I’m lucky, I will get a chance to spend lots of time outside of Kampala, learning how rural Ugandans interact with the environment.
The week before this, we had a group excursion to Western Uganda, the land of milk and honey, and Rwanda. Once we were out of city limits, the smog and dust of Kampala was replaced by rolling hills of green. Since it is no secret that President Museveni (leader since 1986) hails from the west, the roads improved the further we traveled. Our first visit was to one of the eleven UNDP Millennium Villages in all of Africa. Perched high in the hills of Mbrara District, the UN has piloted a 50 million dollar development project, which, if “successful,” is supposed to be mimicked in other villages with similar socio-economic characteristics across Africa. However, I found it hard to imagine that the area we visited reflects the hardships of the average Ugandan. On our way to the next destination, we had lunch in a large field across the road from a small village. We started kicking around the soccer ball I brought, and before we knew it, twenty Ugandan children joined in. When it was time to leave, I picked up the ball and they all got in a huge group to stare me down with pleading eyes. Though I knew when they came to play it would end up being theirs, I was slightly reluctant to give it away because I technically already gave it to my little host brother Jama, but I’ve since bought him another. Later that day, we drove by the same field and they were still playing with the ball. They all did the muzungu dance when we yelled and waved (dance consisting of jumping and waving with both hands when white people show up). I’m sure that ball will get more use than ever.
From the Millennium Village, we broke up into four groups, each of which visited a different refugee resettlement village. Past a beautiful lake, a heard of cows, and children playing, we reached a village of made up of 67 mud huts, many vegetable gardens, and a playground with a large tree occupied by golden finches and their hanging nests. Under the tree, the six of us sat in front of the whole community of 100 percent Hutu Rwandese refugees. Since we were not well informed about the group prior to arriving, it wasn’t until midway through our discussion with them that we realized they have been refugees since the 1994 genocide and they have not returned out of fear of prosecution. With the help of a translator, we asked them questions like what they think of the current Rwandan President and the traditional court system that is being used to prosecute those involved in the genocide? We were all speechless when one of the women in the group asked us what the international community thinks of them? Fortunately, the experience as a whole was very positive.
From Mbarara, we entered Rwanda and headed south through beautiful valleys of tea to reach the capital city of Kigali. Unlike Kampala, it was clear that the government of Rwanda was putting more money into their infrastructure than into their pockets. The boda boda (motorcycle taxis) drivers had helmets for themselves and their passengers, the roads were smooth and pothole free, and pedestrians actually use the zebra crossings. Since we spent less than 48 hours in the country, the extent of our time in Rwanda was spent at the genocide memorial. There is way I can sum up a tragedy so I won’t even try. We saw many things I did not expect to see. One thing I can say is that the students we spoke to said they don’t sell Hotel Rwanda in Rwanda because it fails to convey just how terrible it was. If anyone wants to read more about the genocide, I would suggest, We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families, by Philip Gourevitch. I think we all would have liked to be there longer and we were all glad that we visited the refugee camp before visiting the memorials.
Back in Uganda, we visited Queen Elizabeth National Park. The first day we took a boat ride on the Kazinga Channel, which connects Lake George to Lake Edward, where we saw hippos, water buffalo, crocodile, many birds, and an elephant. Since the boys had our own bungalow a distance from the main hostel, we organized a toga party with charades as entertainment. We were all brightly dressed because everyone wore the Rwandan fabric they bought in the market the day before. It was a risky gathering because the people at the park said we probably shouldn’t be out past 8 pm, but what’s a couple lion going to do with a bunch of muzungus anyway. 
The next morning at 6, we went on a game drive where we saw the backs of lions hiding in tall grass and some elephants fighting on the road ahead of our van. Leaving the west, we drove through some of the most beautiful parts of Uganda I have seen so far. I can’t wait to return.
When we returned to Kampala, late Saturday evening, a small group of us hurried to the cricket stadium to watch the long awaited UB40 concert (old British reggae band). I met up with my brother Don at the gates and we entered together. The security guards weren’t tearing the tickets but taking them back out front to sell them again, so you can imagine how many people actually showed up.
All in all, Uganda and the Ugandans have been treating me very well. I no longer wear my backpack on my front when entering the chaos of the old taxi park, I’ve taken a couple boda boda rides (even though we are technically not supposed to), and I think all the starches I’m eating might just make this the homestay that fattens me up. I would love to show all of you more pictures of Kampala, but I just haven’t had the guts to take my new camera out on the streets. It is now Sunday evening, and I just spent the day with all my brothers and sisters enjoying the sunshine and watching more football. Until you hear from me again…
Tunaalabagana,
Kibuka
This week and next, we are visiting grassroots organizations in different areas surrounding Kampala. We will have an opportunity to practice different interactive research methods, such as observing and facilitating focus groups, which will prepare us for our practicum. I am beginning to get nervous because by the end of next week, we are supposed to finalize our practicum ideas. On the bright side, I had a meeting with someone from the Ministry of the Environment and they presented me with a possibility if I wanted to work with their Wetlands Department. At this point, I would like to work with communities living in or around protected areas, wetlands or forests. My analysis would focus on the impact of conservation practices on local livelihoods and the implementation of community-based resource management. If I’m lucky, I will get a chance to spend lots of time outside of Kampala, learning how rural Ugandans interact with the environment. The week before this, we had a group excursion to Western Uganda, the land of milk and honey, and Rwanda. Once we were out of city limits, the smog and dust of Kampala was replaced by rolling hills of green. Since it is no secret that President Museveni (leader since 1986) hails from the west, the roads improved the further we traveled. Our first visit was to one of the eleven UNDP Millennium Villages in all of Africa. Perched high in the hills of Mbrara District, the UN has piloted a 50 million dollar development project, which, if “successful,” is supposed to be mimicked in other villages with similar socio-economic characteristics across Africa. However, I found it hard to imagine that the area we visited reflects the hardships of the average Ugandan. On our way to the next destination, we had lunch in a large field across the road from a small village. We started kicking around the soccer ball I brought, and before we knew it, twenty Ugandan children joined in. When it was time to leave, I picked up the ball and they all got in a huge group to stare me down with pleading eyes. Though I knew when they came to play it would end up being theirs, I was slightly reluctant to give it away because I technically already gave it to my little host brother Jama, but I’ve since bought him another. Later that day, we drove by the same field and they were still playing with the ball. They all did the muzungu dance when we yelled and waved (dance consisting of jumping and waving with both hands when white people show up). I’m sure that ball will get more use than ever.
From the Millennium Village, we broke up into four groups, each of which visited a different refugee resettlement village. Past a beautiful lake, a heard of cows, and children playing, we reached a village of made up of 67 mud huts, many vegetable gardens, and a playground with a large tree occupied by golden finches and their hanging nests. Under the tree, the six of us sat in front of the whole community of 100 percent Hutu Rwandese refugees. Since we were not well informed about the group prior to arriving, it wasn’t until midway through our discussion with them that we realized they have been refugees since the 1994 genocide and they have not returned out of fear of prosecution. With the help of a translator, we asked them questions like what they think of the current Rwandan President and the traditional court system that is being used to prosecute those involved in the genocide? We were all speechless when one of the women in the group asked us what the international community thinks of them? Fortunately, the experience as a whole was very positive. 
From Mbarara, we entered Rwanda and headed south through beautiful valleys of tea to reach the capital city of Kigali. Unlike Kampala, it was clear that the government of Rwanda was putting more money into their infrastructure than into their pockets. The boda boda (motorcycle taxis) drivers had helmets for themselves and their passengers, the roads were smooth and pothole free, and pedestrians actually use the zebra crossings. Since we spent less than 48 hours in the country, the extent of our time in Rwanda was spent at the genocide memorial. There is way I can sum up a tragedy so I won’t even try. We saw many things I did not expect to see. One thing I can say is that the students we spoke to said they don’t sell Hotel Rwanda in Rwanda because it fails to convey just how terrible it was. If anyone wants to read more about the genocide, I would suggest, We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families, by Philip Gourevitch. I think we all would have liked to be there longer and we were all glad that we visited the refugee camp before visiting the memorials. 
Back in Uganda, we visited Queen Elizabeth National Park. The first day we took a boat ride on the Kazinga Channel, which connects Lake George to Lake Edward, where we saw hippos, water buffalo, crocodile, many birds, and an elephant. Since the boys had our own bungalow a distance from the main hostel, we organized a toga party with charades as entertainment. We were all brightly dressed because everyone wore the Rwandan fabric they bought in the market the day before. It was a risky gathering because the people at the park said we probably shouldn’t be out past 8 pm, but what’s a couple lion going to do with a bunch of muzungus anyway. 
