One. Year. ONE YEAR!! To commemorate this special occasion, I first considered listing all the things I could have been doing this past year instead of being stared at in Uganda. After jotting down a few possibilities (starting a nursing career, earning half a master’s degree, opening a smoothie stand in Portland’s Pearl District, learning to juggle kittens) I started to shift my thoughts and reflect on the many things I’ve learned over this past year. For example, I’ve learned a great deal about Ugandan culture. I’ve learned to appreciate the subtle qualities of banana wine and to kill spiders with my bare hands. I’ve learned to speak like a toddler in not one but two languages. Milk. Water. Give me. And you might not expect it but I’ve actually learned some interesting if not questionable things from Ugandans about my own culture. Therefore, I’ve decided to take this opportunity to relate the very best of what I’ve learned about America to you.
Did you know…
…in America, nobody is fat?
…in America, you start training for your job when you begin primary [elementary] school? Which does help to explain all those 9 year old nurses.
…in America, healthcare is free? Go ahead, run to your nearest ER for that yearly check-up! Or hell, go in style- call an ambulance.
…in America, college is free?
…in America, nobody is jealous of other people?
…in America, we work with one heart? (I can’t be sure but I think they were referring to “cardiomegaly,” or enlarged heart. It’s actually quite dangerous and affects approximately 100,000 Americans per year. Luckily, these huge-hearted Americans receive free healthcare for all ailments in addition to government-sponsored bi-yearly pancake breakfasts. That Obama loves his pancakes.)
In all seriousness, if I’ve learned anything this past year it’s this: I don’t know a whole lot about my own culture. So get out there! Explore! Learn for free! Eat with no fear of weight gain! Embrace your giant hearts. I won’t be jealous. According to Ugandans, I can’t be jealous. I’ll see you at my smoothie stand in one…more………year. There, I said it. Banana wine smoothies are going to be a hit.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
july 15th: the day my legs died
A long, long time ago, I can still remember when I thought it was a good idea to climb a giant volcano. As if I were a caveman! As if there was some sort of dignity or pride to be gained by being completely drenched in my own sweat, tired, grumpy, and blowing my nose into my shirt! For the record, I’m not talking about a discrete nose wipe on the lower-third of the sleeve, the classic ‘Oh, don’t mind me! I’m just sort of brushing my very ladylike hair out of my very ladylike face’ tactic when really I’m catching a very un-ladylike trail of snot on my cuff. I’m talking about the kind of passionate nose blowing performance sane people, the ones who don’t climb volcanoes, dare to do only behind closed doors, the kind that can shatter superficial friendships and cause post-traumatic stress when witnessed by small children.
Muhuvura, if anything you taught me a few important life lessons. For example, if you must pretend you’re a caveman, always bring a large, sympathetic man who doesn’t fear snot so he can help you climb down the volcano when your legs completely stop taking orders from your brain and instead begin to imitate Elaine’s awkward dance from Seinfeld. That way, if you’re not embarrassed enough already, he can also offer to carry you from the base camp at the foot of the volcano down to the car at the end of the day. And make sure he has a good sense of humor because when he tells you to jump onto his back and your brain jumps but your body just sort of hesitates momentarily and then dramatically slumps to the ground, it’s good to have someone to laugh with before the crying ensues.
My experience reminded me man has evolved and with that comes real responsibilities. For example, in lieu of climbing volcanoes, I should stick to refined, dignified acts such as: sipping coffee at one of those trendy cafes that also displays local art depicting wholly uncivilized volcano mishaps, eating civilized doses of chocolate volcano cake, and brushing my very ladylike hair out of my very, very ladylike face.
Muhuvura, if anything you taught me a few important life lessons. For example, if you must pretend you’re a caveman, always bring a large, sympathetic man who doesn’t fear snot so he can help you climb down the volcano when your legs completely stop taking orders from your brain and instead begin to imitate Elaine’s awkward dance from Seinfeld. That way, if you’re not embarrassed enough already, he can also offer to carry you from the base camp at the foot of the volcano down to the car at the end of the day. And make sure he has a good sense of humor because when he tells you to jump onto his back and your brain jumps but your body just sort of hesitates momentarily and then dramatically slumps to the ground, it’s good to have someone to laugh with before the crying ensues.
My experience reminded me man has evolved and with that comes real responsibilities. For example, in lieu of climbing volcanoes, I should stick to refined, dignified acts such as: sipping coffee at one of those trendy cafes that also displays local art depicting wholly uncivilized volcano mishaps, eating civilized doses of chocolate volcano cake, and brushing my very ladylike hair out of my very, very ladylike face.
museveni, you can take my breath away
A few weeks back, President Museveni came to Kisoro wearing his infamous safari hat.
