NOTE: This blog was originally written Friday and Saturday March 19 & 20. It was easier to just leave the text in the present tense.
So today marked the end of the first half of the program. We have turned in any final assignments, our proposals for practicum and got our 950,000 UgSh stipends. I took the taxi to Natete for the last time going “home” to the Kawooyas.
Walking down the path to home, I had the usual, slight feeling of anxiety I get whenever I walk any stretch of road alone. Most of the time, the anticipation of being hassled is far worse than the event itself.
I was passing by the usual place I have spoke of before, where the mom’s announce my coming to the delight of two to six children, who run out, screaming my name. Our interactions have gradually grown to the point where they now cross the street to grab hold of my hand in greeting.
Tonight, I was getting back late, past 7:00pm, so the sun was already nearly set. Down the dirt path, a stampede of school children were skipping and singing in unison. It was too late for them to be just getting out of school, so I wondered what the reason for this parade at dusk was. But then that question quickly left my mind, following so many others I have learned to let pass. Like the thirty or so children, they disappear behind me, into the dust and darkness, T.I.A. (This is Africa)
But fighting through the crowd of kids was the little girl who held my hand so softly in hers yesterday, and told me that she loved me. Today, she said earnestly, she had something to give me: a pink envelope, folded twice over.
“Weebale nnyabo”, I thanked this gentle little girl. Clutching the envelope in one hand, and slowly releasing hers from the other, I let her fall back into the crowd of passing children. But I know she will be there tomorrow, and the next, waiting for me.
I walk home. The sun has fallen too low for me to read the precious epistle. I continue on the dirt path, staring at the ground as intently as some of the men I pass by are probably staring at me. I look up only at those areas now known to me as friendly faces. They are shopkeepers; women with their children who seem to be waiting for me to pass in order to test my Luganda skills.
Arriving back at the home, I apologize for my tardiness and make for my room as quickly a politeness will allow.
Temporary power outage. No problem. I can find my headlamp with my eyes closed now. I unfold the envelope in the LED-focused beam to read my name addressed on the cover: “Muzungu Bye Bye”. Precisely my name! I smile as I look at those words on the pink envelope, creased twice & soiled with the red dust that is so pervasive.
Flip over: written in handwriting almost as tiny and meek as its author: Nalwadda Shamim. The envelope is unsealed, and I lift the flap to pull out a half sheet of notebook paper. On the wide-ruled lines is writ:
“My name is Shamim
I love you so much
I lern in primary 4
even you write for me a letter
A you happy I think you are happy
Bye Bye
Nalwadda Shamim
The free-verse half-sonnet is lined by colorful trees drawn int the margins and is grounded by blue and pink rows at the bottom. I flip the torn half of paper over to see a row of trees planted above rainbow-colored, wide-ruled rows. Such a loving letter I have never received from a perfect stranger before.
* * *
Using the best of my Luganda and simple english, I respond with this:
Dear Shamim,
My name is Kelly - Erinnya lyange nze Kelly
I come from the U.S.A. - nva U.S.A.
I learn in University - nsoma mu university
Your letter makes me very happy
Thank you so much! - Weebale Nyo!
I love to see you every day - Njagala okulaba gwe buli lunaku
I will be going soon, sadly
I will live at Makerere - ngenda okubeera mu Makerere
But I will pass by to visit
I will never forget you, Shamim.
You have made me so happy.
I wish you the best in your studies.
And hope for the best for you and your family.
Stay happy,
Kelly Allen - U.S.A.
Lesson: My Luganda is worse than a grade-schooler’s ESL
Saturday- I walked down and was spotted a block away before the shops, despite coming from the opposite direction. I handed the letter to Shamim and we parted ways as soon as our greetings were exchanged. But before we split, I heard a couple of kids behind me say “Muzungu, give me some money.” I didn’t dignify the request with even a glance, but I did look to see Shamim’s reaction. Perhaps it was my fond feelings for the unassuming kindness of this girl which made me read into her expression, but I could have sworn I saw her look towards the kids with an air of embarrassment, or was it even distaste?
A part of me wants to leave our interaction at these past exchanges, before something like money spoils it. But a bigger part of me wants to come back.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Time-travel through The Fountain(Head)
(Excerpt stoled from: Rand, Ayn. The Fountainhead. Signet: New York, 3rd ed. 1993. pp.139-140.)
