All You Need is Love… And Glitter, Charm and a Few Lugandan Phrases

My camera has made me more popular than anticipated. I don’t know it well enough as I’d like but I feel unprepared without it. My favorite place to photograph is in Jinja in the African Market and the taxi stage. There’s always so much to see, you never get tired of just looking around, especially through a viewfinder. The locals see me strolling about with my very professional-looking camera around my neck and soon I’ve got a mob, especially this last week. On a previous visit, I took many pictures of locals in their workplace there at the taxi stage. Dad had a few shots of these photos printed out for me to give out. This was both a blessing and a curse. I was blessed to see the looks on their faces when they recognized themselves as the picture was passed around and smiled at. It was a curse in the fact that now every walking adult within 10 feet is crowding me wanting their photo taken.

Pictures are huge here. There is no digital copy, no online album, if you can’t hold the photo paper in your hand, it doesn’t exist. I have been shown a multitude of photo albums and they will keep every photo they own. If it’s not in focus or someone blinked, it doesn’t matter. Those photos are their history and honestly, the only way they can keep track of what they actually look like.

Mom wanted me to video Liesel greeting people in Lugandan but I haven’t quite figured out recording yet. I still brought her around though as I was taking pictures of random people because they asked me to. Then a craze got started as a dried noodles vendor wanted a picture with my youngest sister. The ever-shining star she is barely flinched, she simply smiled at the camera like a professional. She definitely became a professional by the time the taxi was ready to leave. There was a small crowd gathered around Leisha’s snack stall, all wanting a photo with the little mzungu. People would either have her in their lap or hold her up or stand next to her like a character in a Disney park. On one occasion, she sat with three men on a bench. “Button!” I joked from behind my camera, “You should at least tell him your name before you sit on a strange man’s lap!” Cool as a cucumber, she turns and says, “Bampita Liesel.” Meaning, “I’m called Liesel.” Hearing their language come out of a six year old always makes them laugh, which makes for a great photo.

Many kids would be overwhelmed by a large crowd of strangers all wanting to shake her hand, pick her up and hear her use her Lugandan.  We can’t wait until she is nearly fluent.  We might have to hire an entourage by that point because all of Jinja will be talking about it.  She already makes an impression with her colorful outfits, sparkling bows and very long hair… but then she begins the traditional Luganda greetings and WOW.  I wish you could see their faces. They will ask her the same questions over and over and over just to hear her speak.  She is unfazed by this attention, just repeats herself countless times.  When it was time to go, she climbed up upon her front seat in the taxi bus like it was a throne, and exclaimed, “Tu genda waka!” (We are going home!) to the driver of the bus… who obliged her of course.  She rode all the way home waving to strangers who chuckled back and waved.

 Ugandans love to ask Liesel what she wants to be when she grows up because she always answers, “The First Lady” and that gets a roar of appreciation from the crowd.   After seeing her in action today, I will be proud to have these photos of her practicing her campaigning skills. Who is to say that after all this practice that she stops at just being the First Lady? We know she will do something amazing for the Lord someday and if that is the First Lady or even the President, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.  

The Mini Midwife writes:

Today’s African Moment: The Cow tries to come inside the house.

The cow was free AGAIN!!! I was inside when I heard Liesel yell, “COW!” I look outside and WOW there is a cow on our porch! Our friend Marian was here and she shuts our door just as it peers inside. She struggles to shut our door to lock it, but finally she wins over the cow and shuts our door. We wait a little while Marian was laughing and Xander is looking underneath the door. But finally it goes away. We later decide it was lonely…. It’s always fun to party with the Clarks.

Apple Cider Smells like Skittles

In exchange for the fantastic fish heads, we offered to invite Marian’s family of five for a good, American dish- Tacos! They arrived later than expected, but were very gracious and “looked smart”, as they say here when you look nice. They sat down and we set out place settings and taco toppings. This was our first mistake. Technically, our first mistake was not offering a washing basin to clean their hands, but we explained that we had a sink for exactly that purpose. But we shouldn’t have put out the toppings because they didn’t understand the concept and just ate the lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and our precious guacamole as appetizers! It wasn’t really a problem because we had more but it was difficult to explain how they would use the vegetables and cheese to fill their tortillas. Guests make their own food? Americans are odd.

