First Day In FP

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My first day in Fort Portal (from hereon FP) was… interesting. After arriving from Kampala late the night before I quickly found an empty room in the Y.E.S. hostel (It is used to house groups of volunteers or welcome weary travelers, providing another revenue stream for the organization). I dropped my oversized pack, threw my camera case and day pack under the bed, wrestled with my mosquito net as I tried to crawl under my sheets and promptly fell into a deep dreamless sleep. I awoke this morning to the rhythmic beating of rain tapping on the metal roof and the large flat leaves of the trees around the compound. After getting up and washing I got the chance to meet the Y.E.S. staff. I also inadvertently broke my first common cultural practice, well at least that I know of. When walking into a room it is absolutely necessary to greet each specific person separately, which I had failed to do. The proper procedure is to offer your hand for a shake, say hello, announce your name and then ask, “how are you today?” While doing this all your attention must be centered on the person in front of you. Anything else is simply socially unacceptable. The reply is the same with an additional, “welcome.” Apparently, offering one’s welcome is also important as I must have heard it a dozen more times today, from the same person. While we are on the subject, my next lesson was if you pass someone on the street that you know and you fail to look into their eyes while offering a proper greeting it is seen as being a high form of disrespect, regardless of how distracted or late you are. After seeing the office and grabbing some tea, Christine, my host mother, picked me up and brought me over to their home. Before arriving to FP, Carol Adams had arranged for my stay in the home for 100,000 shillings a month. The house was quit nice, and I got to meet her husband, Bernard, and their two adorable children. I immediately grew fondness for the family. We sat at the table to have a breakfast of spiced scrambled eggs and more tea, and talked American politics for some time. Bernard and I discussed our mutual support of Obama, something the Senator lacks very little of in this part of the world and I was quickly impressed with the breath of knowledge he had of our political system and current events in the states. I think we could have easily gone on chatting about such things for the rest of the afternoon. Christine, however, called us over to the living room to talk about rent. I was first put on guard by what felt very much like a sales pitch then she handed me an itemized list of expenses with a number scrolled at the bottom of the notepad. 21,000 USH a day! I had expected to bargain but this took me by surprise. I tried to calculate in my head if this was something I even had the money for. I countered but they seemed unwilling to negotiate. The lowest I could get them down to was 19,000 USH but this came out to 570,000 USH a month. Jetlagged, confused by the currency conversions, and most importantly feeling as if I really had no other options, I reluctantly said yes. As I unpacked in my new room I knew I had made a big mistake. I needed advice. On my walk back to Y.E.S., I noticed everyone on the side of the road stopping his or her task at hand and staring at the Mizunga (white person) out of curiosity. Farther down the road I met two boys walking home from High School. They were eager to put their English to practical use. We exchanged e-mail addresses and they grilled me about California life. It’s interesting the different reaction I get so far when I say I am from California rather then USA. Back at Y.E.S. I started working on a flyer in MS Publisher when Carol casually asks me about the new place. I said it seemed fine, the family is very nice, but they were asking way too much. “How much”, she asked. I quietly say, “570,000” a month. The whole office stops, a pause, and then the uproar. I’m shot with questions from every direction in the room. “HOW MUCH!?” “Did you pay yet, tell me you didn’t pay yet?” “You know you could get a whole house, a cook, and a clothes washer for that much?” I told them I knew it was too much but I didn’t know what else to do. Carol responded that paying that much was out of the question and she would find another option. “That is outrages”, she added. Later, Carol escorted me back to the home and protested on my behalf. When Christine said she needed to discuss lowering the rent but that the original price (or even double) was out of the question I told her I couldn’t stay and went to the room to throw everything back into my backpack. It was an awkward conversation.

In need of some comfort food back at Y.E.S. I whipped up a PB and J and joined Makoto, another volunteer from Maui, in the backyard. After dinner she grabbed her Ukulele and started signing Izzy tunes and one’s she had written herself. She truly has the voice of an angel. The drama of the day melted away and I began to doze off as I lay in the grass listening to Hawaiian songs accompanied by a chorus of grasshoppers chirping away and rumbling thunder somewhere far off in the distance.

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