On our way home ...

We leave in about an hour for the Entebbe airport, then a late, late, late flight to Amsterdam, and eventually home to Seattle. Swam twice today; we know we will miss the pool and the sun. And our friends, all of whom have showered us with greetings for the people back home today. And family, of course; Eric and Asia (and Bena, Asia's sister) put on a great lunch for us, then lots of hugs and reluctant goodbyes. We have had such a good time with them.

As usual, we weed out our clothes, etc. when we leave here and hand out things we no longer need. Bill threw away two pairs of underwear this a.m. as too tattered for anyone. But then later he saw them drying out on the grass (they lay the clothes out on the grass, bushes, etc. to dry; often I would see an entire outline of Bill - but without Bill - laying out on the grass beneath our flat). Apparently they were too valuable to waste.

Last night, our friend Kenneth who accompanied us all over Ugandan for New Vision trainings brought his whole family here to say goodbye. The kids are so cute. Daughter Martha asked, "What tribe are you?" We told her we are Americans and don't have a tribe. So she thought awhile and then said, "So you only speak English?" This from a 10-year-old who speaks at least two languages, probably three and a smattering of other tribal languages.

So, after many adventures and a lot of satisfying work, we leave once again. It's hard to leave the people who have been so good to us and become great friends, but we are so excited to go home. The push and pull of travel.

Why are we all here?

Every once in awhile we have conversations with other ex-pats. We all commiserate on things like the bugs, the garbage along the roads, the slow walkers in front of us. Some of our friends are anxious to go home, others consider this home.

Our friend Chris was crossing Jinja Road when he snapped a muscle in his calf, ouch. He has been here for three years and is in no hurry to get home. He's afraid, a bit, of being bored, worried about how he will handle things when he is back in the real world. (Hmm, which IS the real world?)

We think our friend William, erstwhile of BeadforLife and now working at another NGO, says it best. William is from the US and has been here for almost 20 years (!). He's planning to retire to Tanzania where he owns some land and has built a little house. When we ask him why he is still here, he says, "I am addicted to chaos." He's serious. And we understand it. There is something about the frantic movement, constantly having to be on your toes, that keeps you, well, alive.

This last Sunday I went to church, yes it's true. I love the Luganda Mass at Our Lady of Africa up the hill. On the way home I attached myself to a young man crossing the street (that's the best way to get across! Stick with the locals). He had a bulletin from the church in his hand. As we walked along, straddling drainage ditches and piles of plastic garbage, he said, "Welcome back from prayers." And then we chatted about things until I turned in our gate. He didn't want anything from me, just liked talking.

Almost every time we head out into the Kampala world, there is - yes - chaos, but also this attachment to another human being. What will it be like when we are home in a week?

Ah, Uganda ...

 This pix is courtesy of Eric, who went kayaking on the Nile and on the way back saw this sign. So what the heck is going on here? Fortunately we have our native guide, Asia, to tell us. But she says she has no idea. Except that she thinks there is a theory that you can avoid HIV better by not having sex in the morning. We'll let you know if we hear the real story. In the meantime, the sign stands. Uganda is not shy about its sexuality messaging.

Eric brought a bunch of Asia's nieces and nephews to the Salama Springs pool while we were on Lamu. Sorry we missed it; it looks like fun!

Tonight we hung up some Christmas lights on our little shelves and played U2 singing Beautiful Day, and someone else singing If I Had a Milllion Dollars ... our form of Christmas carols. You wouldn't really know it's Christmas time here. A few stores have some forlorn plastic trees, and they play these really cheesy carols that drive you out the doors. Otherwise, it's all sun and tank tops and fig trees. Christmas means more about going home to your village - which we plan to do in less than two weeks! Queen Anne village, here we come!

A few days in paradise


  Last Saturday night found us sitting on cushions, having dinner by candlelight and enjoying the mild fresh air on the rooftop of a lovely small hotel on Lamu Island, off the north coast of Kenya. Sweet-smelling light brown reed mats lined the floor and stars filled the sky, our old friend Orion lying on his back in a position we’re not accustomed to from our northern hemisphere travels.


Red snapper for sale!



Lamu is not only gorgeous – palm-dotted sand dunes, long white beaches, brilliant red sunsets, and no vehicles anywhere – but culturally fascinating. First settled hundreds of years ago by Arab traders who worked the Indian Ocean coast, creating the Swahili language and ethnic community in the process, today it is jumbled mix of Arab and African traditions, where men in flowing white robes and women with only their eyes visible through slits in their black burka-style garments mingle comfortably with Kenyans from Nairobi, mzungu tourists from Germany and France, and sometimes, the likes of Princess Caroline of Monaco and others of the super-rich who discovered this place long ago and jet in and out.

It is an island populated almost entirely along the coastline, its waters filled with boats of every description, especially traditional, beautifully decorated open sailboats known as dhaos that head out into the ocean to bring back tuna and other deep-sea fish, or carry visitors like us on sunset cruises in the channels separating the various islands of this archipelago.

 

The two villages of Lamu are mazes of narrow streets and alleys lined with shops and glimpses through ornate wood-carved doors into homes with large interior courtyards open to the sky. Travel between the villages is via a swarming fleet of boats, independently operated and with names like Beyonce, or I’ll Be Back, or Hapo Chacha. At night, Theresa and I fell asleep to the sounds of the boat engines and the captains yelling back and forth to each other outside the open windows of our waterfront guest house; in the morning we watched from our balcony as people bought the fresh catch of the day straight from the fisherman.

 There is much more to say, not all of it glowing (the trip home was a nightmare, though already receding in memory), but it will have to wait. Lamu was a welcome escape, the blazing sun creating a languid atmosphere and the noise, pollution and traffic of Kampala blessedly absent. (Although the droppings from the ubiquitous donkeys provided their own special aromas and walking hazards.) Watch for a link to the Picasa album soon!