Friday, October 29, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
"Nakor(u)!!!"
"Yeah?"
"Come here!"
"What are you doing?"
"Biscuits! Come help us with the biscuits!"
A bunch of the girls that had been harvesting hibiscus, which they called "biscuits", from the field and were standing with full gunny sacks, getting ready to carry them back to the compound.
"Uuuhh....No, no," I said. "I don't think I can."
"Have you ever carried?" One of them mimed picking up the bag and setting it on her head.
"No, it isn't our custom."
They laughed at that one. "Okay. Then come here and help us lift them!"
That I could do. I stumbled through the tall brush - snagging my skirt on thorns the whole way - over to where they were standing. I passed around the customary handshake, and then, one by one, helped them lift their bags.They held the top, I lifted from the bottom, and together we'd get it up until it was balanced comfortably on the top of their heads. Since all of them had been carrying things in this way since they were small, they casually slouched on one leg, their massive bundles resting easily atop their heads. They laughed and joked as we got the bags settled, encouraging my feeble attempts.
"Can you carry the corn?" One pointed to several ears that lay in a basin. She pulled up the hem of her shirt, miming how I should carry them. "Kwangina. Like this." I picked them up and did so, feeling completely absurd - hauling six or seven ears of corn while they each had a huge bag of hibiscus flowers on their heads. Not to mention that none of the girls stood taller than my ear.
We walked along single file back to the compound, each of them swaying lithely as they walked, singing and joking, with me in the middle - stumbling and snickering, my satchel banging clumsily at my hip.
"Where is your place?" one of them asked me.
"There." I pointed to my banda, which we happened to be walking by at that time.
"No, I mean where is your home?"
"Here." We laughed. "BUT, I was born in America."
"America...America..." They passed around the word, tasting it.
"Do you like America?" A question loaded with implications.
"It is very cold. But the ground is rich, so the food grows fat and the people have much to eat."
"What does it look like?"
It was about here that I realized that this was the first time anyone had asked me about "my place". Usually I just tell about it, to make an interesting comparison or tell a story. But they wanted to hear about it! I turned around to see a line of expectant faces, the sun rolling off of the white gunny sacks and sweaty faces.
"Well..." I talked about buildings as tall as the hills and shops that you couldn't see the end of. I described the beaches, water so wide you could look out and see only water. I told them how fat the cows were, and how much milk they gave. I told them about green, green grass with no thorns, and snakes that wouldn't kill you. They were very happy to hear that there were some black people too in America - "So when you go there, you can still find some Karimojong and you will be happy because it will be like here!"
Not exactly......
I also told them how cold it was. And how different the people there were. I couldn't really explain everything - in fact, I could explain very little. They bore with my stumbling, awkward Ngakarimojong, supplying the necessary words when I forgot them. At the end of my long tale, one of them asked, "But you love here? Here is beautiful too? You look there and you see the mountain, and it is beautiful."
"Yes, I do love here. It is so beautiful. In my place in America, there are no mountains. Only land."
That settled it. "Then you stay here. You don't leave your mountains."
I laughed again, my gasping snicker sounding totally alien mixed with their ululating laughter. They tried to teach me how to laugh like them, which caused even more hilarity.
By this time, we were back on the compound. They tossed the laden sacks off of their heads with ease and joined the others who were peeling the hibiscus. I handed the corn back to one of the girls - "Take it," she said. "You like maize?"
"Yes, I like. Thank you." I took one of the ears.
"See, she took a small one." They grinned at me.
I pulled out my camera. The least I could do was offer them the treat of seeing their picture. I snapped a few, then asked the rest of them if they'd mind a picture. Naturally, they didn't mind in the least.
 |
| Cutting open the "biscuits" (in a pile in the center) to get out the seeds. |
I asked them if it would be okay if I wrote about them in my "letter" to the people of America. I told them I would write a letter on the computer, and then the people of America would be able to see it. (Incidentally, I try to ask this of all I write about beforehand.)
"The people in America in the church want to see what the people of Karamoja look like! They want to hear about them!"
"It is good! It is very okay! Yes! Let them see the good people of Karamoja that their people are working with!"
People of America, the biscuit people are greeting you.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
This photo is, believe it or not, fairly candid. We were all cracking up at the one we'd just taken, in which we were making some epicly hilarious faces. Since they wouldn't appreciate me putting that one up, I figured a happy smiling shot was safe.
Off to the clinic.
Today as I made my daily trek down to the clinic, I realized something. As the sun beat down and the wind off of Mount Kadam whipped my skirt around my legs, I noticed that something was different. As I stepped into the icy water of the culvert and walked on dry rocks that for the past months had been entirely submerged, it definitely seemed like it had really come. Maybe not entirely, but it's close.
Yep. Dry season.
Yep. Dry season.
Friday, September 24, 2010
I am currently reading a very interesting book all about the problems with the Western world's relationship with "Africa". Aside from some geographical difficulties (referring to the region of problem as "Africa", when in fact, he seems to be dealing largely with the issues in East and South Africa), the book is, so far, very good. I've zizzed through a lot of it - partially because I know all the pre-argument facts, and partially because it makes me very sad to read all of those miserable statistics. People are dying, getting sick, and living in poverty. I've seen it with my own eyes and don't want to dwell on it any more than is necessary.
This book, however, falls in nicely with my readings in the book of Ephesians. In that particular letter, the writer, Paul, is primarily concerned with unity in the church - especially between Gentiles and Jews. He encourages them to treat all as equals, that Christ breaks all man-made barriers, and that we are called to love.
A big problem that I have observed living here in Uganda (not in "Africa") is divisions. Tribalism is a big problem. I was recently told that there are 42 recognised languages in Uganda - that's at least 42 tribes. Within those tribes are clans. Within those clans are families. Within those families are individuals that are feuding and distrustful of eachother. So many divisions! So many reasons to dislike and fight with eachother. In the book I'm reading, it said, "It is thought that Uganda, a smallish country of around 25 million people, could still probably feed the whole of Africa if commercially farmed." (Giles Bolton, Africa Doesn't Matter) That sentence, besides making me think "What does he mean by 'Africa'?" and "Yeah! Represent!!!!" also made me wonder how much potential this "smallish", wonderful little pearl could do if united.
But what does it say in Ephesians? "For he Himself (Christ) is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility...and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility." (ch.2, vs. 12-16) In Christ we are FREE of all of those barriers - those petty restraints. As a church, we are ONE. We are a whole body, the bride of Christ.
So how does this play out in a place where there are so many walls between people? Walls that have been built up over years and years of feuding? Walls that separate people that may have never heard the gospel? How do we build a church out of the broken-up people?
As foreigners/mzungus, we are so far outside of all the local "divisions" that we all just get clumped together in a pile labeled "white people". That can be a real asset. We're just some rich people from a place far, far away. We aren't really a part of the tribalistic structure - we have a category all our own.
For instance, one of my father's employees started a savings account with my mother. He is, as far as I know, entirely uneducated, and had very little scope of the actual amount he had saved. He would bring his little bit every so often, and my mother would keep a close record of how much that was. Why did he trust her? How did he know that she wouldn't sneak off some of his money on the side? Is there a chance that, in representing Christ, we mzungus are considered trustworthy?
I really hope so. Please pray for unity among the tribes here, and that our witness would shine out here - that our differences would be a help to our ministry and not a source of estrangement. May the church be ONE!
This book, however, falls in nicely with my readings in the book of Ephesians. In that particular letter, the writer, Paul, is primarily concerned with unity in the church - especially between Gentiles and Jews. He encourages them to treat all as equals, that Christ breaks all man-made barriers, and that we are called to love.
