Followers

Wednesday 30 June 2010

Safari suits ...

I am a little bit concerned as to what is in store for us in school next year. I am starting to wonder whether the school is about to relocate to under the proverbial tree that people are convinced is my classroom. What has sparked this concern? The new uniform – and it is not pretty. I am not sure whether we are going to be going on safari 1920s style or whether they are trying to shape up our students to recolonise Uganda. It is truly ridiculous. The girls are going to be wearing a brown, button up, linen dress, which resembles my Brownies uniform from the 1980s, with slightly less style. The boys, meanwhile, will be wearing a khaki coloured button up shirt, made out of a material that looks particularly stiff and scratchy along with a choice of brown shorts or long trousers. There’s even a belt, so that they can attach their rifles to, should a passing lion (in the middle of Kampala) decide to give them trouble. They will also be sporting safari boots for warding off anything untoward that should be lurking in … I don’t know – the cafeteria? The auditorium or classrooms? Maybe the big field? The children are not impressed with what they are going to have to wear. But who would ever think of asking them, the ones who have to wear it every day, when you have a Belgian architect who thinks about Africa with a capital A (the one with the roaming lions and giraffes and starving children) to design a uniform?

Monday 28 June 2010

I will always be an abolo obruni



I was not allowed to stay in Colombia for longer than two years on grounds that I was not glamorous or beautiful enough. The government issues strict guidelines on these matters and those who fail to meet the rigorous criteria are asked to leave the country. I pleaded that I had tried my very best. Had I not gone for regular manicures and pedicures? Was my hair not always blow dried to perfection? It seemed that this was not enough. Unless I agreed to undergo some cosmetic surgery, be it a boob job, some Botox or a spot of liposuction, I would no longer be welcome in the land of the beautiful. On my return journey whilst in transit in the States I found I did not need to follow any signs for the connecting flight to Manchester. I spotted my people immediately – all a little bit (or a whole lot) fat, with pasty skin and a poor dress sense. Yes, I was going home and I landed back on earth with a bump.
But not for long though. I was heading for Africa. A real place, where it’s seen as a good thing to be a real woman. So what if you’re not a model Size 6? If you’ve got curves, then everything is fine with the world. A little bit more spread, then that’s great too.
Nearly ten years after my first trip to Ghana, a couple of friends and I still fondly refer to each other as the abolo obrunis. That means fat white person. Looking back, probably none of us were actually that fat, but that was what people called from the streets! Actually, we may not have been fat when we landed in Ghana, but after 6 months of munching on street foods from fried plantain to yam chips, we probably were pretty rounded when we left. I have indelible memories of the woman whose house we stayed at (who we had to call mum) and her friend (Aunty) rolling around on the floor stuffing watermelons in their mouths. Here was a woman who was so spoilt and lazy, that rather than get off her fat ass to change the channel, would watch a fuzzy grey screen, whilst shouting her maid ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE … and if Essie failed to come, her son NANA K, NANA K, NANA K until somebody would put her out of her misery.
Now in Uganda, most of the people are pretty slim-lined compared to our West African neighbours. But people do like their food, lots of it, and if you gain a few pounds along the way, then good for you. It’s always hard to remember that being told you’re fat is not really an insult around here. It’s either a statement of fact or, at times, a compliment. I nearly took back my charity the day I left out some unwanted clothes for my maid to take, and she told me she would give them to her fat friends! It’s a fair point – she’s pretty tiny herself – around a Size 8 on a fat day! One day a friend and I whizzed past her house whilst out for a healthy bike ride. She waved and called us over, and invited us into her house for a rest and a drink. Moments later, she asked us why we bother to do exercise when we will both always be so very fat. I despaired!
This week, since being ill, I have for once been looking a little skinnier. On Friday, people kept telling me that I looked very weak. I have since translated this as being a little thinner than usual. My favourite line of all though, came from my lovely Teaching Assistant: “Miss Crosbie, you have lost weight, but don’t worry, if you try hard I am sure you can get it back again!” I have never worried about anything less in my life.

