Day 3 Part 1: Memory Lane

"Each emotional injury leaves behind its mark. Sometimes they come tumbling out like shadows in the dark"- Neil Peart, 'Scars'

My eyes open into slits that admit a murky blue light into my consciousness. For a few seconds this sensory input is indistinguishable from the bizarre atmospherics of the near-psychedelic dreams that had me tossing and turning throughout the night. Several more seconds elapse before I come to grips with exactly where I am. I'm in a small room. A hut. I'm in a mud brick hut on a hilltop in sub-Saharan Africa. I am on an adventure far, far from home. As if to emphasize this realization, the reedy voice of the local mosque's muezzin rides the early-morning mist through my window, exhorting the faithful to prayer. I tip myself out of bed and am temporarily stymied by the nearly invisible mosquito net before standing to my full height with a yawn and a creaky stretch. 

 At this elevation and with the breeze that continually buffets SINA's hilltop, overnight temperatures can drop as low as the mid 50s. There is a chill in the air and I am gripped by an involuntary shiver as I splash some water on my face. The hut's cement slab floor feels warm and comforting through the soles of my bare feet. I refill my canteen from a five liter jug of Rwenzori spring water and swallow a doxycycline and two Saccharomyces boulardii[38] capsules. Several roosters begin crowing in the distance as the blue pre-dawn light slowly takes on a reddish hue. I pad over to the small goatskin covered table and snap a few bananas off from the bunch that rests there. A small cloud of fruit flies jump into the air and begin buzzing around my face, clearly upset by the intrusion. I slip my flip-flops on and head out the door to enjoy another beautiful African sunrise.

 When the sun has risen fully above the eastern hills and the full strength of the birds' exuberant morning chorus fills the air; I return to my hut and dress for another long walk down Mpigi road. My excitement has been growing as I've gotten more comfortable with this new environment. I have survived three days with little more than my wits (such as they are), the contents of one rolling suitcase, and a backpack mostly filled with camera gear. Now, as I once again walk the red dirt road with the sun broiling the right side of my face, I am electrified by the variety and boisterousness of the bird life all around me.

 My head is on a swivel as I constantly scan the bushes, trees, and horizon for new species to photograph. I pause to focus on a large bird in a musizi tree and hear several pairs of feet come to a staggered halt behind me. My crowd of children has reassembled; seemingly through spontaneous generation. I hear muffled giggles as they watch me track the flight of a hornbill. When I turn to look at them, they do their best to screw their faces into expressions of stoicism but the corners of their small mouths keep reaching skyward and they all soon erupt into barely restrained laughter. I smile and shrug my shoulders at them before pressing on.

 Another kilometer passes under my dusty shoes and I come to a small patch of maize in front of a dilapidated homestead. A finch-sized yellow bird with a black mask and red eyes is furiously pulling cornsilk from the many large cobs on the plants. Its movements are frenetic and I am having a difficult time focusing for a shot. When the bird's bill is full of cornsilk and long blades of dry grass, it lifts off precipitously and flies over the road, disappearing behind a rise. I follow the bird's path, looking through my lens, and I curse softly under my breath. The children are in hysterics. The bird returns and repeats the process at intervals of about 90 seconds. I spend ten minutes trying to get a serviceable shot while the children laugh uncontrollably and pantomime my frustrated actions.

 "Mzungu..." a boy of about six years old steps away from his cohort and looks at me earnestly.
 "Good morning," I say, smiling, "I hope your friends are enjoying the show. I'm trying to get a decent picture of this bird. I think it's some species of weaver."
 "Come with me," the boy says in heavily accented English, "there are many birds down here." I follow the young man about 20 meters to the opening of a small goat path in the lush green scrub that lines the road. He continues down the path a few steps before turning around the see if I'm following.
 "Are you sure it's ok that I follow you down here?" I say, a little anxious about how the locals might experience this.
 "Yes. Is ok," says the boy, turning around and continuing down the path. I start to follow.
 "Does your family live down here?" I ask.
 "Yes, my family stays here," he says without turning around.
 "Are they going to be upset that some mzungu is walking around their property with their son?"
 "No, is ok. Come, come," he says.

 The path is barely wider than my shoulders and the jungle-like greenery is shedding the morning dew onto my clothing. The boy is moving at a decent clip and I'm having a hard time keeping up with him. He walks right under overhanging branches that I have to move away from my face. Scores of large grasshoppers and elaborately patterned butterflies leap out of the foliage as I move the encroaching branches around my body.
 "Do you see many snakes on this path?" I ask, genuinely interested in photographing as many different species as possible.
 "Sometimes" is the boy's simple reply as we press on, stepping over a river of angry-looking large black ants.

