The Martyrs of Uganda

A friend of mine who is preaching at the midweek service at his church this week noted that today, June 3rd, is the feast of the Martyrs of Uganda. He asked if this was an important observance here.

The answer to that is that it's a friggin' HUGE observance in these parts. It's a national holiday, for one thing. Banks, post offices, government offices are all closed. MCDT is closed. Walking around the neighborhood, more of the small shops around here are closed today than were closed on Good Friday.

Here's the deal, very briefly: in the late 1800's, various pages and members of the Bugandan court became Christian converts, both RC and Anglican. In 1886, the Bugandan king, or kabaka, Mwanga II, told them to give it up. When they refused, these converts were tortured and killed in various nasty ways, leading up to a group of some 30 Christians being wrapped in straw mats and then burned at Namugongo, about 10 miles from the city center.

The observance is bigger than just Uganda, too. This event is credited as the beginning of indigenous Christianity in Africa. I read in the paper last week about a group of pilgrims from Kenya who were walking 600 km to the shrine in Namugongo. People come here from all over the continent.

Various miracles were attributed to the RC martyrs, leading to their canonization in the 1960's. I'm not sure when the Anglican martyrs were canonized; the whole process is different. But the general sense I get is that these martyrs are important, not only for their great faith and sacrifice, but because they're "some of our own." I'm not sure how many other great holy sites and pilgrimages are in sub-Saharan Africa, but this certainly is one of them.

I decided to pay my respects and make a short pilgrimage as well. Below is a picture of the shrine that I lifted from the web.



Only imagine it so thronged with people there were parts where you couldn't move. One man walking near me told me that 3 MILLION people come to the shrine. I don't know about that, but I have no doubt tens of thousands of people were there.

I took a boda boda (see below) to the base of the hill leading to Namugongo and walked over a couple of hills, following a trickle of people headed that way. Once I reached the area of Namugongo, the people filled the streets, walking on the left side, like traffic, with no cars allowed through. On either side of the street were vendors of all descriptions. Lots of them were selling paper visors with a depiction of the martyrs surrounded by flames on it. There were also some pretty graphic T-shirts with the slogan, "Martyrs of Uganda, pray for us." There was also lots of other stuff: clothing, umbrellas, cooked grasshoppers--you name it.

But as far as the religious part of it went, this seemed to be a Roman Catholic celebration. Even though the martyrs were both RC and Anglican, I didn't see any Anglican presence there at all.

I went to the shrine and walked all around the grounds. The shrine itself wasn't open, apparently, but there was a service going on from an open-sided grass thatched hut by a large rectangular pool. I couldn't quite tell because I could never see it, but my guess is that's where the service was coming from. Again, thousands upon thousands of people sitting on the grass or the muddy ground to listen to it from loudspeakers all over the grounds. I heard some of the prayers of the people, offered in all different languages: Swahili, Luganda, Luo, etc. The grounds of the shrine, too, were packed with vendors. Many were selling religious tracts, rosaries, and things of that nature. But I also saw some Manchester and Arsenal underwear for sale. Behind the toilets, there were people cooking matooke, beans, and other food.

I also saw one child with a badly burned face, sucking his thumb as a vendor tried to sell him and his mother something.

There was something about it all that was incredibly moving. I was of course reminded of Jesus' cleansing of the temple, but I also got at least an inkling of what that might have looked like, of how important it was for people to come to that one location, of what a huge windfall it was for the vendors as well as profitable for the temple.

One boy tried to sell me a certificate, signed by the bishop (I think), that certified that I had made a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Martyrs of Uganda. I was very tempted, too. But I don't actually need a certificate. I've still been there. And it was mighty powerful, too.

Basics: School Fees

As I was writing up business descriptions this morning, I was reminded of the importance of school fees in the lives of people here. I don’t think I’ve mentioned them before, and certainly not in any serious way.

There is no such thing as free education here, anywhere. It does not matter how poor you are or what school you go to, everyone pays school fees. And if you don’t have school fees, your children do not get an education. Period.

Without exception, every borrower I’ve talked to has mentioned school fees as a primary reason to need a loan, to need a profitable business. Even for those who don’t have children themselves, money is needed to pay school fees for younger brothers or sisters, or nieces and nephews, or somebody.

I went to a neighborhood restaurant for lunch the other day. I was the only one there, and my server, a young man maybe out of his teens, wrote a note for me explaining how he had had to drop out of school and is trying to get money together for school fees so he could complete his education.

