The Brodeo

I think that if I had an identical twin sister I would have spent a large portion of my youth consumed with jealousy and/or petty hatred. I always thought those Sweet Valley dumbos must have hated each other. The girls on Sister, Sister were pretty convincing bffs, but I’m not buying it. I think it would be rough. Thankfully, I was blessed with a twin brother, and he was blessed with an aptitude for finance, so he recently coughed up the absurd amount of money necessary to travel to Africa, and paid me a visit. I use this term quite consciously: James was more than generous when it came to picking up the tab for certain expensive ape-viewing excursions. Gorillas may be promiscuous, but they ain’t cheap.

ohmygod. I crack myself up.

James and I took different paths in life. We split along gender stereotypes to an eerie degree: I was into drama, he was into sports, I majored in English, he majored in Business, I became a teacher, he became a banker. The one exception to these 1950s-style life paths is that I was way stronger in the womb and took all the nutrients and pushed my way out first and James had to be in an incubator. HAH! I like to ponder that when someone brings it to my attention that he currently drives a Porsche, while I would be hard pressed to afford a good mountain bike. The bottom line, however, is that we get along very well, and he makes a great traveling companion.

To introduce James to the wonderful country of Uganda I thought it was appropriate to make him spend thirteen straight hours in a car on our way to do a gorilla trek. It was only supposed to be eleven, but we got a flat, and the spare had conveniently been dislodged by an earlier bump and was nowhere to be found. It was a perfect introduction to Africa actually, as James and I set by the side of the road, enduring the good-natured taunts of passer-bys and hoping that our driver returned at some point. At the end of it all our hotel was less than luxurious, but had an enterprising manager. He even went out to the shop to see if they had bananas for the packed lunch we needed for the next day. They didn’t, so we were back to two boiled eggs and a slice of bread. We confirmed that food really was not the place’s strong suit as James bravely hacked into a foreign looking combination of mushrooms and red clumps that was optimistically labeled ‘hamburger.’

James surveys the landscape following our breakdown

Everything became worth it the next day though, when we went on our gorilla trek. The scenery in the Western part of the country is amazing, especially near the borders with DRC and Rwanda, which is exactly where we were. The area is almost always referred to as the Switzerland of Africa in guidebooks. I enjoy joking about this, but was genuinely impressed by the alpine-like gorgeousness around me. Three huge volcanoes straddle the borders between the three countries, and we were trekking around their bases, in windswept, flower-filled, lush countryside that could have been the West of Ireland on its good days.

Purty volcano

The comparisons to Ireland stopped when our guide identified some cunning tracker’s signal (notches in tree trunks and bent branches and all that) and we turned abruptly into a bamboo forest. I think the Rambo movies may be a more appropriate comparison for this section of the trek, or, of course, Tarzan. (I’ve spent a long time trying to think of a witty title for this blog entry that somehow incorporates the whole “Me Tarzan. You Jane” bit. I’ve failed, but please do leave your suggestions in the comment section and I’ll think about changing the current title.) The bamboo stalks were tall and thick, and we had to wriggle and pry our way through sections of them. Whenever the wind blew the stalks hit each other, creating an eerie wind-chime rustling. Even though we were preceded by five extremely experienced trackers, one guide, and two armed escorts, I entertained fantasies of being the first one to actually spot the gorillas. “Oh look guys,” I’d say all nonchalantly, “There they are,” and everyone would congratulate me on my super animal surveillance powers. Then the gorillas would take me as one of their own and I would definitely get to hug a baby gorilla. Clearly, this didn’t happen, but my eager scanning of the nearby landscape did result in several easily-avoidable trips.

After about an hour we caught up to the trackers who had been prowling around ahead of us, and although there was very little conversation in English it became apparent that we were in hot pursuit of a family of gorillas. First we came across their little sleeping nests, scattered in a particularly bushy section of the forest. A few minutes later our guide turned around with a look on his face as if all his birthdays had come at once: “We are with the gorillas.” And sure enough, around the next tree clump there was a family of five or so huge mountain gorillas just chillin. The silverback was lying on his belly, head propped up on one hand, disinterestedly picking at the fur on his arm. As we all crouched around and began our paparazzi impression he glanced up at us, and I swear rolled his eyes. We were booooooooring. The gorillas, however, were not. It was a weird, surreal feeling. I kept expecting someone to yell “Cut!” and some sweaty man to emerge from his very realistic gorilla costume.

This silverback appears to  be sulking.

