New Year's Blog

Holiday was a great time for a journey to the islands. I’m trying on a new glove of writing, something more familiar and entertaining rather than a “Mother Stork regurgitation” project. Also, I want to thank everyone who contributed bits of holiday love, I’ll make sure to bring some Ugandan treasures back with me in  . . wow, this year! How exciting. Onto the goods . . .

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Our Ugandan Airways travel agent said the flight was direct. How she manipulated the truth. A two-hour flight stretched into the abyss . . . four and half hour. We stopped in Kilimanjaro and Dar El Salaam before finally getting to our island paradise. I won’t bring up the daycare that was our flight except to say that it someone forgot a binky. I still have nightmares of children screaming like death was their neighbor.

Our first night in Zanzibar, half the group with lost reservations and somewhere unknown on the island, Greg, Dan, Lisa and I decide to have a night swim. Our first journey into the Indian Ocean, waiting the standard thirty minutes after eating calamari and shrimp; a dream to our landlocked Ugandan lives. In our swimming “costumes”, we run for the water. I gallop through the shallowness until I make it out about 300 feet, the water still as deep as my ankles.

Looking back at the shore, winded, Lisa suggests, “Let’s lay in the water. I’m getting tired.” In agreement, we all float ourselves as we look to the starry skies.

“This is awesome. I never see this many stars in Uganda,” Greg observes, but I can only hear his muffled words underwater. I feel like a child half-submerged in the bathtub, not in the ocean. Then a pricking sensation.

“No, this is painful. Is anyone else being bitten?” I ask, standing to scratch my back. “What the hell is biting me?”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Lisa agrees. “I think I’m done. Splash my back to get whatever is biting off?”

“Only if you return the favor. I can’t wait to take a shower.” And so we make the twenty-minute walk back to the hotel, scratching the whole way.

“Are you kidding?” Greg screams from the bathroom. “The water in the shower is salty!”

“Bullshit,” Dan responds.

“No, I’m serious.”

Zanzibar was supposed to be the exotic escape from our Uganda: hot showers, luxurious living, seafood, ocean, and relaxation. By day three, our hair started turning green. Sometimes you cannot run far enough to escape reality; to escape home.

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            Flying into Entebbe, I feel a sense of peace unexpected in Uganda. Zanzibar was a great holiday from our culturally appropriate lives. Sure, I lost my camera and wallet, vomited to ring in the New Year (don’t trust Long Islands when the bartender doesn’t know the location of the drink’s namesake), had a spat with the two volunteers I am closest with, got an offer to stay and teach English on the beach at a hospitality NGO and stuffed myself full of seafood and ice cream. Gliding over the red dirt roads and lushly green grass, I was home: a place where I know the rules of living; where I know the language; where I know how to take public transportation. Leaving was the best thing I’ve done for my Ugandan life. I no longer count the days until I leave the village to go to town. I feel content at home. I reached a new level of patience. I trust myself.

Part of the reason I joined Peace Corps was to figure out who I want to be. In the first year, I figured out who others wanted me to become: a philanthropist for my community and a confidante for other volunteers. However, I fell into old habits and became other’s expectation. I became a mirror, being the reflection others wanted or needed. I became so absorbed with other people that I forgot to ask me what do I want? This year I live for myself. It is my New Year’s commitment. (I avoid resolutions because they seem to expire after three weeks time.) It’s good to be home.

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            Oweeno Market is my glory. Complete chaos. Opposite of the tranquil village I live in. Located in Old Kampala, you walk into what looks like a sprawling refugee camp and find an unending maze of clothes, hats, shoes, dresses, curtains, etcetera. Anything you imagine waits for you at Oweeno, if you can brave the crowds of vendors holding your arms, groping your midsection, the quick hands of pickpockets and the shouts of “Muzungu” or “Obama” (a welcome change post-election). I thrive in the environment and seem to have the direction to find the best deals. 

