My Best Day in Uganda, Part III

(We're in the courtyard of a little village on Mutanda Island, surrounded by children.)

After everyone was done with spaghetti, I plucked the tiny container of honey from my satchel. It held maybe a quarter cup of honey. Originally my plan had been to spoon a little onto a piece of bread for each child, but it was clear now that bread would not be forthcoming.

I went over to the 4 to 10 year-old group. All twelve of them were still clustered tightly on the woven mat. I took out the little container and peeled the top off. They marveled at the little golden stalactite that hung from the cap. I dipped my finger in the honey, put it in my mouth, and made Yummy Yummy noises. I offered the honey to one girl and got her to dip her dainty finger in and taste it too. Another girl followed, but both of their reactions were more bemused than excited. The other children watched closely, unsure about whether to taste. I thought the whole thing might flop right there.

Then suddenly, from the back of this tight mass of children that had twenty arms and hands going in every direction, one adventurous girl leaned forward and jabbed her finger deep into the honeypot. Everyone laughed. The ice was broken, and now everyone wanted some.

Honey is not the cleanest of substances to distribute. When the girl from the back brought her finger to her mouth, she dragged a line of honey across three other girls. This was nothing short of hilarious, of course. I glanced at the adults to see if there was disapproval for what I’d begun, but they all seemed to find it a gas too. So we kept it up: finger dip, retrieve, drag honey across the dress of your neighbor, laugh hysterically. If this were a comedy routine, I would say that I killed.

I offered the honey to Kabunga, the twelve year-old head of household. Rather than just dipping his finger, he paused and took the container from me with a stern dignity. He looked at it for a moment. He probed with his finger like a surgeon exploring a wound, and brought it cautiously to his mouth.

No one turned down the honey. The old ladies. The too-cool teenagers by the banana trees. Everyone had to have a taste. There was still an eighth of a cup when I finished, so I presented it, publicly and formally, to Kabunga, for him to dispense later as he saw fit.

Eleanor and I sat against the wall of the mud hut to digest. The 4 to 10 crowd suddenly got an idea, and two girls ran off behind the hut. A few others whispered to each other and followed. Soon the entire bunch of youngsters had disappeared. The teenagers continued to watch us sullenly. All was normal in the world.

And then the children were back. And Kabunga’s sister was banging a blue jerry can with a length of sugarcane, while the kids jumped and stamped and swung their arms behind them. The rhythm on the jerry can was this (in an eight count for you musicians):

1. Tap-[pause]
2. Tap-[pause]
3. Tap-Tap
4. Tap-[pause]
5. Tap-Tap
6. Tap-Tap
7. [pause]-Tap
8. Tap!

It’s a cheer. I don’t know the words to it, but I know that those last two taps are accompanied by a spirited “Let’s Go!” and a flail of the pom-pom.

Then they asked us to dance for them. And as much as I love to dance, the packed dirt courtyard isn’t my usual venue. But we’d had such a lovely afternoon, I was high on the connection we’d formed, plus I was probably suffering a little heatstroke, so I pulled out my crappy camera phone, which had a few MP3s on it. I scrolled past “Heart Shaped Box” and “Gouge Away” and stopped on “She Loves Me Like a Rock” by Paul Simon. I pushed play, and a thin reedy sound emerged from my phone.

And then Eleanor and I got up and danced. We danced our freaking hearts out there on the packed dirt, on the island, in the lake, in southwestern Uganda, just a few miles from the border of Rwanda and Congo.

The children stood motionless and expressionless while we danced. I like to think their small minds were expanding. I like to think we widened their horizons, stretched the scope of their understanding of the universe forever.

Eleanor had a different opinion. “I think we traumatized them,” she muttered.

An awkward pause ensued, and then someone started banging on the jerry can again. Everyone preferred this, and we all just jumped around together for a few minutes.

The sun was dropping, and the honey high was fading. We tramped back down the path, just as sunset reached its Point of Maximal Impressiveness.

The ride back from the island was a luxury: two canoes. I guess we’d done something right. When we arrived on the opposite shore I paid the boy who’d rowed us both ways the equivalent of 25 cents, and Willbroad said that was too much.

Just before the boy pushed off to go back to the island, a second boy ran down and jumped in the canoe. “Wait, who’s that kid?” I said.

Eleanor got it. “Oh my God, remember when the canoe first came to pick us up? There were two kids in it, and one of them stayed here. That boy’s just been sitting here the whole time...”

I won’t try to make a profound point. I won’t try to spin this into some fluffy cotton candy about how every time you try to help one person you end up hurting someone else. I think the point is this: Not everyone gets to eat spaghetti every day.