Category Archives: uganda

Not Your Average Office Meeting

unlsignpost

This sign welcomed me this morning to a meeting of roughly 1000 basawo b’ekinansi (doctors of native medicine) at the Mengo Social Centre, home of Uganda’s oldest association for native healers.

Many people dread meetings at work.  They go in knowing they’re either going to be under the gun with some project their boss is expecting results on or so bored that Snood on the BlackBerry can’t compete with the latent urge to turn that tiny stylus into an instrument of suicide. I’m lucky. The meetings I attend are at least interesting, and even when they’re not I can still occupy myself with real-time translation (the meetings are usually held in Luganda). During the past week I’ve attended two such challenging affairs, both involving large groups of basawo.  Both meetings addressed the same topic, which has sparked growing concern among the Ugandan public: why are people performing ritual murders or human sacrifice? More important to these groups of healers, why are some of those people calling themselves traditional healers and what can be done to separate legitimate physicians from charlatans?

The first meeting was at the Ministry of Gender, Labour, and Social Development (i.e. Ministry of Culture).  This meeting had been called once before, but on that day President Museveni spontaneously decided to call the Minister to the State House in Entebbe because he wanted to meet with her about it before she met with practitioners about it.  That day was an exercise in the gross inefficiency of Ugandan bureaucracy that slaps citizens in the face daily.  Now square with the Prez, the minister was kind enough to show up nearly an hour late for the re-convening of these hard-working homeopaths.  Nice.

For the next five hours, we listened to a variety of people present their views on the situation.  Madame Minister started out by noting the laws on the matter.  In Uganda’s Penal Code, the Witchcraft Act says that anyone who kills via witchcraft or supernatural means can be sentenced to life in prison.  That explains why the ministry is interested in calling together these basawo (not that actual witches (baloggo) would be likely to arrive and announce their most violent forms of witchcraft).  She further noted that sacrificing a human, no matter what the purpose, is still murder and as such warrants the death sentence. If the others present at the meeting hadn’t already been completely alientated, they were now.

Some raised concerns about how dangerous the “witch-hunt” atmostphere on the radio is right now. Others noted that it was legitimate Ugandan homeopaths who first reported ritual crimes.  Still others preached to this choir by saying that newspapers and television stations are uncovering murders and blaming them on “ritual sacrifice,” witch doctors,” or “traditional healers” automatically.  The problem with a stigma is that it doesn’t matter whether its foundation is fact or fiction; the stigma sticks.

The bottom line at this meeting and the one I attended today is that Ugandan Traditional Medical Practitioners (henceforth TMPs) are angry. They are being blamed for things they haven’t done and they are being associated with charlatans who ruin honest work for all of them.  A picture of the main singer from today’s performing group captures the emotionally charged atmosphere of both gatherings: what the hell is going on here?

nakayima

Well, one thing that’s going on, as noted at the Ministry of Culture meeting, is a witch hunt.  People are so desperate for a scapegoat that they’ll pin nearly anything on “traditional healers” and cast them out as witch doctors or worse before they have any facts.  Newspapers and television stations are milking this for all it’s worth and then some.  One of the healers present brought forward a plastic bag for a disturbing illustration of how far the media are willing to go to sensationalize this human sacrifice phenomenon.

breadnjam

What you see on the ground in this picture is bread soggied with an excess of red berry jam.  The man who brought it forward collected the sample from the scene of a local “news” story that one of the local television stations had been shooting when he arrived there (I won’t say which station, though he didn’t hesitate to out them).  They made this concoction to look like butchered remains of a sacrificed person.  Whatever they were covering, whether a real murder or not, they had decided to sensationalize it with this manufactured gore.  I’m not sure what’s more sick: sacrificing a human being to get riches or power or whatever else people ask for, or fabricating stories about such sacrifices to make the evening news more interesting.  Mama Fina, the president of Uganda n’eddagala Lyayo (Uganda and its Medicines) looked on with contempt as her bemused colleagues laughed to keep from crying:

mamafina

This problem plaguing Uganda’s native homeopaths and general public touches literally every person I come into contact with in my research.  I’ve hesitated to comment on it because it has little to do with music.  However, on top of the stigma of quackery that these healers already have to fight, now they have another thing to worry about.  For groups who make music about TMPs and their practices (musical and otherwise), this is one more reason to keep singing.

