I trimmed my fingernails today, and when I got to my left thumb I realized I would be cutting off the last physical representation of Rebekkah and Avi’s wedding ceremony that I had been carrying with me since November.  I had a small brown line of henna, a basically permanent stain from the same paste that wore off my skin just a couple of weeks after the wedding.  Somehow I felt that this occurrence needed to be documented.

The day after the henna was applied, it appeared at its darkest. Until today, a line on my thumbnail was all that remained.

I seem to dwell on these physical symbols of experiences that shape me, particularly the monumental experiences.  Traveling in Mumbai and Goa for 10 days for Rebekkah and Avi’s wedding is one such experience; any scale of traveling can jolt me out of my routine and make me reevaluate my habits and my worldview.  When I return home, however, that new worldview to which I was exposed slowly fades.  I cling to tangible, wearable souvenirs as proof of the experience, trying to keep the memories more active in my daily life by having some representative THING.  I wore a friendship bracelet, blue and white, home from Finland as an anklet; it’s long gone now, of course, and I don’t even remember the details of who made it for me.  Katie and I bought similar anklets while traveling in France two summers later.

Though I put psychological weight into these THINGS, I know I embody my traveling experiences and they are now part of me.  This fact becomes evident in my anger every time I hear a generalization about Africa.  According to WorldAtlas.com, Africa is 8 times the size (area) of the US.  It is made up of 53 countries; when I think of the cultural differences within Uganda (about the size of Oregon), I can only begin to imagine the differences over the whole continent.  Basically I am overly sensitive to the way people talk about the continent.  I just have to remember that my experience of “Africa” is one small window on the continent so that someone telling a story about their experience is not wrong.  However, if they tell it like it represents the whole continent, I get mad.

Once again this blog serves an outlet for me, a place to vent my thoughts and frustrations about how to think about and live with these thoughts and realizations that come from visiting these places that seem so different from home.  The difficulty comes from my view that fundamentally they are not so different, though the problems the average person faces in India and Uganda are more about basic needs than I’ve ever had to worry about here.  So I’m faced with a conflicting desire to share my experiences by proclaiming on the one hand that not everyone is starving in Africa but on the other I want to increase awareness about the inequalities that do exist.  The world is a complicated place, and I’m still figuring out how to share my passion about our shared humanity.

On Election Day, Tuesday, November 4, 2008, two Ugandan friends emailed me to say thanks for electing Barack Obama as our next president.  Mwebale okulonda President Obama, Lillian wrote.

This evening I went to a hear Alexandra Fuller speak about growing up during the Rhodesia/Zimbabwe independence/civil war and how it has affected her and the writing she has done.  This post is essentially borrowing many other people’s thoughts, particularly those of poets, writers and thinkers that she mentioned, in addition to the insights that she herself shared.  I haven’t heard the word “soul” in too long, and I regret that I feel the pull of studio so that I will not probe too deeply beyond the thoughts that she shared.

To begin with, before we get to soul, I was immediately reminded about the deplorable state of my African history knowledge, so I consulted Wikipedia when I got back here to the Design building, particularly http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhodesia and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Rhodesia.

The area now known as Zimbabwe was named Rhodesia in 1895 after the Briton who obtained mineral rights for the area in 1888.  There is a lot of complicated history in the meantime, but for tonight I’ll skip ahead:  Rhodesia declared itself independent from Britain in 1965 and was ruled by white settlers until 1979.  The civil war between Rhodesians (whites) and native blacks began in 1972, known as the “Bush War” to whites and the Second Rebellion to blacks.  Blacks outnumbered whites 22:1 in Rhodesia, yet many Western countries supported the Rhodesians, including the US.  Fuller told the story of getting her driver’s license in Idaho around the mid- to late 1980s:  when she approached the counter, the clerk recognized her accent as Rhodesian and commented about it.  Fuller was astonished, until the clerk told her that Rhodesian pilots were trained in Idaho for that civil war.

In 1980, the Republic of Zimbabwe became independent, with a president whose name should be familiar, Robert Mugabe.  Soon after that Fuller moved to the US, and, at age 24, she had the right to free speech for the first time.  Please pause and let that sink in.

Fuller’s mother wanted her to become a writer, saying something like “you can pay someone to do your math but no one but you can find your voice.”  After Fuller moved to the US, she began writing Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight.  She wrote ten versions, all of which ignored or downplayed the presence and pervasiveness of alcoholism and racism in her childhood.  Then she wrote the truth, which became the published memoir.  She said “having written that book, I am in exile forever.”  She spoke of the deep loneliness in the realization that however heinous the Rhodesians were, she can never be part of the community in which she was born.  She then quoted part of Walt Whitman’s Preface to Leaves of Grass, 1855, the need to “re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any books, and dismiss whatever insults your soul.”

While talking about her writing process and what drives her to write, Fuller told the following parable.  Three people are in a locked cell; two of the prisoners are sleeping when the third realizes that the air is running out in the cell.  The awake prisoner can be kind and allow the other two prisoners to remain sleeping, or she can be honest and wake them up.  If she wakes them up, there is also a chance that one of them will know how to unlock the door.  As a storyteller, Fuller strives to write with honesty, considering the chance that she will wake someone up from their locked cell, and they will realize they have the key to open it.  She hasn’t given them the key, but the ability to find their key.

