saying goodbye to uganda 12.29.09

What has made the farewell process of leaving Uganda so difficult both times I have departed is the fact that I have no idea when and if I will ever return. The journey to Africa is expensive and long, yet it is home to the people, places, foods, and experiences that I so dearly treasure.

For this trip’s last blog entry, I’ve decided to name the top 4 things that I will miss- and NOT miss- about the Pearl of Africa.

What I will NOT miss…

4. It seems that water, power, or gas run out at the most inconvenient of times. Right before getting onto the computer to watch a movie, power goes. When one is ready for a shower or set to do dishes, the tap is dry. And when one prepares for breakfast- chopping an array of vegetables, purchasing eggs from the store down from the driveway, and oiling the pan with an empty and vocal stomach- the gas for the spits out its last and final burst before going out.

3. As I have mentioned several times, I am terrified of the steep downhill routes that boda bodas and matatus follow. I have had frightening experiences even in the countryside of America, sailing downward at a speed in which my stomach drops. I think such experiences produced a new fear, as I don’t recall investing much thought into the transportation here on my last visit. Nonetheless, I welcome the flat and boring surface of the Midwest upon my return.

2. It’s risky to rely too heavily on the fact that the foods on a menu will indeed be available. When one orders “peas” or “pumpkin” or “sweet potatoes” it’s not uncommon to hear a faint “Uh-uh. Finished.” What a tease.

1.Uganda is dusty. I imagine my pores and lungs have had their fill of orange soot. When rain sprinkles to the ground, an incredible and unavoidable layer of muck coats the entire surface. People march around with an obvious pattern of speckled mud up the backs of their legs and across their shoes. I sometimes wonder about the actual color of my feet these days…I doubt they are really this dark and brown…

- - -

What I will miss…

4. I love the colorful energy that pours out from African music and dance. Ugandans can groove with the best of them. I’m one who loves to dance [no matter how foolish I look] and can always find someone willing to sway and twirl around at any time and in any location. And the East African rap and worship music are my two favorite genres. Amazing.

3. There is something to be said for learning to communicate in someone else’s native language. I love learning Luganda phrases and words so that I can surprise people with my ability to properly respond or cleverly exchange slang with a harassing boda boda driver. I am encouraged when I can successfully hold a very basic conversation with a native Ugandan. I wish Luganda was spoken in Illinois so that I could practice…

2. Oh, the tasty Rolex is so unique to Uganda, made of chapatti wrapped around grilled egg and vegetables. It was the first meal I had when I arrived here- Sarah, Ivan, and Benon brought me one for when I stepped off the plane. They know me well. It was the last meal I had before Peter drove me to the airport.

1. I will miss my friends the most. I have met so many wonderful, beautiful spirited people through my Africa travels. Ugandan. Kenyan. Tanzanian. English. American. Canadian. I see GOD in them all and am blessed to have had the chance to form friendships with these people. They have changed my life. I hold them all close to my heart, and hope we will all meet again some day.

…And if not in this lifetime, it will be when we all sing Hosannas for our glorious LORD in HiS Kingdom.

tacos. in uganda. 12.28.09.

Because everyone had left for camp in Jinja, Patrick, Tara, and I had the flexibility to get creative with dinner. This blog entry is dedicated to instructing a Uganda visitor with the resources and knowledge to recreate a fantastic dish:

Cheese. In my opinion, one needs cheese for tacos. Tara and I went to Quality Supermarket and I went straight for the tiny cheese section, opting to pay for the treasure with my own money so that it didn’t eat up our organization’s dinner budget. Cheddar cheese goes for about 3,000- 12,000 Ugandan Shillings [$2-$6]. It’s worth it.

Tara and I explored our options for “tortilla chip”. We randomly found some Dorritos on sale, which could do the trick.

With minced beef also in our cart, we waited in line for a very long time. The queues here move so casually- no sense of urgency to eliminate accumulating lines of customers.

Our next stop was the market- a travel clinic’s nightmare, I’m sure. With raw meat juice trickling down from the wooden butcher stands and into the mud where vegetables are on display, I think about what the nurses would think. I imagine the absence of hand washing, the bare and mudded feet that stomp upon beds of cabbage, and the chicken feathers and waste that scatter out from the overcrowded cages do not paint the picture of sanitation that the travel clinics encourage.

We purchased tomatoes, cilantro, avocados, onions, green peppers, jalapeños, and ginger from a few market stands before strategically weaving across the muddy high paths of the streets to the house. We first made a stop off to a woman selling gonja [roasted sweet bananas] wrapped in newspaper. Mmmm…. A snack before starting dinner.

