Muchina among mzungus

“Mzungu” is the local word for foreigner; it was originally used to refer to Anglos. In Kampala, the locals make finer distinctions among the foreigners. “Muhindi” is used to refer to Indians, who are represented in relatively large numbers and seem to own a lot of the apartments and businesses. East Asians are rare; I think I’m the only “muchina” in my neighborhood. To say that I’m fish out of water is an understatement. I’m fish out of water, embalmed, and mounted on a wall covered with heads of game.

Last week, a few school girls heckled me as I was walking home from work. The leader of the brat pack started with, “Eh! Chinese! Kung fu!” She continued with “ching chong chang chong…” I engaged the group and spoke to them in English. Most of the girls were simply curious and wanted to know where I’m from, etc. The culprit prevented any meaningful dialogue, however, and had the nerve to ask me for money! Being the mature adult that I am, I told the girl to give me money to welcome me to Uganda. We haggled for a bit while the other girls giggled, then parted ways none the richer.

I’ve had a couple of “ching chong” shout-outs in America, but somehow didn’t expect that in Africa, even though muchinas are rarer here. I can’t help but wonder, is that what Chinese (or Japanese or Korean) sound like to people who don’t speak the language?

Skinny chickens and raw vegetables

Ugandan food is good. On most days during the work week, I’d walk to the back of the building next door, where a woman named Angela sells local food by the plate. For less than $1, I can get rice, potato, sweet potato, matooke (cooked banana) with ground nut sauce, posho (maize meal), beans, cooked cabbage and my choice of beef or fish. After attempting to eat some of everything in one sitting, I learned to limit myself to 3-4 items per meal. (For those of you who predicted that I would lose weight here: not bloody likely!)

The other day, Angela was serving chicken. I hadn’t had any chicken in a while, so I went for it. The chicken turned out to be very tough and sinewy, skinny, with little meat. When the bill came due, it cost more than the usual price for beef or fish! (Only about 30 cents more, but still!) A colleague later told me that Ugandans prefer “local” chickens that run free; they cost more because it takes longer for these chickens to mature to edibility. Also, chicken is considered tasty when it’s tough and chewy; that’s how the locals like it. She correctly guessed that I prefer my chicken factory-raised, hormone-injected and soft and fluffy.

Other staples in my diet: juicy tomatoes, avocados the size of my foot, eggs (does anyone know why the yolks here are more pale?), minced meat, sweet pineapples and, once in a while, pizza and ice cream.

I do miss green, leafy vegetables, especially spinach. The other day, I attempted to cook “greens,” the only type of leafy vegetable I’ve seen around town. I had been warned against washing vegetables with tap water, so I proceeded with a special rinse method that I vaguely remembered. I mixed a little bit of bleach with tap water and soaked the greens for 20 minutes (to clean the tap water). Then I soaked the greens in regular water for 20 minutes (to rinse off the bleach). 40 minutes later, I remembered that I should’ve used previously boiled water for the second soak. Another 15 minutes later, I remembered that all this soaking and bleaching only applies if you plan to eat raw vegetables (ie. salads); I was planning to stir-fry. Over an hour after I had started, I was finally munching on greens. It was chewier than spinach and a little bitter. But I’ve yet to keel over from the tap water or the bleach, so it's a keeper.

March Madness

When I was six, I fell into a pond at my uncle’s house in Taiwan in an attempt to reach a ball. I still remember seeing fish swimming past and flailing about in the seconds before my brother grabbed me by the collar and… pulled me to a standing position. The water level was only slight above my knees.

In September 2005, I visited Mike L. and his family in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Last Sunday, Mike returned the favor. He was my first visitor in Kampala and the impetus for me to take on the city’s various forms of transport without the guidance or company of my co-workers. Mike was in Uganda to help set up solar panels and satellite internet for a local orphanage; Mike’s friend, a former jet pilot who now flies missionaries about central Africa, helped set up satellite internet for the orphanage.

