Birthdays often make you think of family and friends at home, and what better way is there to be reminded of loved ones, than with a special letter or parcel? The internet is all very well, but it doesn't quite have to same effect as a handwritten message in a specially chosen card. Having finally persuaded my mum to post me a card and some goodies (she hasn't had much luck with the post in the past, although I think she must have upset somebody in the local Post Office at some point, as other people have posted me some treats and not had such trouble), I eagerly awaited the promised card and goodies from England. I am told that she popped the package in the post on Wednesday and that all being well, it should arrive by ... well ... May would be great and not too optimistic! Then what should happen? This blasted volcano erupts and spews copious amounts of ash all over Europe, grinding all flights to a halt. So where on earth, I wonder, could my parcel be? Has it left England yet? Is it lost in transit, or will the some corrupt folk working for the postal services treat the whole thing as a great excuse to pilfer all the goodies that are supposed to be winging their way to people across the world? Will my mum ever trust the post ever again? I highly doubt it!
On the other hand, when I looked at my Facebook page at the end of the day, I was delighted to see messages from old and new friends far and wide. I actually realised that I have messages from people literally all over the world - covering all of the continents. I am literally only missing friends in Antarctica! So although it isn't quite the same as a real letter, we are lucky to be able to stay connected to friends and families across the miles.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Tuesday 13 April 2010
How I was converted to camping
The world can be divided into two types of people – those who like to stay in a tent and those who prefer the comfort of a hotel. Up until now, I have been a firm believer that camping is absolute madness, entrenching myself in the camp of non-campers so to speak. Why sleep on the floor and risk getting rained on in the night when there’s a perfectly good hotel with fluffy towel, a hot bath and a squishy bed to lie on? So here’s how I was converted.
When I travelled in Colombia, there were several options, from the fincas or farms we used to stay at to the luxurious boutique hotels in Cartagena. They were affordable and, to be fair, we were spoilt rotten. However, when I arrived in Uganda, I discovered that there were 3 options: a luxury lodge, a local cheap hotel or a tent. I have tried them all. If you stay in a lodge you are treated to 3 sumptuous meals a day, crisp white sheet on the bed and fluffy towels to wrap around you after taking a long hot bath, then you can sit out on a balcony overlooking the wildlife crossing the plains. Well this is all very well, but I had better stop my romantic visions of Africa, where you float around the lodge swathed in white linen, as my budget does not allow it and white linen is the most impractical material possible for this environment. On a teacher’s wage, this is a rare treat – if I want to stay in comfort, then I had better go and find some sugar daddy to fund it, but as I am not really attracted to the overweight, 50 year old bigoted SAffers you find in Bubbles every night of the week, then I had better find an alternative.
So that brings us to the next option of a local hotel. I have stayed in them and can’t really say I recommend it. On the way back from a trip to see the gorillas we didn’t make as much progress as we had hoped (did I ever mention that Ugandan roads are in a poor state of repair? Well that’s another story!) so we stayed in a town called Mbarara. Mbarara is a fairly typical Ugandan town – hot, dusty and hectic and not the greatest in terms of tourist attractions. We consulted the guidebook and noted three listings, so we went to investigate the first, which was also the cheapest. It was right on the main road with no secure parking, so my first thought was ‘Will somebody steal my indicators/headlamps?’ This may seem like a silly concern, but somebody has infact stolen my indicators in the past, so it is not such a crazy notion. Problem number two, and there is no better way of saying this, but it stank of wee. A swift glance into the room told me that the beds were ancient, the mozzie nets were rendered useless by the number of holes in them and the floor had a number of dubious stains on it. The floor also had a smattering of cockroach carcasses and I wondered if it was also infested with rodents. You will not be surprised to hear that I didn’t hang around for long and insisted that we splash out on the more expensive, but overall cleaner and more pleasant hotel on the outskirts of town. So there we have the local hotel experience and I can say it’s not for me.