A bit of bleach and water eliminated the memory of the environment from which our vegetables come. Tara’s mom had brought a precious can of refried beans on a visit, which smelled wonderfully as Tara cooked it on the stove, beside the pan of beef. Taco seasoning was another small item of incredible value that Tara had in her possession. I worked on chopping some vegetables for a salsa [which tasted incredible with the Dorritos!] as well as the guacamole.

Patrick went out to buy some chapatti from a street vendor to serve as tortillas. By the time everything was ready, we were delighted at the site. We wolfed down the delicious fiesta feast, with much of our conversation revolving around the food.

A little creativity, and a bit of compromise from one’s taste buds on occasion mean that one can create just about any American favorite dish! [Well, sort of…but Mexican dishes can DEFiNiTELY work out!]

seeing junior. 12.27.09+12.28.09.

In April of 2008, I helped out at a Compassion International youth camp. There, a small boy walked around my small group, aiding the other children with their English writing they worked on letters to their sponsors. It didn’t take long for him to impress me with his kind, quite spirit and intelligence. But then I began to ponder, “Why isn’t he working on a letter?”

Because Junior was 11 at the time, he was too old to begin in the Compassion International Program. His grandmother cooked at the camp for the smallest of incomes and would bring Junior with her to work. I thank GOD every day that she did, for that is how I met the small Ugandan boy, now 13, whom with I correspond and sponsor through Empower A Child.

This week, there is a youth church camp located in Jinja, the location for the source of the Nile. Some of the sponsored children were going to attend, so the all arrived on Sunday evening for an early morning departure on Monday. Many come from deep in the villages, so it was not realistic for them to begin travel to our home the morning of camp.

Among the group was Junior! I was so thrilled to be able to see him again. The reports about Junior that are passed to me through my Ugandan friends are all so positive, and I was looking forward to telling him how proud I was of his hard work in person.

I think the pictures Junior has of me from my last trip to Uganda burned that exact image into his memory, so when I first approached him, he didn’t recognize me! But Sarah rushed out and quickly blurted my identity to him in Luganda, and he came running inside the house and grabbed both of my hands with a shy smile.

It took him a bit of time to warm back up to me. Fortunately, Patrick, a brilliant Ugandan chef, and I were working on making a pizza for dinner [well, as close as we could get with the African materials we have here]. I invited Junior to join us in the kitchen while the rest of the sponsored children played outside. While we caught up on each others’ lives, Junior sprinkled chopped peppers, onions, and mushrooms onto the dough. I offered him some shredded mozzarella cheese, to which he responded that it tasted like blue wash bar soap! [He’s kinda right…]

He giggled as I explained some other odd foods that Americans name as favorite and classic. His facial expression following a taste of a tinned mushroom indicated his opinion of it, as well. I could tell he doubted our dinner!

I had a backpack with notebooks, folders, and pens to give to him as a Christmas gift. So I pulled him aside and presented the items to him. His face lit up. He immediately re-packed all of his items for camp in the backpack. :0) I also handed him a bag full of assorted flavored dumdum lollipops so that he could hand them out to the other dozen and a half children outside.

Before he went to sleep, he wished me a pleasant night and ran his fingers through the tips of my hair. The slippery texture of my mzungu hair is often explored by African children and youth with whom I come in contact.

The next morning, as the rain drizzled down from a dark sky, the children got ready for camp. As everyone waited for the bus to come take them to camp, I spent some more time with Junior.

I taught him a hanging arm dance move, to which he laughed through the entire lesson. The first time I met him, I introduced the game of “Rock-Paper-Scissors”- somehow that guy beat me almost every round this time we played!

I brought out my laptop to entertain us for while. I really wanted for my mom to see Junior, so I shared with Junior the concept of Skype. At the cost of my mom’s peaceful night of sleep, I was able to demonstrate video chats between continents to a fascinated 13 year old.

The last hour we waited, Junior showed off some of his new skills with typing on a computer keyboard. I pulled up a blank Word document, intending for him to practice a moment. That idea soon evolved into a conversation activity in which I would type a question to him, shift the computer, and allow him to respond. He caught on to the “Shift” and punctuation keys quickly. He and a few gathered friends laughed when I typed a question in Luganda, then filled with curiosity about the red squiggle lines that formed under each word, indicating my computers lack of recognition of the language!

When the bus arrived, I waited outside in the rain until they pulled out. Junior claimed a seat in the back of the bus near a window, so I talked with him while the bus was loaded. As they departed, Junior furiously waved with a smile. I think I matched, if not topped, his enthusiasm with my return wave.

I have been so blessed over the past year and a half through my sponsor relationship with Junior. I beam with pride when I receive updates about his performance in school. I save every letter I have every received from him, and love composing letters to him in return. It’s a significant commitment to sponsor a child, but after a lot of prayer and reflection, I believe GOD led me to one of the greatest decisions of my life. I am blessed by Junior.