Fuller also spoke of the South African poet Breyten Breytenbach; he was held a prisoner in solitary confinement for his anti-apartheid views when he returned to South Africa illegally in 1975.  The only way for prisoners to communicate with each other was by singing each night.  This was also a death-row holding area, where a prisoner was hung about every three days.  The prisoners would sing together each night, except on the night before a hanging.  That night, the prisoner sentenced to die would sing alone.  During that last song of the prisoner, Breytenbach spoke of needing to change the quality of listening.  Fuller connected to that need of changing the quality of listening as she researched her books. While writing her latest book, The Legend of Colton H. Bryant, she realized her own prejudices were holding her back from hearing the story of the Wyoming roughneck.  She spoke of the need to dismiss the labels and become authentically herself, saying “scrape away at your beliefs to make sure they don’t calcify into prejudice.”  Remember that we’re all made from the same soul.

Fuller recalled a common saying: “the only book that’s worth writing is the one that almost kills you.”  She said it should kill you, it should shift your soul.  “The clothes you wore while writing no longer fit.”

She ended by returning to Breytenbach.  When he was released from jail, he was overjoyed to see COLOR in the world again, having been surrounded by grays – even his eyesight had become somewhat grayed due to vitamin deficiency.  Once out of jail, he felt as if zombies surrounded him since he was so amazed to see the brightness of colors.  This is a very strange thing since it would seem that life would be more zombie-like within jail.  She closed with this:

“Your only job on the planet is to realize that you have one shot at this [life on earth]… your only job is to find your voice.  When you find your voice, you will be awake.  The challenge is to STAY AWAKE.”

An early morning walk through Doolittle

More of Whitman’s Preface to Leaves of Grass
“This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go freely with the powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and mothers, of families: read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life:  re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any books, and dismiss whatever insults your soul.” (for the whole Preface, see http://www.bartleby.com/39/45.html)

For some interviews with Alexandra Fuller, to get a better feel for her tone than I have been able to capture in my notes:
http://www.powells.com/authors/fuller.html
http://www.randomhouse.com/boldtype/0303/fuller/interview.html
http://www.alexandrafuller.org/

Tonight during supper with my family Mom asked if I am still using my Masaka eyes.

Lately it’s felt more like Masaka glasses, that pair that are often left forgotten in the other room.  Occasionally I will have moments of memories, like a week ago after a lecture about global warming.  I was hovering in the periphery of a small group discussion and someone mentioned the idea that the human population on earth must be brought under control, particularly in Third World countries.  Here’s when my dilemma about how to talk about my time in Uganda comes up.  I guess I said something like I had an internship in Uganda this past summer and from my observations, children have a much different importance there than they do here.  For many people in Uganda, children are the main hope of economic support.  There is no Social Security or retirement paycheck on which to depend.  Maama would still be living in a mud house if her daughter and son-in-law hadn’t paid for the construction of her concrete home.  She would still be fetching water from the spring each day if they hadn’t helped to pay for her water pump.

Ah here comes the rain.  As I walked around the neighborhood this evening the lightning flickered brighter and the thunder boomed louder.  A streetlight went out just as I passed under it on two different occasions; it made me think of my host brothers learning that I actually preferred to sit outside in the dark with my evening tea.  At first they would light one of the lanterns and set it on the bench behind the house.  I had to tell them several times that I would rather have them use the lantern in the kitchen – that I preferred to watch the stars.  I told them I prefer to watch the stars than TV and they laughed.

I saw so many shooting stars in Masaka.  In Luganda, shooting star is kilabwamu, which means “star only one person sees.”  The two biggest shooting stars I have ever seen both occurred on my boda boda ride home after shopping in town with Maama on my first day with my family.  Maybe it’s silly, but seeing those shooting stars gave me strength and a sense of calm as I clung to my second ever boda boda.  The boda boda driver steered up that steep hill in the semi-darkness, avoiding the gully that had cut its way down through the gravel.

I had another moment of celestial strength when I was on the airplane from Detroit to Amsterdam.  It was 4:50 AM Amsterdam time, I had duly noted in my almost ceaseless journaling during the flights.  In the dark cabin, I looked out my window and who was there but my friend Auriga, one of a handful of constellations I had committed to memory during 9th grade earth science.  If I had remembered the story I would have felt even more struck by the chance sighting:  Auriga is Latin for charioteer, and its brightest star, Capella, means little female goat in Greek.  Both stories are quite accurate for a flight to Uganda.

In my struggle to remember my Masaka glasses, seeing my tattooed shoe can help.

It’s not only abstract thoughts that remind me of my time in Uganda.  Ugandan motorcycles physically marked both my shoes and my Chaco sandals.  My left shoe has two parallel oil stripes from swinging my foot onto Jjagwe’s motorcycle’s chain, and my right sandal is missing a chunk from its side due to swinging my foot into the chain while on a boda boda into town.  Whew, thank goodness for those thick soles!

Now I only hear the rain still falling from the downspout and distant thunder.

Though I’ve only been back in the States for a week now, it sort of feels like I never went anywhere – amazing how quickly home and summer vacation routines take over. In spite of this my Masaka eyes are continuing to see the world differently.

I just returned from a road trip, visiting friends in Memphis and small-town Arkansas. It’s strange that one (long) day’s drive can take me to such a different world – no air travel necessary. The town where my friend Meghan is living as a Teach For America teacher is completely racially divided. We drove along the lake and admired the beautiful houses and their private docks, though as far as Megh knows, only one Black family lives on the lakeshore. Off of the lakeshore drive, the town is literally divided in half – south of Main Street is White and north of Main Street is Black. The churches are divided by race as well. I felt uncomfortable when we went to the grocery store – how do you interact with this community? If I saw a white person, I tried to suppress assumptions about how racist they must be and if I saw a black person, I realized that if I was too friendly they would probably just assume I was trying to be culturally superior by ignoring the enormous elephant in the room that is racial injustice. It was depressing. How is it possible to get out of that cycle of racism?

