Picking and Flashing: Uganda Style

I have always been extremely susceptible to being infected by the little cultural and linguistic habits that come with a new country. Try as I might, if I find myself somewhere for more than a week or two, you can be certain that I have picked up some odd affectation that is not my own.

When I was in the country of Georgia a couple of years ago for nearly three weeks, I barely noticed that I had acquired the Georgian habit of making sounds to convey an entire range of thoughts and emotions. Someone would tell me about something unfortunate, and I would click my tongue on the roof of my mouth; when I was unhappy, I would cluck; when I was excited, I would chirp, and, the worst, if I was bored, I would make bizarre little farting-like noises with my lips.

This went on and on until one day, a week or two after I had returned home, my friend David said to me, "Can you tell me why you're speaking 'squirrel' these days, please?" "All that buzzing, beeping, clucking and chirping...I feel like I am with someone who went to Georgia and acquired a form of Autism or Turret's Syndrome...Oh, and that really weird digestive sound you kept making with your lips in the staff meeting yesterday when the boss was speaking? THAT is just gross."

I was shocked. I hadn't even realized I was doing it.

Me, the second most senior staff member sitting in a meeting making farting noises at the boss with my mouth! Now that little habit had to go...

Or, after two months in Southeast Asia where it is considered OK to get someone's attention by hissing at them...I found out that I had picked that one up too.

Again, I didn't notice I was doing it until another friend, usually very amused by my odd new affectations, said over a beer one night, "Can you please stop hissing at me and other people like some fucking feral cat, please? That is considered very rude here, Patti. REMEMBER? You are from HERE...we don't hiss at people!"

Shit. I'd gone from making farting noises at people to hissing at them...what a glorious social path I was on...

Or, after a combination of Southeast Asia and the near-Middle East, the bowing habit.

I bowed to everyone...friends, family, the bank teller, random strangers walking their dogs, I bowed and bowed. The odd thing about this particular habit is that people actually sometimes bowed back...reinforcing it.

Finally, the guy I was dating at the time said, "Stop the goddamn bowing all the time! It makes me feel, I don't know, racist or misogynist or something."

"But, if you want to curtsy every now and then..."

I punched him in the arm and stopped bowing to people forever after.

I managed to hold out in Uganda for almost four months but there are certain things I have noticed have snuck into my repertoire unannounced. Some of them are necessary---because Ugandans speak a unique form of English and if you don't adopt some of these words or phrases you will NOT be understood---but others are just plain oddities that I cannot explain.

For example, the question "How are you?" is a greeting that one is not expected to answer with an actual update about one's physical or emotional well-being, but you can say just about anything you like.

"How are you?"

"The price of goat sure has gone up, hasn't it?"

"How are you?'

"I like chips but prefer rice."

Like that...

And, this is very British, Ugandans leave off verbs all the time.

For example, you are 'picked' and 'dropped' with no 'up' or 'off' in there anywhere.

"Goodbye" is "OK, please."

If you have a question or a concern that a Ugandan doesn't feel like addressing at the moment, they will say, "I am coming!" to indicate they will address it later...or maybe never. Same thing if you are on the phone with someone and would like them to do something and want to discuss it beforehand, the person will say, "Let me come first!!" And slam down the phone. Whether they actually come or not, well, that's debatable.

Attributes normally only used to describe human behavior and emotions are liberally applied across the board, even to cars and appliances. "The toaster is stubborn this morning." "The car is so lazy today!" "The ATM is in a good mood!" "The new refrigerator is very picky!"

Or, when you're looking for someone, and get the response, "They are within," it could mean that they are within the building, within the city, or even within the country. It's just so hard to really know...

If you have been gone on holiday or vacation for any length of time, people will greet you with, "You have been so lost!" to which you are supposed to respond, "Yes, but now I am found!"

You preface almost everything with "me."

"Me, I am hungry right now." or "Me, I am from the United States."

You sometimes don't drive, you "motor around."

Time and distance are indicated by how often a word is repeated. You are "near-near" or "far-far." Something will happen "soon-soon," or "later-later."

"You're welcome" means literally that: you are welcome (to a home, restaurant, store, whatever), it is not used as a response to "Thank you" (the proper response to that is, "Thank you too!")

You hold hands with someone after shaking for a good five minutes if not the length of the entire conversation.

Ugandans make the sound, "eh, eh, eh" as their version of "tsk, tsk, tsk." The more "ehs," the bigger the problem. However, you always put an "eh?" at the end of a sentence as a sort of vocal question mark since intonation does not really exist here so it is hard to know whether someone is making a statement or asking a question sometimes unless it is qualified with an "eh."

