This Is Cultural Immersion.

Everything you'd never know unless you've lived in Africa (Uganda, specifically).

Red meat, after its been chopped from the bone of the animal grazing on the side of the road, does NOT require any refrigeration whatsoever from the time it's killed, cut, sold and prepared, contrary to any silly American idea (!).

Most people get malaria about once a month, children especially. If there's enough money they go to the "pharmacy" to buy treatment, and hopefully it works.

Speaking of the "pharmacy," prescriptions do not exist. If you have money you simply buy the medicine. No insurance or doctor needed. Anyone with a little cash can get some heavy duty pain killers, birth control, antibiotics...anything. And yet there's no such thing as people abusing pharmies.
White people (especially Americans) are assumed to be extremely wealthy, highly qualified in everything, and even noble citizens (somehow). Some people are intimidated, others are honored by your presence, children are excited, some ask for money for school fees or food, but many don't. Either way, being a muzungu is more than a novelty to people here. Because so much of the "money-making" NGO sector is funded by donor countries in the West, anyone with white or whitish skin (this includes Latinos and Asians) is perceived to be giving out money left and right. For me as an indebted college grad on a tight budget (yet, relatively, coming from wealth beyond the means of most Ugandans) this puts me in a moral dilemma daily. Not to mention it's ..Awkward.

Average East Africans, where coffee is the biggest cash crop, don't drink it. It's too expensive to enjoy your own crop. Instead it's Nescafe, all the way.

There's no sanitation system. Let me rephrase that.. there's no way of disposing of ANY garbage, ever. It's heaped into massive piles of stink and before it rots to the ground, someone burns it. P.S. Don't get caught walking through a black cloud of burning trash. Mmm...

Just like t-shirts made in Japan, some things get lost in translation to English. "Swim at owner's risk" signs, for example.

However, most Ugandans have a terrific command of English (even if some use it quite creatively), but Luganda is the most widely used language. It's the language of the Baganda people, native to what's now central Uganda. My favorite word is WANGI? (pronounced waan-gee, always as a question). It has so many delicious meanings such as HUH? or Pardon? or WHAD U SAY? or YES, you called? Loves it.

Most TVs get one channel. Yes TIVO addicts, I said one. It's UBC (Uganda Broadcasting Corp) and it kind of sucks. Well actually, it really sucks. The best thing is the beloved Mexican soap operas dubbed to English. My family refers to it simply as "DIEGO" much like Family Matters become solely "Urkel" after sometime.

The national anthem is "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira and Wyclef. It is ubiquitous. Every other mobile (not called 'cell') phone has it as the ring, "Shaakiraa, Shakiraaa!"

Peanuts are G-Nuts. As in Ground Nuts. Which makes sense. But I've been asked to explain why we call them peanuts. Not so simple.

Ah, delacacies. Fish eyes are apparently oh so tasty. And an "African Stick" of meat (read: 6 chicken necks fried on a stick) isn't so bad.

Being a woman is pretty lame, too. Skirts everyday + always sweating + walking everywhere = ow. And when I cook it's somewhat because I want to, but also because the other half with penises are somehow ignorant of the whole process. "Sarah, you'll cook for my son some eggs, ahh?", says my host father, a genuninely sweet man, about making Will an omlet. "Sure." And then under my breath, "God Da*$, lazy ass knows how to make a f*c*#ing egg.." Cut to Will smiling.. "It's culture, babe, what am I supposed to do?"

A Thousand Words.

My Little Ones

This is Will, I and the kids: Mark (6), Priscilla (5) and Deborah (6 mos.). We're sitting on the bunk beds in the kids room. I'm holding them back from jumping up and taking the camera, which they love, so they can take "snaps" as they're called. "Al-so Me," they yell, when one of them wants to do something too. They love playing with the Muzungus.

Debo and Me

That's the baby's nickname, pronounced Day-Bo. Will's host mom calls me a Mother, as if its a personality trait not a role, and my host mom has had dreams of me as an African Mama. On average I probably hold 3 babies a day, I'm drawn to them here and maybe they're drawn to me. Debo is my favorite and we are great pals. It doesn't help that she reminds me of the best baby girl in the world, our Maya.

The Night Sky Over Victoria

Quite possibly the most breathtaking sunset my eyes have seen in their 21.75 years: the view from the Nameless Island detailed in my previous entries. Just amazing.

