Ugandan culture revolves around family relationships. The family spans much more than just the immediate family. If you hire someone, they will begin bringing you their relatives for you to hire also. If you need a certain kind of person, they will bring whatever relative fits that description the best. And its just the accepted way to go about business here. Also, there are rarely any orphans without some family to take them in. I know a man about 30yo with several dependants, none of them his kids or wife. They are just family with him as the closest relative with a job.
Because of this cultural focus, Ugandans understand familial relationships much better than work-related or others. When I went to Soroti, Hannah asked me who my father was in Uganda. Puzzled, I tried to explain my dad was still in the states. No, who is your father here, who looks after you. For example, her father here is Calvin. The answer for me is Henry. He is the father to all those living in his house. If anyone has a problem with how I act, they go to Henry first with the issue. That is why when people ask if im his wife, I correct them with “daughter”. Claiming status as daughter or sister is much easier than trying to say im just a friend.
How anyone acts here reflects on their father, their family, and also their tribe. Who needs punishments when a system like that is upheld? That system also affects work relationships. Say someone introduces me to another person to work with. If I act badly, that person will go to the one who introduced us and take the issue to him. What I do reflects on the one who introduced me. Its much harder to act up and still keep a job.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
random
So on the drive home, jp gets a call from his girlfriend. She hangs up cuz he is in the car with all of us. Hey, can I sit on top of the car till we hit the main road? Jp finally convinced us it was in his best interest to call his girl back privately… on top of the car. So he climbs out the window of the moving car and proceeds to talk with his girl while we drive thru the villages towards the Entebbe road. All the adults we passed just stared, their faces asked what in the world these crazy mzungus were doing now. Honestly, those of us in the car also wondered.
Oh, the other day I walked past a restaurant playing evanescence. …and I didn’t have a bad reaction, for the first time in over 5 years. I leaned against the rail looking over the city listening to just another song which used to contain fear for me. I smiled at the victory and enjoyed the rest of a perfect warm evening.
Even tho the dirt here is mainly red, most of the rocks are quartz. The beach rocks consist of old pottery and cement, broken shells, and quartz. I found a hunk of smoky quartz as big as my fist. Its quite beautiful. In the store i find mainly malachite from the Congo next door. They sell it in raw form, or as beads and figurines.
Now, for those of you planning to visit kampala, be aware that this city will assault your senses till you get used to it. Smells constantly demand your attention, including sewage, burning garbage, roadside vendor’s cooking, and car exhaust. Ants tend to eat edible garbage before it rots too much. Next comes the noise. Cars, motorcycles, 1000’s of people walking and talking, police whistles, the radio stations on trucks, not to mention the constant American hip-hop or rap played by most stores. Take a noisy city and condense it. That’s kampala noise. Now add the sites of all that I just mentioned. the food isn’t too spicy thankfully.
The only words I have found to describe Uganda are bizarre and rudimentary. Rudimentary because this place seems to be governed only by what is and what isn’t physically possible. There isn’t much how-its-normally-done controlling how something is done because there isn’t a “normal” way to do something. Whatever works, goes.
It is because of this state of affairs that I call Uganda bizarre. You just wouldn’t find this sort of stuff in the US; furniture stores on front lawns, bodas carrying 10 mattresses on the back, welders welding with no protection for themselves or passerbys, or banana trucks with people perched on piles of green bananas all rolling over potholes. This stuff you just have to see to envision. Uganda is also rudimentary because you must ask more basic questions that you would think of in the western world. In the US, the first question is usually “where do I get it?”. Here the first question is “CAN you get it?”. Better to ask “is it possible?”, rather than “is it legal?”. The standard for acceptable risk is much more lenient.
Oh, the other day I walked past a restaurant playing evanescence. …and I didn’t have a bad reaction, for the first time in over 5 years. I leaned against the rail looking over the city listening to just another song which used to contain fear for me. I smiled at the victory and enjoyed the rest of a perfect warm evening.
Even tho the dirt here is mainly red, most of the rocks are quartz. The beach rocks consist of old pottery and cement, broken shells, and quartz. I found a hunk of smoky quartz as big as my fist. Its quite beautiful. In the store i find mainly malachite from the Congo next door. They sell it in raw form, or as beads and figurines.
Now, for those of you planning to visit kampala, be aware that this city will assault your senses till you get used to it. Smells constantly demand your attention, including sewage, burning garbage, roadside vendor’s cooking, and car exhaust. Ants tend to eat edible garbage before it rots too much. Next comes the noise. Cars, motorcycles, 1000’s of people walking and talking, police whistles, the radio stations on trucks, not to mention the constant American hip-hop or rap played by most stores. Take a noisy city and condense it. That’s kampala noise. Now add the sites of all that I just mentioned. the food isn’t too spicy thankfully.
The only words I have found to describe Uganda are bizarre and rudimentary. Rudimentary because this place seems to be governed only by what is and what isn’t physically possible. There isn’t much how-its-normally-done controlling how something is done because there isn’t a “normal” way to do something. Whatever works, goes.
It is because of this state of affairs that I call Uganda bizarre. You just wouldn’t find this sort of stuff in the US; furniture stores on front lawns, bodas carrying 10 mattresses on the back, welders welding with no protection for themselves or passerbys, or banana trucks with people perched on piles of green bananas all rolling over potholes. This stuff you just have to see to envision. Uganda is also rudimentary because you must ask more basic questions that you would think of in the western world. In the US, the first question is usually “where do I get it?”. Here the first question is “CAN you get it?”. Better to ask “is it possible?”, rather than “is it legal?”. The standard for acceptable risk is much more lenient.
container 5
The day started out not too bad. We got a text at 6:30am stating that the 5th container would arrive at the site that morning. But let’s be honest, this is Africa. So we slowly get up, walk around, eat some bread and tea for breakfast. We check on the containers, come back and talk about the boat till noon, when we see the cranes arrive to unload the container from the truck. but where is the truck? “oh, it is only 20 minutes behind us.” …right. An hour later the truck rolls in, on time by African standards. Americans, im not joking. So we tell them what we need them to do, show them where we want it set, and show them the area we prepared for the cranes. The guys have a lot of experience with this sort of machinery, so they know what is and isn’t possible.
The Ugandans with the cranes spend the next 3 hours lifting and releasing the container cuz its stuck to the truck. then they say it is too heavy, even tho they have been lifting the container and the truck together. So we allow them to unload the two heavy stacks of wood. They pull one halfway out, put a strap around the middle, then try to switch which strap is attached to the crane hook. The guy switching the straps is also the counterweight on the stack of wood. Who can see this coming? They drop the stack of wood. Flips right out of the back of the container. Bryce directs and guides the second stack.
And guess what? They still fail at lifting the container off the truck. shocker. A half hour later somehow, magically even, the container lifts free. They drive the truck out, and set it down. But they need to reposition the container so we can get into the 4th container. But one of the cranes drives out of its perfect position, and gets ready to leave. He cant back up into the position again. Its uphill into a garden. He can only drive down the hill, but he has decided he is too sick to finish the job, therefore the whole crane must leave. Then the other drives away from his position. …what is happening. With enough anger, the guys convince the second driver to try again. He cant do much pushing the container from the wrong end. Much arguing ensues. Finally the head Ugandan agrees to have everyone come tomorrow and try again if we got the ground ready, again. They agreed to do it for free. Dang straight it will be for free. Tis a pity we paid in advance for the day of failed work.
We had the ground ready within an hour of when they all left. That’s American work for you.
We have noticed that we could have done any construction job around here better than they did. Or anything having to do with construction. Cutting trees, big machinery, making wood boards, building houses, or any concrete. The problem is getting the materials of good enough quality. Or the tools. The age of good construction has not arrived in Uganda yet. One man asked Bob if American concrete work was as good as Ugandan. Bob found new depths of tact when he responded that it was at least as good. The concrete here crumbles at the touch. The bricks aren’t square. Scratch that, nothing is square. Welcome to building in Uganda.
