I don't really know what to write about my experiences and reflects in Uganda. Nothing really translates via computer. Nothing comes to mind when I try to type. This must be my dullest blog ever, even more dull than the ones I wrote as a hormone-imbalanced early teen (please, don't try to find them).
Megan is about to fly out, which means two things. First, she comes to Kampala, and since we're also in town (due to my sickness which threw me out of the village), we get to hang out with her. Second, and much less important, I get to borrow an internet stick to make this post.
Toto explained to me last week that work should be shared, which meant that I had an excuse to force her to allow me to do field work. I was thrilled to do something physical on a consistent basis, especially after reading literature of Tolstoy and Jane Addams who recognize raising local food as virtually the highest, most honorable duty of the human being.
What have I done here? Not much. Have I contributed? Probably not. Is Uganda any different now that I came? Not really. What about Atuura or Mukono or Muyenga? Not the least bit.
But anyway, I have enjoyed my well-needed rest and the company of people I now know better. I have come to terms with a lot of my convictions and on the days I have worked in some capacity, my peace is full. My favorite thing to do is watch Ugandans solve Ugandan problems and realize that I am, for the most part, useless. I recall in The Great Divorce (really, I don't usually reference CS Lewis that much) when a man from hell refuses to stay in heaven because he is not needed there. He is more contented to be important in hell. Truly, there can be no greater comfort than knowing the world doesn't depend on us.
At the same time, I recognize a sense of belonging that I can live freely and relatively at peace by doing what I love. Sometimes I like getting the high of feeling good about a societal contribution. Usually the next day, I like getting the high thee I could vanish from the earth and it would still spin properly.
I try, I really do, not to live as a foolishly upwardly-mobile college kid who wants to have a home other than that of middle-class America. So I've tried to develop a lifestyle of living like the people around me and always being in situations where that means the economic norm is sub-middle-class. Unfortunately for me, sometimes people around me want me to (expect me to?) live in the western middle class, and I can't do much to refuse such an offer if they are offended at my leaving such a position. I sneak away from them here and there in an attempt to break their stereotype so that they may treat "my kind" in a different manner in the future, but ultimately, I am tied to others' expectations.
On another note, I ate enchiladas the other day and they were totally worth the 30-minute trip to the toilet in the middle of the night. So, so, so good. My body was craving cheese and several nutrients which I'm sure were running low. Though typically after eating western food once, I feel like I shouldn't eat it again for awhile. It's not from the ground, the water, or a tree. Is it food? Was it made in a laboratory?
In Kampala, they are taking terrorism seriously. I go to church and they pat me down. I go to the outdoor taxi park staircase and they check my bag. I go into a shop or restaurant or campus and the guard asks for ID. The guard at the compound in Muyenga, though he carries a gun like most of them, at least trusts me enough not to check me each time I come home. Guards. Policemen. Guns. What a joke. Soon someone will take a bomb a kill people somewhere in this world, if not Uganda. Why do I call that normal? Why don't I call "an eye for an eye" stupidity?
Wow, I'm rambling about anything I want to. I should just sleep. Hope that wasn't entirely worthless for you to read. Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment