impressions of Uganda

Colors: red-brown and all shades of green. Green of banana leaves, grass, corn. Mango and papaya and avocado trees, their leaves deep and lush. The green of a landscape that does not have winter, of trees whose leaves fall from dryness, not cold. Green that dazzles eyes accustomed to wintry grey and brown, a rainbow of verdant shades in all directions.

The green overlays red-brown earth, a deep and perfect complement. The clayey soil yields itself up to be shaped into bricks, stacked into walls, covered with tin or thatch, and low homes scatter themselves along every road. Wherever the lush growth has been cleared away, rust-colored earth shows beneath, in yards, on hillsides, in the unpaved roads bumping every which way over the land.

Bright flashes of flowers gleam from the green--trumpet flowers, bougainvillea, enormous purple penstemon, bright white frangipanis with their butter-yellow centers, and hundreds I can't name. And the people, too, are bright flowers moving among the green, along the ruddy earth, dressed in yellows and purples and reds. Women walk along the dusty roadside, wearing bright stiff fabric that shimmers in the sunlight. Soccer jerseys abound, in red and yellow and black, as do crisp white or blue or grey button-downs. Many buildings are left their natural red-brown, but others are painted in vivid hues, and I understand the myriad billboards (and buildings, and walls) promoting Sadolin Paints: Colour Your World.

Smells: the acrid aroma of burning trash, of diesel engines running . . . but beyond the cities and roads, the scent of rich, humid air, humus, green things growing and decaying back into the red earth. Breezes that smell of water, the freshness of air swiftly moving above the vastness of Lake Victoria. The scent of cooked meat, chapatis frying, a panoply of foods.

Sounds: in the city, a cacophony of horns, tires screeching, large trunks bu-bumping over speed humps and potholes, music blaring from clubs and cars. Away from the masses of humanity, the humming buzz of insects underlies all other sound. Hadada ibises squawk their name raucously: "HaDAda! HaDAda!" Red-tailed monkeys chatter in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, causing the limbs to sway, dip low, then spring wildly up again with a loud rustling of leaves. In the distance, a dog barks, or a bass beat thrums. 

In the jungly forest preserves, silence reigns at first, but for slight rustlings here and there as birds flutter down to land on high branches, or insects click their way along. Cool shade lingers beneath the canopy, and our footsteps crackle leaves and twigs. Tracking chimpanzees, we pause for long minutes, hoping to hear their calls, but the jungle is hushed and dim, the only sounds our quiet breathing in the humid air. We are in a deep green womb, listening to our hearts thrumming, sensing the hidden life all around us. We walk the paths slowly, listening, listening. Suddenly, wild chattering bursts out only a few dozen yards away, and we walk quickly along the path to where a family of chimps argues loudly high in the trees, leaping from branch to branch, sending leaves swirling down to where we stand below. Their raucous calls fill the air, and I can hardly believe that all was silence just a few moments before.