On our way home ...

We leave in about an hour for the Entebbe airport, then a late, late, late flight to Amsterdam, and eventually home to Seattle. Swam twice today; we know we will miss the pool and the sun. And our friends, all of whom have showered us with greetings for the people back home today. And family, of course; Eric and Asia (and Bena, Asia's sister) put on a great lunch for us, then lots of hugs and reluctant goodbyes. We have had such a good time with them.

As usual, we weed out our clothes, etc. when we leave here and hand out things we no longer need. Bill threw away two pairs of underwear this a.m. as too tattered for anyone. But then later he saw them drying out on the grass (they lay the clothes out on the grass, bushes, etc. to dry; often I would see an entire outline of Bill - but without Bill - laying out on the grass beneath our flat). Apparently they were too valuable to waste.

Last night, our friend Kenneth who accompanied us all over Ugandan for New Vision trainings brought his whole family here to say goodbye. The kids are so cute. Daughter Martha asked, "What tribe are you?" We told her we are Americans and don't have a tribe. So she thought awhile and then said, "So you only speak English?" This from a 10-year-old who speaks at least two languages, probably three and a smattering of other tribal languages.

So, after many adventures and a lot of satisfying work, we leave once again. It's hard to leave the people who have been so good to us and become great friends, but we are so excited to go home. The push and pull of travel.

Why are we all here?

Every once in awhile we have conversations with other ex-pats. We all commiserate on things like the bugs, the garbage along the roads, the slow walkers in front of us. Some of our friends are anxious to go home, others consider this home.

Our friend Chris was crossing Jinja Road when he snapped a muscle in his calf, ouch. He has been here for three years and is in no hurry to get home. He's afraid, a bit, of being bored, worried about how he will handle things when he is back in the real world. (Hmm, which IS the real world?)

We think our friend William, erstwhile of BeadforLife and now working at another NGO, says it best. William is from the US and has been here for almost 20 years (!). He's planning to retire to Tanzania where he owns some land and has built a little house. When we ask him why he is still here, he says, "I am addicted to chaos." He's serious. And we understand it. There is something about the frantic movement, constantly having to be on your toes, that keeps you, well, alive.

This last Sunday I went to church, yes it's true. I love the Luganda Mass at Our Lady of Africa up the hill. On the way home I attached myself to a young man crossing the street (that's the best way to get across! Stick with the locals). He had a bulletin from the church in his hand. As we walked along, straddling drainage ditches and piles of plastic garbage, he said, "Welcome back from prayers." And then we chatted about things until I turned in our gate. He didn't want anything from me, just liked talking.

Almost every time we head out into the Kampala world, there is - yes - chaos, but also this attachment to another human being. What will it be like when we are home in a week?

Ah, Uganda ...

 This pix is courtesy of Eric, who went kayaking on the Nile and on the way back saw this sign. So what the heck is going on here? Fortunately we have our native guide, Asia, to tell us. But she says she has no idea. Except that she thinks there is a theory that you can avoid HIV better by not having sex in the morning. We'll let you know if we hear the real story. In the meantime, the sign stands. Uganda is not shy about its sexuality messaging.

Eric brought a bunch of Asia's nieces and nephews to the Salama Springs pool while we were on Lamu. Sorry we missed it; it looks like fun!

Tonight we hung up some Christmas lights on our little shelves and played U2 singing Beautiful Day, and someone else singing If I Had a Milllion Dollars ... our form of Christmas carols. You wouldn't really know it's Christmas time here. A few stores have some forlorn plastic trees, and they play these really cheesy carols that drive you out the doors. Otherwise, it's all sun and tank tops and fig trees. Christmas means more about going home to your village - which we plan to do in less than two weeks! Queen Anne village, here we come!

A few days in paradise


  Last Saturday night found us sitting on cushions, having dinner by candlelight and enjoying the mild fresh air on the rooftop of a lovely small hotel on Lamu Island, off the north coast of Kenya. Sweet-smelling light brown reed mats lined the floor and stars filled the sky, our old friend Orion lying on his back in a position we’re not accustomed to from our northern hemisphere travels.


Red snapper for sale!



