The rain comes furtively in the night, drenching the world, then vanishing.

I reached Gulu last night, sustaining no injuries other than a sore rear from the unexpectedly long six hour bus ride, after waiting two hours for the bus to leave Kampala. Then again, you think I would have come to expect the unexpected here. I met up with the couple I am staying with for dinner, then walked back to their compound in the darkness of early evening. For some reason, I feel much safer after dark in Gulu than I do in Jinja. Gulu is supposed to be a broken place, rough around its war torn edges, and Jinja a friendly, settled town open to tourists. I have heard of more violence in Jinja, however, and no one badgers me because I am a mono here - the Acholi equivalent to mzungu. The moon's silver crescent is growing stronger, and here there are not enough streetlights to flood out a wispy Milky Way. A few fireflies blinked like cell phone lights in the grass, bringing to mind glass jars for catching them and the bare feet of summer. A thunderstorm flickered in the distance, though the sky above was clear. Besides the peacefully cool air, none of these are frequent parts of my life. I didn't grow up in a place where I could see the Milky Way, or where fireflies dance, or where thunderstorms shake the air often. Yet I couldn't help giving the sigh of someone who has come home.