Driving a personal car on those smooth US interstates seemed to be the utmost in luxury after Uganda’s crowded taxis and pothole-ridden roads. In fact, in Uganda my preferred mode of short-distance transportation was the boda boda, essentially a motorcycle taxi. A motorcycle’s two wheels could avoid the potholes more efficiently than a car could. I never mentioned them earlier because of a silly superstition – I reasoned that if I widely admitted to taking boda bodas, I would jinx myself and die in a terrible crash. The Peace Corps have strict rules against boda bodas for insurance reasons, but frankly, if you refuse to take a boda boda you severely limit your ability to travel in East Africa.

Boda Boda boys waiting for passengers; the sign posted on the tree lists the going rates for the most common rides from Ssaza.

When I first arrived in Masaka I remember wondering about all the motorcycle gangs collecting at every street corner… until I realized that they were boda boda boys waiting for their next jobs. Official boda boda drivers hold a special license and are members of professional boda boda unions. According to an article in The New Vision newspaper, boda bodas originated in the Uganda-Kenya border town of Busia (10 July 2008). They were bicycles ridden across the border in order to smuggle coffee. This evolved into transporting people across the border without the necessary documents – bicyclists would shout, “border border” to potential passengers, though their pronunciation was “boda boda.” Boda boda use has now spread outwards from that border town to fill a niche in public transportation needs. Motorcycles now seem to be more favored than bicycles, at least in the hilly town of Masaka.

FSD did their part to scare us out of boda boda use during our orientation week. During my first day with my host family, however, Maama told me we were going in to town to pick up some things. I thought “town” could just mean Ssaza, the town we walked to, but then all of a sudden she was approaching the boda boda stage in Ssaza, debating prices with the drivers, and then what could I do but hop on? And by hop on I mean sit sidesaddle because of wearing a skirt!

Boda boda riding is an acquired taste. At first, it’s terrifying and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to die whenever you get on. Riding sidesaddle seemed very precarious. Plus, not knowing the routes very well in the beginning made me put all my trust in the driver’s professionalism. I was trying to figure out why I wasn’t learning the roads very quickly… until I realized it was because I only ever saw the left side of the road! My route to town looked completely different from my route home. I solved this by honing my sidesaddle technique in order to face more forward.

After a handful of rides, it became somewhat enjoyable, and definitely an indispensable part of life. I came to prefer riding sidesaddle even if I was wearing trousers – the better to hop off if necessary. It was only necessary once, during my closest brush with a crash in Nyendo, when my driver pulled out in front of a lorry. Luckily, the lorry driver saw us quick enough to stop and my driver also realized his error and stopped abruptly, almost losing balance. I have a lot of respect for these drivers, being able to balance one to three passengers and maneuvering through the potholes and traffic.

Generally I would take a boda boda from my office in Ssaza to Masaka Town for 1,000 UGX and then back home to Namaseenene for 1,500 UGX. After my confidence about the whole process was sufficient, I really enjoyed hailing boda bodas and then practicing Luganda with the drivers, telling them where to take me and determining the price. Boda boda boys are notorious for overcharging, so it was important to know the acceptable price for the distance. I found that generally they were sufficiently surprised and happy to hear me speak Luganda, so they would give me a fair price right away.

This boda boda driver is waiting for a Rolex, a classic street food item that is basically a scrambled egg wrapped in a chapatti.

Another option for short-distance travel between Nyendo and Masaka Town were car taxis. These were usually white sedans, and you could tell them apart from private vehicles in Town because they would drive slowly and honk short, intermittent beeps, signifying “there’s room for more passengers.” Though it felt sort of like hitch-hiking, such a car ride between Town and Nyendo was only 500 UGX, while a boda boda would be probably 1,000 UGX and more dangerous on that stretch of busy highway.

I will make it clear that I have never taken a boda boda in Kampala, because I think that really is a death wish. In Uganda, drivers yield to larger vehicles only, and in Kampala, the sheer volume of traffic is enough to keep me in four-wheeled vehicles. The hierarchy I have observed goes something like this: Greyhound/Charter-type buses can do whatever they want, barreling down the middle of the highway and yielding for no one. Lorries and other large trucks come next, then coasters and mini-bus taxis. Personal cars are just below that. Then come the two-wheelers, the motorcycles and the bicycles, staying close to the shoulder. If a vehicle is coming up behind a motorcycle or bicycle, the vehicle driver will lay on the horn, forcing the two-wheeler off the road and onto the shoulder. Vehicles slow down only as the very last resort to avoid someone.

If you are on foot, you better be prepared to run across the road because people will NOT slow down for you like they do here in Ames. This took some time to get used to, particularly since I had to remember to look to the right first when crossing a road. Legally, Ugandans drive on the left, but in practice, they drive to avoid potholes and other obstacles without slowing down. During my first week in Masaka, I would see cars coming at me WITH NO DRIVER, until I remembered that the driver sits on the right. I have easily transitioned back to driving on the right here, though I have caught myself walking on the left, confusing some fellow pedestrians.

Another situation where I would be afraid to take a boda boda: Queen Elizabeth National Park. In addition to the hippo, note the amount of stuff that can be squeezed onto a motorcycle behind the passenger.

This week has been crammed with goodbyes and packing, along with a fair number of sentimental thoughts and attempts to take last-minute photos of the places and people I see every day. Now that I am preparing to leave, I like to think back to my thoughts at my arrival and how apprehensive I was in the beginning while figuring out the best bucket bathing techniques and adjusting to life at home with no power. Yesterday Maama asked me what I thought of Namaseenene when I first arrived, and I tried to explain how utterly different it is from home in the US while simultaneously assuring her that I have been so comfortable and happy here. That first weekend with my host family I remember thinking it was so strange that nobody was acknowledging the fact that my life had just changed so drastically – suddenly I was without those amenities that are taken for granted in the US (electricity, plumbing), as well undergoing a complete diet change.

