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.

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. 

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.

I've always wanted to Milk a Cow

This morning I went to visit my neighbour, Peace. She’s a beautiful young lady with a sweet personality. She’s 23 years old and has a 7-year-old child. She lives with her mother, uncle, 3 brothers, 3 sisters, her own daughter and nephew. Anyway, I was there because she had promised me last night when we went round for dinner that I could come today and milk her cow. It was quite a different experience to milking a cow in England. For a start the cow’s back legs were tied up to stop it kicking over the bucket, there was no milking stool, we just squatted next to it, the calf was invited in to start proceedings (thereby making it easier for the human milkers) and then shooed away. When I tried milking a cow in the new forest, its udders were so big that the calf couldn’t get down low enough to drink from them! The next part was much more similar to home – I was invited in, shown how to do things, then I took over and milked diddly squat. Actually, to be fair on me, I would have been exceptionally pleased with myself if it wasn’t for the clear indication from Martin, my teacher, that he didn’t consider my efforts to be very fruitful. He kept frustratedly showing me the technique again and so I gathered that I wasn’t quite meeting his standard. It’s all a case of perception! It’s a mystery to me how some people have a natural aptitude for milking. It will take me a long time! One of these naturally good people was Emma, who showed up some way into proceedings (having been absent thus far due to her early morning run, which I had forsaken due to the cow), took a few photos and turned her hand to milking. The jets of milk coming from the cow with Emma in charge pleased Martin very much. I was impressed too. We finished proceedings with a mug of fresh milk each. It didn’t taste like normal whole milk, possibly a bit sourer, but maybe that was because it wasn’t refrigerated. After all, it’s very rare for a Brit to taste room temperature milk.

Some people will use any excuse to stop running...

Yesterday morning Emma and I went for a run before breakfast (although to be fair, we do claim that this necessitates a small pre-breakfast-breakfast so we fuelled up on bananas). As we ran some of the local children decided to run with us, one of them took my hand, which made me feel a little lopsided. It’s not easy to run while holding onto someone’s hand, at least not if you’re as unfit as me. The first interesting thing we came across was a black line across the path that on closer inspection turned out to be the most enormous trail of ants who had built up sandy barricades either side of their road to make some sort of ant-esque superhighway. As we went on I felt a sting on my leg. You guessed it, as I observed them, one of them had decided to have a closer observation of me and got inside my trousers. The child very helpfully assisted in the killing of this rather mangled ant.

The second interesting thing that we came across was some men in a field standing amongst big piles of stone. If I’m honest, it was partly because I wanted an exercise break that I suggested we go over to see if they could tell us what they were up to. They could; their level of English was pretty good; they were mining stone. There was a child in the pit throwing up slabs, and a man sat on a pile of little stones with a hammer who was smashing up the big stones to aid in the proliferation of little stones. After watching for a bit, I realised that there were spare hammers and so I asked if I could have a go. The men were tickled pink that a white woman would try her hand at their work (of course, it’s easy for me, I can stop when I’ve had enough, so I don’t see it as arduous at all). I picked up a big stone, was surprised to realise it was solid granite, took a hammer in hand and handed another one to Emma (who had introduced herself to everyone as Anna as we find this new name catches on better). I hit the stone hard a few times and succeeded in nothing more than making some white marks on it, then all at once it fell apart. Not quite into pieces as small as I needed but all the same I was very pleased and kept up my hammering. As the person in charge of the health and safety of all the volunteers I was glad it was me, rather than anyone else, engaging in this extremely risky activity. Incredibly, the men were working while wearing flip flops and no eye protection, so I felt that at least my running shoes and glasses were a step in the right direction. It was probably no coincidence that most of them had missing teeth and so I reminded Emma not to smile while hitting the rock. Before leaving I looked down into the pit, and as if my mind were being read, it was suggested that maybe I’d like to climb into the mine to have a go at chipping off a bigger piece of rock. Yes, I thought that would be fun. So I lowered myself in (it was only about 8ft or so with lots of good footholds on the way) and climbed from bolder to bolder to the exposed rock face (it was quite flat, it looked like an enormous grey half-carved ham – very easy to see where you start) the footing wasn’t the best and I marvelled at the way anyone could do it in flip flops. When I was ready I planted my feet firmly each on a flat rock and was passed an enormous hammer. To be honest, this was my undoing. I could lift it easily, but wield it, not at all! I did give it a good go, but the effect of waving a weight of that magnitude unbalanced me on my feet and I struck the rock with all the force of a doctor tapping a patient’s knee to test their reflexes. I did have a couple more goes but must admit that I was not equal to the task, not by a long way. I wasn’t keen to stay in the mine as another man had started proper work some distance from me; his granite chips were flying over and able to deliver  a nasty sting when they struck me so I scampered out. Happily for my duty of care, Emma didn’t follow my example and remained the contented spectator.

When we got home I tried to act out to our host mother and aunt what we’d been up to. I’m pretty sure they thought I’d been using an overarm technique to hoe a field but they were suitably impressed.

Custard and Beans

Due to a communications error this evening there was no food at dinner time. Our host home thought we’d be cooking, we thought they’d be cooking and we’d be making pudding (something that’s nearly impossible to communicate because the concept of pudding doesn’t exist for most people in East Africa). Our host brother said that he was happy to go to bed without eating because he was used to it (which is surprising but maybe he had a tough childhood) but that he was worried about us. Frankly, so was I. Not least because the whole family might be about to go to bed hungry because of our miscommunications and that’s more than anyone’s conscience should have to bear.

I set about bringing together everything we had to hand and we put on a ‘supper of snacks’. (You have to be specific about things such as this here as even hearty foods like samosas or chapattis count as snacks). We prepared everything in the dark because someone has removed the light bulb from the kitchen (I don’t know where it’s gone but I’d question whether its destination could possibly be more critical) and eventually served hopelessly unripe avocado, Ugandan porridge, Heinz baked beans, cake, custard and 2 cups of English-style tea. The highlight of the meal were the beans, custard and cake. We struggled to persuade our hosts to separate out the sweet from savoury. It’s hard to justify the intrinsic truth that one should finish their baked beans before adding custard to the plate – that’s just the way it is. It was commented that custard is the sort of food that would make a Ugandan want to visit London, which is by way of the highest compliment around – our English food is not always much appreciated here and we’ve had a few unsuccessful introductions to it. The tea is a good example – I had put milk in it but no sugar and it was deemed undrinkable by our host mum. I considered this to be just as well because when I made the tea I had thought it was to be mine.