Home at Last

This whirlwind of a “goodbye” tour as it may is finally drawing to an end. I think I’ve about approached my limit, as I considered murdering the sarcastic old asshole in line in front of me in the security line, who held up 30 people while he and his 20+years younger wife unloaded their life’s possessions and packed a double stroller slow as can be into the x-ray belt.

I’m on the final leg. Salt Lake to Portland. What the hell put me in Salt Lake, you may ask? Was I considering a conversion to professional hobby skiing and Mormonism? Nope, just the really awesome connecting flight I was forced to change to thanks to my terrier of a supervisor in Kampala, who clearly failed to understand why extra connections, hours spent waiting and purchasing more overpriced food and baggage checking (gotta love flying now-a-days) wasn’t worth a $50 discounted ticket.

Alas. I ran my ass off from the gate to get to my connecting flight, and find myself sitting next to another entity with sickeningly sweet breath, wafting in my direction as he sleeps mouth open, faintly reminiscent of cheerios (granted, he’s probably 6 years old) which is only a slight upgrade from the last guy who just needed to learn to floss, and lose a few so his overbearing presence in a middle seat doesn't automatically share with both flanking seats. I really need to start to fly first class.

Grandma’s house in San Diego was good for a visit, I put in valuable face time, and acquired an antique watch fob, no less. Inside are pictures of her grandmother, Esther, and Esthers’ parents (my great, great, great grandparents), and her two sisters and one of her two brothers. The pictures are probably circa 1890 or so… and Grandma passed it on as she thinks I find family history fascinating (she is right), but also mainly because when I was 16, I completed a family tree project in US history that required months of geneology research and scanning microfilm in the creepy dusty canals of the Portland public library. I re-read part of what I had written, surprised at the breadth of detail. I used to be a damn good student! What happened in college? (not like I bombed out, but damn!)

Back in the time of WordPerfect and gluing cutout graphics on printed computer paper, I wrote of Esther’s family history, as this was the most information readily available to me. Her father, Saul, was a first-line immigrant to the US, where his given surname of Krotke was changed to Marks. He was called “Uncle Sam” by Roseburg, Oregon residents, as he was highly regarded and ran probably the main (or only general store) as well as helped develop and found the town. I always knew I was an Oregonian, and have felt a certain pride at this fact among the fake-bespectacled and tight pants-ed transplant hipsters cruising around town on their fixed gear, custom painted bicycles… but it was interesting to be reminded that I’m actually a 5^th generation Oregonian.
(Albeit one that tends to run away from time to time for periods of 6-10 months).

I have already internalized the excitement to spend the rest of the summer in Portland, my home. My preoccupation and curiosity instead lies in how long it will take before I become restless and itinerant again. I have tried to warp my head around a plan to continue work with Volcanoes within some other capacity, in fact, I think I somehow managed to convince my boss that I would be a solid investment and valuably worth considering in a management, alternative position, to be proposed entirely by me. The problem is instead the age-old adage, “Careful, you might get what you wish for.” And I’m not sure if I want to go back to living in Uganda right now. Part of me wants to take a breather and settle into life in Portland, maybe plan a trip for the middle of the winter as a break, and work for myself in Mary Kay, where the outcome is measurable and tangible. I’m looking forward to finding a rhythm that makes sense again, no doubt involving various degrees of soccer, yoga, laughs with friends, outdoor time, peddling Mary Kay, illegally downloading episodes of True Blood and new music…. it’s hard to make a plan right now to disrupt all that again come winter.

I’m not sure if I’ll keep this blog thing up. It’s nice to throw thoughts out there, but maybe it’s time to retire myself to plain old, boring occasional journal writing and bitching with friends. I do hope to keep a hopeful sense of wonder in my surroundings, not fall back into the dangerous pull of depression, staleness, and negativity, and a general disgust at American consumerism, greed and ignorance. It really is a beautiful place to live, if you create that place, water the lawn, pull the weeds and fill your yard with people you love.

Until next time. 

