Rudolph in Red-Earthed Africa

“I can see the wind is disturbing your hair,” the driver says. “It’s no problem,” I reply. My hair, now a knotted mess tied loosely behind my head, is indeed being disturbed. The blowtorch hot wind slaps against my face as it rips and torments my hair. The African sun pierces my exposed skin through the open window. The radio blares techno versions of Christmas songs as we fly down the red-earthed road. The pickup jostles over bumps and swerves in violent bursts to avoid the crater-like potholes. “Do you know this song?” I ask, “Rudolph, he’s a red-nosed reindeer.” “A reindeer with a red nose?” he asks curiously. He turns up the volume. We careen past bicycles that seem to be moving in slow motion, weighed down by oversized loads and small children. Somewhere in the world children are fast asleep tucked under heavy warm blankets. It is snowing in the dark of night. The moon reflects off the crisp white snow, illuminating pine trees littered with decorations. But here, there are no pine trees. The blue sky is vast and unending. It’s as though we could drive for days and the landscape would never change. We are almost airborne now as we chase towards the sun faster and faster in hopes of an endless day. I lay my head against the back of the seat. “Then one foggy Christmas eve...” rolls around in my sun scorched head. It all feels neither normal nor abnormal. It just is.

Anywhere but Bubbles

"Anywhere but Bubbles" my friend requests. I ask around and get a few recommendations. They all seemed very Bubbles-ish. I had heard that the Kabalagala district could be really fun. I had also heard that it could be dangerous late at night. I was told not to go alone, be careful, etc., etc. It's a popular area for picking up sex workers. People occasionally get shot. That's OK, I think, as long as it's not me getting into trouble.

We meet at Capital Pub. (www.capitalpub.com) It's a huge bar, with three different levels. It is a little after 7pm. The bar is totally dead. There are maybe ten people scattered about. We have a beer, play an embarrassing game of pool (well, embarrassing for me) and then decide to go eat.

I want to try a Belgian place across from the US Embassy, so we decide to check it out. My friend seems to know where we are going, so I just follow along as we walk farther and farther up a relatively small, busy and very dark street. Finally, "OK, here's the Embassy." We're at the back. We need to be at the front. Why would it be on a desolate side street behind the embassy? The only way to the other side is back the way we came. "I am not supposed to take boda bodas," I say as we stand at the side of the road starring, but not moving, in the direction from which we came. "I know you're not." A boda boda pulls up. We look at each other.

Dinner was good, although I'm not sure what makes it Belgian. The Italian wine? The African king prawns? The fat drips over the top of my uncomfortably tight jeans. I know I shouldn't eat so much, but it isn't rice and beans and all things starchy and white and I just can't help myself. I know I shouldn't drink so much, but I'm having fun pairing celebrities with the wine - it's fresh, fruity and crisp like Zooey Deschanel - and I loose track of how much I've had.

A few beers and a bottle of wine later, we're back at the Capital Pub via an undisclosed mode of transportation. It is now who knows what time and the bar is packed. We are the only muzungus. We look around unable to tell who the prostitutes are and who's just out for a night on the town. We finish our beers and decide every woman must be a prostitute. "I like generalizations" my friend says, "and pop music." "You must be able to at least appreciate the Back Street Boys, right?" No, I think, but now the confessions are flowing as easily as the alcohol. I start to discuss phallic doughnuts. We've already plotted a money-making mass suicide cult.

The clock reads 4:44, but that surely can't be right.

At 9:30am a large white SUV pulls up to my gate. The back door opens. I get out. The guard is chatting with my co-worker out front. No one is ever out front. They look at me curiously. I think about trying to explain myself. Then I remember the more you protest, the guiltier you appear. I smile and walk inside. It's possible I had an early meeting. ...wearing the clothes I wore yesterday. ...alcohol and smoke emanating from my every pore.

I walk out of my bedroom and sit down at my desk. Same shirt. Fresh skirt. It's now 9:45. I am an hour and 45 minutes late. "Good Morning!" she says as she flips off her shoes and glides over to my desk. "Are you busy working?" She is smiling. Is it a sly smile, I wonder. "It's not as bad as it looks," I want to say. But, instead, "You look pretty today". And, she does look pretty. "Thank you." Another smile. Fingers tap my desktop. I look up and smile innocently.

Yes, I think to myself, Kabalagala is very dangerous...all kinds of people getting into all kinds of trouble.

'Tis the Season...for Robbery

Apparently, crime increases in Kampala in December. Nothing says "I love you" like breaking and entering, stealing, selling stolen items on the black market and then purchasing gifts for your loved ones. That's what the holiday spirit is all about, right?