There’s the language difference too; English is official language of Uganda, but that’s probably because there are 80-some languages in the country (my guidebook says “more that 33 local languages” but a newspaper article said over 80). Ugandans don’t speak English to each other unless people from different areas are involved. I always enjoy learning languages but one thing that trips me up here is telling time. In my previous experiences learning a new language, asking “what time is it?” has been an easy phrase to add to daily life. Here in Uganda, however, it’s a little more complicated than usual. If I ask “Essawa meka?” at 9 in the morning, the response I get would be “Saawa 3.” This is because time is counted beginning at dawn here in Uganda – saawa 1 is 7 AM, saawa 2 is 8 AM… etc. Since Uganda straddles the equator, the sun rises and sets close to 7:00 all year, so “ssawa 1 kumakya” is 7 AM and “ssawa 1 ekiro” is 7 PM. I have seen people with their watches set this way. “Luganda time” also spills over into English when people forget to convert the time. Someone might say “Let’s meet at 10 this afternoon” when in fact they mean 4.

As I sit here I am bombarded with thoughts of all the differences – cooking methods, transportation, even clothes. Last Monday I went to Kampala with my host sister Agnes so she could take me to her tailor and have a skirt and blouse made. Getting such an outfit cost just a little over $9 for the fabric and another $9 for the tailor to make it. It was amazing!

The attached photo is a fabric shop here in Masaka, with those towering shelves of folded fabric. The main road through Masaka Town is lined by these small textile shops. Some specialize is fabric for gomesi, while others have more of the kitengi type, made in Tanzania or DR Congo. Tailors themselves line the streets as well, using their pedal-powered sewing machines. Since the Ugandan power supply is not enough to meet demand, “load shedding” (periodic power outages) are a regular occurrence – regular but unscheduled. Agnes’ tailor in Kampala uses an electric sewing machine; luckily the power stayed on all of Monday for Grace to sew my skirt and blouse.

Fabric Shop

Last Tuesday I went to Bukunda, a trading center at the border of Masaka and Rakai districts. I stayed with my coworker Norah until Saturday. We held training sessions with two groups she is working with there, covering banana management, vegetable nursery bed preparation, and energy-saving stoves. At her home we roasted gonja (remember those?) and made banana pancakes (with cassava flour) and chapattis. Here in Uganda, most houses I have seen have the kitchen in a building or shelter separate from the house. To cook, Norah uses a charcoal stove, which is the most common fuel source in a town. Some people may have an electric stove but reserve it for special occasions due to high electricity costs and the load-shedding problem.

In rural kitchens, firewood is used. When friends ask me how I cook at home, I am embarrassed that I can’t exactly explain how our gas stoves work. I just say that we use gas and that it is piped into the house – but where does that gas come from, where is it stored? It reminds me again about the scale difference of my energy footprint in the US compared to here in Uganda. Here you go to “the bush” (what Maama calls any scrubby area, including her banana plantation) and pick up dead sticks and branches for firewood. It’s a local source, though not necessarily sustainable if no one is planting more trees to cut down.

I saw a great example of using local materials in Kanoni village near Bukunda. Here in Uganda bricks are made from the soil – you can see people making them along every road and path. It’s a fairly common side-business for farmers. As we were walking back to Bukunda after a training session in Kanoni, Norah was telling me about the people who lived in the houses we passed. When we came upon the one in the attached photo, Norah said the family was about to build a new house; they had dug up their front yard in order to make bricks to build their new house. It is certainly an effective way to keep transportation and material costs low.

Locally sourced

Throughout all of these observed differences, I always keep in mind that AFS mantra “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different.” I am constantly observing differences while at the same time realizing that we’re all just people here on earth living, but going about it in different ways based on the context in which we live. This includes the climate, history, culture, economics… but here I must stop myself and wonder, is it possible to simply say “it’s just different” when observing the poverty so many people live in here? I wish that we were properly taught African history in school so that we would all have a better understanding of this vast continent. It’s as if the US and Europe are still too embarrassed about their (our) past actions here and how we have affected this continent and the 900 million people who live here (according to Lonely Planet). My 15 weeks here has given me only the briefest peak into one area of one small country in Africa.

So this is the last email I will send from Uganda!  I am eagerly awaiting my oreo blizzard on the way home from the airport Monday afternoon!  Oh yeah, and seeing friends and family of course…  with love,
Stephanie

One definite positive day last week was Wednesday, our party in Bulayi!  It was amazing.  All I had done was written “End of Training Celebration” on the calendar we passed out at the very beginning… and the group members planned a day-long extravaganza!  FSD brought the crate of sodas and UDEI paid for a goat, but the group members did the rest.

I asked Norah to wear a gomesi, since I wanted to wear mine – attached is our photo together before the party.  Wearing a gomesi is ridiculous; I was wearing a skirt and a wrap underneath all of that outer fabric.  Norah helped me get tied into it…  It was a big hit with my group members, to see me in their traditional dress.  They were all wearing their best as well.

So the day began with the group members dancing and singing.  They had written songs especially for the event!  Some speeches followed, and then more singing and this time some of the group members performed the traditional Buganda dancing style.  After a few songs, they took off their fur or grass bustles and came over to us so that we had to get up and dance too!  That’s the other photo, dancing in a circle.  After we danced, I gave a short speech as a thank you and goodbye.  Then the group members performed a play that they wrote about how their group began.  It was fantastic.

At about 5 pm we ate lunch, matooke with sauce cooked in luwombu, the banana leaf pouch where you steam the meat and sauce.  Then they sang more songs and gave me many gifts – a mat, baskets, purses, and then food I took to my host family like a full bunch of sweet bananas, pumpkins, avocadoes, eggs…  They were very generous.  The celebration was a wonderful way to say goodbye to the group I had worked with for these months.

