How to Beat a Kampala Hangover

So last night I went to have a drink with my friend Richard. Thing is, it was really Richard and much of his extended family. We met about nine, and just planned to have a couple of beers, but then some more family showed up and we figured out that they were Ffumbe clan (and hence, my brothers). To celebrate the discovery of new family members, one of these fine gentlemen decided to purchase an entire bottle of Uganda Waragi. This stuff tastes a bit like gin and it's about that strong. He proceeded to top off an eight ounce glass for me. Now I hadn't had that much to drink, but this on top of a beer really put me over the edge. It doesn't help that beer bottles here are 500 ml instead of the good ole 300 ml bottles we mortals are accustomed to in the states. So this morning when I was all set to be on campus by 9:00 and didn't wake up until much too late, I had to be in quite a rush. Now, for the moment you've been waiting for: how to kill a Waragi hangover (subtitled Seven Steps well, if not to Heaven than at least out of Hell):

1) Eat the beautiful Equatorial fruit bowl that your roomate has prepared for you (thanks DK--you're the man--pinapple and bananas for breakfast = yum).
2) Wherever you are, find the nearest boda-boda to get there fast.
3) Make sure he can see straight, even if you can't.
4) Enjoy the refreshing mist of the cool rain just beginning to fall.
5) Take four straight hours of Luganda lessons. This is a real buzzkill when you'd really rather be sleeping.
6) Eat a big lunch.
7) All better!

In spite of the fact that I throbbed through the entire Luganda session this morning, I sit here at 2 PM free of headache and finally rid of the smell of Uganda Waragi. Thanks muganda wange empya (new brother). Diplomacy in kinship, she is a cruel mistress.

Adventures in the Boda-Boda Kingdom

Kampala is a growing city of nearly two million people, but you would never know it from the public transportation systems and infrastructure. In fact, it's as if Kampala has no idea how big it is or how quickly it's growing. I've never seen a planned neighborhood here, which for an American is refreshing but for most Ugandans is increasingly frustrating. The city operates on a triumvirate of public transport hawkers: 1) the matatu: these are 14 passenger vans, but if you can imagine something that's half as large as a regular 15-passenger van in the U.S. and then cram twenty people into it, your image will be right on. These are usually extremely dirty and if you think the driver smells, the conductor probably smells worse. 2) Special hire: this is for the rich or well-to-do when they are without their cars OR for regular folks who have to haul a bunch of stuff and don't want to piss off the other 19 people in a regular taxi. Special hire drivers are notoriously pushy about getting you into their cars before they overcharge you for a short trip. 3) Boda-boda: first of all, this is one of my favorite Luganda words. To my knowledge there are only two cities in the world that have these: Lagos, Nigeria and Kampala, Uganda. They are basically mopeds (never larger than 100 cc engines for you gearheads), the drivers of which are not quite as pushy as special hires for one reason: they don't have to be. Can you think of a more fun way to spend a quarter when you have to get somewhere?

In Kampala, as in any other city, you have to know a few landmarks to get where you're going. The difference is that in most cities, all the public transport people know most of the landmarks, too. That's certainly true of the matatus and the specials, but when you get on the back of a scooter with a 14-year-old boy driving, you might be in for an adventure in navigation. Most of the time, you try to get a guy who looks a bit older or one who at least wears a helmet. These fellas usually tend not to think they're quite as invincible as the young'uns, who would just as soon kill themselves and you before allowing that ISUZU 18-wheeler go in front of them.

And now for a recurring adventure in the Boda-Boda kingdom . . . inevitably I run into at least one boda drivers per week who has no clue where he's going, is half-drunk, or has simply borrowed the machine from a friend because he was hurting for cash and the other guy had to sleep sometime. Now these dudes are really frustrating, because even if you speak to them in their own language, they will tell you they know the place when they really just want your money. So what happens is you get halfway there and then the dude says: "which way?" If there's another boda driver around, you can just get off, pay the first guy half what you agreed, and gamble again, but if not . . . So after a while you get used to the look on the guy's face BEFORE you board the bike, and you tell him you'll find another driver. Now out of the roughly ten occasions I've done this, about half have resulted in a mad rush of boda drivers coming to me and telling me they know the place. And invariably, one of these poor fellas is hopelessly crosseyed. So while I'm trying not to laugh while he says, "Yes sah, I know the place, I can take you there, you sit and we go," I just think how happy I'll be when I can get in my own car and cause my own problems on the road. In the mean time, it's continued misadventures in the Boda-Boda capital of East Africa.

