The Canada of Africa

This is a few days late… normally my blogs are posted on Saturday but we were without power for a chunk of the weekend again so I finished my book instead of blogging. If you haven’t read Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela, you should give it a try. It’s a long book and very detailed but a fascinating read.

Given the recent horrific events in Kenya (and my heart goes out to everyone who was affected) I have to say that I am surprised that no-one from home has asked us about it. I know, I know, Kenya is not Uganda but usually Sub-Saharan Africa is painted with the same broad stroke of the paintbrush. Thank you for not assuming that if it happened in Kenya, it must mean that Uganda is not safe. Maybe you are thinking it but don’t dare say it… thank you if that is the case too!

When we went grocery shopping on Saturday, the process reminded me of the aftermath of the bombings in 2010. To refresh your memory (or to tell you about it for the first time) there were two bombings in Uganda during the final FIFA game in 2010. One was in an Ethiopian restaurant that we recently visited when the Australian van Oyen’s were here, and one in the field next to Lugogo Shopright and Game where we shop fairly frequently.

Most large grocery stores are within shopping centres. They are only stand-alone if they are smaller ones. Think IGA versus Superstore. There are no stand-alone Superstores. This Saturday we went to Nakumatt in Oasis Mall to do a bigger shop. Often we are fine with Embassy which is across from the American, not Embassy, but Mission, but sometimes we need some things like chili sauce that Embassy doesn’t have.

We always go early on Saturday because the roads get unbelievably busy and parking at the mall becomes almost impossible unless, like Sam, you pay extra and have a special mark on your license plate that gives you access to reserved spots. The school van does not have this. We left the house at 9am and arrived at Nakumatt by 9:30.

Once we got to the parking lot, Corey and I were signaled to get out of the van. Apollo then moved the van forward where it was searched, including in the glove compartment, and the undercarriage was checked with a long mirror on a pole. The checking with a mirror is normal and usually the guard just pokes his head into the van and greets us. Now, no-one is allowed into the mall area inside a vehicle unless he/she is driving.

I knew that security would be tight so I had brought a smaller purse with only my money and bandaids which Corey seems to frequently need. A woman guard called me over and opened my purse to have a thorough check inside.  I was then flagged through. Corey, however, was scanned with the wand, his pockets were searched, and he was patted down. Every man went through the same procedure. Then, when we entered Nakumatt, we went through the same security check before being allowed to shop. I normally carry my own shopping bags and often get hassled about it but eventually let through. I decided that now was not the time to take my own bags. They would have never allowed me to carry my empty bags into the shops.

I am not complaining by any means about the tightened security at the mall, the banks, the post office, and any other important building. I am fine with the whole checking my bag and patting me down (well, patting Corey down) in the name of security.

Apart from this heightened security, life goes on as normal.

The day after the hostage taking, while the event was still underway, Corey made a comment about whether or not there might be some retaliation here in Uganda but more specifically, here at the school. We have children from all surrounding countries and no doubt Somali and Kenyans boarding together in the same house. But there was nothing. The environment didn’t feel tense, people weren’t looking over their shoulder, no-one was hurling insults at others, Muslims did not have to worry about walking down the street and being assaulted. Ugandans don’t seem to work that way.

Apollo, our driver, once told me that everyone is welcome in Uganda and there are no problems. The Kabaka, or King, of Buganda which is the largest tribe in Uganda, has decreed that all Bugandans must welcome anyone as their friends. Hospitality is extended to everyone. The Kabaka has said that people who have come here have chosen to come here to either escape something at home or because they feel Uganda offers more opportunities. They therefore need to be welcomed and feel safe. What a lovely thing to tell his people. And Apollo says that the people follow what he has said because they believe what he says.

I have heard something similar before. I was once told that when people flee conflict they come to Uganda so the people in Uganda are peace-seekers. That’s why Uganda is such a peaceful country.

Yes, they are taking safety precautions but no, there is no feeling of tension just bubbling under the edge of society. I think Uganda is the Canada of Africa. Everyone is welcome and no-one is at risk. We Canadians don’t retaliate when awful things happen. We mourn as a country, we offer condolences, we issue stern statements condemning the acts, but we don’t retaliate.

I feel kinship with the Ugandans in our mutual attitudes toward others in the country. As an obvious foreigner (no amount of tanning will ever make me be mistaken for a mudugave) I don’t ever feel out of place.

