Dressing "Smart"

A source of tension has arisen between myself and my host sisters (most specifically my eldest, Sarah) regarding my favoured style of dress. It seems, strangely enough that my clothes are not stylish enough for life here in Africa—or “smart,” as being well dressed is termed. They look at my combination of ugly American (generally dirty) sandals with whichever shirt and skirt I have managed to throw on for work (usually ironed and clean!) and shake their well-groomed heads at me in shame. I have explained to them that Americans coming to Africa generally assume that they will be a safari from the moment they step off the plane, and so dress accordingly (Americans are known here for their ugly clothes, ugly shoes, and dirty backpacks). I frequently see them cleaning and polishing their shoes (which I have never had occasion to do in my life) and turning themselves out in fine fashion for any and every occasion. And I frankly admit, the majority of Uganda is better dressed than I.
So, when it came time to attend the wedding of Gloria (whose Kwanjula you have read about on a previous post), Sarah was in telling me that I would not be attending in any of my current clothing lest I shame the family name. My clothes had, as it were, been found wanting.
Doing my best to keep a good humour about the situation (because, in reality, this isn’t an attack on my person, per say, but on my clothes…) I agreed to go with Jennifer to the market to look for an appropriate “dinner dress” (which I later found, meant “prom dress”—more to come on that, though.
Jennifer was a bit taken aback by the limiting factor of my very small MCC stipend (and I really wasn’t comfortable digging into the coffers of my support money, believing that those who have been so generous have done so not with the intention of clothing me in prom dresses but rather to help the poor and needy), so she took me to Owino, the biggest market in the city, which happens to have more used clothes and shoes than I have ever seen in one place—it would be a delight to my heart, having been a thrift-store shopper from a very young age—except that looking for clothes involves marching through miles and miles of muddy stalls, being hollered at from all directions and bargaining until you are blue in the face, with nary a guarantee of success.
So we set off through the market, there were perhaps hundreds of small stalls with dresses of all types and many men and women anxious to clothe me for the occasion. Jennifer would occasionally stop (I really don’t know how she chose where to look) and we would peer upward at the hundreds of dresses hanging, trying to guess the size, occasionally taking one down, going over it to look for stains and most of the time rejecting it. Fatigue set in quickly(I have never liked shopping in the first place) as all the dresses began to look the same, and Jennifer kept asking me what exactly I wanted. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care what the dress looked like, as long as it was gotten for the specified amount of money (Ush 10,000, about the equivalent of $5.00 US, or half of my weekly stipend.) We finally located one that appeared to my size, and I would have happily taken it and run as fast as I could—but then Jennifer was pushing me into the stall (which was about five feet wide by seven feet long) and telling me to try on the dress. She had to be kidding…but she wasn’t. And so I found myself behind a sheet held up by the helpful salesman, changing into this dinner dress so that the whole of Owino market, and Jennifer, could decide if it was smart enough to wear to a wedding. This was one of those wonderful moments in your life when you believe that the world has gone mad, and you along with it. Will life ever return to normal? What is normal?
However, my efforts were in vain as the salesperson failed to drop his price to our price. In all the bargaining I had been deferring to Jennifer’s good judgement but at that point I would have been glad to pay him twice the amount of money he wanted if only I could get out of that market.
But…we kept walking, and walking. And walking. Eventually we located a dress, which now, I can’t remember why it seemed like a good idea, as it is at least four sizes too big and a style that I would never choose to wear under normal circumstances (i.e, a mirror within fifty miles of my person)..but the woman came down to our price, and overtop all my clothes (for I refused to again strip behind a sheet) it seemed ok.
So we went home. And then the next day we went back to buy shoes… (and the wedding was fine, by the way, but my camera "mysteriously" stopped working so sadly, tragically, there are NO pictures of that particular event or that dress.

Give us this day our daily Matoke

I was conversing with myself (in a non-mental illness kind of way) last week about the consistancy in my diet here. I get all four food groups regularly: bananas, potatos, rice and posho (maize flour chunks). It is very, very easy for me to slip into a mode of thinking where I am "deprived"--especially after a weekend like this last, where I was spending time with our MCC group, enjoying the richness of cheese, vegetables, whole-wheat bread and other delicacies. It is quite usual for me to go several days and see ground nut sauce at every meal, with the starch being varied according to the above-mentioned food group rotation.