Editor's Note: I know this is long, but stick with it. It's pretty interesting. I'll do my best to pare down the parts that seem a little long. Happy reading! P.S.- You'll note that changes have been made to this post several times. I finally have accurate info on dowry, which will be enriched by my participation in Kwanjula (see below).

So I'm the best man in a Ugandan wedding, and I thought my faithful readers would want to know a bit about some of the customs here. In days past and in places outside Kampala, a family threw the wedding party for the bride and groom at the home of the bride. Now the family asked this particular groom for 70 cows as an intimidating tactic. He can actually bargain for and bring whatever he wants as long as he includes a few essential items (more on that later) Since at the kwanjula (introduction ceremony, which will happen a week before the wedding), the groom is not allowed to speak, the negotiation part should be interesting. I'll say more about the groom's silence and the essentials of dowry after I've attended and participated in the kwanjula, but for now let's concentrate on cattle and parties. Mooooooo.

The bride's family and the groom's family put on the wedding party, or mbaga, with the help of their villages. Mostly the brides family friends, neighbors, and clanmates would help out by bringing whatever they could manage, sort of like a potluck. Mwenge (crude brew--like moonshine made from bananas and sometimes distilled with sorghum) was brewed, mom made a cake, and they all had a big drunken bash complete with local musicians--sounds like fun, right? Only problem is, now that people live in the city and they either a) don't have the land in the village anymore or b) don't think it makes sense to haul 100 litres of mwenge and a cake from the village (wherever that may be) to Kampala, they have to hire some professionals to help them put on a proper shindig.

Since the average Ugandan in Kampala makes about 400,000-800,000/= (shillings) a month (about $200-400, a living wage in Kampala) with the growing middle class doing a bit better than that, people need to raise some money. I would estimate that the average modest wedding in the city costs somewhere between 10 and 30 million shillings, so that's a lot of bread (or Matooke as it were--that's the staple food here) for your average Kigozi. To get the job done, they have wedding meetings, one of which I attended this evening.

Now these meetings are meant for the sole purpose of raising funds for the bash, but I must admit that they are quite a lot of fun. If you want to make it through one of these things, just bring lots of small change (1K shilling bills and coin change, like stuffin' your pockets with quarters), your smile, and a giving heart. Friends get invited by other friends through the use of pledge cards. Depending on how well someone knows the couple, they might contribute anywhere from 20K/= to 500K/= at a given meeting or on a given pledge card (that's between roughly $10 and $225).

So the first item on the agenda is always prayer, which the chairperson leads or asks someone to lead. He or she is almost always a relative of the couple. After prayer, the "chairman's bag" goes around the group for an initial donation, which he uses to secure locations for future meetings or contribute to whatever particular fund is suffering. There have been between 10 and 15 people at both of the meetings I've attended. These folks are there to support the couple in whatever way they can, but mostly with their cash.

After the chairman's bag goes around, it's time to go through the budget. That's exactly what the chairman does: he goes through the budget, item by item, recognizing the recent contributions and applauding them, asking for support for those items which have been neglected. It was at this point in my first meeting that I decided I needed a drink and contributed some money to some wine for this party.

After the budget, it's time for the auction. Now I've seen plenty of auctions in my day, but these are something else. Someone buys a gift and wraps it (might be the bride, might be the groom, might be the chairman . . . ) and then it's time to pick an auctioneer. At both of the meetings I've been to, the chairman picks three possible candidates to be the auctioneer, usually volunteering himself in that mix. These three get up and campaign NOT to be the auctioneer, and the one who raises the least money has to do the deed. It's not that bad, but it's uncomfortable at first, especially when you don't talk like an auctioneer. As you can plainly see, I didn't raise enough money in this process, so I was the auctioneer this evening.

