Tuesday, December 20, 2011
I think I'm both
There's always one person in the relationship that loves the other person more. And there's always one person in the relationship that needs to be loved more. But I think I'm both.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
New country, new book, new poem...
A Woman Young and Old
by William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
I
FATHER AND CHILD
SHE hears me strike the board and say
That she is under ban
Of all good men and women,
Being mentioned with a man
That has the worst of all bad names;
And thereupon replies
That his hair is beautiful,
Cold as the March wind his eyes.
II
BEFORE THE WORLD WAS MADE
IF I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.
III
A FIRST CONFESSION
I ADMIT the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.
Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?
IV
HER TRIUMPH
I DID the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.
V
CONSOLATION
O BUT there is wisdom
In what the sages said;
But stretch that body for a while
And lay down that head
Till I have told the sages
Where man is comforted.
How could passion run so deep
Had I never thought
That the crime of being born
Blackens all our lot?
But where the crime's committed
The crime can be forgot.
VI
CHOSEN
THE lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much
Struggling for an image on the track
Of the whirling Zodiac.
Scarce did he my body touch,
Scarce sank he from the west
Or found a subtetranean rest
On the maternal midnight of my breast
Before I had marked him on his northern way,
And seemed to stand although in bed I lay.
I struggled with the horror of daybreak,
I chose it for my lot! If questioned on
My utmost pleasure with a man
By some new-married bride, I take
That stillness for a theme
Where his heart my heart did seem
And both adrift on the miraculous stream
Where -- wrote a learned astrologer --
The Zodiac is changed into a sphere.
VII
PARTING
i{He.} Dear, I must be gone
While night Shuts the eyes
Of the household spies;
That song announces dawn.
i{She.} No, night's bird and love's
Bids all true lovers rest,
While his loud song reproves
The murderous stealth of day.
i{He.} Daylight already flies
From mountain crest to crest
i{She.} That light is from the moom.
i{He.} That bird...
i{She.} Let him sing on,
I offer to love's play
My dark declivities.
VIII
HER VISION IN THE WOOD
DRY timber under that rich foliage,
At wine-dark midnight in the sacred wood,
Too old for a man's love I stood in rage
Imagining men. Imagining that I could
A greater with a lesser pang assuage
Or but to find if withered vein ran blood,
I tore my body that its wine might cover
Whatever could rccall the lip of lover.
And after that I held my fingers up,
Stared at the wine-dark nail, or dark that ran
Down every withered finger from the top;
But the dark changed to red, and torches shone,
And deafening music shook the leaves; a troop
Shouldered a litter with a wounded man,
Or smote upon the string and to the sound
Sang of the beast that gave the fatal wound.
All stately women moving to a song
With loosened hair or foreheads grief-distraught,
It seemed a Quattrocento painter's throng,
A thoughtless image of Mantegna's thought --
Why should they think that are for ever young?
Till suddenly in grief's contagion caught,
I stared upon his blood-bedabbled breast
And sang my malediction with the rest.
That thing all blood and mire, that beast-torn wreck,
Half turned and fixed a glazing eye on mine,
And, though love's bitter-sweet had all come back,
Those bodies from a picture or a coin
Nor saw my body fall nor heard it shriek,
Nor knew, drunken with singing as with wine,
That they had brought no fabulous symbol there
But my heart's victim and its torturer.
IX
A LAST CONFESSION
WHAT lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.
Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.
I gave what other women gave
"That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,
And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.
X
MEETING
HIDDEN by old age awhile
In masker's cloak and hood,
Each hating what the other loved,
Face to face we stood:
"That I have met with such,' said he,
"Bodes me little good.'
"Let others boast their fill,' said I,
"But never dare to boast
That such as I had such a man
For lover in the past;
Say that of living men I hate
Such a man the most.'
'A loony'd boast of such a love,'
He in his rage declared:
But such as he for such as me --
Could we both discard
This beggarly habiliment --
Had found a sweeter word.
XI
FROM THE 'ANTIGONE'
OVERCOME -- O bitter sweetness,
Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl --
The rich man and his affairs,
The fat flocks and the fields' fatness,
Mariners, rough harvesters;
Overcome Gods upon Parnassus;
Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the Same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend,
By that great glory driven wild.
Pray I will and sing I must,
And yet I weep -- Oedipus' child
Descends into the loveless dust.
by William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
I
FATHER AND CHILD
SHE hears me strike the board and say
That she is under ban
Of all good men and women,
Being mentioned with a man
That has the worst of all bad names;
And thereupon replies
That his hair is beautiful,
Cold as the March wind his eyes.
II
BEFORE THE WORLD WAS MADE
IF I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.
III
A FIRST CONFESSION
I ADMIT the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.
Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?
IV
HER TRIUMPH
I DID the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.
V
CONSOLATION
O BUT there is wisdom
In what the sages said;
But stretch that body for a while
And lay down that head
Till I have told the sages
Where man is comforted.
How could passion run so deep
Had I never thought
That the crime of being born
Blackens all our lot?
But where the crime's committed
The crime can be forgot.
VI
CHOSEN
THE lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much
Struggling for an image on the track
Of the whirling Zodiac.
Scarce did he my body touch,
Scarce sank he from the west
Or found a subtetranean rest
On the maternal midnight of my breast
Before I had marked him on his northern way,
And seemed to stand although in bed I lay.
I struggled with the horror of daybreak,
I chose it for my lot! If questioned on
My utmost pleasure with a man
By some new-married bride, I take
That stillness for a theme
Where his heart my heart did seem
And both adrift on the miraculous stream
Where -- wrote a learned astrologer --
The Zodiac is changed into a sphere.
VII
PARTING
i{He.} Dear, I must be gone
While night Shuts the eyes
Of the household spies;
That song announces dawn.
i{She.} No, night's bird and love's
Bids all true lovers rest,
While his loud song reproves
The murderous stealth of day.
i{He.} Daylight already flies
From mountain crest to crest
i{She.} That light is from the moom.
i{He.} That bird...
i{She.} Let him sing on,
I offer to love's play
My dark declivities.
VIII
HER VISION IN THE WOOD
DRY timber under that rich foliage,
At wine-dark midnight in the sacred wood,
Too old for a man's love I stood in rage
Imagining men. Imagining that I could
A greater with a lesser pang assuage
Or but to find if withered vein ran blood,
I tore my body that its wine might cover
Whatever could rccall the lip of lover.
And after that I held my fingers up,
Stared at the wine-dark nail, or dark that ran
Down every withered finger from the top;
But the dark changed to red, and torches shone,
And deafening music shook the leaves; a troop
Shouldered a litter with a wounded man,
Or smote upon the string and to the sound
Sang of the beast that gave the fatal wound.
All stately women moving to a song
With loosened hair or foreheads grief-distraught,
It seemed a Quattrocento painter's throng,
A thoughtless image of Mantegna's thought --
Why should they think that are for ever young?
Till suddenly in grief's contagion caught,
I stared upon his blood-bedabbled breast
And sang my malediction with the rest.
That thing all blood and mire, that beast-torn wreck,
Half turned and fixed a glazing eye on mine,
And, though love's bitter-sweet had all come back,
Those bodies from a picture or a coin
Nor saw my body fall nor heard it shriek,
Nor knew, drunken with singing as with wine,
That they had brought no fabulous symbol there
But my heart's victim and its torturer.
IX
A LAST CONFESSION
WHAT lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.
Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.
I gave what other women gave
"That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,
And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.
X
MEETING
HIDDEN by old age awhile
In masker's cloak and hood,
Each hating what the other loved,
Face to face we stood:
"That I have met with such,' said he,
"Bodes me little good.'
"Let others boast their fill,' said I,
"But never dare to boast
That such as I had such a man
For lover in the past;
Say that of living men I hate
Such a man the most.'
'A loony'd boast of such a love,'
He in his rage declared:
But such as he for such as me --
Could we both discard
This beggarly habiliment --
Had found a sweeter word.
XI
FROM THE 'ANTIGONE'
OVERCOME -- O bitter sweetness,
Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl --
The rich man and his affairs,
The fat flocks and the fields' fatness,
Mariners, rough harvesters;
Overcome Gods upon Parnassus;
Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the Same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend,
By that great glory driven wild.
Pray I will and sing I must,
And yet I weep -- Oedipus' child
Descends into the loveless dust.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
"we're 3 years to 30...weird, right?"
happy crazy ugandan birthday!
i love you to the moon and wish you so much joy. keep living it up.
and here's a good reminder from rilke:
...I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903
in Letters to a Young Poet
love of the forever and always kind,
karis
i love you to the moon and wish you so much joy. keep living it up.
and here's a good reminder from rilke:
...I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903
in Letters to a Young Poet
love of the forever and always kind,
karis
Thursday, July 7, 2011
stay hungry, stay foolish
stay hungry, stay foolish
"I’ve seen people come and go, I’ve shared my dreams with them, I’ve given my all to see the companies grow and blossom, even at the expense of “a life”, but somehow, everytime, at the end of the day, it’s just God and I left standing. I know He brings people in our lives for a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, they leave. Their work in your life is done, and your work in their life is done.
But, like I told some team members at Node Six, it is a very lonely place, being at the leader of any organisation. You watch the tides turn, you watch the storm come in and you watch the waves rise. Everyone else is allowed to react naturally, to flee the impending disaster, but not you. Nope, like the captain of a sinking ship, you stand at the bow, and face the storm. You stand your ground, and let the maelstrom destroy everything around you.
When it’s all over, you huddle in a miserable water-drenched pile in a corner and cry a bit.
And that’s when God taps you on the shoulder and says, 'Dude, whatagwan? I’m still here.'"
Whether there is a God, or there isn't, and there are undoubtedly lots of gods to choose from, they're either here or they're not, and believing they are, or believing they're not, is just a choice. You choose beliefs, for as long as those beliefs serve a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, you choose, that choice is still (and always) there.
"I’ve seen people come and go, I’ve shared my dreams with them, I’ve given my all to see the companies grow and blossom, even at the expense of “a life”, but somehow, everytime, at the end of the day, it’s just God and I left standing. I know He brings people in our lives for a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, they leave. Their work in your life is done, and your work in their life is done.
But, like I told some team members at Node Six, it is a very lonely place, being at the leader of any organisation. You watch the tides turn, you watch the storm come in and you watch the waves rise. Everyone else is allowed to react naturally, to flee the impending disaster, but not you. Nope, like the captain of a sinking ship, you stand at the bow, and face the storm. You stand your ground, and let the maelstrom destroy everything around you.
When it’s all over, you huddle in a miserable water-drenched pile in a corner and cry a bit.
And that’s when God taps you on the shoulder and says, 'Dude, whatagwan? I’m still here.'"
