4 U R A QT mUZUnGU

Texts and Facebook messages from Ugandans are a challenge to decipher. At first I thought it was just typos, but it’s typos, mixed with purposefully abbreviated shorthand, thanks to texting on old ABC keypad phones, as well as writing words as they audibly might be written, (you know, that weird hieroglyphic-looking second word in a dictionary that tries to sound things out for us special people that don’t know how to pronounce words upon first reading them.) So that, mixed with the tonal sound if you spoke with a particular british-cum-jamaican accent, then mix in a little Luganda, and some other stuff that just doesn’t make any sense. 

I find myself reading these various Facebook messages or texts and I have to seriously sound them out like a first-grader, or re-read it four times to be sure I completely understand the meaning. For example, “dia” is “dear.” Work with that, people.  And “dia” is just a sweet thing that anyone may call you, even your boda driver if he thinks you’re special.

Speaking of boda drivers that think bazungu are special—I believe I went on an accidental boda date last Monday night after yoga; as I accidentally pocket-dialed one while walking home, then he insisted upon picking me up to drive me the remaining mile, re-routing us for the long, scenic route, and driving extra slow—talking the whole way, finally telling me how much he likes me, and that I'm different than the other white people he drives around in order to take their money.  He called to check on me again yesterday.... 

But I digress.

Because cellphones are so expensive to use, Facebook messages are often applied as an alternative, since they can be accessed free through many plans. It's a more popular way to regularly communicate, rather than wasting thousands of shillings on millions of text messages or lengthy calls. You can tell how popular Facebook here by walking around my office at regular intervals throughout the day and seeing how many computers have a dark blue bar along the top of the screen...

Some of my favorites so far, and (lil disclaimer) these are not from the same person: 

(also, I think these count as brain puzzles for those of you trying to combat alzheimers) 

"Ok its nice but I 've some simple qtn to ask (I 've got some different fillings dat I don't like to spend a day without seeing u, talking to u, shaking, laughing 'n almost everything is becoming hard on side, pse consider my fillings."

"its ok, the most pro" I had was only talking to you you know I have much wises and hope in you" 

"Yes listen to what I fill 'n what I want. I will not even shave off my hair till u will say yes to my inner fillings" (very dramatic, I know) 

"My dear tell me, will it be bad if I become yo friend in need and I also become yo friend indeed ?"             (a bit of Dr. Suess never hurt anyone!)

"Plz yo quit i miss u, can u plz send mi yo contact holly swt."  

"i cant blv am in club bt misin u 4 real and am nt ready 2 cal it lve while i hvnt knwn u deeply" 

"Do u knw dat u calld me wen am tokin 2 de bodalist! Ad i cant blv u had 2 change yo mind bt y? 

"Oky wareva u say am cool though i feel differ on u!"  

"yap, may the angels of God carry you through this night and wake nicely with a smiling face."

"I will send for you a crooning bird in the morning to say to good morning in ma name.
kale nawe bwotyo"  (quite poetic!)

(And here's a wonderful example of a cultural misunderstanding) 

me: so what do you want to do on Saturday?
him: having u on my chest!
me: is that some freaky sex talk?
him: as in hw? am talking abt jst holding u! wasap with u?
me: hahaha cultural misunderstandings im supposed. good, bc I was about to cut you off! leaving the office, talk to ya in a bit...
him: r u eva narrow in yo skul like dat? bt wen wil u eva blv that i real hv acrush on u mis?

Oh dia. I don't know whether to be flattered or running for the virungas screaming...

No half-steppin

Ok, start reading this post by opening this song for some “entry theme music.” I tried to find a link to this other Ugandan song that I cannot get out of my head. Ever. But it's not on the Internetz.  However, this one is another moderately addictive goodie to really put you in the Ugandan moment.

Now… onto dating. Uganda-style. Or something like it. 

My first date happened like this.

I met this guy at DePosh, which is a place that is about as classy as it’s name. Envision first a huge tree in the front entry, in the middle of a tiled open area with plastic chairs and metal tables. On this tree are hanging strobe light things that would hypnotize into stupidity anyone on mushrooms. You pass below the crazy tree light spectacle and enter a world of “twisting” bodies, a fair amount of body odor, and “local girls,” which is a nicer way to refer to prostitutes.  DePosh is in Kabalagala, a neighborhood of Kampala where the first Ugandan pub opened many years ago, and the whole nightlife scene originated thereafter. Kabalagala is fairly run-down, which gives it personality, and it's now more like the red-light district of Uganda. You should also be fairly sure that you will be pick-pocketed if you’re a muzungu, or carrying your money anywhere other than shoved into your underwear (even then, I’m not sure it’s safe—I’ve heard stories of girls whose bras were stolen from under their shirts without their knowledge. Personally I think it’s an urban-underwear-myth.)  Anyway, DePosh gets crazy-crowded, and you will probably be groped at some point, by either and both sexes, and people start tripping all over themselves anytime around 3am and if you stay ‘til 6, things really get interesting, or sad, depending on the night.

