To Comings and Goings

I have finally seen the African stars. I know, I’ve been here for near upon seven weeks now, but the opportunity to catch the clear skies of 4am doesn’t often arise when you’re on lockdown come 8pm and the lights of Kampala infiltrate the distance. But trust me, they’re awesome. Even the parasites seem quelled by the way smatterings of stars swirl in loops, twinkle incessantly or streak across the night so frequently that you’d swear someone was taking pictures nearby. I’m spending the week “immersed” (Peace Corps’ word, not mine) in real Ugandan life, hence the chance to star gaze at a whim. A fellow economic development trainee, Elizabeth, and I traveled about 3 hours southeast of Wakiso to a small, rural village, Kiwangala, on Saturday to stay with a real-life volunteer (!), JP. The coaster (think school bus) ride down was one I look forward to forgetting, however. Trying to understand public transportation in Uganda is like trying to bottle fame (hey-o muggles): vehicles are jammed; random suitcases release suspicious clucks every few minutes; people come and go without ever speaking a word, yet the driver knows at which exact stop they want off at; stops are made at the driver’s impulse, and when they’re made, locals swarm the windows, selling anything from skewers of meat to pumpkins, laterns to watches. Dust, heat, spiders and speed bumps the size of Priuses come with the territory. And all of these factors were compounded on Saturday by the intestinally-induced fevers Elizabeth and I both sported for the ride. On the upside, we did manage to pop out of our stupor just as we passed over the equator! They sell lattes there to tourists for what it would cost to feed a family of 12 for a week.

We really lucked out getting placed with JP for the week. As we have only just begun our service, JP is on his way out; his two years are up, tomorrow in fact. He’s been teaching environmental science and health classes at a secondary school while working on community sanitation and agriculture practices. He’s been here for so long, he’s more of a Ugandan than an American at this point. Elizabeth and I have completely bombarded him with questions and pestered him for stories. We’re totally just what he needs: a harrying fan club to impede his packing and farewells. It’s been great though, he took me on an amazing run up and over hills and far down into valleys on paths that seemed on the brink of being covered by the looming flowers and grasses by the afternoon. And we have free time for hours, get to cook what we please, and have neither host parents nor Peace Corps to report back to at regular increments. Sure JP may have autonomy, but he pays for it in what he lacks: electricity, running water, an indoor bathing area and bathroom, reliable cell phone service, a wide food selection. But he’s made it work and is noticeably more saddened by leaving Uganda than he is happy to return to the U.S. At least I got a stack of books he was leaving behind out of the bargain.

Oh! And I also got a Ugandan name! Namata. It means “milk,” of the feminine variety. JP’s freshman environment class gave it to me, it’s from the Cow Clan (there are like 50 clans in the Buganda region, like families; everyone belongs to one, you can’t marry within your clan). I’m overlooking the possibility that the kids might have thought I looked like a cow, or am as pale as milk. But it truly is the perfect name, you’re not allowed to eat your clan. Speaking of milk, aside from cereal, the one thing I’ve been missing most these past few weeks is yogurt. Shame on me. It’s here! I just wasn’t thinking outside of the cup: Ugandans take their yogurt by bag. Think of a ziplock sandwich bag, bite a hole in it, stick in a straw and enjoy!

So I’ve been writing this post over the last couple of days, seeing as how free time is abundant at JP’s site, and each days yields a different outlook on things. I may be sitting under the African sun, alternating between typing on my netbook and reading a copy of The Economist from December 20, 2008 while sipping tea. But the Ugandan wandering spirit is contagious; the randomness is magnetic. I just danced and drummed a beat with 13-year-old Rabina, who’s here washing our clothes and running our errands so that she can earn money for her school and return to school tomorrow. She’s been unable to go to class for two weeks now, without the money; it happens far too often with kids here. JP’s counterpart, John, a 60-year-old farmer has been in and out all morning bringing pots and collard greens, sporting an “official” tag on his shirt and prepping beans to feed 20 people dinner. Godfrey, an orphan of 17 whose parents died of AIDS when he was 13, is popping more popcorn than I have ever seen in my life, with an entourage of high school girls in tow, to serve to the 1000+ students and community tomorrow at JP’s going away celebration.

Yet again, here I am writing 2 days later! JP's going away party was amazing. Surreal, though, seeing as it's too hard to imagine being in his shoes in 2 years. The students sang and danced for him, both traditional and in hilarious Ugang-lish, for an hour. I cried. He didn't? He rented out the local disco to complete the night with some beat bumping dancing. A village on the brink of poverty, with a night club. Ah well, everyone's gotta have fun somehow. But it was amazing, Ugandan music is actually at the forefront of African jams; everyone listens. I'll post some tunes for your enjoyment soon (i.e., in 2 months).

Before I wrap up, I want to share a story that summarizes my constant bewilderment at Ugandan habits. We were in language class one morning last week when a hen walked into the room. This in itself is commonplace. The fun lies in the hen's attempt to seek out an adequate substitute nest to pop out an egg. Obviously, lessons were halted for 10 minutes to create a cozy place for her out of paper and a waste basket, but jokingly, I rib my teacher, Herbert, by telling him to watch his bag, if he's not careful, he'll find an egg in it later. His response: it happens. "IT HAPPENS." When, please tell me, does it ever happen that you go to pick up your bag and there just so happens to be a freshly laid egg in it, still warm, straight from the source?! In Uganda, that's where it happens.

I had a shower this morning. And last night (this morning's was superfluous). First time in 1.5 months! People say that it's the little things to make them happy. This is totally amplified in Uganda. Come what may today, I'm rollin with it, because I had a shower!

Peace love and pineapple season