The story isn’t so great for teachers either. Yesterday, I interviewed two women applying for loans. Both of them had been teachers. Both of them are now running a school canteen because that was more profitable than teaching. Not only is the pay very low, but it was often late, one told me. In a cash economy, late pay will get you nothing because there is no such thing as credit.

I don’t know how I would do it, but if I were setting up a program to help people in Uganda, it would have something to do with paying school fees.

Two books I didn't mean to buy

There is really only one bookstore here in Kampala and that is Aristoc. The other day I got out of work early and decided to buy something trashy to read. With the time I have in the evenings without television or internet to distract me, I had thought I would tackle some Masterworks with a capital M, and so I have been plowing through Crime and Punishment for the past few weeks. Enjoying it, too, but I wanted something…well, trashy, as I said.

Unfortunately, to get to the trashy book section, you have to walk through the entire rest of the bookstore (you enter through a turnstile), and there on top of one of the displays was a book that I realized I needed to buy. Not a book I necessarily wanted, mind you, but one I thought I ought to add to my collection. Namely, Same Gender Unions: A Critical Analysis by six African authors with a forward by the Anglican Archbishop of Kenya.

Oh my, is what I have to say. When in the first paragraph of the first essay, the author writes that “Among the most well recorded accounts of the same gender union is found in the first book of the Bible, Genesis 18 and 19 [the story of Sodom],” you know you’ve got a ways to go. A mob demanding of a homeowner that he send his guests out so the mob can rape them is not exactly my idea of a “same gender union.” Homosexuality is described as an addiction that “one might compare…to the urge to taste the highly intoxicating and lethal drink Kumi Kumi.”

However, and this is a major shift, I think, there is some sense and understanding that “there are among us people who experience themselves as having a homosexual orientation” (from the Archbishop’s preamble). This is huge! If, indeed, this is beginning to be understood, then I suspect deeper understanding will follow. I think, though, that there’s a mix of feelings about this. One woman is quoted thusly: “Even a mad man does not sleep with another man and it is a matter of common sense that negative attracts positive. I refuse to accept gays and if I realized my boyfriend was gay¸ I would immediately terminate the relationship.” (emphasis mine) I mean, it’s one thing if the Archbishop of Kenya quoting Lambeth resolution 1.10 1998 says some people recognize themselves as gay, but when your Kenyan beautician says it, perhaps people really believe it.

***

Meanwhile, back in the bookstore, I eventually made it to the trashy novel section where a staff member asked if there was a particular novel I wanted. I said, no, I just wanted something to read. She asked if I had read any Ugandan authors. No, indeed. She took me over to yet another section of the bookstore and pulled out a number of books I might like. I bought one called The Official Wife by Mary Karooro Okurut (which I had actually seen recommended in another book I had bought a while ago, Uganda Observed by a British columnist for the Daily Monitor): “…a dissection of modern day polygamy in a Christian setting. It is a cheeky and wicked peep into the polygamist’s bedroom and an insight into the mind of his troubled wife.”

I finished it last night and enjoyed it quite a bit—very wicked, indeed. Also very revealing about the culture. As our heroine decides what to do when dealing with the fact of a co-wife, “I wonder why the traditional African woman accepted polygamy. I ask around. Maybe I did not have to do so much research in order to find out the truth.

Marriage in Africa had really nothing to do with love. The traditional African man never married for ‘love’—it was out of necessity. Free labour for his farm(s); and complaint or rebellion was unimaginable.

The first wife was always respected. More highly respected by the husband than all the other wives. But modern day polygamy is built on totally different premises. The other woman comes as a competitor, to snatch love from the official wife for herself…In modern day polygamy your typical Number Two will make sure the man builds her a better house than Number One’s…In traditional polygamous marriages, the most beautiful house belonged to the official wife. It was known as the big house. The small house belonged to the second wife, a symbol that she was the lesser in status. With modern day polygamy it’s the other way round.

Isn’t that interesting?

And then I bought a John Grisham novel.

Basics: Bananas!

I can’t believe I have gone so long without giving bananas their due. You can’t swing a cat here without hitting a bunch of bananas. Yesterday as I was walking to work, I saw a truck packed with bananas making deliveries to the various stalls on my street. We’re not talking little bunches, as you see. This is the WHOLE BUNCH! Bunches of whole bunches.