However, it seems that viewing my position as being "deprived" is not the most beneficial or realisitic attitude. Jesus did not teach us to pray "give us this day our daily spinach salad, dannon yogurt with granola and stir fry with tofu." (excuse me while I pause to wipe the drool off the keyboard...) He instead taught us to pray "Give us this day our daily bread...or matoke" In other words, that which we need to be sustained. I am so thankful that I have food, but I confess it is difficult day after day to eat Matoke (steamed bananas)..and not remember the variety of foods I have eaten in the past.

So my prayer is that I would be given grace to appreciate my daily matoke (and it is true that I, like my Ugandan friends somehow feel a bit cheated at the end of the day if there isn't a rock of matoke sitting in my stomach) and not see myself as deprived, but as utterly and completely blessed.

I have so many other things to be thankful for as well: I've just finished my second day with the home-care team, visiting five patients in town who are too weak to make it to clinic. I was blessed again to be able to pray with the patients and share with them a verse I learned in Luganda (Psalm 46:1). Please pray with me for Norah, Mary, Muhummad, and Sandra. A key theme in their requests for prayer are school fees (many children above primary level don't get to attend school because of the hefty associated costs-and if they are attending the family undergoes a huge financial burden) and for relief from pain.

Because children are going back to school this week after their holidays (thus the frequent prayers regarding school fees!) the city is in a bit of upheaval. The "jam" downtown is worse than ever, and finding transport anywhere is very difficult. Our normally 45-60 minute commute home yesterday took around two hours! In addition, there was a crack-down last week by the government on vehicles not having a "speed governor" (device which won't allow the taxi to go above a certain speed- needed because of the all to frequent fatal car crashes here). The device is very expensive, and the government took the method of forcibly removing license plates from 200 vehicles one day last week in order to make them comply with the rules. The results of that decision were utter mayhem downtown; people not being able to find rides or if they found rides, being charged exorbitant amounts of money.(I had one scary moment last week in the rain, and the dark, standing the taxi park downtown trying to figure out why hundreds of people were standing around!!!) Someone, somewhere, decided at the end of the week to relent in time for kids to go back to school and the drivers now have a longer "grace period." All this to say that life is never without excitement here--even commuting is adventurous!

Keeping it real in Kampala--- : )

Kwanjula

My host family is part of the Baganda tribe, which is located mainly around the Kampala area. I expect that I'll learn a good bit about this tribe during the year that I’m here—initially I have been given a clan name (Nakito) and know only that I am not allowed to marry others from my clan, as they are all considered brothers and sisters of some variety, and that we are not supposed to eat the animal for which our clan is named (monkey).

I have had the opportunity, my first Saturday here to attend a ceremony called Quanjuba, or "introduction." In the course of a couple getting married, this ceremony is the first time that the bride-to be's family meets the family of the groom-to-be. The bride price is offered and either accepted or rejected. (Although it seems that in many cases, it truly is “ceremonial” with the understanding that the couple are going to be married; in essence, the price has already been set).

On the chosen Saturday we got up extra early because transport to the village where the introduction was to be held was a bit of a journey, and Jennifer and I were to meet up with other relatives in the Kampala area to share transport to the site. We arrived at the appointed time but ended up waiting several hours while relatives accumulated—but no bus arrived. At some point a "take-charge" sort of woman called Dorothy walked out the road and flagged down one of the passing taxi busses (Matatus) that comprise the majority of public transport here. After convincing the driver that we were willing to pay a worthy price for his services, he ejected his other passengers (I have no idea where they might have been going or how they eventually got there) and we climbed aboard. It seems though, that his bus was not equipped with a particular piece of required equipment so we took the "bonus" route to the village around any possible police check points—a one hour trip took several hours. In addition, it was discovered that there were varying opinions on where exactly the village was located to begin with, so there was friendly banter at every turn debating the merits of each possibility. Much to my surprise, we actually arrived at the site for the ceremony. The family's compound was large with several huge tents set up festooned with bows and ribbons. There were couches decorated for the elders in each family, and several hundred chairs for the relatives and friends of the bride, and a goodly number for the grooms' family as well.

