You are currently browsing the monthly archive for March, 2008.
I want to apologize for the lack of pictures on my recent blog posts. This is due to two major factors:
1. 1. I dropped my camera and the screen went all funky. It’s currently back in the US being fixed. Maybe.
2. 2. I would love to dash around saving other people’s pictures on my flash drive and post them, but we haven’t had power for two weeks (making laptop use sacred) and when I try to upload pictures onto the blog the internet connection makes me cry. A woman can only hit ‘retry’ so many times before she becomes violent and weepy.
However, we are on the way to getting internet in the village (huzzah!). It won’t be fast, but at least I won’t be racing against that damned little clock ticking away as I type. I will post pictures, even if it takes me all night. Until then, use your imagination.
I love Bear Grylls, quirky English star of “Man vs. Wild” on the Discovery Channel. I love his funny accent. I love his penchant for getting naked on the show. Mostly, I love his unshakeable schoolboy optimism in the face of adversity. I like to make fun of his catchphrase: “It’s not ideal.” Example:
“Right, I’ve just jumped into this pit of icy water. I seem to have dislocated my right shoulder, and I’m fairly sure that a killer seal has hold of my left leg. The bank is too slippery for me to grab a hold of, and I can feel my brain cells shutting down from the cold. It’s not ideal, but I think I can get through it.”
If someone created a spectrum to measure adventurousness in humans, Bear Grylls would be at one end, and I’d be pretty darn close to the other. I wouldn’t be right at the end– I did come to live in rural Africa for a year– but I’d be close. People generally consider me a city girl. You know, concrete jungle rather than real jungle.
My experience rafting on the Nile River last weekend sort of blew that perception out of the water. Literally.
There’s a town at the source of the Nile in central Uganda called Jinga. According to most guidebooks it is fast becoming the adventure capital of Eastern Africa. This is mostly because of the crazy-ass white water rafting available on the river. The dam at the source creates a series of class 3 to class 5 rapids within the first thirty kilometers of the river which are perfect for rafting. Although, I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘rafting.’ If you’re the sort of person who likes to stay in the raft, then I suggest you find another stretch of river.
The Canadians talked me into it. Especially Mackenzie. He’s the only guy in the group of nursing students we have staying at the guest house right now, and he is gung ho. He’d be approaching Bear on the spectrum. We squished into a matatu and all headed down to Jinga last weekend. We stayed at a beautiful campsite over-looking a set of falls along the river. They stopped being so pretty when I learned that I was going to be going over them in a rubber dingy the next day. To compensate for my growing nerves, I drank. I also met Andrew, an extremely amiable and outgoing American who explained that he was “drinking his way around Africa.” I liked him immediately, and we decided that he would be in our boat the next day. It also helped that he was big and strong and had done this sort of thing before.
The next morning I was definitely hung over, as were Andrew and Mackenzie. We were committed though, and climbed onto the truck along with 21 other tourists, looking dubiously at the large orange rafts towing behind us. I was sitting next to an English man named Gary. He was 60, wore glasses, and looked like I could have broken him over one knee. Gary only learned to swim last November. I began to put things in perspective: if Gary could do this, I could. At the rafting center I drank two large cups of coffee and tried to avoid watching the video of previous rafting trips playing on the TV screens. The movie-maker had added a jaunty indie-rock soundtrack, but I wasn’t fooled. Those people looked freakin terrified.
Ruben, the manager of the place, stood up and gave us a sort of rambling introduction to the day. He was from New Zealand and looked like he drank more than I did the night before. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, which I usually appreciate in a person. But I was freaked out and hanging on his every word, and found his little quips disconcerting. I also expected a serious training scenario, maybe with some large colorful posters and instructional videos. I was mistaken. Ruben informed us that we would get all the safety information we needed on the boat, and told us to go and get our lifejackets. We must have looked like a herd of nervous sheep, white and bleating, bumping awkwardly into each other as we searched for a life jacket that fit. A young Ugandan man helped me get strapped into my jacket. He smiled widely:
“My name is Joseph. I’m one of the safety kayakers. Later today I may save your life.”