In the end we are left with camping. My prior camping experience had been mainly limited to the Lake District. Although very beautiful, also very rainy and cold at night, even in the midst of an English heatwave. Besides that, I had camped on a Machu Picchu trek, which was also very cold, but at least the porters put the tents up, cooked for you and I had an Arctic conditions sleeping bag. Then the most off-putting camping experience of all was being forced to camp on school grounds with 120 seven year olds in the Anglo in Bogota, which was also distinctly chilly. Clearly, unless you are to go above the snowline in the Rwenzori Mountains, or to the nippy Lake Bunyoni, freezing to death is not much of a concern in Uganda. What’s more, I have met some of the best equipped people here. Who knew that you could not only have a calor-gas stove, but also a toaster attachment? What could be more comfortable than an air bed that is inflated in seconds by a small pump powered by the cigarette lighter in the car? What is even more reassuring than all the fancy gadgets though, is the peace of mind that you are sleeping in your own clean sleeping bag, in your own clean tent and that you are not going to be attacked in the middle of the night by various beasties. Of course, the other great thing about camping is that you don’t have to pay any extra for a room with a view, you simply pitch you tent in a good spot and as soon as you unzip the door in the morning, you have the best views imaginable. I have to say that some of my Canadian and South African friends here are the best endorsers of camping and that they have opened my eyes to new experiences and I am thankful to them for that!
Having said all of this, should anybody offer to pay for me to stay at any of the luxury lodges instead, I would be there in a flash!
Saturday 10 April 2010
Moaning ex-pats
I got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I know this may be hard to believe, since my new found love of yoga should be sending me into constant state of zen, but it's true. I probably got out of the wrong side of bed because I had to sleep on the wrong side of the bed because my foam mattress has a gigantic dent in it on the side where I normally sleep. Nevertheless, this morning I was one grumpy mzungu.
I got up and got dressed for the gym, muttering and chunnering that I didn't like the shorts anymore and everything else was in the wash. I set off to leave the house and found that the guard had popped out, probably to buy himself some food, and internally groaned some more that I would have to open the gate myself. I arrived at the club, then got in a strop that I was asked to sign in and that the girl in reception had the audacity not to recognise me, then met a friend for coffee and got agitated that in spite of waving for at least 30 seconds and shouting one of my 3 words of Luganda 'Sebo' (or is it Swahili - god I am so bloody ignorant sometimes), nobody came. I strutted over to the pool while I awaited my coffee - and can you believe it, no popcorn. A few minutes later, a very efficient waiter brought me some biscuits and a smile. And at that moment, as the sugar hit my bloodstream, I realised it was time to smile and snap out of it. I have a genuine fear of becoming one of those horrendous expats that inhabit this fine city.
Here are a few examples of things we have all complained about in our time in Uganda - both myself, friends and those horrible creatures who have lived here for far too long (and I am referring to the ones who were not born here, not our generous host nation).
Shopping
Yesterday I had a notion that I would like to bake a few cookies or cakes to welcome back friends from their holidays. After googling Miss Nigella Lawson's top recipes for scrumptuous, calorific treats, I spotted cherry chocolate buns and gingerbread. It sounds delicious and my mouth was watering at the thought of such fare. Then, in the supermarket, I realised that they would not stock the golden syrup required and that the recommended Waitrose Morello Cherry Jam was a more than distant dream. If I went to another supermarket, then I would be in with a chance of getting some marmalade, which was the suggested substitute. A big sigh ensued, followed by some reason. Most people here eat one meal a day, of either posho (a kind of porridge made from a grain), matooke or rice and beans. I am not trying to say that we are wrong to crave certain foods, but that we do actually have quite an abundant choice and that we do not really lack anything. I can walk into the supermarket and find Heinz beans or ketchup, Cadbury's chocolate, Kellogs cereals, Doritos, pasta and pesto and many more familiar foods. WE ARE NOT THAT DEPRIVED!!
Wines
Wine comes with further whines.'Oh, I'm so sick of this South African wine'. Oh well, this deserves a typical Ugandan response of 'Sorry'. If you don't like it, drink waragi and then see how great your insides feel in the morning.
