Gone Fishing

The other day I went fishing. I wanted to hitch a ride by wading into the rising tide with a ten dollar bill and a pack of cigarettes waving above my head, speaking for themselves if my oral language skills weren't adequate to make the offer. Every day nearly a hundred 20, 25 ft wooden dhows, single sail boats which cant be tacked in less than three minutes, set sail for the horizon for an honest days work and to bring in a few hundred pounds of fish meat. I have a thing for sailing and this opportunity brought my excitement level right up there with sky diving. There is something so pure and honest about fishing in a wooden sailing boat that I yearned to partake, something unalterably necessary and decent that is timelessly reflected by the endless expanses of the sky and sea which encompass the endeavor.

My ambition proved to be bigger than my courage and I negotiated the trip through a 'friend' I had met in the village for $30. I brought a few cigarettes as a courtesy. Each boat caries four crew and perhaps a half kilometer of net. Along with other odds and ends my favorite accessory was the 5 gallon metal bucket with a large square hole in the side that served as the boat's stove. Sailing was good in the gentle wind past the pristine turquoise reef shelf and into deeper water. We had left mid afternoon and just before sunset we were casting the net, "pole, pole." It seemed to take forever and I couldn't imagine bringing it back into the boat loaded with fish. The small shallow keeled boat (maybe it doesn't really have a keel) was rocking badly from the small swells that came to our side as we unloaded the net. Thankfully, once the net was out it was tethered to the front of the boat and the wind swung us around to face the swells head on adding a bit of bearable pitch and keeping the yaw to a more sparse and random occurrence still vicious when it came.

All the while a fire had been raging in the ships stove with about five pounds of cassava root boiling above it. This would be our Ramadan dinner. Two of the crew, none of whom spoke more English than my Swahili, took time for a prayer, facing north, just as the sun went down on the ship's small deck. The other two sparked up a few spliffs in preparation to pass the long night so I joined them, feeling an ounce of camaraderie. The cassava was a little undercooked but it was accompanied by some overcooked tuna that had been caught on a line to make it more bearable. We shared the dinner on a large aluminum plate sans forks or chopsticks.

Then what? The sun had gone down and the net was out. It was time to wait for the poor unsuspecting fishies to deliver themselves blindly into the net. No one had an instrument or a musical talent worth sharing. No one produced playing cards or a board game. The two Muslims prayed again a few hours later. Thankfully there was a small radio with decent reception that played a mix of American pop radio. I brought out my snacks and offered them, some bananas, peanuts and sweet bread. I didnt bother sharing the cigarettes because I was already fighting the thought of nausea from the pitching waves and an ounce of nicotine over that rolled into the splifs might have sent my bowels over the edge. There was, however, the night sky. It was a cloudless night with a full and shining milky way right above us. I tried to recognize constellations but failed. The Big Dipper was not up or too far north. The Southern Cross was similarly missing in the South and Orion may or may not have been out, it was hard to decide. The stars were spectacular though and calmed my stomach. In the distance I could see a faint glow from a township on the neighboring island of Pemba, still a good 6 hours sail away, and the lights from our fishing village reassuringly near by. Looking overboard I began to hallucinate spots of light in the water. They kept happening and more so where the waves splashed against the bow of the boat. This was a very real hallucination. I leaned over the side and sloshed my hand about in the water. A trail of glowing sparkles followed my fingers like magic pixie dust. Startled, I jumped back. That was some really good herb - I though. I grabbed a fire wood stick, about the size of a broom handle, and stirred the water. Sure enough, the phosphorescent plankton were out in force giving the sea a magical life of light in the night to match the speckled stars above. I yelped out to the crew in the excitement of my discovery. They barely mumbled a word as if they couldn't see what was going on or had seen it so often they didn't care to notice. They seemed more amused by my stirring of the water than the light show below the surface. I amused myself for a while thinking it might be long before I got another chance to have such fun.

As the night wore on the crew produced blankets and plastic tarps, I got a nice big blanket and a dirty canvas sheet, curled up on the damp hard wooden floor and went to sleep with the radio singing lullabies. The though of closing my eyes nearly scared the cassava out of me. I was horrified. How was I going to survive the night without sleeping or throwing up? Slowly, after contemplating many things, I slouched down farther and farther into the bottom of the boat. I found that lying down actually reduced the linear movement of my body and after a while I was tired enough to actually close my eyes and fall asleep, sort of. Ill call it rest.