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Ritual and Expressive Culture

Public service announcement: those of you familiar with my travel patterns in Uganda know that I post in clusters because that’s what my internet access allows.  Thanks for sticking with me despite the sporadic nature of my posting habits.  Since I know many of my readers are new to the blogosphere, let me just say this: I hope it isn’t terribly disruptive to your blogging experience.  I’m working to update my blogroll so that when there’s nothing new to read on my page, you can check out other writers, particularly in overlapping Ugandan, African, and musical blogospheres.

During the month of January, I have done even more traveling than usual in eastern Uganda.  I’m attending several different kinds of rituals on these trips.  The first was a funeral for a muswezi healer.  Both that one and the next one installed new baswezi (plural of muswezi) within their clans.  In keeping with my field writing pattern, what follows is a kind of photojournal of my experiences this month.  In contrast to earlier posts and at the request of some readers, I’ve dispensed with trying to make it look pretty and just used big versions of the pictures.  Enjoy!

So much of my experience here has been consistent with patterns that I observed in my master’s thesis: ritual expressive culture brings together music with other arts in an aesthetic common to the entire Interlacustrine Region (that’s academic fancyspeak for the place between all those big lakes in East Africa).  That thesis used musical instruments as one form of evidence for these cultural cross-currents.  Well, I’ve discovered some new instruments that appear to be unique to eastern Uganda, but their appearance remains consistent with other ritual art in this region.  These are called bugwala (singular: kagwala) and they work somewhat like a kazoo in terms of sound production.

kagwala1

They’re pictured above and below with the rukinga headbands found among spirit mediums throughout this region.

kagwala2

At an olumbe (funeral) for a muswezi healer, I got the rare opportunity to see the ritual master of ceremonies “dressing” these instruments.  The man named Kyambu below calls the beads “clothing for the bugwala.”  Here’s his infectious grin as he finishes the work:

kyambuakolabugwala

Some might eschew comparisons to the kazoo (particularly when they want their research to be taken seriously).  I’ve thought about this for a long time, and I think the comparison is apt.  Those who play bugwala are called nabuzaana when they are possessed, because they play out the un-lived dramas and games of children who died as babies.  They beat the ground looking for edible ants, they sing children’s songs, and they go around blowing their bugwala in cacophonous heterophony as people offer ritual contributions for their mini-performances:

bafuuwabugwala

Finally, one of the most interesting things to note about the physical culture of ritual here has been how it marks the initiated.  In some cases it’s clear simply by looking at someone’s attire that he can be musically initiated without having been ritually initiated.  The ritually initiated must wear appropriate garb, because otherwise their patron spirits will either refuse to come or rebuke them when they note the absence of proper attire (or music, or sacrificial animals).  Here a young drummer embodies this divide, which is sometimes generational, sometimes merely experiential, and always notable:

oldandnew

I return to the east this week for some follow-up work on the rituals I’ve attended there and hopefully scheduling more trips to observe other rituals.  January has gone fast, and I’m sure February will go even faster.  However, I plan to be in Kampala more in the coming months, so hopefully that can mean more posts.  Until next time, beera bulungi (be well).

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Exporting Hope

I wrote this half-post as Obama was closing in on the American elections in early November:

Today I woke up in Ntinda, a sizeable suburb of Kampala, and and ate breakfast while I watched an Al-Jezeera feed about the American presidential elections.  In just less than two weeks while I’ve been here, the East African media has gotten very creative with the  amount of influence that an Obama presidency would have on Africa as a whole.  Kenya has been particularly excited about president-elect Obama, which comes as no surprise.  Many politicians in this part of the world are loyal to their families, clan mates, and fellow soldiers before anyone else.