They are huge, beautiful, strange creatures. At various points family members entered and exited the clearing, and we eventually had three silverbacks about five meters away from us. Two of the younger members were playing around and ended up in a sort of bear hug, moving roly-poly down the nearby hill. It was like observing a very quiet human family on a Sunday afternoon picnic in the park. It was enthralling just to stare at their bizarre anatomy and wonder at the craziness of the biological world.

This silverback appears to be eating

Wait–which one is your  brother?  I can’t tell.

The Switzerland of Africa

After sixteen more hours in the car, with an overnight stop in Kampala (where I expertly guided James to the worst Italian restaurant in town), we made it to the village. I was really excited to have a family member actually see all the stuff I’ve been writing about for the past seven months, and our two days in the village didn’t disappoint. James good-naturedly put up with everything as I gleefully checked off the items on my ‘real village experience’ list:

Torrential rain that traps you at school and stands between you and the food at the guest house you’ve been craving since about 10:30am: check.

Mud-soaked roadway that requires you to dress and walk like an idiot: check.

Impromptu speech in front of the whole school and various guests of honor: check.

Presentation of a cow to said guest of honor, inside the school library: check.

Breathtakingly steep climb of an undetermined distance to a student’s home: check.

Eating unidentified chicken parts to be polite: check.

James speechifying

I guess that would be the cynical take on matters. James also got to experience some of what I consider the best parts of life here. He saw the students singing and dancing and generally being wonderful human beings. He met Papa, and watched him try not to fall asleep during the cow presentation ceremony. He saw peoples’ reactions when we played the Pole to Pole episode of the Planet Earth DVDs, and everyone from age 5 to 75 couldn’t take their eyes off the screen. He visited my student Isaac’s home and met his absurdly grateful family and ate the feast they put in front of us while their chicks and puppies wandered around our feet. He watched Isaac literally dig new steps so that I could descend from the perilous latrine location. He took a bucket bath and played cards and read by lantern light and went to bed by 10pm. Boring as it sounds, I’ve grown to love that routine.

James with Isaac and Isaac’s father

After a little village down time, we were, apparently, ready to party. James’ old college friend, Louisa, is working in Gulu and came down to Kampala to meet us. We got to stay in her friend’s lovely UN house and enjoy strange comforts like electricity and running water. She also knows all the Kampala hot spots, and took us to by far and away the best club I’ve been to since I’ve been here. We drank a lot of Red Bull (why?) and danced our pants off. I was befriended by a random Brit who kept trying to get me to dance salsa with him to techno music. At first I found it amusing, but by the end of the evening he was only kept at bay by Louisa’s impressive NBA-style defensive maneuvers.

Oh Kampala at 4:30am.  You crazy.

The next day was largely spent nursing hangovers, although James and Louisa visited an orphanage she used to work for while I went to use the internet and fight with this very blogging website. We’re currently not seeing eye-to-eye on picture sizes, but we’re working through our issues at dial-up speed. We all reunited to take advantage of Uganda’s only movie theatre and watch the new Batman movie. At a key climactic moment there was some sort of malfunction and the screen went dark. Another classic African moment for James’ list, but thankfully it came back on after about five minutes.

As a last hurrah we did the Jinja thing. I wasn’t really up for rafting again, considering my heart rate is still slowing from the last time I did it, but James was game. I opted for the more peaceful (or so I thought) activity of horseback riding. It was a quiet day at the stables, so it was just me and the guide on the trek. It was sunny and stunningly beautiful—ambling along village roads and through sugar cane fields. I’ve had a fair amount of experience riding, so I was excited to do a bit of cantering and all that. Apparently my horse sensed my over-confidence and decided to bring me back down to earth. Literally.

ohmygod. Another zinger.

Anyhoo, we set off on a brisk canter through a field, and it went something like this:

Me: Hey there horsy, this is a tad fast for my liking, won’t you pretty please slow down?

Horse: No. (executes perfect bucking maneuver that lands me about half-way up his neck)

Me: garbled sounds of fear

Guide: (turning around) Hey! Sit back down. SIT BACK DOWN!

Me: Oh really? Is that what I should do? I thought I’d just hang out here on his neck for the rest of the ride. Thank you so much for your great advice.

Thump, roll, mud splatter, muffled yell.

So I was way more shaken up by my horseback experience than James was by his encounter with grade five rapids. It figures.

Looking back we accomplished an impressive itinerary really. And James was even on time for his 9:00am board meeting in Amsterdam the morning after he flew out. Very efficient.