 After a good five minutes the path widens into a clearing. As we begin to emerge, the air is filled with the raucous sound of a large flock of birds. The boy stops in his tracks and points to a tall, nearly leafless tree, in which are perched what must be about one hundred black headed weavers. Their harsh calls pierce the mid-morning tranquility with a sound like hundreds of balloons being rubbed together. I catch the boy's face breaking into a prideful grin as I lift the camera to my eye.
 "See? Many birds," he says, obviously satisfied.
 "Wow! You are the best bird guide I've met in all of Uganda!" I beam. "So that's why you kids were laughing at me. I must've looked like an idiot chasing that one bird all over the road when there are hundreds of them right here!"
 "Many birds!" the boy exclaims through a heartwarming laugh.

 The low rumbling growl of a dog breaks my reverie and I turn over my left shoulder to see what must be the boy's family arrayed in the yard of a woebegone homestead. There are two adult males, two adult women, and a small group of children. The women are working in the yard, attending to various agricultural tasks. The men seem to be taking a break or simply supervising.
 "Good morning," I simper, "I was taking pictures of birds on the road up there and this young man lead me right to this tree. Look at all these birds!" I give my best effort at a comfortable, friendly, non-threatening smile but I fear the result looks like an extra deranged Gomez Addams.
 "Take a picture of the dog," the man closest to me sneers. He is holding a giant section of jackfruit and regarding me with a look of undisguised hatred. Behind him, the other adult male is leaning casually on a long handled garden hoe and attempting to burn my face off with his eyes.

 I raise my camera and fire off a shot, knowing that the distance is way too close for my 400mm lens. The first man's eyes follow my right hand as I reach into my pocket and extract a wad of small denomination bills, stashed there for just such an occasion.
 "Here," I say, "just a little something for the trouble." I step forward across the path and hand the bills to the man with my arm extended to preserve as much space as possible should this thing go sideways [39]. The man doesn't break eye contact for a second and in one fluid motion he snatches the money, pockets it, and returns to picking at his jackfruit quarter. The entire scene seems frozen in time as everyone has stopped moving and are now all staring directly at me. The children look particularly worried and I take this as my cue to depart. Nobody moves a muscle as I backtrack to the far side of the path. I cannot resist pulling out my phone to take a picture of this wax-museum tableau. I hold the phone up at eye level and snap the picture. They all remain frozen.

"Ok great! Listen, it was very nice to meet you all but there are a bunch of people who are going to wonder where I am if I don't get back soon. You all have a nice day!" I turn on one heel and start rapidly up the narrow path. The dog issues a few "and stay out!" barks in farewell to this strange traveler who has invaded his territory. This seems to break the spell and I hear the murmurs of conversation rekindle as I pick up the pace. The sun breaks through the patchy cloud cover as I emerge back onto the road. Its burning intensity coupled with what felt an awful lot like a near-miss prompts me to call it a day and head back to my village. The road will still be there tomorrow morning.

 I pause frequently on my way back, scanning the brush that lines the road for snakes and managing my disappointment at not finding any. The locals, especially children, seem to find the appearance of a mzungu taking daily walks along this rural dirt road to be totally inexplicable. I am once again tailed by a coterie of elementary-school age children who, as I'm becoming used to, are making great sport out of my antics. Now and then, I stop, take a knee, and show the kids the photographs I've just taken on my camera's small screen. They variously giggle, howl with laughter, and stare wide-eyed at the images. The amount of attention I'm receiving from the children is—despite the fact that I am thousands of miles from home without a reliable means of communication—the single most disconcerting element of this adventure so far.

 My mind drifts to philosophical shores as I continue the hike. Trite platitudes such as "everything happens for a reason" and "God only gives us what we can handle" have never really held much meaning for me. I am deeply interested in exploring the spiritual dimension of our human experience but, in my most honest inner dialogue, I remain essentially agnostic about any broader meaning. There is something about the anonymity of being so far from home that has given me a sense of spaciousness; a feeling that I can ruminate on these ideas with more objectivity and discernment than is possible while under the gravitational pull of life back in the States. In this new context, I am increasingly given to feel that certain puzzle pieces of my life experience are assembling themselves into a coherent narrative. What is this life? Are we here to learn certain lessons as many spiritual traditions would have it? Do the quotidian events of our lives have a greater significance? Are we simply playing out the karma of our own past experiences and actions?

