Contrary to popular belief, roosters crow all day long.

I wake up to roosters crowing. Soon, the primary school across the street clangs its bells for the beginning of the day, shaking the last shreds of sleep from my head. Last night a spectacular thunderstorm flashed in the distance, though no rain came with it. Although I am not used to thunderstorms this big, “primary” rather than elementary schools, and roosters in such close proximity to my bedroom, life here is not the strange and exotic existence I anticipated. I still sleep in a bed, though a blue mosquito net covers it. (I have yet to see more than five mosquitoes here, but the threat of malaria keeps me cautious.) I still live in a house, though there is a brick wall with a tall gate, a night guard, and metal bars on the windows shaped like octagons in an attempt to be aesthetically pleasing. Of course I eat, but the food comes from a daily market where knowing the prices is crucial to bargaining for something fair, because most people are sure to try to rip off a mzungu. (Mzungu is the word for “white person,” and it is often called by adults looking to profit from your perceived wealth and small children excited and in awe of your pale complexion.) Sometimes the food I eat is served in a ridiculously large portion – usually of rice and beans, though a corn meal paste called posho can replace the rice – by a village woman who cooks it over a charcoal fire and smiles encouragingly across the table in her tiny hut while I struggle to eat it all. (I never imagined that I would come to Uganda and have too much food to eat, but it is an honor to offer guests food if you are able to. What I didn’t realize is that I am served twice as much food as I can usually eat in one sitting, and the cook will take offense if you do not clean your plate. The other volunteers tell me the only way to politely refuse to finish eating is to say you are so satisfied that your stomach is paining you.) 

Even the people here are the same. Yes, they have darker skin and live without the comforts and conveniences of refrigeration, computers, and real houses. The women cook over charcoal and store their water in pots and plastic jerrycans. Their clothes are handwashed and hung on a line a few feet from the small garden plot that survives on manual labor. Yet they make jokes about their children’s sweethearts, do favors for each other, share gossip, and proudly talk about the work their husbands do. Their homes, though spare, are still tastefully arranged and decorated to welcome guests with incredible hospitality. They worry about money and school fees and food, just as many people in America do.

These differences and similarities lie at the heart of what I have yet to understand. In the meantime, there are huge meals, beautiful clouds, and ordinary people living their lives in the best ways they can.