Update: a picture of the crazy tree! taken super high-quality-drive-by-iPhone-out-of-car-style:

So by “met,” I mean, two guys grabbed my arms as I was leaving the DePosh bathroom a few weeks ago and encircled me—then one shooed off his two friends who had helped corral me like some filly, and we started talking. He had the unfortunate name of Shon. If you know me, you know why this is an unfortunate name for a Ugandan boy that is hitting on me to have. I thought it was slightly ironically hilarious, however, (I’m sure the 4+ beers helped.) He seemed relatively normal and attractive (again, I’m sure the 4+ beers helped,) and I gave him my number. We chatted a bit, then I returned to the group I was with.

Two days later he calls, invites me to come to Kibuli, an area of town near Kabalagala, to meet up with him

Let me also diverge for a moment and clarify that phones here are prepaid—you have to buy little codes for anywhere from 500 to 10000 UGX and punch in like 50 numbers to load credit onto your phone. The calls are ridiculously overpriced, unless it is network to network, which is difficult, since there are like 6 main networks here. So many locals have like 3 phone numbers on different Sim cards with different providers. As a result, and using my already clipped and simplified English I have adapted to using with locals, phone calls are direct, to the point, and typically under 2 minutes.

My phone call with Shon went something like this (forgive me for making him sound like an idiot):

     him: “Hey, you goin' come round to my side?”

     me: “Yeah, so I’ll head over to Kibuli. Where am I going?”

     him: “Come to Kibuli”

     me: “Yeah, ok Kibuli, but where exactly am I headed?”

     him: “Come to Kibuli.”

     me: Laughing at this point, “Kibuli, yes, but where should I meet you!?”

     him: “Kibuli”

I gave up. I told my boda guy to take me to Kibuli. Then when we got to Kibuli, and I realized I was out of airtime on my phone, and I had no idea how to find this guy… so I loaded up at a mobile point, and called him, finally agreeing on a location, the Shell station.

The fun was just starting at the gas station, because he showed up minutes later and we walked down a dirt road behind the building, into the dark (the power was out in the area during that time), and I made some sarcastic comment about him just leading me blindly into the slums in the dark.  Which I later found out offended him, as it seemed I was implying I wasn’t safe with him (which of course he would protect me from any foreseeable harm within or outside of the slums with his superior strength and sparring skills.) Turns out, he was actually just taking me to his house. Correction--his mother’s house. I  walked through the iron entry gate to be immediately met by his aunt, mother and little brother in the dark driveway, and then was left in the living room to make small talk with the ladies, while Shon wandered off doing God-knows-what. It was incredibly awkward and uncomfortable and hilarious. His mother’s English seemed a bit limited, as our conversation kind of just circled around “how are you?” and “how is work?” that sort of thing. The aunt saved the day, as she was more of a talker, and kept the banter going for the next long 16 minutes.  I complimented their house, complimented the aunt's sparkling gold bracelet, asking questions about where to buy that kind of jewelry, what type of work she did, where she stays, etc., until Shon reappeared and grabbed my hand and led me to his room. In his room a different younger brother was sitting on one of the beds, and Shon and I sat on the other, in the “romantic” candlelight (remember, no power) and we all made small talk. Actually the brother didn’t really talk, except occasionally in Luganda to Shon.  A girl showed up at one point and sat next to the brother on the other bed, and when they left I found out she was Shon’s ex-girlfriend who was now dating his brother. (Sharing is caring?)  We just sat on the bed, talking about whatever, drinking Coca-Cola’s.

His aunt came in with a water pitcher, plastic tub and towel for me to wash my hands without having to leave the room, and his mom made us each an enormous piece of fried chicken and French fries. All this fanfare was uncomfortable, but I tried to accept it somewhat graciously.  Apparently it is a pretty big deal for their son to have some random muzungu coming home for dinner (which I did unaware.) Before his aunt left later in the evening, she came back into the room and snapped her sparkly bracelet onto my wrist, despite my protesting, declaring “It’s yours.”

