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.

KokoMo Betta

Arusha, Jamaica ooooh I wanna take ya // Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama! Wait a minute, she said Arusha, not Aruba. That's right beach boys. I am going to Arusha, Tanzania.

Trade show coming up June 8th, and guess who wiggled herself onto a flight in that direction? Me, that's who.  Stone-cold proof that it doesn't hurt to speak up. When I heard another coworker get invited to go to Tanzania for this show weeks ago, I cringed... why did my boss invite her!? She barely smiles. It took me 2.5 months to get her to warm up to me, and I only succeeded by the sparkling magic of lip gloss. Sure, she's worked for Volcanoes for six years, in comparison to my amazing performance of four months, but I can at least pretend to be charming! I have nice teeth! Good posture! I am great at faking elaborate knowledge of things which at best I possess a rudimentary understanding of! Like, forming passive sentences ending with exclamation points!! (Great sales points, right?)

Well against all odds, I made a point of requesting a special meeting with my boss and explaining that I really enjoyed many things about my job with Volcanoes, but I wanted to work more on marketing, more journalism: writing stories, interviewing participants in our non-profit sector, creating deliverables to share with the public, experiencing the product, LEAVETHEOFFICEBEFOREIPULLOUTALLOFMYHAIR-type stuff. That, and it's really hard to work a sales job as an underpaid peon, making no commission, having no sales incentives, while literally funneling hundreds of thousands of dollars into the company.

I thought she didn't hear me. She kind of faded away after that meeting, supposedly met with the big London boss about the many things the sales team had shared with her... but didn't bat an eyelash for over a week after he left, and I never got any feedback to the many things I had suggested and shared.

Then the logistics manager who was supposed to accompany the sales consultant couldn't go anymore. He is instead somewhere between Rwanda and Nairobi, I think. So V (boss lady) asked me if I would like to accompany the other girl. To which I waited .04 seconds to emphatically accept.

Granted, I will be in some sort of business center no doubt, shmoozing and yawning for most of the 4 day show. I will also hilariously be dressed in traditional Rwandan attire.  Hands will be shook. Smiles will be plastered into place. Pictures will be had. But it will be in Tanzania. And you gotta love an excuse to get one more stamp into that passport.

And for Kate—who hopefully still reads this from time-to-time—I envision saying, "Mooore pictures!" (In a cookie monster growl)

I present, Kilimanjaro:

Then, thanks to the wonders of the interwebs, I happened upon this bizarre story/site...which started so sweetly I though it was an African fable for children... then it literally headed south. 

I just lost 15 minutes that I will never get back... but it was kind of fun. 

Gnuts n Pepper

Who are we really? Not only who are we, inside, but who are we to other people? Because I’m starting to think what we mean to others matters more than what we mean to ourselves. I could be a garbage collector, (no offense, if you or someone you love labors within this noble profession) but if my good friends and family see me as a source of strength, as someone they can count on and care about, someone of integrity and “moral fiber,” what does it matter what I do? Or my own, pissy, self image?

This argument may sound a bit pedestrian, but I just randomly selected “A Serious Man” to watch tonight, alone in my African room, which ended unceremoniously after (spoiler alert) the main guy receives a phone call from his doctor to come in to talk about his x-ray results in person (bad news) and his son is waiting for his Hebrew school teacher to unlock the school’s basement door so all the kids can take shelter from the ominous dark cloud of a tornado approaching (dramatic, yet unavoidable, potential bad news.)

It was confusing. Disappointing, perhaps, as one expects some sort of end to a story after committing 100-something minutes trying to absorb its message. But then I picked up my Zadie Smith novel and tried to finish it—realizing that everything tonight is Jewish themed—and as I’m glossing over the words of this novel, trying to decipher its meaning, I realize my brain is going independently—which is incredibly frustrating considering that I’m 10 pages away from being done with this 400 page novel—and the thought I am thinking is something akin to where I fit with my three girlfriends back home. Who am I to them? They say they miss me via the occasional Facebook post, email or Skype session…. like my absence there has created some sort of loss. I matter. And I feel juvenile because for some reason I picture the four of us as characters from Sex and the City, and I am asking myself privately, “which character would I be?” Realizing that I don’t think we are really characters, or even similar in character, to these fictional women, but realizing that my hackneyed thought process is trying to tell me that I may not see myself clearly, or even understand how that may be possible.  Meanwhile I’m having my Fear and Loathing in Kampala, only much more quietly because I don’t have access to any hard drugs, and I feel a little too much social responsibility to dive completely off the deep end. That, and I have to start another week of work in the morning.

