Rainy days

“Your jacket is exceeding your arms.”

Cutest way I’ve been ever told my top is too big.

But, yes. The rainy season is upon us in Kampala, and long sleeves are part of the new occasion.

This week I biked to work and passed two other Ugandan men on bicycles, one of which had an alarmingly huge crate strapped to the back of his bicycle, the other was holding a live chicken by the upper crease of its wings.  Apparently it was some sort of blow to their African masculinity to be passed by a woman on a bicycle, because both made an demonstrated effort to peddle frantically in order to pass me back, which alone was amusing enough... only more so when Mr. Chicken used his right hand to gesture where he was turning to oncoming traffic (his right hand containing the chicken.)

“Only in Africa,” I thought to myself.

On the way to work, I look around and try to absorb the novelty of my surroundings, rather than travel the same daily route in a jaded, been-here-long-enough-so-stop-staring-at-me “over-it” mentality (as much as I do feel “over-it” when it comes to Africans shouting "Muzungu, how are you!?" at me) Ugandans, women predominantly, have the task of sweeping the roadways clear with handmade grass strand brooms, typically about 2.5 feet in length and bound with straw twine.  The women bend over sweeping in their long, colorful African-print skirts, and the ones paid whatever measly shillings the Ugandan government affords them for the road duty often wear safety vests. This same practice of sweeping trash, and dirt, takes place within housing compounds, on porches, walkways, sidewalks etc. It’s a bit perplexing that though everyone seems to want these areas cleared of debri, everyone then proceeds to discard of all their garbage willy nilly wherever they’re walking, not to mention the wind and dust and traffic that just pulls it all around back to the areas that were just cleared the day before. (And these small, hand-made brooms a half hour activity out of an area that a push broom could do damage to within a few minutes.) Along the same vein, you find men with small machetes chopping the reeds of grass from the areas along the roads in long, sweeping motions. The original lawn mowers.

Women walk along the streets with large clay bowls full of bananas or mangoes balanced on their heads. At least half of the time, small brown feet peep out of either side of their torso, connected to an immobilized baby strapped tightly to their backs by kitenges, or colorful African cloths tied tightly to keep mom hands-free to work in the field, balance things on her head, and cook--maybe all at once.

While on safari, I hung out of the Land Cruiser's window waving my camera around, occasionally managing to hold it steady enough to snap some photos. The landscape in the countryside is incredibly beautiful. I already am missing it back in the city...

Alive!

Saturday night something happened that today feels like a bit of a dream. I went to a big house party with two friends, Andro and Anna. We left around 1:30am and were walking along the road back towards his apartments which was approximately a 15 to 20 minute walk away. Anna wanted to hop on a boda boda, so we flagged a guy down. We were squishing together to see if all three of us could fit together, trying unsuccessfully to end the evening in a comedic downward spiral. We could have made it work, but another boda guy pulled up, so the driver we were smooshing told one of us to get on the other bike. We were literally going to just ride them down the hill, for about 2 minutes, to reach the "Radio Simba" building, a very centralized, well-known place, and walk down that little dirt road to Andro's place. I hopped on the other boda as driver number one was telling him in Luganda where we were headed, just down the road.

Andro and Anna's guy took off, and we trailed behind, slowly. Very slowly. I had been imbibing, so to speak, and therefore happened to be only half-watching where we were at on the main road. The boda driver was driving for about a minute and then he said something about how we had passed Radio Simba. "Oh, ok well I guess it's right back there then," I remarked, and we slowed and took a 180 degree turn to head down a small road. By now I was actually looking at where we were going, trying to shake the gin-fizziness out of my head. The driver took the dirt road, which dipped sharply off the main, and I realized it was definitely not the Radio Simba road. He accelerated suddenly, and I had a strong wave of instinctual, self-preservation-type fear jolt through my body. This road was completely dark, and he seemed to suddenly be in a hurry, (in stark contrast to how quickly we had fallen behind the other boda guy with my friends) and we were definitely not going the right way.

In my mind, flashing thoughts passed of warnings I had heard about riding with strange boda drivers, especially at night. A friend of a friend recently relayed a story of a female friend of his who had a boda driver take her down some wrong turn, a quiet road, and throw himself on her. She managed to fight him off and get away, but it actually had caused me to think twice about being so casual with whose bike I was getting on the back of, especially as a single female at night. The funny thing was, since I was only going about five minutes down the road, and following behind my two friends on another boda, I hadn't thought twice about riding with this guy.