The next morning at 6, we went on a game drive where we saw the backs of lions hiding in tall grass and some elephants fighting on the road ahead of our van. Leaving the west, we drove through some of the most beautiful parts of Uganda I have seen so far. I can’t wait to return.When we returned to Kampala, late Saturday evening, a small group of us hurried to the cricket stadium to watch the long awaited UB40 concert (old British reggae band). I met up with my brother Don at the gates and we entered together. The security guards weren’t tearing the tickets but taking them back out front to sell them again, so you can imagine how many people actually showed up.
All in all, Uganda and the Ugandans have been treating me very well. I no longer wear my backpack on my front when entering the chaos of the old taxi park, I’ve taken a couple boda boda rides (even though we are technically not supposed to), and I think all the starches I’m eating might just make this the homestay that fattens me up. I would love to show all of you more pictures of Kampala, but I just haven’t had the guts to take my new camera out on the streets. It is now Sunday evening, and I just spent the day with all my brothers and sisters enjoying the sunshine and watching more football. Until you hear from me again…Tunaalabagana,
Kibuka
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Homestay
Nearly three weeks down, eleven to go. Preferably, I would have started posting during week one when all the culture shocks were fresh and juicy in my head; unfortunately, I’ve failed to discipline myself to recording until two days ago. Hopefully, from here on out I will find the time to give you all something to laugh about.
I’m sure pictures will make more sense than any attempt at a description on my part, but I live in a middle class home in Kyebando (one small step up from a slum), right outside of Kampala, the capital and largest city in Uganda. There are some things I expected about my home and more things I didn’t. For instance, I expected pit latrines and outdoor coal stoves, which they use; however, I didn’t expect my own room, a shower with hot water, and a washing machine. Not to mention, American television stations, a large wall surrounding the compound, a grove of matooke trees (plantains), three cars, and two servants. Uganda is one of the forty least developed countries in the world, so keep in mind that everything is relative. I have six siblings that are eighteen and above, and three siblings under five. My twenty-five year old brother, Bonnie, five year old sister, Nyla, and three year old sister, Hanna, are the only ones still living at home. The rest of the kids are off at boarding school or working abroad, but some of them come home on the weekends and just pop in. Since, in Ugandan culture, the concept of immediate family doesn’t really exist, all the women around the house are my moms and all the children are my brothers and sisters; when in reality, my exact relation is unclear.
In no particular order, my host mother is a Muslim, a widow of thirteen years, a wholesale car parts dealer, a girlfriend to the equivalent of my host dad, and the head of the household. I first met her when my brother Bonnie brought me home from my first day of school. My mom and aunts were sitting in the cooking area on mats preparing dinner. They had just returned from the village where my mom had just finished forty days of mourning for the son she lost in December. For the first day or two, I felt like I was being inspected for impurities. In moments of silence, she would ask random questions like “how much does your mother weigh?” and “what religion do you practice?” I knew the latter would come up eventually because we were warned that Ugandans are very religious, so I calmly stuck to the truth and told her I am a spiritual person, but I don’t practice a religion because my parents chose to allow me to choose a path for myself when I felt ready. She thought that was fairly ludicrous, so she then informed me that I’m old enough now to decide, so I should probably get baptized while I am here in Uganda. It may seem ironic because she is a Muslim, but all of her children are protestant due to their father. So I told her that if I were to make that decision, I would have to do some serious reflecting. Her response was that I should get baptized first, and then I could have all the time in the world to read up on the Bible. She also informed me that there are a lot of things I can’t do in Uganda without a Baptism card. Of course I was interested so I asked, “Like what?” She responded with, “Like what? Well… getting married and receiving the Holy Communion.” At that point, I was shaking in my boots because those were two things on the top of my “Uganda To Do List.” Though these are valid points, plus, she would throw me a party, and there isn’t any place I’d rather give myself to Jesus, I’ve decided to pass on the baptism (at least for a couple months or so).
Once I really turned on the charm and I became more aware of her dry sense of humor, we began to build the mother son connection that I’ve been fortunate enough to create with my past three home-stay mothers (but, it’s pretty easy when you have twenty-one years of practice with my real mom).
My favorite times at home so far are during the electricity blackouts, when everyone in the family sits under the stars around the cooking area until dinner at eleven. My mom will give me tea, fresh mangos, and/or a plate of sugar cane. They all think it is hilarious when I come home from school and practice the Lugandan I’ve learned, “Mussibye mutyanno bannyabo ne bassebo, ensanyuse okukulaba” (Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it’s nice to see you). On Saturday, my mom taught me how African women wash clothes. She was so sure that my hands were going to bleed that, afterwards, she put hydrogen peroxide on my fingers even though they weren’t bleeding. Most nights we eat the same thing (matooke, groundnut sauce, greens, and meat), but last night my host mom made me a special dinner of homemade fries, rice, cabbage, noodles, and curry with goat (lots of starches in this culture because weight reflects social status, so the more the better). Being that I was eating from a platter and not a plate, by the time I was half way done I said, “I think I’ve lost the war.” Fortunately, they didn’t look surprised and my mom even looked pleased. But by far the best bonding moment with my mom was when she gave me my African name. Being her son, I come from the Ndiga (Sheep) clan, the Baganda Kingdom, and my name is Kibuka (Chibuka). Kibuka is a strong warrior god whose weakness is love. She said that in her village, there is a huge tree that marks the spot where his soul still rests. The Sunday after next, we are driving thirty kilometers out of Kampala to her village, where all of her clan (nine siblings with a hundred plus children) still lives.
I’m having a wonderful time, I’m learning a lot, my group is great, my directors are inspiring women, and I have many more stories still to post. I think the description of my family, mostly my mom, is good enough for now.
Until next time, don’t think it hasn’t been charming.
Tunaalabagana,
Kibuka
I’m sure pictures will make more sense than any attempt at a description on my part, but I live in a middle class home in Kyebando (one small step up from a slum), right outside of Kampala, the capital and largest city in Uganda. There are some things I expected about my home and more things I didn’t. For instance, I expected pit latrines and outdoor coal stoves, which they use; however, I didn’t expect my own room, a shower with hot water, and a washing machine. Not to mention, American television stations, a large wall surrounding the compound, a grove of matooke trees (plantains), three cars, and two servants. Uganda is one of the forty least developed countries in the world, so keep in mind that everything is relative. I have six siblings that are eighteen and above, and three siblings under five. My twenty-five year old brother, Bonnie, five year old sister, Nyla, and three year old sister, Hanna, are the only ones still living at home. The rest of the kids are off at boarding school or working abroad, but some of them come home on the weekends and just pop in. Since, in Ugandan culture, the concept of immediate family doesn’t really exist, all the women around the house are my moms and all the children are my brothers and sisters; when in reality, my exact relation is unclear. In no particular order, my host mother is a Muslim, a widow of thirteen years, a wholesale car parts dealer, a girlfriend to the equivalent of my host dad, and the head of the household. I first met her when my brother Bonnie brought me home from my first day of school. My mom and aunts were sitting in the cooking area on mats preparing dinner. They had just returned from the village where my mom had just finished forty days of mourning for the son she lost in December. For the first day or two, I felt like I was being inspected for impurities. In moments of silence, she would ask random questions like “how much does your mother weigh?” and “what religion do you practice?” I knew the latter would come up eventually because we were warned that Ugandans are very religious, so I calmly stuck to the truth and told her I am a spiritual person, but I don’t practice a religion because my parents chose to allow me to choose a path for myself when I felt ready. She thought that was fairly ludicrous, so she then informed me that I’m old enough now to decide, so I should probably get baptized while I am here in Uganda. It may seem ironic because she is a Muslim, but all of her children are protestant due to their father. So I told her that if I were to make that decision, I would have to do some serious reflecting. Her response was that I should get baptized first, and then I could have all the time in the world to read up on the Bible. She also informed me that there are a lot of things I can’t do in Uganda without a Baptism card. Of course I was interested so I asked, “Like what?” She responded with, “Like what? Well… getting married and receiving the Holy Communion.” At that point, I was shaking in my boots because those were two things on the top of my “Uganda To Do List.” Though these are valid points, plus, she would throw me a party, and there isn’t any place I’d rather give myself to Jesus, I’ve decided to pass on the baptism (at least for a couple months or so).
Once I really turned on the charm and I became more aware of her dry sense of humor, we began to build the mother son connection that I’ve been fortunate enough to create with my past three home-stay mothers (but, it’s pretty easy when you have twenty-one years of practice with my real mom).
