At the Spa

A famous author once advised writers to “Write what scares you”, to “be vulnerable on the page”, apparently it makes the writing come to life. I don’t know, I just think it is super frightening. But as my writing grows, so does the kind of content and sometimes I will visit subjects or write about subjects in a less conventional (Mary) style. 

Let me start with a disclaimer and legal-ese, okay maybe this piece is not too risqué but just a heads up, there may be a few surprises. If you’re not ready, please go on your merry way, if yes, let’s get to it.  

Kati I’ve over set the scene, oh dear!

Anyways, in boarding school there was always that girl who didn’t care much for people’s opinions. The girl who lived by her own rules. The girl with a revelation – she would do her and let the world sort itself out. She’d come into the dormitory from the shower and immediately drop her towel on the bed. We’d all be like “gundi pleeeaase!!! 

With a straight face she’d ask, “What?!”

“What haven’t you seen before? What I have, you have. So now?!!”

We couldn’t argue with that. Still, I thought it was important to be private. The world has no business looking at one’s melanin glory without cause. Mr. O got a bloody nose a few times, I had to remind myself we’d made a vow that included everything. What can I say? Old habits die hard, but also, that’s not the topic for today.

I was guarded – helmet, shield, breastplate – the entire armor, that is until the children came along. I mean once you’ve been through labor, once you’ve visited the ob-gyn, eh! Like what the fuss? A certain slice of novelty is lost. You grow older, you hit your 40’s – things shift around, and then you look in the mirror and say, “It’s okay, I have fought the good fight, might as well get comfortable with this “house” ♬” We are not getting yanga” ♬ When the components of the “house” are bent of jogging down-hill, you resolve to jog down with dignity. 

On this journey of adult living the stresses and strains of life weigh heavy on the body - stiff necks and ailing muscles become the order of the day. Good health and wellbeing become paramount.  Once, I discovered I had a “back mouse”. A back mouse (not the medical term but I like how crazy it sounds) is a small nodule – the size of a bead or a pea - on the lower back, close to the dimples of Venus. You don’t know the dimples of Venus? Guh! Ask Mr. Google. Just know if the nodule is situated close to a nerve, it can cause excruciating pain, the muscles get tight and sore and one form of relief is a massage. I was not a fan of the massage, the idea of stripping down before a stranger wasn’t exactly welcome in my mind but life dictated – doesn’t it often? 

Reading up, I found that massage therapy has several health benefits; reducing stress; reducing pain and muscle soreness and tension; improving circulation, energy and alertness; lowering heart rate and blood pressure and improving immune function.

I found an Asian spa in our metro area. The sweet scents and ambiance had a soothing effect. The soft lights and serene East Asian music calmed the nerves. A raised bed covered in white linen was positioned in the center of the room with cloth hangers set in one corner. 

The notice on the wall had two words “Be Quiet”. A masseur entered the room, oiled her palms and begun to knead my back. As her fingers settled on the sore tissue, I let out a groan. Her dainty hands, firm and smooth followed the full length of the tight muscles from my lower back up to my shoulder and neck. I wanted to scream – that pain is torture. She stopped and asked if everything was okay. I mumbled something about my condition. Then I remembered the notice “Be Quiet” What did other clients in this thin-walled establishment think?  Perhaps that I was being smothered? 

After she repeatedly traveled the length of the strained muscle, the pain eased but the situation got tense when she complimented my skin. Something about being complimented while alone with another human being in a state such as I was felt uncomfortable. “You athlete?” she asked, I said “No”, I wasn’t even sure where the conversation was headed. But more on this later.

Female masseur’s have quite the job easing tense muscles for clients from all walks of life. Like customer service professionals, masseurs sometimes engage entitled clients who think they can have their cake and eat it too. 

While in Kampala I visited a friend’s spa – my back was acting up again. Also, throw a stone in any direction in Kampala city suburbs and it will land on a spa or a salon or a kafunda – the difference in these businesses is the quality of service. 