It's not that interesting to tell you about what bids were made and so on, but what is interesting is that bids aren't made with raised hand or numbered paddle, they're placed with cash. That means that for each bid you make, you put that much cash in the bag. For example, if bidding starts at 5000/=, a person can reduce that by however much she pleases to "unseal" the item. So we collect small donations until someone can afford to "seal" it again for herself or someone else. As you go, you don't want to bid too big because if you get outbid, that large bid is already in the bag and you have to come up with more cash in order to bid again. (Note: the first time I attended one of these babies, I didn't understand the rule and ended up spending 25,000/= on an auction item that I didn't win.) This all goes on for about a half hour, and people make silly rules like: "1,000/= so that the auctioneer can't talk" or "1,000/= supports a song and dance from the chairman," and in order to remove these bidding curses, someone either has to bail the target out or the target has to be filthy rich and bail himself out.

At the end of the day, the group raises about 100 times what the gift cost in the first place, and the couple can buy some more wine to make these people happier at the wedding so that they won't be thinking about what percentage of the cake came out of their pockets.

That's really about it. Then the auctioneer counts the cash and a great announcement is made to celebrate whatever amount was raised by the auction item. The crazy part? The couple doesn't even have to be there if they've got some other important wedding planning to do, like marriage counseling or meeting with the caterer or something. That's right happy couple, while you're out working your butts off to make this thing happen, we'll be right here raising the cash to support you. Now that's community. So even though people don't bring stuff from home like a couple of trees worth of bananas to feed the guests, they still contribute as a community of friends to help their friends throw a good party.

I for one have invested in wine. This particular couple doesn't really drink, but I think a good party ought to have some libations and as long as nobody loses their matooke after too much mwenge, that's okay. So cheers to the happy couple. May your auction item bring as many ridiculous rules as it does shillings, because I'm not walking to the reception and there had better be something to eat and some good music when we get there.

This is about as good a look as you get at a matooke bud. Matooke is a species of banana, and it is the staple food in Uganda. The bananas first get steamed, then pressed with banana leaves, then steamed again before serving with ebinyebwa, which is ground nut (peanut) sauce. Yum!

This is food called Luwombo (a little banana-leaf package with chicken inside). Here's the chicken inside, but it is the method and the package that are called Luwombo. The chicken is called enkoko (one of my favorite Luganda words, though I don't quite know why).

Some fishermen on Lake Victoria.

This is the most gigantic cactus I've ever seen. It is obscuring a house about the size of ours!

July 6

One of my voice teachers used to tell me to "find serenity in what you are doing right now." When things are screwed up in our lives, I find this mantra to be very useful. When I am feeling filled with anger and rage because of the daily frustrations of Kampala, it's just as useful . . .

July 5

My fourth of July was actually kind of fun, in spite of the fact that I am constantly reminded here how privileged our entire existence is. The party at the American Embassy was on Saturday. I went to a friend's new house yesterday mid-afternoon, and we just hung out for most of the evening talking. She landed this house-sitting gig for an embassy employee whose MANSION is the biggest, most disgusting house I've ever seen. It overlooks a huge ravine full of shacks with destitute people. It was bittersweet, and it continues to be for the housesitter I think, but fun to be in a posh place for the afternoon. It's four stories (more than one is unheard of here) and it has three balconies, four full baths, a trampoline, air hockey table, gigantic bedrooms, two refrigerators and a deep-freeze (when most of the country is on power-shedding mode these people have cold beer, which my friend kindly shared with me), and Department of State security detail, not to mention a huge generator in case the power goes out (which it does for only six hours a day between midnight and 6 AM). Our tax dollars hard at work. It's so wrong, and yet somehow it's so right to be just living there a short time, you know?

July 3

One good thing about Uganda: my system has probably never been healthier. Everything I eat here is fresh, so that's pretty kickass.