 I pause in the shade of a mango tree to drink the last of my water. Across the road there is a small crew of workmen laying out the foundation of a new building. They are pounding wooden stakes and short lengths of rebar into the red earth and stringing mason line between them. Ping. Ping. A very dark skinned Ugandan man is hammering on a section of steel pipe with the back of a short handled shovel. Ping. Ping. The sound burrows deep into my subconscious and awakens disjointed vignettes from my childhood. I am three years old. I am sitting at the kitchen table in my parents' second floor apartment. Ping. Ping. I am playing with many different-colored hunks of modeling clay from a large plastic bag on the table. Ping. Ping. A thunderstorm has kicked up the wind and a heavy rain is lashing the window. Ping. Ping. Our landlord's sailboat rests on a trailer outside the window. A brass snap on the boat's halyard is pinging loudly against the aluminum mast. Ping. Ping. My parents are screaming at each other. I reach into the bag of clay and feel something wet. My tiny hand pulls out a magic marker that had exploded in the bag. Ping. Ping. I have made a lumpy green dragon from the clay with my ink covered hands. Ping. Ping. The dragon, with all of the fury my three year old mind can impute to it, attacks the palisade of a castle made of Carling Black Label beer cans. Ping. Ping. CRASH! My precocious giggling resounds in a new silence. My mother turns from my father and fixes her eyes on me with a look of unmitigated rage. My hands and face, the tablecloth, and everything else that was in my reach are covered in tiny black handprints. Not all of the castle's beer cans were fully empty. I have made a huge mess. My mother alerts me to this fact by screaming in my face and upending the bag of clay pieces onto my lap. Ping. Ping. The screaming continues and intensifies. She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. My father looks at me, lowers his eyes, and leaves the room.

 The sound of a boda moving through gear changes dopplers toward me on the red dirt road. As it crosses my path, the small two-stroke engine backfires loudly and dissolves my involuntary trip down memory lane. I take a deep breath, inhaling the complex African air through my nose. I let it out and start walking again, the rhythmic ping ping of the workmen's labors receding in the background. My crowd of child followers has inexplicably dispersed. For the first time in my life, I am beginning to assemble these puzzle pieces, these clues that explain my attractions and repulsions. There is a reason I have such a difficult time interacting with children. Can it be an accident that I have come so far to be confronted with this in a way that I cannot ignore, escape, or step around?