Back n the Saddle

What day is it? I’m currently on a flight out of Portland. Yes, that’s right, and confusing. Wasn’t I just in Uganda like 2 days ago? Yes, that’s right…. And still confusing.
Let me break it down a little more logically. Kampala, to Dubai to NYC to Portland, overnight, run around town all delirious for a day, pack for Mary Kay Seminar in Dallas, back on a plane by 12:50am. So technically it’s Saturday. That answers my question.

I barely made it onto this flight, however. Jen was so kind to drive me to the airport after an IPA at Ron Tom’s. Bad beer, rad friend. (“Hop Envy,” fail.)

I got to my gate on time, only to discover that I am completely retarded. I no longer had my ID and boarding pass, of which I had been holding in my hand out of the security point and somehow had since disappeared.  I searched my bags, getting slowly more and more anxious. It was gone. I figured finally I had set it on the counter while using the restroom before the flight. I ran back to the bathroom, and searched frantically in each stall. It didn’t help that I wasn’t entirely in my right mind thanks to the Ron Tom’s trip beforehand and general complete exhaustion and deliria.

I ran all the way back to the check-in gate, got a new boarding pass printed, then realized that I had my OLCC card on me still (state-issued) and plenty of credit cards, one with my picture on it (thanks, Costco!) Then back through security, pleading with TSA, then literally running, one shoe on-foot, one in-hand, to the gate. One of the agents actually came to check on me at security and got me to the gate. I am sitting on the plane as I write this. My computer clock says 4:36am, but I think that’s East Coast time, and it’s three hours earlier. A baby is crying frantically. I don’t ever want to travel with a little baby, unless it’s an angelic sleeping baby. It would be so stressful!

I feel surprising new bouts of joy throughout the day. I’ve been like this ever since deciding to come home and even more so now that I’m back on planes and trying to take steps to better assemble my life. 

I actually got a (non-standing) ovation getting onto the plane. It wasn’t because the other people on the flight loved me, rather the opposite, they were clapping for my holding them up and being the last to board.  I played it off like it was genuine applause, and through my shoe into the row with my bags for effect.

If I were an attention-whore, it would have been a great entrance. I’m just glad I made the flight. Two minutes after sitting there and getting settled, a flight stewardess walked over and handed me my ID and boarding pass. I told her openly, “I love you.” (She told me I didn’t have to.)

It would have been nice if someone had actually walked it to the gate so I could have boarded the plane like a normal person, however!

Row row row my boat

I haven’t been blogging much lately I don’t feel I have anything interesting to communicate. That, or I find it difficult to get it from my brain to page. And then there's the laziness.  It's so much more fun to watch a movie or eat chocolate. I also know that my friends who bear with me and actually read this thing are really more interested in the pictures of the random things I’ve somehow still managed to get myself into, like camel rides and dog shows at travel fairs, and terror-stricken expressions of flipping rafts in class 5 rapids in the Nile. And if I’m planning on being all “self-reflective and shit” maybe it’s just a bit too inward for everyone else out there.

But oh well! As I said long ago, it’s my blog. And I do what I want. (Winky emoticon) ;)

I am sitting here translating this complex technical manual about solar lighting from English into Spanish (for a pretty penny, if I do say so myself!) and while taking a minute from typing in this incredibly awkward position on my stomach in bed, I let my head fall face first into the pillow to relax my strained neck for a moment. My hair encircled my face, and the smell of fresh shampoo engulfed me (fresh smelling anything a pretty big commodity here) and a sudden though occurred to me.

I am going home in 23 days. I will be around people who bathe regularly and actually smell nice when you sit near them and hug them. When I left, there was someone I cared about a lot—whose pheromones or whatever worked for me—and that smell took me there for a moment (he was a fan of personal hygiene, unlike many men here).

Anyway, I realized I am going home and there is finally a much greater possibility of assembling some sort of understandable life there. As of right now I am in the process of negotiating a proposal with my job here to try and be predominantly based from the US. Very likely it will be a part-time position, which I can pair with my Mary Kay business and afford the flexibility, income and freedom from the 9-5 life that has never sat well with me. At the same time, I don’t want to be a starving artist. I want to be happy and will choose love and relationships, and fun over a regimented steady income anyday. But I also realize that money affords opportunities, and I am not one to sit on the sidelines with opportunities out there to be had! It’s pretty hard to travel the world with no money… that or I’m just not clever enough to figure it out.

