Goodbyes again

Our flat has been filled with goodbyes, a steady stream of people wishing us “safe journey,” ducking in and out with gifts and wishes for family at home. There have been goodbye lunches and goodbye dinners, goodbye matoke and goodbye tikka masala. Goodbye laughter and goodbye tears. We are the luckiest people on earth to have a Ugandan community full of love for us, and vice versa.

It's a jungle out there

Last weekend we went “deep in the village” to Asia’s house on the edge of Mabira Forest, where it is so green even the air seems to shimmer with it. It has been raining, so all the flowers are suddenly blooming and there is a soft moisture everywhere. The huge trees are hung with jungly vines and you half expect Tarzan to swing on down to share a meal.

Asia’s mother is a dynamo. She screamed when we arrived and came running from the kitchen hut behind the house - she and I hugged like long-lost sisters. We jabbered and laughed – though we speak not one word of the same language. She ran up the path to show us her cows and goats, even ushered me to a 3-legged stool which I accepted so I could stir the fire under the soup. Asia’s sisters came and a brother, visitors came by, and her father sat quietly through a lot of happy laughter and chaos.

Like camping!

We went to the well, slipping on sugar cane on the path, and heard about Asia growing up doing the same. I sat on the mats to eat with the women and gave up on the mzungu fork and just dug in with my hands, using the matoke as a utensil (though not as effectively as they do!) I even served Bill his meal by kneeling in front of him – to lots of laughter (and claims I didn’t kneel ALL the way). After dinner Asia and I did the dishes – I kept asking her where the dishwasher “on” button was.

And also: Asia took us to a small clearing that is the family’s burial ground. Muslims, she said, do not use cement on graves, so the graves were marked with strewn rocks, and vines were creeping in between them, the oldest mounds almost disappearing into the ground, as they should, I suppose. Asia pointed to her sisters’ and brothers’ graves, recounting them all by name. They died young, leaving nieces and nephews that everyone is taking care of. It is so sad, and yet her mother has the most beautiful smile and laugh despite a lifetime of tragedies. It’s the same with everyone here – death stalks families constantly. But somehow they go on.

 

Asia's father, left, Bill, me and Asia's mom

We have had a great time on this trip to Uganda. And still I keep thinking of that burial ground next to Asia’s family house. Yes, it’s sad, but there’s also something very beautiful about it. It is in keeping with how important family is here. People refer to their “sons” and “daughters” and it turns out they are nephews and nieces. Everyone takes care of everyone else in the family and children that way have many parents, and parents have a lot of children. It seems it is not by accident that the graves are right there inside the family place forever. No cold graveyards or drawers where people put ashes – Ugandans actually don’t have cemeteries. They are buried “in the village.”

So now we head out once again. It’s impossible to say goodbye, so we say, “Next time!”

Home in a little less than a week; a few days first in Amsterdam – a world away for sure!

Whirled peas & Carnegie Hall

Language is a funny thing. Ugandans speak English, often very well. But we constantly are getting ourselves mired in traps.

For example,  I have the responsibility of making compelling Powerpoints for the trainings we are doing. I am always looking for clever things. Sometimes I just get bored and throw in something that seems right to m. As in, our “compelling writing” training. At the end of the session we say that the best thing (next to reading) to do to write well is to practice.

Ezra, making tea in the back of the Hiace

Brilliant, I thought. I'll have a thought balloon saying, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” Surely you know the answer: “Practice, practice, practice.” I knew it would be a reach, but I thought we could explain it.

Dr. Journalism (Bill) looked at the slide and said, “Theresa will explain this.” Out on a limb. So I said, “New York, concerts, blah, blah.” Blank faces. I tried again – violins, etc. They politely laughed but I could see the furrowed brows.

On the long way back from the recent safari, Kate ended up sitting in front with our friend and guide, Ezra. Ezra was tired and it was a long drive. Kate was trying valiantly to entertain him as we zoomed down the highway toward Kampala. They were talking about the signs on taxis and buses – things like “God Is Able” and “Love All, Trust None.” So Kate started telling Ezra about bumper stickers in the US. He didn’t get it, they don't have those here.

