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.

An Afternoon Soundbite

In the middle of giving a tutorial on how to use the new template I created for my NGO's quarterly newsletter, my supervisor says in a deep, rich accent:

"Johldan, can I ask you -- is there something about Jewish eyes? A Ugandan woman in town whose grandparents were Jews told me that you can tell who is a Jew by looking in their eyes. So, every time I look at you I keep thinking I will find something special or strange in your eyes, but I haven't found anything yet. Every single day I am looking ... So, is it true? Can you tell who is a Jew from their eyes?"

Two minutes later ...

"What about Jewish hair? It's always curly, yes? When I see Jews in the movies, they have curly hair. When your hair was long, was it curly?"

30 seconds later ...

"Do you call yourself Jewish or just Jew? And what about Israelite? Are you that, too?"

This promptly put an end to newsletter template orientation and opened up a more lively conversation about the myths, mysteries, and intrigue of my Tribe. Yes!

Jews in Uganda ...

Much has happened since I last wrote. I've learned a lot about HIV, written a questionnaire to identify the ways in which HIV-positive patients and doctors are stigmatized in Ugandan hospitals, visited the source of the Nile, hiked to the Sipi waterfalls, been told on the buffet line at Plate Cafe that I'm "eating like an African" (read: eating sumptuously with hefty, starch-heavy servings) and experienced several day-long, city-wide power outages ... which accounts for the lull in activity on this blog ... writing in the dark on a juiceless laptop is quite challenging ...

I also visited Uganda's Jewish community -- the Abayudaya (Lugandan for Children of Judah)-- to attend the installation ceremony of its first rabbi. I also spent Shabbat with them, which was pretty magical. Check out my article about the Abayudaya which was published in this past week's Jewish Forward.

Culture Shock Snap-Shot: My Male Maid

I have a maid. His name is Silva (or is it Silver? Hard to say). He lives behind the patio in a stucco hut against the wall where the lizards and the rats run their night-time obstacle course. He wears white cut-off jeans that fall just below the knee, a button-down white shirt, and rubber galoshes. Sometimes he wears battered flip-flops. A white radio ear piece dangles from his right ear, reverberating a reggae beat . When I leave for work, he offers a gentle wave and wishes me “a good journey.” When I arrive home at the end of the day, he offers: “Welcome back” and a warm, smile-nod. On Saturday, he calls to me from my kitchen where he has already entered without knocking. Privacy does not rank high on the Ugandan values chart; shared space does.

“Hallo? Hallo? Madam?”

I stumble to the stucco arch-way in my boxer shorts and tank top, tripping on the tiny step at the foot of my room, and squinting at the glare from the sun. Silva sees that I am half asleep. “Good morning, Madam. You were still sleeping?” He hands me a pile of heavily starched and ironed laundry.

It’s 8am on a Saturday, and a male Ugandan maid has waltzed into my flat unannounced to hand me a pile of clean laundry.

“Are you staying home today, Madam?”
“For a little while.”
“May I wash the floor?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hear myself reply because I really have no choice.

Answering “Yes” feels uncomfortable and exploitive, but answering “No” suggests disrespect, dissatisfaction, a lack of appreciation. A “No” might even cost him his job, should the landlord think I am not pleased. In Uganda, this is just how it is: if you don’t live in the slums or out on the street, you have a maid. S/he comes with your flat and is included in the cost of rent, much like the sink and the burner. You have a maid whether you’re black or white—it’s not about race. You have one whether you live modestly or luxuriously—it’s not about class.

So, Silva washes my clothes, scrubs my shower, fixes the gas stove when it breaks, irons my shirts so I don’t get jiggers. When day breaks, he sweeps the patio speckled with flaky mosquito wings and sun-crunched mango leaves. When night falls, he does the same. He asks if there is anything special I would like.

I would like to do my laundry myself. I would like to offer you a cup of coffee. I would like you to be treated kindly by my landlord. I would like you to have a more dignified job. I would like to be your friend.

“No, Silva, I am just fine today. Thank you.”
“Have a nice day, Madam. Nice day and a good journey.”

The Animal Kingdom Walks to Work

A little less exotic, but no less loved.

