Postcards from Uganda

Tunaalabagana

2008-01-31T23:03:00.001+03:00

I touched down in Uganda in February 2007 with too much luggage, airplane hair and many anxieties about the weeks and months ahead.

350 days, 20 books, 4 countries, 3 bottles of sunblock, 2 riots and 1 ebola outbreak later, this once foreign land "in the heart of darkness" now triggers memories of countless acts of kindness and cultural faux pas, of good weather and good friends, of red earth and green tea fields, of matooke and posho, of wonder and frustration and laughter. It has moved out of the shadows of my imagination into my habits, into my humor, into my prayers, into my verbal and facial expressions, into my ipod and photo albums, into my stomach, into my heart. I think I finally understand, in some small measure, what people mean when they speak of falling in love with Africa, of falling under its spell.

When I board a plane in a few days, I will be both going and leaving home. Saying goodbye to people I've grown to love in order to return to others who I've deeply missed is a bittersweet affair, but it's part of a larger experience that I would neither trade nor forgo.

I don't usually do this

2008-01-27T13:59:00.001+03:00

I have a litany of excuses. I'm in Uganda. I didn't understand the rules about overseas absentee ballots. I expected the California primary to take place in March. The bottom line is this: for the first time since I became eligible to vote, I really, really want to vote; but I can't.

So, if you're able and willing, please do me this one small favor on 5th February: vote for Barack Obama.

Is this thing on?

2008-01-20T12:36:00.001+03:00

Last night, I sang karaoke in public for the first time. It was also the first time for a couple of my friends who were with me and the predominantly Ugandan audience was very kind to us mzungu performers. Even though I've belted out "Hotel California" in the car and in the shower more times than I can count, singing it into a mic in front of a group of strangers was an unexpectedly challenging and hilarious experience. The karaoke tape did not edit out any of the guitar solos, so I spent a good 5 minutes on stage, drumming my fingers and, finally, playing air guitar to amuse my patient audience.

Would I have expected my first karaoke experience to take place in Uganda? Nedda (no). But this place, this year, has been full of such surprises.

If you want peace, work for justice

2008-01-18T11:37:00.001+03:00

Earlier this week, my colleagues and I went to court for a hearing. The courtroom was overflowing with spectators because, according to a friendly news reporter, a high-publicity case was set to be heard. When that case was called, the defendants' lawyer announced that he was not ready to proceed because he had been "disorganized" by the holidays. The case was rescheduled. As the defendants were making their way out of the courtroom, they were attacked by some people in the gallery (many who are plaintiffs or sympathizers). There were no bailiffs, no security personnel. People clamored and climbed to take a swing or get a better look. Eventually, the defendants managed to exit the courtroom and the commotion continued outside.

As it turned out, the scuffle was the most excitement to take place in court that day. More cases were called, including ours; all were adjourned to a later date because somebody wasn't ready. There were neither consequences nor resistance to delay. Too many people involved in the process - the magistrate, the clerks, the lawyers, the parties - seemed resigned that justice will be delayed and, often as a result, denied.

When the post-election events first unraveled in Kenya, I wanted desperately for peace to be restored. Now, I want justice. I still want restoration of peace; I don't agree with violence against innocent people as a means to vent discontent with the government. Yet I'm glad that people are not passive, are not resigned to be ruled by a questionable leader produced by a questionable election. Some occasions call for indignation, without which inaction and despair - and the injustices they perpetuate - would go unchecked.

Home away from home

2007-12-31T20:26:00.001+03:00

I traveled to Kenya and Tanzania during my year-end holiday and spent Christmas in Zanzibar. Saw incredible wildlife, gorgeous beaches and met some great people. After living out of a duffel for two weeks, I found myself ready to go home. To go where I know the taxi driver who meets me at the airport, where I know the places to go to find things I need and the fair prices for these things, where friends and familiar faces abound.

Kampala, Uganda is not just a place I'm visiting; it's home.

1 and 30

2007-12-01T15:57:00.001+03:00

A parcel from my mom arrived a few days ago. Wedged in with packets of taco seasoning, parmesan cheese and various Chinese snacks were dietary supplements that "enhance memory, support healthy aging."

Earlier this week, as I took in the scenery along the road connecting Kampala and Jinja, I could hardly believe that I'm here, that I get to live here, to experience the things and meet the people that have filled the bulk of my days as a 30-year-old. Much of it has felt like starting from scratch. Everything seems new and different. Nothing could be taken for granted, even something as small as looking in the right direction for traffic before crossing the street. Daily life requires... more. On the roughest days, I feel tired and old. But on most days, I feel curious and stretched and alert and engaged; I feel like a kid again.

