What Aerosmith means to Africa.

So much to say, so little time: I am writing this baby in shifts.

(I just tried 3 times to post a video from the wedding; no such progress).

I was just given an ultimatum. Is ultimatum the right word? No, I don't think it is. But I was given a choice/dilemma. So far, I have been denying the option to raft the Nile. I mean, I've already ridden a boat along the thing--and white-water rafting, I feel, is something I would like to do in the general vicinity of my home...my country. As in, 24 hours after I can say goodbye to my family; if I don't return from Africa, I wouldn't want this to be the way. It makes sense in my head. But now: there is another option. Bungee-jump over the Nile. And this I am seriously considering; maybe because it is cheaper. I wonder which is more risky. And I wonder if I could pass this up while maintaining an adventure-driven conscience.

There were no forks at lunch today. At least not enough for me and Becca. We laughed with every bite; rice is hard to hold.

Now to this weekend. Twas packed to the full with goodness—all around goodness.

Friday was the play. It was more of an evangelism tactic (Heaven’s Gates and Hell’s Flames) at Kampala Pentecostal Church. But still: I enjoyed it. It was interesting that the first scene had a girl dying of AIDS; it is such a present danger here. And two construction workers, one of them leading the other to Christ right before a building collapses on them, was talking about the matoke and posho he hoped his wife had packed in his lunch. Oh, cheers for cultural relevance.

What was amazing was the altar call afterward. Whether in America or Africa, it doesn’t matter: seeing people give up their lives, and first get out of their chairs, is…well, there’s nothing like it. First it was just the children. Loads and loads, running toward the man who was acting as Jesus, and hugging him. (Black Jesus: finally). But then a man probably in his twenties got up, and dang: that did it.

I admit, though, my favorite part of that Friday in Kampala was the grocery store. You don’t know how homesick you are until you walk through those sliding doors into all that fluorescent jazz and air conditioning, and actually see Snickers Bars. I just wanted my mom. That was also the moment I told myself, “If I ever come here as a missionary, I will live in the city.” It was so overwhelming, so wonderful. Even though I didn’t buy the bag of giant pink marshmallows. The fact that they were an option was enough. More than enough.

The worst part: taxies. My first time in a taxi—and this a van, a seatbelt-less van, in the night, no streetlights or stoplights and certainly no driving rules or enforcement. Talk about scary. It was funny, though. The taxi-driver didn’t stop where one of the passengers wanted him to stop; so she started going off on him in Luganda. In English she said: “This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die. Taxi-drivers and conductors!” Hah—my mouth dropped; she basically told him to drop dead. But I had misunderstood—Rebecca later told me she was talking about status—“This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die taxi-drivers and conductors.” It’s all about the punctuation you use: life and death. Prime example.

Saturday’s taxi was the first. I am so safety-driven, I normally wear my seatbelt even when I am only switching cars in the drivers. “Because you just never know.” How helpless and completely paranoid I felt on Saturday—not only in the second-most dangerous country road-wise, but I was in the very front seat, no seatbelt. I wish I could’ve taken my blood pressure. You have no idea how badly I was freaking out on the inside, how many times I pictured my bloody, scarred self in the middle of the road. This really does take a getting used to.

But the wedding made up for it. I will try to post a video later; I have never been to a more beautiful wedding in my life. The ceremony, eh: I can’t deal with Ave Maria and laying flowers at a statue of Mary’s feet. She was just a woman. Yes, a good one. But just a woman, a human.

Also, they didn’t kiss! They were pronounced husband and wife (I assume; it was in Luganda), and they hugged! Can you imagine? (They say “Can you imagine?” all the time here).

Anyway, the reception was out of this world. Outdoors, for goodness sake! Outdoors with 6 massive white tents and lights strung everywhere. The music was incredible, a lovely mix of Kiganda music and James Blunt.

I really can’t get enough of this culture, respect-wise. You would never see a bride kneel, and in the grass, in her gown. Yet she did, as she served her mother and then her mother-in-law cake. You kneel for your elders no matter what your attire.

