From Mombasa to Lamu -- and Back Again

Before heading north up the coast, we spent two lazy days back in Dar es Salaam, catching up on internet café time, walking, devouring newly-discovered “dosas” at an inexpensive South Indian restaurant, and socializing with Heather and Natalie from our Namibia Peace Corps group who were traveling in another direction.

Our Tanzania to Kenya route was part of the so-called “Swahili Coast,” which extends from Somalia south to Mozambique. “Swahili” comes from the Arabic world sahil which actually means “of the coast” but refers to the civilization that emerged through many centuries of intermingling the cultures of Arabian, Indian, Asian, and European traders with that of the indigenous Bantu tribesmen.

We took a bus. It was a beat-up, crowded bus with windows that wouldn’t open and curtains that wouldn’t close but we took what we could get; the more deluxe bus line had stopped making the run from Dar to Mombasa. The border crossing was pretty uneventful; we got off the bus, did Tanzania’s exit paperwork, bought the Kenyan entry visa, got passports stamped, and got back on the bus. The terrain seemed to change a bit, with more organized farms (along that stretch anyway) and a slightly different shape to the traditional huts along the road. And I began to spot a few baobab trees – those rugged giants that have so captured my fancy.

Mombasa is an island; from the south the only way to enter the city is via a ferry. We didn’t know why, but all the other passengers got off the bus and walked onto the ferry, but we three muzungus were told to stay seated on the bus for the short ferry trip. (It was only later I learned that a bus had plunged off the ferry a couple of years ago, drowning lots of passengers. That’s probably why they got off!)

It was late afternoon when our bus reached its off-loading point, so we walked a couple of blocks to an inexpensive guest house, had dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant and made it an early night as the neighborhood we were in was not suitable for after-dark exploration. But, it was near the bus stations where we would resume the journey the next morning, knowing that we would see more of Mombasa on the way back.

The five or six hour ride between Mombasa and Lamu seemed longer; our seats were in the very back of the bus, where bumps are felt most keenly, and the last couple of hours were on a pot-holed, dusty road that eventually deposited us at the water’s edge, at the small village of Mokowe. We and all our luggage and way more people than looked possible were then pushed, squeezed, and shoved onto a small boat that ferried us to peaceful Lamu. I should mention that we got to Lamu the hard way – the budget traveler way; most tourists fly into an airport on Manda Island and take a ferry across the channel to Lamu.

Lamu is one place where ‘walking tour’ takes on a different meaning. Unless you ride on one of the ubiquitous donkeys, walking is the only way to tour the town. With 3,000 donkeys wandering around and no motorized vehicles, Lamu feels so long ago and far away, it’s easy to see why the whole town is designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. The winding lanes, old mosques, little shops, and Swahili architecture with ornately carved wood doors, windows, and balconies are all similar to Zanzibar but here everything is at an even slower pace. There are still “jambo” touts approaching tourists but not at the same annoying level.

We stayed only one night in Lamu town and then hired a small boat to take us and our luggage to Shela, a quaint village at the start of a glorious stretch of beach with dunes …and few people….and one camel, a lonely-looking animal who must have been put there to amuse and pose for tourists. The camel looked as out of place as the dressed-up Masai “warriors” who were all along the beach. It was a 45-minute walk to get back into Lamu town – a walk we did several times.

Maulidi, a week-long festival celebrating the birthday of the prophet Muhammad, began while we were at Lamu. As non-Muslim tourists, we were not able to participate directly, but we did get to watch a procession through town and along the waterfront. Followers of Islam of all ages, mostly men and children dressed in their finest robes, chanted and sang as they paraded, carrying flags. It was colorful and festive, but we heard that this was just a mild kick-off, with the main activities occurring at the conclusion. Since the dates, based on the Islamic calendar, are different each year and can vary by several weeks, we felt lucky to have our timing coincide at all with the festivities and will just have to wait for another year to see Maulidi-inspired donkey and dhow racing events.