I hope I have mentioned matooke before now. If not, let me explain, matooke is mashed and steamed green bananas, and is an absolute staple of life around here. I never thought of bananas as something that could be served with meat, but that’s what happens. You get a pile of matooke and some kind of meat or beans, and the juice from the meat seasons the matooke, giving it some flavor. And let me tell you, it’s really rather tasty.

Then, of course, there are the roasted bananas and plantains that you can buy from the vendors at many street corners. There are two vendors at the corner when I get off the taxi to come up to MCDT. They sit there with small charcoal grills loaded with bananas, turning them over with their fingers until they are golden brown and truly delicious. Joseline gets them for 100 shillings. I never get them for less than 200, and really, they’re worth it. I don’t have tough enough fingers to hold them straight off the grill, usually holding on to the ends of the newspaper in which they come wrapped, but when they do finally cool enough, how wonderful they are.

An indulgent day

After work on Friday, my last day at Life in Africa, I went whole hog American: I went to the Cineplex at the mall to see the opening day show of “Iron Man,” which I thoroughly enjoyed. I’m not saying it’s a great movie; I’m just saying it’s a satisfying thing to watch after seven weeks in Africa—especially the moment when Robert Downey’s character, Tony Stark, returns to the U.S. after three months of captivity in Afghanistan and tells his assistant he wants two things: an American cheeseburger, and to call a press conference. “But first the cheeseburger.” Oh, I’m hearing that.

Which made it particularly wonderful to go to a restaurant called “New York Kitchen” tucked away in the parking garage of the mall. They sell NY style thin crust pizza by the slice, but I got a bagel with cream cheese, avocado and tomato and a slice of red velvet cake! RED VELVET CAKE! And it wasn’t a serve-40-people-from-a-cake-the-size-of-a-paperback slice of cake. This was a good America slab o' cake the size of a monument. It was bigger than the bagel. I have a photo here with a fork next to it for purposes of scale. But, boy, did it make it clear how out of whack American servings are. I saw that piece of cake and realized that it ought to serve four people, minimum.

The differences between cultures were also apparent during the ads before the movie. There was an ad promoting a new housing development on the Entebbe Road that guaranteed that each new home would have electricity and running water. Ex-pats had a separate ad aimed at them for a housing development (called “Kensington”) that didn’t mention electricity and water. I’m assuming they were included, though.

Trashy photos

My fascination with the trash continues unabated. Here are two pictures for your contemplation.

This first is a picture of a flock of marabou cranes gathered around a mysterious pile of trash bags in the middle of an open field just across the street from Garden City Mall, the only mall in Kampala, and an upscale sort of neighborhood generally. Why was this trash dumped here? And why is there no other trash around it? Also, aren't they wonderfully ugly? Kind of like warthogs; that's why I like 'em.

This second picture I took out my kitchen window. I was working at home yesterday afternoon when I heard Alex open the door and talk to a woman. I thought it might be my landlady, but it turned out to be these two women who came out to the back and sorted through the trash. I saw them pull out a glass bottle for one thing; for the rest I'm not sure what they gleaned. But it was an amazing moment in a pecular sort of way.

Ndere Center

If you are ever in Kampala, I highly recommend that you attend a performance at the Ndere Center in Ntinda (www.ndere.com). A member of Life in Africa told me I should go, and I went, thinking it would be a little local thing. No, indeed. It was a drop-dead professional performance, something I could readily imagine at Zellerbach, held in this beautiful outdoor ampitheater with hills in the background (and as night fell, lightning flashing behind the hills).

Not only was it a beautiful setting, they served terrific food as well. Long tables were set up all around the ampitheater and discreet waiters came by to take our orders for drink and food, or you could go to the buffet if you wanted. I ordered fish and chips, not expecting that the fish would be served head, tail, scales and all. Delicious, and obviously fresh.

The Ndere Troupe performed for over three hours, featuring dances from all over Uganda, with different costumes for each. The picture below shows a dance in which the women started each with a single jar on her head. Then two jars. Then three. Then four...I really wish I could have a better picture to show you, but I think you get the idea.


They even had all of us mazungos dance. The troupe director invited people from each nationality down on the ampitheater floor. We shook hands with each other, and then we danced in a circle--well, jiggled, mostly. One of the troupe members pulled me to the middle of the circle on the ampitheater floor. All I can say is that I tried to pretend like there was no one watching, as the saying goes. It didn't work very well.

