"Our" market next door

It’s been awhile since I posted – blame the homesick computer and the fact that we moved. Yes, we are in an apartment in the same neighborhood as the hotel. We looked at a zillion houses and flats before settling here (thanks to the New Vision people who patiently carted us all over the place). Here’s the deal: the houses felt very isolated, since they are all behind walls with security guards, and include what is called “boys quarters” for your house girl, cook and gardener. Some of them were just fine: big gardens, many bedrooms, nice kitchens. And the expense that comes with extra services. But we aren’t really here for that kind of existence. If, after a month or two, it seems that we need space and peace and quiet we’ll reconsider.

For now, we are in a place called Salama Springs. Small flat (I promise pictures!), nice swimming pool that saves us at the end of the day, small workout room (no, we haven’t been there yet!), sauna (why would anyone do that in Africa?), and both local families and people like us from somewhere foreign. And – big bonus - little monkeys rolling over each other in the garden!

We promised to talk about the Bugalobi Market, which is right next door to us. It is an amazing collection of huts, stalls and ramshackle buildings in which you can find almost anything: clothes, beauty supplies (lots of them, for some reason), pest poison, shoe repair, beauty salons. If you look hard you see a meat stall tucked in between the beauty salon and book stall. Right next to the outdoor barber shop is a place featuring the services of Plumbers and Graphic Artists, which we found a slightly curious combo. (Fred and Alix – better start working on those plumbing skills!) There are mini-factories of people building beds, metal trunks, metal stoves. And next to that there’s a pool hall (a table under a tin roof) where young men hang out. Oh, and you can wash your car at the washing bay.

This morning there was a pickup truck in the parking lot/road and in back were six people playing music on some little stringed instruments that we’ll find the name of. The music is all great – very reggae, which makes sense when you think about it.

Behind the stalls is the food market, and that is really a jumble. Men stir dried beans on tarps, women hide behind huge stacks of green bananas (Uganda supposedly produces more bananas than anywhere), and odd vegetables are covered by tarps to protect them from the hot sun. Among the piles of potatoes (they eat a lot of starch here) rise artistic cairns, like the ones in the mountains, but these are made of potatoes not rocks. Pineapples are piled on the back of bikes, or in wagons – you can get a slice if you want, or a whole one. If you want a slice, a guy hacks it off with a machete and wraps the bottom in plastic so you can hold it and it’s delicious, even while the sticky juice drips down your arm.

You can get kebabs from the vendors who cook them on little round hibachi-style stoves, or fresh corn that smells great. We haven’t done that yet – we’ll try the corn, but not the meat, at least not after seeing the meat stalls.

Further up the street are more vendors, but they are selling huge sacks of charcoal wrapped in straw.

So that’s the market – it’s very crazy, a little scary (because the people are hard to understand and you have to dicker and we aren’t good at that. I mean, really. We can afford the 50 cents for the pineapple!) The contrast between the market and the enclave of fancy houses not far away is fascinating, at least to us newcomers.

What are we doing?

Bill has been going in to the newspaper a little and figuring things out. I have met with a few people about volunteer work and will decide on that this week - some exciting things out there. We’ve been to dinners with news types, and driven to stores and downtown, etc. by friends we’ve met. Including Fr. Matthias, who stayed in Seattle with my brother-in-law Dean last year. He took us to the bank and we got in the middle of a political demonstration. Pretty exciting, but we figured we were in good hands with a priest, though he looked nervous as people banged on his car. The teargas didn’t reach us, no worries.

And we went to a big government celebration yesterday and saw the president of Uganda. They wouldn’t let me take the camera inside, so I stayed outside creating a tiny incident. I don’t understand why the soldier with many guns didn’t trust me not to take pictures; I told him I’m a grandmother, could be his mother, but he wouldn’t budge on the camera. At least he was laughing; I figured I was okay if he just kept smiling. He told me to "sit with the ladies" undeer a shade tree. Finally an official person came along and all was well. I didn't go to jail. And we still have the camera. (No pix of the president, though!)

That’s what we are doing. Every day is an adventure. Around every corner is a surprise.
Mosquito nets are kind of sexy.