Reverse Culture Shock

I was a bit surprised today to notice reverse culture shock. I was going for a jog (enjoying the cool mornings), listening to a podcast discussion on the value of democracy and found myself infuriated by the triviality of it all. There are many people without water, electricity, food or healthcare all over the world and yet someone has made a podcast in which they discuss why more young Britons don’t vote. It’s so unimportant! They would vote if they wanted to. The fact probably is that they live in comfortable enough societies and don’t really care.

The other thing that annoys me now is when people on the news complain about things like state pensions or school provisions. These are amazing things already! A free education – that’s a wonderful thing!! And yet what gets reported on the news is people complaining that they didn’t get their choice of school. They should try an exchange program to see what it’s like sending a child to school in Uganda. There they can watch their child do 12 years of schooling, paying money to send them to go to a government school, and still emerge unable to speak English (the country’s official language). Next to that our problems seem pretty small. If we’re going to live in a world where there are massive inequalities, the privileged half ought at least to appreciate it!

As I was thinking this I notice that someone (presumably the local council) had put down a new path in the field I was running in. I decided to follow it. It was very nice but potentially also a little unnecessary. Maybe someone could have taken that money and donated it to send 30 Ugandan children to school.

I trust this reverse culture shock will wear off soon. It doesn’t do to be so anxty.

My Ugandan Transformation and 'the Introduction'

Today at 7:30 am, my neighbour came round, flanked by my host mum and brother to see me put on a Gomez. I should at this point introduce the Gomez: it’s a traditional dress worn by women in East Africa. I actually think it predates the existence of Uganda as a country. It is long, has pointy shoulders, and a big bow around the waist. Although this sounds horrible, they are at least made from very nice material. I had blue one that felt like silk. When I was shown the neighbour's family collection and invited to choose one I couldn’t help but feel a little baffled as to how they got funded since the dresses are absolutely exquisite and the neighbour was of more modest means.

The reason We were planning to go to ‘an introduction’ later that day at which I would need to wear the Gomez but this early morning affair seemed to be more of a trial run, to see what happened. In all fairness, I’d tried on one yesterday too, so I kind of knew the drill. What was more troubling was the shoes that went with it. I seemed to be a little on the short side and so the most towering heals were dug out. In the end I settled on a pair of platforms. They seemed to be the best fit and they gave me the height, but at the same time I’ve never worn a pair of platforms outside a shoe shop before on the basis that I’m not safely mobile in them (let alone when there’s a long dress to trip over and an uneven road surface).

At this point in the day I actually had no idea what ‘an introduction’ entailed (so I won’t spoil the story for you by getting ahead of myself) but what I did know was that it was the time that the bridegroom met the bride’s parents for the first time. I figured it was pretty important that they get on.

Anyway, back to the day. I had planned to do a couple of jobs in town – I did ask if I was allowed to take the Gomez off in order to ride a bike in and this didn’t seem to be any problem at all provided I was back at 10am to get dressed. I therefore assumed, quite wrongly, that an introduction would be a lunch affair.

When I did dutifully present myself at just past the hour to visit Peace (my beautiful 23-year-old neighbour) we went out to make an advance payment on some transport to take us to the ceremony (this was fair enough as I wasn’t walking anywhere in the shoes that’d been lined up). At least, this was where I thought we were going but we actually ended up in a salon (the sort of salon with bare brick inside, bare mud outside, a corrugated roof and shoes removed on entry) where the owner greeted me with a disproportionate quantity of joy. There were laughter and hugs before I was seated and oil was worked through my hair by Peace, so that it was very soft, but also quite greasy. Then it was brushed, I gave them money for transport and I was sent on my way. It’s an odd sort of deal where a bus journey comes with an inclusive salon trip, but there we go.