A highlight of the Lamu visit was our sunset dhow ride with Imre, an Israeli tourist whom we met on our first day in Shela and who steered us to our lodging in the private villa-cum-guest house where he was staying. Imre had made friends with Kiru, the owner of a dhow, and together we struck a deal with him to take us sailing for several hours in his old but still elegant-looking vessel. The trip included a little snorkeling, some beach time on Manda Island across the channel from Lamu, cruising past some very unusual private homes built on Manda by wealthy Europeans, and weaving in and out of the thick mangrove swamps until it was time for the sun to set. And set it did, magnificently, in shades of ethereal orange and mauve. Satiated by the fresh air and the beauty of nature, we took our physical appetites back to the guest house for a scrumptious Red Snapper dinner cooked Swahili-style just for us.

As we bussed back down the Kenya coast, we stopped at Malindi, a beach resort very popular with Italian tourists; our fringe benefit was having authentic gelato and pizza, both a rarity in most of Africa. The next morning we visited the nearby Gede ruins where the intriguing remains of 14^th century Swahili civilization are easy to explore amidst a pleasant setting of huge trees, which along with their roots had overtaken the ruins prior to the 1940s excavation. There’s an air of mystery. Little is known about the origins of the settlement or the reasons for its demise. Clearly it was suddenly abandoned in the 16^th century, and one theory is that the residents were fleeing from Galla invaders from Somalia. A small museum displays relics unearthed there, showing it to have been a prosperous community.

It’s time to talk about the ferry again. The infamous Likoni ferry has problems beyond the aforementioned bus that went over the edge. But of course I didn’t know its history at the time. This time we had reached the island city from the north via a short bridge, but we would be staying with a Peace Corps volunteer who lived on the mainland to the south so the only way to get there was on the ferry. We were told to make the ferry trip before night, but we were running late. Commuters crowded the dock area and we found ourselves in the near-dark, shoulder to shoulder with a surging throng. Everyone was intent on securing a place on the next ferry; what I later learned is that commuters have sometimes been left waiting for up to five or six hours when ferries stall or when several have been pulled out of service for repairs. The long waits have resulted in near-riots aka stampedes, to the point that they have tried to separate and protect women. (I noticed no such protection going on during our half hour of crowded maneuvering.) I was attempting to roll my “cheater’s backpack” (i.e. backpack with wheels, too) close behind me but kept losing my balance as people lunged or were pushed into me, and when I stumbled sideways on some steps, Julia took pity and carried it for me – along with her heavy backpack. There were railings to steer us into sections, and as we got closer and closer to the ramp’s edge I imagined how corralled cattle might feel. We finally got on and as we surveyed the sea of shoulders and faces and estimated a crowd of more than a thousand, news stories about overcrowded ferries capsizing came to mind. When I did my research later I was not even surprised that a Likoni ferry had tipped over and drowned 270 passengers in the ‘90s. Another fatal accident occurred just this month when a waiting truck’s brakes gave way and it plunged into the people waiting to board. Traveling on the Likoni ferry is not something I’d want to do every day and, worst of all, this experience left me feeling less than the intrepid, independent traveler I’ve fancied myself. I really needed Julia’s help with the luggage in the chaos, and that was humbling!

Carly and Jacob, from our Namibia Peace Corps group, were also traveling through Mombasa and also staying with the hospitable Kenya PC volunteer, Jonathon. The five of us found the ferry trip more manageable the next day when we returned for a sightseeing day in Mombasa. Following Jonathon’s insider tips, we viewed Fort Jesus and hiked round the perimeter of this Portuguese seafront stronghold (rather than paying admission to go inside), walked through Old Town which struck me as having a disturbing number of women and children begging, lounged for a ridiculously long time on pillows sipping beverages in one of the atmospheric coffee houses, lunched on shawarma – a Middle-Eastern style pita sandwich that we all loved, and even had a walk around the huge Nakumatt supermarket resplendent with its gleaming wide aisles and familiar brand name options – something we had seen little of during our time in Africa. (I should mention that in Uganda, there’s a Nakumatt in Kampala where I manage an occasional shopping splurge.)

