bluffing    ¶ 1:03 PM 0 Comments

      ¶ 1:02 PM 0 Comments

  The groom's aunties    ¶ 12:58 PM 0 Comments

  Dancing aunties, bluffing, and cows in check form: an African wedding

5/27: Woke up from vivid Larium-induced hallucinations, happy to find myself in my round hut-room, safely tucked under a canopy of mosquito netting (but with a huge itchy welt on my leg).

First we went with Bernadette, her sister Eve who’s 7 months pregnant, and their father to the family home where Bernadette’s mother dressed us in Gomesi , a traditional Ugandan dress sort of like a mu-mu but with high pointy shoulders that flanked our heads on either side. Bernadette called them our “guards.” Mine was lavender, tied with an thick orangeish sash. Genevive’s was gold and black. Bernadette’s was a bolder purple, with blue flowers. Bernadette looked gorgeous, but Genevive and I looked like a pair of wilted 80’s wallflowers at the prom. Still, everyone kept telling us how “smart” we looked as they exclaimed over the novelty of muzungu’s (white people) in the native costume. We arrived at the bride’s house around midday, about 20 minutes before the wedding was scheduled to start. Of course the caterers/ party planners were only just beginning to set up. We sat under the rented awnings and chatted and watched them festooning a portable alter with gauze and purple ribbon, blowing up balloons, covering folding tables with white cloth, and moving chairs from one side of the yard to the other, and back again. Everything was done at bottom speed. Two and a half hours later the guests had all trickled in and they had finished (or rather petered off working on) the decorating, and the wedding was ready to begin.

Someone phoned the groom’s party to let them know they were ready, and they rolled up in their rented bus. They’d come all the way from Acholi land yesterday, a 12 hour trip. They are Acholi, one of the many tribes in Uganda, while the bride’s family and Bernadette’s family are Ateso. Acholi are apparently tall, dark, and broad. Bernadette said, “they can pick you up like you weighed nothing, you can only kick your feet in the air.” The family (about 50 strong) got off their bus and lined up behind the alter, which turned out not to be an alter after all but a gate marking the entrance to the yard. The bride’s family greeted them there, and cut a ribbon tied across the entrance through which they filed in. As the passed through the arch, one of the women produced a loud, high-pitched staccato note “ai-yai-yai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai,” and the other women joined, raising their hands in the air and shaking them, showing their joy at welcoming the family of the groom. A band struck up playing, with marimba and bongos and a shell-beaded shaker. Then the Emcee took the mike and began, saying, “Some people have interrupted our meeting. Who are these intruders, and what do they want?” A young man stood up from among the groom’s party and took center stage with him. He answered: “We have come for a flower. We have seen it flying over on a plane. We Acholi think when we see something beautiful, it must belong to us.” The crowd laughed, especially the Acholi tent. “We have determined that we will not leave this place without the flower that we want.” The emcee responded, “Look around you. We have many flowers. Maybe you want one of them.” The young man responded, “Those are only representations of flowers. The flower we have in mind is different. It walks and talks.” (laughter). The emcee: “A flower that walks and talks? It must be incredibly expensive.” (more laughter). The emcee and the young man agreed that the bride’s family would bring out all the walking, talking flowers they had, and the groom’s family would look to see if their flower was among them. Bernadette explained to us earlier that this “bluffing” is a traditional part of the ceremony. The idea behind it is that if the groom’s family can identify the bride it means that they know her and it isn’t some fly-by-night marriage. Bernadette was one of the bluffers. Her family teased her that she might get picked, and asked “are you ready to get married today?” First they brought out the youngest girls, all dressed in white. The family looked them over and announced that their flower was not among them. Then they brought out the young women of the family, all dressed in beautiful gomesi . The groom’s family said “we see many beautiful flowers, but not the one we want.” Finally they brought out everyone again, including the bride. They all kneeled before the groom’s family, and the young man who was representing the family bent down to her and said “ah, the flower. It is here.” She looked really embarrassed, but pleased. Then they all filed out again. The emcee got up to speak, the band struck up, and the Acholi women got up to dance. They were all stalling for time while the bride changed into her wedding dress. Then she was ready, and it was her turn to identify her groom. She held a corsage and they brought out two young men. She pinned the corsage on the right one, and the women cheered “ay-ay-ay-ay-ay” again. And they were married. Or rather, married under the traditional custom: since they are Christians they will still have to go to church to consecrate it. But this was the real wedding. Then the groom's family presented the bride price to the bride's family. It was a 15 cows, a number of sheep and goats, and some cash, but "beause we didn't have room for all the cows in our bus, we brought a check instead." Then time for more speeches, and more dancing. This time the bride’s family was able to join, since the two clans were now united. Then, at long last, it was time for the food. The caterers had brought it out, and it was fabulous. Matoke, peanut sauce, rice, chicken, goat, pork, intestine of something, beans, tons of sauces, and my favorite millet bread. The power was off, so there was nice sun-warm Nile beer to wash it down. We ate with our hands in the traditional manner, right hand only of course. Then the band struck up for real, and it was time to get down to the *serious* dancing. This was different from before, where the women got up to dance for a few minutes to express their happiness. This was a full-throttle, booty shaking extravaganza. Of course Genevive and I were heartily encouraged to give it a try. As usual, my fellow muzungu turned out to be much more adept at shaking it than I. Genevive was soon wiggling and bopping to appreciative calls from the women of both families. I, on the other hand, was instructed to “move your feet more.” “Hmm, try loosening your hips.” “More butt! More butt!” I finally discovered a group where I fit in better when the kids started following me around jumping up and down and waving balloons. They pursued me around the compound in a kind of crazy congo line, slow then fast then slow again, and every once in a while I turned around abruptly to chase them as they ran away squealing. By the time we left at around midnight, Genevive, Eve, Benadette and I were covered in sweat and drooping with exhaustion. Meanwhile the party was just getting started. Big jugs of the local brew were brought out, to be drunk by ten men at once using impossibly long straws. All the neighbors who hadn’t been invited but who had been idling on the road all day to watch the proceedings began to make their way in through the gate, perhaps taking advantage of the cover of darkness to allow them to join in the festivities. We made our last rounds, said goodbye to the bride and groom (Pauline and Charles) and the dancing aunties who cackled appreciatively and waved. Then we made our way home to Bernadette’s where her mom was waiting to help us take off our gomesi and hear about what we thought of the ceremony. “Mom, you should have seen those Acholi women dance,” said Bernadette. Then home to bed, the music of the wedding still echoing in our ears.  ¶ 12:22 PM 0 Comments