Lamu is not only gorgeous – palm-dotted sand dunes, long white beaches, brilliant red sunsets, and no vehicles anywhere – but culturally fascinating. First settled hundreds of years ago by Arab traders who worked the Indian Ocean coast, creating the Swahili language and ethnic community in the process, today it is jumbled mix of Arab and African traditions, where men in flowing white robes and women with only their eyes visible through slits in their black burka-style garments mingle comfortably with Kenyans from Nairobi, mzungu tourists from Germany and France, and sometimes, the likes of Princess Caroline of Monaco and others of the super-rich who discovered this place long ago and jet in and out.

It is an island populated almost entirely along the coastline, its waters filled with boats of every description, especially traditional, beautifully decorated open sailboats known as dhaos that head out into the ocean to bring back tuna and other deep-sea fish, or carry visitors like us on sunset cruises in the channels separating the various islands of this archipelago.

 

The two villages of Lamu are mazes of narrow streets and alleys lined with shops and glimpses through ornate wood-carved doors into homes with large interior courtyards open to the sky. Travel between the villages is via a swarming fleet of boats, independently operated and with names like Beyonce, or I’ll Be Back, or Hapo Chacha. At night, Theresa and I fell asleep to the sounds of the boat engines and the captains yelling back and forth to each other outside the open windows of our waterfront guest house; in the morning we watched from our balcony as people bought the fresh catch of the day straight from the fisherman.

 There is much more to say, not all of it glowing (the trip home was a nightmare, though already receding in memory), but it will have to wait. Lamu was a welcome escape, the blazing sun creating a languid atmosphere and the noise, pollution and traffic of Kampala blessedly absent. (Although the droppings from the ubiquitous donkeys provided their own special aromas and walking hazards.) Watch for a link to the Picasa album soon!



That Ugandan sun ...

It is 8 p.m. and 73 degrees. Eat your heart out, Seattle. I am sittng here in a sarong and tank top. Recently out of the pool.

Okay, so it is not always paradise, but we are holding onto the heat for now, since we know once we get home we will FREEZE. Sarah says she will bring blankets to the airport.

But the sun is something, here on the equator. We were in Lira this week, where it is extremely dry and hot, much moreso than in Kampala. At some point it was as if we had crossed a line; the temperature switched from medium to hot. On the way home yesterday evening - bounce, bounce, bounce; once again I lost an inch of height, I  think in some vertabrae in my neck - we came down a hill outside of Kampala and the bright orange African sun was setting. The sun was as big as a huge beach ball, and the color of orange is something you will never see anywhere else. It's, as they say here when something is bright, "shouting." It was creating a silhouette for the banana trees and these very weird plants we call Dr. Seuss trees with branches every three or so feet, evenly placed. (We have a tree book, but I can't find them. They look like a bottle brush sticking straight up, very tall.) The landscape was in reverse, the sun was in charge.

On the other side of the road, we could see the full moon rising. A smaller beach ball, with a promise of some sort.

We are homesick on and off, of course. But riding with the sun and the moon, I thought, "Okay. This is an alright kind of place." When we are home, we realize we will miss this.

Sippin' home brew

Last week we traveled to Soroti in Eastern Uganda for some more training. Our friend, and regional editor, Kenneth Oluka, invited us to his family's home property, where they had prepared a feast for us - including the local beer made from millet. We sipped the beer through long straws from a pot. Bill, obviously, really liked it, beer drinker that he is. I thought it was okay, but I really liked the fact that everyone was sitting around positively obsessed with watching us drink it. They could hardly contain themselves! We like providing entertainment for the Ugandans ...

There are many more pictures of our trip on Picasa: http://picasaweb.google.com/morrow.ristow/SorotiTrip# Highlights include me grinding millet for flour, not my first skill. But good to know, just in case I run out of flour at home. Of course, I'd have to find a smooth stone, and long piece of wood. I'm sure there are some things like that close at hand on Queen Anne Hill, just like on the Soroti compound.

Yes, it's an engagement ring!

Eric proposed to Asia, whose full name is Asia Kamukama, right after he got back here to Uganda. Rumor has it he proposed out on a rock in the middle of the Nile, very romantic.