A few of you have asked if I feel like I have been able to make a difference here with my work, if I have affected change.  In one community, yes.  There are over 2,000 new plants in Bulayi thanks to the FSD grant.  These plants will provide almost 40 families with food and income.  The trainings Norah, Jjagwe, and Edward lead there are also very helpful to those families.  The participants have been so enthusiastic and engaged in the trainings, asking many questions so they understand the recommended agricultural practices.  I am proud also of the handouts I have been making with Norah.  The first day of training we had only one draft copy of the handout for Norah to use while teaching and several people asked if they could have it after she finished.  I was so happy to hear that.

With love,

Stephanie

Dance Circle Celebration

Stephanie and Norah

Most of my emails have been light reading overall, the easy stuff, covering interesting cultural differences and quirky experiences, anecdotes to illustrate my life here in Uganda. That is one phrase I hear often at the dinner table when we get into political discussions or when someone is explaining something to me – “Here in Africa…” but then they catch themselves and say “or let me say, here in Uganda…” So I have been dancing around the difficult questions of power and money.

Here in Uganda the money seems to always be in the wrong place – corruption is rampant, most visibly by politicians. Maama has told me several stories that just make me so mad. One example is from her work with the women’s groups, like the Kyalugo HIV/AIDS group I wrote about a few emails back. She is a volunteer with these groups, and she keeps records about the members. One of the local council leaders asked her to compile a list of all the orphans the group members care for, including their ages and schools. She volunteered her time compiling all of this information, updating the records, walking back and forth to visit the groups since she doesn’t have money for transportation. She turned it in, and a little while later she heard that the district was awarded a big sum of money, earmarked for HIV/AIDS and vulnerable children. Did her groups see any of the money? No. She pretty sure the government people just pocketed it. It’s unbelievable.

Maama does so much work – for her community, her family, and, until 1994, she worked as a veterinarian assistant for the Ugandan government. She had her first (of 10) children in 1979. She has worried about feeding her children and paying school fees for 30 years, in addition to her volunteering and her work. She has worked SO HARD to do these things, no wonder she is tired now. Her second-born daughter and her son-in-law both died of HIV in early the early 2000s. Maama has taken care of Sseru, one of the two orphaned grandsons since then, with a few breaks when he stayed with Maama’s daughters’ families, and the other grandson is with Maama’s sister.

Last week we feared that Sseru had run away. Even though he has grown up with his grandmother with occasional stays with aunts, as an orphan he is very vulnerable to feeling unwanted and unloved. I read that 19% of children in Uganda are orphans, and it’s probably safe to say that the cause is overwhelmingly HIV/AIDS. I’m not sure if this means double orphans (both parents dead) or single orphans or both, but it is a sobering statistic any way. The paper discussed the “social crisis” this has caused, that “the traditional family and community systems have become overwhelmed and increasingly unable to support the realization of children’s rights and protection from abuse and exploitation.” Here in Uganda rich businessmen target orphans as a source of cheap labor. They lure them with some money, or the promise of food and clothes. Maama was afraid that if Sseru took such a job, he would continue his (mild) tendency to steal and they would catch him stealing and kill him.

Maama found out that Sseru had been chased away from school the day before because she still owed about 10,000 for school fees. Instead of coming home to tell Maama, he ran away to stay with friends. She feared he would take a cheap-paying job or just become a street kid. She stayed out most of the night, searching for him, and thankfully found him. He is now home safe.

Between taking care of her family and working with the community groups, she stays so busy, though she is always calm and optimistic. Her biggest question now is who will continue her work when she is no longer able to do it. Her dream is to start a counseling center on her land in Namaseenene, a place where vulnerable people – widows, HIV/AIDS victims, orphans – can come to seek counseling or just have a safe place to stay for a while. People already come to her to seek help and advice about abusive husbands. She asked me, “What will they do when I am dead?”

These problems of health and lack of money are draining. I am happy that Maama feels she can share these thoughts with me, but I catch myself thinking about my pending escape back to the riches of the US, where I will no longer hear people saying “if God wishes, I will find the money… Our money problems just have such a different scale. It’s draining to hear people’s worries, though I feel so selfish thinking so.

Lately I’ve also been feeling drained due to being stared at, being different. When I first arrived it was uncomfortable but I reasoned that yeah, I am new here, and I was probably staring at everyone that I met as much as they stared at me… but now that I’ve been here for a while I’m just tired of it.

I challenge myself to take the initiative to greet the person staring at me. After my greeting they realize that 1) they’re staring and 2) I’m a person who can see them staring. They usually greet me back, often with a look of surprise and a smile. Usually the greeting dissolves the tension between us, but I have also come across people who ignore my greeting or continue to glare. Such accusatory glares hurt, and I feel the negative energy building up in me. I catch myself beginning to assume that everyone I meet will look at me like “you’re just some rich muzungu who’s come here to ogle at the poverty of Africa.” I have to override my tendency to build up a defense, I resist glaring right back. I can easily see how people who are chronically discriminated against become violent, in fact I’m surprised that so many don’t.

Mostly I’m talking about walking through Ssaza on my way to or from work. People in Masaka Town are more accustomed to seeing bazungu, and, since it’s a pretty big city, it’s just easier to blend in. Ssaza is that awkward size between village (where you can really meet everyone) and city (where you can disappear in the masses). I partly blame myself for feeling so self-conscious and shy, which has limited the number of people I have interacted with in Ssaza. My excuse is that it’s exceedingly hard to want to approach people to say hello and visit their store when they are staring so much, but really it should have been me to break the ice since I am the strange one here.

