#41 – October 19th 2007

Back to business…

I don’t really know where to start. Generally I attempt to have some semblance of order and cohesiveness in my entries but since I arrived home from Zanzibar my mind has been assaulted by so many divergent issues its hard to focus them into a single theme. In some ways this is emblematic of my experiences in Uganda; everything is always amplified, more chaotic, more cataclysmic, just more. Multi-tasking takes on new meaning.

I visit Sowedi and Davis’ school to purchase their new uniforms and ensure they are adapting well, passing by Sammy and Simon’s classes down the road to check on their mid-term marks. I take three calls during the visits, organizing meetings with Abbey, offering suggestions to a bank that wishes to donate money to African Hearts, and finalizing a trip with my book club. In town I buy school textbooks and supplies, meet Junior for lunch to research his latest Economics project, then stop by Oweno market on my way home to bargain for a tank top, desperately necessary as the temperature has risen above 30 every day this past week. Back at the boys’ home I attend band practice, where I am (very) slowly learning to play the trumpet as per the boys’ request, but I leave after an hour to help Sandra shop for the week’s groceries. After shopping I have private meetings with Benon, Bossa, Moses, and Eddy to discuss new school shoes, a mother’s inability to pay rent, the possibilities of working for a telecommunications company, and a poultry project. The setting sun finds me moving between the living room answering geography questions and the boys’ bedroom, advising about futures or determining the exact lyrics to Akon’s latest single. Sandra, Junior and I eat around 10pm then begin our own studies. Junior deep into the principals of marketing, Sandra revising parasitology, and me, desperate to memorize my latest Luganda lesson for tomorrow’s class. At midnight I drag myself home often to fall asleep on top of my sheets, fully clothed, unable to move another muscle.

My free time, which consisted of a few hours in the morning when I would write, work on African Hearts files, or do some reading, has been drastically reduced. I began official Luganda lessons last week at a language center close to my house where I’ve been taking classes for two hours every day. Also, there are new visitors staying at the guest house with whom I’ve been getting acquainted. The first to arrive was Hilda, a 77-year-old Brentwood Bay resident who is fulfilling a dream of visiting the continent by volunteering at the HIV/AIDS counseling center at Mengo Hospital. A kind, compassionate and extremely big-hearted woman, Hilda is the ideal grandmother figure. From the moment I met her I felt at ease and comforted. She is quite the host, having hospital attendants over for home-made soup and tuna-fish crackers daily, making numerous plans for dinner parties and gatherings. She is fit as a fiddle, her four-foot-nine frame scurrying unfearfully into chaotic life in Kampala. The next to arrive were the Gagne twins, Austin and Owen, also from Victoria. It seems I’m meeting just as many people from home as I would if I were still there! The identical twins (who are actually quite easy to tell apart) are finishing up their last courses in a biochemistry degree at the University of Victoria, and are here at Mengo Hospital to gain some experience and donate their time and energy to making a difference where they can. We’ve gotten on very well and I’ve been enjoying my career as a tour guide, finally having the opportunity to utilize my experiences of the last six months in a useful way. Teaching them how to not get killed weaving through traffic on Kampala road, giving lessons in Ugandan bargaining, tipping them off to the correct prices for things, introducing them to matoke, posho, and the ultimate rolex. The last to arrive was Angela, a Victoria-born burgeoning journalist whose purpose here is slightly unclear, but will soon take shape I’m sure.

The guest house has gone from a refuge of calm to a choral cacophony. Laptop speakers pulsing out playlists, five people worth of groceries spewing from the miniature fridge and cupboard, a constant flow of visitors swarming, shoes, camera bags and empty glasses littering every surface. Every time I enter the front door there is a new face. While I’m thankful for the familiar accents, colloquialisms I haven’t heard in six months, and the refreshing ability to reminisce about missed things from home, it has been difficult to adjust. Home was my retreat from the boys’ pandemonium. Without a quiet place to escape to in the a.m. I won’t be in the right state to deal with rambunctious teenagers all evening. I’ve been contemplating a change of residence, originally because the rules of who is and isn’t allowed at the guest house are too strict, perhaps now I have enough incentive to pursue the idea farther.

This may sound strange, but it almost makes me feel uncomfortable to spend my time with so many Muzungus. In Uganda I’ve become accustomed to surrounding myself with Ugandans; their mannerisms, relaxed ways, their easy happiness devoid of any complaint, depression, or negativity. Their acceptance of any situation that comes their way, their strength in adversity, their generosity and unfaltering helpfulness. I’m not saying the new arrivals don’t possess these qualities, only that Ugandans have a certain way about them I have yet to discover in a Westerner. Of course I would love to think some of the Ugandan characteristics have rubbed off on me but I somehow think it remains an aspiration. Hilda had a dinner party a few days back, I came home to twelve Dutch, American, and Canadian visitors raucously thrashing out Uganda’s idiosyncrasies. Within twenty minutes I was ready to leave. My good friend Persis, the Ugandan woman who looks after the guest house, was in attendance with one of her friends, and as the guests went off about the chaotic traffic, unscrupulous hawkers, street children, etc., I felt as I imagined Persis and her friend felt, like they were talking about our home as if we weren’t there, as if we wouldn’t care as they insulted our way of life. Maybe its crazy to state that I feel as though this were my home, but as per now it is, and anyone’s judgments who has only been here but a few weeks comes off as callous and rash. I’m beginning to feel more and more Ugandan with each new person that arrives, more protective of Ugandan culture with every Westerner that guffaws at a unique custom, more offended with each wad of cash waved around, more taken aback by Western comparative vulgarity and abrasiveness. Unknowingly I’ve been leaving behind the regretful aspects of the West, replacing them with redeeming African traits, yet every new visitor drops me back into reminiscence.

It is with this newfound sense of ‘Ugandaness’ that I have been directed to re-think my travel plans. In combination with the fact that I feel nauseous every time I drive the road to the airport and absolutely refuse to discuss my plans to leave in mid-November I realized I must be honest with myself and where my heart lies. I feel that I have much more to do here, that I am needed here like I have never been needed anywhere in my life. Young children who love me like a parent or a sibling; unquestioning, unshakable, all-encompassing love. New friends whose lives I’ve been able to infuse happiness into, with whom I’m making new memories they’ll, and I’ll, never forget. I’ve had years and years to cultivate my friendships in Canada, I must give my time here as well. Christmas spent without my friends and family in Canada will be difficult enough, without also missing my Ugandan family. Thus, I have decided to prolong my stay in Uganda, and in that thought I find solace. I do not know how long I’ll stay and my family worries it will be a perpetual extension but for now I only know that I am not in any way ready to leave. I may have to find a job to sustain myself, I may have to find a cheaper place to live, but I’ll be content and that is all that truly matters.

~Nicole