A Mid-Afternoon's Dream

Wanale Rock (a sizable foothill of the gigantic Mt. Elgon) frames Mbale town. We caught a rare view of the rainbow late one afternoon over Wanale from the roof of Nurali's Cafe, a local hangout with good Indian food and Ugandan beer.

Call Me Bob

This is me not wanting to look at the camera but still sort of posing, as Will takes the snap. My hair's a little longer now, but this is me about one week after arriving in Uganda, still marvelling at the shortest my hair has been since 1985 (when it was still growing).

A Sunday at My Kind of Church.

The mornings in Mbale are sacred times. One must rise with the dawn and the roosters (no choice with that one!) and there's a time, each morning, when I spend time in the solitude and quietness of daybreak. This Sunday, before the unabashed Christian music could blare obscenely (!!) I went to my own kind of Church.

Everyone here, I mean everyone, is religious and most are Christian. 'Where do you pray?' is as common a question as 'where do you stay' or 'what are you called. ' So usually on Sundays we go to the pool to avoid the Church pushers. There's nothing wrong with Church of course, but everyone wants to take you to their parish (the best one) and services last all day, in the heat. But this morning nestled in the cocoon of my mosquito net with my headphones turned up high playing mostly Indigo Girls (composers of the soundtrack of my coming of age) and a few others, I had another kind of spiritual moment. Who says you have to tithe to get closer to God?

I thought of every thing and all things at once. My mind raced, my eyes wept. I thought of my family and how I miss just sitting at the kitchen table over good food reminiscing about the trailer days. And about Maya's beautiful face and how she has brought us joy again. And about how silly it is for a family to be torn when there is so much pain in the world that we cannot avoid. And how I have seen so much in Africa that I still cannot articulate, except for the constant, fleeting flashes of children's faces and long dusty roads void of life for miles. And still, how loneliness is a privilege of the wealthy. In Africa you are never alone. Families and clans are solid and unwavering, and for the most part, no one is forsaken. And Americans think they have nothing to learn from Africa?

I also thought of how lucky I am to be here, despite missing my family and other comforts, and how welcomed I am. Last night I cooked, with the great help of Faz the house girl, an Italian feast for Will's family and the other interns. They were so happy to have life and laughter back in their home, and Anne (Will's "Mom") thanked me for my kindness and humility for cooking for her family. But that wasn't necessary. Sometimes we all want is to feel at home, as original as children, and for me that's how I do it.

So this Sunday, in my bed, I had a sermon of my own. I thanked God for my incredible luck, for justice, for pain, for feeling, for Africa, for my family, for Will, and for this journey. May everyone's Sundays be so spiritual.

Cooking Arroz con Pollo in Uganda.

In my dogged efforts to infiltrate East African food with spices (food here is somehow bereft of any flavor whatsoever, would you like steamed underripe bananas, steamed white rice or boiled bland beans?) I have landed myself in a predicament. I have become Mbale Town's lone and sought after Mexican chef. Since most people I have cooked for barely know the country exists, let alone any iota of its culinary content, this is surprising. It all started with my frustration in the lack of taste of the food staples. "Why don't I show you how we make rice where I live?' I asked sweetly, knowing my palate would get its way. Minutes later there were onions, garlic and chilis sizzling on the cook stove. Add a little rice and toast it up with salt, cumin, pepper and tomato paste and Voila - the delicious scent of home filled the tiny unlit kitchen, teasing and tantalizing passersby.

The flip side of my joy is I have spent 6 hours in the last two days preparing Mexi-African meals in two different homes and I'm getting a little sick of arroz con pollo (when there is a fresh dead pollo, of course) refritos, chapatti (slightly oily, tortilla-like Ugandan bread) guacamole and salsa. Not to mention the backache of leaning over the small charcoal stoves and various miniscule burns from eager oil jumping from the pots. But despite my minor annoyance over manual labor (it is worlds more difficult to cook here), just smelling and tasting the familiar is worth it all. And maybe, just maybe... Ugandans will adopt some of the flavors of my 'exotic' foods they love so much. Maybe there will be a taco stand squeezing out fresh tortillas (ah the smell!) in five years...

I won't hold my breath, but a senorita can dream.

Finding Our Neverland in Africa.

It has taken me a few days of cerebral digestion to tell the story of our adventure on this nameless island. And the story of our experience is like all stories a function of the people that give it life.

The international cast landed near sunset and immediately entered a world on supension. Suspended from time and space, from reality (whatever that means) and from anything they knew of themselves before they found their way to this place.