“...The room had a skylight, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below;...went to dime movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner...”
[The house] “has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard”
“The family on the first floor do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a charge account at a corner speak-easy...In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a tenth one on its way.”
This passage provided a perfect example of what I have observed since my first trip to Tamale, Ghana. Many of the “backwards” and horrible conditions that Africa is so well known for bare a striking resemblance to the setting of my grandparent’s childhood. As I read this, my mind immediately turned to my experiences here in Uganda. I imagine that if this were to be me experiencing the slums in Uganda rather than Dominique Francon in the slums of 1920s New York, it would read something like this:
“...The room was lit by a doorframe which so poorly matched it’s holey partner it served only the purpose of its expected presence, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her meals on the firewood stove of a numerous family a few houses down;...went to 200 Ug shilling (10 cents) movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled matooke, she bathed in a plastic tub of heated water. She had never done these things before; she did them with limited success.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her three-story house in the highlands of Louisville, Kentucky, and her articles on life in the slums appeared on Blogspot.com...
The house is beside a sewer which gets clogged every time it rains and runs over, all through the neighborhood.
The family next door do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school because they cannot afford school fees nor uniforms, or even the price to get their hair buzzed; required of all school-age children. The father spends the family income on bags of moonshine...In the fourth shack down the street, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children. There is a tenth on its way.”
Some of these things I have actually experienced in my own homestay. Much I copied directly from the first passage. Hopefully the plagiarism will be forgiven on behalf of the point I am trying to make, which is that, though my grandmothers think I am traveling to the darkest place on earth, it’s almost as if I have merely traveled a few years back in time to experience the “good ol’ days.” (And if that won’t satisfy Ayn, then hopefully the citation will).
I want to be careful and not give the idea that Uganda is just America 90 years ago. In some ways this country is way farther advanced: TVs, Internet, cell phones, etc. The United States did not make it to the “development” (whatever way you want to interpret that term) it now enjoys after 48 years. Why are we surprised when Uganda doesn’t? Of course the two cases are not the same. History, culture, geography, and current world events must be taken into account along with so many other factors. In fact, the purpose of this comparison is not to suggest what lies in Uganda’s future. Instead, it is the hope of this author to allow for the reader to view Uganda’s poverty position as something which is not so foreign and distant from his/her own recent history.
“...The room had a skylight, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor below;...went to dime movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them expertly.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner...”
[The house] “has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the courtyard”
“The family on the first floor do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a charge account at a corner speak-easy...In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a tenth one on its way.”
This passage provided a perfect example of what I have observed since my first trip to Tamale, Ghana. Many of the “backwards” and horrible conditions that Africa is so well known for bare a striking resemblance to the setting of my grandparent’s childhood. As I read this, my mind immediately turned to my experiences here in Uganda. I imagine that if this were to be me experiencing the slums in Uganda rather than Dominique Francon in the slums of 1920s New York, it would read something like this:
“...The room was lit by a doorframe which so poorly matched it’s holey partner it served only the purpose of its expected presence, but no windows...and no running water. She cooked her meals on the firewood stove of a numerous family a few houses down;...went to 200 Ug shilling (10 cents) movies with girls of the neighborhood.
She wore frayed skirts and blouses...She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled matooke, she bathed in a plastic tub of heated water. She had never done these things before; she did them with limited success.
...at the end of two weeks she returned to her three-story house in the highlands of Louisville, Kentucky, and her articles on life in the slums appeared on Blogspot.com...
The house is beside a sewer which gets clogged every time it rains and runs over, all through the neighborhood.
The family next door do not bother to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school because they cannot afford school fees nor uniforms, or even the price to get their hair buzzed; required of all school-age children. The father spends the family income on bags of moonshine...In the fourth shack down the street, the father of the family has not done a whole day’s work in his life, and does not intend to. There are nine children. There is a tenth on its way.”
Some of these things I have actually experienced in my own homestay. Much I copied directly from the first passage. Hopefully the plagiarism will be forgiven on behalf of the point I am trying to make, which is that, though my grandmothers think I am traveling to the darkest place on earth, it’s almost as if I have merely traveled a few years back in time to experience the “good ol’ days.” (And if that won’t satisfy Ayn, then hopefully the citation will).
