I’ve spent a fair amount of time here thinking about goats.
They’re all over the place, “kids” following their mothers, weaving in and out
of buildings and boda-bodas on the side of the road, eating garbage, standing
on top of broken machinery or construction, crawling on their front knees to
nap under parked cars. They’re odd
looking, and sounding, and somewhat hideous and cute at the same time. Like
certain human infants. I asked a local how people can keep track of these goats since they are just wandering around alone and loose all the time--how do people even identify them? How do they know whose goats belong to whom? "They don't." He responded, matter-of-factly. "The goats know where they are from." So apparently, they just walk their little hooves home at dusk and everything is right in the world.
I also have spent time thinking about chickens, and that maybe I
should consider not eating them. On the way to work the other day I saw a man
riding on the back of a boda-boda with two live guineafowl in each hand, upside
down, on either side of the bike, being carried to their fate. I guess that
makes them that much fresher?! It just seemed incredibly inhumane. On Sunday I
went to the local market (picture tin roof lean-tos and hand-dug ditches
surrounding the stalls, keeping the human waste and garbage somewhat separated
from the edibles) and there was an area with stacked cages and chickens just
shoved inside. Women were selecting which ones they wanted, which were then
held up by a wing and inspected to the buyer’s satisfaction. Long-horn cattle
are stacked into trucks with their horns tied to cross bars so they can’t move.
I’ve seen trucks of standard-sized beds with literally 40 cows somehow finagled
onto them.
Things here get stacked, shipped, thrown about, stuffed
together, crowded and pushed. All of these activities are done for a purpose,
to make a living—or dinner—seemingly out of habit and status quo, but so
glaringly callous to my foreign eye.
Saturday turned out to be African-action-packed. Awoken at
5:45 a.m. by the Muslim call-to-prayer booming over loudspeaker from the
Gaddafi Mosque a couple km away (see I’m even using metric measurements now)…
then it was off to work early to Skype for an hour…mostly crying… do a little
worky work… ask my boss to talk privately… cry a bit… explain to her that im
really struggling and my roommate is cold and I don’t like my place blah blah
blah then apologize for treating her like a counselor and explain its because I
have no one to talk to… go buy bread with boss after work (clearly she feels
sorry for me and has offered to let me tag along on her chores)… boda home,
feeling bravely independent enough to tough out a few hours alone… head back
down the neighborhood red dirt road to find a “buffet” lunch for USX 3000 (the
equivalent of about $1.40)… get caught in torrential downpour rainstorm monsoon
because I become disoriented as it starts and run past lunch locale… sit at a
bar soaking wet while it stops… apparently charm a guy who sells pineapples
from a wooden handmade wagon because he tells me in broken English he wants to
make my friend (get scared while he’s talking for a moment because I’m almost
expecting him to say “make my babies” or something)… tell him I want to buy a pineapple,
which he completely carves in 1 minute then gives me for free (score!)… find
lunch buffet place, eat…head to market for baby and regular bananas… back to
the apartment, roommate still nowhere to be found (score!)… put on a bathing
suit top and sit on the balcony in the sun, reading a book about Egyptian
royalty… wave to a 14-year-old girl staring at me from below, who happens to
live in the downstairs apartment and cares for the family baby in exchange for
school fees and staring at me below, who then comes up and literally walks
right into the apartment and stays for an hour, talking to me in broken English
while the 1-year-old stares mute in fear and wonder at me, eventually wanting
to sit in my lap…realize I’ve caused the young neighborhood boys down the
street to gawk and chuckle at my revealed… house guest asks to use my phone to
call her mom and friend who live in a different town (so that must be why she
wanted to come up)… I eventually ask her to leave (nicely)…lay on the floor
(out of sight of neighbors) reading Egypt book… shower… go to Cayenne, a
club/restaurant… meet new expat friends of my coworker from South Africa and
Germany…drink Waragi and Sprite—Ugandan-made gin-type substance… play the
guessing game of “prostitute or fashion-forward” with the club’s female
patrons… realize in reality there are many of both present…. dance dance
dance... tequila shot… dance…. boda price negotiation… wind in hair… “Webale,”
… home.
I may have to buy a motorcycle-type apparatus when I get
home… I’m kind of starting to like it, especially at night, when you can fly by
and the roads are clear of traffic and its quiet, save for the wind rushing
past. Wait, I just remembered home is Portland and it’s raining at least 8
months out of the year. Scratch that, I’ll get a bike when I live somewhere
warm for a long while.
I also realized sometime in the middle of yesterday that my
neighborhood is kind of awesome. It’s a very Ugandan neighborhood, with all
your typical activities taking place around the clock. There are stands where
chapati and rolexes or friend meat are being made for hungry passersby. Markets
take place daily, and little shops bustle with activity as chickens, goats,
children and adults alternately fill-in and shuffle around the streets. Tiny
three chair bars host patrons to play pool or just sit around and drink
beers. Women balance random things
like pillows or rolled up rugs on their heads, and babies on their backs,
people play Parchesi and dice on the cement porches of their 1-room dirt floor
homes, and kids roll bike tires along with a stick, sending goats scattering in
all directions.
On Sunday I ran past Muyenga, toward the countryside, and
caught the view of Lake Victoria below, finally getting almost completely away
from any type of motor vehicle. I
walked to the market and bought carrots and eggs, looked in three different
stores for cheese, unsuccessfully (Ugandans hate cheese.) I watched a friendly neighborhood
soccer game and asked a nearby local questions about when they play, where he
plays, if I can play and which day said play could take place.
In the afternoon, I walked around with a different local up
to Tank Hill Parade, by the Italian Supermarket, high on a hill overlooking the
lake and neighborhoods below. Vervet
monkeys flitted about on construction where luxury apartments are being erected
to take advantage of the view. We then briefly passed through Kabalagala, a
nearby neighborhood about a 20-min walk away, which so happens to be the first
place pubs appeared in Kampala. I saw quite a few restaurants and bars that I’m
curious to visit—the energy of the place was fun and inviting. There’s also a pretty awesome[1]
Mexican restaurant like five minutes away from me owned by an American… and I
definitely ate an Enchilada for dinner tonight.
It’s funny how in two days, nothing really changed—but I can tell I’m riding undulating waves of culture shock—fluctuating between a stubborn resistance to being lonely, uncomfortable and forced to compromise, to accepting the way things are, giving-in, and being ok with that. A few frustrating things happened with people back home this weekend, and I realized again that no one can really help me from there, and I need to help myself. Again, it may seem obvious, but it can be hard to accept internally, and trust that self-reliance will be enough. It’s also frustrating as hell.
I also realized that I really like reading again. Grad
school had ruined reading for me.
When you are forced to read ridiculous amounts each night as requirements,
it stops being something you think of doing for fun. It’s nice to look forward
to something as quiet and solitary as reading, alone, on a balcony. However, I do still miss my
dog.
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