Volunteer

I slept for the last time under my mosquito net at the Margarita last night. Tucked into my steamy little fort with my headlamp, the final pages of A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali, earplugs, my ugly little clock. Listened to the fan whirr on and off as the power flickered into and out of life. Stretched myself across the top fence of sleep without ever managing to fully surrender. Was snatched almost awake at 530 by mournful crowing and an equally mournful call to prayer from a mosque I hadn't even really registered before. I guess the fan's white noise and my ear plugs other nights had blunted it. My insomniac hallucinations fondled dreams around the noise and I floated across many countries.

I keep edging sideways into thinking about saying goodbye to the kids. Yesterday was a blur of queasy succumbing to the constant hammering of bacteria I've been fighting off for a week, rushing to finish up our video profile projects, visit with the landlord to ask him to pretty please put up a better fence. In the middle, Freeman kept giving us feast gifts. Roasted goat (majungo?). Undercooked maize still in the husks. I put one bite of the goat in my mouth and had to spit it out. We fed it surreptitiously to the little kids, who gnawed on it happily, shared our maize with them. Moses didn't get a second piece, so the other shared theirs. He put a handful of kernels in his pocket and ate them one at a time, for later.

Brian tried to give his maize to me, an offering. My sweet needy Brian who sobbed his eyes out when I left. Alex wouldn't let go of me all afternoon, his droopy yellowed eyes and tiny little hands clinging at me. He's always the first in line for sweets, though, and he's too small to really get that we were leaving.

We had a forlorn looking cake that said Nikibasika, had the kids sing Skinamarink (which we taught them and they love), O Canada (which they finally got) and Motherland Uganda (one of the only songs they know that isn't about Jesus or parents dying of AIDS) for the video. We talked to them about our commitment to them, about how we believe in them and that they can grow up to be contributing members of their communities, that we'll support them until they're grown and educated. About how we will be arranging for them to do voluntary service work in Kasese. They nodded, and got it. Then we hugged and there was sobbing.

Bizarrely, I didn't really cry. During O' Canada a bit -- they are so proud of themselves - but I went into parent mode, held the crying girls and poor inconsolable Brian and Kagame. Told them all I loved them.

They fell into my lap, these kids. They have so much to teach us. I had Freeman spell it out for me yesterday. We have kids from Congo, Rwanda and Uganda. We have Tutsis and Hutus, both. We have three different Ugandan tribes (Bakonjo, Banyankole, Botoro). The kids have emerged three shared languages -- runyankole (one of the local kasese languages), runyarwanda (the rwandan language) and english. They're teaching each other their tribal dances.

When we met with the probation officer yesterday, he stressed, in his officious, deadpan, extravagant way how important it is that the children retain their original identities. We agree -- and all but 12 return to relatives or their original communities in the holidays. They learn to cook, the layers of history, their family stories and rites. And at the same time, they're making something completely new, shredding the edges.

This, I think, is why I didn't cry. It's the right work. I will be back soon. And I am lucky.

I brought two cameras on this trip -- my sturdy little canon powershot elph and N's much fancier Powershot D9, the top of the line point and shoot. I let the kids run around with mine and take each other's pics for hours, and some of them are fantastic - they just need to be edited and cropped a little here and there.

There are more than 1000 pictures on my two cameras from the past week, and sorting through them will be a huge, bittersweet project. Terribly frustrating to try to post any with the slow computer, tinny wifi and lack of editing software here. But, a taste. The stunning (in every way) Phiona. And me with two of the ones who really clenched my heart, Baba and Anita.

We're back in Kampala, and I can jerry rig a few photos. Balloons. Elephants. The Kasese food market. All of us at Kepp Resort for our swimming party. (Note to self: do not ask non-english speaking waitstaff who don't know how to use a camera to take group photos when you are short. This is the only one in which you can see more than a tuft of my hair).

The sun burns white dust today. Our last day. We do errands this morning to avoid thinking about tonight, saying goodbye to these kids.

One of the big things we need to work out is that we're not actually a legal entity here. We need to register, get paperwork, get each of the kids' guardians to approve a care order so that the kids are with us legally. The process is like one of those lion fences you drag together in the serengeti. The Impenetrable Forest. "First you need a letter from the head of the LOC council 1. Then you need a letter from the LOC council 2. Then you need a letter from the LOC council 3. Then you take these letters to the Kadde-Net." It ends with a visit from the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development. And only THEN can our director visit all of the kids' guardians to get care letters, 1 by 1.

It feels impenetrable, but the probation officer is on our side. And so is Mr. RDC, the head bureaucrat of the entire district. After our hallucinatory four hour meeting with him last week, we invited him to the house for a concert last night. To our surprise, he came. A honk at the gate, a pick up truck with a soldier with a rifle standing in the back.

