Return to Kampala

After my short break from village life in Kasese town, I returned to Kyanzi village refreshed, eager for some company, and completely ready to renegotiate any cultural factor I had taken issue with. In fact, during this second attempt I found the cultural differences much less pronounced and much easier to deal with. I have since returned to Kampala, and now, seeing how strange the big city life seems to me, I think this sentiment was much less a result of my willingness to explore new cultures or my renewed appreciation of cultural sensitivity, as it was a subconscious acculturation and acceptance of the terms and conditions of cultural life within the village. For example, I was able to casually shrug it off as ‘normal’ when only two of a group of elders who had promised to schedule an interview with me as part of their weekly meeting show up for the interview, and even then, only an hour and a half after the designated meeting time. When I asked what happened, on elder responded that the meet had been canceled. When asked why he said with an obvious tone, “Because no one showed up”. At the time it didn’t even occur to me how circular that logic was.

I also noticed that I began to see more clearly the complicated relationships between all the many people living in my village-stay house, and could more easily identify these relationships with the idea of family that I have become accustomed to as an American. I attribute this both to having lived there long enough to see their day to day life as it really is, and to my acculturation into the society which allowed me to see how, underneath the cultural constructions that govern the relationships between various members of the family, there is essentially the same bonding agent that bonds families all over the world. While this bond is expressed differently across the world, it’s good to know that it is still there. I believe I first noticed this as I was sitting in the kitchen watching the mother prepare dinner. Most of the family was inside the kitchen, I was there enjoying watching the interaction but most of them were there because it was a “cold” night (maybe 65degrees F) and close quarters and stove fire of the kitchen provided the best warmth. Jolam Busa, my little buddy and youngest son of the family, was curled up in his mothers lap, while she squatted over the stove stirring the cassava flour to prepare tapioc (this really sticky mushy stuff that is balled up with the hands, made into a bowl with the imprint of the thumb, and then used to scoop up stew). Meanwhile, the older sisters helped prepare other parts of the meal, while Getride the younger sister was humming out a song, and Zephyr, her slightly younger brother, about ten was singing the melody. Tembo Joshua, the five year old second youngest sat clapping along, while the three older brothers, Gerald, Richard, and Moses all relaxed after spending the day in the shamba (what they call the crop field). Meanwhile the father sat next to me on a small stool. Resting in his arms was a small girl (can’t be older than three), named Lisa, who stays in the neighborhood. The sun had gone down and no one was really sure why she was still here, but as it was the village, which is basically just like an extended family, no one minded and figured someone would take her home when it got too late. For the moment she was cute enough to keep around. Nothing particularly special happened during this scene, I merely saw the whole family in one place, interacting like a family as I have known family. Normally I only see them coming and going from the house. The three young boys run together, the older boys do their own thing, the sisters spend most of the day cooking, and the father seems to be around much less than one would expect. When he is around it had always seemed to me that he was playing the role of stern disciplinarian (I also have to believe that impression is partly a result of Bantu languages sounding like angry yelling when you don’t understand them). This scene, as the whole family sat around enjoying each others company gave me a very different perspective.

The trip to Kasese town itself was also very instrumental in conducting my research. Without going in too deep my research is essentially focused around land conflict issues surrounding a group of pastoralist and another group of farmers in Kasese district who until recently have lived supposedly peacefully, but now due to population pressure and an over-reliance on antiquated subsistence techniques, basically no longer have enough land to feed themselves. In Kasese, I met with members of the pastoralist tribe who I had yet to interview as I had been living with members of the farmer’s tribe. This allowed me to organize a home-stay with the pastoralists (Basongora), who were recently resettled onto former government prison farm land. I was also able to speak with members of the Banyabinde tribe, who are largely uninvolved in the land conflict, but as the second largest tribe in Kasese district provided a good third person perspective on the issue.