If you are actively listening and/or agreeing with someone who is speaking, you make one long, "mmmmmmm" sound at regular intervals.

Finally, because no one ever has enough air time on the phones, you "flash someone" instead of calling them (which means you only let the phone ring once just so they can see your number) in an effort to get them to call you back so you don't have to waste your valuable minutes.

Thus, my morning phone conversations with Robert go like this:

Me: "Good morning, Robert, how are you?"

Robert: "Chicken and potatoes."

Me: "Ah, Rebeca made that for dinner again, that's one of my favorites!" "Oh, and Robert, are you running late? Are you near?"

Robert: "I am near!"

Me: "Near-near or just near?"

Robert: "Not near-near but not far-far."

Me: "Robert, you know I have a meeting in 20 minutes, this is not cool, why are you late? Can you please come soon-soon?"

Robert: "First let me come!! I promise I am coming to pick you, Madame Boss. The car was cranky this morning, but first let me come soon-soon!! I will flash you as soon as I get there!!"

Like that.

Normal daily interaction.

Because most of the foreigners I hang out with have all been here for a long time, no one corrects or even remarks on the fact that we all speak like this these days, even to each other.

So once again, I don't even notice what I have acquired until I speak to someone on the "outside."

Even Scott, after almost seven months of talking to me while I have been here, doesn't seem to notice anymore or, occasionally, uses some of these phrases himself.

It was when I was talking to my brother last night on Skype about making arrangements for transportation from the airport to my mother's house when I get home in June, that I realized how bad it had really gotten.

"Bill, can you pick me at the airport on June 10? I know the traffic is bad so don't worry about parking, just motor around near-near for a little while and when I flash you, come pick me then, eh?"

My brother was silent for a few seconds.

Then:

"Are you drunk? What the HELL did you just say to me?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"'I am supposed to 'motor around near-near' until you 'flash me' and then I can come 'pick you'?!!" "What the hell is happening to you out there? My sister is now speaking like some fucking British-African hillbilly!"

Well, I guess it is true although I don't think it's THAT bad.

And I tend to like some of it. I like that I can throw out a random, "Bananas Foster" or "Urinary catheter!" to someone who asks me how I am and not get a strange look. I like that I can bestow upon my electrical equipment a whole range of emotions, it makes them more personal and friendly to me. And, quite frankly, I find endless amusement in being 'flashed.'

I know that I am going to have to seriously clean up my act before ever moving back to the U.S. I hope to work again in politics and I just know that my new vocabulary and all of this linguistic strangeness is NOT going to go over well.

"Me, I am agreeing with that piece of legislation! Let's pass it soon, soon!"

Nah, not going to work.

Still, I am enjoying it while I can. It perhaps doesn't have the perverse satisfaction of hissing at someone or making farting noises with my lips...but, it's something...Eh?

A Seven-Foot Tall Easter Bunny

About two months ago, in February, I realized that this job is way too much for one person.

I had a difficult time initially acclimating because, although I am fairly independent, I have spent the past decade working in an environment where I have had fellow staff members for companionship and assistance purposes. We all, for better or worse, knew each other's skills intimately and knew where to turn to for help. We all had our roles.

Me...I was always the writer and the researcher. I was the one who could turn around articles in hours, find creative titles, edit the hell out of any document until it was a shiny as a new penny, and, when faced with having to do research in some third-world hell-hole, declared, "Me first! I will do it!"

What I have never been adept at is financial and administrative tasks. I flatly refused to learn Excel until it was forced down my throat, I sucked at fundraising for many years until a former boss and colleague instilled some confidence in me, and I hated sitting and doing the quarterly financial reports and balance sheets that came along with grant obligations.

I learned to do all three, eventually, and actually got pretty damn good at fundraising, but I still hated it.

One of my closest friends and my former colleague would watch me suffer over a simple Excel sheet for hours before intervening and doing it for me. She patiently tried to teach me, time and time again, the 'basics,' which I would immediately forget as soon as the financial report was finished. Finally, she just ended up doing it for me...and I ended up being the one she could count on to stay up all night with her for entire weekends writing reports and editing documents. It was a symbiotic relationship, but it worked.

Kay, another good friend, would wait for me to turn in my budget sheets, skim them over quickly, and declare, "Girl, you cannot add! Give me your stuff...I will do it."

When I got to Uganda and had no support staff, AND was the sole administrator of a rather large USAID grant, I nearly lost my shit. On top of my regular consulting duties, I was drowning in paperwork and pissing off the head office back in DC by regularly being late on tedious, but necessary, financial and administrative documents.


