This country is not my own. I feel very disconnected from it.
It rained yesterday afternoon, well, it poured and I got caught in it. I was on my way back to the house to find my phone. The rain pelted me and seemed to change it’s direction every minute or so. At first the air around me was warm and soft. The rain felt good on my bare arms. My shirt and skirt were getting soaked and my feet were beginning to slide in my sandals. But it felt so good. When I turned on the road to our house, the rain came in sideways and the air suddenly got colder, I hurried my pace knowing in a few seconds I would be inside and out of the capricious weather. It continued to rain for more than an hour. The streets had become mudways and their potholes red soup. I was unsuccessful finding my phone. It was a brand new one. My previous pal had been stolen at the Agricultural Fair in Jinja (as had Lyndsay’s and Claire’s). I think we were targeted, just a guess. I had immediately replaced it. This is unfortunately a lifeline to my boyfriend and my parents. When I tried to call my phone from Lyndsay’s, I had a sinking dread that it would be turned off. It was. And then it hit me. The sequence of events came flooding back and my stomach flew into my throat and my heart dropped to the floor. When I was walking through the market, less than 30m from the restaurant, a man bumped into me. I had on my backpack and he just sort of ran into me, like he didn’t see me or something. We made eye contact and he turned and walked quickly away. He stole my phone.
I’ve said this once and I will say it again, karma is a silent and sometimes painfully swift avenger. I hope that whatever bad luck befalls him, whatever truly unfortunate event finds him, I wish that he correlates the theft and his misfortune. As I said on my facebook, the man is going to fall into his pit latrine today, and I hope he has my phone in his back pocket. The last kicker is that I had just bought a significant amount of credit and registered it on my phone to be used that day, to call Omar and his family to pay my condolences for an Uncle who had recently passed away. That has to count for double karma, right?
This morning I made my way to the restaurant through the market. I went the same route, determined not to be caught off-guard if my assailant decided to strike again, or better yet, I could find and identify him and then explain to the mob of angry citizens that all of a sudden appear to my aid, that this man stole my phone and I saw him push an old lady down (or something equally terrible!). The walkways were covered in mud and drowned out pieces of trash and plastic. I picked my way slowly to avoid the slickest of areas and worst puddles of wet refuse. The road before the market is in a bad state of erosion, at times the shoulder comes close to a foot or so difference in height. Motorcycles (motos in Morocco or Bota-botas in Uganda) are taking people back and forth, bicycles slowly make their way past and an occasional car or truck dominate the better part of the blacktop. Women walk barefoot past, carefully balancing a load of food or goods on their heads. Kids with torn clothing and dirt smeared on their arms and faces continue on to their destinations, home or school or to possibly sell empty plastic bottles by the gas station. Men are outside working, fixing, repairing goods like trucks and cars, banging out dents in old oil drums, welding together window grates and doors. Small tiny food stands are preparing for their day, their smoke and smells reaching my empty, fasting nose and belly, their broken umbrellas doing little but to protect them from the near constant drizzle of the morning. I walk past men repairing old bikes and painting them a beautiful shade of blue. I keep my head high but avoid eye contact, something I learned in Morocco. I do not wish to have a conversation or to buy anything or to show any interest in anything except to be aware of my surroundings and pick my way through, avoiding the path of the other half coming towards me. I pass by a huge assortment but rarely any diversity in shoes. Shoes as far as the eye can see. Some are on display on small thigh-high tables, others are kept in large, plastic rusacks. These shoes are also individually wrapped in shiny, loud plastic. Most all of these shoes are plastic foam sandals. Colors are the only variation besides size, dark blue, baby pink, yellow-green, red, and black. These sandals do not need to fit you if you take any obvious hint from the people passing by, nor are there any gender colors like pink for girls and blue for boys. A large man could easily and acceptably be seen walking past wearing a baby pink shoe two sizes too small for him, his giant toes reaching out the front like ant feelers. We would instantly reel back in disgust, easily putting together that this man had no disregard for his daughter’s feet and their journey to school today! And then following behind the giant man, is a younger version of himself, we guess she is female because of her skirt, but her head is shaved and her features ambiguous. She is wearing large blue sandals, her toes squished to the front, the back heel wide open, slashing mud onto the backs of her legs. Eh.
Next I pass through store after store, my eyes becoming blurry with déjà vu. Each store looks exactly the same save the proprietor. Each store has 7-8 russacks out front, carrying various beans, flour and rice. The inside halted by a wide counter with a scale perched on top, behind are shelves lined with various but somewhat unrelated goods like Vaseline and hair brushes. I finally burst from that scene to a muddy tarmac somewhat organized with taxis (mututus in Uganda) being unloaded and loaded with people, goods, and your occasional upside down chicken. Chickens travel well upside down. I was told that they get disoriented and calm. I would too if I had never seen the world upside down, possibly the last way I would see the world until my quick death. How interesting…. Anyways, once I finagle my way around gentlemen trying to convince me to go to villages I have never heard of, I am on the home stretch. Much like during a marathon, I imagine, because I have never actually ran one, that the very end you become somewhat delirious in your pursuit of the finish line. Bright and beautiful colors flashing by your strides getting longer and your breathing labored. I don’t exactly breathe laboriously but I’ve caught myself one or two times making little happy humming noises. This last hallway of stores are mostly owned by Indians. They sell beautiful, shiny, patterned bolts of cloth. They have a number of models on display lining the entrance to the storefront, a matching solid sash of cloth wrapped around her middle, giving the models a more feminine shape. They are faceless, not much more than a T shaped stand, but I can imagine myself in each outfit and fabric, dancing in the mud through the market, my arms open wide as I serenade each shopkeeper with my lyrics about love lost and life lived... Not.
Finally, after crossing another street I am under the Suki Hotel building. Stores selling more cloth, a barren pharmacy, and a supermarket are located on the ground floor, and rooms and apartments are available on the second and third floors. And what? A delicious and delightful restaurant and bar that serves an array of Ugandan and Indian favorites paired with local beers?! Trivia played on Thursday nights! Sunday and Monday nights movies start at 8pm with free popcorn?! With a really cool American that has lived outside of America for 2 ½ years (who’s counting?!) that is observing Ramadan and possibly facing some serious issues of culture shock (from Morocco AND America). Hello! What a cool person! What a cool place! I wish I could be there every day from like 9 until 8pm, that sounds so awesome.