Whether there is a God, or there isn't, and there are undoubtedly lots of gods to choose from, they're either here or they're not, and believing they are, or believing they're not, is just a choice. You choose beliefs, for as long as those beliefs serve a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, you choose, that choice is still (and always) there.
taxi strike and nursery rhymes
Yesterday, I worked in the morning, but then I blew off work had some things to do in the afternoon, but there was a taxi (matatu) strike. I got a call from Alex, through a surprising (because we both have MTN, a giant telecom in Uganda) and yet unsurprising (because MTN is a giant telecom in Uganda) amount of static, saying that I'd have to take a boda to Makindye. The cost of a taxi is 2,000/=, and the cost of a boda is 4,000/=, and while neither are expensive, boda rides can add up, and they're more dangerous. But danger being relative, when I got off the boda, to my right just down the street were about 15-20 men banging on the sides of the empty and unmoving taxi, and by that time it was around 1pm, so I don't doubt they were not only angry, but some of them were probably also drunk. Makindye is a suburb south of Kampala, and it has a little bit of everything, from impoverished slums and crowded orphanages, to lower class Ugandans, up to middle-upper class Ugandans, and all the way up to (relatively upper class) muzungu families. But Ugandans heavily rely on taxis, so a day without transport means a day without work, and a day without work can mean a lot of different things for a lot of different people, so when taxis go on strike, it is something that is truly felt.
Luckily, taking a boda on a day when there is a taxi strike means there was no (traffic) jam. The extremely ambitious plan (for an afternoon in Uganda) was to go and meet a lady --- who knows Sapheen, who is Ramadan's mother, who is Alex's friend, who is my friend --- who works at a bead factory. When I arrived I found Alex, Gerald, and Jamil as I usually do, Alex listening to music on my iPod (and singing or dancing, often both), Jamil scrawling in a notebook, often writing a letter or drafting a document to raise money for the Makindye Ultimate Frisbee Club or in hopes of starting a business, and Gerald, today looking on as Jamil wrote, but often aligning himself with one or the other according to his mood. I was greeted by being enveloped in a hug from Alex, continuing to dance and persisting to sway me with him before he let go to tell me that because of the strike, the woman at the bead factory might not be there, and the bead factory might be closed. I felt stupid for not connecting the dots (no taxi, no factory, no beads), but that being just 1 of 3 things planned for the afternoon, I told Alex's mom for months, who runs a kindergarten, nursery school, & day care, that I would visit her class and teach the students some new songs, we headed over to Alex's house. I had thought the night before about what to teach such a developmentally broad range of kids (ages 1-5), but capacity building is such a core fundamental at IDI, and in Uganda as a developing country, that I didn't worry too much as some of the older students that learned more quickly could teach the others and the younger ones. It made me think of summer camps songs I used to sing, as a microscopic sting of sadness swept through my consciousness that I don't really remember any songs that I used to sing back when I went to nursery school. (Note to self) I remember more the songs that my parents used to sing and teach to me, and even more the ones that my grandparents used to also sing to me, like the one involving my feet, and going toe by toe (technically called fingerplay by the experts) singing: "This little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef (you know you've been in Uganda for too long if, when you fail to remember the words roast beef, you substitute gold teeth), this little piggy had none, and this (the pinky toe) little piggy went wee wee all the way home." I didn't want to deal with feet though, so I settled on 3 songs: I'm a Little Teapot, Johnny Whoops, and The Princess Pat, the last song of which I could only definitely remember the first 2 verses, which equals a total of 4 verses, but the first 2 songs proved to be more than enough material, and so that was my injection for the day, steeping some Ugandan children in some American culture with nursery rhymes!
[insert video here]
Luckily, taking a boda on a day when there is a taxi strike means there was no (traffic) jam. The extremely ambitious plan (for an afternoon in Uganda) was to go and meet a lady --- who knows Sapheen, who is Ramadan's mother, who is Alex's friend, who is my friend --- who works at a bead factory. When I arrived I found Alex, Gerald, and Jamil as I usually do, Alex listening to music on my iPod (and singing or dancing, often both), Jamil scrawling in a notebook, often writing a letter or drafting a document to raise money for the Makindye Ultimate Frisbee Club or in hopes of starting a business, and Gerald, today looking on as Jamil wrote, but often aligning himself with one or the other according to his mood. I was greeted by being enveloped in a hug from Alex, continuing to dance and persisting to sway me with him before he let go to tell me that because of the strike, the woman at the bead factory might not be there, and the bead factory might be closed. I felt stupid for not connecting the dots (no taxi, no factory, no beads), but that being just 1 of 3 things planned for the afternoon, I told Alex's mom for months, who runs a kindergarten, nursery school, & day care, that I would visit her class and teach the students some new songs, we headed over to Alex's house. I had thought the night before about what to teach such a developmentally broad range of kids (ages 1-5), but capacity building is such a core fundamental at IDI, and in Uganda as a developing country, that I didn't worry too much as some of the older students that learned more quickly could teach the others and the younger ones. It made me think of summer camps songs I used to sing, as a microscopic sting of sadness swept through my consciousness that I don't really remember any songs that I used to sing back when I went to nursery school. (Note to self) I remember more the songs that my parents used to sing and teach to me, and even more the ones that my grandparents used to also sing to me, like the one involving my feet, and going toe by toe (technically called fingerplay by the experts) singing: "This little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef (you know you've been in Uganda for too long if, when you fail to remember the words roast beef, you substitute gold teeth), this little piggy had none, and this (the pinky toe) little piggy went wee wee all the way home." I didn't want to deal with feet though, so I settled on 3 songs: I'm a Little Teapot, Johnny Whoops, and The Princess Pat, the last song of which I could only definitely remember the first 2 verses, which equals a total of 4 verses, but the first 2 songs proved to be more than enough material, and so that was my injection for the day, steeping some Ugandan children in some American culture with nursery rhymes!
[insert video here]
Dream, Child
Dream, Child by Solomon King
Dream. Like never before.
Dream, child. More fiercely and wondrously than the dreams of yesteryear. Dream and listen not to the taunting voice of careless mistake past, but rather, heed the cheer of lessons learned and a path well troden.
Dream of the impossible. And dream of the insane. Dream of crimson skies blazing with a thousand cold suns. Dream, the fiercest heats of numbing cold. The blinding clarity of the scent of zero.
Dream.
The kaleidoscope dances of midnight rainbows. Dream the whispers of thunder and the roar of silent laughter.
Remember the dreams that filled and gave purpose to your yearning soul. Remember the dreams that woke you up to furiously scribbled midnight epiphanies.
Remember those dreams, and remember well. Gossamer wings and scarlet flight. Inky space and time’s turbulent ordered chaos. You remember don’t you?
Those fleeting dreams, child… those dreams that you rejected so carelessly… they were the first rays of a brilliant dawn.
So. Dream, child.
Again. Like never before.
Dream. Like never before.
Dream, child. More fiercely and wondrously than the dreams of yesteryear. Dream and listen not to the taunting voice of careless mistake past, but rather, heed the cheer of lessons learned and a path well troden.
Dream of the impossible. And dream of the insane. Dream of crimson skies blazing with a thousand cold suns. Dream, the fiercest heats of numbing cold. The blinding clarity of the scent of zero.
Dream.
The kaleidoscope dances of midnight rainbows. Dream the whispers of thunder and the roar of silent laughter.
Remember the dreams that filled and gave purpose to your yearning soul. Remember the dreams that woke you up to furiously scribbled midnight epiphanies.
Remember those dreams, and remember well. Gossamer wings and scarlet flight. Inky space and time’s turbulent ordered chaos. You remember don’t you?
Those fleeting dreams, child… those dreams that you rejected so carelessly… they were the first rays of a brilliant dawn.
So. Dream, child.
Again. Like never before.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
These are my names in Uganda
14. Susani (pronounced Suse-ah-knee)
15. Susana (Luganda for Susan)
16. Suzela (as in vuvuzela)
15. Susana (Luganda for Susan)
16. Suzela (as in vuvuzela)
zits in Uganda
If its not dairy, then its drugs, and if its not drugs, then its dust.
Oh, and if its not dust, its deep fried.
Oh, and if its not dust, its deep fried.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
wasting water
"We've started to run short of water, for instance, because there are 6 billion of us who want to drink it and wash in it and use it for irrigating crops in places where they wouldn't otherwise grow (and where we need them to grow, precisely because there are 6 billion of us)." -Bill McKibben, Deep Economy, pg. 22
So this morning, I took a bucket shower. I know myself, I take long showers, and I waste SO MUCH water, here, at home, in hotels, the world is my water wasting oyster. I filled a small bucket, used about 3/4 of it to wash everything, and used the rest to wash my feet (they get so dirty here!).
Pouring a cup of water over my head created a surprisingly adequate amount of water pressure, making me question the extent to which people spend so much money on expensive plumbing, and here's my simple advice, grab a cup and pour, finished. If you're doing dishes, do them with a friend, you pour while they wash!
Now if I can just figure out how to deal with cold water...
So this morning, I took a bucket shower. I know myself, I take long showers, and I waste SO MUCH water, here, at home, in hotels, the world is my water wasting oyster. I filled a small bucket, used about 3/4 of it to wash everything, and used the rest to wash my feet (they get so dirty here!).
Pouring a cup of water over my head created a surprisingly adequate amount of water pressure, making me question the extent to which people spend so much money on expensive plumbing, and here's my simple advice, grab a cup and pour, finished. If you're doing dishes, do them with a friend, you pour while they wash!
Now if I can just figure out how to deal with cold water...
Monday, July 4, 2011
muzungu 3rd of july, ugandan 4th of july
I coughed up 25,000/= (~$9.25, using the crazy recently inflated exchange rate) and watched as muzungu expat families communed over hamburgers, hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy and fireworks Sunday night celebrating July 4th on July 3rd at the American Recreation Association (ARA). I grabbed a hamburger and a Coke right as the fireworks started, and plopped down on the grass with a German friend I was surprised to find there, but then again, I wouldn't be surprised if non-Ugandan holidays celebrated by Ugandan expats get lumped together into a set of "expat holidays," and this seems even less surprising being that Uganda has one of the world's highest per-capita consumption of alcohol, so more holidays means more reasons to party.
The fact that the ARA even exists made me realize that Kampala is a really expat-family-friendy African capital city (weird). A lot of female expat senior management I work with at IDI are married with kids, and I catch myself wondering about what their life is like to be a wife and mother abroad, on top of living and working abroad. Also, among the crowd there were definitely 2 stereotypical expat families: the broods of Christian missionary expat families, and the adopted Ugandan children expat families. But I was nonetheless curious about what had brought everyone to Uganda, and I only wish that I had gotten there a bit earlier before the sunset and the fireworks to make it a bit easier to meet and talk to some new people.
Being around such a small, dense gathering of muzungus, at a place like the ARA, satisfies a curiosity I'll always have about an expat community if I'm abroad, and a need to touch base from time to time with it, but day to day, its like when I go out and find myself at a club where its "80s night" and I think, wait, didn't I fly halfway around the planet to Uganda? Yeah, I thought so, too. The whole thing also randomly made me think of Shell, WY, a microscopic US city my family passed through on a road trip out west. We stopped there to eat dinner and gaped open mouth in disbelief as the waitress talked about growing up in such a small place and described her K-12 class consisting of 5 kids total, and 1 of which I think she said was her brother. The expat community can often feel really small, and dense, but also really isolated and disparate, with different pockets of expats within the community, although everyone, of course, loosely knows each other, or knows someone who knows someone, and so on.
