The adventure is not over, even though it is.

I've been comfortably nesting in Okemos since Wednesday afternoon, when mom picked me up from the Detroit airport. It seems at once entirely strange and completely natural to be home again. Strange, because it's always strange to come home. Each summer, I know fewer and fewer people in this place. They graduate from high school, or move to another town, or their faces slip from my memory and I can't tell if that's my old math teacher or just a doppelganger. At the same time, it is so very comforting to be surrounded by the familiar. My mind sighs with relief. It no longer has to be "on" at every second, analyzing and judging and experiencing. I know what to expect, so the thinking part of my brain can take the backseat to the part that controls rote memory and habit. I can walk down the street and let my thoughts wander anywhere, let my feet just go.


My first meal did indeed involve pesto--very magnanimous of mom, since the kitchen was a construction zone without a sink or stove. How did she do it? Magic. I think I've spent roughly 60% of my time back eating and sleeping. It seems a little ridiculous, since I ate plenty in Uganda and I wasn't even there long enough to really justify a strong craving for my favorite things. Even so, I think that taste, like scent, is one of the senses most connected to memory. So that bowl of Mac 'n' cheese I just devoured was not simply a warm pile of artificial cheesy goodness; it was a small reminder of my childhood and sunny early afternoons spent playing outside. Same with cereal, and oreos, and all the other things my taste buds have enjoyed since my return. And smells... I forgot about the scent of a warm Michigan summer afternoon. It's intoxicating. Soft and green and lazy and tender. I wish I could make it into a blanket and wrap myself up with it in the winter.

And the people, the most important part of feeling at home. Needless to say, it was wonderful to get that first hug from each member of my family. If I'm still a little grudging about the fact that my brother is now a LOT taller than me, I'm at least grateful for it when it comes to the bear hugs of which he is capable. My friends from high school are all now officially adults, in the American beverage-enjoying sense of the word, so we had a reunion at a beverage-serving venue in East Lansing. I can't believe we're at this point. We were just obnoxious sophomores in high school, wreaking havoc in the library during lunchtime. Now we're ordering drinks and thinking about the real world. It's exciting and solemn and laughable and unnerving all at once. But that's another post entirely, and one that almost anyone has written or will write. It's growing up.

(Non-sequitur: I'm writing this on the front porch, and the mosquitos are OUT OF CONTROL. Far worse here than in Uganda. I'm getting eaten alive. But I'm sick of air conditioning, so here we are.)

So, the weird parts about being back. I guess the biggest one is also the very fact that comforted me: nothing has changed. Everything is exactly as I left it. I, on the other hand, feel like I've changed a lot. Actually, no, changed isn't the right word. I think I've learned to look at things differently, to regard myself and the world from a better vantage point. I still don't understand exactly how the perspective has changed; that will come with time. For now, I'm only certain that something is different. Better, I think. But even as I recognize differences within myself, my surroundings have not changed. Sometimes it's hard to believe I ever went anywhere at all, a thought that's both astounding and rather scary. Being oblivious is a luxury, and a dangerous one at that. I know I can't be conscious of every problem in every part of the world at once- I'd go crazy, get way depressed, be unable to function. But I also know that I have to think about at least a few of these uncomfortable truths. And here, in my most comfortable place, where grocery store shelves are heavy and lawns are well-manicured, it is far too easy to forget. I'm trying not to, even as I slip back into my beloved routines. That's why I have to keep writing. And talking, and listening.

I said before that Uganda had started to feel like home to me. I miss it now; I missed it as soon as I left the ground on my first flight, when I recounted my summer to my neighbor and he asked if I'd go back. I said yes, and I truly believe it. It's hard to realize the true impact of a place until you're not there anymore, but I could tell Uganda was going to be a lasting influence even before I left. I miss the people, first of all. Sister and Dennis and Charles and Monica and Joan and all of my other wonderful UMU friends. Will I ever see them again? I dearly hope so. But when, and how? It's difficult to think about. I miss St. Francis Secondary School, the students and teachers and quirks and frustrations. I miss yelling "Jabale, Nyabo!" when I pass a woman in her front yard. I miss the campfire smell and the hills. I miss Uganda.

But I'm ecstatic to be home. There is nothing like that feeling of snuggling on your couch after an absence and feeling utterly, absolutely at home. Relaxed. Like the comfort of a warm bath and a soft bed, multiplied by a hug from your dad, plus a large, chocolatey brownie. Mmmmmm. Home.

So I'm conflicted. What else is new? But it's not necessarily a bad thing. It's just a gentle tug at the edge of my mind, a reminder not to be complacent, because there are many more wonderful things out there, and also many things that need fixing. It's an invitation to keep thinking. And, I think, it's the thing that will take me back to Uganda some day. For now, though, I'm back home. And damn, it's good to be here.

Sibling love. 

Goodbye for now, my friends. 

The Philosophical Importance of Doing One's Laundry

I can't believe it's happened, but it has. It always does. Time played its familiar, underhanded tricks once more, and I find myself standing at the edge of something. I've run out of time, I've run out of ground to stand on; after finally reaching the steady, flat plains of routine,  I've discovered that the fields end abruptly in a steep cliff. If I don't slow down to consider, I might unwittingly walk off the edge.

You can never get used to the way it feels to leave a place where you've come to feel at home. But several things call me away from here. My real home, for one. I am beyond excited to see Mom, Dad, Pat, my friends, my neighbors, and my lovely green backyard. After that, I get to see friends from Notre Dame, many of whom have been absent from my life since spring of 2010 due to opposite study abroad semesters. There are so many people I cannot wait to see, so many stories I can't wait to hear and tell. And even though our kitchen is under construction and I may not get to taste Mom's pesto for a couple more weeks, I'll keep eating my African diet of rice and beans as long as I get to do it on the back porch in the sunshine of early evening.

And yes, I'll admit, I'm looking forward to clean bathrooms and steady water and electricity and paved roads. But I'm also trying to anticipate the degree of discomfort that will come with all of the comforts of American life. Everything will seem like too much. Too much space, too much material wasted to build that house, too much food thrown away from that plate. It will be disconcerting. I love the level of simplicity in Uganda. Everything is used efficiently; nothing goes to waste. Why would you throw away a scrap of wood when you could use it to build a market stall? The way people work here is beautiful. They toil diligently, but they also lay in the shade and talk to their friends. They always seem to be doing both at the same time. In America, there is too much work and not enough time; in Uganda, there is still too much work, but the people accept that some of it will have to wait until later, so they don't worry about wasting a few hours. And in the end, it's not a waste at all; it's what defines the way they live.