I really liked the bracelet, it’s way too loud and gaudy—just my style of jewelry. When recounting the story to my roommate later, she recommended actually being careful about complimenting clothing or items on a Ugandan (if just trying to be nice,) as that person may end up giving you the complimented item. Many Ugandans have very little, but in order to make a guest feel welcome, they will give you the shirt off of their back. Literally.

So, all and all, a pretty epic first date. Wandering into a new part of town by motorbike without directions, to find a guy I don’t know, strolling down dark dirt roads into dark houses to meet the fam, eat fried chicken dinner, and converse by un-optional candlelight.

Then hop a late-night motorbike road back home to my 'hood, Viet-Namuwongo. 

This week I’ve felt like somewhat of a disgruntled cubicle worker. Staring aimlessly at a computer screen while the sun is blissfully shining outside. Half-heartedly answering emails on autopilot. Looking at the clock over and over again (still having to calculate military time embarrassingly slowly--even enthusiastically changing for soccer and turning off my computer to the bemused attention of my coworkers, before realizing it was only 4:30 pm.)

It’s so hard to know that the choices we make in life are the right ones, or that we’re doing whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing. I think the real challenge is summoning patience, and being at peace with the process. It's challenging to experience these transition periods that drag on and on, leaving restless minds like mine obsessively asking, “what’s next?”

...

I'm trying to figure out how to get more skincare products down here, since I've discovered it moves like crack rock. That, and it'd be a pretty wonderful supplement to my income... considering that last Friday I sold my entire monthly salary worth of product in 3 hours. It was insane. I felt like Mary Poppins---pulling cleansers and moisturizers out of my bag, explaining why each person could benefit from such and such item, as the women snatched them, wide-eyed and drooling, asking for more. My precious...


Getting product to Africa isn't easy; we are far away. It's hot. (why that's relevant here made sense to me when first wrote this.) The stuff is heavy, and airlines are Draconian about baggage weight and allowances these days.... Hence the frenetic demand among the women I've met with down here.


And yet, the opportunities to get product to women or expand my little business abound... I just need a partnership from the company, and some way to actually grow it in East Africa. (i.e. have the ability to have product shipped directly here, be able to recruit and share the business with other women.) Case in point: 

• I've been asked by the main coordinator of the local drama group, CADS, to do all the stage makeup for their production of Oliver Twist.
• A local South African hairdresser is holding a fashion show and wants me to be one of the makeup artists backstage. 
• Tomorrow I am working as one of the makeup artists for a different fashion show for a pretty big name here, Sylvia Owori.
• I received a Facebook message from a new friend that her friend's bag was stolen by a boda guy, and all of her makeup was in it, so she needs to get together with me to replace it. 
• Three separate women have expressed interest in holding makeover get-togethers with me and their girlfriends in the near future.

And then, from time-to-time, I sell a luxury safari. And then I go to the airstrip and kick an overly pumped-up soccer ball around scrubby grass and red dirt with 20-something-year old African boys as they shout at each other in Luganda. And then I ride my bike home, hoping the chain will stay on, and actually shift completely onto the gear-teeth for at least one segment of my commute. And then I ride my bike to work again, weaving through traffic, tuning out the city noise with my earbuds, getting all hot and sweaty as the Africans stare and remark upon the strangeness that is me.

And then I stare at the computer screen some more.... break mid-day for an authentic African lunch which always consists of beans and 80% starch.... stare some more. Maybe sneak in a blog post, or emails to friends, Skype with my dad or mom if they get online in the early afternoon... stare some more. It's a job, it's a mostly boring, office job. But at the end of the day, I am in Africa, and it feels like things are happening, even if I don't really know what they are, or will become.

Hopefully its not just some weird skin parasite moving beneath my skin that gives me the sensation of forward momentum. Sorry, that was disgusting, I have just become super paranoid recently, as strange red markings appeared on some parts of my skin, and my coworker mentioned that I must have bedbugs. (I really don't think I have bedbugs--but I envisioned bedbugs as I tried to sleep last night and that didn't help the process, at all.) Not to mention that simultaneously, my navel ring got super infected one day this week for absolutely no reason. (Way too much information, I know, but once again, you are choosing to read this.) Now let me be clear, I've had this navel ring since I was 11-years-old (I know, what was my mom thinking? but strangely enough, she let that one slide...)
and never a problem. for 17 years.