“Well, uh, thank you in advance,” I responded.
The whole operation was so low-key. It turned out Ruben was the guide for our boat, and when we got to the river he nonchalantly instructed us to carry the raft down to the water and jump in. I grasped my paddle, sat awkwardly on the edge, and listened avidly. He seriously could have told me to stand on my head and sing Jingle Bells and I would have done it if it meant I wasn’t going to die. He gave some pretty simple safety instructions and went through some basic commands: forward paddle, back paddle, get down. It wasn’t rocket science. Then he told us all to practice falling out of the boat, keeping hold of the rope that ran along the side of the raft. We all looked at each other awkwardly, and I finally took the plunge. As I rose to the surface Ruben was looking down at me: “Good, now try actually holding on to the rope.” Turns out that holding on to a rope is a skill I fundamentally lack. It was a deficiency that would haunt me for the rest of the day.
Rafting is not a graceful experience. I, in particular, struggled with getting myself from the water back into the boat. Usually I waited until someone was available to grab the shoulders of my life jacket and yank me in. Several embarrassing things can happen at this moment. First, your wet, loose shorts can slide down a foot or two and leave you spread-eagled over the side of the raft, basically mooning everyone. Second, the person pulling you can fall backwards and sit down, leaving your nose planted pretty firmly in his or her crotch. Third, you can writhe around awkwardly on the raft side and floor for far too long, sustaining several paddle wounds, before you are actually upright. Combine these three, and as Ruben said: “Some people would pay good money to see this.”
Simply speaking, the rapids themselves were the most intense things I’ve ever experienced. The pattern for each was similar. As we approached all the friendly banter would cease, and Ruben would begin telling us which way to paddle. We were like a pack of eager boy scouts, paddling our little hearts out. Once we were on a line that Ruben liked we would paddle straight into the rapid then he would yell ‘get down,” meaning crouch in the center of the boat and hold onto the outside rope. At this point the raft would start bucking like a bull on speed, large quantities of water would engulf me, and I would scream manically until it was all over. On our first class 5 rapid we hit the center wave and got caught in this weird surfing limbo on top of it for about thirty seconds. Huge waves were pouring in on top of us and we were all holding on for dear life. As Devon succinctly said: “I thought I was going to drown, in the boat.” Looking at the footage later that night, we saw Ruben waving his paddle around and bouncing on the back of the boat, whooping like some demented cowboy.
We had our first flip on a class four rapid called Chop Suey. I definitely knew the raft was flipping for about five seconds before I was actually in the water, and I also definitely failed to hold onto the rope. As we went under I felt something connect pretty powerfully with my upper lip, but then I just focused on getting my head above the surface. The water was churning with waves and bodies, but I managed to get my head above and see that I was reasonably near the raft. I swam over and grabbed a hold of the elusive rope. Ruben had already climbed on top and flipped it back over in a matter of seconds. Andrew climbed in smoothly, and then they set about yanking the rest of us in. I was a little bruised and battered, but I was exhilarated.
In between rapids there were long stretches of calm. We could jump out and swim, play balancing games, chat. Andrew and Ruben exchanged humorous rafting stories. Andrew laughed his big booming laugh and swam around pulling everyone else out of the raft whenever possible. We had splashing contests with the other boats. We all got intensely sun burnt, especially our knees. We all laughed at the Spanish dude who had worn a Speedo rafting (“No nut-huggers allowed,” according to Ruben).
