Where to begin? At the beginning. Hurrying to catch the matatu to Yumbe we sit for 2 hours as it cannot leave until it is full. 14 is the maximum number (as indicated in bold letters on the door – lol). And finally we are lumbering down the road. Good so far and everyone is comfortably uncomfortable but soon we are stopping and jamming people in like sausages, 15, 16, 17, 18. Ok, ok.. so I know I’m not going to change Africa or anything but I get into it with the driver along with Asina, (Asina is my Ugandan compound host) as we point out that this is not cool. He ignores us and then gets agitated - Him: ‘Hey, this is Africa, this is how it is’ Me: ‘No, it’s not, you are false advertising.’ Asina: ‘We can’t move over any more than we are – why are you stopping everywhere?’ ‘If you wanted a bus, you should buy one – we are not supposed to stop everywhere!’ Him: ‘Why are you siding with the mzungu?! Now you are becoming the Commander.’ She: ‘I know my rights!’ He to me: (after 2 bribes to cops) ‘You see mama – this is how it works in Africa.’ Me: ‘This is how it works for you, this is Your Africa, but not for all. People are not sheep!’ And so it goes and I laugh and he broods, and I can see him visibly re-inflate as we are passed to a car to continue the journey in more comfort. Ya, I know.. futile. But is it really?
We reach Yumbe at nightfall and it is dark but for the eyes of the children who light our way to the fire. I spend my evening in A,B,C’s and 1,2,3s and holding hands and laughter and welcome. They have made a lovely bed for me and heat my bath water and it is dark but the children light my night. It is the end of the 30 day fast of Ramadan and everyone is excited for tomorrow as I fall asleep to the sounds of life in the village for you hear everything when there is nothing.
Eid! Everyone is dressed in their finery and my mzungu clothes are more than lacking in appropriateness. Zam, the lady of the hut digs and hums and rustles and comes up with the shariata for me – I am transformed as my hair is hidden and I am clothed as part of this Muslim family. We are privileged as we head to the open Mosque in Ayiko’s car following masses of people on foot, on bikes, piled high on trucks; hundreds gather for the prayers. Not more than a few eyes are startled when they see me. I am told I am the first mzungu at these Eid prayers. Well, now I know how movie stars and felons must feel in public. The Imam appears and I bow and pray with the ladies and learn about Islam as they whisper to me in asides. And I think of all the similarities, rather than the differences, of devotion.
I’m thinking (yup, always thinking) now we all gather and eat, but the feast is not a huge gathering as I expected, nor is it now. At the village we have tea and I am invited to another Mosque. I pull up the headgear and trek alongside the ladies to the small building in the village. Here I experience firsthand how it is for the women of Islam as we seat ourselves behind the segregated wall. My Western brain doesn’t like this! Who are they to keep me behind a wall?! I really must learn more about this before I decide about what I think. My lasting impression though regards the wall – we are looking at World Food Program sacks hung from poles – Millet.
Finally the food. There is no big gathering; everyone eats in their own time. I spend my time with the children and when they bring my food to the hut I ask to sit with the other women, not alone, as they think I want to be. If I could live in your head, and you in mine for one day – what we would learn of one another?
Now I spend my time with little Peace – she who who leads me to the toilet and holds my hand and stands over my bed at night and she who teaches me how children are in their purest, loving form. It’s been a journey this trip, and a trip this journey. I ate the sheep; I refused the offal. I learned what it was like to don the Shariata and hide my thoughts and all but my face, to be an honoured guest; to be immediately loved and accepted by a family, a religion.. a child not my own.
Isn’t it interesting that the girl who stole my heart is named Peace and that this is 9/11?
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