A Sunday Drive (Part 1)

I can't just sit at home on a perfectly wonderful Sunday afternoon when there are mountains to be climbed, people to meet, experiences to be enjoyed and new places to discover. No one else felt the same way, so I set out alone, armed with a water bottle, my journal and my camera. It's fun to play National Geographic.

Up. I wanted to go up, move that butt, work those legs. I found a random trail, knowing that at some point I would reach the top of the mountain. By the overgrowth and spider webs I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that has used that trail in quite a while. It went straight up. Who needs switchbacks? Not I. After about 20-30 min of climbing, I came to the top right at the home of a sweet Ugandan family. I still feel a little weird hiking through people's "front yards" and ending up right at their front door, I think it is my American sense of personal space. There sat the mother breastfeeding and three small children sitting outside. I quickly exhausted my Lugisu, but I could tell she wanted me to stay when the little 5 year old girl brought me a chair. She, the little 5 year old girl was cutting greens in a pot with a knife the length of her arm. If I encountered that knife in a dark alley. It would put any gang banger to shame, and here was this darling little girl hacking away at some greens with a knife large enough to get you seriously thrown in jail.

It bothers me that I can't speak the language. I can only imagine the things I would learn. I'm sure this woman would have incredible things to say, stories to tell. About her life, about living on top of a mountain, about her family, her clan, her traditions, her beliefs, her children, her thoughts on life and love and living. I'm trying to learn a bit.

The English language does not have words (or else I don't know what they are) to describe the incredible things I saw. The top of the mountain was more like a ridge dotted with houses, as it was the only flat part of the terrain. At times the view would break out into large grassy fields, at times it was crowded with huts and animals and rocks and people. Always it was magnificent.

From a man who lived on the mountain, I later learned that I was the first white person to climb to the top of the mountain. From his words I found this hard to believe; from the reaction of the children it seemed absolute truth. The further I hiked up the ridge of the mountain, the more children I collected. Pied piper Hollie. The fact that I had a camera made it even worse. I could believe these children had never had a Mzungu come their houses before. At one point I turned around to count more than 30 children following me, all running and screaming, right at my heels, pushing in front, leading me down the path where they walked to fetch water. Every time I took out my camera to take a picture the children would clammer to get in the shot, calling their friends to run, pushing, jumping up and down. Chaos. Any hope of finding a little patch of grass to write in my journal and contemplate the greater things of life was definitely impossible. One girl in particular made sure I was always at her heels, following closely behind. She could have been the leader of the pack with her strong personality and absolute boldness toward me.

Are we there yet? I was getting concerned about the light, it was getting dark and we were going deeper into the woods now. And then I found the treasure.

Out of the trees came a small boy, face white with a chalky substance wearing a wreath of vines and leaves around his neck. Then another and another, faces white with thick leafy necklaces . One had a "hat" made of a dried banana leaf. With MUCH difficulty, I managed to get the three alone to take really play National Geographic. It actually hurt that I couldn't speak the language. I was dying to know more about what was going on. Of course you always have to show them the picture once you've taken it. If I were to be thronged to death, I'm pretty sure that is what it would feel like. My group of 30 children had grown exponentially and they were now all pressing in to see the shot, jumping on me, coming down of the mountain like rainwater, shoving, pushing. The scream of laughter and joy was literally deafening. I wouldn't be surprised if you heard it all the way in America. My ears are still ringing. Before I lost all hearing I looked around to see where the boys were, but they had already disappeared just as strangely as they had appeared.

According to Thomas the Headmaster, they were probably brothers of a boy that had undergone the circumcision rite last year (it always happens in Dec of even years) and were celebrating his healing and passage to manhood (which always happens in February). We've heard there is to be a celebration of some sort this Friday. I've got my fingers crossed.

On the walk back I had this gigantic group of children saying "Bye-bye", "ciao ciao" (hilarious with their little accents), "sienara", "what's up?" and "stand back" (obviously someone caught on when I fighting with them to get out of the picture).

I will always remember being half way down the ridge of the mountain and hearing this faint roar of children's voices to look back and see my group of 30 admirers waving to me from way up at the top of the mountain. They stood there, waving and screaming, until I disappeared into the trees.

I wish I could have stayed longer. I wish I could have seen the whole thing. I wish I could have communicated with the boys. I wish they hadn't run away. I wish I would have taken more pictures. But I am contented with the fact that because I took an unknown path, even all by my lonesome, I had an INCREDILBE experience.