“You should really think about trying on a pair of Diesel jeans,” I peer pressure Eric as I navigate towards the Birkenstock stall that seems to be every volunteer’s dream. (I’m the exception. And that pair of Chaco’s I brought now act as doorstops.) “Who knows, you might like them.”

            “But I don’t—“ Eric began only to be interrupted by Kelly.

            “ ‘I don’t wear labels’ says the man as he looks through the pile of labeled Birkenstocks.” Kelly, Eric and I were fast friends the very first day of Peace Corps staging. Kelly and I share the love of everything cosmopolitan. Eric thought I was his competition for Kelly’s affection until he put two and two together to find three. How queer! After a year on opposite sides of Uganda and a glorious week of humor together, we weaved through Oweeno with renewed joy for our Ugandan lives.

“You’re trying them on. It won’t kill you.”

Leaving Eric behind, Kelly and I walked deeper into the stalls. We pass WHAM! shirts and logo tees with printings reading “Of course we come from monkeys, just look at your mom” causing a quick giggle; enough interest for the vendor to grab Kelly’s arm. “You pay now.”

“How do you find what you’re looking for in this place?” she questions as she rips her arm free and gives the look of death to the perpetrator, all in one motion without breaking her sentence. We’re used to this kind of behavior.

            I smile and hold up a knowing finger. “Watch and learn. DIESEL JEANS! What size is Eric’s waist?” I quickly ask.

            “30? Yeah, 30.”

            “DIESEL JEANS! SIZE 30! DIESEL JEANS! Not the most proper way of shopping, but it works. Trust me. I have 6 pairs of Diesels at home in the village.” I wink to Kelly.

Within a matter of three minutes, the vendors swarm us offering their goods, “Obama, you take these. Try these. Perfect.” The easiest part of the process is finding what you want. Buying takes practice. They start at insanely high prices (higher if you happen to be white) and you barter your way down to a suitable agreement. In the case of Diesel jeans, that means 20,000/=, or $10.

Eric catches up to us in time to see his options. “I’m not sure. Diesel jeans are tight. I like room to move.”

“Here. I like these. Try them on,” Kelly hands over a stack of three pairs.

“Where, though?” Eric looks around the market, searching out a private place to drop trou.

“Ssebo, he wants to try. You cover him or we go,” I get gruff with the vendors. It is how things work. Sure enough, two guys run over with sheets and hold up a makeshift dressing room for Eric to try on each pair of jeans in the middle of traffic. With each pair, the men drop the curtain to let Kelly and I investigate and decide, as if Eric can’t possibly make his own decision.

Deciding on the third pair, we get the vendor to reduce his price from 50,000/= to the standard 20,000/= and Eric bags the jeans. Then another man comes and holds up a pair of the most ridiculously fab Diesels: the denim has white clouds over a baby blue sky. I’d buy them if they weren’t size 36. Back in the eighth grade they would be perfect but a bit large for me now. I humor the man as we move for the street exit, “Ssebo. I am not married. If I buy these and go to the disco, people will laugh at me and tell me the sun shines out of my ass.” Everyone within earshot laughs at my joke. Turns out humor translates.

“Hey, Eric. What happened to no wearing labels?” Kelly smirks with a winning jab.

“Shut up, you.”

“May I remind you that I’m approaching a year since I could have these little showcases of romance. I may have to kill you both if you continue.” I joke as we emerge back into the daylight. Back home.

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The Ugandan school calendar runs from February to December with three terms lasting about three months each and about a month of break between. The big break is 2 months. I am closing down the big break now. The first week after term closed, Umeme (the power company) came and wired power from our poles to the high school down the road. Something happened in that process leaving us without power. I expected a quick fix. I mean, it couldn’t take too long to figure out the issue. Could it?

