What Matters Most

For sure I see things differently. For anyone who has visited a developing country and comes home – it would be the same.

We live materialistically. I’m shuddering through the culture shock. Coming home at Christmas time. People talking shopping and buying gifts. For what? Giving. Why?

I think back to last week. In Uganda.

The streets are busy. Lugandans celebrate Christmas. Not all, the Muslims don’t. People talk holidays. Family. Coming together.

It may not be turkey and stuffing. Though I did see the odd turkey on the street. Legs bound together. Lying flat on the side of the road. Or carried by their legs upside down.

It’s hot in Uganda. The days find individuals sleeping in a cool ditch or under a tree. Away from the harsh rays of the sun.

But the nights come alive. In a magical way. Everywhere. Little oil lights. Or kerosene. It’s an outdoorsy lifestyle. Music in the streets. Food vendors barbeque or skillet something hot.

So I ponder, what matters most about this time of year?

Is to be together with the ones you love? For families to share? For love to shine? To love and to be loved?

Yes, that’s what matters most.

To love and to be loved.

Uganda Now

Not afraid to head down to the store and outside the gates of Mengo Hospital anymore. Especially at night. I’ve gotten used to crossing the street. The biggest challenge. Non-stop matatus and boda-bodas (motorcycles for hire).

Felt overwhelmed in the beginning. Plus I was told a lot of stories before I left Canada. Around situations of trust. Begging. Misuse of boundaries.

It’s been three weeks and I am grateful for all the people I have met. Two women smile and laugh with me as I pass by. I’m good at the “How are you?” when I make eye contact.

“I love your dress,” they say as I walk by.

Greetings exchanged with the warmth of a smile. I utter weebale (pronounce whey-baa-ley which is thank you in Lugandan). They chuckle.

Then there’s Joseph. Our man in the know for the freshest pineapple and the most perfect mini-bananas, avocados, papayas, tomatoes, etc. His little vegetable and fruit cart sports a mini-light at night. It’s dusk and dark just after 6:30 p.m. here. I gather my goods with thanks and pass him his money.

As I’m dashing back to Mengo Hospital with two bags and a dry-sack of groceries all of a sudden I hear, “My friend, my friend!”

It’s Joseph with a beautifully ripe avocado in his hand.

“This is for Jennifer.”

He clutches my arm for a shake. I give him a hug.

Jennifer is my roommate who adores conversations with the locals. He’s taken a shine to her. Jennifer had stayed behind tonight.

Sure I see children begging in downtown Kampala. The odd adult. If I ask someone if I can take their picture, once I have been told I need to pay. I’m sure everyone could use an extra buck.

No different then back home though.

That’s Uganda for me today.

Uganda now.