There are few moderate voices in this hopegasm.  The New Vision, Uganda’s English language daily, printed a front page banner headline last week saying, “AFRICA TO TOP OBAMA’S AGENDA.”  The story they printed made me think that the entire continent has forgotten one very important detail: Obama is still American.  His agenda is still going to have to respond to the constituency that elected him.

Now with three months’ distance, we are a week into the new president’s first term (and I say first because I am still audacious and hopeful).  The spectre of worldwide divisions over the current Isreali conflict, the sobering picture of what the American economy will serve up for the rest of the world next, and the Iraqi quagmire exacerbating the whole thing, it seems that America’s current #1 emotional export might be more necessary in the States than anywhere else right now.  So far I like the Ugandan approach: where the top choice of medium for news is usually radio, people have been listening to Obama’s inauguration speech over and over again.  I’ve written before about the art of great leadership.  If speech writing and delivery gives any clear indications of that art, then that oration is worth reproducing here in America’s newest preferred form of info flow.

My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors.  I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath.  The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace.  Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms.  At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been.  So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood.  Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred.  Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age.  Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered.  Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics.  Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real.  They are serious and they are many.  They will not be met easily or in a short span of time.  But know this, America –  they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things.  The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation:  the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given.  It must be earned.  Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less.  It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.  Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.

Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life.  They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today.  We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth.  Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began.  Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year.  Our capacity remains undiminished.  But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions – that time has surely passed.  Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done.  The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act – not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth.  We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together.  We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology’s wonders to raise health care’s quality and lower its cost.  We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories.  And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age.  All this we can do.  And all this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions – who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans.  Their memories are short.  For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them – that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.  The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works – whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified.  Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward.  Where the answer is no, programs will end.  And those of us who manage the public’s dollars will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill.  Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control – and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous.  The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart – not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.  Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations.  Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake.  And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born:  know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.  They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please.  Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy.  Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort – even greater cooperation and understanding between nations.  We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan.  With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet.  We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness.  We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus – and non-believers.  We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.  To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West – know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.  To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.  And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world’s resources without regard to effect.  For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains.  They have something to tell us today, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages.  We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves.  And yet, at this moment – a moment that will define a generation – it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies.  It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours.  It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new.  The instruments with which we meet them may be new.  But those values upon which our success depends – hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism – these things are old.  These things are true.  They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history.  What is demanded then is a return to these truths.  What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility – a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence – the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed – why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled.  In the year of America’s birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river.  The capital was abandoned.  The enemy was advancing.  The snow was stained with blood.  At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

“Let it be told to the future world…that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive…that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it].”

America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words.  With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come.  Let it be said by our children’s children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God’s grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.

As the world listens to these words and reads them over again in the blogosphere, as we observe Obama’s actions and measure them against these words, we also react expressively.  East Africans’ faith in Obama often literally makes a caricature of his campaign promises:

yeswecan

And, less creatively, tries to capitalize on his popularity:

obamashopping

But if the Professor President has anything tangible to offer the world, it will almost surely take the form of new directions that we never knew possible within the boundaries of our system…because that’s what it means to “form a more perfect union.”

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Victorian Holiday

thelookout

I’m just back from a few days of much-needed R&R at Lake Victoria.  My dear hosts, members of the Ffumbe Clan all, took me to Nalubaale (the Luganda name for the giant lake that feeds the Nile).  We had a really nice dinner on Christmas day and then left the following day for Nabinoonya Beach.  Incidentally, 75 degree weather by the lake isn’t that much different from sunny Florida this time of year.

We do Christmas dinner Kiganda style: on the floor with banana leaves for a table.  Here’s Maama and her house girl, a clanmate whom Maama and Taata took in as part of the family.  Her name is the female version of mine—Nakigozi—but I nicknamed her Nakinyonyi (basically meaning “Big Bird”) because she smiles a lot.  Oh.  Except in pictures.  People seem to have an aversion to smiles in pictures here unless prompted.  xmasdinner

Anyway, dinner on the floor makes a fantastic mess.  Fun for the kids and all, but probably not so for Maama and Nakinyonyi, who might not be smiling because they put all of this together AND clean it up.  Three cheers for them!  I generally have two roadblocks to helping with such things: I’m a man and I’m a guest, and neither of those people usually helps out in the kitchen or with cleaning.  Still, I try to do what I can when nobody is looking.  Nakinyonyi still scolds me for it.
sunnynalubaale

winkdoug

The beach is beautiful as we arrive.  Douglas Mugumya is pretty stoked up for several days of nonstop soccer (and I do mean nonstop).