The moon came up well before daybreak but apparently signaled time to collect the net. Bodies slowly stirred and moved into action. Pulling in the net was a more difficult task and fortunately I was relegated to watching. I was secretly hoping for a good catch so the fishermen might think I brought them good luck and talk about me favorably to their friends in the village or at least smile at me. For a while, though, the net came back empty and I began to wonder about their tactics. When we laid the net I had expected to come around with one end and round up a bunch of splashing fishies. Instead we just cast it and pulled it back in like an marine fly trap. My worries were dashed in dramatic fashion when I was called to help haul in a fish that turned out to be a 150 pound Manta Rey. Not long after we hauled in a 7 or 8 foot blue marlin with a big nasty spear on its nose and a beautiful latex dorsal fin. A second marlin followed shortly. Four 2 ft tuna rounded out our catch. I was surprised to find the fish completely lifeless upon entering the boat. I guess they die when they get tangled in the net some how. A bit sad but bearable since fish eyes aren't so compelling.

It was still entirely dark and starry when the net was finally pulled in. Right away the crew hoisted the sail and pulled it tight to slice back into the wind towards Nungwi. The smallest tuna was gutted and its left half was chopped up for breakfast. I had been fantasizing about raw tuna for a while now, seeing all the fresh catches at the fish markets, but wasnt able to get my hands on any as sushi had not found its way into the culture. I knew the diced tuna before me was destined for the boiler so I grabbed a flabby chunk, rinsed it in the ocean and sunk my teeth into the soft red flesh. It was exceptionally good, fresh as raw fresh tuna could be. After precariously firing the metal can stove with hot smoldering coals falling out on the the deck of the wooden boat every so often the tuna was served with a heaping mound of white rice seasoned with the juices from the boiled fish. I was beginning to grow sick of the smell of fish. It was on my hands, my shirt, my pants, the boat and the hundreds of pounds of dead fish in the boat. I ate some breakfast but wasn't too hungry.

Sailing was slow into the wind and tacking didn't seem to be an option. After some discussion with the crew the captain decided to bring down the sail and power our way back with the outboard. The motor had the equivalent power of a scooter and we didn't cause much of a wake but it was an improvement over the sail. The sun began to lighten the sky over the horizon and I could see other masts scattered about the water, making their way back, hopefully with loads of fish, after a nights work. The ride back was quite and slow save for the mild rumble of the outboard motor. Not much was said. I found myself quite tired and ready for a shower and a nap. I was very pleased, however, at our bounty. The two marlins and manta ray seemed to me like an impressive catch and wondered how we fared compared to the other boats making their way in.

Before we reached the beach we ran out of petrol and the motor went silent. The sail was hoisted on its wooden pulleys and wooden masts and we kept moving, into the wind, towards our destination, forced to make at least one tack. When we arrived the sun was fully bright and strangers helped us haul the fish up the sand near a little shed where a crowd of men gathered. Within seconds of laying our fish down they were being auctioned to any who cared to be standing around. No scales were needed, just eyeballs. A small, energetic old man rattled out numbers in Swahili, counting up when someone gestured and approval. The two marlins went for 80,000 Tanzanian shillings each, the manta ray for 60,000, and two of the tuna for 40,000. 1,000 Tanzanian shillings is about $1. I hung around for a bit to marvel at the scene and after finally realizing that I was near delirious with fatigue I stumbled back to my hotel room, took a bucket shower and went to bed.

Where once there was light, darness now sits. A cloud of of terrific weight has rumbled in over my eyes and mind so that I can no longer see what is real. The tides, do they still follow the moon?

In my youth I sought with empirical exactness to wrap my elastic mind around the physical world, especially the parts we can see and push with our own muscles. It was a natual inclination for me and a joy; I even began to believe I was good at it. There was one particularly beautiful mystery I sought to bring my head around to for a theoretical analysis, to shine light upon a cloaking shadow; a timeless question to be understood as well as our own bodies - what causes the tides?

