Off to Amsterdam Again

My time is drawing to a close. I’m going to miss things. I’ll miss the carpenters saying good morning and greeting the chapatti lady as I wind through the neighborhood, past plantain trees, scattered maize and jack fruit trees on the way to catch the matatu every morning (I live behind a petrol station you see). I’ll miss the milky chai, fresh pineapple and mango breakfasts. I’ll miss my chats with Veronica every morning in Kisenyi before we start our surveys as we sit in her somewhat derelict hair salon, the world passing us by on the dusty street outside. She loves reading, and although she has no books, she budgets to gets the local Luganda paper every morning and as she sips her chai she translates the stories for me.

She this man! Ah! He was to marry this woman, but then at the wedding day, this woman here came into the church and said that he was already married to HER and had three children! These people…

The last page of the paper always has an update on the soaps. Most are dubbed Brazilian soap operas (not quite sure why), sheer cheesy hilarity to watch. Apparently everyone says I look like the character ‘Ina’. Veronica points at the pictures as she explains:

Shona, have to seen it yet? On TV? Well you see this man, he is in love with Ina but they forced him to marry this woman, see? Can you see even the tears in his eyes? Oh it is so good this show.

She’s an amazing woman, she’s 55 and has had seven kids, four of whom are alive. In addition to being village chairperson, it sounds like she helps support about 10 grandchildren. Two of her children are working in Iraq and she wants to send her other daughter as well, the money is good she says. It blows my mind. They mostly work in security and when they are there everything is provided, their salary goes directly into a Ugandan bank account. Perfect scenario, no? Except for the getting blown up part I suppose.

I’ll miss the vitality of life, the gratefulness for each day that people have. The vivid colours of clothing, the smiles in response to my attempts at Luganda, the very grittiness of life. As my mom says of life in the developing world, the colours are brighter and the pools are deeper. It strikes me also that heartache is closer to the surface, each moment of life is more precious, it can come and go so quickly after all.

I’ll miss my Ugandan family, the sometimes profound, sometimes hilarious dinnertime conversations. They are middle class Ugandans who are deeply generous, taking in all sorts of strays in need (mzungu and Ugandan alike!) I’ll miss groundnut sauce…but I suspect I won’t miss the matoke (steamed and mashed plantains) for every meal. After some deliberation, I don’t think I’ll miss the Lugandan gospel music piped through the household sound system at 7am every single morning. I vaguely recall initially finding it a lovely part of the whole Ugandan experience… naive rookie!

I may even miss the tachycardia-inducing bodaboda rides. The first day I was sure I would not die, instead I would be smeared on the road between a matatu, a large truck and a bicycle overloaded with plantains, maimed for life. After that it turned out to be a fun part of the daily routine.

I’ll definitely miss not being on call…two months with no call has been soul restoring. Although my soul has been restored by much more than that. I’ve found passion for my vocation again, or it has found me. Instead of pulling myself out of bed each morning to do something interesting that I feel privileged to do, the work itself pulls me out of bed and drives me through the day. I feel empathy again, compassion, my jaded attitude has dissolved in the mud of Kisenyi and in the eyes of the women who have shared their stories with me. I’ve lost the sense of overwhelming helplessness in the face of human need and again am ready to hurl myself indignantly at injustice.

I’m reminded of a quote that a physician read out to our class on the first day of medical school, as we sat packed into our seats in Libin theatre, naively full of apprehension, dreams and ready to take on the world.

Do justice,
Love mercy,
Walk humbly.

Of course, these were familiar words, as I was raised on them.

A Love Affair

I’ve been having a love affair with Jinja.

Who’s Jinja you say? Fine, I’ll admit it, not a person but a place. The source of the Nile. It was the third weekend I had been up there, the first time for rafting, the rest to kayak.

The kayak skirt tucked tightly around me, my red Spice playboat responding to every movement of my hips as we paddled along. I feel a bit guilty, you know, with the water shortages in this part of the world, that I should be inhaling so much of the Nile into my sinuses…so wasteful.

My teacher David and I had spent hours working on my rolling, you know, the second 180 degrees that gets your head OUT of the water. As I feel I have a gift for easily accomplishing the first 180.

