Bite me

I’ve had hardly any mosquito bites until 5 days ago. With the rain came cooler weather and over 15 red beans on my arms, legs and face. Much to my relief, they are mostly eye sores and do not itch, at least not after a dab of Tiger Balm, which should really be called “Tiger Bomb” because it is truly da bomb when it comes to insect bites.

What’s not da bomb is bilharzia, for which I will soon acquire medication. As if exhilarating memories and emotional trauma weren’t souvenir enough, I probably have worm eggs in my blood thanks to my little row on the Nile. (No worries – the treatment is cheap and painless and I should be worm-egg-free in a matter of days.)

Africa is kicking my ass this month.

A time to kill (?)

Last week, thousands marched the streets of Kampala to protest the government’s decision to hand over portions of a forest to an Indian-owned conglomerate. Protestors carried signs that read, “All Asians Should Go Home!” Police showed up; tempers flared. Members of the crowd stoned to death an Indian man who had no connection to the conglomerate, but had the misfortune of being the wrong shade at the wrong place at the wrong time. Other Indians were attacked. Indian-owned stores and a Hindu temple were raided.

I felt scared and unsafe for the first time since my arrival. I worried about the Indian family who befriended me at church, who opened their home and hosted me for Easter dinner. I felt afraid for them. Once I received word that they were safe, I felt angry for them.

The hostility between Indians and Ugandan has deep historical roots. Many explanations and justifications for the occurrence were offered, but none of them satisfied. Now I’m reading about the events at Virginia Tech and I wonder what explanations will be offered to make sense of that senseless tragedy.

I don’t want any explanations. I want to be shocked and appalled and grieved. I want to mutter “WTF?!” until I forget or cease to care. Then I will listen to and take comfort in intellectual discourse about cause and effect, about who is to blame. But not yet.

A time to build (?)

I celebrated Easter on a grassy lawn in northern Kampala. Kampala Pentecostal Church hosted a single Easter celebration for its various branches and services. Literally thousands of lawn chairs were set up for the event, all facing a temporary stage that provided height and shade for the speakers and the choir. Balloons and ribbons decorated the area where we sang, clapped, fanned and danced.

During the service, the pastor announced that the church will be raising funds to build a church on the very hill upon which we sat. This was not an unusual or uncommon church announcement. Every single American church that I had ever attended on a regular basis had solicited funds for (usually, multi-million-dollar) building projects. Every single one of those churches had existing buildings that were functional and adequate for the humble business of gathering and worshipping God. But it was nevertheless deemed necessary to indebt the congregation for the next few decades for unnecessary or cosmetic improvements. For all the talk about our obligations to our less fortunate brethren overseas, these building projects were prioritized.

Sitting under the hot sun in an open field, this familiar announcement struck a different chord. I thought of a church that I had visited in my first month here; its building was basically a dirt area enclosed by sheets of aluminum. I recalled the conversation with the pastor of that church, who shared his hopes to erect a sturdier building and the struggle to raise approximately $130,000 for that purpose. Raising funds to build a building where none exists or to replace one that can hardly withstand a strong wind… Well, that sounds downright reasonable.

So far, my transient lifestyle has coincidentally moved me out of town right about the time building projects were initiated. Thus, I’ve been afforded the luxury of being critical about building projects without the responsibility of voicing my objections. But I know I’ll settle somewhere someday. And when a seemingly unnecessary building campaign comes my way, I wonder if I will have the strength of conviction to speak aloud my objections. Or will I stay quiet because I’m comfortable, because I want the fancy new things, because I want to get along, not move along? Will I convince myself that resistance is futile, acquiesce and hope for the best - hope that perhaps my church is the exception and the proposed improvements are somehow essential, that perhaps this rich man won’t be held to account for the Lazarus left wanting at his gate?

20/80

Oprah or some equally reliable source once said that most women wear 20% of the clothes in their closet 80% of the time. This was certainly descriptive of what I owned and wore in America. I rotated the same 14 items for work and wore the same 6 pieces on the weekends. Any material deviations were usually involuntary (ie. bridesmaid dresses).

Almost immediately upon my arrival, I regretted not making room for the box of Korean ramen that my mom had bought for me. Instead, I filled my suitcases with clothes and underwear, about 47 pairs of socks, and gallons of sunblock and moisturizers and insect repellant.

Turns out, people here wear and sell underwear and clothes and socks! They use and sell sunblock and insect repellant! And who needs lotion when you’re virtually guaranteed to be covered in nature’s moisturizer (aka sweat) 24/7?! But Korean ramen is not a staple food here; the stores only stock cheap, insubstantial ramen. I have been told that I might score some if I track down and befriend the Korean missionaries in town, but that might take some time.

You were right, Mom. I should have listened to you. I never should’ve started shaving my legs in Jr. High and I should have made room for ramen.

Happy birthday, Mommy!

Shock & awe

Culture shock paid me an unwelcome visit on Saturday. Perhaps I should’ve seen it coming. I had jokingly dubbed the past week “palpable tension week” at the office. On Friday, I was once again heckled by schoolchildren for being Chinese. I rounded off the work week by spending Friday night eating overpriced muzungu pizza and feeling out of place at a table of white ex-pats.

I woke up on Saturday hot and bothered. Hot from the heat, then quickly very bothered by everything to this damn place: the heat, the congestion, the pollution, the unrelenting stares from adults and children. I can’t step outside the flat without melting into a puddle of sweat or step outside the compound without getting a facial of dirt and exhaust. I can’t walk ten steps without boda drivers or vendors offering their services, their wares or their hands in marriage (no joke). If I take them up on their offer (of services or wares), I have to haggle to bring down the foreigner tax. I can’t even walk home after a long week at work without getting the Quasimodo treatment from rugrats whose only exposure to Chinese people is Jackie Chan flicks.

I spent all of Saturday shut in, grumbling and growling about stupid this and stupid that. It did not help matters that the pizza from the previous night had set off all sorts of lactose-intolerant gastro-intestinal reactions. I pined for my independent and self-sufficient life in America, where I can hop in my low-emission Civic and drive myself to the beach and breathe all I want and be completely invisible in public. Is that too much to ask? To breathe and not be a walking public spectacle?!

I was sorely tempted to spend Sunday indulging my still foul mood. After some negotiations with God, I hauled my resentful ass out of bed and readied myself for church and all the steps required to get me there.

As usual, the taxi (bus) waited until it filled with passengers and stopped for gas and turned off the designated route, so I had to walk a few paces more than usual to get to church. The ushers welcomed me but nobody else noticed as I found a seat. I was late and people were already singing in worship. They were singing songs I know, songs I know by heart. I closed my eyes and let my voice melt into the group’s; I felt myself disappear. Even the usual (and usually awkward) greet-your-neighbor interactions felt comfortingly familiar. I’d found sanctuary.

The ushers handed out palm fronds and I realized it was Palm Sunday. It’s the beginning of Holy Week and the tail end of Lent. In the midst of the move and travel, I had forgotten all about this period of commemoration of Christ leaving heaven to walk and live and suffer as a regular human in a hot and dusty land. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the culture shock in that transition.

I walked around downtown after church and saw lots of people dressed in their Sunday best, palm fronds in tow. Somehow the city and its people felt restored to me (or vice versa). Like them, I am a child of God. I’m sure I look as out of place as ever, but I don’t feel it so keenly anymore.