Days at the beach by the Atlantic Ocean.
I pulled out 100 USD from my waist bag during the daily Mitton Cafe show. I went ahead to roll out four leaves of Fifty Ugandan Shillings (50,000 UGX) I had forgotten to exchange at the start of the summer. All the campers, inclusive of the staff, gasped in amazement. I had Two Hundred Thousand Ugandan Shillings (200,000 UGX). Questions like, "Nagudi, are you rich back home?", "Can you survive on that for a year?", "What can you do with that amount of money in Uganda?" I was just smiling back at these astonished faces. I explained that, actually, the four leaflets were way less than the 100-dollar bill I had on the other hand. Everyone wanted to touch and feel the 50,000 UGX notes. "Oh my God, your money has color!"
Everyone has had a cultural shock at least once in their lifetime. At least the Bakiga would wonder why one has to kneel to greet an elder instead of a warm embrace consisting of thuds on their backs from their older person. I have been to a few places away from home, and I have had to take in cultural shocks once in a while.
The largest airport I had been to was the Kenya International Airport which happened to be a transit route on my way to Zimbabwe. As a first-time traveler off the continent, I was amused by how big an airport could be. I almost missed the last flight to my final destination at the Newark International Airport. I was the last person to board the plane. I was sweating profusely. I will not go into details about why I was sweating. I learned to keep calm while at the airport and quietly follow directions hangings on the walls.
I was teaching the campers how to light a campfire but sweating like I had run miles.
In my last article, I expressed my shock when I was served pizza for dinner. Little did I know that pizza was a whole meal. I was confused about how one could have American pancakes for breakfast, burgers for lunch, and pizza for dinner. I mean, chicken nuggets and ice cream for dessert are a treat once in a full moon back home. I longed for the days when we would eat rice, beans, pork, chicken, and broccoli. The change in diet upset my stomach. I dedicated a couple of hours to studying food in America and what meals one could resort to. Preferably healthy meals with less carbohydrate intake. Chicken and broccoli it is! This has become an all-time favorite meal that kept me going. The high sugar consumption was a bit scary as well. Being an athlete and someone vigilant about their food, I was freaked out by the high consumption of sugary foodstuffs. But at the end of the day, you recognize that what we call food back home is considered organic food, quite expensive, and in the capitalistic economy, one barely has time to prepare a fresh meal each day. The best you can do is cook and refrigerate or resort to quick meals at fast food stores. I was shocked that one of my country's most common meal, chapati, is bought already made, frozen, and one hits it up in the microwave.
The weather was cold at first; the summer was just kicking off. I was that staff member always in long trousers and a jacket. Even on the days, we lit campfires, I would be tucked up in two pairs of shorts, long sweat trousers, a shirt, two sweaters, and a blanket to wrap up the mashup. With the full-blown summer, the ignorantly informed idea that I am black and hence I possess strong melanin that could shield me from the sun rays had me paying for it. It is a fallacy. I repeat, it is a fallacy. However black you may feel, the summer sun does not discriminate. I got sunburns a couple of times. They actually do hurt! Let nobody tell you that you are black enough to prevent the sun rays from painfully tanning you to navy blue. I got to experience the heat waves, which left a couple of individuals dehydrated, grumpy, fatigued, and moody. Vests and shorts are the ideal wear for the weather. A must-carry accessory is a water bottle.
During introductions, everyone was free to mention what they identified as. Honestly, I would get shocked to my core when a kid of eight years said they identified as them or when supposedly a girl identified as he. I would rerun scenes of village sorcerers and witches commissioning the ancestors to come help with such a failed child back home. I was impressed by the confidence everyone had in what they identified as, but the shock was real. I was shocked by watching kids freely engage in activities without gendering them for a greater time. Everyone brought their best, whether it was soccer, cycling, basketball, or dancing. I avoided comparing and contrasting with back home, but it was inevitable. In addition to the freedom of expression, the dressing culture slapped me across the face. During swim hour, I would wear shorts that I felt were already too short for home context and a vest which I threw away with time as I tried to blend in. People confidently wore their two-piece bikinis to the lake and at the beach. That is literally the celebrity standard back home. I texted my sister a few weeks at my new location, "As long as what you are wearing covers your private parts, you are decently dressed for the day."
The sunset was always late at about 8:00 pm, but it was breathtaking.
While growing up, I knew nearly all my neighbors and their clan members. I could even tell when my neighbors last ate chicken. You could send me to the neighbor's garden, and I harvest a banana leaf to use for preparing "matooke." I have never been shocked by the level of individuality I was met with. Not even the next-door neighbor is your contact person if the need arises. 911 is your friend, your most caring friend in need. There is a lot of personal space conversations.
Interestingly, the fences back home are as high as 8 ft and above, while the fences there are barely 4 ft. I think this whole individualistic living explained the situation of dogs, cats, and pets. The jokes of "embwa zo kukyaalo" (dogs of the village) were no more. The way people tended to their pets was quite interesting. At times some dogs walked like majestic kings while on the streets. I was amused to pass by a dog spa while in the downtown part of the city.
To make matters worse, I learned that some people leave wills for pets. Reminds me of a wealthy politician that died a few years ago and left a will in the hands of his daughter. The clan members nearly summoned the spirits to come and change the will. I imagined someone leaving the will in the dog's name back home; this would be a story of the century.
The infrastructural setups were such a wonder. One afternoon, one of our friends jokingly asked if we all knew how to swim. It was negative on my side. "We are driving under the Atlantic Ocean right now." The question was mockingly forewarning to be ready to swim if the road capsized. I stopped watching horror movies, but with the few, I happened to watch, the basement was the center of all the scary drama. Almost every building had a basement, which was terrifying at first. I had to overcome the fear of basements. The incredible use of space in the buildings is awe-inspiring. A small outside structure contains a food hub, marketplace, shopping centers, and historical places. On my first day at the gym, I was so impressed. The small building contained a swimming pool, court, gym, aerobics room, boxing room, name it all (as I had never gone to some of the rooms).
I bet most of you with an African background have experienced what it means to be brought up by an African mother or father. I recall the days my father would send my cousin to look for a stick that he would use to instill discipline in her. You have witnessed the flying slippers if you responded while an elder talked to you as a child. I was really amused by the audacity of the kids. The kids are so entitled. "It is my right" is a kid's anthem. I would, at times, look at some of the ways the kids talked to the grownups in the community, and I would think to myself, "Lord, allow this kid a chance to live in an African home for once." What shocked me more was the level of knowledge of sex that these kids have. Honestly, sex is a forbidden fruit in my community until marriage. The first time a kid reported that one of his cabin mates moans a lot, I brushed it off. I thought they were talking about mourning, or it was slang for something. However, the complaint came over and over from different campers. With my naïveté, I asked a fellow staff member what moaning among the kids meant. I know, you know. Just do not get shocked when a teenager of 15 years tells you how they have a coil for family planning and you, a twenty-year-old, is abstaining, waiting for marriage.
Evenings by the campfire.
Oops, how did this skip my mind? Being used to Toyota cars back home as the common Ubers, getting picked up by a Tesla left me in utter shock. It is like a Range Rover pulling up to pick you up. The ride hits differently. The ride seems shorter than it should be.
Did I mention weed is legal? Use this information as you will.
I love this