So, last night at about 2:00am our guard, Moses, was on the other side of the compound when three men crawled over the wall 15 feet from my bedroom window. I'm not sure how, as there are spirals of sharp barbed wire around the entire high walled compound. When Moses saw them, he locked himself into the other building and called for 'back-up', which is protocol. It is also protocol to text me what's going on and what to do, but I didn't have my phone. In addition, I had accidentally left my guest house unlocked. Whoops. Anyway, after lots of phone calls between MC and the police - similar to "where are you?", "we're there", "uh, no you're not" - they finally showed up. The perps had left the scene by then, of course. (Like my police lingo?) Apparently, the police had to go back to their 'station' (a.k.a. sad little shack) to get a vehicle and, you know, other things.

I'd love to tell you about how my adrenaline soared in both excitement and fear...or something like that. But, no. I slept through the whole thing. When I got up in the morning Moses was at my door to tell me the whole thing. He seemed excited. When I told him I'd left my door unlocked, he laughed and said "what!? I could have come in with you!" I imagined us siting on my bed eating chocolate and waiting for the police to arrive.

Spa Day

Yesterday I left work early and went for a pedicure and manicure, shopping and then dinner and drinks with the intern from Pader, who was in town for the day. I know it doesn't sound super exciting, but it was so nice to have a little pampering! (And, all for only about $14.) It doesn't take long to have feet so rough and hard that they are actually tougher than your flip flops. She told me a great story about how the manager for her office came up to her one morning and said "I hope you don't mind, but I've hired someone to come in and deal with your feet." An hour later a guy showed up with a bucket of beauty supplies. This is, by the way, is in a tiny little town in Northern Uganda. I'm just waiting for the day a make-up artist and hair stylist show up at the office for me.

Bacon Maple Bars

There's nothing I enjoy more than rolling out of bed at 7:00am after a restful three hours of sleep. I feel refreshed and completely ready for the day. Not a single fucking person is annoying me in any way. You want to chat on my porch and listen to Whitney Houston on repeat? Awesome. That sounds great. Let's do that. That is in no way distracting me from my work. Oh, wait, I'm not working. I'm blogging. Carry on, then. However, let's be clear. When my work isn't finished on time or in a acceptable fashion it will, of course, completely be your fault. Yours and Whitney Houston's.

Anyway, now that we have successful placed blame for my own inadequacies onto a washed up 80's pop star... we can move on.

I recently had the following conversation:

Me: "[bla bla bla bla] my blog."
Not Me: "You have a blog?"
Me: "Oh, it's terrible. It has no nutritional value."

No nutritional value? I don't even know what I was attempting to say. But, at 4:00am, the conversation popped back into my head. At the same time my stomach was thinking "if we're awake anyway, why can't we be eating?", my brain was thinking "what kind of food might my blog be, were it food?"

Yes, that's right. This is going to be one of those 4:00am posts.

The consistent issue I have with my blog is this: I really want it to be an arugula and baby romaine salad with candied walnuts, dried cranberries and raspberry vinaigrette topped with plank-smoked salmon. The kind of meal you might dress up for, or, at least eat at the table. However, the reality is that my blog is a boxed Betty Crocker cake with Totino's frozen pizzas dividing each layer and finished with globs of canned frosting. It's best enjoyed in lounge pants in front of late night TV infomercials.

I mean, here I am, finishing up writing a report on the food security issues in the Karamoja region of Uganda. I could write a powerful and interesting post about their struggles with drought and insecurity. I could. But, am I? No. And, I actually dribbled granola all over my keyboard while looking at a table showing what percentage of people ate only one meal a day (a majority). The granola was my second breakfast of the day.

No, you'll find no profound insights into the human struggle here. When I lie awake at night I think about things like the penis shaped doughnuts at VooDoo Doughnuts. Yep. I was trying to think of some disgusting food con-cock-ion (hahahaha-I'm 12!) and VooDoo came to mind.

"Let's get Pix Patisserie and champagne!" you say.

"Yes, let's!" I reply. Yet, my car steers us towards beer and doughnuts.

And, as we stand in line at VooDoo we laugh about the bacon maple bars and the penis shaped raised doughnuts.

"That's so gross!"

"Who would buy those?!"

But, secretly, I'm thinking "I would". And, I imagine dropping you off at your house and coming back for that doughy phallic goodness. I'd drive aimlessly around town in my 19MPG turbo charged wagon, blasting top 40 hits. I'd head north on Front Ave, flying by my condo going 70, popping off a glazed ball and throwing it in my mouth as I cackle with delight...

...wait, did I just reveal too much? Uh, no, no. That's disgusting. I have never done that. Nor would I ever do that. No. I like locally sourced fruits and veggies and indie alternative and public transportation. Yep. Totally.

I am arugula. I am not canned frosting.