Rereading that passage, the point I want to emphasize is how quickly negative energy builds up. The number of people who have responded to my greetings with a smile and a greeting in return FAR outnumber those who have continued to stare, and fewer still actually glare. However, the proportion of smiles to glares doesn’t correspond to the way I feel about the situation. Though generally I call myself an optimist, in this case I dwell on the negative. I realize now how vital it is to be mindful of how I interact with my fellow humans.

stephanie

Hello friends and family,

Last weekend Maama and I visited Agnes and Suza (host siblings) in Rakai Town. Rakai is known as being the district hardest hit by HIV/AIDS. Maama and I left Friday evening from Masaka Town. Again I was struck by the transportation options here in Uganda. We went to a gas station on the edge of town where the taxis are known to pass by on their way to Rakai and we waited there. A few taxis passed by and some tried to convince us that we should “sit, sit!” as in enter their taxi immediately but they just want to pack in the passengers and they weren’t even going as far as Rakai. Eventually a coaster came by, going to a town called Kyotera, pretty close to Rakai, so we got on. We stopped many times to pick up more passengers. Anytime there were people on the side of the road, the conductor would stick his arm out the window, pointing the direction we were traveling and if they waved him down, we’d stop. Ah, life without bus stops – get picked up or dropped off anywhere along the route. When we arrived in Kyotera about an hour or so later, we were packed into a car (sedan) to be driven to Rakai. At one point there were six people (four adults, two kids) in the back and four adults in the front (including the driver). Fuel is expensive and vehicles are relatively scarce.

People were curious to see Maama and I traveling together. I overheard the driver ask something like “Muzungu ali ani?” (who’s the muzungu?). Maama responded, “Ono ye omwaana wange” (she is my child), so when he laughed I turned to him and said “kye kyo” (it’s true). We enjoyed playing this joke on people a few more times during the trip. On the taxi back home to Masaka a woman and her child sat next to me. She said to her child, “Olabbe Muzungu, olabbe?” (do you see the Muzungu, do you see her?). I turned to them and said “Nedda, nze Muganda. Ono ye maama wange.” (no, I’m a Muganda. This one is my mom). The woman just laughed. Maama piped up with “Takulimba” – she’s not lying to you. I am happy to have learned just enough Luganda to do this, and also that I have truly been welcomed here as another daughter of Maama’s.

In Rakai we stayed in a modest motel adjacent to the Coca Cola depot that my sister Agnes manages and where Suza works. The room had two beds and a small table; the pit latrines and bathing stalls were outside, communal, though we bathed at the apartment where Agnes and Suza stay just down the road.

On Saturday they had to make up a missed Coke distribution day, so I rode along in the truck with Suza and his coworkers Derek and Samula. The attached photo shows Suza in the truck, Agnes watching, and Derek and Samula ready to load more crates. The route we took was to a town called Kibaale, which was where the main stops were. However we would stop anytime we saw the red crates filled with empty bottles along the road. Here in Uganda all soda (Coke or Pepsi products) is sold in glass bottles which are reused – I once had a Sprite with 1994 as the copyright date. Now that’s effective recycling!!

So I helped to separate the empty bottles (sorting by Fanta, Sprite, Coke) while the new crates for the store owner were unloaded. Then we loaded up the crates with the empties. People were very surprised to see me helping to lift the crates – because of our pale skin, it is assumed that Bazungu are very fragile and weak. Some people thought that I was the manager of Coca Cola, or maybe the manager’s daughter, come to make sure that the Rakai depot was running smoothly.

While riding in the truck Suza jokingly told me that my task when I return to the States is to find him a girl to marry. This discussion brought up the issue of dowry, when the man gives the woman’s family some gifts (such as cows, goats, clothes, food) in order to marry her – anthropologists actually call this brideprice but here in Uganda they refer to it as dowry. He was quite surprised to hear that in the US we don’t have that tradition. His next comment made me laugh: “you mean that you, Nakirya, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Kasimaggwa, will be married free of charge??” I asked him what he thinks of dowry, if it’s a good thing or not. He said on the one hand, it shows the dedication of the man to the woman and his appreciation to his parents for bringing her up well, though on the other hand it is like buying a wife.

So we got back to Rakai at something like 6 pm and had to unload all the crates of empty bottles. For the whole day’s work, over 8 hours, Suza made 5,000 shillings – a little over $3. He says he’s been able to save half of his pay, to go towards his school fees. I see $3 per day and I wonder how much profit Coca Cola makes… but I don’t know those details, how much of the money goes towards fuel etc etc. How much is a 2-liter bottle of Coke in the US? Here it sells for 3,500 shillings ($2.20).

On Sunday we walked to Lake Kijjanebarola. The name is a combination of two languages and it means “it came when all people were seeing it.” The story goes that the lake was formed suddenly, during broad daylight, with people watching. Also there is a tradition that when you visit a lake in Buganda, you must wash your hands there.

After the lake, Maama, Agnes and I said our goodbyes and took a taxi to Kyotera (5 adults in back, four in front). Then we took a special hire taxi to Kakuuto Village with Agnes’ boss to visit the Kakuuto Ostrich Eco-Tourism Center. When we arrived, there were four horses near the main gate. It was Maama’s first time to see a horse! Attached is a photo of Maama, Agnes, her boss and our tour guide with one of the horses. We could have paid 15,000 shillings to ride one of the ostriches, but we declined. We headed back to Masaka, arriving at about 8:30. Luckily Maama knew the driver, a boy from Namaseenene, so he drove the taxi to our home to drop us off.

At work now I am helping Edward to write some grant proposals for UDEI. Today we are having a celebration in Bulayi to mark the end of our training series. I’m planning to wear my gomesi, I think they’ll appreciate it.

