For My Mom

I have no idea how I wrote so much about…nothing. Seriously – this post is for my Mom, my Gramma, and my Aunt who actually care about the little things going on.  When there’s something important to report – I’ll let you know.

May 31^st

The closer and closer my plane got to landing, the more I began to dread the wheels hitting the ground.

A.      I was having a great conversation with this kid Ryan who was sitting next to me.  He is a student from UGA who won his trip to Uganda through a contest with Jefferson Bethke.  (Yes, the guy who has the super famous youtube videos.) I thought I recognized Jeff in the Amsterdam airport so I embarrassingly and reluctantly asked what his name was.  Sttallkker.  After my suspicions were confirmed as we were waiting to board and I talked to him and his group for awhile.  They were going with one of Jeff’s friend who started Dollar for the Poor, a ministry in Northern Uganda. Super cool guys. I really wanted a picture with Jeff so everyone would believe me but I absolutely couldn’t be that girl.

B.      I was worried I would have no one waiting for me at the airport when I landed.  You see, Africans are very loyal but not very dependable.  There’s a difference, allow me let me explain.  With power that goes in and out on a daily basis, the internet isn’t always the most reliable communication.  It’s also the only way I gave Hayato my date and time of arrival.  With older cars that have all been brought from overseas, and a bad combination of no speed limit on the road and really crazy drivers, you can’t always depend on transportation.  This is all in addition to “African Time” where 2 o’clock really means any time between 3:30 and 4:30.  Anyways, once we landed I also figured out that I couldn’t buy a sim card at the airport.  So, I begged some random gift shop cashier to let me use his phone for a moment and quickly called to Hayato.  To my surprise, he answered and I was even more astounded to hear that he was there!

As soon as I saw Hayato and his sister Kaiko, this overwhelming sense of joy and independence came over me.  Knowing that I singlehandedly planned my summer in a different continent left me feeling a large dose of freedom and autonomy running through my blood. I am woman. Hear me roar. I was more than slightly relieved that the first piece of this puzzle –my arrival- came together nicely. I don’t need the help of an organization. I don’t need the help of my church’s missions team. I don’t even really need the help of my parents. I just needed the Lord and His crazy divine interventions that allowed me to have such great connections half way around the world that I could call upon.

Excuse me while I dismount my high horse…

The 3 ½ hour ride back to Busia was peaceful.  As we traveled further and further from Kampala, the cold crisp African air that I know and love began to replace the smog in my lungs. I would stick my head out the window and let my jaggedly cut hair (thanks to the big fat black lady from Wal-Mart.  I was running through the aisles in Atlanta picking up some last minute things when I realized I never got a haircut. I thought her huge boobs that suffocated me while she washed and conditioned my hair were bad enough.  After she took 2 ½ minutes to trim my hair I threw it up and a bun and tossed $20 her way and ran out the door.  It wasn’t until I let my hair down on the plane that I realized I looked like I’d cut my own hair with a weed eater. Oh yeah… back to Uganda.) flow through the wind. It was so very different from last year’s ride over. Last year I felt like I wanted to soak in every single new feeling, smell, and sight.  This year it felt natural and comfortable.  Like the country was part of me anyway so there was no need to get familiar or even re-acquaint myself with it.

So I made the mistake of telling Ouma the day I got here that I wanted to halfway stay in shape this summer rather than gaining 15 lbs like last summer. (People are always so surprised by that.  You went to Africa – land of the starving and famished and you gained weight?! Well yeah, try eating rice, corn starch, potatoes, and bread for every single meal and let’s see how skinny you get.) The first day I got here I woke up at like 6 and he asked me if I wanted to run. I choked on my chai as I began to laugh. No. …but we did. We ran probably like 1 ½ kilometers and I had to stop like 6 times. You’d think I held stock with Marlboro by the way my lungs tightened after a few dozen strides. I’ve been wearing shorts on our runs so we have even more lookers than I think we normally would have. Amisi told me yesterday that if a woman wears pants (to the ankle mind you) that she is considered a prostitute. I’m wearing Norts (Gramma, that’s Nike shorts) so I can’t even imagine the rumors going around about me.

I haven’t taken a shower since the 28^th.  It’s currently the 31^st. Yuuum. Let the summer commence.

May 2nd

So this has been the universal reaction to my return from the people that I got close to last summer.  It doesn’t matter the age or gender of the particular Ugandan, they all seem to respond the same way.

1.       Lets out a high pitched scream.

2.       Simultaneously jumping vertically into the air.

3.        Directly following, a short spring toward my direction in either a jog or swift sprint.

4.        Finally falling straight into an aggressive embrace.

It is really hard to believe that I left this place an entire year ago.  It’s crazy to think that so much has happened since I left this country. It honestly feels like yesterday that I was here. Little to nothing has changed…here at least.

Today I went to lunch at Mama Dudu’s! I most definitely love Mama Dudu more than any man, woman, or child in this country.  Not bawling hysterically when I first saw her was a serious feat.  After I left her house I did a little compare and contrast reflection in thinking about our first meeting and our most recent reunion.  When I got here last year I came in the house, introduced myself with a handshake (after she bowed to me, of course) and I asked if I could give her a hug.  “No.” was both her reply and pretty much the only word I heard from her for the rest of the day. Now this time my short and stout Ugandan mother grabbed me by the waist, picked me up onto my tiptoes and with a little twirl I, for a moment, felt like a 90 lb 10 year old girl. “I missed you so much, Malaika! How is Amer-e-ka? How is mom, dad, sister, brother? I missed you so much, Malaika!” After smacking my butt and affirming how great my “capapalla” looked, we literally didn’t stop talking despite the language barrier that separated us. I tried to throw out all the Samia, Kiganda, Lusoga, and Swahilli that I knew. “Havana Batie?” –How are the children?

Enbede whomisinga, Mama Dudu.” I have missed you, Mama Dudu.

Her husband was there when I first arrived.  He fit the picture I’d put together in my head.  Long traditional Muslim dress, head covering, beard, looked like he had something stuck up his butt. “Olyotie, I’m Malaika!” I said, with an outstretched hand.  He stood there with his arms crossed and stared at me blankly.  Awkwardly I slowly brought my empty hand down to my side. “He’s going to pray, Malaika” Mama Dudu said. Yeah, I’ll be he is.  Well, I’ve been praying too. I’ve been praying for your marriage alright. Just a quick re-cap for those of you who have forgotten.  The reason Mama Dudu was staying at Ouma’s home last year is because her husband’s other wife had poured boiling water on her. Bi.otch.

Quite a few of the neighborhood (villagehood) kids have “migrated”. Aka moved to another district nearby.  I almost wanted to cry when I found out Isimidiason was one of them. I’ve only thought about him every single day since I left Busia. Nbd.

May 3^rd

How in the world did I get here?

The toddler who couldn’t stand to have baby food on her mouth or hands has now eaten the last three meals, not with the sterling silver that she’s used to, but with her fingers.

The child who wrote a 5 page thesis to convince her mother to let her start shaving her legs at 11 years of age is now going her entire stay without picking up a razor.  It really disgusts me sometimes looking down at my past-the-point-of-prickly legs but cold jerry can showers don’t exactly permit the luxury of shaving.  Eeh, that’s actually just an excuse.  It’s a challenge to myself just to see if I can do it – I’m trying to stay strong.   Also, it’s practically more impressive to the people here that I can grow hair on my lets than having smooth legs in the first place.

The girl who said she could most see herself living in the Grand Ole Opry Hotel is now living in a rat/roach infested house. Okay infested is a slight exaggeration they are at least co-inhabitants of my room.  Also, living with power and running water that is less dependable than Obama’s religious affiliation. 

The pre-teen who would triple check the car door lock during the 2 minutes that her father went inside the gas station to pay is now riding around the streets of a village where every other man is blatantly gawking after her white shoulders and exposed ankles.  Some bold enough to say, “come with me,” (But really mom, I’m safe. J)

No, I’m not saying just because I’m eating with my hands and not shaving my legs the Lord has equip me to better share the gospel.  In fact, I could have written something entirely different - exposing my sins and then matching them with how I have showed His love and that would be much more impressive of His power and glory.  I’m just saying it’s hysterical to me how He has changed me so dramatically.  He has changed me to be able to function in this environment, more so to be joyful through it, to be appreciative of it, and to want to return to it.

When I am reminded of who I was – or where I came from – I see how unequipped I am to be here. When the devil exposes how weak and useless I am, when he tells me I can make no difference, when I struggle with my own self worth or place in this world, I love to think about Moses and Paul.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about read the beginning of Exodus or one of Paul’s letters. 

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 

2 Corinthians 2:9

If they could do that, surely I can do this.

-----

The first day I started teaching I taught P6 and P7 Creative Writing.  They loved it.   Not so much the writing but more so Madam Malaika acting like a complete fool as she tried to induce creativity and descriptive thinking to her students who have, in many ways, been taught to act like robots.  I taught them the expression “thinking outside the box.”  I drew a box around where I was standing (one of the few benefits of having dirt floors).  I would recite simple sentences in the box and then yawn, pretend to fall asleep, etc.  I would then jump (or leap – one of their vocab words for this week) out of the box, dance around, singing, shouting, and sharing about the “scorching yellow sun that beamed down onto my crispy red skin” or the “cold, scarlet blood that drizzled down my hands after slaughtering the fat chicken.”  I think they understood about every third word of my “creative writing” but they certainly got the point. 