Gloria just got her hair done before Christmas.
gloriabeach

Mr. Magoba is in good spirits, wearing what I deem to be a typical “Dad” shirt: red plaid, but African style.  What a combination!  He wears it when he’s in relaxation mode.  Maama is decked out in her day-glo green quasi West African garb as she kneads dough for chapatti and the men sharpen sticks to roast meat.  Yum!

magobabeach

chapattimama

That’s my muganda (brother) Frank on the left and my kojja (mother’s brother) Vincent on the right.   frankvincemeatFor a boy who’s allergic to meat, Vincent sure does like to butcher animals and roast meat.  I don’t get it; maybe he can sort of live vicariously through smell or something.  Maybe he doesn’t miss it at all.  I don’t get that either. Vegetarians escape my understanding.  I’m an omnivore (excluding readers, of course).

The rest of the weekend is totally fun.  There’s a dance party (meat-in-hand! What?)

danceparty

An elephant ride (well, sort of)

elephantride

goatslaughter

We butcher a goat (yes, that’s me stringing up a headless goat) and have a feast:

And there’s ample time to enjoy the lake (I insist on lake instead of beach and my Florida readers understand why, but it is truly beautiful here). We even see a couple of monkeys!  No good pix of that; those suckers are hard to capture on film!

rockysunnybeach

statuesquevictoria

And now, a moment of Zen: goat haggis anyone?

goatguts

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To the Village

The village occupies a position in African lore, lore about Africa, African art and music as a place at once idealized and caricaturized by the very sights and sounds that make up its cultural topography and soundscape.  For those of us who consider ourselves to be students of Africa and African music, the village and its inhabitants are libraries on fire.  These are places and people who have much to teach the world when we are willing to listen.  One of the main reasons I have come back to Uganda is to learn what I can about local cultural logic and ontology, what V.Y. Mudimbe called African gnosis, from a specific kind of music rooted in village life.

This music has many names depending on the regional and linguistic context and the instrumentation, but most of the local peoples associate it with spirit mediumship, or kusamira.  I’ve spent the last several years reading and writing about spirit possession and mediumship in Africa with a specific focus on the music of spirit mediumship in East Africa.  In my master’s thesis I theorized this kind of music broadly as a clear manifestation of expressive culture common to the entire Interlacustrine or “Great Lakes” Region of East Africa.  In this context, I used the term kubandwa, deriving from the proto-Bantu root –band– (something pressed or oppressed).  Having read a lot of literature on so-called “cults of affliction,” I later posited kubandwa as a musical habitus (in the Maussian understanding of techniques du corps) that people in this region use to approach common health problems.  In short, people in this region situate kubandwa as a set of bodily techniques within rituals that Victor Turner would call dramaturgies (basically, drama + liturgy = dramaturgy).  This has a lot of other implications, but I’ll save them for more academic forums.  It suffices here to say that kusamira, a local conception of the kubandwa concept, emerges from the same context: a village approach to understanding and solving problems.

In Uganda today, the popular understanding of kusamira practitioners paints them at best as “traditional healers” (whatever that is) and at worst “witch doctors.”  The latter is inaccurate on two counts.  First, there are witch doctors in East Africa who make their living as hired specialists either inflicting harm or removing curses inflicted on their clients by their fellow witch doctors.  In Luganda, these are baloggo.  Secondly, popular parlance filters the term “witch doctor” through a post-colonial Christian notion of evil people who associate themselves with demons and other witches as they carry out their satanic deeds.  That’s quite a stigma to attach to people who, like their parents and grandparents, work to alleviate the most common problems facing their communities.