Washed ashore the island is a group of misfits and dreamers, the likes of which include the Spanish professsor, Eduardo, who studied Comparative Literature and Philosophy, yet found his way to Uganda teaching Espanol, a language he admits is useless here. Next is the UN crowd. Quite a riot those diplomatic aid worker types can be. There's Elena, a young and reserved Dutch woman and her Canadian friend, Allie, a WFP volunteer who really says "Eh," a German couple too snobby to have names, an Irish woman named Karinna with a strong affinity for Dunhill cigarettes who works in the amnesty division, two Ethiopian UNDP workers one named Yaron, and Katie the reproductive health worker and sometimes abortionist with an unnamed clinic.

To complete the list of characters, there's the American ex real-estate mogul turned roaming ex-pat and his African "escort," a longtime wandering Afrikaaner, the local Ugandan staff, Alexi the German firstmate of the island and the unbelievalbe character of them all, Tom. Tom owns the island and at some point in his life actually did something. I think he was an explosives engineer for the British Army. He's a colonial Kenyan (read: white) by nation, but is truly a man of the island. Only 46 years old, but the copious amounts of rum he drinks and questionable agriculture he smokes have created a face that looks at least 64. A veritible Willy Wonka to this crew of eager Charlie's. Tom, who would otherwise be a hapless schlep with an offensive tongue by land, is the grandmaster of an island carnivale, by sea.

The only thing bringing this hodge-podge group of ex-patriates together is a strange form of chance. Chance and self-selection. Far from their homes and comforts of the spoiled world, the development workers, nomads, nothing-doers, thinkers, sinners and saints stumbled to a place to ease their minds of the brutal world outside. Western ex-pats have common thread; an arrogant and intimate knowing that a world of modern speed, function and sensibility (and complacency and coldness) exists and that they're entitled to live there. Entitled enough, even, to leave that world to 'experience' the most remote and struggling corners of our earth, and then come back.

This knowing among ex-pats living in the developing world creates a community (unknown to me before) that craves an impatient release from time to time. That's how this island came to be. It's an ex-pat's haven, a relief worker's relief and the weary traveler's Candyland. But why is this place so wonderful, you're asking?

Because it was like seeing life through the eyes of a child again. It's the kind of place that so sweetly allows the magic of childhood to be realized: Neverland, Narnia, or the Nameless Island, call it what you'd like. They are all places where time, place and tradition do not exist. A place where the forthwall of reality is broken and the mystical world glimpses back - taunting you for not believing. By the end of the weekend many of us were getting on like the oldest of friends, all with stomachs sore from laughing eachother into the wee hours. I don't know if I'll see any of them again. But it will be a very long time before I forget them.

It didn't help that we were fully stranded (there's no boat on the island capable of getting to shore) with nothing but time, free rum, questionable agriculture and eachother. One can lie around and wait for the next delicious meal, explore the camp and the surrounding jungle and gardens, risk the parasites and take a swim, read, chat or just stare. The irony of the island's captivity to the water is the pure freedom it breathes to its visitors.

Somewhere in Lake Victoria, so close to the equator you can almost see the curve of our giant orb, and under the cast of a full moon, a lucky few felt their infinity. Their helplessness. And their connectedness.

Paradise Found.

It all began with a hunch. Of all the 80 plus islands in the Ssese chain strewn about the vast and mysterious Lake Victoria, one in particular caught my attention and for no particular reason at all. It just seemed to be a little out of the way, and something in me smelled the sweet stench of adventure. For the sake of the island and its mystique, I won't reveal its exact name and location. The same is true for the international crew of cohorts that inhabited the isle with us for the rest of the escapade. This is an entirely non-fictional account of the events of a weekend so odd, so much a diversion from reality, and so much a fantasy that it could only be real.

To get to the island we have to get a private boat from the main port. In our case, we board with almost 15 others from all over the world. None of us know exactly what to think, except for maybe the only other American (and only repeat vistor) who warns us of "quite an experience" ahead. After an hour sunset boat ride over what felt like a particularly deep expanse of the fresh water giant, we land at the foot of a would-be castle and a rocky beach dusted with purple carnations that manage to struggle their way from the earth to greet us. The magenta sunset ignites the glistening waters and allows us to see only a glimpse of a green haze of vegetation, flirting with the eyes. From this moment on, life, for all of us, will never quite be the same.

To be continued...