  Siroti by bus 5/26 Only one week in Uganda and already I'm attending an African wedding! By the way, I do feel very much like I'm in "Africa" though some people might not agree with the use of a term that attempts paint the whole continent in one broad stroke. I know it's huge and diverse, with more differences than similarities. Still, everyone here refers to the "African" rather than the "Ugandan". I get the impression that "African" is a cultural term though it may be referring to the specific culture of the area (Kampala and a 50 mile radius?), the region (East Africa) in general, or to some concept of the continent as a whole, while "Ugandan" is pretty much only a geographical and political term. This could be also because Uganda itself, like most African nations, is a colonial creation reflecting little of actual cultural groups. Ugandans come from dozens of tribes, all speaking different languages, and many overlapping into neighboring countries like Sudan or Congo. So I'll use the term for lack of a better one, keeping in mind that what Africa means to me and what it means to Africans are probably vastly different things.

Anyway, the story of how I got to attend the wedding: I went to talk with Bernadette, a young lawyer in th RLP office yesterday about freedom of movement for refugees, and as often occurs in the office, we started chatting about wholly unrelated topics. WE talked about the weather, the dust in the city, the constant boda boda traffic, and she mentioned she was going out of town for the weekend for her friend's wedding and invited me to come along. Heck yes. We left from work on Friday: myself, Bernadette, and another RLP intern named Genevive.

So here I am in Siroti, a smallish town to the East of Kampala in the Teso region. It's a lovely place: very few cars or motorcycles, just the silent solitary headlights of bicycles approaching in the night. And stars. So many stars the sky looks clouded with them. The ride here was amazing. We passed vast open plains, vividly, violently green. Rising out of the plains were flat-topped trees, looking like an army of French waiters holding aloft plates on upturned palms. All under a brilliant sky containing every possible shade of blue, silver, and gold reflected in pastry-thin layers of clouds. Rays of light streamed down and touched the earth like a Goya painting (but done in the color palette of Cezanne). I stared out the window for six hours while Africa flowed past like a river, little snatches of life just glimpsed as they drifted by: Women in bright high-shouldered print dressed walking perfectly straight with bundles on their heads; kids playing in red dirt yards, laughing and chasing each other; young boys picking rice in a low lying square paddy, the water holding a perfect reflection of the sky framed like a window in four pieces; small plots of corn flashing their rows; two huge yellow finches chasing each other through an obstacle course of bushes and tall grass; young men holding up meat on skewers to eager bus passengers; old women with headbaskets full of bananas beckoning us to pluck and eat; tea plantations, right next to fields of sugarcane (bring in a cow for milk, and you're sorted); small cylindrical houses of earthen brick with cone-shaped thatch roofs; thirty or more people standing by the side of the road staring at a taxi that went into a ditch; sunset brilliantly reflected in the fabulously textured sky; darkness and far away lightning glowing softly on the horizon; lightening bugs dotting the hedges on the sides of the road.

