Gregory Forsberg

KYETUME NIGHTS

The night is in full swing, underneath the stars music can be heard in the distance. The quiet village of Kyetume is alive. Lights beckon, and music moves. Store fronts normally dormant by ten are open and thriving. Exuberant, enthusiastic, excited, enticed Kyetumites have flocked to the commotion. A sheet held up by string and guarded by a lone doorman blocks passage to where large speakers encourage light feet. I enter, unsure what to expect. Dozens of people occupy the area in front of a makeshift stage that was open space between stores just a few hours before. Flags, similar to those used in car lots, hang from the walls. A dj with fairly elaborate sound equipment operates off a generator. Small children dance between the throngs of adults, some pass around a Nile, or a bottle of Waragi. Two young girls dance and sing a popular Ugandan song, one with a soviet star beret, the other clad in denim. They are followed by two men, one dressed like a groom, the other a bride, a woman as a bride, and a man, barely 4ft, also dressed as a bride. They dance, they sing, they do a mock wedding, exaggerating every movement for comedic effect. Suddenly the song stops, a man, larger than life steps into the spot light. Clad in bright yellow and turbin donned he struggles to get out onto the stage. Fabric unravels and stretches out, standing several feet taller than any man could he pulls himself on stage. His face painted white, he dances precariously on stilts to an upbeat Ugandan song. Several people nearby grab my hands and I am pulled into the floor, we dance, we spin, a small child is passed to me and we pretend to tango and dip. The late hours get to me, I am spent, I bid farewell to my dancing companions and walk the dark road back to bed.

Seed and fertilizer distribution organization at a Danish cafe in Masaka, Uganda. This lead me to one of the few resteraunts I had yet to visit. It had been months, I had given up hope of eating chinese food, a luxury I had put behind me, like indoor plumbing, ice cubes, and after my house was hit by lightning, constant electricity. A balcony overlooking part of Masaka was accompanied by hot and sour soup, shredded beef, and an intern from another NGO. Candles illuminated the food, the power was out and limited the options for food and beverages. Dusk is short, day turns to night quicker than I am used to despite being here for three months.

A grassy hill overlooks a different part of town, a symphony of cicadas attempt to drown out the cacophony of the town. A rooftop church in the distance blares music, a man screams in tongues, this is interspersed with prayers in the slowly calming night. Cups bought earlier in the night are filled with a sweet south african drink, life stories and cherished things from home are shared.

I check into a hotel and have my second hot shower in three months. I touch the water before getting in, and step underneath the shower. I understand that I am taking a hot shower, but it is such a foreign concept that my body doesn't not know how to register what is going on at first. It is glorious. Home had running water, but the pumps stopped when the lightning struck. Late night, darkened showers with buckets had dominated the lifestyle I had become accustomed to.

Youth Camp

A long, warm, humid taxi ride home stops five villages past where it should. I had fallen asleep in a mutatu. I arrive early as students setup for the youth camp. Between thirty and fifty youth came to Hope Academy to participate. Boys and girls sign in and are sent to their quarters, or wander the campus until festivities begin. After everyone settles down, Leandrea leads the youth in a serious of games. The first, and a personal favourite once I discovered it in february is the smile game. It is played here a little differently, but the basic premise is the same. In this instance, two teams are trying to make one team. Each team takes turns calling over people to get a key, if the person can go from point a, to team b, grab the key and make it half way back without smiling they get a turn, if they smile, they have to join the opposing team. This proves to be a well received game, young boys and girls jeer, make rude gestures, and beckon to slightly embarassed but enthusiastic members of the opposing team. When this starts to wear thin, a game of modified tag is employed and utter chaos ensues. Everyone is "it". The trick is everyone has a single hand behind their back, and if it gets tagged by anyone else, they are out. The field in front of Hope erupts into youth driven madness, human shields, dodging, even the occasional "you did not get me" which brought me back to my own youth.

Seperated into three teams, each team is responsible for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I came across Ronald Kasimbi, and a few others as he stirred beans in a large pot. Kasimbi is an active member of almost every URF event. Always chipper, always smiling, he has mc'd the international women's day, he's participating in the mini videos for URF, in the youth camp, and many other projects. A campfire is made, and many speeches by teachers and leaders are made in Ugandan.

The weekend is numerous talks on professionalism, alcohol and it's role in Uganda, the importance of education, talks on coming to maturity, and communication skills (hosted by yours truly).

Saturday night the youth showcase their dance, lip-synching, and eating talents. More than 30 youth participated in the talent show, showcasing suprisingly amazing dance moves, crowd moving gestures, and an eating contest involving bread, endizi (bananas), and a boiled egg. 4 boys entered, one boy won.

The youth end their weekend with a dance. A room with barred windows and speakers brought in from who knows where kicks off an enthusiastic event. I end my weekend with a trip to a nearby village for roadside roasted chicken.

Monday.

The aftermath.

It is a day off, I am awoken obscenely early, like always, by the cow who has not been milked, the rooster who does not know when to lay off, and the goat who loves to baa outside my window, just my window, and no other window. I take this as a sign to do my laundry, which I had neglected to do after I realized that the bucket I had picked had a hole. All other buckets were in use, and frusterated that I could not even simply wash my clothes I had left it.

Punk Rock Party with Peace, Prossy, and Patience.

I occupy my day by taking photos of baby animals, which are plentiful, but end it in a grassy field against a tree. The sun is in it's final descent, the warmth overwhelming, but the tragically hip, johnny cash, and creedance clearwater revival help me keep cool. The bugs come out and make my comfortable space unbearable. I move to the cement facade of the house and am joined by various children throughout the night. NOFX with it's upbeat, fast punk sound is most popular, followed by CCR with it's almost gospel beat. Peace, a ten year old girl living here temporarily sits beside me, a black and white striped shirt hangs over her small floral skirt. She excitedly bounces to NOFX's "it's my job to keep punk rock elite" while asking me what "by the cow who has not been milked" means. I ask her why she likes it, she replies in a sing song voice, very child like and innocent, unsure of why she needs a reason "it's gooooooooood". Beck's "the new pollution" comes on, she doesn't know what to do at the start, but the song changes and she starts to head bang in time with the song. Touches of light blue border the darkened sky. Visuals from winamp entrance Peace, she head bangs to NOFX, and the Hip. She touches the screen excitedly as colours swirl in time to the music. Patience, who normally has no patience for me, sits directly in front of me, touching the screen periodically. The battery dies, and the party ends.