But for now, I am going home.

I will be able to have a regular exercise routine, and run outside without choking on diesel fumes. I can start doing yoga again, playing soccer, going hiking and camping with my dog, eating mixed green salads and going to live music and happy hour with friends. I can drive to a store and get pretty much everything I need in one go. I can deal with broken appliances, customer service, bill payment, bank withdrawals, etc without it turning into an entire day activity, or not even working at all.

But more so, what occurred to me, is that this is exactly where I hoped I would get myself. Into a position of negotiating the ideal job for me. Into a position of being able to fully take care of myself financially, satisfy my wanderlust, and continue working toward getting myself to Brazil…ahhhh just 2 years to go. The power of positive thought and focused action in the direction of one’s desires really can materialize what you dream. It sounds so cheesy, but it’s eerily true.

The tricky part is figuring out what specifically you want, then summoning the grace and patience to allow the journey to get you there. And it will do so in ways that very often don’t make any sense. There will be significant detours, dead ends and the occasional u-turn during this journey.

I see a window. It’s not the catch-all, end-all, and I know that I still don’t have all (or even many) of the answers… but there is hope.

When I first arrived here I hoped to become more self-sufficient I wanted to be able to sit quietly with myself and feel completely secure in that strange loneliness. I think I have learned what it feels like to be so far out of your comfort zone, you stop trying to make yourself comfortable. You succumb to the frustration, the solitude, the confusion—and literally go with the flow. In that moment that you stop fighting against the current, and begin to float along with the tide, something shifts. Even if you don’t know where this strange waterway will deposit you, ceasing to struggle causes you to enjoy the temperature of the tide, the passing scenery along the banks, the occasional fish you bump into with your toe or the bubbles that tickle your skin. You’re no longer choking on water, scared of an alligator eating you or contracting bilharzia. (See? Been here too long already)

I’ve been in Africa for over 5 months… and as of now I know this place, this crazy dirty crowded and isolating city of Kampala, now and in this form, is not for me.

But I’ve seen big game on safari in an ancient volcanic crater, river rafted down the Nile, played soccer with rough 20-year old African boys shouting Luganda at each other, played as the weird muzungu in a college tournament, ridden a bike all over the city to the aghast expressions of locals, and worked my ass off at a job that paid me shit and made me come in almost every Saturday in the past 5 months. And out of it all, I’ve seen myself in a different light. And I know I will see my life that I return to in a different light as well. It will eventually become familiar once again, and I will start to get annoyed at the little American grievances that right now seem like a pleasure in comparison. I will probably get depressed at the shitty Oregon rain, Benny will run away and piss me off, I will stub my toe or roll my ankle in soccer, find a new dent on my car door in the parking lot and get overcharged for some toiletries in Target, then be pissed I have to drive all the way back there just to sort out this damn $5 but I have to because it’s the freakin principle of the thing—why can’t people just do their jobs! But until then, I will try to take a moment to be proud of what I’ve accomplished in my 28 years, and take a rare self-congratulatory moment, and try to appreciate the good.

I want to learn to think more about what I want in life and pull that abundance to me, then find patience when it seems like things are still harder than they should be. I want to continue to learn to trust the process, savor the present and enjoy the ride.

What's for dinner?

It's like camping.

I'm usually covered in dirt five minutes after leaving my house.

I cook by gas stove and headlamp.

I have to eat perishable foods quickly since the refrigeration system operates for just a few hours at a time before losing power.

Anything in the kitchen has to be secured by ziplock so the ants don't go nuts.

I sleep under a tent. (made of mosquito netting)

I can't sit around in the evening without being eaten alive by mosquitos. (otherwise somewhat shielded from by said netting)

Strange, unfamiliar noises often keep me awake at night.

I’m having to learn to sit for hours at a time alone, and entertain myself somehow.

