A Bus Ride in Uganda

I love the way Life can flip things around. Especially when the flip is in the direction I'd want to go. I left Kampala feeling down. I arrived in Gulu feeling up.

No need here to talk about why I was sad but I was. The weather wasn't even good ... another gray, rainy day in a long series of gray, rainy days that was uncharacteristic of Kampala weather. The taxi that took me to the bus terminal dumped me out a block away because traffic was impossibly snarled and he couldn't get there from here. But he pointed me in the right direction. Laden with luggage, I clumsily made my way through the drizzle, trying to avoid stepping in one of the many mud puddles or being run down or splashed by bodas and trucks zipping past me.

The Gulu bus was already packed but there was room for me. Or was there? Peering in, I couldn't believe one more person could get on, but a couple of non uniformed men acting as conductors insisted I should get on. I had arrived not knowing a schedule since I had heard they just go when they fill up, whenever that is. I was in luck. They tossed my backpack up into the narrow aisle and pointed to a narrow space remaining on a seat with two women. Again, it took a couple of seconds for me to see that it was indeed a seat meant to accommodate three people -- two broad bottoms were taking up more than two-thirds of the space. I stepped over and around the bags and bundles piled in the aisle alongside my own and squeezed into the aisle seat. I smiled at the lady seated there. Immediately the baby in her lap started to scream. Loudly. I understood only one word of what the woman said to her companion --- 'muzungu.' She was talking about the foreign white person. Turning to me, she said in English "The baby is fearing" and waited for me to step out into the crowded aisle so she could swap places with the other woman and get the baby away from me and facing the other direction. Things quieted down to a whimper. Ah, let me be present ...let me see where I am.

Looking out the window on the opposite side my eyes go straight to a guy dressed in a suit; he's walking down the street masturbating. This is a busy street with people all around him and he's walking along playing with himself. The two women opposite me are noticing him also and the three of us start to laugh. At that very moment of connection with them, conk ... a briefcase on the rack above my head slides off and finds its mark; lucky for me it was plastic and lightweight.

I think it was just then -- within four or five minutes of getting on the bus -- that my mood shifted. I'm really in Africa, I remembered. I'm right smack dab into the earthy experience I wanted. Something outside of my familiar world. This is going to be fun, I decided. And it was.

The bus closed the door and pulled out of the chaotic terminal within 10 minutes of my arrival. Fighting its way through heavy traffic, we had only reached the outskirts of town, on Bomba Road, half an hour later, when the driver pulled into a petrol station and people started pouring off the bus (making their way awkwardly past all these 'things' piled in the aisle. ) "Is this a rest stop?" I asked the woman next to me. "Will there be a toilet stop half way there?" Her terse advice "you better go now" proved to be valuable words. I barely had time to find the toilet and get back to the bus before it was pulling out again; most of the passengers who got off were buying snacks, although they would have many other opportunities along the way; only the opportunity to have a toilet break would be missing for the next five hour.

Looking out the window is highly entertaining for me, wherever I am in Uganda. It's rather like a stage show, a parade of new-to-me sights, sounds, and trivialities. A big billboard advertising chapati oil gets my attention. Before coming here I barely knew the definition of chapati, and I certainly didn't know there was a special oil for cooking it. (A chapati is a round unleavened flatbread, cooked on a hot griddle and sometimes air-fluffed over an open flame. Apparently brought to East Africa by Indian merchants many years ago, it's very popular and can be ordered Indian-style or African-style here, or in many variations throughout parts of Asia. But I bet you knew that.)

Now we pass the Tick Hotel, which son Daniel had pointed out to me during an earlier drive. He and I wonder if the owner knows how off-putting the word tick is to us muzungus, or if it's someone's name. We pass dozens of the ubiquitous "Cheap Store" shops with their all-alike painted signs. We pass the Divine Dairy, God's Glory Enterprises, and Better Hope school. I wonder about the story that must surely be behind the names of the Missouri Hotel, the Florida Hotel, and the California Hotel -- not one of them looks like a hotel but apparently they have rooms to rent.

We pass an occasional washing bay for cars, scooters, and other vehicles. They're always busy. They're always muddy. I don't know if running water is available or just water in buckets and tubs. With all the red dust and dirt, this business enterprise serves a valid need.