I returned to the village on a Friday. Every Friday is known as market day. Market day is a day when the border between Congo and Uganda is opened up and all the locals bring their goods to exchange at a huge inter-country farmers market. I took the opportunity to see if I couldn’t make my way into Congo, mostly just to say that I had been there. Unfortunately in a typical example of negligence by an African government, the bridge connecting the two countries had collapsed the week before (seriously injuring many and killing a few). Apparently the bridge had been in disrepair for over twenty years, but since it connected the two countries, and was therefore not technically in either one, neither government would take responsibility to fix it. This of course did not stop market day the following weeks, too many people base their livelihood on this day for them to be willing to cancel it. Instead they had small rowboats ferry goods back and forth across the small river, while men constructing a makeshift wooden bridge out of felled trees that would be fit for cars to pass over. I decided that this bridge was likely my best bet at getting across, and let my home-stay brother and sister who had accompanied me there. When I got there a Congolese man stopped me and said men could only cross if they helped to dig and build, but noticing my water bottle, said he would escort me across in exchange for the rest of my water. I agreed and began across. This came with much disapproval from the surrounding workers, who all thought not only that I should work, but also that since I was a Muzungu, they should pester me for some of my money (it is commonly believed that Muzungus simply carry large amounts of cash to give away at any given time). Congolese, coming from a much poorer country, are also much more persistent and bothersome when pestering you. Seeing that I was surrounded by about thirty men, all with shovels, sticks and hoes, I thought for a second that I perhaps had gotten myself in too deep in my attempt to get to Congo. When I set foot on Congo soil, Cabiira, my sister, urged me to turn around and head back before things got out of hand. Instead, I grabbed a hoe lying next to a man who was taking a small break, and swung it into the earth. After a moment of silent confusion, the atmosphere of the surrounding crowd changed entirely. Suddenly everyone was cheering me on, laughing and yelling in complete surprise that I would work for them (probably because they have never seen it before, African seem to have a very firm belief that Muzungus are completely incapable of even the smallest manual labor in any form). After maybe two more swings of the hoe, the owner took it back, shaking my hand. He thanked me for digging (as is the tradition in Bakonzo society) and said I had done quite enough work for today. With the crowd on my side I presented with the opportunity to go explore the Congo side of the market a bit. I looked back and saw that my sister still had a concerned look on her face. I decided that I may have perhaps pushed my luck enough for one day, and though I was pretty sure the crowd now welcomed me, I had accomplished what I had set out to do that day (get into Congo), and so I turned around and went back across the bridge. That is the story of how I spent one afternoon digging dirt in Congo.

Later that week, I spent a couple of day up in the hills of the Rwenzori, just above my village stay. I spend the night up there at a local chairman’s house. The chairman had organized for me to meet with various people affected by the land conflict issue, and was very helpful to my research. Accompanying me on this journey was a young man named Paul, from the village. He was a twenty one year old University student who was back home on break from school, and had offered to spend the two days working for me as a translator. On this trip the two of us became fairly close. It was refreshing to talk to someone who not only spoke English very fluently, but was also educated, and articulate. On top of this, someone of the same age was a nice change from the forty plus people who I had normally been interacting with. At the chairman’s house, we stayed up late shoot the bull. I hope that this friendship continues and am confident that he will be my main correspondence to the village in the future, both because he is the best English speaker there, and because he goes to school in Kampala where he can email me, instead of waiting the two weeks it takes for a letter to be sent.

The following weekend I went over to Ibuga Prison Farm, where I would spend four days living with the Basongora cattle keepers, and learning not only about their side of the conflict, but also about cattle keeping and the history of pastoralism in Africa in general. I arrived Friday, where I was introduced to the man I was meant to stay with, a cattle keeper named Leonard. He had warned me before coming that he had only recently moved to Ibuga and therefore was quite unprepared for company. I assumed that he (like almost all other Africans) simply believed that a Muzungu such as myself was simply incapable of staying in such places as a pastoralist resettlement village, and so went ahead with him anyway. The cattle keepers stay in an environment entirely different from the Bakonzo’s traditional home, where I had been staying in the hills. The cattle require large land and a lot of grass. For this reason the Basongora stay in the plans of the Semiliki valley at the foot of the Rwenzori. As we walked through these fields towards Leonard’s home, we first stopped at his friend’s house to say hi. We sat there for a while, and Leonard explained that his home was just about a quarter mile further down the trail. He then confessed that his home was merely a plot of land upon which he intended to eventually build a house. For the moment he was staying there guarding the land, and sleeping under the stars. I gave a moment’s pause, and then thought, why not, and consented to stay with him under the stars for the next couple of days. Everyone laughed and asked the usual ‘how can a Muzungu do such a thing’ questions. Several minutes later, Leonard said, “You stay here, I will go and come back”. He left and his friend, Isongoma invited me inside for a meal. I stayed here until the late hours of the night, and finally asked if Leonard would be coming back. Isongoma said that I would in fact be staying with him for the weekend, in his two mud huts. To my relief, these people had pulled a typical African move, and changed my plans for me, without ever telling me. So my home-stay host became Isongoma and his family. For supper we had a bowl of matoke, and several glasses of milk. Traditionally pastoralist subsist entirely on milk and blood, however, these people have apparently abandoned the tradition of eating the latter. Still I was surprised at how much of their diet consisted of milk. It is served at every meal, and is often the meal itself. It is interesting that this unvaried diet produces a people who are generally of a much taller stature than their farming counterpart, who eat a plethora of varied crops. The milk they drink is always freshly boiled. This actually made research fairly difficult. As everyone knows, one of the best ways to make babies and small children go to sleep is to give them a glass of warm milk. The Basongora would always promise to do an interview after a meal. They were used to drinking warm milk all the time and so found that it had effect on them. I on the other hand found it hard to keep my eyes open long enough to ask any questions. Interestingly, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone in the village seemed to have that distinct smell of small baby about them. I supposed because they, like babies, drink almost nothing but milk, that they simply never stopped having that new baby smell.

