Why did the lion cross the road?

The other night we were having dinner with Ezra, the guide who took us to Murchison and whose car broke down (see earlier post), leaving my brother and me standing along the road while they tried to fix it. It was hot out there, and we even wandered a little down a trail until Philip said, wisely, "I wonder what made this trail?" and we high-tailed it back to the road.

Well, at dinner Ezra said he stayed with his car for 5+ hours after we got a ride, waiting for a mechanic to come. I asked him why he didn't walk back to the head of the falls where there was some shade, and some rangers who maybe could have helped. He said, "Because once I saw a lion cross the road right there where we were ... I wasn't going to walk out there."

Hmm, I guess we know who made the trail. We have heard stories about lions; for example, the old ranger George who guided us at MF told about coming upon a lion close by and talking to him about not eating the poor old ranger. The lion finally walked on where he met 8 people, and killed and ate all of them. I asked Ezra if he believed that story and he said he did NOT believe the one about George talking to the lion, but he DID believe the lion ate the people. The locals here are very terrified of lions, and when you see them in person, how muscular and serious they are, you can tell why.

This post gives me an excuse to publish yet one more lion picture, from the last Murch trip. This lion was crossing the road to see if he could get some kob for dinner.

Art and soup

It's a cloudy afternoon for a change, which does not mean it is cool out. It's more like the temp of the conservatory at Volunteer Park. But it means staying inside isn't so bad, so I can tell you about some of the little things that make our lives here better.

Ever since we got here we have been hoping to find an arts community, with little luck. We know there are great artists here, but where to find them? Then one day a neighbor started talking about how she used to buy art for corporations in Uganda (she is a Ugandan who lived in Sammamish for a few years, small world). She promised to give me a list of galleries and shows. Then one evening last week she showed up with an artist, Jjuuko, and we had an impromptu art show in our living room (which is also our dining room, entry hall, and hallway to bedrooms and bathrooms). Jjuuko propped his paintings everywhere, and his unframed barkcloth work spread on the floor. The place looked great! Transformed from "we are going home sometime" to "now we live here."

When Bill returned from Lira, we went to see Jjuuko's studio, a bungalow where he lives, and works in the garage. He welded his own furniture and the place is full of color and intresting artifacts from Tanzania and Uganda. He has stories about it all; and his art is mostly about Ugandan culture: "timekeepers" (roosters), women carrying old-fashioned jugs for water, etc.

We bought a barkcloth painting of some women at the hairdresser's, and here's why we got the one you see here. The women here spend hours - I mean half a day or more - in beauty saloons (not salons, "saloons"). They come away with plaited hair, some dyed in orange or red stripes, or with shockingly straight hair that stands straight up on their head. Sometimes their hair looks like a feathered hat, other times it is long and dreadlocky. Even women who have little money seem to save enough to get their hair done. There are saloons everywhere, sometimes four of five in the same little "block." So when we saw this painting, we knew it would remind us of the Ugandan women's hair.

We also have four tropical plants in our flat. They soften it up a bit and it's fun to watch them grow, though I think occasionally I hear them asking why they can't go outside with their friends. I might add one more, a red, green and white yam. But not sure where to put it! Things are filling up.

Then we have a gourd like the ones they drink beer from, and a weaver-bird nest with a porcupine needle in it and also a guinea hen feather sticking out from it. Oh, and a little three-legged stool.

And, because the mangos are positively falling from the trees right now, we had cream of mango soup this week - cold soup that tastes like ice cream. Yum.

All those things, plus the fact that a tailor in the market made me a skirt last week, and we actually bought hangers -- you can see that we have a home away from home.

The envelope please...

During the orientation for my fellowship last year, in a section about ethics, they told us we should expect to encounter "brown-envelope journalism" at some point -- that is, stories being written (or not written) in exchange for bribes.

I didn't think much about it, and honestly, didn't really expect to find it, not in any visible way. Wrong! While it's true that any form of ethical impropriety at this level is a fireable offence at New Vision -- and someone was in fact fired last week -- that certainly hasn't wiped it out. When I do the ethics portion of my training out at the rural newspapers, and include a scenario for them to work out in which an official of an NGO (Non-governmental organization, or nonprofit) gives the journalist one of these envelopes "in appreciation for past coverage," they all recognize it, laugh a bit self-consciously, and acknowledge that it is still very much part of the journalism scene.

