Rainy days

“Your jacket is exceeding your arms.”

Cutest way I’ve been ever told my top is too big.

But, yes. The rainy season is upon us in Kampala, and long sleeves are part of the new occasion.

This week I biked to work and passed two other Ugandan men on bicycles, one of which had an alarmingly huge crate strapped to the back of his bicycle, the other was holding a live chicken by the upper crease of its wings.  Apparently it was some sort of blow to their African masculinity to be passed by a woman on a bicycle, because both made an demonstrated effort to peddle frantically in order to pass me back, which alone was amusing enough... only more so when Mr. Chicken used his right hand to gesture where he was turning to oncoming traffic (his right hand containing the chicken.)

“Only in Africa,” I thought to myself.

On the way to work, I look around and try to absorb the novelty of my surroundings, rather than travel the same daily route in a jaded, been-here-long-enough-so-stop-staring-at-me “over-it” mentality (as much as I do feel “over-it” when it comes to Africans shouting "Muzungu, how are you!?" at me) Ugandans, women predominantly, have the task of sweeping the roadways clear with handmade grass strand brooms, typically about 2.5 feet in length and bound with straw twine.  The women bend over sweeping in their long, colorful African-print skirts, and the ones paid whatever measly shillings the Ugandan government affords them for the road duty often wear safety vests. This same practice of sweeping trash, and dirt, takes place within housing compounds, on porches, walkways, sidewalks etc. It’s a bit perplexing that though everyone seems to want these areas cleared of debri, everyone then proceeds to discard of all their garbage willy nilly wherever they’re walking, not to mention the wind and dust and traffic that just pulls it all around back to the areas that were just cleared the day before. (And these small, hand-made brooms a half hour activity out of an area that a push broom could do damage to within a few minutes.) Along the same vein, you find men with small machetes chopping the reeds of grass from the areas along the roads in long, sweeping motions. The original lawn mowers.

Women walk along the streets with large clay bowls full of bananas or mangoes balanced on their heads. At least half of the time, small brown feet peep out of either side of their torso, connected to an immobilized baby strapped tightly to their backs by kitenges, or colorful African cloths tied tightly to keep mom hands-free to work in the field, balance things on her head, and cook--maybe all at once.

While on safari, I hung out of the Land Cruiser's window waving my camera around, occasionally managing to hold it steady enough to snap some photos. The landscape in the countryside is incredibly beautiful. I already am missing it back in the city...

What's for dinner?

It's like camping.

I'm usually covered in dirt five minutes after leaving my house.

I cook by gas stove and headlamp.

I have to eat perishable foods quickly since the refrigeration system operates for just a few hours at a time before losing power.

Anything in the kitchen has to be secured by ziplock so the ants don't go nuts.

I sleep under a tent. (made of mosquito netting)

I can't sit around in the evening without being eaten alive by mosquitos. (otherwise somewhat shielded from by said netting)

Strange, unfamiliar noises often keep me awake at night.

I’m having to learn to sit for hours at a time alone, and entertain myself somehow.

My living situation is un-ideal—and I have yet to decide if I will tough it out or find a new place.  I am looking around to see if something better presents itself, and if so, I will definitely opt for a change. The main problem is that I don't like my roommate, and it's not a comforting place to head home.  She is pretty cold most of the time, and the apartment itself is lacking. My bed is a 4-inch piece of foam on a tiny wood frame... I don't even think it is fully twin-size.  That, and a bedside table the look and size of a stool are the only things in my room.  The city of Kampala is so hectic—traffic is crazy.  In fact, I narrowly missed getting hit by a van on the way to work yesterday morning, inches separated my body from its front bumper…I entered the office with my hands still shaking.  The city and its inhabitants are in-your-face-at-all-times.  Some would call it vibrant and lively.  I call it mostly terrifying and stressful.  I'm sure speaking Luganda would help, then I wouldn't be so alarmed at the things people shout to each other. It does get old having people yell "Muzungu!" (white-person) or "Muzungu, we go?" (if calling from a boda-boda) at me all the time.  I'm not sure it would be appropriate to shout "African!" back.... It’s cuter when kids shout it, laughing and waving.

The concept of prepaid phone minutes and Internet is driving me crazy. The time difference between here and Portland makes it hard to connect with people, so I have to either plan my morning or nights getting to the office or an internet cafe at weird times to even make it work… and I discovered that during the rainy season you have plan even more, because you might get trapped. 

I was trapped for four hours at an Internet café about 15 minutes up the road from my apartment, as the monsoon tropical rains have started to come in intervals, and boda-bodas don’t run in that kind of weather. There was also no way I could carry my laptop or make it back without a jacket, umbrella, or boat.

An Internet café with decent food sounds like the perfect place to be trapped in this sort of scenario; however, I realized in 10 minutes that their open WiFi connection wouldn’t support Skype, the whole original purpose of my visit.  I used the remaining 400MB of my prepaid stick (which I had fortunately carried there with me) in about an hour, thanks to Skype’s overzealous bandwidth usage.  The rain began as I was finishing my breakfast (and honestly, rain seems to docile of a word to describe what this weather looks like—and I am from Oregon.)  Will upload a shoddy video shortly, hopefully it will give an idea of what it looks like.  I soon realized their WiFi would no longer work at all, not even slowly, to support checking email or anything else. I was lucky enough to have a book with me, but it was pretty ironic to be stuck without Internet with a laptop in the middle of an Internet café.

…

Last night I hurried to an open café within the middle of a city mall to try and catch a couple people on Skype, and purchase more credit for my Internet stick.  The bank was already closed, so I couldn’t pick up my debit card, so I couldn’t withdraw more $, so I couldn’t buy the credit.

Everything here still feels like a lot of work, and even extended efforts at planning don’t always make it work. I was feeling frustrated, and tired from trying to get everything in order and not have it pan out.  I looked through the menu to pick something out for dinner, feeling somewhat sorry for myself.

And that's why I ordered steak.