Joke of all jokes: someone from the campus maintenance crew decided, just yesterday afternoon, to install a mirror in our bathroom. As if, after this entire semester of checking ourselves out in random windows and shards of broken mirror only big enough to see parts of your face at a time, we really want to see what we look like now after our semester of dirt and greasy foods and sunburns. Very funny, UCU.
I apologize for the silent treatment I've been giving this blog site the past few days… Life has been running at rapid speed these last couple weeks that we have had on campus. Finals are over, I've started a collection box of unwanted clothing under my bed, and our dorm rooms look like the aftermath of a mild hurricane with all our clothes half packed and ziplocks suffocating all free space.
It has been a flurry of activity these past couple weeks around campus with the impending farewell looming over all our heads. I met a sterling group of individuals just about a week ago at a house party. After climbing a mountain to their place later in the week, they showed us around their used-to-be-hotel-now-rented-out-by-students apartments, took us a to a balcony of one of their friends' place to dance, and pointed out the night lights of Kampala and the dark abyss that was Lake Victoria under the moonless night in the distance. It has been a week of new friends, chilling with old friends, watching children throw stones at monkeys, laughing at the frazzled comments of all of USP students going slightly crazy here with the stress of the end of the semester, and eating all the chapati we can get our hands on- now that we realize we'll never be able to eat Rolex properly outside of Uganda. We have fought grasshoppers for showering rights, swapped clothing up and down the hallway of our dorm, said goodbye to host families, done our laundry by hand for the last time (I have decided I will pay someone in Kenya to do mine. I am so over this part of Africa!), and started going camera happy in efforts to capture all the little things we have been taking for granted all semester. There is excitement and heartache and a chaotic "cluster-cuss" (Fantastic Mr. Fox) of other emotions all jumping around our little community as sporadically and unpredictable as the twitching grasshoppers that have invaded our place like the plague of the Old Testament. (those little buggers may taste good, but I've decided that's about all they've got goin' for themselves)
Other events of the past few days:
- Read aloud at Poetry Night- the final one of the semester. We set up desks on the open porch balcony of M-block and under one florescent light at an old wooden podium, surrounded by friends and strangers I've met through the various poetry readings I've attended, I was liberated. Completely.
I read aloud two poems I'd done this semester- one that I've posted, another that I wrote that day. And received the best feedback I could have imagined, and two pieces of candy :)
- The Bemba Boys headed up to Gulu last weekend for an introduction ceremony and gave Mark and I keys to their rooms. While the cats were away, Mark took it upon himself to throw a little house party… then a whole army of us went out dancing and I had two profound thoughts in my "Friday-night-state" of my mind:
1. How many people would have to be on this rooftop club before we got too heavy for the roof to actually hold us up?
2. There is a whole level of solidarity among dancers- this out-of-world connection that is just unique to every other scenario of strangers meeting. Now I've met strangers and had the time of my life in coffee shop conversations with bikers fresh from the road, taking a break for a sip o' Joe…there were the 3 wayward pilgrims I met at the Source of the Nile…and there's the occasional meeting on various forms of public transportation…but meeting other dancing fools at clubs in Uganda- now THAT's interesting. Friday night without our usual defensive line of Bembians watching our backs left us mzungu ladies vulnerable to…well…everyone. Now usually, that's an intimidating factor- being the only mzunugu in a club draws in attention that is generally undesired. However, something must have been in the air last Friday as everyone that approached us seemed to just be chill with dancing and carrying on with the evening respectfully refraining from inappropriate comments or advances. I spent hours having flashbacks to scenes of Save the Last Dance as I kicked it with Innocent and Isaac- two random gents with impeccable moves. We literally drew a circle of onlookers. Pretty cool. But I digress, there is this whole level of understanding and communication with people here that I meet at clubs- you don't need to know anyone's name, you don't need to know their profession, nothing about them is relevant if they can move their feet and keep the beat. Beautiful. Rooftop dancers: UNITE!
- I had a pair of pants made…African style.
- Photo shoot with Lauren
- Girl-bonding night of epic proportions with my crew: Taui, Esther & Lauren. We’re like Sex in the City…or maybe Celibacy in the Jungle is more appropriate…either way, I've been elected Carrie Bradshaw. After a certain Ugandan male tried to play not just one, but two of us (what was he thinking?)- we were brainstorming what sort of vengeance to seek…and Lauren had the brilliant, overly-sweet-chocolate induced revelation: "I know! Let's pour water in his bed!" <--(meredith/heidi: you'll appreciate that all I could think of was the Kate Nash song; "intelligent input darling/why don't you just have another beer then?")…after rejecting that juvenile attempt at a subliminal message prank, I Gossip Girl style texted my sister and Lauren and I headed to town to buy a ridiculous pair of panties which we all four signed and sneakily left on said Ugandan male's pillow..."from the girls!"…an appropriate response to the nature of his douchebaggery. To our surprise, upon visiting his hostel later that evening, we found that the light socket that has been pointedly empty all semester long, of all nights, finally had a light bulb installed in it and was casting a spotlight on the panties we had left which were GLUED TO THE WALL. Ergo the new version of the phrase "Hurry up before the fat lady sings…" becoming "Hurry up, before the panties are glued to the wall." At that point the whole situation just turned a whole corner of ridiculous that nothing could be taken seriously or furiously anymore. At least we got the last laugh.
- I met another prince. That makes four.
I had to do a capstone project this week for my Faith & Action class that was done by the USP staff this semester… it was essentially supposed to be an essay asking about our experience and how we're processing our stay here in Uganda. Big fat joke. I can't even begin. Especially while I'm not even going home yet. I can't quite step back from this big oceanic mess of experiences and cultural lessons and begin to paint a serene picture of a beach sunset because I'm still swimming- I'm here for a few more days and then start my three week solo trek in Kenya. I can't quite walk away from East Africa and begin to process yet, like the staff is practically begging me to do, because I'm still in it. That's a weird feeling.
Sunday morning we leave for Entebbe for a couple days of debriefing. A Ugandan asked me what debriefing was…I just told him, "You know when you get pants-ed? And someone just rips your pants down as a joke? Ya…it's like that. But with your emotions."
