Right of Way

You know you are in Africa when. . .

(apparently this cow has picked this unfinished house to live in, ironically, this house is nicer than the one most people in the village live in)

Sunday I attended a funeral service with my host brother for my host mother’s grandmother who passed away. I was told it was not a formal event and from the outside appearance of the location I agreed, until we entered the tent and found everyone in gulus (traditional Ugandan dress) and church clothes. Luckily we were able to sneak in the back row of plastic chairs. It was turning out to be a typical Catholic service until a heard of cows began crossing through the aisles and out the other end followed by a lady in a form fitting, strapless black gown and high heels shooing them along, which was then followed by a pack of screaming children running after a gathering of hens who were making their way through the other side. Everyone sat calmly through the whole escapade. Things continued on as normal until people began giving speeches. One woman got up and thanked the muzungo (me) for coming and everyone turned in their plastic chairs to look at the back of the room where I was sitting in my discrete spot and began clapping and taking pictures. I did my best to graciously accept the attention, noting to always were a skirt when attending a public event and not take the isle seat.