All Clear!

Of all the memories, experiences and things I brought back from Uganda, I have managed not to bring Malaria with me. I was so happy I had to share it with all of you.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Transition Time

My dear, faithful blog-followers,

I’m back. After two long flights, 22 hours in London and a weekend in San Diego for a best friend’s wedding, I am officially back in Palo Alto. It has been an interesting week since I first stepped onto “Western” soil in London. The culture shock continues to catch me off guard but generally makes me smile or laugh when I mentally compare Ugandan culture with London or Palo Alto. If you’d like to know what it’s like for me to transition from a year in Uganda to life back in the Western hemisphere, I’ve listed a number of observations I’ve made in the past week. A lot of the observations are from my layover in London, but all are pretty applicable to life in Palo Alto.

Here are some things I’ve observed:

• In the UK and America, people leave a full 18 inches between themselves and the person in line ahead of them. No one is breathing down your back, standing so close that they could be wearing your shoes.
• Architecture is crisp, pristine, clean. Hospital-grade cleanliness seems to have taken over the modern Western world. Not a spot of red clay to be found.
• Automatic hand-dryers work. Always.
• Elevators no longer have “up” and “down” buttons on the outside, for someone to call the elevator to their floor. Now elevators have sensors to sense your presence (and apparent need for an elevator), and the elevator automatically comes to your floor at its earliest convenience. They always work.
• Heathrow’s Terminal 5 is the size of Entebbe—the city. Entebbe airport is the size of Santa Barbara—the airport.
• In jeans, Sketchers, an Old Navy t-shirt and a black fleece sweater, I am so out of fashion in London that I would feel more comfortable if I had green skin and fashionable clothes.
• Although I no longer stand out as a “Mzungu,” I stand out in my lack of fashion, and I’d trade this discomfort for the stares of Ugandan men.
• The Underground is so spacious I almost yearn to knock into someone, just for a bit of human contact.
• If someone walked onto the Tube with a live chicken or goat, all hell would break loose.
• It’s dark at 5:00 p.m. instead of 7:00 p.m.
• 40 degrees Fahrenheit feels unbearably cold.
• Someone promptly announces over the PA system why the train has an extra-long stop (5 minutes) at a station. No one in Uganda would explain if a taxi stopped for an hour, let alone 5 minutes.
• Someone apologizes for a delay—any delay.
• Wealth is everywhere. 50% of commuters have iPods out and playing. I’m assuming the other 50% have iPods with dead batteries in their briefcases.
• I am no longer the fastest walker in town. People walk around London with the same speed at which I rush through life. Everyone is busy and in a hurry to get from point A to point B.
• Did I mention the cold?
• It seems everyone is talking on a cell phone. I even saw a couple walking down the street together but both were on their cell phones, talking with other people. In Uganda, if you talk on a cell phone while walking around town, you make yourself vulnerable to theft.
• London is HUGE.
• The roads are all paved and don’t have potholes. Part of me misses the bumpy rhythm of driving in Uganda.
• Apparently the Western world has decided that equestrian wear is fashionable. Women all appear to be dressed for an equestrian competition—skinny-leg pants tucked into boots. Everyone got the memo.
• On the Tube a woman lightly brushed my arm with her elbow as she reached into her coat pocket. She quickly glanced at me and said “sorry.” I was shocked. In Uganda you could be jabbed in the arm, boob and side ten times by the same person rummaging around, without them giving your pummeled body a second thought let alone an apologetic glance or word.
• The coat check at the National Gallery closed at 8:45 p.m. I had to remind myself that they do NOT run on African time.
• I no longer need a mosquito net at night. I miss my tent.
• The cold weather (I think I’ve mentioned it?) allows for the use of a feather duvet. I love feather duvets.
• Upon walking into a Starbucks in Covent Garden, I was elated to discover that some things never change.
• The internet is so fast! In the words of a past IJM Uganda volunteer: “the internet’s speed blew my hair back!”
• Sweating during the winter in London or California does not involve overheating, it involves the chills.
• When running around town in Palo Alto, I have the right of way as a pedestrian. I’m not used to not being a moving target for Prado’s, boda-boda’s and taxis.
• I don’t remember how to put a new phone number in my American cell phone. Do I put a 1 before the area code? Do I need an area code for local numbers?