Mombasa has an attractive city center with wide boulevards and tall buildings, but one thing I didn’t see is the pair of huge aluminum “elephant tusks” sculpted to form a big M-shaped arch (no not quite like McDonalds) over Moi Avenue; that’s the image often used to represent Mombasa. The other tourist draw we missed are the many white sand beaches in the vicinity; we heard great things about them but were satisfied with the Swahili beach days we had already enjoyed on Zanzibar and Lamu, and we were eager to continue with the next part of our itinerary, inland Kenya.

Zanzibar - the enchanted island

Exotic, romantic, charming Zanzibar Island. We spent our first afternoon exploring Stone Town's maze of narrow streets and alleys, soaking up an unfamiliar atmosphere and admiring the once-grand Arab-influenced architecture and the ornately carved doors -- wondering what lay beyond them in the hidden courtyards. We peered, as discreetly as we could, at the many veiled women and girls, whose large brown eyes peered back at us...but indirectly. Although Tanzania as a whole is about evenly divided between Christianity and Islam, the people of the Zanzibar Archipelago are almost entirely Sunni Muslim, and mosques are everywhere,

Historians tell us the islands of the archipelago, sometimes called the "spice islands," were visited well before the first century by Arabian and Persian sailors. Commerce flourished between the 12th and 15th centuries, with gold, ivory, wood -- and sadly, slaves -- being exported while spices, glassware, and textiles were imported. (I'm using Lonely Planet for my history research and trust it's accurate) The Portuguese came to Zanzibar in the early 16th century, followed by the British and then Omani Arabs, who claimed control and established the Omani Sultanate which ruled until Zanzibar became independent in 1963. Although its uniqueness is evident, Zanzibar and the others islands in the archipelago are now part of The Republic of Tanzania.

Who knows what vanilla beans and black pepper seed pods have in common? Both grow on vines that climb and wind themselves on host trees that also help shade them. An organized Spice Tour was the highlight of our first full day. At several plantations we saw cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves growing and sampled exotic fruits such as rambutan. a delicious, funny-looking, bright red, spiky looking fruit. I had been told by a street vendor that it was lychee, a fruit I had only ever eaten in Chinese restaurants -- out of a can, I believe -- but it turns out rambutan is just in the same family. (In the photo, I'm also holding a nutmeg, the part in the center, which is covered with the lacy membrane from which mace is made. Who knew? )

The spice tour included lunch featuring a variety of spiced-up traditional Swahili foods. It was served in large, communal bowls while we sat in a circle on floor mats in an open-sided thatched hut and ate 'family' style. The last stop was at Mangapwani beach where we also had a chance to climb down into nearby caves where slave traders had hidden their captives when slave trading became illegal. (One source reports that more than a million East Africans were sold as slaves just in Zanzibar Town.)

Impressions along the road: the pristine-but-cumbersome look of Muslim school-girl uniforms, a Muslim woman covered in black head to toe but riding on the back of a motorcycle, donkeys ridden bareback by boys who were usually beating the poor beasts on the back with a stick to apparently coax their short legs to go faster, garbage heaps and the numerous goats and other animals eating it, and one scenario where a young boy was being slapped for sneaking a taste out of a big food pot cooking in front of his house.

On the advice of friends who had scoped out Zanzibar before us, we had dinner with live taarab music at Monsoon Restaurant.(The friends were there during an important 6-day music festival that my travel companions and I missed by just one day.) Picture a tastefully luxurious decor where patrons sit on plush floor mats and dine on delectable Swahili specialties while listening to music that might be described as Eastern/Ethnic/World Jazz. Lovely! Taarab evolved, and continues to evolve, from the blending of Arabic, Indian, and African music styles. Our four musicians were playing several instruments I didn't recognize, but the names I got from our wait person were these ... oud, yudi, ngoma, violin, and ghanuni.

