“Here's where you'll want to buy your beer and soda,” Pauline said as she gently eased her muddy Land Rover to a stop in front of a tired-looking shop. I wondered if I'd ever be able to maneuver our stick-shift Pajero through the mud, crowds, and crater-sized potholes as deftly as Pauline just had. “They won't sell you full bottles without empty ones. So Terry and I are giving you a crate each of empty soda and beer bottles. Be sure you pass them on when you leave.” Ah … empty beer bottles, the gift that keeps on giving.
“This shop sells soap from Kenya,” Pauline said as she pointed to a small lockup shop. “All the other ones sell the local lye soap your house girl will want to use even though it'll burn holes in all your clothing.”
I followed Pauline through an alley teeming with women balancing huge loads on their heads and lined with half-limbed lepers and other beggars. I couldn't help staring at the outstretched hands and handless limbs. “Should I give them money?” I asked.
“Sure, if you want to. But you should know you will be asked for money—and favors—all the time here. To everyone here, you are rich. And they won't stop asking.” I'd never been rich before. I distributed a handful of ten-shilling notes among the group to a chorus of “thank you madam” and thought I would quite enjoy my newfound wealth.
We emerged from the alley onto a broken cement walkway that was lined on both sides by women who stood in little stalls behind stacks of tomatoes, onions, potatoes, cabbages, and okra, all calling out an inventory of their wares. Further down along the walkway, women sat on colorful straw mats amid pineapples, papayas, and mangoes, or on plastic sheets covered with bunches of bananas. Each row of vendors backed up to a covered area where older women sat and cooked over smoky fires or wove the colorful straw mats and baskets that hung from the corrugated tin roof. Beyond the covered areas were more rows of women hawking grains, rice, and plastic dishes. The perimeter was ringed with lockup shops.
The merchants on either side of me vied for my attention by waving and shouting at me. I prayed that I wouldn't lose Pauline in the crowd as she zipped ahead of me, striding across boards that served as bridges over deep ruts filled with murky water. I stopped praying once I realized how impossible it would be to lose sight of a white person in this sea of black people. I followed lamely behind as Pauline squeezed onions, hefted cabbages, and sniffed pineapples. I watched in absolute amazement as she kept a straight face while bargaining down the already ridiculously low price of tomatoes.
We stopped in front of a group of ancient-looking women surrounded by baskets, chattering away indecipherably amongst themselves.
“Dried beans, groundnuts, and termites,” Pauline said, pointing to several of the baskets. “Do you need any?”
“Well, I suppose we could use some groundnuts and beans.” But I somehow doubted that I'd ever have a need for termites. I pointed to what I wanted and all the other women smiled and slapped my chosen saleswoman on the back.
“Give her a couple of bags,” Pauline reminded me, and I pulled out two of the stash of plastic bags that I had stuffed into my woven shopping bag before I left the house. I paid for my two-hundred shillings' worth of beans and groundnuts with a thousand-shilling note. The old woman I bought them from laughed as she tucked the bill into the beans in one bowl and retrieved the change from within the beans of another bowl.
We walked past a row of young women selling something in old soda bottles and what looked like heavy, golden water balloons. “Hello, Madam Pauline,” they called out.
“Hello, ladies,” she called back.
“What are they selling?” I asked.
“Oh, that's cooking oil. Donated by your government, as a matter of fact. Look.” She pointed to the five-gallon red-white-and-blue cans that said “U.S. Food Aid.”
“Now, Eve,” Pauline said as she led me to a row of wooden stalls on the outside of the market. “Look at that stall. And that one over there. And that one.” She pointed to the three small huts that served as butcher shops. “What do you see?”
“Ummm … well, there's a cow hanging upside down from a hook. At least, I think it's a cow. It's hard to tell when they're all skinned like that. Yes, it must be beef because there's the cow's head propped up on the counter.”
“But what do you see hanging around the meat?” Pauline prodded me.
“About a billion very black people shouting and waving their arms?”
“No, no. The flies, Eve, the flies. See the flies? See how they're all over that carcass over there. And this one.” Pauline pointed her arm at various stalls. “But that one over there, his doesn't have any flies on it. Would you say that's the one we want to buy meat from?”
“I would say that I am seriously considering vegetarianism.”
“Sure you are, Eve.” Pauline raised her eyebrows at me. “And when you're done with that, which one would you buy meat from?”
“I guess, the one without all the flies.” I so wanted to give Pauline the right answer. She was generous and kind and my only friend. But she was so competent it was intimidating. I had already failed a pop quiz about my water filter earlier that day. When Pauline had asked if I was using steel wool or a soft cloth to clean the candles inside the filter, I knew I was in trouble. Because aside from the fact that I did not know whether I should be scouring or gently wiping the ceramic candles, up until that moment I hadn't known that my water filter had candles—ceramic or otherwise—much less that I was supposed to be cleaning them.
“No, no, Eve,” Pauline said. “All the other meat has flies on it. Now how do you suppose this fellow keeps the flies off his meat?” She continued talking even as she led me through the chattering horde of humanity inching toward the front of the meat vendor's stall. Seemingly oblivious to the dead animal bits all around her, she poked her head behind the counter and reached over it with one arm.
