The Science of Dating in Kampala

Firstly let me say, I’m a dater.  I love dating, I have been on thousands of dates, I feel like I could write a manual just on the subject.  Internet dating?  You name the app, I’ve applied it.  OK Cupid is my favorite because I just have too many deal breakers to not sort through some of that shit before spending my precious time on a date.  I tried picking up a guy from a bar once, he told me he didn’t believe in gay people.  Didn’t believe they existed.  I left him at the subway stop.

In the US I got so good at dating I would take my dates on a randomized control trial of dates.  I’d take each man on the same date, each date with the appropriate number of stops in case things got weird/boring.  Coffee, then dinner, then drinks, then my place (for-another-drink-nothing-more-ma).  But through such a rigorous scientific process I was able to directly compare and contrast.  Do I pick the burly man twice my height with muscles etched deeper than the grand canyon?  Who picked me up and tossed me over the railing when I tried to get onto my roof?  Or the one who on the same roof got giggly off two glasses of wine but made me laugh until my sides hurt? (I always pick humor.)

The moral of the story is: science wins. 

Except when there is a complete dearth of people to date.  The sample size is just too small for anything to be significant.  I’m out of my country but still recognize the importance of someone being similar enough in education and upbringing to me to make things work.  Most expat men here either have beautiful wives/girlfriends, are leaving in a week and are just passing through, or feel they can do better, because after all, expat men outnumber us expat women 5 to 1 (or something.). 

I tried my old trusted methods.  On Ok Cupid I was asked “could I date a squid?” and “could I lift him?”  On Tinder I mostly get “I’m a pilot who is here for the night an hour away from Kampala.  Could you meet me ‘cause you cute.”  I’ve been told “I have curly hair too. We’d make some great curly haired babies.” 

This week I hit the jackpot.  A Jewish man from the states who loves Louis CK and makes jokes about schtetls.  WINNING.  He and his mom were visiting the family that they helped put through school for the last 10 years.  We went out with his “sister and brother” to various clubs.  He was flirtatious.  I started planning our son’s bris. Then I turn around and he’s making out with his 18-year-old Sponsor a Sister.  Oi.

SO now dear readers, I’m giving up.  And not one of those: I’m giving up but only to keep looking behind me to see if he’s “been there the whole time” kind of giving up.  That’s it.  Fin.  Shesh.


I'm just going to buckle down and save more babies from Malaria.  Because that's the science that matters.  Right?

No I cannot lift you.

26th Birthday

I was an extremely ugly newborn.  Slightly squished, yellow with jaundice, I had hair on the palms of my hands and eyes that took up most of my head.  My mom likes to lovingly share how she was a little scared of me.  But I grew up to be (a little) less yellow, proud to say I have no more furry palms, and celebrated my 26^th birthday with 11 other new friends on the beach of Zanzibar.

I first flew to Dar Es Salaam to spend Thanksgiving with my good friend Valerie who is working on malaria in Tanzania.  Val fights malaria by day and by night retires to her beautiful house on the beach.  We lounged on big throw pillows on her balcony 6 stories up and drank cold white wine in the hot sea breeze.  It could have been an illustration in Eat, Pray, Love.  And then we did eat.

We went to somebody’s house who does somethin’ with the American Embassy, for Thanksgiving.  There were around 50 expats with their children and their grandma’s pumpkinpie/stuffing/gravy/biscuits.  It was proper.  I brought the caramelized dates stuffed with blue cheese wrapped in bacon, so I won.  After stuffing ourselves until our stomachs were reasonably pooched, we sat around and watched American Football.  We all stood up, in Tanzania, thousands of miles away from our home, put our hands on our hearts and sang the American Anthem.  I was moved.  Which is a lot of patriotism for someone who got in trouble in high school Homeroom for protesting the National Anthem. It was nice.  It made me miss my family a little less and appreciate this stupid crazy life I’m living.

We woke up at 5am and drove to the ferry where we met up with the other 10 people on our trip.  A good mixture of boys and girls and just enough who’ssleepingwithwho to make things interesting.  The two hour ferry ride ended in Stone Town, Zanzibar.  Stone town is a revolutionary port city known for its intricate wooden doors, spices, and seafood.  We luxuriated in the tiny alleys, and velvety, salty air for two hours before taking a taxi to the beach town of Nungwi. 

When arriving at the resort, I immediately stripped down into my bathing suit, put a beverage in my hand, and didn’t change that situation for 4 days.  I ate crusteaceans the size of my forearm.  I took a little rickety sailboat out and went snorkeling among the coral reefs.  I swam in a lagoon of tortoises.  On Saturday night I met some new friends and followed them to a party on a beach.  It was a scintillating new group.  We all had to pick dares out of the basket to accomplish before the night was out.  I had to kiss a stranger.  The beat was thumping and the lights flashing.  I locked eyes with a stranger and slid over to him.  My hair grazed his neck, I wrapped my fingers around his hair, and passionately kissed him, just to turn away and disappear into the crowd.  Or something.

