Tag: city

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Personal Self Discovery

familiarity

It is when staring off into space that I feel most connected with myself. On the bus, I do this. It is as if my mind is thinking on another dimension, and in the moment that I slow down and just sit and listen to myself, I realize how focused I have been on the physical reality of the world. It is easy to ignore thoughts– but never the emotional ripples (sadness, yearning, nostalgia, hope)– in the grinding pace of daily schedules. Perhaps ignore implies too much control (should/could be misplace, forget, disregard, instead?).

These are the tenses that define us now: past tense, back then; future tense, not yet. We live in the small window between them, the space we’ve only recently come to think of as still, and really it’s no smaller than anyone else’s window. (Atwood, Moral Disorder)

Buses mean a lot to me. It’s been constant (the lines always run along the same streets, minus a few detours here and there). When I snap back to reality, I realize that I’ve been staring at a row of grey, plastic loops that thousands of people hold onto throughout the week. Each of those people in their own worlds, holding on until they let go and ring or buzz the bell and leave and touch the next thing. It is that connection that I love about bus systems, in all the cities I’ve been to, but especially my Vancouver; That people sit in a seat that another person has sat, with a completely different story (or eerily similar, as chance often humours so). That people from all different cultures and countries and personal backgrounds are on one bus, each going to a similar destination (same bus line, after all), yet lead such different lives based on tiny nuances.; That busses pass through so many different neighbourhoods, shaped differently by History (and continuously so by different stories); That so many personalities come together on a bus, reacting and acting according to how they have done so in their past, now reflecting and demonstrating to everyone else what ‘normal’ should be, or not; That commuters form a little society of their own, representative of the greater society.

And I snap out of that moment, of relishing all the things I appreciate about being part of a city in the bloodstream system called Translink, and I start compulsively checking my Blackberry, changing my songs on my iPod every few minutes, texting, reading, checking Facebook, and it’s back to living in the ‘now’, as if I zoomed back into my (irrelevant, small, egotistical, shallow, little) world and that holistic moment of appreciation and feeling of membership (or city-zenship, pun intended) passes.

[I got off the bus, and]

…[t]he sun is piercing through the pouring drizzle of rain. Not pouring rain, not drizzling rain. A downpour of floating drizzles of rain. These sun’s rays reflect off the fiery leaves of the trees along the street. Today has been characteristic of Vancouver autumn: waking up to a warm cocoon (my bedsheets unconsciously, increasingly more wrapped around me throughout the night), fighting the urge to stay in bed all day, grabbing a quick coffee in my to-go cup (Vancouver is a green city), speed walking to the bus stop in the morning rain… fast forward to the chilly afternoon, the downpour of rain (I resolved to baking cookies and making myself a cup of tea by this point in my day), and finally the piercing rays of sun to wish us goodbye and a happy dreary next five months. In the time it took me to write this paragraph, the sun has disappeared behind more rain clouds.

—-

What madness is, a seemingly random collection of objects and places we see in our daily city lives, represents our familiarity with a place that we recognize as home. Landmarks, to an extent, are only really recognized by those who live within that place. We see the same park and bus benches, new and abandoned bus stops, buildings and street lamps, littered throughout the city (/who doesn’t sigh with relief while confirming that the bus stop bench at Third/ and Arbutus is still there… [Harris, The town is so damned rational]); these objects intersect the lives of Vancouverites. (Chiang, 2011)

“Without familiarity, your rational town becomes less so. In contrast/complement, without familiarity, outsiders seek rationality but only find the irrational.” (Duffy, 2011)

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Poverty

Visiting families in their little hut houses always puts me in an awkward position. The Ugandans are extremely hospitable people, and so they always offer us with their best (and only) chairs. So we sit, perched on their nice chairs, while the elders and mothers of the household sit with their newborn babies, sometimes breast feeding them, sitting on the dusty ground with flies all around them. There are usually at least three other children in the house, who are either off fetching water from the water pumps, labourously biking them home, or are standing around in their tattered clothing watching us curiously. Almost all of the women we’ve visited don’t speak English, and we only know how to greet in Lunyole. So, we sit around, smiling encouragingly, trying not to come off as arrogant or ‘better’, while Grandpa Hirome or Ivan (our hosts) catch up with the families. It’s difficult not to feel self- conscious in those situations—I realize how privileged I am when visiting the households within the villages. Swatting away the few flies that bother me during the visit seems like such an obnoxious thing to do, compared to the conditions that the families have to live in daily…

It bothers me that whole countries of people live like this. How can these people stand such a way of life, for their whole lives? Where do they find the energy to get up each morning at 4 a.m. to work in their gardens, then to make food, then to work for the rest of the day in the fields while taking care of a newborn baby (women usually tie babies to their backs while working in the fields or fetching water on their heads). Where do they get the perseverance to follow this routine every day of their lives? How do they live without running water, clean drinking water, warm beds, mosquito nets, electricity, toilets, lights for the dark night?, and other things we take as bare essentials in the ‘developed’ world??