I think the fact that we haven’t seen each other in a while helped me notice some things about James that I’ve overlooked before. For example, he makes exactly the same sort of blown-out cheek, determined, facial expression as my dad in times of physical duress, as evidenced by the rafting footage. He also sticks his tongue out a little when he’s concentrating on something, just like my mom. However, my biggest discovery occurred within hours of his arrival at Entebbe. Devoted readers of the blog, and anyone who has ever accompanied me to a bar, or on a car journey of over 20 minutes, will be familiar with my tempestuous relationship with my bladder. Well, guess who else needs to pee a lot more than an average human and describes his bladder as ‘pea-sized’???

My twin brother, that’s who!

Studying this phenomenon has led me to one, undeniable, conclusion: in some freak accident of biology, James and I actually split one bladder in the womb. We each only have half of a regular human bladder! It explains so much! I wonder if Dateline or the Jerry Springer Show will want to do a feature on us? Here’s hoping he’s as comfortable discussing his bladder capacity in a public forum as I apparently am.

So now it’s back to village time for me, with no family members to entertain. Things are a lot quieter around here now that summer’s over, so I’ve decided to set myself a series of mental challenges to help pass the time. At the moment I am not allowed to eat anything that has been fried. This removes about fifty percent of my dietary options around here, but I think it’s worth it, as I could probably solve the world’s fuel crisis if they could figure out a way to efficiently harvest the oil from the pores on my face.

I just passed the seven month mark, and I’m entering that phase where it seems like so much and so little has happened since I’ve been here that I’m utterly confused as to my next step. Do let me know if you have any bright ideas, or if you too want to come and have a rollicking African adventure avec moi. I know I could get a gorilla to hug me, if I just had one more chance . . . .

Ugandan School Musical

One of the last films I watched before I left the States was War/Dance; a beautiful documentary about a choir from a refugee camp in Northern Uganda preparing to compete in the national music competition. This moving cinematic experience was followed closely by my viewing of High School Musical (1). What it may have lacked in subtlety, HSM more than made up for in cheesiness. And boy do those Disney Channel geniuses know how to make a girl want to put on her dancing shoes. My recent experience chaperoning the AAH choir at the regional music competition acted as a sort of merging of those two films: an experience that veered between the sublime and the ridiculous.

I have finally come to accept some of the more frustrating aspects of the Ugandan method of event planning. Therefore, I was not surprised when the headmaster told me that the choir of over eighty students was going to spend the night sleeping on woven mats in an empty classroom in an Mbale school so they could be on time for the competition the next morning. I was not surprised when the bus hired to come and pick up the children at 6pm did not arrive in the village until after 9pm. I was not surprised when I arrived at the venue the next morning, about thirty minutes after the published start time, and was informed that the competition would not begin for another two hours. I was not surprised to discover that even though there were eight schools performing in ten different categories, for a grand total of eighty performances, there was no prepared schedule or plan to speak of. Mostly though, I was not surprised to find the AAH students draped over every available surface in the barren classroom/dorm room in high spirits and completely unfazed by the organizational Armageddon unfolding around them. I took my cue from them, and decided to roll with it.

Students snacking on porridge waiting for the competition to start

The duel themes for this year’s competition were “Go to School, Stay in School, and Return to School” and “Sanitation.” I find the former a little confusing. Surely if you have gone to school, and are now staying in school, it’s pretty much impossible for you to simultaneously return to school. Redundant as it is, it’s definitely more inspirational than sanitation as a topic. Several of the ten performance categories require original compositions (poems, songs, dances) on these themes. If you think choreographing a dance to convey the message ‘stay in school’ is hard, try performing an epic poem on the issue of sanitation. The situation provided for some very honest moments, surely unprecedented in the world of performing arts. “Men squatting in the bushes, as if in a latrine. Alas!” The eight young women from St. Agnes Primary School chorused, as they raised their fists to the sky in despair. The judges nodded approvingly. When has poetry been so practical? The education theme provided more fertile ground. The opening event of the day was the Western Choral Piece. AAH took the stage early on and belted out their tribute to education called “The Source,” sounding for all the world like the Vienna Boys Choir. They lined up in their crisp uniforms and polished shoes and did that funny thing professional choirs do when they open their mouths really wide to sing. Although most of the lyrics reminded me of a government memo more than a song (‘we shall built industries, we shall build factories, we shall build the roads and the hospitals’), it was goose-bump inducing stuff.

