y'oodbye uganda! and g'ood riddance

A few weeks ago I moved to a place called Kisoro. Any map will tell you Kisoro lies in southwestern Uganda on the border of the DRC and Rwanda but... I don't really believe in cartography. There's just no proof. Phones, now phones I believe in. On my way here I recieved a message from my phone network, MTN, which read "Y'ello! MTN Uganda wishes you a safe and pleasant stay in Rwanda. Dial *125# for the International Roaming Guide." First of all, y'ello? Secondly, Rwanda?? I knew I couldn't trust maps. Thanks for telling me about my transfer out of Peace Corps Uganda, phone! If only my Peace Corps bosses had that same courtesy.

Kisoro isn't unlike Mbarara...or...no, it's completely different. I was momentarily confused by the double negative. Kisoro is really a step down from Mbarara. I'm not talking about a latitudinal step, not that I believe in latitude. And don't even get me started on longitude! What I mean to say is the change is similar to the one someone would experience moving form Portland to Eugene. Compared to Portland, Eugene has less people, less pavement, more colorful fabrics and nothing's really happening after 7:30 pm. It's really the same story here in Kisoro. Then there's the whole language barrier to worry about; the language here, Rufumbira, is similar enough to my last language to sound warmly familiar but different enough to confuse the hell out of me. Sort of like how in Eugene they'll say "granola" instead of "cheeseburger" and "run" instead of "ride the streetcar." Like I said, confusing as hell.

Since my big move to Rwanda I've been on the lookout for signs of welcome and good luck and just yesterday, a moth landed on my shoulder! If you had been there you might have interpreted the incident as more of a brutal moth attack than a sign of good cheer but I know for a fact a moth-shoulder landing is the African equivalent of a butterfly-nose landing. Don't try to Y'oogle that. It's more of an oral legend. Sure, moths aren't as pretty as butterflies in the western sense, especially the kind that swarm my house at night, and one could argue my house's moth infestation is actually a sign of quite bad luck. But I don't really believe in infestation. My house is simply a densely populated hot-spot for moth nightlife. It's actually quite flattering when you think about it. I try not to.

son-of-a coupon clipper

I recently realized I've acquired some pretty useless objects throughout my service; my lazy teapot never quite reaches a full boil, my towels are apparently of the nonabsorbent species and my ironic soup ladle droops as soon as it touches something warmer than room temperature. Each night I politely decline a rash from my wool blanket but for some reason wholeheartedly accept the henna-esque facial indentation that only a night with my lumpy, clothes-scrap-stuffed pillow can provide. My mattress, now in its late stages of Alzheimer's, entirely forgets to hold me up as I drift not so softly to sleep and into the hard bed frame below.

In Ugandan product market defense I also brought my share of useless items from home, namely Chaco sandals. If you're lucky enough to fall within a sub-sect of people which doesn't include Oregonians, hippies, Oregonian hippies, river guides, Peace Corps Volunteers, Peace Corps hippy river guides from Oregon or any other inevitable overlapping of these populations, you may have never heard of Chacos. If this is the case I strongly suggest you stop reading here lest you be tempted, in a fit of rebellion, to run to your nearest REI and spend the worst $100 of your life. Of course that's assuming you didn't invest in a set of state quarters ($12.50) in commemorative casing with certificate of authenticity ($87.50)

Chaco sandals are the anti-shoe. Sure, the website may let you flip through varied colors and single versus double strap designs but this is merely a ploy first to distract you from the ugly and second, to distract you from questioning the real value of the Chacos. $100 is a lot to spend on any shoe, let alone one designed to resemble the last remnant of Chinese foot binding mixed with a Goodyear tire. Then again, old meets new style is very in right now.

