Sunday, May 17, 2009

In my last days in Kunming, I looked out the window and said, “no thank you.” It was cold and I was stressed, and all I could think about was Christmas. Kampala is dusty, poor, hectic, bustling, dry, and ragged, sure to induce vertigo in any new arrival. But the beauty of it is how much simpler everything is than it first seems. You can get into any car, whether it’s a taxi or not, pay a couple thousand shillings, and have them take you where you want to go. You can grab samosas from any street stand or sip yogurt out of a plastic bag from an Indian grocery store. Soon you realize it’s not so bad—a city that once seemed impenetrable is now perfectly straightforward, a bizarrely organized chaos. I have an easier time getting around here than I do in my hometown of 35,000. There is certainly more fresh fruit. I will miss it here.

a few thoughts I just needed to get out there before I left--

race here is funny. Because of my white skin, I am automatically assumed to be richer, smarter, and timelier everywhere I go. While my fellow American classmates scowl upon neocolonialism in development, I have been asked by Ugandans to come back, get a job, and “develop” them. My homestay sister tells me how she only likes to attend church services held by muzungus, because they “don’t waste people’s time.” My homestay brother tells me how he only wants to work for a muzungu company, because “unlike Ugandans, they actually pay you.”

What’s even more disconcerting is how white people are treated in comparison with Indians—it’s as if Ugandans feel more warmly about their colonizers than their fellow colonees. Britain unjustly ruled Uganda for the better part of the 20th century, and now they come back with aid, which either comes with too many strings or enables the horrifically corrupt government (or both) and perpetuates the gulf between Africa and the rest of the world, and they are loved for it. Indians bring business to Uganda, opening supermarkets and restaurants and electronic shops, and significantly influence the cuisine, yet they are despised. My host family didn’t even know that the tea they drink, the bread they eat, and the spices they use all came from India. One friend here even told me he wouldn’t eat the food of “that filthy people.” But all things muzungu are worshipped—when I had a stuffy nose, my sister asked me if that was the first time I had a cold because surely such things do not occur in American medicine. The fact that I shop at thrift stores and sometimes skimp on meals to save money was is completely alien to many Ugandans’ perception of me. There’s nothing like the rockstar treatment to add to my White Liberal Guilt.

I have very little respect left for my program. Compared to Lu Yuan and SIT China, Charlotte is a self-important amateur. From day one they treated us like high-schools in summer camp, unnecessarily prohibiting us from a range of ordinary activities and generally belittling our intellect. They would give such broad, idiotic suggestions as “avoid crossing roads” and order us to let them know whenever we planned to so much as go to an internet café. They told us to avoid using toilets because “one little splash” could lead to a UTI. They told horror stories of poisoned ice cream and gang-rapes at knife point and abductions in broad daylight. Yet when we actually needed their help, to ask advice about our research or find out what time a site visit was, they were inexcusably absent. When in Gulu we had trouble finding an affordable apartment, Kaitlyn called Charlotte, one of the ADs, to ask for advice and was told, “finding your own housing is part of growing up.” When we got sick, we were ordered to inform then, and they would systemically drop us off at the most expensive clinics and when a malaria test could clearly be obtained for half the price elsewhere. They told us to call them twice a week to “check in” during ISP, yet in the crucial few days before we left they turned off their cell phones and never showed up to the office. They gave us no practical instruction on how to write our papers, but then when it came to our presentations they would ask us condescending, inane, and downright rude questions about our methodology.

The most unforgivable part was when they took our passports. We were ordered to surrender them at the beginning of trip because “we might lose them,” but right before we left for Rwanda the support staff “temporarily misplaced” three of them. When we asked for them before our six-week ISP, they straight-out lied to us and said our passports were “being processed” when in fact they had been processed within the first few days of us being in Uganda and the ADs just didn’t want us to have them. When we persisted, they would sharply say, “what do you need it for? You’re not going anywhere,” unaware that as American students in Africa the one thing that has been engrained us is to always, always, always travel with your passport in case you get into any situation. When hotels asked to see proper documentation, we had nothing. If I had gotten into any sort of incident, it would only be my word that I was an American citizen with a student visa that allowed me to be in Uganda.

At the evaluation, when Charlotte was once again giving her pitiful justification for holding our passports, I became physically angry. It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing a bottle at her. Her excuse was offensive—we couldn’t be trusted to take care of ourselves. And then, bafflingly, “If there were a coup in Kampala and you were in Gulu, you would need to come back and get your passport.” I’m sorry, that’s the reason I would want my passport with me in Gulu, so I could just safely cross into Kenya instead of walking into a violent coup d’etat. If I lose my passport, well, shit happens and I’m the one who should deal with it because it’s my life. Charlotte also idiotically added something about how her holding our passports would prevent us from getting raped, but at that point I was too enraged to keep up with her logic.

In short, while I will be sad to leave Uganda, it may be good to put a country between Charlotte in me in case I accidentally jump onto her back and start pulling out her hair.


I’m sorry, should I end on a happier note? I really have loved it here. I hope you can tell that from my blog posts along the way. But I had a good time in spite of the program, not because of it. The five weeks I spent in Gulu were incredible for my self-discovery and academic direction. I think we’re all impressed by how we pulled together our research projects completely on our own, and I now even know what I specifically want to do with my life. At this point I don’t even know if I’m excited about coming back to the US—the bagels had better be as good as I remember them.

2 comments:

Danielle said...

sounds like me when I was coming home from Italia... why the states when there's more to do, see, and explore in another country that could possibly be your home - even for just a little while?

Unknown said...

Google just coughed up your blog on my Tufts alert. My daughter went there.

I lived in Tanzania from 1980-2004 and agree with your views of us mzungus, Indians, and SIT. Real eye openers, all three.

Its the same in Tanzania. Mzungus adored, Indians despised, and SIT checkered.

I had numerous SIT students for their ISPs. They were the lucky few who got some direction. Others working with clueless Tanzanians (not the Tanzanian's fault)often wasted their time.

Here's a story to close on. I once interviewed and elderly Tanzanian and we discussed German colonialism (1880-1917 or so). "See that glass on the table," he said. "During German times that glass would remain on the table until the owner took it. Prior to the Germans it would have been immediately stolen."

So I asked if he thought the German period was a good one. I read it was brutal.

"Prior to the Germans, our society was in chaos. The Masai raided and stole cattle. Slavers still attacked. We had useless local government. Plus rinderpest decimated our herds. Life was bad. Under the Germans everything improved. They chased off the Masai and the slavers. Rinderpest disappeared. We had enough to eat. Yes, they beat and hung us, but only the guilty ones."

During the next 22 years I often asked for corroboration -- and got it. Then sometimes people would rub, not point to, their black skin and say their color indicated they were cursed.

Of course I was stunned and flabbergasted. But villagers said it again and again. Plus I speak fluent Swahili.

I loved living in Tanzania. If you want to learn more google David Scheinman - AIDS.

I am not Evelyn. I used it once as a pseudo name for a joke and it remained. You can reply there.

Welcome home.