Kate explained. “There is this bumper sticker a lot of people have that has a picture of the world,” she said. “And it says on it, ‘whirled peas.’" Ezra looked confused. The four of us in the back of the impressive Toyota Hiace safari vehicle waited. Kate went on. “You see, it’s about world peace.” Ezra looks more confused. 

Kate: “You see, peas and peace … never mind. Really, it doesn’t mean anything. Lots of bumper stickers are just for politicians …” Fortunately, she didn’t talk about stickers like “Dog is my co-pilot.” Or others.

Yesterday, we went to the center of town and decided to get a "special hire" (like a US taxi, sort of) to take us and wait until we were finished with some business. It had stormed violently the night before and Bill started talking about weather to the driver, Bright. Bright then asked about what people do in the US when it snows to keep warm. Bill started describing a "jacket that is poofy and filled with feathers, like from a duck." I could see the quicksand sucking downward … but Bright said, yes, he had seen something like that on TV. Whew. 

I'd like to think that the next time we feel a culture clash coming on, we'll remember whirled peas, Carnegie Hall and down jackets. But most likely we'll blunder into it again. 

Guest Post: The Best Spring Break Party EVAH!

 “So how does a Ugandan party unfold?” we asked, adding to the never-ending list of questions that we’ve peppered our hosts with.

“Well,” said Bill and Theresa patiently, “you’re about to find out.”

The party started on our very own taxi, a small bus with Allah’s name displayed prominently on the windshield. We piled in: five Americans, ten Ugandans and three crates of soda pop, taken from Salama Springs’ larder, strapped to the top.

Getting from point A to point B is part of the adventure in Uganda. This ride was no exception. There was singing, laughing, one police stop and a good dose of general chaos. Throughout, the Ugandan passengers launched into lengthy observations in Lugandan, punctuated by the word “Mzungu” and laughter. Though Theresa tried, we were never able to get an accurate translation of what they were saying about their Mzungu passengers.

The taxi - full of Salama Springs "family" and mzungus

Finally, after the tarmac turned to red dirt, and then to a meandering path into a forest, we arrived at Prossey’s. To say we were met with a warm welcome would be an understatement. Kids ran alongside the taxi, adults smiled broadly. “You are most welcome,” they told us.  

We brought some little toys for the kids. 

Of all the things that Bill and Theresa have done to make our first visit to Uganda memorable, allowing us a glimpse into the community they have built here has been the most extraordinary. Between their friends at Bead for Life, New Vision and Salama Springs, we have been exposed to the kindest and most authentic individuals in our travels in Uganda. This party, planned for weeks in advance, was the capstone of the experience.

And so the party began to unfold. Prossey, our hostess had been cooking since five in the morning. It was delicious: thick matoke, g-nut sauce and nakate (greens) prepared in banana leaves, chicken so locally sourced that the feathers hadn’t blown off the ground. We tried (and failed) to eat Ugandan portions. Even the kids took matoke mounds as big as their heads. Truly, the Ugandan feast rivaled and even surpassed American Thanksgiving portions, with all of us struggling to keep up.

Matoke making

After the eating was finished, I considered crawling under the shade of an avocado tree for a nap. But that would have meant missing a trip to the bore hole to fill up twenty-five jerry-cans of water.

Kate taking her turn at pumping the water at the bore-hole

The entire village assembled for the task. It was hot. Pot holes the size of small craters lined the road. It was hard not to think of our own neighborhood in Idaho. The streets are wide and clean, but walking on a winter’s day you might never see, not to mention talk to, another person.

The kids showed us how to pump the water. Ugandans cheered as Elliot lifted a Jerry-can of water onto his head. We walked up the road with our water, aware of the fact that the children in the village seemed less fatigued than we did, and remembering that they made this trek once or twice a day, every day.

