Wednesday, June 4, 2008

5/30 through 6/1

Well, I’m here. We’re off to a mixed start. I managed to get my flight to Nairobi rebooked at no extra cost. Score. Flew out here next to an international documentarian named Alex who was both friendly and fascinating. Slept and watched Om Shanti Om, an adorable Bollywood film about an aspiring actor and the superstar actress he loved. The flight itself was very comfortable.

Nairobi airport, however, is not so nice. I was bitten by … something. Trying not to panic about the expanding red mark on my leg. The flight was delayed, and when I got to Entebbe, one of my bags was gone – the one full of books for the human rights clinic. At least Entebbe Airport is more manageable than Nairobi and London. The floors are brand new, polished marble – fresh since last year. The terminal I was in was small, no endless halls, no getting lost. You just walk off the plane, stand in line for your visa, pick up your bags, walk ten paces to the lost baggage claim, and go through customs. Customs was fun; we got to examine my three remaining bags. Bag #1 was fine, but the bag with my toiletries, shoes and books had turned into a cesspool of goop. I was worried that would happen! Unfortunately I had to mix my luggage so that I could meet the weight limits, so before I left I made sure that everything was sealed, wrapped, and padded. What I didn’t account for was the TSA search. Some brilliant airport employee decided to take my shampoo out of a plastic bag, unscrew the cap, then replace the shampoo in my luggage without the cap on. The contents flowed everywhere, mixing with the red ink from the Target bags I had used to wrap our textbooks for Gulu. It ate through the plastic bags and canvas pockets, corroded my shoes, and gooped up the books. Incredible. The customs agent let me pass without going through that bag at all, that’s how nasty it was. And bag #3 had ripped open. I’ll have to get someone to repair it for me if I intend to bring it home. Hopefully I won’t have to – my goal is to come back with two bags or less. I should have more for other people than I have for myself.

Leaving the airport took my breath away. Entebbe is beautiful. So pristine! And very, very verdant – life erupts out of the ground like lava; shooting grasses, splayed vines, trees like rockets. The canopy that mushrooms out above it all is blue like the heart of a fire, and the cranes flying over Lake Victoria must be nearly as large as men.

And the people, you should see the people! Flawless skin nearly black, deep eyes, faces all determined angles, and sudden, lightning-white smiles. They are friendly in an uncanny way. Even the customs agent – I offered her my bag of Starburst, and she smiled and said, “Oh, I have to have your phone numbah!” I didn’t have my phone here in Uganda yet, but I gave her my e-mail address. I hope she writes.

This world is absolutely timeless. I mean that in many different ways, too. Flora and fauna seem prehistoric, neighborhoods are both modern and pre-industrial, and society itself has long since ditched its day planner. Witness the sunny California architecture of one lovely home: its giant windows, plastered walls, and tiled roof paired with goats chomping the grass in the front yard. Consider how friends who say “I will meet you at eleven” might arrive at one or two in the afternoon or even seven o’clock in the morning.

I’ve mentioned before that I booked my hotel room through a company called Avarts Housing Agency. The owner, Vincent, and his employee, Asia (pronounced ah-shuh), had promised to meet me at the airport. And indeed they did, poor things. My plane from Nairobi was an hour late getting off the tarmac because of some mechanical problem, and our landing was further delayed because there was no space on the runway. I was one of the last people off the plane, and so one of the last people to make it through immigration. Then I had to file a report for my lost baggage. I was about two and a half hours late getting out of the airport, and there were Vincent and Asia, bright smiles, happy to wait. “Oh, we expected that!” they said, and waived off the extra fee I offered them for their trouble.

They also weren’t angry when MoneyGram closed my account instead of transferring the hotel fee. Day one, and I have to scavenge up $1,150 somehow. I tried an ATM, but no luck. We went to a bank, and they turned me away. “No forane Visas heah, try Bahclay’s.” We go to Barclay’s. “Not this queue, you have to go to the forane bureau downstayuhs.” We go to the foreign bureau. “Do you have yoah passpoat?” No, sleep-deprived Maisha was stupid enough to forget it back in the car. (Cut me some credit, though. I had been in airports or in the air for more than 36 hours. I don’t even remember taking my passport bag off, but I must have been sweaty and dumped it in my duffel bag.) So we get the passport, wait in line at the foreign bureau again, where I finally offer up my Visa and passport.

“Sorry, yoah card has been declined.”

I turned around and walked out. It wasn’t until we were half way to my hotel in Ntinda that I realized I could have just tried my credit card instead of my debit card. Oh well. Next time.