Whatever I had imagined my life to be at 30, this year has not been that. I'm glad life is not predictable; I'm delighted it's beyond my control and expectations. Perhaps surprises and challenges are God's supplements to enhance memory and support healthy aging.

2008 is a leap year. I'll have 366 days as a 31-year-old. I wonder where and how I'll spend them. I wonder who and what I'll discover and love and lose along the way.

I can't wait to find out.

CHOGM redux

2007-11-15T14:04:00.001+03:00

The Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) will take place in Uganda on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. In these weeks immediately prior to CHOGM, preparations have taken on a frenzied pace. Construction around the clock. Digging crews lining every main road, patching potholes, creating sidewalks and busting pipes. Road closures for "convoy rehearsals." (Heaven forbid the visitors should wait in traffic!) "Are you ready for CHOGM?" has become an acceptable greeting.

Just when I had abandoned all hope that CHOGM would bring any benefit to Kampala residents, Parliament declares two CHOGM public holidays - on Thanksgiving day and Friday! I will join some other Americans in town for a Thanksgiving meal on Thursday, then a Thanksgiving potluck on Saturday. Thanksgiving is not an official holiday in Uganda, but a long weekend of no work and overeating? That's the true spirit of Thanksgiving!

So thanks, CHOGM and Parliament, for these extra holidays. More sincerely, thank you, friends and family, for your care and support, for emails and packages.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Occupational hazard

2007-11-09T12:04:00.001+03:00

I ran into some Texans in a gift shop yesterday. We introduced ourselves, shared where we're from and what we're doing in Uganda. I attributed my formal business attire to the court hearing I had just attended. As soon as they learned that I'm a lawyer, they started telling me about a legal case they had encountered during their visit.

Of the reactions I get (here or in America) when I disclose my vocation, two are most prevalent. One is thinly-veiled disapproval. One is inquiry into some specific legal problem. In other words, those who do not condemn me want free legal advice.

I'd like to think that I'm willing to help others. But some days, when I want a break from work, when I just want to enjoy the other parts of my life, I wish I can profess my profession without having to defend or practice it. Some days, I wish I were a proctologist.

9 months

2007-11-07T14:40:00.001+03:00

Back in February, while I was packing and re-packing and getting ready for my move to Uganda, others were... getting their groove on. In the past 2 weeks, three sets of friends have transitioned from married couple to family.

Taylor, Hannah and Zoe: You are most welcome! You are a good-looking lot and blessed with parents who already love you beyond measure. I look forward to meeting you in 2008.

Got milk?

2007-10-25T09:50:00.001+03:00

I live in a milk-drinking culture. Ugandans take so much milk in their coffee that I call their beige beverage "coffee-flavored milk." They, in turn, are often appalled by the tar-like substance many Americans consume.

Powered milk is the most common, affordable and, given power outages and lack of reliable refrigeration, durable form of milk. Powered milk, however, only comes in "full cream", which means that after a couple of months of that stuff, I'd surely be wedged in my own doorway. Some markets stock "long-life" milk, which comes in liquid form, requires no refrigeration, has a yellowish hue and a miraculous (unholy?) 1-year shelf life. Long-life milk comes in whole and lowfat varieties. Fresh milk is sold in sealed plastic pouches. Fresh milk is usually full cream, although a few stores with mzungu clientele occasionally stock lowfat or semi-skim fresh milk. Fresh milk costs more and spoils quickly. There is also uber-fresh milk, straight from the source, which I dare not partake.

Since my arrival, I've been making do with powdered and indestructible long-life milk. Then this week, I finally took the plunge and bought some fresh lowfat milk. Tasting fresh milk for the first time in over 8 months... it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend.

Sip. "Ooooh... This is good."

Gulp. "I remember this. It's just like 1%."

Big gulp. "Wow. This is amazing."

Chug-chug-chug-chug. "I LOVE YOU!" Chug-chug-chug-chug-chug.

(Cue 50s love song as I skip in slow-motion through a sunny field of daisies, holding hands with a giant sack of lowfat milk.)

Irresistible revolution

2007-10-13T13:35:00.000+03:00

I'm about to start a book that comes with high praise and warning. "It'll jack you up," I've been told. This opening quote of Ammon Hennacy (Catholic activist, 1893-1970) seems in line with that caution:

Love without courage and wisdom is sentimentality, as with the ordinary church member. Courage without love and wisdom is foolhardiness, as with the ordinary soldier. Wisdom without love and courage is cowardice, as with the ordinary intellectual. But the one who has love, courage and wisdom moves the world.