We arrived and walked in darkness down a smooth road to Bernadette's dad's guest house. I'm staying in a round cottage the exact same shape as the ones dotting the countryside (except mine has running water and generator-powered lights). Bernadette's dad served us an unbelievable spread for dinner: rice, local chicken, gravy, cabbage, greens, sweet potatoes, millet bread (delicious - soft and moist, rich and nutty and only slightly sweet), and for dessert, roasted white ants. I ate a few handfuls, they taste like oil and salt, but with a black earth aftertaste. Then I showered all the red road dust off my skin and got into bed in my round little room under under the mosquito netting.  ¶ 7:34 AM 0 Comments

  RLP first week impressions My fist week at Refugee Law Project is almost finished. I'm sort of getting a feel for the kind of work I'll be doing here. I'm working right now on a legal argument about freedom of movement for refugees vs. IDP's. Refugees are supposed to have freedom of movement, but in Uganda they have to go to camps if they want aid. They have to ask permission every time they leave, which is a really cumbersome process since they may have to walk miles to the camp's administrative center to get the permission. This means they can only sell the food they grow to people who come in to buy it, and as a result they get taken advantage of. Also conditions in the camps aren't great: everyone is given a plot and expected to farm it, they aren't given food or anything else, they have to grow their own and buy other things they need with the money they make off surplus crops. But not everyone knows how to farm, many refugees were teachers or doctors or students in their home countries. Also the camps get attacked a lot, they aren't very safe. So many people leave the camps and live in towns. They often do better economically, but they aren't considered refugees by the government. In contrast, the government has a sort of bill of rights for IDP's and they are not restricted in nearly the same way. This is just what I've been able to glean so far. It's an interesting topic, but I feel a bit overwhelmed by how knowledgeable everyone here is.

The typical routine so far: get up, call a motorcycle (boda boda) to come pick me up. Go down to the gate to meet him. Harrowing ride to work, though I'm getting more used to it. RLP is in a small building in Old Kampala, two floors, strangely split in two like a duplex but connected by a sort of balcony walkway on the 2nd floor. I work in the research dept office with the other interns. We have sort of taken it over. There's one computer but we all have laptops, 2 internet cords (we share) and three comfy ergonomic chairs with wheels and one hard wooden model. I feel a bit spoiled saying "gah, only two internet cords, what hardship," but it's really inconvenient!! Downstairs is the front desk and sort of a waiting area where a lot of refugees are always sitting, waiting to talk to the lawyers. They also hang out on the front patio and steps. I try to spend some time there every day talking to people becaue I'm going to teach an English class starting Tuesday and I want to get a feel for who they are and what their level is. Everyone says hi to me now. The biggest hurdle so far is I don't speak French or Swahili. I didn't think I was going to need them in Uganda, but most of the refugees are from Congo, Sudan and Burundi and speak French and Swahili. Ugandans speak English, Luganda, and a bunch of other tribal languages, but English is sort of the common denomiator. I'm trying to covert my Spanish to French, and Balkees, another intern, is helping me with that. Once I make the connections between the roots of words and sentance strutures, French stops sounding like a bunch of nosense syllables. But it's a process. And the pronunciation is a bitch. I might have better luck with Swahili.

It's a beautiful day today, about 70 degrees with a clear blue sky. There's a primary school across the street, and the kids are out in the field. They all have blue and white uniforms, just like my kids in Japan. All the girls have identical shorn heads. They are so cute. You don't see that hairstyle much on grown women, though I think it's really beautiful. I guess after being forced to wear a regulation cut for so many years while they're in school they can't wait to get creative with braids and weaves and colors.

This weekend I'm traveling to a small town in the East of Uganda, near the Kenyan border. A young woman from the office, Bernadette, is attending a freind's wedding, and she invited the interns along. I'm excited to get out of the city and see a bit more of the country.  ¶ 2:52 AM 0 Comments

  First day of work in Kampala I'm just finishing up my first day of work at the Refugee Law Project. I'm going to be teaching an English class to refugees, designing a rights presentation and a pamphlet to distribute, and working a project having to do with the repatriation of Rwandan refugees, and also perhaps also something to do with protection issues in refugee camps or freedom of movement for refugees. I'm excited, I'm going to learn so much.

Kampala is really nice, it's way less urban than I imagined. The dominant colors are ochre red (the earth, the roads, the dust) and an extremely brilliant green. There are also some white buildings set into the many hills that make up the city. I'm living on the outskirts of town, in a big house with a garden, a hot shower, and electricity every other day. It's a lovely house, much nicer than I expected. The inhabitants are a motley collection of expats: an Englishwoman and her half Ugandan daughter, a random Australian bloke doing some sort of work in refugee camps in the North who comes and goes and takes hour long baths, another Englishwoman working for some sort of Christian organization, Myself, Balkees, and Noah the three RLP interns, David and Sunday the guards, Karen the housekeeper, and Rania the German Shepherd.  ¶ 10:13 AM 0 Comments