On Zanzibar!

The two-month lapse since my last entry is admittedly unacceptable. Despite emails from parentals demanding new entries and concerns from friends that they’d lost access to the updated site, it was a recent email from my past supervisor that inspired the prioritization of blog updates. “Ample time for an overdue update to the blog! Chop-chop!” Now, any time a boss, past or present, says “chop-chop” about ANYTHING, one can only comply! Unfortunately, this blog needs quite a few entries before it is truly current, but I’ll start with an exciting one… my (first) trip to Zanzibar!

Almost three months ago, during the first weekend in August, I traveled with an ex-CHAI-colleague to Zanzibar, an island in the Indian Ocean just off the coast of Tanzania. Zanzibar is a unique and complex place with unrivaled beaches accompanied by a fascinating mix of cultures: African, Muslim, Indian, and Mediterranean. Like many places in Africa, the island suffers from incredibly poverty, starkly juxtaposed with the tourists tanning on local beaches and couples perusing Zanzibari paintings and beautiful Indian fabrics. On the surface the island appears to be a paradise, but asking a few questions or reading a few pages of Fodor’s or Lonely Planet will uncover the remnants of cultural tensions and racial oppression.

Matt and I began our weekend strolling around Stone Town, the old city that was built around the primary port in Zanzibar. While looking for a place to stay, we were accosted (and I don’t use that word lightly) with offers of assistance regarding hotels, restaurants, etc. Local Zanzibaris frequently receive compensation from establishment owners if they present patrons to reside or eat. In addition, local mobile vendors followed us up and down the streets, displaying copious quantities of silks, scarves, and spices. Eventually we settled on Karibu Inn, a typical (but clean) backpackers hostel that charged us each $15 a night.

That evening, Matt and I set out for one of the legendary destinations of Zanzibar—the seafood market. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, the market consisted of approximately 100 seafood vendors, each selling their catches of the day, cooked and ready to be eaten. Almost every imaginable type of seafood—lobster, tuna, octopus, crab, squid, shark, swordfish, and more—was proudly displayed on collapsible tables under strong heat lamps and, when purchased, was reheated on a grill, placed on a paper plate, and sprinkled with lemon juice and salt for immediate consumption. Anyone who has ever eaten with me knows my affinity for seafood (let alone salt!). Combine this with the knowledge that I’d recently spent three months in land-locked country with tilapia as the only pescetarian option and you’ll begin to understand how this landscape appeared to me. This was my heaven. No need for a bottomless pot of money and seventy-two virgins here. The seafood cut it.

Matt and I ate (and drank) ourselves silly, after which we returned to our hostel for a brief nap. Somehow we both rallied and the evening continued late into the night, complete with dancing at Livingstone’s (a local bar/club), sneaking into the fancy Zanzibar Hilton, swimming in their pool (fully clad), and then eventually stumbling home wet, cold, and elated.

Upon awaking circa 2pm the next afternoon, we wandered around Stone Town for a little while longer—admiring the artwork, silks, and spices—before heading north to the beach. It’s a waste of my time and yours for me to devote too much time to describing the beaches in Zanzibar, but suffice it to say the beaches are stunning. I’ve included a couple of pictures in this entry so that you can get a sense. After approximately 48 hours full of sun, snorkeling, socializing with the son of the president of Zanzibar, and quantities of alcohol that would make my brother proud, Matt and I headed back to the airport.

It was an entirely unproductive weekend, filled with little other than beaching, sleeping, eating seafood and consuming the booze that we’d purchased with such incredible foresight at duty-free. For a typical first-born, type-A child who generally tends away from unproductivity, this was a weekend of extreme relaxation.

On Continued Butchering of "Eleanor"

This particular entry will be brief and should really be read as an addendum to my previous post. A few days after my virtual rant regarding the Ugandan interpretation and pronunciation of my name, I found myself at a national laboratory conference. William, the laboratory coordinator at CPHL with whom I’ve been working since my second day on the job, got up in front of 50-60 people and introduced me as “Eleanoy”. I shuddered internally but remained silent and smiling on the outside…

And, just this morning, I introduced myself to someone I’d not met before. He chose not to repeat my name after my introduction, so I attempted to reassure him. “I know, it’s a weird name. Many people struggle with it.” But, this man was overly confident and did not seek consolation. “Oh, no, I understand it,” he said. “It’s just like 'Illinois.'" Now I’m a state. I kinda think I was better off being a Clinton!

On Eleanor

I’ve always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with my name. Eleanor. It’s a mature name for a young girl, and in my case it was never abbreviated to Ellie, Nellie, Nora, or any other youthful sounding permutation. During a brief period in elementary school, I asked my family and friends to call me Grace (irony noted here, thank you), and when that failed I turned to my middle name, Clare. Never, however, has my name proven as problematic as it has since I moved to Uganda.

