Kulika Yo (Or, Welcome to Uganda)

I arrive in Entebbe at just after 7am on Wednesday, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, move easily through customs and claim my bags. Outside, a stout, square-faced man is holding a brightly-colored sign bearing my name. I smile broadly and wave. “Hi! That’s me! I am Kate!” I say, pointing at the sign, and then at myself. The man smiles back, shakes my hand, and takes one of my bags. We load the car and set off.

Lake Victoria looms before us, flat and sparkling, a giant silver dollar glinting in the hazy morning light. We drive east, through a lush, hilly countryside, a palette of rich, earthy colors – deep terra cottas and dark reds and muddy browns set against velvety greens – shimmering vibrantly beneath an expansive blue sky. We zoom past acres of maize and banana trees and palms and hundreds of other plants and trees for which I have no names. The road is paved, but riddled with potholes, and scored on either side by the familiar, constantly-moving lines of heavy-laden Africans on their ways to and fro.

Abdullah (that’s the driver who met me) is a kind, quiet man, with three children. I’d like to learn more about him, and about this new place, and I try (at first), asking lots of questions, but now I’m fighting to stay awake. “I think you are very tired,” he says, after several minutes of silence. I smile. “A bit,” I tell him.

Just outside Kampala, Abdullah hands me off to William, who will take me the rest of the way to Jinja. We arrive at the LGH volunteer house at just after 10.30am local time. A tall, lithe, bushy-haired African woman opens the heavy blue security gate for us. Her dark skin is stretched over exquisitely high cheekbones, her waist and hips narrow, her limbs impossibly, elegantly long. She pokes her head into the car. “She is the one?” she asks William. He nods.

Julie, the in-country director for LGH, comes out to meet me and introduces me officially to the African woman (her name is Betty and she’s the housekeeper; she is also, I quickly learn, a total freakin’ riot). Inside, I meet Julie’s sister Ashley, who has been visiting for three weeks, and Betty’s seven-month-old son, Kymbi, bouncing happily in a swing.

The house (brick exterior, with a long cement porch) is wide and airy, with spare but comfortable furnishings, brown-tiled floors, and dark woodwork set against white walls. My room is in the back. I deposit my bags and join Julie and Ashley in the living room for a little meet and greet and howdy-do before I (glory hallelujah!) disappear to the bathroom for a shower.

Kneeling in the tub, rinsing soap with a faint trickle of warm-ish water from the handheld showerhead, I don’t notice my swollen legs. Yeah, so … ‘member that one episode of Friends? The One Where Ross Tells Rachel She Has Cankles? It isn’t until I’ve patted myself dry and am smoothing on lotion that I notice I have … thankles. Seriously. My calves and ankles have swollen to – I swear – the same circumference as my thighs, the left one sporting what looks like a giant, slug-like welt on the outside of my shin. I panic. Oh my God, I think. I have a blood clot! From sitting too long on the plane! I am totally gonna DIE! I dress quickly. If I’m going to collapse at any moment, I don’t want to be found sprawled naked. I’ve only just met these people.

We consult Julie’s medical book and determine that my death is not, in fact, imminent, and that some ibuprofen and elevation should restore me to normalcy. Betty has made matooke (a thick porridge made from what looks like bananas but what tastes like potatoes, and a staple of the Ugandan diet) with peanut sauce. It’s not my favorite, but it kicks the crap out of nshima.

Showered and sated, I pop a couple ibuprofen and stretch out on my bed “just for a minute.” Three hours later, I wake to an empty house. Julie and Ashley have gone to meet some of the Suubi women who will be adding t-shirt bags to their creative repertoire, and then to teach the weekly English class. I am bummed to have missed it, but grateful for the rest. When they return, we go to dinner at a local Chinese restaurant and chat until it’s time for bed.