chimps in the forest

Olyota! Ibara iyange ninyowe Sarah. Ninduga New York. Ninsomo ebisoro ha Cornell University. Ninkora ne kitongole kya Kibale Chimpanzee Project. Msemerirwe kukurora.

In case you can’t read Rutoora, the local language of Kanyawara, which I couldn’t do until earlier this week, I’ll translate:

Hello! My name is Sarah. I am from New York. I study animals at Cornell University. I work with an organization called Kibale Chimpanzee Project. It is nice meeting you.

After learning that I would be spending my summer in Uganda, I immediately looked up what language is spoken here. Google gave me two options: English and Swahili. I love learning new languages, so I decided without thinking twice that I would begin to learn Swahili. I would be fluent by the end of the spring semester and completely able to understand everything everyone said. …or I would at least be able to introduce myself when I met people. However, when I met with Allison and Rachel, two girls who were in Uganda last summer, they informed me that nobody in Uganda really speaks Swahili and that the local villagers wouldn’t understand me any better than if I spoke English. Heartbroken, I removed the “Learn Swahili” playlists from the ones I had saved on Spotify, realizing that English was going to be the only language I could bring with me. I would never be able to communicate with the local villagers unless I had a translator with me, which would completely strip me of my high-valued independence.

That all changed my first week in Kibale.

I traveled with the Mobile Clinic on June 7 and 8 to remote villages too far from a doctor’s office to receive treatment for most diseases. The first day we went to Kahondo. After a long ride in the back seat of a truck, smushed in with three other people (there were a total of 11 people in the truck: three in the front seat, four in the back seat, and four in the bed) and bruised from crashing into the door with every bump (which there are a lot of, making me feel extremely grateful for the roads in Ithaca), we finally arrived in a dust-covered town built of whatever scrap materials were available.

Stepping out, I saw a gaggle of schoolchildren swarming the doors of the small schoolhouse, eagerly peering out to catch a glimpse of the Mobile Clinic. Their excitement became fascination and curiosity after seeing me, a white girl, step out of the truck. They ran across the road, babbling in whatever language they spoke (I didn’t know at the time), stopped dead in their tracks when they were next to me, and stared at me, wide-eyed and unsure of what to think. I waved hello, and they all began giggling before racing back to the schoolhouse to observe me from a farther distance. I proceeded to help set up the clinic in some empty school buildings – one teensy room was going to be the “doctor’s office”, another was the lab, and a third was the reception area. After we were all set, they began playing music out of some speakers we had brought along to encourage people that the Mobile Clinic was friendly and that they should come and seek the help they needed. After a significant crowd had gathered, everyone began to introduce themselves. Eventually, it was time for me to introduce myself. As I raised the microphone to my mouth, I was instantly embarrassed. Whatever I said wouldn’t be understood by anyone. I took a deep breath and gave them the basics anyways. When I finished, I offered them a smile, hoping they would think of me as a nice person they could trust. Much to my relief, Patrick, the doctor, then introduced me to them in their language. They smiled, appreciating that he took the time to translate.

Throughout the afternoon, patients came pouring into the reception area, a steady stream of sick people needing help and unable to get it until the Mobile Clinic came to their village about once every 3-4 months. Somehow, we made it through 130 patients in 5 hours. Patrick is a true miracle worker. My job was to write down everyone’s names, ages, and villages into the logbook. As I wrote, I observed the people who stopped by. There were a countless number of 18-year-old girls with 2-3 children peeking around them from behind, and most of them were pregnant with another child. In the books they brought with them for the doctor to write in, many of them said that their education stopped at second grade. All the children came toddling in without shoes and with giant, rotund bellies full of worms. My heart sank as I continued to write name after name after name. In what way would I ever be able to connect with these people? My life is perfect in comparison – I’m receiving a college degree from one of the most prestigious universities in the world; I have multiple pairs of shoes; there is an abundance of food for me; I can get medical help the instant I need it. I couldn’t talk to them either; they didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak their language.

During the times that there wasn’t anyone to register, I looked out at the people waiting in the grass. They were all happy. The children were running and laughing with each other. People danced to the music. Even though they were sick, these villagers were enjoying themselves. The fact that the kids weren’t wearing shoes didn’t bother them – they wanted to wrestle in the dirt with their friends anyways. The young mothers weren’t upset that they had children – they loved them with the same passion my mother has for me. Watching the people outside, I realized, not for the first time, that Ugandan people don’t cultivate stress. Patrick loved treating the people who came, and he was smiling at the end, even though the work must have been exhausting. The patients weren’t upset about waiting for five hours to see the doctor; instead, they took the time to visit with each other. They seemed to embrace the lesson I learned my first week here: it’ll happen when it happens.