Late in the afternoon a dramatic thunderstorm rolled in. The cold rain pelted the water and everything turned slate grey. We had one rapid left: a class 5 called “The Bad Place.” Speaks for itself, really. To get to this rapid we had to get out and carry the boat overland, past a class 6 rapid that led into The Bad Place. We all stood on the muddy bank, hunched over and shivering, watching the driving rain and the lightening and the roiling, thundering water. It looked like the Apocalypse. I was cold and tired and dehydrated. Devon was freaked out after the last flip, and didn’t want to get back in the boat. We all gathered around and persuaded and entreated and implored. Emotion was high and the setting dramatic. Even Andrew had stopped laughing. Ruben had been telling us for the last half hour that his goal was to get us through The Bad Place with no funny business, no flips, no nothing. Now he stepped it up a notch. He told Devon that he rarely made promises, but he promised that the raft wasn’t going to flip on this rapid. She finally agreed to come. I walked away with the calm certainty that we were going to flip and I was probably going to drown. I even said a little prayer. For real.
We flipped about twenty seconds after we pushed off from the bank. The rope wasn’t even a concept in a corner of my mind. I was gone, sucked away and hurtling along underwater. My eyes were open but all I could see were brown swirls and bubbles. I had no idea which way was up, or how to get my head above the water.
It was not ideal.
Just as a giant bubble of panic rose in my throat my head popped above the surface. I was immediately confronted by another giant wave and took a shallow breath before my head went under again. This continued for a few seconds, and in between waves I panted and looked around for somebody, anybody. I couldn’t see any rafts, and I couldn’t figure out how far downstream I was. I finally saw a kayaker in the distance plucking Mackenzie out of the water. I raised an arm and began timidly calling for help. Think Kate Winslet in Titanic when that one boat comes back and she’s all frozen. Then I saw another kayaker close-by, and began ineffectively swimming towards him. He spotted me and paddled over. I grabbed onto the front of the boat and wrapped my legs around it in yet another awkward rafting position. I lay back in the water and stared up at the dark grey sky. I stifled an urge to laugh. My panting began to subside and I looked up, right into Joseph’s smiling face as he paddled me back to safety.
“Hey!” I said, “You told me you were going to save my life.”
His smile widened. “And I did,” he said.
That seriously happened. Even I wouldn’t make up something that cheesy. Bear Grylls eat your heart out.
Religion is a funny thing, I thought to myself last Sunday. I was trekking up a mountainside behind a young girl who was decked out in her Sunday best: a silky peach party dress, a silky peach bonnet, and an AK-47, meticulously constructed out of banana leaves and hanging from her arm at a jaunty angle. We were followed by her two sisters, who were similarly dressed and armed. I was confused as to the purpose of the faux-guns, but my enquires on the subject were not successful:
“It’s for protection,” laughed the girl’s father.
I nervously laughed along, trying to mask my bewilderment. Did we really need protection? Was there a real gun inside the banana leaves? Are people around here actually fooled by guns made of leaves? Cynthia looked back at me and shrugged, and then we both concentrated on the increasingly tricky footing of our hike.
We had been invited by Doreen, a P7 student, to attend church with her and her family. We had heard stories about this church from a previous volunteer and so we were aware that the congregation would expect one of us to give the sermon. My participation in organized religion has dwindled to once a year: Christmas mass. I generally spend this service muttering along to prayers, like lyrics to a song I only half know, and anxiously looking around to see if I should be sitting or kneeling. Last Christmas my dad and I were randomly asked to present gifts at the alter during the service. I’m not 100% clear on the significance of this ritual, but it involves walking up the center aisle holding a tray with two little jars on it, and handing it to the priest. Seems simple, but I was shaking with nervousness, frantically wondering whether some sort of verbal acknowledgment was expected: “Amen,” or “Here you go,” or whether I should give one of those little curtsey things when I handed the tray off. As my dad and I headed off to do our duty you’d have thought my family had front row tickets to the greatest comedy show on earth. They could barely contain their guffaws, and my mom was actually crying with laughter by the time we made the long walk up the center aisle and back to our pew. So, you can imagine my consternation at the idea of giving an entire sermon. Thankfully Charlee has experience with this sort of thing, and said she’d step up to the plate.
