This country – is such a paradox. (Which just happened to be
my P7 English lesson for today -paradox.) It is beautiful –seemingly endless
green on the horizon topped by piercing blue above me in the sky. The mountains, lake, and rolling hills make
the landscape a beautiful combination of textures. However, here is where the inconsistency
(paradox) comes in.
Trash-poverty-desolation. The
juxtaposition of ashes among beauty is frustrating. One of the many advancements I want to see in
this country is a trash system. Never
have I ever been so thankful for those tall, strong, black men that came along
our suburban cul-de-sac in West Palm Beach, Florida to serve us by taking away
our can full of crumpled up pop-tart wrappers, dog poop, and toilet paper
rolls. Even now in the countryside of Walhalla, SC the local “trash dump” is
just a few minute car ride away. Here
many of the streets, the yards, and the markets are covered in garbage.
Speaking of trash – here’s a super tangent side note. A few days before I left I was riding in my
jeep with my brother. He threw a
crumpled wrapper outside the window. I
was literally appalled.
“Charles! What are you doing?! (I thought I’d for sure
convict him by throwing out the G-word.) Don’t you know that’s God’s green
Earth you are destroying with your dirty trash?!”
“Angelica, have you
read a little book called Revelation? God’s destroying this Earth shortly
anyway, I’m just helping Him along in the process.”
What a stupid, well versed, smart-aleck. Just like me.
Speaking of my brother, that reminds me of another thing
that remains in complete contradiction (paradox) in this country. …me. A few weeks before I left for the summer I
was having a somewhat of an ongoing panic attack. I was constantly worried about this summer-
having anxiety about how much I would miss my friends and family. Seriously – I’m not going to be here for that
long. It was clearly the devil trying to
distract me. There was even one day when
I was in Clemson where I went out to the back parking lot in the Ridge and
bawled my eyes out while talking on the phone to my mom. I literally filled my cupped hands with snot
as I looked over at my friends who were loading up Cameron’s car. I felt so connected to them it was literally
physically paining me to separate. Sorry
Matt, Tim, Becca, and Cameron for having to witness the disgusting mess of my
mascara stained face on that particular cloudy afternoon.
During my summers here it seems as if my emotions are
constantly hanging in the balance between loneliness and love.
Let me explain.
I am lonely because I am different. No one knows “me”. The me that makes up my family, my home, my
past, my culture, the details of the life I live in the U.S. Love because there are few moments in the day
that I am not surrounded with people that are showing love to me, and I to
them.
You’re not going to believe this but I’ve actually seen a
change in the way people love each other here.
Although Ugandans are warm, welcoming, and joyful people,
they aren’t the most touchy. (This is
also something I’ve changed dramatically in since my younger years because now,
I of all people, love to touch and be touched.)
At school…
There are many
students in the younger classes that I only know the faces of. I don’t know their personalities, their
stories, or their learning styles – because I do not teach them. However,
during break one of my favorite things to do is walk by them as they wait in
line for porridge is to pick out, in my opinion, one lucky young nugget. I then pick them up, squeeze tightly, and rub
my nose into their neck and proceed to kiss their cheeks, chin, and
forehead. The other kids burst out in
high pitched laughter as no other teacher would ever be caught dead doing the
same. And not because it’s
unprofessional - because this is a laid back, church run, privately sponsored
school. As my kids pass the front of class
on their way to take “a short call” (an expression to mean “use the restroom”
I’ve yet to figure out the origination of)
I usually smack their bee-hinds on their way out the door(way) we don’t
actually have doors. An interaction I’d
surely be put in jail for and deemed a sexual predator for in America- here is
just another outlet of my expression of love.
At home…
Gianna – one of the girls I live with is about 1 ½ . She most definitely didn’t remember me from
last year so when I arrived a few days ago she burst into tears. It was either my green eyes, long hair,
translucent skin, or foreign vernacular that put her (as well as many other
children who see me for the first time) into a state of fear.
So after about 5 days in a row of not being able to go near
her, I formulated a plan. As I rummaged
through my suitcase full of goodies I pulled out a few dum-dum pops and ran
back outside. I unwrapped a blueberry
blast, a personal favorite, as I proclaimed, “Jangu!” Never in million years
would she “Come”, so I came to her. I
unwrapped the lollipop and stuck it into her mouth before she could let out her
tears. During the few minutes it took
her to finish it (how many licks) I periodically took it out and gave her a
kiss straight on the lips. Repeating the
word “kiss” before and after I would lay one on her. Some variation of Pavlov’s experiment I was
trying to reproduce. Now, she still
bursts out into tears but when I get close enough to whisper “kiss” she
temporarily quiets and sticks out her lips (and her tongue actually) and
receives my peck. After I give her a kiss she goes right back to crying –
seemingly still in fear. It’s the funniest phenomenon.