July 4th Came Early

The July 4th celebration hosted by the U.S. Embassy in Uganda was on June 29th. Too difficult to celebrate July 4th on a weekday. It was an outdoor, picnic-style lawn event in a small village on the outskirts of Kampala. We watched Ugandan acrobats flip around in khaki, janitor-like uniforms. We listened to American pop music ... like Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears. My veggie burger—with a delightful peppery kick—was tasty. So was the pineapple and the “Happy Birthday, USA!” frosted cake. The fireworks were … fireworks: loud and flashy and colorful. On my camera, they look like a muddy, rain-splattered windshield (which is why they did not get uploaded).

An eclectic assortment of Americans joined in the fun—doctors, diplomats, public health officials, Christian missionaries, and liberal Jews. The Jews, I learned, are all in Uganda doing health-related work. They somehow know half of my friends in the U.S. or are my mother’s students. There were a number of mixed Ugandan-American couples, too, and an impressive showing of Americans with adopted Ugandan children.

So, no fireworks tonight, and no listening to NPR’s recitation of the Declaration of Independence. Instead, I get homemade challah, fresh mango, and some red, white and green (yes, green) Star of David-shaped pasta from the Ugandan market’s Indian food section (I will photograph it once it's cooked). Who knew?

Happy 4th of July!

An Unexpected Gift

It’s rather queer (read: odd) for a girl to live with a boy if the two are not married. Yonatan’s co-workers are fascinated that he lives with a girl (me). They ask questions about “the madam” (who is not his wife). Where is she from? What does she look like? How does she find Uganda? Yesterday, they give Yonatan a gift to bestow to her—a fresh cucumber. Lesson learned: Find an opposite-sex flatmate in Uganda, and “the madam” will be rewarded in vegetables ... ?

You Lunch, You Learn

I’m learning a lot about lunch. First and foremost that it’s essential – bountifully so. Next to riding bodah bodahs, it might be the most valued experience in Ugandan society. At the office, Lillian prepares lunch for our staff (all three of us) in a half-indoor, half-outdoor kitchenette area on the grassy plot where the chickens peck at garbage. She dishes out our meals in huge tupperware containers for each person. On Tuesday, we eat sautéed green bananas, ground nut sauce, potatoes, unidentified root vegetables, a smattering of roasted tomato skins, and the creamiest, sweetest avocado (a whole one!) I’ve ever tried; all mushed together with a thick, stew-like consistency. Everyone eats fast and furiously. I am supposed to finish my lunch in one sitting, but there’s enough food in my container for about three of my small, American muzungu selves. I tell Lillian that lunch is delicious. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that I’m small and there isn’t much room in my stomach. There is laughing and thigh-slapping and squealing, so I laugh right along, mocking myself. Winnie jokes that by the time I leave, I will be eating like a Ugandan woman. “Don’t worry, Johldahn, we will teach you how to eat. You will get fat. Fat is beautiful, you know.” I deviantly smuggle the leftover mush into my bag and eat it for breakfast the following morning.

On the days when lunch involves chicken or pig, I take my lunch elsewhere.

“Where are you going to take your lunch today?” Winnie asks.
“Plate Café. I like the pumpkin there, and the mustard greens.”
“How much do you pay for the buffet?”
“5000.” (about $3.25)
“That’s too much.”
“Really?”
”Yes. You need to ask for a reduced price, especially since you don’t eat meat.”
“People bargain at a buffet?”
“Of course, Johldahn. You are in Uganda. You bargain for everything.”
“I don’t like to bargain. I’m not used to it.”
“Ah, but you must, especially since you are a muzungu. Otherwise, they take advantage of you.
“So how much should I ask for the buffet?”
“3500. Nothing less. Speak to the manager, not the girls.”
“The manager is Ugandan?”
“Yes. Tell him where you work and that you will be coming to the buffet every day until you go back to the U.S. If he doesn’t reduce the price, you will no longer eat there.”

