THE WHITE NILE: The Village (Idiot)

Ugandans have many signs of wealth which you might find interesting. For instance, anyone who can afford one buys a wristwatch. This is just an African twist on what I like to call the “California Complex,” that is, a propensity to acquire luxury items a person cannot realistically afford for the sole purpose of boosting one’s image. In California, you’ll be amazed at how many Mercedeses and BMWs you’ll find in the parking lot of a discount strip mall, miles away from any financial center, and being driven by men and women who are far too young to have finished their doctorate. Ugandans behave similarly. Cell phones are another good example. People buy expensive phones with internet surfing capability, even though there is rarely a reliable internet connection to be surfed. Men and women get more haircuts in one year than I have had in my entire life (perhaps I should have chosen a less unkempt example that doesn't say so much about me, but this will work for now). It is not unusual for a woman to spend over ten hours in a hair salon, perming this, defrizzing that, dying these, dreading those. Men, on the other hand, have next to nothing hair-wise, but still sit in the chair for hours each month, which comes in the form of twice-monthly visits to trim the stray hairs which poke up above the suede. A wrinkled shirt won’t garner you any respect, despite how many degrees you have, because it suggests you can’t afford to keep yourself looking sharp and therefore haven’t made it. Finally, everyone goes home to the village for the holiday season (“the village” is the place where your family hails from, and where your extended family is likely to reside), and if you do not have a village to go home to, you are a very, very poor man. Ugandans, even if they have spent the last thirty years going to school and living in an urban center, never lose that close connection with their village.

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Yesterday, Caitlin, Eddie, and I went to Eddie’s village just an hour outside of Mbale to kick start a new business education program there. Around ten in the morning we crushed into a matatu (minibus) and took off. Fortunately for me, I was able to get a window seat, which means I could extend as much of my torso outside of the vehicle as possible and away from the stagnant, malodorous air inside. Unfortunately for me, the conductor did not see me hanging out behind him, and slammed open the sliding door with such great force at one station that he pinned my arm between the door and the outside of the window (on second thought, he had to have known I was there...), to the result of men screaming, children crying and women fainting and all sorts of hullabaloo. After that, I rejoined my fellow passengers inside the vehicle, forced to ride the layman way.

After a twenty minute boda ride we arrived at Kamu Trading Center, the local market. For anyone who has not seen the African open air marketplace, a few words to describe it. It is utter chaos. Men and women carrying baby elephants on their backs and on their heads weave in and out of dense human traffic to which there is absolutely no order. Old and young walk to and fro, people sitting on anything with a remotely flat surface, and tables popping up in every imaginable place. Goats and chicken are slaughtered in the middle of the thoroughfare and, in the case of the former, left hanging to drain just feet away from a women selling grilled corn. Colors abound here. Tomatoes, onions, passion fruits, mangoes of all shapes and sizes, enormous avocados, massive jack fruits, the smallest garlic cloves you’ll ever lay your eyes upon, soiled heads of cabbage, papayas, carrots, over one million different kinds of bean, ginger, lentils, ground nuts, red and green peppers, yellow bananas, and, easily the most abundant, matooke, the green plantains used to create Uganda’s national dish, found here still on the vine. Bicycles add a different speed element to the mix, but still follow the rules of the market. People move out of the way of the cyclist, who creeps along just faster than the pedestrian. Motorcycles part the crowds easier still, but not as easily as the car, which has fortunate capability of moving along at a continuous slow, pace, with the driver acknowledging he might have to run over a few toes or potatoes to reach his destination. The king of the market is the matooke truck, which rumbles along with no less than two dozen sweaty Africans hanging from its siding. To manage, I usually try and find a heavyset, normal-walking local and fall in behind them, using their mass to wedge my way through the throng. Dust is everywhere. Vehicles kick up dirt, spew exhaust over every child, adult and vegetable. Everything is filthy, the African market is not the place to sport your new white shirt. Crushed mangoes and torn black plastic bags coat the ground an inch thick, and, perhaps my favorite part, the smell of fish spoiling under the terrible African sun can be found in the background of every sniff. The sun is always overhead at the African market.

At the market, Eddie uttered the most disconcerting words one can hear in Africa, “You just follow me.” Eddie led us to one shop, set back from the main road a few yards, where a his uncle and four other Ugandan men sat under the shade of an awning while scores of chickens with their legs tied together fought for direction and anything edible. Eddie’s uncle spoke little English, so conversation petered out after a couple rounds of “How are you? I’m fine.” It was now, finally time to get down to business. But first, we had to meet another uncle, and, after him, we absolutely had to stop at his Aunt’s new husband’s house to say hello. Actually, the first good half hour after our arrival was spent cruising around and greeting people, until Eddie had checked off every cousin, brother, uncle, aunt, half sister, cousin-brother, and brother-brother off of the list. After introductions, it was time to introduce ourselves to the villagers who would comprise the group. This is also a process that demands explanation, for it is a very different one than we are accustomed to. The men shake hands. First the hand is extendedb, even before the owner has finished approaching his target. The hand, large and extremely calloused from years spent clutching a hoe or machete or saw, has cracked fingernails, many scars and other signs of hard weathering, but still grips with astonishing delicacy and vigor. Then comes the best part, trying to read and see if that hand is going to perform the ol’ Ugandan Thumb Shake-- that is, the two hands unite just as any other handshake begins, but then, then, the plot twist comes. Out of the blue, with no wink, grunt, or any other signal, the hand releases only to rapidly regrip itself, around the other’s thumb. Thus, for a split second the two actors are locked around the thumbs, the oldest and most sacred of all the shaking appendages. The bond has been made, but its strength is too powerful to maintain for long, and the hands part momentarily before resuming the starting position. If the connection is a good one, with good flow, accurate speed, cosmic energy and all around perfect deliverance, the hands will go for another thumb-lock and reversion. This may continue until both parties are satisfied. My personal record is seven thumb-locks in one greeting, actually with the hand whose owner had ripped me off with a muzungu-priced good during a previous visit to his shop. The women learned to shake hands from a different school. Though it is often far more worn and rugged than those of their husbands, the feminine hand strikes with a limpness that I don’t think warrants analogy. But the body language is what is the most interesting part. For, you see, a woman, when shaking a man’s hand, must first get on her knees, even if she happens to be wearing an evening gown. I have had five village women battling for knee space in front of me at one time simultaneously. Instead of making me feel powerful or masculine, I just feel awkward and embarrassed. The elder, more traditional women even talk to men from the same position. Later that day in the village, Eddie’s archaic neighbor came out of her house to send us off. We had already started down the path, so physical contact was impossible, but she came running out anyway. Seeing that we had noticed her and her cries for attention, she immediately dropped to ancient knobby knees and with clean dress into the dirt and, throwing her arms in the air, wished us a safe journey.

I absolutely love going to the village; it is one of my favorite things to do. The people are welcoming, genuinely enthusiastic, and always optimistic. And they love greeting foreigners. One man in Eddie’s village (some uncle) spent I’m not kidding ten minutes trying to untie a knot on his gate to let us into his compound, just for us to shake his hand and then leave a minute later. But we parted with him smiling and waving.

The meeting with Eddie’s village went well. Our plans were well received, and next week we head back to discuss our educational curriculum and agree on a schedule. (Oh, and to also make a few introductions.) I am kind of wishing I had a village to go to during the holidays.