I wonder if I ask myself about the meaning of life more than the average person. It seems others make decisions, accept them, then move on with their lives. This is a behavior I observe in my ex-boyfriends.  This lack of self-deprecation and doubt. This ability to "forgive and forget" or just plain forget.

(My mom being an exception in her grave contemplation and second-guessings at life decisions; myself, genetically and/or observantly, following suit.)

What do I want in life? The same boring things really. A partner-in-crime. Maybe some kids at some point. A satisfying career, enough money to live off of, play amply with, and go on vacation frequently by. True, reliable friends. Good relationships with my parents. An idea that I am in someway contributing to making the world, or my little corner of it, a better place. Being continuously challenged and pleasantly surprised by the world and its bits.

I don’t know if I should post this stuff to the blog. I kind of feel like the blog is over, I’m over it all here. But I can’t just sit here and watch movies and rot for two months, waiting for my return flight to arrive....

Its just so strange to feel so strongly what you want and at the same time have no idea—No idea how to actually achieve really much of anything, instead seemingly blindly flailing about. Most people probably don’t end up typing about this alone on a bed in the middle of East Africa. Maybe they take a Xanex and go to bed. Or eat some cake and watch TV.

I have cotton mouth. 

I feel puffy. 

Dogs are barking outside, and the only other noise is the hum of the fluorescent lightbulb in my room.

I skipped over my whereabouts during and since the fam trip to the lodges. I am now relocated to a somewhat normal house, with a mostly normal bed, shared living area and kitchen. 

Shopping is all weird again, mainly because I’ve had to readjust from my once nearby Namuwongo market routine selections of cabbage, onion, tomato and garlic, served at least 4x/week over pasta… occasionally with some edam cheese if I’ve planned in advance. Now I’m in Kololo, a much fancier (said with accent and mimed quotations) part of town, nearby embassies and government offices, where people speed past me in their SUVs over the infrequent (in comparison) potholes to get to their offices where they can make a disgusting comparative wage for living in Uganda. I’m paying almost 3x the rent I was paying in VietNamuwongo, and it’s entirely worth it because my roommates are nice to me. Really, it’s the simple things that are most important.

That, and there’s a garden. 

 

And dogs. 

The dogs’ names are Gnut (a local abbreviation for grounduts, similar to peanuts and usually roasted in oil) and Pepper, and I like to sit at their level on the front step  and mess with their gnarled teeth, tugging on their loose skin, until I get them all riled up, and they can’t help but go nuts on each other for 15 minutes straight, as young, puppyish dogs will do. It makes me miss having Benny, but happy I have someone to pet.

When I do Ashtanga on the porch, Gnut stretches next to me and can hardly control herself, occasionally whining in excited exasperation, as I am clearly bending in all sorts of ways in some prolonged strange performance/homage to dogdom. She shoes me her downward dog in return, then flops down, bored. They both walk over my mat and when my feet are extended straight in front of me, I get licks on my toes, or paws on my legs in the manner of an old Jewish grandmother patting you after a good joke, “Oy! my dear, stop, you’re killing me!”  Pepper barks nonstop in total terror of anyone new within the compound, myself included for four days upon my arrival, and then once she loves you, won’t leave you alone, wiggling up next to you and rolling over in submission half-on top of you or in your lap if she can manage. This afternoon, I got battering-rammed in the sternum with her nose by a flying acrobatic leap—that’s how glad she was to see me again.