Background: If the volunteers in my group have enough energy and enthusiasm left to be obsessed with anything these days, anything at all, it’s probably Museveni’s safari hat. In fact, the generous Oreo giver’s core service objective is to steal that hat, which I’m predicting will end in a tragic Oreo-themed funeral. I like the irony of a funeral theme which is both tasteless and delicious but I also hope it will distract from the misfortune of death-by-spear… it’s a rough way to go.
Museveni was scheduled to turn up in Kisoro mid-day, a deceptive Rufumbira word which roughly translates to: anytime between noon and tomorrow. So, after waiting in that crowd for two hours with all that entails- the pushing, the staring, the peddlers pushing their top of the line Museveni gear- I began to distract myself with the weird and wonderful fashions of Uganda, or more accurately, the fashions began to hypnotize me separate of my own personal will. You should know the highlight of the afternoon was an eye-catching, lime green, short sleeved turtleneck number in a delicate, artificial velvet. Now this is obviously a piece that can stand alone, but when paired with camouflage pants? There are no words. In other fashion news, the event confirmed the classic rifle-on-khaki combo never goes out of style.
As the minutes dragged on, the combination of scorching sun and crowded bodies began to overheat my brain which in turn caused me to seriously consider buying a safari hat souvenir bearing Museveni’s name while simultaneously experimenting with mind control in an effort to trigger a rainstorm. You see, if there’s anything Ugandans fear more than personal space and order, it’s rain. Yes…it soon became clear to me rain was the answer to all my problems. Rain would both cool me down and clear out that crowd in a second. Perhaps it would even deter the child attempting to crawl up my back. I started to imagine myself standing solo, poetically, in the middle of the football field in the pouring rain when Museveni arrived. Of course he’d be so impressed with my stamina and dedication he’d invite me into the Land Cruiser for some warm bushera (local millet porridge) and an invitation to serve as his press secretary in the upcoming elections.
After I snapped out of my heat-induced fantasy, which oddly enough had a one song soundtrack of ‘I Can Be Your Hero, Baby’ by Enrique Iglesius, I had ample time to ponder the meaning of life and more importantly, to ponder the meaning of that safari hat. It’s certainly not a fashion statement, although the juxtaposition of the hat next to Museveni’s Fauxmani suit and pimped out Land Cruiser does make for an interesting photograph. But I think the hat is more than that; I suspect we have a Ratatouille situation here. Believe me, there’s no shortage of rodents in this country to discredit my theory and it does help explain the sometimes jerky and relentless thumbs-ups. I’ve therefore begun investigating discreetly; a rat scandal like this could change the whole election and would undoubtedly make my first run as top press secretary disagreeable. If you have any information on this or other scandals, want to talk Ugandan fashion, have a Bradelina update, want to reminisce about the good ol’ days of Starbucks hazelnut lattes and/or sidewalks or need the name of a superior safari hat retailer, please don’t hesitate to contact me immediately.
Background: If the volunteers in my group have enough energy and enthusiasm left to be obsessed with anything these days, anything at all, it’s probably Museveni’s safari hat. In fact, the generous Oreo giver’s core service objective is to steal that hat, which I’m predicting will end in a tragic Oreo-themed funeral. I like the irony of a funeral theme which is both tasteless and delicious but I also hope it will distract from the misfortune of death-by-spear… it’s a rough way to go.
Museveni was scheduled to turn up in Kisoro mid-day, a deceptive Rufumbira word which roughly translates to: anytime between noon and tomorrow. So, after waiting in that crowd for two hours with all that entails- the pushing, the staring, the peddlers pushing their top of the line Museveni gear- I began to distract myself with the weird and wonderful fashions of Uganda, or more accurately, the fashions began to hypnotize me separate of my own personal will. You should know the highlight of the afternoon was an eye-catching, lime green, short sleeved turtleneck number in a delicate, artificial velvet. Now this is obviously a piece that can stand alone, but when paired with camouflage pants? There are no words. In other fashion news, the event confirmed the classic rifle-on-khaki combo never goes out of style.
As the minutes dragged on, the combination of scorching sun and crowded bodies began to overheat my brain which in turn caused me to seriously consider buying a safari hat souvenir bearing Museveni’s name while simultaneously experimenting with mind control in an effort to trigger a rainstorm. You see, if there’s anything Ugandans fear more than personal space and order, it’s rain. Yes…it soon became clear to me rain was the answer to all my problems. Rain would both cool me down and clear out that crowd in a second. Perhaps it would even deter the child attempting to crawl up my back. I started to imagine myself standing solo, poetically, in the middle of the football field in the pouring rain when Museveni arrived. Of course he’d be so impressed with my stamina and dedication he’d invite me into the Land Cruiser for some warm bushera (local millet porridge) and an invitation to serve as his press secretary in the upcoming elections.