Then suddenly, in Africa, it becomes crazy-infected. I imagined weird bacteria and bugs jumping all over me in the night, since I spent until 2:30 am last Tuesday with my mosquito net down. The story is that I accidentally sat on the corner of the net right before bed, ripping it off its ceiling hook, and Ithought, "you know what? fuck it. I'm tired. the only way to reach the ceiling and re-affix this thing is by getting the wooden table out of the kitchen, clearing everything off of it, and dragging it in here, so I can stand on it and finagle this thing back, in my jammies, with no drape on the windows and neighbors watching the crazy muzungu do something else crazy" so I roughed it. And woke up, sweaty and scratching myself all over and pledging to murder every last mosquito that crosses my path. The moral of this post?

"If you think you're too small or insignificant to make a difference, you've obviously never slept with a mosquito"- Anita Roddick

Happy Belated Women's Day!

The image of confidence.

Last Wednesday, the 8th, was International Women's Day, which is actually celebrated here, to my disbelief. I got the day free from the office; unfortunately, I took advantage of the mid-week day off work by staying out dancing until 5 a.m., and drinking something called Zed into the wee morning hours... which I found out today happens to be fermented pineapple juice.... which apparently is also a suitable replacement for jet fuel. Or nail polish remover.

As a result, I was in genuine pain for most of Women's Day.  I drank cup after cup of freeze-dried instant coffee, and water, and managed to pull myself out of bed, and my pajamas, by 1p.m. in order to take my bicycle for repair down the street (it needed its wheels trued, and brakes fixed, and new pins put in the tubes.)  I hopped a boda and headed out past Bukoto, where I met up with Andro, a South African who has about 123 different projects currently running, from goat farming to web advertising to logistical management to professional soccer recruiting for a local university. Our plan for women's day involved playing a "friendly match" of footy in the Namboole national stadium with Victoria University's semi-professional boys team, and a random sprinkling of students and staff.  And myself--the only female among about 80 men.  Happy Women's Day!

I really hope I can get my hands on some of the pictures to share with you: me in my matching, red and white oversized VU uniform, sticking out like a cowlick among the African players, all of whom were wondering what this crazy muzungu thought she was about to do on the field.  The hilarious part is that I am an okay soccer player in the US.  But here, people ask me if I play professionally.  They call me Mia Hamm and Abby Wambach. It's so rare to see women that know how to play, and the fact that I physically challenge the guys, actually steal the ball, and get past them occasionally is surprising to these dudes. It's really good for an ego boost.

The whole crew. Happy Women's Day!

I also find it somewhat ironic that I spent Women's Day getting sweaty, beat up on and laid out completely a couple times by overaggressive, smelly men, all the while running around seeing double and cursing fermented fruit.  The other women here that I know went to a fashion show and charity event at the hotel pool.

In other news, Andro has taken an interest in me, and fairly avowed to help me solve my problems and get clear about what I want out of life, and then get aligned to a more focused path. He used to coach small business owners or something. He has the most random stories from things he's done in life: his years in the Israeli army, pulling dead bodies out of ravines on his first weekend as a mountain rescue volunteer, being part of a violent robbery in his parent's store as a teenager, creating a 10,000 grossing "Movember" prostate cancer fundraiser in a week.  He's also a "fixer" and annoyingly optimistic, and kind.  So, some people are ridiculously nice to me. It helps me deal with the other stuff, the disappointments, the culture shock, the stress. I also got a pair of really sweet emails from two close girlfriends back home this morning. It means a lot to get to wake up to that stuff.

(I also have to start posting my own friends' comments within my blog because I was starting to suspect that no one even reads this thing!)  Apparently there's something wrong with the comment portion, or it makes you have an account sometimes?! I don't know--I've checked the settings, and can't seem to figure it out.  Ahem ahem, let me know you're out there people. Just give me some kind of sign girl, oh my baby...

another worth publishing mentionable:

"i'm really glad that you took the risk and went over there, even if i do have selfish reasons for me not wanting you to go. i'm totally jealous of this crazy experience you are having and your freedom to have new experiences everyday- I think that is what life is all about and what is really at the core of true happiness. Very inspiring! ok, i just wanted to share that with you- and keep the posts coming! -loveyou, k8"

I think the core of true happiness is not so much these adventures, rather than the people with whom we experience those adventures. One of the things I first wrote about--that bittersweet feeling of suddenly realizing that you've made a difference in people's lives, that they do really love you and will miss you--that feeling makes you never want to leave, but then also realize how fortunate you are to have known that kind of friendship and love.

And sometimes you have to leave to remind yourself that it is there.

