4 U R A QT mUZUnGU

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No half-steppin

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

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

My first date happened like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     him: “Come to Kibuli”

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

     him: “Come to Kibuli.”

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

     him: “Kibuli”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Belated Women's Day!

The image of confidence.

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

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

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

The whole crew. Happy Women's Day!

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

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

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

another worth publishing mentionable:

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

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

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

Shifting Gears

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.