disclaimer

I may or may not have met up with the amazing ladies in my language group Friday night and may or may not appear in forthcoming Facebook pictures which may or may not include fire, fire dancing, sweaty armpits (in my defense the combination of fire and fire dancing may or may not have made me ridiculously hot) and a healthy dose of Nile Special. In the spirit of candor I assure you the Nile Special, though ironically placed it at the end of the mentioned list of events that may or may not have taken place, in fact proceeded all photodocumentation. If not for the camera operator's short battery life the list would also have to include a balance beam demonstration and subsequent conquering of a wooden crocodile...that I may or may not have participated in. For mature audiences only. Viewer discretion is advised.

maybe I'd prettier if I smiled but you’d be less of a jackass if you stopped yelling out your window

A few nights ago two volunteers, who shall remain nameless, and I went to an amazing restaurant in Mbarara which shall also remain nameless, literally. The place doesn’t seem to have a name. There’s no sign out front, no menu inside….now that I think about it I can’t without a doubt guarantee this place is a real restaurant. For all I know we ate in some friendly Ugandan’s house who just happens to have an affinity for checker-print tile and an eccentric excess of tables and plates. But in lieu of a sign or menu the owners have erected a large bronzed chicken statue out front, perhaps to legitimize the establishment? The restaurant is therefore best known as “The Chicken Place” and fittingly (or surprisingly since Uganda is not exactly known for straightforward advertisements or business sense) they do serve chicken- not just any chicken but the best chicken I’ve ever tasted, even taking into account the human and/or cat hair in our food. Looking back I can see the shiny bronze statue out front, in all its glory, was really a subtle omen of the shiny/greasy glorious meal to come. And so the three muzungus devoured an entire chicken and six bananas basked in some sort of delicious curry ecstasy sauce. Be warned The Chicken Place has no silverware, further fuelling my ‘maybe this isn’t a real restaurant’ suspicion. More likely is that the lack of silverware is a genius ploy to deter loud muzungus who like to take pictures of their food and of themselves eating their food and who also like to confuse the waitress/friendly homeowner while ordering.

After our shiny dinner we hitched back to town in the back of some man’s pickup and I had this moment where I realized how happy I am to be here. It’s not as if it’s rare for me to be happy here; I’m happy most days if only for a minute. It’s just difficult to be in the moment enough to acknowledge when I’m at peace. That particular night I was bouncing around in the back of this stranger’s car, wind in my hair, talking to my friend about our new figures, looking up at the stars and reflecting on the past seven months all at once and I recognized in that moment I was completely and simply happy to be in Uganda regardless of all the issues with my job, regardless of my intermittent insult-induced body image insecurities, regardless of my mice or any other myriad of difficulties (also called problems for the less optimistic or bullshit for the not-so-conservative). It’s refreshing to feel completely content and at ease about everything if only for a second. I don’t think I could have had the same clarity if I hadn’t spent the evening with two sources of clarity and sanity, i.e. the two volunteers who shall continue to remain nameless due to the shameful story to come: It was 9 pm. The three of us sat in a small, dimly lit room, two on one bed, the third in a chair. There was a moment of silence; we all knew what was coming. One volunteer reached into her suitcase and pulled out the sacred package of Oreos. She set the package on the floor an equal distance away from each person, slowly, deliberately. She then opened two boxes of whole milk and handed out mugs. I’ll spare you the dirty details of the approximately 4 minutes it took for us to finish the tiny bites of Nabisco heaven, their crumbs and the 2 jugs of milk but let me just say the night ended in me laying on my left side as if I were a women in labor trying to decompress the pressure on my imaginary baby’s heart. Gross. I was informed by one of my sources of clarity this technique doesn’t work on food babies but it did seem to provide me with some relief.