Today, for instance, I did my laundry for the final time. My first attempt, a couple of weeks after arriving, was unsuccessful. As a typical college student, I let the dirty clothes pile up until I had nothing to wear the next day. This left me with an unmanageable heap of stained shirts and skirts to wash by hand (you thought there were washing machines here? No way, Jose.). I didn't have a bucket, so I tried to use one of the two functioning sinks in the dorm. Since there was no way to plug the drain, I wasted a lot of water and wasn't able to soak my clothes and get out all the soap. When I plucked them off the drying line the next morning, they were stiff and coarse. The second try, a couple weeks later, was better. We had invested in the ubiquitous large plastic buckets used for washing, and I let my clothes soak in clean water for several minutes. But I was too hasty. I didn't yet understand the philosophy of laundry in Africa. Again, my clothes retained a soapy residue. Again, they hardened in the hot sun. The third time, one of the dorm cleaners smiled indulgently as she saw me crouching over my bucket, clumsily scrubbing cloth with a bar of soap. She took pity and showed me how Ugandan woman clean. You'd never think watching someone do laundry could be interesting, but this was beautiful to see. The woman, bent at the waist over the bucket, methodically scrubbed, twisted, and rinsed. This was a full-body exercise; she used every muscle from her legs to her shoulders to her fingers to exert the power of a washing machine.

I never managed to replicate the housekeeper's efforts. I tried, and the next day I woke up with an aching back and sore legs. Today, I settled for a hybrid method that allowed me to crouch next to (rather than bend over) the buckets as I scrubbed the clothing with my dwindling bar of soap. Any repetitive activity leads to meandering thoughts, and hand-washing is no exception. As I wrung the soapy water out of my shirts, I thought about the African philosophy of washing. It is very easy to become dirty here, especially now that it's the dry season. Set foot on any road, and you'll soon be covered in a fine layer of dust that will make your nose run and your eyes water. I quickly become disheveled and dirt-caked. My clothes get stained, especially the lighter-colored ones, and since I'm a sub-par laundry woman, they always retain a hint of brownish tinge. Ugandans, though, are immaculate. Sure, the children running around the villages are often dirty and semi-clothed, but that's universal for toddlers. For the most part, people keep their clothes crisp and spotless. The white skirts that dry next to my plain white tees on the line show just how the latter have suffered from my clumsy washing. When women do laundry here, they accept that it is an investment of several hours. Cutting corners, trying to force efficiency where it is futile, will only destroy one's own clothing. And in a place where overstuffed closets are a ridiculous joke, preserving clothing is extremely important.

So the perception of time crops up once more. If you worry about time, you don't successfully fulfill your tasks, especially the ones you'd rather not do. Instead, you accept that time will pass, as it inevitably does, and that you cannot fit any more into an hour than you could yesterday. You wash your clothes slowly and thoroughly. Your friend does her washing at the same time, and you have a long conversation that makes the task not only bearable, but enjoyable. When you go to hang your clothes on the line, you look with satisfaction on the spotless whites and bright colors. It is a job well done, and it was completely worth the slow pace at which you accomplished it.

As my mom likes to remind me, "When you drink tea, drink tea." Tich Naht Han was wise beyond measure when he advised us to focus on our present actions. When we worry about what happens next, we will never find peace. This is especially important to remember as I reach the end of my stay in Uganda. I could let my mind wander in so many unhelpful directions, worrying about thesis work, move-in preparations for my apartment, and making the most of my short time at home. But that would be wasteful. It would be like the first time I did laundry, when I let the water slip down the drain before it rinsed the soap out of my clothes. Sometimes, you can't do anything right now; you just have to wait idly for the clothes to soak in the bucket. You have to relax and enjoy the break. Only then have you done something worth the effort it took to bend over and scrub.

That was a lot of philosophizing; I hope it didn't sound pretentious. It's not really aimed at you, but at me. As you might know, I hate beginnings and endings. I much prefer the comfortable middle of the journey. But as long as time continues to play its tricks, beginnings and endings pop up out of nowhere, and wishing them away does nothing. I'm sad to leave, but happy to go home. I wish I could stay, but I want to go. In the coming months, I'll slowly try to figure out exactly what these months have meant. For now, though, I'll simply enjoy the end of the adventure.

Laundry day. Judging by the water in the second bucket, I got just a little bit dirty last week. 

No such thing as too many colors. 

Rice and beans AND pineapple: the holy grail of dining hall lunches.

I think photo-bombing is universal. ;)

We go, we go! Uganda Cranes we go! (Google it.)

I'm sorry I've been so quiet lately. I have the best intentions, but every time I have a spare moment and sit down to write, I somehow end up waking from a nap an hour later. Blame it on the climate, the Malarone, and plain old laziness.

 I've been traveling the past two weekends. I did not expect to travel so much before I left, but spur-of-the-moment trips are often the best kind. Uganda is a truly beautiful place with amazing cultural and environmental diversity. The week after Queen Elizabeth, we traveled to Jinja, a prosperous city in the east that attracts adventurers from around the world for white water rafting, bungee jumping, and kayaking. We met up with some other ND kids working around Uganda (there are quite a few of us) for rafting. It was fantastic--we floated, capsized, swam, rowed, drifted, and got pummeled by Class 5 rapids. The company, Nile River Explorers, was very professional, even though our guide Geoffrey liked to push me in the water when I wasn't paying attention. I'm pretty sure he also engineered our flips as well--some of them were just too perfect to be accidents. 

My favorite part of the day: the pineapple. After climbing back into our raft, sodden and exhausted from a bout with the rapids, another raft drifted over to us. In the vessel was a huge sack of pineapple, a wooden cutting board, and a machete-wielding guide. We each received an entire half of a fruit. Pineapple is good most of the time, but this stuff was heavenly. Drifting along a calm and peaceful stretch of river while pineapple juice ran down our chins, we never wanted to leave. I wish I could bring the Nile home with me. It is enchanting. I've never seen a place so lush, so inviting to all types of life. In the middle of the wide river, islands drip with soft green leaves. Fruit bats swarm in flocks around the trees. Corn ("maize"), planted in neat rows, slopes to the very edge of the water. The water itself is cool but not cold, the perfect refreshing temperature. Everything is soft and sunny and beautiful.

The hostel we stayed in was nice, but definitely catered to muzungus. There's just something weird about walking through the village craft stalls while music from the hostel bar echoes down the road. These situations continue to make me uncomfortable--western culture takes over the most scenic parts of Uganda. Americans and Europeans spend money, obscene amounts by Ugandan standards, on daredevil stunts. How is this OK? The life crisis pervades. But I keep pushing it to the back of my mind, pretending that this is just the way things are. The balance between fighting for improvement and accepting imperfection is a sharp blade. Watch where you put your fingers.  

Overall, it was a very good weekend--more of a vacation than anything. Back at UMU on Sunday night, I made up my lesson plans and collapsed into bed. Monday morning was a battle to coax my body under the cold water of the shower. The mornings are rather chilly here, so cold showers are really only appealing in the heat of the afternoon. Sometimes it's more desirable to just remain a little (or a lot) dirty. I never tell Ugandans about my bathing habits, however; in this country, cleanliness is a virtue above almost all others. Despite the dust, mud, and bugs, the people keep themselves and their front yards immaculate. If only I could say the same about my hair...

