seeing things the second time around

In grade 6 English we're reading Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. In the novel, a young boy named Brian Robeson gets stranded in the Canadian wilderness when a bush plane flight goes wrong -- the pilot dies of a heart attack and Brian has to crash the plane into a lake. Brian has to learn how to survive with only his hatchet and the world around him.

Today in class we read Chapter 5, the part in the book where Brian, after the crash, has just come to his senses enough to stop and look at his surroundings. He sees only a blur of blue and green -- trees and sky and water. He notices a beaver lodge and the general chirping of birds, but little else. Compared to his life in the city, it seems that there is only empty silence in the woods. With hunger stabbing at him, he looks for something to eat but concludes that there is nothing. Nothing. Only brush and rock and trees and water.

By the end of Hatchet, Brian has become a part of the woods. He can differentiate between different birds, find edible plants, wake up from the slightest sounds in the night, sense the presence of animals, and predict changes in weather.

After reading the passage, I told the students to watch for the changes we will see in Brian, and as I was talking it hit me how much Brian's transformation reflects some of the adjustments I've made in Uganda.

When we first arrived over one year ago, I didn't see very much. Everything was a blur of dirt roads and sloping shacks and bodas and taxis. It sounds ridiculous, but the couple who oriented us actually had to teach us how to remember where we lived.

"Everything will look the same to you," I remember Bill saying, standing there in his khaki shorts and T-shirt, looking infinitely more comfortable on Ggaba road than us newcomers felt. "Look for those two billboards, then you'll know that's your road. Remember you live in Kansanga, past Kabalagala."

It sounds embarrassing, but for the longest time I had a hard time remembering people. The guards from the school all looked the same to me -- black men wearing the same uniform and sporting the same haircut. When our Heritage night guard would arrive in the growing darkness of evening, I would often greet them with a smile, ask how they were doing, and then turn and hiss under my breath to Isaac, "Who is that again?"

I also had a hard time with Ugandan women. I realized that my brain had learned to tell people apart by their hair. As soon as I "remembered" a Ugandan woman by her hair, she'd changed it! Tight braids could turn to shiny waves overnight. When people talked about the physical features of different tribes, I was at a total loss.

[ I should note that I am not very observant to begin with (I would make the worst witness at a crime scene). I should also note that a few weeks ago a Congolese French teacher at Heritage confessed that he got me confused with one of the American teachers for the entire school year last year. He pretty much only saw blond hair. (So I'm not the only one who struggles!) ]

When we first moved here, I got a little irritated with people saying things like, "Listen to your gut. Don't get in the taxi if it feels wrong. Use common sense."

Use common sense? I had no common sense. Getting on a boda with a strange man wearing no helmet felt wrong. Getting in an unmarked car that I was told was a private hire felt wrong. Hearing strange noises at night felt wrong. Sticking a pen in a socket to make the plug fit felt wrong. It seemed that I was constantly suppressing my gut feelings.

This year, I realize how far I've come. I don't see a row of shacks strung along a dirt road; I see a chapatti stand, a seamstress, or the place that always has good cucumbers. I look at the same Heritage guards I was confused by last year and see completely different features, shaking my head and wondering how I ever confused them. I notice that a sign has changed or a new place that sells cell phone credit has gone up. Noises in the night are no longer unnamed; I can hear Molly crying, or the Muslim call to prayer, or the ice cream man bicycling by, or the neighbour's gate opening, or a Luganda radio station playing the football match. I don't think that every day is "the same" and that the weather never changes; I find myself saying things like, "It's a bit chilly this morning." (Oh no -- what will happen when I go back to Canada?)

Slowly, I'm also gaining a bit of a "gut feeling" that I can count on, to help me sense potential danger or alert me to any changes.

Power outages? Normal. 

Random man hitting on me? Normal. Random man who gives me a totally different "gut feeling" and causes me to cross the road? Not normal. Getting in a taxi? Normal. Getting in an empty taxi? Not normal. Kids openly using the word "beaten" to describe the discipline at home? Normal. The kid next door regularly screaming for extended periods of time? Not normal. People staring for what I deem to be awkward lengths of time? Normal. Kids in ragged clothing and bare feet? Normal. Thin man in rubber boots herding cattle (with humongous horns!) in front of my gate? Normal.  Kids running up and talking to me, a stranger, and grabbing my hand? Normal. The power going out for a day? Normal. The power going out for a week? Something to talk about. Giving money to a young woman begging on the streets of Kampala? Not appropriate. Giving money to a guard who you've known for over a year when his house burned down? Appropriate.

Hail storms? Not normal. 

Using squatties on a road trip (BYOTP)? Normal. 

Cramming in a taxi and suppressing all feelings of claustrophobia? Normal. 

Even though I can sit back and realize how much more I see here, how much knowledge I've gained, I know that it's a learning curve that I've hardly mastered. Maybe that's why a part of me loves living in Uganda -- it's always interesting, and there's always more layers to learn.

Once any other kids outside of another little shop, now our friends Winnie, Flo and Comfort.