“So how does a Ugandan party unfold?” we
asked, adding to the never-ending list of questions that we’ve peppered our
hosts with.
“Well,” said Bill
and Theresa patiently, “you’re about to find out.”
The party started on our very own taxi, a small bus with
Allah’s name displayed prominently on the windshield. We piled in: five
Americans, ten Ugandans and three crates of soda pop, taken from Salama
Springs’ larder, strapped to the top.
Getting from point A to point B is part of the adventure in
Uganda. This ride was no exception. There was singing, laughing, one police
stop and a good dose of general chaos. Throughout, the Ugandan passengers
launched into lengthy observations in Lugandan, punctuated by the word
“Mzungu” and laughter. Though Theresa tried, we were never able to get an
accurate translation of what they were saying about their Mzungu passengers.
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| The taxi - full of Salama Springs "family" and mzungus |
Finally, after the tarmac turned to red dirt, and then to a
meandering path into a forest, we arrived at Prossey’s. To say we were met with
a warm welcome would be an understatement. Kids ran alongside the taxi, adults
smiled broadly. “You are most welcome,” they told us.
 |
| We brought some little toys for the kids. |
And so the party began to unfold. Prossey, our hostess had
been cooking since five in the morning. It was delicious: thick matoke, g-nut
sauce and nakate (greens) prepared in banana leaves, chicken so locally sourced that
the feathers hadn’t blown off the ground. We tried (and failed) to eat Ugandan
portions. Even the kids took matoke mounds as big as their heads. Truly, the
Ugandan feast rivaled and even surpassed American Thanksgiving portions, with
all of us struggling to keep up.
 |
| Matoke making |
After the eating was finished, I considered crawling under
the shade of an avocado tree for a nap. But that would have meant missing a
trip to the bore hole to fill up twenty-five jerry-cans of water.
The entire
village assembled for the task. It was hot. Pot holes the size of small craters
lined the road. It was hard not to think of our own neighborhood in Idaho. The streets
are wide and clean, but walking on a winter’s day you might never see, not to
mention talk to, another person.
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| Kate taking her turn at pumping the water at the bore-hole |
The kids showed us how to pump the water. Ugandans cheered
as Elliot lifted a Jerry-can of water onto his head. We walked up the road with
our water, aware of the fact that the children in the village seemed less fatigued
than we did, and remembering that they made this trek once or twice a day,
every day.
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| Elliot carrying a jerry-can, to the delight of the Ugandans |
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| Showing Elliot how its done. Note the stickers. |
Theresa cut her cake. Everyone ate. There were some mzungu
pictures, featuring us, looking sweaty and maybe a little confused as we posed
in specific permutations—the mzungus with families, babies. The mzungus with
the children. Just Kate and Deborah with two girls. The only thing that finally put an end to the
pictures was the time of day; the sun was going down, which meant, we were
told, that the village would soon go entirely dark.
And so we drove homeward, rattling down the dirt road. The
soda crates were full of empties but we’d added a baby, four enormous, bulbous
and pungent jackfruit and three chickens (bought by the taxi driver during the
party) to the already-crowded cab.
“People of your skin color can be so proud,” said Sarah, the
woman I sat next to. “They won’t sit with us the way you are sitting. But you
carried the water. You are leaving soon, but they will be talking about you for
a long, long time.”
I think it’s safe to say that we will, too.
 |
| Two friends: Prossey and Theresa |
(This post is by daughter Kate - we'll miss our great visitors, Kate, Elliot and Deborah!)
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