My favorite times at home so far are during the electricity blackouts, when everyone in the family sits under the stars around the cooking area until dinner at eleven. My mom will give me tea, fresh mangos, and/or a plate of sugar cane. They all think it is hilarious when I come home from school and practice the Lugandan I’ve learned, “Mussibye mutyanno bannyabo ne bassebo, ensanyuse okukulaba” (Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it’s nice to see you). On Saturday, my mom taught me how African women wash clothes. She was so sure that my hands were going to bleed that, afterwards, she put hydrogen peroxide on my fingers even though they weren’t bleeding. Most nights we eat the same thing (matooke, groundnut sauce, greens, and meat), but last night my host mom made me a special dinner of homemade fries, rice, cabbage, noodles, and curry with goat (lots of starches in this culture because weight reflects social status, so the more the better). Being that I was eating from a platter and not a plate, by the time I was half way done I said, “I think I’ve lost the war.” Fortunately, they didn’t look surprised and my mom even looked pleased. But by far the best bonding moment with my mom was when she gave me my African name. Being her son, I come from the Ndiga (Sheep) clan, the Baganda Kingdom, and my name is Kibuka (Chibuka). Kibuka is a strong warrior god whose weakness is love. She said that in her village, there is a huge tree that marks the spot where his soul still rests. The Sunday after next, we are driving thirty kilometers out of Kampala to her village, where all of her clan (nine siblings with a hundred plus children) still lives. I’m having a wonderful time, I’m learning a lot, my group is great, my directors are inspiring women, and I have many more stories still to post. I think the description of my family, mostly my mom, is good enough for now.
Until next time, don’t think it hasn’t been charming.
Tunaalabagana,
Kibuka
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Away, Home, and Away
Over the last three months I continuously came and went, packed and unpacked, and said hello and fair well; in turn, I have had less time to stop, reflect, and inform all of you of my welfare, and for that I apologize. For the purpose of catching up, here’s what I’ve been up to since you heard from me last.
The conclusion of November coincided with the conclusion of my ISP and my semester in Switzerland. I said goodbye to my group and my host family and departed with my travel companions, Pete and Paul, for Egypt. The seven-day whirlwind immersion was hectic, but completely worth the exhaustion. Highlights include galloping on horseback at the entrance to the Sahara to catch the sunrise over Giza and the pyramids, traveling in a military convoy to Abu Simbal near the border of Sudan, sailing down the Nile in a falucca, being lost and baffled throughout the gigantic festival halls and chambers at Karnack, smoking shesha (hookah) and drinking Egyptian tea at El Fishari’s Café (which has never closed in two centuries) in Khan Al-Khalili bazaar, and standing on the roof of Al-Muayyad Mosque in Islamic Cairo at sunset. All of these experiences were only shared between Pete and myself because Paul’s mom gave him an ultimatum to either stay in Geneva or go on a guided tour on a cruise ship up and down the Nile because she was scared that otherwise, terrorists would blow him up. Because of her, the numerous positive conversations we had with the Muslim youth in hostels and bazaars were twice as gratifying, not to mention that our cultural immersion was a forth of the price. Though I hadn’t thought of spending my vacation in Egypt before they proposed it, the visit brought back childhood fantasies of archeological discovery with Indiana Jones. I am confident that I made the right decision.
Upon return to Geneva, Pete and I slept in the airport before departing to Amsterdam for three days of rest and relaxation. I’m not sure if it was a lack of acclimatization or it was just extremely cold (I think both), but I just remember wanting to be inside every second I was out. We witnessed the evolution of Van Gogh, floated over misty canals, etc. etc. I felt like I was in the San Francisco of Europe, it was very comfortable. After parting ways with Pete, I returned to Switzerland. I popped in for a cup of coffee at my host family’s house before taking a train into the Swiss Alps. I finally got my chance to ski at both Verbier and Zermatt (Matterhorn).
Though it seemed more like ice-skating than skiing, the sky was clear and the fondue was phenomenal. I even received numerous rounds of beer from three US Marines who were on leave from Germany. They told me they were study abroad students for a couple hours until their story stopped adding up; it was then that the conversation started to get interesting. After the Alps, I headed south to Florence, Italy, to spend Christmas with the my friends Peter and Jordan of Washington and Peter’s family, who are living the life of Italians for the year. We celebrated Peter’s 21st birthday on Christmas Eve with many glasses of wine and a midnight mass. It was nice to finally see some familiar faces and enjoy a quite European scene before heading back to Geneva and back to America.
I had a wonderful semester in Switzerland. I couldn’t have imagined staying with any other family. My host parents were and will always be great friends and role models that I can only hope to emulate when I have a family of my own. My optimism and understanding of international relations and the international community has grown in ways I am unaware of presently. And finally, I look forward to building upon my new French foundation once I return to USF.
Once back in the Evergreen State, I was promptly comforted with hugs from my parents and headed to Peaceful Valley for New Years with my extended family; Wiebe, Ashley, Antho, Pier, and Richie. I tried to make the most of winter with numerous trips to the powder slopes of Mount Baker with my brothers from other mothers. Since I only had a month to recoup and catch up, I didn’t spend many nights in my own bed and I didn’t get a chance to spend as much time with most of you as I had hoped.
I’ve now been in Uganda for two and a half weeks, but I’m having a hard time finding time to write a post. I know that you all probably want to know how Africa and I are, but I felt the need to wrap up my previous experiences before I began a new blog. So look out, it is coming.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
The conclusion of November coincided with the conclusion of my ISP and my semester in Switzerland. I said goodbye to my group and my host family and departed with my travel companions, Pete and Paul, for Egypt. The seven-day whirlwind immersion was hectic, but completely worth the exhaustion. Highlights include galloping on horseback at the entrance to the Sahara to catch the sunrise over Giza and the pyramids, traveling in a military convoy to Abu Simbal near the border of Sudan, sailing down the Nile in a falucca, being lost and baffled throughout the gigantic festival halls and chambers at Karnack, smoking shesha (hookah) and drinking Egyptian tea at El Fishari’s Café (which has never closed in two centuries) in Khan Al-Khalili bazaar, and standing on the roof of Al-Muayyad Mosque in Islamic Cairo at sunset. All of these experiences were only shared between Pete and myself because Paul’s mom gave him an ultimatum to either stay in Geneva or go on a guided tour on a cruise ship up and down the Nile because she was scared that otherwise, terrorists would blow him up. Because of her, the numerous positive conversations we had with the Muslim youth in hostels and bazaars were twice as gratifying, not to mention that our cultural immersion was a forth of the price. Though I hadn’t thought of spending my vacation in Egypt before they proposed it, the visit brought back childhood fantasies of archeological discovery with Indiana Jones. I am confident that I made the right decision.Upon return to Geneva, Pete and I slept in the airport before departing to Amsterdam for three days of rest and relaxation. I’m not sure if it was a lack of acclimatization or it was just extremely cold (I think both), but I just remember wanting to be inside every second I was out. We witnessed the evolution of Van Gogh, floated over misty canals, etc. etc. I felt like I was in the San Francisco of Europe, it was very comfortable. After parting ways with Pete, I returned to Switzerland. I popped in for a cup of coffee at my host family’s house before taking a train into the Swiss Alps. I finally got my chance to ski at both Verbier and Zermatt (Matterhorn).
Though it seemed more like ice-skating than skiing, the sky was clear and the fondue was phenomenal. I even received numerous rounds of beer from three US Marines who were on leave from Germany. They told me they were study abroad students for a couple hours until their story stopped adding up; it was then that the conversation started to get interesting. After the Alps, I headed south to Florence, Italy, to spend Christmas with the my friends Peter and Jordan of Washington and Peter’s family, who are living the life of Italians for the year. We celebrated Peter’s 21st birthday on Christmas Eve with many glasses of wine and a midnight mass. It was nice to finally see some familiar faces and enjoy a quite European scene before heading back to Geneva and back to America. I had a wonderful semester in Switzerland. I couldn’t have imagined staying with any other family. My host parents were and will always be great friends and role models that I can only hope to emulate when I have a family of my own. My optimism and understanding of international relations and the international community has grown in ways I am unaware of presently. And finally, I look forward to building upon my new French foundation once I return to USF.
Once back in the Evergreen State, I was promptly comforted with hugs from my parents and headed to Peaceful Valley for New Years with my extended family; Wiebe, Ashley, Antho, Pier, and Richie. I tried to make the most of winter with numerous trips to the powder slopes of Mount Baker with my brothers from other mothers. Since I only had a month to recoup and catch up, I didn’t spend many nights in my own bed and I didn’t get a chance to spend as much time with most of you as I had hoped.