I had a few shillings from the airport ATM – probably the transaction that triggered the account freeze – but certainly not enough to pay for my hotel stay. The landlord, Kawooya Kasule, was gracious enough to let me move in anyway. Before I leave, I have to buy that man a thank-you gift. I mean, technically I paid for four days’ stay with the $100 security deposit, but I still felt like I was living on Ugandan hospitality.

It is hard being somewhere with randomly limited services. This especially hit home during my first two days. The hotel that I’m staying at is actually a health club with some rooms over it. So I can visit the sauna and get a free massage, but there is no clock in my room and no satellite to adjust my cell phone, so for a day I wandered around with no bloody idea what time it was. I can have a “girl” do my laundry for the equivalent of $3 (the exchange rate is also mystifying – $1 is about 1650 shillings), but “doing the laundry” here involves rubbing it the clothes really hard and then pressing them with an iron. No washing machines. There is, however, a courtesy tub that the hotel owner left in my shower; I am supposed to take care of my unmentionables with that.

A few things I miss intensely. My internet connection, for one. I am a junkie – a complete addict. My student loans, signing up for classes, checking grades – I’m supposed to do all of that on the net. But there isn’t a connection at the health club, and I have yet to try the internet cafes. Even phone service is a problem. I bought a mobile phone, but there is a seven hour time difference between Uganda and Pennsylvania, and ten hours between Uganda and California. So it’s not like chatting with home is easy. Not to mention, I have a limited number of minutes on my prepaid card. They go fast if I call internationally, and the connection is spotty so I spend half the time repeating myself. My phone was the cheapest one available, this Nokia that’s so small I can cover the whole thing with my hand. I have to hold it up to my ear to hear, then move it down to my mouth and yell to communicate, and I accidentally cover the internal antenna even for a second the person on the other end of the line can’t hear. In other words, my phone is pretty much useless.

What I missed most immediately, though, was toilet paper. There wasn’t a square to spare in my little apartment. The holder was completely empty. And of course, I didn’t realize that until it was much, much too late. Kasule, the hotel manager, took a long time explaining the accommodations to me. He was very proud of the pool, and the billiards table, the step aerobics room, and the sauna. He showed me how to use the water heater, then the keys, and then he gave me a tour of my apartment naming every piece of furniture. My eyes were dry and I had no idea what to say to make him feel as though I was settled, and the more I nodded the more Kasule talked. He explained the cleaning services, told me about the people who were moving in to neighboring rooms, and then started describing how to get around the city. I thought it would never end. Eventually Asia saw me swaying on my feet and came to my rescue. “She has had a long flight, musei (old man – respectfully), let’s let her rest.” She took the man by the arm and practically dragged him down the stairs and out the padlocked gate that serves as my front door. I tottered into my room and collapsed on a bed. Then it hit me.

Malarone, my malaria medication, has been wreaking havoc on my intestinal system. It started in the United States, although I didn’t realize that until just recently. (I was sick in the supermarket parking lot at home; I thought it was just nerves, but now I’d guess otherwise.) As soon as I relaxed, it was like being punched in the gut and given an enema at the same time. I tried to ignore it, but I literally couldn’t contain myself. I dashed for the bathroom and erupted.

That’s when I realized that there was no toilet paper.

I panicked. I really, truly panicked. There were no towels here, no tissues, no toilet paper, not even a newspaper or a bunch of leaves. Nothing. And there was no way in the world that I could get up to dig through my bags. I won’t tell you the gory details about how I finally resolved the problem; let’s just say there is a certain shirt that has a new home in a Kampala dumpster.

After that, I slept for a good eighteen hours, waking up only to call Mom for help with my bank account and race to the bathroom. Fortunately I found some tissues in my medical bag (YAY!!!!!) on day two. I feel as though my body is expelling everything Western. Uganda is certainly the best diet I’ve ever had. Malarone works just like Alli, and I’m so afraid of eating, I didn’t touch food at all until this morning. Even today I’ll only risk simple carbs.

Other things that will take adjusting:

• I have to go outside the hotel room and flip a switch for hot water. When I’m done, I have to switch the water heater off. But “hot water” doesn’t mean anything remotely resembling warmth. “Hot” isn’t even lukewarm, just a half step above freezing.

• People carry rifles around here. A lot. Especially the soldiers. These men are helpful and friendly like anyone else.

• The beds have mosquito nets. The problem with these nets is that they trap mosquitoes in as much as they keep mosquitoes out.