For lack of creative transition I’ll move forward in time one night. I went out with the generous Oreo-sharing volunteer Saturday night to a new bar in Mbarara and after a few hours of sitting around a fire pit drinking ice cold Nile the owner of the bar gave us a ride to a nearby nightclub. We were standing outside the club and I got a phone call so I stepped away from the Oreo giver and the bar owner momentarily. Next thing I know two well-dressed men in a nice car (friends of the bar owner) are yelling to me out the car window that although they think I’m pretty (thank God…what would I do without consistent positive reassurance from men?) they find the scowl on my face unattractive. Evidently talking on the phone = scowling? The two fools immediately made me think back to living in Portland and all the random men who used to feel compelled to tell me to “Smile!” while I was shoveling change into a parking meter or carrying an empty oxygen cylinder down the hospital hallway or reading deodorant labels at Target. Mind you these are not traditionally smile-inducing acts, even factoring in a well-designed deodorant label. But I think there’s this weird and evidently international expectation that women, particularly young women, should always be smiling and bubbly. Damn Miley Cyrus. I personally see no harm in not smiling and don’t think a not-smile is the same thing as a scowl or an attitude problem. A not-smile isn’t even indicative of unhappiness in the same way a smile isn’t indicative of happiness. Interestingly, when I have Ugandans in my house and they see the drawings on my walls they’ll ask me why the people in the pictures aren’t smiling. Apparently people are altogether very put off by a thoughtful face. I tell the smile-lovers it’s because not everyone in life is happy at all times but I don’t think that’s an accurate response given that the upward or downward turn of your lips doesn’t necessarily reflect the emotion underneath. There are so many emotions and states of being apart from happy/not happy/smiling/not smiling! Like right now I’d say I’m an even mix of hungry/impatient/tired/grateful. And I guarantee you I’m not smiling or scowling. Imagine that.

evidently cooking does not = home micro-dermabrasion. wish someone had told me.

I used to think cooking was a lot like practicing medicine. Sure… you can try to perform your own micro-dermabrasion but it’s really left better for the experts. Less blotchy. I guess I’m altogether skeptical of the whole DIY phenomenon. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen too many self-induced injuries of innocent homeowners that I can only attribute to Home Depot’s brilliant “you can do it, we can help” ad/lie. No, you can’t do it. What you can do is saw off your finger. Oh, Home Depot. They should just tell people something more realistic. Something along the lines of, “you can try to do it if you insist and then the nice doctors and even nicer nurses at your nearest healthcare facility can help repair the damage.” Not as catchy, I know. But I digress. Last week, Monday to be precise, I flipped open my shiny red Peace Corps cookbook for the first time and realized I’ve been living a complete lie! Seriously, I know how dramatic that sounds, but I feel like my life changed when I opened this book. I’ll never go back to rice and Blueband again. OK, maybe just twice a week. Three times tops…I’m sentimental. But did you know you can make just about anything you want from just a few key ingredients? Or that it’s possible to make your own granola bars?? Or wait, even crazier news is that you can make your own egg noodles. I stared at that particular recipe for about 5 minutes before I believed it. And now that I believe it I sometimes open the cookbook to the egg noodle recipe just for a laugh. Egg noodles! I guess all these years I had imagined some magical egg noodle factory in a far off land staffed by cute, wrinkly Italian women who in one hand hold those giant wooden spoons that look like paddles and in the other hand clutch the secret egg noodle recipe passed down orally for generations and only recently recorded on paper. I’m going to make egg noodles. Matter of fact I just finished making my own granola and I have to say Kashi has nothing on me. Chocalate pudding, however, should be left to Jello. Other things I had no idea I could make from the comfort of my quaint, mouse infested home include sour cream, refried beans, potato gnocchi, chocolate syrup, vegetable burgers and the list goes on an on. My mice will be thrilled.

If all goes well with my new DIY cooking experimentation I won’t end up blotchy and seeking medical attention at my local healthcare facility, especially since my nearest healthcare facility is basically run by mice. Sure, I may gain a few kilograms but Ugandans love to tell me how fat I’m growing each and every beautiful morning anyway, seemingly regardless of my actual physical appearance. Even a serious case of giardia at the start of the year didn’t put a damper on the number of fatty compliments I received. Even better than hearing how obese I’ve become is whenever somebody asks me if I have a baby “in there” and gives my stomach a cute little poke. I was telling another volunteer I’m probably going to punch the next person who says that to me in the face and then blame my rash behavior on all the pregnancy hormones. Pregnant women can get away with anything! Plus I figure that would be a great excuse to eat chocolate syrup covered vegetable burgers.

On a side note, speaking of pregnancy, it seems as though about half of the nurses at my hospital are busy enjoying various levels of morning sickness and pitting edema. The hospital administator is losing hair because by Ugandan law, new mothers are entitled to sixty WORKING DAYS of 100% paid maternity leave, the equivelent of around 8.5-9.5 weeks. Yes, Uganda may be exceptionally lagging in gay rights in comparison to the developed world but they do seem to have the right idea when it comes to the rights of women in the workplace. It's almost as if Ugandans think it's important for a mother to be able to bond with her newborn future leader of the world without a great deal of financial stress. Strange concept. Now I'm not claiming every organization in Uganda complies by this law but it's a start. Plus, female staff members don’t even have to go into an obligatorily provided broom closet to breastfeed. Every bench, corner or supermarket is their designated breast feeding space, no blanket required.