Bigger in Africa.

I don't remember if I've said this yet or not, so sorry if I have (you may skip to the next paragraph, in that case, or in any case, a suitcase even). Anyway, everything is so much bigger and majestic here. The clouds are so incredibly massive, as is the sky. And I wish pictures would do it justice, or even film. All I can say is: "You must go to Africa and see the sky." I have no idea why it's like this, and it's not just my imagination. This observation has been confirmed by many. Like the thunderstorm last night. Torr-en-tial. The rain is a million times harder, the thunder that much louder....yes, I feel I have said this before. Maybe it is worth saying twice.

Have I mentioned we don't eat until 10? Mom, I wanted you to know that, a sort of dare to hold dinner off til eleven, see what happens. (Yes, I've said this too).

New things:

I feel like I will have to pee for the rest of my life. A lovely first sentence I’m sure you appreciate. I think it’s the tea. Tea time like crazy, being a former British colony and all.

My classes are great. Yesterday, in African Literature, we all had to stand in front of the room and introduce ourselves and our experience with Literature. Our Ugandan professor clapped, and excitedly, after each person, yelling, “You are most welcome!” I am thankful to have a literature class, though I miss Dr. Brown and my writing classes already. Besides, Patrick Mukakanya is a whole lot harder to say than Mary Brown. I really might regress to third grade, call him Dr. M.

We didn’t have fish; this is tonight. Last night, my mom made my plate, perhaps noticing how little my portions usually are. “You must get strong,” she said. Huntington then flexed his muscles and laughed, “Strong like an African.” And as I ate, I kept picturing the carbs expand in my intestines; and I am normally not worried about this.

Sunday is my host mom’s birthday. She said I will get to meet the whole family that day, because “my children want to celebrate their mother getting old.” I’m excited, and look forward to seeing how they celebrate birthdays. Maybe with maize. I had corn on the cob last night, which they called maize, and I ate it without butter and salt (though they offered the American her choice). It was excellent.

Church is also Sunday; Sharon’s host dad is third in command, a reverend, at my church. It will be fun to share this experience together.

I am astonished with how happy the Ugandans are when they wake up. I am never a grumpy morning person, but being an American, I thought I was in the minority. Not here. Susan, who I met last night, and who slept above me, smiled over the top of the bunk bed this morning and said, “Good morning, how are you?” with such joy. And Susan is just one example. [When I met Susan last night, we shook hands and didn’t let go for about 5 minutes. This takes getting used to, but I enjoyed the friendliness. It could’ve been awkward, but they don’t make it awkward. She just smiled and kept asking me, “How is your life?”]

When they say how are you? it isn’t like a question, I noticed. It is a sing-song statement, which makes sense that Oliotya? which essentially means how are you (when you’re speaking to children, informally) doesn’t sound like a question either. The rhythm, the song, in their voices is beautiful. I hope I take it home with me.