There are reasons for this. One is that many of the journalists (all of them in the rural papers) are freelancers who make nearly nothing for what they write, and still have to pay for airtime on their mobile phones. One is that the NGOs -- a good number of them anyway -- badly need publicity as a way of showing "impact," and so they are not shy about trying to buy that publicity. We talk to the reporters in very clear terms about this: you have to make a choice, between working for the readers and selling yourself and your reputation. (We also acknowledge the media companies share some of the responsibility for the low pay scales.) But we know -- and they are honest about this as well -- that many of them will keep doing it, given the opportunity.

The government and politicians do it, too. A guy I know who worked with radio stations remembers that after the last election, an official of one of the parties approached a reporter who had covered the campaign and gave him an envelope with a good sum of money in it. He took it.

I don't know how pervasive it is. I don't think it is hugely pervasive. But it is there, enough so to be recognized by all (editors at the main office get calls occasionally from NGOs asking why their story wasn't published, after they paid good money for it), and it's one of the the things that needs to disappear entirely before this "free press" thing is fully realized here.

Rescued!

My friend Nancy on San Juan Island always used to say that when your plans go awry on a trip, there’s opportunity for adventure. I thought of Nancy during a trip to Murchison Falls with my brother Philip last week. Everything was great, we had a fantastic time talking to giraffes et al, and got to catch up with each other at Paraa Lodge, where we looked off the balcony of the dining room at dinner and saw an elephant munching the garden beneath us. (He meandered slowly past the swimming pool and I think I saw him glance at my room, but he didn’t go in.)

We enjoyed the gorgeous scenery – I love the incongruity of the palm trees on the grasslands. On a game drive we had a big Land Rover full of what looked like Germans ahead of us and I made some slightly snide remark about passing the big, pink Germans (I’m German ancestry, so can be forgiven, but when you travel, well, Germans are everywhere), and our Ugandan driver Ezra passed them with a laugh. Otherwise, we were about the only ones in the park.

On the way home we went to the top of the falls and Philip waxed eloquent about the African Queen (filmed here); Ezra had no idea what we were talking about. We ate mangos straight off the trees, and then set off for the six hour trip back to Kampala. The top of the falls is down a long dirt track, far from the main dirt road and about two hours from the nearest town. Suddenly smoke poured out from the dashboard and we all jumped out. Some wires had crossed where they shouldn’t have and burnt through. Ezra climbed under the hood, wrapping a plastic bag around the wires for insulation, which looked suspect to me, so I dove into the first aid kit and he used the adhesive tape instead. But nothing worked and the car wouldn’t start. Sweat ran down Ezra’s face, and the sun beat down on us all.

Phil stood under a tree mumbling, “This is not good” and slapping the very aggressive tsetse flies that were looking for baboons. But I have been in Uganda for almost four months, and to me it was just another event, no worries. And, honestly, I thought, “This means an adventure!”

Just then we heard the Land Rover with the pink people in it roaring down the road – they had been at the top of the falls too. They jolted to a stop and Hans (who was actually Austrian) jumped out with his driver and they joined Ezra under the hood. After much mechanic-speak, they gave up. We threw ourselves on the Austrians' mercy and they agreed to take us to the next town. We left Ezra calling a mechanic, and also a car to come from Kampala to pick us up in Masindi.

That meant a three-hour wait in dusty Masindi. In the Rover, I looked at the sweet Germanic-types and thought, “No way are we waiting. We are going all the way to Kampala with them. this calls for charm.” Pictures of Maggie and Cameron came out, as did pictures of Gerta’s grandson. America became a fascinating place they need to visit. Oh so many adventures were shared. It turns out they had been in Africa numerous times, met in Libya, driven across the Sahara with their two-year-old son, seen Timbuktu. Why Africa, I asked. “For the adventure,” Hans said gleefully. At Masindi I shamelessly (and be humble, Philip begged me) asked for a ride the rest of the way and of course they agreed. We called Ezra (without cell phones, Uganda would not work) and he cancelled the other ride. We bought beers all around (not for the driver), at least three each for them (they are big people) – I lost count, and then we got back in the car.

“This car runs on beer and whiskey,” Hans said cheerfully as he pulled out a flask of “Austrian spring water” (schnaps) and they all took a swig, after which Franz (yes, Franz) in the front seat, fell soundly asleep, his big head bobbing off the headrest almost onto the driver’s shoulder.

