Saturday, March 26, 2011

an ending

Before i came to Uganda I was captivated by the rareness and mysterious beauty of Africa. Even the idea of Africa brought to mind a primitiave substance, an untouched life and vibration, a purity that nowhere else in the world had. I pictured the roaring lion, the painted warrior, the tribal fire.

Then i came to Africa. What I've seen is not what I expected. I haven't joined in the tribal hunt or trecked through the overgrown bush. I've ridden a bicycle through a town with electricity, taught Charles Dickens and Microsoft Word. I've watched soccer being broadcast from England and heard news coming from China. I guess what I expected was a land untouched, allowed to grow and change with the dynamics of its own rhythm. I thought I'd see a people unaware of the world and more aware of themselves than anyone I'd ever met.

What I got was different. I got a school full of kids who wanted to know, who were willing to give me a chnace. I got a community who took me in, who laughed at me, but also laughed with me. I got a group of friends who invited me into their homes, who were willing to travel long distances with me so that i might just meet their friends and family. I got a village full of kids who yell my name in frightened ecstasy when I run by. I got a taste of foods, languages, and people I could never have imagined.

What I'm trying to say is, I came out here because of a mystic, because of a circle of life I thought I was entering into. But it wasn't there, at least not for me, or how I expected. After two years of living in a place that's more or less completely different than what I dreamt, I've learned this: This place has that mystic, that rare beauty, and it's more present and more abundant than I had ever hoped.
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I'll tell you what Im afriad of. I mean, what I'm really fearful of. I'm afriad that, everyday countless people pass by me going to the market or to visit a friend in the village, and it's beautiful. I'm afriad that each evening the sun seems to set over this green and brown land where the dusk stirs up insects and the music of man can be heard just across the swamp. Every morning, the kids walk, or run, or wrestle towards school and when they get just past my gate they stop, peak through the bushes as the white man and think I can't see them. I'm afriad that every morning, without fail, the same, hideous-looking chicken comes up to my lawn, pecking for insects and defecating in the same place, and I scare him away. I'm afriad that there's something so kind and true and selfless in the way that people invite me into their homes, spend time talking with me, and are genuinelly happy when I get to meet their family. I'm afraid that all this is true...and that I'm missing it.

As my time in Uganda draws to a close, I constantly find myself thinking of different places and different faces. I have to bring myself back to the here and now and try desperately to take hold of it while I still can. I begin to wonder if my mind and heart haven't been constantly wandering for the past two years. I listened to a man speak of place recently. He spoke about how we tend constantly to be looking for the "right place," or looking towards, "the next place," and all the time missing the fact that the best place for us, for now, is where we are. This isn't to breed complacency or lack of striving, but contentment, then appreciation, then peace.

When I just stop for a few minutes, when I pull in my thoughts and let them rest on the now, I realize how amazing this place is.

I was on the bus the other day, looking around me, and realized what a love for color this place has. I was sitting in my standard soft green shirt and khaki trousers, but all around me were people in bright greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Heck, half the shops in town are painted either bright yellow or bright pink! There is life here in the midst of the seemingly toilsome monoteny of waking up, farming, caring for the house, and farming again. There's something unique. Maybe it has to do with the reliance and connection to the earth. Maybe it has to do with the family of eight or ten or twelve all staying together; all doing their part. I don't know. I don't claim to know why exactly or from where this subtle, sustained glow comes from. But i do know, that very soon, there a chance i wont get to see it anymore, and I desperately want it to take hold of me and change me while there's still time.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

get jiggy with it

When the students dance, they dance. Three drums in the center, a tall skinny one, a medium sized one, and a wide, fat one that's barely off the ground. Three different beats, coalescing into one rhythm, one movement.

A multicolored wrap from chest to knee circles each body. A ruffled cloth hangs down from behind the waist. Their shoes are off, the ground is hard and dusty underfoot. The medium sized drum begins, establishing the beat and so the type of dance. The faster the beat, the more the girls move and jump and bob. the other two drums join in. by this time, the dance is established. A leader has emerged from the group and directs the rest of the group where to go and what to do. Form a line here, now circle around the drums, now break into two. If one was to watch only the upper torso, the dance might look commonplace, rather reserved even. But the hips and the feet tell a different story. The bare feet pound the earth in unison. Two steps here, one there, jump, now back together. As they slam back to earth, the dust rises. It's an ankle high fog at first, but the dance continues. The fog rises, and soon, the cloud of dust is part of the dance, commanded up by the drums. All this time, hips flay in wild ecstasy. The ruffled fabric vibrates back and forth at a quickened, continuous rate, the multicolored wraps and fabrics blending into one wave of sound.

It's emotion. Some of it is scripted and directed by the leader, but the looks of happiness on the girls' faces reveals the truer tale, a tale of losing one's self to a higher feeling. Why is it they take so much pleasure in dancing, I wonder? Why is it they're able to revel in the heat and motion of the drum when so many other people, who are seemingly more "well-to-do" than these students, just aren't? I wonder what it is they're celebrating exactly. i mean, I know the purpose of the occasion, but what's the origin of the emotion? Where is this joy coming from?

Before a while, the dancers exit. The leader comes back into the center, and in one final beat, dictates the drums when to cease. Under the setting sun, the dancers have sweat and grown tired. But oddly, I get the sense that it's for us, the spectator's sake, that the dancers have stopped. I get the feeling they could have kept going, gone on into night in fact. But they concede for our sake. I guess I could write that when the drums stop the dancers snap out of the hypnotic trance and back into reality. Perhaps though, they've been in reality this whole time.