  I turn left and begin the steep walk up the driveway that leads to SINA. Several children are laughing as they swing to impressive heights on Kaleke Kasome's rusty swingset. I wave to a woman who is draping a rug over the Children's Center's iron railing.
 "Good morning," I say, "Is Hasa around?" He had invited me to visit and use his wifi any time he was at Kaleke Kasome—which is almost constantly.
 "Good morning," the woman replies, "Hasa left for the city. He should be back in a day or two."
  Of course.
 "Ok, thank you. Have a good day," I say.
 "You also!"
I continue, sweating and dusty, up the driveway. I have to find Tony or Majo and figure this whole communication issue out. I am having a harder time than I thought I would adjusting to being unable to communicate with my wife, with Brendan in Kampala, or with anyone else for that matter. I am beginning to wonder if there is some design in this situation. Agnostic as I am, I cannot help but feel that these challenges are—perish the thought—happening for a reason.

~~~

African pied hornbill.

Black headed weaver.

Many birds.

Contrary to the boy's story, his family was not happy to see me in the least. 

Striped kingfisher with angry black ant.

Speckled mousebird in a mango tree.

_____
[38]: This is an excellent probiotic strain for Third World travel. It aggressively colonizes the gut, grabbing many of the resources that more sinister bacteria would use to give one a screaming case of running stomach.

[39]: 100% of injuries in hand-to-hand combat situations are a direct result of being too close!

Day 2 Part 2: Settling In

"Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself." - Dakota Meyer

My watch reads 10:05 as I shake the dust off and begin the walk back to my hut. I take my phone out and scan for a wifi signal. No joy. I had repeatedly and redundantly prepared my wife for the possibility that I would be incommunicado for several days, if not the entire duration of the trip. Though SINA's AirBnb page had advertised wireless internet in the list of amenities (others included "free parking" and "pets allowed"; running water was notably absent), I held no illusions that Uganda's underdeveloped electrical grid would support this luxury. So far, sadly, my pessimism was proving correct. Despite having entreated my wife not to "freak out" if she doesn't hear from me; I know that she must be going through some level of anxiety during this period of radio silence.

 Several slender women with very long braids are walking an intercept-course as I approach the rickety wooden observation platform that serves as the gate to the mini-village containing my hut. One of them waves casually while giving me a Mona Lisa smile.
 "Good morning Mike," she says evenly, "are you getting settled?" I deduce that this is Majo, the woman who had unlocked my hut and given me the basic tour before remanding me to the custody of the bubbly and persistent Monica. Since I had met her while under duress and in near total darkness, I can't be quite sure that this is the same person—especially given the prevalence of her particular hairstyle among SINA's female population.
 "Yes, I'm settling in, thank you. Just got back from a long walk. I'm so sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name," I say, self-impressed with my quick thinking.
 "My name is Majo," she says with a slight chuckle. "Please let me know if you need anything."
 "That's right, Majo, of course. Thanks very much, actually I'm wondering when the wifi will be back up." She looks at me with a totally unreadable expression and says "Soon" while maintaining eye contact.

 Just then a young man approaches, standing respectfully to the side as if waiting his turn to speak with Majo. There is a deferent quality to his body language that makes me wonder exactly what Majo's position is within the SINA organization.
 "Ah, yes, " Majo says smoothly as her chin inclines toward the young man, "Mike, this is Tony. He is in charge of fixing the wifi." I extend my hand causing Tony to step forward to take up the distance. He gives me and enthusiastic African handshake but says nothing.
 "Tony," I say, "nice to meet you. When do you think the wifi will be back. I'm not just jonesing to send a tweet, it's my only means of communication with my wife back in America." Tony looks at me quizzically and says "Oh, it will be back soon." He points to a large junction box, about the size of a chest freezer, that is near the giant brick building with the garish green trim.
 "I am just coming from working on it," says Tony, "Should be maybe two-three hours." Several large panels have been removed from the junction box and, even at this distance, I can see a rats' nest of wires protruding from the opening. It looks like three hours worth of work would be needed just to button this mess back up so I'm not about to hold my breath. Tony then takes the opportunity to tell Majo whatever he had come to say. They go back and fourth several times in Luganda. The language is smooth and mellifluous with lots of voiced consonants and a conspicuous absence of final R sounds which, I suppose, gives rise to the non-rhotic accent that is heard when Ugandans speak English. "Ok. See you," Tony says as he trots off toward his project.

 Majo continues looking at me and there's just something about her expression that I can't put my finger on. It's a kind of calm-knowing that wafts from her like a fragrance. It is the mien of someone who has seen much, endured much, and has come through it with a sort of unflappability that is very difficult to fake. "If you come to my house in one hour, you can use my wifi to send your wife a message," she says smoothly. She gestures vaguely to the north and says "It's the last one in the corner". I thank her and advise that I'll see her again in one hour. "Mmmm," she utters through a slight smile as she and her associate amble away.