Plus, by training, I am NOT a lawyer but I am performing a legal job. My background is a combination of international law and hard security studies but, because I am not 'officially' a lawyer, I was staying up all night checking and double-checking documents to ensure that what I was giving to the government was legally sound in all ways. Then I would drag my ass into the office to stare at an excel sheet and the endless administrative tasks ahead of me…and immediately panic. In short, I was wearing myself ragged.

By February, I had had enough.

"Please, please, please...can I just have an assistant, an intern, to help me out here?" I asked my supervisors.

(I absolutely HATE declaring defeat in any situation but I knew, by this point, that I was in over my head and needed help...and quickly).

Luckily, I work for a wonderful and supportive organization so, within a month, they had identified a recently graduated law student who was available to do a four month internship with me here in Uganda.

They sent me his CV and I looked it over....he seemed perfect.

Then, they sent me a copy of his bio data and I saw that he was an Aries and said, "Yes, please send him."

(Granted, I know I am bizarre in that I tend to deal with people based on their astrological signs but, hey, it works for me. And I like people who are born under the sign of Aries...so it was pretty much a done deal when I got his bio info).

"You and those Aries!" my mother often says (having been married to and divorced from my father, an Aries), "how do you deal with all of that ego and that aggressive nature? Aries are pains-in-the-ass!"

Maybe so...but they are also always up for a challenge, do not let anything ruffle them, and are brave and loyal. Right person for this job, at least.

So, last Thursday, I sent Robert to the airport to fetch Nate, my new assistant.

And...Nate is working out great. He is indeed an Aries and he is smart as hell, completely un-ruffled by the challenges of working in Uganda, and just a good guy, in general. So far, we get along well and for that I am grateful.

But he is also 6'7" in a country where males are rarely over 5'5"....and he became a Kampala phenomena immediately.

Robert, who is shorter than me and stands in at about 5'1", could barely contain himself...he called me as soon as he dropped Nate off at his hotel, after bringing him by to meet me first.

"Madame Boss, can you believe it? He is so tall! How is he so tall and not a Dinka from South Sudan (who are routinely nearly 7 feet tall)? I had no idea American men were that tall...how does this happen to white people?"

I told him that most American men are NOT that tall but Nate was...no big deal.

The next day, I noticed a whole bunch of unfamiliar people standing outside of the gate at the office, just lingering and waiting expectantly.

"Who do you think they are, Robert?" I asked, getting into the car to run an errand while leaving Nate behind at the office.

He looked sheepish.

"I brought them to see Mr. Nate," he confided. "He is so tall!" Then, “When do you think he is coming out? It is nearly lunchtime so he must get hungry eventually, right?”

I was immediately pissed off.

"Robert, Nate just got here and this is not acceptable. You, by American standards, would be considered a Pygmy male at 5'1"....would you like your first experience in America to be highlighted by people following you around and staring at you because you are so short?" I asked.

He admitted that he would find that uncomfortable so I figured that the lesson was learned and we were done with it.

Wrong.

Driving me home on Thursday, after telling me that he had invested some money into opening a school for poor children (Robert does have a very good soul) he asked if he could bring Nate in for "show and tell" next week.

No, I told him. Absolutely not.

"What about a woman? I have found him a Ugandan girlfriend who is tall...it took me a few days but now he can have a girlfriend here!" he said.

Again, Robert is really trying to be helpful and I am being a little too hypersensitive in making sure Nate is not exploited as "the tall white guy" but I put a stop to that one too.

"No, Robert. If you want to ask Nate about that directly, fine...but please, just leave it up to him." I told him.

Today, the Saturday before Easter, I got a call from Robert inviting me and Nate to his church tomorrow.

Robert is a born-again Christian and, while I do not discriminate against anyone's religious faith, I have tried to steer clear of such outings because they normally involve some pretty vigorous attempts at "conversion."

Robert knows this and has never invited me before so I knew what this was about immediately.

"Robert, Nate is NOT the tall, white, Easter bunny...I appreciate the invitation but why, exactly, do you want us to attend?" I asked.

He went on to relate that since he had discovered that both me and Nate are lapsed Catholics, he was doing his duty to help us find "the way home again."

Apparently it also doesn't hurt that Nate is a TALL lapsed Catholic.

I had begun to get suspicious last week when I saw that our normal "one-Bible -per-car" policy had changed without notice and that the backseat pockets were stuffed with Bibles and all sorts of religious materials from Robert's church.

Frustrated, but not wanting to offend, I consulted Scott (another Aries) early this morning.