Ugandan pop music is playing loudly for the first hour, but then a movie begins. There's only one monitor, mounted high at the front of the bus. I missed seeing the title and I'm puzzled by the production. Light-brown-skinned people wearing loin cloths are running around attacking each other with spears. It doesn't look to be in Africa; my guess might be natives in the Amazon jungle. The subtitles are of no help to me either; I can't even identify the alphabet.

I doze off despite the bumpy road, but wake up each time the bus stops for another snack break. Vendors rush to the windows to sell their temptations -- skewers of grilled/braised meat, tiny and ever-so-sweet local bananas, donut-type rolls, chapatis, and some kind of root vegetable, possibly casava. And cokes, fresca, fanta. I decline, especially the drinks. I'm beginning to wish there would be a bathroom break. The brief stops are barely long enough for snack purchases. Anyone can buy food but gender equality ends there. Men needing a 'short call' simply hop off the bus, walk a few feet away -- maybe to a nearby ditch, and turn their backs while doing their thing. (You can probably guess now what a 'long call' is; on this 5-hour trip, no one of any gender gets to indulge in a long call. At least, not that I saw.) Hmmmmm ? What about pregnant women for whom short-call urges come often?

At some point, the conductor makes his way through the bus, asking for the tickets we bought shortly after getting on the bus. His answer to my query about how many people are on the bus is '67'. I ask if there are 67 seats or 67 people. Yes, he says. I think it can't be yes to both, because there are still some people sitting on boxes in the aisle. The cost of a ticket for the 200-mile trip is just 20,000 Ugandan Shillings -- about US $10.

The movie ends. I'm still unenlightened about its origin or its message. Watching videos shot by amateurs at Ugandan weddings, engagement parties, and other social events educates me a bit about Ugandan culture and keeps me entertained for the next bouncy, uncomfortable miles. The show ends with music videos so I now know the names of a few pop stars. It's a good diversion from a full bladder.

It's raining when I get off the bus -- but just barely. Happy am I that a boda driver is waiting. He secures my backpack in front of him and I climb on the seat behind him with my smaller bags and away we go ... back to my temporary home at One Mango Tree, ready to see what other little adventures await.

Christmas in Uganda

Daniel has many ex-pat friends in Kampala so holidays need never be lonely. They socialize a lot and look out for each other (although being far away from home seemed to make a couple of his friends melancholy). I think it's those darned songs like "I'll Be Home for Christmas (in my dreams)" and "I'll Have a Blue Christmas Without You" that evoke nostalgia and longing for something. "Let it Snow" when it's hot outside is a bit strange. "Sleigh bells ring" ? No, maybe that was someone's cell phone. (Or maybe it was Daniel's special friend Halle calling; she's in Ohio spending the holidays with her family.)

So Danny and his Mom were invited for Christmas Eve dinner, along with eight other guests at Scott and Sarah's house, which sits high on a hill overlooking Kampala. Scott's family tradition has been the reading of The Night Before Christmas around the dinner table, taking turns, one page at a time, and started by the eldest person present. Guess who got to read first!? I don't know who told them.

Christmas Day was spent at Doug and Lizzie's house, with an even larger group of friends. It was a lovely mix of people -- Americans, Canadians, one guy from South Africa, one from Hawaii, a couple of girls from England, one girl who is Irish; some are in development work, NGOs or government, and some are business people.

We all pitched in with the cooking and had the Christmas buffet meal (probably 24 people in all) in the evening, centered around a big turkey Doug had bought live a few days ago and then killed today (after it got away and had to be chased down in a neighbor's yard yesterday). That turkey knew what was coming! Dinner was delicious. I have to admit the turkey was a little tough, probably because it was a normal, healthy turkey, like we used to get in the States before somebody figured out how to inject them with butter and chemicals so they're always tender and juicy nowadays.

It wasn't the Christmasiest Christmas I've ever had but that's okay. It didn't have to be. It can definitely be appreciated and written about -- albeit briefly. I was fortunate to be with one of my sons. I realize that 25 December, 2009 is probably the only Christmas I'll ever be in Kampala, Uganda celebrating it with my son.