 I continue crunching my way back to my hut on the gravel path. As I get closer, I glance over at the larger, more well-appointed hut that I was standing behind this morning during the sunrise. The front door of the hut is open and two women are emerging. A tall Ugandan woman whose hair is wrapped in a kerchief steps out holding a bucket and a mop. She is closely followed by an olive skinned mzungu woman with brown hair who is wearing a look of acute displeasure on her face. I cannot make out the words they are saying to each other but the tone indicates a minor dispute. They depart each other's company as I turn the key in my hut's large brass padlock. I push the door open and flip the light switch as I unshoulder my backpack. The single lightbulb hanging in the middle of the hut's conical roof remains inert. Near my bed there is a piece of plastic conduit attached to the mud brick wall that feeds a four-outlet electrical box. On a whim, I plug my USA-UG voltage adapter into an outlet and connect my phone charger. I am disappointed—but not surprised—to see that the outlet is just as inert as the lightbulb.

 Someone is walking up the gravel pathway in front of my hut as I take my dusty shoes off. I stick my head through the open doorway just as the brown haired mzungu woman is walking past. She stops and gives me a smile.
 "Good morning," I say, "I'm Mike."
 "Good morning, Mike," the woman says through a thick Spanish accent, "My name is Marina. Pleased to meet you. Does the electricity work in your hut?"
 "No. Yours?"
 "No," she says, her brow falling in disappointment, "This is a problem for me. My phone is about to die".
 "I might be able to help you with that," I say as I root through my backpack and produce a small blue power bank phone charger. "I have several of these," I understate, "you're welcome to borrow this one." Marina makes a few demurring noises but I reassure her by relating that I actually stole the power bank from work [37].
 "Ok well... thank you," she says, smiling again. We exchange some basic introductory notes and though the exchange is quite pleasant, I feel we both walk away not truly understanding the other's situation or reason for being so far from home. I am an amateur photographer who is obsessed with birds and works in a mental hospital. She is an itinerant investigator and developer of alternative education programs. We wish each other well for the day and part company,

 I step back into the cool darkness of my hut. The late morning sun, only able to enter through the partially open door and the hut's two small windows, grants a dim glow to the damp unlit space. I catch a glimpse of my grimy visage in the small mirror hung next to the door as I peel off my sweat-soaked shirt. The red dust of the road has coagulated into the creases of my face giving me a ruddy and fearsome appearance. I decide a trip to the bathing stall in the outbuilding which contains the toilets is in order. Hefting the nearly full 25 liter yellow jerry can, I pour about a quarter of its contents into my small blue bucket. I rummage through the hygiene section of my bag and produce a washcloth, a small nalgene bottle full of Dr. Bronner's tea tree oil soap, and a microfiber backpacking towel. I dress for the occasion before hauling all of this gear out of the hut and snapping the padlock shut.

 I must look the epitome of a tourist in my shorts, button-up collared shirt, and flip-flops. The sun grinds angrily into my pale bald head—an electric clipper with a #0 guard having taken what hair nature had not already dispensed with—as I walk carefully to the outbuilding so as not to spill my bucket of rainwater. The doors to the bathing and toilet stalls are swinging in the breeze, creaking, groaning, slamming, and generally raising a ruckus. I seal myself inside the second stall and begin the grim process of bathing from a bucket. The water is somewhere between bracing and frigid and I emit a few involuntary gasps as I give myself a good soaking. I soon discover that bathing from a single bucket without the luxury of running water requires a lot more forethought and planning than one might expect. There is a delicate balance to be achieved across the various stages of wetting, soaping, and rinsing if one isn't to be rinsing off with a bucket of suds.

 This process along with the bite of the icy water is reminding me of exactly how much of my ordinary life in America I've taken for granted. A "quick shower" is a convenience that is not really possible with a bucket and washcloth. I shiver slightly and as I towel off, I think that if running water is a luxury then hot running water is damn near opulent. I am getting just the merest taste of what the activities of daily life entail for most of the world's population. Stripped of the steamy hot water belting down from my home's high-pressure shower head, removed from the well heated solace of my own bathroom, and away from the soft bathmat that keeps the water from pooling on our hardwood floors, I somehow feel cleaner than I ever have. But lest I begin to gloat in this perceived austerity, I silently remind myself that clean clothes, the privacy of this space, and the very bucket itself mark me as a rich man compared with millions who lack these simple comforts.