…or maybe I find it funny because I don’t have T.V.,
facebook, movies, or my friends to keep me entertained.
Still at home…
The other day Adam came home from school crying. Adam is 15 and pretty much the man of the
house. He was feeling really sick and I
couldn’t understand what he was saying (not only because it was completely in
Kiganda but also because he was speaking through sniffles and tears.) I first
thought some older boy at school made fun of him, punched him or the
likes. I was ready to march down to that
secondary school and go turn whatever punk hurt my baby black and blue. …or
more black, newly added blue? After I
listened, from what I gathered from his hand gestures, at school he started
feeling hot, and his body started shaking.
His mother is seriously the kindest woman I’ve met in Uganda. She
reminds me a lot of my own mother. So I was surprised when even she didn’t comfort
her own child- although he was in many ways already a man, he was just as much
still a small boy. I couldn’t help
overstep my boundaries and comfort him myself.
Wiping his tears and squeezing him tightly I couldn’t help but love on
him.
A few hours later we went to pick up his school books from
the big secondary school and then walked on to the local health care center.
This was after they hesitated to make the trip seeing as testing and treatment
is very “expensive.” On our way I discretely slipped a single bill, 5,000
shillings, into Adam’s mom’s hand and squeeze it shut. I would spend the equivalency on a foot long
sub at home but here it meant getting Adam the testing he needed and treatment
if it called for it. She thanked me and through the translation of Salima she
said, “Malaika, may God bless you. Truly
He has sent you here. See how he takes
care of us.”
The Lord is so sweet. Yes He did bring me here. But more importantly he brought them to me –
particularly in that moment - to display for me by a beautiful and pure example
of undying reliance, complete faith, and genuine appreciation. She knew I
wasn’t providing – He was.
I don’t often hand out money. Yes, it’s better to teach a
man to fish rather than give him one every day.
But when that man is starving, sometimes he just needs a hot meal. When Adam has a fever of 102, he just needs
to be tested on and given some treatment.
When we got to the clinic we waited almost an hour on the
hard bench outside the laboratory waiting because the Dr. had “gone to lunch”
even though it was 4 o’clock. Remember
what I said about African time?! Once he returned we went in to the tiny lab.
It was all too familiar to me. It was
the same small room as I tested my own blood for Malaria just last year. This time we were checking for both Malaria
and Typhoid in Adam’s system. The lab tech was surprised he didn’t remember me
when I told him about my own positive test results. Probably because I looked
like the walking dead and didn’t say a word as I held in my urge to puke up the
last bits of my guts onto you little laboratory floor.
We quickly got reacquainted as I inquired about everything
from his family to his education. A good
conversation is English is hard to come by so I take full advantage when I come
across one.
How’s your wife Fortune? (Fortune is his name; Ugandan’s
have some of the weirdest names.)
“How do you know I’m
married?
“You have a wedding ring on.” I said as I lifted up my left
ring finger and waved it around like a Beyonce music video.
A few minutes later…
“So are you married, Malaika?!"
“Nope. Far from it, sir.”
“When will you be married?”
Half joking. “Probably never.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to keep my independence.” (Typical me, I know.)
Fortune Laughed
“Malaika, in case you change your mind, hypothetically, what
kind of nationality would your husband have?”
Now I laughed.
“Well, in case I change my mind... probably European. Maybe
Italian? Someone with fuego.
Why do you ask fortune? Do you know a guy? Have a brother, a
friend, a distant cousin?”
“No, I’m just wanted to be praying for you and your future
husband.”
Heaven only knows he needs your prayers.
Where was I going with all this? ….Ah yes. All this kissing,
hugging, and squeezing is beginning to catch
like wild fire. I’ve noticed more
students, children, and even adults around me loving on each other more so than
I ever did last summer.
Geeze. I actually feel bad writing all of this as if you
care. I bet almost a hundred people last
year said, “I loved reading your blog about Uganda.” People from church, school, my family. I’m pretty sure they meant scrolling through
to look at the occasional pictures. If
you’re still actually reading this – listening to the little things I’m going
through, you’re probably either A. in my nuclear family. B. really bored or C.
my dear dear friend. So thank you. Thank
you for caring about these little things and sharing this journey with me. I
love you. I miss you.