Next stop was home where I was asked to retrieve my nail varnishes so that my nails could be done. By this time it was gone 12 and I was quite convinced that we were missing the ceremony. My host mum has a little shop outside our house and she often sits outside it on a wooden bench making mats. It often has the feel of a ‘women’s club’ as any number of local ladies can be found there, aged from 2-92. I’ve never seen a man sat there though, not even a toddler. Anyway, we joined the ladies on the benches, I took off my shoe, rested my foot on a convenient piece of brick and Peace painted my hands and toes. Then she sent me off to bathe (which was slightly impractical as the varnish hadn’t dried yet; also I’d already bathed once that day, but in a country where most people see deodorant as…well, a great unknown, such formalities must be observed). So I dutifully went off to get a shower, and tootled back down the track to Peace’s house to get dressed. I took with me my greatest asset: my mirror. We’ve bought it in the market and the ladies are always excited by it. Peace and her sisters were no exception and soon her eldest female sibling, Viola, was putting on my excessively pale foundation in the mirror while Peace’s mother (who is in her early 40s) was helping me get into my Gomez. Underneath the Gomez goes a large blanket, folded double, wrapped around the wearer, tied at the waist, and then folded down so that the waist has twice thickness of padding. This, I hoped, would give me a bit more of an African derriere. Next the Gomez goes over the top. It’s like a short-sleeved Japanese kaftan, but it fastens with just 2 buttons on the left breast. At this point there is about 2 meters of excess fabric that is pleated and held against the wearer with the help of an enormous belt which is tied to resemble a comedically sized bow which has come undone. I hope I’m describing all this well enough for you to imagine it.

After I was dressed up, it was the turn of the other girls. Peace put on a lovely yellow Gomez. It was a mild yellow with brighter detailing and looked gorgeous against her dark skin. Her younger sister (aged 20, not as beautiful as Peace, but with all the personality and more) put on a bright pink one. I enjoyed the fact that we were all in very different colours. It was very sweet seeing their mother help to dress them with the same love and affection she had shown me. It was Viola’s first time to wear a Gomez too, so she was quite excited. I really enjoyed the ‘girls are getting ready’ atmosphere and shared my make up around just as we did when we were 14. Peace put a French plait in my hair (which is still in now as it’s not something I get to model every day!) I felt like every aspect of my appearance had been spruced up ready for this ceremony. My dress, my shoes, my nails, my hair texture, my hair style, my makeup and my overall cleanliness. Eventually we were ready to go, so I put the shoes on and tried to negotiate the steps outside the bedroom door. Now, I should explain that these shoes were my host mama, she must have been a bit of a diva back in the day because they were silver spangly 1 inch platforms, with a suitably high heel to go with them. It’s the type of shoe I’ve never bought because when I’ve tried them on in shoe shops I’ve had to hold on to the shelving to stay upright. To don them now and have to walk down very steep steps (the first one is at least 2ft higher than the second) was challenging. Then, at the bottom of the steps was sun-baked hard mud; a difficult terrain because it’s shaped when the mud is wet and squishy and then sets hard in a lumpy pattern; a far cry from the shoe shop floor!

As we walked down the street we attracted a lot of attention. I only noticed it a shade or 2 more than usual, but the 2 sisters with me felt like A list celebrities (and well they should, when a girl’s spent the entire day getting ready, she deserves such a feeling). We sat ourselves down in a local house and waited for the car to come and pick us up. It was a mud floored but brick walled establishment. More and more women arrived, astonishingly no 2 were wearing the same colours and when the rainbow had been exhausted some polkadots showed up. I can only assume that this is simply fantastic coincidence, but it amazed me. Every woman who arrived remarked on how smart I looked in their traditional dress. I found it a bit hard to interact with the crowd since they were all speaking their local language (I’m not even sure which one – there are two locally!) but I had greater problems to worry about because (as I had predicted from the start) my current body temperature was somewhat hotter than the sun.