My trips “up-country,” to the village, to places where kusamira practitioners do their work, paints a much different picture: these people are basawo w’ekinansi (Luganda) or basawo w’ekilugavu (Lusoga), literally meaning doctors of native or local medicine.  They are also basamize (Luganda) or baswezi (Lusoga): those on whom the spirits come, those who samira (the verb is actually transitive, which is significant if you’re into language).  They do this in order to perform a spiritual diagnosis of their clients’ problems, and they use music to call the spirits for the diagnosis.  These people do not choose their profession; the spirits choose them through kusamira.  So among the general purposes for kusamira performance, diagnosis, therapy, and the need for a new basawo in a community are common reasons make this kind of music.

However, I’m noticing a different kind of kusamira performance here.  I’ll call it a kusamira exhibition performance.  It’s the kind of performance that a muzungu like me is most likely to see.  It has the feel of “Look at us—this is how we kusamira—it looks like this.”  It’s present in the culture, however, for other reasons.  It’s a kind of rehearsal of appropriate ritual behaviors.  The performers treat these performances as if the spirits are no less present there than in diagnosis or therapy but things are a bit looser.  Children often learn how to play and sing this kind of music in these exhibition performances.  Adults use them to train young basawo, and they’re common enough that one of my field consultants says “it’s hard to go a day without hearing the drums somewhere nearby.”  The drums he’s referring to are nswezi, the Soga drums for kusamira.getsetup

So one day I’m asking questions about these drums called nswezi.  They’re unique to kusamira performances in Busoga, the eastern kingdom/region of Uganda.  They’re hanging above my head in a small hut where a man named Kyambu (pronounced “cha-mbu”) conducts his sessions with clients.  I don’t have to show Kyambu my insatiable interest in these drums for very long before he starts pulling them down and calling in his brother and his sons to play them.  We get them all set up in his little hut, but then it’s crowded and he decides we might as well get them outside really play them. This doesn’t take long to draw a crowd.

awozaengoma

His sons lay them out on emikeeka or palm mats and clean the heads just as they would before any kusamira session: they use a banana leaf drenched with water.

costumeup

When they hear  the drums, Kyambu’s wives and some neighbors decide that they want part of the action and they start preparing the appropriate ritual accoutrement. They wear lukinga headbands and large necklaces, and the various objects in their hands belong to specific spirits within the regional pantheon.

The children follow suit, displaying a phenomenon of village life crucial to transmitting expressive culture between generations: the process of enculturation in this case literally inscribes tradition onto/into the body through ritual objects and musical behaviors.

enculturatingkid

Kyambu runs back and forth from his hut bringing a seemingly endless supply of these ritual objects.  Soon he comes walking briskly out of the hut with small aerophones made from gourds.

eggwala

At right: these are eggwala, and basamize sing through them like transverse kazoos with either a spider web or a thin piece of paper stretched over the smaller end.  They mask the vulgarities and epithets  common in ritual singing.

The drums start up, and people casually start singing a few at a time.  The whole thing has the feel of a rehearsal—even the spatial arrangement of the musicians, who face each other.

facingdrums

kyambufriends

Below right: the gooddoctor, Kyambu, his many children, and some others from the village, with his wives and other basamize seated in front.

They finish a couple of songs in this arrangement, and then they invite me to try my hand with the drums.  I had hoped things would happen this way.  These are some of the people I want to apprentice as I vacillate between observation and participant observation.  The smallest drum in the set, mugejje, has the simplest part, so I take a seat and play for a while as I observe the more complex four-drum part.

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It’s quite a spectacle.  The child in front of me doesn’t want to get within five feet of me without screaming in fear  (he’s literally never seen a muzungu before), but I guess once I start playing he gets to thinking I’m okay after all.  The other drummers agree to teach me to play the lower four drums when I come back, but presently it’s time for lunch.

