Obama, Glamour, and God

Over the past several months, Obama has gained a kind of pop-star glamour in Uganda. Obama bumper stickers are slapped across taxi windows, store front archways, and on my co-workers’ computer monitors. His smile is admired regularly, and his face appears in Uganda’s two leading newspapers every single day. Ugandans love Obama for many of the same reasons Americans love him -- he’s a phenomenal orator, a visionary, inspiring, and very handsome. They also love him because he’s of African descent, and this fills Ugandans with a lot of pride.

One of the first things I’m asked when Ugandans learn that I’m American (one would think my nationality would be obvious, but I’ve been thought to be Spanish, British, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Danish … the latter two, were guessed by the same person, and French seems to be the most common speculation) is: “Do you like Obama?” or “Who do you want to be your next president?” (The other common question is, of course, “What is your faith? Are you Catholic or Protestant? Pentecostal or Born Again?” “None of the above” is never on the list.) It’s a good thing I like Obama and plan to vote for him because it puts me in good company with those around me. But if you actually start talking politics, it appears that very few Ugandans actually share Obama’s positions. Most people here are quite conservative. They’re fiercely anti-choice, homophobic, and talk a lot about God and the Bible as justification for (oppressive) governmental policies. It’s quite striking to see an Obama ’08 sticker slapped on the back of a matatu (shared taxi) directly beneath “Jesus is the only way” stenciled in bright red paint. I see this contrast every day.

“Were Ugandans to vote in the U.S. election,” my co-worker said, “and were they to vote on issues, not on the basis of character, appearance, or race, they’d definitely elect McCain. No question.”

The Digital Divide Meets the Rooftop

David, one of the maids who works at my old apartment in Kampala (I moved to a different place last Sunday), had been saying that he'd like to stay in touch with me, but didn't have an e-mail account. So, I agreed to help him open one. Yesterday I returned to my old apartment complex, where he assured me that there was internet access in one of the offices for me to show him how to open an e-mail account. This was the first I'd heard about internet access at the apartment complex, but I trusted him anyway. I arrived at the complex and the following conversation transpired:

Jordan: "So David, you mentioned that there was internet access in one of the offices here. That's where we'll need to go so that I can set you up with an e-mail account."
David: "Yes, there is internet here. On the roof."
Jordan: "On the roof?"
David: "Yes, there is a satellite dish there. We can climb up on the roof together and get onto the internet."
Jordan: "But David, in order to get onto the internet, we will need to use a computer. We can't just climb on the roof."
David: "But what about the dish?"
Jordan: "The satellite dish doesn't allow you to use the internet. You see, the internet is a system of interconnected computer networks. You can only access internet through a computer." [it was way too complicated to explain blackberry usage, e-mailing from cell phones, etc. ]
David: "Oh, I see. So we can't use the internet on the roof?"
Jordan: "No, we need a computer. We will need to go to an internet cafe
together. Climbing on the roof will not help you open an e-mail account."

I proceeded to write up a set of instructions on how to open a Gmail account using a *computer*, but it occurred to me that David had never used a computer before ...

The thought of climbing on a roof and dancing in front of a satellite dish to send an e-mail is far more entertaining than staring at a computer screen ... perhaps roof-top dancing will be the next innovation in Web 2.0 ...

Ugandan Wedding

My friends at the Kasiki (pre-wedding party) liked me so much that they invited me to the wedding. Weddings in Uganda tend to be full-weekend affairs and, indeed, mine was as well. It began with a rainy drive through the smoke-filled slums teeming with roadside shops full of passion fruit, sugar cane stalks, and animal carcasses hung out to dry. I held Cindie on my lap and used my arm as her seatbelt. She studied my features intently and couldn’t stop touching my hair. “Children like mzungu (white) hair,” said Sylvia. “They like that it’s soft and slippery.” We continued on a road surely not meant for driving, and after bottoming-out and bruising the car’s under-belly on what felt like small boulders, we arrived at Rita’s house for tea and bananas under the palm tree in her back yard. Then we proceeded to the Anglican church. Four couples exchanged vows and swapped rings, one after the other with a few “intermissions” of hymns from the choir. Periodically, the congregation got up to bring money to the alter. Sometimes there was raucous laughter punctuated with ululations. Women in the congregation wore bright head scarves and colorful dresses with pointy shoulder sleeves. When I got tired of sitting in the pews, I walked to the back of the church and read an exhibit that chronicled the church’s history up until 1977.