Its a community I've embraced for building professional networks, as I've realized how important it is to have a professional network to share successes and struggles with, and especially with ICT in Uganda being new and different from ICT in the US. Back in Boston I was so spoiled, I was immersed in an office and I was never short on people that I could talk about code and life with in the same sentence. But it made me really complacent, perhaps even lazy, and I didn't venture out nearly enough to meet the hundreds of other software developers in the Boston area as I've done here in Kampala. In Boston, work and life had lots of overlap, which has its perks, but here in Kampala those two things don't, which has its perks.
The ARA has a trampoline, and yes, I jumped on it, and then after I climbed down, I realized my phone fell out of my pocket, and when I climbed back up to get it, I jumped on it some more.
The next day, I celebrated July 4th, and in the morning, slept in, drank tea, learned (for like, the millionth time) how to make a Rolex, learned (for the first time) how to cut a Ugandan's hair, (a Ugandan male's hair, as I'd need months if not years to learn how to do anything aesthetically pleasing with a Ugandan female's hair), and worked in the afternoon. Then, in the evening I watched a few episodes of The West Wing, drank a Nile Special Lager, and ate half of a Mumbai Special pizza from Zinello's, a takeaway that sells pizza and ice cream (and the lack of dairy in my diet, well... you do the math).
I had a conversation over the weekend with a friend from frisbee, Sheila, who moved from Uganda to the UK when she was 9, and stayed there until she graduated from university, and then came back to Uganda to work. I asked her why she came back, and before I could even finish she said, because this is my country, its as hippie as that, this is my home.
Happy birthday, America! (aka 'merica aka my home :)
The fact that the ARA even exists made me realize that Kampala is a really expat-family-friendy African capital city (weird). A lot of female expat senior management I work with at IDI are married with kids, and I catch myself wondering about what their life is like to be a wife and mother abroad, on top of living and working abroad. Also, among the crowd there were definitely 2 stereotypical expat families: the broods of Christian missionary expat families, and the adopted Ugandan children expat families. But I was nonetheless curious about what had brought everyone to Uganda, and I only wish that I had gotten there a bit earlier before the sunset and the fireworks to make it a bit easier to meet and talk to some new people.
Being around such a small, dense gathering of muzungus, at a place like the ARA, satisfies a curiosity I'll always have about an expat community if I'm abroad, and a need to touch base from time to time with it, but day to day, its like when I go out and find myself at a club where its "80s night" and I think, wait, didn't I fly halfway around the planet to Uganda? Yeah, I thought so, too. The whole thing also randomly made me think of Shell, WY, a microscopic US city my family passed through on a road trip out west. We stopped there to eat dinner and gaped open mouth in disbelief as the waitress talked about growing up in such a small place and described her K-12 class consisting of 5 kids total, and 1 of which I think she said was her brother. The expat community can often feel really small, and dense, but also really isolated and disparate, with different pockets of expats within the community, although everyone, of course, loosely knows each other, or knows someone who knows someone, and so on.
Its a community I've embraced for building professional networks, as I've realized how important it is to have a professional network to share successes and struggles with, and especially with ICT in Uganda being new and different from ICT in the US. Back in Boston I was so spoiled, I was immersed in an office and I was never short on people that I could talk about code and life with in the same sentence. But it made me really complacent, perhaps even lazy, and I didn't venture out nearly enough to meet the hundreds of other software developers in the Boston area as I've done here in Kampala. In Boston, work and life had lots of overlap, which has its perks, but here in Kampala those two things don't, which has its perks.
The ARA has a trampoline, and yes, I jumped on it, and then after I climbed down, I realized my phone fell out of my pocket, and when I climbed back up to get it, I jumped on it some more.
The next day, I celebrated July 4th, and in the morning, slept in, drank tea, learned (for like, the millionth time) how to make a Rolex, learned (for the first time) how to cut a Ugandan's hair, (a Ugandan male's hair, as I'd need months if not years to learn how to do anything aesthetically pleasing with a Ugandan female's hair), and worked in the afternoon. Then, in the evening I watched a few episodes of The West Wing, drank a Nile Special Lager, and ate half of a Mumbai Special pizza from Zinello's, a takeaway that sells pizza and ice cream (and the lack of dairy in my diet, well... you do the math).
I had a conversation over the weekend with a friend from frisbee, Sheila, who moved from Uganda to the UK when she was 9, and stayed there until she graduated from university, and then came back to Uganda to work. I asked her why she came back, and before I could even finish she said, because this is my country, its as hippie as that, this is my home.
Happy birthday, America! (aka 'merica aka my home :)
bathroom etiquette
Have you ever proposed to someone while peeing? Yeah, me neither.
Have you ever been proposed to while someone was peeing? Didn't think so.
Have you ever been proposed to while someone was peeing? Didn't think so.
unbecoming muzungu dinner
It was 10pm. We were all hungry. We sloped down the street to grab some cheap pork, but it was late, and pork was finished. They had the usual stuff, but because it was a popular pork joint, it was at the usual jacked-up prices. We walked a bit further and found a small unbecoming restaurant & takeaway, presuming unbecoming meant the food would be cheap. It wasn't, or at least, they were attempting to bank on their proximity to the pork joint, which we should have known. But it was late, and Alex and Gerald easily bargained down my plate of "chips chicken" (a plate of chicken, fries, and in this case, rice) from 8,000/= to 5,000/=. Then they got quiet. They weren't ordering. They weren't eating. I asked them what food they were getting, no answer. I asked them then why are we here, no answer. After a short pause, Gerald said, because you need to eat.
I said I could eat anything, we could go anywhere. When we left the pork joint with no pork, I said let's go somewhere else, somewhere that's cheap. I squinted to conceal my anger in silence for a few moments before speaking. I told them they should know that I'm not OK with getting food, if they're also hungry but can't get food. I told them they were treating me like some muzungu they had only known for a few days, and not a friend they had known for 7 months. The latter felt worse.
They only had 2,000/= to share between the two of them. They said they wanted to buy chapati off the street, but it was late, and chapati was finished. I asked them, why didn't you just tell me, why don't we just do that, no answer. After a shorter pause this time, Gerald said, because you need to eat, because a muzungu taking chapati for dinner was an ironically "muzungu" concept to them, even after I'd spent the past 7 months eating everything they'd been eating, and with abandon, or maybe the chapati was a lie and with only 2,000/=, they already knew they'd have to go without taking dinner. Which is why I was surprised when Gerald, out of some unfounded feeling of obligation, ordered 2 sodas, 1,000/= a piece, with Alex rolling his eyes in disgust at Gerald wasting their money. My plate of chips and chicken followed the sodas. I told them what's worse than getting food, if they're also hungry but can't get food, is having to eat it alone in front of them. They mustered two blank stares, but with a flicker of mild amusement concealing what I really knew to be hunger.
I had almost no appetite, but I poured the chicken broth onto the heaping plate of chips and rice, and forced myself to eat half of what was on the plate, attempting to convince myself that I was hungry, that it was my dinner, that I was paying for it, that it was respectively, their choice, my choice, that they were OK with it, and that I was making it worse by not just also being OK with it. And while some part of me wanted to believe all that, I didn't, because it was based on the idea that we could both afford "choice" that night, or that this food was "mine," and the fact that this food "wasn't mine" was not entirely untrue.
By then it was 11pm. I felt like an idiot. I know Alex and Gerald have gone many uneventful nights without taking dinner, but without any hesitation or reluctance, they walked with me for over half an hour to the pork joint with no pork. They continued walking with me, after discovering there was no pork, looking for a restaurant where we could eat. Then they bargained down the price of what I wanted to eat, speaking for me to the waiter in Luganda, and shaving 3,000/= off the cost of the plate. So the price now being 5,000/=, was it not true that 3/8 of the meal they had technically paid for, or at least, 3/8 of the meal that I wasn't having to pay for? And the sodas, shared, was another 2,000/= I wasn't having to pay for, making for a bill which would have originally totaled 10,000 shillings: 5,000/= of which I paid for, 2,000/= of which they paid for, and 3,000/= for which they bargained and none of us had to pay for. Did I mention that I felt like an idiot? I slid the plate across the table, and I told them, gwada (have), because you need to eat.
I said I could eat anything, we could go anywhere. When we left the pork joint with no pork, I said let's go somewhere else, somewhere that's cheap. I squinted to conceal my anger in silence for a few moments before speaking. I told them they should know that I'm not OK with getting food, if they're also hungry but can't get food. I told them they were treating me like some muzungu they had only known for a few days, and not a friend they had known for 7 months. The latter felt worse.
They only had 2,000/= to share between the two of them. They said they wanted to buy chapati off the street, but it was late, and chapati was finished. I asked them, why didn't you just tell me, why don't we just do that, no answer. After a shorter pause this time, Gerald said, because you need to eat, because a muzungu taking chapati for dinner was an ironically "muzungu" concept to them, even after I'd spent the past 7 months eating everything they'd been eating, and with abandon, or maybe the chapati was a lie and with only 2,000/=, they already knew they'd have to go without taking dinner. Which is why I was surprised when Gerald, out of some unfounded feeling of obligation, ordered 2 sodas, 1,000/= a piece, with Alex rolling his eyes in disgust at Gerald wasting their money. My plate of chips and chicken followed the sodas. I told them what's worse than getting food, if they're also hungry but can't get food, is having to eat it alone in front of them. They mustered two blank stares, but with a flicker of mild amusement concealing what I really knew to be hunger.
I had almost no appetite, but I poured the chicken broth onto the heaping plate of chips and rice, and forced myself to eat half of what was on the plate, attempting to convince myself that I was hungry, that it was my dinner, that I was paying for it, that it was respectively, their choice, my choice, that they were OK with it, and that I was making it worse by not just also being OK with it. And while some part of me wanted to believe all that, I didn't, because it was based on the idea that we could both afford "choice" that night, or that this food was "mine," and the fact that this food "wasn't mine" was not entirely untrue.
By then it was 11pm. I felt like an idiot. I know Alex and Gerald have gone many uneventful nights without taking dinner, but without any hesitation or reluctance, they walked with me for over half an hour to the pork joint with no pork. They continued walking with me, after discovering there was no pork, looking for a restaurant where we could eat. Then they bargained down the price of what I wanted to eat, speaking for me to the waiter in Luganda, and shaving 3,000/= off the cost of the plate. So the price now being 5,000/=, was it not true that 3/8 of the meal they had technically paid for, or at least, 3/8 of the meal that I wasn't having to pay for? And the sodas, shared, was another 2,000/= I wasn't having to pay for, making for a bill which would have originally totaled 10,000 shillings: 5,000/= of which I paid for, 2,000/= of which they paid for, and 3,000/= for which they bargained and none of us had to pay for. Did I mention that I felt like an idiot? I slid the plate across the table, and I told them, gwada (have), because you need to eat.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
(animated)gifs...(dot)net
This is why Uganda can't have nice things:
and
*sigh*
This website came highly recommended as a great resource for finding multimedia by the 3 facilitators teaching the 2-day E-Content Quality Assurance Workshop I attended, one of a series of workshops over the past several weeks held at Makarere University's School of Education Curriculum Department's e-Learning Lab.
