As usual, I'm off playing with the raggedy, smiley, curious children and my camera. They crack up when I touch their hands or crouch down to take a picture of their adorable puppy. I am so strange to them. Behind me, Daa daa, Abraham's grandfather, shakes coffee beans in one hand while alternating chants and spews of his saliva onto Abraham's pride and joy, his "motorcar". Daa daa is blessing this magnificent machine and our travels, Katy confusedly explains to me. Then Abraham's brother hands him a live chicken which we just saw the children chasing around the mud huts. It wasn't a game they were playing, they were sent to capture the symbol of blessings. Daa daa and Jaa jaa also handed me a 1,000 shillings bill, which Abraham and I argued over my acceptance for several minutes. Another cultural blessing, he insists. Yes, it's only about 25 cents US, but still. I literally just took money from the poor.
Abraham announces that we shall be taking a shortcut to his parent's house. I'm in the back with the 98 year old, completely blind and nearly deaf daa daa clinging to my hand with trembling terror in his clammy hand and on his face. The chicken squawks as it pops up next to my face with the same look of panic on its own. Katy turns to snap a picture of the scene--Sheer madness.
Abraham has been wanting to take us to his hometown for weeks. We had varied ideas on his adamancy toward this field trip, and it turns out our main query was correct--he wanted to show off his success to his hometown friends and family. He has nice clothes, the only motorcar in town (which everyone drools over like he's Doc in his DeLorean), and two muzungus! He's hit gold. What we did underestimate was the huge leap we were to be taking back in time once more. Now here we are, in the Iganga district, straight up in the bush. Our first stop along the red dirt road is probably man's first version of a cul-de-sac. Four mud huts make a circle, a little neighborhood for one man and his cornucopia of offspring. This particular neighborhood is claimed by one of Abraham's 28 siblings (23 still living) and around ten of his fifteen children. His other wife lives a few cul-de-sacs over with the remaining children. Polygamy is the norm; One more way we feel like we've gone back in time. In the center of the cul-de-sac, under a large mango tree, an enclosed bamboo basket hangs. They worship this oversized lampshade. Maybe they put offerings of hopefully things other than mammals in this "altar".
Piled back in the motorcar, Abraham's sister-in-law starts up her ninja yodel of "ayy-yai-yai-yai-yai-yaiiiee!!!" one last time; A tribal cheerleader with babies on her hips instead of pom poms. We begin our "shortcut" down a two foot wide path through a corn field, bouncing and rocking as the car plows over a family's precious cash crop. The massive subwoofer in the little trunk comes to life for the first time due solely to the turbulence. He lacks SO many things, yet he has subs to bump his three 30-second music samples. Stereotypes exist for a reason, my friends. Daa daa has a kung fu grip on the seat in front of him, and I'm wondering about his chances of an induced stroke. Like a toddler on a road trip, Daa daa keeps asking Abraham, "Are we there yet??"
The "road" is full of mounds and potholes that are more like mountains and valleys. We approach one particular ridge, and where any semi skilled driver would position his wheels on two higher areas, Abraham centers on the highest peak. We bottom out, then his front driver wheel dips into the adjoining valley. His brother happens to be riding his bike just behind us, and with his help and several ogling schoolchildren, the car is pushed back to a more level surface. Katy and I slap the mob of children's hands as we head back into the teeter-totter, like we're their favorite band on tour. Poor Daa daa probably soiled himself in that backseat. The bird definitely did.
Abraham squeezes his car between several food stands at a market, nearly knocking down bicycles, boda bodas, and children. I suck in all limbs and belly, hoping to magically shrink the car with me as I brace for surely inevitable impact. Thankfully, only some bananas were steamrolled. How was this man given a license?
We're told to get out and follow Abraham through an alley to the back of one of the shops. But Daa daa is left in the sweltering car. I try and battle this very poor and very hazardous decision, but Abraham waves me off repeating, "Iss okay. Iss okay." We enter a small cement courtyard, Abraham snags a makeshift bench and tells us to sit, I again express my concern for Daa daa, and then Abraham leaves. A few children timidly peer their heads out of the surrounding houses/rooms, possibly Abraham's mother walks in and out without a word, and as always, we don't know what's going on. Reverting to our go-to for these daily moments of awkwardness, we pull out our cameras to begin the cute child photo shoot, Iganga edition.