June 26

So this weekend I went to a graduation party thing. That shebang was as well-attended as our wedding (although the open bar and killing band were lamentably absent). Mostly what it consists of is a series of speeches. Every bloody person who has ever had any influence on the graduate's education gets up to speak, and they all flap their jaws for at least five minutes apiece, so you can expect the average graduation party to take about four to five hours. No shit. There's even a Master of Ceremonies to organize all this, and the DJ plays recordings of dodgy Ugandan keyboard favorites (How Great Thou Art on a Yamaha Plastinette organ was my personal favorite) in between speeches. Oh, and if the people are really special, they might get to dance their gift straight up the aisle (yes, the people are separated into two tents so that there can be a processional of the graduate at the beginning . . . more on that later) to give it to the lucky graduate. The whole time I'm thinking how mortified I'm going to be if they make me drag my gift up in this unfortunate manner. I didn't end up having to do so, but the people who did got super creative by pretending to give the gift to other people along the way. *Psyche!* Wow. Really.

After a few hundred speeches, there's a gigantic feast. Since people don't traditionally eat with silverware here, meals are generally very quiet. When you've been listening to speech after speech in a language you only sort of understand, that's REAL quiet. After everyone has had a chance to clean their hands and use the "short call," the graduate gets up to say something. (Note: "short call" is the term if it's #1, but at this type of location, you only hope you don't have a "long call," because it's basically like target practice in an outhouse where the hole in the floor is about 4x6 inches. You gotta be spot on and right flexible not to mess that up, and you have the added pressure of knowing that if you have a poopstain when you come out, 200 guests are going to see it before you smear a white plastic lawn chair with your own mess. So trust me when I say that you want to get your business done in the morning before you leave the house). Anyway, the graduate thanks everybody for coming and for not letting her mess up her life in some irreperable way--I'm making this part up because I only understood the thanking people for coming part--for about a half hour (not exaggerating). Then people are invited to bring up their gifts. There's a table set up in the middle of the "aisle" where people form a queue. Each person takes about five minutes to congratulate the graduate, so that whole deal takes at least a half hour, too.

After all that, the graduate's parents get up to speak. Since this particular woman's father had died, it was kind of a sad moment, but a shorter moment nonetheless. But alas, her mother was about 197 years old, and could not speak any louder than a whisper. At this point, everyone revved up their own conversations. I took this to be particularly rude, but neither anyone near the speaker, nor the speaker herself, seemed to care. Interesting. After her speech, the pastor got up to summarize (he was good, that only took thirty seconds after about a ten-minute oration) and pray to bless the whole convention before dismissal. Wow. That took for friggin' ever. Oh, I almost forgot . . . the cake was the last thing. It was a huge deal, like a newly wed couple cutting their cake, but without the mess all over each other. I say each other, because the graduate hires a stooge to stand in robes next to her and just be a fellow "graduate." Often this person is actually a classmate if the party is nearer to the date of graduation, but this dude was just a stooge. Koo-koo!

That's that. I've not been brief because it wasn't a brief gathering, but it was certainly interesting. The whole thing took about 5-51/2 hours. Sometime when I have more energy, I'll tell you how the rest of the evening went.

Self-explanatory, except for one thing. That thing they're sitting on? It's about 5 feet tall, and it's called ekiswa, named for enswa or edible ants. That's right, it's a five foot tall anthill.

Here's one of Kasubi tombs. Several Kabakas are buried there, including Mutesa I, who was Kabaka when Europeans showed up. They gave him guns, which he promptly tested out on his subjects. He was ruthless as a young man, but later became more even tempered . . .

Here's one of Magoba and me in front of Bulange, the Kabaka's (king of Buganda) palace. CBS is stationed there at that building, and that's a statue of the Kabaka behind us.

June 21

Here's one of a police band that I saw on my second day in Kampala.

June 19

J: This website http://www.buganda.com/ffumbe.htm popped up when I went
to explore "civet cat." Is it a reliable source for info? The site lists this as one of your clan mottos:

E Bakka basengejja (mbu ebirungi tebiggwa Bakka) that "at Bakka they
are brewing beer" (all good things come from Bakka" including beer)

See, no wonder I already like it!!

P: This appears to be the official website of the Buganda kingdom and hence, a reliable source (if not the most attractive). Kudos on finding the beer quote.