School continues to offer rewards and frustrations. Sister and I finally initiated "moral education," which is really an informal discussion group separated by gender. I've had a few meetings with the girls in Senior 3 and Senior 4. At first, everyone was reluctant to talk. I pulled out my best camp counselor skills and tried to start a game of roses and thorns (share one good thing and one bad thing that has happened today), but the girls were still shy. So I just started talking. I don't even know what I talked about. It felt like I rambled for hours... about boys, health, self-confidence, and every other standard teenage topic I could imagine. By some miracle, people started to talk. One thing that bothers me a lot, and that keeps coming up in discussion with the female students, is that they want to look like me. That is, they want to look white. I ask why, and they say because it's more beautiful. I say no, it is different, but that does not mean more beautiful. I tell them that they are beautiful (truly they are), that they must be happy with themselves, for that allows others to love them as well. (If only I could take my own advice sometimes.) It makes me so angry that the fake American image of beauty has permeated a Ugandan village. That image is not only unrealistic; I've come to realize that it's not even beautiful. Beauty is the secretary at school, pregnant and glowing, dressed in a long flowered dress. Beauty is Somaiah, one of my students, whose short cropped hair brings attention to her lovely eyes. Beauty is simple, natural, and real. In short, it is these young women.

Class, for the most part, has been going well. Lately, though, I've had trouble keeping the youngest students under control. There is a constant buzz of conversation that distracts from everything. I can't identify the source; the noise seems to ooze from the very walls. I tried sternly asking for silence; I tried sternly commanding silence; I tried falling silent myself and stabbing them with my scariest glare. Nothing worked. I should send the troublemakers outside, but I know that if I do, they will get caned. I will not be responsible for that. The majority of the students are motivated and attentive, if a bit rambunctious. But it's inevitable that in a class of 80 or more, kids will lose focus. I tried asking the math teacher how to instill discipline, since the class is always completely silent for him. He suggested the cane, which I declined. He ended up giving the class a talk (I wish he hadn't, as it makes me seem incompetent) and reported back that the students have been chattering in Luganda in my class because they know I can't understand them. That's probably why I haven't been able to identify the source--it all blends into a mumble of incomprehensible syllables. Oy vey. If anyone knows of a non-capital punishment that will instill the fear of God into rebellious teenagers, please let me know.

This past weekend, I traveled to Gulu with Curtis and Eddie, another ND student based in the north who had been working at UMU for a couple of weeks. I am so glad I went. Gulu is a lovely place, an up-and-coming town with an unbelievable, tragic history. From the 1980s until 2007, northern Uganda was war-torn. The Lord's Resistance Army (LRA), led by self-proclaimed prophet Joseph Kony, scourged the region with violence and abducted children to use as soldiers and sex slaves. It was a terrifying time. Children from the surrounding villages were forced to walk to Gulu each night, a trek of up to 20 kilometers, in order to find a safe place to sleep. Abduction from small, unprotected villages was almost inevitable. In the morning, they walked back home, went to school, and repeated the evening journey. During this period, almost all children lost touch with their families. They either spent all their time seeking refuge, or were stolen by the LRA and forced to become rebels. Until the war, there was no word for "orphan" in Acholi, the northern dialect. Today, orphans are common by name and by status. 

Now, Gulu is one of the more developed towns in Uganda due to an influx of money from NGOs ("guilt money," as some bitterly call it). Our bus trip took several hours longer than anticipated, due to the fact that we sat in the parking lot in Kampala for 3 hours waiting for it to fill to way over capacity. We rolled into town around midnight, and luckily found one hotel that was still open. Hotel Roma is located on a street with several other accommodations, including the "Florida Magnificent Hotel" and another one with a name involving an elephant. Curtis and I got a room with two full beds and a self-contained bathroom (big deal!) for about $10 a night. Not bad at all. Due to a slight miscommunication with the concierge, we accidentally ended up drinking unboiled water, but so far no major resulting catastrophes (knock on wood). We woke up early on Saturday and enjoyed our free breakfast of eggs and coffee-hot chocolate while reading about Southern Sudan's independence in the paper. Inside, there were many messages, strongly resembling high school graduation notices, from various governmental departments congratulating the Southern Sudanese president. One word: hat. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Salva_Kiir_Mayardit.jpg

After breakfast, we met up with Eddie and our friend Teresa and headed to the market. I bought a nice dress from a seamstress. I knew it was legit when an elderly Ugandan lady bought one right before me; no hidden "made in Taiwan" tags this time. We then walked to one of the many IDP (internally displaced person) camps that ring the city, remnants from the civil war. Many have vacated the camps and moved back to their villages, but some families still occupy the government-built huts on the compound. I expected to find a ghost town, but the camp was bursting with life. Colorful laundry was strung between huts, and children darted out to catch a glance of the strangers with funny skin. Curtis found a beautiful, perfectly climbable fig tree and immediately proceeded to ascend. The curious children, emboldened by his antics, followed him up the branches, and soon it was a regular party of swinging, hanging, and jumping. I stayed earthbound with the smaller children. One little boy was particularly snuggly. He had chubby cheeks and responded to everything with a soft, obliging "yeahhhh." I was smitten. 

Curtis and Eddie disappeared for a few minutes to buy a soccer ball, which made them heroes among men. The rest of the morning passed in a happy blur of games, laughter, and blurry photos that the children insisted on taking. It was difficult to leave, but I was so glad to have met the kids. They have many playmates, but not many guardians. If they have parents, they are often too preoccupied tending to infants or fulfilling necessary tasks like washing and cooking. The IDP children longed for hugs, and I was certainly happy to oblige (I was rather starved for them myself). I wish I could go back now. 

In the afternoon, we played volleyball with some locals, who took the game very seriously but humored my poor form anyway. It was a blast. After darkness fell, we went to the Catechist Training Center, where Eddie and Teresa work, for dinner with Father Joe, one of the chaplains. Someone had described him before as a teddy bear, and this was a very accurate description; I almost called him Fr. Teddy several times by accident. Dinner was quite good-- chapati, greens (!), potatoes, beef (I'm an even more flawed vegetarian in Uganda) and pineapple. Everything had flavor, and there was no matooke to speak of. Dessert consisted of coke and whiskey, provided by Fr. Joe himself. Relaxing evening indeed.

To finish off the night, we went to a bar called the Blue Mango for a drink. Turns out Gulu is a town with a pretty decent nightlife. The bar down the street from our hotel blasted thumping bass until the wee hours of the morning. The Blue Mango was nice and laid back; my only complaint was the strange movie playing on a giant screen on the wall, in which Nicholas Cage and John Travolta seemed to surgically switch faces. Odd.

Sunday involved mass, breakfast at the CTC, and a very long bus ride back to UMU. It was a lot of traveling for one weekend, but I'm so glad I went. Playing with those kids was one of my favorite memories in Uganda so far. The people were wonderful, the food was good, and the shower was lukewarm. These are among life's dearest blessings.  

