Bungee Jumping on the Nile

 

My Girl Goes Bungee Jumping

My girl is reserved. She speaks only when it is absolutely necessary. Her dad bends all sorts of which way to get her reaction but she is often impassive. She remains expressionless sometimes with a subtle smile pasted to the ends of her lips – that’s when you know you’ve really got her. Her diary is lethal – yo! I don’t know where she gets it but she’s a certified mystery. I’ll confess I’ve flipped through those pages a few times and each time I quietly place the diary down and slowly walk backwards out of the room. I gently close the door behind me, take a deep breath and watch the branches on my prayer list bud into new more complex items.

She’d give Sherlock Holmes sleepless nights.

Anyways here is the story. After soul nourishment in Teso with my parents, hubby dearest suggested we stop in Jinja for family time small-small. We were happy to sleep late, wakeup late and lounge around refreshment away from America’s rat race.

This is how it goes. Everyone heads off for some alone time, as in, we are together apart. Do you know this? Let me explain. Once you have teenagers, stress levels can as if peak. The young people don’t really want to hang out with the parents, just the parent’s money. When they begin to earn their own money, all bets are off – your relevance is held on a balance so help you God. If you have a boy and a girl then each one wants their own space because really, “What do you know about what I’m going through?” The parents are left looking at each other and they too are processing life from different angles.

A panoramic view shows the boy sprawled on his bed scanning his phone. The girl is in the living room watching a movie. The dad is on the porch reading news events in world. The mom? Now, where is the mom again? Oh yeah! She out somewhere marveling at nature, taking pictures, thinking about her kids, happy that she doesn’t have to cook the day’s meal.

Next morning dad has a brilliant idea to take his family for a thrill, an adventure in the jungles of Jinja. The teenagers are like, meh! But what can they do? Rules are dictated, they are in unfamiliar territory, so best stick close for safety. One likes to swim, the other is water averse. One parent loves adventure, the other is calculated – if the full equation is not understood, it’s not happening, but for the sake of peace and harmony, they’ll lay down their lives. Sacrifice – the man’s calling.

The car drives onto the gravel of this open facility – water of the Nile roars in the distance, there’s a vast space of dark green vegetation, a beautiful canopy. Music blasts through the speakers.

Boy: “What are we doing here?”

Dad: (Silent because really… “For you don’t you just enjoy life ko?”)

Girl: Acts invisible.

Mom: “Let’s see what we can do”

A few meters ahead a set of metal fortified stairs lead up to nowhere. Basically, if you start the journey up, there is only one way you are coming down – free fall.

Boy: “That’s just crazy!”

Mom: “Come on! Let’s give it a shot”

Boy gives mom the look, she knows it’s not happening.

Girl: Acts like she is not there, then suddenly blurts out, “Ok, I’ll go.”

We all turn. The question on all our minds: “Are you sure?”

She’s only 11. Does she know what she’s getting into?

The guide, a bulked up young man tells her there is nothing to be afraid of, it is safe. The equipment is tested and he’s trained so he will walk her through the steps. He adds, if she is uncertain, she has time to change her mind. Still acting like she’s invisible but consumed with resolve, she nods her head, “Let’s do this!”

The family is led to a balcony where we watch the spectacle go down – feel the guilt of letting our baby fly in the wind, strapped with ropes.

The DJ pumps up the volume, “I feel it coming” by The Weeknd.

Boy is bored – like, “What madness in this?” like, who in their right mind thought this would be fun?

DJ increases volume.

Dad is pacing, looking out over the Nile. Pebbles on the ridges now look like rocks.

What if there are crocodiles? We’ve seen those creatures literally walk on water for their prey.

DJ increases volume again. “I feel it coming”

Now the beats are in sync with our hearts, soothing the thumps, numbing the sudden jerks.

Where’s mom? She’s watching her baby get strapped in to the gear. From this distance, her girl looks like a stick figure, hands up, then hands down, like the cock screw. She’s thinking, “wait, what? This kid is actually going through with this? Some nerve!”

