Lighter Fare and Random Tales

After the gloom and doom of the last blog, I thought I'd send along some lighter fare and in the way that the universe sometimes colludes with humans, a story delivered itself as I walked to work this morning.  Gulu in the morning – no that is not a song title – is filled with a cacophony of sounds starting unfortunately at 4:30 in the morning with the Call to Prayer.    Now don’t get me wrong – I actually have loved the call to Prayer in both Tunisia and Morocco.  Looked forward to it even.

The Rooster Who Loved Me

Something has happened to it here, resembling as it does, the bleating of a seriously demented cow.  This has nothing to do with any opinion of the religion, the culture or the fact that it repeats itself multiple times throughout the day after waking me in the morning. As I said, elsewhere it has held appeal.  But they should really audition for this spot – Uganda’s got talent or something, get someone with a more melodious voice especially for the 4:30  AM because this guy sucks.  That apparently also wakes the roosters who start struttin’ their stuff shortly thereafter and continue through the day. Seven AM is announced by the loud rumbling and sometimes horn-blowing of the Post Bus proclaiming its exit from Gulu.   But that’s not the story…

Millet flour

The melodies of the morning continue with a repeat of the extremely loud and totally obnoxious roosters, people traffic and always the deep bass-beat from some club or another just winding down as the sun comes up or starting a new day. All this is presented against the ambient smell of fuel (paraffin as they call it) and charcoal Sigiri fires as people prepare their morning porridge – a pinkish gruel drunk from a cup.  This is probably pretty good and very nutritious, but as is the case with un-doctored oatmeal (as in: a little salt and lots of maple syrup or sugar) it looks unappetizing like watery oatmeal with a dash of Red Dye # 40.  It's the way people from north of the Mason Dixon line think about southern's grits!  In the bush - generally it's preparedwith no salt or embellishment and thankfully,  no red dye; the color comes from the pink millet. 

The day's music has begun: phones all have music or gospel rings.   Gulu folks do love their music – I’m told it’s because during the war (20 years of it if you recall) music could not be played for fear it would alert rebels to your location.  So when it’s played now, it’s with gusto and a strong proclivity towards 80s/90s hits, western, Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, and the occasional Dolly Parton – usually involving a love gone wrong, a pickup truck and a dog gone or someone’s soul being saved.  The other day I rounded the corner just as Kenny Rogers began telling me and the rest of Gulu, “You’ve Got Know When to Hold ‘Em…. and Know When to Fold ‘Em…”    Good to know.

So it was against this background that I passed a big open truck full of moo-ing cows  being shipped out of Gulu either to Sudan or Kenya(there was Swahili on the back bumper).  None of them were bellowing the Call to Prayer – but I am ever hopeful.  All were jockeying for space - most of them were still young, but it was what was hanging above them that really caught my eye.  There blissfully swaying in its own private hammock was a baby calf, oblivious to and protected from the pushy beasts in the “cheap-seats” below. And that's the story that got this blog going.

The Marching Band practicing behind my house

The marching band is tuning up. It’s not 5 PM so there must be a occasion of some kind:  a graduation, death, Hand Washing Day, Male Circumcision Day, retirement…. a wedding. I’ll find out and let you know.  Ramadan ended last Friday – so it’s probably not that. Besides, that sounds distinctly non-Ramadan-ish anyway.  However, I was told that Thursday was a religious holiday (Assumption Day – Virgin Mary’s spirit is “assumed” to heaven)  so we (LABE) should not to hold a class on Friday morning because, “…everyone will still be drunk or hung over " apparently from toasting Virgin Mary. This would imply perhaps that Mary required some libations on her way from the physical domain to the netherworld and therefore provide ample excuse for her earthly acolytes to re-enact the preparations.  I doubt this is the case – but any holiday is followed by another day of recovery.  Not a bad plan in any country.

There are scenes from here I will never forget – and smells.  This afternoon, it was roasting g-nuts (think peanuts) from the shop that grinds sim-sim (sesame) and g-nuts, mixing them together for the local version of peanut butter known as g-nut paste.  Butter sounds so much more appetizing than paste, but it’s good. I used to buy it until I was informed by a local women that the woven trays they use to sift the sesame are coated with cow-dung to keep the basket from wearing out too soon.  Well – that took the bloom off of my desire especially after hearing about more than a few cases of dysentery caused by same.  I’m rather a wuss about some of the locally prepared delicacies because of the very real possibilities of raging stomach, not a good idea in general, but especially when riding in a truck in the bush or the long bus ride to Kampala, where the high grass with the ocassional snake (anyone for black mamba, green mamba, cobra...) constitutes the nearest "facilities."

Anyeri or Edible Rat

The beans and rice are excellent, and there’s Malaquoin (greens mixed with g-nut paste) that’s good, and Millet Bread (think bread pudding consistency) but I’m not a fan of goat (it tastes like goats smell) and I’m not sure of the processing of other meats that hang in the sun in local markets.  In the field we are sometimes offered bush meat and that’s where you can really get into trouble. At the risk of being culturally inappropriate, I avoid it and go for the beans, but it’s not worth Ebola or Brucellosis.  And there’s always the delectable edible rat…   which in fact is a Cane Rat or Vole and is the source of what can be life-saving protein in a country where many cannot afford the purchase of meat from the local market and cannot afford to raise livestock.  I've not tasted it either, but I hear its delicious.  They are hunted with spears in the tall grass or with a trown rock during burning season.