The mighty Nile at Jinja. 

After moral education class. Do we look more ethical yet?

Curtis and friends in the world's best tree. 

My buddy. SO CUTE. 

IDP camp. Notice the metal-sided huts built by the government. 

Eddie and Teresa providing entertainment. 

Game time! 

One of the kids took this one, and it turned out more artsy than any of mine! 

Safari Pt. 2

Where were we? Oh, yes. Chimps. Kymbura (CHIM-burra) Gorge is a long green gash that interrupts the otherwise smooth surface of the savannah. It is tree-filled, lush, and shadowy. The sound of running water echoes up from its steep rock walls. This section of the park is a refuge for primates, who take advantage of  the protection and food provided by the forest.

We drove up to the ranger station and picked up our tracker, Stephanie. This woman was the definition of everything cool. Short and muscular, with smooth skin and large dark eyes, she wore green fatigues and had an old rifle slung over her shoulder. The weapon, she assured us, was for firing into the air to scare animals, though he did once have to shoot an elephant with it.

We followed Stephanie down a steep path into the ravine. I was bummed that she'd made Kristen and I change into long pants, but I understood why as soon as we entered the forest. Prickly seeds and burrs clung to every surface, and mosquitoes buzzed at the decibel level of a medium-sized symphony. Surprisingly, it was much cooler down in the gorge, despite the humidity. The luxurious foliage provided a welcome relief from the ruthless afternoon sun. Huge, majestic trees, covered in intricate vines, rose up to the heavens above. Birds and monkey calls echoed through the green halls. It was a different world, condensed into a narrow valley.

The tracking was supposed to last two hours. For the first one and a half, we meandered through the forest. There were several false alarms in which we mistook various monkeys and baboons for chimps. I have to admit, I didn't understand why Stephanie pointed out the ring-tailed monkeys with such disappointment. So what if they weren't chimps? Why were they less revered? At any rate, I was having a very good time just walking. I fell into an almost meditative state. My thoughts slowed to a calm, meandering stream; by breathing steadied; the sweat dripping down my face rinsed off the layer of dust and made me feel cleaner. It was silent, but for our soft footsteps and the melodious birdcalls.

Towards the end of our trek, we came across a stream of moderate width. I assumed there was a log somewhere to cross--that's how we'd traversed a large river before--but instead, Stephanie simply lept across, landing on the opposite bank with the grace of a leopard. I looked at her. "Uh-Oh," I muttered. Despite my height, I'm no long jumper. I lack the impulse to just go. As I stood there, contemplating my actions, the boys took running jumps and joined Stephanie across the stream. I noted with hidden pleasure that they weren't nearly as graceful as our intrepid guide. It was just Kristen and me left. I took a deep breath, chose a spot on the other side, and pushed off the ground. To my pleasant surprise, I made it; only one sneaker got a bit mired in mud. Kristen, unfortunately, was not so lucky: she landed smack in the middle of the stream. Stephanie looked on calmly as her loud charges dissolved into laughter.

Our walk was coming to a muddy and chimp-less close. I was a little disappointed, but I'd seen lions that morning, for crying out loud. And the forest was beautiful. That was plenty for me. Then, almost in response to my self-appeasing thoughts, Stephanie stopped us short. "There are chimps here," she whispered, pointing up to a nearby tree. Our eyes followed her outstretched arm. Sure enough, perched up in the branches was a large chimp, calmly munching leaves. We stared up at her in awe. She seemed reluctant to emerge from the thick upper branches and give us a better look. After several minutes, though, she decided the eating was better on the lower branches and climbed down. She faced us, a little higher than eye-level, barely 10 yards away. She was beautiful. Now I understood what the big fuss was about chimps. While I admire all the animals I saw for their instinctive grace and purpose, this primate was different. There was something familiar, something understanding, behind those eyes. She regarded us with the gentle indifference, thinking about other things I could only imagine. To her left, a baby chimp hid shyly behind the leaves. He beat the branch with his fists in an adorable attempt to scare us away. They mother and child were fantastic to behold.

All was peaceful until Dom moved subtly to take a better shot. The mother froze. She stared him in the eyes and screamed. Dom yelled back. The mother coiled and sprung out of the tree. We scattered. "No, do not run!" said Stephanie calmly. We froze and looked up. The mother was meandering on all fours over the log bridge. Her baby hung comfortably underneath her belly. It turns out the real reason for her flight was not us, but a band of neighboring chimps who had claimed this side of the river. She heard their warning calls and retreated to her own side. For a minute, though, we had been nervous. The mother of a small child, whether chimp or human, is a fierce warrior when she needs to be.

What a day we'd had. We recounted all we'd seen, not quite believing our words. After another prolonged dinner at the canteen (fish this time, caught right from the channel), we headed back to the campsite to say hello to our neighbors, who'd invited us for tea. Jean and Terry were a retired British couple who had converted their Landrover into a Wild Thornberrys-esque camper. The screened sleeping tent perched on top, and laundry was strung on a line connected to the front grill. Pouring hot water from a pot heated on an electric plate, they asked us our stories and told their own. They had driven up from South Africa and were planning to cross up through the Middle East (politics permitting) and Europe, finally taking a ferry back to the UK. They'd made the same journey back in the 70s, when Africa was a very different place. I asked how that trip went. "Oh, very good," replied Jean. "We were only arrested once, in Egypt."

Needless to say, I sincerely admired this couple. Full of good cheer, generosity, and the spirit of adventure, they travelled the continent, learning from and sharing with others. They'd pulled a bread truck out of the mud in the Congo and walked the empty beaches of Mozambique. They were brave but careful, optimistic but shrewd. If I can have half their spirit, half their married companionship, I will be very happy indeed.

We went back to the canteen and found ourselves engulfed in a raucous for Manchester United. For most Africans, this team can do no wrong. They love Man U- they have songs, cheers, and feasts to celebrate its victories. I ended up joining the dance party. When "Waka waka" came on, I jumped up and down. When the DJ humored my request for "Waving Flag" (David Bisbal version!), I thought I'd die of happiness. This small canteen, so deserted the night before, now had all the energy of a city nightclub. Out there in the darkness, the lions prowled and the hyenas cackled. But inside, the drinks flowed and the music blared. Once again, incomprehensible. But wonderful.

The next morning we awoke early for one last game drive. It was sunny and warm, and we were having a lovely, relaxed time gazing out over the savannah. We even spotted a large group of lions, about a football field away. This was more great luck. Satisfied, we started our circuit back to the main road, where we'd catch the bus home. For some reason, though, Robert decided to take a small side road through a field (a legal one mind you.) And there, lurking in the grass were the lions. 9 of them. Another vehicle pulled up next to ours.

"They want to cross the road," someone breathed.