Fruits of desperation

2007-10-11T10:02:00.000+03:00

Last night, I had dinner with a new friend from LA. He leaves town in 2 days, but introduced me to another who will be around for another 2 months and left me a bag of bite-size Snickers that will be around for another 2 hours.

It so happens that we had attended the same church in LA for some time, but our paths never crossed until now, in Kampala of all places. Somehow, there wasn't sufficient overlap in going to the same church in the same city in the same state in America. There were always too many people, too many options in who to meet and greet.

But here, far from home, beggars can't be choosers. The ex-pat community is surprisingly fluid and welcoming. Granted, there are those who will exclude wherever they go, but for the most part, people treasure others who can understand and commiserate. Relationships between like-minded people deepen quickly; other relationships hover on the surface but are nonetheless maintained. Firebrand issues such as religion and politics are discussed with civility and tolerance. The foolishness of burning bridges over differences of opinion or personality is generally recognized and avoided.

And beggars find gems that choosers overlook. I've come to enjoy after 7 interactions people who I would've dismissed after 3 at home. The initial "click" (or clique) has become less important, if at all. The things that matter - I want to help, I care about Africa, I'm homesick, I stick out like a sore thumb, I don't know how to respond to beggars, I miss [insert comfort food], I feel totally overwhelmed - are real and readily confessed.

Desperation may not be the best foundation for healthy relationships, but some of the qualities that desperation begets - patience, tolerance, compassion, empathy, transparency, bite-size Snickers - surely are.

Hyperbole

2007-10-10T18:23:00.000+03:00

I just read an editorial that likens certain immigration policies to ethnic cleansing. I agree with the import of the piece. But having just spent some mind-blowing days in Rwanda, learning about and seeing the remnants of the genocide that took place there, I find the analogy unforgivable; I find it obscene.

I enjoy playing with words and being sarcastic. I understate serious matters and exaggerate unimportant ones. I whine “I’m staaaaaarving” because I’ve missed (or merely delayed) a meal. I complain “That’s unjust” because some referee makes a bad call. But I’m learning that my senses of humor and irony and scale are based on a life of privilege. I joke too often about subjects that are no joking matter.

8 down, 4 to go

2007-10-04T09:42:00.000+03:00

Before I arrived, one year seemed and sounded like quite a long time. Now... I can hardly believe eight months have passed and I'm sure I'll feel the same disbelief about the next four.

I adjusted relatively quickly to living here and, thanks to the plethora of care packages from home, I've not been in want of any essentials. ("Essentials" being broadly defined to include things like Noxzema and Korean ramen.)

But having initiated the countdown, lists are forming. The other day, while waiting in court, I scribbled the following:

Office Supplies
· Weekly/monthly planner (only daily diaries are sold here)
· Scotch tape
· Stapler/staples (gimme a Swingline!)
· Small post-its
· 3-ring binders
· Legal pads
· Copier with a feeder

I don't actually miss office supplies; I miss not having to think about office supplies. The Ugandan next to me in the court gallery watched intently as I made my list and questioned my sanity with the expression on his face. This scrutiny inspired another list:

Happy to leave behind
· Being watched like a freak
· Being treated like an ATM
· Mzungu price
· Body odor
· Insects & insect repellent
· Pox-marked roads
· Paying extra for chicken
· CHOGM construction
· Dirty mucus

Due to the strange loyalty that I've developed for this place, I felt guilty about the list above and made the list below:

Will miss
· Friends and colleagues
· Prossy (Ugandan lady whose lunch spot I frequent Monday-Friday)
· Road-side meatsicles
· Ugandan coffee
· Villages and the countryside
· Red earth
· Cash-only lifestyle
· Time to read
· Ugandan English ("You are lost!" = "Long time no see!")
· Shopping and bargaining with local vendors
· Celebrating the little things (internet access! electricity! hot water! any water!)

I plan to stay in touch with my friends and colleagues here. I plan to send them office supplies. I hope the next four months will not be the last four months.

CHOGM? I hardly know 'em

2007-09-01T09:56:00.000+03:00

The Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) is coming to Uganda in about 80 days.

CHOGM is expected to bring the world's attention - and the taxpayer-funded per diems of representatives from 53 member states - to Uganda, and the country is dressing to impress. Major roads are being re-paved (or paved for the first time). Manhole-sized potholes have been marked to be filled. Countless hotels and luxury apartments are rushing toward a November grand-opening. The primping also includes re-routing public taxis on which residents depend (so they stay out of the city center), closing road-side shops and removing other potential visual blights to vehicles shuttling VIPs about town.

