My stomach is full to bursting with starchy root vegetables. Ndi mukkufu!

“Weebale nnyo, ssebo,” I say each morning to the boda boda driver who takes me to work.  I am slowly, slowwwwly picking up bits of Luganda, which hasn’t been too bad, given its many similarities to the Rutooro language that I was beginning to learn in Fort Portal.  I do heartily wish, though, that I knew it fluently—Lord knows I’d like to be able to understand what people here are saying about me!  Oh, well, I suppose it is the prerogative of locals to be able to gossip about foreigners in their native language.  I’ve begun responding to the eponymous “mzungu!” as if it were my given name, or at least bodily reacting each time I hear it called.  Nearly every time I hear the word spoken it’s in reference to me; although there are more white people here in Entebbe than there were in Fort Portal, that’s still not saying much, and so I continue to be an oddity in these parts.

Children are the funniest proprietors of the phrase “Hey mzungu!  How are you!”, and I got a big chuckle the other day from some young schoolboys who were heckling me—in French.  There’s a primary school down the road from my apartment complex and I usually encounter the schoolchildren in the early evening on my way to the market, when they get out of class.  “HEY!  FERMEZ-LA BOUCHE!”  Cue the giggling.  “HEY! HEY YOU!  FERMEZ-LA BOOOOOUCHE!”  More giggling.  “Are you guys speaking French to me?”  “Yeeessss!”  “Why are you telling me to shut my mouth?  It wasn’t even open before I talked to you guys!”  Then there was a general sense of ‘ohhhhhhh snap’ on their part, and the friends of the boys hollering started laughing at them and pushing them off the curb.  Big old grin on my face as I continued walking to town…not much difference between 10 year olds in the U.S. and Uganda, eh?

Ohhhh, man.  As much as I complain about certain things here in Uganda, NOTHING, absolutely nothing, can beat their fruit.  I just got served a fruit plate piled high with fresh mango, pineapple, banana, and watermelon and planning on cramming it all into my already-very full stomach!  (I’m on my lunch break right now, which is 1 ½ hours long…don’t ask me why)  Way better than watery cantaloupe and grapes in a plastic cup at Starbucks, and for only seventy nine cents.  Baller.

The place that I usually eat lunch at is a little wooden shack down the road from NARO (National Agricultural Research Organization, the building where the archives are located).  I think I’ve described it somewhat, but it bears summary again, solely because of the hilarious women who work it.  Apparently I am considered a regular there, because when I arrived today, one of the woman said “Ehhhyyy!! The usual?”  <enthusiastic nod>  Yep, the ush.  Matooke, posho, g-nut sauce with dried beef, pumpkin, and yams…and sometimes greens (in today’s case, slices of avocado).  I’m the only mzungu to frequent the place and am usually the first one there for the lunch rush (I arrive at 12:30, most others by 1), and so am duly greeted with the UTMOST gusto and excitement.  “Hey, mami, what to drink? Soda, amaizi (water)?”  “You be back tomorrow??”  Of COURSE!!

Well, this counts as the third Fourth of July that I have spent outside of the United States, and it was considerably less exciting than my past two (both spent in Dublin).  Ashley was at a conference in Kampala, so the celebrating was left up to myself.  I was determined to make a night of it, so procured ground beef and other necessary hamburger accoutrements to the best of my ability and set about cooking.  I had a hamburger, made sweet potato fries and guacamole, and heated up baked beans.  AMERICA!!!!  Of course, the power went out around 6:30, so I cooked/ate my dinner by candlelight.  Nothing like a Fourth of July spent in the dark, reading Ivanhoe on a Kindle by candlelight.

Alright, gotta tackle this fruitplate, finish my tea, and eavesdrop on the young Mormon missionaries seated in the café behind me.

Love to you all.

N