We now paddled down the river to approaching rapids. The sky was bright above us, the sun beating down, but ahead huge dark clouds loomed. Like a prairie thunderstorm on a steaming summer day, we could see a sheet of rain approaching in the distance. The clouds flashed like fluorescent bulbs, trying to flicker to life and I heard deep grumbling in the distance. I cursed myself for not having invested in a waterproof digital camera as the light show was breathtaking.

It was exhilarating. The pounding waves, spray and foam of the rapids, David convinced I was capable of turning my kayak backwards and surfing the wave. Of course I was, but it took few runs to maximize the percentage of time my head was out of the water.

Then the storm hit us, pelting down, the rain seemed to have the force of a waterfall. Powerful, overwhelmed equally by beauty and adrenaline.

An affair I won’t easily forget.

Sorry, No Cervix, No Survey

But what about the men? What about us? We are important also! He was about the fifth Somali man who had interrupted us with the same question.

I paused as I tilted my head to the side and studied him thoughtfully from the rickety stool I sat on, my brow furrowed. Tall and lean, loose black curls on his head his skin nearly golden brown.

Do you have a uterus?

A what?

A uterus. A womb. Have you given birth to any children?

He laughed and shook his head. What was this crazy mzungu all about anyway talking only to women and not to men?

Surveying Somali women has been a challenge for us all along. Not only are we limited by our abysmal Somali language skills, but they are a relatively closed community. As refugees living in a poor neighborhood, they are as suspicious of Ugandans as Ugandans are of them and speak no Luganda. Unlike Ugandans, who approach with friendly greetings, Somalis have a direct, blunt approach. What is happening here? Who are you?

We had occasionally struggled through some surveys in Kiswahili, as a few of them have learned a bit along the way. A survival skill on their tragic pilgrimage across East Africa. But today we hunkered down at a fruit stand, owned by a Somali woman we had interviewed last week, who invited us back. At first, things were a bit rough. What?!? All I get is a piece of soap? Give me another one! But slowly women gathered, curious as to what was going on. All covered in various colours of flowing veils, a circle of cloth framing their faces, others with only their eyes visible. Rarely you catch a glimpse of an ankle, or a toe through a worn through sock.

We had a young Somali woman helping to translate. Her English was good and she reported being an avid BBC World News fan. As a diaperless 14 month-old crawled around a huge basket of papayas under the fruit stand and with flies buzzing around, we heard the now familiar stories. Married at 14 years old. Of course they had never had sex with anyone but their husband, they indignantly reassured us.

You don’t understand, we are Somali women! No boyfriends, only our husbands. We are clean down there! If not… She made a gesture with her finger across her neck. Doreen asked, but what about the men?

Ech, the men, they do what they want. Who knows about the men, you cannot control them! What I did know, is that the men found it was miserably unfair that we only wanted to talk to the women.

The women were confused by some questions. Yes, of course I go to the hospital when I am sick, yes, I am Somali, I must go. Always statements with pride in who they are. But the idea of going for screening, of checking something when you had no symptoms, no pain, no bleeding. No. You go when you are sick. Silly mzungu with the crazy questions.

A cheeky Oxfam gender adviser (my sister) I know added her two bits, "as a gender adviser, i would like to advise you about the issue of gender equality. I am concerned that your research is not addressing the issue in a balanced fashion and seem to prioritize one gender over the other. Concerning to say the least, especially in this day and age."

Money Can Buy Bliss

Knock off pink Speedo swim goggles: 8,000 Shillings

Matatu fare: 200 Shillings

Bodaboda (motorcycle) ride: 2500 Shillings

Munyonyo resort admission: 20,000 Shillings

Swimming in an Olympic-size pool surrounded by palm trees: Priceless

How much does sex cost?

Well that depends. On the time of day. Whose asking. What the ‘guest’ is after. If your kids school fees are due. That turns into between 50 and 1000 Ugandan shillings they tell me (a few cents up to fifty cents), that is, if you’re not looking to spend too much time there. The councilman turned to me and said, you know these women get very rich, see they are fat and healthy.

Hmm. It was the only answer I could muster. The calculations cranked slowly in my head, from the surveys we’d done these women have sex with between 10 and 40 men per week. My math skills have never been spectacular, but that’s not much above extreme poverty as an income.