The next day we spent some time in the typically colorful and hectic local market before visiting one of the several museums -- Beit-al-Ajaib, also called House of Wonders locally. Originally a sultan's palace, the museum gave us an overview of the history and culture, from dhow-making, to "kangas" (the traditional cotton wraps worn by African women; this particular Tanzanian version adds Swahili proverbs to the colorful patterns), to the story and memorabilia of Princess Salme, who defied culture and tradition by running away to marry a European and later publishing her autobiography (which I have added to my reading list. What a brave young woman she was!)

The ultimate in street food can be found at Forodhani Gardens, a large seafront park and social gathering place across from the Old Fort -- and that's where we headed for dinner. (But first we had free twilight entertainment, watching throngs of local young men diving, swimming, and doing all manner of acrobatics and antics.) Now for the food -- the aroma has taken us over. Neat rows of tables are lighted by lanterns or the fires on which vendors are cooking a cornucopia of Zanzibarian fare. Most tables featured seafood, which was beckoning to me, and a variety of meats and vegetables grilled on skewers. Several vendors were cooking made-to-order pizzas; these so-called pizzas I might call omelette crepes. A thin pancake is filled with eggs scrambled with your choice of cheese, veggies and chopped meat or seafood. Delicious. There were samosas, chips, breads and fresh local fruits and juices. My favorite juice -- even better than coconut milk -- was the freshly made sugar cane juice. Right before your eyes they push big stalks of cane through a hand grinder, then add a squeeze of lime and dash of salt. Sadly I resisted the lobster, choosing instead any fish that was most likely to have been catch-of-the-day. Why? Zanzibar was without electricity, except for privately operated generators, and had been since the underwater cable connecting Zanzibar to the mainland had broken two months earlier. It seemed wise to be wary about refrigeration of street foods. Fortunately most restaurants and hotels had their own generators.

On Day Four we moved to the beach. We took a "daladala" (overcrowded minivan taxi) to Nungwi, a village at the north tip of Zanzibar Island where tourists can choose modest, quiet beachfront cabins and relatively deserted stretches of sand (this was our choice) or in the other direction, flashy upscale resorts where a party atmosphere prevails. Many Italian tourists had chosen the latter. And all along the beach, to my surprise, were handsome young men dressed in the traditional red and blue garb and heavy jewelry of the Masaai tribe. Maybe a few of them -- the ones with stretched and dangling ear lobes --really were Masaai, having moved from inland Tanzania to cater to the beachy tourist crowd, but many of them appeared to just be in costume, ready to pose for Masaai "warrior" photos, sell you their crafts, or offer anything else a single woman traveler might want to enliven her holiday.

We spent a pleasant couple of days hanging out at Nungwi -- enjoying the blue, warm Indian Ocean, and taking long walks along the white beaches or through the small, quiet village where we shopped for "kangas." We also petted sea turtles at an aquarium/sanctuary at the far end of the beach. How about a few sea turtle facts? Green Turtles, one of several species there, are not really green but do get somewhat greener in old age. Of 1,000 hatchlings on the beach, only one or two make it safely to the water and live to adulthood, according to the attendant, but he said the average life expectancy for adult sea turtles is 60 years. They can weigh up to 300 pounds. The sanctuary protects turtles caught in fishermen's nets, returning them (and their babies) to the sea .

So, yes, Zanzibar is a special place to visit. I felt very "jambo" (welcome) and could have stayed longer. But now, it's time for us to take the ferry back to the mainland.

On a ferry to Zanzibar

I am watching a couple of dhows glide by -- you know the Asian-looking vessels with the distinctively-shaped sails that are always shown in Indian Ocean travel ads. I definitely plan to go sailing in one.

