Meeting The Parents

            Getting sick is never fun. Getting sick in a world without safe running water and indoor plumbing is the exact opposite of fun. I spent the weekend in Kampala with my friend Pheobe whose family graciously allowed me to spend a few nights in their home. African hospitality is possibly my favorite hospitality. As a guest, they refused to let me help cook dinner, make my bed, or even heat up my own water for bathing.  Her family is so sweet (just like Pheobe is) and I really enjoyed their company and learning about how they live.

            I did not enjoy the last night I stayed in their home. We had spent the day at the beach with the rest of our group where we enjoyed volleyball, music, and other beach activities. I was able to expose my legs to the African sun for the first time in an attempt to even out the tan/freckled/sunburn on the rest of my body. When it got to be around 6, we decided to try and return to Garden City, a mall in Kampala, as a central point so everyone could make it to their respective homes before it got too late.

As with all travels in Africa, it took much longer than expected to arrive to the heart of the city. By about eight o’clock we were in standstill traffic as taxis, boda-bodas, and pedestrians filled the street for a night out. When we finally arrived to Garden City, it was close to nine. Although everyone “lives in Kampala”, it is a lot like saying you “live in Chicago”, the majority of the time you live in a suburb an hour away.This was our case as Pheobe and I tried to find a taxi to take us near her home.

 Taxis here are actually large fifteen passenger vans that drive down the streets waving for people to jump in. There is a specific way to know where the taxi is going and how to flag it, but even after four or five rides in them I have no idea how the system works. The taxi got us somewhat close and from there we jumped on a boda-boda to our final destination. I had just gotten comfortable speeding to what I was sure was my death when we came to a sudden stop. I opened my eyes to see all of the lights in the city had gone out.

So now we were walking in a blackout on a Saturday night in an unfamiliar city. I was quite a liability to Pheobe through this journey simply because of my skin color. I attractunwanted attention from street children and people hanging outside of shops. I don’t speak the local languages and therefore finding fair prices for things like transportation is a hassle. Luckily we were within a half a mile of her home and we made it there with no real trouble.

Trouble hit soon after dinner. Pheobe’s family was so kind to serve dinner even though we arrived around 10 (I soon learned most African families eat late). I was not incredibly hungry, but I did not want to refuse their meal and seem rude. I ate a few bites of a maize, bean, and mystery sauce dish. Two guesses as to what it was that gave me food poisoning. The liter of bottled water I brought with me became my best friend as I vomited for the next six hours. I settled into bed around 5am only to wake up an hour later to start the day.

I attempted to refuse both breakfast and lunch while I took any medication in my bag that would calm my stomach. I was relatively dehydrated and was glad when I could nap for a few hours before returning to the rest of our group at Capitol Palace. The boda-boda ride there was interesting with the driver, Pheobe, our two bags, and myself but we made it to the hotel in time for me to receive some safe water, medication, and a bed to sleep in for the next twelve hours.

There were many exciting and fun things we did this week, unfortunately, food poisoning was definitely the most notable. I guess you really don’t experience a third world country until you experience food poisoning. Or something.