Arlington Students perform their Western Choral Piece

The day flew by in a whirlwind of chanted latrine references and varied depictions of what can happen to the poor soul who eschews the free education now offered to all by the Ugandan government. It was hot and dry, for once. Food vendors set up a mini-market outside the main door offering burnt samosas and loose candy. Groups of children in various outlandish costumes littered the large school campus, sucking down ice-pops and beginning impromptu games of soccer. Giant wooden instruments were carted around and harassed teachers herded over-excited youngsters back and forth, back and forth as we slowly worked our way through the mammoth performance list. The judges chugged soda after soda and tried to stay awake.

Students waiting to perform

Instruments

The only seating option left by late afternoon

As evening approached the hall grew more and more crowded. Finding a seat became a matter of violence. Of course, the electricity was out, so the hall was lit by three weak light bulbs, powered by a generator chugging its little heart out in the back. After seven straight hours of music competition, I had to wonder what in the name of god was keeping all the spectators there. Just as it began to get dark outside, the answer became clear: the traditional dance category. Turns out traditional dance is the pinnacle of all things music competition-related. It’s the climactic car-chase scene, the lion tamer in the big-top, the fat lady singing. It’s frackin awesome. AAH also happens to have an ace up its sleeve in this category: the Lunyege. It’s a traditional courtship dance, and it involves shirtless boys in brightly striped shorts with rings of bells around their legs from their knees to their ankles. These are the weapons with which they seduce rows of girls in mini skirts and midriff-baring tank-tops who parade the stage shaking their hips outrageously.

AAH kids get ready to bring the funk

Once the AAH kids entered the hall and the audience realized what dance they were about to see, the mood took on a sort of rock concert vibe. The percussionists set up a furious beat on the drums and were soon joined by the thundering row of boys who jumped and hopped and lunged around the stage, creating their own manic music in pursuit of the girls. There was heckling and cheering and hootin and hollerin. Old women shrieked with laughter and small children looked on in wide-eyed amazement. The girls kept twirling away and the boys kept chasing. Finally they faced each other in opposing lines across the stage. Even in their static line, the boys kept stamping to keep up the frenetic beat, doing a frenzied version of the running man which left them all dripping with sweat. One brave soul ventured into the no-man’s land of the middle of the stage and did his fanciest moves, before approaching the line of girls. He moved down the line, examining each girl’s face, offered his hand to the one he found most attractive, and off they went together on a bell/hip shaking tour of the stage. This happened several times, until one girl upped the ante by refusing her suitor, forcing him to try to impress her with more and more energetic dance moves. Finally he called upon his friends to act as wing-men, and the girl finally capitulated. At the dramatic finale AAH got a standing ovation.

Now, on the one hand, this dance would seem to represent a very crude version of what we in the West have turned into an excruciatingly complicated ritual. I mean, if all your average New York male had to do was determine which girl he liked the look of most, then jangle his way over to her bar stool convincingly, we’d all save a lot of money on cocktails. So, you could say it demonstrates the relative simplicity of African social customs compared to ours. On the other hand, we’re talking about twelve and thirteen year old kids doing this dance. While middle schoolers in the US are focusing on Clearasil products and who’s older brother can buy them beer, these kids are tapping into something ancient from their culture. Just the name of the category illuminates the difference: traditional dance. There is a depth and a wisdom that the children here seem to grasp early on—a tradition. It’s a dimension that I didn’t find in most of the American kids I taught; the connection these have with the bigger picture of their community and its roots. That doesn’t mean that they all think they can just point at some random girl on the roadside and take her as a wife. In many ways, the times have a-changed, and there are a lot of people spending a lot of money on vodka-sodas in swish Kampala bars. But watching the AAH kids, and all the kids from the other schools, singing and dancing about death and grief and love and betrayal, I sensed the heft and the complexity of the history here. Not to sound like a Republican or anything, but I sensed the importance of their tradition.

By 8:30pm, after nine and a half hours of music competition, I was done for. The huge school buildings were still alive with hundreds of hyper kids, racing around by flashlight and casting animated silhouettes on the walls. They were giddy with the excitement of the day and the relative freedom the darkness provided. It felt like some sort of Halloween fun-house crossed with back-stage at the Pantomime. I stopped by the AAH classroom and found the kids clustered in dim groups around candles, chatting excitedly about the day, some still getting into make-up and costumes for performances to come.

In the end we placed 6^th out of 8, and so did not qualify to go on to the national level of the competition. I also found out that the kids didn’t leave Mbale until after midnight, and the mud on our local road was so bad that they ended up spending the night on the bus. I never heard a word of complaint about it.