Back to the Mzungu life

After a wonderful two months of traveling to California, Colorado, DC, NYC, Rome, Amsterdam, and of course Breda, it is strange to find myself back in such familiar surroundings in Kampala. I arrived bright and early on Friday, pleased to find that all my luggage made the journey successfully (in addition to my problems in Europe, I was a little concerned when switching planes in Nairobi, as there were hundreds of suitcases strewn about the tarmac). I was also pleased to find a nice taxi man waiting for me with a Kelly Fish sign in hand. I thought we had my name down, but good old James the Taxi Man kept calling me Kerry – a problem that I frequently encountered in Rwanda and with Ethiopian Airlines. Try as I might to be Kelly, I will probably surrender to Kerry (which of course is a lovely name, Kerri). After less than 5 minutes, Taxi Man and I digressed into the American election discussion, where as usual, foreigners seem to know more about our political system than the average American. I also discussed Bushy in length in Europe (in Holland they have pins that say tell an American to vote). The world over has a stake in what happens in the US elections – I am sorry to plug political participation and responsibility, but I am confronted by it so regularly that I can’t help myself. I personally have my eye on socially progressive Holland for political asylum should the election go the way I fear (Anke, I am hoping you can be my sponsor).

Back to Uganda. Just on the drive to Kampala from the airport, I am reminded of how much there is always to take in on a daily basis - the beautiful banana trees, the smell of burning (of what, I do not know), the man in a nice suit attempting to haul a huge load of clothes on his bike, the children playing with tire wheels, the shack for charging car batteries, the bored looking woman manning a solitary phone booth… As comfortable as I instantly felt back in Kampala, I was not ready to take on the mzungo identity again. For those of you rusty on your Kiswahili, mzungo is the arbitrary term used for all white people. Fight as I did against this identity in Rwanda, it was truly in vain. Some have tried to convince me that it does not have a negative connotation, but I am not yet persuaded.

So I am hanging out in my mzungo hostel, swatting mosquitos, and devising my next step and taking care of some logistics. On my first night I took a walk to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. I was the only female patron (and only mzungo, but I think that is a given), as several men were gathered, drinking Bell Lager, and taking turns at pool. I sat at a table enjoying the people watching opportunities, as a cute little girl tried to woo me with her dance routine. The waitress kindly informed me that the girl wanted me to take her with me. I asked where to, but got no response. The girl’s father appeared to want to send her off with me too – he kept whispering for her to come to my table and shake my hand. After a number of dances and handshakes, the girl eventually left with her dad. I waited a good hour for my rice and chicken to appear, but I was happy with good old African beer – now that’s the good life I had missed.

On Saturday, I met with Sasha (and his girlfriend), with whom I have been in email contact with for a few months. It was a gorgeous day and I wanted to take in the sights on the way to our meeting place (Blue Mango for those of you familiar with Kampala), so I hopped on a boda boda or motorcycle taxi. I know this isn’t the safest mode of transportation, but couldn’t resist (especially after a man on the street dared to threaten my pride by insinuating that I should take a regular taxi instead of the boda boda). I bargained the driver to 3000 Ugandan shillings, less than $2. What I didn’t realize is that I was going to a destination much farther than I had anticipated – but it was nice to see more of the city and I am still impressed with how Kampala towers over Kigali (and of course I tipped the driver extra). So Sasha is in Gulu frequently, as his organization is partnering with CMPS at the University of Gulu (where I am based) – the best part is that they will be setting up an office with high speed internet that I will attempt to exploit. After a light dinner, I joined Sasha and two others to the cultural center where we watched some African dance troops. In African style, there was a power outage (there was a generator, but apparently not a big enough one for the lighting effects), so the show got a late start (or in African time, the show started early), but was interesting nonetheless. A Ugandan troop opened for an award-winning Nigerian troop. I was expecting your traditional run of the mill African dancing (which I love), but encountered interpretive dance sans music with the Ugandan troop. If you are going to be interpreting (and I do my own interpretive dance from time to time, as many of you have witnessed), I still need to hear some music – especially as the show started with four male dancers zipped up in large shopping bags. Really. These men danced all bunched up in these shopping bags for a good ten minutes. And there was just silence. It was difficult to hide my grin and I looked around me to feel out others reactions. Thankfully the Nigerian troop managed to redeem the cultural experience. Nonetheless, a nice Saturday evening.

A lazy Sunday, making some calls to Gulu to see if I can secure a place to stay and then off to a resort swimming pool on Lake Victoria with my new Dutch friend (though there is no replacing Anke). For whatever reason, I thought I would be able to spontaneously show up in Gulu and find a nice little guesthouse. Well, it so happens that there is a big conference this week for International Peace Day. This is good, as it will give me a great opportunity to acquaint myself with Gulu, the conflict, and what’s being done, but it also is drawing in many others meaning there is a real room scarcity. Ummm…a soon to be colleague from the University (Lina) gave me a call this evening and it looks like she just might have secured me a room.