I was received at the front desk by a lovely young lady with a wide dark gummed smile – it’s still imprinted in my mind. I almost asked, “Do I know you?” But then again this was Uganda – smiles are free and in plenty.

I was given a cushy-gown, I experienced my first sauna with step-by-step instructions - nanti maalo. 

By the way Ugandan’s are a head on good stuff, I can be here in America clueless about good life meanwhile Ugandans know what’s goin’ on!! Yeah, so I was there gasping for air, sweating like crazy, wondering if this heat, steam and pressure was normal - ati 30 minutes of suffocation. Yo!!! But when I emerged, I felt as fresh as a cucumber.

In the Spa room the masseur told me she loved her job. The Spa offered various services: wellness treatments, skin care, body scrubs, therapeutic massages and so much more. She paused and added, the one thing she didn’t like?  - “Men!” She continued, “No matter their status in society, once that thing is up, they go stupid. I tell them I don’t do that but sometimes they insist.”  I asked a follow-up question “Then what?” I mean it’s an odd situation. An honest worker hustling to earn a living has to face clients interested in selfish indulgences; a risk to her job, her health, her reputation, her values, life. She said “I leave the room.” As we had this conversation it suddenly hit me that I’d grown. Here I was with a total stranger talking about the challenge of serving entitled male customers. Ugandan’s have bolder conversations these days, the subtlety of yester years has fizzled away but also, I get the impression that people from certain regions of the country feel freer to talk about these subjects. Maybe I’m just giving excuses for being older and more aware, I don’t know, but there was a shift in my mind. We talked like old girl friends.

This got me thinking, we need male masseurs in Uganda – although the way the world is going, it doesn’t look like that will solve some of these issues. I’m just advocating for a balance of gender. I read somewhere that the strength in the hands of male masseurs can help heal aching muscles faster. But also, if I walked into a spa and a male masseur was the only option, Cheptegei would have a real contender for the gold medal in 5,000m. Good ol’ Chep would know he had fierce competition.

Now, remember the Asian Spa I talked about earlier? After the massage, the masseur led me out to the reception, I was given a cool glass of water. She smiled and complimented my skin to her colleague at the counter and said something about how I should not worry, that she is not like that. I thanked her for the service and left. It was only later that her message registered. 

Ah! This life!!

Meanwhile, shout out to Aqua Spa Naguru, Skyz Hotel – you guys are the best. 

I hope to visit again sometime.

Bungee Jumping on the Nile

 

My Girl Goes Bungee Jumping

My girl is reserved. She speaks only when it is absolutely necessary. Her dad bends all sorts of which way to get her reaction but she is often impassive. She remains expressionless sometimes with a subtle smile pasted to the ends of her lips – that’s when you know you’ve really got her. Her diary is lethal – yo! I don’t know where she gets it but she’s a certified mystery. I’ll confess I’ve flipped through those pages a few times and each time I quietly place the diary down and slowly walk backwards out of the room. I gently close the door behind me, take a deep breath and watch the branches on my prayer list bud into new more complex items.

She’d give Sherlock Holmes sleepless nights.

Anyways here is the story. After soul nourishment in Teso with my parents, hubby dearest suggested we stop in Jinja for family time small-small. We were happy to sleep late, wakeup late and lounge around refreshment away from America’s rat race.

This is how it goes. Everyone heads off for some alone time, as in, we are together apart. Do you know this? Let me explain. Once you have teenagers, stress levels can as if peak. The young people don’t really want to hang out with the parents, just the parent’s money. When they begin to earn their own money, all bets are off – your relevance is held on a balance so help you God. If you have a boy and a girl then each one wants their own space because really, “What do you know about what I’m going through?” The parents are left looking at each other and they too are processing life from different angles.