Sure enough, after a few moments contemplation, the first lioness loped across the dirt track. She was gorgeous. She walked as though she had nothing to worry about; the world would wait for her. She didn't even seem phased by the two large metal contraptions 10 feet away. On the other side of the road, she found a large rock, limbed it, and sat facing the sun like a queen on her throne.

The others followed in sequence. One by one, the 7 females and two young males ambled right in front of us. It was breathtaking. Again, I couldn't believe that these animals just lived here. We were visiting them at home, and they had deigned to allow us an intimate glance into their lives. When it was over, we looked at each other and laughed in disbelief. What incredible luck. Some people don't manage to see a single lion during a safari, and we'd seen a total of 11. Not to mention all the other amazing creatures. We felt truly blessed by a benevolent savannah.

The ride home was hot and dusty. My bones were sore from sleeping on the ground, and I was pretty disgusting from 4 days without bathing. But I couldn't let my discomfort faze me. It was a very small price to pay for an incredible weekend. We always talk about the wonders of nature, but it's easy to get caught up in civilization and forget about the true, ineffable glory of what's around us. Perfect mathematical patterns, acts of humility and selflessness, bravery and cruelty, beauty beyond measure... it's all out there. If we want to begin to contemplate it, we must simply look around us and notice the figures hiding in the grass. 

Remember to look both ways! 

 Misty sunrise

 Aren't they precious?! 

 Thoughtful mama

With Stephanie, pro tracker

Stay cool, my friends. 

Safari Pt. 1

The problem with the evening in Uganda is that it doesn't exist. It just goes straight to night, no warning whatsoever. Instead of the gradual, lingering Midwestern sunsets that I'm used to, I'm now confronted by sudden and total darkness, exacerbated by frequent power failures that extinguish the rare electric lights. Luckily, all cellphones are equipped with fairly powerful built-in flashlights, or "torches" (much better imagery), but it's still hard to do anything more active than playing cards for fear of falling down a ditch or stepping into a swamp. Tonight, for instance, I am sitting on my bed, nursing my first official Africa belly ache. Don't worry, nothing too graphic, but it's made the last few days a little uncomfortable. Oh well, at least there's plenty of plain white rice to soothe the grumbles.

Since the night and my belly have doomed me to a dull evening, I will recount the weekend in the hopes of soaking up a little residual excitement. On Thursday night after work, we hopped on the UMU staff bus to Kampala, where we stayed the night at the Backpacker's before embarking on a trip to Queen Elizabeth National Park in the western part of the country. This was seriously one of the nicest hostels I've ever stayed in. I think it was partly due to the contrast with the UMU dorms, and the fact that I generally don't expect much from Kampala, but this place was down right trendy. And swarming with muzungus, unsurprisingly. But I managed to bite my tongue and not think about how us westerners were secluded in our own little pocket of bliss in the midst of a poverty-ridden city. OK, I didn't completely forget; I tried to make sense of it with Curtis over dinner, but once again came to the conclusion that there simply is no reason or fairness to so much of life. But that did not stop me from savoring my salad, the first green vegetables I'd managed to consume in weeks. Add a couple of bottles of cider (no Strongbow, but close enough), and I was feeling like I could stay there for awhile.

That was the end of the relaxing leg of the journey. We departed at 5 the next morning to catch a bus to Kasese, a town about 7 hours west near the DRC border. Let's think about the logistics of this trip for a minute. Thursday, we drove 2.5 hours east. Friday, we woke up early to drive 7 hours west, essentially bypassing the place we started from. Why tack on the extra piece of traveling? Because if you try to make a bus reservation, they do not save you a seat. They make you stand in the aisle for 5 hours. Or they just don't let you on. Instead, we followed a curly-cue route that found us on a crowded, dusty, smelly bus early on Friday. Since I've described a previous taxi ride in graphic detail, I'll spare you the specifics of this journey. Suffice it to say that on a 20 foot-tall bus with a rear that overhangs the back tires by many meters, the speed bumps are more like space launchers. In the wise words of Dennis, "My bum was suffering."

We arrived at Kasese around noon and met up with Robert, our safari driver for the weekend. He ran his own company from his home, free of the sketchiness of the big-business touristy companies that swarm the savannah. In fact, upon our arrival, he brought us to his house for a delicious lunch of goat, rice, pumpkin, and passionfruit juice. Mmmm. (Goat is actually good!) Then it was off the the park to set up camp before our river cruise. Along the way, speeding through the tall grasses and patches of low shrubs, we saw a family of elephants in the distance. I think that's when it hit me. They just lived there. Elephants. Lived there. Like seeing cows grazing next to the road in Michigan. But elephants. In Uganda.

There was a slight misunderstanding at the ranger station, in which the guards did not give us the international student discount because we did not have the "proper" identification. I don't know what constituted "proper"--no doubt it changed daily on the whim of the guard--but he regarded our ND student IDs with skeptical amusement. It was strange, it made me feel very exposed. Like he was scrutinizing not only my bad photo from freshman orientation, but my entire life as well. I took the card back gratefully and rubbed it between my fingers, thinking fondly of the card swiper lady at the dining hall who greeted me happily at each meal.

The thing about Queen Elizabeth: it's really really big. The park is divided up into several sections, each with its own lodges, attractions, and game drive loops. Ours was nestled between the shores of Lake Albert and Lake George (the whole Victorian family got lakes named after them), with our campsite overlooking Kazinga Channel. We set up two 2-man tents, which were very snug, and nested in as best we could with our contraband UMU sheets. Then it was down to the channel to observe some aquatic wildlife. There were birds of every variety-- flighty kingfishers,  graceful egrets, goliath storks, awkward cormorants, stoic eagles, and just about everything in between. They gathered in groups along the shore, forming what I liked to imagine as mini-kingdoms. In the center was always a stork or crane, a huge and noble bird who looked over his minions with benevolent disdain. The mid-sized birds acted as courtiers, posing in small groups around their monarch. Finally, the smallest birds stood deferentially along the perimeter, chirping and squawking the quiet vernacular of the peasantry. Further down the shore, another court held session, smaller than the first--an ousted lord, perhaps? A small dukedom? Maybe even an aristocratic nation-state.

Besides the birds, there were plenty of other creatures vying for our attention. Water buffalo stood rear-to-rear in the water, serenely chewing large mouthfulls of grass. It turns out they were all couples, watching out for each other throughout the long meal. What lovely marital loyalty. But in terms of large aquatic mammals, the best were the hippos. It's true that, when provoked, these blubbery darlings become ruthless killing machines. Be that as it may, they are just. So. Silly. Small ears and nostrils poke up above the smooth surface of the water, followed by a pair of blinking eyes. Then a round, cartoonish snout. If you're really lucky, you get a glimpse of a perfectly rotund body, which somehow glides gracefully through the murky channel. I never got the pleasure of seeing a hippo on land, but I was perfectly delighted to watch them slowly drift next to our boat, watching us and blowing water from their nostrils with a soft whoosh-ing noise. I don't know exactly what it was about them, but I just wanted to give them a big hippo-sized hug. I think I'm in love.

After the cruise, we "washed up" (which mostly consisted of putting on more bug spray) and headed to the canteen for dinner. Even though we were the only four patrons, it still took almost two hours to get our food. This is because the kitchen literally consisted of two pots and two electric hot plates. The spartan equipment contrasted comically with the spacious dining room and large menu. What if the place was actually full? I guess the answer was simple: the place never was full. It was a canteen on the edge of the savannah in a huge wilderness park. By the time my grilled cheese and chips (fries) came out, it was so dark we had to shine headlamps on our plates to stab our food with forks. An aside about food in Uganda: if it's not traditional, it's something fried. There is no middle ground. By the end of the weekend, my stomach was actually longing for a simple plate of rice and beans to soak up all the grease I'd consumed.

We spent the evening playing cards at the canteen. Our sole companions were the ladies cooking and a man who came in around 9 and bore a striking resemblance to Crocodile Dundee. We walked back the the campsite in the dark, past the warthogs (which are actually docile and surprisingly majestic in their movements) and sat on a log outside our tents to admire the stars. In contrast to the blazing afternoon, the night was chilly, and I was glad I brought the thick fleece blanket from my bed at UMU, which I never expected to use. I fell asleep thinking about how peaceful it was, hearing the insects and frogs chirping and croaking the evening away just like they do outside my window at home.

We left at 6:30 the next morning for an early game drive. The sun was struggling to peep over the horizon, but the rain clouds got there first. We managed to see a whole lot of Uganda kob (antelope-like creatures with graceful spiral horns) before the downpour began. Then, the savannah became rather deserted. Robert made a gut decision to drive out to Ishasha, a distant corner of the park famed for its tree-climbing lions. We weren't supposed to go until Sunday, but he thought we might as well try our luck and come back to this section of the park tomorrow. It was a 1.5 hour drive (like I said, BIG park) over bumpy roads. By the time we arrived, though, the sun was shining. Within two minutes of driving, we saw several other vehicles gathered at the base of a large fig tree. Robert predicted we'd see lions in 30 seconds. Sure enough, as soon as we reached the tree, we saw him: a huge, beautiful male lying indolently on a thick branch. He gazed down at his audience calmly, looking rather bored. Everyone's mouth was open. The lion was about 20 feet away. After a few minutes, he descended and disappeared into the bush. Immediately after, another male emerged from the opposite direction, stared us down, and then strolled back to whence he came. It all happened very quickly. Apparently it was very rare to see a male, and we'd seen two.

The other groups gradually dispersed. One friendly Texan asked us "where the ay-le-faints were at." I have to say, the loud American voice was music to my ears. Robert watched them go with a twinkle in his eye. Then, he said we were going to "make the sinister move." In other words, we were going to off-road and try to find the second lion in a nearby thicket. It's a $150 fine if you get caught driving off the path. But the way was clear. We made our way over the lush grass. Dominic was armed with a large branch, at Robert's insistence; whether to provoke the lion or fend it off, we weren't really sure.

As we approached the thicket, a large shape ambled out. There he was again. We pursued him slowly, and he sped up, clearly not liking the whir of the engine behind him. Eventually his disappeared behind a herd of buffalo. Interestingly, a single lion is no match for a herd, which can kick in his skull with powerful legs. It is only one-on-one that the lion emerges victor. And even then, it's usually a female lion, the hunter of the pride. The day was only half over, and we'd seen enough wildlife to keep us talking for a long time. Invigorated by our good luck, we set off to Kymbura Gorge in pursuit of chimps.

To be continued...

School Days

By now, I've settled into a routine in my teaching job. Well, as much as a routine as is possible when the word "schedule" refers to a vague set of guidelines rather than an actual plan. Almost every day, I arrive ready to teach, only to discover that at least one of my classes has been cancelled. The reasons are diverse: extra-long morning mass, sports competitions, HIV testing, sack races (I kid you not), and mandatory 3-hour choir practice called for at the last minute by a rogue priest. When one of the teachers saw me writing lesson plans, he looked at me in wonder and called me a "very serious woman." It's frustrating, but I'm trying to just accept that it is the way it is. Lax time standards are just part of the culture. Sometimes they are nice, like when everything pauses for a mid-morning snack and tea break. Other times I feel like I am going to go insane. I want more time in the classroom. The kids want more time in the classroom; they don't like the interruptions either. So who is the one forcing the interruptions? That's the mystery. No one seems to be running things. Everyone goes with the flow. The flow is in charge.

I don't want to give the wrong impression about St. Francis. The kids are incredibly bright, motivated, and friendly. Despite their very limited resources, they manage to learn a great deal. I just found out that they routinely wake up at 5 am for an hour of study before they get ready for the day. They also have class from 4-6 am on Sundays (yup, you read that correctly) because that's the only time the teacher is available. An American high school student would simply up and leave. But these kids take school very seriously. It is their way out of poverty and into a life that they choose. I asked the kids what they do in the month-long breaks between terms. "We dig," they said. That's what they do during "vacation;" they dig and plant and harvest. It is not fun. They would much rather be at school.

And indeed, they spend a lot of time at school, arriving before 8 and leaving after 5. That's a long day, but there is a lot of downtime spent just waiting for things to happen. At first, I wondered why they didn't just cut out the breaks and shorten the school day. But like I said, downtime is part of the culture, and something I would do well to learn. Plus, unlike American kids, Ugandan students don't stare at the clock and count down the seconds until dismissal. In the first place, there is no clock. Secondly, school means friends and fun and learning. Home means a long walk, followed my chores and taking care of siblings. Who wouldn't rather stay at school forever?

Last week was the annual house competition. This event, which made me think of Hogwarts, is a national secondary school phenomenon. The students divide into 3 teams and compete in a variety of events like football (soccer), netball, debate, and even a yard work contest. (Yard work, in fact was one of the biggest class-interrupting culprits.) It's a mixture of fun and seriousness. The competitive spirit pervades the whole school, and when the time comes for a new challenge, the excitement in the air is electric. On Friday, the students banded together as one school and traveled to Kayabwe High School to participate in a sports and debate competition. St. Francis was definitely the underdog. Not only did Kayabwe have A-level (the most advanced) students, but compared to St. Francis, its facilities seemed like the Taj Mahal. I never thought a Ugandan high school could seem luxurious, but perspective does funny things. The funniest part about the day was the atmosphere. It was exactly that of the high school tennis tournaments and football games of yore. There was a certain unspoken antagonism between the two sides, and even a few outspoken parents and teachers who contested Sister Estellina's netball refereeing skills. Some things are universal. In the end, St. Francis won at netball (I was proud that Sister whipped out team into shape in just a week- they were awesome) and lost football, volleyball, and the debate. This may sound disheartening, but I was so proud of the students for putting their hearts into each event and giving the better-funded Kayabwe a run for its money. Go St. Francis. Hmmm, I should find them a mascot.

