I had a dream last night that there exists such a thing as p-mail, and I don’t mean peameal bacon, although I am tired of all the matoke (steamed green banana), rice and peanut sauce here. We eat those things every bloody day.
Today was the first day I sat at a table and ate with only my hands. Auntie Zeddie, Uncle Eddie and I travelled to Hoima, Uganda, the birthplace of my dad. The farmhouse he grew up it looked as though there were a number of fires in it over the years.
The drive up to Hoima was bumpy and dusty. Red terracotta dust coated the land. This country is red earth and green grass and blue sky. It rarely rains. When it does, people don’t go to work, and I do not approve of this. People in Canada work no matter the weather conditions. However, to give Ugandans credit, the rain does come down pretty hard. It’s as if God takes the big bucket of water that he used to bathe and dumps it over the country. It comes down hard and fast—and ends just as fast.
I’m not as good at eating with my hands as the rest of my Ugandan family. But it really was kind of cool. The best thing was we finally ate something other than matoke, rice, and peanut sauce! We had chicken, fresh chicken even. My cousin Jack slaughtered the chicken. He scared me when he showed me the bloody corpse before it was cooked.
Interesting that I didn’t even think about that poor chicken as I enjoyed my meal.