Bun Dungeon

 One of the true joys of getting older, along with losing your hair and your hearing (more on that later) and an ability to injure yourself at will, is the gradual and terrifying erosion of your memory. “Why did I come into the kitchen?” is the least of your worries - the ones you can recall that is. 

I only bring this up because I’m back in Africa (Uganda to be precise) and it didn’t take me long to realize on a short walk to the store this morning that I had completely forgotten just how unique it is. Of course, that’s not exactly the right word. “Out-of-body experience” is a bit more accurate. I’ll show you what I mean. Take a look at these random photos I took and tell me they represent anything you’ve experienced or could even conjure up. 

Weekend shopping downtown Africa-style

I’d also forgotten “Africa time”. These two photos were taken in the same location. Guess which one was morning & which was afternoon. 

An actual “guesthouse”. No, I’m not kidding. 

A beautiful day in the neighborhood. 

I think this one - taken from my balcony - is particularly evocative since it combines the juxtaposition of my fat-cat lodgings with an army base filled with WW2 trucks and actual housing. Only in Africa. 

Another “Blast From The Past” unfortunately was just how unbelievably poor Africans are. To wit:

As Richard, my driver, and I were leaving the airport I noticed a group of about 50 women wearing white head coverings sitting in rows under a large canopy. 

“What are those women doing?” I naively asked.

“Oh, he replied, “They’re waiting to go and work in Dubai. When all the chairs are full, they have a plane that takes them there. It’s VERY bad.”

It turns out that even though these women are quite aware that they will be literally treated as slaves and that some of them may actually be killed, they either feel they have no choice or are being forced by their families to go so they can send pitiful sums of money home. And, as I found out later, they’re considered lucky compared to the girls who are sold to human traffickers. 

On a lighter, but just as indicative note, when we got to the van, I couldn’t help but notice it was a bit the worse for wear. As we’re driving, I ask Richard if the van is his. After a quick glance from him to check, I believe, if I have two heads, he says,”No sir. That would be 300 000 shillings.”

“Of course,” I think and then realize, after a quick calculation, that’s less than $1000. “ So will you ever have enough money to buy one?”

Again the polite, but wary, look. “No sir. That is not possible.”

And he’s moved his entire family to Entebbe from Jinja because life and prospects are SO much better here. 

Feeling entitled and guilty yet?

Before I go, I wanted to mention that, in spite of the fact that they have plenty of reasons to be abrupt, rude & surly, Ugandans are perhaps the friendliest, most helpful people I’ve yet encountered. They are extremely polite and soft-spoken, which are attributes I would normally be thrilled about, but which, ironically cause heartache for both me and those unfortunate enough to try and talk to me, for reasons probably obvious to all of you. To make things worse, their English is heavily accented and they end every sentence like they’re asking a question. This leads to conversations that sound like a bad comedy routine. Example:

Hotel employee: “What would you like for sacrifice?”

Me: “Pardon me? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Her:” Tomorrow morning. For feet.”

Me: (to myself ) “Jesus! What have I stumbled into here?”

Her (after polite pause to assess my mental capabilities (or lack thereof) “Eggs? Toast?”

Me:”Oh! Breakfast! To eat for breakfast!”

It’s always a slice. 

Next up: A Bit of This & A Bit of That