Leaving Uganda

Leaving Uganda

Finally after 72 sleepless hours, three flights, and four countries, I have arrived to my destination Santo Domingo, Domincan Republic. I knew that leaving Uganda was going to be difficult, but I did not realize it was going to be as hard as it was. I cried for the majority of my flight from Entebbe to London and I feel like I left a little bit of my soul and a lot of my heart in Uganda. As I was checking my bags at the airport in Entebbe tears were streaming down my face and the woman helping me asked, "Dia, what is the problem?" My tearful, shaky voice expressed "I don't want to leave this country. I can't leave this country." She joyfully replied, "Sweetheart, you can leave this country because you can come back and I know you will." She is right. I will return to Uganda, for I feel my time there wasn't enough and my work there is not done. My life will never be the same, now that I have been to Uganda. The people, the culture, and the landscape have all been the most extraordinary and beautiful things I have ever experienced. Now that I have left the country I can interpret things slightly better. The humbleness and kindness of the people is something I don't think exists in many other places in the world and that alone is something to make a country proud, unique, and ultimately ideal. It's no wonder the one man I ever fell in love with comes from this country.

A few days before my leaving Uganda, I told my mom about Fina (Josephine), who was one of my most beloved students. This girl is 12 yrs. old, extremely bright and intelligent, and just an extraordinary individual. I see so much potential for success in this child;however, due to her families economical status she will never be able to recieve the proper education or attend university. Josephine dreams of becoming a nurse. A nurse makes 150,000 Ugandan Shillings/month, which is approximently $75 and this is considered a good job. After telling Jospehine's story to my mom, we decided to sponsor Josephine so she can attend boarding school and make her dream a reality. The program head told Josephine we would be coming to her home to speak with her family about something. Curiously, Josephine asked about what and the program head just told her it would make her parents very happy. The next day we travelled by foot for an hour and half to Josephine's home where they had prepared a four course meal for us, complete with meat, fresh corn, jackfruit, and sodas. All of which, are luxuries in the village. After eating and feeling like we were going to explode, we told Josephine's family about the sponsorhip.The whole family (mother, father, and ten children, which includes two sets of twins, a blessing in Buganda culture) began clapping and the mother could not stop crying. The family called for the village priest who performed a prayer service for my family and Josephine. Josephine's mother and father profusely expressed gratitude and told me that I will forever be Josephine's second mother and tht my family and I are always welcome to their home. It was an unforgettable exchange of kindness and I have promised to visit Jospehine at least once a year. The morning of my departure Josephine arrived at my home at 8am with a basket filled with avocados, corn, passion fruit, and mangos. She wouldn't let go of my hand and asked me to take her to California with me. I smiled at Josephine and hugged her tightly and then I put on my sunglases to hide the tears that were forming in my eyes. I didn't say goodbye because I know I will see her many more times.

Slashing, Mohawks, Rats, and, of course, Local Transport

Slashing, Mohawks, Rats, and, of course, Local Transport

I am reaching the end of my stay here in Uganda and myu heart aches. The thought of leaving behind all the children, adults, and genuine friends that I have met seems tragic. My life feels blessed to have had this experience due to so many things: the kindness, the interactions, the relationships, and most of all, the laughter and humor that exists in everything that happens. Let me share with you, just that, the numerous accounts of laughter and humor I have had throughout the past few weeks.

There are so many to choose from, like the time I was left alone on the farm with a dying duck, a crazed goat stuck in a fence, and turkeys on a rampage that forced me to lock myself in a room for 2 hours in fear of my life. Or the time I was left to watch over a 4 month old baby who managed to pee on me 4 times and laughed after each time. Or perhaps I could write about the time a fellow volunteer was puking in the bushes from food poisoning, and Fred freaked out, running into the banana plantations, disappearing for 2 hours, only to return with an array of herbs for the volunteer to chew on, which would, of course, cure him. But I must choose, the funniest of these, to share, retell, and relive, even if it is a little traumatic.