A big problem that I have observed living here in Uganda (not in "Africa") is divisions. Tribalism is a big problem. I was recently told that there are 42 recognised languages in Uganda - that's at least 42 tribes. Within those tribes are clans. Within those clans are families. Within those families are individuals that are feuding and distrustful of eachother. So many divisions! So many reasons to dislike and fight with eachother. In the book I'm reading, it said, "It is thought that Uganda, a smallish country of around 25 million people, could still probably feed the whole of Africa if commercially farmed." (Giles Bolton, Africa Doesn't Matter) That sentence, besides making me think "What does he mean by 'Africa'?" and "Yeah! Represent!!!!" also made me wonder how much potential this "smallish", wonderful little pearl could do if united.
But what does it say in Ephesians? "For he Himself (Christ) is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility...and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility." (ch.2, vs. 12-16) In Christ we are FREE of all of those barriers - those petty restraints. As a church, we are ONE. We are a whole body, the bride of Christ.
So how does this play out in a place where there are so many walls between people? Walls that have been built up over years and years of feuding? Walls that separate people that may have never heard the gospel? How do we build a church out of the broken-up people?
As foreigners/mzungus, we are so far outside of all the local "divisions" that we all just get clumped together in a pile labeled "white people". That can be a real asset. We're just some rich people from a place far, far away. We aren't really a part of the tribalistic structure - we have a category all our own.
For instance, one of my father's employees started a savings account with my mother. He is, as far as I know, entirely uneducated, and had very little scope of the actual amount he had saved. He would bring his little bit every so often, and my mother would keep a close record of how much that was. Why did he trust her? How did he know that she wouldn't sneak off some of his money on the side? Is there a chance that, in representing Christ, we mzungus are considered trustworthy?
I really hope so. Please pray for unity among the tribes here, and that our witness would shine out here - that our differences would be a help to our ministry and not a source of estrangement. May the church be ONE!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Old days
Smile.
Simple innocences
Whisper like grass-stems
Breaking
Crunchy leaves snap
Like fingers to a beat.
Dancing on hardwood floors
(Clunk-clunk)
Sliding with socks
On hand and foot
Boom
Hit the wall
Beatbreaker,
Soundmaker,
Slap!
Fighting, scratching,
Musicking the waves,
of half step, treble cleff.
Smile.
Simple innocences
Whisper like grass-stems
Breaking
Crunchy leaves snap
Like fingers to a beat.
Dancing on hardwood floors
(Clunk-clunk)
Sliding with socks
On hand and foot
Boom
Hit the wall
Beatbreaker,
Soundmaker,
Slap!
Fighting, scratching,
Musicking the waves,
of half step, treble cleff.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Ten-and-eight. Yep, that's me. Eighteen. When I was little, I wanted to be eighteen. When I was a preteen, I wanted to be eighteen. Yesterday, I wanted to be eighteen. And now I am.
So far, I've celebrated by
- eating scrambled eggs with maple syrup
- wearing a headband that I like
- getting a really cool necklace. Really.
- getting a really cool mug.
- making really good soup.
- running around in the rain in heels. (anna's heels, incidentally.)
- going through my 2007 - 08 scrapbook
- drinking real coffee. Twice.
- teaching Faith and James. I do that pretty much every day, but it was still pretty celebratory
- carrying a bag of maize across the overflowed culvert
- eating roasted maize on the way home from the clinic
- singing "The Gambler" at the TOP of my lungs on the way home
So far, so good. A lot of random things that were just kind of extra-fun. I do most of them every day, or at least once a week.
I've been told many times that being ridiculously excited about getting older is a passing phase. But guess what? Next year I'm going to be NINEteen. Even better.
So far, I've celebrated by
- eating scrambled eggs with maple syrup
- wearing a headband that I like
- getting a really cool necklace. Really.
- getting a really cool mug.
- making really good soup.
- running around in the rain in heels. (anna's heels, incidentally.)
- going through my 2007 - 08 scrapbook
- drinking real coffee. Twice.
- teaching Faith and James. I do that pretty much every day, but it was still pretty celebratory
- carrying a bag of maize across the overflowed culvert
- eating roasted maize on the way home from the clinic
- singing "The Gambler" at the TOP of my lungs on the way home
So far, so good. A lot of random things that were just kind of extra-fun. I do most of them every day, or at least once a week.
I've been told many times that being ridiculously excited about getting older is a passing phase. But guess what? Next year I'm going to be NINEteen. Even better.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The one legged chicken is named Trixie.
That fact is funny enough in itself. The actual bird is a subject of immense hilarity. It hops along on one scrawny claw, it's other leg stub flapping uselessly as if the departed leg was still joined with it. Apparently 'Trixie' is the generally accepted name, 'Mary' being the second choice.
When I first met Trixie, she was hopping into the banda where I was teaching, squawking horribly. She managed to get stuck under the cabinet as we tried to chase her out, and had to be pulled out. We set her free and laughed until we cried at her funny little hops. I leaned against the doorframe, cracking up entirely at the poor crippled bird.
She went something like this: Hop. Squawk. Fall over. Scramble to feet- or rather, foot. Hop-hop. Flip out for no apparent reason and go hopping across the yard. Fall flat on beak.
A girl walked out of a nearby banda and stared at me in shock as I chuckled helplessly. She looked at the chicken and said to me in utter disgust, "See how it suffers."
Now, I'm not really sure how it could be in much torment. It just hops around and occasionally goes berserk, just like the other chickens. My laughter ceased, however, when I noticed that she was serious. The girl looked up at me, indignantly furious. "You can really see how God punishes."
I gave it up after that and went back to class. That poor chicken, to be under such judgement.
That fact is funny enough in itself. The actual bird is a subject of immense hilarity. It hops along on one scrawny claw, it's other leg stub flapping uselessly as if the departed leg was still joined with it. Apparently 'Trixie' is the generally accepted name, 'Mary' being the second choice.
When I first met Trixie, she was hopping into the banda where I was teaching, squawking horribly. She managed to get stuck under the cabinet as we tried to chase her out, and had to be pulled out. We set her free and laughed until we cried at her funny little hops. I leaned against the doorframe, cracking up entirely at the poor crippled bird.
She went something like this: Hop. Squawk. Fall over. Scramble to feet- or rather, foot. Hop-hop. Flip out for no apparent reason and go hopping across the yard. Fall flat on beak.
A girl walked out of a nearby banda and stared at me in shock as I chuckled helplessly. She looked at the chicken and said to me in utter disgust, "See how it suffers."
Now, I'm not really sure how it could be in much torment. It just hops around and occasionally goes berserk, just like the other chickens. My laughter ceased, however, when I noticed that she was serious. The girl looked up at me, indignantly furious. "You can really see how God punishes."
I gave it up after that and went back to class. That poor chicken, to be under such judgement.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Little James turned three on Saturday, an event that was celebrated quietly at the house of Elisabeth and Kyalo on Saturday night. I dressed up a bit, figuring the gesture would be appreciated, and trudged through the mud and water down to the clinic.
I had been told dinner was at six, so I came early at six thirty to help with the setup. My outfit was duly admired and appreciated - by wearing nice clothes I was showing that I thought this was a special event. At seven, Kyalo sent Faith to get the other guests. They all came piling in and immediately segregated - men at the table, women on the benches by the wall. Kyalo offered thanks and we started up the buffet of chicken, rice, chapati, matooke, and beans (with eggplant!). According to custom, we ate as much as we possibly could - going into Unfillable Stomach mode. This wasn't hard, as Elisabeth's cooking is absolutely heavenly. Whoever says that African food is bland is sadly wrong. I decided to calm down after fourths.
