Boda Boda

Today, for the first time, I have ridden on a boda boda - and not once, but twice (and will again to get home to my village this evening).
Bodas are common forms of transport in these parts. They are motocycle taxis... the driver sits in front, and a passenger pays to sit behind him. Perhaps half of the drivers where helmets, and none of the riders (I have one provided my MCC... it sits beside me as I type). And women must always sit side-saddle, grasping the seat back rather than the driver. Roads are narrow and dusty, and bodas often have to swerve to the very edge when a truck or taxi (15 passenger van) is passing. All this I knew... and I was fairly nervous to try it for the first time.
My first chance came unexpectedly. This morning, I was hiking the mile or two (uphill both ways) to my school to visit with the teachers and ask some questions about preparing my lesson schemes. When I left my house, the sun was very strong... I wore sunscreen and sunglasses. But as I walked toward St Jude, the sky began to darken. Suddenly, it started to rain. I was closer to school than home, so I kept walking, quickly becoming chilled and wet. Within a few minutes, a boda drove up. The driver was an elderly man, and he carried no passenger. He asked where I was going, then said, "some help, nyabo," i.e. he was offering me a lift. Unable to refuse, I took it. My first boda ride was fairly short and helmet-less... I clutched tightly most of the way. But, I didn't fall off or anything else drastic... :)
My second boda ride was planned. This afternoon, my sister and I rode bodas to Kangalay (don't even try to pronounce it!), where she caught a taxi to her boarding school and I jumped in a special hire (car taxi) to come to Masaka. I wore my helmet and visited with the driver, who was glad for a chance to practice his English. A nice fellow, his contact is now saved in my phone for future excursions :) This ride was a few miles, and as I became more comfortable, I clutched a bit less tightly (I often see women not holding on at all, often with a baby or bag in their laps).

And so, I have come to Masaka alone, feeling both anxious and exhilarated at the sense of adventure that comes with this chance. Thankfully, the town is fairly small, so it is a good place to get a sense of my own ability to find my way around and communicate in broken Luganda.

And to get home, I will again take a taxi and a boda boda...

Water of Life...

The first rays of light creep through my curtains and mosquito net, and I open my eyes. Morning has come again. I drift back to sleep for some minutes until I hear the back door opening and my maama calling my sisters to wake up.
Quickly, I push aside my net and roll out of bed. I rub my eyes as I walk down the hall to the bathing room, where I brush my teeth and wash my face. Then, back to my room, where I trade my shorts for a skirt and pull on long sleeves. I head outside, where my youngest sister is waiting for me to walk to the well with her, a few jerry cans in tow.
As we walk the half mile or so, I watch the sun rise and the village begin to awaken. It is quiet today; the power has still not come back on since it went off yesterday.
We arrive at the well around 6:45. Another sister is already there, waiting in the queue of children for our turn to pump. The day has begun.
My thanks to UNICEF for the bore hole well from which we pump every drop of water we use. Each day, my arms and hands grow stronger from pumping. I still cannot fill a full can (I'd guestimate about 3-5 gallons) by myself, but my 12 year old sister and I can fill the 6-8 cans our family brings each morning (the family of Katongole Joseph uses a lot of water!). Once our cans are full, we line them up, then begin the trek home with the first few.
The walk which seems so pleasant in the wee hours of dawn now seems to take much longer, though my pace quickens each day. Last week, half of the pumping and walking to and fro one or two times was about all I could manage before my hands were blistered and I only wanted to lay down. This morning, my sisters have told me I have "much power" - I now walk to and fro twice during their first time.
By 8:00, we have carried home every drop of water that will be used for that day's cooking, bathing, drinking, washing, and cleaning.
Water.
It is necessary for life to exist. It has a sacred place in most every major religion. It is one of the world's natural resources. Some places, it is taken for granted, used in excess, bought and sold, and often, polluted. But here, in Bukoto village, water is not so easy to come by, particularly during the dry season. And already, after only a week, I can no longer drink a single cup without considering the sweat and labor necessary to bring it to me.
Today, it sickens me to consider how much water is wasted every day in my native country. Gallons flushed every time you urinate, drained when you run your 20 minute showers. Watered lawns and sparkling cars. Bottles bought because you don't like the taste of tap water.
Dear America, as you use and abuse water to your heart's content, may you remember your Baganda brothers and sisters, the small ones who trudge to the pump multiple times every day, seekng only the water of life.