• People begging on the streets are Live 8 Africa starving, not healthy like our U.S. transients.

• Muslims here really do stop working to pray five times per day, but those that I’ve met will also shake a woman’s hand.

• People here are nuts about football (soccer). As we were coming home from Entebbe airport, we got stuck behind a convoy of buses holding screaming fans. Everyone had on the same turquoise t-shirt, and they were all waving flags and trying to get us to honk. Other fans wove around the convoy on motor scooters – those must be the boda bodas I’ve heard about.

• Driving is insane. First of all, it’s on the left side of the road, like in England. Unfortunately, that is the only aspect that is like England. There are no traffic lights to speak of excepting a few in downtown Kampala, and subsequently there are no crosswalks. Emily should probably never come here; she would have nightmares trying to get around town. (For those of you who don’t know Emily’s story, she was hit by a truck while using a crosswalk. She flew thirty feet and rolled. According to Ems, morphine did nothing for the pain. She had to go through therapy, and she still has scars. So it’s understandable how much she hates jaywalking.) Emily has made quite the impression on my sense of traffic safety and I try to be careful on the streets, but it isn’t easy. The roads are narrow, walking space is limited, and drivers will swoop into opposing traffic lanes just to pass slow cars. Getting through intersections is a game of chicken, and it’s clear that the city planners never considered certain concepts like whether an incline is too steep for a puttering 20-year-old Toyota, or whether the angle of a turn might make oncoming traffic invisible. In other words, don’t drive in Kampala. If you have to hit the streets, put someone else behind the wheel so you can close your eyes and pray.

Nothing I’ve experienced so far seems unfamiliar – I consider all of these things eventualities in a trip to Africa, so I’m not complaining. It’s just odd feeling it happen to me, like living in a situation comedy that I’ve seen a dozen times.

Waking up left me completely disoriented. I checked in the mirror, and it looked like an ogre had been hitting me in the face with an iron club. And I smelled like rhino sweat. It was just foul. So I took a frigid shower, changed my clothes for the first time in at least 60 hours, and wandered outside asking people what time it was. I got a lot of bemused stares.

Folks really don’t know how to treat me, here. I’m noticing that more and more as time goes on. In Pennsylvania, most folks’ initial assumption is that I am African American (as in, I must venerate Tupac and have obviously forgotten my gold hoop earrings at home). Here they call me mzungu, which Asia says basically translates to “rich whitey naïve to the ways of the world.” I’ve always managed to defeat assumptions at home, and I’m sure I’ll do the same here. It’s just strange being seen as a black person among whites and a white person among blacks, an outsider no matter where I am in the world. It makes me feel all Langston Hughes inside:

Cross
My old man’s a white old man
And my old mother’s black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back
If ever I cursed my white old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I’m gonna die,
Being neither white nor black.

But really it doesn’t matter. I’d feel foreign even if I looked exactly the same as everybody else. I just don’t know this place. Honestly, it’s a delight to learn. Take the economy, for instance. Shillings are the official monetary unit. But you can easily trade in other currencies. I don’t mean foreign currencies either; these alternatives are quite home-grown. For example, laughter is worth a lot of money. If you can make someone laugh, it won’t be half as hard to negotiate prices. People will charge you less just because they like you.

Optimism is another quality that has tangible value. Look at the individuals who have made it here, and they are the happy ones. Look at those who struggle, and they are sad. It’s not like rich people are wealthy, either. Folks that I’ve met so far come from very little money. Even Vincent, the housing agency owner, raised goats as a child. It is the ability to see good in anything that gives people the strength to endure. I’ve seen that in my dad, and I see it here.

Food is worth a lot, too. And water. Give anyone something to eat or drink, and they’ll bend over backwards for you. It’s the easy route to friendship. Music works in much the same fashion.

The oldest unit of trade is, of course, sex. Bat an eye and look pretty, and people will help you with anything. Asia is the master of this. Men carry her bags, they take her on all-expense-paid weekend vacations, they buy her drinks, and they give her rides in the middle of the night. She has these poor souls completely enthralled. I can understand why, despite missing Poland, Asia has stayed in Uganda for so long. All she has to do is point, and she can have anyone or anything she wants.

Money counts for something here, too, but it sure isn’t the country’s most valuable commodity. This is one thing we westerners have to understand as we come in with our NGOs. We just can’t go around restructuring local values to match ours, or assuming our own values will hold as a structure for business. It won’t work, and maybe the Africans have a better idea of how to value life.



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