A wonderful cake was presented, cut, and passed around. Tea cups followed, as did Elisabeth with a thermos of tea and the sugar. We chatted about various wild animals, and exchanged stories. James unwrapped his presents with much difficulty and immediately gave them away to the various guests, who smiled and thanked him, then slipped them back to Elisabeth.
Slowly, the various guests trickled out the door, until the remaining few decided to call it a night. We walked out, waving our goodnights to everyone, gumboots squelching deliciously on the path.
I had been told dinner was at six, so I came early at six thirty to help with the setup. My outfit was duly admired and appreciated - by wearing nice clothes I was showing that I thought this was a special event. At seven, Kyalo sent Faith to get the other guests. They all came piling in and immediately segregated - men at the table, women on the benches by the wall. Kyalo offered thanks and we started up the buffet of chicken, rice, chapati, matooke, and beans (with eggplant!). According to custom, we ate as much as we possibly could - going into Unfillable Stomach mode. This wasn't hard, as Elisabeth's cooking is absolutely heavenly. Whoever says that African food is bland is sadly wrong. I decided to calm down after fourths.
A wonderful cake was presented, cut, and passed around. Tea cups followed, as did Elisabeth with a thermos of tea and the sugar. We chatted about various wild animals, and exchanged stories. James unwrapped his presents with much difficulty and immediately gave them away to the various guests, who smiled and thanked him, then slipped them back to Elisabeth.
Slowly, the various guests trickled out the door, until the remaining few decided to call it a night. We walked out, waving our goodnights to everyone, gumboots squelching deliciously on the path.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The other day, as I was walking to the clinic, I was hailed by a small shepherd boy I sort of know.
He called out: "Rachel! Hi!"
"Hi! How are you?"
"Fine! Give me your jacket!"
"No!"
"When will you give me clothes? When I come to your house?"
"No. I'm not giving you any clothes."
By now he was following me down the road.
"You will give me clothes tomorrow when I come to church."
"No. I told you, I'm not giving you any clothes."
"Then I won't come to church! I won't come if you don't give me anything!"
"Then don't come! God is angry with you if you only come to church to get something. You know why I go to church? I go because I love Jesus. His word says, 'Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.'"
"It is true."
"So will you come to church?"
"I'll come if you give me candy!"
I looked back and shook my finger at his gleaming smile.
Although it seemed that my haphazard Sunday school lecture was entirely wasted on him, I saw him in church this morning.
He called out: "Rachel! Hi!"
"Hi! How are you?"
"Fine! Give me your jacket!"
"No!"
"When will you give me clothes? When I come to your house?"
"No. I'm not giving you any clothes."
By now he was following me down the road.
"You will give me clothes tomorrow when I come to church."
"No. I told you, I'm not giving you any clothes."
"Then I won't come to church! I won't come if you don't give me anything!"
"Then don't come! God is angry with you if you only come to church to get something. You know why I go to church? I go because I love Jesus. His word says, 'Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.'"
"It is true."
"So will you come to church?"
"I'll come if you give me candy!"
I looked back and shook my finger at his gleaming smile.
Although it seemed that my haphazard Sunday school lecture was entirely wasted on him, I saw him in church this morning.
Friday, September 17, 2010
We all have that moment. That door-swings-open-and-you're-finally-home moment. You step up to the door and swing it wide, calling an end to whatever work you'd been up to at that point. Maybe a little bit of stress still hunkers over your shoulder, but you're home. You can now leave it behind you and relax.
For some, this is an exhilarating experience. Maybe you had a really good day and you're just ready to keep it going. You just can't contain that joy, that excitement. You just HAVE to burst it out and all over Creation - in song!
My advice to you is: Don't do it. Don't sing out your joy of finally being home. Hold it back. Restrain yourself. It doesn't matter if you're having a Whitney Houston moment - keep it together. Because there is ALWAYS someone nearby - whether it be in the house or outside - who, maybe, did not have such a great day and really doesn't want to hear how great yours was.
Or maybe that person is doing something that needs quiet. Say, your father is meeting with the Local Chairman. Or your sister is having piano lessons. Maybe your mom's just not feeling well. Either way, keep a lid on it. Hum if you really need to, but keep it quiet.
All this I say from a LOT of experience, particularly specific experiences, in fact. Trust me.
For some, this is an exhilarating experience. Maybe you had a really good day and you're just ready to keep it going. You just can't contain that joy, that excitement. You just HAVE to burst it out and all over Creation - in song!
My advice to you is: Don't do it. Don't sing out your joy of finally being home. Hold it back. Restrain yourself. It doesn't matter if you're having a Whitney Houston moment - keep it together. Because there is ALWAYS someone nearby - whether it be in the house or outside - who, maybe, did not have such a great day and really doesn't want to hear how great yours was.
Or maybe that person is doing something that needs quiet. Say, your father is meeting with the Local Chairman. Or your sister is having piano lessons. Maybe your mom's just not feeling well. Either way, keep a lid on it. Hum if you really need to, but keep it quiet.
All this I say from a LOT of experience, particularly specific experiences, in fact. Trust me.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
I have an art studio.
Granted, sometimes it becomes a library, a research lab, pilates room, or (and most often) a coffee shop of some kind. But I like to think of it as my studio. I have canvas rolled and stacked, paintings hung from everywhere, and random statuettes and carvings that constantly serve as models. There is a MASSIVE pile of photography books on the desk - again, models. I have my watercolor, acrylic, and oil palettes propped up proudly to show the world that I'm cool like a real painter, plus my various stashes of brushes that kind of end up all over the room.
Lamp at just the right angle. A rug for sitting on while painting. A chair covered with a bright yellow wrap for when the rug thing gets old. I like to lie on the floor and let the ideas flow in, collecting in the drain of my mind.
Oh, and there's a bed in there too.
Granted, sometimes it becomes a library, a research lab, pilates room, or (and most often) a coffee shop of some kind. But I like to think of it as my studio. I have canvas rolled and stacked, paintings hung from everywhere, and random statuettes and carvings that constantly serve as models. There is a MASSIVE pile of photography books on the desk - again, models. I have my watercolor, acrylic, and oil palettes propped up proudly to show the world that I'm cool like a real painter, plus my various stashes of brushes that kind of end up all over the room.
Lamp at just the right angle. A rug for sitting on while painting. A chair covered with a bright yellow wrap for when the rug thing gets old. I like to lie on the floor and let the ideas flow in, collecting in the drain of my mind.
Oh, and there's a bed in there too.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
This blog has, so far, largely been just a collection of stories - things that have happened in my life. I see nothing wrong with that, but I realized that it isn't very helpful when people want an actual update on what I'm doing. From now on, I'll try to actually write about what's going on.
So. I'm going to India. Some time around early November, so I can be there for Diwali. I'm not solid on the details yet, but I'm going.
I hope this is the last time I blog about blogging. Writing about what you're going to write about is a tad strange.
So. I'm going to India. Some time around early November, so I can be there for Diwali. I'm not solid on the details yet, but I'm going.
I hope this is the last time I blog about blogging. Writing about what you're going to write about is a tad strange.
Monday, September 6, 2010
An exciting way to have an adventure is to find an interesting way to do a fairly not-interesting thing. Rejecting is my current favorite - the dance craze, not as in actually rejecting anything. If we stop somewhere, I try to find an interesting thing to reject on. Or just some way to make the reject more interesting. (and, of course, all of these are going to be chronicled in the B.o.A., in case you were wondering.
