3 AM Bus

Western Uganda is cold and hilly. Opposite of East.

Owino Market

Tea Plantation

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. My alarm clock continues to chirp as I sit up in bed and rub my eyes awake. The sunlight of the morning that usually floods through my bedroom curtain is absent today. I stretch my arm out and pat my bedside table in search of the alarm clock, still chirping. After a few moments, I press the snooze button, causing its face to shine forth the time: 2:30 AM. “Kampala awaits. You can do this. Think of the city. Get out of bed,” I convince myself as I swing my legs onto the floor and stand up. I decided not to wire power to my bedroom since I only use it to sleep, so I walk slowly into the kitchen and switch on the table lamp. The light stings, causing me to take a few steps back and rub my eyes for the second time. “Why do I have to live so far away? 9 hours on a bus is fucking ridiculous.” I usually plan trips to Kampala in advance to mentally prepare myself for city living but Peace Corps called me to the city two days ago. Not enough time to think of what to pack or re-learn how to cross a busy street. “Should I make coffee?” I ask myself as I pour water from my Gerry can into my electric kettle and switch on the power button. Bathing this early in the morning calls for warm water. “No, I’ll have to pee on the bus. Besides, I’ll fall asleep if I don’t.” After a year of living alone, I now talk to myself. I quickly bathe, dress and throw on my backpack to check my house. I’ll be gone for a week and want to make sure everything is locked. I turn on my cell phone torch, hold it in between my lips and walk around my house pushing on windows to make sure the latches are tight. I also lock the doors from the outside. “Okay, here we go. I’m outta here! Awanyunos bobo,” I wave to my house as I turn around to the empty compound. I take a deep breath for courage and begin my walk. I run through the tall grass afraid a snake might latch on to my leg. Once safely under the mango trees, I follow the path from my neighbor’s house to the school buildings. Mosquitoes swarm the security light outside the office. I stop to take a deep breath, realizing I wasn’t breathing for the first leg of my journey. “Okay, no more lights until I get to the center. I can do this. Walk fast. Walk fast, Omoding.” I tighten my backpack and set out for the center. As I walk through the school buildings I hear bats screaming as they gather in the classrooms. I clear the teacher’s houses and come to the path leading through the bush. It starts out wide and gets narrower until it opens to the main road. I skip down the eerie path, muscles tight. The sound of breathing comes from somewhere nearby. I mouth the words “Oh my God” and keep going. My feet start to run and the contents of my backpack shift, causing noise. My heart begins to pound against my shirt and my mind floods with possible situations. The breathing becomes louder and my eyes search for its location. My head whips desperately as I wait to be taken to the ground. As I point my cell phone torch into the grass, a cow’s head emerges and I let out the scream of a 5-year-old girl. “Meuh,” the cow responds before it disappears back into the bush from where it came. However, I don’t stop until I make it to the main road, where I double over, hands on my knees and my chest heaving with shame. The clouds pass and moon shines down. “You’re a little late,” I critique the sky. As I near the old mortuary, my foot catches on something and I fall to the ground face-first. “What the hell? What now?” I whisper to the dirt. “Beh. Beh.” The culprit bleats as I push myself up onto my feet. I shine my cell phone torch to find ten goats sleeping in the middle of the road. The goat I tripped over adjusts itself and falls back asleep. I contemplate throwing rocks at the animals in protest but think better of myself and continue to the center. “That’s enough. No more shit show this morning,” I order fate. Fruit bats the size of crows congregate in the center’s mango tree, showering down feces to anyone who waits below. I opt to cross the street to move out of the trajectory. The storefront lights only spread a short distance but it comforts me. I scan the center and spot a few dogs mounting each other next to the bore hole. I think of my 14 months. The sounds of footsteps come from behind and I expect to find another person coming to catch the bus. I turn around to greet the person only to find a 7-year-old boy holding Gerry cans. “Esapat, yoga. Ai bo ilosi ijo? Boy, hello. Where are you going?” I question as he passes. “Agilo. Aiga akipi. To the bore hole. I’m fetching water.” It is nearly 3 AM and a young boy is going to pump water! Furious, I say to myself, “I said enough with the bullshit. What the hell is going on this morning?” “Illiling. Ajai eong ajotoor, Shut up. I’m sleeping,” yells a deep voice from within the hollow tree stump next to me. However, I’m unable to apologize for my disruption because there is no word for “sorry” in Ateso. Instead, I continue walking through the center, distancing myself from the talking stump and the bat shit. I make it to the roundabout in the middle of the center and hear the bus horn. 3 AM. The village bus is the only thing that keeps time. “Thank goodness. I don’t think I could take much more.” I board the bus and warn the driver, “Ocoiete. Ejassi akinei nen. Be careful. There are goats just there.” He looks at me strangely and points to the back of the bus.

