Homestay Living

Glow stick party on my last night!

This short and sweet post about homestay is long overdue considering I’ve already sworn in as an official PCV and I’ve been at site for almost a month already. I’ve wanted to talk about my experiences with my Homestay family. Heading from FSV to the language training satellite in Mityana (a trip that should have only taken about four hours…this time it took seven). It was my first time taking public transit completely on my own. I spent the entire ride clutching my two bags, one of which was slashed. Thankfully nothing was missing. I listened to the locals casually talking throughout the ride, occasionally hearing the word Muzungu* thrown in the mix, knowing they were talking about me somehow. I found myself thinking that I couldn’t wait to begin learning the language so I could figure out some of what was being said. Mostly it isn’t being said in a hostile way, they are truly just curious about our culture, much like we are curious about theirs.

Finally I arrived in Mityana, but unfortunately the taxi driver and everyone in the taxi had no clue where my destination was, so they dropped me on the side of the road and I began to walk. I was already an hour late, stressed, dripping in sweat, and carrying two heavy bags, one of which was ripped in half. After about forty five minutes and multiple stops to ask for directions, I made it to the school. Luckily I was the fourth of ten that would be meeting there for language training. I waited for my host family to arrive to pick me up and head home. My host mother and I signed our agreement “contract” and went on our way after tea and simosas. Their home would be considered lower middle class in Uganda. They had a gate, a guard dog named Scott who was very mean, and electricity. They gave me my own room complete with a bathing area attached to my room. My host mom runs her own duka selling clothing and soft drinks. Her husband works as a mechanic in Kampala and was only around once or twice a week, leaving her to care for four biological children plus a nephew. My youngest host sibling is four years old, Carven, then theirs Duncan who is six, Mark who is 10, Leticia who is 13 and Saldi who is also 13. All of them, including my host mother, were very quiet. I guess this was a good match for me because I am also fairly quiet, but it lead me to occasional thoughts that they did not like me or I was burdening them in some way by adding too much work. They are used to eating dinner at ten oclock at night, and they were feeding me (or trying to) by 7:30; most nights I ate around 8:30 or 9:00. I was fed enough food for an entire Army most nights. This lasted until the last week of my stay when they finally understood that Americans don’t eat as much as they do. Most nights I didn’t mind because my host mom was a GREAT cook. Needless to say, she made me pack on a few pounds.

My favorite moments of homestay came towards the end. My host brothers always asked to watch movies on my computer, but one night Leticia asked if I could teach her how to type. I was so excited I couldn’t even hold back jumping for joy. She typed with one finger, but managed to write a story in a couple of hours about a boy named Joseph who was having a bad day. I then taught her how to attach pictures and save it to the computer. Can’t wait to go back and visit to have her finish her story! Along with Leticia dying to learn about how we do things at home, my other favorite moment came when my host mother surprised me by giving my my tribe name. She had me invite our whole language group over with our trainers, she cooked too much food as usual, had a professional photographer come over, and at the end of dinner stood up to give a speech. She began by telling everyone that it’s tradition in the Buganda kingdom to have the whole family over when first giving a child their name. She presented me as Namuli, which is from the monkey clan and means flower, or “a very good thing”. From then on she has called me her sister and I knew then how much I meant to them and vice versa. We had many discussions about differences and similarities between Uganda and America, lots about cooking, and even more about what they'd like to see happen in their government concerning corruption. My stay with the Sebwatto family was more than I could have asked for and I look forward to visiting them again in the new future. Leaving them was sad, but I was ready to move forward in this crazy journey of mine. I'm so thankful for how much I learned from this beautiful family about Uganda and their cultures that make them so unique. 

I am now moved into my site and slowly getting stuff to make it feel more like a home! School has been in session for almost three weeks and I am slowly building rapport with the other teachers and pupils. I look forward to what the next two years have in store for me. Though I know their will be highs and lows, the amount I learn about myself and this whole other world will be more than worth it. With the endless love and support from my family and friends back home, I can do anything.

*Muzungu is what all Ugandans, including babies that are just barely talking, call white people. Some people on PC staff have told me it translates as “aimless wanderer”, but the Ugandans I talk to about it say it simply means “white”. I hear this name called out to me at least five times a day, whether I am in town or at my site. Some people may think it’s not a big deal, but when you hear it over and over again, it can become exhausting. Small children will yell it over and over again as you walk by until they can no longer see you (even if you’ve already greeted them). Needless to say, it makes you feel like even more of an outsider and someone who isn’t respected for what you’ve accomplished thus far in life and what you hope to do in their country. As if the constant starring wasn’t bad enough, you also get a label as soon as you arrive in country. If you couldn’t tell, I strongly dislike being called this, and correct people multiple times a day by introducing myself and what I’m about. After this they seem to understand, and those who I see often use my real name. All of the pupils at my school know to call me Teacher Olivia, they’ve heard what I do in the states, what I studied, and what I am doing at their school. Now, if they have friends from other villages visiting who call “Muzungu! Muzungu!” out to me, the friends are smacked and told to call me by my real name. It’s nice to see that beginning to happen as the pupils get used to having me at their school every day.