So far, I have stopped, stepped and done the reject:
- On a trash heap
- While holding a banana over my head
- On an international monument
- While playing badminton
- On the trampoline
- On the carpet in the kitchen
- in the back of a pickup
Most of those aren't very interesting. But I'm going to keep trying.
So far, I have stopped, stepped and done the reject:
- On a trash heap
- While holding a banana over my head
- On an international monument
- While playing badminton
- On the trampoline
- On the carpet in the kitchen
- in the back of a pickup
Most of those aren't very interesting. But I'm going to keep trying.
Interesting things are constantly happening to me. I'm not sure why. All I know is that every experience I have is a chance to have another adventure.
And, of course, each one is now chronicled in the Book of Awesome.
Some of the latest:
131. Paged someone in a department store.
It was very exciting. I grinned like an idiot the entire time, even though I was trying to convince the guy that we really couldn't find Mary.
134. Jumped on a wet moon bounce that was slowly deflating.
Have you ever jumped on a moon bounce in the rain? It's definitely a hazardous sport, for it is almost impossible to land once you've jumped - your legs simply fly out from under you.
122. Took a wok on a piki. (clever pun, clever pun...)
126. Took a tour of a mosque, unveiled and in the mens' section during prayers.
The guy in question knew my father, so it was totally cool. Although I think the hajji was about to lose his chips entirely.
141. Found a World War monument entirely by accident.
This was only a few minutes ago. We were at the immiration office in Jinja and we noticed a strange pillar type thing in the middle of a field. We went to investigate, fighting our way through the thick greenery that was embracing its base. On it were the words "IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE TWO WORLD WARS." There were the dates too, but of course I can't remember those.
And, of course, each one is now chronicled in the Book of Awesome.
Some of the latest:
131. Paged someone in a department store.
It was very exciting. I grinned like an idiot the entire time, even though I was trying to convince the guy that we really couldn't find Mary.
134. Jumped on a wet moon bounce that was slowly deflating.
Have you ever jumped on a moon bounce in the rain? It's definitely a hazardous sport, for it is almost impossible to land once you've jumped - your legs simply fly out from under you.
122. Took a wok on a piki. (clever pun, clever pun...)
126. Took a tour of a mosque, unveiled and in the mens' section during prayers.
The guy in question knew my father, so it was totally cool. Although I think the hajji was about to lose his chips entirely.
141. Found a World War monument entirely by accident.
This was only a few minutes ago. We were at the immiration office in Jinja and we noticed a strange pillar type thing in the middle of a field. We went to investigate, fighting our way through the thick greenery that was embracing its base. On it were the words "IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE TWO WORLD WARS." There were the dates too, but of course I can't remember those.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
This kid is beyond hilarious. I can't get over it.
First, he replaces his "r" and "l" sounds with "n". Our English classes have been interesting - we learned about fnogs, honses, nions and enephants, plus the various colors of gneen, yennow, ned, onange, bnue, and punpne. Oh, and I am generally referred to as Nesho.
I have also been teaching him some random slang, just for kicks. Now, every morning when I come in, I say, "Jamesi! Wassap?" To which he will reply, "Nathin!!!" Sometimes he welcomes me with cries of "Nathin! Nathin! Nathin!"
James' eating habits are also a bit different. He likes to dip whatever he's eating into whatever he's drinking. This works with tea and pancakes. It does not work with bananas and water.
Today he tried to get some rice for me from the pan on the stove. It didn't go well. I ended up turning a blind eye to the chickens that snuck in to peck at the rice spilled all over the floor.
First, he replaces his "r" and "l" sounds with "n". Our English classes have been interesting - we learned about fnogs, honses, nions and enephants, plus the various colors of gneen, yennow, ned, onange, bnue, and punpne. Oh, and I am generally referred to as Nesho.
I have also been teaching him some random slang, just for kicks. Now, every morning when I come in, I say, "Jamesi! Wassap?" To which he will reply, "Nathin!!!" Sometimes he welcomes me with cries of "Nathin! Nathin! Nathin!"
James' eating habits are also a bit different. He likes to dip whatever he's eating into whatever he's drinking. This works with tea and pancakes. It does not work with bananas and water.
Today he tried to get some rice for me from the pan on the stove. It didn't go well. I ended up turning a blind eye to the chickens that snuck in to peck at the rice spilled all over the floor.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Me: "So, what do you eat?"
Faith: "Kenyans eat posho and beans and chicken and mutton and pork and - "
"What do other people eat?"
"The Karimojong eat porrige and greens. And cow."
"Yes, but what about the mzungus? What do they eat?"
After some thought: "Cookies!"
"Yeeesss....but what else?"
Another pondering moment.
"Chocolate cookies!"
I wish.
Faith: "Kenyans eat posho and beans and chicken and mutton and pork and - "
"What do other people eat?"
"The Karimojong eat porrige and greens. And cow."
"Yes, but what about the mzungus? What do they eat?"
After some thought: "Cookies!"
"Yeeesss....but what else?"
Another pondering moment.
"Chocolate cookies!"
I wish.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I'm learning Kiswahili, slowly by slowly. Wadio wadio. Pole pole.
Today we found out the one-legged chicken is named Trixie.
For Creative Art class, we were talking about different types of songs. For religious songs, we sang Cast Your Burdens and Father Abraham. For National Anthems, I sang the American national anthem. The kids told me it was "nice, but too long". I was surprised I even remembered it.
The scene was a strange one. Me, sitting in the plastic chair, screeching "Oh Say Can You See" over the blaring radio and squawks of Trixie, while my two charges watch in wonder at this weird mzungu.
Today we found out the one-legged chicken is named Trixie.
For Creative Art class, we were talking about different types of songs. For religious songs, we sang Cast Your Burdens and Father Abraham. For National Anthems, I sang the American national anthem. The kids told me it was "nice, but too long". I was surprised I even remembered it.
The scene was a strange one. Me, sitting in the plastic chair, screeching "Oh Say Can You See" over the blaring radio and squawks of Trixie, while my two charges watch in wonder at this weird mzungu.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I am now teaching/tutoring Faith, the daughter of some of our clinic staff. She is a fabulously hilarious child. Our conversations today were enlightening and entertaining. Her little brother, James, climbed all over me and exclaimed loudly in Kiswahili, which Faith had to translate for me. We had all sorts of interesting classes and extracurricular activities, which included
- Science, during which we laughed at the chicken with one leg.
- English - we discussed the differences between wazungu and East Africans. (I say that because Faith is not, in fact, Ugandan, but is from Kenya.) James repeated every English word I said, no matter what it was - a promising student. Although, saying "Okay" about forty million times won't get him very far.
- Math, during which we danced to Wakka Wakka and Waving Flag. Both of the kids amazed me with their skills, James in particular.
- Christian Religious Education, which resulted into a fascinating talk about compassion.
We also had break. Faith informed me that we were to "eat a very delicious pancake."
We did. We also chased the various dogs away (and the chicken with one leg). We watched James wash his face for half an hour. We chatted in Kiswahili/English/Ngakarimojong with the slashers. We drank tea. And I think we all learned something. I shall return tomorrow.
- Science, during which we laughed at the chicken with one leg.
- English - we discussed the differences between wazungu and East Africans. (I say that because Faith is not, in fact, Ugandan, but is from Kenya.) James repeated every English word I said, no matter what it was - a promising student. Although, saying "Okay" about forty million times won't get him very far.
- Math, during which we danced to Wakka Wakka and Waving Flag. Both of the kids amazed me with their skills, James in particular.
