So, yes, this is a long post. I'm horrible at editing my life. But it is a good life :)
It also has a very different tone than the last post (my days tend to do that here). Just be aware of that.
My last Sunday in Gulu was an interesting and amazing day. I started it with a community, born-again church service. When I say community, I mean a rectangular hut 2.5 kilometers outside of town serving the 30 surrounding families. About 15 adults and 20 children showed up. And me, the only white person to grace the doorless entrance. The service combined stereotypical traditional African religious elements with Western born-again practices. There was a dichotomy that blended into a new religious dimension that, seen from a looking glass, would be viewed as humorous, primitive, and otherworldly. But as a participant, it felt natural, sensible, and fun.
I, of course, got sat next to the screamer. Think your standard African war cry, but less intimidating, and you have the sound I heard throughout the service. It blended well with the small African drums and booming African voices singing to African religious songs. The children danced in front, facing the congregation. The leader, a young father, would continuously change the dance moves, creatively improvising rhythmic combinations, challenging the children to copy him. They were obviously enjoying themselves and I was too. I was mesmerized by the man, the most inventive, charismatic, and talented dancer I have ever seen. I was also mesmerized by the music and, after awhile, danced with the best of them. It was a 2 ½ hour service, but half of that was dancing and singing. The sermon was about sin and love and dedicating your life to Christ, like any born-again service, but it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting (my sister translated bits and pieces for me). In the middle of the service, there was an auction for a bucket of potatoes that one of the women in the congregation was selling. My family outbid everyone because they knew I liked potatoes. Everyone was very nice and I knew the pastor pretty well – he had come over periodically to my house to make sure I was learning “everything Acholi.”
Church was followed by a lazy Sunday afternoon talking with my brother about the upcoming election in 2011. It’s a big deal and a not big deal all at the same time. Right now no one thinks anything will change and after 23 years of having the same president and unfair elections, who can blame them. But I suspect that as the elections come closer and with the addition of Otunna, a former UN ambassador, on the possible candidate scene, things will get violent. My brother joked that he would come stay with me in America during the election months because he wanted to be anywhere other than Kampala. It’s weird to think that in two years time I’m going to think about his safety and read about the riots, hoping he’s okay. He said he doesn’t plan to participate in the riots – he doesn’t see the point at getting shot at for something that will never change. But he told me he had been in two previous riots where he was shot at and people were screaming and hitting the ground. It’s scary. Particularly considering the riots that happened in Kampala a couple of weeks ago. The other SIT study abroad group was on lockdown.
My brother told me he didn’t plan on voting this year. He said he didn’t see the point. Nothing would change; the election would be unfair. He would have to risk his life to vote for something that wouldn’t make a difference. Because it’s unlikely that something would happen to him at the polls in Kampala, I insisted he should vote. I tried to instill my American ideals about democracy onto him. I even compared Otunnu’s arrival as similar to what people were saying about Obama at the beginning. My brother just laughed and shook his head. He is so disillusioned with the system that he doesn’t even bother trying anymore. I told him I would email him on the day of elections to tell him to vote for me. He said he would be on lockdown at that point – but he would read my email if he had internet in his apartment.
When we finished our discussion, my brother, me, and the rest of the family trekked to the Homestay Farwell Party. It was fantastic. All you can eat and drink, including beer. When the students got up and introduced ourselves, our families screeched for us (that scream I told you about earlier). Then we had traditional Acholi dances performed for us and we all got up and joined in. My sister’s cousin is the Gulu representative for Acholi dancing and she taught me the moves. My sister, who is usually a badass Acholi woman, refused to perform the dance because she’s shy. But, once I had gone up there with her friends, she came up too. My brother took pictures and then joined in the boy’s line. I even learned how to screech. Really. It was a very in-the-moment, once-in-a-lifetime, one of the best days of my life kind of time. All inhibitions were dropped, everyone couldn’t stop laughing, and I shook my hips like an Acholi woman. It was fantastic.
When the traditional music stopped, they started playing modern Ugandan music and everyone came out and danced together, children and teenagers. I danced with my sister and played soccer with my younger brother, with whom my relationship had been previously stale due to the language barrier.
Two days later I said goodbye to my family. I brought out my gifts: a soccer ball, juice, a DC t-shirt, a book about Texas, and UNO cards. They genuinely loved them all and I was really pleased. We played UNO for about 2 hours and they read the Texas book and we played football, and my brother loved hearing about the places in DC and where they are all situated. They told me that they only say goodbye to the dead in Acholi culture so they told me they would see me later. My brother is planning to be in Kampala in December so I should see him again. My grandmamma sends her love and greetings to my American family.
Gulu was amazing and I loved my family. I will miss them and I do hope I see them again.
No comments:
Post a Comment