The next day it rained so the cranes didn’t want to start till 3pm. Oh, and it changed from two cranes to one. I left to go buy a fridge in town (turns out it doesn’t work properly, but we can exchange it). The guys had to hire Ugandans to unload and load most of the container so the crane could move it. Good grief. only 2 days to place one container. not bad for ugandan work.
The Ugandans with the cranes spend the next 3 hours lifting and releasing the container cuz its stuck to the truck. then they say it is too heavy, even tho they have been lifting the container and the truck together. So we allow them to unload the two heavy stacks of wood. They pull one halfway out, put a strap around the middle, then try to switch which strap is attached to the crane hook. The guy switching the straps is also the counterweight on the stack of wood. Who can see this coming? They drop the stack of wood. Flips right out of the back of the container. Bryce directs and guides the second stack.
And guess what? They still fail at lifting the container off the truck. shocker. A half hour later somehow, magically even, the container lifts free. They drive the truck out, and set it down. But they need to reposition the container so we can get into the 4th container. But one of the cranes drives out of its perfect position, and gets ready to leave. He cant back up into the position again. Its uphill into a garden. He can only drive down the hill, but he has decided he is too sick to finish the job, therefore the whole crane must leave. Then the other drives away from his position. …what is happening. With enough anger, the guys convince the second driver to try again. He cant do much pushing the container from the wrong end. Much arguing ensues. Finally the head Ugandan agrees to have everyone come tomorrow and try again if we got the ground ready, again. They agreed to do it for free. Dang straight it will be for free. Tis a pity we paid in advance for the day of failed work.
We had the ground ready within an hour of when they all left. That’s American work for you.
We have noticed that we could have done any construction job around here better than they did. Or anything having to do with construction. Cutting trees, big machinery, making wood boards, building houses, or any concrete. The problem is getting the materials of good enough quality. Or the tools. The age of good construction has not arrived in Uganda yet. One man asked Bob if American concrete work was as good as Ugandan. Bob found new depths of tact when he responded that it was at least as good. The concrete here crumbles at the touch. The bricks aren’t square. Scratch that, nothing is square. Welcome to building in Uganda.
The next day it rained so the cranes didn’t want to start till 3pm. Oh, and it changed from two cranes to one. I left to go buy a fridge in town (turns out it doesn’t work properly, but we can exchange it). The guys had to hire Ugandans to unload and load most of the container so the crane could move it. Good grief. only 2 days to place one container. not bad for ugandan work.
quick response, lethargic response
It was one of those African days where nothing goes right, but if it does, it takes at least twice a long as it should. Henry and I searched for a rolex (Ugandan breakfast burrito) on the way back to the site from kampala. It took a while to find, but finally I bought one. So then are driving the rest of the way to the site, when we see a boy fall off his bike. He scrambled up off the road, but as we pass we saw blood. We stop to check it out, and I grabbed my small first aid box. Henry informed me my band-aids weren’t going to work.
Blood spurted and ran down the boy’s hand. Lots of blood. I saw a broken glass bottle by the bike and several Ugandan children standing around. He had sliced an artery. Let’s take him in the truck. Henry put some clean paper around the hand and showed me where to press. The boy and I got into the back of the pickup, and henry drove us to the clinic. I tied my shoelace around the boy’s arm, but I couldn’t get the shoelace out of the shoe, so I had to cut the shoe off the shoelace. The doctor was out. So we got back in to the pickup and drove to the next clinic. The doctor was out. Third clinic; same thing. By now there is a pool of blood in the back of the pickup. I would get the bleeding stopped, then it would get bumped and start bleeding again. So much blood. Henry decided to quit checking every clinic and just take the boy to a hospital in Entebbe. So I brace myself holding the pickup, and the boy; telling him to breathe deep breaths and not to worry. He told me he is called Francis and he is 14yo. I notice he hasn’t cried at all yet. He did throw up from the shock tho. Henry is a genius driver; he didn’t hit anything or anyone. That is a miracle considering all the people and cows, and bodas, and goats, and bikes, trucks, etc wandering all over the road. He even slowed down for the evil speed bumps, well most of them. The second to last hid in the shadow of a tree. Henry hit it going pretty fast, and both of us passengers in the back flew up. I hit my head on the roof of the canopy pretty hard. Immediately I found a sizable bump up there. Henry swerved over to a group of bodas and pays one of them to lead us to the nearest hospital in Entebbe. And we drive off again, onto the paved road.
We drive in the gate of the hospital, the guard looks in the back of the pickup and says we must take the boy to the second gate. So we drive to the second gate and take the boy into the room labeled “triage”. Ok, the boy is in medical hands, I can relax now. I sit down, hug my knees and cry for a few minutes. Yes, im admitting I cried. Henry locked the car and invited mein to get cleaned up. I forgot that now I have blood on my arms and legs. Ever tried to wash your legs in a sink? Its kinda hard. So Henry washed them for me. I got some pain pills for my head and curled up on one of the beds watching them care for the boy. Or rather, fail to care for the boy. They seemed to be more interested in my bump on the head and headache than the boy who started to bleed little rivers again. They asked Henry if I was his wife. No, no, im his daughter (that’s the closest relationship to ours that Ugandans understand). I had hoped the medical staff would act different than the rest of Uganda. But no. the nurses put on their aprons and gloves, take them off again, put them on again. I saw them cutting pieces of gauze, but realized they were making straps for the aprons. They finally wrapped his hand in gauze, then left it. The blood quickly soaked thru, and started running down to the floor again.
So much blood. Where is the doctor? the doc finally got there, looks at the boy, answers his cellphone, walks out again. Comes back, checks on me. Good grief, stop worrying about my bumped head and treat the boy. Finally, Henry puts on gloves and tried to stop the bleeding. After a few minutes he stopped and came over to my bed, sweating and looking pale. Apparently the mixed smell of blood and long-unwashed body can make someone nauseas. “Henry, you look white…I mean, more white than you already are.” He smiled, then started to faint. He is a fairly solid guy to catch. So I laid him out on the bed and told him to stay. The doctor came over to check on us, still not having done anything about the boy. I told Henry if I ever cut off my hand, just send me to Kenya for medical care – I would be faster that way.
Finally the nurses shooed us out to go sit on a bench. Henry told me when he was starting to faint, he actually wanted to laugh at the ridiculous little doily pinned to one of the nurse’s hair. We saw several different sort of doilies, all ridiculous and small, but no little hats. So we sat out there joking about doctors and Ugandans. He kept apologizing for my bumped head. So much so that I told him if he didn’t stop feeling guilty, that I would punch him. He stopped apologizing. The nurse came out with the boy’s pants and shoes. “here are his shoeses and his closes (clothes), when he goes, he goes with it.” We just started giggling at that. They obviously didn’t want his clothes that had blood and vomit on them. They finally stitched up and patched up the boy. They gave him a tetanus shot, but no painkillers, and didn’t wash the blood off the rest of him.
We finally got the boy back in truck, rolled down the windows and turned on the fan since this time we all got into the cab of the truck. We drove rather more sedately back to the site, where the guys all helped to clean out the truck and disinfect it. I got to call mom and hear her voice. We took the boy home, I gave him some pain pills so he could sleep, explained to his mother how we ended up having him with us, and then finally drove back to Kampala. John Paul mentioned as how this was one of those days where going home you just feel like you got kicked all day long.
Apparently the guys didn’t have an easy time of it either.
The boy never cried. He lost 1 ½ liters of blood. 3 liters is critical. And that was with Henry’s crazy driving into town. I don’t understand the lethargic manner of the Ugandan doctors and nurses towards the amount of blood. Why didn’t they help him faster? I hurt the next day pretty bad cuz my back doesn’t respond well to trauma. But I knew I would probably get hurt when I got into the back with the boy. Just like Henry knew he might hit something. But we both knew that boy could die if he didn’t get stitched up fast, or fast-ish.