We danced until the music stopped.  But there were still a few more dares to be completed before the night could end.  My new friend needed to go skinny dipping in the ocean.  She ran.  We followed.  Naked as the day I was born (a little less scary hopefully), I crashed into the Indian Ocean with 4 strangers.  It was warm and the sky was bright with stars.  Two pairs split off to be romantic and I kept dodging the one guy left like a 5 year old.  But I was in Tanzania!  In the Indian Ocean!  At 5 am!  I just turned 26 and blew out candles in a lobster!  It was as magical and twinkly as it could get. 

I think skinny dipping in the ocean is a sure way to get Giardia.

WORTH IT.

How To: Eat Grasshoppers (Nsenene) in Uganda

Church in Uganda

I went to church.  I haven’t been to a proper church since my grandmother insisted I receive my communion and my mom bargained with the nuns to make sure I only had to go through one year of religious classes and not two.

“I taught her all the prayers,” she said in her thick Brooklyn accent, on the phone with the nuns.  “She knows the Hail Mary, she knows the Godfather…”  My other mother almost peed herself laughing in the background.

I did go to classes for a year, and I did receive my communion.  And I did learn the difference between the Godfather and the prayer: Our Father. I haven’t been back since.

But Uganda is religious, and primarily Christian. And if I’m going to live in this country, I might as well try to understand it.  It may be a good opportunity to continue my personal pilgrimage (ChelseaToSea: On Science and Faith) to get a little faith myself, or at least not be so afraid of it.

I got up early on Sunday morning and met up with my coworker, her two sisters, her mother, her father, and her tiny niece.  Her niece loved me. Took my hand, looked adoringly in my eyes.  And then hated me, scowled whenever I looked at her and insisted she sit next to mommy and not Chelsea in the church pews.

The church was simple and not at all like the Catholic church I grew up going to.  The pews were movable wooden benches and everyone had to bring their own bibles.  The ceiling was high and white and cracked.  Cows looked on through the windows.  And there was music.  Not the high, silvery notes like the Catholic choir, but deep belly notes coming from drums, alto singers and a saxophone player.  There was a TV screen in the background sharing the lyrics so that you could sing along. I loved it.  I swayed and danced and clapped and sang and the niece started to like me again (kind of), so I could use her as security blanket and danced with her.  They served a delicious lunch and then we kept singing. 

“I could really get used to this.  This is a ton of fun.”

And then it started. 

“We have a lot of money to give to the needy today, but not, of course, if you’re gay!!”  The crowd burst out laughing and applauding.

“I am married, to a wife, she is a woman.”  Another round of laughter and applause.

I felt like I was undercover.  A gazelle wearing a lion skin in a pride.  A black woman hiding under a white pointed cloak. 

If there is a god, wouldn’t it want us all to love in every possible way? Why would it punish us for acts of love?  Wouldn’t it want us to be open and loving and caring toward everyone?

If this god preaches that my parents belong in the bubbling circles of hell just for loving each other, then this god is not my god.

Bill Clinton

I was 16 and getting my hair cut.  I was going to high school in Key West, was obsessed with the idea of becoming a top journalist one day, and was wearing my hair in long curls.  I wanted to be an undercover journalist to be exact.  One that put herself in dangerous situations to expose the truth.  I went to summer camps dedicated to journalism and was the editor in chief of my school paper.  

Luckily I was too oblivious and happy to know just how nerdy I was.

On this day I was sitting in the salon chair when a local reporter burst in.

“Bill Clinton is walking down the street!”

This is my chance.  MY CHANCE TO EXPOSE THE TRUTH.

I jumped out of the chair, borrowed a clipboard and camera, and ran off toward the former President.  He was surrounded by Key West tourists in their parrot shirts and bodyguards who stood out in all black. 

“I’m a student reporter!  I work for the newspaper! I’m a student reporter!” I screamed, wet hair flying.

Then, former President Bill Clinton said, “Let her through.”  Like Moses parting the damn Red Sea.

Bill, Billy, put his arm around me, and we walked and talked for 3 blocks.  I asked him how he was liking Key West and what advice he would give to aspiring young politicians.  He told me he liked my name.  I blacked out with happiness.

When it was time for him to visit Margaritaville for a burger (poor choice President Clinton) I left him to get the second part of my hair cut.  The journalist from before met me in the salon. 

“Chelsea!  You were the only one to get the story!  Can you write it up for ALL THE PAPERS?”

And I did.  After that, the local paper hired me and I wrote from them every summer until I graduated high school.  And I realized, I gotta get some kind of specialty because general journalism is not nearly as sexy as I thought it would be.  And so I studied health.

Now, 9 years later, I work for a public health NGO owned by Bill Clinton. 

Isn’t that something?

Check out my two-lengthed hair

Moms

I have two mothers.  Two mothers, one sister, one female dog and one female cat.  There’s a lot of estrogen and that’s the way I like it.  I never really noticed that I grew up in a “nontraditional” family.  It was never a thing.  My parents were proud but not loud.  Generally. 

I grew up in Brooklyn.  Coney Island then Park Slope then Red Hook.  These days, Brooklyn is almost oppressively liberal.  If you’re not seeing through rainbow glasses you are shunned as close minded and obsolete and worst of all, unhip.  As it should be.  But growing up in the nineties, there were still a few kinks to be worked out.