When the appointed Sunday rolled around, Doreen and her sister were at the Guest House at 8:30am to pick us up. Headmaster Thomas came along too, and we all set off down the sunny road. Thirty minutes later we reached the next trading center, Bunamubi, turned off the main road, and began climbing. And so I found myself, scrambling along the steep mountain trail, behind Doreen and her foliage firearm. The Ugandan ‘just’ is infamous. Everything’s always ‘just’ around the next corner, which can translate into anywhere from five minutes to an hour. About twenty minutes into the climb, the pastor said that the church was ‘just’ over there, and gestured vaguely with his arm. About an hour later, we reached.
The church was a standard Ugandan building of clay and cow dung on a wooden frame. The majority of the congregation sat on simple wooden benches. The children were all piled at the front, sitting and laying on straw mats. Four wooden chairs had been covered in a lacy cloth, and sat in pride of place at the front. These were clearly the white people seats. First, there were a series of musical performances. The point of the banana leaf guns became apparent as a line of children entered through the back door, snaking up the center aisle. They all brandished variations of Doreen’s AK-47 and chanted in their plaintive voices: “We are the army of Christ and we shall not fear.” They assembled in front of us and continued their song, stepping and singing as two boys played the drums. My eyes dropped to foot level: old Nikes, bare feet, the type of clunky black platforms my sister made me swear I’d never wear. The girls’ dresses reminded me of the party dresses I’m pretty sure I wore in the 80s. Later they got rid of the guns, and continued with a skit about Jesus’ car, which happens to be big enough to fit all passengers.
After the music it was time for Charlee to shine. I have rarely been as impressed as I was with her composure and assurance at that moment. Right as she began to speak, the rain clouds rolled in and water began pelting the aluminum roof. It instantly became basically impossible to hear her, but she continued above the din, with the pastor valiantly translating beside her. The congregation strained their necks to hear. She was silhouetted against the grey light poring in from the open side door. Through the rain drops we looked onto a sprawling vista of hills and valleys, peppered with banana trees and raw red patches of clay and tin-roofed houses. Some of the children were getting sleepy, and had curled up together on the mats. A little girl fingered my sandal straps gently as she began to doze. Charlee directed us all to first Corinthians: “Love is patient, love is kind . . .” Like I said, religion generally isn’t my thing, but at that moment I think my mind opened a little to something holy.
After the sermon we went through the “introduction and appreciation” of the visitors. I kept mine short and sweet and threw in the obligatory “God bless.” Then we had what I can only describe as a dance break while everyone chanted the gospel and boogied around. During the extensive final prayers I became engaged in a game of peek-a-boo with the young lady next to me. Then I worried that the entire congregation would see me for the sacrilegious hussy I am. Of course everyone was nothing but kind.
After tea at the Deacon’s house and the long downward climb we found ourselves back on the road to the Guest House with two live chickens and a bag of bananas, somewhat dazed. The crazy thing to me is that the Ugandan people who hosted us, fed us, and showered us with praise and gifts, firmly believe that they are the ones who have gained something. It is a real privilege to live in a community that consistently exhibits such generosity and openness to a bunch of wacky foreigners. The local people I know redefine kindness in their attitude towards me and all the other muzungus roving around their mountainside churches. That’s the kind of army I think I can live with, even if foliage firearms are part of the package.
On a warm, dusty night in Kampala Charlee, David and I stared at the colorful menu in the Italian restaurant with a sense of giddy bewilderment. So many options, and the pictures were so pretty. I suggested brushetta and launched into a passionate description:
It’s bread, toasted, with tomatoes and oil, and like basil or something and . . .
David interrupted: You had me at bread. He was serious too.
Our recent trip to Kampala highlighted the sort of childish neediness that now characterizes my relationship with food. Charlee and I brought new meaning to the phrase ‘kid in a candy store’ as we literally ran from cash register to cash register in the giant supermarket, marveling at the sheer quantity of chocolate available to us. We used our thumbs to smear cheese cubes on rolls in the back of a matatu, we made everyone late to a meeting so that we could eat pizza, I probably said the word ‘hamburger’ at least fifty times in our two days there.