Elliot carrying a jerry-can, to the delight of the Ugandans

Showing Elliot how its done. Note the stickers.

Theresa cut her cake. Everyone ate. There were some mzungu pictures, featuring us, looking sweaty and maybe a little confused as we posed in specific permutations—the mzungus with families, babies. The mzungus with the children. Just Kate and Deborah with two girls.  The only thing that finally put an end to the pictures was the time of day; the sun was going down, which meant, we were told, that the village would soon go entirely dark. 

And so we drove homeward, rattling down the dirt road. The soda crates were full of empties but we’d added a baby, four enormous, bulbous and pungent jackfruit and three chickens (bought by the taxi driver during the party) to the already-crowded cab.

“People of your skin color can be so proud,” said Sarah, the woman I sat next to. “They won’t sit with us the way you are sitting. But you carried the water. You are leaving soon, but they will be talking about you for a long, long time.”

I think it’s safe to say that we will, too.

Two friends: Prossey and Theresa

(This post is by daughter Kate - we'll miss our great visitors, Kate, Elliot and Deborah!)

Thieves in the tent!

We managed to get outside dusty Kampala last weekend by visiting lovely Lake Mburo National Park. It should have been a 4.5 hour drive, but instead it was 6 hours - a construction project had traffic jamming  roundabouts and roads. Since the idea of side roads is laughable, there we sat. Luckily we had put A/C in our loaner car (thanks again Eric and Asia) so we didn’t actually bake.

We stopped at the equator on the way ...

We invited Asia along since it was her birthday and we had so much fun. She learned to float (yay! That one’s been a long time in the learning!) and ride a horse (now she imagines herself galloping along into the sunset, though we just walked – slowly – on the ride). It was a little weird to ride horses among zebras, impalas and warthogs, but no one seemed to care on either side of the equation.

Ugandan cowgirl

Mainly we relaxed, a welcome respite since we’ve been so busy at work. We stayed at Mihingo Lodge, where we had stayed three years ago. The “rooms” are tents built inside thatched roof structures carved out of the rocks above a water hole where animals like elands (truly amazing creatures with big dewlaps and a hump) and impala (with their black markings that make them seem to be wearing high heels) hang out. The lodge design is amazing – olive branches imbedded in rocks and curved plaster walls.

Cute, until ...

Our tent was down a steep stairway in the trees and monkeys were swinging all around the tent. Bill thought they were cute and took some pictures. But what they were really doing was waiting for us to vacate the room. We went to sit up above by the pool and later I decided to go get my book.

As I approached, I saw through the mosquito netting on the tent a turmoil of monkeys – probably about 10 of them – scrambling to get out at the sound of my footsteps. They tumbled out through the Velcro closures on the windows and leapt into the trees where they watched me yell at them.

The place was a disaster. Our toiletry bag was spilled everywhere: they liked the Pepto Bismol tablets, our malaria pills and assorted other medicines we always bring just in case. We’d brought the Uganda guide book with a picture of a gorilla on the cover and the cover was all twisted and torn (hmm). And the Skip-Bo cards – well, they must have had quite a game because the cards were everywhere and the box was outside.

They must have swung from the mosquito net over the bed because it sagged from a conglomeration of broken stuff and, uh, monkey poop. In fact, the place smelled like a zoo.

We had done what we were supposed to: padlock the zippers on the tent doors. But apparently they are wise to the tent structures. It’s been so dry here, said the lodge manager, that they are really hungry and the only place they can find food is the lodge. The staff cleaned it all up – they are used to it (we heard at least one other couple talking about how they’d gotten into their tent), and the monkeys disappeared from our area and moved along to some other doomed tent.

It makes for a good story, and we know the monkeys won’t get malaria. Now we’re back in Kampala, missing the cool, clear air of Mburo. But not the monkeys.

The rooms at Mihingo incorporate all natural materials. 