As they began their own creative writing or “thinking outside the box,” they would ask me “the S.P.” or spelling of random words.

Musimbi: “Madam Malaika, what is the s.p. of Amer-e-ka?”

A-M-E-R-I-C-A.

Abraham: “Madam Malaika, what is the s.p. of nurse?

N-U-R-S-E

Nabwire: “Madam Malaika, what is the s.p. of raping?

What?! Did she really just ask that?! Angelica, this is their culture. Stay calm. Just go with it. It’s what happens. It’s their lives. We’ll address it later. Geeze. I don’t even know how to spell that…p-p-i-n-g? p-i-n-g?

R-A-P-I-N-G

Nabwire: (right after her previous inquiry of “raping”) “Madam Malaika, how do you spell Malaika?”

Halleluiah. “Okay, that’s enough creative writing for today. Pencils down. Minds back in the box.”

May 4^th

After school I came home and hung out with Amisi for a few hours.  Just a reminder, Amisi is the Muslim guy who lives in a 1 bedroom mud hut with his 5 siblings and parents.  I really like talking to him because out of everyone I know (besides Ouma) he has the best English. We talk about everything from Ugandan politics to differences in The Bible and the Koran.

After I left Amisi’s I was thinking about my time here in Uganda being a “missions trip.”

Last summer I did a lot of fundraising to get support to pay for my plane ticket, vaccinations, and other expenses.  This year I quit my sorority and got a job. However, after purchasing my plane ticket this year and the $400 Wal-Mart run to get stuff for my summer, I started to question, why did I not send those letters again?? This is why…

This is how the majority of my conversations talking about summer plans went at the end of the semester.

“What are you doing this summer, Angelica?”

“Eeeh, nothing really.”

“Hanging out in Walhalla or working at Brioso?

“Actually, I’m going to Uganda for most of it.”

“Oh, fors a mission trip?”

“Uh, no. Just to….live life.”

I feel really uncomfortable calling this a mission trip. What mission am I on?  To share the gospel?  I should be doing that in the United States.  To speak the name of Jesus? I do that at Brioso.  To teach? Hello, 6 Elementary schools that I’ve gone to during my time at Clemson alone. 

These are not my projects.  They aren’t my converts.  I’m not here for a cute profile picture to win over the hearts of my friends and family back home.  In fact, these are my friends and these are my family.  I get to share inside jokes with them.  They play with my hair when I fall asleep.  I’m living life with them.

If, as Christians, our entire life isn’t a mission trip – we’re doing something wrong.

Now, again, I’m not saying that’s how I always live, I’m just saying that’s how I always should be living.

I am so thankful that I am not here for 7 days, that they won’t just be a memory form a photo album.  I won’t forget their names.  After this summer I’ll have spent almost 5 long months with these people.  A lot of these relationships will be stronger relationships than most that I have in Clemson.  No, this is not a mission trip.

June 5^th

So for dinner tonight I walked outside and bent down to the small portable charcoal stoves to see what we were having.  Rice, posho, beans, cabbage, or greens, is what I was expecting.  I peered in to what I thought was fish and quickly closed the lid, trying to keep the stench in as much as possible before I lost my appetite.  You see, transportation off the fish (the cleanest of their meats) from Lake Victoria to Busia, is less than desirable.  The bundle of fish hangs from the front of a car, boda, or bike.  If it’s a car, it’s hooked by a rope somewhere in the engine.  By the time it arrives in town, I imagine it’s halfway cooked from the combination of a hot engine, the exhaust from other bodas, in addition to the boiling sun.  The dust from the road on the inside and outside of the fish I would think to be similar to the fur of Aladin’s camel after a 3 day journey in the Sahara.

When I looked around at everyone else’s plates I realized, it wasn’t fish – but something else.  Something I’d only seen on a special international documentary on The Food Channel or National Geographic.  It looked similar to an overcooked egg penne noodle. There was another UFO (unidentified floating object) which looked like the center of a dried up sunflower.  If I paid better attention in my high school anatomy class, I could probably tell you exactly what they were.

“Um…what is that?” I wearily pointed to the UFOs.  “Cow testins.”

Testins…testins…What? Was that in Swahilli, Kiganda, Samia, Lusoga? Oh. It was English. Testins…intestines.