And then … and then that Ugandan driver, Ishmael (yes, Ishmael), drove like a fruit bat out of hell, hitting very single pothole from Masindi to Kampala, roaring down the middle of the road around petrol trucks, in front of flying buses, yelling, “You want pineapple?” as markets blurred past. We bounced so hard our teeth hurt, we flew off our Rover-esque hard seats, Gerta’s neck twitched in a funny way, and at one point Philip pulled my Expedia baseball hat over his eyes so he couldn’t watch. We were terrified, but the Austrians were jolly, yelling who knows what in German, laughing and yucking all the way. Hans confessed he was “itching to drive” but it was too dangerous. No kidding.

So we reached home dirty and safe, with new friends and a story to tell. And never again will I say anything even slightly negative about such energetic and cheery people who rescued two stray Americans and made the whole thing fun. I have learned my lesson.

A Ugandan art form

And – surprise! – it is a quirky art form. The artists are called VJs, as in “Video Jockeys,” and they have an annual competition called the VJ Slam as part of the Amakula Kampala International Film Festival, which is winding up this weekend.

Here’s the deal. There are lots of movies available on DVD (yes, many of them pirated) in English or with English subtitles. But even though English is the “official” language of Uganda, there are many people who don’t speak it well or at all. But they still want to see movies!

Enter the VJ. These guys – and they seem to all be guys – work in places called Video Halls. While the movie is playing up on the screen, the VJ is doing a simultaneous translation into Luganda, the local language in the Kampala area. Or, rather, a simultaneous interpretation – because they don’t translate word for word, they embellish, dramatize, spice things up. The good ones end up recording their special versions on DVDs and selling them for home consumption.

At the VJ Slam, they have a preliminary round with the crowd voting to narrow the field down, then there’s a final round at the National Theatre, which I attended while Theresa and Phil of Africa were off having dinner with elephants. Like everything else here, there were technical glitches, and it was nearly two hours late starting, but at least I got to see it first-hand. The VJ sits on a chair watching the screen (all VJs have previewed the film extensively to work up their act). There’s a small camera aimed at the VJ, and they project an image of him at work up in a little window on the large screen showing the movie, so you get his expressions as well as sound.

It is definitely a competitive business, with lots of creative flair. The guys throw themselves energetically into the translation, doing dramatic, rapid-fire, fluidly musical-sounding Luganda. The audience shrieks and hollers. All of this under a star-filled tropical sky on a dark night in an open field outside the National Theatre. Who needs elephants? THIS is a unique bit of Africa, too.

What we'll remember...

We’ll remember SO many things, of course. But one of the things we’ll remember the most is the babies and little children we’ve met in Uganda. They are so cute and beautiful, and so eager, and their future is anything but certain.

We have had wonderful chances to meet many of them, and since Theresa is away on a safari, I thought I should share one of her little friends with you. This was at the ceremony to open the wonderful new Bead for Life village a week or so ago, and this baby, daughter of one of the beaders, is appropriately clutching one of the Bead for Life necklaces in her hand. She seems quite happy to be with jjaja (grandmother) Theresa, perhaps, uh, because the skin tones are so similar!

As for that safari, Theresa is back at Murchison Falls, this time with Brother Phil, and when I talked to her on the phone today she said they saw seven lions. I am jealous!!!

But I went to the VJ Slam. More on that later.

Hmmm, I think she's almost done...

We have been saying that we FEEL Ugandan sometimes, that is, we don't really notice when anyone is late, and actually we turn out to be late a lot, and we mostly don't notice the diesel fumes and dust (well, not quite), and the pace is seeming very comfortable.

But we've always known that we don't exactly, you know, blend in. Except suddenly I realized that Theresa is getting there -- and then someone at Bead for Life said the same thing! It's especially true of her feet, which are starting to look particularly Ugandan: dark on the top, lighter underneath. (And it's not JUST the dirt, as she claims.)

So today she took a picture of her feet next to Stella's at Bead for Life. I know, you can still definitely tell the difference -- but honestly, in a couple months, I'm not sure you will be able to. Not that this is a goal or anything, it's just one more curious thing on a wonderful curious adventure.

Guess who's coming for dinner?

Yesterday morning the phone rang and when I answered I heard the voice of my brother Philip. "I'm in downtown Kampala," he said. I didn't believe him except there was a ton of noise behind him, which convinced me. No, I had no idea he was coming. Yes, it's great to have him.