* * *

At Plate Café, I ask to speak to the manager about a reduced price. I am taken to a back room where there’s a fake brown leather couch, an over-sized oak table, and a computer that doesn’t appear to be working. The sign on the wall reads: “No Ponography” (the ‘r’ in ‘Porn’ is missing). A woman in a navy blue suit appears. She asks how she can help me. I explain my situation and she tells me to follow her down the corridor to speak with her boss. He is very dark with a big booming voice, bulging eyes, and a thick, fleshy mouth.

“Hello, how are you? How are you feeling?”
“Fine, thank you, how are you?”
”Oh, I am fine, Very, very fine.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“No, no, no. I am here for you. You are always welcome.”

I tell him that I enjoy the buffet, especially the pumpkin and the mustard greens. I also say that I enjoy the ground nut sauce. I explain that I don’t eat meat, that I plan to come eat here every day for lunch, and that I am requesting a reduced price of 3500.

“Where do you come from, Seestah?
“The United States.”
“Ah yes, yes …” He’s thinking for a moment; probably thinking that I am rich.
“3500. You see, I think that price is a bit too little. We are on hard times here, you know.”
“Yes, I understand.” I am a terrible bargainer.
“How about 4000.”
I think for a second, but not long enough.
“Sure. 4000.”
“Good. 4000. I will tell the girls. You will pay at the front. 4000. A special price.”
“Thank you,” I say, extending my hand for another long handshake.
“Tell me, Seestah, what are you doing here?”
“Health and human rights work. Anti-stigma & discrimination for HIV/AIDS.”
I’m learning the buzz phrases used here.
“Ahh, this is good. We need more of this. Enjoy your lunch. You are always welcome.”

* * *

Back at the office, Winnie asks how I did.
“4000.”
“Johldahn.” She laughs, and sucks on her chicken bones.

A Baby

There is a baby on the side of the road. It’s lying on its back, wrapped in a dirty lavender sarong. Its arms extend upward, convulsing against the sky. Its body shakes each time a bodah bodah speeds by, coughing up exhaust and red clay. I hover and stare. I’m not breathing and my heartbeat feels like fear. Snot drips from its nose and its eyes are puffy; I wonder if this baby has AIDS.

From across the road, I hear: “Miss? Do you want this baby?” He’s laughing and his teeth are a sterile white. I stare back at him, uncertain and powerless. “Does it have a mother?” I hear myself say. “I think it’s sick.” He’s still laughing, and I force myself not to cry. “You want to take this baby, yah? Do you?” He is mocking me, maybe. I study the fibers of the dirty sarong as his laughter breathes into a sigh. “Don’t worry, Miss, the mother is cleaning the street. She is over there with the broom. This baby is hers. It’s OK.” I lift my gaze to the street and see her walking slowly, the way I might walk under water. She has rough tufts of straw, a plastic red bucket, and a fistful of trash. She wears a huge grin and warm eyes that I trust. She offers me a gentle nod. The baby is hers.

No Jesus, No Pig

“This Jewish religion … it’s scary.”
“Scary? How so?”
“It’s strange. You know, strange people, strange words, strange food.”
“It’s just different.”
“What about the Bible? How do you interpret it.”
“We have the Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament. But we don’t use the New Testament.”
“Ah, I see. So, how do you pray? What do you talk about? Jesus?”
“Well, no.”
“No Jesus?!”
“No Jesus.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“Not really. There’s a lot to talk about.”
“What about God?”
“Yes, there is God.”
“But no Jesus?”
“No Jesus. Jews don’t believe Jesus is God.”
“Ah, I see. And what about the food. You eat meat?”
“Yes, some Jews eat meat if it’s prepared a special way. Cows and chickens, but no pig.”
“No pig?!”
“No pig.”
“And no Jesus.”
“Right, no Jesus.”
“Wow. Scary.”
“Just different.”

Christ the King

On Sunday I go to chehch (church). I choose “Christ the King” from the options on my map. I wear my Sunday best (a blue and white polka dot dress) and arrive on time. 300 people shuffle out from the early service, and 300 more line up for the late. We swarm the back door, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. Men wear suits. Women wear traditional batik patterned dresses with fancy, colorful hair wraps. Some sit outside in plastic chairs to listen to the service amplified through outdoor speakers, fanning themselves with poorly photocopied passages from “Peetah and Pole” (Peter and Paul). A small child waddles his way through the purple and yellow summer skirts. His smile kisses my knee, and his soft arms and tiny chest press into my leg. I run my fingers along his fuzzy head, and he looks up at me wanting to be held. I am one of about five white faces. When it’s time to go inside, I sit toward the back next to a girl who looks about 15. She’s bald, with soft features and sad eyes. She whispers to herself and never looks at me.

