Food
Across the street from my apartment is a fruit and vegetable market. Sellers are sprawled across the dusty earth with piles of sweet potatoes, cassava, “Irish” and huge bunches of green plantains (mah-TOH-kay). Usually they are women, often seated with children. Small 3-walled, roofed stores sell eggs and some sweet white bread. Behind them, two rows of roofed stalls crowd a narrow corridor, laden with sweet pineapple, small spherical watermelons, green pumpkins, big and small bananas, green and black avocados, big purple eggplants and tiny green-yellow-white ones (shaped like eggs!), small and large mangos, carrots, green peppers, tomatoes, green beans, dried beans and peas, dark green leafy vegetables, and more. At one end are cages of live chickens, tables of fish, and counters of raw red meat.
Many of the sellers know me by now, and the prices are usually the same as those for locals. Three large eggplants for 25 cents, a bunch of small bananas for 50-75 cents depending on size and quality. I live on fruits and vegetables sautéed on my gas stove. Leaving the market through a swath of blankets covered with for-sale plastic dishes, flip-flops, belts, hairclips and 2nd-hand clothes, I can cross the street to the grocery store to buy a box of packaged South African juice and a bag of milk.
Many sellers offer their wares in the streets; when I’m riding in a car I am offered, through the window, bunches of small red onions, passion fruits, peanuts or dry muffins from a bowl on someone’s head, and airtime for my phone. On the side of the road men use machetes to chop huge jackfruit, opening the rough green shell to expose fleshy, sweet yellow fruit that inspired the taste of juicy-fruit gum. Others chop sugarcane and sell chunks in plastic bags. Small stands sell greasy chapatti, or chapatti rolled around a fried egg, called a Rolex.
Transport
Often in the evenings I journey downtown to meet a friend. Beside the market sits a group of white taxi-vans. When one fills with passengers it departs, and the next opens its doors. If I walk too close, a group of young men – conductors – surround me and pressure me into the van, yelling like auctioneers at me and any other potential passengers about their destination and the prices. It took many weeks to understand their rapid shouts. Learning to say the common prices in the local language allowed me to ensure I was charged the same as others, and telling the conductor that one word in his language usually made the whole van laugh (somewhat uncomfortable for me but probably positive) and endeared me to the conductor so much that one invited me to his village on the spot.
In more crowded areas downtown groups of men sometimes block my path and hold my arm to physically pressure me into a van, which I despise. I am always a bit nervous in the vans due to bad experiences and lack of control. I never know how long we will wait before filling and departing. The vans are usually uncomfortable and stuffy. They are all Toyotas, stripped long ago of any excess padding; I think they’d make a stellar advertisement for the longevity and durability of Toyotas. They are packed with rows of seats, and the seats near the sliding door collapse to allow other passengers to enter; those are usually crooked and unpadded; not ideal for a long ride but refreshingly close to the windows. The front seat is perhaps most comfortable, but sitting close to the windshield without seatbelts in chaotic traffic is not exactly comforting, so I avoid it.
The conductors often misquote the price to whites – the skin tax, as they say – so I ask other passengers for the price if I don’t know it. The prices are fixed but sometimes fluctuate with rain or based on demand. If I don’t know how to recognize my destination I ask other passengers and the conductor, though often the conductor has failed to notify me or decided to drive past my destination and leave me elsewhere. Most challenging for me is that the vans frequently decide to use alternate routes to avoid traffic, often on bumpy unpaved side-roads in round-about directions that disorient me. I no longer know where we are or where to get off, and the conductors insist on my exiting where they recommend, without explanation, even if I am not sure where we are. I don’t deal well with the lack of control for myself.
On the plus side, a few conductors have given me spectacular advice and directions, and very often when I ask passengers for help, many people in the van chip in their advice and watch out for my interests. Once when a conductor was mistreating me everyone in the van started yelling at and lecturing him. Most touching is how often a fellow passenger exits with me and insists on walking with me all the way to my destination to ensure I reach it, even it if it is 20 minutes out of their way.
The alternatives to the public taxis include walking long distances along the bustling streets, constantly alert for vans pulling off the road, bicycles and motorcycles, and other pedestrians. I often choose this option, which perhaps explains why all my shoes are now dusty brown (somehow locals’ shoes are never dusty or muddy, even when they’ve just come in from walking in the rain, but when I ask how they achieve it people just laugh).
The final option is to hire a private car, like an American taxi. There is also a stand full of these cars near the market across from my house. When I enter the area, several men look up expectantly and proceed to usher me into their cars. I insist on first agreeing on a price, so they offer me heavily inflated tariffs. When I begin to bargain, they insist that there is a jam (although we both know there is always a traffic jam) and that fuel prices have gone up. When they refuse to come down to a reasonable price and I walk away from them, I am always surprised that they never call me back to offer what I know is an acceptable price.
One of my least favorite things in Kampala 9pm it is best for me to use the private taxis. Most other people use motorcycles, but I am forbidden and have seen so many accidents I highly respect the rule. But the private cars are considered an expensive luxury by most people, and I have to settle somewhere between stressful bargaining and feeling overcharged.
At home
A couple times I’ve invited girlfriends to dinner, though inevitably the power goes out and we sit in the dark with candles (this rarely happens when I’m home alone). One friend was so kind as to wash our dishes in the dark, and I have a photo of another cooking on my gas stove wearing my headlamp. During one dinner party the water also stopped, and during another the gas in the stove ran out. Fortunately the gas station next door sent an attendant with gas to my place within a few minutes, and he gave some insight to my friends on the rising fuel prices.
Another of my regular evening activities is fitness. Given the stress of going out, I am very grateful for the fitness DVD ’s my housemate brought when we lived together my first two months. I bought a floor mat because the floor is too hard for impact sports, and I turn the volume full blast on my computer and strain to hear the instructions over the honking traffic outside. I also have a tennis ball I use to massage my back. The 2 and 4 year old kids who live in the compound discovered my mat and ball one day and were completely befuddled as to why an adult would possess such extravagant toys. I told them the mat was for jumping, and after they bounced around for awhile we played catch with the ball and they have frequented my home ever since. I often look out my front door to see their inquisitive faces pressed to the glass, hoping to find me home. Their mothers insist I should never spend an evening alone, and urge me to join them for coffee in the evenings.
They buy raw coffee beans and roast them on a charcoal stove in the living room. They have a beautiful traditional clay container, shaped like a gourd, in which they put freshly ground coffee and water, with long, stringy plant fibers as a filter. They serve popcorn
with the coffee, and sometimes cake baked in a thick skillet on the stove, and they have a burning ember that smells good and fills the room with smoke. They serve the coffee in tiny cups and saucers, first filling each cup at least 1/3 full with sugar. They then fill the cups to the brim with hot coffee, then add hot milk while the liquid overflows into the saucers and on the tray. I don't know why they always pour until the liquid overflows. They told me never to go home and be lonely or bored; I must always come to see them instead. Once they fed me dinner (pancake-type bread with goats meat stew) and were so impressed that I knew how to eat it with my hands.
with the coffee, and sometimes cake baked in a thick skillet on the stove, and they have a burning ember that smells good and fills the room with smoke. They serve the coffee in tiny cups and saucers, first filling each cup at least 1/3 full with sugar. They then fill the cups to the brim with hot coffee, then add hot milk while the liquid overflows into the saucers and on the tray. I don't know why they always pour until the liquid overflows. They told me never to go home and be lonely or bored; I must always come to see them instead. Once they fed me dinner (pancake-type bread with goats meat stew) and were so impressed that I knew how to eat it with my hands.
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