Calculated Chaos
Author: Simon Han
Program: Global Engagement Summer Institute in Uganda
Some days I’d walk down Main Street, straight in the heart of Jinja Town, and feel utterly ordinary. Drop by a rolex guy, my rolex guy, who charges a kind 700 shillings but fries a mean omelet. Stop at a junction and wait for the long lines of cars and boda-bodas; then bask in the whipped up dust left in their midst. Pass by a flock of marabou storks—each nearly the size of my nine-year-old sister and donning fleshy drooping wattles—without so much as making a fleeting remark on their general ugliness.
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When you cross paths with a mzungu, you sense some psychological pressure to acknowledge the person, like it’s necessary because your skin is pale… his skin is pale… let’s smile and say “Hi!” and marvel at each other’s skin being pale!
Working in the field makes me feel less pale. Less pale and more focused. Most days, working in the field means going to the bank and sitting in on management committee meetings. It’s not the field, field, but it’s not the office either. Working in the office makes me feel more pale. More pale and more antsy. More confused about what the hell I’m going to do with my life when I can no longer last eight hours in an office without going slightly delirious, laughing quietly to myself as Microsoft Word fails me over and over again with its faulty bulleting system.
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I used to make birthday cards for my parents using Microsoft Publisher. I’d fold them all nice and pretty and maybe even write a crappy poem on it. In Ugandan culture, it’s customary to send out invitations for pretty much everything. In anticipation for a training session and monthly market event, I once again pulled out Microsoft Publisher and whipped up an invite card using one of its basic templates. Upon seeing the finished creation, Catherine, the program officer, yelped in delight, even shook my hand. “You people are doing such good work here,” she said. “SUCH GOOD WORK.” It took me about five minutes.
On the other hand, two other members of my group labored over a 30 page accounting and loan procedures manual for a good week and received nothing more than an acknowledgement. I guess people notice things differently here. Or rather, notice different things. Presentation is crucial. Looks matter. The insignificant becomes significant.
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There is a feeling I get when I’m doing something new, a kind of reserved rush, like a silent pat-on-the-back. Like one morning when I was sitting alone at the table smearing margarine over bread and accidently caught an ant with my knife, rubbing its little guts over the yellowed wheat; and then just like that, ate the bread, gulfed the entire thing down with tea. Then proceeded with a second slice.
Not that I’m becoming barbaric or anything. Or lazy, no, that’s not the right word either. I think more or less I am at that stage where I can sit still with chaos surrounding me, just sit still and think thoroughly and under no circumstances get overwhelmed. Make it a calculated kind of chaos, where I can eat a piece of bread smothered with ant and figure, hey, I’m not getting a lot of protein here so this should do.
It’s normal to me, this whole new experiences thing. Does that mean it’s not new anymore? Living in Uganda almost two months, the new becomes harder to find; you almost have to seek it.
I find it in the people: the ditch-digger on the way to work who offers a fresh piece of wisdom every morning (“You have to sweat. You have to want to sweat, or things will never get done”). I find it in the culture: a silky, white fabric that extends to my ankles, smothering me in the heat but making me look quite fly in the process (the Ugandan traditional wear). I find it in the random: an enlightening Borat-watching experience with my host mother’s brother (You try explaining to a local Ugandan the naked wrestling scene).
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The state of being ordinary. What does it mean? And in seven weeks, did I finally reach it?
