There's always room

Last weekend I went to a friend's site in a neighboring district. One of the new volunteers moved into the unit attached to hers and I wanted to welcome her to the "neighborhood" and see a good friend at the same time. We drank some excellent red wine (only 16,000= in Kampala!), watched Zodiac, ate some delicious guacamole and chapati "burritos" and had a great time. Originally this was supposed to be a welcome party-weekend, but those plans were postponed before they got off the ground and I still wanted to say hi.

Even though my friend lives pretty close, we rarely see each other. It's not that we're not that good of friends (she's probably one of my closest friends out here). It's not that she lives too far away (she's about 40 kilometers from me - 20-ish miles). It's to do with the transportation. That 40 kilometer journey in the states would probably take about a half hour in an air conditioned, cushioned car with plenty of leg room. Not so in Uganda.

In Uganda, one rarely hears "There's no more space!" or "We're all full here!" Personal space is not something that Ugandans take into account when traveling. I've only heard "I'd give you a ride, but there's no more room" once, and that was from a white woman transporting other white people. And, I'm afraid to admit it, but I was a little uncomfortable with that statement. What do you mean there's no more space? We're in Uganda! There's always more space. But alas, she was transporting some newly arrived Danish visitors and probably didn't want to overwhelm them too much during their first week by inviting an sweaty, un-ironed, hasn't-washed-her-hair-in-3-days Peace Corps volunteer. (I really do help to improve America's image overseas...!)

So walking down to the Kyotera/Mbrara highway intersection in search of a ride to my friend's site I was fully prepared to sit squished in a back seat with three other people and a chicken or in the front passenger seat with a baby on my lap and the mother squeezed between me and the driver, her hips helping to shift. That's how it works here. I'm starting to realize that if I do have to take a car, and not a matatu, I'll be uncomfortable. And after 8 months in Uganda, I'm ok with it. It's a necessary evil. It happens.

Amazingly I found quickly found a car (typically seating 4 - the driver, passenger and two in the back - in the States) and after throwing my backpack in the boot and arguing with the driver over the price (No I will not pay 4,000 shillings! I know the price! It's 3,000! No? Ok, I'm leaving. No, I'm leaving. Open the boot. What? We go for 3,000? Ok), I settled myself in the back seat. When I was quickly joined by three other passengers in my row and one in the front seat I expected to hit the road. But no. The driver had other ideas. Why drive all those 40 kilometers with only 5 passengers when you can make the same journey with more?! There are back-country roads he can take to avoid the police checkpoints, so why not?

We finally left after two more people squeezed themselves into the car. (occupant count = 7). While this was a little more than I'm used to, I figured that the short 40 kilometer journey wouldn't be too bad. We might not even have to avoid the police and keep on the tarmac.

Oh how naive I was. (Mistake 1)

We stopped two more times to pick up more passengers.

At the first stop, we picked up two passengers, one of which was a very LARGE woman. When I saw her I assumed that she would sit in the front since there was only one, rather thin, person in the front passenger seat. (Mistake 2) But no. Smiling, the driver walked around to the driver's side rear door, opened it and ushered her inside. And she squeezed herself right down on my right hip. That's ok. I don't really need that ilium anyway. Did I mention how fat she was? One of the fattest Ugandans I've seen here. On. My. Lap.

My third mistake? I convinced myself that she would get out soon. Surely this woman couldn't be going the whole way. Surely.

We stopped a second time to add another person bringing our count to ten passengers. Yes, you read that right. Ten people in a car made for, at the most, 5: driver, front passenger and three in the back - but let's not kid ourselves. Most Americans wouldn't put three full grown adults in the back seat. It's just not done.

Mistake number 4: I assumed some of these people MUST BE GETTING OUT SOON. *laughs at self* Yeah, right.

When we stopped a third time to let three people in the car, I had enough. The man sitting next to the door, however had a different idea. He refused to move. "Extend!" I said. Repeatedly. But did he extend? No. He smiled at me. After pushing him and hitting his leg for what must have been three minutes, he finally managed to fall out of the car and I escaped. The driver, recognizing that I was one angry passenger didn't say a word to me. He opened the boot and I retrieved my bag. He didn't ask demand that I pay him for the ride from hell. He didn't even look at me.

As the car was pulling away (final passenger count: 11), I flagged down a matatu and settled myself in the half-empty vehicle for the remainder of my journey.