Christ the King is Catholic. The ceiling has cracked planks of wood with fans that don’t spin. The Jesuses on the walls are white. The preacher is black. He wears an orange and green patterned shirt with geometric designs that I trace with my eyes. He tells us about Peetah and Pole, about sins, about Jesus, about children, about dying. Twice he mentions “the Jews.” I stare at Jesus’s face, then at the preacher’s. Then back at Jesus. Two days earlier I’d asked my co-worker, Deenie, if she imagined Jesus looking not white. She gave me a quizzical grin and said “I have nehvah seen a black Jesus. Jesus looks like you.”

Christ the King’s hymns are sung in English and Luganda. The lyrics are projected on a screen near the front of the alter for all to sing along. The choir sings pleasantly, and everyone follows in chilling unison. Some kneel. Some stand. Everyone takes communion. At the end of the service, we wish each other “Peace with Christ” which, among my pew neighbors, is a simple “Peace” or “Peace with …” before their voices trail off.

I wonder how long people have been coming to this church in their traditional African outfits. I wonder when they started believing, or if they really believe at all. I wonder when Christ the King arrived in Uganda, erected by foreign missionaries who’d never seen a black Jesus or maybe even a black preacher, but knew what they were bringing was the truth.

Colors of the Market ...

I went to the Nakasero market. I bought mangoes, passion fruit, and fresh spinach (which I washed in boiling water and then boiled a second time ... and a third ... and a fourth...). Here are some photos:

Challah in Kampala

Yonatan baked challah for Shabbat. An outstanding success! (even with questionable Ugandan yeast which, we discovered, is perfectly fine). We ate it warm with hummus and tabouli from the local Lebanese "sit-down or take-away" shop that lives in the food court of the Garden City mall (yes, there is a mall in Kampala). Of course, we shared the goodness with our fellow AJWS volunteers ... and now we're really popular.


Here we are, looking smiley and sharp. We are the proud creators of "Kabbalat Shabbat in Uganda: Abridged Greatest Hits (when we feel like singing them) in American and Israeli accents." Lecha Dodi and Adon Olam get a multi-melodied reprise.

Fuzzy Orphaned Chimps!

These beauties were rescued from Congo where they would have been poached. Now they live on an island off of Lake Victoria. I watched them eat their lunch, climb trees, cackle heartily at a joke I just didn't get, cuddle each other tenderly, and hold hands. One Chimp strolled into the forest with a two-legged, upright posture! My camera battery died just as we were getting acquainted, but Rozi and Mitch took other photos (and videos!) which they promise to send me soon. My apologies for the fuzziness of these images. I'm not so skilled at freezing my hands ...






This is a sign I stumbled upon in Kampala. Curious, indeed ...

3 Food Haikus ...

Posho is straight starch;
Bright white paste that has no taste
Yet people love it.

Where is the roughage?!
Runny coleslaw does not count.
Mustard greens? Bring ‘em.

Plump is beautiful
Pile your plate oh-so-high
Finish every bite.

The Health Workforce Crisis at a Glance

In my first two days of work, I got an on-the-ground glance of the health and human rights struggle in Uganda. Yesterday, I joined a group of health workers to present the “Health Professional Pledge and Call for Action” to members of Parliament. The pledge was signed by over 600 health professionals concerned about the state of the health sector and demanding help from key policy makers to improve Ugandan health services. On Tuesday, I attended a meeting with Parliament members and health NGO leaders to review the progress of the UN’s SRRH (Special Rapporteur on the Right to Health) in addressing health and human rights issues over the past five years.