Billboards, newspaper ads and TV commercials all boast that "Uganda is ready for CHOGM." But is CHOGM ready for Uganda? Are the visiting dignitaries ready or willing or interested to see Uganda beyond their hotels and vehicles, to see both its wealth and poverty, both its modern cities and rural villages? And is Uganda ready for life after CHOGM? Billions of dollars have been poured into hosting a three-day meeting. Who will occupy the luxury hotels and apartments after the visitors have left town? Who will employ the workers who have flowed into Kampala to work in construction?

It's not uncommon to to bring out the fine china and silverware for guests or to serve them the good wine and delicacies. One can only hope that after the guests depart, the average Ugandan will get a seat at the table and have a taste from the same menu.

Shifting gears

2007-08-29T18:12:00.000+03:00

During my first week in law school, I discovered that one of my undergraduate professors was a fellow student. He was one of those cute professors that impressionable college students have crushes on, so one would think that I'd enjoy the opportunity to relate to him as a peer. The context had changed; I should have shifted gears. But having spent two years addressing him as "Professor So-and-So" (to his face, anyway), I simply could not bring myself to call him by his first name. Instead, I spent the next nine months addressing him as, "Hey... you..."

When I have friends or acquaintances over to my home, I would never even consider stripping down to my skivvies and applying lotion in their presence. I think most people would agree that such behavior would be... scandalous. Most people would probably also conclude that if you simply add a couple of dozen strangers and a pool of chlorinated water, and rename your undergarments "bikini", then such behavior would be perfectly acceptable. But having spent most of my life fully dressed in front of people who are not intimates or emergency medical personnel, I simply could not bring myself to participate in public disrobing and lotion application. Instead, I spent a day by the pool, clothed and averting my eyes from my nearly naked friends.

I can get used to sharing buses with chickens and civil litigation without any pre-trial discovery, but I can't handle pool-side normalcy. I just can't.

Good books come to those who wait

2007-07-31T17:47:00.001+03:00

Sometime during my first month here, I ventured to interview a judge. Rather than make an appointment, I was advised to just show up at his office and seek an audience. I was prepared to wait and while waiting, I read all of Uganda's Succession Act, Evidence Act, Criminal Procedure Rules and Civil Procedure Rules.

I wait a lot. I wait for the taxi (bus) to arrive. I wait for the taxi to fill with passengers. I wait as the taxi stops to refuel. I wait in traffic. I wait for people to show up for meetings, scheduled or unscheduled. I wait for the power to come back on so I can finish cooking dinner (on my electric stove) and finish watching whatever DVD is trapped inside the player.

Waiting has reacquainted me with an once-favored activity: leisure reading. Since my arrival, I've read:
No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu (@, &)
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (@, %, &)
Emma's War by Deborah Scroggins (%, !)
Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger by Ronald J. Sider (?)
Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller (!)
Jesus in Beijing by David Aikman (@, %)
Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder (@, %, &)

I'm now reading:
Guns, Germs & Steel by Jared M. Diamond (?)
Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski (%)
Once There Was a War by John Steinbeck (%)

I haven't written a book review since high school and I intend to leave that record undisturbed. But some symbol-coded observations:
@ - I chewed through these books. I could not put them down.
% - I like books written by reporters. I like the way they tell the story.
! - I enjoyed these books, but at certain points, I wanted to reach into the story and strangle the protagonists.
& - These books made me cry. Not single-tear-trickling-down-my-cheek cry, but bawling-in-rage-against-the-machine cry.
? - These books are big, full of statistics, not driven by a narrative. Interesting but tough to read.

Out of my reading list thus far, my absolute favorite - no contest - is the Grapes of Wrath. I've read about 8 other Steinbeck novels, so I don't know how I've missed this one until now. I've pushed the book on two of my co-workers (one American, one Ugandan). I'm also starting/joining a book club next month. More books ahead.

Language barrier

2007-07-08T19:00:00.001+03:00

English is the official language of Uganda; most Ugandans learn some English in school. This small detail has greatly eased my transition here. Yet knowing the same language sometimes doesn't quite add up to speaking the same language.