Eventually, after we’d sat in the house for the best part of an hour, a bus came to pick us up. It took us as far as a village water pump, where we got off, met more colourful women, and were presently assigned a new bus. It transpired that the reason for all the waiting and the reshuffling was that everyone had to be able to travel together so we would all arrive at once. The busses were gender segregated and just before we arrived, we all stopped again to wait for the latter vehicles to catch up. It sounds quite simple written down, but owing to the language barrier I had no idea what was going on at any point. When we arrived two queues were made, behind a decorative arch that would lead into the venue (which I shall introduce as a make-shift verandah lined courtyard. The verandah was made by gazebos filled with plastic chairs, they were arranged in a square shape so that there was clearing in the middle). The queues were sorted male and female, and much to my alarm the female queue was formed behind me. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with it, lead a conga? Then someone came to stand at the head of the 2 queues, I think he was fulfilling a compare role and presently Peace (who was standing directly behind me) whispered that he was telling the crowd I had come from the UK (true) and been in written correspondence with the family to ask if I could attend the ceremony (not true). After the speech I led the ladies to their seats (actually a very simple procedure) and was directed myself to sit down right next to the parents of the bride, a location I don’t think I very well deserved but at least I was on a plastic seat while they were on a sofa, which made things slightly better.

We watched a procession of people dance into the square, kneel in front of the parents of the bride, make some speeches (which I couldn’t understand a word of) and then dance off again. In between these, there were 2 men on opposite sides of the make-shift courtyard, each with microphones acting as compares. I think there was one representative from each family. I was perfectly happy not knowing what was going on until Peace lent over and whispered, “next they’re going to get you to talk”, I was a bit alarmed but sure I could manage to say the right words so I asked what sort of thing they wanted me to say. In response Peace just told me to try and keep calm, which unfortunately had the opposite effect, because I feared I would be required to give a speech to a couple of hundred people on an unknown subject. In the end I was passed the microphone but the compare closest to me and the other guy asked me a question in Luganda (or at least that’s the language I think it was in), Peace whispered an appropriate response in my ear, but since I didn’t know what either of them had said, I simply assumed he’d asked me how I was (it sounded a bit like he might have) and so I responded “wrunji” (I’m fine) and it must have been a good answer because he asked me another unintelligible question. To which I answered in English and told him I didn’t know what he was saying, which strangely enough amused the audience tremendously.

In the midst of all this there was a huge rainstorm. The show went on but someone held an umbrella over the bride and kept dabbing her dry with a tissue. Everyone sat watching was ok, as there were gazebos, unless they were in the front row or struggling to walk in platform heels in deep mud. Either of those scenarios could be problematic.

Just as I was sat back and beginning to think I could enjoy the show I was told that I’d be next required to go up and present the bride with a basket of flowers & fruit. I should tell her that they were from her husband-to-be and tell her what all the items in the basket represented. The problem is that it was expected that I would talk about the symbolism and colours of the items but I’m perfectly aware that colour imagery varies from country to country (in India they wear white at funerals). I had about 5 minutes to gaze and the basket and prepare this. When we went up, I took the microphone and explained that the flowers represented the way their love would grow and bloom, the Fanta was because her husband thought she was sweet, and the bananas were symbolic of the way that their marriage would bring fourth fruit in time. It seemed to go down well enough and, as Peace reminded me, only half the audience could understand me anyway.

Next we brought in the dowry items on our heads in baskets. The groom had everything delivered outside, including a soggy sofa set tied to the roof of a truck. I must have done 3 trips to and fro to pick these up from outside and lay them down in front of the bride’s family. I was worried that everyone would balance these baskets skillfully on their heads and I’d be the idiot holding on to the basket, but not so. Everyone was steadying their baskets with hands. It was a tricky task because there were low hanging power lines overhead, which were exactly the right height to knock off my basket, at least one hand was required to keep my long dress out of the mud, and if I’d had a 3^rd hand I’d have used it for balance as I was wearing the most challenging footwear of my life, while it was quite slippery underfoot.

With that the ceremony was over and we joined the queue for food. I was actually told on several occasions not to queue but to go to the front. Now I can see why I would get special treatment during the service: these people have rarely met a foreigner and here is one wearing their traditional dress; but there’s no need to get special treatment when it comes to queuing for food. I said as much and indeed repeated myself several times at intermittent stages because no one seemed to be able to fully comprehend my willingness to wait in line to eat, even though I did have white skin.

