It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.

"I wish I could go home," he said. "I love this country. I love it. But it's not home for me."
"Well, you could go home," Mma Ramotswe said. She nodded in the direction of the border, not far across a few miles of scrub bush, behind the hills. "You could go home now, couldn't you? There's nothing stopping you."
"That place is not home anymore," he said. "I left it so long ago, I don't feel at home there."
"And this place? Here?"
"It's where I live. But I can't ever belong here, can I? I will never be from this place. I will never be one of these people, no matter how long I stay. I'll always be an outsider."
She knew what he meant. It was all very well for her, she thought; she knew exactly where she came from and where she belonged, but there were many people who did not, who had been uprooted, forced out by need or victimisation, by being simply the wrong people in the wrong place. There were many such people in Africa, and they ate a very bitter fruit; they were extra, unwanted persons, like children who are not loved. '

-- "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive" by Alexander McCall Smith

The everlasting quandry I find myself in every moment of every day.

"I am a traveller.
You call me stranger.
No matter where I go,
I don't belong.
But, still my restless heart
Is ever moving
No matter where I am
I am at home."

Rainy Season lunch

The rainy season has come. Finally. We dug out the garden, planted it, and set thorns around it. In the early mornings, the far-off yells of the men plowing the fields can be heard.

Yesterday morning, we noticed an abnormal amount of hawks and kites in the sky. "White ants," someone casually observed.

On my way to lunch, I was hailed by Maria and Josh Tricarico: "Rachel! Want to help us?!?!"

They were catching the many white ants that thickened the air around our mission. Naturally, I ran over and, seizing a kaveera (plastic bag), I joined their frantic attempts at catching the termites. We dashed about, arms and legs flapping, as we tried to snatch, net, and slap the elusive insects. Kipsy joined us after a while, and we each staked out a different termite hole to wait for the ants to fly out.

By the end, we had about 50 or so bugs. We all trooped into the main kitchen, sweaty and dusty, carrying our rustling kaveeras with pride.

Then came the question of how to prepare them. We'd all eaten and cooked white ants before, but couldn't remember how. We settled on frying them - preheating the pan for a quick, painless death. We dumped them into the pan with a little oil and watched them writhe for a split second, then lie still.

"What should we put in them?" someone asked.

We looked at eachother, then I suggested, "Indian termites?"

A little garam masala, some turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander and cumin. Kipsy "accidentally" dumped in a bunch of thai seasoning as well. The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell, and we all started grinning in anticipation.

I turned off the stove and we lined up at the counter to get our rice and beans. We topped it off with our newfound delicacy and carried our heaped plates into the main room, showing them off to the fairly disgusted members of our mission. The four of us sat down at the table together and raised a spoonful of lunch.

"1....2...3..." We put them into our mouths and began chewing. At first, it was great - salty, spicy, mixing well with the rice and beans. Then I voiced what we were all thinking:

"Oh man....we forgot about the sand...we didn't wash them..."

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

A typical roadside conversation

"Mzungu! I love you!"

"No, you don't!"

"Yes! I want to marry you!"

"Why?"

"Because....you are a white lady..."

Right. Great reason.

A Bit Brown.

The latest question on everyone's mouth - "Whoa! Can she understand Ngakarimojong?"

To which I answer, "Yes, she can."

After the laughter settles, the second question - "Are you a Karimojong?"

"Uh...."

This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : "Yes! Yes she is! See?"

Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you're better than everyone else. Recently I've been noticing it a lot more - perhaps it's because I'm getting older, but I've had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.

But then again, I am a Karimojong - or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That's me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I've been given countless names - most of which I can't remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?

Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I'm the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am "a bit brown". They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.

The Kampala Run

The long drive all the way from Nakaale. Even as I type, I am sitting in our van in traffic - watching cars, trucks, pikis, pedestrians, bicyclists, lorries and hawkers pass us on this narrow Kampala road. So far today I have gone from a scenic, open savanna scattered with mud huts to the totally packed streets of Kampala. So diverse, yet so beautiful - each in its own way.