Then woosh! The girl is catapulted into the air. Dad makes a sound between a growl and a howl.  The teen’s hands are spread out superman style. She goes with the wind, suspended in space. The seconds freeze in-slow-motion each micro second doing a full stage act. Then the rope drops, then the rope pulls her back half way up, it drops again – we feel that – sweaty palms, dry throat. We are all breathing like women in labor, our legs shake.

I look again, ok she’s still strapped to the rope, good! Nothing has malfunctioned and no crocodiles or hippos emerged for the spectacle.

A boat rows out to the girl, she is gently lowered onto its floor. Now we can’t see her. She could be kidnapped down there although frankly with her stare even a kidnapper would think twice.

She emerges unperturbed, dad and mom are frantic like they did the bungee jump. Boy still thinks humans are crazy to consider this fun.

Mom: Squills “Oh my! How was it?”

Girl: “Hm! It was ok”

Mom: “So what was the guy telling you up there? You talked for a long time.”

Girl: “Oh! He asked me to choose, I could have the rope around my waist and fall forward, but that’s basic. Or the harder level, have the rope around my ankles.”

What did this reserved, non-expressive, quiet, assume-invisible-state of a girl decide? Yup! Option two.

Who is this girl?

African Dance

Have you listened to Amapiano? Man! The log drum hits different. It irons out emotions on its threshing floor. When faced with those gentle persistent hills on a morning jog, the log drum pushes me forward, it gives me resolve. As my heart races and my lungs expand for air, the log drum keeps my feet in motion with its sequence: one-one, two-two, one-two, two-one, five-five, a hundred. “You can do it!” I go. 3 miles, 4 miles… nice! 

The African drumbeat speaks and African’s love rhythm, it is magical. Rhythm reaches deep into our souls. It gets people going. I listened to the drum beat in Jinja, by the Nile River – the translation of the rhythm in to language was not lost on me. The drummer layered sensual sentences into his beats – you listen and know, then you watch people dance – the communication is complete. It is crazy. 

But have you also noticed that most traditional African dances are racy? I guess there are only a set number of body parts that can groove. I had never thought about it until uncle J came for an evening chat with my parents. This was the era when Congolese dance videos saturated UTV – Tshala Mwana and Pepe Kale disorganized Uganda. My mom was appalled by all the movement, dad couldn’t be bothered but uncle J, a little tipsy and free of all inhibitions grabbed the elephant in the room. 

He said, “But you know African dance has always been about …” he started naming body parts. Mom sprung from her chair; uncle J was known to have little restraint with his language. She closed the door with the hope that the heavy words flying from his mouth would sail into the open air and dissolve somewhere beyond the gate. But uncle J was not done, he kept on talking. They moved to the veranda.

On the veranda, they could engage in further conversation with a bit of privacy or so they thought. As it turned out, my bedroom was adjacent to the veranda so when uncle J begun to speak and with the influence of alcohol raise his voice, it carried without restraint through the open windows. It settled on the beds, the heads and the ears of anyone in the room. Suddenly mom remembered the windows to my room were open, every syllable pushed its way in. She slammed the shutters muttering something about mosquitoes. I was seated on the bed, not quite dotting the “I’s” and crossing the “t’s” in uncle J’s sentences but mom’s antsy behavior drew my attention and I listened in. Uncle J was quite on a roll about legs and backsides. I had never before considered the “Bakisimba” and "Nankasa" as anything more than a cultural dance. Ah! Then I looked at “Ding-ding” and saw a pattern of human expression saved by raffle skirts and long flowing bitenge. 

Mom was at a loss, the words flew where ever they willed, no doors or windows would stop them. 

She resigned and in the next breath as if waiting for her to calm down, uncle J swiftly moved on to politics. She called for one more round of hot water for the Ajono. 

Before long, dinner was served, the news was read by Baale Francis (RIP) and uncle J was ready to head back to his home fully satiated. 

Oh the things that come to remembrance. I think these are signs of aging. :-)