The ring is beautiful, as is Asia of course. She called that evening and said, "Hi, Mom," causing all sorts of excitement here. And then last Friday we went out to see their new house, which Asia had built while Eric was in the US. It's really nice, big lot, pretty setting, plenty of room. Like all houses, it isn't finished, but they are working on that.

We are thrilled to have Asia as an unofficial (as of yet!)member of the family, and to be here to help celebrate. And perhaps paint ...  Next week we are going to a Muslim celebration for Idi with Asia's family. There is some promise I will learn to weave a mat; little do they know my craft skills are pretty much nonexistent. But we like providing entertainment for the locals.

Crash! Zap! Boom!

         They DO have their thunderstorms here! More dramatic than anything I ever experienced, even growing up on the east coast and making regular visits to the midwest, which is proud of ITS storms. We noticed that in our first trip; the thunder has a deeper rumble, a longer duration, an intensive, building wave of sound.
          When we visited Murchison Falls last month there was another big one the night we stayed on the Nile. I even got up to enjoy it, and at one stage found myself counting the seconds between flashes of lightning. Literally, for 20 minutes there was never more than a single second without a burst of light; the river was illuminated, churned up by the winds. Exciting and dramatic!
         Last night's entry in the thunderstorm sweepstakes was highlighted by the force of the wind, and the intensity of the rain. Combined, they created a horizontal wall of water in the middle of the night, sending water straight through our living room screen and soaking the floor 10 feet away (soaking me, too, as I slipped and slid across the floor to close the windows).
        When it rains like this, you feel a little like you are IN the River Nile. A full-fledged waterfall cascaded down from the rooftop drain just past our bathroom window, and as always, any street outside suddenly becomes a torrent of rushing water, red mud and garbage flowing to a new location.
       But it passes in a few minutes...and with any luck, the badly polluted air of Kampala will be a bit cleaner, at least for a few hours!


        

The man with the key has gone ...

So Uganda has this culture that is very, uh, paced. The title to this post is also the title of a book someone wrote, very accurately, about this place. You can sit in traffic jams for hours to get someplace, and then you hear, "The man with the key has gone." So you go away because there's no hope for getting what you came for. This is very common.

When we were in Soroti we were reminded of this. First of all, we had no power our first night in a stifling room with a still fan. Bundled in a mosquito net and no air.

 Our hotel included breakfast, and the first morning we were surprised to see a shiny espresso machine on the buffet table. We said, with some trepidation, "Does it work?" The waiter looked at it curiously and said, "No." Nescafe for us.

Standard fare at a hotel like this is chicken and chips (french fries; chips are crisps), or talapia and chips. The menu had three pages of items, but really what they have is the above. No "Adam's ribs" of mutton. No "Maryland chicken." They list pizza, so on the third night we thought we'd give it a go. A long discussion ensued about how big a pizza we needed for two, since "it depends." Then we discover it takes an hour and a half because "we build it completely." I'll have the talapia and chips, please, and Seebo (sir) the chick and  chips. Again.

A mzungu guy we met told us to  try "paste meat," the traditional food. So for dinner we went to the restaurant we were told serves it, across from the bus stage. Only open for lunch.

We decided to buy a modem for Internet while we are on the road. We find the Orange (telecom company) office. It is full of people sitting around, looks like they are waiting. The glass counter is completely empty, except for some orange fabric. Two young woman slouch, their heads lolling on the counter, and barely move as we enter. We say, "Orange modem?" They don't even stir, their heads don't move. "It is finished until Monday." This is Friday, and we leave Sunday. Everyone stares at us as we leave. What are they waiting for???

We take a walk, pretty little town. We pass a Catholic church and I decide we should light a candle; it's the date my dad died some years ago. We jiggle the main door lock. It does not open. Outside we meet a couple of nuns who say some  "mad men" might try to enter the front door, so go around the side. We do. Mass is going on, men in long garments standing in the doorway. We sidle up, but, oh my, we are so wrong in our little REI garb. We back away.

In the morning, I order one fried egg.  I get two.