As I said, he had accelerated and that moment of fear and pure adrenaline rushed through me, and I felt cold-stone sober as I instinctually grabbed his neck from behind, digging my fingers tightly into his jugular, and growled, "Turn Around, NOW! This is not Radio Simba!" I think I scared--or at least surprised-- him at that moment because he slowed and quickly turned the bike around. He then acted like he didn't know where Radio Simba was, and needed me to direct him. I couldn't tell if he was putting on an act at this point, because he realized that I was a fighter and wasn't going to be some easy victim. He acted like he didn't speak much English (many uneducated Ugandans actually don't speak much English) and kept remarking about which way he should go, and I needed to tell him and whatnot. This seemed incredibly strange. Here I was, mostly drunk, wondering if I just misinterpreted the entire situation, but also not trusting this guy at all, and completely in-tune with the strong self-preservation instinct that had taken over me. It was strange for several reasons: the driver had received directions from boda-guy number 1, any driver I've ever spoken to about this area knows where this radio station is, or at least knows the grocery store right next to it off the main road, and this guy's behavior just seemed sketchy to me, for whatever paranoid (or upper intelligence) reason.

We made the remainder of the three minute journey down the road where Andro and Anna were standing next to their driver, worried.
"What happened?!" "I was about to come back and look for you."
"Apparently we got lost." I deadpanned. I had no intention of paying the driver who may or may not have been trying to assault me, but Andro handed him 1,000 shillings. We began walking down the dirt road and I relayed my story to them. We realized that even if Andro had come back for me, if we had continued down that dirt road, he would have had no idea how to find me off the main route.

I'm still not sure what happened. I hope I only misinterpreted the situation and borderline attempted to strangle a stranger. All I know is that whatever voice that sometimes speaks up within us and guides us in an enlightened way told me to do something fast in that moment, and strangling my driver was the first thought that crossed my mind.

Other than that, all's well that ends well in Kampala. Stay tuned!

Goats, soccer and lack of cheese.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time here thinking about goats. They’re all over the place, “kids” following their mothers, weaving in and out of buildings and boda-bodas on the side of the road, eating garbage, standing on top of broken machinery or construction, crawling on their front knees to nap under parked cars.  They’re odd looking, and sounding, and somewhat hideous and cute at the same time. Like certain human infants. I asked a local how people can keep track of these goats since they are just wandering around alone and loose all the time--how do people even identify them? How do they know whose goats belong to whom? "They don't." He responded, matter-of-factly. "The goats know where they are from." So apparently, they just walk their little hooves home at dusk and everything is right in the world.

I also have spent time thinking about chickens, and that maybe I should consider not eating them. On the way to work the other day I saw a man riding on the back of a boda-boda with two live guineafowl in each hand, upside down, on either side of the bike, being carried to their fate. I guess that makes them that much fresher?! It just seemed incredibly inhumane. On Sunday I went to the local market (picture tin roof lean-tos and hand-dug ditches surrounding the stalls, keeping the human waste and garbage somewhat separated from the edibles) and there was an area with stacked cages and chickens just shoved inside. Women were selecting which ones they wanted, which were then held up by a wing and inspected to the buyer’s satisfaction. Long-horn cattle are stacked into trucks with their horns tied to cross bars so they can’t move. I’ve seen trucks of standard-sized beds with literally 40 cows somehow finagled onto them.

Things here get stacked, shipped, thrown about, stuffed together, crowded and pushed. All of these activities are done for a purpose, to make a living—or dinner—seemingly out of habit and status quo, but so glaringly callous to my foreign eye.

