Namaste (I'm trying to feel peaceful, seriously, damnit)

I’ve been struggling to condense the past month into a couple of pithy paragraphs, and it only proves more challenging the longer I dawdle, so let me lay down a few anecdotes that can best serve to sum up the opportunity I’ve been given to tour the country.

The very first leg of my journey, on a sunrise bus ride from my site to Kampala, proved to be the situation that immediately set the tone for the span of the month. Before 7am, Ugandans are a groggy lot, and rightfully so: they eat dinner between 10-12pm. In fact, Ugandan’s are so serious about not moving before 7 in the morning that they call “hour 1” 7am, and the day continues on from there, so that 4pm, for example, is “hour ten.” But anyways, I boarded the bus around 6, when it was still dark and my taxi-mates were uncharacteristically sleepy. Sleepiness bears forgetfulness. About an hour into the bus ride, most people had disembarked, except for myself, two to three gentlemen, and a chicken that had been shoved into a plastic bag at my feet. This in itself is not uncommon; I was nonplussed by its presence. However at this point in the ride, the man sitting next to me starts looking around and taps me on the shoulder only to ask “is that your chicken?” No, it’s not my chicken. Do I look like the person to travel with chickens in plastic bags? …He moves onto the next person. Turns out, it’s no one’s chicken. Seriously. This chicken was just along for the ride; even the Ugandans were astonished. And that was day one, hour one, really. The astonishment pervade as I moved from my home in Mityana to my “home base” of Kampala and then on to the North, East and West.

To facilitate the establishment of a plan of action with my site, I had to hang around the Peace Corps office, and hence Kampala, for near upon 2 weeks. This was a challenge I was wholly unprepared for. Aside from the fact that I came without my running shoes, barring me from that activity, truly all one can do is kill time in between meals. The city of Kampala is run in such an underground way that it’s not about what you can and cannot get, but more about knowing where to look; anything can be found if you do a little digging (sometimes literally if you have the mind to bring on back your favorite Gap shirt from 1999: it can be found in the markets that yield hundreds upon hundreds of Salvation-Army-fresh clothing from America). What would Renee do? Taste-test the greater portion of Kampala eateries. There’s a reason why Rob has complimented (your attempt at insults were wasted on me) my inability to move away from my “first meal” for all of my 23 years. So here are some of my favorites: anything Indian, man the Indian food in Uganda is phenomenal; a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant called The Sweet Dolphin; the dozens of women that carry baskets of bananas on their heads, perfect for a mid-morning … and day … snack. The Chinese restaurant with a wide-open lawn, décor exquisitely completed with live rabbits hopping around one’s toes (“Yes, our restaurant is wonderful, but it’s still missing something… oh what do we need? I’ve got it: rabbits!!”).

What wasn’t a favorite? The veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. Or should I say the non-existent veggie sandwich at the supermarket deli. I approach the Subway-esque counter, eager to quell my incessant raw vegetable craving, but knowing all too well that what’s on the menu holds no bearing to what you’re served. So I ask. “What’s on the vegetarian sandwich?” “Lettuce and cucumbers.” “That’s all?” “You want cheese and mayonnaise?” “No. I want vegetables. You have carrots, tomatoes and green peppers?” “They are finished.” “This is a supermarket. Every vegetable on the planet is being sold 5 feet behind us.” “They are finished.” Fine, I’ll go somewhere else, I give up. You win, Uganda!

The unforeseen best part about the many meals I’ve eaten and the many villages I’ve visited is the company that they generate. In Gulu in the North, a region where a feeling of relaxed good-will is palpable despite it being the hub of Uganda’s brutal civil war during the ‘90s, I glanced around the dinner table one night to realize that I was eating dinner with citizens of the world. Uganda, Ethiopia, Japan, China, the Pacific Islands and the U.S. were all represented. A few days later in the West, I was sitting at the base of the Rwenzoris conferring about Greece’s financial drop with Germans and Englanders. And just the other night, albeit in a distinctly more tawdry setting (I was at a casino, so what?), the first question that comes to mind to ask the person throwing their chips out next to you is “where’s your accent from?” Maybe there’s a compelling force that draws foreigners together; maybe it’s just Uganda’s venous pulse of adventurism and dearth that’s so conspicuous to outsiders. Either way, even more so than in America, I’ve found that it’s most definitely who you know that matters. Hey, if it means you get free rides from Gulu to Kampala in a private, air-conditioned Pathfinder from U.S. Embassy workers when the alternative’s an hours-longer, crowded bus ride, I’m down with the schmoozing…

Before I wrap this post up, I’d like to set a mantra to Newness. I think it’s fitting: I’m all set to get a new site, hopefully in the next week or so (I refuse to forfeit my idealism. Ain’t this Peace Corps after all?!), and in Eastern Uganda, the local language calls for a greeting of “Yoga!” in lieu of “Hello!”. Yes I think I will demonstrate a down dog, how delightful! So here’s to a new site; may it be in the central region. Because my love for Luganda goes far beyond an irregular “gyebaleko,” my hands and knees are too clean for being 4 months into my service and village life, despite the deficits, is far richer than life in Kampala. Here’s to a new wardrobe; may all of you over there in the States keep sending your gently used and new clothes, shoes and accessories to places like Owino Market. Here’s to new foods: crocodile meat, tamarind, grasshoppers, 8500 varieties of bananas, sugar cane, millet bread, and the new parasites that reside in them! Here’s to new friends; Ugandans, Americans and all of the countries in between please send your representatives. And finally, here’s to new sights: the Nile, baboons, women balancing pots bigger than themselves on their head, my first casino (in Uganda, really?!), and the faces of those near and dear to me electronically through Skype instead of in person. May each of us live our life with intention and direction, but not too much; striders reign:

All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.

Oh and by the way, here’s also to a new phone number: 256700127545. It’s cheaper and pays ME for incoming international calls! If the old number is unavailable, try this one, and vice versa. Sula bulungi mikwano gyange (good night my friends)!