We go to our training session. But the reporters have not had lunch, and training has been delayed. People lie under the mango tree. We start 40 minutes late.

The man with the key has gone. Mzungus, slow down. 

Who is this picture for?

We were in Soroti last week and saw this great sign. We thought it could be a sign for Sarah (who is getting married), or Kate (who likes horses). Or could it be for Bill because he likes beer?

4th century B.C. (or whenever), meet the 21st A.D.!

 

            Alongside the road to Masindi, northwestern Uganda: 100 men, maybe 200, many of them barefoot and shirtless, glistening in the noontime African sun. They are wielding pickaxes and shovels, tools of prehistoric times, to dig a narrow, miles-long trench … for a new fiber-optic cable. They are being paid by the meter, our friend tells us; overall, it is far cheaper than bringing in heavy equipment.

            Odd to think that before very long, packets of digital information will be zipping through this trench at nearly the speed of light, passing only a few feet from the round mud huts with straw roofs that line this road. Those packets will be carrying Google Earth maps, Facebook updates, yearnings for new lives or new friends somewhere else, and all the other business of the modern world, while up above, the women dig in the earth to harvest their cassava.

            Three years ago Theresa and I came along this same road, and it was just being paved for the first time ever. Now, the men are preparing a space for the information superhighway, one swing of the pickaxe at a time. How things change.

Back from Mbarara

We had a great tip to southwestern Uganda - the countryside is so green! There are a ton of banana plantations, and the banana plants have these huge green leaves that wave slowly in the wind. In fact,they remind me of elephant ears; did the designer of the elephant take inspiration from the banana plant, or vice versa?

We trained in upcountry style: a small cement room with a cement post in the middle, mosquitoes flitting in and out, and people strewn throughout. As the day went on, plastic water bottles and their wrappers and tops littering the floor, the smell of very ripe bodies. Hole-in-the-floor toilets. But it worked: the young journalists are so excited to have "international" training, and they are bright, energetic people. After our session on election coverage - featuring "voter's voice" coverage rather than candidate's agendas, one reporter came up and positively gushed about how he wrote in one way "without thinking," but now "I am going to really do it!" Who could ask for more?

In our "compelling writing" session, a young woman freelancer (really a stringer) said she would write a feature about a dying river a different way after she saw the lead we had come up with for her story - and she was so excited to know she had the freedom to be creative with it and include actual people affected. Be still my heart.

At dinner at our rather sad hotel (but with admirable pretensions), we had a choice of three side dishes to add to our bony chicken:  rice, chips (french fries), matoke (steamed bananas), fried potatoes, Irish (boiled potatoes), chapattis,or spaghetti. I was tempted to order, "Starch, please," but instead ordered rice and chapattis, the latter of which did not actually arrive. Oh, well, that's Uganda! Double rice is okay ... and I could nibble off Bill's chips.

We are happy to be back "home" at Salama after the 5-hour drive over bumpy roads, crammed into the back seat of a truck (a relatively comfy one, however) with computer bags, projectors, and flip charts keeping us company.

Salama promises the connection will be better tomorrow. Hope so, you will get photos then.



 

 

Fine furniture "store"

Today as we came home I took a picture of this furniture for sale along the side of the road. Want a four-poster bed? How about a dressing table? Big, fluffy chairs? Right here next to the boda-boda. They are made on the spot, by the way. I'm sure a little dust in the cushions adds to the value.

Actually, Ugandans are wonderful woodworkers. Their carvings and inlays, and intricate designs are a tribute to their skill. Not that we can bring any of these pieces home!

Busy times

Sorry we have not been so great about the blog this week. We've been working, working, working. We're doing management training, recalling all our past mistakes and successes for new managers. (One woman came up after the session and said to me, "You can use this on your spouse too!)

There's been a lot going on here at our flat, the center of our universe for now. Last Saturday we had 11 people in here at one time or another, sometimes all at once. The Intel people who were helping out at Eric and Asia's foundation as volunteers all stopped by and that was fun. And the Jennifer, with her journalist guest, came by too. Jennifer wields a mean knife when chopping sugar cane in the kitchen!

