Swamp
Confessions of an Academic Pseudo-Giraffe
4.11.04
Economy of life
Well, let’s see what I have been able to accomplish during my six days in this country. Not much, and certainly next to nothing relating to my own work.
Both the soles of my sandals simultaneously split in half in the middle, across the foot, on Sunday. Must have been some major change in humidity or temperature or air quality or road condition or all of these. Miraculous. So I ordered a new pair at a local shoemaker’s and chose the skin of the nile perch as material. My first fish sandals coming up in a week. My foot size – carefully hand-measured – requires one perch per shoe, which elevated the cost to about €40.
We’re close to having a house to live in. Found an excellent candidate, but it is still unclear whether the owner is willing to make the changes necessary for the house to pass the UN security check. The regulations are ridiculously strict: every worker and their families have to live behind high walls, razor wire, barred windows and double secured doors, further isolated from the local community by armed night guards and preferably SUV-type vehicles. Not the best way to increase mutual trust between locals and expatriates. We foreigners and a few chosen Ugandans practically live in bunkers.
The first weeked, we ate at Indian, Italian, and Ethiopian restaurants. The food scene seems OK – not necessarily the local one, though. There are lots of Chinese places too. Indians own lots of the businesses here, including shops and hotels.
I’ve burned my skin a bit, listened to a lot of mzungu calls on the narrow streets covered with reddish soil which turn from sand to mud and back again daily. There are internet cafes in every other street corner. They’re kind of out of place among all the goats, chickens, and grinning children running around in the doorways of the neighbouring little shacks. “How are you”, the children cry as soon as they observe a strange pale figure approaching. “I can see you’re my brother”, exclaims a Jamaican-looking guy in Muyenga, stroking his goatee with one hand and pointing at mine with the other. The majority of adults, however, just quietly marvel at the whiteness of the newcomer’s complexion, perhaps uttering a little sigh of a laugh while passing.
For two thousand shillings – about one euro, or 1.25 dollars – you can stay online in the place around the corner for one hour and twenty minutes. A big fresh pineapple costs one thousand at the Namuwongo market.
13:06
Both the soles of my sandals simultaneously split in half in the middle, across the foot, on Sunday. Must have been some major change in humidity or temperature or air quality or road condition or all of these. Miraculous. So I ordered a new pair at a local shoemaker’s and chose the skin of the nile perch as material. My first fish sandals coming up in a week. My foot size – carefully hand-measured – requires one perch per shoe, which elevated the cost to about €40.
We’re close to having a house to live in. Found an excellent candidate, but it is still unclear whether the owner is willing to make the changes necessary for the house to pass the UN security check. The regulations are ridiculously strict: every worker and their families have to live behind high walls, razor wire, barred windows and double secured doors, further isolated from the local community by armed night guards and preferably SUV-type vehicles. Not the best way to increase mutual trust between locals and expatriates. We foreigners and a few chosen Ugandans practically live in bunkers.
The first weeked, we ate at Indian, Italian, and Ethiopian restaurants. The food scene seems OK – not necessarily the local one, though. There are lots of Chinese places too. Indians own lots of the businesses here, including shops and hotels.
I’ve burned my skin a bit, listened to a lot of mzungu calls on the narrow streets covered with reddish soil which turn from sand to mud and back again daily. There are internet cafes in every other street corner. They’re kind of out of place among all the goats, chickens, and grinning children running around in the doorways of the neighbouring little shacks. “How are you”, the children cry as soon as they observe a strange pale figure approaching. “I can see you’re my brother”, exclaims a Jamaican-looking guy in Muyenga, stroking his goatee with one hand and pointing at mine with the other. The majority of adults, however, just quietly marvel at the whiteness of the newcomer’s complexion, perhaps uttering a little sigh of a laugh while passing.
For two thousand shillings – about one euro, or 1.25 dollars – you can stay online in the place around the corner for one hour and twenty minutes. A big fresh pineapple costs one thousand at the Namuwongo market.
13:06