I am less “shocked” by the cultural differences than I was a week ago, but I still find myself chuckling aloud as imagine what my Ugandan friends might think of Palo Alto. I yearn for the smell of burning trash but also love the crisp smell of a cold winter’s day in the Bay Area.

The transition so far has been pretty smooth, and I am so grateful for the support of my parents, who have allowed me back into their home as I discern my next step. Since they visited me in Uganda, they are able to understand what it is I left behind, and have been very patient as I randomly recall favorite memories or remark on funny differences between Uganda and Palo Alto.

I do have a final batch of photos from my last days in Uganda, which I hope you’ll enjoy. Some of these are particularly special to me, as they are of close friends and places where I spent a lot of time.

Thank you again for all of your love and support over the past year—it has been such a blessing to me!

I have tried numerous times over the past few weeks to blog about my last bit of time in Uganda, but weeks have turned into days and days are quickly turning into mere hours before I depart from the land of green bananas and giant trash-eating birds. How am I supposed to talk about what it is like to leave a place I have come to call home?

I think I’ve written and erased twenty different sentences tonight, all of which attempted to convey my thoughts on leaving, but none of which adequately express them. As an English major I find it frustrating that I’m unable to put words together to effectively communicate what I’ve been experiencing as I prepare to leave Uganda. But I’m coming to terms with the fact that I just don’t know what to say and I’ve stopped trying to figure it out for now. But I’ll give you the basics: I am coming back to California in just a couple of days and this transition is one I anticipate with intense sadness and great joy. Let’s leave it at that.

I will say that whether happy or sad, I’m embarking on yet another adventure, which excites me. I’ll be living with the parentals in a new house (we sold the house I grew up in), looking for a new job, and reconnecting with old friends. There may be some fun stories to tell—even blog-worthy—from the adventure of the impending “transition phase.” My stories won’t include arguments with boda-boda drivers but who knows—maybe I’ve been away so long that I will commit cultural blunders in my own culture worth retelling online. Stay tuned!

Until my next post stateside, please know that no matter what I am feeling about leaving, I am truly looking forward to seeing friends and family in California again soon. I appreciate each one of you and am eager to catch up on each of your lives. Looking forward to seeing you soon!

Love,

Megan

P.S. I’ve written one more boda-boda anecdote. If you want an example of how I go about settling a price for a boda-boda ride from my friend Emily’s house to a favorite breakfast place called “Java’s” (located at a gas station called “City Oil”), see below.

I stand on the side of the road looking towards oncoming traffic and flag down a boda-boda driver without a passenger. The Boda-Boda driver slows down, looks at me and says: You go?
Me: Mm *raise eyebrows, stick out lips*. I must go to City Oil on Bombo Road. You know it?
BB: Mm *raise eyebrows, stick out lips*.
Me: You know? How much?
BB: Four-thousand.
Me: Eh! No, that is too high. Make Two-five. Two-five is fair.
BB: No, it’s so far—four thousand.
Me: No, it is not far—it is close. I go all the time for only two-five.
BB: But fuel is so much and it is far.
Me: No, it is not far, and fuel is the same. Come, two-five is a fair price, Ssebo.
BB: Ok. Make three.
Me: No, three is too high. It is a Mzungu price!
BB: *Grin* It is not a Mzungu price. The fuel—
Me: Two-five.
BB: Ok, we go.

Notes:
This conversation has many variations and can go on for many minutes.
“Mm *raise eyebrows and stick out lips*” is a Ugandan way of saying yes with very little effort.
Four-thousand Shillings is about $2.00. Yes, I argue a difference of $0.25.
Two-five means 2,500 Shillings.
“Ssebo” means “sir.”
“Mzungu” means “white person.”

I am eager to relinquish my "Mzungu" status.