I ate dinner tonight on the porch alone, a very creative meal: diced potatoes, tofu, marinated in soy sauce and garlic, chopped tomato, gnuts and rehydrated, once-dried mushrooms, all pan-fried together into this sort of crazy stir-fry… (I've always been really good at using all my leftovers, often in strange new ways, and I realize I would do quite well on one of those cooking shows or where they make you come up with a meal based on five random ingredients.... baking is a bit trickier...)

I watch the light begin to fade behind the hills, admired the palm trees and tropical flowers in the yard, and for a moment, felt peaceful and proud that even though I don’t know what I’m doing, at least I do something.  And then comes the day when I will just have to do something else.

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...

The 8 days of Safari

In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey....

(mind you I am now posting this a week late)

It’s a Monday and I’m not at work. That, in and of itself, is reason to be glad. I am currently writing this post from Kyambura Gorge in Queen Elizabeth Park. By the time I get Internet access and get this online, I will probably be in the middle of Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, or maybe even Rwanda. I’m on an 8-day “familiarization” trip with four other staff from the Kampala office. It has been wonderful thus far to get out of the city, see the lodges and meet the extraneous staff sprinkled around Western Uganda and Rwanda.

Yesterday was my first time seeing game in the wild. I got some blurry and other less-than-terrible pictures of elephants, water buffalo, warthogs, kob, waterback, birds, etc. Then my camera battery ran out. Unfortunately this happened on the boat cruise portion of our day, and prior to our insistent search for a lion during our evening game drive. To which we actually succeeded—a mother lion and three cubs. It was incredible to see them in the wild, although she was wearing a sort of radio collar, apparently tagged by park rangers or something, which I admit removed quite a bit of the wild African allure.

We began the journey in Kampala, driving about six hours to Queen Elizabeth National Park "Uganda's most visited game reserve," and finally Kyambura Gorge Safari Lodge. Enroute we stopped for street food, pineapple, roasted casava and bananas, I tried (mostly unsuccesfully) to understand my three coworkers' conversations in Luganda with our guide, Amon and enjoy the scenery.

 

...

We rolled into the town of Kasese, and took a little side-road detour. The conversation the car was lively, and the guys had decided we would stop briefly to attend a kwanjula. I had no idea what a kwanjula was, and they told me quickly it was a wedding introduction ceremony, where the bride is formally introduced to the husband's family, and the village-at-large.  At this type of ceremony, she is also bartered for, and it's officially decided how many cows (or a combination of cows/goats/chickens/land) she's worth. Then the husband's family is expected to pay up.

 We didn't seem prepared to attend anything remotely related to a wedding, but I was trapped in the car.

Amon approached an area full of locals, literally 100 people crammed into a picnic-area sized field. To my complete embarrassment, we rolled right in: rumbling safari vehicle full of plain-clothes dressed Ugandans and two muzungus. Everyone stared. In my mind, crickets chirped.  The crowd's attention had shifted from the ceremony to the strange group that had crashed the party. My coworker Didas said hello to a woman he was friends with (apparently the reason we were crashing this thing in the first place) and we were ushed to a bench near a pile of children, that had been cleared for our behalf.

If not for the man with the microphone shouting things in their local language to the crowd, everyone would have probably kept staring--but music was playing the bride was dance/walking toward the groom tent, and everyone wanted to see what would happen next as she played the game of "where is my husband-to-be?" There was a table full of symbolic food items and decorations, matching bridesmaids (I imagine) and people seated in rows to participate in the celebration.

I could have taken photos for hours with all the children and local Ugandans in traditional dress, foreign displays of tradition that I was suddenly allowed to witness and participate in. Rarely do I get a chance to point a camera in people's faces without having to ask permission or feel like some shameless tourist.

  
 
 
 

…

Now it’s Wednesday. I am in Mt. Gahinga lodge, where I spent Easter. I love the scenery.

(That’s as far as that post got—which I find funny, so I am leaving it in its “eloquent simplicity.”)

I had very limited and spotty Internet access over the course of this trip, and not much time to myself, nor leftover willpower at the end of the day to actually write or process anything, so I did a pretty crumby job at detailing this trip.... 


Good thing I've got photos to make up for it! More safari fun to come!

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.  

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

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.

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...