My first experience with racism (apart from being told that you can always tell a Congolese woman because she wears too much make-up… which is something we were told by a Japanese woman about the Koreans) happened last week when a boy came into my office in tears to tell me that another boy had said “there’s no room for blacks at this table.” I had to pause because as far as I can tell, I am the only non-black apart from a couple East Indians and the boys involved in the issue were not East Indian. As we were coming to the root of the problem (one boy was showing off and not allowing the other boy to play basketball), the one who had been called black asked the other how he would feel if he was told that no whites were allowed to play. Huh? The boy who was being called black is Congolese and is darker skinned than the other but neither were white. There are obvious degrees of darkness but I was surprised at the radical differentiation between the two boys. Nevertheless, the comment was dealt with, the unfair playing was dealt with, the boys shook hands, and all is now fine.

What happened in Kenya is a tragedy. Everyone goes to Kenya as the Sub-Saharan country of choice. It offers better safaris apparently. But maybe the kindness and welcoming attitudes of the Ugandans need to be marketed to the international population. Those are certainly the qualities that have kept me coming back year after year.

By the way, a full solar eclipse is happening here in November. The Ministry of Tourism is using that to promote travel to Uganda. If you are free, come for this once in a lifetime event and see what I mean about the wonderful Ugandan people. We always have extra beds available! And the safaris here are pretty awesome too.

Fresh Pineapple Cake

Oh, woe is me! The pineapples here are too big for two of us to eat. What a terrible situation to find myself in!!!

Seriously though, the pineapples are large and ripen quickly so when we buy one and Corey prepares it, we always find ourselves with pineapple left that is on the edge of becoming no-longer-palatable. I hate wasting food so I looked for a recipe that used fresh pineapple and also didn't require brown sugar.

Not so easy!

This is a modified recipe that I have made twice now. It called for canned pineapple and brown sugar but I played around and it worked. It's yummy and easy to do. Like the banana cake, the measures are approximate because I use a tea cup and normal spoons for measuring.

Fresh Pineapple Cake

leftover fresh pineapple (although I supposed you could use canned pineapple too)
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup whole wheat flour (or white but then reduce the amount of milk)
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 cup sugar (again)
3 eggs
5 tbsp pineapple juice (or apple)
1/2 cup milk

Preheat the oven to who knows what. I put my gas oven on low which is still really hot. Put the butter into the rectangular pan and place in the oven to melt while you get the rest done.

In your wok (although I am thinking my rice cooker would make a good bowl too), mix the flour, baking powder, sugar and salt. Make a well in the middle and break the three eggs into the well. Beat the eggs with a fork, add the pineapple juice and milk, mix then stir in the dry ingredients around the edges. Don't over mix.

Pull the pan out of the oven, making sure not to set the teatowel on fire because you keep forgetting to buy oven mitts. Spread the melted butter and sprinkle the sugar over the butter. Arrange the pineapple pieces/slices to cover the butter and sugar. Pour the batter on top.

Bake about 30 minutes although I check after 20 and every 5 minutes after that. Because of the pineapple, the cake looks a little weird when it's done (lots of bubbles) but if it tests as done with a skewer or toothpick, take it out and let it cool. Flip it out of the pan.

The Ugandans, who drink so much sugar in their tea that I can feel my teeth dissolving when I accidentally pour from the wrong flask and get the sweetened tea, say that this cake is sweet. The pineapple is sweet, that's for sure, but the cake is not that sweet. I have already halved the amount of sugar from the original recipe.

Being Mzungu-ed

Yesterday, Corey and I went to Nakesero market in downtown Kampala. I had been before in July with Ellen and Marina but it had been a weekday afternoon so while busy, it wasn’t horrendously packed. Arriving on a Saturday morning at 9:30am is a different story. We’ve been told that the best time to go is Saturday at 7am to get the best produce but Corey and I are not interested in being up and out so early on a Saturday morning and I am sure Apollo doesn’t want to be here to drive us that early either.

Corey has made it abundantly clear that we are NEVER going back to that market on a Saturday (or any other time as far as he’s concerned.) I find this market cleaner and the ladies in the centre aisles are much friendlier than the ones at Kalerwe but for the amount of time we spend at the market in a week (about 45 minutes) it doesn’t really matter. As long as the produce is good and a good price, that’s all that matters.

I am under no illusion that the price I pay is the same price that the mudugave (Africans or Blacks, depending on who you ask) pay. I am always given the mzungu price, hence the saying “being mzungu-ed.” When we are given a price that is much too much, we will say to the seller that we don’t want to pay the mzungu price. They always object and say that it’s not the mzungu price, there is only one price. Sometimes we can negotiate and sometimes not. We rarely ask for a different price at the actual market because 2000 shillings, or about 80 cents, for a large cup of fresh peas is not worth haggling over. And if the price is really too much, we simply don’t buy it.