Safari Time at Murchison Falls

Daniel and I just got back from a little two-day camping safari. After all, I'm in Africa! I call it a 'safari' but it's probably not the experience many people associate with the word. Basically, we went camping at a beautiful national park, Murchison Falls, and took three excursions: a game drive, a boat trip up the Nile toward the falls, and a drive up to the top of the falls. Loved the scenery, loved never knowing what animal I'd see with the next turn of the head, loved the fact that I was there having a safari with my son. In Africa!!

The waterfall was magnificent. It's not so wide but it's the whole, wide Nile River squeezing itself through a 25-foot-wide gorge. I have no idea how deep the drop is, but you can get near enough to feel the power it produces plunging past you. I think when I've seen other waterfalls, it's been below, and from a distance. I loved being above the surge.

The boat ride took us past some of the largest crocodiles I've ever seen. Word has it that they feed on Nile perch that can weight up to 200 pounds. I can only wonder if that's true or something a tourbook writer made up.

What other animals did we see? We saw graceful giraffes, hippy hippos --lots of them, during the boat ride, at least one belligerent buffalo who didn't like having his photo taken and starting running toward our vehicle (plus lots of disinterested ones, too) and many varieties of anxious antelope (but the one I hadn't seen before and found to have an interestingly-shaped face was the Jackson Hartebeest.) We saw a couple of elephants, just as dusk was falling, not very close up. We saw lots of ugly/cute warthogs, including the ones that amble around the grounds of the rest camp (Red Chili Pepper backpacker's camp-- I think it's well known in some circles); they look pretty tame but we were warned not to test them. We saw lots of beautiful birds -- I'm back to the alliteration, did you notice? -- including the crested crane which is on the Ugandan flag.

The lions were hiding from us. Our guide, who rode with us in Danny's landrover, took us to the river at the end of the afternoon, hoping they would arrive to drink but it was not to be. We had to catch the last ferry crossing at 7 p.m. in order to get back to the camp, but we would have loved to stay for some night viewing.

The park is in far western Uganda, adjacent to Lake Albert-- which is where the Victoria Nile becomes known as the Albert Nile for the next leg of its journey. Across the lake/river we could easily view the Blue Mountains in DRCongo.

It's always fun to see monkeys and baboons along the road. Some of them just sit there and look at you ... others run away as the car gets closer. I always feel a kinship.

Party Time at One Mango Tree

What a delightful all-day event the Christmas party for our tailors turned out to be! Luckily Gihan knew better than I how to plan a Ugandan party. Little sandwiches, cookies, and punch would never have flown -- they wanted meat and potatoes. And rice. And orange Fanta.

Gihan, Prisca, and I did the shopping Friday and asked the women to help by bringing extra cooking pots and utensils we would need for outdoor cooking on charcoal burners --the way Ugandans cook every day. He suggested they come at 9 Saturday morning, which I thought was too early but he wanted to get the cooking underway by 10. Surprise --the first lady was knocking on my door at 7:30 a.m. Wake-up time. It was Anek Margret, one of the tailors who doesn't speak any English, so she probably had not understood the time. Several others arrived also by 8 a.m.

Since I was the only staff person there, and I certainly did not know how to get cooking started on outdoor burners that sit on the ground, I had the early arrivers help me with my last-minute idea for adding some color to the place. We decorated, using the 25 blouses and knit tops I had brought from the States as gifts. We tied them to branches on the tree out front -- this way the women could look them over during the day and decide which they'd hope to get when it was time to draw numbers and get to choose a blouse to take home.

The women arrived for the party all dressed up -- and ready for dancing. They had told Prisca ahead of time that was what they wanted so we arranged to have sound equipment on hand and a selection of popular Ugandan music. (We had not one Christmas carol, not one Rudolph or Frosty.)

No one loved the dancing more than I. I was on my feet shaking it with the woman except for resting breaks and food prepping. The real dancing queens were Aloyo Concy and Auma Lucy but we also had the older ladies up dancing, too. Even Prisca did a little dancing near the end of the day although she had been saying all day that she doesn't know how to dance. How therapeutic and uplifting music is -- especially when you move your body as well as listen.