I walked out of the workshop on Friday with Abigail, Immaculate, both Makerere University professors, and Margaret, my old co-worker, and I felt this crazy notion of sisterhood among these 3 strong, ambitious, and youthful women I was talking with about technology and education. They were laughing and so full of as much energy as the 20-30 schoolgirls I walked by on my way to the workshop that morning. And then later, I felt sad that the feeling was so palpable for being rarely felt enough.
(In 2002, the average age of marriage for a Ugandan female was 17, and the average age of first birth for a Ugandan female was 18.)
It didn't occur to me until I was living and working in Kampala, how hard it is for women in developing countries to choose a field of study like Computer Science or Engineering, and how unequivocally amazing they usually are, and how surprisingly easy it is to relate to one another. There's subtle indicators like this everywhere, like when Janepher, the doctor at IDI who sits next to me, joked about buying a "boda" (motorcycle) to drive herself to work, but then quickly added that she can't because of "public opinion," or when Mariam, one of IDI's IT staff at the Learning Hub, matter-of-factly stated that men don't want to marry a woman that's too educated or intelligent, for fear she won't respect them.
And like animated gifs, what Ugandan culture demands from a Ugandan woman, food preparation and cooking, sometimes on a charcoal stove, sometimes fetching water in jerry cans, sometimes hand washing clothes, the power outages, the lack of computer resources, and insanely expensive Internet, its all just so... distracting.
and
*sigh*
This website came highly recommended as a great resource for finding multimedia by the 3 facilitators teaching the 2-day E-Content Quality Assurance Workshop I attended, one of a series of workshops over the past several weeks held at Makarere University's School of Education Curriculum Department's e-Learning Lab.
I walked out of the workshop on Friday with Abigail, Immaculate, both Makerere University professors, and Margaret, my old co-worker, and I felt this crazy notion of sisterhood among these 3 strong, ambitious, and youthful women I was talking with about technology and education. They were laughing and so full of as much energy as the 20-30 schoolgirls I walked by on my way to the workshop that morning. And then later, I felt sad that the feeling was so palpable for being rarely felt enough.
(In 2002, the average age of marriage for a Ugandan female was 17, and the average age of first birth for a Ugandan female was 18.)
It didn't occur to me until I was living and working in Kampala, how hard it is for women in developing countries to choose a field of study like Computer Science or Engineering, and how unequivocally amazing they usually are, and how surprisingly easy it is to relate to one another. There's subtle indicators like this everywhere, like when Janepher, the doctor at IDI who sits next to me, joked about buying a "boda" (motorcycle) to drive herself to work, but then quickly added that she can't because of "public opinion," or when Mariam, one of IDI's IT staff at the Learning Hub, matter-of-factly stated that men don't want to marry a woman that's too educated or intelligent, for fear she won't respect them.
And like animated gifs, what Ugandan culture demands from a Ugandan woman, food preparation and cooking, sometimes on a charcoal stove, sometimes fetching water in jerry cans, sometimes hand washing clothes, the power outages, the lack of computer resources, and insanely expensive Internet, its all just so... distracting.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
menstruation and matooke
I think I've found the cure for cramps, and it is...
*drum roll, please*
Matooke!
So now I obviously have to either: 1) live in East Africa forever, or 2) locate a matooke supplier (aka a "matooke guy"... or girl!) back home in the US.
***
Not to mention produce obnoxious feminine hygiene product ads from which I will reap untold billions.
*drum roll, please*
Matooke!
So now I obviously have to either: 1) live in East Africa forever, or 2) locate a matooke supplier (aka a "matooke guy"... or girl!) back home in the US.
***
Not to mention produce obnoxious feminine hygiene product ads from which I will reap untold billions.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Free to be the Internet and Me
I've been thinking a lot lately about creating a website, which of course, means I've been thinking a lot about choosing a domain name. [Insert mixed emotions here], the possibilities!
A quick Facebook API request consisting of https://graph.facebook.com/me/friends?fields=name,website&access_token=accessToken and I had a JSON array of every Facebook friend I have along with every website listed on their Facebook profile. Yes and yes, to whatever you're thinking. :)
After a quick check on who.is, I happily breathed a sigh of relief that both susanmlister.com and suebuntu.com are currently available (for now), and although I should probably wait before I take the plunge and sink *gasp* $9.99 each into buying them, I might just go ahead and do it.
A quick Facebook API request consisting of https://graph.facebook.com/me/friends?fields=name,website&access_token=accessToken and I had a JSON array of every Facebook friend I have along with every website listed on their Facebook profile. Yes and yes, to whatever you're thinking. :)
After a quick check on who.is, I happily breathed a sigh of relief that both susanmlister.com and suebuntu.com are currently available (for now), and although I should probably wait before I take the plunge and sink *gasp* $9.99 each into buying them, I might just go ahead and do it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Frenglish
So after 6 years of Spanish in middle school and high school, and 3 whirlwind semesters of Italian in college (*sigh* mi piace molto la lingua Italiana), I might have to learn some French.
Bonjour!
Bonjour!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
My Samsung GT-E1087T mobile phone has a Qiblah direction app
Sometimes, in the evening, it gets really quiet in Kampala, just enough that you can hear the faint call to prayer, mixed in with the crickets and birds and the sporadic bursts of children squealing in tears and laughter.
My Mother In Three Photographs
My Mother In Three Photographs by Susan Kiguli
Her face looks out
flawless
her sexuality electric
in a mini dress and sheer satin stockings
the girls of the 1960s
beautiful beyond belief.
She is looking through the camera
like her space is here and beyond
enchanting and enchanted
by the times when dreams of freedom were young
the fortunes of Uganda
hot and sizzling.
My mother in the 1970s
More sombre but her skin
Still flawless
The abrasive years gentle on her youth.
Her body wrapped in a long nylon dress
stopping her ankles and
full sleeves touching her wrists
hooded sorrow in her posture
the flowing dress
is not because
she is a widow (which is by government action)
but it is a government decree.
Her magnificence and elegance
Seems to support the given name of the dress
Amin nvaako.*
My mother in the 1990s
neat short hair
luring in its intricate curls.
She wears a busuuti
a sign of the times
a return home, a finding of
uncertain peace
a maturing of a woman and nation
an endorsement of a recognition of the troubles
she has weathered
a sitting down to count her losses and blessings
and a hand over of the future.
*Amin Nvaako means Amin let me be or Amin leave me alone.
Her face looks out
flawless
her sexuality electric
in a mini dress and sheer satin stockings
the girls of the 1960s
beautiful beyond belief.
She is looking through the camera
like her space is here and beyond
enchanting and enchanted
by the times when dreams of freedom were young
the fortunes of Uganda
hot and sizzling.
My mother in the 1970s
More sombre but her skin
Still flawless
The abrasive years gentle on her youth.
Her body wrapped in a long nylon dress
stopping her ankles and
full sleeves touching her wrists
hooded sorrow in her posture
the flowing dress
is not because
she is a widow (which is by government action)
but it is a government decree.
Her magnificence and elegance
Seems to support the given name of the dress
Amin nvaako.*
My mother in the 1990s
neat short hair
luring in its intricate curls.
She wears a busuuti
a sign of the times
a return home, a finding of
uncertain peace
a maturing of a woman and nation
an endorsement of a recognition of the troubles
she has weathered
a sitting down to count her losses and blessings
and a hand over of the future.
*Amin Nvaako means Amin let me be or Amin leave me alone.
Monday, June 13, 2011
It is with words as with sunbeams. The more they are condensed, the deeper they burn. ~Robert Southey
I will admit, when I first got here, and I had no life, and I had no friends, I was reading for hours every day after work on the balcony. I was averaging at least 1 book per week, and I loved it! My mind felt so nourished here in UG in a way that was such a welcome and complete contrast to the way in which my brain felt constantly attention-deficit and depleted back home in the US, working long hours, drinking away late nights, micro-tasking and multi-tasking, and most often, hours and hours of time in which I couldn't account for or recall actually doing anything. I felt like I had re-discovered some seriously long-lost duende. But after a few months of settling in, getting a life, making friends, it was happening again. It wasn't obvious at first, but the queue of books that had quickly sublimated seemed to be just as quickly evaporating. I didn't really understand what had triggered slipping back into a mode I associated with being my usual lazy workaholic self in the US, because I wasn't in the US, but being a software developer, it seemed to make sense. I had madly spent my last 2 years of college writing code, and had spent the last 3 years working and writing more code. If you were to blur the words of one of my first poems, and if you were to blur the words of one of my first C programs, I think they would look roughly the same, give or take some punctuation.
It is with words as with sunbeams. The more they are condensed, the deeper they burn. ~Robert Southey
Late nights of sipping tea and writing poetry in a journal had been replaced by late nights of drinking coffee and writing code long ago, but as I was packing up my bookshelves into boxes preparing to leave Boston for Kampala, I remembered selecting a few books to keep aside. Some books I'd already read, and read again, and read again, one of those being "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" by Jean-Dominique Bauby, but some books I had added to my bookshelves so many years back, and had not more than touched except to pack and unpack as I moved from place to place.
I chose a few of these books that I truly vowed to read which, as I stood at the Delta Air Lines check-in counter, I promised to make worth the extra weight in my bag hovering dangerously close to the 50 lb. limit. One of those books was "The Selected Levis" a collection of poems written by Larry Levis, which I had put on my Xmas list one year after briefly studying his work in college, a muse to Prof. Alex Long who taught the Introduction to Poetry class I took that Fall semester.
So a few Saturdays ago, waiting for my Luganda tutor Francis to meet for a Luganda lesson at the Makerere University Guild Canteen, I wandered into the Makerere University Bookshop, which at first seemed almost like an after thought of space leftover and unused by the canteen. The bookshop consisted of a small room lined with just 10-15 bookshelves, mostly academic, and with enough space to hold 2 more bookshelves and 1 large table mosaic'd with books with the covers facing up. I asked if they had any poetry, and was planted in front of the English Department bookshelf, which contained mostly novels, short stories, plays, and of course, just as many if not more books filled with literary critique, criticism about books I'm sure were probably not even on the bookshelf. I was starting to feel the sting of disappointment until I spotted a single paperback with "Love Poems" on the spine, yes! I plucked it off the shelf, and looked at the cover, it was a contour caricature sketch of an ambiguously Muzungu male, who I assumed to be its author Brian Patten, and slightly deflated, thought to myself, "Umm, I'm pretty sure that dude is not Ugandan."
