The end.

I flew 38,000 feet above the Lybian Desert again; sat in an airborn capsule catapulting me back into the West. Four months ago I reread Salinger's Franny and Zooey. En route to Africa, Salinger's words resonated in my popping ears: "I go mostly because I'm tired as hell of getting up furious in the morning and going to bed furious at night. I go because I sit in judgment on every poor” person I know (Salinger, 139). I was tired of it because “there are nice things in the world- and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked. Always, always referring everything that happens right back to our own lousy egos” (Salinger, 152). I was fed up with judging myself, and judging others, without experience or legitimacy to back up any of the judgment. I was tired of working so hard for a joy that I know comes naturally if I don't get bogged down with my own fluff. Mostly though, I was ready. I left the summer in a calm place of preparedness. "The time has come" the Walrus told me, and off I went.

I dreamt of Africa. I did so growing up, and while I studied at Uganda Christian University, and have since my return. My presence there never really felt a part of me. When I was in fourth grade a woman visited Fitchville Baptist Church in Bozrah, Connecticut. She worked for a school in Kenya. She gave me a small, leather, flip-flop keychain. Seven years later my car keys flopped along with that piece of East Africa. A few years after that, it held my college dorm keys and meal card. It held the keys to my first apartment the summer before my Ugandan semester, before I left the keychain to come back to its origination myself. Walking off the plane onto the runway in August, the huge African, starlit sky engulfed me. Yet, it let me be. I went to Africa and was still following myself around. I shook my arms to attempt to feel what remained so far away. And as I left last Tuesday night, I again walked across that runway. Ached up into the starlit sky, and knew this was going to be hard.

Arriving in Uganda was simpler. Exciting. I left a place I love for a place I did not know. On Tuesday I left a place I love for a place I love. I wisper to myself: "live in the tension!" while I wonder if I'll ever live out of the tension again. "Displacement is not primarily something to do or to accomplish, but something to recognize” (Nouwen, 71).

My semester abroad made me feel like the snail in Issa’s haiku: O snail, Climb Mount Fugi, But slowly, slowly! (Kobayashi Issa). Even though the world felt smaller as I lived on the other side of it, the problems of the world did not. But, despite the mountain range, I realized the necessity of continuing the climb.

And I do not know what will come next. Well, that is a lie- I know that Christmas is next, is tomorrow. And then my last semester of Gordon. I know that right now I wear gloves as I type on the computer, so I'll soon leave this spot for a cozier one downstairs. I'll talk to my Mom and sit at the kitchen table that has made mention in this blog so many times. I like sitting at it. But more long-term, more wide-frame panoramic, how long I will stay or go? Will I do good or just be present? I stay right now because is the truest form of faithfulness available. If staying in six months is still the only blatant way to live what seems ought to come next, I hope I have the courage to do so. If flying off somewhere, whether it be Chicago or the Lybian Desert or Phnom Penh, I hope the same. I don't know if I believe in moments of epiphany or promise for changing the world any more. I do believe in following opportunities to give of myself- here and far, and wherever I end up. I desire to give of myself. Faithfully.

Thank you for being present with me through this semester. For following my thoughts and frustrations and sudden startling joys. My days home have been an amusing adventure in themselves already- as if the layover in Amsterdam was not amusing enough. Feel free to inquire as to things outside of my time as "a broad abroad." Like Ugandans would say: "you are most welcome."

Viruses and Exams

Reflecting on last week brings to mind viruses and exams: viruses rampant in computers, and starting an epidemic in Western Uganda; exams every other day, interspersed with study fests and last hurrahs. I’m halfway through my exams, “papers” in local coinage. If you have any good information on globalization or foreign aid in East Africa since independence, let me know.

This whole ending process is weird. If you figure out how to say goodbye or deal with last-times, fill me in on that too.

