Yep. I went this morning to St. John's Cathedral with my co-worker, Moses, for a Sunday service. All of my co-workers are very, very religious, and he invited me to prayers with him this weekend. It surprisingly wasn't too different from services in America, although they sang every. single. verse. in every hymn. They did do a little bit of dancing and clapping, which was pretty great, and the church was completely open (all the doors were open and sunlight filtered in everywhere), so it was a really nice experience. I did, I have to admit, fall asleep for a little bit... No surprise there.
Went to Moses' home for tea with his five year-old daughter, Janet, who is perhaps one of the most beautiful little girls I've ever seen--think Angelina Jolie's daughter, Zahara, except with a shaved head. It's so unfortunate that I barely speak a lick of Rutooro, though, because trying to have any sort of conversation with the children around here is near impossible. I was quite the spectacle at Moses' compound; while he prepared tea, all of the little kids crowded into his room and started at me. White skin! Nose ring! Tattoo! Oh man! And, of course, all of his neighbors thought it was hilarious that Moses was having a mzungu woman over for tea, so there was plenty of cackling.
I've only been in Africa for a few weeks and every day I'm overcome with a million sensations of gratitude and white-person-guilt (inevitable) and awe at the strength of people who live here. I won't go into details of Moses' story, but suffice to say he has been through an incredible number of trials, and has yet managed to graduate from MMU, raise a daughter on his own, and pursue his career with loads of optimism and tenacity. Most of the people, in fact, that I've met here have similar life tales. One of my co-workers bikes to work for an hour and a half each way every day (and it's hilly). I see old men pushing bikes loaded with bananas down the road; old women with towering baskets of produce or linens balanced on their head look at me indifferently as they shuffle down the road. Someone asked me yesterday what a nursing home was, and was rather baffled by the concept--children take care of their elders here.
Anyway, I could go on and on about the hardships that I see being suffered every day here, but that would get boring and be pointless. I'm just glad that I'm working on projects this summer that, although not providing food for the hungry or health education for rural villages, at least are intent on fostering local and national pride...opening the eyes of the government and citizens to the importance of their own cultural heritage...and hopefully, eventually, prod people into taking direct action within their communities to preserve their historical resources...as well as making resources available for the first time to researchers, human rights workers, aid workers, whoever, so that a clear and accurate story of Ugandan history can be told and the nation can build on said story. Everyone has heard that it is the victors who write history, and it is that very concept that we are trying to negate.
PHEW! I have been trying to figure out different ways to cook with bananas and thus far have made fried matooke chips and banana bread (the latter of which has been HUGELY popular with the housemates and Nino). I think I'm going to move on to banana fritters.
Today is six months to the day since Pete died, and fittingly, it is pouring down rain here. I can't believe that he has been gone that long. I would have loved to tell him all about Uganda, and he would probably respond to all of my stories with "Ahhh, siiiiiiiiick!". But, I suppose he's out there keeping an eye on me, anyway, so he knows what's going on.
Love always, man.
Peter Ruhry
December 12, 2010
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