A panoramic view shows the boy sprawled on his bed scanning his phone. The girl is in the living room watching a movie. The dad is on the porch reading news events in world. The mom? Now, where is the mom again? Oh yeah! She out somewhere marveling at nature, taking pictures, thinking about her kids, happy that she doesn’t have to cook the day’s meal.

Next morning dad has a brilliant idea to take his family for a thrill, an adventure in the jungles of Jinja. The teenagers are like, meh! But what can they do? Rules are dictated, they are in unfamiliar territory, so best stick close for safety. One likes to swim, the other is water averse. One parent loves adventure, the other is calculated – if the full equation is not understood, it’s not happening, but for the sake of peace and harmony, they’ll lay down their lives. Sacrifice – the man’s calling.

The car drives onto the gravel of this open facility – water of the Nile roars in the distance, there’s a vast space of dark green vegetation, a beautiful canopy. Music blasts through the speakers.

Boy: “What are we doing here?”

Dad: (Silent because really… “For you don’t you just enjoy life ko?”)

Girl: Acts invisible.

Mom: “Let’s see what we can do”

A few meters ahead a set of metal fortified stairs lead up to nowhere. Basically, if you start the journey up, there is only one way you are coming down – free fall.

Boy: “That’s just crazy!”

Mom: “Come on! Let’s give it a shot”

Boy gives mom the look, she knows it’s not happening.

Girl: Acts like she is not there, then suddenly blurts out, “Ok, I’ll go.”

We all turn. The question on all our minds: “Are you sure?”

She’s only 11. Does she know what she’s getting into?

The guide, a bulked up young man tells her there is nothing to be afraid of, it is safe. The equipment is tested and he’s trained so he will walk her through the steps. He adds, if she is uncertain, she has time to change her mind. Still acting like she’s invisible but consumed with resolve, she nods her head, “Let’s do this!”

The family is led to a balcony where we watch the spectacle go down – feel the guilt of letting our baby fly in the wind, strapped with ropes.

The DJ pumps up the volume, “I feel it coming” by The Weeknd.

Boy is bored – like, “What madness in this?” like, who in their right mind thought this would be fun?

DJ increases volume.

Dad is pacing, looking out over the Nile. Pebbles on the ridges now look like rocks.

What if there are crocodiles? We’ve seen those creatures literally walk on water for their prey.

DJ increases volume again. “I feel it coming”

Now the beats are in sync with our hearts, soothing the thumps, numbing the sudden jerks.

Where’s mom? She’s watching her baby get strapped in to the gear. From this distance, her girl looks like a stick figure, hands up, then hands down, like the cock screw. She’s thinking, “wait, what? This kid is actually going through with this? Some nerve!”

Then woosh! The girl is catapulted into the air. Dad makes a sound between a growl and a howl.  The teen’s hands are spread out superman style. She goes with the wind, suspended in space. The seconds freeze in-slow-motion each micro second doing a full stage act. Then the rope drops, then the rope pulls her back half way up, it drops again – we feel that – sweaty palms, dry throat. We are all breathing like women in labor, our legs shake.

I look again, ok she’s still strapped to the rope, good! Nothing has malfunctioned and no crocodiles or hippos emerged for the spectacle.

A boat rows out to the girl, she is gently lowered onto its floor. Now we can’t see her. She could be kidnapped down there although frankly with her stare even a kidnapper would think twice.

She emerges unperturbed, dad and mom are frantic like they did the bungee jump. Boy still thinks humans are crazy to consider this fun.

Mom: Squills “Oh my! How was it?”

Girl: “Hm! It was ok”

Mom: “So what was the guy telling you up there? You talked for a long time.”

Girl: “Oh! He asked me to choose, I could have the rope around my waist and fall forward, but that’s basic. Or the harder level, have the rope around my ankles.”

What did this reserved, non-expressive, quiet, assume-invisible-state of a girl decide? Yup! Option two.

Who is this girl?