Half of our last weekend was spent sitting in, and on the porch of, a “salon.” Girls here “plait” there hair pretty regularly- braid or twist in fake hair to create different styles, lengths, etc. In twelve hours on Saturday I went from short, curly haired Kimberly to long, twisted haired Nassali. And just like it still doesn’t feel real to be here, the surreality of being home will be dizzying. Just like I am constantly thankful for the reminders that home exists and I’m still a part of it- letters from Mom, Yoda drawings from Aidan, and mere thoughts, dreams, of not feeling sick after each meal- my hair will be a temporary, tangible reminder at home that this was not all a dream. Arriving here was a process. Plaiting my hair was a tedious process. My return will be a process too. I shook my arms to attempt feeling this place four months ago. As I adjust back, take out my twists, and put on long sleeves, I’ll hug my mom and shake my arms, not only to warm up in the sudden winter cold, but to attempt to feel home anew.

I think it will feel like Red Rose tea at a kitchen table in Connecticut, bumping knees with mia madre, and receiving a long-missed bear hug from mio padre.

Dark Chocolate Confection

An amusing miscommunication during my last LiA interview on Wednesday: Apoka Alex and I could not connect on the number of children he supports. There was repeated discrepancy: 3, 2, 5, 4. Some questions often meet with confusion, but number of children had never previously been difficult to interpret. I wrote what I thought was the correct amount, and continued on with the survey. Then, when I finished the third of what I thought should be five children surveys I was told I was done.

“But, aren’t there two more?”

“Yes.”

“Well…may I also interview them?”

“I have another wife. They are with my other wife.”

The survey is specific to each household, and the discrepancy was that the two other children are a part of Alex’s other household. Like many Ugandan men, he is polygamous. Once again, Western assumptions slapped me in the face.

I handed in my final literature paper this week- had my last lit class with Prof. Mukakanya. He’s a wonderful, eclectic, elderly Ugandan man. He makes sounds of agreement that resemble Yoda and has sideburns that resemble the 1970s. On the first day of class he asked what previous interaction we each had with African literature, and upon hearing of my previous readings of Ngugi, Soyinka, Mukulu and the like, we had an immediate bond. It’s odd to begin the goodbyes.

I have a hard time staying involved when the goodbyes have begun, and we’re starting to receive information about handing in hangers and bed sheets. I’m fighting the inclination to check out emotionally. I’m not fighting it hard enough. The weather gets hotter, and the puddle I’m reduced to every day covets the winter approaching New England. Ugandan writing style and grade scale differ enough for me to dread my final exams. I’m done with LiA, and the next few weeks seem longer than necessary. I love it here, but if I have to leave, let’s get it over with.

Today I cradled a dark chocolate bar of an infant, confectious and curly haired. For an hour she drifted in and out of sleep, while I kept my hand on her back to make sure she was breathing- so tiny and fragile, I was nervous I’d break her. I was again visiting TAPP (see previous post), but for World AIDS Day this time. Several of us went to help at an event supporting and advertising AIDS treatment and prevention; supporting the end of “stigma and segregation.” We pinned red ribbons to women’s gomezi, served lunch and soda, and I cradled the infant while a Canadian doctor spoke about how HIV/AIDS is and is not spread. And I wondered how long this confection would survive; wondered if she is HIV/AIDS positive. Her presence there today means her mom probably is.

"Tumaini": Swahili for "hope"

I was a freshman. With the Gordon chapter of Amnesty International we showed "The Invisible Children," a documentary made by 3 guys who graduated college and went to Africa to "find something." What they found was a civil war that had been ravaging Northern Uganda for over 20 years. Now a senior, I am in Uganda, and visited the Invisible Children Bracelet Campaign office. It was surreal; standing outside a gate with the oh-so-familiar 'Invisible Children' lettering scrawled in white on black. We knocked, and entered to receive a tour of the offices, meet workers, all displaced from Gulu, and understand the organization more fully. It was encouraging. After my freshman year, critiques of the amount of advertising, and the quality of advertising, done by Invisible Children have sprung- a lot of money is spent. On the ground, the organization seems as sustainable and simplicity minded as possible though. And the ways that the Bracelet Campaign is not sustainable, are being addressed. The office we went to is completely Ugandan staffed. The workers we talked to are happy- thankful for a job with benefits. "Because of this, my sister and brother can attend to school." The walls are bare; the money goes to people, not decorations.
Two days later I visited another organization called TAPP: Tumaini AIDS Prevention Program. And it was even more exciting. TAPP is not only completely Ugandan staffed, but began out of a Ugandan man's acknowledgment of need, and desire for change. "Be the change to want to see in the world" and all that (Gandhi). TAPP's aim is to provide opportunities for women and children infected with HIV/AIDS, to reclaim identity and community. So often those infected are ostracized, sick, and unable to provide for themselves (or their children). There is jewelry making- providing income, as well as collaboration among the women who work together. There is a program for elderly women, raising funds to build 2 room homes, so that they have one room to live in and one to rent for income. There are children's programs- a school, sponsorship opportunities, etc. I walked with Patrick, the school's headmaster, for 15 minutes as I left the center to catch a matatu back to Mukono. He also leads MDD (music, dance, and drama), and allowed me to inquire about the effectiveness and sustainability of theatre here. He went to undergrad for "Community Theatre," and spoke highly of its potential. I asked if he thought me coming back here and getting involved in community theatre (specifically focused on social change) was attainable. He answered a hearty "yes." For those 15 minutes alone, the day's visit was worth it.