Oh, hello there, jailbird

Night game drive: hippo butts. It's rare to see them out of the water.

 

The pool, and the park in the distance

This place is for the birds

                Among the many pleasures of being back: rediscovering what a wonderland of amazing bird species Uganda is. Glad we decided to bring along our very thick and very heavy field guide, “Birds of East Africa,” with all its scribbled notes of where we saw what. (Speckled Mousebird -- Queen Elizabeth park. Bare-Faced Go-away bird -- Lake Mburo. Brown Parrot, African White-backed Vulture -- Kidepo. Etc.)

                We haven’t been to the national parks again yet (that starts next weekend), but we’ve been seeing the birds nonetheless. The little fellow here is one of the Kingfishers – probably a Woodland Kingfisher.

They’re wonderful birds, some colorful like this one and some not; they have the very useful talent of being able to hover stationary in mid-air above the water and then dive suddenly for their prey.

                Theresa and I saw this one in the Botanical Gardens not far from Entebbe Airport, maybe 15 miles south of Kampala. They have a terrific small jungle to wander through along the shore of Lake Victoria, tall trees with vines dangling to the ground. High in the trees we saw a cluster of four or five Turacos, and heard the squawks of parrots.

                But we haven’t even needed to travel that far. The other day looking out the bathroom window I found myself staring straight at a pair of Ross’s Turacos. This is a truly spectacular breed, with rich red and blue colors. We had seen these from a distance down in the garden behind our flat a few days earlier, and one of

them had opened his big tail like a fan. (We haven’t been able to get them to sit still for our own photos yet; this one is thanks to the San Francisco Zoo.)

Back in 2007, our book reminds us, we saw the even larger Great Blue Turaco, with its tall black crest, just as we entered the (wonderfully named) Bwindi Impenetrable Forest en route to visit some gorillas with Steve & Bobbie.

While we were at the Botanical Garden, we saw a group of children having the time of their lives, sliding down a grass-and-dirt hillside – sitting on large palm fronds. Ezra, our friend and guide (to Ugandan life and to safari animals) laughed and said that when he was a kid, their mom used to cane them because she would get them all outfitted in new trousers and then they would run off and go sliding down the hill, inevitably slipping off the palm branch occasionally and ruining their clothes. Boys!

Depressed Us in Uganda

We really, really want to post photos of giant matooke meals, funny stories about our foibles here, etc. But reality interferes. So instead of upbeat, we are depressed. The president here passed an anti-gay bill, as you know if you follow any local and international media. We knew it would happen, but it's depressing and wrong, and just creates a climate of hate no matter where you are.

Bill tries to make it better by telling me that in our own country the state of Arizona is trying to prevent gay people from being served, and that some huge percentage of people in the USA don't believe in dinosaurs. Okay, but still depressed.

Then today I read this statement by Desmond Tutu. I love what he says, and I'm going to print it out and hang it on our door here. Anyone who enters our little flat enters only if they agree with this humanitarian approach to the topic of love.

Read to whole thing because it's worth it. But here's what I plan to post as a one-woman-stand against a huge proportion of the world, apparently. Here is the Archibishop:

"The history of people is littered with attempts to legislate against love or marriage across class, caste and race. But there is no scientific basis or genetic rationale for love. There is only the grace of God."

"There is no scientific justification for prejudice and discrimination, ever. And nor is there any moral justification. Nazi Germany and apartheid South Africa, among others, attest to these facts."

"Human beings are very diverse. Some have dark brown skins while others are beige, olive or pink. Some have big noses, some are very tall, some are Christian, some speak Swahili, some are financially secure, some are lesbian, some have specially evolved to survive in cold climates. Yet we are members of one family, the human family, God's family. All of us, Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, Atheist, African, Asian, European... all. An inter-connected global family in an increasingly inter-connected world."

"Our diversity requires of us to be tolerant and compassionate and respectful of each other."

So there, rest of world. Here at Salama Springs #21, we are one family, compassionate and respectful of each other.