Earlier in the day, Kyambu’s wives presented me with a live male chicken.  This is a common gift for a muko or male in-law and for honored guests.  I am humbled and honored by the gift, especially because Kyambu doesn’t eat chicken (it’s taboo for some basamize for spiritual reasons).  I don’t seen any chickens around, so they might have gone to some length to procure this one.  I decide to respond as a gracious guest is expected to here: I tell them to cook it and during lunch I share it with the others present—those who eat chicken, that is.  It’s not the first time anyone has ever presented me with chicken as a gift of food when I visited, but it’s the first time that anyone has ever done it the traditional way by presenting me with the live chicken and asking for my instructions.  I’m overwhelmed and humbled by their hospitality.  I can’t escape the irony of negative stigma regarding basawo.  They have in my experience been as kind and hospitable as any of my other hosts and close friends here.

After lunch a very interesting thing happens.  The group sets up again, but this time they put the drums in front of the singers and the basamize adjacent to the drums where they can get up and dance in front of the whole ensemble.  It’s more like…well, more like they’re on stage.

rearrangedThe two men seated on a nearly perpendicular line to the larger group are basamize mediums.  They’re kind of “staging possession” here.  This is what I mean by a kusamira exhibition.  They do all of the things they would normally do in any kusamira ritual: they tremble when the spirits grab their heads/bodies (“kwata ku mutwe”), they shout rhythmically as this is happening, and when they’re possessed their voices sound different, as they are the voices of the ancestors.  The other performers greet the ancestors as they would greet their bajajja (grandparents), and they resume singing songs, now to welcome the spirits who have already come rather than  to call spirits.

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Above, you can see part of an audience under the shade of the hut at the right. The rest of the audience is more interested in my camera and video camera, so they’re standing behind me, something like this:

The youngsters aren’t just watching.  Some of them are also participating and learning.  Others are just getting a feel for a rattle (ennengo) that will have a much different meaning to them in a few short years.

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Why do I think that this “exhibition” performance differs from a “normal” kusamira performance (whatever that is)?  Spirits can say funny things through mediums, and laughter is a normal part of this context, but people are chuckling for other reasons now.  It’s as if they’re not sure what a muzungu will think of this, so they make it kind of light.  The basamize don’t stay possessed as long as they normally would.  I won’t say it’s because people are eager to see the video I’ve shot, but they certainly are eager all the same.  They’ve cleaned the drums, but they haven’t ritually bathed themselves in the way that Baganda basamize do before such a session.  Maybe Basoga don’t do that?  The basamize (those who get possessed) don’t seem to have the same amnesia about what they did or said under the influence of the spirits.  It’s as if they’re performing what this looks like, but it’s so close to the original, to a “normal” kusamira ritual, that I frankly can’t tell what’s being emphasized for my benefit, what’s being exaggerated for the sake of training young ones, and what’s not being done that might otherwise be done.  The spiritual atmosphere is the same, though: despite a few chuckles, people treat the ancestors with respect just as they always would.  If those ancestors are functioning as they always do, as helpers for the living, then what truly is the difference? Maybe the camera can tell us.

watchingtinycameraNext week I’m going to a different village to work with some of the basawo from this group and some of their colleagues in a different district.  Here’s where it gets interesting from a spiritual perspective: they’re preparing an end-of-year/Christmas celebration for the 23rd and 24th.  Many of the people I work with practice Islam or Christianity, and nearly all celebrate Christmas no matter what their religious loyalties.  It’s plainly not because the kids want presents on Christmas morning (they don’t really do that).  Whatever their reasons, one thing is clear: everything from the rosaries people wear around their necks even as they welcome ancestral spirits to the celebration of holidays in multiple religious traditions indicates a kind of spiritual flexibility, a plurality uncommon in a world of increasing polarization and religious extremism.  This is not merely tolerance; it’s a full-on embrace of two forces that collided head-on through colonization and missionization, and Uganda has the martyrs to prove it.  As I move forward with this work, I wonder what that aspect of the village can teach us about being-in-the-world (as existential phenomenology would have it).  What might these performances reveal about a village African gnosis and its value in the world?

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November: Munsenene

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It’s November here in Kampala, and that means two things: it rains every day around the same time, so it’s a bit like Tallahassee in August with slightly less humidity; and Grasshoppers are in season.  In fact, the name for November in Luganda, Munsenene, comes from the name for the grasshopper, ensenene.