Pray for Adam it’s not too bad but he’s got it.
-----------------------------------
Today at school I was up at my makeshift whiteboard (A
laminate piece of large white paper that I rolled up into my suitcase to bring
here. Much much better than the black painted holey piece of wood they deemed
chalk boards. Thanks for making it, Dad!) All of a sudden I heard a few
terrified screams from behind me. What
could it be this time? Situations that
were scream-inducing from my classroom last summer ran through my mind…
A cat sized rat scurrying beneath the girls dusty bare feet?
A bloody scab from one of the students AIDS infected wounds
open and gushing?
An alcoholic man stumbling into the back of the classroom,
drunken from the local moonshine made from fermented millet wheat?
The hypothetical situations could be endless…and all of them
I’d rater deal with than this one…
Here’s the scene:
The dedicated teacher who investigated these vicious screams
is a member of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. Here is her
story.
Man, I miss Law and Order.
Nomino, had his hands up on his desk but his head down deep
into his lap. The boys around him had
stood up and looked as if they were desperate to move away. Musimbi, who sat in front of Nomino, had his
eyes wide as a bat as if he’d just seen a ghost…or at least another white
person. His shoulders were perched
tightly back, chest wide open. I could
feel my Baptist roots exercised as I recognized “the fear of God” in his eyes.
It only took me a second to realize Nomino had shot the
porridge he’d just recently gulped down for lunch straight onto the back of
Musimbi’s one and only school uniform – projectile style.
Help me, Lord.
I quickly walked Nomino outside to the bush next to our
classroom in case it wasn’t a one-time deal.
I delegated a few boys to go get a bucket of dirt. I ripped out a few of Nomino’s papers from
his small notebook and wiped the white slush from off the desk as well as
Musibi’s back.
The boys came back and threw some dirt in the floor where
the rest of the translucent lava had landed.
I finished writing the exercise on the board and then went to tend to
Nomino.
Looks like we found yet another benefit of having dirt
floors.
------------------
So in the morning (the bright and early,
holding-my-eyelids-open-with-my-index-fingers mornings) I walk to school. However, for the past few days Dennis, Ouma’s
younger brother has been picking me up from school to spare me from a long hike
in the blazing heat. The first day he
got there I was both excited and petrified as I turned the corner leaving my
classroom to see his rickety motorbike which is like a combination of a
motorcycle/crotch rocket/moped.
This is the primary mode of transportation for the majority
of people in Uganda (and the rest of the world outside America, I would
imagine.) Oh, and did I say primary mode?
I mean primary motor-mode. This
is after both walking on foot and riding a bike (or on the back of one), of
course. Here they are called pikis or
bodas. A lot of men make their living
serving as piki drivers. These men are
lined up and down the streets, at the corners of every back road, and can be
found congregating by the market in large packs just waiting to be hired for
the distant or not so distant journey to your desired destination.
Even after my 3 months here last summer, I’d never ridden
one. Ouma had always purposely sheltered
me from them. It’s actually kind of
dangerous. Wrecks are not an uncommon occurrence on the chaotic main road of
town. So, I was not yet a true
Ugandan. I was a piki virgin. However,
that was all about to change as I took my first ride. I hoisted my skirt up to my knees and latched
on to Dennis’s back. I wedged my small
yellow backpack between us, all the while holding my rolled up whiteboard under
my right winged arm. Clenching my thighs
tight around his hips, we began down the bumpy- pothole filled dirt road. As we hit the main road, it dawned on
me. I looked down at the way I was
sitting and realized I probably looked like a $2 whore. You see, all the women
here ride on the backs of bikes and pikis, side-saddle. Miraculously and
carefully balancing whatever child (or children), groceries, or jerry can
delicately in their lap all the while.
I, however, looked more like a women of the night with my legs wrapped
around him and my skirt scrunched to just below my buttocks, exposing my
white-chocolate long, but thick legs to the crowds. I wonder if he would stop so I could change
positions. I just put my head down, mortified all the way home.
Now, I know what’ you’re thinking. “Angelica, I’m sure no
one noticed. It’s no big deal. “
Nope.
Everyone in town, man, woman, child, goat, they all turn
their head and stare when I go by. Not
because I’m beautiful, not because they’ve heard great things about me. Because
I’m white.
Today I proudly rode home side saddle and felt like a lady
…a lady that almost fell off like 6 times but a lady none
the less.
