It’s strange to think that it was this morning that I was in Kampala, addressing the new Education Trainees, matching my counterpart in our green kitende dresses. I was so nervous before hand, I’m pretty sure I gave myself a fever. When we got up there, we were (of course) behind schedule, which just perpetuated my problem of talking fast whilst nervous (oh we’re behind schedule? Whydon’tIjusttalkfaster?) I told Immy before hand, between cold sweats, that if I started talking to fast she should just put her hand on my shoulder so I know to slow down. I know she did at one point, but I can’t remember what happened because it was all a blur, as it always is when I speak in front of a large crowd of strangers, or familiar faces. (I sat there afterwards and wondered how in the world I imagined to teach at all). The new trainees avoided talking to me throughout (no surprise, I guess my nervous facial twitch wasn’t very charming) but the Ugandans kept coming up to Immaculate and I to say how much they appreciated having us come in. Even though I’m sure they couldn’t understand a word I had said, I was still very grateful for their appreciation.
The creepy thing about being back at the Lweza Training and Conference Center was everywhere I looked were holographic memories of when we (Ed. group 2011) lived there for two weeks during “Election Lockdown.” I glanced over at the steps and saw Josh playing his guitar, to my left were Sara and Dave washing laundry, behind the dorms we all gathered to see Allie’s hair get shaved, Tom and Ilse were looking at the monkeys in the breakfast den, Galen was racing by the trees to win capture the flag, Kirk was making everyone in his language group crack up, Erik was running into the conference room as Captain Volunteer-- it was bizarre. Maybe it was my panic fever, but it was as if I could reach out and touch the ghostly apparitions. It happens in movies, where people can’t bear to be somewhere because everywhere they look they just keep seeing faces and memories; I always thought it only happened in films, especially ones about crazy people, but here I was, strangely emotional looking around and reliving my training all over again. It was shell shock. When I did actually look around, I realized there was a new era of Education in Uganda, and perhaps I’m a tiny blip on their memory radar as the panicky girl who wore matching clothes with her counterpart.
Immaculate and I were asked to come in and share about how we work together as counterparts, our successes and challenges, and some good stories. We literally were on the schedule for 20 minutes, but it turned into about 15 minutes, and most of that was my incoherent-light-speed speech. Completing that very small obligation had the same feeling of relief (I imagine) as finishing an Iron-(wo)man competition. Thank goodness getting a taxi out of Kampala was pretty chill. We even got to sit “three-three” (meaning three people to a bench instead of four--the benches are only meant to seat three. I’ve sat five-five before). In my relaxed haze, Immaculate and I were able to pick up on the way: 1 loaf of bread, 2 bags of eggs, 3 mangoes, 1 kilo of passionfruit, 3 oranges, 1 kilo of sugar, 1 box of crackers, 3 DVDs and 2 milkshakes. It’s funny how that happens in Uganda, which brings me to thing number ONE that I will miss about Uganda:
-You can do your produce shopping and travel at the same time.
Our taxi driver lied to us and wasn’t going to Iganga, so we ended up in Jinja town, but neither of us were ticked off. We tried going to an internet cafe, but the internet was so slow, it would have been quicker for me to actually call my friends and chat with them than stalk them on facebook. That’s right friends, I stalk you. A bit defeated, yet laden with fruits, we boarded the Wanyange taxi home. Number two thing I’ll miss about Uganda:
-Home.
People in my group keep talking about how we get to go home soon--how exciting! I’m not denying it, it is pretty exciting, but this idea of “home” has really shifted for me. A really cliche way of putting it is “home is where the heart is,” and I hate using that, but it’s so true. At some point in the last year, my heart has settled in here pretty comfortably. The idea of going back to America doesn’t feel like going “home” anymore. It feels like going to another country, where I’ll have to adapt and settle-in all over again. Not to mention, as my sister kept pointing out, I’ll have to re-learn American English. Immy and I walked up the very oddly placed dirt stairs, (randomly on the side of the road, which looks like they’re in the middle of nowhere but which actually lead you to a whole bustling intersection between a school and a bar--something that IS like home, haha). The steps are all uneven so they take strange bursts of energy to conquer. A group of kids that I couldn’t recognize greeted me right away,
“Mary! How are you?” I smiled instantly, I was home.
Down the dirt road I trudged, just happy to be out of a moving vehicle. I veered to the right to dodge a silent motorcycle approaching (he was just coasting without gas--anything to save money) and instantly he called, “Mary! Isukayo!” (Welcome home!)
I took a left at Stephen’s furniture stand. I looked over to my left where Anita and Priscilla always sit, in front of their mother’s beauty shop. They were sitting on a water meter, pretending, I was assuming, to be riding some type of animal. Priscilla, who couldn’t be older than three, starts tapping her elder sister to get her attention and half heartedly said, “mzungu! Mzungu...” She forgot me? That was sad...but not for long--to my right was another gaggle of kids, “Ma-wy! Osiibyotyeyo?” (Mary, how have you spent the day?)
One turned to another in disbelief, “Ah- aidhi Lusoga? Mary-Okobachi?!” (Ah, she knows Lusoga? Mary-what’s up!?) I gave them a smile, but was beckoned by Joan, the vegetable lady.
“Mary, you see these ovacadoes (avocadoes), you take this one, four hundred.” I thought about all of the produce I had already somehow accumulated, but caved anyway. I need more avocadoes in my diet. The sun was at the point in the sky that is the worst for driving, right in the eye line, but it cast such a pretty light over Wanyange. The road now is so dry and dusty that it looks like a big sand dune-- with every passing vehicle, a cloud of light brown dust covers the area for what seems like a solid minute. Right next to Joan is the airtime booth. I was just informed that the proprietor had just lost his wife. I greeted him, drawing out all of the questions, asking him how home is, how is business, etc., and eventually getting to the somewhat dreaded, “nga kitalo.” (I’m sorry for your loss). He looked down for a moment when he responded with the automatic Lusoga response, and I could tell that he had all kinds of emotions running through his head. I can’t imagine what that feels like, to lose a spouse, and at such a young age too. I remember when I was really young, I would throw fits and scream at my mom--THAT’S NOT FAIR! (sorry again mom) and she’d just matter-of-factly say back to me, “well LIFE’S not fair!” It sure isn’t.
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