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.

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!

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.

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 ...

A Sunday morning jog!

Did I mention that I ran a half marathon yesterday? That’s 21km, or half the distance from Kampala to Entebbe and WAY more than 6 laps of the school field (as my kids thought today). Just in case you weren’t in the staffroom for the morning briefing where it was announced, haven’t read my facebook update or read my previous blog or heard me twittering on about it, then I would just like to make it known! I’m not normally one to blow my own trumpet, but I am very proud of myself and today is all about rewarding myself for my achievement! I’ve treated my weary feet to a pedicure, indulged in Indian take-away and am about to have a massage in the comfort of my own room to soothe my aching joints.
Things did not appear to be going to plan at the start. We arrived in Jinja to find that some unscrupulous back-packers had decided to upgrade themselves from their nasty dorm room to our cosy safari tent, the restaurant was almost fully booked and one of us was missing the registration pack. As always these things were soon resolved and we eventually sat down to a carbo-fuelled dinner with a few friends.
Alarms were set for the crack of dawn for the big race, not just one, but at five minute intervals, just in case we overslept as it would have been a shame to wake up at noon to say ‘oh shit, we were supposed to run a half marathon this morning!’ . This proved to be unnecessary, as the torrential rain woke us up early instead. We threw on our clothes and I had my Weetabix by the light of the torch on my mobile phone and set off for the run. Worried glances were exchanged as we had to walk through the mud bath that the boda couldn’t get through.
We arrived just in the nick of time (had the race actually started on time) and with plenty of time to spare for the actual starting time. We positioned ourselves a fair distance from the starting line so that anyone wishing to rush through would not be hindered! So after a few announcements and playing the Ugandan National Anthem, we were off.
We had a strategy in mind from the beginning. Just like ‘The Hare and the Tortoise’, slow and steady wins the race. We let people pass us out and managed to be somewhat unaffected by the fact that most of the runners were hurtling off ahead of us. After ten minutes our theory seemed to be working. I would love to know what happened to the lady who had already virtually given up after about 2 km. We asked her if she’d like to jog along with us, but after another 500 m or so she really had burnt out, poor love! We carried on, chatting away to keep our spirits up. By the time we reached the 5km mark, the fastest of the 10km race runners were catching us up and overtaking us, running gazelle-like in elegant formation. (Time to reassess here – slow and steady just gets you through the race but you need fast and furious to stand a chance of winning that 10km race.)We made a gap and allowed them to pass, enjoying the cheers as we went by.
After the 5km mark, the routes split and we separated from the 10 k-ers. The next 10 km was long and tough going. We hardly passed a soul and any onlookers were very bemused, unsure whether to cheer us on or just laugh out loud whole-heartedly – it was mainly the latter. Thank goodness there were two of us. We intermittently commented on multi-coloured birds, the lush green fields, the ever stunning sky and the way the light reflected so prettily off the. It sure beats running through the pollution fest that is Kampala. If only it wasn’t so bloody long and tiring! Sorry, I was meant to be looking for the positive!
By 9.30am we got onto the main road again and neared civilisation again. And I started to need the loo! Trust me – over an hour of empty roads and I feel fine – surround myself with cars and people and I desperately needed a wee. Focus, focus, focus … oh I know what can distract me – the excruciating pain in both knees. By this point I was having conversations with my legs, ‘don’t worry,’ I promised, ‘you won’t have to do anything all week and I’ll treat you to a massage’. But we were so close, and I knew that if I stopped then it would be all over. Overtaking a few flagging runners was definitely a boost and after a long stretch back into town we saw the sign for the final kilometre. We used every remaining bit of energy to make it to the end and my running buddy grabbed my hand as we made it to the finishing line.
An hour later, the three of us (my flatmate also ran the 10km – yay well done!!) were sitting by the Nile basking in our own glory, enjoying a hearty breakfast and a well earned glass of bubbly, then beer, then … well I’d fallen asleep by then! It’s amazing how the brain works and allows you to forget pain, as we were soon left with just a warm glowing feeling – be it from pride or alcohol, who cares? We bloody did it!

Countdown to the Jinja Half-Marathon

Oh my goodness - in less than 24 hours I will have (hopefully) have completed my first half marathon! We're heading off to Jinja in a little while to stay the night, before setting off on The Source of The Nile run.

It's been a long 5 or so weeks of training since I first started training. I'm not quite sure how I managed to tick the box for 21km and not 10km - probably because I have this secret, underlying competitive streak in me that only rears its head now and again. So myself and my good friend and running buddy have been obsessing over where to run, for how long, for what distance and so forth.