Saturday 26 June 2010

In Sickness and In Health …


Before setting off to any exotic location, there is always a full checklist of health requirements you have to fulfil. There are injections for Hepatitis, Typhoid, Yellow Fever of Course and a few more, diseases that conjure up strange images – I still imagine that yellow fever must turn you yellow. As residents in Kampala, most of us have opted out of taking regular anti-malarial drugs on the grounds that the chances of getting infected in the city are low and that the effects of taking the drug long term is allegedly worse than getting malaria. We have access to excellent healthcare here and feel confident that everything will always be fine. Of course we don’t imagine that we’re going to get caught.
Last Friday morning, I was started to shiver in assembly. That happens sometimes, on a cloudy day, if you forget a cardigan. Whenever I feel chilly here, I start to think that I must be acclimatised to the weather. By late morning, it had brightened up, but I still felt a chill, and my muscles were aching a lot. I shrugged this off, convinced that I had done a few too many laps at swimming training the evening before and that I must have gotten a real chill. I battled through the afternoon, begrudging the fact that all of the extra burdens at the end of term should make us feel so exhausted. I walked out of the door as the bell rang, resolving to go home for nap before the England match later that evening.
Needless to say I didn’t make the match. I spent the night aching, shivering and sweating and wondering what was going on. In the morning I didn’t feel much better, but tried to push away thoughts that it could be anything really nasty. School had paid for free tickets for us to attend the St George’s Ball at one of the big hotels that night and I didn’t want to miss out on a rare sparkly high heel moment in Kampala. By afternoon, the niggles got the better of me and I decided to call the doctors. A friend took me in and before the appointment I had decided that there was nothing wrong with me and I should just go home instead (probably the prospect of our beloved GP who has a worse bedside manner than House). Half an hour later and I was diagnosed with malaria.
Understandably, the people who were most concerned for me are living in the UK. They will have read the statistics that malaria can kill or that it is the biggest killer of under 5s in Africa. Friends in Kampala were caring and helpful and knew that everything would be fine. Those who had suffered from it before, (one friend only 2 weeks ago!) offered practical advice and sympathy by the bucketload. Good friends ran to the shops for me, while my flat-mate made a great nurse. Ugandan friends and acquaintances also offered their sympathy, many of them having had it several times, and I began to feel a bit like a member of special club of those who know what it is like to suffer from malaria. Catching malaria for Ugandans is much like me catching the ‘flu. Ugandans are born with semi-immunity, while we have none, so even if they have a much higher parasite count, I will still suffer more, as my body offers no natural resistance.
Being ill, especially when far from home, turns us all into small children again. No matter how much of an independent world traveller I think I am, when I’m sick, all I want is a hug from my mum and dad. I’m not used to being so reliant on other people and I’m not used to not being able to do the simplest of things. I started to worry about how I would ever cope with being old, if being sick for a few days was so bad! I don’t think being ill suits me – it gets in the way of life too much. So you will understand why I felt aggravated after the following conversation. A Ugandan acquaintance asked what medication I was taking, so I told her. She asked me if I was taking it with milk or fruit juice and I replied water. She then commented, in total seriousness, that it probably will not have worked, especially, if I haven’t eaten a fatty meal afterwards. Well, of course, doesn’t everyone with malaria just fancy a big fat portion of fish and chips? I had been able to eat virtually nothing in 5 days, and there she was, suggesting that I stuff my face with pizza or something. I sighed with any energy I had.
I am now well and truly on the mend, although I am getting tired quite quickly. On Friday, I called into school and was greeted with the biggest bear hug from the whole year group. I went to the cinema that evening to see one of the worst films in history (some J-Lo romcom nonsense) – the girls complained but it was the highlight of my week! I have packed all my stuff for moving, with a few naps along the way! And I’m so happy that England got through on Wednesday, so I can finally go to the pub with everyone and watch the game – life is good again!

Thursday 10 June 2010

What was I thinking?