In my head I visualized and deductively reasoned that the tides are caused by a swing dance between the Earth and Moon. On the near side, the Moon's gravity pulls the oceans up. On the far side the centripital force from the Earth swinging the moon on its monthly path like an adult swinging a little child around by the arms (playfully) pulls the oceans up as well so that it is stretched into an oblong shape in line with the moon. I was so proud of my discovery because no one seemed to know it, like a riddle, only that the moon is responsible.

Recently I have been spending a lot of time looking at the ocean where tides are very obvious and I have noticed a peculiar thing. The low tide follows the moon so that the star fish are drying out when the moon is high above. What? Thats all wrong, doesnt match my model. Where is the logic in it? The high tide should come with the moon then again when it is opposite. Sure enough, however, night after night, I could see the tide was lowest when the moon stood directly above.

Nobody could help me. All of the locals I have asked dont even have an explanation for the Milky Way, so I consulted the oracle, Wikipedia. As it turns out the sun is also responsible for tidal movements in the same way the moon is, duh, just to a lesser extent. But, that doesnt explain my observation which was most obvious when the moon was full and the sun would be complimenting the moon's pull, in a syzygystic state. Other factors are said to have influence, basically the inertial sloshing of the oceans as in a bath tub and the tilt of the Earth.

I am now lost on the subject, with my head in a pile of coal, inclined to believe the science of the Oracle but unable to escape the observations that haunt me. For now, what I saw will remain as an anomaly and proof that this world is happily more magical than my scientific mind can manage.

Slowly, Slowly

"Pole, pole," (Spanish pronunciation) it means, "slowly, slowly," and is my favorite theme here in Zanzibar, advice given prudently so as to come across like thundering wisdom. Its amazing how often it fits. The hustle bustle etched into my character is struggling to cope. It actually hurts me to slow down, but I can do it, I need to.

After some ups and downs in the world of haggling for cell phones and motor bikes, some very favorable characters and some not so favorable ones, I have a cell phone and I have returned a really fun dirt bike unscathed (I had never ridden one before) after zipping around for three days and paying more than I should have in spite of my best efforts. Never the less, I got to explore some dirt paths off the main road and enjoyed myself thoroughly. Those who know me well understand my desire to explore unassuming dirt paths to no where in particular. Often times it can lead to somewhere spectacular. To give a laundry list, I found two sacred caves to explore, a coral brick mine, a sea turtle conservatory which might also double as a sea turtle prison, some nice fishing posts, lots of resorts, and a giantly massive Baobab tree.

I have been staying at a beautiful old dump of a resort right on the beach, the Dere Beach Resort, for the past week. My room opens directly to the sea. Nestled in the quiet village of Bwejuu, an amazing ad hock town of coral bricks, cows, and sandy soccer fields, Dere is the first hotel on the East coast of Zanzibar (there are now dozens) even though it is only 20 years old. It has since gone into a bit of disrepair and I found myself the only tourist renting a room. Many locals and migrant laborers following the summer tourist industry like the Masai also rent rooms but for about a tenth the price I do even though I was able to bargain for a decent rate. I was assured after some investigation that the local rooms are not near as nice as mine. I chuckled inside hearing this. The porch to my room was being finished while I stayed with the money I offered for rent. It had everything I needed but wasn't quite, well appointed. My first night I had a surprising discovery of stinky pillows. The beds, there are two of them in case I brought a lover, were just too short for my 6' 1" frame and some sort of sea mold was growing happily on the screen windows. I didnt mind the quirks as it offered more of a cultural experience than I might have found in more legitimate situations. Indeed, I began to be accepted by the local community as a friend and not just a tourist bank account.

Bwejuu, like the other sleepy coastal towns, seems to be in both a state of disrepair and development. The foundations for houses lay finished, waiting for more funds to finish the walls and roof. Some have had to wait too long and are now large planters for weeds or municipal waste disposal sites. The construction techniques fascinate me. White coral blocks the color of the sand are mined inland and cemented together to form beautiful white walls the texture of pumice. Few walls are ever plastered over as cement is a more expensive material. Sometimes sticks are interwoven with the bricks. The roofs are framed with appropriate sized tree trunks, unmilled, and covered with woven coconut palm leaves tied down with coconut husk rope. This type of roof needs to be rethatched every five to ten years. If you are rich you can sport a corugated metal roof that will last considerably longer than the palm leaves but is louder than a riot in the rain and turns your house into an oven when it is sunny out.