"It's fine, Patti, relax. Robert has a good heart and is only trying to make Nate comfortable...don't get so spun up about it."

"But he is bringing folks to the office to look at Nate because he is tall, he has found Nate a tall Ugandan as a temporary 'girlfriend,' and is trying to convert him..." I protested.

"I might actually appreciate those efforts, Patti, if I were new to a country," Scott said.

I was indignant.

"But you are NOT 6'7" and you are not 'one-week new' to a country!" I insisted.

"Have you seen the Ugandan girlfriend, maybe she's cute?" Scott asked.

I changed the subject.

Men.

I talked to Nate earlier and told him about Robert's plans for him...

He was completely calm.

"It's fine with me. I don't really need a girlfriend and I am pretty OK with my religious convictions, but he is clearly just trying to be nice. Don't worry about it. Oh, and I have been this tall since I was 15, it doesn't bother me anymore."

I laid down my sword.

Good to have help out here.

Reading Buttered Pringles

After six months of living in Uganda, I realized last week that I have developed some guilty pleasures and ingrained habits that I frankly don't even think about anymore. A supervisor, who was visiting for the week, was quick to point them out to me:

"Patti, do you realize that you know every, single restaurant in Kampala? And, for some bizarre reason, you go to the grocery store...every, single, day? And why do you have all of these deep insights about our clients based on time spent with them in restaurants or grocery stores...what gives?"

Robert, who was driving at the time, let out a whistle and agreed with Jennifer, "Every, single day to the grocery store or a different restaurant!! It's amazing!!"

OK, it is true. I didn't realize I was that strange or obvious but it is fairly easy to explain...

One of my guilty pleasures in life is food. I love to cook, I love trying new restaurants (even if it nearly costs my loved ones their lives- see the post on French Bouchons), and I love basically everything related to food and cooking. Luckily, the Universe is kind and has granted me the metabolism to support my obsession. And, to be honest, I don't really eat that much food...the point is just to try it out or cook it. To people who see food only as a means of sustenance, well, I completely confound them.

So, yes, I do know every single restaurant in Kampala because I made it my mission to try them all out. I usually do this during my lunch hour as a means to get out of the office for a little while and, occasionally, meet up with friends or clients in a better atmosphere.

And it is true that I tend to "read" people based on what transpires across the table from me.

I come by it naturally, my mother is the same way.

"He's got control issues," she diagnosed, watching a former boyfriend carefully separate all the food on his plate so that nothing was touching. "This isn't going to work...that is not normal behavior." (Mind you, although I am less obvious about it, I try to make sure my steak is not touching my mashed potatoes either but everyone, including my mother, knows about MY control issues).

"He has no manners....I don't care if he was in the Navy for six years...you do not put seven pieces of bread on your plate at the same time like you're never going to see food again!" became another ex-boyfriend's coup-de-grace.

And so, I sort of do the same thing with friends and clients although I am not nearly as harsh as my mother...I think.

When a prominent certain Minister sat across from me a few months ago at my favorite restaurant, he methodically wiped the rim of his Coke bottle, then the rim of the glass, then the entire glass, then the rim of the Coke bottle again. Then, when the food arrived, I noticed that he was mumbling over his French fries.

Hmmm...a prayer? I wondered.

Nope, he was counting them. I had never seen anyone count their French fries before but he apparently wanted to be certain that he was getting the proper amount of fries, as advertised.

It later turned out that he reads my memos down to every last detail and can recite them by rote. If there is even one type-o or a page number missing, I hear about it (good naturedly) the next time we speak.

But that almost never happens...because I saw him counting his French fries and had all the info I needed about future relations with him and his Ministry.

A judicial official in the High Court is the opposite. When we meet for lunch I regularly watch in horror as his tie drags through the soup or whatever is in front of him. He eats his food quickly and without regard but if I am anything but completely engaged in the conversation and witty at all times (which usually means I don't eat during these lunches), he becomes sullen. Needless to say, I give him documents that might have a type-o or two in them, but they are legal memoranda written like poems. He doesn't care about the grammar and spelling but the substance better be presented in the most entertaining and intellectual fashion possible.

But I got that long before delivering one document from watching him over lunch.

Same how I knew things were going to work out with Scott, after watching him over the past year at various dinner tables. The man has some of the most impeccable manners I have ever seen in my life.

In Paris, I was stunned to see that he is one of only a handful of males who knows how to eat soup correctly.

"I love you so much!" I declared enthusiastically, "You know how to eat soup!"

He has perfect table manners that are not forced or showy, he is careful and polite, and, despite 24 years of military service, he doesn't eat like a starved animal. All of these traits signaled to me that he had a thoughtful, patient, and tolerant personality. Which he does.