We had slipped through narrow muddy alleys that morning, the stench of chicken manure permeated everything, apparently this is where you get all things ‘chicken’ in Kampala. Crouching through a low door jam, down a muddy hallway, puddle hopping across a tiny courtyard surrounded by doors. Women in various outfits, most quite simple. All of them with different hairstyles, the diversity of hair extensions in Kampala is truly spectacular. In general most of the women had slightly lighter skin, many had scars across their arms and legs. We were at three different ‘houses’ during the day and the women warmly welcomed us. It took some getting used to. Of course we’re used to pausing the survey when a woman has to go grab some tomatoes to cut into her sizzling pot of onions, or sometimes serve a customer some cassava, or a chapatti. But instead we paused so the women could slip off into a room to do their work. They were generally quite jocular and at the second place we visited, after doing three surveys and teasing each other back and forth they planned a joke on the next client that came in about how much the mzungu would cost. I just had to laugh along with them, the alternative was crying I suppose.

All their stories were different, some had finished secondary school, others could not read. The majority of them had children, a few were married still. Several of them had received screening for cervical cancer, something the majority of the women we’ve talked to had never had. And all these women used condoms every time. No question.

They were hard working women. The only time I glimpsed apology in one of their eyes was when we asked about religion. She said she was a Muslim. Veronica, the research assistant paused. Muslim? But your name isn’t Muslim.

She looked down, embarrassed. Well, I’m actually Pentacostal but you see… her voice trailed off. Veronica just picked up where she left off, putting a hand on her arm. You are what you are, and that’s just fine. It seemed a profoundly affirming statement.

There are many things in our world that are heartbreaking and unjust. But we live our lives everyday, able to live in our broken world without it crossing our minds. We sterilize our lives, separate our daily living from the realities of so many. Whether in Vancouver or Kampala. But when it is thrown in your face, when it happens as you look into a woman’s eyes, you can’t just turn around and pretend you never saw it.

God Lives in Africa

Doreen, is that man crazy or does he just really love Jesus?

She laughed. Maybe both, but I think he's just a Christian Sheona.

The street preachers in Kampala are phenomenal. Seriously. They spend hours and hours eveyday in the scorching sun and pouring rain. There’s the skinny guy who brings his own pulpit and megaphone. He stands on the side of the bustling Entebbe Road going into Kampala yelling at passersby and matatus then intermittently staring intently at the bible on his wooden pulpit, recenlty I think he's run out of batteries for his megaphone. Then there’s the lady with shoulder-length braids who was next to the Nakasero market yesterday when I was buying a pineapple. Her brow furrowed with intensity, she appeared furious as she preached, suddenly whomping her bible against the tailgate of the little Toyota pick-up truck next to her with a loud metallic clank. They just seem so angry, I don’t understand what story they’re telling. Where's all the peace and love folks? I hope they’re describing Jesus getting angry in the Temple about injustice and the rich ripping off the poor…I’m not convinced.

My all-time favourite Kampala street preacher has got to be the guy who strolls around by Shoprite [a South African grocery store]. The same angry, passionate preaching, waving bible in hand. But this guy has a follower…so to speak. He’s a tall Ugandan wearing the long white Muslim dress with the traditional embroidered cap. His face is equally intense but he looks like he has some kind of transcending knowledge. He raises his right hand, his elbow bent at a right angle with each movement and he repeats again and again, “Allah akbar….Allah akbar….Allah akbar….” Whether it’s in response or in harmony with Shoprite man I don’t know. I wonder what God thinks, all these folks fighting for his attention.

I was chatting with my Ugandan family about it, who have been described as ‘serious Christians.’ They likewise think its hilarious and shared a story of a preacher waving his bible chasing a naked man around the central clock tower one day shrieking as he cast out demons from the naked running man.

Faith is everywhere around here.

Sticky Fingers

There are children everywhere in Kisenyi, but usually they’re scared of me and hesitantly curious, never wanting to get too close. But today, in a rather dodgy area of Kisenyi II, a 2 year old little guy spotted me in a store where we were doing a survey. He yelled out, “Mama! Mama, mzungu!!!” And from then on I was his property. He would let no other kid touch me, screaming at them when they got close. Under the beating sun, his sticky, sandy hand grasped tightly onto mine. He laid his sweaty cheek against my hand, his face covered in varying degrees of dried snot. My heart melted, I couldn’t help it. I guess its not made out of stone after all.