One of the many things a poem can do / Is remind us what we forgot we knew -Brian Patten
I flipped through the book anyways to a poem about making love at 4am and immediately knew I wanted it (I went back and bought it, along with a whole anthology of Ugandan poetry, the next Saturday). The poem was reminiscent of Bukowski... that is, the Bukowski that can spin romance out of his lover's fart as she bathes in the tub just after they've had sex, but much softer, and less offensive, and with more use of meter and rhyme. I felt the urge to read more, the whole collection of poems was so succinct and inviting, I could probably get away with reading half of them just standing there without even buying the book, but then I heard myself think no, put it back! And the thing is, I really went in there to find a book of Ugandan poetry, and even before confirming my suspicions that Brian Patten is European (Liverpool, England), I was determined for my first book of poetry to be written by a Ugandan. I looked some more on the shelf near where I'd found Love Poems, and after a few more minutes, and 1 foreboding book of religious poetry that definitely wasn't my kikopo of cai (cup of tea), I pulled out a paperback from a row with a set of unmarked light blue spines, and found "African Saga" by Susan Kiguli. Susan is not only an award-winning Ugandan poet, but also a female poet, and a professor of poetry at Makerere University. I've been working my way through "African Saga", writing that is such a vivid and deeply personal perspective of Uganda, and feel once again, nourished, like I'm doing this right, especially when daily life in Uganda simply doles out surprise chunks of time in which you just have to have patience, when you find yourself waiting, for a friend, for a taxi, for water to boil, for the power to come back, these can sometimes be the best moments folded within a day, moments of simply just being. I recently even also started reading the non-fiction book "Deep Economy" by Bill McKibben, and I've been taking both of these books with me, like 2 favorite stuffed animals, wherever I go.
Crazy Peter Prattes
So what is the hullabaloo
About the minister's ailing son
That he makes boiling news?
How come it was not even whispered
When Tina's hospital bed craweled with maggots
And her eyes oozed with pus
Because the doctor's lacked gloves?
What about Kasajja's only child
Who died because the man with the key
To the oxygen room was on leave?
I have seen the queues
Of emaciated mothers clinging to
Babies with translucent skins
Faint in line
And the lioness of a nurse
Commanding tersely
"Get up or leave the line".
Didn't I hear it rumored that
The man with the white mane
And black robes
Whose mouth stores the justice of the land
Ushered a rape case out of court
Because the seven year old
Failed to testify?
Anayway I only remember these things
When I drink
They are indeed tipsy explosions.
***
The Head Tie
I wear a head tie
A legacy from mother
The centre hold of my being.
She covers the scar
On my temple
Where the police fist
Dashed me acrosst the wall.
Sometimes I tie her
Around my waist
To mourn the dead
Lest sorrow robes me
Of my only possession
And upright frame.
She is my next of kin
She houses the blood
Of my old father
Which was vomited
By his protesting chest
Against a bullet.
She is my baby's cot,
The shelter
Against wet or dry,
The nipple which baby gnaws
When hunger wakes up dawn.
***
From Susan Kiguli's African Saga (Kampala: Femrite Publications Limited, 1998).
The other day my co-worker Sheila was telling me about how her sister Beverly and some friends started the Lantern Meet of Poets, a community of poets in Kampala, and then she casually said, "You know, I think Beverly knows Susan, you could probably meet her." Heyo!
It is with words as with sunbeams. The more they are condensed, the deeper they burn. ~Robert Southey
Late nights of sipping tea and writing poetry in a journal had been replaced by late nights of drinking coffee and writing code long ago, but as I was packing up my bookshelves into boxes preparing to leave Boston for Kampala, I remembered selecting a few books to keep aside. Some books I'd already read, and read again, and read again, one of those being "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" by Jean-Dominique Bauby, but some books I had added to my bookshelves so many years back, and had not more than touched except to pack and unpack as I moved from place to place.
I chose a few of these books that I truly vowed to read which, as I stood at the Delta Air Lines check-in counter, I promised to make worth the extra weight in my bag hovering dangerously close to the 50 lb. limit. One of those books was "The Selected Levis" a collection of poems written by Larry Levis, which I had put on my Xmas list one year after briefly studying his work in college, a muse to Prof. Alex Long who taught the Introduction to Poetry class I took that Fall semester.
So a few Saturdays ago, waiting for my Luganda tutor Francis to meet for a Luganda lesson at the Makerere University Guild Canteen, I wandered into the Makerere University Bookshop, which at first seemed almost like an after thought of space leftover and unused by the canteen. The bookshop consisted of a small room lined with just 10-15 bookshelves, mostly academic, and with enough space to hold 2 more bookshelves and 1 large table mosaic'd with books with the covers facing up. I asked if they had any poetry, and was planted in front of the English Department bookshelf, which contained mostly novels, short stories, plays, and of course, just as many if not more books filled with literary critique, criticism about books I'm sure were probably not even on the bookshelf. I was starting to feel the sting of disappointment until I spotted a single paperback with "Love Poems" on the spine, yes! I plucked it off the shelf, and looked at the cover, it was a contour caricature sketch of an ambiguously Muzungu male, who I assumed to be its author Brian Patten, and slightly deflated, thought to myself, "Umm, I'm pretty sure that dude is not Ugandan."
One of the many things a poem can do / Is remind us what we forgot we knew -Brian Patten
I flipped through the book anyways to a poem about making love at 4am and immediately knew I wanted it (I went back and bought it, along with a whole anthology of Ugandan poetry, the next Saturday). The poem was reminiscent of Bukowski... that is, the Bukowski that can spin romance out of his lover's fart as she bathes in the tub just after they've had sex, but much softer, and less offensive, and with more use of meter and rhyme. I felt the urge to read more, the whole collection of poems was so succinct and inviting, I could probably get away with reading half of them just standing there without even buying the book, but then I heard myself think no, put it back! And the thing is, I really went in there to find a book of Ugandan poetry, and even before confirming my suspicions that Brian Patten is European (Liverpool, England), I was determined for my first book of poetry to be written by a Ugandan. I looked some more on the shelf near where I'd found Love Poems, and after a few more minutes, and 1 foreboding book of religious poetry that definitely wasn't my kikopo of cai (cup of tea), I pulled out a paperback from a row with a set of unmarked light blue spines, and found "African Saga" by Susan Kiguli. Susan is not only an award-winning Ugandan poet, but also a female poet, and a professor of poetry at Makerere University. I've been working my way through "African Saga", writing that is such a vivid and deeply personal perspective of Uganda, and feel once again, nourished, like I'm doing this right, especially when daily life in Uganda simply doles out surprise chunks of time in which you just have to have patience, when you find yourself waiting, for a friend, for a taxi, for water to boil, for the power to come back, these can sometimes be the best moments folded within a day, moments of simply just being. I recently even also started reading the non-fiction book "Deep Economy" by Bill McKibben, and I've been taking both of these books with me, like 2 favorite stuffed animals, wherever I go.
Crazy Peter Prattes
So what is the hullabaloo
About the minister's ailing son
That he makes boiling news?
How come it was not even whispered
When Tina's hospital bed craweled with maggots
And her eyes oozed with pus
Because the doctor's lacked gloves?
What about Kasajja's only child
Who died because the man with the key
To the oxygen room was on leave?
I have seen the queues
Of emaciated mothers clinging to
Babies with translucent skins
Faint in line
And the lioness of a nurse
Commanding tersely
"Get up or leave the line".
Didn't I hear it rumored that
The man with the white mane
And black robes
Whose mouth stores the justice of the land
Ushered a rape case out of court
Because the seven year old
Failed to testify?
Anayway I only remember these things
When I drink
They are indeed tipsy explosions.
***
The Head Tie
I wear a head tie
A legacy from mother
The centre hold of my being.
She covers the scar
On my temple
Where the police fist
Dashed me acrosst the wall.
Sometimes I tie her
Around my waist
To mourn the dead
Lest sorrow robes me
Of my only possession
And upright frame.
She is my next of kin
She houses the blood
Of my old father
Which was vomited
By his protesting chest
Against a bullet.
She is my baby's cot,
The shelter
Against wet or dry,
The nipple which baby gnaws
When hunger wakes up dawn.
***
From Susan Kiguli's African Saga (Kampala: Femrite Publications Limited, 1998).
The other day my co-worker Sheila was telling me about how her sister Beverly and some friends started the Lantern Meet of Poets, a community of poets in Kampala, and then she casually said, "You know, I think Beverly knows Susan, you could probably meet her." Heyo!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Vote Issues NOT Wolokoso
During the elections, the Citizens’ Coalition on Electoral Democracy in Uganda (CCEDU) distributed bright orange vests to be worn with "Vote Issues NOT Wolokoso" printed on the back. The boda I took to work this morning was wearing one.
I asked him what "wolokoso" means before hopping onto the back of the boda, and he said "words," which makes sense, vote issues not words.
So where did he get the vest? I don't remember noticing them at all back in February! Were they distributed to boda drivers during elections? To electoral workers? To volunteers? Did he score the sweet vest while shopping last Friday at the Kamwokya Market??? I hope I see him tomorrow (I know his boda, it's the one with the beige snake skin seat, with the pink piping and fringe) so that I can ask.
Update: I asked him, and he told me that police distributed the vest to boda drivers during elections.
The article below is from back in early February, a point of reference for when "vote issues not wolokoso" became the slogan flavor of the week, and is also a hilarious rundown of all 8 presidential candidates!
Pablo: Presidential candidate's pros and cons
"Honour your vote. Vote issues not wolokoso" is the latest slogan plastered everywhere. But what is wolokoso?
My nine-year-old niece thought it was one of the presidential candidates. Unreliable sources confirm that wolokoso means things that don’t make sense.
Eight candidates are competing for the post of President in the upcoming elections. They all claim to love this country more than their birthday. Allow me to express my opinion on why I would vote or not vote each candidate.
Why I would vote for President Yoweri Museveni.
I would vote for him because he’s my OB. Who wouldn’t want to have a former schoolmate for president; a rapper at that?
Why I wouldn’t vote for Museveni
His speeches are mostly based on remembrance. We have remembered, remembered and remembered things that happened in 1986. Those who were born after must be wondering whether the events are based on true life stories or from Harry Porter scripts.
Why I would vote for Bidandi Ssali
Bidandi would get my vote because he’s my neighbour in Bukoto. I’m sure security would be beefed up in Nsimbiziwome, that’s if they don’t evict us for being a security threat.
Why I wouldn’t vote for Bidandi
The choice of a lantern as a party symbol brings back bad memories of poverty. It reminds me of the days when we didn’t have paraffin. Bobi Wine’s song Kataala makes it even worse.
Why I would vote Kizza Besigye
Besigye is a hunk. I would vote for him because we attended a wedding together. He reminds me of the legendary wrestler Hulk Horgan when he speaks.
Why I wouldn’t vote for Besigye
I envy his courage to dance but I don’t admire his dance strokes. He should get some training from bazungu expatriates. Their dance strokes entirely depend on the weather, not the music playing. I wonder why they are always in a hurry even when dancing to slow music.
Why I would vote Beti Kamya
Kamya is a beauty. It wouldn’t take her lots of time convincing donors to give us money. All they need is to take photos with her and keep them in their albums. That would save us from writing a bunch of proposals.
Why I wouldn’t vote Kamya
Her poster is like that of an inspirational speaker or an upcoming pastor. I don’t know why she chose a giraffe as her symbol. Ugandans have nothing to do with giraffes. It would make sense if they were edible.
Why I would vote Norbert Mao
I would vote Mao because he’s my friend on Facebook. Who wouldn’t want to poke or chat with the president directly without signing ten visitors’ books before reaching him?
Why I wouldn’t vote Mao
I wouldn’t vote for Mao because of his wife. She’s so beautiful that she would steal all the attention from the president.
Why I would vote Abed Bwanika
I would vote Dr Bwanika because of his recent martial arts antics exhibited on his campaign trail when some security operatives tried to stop the man of God from campaigning.
Why I wouldn’t vote Bwanika
What will happen to his church if he deserts it for presidency? I only get to hear of him when it’s time for elections. Where does he spend the rest of the years after elections?
Why I would vote Sam Lubega
I would vote for Lubega, because I don’t know him, never heard of him, and I don’t know his plans for the nation.
Why I wouldn’t vote Lubega
I wouldn’t vote for him because I don’t know him, never heard of him, and I don’t know his plans for the nation.
Why I would vote Olara Otunnu
Otunnu is the first Acholi I’ve seen who talks in slow motion. He gives you an impression that he wouldn’t harm a fly.
Why I wouldn’t vote Otunnu
His attire is always undecided. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a shirt, a kanzu or a night gown.
-The Observer
I asked him what "wolokoso" means before hopping onto the back of the boda, and he said "words," which makes sense, vote issues not words.
So where did he get the vest? I don't remember noticing them at all back in February! Were they distributed to boda drivers during elections? To electoral workers? To volunteers? Did he score the sweet vest while shopping last Friday at the Kamwokya Market??? I hope I see him tomorrow (I know his boda, it's the one with the beige snake skin seat, with the pink piping and fringe) so that I can ask.
Update: I asked him, and he told me that police distributed the vest to boda drivers during elections.
The article below is from back in early February, a point of reference for when "vote issues not wolokoso" became the slogan flavor of the week, and is also a hilarious rundown of all 8 presidential candidates!
Pablo: Presidential candidate's pros and cons
"Honour your vote. Vote issues not wolokoso" is the latest slogan plastered everywhere. But what is wolokoso?
My nine-year-old niece thought it was one of the presidential candidates. Unreliable sources confirm that wolokoso means things that don’t make sense.
Eight candidates are competing for the post of President in the upcoming elections. They all claim to love this country more than their birthday. Allow me to express my opinion on why I would vote or not vote each candidate.
Why I would vote for President Yoweri Museveni.
I would vote for him because he’s my OB. Who wouldn’t want to have a former schoolmate for president; a rapper at that?
Why I wouldn’t vote for Museveni
His speeches are mostly based on remembrance. We have remembered, remembered and remembered things that happened in 1986. Those who were born after must be wondering whether the events are based on true life stories or from Harry Porter scripts.
Why I would vote for Bidandi Ssali
Bidandi would get my vote because he’s my neighbour in Bukoto. I’m sure security would be beefed up in Nsimbiziwome, that’s if they don’t evict us for being a security threat.
Why I wouldn’t vote for Bidandi
The choice of a lantern as a party symbol brings back bad memories of poverty. It reminds me of the days when we didn’t have paraffin. Bobi Wine’s song Kataala makes it even worse.
Why I would vote Kizza Besigye
Besigye is a hunk. I would vote for him because we attended a wedding together. He reminds me of the legendary wrestler Hulk Horgan when he speaks.
Why I wouldn’t vote for Besigye
I envy his courage to dance but I don’t admire his dance strokes. He should get some training from bazungu expatriates. Their dance strokes entirely depend on the weather, not the music playing. I wonder why they are always in a hurry even when dancing to slow music.
Why I would vote Beti Kamya
Kamya is a beauty. It wouldn’t take her lots of time convincing donors to give us money. All they need is to take photos with her and keep them in their albums. That would save us from writing a bunch of proposals.
Why I wouldn’t vote Kamya
Her poster is like that of an inspirational speaker or an upcoming pastor. I don’t know why she chose a giraffe as her symbol. Ugandans have nothing to do with giraffes. It would make sense if they were edible.
Why I would vote Norbert Mao
I would vote Mao because he’s my friend on Facebook. Who wouldn’t want to poke or chat with the president directly without signing ten visitors’ books before reaching him?
Why I wouldn’t vote Mao
I wouldn’t vote for Mao because of his wife. She’s so beautiful that she would steal all the attention from the president.
Why I would vote Abed Bwanika
I would vote Dr Bwanika because of his recent martial arts antics exhibited on his campaign trail when some security operatives tried to stop the man of God from campaigning.
Why I wouldn’t vote Bwanika
What will happen to his church if he deserts it for presidency? I only get to hear of him when it’s time for elections. Where does he spend the rest of the years after elections?
Why I would vote Sam Lubega
I would vote for Lubega, because I don’t know him, never heard of him, and I don’t know his plans for the nation.
Why I wouldn’t vote Lubega
I wouldn’t vote for him because I don’t know him, never heard of him, and I don’t know his plans for the nation.
Why I would vote Olara Otunnu
Otunnu is the first Acholi I’ve seen who talks in slow motion. He gives you an impression that he wouldn’t harm a fly.
Why I wouldn’t vote Otunnu
His attire is always undecided. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a shirt, a kanzu or a night gown.
-The Observer
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Where I work!
"Training hundreds, to train thousands, who care for millions."
I really like that.
Who I work with!
William, Ziadah (pictured below), Margaret, Virgin Mary (pictured in the background), and Janepher
The steep road leading down to the Learning Hub office...
past the bananas, cassava, and sugar cane...
almost there!
The Learning Hub!
The view from my desk on the 2nd floor (to the right is where we take lunch)
The office... fancy!
and no office would be complete without signs in the bathroom!
(Yes, and yes, to whatever you're thinking.)
AND no modern office would be complete without emails like this!
________________________________________
From: Milly Xxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, June 01, 2011 2:59 PM
To: Martha Xxxxxxxxx; Training Department
Cc: IDCAP Team; KCC; KKP Staff
Subject: RE: Telephone Extension at Reception
Congs Martha.
________________________________________
From: Martha Xxxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, June 01, 2011 8:12 AM
To: Training Department
Cc: IDCAP Team; KCC; KKP Staff
Subject: Telephone Extension at Reception
Dear All,
I am writing to inform you that a phone has been installed at the reception.
My extension number is 434.
Kind regards,
Martha Xxxxxxxxx
I really like that.
Who I work with!
William, Ziadah (pictured below), Margaret, Virgin Mary (pictured in the background), and Janepher
The steep road leading down to the Learning Hub office...
past the bananas, cassava, and sugar cane...
almost there!
The Learning Hub!
The view from my desk on the 2nd floor (to the right is where we take lunch)
The office... fancy!
and no office would be complete without signs in the bathroom!
(Yes, and yes, to whatever you're thinking.)
AND no modern office would be complete without emails like this!
________________________________________
From: Milly Xxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, June 01, 2011 2:59 PM
To: Martha Xxxxxxxxx; Training Department
Cc: IDCAP Team; KCC; KKP Staff
Subject: RE: Telephone Extension at Reception
Congs Martha.
________________________________________
From: Martha Xxxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, June 01, 2011 8:12 AM
To: Training Department
Cc: IDCAP Team; KCC; KKP Staff
Subject: Telephone Extension at Reception
Dear All,
I am writing to inform you that a phone has been installed at the reception.
My extension number is 434.
Kind regards,
Martha Xxxxxxxxx
Monday, May 30, 2011
I just...
I just barfed 20 mins after taking my doxycycline without food. Lesson learned, "take with food" is actually not a suggestion.
WTF...
... is what I mistakenly read whenever I see WFP (World Food Programme) emails in my inbox. Yikes! They should really rethink that.
Evoking Duende Somewhere between Blue and Green
To live in the borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra española
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;
To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
that mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;
Cuando vives en la frontera
people walk through you, wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat
forerunner of a new race,
half and half–both woman and man, neither–
a new gender;
To live in the Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border check points;
Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold elixer beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;
In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action
dead, fighting back;
To live in the Borderlands means
the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
pound you pinch you roll you out
smelling like white bread but dead;
To survive in the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a crossroads.
From Gloria Anzuldua’s Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, I987)
Somewhere between Blue and Green from Evoking Duende: Travel and poetry from an American writer in AndalucÃa
Friday, May 27, 2011
how to rip Ugandan VCDs: part 2
So after downloading a bunch of free trial versions of software that converts .dat files into .mp3 files, I gave them all a spin and found a free trial version of ImToo that converts up to 5 mins of video into audio, so I was finally able to rip the overgrown pile of VCDs sitting on my desk borrowed from various Ugandan friends. Yay!
I ALSO found a way to download streaming videos as .mp4 files using KeepVid, which is a program that uses some JavaScript that essentially creates a link on the fly for downloading videos from websites like YouTube, TED, Facebook, etc.
I love how the phrase "on the fly" references the exact same concept across my two totally unrelated careers: my VERY short-lived career in the service industry (possibly short-lived due to it being spent working at the Macaroni Grill), and my current career working in software development.
I was definitely into piracy before I came to Uganda, but since I've been here, I think I've become pretty good at it.
how to rip Ugandan VCDs: part 1
I ALSO found a way to download streaming videos as .mp4 files using KeepVid, which is a program that uses some JavaScript that essentially creates a link on the fly for downloading videos from websites like YouTube, TED, Facebook, etc.
I love how the phrase "on the fly" references the exact same concept across my two totally unrelated careers: my VERY short-lived career in the service industry (possibly short-lived due to it being spent working at the Macaroni Grill), and my current career working in software development.
I was definitely into piracy before I came to Uganda, but since I've been here, I think I've become pretty good at it.
how to rip Ugandan VCDs: part 1
After being here for 6 months...
After being here for 6 months, I finally had the opportunity to get pick-pocketed at the Old Taxi Park! I was walking with my friend Marika, and I just felt the slightest sensation of someone unzipping by bag, and instead of turning around to find my zipper just a little bit unzipped with no one in particular to claim the credit (a frequent scenario amidst the chaos at the Old Taxi Park, especially at night), I found not only my zipper completely unzipped, but I also found a guy in a maroon button-down shirt reaching his hand down into my bag and removing my wallet.
The Old Taxi Park
(this is actually the very first picture I took in Uganda)
I don't actually remember having any thought process in my mind about what might happen in the next few seconds, but I immediately spun around, my eyes flickering up just enough to catch his face and his eyes before completely focusing my eyes on my wallet. In the same moment, without even thinking, I lunged at the guy, digging into his forearm, preparing to hold on as tight as possible, and absolutely not let go, even if it meant getting dragged with him a few steps down the street, and I totally (dropped the f-bomb, sorry mom, and) yelled "give me my fucking wallet!" The guy, caught by surprise, immediately dropped my wallet and ran away, which was a wise choice. Stealing is really serious here, and similar to in India when there's a car accident, everyone gets involved, and there are constantly stories about people getting chased down by a spontaneous mob formed by everyone within range of the crime, and getting beaten, sometimes to the point of death.