Our debrief goes until Tuesday, then some of the Honours Students are coming by to wish us one final farewell before everyone flies out about 2am Wednesday morning. I will be staked out at the airport…all day… (Bea: many thanks for the Swedish Mystery Package at the hotel, I'll be glad that day to have those books you sent!)… until my flight to Kenya @ 3.00pm. Please pray that after all this my program in Kenya is not a scam and there WILL actually be someone waiting to pick me up at the airport that afternoon. It's not the end of the world if things don't work out, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if I don't have to figure something else out. :)
From here until the point that I have access to an internet café or new SIM card for my phone in Kenya, there is no communication available to me. I hereby enter radio silence.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
classroom full of poetry
Today was a complete accomplishment.
As the semester is wrapping up, today was our last African Literature class with the beloved and endearing Dr. Mukakanya- gem of a man…oversized clothes, big glasses, a cane, and a voice that makes you want grandchildren just so that he can read them fairytales and short stories. The encouraging and enthusiastic professor and lover of teaching that he is dedicated this afternoon's class to letting us "perform" pieces with the whole class. Poetry was invited, short stories, even plays- though he had little faith that we could accomplish a whole play in a semester's time… the classroom that has been our academic prison all semester (hosting every USP class that we have and thus trapping us time and time again daily in it's four blank, uninspired, white walls and ink splotch under the chalkboard which never quite gets erased) today breathed life for the first time- excited, inspired, intimate LIFE expressed - raw and vulnerable- in our rhymes, our cadences, our lines, our voices. It was fantastic to have "sharing time" with the whole class. And moment of all moments- today I did the unthinkable. At the end of class, when I could no longer remain hidden in the back corner- try as I might- the professor called on me to come share with the class. I frantically whipped out a poem I had jotted down in the middle of my beloved, worn, weathered, leather journal- and I read aloud the piece that was hidden between doodles and prayers and notes which I never thought would emerge to others' ears. I've never read anything I've written (that's that personal or…poetic) aloud. Ever.
Mark Corey- the token writer of our group whom I had confided in about my shyness of my own written words- was proud and beaming like a father should at his child's every recital, sports game, award ceremony, anything.
It was exhilarating.
My heart grows fonder, still, but weak-
weak from the always present
state of caring
observing
feeling.
When this, my heart, was designed
did the Craftsman know
to what aches it would be subjected-
what great cares it would carry?
But carry it must
must carry on, carry on
on to the finale,
on to the finish line (then)
line them up!
All the burdens we've carried
(my heart and i)- all this way…
that was the only way… to carry the loss
carry the pain
carry the cross
carry the shame
carry the joy
joy to the world,
world without end:
You carried my heart, again and again.
As the semester is wrapping up, today was our last African Literature class with the beloved and endearing Dr. Mukakanya- gem of a man…oversized clothes, big glasses, a cane, and a voice that makes you want grandchildren just so that he can read them fairytales and short stories. The encouraging and enthusiastic professor and lover of teaching that he is dedicated this afternoon's class to letting us "perform" pieces with the whole class. Poetry was invited, short stories, even plays- though he had little faith that we could accomplish a whole play in a semester's time… the classroom that has been our academic prison all semester (hosting every USP class that we have and thus trapping us time and time again daily in it's four blank, uninspired, white walls and ink splotch under the chalkboard which never quite gets erased) today breathed life for the first time- excited, inspired, intimate LIFE expressed - raw and vulnerable- in our rhymes, our cadences, our lines, our voices. It was fantastic to have "sharing time" with the whole class. And moment of all moments- today I did the unthinkable. At the end of class, when I could no longer remain hidden in the back corner- try as I might- the professor called on me to come share with the class. I frantically whipped out a poem I had jotted down in the middle of my beloved, worn, weathered, leather journal- and I read aloud the piece that was hidden between doodles and prayers and notes which I never thought would emerge to others' ears. I've never read anything I've written (that's that personal or…poetic) aloud. Ever.
Mark Corey- the token writer of our group whom I had confided in about my shyness of my own written words- was proud and beaming like a father should at his child's every recital, sports game, award ceremony, anything.
It was exhilarating.
My heart grows fonder, still, but weak-
weak from the always present
state of caring
observing
feeling.
When this, my heart, was designed
did the Craftsman know
to what aches it would be subjected-
what great cares it would carry?
But carry it must
must carry on, carry on
on to the finale,
on to the finish line (then)
line them up!
All the burdens we've carried
(my heart and i)- all this way…
that was the only way… to carry the loss
carry the pain
carry the cross
carry the shame
carry the joy
joy to the world,
world without end:
You carried my heart, again and again.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
swing life away
So let's pack our bags and settle down where palm trees grow.
We live on front porches and swing life away…
I have tried to refrain from blogging mundane activity, as I don't think most people would find daily things very interesting to read about. I try and capture beauty and accentuate it by sharing beautiful experiences on here, but to be fair: I find just about everything beautiful… ergo a slightly less exciting, but nonetheless meaningful few days to share with you:
This post coming to you from my perch on my bunk-bed; where I have spent the past few afternoons since it is literally too blazing hot to be outside in the mid afternoon. (conveniently I don't have classes at this time, so I get a few hours of relaxing, reading-- Stieg Larsson currently- and taking in as much water as I possibly can) Today I'm finally coming down from an exciting weekend that really stretched to yesterday (it feels like) in exhilaration and exhaustion simultaneously.
Last Thursday was Lauren's birthday- thus warranting another night spent out on the town with some USP & Honours alike friends. Friday class was converted to a theater for the filming of Cry the Beloved Country (a film severely lacking in creativity as far as dialogue was concerned…) and after that class I received mail from my beloved Roommate Heidi back home-- a card complete with bits of dried lavender from the flower shop she is currently working at back in Massachusetts. I stuck the pocket of lavender into my journal - now riddled with the scent. Beautiful. I think if I were ever to actually sit down and record an album of my piano music, I'd name the album Dried Lavender. Just throwing that out there.