And today we walked down to the Italian store/deli (where this Ugandan guy persists in speaking Italian to us, which is incomprehensible given our lack of Italian and his Ugandan accent. It is so funny when he says a cheerful, "Ciao" as we come in. Out of context!) Yes, there is an Italian community here, so we get a few benefits, like olive oil, parmesan and good pasta.

I can't upload photos right now; probably the most frustrating thing here is the Internet connection, especially in the evenings, which is when we want to use it, of course! Tomorrow a.m., I promise. (The next most frustrating thing is the pollution, but more on that later. Cough.)

An event we probably will NOT attend

This sign near us is promoting a fundraiser for the Bududas, victims of a mudslide that wiped out many homes.  Among the entertainment at the event is: "Live circumcision of five Bududa orphans."

Our friend Asia tells us the boys involved are usually about 14, or as young as 10 "if they are ready." She saw this once, "and I have no desire to ever see it again." She did say the boys never flinched.

We usually want to attend cultural things in the pursuit of education, but I think we'll pass on this one.

Uh, what was that?

We were in a training session yesterday morning talking about compelling writing with a group of about 25 journalists. One of them went out to get something and came back saying the CEO of the newspaper was making a major announcement to the whole staff. We wondered if some big issue was at hand, until suddenly the CEO burst in on our session, then began to summarily chastise the group.

“You must stop destroying the toilets,” he said. “It is costing too much money!” He proceeded to say that people should stop standing on the toilet seats, and using the centerfold section of the paper as toilet paper. Reporters loudly responded that “outsiders” were coming in and messing up the seats, and sometimes there wasn’t TPin the stalls, etc.

Bill and I stood there, kind of taken off task, so to speak. This CEO is a Big Man in Uganda, very sophisticated and in charge. He huffed out, shaking his head and acknowledging, “For the CEO to have to make an announcement like this …”

Later, I asked a couple of women what this was about. “People do not trust communal toilets,” one said. So apparently they’d rather stand on them, as if in a hole-in-the-ground latrine, instead of sitting down. And the centerfold of the paper? Well, when in need …

Having seen latrines, and having seen some communal toilets here – it’s a toss up. But I am not exactly sitting down these days … And Bill says standing on the seats isn't all that bad.

Back behind the wheel

We’re in luck and can borrow one of son Eric’s Maendeleo Foundation RAV4s for a little while, which means that WE have the adventure of navigating those potholes Theresa wrote about.

It’s fun to be driving in Kampala again, even though it does make you hold your breath at times. Barbara, the top editor at New Vision, assures us the potholes will disappear before long -- because the election is coming up, after all. But they are everywhere now, and there’s nothing even approaching linear driving.

Forget about lanes. Forget about the roadway itself. Everyone picks their own sinuous paths up over the curb onto the dirt sidewalks, into the opposite lane, in makeshift detours to avoid having your car disappear into the bowels of the earth. You regularly head directly at an oncoming vehicle, only to have both turn a bit at the last second and pass, the outside mirrors nearly brushing.

It is pothole choreography: bicycles, boda-boda motorcycles, container trucks, cars, and taxi vans all somehow wind in, around, and nearly through each other. The crawling speed these conditions demand must explain why nobody actually seems to hit anyone else.

The both horrifying and entertaining nature of driving here is just one more of the counterintuitive reasons that, as Theresa said, it is fun to be back. And it continues to surprise us when people welcome us back as friends – not just the people at our apartment, or even the market vendors in our neighborhood, but even the woman in the wine store in the expat neighborhood near the U.S. embassy where we went today to stock up (and to visit the only good meat store in Kampala). She remembered us from three years ago, and was glad to see us again.

That’s true too of the drivers for New Vision, who have always been great friends and provided us a window into a world of ordinary Ugandans. The other day as I was walking up the stairs to the office, I noticed our driver had taken my hand and was holding it loosely as we went along. It’s a relatively common thing here, for men to hold hands in a friendly way; I took it as another form of what people keep saying to us: You are back. You are welcome.