We also gave them the “honored piece of beef”.  No, not the head of the cow!  We gave them the bone that was sitting in our new crockpot all morning.  The fat that clings to the bone is a Ugandan’s paradise, they practically licked it clean.  The only difference between the fish head gift and the cow bone gift is that we really didn’t want the cow bone.  Ugandans salivate at fish heads and were probably a bit jealous that we got to eat the “best part” of the fish… we really could have not cared any less what happened to the cow bone.  In fact, we would have thrown it away if we hadn’t known that they would be really offended that we didn’t offer them the best part.  So really, it was a win/win in this case.

For dessert, we bought a special treat from the Vocational Training School that the YWAM base hosts.  This school teaches girls how to do things like tailoring and cooking to help them to get better jobs.  We purchased from them a chocolate cake!  Ugandans love sweet foods, sometimes we joke that the real reason Marian visits us so often is because we have a continuous supply of Nutella on our shelves. We also brought out all the fixings, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and a packet of apple cider.  There was almost an order of how things were tasted.  We would make up the drink and it was passed around so everyone could have a sip, starting with Isha, the mother. None of them really liked coffee. We learned that the Lugandan word for coffee, “Kawa” is the same word for bitter. Then we showed them how the Americans make our coffee, lots of milk, sugar and chocolate! That got much better reception. American tea was next; we gave them Ugandan tea with lunch so now they got to try the flavors beyond ginger. Raspberry and chamomile were the two they chose and though Isha was extremely confused with tea bags, she seemed to enjoy raspberry best. “Apple Cider smells like squittles,” Marian says before she tastes the autumn drink. We had shared some Skittles with her from our care package but she can’t pronounce it quite right.

We learned our Lugandan nicknames when dishes were finished. Zoe is “Omukulu” (pronounced Oh-moo-koo-loo) or “Bhabha” meaning eldest. Dora is “Omusawo” (Oh-moo-saa-woh) meaning nurse. Xander is “Omusomesa” (Oh-moo-soh-meh-saa) meaning professor. Jax is “Enviiri Emwufu” (this one is harder to pronounce, En-vee-ree E-mew-foo) meaning red head. Liesel is “Epesa” (pronounced exactly like you think) meaning button, or our favorite, “Kima Kima” (Kee-ma Kee-ma) meaning monkey! In exchange, we taught them some classic boredom games like staring contests, arm wrestling, thumb war, etc. They are very strong! Then they had to leave so we got to practice our Lugandan goodbyes. We gave them some “Squittles” as a parting gift.

All in all, it was a good visit. We learned a lot about Ugandan culture in the few hours we spent together. We prayed for the relationship and the mother is Muslim. Jesus has plans for our families and it will probably involve a few more meals together. Maybe next time we’ll have pancakes…

"But it's talking to me..."

Hm, how to start this post? Let's begin by explaining how things are done here in Uganda.  First off, it's customary to go and visit people just because. For the host it is considered a great honor to have guests. When you have a guest from around town, it is a good day. When the guest is from a different town, it's very exciting. If your guest is from another part of the country, it's a big deal. From another country? People will be talking for weeks about how honored you are. Mom, Liesel, Dora and I went to Marian's house again. We over dressed on purpose, nice hair, nice earrings, to let them know this visit is important to us too. We meet Marian on the way there and she led us to her house. After we were all settled on their leopard-print sofas, they immediately asked about my ukulele, which I brought at Marian's request. She enjoys playing around on it and I'm doing my best to be encouraging but music is not her strong suit. While her older sister learned the C chord, Marian took us around Kakira to show us the best places for Mom to get groceries.