I want to be careful and not give the idea that Uganda is just America 90 years ago. In some ways this country is way farther advanced: TVs, Internet, cell phones, etc. The United States did not make it to the “development” (whatever way you want to interpret that term) it now enjoys after 48 years. Why are we surprised when Uganda doesn’t? Of course the two cases are not the same. History, culture, geography, and current world events must be taken into account along with so many other factors. In fact, the purpose of this comparison is not to suggest what lies in Uganda’s future. Instead, it is the hope of this author to allow for the reader to view Uganda’s poverty position as something which is not so foreign and distant from his/her own recent history.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Questions to Take Back
This blog goes back to a discussion I had with a few other students at the end of our extremely emotional trip to Rwanda. It follows well with my last (real) post and the questions are still ones I am struggling with going into the eighth week of Uganda.
Overall, we wondered, How do I take this experience back to the U.S.?
How do I not forget?
How do I teach others to understand?
How do I continue to care?
How do I morally deal with living a life so relatively privileged?
How do I help these people?
The toughest question for myself: Do I really disagree with a lot of foreign aid and intervention or am I just trying to excuse myself from the guilt of no longer pursuing plans of being an aid worker in Africa?
But then again, one of the reasons I keep coming to this continent is to see what Africa has to teach the West. The West has spent decades ripping the land raw of its raw materials and people. I think Africa has a less material commodity to offer. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this place makes me long for family so much; something which is very much a dying art form in the United States. I miss family functions and friendships more than I miss toilet stalls. Africa can teach us the simplicity found in prioritizing.
I want to make sure not to take an overly pastoral perspective of a developing country. It’s important not to deny some pressing and basic issues which Uganda faces such as sanitation and nutrition. And of course most of this country’s problems are exacerbated if not completely caused by corruption.
So how can this country “develop” to address the basic needs of its citizens in the most culturally appropriate way? When foreign intervention comes from such countries as the U.S., how much of our individualistic culture and own agenda is mixed in with the second-hand clothes and expired medications? I don’t think that “development” requires the extinction of the extended family. However, if Africa is to follow the American model, that just might be what we are prescribing: entrepreneurship, micro-lending groups which isolate wives from their “irresponsible” partners, aid distributers providing rations for nuclear families. Why not push families to build their businesses through the extended family? Could this avoid the problem of an over-saturated market of fruit sellers? How about building micro-finance organizations in a way that encourages mutual respect and inclusion of both partners in the fundamental organization of this society: marriage? When giving out aid, could the west take a little more time to recognize that providing for one’s family in Africa typically extends far beyond biological children?
And so now there are more questions than before and an infinite amount of answers, but how am I going to respond?
Overall, we wondered, How do I take this experience back to the U.S.?
How do I not forget?
How do I teach others to understand?
How do I continue to care?
How do I morally deal with living a life so relatively privileged?
How do I help these people?
The toughest question for myself: Do I really disagree with a lot of foreign aid and intervention or am I just trying to excuse myself from the guilt of no longer pursuing plans of being an aid worker in Africa?
But then again, one of the reasons I keep coming to this continent is to see what Africa has to teach the West. The West has spent decades ripping the land raw of its raw materials and people. I think Africa has a less material commodity to offer. Maybe it’s no coincidence that this place makes me long for family so much; something which is very much a dying art form in the United States. I miss family functions and friendships more than I miss toilet stalls. Africa can teach us the simplicity found in prioritizing.
I want to make sure not to take an overly pastoral perspective of a developing country. It’s important not to deny some pressing and basic issues which Uganda faces such as sanitation and nutrition. And of course most of this country’s problems are exacerbated if not completely caused by corruption.
So how can this country “develop” to address the basic needs of its citizens in the most culturally appropriate way? When foreign intervention comes from such countries as the U.S., how much of our individualistic culture and own agenda is mixed in with the second-hand clothes and expired medications? I don’t think that “development” requires the extinction of the extended family. However, if Africa is to follow the American model, that just might be what we are prescribing: entrepreneurship, micro-lending groups which isolate wives from their “irresponsible” partners, aid distributers providing rations for nuclear families. Why not push families to build their businesses through the extended family? Could this avoid the problem of an over-saturated market of fruit sellers? How about building micro-finance organizations in a way that encourages mutual respect and inclusion of both partners in the fundamental organization of this society: marriage? When giving out aid, could the west take a little more time to recognize that providing for one’s family in Africa typically extends far beyond biological children?