Saturday turned out to be African-action-packed. Awoken at 5:45 a.m. by the Muslim call-to-prayer booming over loudspeaker from the Gaddafi Mosque a couple km away (see I’m even using metric measurements now)… then it was off to work early to Skype for an hour…mostly crying… do a little worky work… ask my boss to talk privately… cry a bit… explain to her that im really struggling and my roommate is cold and I don’t like my place blah blah blah then apologize for treating her like a counselor and explain its because I have no one to talk to… go buy bread with boss after work (clearly she feels sorry for me and has offered to let me tag along on her chores)… boda home, feeling bravely independent enough to tough out a few hours alone… head back down the neighborhood red dirt road to find a “buffet” lunch for USX 3000 (the equivalent of about $1.40)… get caught in torrential downpour rainstorm monsoon because I become disoriented as it starts and run past lunch locale… sit at a bar soaking wet while it stops… apparently charm a guy who sells pineapples from a wooden handmade wagon because he tells me in broken English he wants to make my friend (get scared while he’s talking for a moment because I’m almost expecting him to say “make my babies” or something)… tell him I want to buy a pineapple, which he completely carves in 1 minute then gives me for free (score!)… find lunch buffet place, eat…head to market for baby and regular bananas… back to the apartment, roommate still nowhere to be found (score!)… put on a bathing suit top and sit on the balcony in the sun, reading a book about Egyptian royalty… wave to a 14-year-old girl staring at me from below, who happens to live in the downstairs apartment and cares for the family baby in exchange for school fees and staring at me below, who then comes up and literally walks right into the apartment and stays for an hour, talking to me in broken English while the 1-year-old stares mute in fear and wonder at me, eventually wanting to sit in my lap…realize I’ve caused the young neighborhood boys down the street to gawk and chuckle at my revealed… house guest asks to use my phone to call her mom and friend who live in a different town (so that must be why she wanted to come up)… I eventually ask her to leave (nicely)…lay on the floor (out of sight of neighbors) reading Egypt book… shower… go to Cayenne, a club/restaurant… meet new expat friends of my coworker from South Africa and Germany…drink Waragi and Sprite—Ugandan-made gin-type substance… play the guessing game of “prostitute or fashion-forward” with the club’s female patrons… realize in reality there are many of both present…. dance dance dance... tequila shot… dance…. boda price negotiation… wind in hair… “Webale,” … home. 

I may have to buy a motorcycle-type apparatus when I get home… I’m kind of starting to like it, especially at night, when you can fly by and the roads are clear of traffic and its quiet, save for the wind rushing past. Wait, I just remembered home is Portland and it’s raining at least 8 months out of the year. Scratch that, I’ll get a bike when I live somewhere warm for a long while.

I also realized sometime in the middle of yesterday that my neighborhood is kind of awesome. It’s a very Ugandan neighborhood, with all your typical activities taking place around the clock. There are stands where chapati and rolexes or friend meat are being made for hungry passersby. Markets take place daily, and little shops bustle with activity as chickens, goats, children and adults alternately fill-in and shuffle around the streets. Tiny three chair bars host patrons to play pool or just sit around and drink beers.  Women balance random things like pillows or rolled up rugs on their heads, and babies on their backs, people play Parchesi and dice on the cement porches of their 1-room dirt floor homes, and kids roll bike tires along with a stick, sending goats scattering in all directions.  

On Sunday I ran past Muyenga, toward the countryside, and caught the view of Lake Victoria below, finally getting almost completely away from any type of motor vehicle.  I walked to the market and bought carrots and eggs, looked in three different stores for cheese, unsuccessfully (Ugandans hate cheese.)  I watched a friendly neighborhood soccer game and asked a nearby local questions about when they play, where he plays, if I can play and which day said play could take place.

In the afternoon, I walked around with a different local up to Tank Hill Parade, by the Italian Supermarket, high on a hill overlooking the lake and neighborhoods below.  Vervet monkeys flitted about on construction where luxury apartments are being erected to take advantage of the view. We then briefly passed through Kabalagala, a nearby neighborhood about a 20-min walk away, which so happens to be the first place pubs appeared in Kampala. I saw quite a few restaurants and bars that I’m curious to visit—the energy of the place was fun and inviting.  There’s also a pretty awesome[1] Mexican restaurant like five minutes away from me owned by an American… and I definitely ate an Enchilada for dinner tonight.

It’s funny how in two days, nothing really changed—but I can tell I’m riding undulating waves of culture shock—fluctuating between a stubborn resistance to being lonely, uncomfortable and forced to compromise, to accepting the way things are, giving-in, and being ok with that. A few frustrating things happened with people back home this weekend, and I realized again that no one can really help me from there, and I need to help myself. Again, it may seem obvious, but it can be hard to accept internally, and trust that self-reliance will be enough. It’s also frustrating as hell.

I also realized that I really like reading again. Grad school had ruined reading for me.  When you are forced to read ridiculous amounts each night as requirements, it stops being something you think of doing for fun. It’s nice to look forward to something as quiet and solitary as reading, alone, on a balcony. However, I do still miss my dog.

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[1] Ugandan-grade awesome, remember the lack of suitable cheese here