Is poverty a relative concept? Is it only in comparison to someone else that one can be wealthy or poor? These villagers may as well be homeless, in our understanding of poverty in Vancouver. But, there is something that sets them apart from the homeless and helpless in our Canadian communities—they do not feel the poor spirit. It is probably because that is all they know, and there’s not much luxury to aim for. To have a brick house, upgraded from their little straw huts, will be luxurious enough for a lifetime. Though, to see that the very basic human essentials: water, and food, so difficult to access for them, points to the fact that poverty isn’t just an abstract concept… it exists, and it’s painfully real. Is their poverty only in materials, or does it affect their spirit? I wonder what makes them happy. What keeps their little families so tightly bound? How do they feel their emotions? What contexts generate the different emotions?

I attended a political swearing- in ceremony for the district of Butaleja as an honourary guest (along with my housemates) as guests of Mr. Hirome (he is Grandpa to us). It was really conflicting for me to witness the pretentious proceedings as the ‘wealthy’ played their little political performance. I truly hope that they have intentions to serve the people of their district… they are so well off compared to the general public, the villagers whose homes we visited. It’s interesting to see how democracy here only slightly resembles democracy back home. Though I guess it’s fairly decent compared to many other districts, and especially other African countries. Most of these politicians are affiliated with either the Islamic faith, or the Christian faith. Both groups swore in on the name of Allah/ God, so I pray that they will stay true to their faith and personal conscience, and really try their best to serve their people with their best interests in mind.

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Muzungu’s for sale, 5 million USD (Mbale)

There is no experience like riding in a taxi bus between rural villages. A taxi bus is a vehicle (looks slightly run down by Canadian standards) that is legally licensed to carry 14 passengers. Every day, taxi busses commute from one taxi park to another, usually situated in bigger cities. During rush hour, they manage to ‘fit’ (squish) at least 18 passengers; there were 22 people at the maximum fit in our taxi cab during our 3 hour ride back from Mbale to Busolwe. At each village, people have candles lit and have a night market theme going on, and passengers usually get on and off at those stops. In between the villages are extremely bumpy dirt roads (the same ones that I mentioned biking on), which put pot holes in Vancouver to shame. There are always many people walking along those roads, or biking on dilapidated bikes, and it’s horrifying to watch how taxi cabs swerve in and out between the pedestrians and bikers. There are no traffic rules that people follow—it’s terrifying. Plus, at each stop, we muzungus get the added experience of getting greetings from villagers (some are less pleasant than others). Or, people try to sell us snacks at double or triple the prices they sell to locals.

We got up at 5AM and left our homestead at daybreak in the back of Grandpa Hirome’s truck for Mbale. We had blankets in the back of the truck, and we must have looked really comfortable. As we sped away from our town, every person would do a double take at us: 1) owning a truck was a luxury in the town; and 2) blankets to cover us definitely marked us as privileged. Mr. Hirome (we call him Grandpa, and he spoils us like a grandpa does), drove us 90% of the way because he was attending a workshop in a nearby town. It was an amazing experience, sitting in the back of a truck, enjoying the morning stretch of sky. Into each town we turned into, all the men would stop and stare. It was really obvious and awkward. At one particular town, we had an audience of at least 30 or 40 men just stopped in their morning routine/work, staring at us and waving and offering the few compliments they knew in English. It was flattering, but little did we know the same compliments dished out in a different tone would stress us out for the rest of the day in Mbale..

Mbale is a city that is much smaller than Kampala, but dirtier and occupied by ruder men. We were in Mbale to buy supplies to supplement our projects in Busolwe, and by noon we had finished most of our errands. At the supermarket, the ‘security guy’ (just a man hired to hold a wooden stick) began to converse with our hostess Josephine (Josie). Later, Josie told us he asked ‘how much to buy one?’ referring to bride prices for each of us muzungus. This was only the beginning of a day full of innuendos, offers of marriage or purchase, and many disdainful and rude comments from women in the shops. We were so stressed out by the end of the day.

We did have a good lunch though, at a nearby resort. I was able to upload a third of my photos, and it was nice to just get away from all the rudeness and business of the city. Cities are much more disorganized, casual, and unprofessional here than back home. We don’t know the language, so we only hear the many ‘muzungu’s’ that are shouted along every single block we walk on. We are so appreciative of our hostess who is so honest with us. She is like a sister to us already. It helps because knowing that she could tell us up front what the men were saying allowed us to step back from the comments and know that they mean it in their own petty egotistical manners. Not knowing was difficult because one can always tell by the tone what kind of comment another makes… and it seemed more personal than when the insult was translated to us by a local whom we trust.

The ride home on the taxi bus was hectic, but there was something really reassuring about it… it felt like we really were being ‘locals’, living like the locals (though still relatively way well off) but we were making efforts to take transportation like they do daily, to eat as they do every day… etc. The bumpy road was a little nauseating, but also drove in the fact that we were going to be living here for the next three months… we are no longer visitors, even though we will still be perceived as the muzungus of the Busolwe village.

Tomorrow we are putting off our plans for work. We are going to sleep in, attend church with the family, and relax in the afternoon with the children. Maybe we will do our laundry and go for a bike ride, too.

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