I wish to point out that the people from the UK steadfastly refused to come down for this part of the evening. Part of imperial privilege, perhaps? Or are they just smarter than the Aussies and the Americans?

The help

The only previous experience I have had with hired help is the gardener my roommate employed to work in the yard back when I lived on Eastshore Drive in Alameda, in 2003. She found him, hired him, told him what to do, and paid him. I just paid half the bill. So I was completely unprepared for how to deal with Alex, the doorman, cleaner, and general factotum who comes with the apartment here. I found myself more than once wishing I had been brought up where one observes one’s parents behavior and maybe even gets a lecture or two on “The Proper Way to Handle the Servants.”

As it is, this is another circumstance in which I’m sure my Western awkwardness sticks out like a sore thumb and I only hope Alex makes allowances for me, reminding himself that I’m an ignorant mazungu.

I don’t really have anyone to ask about this. Lord knows the rest of the people I’m working with don’t live in the splendor that my residence provides. The only people I know who do have these kinds of accommodations are people like me: Kiva volunteers, new to the country and its ways.

Every day, Alex mops the floors of my apartment using a towel soaked in soapy water, bending at the waist to wipe off the floors (usually when I am reading Morning Prayer, which adds to the cognitive dissonance of the circumstances). He makes my bed (I used to do that, but he would just re-do it better, so now I leave it rumpled), changing the sheets twice a week—ironing them before he puts them on the bed. He washes off the counters and stovetop and takes out the trash. He tidies my bedside table and toiletries and lines up my shoes. And he used to wash the dishes except that I found myself re-washing them, since he washed them in cold water.

He is here seven days a week because someone has to be here to unlock the heavy metal door in the even heavier metal gate. He lets me in when I come home, saying, “Hello, madame, well come back, how are you?” and carries my groceries or parcels if I have any.

And he cleans my shoes. This one blew my mind. For my heavier shoes that I tend to wear when it’s muddy, he unlaces them, cleans the sides, and picks all the mud and dirt out of the treads. For my other dressier work shoes, he cleans the dust off the uppers and the dirt off the soles. They look almost as good as when I arrived.

And when I didn’t get around to ironing my clothing one night, he did that, too, the next morning.

All of this was quite marvelous, and then there was a new wrinkle. A couple of weeks ago as I was getting ready to leave with my driver (another phenomenon I don’t know how to interpret), Alex leaned in the window of the car and said, “Oh, Mami! I am so thirsty! Give me some money so I can get something to drink!” I gave him 500/=. The driver asked if he had done some extra task for me; that was right after he had done my ironing. James seemed to think that was reasonable, but I am at a point where I am completely unsure of my interpretation of these cultural interactions.

A few days later, Alex again said, “Oh, Mami! I am a very poor man! I need money for lunch today!” That time I gave him 1500/=, which is still less than $1, mind you, but enough for some food.

I must admit, I felt uncomfortable having Alex ask me for money. It seemed a little degrading for everyone concerned. I have no doubt he earns very little and goodness knows Alex makes my life much easier. But when he asks for money, I have no idea what is appropriate. Today I decided to offer extra payment in advance of him asking me for it. Before he left, I gave him 5000/= (about $3). He accepted it, it seemed to me, with an air of being slightly overwhelmed—but again, I am more aware than ever that what I see may not actually be what’s going on. “Oh, Mami! Thank you!” he said, tucking the bill into his pocket. I told him the place looked wonderful, which it did, and that I was very grateful for his work, which I am.

So who knows. I may be doing things completely wrong. I may be offering too much or too little. I may be offering money at the wrong time, or perhaps I shouldn’t offer it at all. I really couldn’t say. I’ll see in the coming days what the reaction is—if I can tell—and make adjustments accordingly.

Basics: English

English is the official language here in Uganda, as I think I’ve mentioned before. The strange thing about it, I realized, is that everyone learns the official language at school; to the best of my knowledge no one speaks it at home.

This means, of course, that English is a second language for absolutely everybody. The fluency seems to depend upon the amount of schooling a person has received, though I’m sure ability and other exposure play into it. Those from rural areas in general seem to have less English than those native to Kampala.

