I thought that re-immersion would mostly be about familiarizing myself with the neighborhoods, trying to recall the names of the places I had not thought of in almost three years. Nakasero, Kisemente, Kololo, Kabalagala... home, my new favorite coffee shop, my old favorite bars and restaurants, and the one place to get a decent croissant. I had somewhat anticipated the adjustment of being thrown into fresh work with unfamiliar colleagues. In many ways, that's the easy part -- being "on" always seems to be, even (or especially) in new environments. I knew I'd have to prepare for being generally stared at again, the conspicuous anomaly of the "Chinese" woman who likes to walk, even run around, on the streets of Kampala.
But what I had forgotten was that revisiting Kampala meant revisiting all the mundane but oddly specific things about this place. On the one hand, the locals have the same distinct musk to them. Surprisingly, it's not all that off-putting. Just, pungent? You can't miss it if you ever get on a public bus because it emanates from the fabric of the seats. On the other hand, the mornings here have the slightest tinge of smokiness in the air, like the entire city just put out a campfire. I think it's delightful, but then again, I guess you'd have to like campfires to think so. Riding a Boda is supposedly really dangerous, and I've heard my share of horror stories. Yet somehow when you're in the moment, the odds of imminent automotive disaster can't outweigh the the absolutely liberating feeling of cutting through the perfectly cool evening air on the back of a bike. When I say it's delightful, I mean that I often find myself wanting to hoot and holler like Thelma or Louise in a convertible on the open road but stop myself only for fear of startling the driver and actually causing an accident. So I just grin silently. It's nice to have those little moments. It's like the city is telling me that I am welcome.
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