The training has had its highs and lows. We're just coming out of the rainy season, so we missed a practise or two due to the weather. This isn't because we're wimps, but because a rainstorm here means that the roads turn to squelchy mud and even the paved roads get flooded. But on the whole I'd say we've been pretty disciplined. Our training hasn't exactly been hi-tech. I know runners who have these clever devices called Garmins that record your speed for every kilometre, the distance you have run and of course the time. We don't have such things. At one stage, neither of us had a watch, so we had to incorporate a loop into Kisementi where there's a big clock in the car park to have an idea of how long we had been running.

Then there are the clothing issues. Two weeks ago I discovered a big hole in the only running pants that really fit me properly. So I decided to pop to the shops to see what I could find. The first shop had an array of fleece lined trackie bottoms suitable for Arctic conditions and most definitely not appropriate for tropical Uganda. On I went to Mr Price (some sort of South African Primark style shop only with inferior quality clothes at triple M & S prices)to find shiny neon pink or green nylon track suits - not quite what I was looking for either. The next stop was the tiny but genuine Nike outlet in Garden City, but all they had was a pair of white trendy harem pant thingys costing around 40 quid - pass again! My final port of call was another sports shop selling more shiny multicoloured lycra trousers last fashionable in 1986. Needless to say, I am going to wear a pair of slightly big trousers of my own.

This week was meant to be a semi-rest week. That means that you don't run too much so that you can be fully rested and in tip-top condition on the day (hmmm supposedly). I decided that I would go on the hash run as the final practise on Monday. Bad idea. This turned out to be through the the slum areas of Bukoto (not far from where I live) and Kamwokya. Not only did we pass through this area, but the entire run involved leaping over open sewers, tip-toeing along precipitous edges with festering awamps threatening below, dodging people's drying underwear on washing lines and generally making a good attempt not to contract cholera or typhoid in the process. In the end, I did feel a certain sense of karma though. The hare, who is the person who sets the route, thought it would be an amusing touch to have a camel strategically placed at one point of the run. It will come back to haunt her forever though, since she did not have a hash handle (nickname) and came to be baptised Camel Toe!!! I think she will be most upset when she discovers what camel toe actually means!

Finally I come to nutrition and a generally healthy and balanced lifestyle. Last night was a bit of a challenge as I had to (and managed to) avoid the FREE OPEN BAR after the graduation ceremony at school. I decided to also avoid the party afterwards as this would almost certainly lead to my downfall. Tonight we're packing Scrabble and cards to entertain ourselves instead of glugging wine. Although I do have to say there is a bottle of bubbly chilling for afterwards ...

International Day

“I know, let’s have a normal week. You know, one where we just teach our lessons all week and nothing exciting happens!” was the cry from the staffroom. Our school year is jam packed with special themed days to make the year more exciting for the kids. Barely a week goes past without something out of the ordinary happening. If we’re not rehearsing for a school production then it’s Literacy Week and if it’s not that then it’s Earth Day or something! This is all great, but it doesn’t half get the kids hyped up. Sure, we all enjoyed honing our mental mathematics skills on the worldwide online game for World Maths Day, but it was a bit disappointing for those who didn’t have internet at home. Athletics Day is great for a select few, but for many kids, it seemed to be an exhausting and disappointing day. And the less said about Invention Convention the better (OK I will say it ... I HATE Invention Convention – 2 weeks of clutter and confusion in the classroom, where the entire class are expected to invent something completely new and functional out of a bit of cardboard and cellotape. It can’t be much fun for the kids either, as they are told that ‘no, you can’t make a robot out of a shoebox and water bottles and expect it to work’, or, ‘no, you just stole that idea from the ‘Wallace and Gromit’ clip we just watched’).
Anyway, I digressed. This week we had my favourite school event of the year, International Day. Yes I was a little grumpy first thing in the morning as I confiscated a Fez type hat, a Masai stick for clubbing lions, a German flag and an Indian scarf … all before 9am! However, as we gathered on the field for the Parade of Nations, my spirits lifted. Children came to school in their traditional national dress or the colours of the flag, then found other children from their country. We have representatives from all over the globe. Some nations are represented more strongly than others – while the UK, India, Uganda and perhaps South Africa stood out as the biggest groups, on small boy held up the flag for Nepal alone!
Our stomachs grew bigger as the morning wore on. I was impressed that Year 4 were scheduled to go to the Asia tent first as we could get first pickings on the food! By 10am I had gorged myself on falafel, hummus, dips of curry, spring rolls, mini-pavlovas and whatever else I could lay my hands on. My hand was decorated with a henna tattoo and I tried to burn off a few of the calories with an attempt at belly dancing. So in each of the tents, we had a little ‘taste’ of the continent.
In the afternoon, we sang and danced the ‘Waving Flag’ World Cup song so many times it nearly drove us mental. The kids went home happy and energetic. The day’s success could be measured in the children’s smiles!