Kitenge shopping

On Friday, Mary Jane and I went on a hunt for kitenge (chi TEN gee), African fabric.  Actually, the plural is bitenge (bee TEN gee), but that’s neither here nor there.  One can occasionally find kitenge at a vendor in the market, but if you want variety, you have to go to town (Kampala).

Mary Jane was going to be in town anyhow since she took the kids to school, so I got a driver and met her at the school.  I knew that we would be doing some running around since we were also looking for a remote for a DVD player, and while Mary Jane knows Kampala quite well, driving downtown is incredibly stressful, and there’s no parking (think DC on steroids with no lines, signs, or apparent and/or enforced rules), so it’s much better to have a driver circle the block while you conquer your mission.

Fortunately, Mary Jane knew where we were going, so she led the charge down a side street that was so pockmarked, I’d never take a vehicle down it.  When we found where we thought the bitenge would be, we learned that they had shifted.  So a kind gentleman, most likely a broker, took us to where they were.

Our brokers; the one on the right is the one who brought us to the stall; the one on the left did most of the talking.  The woman in the shadow brought and brought and brought...

They were inside a building, down a flight of steps, in a crowded stall of a shop.  Of course, the power was off, so we really couldn’t see.  So the vendors started bringing the bitenge out to where we could see.

Bring they did!  At one point, we must have had 20 or 25 bitenge out.  I was dividing them into piles, yes, no, maybe, on a young woman’s sewing machine.  I felt badly that I was disrupting her work, but since power was off, she may not have been able to sew anyhow.  

A sewing machine is buried under all the bitenge.  I promise.

We did see this old Singer like my grandmother had; they are quite handy in a country where you can’t assume that you’ll have electricity, and they’re much easier to repair!

The Singer like my grandmother had; they work beautifully here.

So, I found what I wanted, and the negotiations began.  They asked a price that I expected.  I wanted to get them down 10,000 shillings ($4), though if I’d had a Ugandan with me, I may have been able to get them down 20,000 ($8). 

The bitenge kept coming.  I think I was just a bit overwhelmed at this point.

"Nedda (no), nedda, maybe, nedda, yaa (yes), nedda..."

When negotiating, I have no problem mentioning that I am a musumba (shepherd, interpreted as priest) to encourage merchants to not cheat me.  Later on I bought a chair for my desk at home, and the guy wouldn’t budge on the price.  I told him that I am a musumba, and he refused to make eye contact after, only looking at my driver!  He knew he was cheating me.  We found a middle ground as the rain began, but he got me for 5,000 ($2) than I wanted to pay.

So, the bitenge merchants laughed about my being a musumba, and then Mary Jane chipped in with her Luganda phrases.  I counted the bitenge in Luganda, and I think they somewhat took us as people who live here, not just tourists.  I did get them down the 10,000 I wanted, though it always takes some back and forth.  Bartering is part of building the relationship.  I don't love it, but when in Rome...

We then met some other missionaries that Mary Jane knows for lunch, and I took one of them part way home, and we all got caught in a delightful rainstorm, and it took a little over 3 hours to get home, but all in all, a good and successful day of making memories.

And I have the bitenge and the chair to help me remember.

Wearing trousers (or not)

Canon Musiime’s exam was given on a Saturday, and when I reported to the office to get the exam and the exam books, both our administrative assistants were in trousers.  I was shocked.  I had never seen any of them in trousers before.

When I asked what occasion led to this, they informed me that it was the weekend, so they could wear trousers.  Trousers for women are allowed in the dress code, though most of the women on staff wear skirts, as the culture still dictates that is the appropriate dress for women.

Once I recovered from the shock of seeing them in trousers, I asked whether I could wear trousers on the weekend.  I thought it was a valid question, though I strongly suspected that the answer to be no:  I’m a priest, and women priests don’t wear trousers. 

I had to ask the question four times before they answered, and I was correct.  I can’t wear trousers.  As Gertrude put it:  “your mother [the former dean] would get you.”

I think that sums it up nicely.

Being human

Now that the semester is over and I’ve recovered from marking, I’m trying to catch up with life.  Canon Musiime went to India again for more cancer treatment, and I marked one of his exams in addition to my two.

Before the exams, one of my students beseeched me to “be as human while marking as I had been during the semester.”  I suppose that it was his way of saying that I had been kind during the semester (which I find comical, given the number of assignments I asked to be redone), and he wanted me to be kind while marking.

It must have worked; no retakes (failures) from me!  As I always tell my students, marks are earned, not given, and it was gratifying to see what they had picked up.  Of course, there were a few who flirted with earning a retake, and a couple who made me wonder whether they attended the same lectures I did, but such is the nature of the Bell Curve. 

What a broken glass means

Today I broke a glass.  While this is hardly tragic, it was my favorite glass, one I had shipped from the US with my oodles of books.  I’ve had it for years, and I know I can’t ever replace it, or the sentiment attached to it.