Don’t get me wrong. There is plenty of food available in the village. Jennifer prepares a large quantity of delicious food every day. It’s just that there is a definite limit on the types of food available. I think it’s safe to say that Dr. Atkins did not make a big impression here in Uganda. Carbs are most definitely in. At one memorable occasion the dinner buffet consisted of matoke, rice, pasta, potatoes, chapatti bread, and some cabbage. Matoke is made from plantains, which seems more along the fruit/vegetable layer of the pyramid, but it’s steamed and pummeled and served as a starchy, thick mass. It sure tastes like a carbohydrate. At the school our regular 10:30am snack is a chunk of bread that’s been fried with some sugar. It’s like the anti-Atkins, and it’s delicious.
Eating meat here is definitely an experience. Mostly it’s chicken, and mostly it’s a chicken I know. We muzungus receive a lot of live chickens as gifts when we visit peoples’ homes. We take them back to the guest house, and Jennifer lets them cluck around happily in the back yard until chicken is on the dinner menu. Then it’s time for me to shut my bedroom curtains and turn my ipod volume up. Beef is the next most popular meat item. I haven’t actually seen a cow being slaughtered, but I have seen cow heads and legs and various other parts being transported on people’s heads, or sitting out in the market. Oddly, I don’t show any signs of becoming vegetarian. However, I do think I inadvertently ate liver last night, and my body wanted no part of that. The midnight latrine trip came back with a vengeance.
Cynthia receiving a chicken
Despite the abundance of food, I do experience cravings. It’s all mental: I want what I can’t have. So far the cravings have been pretty varied: guacamole, a good salad, mom’s frittata, ice cubes, a stiff g and t. The response, however, is uniform: nutella. Anytime, any surface. Nothing is safe.
The upshot of this carb – craving – chocolate spread trifecta is that I am gaining weight in Africa. This seems perverse. In an effort to stop it, I have started running, or ‘road work,’ as they say around here. This causes something of a stir in the village. Charlee and I trotting through the trading center at dusk, pony tails swinging and arms pumping, definitely adds ammunition to the “white people are crazy” argument. In a community where people routinely clamber five kilometers up a mountain side just to get home, jogging must seem like the ultimate imbecile act. People generally laugh, or shout “hey muzungu, well done” as we pass. I find it particularly embarrassing when we turn around and pass the same people on the way back. A few of them let the bewilderment register on their faces: they’re coming back? You mean they didn’t even go anywhere?
There are many things that make running around here worth it. In the morning I can start running while the stars are still out, and ten minutes later see the sun rise over the hills. It’s a good time to appreciate just how stunningly beautiful this place is. I’m not particularly biblically literate, but the scenery makes me think of the Garden of Eden. I pass kids who are walking to our school. They already know I’m crazy, so they just smile and wave.
One evening Charlee and I collected a posse of at least eight kids. As we ran down the dusty road, kids just kept joining in from the sides, running down from the banana trees and out from their houses. They effortlessly kept pace with their bare feet, and looked up at us expectantly. “We go to play football?” one asked. “No,” I managed to pant, “just road work.” He shrugged and kept rolling along. The age range was probably six to twelve. It was all a big game to them. The sun set and it was getting darker and darker. The trees were a black outline against the sky. At one point Charlee started humming the Chariots of Fire theme music, and the kids picked up the tune. We cheered and clapped and did high-knees and made sure everyone got out of the road when a matatu roared by. On the downhill approach to the guest house, we decided to do a little sprint. I went for it, all out, as fast as I know how. A little something inside me wanted to beat the kids. Up came eight year old Joshua on my right. He had no shoes, he hadn’t broken a sweat, and his little legs were spinning like a cartoon character. He kept looking right up at me with a giant smile on his face. He didn’t beat me, because he wasn’t aware it was a race. He just stayed beside me and had a good time all the way home. At the entrance to the guest house we did a quick “Gooooooooooo running club!” and went inside to carbo-load. It definitely beat the hell out of a treadmill.