Blood spurted and ran down the boy’s hand. Lots of blood. I saw a broken glass bottle by the bike and several Ugandan children standing around. He had sliced an artery. Let’s take him in the truck. Henry put some clean paper around the hand and showed me where to press. The boy and I got into the back of the pickup, and henry drove us to the clinic. I tied my shoelace around the boy’s arm, but I couldn’t get the shoelace out of the shoe, so I had to cut the shoe off the shoelace. The doctor was out. So we got back in to the pickup and drove to the next clinic. The doctor was out. Third clinic; same thing. By now there is a pool of blood in the back of the pickup. I would get the bleeding stopped, then it would get bumped and start bleeding again. So much blood. Henry decided to quit checking every clinic and just take the boy to a hospital in Entebbe. So I brace myself holding the pickup, and the boy; telling him to breathe deep breaths and not to worry. He told me he is called Francis and he is 14yo. I notice he hasn’t cried at all yet. He did throw up from the shock tho. Henry is a genius driver; he didn’t hit anything or anyone. That is a miracle considering all the people and cows, and bodas, and goats, and bikes, trucks, etc wandering all over the road. He even slowed down for the evil speed bumps, well most of them. The second to last hid in the shadow of a tree. Henry hit it going pretty fast, and both of us passengers in the back flew up. I hit my head on the roof of the canopy pretty hard. Immediately I found a sizable bump up there. Henry swerved over to a group of bodas and pays one of them to lead us to the nearest hospital in Entebbe. And we drive off again, onto the paved road.
We drive in the gate of the hospital, the guard looks in the back of the pickup and says we must take the boy to the second gate. So we drive to the second gate and take the boy into the room labeled “triage”. Ok, the boy is in medical hands, I can relax now. I sit down, hug my knees and cry for a few minutes. Yes, im admitting I cried. Henry locked the car and invited mein to get cleaned up. I forgot that now I have blood on my arms and legs. Ever tried to wash your legs in a sink? Its kinda hard. So Henry washed them for me. I got some pain pills for my head and curled up on one of the beds watching them care for the boy. Or rather, fail to care for the boy. They seemed to be more interested in my bump on the head and headache than the boy who started to bleed little rivers again. They asked Henry if I was his wife. No, no, im his daughter (that’s the closest relationship to ours that Ugandans understand). I had hoped the medical staff would act different than the rest of Uganda. But no. the nurses put on their aprons and gloves, take them off again, put them on again. I saw them cutting pieces of gauze, but realized they were making straps for the aprons. They finally wrapped his hand in gauze, then left it. The blood quickly soaked thru, and started running down to the floor again.
So much blood. Where is the doctor? the doc finally got there, looks at the boy, answers his cellphone, walks out again. Comes back, checks on me. Good grief, stop worrying about my bumped head and treat the boy. Finally, Henry puts on gloves and tried to stop the bleeding. After a few minutes he stopped and came over to my bed, sweating and looking pale. Apparently the mixed smell of blood and long-unwashed body can make someone nauseas. “Henry, you look white…I mean, more white than you already are.” He smiled, then started to faint. He is a fairly solid guy to catch. So I laid him out on the bed and told him to stay. The doctor came over to check on us, still not having done anything about the boy. I told Henry if I ever cut off my hand, just send me to Kenya for medical care – I would be faster that way.
Finally the nurses shooed us out to go sit on a bench. Henry told me when he was starting to faint, he actually wanted to laugh at the ridiculous little doily pinned to one of the nurse’s hair. We saw several different sort of doilies, all ridiculous and small, but no little hats. So we sat out there joking about doctors and Ugandans. He kept apologizing for my bumped head. So much so that I told him if he didn’t stop feeling guilty, that I would punch him. He stopped apologizing. The nurse came out with the boy’s pants and shoes. “here are his shoeses and his closes (clothes), when he goes, he goes with it.” We just started giggling at that. They obviously didn’t want his clothes that had blood and vomit on them. They finally stitched up and patched up the boy. They gave him a tetanus shot, but no painkillers, and didn’t wash the blood off the rest of him.
We finally got the boy back in truck, rolled down the windows and turned on the fan since this time we all got into the cab of the truck. We drove rather more sedately back to the site, where the guys all helped to clean out the truck and disinfect it. I got to call mom and hear her voice. We took the boy home, I gave him some pain pills so he could sleep, explained to his mother how we ended up having him with us, and then finally drove back to Kampala. John Paul mentioned as how this was one of those days where going home you just feel like you got kicked all day long.
Apparently the guys didn’t have an easy time of it either.
The boy never cried. He lost 1 ½ liters of blood. 3 liters is critical. And that was with Henry’s crazy driving into town. I don’t understand the lethargic manner of the Ugandan doctors and nurses towards the amount of blood. Why didn’t they help him faster? I hurt the next day pretty bad cuz my back doesn’t respond well to trauma. But I knew I would probably get hurt when I got into the back with the boy. Just like Henry knew he might hit something. But we both knew that boy could die if he didn’t get stitched up fast, or fast-ish.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
bizarre
I got a djembe drum. I have wanted one for a long time, but they are fairly expensive in the states. Here I bought a full size one for $25. Pretty awesome if you ask me.
Julia and rob were both here for about a week. Julia left today. Sunday the guys gave her a grasshopper to eat. So ever since then she has been randomly mentioning that she ate a bug.
Sunday I went to church obviously. And on the way thru the slums I was accosted by a cigarette and beer wielding Ugandan walking like a gay man. Sounded like a gay man too as he explained he was a transsexual; a woman trapped in a man’s body. I told him he would last real long in Uganda. I turned to go the other way and he followed me for a while shouting he believed in the god, bible, homosexuality, beer, faith, love, basically everything. Eventually he left me alone. Got tired of me walking and saying go away. I think Uganda can be bizarre.
The other day at the site, I threw a bag of garbage outside to collect later. A girl came over and asked what it was. I told her it was garbage and that I didn’t want it. She grabbed it and ran off. A few minutes later I found her and 2 other kids sorting thru the contents of the bag. They took most of it. They wanted our garbage. It wasn’t even really anything interesting, just product wrapping and cardboard. This gives a new meaning to poor and rich. I cant imagine living like that.
Julia and rob were both here for about a week. Julia left today. Sunday the guys gave her a grasshopper to eat. So ever since then she has been randomly mentioning that she ate a bug.
Sunday I went to church obviously. And on the way thru the slums I was accosted by a cigarette and beer wielding Ugandan walking like a gay man. Sounded like a gay man too as he explained he was a transsexual; a woman trapped in a man’s body. I told him he would last real long in Uganda. I turned to go the other way and he followed me for a while shouting he believed in the god, bible, homosexuality, beer, faith, love, basically everything. Eventually he left me alone. Got tired of me walking and saying go away. I think Uganda can be bizarre.
The other day at the site, I threw a bag of garbage outside to collect later. A girl came over and asked what it was. I told her it was garbage and that I didn’t want it. She grabbed it and ran off. A few minutes later I found her and 2 other kids sorting thru the contents of the bag. They took most of it. They wanted our garbage. It wasn’t even really anything interesting, just product wrapping and cardboard. This gives a new meaning to poor and rich. I cant imagine living like that.
Monday, May 17, 2010
unloading
I set my alarm for 5:30am, but actually the bat flying around my room woke me up. Bryce had relayed the plan to us the night before; leave at 6, arrive at the focus site by 7, unloading crane arriving at 7:30, etc. I wander down around 6, muble something about a moth in my room cuz a bat just seemed too…exotic. Bryce tell s me it is a bat. He had a good look already since it hit him in the face. I get coffee, blessed coffee, thank God for coffee, and wander back upstairs to find the bat and get my trusty bag. Cant find the bat. Leave window open hoping it will get the hint. We all load the back of the truck with whatever wood we haven’t used and any tools we might need. Then add mattress, then bob, leonard, and opus. Henry, Bryce and I cram into the front. And we are off by 6:30, not bad for Africa. Stop for petrol, no petrol attendant. Drive to other petrol station. We head out from that one going the wrong way (you must forgive henry, he only had 2 hours of sleep cuz he and Bryce had a very long day yesterday). We make record time going to the site, joking about Uganda all the way. Arrive at the site at 7:30 in the middle of a large rainstorm with no Ugandans in sight. They tend to disappear in the rain so we cant get started unloading the containers from the truck. Thankfully we have a canopy over the back otherwise it would suck for the guys in the back. Henry and Bryce decide to sleep till the rain passes. I sit wedged between them writing the above. Good morning Africa. In between rain, I wander over to the dorm and find clumps of ants eating away at anything having to do with food. Find come potato chips to bring back to the guys when the rain finally lets up enough to walk back without getting soaked. I warn them to blow off the chips before eating to free them of ants. Leonard wanders round in his dad’s huge jacket munching away at the chips.