A bit of background: Uganda currently has approximately 0.8 health professionals per 1,000 people; almost three times lower than the WHO minimum recommended number of health workers per population. Approximately 2,500 physicians work in Uganda – the equivalent of just one physician per 11,000 people if physicians were evenly spread throughout the country. Geographical imbalances and migration to urban areas leads to a severe lack of health workers of all cadres in rural areas, as health workers are hesitant to commit to posts with limited equipment/supplies and poor living conditions. Reports from the ground indicate that many lower health centers are staffed by unqualified health workers, as a result of qualified health workers being unavailable to fill posts.

Working conditions are also poor across health facilities. In a national survey of over 600 health workers across nine different districts carried out by the Ministry of Health in 2006, access to equipment, supplies, medicines, water, and electricity were all found to be severely compromised. And, only 36% of health workers interviewed felt that their workload was manageable.

Ultimately, it all comes down to funding. While there was recently an additional 98 billion shillings pumped into this year’s health budget, none of these funds were allocated to increasing the numbers of health workers in Uganda, improving their working conditions, or increasing pay or incentives. The health workers with whom I met hope that Parliament will consider making crucial changes to the health sector budget for 2008/2009 before it is finalized. If nothing changes, they plan to strike. Who is going to deliver the additional 60 billion shillings worth of ARV drugs allocated in this year’s budget if there are no health workers?

My Mosquito Net

Remember the Fruma Sarah scene in Fiddler on the Roof? You know, Tevye’s bad dream? Just as I was about to fall asleep last night, it twistedly occurred to me that my mosquito net bears a striking resemblance to Fruma Sarah as she rises from her grave and tears through Anatevka in her gossamer white gown. My mosquito net hangs from a safety pin from the ceiling that is positioned precisely over the center of my bed … which leaves me amused – albeit terrifiedly – at the thought of falling asleep under Fruma Sarah’s gown in the pursuit of guarding myself against malaria.

Thank you, Fruma Sarah.

My Home

I live in a quiet part of town, near a golf green, a junior boarding school for girls, the Uganda Law Society, and a large wall of tumbling ivy. The roadside is laced with fuschia and tangerine flowers. The neighbors toss used street brooms -- hand-held tufts of rigid straw -- out on their lawn and light them on fire in small, make-shift pits. In Kampala, there is always something burning. As I wrote in my scrappy, free-associating first post, the air always seems to smell like sage with a whiff of garbage and caramelized sugar.

My temporary new home (as of yesterday) is in a gated plot of land, protected by a guard who carries a gun. He has a long, bony frame, high cheek bones, a gummy, gap-toothed smile. I squeeze through a little metal green door to arrive at my flat which has an eerily cavernous, but oddly comforting quality. There are white stucco walls and creaky wooden cabinets. One room breathes into the next through lop-sided open arch-ways. The lights flicker violently and power-outages occur several times a week (not just in my home, but in the entire country). The kitchenette is well-equipped except for dish soap, so last night I washed my dishes with shampoo. Small bugs drunkenly weave in and out of the grooves of the tiled floor. There's a lizard that hangs out on the wall.

I wake up to the sounds of sweeping, peeling, roosters, and frogs. There is an outdoor patio where my flatmate, Yonatan, and I sat this morning to drink tea and eat a small container of plain yogurt with Ugandan honey before heading off to work (which begins at 8am). We have an excellent view of our neighbor’s clothesline. It wears purples, yellows, reds, and greens.

A picture will come soon when the internet is so kind as to allow for a successful upload ...

My Muzungu, Myself

I am a muzungu, a white person. In Uganda, this makes me startlingly conspicuous, and alluringly fascinating. It’s nearly impossible to be out in public without hearing the hum-like shrill of “muzungu, mpasente,” -- “white girl, give me money.” It follows me around like the sun and the chickens, and the powdery clay that tints my toes a fuzzy, red-brown-pink—mimicking the color of the roof-tops—and doesn’t wash off in the shower. Sometimes “muzungu, mpasente” is followed by “marry me, muzungu” or “I love you, muzungu.” It doesn’t feel threatening; it’s delivered with amusement, sometimes a mournful longing, but mostly out of relentless curiosity and admiration for whiteness—which is equated with wealth. So I smile and say: “Hello, how are you?” “Fine, thank you, how are you?” – the expected Ugandan greetings dressed up in a deep, penetrating gaze, sometimes child-like, and a lingering handshake that feels flirtatious, but (mostly) isn’t. I’m trying to mirror those around me … except, of course, when I don’t:

At the Zoo in Entebbe (to which I received a free pass after spending Shabbat on an island with orphaned chimpanzees), I accidentally forgot the “no eating and walking at the same time” rule. I’d just bought some red dye #7, orange dye #3 “ice-cream” from a man wheeling a wooden box down the street. It was served to me in a small paper dixie cup. I probably should have just sat down on the curb and eaten it, but for reasons that I’ll explain in a later post about my curb-side sightings, I chose not to. I proceeded to stroll into the Zoo while spooning the ice-cream. While in transit, I dripped some on my hand. Then I licked it. In a matter of moments, my conspicuous “muzungu-ism” had become prime entertainment for the group of Muslim school children on their way to see the caged white-face monkeys and the warthogs. The boys erupted in laughter. The girls whispered and pointed and muttered something in Luganda so I couldn’t understand, but it probably wasn’t flattering.

So I smiled and said: “Hello, how are you?”

“Muzungu, mpasente.”

hello, and how are your chickens?

Greetings from Uganda, friends! So, here I am in an internet cafe with the most reliable internet connection I've had in a week (I'm preparing myself for the reality of s l o w ) ... and irritatingly, I seem to not have the several days of scribbled notes I took for my first blog post ... so, like bumbling through the buzz of life here, I'll just start rambling in the raw ...

It was a bit of an adventure getting here -- a missed flight connection, lost baggage, getting re-routed through London, witnessing an injustice involving the delivery of supplies to Kenyan orphans, reporting my lost luggage in Entebbe and having my passport disappear into a back room for a solid 20 minutes, but then safely return -- but here I am ... curious, wondering, present, connected. I'm on sensory overload, trying to absorb everything, and feeling content to be whirring through newness.

The air smells like burnt sage and b.o.; sometimes it smells like sugar in the raw.
the land is green and lush, smeared with soft, red clay dust;
I sleep under a mosquito net and bull-frogs chirp me into my malaria pill-induced dreams;
the birds are enormous;
people are friendly and value time, smiling, eye contact, and lots of affection; they also zip around on motorcycles (bodah-bodahs) and laugh loudly.
people drive on the left side of the road, there are no traffic lights ...
the colors are deliciously rich.
the environment feels astoundingly safe.
the sky is clear and starry.

I'm enjoying the buzz, the gazes, learning about the history, the cultural nuances ... listening to the way people speak; the formality of introductions "hello, how are you, how are your chickens?" uttered to random people on the street ... I don't have any chickens, so I'm spared this question; but everyone asks "how are you?" and it's genuine.

I've been told not to ever use my left hand to present a gift, and never eat or drink while walking or while in transit. It's very, very rude.

I've also landed myself in a quirky community of insta-friends (instant friends, like instant coffee -- just add water, and there they are!) from all different parts of the world. My new insta-buddy, Roz, is a Philly-native and a soon-to-be, doctor-in-progress ... she is in Kampala now before returning to Kenya where she will be for a few months ...

I've ridden in matatus (shared taxis, like sheiruts, only busier and stuffier). I drank equator tea. I ate matooke (mashed banana paste) ... it's tasty, but apparently, I do not have a big enough appetite for Ugandan culture. I should be eating a lot more. Please share your appetites with me?

I might go to the Nile tomorrow ... I also might go to chimp island ...

On Monday, I begin volunteering at my NGO where I will have regular internet access and can hopefully post more often ...

My time is cutting short, so here goes my first post ...

Pictures will come soon. I promise. Really.

101 Years Later

"For magnificence, for variety of form and color, for profusion of brilliant life -- bird, insect, reptile, beast -- for vast scale -- Uganda is truly the pearl of Africa." ~ Winston Churchill, (My African Journey, 1907).

Seems like Winston was rather captivated. On June 14th, I'll be heading to Uganda for my own (hopefully captivating!) adventure. I hope the "profusion of brilliant life" has stuck around long enough for me to experience.