African Dance

Have you listened to Amapiano? Man! The log drum hits different. It irons out emotions on its threshing floor. When faced with those gentle persistent hills on a morning jog, the log drum pushes me forward, it gives me resolve. As my heart races and my lungs expand for air, the log drum keeps my feet in motion with its sequence: one-one, two-two, one-two, two-one, five-five, a hundred. “You can do it!” I go. 3 miles, 4 miles… nice! 

The African drumbeat speaks and African’s love rhythm, it is magical. Rhythm reaches deep into our souls. It gets people going. I listened to the drum beat in Jinja, by the Nile River – the translation of the rhythm in to language was not lost on me. The drummer layered sensual sentences into his beats – you listen and know, then you watch people dance – the communication is complete. It is crazy. 

But have you also noticed that most traditional African dances are racy? I guess there are only a set number of body parts that can groove. I had never thought about it until uncle J came for an evening chat with my parents. This was the era when Congolese dance videos saturated UTV – Tshala Mwana and Pepe Kale disorganized Uganda. My mom was appalled by all the movement, dad couldn’t be bothered but uncle J, a little tipsy and free of all inhibitions grabbed the elephant in the room. 

He said, “But you know African dance has always been about …” he started naming body parts. Mom sprung from her chair; uncle J was known to have little restraint with his language. She closed the door with the hope that the heavy words flying from his mouth would sail into the open air and dissolve somewhere beyond the gate. But uncle J was not done, he kept on talking. They moved to the veranda.

On the veranda, they could engage in further conversation with a bit of privacy or so they thought. As it turned out, my bedroom was adjacent to the veranda so when uncle J begun to speak and with the influence of alcohol raise his voice, it carried without restraint through the open windows. It settled on the beds, the heads and the ears of anyone in the room. Suddenly mom remembered the windows to my room were open, every syllable pushed its way in. She slammed the shutters muttering something about mosquitoes. I was seated on the bed, not quite dotting the “I’s” and crossing the “t’s” in uncle J’s sentences but mom’s antsy behavior drew my attention and I listened in. Uncle J was quite on a roll about legs and backsides. I had never before considered the “Bakisimba” and "Nankasa" as anything more than a cultural dance. Ah! Then I looked at “Ding-ding” and saw a pattern of human expression saved by raffle skirts and long flowing bitenge. 

Mom was at a loss, the words flew where ever they willed, no doors or windows would stop them. 

She resigned and in the next breath as if waiting for her to calm down, uncle J swiftly moved on to politics. She called for one more round of hot water for the Ajono. 

Before long, dinner was served, the news was read by Baale Francis (RIP) and uncle J was ready to head back to his home fully satiated. 

Oh the things that come to remembrance. I think these are signs of aging. :-)

Kampala like a Rowdy Teenager

 

Wandegeya

“I could hardly believe it when I heard the news today. I had to come and get it straight from you. They said you were leavin'. Someone's swept your heart away. From the look upon your face, I see it's true.

So, tell me all about it. Tell me 'bout the plans you're makin'. Tell me one thing more before I go. Tell me how am I supposed to live without you? Now that I've been lovin' you so long. How am I supposed to live without you? And how am I supposed to carry on? When all that I've been livin' for is gone.”

Michael Bolton’s husky voice sounds like he’s lost every reason to live – yeah! Love can get that way sometimes.

Anyways, just shaken off the fog of jet lag – the cobweb cast - soft and stretchy and yet sticky and firm. I bobbed between exhaustion and exhilaration. Memories of home still fresh, the taste of mangoes pasted on my pallet.

Now I emerge.

Was I even in Uganda? It was too short. The overall experience was exhilarating but when I start picking it apart, I’m like hmmm! I see the good and the complicated – just like in all relationships.

Ugandan’s give the best hugs – paka the hearts as if squish, high five and attempt to merge. My hair grew. 😊

It was great to be with family again – those people who embrace every bit about you – who notice the subtle changes but acknowledge you are still the same. You have the courage to bare your scars and know they’ll be around to the end. Safe.