On the first night of the month I find myself at a local bar with a friend who has invited me to dinner at his house.  Confused?  I am too, at first.  When I arrive at his house, he has to run a quick errand and he invites me to come along. I’ve known the guy for a while so I play along.  He drops some cash with another guy outside the gate of his compound, explaining to me that this guy has just moved a piano for him.  (Is that all?  Just picked it up, huh?)  With the “errand” out of the way, my friend says to me, “Well, dinner’s not ready yet.  Let’s take a walk.”  He likes beer, so I can kind of see where this is going.  Although it’s still unorthodox, his wife is out of town, so maybe he’s not hanging around the house to have a drink with her before dinner.  With his daughter back home working away in the kitchen, I suppose it’s time for the mouse to play.

Sure enough, we turn a corner and three or four buddies greet him.  They’re sitting at a local pub, which is a small cement patio with plastic chairs outside an even smaller cement shelter containing a few refrigerators.  We all exchange greetings, my friend feeling proud to show off the mugenyi (guest) who can sling a bit of Luganda.  We have a beer, catch up a bit, and chat with the guys at the pub.

We’re both relaxing into the beautiful evening a bit when my friend orders a second round and two young men sit down to his left.  He introduces me as Kigozi to these guys, which is my cue to greet them properly mu Luganda.  The one particularly boisterous guy finishes greeting me and then says, “Mmanyi Kigozi! Yeddira Ffumbe, era Neddira Ffumbe.”  (roughly: “I know Kigozi—we’re clan mates!”).  Not only do we share a totem, but it turns out that the person who arranged for my naming is this guy’s biological uncle.  I suddenly recognize him from a large family gathering in 2006.  Don’t ask me how, but in a city of a million plus people, this kind of thing happens every day.

Muganda wange!” (my brother—cousins call each other brothers and sisters, and he would even call my “father” taata like me)  He orders a beer and something else, though by this time the whole group of men is too excited about an interesting connection in their sphere for me to notice what it is.  When the barkeep brings his beer, she lays out some plates on the small tables and spoons up something I’ve only ever seen in plastic bags at the market: ensenene.  Naturally, they ask the conspicuous mzungu if I’ve ever tried them.  Nope, but I’ll try anything once. To my delight, ensenene taste like shrimp, so I snag a handful.  They’re salty and slightly spicy from the piri-piri (spicy powder)–perfect with a cold beer!

That night I get back home and everyone there is stoked up that I’ve had a chance to try some ensenene.  Perhaps a bit disappointed that they weren’t the first to serve me the seasonal delicacy, they wake me up the next morning with this:

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“For breakfast?” I ask my host family.

“Oh yeah. Anytime!” they say practically in unison.

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Hmmm . . . a lot more appetizing in the dark.  Still, I don’t exactly eat peanuts for breakfast in the states either.  It turns out they’re as tasty with caayi (African milk tea) as they are with beer. Variety is the spice of life, right?

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Ekyoto: Stories Around the Fire

Part of Taata‘s (Dad/Mr. Magoba) job at CBS is to host a vernacular radio program called Ekyoto.  It’s a folklore program that’s fairly popular within Buganda.

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He tries to cater to a family audience with some fun games for kids and some really interesting language games that are fun for all ages.  He was kind enough to invite me to the program several times during my last visit.  The day after I arrived in town, he hosted me on the program to witness the dramatic stylings of several students from Makerere University.

They enjoyed musical collaborations with students from Makerere’s Department of Music, Dance, and Drama.102508-5

Magoba writes the radio plays himself, and the games and songs come along between plays and commercials.  The adverts you see on the wall are for Entanda ya Buganda, which is a periodical published by CBS and printed by New Vision.  Mr. Magoba is a major contributor and he supervises the marketing of the mag as well.  There are also two students from the Uganda Martyrs’ Primary School there on the left.

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Ekyoto is always fun, so I hope to be on the program again.  Many times the guests are school music programs that have done well in the national school music competition cycle.  Really good kids, amazingly long attention spans, and fantastic music…maybe I’ll try to include a sound clip next time!

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