Atop Monkey Hill

^Mukono under a hazy African sunrise.
^A very tall tree I am fond of, even despite its lack of monkey fellas.

Who paved the roads?

Who started the fight between the red dirt and the pavement? Paved the roads, and left the people to watch the land take it back, eating the edges away, slowly ingesting its space back into itself?

We went to the US Embassy today. It was the first place I have been since Amsterdam that had air conditioning, never mind the fully paved and marked roads, manicured gardens, and carpeted floors. In front of the embassy we walked on a clean sidewalk. Yesterday, in Mukono, we maneuvered our sandals over dirt, trash, gravel, and around goats Now, I do enjoy the humor of the animals wandering aimlessly. I particularly enjoy the baby goats, although the chicken that lives on the other girl dorm's porch freaks me out. The juxtaposition is between the landscaping though, and not the animals.

The people at the embassy were very nice, and very willing to tell us all the programs and all the money America is giving Uganda. All the ways America is stopping world terror. But why do Americans need pavement and gardens in a place where civil war has ravished the north for over 20 years? Flower gardens where people lack food? Why do the small farmers need to be organized so they can eventually sell their crops to "large American companies?" Is that really connotative to a localized, community based, society?

I know that I can reflect Adah, a character from The Poisonwood Bible. I harbor bitterness, that is not mine to own, against things I know far from fully. So I pressed my lips together, and now ask my questions to the internet rather than the nice government worker. The dichotomy of US and Uganda pushed me to a contemplative ride back from Kampala though, and suddenly the joy of being here mingled with the reality of the people we passed. Naked children are adorable until you wonder why they are not wearing clothes. Is it because they are just cute, or because they don't have any? The hillside of huts and tin-roofed shacks are exotic until one recalls that that hillside is home to thousands. Cold showers, mosquito nets, and piles upon piles of rice are fine for me. I leave on December 19. I have a lock on my door. I have a Mom who can send me the pajama shirt I left on the continent that my skin keeps reminding me I am from.

I am thankful for all I have been given- resources, opportunities, security. But I hope I can turn my simultaneous guilt into something more useful than bitterness.

Pumpkin spice.

It feels as if we've been here for days, but the wick on my pumpkin spice candle tells it was just lit for the first time. We just got here this morning, less than 10 hours ago, and although my bag is unpacked, guitar is tuned, and mosquito net hung, this is still all new, in an odd, comfy way. This is the time when homesickness could lurk into our quiet moments; when the shadows on the mosquito net suddenly begin to creep rather than cascade. The net still makes me feel like an African princess though, and reminds me that I am in fact in Uganda. The length of my wick still brings pinching excitement that I have four months left of this adventure. It has but begun.

Today we climbed Monkey Hill at the back of campus, after my first meal of rice and beans and sweet potato in the open air dining hall. I saw little old men jumping from branches, only they had long black tails and the gray wisps of hair was actually fur. At the top of Monkey Hill (about a 15 minute hike) we heard men yelling and singing. Atop the hill we heard men's voices yelling incoherent sounds, alongside beautiful songs in Lugandan. One of our cluster felt ill at ease, worried that some sort of unwelcoming ritual hid in the brush. Walking further we saw a lone boy, singing sweetly to the lookout over Mukono. Inquiring we found the story of three friends, who come to the woods just below the peak of Monkey Hill everyday to "train their voices." They yell for up to 7 hours, attempting to acquire the raspy sound of young Ugandan pop music. Each hopes for super-stardom.
"Someday I will make audios, videos, and discs. And then I will also be a superstar."
We stood for a Gospel Reggae concert of two songs from one of the trio, probably about 18 years old. He used a stick as a microphone. We clapped as he smiled sweetly and confidently.

I also took my first shower on campus today. I guess everything I did since 11 am today has been my "first on campus." None-the-less, I took my first shower, and it was cold. I washed one appendage at a time. But again, I'm clean and cozy. Safe and sound. Breathing in pumpkin spice and banana trees.

Pictures:
^Amy and I at our Kampala guest house room, cuddly under a mosquito net. We became roommates on the first night rather randomly and were then assigned to each other here on campus as well. And we were both glad.
^Our room at UCU (on campus), pre-setup. This is what we saw when we unlocked the door.