Getting a mobile phone

Yesterday we went to get a cell phone. We were at the New Vision, where we are training, and so we got a “special hire” outside the building, a car and driver you can negotiate an amount to take you where you want to go. “I am called George,” the driver told us. We climbed in his ramshackle car, sliding across the seat because only one door worked. He had parked at the top of a pothole, and the car scraped painfully down the deep hole and onto the road. Not the first time, from the looks of it.

Once out of the pothole, the car sputtered, coughed and died sporadically. Fortunately, it was downhill for the first several yards so we coasted. It was a stifling day, hot and sweaty. “Sorry, Madame, the windows do not go up and down.” Okay. Fine. We’ll sweat. We really need a phone.

The driver worked that engine, still sputtering, still dying. Bill and I looked at each other; we knew what was going on – no special hire keeps more than a couple of drops of petrol in the tank. George explained rationally, “It wants fuel.” No kidding.

The car then died a rather permanent sounding death – right in front of the slaughterhouse, my least favorite place in all of Kampala. It stinks and you can only imagine what happens there … sometimes you actually see cows trying to escape. We don’t eat beef while we are here.

So Madame starts hyperventilating and I-am-called-George pumps the gas peddle, turns the key over and over and somehow we limp to the Total station, where he puts a minimal amount of fuel in and we are on our way.

We go around in circles to avoid the ubiquitous “jam” and eventually get to the phone store, the headquarters of a company named Orange. We buy a phone (red, what a missed marketing opportunity) for the equivalent of $15 and go back to find George. Far down the street, he had parked, on top of a pothole. We got in, scrape. George dropped us at the market, and we found our favorite vendors from two years ago. “You have been lost to us. How is it there?” they women say, meaning how is America. Hard to answer.

Onions and tomatoes in hand, we pass by the ladies at sewing machines in the corridor waiting for walk-ins, then by my old tailor, Teddy, in her little shop. We’d reunited with her the day before, so we just waved at each other. Then past the chapatti guy, past the sheet holding used shoes for sale in the dust and sun, past the girl sound asleep with her head on the airtime sales table.

We stepped over tons of rebar poking dangerously from the dirt, passed the squashed plastic bottles and bags and assorted rotting garbage drifted against the curb, dodged boda-bodas taking a short-cut. I realized I was smiling, and I said to Bill, “This place is so difficult and frustrating. But it’s also so much fun!” And so we went home.

Yes, Eric, Africa gets in your blood.

Following our noses

After the loooong flights, we finally arrive at Entebbe. Three years ago when we wound down the Entebbe Road to Kampala after the flight, little paraffin lamps lit the roadside stands since there was “load shedding” and it was as dark as Africa is supposed to be. It was our first, strong, impression.

This time, there were street lights here and there, but also the little lanterns, since even when the power is on it’s not very bright. But the thing we will remember about this arrival is the smell of charcoal stoves, that slightly acrid but not unpleasant smell that always says, “You are back, forget your modern ways, this is Uganda.” The smoky smell was like a long-lost friend accompanying us the entire way, getting stronger as we passed by villages, mingling with the smell of roasting maize, sold on the cob from the roadside stands.

We arrived at Salama Springs to find the fridge stocked with water, soft drinks, fruit and bread – thank you, Prossy and Tony! Salama Springs is shabbier (what’s with places with “springs” in the name? We are reminded of Iron Springs …), but this morning our flat filled noisily with old friends, and one new one: Prossy is pregnant!

And early in the morning, from our bed we saw the silhouettes of the monkeys out on the big fig tree – despite the lot next door being almost clear cut for a curious car wash set-up, the tree remains, and its inhabitants were leaping from branch to branch, as in the old days.

So here we are, back "home," a little fuzzy-headed from jet lag, but here nonetheless.

Back to Africa!

Tomorrow morning when we get up we'll say to each other, "Let's go to Africa today" and then we will! We are spending three months in Uganda, training journalists, once again. Hmm, does that mean they didn't learn in the first place, or that we still have more wisdom to impart??? I guess we'll see.

We are very excited to see our Ugandan friends, ex-pat friends, and the markets and roads of everyday life. (We'll be staying in the same flat we have before, Salama Springs. We hear the monkeys are gone - I hope not!) We will miss our friends and family here, of course. The familiar push and pull of travel ...