My kindergarten teacher in P.S. 321 was Trudy.  Trudy had a beehive grey haircut and smoked like a chimney.  She liked yelling at us and telling us the raunchy parts of Greek mythology.  I was 4.  We had to share a picture of our family.  I drew one with three cats, one curly haired mommy and one blonde mommy. 

“Where’s your dad?” She rasped.

“I don’t have a daddy, I have two mommies.”

“That’s impossible. You’re a liar.”

I went home and told my two lesbian mothers.

They came in the next day, in their nineties high rise jeans and cowboy boots, and went straight up to Trudy in the middle of the classroom. 

“Hi.  We’re Chelsea’s moms. She has no dad.  Don’t ever fucking call her a liar again.”

Generally not loud.

In the 6^th grade I learned how to make the genetic predictor tool: Punnett squares.  My mother has blue eyes, I was told my sperm donor had blue eyes, and I have brown eyes.  I worked and reworked my Punnett squares.  This can’t be right, could it?  Two blue eyes and a brown eyed child?

I AM A MEDICAL MIRACLE.

I went home and told my mom.

“Eh, maybe he had brown eyes.  I don’t really remember.  But I know he was a doctor.”

Growing up with two moms was never a thing because they never made it a thing.  But being a doctor was a thing.  Is still a thing even though I’m not a doctor.

“Chel, I have this rash.  Take a look at it and tell me what to do.  You’re the doctor.”

My mom gets naked.

“Ma, the rash is on your arm, why are you naked?!  Also, I’m not a doctor.”

It’s cool, I can be their daughter who is a doctor in Africa.  As long as I keep getting hip points for having lesbian mothers.

You’re a queer, Sudanese refugee who speaks 5 languages and has her own urban garden?

I have two mommies.

BOOYA.

Climbing Luwazi Rock

I carried a Jansport with my sleeping bag, tent and climbing gear dangling from the bag with carabineers, one arm supporting a grocery bag with beans and booze, and the other a gallon of water and a large saucepan on my head.

I hiked with 9 other people knee deep through rice paddies, through the weedy farmland and up onto Luwazi Rock.  The famous Ugandan rock is higher than anything else around it for as far as the eye can see.  The sides are scraggly and jut out into deliciously shady and climbable overhangs.  The top is smooth and clear except for the few collected raindrop puddles.  I’m with a group called the Mountain Climbing Club of Uganda: young, fit, stupidly attractive men and women from all over the world.

The sun was scorching and slapped me silly.  We pitched our tents toward the center of the rock—so as not to roll off in the middle of the night.  With nothing to directly stake the tents, we piled our bags into them and hoped they wouldn’t fly away.

After a few bites from a hunk of cheese and loaf of bread (when I’m camping, the only thing that satisfies me is to eat like a peasant), we set up our climb.  Those more experienced, knotted the ropes around the bolts in the rock.  I leaned over and tested my bravery.  I put on my harness, grabbed the rope, and literally stepped off the cliff, repelling down.  So. Much. Fun.  Once down, the point was to climb back up.  Village kids came to watch us and think “only white people.”

I love rock climbing.  It’s adrenaline inducing.  It’s a riddle to try to figure out where to place your weight, your foot, your hand.  At the bottom of the rock all the beautiful people are cheering you on, then at the top they get bored, and you’re alone with your heartbeat and the sun. 

I climbed up a few times but couldn’t climb up the hard one.  “The Crack.”  Kept swinging off the rock when I jumped to reach this one grip.  I’m going to go back and I’m going to climb it.  Might need to beef up a bit first though.

We climbed until the sun set.  We set up a big roaring bonfire and I cooked my signature: beans and bacon stirred with an oversized spoon in an oversized pot directly nestled in the fire.  We drank whiskey and beer.  The kids stole our speakers so we had to dance to the frog croaks.  I snuck away to quiet spot of the mountain, laid out my sleeping bag on the rock, under the stars, and fell asleep.

At 3am I awoke to a crack of thunder.  All the late night dancers peeled themselves from the rock around the fire and ran to find shelter in the tents.  There were far more tents than people so we crammed in.  The sky was dark green.  I picked up some friends who were too drunk to make it into a tent.  I was afraid they would walk right off the cliff in the night.

“Come with me!” I screamed in way of nurse during wartime battle.

The thunder got louder and the people in my tent started to count the thunder from the lightning. 

“It’s getting closer,” said my German friend in a doomsday voice.

Should we pack the tent and run off the rock?  We were in structures with metal poles, on the top of a rock, in a lightning storm. 

But I was too tired.   Eh, if I die, I die, but at least I’ll be well rested.

We woke up at 6am.  I hadn’t been drinking heavily the night before and was too chipper for some people’s liking.  I’M ALIVE!!  I made some bonfire coffee, my fave, and went to a secluded part of the rock to look out on the villages’ own fires starting up and dotting the green farms far below us.

We spent another day climbing on the cooled down rock.  On the way home we stopped at a village to share a warm beer from a bar without power.