- Christian Religious Education, which resulted into a fascinating talk about compassion.
We also had break. Faith informed me that we were to "eat a very delicious pancake."
We did. We also chased the various dogs away (and the chicken with one leg). We watched James wash his face for half an hour. We chatted in Kiswahili/English/Ngakarimojong with the slashers. We drank tea. And I think we all learned something. I shall return tomorrow.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I was visiting an HIV support group up in the hills of Moni, a suburb of Mbale. We rode pikis up the steep slopes of Wanale to reach a small brick-and-iron-sheet house beneath a mango tree. A group of women came running out to greet us, smiling and waving.
We wazungu entered the front room of the house and were seated on the chairs they had gotten for us. The rest of the women sat on mats around the room, each talking in various local dialects - Sabiny, Luganda, and Lugisu. Thankfully, we had a translator.
Each woman told her personal story of how AIDS had affected her life. Some had been rejected by friends and family members, forced out to live on their own. Others had been thrown out of their villages. They each told a story of sorrow and loss, each with a huge smile on their face. At the end of each, they would tell of how God had provided for them, whether that be through a friend or a stranger, miraculous or ordinary. For some, He had provided the means to get medecine. For others, He had used a friend to encourage them and take them in when everyone else rejected them.
At the end of their sharing, they asked us to introduce ourselves. I told them that I was living in Karamoja, etc, but forgot to mention my name. They asked what it was and I, embarassed, told them. "Rachel" is generally too much of a mouthful for most non-English speakers. I've tried "Raquel", "Rache", and many others - there's just something about those sounds that is difficult to pronounce.
The ladies decided that I needed a Luganda name. They seemed to pick one at random - that is, until I realized that one of the women there was giving me her name. Nelima. It means "when the fields lie fallow" or "hoeing". When I told them that that's what my Ngakarimojong name means, they laughed and said it must be God's will for me to be named that.
This brings me up to a thrilling total of nine names, birth certificate names included. Six Ugandan, three English.
We wazungu entered the front room of the house and were seated on the chairs they had gotten for us. The rest of the women sat on mats around the room, each talking in various local dialects - Sabiny, Luganda, and Lugisu. Thankfully, we had a translator.
Each woman told her personal story of how AIDS had affected her life. Some had been rejected by friends and family members, forced out to live on their own. Others had been thrown out of their villages. They each told a story of sorrow and loss, each with a huge smile on their face. At the end of each, they would tell of how God had provided for them, whether that be through a friend or a stranger, miraculous or ordinary. For some, He had provided the means to get medecine. For others, He had used a friend to encourage them and take them in when everyone else rejected them.
At the end of their sharing, they asked us to introduce ourselves. I told them that I was living in Karamoja, etc, but forgot to mention my name. They asked what it was and I, embarassed, told them. "Rachel" is generally too much of a mouthful for most non-English speakers. I've tried "Raquel", "Rache", and many others - there's just something about those sounds that is difficult to pronounce.
The ladies decided that I needed a Luganda name. They seemed to pick one at random - that is, until I realized that one of the women there was giving me her name. Nelima. It means "when the fields lie fallow" or "hoeing". When I told them that that's what my Ngakarimojong name means, they laughed and said it must be God's will for me to be named that.
This brings me up to a thrilling total of nine names, birth certificate names included. Six Ugandan, three English.
Friday, July 30, 2010
I have started chronicling the interesting things that have happened to me in the form of a small notebook, which I christened A Record Of the Awesome Things Which I Have Done - a name that was soon shortened to The Book Of Awesome. Within it you will find a numbered list of fun/unusual/interesting things which have filled my life. Some are funny, others strange, and a few are quite sad and somber. Each is just a short note jotted down, just enough to spark my memory.
#4. I was three and a half years old. Our family was living in Eritrea, and we were taking a holiday down at Masaawa, a city by the Red Sea. I don't remember much, only details - the crinkly sand, the warm water reflecting the sky, and the quiet babble of voices in the distance.
There was a man walking his camel down the beach, giving people rides on it. One of our visitors rode it for a little while, and naturally I wanted to ride as well. The man switched the huge animal and it knelt. I was lifted up onto it and it stood - back legs first, front legs second - wobbily lifting me up. I clutched the wooden saddle and declared loudly that I was going to fall off. I didn't.
I remember looking out across the waves, the hot air tossing my clothes. I petted some of the camel's hump in front of me, hoping it was my friend, til the owner let me down again.
#120. My siblings and I were in Kampala with some friends at one of the supermarkets, generally going berserk. It was one of the really nice ones with aisles and everything. We ran/leapt around, picking up things for dinner (hot
dogs and bread) and having a hilarious time. We came around a corner into an aisle entirely filled with tomato products. We couldn't remember the last time we'd seen something so strange, so we decided to dance.
Too late did we notice the massive security camera pointing at us, and we dissolved into raucous laughter, collapsing over the ketchup and tomato paste.
#59. I walked through a shoestore barefoot. There isn't much more to say than that. The staff chased me down, trying to assuade a definitely potential customer.
#70 I was in an Indian supermarket (this one had aisles too, but far fewer. For those of you that know, it was Janam.) purchasing the usual necessities - chocolate, soda, etc. They had some Bollywood tunes on that I was generally tuning out, but suddenly it hit me. That "I know this song" moment. And indeed I did. It was a killer hit from one of my favorite Bolly's, Kal Ho Nal Ho (I'm sure you know the one). I started humming along as I waited for my groceries, then some additional percussing followed. The guy behind the counter began staring, as did the other attendants. When I reached him, he asked in a shocked whisper, "You know Bollywood?!?!?!"
These memories are thrilling to me, and I have noticed that this blog has been quite lacking as of late. Now, whenever I am dry of inspiration, I shall turn to The Book for ideas.
#4. I was three and a half years old. Our family was living in Eritrea, and we were taking a holiday down at Masaawa, a city by the Red Sea. I don't remember much, only details - the crinkly sand, the warm water reflecting the sky, and the quiet babble of voices in the distance.
There was a man walking his camel down the beach, giving people rides on it. One of our visitors rode it for a little while, and naturally I wanted to ride as well. The man switched the huge animal and it knelt. I was lifted up onto it and it stood - back legs first, front legs second - wobbily lifting me up. I clutched the wooden saddle and declared loudly that I was going to fall off. I didn't.
I remember looking out across the waves, the hot air tossing my clothes. I petted some of the camel's hump in front of me, hoping it was my friend, til the owner let me down again.
#120. My siblings and I were in Kampala with some friends at one of the supermarkets, generally going berserk. It was one of the really nice ones with aisles and everything. We ran/leapt around, picking up things for dinner (hot
dogs and bread) and having a hilarious time. We came around a corner into an aisle entirely filled with tomato products. We couldn't remember the last time we'd seen something so strange, so we decided to dance.
Too late did we notice the massive security camera pointing at us, and we dissolved into raucous laughter, collapsing over the ketchup and tomato paste.
#59. I walked through a shoestore barefoot. There isn't much more to say than that. The staff chased me down, trying to assuade a definitely potential customer.
#70 I was in an Indian supermarket (this one had aisles too, but far fewer. For those of you that know, it was Janam.) purchasing the usual necessities - chocolate, soda, etc. They had some Bollywood tunes on that I was generally tuning out, but suddenly it hit me. That "I know this song" moment. And indeed I did. It was a killer hit from one of my favorite Bolly's, Kal Ho Nal Ho (I'm sure you know the one). I started humming along as I waited for my groceries, then some additional percussing followed. The guy behind the counter began staring, as did the other attendants. When I reached him, he asked in a shocked whisper, "You know Bollywood?!?!?!"
