The Road to Bujagali

Like all good Type A endeavors in Africa, my well laid plans for my safari have been thwarted. The tour company called this morning to say that one of the other travelers who had booked for my trip had fallen sick, and without him/her, there wouldn't be enough people for the trip. So instead, I'm supposed to be going from Saturday to Monday. But, what I've realized here is that you can't really count on anything. In any case, I'm hoping to head out on Friday morning to explore Kampala- including the tombs of the kabakas (kings)- and then stay the night for a departure to Murchison Falls on Saturday. But, we'll see. I'm hoping that at some point in the next three weeks, I'll be able to make this trip happen.

Aside from that, I've very much settled into my routine here. And it is quite a routine... in that there is basically no variation from day to day. The one thing I vary is whether I go to Jinja or Bujagali in the afternoon. I had experimented with just going home at night, because at 5 pm I'm exhausted, but if I do that Moses' wife gets worried that I haven't eaten supper (which I generally don't because lunch is monstrously huge), and at 10:30 pm, when I'm already asleep, a knock will come at my door with a huge stew of a mystery meat and a pot of cormeal mash as big as my head. And I have to eat it, otherwise they'll be offended. So now I always go somewhere, just so she can assume I've eaten and not feed me supper.

Anyway, one of the parts I am most struck by about my time here is my 25 minute walk from Kyabirwa to Bujagali, where I can have a smoothie, and, when the internet is working, use the internet. It's basically a backpacker outpost filled with wazungu who are here for adventure travel. But they have pretty nice accomodations. It's the walk itself, though, that I look forward to the most.

The road to Bujagali, like all roads here, is made of the red earth that is the source of everything. It is so red, and so ubiquitous, that I have come to look like the characature of the "Red Man" in Peter Pan. I'm starting to worry that my feet are permanently stained. It takes me over an hour just to wash my feet at night. Anyway, this road runs past the school where I teach in a straight line for about a mile and a half to the little outpost of Bujagali on the Nile. It is lined with tons of plants that I'm only now beginning to be able to distinguish between-- coffee, banana, beans, cassava, potatoes, and jackfruit, for example.

As I walk along, my sandals kicking up a trail of red earth, little children look up from their compounds, and exclaim, "Mzungu!!!!" Then they come running, their little bare feet pounding the earth. Often they are only wearing a shirt, and the shirt may be adult size, so one bare shoulder sticks out through the neckhole. "Mzungu, hallo! Mzungu, what is my name!!" they call. "Mzungu, I am fine!" Essentially it's a string of all the English they've come to know. Sometimes the younger ones, who still don't speak any English at all, will wave their little hands and say "Mzungu, Jambo!"

Those who are savvier in the ways of the world will come up and hold on to the strings of my backpack. "Mzungu, give me pencil." or "sweetie," or "money." Once I made the mistake of walking along this road with a bag of freshly cut pineapple. They are very compelling, these kids-- so that time I couldn't help but put the juicy pieces of fruit in their outstretched hands. Usually I say, "sorry, don't have pencil." It sucks because... sometimes I do have pencils, and I definitely have money. But one of the challenges of Africa is figuring out how and when and why to give. It is the most difficult question I've encountered so far.

Some of the most interesting things I've seen have been along this road. Yesterday as I was walking along, I heard a horrible bleating coming from behind me. I turned just in time to see two bicycles coming by, each of which had two goats tied with all four legs together sitting on the back of the bicycle. Their cries were awful. They probably knew what was in store for them. I've definitely had more than enough goat stew for my taste. And I hate to say this, but I prefer my food distribution channel to be longer than it currently is.

On Sunday, as we were walking along this same road back from church, we heard a thundering in the distance. Soon, three cows came stampeding down the road, being whipped with sticks by some children. "EXTEND!!" they yelled. Extend means "get the hell out of the road." It took me a week and a half to figure this out. For a long time I thought everyone was yelling "X-ten! X-ten!" and I couldn't figure out what it stood for.

I'm the only white person I ever see along the road, with the one exception of the Bujagali tourists who are going to a kayaking spot along the road. They are incredibly annoying, because they come on motortaxis attached to their African guides with their kayaks strapped sideways to the back of the motorbikes. The stupid kayaks take up the whole road, and everyone has to jump into the bushes. They don't even know to yell "Extend!" I thought about doing some kayaking here, or at least some rafting, but apparently it's among the most dangerous in the world, with class 6 and 7 rapids. Last week a kayaker drowned. So, I think I'll stay along the shore sipping smoothies, thanks very much.

My favorite part of the road is when I approach huts that belong to my students. Then, rather than yell, "Mzungu!" the children yell, "Madam Shannah!" and come running. That's my favorite part of the walk. It's probably my favorite part of life, actually. In Texas, the best feeling in the world was when my littlest student would spot me across the gym in the morning and take a running leap into my arms for a hug, yelling, "Mi Baro!" Which actually meant, Miss Varon.

Anyway, many of my students live along this road, and I try to stop in and pay my respects to their parents or grandparents. Their grandparents in particular are so honored when I come by, which is a strange feeling. They sometimes bow all the way to the ground to thank me for coming to see them. It's challenging, because none of the older people speak English, so the students are stuck translating between Lasoga and English, but it's still kind of neat.

On the way back from Bujagali, the sunsets are unbelievable, streaking the sky with purple and orange and pink and red. I try to make my way back by 7 pm, when everything is officially dark.
Amazingly, the people here can all see in the dark... but I can't. It's all I can do not to step on a toad on the way to the latrine at night with my headlamp on the highest setting. Sometimes I amaze myself with my own incompetence.

Okay, I'm off now to pick up the copies of an exam that I just left to get done. It's quite a production... the other teacher for my older class suggested that we give an exam before I leave, so I painstakingly hand wrote six pages of an exam, complete with comprehension stories, and I dropped it off at this ramshakle photocopy place here in Jinja around the corner. The guy's copier has got to be from 1987. And he thinks he can get the thing done for 95 students in one hour. We'll see. It's Africa, after all-- anything is possible.