Down on the Farm

One year ago, when I first moved to Uganda, I declared that I would never become like one of the many stereotypical white people who live in this country. I didn't want an estate, I didn't want a housekeeper, I didn't want a driver. I, essentially, was determined to continue living my life as independently as I had in the U.S.

Many of those ambitions faded away in the first six months of being here as I realized I needed a driver to navigate Kampala's streets as I was far too nervous to drive in this kind of traffic with everything on the opposite side of the road and me in the opposite side of the car(British rules apply here). I also discovered that I wasn't insulting anyone by hiring my friend's sister, a secondary school (high school) student to come clean and wash for me once a week at $25 per session. Upon realizing I was paying her way above the normal price, I asked her to cook for me once a month and things got even better.

Finally, two months ago, I embraced my inner Karen Blixen/Isak Denison. The very "Out of Africa" persona that I had hoped to never become.

The cause of this transformation was a visit to my driver, Robert's, village in middle August. I had sent money to his mother and family before and Robert has taken such good care of me that helping out his mother, who is taking care of three orphans who are not her own children, is not a problem. But his mom wanted to meet me and I wanted to meet her so off we went to the village. Once there, laden with all sorts of gifts, we were surrounded by children. One of them kept asking me if I wanted to "see the puppies" and Robert kept shaking his head in my direction..."NO!"

Of course, having spent nearly fifteen years, since the age of eight to the age of twenty-three, working in animal rescue clinics and veterinary hospitals to make some extra money during school, I thought I had seen everything. I have always loved animals and had a better bond with them than I do humans. I could always coax the meanest dog into behaving and the meanest cat into not clawing me. I am also able to negotiate with birds and farm animals the same way. I don't deserve a TV show...I just understand animals...I always have.

So when this kid asked me if I wanted to see some puppies and Robert insisted I did not, I went anyway.

This kid, severely malnourished himself, brought me two puppies in bad shape. Both were about six weeks old, had wicked mange and fleas, and had clearly not had a meal in weeks outside of their mother's own depleted milk. I picked them both up to take a look at them and recoiled from what I saw. These dogs were in bad shape.

The male looked up at me and wagged his scrawny tail and licked my nose while the female lay whimpering on the ground. I made a Hobbsiean choice and said to Robert, "The female is going to die, let's take the male, he will make it. I can get him healthy and give him to some diplomat's family in Kampala where he will have a good life."

As we were walking away, the female puppy seemed to gain every ounce of strength in her and started howling. If you have never heard a six week old puppy howl in despair, it is heart-wrenching. So we went back and grabbed her too and took them both home.

For the next week I employed every veterinary skill I knew from my previous years in veterinary medicine. I bathed them both immediately and started them on a regime of mild antibiotics and skin medications. I cooked for them and got them weaned onto solid food within 48 hours. The first two nights I stayed up all night like the mother of a newborn and answered every whimper and every howl. Within 72 hours, they were racing around my apartment and tackling each other like the six week old puppies I knew in the U.S. did.

I still wanted to keep the male and give the female away, by now named "Ginger" by my Somali and Indian neighbors. But she was having none of it. She stuck to me like glue. She did not leave my side for the two weeks she lived with me. She exhibited her personality by "talking." That howling she did at the village to beg us not to leave her has become her calling card. She talks constantly. I had to have Robert take both her and the male, named Ssebo (Say-bow), or "Sir," during their ninth week as they had outgrown my flat. He kept them for the three weeks that it took for me to locate another place to live that had a yard for them to run around in.

In those three weeks the dogs had gone from barely weighing five pound to weighing about fifteen pounds each ate nine weeks of age. Looking at their gigantic paws I knew I had to get another place in order to keep them. And yes, keep both of them.

So I sent Robert out on a house-hunting mission. He came back with a few options but I fell in love with the second one I saw.

I have become Karen Blixen/Isak Denison.