I only had ~40,000/= in my wallet, which is less than $20, oh, and a photo ID debit card (not much use to a male Ugandan), a photo ID NJ driver's license (also not much use to a male Ugandan, but high in NJ sentimental value), along with a few business cards. A lot of my Ugandan friends actually only make between 5,000/= and 10,000/= per day. So yes, let's go there, that's 5,000 = $2 per day, 25,000/= per week, 100,000/= per month, and 1,200,000 = $500 per year. And just for fun, let's compare, by throwing in the fact that the frisbee team recently registered for the World Championship Beach Ultimate 2011 tournament in Italy, which incidentally only happens once every 4 years, and will cost ~$2,000 per player. So while the danger of getting caught stealing in downtown Kampala is very real, it's completely understandable that an opportunity to pick almost 1 week's worth of salary off a muzungu in less 30 seconds stands to be legitimately tempting, if you don't get caught. ;)
And after being here for 6 months, I ALSO finally had the opportunity to schmoooooze at an Accordia conference at the Kampala Serena, Accordia being one of the partners, along with Pfizer Inc, the Academic Alliance, and Makerere University, that founded the Infectious Diseases Institute (IDI), where I work, and of course, the Serena being the most shamelessly ostentatious hotel in Kampala.
The Keynote Lecture
(in the ugliest conference room with the worst lighting)
The Cocktail Reception after the Keynote Lecture
(with the best Australian wine, beef kebabs, and smoked salmon)
And although it was all very exciting, I also discovered, more importantly, that I am the WORST offender of obliviously wearing my name tag for HOURS after a conference. Whoops! I had been kind of suspicious of this about myself for some time (but how to confirm such a thing?), and as I walked from the hotel to Centenary Park to meet up with a friend, I didn't realize until I was almost there that I had been wandering around in public once again with my full name plastered across my body, this time it was the lower right side of my stomach. I ran my hand across my hip and felt along the edges with my fingers before quickly ripping it off, shaking my head in disbelief, but at the same time amused with myself over my obscure inside joke... with myself.
The Old Taxi Park
(this is actually the very first picture I took in Uganda)
I don't actually remember having any thought process in my mind about what might happen in the next few seconds, but I immediately spun around, my eyes flickering up just enough to catch his face and his eyes before completely focusing my eyes on my wallet. In the same moment, without even thinking, I lunged at the guy, digging into his forearm, preparing to hold on as tight as possible, and absolutely not let go, even if it meant getting dragged with him a few steps down the street, and I totally (dropped the f-bomb, sorry mom, and) yelled "give me my fucking wallet!" The guy, caught by surprise, immediately dropped my wallet and ran away, which was a wise choice. Stealing is really serious here, and similar to in India when there's a car accident, everyone gets involved, and there are constantly stories about people getting chased down by a spontaneous mob formed by everyone within range of the crime, and getting beaten, sometimes to the point of death.
I only had ~40,000/= in my wallet, which is less than $20, oh, and a photo ID debit card (not much use to a male Ugandan), a photo ID NJ driver's license (also not much use to a male Ugandan, but high in NJ sentimental value), along with a few business cards. A lot of my Ugandan friends actually only make between 5,000/= and 10,000/= per day. So yes, let's go there, that's 5,000 = $2 per day, 25,000/= per week, 100,000/= per month, and 1,200,000 = $500 per year. And just for fun, let's compare, by throwing in the fact that the frisbee team recently registered for the World Championship Beach Ultimate 2011 tournament in Italy, which incidentally only happens once every 4 years, and will cost ~$2,000 per player. So while the danger of getting caught stealing in downtown Kampala is very real, it's completely understandable that an opportunity to pick almost 1 week's worth of salary off a muzungu in less 30 seconds stands to be legitimately tempting, if you don't get caught. ;)
And after being here for 6 months, I ALSO finally had the opportunity to schmoooooze at an Accordia conference at the Kampala Serena, Accordia being one of the partners, along with Pfizer Inc, the Academic Alliance, and Makerere University, that founded the Infectious Diseases Institute (IDI), where I work, and of course, the Serena being the most shamelessly ostentatious hotel in Kampala.
The Keynote Lecture
(in the ugliest conference room with the worst lighting)
The Cocktail Reception after the Keynote Lecture
(with the best Australian wine, beef kebabs, and smoked salmon)
And although it was all very exciting, I also discovered, more importantly, that I am the WORST offender of obliviously wearing my name tag for HOURS after a conference. Whoops! I had been kind of suspicious of this about myself for some time (but how to confirm such a thing?), and as I walked from the hotel to Centenary Park to meet up with a friend, I didn't realize until I was almost there that I had been wandering around in public once again with my full name plastered across my body, this time it was the lower right side of my stomach. I ran my hand across my hip and felt along the edges with my fingers before quickly ripping it off, shaking my head in disbelief, but at the same time amused with myself over my obscure inside joke... with myself.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The return of the coffee mug cake
The pumpkin coffee mug cake was inspired by my cuddly couch crasher Marika, a student at Kenyon college that I play frisbee with who's sticking around in East Africa for two extra months to travel!
She made dinner for Meg and me this past Saturday night, as a thank you for letting her stay at our apt this week: homemade ravioli from scratch with pumpkin filling consisting of pumpkin, garlic, onion, carrot, and parmesan cheese, topped with a spinach and garlic cream sauce. I made a Ugandan salad of tomato, onion, cabbage, and green pepper, tossed with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Meg said that balsamic vinegar is good for killing stuff, which I guess kind of makes it the Coke of salad. We busted out a bottle of Robert's Rock red wine, and since we only needed 1/3 of the pumpkin for the ravioli filling, and used the extra we even had from that 1/3 and made pan-fried pumpkin pancakes, I now have 2/3 of a freshly cooked pumpkin in the fridge. I found and considered a Paul Deen Pumpkin Bars recipe (shameless!... and sans the icing), but that would require turning the oven on in our apt, which is the equivalent of shooting fireworks inside the oven in our apt (but which is nothing compared to when the power line falls across the street from our apt), so it will probably be slowly and steadily consumed cup by cup, destined to a fate as pumpkin coffee mug cake.
The (redemptive) dinner retrospective:
Making the pumpkin ravioli (and making impromptu pumpkin pancakes, which ended up being my favorite part of the meal!)
Chopping the nakati (Ugandan spinach)
ZOMG cheese!!! (The cheese easily cost 1/2 of the entire meal!)
South African wine
Dinner (Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" playing in the background not pictured)
I know, I know, you're all judging me (and conveniently, last Saturday was May 21st, 2011, the revised prediction for the date of the Rapture), but my apt has a microwave, so it was inevitable!
Pumpkin cake:
4 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons cooked pumpkin
4 tablespoons milk (or water)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (or allspice, or whatever)
-adapted from Problem Solvin' Mom, with the utterly "apt" for being utterly generic tagline "because life provides plenty of opportunity for creative solutions"
Chocolate cake:
4 tablespoons chocolate (or vanilla, or whatever) cake mix
3 tablespoons milk (or water)
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
(sometimes I add 1/2 tablespoon of coffee)
Microwave on high for 1 min or so, and enjoy!
She made dinner for Meg and me this past Saturday night, as a thank you for letting her stay at our apt this week: homemade ravioli from scratch with pumpkin filling consisting of pumpkin, garlic, onion, carrot, and parmesan cheese, topped with a spinach and garlic cream sauce. I made a Ugandan salad of tomato, onion, cabbage, and green pepper, tossed with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Meg said that balsamic vinegar is good for killing stuff, which I guess kind of makes it the Coke of salad. We busted out a bottle of Robert's Rock red wine, and since we only needed 1/3 of the pumpkin for the ravioli filling, and used the extra we even had from that 1/3 and made pan-fried pumpkin pancakes, I now have 2/3 of a freshly cooked pumpkin in the fridge. I found and considered a Paul Deen Pumpkin Bars recipe (shameless!... and sans the icing), but that would require turning the oven on in our apt, which is the equivalent of shooting fireworks inside the oven in our apt (but which is nothing compared to when the power line falls across the street from our apt), so it will probably be slowly and steadily consumed cup by cup, destined to a fate as pumpkin coffee mug cake.
The (redemptive) dinner retrospective:
Making the pumpkin ravioli (and making impromptu pumpkin pancakes, which ended up being my favorite part of the meal!)
Chopping the nakati (Ugandan spinach)
ZOMG cheese!!! (The cheese easily cost 1/2 of the entire meal!)
South African wine
Dinner (Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" playing in the background not pictured)
I know, I know, you're all judging me (and conveniently, last Saturday was May 21st, 2011, the revised prediction for the date of the Rapture), but my apt has a microwave, so it was inevitable!
Pumpkin cake:
4 tablespoons flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 tablespoons cooked pumpkin
4 tablespoons milk (or water)
1 teaspoon cinnamon (or allspice, or whatever)
-adapted from Problem Solvin' Mom, with the utterly "apt" for being utterly generic tagline "because life provides plenty of opportunity for creative solutions"
Chocolate cake:
4 tablespoons chocolate (or vanilla, or whatever) cake mix
3 tablespoons milk (or water)
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
(sometimes I add 1/2 tablespoon of coffee)
Microwave on high for 1 min or so, and enjoy!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Luganda linguistics lesson
OK so I've only met with Francis a handful of times in 3 months (5 times exactly), partially due to our busy schedules, partially due to the protests, but he's a natural Luganda tutor, his enunciation is beautiful (people either speak too fast or mumble, and sometimes both), his spelling is impeccable (people spell stuff in Luganda all sorts of ways), and we meet at the Makerere University Guild Canteen cafe, which has the best, puffiest, sweet-but-not-too-sweet chindazi (Ugandan donut) and African tea. African tea is just milk tea, even though Ugandans mostly drink their tea black.
The Makerere University Guild Canteen cafe
The Alphabet
The letters q and x don't exist, and there is an extra letter that looks like a script j and sounds like a soft "nj"
The letters h, i, p, r, and u don't start words but are used in words
The word for home = waka (tsamina mina eh eh, waka waka eh eh, tsamina mina zangalewa, this time for Africa...)
Ugandans know the word for cooking oil = butto, but the word for butter = siyagi, is never used and nobody knows it
Family
A mother's sisters are all called mother = maama, a father's brothers are all called father = taata, and an older brother or sister = baaba (that means father in Mandarin!)
If a female is speaking, there is no way to refer to a wife's family (because there is no way for a female to refer to a wife), and if a male is speaking, there is no way to refer to a husband's family (because there is no way for a male to refer to a husband)
Time
The word for mid-morning = kalasa mayanzi, which literally means "grasshopper's playing," and late afternoon = kawoza masiga, which literally means "cool down"
There is a difference between times at night, evening to midnight = ttumbi, and midnight to 4am = kinywa mbogo
Size Matters
The verbs kufirwa and kusuula both mean to lose something, but the first refers to losing something valuable, and the second refers to losing something regular
The verbs kutema and kusala both mean to cut something, but the first refers to using a large machete, and the second refers to using a small knife
Verbs, Nouns, Etc
The verb prefix ku is used to indicate the "to" form of a verb: kulya = to eat, kunywa, = to drink, kumanya = to know, kugamba = to say
The word ku means some: ku mmere = some food, ku mazzi = some water
The verbs to feel (physically/emotionally), to hear, to smell, and to taste something are all the same = kuwulira, but the verb to see/to meet someone is different = kulaba
The verb to choose/vote = londa, and the verb to wait = linda
The word for a story or a conversation = nboozi
There are 3 ways to say and = era, ate, and kyokka (I use ate, as in "ate gwe?/and you?" in response to someone asking "oli otya?/how are you?")