He had taken a 12-hour bus ride from Kenya after spending a week exploring the Massai Mara and Nairobi. He just kind of took off for two months in Africa, claiming the need for adventure. We are calling him Massai Phil, though he doesn't look like it in this picture. But give him a break, he did just spend all those hours on a bus. He says he's heading for Ethiopia to see some camels come in through morning fog from Somalia. Or some such thing.

I was really surprised to hear from him, but when he walked in the door it didn't feel at all odd. Somehow I have been expecting him. He is in love with Africa, and ever since we said we were coming we've joked he would just call from the airport.

We have been having lots of conversations about which family members will really come visit when suddenly one just shows up out of nowhere. I guess the Kloeck family spirit is alive and well!

Adventures in the little blue car

Last weekend we set off to drive to the other side of town to pick up our friend Michael Fardella who was here with the Sister School group from Seattle. We have been driving a fair amount and feeling pretty smug about it, but we haven’t spent much time in the part of town where the group was staying. So I propped the map book on my lap to direct Bill; the map is kind of a joke, there are NO road signs in Kamapla (or very few), and often the roads on the map don't really exist. Everything was fine until we got to a very congested roundabout and I couldn’t tell which road we should turn on. (As always, the word “road” doesn’t really apply – more like dirt track.)

We turned on a dirt track and found ourselves smack in the center of Owino Market. Now, Owino Market has a reputation for black market operations, pickpockets, unsavory characters -- no mzungus, in other words. We have been planning to go there with our money hidden in all our REI "secret" pockets, just to see it. But not this way!

There was no room to turn around. We were instantly plunged into a crowd with kiosk-style shops on all sides, hawkers and shoppers pressed up against our car. Men carried huge sacks of something inches from the bumper. Boda-bodas flew by, even though there was no room on either side of us. Trucks came lumbering toward us, swerving to avoid the potholes. (Let me repeat – there was no room.) Bicycles squeezed between the trucks and us. Bill inched us along, miraculously keeping the side mirrors intact, begging me to find a way out on the map. There was supposed to be a road at the opposite end of the market, but we couldn’t see anything except chaos. We had no choice but to be pushed along with the crowd regardless. At one point, Bill said, “Is your window rolled up?” Yes, my window was definitely up.

We have seldom felt unsafe in Kampala, more on our guard sometimes. But here we felt like interlopers – two pink and pale white people in a little blue car, one of those people with a map on her lap, obviously lost. When we thought about how we looked to the people in the market, the only thing we could do was laugh, which I imagine they were doing too.

Eventually we turned onto a side dirt track, drove into and out of a pothole the size of Crater Lake, and saw a big billboard that could only be on a big road. It was like a lighthouse indicating a haven, no matter how rocky the shore. We found the bigger road, and eventually (totally by accident) found the place we were supposed to be.

Later, Bill saw Elias, who has driven us often and still does when we need him. He told him about Owino Market, and Elias said slyly, “Owino Market! Mr. Bill, you need a compass in your car.”

Hard to be on a first-name basis

It's not that people aren't friendly -- they're wonderfully friendly, that's one of the things we love about Uganda. It's just a little tricky to be on a first-name basis because, well, how do you know what the first name IS?

Today I met a young woman who introduced herself as Pheona. But when she gave me her business card, I saw it read "Nabasa Pheona Gladys." Ummmm...if she hadn't told me her name, how would I have guessed at addressing her?

Names here are different. There's a family or tribal name, which often is written first but not always; and there's usually a "Christian" name; and there may be one or two other names. Here are some names exactly as they appeared on a sign-in list at the workshop Theresa and I conducted last week:

Bwogi Buyera John
Fred Turyakira
Kakuruga Fred
Ebenezer Bifubyeka

In other words, it's inconsistent. And it's not just how they write their names. Once a New Vision reporter whose byline reads "John Eremu" called me on the phone and greeted me by saying "This is Eremu John."

Many people here have addressed me as "Mr. Bill" -- because the fact that "Bill" comes first must signify it is the family name. And this explains our favorite driver Elias's little joke. One day he asked me: Are you related to the president? I blanked for a second and then realized: Bill Clinton -- Bill Ristow. We must be in the same family, or at least the same tribe. Very amusing, Elias!

There's quite a bit more on this name business, but I'll leave that to Theresa. Oops -- I mean Ter-ay-za.