“See, there it is!” She pointed to a bright yellow can of insecticide. “The ones with no flies on them have all been sprayed with Doom!
“You know,” Pauline continued as she led me away from the meat vendors, “on Tuesdays and Fridays they have fresh fish at the market. You have to get here right when the fishermen come. It sells out pretty fast. I usually send Beatrice or Solomon to get it for me. It can get a bit hectic here on those days.” Hectic? What did she consider the bedlam going on around us now?
John and I lived on a mostly vegetarian diet for a long time. Even while repeating the mantra “Flies on meat are a good thing,” I couldn't quite work up the courage to buy meat from the bazaar. And I didn't dare attempt to go to the market on fresh-fish days.
Still, I knew I had it easier than most of my neighbors. I had a propane-powered stove and refrigerator, while most of them still cooked over a wood fire. People out in the village had no electricity whatsoever and even those of us in town were limited to three hours of electricity a day. We had a generator discreetly hidden away in our yard—for urgent uses like when I needed crushed ice to make piña coladas. But the first time I did that, the embarrassingly loud motor shattered the otherwise quiet afternoon, practically broadcasting the fact that the white lady was making boat drinks in her blender. From then on, I made do, like everyone else, with power from 7:00 p.m. until 10:00 p.m.—as long as there wasn't a war, a political crisis, or a thunderstorm.
But the truth is, I probably could not have survived long without those little luxuries. In Ecuador, I knew of a few Peace Corps volunteers who'd “gone native”—eschewing Western comforts and luxuries to live like the locals. I've always thought that was admirable, and nuts. And though I may have learned to live more simply than many Americans, I doubt I would have survived long without at least the possibility of a flush toilet, a shower, a video, and some cheese now and then.
Pauline, who was the undisputed Martha Stewart of jungle living, valiantly tried to pass her good-living tips on to me. But I was hopeless, rarely getting past the “firsts.” “First you fillet the fish,” she'd tell me. Or “First you pluck the
chicken.” Or “First you pasteurize the milk.”
John, whose idea of haute cuisine is tuna-noodle casserole, ate whatever I served him—which was mostly some variation on the noodles, potatoes, and vegetable theme—and never complained. I couldn't even master rice, because first you had to clean the stones out of the rice by tossing and catching it in a woven funnel-shaped thing that looks enough like a sun hat that, let's just say a mzungu could easily embarrass herself. I watched local women do this task quickly and gracefully. But whenever I tried it, I ended up with half the rice on the floor, rocks in our supper, and something that looked an awful lot like a hat on my head.
I knew from the Peace Corps that a person could survive for months on a diet of potatoes and beer. But I was already sushi and latte deprived and getting cranky. Luckily, gin-tonics and badminton at Terry and Pauline's was an almost nightly ritual. And if we stuck around long enough, with sad, hungry, puppy-dog eyes, Pauline would usually invite us to stay for dinner. Like manna in the wilderness, somehow that woman whipped up gourmet meals of perfectly cooked fish, chicken stews, curries, rice pilaf (hold the rocks), bread warm from the oven, and the most decadent chocolate cake. So while I could see that, in theory, it was possible to eat well up here, deep in my heart I knew that I lacked the gene to make that happen.
“The catchment tank is nearly empty. Did you forget to turn on your water mains?” Pauline asked while making one of her daily sweeps through the compound, ensuring that all was shipshape at the guesthouse and probably hoping that things were in some sort of shape at my house.
“Forget? No.” Not know a damn thing about water mains? Yes. I made a mental note to remember that the big metal tank in the yard was for storing water.
“Eve, when are you going to hire yourself a house girl?”
“I'm not.”
Pauline gave me a benevolent smile. It was the kind of smile usually reserved for a three-year-old who announces that her best friend is coming for tea—from Mars. “Everyone here has help.”
It did seem like household help was the norm in Uganda, and not just among expats. In fact, every place I'd seen so far—from fancy gated estates to circles of mud huts—had staff. There was always the requisite askari to man the gate and to constantly slash the grass—which, like everything in Uganda, was constantly growing—with a thick metal machete, known locally as a panga. Then there was always a house girl (who was always called a “house girl” even if she was a grown woman), a nanny to look after the kids, and sometimes even another nanny to look after the house girl's kids. Those who could afford it hired people. But even families with no money seemed to have a plethora of indentured relatives who filled the jobs.
“I think I can manage to clean my own house.” True, Pauline and Beatrice had spent the past two days helping me unpack and finally get settled into my house. But I was already coming to the bleak realization that I was probably never going to find work here. I was making contact after contact both here and every time we hit the road. I got lots of offers of tea and groundnuts, but no offers of work. “What else am I going to do all day but take care of the house? Besides, we've got enough help around here already.” James lived with his wife, two kids, and younger brother in the “boys' quarters” behind our house. Every night when James got off duty, Nasser relieved him and spent the night on my front porch.