Since living overseas, I have led myself to believe that I am far away from the temptations of retail therapy. Every month, I convince myself that I am leading a very frugal life and that I have somehow risen above the Western calls of consumerism.
However, as I start to sift through my things before moving house, I realise have an awful lot of ‘stuff’. I can’t say that this is something that started in Africa. Although there was no shortage of shops in Bogota, it was practically impossible to buy anything that would fit an average sized British woman. So whenever there was an opportunity to splurge, I took it with gusto. One of our favourite trips used to be to the ‘Leather District’. A taxi ride to the far side of town would take you to a street of shops bursting with every product imaginable made out of cow hide. We giggled at the neon pink leather miniskirts and turquoise waistcoats, but got excited about the prospect of buying tailor made clothes. Armed with a fistful of magazine pictures, you could select the exact shade and design of jackets based on designer labels for a snippet of the cost. My first purchase was a rather sensible brown jacket and that was soon followed up with a black biker style jacket that made me feel very rock and roll. But like everything that is enjoyable in life, there is a shady line between a healthy interest and a mindless obsession. Each visit, of course, would not be complete without throwing in a couple of handbags. Then, came the moment of descent, when I thought it was a great idea to buy … wait for it … a red leather jacket! The cut was great, similar to the very first brown one, but seriously! What is perhaps even more worrying is that I was egged on by my friends to buy the damned thing. I don’t feel bad about it – they were less than $100 each and the buying process was definitely fun. I just wonder what I was thinking.
In the living room, I have a big red painting with some random oranges and apples on sticks. I bought this little gem on my first visit to Villa de Leyva, a charming colonial town a few hours away from Bogota. It had been a relaxing afternoon, where we ate and drank wine in the shady courtyards of the ancient buildings. One of the restaurants was owned by an old artist. He was a lovely and gentile old man, a Colombian Tony Hart, who enjoyed his leisurely life of painting and chatting to tourists. In my mind, I had an in-depth conversation about art with him in Spanish. But after an afternoon of quaffing vino, I suspect that the conversation was more along the lines of ‘this picture is red … I like red … look at the apple’ and so forth. He smiled and nodded and was more than happy to accept a couple of hundred thousand pesos for the picture. In exchange, I got a picture that I’m not so sure about anymore, but a happy memory of buying it and the buzz of excitement that goes along with shopping.
Uganda is even more limited when it comes to shopping, but I have still managed to make a few faux pas. I just took a dress out of my wardrobe that I bought from a tailoring school outside of the city. When I tried the dress on, my friends politely pointed out that it was a little on the large side, but common sense rarely interferes with a woman intent on spending money. I asked for a few adjustments and was convinced that this dress would inject a little glamour into my Kampala life. Once I got home with the dress, I realised that my friends were not trying to jeopardise my fun but were actually trying to stop me from wasting my hard earned cash on a dress that was totally unsuitable. To this day, the dress has hung up in my wardrobe unworn. I won’t lose any sleep over it. The organisation works well with the community and by buying the dress, I have helped to fund young girls to learn a trade and to find a way of earning independently.
Obviously it doesn’t stop there. Shopping makes us temporarily happy and can take the edge off a bad day. I have endless amounts of junk that I have bought because I have come up with one reason or another to justify it. A whole tangled mess of paper beads clutter up my jewellery baskets, beads that I would only ever work here. I think that certain things fit in certain places. The leather jacket really was the thing to wear in Bogota – but travel elsewhere and you look like an extra from an Aerosmith video. If I were to try to wear my tailor made, African fabric clothes in the UK, people would mistake me for an Oxfam model or a wannabe hippy. So while I am sure that this will not be the end of my shopping boo boos, I am going to try to exercise a little more caution in the future.

Monday 7 June 2010

Ndali Lodge

I have a suspicion that a few people read my blog awaiting the latest of my misadventures and tales of woe. Well I am afraid I am going to disappoint you all, as I have just come back from a little patch of paradise on Ugandan soil. We often feel like we’re in a time-warp over here, what with slow internet, dubious fashions on display and feeling like we’re completely out of synch with any new music. As I write, my neighbours are blasting out a bit of Dire Straits interspersed with a spot of Reggaeton! But staying at Ndali Lodge was like being transported back in time in a much better way! As you drive towards the lodge, you are treated to a view of the Rwenzori Mountains in the distance on one side and a crater lake on the other. The main house is shabby-chic, like an old English style cottage furnished with a hotch-potch of old furniture and crockery. Lazy afternoons are spent curled up with a good book in a corner, laying by the pool overlooking the lakes or playing board games on a rainy afternoon (pre-1990 Trivial Pursuits to be precise – we gathered this from the plethora of questions with answers such as Soviet Union, West Germany or Yugoslavia – I think this must be the last edition my parents bought too as I had somehow had a surprisingly good knowledge of the most random of subjects, except, of course, the sports questions!) Sundowners on the veranda also featured strongly.
It wasn’t all just lazing about though. We took a walk down to the vanilla plantation and learnt all about the vanilla growing process and got to sport some fetching hats too! The vanilla is grown at the lodge and around the country, then treated and packaged before being sent off to the UK to a well known supermarket. It’s all got the Fair Trade stamp of approval and the workers have free health care and a few other benefits that are perhaps rare for many Ugandans. They also grow all their own vegetables in a small plot, so everything you eat tastes fresh and delicious!
So that’s it, in a nutshell. A new place to add to my list of favourite places and somewhere I am looking forward to visiting again.

... photos to follow when the internet decides to speed up ...