The culinary delights here are exquisite. When the sun finally goes down and it is time to break the day's fast the food vendors wheel their carts out with advanced LED desk lamps or rustic tin can oil candles and cook up a storm. My absolute favorite is the tuna skewer caught fresh that day and seasoned just enough to give it some tang, $1. Other masterpieces include freshly squeezed sugar cane juice with lime, 30 cents per cup, and tangawezi or sweet hot ginger tea, 10 cents per cup. There are plenty of bread rolls, banana varieties, coconuts, and dates for me to indulge myself in secret during the day.

My swim with the fishies fantacies havent panned out quite like I expected, but, I have had some success. My main qualm is not being able to swim out to the pretty coral and marine life right off the beach like I had hoped. Instead one must hire a boat to take you to the right place but this requires money and planning and other people. I did it in Mombassa and it was nice so I guess Ill give it a try here. At low tide one can walk pretty far out and swim to some spectacularly mediocre aquatic life or hire a bike and some fins for $7 to ride down the beach to the crazy Italian Mega Resort where there is a nice lagoon not far out and offer the security $5 to not steal the bike and my backpack.

The Italians really swamp this place. So much so the young Masai men who travel here every summer to sell their goods to the happy beach going tourists can now speak fluent Italian to compliment their English and Swahili. The other night I was invited to join them in a traditional dance to impress the rich Italians. Apparently they didnt care that I am not in the slightest a Masai and I accepted eagerly as I secretly fantacized about jumping high like the people I saw on the Discovery channel when I was a kid. I joined them and did a terrible job of matching their bounds and pulled a muscle in my back real bad in the process which I am now recovering from. It is fun hanging out with the Masai, Bwejuu is a small town and we bump into each other often. They all wear their sexy Masai garb with knife, club, beeds and long hair complimented by designer glasses and cell phones I am envious of.

Does anyone want to kick down $400 so I can go on a four day scuba session? I have already been overspending nicely and cant bring myself to dip too deep into my savings. No? Thats ok. Ill find the fish yet.

Today I travel to a new corner of the island where the map shows the reef's end coming right next to the beach (fishies and coral please) and the young backpackers are said to be rowdy. I havent had a drink in a while (remember the Ramadan thing) so this might be nice.

The World Will Watch Africa in 2010

Happy first day of Ramadan and a shout out to all my friends returning from Burning Man. I hope your important synapses are still intact and you managed to forge some interesting new ones. Let me know how it went.

Tomorrow morning I board a plane to Mombassa where I will spend a couple of days then bus down to Dar Es Salam in Tanzania and ferry over to the island of Zanzibar where I can enjoy peace and quiet and all the swimming with tropical fishies on pristine white sand beaches I can handle. Yes!

Currently I am hanging out with Ivan, the boyfriend of the girl I stayed with in Bujigalli falls, Shannon's friend, in Kampala. Last night was a hoot. Ivan took me to a confirmation party for his neighbors kids. It was at a sports bar with a stage and celing fans immediately below the icycle blue flourescent lights adding a painful stobing effect. There were many words said by the preacher followed by a hip hop dance performance for our viewing pleasure. Much to my confusion I was next. I was led by the hand up on stage to perform to some Ugandan pop music, which I happen to like very much; it has a mellowness to it. I feigned fear then busted out some fancy dance moves learnt over the years on Fresno's West side. I was then asked to give a speach which I managed because I had been secretly fantacising one. "God is what unites us," I said and it seemed to go over well.

