Throw Some Dirt On It

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.