The anxiety of the moo

I'm scared of cows. There, I've said it. I stand up proudly, without shame, and say that cows scare the ever loving bejeesus out of me.

I went jogging today, out on some bush trails on the Ugandan border near the Nile. It was a great run, watching the thunderstorms on the mountains all around me, huffing and puffing and waving at all the little tiny kids with babies strapped on their backs walking down the road. All very lovely, right?

Then I hit the cows. I swear to god, today must've been National South Sudanese Take Your Cow for a Walk Day or something. There were cows everywhere. I'm not kidding, everywhere. And not cute, decorative, Farmer MacDonald kinda cows. Evil, rebellious, scary Sudanese cows with huge HUGE horns that stick three feet up off their head. Every time I would come across a herd of them on the trail they would all turn at me and start mooing in dark, threatening tones and twitching their massive goring horns at me. I'd jog in place, in my bright pink track bottoms, a flag to their rage, I'm sure, hissing at them and trying to look as much like something that cows are scared of (a hamburger bun?) as possible.

They didn't ACTUALLY attack me and trample me while laughing and singing traditional songs of revenge, but it clearly was going to happen any minute. They're just lulling me in to a false sense of security...