The cranes and the truck drivers arrive around 9 or so. So now 20+ Ugandans stand around arguing in Lugandan about how to unload the containers. Since the road is muddy from all the rain, they want a different truck and crane to do the job. Oi. I trade places with henry so he can go help Bryce deal with the locals and I can watch our truck full of tools. There is a kid hanging on the window sill watching me write. It took almost 5 minutes for him to ask for money. amazing. At 11:30am, most of us go to Entebbe for food since the rain started pouring again. Coming back, we pass one of our containers driving into town….is it supposed to be doing that? Then Rob and Julia showed up so we had an earthwise meeting, the minutes of which remain closed as with all business meetings. The sun came out, they left and we waited for the Ugandans to return. 5pm the Ugandans return ready to work. They unload 3 containers into place before dusk. Now why couldn’t that have happened earlier? Bryce wants me to inform you all that he was bothering me again with his incessant teasing. The first thing out of the containers was henry’s guitar. Bryce finally received his moving boxes…8 months after packing them into the container in Seattle.
For the last container, everyone stops and slowly meander out to the road. There is some labor dispute so they don’t want to work. Thru our interpreter, we find that they don’t want to finish the job till their boss pays them in order to make sure they get paid. Oh, and the boss has to personally drive the money to the site from kampala, over an hour away at this point in the traffic day. Good grief. Nothing anyone says motivates them to keep working while the boss drives. Btw, the last container sits directly in the driveway so our little truck cants get to the road. We are trapped. The boss is on the way, so they set up the cranes to lift as soon as he gets here, but they don’t lift, just get ready. The boss arrives, suddenly everyone disappears with him to discuss the money issue. Its pitch black, us mzungus have nothing to do and no way to do it in the dark. We already put as much paint on the dorms as we can without waiting for it to dry (that paint is easily the worst I have ever worked with or heard of, the dorm has 5+ layers so far…). This is fun. All most of us can do is keep our tempers in check. What are the legal penalties for punching someone? At about 11:30pm, everyone returns to lift the container off the truck and into place. The two crane trucks do not know how to maneuver around, or around each other. I just waited for one of them to hit the other while repositioning. One almost tipped from lifting too far off the center of gravity. The other crane truck tried to drive up and over a dirt hump next to the road to get out. He guns the engine, drives straight up the hump, goes airborn for a moment and lands squarely on the hump. He sheepishly backs back down to wait. The Ugandan picked to come apologize to us for the time delay looked quite stunned at the response. Almost seemed like he expected we would be totally understanding. We aren’t.
Midnight we leave; exhausted, hungry, and frustrated. I head straight to bed, too tired to check for that bat. I think the guys actually ate dinner. Tomorrow is Sunday. Funny how we have one of those just when we need one most. The day of rest, blessed day of rest.
The cranes and the truck drivers arrive around 9 or so. So now 20+ Ugandans stand around arguing in Lugandan about how to unload the containers. Since the road is muddy from all the rain, they want a different truck and crane to do the job. Oi. I trade places with henry so he can go help Bryce deal with the locals and I can watch our truck full of tools. There is a kid hanging on the window sill watching me write. It took almost 5 minutes for him to ask for money. amazing. At 11:30am, most of us go to Entebbe for food since the rain started pouring again. Coming back, we pass one of our containers driving into town….is it supposed to be doing that? Then Rob and Julia showed up so we had an earthwise meeting, the minutes of which remain closed as with all business meetings. The sun came out, they left and we waited for the Ugandans to return. 5pm the Ugandans return ready to work. They unload 3 containers into place before dusk. Now why couldn’t that have happened earlier? Bryce wants me to inform you all that he was bothering me again with his incessant teasing. The first thing out of the containers was henry’s guitar. Bryce finally received his moving boxes…8 months after packing them into the container in Seattle.
For the last container, everyone stops and slowly meander out to the road. There is some labor dispute so they don’t want to work. Thru our interpreter, we find that they don’t want to finish the job till their boss pays them in order to make sure they get paid. Oh, and the boss has to personally drive the money to the site from kampala, over an hour away at this point in the traffic day. Good grief. Nothing anyone says motivates them to keep working while the boss drives. Btw, the last container sits directly in the driveway so our little truck cants get to the road. We are trapped. The boss is on the way, so they set up the cranes to lift as soon as he gets here, but they don’t lift, just get ready. The boss arrives, suddenly everyone disappears with him to discuss the money issue. Its pitch black, us mzungus have nothing to do and no way to do it in the dark. We already put as much paint on the dorms as we can without waiting for it to dry (that paint is easily the worst I have ever worked with or heard of, the dorm has 5+ layers so far…). This is fun. All most of us can do is keep our tempers in check. What are the legal penalties for punching someone? At about 11:30pm, everyone returns to lift the container off the truck and into place. The two crane trucks do not know how to maneuver around, or around each other. I just waited for one of them to hit the other while repositioning. One almost tipped from lifting too far off the center of gravity. The other crane truck tried to drive up and over a dirt hump next to the road to get out. He guns the engine, drives straight up the hump, goes airborn for a moment and lands squarely on the hump. He sheepishly backs back down to wait. The Ugandan picked to come apologize to us for the time delay looked quite stunned at the response. Almost seemed like he expected we would be totally understanding. We aren’t.
Midnight we leave; exhausted, hungry, and frustrated. I head straight to bed, too tired to check for that bat. I think the guys actually ate dinner. Tomorrow is Sunday. Funny how we have one of those just when we need one most. The day of rest, blessed day of rest.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
soroti
I finally took a trip to soroti. I tried to take in all the information and emotions, but even so I doubt I will be able to convey it sufficiently to you. This story may take a while so sit back with your good coffee and your humor and let me tell you of my trip.
First of all, this is Africa. So my trip was delayed 1-2 days. Saturday I packed my bags with everything I thought I would need to go to a remote area of northern Uganda. Meds, tanktops, shorts, a skirt, honey sticks, camera, bible, that sort of thing. Calvin asked me to meet the them at the jinja road so I took a boda to that intersection and waited for the others to make their way thru traffic. Every boda and taxi passing on the busy roads offered me a ride. The taxis waiting at that intersection for passengers asked over and over “where are you going? You take taxi?”. I maintained that I was going with friends. One man kept staring at me so I greeted him. He just shook his head and smiled; he didn’t understand English. I tried lugandan, “odio-tia”. Aha, he asked me something in lugandan. My turn to shake my head and smile. We both just stood smiling at our impasse. Another man walked up and asked if I was born again. Yes, I am born again. Timothy the Christian and I stood agreeing about the basic tenants of Christianity until Calvin and the others picked me up. Bus stops here become adventures for mzungus.
For the long car ride north, calvin and his assistant Hannah took the front seats, Kevin and I in the back and his girls jael and hallie in the way back. They alternated arguing as only sisters can and sleeping. Outside the car hills rolled past, covered with sugar cane or tea bushes. Then comes a jungle. Then papyrus fields. Ugandan countryside cannot be described as boring except by the blind. Grass, trees, and bushes all different colors of green. Sometimes flowers sprinkle the trees or grasses. “cultivated” land springs up anywhere with no apparent order. Usually a village of thatched roofs stands nearby. Goats, or chickens, even pigs wander around without any sort of constraint. Herds of cattle usually have a shepherd wearing rubber boots and wielding a stick. And people are everywhere; on the road, next to the road, in the fields. Bikes and bodas also ride everywhere. Cars, taxis, large trucks and also cargo trucks carrying people as much as actual cargo claim most of the road. Everyone tries to pass anyone slower than them. One of the trucks had the motto written across it; A’m the leader of the leaders. I laughed as we passed that truck. The farther north, the more bodas become bikes with a cushion on the back instead of motorcycles.