I’ve now been in Uganda for two and a half weeks, but I’m having a hard time finding time to write a post. I know that you all probably want to know how Africa and I are, but I felt the need to wrap up my previous experiences before I began a new blog. So look out, it is coming.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Back In Switzerland
As our time in Ireland wound down, my mind began to return to the fact that I had 3 weeks to finish an Independent Research Project, which consists of 30 hours of interactive research (interviews and visiting International Organization), a 30 page paper, and a 30 minute presentation in front of my peers, Academic Directors and (supposedly) a ‘bus’ of faculty from the School for International Training. Must have been the luck of the Irish because, for me, it is all due on November 30. I hate to bore, but for those of you who might be interested, my project is focused on climate change and adaptation; capacity building in LDCs (Least Developed Countries), specifically Uganda and East Africa. I know that it must just sound riveting; however, I should add that I choose this topic and it is more interesting than it sounds. I won’t go any further than that, but if you want to know more, just ask me about it when I return. I’ve spent the last week traveling to Geneva, researching, reading, and frantically trying to reach and visit experts at organizations like the United Nations Development Program, International Institute for Sustainable Development, OXFAM, UNCTAD, the South Centre, and next week I’ll probably do the same thing all over again (hopefully going to speak with someone at the UN Mission to Uganda, not the religious kind). Let’s just say that the nervous breakdown has been a slow boil. (Teachers, feel free to use this as ammunition to your students experiencing Christmas fever).
On the bright side, the night I returned, it snowed in Prengins bringing dreams of powder and freedom. In addition, last night, one of the guys from the soccer team saw me on the bus and said that they were still training indoors at the school in Prengins and that he would call me with details. When I came home, Anita was making fondue to warm our frozen stomachs and had me cut up the bread. Just another example of how simple things like sitting down for dinner with your family or another family, having a glass of white wine (or not), can make the mountain of burdens and frustrations on your back seem light as a feather.
Once again, I miss and love you all and hope to hear from you and/or see you soon.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
On the bright side, the night I returned, it snowed in Prengins bringing dreams of powder and freedom. In addition, last night, one of the guys from the soccer team saw me on the bus and said that they were still training indoors at the school in Prengins and that he would call me with details. When I came home, Anita was making fondue to warm our frozen stomachs and had me cut up the bread. Just another example of how simple things like sitting down for dinner with your family or another family, having a glass of white wine (or not), can make the mountain of burdens and frustrations on your back seem light as a feather.
Once again, I miss and love you all and hope to hear from you and/or see you soon.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
Ireland
On the 7th of November, the three of us headed to Dublin for a long weekend of Irish music and beer. In the duty free, Pete bought a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey and we headed to the train station to go directly to the west coast. Once again, we lucked out with the weather and had five days of partly cloudy skies, which by Irish standards is probably considered clear skies (especially in the fall). It was 9:00 pm, on a Wednesday, when we walked down the main street of town to our hostel and there were loads of people coming and going from the Pubs that occupied every other building. Later that night after walking through town, Pete and I went into one of the more mellow Pubs where they had Irish music and had our first Guinness in Ireland. The last time I had a Guinness was in Austria with Gabe when I was 16 and if I remember correctly, we had to rush out of the bar because I threw up on the dance floor. Though it was an experience to laugh about, the second time around was physically more enjoyable. There were three young guys on the stage; one sitting and drumming on a box, another playing an array of Irish flutes, and the last played an acoustic guitar. The bar was only full enough to fill all the tables, and the demographic consisted of families and young adults all just sitting and listening before they got up later to dance. I could have mistaken any of those people for someone from Friends of the Deming Library. The flute playing was amazing and I was just surprised that even on a Wednesday, not only was there live music, but people of all ages were in attendance. At some point throughout the night I caught my first bit of Gaelic from the older people in the room (at which time I realized, though English is most common, I was once again in a country where the locals can talk about me and I won’t understand a word, marvelous).
In and around Galway, we visited a couple tourist sites. We went on a hiking tour of the Burren (Gealic for barren), endless rolling hills of limestone. The young guy who took us around was an archeologist who grew up on the land we trekked so he provided us with a brief history lesson. For instance, their was one stone wall that stretched straight up and over a mountain seemingly providing no purpose; however, he explained that during the Potato Famine, the English had the Irish build the wall in return for soup. The English didn’t want them to build actual infrastructure because then the French would be tempted to take over the Island as a military base to launch attacks on England. In addition to the endless walls of rock, there were many old abbeys that no longer in service, but still stood strong. 
In addition, we visited the enormous Cliffs of Moher, but couldn’t go out to the edge because the winds were so strong, coming from the East and West, that at one moment we couldn’t even walk then instantly we’d get thrust forward and almost fall on our faces. A Japanese tourist stood at the top and played his oboe into the wind while his girlfriend filmed it. The second of many times during my stay in Ireland that I wished I played an instrument. Despite the tourists and the time limit of our bus schedule, it was a very spiritual place. At many points in those three days, whether we were on the bus or walking along the coast, the taunting dark rain clouds blocking the sun would allow just enough room for rays of light to pour out onto the barren landscape (an event that made me realize why so many Irish are Catholic and musical inspiration seems very easy to come by). I don’t know if you could hear me, but I yelled to all of you from what seemed like the closest point to America in Europe. 
Back in Dublin, we spent our days wondering the city and our nights drinking, singing and dancing in the popular Temple Bar District. At Trinity College, Pete and I viewed the most celebrated piece of art from the Dark Ages, the Books of Kells (elaborately decorated Gospels created by Irish monks). It is clear after seeing just one of the pages, which was almost all we saw, why Celtic knots are so revered by people the world over. We also visited Kilmainham Gaol, the historic jail used by the British to imprison and execute many Irish political revolutionists from the late 18th century on. An additional British occupation was in the Temple Bar District where boisterous English tourists fill the streets and Pubs for hen and stag parties. A popular song that I heard numerous times, and contributed to myself, was “Take Me Home Country Roads” by John Denver (even the tradition Irish musicians played it). At 12 pm on Saturday night, I surpassed all legal barriers by turning 21 years old. The nicest part about it was that I didn’t have to pay for anything all night. It was a ‘grand’ initial experience in Ireland; however, when I return, I would like to be there for longer in the summer when everything is green and blooming, rent a car, and be with the people I love who love the Irish. Therefore, please inform me if you have the same intentions.
One day I will play the squeeze box just like that guy (please hold me to it).
Jungfrau Region
After turning in our exams on the first of November, Pete (from Maine), Paul (from Duke), and myself decided to finally get a closer view of the Swiss Alps. So we took a train to Interlaken, extreme sports capital of the world and birthplace of tourism in the 19th century. We arrived at night and checked into a hostel buzzing with numerous groups of American study abroad students from Florence and Madrid signing up for expensive skydiving and yelling as they played flip cup (college drinking game) in the lounge. Though Paul, from Kappa Alpha, took some prodding by, whom he would consider, two mountain hippies, we decided to skip out on the party and wake up at 5:00 am, leave commercial Interlaken behind, and enter the Jungfrau (translated from German by Paul: “young virgin”). According to lonely planet, “If the Berner Oberland is Switzerland’s Alpine heartland, the Jungfrau Region within it is the holiest of holy.” It is pretty much two huge valleys that branch off from Interlaken and connect by a train that loops around the region. Five enormous glacier peaks dominate the entire surrounding boarder leaving any mountain enthusiast speechless. Our goal was to see the sun rise at Jungfraujoch or the “Top of Europe” (11,333ft, highest train station in Europe. We passed through the wispy falls of Lauterbrunnen with fogged windows, zigzagged up steep foothills covered by orange, red, and green pines and cedar.
November brought traces of snow, yet the skies were crystal clear for the entire weekend. We reached Jungfaujoch and stood out on the deck of the Meteorological station with a 360-degree view of what seemed like all of Switzerland (supposedly, on a truly clear day you can see the Black Forest in Germany). We descended to the lower train station and had rosti (Swiss German dish which is pretty much a hardy breakfast served in a skillet) and liters of Rugenbrau (Berner Oberland beer). Because it was the off-season, none of the gondolas were running, which meant that if you hike above the villages, you wouldn’t run into anyone. We took a stroll above Kleine Scheidgg with the face of Eiger staring us down. On the south face of the foothill, we sat in the sun and watch crows dance in the wind, I built a cairn on an outcropping of stone, and Paul napped. It seemed surreal to experience such solitude and tranquility in such a popular destination. However, it almost turned out to be too tranquil because we lost track of time and almost missed the last train. We got off the train at Grindelwald, a small traditional Swiss ski town at the bottom of one of the valleys, bought as many different micro beers as we could find, checked into our hostel and drank at a local hockey match.