I’m not a terribly sentimental person (I referred to one of John Donne’s poems as “sappy” my freshman year of college, an incident I remember because I had that same professor two semesters later, and she asked me if I still had the same opinion), and in the intervening years since that English Lit class, I would like to think that I have grown and matured a bit.  Now, I would never call a classic author’s work “sappy.”  My vocabulary has expanded since I was 18.

Last week, I had the joy of hosting the Rev. Canon Dr. Alison Barfoot while she was here for the Provincial Assembly, and during a discussion about something I have in my flat (possibly the potholders from the firm where my mom worked that I asked my bishop to bring), we got to discussing the little things that make us feel tied to the US. 

Yes, I have other glasses that were purchased in Uganda.  I brought over several coffee mugs in the book shipment as well.  I rarely use them, preferring the larger mugs that I found here, but having them, just SEEING them, reminds me of the United States.  I love seeing the hand-painted mug my best friend gave me, and I use it when I miss her.  I love the mug with the picture of the Bishop Tucker building that was painted by a friend who was a missionary here, and it reminds me of her.

Oddly enough, for me, it’s the very small things that have sentimental value.  I absolutely love my potholders.  I’m actually bringing some small Ugandan things to keep in my room at my mom’s, because when I’m in the US, I miss Uganda. 

I will replace the glass, but it won’t be the same.

Choosing your family members

Today, we had a tea after the service in honor of the Archbishop's visit.  I got to play with my niece/goddaughter, which was a joy.  I took it to be my auntie prerogative to introduce her to selfies.  :)  She liked my phone, but wasn't interested in smiling, until someone gave her a banana.

When I asked her parents if I could post the pictures on Facebook, they both said, "if you don't mind, it's fine."  I pointed out that she's not my daughter, so it's not my call, and her father insisted that she is my daughter.  We went back and forth a couple times, then I "was quiet" (gave up).

Family does indeed grow with whomever you choose to include.

Ups and downs of social media

At the beginning of the semester, when I was giving my phone number and UCU email address to my students, one of them asked if they could friend me on Facebook.  I said that if they could find me, they could.

A couple weeks later, one found me, and just a few weeks ago, yet another found me.  Imagine my surprise when I saw this photo in his feed, with the caption "ma lecturer."

I had no idea he had taken the picture.  This must have been about mid-way through the semester, as we moved out of this room because when it is packed to the gills with 42 students, it's absolutely roasting in the afternoon.  I don't normally wear my collar to class, but I think that morning I had led the staff devotion, and never went home to change.

Lessons from the supermarket

Today I went to Kampala to have lunch with a friend.  Earlier in the morning, the sky was looking a little dark.  The radio announcers talked about a “light drizzle” throughout the day.  What they meant to say was “small monsoon” in the early afternoon.  The heavy rains produced flash flooding in Kampala, especially where I was going.  I seriously thought there was a chance that my car could stall; the water had to be up to the sideboard.  The upside to that is that when it’s raining that bad, the security folks just wave your car in and don’t search you.

However, when one is going into the supermarket, you must check any bags you have (other than a purse) and for this reason, I no longer go into a supermarket with anything else because I’m afraid that I’ll get in my car without picking up my checked bags (which has happened).  Today, I learned that one must check one’s umbrella when entering the supermarket.  Perhaps this is just a public safety consideration, so that we don’t get the floor wet, but I wondered how many people would leave their umbrellas in the check station.  Note to self: don't go to the supermarket in a deluge.

I don’t like to pay Kampala prices for some things I can get in Mukono, like eggs, so I went to the small supermarket off campus to get eggs.  Except that the eggs were finished.  So I had to go to a supermarket in Mukono town.  I went to the cash register, and said I wanted to get a tray of eggs.  You can purchase them packaged, but it’s cheaper to get the tray of 30 eggs and wash and store them at home.  Yes, wash.  They stay fresh longer when they’re from-the-hen dirty.  The cleanliness of those eggs you Americans buy is why they need to be refrigerated:  to keep them fresh longer.

So, when I asked for a tray of eggs, the cashier was surprised.  She asked me if I wanted local eggs (as they had clean and packaged eggs).  I told her I did.  She asked again, and I again concurred.  She again asked if I wanted local eggs, so I asked if the other eggs came from far away.  She laughed, and said they didn’t, which made me wonder why the eggs I bought were considered local. 

Since this is Africa and all conversations in public places are public, another customer explained that the hens that produce local eggs are different.  Another cashier explained that they are layered, whatever that means.  Another customer explained that the eggs tasted different.  

I asked my cashier if bazungu (white people) don’t buy local eggs, and she said that no, we do.  And yet, for some reason, my purchasing a tray of local eggs became a topic of conversation at the cash register.