And anyone could give speeches, not just the best man and maid of honor. As Rebecca puts it, “A man who once drove your taxi to Kampala could give a speech if he wanted to.” Nice.

We were at the wedding/reception from 1:30 until 9:30, and we left early. As we left, the bride and groom had just started dancing—to what? My favorite wedding song. Even in Africa.

The food? Fantastic.

I think it was my favorite day in Africa thus far; Africans sure know how to do weddings.

Once the taxi dropped us off, though, my mom tried getting me to ride a boda-boda. I struggle with politeness; even in America, if someone offers me a drink or food, even if I’m starving, it is really hard for me to say yes. I feel rude accepting things, I guess. So it was horribly uncomfortable to tell her, “I’m not allowed,” even as she kept pressing and saying, “But I know this one.” Meanwhile, I am remembering Brooke, our leader, ‘s words: “You can sleep around and contract diseases, as long as you don’t ride the boda-bodas.” I wanted to give that example to Mom right then, but I didn’t think it was the appropriate time or place to bring up HIV. But I did refuse. And felt horrible the rest of the walk home.

Except when we started looking at the stars. Daniel told me to look for the Southern Cross, so I have been. But to no avail. I kept tripping all over the road, trying to make out the constellations, until she finally had us stop so we could concentrate. She pointed to three stars straight in a line, and called them entunga lugoye. Which means something like “I am sewing.” She said the three stars in a perfect line look like a stitch. Which they do.

So I have washed laundry by hand. All I can say is: when you’re doing dishes the next day, and the charcoal of a pot rubs against your newly clean skirt, you have a much greater appreciation for the toil of laundry. I was pretty sad.

Now for the fun stuff. Awkward, though. Awkward and stalkerish and very uncomfortable, but funny. When I got home from the wedding, Rebecca told me I had a friend visit. A little boy. Remember Raymond? The boy who wanted me to pay his school fees? Well, as Rebecca questioned him, she gathered that yes, I had showed him where I live, yes, I told him to come visit me on the weekend, and yes, he would like to wait for me to come home. Dang: the little kid must have followed me home. We all laughed so hard, though. With Rebecca’s imitation of him, Irene was on the kitchen floor, trying to catch her breath, and I was crying. It was so hilarious. As was last night, when Rebecca grabbed my Luganda notebook and wrote me a whole host of responses to people who are bothering me. So we sat at the kitchen table, yelling Genda! until, again, we couldn’t breathe anymore. Genda really just means go away. But it was funny.

I think Sundays are my favorite day in Africa. Just like home, I suppose. But when I woke up and Mom told me she felt lazy and we weren’t going to church, I didn’t protest. Then, for the rest of the day, I thought about all the times on vacation I gave my mom a horrible time, pleading and coaxing, and even bribing, to take me to church. And here, I gave no response: (Sorry Mom).

The day was so relaxing: a whole lot of reading and sitting in the sun and listening to Shania Twain at least 8 times (the radio station here has about as much variety as the menus. Matoke or rice. Shania or Celine). Every single song was about love, though. It got too much, and I asked Rebecca if it was the love station. She said no, it was country. Makes sense, I thought. Until they played Aerosmith.

Mom and I walked to the hotel last night, to sit outside with Fantas and talk about courtship. That’s when I decided that wind-swaying palm trees are one of my favorite things in the world.

Have I mentioned how little I care about homework? I was just reading an email from Jenny and thought I should mention it. There are days I worry, but only briefly, about losing scholarships. But I think it’s funny to compare the OCD-with-schoolwork high school kid to what Africa is making me now. See look, I have a book report due in two days. I haven’t opened the book, but here I am, stress-free, journaling.

I will reserve my stressful moments for the traveling moments. I can’t believe I am saying that I look forward to returning to a world with policemen and tickets. I just might speed uncontrollably so I can get pulled over, and give him a present. Baked goods should do; I don’t mean that in the mean way.