My new home is a rambling three bedroom/four bathroom English home on a beautiful hill in Kampala overlooking Lake Victoria. It is way, way too big for me and I am considering a roommate but the price was right and I didn't really pay attention to the house at all in the beginning, I fell in love with the gardens.

One and half acres, shaded by mango and avocado trees, with lime and lemon groves and sprawling rose gardens, I said, "I'll take it!" without a second thought.

Besides my dogs, I also was thinking of myself as I love to garden and had already started fantasizing about what crops I would grow where. I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my friend Connie from the States in February as she taught me how to garden and she is going to love this palette.

But then something strange started happening. My house started to become a farm.

It started when I noticed that the grounds had a chicken coop that was badly in need of restoration. I asked Robert how much it would cost to restore the coop, thinking a chicken or two might be OK, and found the price reasonable.

Shortly thereafter, I hired Robert's two siblings at a very low price to be my housekeeper and my gardener as they both needed jobs and I am, as I mentioned, quite close to his family by now.

So the first non-human and non-canine addition to the farm was the pheasant. They are called something else in Luganda buy they are known as pheasants in the U.S. They are gorgeous, fat, grey-speckled birds with red beaks and big feet. Robert loves them (the way they taste AND look) and last week I was presented with one by his sister and brother, a gift from his whole family for employing them.

I took the fat young bird and deposited it in the garden (chicken coop is not ready yet) and named him "Bob" after a favorite member of Parliament who is my client but looks a lot like a pheasant.

I was happy with Bob, Ginger, and Ssebo and thought that would be a nice family arrangement until I got Madge, my goat.

Madge came from my office manager, Hadijah, who had been trying to figure out a way to thank me for hiring her and for our friendship until she spoke to her family in the village in eastern Uganda where she hails from. They decided the best possible gift, given my new land-holding, would be a goat.

A pregnant female goat.

I haven't "officially" moved into my house yet so when Hadijah and her brother showed up at the office with Madge, I was a little concerned. I knew it would be rude to refuse this goat and Madge is damn cute but I was getting worried...who would take care of this goat until I moved in?

"No problem," Robert said, "My brother and sister will take care of her, they are living there anyway."

So we dropped Madge off at "Hacienda Patricia" that night.

The following weekend, we completed the construction of the chicken coop. I had not been over in a few days but brought over some dinner (fried chicken, ironically, and some soft drinks to thank Robert's sister and brother for their fast and excellent work.)

As I was walking towards the coop, with bags of fresh, hot, fried chicken in my hands, I heard some familiar clucking sounds. I looked at Robert who could barely contain himself.

Upon rounding the corner, I came face to face with my new chicken coop...complete with six chickens.

"Oh Robert, no! I can't have chickens yet! I haven't even moved in here and already I have two dogs, a goat, a pheasant, and now chickens...it just isn't possible!"

Robert and his siblings looked confused and insulted so I quickly composed myself and thanked them profusely, as Ginger the Dog ran across my feet chasing a squawking Bob the Pheasant.

"It wasn't us, Patricia, it was the landlord. It is a housewarming gift," Robert explained.

"OK, OK, I guess it is OK...I like eggs," I tried.

We all moved to the balcony of my house to try to enjoy our chicken (I couldn't eat a bite...it was just too close for comfort with my new chickens in their house across the yard). When we arrived there we found Madge curled up on my wicker rocking chair, chewing away at the arm contently.

I then surveyed my gardens and discovered that the gorgeous hibiscus bushes I had planted the previous weekend had been reduced to sticks.

"Don't worry," said Godfrey, the gardener, "Madge is on a leash now so she can only eat the tall grasses, she won't eat the plants anymore."

I had the fleeting thought of:

"Then why the hell is she up here in my chair on the balcony eating the wicker furniture?!!" but let it pass without comment. This WAS a moment of celebration, after all.

Today, upon moving the first load of my things into the house (Madge was indeed on a leash but a long one...so she was contently nibbling away at the rose garden), my friend Eric passed by.