As far as teaching goes, I'm enjoying it much more than I expected. When I actually do get to be in the classroom, I have so much fun. The kids are accustomed to very standard, by-the-book teaching, so every time I  add a new tool like an acronym or a rhyme, they stare at me silently and then dissolve into giggles. It's gratifying to be able to show them new things and encourage them to be creative. I tried to do madlibs yesterday, and that was definitely a failure- they just didn't quite get my silly sense of humor. It's OK, though, most people don't. But I'm slowly introducing new things, and I think, for the most part, they enjoy it. I only wish I could spend al day with them. There is so much to work on, it's very difficult to choose what to cram into an hour and twenty minutes. So far, their English education has been grammar based. I am obligated to teach some grammar because of national requirements, but I really want to work on their reading and writing skills as well. I set one of my classes a composition assignment: write about a Ugandan meeting a muzungu on the road. Most of them took that as a cue to write about me. I was variously described as tall, white, big, interesting, and having an "enchanting" smile. One especially articulate boy wrote that he thought I was a tourist up until the very moment I started teaching. It was all rather enlightening. Also a little scary, being put under a microscope, even if some of the scrutiny was a little difficult to understand.

The attempt to reconcile accomplishing things with being chill is my ever-present struggle. I don't think I'll ever master it completely. But I'm trying not to let all the wasted time bother me so much. It's funny, I've never been much of a stickler for punctuality (whoops...), but here I long for some semblance of structure. I suppose it's part of the adjustment. I've been here for 3 weeks, but it seems like much longer. As much as I'm learning and enjoying (which is a LOT), there are days when I just wish I were home. Oh well, I guess it will be all the sweeter when I actually do get there. For now, know that you're all in my thoughts. Missing you.

P.S. This weekend I'm going on safari in Queen Elizabeth National Park. I will return exhausted, smelly, and hopefully in possession of some good pics of animals. Can't wait for the hippos!!

P.P.S. Sorry for no pictures, the internetz is being really slow today (on a good day, pics take an hour to upload). I'll try to incorporate them into the next post. I have some awesome ones of the students and of Sister coaching. :)

Kampala in the Rain, or, How Four Americans Survived Ugandan Public Transportation.

It was time for an adventure. Kristen, the fourth and last ND student working at UMU this summer, arrived last week. We decided to take a trip to Kampala on Saturday with Dennis, one of our friends here who is from just outside the city. Our mission:  to buy some much-needed textbooks for St. Francis Secondary. The added benefits: to explore Kampala, buy souvenirs, and perhaps procure a miraculously matooke-less meal.

We were supposed to leave at 9 a.m. on the free staff bus arranged by UMU. When we got there, however, it was already full. Instead, we took boda-bodas to Kayabwe, the main trading center, where the taxis stopped to pick up passengers on the Kampala-Masaka Road. I should explain that taxis here are more like mini-busses with four rows of seats. They have a fairly fixed route and no time schedule to speak of--they depart when they are full and try to fit in as many extra people as they can along the way. The driver has a conductor onboard, who hawks rides to bystanders and collects arbitrary fees from passengers. The vehicle itself is always the same model of old, beaten-up van and has either a religious message or a favorite soccer team's name painted on the front and back windshield.

The first taxi we approached was nearly full, and the driver tried to kick off a nun so he could squeeze in our large (mostly white) group. Obviously we weren't going to let that happen, so we found an empty taxi nearby and waited for it to fill. I was puzzled as to why the driver kept the car idling as we waited for more passengers. Gas is very expensive, even more than in the U.S., and the heat from the engine only added to the stuffiness of the van. Then he turned it off, and I regretted wondering why he hadn't done it sooner. It would not start again. No matter how many times he ruthlessly cranked the key in the ignition, the engine simply whined helplessly and painfully flipped itself over, undoubtedly causing even more damage. The driver's first solution was to have a bystander add a miniscule can of gas to the tank. Nosir, no luck. The second solution involved the ejection of the front-row passengers from the vehicle. The driver proceeded to open a hatch in the floor that presumably revealed the engine. His head and left hand disappeared into the hatch, while his right hand still groped at the key, turning it in vain. Sadly, the open-heart surgery was futile, and the remaining passengers were forced to exit and find a new ride.

The third taxi ended up taking us successfully into Kampala. It also smelled strongly of fish. The source of the smell was a large sack of not-so-fresh tilapia stored directly under my seat. We slowed several times along the route so the conductor could drop off various cargo at roadside markets. One of these deliveries was a plastic shopping bag filled with something that strongly resembled a large brain. The car never stopped completely during the recon mission; only enough for the conductor to slide open the door, jump out, run next to the moving van, throw the bag towards the market, and jump back on, landing on someone's lap as the driver suddenly accelerated.

Monica, Dom, and Kristen chillin' in the back seat. 

And so we bumped our way along the busy, half-paved road to Kampala. When we arrived at the chaotic city center around noon, the sky was threatening rain. We found a nearby bookstore to buy the textbooks, and then followed Dennis to the National Theatre, which also houses a craft market. Before we'd made much progress, it started to rain. Hard. Then it poured, torrentially. We sought shelter under the roof of a gas station, squished into place by hundreds of other foul-weather refugees. Ugandans melt in the rain, you see. Judging from the shrieks of displeasure when a gust of wind blew sideways into the crowd, you'd think they were soaked with acid rather than water. I have to admit, I was rather uncomfortable myself, hearty midwesterner though I am. I'd prepared for a scorching day in the equatorial sun. Now, I was sopping and cold, and there was no prospect of a break in the flat, iron-grey sky. Every so often, a thirsty vehicle would try to inch its way into the crowd, honking the asylum-seekers away form the gas pumps. The people, though, wouldn't budge, and soon the entire block was jammed with unmoving traffic.

We ran across the road, dodging coin-sized raindrops, and found a better vantage point from a retail center's third-floor balcony. The scene below was depressingly ugly, so much that it gained a hint of unorthodox loveliness. Rivers of rich, brown water flowed over the curbs, colorful trash bobbing like dreamy jellyfish in the swift current. A line of bodas stood axle-deep in water. A splintered wooden sign, reading "never give up," floated prophetically beside them. The surrounding hills were shrouded in mist, and on the street below, women lifted colorful skirts as they picked their way delicately across the flood.

Rain halts everything. 