Blessedly we were fed as soon as we arrived (since it was now around 1:00pm), in one corner of the compound several women were slaving over large vats of Matoke (steamed plaintains), rice, beef stew and the delicacy I soon had the chance to enjoy- cow intestine. Yum.

I was taken to a small partitioned area made of cement and instructed to enter with a plastic jug of water and bathe. Bathe? With what? And what for, I had already showered that morning. The ride wcoalitionty, but I couldn't figure what exactly I was supposed to be doing. Everyone else seemed to be bathing though, so I spent what I hoped was an appropriate amount of time in the "shower" washed my face and hoped it would be enough.

I was then taken by the arm into a darkened garage full of women in all stages of dress. The traditional women's attire for the Baganda people is a "bisuti." It consists of a robe-like dress with puffy/pointy shoulders and several yards of material that gather at one side to create a ruffle- the outfit is held together by a belt about six inches wide generally made from stiff, shiny fabric that ties across your middle and hangs attractively down the front. Once in the garage it was requested that I remove my clothes. AH! Not sure what would happen if I refused, I grudgingly stripped. Several women gathered around me and began wrapping layers of cloth around my middle, tying it several times with lengths of string. The purpose of this “undergarment” as far as I can tell was to increase the size of my bum thereby increasing my attractiveness. Following the layers of cloth came the bisuti- it took them a while to figure out how to tie the belt around my middle. I was then given shoes that were several sizes too big because my tevas were apparently not "smart" enough for the occasion--so i spent the rest of the day tottering around on these shoes, trying not to drag the too-long bisuti in the mud and dirt--generally feeling about five years old!

I was marched out to the tent, much to the amusement of all three hundred guests- who apparently appreciated that a "mazungu" (white person) would go to the effort of putting on a bisuti. The master of ceremonies thanked me several times during his pre-ceremony banter with the crowd, and then continued to make reference to me throughout the ceremony. The only way I knew he was talking about me was that suddenly everyone in the crowd would turn and smile/laugh at me. It is a good thing I'm not self-conscious at all (ha, ha).

At some point Jennifer and I went and joined the female relatives of the bride to be in the house. As Jennifer is a somehow- cousin of Gloria, and as am somehow related to Jennifer due to my current living arrangement, we were to participate in the ceremony. After the platoon of cars arrived carrying Ronald (the groom-to be) and his entourage, Gloria's aunts lined up and danced out of the house towards the relatives to greet and "choose" Ronald from the sea of males. Greeting here involves (for women) a bow, and several rounds of "how are you? "we are fine" "thank you for the work you are doing" "fine, thank you." We got to parade out with the rest of the girl cousins and sisters, bow and greet (in Luganda!) the male relatives of Ronald.

At that point my part of the ceremony was over, and I was able to enjoy the festivities. I watched the parade (and it was a parade!) of gifts that constituted the bride price-in addition to a cow and a goat, several-hundred pound bags of sugar, flour and rice, new clothes for everyone in the family, baskets (no-bushels!) of fruits and vegetables, vats of special Ugandan brew and crates upon crates of soda. By the end of the procession, the pile was so high I could no longer see Gloria behind the pile of gifts. The cow, meanwhile, stool placidly by (unaware that he played such an important role in the life of this new couple!)

The bride price was (of course) accepted, the certificate of transfer signed by Gloria’s father, and the meal commenced. I found myself in a crush of people vying for a front spot in the queue. Not really believing that I could be where I found myself (as darkness closed in, smashed face-to back in a line of people waiting for food in the middle of a village- in Uganda!). Food was piled on my plate (being dark, I couldn’t figure out exactly what I was eating but dutifully- I complied and ate.