Nakaale - the open, free landscape. Constant breezes blowing to and fro. To the west of our house, a wide plain covered in acacias and thorn bushes. To the east, the empress Mt. Kadam and her foothills. At night, the pounding of drums fills the wind. In the daytime, the hot sun lashes down, scorching everything within its reach. Quiet, beautiful, and serene - a tribute to God's wonderful creation.

Kampala - a crowded, constantly bustling city. People everywhere. Vehicles pack the streets. Peddlers walk to and fro among the traffic, selling their wares at car windows. Stores crowd the streetsides, clustering together all along the roads. Pikis and bodas zip around the vehicles, often barely dodging accidents. Posters and signs advertizing everything from phone service to sugar are plastered all over trees, sidewalks, streetlamps, walls, and houses. At night, the heavy bass beats of discos echo through the buildings. During the day, the noise of thousands of voices speaking in all different languages fills the air. Cows, goats and chickens wander about the streets. Countless sounds, smells and sights.

My love of this place grows every day. The diversity, the beauty, the fascinating differences in cultures. Everywhere I look, I see something beautiful. God did a wonderful thing in bringing me here.

There are many phonetic and linguistical differences between Ngakarimojong and English. Both cultures find the other language difficult to speak, partly because of their different phonetic sounds - sounds that the other culture is accustomed to speaking naturally.

For instance:
In Ngakarimojong, some letters are interchangeable - s and th, f and p, l and r. Most of this is just the fact that they can't really hear the difference. In English, there is a MAJOR difference if you switch out certain letters. "Put it there" becomes "Foot it there" and so on.
I love these little cultural differences. It makes life hilarious. E.g.....

It was a nice, sunny day in Karamoja. I was baking bread in our kitchen, sweat running down my face. As I set the dough aside to rise, I heard a strange noise coming in the window - a sort of garbled yelling.

I leaned out the kitchen door to hear my youngest sister's voice raised in song.

"Raaaaaaamen!!!" she sang as she skated across the cement pad. Her song was echoed by five Karimojong kids leaning against our chainlink fence -

"LLAAAAAMEEENNN!!!!!!" they cried.

I started to smile. Anna and Mary came to the door, along with Megan, our teacher. We all started laughing.

"Sister RAMEN!!!!" cried Kipsy as she swung around a pole.

"THIITHTA LLAMEN!!!!"

"How I love you!!!!"

"'OW AA RAV OOO!!!"

"Raa - amen!!!!"

"LAA-AMENNN!!!!!"

By this time, we were all entirely dying of laughter. Kipsy then proceeded to replace "Ramen" with all the names of her various siblings. We all stood in the kitchen, cracking up at their "Karimojonglish".

Kipsy slouched into Math class this morning, a disgruntled air about her.

"What's up, Kip?" I asked.

"Dude. The Lamen kids are outside again, and I want to go sing."

Her face broke into a bemused grin as she watched me collapse with laughter.

Like I said, it makes life hilarious.

heaven-sent comic relief

We were driving through Kampala at night, going back to the house where we were staying. Conversation was at a minimum, and we all stared out the windows, earnestly wishing for the traffic to move more quickly.

Mary started giggling. "That lady stuck her tongue out at me!" she said, pointing out the window.

We all shushed her and resumed staring out at the traffic.

"No, really!" she insisted, pointing at a matatu (taxi) that was pulling up alongside us.

Sure enough, in the back seat, there was a middle-aged woman making faces at us, sticking out her tongue and waving her arms. They started giggling, and the rest of us couldn't help smiling. The matatu fell behind again, and we all burst into conversation - "Did you see that?" "What was she doing?"

A few minutes later, heralded by "Here she comes!" and "Look, look, there she is!"the matatu came alongside of us again, the woman still making faces at us. I smiled and waved, and she paused her antics to grin back momentarily before resuming the show. This time, we all laughed out loud until the traffic moved her out of sight.

The matatu passed us again and again, and every time the hilarity grew until we were gasping for breath. Even the parents were chuckling.

Finally, the matatu pulled over to unload, and our van burst into cries of, "Aw,
man!" and "That was hilarious!" We then started doing imitations of her more funny moments, and everyone was soon laughing again.

I glimpsed a dark hand raised above the traffic, waving goodbye, and I waved back until I could see it no longer.