African nuances

Washing clothes should not be under rated. The dirt here is red and seems to get over everything especially in the wind. Sometimes it’s hard to tell on my feet as I feel like I have tanned that much, but at the end of the day when I wipe them off with a wet wipe, I discover I could have painted an entire canvas with the dirt clinging to my skin. If not washed before sleeping or changing, this dirt form the body with transform white sheets to brown, crusty pieces of parchment. The dirt already creates a nice gradient look on the walls of the white stucco houses, so it’s wise to wash. All that said, Jami and I took our laundry out to the washing spout to clean the sweaty pieces that could no longer be passed as acceptable for public. Hand washing is not that bad with wik away clothing since they soak up water and then ring out quite easily. I did the squatting over the bucket of suds and clothes while Jami rinsed. Jordan’s mom helped us nag our clothes on the line and all was well. I don’t know exactly how grass stains or other nasty gross stuff can be taken out save for lots of scrubbing but thankfully I didn’t have to this round.

In order to be prepared fro Africa, one must know the hurry up and wait game. So our goal to leave at 11:30 became 12:15 and meeting Joshua at 12 became 12:45. It’s a little bit strange being a muzungu hanging out in the middle of a gas station waiting for someone, talk about a landmark. “Go to the gas station where the 2 muzungus are looking lost. You can’t miss them.” We hopped a taxi to Entebbe, but our guide wasn’t exactly sure of the stop. Of course, it’s not like the streets are marked or distinct, no muzungus on the corner, so Joshua had to do a bit of guessing, but we figured it out. Thankfully we got out of the taxi a little early and walked from there up the hill to the correct street rather than driving all the way to the airport. Boda bodas were the next form of transport to the school site. After telling Harriet our story she said that we could have directed them to the Muzungu school and everyone would have know what where to go.

Negotiating prices has always been my least favorite thing to do. I do it way to much in my head as it is when I try to decide the benefits of buying the generic and cheaper brand of something over the brand name. Usually I can console myself with one reason or another, habit and preference help, but this is not possible in Kampala. Everything has a price or kind of a price. Set in stone is not a cliché used around here. So whether I’m buying a dress, finding a good internet café deal or simply trying to get home from town, I have to negotiate. And by I, I mean someone who a) doesn’t have white skin b) speaks Luganda. Now, I could survive without such assistance. It would take me just a time or two to be jipped before I said, TRY AGAIN! But in these circumstances, especially with transportation I don’t know where I’m going and so the price carries not only the route price but the ignorance tax as well.
I really hate that this is the way of the world, of my world right now. At first I thought how grateful I am not to live in a country so dictated by money, but then I blink and realized that was hardly the case. I just live in the circumstances of a place that doesn’t require daily, situational bartering. Really what I should be thankful for is my ability and means to do such negotiating. I am rich in many things and I hope that a taxi price won’t change those things that can’t be paid for with shillings.