After five days floating in and out of consciousness on my cold cement floor to escape the massive heat, I went to Kampala for PC training. I left thinking I’d come home to find the lights on but, a week later, I came home to find the only thing “on” was burnt grass on my couch, meaning the village burned every inch of surviving grass.  I swept and returned to the life of floored semi-consciousness. Two weeks passed and I left for Zanzibar, saying a silent prayer that Umeme come and fix the “fucking thing” or that a miracle happens and the power restore itself. After all, if the geckos can grow a new tail, the power can step up to the challenge.

Sure, I came home fresh and inspired, at peace with my new Ugandan life. Well, not new; it’s been a year. Despite the awakening, I still said a silent prayer for power as I opened my door. None to be found on the other side. Instead of taking to the floor, I started biking around my community and forcing myself on friends, acquaintances, and random strangers. Let me lay in your shade. Tell me about yourself. Feed me. Will you be my friend? The days flew by into two full weeks. I started thinking I’d be totally fine if power never came back. . . That is a lie.

I sat myself under my friend Yusuf’s tree and we started discussing the usual topic: Obama. Yusuf is a great man, helping me not electrocute myself when doing electrical work on my house. I asked him for assistance because I bore witness to my father shaking with that scary light-in-his-eyes every time we put up new light fixtures or ceiling fans. “Mom, Dad did it again!” I was nervous for good reason. My big new idea is wiring power to my kitchen/dining area. “Would you mind helping me again with my house?”

“Sure. You have your wires, socket and tower clips?” he knows his stuff.

“I’m going to town on Wednesday to gather everything I need. I figure we can use the school’s ladder to put the wire through the gap in the walls.” My walls go all the way up to the ceiling, which is a good things to isolate bat intrusions but not when you want to put a wire to the other side of your house. Luckily, the point where the roof sheets meet has an opening just large enough to run a wire.

“When do you want to work on it?”

“Thursday?” I pose as an option.

“Sure, let’s go look at the situation,” he mumbles as he goes to his bike, clearly on a mission to maison d’emusugut. Yusuf likes to visit my house because he knows I have bananas (the sweet ones, not the green ones baked and mashed; sick) and lemonade (well, it is Crystal Lite). We cycle through the dust storms pulled up by the winds on the dirt roads until we reach the currently abandoned compound that is my neighborhood. Yusuf crosses his arms, “No problem. The way it will pass is really high, but we’ll be careful. No death for us. How long have you been powerless?” He says as beads of sweat drip down his brow, pointing to the fan that isn’t oscillating or blowing cool air.

“Two months? Wow. Two months. I don’t mind usually, but sometimes I feel like offing myself I’m so bored. Especially at night.”

“Let us go look at the transformer,” he says seriously as he again walks to his bike and sets off towards the power pole. I quickly lock up and pedal hard to catch him. We throw our bikes to the ground and climb the nearby mango tree until we’re eye-to-eye with the transformer. “Hmm,” Yusuf exudes an all-knowing sigh, “I am not sure what to do next.”

“How about this one?” I say blindly as I jiggle a wire, causing sparks to fly about three feet in every direction. “Nope.”

“Try that one,” he points to a small frayed wire. I wasn’t sure if he was too afraid to touch it himself. Was I the sacrificial lamb? Hell, I went to church yesterday for my neighbor’s grandbaby’s baptism. I had faith on my side. I jiggle the wire and nothing happens until my phone vibrates.

“Yoga?” I answer.

“Ejai akim. Ejai akim. There is power. There is power,” my neighbor screams so loud I move the phone a few inches from my ear.

“No, no death for us. Only light. Light in your home. We want you to be happy at home.” Yusuf laughs as he jumps from the flowering mango tree.

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NOTE: New camera coming . . . pictures resume soon.

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From my life to yours:

Book: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell

Show: Gossip Girl because one of it's reviews declares it "Mind-blowingly inappropriate."

Tune: “Bag Lady” by Erykah Badu

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Love,

Omoding

(the “H” is silent)