Until we meet again...

I feel like the last few months have been filled with farewells. It is a strange thing, this saying "goodbye." In some ways, I will never be separated from these people - friends and family who share my heart and know my soul. Neither time nor space can tear apart the bonds of love and care. And yet, geographically, we will spend the next year on separate continents, living in entirely different contexts. We will not see each other for longer than we desire. And soon, even internet and mail will be less available than I am used to.

So, it seems appropriate to say "goodbye," even though my deepest hope is that we shall meet again in a year or so. Many of these farewells have been tinged with sadness - how I wish that the paths and stories of this year of our lives would not be so distant from one another. I am reminded of a scene from Tom Brown's book, Grandfather. Grandfather, a native North American tracker, has spent a period of time living and learning alongside Parrot, a South American mystic. When he feels called by the Spirit to move on, Grandfather slips away in the night without saying goodbye, knowing that he and Parrot will meet again. And, though he chooses not to say farewell, both Grandfather and Parrot are saddened by the departure. Mostly, this is how I feel. I know I will see again those I love, and yet, it is hard to be parted from them for so long. My journey is moving in a new (and exciting direction), but some days, I wish for more familiar faces along its path.

Yet another line comes to mind as I contemplate these farewells. It is from The Ramayana and has stuck with me since I read it almost a year ago. I think it was a farewell blessing offered by a king when his son was leaving, but it may have simply been an opening quote. I will leave you with this line...

Return to me when I remember you.

Thinking quickly, talking slowly...

My thoughts are going a million miles an hour in about as many different directions. A multitude of blog entries have been ruminating in my mind for the past few months but have never quite made it to post. A sampling of what's been running through my head...

Since Saturday, I've been in the tiny town of Akron, PA, where MCC has pulled together approximately 100 young adults from around the world for the SALT/IVEP/YAMEN orientation. Wondering about those acronyms? SALT, the program I'm doing, sends young adults from the US or Canada to work with MCC partners in countries around the world for a year. IVEP brings young adults from MCC's international partners to volunteer in the US or Canada for the same time period. YAMEN bypasses North America and lets young adults from MCC's international partners serve with other international partners (for example, a young Ethiopian will be serving in Indonesia). This week is filled with sessions about cross-cultural life, MCC, finances, etc., as well as abundant opportunities to start and build relationships with both fellow SALTers and those who will be serving through IVEP or YAMEN.

This week is very much a transitory time. My suitcases are not unpacked, and I am trying to keep track of everything to make sure I don't throw off my careful weight distribution. I spent the summer saying goodbyes and now find myself building close friendships with people I will depart from in only a few days. Orientation also offers a transitory space between cultures. Given our location in Akron, the underlying cultural norms are obviously still those of North America: there is a strong time orientation, the majority of every session is conducted in English, and the surrounding town is mostly composed of white middle-class families. And yet, I find myself conversing with Pennsylvanians as often as with Indonesians, Bolivians, and Brazilians. For many of our group, English is not a first language, and some would not even claim fluency. And so, session speakers will be reminded to "speak slower and louder," and there are constant whispered translations or explanations. Conversations about what to expect on assignment in East Africa or Southeast Asia are as frequent as those about how to adapt to life in Kansas, Oregon, or Vancouver. I am learning to see the world a bit more through the eyes of my brothers and sisters from around the world. And, as I slow my speech and enunciate more carefully, I know that I will soon be in a context where everything is just as unfamiliar to me as this place is to them. I hope for friendship, hospitality, and understanding as I take on the same challenge of learning new cultural norms and a new language.