Completely Unrelated to Valentine's Day

I saw a boda boda (motorcycle) driver for the second time at the same stand wearing a 1990s, Starter Jacket-era coat with an ND leprechaun on the back. It was a familiar emblem in such and uncharacteristic setting that it failed to appear related to Notre Dame at all. These juxtapositions of comforting familiarity with still-foreign Uganda have happened a lot this week. Noelle’s peanut butter and honey on chapatti at lunch stood out from our plates of rice and beans and made all of us miss Jiffy a little.

The plethora of new things we’re experiencing outside of Makerere University give context to what we’re learning in classes. 2 weeks of guest lectures have exposed us to the multi-dimensional nature of development: economic structures, political institutions, social organizations, education, cultural attitudes, on and on. The way the talks are given proves the difference in teaching styles and concept of time. People walk more slowly here, talk more slowly (either in an undertone or in bellows). In the US people persistently move with a purpose, to do something, whereas here people just go. There is a different attitude toward life, with less certainty, and people are much more politically aware here than the general population at home. The complexity of a country under a 22 year presidential command makes comprehending any aspect of Uganda an involved process. Free speech is sometimes surprisingly scathing and bold, sometimes illusive, and always attentive to context. Reading the daily newspapers is fascinating, though.

On Sunday morning I got a tourist’s taste of preparing Ugandan produce. “you worked today! Now you can write about it in your diary,” my maama informed me. She’s also the one who said (with an unknown degree of sincerity) that as a general rule mzungus can’t eat at night after brushing their teeth. We made it to a small Anglican service on Ugandan time (50 minutes late); at the end I managed to stumble through an introduction, my first public attempt at speaking Luganda. I hand washed clothes for the first time, too. Rose initially left the 6 year old and me to our own devices, but she soon reappeared to intercept my inexperienced attempt and show me how to wash once, twice, rinse, and hang. By the end, I started to appreciate the importance of really wringing out the soap before the final rinse (though submerging one or two of my shirts in a basin of new water could probably yield and impressive amount of suds yet).

I overestimated the extent to which I’d hear English in daily life, but I’m looking forward to going to the market with my Luganda class tomorrow. After they stop giggling, people are very receptive to our meager attempts to speak the language. Now that I know the words for various fruits and can count hundreds of shillings, I’ll be able to find out if I got a good deal on my mango this morning.