Friday night was another epic adventure with the boys from Bemba Hostel. There's nothing like dancing on a rooftop under the stars. And there's nothing quite like the smells of a night at an African club:
The smell of cologne and perfume mixed with that slightly sweet and ever so familiar scent of body odor (not the stinky kind of body odor like you smell when that one gross kid walks into a classroom full of freshly showered people, but the sweet kind that just happens out of your pores as result of a fun night of dancing, or when you've been running, or just moving…)
Cigarette smoke (the un-suffocating kind that allows you to pick up the waspy aroma but still breath clean night air)
Beer on the breath of whichever mzungu-stunned guy comes over to dance with you (because as one of the two mzungu in a crowd of at least 200 Africans…you're kind of a novelty)
The ever present smell of trash burning in the distant- a sweet musk of wood, citrus, nutty smells and potatoes…? Maybe…
All the enticements of the senses just produce the sort of night that makes you catch your breath in the abrupt, overwhelmingly lovely realization that "O my gosh…I'm in Africa". ((this is what dreams are made of))
Saturday was almost less of a productive day than Friday, and then Saturday night was a night of pure glamour. The 5th Annual Honours College Alumni/Reunion Dinner was hosted at the Red Rose Hotel in Kampala. It was a marvelous afternoon of getting back in touch with my feminine side (a nice break from Spartacus) as Esther dolled me up -complete with eye make up, Heidi be proud!- she and I and Taui all swapped dresses and earrings until we could passably make ourselves look cute in all each other's clothing. Then listening to Eminem and wearing a bakini top in rebellion of putting on clothes while there was still preparation to be done for Lauren, I sat and stitched up a dress for her to wear that night and just nearly pierced my lip with the sewing needle for all my loss of common sense in my deep, rap-music-induced concentration. Finally, all of us ready- we jumped ship and went to grab coffee before the dinner…but coffee turned into the best milkshakes of our lives!- then we joined the dinner of all our friends from Honours in their absolute best dress. It was a fun night, but at one point I leaned over to Mark to express with agony how old I felt… There we sat, at a dinner with a high table and honoured guests giving speeches…making announcements about marriages, engagements, and births of the past year and giving recognition for career advancements made in the past year (including appointments to the top gas & oil company in Uganda, International Justice Mission, and the United Nations- no small feats) and asking alumni to donate money to this and that for the college… it was the sort of dinner that I only ever had seen in movies where the socially and financially elite attend and carry shiny little clutches and scrape liver pâtés around on their plates until the speaker is done and the classy music starts up… I just felt so old being old enough to sit with my peers as they talked about career advances and babies popping left and right and pulling at the purse-strings of alumni. When did this happen? I miss the sort of dinners where I was pushed over to the kids table, expected to do nothing less than fling food, cause raucous, and try and wipe my mouth on the table cloth instead of my napkin…who am I kidding… I totally wiped my mouth on the tablecloth Saturday night, let's be real.
After the dinner a whole crew of us went out to meet the Bemba Boys at a club in Kampala, where Esther and I both lost 20,000/= to a pick-pocketing fat man in a white sweatshirt. So today I spent the afternoon sewing a pocket to the inside of my jeans…complete with a button. Ain't no hands rippin' me off while I'm bustin' a move again. Nuh uh. We literally danced until 6am… I think I may have sat down on a bar stool for 1/2 a song. Maybe. Between climbing these hills and this mountain that I live on multiple times a day just to get back and forth from class to my room I'm building up rock-solid calf muscles and with all the dancing, my legs have never been in such good shape. Shazam.
Today was just a relaxing, breezy day. Class was cancelled so I thoroughly enjoyed tea time with Tony & Esther - complete with INCREDIBLE instant coffee mix from Starbucks (thank you Mona). In the States, I would have scoffed at the idea of this VIA coffee, but here- combined in milk tea…it's just about the most sacred thing around. Hallelujah for caramel flavoured coffee mix and fresh boiled milk :)
Spent the rest of the morning curled up in a nightgown (because yes. Those are normal here.) eating Swedish fish, stitching up my pants, and doodling cityscape concepts for painting when I get home. Note to self: start bringing acrylics with me everywhere- no matter what.
Walked down to pick eggs with Tony for our baking date later today; there is a massive Thanksgiving feast (expected 70-80 people) for all USP and the ex-Pats on campus tomorrow so the job of the USP students is to provide desserts. Tony, Mark & I made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies this afternoon with real pumpkin listenin' to the beats of Citay and Bach. It's a long way from recipe-testing these kinds of cookies with Allison Kavin year after year in preparation for the staff-Thanksgivings we always have at the Phed Farm. Kavin- I'll miss experimenting with spices with you this year.
I'm dreading leaving the simplicity of life here. Where afternoons are casually spent on hostel balconies listening to jams, looking out at the sunset over the valley, chatting with anyone walking by on their way to and fro the local well at the bottom of the road. Where time is spent gently swinging on the swings up the hill, or walking about ten minutes or so to get a cold Fanta (which just somehow tastes so much better in a glass bottle), or doodling and listening to De Capulet (you're welcome, Hannah).
We live on front porches and swing life away…
I have tried to refrain from blogging mundane activity, as I don't think most people would find daily things very interesting to read about. I try and capture beauty and accentuate it by sharing beautiful experiences on here, but to be fair: I find just about everything beautiful… ergo a slightly less exciting, but nonetheless meaningful few days to share with you:
This post coming to you from my perch on my bunk-bed; where I have spent the past few afternoons since it is literally too blazing hot to be outside in the mid afternoon. (conveniently I don't have classes at this time, so I get a few hours of relaxing, reading-- Stieg Larsson currently- and taking in as much water as I possibly can) Today I'm finally coming down from an exciting weekend that really stretched to yesterday (it feels like) in exhilaration and exhaustion simultaneously.
Last Thursday was Lauren's birthday- thus warranting another night spent out on the town with some USP & Honours alike friends. Friday class was converted to a theater for the filming of Cry the Beloved Country (a film severely lacking in creativity as far as dialogue was concerned…) and after that class I received mail from my beloved Roommate Heidi back home-- a card complete with bits of dried lavender from the flower shop she is currently working at back in Massachusetts. I stuck the pocket of lavender into my journal - now riddled with the scent. Beautiful. I think if I were ever to actually sit down and record an album of my piano music, I'd name the album Dried Lavender. Just throwing that out there.