While staying with the Basongora, I learned a lot about cattle keeping. I milked the cow, learned how to make them move where you like, and even got the opportunity to take the cattle out to pasture one morning. Cattle are surprising a very calm, almost apathetic animal. This is perhaps why cattle are so often worshiped, particularly in eastern religions, as beings that are completely content and complacent Zen masters. I noticed that the Basongora were also the most calm, even-spoken people I’ve come across in Uganda. It is purely conjecture on my part, but I imagine that by spending all their time around cattle, some of the characteristics cattle exhibit must have rubbed off on them. This makes them extremely agreeable, amicable, and comfortable people. When I would try to help them herd the cattle, I would often screw up, causing a cow to get away, and make a lot more work for everyone else. While I wouldn’t expect them to say anything, as guest etiquette would forbid their chastising me, it seemed like they didn’t even notice. They would simply run off after the cattle and get it back in line, as though nothing had happened. Furthermore, unlike the Bakonzo, who would often become heated during the interviews explaining how their land had been stolen, the Basongora would always explain in full the vast number of grievances they have had over the years, which have forced them to continually relocate themselves, and how they have been marginalized as a minority in local government, and now face significant loss of cattle due to poor grazing, but would do so calmly and evenly.

That Sunday, both my and Isongoma’s phone had died, so he took me to where they normally charge them. We walked down the path he lived on for maybe three miles, and passed through the gate of a fence of barbed wire about four feet high. The gate was wide open and no one there stood guard. Isongoma informed me that we were now in Ibuga Prison (the section of the farm that had not been given over to settle land conflicts). We walked by some men sitting around amongst some maize. Isongoma stopped, shook hands with them, and exchanged a few words, one of the men had a pattern of small bumps running across his face, a signature cultural feature that distinguishes the Karamojong cattle keepers of northern Uganda. The area of Karamoja is always in the papers as a place of great unrest, where the people have suffered from prolonged drought and have taken to stealing cattle from others. After we passed them Isongoma explained that they had been arrested for armed cattle rustling, and were imprisoned for seven years. He explained that they quickly befriended the Basongora since their pastoral lifestyle makes their culture very similar. I noted that the prisoners had no guard with them, and were very close to the wide open, unguarded gate. It seemed like there was literally nothing keeping them in prison, and yet they were clearly not trying to make a break for it. Soon we came to the prisoner’s quarters. It looked essentially like any other village, except that the huts were constructed of metal and not mud and thatch. Mothers were cooking while children were playing at their feet. Apparently in Uganda when you go to prison, you bring your family. We went into one of the metal huts, sat down, and handed our phone to the daughter who was standing there. Isongoma explained that he was a friend of these prisoners and so he could charge his phone for free here, because the prisoner’s quarters had electricity. So in summation, Ugandan prisons allow the family to live with the prisoner, allow free interaction all day, allow the prisoners to farm freely, seem to have no guards present whatsoever, do no lock the doors, and do not even bother to construct much to contain the prisoners, and give the prisoners electricity that the surrounding villages don’t have. On top of all that, the prisoners are allowed to buy things to furnish their huts. While we waited for our phones to charge, we sat on comfy couches, watching Nigerian films on the prisoners TV, and sipping cold sodas from the prisoner’s personal fridge. I assumed that this prison must be the very lowest level security prison, holding minor felons, of whom the cattle rustling we had met must have been about the worst. I thought back to how dreadful maximum security prisons in the US are, and couldn’t imagine how much worse they must be in a place like Uganda. To the contrary, as we walked freely pasted the prison gate after charging our phones, Isongoma assured me that this was the highest security prison, and that only the worst criminals were sent here. Most of them were major thieves, rapists and murderers. I’m still baffled by how such a prison works (or counts as prison instead of government organized village).

That afternoon, Isongoma approached me holding one of his two chickens by the wings. He told me that this chicken would be dinner, and that he just wanted me to have a look at it before he killed it. He said they saved the chickens for when they had very special company. I assured him that he didn’t have to kill one of his birds for me, but he would hear none of it, and proceeded to kill the bird and give it to his wife to prepare. Unfortunately, at this point I believe drinking all the un-pasturized, fresh from the cows utter milk was catching up with me. This was the only night of the entire program so far that I became incredibly sick, so much so that I couldn’t even hold down water. I felt terrible because this of course meant that I couldn’t eat the chicken Isongoma had killed in my honor, but eating was simply out of the question. I awoke the next morning feeling slightly better, but was still a little uneasy. Before I left to return to the village in Kyanzi, however, I managed to scarf down some leftover chicken and show my appreciation for all the kindness and hospitality Isongoma had shown me.