"My mother was emphatic about table manners," he related in Paris. "She never wanted us to be in any way embarrassed or uncomfortable in social situations. I have always appreciated that gift, in particular, and it has served me well."

(Exactly the same rationale as my mother...plus he appreciates it and he appreciates his mother...good man and the right man for me).

My obsession with grocery stores kind of falls along the same lines of thinking. I like to visit the grocery store everyday because, for me, it is endlessly entertaining and a good way to get to know people over the contents in their grocery carts.

People are not likely to be caught off-guard or intimidated in the grocery store and, since we all need to shop and eat to survive, it is a natural point of conversation.

Sure, perhaps it was a little odd last month when I met a court official and spied that his entire cart was full of passion fruit, ice cream, and exfoliating cream...but now I get why he insists on wearing his powdered wig even outside of the courtroom. And why he has the hottest male Ugandan I have ever seen as his "special assistant," and why, precisely, I have never been invited to his Friday night "ice cream parties" even though we get along quite well.

Same with a particular prosecutor who is always in a horrific mood during morning meetings. I met him at the local grocery store and found his cart to be so full of boring and bland items, I asked if he wanted me to bring him some of the lasagna I was planning on making that night.

"No, I can't, but thanks. I have Type III Diabetes and I am very limited in what I can eat. Plus, my wife passed away last year and I think what I miss the most is that she would always try to find creative things for me to eat for breakfast so I wouldn't be in a bad mood at work in the mornings because that's when my blood sugar is the lowest. These days, all I can really manage is plain toast," he conveyed.

Also, because I am at the grocery store everyday, I have a whole slew of friends there who are willing to do just about anything for me because I always tip well when they help me with my bags and I always ask about their lives.

Jen was amazed when she went shopping with me last week...

"They all know you...it is so strange. Why don't you just shop once a week and stock up? It would save on fuel and endless trips to the store," she inquired.

Because this IS my social event. I enjoy going to the store everyday, meeting people outside of their office environments, and getting to figure out what people are really like based on the contents of their grocery carts.

"You are a strange bird," Jen said, "but it seems to work for you."

Then...

"I once had a boyfriend who buttered his Pringles on both sides before eating them, I was madly in love with him but it didn't work out...do you think there were clues there?" she asked.

"Was he artistic or somehow anti-establishment, which you found sexy....but then he cheated on you?" I asked.

"How did you know that?!" she asked.

He buttered his Pringles. Enough said.

"I once dated a guy who buttered his Oreos," I confided. "Same thing happened to me."

Jen shook her head in amazement.

"You are strange...but accurate, apparently. The clients seem to adore you and you're doing something right so...are we going to the store again tomorrow?" she asked.

You betcha.

Malaria and Me

I have the constitution of a General, thank God, when it comes to travel. I rarely get felled by illness, I have only gotten food poisoning once in my life (Ethiopia), and I generally don't ever get sick.

So the past month has been a mystery to me. Actually, it has been more than a month but whose counting?

I have not been able to sleep, have woken up in the middle of the night sweating like I had run a marathon, and have been plagued by the most fantastic dreams anyone who does not do drugs reguarly would wish to have...or not. It has gotten better and worse, depending, but it has never been anything debilitating and I attributed it to "living in Africa."

Until last night.

My boss is visiting and she introduced me to her friend who has been working here, on and off, for about six years. We commiserated on various topics but then got to health. I described to her my symptoms.

"Malaria," she said, without a doubt.

No! I don't get sick and I don't get diseases, I insisted.

"Malaria!" her boyfriend from France said, having had it many times.

No!

Then, I started to wonder. I decided to go to the British clinic this evening to get tested.

Guess what? I have Malaria. I have apparently had it for years.

"You have a flare-up," the Doctor said. "What have you been doing to to take care of yourself?"

Nothing. I have not been tested in years.

He laughed at me.

"All of those countries in Africa and Southeast Asia and you thought you were immune? Just be glad it isn't the cerebral kind."

I sat in horror, like one does when finding out a horrible test result, and said, "Is it transmissble to others?"

The Doc, who has spent more than 30 years of practice in sub-Saharan Africa and has "seen it all," said, "Nope, not at all transmissible to others, and the fact that you have probably had Malaria for about the past five years is a good testament to your immune system, you'll be fine."

He gave me a prescription for something and I left, all stressed out and upset.

When I got home, I decided that if I have lived with this bastard for five or more years, then it was time to let it go.

But still, I have Malaria.

Malaria and Me.