Yesterday I went with one of my teachers, Waalabyeki Magoba, to his parents' house. All of his siblings were there (the ones in-country anyway--some of them live in Philadelphia) and some of their children were there. It was a family reunion to be sure. We arrived and went through a lengthy greeting process on which I had been coached since I arrived two weeks ago. There's about ten minutes worth of niceties that if you don't know them, people will get offended (or at least know that you're a tourist and not a scholar interested in their language). I made it safely through that, and they were thrilled that I am in Uganda learning a local language. The couple I was greeting was very old: the woman was 84 and her husband was 96-- both still very sharp and he got around better than most 75-year olds I know. Remarkable. Dude could still remember his exact date of birth after he lost all his teeth and hair. Not fair with my grandparents mostly dead and yours quickly losing their minds, I know, but that's life.

We proceeded to a lengthy meal with the entire extended family, all of whom had come to greet the special guest (yours truly) and make him feel at home (which I did). Following the meal, I was invited to open a pinapple, in which they had made a wonderful fruit salad with passion fruit, pineapple and mangoes. Following the Equatorial specialty dessert, there was a naming ceremony in which I was inducted into their clan (Ffumbe--the civet cat clan). See, they don't use family names, only clan names. So each sibling in a given family shares none of his or her name with the others--only their common clan name. Further, when you meet someone who shares your clan name, that person is automatically your relation, even if it is the first time you've met. Each clan has a set of names that other clans don't name their children. It's complicated and I still don't know the whole extended clan relationship system, but those are the basic parts. Anyway, this naming ceremony must be performed by the grandmother (jaja), and usually the child must sit on her lap. As she is very old and I am very large, we improvised a cushion in front of her and she named me Kigozi, after which she demanded many hugs and she was very happy. So I am now Kigozi Peetero of the Ffumbe clan. No shit.

We then proceeded outside to the front yard (or compound), where it was time for the youngert set to welcome me to the family. Magoba's youngest child was the MC, and there were many steps to this process. First, while we waited for all of the siblings and cousins to get the spread ready, my new uncles showed me around the garden. All kinds of plants--chamomile, small red peppers, maize, matooke (a species of banana) and many other species of bananas, etc. I also saw the traditional method of roasting goat meat, which was pretty cool. Then they put the goat meat on the spread, which was complete with chapati (flat bread), salads, beer, wine, whiskey, and sodas. They had heard that Guinness was my fave, so there were a couple of those, too. The uncles proceeded to chug alcohol while Magoba's last born, Setiimba (who now calls me Baaba Kigozi or Elder Kigozi--he's 20) welcomed me for the 1000th time and invited me to be the first to take some food. I obliged in spite of a stomach already full of lunch from only 2 hours earlier, and we proceeded, during which time the uncles encouraged me to pound Guinness as quickly as possible (Holy shitballs, batman! I'm full).

Then it was time for me to cut the cake. That's right, they made me a birthday cake to welcome me into the Ffumbe clan. When I told the MC dude that I felt like it was my birthday, he actually said, "That's because it is. You are born into the Ffumbe clan today." No shit. After I cut the cake, I had to serve everyone present some of the cake before the ritual cutting of a chicken, which was a gift from Jaja. Do these people ever stop eating? That garbage in the international media about Africans starving is totally bunk as it pertains to Uganda. These folks eat all day!

I was then required to get up and do some moving around (light exercise) with Setiimba the MC man (he said, "it's not good to eat all day and not move around, you know"). I told him that exercises at this time of day should really only involve your arms and a beer, but I obliged. That was pretty much it. It was totally wild, and I plan to tell you more when my fingers hurt less from typing all this. For now I have to go to my Luganda lesson.

