Notable snippets of daily life
Around 5am the call to prayer begins, usually seeping into my sleep as the voice of someone standing nearby talking a little too loudly. Slowly I remember it is the amplified muzeen, and I readjust my earplugs, put a pillow over my head, and hope very strongly to fall back asleep.
A couple hours later when my alarm vibrates there is yellow light pouring through my curtains and the sound of engines rumbling and people shouting in the roads. I crawl out from under my mosquito net, make the bed to prevent the constant dust from settling between my sheets, and flip the switch to turn on the hot water heater, which takes about 15 minutes to produce a showers’ worth.
Careful ironing of clothes is imperative here; wrinkles are heavily frowned upon. The iron has a plug from continental Europe though the outlets here are British; with the correct application of a pen-cap into part of the British socket, the EU plug can be inserted directly into the outlet without adapter. My iron remains plugged into the socket so I don’t have to perform this procedure daily. Every outlet has an on-and-off switch, so I flip the switch on and the iron begins to heat. It's hot enough that ironing makes me sweat, so it's convenient to do it before the shower while the water heats; the only danger is to awaken one morning without electricity, so it is imperative to have a back-up outfit that doesn't require ironing.
It’s important to use the toilet before taking a shower. The shower is a large-diameter, good-pressure shower-head over the center of the bathroom, so once the shower is complete, the bathroom is covered with water. Stepping out of the bathroom with damp soles or flip-flops causes the water to mix immediately with the ubiquitous layer of dust to produce muddy footprints, so after the shower it’s something of an ordeal to go back inside the bathroom. The young man who works in the compound and cleans my apartment kindly requested that I schedule him no less than twice a week so the layer of dust doesn't build too thick and make his job more difficult; he was frustrated when I went on vacation for 2 weeks and the floor was slippery with dust; I wasn't too thrilled myself.
Somehow I found granola (sold in bags; never boxes) to eat with little bananas and milk (there is skim at one store, but it’s too far away, so I have whole milk, also in bags, or yogurt). The bags of milk last me a week and are difficult to keep from spilling; clearly I don't know the proper strategy.
As much as I hate doing dishes, it’s refreshing to discover, 90% of the mornings, that there is indeed running water in the kitchen sink for this purpose. Otherwise I have to carry pitchers of water from the bathroom sink, which is fed by a tank rather than directly from the tap and therefore provides a reserve of water that only ran low once in 2 months. Carrying pitchers, though, I always find myself feeling grateful that I have a tank at all. Same with having the non-electricity-based gas stove.
The metal gate inside my front door has space for a padlock only high above my head; reaching up to unlock it before unlocking the front door is the most frustrating part of the morning besides re-locking it when I leave (before relocking the front door behind me).
Leaving my house, I wish a good morning to the young man who cleans the balcony floors (every day), waters the plants, washes the sheets, and offers services washing clothes or as an errand boy. He’s also the guard at the front gate of the compound at night. The neighbors in my block of 12 apartments include two Eritrean mothers whose young children have finally begun talking to me, and I wish them a nice day if they are outside.
The small road outside my house is full of people, 95% men, sitting on any available object to have morning tea, washing cars, carrying supplies, building or dismantling old cars, unloading trucks, and watching me silently as I walk to work. A few always call hello to me and ask how I am. Work is a 20 minute walk down a paved road with wide swaths of dusty earth on either side, lined by a low row of concrete shops. There are always trucks in the road and mini-buses pulling off to collect passengers. Someone honks at me every few minutes, and sometimes I think I can tell the difference between honks to alert pedestrians they are in the way and those to catch my attention in case I’m willing to take a ride. Simultaneously, the motorcyclists call to me from every direction “Hello Sistah! My Friend! My size! You come we go! How are you? We go together! Honk!” All public transport solicitors seem under the impression that, though I’ve been walking down this road for many minutes surrounded by constant appeals to ride, I may just yet be convinced to hop on with them. Sometimes other people on the street call good morning to me, even falling into step with me to chat for a few meters about life, work, religion, culture. It’s warm enough that I usually wear a dress with short sleeves, but occasional foggy mornings are cool enough that locals appear in shawls or winter coats.
The most challenging part of the morning is crossing the street; the constant flow of zig-zagging motorcycles weaving on both sides of car lanes, speeding taxi-vans belching black exhaust, and private cars shoving their way around each other to crowd into the intersections are adequate chaos, but always coupled with a constant flow of ambling pedestrians squeezed onto rutted, dusty roadsides, rows of hopeful motorcycle-taxi drivers willing to approach potential customers on the bike within an inch of collision, and manual bicycles outifitted to carry passengers and freight.
Depending on the day, there may be a large crowd of people standing and sitting outside my office, watching me enter. A lottery is held Monday and Tuesday mornings (to prevent people from camping out to get the first slot), and there are always more clients than available appointments per week. The guards nod as I climb the stairs. The doors are first unlocked at 9am , though as recognized staff I can reach my office earlier through side entrances and a maze of corridors. The office was built to hold about 22 staff and now holds over 60, and sharing is particularly a problem when lawyers and counselors have private sessions with clients about sensitive and confidential issues. I am on the second (and top) floor in the main building over the kitchen and somewhat sheltered from the racket the generator makes every time the city power goes out. After a couple months toting my own cushion to place on a wooden-slatted chair, someone rolled a nice desk chair into the office to use at my desk while I was away, and I haven’t questioned it’s origin since my return.
Thus begins a typical day in the life of Shira in Kampala...
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