My time volunteering with LiA also continues to highlight my weeks. Walking through the Acholi Quarter in Banda, the IDP camp that most of the interviews are conducted in, is an intriguing combination of light and heavy. It lightens me in the good of the work, and weighs in its dank reality. Invisible Children, TAPP, and LiA- each pushes me to wonder how where I'll end up long-term and what I'll be doing. And how the heck will acting play in? I think of Franny and Zooey once again: "Somewhere along the line...you not only had a hankering to be an actor or actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to- be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier?"

Bathday.

That fetal-position-inducing bacteria in my intestines put me out of commission for several days, but I’ve been able to sit up for most of the daylight hours of this week, and finished the medicine last night. The bacteria also laid off substantially for my Sunday birthday, and I celebrated much more than I thought I would be able to. I went to sleep on Saturday night, resigned to a quiet passing of the next day. In an attempt to avoid the Ugandan tradition of regularly drenching the “bath-day” boy or girl, few people knew of its coming. Soon after I entered my final dreams as a 20 year old, I was awoken up by a group of fellow USP students singing though, who blindfolded me and led me outside in my pajamas, circled me around, and ended in the nearest kitchen. There were candles lit and an entire yogurt parfait bar. A surprise party for my Ugandan birthday! And I didn’t get drenched!

The next morning, Aimee, Sarah, and I headed into Kampala to go out to breakfast and finish shopping for friends and family. We caught the matatu (public taxi in the form of a 15 passenger van) per usual. Not until the matatu was venturing down Jinja Rd. did we realize there were also chickens aboard- 80 in total, shoved under seats and between feet, squawking and flapping occasionally. It was hilarious. One laid an egg. Even more hilarious was when they and their owner were dropped off just outside Kampala, and they were loaded onto two boda-bodas (public transport in the form of a motorcycle): attempt to imagine 40 live chickens tied by their feet in pairs, draped over the handle bars of a motorcycle. Amazing.

The day was good- we laughed at the public transportation system and our own glee over the anomaly of pancakes and coffee for breakfast. I finally bought gifts for the men in my life (Dad, brother, brother-in-law…). A definite birthday highlight was arriving back on campus in time to receive a phone call from the entirety of Fitchville Baptist Church, complete with a group crooning of “Happy Birthday.” Sick and a birthday made the Atlantic Ocean seem very big last week, but in a matter of a phone call I suddenly felt loved enough to suffice the distance.

Happy Thanksgiving! CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting) brought the Queen of England to Uganda this week, and also gave us a long weekend with Thursday and Friday as National CHOGM Holidays. We had a big Thanksgiving-ish dinner with the ex-patriots from the area. A Charlie Brown Christmas made up for the lack of stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Again I talked with love across the Atlantic, and felt a part of things far.

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for: international phone calls; Franny and Zooey (just read it for the 2^nd time this semester); Linus and the meaning of Christmas. I’m thankful for the continent of Africa- all its bigness and my smallness, and how often it reminds me of such. I’m thankful for the Atlantic Ocean, its reminder of distance, and what can cross it.