Kampala has grown. The Cafés, the lounges, the new buildings, and incessant construction. The Air bnb’s and hotels, the malls, the lodges, and supermarkets – it’s amazing the businesses brewing in this small country.

I came across “Secrets Guest House” – but Ugandan’s!!! Is it Sidi or Lakunle in “The Lion and the Jewel” who says “Have you no shame – at your age…” anyways none of my business.

Time is money. Kampalan’s have got with the program – whether they can’t see you because you are not priority or because schedules are tight – some people are more aware of the value of time. Trying to get across town for a meeting? The stress of a taxi going back, back, forth and forth is the last thing one needs – in comes Safe-Boda flying passengers from Ntinda to Muyenga in no time. Want to send a package, the phone number of a trusted boda-boda guy should be set in your contacts. He’ll do all the couriering you’ll ever need.

Once I had car trouble; Suzan gave me the number of a mechanic. Our conversation went something like this:

“Hello, my name is Mary, your number was given to me by a friend. Can you do some body work on my car?”

“Yes madam, let’s look at the car. Where are you?”

I told him.

“Ok, we are coming.”

They found me, looked at the car, took it, found the parts, returned with a quotation, sorted the car, and delivered it, all at my convenience. Not bad – I could get used to this.

On the flip side, every transaction is layered – something for something – the levels of dodginess are through the roof. The love of money brings out the worst in some Ugandans even people you once considered friends. I made a transaction last year that left a sour taste in my mouth – that “friendship” is on the shelf.

Kampala felt like a rowdy teenager caught between childish ways and maturity.  The wild swerves of boda-bodas through the alleys of Industrial area, Wandegeya and Ntinda – left me breathless. My son likened a trip through Kampala city to survival in Grand Theft Auto – surprises and life-threatening events swing out of nowhere – a pothole, a bump, a motorcycle swerving in from a blind spot, a street kid suddenly peering in through the car window. The sun’s laser gaze, and a gush of dust blown by the wind for extra measure. Traffic-jams riled my stomach, pasted over by police officers flagging the car down every few meters.

People everywhere, doing everything, minding their own business, not! Their ears are set to the ground, they know all the secrets of the town – who’s fooling who, who’s dodging what. Make one wrong or sudden move and they’ll be all over you like rash. I sat at the Kamwokya bus stage and observed the taxi touts, women selling bananas, people making phone calls, school children crossing roads. When I attempted to take a photo, I got side eye of “Don’t even think about it - been watching you”.

I observed the go-getter pretty girls in four-wheel drives cutting into traffic like – “Babe! I’m the real deal.” The seething competition to be the best dressed. The frustration – “because why are you so chill?” I didn’t have the time.

Young professionals on fire – ambition, mood, travel, vibe, confusion.

Made in Uganda is sizzling – beauty products, food, fashion, business, consultancies, authors – it’s a whole new world.

The people with money are going gaga! Saturation at embarrassing levels. Plans and business deals being sliced on corner tables in cafes and lounges. They slide into their cars and roll up windows to block out poverty.

The language and city accent has morphed.

Kampala is growing out – Kyanja, Wobulenzi, Lweeza, Mukono and beyond – the city is shifting. Sure House, once the hotbed of activity has locked shops but Muyenga is literally heaving, buzzing, expanding – shops, medical centers, restaurants, cafes ….

There is news of an oil pipeline running through Buliisa to the port of Tanga, Tanzania on the Indian Ocean. Money! Then there’s the Parish Development Model (PDM) and whatever that stands for. Money! One just needs the Wi-Fi passcode and location of the power socket to plug in and charge.

There are no sidewalks in Ntinda, Bukoto, Kamwokya, Mulago, Wandegeya, but we can eat – the weather is still the best and food stuffs are still juicy and growing everywhere. Perhaps there is a method to the madness – gotta believe it.