The word sweltering has taken on a new meaning in the last two days. Clearly the high humidity is the reason I'm dripping all the time; the temperature is only in the 90s -- nothing dramatic for a Southern-raised girl who now finds Texas heat quite bearable.

I arrived in Dar es Salaam on a flight from Kampala early Sunday afternoon. After three months of volunteering in Gulu, it felt like time for vacation, and what better way to travel than to hook up with Peace Corps friends who were heading to Uganda to visit me. Just as I entered the arrivals area the local power went off. Using light from a window I was able to fill in the visa application and I handed it off to a man who disappeared into the dark with it and my $100 bill; before I had time to worry too much, he returned with stamped passport. (The high cost of the visa is an indicator of Tanzania's reliance on tourism for revenue. Almost all their national parks charge fees of $50-60 US, per day, or even more—like $180 at Gombe. A wildlife safari or a 5-day climb up Kilimanjaro is expensive before you even get started.)

The power failure also meant the Internet was down, which complicated my making connection with my soon-to-be travel companions, Julia and Danielle who were still en route from Mozambique, or with the three Peace Corps guys who were passing through Dar on their way to the Serengeti. But, after one night alone at the Jambo Inn during which I watched a fireworks display out my window (don't ask; I don't know why), and a few spare hours the next morning during which I visited my great ape uncle Zinjanthropus's 1.8 million-year-old skull at the national museum, I did connect with all five of them and we spent the next night at the luxurious home of a U.S. Embassy staffer (whom they had found on the couchsurfer website. ("Jambo," of course, is the popular Swahili welcome greeting that one hears everywhere throughout the Tanzania/Kenya coastal regions. Actually, you hear it too much from the ubiquitous street touts who make their living from tourists -- and I can see them there waiting to greet us when we dock. Stone Town, here I come.

Maxwell's School Fees

It's back-to-school this week for Ugandan students, ending their 3-month break. But what about the wanna-be students? The words I've heard everywhere recently are "no money for school fees." The sad fact is that despite Uganda's free primary education policy many bright and eager young people cannot attend because their family lacks the ability to pay miscellaneous fees levied by the individual schools -- not to mention the cost of the uniforms required by schools, and the books. Moreover the 'free' schooling is provided for no more than four children per family. In reality, most Ugandan families are much larger. One statistician reports 10 children per household; another says nine. Most situations I've seen up close include not only the parents' offspring but various nieces, nephews, and younger brothers and sisters -- either because they are orphaned or needing to live in proximity to a school.

Maxwell is an articulate, soft-spoken young man I have spoken with twice in recent days. He is clearly an outstanding student. He has completed the first four years of secondary school and his exam score qualified him for "A" level - advanced -- but neither he nor his grandmother who has raised him since infancy, has the US $90 (equivalent) fee. (Note that this is a very low fee; most good boarding schools charge double or triple that amount.) The fee is for one term and it's on a trimester system. If it was for the whole year, I would simply pay it for him, even with misgivings. (I had vowed to say 'no' to all requests for money because an American in Africa is asked so often and it's so hard to know which are legitimate.)

I have been running into Maxwell at St. Jude's orphanage. I was there hugging babies, playing games with the older kids or teaching them English, and/or helping to exercise some of the physically disabled residents; he was there each time hoping for work. St. Jude's is paying young men to make bricks, but they only need so many bricks and they have a number of boys competing for the few jobs. Maxwell wasn't chosen this time although Jackie, the social worker, gave him an endorsement of "hard worker" and "nice boy."

Maxwell is at a crossroads -- he's eager to get more education, but he also has little hope of being able to continue. All I did was give him suggestions -- all impractical as it turned out -- that he seek work as a private tutor or as a teachers' helper at the orphanage. They lack funds; he lacks adequate credentials. All I could do was encourage him to keep his goal vividly in sight and refuse to give up. Will he be able to keep the faith?

