All Hail Ajvar!

Archery: This Isn't Summer Camp

The guard at our compound is an older man named Moses. (Half the men in Uganda are named Moses. There are six Moses’ in Glenna’s phone and one in David’s phone, but that’s because he hasn’t been here long. Really, there are a lot of Moseses.)

Every night, he sits just inside the compound near the gate, wearing a Gilligan’s Island like hat and large rubber rain boots, even when it isn’t raining.

He’s supposed to protect us from robbers, thieves, and other bad elements that lurk in the Kampala night.

But just how is he supposed to do this?

His means of protection: usually a stick, but on one night, a bow and arrow.

We’re glad to know that if bandits come to our Kisugu home, there’s an archer to protect us.

We like to picture him aiming his little arrow at someone’s 9 mm and threatening at arrow point.

The hat definitely makes him a scary guy.

David asked if he could use the bow and arrow one day (despite his lack of archery skills – “that’s not true I can arch” he interjects during composition of this post) and Moses promptly said agreed to give up his weapon so David could play Robin Hood.

“I had no intention of committing any good deeds with that, you know,” says David, also upon composition of this post.

“Well, in that case, I’m glad you just planned to shoot things,” replied Glenna, who was luckily in charge of the keyboard and got to make final decisions about what went into this post.

“I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. I just wanted to, you know, like shoot at a tree or something,” says David.

Glenna is glad that Moses didn’t give David the bow and arrow for two reasons:

1. Moses should maintain control of his weapon in order to keep David and Glenna safe (which we feel very, very safe knowing there’s a bow and arrow protecting us)
2. David could have done serious damage to himself and others with said weapon; ie, people with guns shoot themselves all the time, and Glenna imagines a scenario where we end up at Mulago Hospital because David has an arrow lodged in his little toe.

“Do you know how hard it would be to shoot myself with a bow and arrow?” David asks, hoping Glenna will remove the last comment.

She does no such thing.

Beating the Entomological

Excess newspapers always come in handy.

David grabbed last week’s Monitor with the picture of General Kayihura on the cover. He had just spoken out about getting more canes for Kiboko to beat people, and other riot gear.

David promptly rolled up the newspaper, sure to leave the General’s picture on the outside, and started beating.

“It’s like an invading army!” he said, swatting at the multitude of bugs who decided to cohabit with us on this particular evening. The wind always carries fruit. This day, the fruit was not mangos.

“There are more of them than AIDS orphans in Kamapala,” Glenna exclaimed as the bugs, each four centimeters long and with what seemed like countless wings and invincible torsos, swarmed the flat.

“Let’s kill them,” David responded. He proceeded to beat them with Kayihura’s picture, trying fruitlessly to massacre the unwelcome invaders.

It wasn’t entirely fruitless, as was evidenced by bug carcass dotting the white tile floors.

They were everywhere – and there were so many of them. We went into the kitchen, saw their ranks amassing, and just turned off the light and closed the door. The problem wouldn’t go away using this tactic, but it would go away for now.

We went to sleep, horrified by the carnage, but secure in our knowledge that tomorrow, the house girl would clean it up.