June 17

I went clubbing with Richard, my neighbor who has been living in Nairobi for the last ten years. He's a Muganda, but he also speaks fluent KiSwahili. We met up with his friend Rose who is also from Nairobi (except she's Kenyan). We started out in Bukoto near where we live with a couple of beers, some nice roasted pork (spicy) and matooke. Yum. Then we moved into town to Hotel Equatoria, where Rose was staying. She put a couple of drinks on her room tab for us, so that was nice. I learned how to say thank you in KiSwahili: 'asante.' So that was cool. Then we went to a bar in the middle of town that had nice flat screens showing football and a DJ, and that was fun until the cops showed up with automatic weapons in tow telling people to be quiet. Apparently some diplomats with penthouse apartments nearby were complaining about the noise. It was only 10 PM and they're livingin aa comercial district. Get a grip. It's weird getting used to seeing these dudes with huge guns, though. It's a safe city in that regard. Outside banks you often see guys with AK-47s. Pretty strange, but nobody ever fires them. I often wonder if they're even loaded or if they're just to scare people enough that they won't try anything stupid. Anyway, I don't want you to worry about it . . . it's a very safe place, so long as you know what you're doing and you keep your wits about you.

June 16

One of my new favorite things to do is to go and get my shoes cleaned. These guys set up outside barber shops and clean and repair shoes. There's a couple of dudes in Wandegeya (the suburb where Makerere is) who I've been getting to clean my shoes. It's kind of fun . . . you just sit there and shoot the breeze with these dudes and they clean your shoes (or repair them if you need it) for only 500 Ush (about a quarter). I told them that I usually do it myself, but they are so good at it and so fast that I can't get motivated to buy the stuff here, and since I didn't bring my kit from home, I'm happy to support them. I think they like me, and we generally have a good time laughing at the ladies who are wearing some sort of ridiculous sport sandal while their heels are being repaired. This really fat bitchy lady came to rip the guy a new one about not having her stuff done in time, so we had several laughs at her expense after she took her newly repaired and cleaned shoes away while still wearing the goofy nike sandals with a business suit. That was fun.

Bear with me as this
kezboard is a bit unorthodox. As zou can see, the y
and z are switched on the kezboard and . Iàm on an iMac from the first generation of imacs with the clearness and the teal (like those that were first in the lab in Jenson-Noble hall of music at Luther College when it was still Jenson Hall of Music. Thatàs right, the latest technologz is alreadz nearlz ten zears old. And it has a foreign kezboard for tzping some french shit or something. Awesome. Tonight Iàm going to Afro-Jazz night at Ndere to plaz drumset with Sam Okello. Havenàt done that in a while, so that should be fun. Not much else is news here. I recentlz discovered that Kawalya, the 26-year-old genius linguist who is my grammar tutor, has a girlfriend. Very cute if you were to meet this shy dude. I havenàt met her yet, but all the same . . . People here think itàs reallz weird that (I donàt know where the
quotation marks are on this kezboard). I finally
figured it out. A well-built, healthy person is
, but reallz that means well-fed and wealthy bz
ugandan standards. I assured him that Iàm 24, but he
kept sazing, Itàs a compliment.
My friend Suzanne often gets told that her hips
arenàt large enough. So people assume that if one
is that they are well-fed, equipped for
supporting a familz, etc.

P.S. yzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyzyz!üäöç£--screw this
kezborad . . .dammit!

June 14

Ugandan Martyrs Memorial

This week I've been to the Uganda Martyrs memorial at one of the cathedrals here. The church was built by missionaries who carried the bricks from France on their heads, and the martyrs were Africans burned at the stake for their faith. In fact, some of them were stabbed, had limbs hacked off, were eaten by dogs, and THEN got burned at the stake. Fun, huh? The more pleasant parts of that particular day were a connection with the White Fathers' archive at that cathedral (important for research) and the most fantastic veiw of Kampala I have yet seen. Good thing I will be going back there, because my camera battery was dead at the time.

Today I went to the coronation site of the Kabaka of Buganda. This king is of BUGANDA, not Uganda, which has other kingdoms and peoples. However, Buganda is the largest of the kingdoms, and at one time was the most powerful. Kafumbe's research, FYI, is in Kiganda (the adjectival word for the Baganda people) court music from the Kabaka's rubidi (royal enclosure). Anyway, the site is totally decrepit because although Uganda gets 70% of its tax revenue from Buganda, none of the money gets filtered back through the Buganda kingdom. It may also be interesting for you to know that Magoba's radio station, CBS, was founded to help preserve Baganda culture and disseminate information to Buganda. His magazine is also dedicated to that end, although they do better with aural media than with print media in a historically oral culture.