Friday night was another epic adventure with the boys from Bemba Hostel. There's nothing like dancing on a rooftop under the stars. And there's nothing quite like the smells of a night at an African club:
The smell of cologne and perfume mixed with that slightly sweet and ever so familiar scent of body odor (not the stinky kind of body odor like you smell when that one gross kid walks into a classroom full of freshly showered people, but the sweet kind that just happens out of your pores as result of a fun night of dancing, or when you've been running, or just moving…)
Cigarette smoke (the un-suffocating kind that allows you to pick up the waspy aroma but still breath clean night air)
Beer on the breath of whichever mzungu-stunned guy comes over to dance with you (because as one of the two mzungu in a crowd of at least 200 Africans…you're kind of a novelty)
The ever present smell of trash burning in the distant- a sweet musk of wood, citrus, nutty smells and potatoes…? Maybe…
All the enticements of the senses just produce the sort of night that makes you catch your breath in the abrupt, overwhelmingly lovely realization that "O my gosh…I'm in Africa". ((this is what dreams are made of))
Saturday was almost less of a productive day than Friday, and then Saturday night was a night of pure glamour. The 5th Annual Honours College Alumni/Reunion Dinner was hosted at the Red Rose Hotel in Kampala. It was a marvelous afternoon of getting back in touch with my feminine side (a nice break from Spartacus) as Esther dolled me up -complete with eye make up, Heidi be proud!- she and I and Taui all swapped dresses and earrings until we could passably make ourselves look cute in all each other's clothing. Then listening to Eminem and wearing a bakini top in rebellion of putting on clothes while there was still preparation to be done for Lauren, I sat and stitched up a dress for her to wear that night and just nearly pierced my lip with the sewing needle for all my loss of common sense in my deep, rap-music-induced concentration. Finally, all of us ready- we jumped ship and went to grab coffee before the dinner…but coffee turned into the best milkshakes of our lives!- then we joined the dinner of all our friends from Honours in their absolute best dress. It was a fun night, but at one point I leaned over to Mark to express with agony how old I felt… There we sat, at a dinner with a high table and honoured guests giving speeches…making announcements about marriages, engagements, and births of the past year and giving recognition for career advancements made in the past year (including appointments to the top gas & oil company in Uganda, International Justice Mission, and the United Nations- no small feats) and asking alumni to donate money to this and that for the college… it was the sort of dinner that I only ever had seen in movies where the socially and financially elite attend and carry shiny little clutches and scrape liver pâtés around on their plates until the speaker is done and the classy music starts up… I just felt so old being old enough to sit with my peers as they talked about career advances and babies popping left and right and pulling at the purse-strings of alumni. When did this happen? I miss the sort of dinners where I was pushed over to the kids table, expected to do nothing less than fling food, cause raucous, and try and wipe my mouth on the table cloth instead of my napkin…who am I kidding… I totally wiped my mouth on the tablecloth Saturday night, let's be real.
After the dinner a whole crew of us went out to meet the Bemba Boys at a club in Kampala, where Esther and I both lost 20,000/= to a pick-pocketing fat man in a white sweatshirt. So today I spent the afternoon sewing a pocket to the inside of my jeans…complete with a button. Ain't no hands rippin' me off while I'm bustin' a move again. Nuh uh. We literally danced until 6am… I think I may have sat down on a bar stool for 1/2 a song. Maybe. Between climbing these hills and this mountain that I live on multiple times a day just to get back and forth from class to my room I'm building up rock-solid calf muscles and with all the dancing, my legs have never been in such good shape. Shazam.
Today was just a relaxing, breezy day. Class was cancelled so I thoroughly enjoyed tea time with Tony & Esther - complete with INCREDIBLE instant coffee mix from Starbucks (thank you Mona). In the States, I would have scoffed at the idea of this VIA coffee, but here- combined in milk tea…it's just about the most sacred thing around. Hallelujah for caramel flavoured coffee mix and fresh boiled milk :)
Spent the rest of the morning curled up in a nightgown (because yes. Those are normal here.) eating Swedish fish, stitching up my pants, and doodling cityscape concepts for painting when I get home. Note to self: start bringing acrylics with me everywhere- no matter what.
Walked down to pick eggs with Tony for our baking date later today; there is a massive Thanksgiving feast (expected 70-80 people) for all USP and the ex-Pats on campus tomorrow so the job of the USP students is to provide desserts. Tony, Mark & I made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies this afternoon with real pumpkin listenin' to the beats of Citay and Bach. It's a long way from recipe-testing these kinds of cookies with Allison Kavin year after year in preparation for the staff-Thanksgivings we always have at the Phed Farm. Kavin- I'll miss experimenting with spices with you this year.
I'm dreading leaving the simplicity of life here. Where afternoons are casually spent on hostel balconies listening to jams, looking out at the sunset over the valley, chatting with anyone walking by on their way to and fro the local well at the bottom of the road. Where time is spent gently swinging on the swings up the hill, or walking about ten minutes or so to get a cold Fanta (which just somehow tastes so much better in a glass bottle), or doodling and listening to De Capulet (you're welcome, Hannah).
Thursday, November 18, 2010
of pianos and proposals
Yesterday was Eid al-Adha- the Islamic holiday celebrating the story of Abraham and honouring his willingness to sacrifice his son before God. The holiday is dependent on the moon cycle, so it was not announced that this holiday was actually occurring until yesterday, Monday night. Gwyn had all of us USP students over to her place Monday night for a feast of desserts (chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and delicious, dark chocolate brownies) and a game night. After this, Lauren and I strolled down to fetch rolexes and came back to sit and read our Eat.Pray.Love books in each other's company.
We brought in the Muslim holiday with our form of indulgence and recognition of sacrificial living. We jumped a taxi into Kampala and promptly went over to the Serena Hotel- Kampala's (and for that matter, I think Uganda's) only 5 star hotel. The place was an absolute palace of beauty and warmth and relaxing, spacious architecture. We had been told by a friend that he plays piano there occasionally and so I went in on a quest to find my heart and soul back in the eighty-eight. We traipsed all through the upstairs lobby in search of this piano, which was rumored to be in the lounge, and finally I spotted it. I kid you not- my heart stopped. It literally did a little flip- the likes of which my full body has only ever been able to replicate on a trampoline with the assistance of serious spring action. Before annoying all of the hotel- I went up to the woman sitting at a table near the lounge and asked, "Nnyabo, could I please play (quietly!) a bit?" and she smiled and nodded, "Kale, kale. Is ok." I gingerly lifted the cover, took the felt strip off the keys, and sat on the small, squeaky, undersized-barstool style seat.
In a flash second when my fingers touched the keys I remembered freshman year at Gordon when I discovered the magnificence of the recital hall in Phillips. I vowed not to play in that hall until the first snow- so that I could fully embrace the majesty of that place overlooking the pond with perfect floor-to-ceiling windows and it's high, intricately designed ceilings of perfect acoustics. The first time it snowed, as luck would have it, I was working a six hour shift in the dining hall and couldn't get to the piano. By the time my shift was over it had rained and all the snow was gone. But the second time it snowed- by God- I raced down there and just let the perfect winter envelop my soul through the snow on the pond, the snow falling, the snow still stuck to my shoes as I kicked them off to sit at the grand and lose myself in playing. The scene should have been in a movie.