Eric is my internet service guy but we have become friends and I have a bit of a crush on him because he is so smart and handsome.

Eric is extremely metropolitan but he came walking through the gate, in a expensive dress suit, carrying a male chicken.

I sighed.

He presented me with this male chicken and said, "If you have female chickens you need one of these. This is how female chickens get pregnant."

I silently thought, "Thanks, Eric, I got that whole bit awhile ago..."

I have drawn the line at what we Americans know as "roosters," or male chickens. I don't want a chicken breeding farm, I am not a big fan of being forcibly awoken when the sun comes up unless it is of my choosing, and roosters can be aggressive and nasty. I DID NOT want a rooster. But knowing what I now know about animals as housewarming presents in Uganda, I also did not want to offend my friend.

So I tried to approach it tactfully.

The problem is that in American English, we call male chickens "roosters," a rather innocent-sounding word.

In British English, however, they call these creatures "cocks" which has an entirely different, and somewhat pornographic, meaning in American English. What the Brits call a "wanker," we call a "cock" in American slang. Only it is somewhat worse and more vulgar than that and I have never been comfortable discussing chickens with anyone in the UK or a former British colony.

Now I had to do it with my handsome friend who I have a bit of a crush on.

"Eric, you have a beautiful, um, well...you have given me your beautiful...cock. I really do love this cock but I can't have anymore pets. As you can see, I already have a goat who needs a lot of attention so I can't take care of a cock on top of it."

Eric:

"But this is my father's favorite cock! It is the best cock in our family! Patricia, you need to just calm down, a cock is not a pet. A cock is a cock. He is only here for one reason."

At this he smiled and pointed towards the chicken coop.

I felt myself blushing purple and tried again, as Eric was certainly getting offended.

"I love your cock, Eric, really! It is a really lovely cock and I am so honored that your family would part with it but I am just not...um...ready....for this present," I stammered.

Eric looked at me like I had fallen off the moon and called Robert over. After a rapid exchange in Luganda, Robert said,

"Madame Boss, what is wrong with you? This is a magnificent cock! A bit mature but look how shiny it still is! It will not be a problem...Godfrey will keep your cock behind his room so he can tend to it if it gets up too early. You don't need to pay attention to the cock that early if you don't want to...that's why we have Godfrey!"

At this point my insides were hurting so badly from trying not to laugh. Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

I decided to just embarrass the hell out of everyone involved (all of whom were getting pretty damn offended) and explain what the problem was...and why I was laughing.

I slowly explained the difference between what a "cock" means in American English versus what in means in British English. Thanks to a few Ugandan friends, I do know the equivalent word for the American "cock" in Luganda so I used this as an example.

When I was finished, time stood still.

Eric and Robert looked at each other and went pale.

Robert started laughing so hard I thought he was going to choke.

Eric, on the other hand, looked mortified and slowly picked up the rooster and started carrying it back to his truck.

I realized that I had indeed offended my friend and chased after him, thanking him profusely and saying that I would take this...cock...in a few weeks. Godfrey could take care of it, after all.

Eric looked suspicious but was still gracious and promised to bring the rooster back with my new satellite internet dish the following weekend.

I stood in the yard and tried to absorb this all in a moment of stillness before I saw Madge dart by with something suspicious in her mouth. Looking more closely, I realized it was one of my high heeled shoes that Kate had cleaned and left out in the sun to dry. Madge must have chewed through her "leash," yet again.

Robert came up to me, pointing at Madge and said, "Curry, they made good curry, those goats."

I smiled and said "no," I was not going to kill my pregnant goat and eat her.

Robert shrugged and said, "But that cock story...that is so funny! So this is a 'cock' in American English?" he asked, pointing down. "Americans are so funny!!!"

"Thanks, Robert," I managed to say.

I wonder if Karen Blixen/Isak Denison went through this?