The rocky hill stands above the national football stadium, that was built 20 years ago, but not kept in functioning condition. It is overgrown, open to squatters and has become a dumping ground. The barbed-wire fence has long since been torn down, so we were able to walk across the grounds. It is still early so there were only a few dogs around.
hand in the rocky side of the hill. More fields spread out beneath us on the back side of the hill. Because the rainy season has only just started, nothing is planted yet. Instead the long horned scrawny cattle are gathered there before being herded around the city during the day. Two boys with machetes take a break from clearing the land to run over and say hello.
These boys come from a village of traditional huts, built on the land between the stadium and the railway tracks. The residents are building fires, collecting firewood, and the children are chasing the goats around. This is the barest form of subsistence farming. I cannot imagine what they find to eat. I suppose they can find jobs of one kind another in the city limits.
On the walk home we found the area coming to life. There are kayakers on the lake, and women are sweeping the streets with their hand held bundles of sticks; babies on hips. We had noticed a large pile of yams on the way in. Now an army of women were starting fires and setting up huge cooking pots the size of witches caldrons. This seemed to be a very basic catering service, preparing food that would be sold on the streets later in the day. We bought some mangos and bananas before heading back up the road to our compound. For us it is a holiday, a day off work. For everyone else around us, it is work as usual, because here, the business of living doesn't allow for breaks.