My living situation is un-ideal—and I have yet to decide if I will tough it out or find a new place.  I am looking around to see if something better presents itself, and if so, I will definitely opt for a change. The main problem is that I don't like my roommate, and it's not a comforting place to head home.  She is pretty cold most of the time, and the apartment itself is lacking. My bed is a 4-inch piece of foam on a tiny wood frame... I don't even think it is fully twin-size.  That, and a bedside table the look and size of a stool are the only things in my room.  The city of Kampala is so hectic—traffic is crazy.  In fact, I narrowly missed getting hit by a van on the way to work yesterday morning, inches separated my body from its front bumper…I entered the office with my hands still shaking.  The city and its inhabitants are in-your-face-at-all-times.  Some would call it vibrant and lively.  I call it mostly terrifying and stressful.  I'm sure speaking Luganda would help, then I wouldn't be so alarmed at the things people shout to each other. It does get old having people yell "Muzungu!" (white-person) or "Muzungu, we go?" (if calling from a boda-boda) at me all the time.  I'm not sure it would be appropriate to shout "African!" back.... It’s cuter when kids shout it, laughing and waving.

The concept of prepaid phone minutes and Internet is driving me crazy. The time difference between here and Portland makes it hard to connect with people, so I have to either plan my morning or nights getting to the office or an internet cafe at weird times to even make it work… and I discovered that during the rainy season you have plan even more, because you might get trapped. 

I was trapped for four hours at an Internet café about 15 minutes up the road from my apartment, as the monsoon tropical rains have started to come in intervals, and boda-bodas don’t run in that kind of weather. There was also no way I could carry my laptop or make it back without a jacket, umbrella, or boat.

An Internet café with decent food sounds like the perfect place to be trapped in this sort of scenario; however, I realized in 10 minutes that their open WiFi connection wouldn’t support Skype, the whole original purpose of my visit.  I used the remaining 400MB of my prepaid stick (which I had fortunately carried there with me) in about an hour, thanks to Skype’s overzealous bandwidth usage.  The rain began as I was finishing my breakfast (and honestly, rain seems to docile of a word to describe what this weather looks like—and I am from Oregon.)  Will upload a shoddy video shortly, hopefully it will give an idea of what it looks like.  I soon realized their WiFi would no longer work at all, not even slowly, to support checking email or anything else. I was lucky enough to have a book with me, but it was pretty ironic to be stuck without Internet with a laptop in the middle of an Internet café.

…

Last night I hurried to an open café within the middle of a city mall to try and catch a couple people on Skype, and purchase more credit for my Internet stick.  The bank was already closed, so I couldn’t pick up my debit card, so I couldn’t withdraw more $, so I couldn’t buy the credit.

Everything here still feels like a lot of work, and even extended efforts at planning don’t always make it work. I was feeling frustrated, and tired from trying to get everything in order and not have it pan out.  I looked through the menu to pick something out for dinner, feeling somewhat sorry for myself.

And that's why I ordered steak. 

Just another typical afternoon.

I saw the following on the commute home from work by boda-boda:

• a police truck with about 15 men in the back, full blue camouflage, rifles in hand.
• boda-boda drivers hopping the curb to use the sidewalk because traffic in the street was too backed up for their liking.
• a full-size couch being moved to another location on the back of a rusty bicycle by a single man.
• women with overripe bananas in large bowls on their heads and babies slung onto their backs. 
• bald-headed children in matching uniforms headed home from school, many looking no older than five, walking alone.
• a flock of approximately 14 goats without a herder running wild and lost along the side of the road.
• a man cutting huge pieces of ironwork halfway in the street sending flaming sparks about 6 feet into the air in all directions.
• nothing else out of the ordinary.

Boda-Boda Valentine

“Does anyone have a rubber handy?” My boss asked the room.  I froze.  Then Boniface, another employee, handed her an erasure.  “Pretty fitting start for a Valentine’s Day in Africa,” I thought to myself.  In Uganda, the HIV rate rose to 6% again after recent legislature began pushing abstinence-only education, I was horrified to read before traveling here, and is now down to 5%.  There are bulletin boards and street signs urging people to get checked—one boasting, “I am proud my husband is circumcised, because we have a lower chance of getting HIV.”  That one sends a few mixed messages, if you ask me.

Views from my balcony.

...