“How are you doing washing your laundry by hand? And ironing everything to kill the mango fly eggs?” Pauline's emphasis on “everything” made me a bit nervous since I hadn't ironed anything in years. I didn't dare ask about the mango fly eggs. Besides, I was doing fine in the laundry department because I'd hired James's wife to do it. “And how much water do you figure you can carry from a borehole?” she continued, and I vowed to find out what, exactly, a borehole was and where I might find one. “And how do you like scrubbing floors on your hands and knees every day? Because if you don't, mind you, you'll have all kinds of creatures in your house. You'll hire a house girl,” she said, flashing me that smile again, and now I knew I was the delusional three-year-old waiting for the spaceship to arrive.
“Oh, no I won't.” I was happy enough to have the askaris in the yard, slashing the grass with their pangas, looking out for snakes, and protecting me from the onslaught of curious kids and whining goats that spent most of every day outside my gate. The askaris even ran errands and answered my endless questions. But I felt inadequate enough as it was, with no job prospects and all my obvious shortcomings as a bush wife. I was little more than an oddity for the neighbors—and the goats—to stare at all day. The last thing I wanted was someone else looking over my shoulder and making me feel even more useless.
“It's not a bad thing,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “It's hardly white slavery!”
“Don't you mean black slavery?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. Anyway, you'll be giving someone a very good job. Trust me, whatever you pay will be more than a woman could earn anywhere else. And with much better conditions. You'll have people lining up for the job. Just let me know if you want me to help you find someone.”
I stuck to my guns, and broom, playing Suzy Homemaker on the African frontier for a few more weeks. Really, there wasn't much else for me to do. Sure, I could hire someone and then sit around watching soaps on television and eating bonbons all day. But there were no soaps—or anything else—on television in Arua. And no bonbons either.
But in September, when Beatrice found a nest of black mambo snakes while mopping behind a dresser in Pauline and Terry's house, I cried uncle (“house girl,” actually). Keeping house and making meals from unidentifiable scratch was pushing the limits of my domestic envelope as it was. I knew enough to admit that removing killer snakes was beyond my skill set. Unfortunately, I proved to be just as inept at hiring household help as I was at most of the other domestic tasks. I mean what, exactly, does one ask of an applicant for this type of job? “When did you first realize you enjoyed cleaning other people's toilets?”
So, basically, I just hired the first woman who applied. I didn't know a thing about hiring help, but I knew a few things about recognizing AIDS. And the first woman who applied was clearly in the advanced stages of AIDS. Now this might have deterred some people from hiring Aisha, but I wasn't going to let a little bit of AIDS—or a lot—stop me. Besides, I reasoned, hadn't I come to Uganda hoping to help people with AIDS? Well, this might be as close as I got.
So I'd hired a house girl and done something to help someone with AIDS. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I turned my attention to finding something useful to do.
Dear Mom,
I had practically the whole United Nations over here for dinner on Rosh Hashanah. Not a Jew in the bunch. (I think I'm the only one in the whole country.) But Pauline, bless her heart, found me an apple to dip in honey that I bought from the one-eyed old man who brought it to my gate (I had to pick a few bee parts out, first). And John Hatchard, the crazy Brit who also works for CARE, snatched some sacrificial wine from the local Catholic church. Anyway, I'm explaining to everyone about how Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year and Hatchard's wife, Anna (she's gandan), says to me, “There are only three religions in the world: Catholic, Protestant, and Muslim. So which are the Jews?” Oy vey!
No, I am not exactly the bush hostess with the mostess, but at least I had help. We now have Aisha, our “house girl!” I guess it's true what you've always said about me: Scratch below my hairy legs and armpits and there is a Jewish American Princess hidden inside.
Oops. I think Berlin just discovered that James's family keeps chickens in our yard. He's cowering behind the kitchen door looking rather frightened. The chickens cluck like crazy and everyone's damn goats bellow all day long. I swear, it's enough to turn a vegetarian into a carnivore.
Poor Beijing has taken to peeing in odd places. The bottom of our closet on John's dirty socks seems to be her favorite place. She even pooped on a rug once. Well, I'd chalk it up to her being in a big new house and
being blind, maybe she can't find the litter box, but she seems to find the bottom of our closet—and John's socks—pretty consistently. We think that she didn't like the wood shavings that we were using in her litter box. (Guess what? No cat litter in Uganda!) We've switched to sand (which there is plenty of around here) and things have gotten better.
I'll keep you posted,
Eve
The Voice of the Mzungu,
or Food, Glorious Food
“Ife mani sende. Ife mani sende.” The chorus of begging children followed us as we walked down the road to the CARE office. “Hey, you, mzungu, ife mani sende.”
“Oh, isn't that nice,” John said, waving enthusiastically at the children. “The kids all greeting us like that.”
“Honey, they're asking us for money!”
“Well, it's nice that they're talking to us,” he said to me. “Mingoni,” John yelled to the children. “Mingoni,” he greeted the women who passed us with huge loads of bananas on their heads.
“Goni yo,” each one of them answered and, then, holding on to their bananas, doubled over with squeals of laughter.
“They seem really impressed with your language skills,” I told him. We'd started taking Lugbara lessons as soon as we arrived in Arua. I usually have an easy time picking up new languages, but Lugbara was driving me crazy.
First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria Page 13
