Do you want matoke with that?

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to talk about food.

Anyone reading this knows me. I like to eat. Specifically, I like to eat cheeseburgers. It is as much an addiction for me as nicotine is for a smoker. Give me french fries, give me trans fats, and add a slice of cheesecake to top it all off.

Uganda is not a place for fast food.

There are signs here and there that advertise "fast foods," but all they really mean is that you will get the same goat meat, matoke, rice, beans, and potatoes that you'd find anywhere else more quickly because it's already been cooked. The local fare is pretty standard. You can swap out your goat meat for chicken (which I don't recommend, because the chickens here have tough skins and very little meat) or beef (which I also don't recommend, because the beef is tough and stringy). Some places offer fish, and I've found one restaurant in Karamoja that sells your goat-chicken-beef-fish selection drowned in ground nuts. However, you will still get beans, rice, matoke, and potatoes whether you like it or not. Maybe with a chapati.

A Culinary Glossary
matoke: cooked mashed bananas
chapati: a big doughy crepe without anything on it
ground nuts: seeds mashed into a stew that tastes vaguely like peanut butter without any sweetener

Matoke is definitely a favorite, here. The first time Jamira dragged me out of the house, she took me to this restaurant and asked, "Have you evah tryed matoke?" I shook my head no, and she insisted I try it. The next day I tried a new restaurant on my own. The waiter's English was so garbled, I finally gave up. "Just bring me anything. Food. Anything," I said. He brought me a plate with a small side of goat and an oversized helping of matoke. Mmm, thanks. The day after that, I ate lunch in Kampala with Onyango. Who ordered for me. Guess what he ordered?

There are days when I don't eat anything here at all. The idea of consuming one more bite of matoke makes me want to cry, so I drink a lot of juice and water and ignore food entirely. Most days I have one meal, and maybe a slice of bread with peanut butter at night. This is, by far, the least I have ever eaten since I threw out my lunches in high school, and I eat like a queen compared to most people.

I do allow myself one indulgence: one bottle of Fanta per day. I'm not sure why I developed this obsession with Fanta (I don't want Pepsi, or chocolate, or anything else Western -- just Fanta), but at the moment it is the most satisfying beverage in the world. Must have something to do with replacing electrolytes. The clerks at Quality, the supermarket around the corner from my hotel, all recognize me at this point. I pick up my Fanta and scuttle out of the store as they try to take me on weekend getaways. Their attempts at seduction are honest and simple, but they make me feel awkward. All the same, my Fanta is worth the trouble. I wonder if the stuff is addictive.

Despite the sugar habit, I'm glad Emily convinced me to get a tight suit back in the U.S. One and a half weeks after landing, and it's not so tight anymore. Jeans that fit just right before I left home are actually sliding off my butt, now. I'm going to have to buy a belt, and I might have to go shopping for smaller sizes when I get ready for interviews this fall. Not that shrinking makes me sad. Lord knows I let myself eat too much in the U.S.

People have no trouble telling me that, here. "You need to exercise your muscles," said John, today. "All you do is eat and sleep," Jamira told me two nights ago. They were both teasing, so I tried not to look completely abashed. I walk to work and back every day, and I doubt I'm consuming more than 2000 calories. If only they knew the difference.

Of course, when I say I only eat one meal a day that doesn't mean I'm suffering. All the local food is fresh and starchy. It probably has more vitamins than our processed junk in the U.S., and it definitely expands in the stomach. One small meal each afternoon is all I need to feel full for the rest of the night. I'm usually just starting to get hungry again when lunch rolls around the next day.

It's different for a lot of people here. Two nights ago, I dragged Jamira to downtown Kampala for dinner at a nice restaurant. She'd just mopped my floors and done my laundry, and aside from the payment I wanted to thank her for all her work. So we went to this posh hotel called the Grand Imperial, where a local band was singing American tunes (badly) and Zairian high life (excellently), and I bought us both a huge meal with incredible African tea for about $20. Most of the people at this restaurant were fat -- either rich Ugandans or foreigners like me. But when we finished dinner, I started walking home and was immediately confronted by children. I guess they come out at night to beg. These aren't like homeless people in the U.S., full-grown adults who could potentially hold jobs or fend for themselves. These are five- and six-year-olds, usually taking care of other kids, and clearly starving. Makes me feel bad about all the matoke I throw out.

You can't say no to the little ones. At least, I can't. There isn't any justifiable reason. It's not like I'm going to run out of money if I give them a few cents each. So I hand them a 500 shilling piece, which will buy at least two bananas, or a 5000 shilling bill if I have it on me -- that gets a nice meal at a local restaurant, or a loaf of bread at the supermarket. And I try not to think about going to the bank, yanking out a few hundred bucks, and just walking down Kampala Road giving handouts. I still have student loans to consider, you know?

Eating is complicated. Maybe I'll never feel right about it, no matter where I am in the world.