All this jumped across my mind in a split second and then the noise. All the noise. I forgot how much of a power surge it is to sit, quite still- straight, controlled- and produce such sound with the very many delicate flicks of one's fingers. I could have balanced M&Ms on the backs of my hands all the while filling that whole hotel with a small interlude in the key of D that made many fine suited young businessmen come to stand and listen with polite interest. (Mary, my piano teacher when I was 8, would have been so proud…I was always more interested in eating those M&Ms than balancing them during lessons)
It was a miraculous, emotional, holy few moments of reuniting my heart and soul- as I feel they've only been drifting aimlessly from each other since being here and having nothing to ground them. Once I felt like a whole person again, I closed the lid and stood, the miniature barstool creaking obnoxiously, announcing my finale. Lauren and I went to the bar downstairs and had a lovely chat with Richard the amicable bartender, and ordered Irish coffee- which was complimentarily served with a small array of olives and cheese. So classy. As we sat amidst the leather couches and polished wood and classy African stone carvings on the wall, delicately sipping our Irish coffees and occasionally pretending like we had the attention span to get through our copies of Eat. Pray. Love., Lauren piped up: "You know, I'm not ready to go home yet, but this is so nice!" <-- just the ability to be in a Westernized kind of environment where there were Americans and Brits in business suits, a fully stocked bar with familiar libations, and a general air of comfort. That is not to say that everything in America is comfortable, or by any means that Uganda is not comfortable (I actually am more relaxed 95% of the time HERE than in the States), but just an acknowledgment that, like it or not, we were both born into Western society and (quite unfortunately…or maybe not) that is what puts us at ease now- the going back to that sort of familiarity. While it is not with an air of self-sacrifice that we have come to Uganda, we are slowly realizing all the things that we have indeed given up in coming here. It is yet undecided in my mind if I feel like these are sacrifices are detrimental to my mental health (or physical health), but living without such things as used to be staples (easy transportation systems, ever available caffeine, reliable communication systems, certain appliances) is taking it's toll. Again: not in a sad or painful way, just in a noticeable way. I do, however, stand by my former declaration of loving life without a mirror here. In my building the only mirrors around are the small hand held mirrors that individuals have purchased themselves in markets, or even just broken shards of mirror. I never considered myself a very vain person before coming here, and never wore make up so there was no cause to ever really look in a mirror that often, but even so- I find a massive relief and self confidence in not knowing what I look like everyday. I also have this immense sense of self confidence that is just paired with living in a culture where self image is not about your face but rather how you conduct yourself socially. In addition, I (and other USP girls I have been talking to) feel, for quite honestly the first time in a long time, completely content with being single here. With the extreme taboo of public displays of affection here, there are no couples making out on park benches or even holding hands here- and with that total void of public emphasis on relationships I find that I don't feel pressured at all to be in a relationship- which I can't say I've ever felt in America. For the first time in years I feel like no one is pushing me to rush into some relationship, yet on the flip side- a good chunk of African men are indeed begging for me be in one with them… strange paradox to be in. I will say, on that note, that it will be a self esteem shock to go back to America where every other man is not proposing to me from the side of the street. Ah well.
We brought in the Muslim holiday with our form of indulgence and recognition of sacrificial living. We jumped a taxi into Kampala and promptly went over to the Serena Hotel- Kampala's (and for that matter, I think Uganda's) only 5 star hotel. The place was an absolute palace of beauty and warmth and relaxing, spacious architecture. We had been told by a friend that he plays piano there occasionally and so I went in on a quest to find my heart and soul back in the eighty-eight. We traipsed all through the upstairs lobby in search of this piano, which was rumored to be in the lounge, and finally I spotted it. I kid you not- my heart stopped. It literally did a little flip- the likes of which my full body has only ever been able to replicate on a trampoline with the assistance of serious spring action. Before annoying all of the hotel- I went up to the woman sitting at a table near the lounge and asked, "Nnyabo, could I please play (quietly!) a bit?" and she smiled and nodded, "Kale, kale. Is ok." I gingerly lifted the cover, took the felt strip off the keys, and sat on the small, squeaky, undersized-barstool style seat.
In a flash second when my fingers touched the keys I remembered freshman year at Gordon when I discovered the magnificence of the recital hall in Phillips. I vowed not to play in that hall until the first snow- so that I could fully embrace the majesty of that place overlooking the pond with perfect floor-to-ceiling windows and it's high, intricately designed ceilings of perfect acoustics. The first time it snowed, as luck would have it, I was working a six hour shift in the dining hall and couldn't get to the piano. By the time my shift was over it had rained and all the snow was gone. But the second time it snowed- by God- I raced down there and just let the perfect winter envelop my soul through the snow on the pond, the snow falling, the snow still stuck to my shoes as I kicked them off to sit at the grand and lose myself in playing. The scene should have been in a movie.
All this jumped across my mind in a split second and then the noise. All the noise. I forgot how much of a power surge it is to sit, quite still- straight, controlled- and produce such sound with the very many delicate flicks of one's fingers. I could have balanced M&Ms on the backs of my hands all the while filling that whole hotel with a small interlude in the key of D that made many fine suited young businessmen come to stand and listen with polite interest. (Mary, my piano teacher when I was 8, would have been so proud…I was always more interested in eating those M&Ms than balancing them during lessons)
It was a miraculous, emotional, holy few moments of reuniting my heart and soul- as I feel they've only been drifting aimlessly from each other since being here and having nothing to ground them. Once I felt like a whole person again, I closed the lid and stood, the miniature barstool creaking obnoxiously, announcing my finale. Lauren and I went to the bar downstairs and had a lovely chat with Richard the amicable bartender, and ordered Irish coffee- which was complimentarily served with a small array of olives and cheese. So classy. As we sat amidst the leather couches and polished wood and classy African stone carvings on the wall, delicately sipping our Irish coffees and occasionally pretending like we had the attention span to get through our copies of Eat. Pray. Love., Lauren piped up: "You know, I'm not ready to go home yet, but this is so nice!" <-- just the ability to be in a Westernized kind of environment where there were Americans and Brits in business suits, a fully stocked bar with familiar libations, and a general air of comfort. That is not to say that everything in America is comfortable, or by any means that Uganda is not comfortable (I actually am more relaxed 95% of the time HERE than in the States), but just an acknowledgment that, like it or not, we were both born into Western society and (quite unfortunately…or maybe not) that is what puts us at ease now- the going back to that sort of familiarity. While it is not with an air of self-sacrifice that we have come to Uganda, we are slowly realizing all the things that we have indeed given up in coming here. It is yet undecided in my mind if I feel like these are sacrifices are detrimental to my mental health (or physical health), but living without such things as used to be staples (easy transportation systems, ever available caffeine, reliable communication systems, certain appliances) is taking it's toll. Again: not in a sad or painful way, just in a noticeable way. I do, however, stand by my former declaration of loving life without a mirror here. In my building the only mirrors around are the small hand held mirrors that individuals have purchased themselves in markets, or even just broken shards of mirror. I never considered myself a very vain person before coming here, and never wore make up so there was no cause to ever really look in a mirror that often, but even so- I find a massive relief and self confidence in not knowing what I look like everyday. I also have this immense sense of self confidence that is just paired with living in a culture where self image is not about your face but rather how you conduct yourself socially. In addition, I (and other USP girls I have been talking to) feel, for quite honestly the first time in a long time, completely content with being single here. With the extreme taboo of public displays of affection here, there are no couples making out on park benches or even holding hands here- and with that total void of public emphasis on relationships I find that I don't feel pressured at all to be in a relationship- which I can't say I've ever felt in America. For the first time in years I feel like no one is pushing me to rush into some relationship, yet on the flip side- a good chunk of African men are indeed begging for me be in one with them… strange paradox to be in. I will say, on that note, that it will be a self esteem shock to go back to America where every other man is not proposing to me from the side of the street. Ah well.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
of instant coffee and swedish fish
hands down: best package sender award hereby goes to Mona & Michael Holsapple.