During my first or second week in the office, a group of us were planning to go into a village for a program. Being mindful that cultural expectation in dress varies between the city and the rural areas, I asked, "Do women wear pants in the village?" My Ugandan colleagues stared at me and at each other. "Do they wear pants?" A fellow American chimed in, "She means, can she wear trousers." The Ugandans looked relieved. "Yes, it is ok for you to wear trousers. But it's best to wear a long skirt."

My initial take-away from this interaction was that Ugandans say "trousers" instead of "pants." A few weeks ago, I learned that when Ugandans say "pants," they mean "underwear."

Another example. I've met some Chinese people in church. They speak very little English, so we converse in Chinese. I generally feel pretty darn proud of my conversational Chinese, but the first time that my new Chinese friends asked me to translate "big" words like "worship" and "sanctify," I had to swallow hard and tell them that I could not oblige them. One of them had a look of shock that I will never forget; I felt as if my fake horn had accidentally detached in the presence of real unicorns. I stuttered and try to explain the meaning of the big Chinese words using many, many small ones. "Worship... it's like... um... God is up there and better than us... um... so we're like... um... wow." It wasn't quite as bad as that, but it was pretty close.

This Sunday, my Chinese friends ended up sitting behind me instead of next to me; it would've been too disruptive to translate for them. I turned to the passage for the day and there, in verse 1 of chapter 15 of the book of Acts, was the big word that I hope to never explain using the small ones in my vocabulary.

Thanks to the seating arrangement, both my friends and I were spared from a fumbling, conversational-Chinese explanation of "circumcision."

Adventure in foam valley

2007-06-05T08:15:00.000+03:00

I have an enormous bed in my furnished apartment. The Cal-King-sized foam mattress, however, has cradled its share of tenants and now concaves in the center. Thus, as much as I would like to swim around my first very big bed, I always find myself rolling toward the middle. I’ve thought about getting a new mattress, but I know the apartment manager would make me pay for it. I also feel guilty about replacing such a big and not-entirely-useless piece of furniture.

During my friend Karen’s visit, the apartment manager added a guest bed to my living room. This bed was smaller, but it came with a brand new mattress. I coveted that mattress during Karen’s stay. I then spent the bulk of the two days following her departure on that mattress.

On the third day, the new mattress and guest bed were scheduled to be removed from my apartment. In a fit of it-can’t-hurt-to-try, I confronted my old mattress. I wrestled with the v-shaped giant until I had flipped it over, nearly knocking off the mosquito net and ceiling lamp in the process.

I tried it out. Nice and firm and flat. I felt relieved that I hadn’t replaced the mattress or resigned to sleeping in foam valley for the next nine months. From now on, I roll according to will and whim! Not only is the old as good as the new, it’s also twice the size!

I thought of other occasions when I’ve experienced or witnessed the old being made new: the old dress that wears like new after an extended period of neglect in the back of the closet; the perishing friendship that reaches new depths through honesty and reconciliation; the husband who sees his wife with new eyes and new awe after the birth of a child; my parents’ God becoming my Lord.

Newer is not always better, even when things are not as they should be. What a delight and relief to discover (or remember) that somewhere between rejection and resignation is renewal, and that this middle-ground can sometimes be reached with a little hope and some elbow-grease.

Arrested development

2007-05-30T15:24:00.000+03:00

My friend Karen visited me in Uganda last week. After a fun-filled week of safari, sightseeing, and lots of food and conversations, the visit nearly ended in an arrest.

I went with Karen to the airport on Friday night. I made sure she checked in and hugged her good-bye. When I tried to exit the building, I learned that only ticketed passengers were allowed in that part of the building. Two security officers told me that people are arrested for this type of trespass, and referred me to their supervisor.

As I walked toward the supervisor, my American brain was churning. “Was there a sign that indicated this prohibition? I didn’t see any. Was it prominently displayed? How can they arrest me when they failed to provide fair notice?!”

Fortunately, my fledgling Ugandan instinct took over. I walked up behind the supervisor and, to get his attention, said, “Ssebo (sir)?” He turned around, and as soon as he saw my Chinese face, a broad smile of surprise (or amusement) spread across his face. (I usually get this reaction when I attempt to speak Luganda; occasionally, I get a busload of laughter.)

“Yes, nyabo (madam)?”

I explained my predicament (in Ugandan-accented English). I smiled and laughed and gestured and apologized dramatically. After a brief exchange, the supervising security officer walked with me and showed me where the prohibition had been posted. There was indeed a sign; it was in English but located in a high, unlit corner. But the security officer was smiling, which I took to be the more important sign.

“I will not arrest you this time,” he said.

“I can go? Eh! Webale nyo (thank you very much), ssebo!”

