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.
Friday, July 30, 2010
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'."
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