The ride back to town the next day was almost as bad as the drive down. Walking 15 minutes to the highway from my friend's small village, I waited with several very friendly boda boda drivers and generally unemployed men who have always wanted a Muzungu "wife". Luckily a matatu arrived quickly and I boarded. The drive back started fairly uneventfully as the matatu wasn't terribly full.

We stopped several times in Kalisizo, however to pick up more passengers (and lots of luggage and a chicken), bringing the final passenger count in the matatu to 23. The "official" passenger limit for matatus is 14 passengers. The school term had just ended and many of those riding to town with me that particular day were students leaving boarding school with trunks, luggage, and various other space-taking items.

I somehow managed to make it to town with relatively little discomfort (no fat lady in my lap this time) and have since resolved to only take matatus to my friend's site in the future.


On another note. There is a jigger in my foot. A jigger is some sort of insect that lives in the mud and dirt and either burrows into your skin and lays an egg sack there or lays eggs in the soil, which then somehow make it into your skin. Either way it's not comfortable. And tomorrow I'm meeting with a Ugandan friend to dig it out. With a safety pin. Wish me luck.

Pre-Op jigger:

What the hell am I doing here?

So after nearly six months at site I figure it's probably a good idea to tell you what I'm actually doing here.

I'm assigned to a child development center attached to a Full Gospel Church. My site (hereafter known as "the project") is a Compassion International project. Compassion International, in case you didn't know or didn't want to click the link, is a child sponsorship program. They work internationally in many different countries pairing individuals, families and groups up with children in need. Compassion gives sponsored children school fees and birthday and Christmas gifts. Throughout the year sponsors may also decide to donate "family gifts" to children and their families. Compassion has really helped out many of our children and their sponsors have been great sending pictures, stickers, cards and "family gifts." We have a couple of the older youths who support themselves due to their parents dying and have been able to build houses for their siblings and themselves through Compassion's and their sponsor's support.

So a few pictures:


This is where I do some of my filing (in the next photo you can see the other filing cabinets where I do the rest of my filing). Since my counterpart left at the beginning of April, I'm now in charge of the children's folders, which basically just means updating them with school term reports, health reports, etc.


This is a good view of the desk I sit at (when I'm not filing). The little notebooks on top of the filing cabinets are what the children use to draft letters to their sponsors. They write four letters a year.


Well that's about it...

Oh! I almost forgot! I also "teach" several of the people at my organization computer-related stuff (I'm not a very good computer teacher). Right now we're trying to get the basics of doing math in excel. I've "taught" them adding, subtraction, multiplication and division. I attempted percentages, but yeah...fail. So in a couple weeks we're going to attempt percentages again. I'm also going to type up some exercises they can do to practice if they really want to.

The end.

A Friendly Reminder

Dear Self,

When you live just a few kilometers south of the equator and plan to spend half the day at the pool, take a little extra time and put some damn sunscreen on. Even if it's cloudy.

Red and Painfully yours,
S.

Like Animals at the Zoo

In Uganda it's perfectly acceptable to stare at whatever catches your eye. That drunk man lying on the side of the road? The two bazungu (plural of "muzungu") people walking down the street? The man who fell off his bicycle spilling chickens all over the side of the road? Sure. Stare. Openly. Freely. Intensely. Without the fear of persecution.

I sometimes feel like I moved to the zoo overnight. I'm not a person who continuously seeks out attention. I like sitting on the sidelines letting others take the spotlight. But living in Uganda has begun to stretch me to my limit.

An example:

A couple friends and I met at a hotel's pool in town for a day of relaxation. After shelling out 5000 shillings and demanding they provide us with towels, just this once (what hotel/pool doesn't provide towels?!) we settled ourselves in white, plastic lawn chairs near the pool. It had rained the night before so the sky was a little overcast and the temperature was a little chilly for swimming so we were planning on waiting the weather out. Also, the pool didn't look terribly inviting. Despite the worker halfheartedly skimming bugs off the water's surface, many drowned ants, flies, bugs of all kinds still swam lazily in the water and the deep end contained so much algae that the bottom was murky and resembled more of a set from a shark attack movie than a high-class hotel swimming pool. And the water was cold.