Saturday, we woke up, bought food at the Coop, and planned to hike to Bachalpsee Lake from the top of a Gondola (this was before we knew the gondolas had closed). So at 8:00am, we made our ascent from Grindelwald at 3,393 ft to the lake at 8,600 ft. In retrospect, it all turned out for the best even though at the time my body would have preferred an alternative form of transport. We hiked up the narrow mountain roads through farms and groupings of traditional Swiss cottages. 
We passed an old Swiss man sitting on his stoop smoking his pipe. After many changes in scenery, we reached the lake, which reflected Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn like mirror images, and ate our lunches at its shore. On our descent, we passed through a deserted village on the edge of a cliff overlooking Grindelwald far below. By that time, it was starting to get dark and Paul was beginning to make comments such as, “I didn’t know we were leading a National Geographic photography tour.” So I appeased him by initiating extreme descending which consists of racing down the trail and jumping off of things. At 5:00pm, we passed the same old man on his stoop smoking his pipe as we enter Grindelwald and began a desperate search for rosti. It was a far better time to go to the Alps than I expected it would be; clear, warm in the sun, cold in the shade, snow scattered everywhere the light didn’t shine, barely any tourists on the trail, and the autumn leaves covering all the trees. In addition, one week later the weather changed from freezing and windy with snow covering even the foothills behind my house in Prengins. It was a weekend well spent.
I hate to boast; however, the Jungfrau Region was eerily reminiscent of a region many of us are quite familiar with, the North Cascades, a familiarity I would never complain about. I plan on returning to both regions for winter sports very soon.
Back In Switzerland
It has been one month since I returned from France. No surprise to all of you accustomed to my procrastination, I’ve finally come out of hibernation from the quiet Swiss Alps to say hello once again. I could just tell you about the last two journeys I took outside of the Canton of Vaud; however, since I spend so much of my time here I think Nyon, Prengins, and their humble surroundings, I think they deserve some praise. After my return, I had two weeks of school until the ominous INDEPENDENT STUDY PERIOD (I’ll get to that later). This included an anthropological study of Swiss Energy Use and Climate Change Awareness (kind of a joke), two French finals, and a final for the International Studies Seminar. In turn, as you can imagine, my mom had the pleasure of receiving numerous whinny calls that consisted of “I really just don’t want to talk about it” and “thank god I didn’t go to Uganda first.” I should add, the mood swings were and still are just a result of my laziness and in no way reflect restlessness or discontent to the order and predictability of Swiss life (common complaint of many foreigners).
To the contrary, Switzerland and the Swiss are great, kind of the opposite of what I’m used to in San Francisco and even Washington, but still great. I still contend that I got placed with the best family possible. Though I feel like my French hit a plateau about two weeks into the program, my host mom is still as patient and enthusiastic as ever. “Commet dit on…” (how does one say…) is probably the most common phrase out of my mouth. She is unrelenting in the kitchen. I’m not sure which foods I mentioned before, but we’ve had fondue and rocklett (both traditional Swiss, consisting of lots of cheese), horse, deer, escargot, every type of fish, rabbit, Mongolian fondue, and endless other things I’ve forgotten or don’t know what they are in English. In return and to the surprise of everyone, I baked my mom’s chocolate zucchini cake and they all loved it.
In addition, when I came back from Paris, I finally took initiative and asked my host mom to take me to the Prengins soccer fields to ask the coach if I could practice with the team. I was fairly, actually very, intimidated by the thought of training with a bunch of French speaking Europeans when I hadn’t played in a year and can’t speak French, but once she pulled into the parking lot, I had no choice. They practice at 7:30 under the lights on a really nice field, but when we arrived, there was no one there. In all honestly, I was content with the fact that at least I tried, but then about 20 huge guys came running out of the locker room and start practicing. I only had to see them shoot about five times to realize that the hesitation was indeed warranted. My host mom walked up to the coach said a couple of phrases in French and he instantly agreed. Fortunately, they have two teams, the second of which wasn’t practicing that day. I practiced with the second team for about three weeks. The coach was a guy from somewhere in Africa who didn’t speak any English and they all call him Pops. The guys on the team ranged from 20 to 25 years old and they joke around the whole practice. The first day, the coach didn’t even need to introduce me; they all just acted like I had already been playing with them. Most of the guys who didn’t speak English found it very entertaining to have somebody playing with them that didn’t speak French, so they said every word they knew of English at every opportunity. One Italian guy always called me Freddie Adu (youngest US national team player in history). It was really nice just to bullshit with a bunch of locals my own age; it slightly felt like high school soccer practice again. But I should add, even though their number one priority was to have a good time, they played very hard, they were definitely above my skill level, and they constantly said “bon joue” (good play) even if it wasn’t. I’m glad that I finally followed through.
Another note worthy experience was when my family took me to the mountain village of St. Cergue, at the end of September, for the local cow festival. Each of the dairy family farms paraded their dressed up cows from the mountain pastures, down to the village, around a loop, and down to the fields at lower elevation for the winter. The least appealing aspect of the whole thing was dodging the projectile cow feces. Other than that, it was quite the cultural experience. The Swiss truly respect their cattle for the cheese, meat, and milk that they provide; and in turn, they throw a huge festival and cheer has the bells around the cows’ necks signal their approach (the other US students that attended were dumbfounded). There were yodelers and people playing Alphorns. But I thought the elder farmers were the best part. All the heads of the farms were dressed in the same Swiss outfit, with pipe and wooden walking stick in hand. They would wait together at the beginning of the loop for the cows to pass and then stoically stroll behind each pack like Swiss noblemen. It was potentially the most “Swiss” event I’ve witnesses yet.
To the contrary, Switzerland and the Swiss are great, kind of the opposite of what I’m used to in San Francisco and even Washington, but still great. I still contend that I got placed with the best family possible. Though I feel like my French hit a plateau about two weeks into the program, my host mom is still as patient and enthusiastic as ever. “Commet dit on…” (how does one say…) is probably the most common phrase out of my mouth. She is unrelenting in the kitchen. I’m not sure which foods I mentioned before, but we’ve had fondue and rocklett (both traditional Swiss, consisting of lots of cheese), horse, deer, escargot, every type of fish, rabbit, Mongolian fondue, and endless other things I’ve forgotten or don’t know what they are in English. In return and to the surprise of everyone, I baked my mom’s chocolate zucchini cake and they all loved it.
In addition, when I came back from Paris, I finally took initiative and asked my host mom to take me to the Prengins soccer fields to ask the coach if I could practice with the team. I was fairly, actually very, intimidated by the thought of training with a bunch of French speaking Europeans when I hadn’t played in a year and can’t speak French, but once she pulled into the parking lot, I had no choice. They practice at 7:30 under the lights on a really nice field, but when we arrived, there was no one there. In all honestly, I was content with the fact that at least I tried, but then about 20 huge guys came running out of the locker room and start practicing. I only had to see them shoot about five times to realize that the hesitation was indeed warranted. My host mom walked up to the coach said a couple of phrases in French and he instantly agreed. Fortunately, they have two teams, the second of which wasn’t practicing that day. I practiced with the second team for about three weeks. The coach was a guy from somewhere in Africa who didn’t speak any English and they all call him Pops. The guys on the team ranged from 20 to 25 years old and they joke around the whole practice. The first day, the coach didn’t even need to introduce me; they all just acted like I had already been playing with them. Most of the guys who didn’t speak English found it very entertaining to have somebody playing with them that didn’t speak French, so they said every word they knew of English at every opportunity. One Italian guy always called me Freddie Adu (youngest US national team player in history). It was really nice just to bullshit with a bunch of locals my own age; it slightly felt like high school soccer practice again. But I should add, even though their number one priority was to have a good time, they played very hard, they were definitely above my skill level, and they constantly said “bon joue” (good play) even if it wasn’t. I’m glad that I finally followed through.