As my departure date nears, I am torn between being very excited and impatient to be home in Iowa and being very sad about leaving this place and the friends I have made. Also I want to share more about my experiences – thank you all for your questions, and keep them coming! Cory suggested that I post these emails on a blog so that other friends and family can read them; I plan to add responses to your questions there, so that these weekly emails don’t become too long. I’ll keep you updated about that.

Sending love,

Stephanie

Hard work

horse extravaganza

One of Dr. Burras’ key phrases in Hydrology class last summer was “you see what you know.” He repeated it often as we drove through Iowa’s subtle landscape looking out for knobs and kettles, terminal moraines and paha hills. I experienced that phrase after the plants class a few years ago when we learned pines, spruces, and firs. After class I walked around campus with new eyes, amazed that I had never been able to distinguish between different evergreens and now they were popping up all over.

I have a new set of eyes here. I have written before about the gradual ability to see beyond “that person is black” to distinguishing people’s different facial features. The different shades of black are now becoming visible. Ugandan’s describe each other as “the brown one” or “the black one,” like when Maama asked me if the store owner where I bought my scarf was short and brown.

This phenomenon goes both ways of course. When Krystal, Pooja and I first met Krystal’s coworkers, they were standing in a group with Ned and Martin (FSD staff). As we walked towards the group, Ned and Martin were trying to point out who was who – Krystal has brown hair, Stephanie’s is blonde, etc, but the Ugandans couldn’t tell us apart. We looked the same until they had spent some time with us and we became individuals.

Last weekend I encountered a more surprising iteration of this inability to see things one is not used to seeing. I showed my host brother my driver’s license. The “eye color” category caught his attention; mine says green. I thought he disagreed that my eyes were green so I asked him what color he thought they were. His first answer was “white.” It took me a second to realize what he meant – and he is absolutely right: eyes are primarily white! Next he answered “black,” as in the pupil. So I said “ok what about between the white and the black?” Only then did he notice the color of the iris. He said he had never heard of eye color being used as a description. When our friend Sharifa came in a few minutes later, I asked her what color my eyes are and she also said “white.” In Uganda, eye color is a meaningless description because Ugandans’ eye colors are shades of brown; I have noticed blue in my supervisor’s eyes but that is because I am used to looked closely at people’s eyes.

A few Ugandans have commented to me about how direct Americans are, such as Joel, the FSD coordinator of Jinja, having to remind himself not to take comments form the FSD interns personally. So maybe Americans are direct about our opinions and how we’re feeling, but Ugandans are direct about appearance. I have been entrenched in political correctness for so long, this directness has been a hard thing to get used to. The word that directly affects me is, of course, “muzungu,” meaning white/Western person. I have to remind myself that Ugandans use Muzungu as a sort of title, not meaning to be derogatory or discriminatory but simply calling you what you are. So when children see me they just shout “Muzungu bye!” over and over because somewhere one parent taught one child this phrase and now it is considered to be an acceptable greeting for a muzungu. It drives me nuts, and the worst part is they don’t stop shouting until I react with a wave. Usually it’s fine to wave or say “muli mutya,” how are you, but, for example, last week I was walking through the Ssaza market with Maama, Taata and Ssenga (aunt). If I didn’t stick out enough, if anyone had not yet seen me and was not yet staring, the children’s shouting gave me no chance just to walk through quietly. But it’s not just the children; when some adults greet me they say “Muzungu how are you?”

So I struggle to remind myself that they are not just singling out bazungu (plural of muzungu). Ugandans use descriptions as names for many people. One example I used above is Ssenga, Luganda for aunt. Ssenga Teo came to stay with us at Namaseenene for the weekend and she was called simply “Ssenga” the whole time by everyone in the family. Another description used as a title is old person, a word borrowed from Swahili that I can’t spell but sounds like “moo-zay.” Some jobs and offices also essentially become someone’s name, as with doctor (Musaawo), teacher (Musomesa), and Chairman (they use English). Otherwise if someone is describing someone else they will say “the fat one” or “the very black one,” all descriptions we shy away from in the US as being improper to point out.

This past weekend I tagged along on the FSD midterm retreat with the interns who arrived in June. We went to Lake Bunyonyi, and it was absolutely fantastic. The drive there took longer than expected, of course. We left Friday afternoon; we made good progress until we started driving up and down the hills past Kabale after it had rained most of the day. At one point we had to get out and push the van, or rather some pushed and others walked just to decrease the weight. It was wonderful to get out of the van and enjoy the fresh cool air. When we reached the lake we boarded a long motor boat and were taken to Itambara Island to stay at the Byoona Amagara Resort. It was solar-powered and so quiet! Then for supper, we were overwhelmed by the menu – sandwiches, pizza, pasta, seafood. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite as good as we hoped, but that tends to be the case with Western food here.

Saturday morning I woke up in time to watch the sunrise and enjoy the beautiful hills surrounding us. We canoed around the island in dug-out canoes and went swimming. It was a wonderfully relaxing weekend. The first photo is a view from the boat dock. The water was calm the whole weekend and perfectly still at times.

We left Sunday around noon. That second photo is from the boat ride back. These steep hills are terraced and intensively farmed. The lake was formed by some kind of volcanic lava blocking the outlet of the valley system, creating a dammed lake.

On the drive back I had a scary thought: I was actually really looking forward to having rice, matooke and beans for supper at home. Can it be that my stomach is so used to such simple, repetitive meals that one weekend of variety made me ready for my new normal? I know that my re-entry into US life will be full of unexpected realizations like this.

And now to respond to a question: what is a typical meal schedule?

With my host family, Maama prepares my breakfast around 8 AM. I eat spaghetti, porridge made from maize flour, milk and water, a fried egg and a banana. Today Maama brought in the breakfast a little late, saying “sorry for the delay, I was waiting for the hen to lay,” as in, probably the freshest egg I have ever eaten in my life.