The meat stop she recommended was the same as the one we ate rollexs next to on our first trip to town. The butcher kept asking for my number. "The color of your skin means money" he said. Fifteen is an acceptable age to get married here, I've been proposed to twice already. Not to worry, I'm not saying yes anytime soon. I probably won't be returning to this stand alone though. After meat we purchased vegetables and chapati's.  Kids were following us everywhere as usual. Back at Marian's house, we see her mother frying up fish outside over the fire. The smell is almost intoxicating. This is a huge deal. Fish is not cheap and her family is not rich. We thank her graciously and go inside where I learn to cut matoke, a cross between a potato and a banana. Didn't slice off anything this time! Then it's time to eat...

Allow me to say, I knew it was coming. As soon as I knew it was fish I was mentally prepared. Maybe that was the only thing that kept me from fainting. We are truly the honoured guests, we each got a head. The head of the fish is the best part according to them. Liesel was the only one of us to not get a head because she is a small child. Instead, she received a huge part of the tail. Mom insisted she switch with one of Marian's sisters who got a smaller portion. A blank eye stared up at me from my floral porcelain bowl, surrounded by a helping of posho, greens, matoke and in a puddle of soup. I choose not to stare back and focus on the rest of my meal.

When nothing else but my rolley-poley fish head is left, I start behind the gills where I can see meat and work my way around, pulling out bones as I go. It tastes fantastic, maybe a little slimy but what are you gonna to do? Now it's just the face. Marian is next to me and says, "This too" and pulls out the jaw to reveal the inner mouth and other organs, probably the brain we deduced later. I take it like a champ and plop the whole thing into my mouth. It has good flavor as long as you don't think about what you're eating.

My Mom is eating faster then me, she gets to the face first. "Now what?" she asks. The mother gestures (she doesn't speak much English) by putting it in her mouth and sucking. There's a moment of silence as the Americans take it in. “But... but, it's talking to me. See?" and she uses her fork to animates it's mouth, "Please don't eat me." Everyone laughs at this but the inevitability remains. If we don't eat everything, it's an insult beyond compare. We watch our Mom, 9% looking for technique, 91% terror-stricken for when we must complete the task ourselves.  Face first, Mr. Fish enters her mouth where he stays there for quite some time. Mom pulls bones out as we await her verdict in stony silence. "Not bad" escapes her mostly full mouth. I look down at my own plate. "I wouldn't lie to you," Mom says, "just eat it". I pick it up then drop it again because my body realized what it was doing and refused. I try again, look at the little guy then take the plunge.

To whomever may find themselves in this great honor, it's really not that bad. It tastes like fish. If you suck with enough velocity, everything goes down rather smoothly as long as you're conscious of the bones. I take it out and was shocked at how much I had actually eaten. I put it back in to finish it off, less daunted now. Then.... it happens.  I taste a pea. Well, it doesn't taste like a pea, it just feels like one. I didn't know there were peas. Mom doesn't really like peas, I wonder why she didn't say anything. Maybe she just ate it too quickly. It's harder than a pea, kinda dense inside. Probably it wasn't cooked long enough. How did they even get peas into this thing anyway?

All of this crossed my mind in a matter of seconds. I'm sure you've figured it out, but it took me a minute. "Don't make a face.", I instructed myself... and really once I got over it I was kind of proud.  It's not everyday that one eats eyeballs. It is a real victory for me because I just don't do gross.  And especially body parts.  Ick.  Africa is flooding my fears one at a time, first spiders, now eyeballs. Chimpanzees shouldn't be a tough one but I'd like to see how I'll get over clowns.

We thanked them most graciously again and invited them over for lunch a few weeks from now. Maybe we'll have tacos. They gave us another fish to take home for the rest of the family, another huge deal. And now Dad can be the honored one.

How To Take a Cold Shower with Long Hair

Dad wrote about this, I know. But see, his description, though well explained and completely accurate, left out a major detail. He has no hair, therefore, he doesn't have to wash it. Girls do. So now we give it over to girl with the longest hair, Liesel.

