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.

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

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!

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.”

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 ... ?