My favorite afternoon

It’s funny how a place once foreign can become so comfortable. Yesterday I caught myself saying that I was going to miss how easy it is to live in Gulu. Granted this was while walking on a narrow, red dirt path through green foliage under a pink painted sky. Nevertheless, it caused me to laugh, thinking about my first day in Gulu; recalling my avoidance to sit on the lawn, fearing that African grass was packed with disease-filled chlorophyll.
For a place that is war-torn, run down, and pathetically drab, Gulu will often surprise; how in the period between one bend in the road, or one shift in the sunlight, it will morph to something beautiful. And when the environment makes that slight adjustment, it only takes a few seconds for the mind to catch up, and you realize suddenly that life is delicately soft; opposed to obnoxiously hot and irritating only minutes prior. And the most blessed way to find these crisp and striking moments is to stroll around the villages on the outskirts of the town after work.
Yesterday Karl, another intern, and I walked around sunset through the lush village that lies behind our house. Walking along the path, we meandered through people’s backyards and gardens, while Acholi children ran to line the path to greet us, shake our hand, and giggle uncontrollably. The brave ones remain there, staring in awe, while the more introverted run off to tell their Mothers what just happened. It is easy to feel a part of a celebrity Mzoongo parade everytime one walks past the streets of town. Women sitting outside of their huts always outreach their hands, a knife tucked between fingers, smiling with genuine warmth. The knives are permanently fixtures in their hands as they continuously shuck, whittle, scrape and chop their vegetables in preparation for their family to congregate for dinner. We finally arrived at the most beautiful plot of land I have ever seen. The woman was so friendly, Theresa. She greeted us, offered chairs, as the sun set over her hilly, vegetative plot. Rain was nearing, but it was impossible to leave. Her brother was milking their three cows, ushering each one into a wooden holder, tying its back legs to avoid kicks, and crouching to milk. I asked him to let me try, and the kids laughed as I cautiously milked the cow, for the first time in my life. Rain began to brush across our location, and we ran for cover in her outdoor hut- like a homemade gazebo. Watching the sunset from there, her daughter brought in table and chair, and some fresh picked sugarcane. It was a tremendous afternoon, as we spit sweet splinters of sugarcane towards a setting sun.