Restaurants
I teach in an International school and the students come from all over the world. They may be very wealthy, upper class Ugandans or they may be Europeans or North Americans, whose parents are working here for embassies or various charities or NGOs. For sure, most of the Europeans and North Americans would not be sending their children to such a school in their home countries and are only doing so here because their companies are footing the bill. Anyway, the other day I overheard a conversation between a couple of students regarding where they like to eat. Here's a snippet:
Child A: What's your favourite restaurant?
Child B: I really like Mambo Point (yummy pizza place)
Child A: Really ... well I guess that's good for a quick bite, but I mean real restaurants.
Child B looks crestfallen.
Child C: I used to like the restaurant at the Serena (posh 5 star hotel, new wing built for the Queen for the big Commonwealth conference a couple of years ago), but think it's gone downhill recently, so I have to say I much prefer the Emin Pasha (posh boutique style hotel, where Prince Charles stayed at same Commonwealth conference)
At this point, it took all I could muster not to bang my head against the wall and yell at the kids for being the most spoilt brats ever to walk this earth. I was also filled with self-loathing for choosing to teach in such an institution. I see my left-wing ideals don't go as far as to actually teach those in any kind of need when I am presented with the cushty option of teaching a minute class of 14 on a very light timetable. Bloody champagne socialist that I am becoming.
Maids
This is a common one, which again, I am guilty of bemoaning. Complaints may be about the fact that clothes go bobbly and worn more quickly than usual, not liking the way beds are made, the floor is mopped and so on. Well wakey wakey - I am very aware that I have not had to scrub my own loo for the past 4 years or do my own ironing and unless you are landed gentry, then you will never have this priviledge in a western country.
Activities
One day, I actually said 'Oh no, my private tennis lesson is cancelled because of the rain. Well I suppose I'll have to go for a manicure and pedicure instead'. Once again, when did I become such a princess?
So if all of this bothers me so much, why am I staying another year? Well, I like to think that I can instill some better values in the children I teach and help them make the right choices when it comes to treating other people. I also know that I have a bloody good life here. Yes, some things are frustrating and we all have our bad days. But they are the days when we should opt to lie low, read a good book or chill out at home. We all CHOSE to come here and unless you develop acceptance you will never be content with your choice.
I got up and got dressed for the gym, muttering and chunnering that I didn't like the shorts anymore and everything else was in the wash. I set off to leave the house and found that the guard had popped out, probably to buy himself some food, and internally groaned some more that I would have to open the gate myself. I arrived at the club, then got in a strop that I was asked to sign in and that the girl in reception had the audacity not to recognise me, then met a friend for coffee and got agitated that in spite of waving for at least 30 seconds and shouting one of my 3 words of Luganda 'Sebo' (or is it Swahili - god I am so bloody ignorant sometimes), nobody came. I strutted over to the pool while I awaited my coffee - and can you believe it, no popcorn. A few minutes later, a very efficient waiter brought me some biscuits and a smile. And at that moment, as the sugar hit my bloodstream, I realised it was time to smile and snap out of it. I have a genuine fear of becoming one of those horrendous expats that inhabit this fine city.
Here are a few examples of things we have all complained about in our time in Uganda - both myself, friends and those horrible creatures who have lived here for far too long (and I am referring to the ones who were not born here, not our generous host nation).
Shopping
Yesterday I had a notion that I would like to bake a few cookies or cakes to welcome back friends from their holidays. After googling Miss Nigella Lawson's top recipes for scrumptuous, calorific treats, I spotted cherry chocolate buns and gingerbread. It sounds delicious and my mouth was watering at the thought of such fare. Then, in the supermarket, I realised that they would not stock the golden syrup required and that the recommended Waitrose Morello Cherry Jam was a more than distant dream. If I went to another supermarket, then I would be in with a chance of getting some marmalade, which was the suggested substitute. A big sigh ensued, followed by some reason. Most people here eat one meal a day, of either posho (a kind of porridge made from a grain), matooke or rice and beans. I am not trying to say that we are wrong to crave certain foods, but that we do actually have quite an abundant choice and that we do not really lack anything. I can walk into the supermarket and find Heinz beans or ketchup, Cadbury's chocolate, Kellogs cereals, Doritos, pasta and pesto and many more familiar foods. WE ARE NOT THAT DEPRIVED!!