These memories are thrilling to me, and I have noticed that this blog has been quite lacking as of late. Now, whenever I am dry of inspiration, I shall turn to The Book for ideas.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Mbale is, if nothing else, a very interesting town. It has countless little shops in a very disorganized sort of order, from hardware stores to cosmetics to groceries. The owners of these shops always provide hilarious conversation whether it be related to your purchase or not.
Since I am a mzungu - white person - I am almost always overcharged. It's just how things go - part of the bartering process. Yesterday, someone charged me four times the going rate for a pair of shoes. Their reason - "You are white. I know you have money." I left immediately without the shoes.
This sometimes means that shopkeepers are more eager to do business with you. Your disinterest in their products may be taken for a sly pokerface in the game of bartering. Two weeks ago, I was shopping in the market, when spotted a bright yellow wrap and inquired the price. "Twenty-five." I attempted to leave it, not in the mood for bargaining. "Twenty! Okay, fifteen!" I still declined. "Ten! Nine!" Finally, the desperate storeowner came down to a reasonable price, pressing the material into my arms. I bought the wrap.
I've been known to take pity on the pedicurists that roam the streets with their baskets of nail varnish and brushes, yelling, "Cutlet! Cutlet!" I'm not sure exactly what that is referring to, but they do excellent work. My toenails usually sport their expert handiwork.
The hairdressers are usually more than eager to try their hands at mzungu hair, so I am always welcome at the various salons around the town. The ladies always insist on plaiting my hair into the most ludicrous fashions possible, twisting my scalp till tears come to my eyes. Their various children find this most amusing, and sit and stare at me while I undergo horrible torture.
I have often wondered why the shoe market seems to be the place to get yelled at. So far, I have not compiled any viable theory, but the lure of hundreds of shoes and cheap trinkets is too strong for me to resist. On one particular corner, there is a very nice man who sells Obama flip-flops and is convinced that I am Chinese. I don't really mind it so much, but he really wants me to introduce him to Jackie Chan. I'm afraid I'm going to have to let him down.
The piki drivers are everywhere, trying to pick up passengers for their motorcycle taxi services. Mzungus are prime targets, so I am constantly pursued by a stream of motorbikes, with drivers all trying to get my attention. "We go?" they holler, even after I shake my head and keep walking. Once you do need a ride, all you have to do is stand by the curb and say, "Piki?" and they will appear, all jostling and trying to run over your toes in the process.
There's nothing like it anywhere else - walking down the crowded sidewalks at dusk, trying not to trip over the uneven concrete slabs with your arms full of groceries, the weariness of a good day setting in. I love it. I really do.
Mbale. Most likely my favorite place in Uganda. Possibly in the entire world.
Since I am a mzungu - white person - I am almost always overcharged. It's just how things go - part of the bartering process. Yesterday, someone charged me four times the going rate for a pair of shoes. Their reason - "You are white. I know you have money." I left immediately without the shoes.
This sometimes means that shopkeepers are more eager to do business with you. Your disinterest in their products may be taken for a sly pokerface in the game of bartering. Two weeks ago, I was shopping in the market, when spotted a bright yellow wrap and inquired the price. "Twenty-five." I attempted to leave it, not in the mood for bargaining. "Twenty! Okay, fifteen!" I still declined. "Ten! Nine!" Finally, the desperate storeowner came down to a reasonable price, pressing the material into my arms. I bought the wrap.
I've been known to take pity on the pedicurists that roam the streets with their baskets of nail varnish and brushes, yelling, "Cutlet! Cutlet!" I'm not sure exactly what that is referring to, but they do excellent work. My toenails usually sport their expert handiwork.
The hairdressers are usually more than eager to try their hands at mzungu hair, so I am always welcome at the various salons around the town. The ladies always insist on plaiting my hair into the most ludicrous fashions possible, twisting my scalp till tears come to my eyes. Their various children find this most amusing, and sit and stare at me while I undergo horrible torture.
I have often wondered why the shoe market seems to be the place to get yelled at. So far, I have not compiled any viable theory, but the lure of hundreds of shoes and cheap trinkets is too strong for me to resist. On one particular corner, there is a very nice man who sells Obama flip-flops and is convinced that I am Chinese. I don't really mind it so much, but he really wants me to introduce him to Jackie Chan. I'm afraid I'm going to have to let him down.
The piki drivers are everywhere, trying to pick up passengers for their motorcycle taxi services. Mzungus are prime targets, so I am constantly pursued by a stream of motorbikes, with drivers all trying to get my attention. "We go?" they holler, even after I shake my head and keep walking. Once you do need a ride, all you have to do is stand by the curb and say, "Piki?" and they will appear, all jostling and trying to run over your toes in the process.
There's nothing like it anywhere else - walking down the crowded sidewalks at dusk, trying not to trip over the uneven concrete slabs with your arms full of groceries, the weariness of a good day setting in. I love it. I really do.
Mbale. Most likely my favorite place in Uganda. Possibly in the entire world.
The P. 1. class at Nakaale Primary School was having trouble paying attention, as usual. The one hundred plus kids sat/stood around the room on broken pieces of brick, benches and desks, each one fidgeting and chattering. Even the windowsills were full of squirming kids, each fighting for a seat. The cement dust that filled the air was causing the kids to cough and sneeze all over each other. The kids were all squabbling over the slates and slate chalk that were being passed out, fights that could only be broken up by a switch.
I stood at the front of the class, chalk in one hand, slate in the other, trying to properly demonstrate how to draw the letter "A". I had a switch tucked under one arm that I kept having to bring out and shake at the kids, banging the stick on the desks to try and keep order. None of them were listening.
"Lomongin! Listen! - No, Moses, stop that! Stop yelling, Petero! Emmy, sit down. Moses! Be quiet! Lomongin, I told you to be quiet!" and so on. My sisters roamed the classroom with switches and slates, trying to maintain order. The slate I was holding was giving me trouble. I was having to hold it over my head so that all the kids could see it, and still it wasn't big enough.
Inspiration struck. I handed my slate and chalk to Anna and dashed out of the classroom, skidding over the pitted, dusty walkway to the P.3 classroom. As I had suspected, the class was having "reading groups" and the teacher was nowhere to be seen. I pointed to a cracked piece of plywood that had been painted black - the blackboard - that was leaning against the wall in the front of the room. "Can I use this for P.1?" The kids looked at me askance, and I grabbed the plywood.
"You." I pointed, "And you. Carry this desk." Two of the P.3 boys rose and picked up the desk, following me out of the room.
As I entered the P.1 classroom, the plywood held over my head, the entire class leapt to its feet and burst into a simultaneous cheer: "YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!" I had the P.3 boys set the desk at the front of the room - amidst the clapping and cheering - and we set the plywood up on it, using a rock to keep it there. I turned to see all of the little P.1 kids on their feet, applauding and yelling, huge grins on every face. I assumed my stern teacher face, trying desperately to keep my authoritative air.
I raised my switch in the air and waved a hand. "Be quiet, sit down." The class complied, still beaming wholeheartedly. They sat like a hundred or so little angels, each one looking up at me expectantly. I turned back to the plywood - a ragged, chipped piece that sagged pathetically against the wall. I raised my piece of chalk and began, tucking my switch beneath one arm.
"This is the letter 'A'."
I stood at the front of the class, chalk in one hand, slate in the other, trying to properly demonstrate how to draw the letter "A". I had a switch tucked under one arm that I kept having to bring out and shake at the kids, banging the stick on the desks to try and keep order. None of them were listening.