The kids here are like baby monkeys; Wary of your specie classification and intentions, but then once they inch closer and decide to trust you, they literally cling to you. Forever, if they were allowed. Wilbur, probably around five years old, is the first kiddo to daringly approach us. I take his picture, turn the camera around to show him the result, and after a satisfied giggle and a few words thrown over his shoulder at the others, the courtyard is instantly flooded. Hand jive introductions partitioned until our hands began to swell, goofy dance parties, some ring around the rosies, and hundreds of pictures later, we're all best friends. A few little ones were able to squirm onto our laps, mine holding three all battling for any inch of my legs. After at least an hour I'm sore and numb all over. But kicking these giggle beans off my lap won't be happening as long as I can help it. I'm cherishing their heartbeats near my own as much as I know they're cherishing my mama bear hugs. They stroke my hair, fidget with my necklace, and we exchange eye-locked smiles that zap intense vibes of joy and gratitude back and forth. You are so important--a special gift that I and this world love more than you can imagine. I desperately hope my eyes convey any of this to them. Their smiles show me that at least some of that is received.
Abraham's father lies inside on a thin twin mattress. He can sit up for no more than ten minutes, noticeably frail and weak. He's been sick with cancer for the last 20 years, Abraham tells us. It's hard to look at him; He has four wives, has procreated nearly thirty times in a village hardly able to provide for a dozen people at best, and, as Abraham translated to us, is SO grateful to see that we are muzungus here to help a school and not teach "bad manners". Those bad manners being that homosexuality is actually okay and should be accepted. In their culture, anyone who is homosexual and is revealed is chased, probably literally, out of town. Apparently his father has heard of many white people coming to Uganda with the mission to preach such absurdity, and was assuming that was our purpose here as well. I bit my tongue. Hard. All of this considered, as well as him being so obviously withering...Abraham asked me if I had anything to say-he knows well by now how much of a chatterbox I am-but I choose to just sit in silence. I'm out in the bush, facing one dying man of illness and another of very old age, unclothed, dirty children sit a few meters away, women are preparing too much food for me while their babies go hungry, and I'm supposed to keep a roughly translated conversation going. In a moment such as this, I can only handle silence. Katy and I read each other's thoughts as we subconsciously agree on the dizzying effects of this day.
Back outside, our meal is laid out: A mountain of matoké (mashed plantains which never agree with Katy or my digestive tracts), two heaping bowls of rice, a bowl of "cow...digestion...like'a dat...", two soups (oil mixtures), and our chicken friend. A separate plate or fork are silly requests, so Katy and I maneuver the rice around to free up a bowl, which we fill with rice, mystery oil, and out of respect to our cook and host, a part of our chicken comrade. Abraham gives a dramatic or possibly normal show of how to "eat like a soldier" as he slumps over his bowl and shovel-slurps the food into his mouth. Bottoms up! I'm throwing oily rice onto my lap, over my shoulder, possibly in my hair as I make a poor attempt at military feeding. This scene is so strange for Katy and me that we can't help but alternate giggles, bursts of laughter, and sloppy eating as our facial expressions are set in befuddlement. We each manage to tear off, chew and most importantly keep down small pieces of chicken. Abraham throws one piece into our bowl which I swear contains the liver and maybe even the heart (biology dissections in high school were a long time ago). He clues into our hesitancy and allows me to switch it out for a less nauseating piece.
Meal time over, we say our thank yous and goodbyes to his family and the army of children. Our grand exit isn't complete without a few more elements of oddity, though. As we squish back into the car that's so obstructively parked and now with loads of corn and two more chickens imprisoned in the shoebox trunk space, an old man accosts me, pointing at his ear, mouth, and me. No words, just strange sign language. I try getting into the car, and he blocks the door, continuing his gestures which I assume to be requests for money or food. Finally able to close the door, Abraham rolls my window down. Does he not realize what I'm dealing with over here?? The old man is tapping my head and reaching for who knows what inside the car, still miming his message to me which seems to be of paramount importance. As Abraham finally begins his reverse of destruction out of the market, the old man speaks! "Thank you" is all he says.
We ride through the Iganga fields of rice, corn, and bananas. People of all ages stop to jaw drop at the muzungus whipping by in the motorcar, and dive out of the way as the lead foot driver seems to be aiming straight for them. Bracing myself as Abraham once again badly executes driving over dirt mounds, surely wrecking his car, I'm thinking how greatly he would benefit from driving a Jeep Wrangler. He needs something to match his thoughtless driving style.
We make it back to the main road, and I allow my breath to return. I gaze lovingly at the sun creating massive silver linings as it turns blood red and slowly sets behind the banana trees. Katy and I are usually barricaded into our house as the sun sets, so any time I get to see this time of day is therapy. It's like heaven and earth have teamed up to speak directly to my heart, "All is well, my precious child." And in that moment peace fills me, pushing out any and all negativities.
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