Part 1: The Abayudaya.
From atop the grassy hill there is a view over hundreds of miles of sloping green. Details of vegetation and land contours are difficult to distinguish within the single vivid color. The community is seated under a tree outside the Rabbi's home – men, women, and children. A courageous girl has walked silently to my chair and planted herself on my lap, where she is playing with my arm's white skin. It is Saturday just before noon; the service has concluded and the Rabbi leads a discussion of the week's torah portion. Everyone is invited to ask questions and propose interpretations, to apply the story to their lives. The Rabbi speaks in English for the guests – mostly young Jews from America and Israel – and his words are translated by his brother, the village elder, into the local language for those who have not mastered abstract concepts in English.
On the hill are three communities – Jewish, Christian, and Muslim. The Jews are one of the smaller Jewish communities in the area, but they have achieved the greatest publicity. The rabbi attended rabinical school in the US, there is a very nice guest house, and CDs and other Jewish tourist gifts are for sale. Proceeds go primarily to the community but are also shared with Christian and Muslim neighbors. Unity is a cultural value for all three.
Several generations ago, a local was reading the bible and decided that the old testament was the right way. He founded a Jewish community which is still flourishing today with over 1000 members. Similar communities are scattered throughout Africa. This community has many prayers in the local language, with beautiful harmonious melodies unlike any prayer I have ever heard. They have also integrated customs and traditions that tie them now to the world Jewish community. I was honored with an aliyah, to go to the front of the service and witness the Rabbi reading directly from one of their 5 torahs; the rituals were the same as those I learned for my bat mitzah when I was 13. It was touching to the point of a magical eeriness – I thought: It's happening again. Judaism is being reborn in small communities scattered across Africa, the birthplace of humanity. It is beginning itself again – though the outside world has taught some of these communities our unwritten traditions and supports them with tourism and aid, the communities founded themselves with no outside pressure at all, no evangelism, and existed for many years before discovery by the outside.
And sitting with the community under a tree on the green hill, surrounded by the expansive vista of a fertile land as far as and beyond the horizon, a small child sleeping on my lap, men and women engaged in reflective discussion – it is hard not to believe in religion and to feel the presence of something divine.
Part 2: Nature
There is a thin strip of grey about 8 inches wide raised 2 inches above the dirt; this is the only remnant of the paved road and serves now only as an obstacle. The current red dirt road is completely covered in potholes and ruts; there isn't a full minute when we are not weaving across the single lane, seeking a path for the wheels, inching forward dip by dip.
Families sit on the roadside watching calmly, as though they've been there all day. Children carrying small jugs of water up the hill stop to stare at us, then yell and wave. The youngest chase the car on their tiny legs, shouting. They shout “Muzungu!” which originally meant British person, but is now used for all white people and even some wealthy, westernized Ugandans. In Kampala they shout at us as well, then wave, shriek, or giggle in excitement. But these children clearly have less experience with Muzungus and often stare in wonder, awed and nervous, frozen by the thrill. The tiny villages along the road often have stores set 10 back meters from the road; this space is full of people buying and selling – bananas, plantains, chickens, cloth. Homes are scattered along the road and up into the hills behind the stores. Some villages are only a gathering of a few houses of mud with thatched roofs.
We are climbing the Cliffs of Wanale, the relatively small outer edge of an enormous extinct volcano. The volcano takes many days to scale and we have only one, but this section is rewarding. Along the roadside, back into the sloping hills above the cliffs, is the most lush, fertile, green area I have every seen. The cliffs are a reddish brown, setting off the bright greenery. The sight is overwhelming; it is hard to look at such a vibrant, intense area of one color. At the top we stand under a radio station at the highest edge, beside a soccer field, garden, and a few small homes. We can see the whole of Uganda, seemingly, and it is all green. The sun is setting and the misty edges of our vision blur the greenery; we know there is more beyond.
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