For the next few posts I am going to try and give you some
tips in case you ever come to Uganda (which I hope you do). It will make the transition a lot less
confusing. These are just things that
have taken me awhile to figure out myself.
Ugandans express affirmations in a weird way. By that I mean if they want to say yes, they
can do it in two different non-verbal ways.
1.This is with what I like to call a munt. It’s a mixture between a moan and a grunt.
You would spell it – mmmm.
2.Secondly, is an eyebrow raise. A simultaneous single lift of both eyebrows
is the exact same as saying, “Yes, I understand.” Or “Of course, I do want some
more beans.” Or “Okay, I’ll be right on it.”
I spent way too long repeating and repeating my questions
and statements waiting for a response while wondering why so many Ugandans have
an aggressive forehead twitch. I’m sure they were just as frustrated.
Here’s one more:
You’re smart = You look beautiful. Your skirt is really lovely. Or, you look
absolutely gorgeous. Here, smart is not an indication of how intelligent you
are, but instead gauge of how nicely you are dressed. My students bore the brunt of this mix up
last summer. Always looking down at their tattered blue uniforms in confusion
when I was particular impressed with their English work.
-----------------
The love that I get to show these people is seriously not
something I can do myself.
I have time and time again displayed my wickedness and
sinfulness so that I am humbly reminded that it is not love that I show, but
His. It is out of the abounding overflow of all the brilliantly heavy love I
have been shown for the past 21 years that I can now lavish it on others. I have the greatest wisest parents, truly
indescribably siblings, the most supportive family, and better friends than
Joey, Monica, Ross, and Rachel ever had.
As a camp counselor the directors always tell us at the
beginning of every new weekly session, “Now guys, I know you’re tired.
Exhausted, even. I know your juice is
running low. But just because it’s the 6th (7th, 8th, or 9th) week for you –
just remember, it’s the first week of camp for them.
As I squeezed tight the trunk of the shiny bald headed 6
year old girl in the porridge line today, instead of a camp director, I heard
the words of the Lord. “This might be your millionth hug to date Angelica, but
this is her first. If you don’t do it
again tomorrow or the next day, it might be her last. So hug her like it’s your
first. too.”
No matter how many mornings I wake up to teach- I always
fall asleep thinking about how much I’ve been taught.
---
I’ve began seven sentences to try and start describing my
day today but I keep having to erase them.
I literally can not put into words what a day I’ve had.
Today was a day of water.
This morning I went out to play in the village-hood. I was quickly reminded that Saturdays aren’t
a day for playing but instead a day for chores.
After helping with a handful of various chores I was extra
excited as I noticed everyone picking up their jerry cans.
We headed out on the trail through the tall grass that had
only been paved by the passing of bare feet hundreds of times a day. We passed by many homes of people I’d never
seen before but “Malaika!” seemed to roll of their tongues as I, and the pack
of tiny chocolate-colored people trekked on by.
One of my top favorite feelings yet (in life) has been when
someone I don’t know, who I have never even seen before, calls me Malaika and
not “Mzungu.” (Mzungu means white-person. Originally meaning someone who is
lost – or a wandering.
After what felt like a lifetime but was probably just under
a mile, we arrived.
When I saw where we
landed tears actually began to stream down my face. My heart clenched tight and I choked on my
most recent breath.
My life. Is unreal.
I’d filled up jerry cans before. With a pump which is what I was expecting.
Not from a well, with a small bucket, and a long rope.
When looking at the situation from a point of view other
than my American lenses, I saw that we arrived to a party, a sacred haven, the
source of wealth and life. Many people
were already gathered around this simple concrete pit. Once it was our turn to fill I looked down
this deep well that seemed to last forever.
“Has anyone ever fallen in?” I asked Mariam (Amisi’s
sister).
She just laughed. I hope that means no.
I let the jerry can attached to the thick rope fall into the
bottom as it slowly began to fill with cold, clear, hydrogen dioxide. I began to pull the rope back up.
Easier than I
expected.
Not that heavy.
Yeah, I can do this.
By the fourth bucket I wasn’t exactly having those same
thoughts.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me see
this. Letting me experience it
myself. Not just to hear about it, see
it on T.V. or look at it in a picture book.
All the frizzy hair, dry cracked skin, rat infested room, cold showers,
and rice for dinner every night was worth it for this.
As my muscles tightened with each upward pull the gratitude
in my heart deepened.
Finally, we made our way back. The 12 children and I made a complete but
unconventional baker’s dozen. All lined
up with our plastic yellow jugs balancing on our heads we looked like quite the
crew.
