I stayed up all night on Trader Joe’s espresso to fly over an ocean and two continents. I now stand just above the navel of the world, ready to dive in and dig deep.
I sit on the ledge of my third-story balcony, one foot on a rain-splattered school desk, both ankles splattered in the red clay of Uganda. The children have left their love marks on my white shirt and I hope they never wash out. I’m facing a ball of setting light over the Nile River – guest house and green lawn below. Some sort of factory is blowing smoke kisses at the sun and the birds are humming “How lovely is our dwelling place.” My eyelids have the weight of travel but instead of acquiescing to them, I will honor my lungs with green-given fresh air out on the balcony.
Our first introduction to “African Time” was the two-hour drive from the airport that took three due to some dirt-road detours. We saw brick houses. Mud huts. Piles of drying bricks. Women in long skirts. Coca-cola. Coca-cola. Coca-cola. Children carrying bundles on their head. People selling newspapers on the highway. Beautiful, lush green trees and rolling tea fields. Many churches. A few mosques. A huddle of giggly children hiding under a blanket on a porch. Bicycles. Trucks. Motorcycles. Cell phones and internet cafes. Barefeet and shaved heads.
Then to Jinja for the HopeWalks event with Children of Grace, the organization that helps support kids who have been orphaned by AIDS and HIV. After we waited out the torrential downpour, a uniformed marching band led us through the town’s unpaved streets. The kids wore beaming smiles. Little hands held tight to mine all down the street and through the dance performances. What a treat! To feel the heart connection through fingertips and the soul through dance. “You know how to dance!” said 13-year-old Masi. And she should know! The drumming and dancing and singing flows from these kids to the beat of their heart pumping blood into their veins. I not only wanted to dance with these kids – they told me I had better dance!
The magic of Africa. It really is magical here – just as I knew it would be. What I don’t know is “it.” I don’t know Africa. How much will I know when I head back? Perhaps not enough to satisfy and everything enough to return… Everything’s much slower than Park Avenue. And that is just right, right now.
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