 Glancing at my watch, I discover that I'll have just enough time to dress and get over to Majo's residence and avail myself of her personal wifi. Back at the hut, I throw on a pair of shorts and a fresh shirt before locking-up once again and beginning the short trek to the north end of the compound. Lizards of various sizes and colors are scampering over the gravel pathways and rough rock foundations of the larger huts as I walk out into the open field in the center of SINA's property. There are lots of people engaged in various projects, tasks, and conversations. I feel their collective gaze as I walk past the small clusters of people. There are several mzungus at SINA but mine is clearly a new face. By and by, I approach the northern corner and discover that, tucked behind a few very large huts, is a row of square mud brick buildings with red standing-seam roofs.

 A young Ugandan man, dressed in immaculate dark grey jeans and a matching sweater (current temperature: 88 degrees F) seems to be heading in the same direction. He smiles broadly at me and introduces himself as Edrick. I am now becoming an expert in delivering the African handshake and the wattage of Edrick's smile increases by half upon its completion. I ask if he knows which of these small buildings is Majo's and he points to the one on the far end. I thank him and start walking toward the tiny dwelling. "Mike, please find me when you have a minute and I will tell you all about my project," he says as I depart.
 "Ok," I shout back, not really understanding but having faith that all will become clear as I continue to settle in to this community.

 The gravel pathway leading to Majo's door drops about one meter in height over its short length and I begin to slide on my heals. The resulting noise and involuntary exclamation obviate the need for announcing my arrival. Majo's door is open but in its place hangs an elaborately patterned and probably hand-woven curtain. A dark-skinned hand emerges from within and parts the curtain.
 "Mike," Majo says, "you have arrived exactly one hour since we last spoke."
 "Well, I do try to be punctual," I say, a little nervously. Majo smiles and suppresses a chuckle. She tilts her head back inside the dwelling and says something in Luganda which elicits hearty laughter from several distinct voices within.
 "What's the joke?" I ask, finding the exchange funny on its own merits even without a translation.
 "In Uganda, we are almost never exactly on time. If a meeting is really important, sometimes we say 'Meet me at one o'clock: white people time'. This is what we were laughing about." Majo's tone and demeanor remain as even as ever, belying little of her internal thought process.

 Though the organization's wifi is still down, Majo uses her phone to create a hotspot for me and gives me the password. After connecting, it takes several minutes for my phone to stop bleeping with the many well-wishing texts and facebook messages that my friends had begun sending the night of my departure. I am able to bang out a few quick messages to my wife, letting her know that I've arrived safe and sound and I'm having a good time. I remind her that comms remain spotty at best and advise her not to be alarmed if she doesn't hear from me for several days. It's somewhere in the neighborhood of 4am back in Vermont so I am not discouraged when she does not reply. I thank Majo profusely and apologize for being curt with her on the evening of my arrival.

 "By the way," I say, "how do meals work at SINA? Where do I go, who do I pay...that kind of thing"
 "Meals are simple dishes of rice and beans, sometimes there is chicken if you ask in advance," she says smoothly, "You will have your meals right here in my home. They are 15,000 shillings each. You can pay at the end of your stay."
 "Ok great," I say, a little taken aback, "When should I come back?"
 "Lunch is at one o'clock," she says, the corners of her mouth turning upward as she subdues a mirthful smile.
 "White people time?" I ask, giving her a conspiratorial smirk.
 "Sometime around one o'clock will be fine."

 I decide to spend the intervening time between now and lunch continuing the project of getting my hut organized. On my way back, I encounter Marina again and we chat briefly. She tells me that when she arrived, the toilet in her hut's bathroom was splattered liberally with the results of the last occupant's case of running stomach. When she asked for it to be cleaned, the woman arrived with little more than a bucket of plain water and a rag. Hoping for more of a disinfecting-style cleaning, a brief disagreement ensued. Marina ultimately prevailed and my first glimpse of her and the housekeeping woman emerging from the hut represented the conclusion of the episode.

 The next hour or so is consumed with the project of organizing clothing, camera gear, hygiene supplies, and double-checking the readiness of a few survival essentials in my backpack and belt pack [38]. In preparation for the thunderstorms that are predicted for nearly every afternoon of my stay, I use some 550 cord from my pack to string up a clothesline inside the hut. I take the opportunity to rinse and wring-out a few of the bandannas I had saturated with sweat during the morning walk. My watch beeps once to indicate the hour. One o'clock. It'll take me about five minutes to walk back to Majo's and that should put me a little bit between white people time and UG time. I head out the door.

 When I reach Majo's house I instantly notice the pile of shoes right outside the front door. It seems that others have gathered here for lunch as well. My knocking on the mud brick door jamb is all but inaudible so I offer a tentative "hellooo" in a bit of a singsong. "Come in, come in," says a female voice of much higher pitch than Majo's. I kick off my flip flops and part the curtain. As my eyes adjust to the dim interior lighting, I see a total of six people in this tiny room. Three are seated on a short couch, two are perched on the arms of a large upholstered chair at right angles to the couch, and a small child of no more than two years old is giggling uncontrollably as she rolls around on the floor.

 "Hi, I'm Mike," I announce, "Majo told me to come here at one o'clock for lunch."