In time we were all given small mountains of food. We sat down on the arms of the sofa set (because the seats were too wet) and tucked in. The challenge was that there was no cutlery. I copied Viola who was quite skillfully eating it with her fingers. However, I didn’t feel equally skilled; it’s the transfer from hand to mouth that’s tricky and I felt a bit like a human vacuum cleaner inhaling it off my hands, simply hoping that my hands were clean (an abject impossibility, I hadn’t washed them since my midday shower and I had greeted countless people since then). Fortunately though I had a bit of flat bone on my plate that had come with some meat. I soon turned this into a makeshift spoon and was feeling rather pleased with myself until I heard a snatch of gleeful English over the loudspeakers “I like the way the muzungu eats”.

Next was the cutting and distribution of the cake. At this point I was shamelessly exploited by Viola to get extra cake. Every time a distributor came near she would wave and say that I hadn’t had any yet. In this way Viola and I both consumed 5 pieces each (luckily no piece is larger than 3cm squared and so that’s not gluttonous) and I hadn’t the heart to refuse (as I was holding out for a piece with icing – a rare treat if you chop an ordinary cake into enough small bits). It’s amazing what seems like a good idea when you’ve been missing all sorts of sweet treats for 6 weeks.

The HUGE party that wasn't

With a couple of weeks to go to our departure my host dad announced that he would hold a party in our honour, for all the volunteers and their host parents to say goodbye to us all.

As the time drew nearer his plans got ever more elaborate and I greatly doubted them. Apparently there was to be a priest to bless our air travel and a local council member. All of this in our dusty  back yard, I couldn’t imagine it.

On the day itself I turned up at 5pm and was absolutely amazed to find that there were a couple of hundred people in a marquee in my back yard. Where had they all come from?! I only live in a little village! They were all sat patiently on white plastic chairs, presumably awaiting my arrival. I hurried across the ‘stage’ in order to get to my bedroom door and put my bags down. Apparently everyone else had been told that the party would start at 2pm and so by their reckoning I was quite late, but not as late as my fellow volunteers, most of whom hadn’t arrived yet. No sooner had this message been conveyed than it started to rain. Heavily. Before I knew it ‘the party that wasn’t’ became ‘the party that was, in my bedroom’ as 100s of people scrambled to find somewhere to shelter – the marquee wouldn’t take all of them.

It was a bit awkward, hosting so many unknown people our bedroom, slightly wondering if anything would get stolen and cooking alive with the heat of so many bodies in so little space.

After about an hour of this the rain subsided, it was decided that there would be no more party, blessings, speeches, presents or dancing, just food. I helped to distribute this in a generally chaotic way (not chaotic due to my presence you understand, it just was). My host sister’s bedroom had been converted into a kitchen and it was like a Mary Poppins’ larder – I had no idea what we had available, but the food kept coming and I kept putting it on plates (my host dad was absolutely delighted that HIS white person would lower herself to the standard of a woman by helping to serve). When the plates ran out we reused those from people who had finished eating. It was a feast by anyone’s reckoning.

Once fed, the crowd melted away.

It was humbling to think that they would wait 5 hours and brave a rainstorm all for a free dinner.

The Markets of Kampala

When the volunteers had graduated from my care, I was left to my own devices and so I decided to visit the city of Kampala. It doesn’t particularly feel like a capital city. Key landmarks include the museum, a tiny national theatre, the hotel where the Queen once stayed and a big statue celebrating freedom that a man with a gun, clearly not sympathetic to Uganda’s young tourist trade, sternly told me not to take a photo of.

What really stands out in Kampala are the markets. The markets are amazing. It’s like every other marketplace in the world is trying to be more like Kampala. All the clothes there are second hand and so no two pieces are alike (imagine that Camden!) but store holders specialise so that one person will only stock shoes, their neighbor stocks trousers etc; in this way browsing is easy. Prices are cheep. There are also slightly indoor parts so that when it rains browsers can stay dry; you feel like you’re in a tall clothes-lined tunnel with shops coming off it, but it’s not like the slightly frightening catacombs of some marketplaces I’ve been to. If you ever get the chance, go! It’s like nowhere else I know!