We all (after awhile) piled back into our bus for the long ride home. It turns out that our bus did not have functioning windshield wipers, and as it had been raining for the first time since I arrived in Uganda, it made the drive all the more exciting (which I got to enjoy fully from my front-row seat). Dorothy made the trip all the more fun by leading the group in a rousing series of praise choruses for the entirety of the hour and a half home. My favourite song was "This is the day" which they adjusted (or added to) by singing, "this is the taxi/that the Lord has made" "this is the driver/that the Lord has made!" and "this is the country/that the Lord has made."

Truly!

Week 3

Friends, I had every intention of being diligent about posting at least once a week, and writing well-thought out epistles about my life here. It isn't going to happen!
Since I have started working it seems to take a minor miracle to get anywhere near the internet, for reasons of electricity being on only every 24 hours and a limited number of places to access said internet. In addition, this new "work five days a week" thing is pretty difficult for me-- it turns out I really miss the old 12 hour shift program : ) I am TIRED! Life has pretty much been chugging alongthough, no sickness (praise the LORD) only minor side effects related to my malaria med that will hopefully clear up soon...

I spent last weekend relaxing/recovering from the busy week (I had my first MCC meeting at the end of week 2, enjoying the company of my MCC team and the benefit of some more orientation to life here--ie, we were shown where the "white people" grocery stores were so we can find things like cheese and ice cream if needed this year ; )I also continued the laundry learning process, which requires several buckets and amazing amounts of soap--and tenacity. If I didn't have assistance, let me tell you I would take days to get my clothes clean-and they wouldn't really be clean.

On Sunday I went with some of the other mazungoos (white people) that I have met at the hospital to meet this group of orphans in town. They have a brass band that is organized by the eldest of the boys, live in a garage and generally take care of themselves. I haven't gotten to hear them play yet, but I watched them play football(soccer) and in general enjoyed their company. They are trying to get NGO status at this point and are hoping that I and one of the other guys will give them a hand. Being a novice at Ugandan burocracy, this could take a serious amount of prayer. I am excited about spending more time with them and hearing them play this weekend-it sounds like they do several shows a week at various churches and other venues-- from what I hear they are fantastic. Abbey (the "director") has them practicing 3-4 hours a day, since most of them don't have money for school fees and so aren't enrolled anywhere.

Work has been typical for a first week in a very busy HIV/AIDS clinic in Uganda : ) I am very impressed with everyone I'm working with at the clinic--I couldn't even get near the nurses until today (they move to fast and have no time for talking!) I was oriented to general policies and clinic schedule on monday by Marian (who has been a counselor at the center since the HIV/AIDS epidemic began) and tuesday and wednesday were mostly spent bumbling around, helping out with vitals, weights, paperwork and patient flow where I was needed (but probably mostly getting in the way). Thursdays are study trial clinic day(patients are enrolled in a particular trial and come back for checkups and refills of their study med), so I was able to help with dispensing meds--given that every med here has a different name than I have previously known and that the meds are not what you would call "organized"- and the doctors have different abbreviations here-- I needed a lot of help! The biggest thrill though, was when I was allowed to draw blood! Nice to handle a needle again.. : ) Tomorrow is ART (antiretroviral therapy) clinic day- which judging by last friday, is the most hectic/stressful of the week. I'll probably be dispensing Septrine (DSBactrim) again, and taking BPs.

I'm not sure what I thought my work here would be like...but I'll get used to it! In a few weeks I'm going to go with a group of doctors out to a village and help with a clinic there. By then hopefully I'll have learned the equiptment and procedures a little better so I can help with IV meds and procedures. We'll see!

Thinking about the last three weeks (and it seems like it has been much longer than that) I am so thankful for God's caretaking and mercy as I have been adjusting. HE has blessed me with people supporting and encouraging me everywhere I turn. My biggest frustrations have been feeling inadequate for the tasks I have before me (which often aren't even clear) and I have been having to continually ask for humility and patience as I learn new definitions of service and what MCC calls "ministry of presence." Another MCC worker here reminded me this week that the relationships I am building with my coworkers, family and (eventually) patients, are the most important investments I am making--coming from a task oriented profession and lifestyle, it is hard to feel "unproductive"--but I am trusting that God's will will be done in this place and in this year.