 "Yes, yes," says the slender female whose voice beckoned me inside, "We are just now sitting down to eat. My name is Faith". She issues a few rapid fire directives in Luganda and the right-most person of the three that are seated on the couch gets up and tells me to sit. I shoe-horn myself in next to the other two on the tiny couch. Immediately, the small child begins crawling and rolling around over my feet and between my ankles. Faith takes a plate from a stack on the small kitchen counter and begins spooning rice and beans liberally onto it. There is a roasted chicken sitting on a cutting board and Faith uses an absurdly large knife to remove one of the drumsticks which she also places on the plate. When she hands me the plate, the others get up and begin serving themselves.

 A young man who is seated on the armrest of the large chair next to the couch gets up and turns on the TV in front of the couch. "The electricity is back, but the wifi isn't working yet," he says.
 "Yeah, I was just talking with Tony and he said it would be a few more hours," I reply, feeling satisfied that this will be news to the group. Immediately upon my mention of the name Tony, everyone begins to laugh uproariously. The child, still treating my lower legs like playground equipment, squeals with delight.
 "Mike!" the young man says with an incredulous grin, "I am Tony!"
 "Do you have trouble telling black people apart?" asks Faith with a laugh.
 "Oh my god, I am so sorry, Tony," I say, horrified. "I have met so many people and everything here is so new to me  and I didn't really sleep last night and—"
 "It is no problem," Tony interrupts, "We are not offended." It takes a few seconds for the laughter to die down. I am quite sure my face is now as red as the brick walls. As I dig into the meal, I wonder what this faux-pas says about my own unconscious attitudes. Is it cultural conditioning that has me at pains to remember these smiling and genial faces? Is it simply a lack of exposure and familiarity? Am I a racist whose attitudes are so deeply closeted that they are even hidden from myself? Whatever the case may be, it is clear that my discomfort over the incident has a much longer half-life than theirs. I am just not sure how to feel about all of this but the conversation moves forward so I put these deliberations aside for the time being.

 We all continue to chat amiably as I wolf down the rice and beans, only now realizing how hungry I am. The chicken drumstick is a little dry and a little gelatinous but I eat it with great relish so as not to further offend my hosts. It is extremely warm inside the small dwelling and I am sweating profusely. My hosts are dressed in long sleeved shirts and long pants and not one among them has the faintest suggestion of perspiration. I am finding the whole experience to be very disconcerting. I am squeezed uncomfortably on a tiny couch with two other adults, there is a toddler crawling all over me, I have just embarrassed myself in a racially insensitive way, and I am sweating through my clothes. Way out of the comfort zone.

 They ask many questions and seem bemused with my responses. Of particular comedic value is my interest in photographing birds. My hosts seem to find it hilarious that I would have traveled many thousands of miles just to take pictures of wildlife that they find as commonplace as squirrels and robins would be in the States. The topic of marriage and family provides another node of incongruency. They are absolutely gobsmacked that I have been married for many years but do not have any children. At first, they dance delicately around this topic, fearing that there may be some medical reason for this absurdity; but once it is clear that this is the result of a personal choice, they cannot hide their incredulity. "Why would you not want children?" several of them ask simultaneously. My standard answer of "I can barely take care of myself" immediately sounds callous and vain as I hear my own words in this new context. Finishing my meal, I thank the group sincerely and prepare to take my leave. We all seem to have come to the agreement that our cultures are very different. As I slip my flip-flops back on, Faith says "You will come back for dinner?". I turn back to the doorway to face her and, patting my stomach with both hands, say "Actually, no. I think I'm all set for the day now. I might as well loose some weight while I'm here." She laughs and waves dismissively, receding back into the dwelling.

 I trek through the blazing mid-day sun back to my hut. Unlocking the padlock and pushing the door open, I flip the light switch and see my forlorn little light bulb illuminate for the first time. I immediately begin charging my phone and camera battery at the wall outlet, not having confidence that the electricity will hold out for any length of time. I decide to spend some time recording my experiences in my journal and going through the photos I've taken so far. There is a large gazebo-style hut directly in front of mine that kind of serves as a central hang-out place for people staying in SINA's little village. I scoop up my camera and journal and walk the few meters to what I begin calling The Big Hut. It is built on a large cement pad with several concrete benches worked into its circular footprint. I take a seat on the far end so that I can observe the entrance to my hut—having left the door open to get some air circulating in the damp and muggy space.