all USP girls of Josephine Tucker Hall thank you- not only for the beautiful American delicacies which were sent that we are all enjoying- but we thank you immensely for the atomic BOMB of explosive joy that rippled through the building as we unearthed, together, all these tasty gifts. there has not been such screaming, shrieking, laughter, and overwhelming ecstasy in many moons here!
thank you M&M :)
much love.
all USP girls of Josephine Tucker Hall thank you- not only for the beautiful American delicacies which were sent that we are all enjoying- but we thank you immensely for the atomic BOMB of explosive joy that rippled through the building as we unearthed, together, all these tasty gifts. there has not been such screaming, shrieking, laughter, and overwhelming ecstasy in many moons here!
thank you M&M :)
much love.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
a somali coffee conflict
Mary Oliver talks of red bird; a story set in timeless beauty from its origin in Ohio to the reading aloud of itself under a great, indescribably awesome tree in an African backyard.
I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into the world
to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and-
but wait. Be still. Listen!
Is it red bird? Or something
inside myself, singing? (Mary Oliver)
Got in a heated discussion yesterday that just nearly broke my heart to pieces. I went out with another USP girl and Ugandan guy… we went to this great Somali petro-station/restaurant (sounds like such a Maine thing…where you find businesses that offer ballroom dancing and printing services in the same venue, or hardware stores selling jewelry…) for lunch and coffee, and as we were chatting, the conversation turned to the issue of the Homosexuality Bill attempting to be passed in Uganda. Basically, this bill permits the public punishment/hanging of outed homosexuals in Uganda. I pray to God that human rights groups are as on top of this as I think they are and thus will prevent it from going through, but still- the threat is there for horrific bill to go through sometime in the coming year here in Uganda. In this conversation- Lauren and I stand firmly AGAINST this bill, each having multiple homosexual friends and in general a Western-tailored tolerant view on this lifestyle --- at the very least to the point where we would never dream of execution (public or otherwise) being a reasonable or lawful response to this lifestyle. However, our male accompaniment at the table stated with such a rueful passion and intensity in his voice and eyes that he very firmly agrees with this bill and thinks it only morally right that it should be passed. "Why should we allow them to live in our society?" <--is the general Ugandan attitude towards homosexuality. In this debate, the general opinion is that homosexual individuals should not even be allowed to be in society- they are not just ousted from churches or religious institutions, certain schools or workplaces, No- society as a WHOLE. "No room in the inn" for social deviancy of this nature. As he sat there spitting about the "disgraceful" and "disgusting" practices of "those people" and adamantly - with furrowed, serious brow and PIERCING eyes (a term I feel I've never understood until yesterday) - condemning these PEOPLE, not their decisions or lifestyle or sexuality as separate entities from themselves, but the very PEOPLE: somehow God granted the grace to keep my hands solidly in place on my lap and not assailing his face with my fists in rage. Somehow. (and people say miracles don't happen anymore…) At one point he even asserted that "public hanging is not enough. The punishment deserves to be more severe- they should be boiled in hot oil."
At this point, I asked him if his opinion would change were it to personally involve one of his friends.
He looked at me, annoyed, thinking I was bringing up some outrageous hypothetical "what if" point that would of course change his views but had an impossible probability of ever needing to be considered realistically. I stopped him as he smiled and shrugged, undoubtedly thinking "none of MY friends would ever be homosexual, so I would never have to think about this situation you're proposing."
I stopped him by pointing out that a good friend of his is a lesbian. Here at UCU, a close friend to many Honours Students is a lesbian. I told him "She hasn't told you that, but she's told me. What now?"
He placed his hands on the table, flat and firm, looked me directly in the eyes without blinking and responded "No difference. She is no exception."
At this point I looked away and flatly suggested we all pay and leave.
A while ago I was out to lunch with this same gentleman and a few of the other Honours guys and they were discussing the story of how a few years ago in Mukono a serial rapist was caught in the street and a group of boda drivers (notoriously rough-around-the-edges kind of guys) beat him in the middle of the street and burned him alive in front of the church which happened to be on the other side of the road. In a society where the police force is pretty difficult to mobilize and where communal living provides it's own social security, this was a natural thing to happen- but the guys retelling me this account were still raising their eyebrows at the fact that he was burned alive outside the church! How inappropriate! They asked me what I thought of the situation, one asking me "what do you think? Was what the boda drivers did to him appropriate or just? Should they have burned him alive- outside the CHURCH?" - my response being "I would have burned him on the very altar of the church. Of course it was appropriate."
The group was incredulous. They thought my response was the harshest ideology they'd ever heard in concerns to this case.
While I understand my response was hasty and maybe (I haven't quite decided) exaggerated, I would certainly stand firm on the death sentence for anyone who has committed such a fantastic crime as multiple rapes. It may not be Biblical or loving, but I can't see past the emotions that are stirred in me concerning that sort of act. And here I sat, judged and bemusing all the men with my harsh convictions- men who think a man that says he loves another man should be tarred and feathered and hung out to dry in the public square. Literally. There are some parts of this country that still strike me as backwards, in ways I don’t know that I could ever understand.