Then I looked up at the horizon. And behold, there rose mountains under the clouds. I love mountains. So when I saw those mountains joy rose inside me also. I have missed mountains. Sadly I couldn’t see the highest one because of the clouds. As we drove, I could see individual storms dropping sheets of rain over the countryside. After we drove thru a storm, we could see a rainbow. Hannah told us there is a childhood myth that when it rains and the sun also shines, hyenas give birth. I wonder why that myth connects those things.
After the mountain faded into the distance, I started seeing rock outcroppings. They rise out of flat fields randomly. These rocks either gather in tall hills with boulders rolling down the sides, or stretch barely higher than the grass. All of it has a worn look; no rough edges or moss, just looks like the rocks have been worn by weather for ages. Soroti rock is simply a higher form of these. I want to climb it next time I go.
We dropped Kevin and the girls off with our American friends. Calvin said he wanted to take me to the village, but we ended up staying at the soroti hotel because it rained too hard to travel to the village. However, I was ok with this since the hotel had hot water for showers. I turned in early partly, ok, mostly to take a long hot shower. Not sure if I could have enjoyed that as much if I hadn’t gone without hot water for 6 weeks. I don’t know how to describe the bliss of stretching in warm water. Also, my parents called me and we talked for over an hour. The next morning my sis called me. Yay family chatting.
We didn’t make it to church Sunday. I had been hearing threats of mandatory preaching from whites who visit the village. Im ok with having more time to prepare my speech. Also, as I had mentioned to calvin, freedom is a large part of my faith. Freedom to do or not to do. Like drinking; I have the freedom to drink because I have to freedom to stop.
Anyways, calvin wanted to wait for a driver before setting out to the village since he was tired of driving. After a bit of convincing, he agreed to let me drive to the village and back. Yay. Hannah directed me while calvin sat in the back speaking ateso with his friend. Driving in Uganda is backwards. All the controls for the driver are mirror image to how they should be. Not to mention they drive on the wrong side of the road here. I tried the turn signal; the windshield wipers started full blast. For some reason I quietly sang a song from “the Gods must be Crazy II”. Remember when the African dude rides a bike around the desert singing that wordless song? That’s my soundtrack for driving in Africa. That is between dodging bicyclists, cows, and kids. Its more off-roading than driving. Hannah; turn here. Me; where. Finally I saw a foot path and what could be a tire track next to it.
The village does not look like what I expected. Painted cement huts with thatched roofs sit around bigger cement buildings with metal roofs. Nice cut grass yard and raised stone walkways connect all the buildings in a circle. Hannah taught me how to greet people in ateso; “yoga” “yoga-noi” “be-abba” “jackana”. I messed it up a lot which thankfully they found hilarious. I went for a short walk to look around the peaceful countryside after we all gathered in the blue roof building. Its one huge room with tables and chairs, wood planks for some project, a generator, and a nesting chicken. Gotta have the chicken. On the way back from my walk, a very old woman greeted and blessed me in her language. I felt her bless me. She followed me into the main room where calvin interpreted between us. When I asked, he explained that this wasn’t his grandma, but his father’s first wife and a very strong Christian. I met a lot of the wives of pilgrim people in the village. They fed us tea and snacks, then lunch at 4:30. The whole time I stayed there I ate only Ugandan food; cassava, millet, millet porridge for breakfast, lemon tea, rice, and really good goat. They fed us again later that night.always lots of food.
Hannah, one of the men, and I went mango picking. They lent me gum boots for the occasion since my sandals wouldn’t work well for the mud. (I only brought summer clothing expecting the normal hot weather. I was actually cold and wanting a jacket most of the time.) the man who brought me the boots commented on how big his feet were(size 9) and how they fit him cuz he was a big man … I couldn’t figure out if he was joking or not. Some of these people don’t speak English. Until then, I had been talking with people who spoke the trade language English. We walked among fields of crops and little mud and thatched villages looking for good mango trees. The others threw things at the mangos to bring them down. I decided to climb the tree like the kids to get the mangos, but I didn’t get very far up in my gum boots. Suddenly I became an even bigger sensation. One girl started following me so I offered her my hand to walk with me since she was going to stare the entire time anyways. That evening I spent several hours talking with Hannah and the men about everything. It felt like a college bonfire without the immaturity and alcohol. Beware; know all the definitions of your English words before discussing in a different country. They may use a less obvious definition for a word. Like “believe”; to them “to believe in” means “to worship”. I meant to ask if they accepted the existence of something. I got to describe walking on ice, Midwest winters, and mountains to them in amongst the theology discussions. I noticed calvin’s mother sitting nearby but out of conversation range watching her son. It must be hard for a mother to see her son only a few times a year and the rest of the time in an alien country.
Listening to the conversation I understood something my professor at Hillsdale once taught us; Africans prefer circles to straight lines. Villages are circles, not intersecting lines like American towns. Their discussions tend to go in circles, discussing all areas before arriving back at the start of the topic, maybe going around again while adding another’s comments. But it isn’t circular reasoning, just circular discussions.
I drove back the next morning. They have one of the best roads up there, sadly it is made out of the stone from one of their hill-landmarks. I spent some time Phyllis at the school having quite a good talk. Probably more about that later. We finally picked up Kevin and his girls somewhere in soroti. Btw, soroti has a population of about 50,000 in a town the size of Colville or Hillsdale. Jael complained that they had been calling the driver for 2 hours while they waited. “Jael, repeat after me, TIA – this is Africa.” We drove back watching the storms drive across the land, and driving thru the storms. We saw one truck overturned with all its passengers hiding from the rain behind it. Also, halfway to kampala, we found a chicken in a black bag in the car – alive. TIA baby, just TIA.
First of all, this is Africa. So my trip was delayed 1-2 days. Saturday I packed my bags with everything I thought I would need to go to a remote area of northern Uganda. Meds, tanktops, shorts, a skirt, honey sticks, camera, bible, that sort of thing. Calvin asked me to meet the them at the jinja road so I took a boda to that intersection and waited for the others to make their way thru traffic. Every boda and taxi passing on the busy roads offered me a ride. The taxis waiting at that intersection for passengers asked over and over “where are you going? You take taxi?”. I maintained that I was going with friends. One man kept staring at me so I greeted him. He just shook his head and smiled; he didn’t understand English. I tried lugandan, “odio-tia”. Aha, he asked me something in lugandan. My turn to shake my head and smile. We both just stood smiling at our impasse. Another man walked up and asked if I was born again. Yes, I am born again. Timothy the Christian and I stood agreeing about the basic tenants of Christianity until Calvin and the others picked me up. Bus stops here become adventures for mzungus.
For the long car ride north, calvin and his assistant Hannah took the front seats, Kevin and I in the back and his girls jael and hallie in the way back. They alternated arguing as only sisters can and sleeping. Outside the car hills rolled past, covered with sugar cane or tea bushes. Then comes a jungle. Then papyrus fields. Ugandan countryside cannot be described as boring except by the blind. Grass, trees, and bushes all different colors of green. Sometimes flowers sprinkle the trees or grasses. “cultivated” land springs up anywhere with no apparent order. Usually a village of thatched roofs stands nearby. Goats, or chickens, even pigs wander around without any sort of constraint. Herds of cattle usually have a shepherd wearing rubber boots and wielding a stick. And people are everywhere; on the road, next to the road, in the fields. Bikes and bodas also ride everywhere. Cars, taxis, large trucks and also cargo trucks carrying people as much as actual cargo claim most of the road. Everyone tries to pass anyone slower than them. One of the trucks had the motto written across it; A’m the leader of the leaders. I laughed as we passed that truck. The farther north, the more bodas become bikes with a cushion on the back instead of motorcycles.