The rain never stopped, but it let up enough for us to continue our journey. Damp with drizzle, we walked for 45 minutes (a Ugandan's definition of a "short way") to the theater. Dennis guided us through the impossible tangle of unmarked streets, shepherding us across terrifying intersections and pointing out significant government buildings. I don't know what I was expecting, but Kampala is far more rundown than I imagined. Even Parliament and the Central Bank seem to be falling apart. Most buildings are unfinished and dingy; the concept of "inside" doesn't seem to exist anywhere. This is not to say that I hated the city, but the lack of beauty was startling. I've been to many towns with bad neighborhoods, sometimes extensive ones, but there were always a few places to admire. Kampala is another animal. The city grew fast right before and after independence, and it seems that no one remembered to incorporate the beautiful African landscape into the final product. Instead of banana trees and flowering bushes, there is pock-marked concrete and rusty tin roofs. Dirt and noise and street vendors selling old shoes. It was illuminating for me, but not enjoyable. I hope that doesn't make me sound terrible. Everyone speaks so highly of Kampala--even the wealthier Ugandans treat it as a haven for entertainment and culture. It's a city with jeans and ATMs and private cars. These things, though, are normal to me; the marvels that make Kampala exciting for a Ugandan are the things I take for granted at home every day. On the other hand, to a Ugandan visiting an American city, the overabundance of cars and food and fat people would be equally disconcerting. I guess discomfort is a matter of perspective.

The craft fair was nearly deserted due to the rain, but the shops were open and I bought several nice souvenirs for friends and family (that means you!). I would have gotten more, but I was fresh out of cash and planned to find an ATM later. But that's another story entirely, and not a very interesting one. Suffice it to say that no ATM in Uganda takes Mastercard. I came to Uganda with a Mastercard and about $150 in cash. Oy. Wish I had known that beforehand. I've become way too accustomed to paying for things with a narrow piece of plastic. Armed only with that now-useless symbol of capitalism, I felt pretty helpless and foolish. I obviously made it back (with--Cue Beatles soundtrack--a little help from my friends) and paid my debts with the money safely hidden in my room. But that small crisis caused significant stress.

Anyway, back to the main plot.

We grabbed lunch at a makeshift cafe behind the market. Enticing aromas wafted from the huge silver pots, and for a price of 3,000 Ugandan shillings (about $1.50), we couldn't refuse. I had a big plate of rice, matooke, fish, and groundnut sauce. We never imagined we would willfully order matooke, but this stuff was definitely a cut above the UMU dining hall version. I'm not saying I'll be craving it once I get home, but with the sauce and fish, the mashed plantain dish was pretty satisfying. I'll write another post entirely devoted to food later--you know it's one of my favorite subjects.

With damp clothes and full stomachs, we set off across the city back to the taxi park. After my debit card misadventure, surrounded once more by the chaotic bustle of the city, I could feel myself getting pretty irritated. I always hope that days like this will crush the anxiety out of me, forcing me to become easy-going. The truth is, it hasn't worked yet, and I don't think it's going to. I'm a worrier, and that's OK. It's part of me. Anxiety can be channeled into some very fruitful results. I can, however, change the way I handle the outward manifestation of my stress. Without repressing and denying my emotions, I'd like to make them less obvious to the outside world, and less exhausting for myself. How? I don't know, but it's not by diving head-first into Kampala.

Before heading back for UMU, we took a short taxi ride to Dennis's house in a "suburban" village alongside the main road. After slogging through copious red clay mud, we left our shoes at the door and entered the small, cozy house. The power was off, and as we sat in the dim light listening to the rain bounce off the tin roof, I felt more relaxed than I had all day. Behind the house, huge avocado trees (they grow on trees! Who knew?) were laden with hundreds of perfectly round, green fruit. Perfection.

Dennis grabbed a few things he needed and we walked down the road to find a taxi to Kayabwe. By this point, our shoes and lower legs were covered with a comical amount of mud. Passerby stared at us in wonder, their feet miraculously spotless. Passing on a bicycle, a young boy shouted at us, "Dis is U-GAN-da. Pearl of Africa!" The first sentence is a bit of good-humored cynicism Ugandans use whenever something goes wrong, The second is straight from Winston Churchill. I sensed a certain schadenfreude in the boy's delivery.

Dennis excavating Kristen's lost shoe. 

We finally found a taxi headed in the right direction, but the driver wanted to charge us 6,000 shillings (it should have been 4,000), presumably because we were muzungus. It was starting to get dark, though, so we boarded with the secret intention of paying no more than 5,000 apiece.

It was an awful ride. More than awful. The driver made frequent stops, trying to usher more passengers into the full van. When he failed to do so, he made up for lost time by driving and blinding speeds down the potholed road. Passing is allowed, but but since the road is only two lanes and traffic is heavy, it is infrequent. Not for this driver, though. He spent more time in the opposite lane than the correct one, often swerving just in time to avoid a pair of headlights looming meters ahead. The asphalt was frequently interrupted by stretches of dirt road, deeply eroded by the heavy rain. Every time the surface changed, we crashed into a pothole with a fantastic "BOOM" that certainly should have ruptured the tires and broken the axles. Sometimes we weren't even on the road, hurtling instead down the shoulder as our heads bumped against the ceiling. It would have been terrifying, had I not been sitting in the back row with very low visibility. Instead, it was just surreal. Especially when I realized there was a live chicken in the front seat. It's hard to be scared when there's a chicken in the front seat.

When I was little, my brother and I would curl up inside a big cardboard box and roll down the hill in the backyard. The drive was kind of like that. After several hours of crashing through the darkness, our feet joyfully descended onto the clay road at Kayabwe. We'd handed the conductor 25,000 shillings-- less than his demand of 30,000, but certainly more than he and the driver deserved. We thought we were home-free when, a few seconds later, the two cronies came charging after us, screaming threats in Luganda. Dennis was not having it. Yelling equally loudly and equally Lugandan, he said they were overcharging us because we were muzungus and that he would bring the case to the police. The driver then threatened to take him to the police to report him for stealing. (I got this translation from Dennis afterwards; at the time, it was simply clear that everyone was damn angry.) Things were getting very uncomfortable, and soon enough, the driver lunged for Dennis and started pushing him. Luckily, some bystanders pulled them apart before anyone got hurt. The yelling continued. Th conductor turned to me, railing against us with a mix of English and Luganda. Finally, Curtis handed him the extra 5,000 to avert disaster. Immediately they calmed down, walked back to the taxi, and started laughing and high-fiving their friends. What bullies- they got what they wanted out of us, small sum though it was. My blood was boiling at the injustice. It wasn't jail time in Birmingham, but it was still discrimination, and it was totally alien to me.

The tension was lightened when a grown man ran by with a huge stuffed-animal snake, tapped Curtis on the back with it, and then ran away giggling. In Uganda, you don't stay mad for long. But you are pretty exhausted by the end of the day. After a final boda ride back to UMU, Kristen and I changed into pajamas, put on a season of "Friends," and ate a dinner of bananas and peanut butter (a holy relic brought over from home) before going to bed.

The next day, it took over two hours to document our adventure in my journal. This post, believe it or not, is the abridged version. Those are the kind of days I've been having--days with enough substance (and dysfunction) to fill a novel. So much happens, and yet there is endless waiting, staring absently out the window. It's a paradox of the senses. But not necessarily a bad one. You run, you rest, you eat a mango in the shade. This is Uganda.