Credit: Jenny Z.

A moment from a late night in the summer of 2013, just outside (the unofficially but affectionately named) “Mzungu House”. A small hut mere yards away from the Busolwe hospital and temporary residence to two doctors-in-training from Aarhus.

Busolwe, a village near Mbale in Eastern Uganda, was my home for four months while I participated in an international learning exchange (primarily to support rural literacy initiatives and to learn from a community of local leaders who were passionate about instilling in youth a culture of reading and writing).

My colleague and I had been invited by our Danish friends to an evening of shared meals and stories, the latter not least a chance to debrief our most eventful days spent in Uganda. We rarely had a chance to connect with them, the only other foreigners who were staying in the remote village alongside us for many months. They worked long hours at the hospital, while our time was dedicated to the local library and schools, all spread out over a great distance.

On this weekend night, we emerged much later than anticipated. As we walked into the field and took in the fresh air, a group of locals sitting in a circle motioned to us. Each held a thin pipe with one end dipped into a large bucket on the ground. They asked us to join them as they drank from their lengthy wooden straws. So we found ourselves reveling outdoors, starlight replacing candlelight.