I have a new name.

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.

My favorite place

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.