And so now there are more questions than before and an infinite amount of answers, but how am I going to respond?
Riots
no new posts because I was in rural Uganda for a week and today I have to leave for home early because of riots and burning tombs - read up on it at http://www.monitor.co.ug/
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
We're told that this is nothing to worry about, TIA
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Smokin' Innocence
Taking the taxi home today, one image stands out in my mind:
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
We approach the dark cloud burning from beside the road, its black, translucent haze wafting over the street. Tires are being burned, typical urban, Ugandan waste management. I hold my breath as we pass, wanting to limit my daily intake of carcinogens to the standard smog that lays over Kampala. As our taxi putters past, I think of similar, obvious health hazards which the average Kampala resident is subjected to every day: standing water, open sewage, wandering livestock, potassium over-dose (we eat a serious amount of bananas and related fruit).
While I reflect on this, I catch sight of a small girl, dressed in pink, in front of the flames, but still well within the toxic fumes of the burning rubber. She sat, legs folded under, hands together and outstretched, her eyes closed. It was as if she had fallen asleep while praying. Before, I was concerned about those who would inhale the poisonous gases just in passing by or being within a few blocks radius. But here was a small child enveloped within the noxious gases with a placidly serene face accompanying her prayerful posture. I wonder if her mother strategically placed her there, knowing the grotesque juxtaposition her composition would make.
Going to Ghana last summer dispelled so many of my preconceived notions of Africa. There was poverty for sure, particularly in Tamale, but I saw very few cases of desperation and hopelessness. Ghana caused me to reevaluate what I considered “poor” and allowed me to recognize many of the unnecessary extravagances of the U.S. I left Ghana feeling optimistic about the “Dark Continent,” convinced that the media and academia had over-exaggerated its problems. Heading over to Uganda, I hoped that Kampala would serve to debunk even more theories about sub-saharan Africa.
I wish I could say that Uganda has done that for me, but in a lot of ways, I am having to struggle with the realization that Uganda really is a “developing” country. There is real need here and I saw in the refugee settlements more desperation than I could come to terms with. The hardest thing to accept is that no one can fully understand or diagnose the problems. Many have tried and some, like Jeffrey Sachs, claim to have an easy fix-all that will be the tide to lift all ships. But what suffers with the current plans for development? The environment? Culture? Identity? Studying development has introduced me to a history of good intentions which have paved a path of destruction. Of course a lot of good is happening in development here. The AIDS Support Organization (TASO) has made great strides in raising awareness and promoting prevention practices. Micro-finance and self-help organizations have raised the status of women in the country and led to better household expenditures, which indirectly has improved health and education of Uganda’s children.
But where does empowering women step into the bounds of cultural imposition in a traditionally paternalistic culture? I wish to promote equality of women based on my own feminist tendencies and even more so on studies showing the benefits of promoting gender. Still, it is paralyzing to recognize the benefits of development and at the same time try to respect culture. This task is made even more difficult by the fact that it is so hard to determine what is culture? How much was the originally paternalistic culture warped by colonialists who manipulated the tribal system, introduced a paternalistic religion (christianity), and promoted only men to positions of power?
These are just a few of the conundrums of development studies. Stay tuned for possible revelations...
Monday, March 1, 2010
Kampala As Usual
I open my eyes to the darkness, always taking a few minutes to remember where I am. In between the malaria med-induced dreams and frequent trips outside of Kampala, I always need a few seconds of consciousness to recognize where I am. I pull away my mosquito-net canopy and hit the concrete floor with my bare feet. Across the room, I reach for my phone/alarm clock, which is obnoxiously playing some ridiculous American show tune, though it is no longer playing the default, Dixieland as I found it too ironic for an African phone.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
5:45 am - Got to get up early to make it over the potholes and through the traffic jams to school. Being both the Muzungu and the only female besides my mom and Naka, the house help, I get to walk just a few steps over to the indoor bathroom, complete with flushing toilet and shower - quite the luxury. I am always thankful that I don’t have to walk through the house and courtyard, out to the pit latrine: a ceramic hole in the concrete floor of a long narrow room. I have recently learned that this is actually called and “Indian toilet” as it differs from a pit latrine in its ceramic exterior and flushing apparatus.