"Lomongin! Listen! - No, Moses, stop that! Stop yelling, Petero! Emmy, sit down. Moses! Be quiet! Lomongin, I told you to be quiet!" and so on. My sisters roamed the classroom with switches and slates, trying to maintain order. The slate I was holding was giving me trouble. I was having to hold it over my head so that all the kids could see it, and still it wasn't big enough.
Inspiration struck. I handed my slate and chalk to Anna and dashed out of the classroom, skidding over the pitted, dusty walkway to the P.3 classroom. As I had suspected, the class was having "reading groups" and the teacher was nowhere to be seen. I pointed to a cracked piece of plywood that had been painted black - the blackboard - that was leaning against the wall in the front of the room. "Can I use this for P.1?" The kids looked at me askance, and I grabbed the plywood.
"You." I pointed, "And you. Carry this desk." Two of the P.3 boys rose and picked up the desk, following me out of the room.
As I entered the P.1 classroom, the plywood held over my head, the entire class leapt to its feet and burst into a simultaneous cheer: "YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!" I had the P.3 boys set the desk at the front of the room - amidst the clapping and cheering - and we set the plywood up on it, using a rock to keep it there. I turned to see all of the little P.1 kids on their feet, applauding and yelling, huge grins on every face. I assumed my stern teacher face, trying desperately to keep my authoritative air.
I raised my switch in the air and waved a hand. "Be quiet, sit down." The class complied, still beaming wholeheartedly. They sat like a hundred or so little angels, each one looking up at me expectantly. I turned back to the plywood - a ragged, chipped piece that sagged pathetically against the wall. I raised my piece of chalk and began, tucking my switch beneath one arm.
"This is the letter 'A'."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"Mzungu!"
Big round eyes set in an angelic face stare wonderingly up at me
Adorable little boy, waving frantically as I pass him on the street
A huge grin, spreading through his entire being
A smile tugs at my mouth as I try to be firm.
"My name is not mzungu."
"Ah!"
A derisive laugh comes from a pair of perfectly shaped lips.
"Give me money."
All of a sudden, that face isn't so beautiful.
"No."
The gorgeous child makes a crude hand gesture and runs off,
his mocking laughter rings in my ears as I hurry away,
my skin glowing in the noontime sun.
Monday, May 17, 2010
"Hello, mama," I said, "It's me, Nakor(u)."
Her sightless eyes shifted back and forth as her face broke into a huge smile. "Nakor(u)! How are you?"
"I am fine, grandmother. I have been sick for the past few days, but I'm getting better. I haven't seen you in a while - how is your place?"
"I've never seen you!" We laughed. "Our place is fine. The baby is well. My daughter" - here she reached out, grasping for her daughter's hand - "is fine."
"I'm going home now - my head is hurting. Greet all in Kopetatum."
"Yes, child, you go home and rest. You will get better. Greet everyone I haven't seen!"
I love her.
After Kopetatum village burned down last year, we went to see if we could help with the rebuilding. My dear "grandmother", Tata, who has no family save her daughter and granddaughter, was in need of some help. So I joined them in the mudding of the house. Her daughter, Namer, would carry water and dirt, I would mix it and carry it into the house, and Tata would throw it onto the frame that would support the mud walls.
After a while of bending over, her back became sore, so she took my hand and showed me how to throw the mud onto the walls properly. I took over for her for a while, so that she could go rest. I did what I considered to be a fairly good job, slapping huge chunks of mud into the spaces. Since the house had already been thatched, it was quite dark inside, so it wasn't an easy job for someone who relied on their eyes. The smoking remains of a fire only added to my discomfort, and soon I was sweating, aching, sooty, and covered in mud.
When Tata returned, she ran her hands over the walls. "No," she said. "You have to throw harder. It isn't going deep enough." She bent down and felt around for the mud pile, not knowing I was already bending over it. Our heads collided with a CRACK. Pain exploded in the back of my head and I fell forwards.
"Ai....aiee....." As the stars cleared from my vision, I turned and saw Tata clutching her forehead. "Sorry, Tata, sorry..." I said, still reeling.
She moved her hand out of the way and leaned towards me. "Is it bleeding?"
"No."
"Okay, good. " She put her hand on it again. "Aiee...."
When I was leaving, she thanked me. "You can't give us money."
"No, I can't."
"So you gave us your strength. Thank you for helping me. You are my daughter."
"Thank you, Tata. I am your daughter."
Her sightless eyes shifted back and forth as her face broke into a huge smile. "Nakor(u)! How are you?"
"I am fine, grandmother. I have been sick for the past few days, but I'm getting better. I haven't seen you in a while - how is your place?"
"I've never seen you!" We laughed. "Our place is fine. The baby is well. My daughter" - here she reached out, grasping for her daughter's hand - "is fine."
"I'm going home now - my head is hurting. Greet all in Kopetatum."
"Yes, child, you go home and rest. You will get better. Greet everyone I haven't seen!"
I love her.
After Kopetatum village burned down last year, we went to see if we could help with the rebuilding. My dear "grandmother", Tata, who has no family save her daughter and granddaughter, was in need of some help. So I joined them in the mudding of the house. Her daughter, Namer, would carry water and dirt, I would mix it and carry it into the house, and Tata would throw it onto the frame that would support the mud walls.
After a while of bending over, her back became sore, so she took my hand and showed me how to throw the mud onto the walls properly. I took over for her for a while, so that she could go rest. I did what I considered to be a fairly good job, slapping huge chunks of mud into the spaces. Since the house had already been thatched, it was quite dark inside, so it wasn't an easy job for someone who relied on their eyes. The smoking remains of a fire only added to my discomfort, and soon I was sweating, aching, sooty, and covered in mud.
When Tata returned, she ran her hands over the walls. "No," she said. "You have to throw harder. It isn't going deep enough." She bent down and felt around for the mud pile, not knowing I was already bending over it. Our heads collided with a CRACK. Pain exploded in the back of my head and I fell forwards.
"Ai....aiee....." As the stars cleared from my vision, I turned and saw Tata clutching her forehead. "Sorry, Tata, sorry..." I said, still reeling.
She moved her hand out of the way and leaned towards me. "Is it bleeding?"
"No."
"Okay, good. " She put her hand on it again. "Aiee...."
When I was leaving, she thanked me. "You can't give us money."
"No, I can't."
"So you gave us your strength. Thank you for helping me. You are my daughter."
"Thank you, Tata. I am your daughter."
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
little baby girl on her sister's back
reaches out for me as we stood waiting in the village
grabbed my hand, turning the fingertips white
and I knew that I was caught
finally, she was pulled away
we walked together out of the village, avoiding the crabby cows
I led singing
as I held the pictures, she reached up a hand for me, toothless gums bared in a precious smile
I grinned back and took her hand
she toddled over, staggering precociously
clutched my skirt, tugging it dangerously
sent her back to her sister
I felt a little chubby weight hit my skirt, pulling it.
I look down, and she's wrapped around one of my legs, clutching my skirt in her chubby fists, smiling and smiling.
she loves me.
adoration in her eyes
Mary comes over and peels her off me
she stares into Mary's eyes, mesmerized by the blue, and we're able to get her off.
time for prayer.
Mr. Clawson stands before the children.
"Let's pray"
all of a sudden, a rumble of rocks and hooves.
bullfight
great hulking bodies in the sunlight, muscles quivering with every collision
jarring, hitting eachother
a white bull, triumphant, the black one lying down submissively, being shoved
over and over and over again.
kids shrieking
men yelling in dismay
throwing sticks and rocks.
cursing at their animals stupidity
the lowing of the cows, like a crowd at a game.