The reception was outdoors in an Indian-owned garden over-looking the city. The bride and groom and their respective families danced their way down the aisle, keeping to the beat of the drum. They circled around the cake, and played a game of hide-and-seek in which the groom hides and the bride seeks. The wedding is not allowed to continue until the groom is found, much like the Seder with the seeking of the afikomen. There were a number of long-winded speeches, a gift-giving procession for the bride, traditional Ugandan food buffet, African dance troupe entertainment, and some raucous dancing of our own to top off the evening’s festivities. The mzungus out-lasted the Ugandans on the dance floor. We danced until about 1am.

Lake Bunyonyi

An eight hour bus ride across the equator takes us to Lake Bunyonyi, the deepest lake in Africa formed from a volcanic lava dam. It is full of little islands and is surrounded by terrace-laced mountains where the locals farm sugar cane, coffee, bananas, and kasava. We row to an island known as “Nature’s Prime” and sleep in a tiny banda (hut) made of dried banana leaves.

In the morning, the lake is full of mist and the birds on our banda roof wake us up with their furious squawking just in time for sunrise. We eat papaya with lime for breakfast, and canoe ourselves to the mainland to hike through the banana and coffee plants. An entourage of small children joins us, dirty and barefoot. Along the terraces, we play with their ball made of wet plastic bags woven together and tied tightly with knots. They lead us to a church that is being built overlooking the lake. The locals are inside dressed in colorful, patterned sarongs and head scarves, and we arrive just in time to hear drumming and chanting. It sounds something like peace.

Some Lake Bunyonyi photos …

Thief

Outside my office, there is a loud, piercing scream. My office-mates quickly run outside and I follow. A man has been stripped naked and is being beaten on the ground by another man’s bare hands. His knees and elbows are bony and his lips are full of blood, staining his teeth a color I’ve seen in the sunset. Fifteen spectators gather at the scene. They laugh and hoot and clap their hands.

“He is a thief,” says Deenie. “He was trying to steal car mirrors. This is what happens to thieves in Africa.”

The thief begins to cry and begs the man beating him to stop. After a few more slaps, he is released, slowly rising to his feet. He stumbles down the street, naked and whimpering.

“He got off easy this time,” says Deenie. “Often they are killed.”

Ugandan English

If the accents weren't delightfully rich enough, I also have the joy of encountering fun language nuances. Here are a few:

“Use protection when you play sex” = Use protection when you have sex; the verb used with sex is always “play,” not “have.”

“I move [or pass] with you?” = May I walk with you?

“We go?” = Can I have a ride?

“You are smart” = You look pretty

“You are quick” = You are smart

“Yes” = yes, no, or I have no idea what you’re saying but I will pretend that I understand. Though seemingly straight-forward, "Yes" might be the most confusing, ambiguous response one can give ...

“Did you pick your phone [or e-mail or letter]?” = Did you answer your phone? "Pick" generally means "receive" or "answer."

“You feel?” = Do you understand?

“Last week I shifted” or “The meeting has shifted” = Last week I moved (as in, changed residencies) and the meeting has been re-scheduled.

“Can I be your friend?” = Will you give me money?

“This one” = Right here.

“Special hire” = taxi

Kasiki in a Slum

At night, I attend my first Kasiki—a Ugandan pre-wedding party. It’s for the groom who is a friend of a friend, but now he is my friend, too. There are 30 of us, men and women–everyone is buzzed and laughing. There is multi-pitched shrieking, thigh slapping, and dancing; conversation is a blend of Luganda and English.

We are celebrating in the parking lot of a neighborhood slum.

“Johldan, you are welcome here, seestah!”

I offer the Ugandan handshake, a hug, and three kisses. I can’t stop smiling.

“Mzungu, dance with us!” they insist.

For three hours straight, into the early morning, we rock out to local Ugandan music and Alicia Keys. For a few moments, I'm sure we are the happiest people in the whole world.