Sometimes they get caught in their mzungu-ing though. Yesterday, I looked at big papyrus shopping bags. Our two bags from home were already full (we are having a hard time not buying too much produce!) and I was carrying a watermelon and a pineapple in my arms. As I was looking at the bags, one older man said to me “Three thousand!” Not a bad price for a large bag, especially as the plastic carrier bags are being offered for 5000 each. I started to walk away and the man in charge of selling came bounding after me with a couple bags for me to have a closer look. “Small one?” he asked which is still not a small bag. “Okay.” I replied. Even if it only lasted this shopping trip, it would be better than having my arm chewed by the pineapple. “Five thousand,” he announced. “Five thousand? This man said three thousand!” The other men at the stall roared with laughter. “I’m not paying the mzungu price,” I told him. There was a lot of muttering and a few harsh words to the elderly man who was still standing next to me but he agreed to three thousand shillings. At least he sold a bag and I always say that they won’t sell without making a profit. They will never sell at a loss, that does not make sense.

I expect that the colour of my skin is going to make me a target for higher prices and scams. In China, we were always asked to go see an art exhibit, just around the corner. Horror stories abound about tourists who end up in alleys and basement art shows who can’t leave until they have purchased something.

But there is something innately wrong about being mzungued by a mzungu. 

We were at Embassy, our local grocery store, a few weeks ago. Corey was buying veggies from the outside stall when I was approached by an older white woman. The first thing she asked me was if I knew the area well. I said that I knew it a bit but not completely. She then asked me about wiring money and if I knew how to do it. Apparently she had been robbed in Jinja and had lost all her money but had managed to keep her passport and airline ticket to return to South Africa. She had asked to be dropped at the airport in Entebbe to fly home earlier but the airline wouldn’t let her change her ticket without paying the $35US fee. 

“Have you tried the South African Embassy?” – They only deal with lost passports.

“What about Western Union?” – South Africa only receives Western Union, it does not wire to Uganda. That was weird because I had looked online with my phone while I was talking to her and there was no mention of that.

“The banks for a wire transfer?” – All the banks had refused.

“MTN Wireless phone transfer?” – Can’t do it.

There was no suggestion that seemed to work. She had tried it all despite only having been dropped off in Kabalagala an hour earlier.

All she needed was the $35US to change her ticket. She was going to walk into town to try to get another bank to help her. It’s about a 12km walk.

Corey caught my eye and mouthed “Scam.” The pieces clicked together. Why had she been dropped in Kabalagala? It was quite out of the way from the route to the airport. How did she manage to lose her money but not her passport and airline ticket? How had she returned from Jinja (about 2 hours away) without any money? Why hadn’t her friends/colleagues in Jinja given her a bit of cash to survive? Why were all the solutions offered already tried and had failed in the little 60 minutes that she had been back in town? Why wouldn’t her airline allow her to change her ticket without the money? Couldn’t they have called someone in South Africa to go and pay the $35 change fee for her so that she could go home? Where was her luggage?

“Sorry, I don’t know what other suggestions to offer to you.”

“If only I could get $35 then I would be able to go home. I wonder where I’ll be able to arrange that.”

“Best of luck.” We got back in the van and drove off.

Scams are everywhere, I know. But it was shocking to be the potential victim of a scam by another mzungu.

Oh well, I was able to use that $35 to buy a small backpack for Tanzania on Lumwu Street. The seller wanted 75,000 shillings and I offered 60,000. 70,000 was the best he could do and it was NOT a mzungu price, he promised. Yah right! The green one I wanted had a faulty zipper so he got me another one but it was red. “65,000 for the red one because I really wanted green.” He laughed and reluctantly agreed. 

It’s a real Camel Mountain backpack so I know I got a good deal. You know Camel Mountain right? It's not a cheap Chinese knock-off right? Right??? 

Cleaning à la Uganda

 

Anyone who knows me well knows that I abhor cleaning. 

When I was a teenager, Mum would have to wake me early on Saturday mornings to help her get the cleaning done before we went to do something that I was looking forward to doing. Corey has been wonderful in supporting my allergy to cleaning and was the principle cleaner in our home for the first several years we were together until I decided that I would pay for someone to clean our home. I hate doing it, Corey is busy enough, and the cleaner makes her money cleaning so in my opinion, it was a perfect arrangement. When we first moved to Kelowna, we had an amazing housecleaner named Krista. It was unfortunate that she was the first one we had because she set the bar so high that we have never been able to find anyone else that even comes close. But at the end of the day, when we come home and the house is clean, I love my housecleaner.