Wines
Wine comes with further whines.'Oh, I'm so sick of this South African wine'. Oh well, this deserves a typical Ugandan response of 'Sorry'. If you don't like it, drink waragi and then see how great your insides feel in the morning.
Restaurants
I teach in an International school and the students come from all over the world. They may be very wealthy, upper class Ugandans or they may be Europeans or North Americans, whose parents are working here for embassies or various charities or NGOs. For sure, most of the Europeans and North Americans would not be sending their children to such a school in their home countries and are only doing so here because their companies are footing the bill. Anyway, the other day I overheard a conversation between a couple of students regarding where they like to eat. Here's a snippet:
Child A: What's your favourite restaurant?
Child B: I really like Mambo Point (yummy pizza place)
Child A: Really ... well I guess that's good for a quick bite, but I mean real restaurants.
Child B looks crestfallen.
Child C: I used to like the restaurant at the Serena (posh 5 star hotel, new wing built for the Queen for the big Commonwealth conference a couple of years ago), but think it's gone downhill recently, so I have to say I much prefer the Emin Pasha (posh boutique style hotel, where Prince Charles stayed at same Commonwealth conference)
At this point, it took all I could muster not to bang my head against the wall and yell at the kids for being the most spoilt brats ever to walk this earth. I was also filled with self-loathing for choosing to teach in such an institution. I see my left-wing ideals don't go as far as to actually teach those in any kind of need when I am presented with the cushty option of teaching a minute class of 14 on a very light timetable. Bloody champagne socialist that I am becoming.
Maids
This is a common one, which again, I am guilty of bemoaning. Complaints may be about the fact that clothes go bobbly and worn more quickly than usual, not liking the way beds are made, the floor is mopped and so on. Well wakey wakey - I am very aware that I have not had to scrub my own loo for the past 4 years or do my own ironing and unless you are landed gentry, then you will never have this priviledge in a western country.
Activities
One day, I actually said 'Oh no, my private tennis lesson is cancelled because of the rain. Well I suppose I'll have to go for a manicure and pedicure instead'. Once again, when did I become such a princess?
So if all of this bothers me so much, why am I staying another year? Well, I like to think that I can instill some better values in the children I teach and help them make the right choices when it comes to treating other people. I also know that I have a bloody good life here. Yes, some things are frustrating and we all have our bad days. But they are the days when we should opt to lie low, read a good book or chill out at home. We all CHOSE to come here and unless you develop acceptance you will never be content with your choice.
Why I stopped writing and why I should start again ...
Almost an entire year has passed and I have to confess that I have been very neglectful of my blog. Why has this happened I ask myself? Well here is a list of excuses I have made - let's have one for every month of blog neglect:
1) I have to go for a swim.
2) I have to go for a bike ride.
3) I have to go for a run (OK I have to stop this, otherwise I will end up with a list of 12 different exercises!)
4) I had one too many drinks on Saturday night, which makes my brain too fuzzy to write on a Sunday!
5) I have to go to the shops.
6) I have to go to the shops again to try to buy the things that were out of stock when I went yesterday
7) The sun is shining, so it would be a shame not to go to the pool.
8) I have too much work to do and am too tired to write anything.
9) I got engrossed in a good book.
10) I got addicted to House, then Californication.
11) I sometimes feel like my life is not adventurous or exciting enough to write about.
12) I started to panic about how people would judge me for what I am writing.
So of all of the reasons listed above, only the final two approach the truth. Let's start with the eleventh reason. When you first arrive somewhere, everything is new and exciting. You see your new country in full technicolour - the first taste of matooke throws your tastebuds into ... desperately searching for whatever the opposite of ecstacy is ... aaah nausea, disgust, abbaration (thank you Roget's online thesaurus); the first boda ride down a potholed road makes your tummy churn with anxiety as you wonder whether it's a good idea to cling on so tightly to the driver; encounters in the shops and other service areas can fill you with disbelief and despair ... and so on. So what happens when the novelty wears off? You are left with a void. I've already talked about the crazy roads, the 2 hour long wait in a restaurant, and you all politely giggled in the right places at the same time as breathing a big sigh of relief that it wasn't your life.