In more selfish news… I never truly realized what an insecure, nervous person I was... until now.  The level of anxiety I experience on a daily basis here can feel almost unbearable.  Saturday night consisted of me sitting in the middle of a mall, at a cafe with free Internet, hoping anyone I love would be on Skype at 10 a.m. Portland time.  It seems an Internet connection is my false security blanket right now.  I say false, because I recognize that no one can really help me from back home.  Just knowing that if someone messages me, and I have the ability to receive that message, helps.  Even though I want to get settled and unpacked, have my own food and kitchen space and everything, I didn't feel ready to leave my 100% reliable Internet connection at the office.  The big boss is coming to town next week, and I didn't really have a suitable excuse not to move into the apartment I will share with a girl from Washington DC, who has been living here for eight months.  Telling my boss that I was scared shitless to be stuck in a foreign neighborhood where I am essentially lost, out of power for random hours at a time, and disconnected completely from the entire world I know... it seemed weak.  So I said Saturday would be a great time to arrange moving my belongings. That very night I had to resort to public mall comfort, and it was quite uncomfortable.  When I went back to the apartment, the power was still out, and I puttered around in my headlamp, trying to make my room livable, and hang the mosquito-net over my bed.

Self-portrait, in the bathroom.  

My tiny bed--3" foam mattress and mosquito netting. 

Goats, just chillin'.

The "yard" and "dryer"

Even simple things here like going to the supermarket feel like a huge task. You have to figure out where you are going to catch a boda-boda, how hard you are going to haggle your price for where he will take you, pray to avoid running into or being run over by a taxi-bus, truck full of cows, or another boda, or hitting a random pedestrian, chicken or child while getting there. You hang on for dear life, white-knuckled, thighs squeezing the seat as your boda jumps the occasional potholes, sometimes up over the curb onto the sidewalk—weaving through traffic coming in all directions to get you to the damn store.

A trip to the grocery store. 

Then you enter said store (if it happens to still be open that day) only to find that it is fully stocked of every type of white flour cookie/cracker imaginable and not a tortilla, edible apple or recognizeable protein in sight. Needless to say my eating habits have suffered thus far. I’ve been living inordinately off of bread, peanut butter and g-nuts (ground nuts similar to peanuts,) and therefore could be contracting scurvy any day now.

My lunches at the office consist of traditional Ugandan fare.  Starch heavy, we usually have matoke (boiled plantain mashed into a potato-like consistency,) "Irish" (your standard potato, either boiled or fried,) rice, beans similar to pintos, a small piece of chicken or beef, and maybe some sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, or cabbage slaw in white vinegar.  Other days we get Chapati, a cassava meal flour that’s made into fry bread, then served with beans, again.  One special day we had pasta.

Lunch at the office.

My coworker cutting Chapati before adding beans!

I’ve now made two meals at the apartment in the evenings, last night by headlamp since the power was out for the third night in a row.  It consisted of bread, eggs and onion cooked up with a bit of Parmesan cheese that I bought “special” (and now have to eat quickly since it was un-refrigerated for two days.)  Tonight was pasta with cabbage, onion and tomato, spices and white vinegar.  It was weird, but somehow delicious.  I told my friend Kate that I will either be losing 10 pounds while living here or gaining 15—but there’s no way I’m staying the same.

...

On the way back to the apartment, which I fiercely negotiated to a 3,000 Ugandan shilling price, I practiced my new Lugandan phrase, “oly otya?” which essentially means, “how are you?” (and is what people say here to each other as a greeting instead of hello.)  It worked like a charm.  Between that and “weebale, ssebo” (thank you, Sir,) I will finagle my way into a veritable daily boda-boda discount.  My boda then asked me where was my Valentine, to which I explained that I had somehow lost him, and he was not not be found, to which he asked if I would like another, and I politely declined.

Now, seeing that I managed to find a way back to the apartment, and feed myself a couple vegetables, it seems I have survived another day.

Faking It

Since my arrival, the days have both crawled, and been a blur.  At work, I feel pretty helpless. My training regimin involves a lot of sitting around, waiting for someone to be willing to help me or show me how to do something, anything.  A staff member went on vacation, so her workload has been redistributed among the sales team, and I think this is part of what is stressing everyone out.  Unfortunately the backlash is that I feel like no one really wants to train me, and I’m pretty useless.  At least I can work on updating my blog during the middle of the workday.

