Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Siroti by bus
5/26 Only one week in Uganda and already I'm attending an African wedding! By the way, I do feel very much like I'm in "Africa" though some people might not agree with the use of a term that attempts paint the whole continent in one broad stroke. I know it's huge and diverse, with more differences than similarities. Still, everyone here refers to the "African" rather than the "Ugandan". I get the impression that "African" is a cultural term though it may be referring to the specific culture of the area (Kampala and a 50 mile radius?), the region (East Africa) in general, or to some concept of the continent as a whole, while "Ugandan" is pretty much only a geographical and political term. This could be also because Uganda itself, like most African nations, is a colonial creation reflecting little of actual cultural groups. Ugandans come from dozens of tribes, all speaking different languages, and many overlapping into neighboring countries like Sudan or Congo. So I'll use the term for lack of a better one, keeping in mind that what Africa means to me and what it means to Africans are probably vastly different things.
Anyway, the story of how I got to attend the wedding: I went to talk with Bernadette, a young lawyer in th RLP office yesterday about freedom of movement for refugees, and as often occurs in the office, we started chatting about wholly unrelated topics. WE talked about the weather, the dust in the city, the constant boda boda traffic, and she mentioned she was going out of town for the weekend for her friend's wedding and invited me to come along. Heck yes. We left from work on Friday: myself, Bernadette, and another RLP intern named Genevive.
So here I am in Siroti, a smallish town to the East of Kampala in the Teso region. It's a lovely place: very few cars or motorcycles, just the silent solitary headlights of bicycles approaching in the night. And stars. So many stars the sky looks clouded with them. The ride here was amazing. We passed vast open plains, vividly, violently green. Rising out of the plains were flat-topped trees, looking like an army of French waiters holding aloft plates on upturned palms. All under a brilliant sky containing every possible shade of blue, silver, and gold reflected in pastry-thin layers of clouds. Rays of light streamed down and touched the earth like a Goya painting (but done in the color palette of Cezanne). I stared out the window for six hours while Africa flowed past like a river, little snatches of life just glimpsed as they drifted by: Women in bright high-shouldered print dressed walking perfectly straight with bundles on their heads; kids playing in red dirt yards, laughing and chasing each other; young boys picking rice in a low lying square paddy, the water holding a perfect reflection of the sky framed like a window in four pieces; small plots of corn flashing their rows; two huge yellow finches chasing each other through an obstacle course of bushes and tall grass; young men holding up meat on skewers to eager bus passengers; old women with headbaskets full of bananas beckoning us to pluck and eat; tea plantations, right next to fields of sugarcane (bring in a cow for milk, and you're sorted); small cylindrical houses of earthen brick with cone-shaped thatch roofs; thirty or more people standing by the side of the road staring at a taxi that went into a ditch; sunset brilliantly reflected in the fabulously textured sky; darkness and far away lightning glowing softly on the horizon; lightening bugs dotting the hedges on the sides of the road.
We arrived and walked in darkness down a smooth road to Bernadette's dad's guest house. I'm staying in a round cottage the exact same shape as the ones dotting the countryside (except mine has running water and generator-powered lights). Bernadette's dad served us an unbelievable spread for dinner: rice, local chicken, gravy, cabbage, greens, sweet potatoes, millet bread (delicious - soft and moist, rich and nutty and only slightly sweet), and for dessert, roasted white ants. I ate a few handfuls, they taste like oil and salt, but with a black earth aftertaste. Then I showered all the red road dust off my skin and got into bed in my round little room under under the mosquito netting. ¶ 7:34 AM
Anyway, the story of how I got to attend the wedding: I went to talk with Bernadette, a young lawyer in th RLP office yesterday about freedom of movement for refugees, and as often occurs in the office, we started chatting about wholly unrelated topics. WE talked about the weather, the dust in the city, the constant boda boda traffic, and she mentioned she was going out of town for the weekend for her friend's wedding and invited me to come along. Heck yes. We left from work on Friday: myself, Bernadette, and another RLP intern named Genevive.
So here I am in Siroti, a smallish town to the East of Kampala in the Teso region. It's a lovely place: very few cars or motorcycles, just the silent solitary headlights of bicycles approaching in the night. And stars. So many stars the sky looks clouded with them. The ride here was amazing. We passed vast open plains, vividly, violently green. Rising out of the plains were flat-topped trees, looking like an army of French waiters holding aloft plates on upturned palms. All under a brilliant sky containing every possible shade of blue, silver, and gold reflected in pastry-thin layers of clouds. Rays of light streamed down and touched the earth like a Goya painting (but done in the color palette of Cezanne). I stared out the window for six hours while Africa flowed past like a river, little snatches of life just glimpsed as they drifted by: Women in bright high-shouldered print dressed walking perfectly straight with bundles on their heads; kids playing in red dirt yards, laughing and chasing each other; young boys picking rice in a low lying square paddy, the water holding a perfect reflection of the sky framed like a window in four pieces; small plots of corn flashing their rows; two huge yellow finches chasing each other through an obstacle course of bushes and tall grass; young men holding up meat on skewers to eager bus passengers; old women with headbaskets full of bananas beckoning us to pluck and eat; tea plantations, right next to fields of sugarcane (bring in a cow for milk, and you're sorted); small cylindrical houses of earthen brick with cone-shaped thatch roofs; thirty or more people standing by the side of the road staring at a taxi that went into a ditch; sunset brilliantly reflected in the fabulously textured sky; darkness and far away lightning glowing softly on the horizon; lightening bugs dotting the hedges on the sides of the road.
We arrived and walked in darkness down a smooth road to Bernadette's dad's guest house. I'm staying in a round cottage the exact same shape as the ones dotting the countryside (except mine has running water and generator-powered lights). Bernadette's dad served us an unbelievable spread for dinner: rice, local chicken, gravy, cabbage, greens, sweet potatoes, millet bread (delicious - soft and moist, rich and nutty and only slightly sweet), and for dessert, roasted white ants. I ate a few handfuls, they taste like oil and salt, but with a black earth aftertaste. Then I showered all the red road dust off my skin and got into bed in my round little room under under the mosquito netting. ¶ 7:34 AM