I returned to the village that afternoon and spend the whole rest of the day sleeping and trying to feel better. That night, dinner was served, and once again in my stew lay bits and pieces of a chicken. Gerald, my home-stay brother, informed me that he had decided to kill one of his chickens in my honor. Fortunately I was well enough by this point to eat this meal with no problem, but I did think it interesting that within the past 24 hours two chickens had died on my behalf.

The following day I felt completely better. This was fortunate because I had made plans to return to the highlands above Kyanzi and hike up to the base of Mt. Rwenzori National Park. Along with Solomon, the village liaison for my program, my friend Paul, my friend and other Muzungu who had come to study in the town of Bwera, and a guide, we spent the whole day walking up the steep narrow trails leading to the park. Now I know I always say this but, the scenery up here was definitely, without question, the most beautiful I have seen in all of Uganda. We could look up to the snow capped mountain range ahead, turn around and see the rolling hills and valleys below us, and look beyond these hills out into the plans, where we could see for miles. We could even see the beginning and end of Lake Edward (on of the Great Lakes of Africa). It was absolutely incredible. At one point our guide was led by a old man, who could not have been younger than 70. As we panted and struggled up, he ran ahead, barefoot, and waited for us at the top. We learned that he had in fact been a spear thrower in the Rwenzoruru Movement. The Rwenzoruru was a rebellion by the Bakonzo people during the 60s and 70s in which they effectively succeeded from the rest of Uganda for about twenty years. They were able to do this by running up into the hills where only they knew the terrain. Though they had only primitive spears for weapons, the Ugandan army was no match for mountainous terrain of the Rwenzori. Though the kingdom of Rwenzoruru was never an officially recognized state, they were effectively independent for most of their rebellion due to the government’s inability to enforce its will upon them.

The following day was our last full day in the village, and so I spent most of the day saying my goodbyes. Solomon had both Sally and I over for a farewell dinner, and assured us that we would always have a place to stay here in Kyanzi village (in fact he even offered each of us our own piece of land should we one day choose to return). Though I have no doubt that it was time to leave, I know that I'll always look back fondly on my time in Kyanzi and I hope to one day return and see again all the friend's I've made there. The following day we awoke at four in the morning to catch the buses to Kampala. After a grueling, but comparatively uneventful bus ride we arrived back in the big city of Kampala.

It is now my second day back in civilization and I have to admit that I am going through a bit of what is called reverse culture shock. I’m very happy to be back, and it is great to see everyone, but life is the city all seems very weird. Even things like taking a shower and not a bucket bath feel good but a bit off (like I’m using a ridiculous amount of water to get clean). I’m already shocked at how expensive it is to live here. People take taxis everywhere, which adds up. Already in one day I’ve spent more than I would have in a week in the village, and the fact that people are unwilling to just walk places seems strange to me. What’s more, I find myself speaking in very simple terms, and explaining thing unnecessarily elaborately. I must have become accustomed to speaking in such a manner in the village since the language barrier made regular communication fairly difficult.

That said there are some definite perks to coming back. Last night, to celebrate my return we went out to what is as far as I know the only steak house in Kampala. It is run by an Indian who has apparently spent over twenty years living in the states. He looks like he could be an American dad who wears an apron over his polo shirt and shorts and the Labor Day barbeque, smiling while he cooks up everyone’s favorite meat. With a big smile he make his way to all the tables in the restaurant (most of which were occupied by Muzungus) and makes sure that everyone is enjoying themselves in his restaurant. This is starkly different from the average Ugandan restaurant which most of the time doesn’t have half of the items listed on the menu, and the waiters look at you as though you are stupid if you order one of the items they don’t have. The food was also incredible. Instead of the typical Ugandan bland starch with some stew, we had a thick cut of tender steak marinated in a delicious red wine sauce, complete with a vegetable salad, cooked vegetables (including caramelized cloves of garlic), and mashed potatoes drenched in gravy. It was an incredible meal, and I’m not using the scale of Ugandan food, this would have been a delicious steak in the states as well, and on top of that, the cost of the meal totaled to 9500. A somewhat pricey meal in Uganda, but in American dollars it equals out to approximately $5.60, cheaper than a Big Mac and large fries. I had not expected a meal this good until I returned to the states and getting it now was a welcomed treat.

Otherwise it is now time for me to hunker down and write up my research into a 40 or so page paper. The good news is that now I’ll have easy access to internet and can update this blog more frequently, the bad news is that since most of my time will be spent writing this paper, I probably won’t have anything interesting to say. But you can’t be sure unless you read and see, so keep checking, and I’ll try my best to throw in some city bound adventures while I’m here.