Then I looked up at the horizon. And behold, there rose mountains under the clouds. I love mountains. So when I saw those mountains joy rose inside me also. I have missed mountains. Sadly I couldn’t see the highest one because of the clouds. As we drove, I could see individual storms dropping sheets of rain over the countryside. After we drove thru a storm, we could see a rainbow. Hannah told us there is a childhood myth that when it rains and the sun also shines, hyenas give birth. I wonder why that myth connects those things.
After the mountain faded into the distance, I started seeing rock outcroppings. They rise out of flat fields randomly. These rocks either gather in tall hills with boulders rolling down the sides, or stretch barely higher than the grass. All of it has a worn look; no rough edges or moss, just looks like the rocks have been worn by weather for ages. Soroti rock is simply a higher form of these. I want to climb it next time I go.
We dropped Kevin and the girls off with our American friends. Calvin said he wanted to take me to the village, but we ended up staying at the soroti hotel because it rained too hard to travel to the village. However, I was ok with this since the hotel had hot water for showers. I turned in early partly, ok, mostly to take a long hot shower. Not sure if I could have enjoyed that as much if I hadn’t gone without hot water for 6 weeks. I don’t know how to describe the bliss of stretching in warm water. Also, my parents called me and we talked for over an hour. The next morning my sis called me. Yay family chatting.
We didn’t make it to church Sunday. I had been hearing threats of mandatory preaching from whites who visit the village. Im ok with having more time to prepare my speech. Also, as I had mentioned to calvin, freedom is a large part of my faith. Freedom to do or not to do. Like drinking; I have the freedom to drink because I have to freedom to stop.
Anyways, calvin wanted to wait for a driver before setting out to the village since he was tired of driving. After a bit of convincing, he agreed to let me drive to the village and back. Yay. Hannah directed me while calvin sat in the back speaking ateso with his friend. Driving in Uganda is backwards. All the controls for the driver are mirror image to how they should be. Not to mention they drive on the wrong side of the road here. I tried the turn signal; the windshield wipers started full blast. For some reason I quietly sang a song from “the Gods must be Crazy II”. Remember when the African dude rides a bike around the desert singing that wordless song? That’s my soundtrack for driving in Africa. That is between dodging bicyclists, cows, and kids. Its more off-roading than driving. Hannah; turn here. Me; where. Finally I saw a foot path and what could be a tire track next to it.
The village does not look like what I expected. Painted cement huts with thatched roofs sit around bigger cement buildings with metal roofs. Nice cut grass yard and raised stone walkways connect all the buildings in a circle. Hannah taught me how to greet people in ateso; “yoga” “yoga-noi” “be-abba” “jackana”. I messed it up a lot which thankfully they found hilarious. I went for a short walk to look around the peaceful countryside after we all gathered in the blue roof building. Its one huge room with tables and chairs, wood planks for some project, a generator, and a nesting chicken. Gotta have the chicken. On the way back from my walk, a very old woman greeted and blessed me in her language. I felt her bless me. She followed me into the main room where calvin interpreted between us. When I asked, he explained that this wasn’t his grandma, but his father’s first wife and a very strong Christian. I met a lot of the wives of pilgrim people in the village. They fed us tea and snacks, then lunch at 4:30. The whole time I stayed there I ate only Ugandan food; cassava, millet, millet porridge for breakfast, lemon tea, rice, and really good goat. They fed us again later that night.always lots of food.
Hannah, one of the men, and I went mango picking. They lent me gum boots for the occasion since my sandals wouldn’t work well for the mud. (I only brought summer clothing expecting the normal hot weather. I was actually cold and wanting a jacket most of the time.) the man who brought me the boots commented on how big his feet were(size 9) and how they fit him cuz he was a big man … I couldn’t figure out if he was joking or not. Some of these people don’t speak English. Until then, I had been talking with people who spoke the trade language English. We walked among fields of crops and little mud and thatched villages looking for good mango trees. The others threw things at the mangos to bring them down. I decided to climb the tree like the kids to get the mangos, but I didn’t get very far up in my gum boots. Suddenly I became an even bigger sensation. One girl started following me so I offered her my hand to walk with me since she was going to stare the entire time anyways. That evening I spent several hours talking with Hannah and the men about everything. It felt like a college bonfire without the immaturity and alcohol. Beware; know all the definitions of your English words before discussing in a different country. They may use a less obvious definition for a word. Like “believe”; to them “to believe in” means “to worship”. I meant to ask if they accepted the existence of something. I got to describe walking on ice, Midwest winters, and mountains to them in amongst the theology discussions. I noticed calvin’s mother sitting nearby but out of conversation range watching her son. It must be hard for a mother to see her son only a few times a year and the rest of the time in an alien country.
Listening to the conversation I understood something my professor at Hillsdale once taught us; Africans prefer circles to straight lines. Villages are circles, not intersecting lines like American towns. Their discussions tend to go in circles, discussing all areas before arriving back at the start of the topic, maybe going around again while adding another’s comments. But it isn’t circular reasoning, just circular discussions.
I drove back the next morning. They have one of the best roads up there, sadly it is made out of the stone from one of their hill-landmarks. I spent some time Phyllis at the school having quite a good talk. Probably more about that later. We finally picked up Kevin and his girls somewhere in soroti. Btw, soroti has a population of about 50,000 in a town the size of Colville or Hillsdale. Jael complained that they had been calling the driver for 2 hours while they waited. “Jael, repeat after me, TIA – this is Africa.” We drove back watching the storms drive across the land, and driving thru the storms. We saw one truck overturned with all its passengers hiding from the rain behind it. Also, halfway to kampala, we found a chicken in a black bag in the car – alive. TIA baby, just TIA.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
truck canopy.
The guys built a wooden canopy on the pickup while I was in soroti. Its illegal to carry “human cargo” in the back of a pickup and we always have people in the back. Hence a canopy to hide us. Not that it will actually help to not get us stopped. The police stop us more to get a bribe from the mzungus with money than to give us an actual ticket. Now our truck looks more recognizable with the wooden canopy.
Henry has plain bad luck with the “white ladies with lollipops” – the traffic cops wear white and wave red sticks to stop traffic offenders. Men and women can be cops. Their main goal seems to be collecting bribes instead of tickets and ineffectively directing traffic. I say ineffective because the bodas pay them no attention and cars can sit in line waiting for their turn to go thru an intersection for 20 minutes. It happens more often than we like.
Now I sit at the way back of the pickup sitting backwards watching the country we pass. I feel like either a clown or a mascot the way everyone smiles and waves at me. Ay, mzungu! I might start calling them Ay, Ugandan! But its much easier to wave to the kids from the back. I must be an odd sight tucked away in a wooden canopy. A white mzungu girl grinning and watching everything, listening to headphones (to tune out leonard and opus), and chewing gum to deal with sitting backwards. Yup, that’s me.
While working at painting our dorm yesterday, on of the leaders of the site walked in and started talking with Bryce. But he stopped when he saw me, or rather recognized me. We greeted each other. Finally he blurted out “so you know how to paint too.” well duh. Several sarcastic retorts jumped to mind, but I bit them back in favor of a more neutral and relation-saving “yup”. I must remember that its not his fault this sight shocked him. Not his fault his culture has not prepared him. But that will change. If he had been American, I would have let fly with the comments. But here I must teach, not whack upside the head.
im still working on a post about soroti. it is a long story so far.
Henry has plain bad luck with the “white ladies with lollipops” – the traffic cops wear white and wave red sticks to stop traffic offenders. Men and women can be cops. Their main goal seems to be collecting bribes instead of tickets and ineffectively directing traffic. I say ineffective because the bodas pay them no attention and cars can sit in line waiting for their turn to go thru an intersection for 20 minutes. It happens more often than we like.
Now I sit at the way back of the pickup sitting backwards watching the country we pass. I feel like either a clown or a mascot the way everyone smiles and waves at me. Ay, mzungu! I might start calling them Ay, Ugandan! But its much easier to wave to the kids from the back. I must be an odd sight tucked away in a wooden canopy. A white mzungu girl grinning and watching everything, listening to headphones (to tune out leonard and opus), and chewing gum to deal with sitting backwards. Yup, that’s me.