There isn't actually a way to say "I'm busy" in Luganda
Possession
Francis had to stop the lesson entirely because possession (mine, yours, his/hers, ours, yours, theirs) is so nuanced that he sat for a solid 10 mins thinking about how to explain it to me, and came up with nothing. We have yet to revisit this topic.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
And just like that...
And just like that, police are spraying protesters bright pink.
"On Monday, at least nine unarmed people are believed to have been killed – including three shot in the back as they fled.
The tactic of spraying paint at protesters fairly common in Uganda and elsewhere in the continent.
It was used during the Apartheid era in South Africa, most famously in the 1989 Purple Rain Protest in Cape Town.
Spraying protesters a distinctive colour is carried out by such regimes because difficult for people to escape the police’s clutches while out of the demonstration zone.
The protests have sparked violence in the capital Kampala and several other towns for nearly a month.
But the protests show no sign of dying down..."-Reuters
Splash of anger: Police spray Ugandan protesters with coloured water during demonstrations in the capital Kampala
Pinked: Ugandan opposition politician Olara Otunnu is shielded by his supporters during the attack
Overcome with emulsion: Spraying tactics are the latest desperate tactic of disputed President Yoweri Museveni
Makeing their mark: The paint is used both to humiliate protesters and make it easier for police to track them down
"On Monday, at least nine unarmed people are believed to have been killed – including three shot in the back as they fled.
The tactic of spraying paint at protesters fairly common in Uganda and elsewhere in the continent.
It was used during the Apartheid era in South Africa, most famously in the 1989 Purple Rain Protest in Cape Town.
Spraying protesters a distinctive colour is carried out by such regimes because difficult for people to escape the police’s clutches while out of the demonstration zone.
The protests have sparked violence in the capital Kampala and several other towns for nearly a month.
But the protests show no sign of dying down..."-Reuters
Splash of anger: Police spray Ugandan protesters with coloured water during demonstrations in the capital Kampala
Pinked: Ugandan opposition politician Olara Otunnu is shielded by his supporters during the attack
Overcome with emulsion: Spraying tactics are the latest desperate tactic of disputed President Yoweri Museveni
Makeing their mark: The paint is used both to humiliate protesters and make it easier for police to track them down
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Letter M
M7 - President Museveni, comes from Mzee (pronounced "mzeh") and means "an old person, advanced in years" in Swahili
M$ - Microsoft, comes from a Uganda LUG thread today about buying Skype for $8.5 billion
M$ - Microsoft, comes from a Uganda LUG thread today about buying Skype for $8.5 billion
Monday, May 9, 2011
I don't want to raise my kids...
I don't want to raise my kids in a place with too much aid, or too little development.
(But I do want them to experience it)
(But I do want them to experience it)
I don't want to raise my kids...
I don't want to raise my kids in a place that doesn't have Halloween and more importantly, trick-or-treating.
(Well, I at least want them to experience it, like, once or twice)
(Well, I at least want them to experience it, like, once or twice)
a guide to the international development blogosphere
I was at first pretty overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information flowing out of this community, and intimidated by the fierce sophistication of both the data and ideas being discussed (picture that scene in Clueless where Amber remarks that her plastic surgeon "doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose"). And at first I thought I'd need to go into battle with some pretty tough skin to combat the snark and cynicism, but I've found the community to simply be a really honest bunch, extremely candid about (often personal) stories of success and failure, willing to own (to a suspiciously enjoyable degree) any and all of the contradictions that come with working in the field of international development, whether its a post calling bullshit on some article, or a comment completely blasting some post.
I've pared down this list of international development blogs (which is apparently kind of a big deal) to the ones that have really sustained my interest and focus. I stumbled across the list when I first started my Global Health Corps fellowship with the Infectious Diseases Institute, and its been a great way for me to dive into the world of international aid, development, ICT4D, public health, relief, sustainability, etc, and after the initial shock, although being American, you'd think lots of choice wouldn't induce all that much shock, I've got what I feel is a balanced diet of thoughts, words, and ideas:
ict4d:
ICTWorks
Google Africa
SciDev.Net
TechCocktail
aid and development:
Aid Watch
Find What Works
Good Intentions Are Not Enough
How Matters
Roving Bandit
Tales From the Hood
wronging rights
I read other blogs, too, and those also fall into two categories: friends, and other miscellaneous stuff (cooking, poetry, software development, etc).
I've pared down this list of international development blogs (which is apparently kind of a big deal) to the ones that have really sustained my interest and focus. I stumbled across the list when I first started my Global Health Corps fellowship with the Infectious Diseases Institute, and its been a great way for me to dive into the world of international aid, development, ICT4D, public health, relief, sustainability, etc, and after the initial shock, although being American, you'd think lots of choice wouldn't induce all that much shock, I've got what I feel is a balanced diet of thoughts, words, and ideas:
ict4d:
ICTWorks
Google Africa
SciDev.Net
TechCocktail
aid and development:
Aid Watch
Find What Works
Good Intentions Are Not Enough
How Matters
Roving Bandit
Tales From the Hood
wronging rights
I read other blogs, too, and those also fall into two categories: friends, and other miscellaneous stuff (cooking, poetry, software development, etc).
Friday, May 6, 2011
Sue, are you OK over there?
I've been getting this question a lot, and so in answer to this, and in so many words, I'm very OK over here. :)
I think there are two worlds that I live in, one of those world's being comprised of Kampala, and Uganda, and all of the ideas that get funneled into what people think of when they think of a person living in Sub-Saharan Africa, especially given the protests happening in Kampala and other parts of Uganda, and also especially given the media coverage of the protests happening in Kampala and other parts of Uganda.
But the other world is comprised of my daily life, and living in Kamwokya, and working at the IDI Learning Hub, and shopping at the market for fresh fruit and veggies, and on Fridays when the Kamwokya market becomes overflowing with clothes, shoes, jewelry, toys, electric kettles, ceramic stoves, plastic cups, bowls, and plates, and becomes this miniature neighborhood version of Owino Market, and playing frisbee twice a week at the Lugogo cricket fields and on weekends at the Makerere University Business School (MUBS) fields, and nerding it up at monthly MoMoKla events and Uganda Linux User Group (LUG) events and Kampala Google Tech User Group (GTUG) events, and meeting Francis on Wednesdays and Saturdays for Luganda lessons at Makerere University's Guild Canteen cafe, and watching the MTN Heathens beat every team they play at Kyadondo Rugby Club or Lugogo Rugby Ground over beers and pork, and spending public holidays at Aero beach all day and eating fresh, whole Tilapia with chips for dinner overlooking Lake Victoria at night, and stopping for Rolex in Wandegeya after a night at Iguana's or Steak Out, and watching bootleg movies for 2000/= (< USD $1) and listening to 100+ popular Ugandan songs on burned CDs for 5000/= (< USD $2.50), and spending Sunday mornings at the Baha'i Temple, and spending Sunday afternoons learning how to cook Ugandan food...
Actually, Nicholas was telling me Makerere University is notorious for its student riots, that there's riots almost as often as graduation. Once or twice over the past month I've actually had my Luganda tutor Francis cancel our lesson as a precaution against getting caught in any political activity on campus incited by the protests, but so far, there's only been a day or two of student rioting, and a 1-man hunger strike. In general, there's only been a day or two of rioting in Kampala (the same two days) where it became necessary to avoid downtown, but because I live and work slightly north of downtown, and because you really have to be within a certain range of the protesting (and I don't participate in the protests), I've luckily been outside of that range, and I've been relatively safe and out of harm's way.
Makerere University LC5 councillor Bernard Luyiga camping with his mosquito net outside the Main gate on hunger strike:
Unfortunately, Luyiga was hospitalized on day 2 of striking after he collapsed outside the Main gate and was rushed to the Makerere University hospital.
But inspired by Luyiga (I swear I had nothing to do with this :), students are proposing to streak in protest!!!
"We’re ready to move about naked and protest against this government’s brutality," said Joseph Kakooza, the IPC chairman at Makerere. -The Observer
I think there are two worlds that I live in, one of those world's being comprised of Kampala, and Uganda, and all of the ideas that get funneled into what people think of when they think of a person living in Sub-Saharan Africa, especially given the protests happening in Kampala and other parts of Uganda, and also especially given the media coverage of the protests happening in Kampala and other parts of Uganda.
But the other world is comprised of my daily life, and living in Kamwokya, and working at the IDI Learning Hub, and shopping at the market for fresh fruit and veggies, and on Fridays when the Kamwokya market becomes overflowing with clothes, shoes, jewelry, toys, electric kettles, ceramic stoves, plastic cups, bowls, and plates, and becomes this miniature neighborhood version of Owino Market, and playing frisbee twice a week at the Lugogo cricket fields and on weekends at the Makerere University Business School (MUBS) fields, and nerding it up at monthly MoMoKla events and Uganda Linux User Group (LUG) events and Kampala Google Tech User Group (GTUG) events, and meeting Francis on Wednesdays and Saturdays for Luganda lessons at Makerere University's Guild Canteen cafe, and watching the MTN Heathens beat every team they play at Kyadondo Rugby Club or Lugogo Rugby Ground over beers and pork, and spending public holidays at Aero beach all day and eating fresh, whole Tilapia with chips for dinner overlooking Lake Victoria at night, and stopping for Rolex in Wandegeya after a night at Iguana's or Steak Out, and watching bootleg movies for 2000/= (< USD $1) and listening to 100+ popular Ugandan songs on burned CDs for 5000/= (< USD $2.50), and spending Sunday mornings at the Baha'i Temple, and spending Sunday afternoons learning how to cook Ugandan food...
Actually, Nicholas was telling me Makerere University is notorious for its student riots, that there's riots almost as often as graduation. Once or twice over the past month I've actually had my Luganda tutor Francis cancel our lesson as a precaution against getting caught in any political activity on campus incited by the protests, but so far, there's only been a day or two of student rioting, and a 1-man hunger strike. In general, there's only been a day or two of rioting in Kampala (the same two days) where it became necessary to avoid downtown, but because I live and work slightly north of downtown, and because you really have to be within a certain range of the protesting (and I don't participate in the protests), I've luckily been outside of that range, and I've been relatively safe and out of harm's way.
Makerere University LC5 councillor Bernard Luyiga camping with his mosquito net outside the Main gate on hunger strike:
Unfortunately, Luyiga was hospitalized on day 2 of striking after he collapsed outside the Main gate and was rushed to the Makerere University hospital.
But inspired by Luyiga (I swear I had nothing to do with this :), students are proposing to streak in protest!!!
"We’re ready to move about naked and protest against this government’s brutality," said Joseph Kakooza, the IPC chairman at Makerere. -The Observer
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