The 2010 world cup is going to be in South Africa. This is the first world cup in Africa. An African team has never won the world cup. Could this be the one? Wherever their is power and enough commerce to pay for sattelite television (always preceeds internet) there will be a sports theatre showing live games of the best teams in the European leagues. The big ones are Arsenal, Manchester Unite, Chelsea, and Liverpool, all from the English Premier League. The theatres charge about 30 cents and are often packed. I have made it a habit to see as many game as I can; its a good bonding experience. Arsenal is my adopted team because their first game of the season happened to be playing at the bar where the source of the nile is and I was able to grab a beer and get my $7 entrance fee worth of entertainment. Soccer games are on televisions everywhere here. The last internet cafe I was at had yesterdays games playing. The confimation party had four TVs showing various games from the Italian, Spanish and English leagues. Ugandans love their soccer and they are very good too. In Nkokonjeru I am able to play pickup several times a week just before sundown. The style of play is different than what am used to but I have enjoyed adjusting. Every player seems to have total control of the ball and themselves and has every option of passing, dribbling, waiting at their disposal. Here, soccer is a game of conrol rather than attack and defend. I would love to play a full game with my peers. So the World Cup is comming to Africa in 2010 and I will be here rooting for the a dark horse, any of them. There are many Africans playing in the European leagues and many of them are stars (a cause for so much interest here). Will they bring enough tallent back to their home countries to compete for the World Cup championship? Will half of Germany's team be stricken by Malaria and unbearable intestinal discomfort? We shall see. For once, Africans will hold the world's gase and I hope it turns into a triumph for the world's least weighted continent.

The Nile is a Long River

A group of us from EWB headed out to the nearby touristy city of Jinja which is particularly identified by its location at the source of the Nile on Lake Victoria. A two day visit turned into four for me as the rest of my group, limited by time constraints, headed back to Nkokonjeru. We rocked up six strong and headed strait for "The Source of the Nile," a nicely manicured park space with a bar where you can hire a boat to take you to "The Actual Source of the Nile." We were content to observe by land, soak up some invigorating negative ions, and steep in the magnificence that is the Nile. We also grabbed a beer and watched the first Arsenal game of the season at the bar.

Consulting our guidebook the four of us left found our way to a backpacers hotel to crash for the evening in relative luxury, all you can drink tea and flushing toilets. Being young and ambitious, three of us headed out for the evening to a nearby riverside resort bar where a birthday party was rumored to be. The scene was piled high with better offs, mostly whities, enjoying the gift of wealth. I was struggling to catch my bearings, to relate this scene with the rest of my trip. The moon was eclipsed just then giving the night a magical air. With some encouragement from a local African bartender a gaggle of us arranged for a taxi-bus and headed into town for a more cultural experience. We wound up at Babel or was it Babez, I couldnt tell from the sign. It was quite a nice bar really and the popular beer, Club, than at the whitie resort. The beer slogans on the bilboards are fantastic. They all relate drinking a particular beer to riches and success as opposed to bikinis. They go something like, "Your time for greatness has come," or, "You have earned everything you can imagine." I made both of those up but thats the jist.

After Babez our clan rambunctiously jumped onto the motorbike taxis, boda bodas, and zipped off to Sombreros, a night club. This place was no joke. Full black lights with psychodelic glowpaintings on the walls, mirrored ceiling, heavy sound system, two bars, and a dress code unenforced for whities (several of us were in flipflops). The place was packed and the vibe was good, no ass holes. We managed to dance sweatily for a few hours. Some of my comrads were borderline euphoric in spite of a lack of drugs. We made it back dangerously on the bodas and congratulated ourselves on a night well done.

The next day the four of us rented mountain bikes and took a hand made map to explore the area instead of the traditional whitie experience, rafting the Nile. A bicycle tour was an awesome idea. We cruised around some idyllic villages with circular mud and thatched huts mixed with brick and corrugated metal homes and hand cared gardens filling every acer. Once again I struggled to justify why we humans should live any other way. Is this really the pinnacle of sustainability, possessing the means to support yourself from the space immediately around you, shelter, food, water, friends, adventure, without a drop of industry. The only signs of industrial hell were the western clothes and yellow plastic 20 liter containers everyone uses to collect water from the hand pumped well. And cell phones of course. Obviously, I wouldn't ask everyone or even myself to live in a similar way but it is something to consider, some sort of a perfect balance.