If I’m home on the weekend we have break tea anywhere from 11 AM to noon, consisting of roasted corn or bananas and tea. I might bring a banana or passion fruit to work for a snack, and then we eat lunch at 1, which is the earliest acceptable lunch time here in Uganda. Lunch is matooke, rice, sweet potato, and beans, or I get the fish if it’s fresh (not dried). Fish head is considered a great sauce, though I refuse to try it; it’s enough work for me to peel back the skin and separate the meat from the bones, I don’t want to deal with a fish head.

Then when I get home from work I have evening tea after I bathe, around 6 or 7 pm, which is tea, bananas or passion fruit (or sometimes jack fruit or pineapple), and lately bread and margarine.

My family eats supper between 8:30 and 9:30; supper is matooke, rice, boiled potatoes, and either groundnut sauce or beans, and sometimes avocado. On Saturdays we have boiled beef as the sauce. If you say “food” here you are referring to the matooke, rice, potatoes, or this thick maize porridge called posho in Swahili, while “sauce” is the meat or beans, etc.

Basically I don’t remember what I usually eat in the States and somehow I’m going to have to relearn how to cook.

Sending love,

stephanie

no words

can describe

As soon as I say that life is normal, I realize that I am not looking hard enough.  I challenge myself to find newness and to learn more.  I hope I can continue to do that in Iowa, or wherever I live.  There is always something to learn and something new to see.  Also you all can help me too – please email me any questions you have about life here in Uganda.

So what I saw clearly this past week is the huge range from poverty to wealth that exists here in Uganda.  I visited a village called Kyalugo near Namaseenene for the first time.  Maama has been working with a group of about 16 women there for the past four years.  These women are all “victims” as Maama says – that is, HIV-positive.  In Luganda HIV/AIDS is known as Slim, a descriptive term for the disease.  In addition to being sick, all of the women in the group are widows, and they have many children to take care of.  Visiting their homes makes me feel quite happy to have a pit latrine, and the faucet in the yard is the greatest luxury.  To get water each day in Kyalugo, one must walk two kilometers to the wetland and then of course the two kilometers back up the hill carrying the jug full water.  The photo “water” shows Namwanje pointing towards where she walks to get water; she’s a member of the group and a friend of Maama’s (at right).

I have been living in the comfort of my home in Namaseenene, though that “comfort” is much different from my pre-Uganda expectations of the word.  But the range of comfort that exists here is huge.  In Masaka Town at the FSD office, I enjoy electricity, flush toilets, and a shower with hot water.  At work in Ssaza, there is electricity and pit latrines.  At home in Namaseenene, we have a pit latrine and a faucet in the yard for our water needs.  In Kyalugo, there are neither pit latrines nor running water.  This brings to mind a conversation I had with Vincent, my host-brother-in-law.  His family lives in New Kkumbu, a residential neighborhood/suburb of Masaka Town.  The amenities in his home include a TV, a desktop computer, a toilet and shower.  There is an electric stove as well, but they only use it on Sundays because it is expensive to run.  He told me that since his children (all under 10) have grown up with such luxuries, they are hesitant to visit their grandparents and other relatives in the village.  They don’t know how to use the pit latrines, and they think it’s very dirty.  The children are also uncomfortable in the houses with dirt floors.  Vincent says he tries to explain to them that that’s how he grew up, that it’s the way life is for many Ugandans.  Seeing the difference between the generations and between urban and rural is striking.

My host-brother Gasuza Joseph (nickname Suza) came back to Namaseenene for the weekend.  He is working in Rakai to make money so he can pay school fees for the rest of his college courses – two more years.  He is studying to be a teacher, which I appreciate because he likes to talk, telling me about Ugandan culture, history, traditions and politics.  For example, here in Uganda when a child loses a tooth, he finds a mouse hole in the wall and puts his tooth there, being sure to tell his parents which hole he found.  Then, the mouse takes the tooth and gives him a little money, which he finds in the hole.  That’s way better than some phony tooth fairy.

He also shared a much more chilling memory.  There is a lake that links Rwanda to Lake Victoria.  During the Rwanda genocide, Ugandans couldn’t eat fish because of all the bodies that were flowing into Lake Victoria.  There are stories of people catching big fish and finding watches in their stomachs.  There is a memorial on the site where the bodies that washed ashore were buried here in Masaka District.

It’s hard to follow that…  so on completely different note, the Introduction Ceremony was postponed from Sunday.  Instead, I attended a different Baganda tradition – entering the new house ceremony.  One of my other host brothers, Mugaga David, just finished building a new house; he and his family have been living in a house owned by the university where he was teaching engineering.  So the tradition is that when a new house is finished being built, the parents of the husband must enter the house before the husband and wife do.  So on Saturday we went and walked through the empty house, very nice, quite big, and really tall ceilings.  Then on Sunday the family gets together to help them move all of their stuff from their old house to the new one.  I was glad the living room furniture was there when I arrived.  Upon entering a new house, traditional foods to eat are roasted coffee beans and a glass of water, and then a little bite of matooke that has been roasted in its peel.  After lunch/supper (4 pm) Taata made a speech introducing himself and the family, and then Maama spoke, and then Mugaga, and then a few other distinguished guests as well, including the village chairperson.  Then there was praying and a little singing.  So the photo New House is of Mugaga’s house; Maama is at left, with Senga (Aunt, sister of Taata), and Taata at right.

So again, I welcome your questions.  Happy July, and enjoy the fireworks for me on Friday!

Stephanie

Mama’s friend, Namwanje, pointing to their water source.

Brother Mugaga David’s new house