The cooking was a shared deal, just as Gihan wanted. Some peeled, some chopped, some stirred, some sifted carefully through the rice to pick out the bad grains. Some helped with the babies. Somehow in between dancing and laughing, the cooking got done and we had a big meal of beef in gravy, a Ugandan favorite but in this case given a Sri Lankan spice treatment by Gihan, rice with veggies (again using Gihan's stir-fry approach), fried potatoes (yes, two starches but that's what they wanted), green beans, a green salad of tomatoes and cucumbers which was more for me than for them, a big mixed fruit salad of fresh pineapple, mangoes, papaya, bananas, and cookies for dessert. Oh, and freshly made passion fruit juice.

We had arranged for our friends from IOM (International Organization for Migration) to come and show the videos they had shot recently of the tailors. What with the video, the speeches, distribution of bonuses, the eating, and the dancing, we never got around to playing the team building games we'd planned but no one cared. They had team spirit flowing.

Really, only one thing was missing -- Halle's presence. The founder and leader of One Mango Tree was in Ohio, happily visiting family but regretting that she could not time-travel and also be at the party celebrating with the tailors. Even after the party was officially over and Gihan had headed back to Kampala, most of the tailors stayed. The last woman left about 6:30. I can tell you I was absolutely exhausted but happy to have been a party to this party.

Coffee Shop Escape

I've been in Uganda exactly one month. And I still haven't launched a blog site or sent out the long email newsletter my friends expect. But today I'm starting to create a blog, and will begin to type up my earlier journal entries.

Sitting here in Cafe Larem, Gulu's coffee shop and internet cafe, enjoying the aftertaste of a mocha ice cream I just devoured (only my second in a month and a huge treat) and the sounds from the Sunday afternoon activity right outside the door... rumblings from the local market that begins across the street and stretches crazily in a maze of stalls and vendors for several city blocks, steady hammering from some repairs being made to something I can't see from here, squeals and Acholi chatter from kids playing at the edge of the street, and the frequent put-put of a passing boda-boda (motor scooter taxi).

Bodas are not all that safe, but I'm getting used to them now and will be taking one shortly to get back to the compound. Don't tell Danny, but I actually enjoy the ride, even without a helmet. The drivers do honor my request to 'go slowly please.' I could walk but it's not an easy walk because of the uneven surface, lack of footpath,and the necessity of dodging cars, bicycles and bodas ... all of them kicking up red dust or if it's been raining, red mud. I thought originally it was about a 20 minute walk but it's more like 30 or 40 minutes. I know, I know --- it would be good for me.

The Far Side: A Retreat at Jinja

A pair of rainbow-colored parrots just flew past me. Monkeys are leaping from limb to limb in a nearby tree occasionally making a loud clap/yell sound that's unfamiliar to my ear. Below me, perched as I am on a cliff overlooking the White Nile newly-flowing from its Lake Victoria source, two local men are fishing from a canoe; they drop nets and then paddle away from them, circling the nets while whopping the water repeatedly with the paddle -- presumably to chase the fish into their nets.

This is a relaxing, idyllic moment -- and I'm IN it. So into these moments that it's hard to even pick up pen and write about it.

Daniel and Halle and I are spending two days and nights visiting a Dutch couple, Monique and Wim, with whom he became friends after buying his cherished rottweiler puppy from them last summer. Their 12-acre, beautifully landscaped estate (The Far Side because it's on the opposite side of the Nile from the popular rafting launch sites ...and maybe because they're also Gary Larson fans) is about 50 miles from Kampala but the drive over bumpy roads, dodging potholes, vehicles and walkers took about two hours, more if you count the traffic delays getting out of Kampala itself.

The route is scenic, rich with tropical vegetation -- banana palms, coffee bushes, casava (that's the starchy root veggie commonly enjoyed here), and spiky papyrus. There are several villages along the way, mainly rows of small shops and over-crowded vendor stalls lining the main road. Painted signs point to off-road churches, mosques, schools -- some with strangely-Americanized names like Bright Minds Magnet School or Silver Spoon Primary School -- and to numerous social service facilities such as HIV/AIDS testing sites and clinics.

And everywhere, even away from the developed communities, are people on foot, carrying the bright yellow Jerrycans used for getting water at a community well or loaded down with other commodities. Some are pushing bicycles laden with all manner of cartage -- bundles of thatching for roof-making, long stalks of sugar cane, huge bags of maize or charcoal carefully laced together at the top with long green spiky leaves, or recently-slaughtered animals of varying species. And, for all I know, still-alive animals.