 The ambient temperature is approaching 90 degrees Fahrenheit but the Big Hut's ample shade and the persistent light breeze that attends the hilltop on which SINA is built makes the equatorial weather quite comfortable. I begin writing furiously in my journal, trying to capture every nuance of my experience so that I can write it as a narrative at a later time. Footsteps on the gravel pathway to my right alert me to the presence of Faith and two blonde-haired mzungu women. Faith gives me a smile and a wave before proceeding to unlock the door of the hut these women will be staying in. I wave at them and they both regard me with a looks of mild suspicion. So much for the solidarity of travelers.

 I pass a few hours in this manner; writing, reviewing photographs, using the bird book to try to identify some of the many birds I've seen. Despite the bustling nature of SINA during the day, I am left to my own devices in the Big Hut. Many people are walking to and from the small village but my solitude remains uninterrupted. I relish these quiet moments which give me the ability to begin the herculean task of aggregating my thoughts and emotions. It is now approximately 6 o'clock and the plunging sun is casting an orange glow which brilliantly illuminates all of the huts in the village. I hear footsteps approaching as I am going through the day's photographs, deleting any that are not serviceable.

 "Hello? Mike?"
I lift my head and see a young Ugandan man and woman standing just outside of the Big Hut. The young man, whose deep and jovial voice broke my reverie, is tall and good looking. He is accompanied by a slender young woman with straight black hair who smiles warmly but keeps her eyes lowered.
 "Hi guys," I say, a little startled, "How are you?"
 "We are well!" the man emphasizes, "May we sit?"
 "Of course, please do."
 "I am Zaifa and this is my friend Shifra," the young man relates.
 "Pleased to meet you, are those Islamic names," I ask, smiling.
 "Yes, how did you know?" Shifra asks, the first words she's uttered.
 "I have a sort of fascination with names and word origins. Salam alaykum!"
 "Wahlaykum salam," says Zaifa. "We noticed earlier that you have a very nice camera and we've come to see if you would be willing to help us."
 "Well, maybe," I say, not sure what to expect, "what did you have in mind?"
 "We would like you to take pictures of us, please," says Zaifa.
 "Oh, that's cool. Are you guys together?" I ask. Shifra and Zaifa smile and laugh self-consciously while shaking their heads in the negative.
 "No, we are just friends," says Zaifa, his voice deepening further with laughter and mild chagrin. I am getting the distinct impression that there is something unspoken that I am missing.
 "Ok, well...what did you have in mind?" I say.
 "Something nice. We have some clothing and costumes and we thought you could pick a background here that would look good and professional." says Zaifa.
 "Sure, this whole area is breathtakingly beautiful, the background won't be a problem. We would want to do this between 5:30 and 6:30pm to get the best light. I'm here for eight more days; when did you have in mind?"
 "How about tomorrow?" Zaifa says enthusiastically.
 "Yeah, we can do that," I say, "come find me here at 5:30pm tomorrow evening."
 "Great! Thank you very much. We will see you tomorrow!" Zaifa says as he and Shifra get up to depart.
 "See you then. 5:30 sharp, ok? We don't want to lose the light."
 "Ok, have a good evening," says Zaifa. Shifra waves and they depart into the rapidly dimming light of dusk.

 I pick up my journal, camera, and books and walk the few short steps to my hut. A little sunset stroll sounds like just the thing to cap off my first full day in Mpigi. I change into long pants and a long sleeve shirt to frustrate the mosquitoes that will just now begin waking and buzzing around on the hunt for warm blood. The sun has just dipped below the few dark clouds that cling to the tops of the western hills and an otherworldly purple light begins to bathe the valley. Most of SINA's inhabitants seem to have retreated indoors though there are several campfires that flicker and snap behind the corrugated steel walls of a few derelict outbuildings. The low murmur of relaxed conversation ebbs into the evening air as I walk through the compound and toward the steep driveway that leads down to Kaleke Kasome.

 As I walk, I enjoy the peaceful near-silence that briefly descends on the valley. In this ephemeral twilight, the tranquility is palpable. It has a presence. It walks soothingly beside me. I breathe it in and exhale the fevered energy of the last 48 hours. I am becoming more comfortable here. This the land of our ancestors. The Great Rift Valley. The wellspring from which humanity first trickled and then gushed to the far corners of the planet. By turns, frenzied and serene, threatening and welcoming; this place has the feeling of home on some very deep epigenetic level. I surrender to its embrace and begin to feel a profound sense of gratitude. A breeze begins to kick up and a chill enters the humid air as I make my way back to my hut. I take my shoes off and step inside, flipping the light switch. The darkness remains. The electricity is out once again. But it doesn't matter. I part the mosquito net and lay down on the firm mattress. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My eyes close and the peaceful, womb-like oblivion of sleep consumes me.

Continue to the next post!

~~~

Journaling in the Big Hut.

Agama. This colorful lizard is about 11" from nose to tail. 

Indoor clothesline and miscellaneous gear. 

Sunset. Purple haze.

_____
[37]: This, of course, isn't true. I would never steal anything from my employer.

[38]: Loathe though I am to embrace the "fanny pack" as a fashion accessory; for safety reasons, it made sense to keep the first aid and snakebite kit closer to hand. In the event of a surprise puff adder attack, you don't want to be rummaging through camera batteries and NSAID bottles to find the Sawyer Extractor (which, incidentally, is the only snakebite kit proven to actually work).