Day 2:  The first full day in the town of Nkokonjeru. 

We were stuck drinking semi-muddy boiled water or bottled water that some sources say you can't trust. I was reminded of that scene from Slumdog Millionaire where that poor kid was refilling empty bottles of water and then using crazy glue to reattach the cap onto the plastic ring. My colleague Albert and I were on our way to buy water purification tablets when we just stopped by our office at the town's credit union to see if our contact, Moses, had arrived from the capital. He was there. We spent the rest of the morning chatting away, mostly about what previous Duke students had accomplished in earlier years. 

We invited him out to lunch with us to this restaurant named Matthew's. Apparently Matthew was this foreigner who came and one night spent most of the Ugandan shillings he had in his wallet to buy beers for anybody who was lucky enough to stop by that restaurant that particular night. Supposedly, the town's folk had such a good time that night that the restaurant owner renamed the restaurant after him. Below is a picture of what I had for lunch. A typical local dish will be composed of a lot of starches and a small piece of meat, fish, or beans.

As if a rural town outside the capital city wasn't enough of an adventure, Albert and I set out by motorcycle deeper off the main road to go visit a nearby fishing village, hoping to get to know the kind of people we were dealing with. It was the bumpiest ride I've been on in a while. The road was wide enough only for 1 car or truck to drive along. 

The villagers in that fishing village broke out the alcohol and threw us a party when we arrived. Two people hosted us: a friendly English-speaking villager named Patrick and a friend of his who was so drunk he tried to kiss me on the lips. 

We went from house to house where we were served the local spirit, some of form of Ugandan vodka, in addition to some form of muddy-looking fermented drink that locals drank from cut-away plastic containers. Albert and I both decided to stay sober while the people around us were drinking on our behalf. Children were following us by the droves. I've never seen such a festive combination of drunk adults and children all in one room. Then again, I've never seen a non-white guy named Patrick before.

 I took as a souvenir a gruesome poster celebrating the death of Muammar Ghadafi that many locals had posted to the wall inside their huts. Imagine hating a dictator so much that people post this poster over their beds.