Now for number twelve. Hmmmm - so many people have blogs here and some share them and some prefer to keep them quiet, using them simply as a personal diary. Some people write a blog to keep friends and family updated on their day to day lives, some like to make bold statements about politics, religion or society and some people just seem to have a public moaning forum. The intention of my blog was always the former, but as the craziness of Kampala life turns into the run of the mill, I started to dry up a little. There is also a need to take care in what one says in these situations. What starts as a funny anecdote can reveal deeper feelings and beliefs and can also cause offence. Many of us also try to convey a positive view of our lives overseas - we share pictures from safari, outstanding natural beauty and adventures. We don't share photos of the supermarket, our offices or the more boring aspects of our lives. Nor do I wish to be tarred with the brush of sounding like a 'spoiled moaning expat' - but more about that later. I want to write a blog not a bloan (cross between a blog and a moan - ok that didn't really work!).
So what now? Well I am going to make a promise to myself to try to be a better and more committed blogger. Why? Partly because I said I wasn't going to write group emails anymore and partly because, when I actually sit still for long enough, I actually enjoy the process of writing them. And what, you may ask, is making me sit still for longer than a nanosecond? Well, there's a rat in the kitchen right now and I'm too scared to leave my room!
Stay tuned - I'm going to try really hard to actually write this thing n
1) I have to go for a swim.
2) I have to go for a bike ride.
3) I have to go for a run (OK I have to stop this, otherwise I will end up with a list of 12 different exercises!)
4) I had one too many drinks on Saturday night, which makes my brain too fuzzy to write on a Sunday!
5) I have to go to the shops.
6) I have to go to the shops again to try to buy the things that were out of stock when I went yesterday
7) The sun is shining, so it would be a shame not to go to the pool.
8) I have too much work to do and am too tired to write anything.
9) I got engrossed in a good book.
10) I got addicted to House, then Californication.
11) I sometimes feel like my life is not adventurous or exciting enough to write about.
12) I started to panic about how people would judge me for what I am writing.
So of all of the reasons listed above, only the final two approach the truth. Let's start with the eleventh reason. When you first arrive somewhere, everything is new and exciting. You see your new country in full technicolour - the first taste of matooke throws your tastebuds into ... desperately searching for whatever the opposite of ecstacy is ... aaah nausea, disgust, abbaration (thank you Roget's online thesaurus); the first boda ride down a potholed road makes your tummy churn with anxiety as you wonder whether it's a good idea to cling on so tightly to the driver; encounters in the shops and other service areas can fill you with disbelief and despair ... and so on. So what happens when the novelty wears off? You are left with a void. I've already talked about the crazy roads, the 2 hour long wait in a restaurant, and you all politely giggled in the right places at the same time as breathing a big sigh of relief that it wasn't your life.
Now for number twelve. Hmmmm - so many people have blogs here and some share them and some prefer to keep them quiet, using them simply as a personal diary. Some people write a blog to keep friends and family updated on their day to day lives, some like to make bold statements about politics, religion or society and some people just seem to have a public moaning forum. The intention of my blog was always the former, but as the craziness of Kampala life turns into the run of the mill, I started to dry up a little. There is also a need to take care in what one says in these situations. What starts as a funny anecdote can reveal deeper feelings and beliefs and can also cause offence. Many of us also try to convey a positive view of our lives overseas - we share pictures from safari, outstanding natural beauty and adventures. We don't share photos of the supermarket, our offices or the more boring aspects of our lives. Nor do I wish to be tarred with the brush of sounding like a 'spoiled moaning expat' - but more about that later. I want to write a blog not a bloan (cross between a blog and a moan - ok that didn't really work!).
So what now? Well I am going to make a promise to myself to try to be a better and more committed blogger. Why? Partly because I said I wasn't going to write group emails anymore and partly because, when I actually sit still for long enough, I actually enjoy the process of writing them. And what, you may ask, is making me sit still for longer than a nanosecond? Well, there's a rat in the kitchen right now and I'm too scared to leave my room!
Stay tuned - I'm going to try really hard to actually write this thing n
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