unexpected reminders

Last week was Spring Break. Isaac and I, along with another young Canadian couple, took a five day trip around southern Uganda -- Lake Bunyonyi and hiking Mt. Sabinyo in Mgahinga Gorilla National Park.

Among other money-saving strategies, we took public transit the whole way. We got to the crowded Kampala bus terminal and we were immediately approached by a man with a slight limp who wanted to know where we were going.

"Kabale," we told him.

As happens so many times here, he took our situation upon himself and led us through the winding, confusing bus park to find the bus to Kabale.

"Sabo -- a soda?" he said before we got on the bus. Isaac gave him two 500 shilling coins (about 40 cents total) for a tip.

We paid our 25,000 shilling fee ($10) each  to the conductor and climbed onto the dark, crowded bus. It was already almost filled, which meant that on the bright side we didn't get stuck waiting for the bus to fill (that can take up to two hours) but on the downside most seats were taken. Our friends sat near the front and we made our way to the back.

Although we couldn't find two seats that were together, we did find two seats on the aisle. I found myself sitting beside an older Ugandan woman, with short fuzzy gray hair and poor English. A jaja, a grandmother, as they refer to older women here in Uganda.

At first we thought the TV screen at the front of the bus was a promising sign. We soon realized that, as the bus lurched out of Kampala, we were in for over 6 solid hours of irritating music videos: everything from Dolly Parton to Westlife to Celine Dion to Britney Spears to cheesy locally-made videos with Lugandan lyrics.

As we rode along, I found myself getting lost in the landscape and thinking. Graceful cows' horns seemed to pierce low-slung clouds. The rolling green hills were a relaxing change from Kampala. After feeling so discouraged, so fed-up with aspects of living here the past few weeks, I was happy to feel stirrings of affection for Uganda again.

Strangely, I found myself thinking about my maternal grandmother. Baba, we called her. When my brother-in-law visited Uganda in January, he was reminded of his own children when he saw the children here. While I have thought, "Wow! That boy is the same age as my niece and look at him carrying that water!" I haven't actually seen my niece in the children here. I haven't even seen myself in the young women here, who carry on completely different lives than I do. But for some reason, I saw my Baba here.

I saw my Baba in the way that the woman beside me was travelling alone. I saw my Baba in the way the woman groaned every time the bus bounced us -- sometimes clear into the air -- and held her hip in pain. I saw my Baba in the way she had food carefully wrapped in plastic, the gentle smell of an older person's body odor mingled with the smell of it. I saw my Baba in the way she slightly spilled over into my seat, the way she was embarrassed to have to ask the conductor when the next stop was, she had to use the bathroom.

Strangely, more than anyone else I can see my Baba as a Ugandan. Maybe because she's the most "ethnic" person out of all my close relatives, who knows. But something about the jajas draped in their wraps, squeezing down the aisles of a crowded bus, clucking their tongues at the younger generation, simmering pots of matooke over coal stoves for hours ... It was a strange thing, to be reminded of her here, to be suddenly yearning for her heavy breathing and quirky habits and banana boxes of perogies while bouncing along a road to Kabale.