A coworker/ friend of mine wants to introduce me to her cousin so we can hang out. Apparently she thinks we’ll get along. All I know is this woman is a Ugandan woman about 20 years older than me, who does Buddhist meditation, and once—back in Idi Amin’s era when he banned miniskirts--got arrested for wearing one anyway. I like her already.
There are so many people with good stories here—wish some days I had a video camera. I’d help make the film about Africa that actually depicts something useful. (I’m still perplexed about Uma Thurman starring in a new film about Northern Uganda.) First, I’d choose a protagonist who was actually African (imagine?) . . .then I’d let her/ him tell their story, preferably while sitting in front of one of the beautiful, turquoise or pink or green or yellow walls--with peeling paint, but full of life. Perhaps there would be hard stories in there to hear, because that is life. There would also be stories of joy, because that is one of the major impressions I get of the places I have seen in Africa—people who are not afraid, even when all is not perfect, to be joyful. The laughter that comes in the middle of the long bank line on a Saturday morning is pure, not ironic or sarcastic or mean—just people enjoying themselves, where they are.
August 23, 2009
August 23, 2009- Kampala- Calm after storm, with pink flowers and turquoise shutters
The rain out my kitchen window is a blessing. The farmers must be sighing relief over their cups of tea this afternoon, and for me it means I get to lose all ambition to go out today. Not that hard to lose, honestly. I just stand here and make stew, slice papaya with lime, and notice the way the thunderstorm sky looks on my neighbors pink, flowering trees, rust-tin roof and turquoise shutters. It's an amazing thing to slow down.
In the last two weeks, I slept in a tree house overlooking an elephant watering hole with no elephants, fought monkeys for my breakfast (and won this time), stared up at chimpanzees, red-tailed monkeys, grey cheeked Magabey's and a great blue turaco in the trees above me.
I toured microcredit programs in Western Uganda and asked tricky questions about how much women making more money translates into women having access to more money, and how much it means they work twice as hard to have more money to hand to their husbands. (Some promising things. . . perhaps, perhaps.)
I organized the content for a conference on violence against women and girls for the organization I used to work for, involving on-the-ground staff leading programs in 16 conflict-affected countries. Kenya Airways was on strike the day they were all supposed to arrive, but little by little as flights got re-routed, I greeted old friends from Liberia, Sierra Leone, Cote d'Ivoire and Jordan. In a light moment of a serious conference, women and men working in Central African Republic, Congo, Syria, Sudan, Burundi, Uganda and Iraq, among others, did puppet shows and dances that made me laugh so hard I almost peed my pants. My beautiful West African friends--Gertrude, Amie, and others--created a song and dance moves that rhymed and inspired in the span of 45 minutes.
I still sit here, watching the pink, flowering trees post-rain. Blessed today. Thinking still of people strong enough to put themselves in the midst of pain and not lose their capacity to sing, or to make people laugh. Thinking how that, great blue turacos, and tree houses teeming with monkeys are all a part of this place. God, some days I love Africa.
In the last two weeks, I slept in a tree house overlooking an elephant watering hole with no elephants, fought monkeys for my breakfast (and won this time), stared up at chimpanzees, red-tailed monkeys, grey cheeked Magabey's and a great blue turaco in the trees above me.
I toured microcredit programs in Western Uganda and asked tricky questions about how much women making more money translates into women having access to more money, and how much it means they work twice as hard to have more money to hand to their husbands. (Some promising things. . . perhaps, perhaps.)
I organized the content for a conference on violence against women and girls for the organization I used to work for, involving on-the-ground staff leading programs in 16 conflict-affected countries. Kenya Airways was on strike the day they were all supposed to arrive, but little by little as flights got re-routed, I greeted old friends from Liberia, Sierra Leone, Cote d'Ivoire and Jordan. In a light moment of a serious conference, women and men working in Central African Republic, Congo, Syria, Sudan, Burundi, Uganda and Iraq, among others, did puppet shows and dances that made me laugh so hard I almost peed my pants. My beautiful West African friends--Gertrude, Amie, and others--created a song and dance moves that rhymed and inspired in the span of 45 minutes.
I still sit here, watching the pink, flowering trees post-rain. Blessed today. Thinking still of people strong enough to put themselves in the midst of pain and not lose their capacity to sing, or to make people laugh. Thinking how that, great blue turacos, and tree houses teeming with monkeys are all a part of this place. God, some days I love Africa.
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