When we say "Agaandi," ya'll say "Ndi Gye"...

11/10

The final day at TeachInn went down as a seemingly never-ending span of time. One looks back on it the following day and marvels at all the various happenings that unfolded. Or maybe it's a normal day in the city, and it seems lengthy in rural Africa since so many days melt away with a steady ease. In the words of George Costanza, "like an old man easing into a warm bath."
Come morn, we walked into classrooms for our last lessons, my mother and I. Cumulating our invented "drama week," the white people overacted various stories for the children to laugh at. Typecast as a man character, I, a skinny, goofy mzungu, played the big, bag wolf. When most of the 80 minute lesson elapsed, and the hilarity of my falling into an imaginary pool of hot water began to subside, some kids started saying "e-f-f-e-c-t," signaling they wanted a fix as mic fiends. The younger ones' version goes something like "e-f-f-e-e-P" [speaking in tongues], "e-f-f-e-e-p" [speaking in tongues], and it don't stop like so.
Come quarter past three, we handed out the numbers for the Ryabiringye Primary Cross Country scramble. Having written their names on numbered pieces of paper earlier in the week, the kids in the young P2-P4 classes danced in the aisles upon hearing news of their inclusion in the race. Did they know they were volunteering for an exercise of intense physical pain? Indeed. The chance to compete in sports had been previously confined to the oldest three classes, P5-P7. The youngsters itched at any chance to capture athletic distinction.
Unlike their American equivalents, which tend to lazily scoff at the prospect of sustained physical activity, the Bakiga unconsciously undergo year-round long distance training. Folks run to school, run to lunch, run back to school, and run after school playing football/netball until, and then a while after, dusk. Such a schedule is only interrupted by the seasonal demands of crops, which pull students from school for hard farm labor. The local die consists of a properly heavy supply of carbohydrates courtesy of matoke, rice, and g-nut sauce on every eating occasion. Everywhere is a hill. The bottoms of bills rise more than a mile above sea level. And for the first time in their lives, a race was organized on their behalf.
After posting wazungu on various turning points throughout the course, I trotted to the starting line. Awash with yellow, hundreds awaited the go-ahead signal. An mzungu yelled "1,2,3, Go" and the kids and I clogged the sole road artery away from the school down the football pitch, around said pitch, up a segment of fairly steep hillside, up a severely steep segment of a hillside, down a treacherously skinny straight-shot down the hill, around the pitch a second time, all before ascending the long, hard slog to the finish line atop the village. My lungs convulsed with exhaustion upon course completion. Legs flimsily like overcooked pasta. I finished comfortably behind the first five finishers.
The masses of 8-12 year olds quickly followed behind the leaders, causing an intense session of results recording. Once having tabulated the results, we presented the winning boy and girl from each class, and the top three boys and girls overall, with hackey sacks and toy medal prizes at an award ceremony duly following the last finisher. The overall winner was a boy from P5 not even on the first or second football teams. The winning girl came from the P4 class, meaning she wasn't even allowed to try out for the netball team. Before giving the awards out with customary handshakes and applause, I gave a short translated speech praising the pupils' strength and eagerness to run. Kids listened looking tired, thirsty, and, since I'd mentioned it, not so eagerly conduced into thankless scrambles up and down hills.
The award ceremony gave way to a going-away ceremony for me and Mama Me. Headmaster Kenneth and "we have loved you" among other sentimental pronouncements. The school choir sang and danced for us on cattle-grazed lawn. Following that, we rode a minibus outta TeachInn for the last time.
Pulling into Lake Bunyoni in the late evening, excitement ran high among the volunteers. For open mic night, those of us at Teach Inn (renamed T-Unit) gave a rap performance we'd been practicing all week. From a minstrel, comedic standpoint, the performance was a huge success. 19-year old British gals sneered rhymes with all the attitude their dainty accents could muster. Necklace letters made of tin foil debuted. Dave wore a clock on his chest.
Around midnight, a skinnydipping spree in the drink cooled our desires, capping the day's excess in activity.