Another note worthy experience was when my family took me to the mountain village of St. Cergue, at the end of September, for the local cow festival. Each of the dairy family farms paraded their dressed up cows from the mountain pastures, down to the village, around a loop, and down to the fields at lower elevation for the winter. The least appealing aspect of the whole thing was dodging the projectile cow feces. Other than that, it was quite the cultural experience. The Swiss truly respect their cattle for the cheese, meat, and milk that they provide; and in turn, they throw a huge festival and cheer has the bells around the cows’ necks signal their approach (the other US students that attended were dumbfounded). There were yodelers and people playing Alphorns. But I thought the elder farmers were the best part. All the heads of the farms were dressed in the same Swiss outfit, with pipe and wooden walking stick in hand. They would wait together at the beginning of the loop for the cows to pass and then stoically stroll behind each pack like Swiss noblemen. It was potentially the most “Swiss” event I’ve witnesses yet.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Brussels and Paris
This past week, my group and I traveled to two French speaking cities; the capital of Europe (more specifically the EU), Brussels, and the capital of French culture, Paris. During our three days in Brussels, we visited the EU headquarters and the University of Brussels where we had four lectures on the future of the European neighborhood. One of the most common complaints about the EU is that it lacks transparency. Since I was more confused about its structure after the lectures than before, I would have to second that complaint. Otherwise, Brussels was a little wet and foggy, but I didn’t mind it because for some reason that is what I imagined; slightly mysterious, medieval, and very Diagon Alley (Harry Potter). Highlights: the waffles really are better in Belgium and I ate a pot of Belgium’s signature muscles, which were not too bad. 
However, the most captivating feature of Belgium was the beer*. While in a souvenir shop when we arrived, Chris (human encyclopedia from Kansas, future presidential advisor, and my life preserver in the sea of estrogen that is our group) informed me that Belgium either produces the most different types or simply the most beer of any country in the world (can’t remember which it was at the moment). In addition, somehow (maybe subsidies, probably tourism) small local brewers are still flourishing despite stiff competition from the large Belgium beer companies such as Stella. That was all I needed to hear. At that moment, we embarked on a quest to try as many brands as possible. This decision turned out to be a double-edged sword because Belgium beer is stronger than normal with upwards to 12% alcohol volume. Though we were getting our money’s worth, we had to pace ourselves twice as much as in Munich. However, I can officially say I’ve tried some of the best tasting beer Europe has to offer.
When we arrived in Paris, the clouds parted and the sun produced 5 beautiful autumn days. Due to the fact that Paris is probably the most cliché city to visit, it never ranked high on my priority list. For those of you who have yet to visit it, I will only contribute to the hype with this one short historical tale Chris, who is also a history textbook, told me about as we walked through the streets. When it became clear that the allied forces would take back Paris from the Nazis, Hitler ordered his top commander to demolish the city before they pulled out. Fortunately, that commander stalled long enough to fail his mission. He later said that he disobeyed his leader because he didn’t want to go down in history as the man who destroyed Paris, arguably the most magnificent city in the world. Therefore, if it could stop a Nazi….
I visited all the places you would expect such as le Tour Eiffel, Musée du Louvre, and Notre Dame. Every place I went was stunning; however, my favorite part of city was le Place du Sacre Coeur. It is a park with a huge cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. 
The cathedral was built in this location because directly below is the red-light district with Moulin Rouge; therefore, the Catholic Church must have thought that the sinners would come go there to get saved, but I’m not sure if that quite panned out. I took the metro by myself one afternoon and when I got to the top the sun broke through the clouds and shined right on the Cathedral. The people sitting on the hill watching the street performers juggle reminded me of San Francisco, a pleasant reminder. 
On the last night in Paris, France beat New Zealand, the number one seed, in the last few minutes of a Rugby World Cup quarterfinal match(which is in France this year), so the city was going kind of nuts to say the least. In addition, Paris was celebrating le Noir Blanc (White Night), an all night art festival/party in which huge free art installations, with light as the subject, were dispersed throughout the city at places like the park in front of le Tour Eiffel. We went to les Jardin des Tuilaries, next to du Louvre, where there were many huge metal structures covered with burning torches in clay pots. It was a very surreal experience and a perfect way to end our tour of Francophone cities. Once again, I miss each of you and hope to hear how you are doing at some point soon.
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
*Since a lot of my posts have been about beer, I would like to note that I always drink responsibly and drinking usually goes hand in hand with cultural immersion (i.e. Oktoberfest, wine at dinner). Therefore, please (Mom, Coco, Rachel, Lalani) don’t worry about my health or wellbeing (just my bank account).
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Bern and Munich
Last week, my group and I went to the capital of Switzerland, Bern, where they speak German like majority of Switzerland. Not to say that Geneva is not a beautiful European city, but Bern is more of what one might expect of a European city with bustling market venders, cobblestone streets, a skyline dominated by cathedrals, and a zigzagging river defining the old town’s border. It is definitely quieter and the postcards of the city at night in winter make me want to return when it snows. We had a briefing at the Swiss National Defense Department and learned about Swiss neutrality (let’s just say they have it pretty good), after which time the generals took us out for drinks.
The day after we returned to Nyon, a few girls and I took a train to Munich, Germany, for the opening day of OKTOBERFEST! On the train, we met a 22-year-old local, Damien, who was returning home to attend the event for the 7th time as a drinker and he let us know everything foreigners don’t know about Oktoberfest (information I wouldn’t have received if I wasn’t traveling with 4 American girls). The next day, I ended up meeting him at 6 am (6 hours before the start of the festival) by myself because the girls were too impatient to wait for him, and we went to the oldest “tent” (1 of 16 temporary beer halls the size of soccer fields). We luckily got into the tent; however, the girls didn’t because the other door they were crammed in front of stopped letting people in because it broke due to the mob that was attempting to push through to grab one of the limited seats available inside. I didn’t meet up with them again for 9 hours when the tent doors finally opened again to let more people in. Though I did feel kind of bad that they didn’t get in, being the lone foreigner with Damien and all of his friends (all 18-24, speak English, and were astonishingly nice) made for likely the most authentic experience anyone could ever hope for at Oktoberfest. 
Being the oldest tent, it is where the mayor of Munich and the prime minister of Bavaria tap the first barrel of beer of the festival (everyone booed when the prime minister was announced as if he was George W. himself, you’ve got to love the honesty of the laymen). Furthermore, because this tent happened to be the hardest to get into on the first day (especially if you didn’t know to show up at 6), the demographic was pretty much 3,499 to one/locals to foreigner, no one leaves because they know they can’t get back in, and everyone was dressed in lederhosen and St. Polly girl outfits (slight exaggeration, but generally true). We drank, ate, sang, and danced at the same table from 9 am until the tent closed at 10:30. Some things I learned, “It’s not how much you drunk, but how thirsty you are,” some people think Oktoberfest is about only about beer, and I LOVE BAVARIANS. I would willingly go into more detail, but I’d prefer to elaborate when I return home (just remember to ask me how was Oktoberfest?).
Once again, I miss all of you and if you ever decide to make a trip to Oktoberfest, count me in (I’m already planning on taking my future son when he turns 16).
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
The day after we returned to Nyon, a few girls and I took a train to Munich, Germany, for the opening day of OKTOBERFEST! On the train, we met a 22-year-old local, Damien, who was returning home to attend the event for the 7th time as a drinker and he let us know everything foreigners don’t know about Oktoberfest (information I wouldn’t have received if I wasn’t traveling with 4 American girls). The next day, I ended up meeting him at 6 am (6 hours before the start of the festival) by myself because the girls were too impatient to wait for him, and we went to the oldest “tent” (1 of 16 temporary beer halls the size of soccer fields). We luckily got into the tent; however, the girls didn’t because the other door they were crammed in front of stopped letting people in because it broke due to the mob that was attempting to push through to grab one of the limited seats available inside. I didn’t meet up with them again for 9 hours when the tent doors finally opened again to let more people in. Though I did feel kind of bad that they didn’t get in, being the lone foreigner with Damien and all of his friends (all 18-24, speak English, and were astonishingly nice) made for likely the most authentic experience anyone could ever hope for at Oktoberfest. 
Being the oldest tent, it is where the mayor of Munich and the prime minister of Bavaria tap the first barrel of beer of the festival (everyone booed when the prime minister was announced as if he was George W. himself, you’ve got to love the honesty of the laymen). Furthermore, because this tent happened to be the hardest to get into on the first day (especially if you didn’t know to show up at 6), the demographic was pretty much 3,499 to one/locals to foreigner, no one leaves because they know they can’t get back in, and everyone was dressed in lederhosen and St. Polly girl outfits (slight exaggeration, but generally true). We drank, ate, sang, and danced at the same table from 9 am until the tent closed at 10:30. Some things I learned, “It’s not how much you drunk, but how thirsty you are,” some people think Oktoberfest is about only about beer, and I LOVE BAVARIANS. I would willingly go into more detail, but I’d prefer to elaborate when I return home (just remember to ask me how was Oktoberfest?). Once again, I miss all of you and if you ever decide to make a trip to Oktoberfest, count me in (I’m already planning on taking my future son when he turns 16).