A triumph. Declared himself 100% behind us, gave the children a little speech about growing up healthy, how AIDS was a kind of gift because we know how to look out for it, not like if a mosquito bites you. Talked about peace and how only with peace can we have people with good hearts come to help us. People who are not even the same colour who love the children like parents. We couldn't have asked for anything more.

The little boys slipped out of formation to harass the soldier, but the big kids heard. They know we are committed to them, that the community is there. We had the kids sing him a frayed version of O Canada we've been teaching them. We made up actions. They love to stand on guard, little salutes with one arm at the side.

While they stand on guard, in the background, our watchman becomes untrustworthy, trying to quietly disrupt -- disorganize us, as they say here -- because of his loyalty to the founder. As we drive back to the hotel, full of the RDC and community support, the feel of the little hands of the kids stroking our curious skin and hair, the littlest ones clinging to each of us like babies, we have to give the director permission to fire Ronny with his spear and his whistle and hire an auxiliary police officer for a couple of months. It barely causes us a ripple. The kids are all.

All day yesterday, the kids were slipping us folded pieces of paper. Love letters. Requests for pen pals. Letters To the Canadians. Complicated folds to make envelopes, colourful drawings. Passionate pleas. "Auntie Cate I love you so so so much." I cannot bear to think of leaving. I drained tears steadily while the RDC was speaking.

My sleep was feverish last night. The electricity was going on and off, and everytime I woke, I realized I was dreaming of the children. Wilson, grown up, the Mayor he wants to be. Baptista a doctor, his prized fedora still askew.

The mountains here are rounded, sensual, inviting. But Able is adamant that no one who could afford anything better would live there. The green ridges hide congo and all its chaos. They call to me to climb them, but I know that up close the paths will be slippery dust, few handholds. In this work, I climb those ridges, find my footing one step at a time, have to constantly decide where momentum will provide the most balance, where I need to steady myself after every step. This is the work.

Tonight, we bring cake and farewells. Promise them our commitment, again.

I'm in an internet cafe in kasese town. It's a stall like a storage locker at home, with bubbled linoleum on the floor, a fan, a calendar with a beautiful girl and some netting covering the corrugated tin walls. Open to the dusty street, which cannot be good for the computers. It's extremely fancy for kasese, and the only place in town that has reasonably paced and reliable internet. The cafe part is a misnomer, though -- this is not an espresso bar. Coffee in general is scarce as ice here.

The Aunties and I went to the clothing market yesterday. A field spread with tarps, a few stalls with fancier hanging clothes, unsorted piles everywhere. This is where the clothing goes that Value Village cannot sell. Buying clothes here is hard work -- pawing through the piles in the beating sun, pulling out items one at a time. These flowered pants -- for Madam? This shirt -- for Phiona? These shorts -- for Baba? I see a honolulu marathon tshirt, a Calgary Herald shirt, a ridiculous frilly black lacy teddy with red satin bows with the Value Village tag still on. I spot a Toronto Maple Leaf shirt for Moses, the smallest one. He is the only one in the program with no relatives, no guardian -- he was found in a plastic bag. The shirt is way overpriced -- the equivalent of $2.50. Instead I buy him a blue floral hawaiian shirt.

We buy a new outfit for every single kid, including dress up shirts for the boys and church skirts for the girls -- $90. The parade around in them, modeling. The boys are so handsome.

We have been interviewing them -- doing a little video of each of them, making a profile. Their stories break our hearts. They love football. They like the color green. They say how grateful they are for "the balanced diet." Angela wants a guitar, and Docas longs to play the piano. Abdu draws a picture with a note about how our help has made him who he is. I ask who that is. He says "I did not have clothes. I did not have food. I never thought I could learn english, could go to school."

Last night they sang for us again, practicing for our special visitors tonight. We've invited some of the local officials to a concert. They taught us the chorus of Our Motherland Uganda... Full of peace and full of joy... Outside, Abdu tells me that the president, Musceveni, has eliminated the subjects of politics and government from schools, to keep the people ignorant. He is a dictator, he says. Abdu will be a leader some day.

Today, we herded all 50 kids up the hill to half-finished fancy hotel. We paid for the pool, and for lunch. I was a monkey puzzle tree, with Alex hanging off me for an hour, Deheli spinning around, Brian on my back. Angela trying so hard to be my friend. She wrote me a love letter and drew me a picture last night.

We gave them a feast -- sodas and chips and chicken and cookies. Then we gave them chips and chicken and sodas and cookies before. They are sated -- the canadians bring sugar and plastic. And love.

Tomorrow is our last day here. I can't bear it.