HI! This is Liesel. First, I would turn the cold water on and dunk my head in. I lean over to make sure it doesn't drip down my back because it's cold. Zoe or Dora help me put the shampoo in my hair and wash it really well. Then I dunk my head in the water again. I splash a little bit of water on myself and then scrub myself with the my favorite soap. Then my whole body goes in the water and I hold my breath to make sure it doesn't get in my mouth. And then I would turn the water off. And then I would comb my hair. And then I would get on my clothes, of course. So that's it.

Some days, when we have the time, we boil water and mix it with cold water in a bucket and bathe that way. But that's another story to be told another time. No little girls were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Transported Teen Writes: Trying My Hand at Sugarcane

Marian is one of my first friends here. We both enjoy crafts, drawing and "shoetags" (their word for nail polish). As we talk, we have cultural exchanges. Sometimes I forget most people in rural areas have no connection outside of Uganda. In America the internet gives us a widow to other places, like the post you're reading right now. Watching Africa on YouTube is rather lacking. It doesn't give you the feel of Africa, the excitement of their worship, the racket of rain pounding a tin roof through the night or the chatter of exotic birds in the morning. The window only works one-way. Marian and I have created a bridge, I share something American and she teaches me about Uganda. I get to explain hamburgers and she shares Ugandan expressions. She was shocked that we live down the road from an enormous plantation but never eaten sugarcane. So she brought some over.

Like a fancy chef from Benihana, she skinned, chopped and sliced the bamboo stalk in a matter of seconds. Swoop, chop, ka-chunk, perfect. Then the pivotal moment of failure comes as she hands me the knife. Let's just say, my obviously superb knife skills are unrefined for African cuisine. Swoop, slice, oops, ow. The knife attacked my thumb. It's fine, a mere flesh wound, but it proves the fact that even though we've been here for almost a month, we are not yet experts.

Dora and I got invited to her house Tuesday. We met her mother, older sister, younger sister and baby brother. Her simple brick house had no windows so it was very dark. The living room was already very small, no bigger than an average bathroom, but it was also the kitchen sink storage and dining room. Apparently it's a thing here, when you have visitors to show them your family photo albums. After meeting the family, we discovered more cultural exchanges by watching the Avengers movie translated to Lugandan. Later language lessons with her mother included phrases like, Wasuze otya, good morning. We removed dried corn off the cob for grounding into posho powder. They were kind enough to feed us lunch. It was a very traditional Ugandan menu: potatoes, cabbage and posho. As much as we are indifferent about posho, theirs was much better then what we're used to on the base. We also snacked on popcorn, more sugarcane and blacked corn kernels which tasted like little salty rocks yet were surprisingly good. Then it was time for Dora and I to leave, next time I'll bring my camera. It was fun to hang out with my friend and her natural teaching spirit is what I need most, just don't ask me to cut the cane.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Dora Clark, the Mini Midwife writes about her first trip off the YWAM base.

I walked along side of my family, up the short hill to the entrance of the Youth With A Mission base where we currently live. We were headed for the first time to the nearby village called Kakira. I started thinking what will Kakira look like? Will it be poor? How poor?

The road is long and winding, made of red dirt. Corn is all we see, and mountains. I am tired and hot, this elevation takes it out of you. I look to the right and see that we’re higher than I thought. No wonder I am tired. There are big orange colored puddles on the ground. I try to dodge them, but the recent rains have made everything slippery. Boda- Boda’s (otherwise known as motorcycles) rush around us. There are no traffic laws here really and the “right of way” does not exist for people walking. Sometimes the Bodas almost take Liesel with them or nearly run into her as she dodges out of the way. 

We stop to take a family photo, how strange we must look to the black people who are slowly walking past, staring at us. You know, we are just some white people just standing on the side of the road taking pictures with a very expensive camera. We have to take this quick because cars drive by and again we are big white targets. After pictures, (this takes a little while) we continue walking. Corn, corn, corn, and guess what? CORN! 