While working at painting our dorm yesterday, on of the leaders of the site walked in and started talking with Bryce. But he stopped when he saw me, or rather recognized me. We greeted each other. Finally he blurted out “so you know how to paint too.” well duh. Several sarcastic retorts jumped to mind, but I bit them back in favor of a more neutral and relation-saving “yup”. I must remember that its not his fault this sight shocked him. Not his fault his culture has not prepared him. But that will change. If he had been American, I would have let fly with the comments. But here I must teach, not whack upside the head.
im still working on a post about soroti. it is a long story so far.
Friday, May 7, 2010
learning
We are in the midst of settling on a place for us workers to live while we reconstruct the boat. No, we haven’t actually started on that yet. we looked at several possible places which kept popping up over the last few weeks. Every time I hear that we will move tomorrow, I automatically translate that to a week from now. We were supposed to move this previous Monday, but now its Friday. So today we sat down and just about got everything planned out for the next week. Saturday and Sunday devoted to the bulldozing the site. but if it actually worked that way, this wouldn’t be Africa. Sure enough, the bulldozer wont be ready to work till Sunday. So Sunday it is. Meanwhile, there is a trip to soroti scheduled tomorrow and I want to be on it. I have been trying to go for a while. That, and im about to yell from the frustration of delayed timelines. Aargh.
Im getting a crash course in everything about business that I never knew. Public relations, how to play business politics, the favor system, and the who-you-know system. I had hoped the game of connections died in good old England. Granted, I didn’t hope very hard, but I do have a streak of romanticism in me. I prefer to believe in rewards based on merit alone, but such is not the world of business. I still don’t know much about all of it, obviously. Bob has been giving me the crash course. We argue constantly about why life works this way. I have found one area of construction I don’t want to learn anything more about; bulldozers etc. such monstrous machines interest me not at all. Hence another reason to go to soroti while they level the site.
Another thing I am learning here and probably the most obvious to me is learning to be comfortable as the center of attention. No matter where I go I get attention. On the streets its cuz im white and a white girl. When driving in the truck with the guys its cuz im sitting in the back. Most mzungus consider it beneath them to sit in the back of a pickup truck. If im in a meeting with business people, I get attention cuz im the only female.
In Uganda I need to negotiate a very interesting clash of cultures on the subject of women. As an American, I am used to being treated as an equal to men. Well, mostly as an equal. Now enter the south African view of women as ladies. It seems that women in that sense are not the equal of men in things such as business, but they play a central role to a household. They control the food, medicine, and guys have to treat a lady respectfully. As in, guys shouldn’t swear around a lady, give her preferential treatment in seating, rooming, etc. it also affects the table manners. (thankfully I remembered that men should wait to eat till any woman at the table started.)so the south africans treat me like a lady. Slight culture shock for me. Ok, now add the Ugandan view of women which is subservient. Very few women attain management positions. They serve the men. Now put all of those cultures together and throw me into the mix. I get called a feminist a lot. I have a hard time negotiating these cultural waters. Kinda feel like a ship in a storm with a rudder, but with a spinning compass. Take today for example. We all went to the mostly likely place for us to live which is in a dorm setting with outside toilets and kitchen across the campus. Think Christian retreat center. The owner showing us around mentioned something about giving me one room and putting all 11 guys into another room the same size. ….long pause. We had all figured on just enclosing a corner for me. I don’t mind that at all. so I mentioned how I didn’t mind just having a corner instead of an entire room. As long as I have my visible privacy, I don’t mind too much. Actually, I think it kinda adds to the adventure of this whole project. We shall see what happens.
Last thing; aid. There are good reasons and ways to ask for aid, and there are bad ways and reasons. Kids beg in the street. Quite a few people make hand signals for me to give them money when I ride in the back of the truck. One Ugandan, who shall remain nameless, asked for a favor from me.
Depends on the favor.
I need $2000. Will you give me $2000?
Um, why do you need $2000?
Because I must get to London.
No, you want to go to London, you don’t need to go to London. If I had the money to go to London, I might go myself, not give you the money so you can go.
But I need to go to London. My girlfriend is there.
Yeah right. You don’t have a girlfriend and you don’t need to go.
Then there are good reasons to ask for money. Like omo, our servant, who asked Bryce and I for 5000ugs so he could take his lame son to the hospital to get surgery. Of course. We gave him $5 instead of $2.50 and asked him if we could meet his family. We had no idea he had a son.
Im getting a crash course in everything about business that I never knew. Public relations, how to play business politics, the favor system, and the who-you-know system. I had hoped the game of connections died in good old England. Granted, I didn’t hope very hard, but I do have a streak of romanticism in me. I prefer to believe in rewards based on merit alone, but such is not the world of business. I still don’t know much about all of it, obviously. Bob has been giving me the crash course. We argue constantly about why life works this way. I have found one area of construction I don’t want to learn anything more about; bulldozers etc. such monstrous machines interest me not at all. Hence another reason to go to soroti while they level the site.
Another thing I am learning here and probably the most obvious to me is learning to be comfortable as the center of attention. No matter where I go I get attention. On the streets its cuz im white and a white girl. When driving in the truck with the guys its cuz im sitting in the back. Most mzungus consider it beneath them to sit in the back of a pickup truck. If im in a meeting with business people, I get attention cuz im the only female.
In Uganda I need to negotiate a very interesting clash of cultures on the subject of women. As an American, I am used to being treated as an equal to men. Well, mostly as an equal. Now enter the south African view of women as ladies. It seems that women in that sense are not the equal of men in things such as business, but they play a central role to a household. They control the food, medicine, and guys have to treat a lady respectfully. As in, guys shouldn’t swear around a lady, give her preferential treatment in seating, rooming, etc. it also affects the table manners. (thankfully I remembered that men should wait to eat till any woman at the table started.)so the south africans treat me like a lady. Slight culture shock for me. Ok, now add the Ugandan view of women which is subservient. Very few women attain management positions. They serve the men. Now put all of those cultures together and throw me into the mix. I get called a feminist a lot. I have a hard time negotiating these cultural waters. Kinda feel like a ship in a storm with a rudder, but with a spinning compass. Take today for example. We all went to the mostly likely place for us to live which is in a dorm setting with outside toilets and kitchen across the campus. Think Christian retreat center. The owner showing us around mentioned something about giving me one room and putting all 11 guys into another room the same size. ….long pause. We had all figured on just enclosing a corner for me. I don’t mind that at all. so I mentioned how I didn’t mind just having a corner instead of an entire room. As long as I have my visible privacy, I don’t mind too much. Actually, I think it kinda adds to the adventure of this whole project. We shall see what happens.
Last thing; aid. There are good reasons and ways to ask for aid, and there are bad ways and reasons. Kids beg in the street. Quite a few people make hand signals for me to give them money when I ride in the back of the truck. One Ugandan, who shall remain nameless, asked for a favor from me.
Depends on the favor.
I need $2000. Will you give me $2000?
Um, why do you need $2000?
Because I must get to London.
No, you want to go to London, you don’t need to go to London. If I had the money to go to London, I might go myself, not give you the money so you can go.
But I need to go to London. My girlfriend is there.
Yeah right. You don’t have a girlfriend and you don’t need to go.
Then there are good reasons to ask for money. Like omo, our servant, who asked Bryce and I for 5000ugs so he could take his lame son to the hospital to get surgery. Of course. We gave him $5 instead of $2.50 and asked him if we could meet his family. We had no idea he had a son.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
street kids
I ate grasshoppers the other day. They are actually pretty good. Sweet, crunchy yet chewy.
I have seen a dead man lying on the side of the street. He just lay there looking fine except for the lack of breathing. I guess he just collapsed. I also think I saw a dead boy. At least, I saw him sleeping in the same exact position in the same exact place 2 days in a row. He was one of the street kids. Today I saw one girl stroking the heads of her sleeping fellows. They crowded under the umbrella on the road median. What happened to these children? If they survive to grow up, they might become street peddlers, instead of beggars. Children 7 and older carry their infant siblings on their backs. They all hang on the car windows begging, “sahlo, sahlo.” I think it means “money”. the cars start to move and the kids run out of the way. The little ones play on the medians like it’s a game. I wonder how long they survive begging that way. i understand why people adopt kids from africa.
