the dust in your eyes

Driving on the remote village roads on the way to a Crusade deep in the outskirts of Hoima. I hold on for dear life as the wind tangles my hair in the back of the 4x4 bed. I am surrounded by people, they are sitting on the floor, they are next to me on the benches, they fill every space that our equipment doesn't occupy. There is drumming and singing while some let out battle cries. We hit holes that nearly toss some out of their seats, we swerve, we get wacked by trees and grass as the road narrows. I am covered in bugs and leaves, but all I can do is smile. I bite into the stick of sugar cane that I hold in my free hand. Although I am covered in dirt that smears onto the cane, I use my teeth to rip off the sweet chunks, then I spit out the root. Sugary spit and water runs down my face and others' excess hits me too. Even though the road is like a rodeo ride, the praise continues. I sit here and think to myself... This. Is. Africa.