After I snapped out of my heat-induced fantasy, which oddly enough had a one song soundtrack of ‘I Can Be Your Hero, Baby’ by Enrique Iglesius, I had ample time to ponder the meaning of life and more importantly, to ponder the meaning of that safari hat. It’s certainly not a fashion statement, although the juxtaposition of the hat next to Museveni’s Fauxmani suit and pimped out Land Cruiser does make for an interesting photograph. But I think the hat is more than that; I suspect we have a Ratatouille situation here. Believe me, there’s no shortage of rodents in this country to discredit my theory and it does help explain the sometimes jerky and relentless thumbs-ups. I’ve therefore begun investigating discreetly; a rat scandal like this could change the whole election and would undoubtedly make my first run as top press secretary disagreeable. If you have any information on this or other scandals, want to talk Ugandan fashion, have a Bradelina update, want to reminisce about the good ol’ days of Starbucks hazelnut lattes and/or sidewalks or need the name of a superior safari hat retailer, please don’t hesitate to contact me immediately.
Monday, July 5, 2010
hindsight has never been so...itchy
I woke up late last night scratching at my skin with all the skilled and delicate technique of a crack addict and had an epiphany: I’ve been blaming my wool blanket all this time for an unpleasant looking, disproportionately itchy body rash when the real culprit is my poor choice of sleeping partner! Or, for full disclosure, I should really say partners. That’s right…I’ve been sleeping with bed bugs. It’s really my own fault. I should have used protection.
In light of my discomforting discovery I’ve been bleaching sheets (by hand, effectively trading in one skin rash for a more sanitary one), trading out old mattresses and old memories and cautioning curious neighbors to abstain from bed bugs until marriage. The funny part is, though I’ve yet to meet even one Ugandan who doesn’t believe in God, I can’t find anyone here who believes in bed bugs. Nobody! Or, at least not the microscopic kind I first saw on Oprah and then in a series of subsequent nightmares. So forget heated cross-cultural discussions on religion- my day was spent arguing that, yes, this ugly rash does prove the existence of bed bugs and no, my rash is not the same phenomenon as the freckles on my nose, but thank you for equating my skin pigmentation with unsightly skin lesions.
Ugandans are funny when it comes to most things, skin included. I’ve been asked on more than one occasion, with sincere sorry-your-goat-died concern, if my freckles hurt. I’ve been advised to go to the hospital for a light sunburn. Whereas in America we have the polite tradition of ignoring other people’s blemishes, Ugandans readily and excitedly point them out. As in, they’ll literally plop their fingers directly on my face and ask if the mosquitoes have been biting me. My usual response is, no, that’s my adult acne, and your fingers on my face aren’t really helping matters. But alas, I’ve learned skin abnormalities are just one of those things perfect-skinned Ugandans can’t understand. And, unfortunately for me, it’s also one they can’t keep their fingers off.
In light of my discomforting discovery I’ve been bleaching sheets (by hand, effectively trading in one skin rash for a more sanitary one), trading out old mattresses and old memories and cautioning curious neighbors to abstain from bed bugs until marriage. The funny part is, though I’ve yet to meet even one Ugandan who doesn’t believe in God, I can’t find anyone here who believes in bed bugs. Nobody! Or, at least not the microscopic kind I first saw on Oprah and then in a series of subsequent nightmares. So forget heated cross-cultural discussions on religion- my day was spent arguing that, yes, this ugly rash does prove the existence of bed bugs and no, my rash is not the same phenomenon as the freckles on my nose, but thank you for equating my skin pigmentation with unsightly skin lesions.
Ugandans are funny when it comes to most things, skin included. I’ve been asked on more than one occasion, with sincere sorry-your-goat-died concern, if my freckles hurt. I’ve been advised to go to the hospital for a light sunburn. Whereas in America we have the polite tradition of ignoring other people’s blemishes, Ugandans readily and excitedly point them out. As in, they’ll literally plop their fingers directly on my face and ask if the mosquitoes have been biting me. My usual response is, no, that’s my adult acne, and your fingers on my face aren’t really helping matters. But alas, I’ve learned skin abnormalities are just one of those things perfect-skinned Ugandans can’t understand. And, unfortunately for me, it’s also one they can’t keep their fingers off.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, May 10, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)