I'm not in Uganda anymore.
No, this is Australia. Where trying to find the right colour / texture combination of cushions to match your new reclining lounge suite can not only become the focus of your day, but also cause a 'domestic'.
"I said from the start that lounge suite wasn't right for the carpet."
It's been five months since I left Lugazi, Uganda. And I haven't written a blog since.
Actually, that's not true. I've written a couple, but I haven't posted them.
The readjustment and reverse culture shock has been nowhere near as difficult, and simultaneously excruciatingly harder, than I imagined it to be.
I can't even reveal to those closest to me what I really think most of the time - for fear of sounding hypocritical, offensive, holier than thou, idealistic, negative, naive, bleeding heart, optimist. And did I mention hypocrital?
I will post the unfinished blogs. It's just every time I think to write one, I tell myself I'm not allowed until I finish the one I started when I first came home.
Today, I'm throwing out my self-imposed rule and starting from here. Sometimes I'll jump back. Sometimes forward. Sometimes things are not going to make a whole lot of chronological or creative sense.
But here it is. A letter.
When I started this blog, I wrote it as letters to my grandmothers: Betty Marshall and Sylvia Toohey. As Betty's mother's name was Ruby, and Sylvia's maiden surname was Dove, thus the name of the blog (it was either that or Silver Betty...but since I've had a penchant for ruby coloured items for some time, it seemed apt).
These women are two of my favourite story-tellers. One has a timeless and tireless imagination for fairytales - the secret lives of the creatures who live in her garden, and her thousands of dolls who chatter to each other as she sleeps. I do not doubt there are fairies under her Maidenhair ferns. The other, has a wicked memory which stores names, relationships and most importantly, moments of joy, tragedy, tears and hilarity in a filing system only she can see. For those who listen, she will work her magic so that her true stories become your own - a gift to pass on if you open it.
But tonight, I am making an exception, and addressing a letter to Doreen, in Uganda.
Dear Doreen,
I am sitting here in Yeppoon, on the woven mat you gave me, looking at a pineapple. How could I not think of you? Despite the fact I can wander downstairs to the supermarket and buy a large pineapple juice from the fridge, I am tempted to boil the skin, wait for it to cool down, drink my 'juice' and think of you. Truth be told, I prefer your ginger tea.
I am currently employed as the Digital Producer at the newspaper I work for in Queensland, which means I edit online stories and try to grow our online audience by engaging with our community through our stories, and social media. Part of the challenge of building this audience, is to inspire the community to tell their own stories.
So, one of the things I'm asking people to do in the lead-up to Christmas is write a letter. They are being asked to log onto our website and write a letter to someone they won't be spending time with this Christmas. It might be someone they are far away from, or someone who has passed away. They are also asked to upload a photo of something which reminds them of that person. They can write about a shared memory, about what they'll be doing for Christmas, or just what it is they love about that person.
This is me kicking things off.
I wanted to write to you and say even though I may not be there, even though it may seem I am caught up in my life back home, even though I may not write every day, I have not forgotten you. Sometimes, I wish I could.
If I could forget you, I could complain more. I could buy more meaningless things. I could block out what is happening in the rest of the world. I could enjoy a gelati on the beach without wondering what you were doing and wishing you were here to soak everything up with me. I could block out the fact so many people don't have the privileges, opportunities and love that is available to me. I could forget how inspiring, selfless, determined and generous you are and just get on with the job of being a cynical self-absorbed mzungu (white person).
I wish you could all come to my place for Christmas. I know Jo and Beth have never been to the beach, and I'd still love to teach you to swim. You must be nearly due to have number three, and I would love to give you a holiday, and send you off to a foot masseuse and a spa. I will never forget how much Erin had to go through to organise a massage for you. You never had the time to leave the children long enough to leave the house, so she had to bring the masseuse to you. And then you still proceeded to scrub the floors, bring us tea and cook for everyone with two children running around your feet and claiming to be 'helping' you whilst really throwing rice, knives and soapy water from one side of the kitchen to the other.
So I just wanted to let you know, I am thinking of you Christmas Day and every day, and love you and your family with all my heart.
Amy.