Many of my Ugandan friends have been sponsored through programs like Compassion International, and they all speak so joyfully when prompted to talk about their experience. They love their sponsors and recognize the impact the program had in their lives. I’ve met and interacted with many of the sponsored children at Empower A Child - each one is so special. I encourage everyone to consider sponsoring a child, whether it’s through EAC, another organization; a child in Uganda or any other country. To learn more about sponsoring a child through Empower A Child Uganda, please contact me or visit the website at http://www.empower-a-child.org/eachome/SPONSORACHILD.html.

t.i.a [this is africa]. 12.26.09

Tara and I sat down and began a conversation about the differences in American and Ugandan culture. It’s almost funny, really, when one pauses to reflect on what is accepted as normal and ordinary in Africa, though very strange to transfer such behavior and etiquette to western culture.

The conversation inspired me to highlight a few of these observations in this blog entry:

:Critters:

A plethora of insects and other pests inhibit the house with us. I think I would have more concern about it if I were home. In Africa, however, it’s something that does not even phase me.

As I drifted off into sleep for a nap yesterday, I opened my eyes to reposition myself onto my side, just in time to see a mouse scurry across the floor. My only concern was whether he would keep my awake by tearing and nibbling on a plastic grocery bag underneath the other bed.

In the shower I often narrow my eyes in disapproval at a small gecko that leisurely approaches a ceiling corner to station himself. I don’t mind his presence, but I can’t help but feel a slight level of violation while I undress.

Opening the silverware drawer to find a variety of insects who quickly scatter out, down the counter, and behind the other glasses and plates isn’t something that gets the same attention if I were to be in America. Back home I would probably investigate the situation, invest in some sort of trap, and furiously scrub all the forks, spoons, and knives. Here, I don’t even acknowledge the presence of the bugs.

I feel a sense of personal victory every morning that I wake up and see a troop of mosquitoes perched outside of the net around my bed. Ha! No bites this morning, fellows!

:Babies:

The babies in villages can be found sitting outside on their own, contently playing in the dirt, and wearing nothing but perhaps a tattered tshirt.

Women carry their young ones bundled up in a patterned clothe wrapped around their middle, so that the baby is tucked tightly to his mothers back. It’s simple and convenient. I think about all the contraptions and accessories used by western parents- the child seats, the strollers that fold up and out, the carrying devices, the swings- the basic African cloth gets the same job done.

:Public Transportation:

The way that taxi services function in Uganda has a completely different set of etiquette…

The matatu taxi vans litter the streets, dodging across one another’s path and aggressively competing for passengers. It’s not uncommon to be tightly squeezed into the vehicle; sometimes having to host a stranger on half of one’s own lap, or perhaps be handed someone’s tiny babe as the mother exits the van.

The matatus invest just enough fuel to operate on fumes. So, one expects for the van to distract from its route, pull into a gas station, and force passengers to wait on the conductor [the one who collects money and recruits people to ride] and driver as they tend to their matatu.

Don’t plan on going anywhere until the matatu is filled with paying passengers. One can waste away in the taxi park, waiting in a suffocating heat as people walk past the matatu, ignoring the potential ride. Ugh. I pray and hope for people to quickly load into the van so that we can be on our way.

:Laundry:

Taking an American washing machine for granted is a crime. What a remarkable invention. Once one has hand washed clothes and felt the tiring hand pain from ringing out the toughest fabrics, such as denim, the washing machine becomes somewhat of a miracle.

The MSTs here dry out the undergarments and socks atop a small try within the compound. It’s funny to reflect on the concept. Should one find underwear lying out in a bush in America, the thought would be to immediately take it inside and wash it. Here, however, a sock drying out on top of the leaves symbolizes freshness.

There are many other comparisons I make on a daily basis, between Ugandan and America. I think for now I’ve highlighted some of my favorites to ponder.

christmas day! 12.25.09

When I woke up Christmas day, it took me a moment to emerge out of a sleepy daze. No snow on the ground. No decorated tree. But it was Christmas! And I was just as excited as I was for snowy Chicago Christmases!

We first went to church at Kymbogo, which lasted about 3 hours. We had to leave a bit early, however to head to Jayan’s home for a Christmas feast. When we arrived to her family’s house outside of Kampala, we found a banquet waiting for us.

A spectacular display of meats, Irish (potatoes), noodle dishes, matoke, g-nuts sauce, greens, beans, peas, cassava, apple pie, and brownies overwhelmed the table. I visited with Jayan’s mom and sisters for a while until the coffee table was cleared and the African music videos turned up. Yes, a dance party broke out. How amazingly perfect for me!

It didn’t take long for me to realize that my dancing stamina was miniscule compared with the Ugandans. I kept trying to sit back down on the couch to catch my breath and hope for some level of digestion, yet the sisters and neighbors would not allow for my absence on the dance floor.