Our home on Buziga Hill is massive. Maybe not by Kelowna standards but by Erika standards, it is huge. The bigger the house, the more cleaning it requires. However, because the lower floor is technically the Kabojja Conference Centre, Ediga (who we are now thinking is Edgar but pronounced as Ediga) is responsible for keeping that section clean. He comes in every other day to collect the garbage and wash the floors. He brings in a bucket of soapy water and a big towel, dunks in the towel and then bends at the waist to soap up the floor. He then wrings out the towel and repeats the process but wiping up the now red with Ugandan dust soap suds. He also washes the balcony and the outside landing so that we don’t track more dust into the house. Maybe it helps but even so, whenever there is a smidge of moisture on the floor I start tracking red footprints all over the place. Once week he also dusts all the surfaces and windowsills with another damp rag. It is really the only way to pick up all the dust.

The first week we were here, Ediga came in and washed the bottom floor and then disappeared. We thought he had left but then found him repeating the process upstairs in our living quarters. We thanked him very much but insisted that he was not responsible for cleaning our part of the house. We’ve had to have the same conversation about him washing our shoes on a weekly basis too. He hasn’t returned to clean our part of the house and hopefully he didn’t feel that we didn’t like the way he cleaned! 

I am not so dedicated to cleaning every other day… hard to believe but it is true! I have decided that Sunday is my cleaning day and as the laundry spins (as long as we have power) I set to work on trying to eliminate the layer of Ugandan dust that has coated everything. Our windows and doors are always open so the dust is impossible to avoid but the size of the dust bunnies makes me wonder if the cockroaches make them and leave them under our bed as punishment for chasing them away.

I have developed a system that seems to work quite well and it keeps the process fairly short. All it requires is a broom, a microfiber cloth (thanks to Ellen who left two when she was here), rubber gloves, and a container of Vim powder (like Comet.) My process is this:

1.       Put down the microfiber cloth and lay the broom head on the cloth. Sweep a room with the cloth then gently fold it up so that all the dust and dirt caught in the cloth is trapped inside. Walk to the bedroom balcony and shake the living you know what out of the cloth. If you are lucky, the wind is blowing in such a way that the dust is carried away from you and not all over you or back in through another window. Repeat in all rooms shaking after each room and the hallway. Do not be tempted to do more than one room. The cloth cannot handle that must dust.

2.       Rinse the cloth in the old cracked bathtub in the guest bathroom. It’s a stand-alone tub so we use it exclusively for cleaning. There would never be enough hot water to have a nice bath anyway. The rinsing will take a while as the cloth will have turned from green to red. Once the water is running almost clear, wring out the cloth and fold into four. 

3.       Dust all the surfaces in the house. As you have 8 surfaces of cloth, you should be able to get all the surfaces done without having to rinse the cloth again (depending on the wind that week.) Don’t use a cloth quarter for too long as you will start to make clay out of the moisture and dust you are wiping. This leaves long red streaks on the surface you are dusting.

4.       Rinse the cloth once more, put on the rubber gloves and get the Vim.

5.       Wash all the sinks in the four bathrooms. Try to make sure that you don’t knock the sinks off the wall by scrubbing too hard. Many sinks are just held on by nails in the concrete.

6.       Scrub the shower floor that is now red with a week’s worth of dust being washed off your body. This comes off quite easily but as the drain works at a very slow pace, it has to be done in small sections so that the dirty water runs down the drain and doesn’t sit on the shower floor and stains it again.

7.       Scrub the three toilets. Again, don’t scrub too vigorously as one toilet has already fallen off the wall and needed to be re-attached. It is now very secure but the other ones are more fragile. Make sure you don’t hit the little valve at the top of the tank that does who knows what. If you accidentally hit it so that it faces down, the water refilling the tank will come pouring out of that valve and onto the floor.

8.       Throw the one rag into the laundry sink for washing. 

It’s a good process that doesn’t take too long to do and it works well to get the dust picked up. As for the floors, they get washed several times a week when we leave red footprints everywhere. There is no set schedule for that. Not having carpet certainly makes life a lot easier here. I can’t imagine what we would do if we had a big area rug like the ones we see being sold on the side of the road. I haven’t seen a vacuum for sale here. It would certainly slow things down if we had to drag a rug out each week and beat it. 

I still don’t like cleaning but this works for me. I doubt it will transfer for a desire to clean when we get back home though. I’ll be looking for a great cleaner once we get back!