A shout out to American tolerance. I never thought I would truly know how to appreciate freedom or our very many rights and privileges. I'm trying to roll with the punches here on two levels;
1) Level headedly, that I may seriously try to understand and recognize these views which rub my heart raw and
2) Convicted; that I may still speak for my views without being arrogant and unreasonable, but not backing down from my convictions and passionate beliefs in equality and human rights (in terms of gender roles and homosexuality here). That I may defend my friend here at UCU who has hidden her sexuality from all but a handful of people in her life for fear of her life and for fear of being cut from family ties, but that I may also not judge this guy at lunch for his closed mind- but rather try and nudge the door open a bit at least in showing my willingness to disagree but still hear him out.
In other news, had a girls night in Kampala with Esther, Taui & Jen --- tiramisu, Indian cuisine complete with sweet lassi, UCU basketball game (we won!) at which I met a famous baller who calls himself "Jordan" (of course), and $4 perfume called "Feminism". Perfect.
I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into the world
to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and-
but wait. Be still. Listen!
Is it red bird? Or something
inside myself, singing? (Mary Oliver)
Got in a heated discussion yesterday that just nearly broke my heart to pieces. I went out with another USP girl and Ugandan guy… we went to this great Somali petro-station/restaurant (sounds like such a Maine thing…where you find businesses that offer ballroom dancing and printing services in the same venue, or hardware stores selling jewelry…) for lunch and coffee, and as we were chatting, the conversation turned to the issue of the Homosexuality Bill attempting to be passed in Uganda. Basically, this bill permits the public punishment/hanging of outed homosexuals in Uganda. I pray to God that human rights groups are as on top of this as I think they are and thus will prevent it from going through, but still- the threat is there for horrific bill to go through sometime in the coming year here in Uganda. In this conversation- Lauren and I stand firmly AGAINST this bill, each having multiple homosexual friends and in general a Western-tailored tolerant view on this lifestyle --- at the very least to the point where we would never dream of execution (public or otherwise) being a reasonable or lawful response to this lifestyle. However, our male accompaniment at the table stated with such a rueful passion and intensity in his voice and eyes that he very firmly agrees with this bill and thinks it only morally right that it should be passed. "Why should we allow them to live in our society?" <--is the general Ugandan attitude towards homosexuality. In this debate, the general opinion is that homosexual individuals should not even be allowed to be in society- they are not just ousted from churches or religious institutions, certain schools or workplaces, No- society as a WHOLE. "No room in the inn" for social deviancy of this nature. As he sat there spitting about the "disgraceful" and "disgusting" practices of "those people" and adamantly - with furrowed, serious brow and PIERCING eyes (a term I feel I've never understood until yesterday) - condemning these PEOPLE, not their decisions or lifestyle or sexuality as separate entities from themselves, but the very PEOPLE: somehow God granted the grace to keep my hands solidly in place on my lap and not assailing his face with my fists in rage. Somehow. (and people say miracles don't happen anymore…) At one point he even asserted that "public hanging is not enough. The punishment deserves to be more severe- they should be boiled in hot oil."
At this point, I asked him if his opinion would change were it to personally involve one of his friends.
He looked at me, annoyed, thinking I was bringing up some outrageous hypothetical "what if" point that would of course change his views but had an impossible probability of ever needing to be considered realistically. I stopped him as he smiled and shrugged, undoubtedly thinking "none of MY friends would ever be homosexual, so I would never have to think about this situation you're proposing."
I stopped him by pointing out that a good friend of his is a lesbian. Here at UCU, a close friend to many Honours Students is a lesbian. I told him "She hasn't told you that, but she's told me. What now?"
He placed his hands on the table, flat and firm, looked me directly in the eyes without blinking and responded "No difference. She is no exception."
At this point I looked away and flatly suggested we all pay and leave.
A while ago I was out to lunch with this same gentleman and a few of the other Honours guys and they were discussing the story of how a few years ago in Mukono a serial rapist was caught in the street and a group of boda drivers (notoriously rough-around-the-edges kind of guys) beat him in the middle of the street and burned him alive in front of the church which happened to be on the other side of the road. In a society where the police force is pretty difficult to mobilize and where communal living provides it's own social security, this was a natural thing to happen- but the guys retelling me this account were still raising their eyebrows at the fact that he was burned alive outside the church! How inappropriate! They asked me what I thought of the situation, one asking me "what do you think? Was what the boda drivers did to him appropriate or just? Should they have burned him alive- outside the CHURCH?" - my response being "I would have burned him on the very altar of the church. Of course it was appropriate."
The group was incredulous. They thought my response was the harshest ideology they'd ever heard in concerns to this case.
While I understand my response was hasty and maybe (I haven't quite decided) exaggerated, I would certainly stand firm on the death sentence for anyone who has committed such a fantastic crime as multiple rapes. It may not be Biblical or loving, but I can't see past the emotions that are stirred in me concerning that sort of act. And here I sat, judged and bemusing all the men with my harsh convictions- men who think a man that says he loves another man should be tarred and feathered and hung out to dry in the public square. Literally. There are some parts of this country that still strike me as backwards, in ways I don’t know that I could ever understand.
A shout out to American tolerance. I never thought I would truly know how to appreciate freedom or our very many rights and privileges. I'm trying to roll with the punches here on two levels;
1) Level headedly, that I may seriously try to understand and recognize these views which rub my heart raw and
2) Convicted; that I may still speak for my views without being arrogant and unreasonable, but not backing down from my convictions and passionate beliefs in equality and human rights (in terms of gender roles and homosexuality here). That I may defend my friend here at UCU who has hidden her sexuality from all but a handful of people in her life for fear of her life and for fear of being cut from family ties, but that I may also not judge this guy at lunch for his closed mind- but rather try and nudge the door open a bit at least in showing my willingness to disagree but still hear him out.
In other news, had a girls night in Kampala with Esther, Taui & Jen --- tiramisu, Indian cuisine complete with sweet lassi, UCU basketball game (we won!) at which I met a famous baller who calls himself "Jordan" (of course), and $4 perfume called "Feminism". Perfect.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
panty perspective
Hazards of doing laundry outdoors:
Bird might fly into the tree above you and crap into your bucket of just-soaped clothing.
Just saying. It can happen.