The white one trots off finally, horns held high.
The victor.
Is the black one hurt?
It still lies silently.
The men push it, it stands.
Neck lowered, it walks off slowly.
We herd the kids back to the tree.
"Let's pray."
we walk back through the overflowing culvert
stop and savour the icy water, grinning at each other
the public pool is open
brown bodies gleam in the murky water
we watch enviously - no bilharsia for us.
back home. Teatime.
reaches out for me as we stood waiting in the village
grabbed my hand, turning the fingertips white
and I knew that I was caught
finally, she was pulled away
we walked together out of the village, avoiding the crabby cows
I led singing
as I held the pictures, she reached up a hand for me, toothless gums bared in a precious smile
I grinned back and took her hand
she toddled over, staggering precociously
clutched my skirt, tugging it dangerously
sent her back to her sister
I felt a little chubby weight hit my skirt, pulling it.
I look down, and she's wrapped around one of my legs, clutching my skirt in her chubby fists, smiling and smiling.
she loves me.
adoration in her eyes
Mary comes over and peels her off me
she stares into Mary's eyes, mesmerized by the blue, and we're able to get her off.
time for prayer.
Mr. Clawson stands before the children.
"Let's pray"
all of a sudden, a rumble of rocks and hooves.
bullfight
great hulking bodies in the sunlight, muscles quivering with every collision
jarring, hitting eachother
a white bull, triumphant, the black one lying down submissively, being shoved
over and over and over again.
kids shrieking
men yelling in dismay
throwing sticks and rocks.
cursing at their animals stupidity
the lowing of the cows, like a crowd at a game.
The white one trots off finally, horns held high.
The victor.
Is the black one hurt?
It still lies silently.
The men push it, it stands.
Neck lowered, it walks off slowly.
We herd the kids back to the tree.
"Let's pray."
we walk back through the overflowing culvert
stop and savour the icy water, grinning at each other
the public pool is open
brown bodies gleam in the murky water
we watch enviously - no bilharsia for us.
back home. Teatime.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"I wish I could go home," he said. "I love this country. I love it. But it's not home for me."The everlasting quandry I find myself in every moment of every day.
"Well, you could go home," Mma Ramotswe said. She nodded in the direction of the border, not far across a few miles of scrub bush, behind the hills. "You could go home now, couldn't you? There's nothing stopping you."
"That place is not home anymore," he said. "I left it so long ago, I don't feel at home there."
"And this place? Here?"
"It's where I live. But I can't ever belong here, can I? I will never be from this place. I will never be one of these people, no matter how long I stay. I'll always be an outsider."
She knew what he meant. It was all very well for her, she thought; she knew exactly where she came from and where she belonged, but there were many people who did not, who had been uprooted, forced out by need or victimisation, by being simply the wrong people in the wrong place. There were many such people in Africa, and they ate a very bitter fruit; they were extra, unwanted persons, like children who are not loved. '
-- "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive" by Alexander McCall Smith
"I am a traveller.
You call me stranger.
No matter where I go,
I don't belong.
But, still my restless heart
Is ever moving
No matter where I am
I am at home."
Friday, March 26, 2010
The rainy season has come. Finally. We dug out the garden, planted it, and set thorns around it. In the early mornings, the far-off yells of the men plowing the fields can be heard.
Yesterday morning, we noticed an abnormal amount of hawks and kites in the sky. "White ants," someone casually observed.
On my way to lunch, I was hailed by Maria and Josh Tricarico: "Rachel! Want to help us?!?!"
They were catching the many white ants that thickened the air around our mission. Naturally, I ran over and, seizing a kaveera (plastic bag), I joined their frantic attempts at catching the termites. We dashed about, arms and legs flapping, as we tried to snatch, net, and slap the elusive insects. Kipsy joined us after a while, and we each staked out a different termite hole to wait for the ants to fly out.
By the end, we had about 50 or so bugs. We all trooped into the main kitchen, sweaty and dusty, carrying our rustling kaveeras with pride.
Then came the question of how to prepare them. We'd all eaten and cooked white ants before, but couldn't remember how. We settled on frying them - preheating the pan for a quick, painless death. We dumped them into the pan with a little oil and watched them writhe for a split second, then lie still.
"What should we put in them?" someone asked.
We looked at eachother, then I suggested, "Indian termites?"
A little garam masala, some turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander and cumin. Kipsy "accidentally" dumped in a bunch of thai seasoning as well. The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell, and we all started grinning in anticipation.
I turned off the stove and we lined up at the counter to get our rice and beans. We topped it off with our newfound delicacy and carried our heaped plates into the main room, showing them off to the fairly disgusted members of our mission. The four of us sat down at the table together and raised a spoonful of lunch.
"1....2...3..." We put them into our mouths and began chewing. At first, it was great - salty, spicy, mixing well with the rice and beans. Then I voiced what we were all thinking:
"Oh man....we forgot about the sand...we didn't wash them..."
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Yesterday morning, we noticed an abnormal amount of hawks and kites in the sky. "White ants," someone casually observed.
On my way to lunch, I was hailed by Maria and Josh Tricarico: "Rachel! Want to help us?!?!"
They were catching the many white ants that thickened the air around our mission. Naturally, I ran over and, seizing a kaveera (plastic bag), I joined their frantic attempts at catching the termites. We dashed about, arms and legs flapping, as we tried to snatch, net, and slap the elusive insects. Kipsy joined us after a while, and we each staked out a different termite hole to wait for the ants to fly out.
By the end, we had about 50 or so bugs. We all trooped into the main kitchen, sweaty and dusty, carrying our rustling kaveeras with pride.
Then came the question of how to prepare them. We'd all eaten and cooked white ants before, but couldn't remember how. We settled on frying them - preheating the pan for a quick, painless death. We dumped them into the pan with a little oil and watched them writhe for a split second, then lie still.
"What should we put in them?" someone asked.
We looked at eachother, then I suggested, "Indian termites?"
A little garam masala, some turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander and cumin. Kipsy "accidentally" dumped in a bunch of thai seasoning as well. The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell, and we all started grinning in anticipation.
I turned off the stove and we lined up at the counter to get our rice and beans. We topped it off with our newfound delicacy and carried our heaped plates into the main room, showing them off to the fairly disgusted members of our mission. The four of us sat down at the table together and raised a spoonful of lunch.
"1....2...3..." We put them into our mouths and began chewing. At first, it was great - salty, spicy, mixing well with the rice and beans. Then I voiced what we were all thinking:
"Oh man....we forgot about the sand...we didn't wash them..."
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
The latest question on everyone's mouth - "Whoa! Can she understand Ngakarimojong?"
To which I answer, "Yes, she can."
After the laughter settles, the second question - "Are you a Karimojong?"
"Uh...."
This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : "Yes! Yes she is! See?"
Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you're better than everyone else. Recently I've been noticing it a lot more - perhaps it's because I'm getting older, but I've had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.
But then again, I am a Karimojong - or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That's me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I've been given countless names - most of which I can't remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?
Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I'm the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am "a bit brown". They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.
To which I answer, "Yes, she can."
After the laughter settles, the second question - "Are you a Karimojong?"
"Uh...."
This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : "Yes! Yes she is! See?"
Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you're better than everyone else. Recently I've been noticing it a lot more - perhaps it's because I'm getting older, but I've had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.
But then again, I am a Karimojong - or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That's me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I've been given countless names - most of which I can't remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?
Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I'm the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am "a bit brown". They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.
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