While I was relieved that the villagers didn’t seem to be upset with their lives, I still felt so distant from them. We’re both happy, but in totally different circumstances. Is that really enough to connect to someone? Some people would probably say yes. I wasn’t going to settle for that though. I came to Uganda to learn, and what better way to connect to people than to learn their language? Excited and eager to once again rekindle my love of foreign languages, I asked one of the girls from the Mobile Clinic to teach me a few simple phrases in Rutoora so I could introduce myself the next week. I’ve been reciting the phrases every day to prevent myself from forgetting what they sound like. I look forward to traveling with the Mobile Clinic tomorrow and introducing myself to the local villagers in their own language.

From this experience, I learned not only a few phrases in Rutoora, but I also clarified my definition of what it means to be happy and to have a good life. I realized that what the villagers need is not pity but medical care. They don’t have much, but they are more than willing to offer me maize roasted over a fire. They patiently wait for me to write their names, not at all annoyed that I sometimes mistake the spellings. The people in Uganda are, if nothing else, kind. To always be so kind and loving in everything you do takes a uniquely strong sort of person. While I at first thought they would envy me, the reality is that I envy them. From this day forward, I will always strive to be as good willed as they are, to practice unconditional love, and to be happy in whatever circumstances arise. Thank you, Uganda, for helping me become a better person. I hope I can someday repay you.

Like what seems to be the case for everyone else, my first week in Uganda was an overwhelming and surreal blur. I have never been to Africa before, nor have I ever been in a developing country before. Everything about being here was so new and unusual and unlike the rest of my life that I began to take solace in the simple things, the little daily occurrences that I’ve somehow managed to take for granted living in New York. I relished the sunsets over Lake Victoria, realizing how beautiful the sun can truly be. I listened to live music played by the local people at dinner, feeling inspired and connected to life as a greater concept.

Yet my new whirligig life is somehow comforting. I’ve recognized the pressures of strict routines and how compressing time restraints limit your ability to appreciate those around you. Here in Uganda, life is characterized by a saying: it’ll happen when it happens. Meetings that were scheduled for 11:00am sometimes don’t start until 12:30pm, if even at all. It’s not that a sense of commitment is lacking. Quite the contrary – people here are so dedicated to their work that if it takes longer to accomplish something, the next things get pushed back to a little later in the day, and nobody worries about it. This lifestyle is very new for me. Classes always begin right on time and end right on time and I run around frantically between them, hoping that I don’t show up even a minute late because then I might miss something important. In the US, life doesn’t wait for you, and that creates a sense of urgency about even the smallest things. In Uganda, life happens as you experience it, and that creates a sense of relaxation, limiting the stress everyone feels.

By needing to adjust to this new lifestyle – I can’t start a meeting where I’m the only one “on time” – I have learned to slow down a little bit. One day, after waiting for nearly three hours for Peter to show up to a meeting, I recognized that sitting anxiously in the hotel lobby wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I was creating tension in my life that was completely unnecessary; since I needed to be in Entebbe for a week anyways for a quarantine period, having this meeting later tonight wouldn’t delay me from seeing chimpanzees in real life. Instead of watching the seconds tick by on the clock on the wall and restlessly counting the number of dragonflies fluttering around my table, I got up, grabbed my camera, and headed towards the Botanical Garden a little way down the road. It was still early in the afternoon, so I had plenty of time before sunset to explore the beauty that was trapped inside. Peter had told me that it was big, so I was excited to become lost inside the world it contained. Standing on the edge of the road after walking there, I wasn’t so sure I believed the statement about its size – it couldn’t possibly be much bigger than the Arts Quad at Cornell. Or so I thought. After paying a small entrance fee, I walked inside and was immediately greeted by a dozen or so vervet monkeys playing in the grass and the trees.

My first wild monkey. I was beyond ecstatic and wanted to stay in that one spot for hours just watching them chase each other. It was at that moment that I began to appreciate the mantra I had recited to myself mindlessly sitting in the hotel lobby: it’ll happen when it happens. By not tying myself to the commitment of endlessly waiting for Peter, I was able to see wild monkeys sooner than I ever imagined possible. I silently thanked Peter for not being able to make our meeting that morning. He gave me the gift of Entebbe’s Botanical Garden.

While I don’t anticipate seeing monkeys chasing each other around Morrison Hall the next time I wait for a professor to come to their office for a meeting they said would start half an hour before, I do recognize that I can’t be so regimented all the time. If I truly want to do field research, I might have to wait hours until I see the animal I’m hoping for. I might have to sit inside until a severe storm passes. I can’t be in control of everything, but I can be in control of myself, and I can practice patience, knowing that it’ll happen when it happens. And if all else fails, I can take time to walk to the garden to stop and smell the roses.