Hoima

How to make a pizza in Hoima--
1. First, find yeast. This is not as easy as it might sound. One must go to the "Lucky 7" on mainstreet in Hoima and ask the surly clerk. She will, of course, tell you that of course they don't have yeast (first, in order to communicate what yeast is, you must pantomime bread rising). Next you will go to the other good-sized grocery store in town (the other side of town, mind you)thinking that they will have yeast (each time, you must do the bread-rising pantomime). They will not. They will, though, have honey! You shall be amazed and immidiately purchase a large quantity. You shall then successively go to three more grocery stores, the last of which will tell you that it might be found in the taxi park. ???? Don't ask, just go. Ask the bodaboda drivers if they know where yeast is. They will say, "E-42" After figuring out that this is, in fact, an address, you will go to the obsure shop where this man is selling toothpaste, laundry soap, biscuits, and---YEAST!The quantity they are selling is huge, sufficient for making pizzas for the entire town of hoima and probably the surrounding villages--however, you must buy it.

2) Second, go to the market and buy the ingredients for pizza sauce. Tomatos, onions, garlic, green peppers. You must visit no less than six different market women to get all the needed ingredients, and at each stall you must answer questions regarding your marital status and how many children you intend to have.

3) Return home with aquired items. Locate a saucepan big enough for the dough. Make the pizza dough. Realize that it is not rising, and move it very close to the charcoal stove. Realize ten minutes later that it has risen over the edge of the saucepan and move it away from the charcoal stove.

4)Supervise Eric while he makes the pizza sauce, with the assistance of Linda, a precocious four year old. Eric must neglect to tell you that he, in fact, worked for two years in a pizza shop and must continue to ask you questions about the recipe.

5)Realize that there is no pizza pan. Tell Eric "NO" when he suggests that you steam the pizza. Tell him that that is a disgusting idea.

6)Realize that there is no cheese grater. Instead, mangle the cheese you paid a months's wages for and distribute somehow evenly over the top of the pizza.

7) Assemble the pizza, in the process you must get oil all over yourself. (thus, you will look weird and repulsive the picture you choose to post for the world to see on your blog!)

8) CHeck the pizza which is cooking over a charcoal stove every ten minutes for the next hour. When it is finally done you must find out how to remove it from the bottom of the saucepan. Rip it into six pieces in the process. Put it back together for the picture.

9)Discover that your gracious Ugandan hosts do not like pizza. Eat the entire thing yourself (give some to Eric).

The Race

On running a 10K in Kampala, Uganda... You will remember my early mention of trying to stay fit in the land of starch. It has become increasingly difficult to complete my AM runs since the beginning of the rainy season. Our wonderful Busega roads which before were merely full of potholes and ruts (nearly deep enough to lose a small child in)have now become lakes and rivers (I've promised Jennifer to catch a fish for her from my favorite lake, "Lake Busega" which spans the entire road, is approximately three feet deep and has cliffs on either side. Did I mention that I've been wearing a life jacket while jogging?) The only thing that has kept me diligent in running has been the spectre of the MTN Kampala marathon/10K--which happened to be last weekend.

Esther came down from Soroti for the weekend, and we randomly were invited to a pre-race "carb-loading" party hosted by a guy named "Queenie" who I had never seen before and will probably never see again. One might wonder why, in the name of all that is good on this earth, I might need to "carb load" when I haven't eaten anything BUT carbs since arriving three months ago...Anyway, so we loaded up with carbs, and at 6:15 AM set out for parliament ave in kampala. We had stayed the night with our friend who works at the embassy and was running the marathon and so didn't have to fight public transport to get to the race. We did have to fight for the right to use the port-o-potty, however, of which there were two (2!!!) dear runner friends, please offer me your sympathies. You all know that the bathroom is the single most important thing one needs before a race. Sadly, when I did fight my way to the front I found that the pot was not, shall we say, hygenic. I was forced to evacuate as quickly as possible.

I found myself standing in the pre-race crush, listening to the fuzzy announcer shouting in a combination of english and luganda, staring at the sea of yellow around me. Most of the runners had chosen to wear their race shirts to run in, unlike most of the mazungus who were all dressed, typically, in their high-tec wicking running outfits. At some point the crowd began moving forward, the announcer yelling "start, START!" and we shuffled along towards the starting line. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the line--crossed the mat that supposedly recorded the time I started from the chip I wore on my sneaker (I really wonder that they could be so high tech but couldn't arrange for one more toilet?????)and set off.