By the way, the school attendance and drop out rates are less favorable for girls as might be expected. Education is considered less important for girls who will becomes wives and mothers, according to tradition. In many cases the young girls leave school because of pregnancy. Of boys and girls completing Primary 7 level, only one fourth continue with Secondary.

Uganda needs educated young people more than it needs the barrage of hand-outs from U.S. and European aid organizations. But that's just what I think. Today.

POST SCRIPT: 18 Feb. Maxwell phoned me to share his good news -- he had found a sponsor and was starting classes the next day. He's covered, at least for this term, and I can stop feeling guilty for not having sponsored him, myself!

What Makes People Sick in Uganda? Or Kills Them?

I recently saw the following Top 10 Causes of Morbidity 2008-09 posted in a public health clinic and found it interesting. (I was puzzled by #1, simple "RTI." What disease would be abbreviated RTI? Thanks to Google, I learned it stands for Road Traffic Injuries, which I can well understand being high on the list from my own involvement in the traffic/transportation scene here.)

1) RTI (road traffic injuries) 38.8%
2) Malaria 31.9%
3) Worms 14.4%
4) Trauma 6.7%
5) Diarrhea 4.3%
6) Eye Conditions 3.8%
7) Ear, Nose, Throat Conditions 3.4%
8) Skin Condition 3.0%
9) Oral Disease 2.9%
10) STI/STD (sexually transmitted disease) 1.4

From a physician associated with the Ugandan Ministry of Health, I found the following Top 10 Causes of Morbidity. This list categorizes road accidents differently.
1) Malaria
2) Acute Respiratory Disease excluding pneumonia
3) Worms
4) Diarrhea
5) Trauma
6) Lower Respirator Disease including pneumonia
7) Skin Disease
8) Eye Disease
9) Anemia
10) Ear Infection

And, finally -- and I do mean finally -- the Top 10 Causes of Mortality in Uganda, according to a 2004 World Health Organization report, using 2002 statistics.
1) HIV AIDS 25%
2) Malaria 11%
3) Lower Respiratory Infection 11%
4) Diarrhea 8%
5) Perinatal Condition 4%
6) TB 4%
7) Cerebrovascular Disease 3%
8) Ischemia Heart Disease 3%
9) Measles 2%
10) Tetanus 2%

The average life expectancy is 48 for men and 51 for women.

Kids, Emotions, and Medical Care in Uganda

It takes so little for me to feel useful. (Only on some days is that true.) Yesterday I tagged along with Carol to her research project site at a public health outpost near the Aboli displaced persons camp, just outside of Gulu town. Carol is a child psychiatrist and pediatrician from New Mexico who is on a Fulbright grant here, working with the Gulu Medical School. She is interviewing children ages 5 to 17 to assess how they have been affected emotionally by Northern Uganda's 20 years of rebel warfare that destroyed family life as we tend to think of it.

Many of the children in her study have witnessed horrible atrocities, lost a parent, or been forced to escape with their family to live in the displaced person camps where residents had no way to earn a living, their lives basically 'on hold.' Some mental health professionals fear that the 'forgive and forget' advice so widespread in the region during the current reconciliation process will, in fact, take its toll on the emotional well-being of people of all ages, with the fallout still to show itself.

Since this was Carol's follow-up interview, an attempt to gain greater trust and openness from the children, it wasn't appropriate for me to sit in on the interviews. Instead I sat down on a shady porch where about 10 children were awaiting their turn to be called over to a huge shade tree where Carol had set up her table. I took out my kid attractors and waited until the young people got past their shyness and came to play, with me or each other. I didn't have much but it was enough -- a well-used set of pick-up sticks, crayons, paper, a coloring book, and my ESL workbook, the one I had used in the States to teach English to immigrants.

It was fun for me to see them enjoying a new diversion -- any diversion for that matter -- as they were otherwise just sitting there, silent and bored. Some of the older kids were quick to figure out strategies for picking up just one stick without moving another. Several boys and at least one girl showed off their creativity by drawing pictures of me -- the mzungu woman wearing glasses. (I see very few people wearing glasses in Africa.)