^From another angle. Now we each have a top bunk, leaving the bottom two open for storage/seat-age. The curtains are hung, as well as our nets. Amy is journaling under hers right now.

Officially a muzungu.

The "distance to destination" dropped to 0 kilometers on the plane screen, and suddenly the emotions that have been lurking quietly about in my stomach rushed out. A smile crept over my face and has not said so-long since. Walking in Kampala today I repeatedly shook my arms, wondering if it would feel less unreal. It remains incredibly surreal.

The flights were long and tiring. Oh, so long. There was a casino in the Amsterdam airport, and trash cans with "Dank U" on the lids. The Entebbe airport was tiny. We walked off the plane, down dramatic stairways, and onto the landing strip under a big African sky. Orange suitcase and mini-guitar case came off the last truck load of luggage (relief!). Last night and tonight we are staying in guest houses in Kampala. I'm in Uganda. I'm sleeping under a mosquito net. I walked on busy, red dirt, city streets today, past the Ugandan National Theatre.

[fervent shake of the arms]

The group consists of 30 students staying in dorms at UCU, and 9 living in home stays for the entirety of the semester. Already we are disappointed that there will be some separation within the group, because we are enjoying each other so much. Matt, the tall, nice boy Mom asked to protect me at the airport, already articulated to the group how exciting it has been to be surrounded with passionate people attempting the live purposefully. Even when some are honest that they do not know why they came here, it seems everyone is asking for a difficult semester- yearnings for growth and change. It is unmistakable that this place will change us.

Today we, pre-Kampala, went to the tombs of Buganda, where the kings of the Bugandan tribe are buried. Here's the DL: Buganda is a tribe (The unified republic of Uganda is made up of tribes). Then within the tribes there are clans, such as "Grasshopper." They are called mugandas. The Bugandan tribe speaks Lugandan. So, our tour guide was a Bugandan Ugandan, from the "Grasshopper" muganda, who speaks Lugandan. Yep.

Leaving the tombs we stood across the street from a cluster of precious Ugandan kids. One boy was wearing a bow tie. A littler one of the bunch shouted "muzungu!" to get our attention. I waved. He yelled "muzungu! You come. You come here!" And "here" sounded like 'he-ah.' I apologetically shook my head no and boarded the bus. I guess I am officially a muzungu though. A muzungu in Uganda who speaks English. I'll work on getting that to rhyme a bit better.

I have a mere few minutes left, so picture time:

^The view from the guest house I'm at. That's Lake Victoria back there!!^On the bus ride to the Bugandan tombs. (Danny from Olivet to my right)

Out of time- more to come in later days. I lovelovelove you.

Bängala!

In twenty days I will be driving toward the Washington Dulles Int'l airport. KLM Royal Dutch Airline will welcome my modest packages and I will climb aboard their aircraft, from which I will take aerial pictures of the capital's lights and then compare them with those of Amsterdam. Then I'll take a brief hiatus from flying to wonder if Entebbe will have light.

Not only does today mark 20-days-pre-departure; I also finished my first USP assignment and am halfway through my vaccinations. My left arm is incredibly sore from a tetanus shot, muting my right arm's Yellow Fever ache. Tetanus, Diphtheria, and Yellow Fever are done, as well as my TB test. Friday is Hepatitis A and Polio. Hallelujah for Malaria and Typhoid pills.

My first assignment was a book much of my family and extended family passed around a few years ago, but I somehow missed. Kingsolver received rave reviews, including the New York Times Bestseller list for The Poisonwood Bible and it was a worthy first assignment. I'll leave you with one such worthy quote:
"I rock back and forth on my chair like a baby, craving so many impossible things: justice, forgiveness, redemption. I crave to stop bearing all the wounds of this place on my own narrow body. But I also want to be a person who stays, who goes on feeling anguish where anguish is due. I want to belong somewhere, damn it. To scrub the hundred years' war off this white skin till there's nothing left and I can walk out among my neighbors wearing raw sinew and bone, like they do" (474).