Although there certainly is an imperialist history to the use of English, I can also see how it would be a more neutral choice than any native language here. So far, I have encountered at least three ethnic groups with three different languages: the Buganda (for whom Uganda is named) who speak Luganda; the Acholi, from northern Uganda and southern Sudan, who speak Acholi, a Luo dialect; and folks from the West Nile region who speak an entirely different dialect of Luo. To make any one of those (or others I don’t know about) the official language might set that group up as superior. And then I suspect there would be real trouble.

I’ve been fascinated by the amount of interpretation required here. At the Bible study on Monday night, Joseline interpreted between English and Luganda—and not just for my benefit. At the meeting with the Life in Africa members, Grace needed to interpret into Acholi, not just for me, but for Peter who is from the West Nile and whose native language is not understood by the Acholi.

It is simply a peculiar thing to realize that everyone here speaks a foreign language because in some ways that is the best way to get along.

A superficial understanding

On Monday night, I went over to Joselyn's for dinner. What I didn't know was that there was going to be a Bible study and prayer group. It was a very subdued group, with the exception of their time of praise singing, and I felt considerably out of place. I was aware of the fact that I was breaking rules I didn't know about and couldn't do anything to prevent it. For instance, each time someone would begin to speak, the dialogue with the group was prefaced by the speaker saying, "Praise God," and everyone responding "Amen." Understandably, this did not come naturally to me. But beyond this rather obvious example, I sensed that I was stumbling around in areas I did not understand.

This was only reinforced as I came home via matatu from Wandegeya. Every time I have taken the route from Bukoto to Wandegeya, it has cost 500/=. When I arrived at my stop, I handed the conductor a 500/= coin. "It's 800," he told me. I got a bit shirty about it, saying that every time I had gone that way before it was 500, etc., etc. Eventually, I did get out and give him another 100. He slammed the door and went on.

I called Joselyn to report I was home safely and complained about the matatu conductor trying to rip me off. "Eight hundred is right," she told me, with great cheerfulness and not a spot of blame. "They charge more at night." Making me feel like a big jerk for getting all bent out of shape over 22 cents. On the other hand, how was I to know?

I think the first flush of discovery is waning and I'm now at a point where I have to work harder for every bit I'm going to learn. And there's a lot to learn.

Basics: on cell phones

As I'm sure many of you already know, cell phones (mobiles) are everywhere here in Africa. On the Kiva Fellows blog, one of the Fellows in Tanzania pointed out that "cell phone service is better than in the U.S., but you can't get running water," which is about right.

In a place where electricity is sketchy or unavailable and people are very itinerant, cell phones are fantastic. And in a place where mail service is pretty much non-existent, it's all on a pay-as-you-go system. On every street practically every shop allows you to buy airtime minutes: 2,000/= for a small slip of paper with a scratch-off part that reveals a code you can enter to add more minutes. Receiving calls is free, though, so even if you are out of minutes, you can still get calls.

People don't answer phones here; they pick them. "He's not picking," is a refrain I have heard often, and may suggest that the receiver doesn't want to talk to you (as when you are trying to visit a borrower who is late paying back a loan).

I bought a cell phone soon after my arrival here, and it has been an amazing tool. Even relative strangers give out cell phone numbers freely, and entering that information into my contact directory has been the best way to keep track of who is who.

Basics: money and bargaining

I am beginning to sort of kind of get the hang of this bargaining thing that is a part of the culture here. Price tags are largely negotiable here, if there is a price tag as all. I feel safest at a grocery store or restaurant where the prices are fixed and reasonable. But most of the time, "price" is a relative term.

I got to watch a master at work last night as Joseline helped me to negotiate the fare for a special hire taxi (as opposed to a cheaper matatu, a special hire allows a person to travel in individual comfort and door to door). I asked her as we walked up to the taxi stand in Wandegeya how much it should cost. "No more than 5,000," she told me, around $3.

We approached the taxi and Joseline asked how much for a taxi to Bukoto (which is about 5 miles away, at a guess). Where in Bukoto? Near Kabira (the local country club). Ten thousand said the driver. Ohhh nooo, said Joseline, shaking her head sadly, no more than four thousand. Ten thousand, the driver insisted again. “I take this route all the time and it is no more than four thousand,” insists Joseline, happily lying. So five thousand it was. And how peaced off (as they say it here) was the driver when it was I, the mazungu, who got into the cab. But he was true to his word, though he had to change a 10,000 =/ bill for me.

The lesson I'm trying to learn is a) have the price firmly in mind that you want to pay and b) offer to pay less! This last part is important, and I haven't gotten there yet. But I'm learning quickly!