First off, Ugandans have simply never heard of the name Eleanor. Though most Ugandans actually have “western” names—there are an abundance of Richards, Williams, Johns, Pauls, Saras, Rebeccas, Cathys, etc.—Eleanor is nowhere to be found. Repeating my name to Ugandans multiple times is of little help and references to Acquitaines or Roosevelts draw blank stares. Elena is more commonly recognized, so some of my Ugandan colleagues and friends call me Elena. That’s the best case scenario.

Now, this already sub-par situation is complicated by the fact that Ugandans refer to people by their surname, followed by their first name. So, for example, the name would be Elston Elizabeth or Sullivan Daniel. Spears Brittany, Friedman Thomas, Brooks David. Get it? Excellent. Apply this situation to my name—Eleanor Joseph—and it’s obvious: this person is named Joseph! Then they look at me. But in Uganda, they tell me, Joseph is a man’s name. Perhaps Josephine?

To recap, since my arrival in Uganda, I’ve been called Elena (and many similar sounding mumbles), Joseph, and Josephine by those who even venture an attempt at referring to me by name. However, my favorite came the other day. After a thirty minute conversation with a very friendly technician in one of the Ministry’s labs, I was making my way to the door. I’d given this man my card, so he’d seen my name written, in addition to hearing me pronounce it when I initially introduced myself. As I drew the door closed behind me, I heard him say “Bye, bye, Clinton.” I guess that works too...

On Looking Askance

After following my blog and reading a number of my emails, a good friend from DC recently asked if ministry officials “look askance at [my] youth or race.” A reasonable and intelligent question, I was shocked by my own response: an overwhelming “no.”

Race. Quite frankly, whites (which are referred to mercilessly by black Ugandans as “muzungus”) are associated with education and wealth. It’s pretty mind-boggling, but if a Caucasian recommends or endorses a particular concept, it is far more likely that the idea will be considered/implemented than if it’s condoned by a native Ugandan. The wealth component manifests itself even more blatantly. Ugandans generally assume that all muzungus are affluent, and attempt to befriend whites (at least partially) as a result. I’ve had individuals approach me (initially I thought it flirtatious, which is only sometimes accurate) just to make conversation—this frequently entails recounting the entirety of life stories—and befriend me. It's a bit of a bizarre dynamic, but people certainly do not view my race with suspicion.

Age. I've had men inquire as to why I'm not wed, but that's admittedly the only age-related harassment to which I’ve been subjected. (And, let us be honest here, I’ve gotten the exact same question from my beloved grandmother, who takes a small degree of enjoyment from reminding me that by the time she was my age, she’d given birth to all three of her children. Thank GOD times have changed!) One man from the MOH actually had the audacity to ask if my father was deceased—bear in mind that life expectancy is shorter here than in the States—because he couldn't imagine a father permitting his young daughter to travel unaccompanied such a long way from home. I got a kick out of that one, as not only is my father very much alive and kicking, but so is my grandfather! Anyway, thus far, neither race nor relative youth has been a hindrance and my muzungu-ness has, if anything, been of service.

On Addis Ababa

I just realized that I’ve failed to mention my trip to Ethiopia! (For full disclosure, I had a six-hour layover in Addis upon my return from Bangkok that I am generously calling my “trip”.) My flight from Thailand landed at 5am, so I arrived on a dark, chilly, Ethiopian morning. I left my luggage with the airline (I’d checked it directly through to Entebbe), spontaneously purchased a tourist visa, and headed into Addis with my friend Zelalem, who works for CHAI in Ethiopia. After dropping Zelalem’s luggage at his apartment, he and I went to sit at Kaldi's Coffee Shop (which bears a logo that suspiciously resembles that of Starbucks), where we discussed the service and maintenance database. Zelalem, who built the Access file, showed me the back end of the database so that I can alter the interface if necessary.

After two cappuccinos and a healthy dose of quant work between the hours of 6 and 8am, Zelalem and I walked to one of the largest churches in Addis. Zelalem, who is a photographer in his spare time, took some fantastic photographs, none of which I can currently upload because my internet in Kampala is too slow. (I’ll try to leave my computer in the office overnight sometime soon to get them up on either blog or Flickr page.) The two of us then walked along one of the nicest roads in Addis (or so I was told) and saw exhibition space that was built solely to celebrate the millennium; apparently both Beyonce and Black Eyed Peas performed there in front of mass audiences. Shortly afterward, Zelalem hailed a cab and the two of us returned to the airport, where he dropped me off.

My flight to Entebbe, which was scheduled for 11:30am, was spontaneously moved an hour earlier by Ethiopian Airlines. (I later discovered that they’d thoughtfully sent me an email, time stamp 10:10am—a whopping 20 minutes before the newly slated departure.) Thus, I sprinted through the airport and just barely caught my flight back to Uganda. About two hours later I landed in Entebbe, and for the second time, Paul was waiting for me at arrivals.