The real problem is Peace Corps Volunteers get a 50% discount on Chaco brand so any son or daughter of a coupon clipper, thanks Mom, inevitably thinks they're getting some Black Friday trample-a-grandmother deal. Chaco, I 'm offended you would play on the cheap-ass heartstrings of Peace Corps Volunteers to sell your lousy product! I secretly applaud you for your genius and am brainstorming ways to rip off Peace Corps hopefuls when I get home, but I'm nonetheless hurt. The hurt is really more of a bleeding, weeping physical pain than any kind of emotional worry. Or at least that was certainly the case after my latest hike. But because I like to live my life disregarding all problems, carefully documenting all highlights and turning my back on misfortune, I didn't think to take a picture of the latest Chaco massacre on my feet. That and my camera batteries were dead. I'll just say the experience was just like walking on clouds if that's anything like what walking on blood feels like. And believe me, I'd post that vivid description on the customer review section of the Chaco website if I didn't think I'd be suckered into something stupid like buying Bono's It's a Beautiful Day Red Edition Chacos for $200...although I do get that discount. I can only hope the proceeds go to orthopedic surgery.

only jesus himself can brave this man's driving?! i think i'm in the wrong taxi.

The other day I found myself washing my muddy sandals and feet with equally filthy puddle water on the side of the road in Kampala... low point? This isn't exactly the first time I've tried to bathe in Kampala's Holy Waters but it is the first time this semi-embarrassing habit has coincided with my current state of homelessness.

I've decided normal, everyday acts are somehow more pathetic when you're homeless. Take, for example, sitting on the side of the road- I normally find that a nice shady spot on the side of the road is the perfect place to sit and watch life go by after a long walk. But when you're homeless you realize that shady spot isn't really just a nice place to cool down; It's your living room. And that fly, the one that won't leave you alone despite your very best swatting? The type of swatting that is so enthusiastic, innocent passersby encircle you with the mistaken assumption you're demonstrating some sort of drunken martial arts from your homeland? Well that fly is your annoying house pet. And even if you could, you don't need to turn on your laptop to watch movies because evidently you're a real life action/comedy to everyone around you. Children with wide eyes stop and laugh as you interact with all your new house pets and no matter how much you want to, you can't slam the door and crawl under your covers because your finest linen option is a gathering of matooke leaves.

I should say I started writing this post before I travelled east to Bududa and saw actual homeless people living in displacement camps as a result of a recent landslide, people without recurring Peace Corps paychecks or with friends scattered throughout the country willing to take them in and feed them fancy care-package candy canes (only five months late, indicating improvement in the Ugandan postal system). So now I feel like a bit of an ass. Luckily, I'm becoming quite used to the feeling.

My version of homelessness hasn't been without challenge. I mean don't let the candy cane, Christmas in the tropics image fool you. The worst part by far is the travel. I know, you may have romantic images of African safari-style travel... wind in your hair, binoculars in hand and wearing some sort of impractical yet adorable Banana Republic khaki dress with a woven leather belt. Perhaps the Circle of Life is playing softly on the radio or just floating by on the wind from an unknown source. Or... maybe that was just me.

I can't really describe what it's like to actually travel in Uganda. I guess Ugandan travel is somewhat like Buddhism; it's meant to be experienced, not read about. But even Buddha himself, assuming he looked anything like the round-bellied (kwashiorkor?) depiction gracing t-shirts worldwide, would have had a hell of a time fitting into a matatu (taxibus). Matatus, by law, are required to hold no more than 14 people including the driver but even on a good day it's rare to find a taxi travelling any significant distance with less than 18 people and a chicken. More often the number is upwards of 23. Whenever I find myself annoyed at being squished against the roll bar with a small, possibly abandoned child on my lap, I like to think of the extra people as safety devices who will hopefully function as airbags in case of collision. In fact, I have to think of the extra people that way after seeing one matatu driver's first-aid kit fly open (after a particularly large run-in with a particularly large pothole) to reveal absolutely nothing inside. To the left of the empty kit was an empty holster where the fire extinguisher should have been. And to the left of that were the graffitied words of a possibly terrified or hopeful passenger: Jesus Can Brave. Encouragement?

Yes, travel in Uganda is less than glamorous. Two days ago I was travelling to the capital in a matatu which hit a cyclist not even ten minutes into the trip and then two hours later, when my heart rate had finally normalized, abruptly swerved to just barely avoid a head-on collision. I really don't know why every matatu driver in this country drives like they're on the final lap in MarioKart with no red shell and mom yelling "Dinner!" in the background. Yesterday's driver could be the MarioKart Champion of Uganda. The world. I'm not talking about a 100cc, Flower Cup, silver metal kind of guy. This man was 100% Special Cup, lapping people on Rainbow Road. You know, the level with bright confusing lights and no side rails? That's Uganda, just add goats. Just realized I'm a nerd on top of being an ass. Ah, self-discovery.

rabbit stinson... it could have been magical

You know what's not even remotely as fun as dancing with a Nile Special in your hand? Sober dancing. I mean, I'm less confident, people look a lot less attractive, I remember where the bathroom is located... or maybe that last point is a good thing. But the creators of Peace Corps Biggest Loser really should have listed those first two side effects on the waver.