Shifting Gears

I've been a little MIA on the entry front--sorry about that-- for those of you who actually check this from time to time... (Mom) haha

Things are rolling along—in more ways than one. For starters, I bought a bicycle last Saturday. It is a “Katakura Silk” brand steel frame, probably from the early 80s, with hybrid tires and straight handlebars (I was pushing to find dropped, but my options were highly limited.) I bought the bike for the equivalent of about $100, and rode it home through the overcrowded, polluted, chaotic streets, grinning giddily like a 10-year-old on Christmas morning—equally terrified as I envisioned flying through the air, helmetless after an unfortunate meeting with a matatu (taxi bus) or boda-boda. I managed to make it to the main dirt road to my place, where locals gawked, visibly (and audibly) reacting to seeing a muzungu—a female muzungu no less—riding a bicycle, in a skirt, through their neighborhood.

Though it’s still annoying to be constantly stared at, I somewhat enjoy upsetting the local balance in terms of what a female should or shouldn’t be doing—even if they think they are laughing at me, instead of with me, I can pretend, right? There's a good story coming along those lines from yesterday... involving me changing into soccer gear in a sport club's urinal at the national stadium... stay tuned.

I’ve been venturing out of my comfort zone more and more. Meeting up with locals to go out dancing, playing soccer at the airstrip with all boys, haggling down to the last 500 shillings at local markets. I’m using my fragmented Luganda to impress the occasional boda guy or merchant.  The children of neighbors in my building keep walking in the apartment when I forget to lock my door, squealing and running around, then I have a hard time getting them to leave. The kids here go crazy when a muzungu pays attention and plays with them. I went for a run through a rural village last weekend and started a game peek-a-boo-style by running behind some shacks then stopping to hide as the throng of kids thought they were gaining on me. I surprised them as they came around the corner, and a couple stopped in their tracks, frozen instantly in shock and fear, then realized I was playing with them, started  hysterically laughing and screaming, which resulted in about 30 children chasing behind me through the village as I continued on my run, and the adults watched, bemused. 

I went to my supervisor’s house last Sunday to organize a facial party. It was nice to be presenting my Mary Kay products and doing something I used to do regularly at home. I ended up selling almost all of the skincare products I brought with me to Uganda. It makes me wish I had brought more. I’m still trying to figure out how to build the perfect life, which for me could entail being in Portland during the late Spring, Summer, early Fall, then running away to somewhere sunny and beautiful for the rest of the year. Sales allow certain flexibility as it can be done remotely, or moved to new markets then maintained. I'm now trying to figure out how to get more product here. 

I just got completely distracted while trying to finish this post reading back-n-forth commentary on the new Kony 2012 campaign being publicized by Invisible Children via Youtube and Facebook.  The video and a critique embedded here...  And another critique...  And another response to the critiquing. 

This is something along the same theme of what I’ve been noticing and thinking about while living here. There are a lot of nonprofits and NGOs in place that seem to mainly breed dependency, and perpetuate the need for aide. If these deeply imbedded problems ceased to exist—such as lack of access to education, water, food security and basic human rights—these organizations would also cease to exist.  Their employees would cease to be able to pat themselves on the back for changing the world, and make inflated Western salaries while living abroad... and I wouldn’t have such a huge potential market of muzungu women, with money to burn, to sell skincare and make-up to at Western prices.

That being said, I don’t think sitting around and complaining is a solution; nor is choosing to be overwhelmed by the problem, or refusing to support nonprofits based on "principle" or lack of clarity about their entire financial distribution scheme.  Is it better for these organizations to spread awareness and intent to mitigate horrific situations than do nothing?  No question.  Can we demand transparency and clarity of their finances so donations and expenses are better managed? Of course.  But at least modern media allows the ability for a full circle conversation about these issues.  As long as those of my generation choose action over apathy--which is something I wrestle with as well.

We as humans have a responsibility to help others and contribute to bettering our world.  For some that means protecting their family, making a good living at their day job, providing food and shelter and love to their children.  Others use their careers as a means to propel change, petitioning governments to protect the environment, drafting legislation to improve healthcare, or teaching children to read and write in poor neighborhoods….

I certainly feel I should be doing something to help others, and feel completely uninformed and ignorant about the multifarious political and social problems in Uganda, as well as in the rest of the world.  I think fear is a big part of what prevents me, and others, from making more of a difference. It's overwhelming, and difficult to know where to start. 

So it's easy to criticise the inefficiencies of others, but I wonder if we should take a look at the individuals' behind the pointed fingers.... myself included.