African Time

First off, I would like to apologize for my obvious propensity to ramble. Concision, I must admit, is not the mark of a History and Political Science major, just ask my poor thesis advisor who had to crawl through my 96-page senior yawn-inducer. A leisurely attitude towards time, perhaps resulting from our country’s Quaker beginnings or something like that (this is what I guess, but I‘m no historian), is often at odds with the fast paced and punctual lifestyle of the typical American. We enjoy fast food and fast cars, trains that leave when they are supposed to, meetings that start and end on time, and our children have made the founders of CliffsNotes very happy, wealthy men.

The Churchillian orators of the world need look no further for solace, Africa is the place for you. Time moves differently here, much more slowly and without the strict management as it does in the West. Ask any twenty something their age and he or she might surprise you by thinking about it for a moment. People are not late for an appointment, they are, vaguely, “delayed.” Try to fit in a quick bite to eat at a restaurant before the rain sets in and you’ll find yourself eating at a snails pace in order to coordinate your last bite with the last raindrop. Those of you who know me know also that I am no stranger to leisure, nevertheless, adjusting even to African time has been both interesting and challenging.

Last week we were warned that our MAPLE representative from the northern Ugandan city of Lira and a university student from Kampala would be stopping off in Mbale for the night in order to break up their long trip from the capital to Lira. Our executive director and arranger-extraordinaire told us they would be arriving here in town between 10 and 11 in the morning, but that they would call to alert us with an ETA. Upon hearing nothing at 10:30, we phoned Akullu Betty, who told us that they would be getting into the bus station around 11:30. Aha, we thought, we have a time of arrival , we can now safely make plans. Maybe a little stroll around the city (we had a few minor errands to run), perhaps a little lunch (we knew of a perfect café to wet our appetites), tons of time to do things before the afternoon thundershowers set in. The midday sun had already turned my scalp the color of Ugandan tomato by the time we had walked to the bus station from the house, precisely on time (11:30) and in good form: slacks, dress shoes and a tucked-in polo shirt. How smart and professional I looked. Upon getting to the bus station we phoned Betty, to be told that our timing was impeccable, that she, Betty from Lira, was in fact just outside of Mbale and would be there in a matter of minutes. To wait the short time until their arrival, Jaime, Brad and I plopped down on a curb and began to…sweat. After twenty or so minutes and still no sign of Akullu Betty and her compatriot, we decided to call and see if there had been an unforeseen snag, we conjectured a tsunami had swept across Kenya and washed out the only road into town, and that they had to fix it before Bill Gates arrived this afternoon. Call number three was placed shortly after noon:

“Hello.”
“Hello, Betty? This is Jaime and the boys, we were just wondering how close you were.”
“Ah, we are just getting to Soroti.” (Dejected look from Jaime--Soroti is about an hour and a half from Mbale by bus).
“Okay. You’ll call us when you get here?”
“Yes.”

Betty from Lira did eventually arrive in Mbale, though it was nearing 2 o’clock when she did. Two hours had elapsed since we first arrived at the bus station. My head was spinning from a constant diet of diesel exhaust and I would have probably sworn off beer for the remainder of my life just for a tube of sunscreen. Our afternoon plans put on hold, we found ourselves again guilty of trying to apply an American regimen in Africa.

Incident number two is less windy, but I think funny as well. After visiting some of the women vendors in Buguere market, Brad and I began heading back to the house. I was hungry. My inability to differentiate between a soup spoon and a ladle extends to breakfast, which I had skipped because the only thing I can really make is cold cereal. Lunch was still a couple of hours away, and I was starving. Lo and behold, there on the side of the road were some chapatti makers. Chappati is a Ugandan tortilla made from wheat and eggs and derives its flavor from a generous coating of cooking oil, it is delicious. Ignoring my hearts screaming protests, I pulled up to the first vendor and bought a couple of the round treats. As we were walking away and unable to restrain myself, I unpeeled their wrapping of soggy old newspaper and began to do what I now know is on par with emitting flatulence in the King of Buganda’s presence: eating while walking. Completely involved in tearing up the warm gooey bread I did not notice that everyone and their mother was staring at me with their jaws dropped in utter disbelief. Luckily for me, a few boda drivers decided they could not let me continue embarrassing myself and sprinted over on their bicycles to educate me on the nuances of Ugandan cultural norms:

“Hey Muzungu! What are you doing? Is it supper time? Dinner time?”
Not knowing what they were talking about, I did what I often do in such a situation: grinned like an idiot and shrugged my shoulders with a mouthful of food.
“Tea time? It is always tea time, eh Muzungu?”
Then they erupted in a spat of laughter that could be heard well over the din of the marketplace.

When I later told my Ugandan friend Eddie about what had happened, he laughed just as hard. Ugandans, he informed me, never ate and walked at the same time. One should always take their time, sit down and eat, and relax. Killing two birds with one stone to save time is almost unheard of here, yet we in the states make a point to do it. Time just moves differently here. For some odd reason, I don’t think too many people here are overstressed.

But why does the African maintain such an attitude towards time? There are competing theories, I’m sure. To find out, I asked my African friend Eddie Kasaumbeim, who told me straight up “Time is not Important..” Africans, he said, just don’t put it high on their list of priorities. There are no punishments for showing up late (or not at all), even for school. Similarly, time is not a major constraint that goes into production; take your time, get the job done, of course, but take your time. Eddie’s explanation brings to mind an idea propounded by LA Times Africa correspondent David Lamb. His book, The Africans, is somewhat dated and I read it some time ago, but if my memory serves me correctly Lamb conjectures Africans are leisurely towards time because they have been conditioned that way over thousands of years. Draughts and other major phenomena, events that are found more infrequently in the Western world, can unhinge even the best laid plans. Disease, too, is another culprit, and something Africa has no shortage of. So that’s my spiel, don’t quote me on any of it, of course, but I do hope you enjoyed reading it. It was a long posting, and I truly hope I didn’t make you late for something.