  

A few weeks ago I had to smile when I realized I was having a very sane conversation about the ways people have tasted and prepared white ants: sauteed, raw or ground into ant paste and which tastes best.   To the right: one in its natural state...  to eat, remove wings and eat raw or  delicately sauteed with a bit of garlic and couple with a chilled glass of a fruity white wine.  No wine? No refrigerator? No cork screw?  Well - OK, how about a Nile beer.   These are actually termites, but what's in a name anyway? One person’s ant paste is another person's goose liver pate or escargot. Anthony Bourdain, eat your heart out.


 

A library update:  we have a hand-painted sign now on the library door and a mural extolling the virtues of using a mosquito net painted inside.  A more thorough update will appear in a future blog.  But the signs on the door were painted by a 12 year old boy who was was thrilled to be paid in a small set of locally purchased acrylics, paint brushes and an art-paper tablet. Surely no one in his village could afford those and if he'd been paid in shillings, it would have gone for food.  This way, at least his talent is encouraged. By the end of the next day, the Michelle, the PCV who discovered this young man's talent passed his house and saw that he'd already completed a portrait of his mother and had set up shop on his front "porch."  The Town Clerk has promised to work to get the Children’s Library included as a line item in next year’s budget and we’ll have some form of an opening day to coincide with Book Week in September.  Vic, the paints you sent made this possible. Kid’s puzzles, some of the books and art supplies sent by friends Pat and the Friday Painters, Marcia, Liz, Evie and Joan will find their way into not only the library but the opening day celebration.  

As I type, there’s a storm brewing - the huge trees outside rustling sounding like a room full of taffeta skirts swishing together as they dance in the wind – accompanied by rolling claps of thunder. Sounds ominous - I love it.  There is absolutely nothing like the thunder here – and I grew up in Louisiana and Texas known for some pretty spectacular storms.  I don’t know what it is about either the topography here or the lack of structures to dampen the sound, but it will rattle you out of your seat and your wits.  More that a few times the accompanying lightening has struck so near by that I smell the ozone and freeze – looking around to see if it hit inside or out.  Houses here (most with metal roofing) are not grounded, so if the house is struck, it often is conducted through the re-bar in the floor - explaining why entire schoolrooms full of children are killed in one strike.  I get my feet off the floor in a lightening storm.   Just saying…  I also just discovered that Uganda boasts the highest incidence of lightening-strikes in the world!  What's with that I wonder? 

Bottle car - make your own!

 Little boys run through the open lots chasing their bicycle tire toys or dragging cars made from old water bottles, wire and bottle caps for tires. http://www.sendacow.org.uk/lessonsfromafrica/resources/recycling-plastic-bottle-toy  

Sundays, traipsing after their mothers are beautiful little girls with  skin of purple-black or melted chocolate depending on tribe, flashing incandescently bright teeth, pink gums and mega-watt smiles and dressed in their church finery of frilly white dresses purchased from ubiquitous piles of used clothing that are the Macy’s of Uganda. Male manicurists move through the streets carrying a plastic buckets holding the tools of the trade. Interestingly, I've never seen a female manicurist here. 

The shop owner from India has just been able to bring his wife and baby girl over after working for years to get enough money and then being thwarted by the absence of Yellow-Fever vaccine in India. They have avoided the temptation to buy a black-market World Health Card stamp for the vaccine that can get you through customs.  The little girl – sprouting three wispy ponytails is beautiful - dressed in fuzzy red Santa pants and a satiny red dress and displaying a smile with two tiny bottom peeking out. She has the radiance of knowing she is the center of the universe. 

Last week or so a friend and I were walking through town and were alarmed at the sound of crying kids – lots of them!  Searching for the source of all this frantic crying we tracked it down to multiple boda-bodas hauling rice sacs “saddle-bag” style down the street – each bag carrying two baby goats bleating at the indignity of their predicament.  It was kids crying alright – just not the “kids” we were expecting.  Whew.  Must have been goat market. 

And now – against the metal roof of my porch, the rain is slamming down and sounding like hail, but it’s just the rain-in-Africa.  Soon, at a bar near me, someone will start the generator (power is finished) and they’ll play “I Bless the Rains in Africa…”  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdBcfRhzzAA.

Time to go cook.  I’ve located minced beef today from the same place that has eggs with yellow yolks (as opposed to yellow-grey) and will pretend to have tacos - without the shell – or the lettuce – or the cheese – or….  But I have taco seasonings and a fairly good imagination. 

A friend sent who has just gone home relayed back what a culture shock it was when she landed at her layover in the Amsterdam Airport, where she was “assaulted” by busy-ness, fast food, antiseptic cleanliness.  When she arrived in one of her favourite cities – San Francisco, it felt “flat and colorless.”  And so, as much as we find the challenges of daily life here overwhelming,  there are sights and sounds that enrich, assault and exhalt the senses and cause other sights to pale in comparison and relationships that touch us so deeply and genuinely that will be tattooed on the heart forever.   As I become aware that the time that seemed so un-endurably far away is approaching, I’m wondering how to tuck some of this away in a sacred place so that I will not forget either the pain or the joy. These contradictions keep me in the present, filled with gratitude and just enough off-balance to keep me questing.