Rural Homestay in Kitgum, Uganda

The group was scheduled to leave Gulu at 9AM on Monday morning. In keeping with 'African Time,' the vans arrived around 10 and we were on the road just after 11AM. Since arriving in Uganda, I have heard the saying "Africans don't keep time, we keep appointments," on numerous occasions. Although it took some adjustment, I have finally become comfortable with the complete absence of a stable time table or organized schedule. There's a window for everything and eventually the required happenings of a day occur. And if they don't, there's always tomorrow. If only this same system was applicable when turning in papers and assignments to the Academic director...wishful thinking.

The first two days in Kitgum were spent as a group. We stayed in a guest house and had time for both study and some in-town exploration. Kitgum resembles Gulu in many ways, though on a much smaller scale. We found a small outdoor market, (somwhat of) a commercial industry area, some church houses and a few schools. Conditions seem harsher in Kitgum: dirt roads in poor condition, poverty and illness easily visible, and the need for some sort of regulation concerning sanitation and waste is incredible. Also, twelve muzungus in Kitgum seemed to cause more excitement then we experienced in Gulu. Outside of the above, people were friendly, curious, and welcoming just as always; I don't think I've ever met a more friendly group than that of the Acholi people.

Monday and Tuesday passed quickly and in their place came Wednesday. We drove north into a small village called Gong-Dyong. Upon arriving, all my previous suspicions surrounding the validity of National Geographic publications disappeared at once. Rural village life is everything I'd imagined and been exposed to via media: Grass huts, dirt floors, an absence of most all things western and an abundance of children. My mothers name was Kala and I addressed her as MamaKala for the entirety of my stay. MamaKala is a strong, proud woman who lost her husband to the LRA seven years ago. In Acholi culture, when a woman is widowed she becomes the wife of her late husbands next eldest brother. It is this man whom I was introduced to as 'baba' and it is on his land that MamaKala and her 8 children live. The process (or rather lack of a defined process) of child-rearing in Uganda is something to marvel all on its own. Kids just kind of do their own thing. While many adults may be present, I wouldn't use the word 'supervised' when describing child play here. Even though it's not the method I would feel most comfortable subscribing to, the children here seem happy and (mostly) healthy. In many ways, the absence of pressure to always prepare for that next stage in life seems preferable to that present in the U.S. The more time I spend in this country, the less weight I give to the concepts of right and wrong; there is only difference. And while the differences are great, the similarities are present also. We're all one people, after all.

Language, however, is one clear and defined difference that proved to be the greatest obstacle I experienced during this home stay ordeal. No one in my immediate or extended Kitgum family spoke English. Although my Acholi is improving, I am no where near fluent enough to fully understand or participate in conversation with native speakers. When I first met MamaKala, we introduced ourselves and went through the standard greeting in Acholi. When I exhausted what I had retained from three weeks of language lecture, I did the best I could with non-verbal communication. Eventually, silence prevailed. We arrived at our gong-ot, literally translated as grass-hut, and she pointed out one of the three mats lining the walls of the dirt floor. I set my bag there. I stepped out of the hut and was swarmed by people, mainly children, all speaking in Acholi and laughing loudly. I tried my best to greet each of them in turn and introduce myself the best I could. MamaKala returned with a bucket of water and pointed towards a structure just to the side of the circle of huts. She said the word for bathe. I tried to say no, to express I would bathe in the evening in hopes that I would be less of a novelty by this time and that darkness would offer more privacy. MamaKala kept at it and eventually I retrieved my towel and cabon (soap) in submission. I entered the structure to find that there was no working door. The latrine was next to this bathing structure; the smell was awful. Three days suddenly became a lot longer than I felt prepared to endure. Children surrounded the bathing area. I stood for no more than five minutes before offering the water to the children to play in and returning to my gong-ot. I walked through a very confused crowd and had not even the slightest idea (or will to attempt) at how to explain my refusal to bathe. Next came The Cooking Incident. After describing this event to one of the academic coordinators, I now understand that most every Acholi women knows how to cook. As a woman, it was expected that I would know how to cook. What's up American culture--I have no idea how to cook. MamaKala and company kept repeating directions in Acholi, voices raising with every pass. I kept speaking in English and working to perfect my 'cooking incompetent' face in the context of traditional African dishes. Finally, I got up and walked away. I felt worthless and stupid; overwhelmed. One of my many brothers approached and spoke in slow, clear Acholi. He asked how I was and if I wanted to take a walk. Eyo, Eyo; Apwoyo: yes, yes; thank you. Once outside of the hut cluster, I began crying. He listened to my inaudible English and responded in what to me was equally incomprehensible Acholi. We walked for almost an hour, going back and forth in this manner. Even though I know little of what he said and he knew nothing of what I said, I felt that I was less alone and for this I am beyond grateful. I returned in time to help with stirring and serving--two tasks I am more than qualified to do--and with what I hoped would prove a much thicker skin in handling my self and my emotions. After eating, I was again given water to bathe. I bathed and although many people saw me without clothing, I worked to remember that nudity within this culture is conceptualized much differently than nudity in my own culture. In reality, I doubt that many payed much attention at all. I bathed every morning and night during my stay in Kitgum.

As time passed, I became more comfortable with my home and family. My favorite part of the experience came with being around all the children; there is no need for verbal language when you're surrounded by children. I helped with bathing and feeding every night. I shared sleeping space with no fewer than three children (different each night) and three women including MamaKala. It's impossible to remain distant from a people you share so much with. When I left on Saturday, it was the children I knew I would miss the most. There's something remarkable about being so happy in an environment of so little. Many of these children didn't even have shoes; many were staying with aunts and uncles because they lost their parents in the war or to the struggle against HIV/AIDS. But the laughter was omnipresent. I will never forget the way I felt in their company.

On Friday, we had a farewell dinner and in preparation I was once again fighting to understand what MamaKala and her older daughters were trying to explain to me. Together in the hut, I understood that they wanted me to remove my skirt but I had no idea why and no intention of doing so until I understood. Then I was presented with what I can only describe as a prom dress from East Austin gone terribly wrong. It clicked: they wanted me to wear more formal attire. From what I gathered, this dress was made by MamaKala herself and the material--some sort of silk-immitating polyester--was of great expense and value in Kitgum. My younger sisters and brothers had gathered inside the hut by this point. I had no option other than compliance. I removed my clothes and put on the dress. It made everyone very happy and I could see the pride in MamaKala's face. As immature as it may be, it took everything in me to walk outside the hut and meet the uproar of laughter and acholi that awaited. Meeting my peers, none of whom endured this same ritual, again took more strength then I am proud to admit. This dress in combination with heat rash, sun burn, and the massive amount of dust that always seems to adhere to my hair and body didn't leave me with the most positive self-image. But laughter conquers all and in the end I'm happy to have shared the experience with my Kitgum family.

Returning to Gulu was a happy affair and I was thrilled to see my family here. I greeted everyone, bathed (indoors and in private!!), and slept until late into the evening. Although the Kitgum stay is one I am grateful to have experienced, I am happy it has ended and I that I am back in Gulu.

Sorry for the long length and many thanks for reading.

Best wishes.