-[-]-

Hymn: “Taking the Long Way” by the Dixie Chicks

Him: Sean Penn in “Milk” . . . stunning

Hmm: Be jealous. I found True Religion jeans at Owino for $10

Ekiliokit lokatutubet: Half Way Man

Life is good.

My kiddos, well some of the 25,000.

Lunch!

I pedal down the dirt road unable to use my seat because the recent rains washed away the smooth surface of the road; a million bumps now frustrate my morning commute. A gust of wind whips the dust into a cyclone and moves towards me. Do I throw myself into the swamp? Do I hold my breath? No, I wipe my lips of the Bert’s Bees Lip Balm I applied before leaving the house and continue to pedal. Without thinking, I blow a bubble just as I make contact with the cyclone. As soon as I return the popped gum into my mouth, I hear the grit on my teeth.

“I’m such a fool. Great job, Omoding,” I say to myself as I spit my gum into the bush.

For my 6th grade birthday, my mother bought tickets to “Cats.” It was the year of Rum Tum Tugger, Deuteronomy and Jezebel. I ate lunch in Mr. Thompson’s classroom with friends while listening to the soundtrack, imagining my own rebirth. It took a few more years, but I got there.

Grandpa chewed his gum with an open mouth on the way to the theater. He processed at least a pack a day in both cigarettes and chewing gum until he died a few months later. His face soured and he rolled the window down, disposing of the flavorless piece by throwing it as far as his elbow would allow in my mother’s compact car.

“Dad, you can’t just throw your gum like that! It’s littering,” my mom scolded as she drove down the road.

“Jesus, LuAnn. It’s biodegradable. It’ll break down. Dust to dust,” my grandfather laughed and rolled up his window, smoothing his gray hair back into place.

I hope my hair goes with me to the grave.

“Yeah, in years,” my mother countered sarcastically. I sat in the backseat and chuckled. Children should never start an argument with their parents expecting to win. It rarely happens.

I cracked the window and let my gum fly into the spring breeze, feeling mischievous and aligned with grandpa’s philosophy. “Dust to dust,” I whispered.

-[-]-

African time is something completely different from the American reservation system. At home, if you’re late for a reservation on a Saturday night, you lose your table. Here I am, reading Water For Elephants, my second hour of waiting for the Ministry of Education officials to arrive and facilitate a workshop concerning education in war-ravaged areas. Yes, I live in a war-ravaged area.

Well into the third hour, the officials arrive and begin their program, which will last for 6 hours. No meeting should last this long. I certainly don’t; I stand and make my way to the exit, bound for fresh air when – “Yes? You need to leave?” the facilitator asks, clearly keeping tabs on the only white person in the meeting. In fact, the cameraman came to take a picture of the whitey for record purposes. It made me feel like a monkey. “You’re disturbing the workshop.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was the first to arrive. I silenced my phone while watching countless others begin conversing in the middle of the conference. Could being white be a disturbance? My disturbance is bullshit.