“Will you manage?” A man asked me as I walked by.
What is that supposed to mean, mister?
Is it because I’m sweating like an Olympic boxer after a 2
minute round?
Is it because my head is wobbling like a 6 inch Hawaiian
doll on the dashboard of a car?
Maybe the huff and puff of my breath as we venture up and
down these tiny mole hills that to me seem like mountains?
Could it possibly even be that the precious water I just
slaved over to collect is now spilling over into the red dusty ground beneath
me as I walk?
Yes, I’ll manage.
Later this afternoon we drove to Ouma’s brother’s
house. I still hadn’t seen quite a few
of his nieces and nephews. 8 more sweet reunions with my amazing Ugandan
family.
None of them were actually home when we first arrived but
Mama Praise pointed me in the direction of the neighbor’s farm. After a short walk of trying to avoid cow patties
that were so massive they might as well have come from dinosaurs, I found
them. Once in view, we met in the
middle. Romantic
sunset-on-the-beach-style as we ran into each other’s arms. One by one each
child met my embrace until I finally toppled over with 8 children covering me
completely.
A few of the boys showed me to a grape tree (yes, tree – a
huge one at that). I tried my best to
climb up myself but after accidentally flashing my bright red panties to the
farmer boys down below I decided to climb back down. Damn these long constricting overly
conservative skirts.
Later, Adam and Robert strapped on 3 huge black jerry cans
to a shabby old bike and began down the road.
I put down Praise and ran after them.
Oh no ya don’t, not with out me.
Once we arrived to the watering hole I was happy to see that
it was what they call a boar’s hole, rather than the well that I described
earlier. Public water that could be
accessed by the (forceful) push and pull of a long, thick, metal lever. Once we arrived Adam allotted our
responsibilities. 3 jerry cans. One for
me, one for Robert, and one for Malaika.
After taking in the scene and letting all the unfamiliar children know
that I wouldn’t attack, I made my way to the pump. I kindly asked if I could take over, filling
the containers of these new friends.
Both surprised and hesitant, they made way so I could have my place next
to the silver pole to pump myself. I
filled up more jerry cans that I could count.
“Malaika, give me!” both boys tried to take over a few times
throughout our time at the well. I had
to do it myself. I had to prove
myself. I did it for women. I did it for white people. I did it for America. (Okay, now I’m just
joking.)
I mechanically and aggressively kept pumping as a combination
of anger and appreciation filled my veins.
I was angry because I didn’t want this for them. I wanted things to be easier. Appreciation because my mind couldn’t stop
thinking of all the different ways I can access water at home. Access it with ease.
I guess I also did it gladly because I didn’t have to. No one asked me to, forced me to, or even
suggested I do it. I wasn’t dependent on this water. It wasn’t giving me life – in fact it
probably would have harmed me if I had drank it. To me, it was a new
experience. To them, it was their annoyance, their chore, their way of
life. They deserve just a little break –
filling up a few containers of water is the least a privileged white girl from
America can do for you. In fact, it is
my honor.
Today, after putting down the jerry cans after each
different trip to the water, both groups of people said, “Thank you for
helping, Malaika!”
Thank you for changing me for eternity. Thank you for altering my perspective enough
to make my heart sting. Thank you for
letting experience the world. The real
world. Thank you for making me just a
little more grateful for what God has given me and the rest of my country that
is so elite in both its monetary wealth and resources.
Don’t thank me.
This past semester 1 & 2 Peter have been my go-to
scriptures to read. A particular passage
came back to me as I was collecting water and thinking how blessed we are to
have an endless supply of water at home.
Once I got home I found exactly the passage I was looking
for and the Word(s) seemed all too convicting.
2 Peter 2:17-21
“17 These people are springs without water and mists driven
by a storm. Blackest darkness is reserved for them. 18 For they mouth empty,
boastful words and, by appealing to the lustful desires of the flesh, they
entice people who are just escaping from those who live in error. 19 They
promise them freedom, while they themselves are slaves of depravity – for
‘people are slaves to whatever has mastered them.’ 20 If they have escaped the
corruption of the world by knowing our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ and are
again entangled in it and are overcome, they are worse off at the end than they
were at the beginning. 21 It would have been better for them not to have known
the way of righteousness, than to have known it and then to turn their backs on
the sacred command that was passed on to them.”
Amongst ample amounts of Dasani, Evian and Aquafina are we
like springs without water? Do our
unalienable rights “promise freedom” while we are enslaved to countless worldly
masters? I think so. That’s me, at least.