At the end of day two I had decided to stay behind and do the unthinkable that every other whitie who passes through does, raft the first 20 km or so of the Nile. I have heard several bad stories about this endevour but just as many excelent ones after staying at the backpackers hotel for two nights and no body seemed to be dying or getting maimed only frightened that they would drown. The controversy is over a rafting trip that consists of half a dozen class 5 rapids and a few sixes which are better left alone. One of my friends from Davis decided to join me. We were paired with four young Dutch kids who I hit up for a possible place to crash when I come through Holland. Our raft seemed to be cursed or at least stupid as we flipped on most of the larger rapids. The highlight for me was getting stuck over the edge of a 3 meter water fall. One of the Dutch kids fell out of the boat in the rapids immediately before the water fall, real bad timing, so our guide stopped steering in order to pull him back it. Consequently we missed our mark and wedged up on the rocks. I was in the front and had a fantastic view over the end of the boat down to the water below. The guide spun our boat backwards off the rocks and over the falls where we proceeded to spill our into the watery turbulence. Falling off wasnt so bad as long as you remembered to take a deep breath before hand and relax, to let the river do with you as it wishes. Chances were it would just float you back to the top where you could find your raft down river a little. All told we survived the most difficult rapids without flipping and had a good time.

I bunked up for one more night with the whities at the backpacers hotel and joined several truckloads of overlanders, the worst kind of whitie; they never stay for more than a day. In the morning I overloaded on a couple of Ugandan breakfast burritos called Rolexes, and headed up the hill where I had bicycled just two days earlier to visit Shannon's workplace, SoftPower Health clinic where she had volunteered the better part of a year ago. Shannon had given me some photo albums to distribute to her friends there and I carried them like passports into the village. I found Judith, a young Ugandan doctor at the clinic and delivered the first photo album. The clinic is paired with a brightly colored educational facility, Soft Power Education which shows signs of influence all over the extended community. Judith had her hands full and called her friend, Saji, to escort me to her host family's house to deliver the remainder of the albums. My visit was a surprise but I was received very warmly by Sylvia and Mama Rosie; they had seen my picture before and recognized me when I demonstrated my knowledge of Shannon. They live in a beautiful house with gardens of sweet potatoes, bananas, cassava, corn and beans, chickens scurrying about, cows chewing and mooing, goats doing their thing and nasty pigs wallowing in mud as they do. I was overcome by the zen of it all and asked to stay the night. My photo album passport got me in. I enjoyed the day meeting the neighbors and all Shannon's old friends, running errands and watching my hosts cook. The managed to over feed me twice in too days. Their trick is to give one dish after the other unexpectedly with the last one being the most starchy and heavy. The food was good though. Wholesome filling vegan stuff. I had a surreal time hanging out when night fell. These flying ants appeared unannounced from holes in the ground and dissapeared by the hundreds into the sky like a squadron of fighter planes heading out to a fierce battle. A small child from next door scurried over and began to collect them in a cup as they emerged from their holes. Apparently they are a delicacy when fried. I joined Moma Rosie and Sylvia in the kitchen, a brick room separate from the house with a charcoal burning metal stove and an open fireplace while they prepared our supper. The room filled with smoke above our heads like a high fog; it was pouring out the ventilation holes one of the walls. It was quite dark except for an oil lamp inside a semi clear plastic bucket. We had dinner by candle light. The man of the house, James, had joined us after a long days work of construction in Jinja. Not much conversation was made but the meal of beans with spaghetti plus cabbage and ground corn or posho was very good. I slept soundly in the very bed Shannon had endured for three months not long ago.

Then next day (today) I am stuffed and on my way back to Nkokonjeru to continue my work. Whew, that was a long one.

Feeling Special in Nkokonjeru

There is a sign in the central mini cathedral space of my lodging that read "Dear Friends, Feel Special in Nkokonjeru." "With Pleasure," I respond assuming the sign is meant for me. I am staying at a top notch facility, the Mother Kevin Convent. I am so lucky I even get a flushing toilet and a shower (cold water only). Sister Benna cooks the 8 of us staying at the convent the best food in town for breakfast and dinner. Real delights from her garden and the local market. At $13 a day for room and board I am feeling very special indeed.

The town of Nkokunjeru is very amiable, small but sufficient and friendly. A hill not far outside town dawns paired water tanks and brand new cell phone towers for both MTN and Zain. A third is going up. A football field similar to the one I enjoyed in Kampala lies near by and my mouth waters for a vigorous game.