I will begin with my continued experiences cultivating the land. It was just as I had mastered the shovel, and the digging that was to be accomplished with it, when I was thrown for a loop and told we would now begin slashing the land. I was handed a long machete type tool and instructed to cut the grass and weeds with it. I did manage to cut the grass, but I also managed to loose control of the slasher sending it flying, slashing the ankle of Fred. He wasn't angry, he just laughed saying "Oh, Muzungu". Luckily, the slash only drew a small amount of blood and left a memorable bruise. I continued to slash, determined to master this tool as well. Before long I became so involved with my slashing, listening to my ipod, and dancing, I was completely unaware of the audience I had drawn from the road. I completed my task and looked up to find many children, dressed in school uniforms, clapping and chanting, "Muzungu, Muzungu". It was a funny moment for all of us. My hands were bleeding, my body ached, and my shirt was sopping from sweat. Fred refuses to let me slash again until my hands heal.

Now onto the mohawk. A fellow volunteer had the brillant idea of getting a mohawk in the village barber shop. We ventured 2 miles to the shop with three translators in hopes to convey the style he wanted to achieve. The barber was terrified as not only had he never cut a white person's hair, but understandably had never heard of or seen a mohawk. The man tried his best and three hours later, Phil left the chair with what resembles a mohawk, and the barber let out a huge sigh of relief.

I can't leave out my rat encounter the other night which lasted from 9pm till 4am. I was exhausted from the day and crawled into bed around 8pm, only to be woken up an hour later with a rat staring in my face. I screamed and hit the disgusting rodent off my bed and it scurried quickly through the crack in the door. I thought it was just a random occurrence and I made sure to secure the door and the window, checking every last corner of the room for morsels of food that may have attracted the creature. I fell back into bed, tucking my feet into the cover, and curling in a ball. Just as I felt comfortable again and safe enough to close my eyes, another one ran up the post of the bed, then 15 minutes later another ran across my feet, then across my pillow. This went on for 6 hours, with boughts of screaming, fits, cursing, and yelling on my part. I attempted everything to keep them out: beathing them with shoes (I could never make contact), spraying insect repellant everywhere, and blocking the crack in the door with books. Absolutely nothing was successful and finally at 4am I cried myself to sleep. The next day I went straight from bed to the store and purchased 5 bags of rat poison that I scattered generously througout the room. I have not seen a rat since.

Finally, I couldn't end a blog without a story about local transport. I had travelled comfortably to Masaka, by comfortably I mean squeezed into a 3 person seat that was occupied by 6 people. But compared to the ride back this was luxury. Now a trip to Masaka should really only take 30 minutes but it consistently takes 1-2 hours for one reason or another. On the way back I resisted taking a mini-bus and hopped into a taxi car, which I thought would save me time. Initially, I was given the front passenger seat to myself, but just as I was relaxed we pulled over and the driver shoved ten people in the car. There were six people, a goat and a chicken in the back of the car and four people in the front, mind you we are in a toyota corolla circa 1978. I am now wedged between two men, straddling the gear shift with a parking break up my ass. I keep reassuring myself with internal dialogue, repeating "We're almost there, we're almost there". Suddenly, the driver steers off the main road onto a dirt road and now I start to freak out. With a shaky voice, I am asking the driver "Where are we going?". His lack of English leaves his response to a chuckle. The man sitting next to me, who conveniently has his arm wrapped around me, is kind enough to translate to the driver and then translates back to me that he just wants me to see Uganda. Shortly after the tour/detour, we return to the main rod and pick up yet, another passenger. These detours continue three more times before the driver can no longer reach the gear shift and genuinely asks me to shift for him, leaving me with no instruction but hand gestures. I cluelessly attempt to shift as he tries to time the clutch, which makes the car stall, causing a traffic jam, but no accident. Of course, the driver laughs instead of getting angry and manages to get us moving again. Finally, I reach my destination and crawl out of the chaos, leaving the entire car in hysterics. It was just another experience with African transport.

The country functions off of controlled chaos and I absolutely love it!