I am daily attuned to the World Cup football goings-on, and today Tunisia is Africa's last hope for a first round win. Last I heard they were 1-1 against Saudi Arabia. Go Tunisia: you can't possibly suck as much as the USA at football.

June 12

Today if it's not one thing it's another. The taxi driver stiffed me out of my change today, insisting that the trip cost 500 shillings when all of the black people in the van paid only 300. I wasn't going to raise hell over 200 shillings (that's about a dime), but I did let him know that I'm not as stupid as he thinks I am, and everyone in the cab was glaring at him. It was he who had to suffer the embarassment. Then the bodaboda drivers tried to charge me double fare. Then the guy in the cantine on campus shorted me on my change.

Here's one more--it's my hotel room for the first couple of nights. Just kind of fun with the net and everything, you know?

These are the ones from the night that I was playing with some kids from Faith Trust Primary and Boarding School. I didn't really tell you about this, but these kids were on a radio program that Magoba hosts on CBS (a major radio station here in Kampala). They were sooooo cute, and they were telling traditional stories (it's an oral history program).

A candid interview with Jenn (the editor of this blog):

J: Do you mind telling me more about being there??
P: Not at all.

J: How much does it cost when you buy a pint?
P: About a buck. Even for Guinness. Yes, that's right. 2,000 shillings. Okay, so more like a buck and a quarter. Still. Dude. Seriously.

J: Do Ugandans have an almost British way about them?
P: In many ways, yes, but I'm surprised at the number of people who can't figure out that I'm NOT from the UK.

J: Are you like, the only white guy around or do you see other people who are studying/on holiday/hanging out?
P: Let me put it this way. When I see other bazungu (crackers), I always check to see if I recognize them. Sometimes I do!

J: Did you see any wild dogs yet?
P: Yup. More irritatingly, I hear them at night in my apartment. They are VERY loud.

J: Does Kampala have a weird smell?
P: Burning garbage, BO (whoa, if you think some Americans are bad...), beer, pee, poo, need I say more? But you know what, I love it all the same.

Sorry, just one picture for today, here I am with Sam. Be thankful . . . I was awarded five free minutes in the cybercafe just to let it FINISH loading. That's right, finish. It took about eight minutes altogether, so until I find something faster, I think pictures might be difficult.

I've just finished lunch at the Ndere Center, where Betty and I went to surprise Sam Okello Kelo. That place is beautiful. For lunch I tried Maatoke for the first time, which is much like a plantain, but prepared differently. It is pressed between banana leaves and in the village people serve it with ground nut (peanut) sauce. Yum. I can't wait to eat it at Betty's or Damascus's house, because their moms make it the really traditional way. Otherwise I'm eating quite a lot of chicken and rice, with the occasional pita thrown in there (there is a critical mass of middle eastern and Indian people in Kampala--maybe 12-15% of the populous).

The landscape is gorgeous. Hilly in Kampala and Mountainous as you move west. Many banana trees (again, I'll send you a picture). The soil is sort of reddish brown, and when it doesn't rain (it hasn't yet rained) it's very dusty. Forget about recycling pants before washing.

Everyone here is very nice. Sometimes it's because they want something from you, but often it's just genuine friendliness. For instance, last night in the hotel bar, I met a guy named Oscar. He and his girlfriend were there and we ended up exchanging numbers so that we could have a pint again sometime. He's a Ugandan dude. He bought me a pint very shortly after introducing himself. Just nice for no reason, eh? I was overwhelmed, but people are just like that here. Today when I moved my suitcase from the hotel to the flat in Bukoto (a suburb of kampala), Betty had purchased cleaning supplies, an iron and board, some dishes, a small stovetop (two burners--electric), and a mop with a bucket.

Anyway, Sam Okello was really glad to see me. You should have seen the look on his face when we wandered into his office. He knew I was coming this summer, he just didn't know when. He furnished the lunch for us on the house, and it was very tasty. The Ndrere Center (where Sam works ) is sooooooo beautiful, and the arts going on there are doubtless amazing. I'm going to see a show nexty Sunday (they have weekly shows, but this Sunday is Betty's voice recital).