Other people are transporting themselves, their families, and various odd-shaped belongings on scooter taxis -- "bodas" --but I have yet to see the load I've heard about -- a boda carrying another boda. I'll keep my eyes open though.

Thanksgiving Day had already been celebrated, before Jinja, with about 20 friends of Daniel's. They were a wonderful mix of U.S. government workers and Ugandan friends and associates. Yes, there was turkey. And yes, there was cranberry sauce, freshly made from the cranberries I had stuffed into my luggage. We had a potluck-type feast, and I was glad that after we ate someone in the crowd suggested we let each person say what he or she is grateful for. I always liked doing that with my family. Me? I feel very blessed to be here, with Daniel and Halle, and beginning this new adventure.

A Sunday at One Mango Tree

Today is my tenth day in Uganda. I am at the One Mango Tree compound on the outskirts of Gulu awaiting the arrival of the tailors who choose to work for extra pay this weekend. Usually they work five days a week but now there is some urgency. One Mango Tree's first large wholesale order, from Global Girlfriends, is running late and future orders may hinge on the success of this one.

At a meeting a couple of days ago, the women were helped to understand how Western trade works on a schedule, the importance of timing, and the potential impact of late delivery on them, personally. By missing most of the Christmas retail business, we explained to them, these goods will be slower to sell, which will delay a reorder, which could mean that come spring the volume of new products sewn by the 21 women would have inadequate sales outlets and that just possibly, in that event, One Mango Tree could not keep all 21 women employed. They listened intently, either concentrating to understand the English or to let the concept sink in. Timing and schedules are definitely not viewed with the same importance here as we westerners are accustomed to.

The women do value their jobs. They realize the One Mango Tree training has given them a valuable skill for which they are being well paid. Most of them had been living in IDP (internally displaced person) camps, in huts crowded closely together and lacking adequate basic facilities; now their lives are better and they have choices. Another motivator is that they are paid for each piece they produce, so some of them have decided they will work today, after first attending church.

A few have already arrived after early mass, and the soft hum of their treadle Singers is beginning to fill the workshop, interspersed with lilting soprano voices harmonizing in Acholi on what sounds like church hymns. They promise to teach me the songs, but so far my Acholi vocabulary contains only a few phrases.

I look forward to visiting the local churches but today I'm on duty at OMT, filling in for Halle, the founder and director--who is in Kampala for the weekend, and Gihan, a young man from Sri Lanka who has experience in the garment trade and who has become her important part-time adviser on design, production, and shipping. He, too, is in Kampala.

I must receive and count the finished bags, inspect them a final time for quality (alas, I had to send back several bags yesterday for repairs), write and tie onto each item a card naming the tailor who sewed it so the purchaser can feel a connection and even look for her photo on our website, bag each piece in plastic (not 'green', but a shipping requirement by the customer), stick a label on each bag showing full product description, and then -- referring to Halle's shipping list -- see how many of which product in which fabric design go into which of the 131 planned cartons. And how many are still needed to fill the order. Prisca is not here today but during the week, she acts as operations manager and oversees many of the details, including the work assignments to each tailor.

My role is not mentally challenging or physically demanding but for some reason I was exhausted and fell asleep last night at 9 p.m., happy to have done my small part. I have quickly realized that my sewing skills would qualify me to make only the simple products like aprons or herbal eye pillows. Several of the bag designs are complicated, with multiple pockets, inside and out, padding sewn into the lining, padded straps, and tricky zippers. For the more complex products, the women work in teams, with basic parts sewn together by the beginners, some of the assembling done by women with more experience, and the actual finishing entrusted to the few expert tailors. The preference, however, is for one woman to make the entire item, not only to simplify the payment scale but also to allow her a sense of pride in her creation.

Time for me to get busy now. I think I'll sit out on the porch to do the tagging; the sun is shining, the sky is fluffy blue and white, and the birds are singing. And maybe I'll be pondering the many other kinds of work I might possibly wind up doing here --God knows there are many unmet needs -- but for this moment I'm content.