I have seen a dead man lying on the side of the street. He just lay there looking fine except for the lack of breathing. I guess he just collapsed. I also think I saw a dead boy. At least, I saw him sleeping in the same exact position in the same exact place 2 days in a row. He was one of the street kids. Today I saw one girl stroking the heads of her sleeping fellows. They crowded under the umbrella on the road median. What happened to these children? If they survive to grow up, they might become street peddlers, instead of beggars. Children 7 and older carry their infant siblings on their backs. They all hang on the car windows begging, “sahlo, sahlo.” I think it means “money”. the cars start to move and the kids run out of the way. The little ones play on the medians like it’s a game. I wonder how long they survive begging that way. i understand why people adopt kids from africa.
Monday, May 3, 2010
namuwongo
I went to church in namuwongo this Sunday. Namuwongo is the biggest slum in kampala. Bob and I took a taxi and boda to get to namuwongo stage, then I called my contact William at the church to send someone to guide us. The stage is nothing more than a flat area by the road for carts containing food to stop and unload. I was anxious that we might be in the wrong area, or they might not find us. Bob kindly pointed out that finding the only 2 white people in the area might not be that hard for the guide. Oh… right. I turned to see a teen in spotless bright clothing and bright write shoes. I noticed the shoes because all of kampala has red mud, even more so in the slum. (only in the slum its black). The teen mike guided us thru the maze which is the slum. Houses built off of houses holding up sheds. And all across the walkway stretches clotheslines with clothes in various states of disintegration. Kids would run up and grab my hand yelling mzungu and “hi”. Cute, happy kids. The adults just stared at us, wondering what in the world we were doing there. Around the mud hole, under the clothesline, between the houses, past the rusting fence, turn a corner, do it all again. This place goes on for several kilometers. I want to just go wander around, but I would need a guide to get me back out again. on the way back out i caught a pickpocket trying for my phone. We finally walked into a building of sorts. Sloping cement floor with pockmarks all over it. Thin wood walls with barred windows covered by lacy curtains. Rough-board rafters right above our heads led up the tin roof. It was the gathering place of this community, as the church should be, easily the biggest building in the slum.
The actual church was pretty much amazing. I understood about ½ of what they sang, bob understood even less. Imagine a church presented with Christian songs without the traditions that go with them. Their worship looks like a cross between Christian and African traditional celebrations. When the song talks about shouting, or dancing, or jumping, guess what the people do? They shout, they dance, they jump. When it says kneel, no one stands. We sat at the front side so we could see both the congregation and the stage area. During the dancing songs, everyone danced. Grown men and little children. The space between the people and the stage made the perfect space for the children to wildly dance. Eventually several little ones overcame their fear and grabbed our hands. I played the game of see how many hands you can hold in one hand to forgo the possession fights. The church went for 3 hours. We sang, announcements, visitor introductions, our special introductions (we went up front), the sermon, even a wedding announcement. Groups of men and women escorted the bride and groom up to the front where the pastor explained that they were now officially a man and a woman, and called us all to notice they wore traditional clothing of man and woman, not girl and boy. He also announced when the wedding would be. All this time the bride and groom did not go near each other since their entourage still surrounded them. But they did share many looks and smiles. Also, different musical groups would come up to sing and dance, always both together. People would walk or dance to the stage and give them money then walk or dance back. When the actual offering basket was set out, most of the church surged forward in a mass to give their money into the barrel shaped basket. This is the slum, but these people give eagerly just as they eagerly dance or sing. All during the service, kids outside crowded the doorway across from us to stare. Once in a while an adult would notice and shoo them away.
The actual church was pretty much amazing. I understood about ½ of what they sang, bob understood even less. Imagine a church presented with Christian songs without the traditions that go with them. Their worship looks like a cross between Christian and African traditional celebrations. When the song talks about shouting, or dancing, or jumping, guess what the people do? They shout, they dance, they jump. When it says kneel, no one stands. We sat at the front side so we could see both the congregation and the stage area. During the dancing songs, everyone danced. Grown men and little children. The space between the people and the stage made the perfect space for the children to wildly dance. Eventually several little ones overcame their fear and grabbed our hands. I played the game of see how many hands you can hold in one hand to forgo the possession fights. The church went for 3 hours. We sang, announcements, visitor introductions, our special introductions (we went up front), the sermon, even a wedding announcement. Groups of men and women escorted the bride and groom up to the front where the pastor explained that they were now officially a man and a woman, and called us all to notice they wore traditional clothing of man and woman, not girl and boy. He also announced when the wedding would be. All this time the bride and groom did not go near each other since their entourage still surrounded them. But they did share many looks and smiles. Also, different musical groups would come up to sing and dance, always both together. People would walk or dance to the stage and give them money then walk or dance back. When the actual offering basket was set out, most of the church surged forward in a mass to give their money into the barrel shaped basket. This is the slum, but these people give eagerly just as they eagerly dance or sing. All during the service, kids outside crowded the doorway across from us to stare. Once in a while an adult would notice and shoo them away.
frustrating and scary
The most frustrating time so far has to be going to a coffee shop to use the steady internet. After dark I grabbed a boda to take me to nakumatt (a main mall). He got lost. Inconceivable. Bodas always know places like nakumatt cuz that’s a main hangout of mzungus. He stopped to ask directions from another boda. A 5 minute trip took 20+ minutes by the time we got there. Then he didn’t have change. Ok, wait here. I go in, get change, pay him, go back in and find the perfect spot to sit and talk online. I open up the computer, order internet, get all set up and the waitress comes back to report the server is down. Ok, go to the next coffee shop. The internet is free there with purchase. Ok, order a mountain dew (yes I drink that here, so different with real sugar), and get set up again. Little waiter dude inputs the secret internet code and away I go, right? Of course not. Why? This is Africa. The internet is so slow I cant even load basic google. I wait a few minutes so I don’t throw the laptop. It is not my laptop’s fault afterall. Pack up, and slump on home. Excited expectations dashed. I was really looking forward to seeing familiar faces on the laptop. Get home, Bryce asks if I want to get beat at settlers of catan again. Not exactly. Go up to my room, wait for a better day to dawn. Thankfully next it was Sunday.
The scariest boda ride was at about 10pm returning from the same coffee shop a previous day. Bodas charge more the later it gets. I get on the expensive boda headed for ntinda. For some reason the boda takes a turn I don’t recognize, but I soon figure out what is wrong when we pull into a petrol station. The other bodas finish and my driver orders some gas from the attendant. I can sense something else is wrong cuz the voices get heated. The attendant just sits down and stares at my driver who is angry. I hear something in the periphery so I turn to see the guard with the ever-present AK-47 step out of the shadows. So I just smile big and exchange the regular greetings. He calms down and smiles at me. I motion towards my driver and shrug, still grinning. Finally my driver gives in and pays a full 1000 shillings for gas. The attendant had refused to give him less than that. Americans listen; 1000 shillings is 50 cents. These people were ready to fight over that little. We drove off again and I got home safely. I had him drive me right to the gate.
The scariest boda ride was at about 10pm returning from the same coffee shop a previous day. Bodas charge more the later it gets. I get on the expensive boda headed for ntinda. For some reason the boda takes a turn I don’t recognize, but I soon figure out what is wrong when we pull into a petrol station. The other bodas finish and my driver orders some gas from the attendant. I can sense something else is wrong cuz the voices get heated. The attendant just sits down and stares at my driver who is angry. I hear something in the periphery so I turn to see the guard with the ever-present AK-47 step out of the shadows. So I just smile big and exchange the regular greetings. He calms down and smiles at me. I motion towards my driver and shrug, still grinning. Finally my driver gives in and pays a full 1000 shillings for gas. The attendant had refused to give him less than that. Americans listen; 1000 shillings is 50 cents. These people were ready to fight over that little. We drove off again and I got home safely. I had him drive me right to the gate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)