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Switzerland
WARNING! This is an unnecessarily long post; therefore, if you don’t have time to read a novel, you might want to come back later.
I have been in Switzerland for a little more than two weeks. When I arrived in Geneva with 45 strangers (38 of which are girls), it was pouring down rain (POURING) and I was a little unsure that I made the right decision. It didn’t help that I had amazing farewells from both my friends in Washington and California. I was fortunate enough to spend my last weekend in the Pacific Northwest with five of my favorite people and our favorite band (Flogging Molly) at the Gorge, in George. In addition, I went to San Francisco and was reminded why it would take a colossus natural disaster to stop me from returning in a year (I mention both these instances because my experiences with all of those people are equally, if not more, deserving of a blog).
Anyway, after a couple days of rain, August concluded, the sun came out, and I was feeling jet lag free. Geneva is a beautiful city, very clean and organized. There are a lot of banks, watches, chocolate, and to my surprise, swans. Swans being such a regal looking bird, I figure the Swiss just imported them and put them on the lake to add to the majestic setting. Can’t complain about the people though, I’ve butchered the French language in everyway possibly and I’ve yet to receive any “stupid American” comments. From our youth hostel, a couple of kids from the two groups and myself went out into Geneva to experience the nightlife and take advantage of the fact that we can all legally drink for the first time. 
The first couple nights were fairly uneventful; however, Friday, our last night in Geneva before our home stay, we met a lot of other students studying in Geneva, we went to a Swiss Brewery and shared a 5 L tap (like a small keg that they put on your table), and went to an outdoor discotech (including a DJ accompanied by African Bongo players) that was situated on an island between the two banks of the Rhone River. Any doubt I still had that Geneva didn’t offer things for young people was shattered. It was nice to spend our first days in Geneva with the other group and make friends with some of them because after orientation we don’t take part in any of the same activities.
On Saturday morning, September 1st, we drove on a bus north along Lake Geneva for about 20 minutes and arrived in a small city named Nyon. We unloaded the bus and went into a hotel where both groups sat nervously in the conference room. Before we arrived, I thought it would be funny to scare every cramming (like they hadn’t studied for their French exam) by telling them about how, “when I went on the high school version of SIT in Costa Rica, we entered a community center in our village and all the families were sitting around in a huge circle waiting for us. 
Then, they made us stand in a line called our names one by one like we were getting auctioned, during which time I was only thinking how awkward it would be when my family tried to speak to me in Spanish and I simply responded with hola.” Fortunately, SIT organized it so that we showed up first and the families second. Joking about the upcoming moment of truth made the whole thing more comical than nerve racking. I even took pictures of everyone waiting nervously so they can be reminded of how they felt, further down road.
So Anita (mom), Damien (brother, 12 years), and Coralie (sister, 6 years), showed up after about half the families. Anita walked in and looked at me with a confused look (I must not look the same as my picture). Once I realized she didn’t recognize me, I took off my head-band, smiled, nodded my head, and mouthed “oui.” The first couple minutes were interesting, but once she realized I didn’t really speak French, we spoke in English. We then drove to the edge of the lake in Nyon and picked up Virginie (sister, 8 years).
There were tons of people at the lake because it was “Jour Desportes” or day of sports in all of Nyon so all athletic activities in the city were free. One of the things they had at the lake was a huge tank (human fish bowl in which the three kids and Anita had all received free “scuba” lessons earlier that day). Next thing I know, I was breathing underwater, it was a fairly surreal experience.
Later that day, we went to their house located on the edge of the Village de Prengin (5 minute drive from Nyon, pretty much the sweetest town with a castle and really nice old houses). Their house (duplex) is a lot bigger than I thought it would be (three floors with a basement and wine cellar, packed with wine I might add) and I have my own comfortable room. There I met Jean-Pierre (dad), and we had a big lunch (main meal of the day on weekends when everyone is home). That night I went to the annual village party (couldn’t have arrived on a more eventful day). There was a huge tent with long wooden tables. They had a band, traditional Swiss cuisine (veal sausage and rocklette, which consists of a cheese wheel and a special melting machine that evidently every swiss family owns, kind of hard to explain), local wine and Swiss bear. Even though I couldn’t have really long conversations with many of the people I was introduced to, it was a lot of fun, I drank and laughed and by the end felt like I had been initiated into the community. I saw one of the other guys who lives in my town with his host sister and we met up and walked to a pub in Nyon (gives you an idea of how close the city is) with her friend who is Irish. They are 16 and 17 and both speak English perfectly. It was definitely the best day thus far in Switzerland and probably the most eventful experience with a host family on the first day of any of the kids in the group (every kid in the group lives in different house across the canton (county)).
Meeting my family and finding out where I would be living for the next 14 weeks was the last thing to be revealed and I couldn’t be happier with the outcome. My host mom is amazing. She says everything in French, then repeats in slower French, and then if I still don’t understand, she repeats in English and during the whole process she is smiling. She said her main goal is to make me fatter and fluent. I’ve had a different type of meat every night, including deer, escargot (snail), and horse. Most Swiss French meals also include lots of bread, cheese, and chocolate if you desire (fondue is also a big thing). I had wine with dinner for the first couple nights until I realized that the reason why I could never do my millions of pages of reading was because the wine was making me fall asleep (now, wine on weekends only). 
The kids are the cutest kids in the world. I unintentionally taught my host mom chores, so now it is my chore to read a French bedtime story to the girls (which really means that I try to read and Virginie corrects my pronunciation on every other word. Damien is a very creative kid, I hope I am a good role model for him. Jean-Pierre speaks the best English of the family and after dinner, the parents and I usually sit and talk for a while. He drives planes as a hobby and he said he would take me in the Cessna someday.
I am free to come and go when I please and they gave me a bike and a lock so I sometimes ride to Nyon at night and have a drink with kids from the group at the Pubs. Currently, the Rugby World Cup is playing so all the rugby players go to the pubs and watch the matches. It’s a good cultural experience, but sometime the pubs are too packed and I have to watch where I stand because there are televisions on every wall and they are not happy when they can’t see.
Every morning I wake up at 7, and take the bus to the train station in Nyon. I meet up with all the kids from my group in Geneva at the SIT office. I’ve already learned a lot. We had a lecture from the number one expert on the UN earlier this week and that was a humbling experience. Part of his lecture included the most articulate Bush bashing I’ve ever heard. I think some people took it a little personal. We also went to the Red Cross and had really good lectures on International Humanitarian Law. And we also went to the UN and received our official badges that give us access to the UN fortress (library included, which means that I can now say “Yeah, I worked in the UN… caughcaughLibrary.” In general, I don’t have much access to the internet here in Europe, which is going to take some getting used to academically. Since nothing is open on weekends and everything closes at five, I am going to have to do something about my little procrastination problem (especially because I already have a 10 page paper due in a week). As for French, sometimes it can get exhausting but it’s coming.
As for the rest of my activities, life has been fairly simple so far. I’m sure those of you from Washington will recognize the similar climate and landscape in the pictures. Many things are similar in that respect. I went on a hike in the hills behind Nyon and it was epic (I’m looking forward to getting a closer view of the Alps soon). My host mom called the Nyon soccer team and asked if I could train with them and they said I just had to go and talk to them some day (we’ll see about that). I think it will be a good way to meet more locals and practice French.
This was an abnormally long post, so if I bore you, I apologize. And if you (Suzanne and Coco) found it riveting, enjoy it because it will be the only one of its kind. I would love to keep you all informed with my life as much as possible in the upcoming year since you all mean a lot to me and I won’t get many opportunities to speak with you; however, I usually fail when it comes to developing habits (like posting on a blog regularly), but you can always hope for a miracle. If I were you I wouldn’t check for a post ever day but I would check every two weeks.
Therefore, I miss and love you all deeply and I hope to hear about your lives in some form or another, you can either:
- post a comment on this BLOG
- e-mail me: jlucy@usfca.edu
- or call me on my new cell number: 011 (to call inter.) 041 076 240 7229
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
I have been in Switzerland for a little more than two weeks. When I arrived in Geneva with 45 strangers (38 of which are girls), it was pouring down rain (POURING) and I was a little unsure that I made the right decision. It didn’t help that I had amazing farewells from both my friends in Washington and California. I was fortunate enough to spend my last weekend in the Pacific Northwest with five of my favorite people and our favorite band (Flogging Molly) at the Gorge, in George. In addition, I went to San Francisco and was reminded why it would take a colossus natural disaster to stop me from returning in a year (I mention both these instances because my experiences with all of those people are equally, if not more, deserving of a blog). 
