I Hate Showers

It’s been over a year now since I’ve been in Kishanje. That means it has been over 365 showers (that math may be overly optimistic) since I was caked in the chalky red dirt that covers East Africa. And I really, really, really miss being dirty.

That probably doesn't bode well with your Clorox-wiping, disinfectant-spraying, Tide-stain-removing, Swifer-sweeping American habits. And trust me, I get it. We don’t exactly find dirt and grime glorious in this country. But boy, does this girl miss being dirty.

I was in Uganda for 25 days and for the entirety of my trip I wore the same long skirt and flip flops, washing my hair only once. In fact, I’d grown a couple of little dread locks in my “kitchen” that I was very proud of. “Bathing” meant I just threw a little water on my face.

I know what you’re thinking—gross.  I totally agree. I’m sure I looked like a creature out of Ah! Real Monsters when I got off the plane in Chicago. My hair was so dirty it stuck straight up, I looked super tan but upon closer inspection…it was dirt. I can tell you 100% I’ve never been happier in my whole life.

Once I was home every shower I took was heartbreaking. I couldn’t bring myself to scrub my feet, only let each shower slowly removed the tinted red shades on my toes. Watching the red water swirl down the drain solidified the fact that I was miles and miles away from a place I now wished was home. 

All that dirt between my toes was from endless games of soccer. Barefoot among sticks and rocks and thorns, playing long after the sun had set and families were home for supper. 

It was from climbing Mt. Muzungu…using my toes to dig into the ground to steady myself on the steep incline. Sweating and begging for it to end while Grandmas with water jugs, babies, and bricks on their heads raced passed me laughing at the white girl. 

Hiking down to Lake Bunyoni, hoards of children coming out of the trees at every turn to say hello. Dipping our toes into the warm water of the lake, splashing each other and sharing fruit snacks. 

The dirt on my toes symbolized each and every footprint I left on that mountain. Each and every toddler that grabbed my toes in awe, wondering why they were a different color.

 

Prince laughing hysterically at my white mutation.

The dirt disappearing from my feet scares the daylights out of me. It terrifies me that my memory is going to follow suit. Each day I indulge in the Kardashians, mimosas, Nordstroms, a manicure—am I letting my experience in Uganda slowly be wiped away? It’s always this time of year when I start planning my next trip abroad. 

Some days like today I just want to leave my cubicle, jump on a plane, and runaway to Kishanje. In 24 short hours I could have a baby tied on my back, necklaces around my neck, a drum in my hands, children at my feet, holding my friends hands and braiding their hair. I could be teaching students that want to learn. If there is a heaven, if there are angels, I promise you, they are in Kishanje.

Tukutendereza Jesu

Jesu Orimwana Gwandi-ga

Nebaza, Omolokozi