Kelsey: The road to Jinja

I am finally recovered from Sarah's trip to Uganda. As in life has just now gotten back to normal and I am once again a hermit who never leaves my village and therefore never has to spend endless hours on horrible busses with peeing children and pooping chickens and smelly fish. Ugh the bus.

I was on the phone with an American friend the other day and she asked why I never leave Jinja and I told her that I hate traveling. Long pause. She was all um you know you moved to Africa right?

But I think the 48 hours that it takes to get to Africa and the combinations of buses, planes, cars, and motorcycles scares you away from ever traveling again! Its either that or I just don't want to wander too far away from my flush toilet at Denis' house. I really love flush toilets. Really.

So needless to say since Sarah left I have not been back to the big city. Kampala is nice because it has fancy things that we rural people (hill people) can't get, things that are essential for a happy life, like vuvuzelas. Do you remember that horrible sound from the World Cup? Don't you wish you could live with that?

We have very strict vuvuzela zones in this house.

I can't lie though, my favorite part is leaving Kampala. The further you drive away from city the prettier the world becomes. I wish I could make a graph of how my mood grows happier the further we get from the city. But I have not made a graph since sophomore year (of high school). And like everything else I learned in high school I have totally forgotten how to do that.

This hill covered with tea fields is my heaven. I swear I will live on this hill one day. In that clump of trees. In like a really crappy run down house but one with a beautiful bathroom with 3 flush toilets. Also I will have like 5 monkeys and local children will run away from me in fear. Run away from crazy monkey lady!

The best part of the drive is the awesome 'rest stops'. There are designated places along the road where people are allowed to sell food. Like 3 times. Its as if there used to be people all along the entire length of the road and then they rounded them all up and put them in 3 specific spots. That is the only thing that can explain the sheer number of people selling food at these rest stops.

They all wear lab coats that are either blue, maroon or white. (Speaking of white lab coats, last time I was on the bus a guy in a white lab coat came on and tried to sell us some herbal medicine, load of crap, from china. I asked him if he was a doctor and he ignored me and continued his speech. I heckled him, of course, until he admitted he was not a doctor and then he eventually left the bus. A woman patted me on the back. It was a proud day. But I mean aren't there rules about wearing a doctory coat if you are not a doctor? Like not if you are cold and need to get warm so you put on some random coat but if you are selling medicine and basically impersonating a doctor, that is so not allowed.)

It always starts with one and then if they start to lean into the car a million more will rush over and try to beat out that first one.

And then they climb into the car with you. Does anyone have any fanta?

Seriously can I please get an orange flavored beverage?

Oh please come on in. Join us.

For the love of God someone give me a fanta!!!

Denis is unfazed by the ten ugandans who climbed into the car with us. But he is not prepared to share his chicken with them. That is the line.

Word to the wise for any Uganda travelers reading this blog, this roadside chicken is the best chicken in Uganda. The best. 

Kelsey: How-to Friday! How to kill a chicken.

This is for Stef Wisbrock who is sitting at home with her chicken just waiting for a "how to" so she can cut him up and eat lunch. Sorry to keep you waiting Stef.

This post is not going to be pretty. Consider this your warning. Or maybe you should consider the title your warning. I mean you chose to read a post about killing chickens right?

The first time I saw this happen I thought it was disturbing. I got over that fast. I really do think that in America we are too separated from our food source. When I see a chicken I dont think food. When I see some plastic wrapped deboned, deskinned, clorox rinsed meat, then I think food.  Its just so wrong. You should watch Food Inc. Thats all I'm sayin.

Meet the victim. We named him Fred. He seemed nervous. Like he knew something...

It is highly recommended that you bond with the chicken and feed it snacks. If there is more than one chicken then definitely get them to race each other or put on some kind of fashion show competition. When I was a kid we used to do that with lobsters in new hampshire. We would name them, race them, and the winner got to go into the pot first. Lucky little lobster.

Give the chicken a knife for defense. I mean its only fair, you have a knife after all. It must be a fair fight.

Deno came out the victor. Wrestled that knife away from Fred like a pro!

Grasp the wings to prevent flappage.

Step on the feet if you dont want to be clawed. 

Pull feathers out at the neck where you will be cutting.

And start cutting

And this is the kind of sad part. Let it bleed a little bit before you continue cutting. Then keep going until you get all the way through the neck.

Clean the knife on the birds feathers. Hopefully it gets a more thorough cleaning later. Also Deno wanted it noted that he did feel very bad for the chicken and that he was only doing this for the sake of the blog. (lies)

Soak the headless chicken (poor Fred) in hot water to make it easier to pull out the feathers. 

Start pulling feathers. Dorcus had put on no pretense of feeling bad and was purely excited to eat Fred. Apparently the bonding time meant more to him than her. 

Then, and this is important, make it do a little dance.

Stand on its head. No dignity.

And then have it play dead. 

Finally lull the chicken into a false sense of security by having it lounge in a pot of water as if it were a bathtub. 

Then cut it up! (That was said in Mitch Hedberg's voice, anyone else remember that bit?)

There seemed to be basically no rhyme or reason to the cutting except for the removing of legs and wings it was sort of just chopped. So I am going to trust that you can cut up your own chicken. Do not let me down. 

Here was to be inserted a picture of finished cooked chicken. But it was eaten before I got the camera. Use your imagination. Can you see it?

My final piece of advice. If your chicken can do this then do not cut it up...