I was surprised how interested a couple of them were in the English workbook, filled as it was with images they could not possibly relate to – a cutaway view of an American two-story house, for example, with attic, basement, 2-car garage, kitchen with sleek appliances and several bathrooms with all the things bathrooms have; they are more familiar with one-room round huts, cooking outside on a charcoal fire, pit latrines, and a cold bucket shower. But they looked, pointed, and even listened as a taught a few English words or urged them into speaking the English they had learned in school.

The saddest part of the day was when several older boys showed up in the late afternoon. They were not part of the survey – just adolescent boys looking for something to do. They eagerly pounced on the pick-up sticks and quickly became playfully rowdy and competitive. I noted one boy in particular. He was slower. He was not as good at picking up one stick without moving the others. He had a slightly scared look in his eyes, but also gentle. Soon an administrator of the Clinic walked up to chat with me. (He thought I was from the Medical School since I came with a doctor and he started telling me his equipment needs.) He was quick to point out loudly, in front of him, “That boy has epilepsy!” What saddened me so much is that in the dialogue that followed he informed me the boy’s condition cannot be controlled with medication and that he is not able to attend school. Not at all. That boy, his gentleness and his eyes haunt me. (In the photo, he's the one on far right.)

An Ah-ha Moment

I had a small ah-ha moment today while running errands in the center of Gulu. Drenched with sweat on a 90-something-degree, equatorial-Africa day, I was picking my way carefully through or around the many obstacles a person who is 'footing it' must negotiate -- obstacles such as jagged, broken edges of uneven concrete here and there (never stretching far enough to be a real sidewalk) or the barriers that suddenly block your way even when you think you're walking on the most-beaten path through dirt or gravel. Two examples come to mind -- the bicycle repair area and the machine shop, both of which completely filled the space between the row of store entrances and the road itself, forcing pedestrians like me to check traffic and step out into the street to get past. I had maneuvered around several motorcycles -- some in motion and some parked at a 'boda' station waiting for clients. And always, everywhere, are the holes, bumps, mini-ditches, and toe-stubbable glitches demanding a walker's attention.

My attention was divided. I was noticing where my foot could safely take its next step, wondering what street I was on and whether I could ever find this block again if I wanted to (street name signs are rare, and most shops look the same as a dozen others with similar names), and at the same timetrying to choose a shop where I might be able to buy a frying pan -- it's hard to tell what's inside the shop without going in and asking; they are small and most of the merchandise is behind the counter and/or beyond reach on shelves that line the wall and reach to the ceiling.

A few other things were happening at the same time -- observing the people on my path, smiling and greeting at times, and popping into one of the so-called, tiny 'supermarkets' to buy vaseline for my dry, cracked-open, sandal-exposed feet. About that time I approached the vendor stalls lining the edge of the open-air local market (top photo) and realized my step had become bouncier, responding slightly to lively Afro-pop music coming from a CD vendor there. I think I smiled inside; I know I had to stop myself from dancing down the path.

As I continued on, dodging others and looking back over my shoulder to be sure a 'boda' or cyclist wasn't about to run over me, I realized one of the reasons I like living in Africa. It helps keep me in the present moment. (I think that's why the bus ride described in my December posts was so therapeutic, also. I got out of my head and into my experience of the moment.)

With my mind focused on my immediate surroundings, it's less likely I'll be cruising through my days on auto-pilot, my thoughts lingering on something in the past or jumping ahead toward something, real or imagined, in the future. I think of all those self-help books I've read (thank you, E. Tolle et al), all those attempts to quiet an overly-analytical mind and learn to live mindfully and at peace with myself. I'm sure the street scene I've just described doesn't sound 'peaceful,' and my state of mind is still a long way from enlightened, but it does feel -- to me -- that I've been gifted with a wonderful tool called 'life in gulu, uganda'