After swallowing the tiny bit of throw up that entered my mouth after finding out the identity, I went back to my cricket experience last summer.  I thought surely they’d be the worst thing I put to my lips (besides Matt, 1^st semester Freshman year - who apparently previous to me had only kissed dogs) After I had gathered up all the bravery that was in me, I started chomping on 5 or 6 of the little suckers they tasted just like a fried Lays potato chip.

I think I can, I think I can…was the thought that played over and over as I brought the slimy rubbery penne-look-alike closer and closer to my mouth.  Tasted just like…death. After biting off the tiniest morsel of each of the two “testins” and trying to swallow them with touching as few as my taste buds as possible, I decided I’ll lay low from being so adventurous for a few days.

Gross. Nasty. Horrible.

June 6th

Even if you’ve spent little to no time with me this past year you’ve know it’s been funky.  I have really struggled to have quiet times and my relationship with the Lord has been in a bit of a dry spell.  I can’t tell you how different it’s been being here.  Now, I’m not saying I spoke in tongues this morning or I healed my blind neighbor with my very own spit.  However, I certainly have craved and thirsted for The Word more in the past 5 days than I have in a long time.

A few months ago I tweeted something.  Certainly, I’d like to see it printed in a book, making an appearance in a presidential speech, or maybe on a granite monument of sorts…but I might just have to settle for it ending at this blog post. 

“If you go to the Lord with the world in your hands, you have nothing to grab Him with.  If you go to Him with empty hands, He can give you the world.”

I have gripped tightly to my world the past few months.  Thankfully, I had to leave my world in America.  More than 7,000 miles, 9 hours, and a huge ocean away from here.  It definitely took some prying but I am able to go to the Lord, with palms up, with hands empty, in worship.

June 7^th

Today, while I was teaching, I started to wonder if it was all a waste.  Even if I give them the best primary education they can get, then what? They certainly don’t have a way to continue their education. They don’t have the transportation, the funds, or the means to access further education for themselves.  100% of my students will most probably end up working in the fields or in the market just like their parents, grandparents, and just like the rest of this country.  So what does it matter that they now know the difference between a verb and a noun?

That’s the trouble with poverty.  It’s so multidimensional, it’s so freaking complex that it seems impossible to dig your way out, or dig someone else out for that matter.  If they get an education – they still have no money, no clean water, no health care, no shelter. 

If a farmer learns great agriculture methods but can’t buy any land, what good is it?

If a child has a great primary education but can’t further it, where will it lead but to a dead end?

If a people have access to clean water but spend all day getting it from the well, how does it help their livelihood if that’s all their livelihood is – walking back and forth from the source?

If a man has a small business but no one else has money to buy his goods how will either of them benefit?

These situations are what I get to look at all day long.  Money is constantly running through my mind.  I sometimes feel like a computer or an accountant.  She needs this, it would cost 1,800 shillings, that’s a little less than a dollar. He needs that, it would cost 3,400 shillings that almost two. The problem is, the input to my monetary calculations don’t ever end.  There’s always someone else who needs help.  Someone preach to me some Mother T because damn, I’m being negative.

Sometimes it’s just hard to see what they have when what they don’t have is killing them.

-----

Okay – still June 7^th

I had to stop writing, I was about to enter into the second great depression.

You know that quintessential picture of an African or Indian child that every aid relief has brought us during the annoying 3 minute commercial break of our favorite sitcom.  The clip with the soft, melancholy music playing in the background.  The child with snot running down his nose.  The girl with scabs covering her face from malaria or AIDS.  The one whose shirt exposes more of his body than it covers.  The children whose bodies are crawled on by flies as they sit in piles of trash on the street. 

Today I wiped his nose.  I kissed her wounds.  I shooed the flies away and I picked him up from the pile of waste and rocked him for as long as I could.  I did it today. I did it yesterday. I’ll do it tomorrow. They are not statistics. I cannot turn the channel.

I’m not a super Christian, I don’t have something you don’t, and it’s certainly not because I’m a kinder person than you.  I’m just really really blessed to be able to experience this. To be living in poverty but know that I have a way out and it is a pre-paid plane ticket back home at the end of the summer.

I don’t want to deceive anyone.  I am not here being a servant to hundreds of Ugandans, breaking my back to care for the poor of this underdeveloped continent. Although I am hear serving, I am also being served.  The kindness I am shown on a daily basis, I couldn’t begin to try to return. 

Things to be praying for this week:

Salima has been experiencing demonic attacks when she goes to school.

I’ve been praying these verses throughout the day in expectancy that they will stop.

Luke 10:17

Romans 8:38

Ephesians 6:10

2 Corinthians 10:3