Turns out my volunteers also spent 2 days in Kampala after leaving the placement…but they only saw nightclubs. #TravelFail

A Crash Course in Traditional Culture

On Saturday we went to a village where a ‘famous’ group of musicians lived. We sat in a big semi-circle on plastic chairs and they made a great entrance by entering from 3 corners of the field we were in – a new surround sound experience. Their music sounded a bit like that of a very collectivist community, whereby they all played their respective at once, at the expense of any kind of tune. If I were a less respectful and cultured individual I might be tempted to use the word ‘cocoffany’, but alas I can’t spell it.

As the ‘chief’ of the group I was required to come up and do some African dancing. The trouble was that this particular community had a traditional dance involving a lot of hip shaking. They can move their hips amazingly, very fast, in every direction and I can only move hips as though they are attached to two legs and a back.

At the end I was called up again out of my plastic seat, this time to receive a gift on behalf of the group. I was given a little whistle, which looked like a recorder (until it’s taken out of the player’s mouth and then you can see it has no mouth piece) and is referred to as a flute. I courteously blew it and made no noise at all. 

Happy Stories from Uganda: Eric the Vet

There was another one, a vet, that used to be like every other vet. In fact I remember his group of volunteers coming to a team brainstorm a few weeks back saying that they had no ideas; they couldn’t see how they would innovate this business to make it different from others. It's important to us that we don't simply promote copycat businesses but vets make sick animals well, you can’t change that fact (at least not without losing customers!) It was quite a challenge.

 At the time I remember comparing the traditional model of vets to private healthcare (i.e. you pay on a case by case basis when you get ill) and I suggested they try a more NHS-ish style business model whereby the customers pay a retainer to the vet every month, who receives money whether or not the animals are sick but then also comes out to the farm when needed and also does checkups so that preventative healthcare is possible. I didn’t hear any more from the group on this subject and, if I'm honest, I forgot all about it.

I was therefore fantastically surprised when one of the other pitching panels told me yesterday that the most impressive entrepreneur they’d seen was a vet called Eric who had secured 6 contracts with farms, doing checkups etc, making sure that animals didn't get sick, rather than just treating them once it was too late. He wanted money to buy new stocks of drugs for the animals and we decided to give him the full amount that he asked for.

Happy Stories from Uganda: Musa the Scale Maker

One guy we funded was a scales manufacturer (amusingly he wrote ‘made in Kenya’ on every scale so that he could sell it at a higher price). His workshop is in his mother’s house and he spends 15,000 shillings on hiring a drill for every set of scales that he makes but if we buy him one at 150,000 he’ll have broken even within 10 scales. He’s certainly not a wealthy man at the moment. I’ve had a look at his financial records; there’s a lot of money coming in and a lot of money going out. Ultimately though he wants to save up to go to university and study law. I’m not actually convinced that this is for the greater good because his business will take a hit and he almost certainly won’t utilise the qualification once he gets it (says the geography graduate!) I met a logistics student the other day who was planning to become a baker once she graduated – this isn’t an uncommon story. Quite the opposite. However, education is the key here - who knows what he may have the potential to go on and do. Also, he already employs a couple of other people and we hope that he'll be able to continue to provide more and more employment to other people here.

A workout at the Borehole

Today I had plans to visit the borehole. There hasn’t been water in our house for a week and all the Gerry cans are empty. I was quite looking forwards to this and set my alarm for 5:45am to be ready to go. Unfortunately my alarm clock decided (exercising more autonomy than the average machine should) to go off silently, and did this for at least half an hour before I noticed it. But it didn’t matter because the water was restored to our house overnight. Of all the timings! It’s ok though, I still got my trip. The thing about bore holes, as I soon learnt, is that you have to work incredibly hard to bring the water out of them. This didn’t register with me until I was half way through filling my first Gerry can. The guy who had been pumping water smiled at me and said I was doing it well but too slowly. He then took back control but when I saw the pace he set I wanted another go.  It is exhausting! With all this activity I may soon have the core strength of an oak tree! Happily after 3 cans filled (2 of which were half size ones) the locals were suitably impressed and I was sent on my way. This is a relief as I couldn’t have gone on for much longer.