I have found a beautiful irony here. The is nearly everything my permaculture friends back home could dream of. Vegetable gardens of great variety, corn, many different tubers, cabbage (did you know cabbage could grown in the tropics), matoke (unripening bananas), tomatoes, green onions, and a plethora of tropical fruit trees, even avocados and oranges, saturate the landscape. Intercroping? Of course! And all the homes are made of mud bricks hand built and fired locally by independent artisans or strait mud and stick construction. Everyone bicycles or walks around town and takes public transit to the city at about 1000 people miles per gallon. Beat that Bay Area Prius commuter. Did I mention that all the livestock are grass fed foragers? The irony, of course, is that this sustainable utopia is only possible because people are so poor here. If it were financially possible everyone would happily own an Excursion. Oh well. This place is beautiful for what it is, for how ever long it lasts.

Yesterday was the primary school's field day, a festive event complete with sound system and DJ. A martching band was rocking out as well. Children in either green, red, yellow, or blue sporting outfits competed in dozens of events including the hurdles, balance a watter bottle on the head race, and my favorite, the get ready for school medley.

I'm off to the weekly market for some fruits and possibly to expand my wardrobe.

Its a breakaway, one on one with the goalie...

Took a taxi into the big city of Kampala where it all goes down. Mmm, the sweet sweet smells of poorly tuned two stroke and diesel exhaust swirling about in my nostrils like a fine young California Zin. If you want to buy a cell phone come to Uganda to shop. Every other shop is a licensed dealer, brightly painted either yellow or purple for MTN or Zain. Even shops that arent selling phones and minutes have the absolutely fabulous and fresh paint. My guess is cell adds turn over every few weeks here and the major streets get a new face in turn.

Major development, I successfully tested edible street food. Five hours later and my stomach feels completely normal. Followed fast food signage to the end of an alley inhabited by reputable people wearing clean slacks and button ups, sometimes ties. This look is the norm on the street. Some of the hipper kids wear designer jeans. Anyway, the food; three kinds of potatoie things, one purple, one sweet, and one corny and all of them better than a russet, and the infamous Ugandan banana mush stuff that tastes eerily unlike the bananas I know. I forget what its called but I will relearn soon enough I am sure. I avoided the brothie meat bowl that accompanies these fine starches but was very tempted as three pounds of starch can be tough to palate all by itself but I wanted to keep the variables to a minimum, if I got sick after eating five different things I wouldn't know who the culprate was. I managed to finish it all, to my surprise, with the much needed help of a soda to keep my saliva aliva.

In my first post I suggested a few themes I might follow. Lo and behold a beautiful football pitch cluttered with talented youth emerged between the airport and Kampala and my cabie was more than happy to hang out and watch the mayhem. There were two solid goals at each end, a regulation size field for sure but the pitch varied between ten inch grass, a worn ant hill hard dirt and loose sand, all enjoyable variables. My agent, the cabie, negotiated me a spot on the roster for the second half of a decently organized game with one team wearing jerseys and a whistled referee. Much to my satisfaction the level of play was very skilled. I came out hard armed with at least equal experience to any one else and by far the nicest shoes (I bought some all purpose soccer/street shoes). I almost scored a goal! Not really, it was a long shot but I struck the ball well off a volley with my head down and it screw balled nicely at the goal. The audience congratulated me. I was then recruited for the next game and even got to wear a matching Real Madrid jersey for the next game. Asked to play striker, I wanted defense so I could relax and catch my breath, I felt the pressure of expectation. Our opponents were skilled, more so than the last game, and my team was really small, although skilled ourselves. No one seemed to be intimidated or ranked as I often experienced playing in the US. Scronie kids and part cripples went head to with the big skilled players and did a brilliant job. The play was fierce and even. My team mates kept looking for me but I was pooped and efd up an easy breakaway and a couple other good opportunities. The crowd began to heckle me. I was shamed and determined to win back some honor for my team, but also exhausted from not being in shape. We were down one to zero at the half and I wasnt jovial as we switched sides. My team could have cared less and we came back, scoring two goals, both assisted by yours truly and won the day.

Anywho, I am stoked. That was football experience I hope to match and having grabbed it on my first day in Uganda Im feeling good about my chances.