“Zoe, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m dying of laughter over here!” I whispered in between convulsions of laughter at my stand partner’s humor. Orchestra was a favorite subject because Zoe and I laughed the horrors of high school away behind our music stand. She began a follow-up to her quip, “I’m just saying—“

“Are you two alright or do I need to move you? Adam, you really need to stop all the disruption in class. Some of us are serious musicians. I know you are with us, now show me you are with us,” our conductor/ teacher scolded as I bit my lips to prevent a malevolent smile from shining through. She tapped her stand and we raised our instruments, ready to begin another round of “Hoe Down.”

“Yeah, Adam. Show some sophistication. After all, this is a ho down.” Zoe whispered as she brought her viola to her chin. However, this time we both started laughing and our scrolls nearly knocked into each other.

Without stopping the orchestra, the conductor screamed at us, “You’re fulfilling the violist stereotypes, you two. Be serious.”

“Yeah, Zoe. Be serious. This is a serious piece of music.”

“More like a serious piece of something else!”

-[-]-

When I first moved to the village, I realized I needed to change the locks on my doors. I was not the only holder of keys and people felt at-home enough to storm into my home to keep me company. I didn’t want company, I wanted privacy. That week, I walked to the trading center and brought a carpenter to complete the work. The next morning, I awoke and walked to my bathing area, keys in hand. I turned the key in the lock and . . . nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn. I began trying to force the lock to budge. After thirty minutes, my fingers started to tingle with pain. Children who escaped from class gathered around me as I shook the door and started to cry. Their laughs grew louder and I turned in fury, “Go the fuck away!”

After my outburst, I sat down on the ground, head in hands, and sobbed, “I can’t do this. What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this!.” That was the last time I truly broke down in Uganda. After fifteen minutes of hysterics, I convinced myself to continue with my day, without bathing, and I stood up to go and dress. After all, would anyone notice? I couldn’t care less.

Every month, TPS held a dance in the Main Ballroom of the Memorial Union. Without much of a budget, the music blared to a room devoid of any inclination of celebration. No decorations except the sparkles on the clothing of those in attendance. The tighter the jeans, the better. My group of friends always arrived a stone’s throw from the porcelain goddess, a consequence of pre-barring. The night was unforgettable. Somehow, we all seemed to wake up the next morning on the floor of a friend’s apartment unable to recall the occurrences of the dance.

The TPS dances are no more, I think. Their budget ran out thanks, in part, to their underage drinkers passing out in the lobby.

“Wake up, G. Sleeping the whole day away is not an option,” Jesse shook me in an effort to bring me back to life after too much Malibu.

“I need food in my system if I’m going to make it out again tonight.”

“I’m never drinking again. I swear. Never again. I feel like death. Let me die!” I groaned as he walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

“You won’t die, drama queen. Drink this. We’re going to get breakfast. Now.”

“Fine. But they better have hash browns,” I said as I gulped the water, suddenly realizing we were one shorter than last night. “Where the hell is Elliot?”

“You know how he is at TPS dances. I shouldn’t have to remind you every time.”

“So, that is why we slept in the living room. I’d apologize for not remembering, but isn’t that part of the TPS experience? Jesus, Jesse. Stop being such a bitch,” I flashed my evil grin at Jesse as he pulled on his shoes.

He immediately turned and cackled, “Correction. Diablo. I’m Diablo. Now, let’s go.” I stood up and caught my balance just as Jesse threw shoes at my head. Despite his tormenting, I considered Jesse a great friend. We ate together a few times a week and studied at the Law Library often, always finding things to talk about.

I pulled on my coat and headed for the door when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Wait. Last night, before we went out, what did we do?” I asked as I tried to brush the glitter out of my hair and off my face.

“Get over it. We’re out of here. Bye, Elliot!” he screamed and slammed the door. “It’s not like anyone will notice.” “Ha. Sure. One look and they’ll think . . .”

“Let them think what they want. We had a great night,” Jesse screamed at the traffic as we stepped outside, a patch of snow mysteriously bright red, the color of someone’s vomit.

“Did we? I don’t really remember.”

-[-]-

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