The Village

A crowd of African women gathered around my wife as she breastfed our daughter. They giggled. Then one of them reached out and poked my wife in the boob.

We were deep in the African bush. Our Ugandan landlord had invited us to accompany him to his home village. We drove with him in our Jeep for an hour north of the city, then for another hour on a dirt track. We were not in Kansas anymore.

The entire village, perhaps 100 people, gathered to meet us. Our landlord was a big deal. He had “made it” in the city, and he supported most of the children in the village to attend school. He was greeted as a dignitary and we as his honored guests. Without doubt we were the first white people many of the villagers had ever seen.

The village itself consisted of a brick walled school with tin roof, a small church, and a few other mud and brick buildings. Hut were scattered amidst banana and palm trees. Chickens, dogs, and goats roamed freely. The hills around the village were terraced and planted. The air was filled with the sweet smell of wood fires with an occasional taint of livestock and sewage.

Our landlord went to conduct his business. My wife needed to feed our infant daughter, and so retired to the relative privacy of our Jeep. Or so she thought. Soon the women of the village followed her there. They clustered around within inches of my wife, smiling and shy, as she began to breastfeed. That’s when the boob-poking incident took place. The ice was broken. Despite the vast chasm between them, they united in gales of laughter. As she returned from the Jeep, the women took turns carrying our daughter and holding my wife’s hand.

Meanwhile, I was conscripted by the local boys to play soccer (football). The ball was made of banana leaves and twine. I was goalkeeper, following the time honored tradition of putting the fat kid in net. Also, there was no way I could keep up with these boys. They had been playing barefoot soccer since the day they could walk.  They moved with the speed of gazelles across the uneven ground. Soon one boy was bearing down on me. He let fly with a strong kick. I reached out to catch the ball.

It turns out that beneath a banana leaf exterior the core of the ball included some mud and cattle dung to give the ball weight. The ball splattered into my hands, spraying dung and mud on to my shirt. Everyone, myself included, erupted into laughter. Another moment of unity in this village from a different world.

Our landlord concluded his business. We said farewell. As we made for the Jeep our landlord explained that the village wanted to slaughter a goat for him (and by extension us) as a gift. This was a great honor and very a big deal. A slaughtered goat was worth half a year’s salary. We knew we could not refuse.

What we did not expect was to find a goat, still very much alive, already lashed to the roof rack of our Jeep. And not at all happy to be up there. …. What happened next will feature in next week’s post: The Goat.