The 13-hour time difference with folks back home has made it a bit difficult to connect.  Really the only time I can Skype is my evenings (or occasionally before work) which is like 9-11 a.m. for people back home. And most people have jobs during that time.  I am trying to pass the time alone, and not let all the solitude bother me too much. My coworker gifted me a bunch of movies on my harddrive, and I have a few books that need reading.  We eat a prepared meal here during midday. It's kind of the worst.   All the African staff chat and laugh and tell stories in Luganda and occasional Swahili, or other dialects, and I can't even follow what's going on.  I feel like that weird kid in the cafeteria who isn't invited to sit next to everyone else.

Two nights after work this week, I ran over to the airstrip, which is this flat "grassy" area (more hard, red dirt) at the top of a hill, and there are constant “football” games going on in the afternoons. I jumped in with some African boys, seeming to be in their 20s, and played with them for a bit. The soccer here is somewhat spastic—they fly all over the bumpy, dry ground—a blur of skinny brown legs and worn-out shoes.  Generally the men here play a lot of 1-touch (quick, short passing,) almost seeming to avoid taking shots on goal, even when directly in front of the goal-- which is represented by two cinder bricks placed upright about 2 feet apart.  It felt good to play again, but also made me nostalgic for my pickup group back home, soft turf fields, and friendly banter. I don’t speak Luganda, the most popular tribal dialect spoken here, and it's hard to run around mute and isolated in the middle of a team sport.  Even while I was playing soccer in Ecuador, I could participate in speaking Spanish commands and jokes. Here I just run around, silently, trying to anticipate the ball or will it to myself with my mind.

In the evenings, the bats begin hunting—their ultrasonic chirping actually audible--probably due to the huge mass of them flying above... The bats here don’t mess around, that was actually the primary reason I was convinced to get rabies shots—they can bite people, but without mostpeople even realizing they have been bitten. What astonishes me is their size, their shadows give clues to wingspans of up to 4 feet!

Last night I attended my first Ugandan concert.  It was a mixture of female artists and styles, many sounding like African jazz fusion and fair amounts of hip-hop. The headlining lady, Nneka, is a Nigerian-based artist who has been dubbed as the "under-recognized Lauryn Hill of Africa."  I am only realizing right now that I've heard the song "Heartbeats" before.  Lauryn Hill or no, the $5,000 Ugandan Shilling entry price (about USD$2) for a concert was fine by me.  I was just happy to have a reason to leave my room for a while.  I was thereby introduced to several of the ex-pats in the area, as well as their extensive drinking skills, to which I will not even attempt to match myself.

I am becoming a "real" person here--just got a cellphone number and working plan.  Although I don't understand how it works yet.  I now have four contacts--three coworkers--one of which is in London.  My fourth contact is my new roommate-to-be, Jen, who lives in a tiny two-bedroom apartment by the Namuwongo Market. I am moving in there this weekend, and will finally fully unpack.

Things still don't feel a whole lot easier, but I suppose I am getting better at faking it.
Pictures to come! I am lazy and going to sleep...

Fam Trip!

It has been a whirlwind trying to gain my bearings out here in the African world, and to be quite honest, I’ve been a bit depressed and sad, and that’s not exactly the liveliest way to write a blog entry. Why would you want to come hear about how sorry I am feeling for myself because I miss people and my dog back home, eating delicious salads, and doing yoga everyday? Those are more fitting posts for whitepeopleproblems.us....  or perhaps, natural feelings for someone whose life just flipped on its head, but hey. As I may have mentioned previously, my inner critic is a mean bitch. 

I am not super in love with Uganda yet. I feel like maybe I should be, because people kept telling me how jealous they were when I was getting ready to leave, and all the expats here seem to keep coming back for some reason--but I just don't get it, yet. Then again, those jealous people aren't the ones trying to avoid getting run over by boda bodas or choke to death on smog while crossing the street. I do realize there is a need for a bit more patience on my part, since I've now been living here for all of three and a half days.  I promise to eventually explain more about what I am doing for a job, what the office and staff are like, where I am sleeping at night... but I will save that for another day when I am not in possession of----

wait for it....