At that, he laughed out loud. “Kale (it’s alright), nyabo,” he said as he waved good-bye.

It has been challenging, moving from a culture where it matters most to be right, to one where it matters most to be… relational. It is certainly working some muscles that have atrophied during my stint as an occasionally argumentative, slightly sarcastic and sometimes misanthropic L.A. lawyer. But being relational has its advantages. I’ve been surprised by the troubles that have been averted and doors that have been opened by virtue of finding and establishing some connection with another person, by being polite, by asking nicely, by striking up a conversation before making a request (never a demand), and by being deferential and literally speaking the other person’s language. Nobody gets proven right, but nobody gets arrested either.

Darth Vader lives here

2007-05-02T16:55:00.001+03:00

Every working day, everyone at the office gathers in the morning for a time of prayer. The facilitator shares a word from Scripture, people share personal or work-related praises and requests, then we pray. This time reminds me of who is boss, why I’m here, and gives me some insight into the personalities and lives of my co-workers.

The office is small and the only space big enough for everyone is the front reception area, which is right next to my cubicle. Right inside my cubicle is my desk; right on my desk is my laptop computer. The machine is bit of an antique (circa 2002) and among its quirks is a very audible fan that turns on every 3-4 minutes for about 30 seconds. I’m sure the fan serves some critical function of cooling the computer and preventing its spontaneous combustion and this heavy breathing had never been a problem in the privacy of my own home or office. But in a shared space during a quiet moment? It might as well be a jet engine.

So until I remember to put my computer to sleep before each prayer time, I will go through motions familiar to anyone who has ever forgotten to turn off a mobile phone at church or at court: looking around for the source of the noise with puzzlement and slight irritation, recognizing self as the responsible party, smiling sheepishly (and hopefully not cursing aloud) while scrambling to silence the noise generator, whispering apologies and, finally, resolving to remember until the next time I forget.

Bite me

2007-04-24T15:52:00.000+03:00

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 (?)

2007-04-17T17:49:00.000+03:00

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 (?)

2007-04-11T17:51:00.000+03:00

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

2007-04-05T11:35:00.000+03:00

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

2007-04-02T09:15:00.000+03:00

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.

Muchina among mzungus

2007-03-19T12:47:00.000+03:00

“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

2007-03-15T14:07:00.000+03:00

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

2007-03-12T08:24:00.000+03:00

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?

2007-03-09T12:01:00.000+03:00

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

2007-03-02T16:55:00.000+03:00

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.

Only happy when it rains

2007-02-27T14:11:00.000+03:00

Perhaps to preempt yet another heat/sweat-related entry, God sent rain this weekend.

I woke early on Saturday; the skies were gray. Thunder followed, then torrential downpour. The streets emptied. The birds quieted. The air cleared. For the next two hours, all was still but for the deafening roar of rain on tin rooftops.

I couldn’t and didn’t want to go back to sleep. I opened the windows, put on coffee and a long-sleeve shirt. I shivered and inhaled deeply for the first time in a week and took in the sights and sounds of what I know to be a gift from God, a reprieve from my biggest challenge thus far, a reminder that He is Lord over even sun and sky.

To breathe or not to breathe

2007-02-23T12:51:00.000+03:00

Air quality is an oxymoron in my new city. There is no such thing as "smog check" here, so cars chug diesel fuel and emit whatever they please. Add a pinch of solar heat and a dash of fumes from burning trash piles and you've got the atmospheric cocktail that inspired my first acclimation debate: windows open or windows closed?

Opening windows in cars and buildings substantially lowers the temperature and reduces perspiration. Closing windows keeps out gag-inducing exhaust and other fumes. All in all, it can be hard to breathe either way, so I quickly resolved the debate in favor of opening the windows and breathing through my hanky as needed.

Granted, breathing through a hanky is a bit too Michael Jackson for my taste, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

If you can’t take the heat, get a handkerchief

2007-02-22T16:05:00.000+03:00

Lesson No. 1: Do not leave the house without hat and hanky in tow.

Both items are essential to maintaining a semi-presentable appearance: hanky mops up torrents of sweat and the sunblock that melts off my face approximately 6.8 nanoseconds after application; hat prevents UV-stir-fryings of my face.

The heat and perspiration take me back to my days as a grade-schooler in Taiwan. As my sister and I walked to school each day, we would remind each other of the items that we were required to carry. Teachers checked for these items, including hats and handkerchiefs, and punished negligent omissions.

The sun is a punishing force here. I plan to stay on its good side.