Anyway, after a couple days of rain, August concluded, the sun came out, and I was feeling jet lag free. Geneva is a beautiful city, very clean and organized. There are a lot of banks, watches, chocolate, and to my surprise, swans. Swans being such a regal looking bird, I figure the Swiss just imported them and put them on the lake to add to the majestic setting. Can’t complain about the people though, I’ve butchered the French language in everyway possibly and I’ve yet to receive any “stupid American” comments. From our youth hostel, a couple of kids from the two groups and myself went out into Geneva to experience the nightlife and take advantage of the fact that we can all legally drink for the first time. 
The first couple nights were fairly uneventful; however, Friday, our last night in Geneva before our home stay, we met a lot of other students studying in Geneva, we went to a Swiss Brewery and shared a 5 L tap (like a small keg that they put on your table), and went to an outdoor discotech (including a DJ accompanied by African Bongo players) that was situated on an island between the two banks of the Rhone River. Any doubt I still had that Geneva didn’t offer things for young people was shattered. It was nice to spend our first days in Geneva with the other group and make friends with some of them because after orientation we don’t take part in any of the same activities. 
On Saturday morning, September 1st, we drove on a bus north along Lake Geneva for about 20 minutes and arrived in a small city named Nyon. We unloaded the bus and went into a hotel where both groups sat nervously in the conference room. Before we arrived, I thought it would be funny to scare every cramming (like they hadn’t studied for their French exam) by telling them about how, “when I went on the high school version of SIT in Costa Rica, we entered a community center in our village and all the families were sitting around in a huge circle waiting for us. 
Then, they made us stand in a line called our names one by one like we were getting auctioned, during which time I was only thinking how awkward it would be when my family tried to speak to me in Spanish and I simply responded with hola.” Fortunately, SIT organized it so that we showed up first and the families second. Joking about the upcoming moment of truth made the whole thing more comical than nerve racking. I even took pictures of everyone waiting nervously so they can be reminded of how they felt, further down road.So Anita (mom), Damien (brother, 12 years), and Coralie (sister, 6 years), showed up after about half the families. Anita walked in and looked at me with a confused look (I must not look the same as my picture). Once I realized she didn’t recognize me, I took off my head-band, smiled, nodded my head, and mouthed “oui.” The first couple minutes were interesting, but once she realized I didn’t really speak French, we spoke in English. We then drove to the edge of the lake in Nyon and picked up Virginie (sister, 8 years).
There were tons of people at the lake because it was “Jour Desportes” or day of sports in all of Nyon so all athletic activities in the city were free. One of the things they had at the lake was a huge tank (human fish bowl in which the three kids and Anita had all received free “scuba” lessons earlier that day). Next thing I know, I was breathing underwater, it was a fairly surreal experience.Later that day, we went to their house located on the edge of the Village de Prengin (5 minute drive from Nyon, pretty much the sweetest town with a castle and really nice old houses). Their house (duplex) is a lot bigger than I thought it would be (three floors with a basement and wine cellar, packed with wine I might add) and I have my own comfortable room. There I met Jean-Pierre (dad), and we had a big lunch (main meal of the day on weekends when everyone is home). That night I went to the annual village party (couldn’t have arrived on a more eventful day). There was a huge tent with long wooden tables. They had a band, traditional Swiss cuisine (veal sausage and rocklette, which consists of a cheese wheel and a special melting machine that evidently every swiss family owns, kind of hard to explain), local wine and Swiss bear. Even though I couldn’t have really long conversations with many of the people I was introduced to, it was a lot of fun, I drank and laughed and by the end felt like I had been initiated into the community. I saw one of the other guys who lives in my town with his host sister and we met up and walked to a pub in Nyon (gives you an idea of how close the city is) with her friend who is Irish. They are 16 and 17 and both speak English perfectly. It was definitely the best day thus far in Switzerland and probably the most eventful experience with a host family on the first day of any of the kids in the group (every kid in the group lives in different house across the canton (county)).
Meeting my family and finding out where I would be living for the next 14 weeks was the last thing to be revealed and I couldn’t be happier with the outcome. My host mom is amazing. She says everything in French, then repeats in slower French, and then if I still don’t understand, she repeats in English and during the whole process she is smiling. She said her main goal is to make me fatter and fluent. I’ve had a different type of meat every night, including deer, escargot (snail), and horse. Most Swiss French meals also include lots of bread, cheese, and chocolate if you desire (fondue is also a big thing). I had wine with dinner for the first couple nights until I realized that the reason why I could never do my millions of pages of reading was because the wine was making me fall asleep (now, wine on weekends only). 
The kids are the cutest kids in the world. I unintentionally taught my host mom chores, so now it is my chore to read a French bedtime story to the girls (which really means that I try to read and Virginie corrects my pronunciation on every other word. Damien is a very creative kid, I hope I am a good role model for him. Jean-Pierre speaks the best English of the family and after dinner, the parents and I usually sit and talk for a while. He drives planes as a hobby and he said he would take me in the Cessna someday. I am free to come and go when I please and they gave me a bike and a lock so I sometimes ride to Nyon at night and have a drink with kids from the group at the Pubs. Currently, the Rugby World Cup is playing so all the rugby players go to the pubs and watch the matches. It’s a good cultural experience, but sometime the pubs are too packed and I have to watch where I stand because there are televisions on every wall and they are not happy when they can’t see.
Every morning I wake up at 7, and take the bus to the train station in Nyon. I meet up with all the kids from my group in Geneva at the SIT office. I’ve already learned a lot. We had a lecture from the number one expert on the UN earlier this week and that was a humbling experience. Part of his lecture included the most articulate Bush bashing I’ve ever heard. I think some people took it a little personal. We also went to the Red Cross and had really good lectures on International Humanitarian Law. And we also went to the UN and received our official badges that give us access to the UN fortress (library included, which means that I can now say “Yeah, I worked in the UN… caughcaughLibrary.” In general, I don’t have much access to the internet here in Europe, which is going to take some getting used to academically. Since nothing is open on weekends and everything closes at five, I am going to have to do something about my little procrastination problem (especially because I already have a 10 page paper due in a week). As for French, sometimes it can get exhausting but it’s coming.
As for the rest of my activities, life has been fairly simple so far. I’m sure those of you from Washington will recognize the similar climate and landscape in the pictures. Many things are similar in that respect. I went on a hike in the hills behind Nyon and it was epic (I’m looking forward to getting a closer view of the Alps soon). My host mom called the Nyon soccer team and asked if I could train with them and they said I just had to go and talk to them some day (we’ll see about that). I think it will be a good way to meet more locals and practice French. This was an abnormally long post, so if I bore you, I apologize. And if you (Suzanne and Coco) found it riveting, enjoy it because it will be the only one of its kind. I would love to keep you all informed with my life as much as possible in the upcoming year since you all mean a lot to me and I won’t get many opportunities to speak with you; however, I usually fail when it comes to developing habits (like posting on a blog regularly), but you can always hope for a miracle. If I were you I wouldn’t check for a post ever day but I would check every two weeks.
Therefore, I miss and love you all deeply and I hope to hear about your lives in some form or another, you can either:
- post a comment on this BLOG
- e-mail me: jlucy@usfca.edu
- or call me on my new cell number: 011 (to call inter.) 041 076 240 7229
Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,
Max
Introduction
Bonjour ma famille et mes amies! I’m sure none of you thought you’d hear from me for a while, let alone find out that I started a BLOG (me neither). Well, one of the many girls in the two SIT (School for International Training) groups here in Geneva, Switzerland, was telling me about how she started a blog while backpacking through Europe before the semester and all of her friends and family go on and comment and ask about different parts of her adventure. Since she seems fairly centered and free of any myspace or facebook addictions, I concluded that the blog world might just be safe enough to enter. This blog is named “Les Aventures de Maxmax” after the famous Tintin comic series (kind of corny). My home stay mom, Anita, thought that reading some of their many Tintin comics would be a fun way to practice my French. Unfortunately, at the moment, even a children’s comic seems to be too difficult for me. My intentions for creating this blog, if you can’t guess, is to keep all of you informed as to what I’m up to/let you know I’m alive during my next year I’m abroad in Switzerland, Uganda, and potentially much more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)