Uganda, I Love You

This past week, Kim and I went to Uganda. The primary reason for our trip was to visit the Abayudaya tribe, which is a small Jewish community located just outside of a town called Mbale. We decided that it would be slightly wasteful to go to Uganda and not take advantage of all that the country has to offer, so we spent some time enjoying some of Uganda’s tourist locations, too.

We flew into Entebbe, and went to directly to Entebbe Backpacker’s, the hostel at which we had arranged to stay. Kim and I were both looking forward to our brief stay in Entebbe, as Lonely Planet: East Africa had claimed that the small, lakeside town, was quant and enjoyable; we were also looking forward to it due to the fact that we had actually heard about the town (although the extent of our knowledge was limited to Israel’s 1976 “Operation Entebbe.”) Shortly after arriving at the hostel, we made the short trek to Lake Victoria (which, in case you were curious, is Africa’s largest lake and the world’s second widest body of freshwater). We had a nice, but grossly overpriced lunch overlooking the lake, before getting on a motorbike to bring us into town. Within less than an hour of being in Uganda, we quickly discovered that often, the sole mode of transportation is a motorbike, or a boda boda. With Kim’s frantic mutterings of “we’re going to die” in my ears, we were quickly whisked into town. Town, as we were saddened to discover, is comprised of one small strip of stores. After quickly exhausting all that Entebbe seemed to offer, we got onto another motorbike to take us back to the hostel.


The next morning, we were up bright and early, ready to go to Kampala, Uganda’s capital, to get on a bus to Mbale. After a later than expected start due to the torrential rains, and the restaurant’s unwillingness to start cooking breakfast until 8, we were finally in a car, off to Kampala.

Growing up and learning how to drive in Los Angeles has exposed me to some pretty crazy traffic situations. But the 405 at rush hour on a Friday night has nothing on Kampala. There are no distinguished lanes, there are millions of people on foot, boda bodas everywhere and cars that are so close to each other, that it’s surprising that I witnessed no accidents. Because of the intense traffic congestion, there were many times in which engines were completely turned off while waiting to move. When we finally pulled up to the bus company’s office, we were informed that the bus that we wanted to be on was pulling away about three cars in front of us. The men at the bus stop told us that they were going to call that bus, but that we should go chase it. One roundabout, 5 lane changes, and 30 frantic honks later, we quickly paid the cab driver and were herded onto the still moving coaster.

When we finally arrived in Nabugoye, the village in which the Abayudaya community is located, we were immediately thrust into what felt like some sort of warped dream. It was almost as if I was dreaming about Africa, with a little bit of Israel and camp thrown in. People greeted us with “shalom” and said “lilah tov” before we went to bed. Everyone had Jewish names—such as Aaron, Isaac, Rachel, Tzipora, and Maccabee. Each time we met someone else, it was incredibly difficult attempting to hold in our hysterics after hearing their names.

The morning after we arrived, we spent about three hours in the morning sitting with Tzipora, Rabbi Gershom’s wife, just talking. She was the quintessential Jewish mother; she was always trying to feed us and make us feel as comfortable as possible. She shared stories and pictures of the five years that she spent in Los Angeles with her family. She loved talking to us about the places that we all knew. She talked about her friends in Santa Monica, and how she and her family frequented the Galleria to see movies. It was a strange contradiction, we would hear a completely foreign language, and then we were asked about Shabbat or Rosh HaShannah and Yom Kippur.

Later that day, we met Naavah, the Rabbi’s five-year-old daughter. She was a very typical Rabbi’s daughter—she danced in front of the arc while her dad was davening, twirled around in the front of the synagogue, and was quite aware of how adorable and loved she was. It made me feel quite at home, but instead of Eva or Sami running down the aisle, it was Naavah. I guess some things are consistent across cultural boundaries.

That night was our first experience of Ugandan-Jewish prayer. In addition to the typical Maariv service, we heard a plethora of psalms sung in Lugisu, their local tribal language. There was no physical mechitza, but the men and women were required to sit on opposite sides of the room. Everyone was incredibly participatory. The men, women, and children all sang each and every prayer enthusiastically, and Kim and I were able to accompany them confidently.

The next morning at Shacharit, Kim and I were honored with an Aliyah and had the opportunity to experience Rabbi Gershom’s ingenuity first hand. At home, when we would discuss prayers for rain or harvest, it always seemed somewhat empty. In Los Angeles, rain is just a nuisance, and the idea of a harvest is inconceivable. But in Uganda, those things are real concerns. If there is no rain, there are real worries over whether or not there will be enough food to eat. Nonetheless, Gershom made sure that everyone understood that these prayers are meant to be directed to Israel, no matter how much they may need these things in Uganda. With that said, it did happen to start raining halfway through his sermon. Following services, Kim and I attended the community lunch. We secretly hoped for bagels, lox, and rugalach, but were met with a typical Ugandan meal—rice, matoke (which is plantains in the consistency of mashed potatoes), and meat. Once again, the juxtaposition of eating an African meal in a room filled with Siddurim and other Jewish texts was astounding.

Simchat Torah began that night. Hundreds of people were unceremoniously squished inside the small synagogue, ready to celebrate. The celebration was very similar to one that IKAR may have—everyone had the opportunity to hold the Torah, while everyone else danced around them. There was something incredibly comforting about singing the prayers that I grew up learning with an African grandmother and grandchild singing alongside me. I think Kim described it perfectly when she turned to me and said, “I think the reason that I love this so much is because it combines the two things I love most: Africa and Judaism. And that’s awesome.”

After a sad goodbye and promises that we would return as soon and as often as we could, we headed to Jinja, a small town on the Nile River for lunch. The Nile was beautiful and relaxing and a great way to spend our final day in Uganda. We then returned to Kampala and stayed there for the night, before getting on the plane to head back to Tanzania.

We both had an incredible time, but it was great to be back in Moshi!

Pictures: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150297891008201.329492.642763200&type=1&l=d6cc451dbe