There are 13 of us in the competition; 13 trash-talking, self-depriving, soon-to-be skinny Peace Corps Volunteers. I'm at least fulfilling the first part of that desciption. I'm really hoping to skip over the whole self-deprivation thing and go right to the skinny, especially since discovering a deliciously unavoidable snack called Roasty Tasty. We'll see. I've been stuck in Kampala for a few days and saw a book at Aerostock (the ghetto Barnes & Nobles of Uganda without the annoying Jewel CD on repeat) entitiled How to do Anything Without Working Hard...sounds great to me! My current plan is to just buy that book and set it on my bedside table for the duration of the competition, 6 months. Maybe I'll even read it. Before you doubt my seriousness in this competition I should say I did make an effort to pause at Aeorstock's exercise section but after flipping through an 80s exercise book and rediscovering the hilarity of spandex I saw a book called 40,001 baby names that called to me. It turns out my name is not listed in the Playful Girl Names section. I'm interpreting that to mean I was destined from the start to be lazyish and plump. But apparently if I'd been named Rabbit or Viveca I'd be playful as hell!

fingerprint memories and hoodwinking sim sim

The generous Oreo giver from a previous entry is really becoming the best kind of nuisance to my rapidly expanding and evidently endlessly fun-to-poke waistline. The proof is not just on the scale but in the fingerprints- the greasy, wonderful fingerprint memories of the dare-I-say beautiful m&m ready-bake cookies, the tiny fingerprint reminders that now accent my otherwise dusty, formerly fat-free laptop. I could write a poem about those cookies. But I won’t. I’ll simply say, Thank you generous Oreo giver, I now rename you IwillprobablyblameyouwhenIhit60kilos.

In other food news I was slightly embarrassed and thoroughly surprised to find out my new favorite ingredient, lentils, are not lentils at all but sim sim (sesame seeds) in disguise! A recently departed Peace Corps Volunteer (not dead or anything…just finished with her service) gave me a bunch of her belongings and among said belongings was a large container labeled LENTILS. Well, far be it from me to doubt such a well-written, thoughtfully placed albeit obviously ancient homemade label. I even remember thinking, huh, these lentil thingamajigs sure look a lot like sesame seeds. But since I’d heard lentils are full of protein and low in calories, I started eating them every day. You know what’s not full of protein or even remotely low in calories? Sim sim in masquerade.

It’s quickly becoming evident my blog has begun to revolve around food and episodes of gluttony but in all honesty food has become a central theme of my present reality. Not long ago I used to speed home from school (or what I used to think of as speeding until I came to Uganda), park illegally in a nearby bank parking lot, literally run into my apartment building and pop a corndog into the oven while I rushed to get ready for work. In exactly 18 minutes I’d have a stick of deep-fried perfection and be ready to run out the door, speed over to the hospital, clock-in late yet again and snack on graham crackers for the entirety of my shift. I might have even stopped at Burgerville on the way home if I felt like spending $7 on a turkeyburger and fries.

Food used to be convenient. Corndogs came in 36 packs. Spinach came triple-washed and ready to eat. Lunchmeat came pre-sliced and in a variety pack to suite my every mood. Yes, I am feeling very honey-baked today! Thank you Oscar Mayer. And might I add your new resealable packaging is ingenious and makes my day all the more enjoyable and uncomplicated.

Yes, food used to be processed and pretty and eating used to be something I squeezed in between (or overlapped with) more important tasks except on special occasions. But recently eating has become my special occasion. It’s one of the major things I look forward to in my day. I wake up thinking about breakfast, I spend my morning thinking about lunch, I spend lunch prepping food for dinner. Come to think of it I should probably be tested for a parasite. But for now my yet-to-be diagnosed parasite and I are attempting to live in harmony with food the way it’s supposed to be; that is, fresh, misshapen, un-genetically altered food that’s more ready-rot than ready-bake.

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.