On another laundry note- I had a striking realization while doing my laundry the other day regarding wealth in the West vs here in Africa. As I was washing my underwear, the Ugandan girl Brendah across the hall made an obervation: "Oh, Victoria's Secret…rich lady!"
I have never thought of my old VS panties that I got on clearance as a sign of wealth. They're not a scandalous style that most girls my age don, they were definitely on sale, and they're a plain colour. I have definitely never thought of myself as someone with money when I wear them. It was incredible to realize that a brand name from the West can carry so much implication as to my social status here in a "developing country". Even the things I can only afford or justify paying for if they're on clearance or from a thrift store speak volumes of the wealth of our country in the context of living in Uganda where I can buy a pair of panties at the supermarket for the equivalent of about 30 cents ((and they're lacey and cuter than any other pair I own)).
My darling roommate sent me an incredible package today :) Justin Beiber silly bands, curiously strong Altoid mints, and CHOCOLATE :) Love you, Shmeidi.
This past weekend I was introduced to the guys Bemba hostel- down the hill and through the jungle of banana trees growing outside of campus. My friend Mark took me there for a truly "cultural experience" of a rooftop party and told me as we approached the steps of the building, "Oh, by the way- you're about to be seriously out-gendered…" Story of my life. It was an incredible chill time of kicking back on brick-pile-seats, listening to crunk music the likes of which would have made my sister proud, looking at the African night sky so bright with stars silhouette the monkey trees all around the hostel. Gorgeous.
Saturday I went to the local hotel with a couple girls to go swimming and do homework by the pool. At the mention of Thanksgiving I was nearly sick as I realized that it is in fact November and I spent the day lying around in a swimsuit and shades sippin' cold drinks by an unheated pool that was definitely warmer than the showers I take everyday. I am SO looking forward to whatever blustery weather Sweden is having when I get there in January, and to return to the snow banks I know will be piled in my driveway upon my return home. I fully intend to be a small child with my snowy antics when I get home: snow forts, snow angels, catching snowflakes on my tongue… these are the things I dream of here in the mid-afternoon heat as I sit sweating and sipping my tea (even African heat does not dissuade true Ugandans from the all holy Tea Time).
Yesterday I went running up Monkey Hill and nearly slipped all the way down a massive stretch of red dirt and stones as I skidded through some mud from the afternoon rain in borrowed shoes a size too big for me. I was only grateful no one was watching the clumsy Mzungu. However, all hopes of going through my running routine unnoticed were shot straight to hell when I agreed to go meet Esther at the track to finish up laps with her after my own run. I got to the track and there were 2 soccer games going on in the center as we, the only white girls to be seen at all within the vicinity of the field, breezed our way around the track. With every lap around by the stone bleachers some odd-ball called out "go Mzungu!" as we passed… great. Just great. Anyone who tells me again that their excuse for not going to the gym back home is that they're uncomfortable being stared at should spend an afternoon trying to go unnoticed at the gym or track here. You'll be the only white, almost always the only girl, and definitely the most uncoordinated person present. No exceptions. The trick is to just embrace your minority status, crack a few jokes with the guys- show 'em you mean business, and just make yourself a kind of novelty to have around. If they're going to notice you, you may as well own it. :)
Bird might fly into the tree above you and crap into your bucket of just-soaped clothing.
Just saying. It can happen.
On another laundry note- I had a striking realization while doing my laundry the other day regarding wealth in the West vs here in Africa. As I was washing my underwear, the Ugandan girl Brendah across the hall made an obervation: "Oh, Victoria's Secret…rich lady!"
I have never thought of my old VS panties that I got on clearance as a sign of wealth. They're not a scandalous style that most girls my age don, they were definitely on sale, and they're a plain colour. I have definitely never thought of myself as someone with money when I wear them. It was incredible to realize that a brand name from the West can carry so much implication as to my social status here in a "developing country". Even the things I can only afford or justify paying for if they're on clearance or from a thrift store speak volumes of the wealth of our country in the context of living in Uganda where I can buy a pair of panties at the supermarket for the equivalent of about 30 cents ((and they're lacey and cuter than any other pair I own)).
My darling roommate sent me an incredible package today :) Justin Beiber silly bands, curiously strong Altoid mints, and CHOCOLATE :) Love you, Shmeidi.
This past weekend I was introduced to the guys Bemba hostel- down the hill and through the jungle of banana trees growing outside of campus. My friend Mark took me there for a truly "cultural experience" of a rooftop party and told me as we approached the steps of the building, "Oh, by the way- you're about to be seriously out-gendered…" Story of my life. It was an incredible chill time of kicking back on brick-pile-seats, listening to crunk music the likes of which would have made my sister proud, looking at the African night sky so bright with stars silhouette the monkey trees all around the hostel. Gorgeous.
Saturday I went to the local hotel with a couple girls to go swimming and do homework by the pool. At the mention of Thanksgiving I was nearly sick as I realized that it is in fact November and I spent the day lying around in a swimsuit and shades sippin' cold drinks by an unheated pool that was definitely warmer than the showers I take everyday. I am SO looking forward to whatever blustery weather Sweden is having when I get there in January, and to return to the snow banks I know will be piled in my driveway upon my return home. I fully intend to be a small child with my snowy antics when I get home: snow forts, snow angels, catching snowflakes on my tongue… these are the things I dream of here in the mid-afternoon heat as I sit sweating and sipping my tea (even African heat does not dissuade true Ugandans from the all holy Tea Time).
Yesterday I went running up Monkey Hill and nearly slipped all the way down a massive stretch of red dirt and stones as I skidded through some mud from the afternoon rain in borrowed shoes a size too big for me. I was only grateful no one was watching the clumsy Mzungu. However, all hopes of going through my running routine unnoticed were shot straight to hell when I agreed to go meet Esther at the track to finish up laps with her after my own run. I got to the track and there were 2 soccer games going on in the center as we, the only white girls to be seen at all within the vicinity of the field, breezed our way around the track. With every lap around by the stone bleachers some odd-ball called out "go Mzungu!" as we passed… great. Just great. Anyone who tells me again that their excuse for not going to the gym back home is that they're uncomfortable being stared at should spend an afternoon trying to go unnoticed at the gym or track here. You'll be the only white, almost always the only girl, and definitely the most uncoordinated person present. No exceptions. The trick is to just embrace your minority status, crack a few jokes with the guys- show 'em you mean business, and just make yourself a kind of novelty to have around. If they're going to notice you, you may as well own it. :)
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