Brushing my teeth in the mirror, I take account of how I have already changed. Tan lines outline my tanktops and are highlighted by the pink of yesterday’s sun. My face is completely devoid of makeup; not even a solitary speck of mascara clings to my lashes. I haven’t been this natural since grade school. It’s sad that I’ve had to go a week of looking at myself without tar outlining my eyes to accept my natural face. Mostly, I just don’t see the point of makeup here. More-so than even my all-girls-Catholic high school, no one cares. Besides, I already get more than enough attention from my light skin and gender alone.
Other changes are the small hairs growing back on my scalp from my stint with narcolepsy medicine. Lucky for me, the perfect, equatorial climate is so conducive to sleeping that my afternoon lecture naps seem to be understood as perfectly acceptable. I can also see where all the matooke has been stored; my stomach already developing a convex curve I have resorted to one meal a day in order to try and suppress.
Grabbing my khakis and shirt, I walk further down the hall to the bunker where my two younger brothers still lie in their bunk beds, trying to see how much longer they can extend their slumber without consequence. I flip on the switch under the ironing table to turn the current onto the iron. There are two reasons to iron one’s close in Uganda. The first, to make you look “sharp.” Image is very important here, and how you look reflects upon your family. Maybe it’s because many people cannot afford a lot of clothes, or even new clothes, making it all the more important to have what clothes you do have always looking as nice as possible. The second reason, and my primary motivation, is to kill the eggs of a certain fly which sounds like it’s straight out of an Alien film. Usually, one only has to be concerned with these flesh-burrowing bugs if clothes are laid out to dry on the grass. Even though mine are dried on a line outside, I would rather not experience the sensation of having eggs germinate under my skin, later to emerge through a growing sore said to resemble a large pimple. (I have already had some intense Malaroid dreams on that which involved me pulling out larva with tweezers from a sore on my cheek.)
6:10am - I’m ready. We’re supposed to leave at 6:30, but know 7:00 is our earliest departure time. I spend the next fifty minutes sipping my ginger tea, sweetened with sugar and listen to the pounding of rain outside: rainy season is upon us. I ignore the two slices of bread before me, feeling that my body is still handling the matooke and posho carbs of the night before.
My 12 year-old brother, Isaac, is also finished getting ready early and sips his tea at the head of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but looking smart in his grey and white school uniform. We sit and chat for half an hour while the rest of the house is awake and in a hurry to make up for the past thirty lethargic minutes. Isaac “remembers” he has not gotten his homework signed and drops the stack of four subject notebooks in front of me with five minutes to go. But I don’t fall for his trick so easily: “It’s Alice’s absenteeism not absentee, which gets her into trouble,”
“But we don’t have time!” Isaac whines, making sure to emphasize this fact with the stomping of feet while covering his face. He had altered his original plan of giving me his homework to sign the night before to five minutes before, but I still refused to sign the papers without proper review.
“You should have given this to me yesterday then!” Reluctantly, Isaac makes the corrections just in time to pile into the station wagon along with Kim, Eric, Adam, and Elizabeth, the neighbor who is about Kim’s age (six). The four cram together in the back seat, while I get shotgun, with mom at the wheel. We’re jostled from side to side on the uneven dirt and rock path to the neighborhood road. It’s a little smoother, but scarred by periodic speed hills (not bumps), which cause our car to bottom out every time, despite going over the humps at a diagonal. When we reach the paved road, our pace picks up, but now we are too concerned with avoiding potholes to stick to the designated left side.
We merge into the traffic at a main road and immediately begin the tedious stop and go of Kampala traffic. Pulling into a gas station, we pay the man 10,000 Uganda shillings (about $5) for an eighth of a tank, maybe less, seems like the gas gauge is always hovering at empty. Not sure why this is. I’ve heard some pumps are rigged to pump slower than what the meter says. There may also be a fear of siphoning or car theft.
Bottoming out again, we’re back on the road to drop Isaac and Kimu at their grade school. In another 30 minutes and 6 miles, my mother pulls over to drop me at my taxi stop for a 25 cent ride to the Resource Center, about 2 miles away.
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