By that time Emanuel (the 19-year-old brother) had returned from teaching. He saw me sitting outside in my excersise shirt (I decided it was too hot for mosquitos and too hot for a long sleeve), my camouflage hat, and with small Dakin bag I had taken to the hospital with me. With the language/ accent barrier I thought he asked if I had just been for a walk. I told him yes. When he asked where I planed to go I realized he had asked if I was going for a walk. I told him I was just on one. He must have thought I said I just want to go on one, asked if I wanted to go with him to the quarry. I said yes thinking he meant later. He then said, “Let me go put on jeans and then we’ll go,” and rushed inside. By then I felt stupid to say that I hadn’t planned to go, and the pain in my stomach had eased a bit, so I decided to accompany him.
The walk reminded me of home. We passed through a wooded area into a large grass meadow full of cows. The dirt of the path even resembled the red-ish brown tint of the Colorado dirt. There were low lying bushes, ants on the ground, and fields of corn, potatoes, and other crops. As we walked Emanuel told me of how the power lines I walked past every day were used not to bring power to Uganda, but to bring power to Zaire (the Democratic Republic of the Congo) as part of an international trade agreement. When we saw a cow heard talking to a girl in a field he explained that they were speaking Lyancole not Lugandan. He told me that though most people there spoke Lugandan that because Lyantonde sat on the highway many people from all over Uganda came to settle there so many languages were spoken. He also said that traditionally that the area was situated near the boarder of many different Ugandan kingdoms, so it had been common to hear many different languages even before the highway. He said his dad was one of the people who came from far away after teaching school.
The whole walk (there and back) turned out to be a mini lesson, and one of the most educational experiences I have had so far this trip. I learned that Lyantonde earned its name from a man that had owned the land near the quarry. Before that it had been called “nothing” because it belonged to no specific tribe or group of people, and where many of the people who lived there had nothing. Many people new Antonde though. And when people would ask about the area they would refer to it as Lyantonde, the land/ nature of Antodne. So they named it Lyantonde. It had only, in fact, become a Sub-County a few years before (however long a few is), and next year would become a municipality because the government wanted to power in the 2016 elections. If they made Lyantonde a municipality like the people wanted, the people would be more likely to vote to return the party to power. As we got closer to the quarry he pointed out where the sweet potatoes, and Irish potatoes grew. He asked if we grew those back home, and I told him we did.
When we made it up the quarry the view (excuse my cliché) took my breath away. From the elevated point you could see the entire sub-county, and even all the way out past it. The green and rolling hills dotted with the green and red tin roofs of the locals. Our house could easily be seen, and when he asked if I showed him a picture of it he was amazed by the power of my camera.
The quarry itself is a large outcropping of granite on top of one of the hills. The inside of much of the granite stained black from where the blasting took place. Emanuel explained that instead of using machines people would either hand chisel stone from the quarry or dynamite a section off. He asked if we used machines. I said we did. “Ah,” he replied, “then the mountain will soon be gone.”
As we sat up at the top of the quarry two little girls sat bellow playing with a puddle of water. They eventually noticed me and started to shout mzungu! A third one waddled up one of the lower paths and started to shout louder. “She is jealous you are paying attention to the other two,” Emanuel told me. It did not take long before the three girls were scampering up the rock in front of me. They got just out of arms reach then went on their stomachs on the rock. They studied me as a biologist would study a rare species of bird. I waved and greeted them, but they only giggled and hid their faces into their hands. Emanuel said they were the Lugandan word for shy (which I have now forgotten). I asked him how to ask them their names in Lgandan then repeated it back to them. They’re names were Peace, Hope, and Grace. Two were twins, as denotaed by their Lugandan first names. All twin girls have the same two first names, and all twin boys have the same set of first names one for one twin, one for the other. After they introduced themselves Emanuel said, “Here we have easy names, not like yours.” I started to laugh. I did not think that our names were complicated, and I had struggled since I arrived to hear the Christian name of people after the Lugandan one. “We have complicated names?” I asked. “Yes.” He said, “I still do not know which one of you is Eliza. When I call Eliza you both turn around so I am still unsure which one.” I laughed. “Eliza has the blond hair.” I told him. “Then what are you called?” After he debochle in the hospital I decided I didn’t want to go with Addison so I told him Ari. It seamed to work well with the kids near Salama Shield. I said Addie they said Ari, close enough. “But I thought you were called something else?” “I am,” I said, “But it’s a nick name.” He nodded and repeated the name again.
As we sat Agnes called my phone and told me that Eliza wondered where I was and that it would soon be time for tea so I should head back. We walked once around the quarry and he told me about how the whole land used to be flat, then time wore it down into the hills that are there today. He also showed me the county cemetery where they burry the John and Jane Does. He explained that most people have family cemetaries, but when someone is found dead and no one knows who they are, they burry them there. The walk back was just as nice. I got some good photos of the sun setting, and some cool ones of cows.