Day 2 with kids

So I finally have a title, Acting Headmistress, and I finally know for sure that admin is NOT for me! 

I had the chance to go into the grade 2 class to watch a Math lesson but it wasn’t long before I was doing the activities with the children and the teacher was watching me. She took the time to get a few things done as well since I had completely taken over her lesson so that was a good break for her but it taught me that sitting in an office is not what being an educator is all about for me. 

I love being with the kids. I hate dealing with transport that won’t pick up a 6 year old at her home because it is too hard to reach (so he expects her to wait at the side of the road) or with the fact that one teacher refuses to teach a particular subject because she’s not good at it. I much prefer being with the kids where the refusals and tantrums can be forgiven by the age of the person involved. 

At least we’ve had power for 80% of the day today so I have been able to research certain topics for teachers and try to discover a phonics program that is easy to use and apparently doesn’t require flash (because our internet is too slow to even consider anything like that!) My office administrator is amazing and I keep telling her that. I would never survive without her. When I have a parent meeting, she draws up the chairs and sits with us. She looks at me while she is talking so that it looks like I am the one leading the discussion but she is the one who does all the talking. I sit like a bobble head just nodding up and down.

We had a parent come in a couple days ago for a meeting, sit down then pull out the newspaper while we were talking to him. I asked Zee if that was normal for people to read the paper while they spoke to us and she said that it wasn’t. Thank goodness. I was going to like parents even less if it was. For the most part the parents have been super and welcoming but there are always some that are less than desirable! Then there are the ones who talk so softly that I have no idea what they are saying and I have to ask them to repeat themselves all the time. I feel like an idiot and I can see them getting a wee bit frustrated with me. I’m going to start telling them that I have a hearing impairment. See if that helps.

The students started yesterday and while we have 59 enrolled, there are probably only about 40 who have attended this week. Kids are picked up and delivered to the school by 7:30 so it makes for an early start for several of them. The 3 year olds (Kindergarten) are here until 12:30, the 4-7 year olds (Reception to grade 2) are here until 2:10 and the rest file home at 3:10. Some are picked up by their parents and they literally drive right to the classrooms. I can see and smell the exhaust from my office window. Makes all the work we are doing at my school in Kelowna to encourage children to walk seem unfair to the poor little kiddies who have to walk from the car, across the field and into the classroom!!

School starts at 8 and yesterday I had no lessons to watch or teach so I was basically in my office (the library) for the day. I was working on a training workshop in my notebook (we lost power 4 times yesterday so most was done on paper) when suddenly there was this little finger held up in front of my face. A girl in year 1 had a paper cut and had come for a bandage. I wrapped her tiny finger in the in ginormous school issued bandaid (we have those at home – massive bandages that don’t stick worth beans on little tiny fingers) and sent her on her way.

After lunch, she came back into my office and showed me a scratch on her leg. I asked her if she wanted another bandage and she nodded. I went to put it on her leg and she shook her head then pointed to the exact spot on the scratch where the bandaid was to be. She is adorable and quiet like a mouse.

Today, I have been in and out of the office (apparently taking over Math classes!) and have had more success with the internet and power. There are two breaks per day: 10:30 for snack and 12:30 for lunch. Both are provided. I went out at snack time to make an appearance and see that everyone was ok but was working at the start of lunch.

“Break time,” came this tiny voice from the doorway. I looked up and there she was. My bandaid beauty.

“Pardon?” She had whispered so low that I wasn’t sure I had heard properly.

“Break time.”

“You want me to come for break with you?”

She nodded and came to take my hand to go for lunch with her. We sat together as she ate her sausages and I ate the other yummy food James had prepared. We didn’t talk and she got up to clear her plate and wash her hands so I thought she would go to play. Instead, she followed me to the library and we read books together for the rest of the break. A few others came to sit in the library to read because it was a hot day today. At 1:10 I told them that it was time to go back to class and so she got up and left.

At the end of the day, a little boy from Reception (4 years old) came trotting into my office. I greeted him and asked if he needed anything. I had read with his class in the library earlier in the day but couldn’t remember that he had left anything here.

“No. I forgot to say goodbye. So goodbye. I will be back tomorrow for school.”

I’m not a fan of the little ones but I have to say that these ones are absolutely adorable. How can anyone hang up their “teacher/student” hat to take on an “admin/teacher/parent” hat. I know that teachers deal with parents and admin deal with students but the focus is so different.

Already I am trying to revise my schedule so that I can take over some novel study classes. Corey says 94% teacher, 6% human. I have never debated that fact!