Shortly after we arrived and settled ourselves to wait and snack by the edge of the pool, two young (and VERY skinny) girls walked over to the "pool house," picked two dirty, white lawn chairs from the stack and arranged themselves directly in front of us. And there they sat. Staring. I have to admire their commitment. For at least a half hour they stared at us. And not just casually sneaking glances every few minutes or seconds, but sitting, facing us and staring. Watching. For at least 30 minutes - probably more. Every once in a while they would readjust themselves, inching closer and closer with each shifting movement. And they stared silently. The girls didn't say a word to any of us or to each other. They just stared. And we weren't even in our bathing suits yet - just in pants and t-shirts! I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone that the situation quickly became uncomfortable.

Finally, after 30 - 45 minutes of blatant staring we elected C. to say something. She kindly explained that their staring made us uncomfortable and we felt like "animals" and would they please turn around and look somewhere else. After a few minutes of explaining they turned around and stared at the pool the rest of the day.

Oh, but the fun wasn't over yet.

After we finally mustered the courage to jump in the freezing, buggy, algae-y water a group of secondary school boys set up watch. Like the girls they arranged themselves in a row of white lawn chairs and either watched their friend (the only one out of the eight or so of them to actually get in the water) or watched us in the pool for quite a while.

Oh Uganda.

My Ugandan Lies

Uganda, I am sad to say, has turned me into quite the liar. I'm not talking about everyday, pedestrian American lies. I'm not telling people their new hair looks smart when I really think it looks like a chicken threw up on it. I'm not saying, "Oh! This matooke is really good! And the gnut sauce! Oh my! Pure heaven!"* I"m talking about hard-core, big time lies.

In Uganda I've managed to split myself into several different people; I really only let fellow PCVs see much of the true me. And even then, I think Peace Corps and Uganda have changed me so much over the past seven months (SEVEN MONTHS!) that I'm not really the same person anymore. With Ugandans, who I am depends solely on my relationship with them. With co-workers I'm a more religious, nicer, more accommodating person. With female strangers I often lie about where I work (not really a full-on lie, more like a half-truth...no specifics!) and often I lie to them about my marital status/living arrangement. When talking with men, typically just the bodaboda drivers or secondary school/University students ("professional" men - men who work in offices - generally don't proposition me the way bodaboda drivers and students do), my lying becomes more extreme. I've somehow invented a completely different life for myself. In this make-believe life I have a husband and sometimes children. Occasionally, to a particularly creepy and/or aggressive guy, a completely different name and occupation.

In America this type of lying would be nearly unthinkable, but in Uganda it's common. I once invented a boyfriend back home to ward off a particularly amorous library patron and felt bad about the lie afterward. However in Uganda I hardly ever feel bad about my lies. They're not just a coping mechanism we Volunteers have adapted, but a survival skill. When a bodaboda driver finds out I have a husband, he (the boda driver) will still tell me I'm pretty, but he will be far less aggressive and annoying. We can joke about it now. And I can get through the day.

Lying in Uganda is far different than it is in the States; it's expected that someone will lie to you here.** A fellow aid-worker friend once told me about a conversation she had with some Ugandan school girls. She asked them how often they lie to one another (their friends) and the girls responded, "Every day; all the time." In conversations I expect the person I'm talking to to lie to me. They do it not to be mean, but to be nice. Many Ugandans believe it's much nicer to lie to someone they care about than it would be to tell them the truth. Some of this belief even extends to America - those little "white lies" we tell (why yes, that dress is so pretty! Wow, you look so much thinner than the last time I saw you!) exist here in Uganda too, just in greater numbers. Here, lying is just part of the culture. Usually it's just harmless little "white lies," but often it can extend into larger lies.*** If a man tells me he's not married and then proceeds to explain that he's always thought Muzungus (white foreigners) are beautiful, I can be pretty sure he is in fact married and lying about it.

I'm beginning to feel the same as those school girls. In my opinion, it's much nicer to lie to someone - to tell them I'm married for example - than it would be to tell them the truth: that I have absolutely no interest in them whatsoever, which may cause them to become angry at me or hurt...and nobody wants that. In training we were instructed that oftentimes when Volunteers turn down "relationship" requests Ugandan men will just see them as playing hard-to-get and will try harder. I've found that if I tell them I'm married they will take the hint and won't proposition me again.

And anyway, they probably just already assume I'm lying.



*fyi: I hate matooke and gnut (peanut) sauce. *vomits*

**Don't misunderstand me, not all Ugandans are like this. Many Ugandans that I meet are very honest and truthful. This is just one aspect of my life here.

***Aren't I supposed to be integrating myself into the culture?