The course was blessedly flat for the most part, and the police managed to keep the taxis and bodas "mostly" out of our race lane..there was one point where a taxi cut me off and I was forced to reprimand him in an appropriate manner (ie, I banged my fists on the side of the bus: ) There were several water stops (it wasn't that hot, maybe high 80's by the time we finished at 8:30)but there were no distance markers along the way so it was a bit difficult to pace oneself. Nevertheless, I enjoyed myself (in that way you enjoy yourself during times of extreme discomfort which you have brought upon yourself by your own bad judgement and poor training)and enjoyed the variety of responses that the bystanders gave us. In US it is common for spectators to cheer, clap, encourage. Here it seems more standard to stare at runners sweating and panting as if they are a new type of circus entertainment or a bizarre cult.

At the end of the race I stumbled across the finish line, turned in my computer chip and looked for the requisite post-race food. It turns out that the equivalent of the oranges, banana and bagels we often find after races in US is a packet of sugar. So we grabbed our packets of sugar, bottles of water, and chugged. Delicious!

The bathroom situation turned ugly again at the end of the race, so Esther and I decided not to stick around for the award ceremony and caught taxis back to Bulobi. Our times weren't too bad, especially since I have no idea how far I've been running in the mornings (and because half the time I'm not running, I'm fording streams and dodging traffic)all in all, a good time.

The Exciting Weekend

Hello everyone and welcome to the world of "just when you think you have everything under control..." I learned a valuble lesson last weekend about thinking before you speak, and about taking things for granted. I had a surprise visit from coworker Eric, who was brought to the big city by computer problems (IT folks in the village seem to be few and far between apparently)...So the story starts when I commented (or one of us did, at least) and how much we appreciated that most people we've met in Uganda have been helpful in the extreme. IF one is on a bus, for example, going to a place for the first time, it isn't hard to get the entire load of passengers involved in a discussion about exactly where the correct stop is, and how exactly to get there from the bus stop. Asking directions on the street is the same way, people are always willing to help. In addition, we have been felt very safe everywhere we have been so far, taking, of course, the proper precautions.

So this talk about how safe and helpful Ugandans are happened over dinner, and then walking home from dinner I was taken by surprise when a man flew out of nowhere and attempted to remove my bag from my person. You might say I was surprised. Actually, there are no words to describe how offended I was! This bag (forgetting whatever was in it) I have had for six years, and has traveled with me to at least 12 different countries. I wasn't about to let go--NO WAY! Because I wear my bag over my shoulder, the gentleman (?) had to first get it over my head. Which he did, but then was forced to engage me in a game of tug o' war. I am no lightweight, remember, I have density.

As I was fighting with all my might, I began to remember the MCC rules for dealing with crime or theft. I believe the key sentance is "Whatever you have, it isn't worth your life. Just let it go." This ran through my mind as I continued to hold on to said bag, and (confession) deliberately disobeyed the MCC rules. At this point Eric started shouting "Hey, what do you think you are doing?" ..and stepped up to the "gentleman." I'm not sure what he was going to do, but at that point the strap on my bag broke, and I fell to the ground. Eric apparently got clocked on the ear by our new friend and also fell to the ground--also at this point, the traffic had stopped, and our crowd of onlookers began shouting.

It seems that the pressure of an audience, and the fact that he had lost a tug o'war match with a mere mazungoo woman was too much for mr.grabby, and he took off at quite a fast pace (without my bag-). I tried to collect my wits (and the bag of oranges I had also been carrying, that were now scattered around me--but please don't ask why I was concerned about my oranges at that point)The drivers of the taxis which had stopped started yelling to find out if we were ok--which we were--dazed, but OK--and to ask if the thief had succeeded in his theft--which he hadn't--

A minute or two later, we found two bodas, and took off for home, me clutching my broken bag and sack of oranges.

Now boys and girls, what lessons can we learn from this experience? First, I am so thankful for God's protection. The truth is that I shouldn't have fought for my bag (which everyone has told me already, so don't even bother telling me again, I KNOW!), if the man had had a weapon, it could have been more trouble than I bargined for. Secondly, my host mother and everyone else in this town have been telling me from the day I arrived that it is unsafe for white people to walk around after dark- especially white women. Now, for the most part I have been very obedient. But being somewhat stubborn and independent, I never quite believed the stories. Now- I do.
I also realize that if Eric hadn't been there to distract the guy, I probably wouldn't have won the tug of war.

So the moral is, I appreciate all of your prayers for my safety here (although I still do feel safe most of the time, I am sobered and much more careful now to definitely be in before dark), and I am thankful for the watchcare for our loving God--even when I feel as though my work isn't accomplishing much, He has chosen to preserve my life and bring me to this day.."for such a time as this..."