And then I became Ugandan...

Another day, another trip to Uganda. I have absolutely fallen in love with the place. This being my third trip, I decided to make it a Ugandan triple (just as last time was a Ugandan double), and I went rafting three times. But the highlight of this trip was my inauguration as a Ugandan.

When visiting the same place in Uganda so many times, it's hard to not make friends. I've tried, as always, but this time, I have failed. I have friends in Uganda. This is beginning to challenge my belief that I have more books than friends. I should read more. Most of my friends there are guides or kayakers that work at Adrift (this makes sense). So I spent five days in Uganda. For the first day, I just lazed around. For the second, third, and fourth day, I rafted. And for the fifth days, the mzungus that I went to Uganda with were rafting (they went on a two day trip that I neglected to participate in on the basis of cost), so I had to find something else to do. One of the kayakers, Bosco, had that fifth day off of work, so we decided to hang out. As a precursor to the rest of the story, everybody needs to know that Uganda is one of the safest places to travel in Africa, perhaps besides Rwanda. It's perfectly safe, even in their largest city of Kampala, to be a mzungu walking around even late at night. Look it up, I'm right.

We started my inauguration as a Ugandan on the fourth night. Bosco took me out to a local bar where we played pool. I decided to lose, but still have a ton of fun. It was then that Bosco concocted the elaborate story that I was Ugandan. There were a number of drunk Ugandans there, being that we were at a bar in Uganda, and one in particular tried to tell me and everybody else that he was my husband. It was amusing, though he had never spoken to me before and still didn't after the announcement. They started asking Bosco -- in Lugandan, so I wouldn't understand -- where I was from. Instead of saying Canada, he told them a story about how my father was American, my mother was Ugandan, and I was born in Kampala. Which also explains why I can't speak a word of their language (not). Everybody laughed, but we stuck to the story. After the bar, Bosco learned from the boda boda driver that there was something of a gathering going on in his village because someone in his village had passed away and the burial was occurring the next day. So instead of dropping me off at camp, he decided to take me to the village. As we entered the village, we were the subject of many stares and what in any other country would have been whispers, but ended up being shouts of "Bosco!" and "mzungu!" and whatever Lugandan they could throw in between. Bosco introduced me to a girl named Becca, who was really cool. I hung out with her for most of the night, because it turns out that Bosco is something of a village hero, and had to spend the night moving around a greeting anybody that shouted one of his many nicknames.

Becca is seventeen years old, and is about to sit her final secondary school exams, which will determine whether she is qualified to continue in university, which I personally believe she is. And it's my opinion that counts. She took time to explain to me, in abbreviated versions, what people were saying about me. More importantly, she took the time to explain their psyche, and how they felt about my being there. Being a white person in Africa is difficult. I personally have a fear that everyone hates me based on my skin colour and I also fear that they have a reason to. This is rarely the case. Most people are just curious, and if you bother to greet them in their language, they usually brighten up. Using local slang to greet them is usually met with surprise, and that's how I usually make friends in the villages. Uganda is no exception. Becca told me that most people in the village had only ever seen white people from a distance, so it made sense that they wanted to touch my hair and skin. She explained it in a way that made sense to me: a lot of the people in the village think that a white person would never bother to come out to a village like theirs, so they were very impressed with me, and quite curious about it as well. Generally, it meant they had a good opinion about me. I spent most of the night surrounded by a crowd of teenage girls and young boys, and "bonga's" abounded. (Bonga is the equivalent of a North American "props," or "daps;" you say bonga and then put your fist against the fist of the person you are greeting. I have yet to teach them to "blow it up.")

On the fifth day, everyone was still rafting, so Bosco and I rented a boda (a motorcycle) and spent the day coasting around the countryside. He started to teach me how to drive one, but he had to stop because there were policemen around. I'm sure the lessons will continue, though, when I return to Uganda. I'll take up kayaking lessons as well, but one of the other kayakers, Steve-O, wants to teach me. And Tutu, the river guide, will teach me how to guide a raft and give safety talks. So if I don't come back in August, I got a job in Uganda. Anyway, in the afternoon, Bosco and I went up to the burial, where I met a few more of his friends, namely Cags and Silver (I know, right?), and hung out with Becca some more. I entertained them when one of the cows wouldn't stop staring at me, and subsequently went a little bit crazy; I explained it to them by telling them that it had never seen a mzungu before. (This is notable because the previous evening, someone had brought their baby over to where we were sitting, but as soon as it caught sight of my skin, -- which was not very hard, because it was very dark out -- it screamed. I'm used to these reactions now, and can makes jokes about them.)

Anyway, this is the beginning of my inauguration as a Ugandan, although it is a process that will continue as I learn to kayak, boda, guide, speak Lugandan, and make the Ugandan delicacy of rolexes. Rolexes are chapatis (which are something of an African equivalent of or cross between tortillas and naan bread) with eggs and veggies that are fried up and rolled into the centre of the chapati, thus the name rolex. They are delicious, and ridiculously cheap. Only 700 units of money! 700 Ugandan shillings, which is the equivalent of 25 Kenyan shillings, and I think about three cents American? It might be one 32nd of a cent, but I'm not really sure. Anyway, it constitutes an entire meal. I want to move to Uganda. Forever.