Off to Amsterdam Again

My time is drawing to a close. I’m going to miss things. I’ll miss the carpenters saying good morning and greeting the chapatti lady as I wind through the neighborhood, past plantain trees, scattered maize and jack fruit trees on the way to catch the matatu every morning (I live behind a petrol station you see). I’ll miss the milky chai, fresh pineapple and mango breakfasts. I’ll miss my chats with Veronica every morning in Kisenyi before we start our surveys as we sit in her somewhat derelict hair salon, the world passing us by on the dusty street outside. She loves reading, and although she has no books, she budgets to gets the local Luganda paper every morning and as she sips her chai she translates the stories for me.

She this man! Ah! He was to marry this woman, but then at the wedding day, this woman here came into the church and said that he was already married to HER and had three children! These people…

The last page of the paper always has an update on the soaps. Most are dubbed Brazilian soap operas (not quite sure why), sheer cheesy hilarity to watch. Apparently everyone says I look like the character ‘Ina’. Veronica points at the pictures as she explains:

Shona, have to seen it yet? On TV? Well you see this man, he is in love with Ina but they forced him to marry this woman, see? Can you see even the tears in his eyes? Oh it is so good this show.

She’s an amazing woman, she’s 55 and has had seven kids, four of whom are alive. In addition to being village chairperson, it sounds like she helps support about 10 grandchildren. Two of her children are working in Iraq and she wants to send her other daughter as well, the money is good she says. It blows my mind. They mostly work in security and when they are there everything is provided, their salary goes directly into a Ugandan bank account. Perfect scenario, no? Except for the getting blown up part I suppose.

I’ll miss the vitality of life, the gratefulness for each day that people have. The vivid colours of clothing, the smiles in response to my attempts at Luganda, the very grittiness of life. As my mom says of life in the developing world, the colours are brighter and the pools are deeper. It strikes me also that heartache is closer to the surface, each moment of life is more precious, it can come and go so quickly after all.

I’ll miss my Ugandan family, the sometimes profound, sometimes hilarious dinnertime conversations. They are middle class Ugandans who are deeply generous, taking in all sorts of strays in need (mzungu and Ugandan alike!) I’ll miss groundnut sauce…but I suspect I won’t miss the matoke (steamed and mashed plantains) for every meal. After some deliberation, I don’t think I’ll miss the Lugandan gospel music piped through the household sound system at 7am every single morning. I vaguely recall initially finding it a lovely part of the whole Ugandan experience… naive rookie!

I may even miss the tachycardia-inducing bodaboda rides. The first day I was sure I would not die, instead I would be smeared on the road between a matatu, a large truck and a bicycle overloaded with plantains, maimed for life. After that it turned out to be a fun part of the daily routine.

I’ll definitely miss not being on call…two months with no call has been soul restoring. Although my soul has been restored by much more than that. I’ve found passion for my vocation again, or it has found me. Instead of pulling myself out of bed each morning to do something interesting that I feel privileged to do, the work itself pulls me out of bed and drives me through the day. I feel empathy again, compassion, my jaded attitude has dissolved in the mud of Kisenyi and in the eyes of the women who have shared their stories with me. I’ve lost the sense of overwhelming helplessness in the face of human need and again am ready to hurl myself indignantly at injustice.

I’m reminded of a quote that a physician read out to our class on the first day of medical school, as we sat packed into our seats in Libin theatre, naively full of apprehension, dreams and ready to take on the world.

Do justice,
Love mercy,
Walk humbly.

Of course, these were familiar words, as I was raised on them.

A Love Affair

I’ve been having a love affair with Jinja.

Who’s Jinja you say? Fine, I’ll admit it, not a person but a place. The source of the Nile. It was the third weekend I had been up there, the first time for rafting, the rest to kayak.

The kayak skirt tucked tightly around me, my red Spice playboat responding to every movement of my hips as we paddled along. I feel a bit guilty, you know, with the water shortages in this part of the world, that I should be inhaling so much of the Nile into my sinuses…so wasteful.

My teacher David and I had spent hours working on my rolling, you know, the second 180 degrees that gets your head OUT of the water. As I feel I have a gift for easily accomplishing the first 180.

We now paddled down the river to approaching rapids. The sky was bright above us, the sun beating down, but ahead huge dark clouds loomed. Like a prairie thunderstorm on a steaming summer day, we could see a sheet of rain approaching in the distance. The clouds flashed like fluorescent bulbs, trying to flicker to life and I heard deep grumbling in the distance. I cursed myself for not having invested in a waterproof digital camera as the light show was breathtaking.

It was exhilarating. The pounding waves, spray and foam of the rapids, David convinced I was capable of turning my kayak backwards and surfing the wave. Of course I was, but it took few runs to maximize the percentage of time my head was out of the water.

Then the storm hit us, pelting down, the rain seemed to have the force of a waterfall. Powerful, overwhelmed equally by beauty and adrenaline.

An affair I won’t easily forget.