After what seems like one hour we start seeing houses, but that means there is ten more minutes until we get to town. Children are playing outside when we start hearing them shout, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” Mzungu means white person in Luganda. We smile and wave, smile and wave, like royalty. They pour out everywhere, in all various stages of dress (or undress, as it were) The place smells, don’t breath through your nose, I have to tell myself. Everywhere there are colorful buildings and no white people besides us for miles around it seems. I long to play with the children; it looks like they are playing with sticks and make-believe. I should keep with my family because those who know me will know that I will just keep playing with children and never come home. 

I hold out my hand for one of the children to grab. A boy with a red ripped shirt comes to my side. His smile spreads from ear to ear; it looks like he is gloating as he looks back to his friends. Not long after children begin to follow us, chattering away in a language I do not have any hope of understanding. People look at us with strange expressions; but when I smile they smile back. People are also selling things outside, no food though, just dirty, used clothing. We walk to a small shop to buy a soda for our lunch. We definitely can’t fit in this shack so we stand outside. There are two boys behind the counter. They look to be about 10 or 12 with no adult in sight. 

After buying our glass bottles of soda pop, we walk through the mud into a very small, crowded, passage way filled with shack-like looking shops. They look more like lemonade stands than shops. There is an awning with MEAT hanging from the tin roof of the wooden shop. On the dirty wooden shelf, there is various cuts of meat just lying there, baking in the African sun. Behind the shelf, there is a man with a large knife hacking away at some beef on a very dirty stump. We squeeze past him and the flies buzz around. On the concrete next to him is a man cooking something on a large metal drum that smells delicious. Is this where we’re going to get lunch? Apparently we are eating a kind of breakfast burrito called a “Rollex”. It is made with chapatti, an Indian flatbread and vegetables and eggs cooked inside.

We wait patiently for our rollexs amidst the stares of the locals. My Dad asks my Mom to go find some laundry soap in the “shops” nearby. I bounce up and down, volunteering my services to escort her. We squeeze past the meat man and his hanging merchandise. We walk past more brightly colored stores. I look at people who do not look very friendly. We get many stares and not many smiles. We dodge the muddy places, puddles, and people. 

We walk through an open gate where there are lots more people. We begin to ask where there might be laundry soap. They don’t understand the word laundry. No wonder they keep shaking their heads! So we ask for clothes soap, pantomiming washing clothes by hand. At this point, they gesture towards a shop where women are standing. We ask them for clothes soap they shake their heads no. We are very confused because this is the shop that we were shown. We walk around the shop where there are bars on the window. We ask for clothes soap again even though this seems like the same shop we were in just the other side of it. This time a nice man says to the person in the shop “Omo” and the store man hands him some laundry soap! The man hands it to us. We give the store man money, “Thank you! Thank you!” we tell him. It seems as if there is very few places that you can walk in and get what you want in Uganda. Most places you have to ask for the product by name.

We head back to our lunch, again dodging chickens, mud and staring people. As we’re nearing the breakfast burrito place we walk past another meat man, his meat is a gray color. It does not look good at all. We find our family sitting on the concrete and eating. I take a bite of my Rollex; I think I am tasting heaven. YUM! This is delicious! 

Normally, every meal we have had in Uganda is posho, which tastes like a flavorless sponge, some thin spaghetti noodles with no sauce, and beans. That’s it, so this was a big treat. For once, I am stuffed afterwards. 

Then it’s time to go home, so we decide to get a taxi. The taxis are long buses that are always packed full of people before they will leave. It took a while for people to load in it, so Zoe took that opportunity to take photos of the village. Finally the bus seems full, but we didn’t move. Then, two more people squeeze in- a mother and little girl. The mother squeezed in the second row and the little girl on my mother’s lap. Things sure get cozy here in Africa. 

We left KaKira, with full stomachs, crammed into hot dirty vans and a whole new way of life to ponder.