Hello National Geographic.

African babies don’t cry. Ever. They can be strapped to their mother’s back, sitting in the dirt playing with a bottle cap, or squashed on a bouncing bus next to a chicken—they never cry, they just stare with big wide eyes. And it’s quite unnerving because most of the time, especially when it comes to bus rides and public transportation, I feel like crying.

It was on my 5 hour bus ride north of Kampala, to a town called Lira, that I made this observation about African babies. After 3 hours of sitting and noting the steadily increasing outside temperature I finally realized that there was a baby—maybe even one that would fall in the “infant” category—sitting directly behind me. This got me thinking, not once have I heard or seen an African child cry or throw a tantrum, whether out of discomfort of in seeking attention. And Lord knows there are enough kids here…

I wish I could have shared this same contentment on my bus ride, but my 7 hour trip (2 hours were spent sitting in the bus park waiting for the bus to fill) was the ultimate test of everything in me. By the time we actually reached Lira (the majority of the time was passed contemplating the temperature difference between this area and the surface of the sun) I was thanking the powers that be for holding me back from screaming, tearing out my hair, and otherwise harming passengers around me. I tried to invoke an assortment of meditation techniques, but at a certain point, the man sitting on the mattress in the center aisle who decided to use my leg as an armrest was more than I could bear. Most of you who know me well are aware that my face does not hide my displeasure, and I apologize to all of those who had to witness the pissed off white girl get off the bus and snap at anyone who tried to talk to her.

While my transport experience left much to be desired, I did enjoy my (short) time in Lira, as it was the first time that I actually thought, “Shit. I’m in Africa.” I had read about how the north of Uganda has been somewhat marginalized compared to the central area, but I didn’t realize how visual and apparent this disparity would be. Last week I visited pineapple farmers about an hour outside of Kampala, and while their lives are undoubtedly difficult, they have relative security in their living situation and welfare. In the north, almost every home is made from clay or stucco and a thatched roof. As you travel north, the rising temperature is complimented by aridity and an increasingly brown landscape. Of course, by my Utah standards, it still looks awful green, but the terrain no longer has the lush quality that characterizes the central and south of Uganda.

On Monday I held interviews with two farmer groups in Lira, one male group and one female group. We had to travel about 45 minutes outside of town to the village, and as the number of motorized vehicles was slowly surpassed by people on bikes and their own two feet, I had a slight existential crisis. I couldn’t wrap my head around my actual presence in the type of place most people see filtered through the lens of National Geographic.

The village, in many ways, fit to the stereotypes of an “African village”—shoeless children with distended bellies, pregnant women with an 18-month old in their arms, toothless men in worn Kansas Bulldogs t-shirts, and chickens and goats moving in and out of gardens and homes. On the other hand, none of the stereotypes capture the hope or resilience that these people continue to exemplify in the most trying circumstances, whether seasonal drought or the LRA insurgency. The farmers I talked to are former IDPs and were resettled in 2007. If trying to rebuild your home wasn’t a task in itself, now farmers face drought that has led to poor crop yields. In the interview, the question “describe your daily tasks and activities, from the time you wake up to the time you go to bed” was rarely answered with the mention of dinner. When we questioned further, they said that during seasons like this, they don’t eat dinner, as there is not enough food. And I come waltzing in with water bottles, juice boxes, and snacks for the times when I get slightly hungry…this was quite the reality check. I was also struck by the pride that the farmers have in, by American standards, what little they have. As I walked around with one farmer and the translator/nutritionist Denis, every plant, building addition, and tool was pointed out for me. These farmers have a sense of ownership, they want to do everything in their power to better their condition, and they have ideas about how to do so.

Talking to Denis after our interview, I learned a bit more about Lira, and about the fact that the town and the city were severely disrupted during the 20 year long insurgency by the Lord’s Resistance Army. He told me that the roads were very unsafe and that you couldn’t even travel across from the village we were in to the town. Most of the people have returned to their homes only in the last 5 years or so, and most are still struggling to put down roots. As I traveled back along the road from the village to Lira I was very unsettled as the stories and facts about the LRA and the atrocious acts they waged against civilians suddenly came to life. Most of you know that I’ve done my share of reading about genocide and the horrific crimes that humans can commit against one another, but no amount of reading prepares you for being physically present in the place where these tragedies occurred. You can watch Invisible Children and feel sad and mad by the injustice of everything, but there is a protective layer—a distance maybe—that is always maintained. But when you are walking along the road where people fled for their lives, it is absolutely disconcerting and you finally sense the actual fear that people lived with and through.

Today I am setting out for Mbarara, which is the OPPOSITE direction of where I just came from. I will be observing the collection of apple-bananas (no, not a hybrid, google it) and holding a focus group discussion with the farmers on Friday. I’m getting somewhat travel weary, but I know that the end of my internship will come soon enough and so I have to make the most of every opportunity.