I met Mike and his friends for lunch at the local mall. (Yes, a mall.) One thing led to another, I got permission to take a day off and made plans to go white-water rafting on the Nile. For those of you who know me to be a gimpy bad swimmer with virtually no upper body strength, you are right to be incredulous at this turn of events. You’re wise to question my sanity. For those of you clamoring for evidentiary proof, let me just say that I hardly believed this actually happened until I saw myself spitting up water on DVD.

There were some incredible and exhilarating moments – at one point, our raft went over a waterfall backwards. With a life-jacket securely strapped to my torso and a bevy of kayak rescuers nearby, I didn’t ever think that I would actually drown. But I did have this bad way of gasping for air and choking whenever I came up from underwater, and I had to squint really hard to make sure my contact lenses were still in place. I’m sure I looked and sounded like some injured, drowning farm animal whenever I was in the water. Mike, on the other hand, lives in a village next to the Kwamba River; he swims like a dolphin.

My day on the Nile was probably the longest stretch of time I’ve ever spent in continuous prayer. Even as I was having fun and taking in the beautiful scenery, part of me couldn’t help but anticipate the next big rapid. By the end of the day, our raft had capsized 3 times. Each time, as soon as my head resurfaced, Mike was there, making sure I was ok. I got carried away from the raft once; Mike followed me even after I got picked up by a kayak. I knew that God was with me, but it was really nice of God to be there with me through someone I can see.

After 8 hours of being tossed from the raft or anticipating being tossed from the raft, my nerves were completely shot. I’m glad I didn’t let fear keep me from this adventure; I’m proud that I did this and actually had fun. But it would probably take a loud voice from a burning bush to convince me to throw down another $100 to be scared witless on my day off.

Can you hear me now?

One thing I've come to especially appreciate about Ugandans is their speaking voice. In most conversations, they speak softly, almost in whispers by American standards. But I know they are capable of speaking loudly when called for by the occasion. Taxi drivers and vendors holler at potential clients. When speaking in front of a church full of people without the help of microphones or speakers, one of my Ugandan colleagues busts out this loud, resonant, preacher voice. I was shocked when I first heard this other voice of his because he usually speaks so softly. As soon as he steps off the stage, his voice returns to its usual volume.

I like this, having a dimmer instead of an on/off switch.

Pauper Aristocracy

Due to a power shortage, the power goes out at my apartment about every other night. This is not the most convenient fact of life here, but I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve already figured out how to ready myself for bed in the dark. Plus, I recently had a very nice, Jane-Austin evening of reading and writing by candlelight.

Before I got here, I mentally prepared myself for living in a third world country, on a budget that puts me at the federal poverty line. Yet my life is not hard by any means.

Lest anyone thinks I’m being modest about “roughing it” in a third world country, let me tell you about my living situation. For $500/month, which I’ve learned is an enormous sum to spend on rent, I have a furnished, one-bedroom apartment to myself. It is bright and spacious and comes with all the amenities of most modern apartments: running water (including hot water), flushing toilet, stove and oven, even a TV and DVD player. Every weekday, a couple of ladies come by and make the bed, wash the dishes, hand-wash and iron the laundry, and generally keep the place clean and tidy.

The apartment is one of four units inside a compound with an armed guard watching the gate 24 hours a day. It is within walking distance to work, to the supermarket, to the foreign exchange bureau, to the taxi (or bus) stop that connects me to just about anywhere in town. Oh, there is also a pizza and ice cream parlor in the compound; I poke my head in the back entrance, place an order, and food shows up at my door in about 15 minutes. All in all, a very nice place to come home to at the end of the day.

In sum, the same income that would make me a very poor person in America makes me an extremely wealthy person in Uganda. I knew this in theory before my arrival, but living it is disquieting. I feel safe; I'm comfortable; I appreciate the convenience. But is it right to live like this, to have so many luxuries when others live without necessities? I had asked myself this question when I shared Los Angeles with people living in roach-infested slum apartments. The same question followed me all the way to Africa, but I still haven’t any answer.