....

....

....

EXTREMELY ADORABLE PHOTOS OF BABY MONKEYS!

Why do I have such a wonderful thing, you may ask?  Well, my friends, today was our office "fam trip" to the Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary.  My timing in terms of starting work with Volcanoes was somewhat immaculate, as a Saturday spent eating all day and looking at monkeys, rather than coming into the office to work, is a pretty big treat.  We also spent the day visiting several hotels to check on their conditions, as many of our clients have made complaints about different elements of their stay in Entebbe, and it's our job to understand what they are talking about. 

The adventure began this morning at 6:30 am.  Fortunately for me, I am sleeping in a room in the office,  (got that info to you even faster than promised!) so I had nowhere to go, other than my closet, in order to get ready to meet everyone.  Lower-ranking females chimpanzees often have to wait to eat, or stay in the back of the pack while the elders and more powerful chimps get their food first, and I think a similar process landed me in the car of the bosses/managers... essentially 30-something females in a tinny Rav4, instead of the more badass Mitsubishi Pajero with the 20-something office folk. Now, nothing wrong with 30-somethings (I am getting close!) but I do object to the musical affinities of said women, as I was confined for an hour (literally imprisoned, thanks to child-locks in the backseat!) to a blaring Phil Collins alongside expressions, like "Phil is a genius," "Brilliant!" and, "I would so love to see him in concert, along with Bruce Springsteen, who has such a beautiful bottom." Did I mention these women may or may not be British?  There was also considerable car-dancing throughout the ordeal, of which generally I am a huge fan and participant; however, this was to wonders such as "Easy Lover," and I objected out of pure principle. 

We finally arrived to Entebbe, and pulled out our prepared picnic breakfast--egg salad sandwiches, brownies, peanut butter cookies, banana bread, tea and coffee, and little weenie roll things.  The second we sat down, Vervet Monkeys emerged in droves from the trees around us and encircled our camp. Me, being the general idiot that I am in terms of coming way too close to wildlife, got excited and ready to feed and try and pet them, while everyone else became edgy and nervous, and started swinging legs and bags in all directions to discourage the tiny sneaks from closing in on our cookies.  And so, as promised, commence adorable pictures:

Ok, that one is actually a little scary... here are some milder ones:

 

In fact, I could fill up a 3-blog-feet of pictures of these Vervets, so better to re-direct you to my Picasa album and spare the bandwidth, or blogwidth, or whatever you call it.  The next stop on our Fam Trip was Ngamba Island to see the chimps.  They live on a 100-acre section of the island, separated from their human keepers and visitors by a 30-foot electric fence, which some occasionally somersault and withstand electric shock to escape over.  We were warned that in the rare occasion this should occur, we should run like hell to the water, where the chimps won’t enter to apparently rip our arms off and eat us barred-fang-bite-by-bite.  And I always though Chimpanzees were simply nice, little mammals who also happen to be our closest DNA relative.  In all fairness, many of these chimps were abused and mistreated, orphaned or shipped back and forth overseas into zoos and circuses, so I might be a little pissed-off at humans at the end of it all as well. 

 

Chimps getting their 11 a.m feeding in. Carrots, papaya and other fruits were thrown over the fence by the keepers and volunteers.

                                                                      

This old gal was cracking me up, she would shove the last bit of food in her mouth then raise her hand to ask for more while still chewing.  Other chimps clapped to draw attention to themselves, or could occasionally catch the food mid-air.

...

After the chimp visit, we headed back to Entebbe to tour a few more hotels, eat whole grilled Tilapia, "chips" (damn Brits again) and pizza with our toes in the sparkly white sand surrounding Lake Victoria, then back to the boat for a "Sunset Cruise," which included beer, soda and more snacks, and I admit, sounds entirely romantic.

However, the final phase consisted of withholding vomit throughout choppy open water, while we all willed the sun to set faster than nature allowed, thereafter donning ridiculous rain-gear in order to speed back into town before everyone's stomachs' truly gave way.  For some reason, this final activity resulted in most of my co-workers screaming in delighted terror over the waves and spraying water, and in truth, we sounded worse than the chimpanzees.