We danced and celebrate Christmas well into early evening until we realized the time and had to depart in order to get to the cinema at Garden City for a seven o’clock showing.

Seven of us stood in line, holding a level of self-defense. I tried to form a pick to gain some space to breath against the crowd that increasingly filled the corridor. This is how a queue works in Africa. One stands in line and is shoved mercilessly to go to church. One stands in line and is shoved mercilessly in the supermarket the day before Christmas. One stands in line and is shoved mercilessly while waiting to enter the movie theater. Too bad our first attempt in line turned out to be the cinema for Indian translation!

When we finally elbowed our way through the hallway to the cinema, we took our seats in the second row to see Avatar. It was a perfect and relaxing way to end a Christmas celebration that was so physically demanding of my stomach’s capacity and leg strength!

Merry Christmas from Uganda!

christmas eve by candlelight. 12.24.09

The last time I was here, I had helped with the beginning stages of clearing raw jungle by slashing a machete on Peter’s new land. My second visit highlighted how long it has been since I had been here, as the land has been transformed.

Peter, an amazing Ugandan with a vision to serve a village, established a church and community center, using an existing building until GOD provides the funds to build a new one. I went with Peter, and a few Ugandan, American, and English friends to Kyampisi for a Christmas Eve church service.

We arrived after a winding drive about an hour outside of Kampala. A crowd of children gathered at the church building and we immediately began to decorate two trees that had been propped up in the corners to serve as Christmas decorations. We gathered wild flowers from the fields and jungles and brought them back for the children to place into the branches of the evergreen. Balloons also added color and festivity to the trees.

The Christmas Eve service was an incredible way to spend the evening. As the sun slowly set, Peter delivered a message to the people, had the visitors (including myself) briefly speak to the congregation, and introduced very talented and passionate choirs of children and adults, who sung so beautifully and danced so gracefully.

One each side of me, a small village girl sat. One fell asleep peacefully into my lap, the other held tightly onto my hand throughout the service. When the time came illuminate the church by candlelight as we sang hymns, the little ones spent most of the time exploring the melting and dripping wax, testing all the ways that they could manipulate the forming shapes on the concrete floor.

The service concluded with vibrant songs and celebration, tea and biscuits; with no source of light except for five dozen tiny flames.

Being able to celebrate Christmas with the village, and share in their joy for Christ’s birth is a memory that I will carry with me for a long time. I felt so blessed to return to this land and see the way the community has been united under the love of the LORD.

the numbers of uganda. 12.23.09

.12.

Africa is accustomed to losing power and water at any time of the day, any day of the week. I think the taps have gone dry about a dozen times since I have been here. No big deal. Substitute a couple of jerry cans and basins into the equation, and all is fine.

.7.

Kampala is known as the city of seven hills. … Seven hills that each hosts a palace for the king. Seven hill tops that present glorious views of the city below. Seven hills that threaten to terrify me every time I catch a ride on the back of a motorbike.

.800.

The cost of a rolex, a Uganda dish made at a tiny, shabby stand on the side of the street, should be around 800 Ugandan shillings. Of course, the mzungu price on my last purchase was increased to 1,000.

Chapatti wrapped around an omelet is something that I have not yet been able to perfectly recreate in the States.

.765.

The dirt roads that jut out from the main paved streets are dramatically uneven and littered with deep potholes, trash, and rocks. The drive across the surface rivals the Jeep commercials that boastfully show off the vehicle’s ability to handle off-roading. Try driving over 765 potholes on a quarter mile stretch. Watch your head.

.2.

To get home from the inner city of Kampala yesterday, it took about 2 hours. Our matatu failed to fill up with passengers along the way, so- we waited. We waited by the market, defeated by the better deals offered by competing matatu conductors who pulled ahead of us in line and recruited all who were headed to Ntinda. The waves of heat, dust, and exhaust filled our vehicle through the open windows, and I eventually gave up watching and hoping for passengers; closed my eyes, and accepted that we would be stranded for quite some time.

.52.

Despite sleeping with a mosquito net at night, I daily add to the collection of bug bites across my skin. It’s difficult to pin the exact number of irritating bites that speckle across my legs and face, but I’m going to estimate about 52.

Ugh. Ouch! [Slap] Make that 53…

1,265,739.

In Uganda, a white person has no name. The Swahili word for traveler instead replaces “Joe”, “Jane”, or “Dani”.

“MZUNGU!” is the word I hear as I walk to the store, down the alleyway where people loiter and lounge by the scrap yard. It’s almost become a runway catwalk to me, as I strut through that small stretch and endure catcalls and shouted Mzungu’s. I sometimes acknowledge the people shouting to me with a nod or an “Ogambaki”; other times I ignore it. The children run after me shrieking “Bye, Mzungu! Bye!”

I hear this term about 1,265,739 times a day.