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.

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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.

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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.

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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.  

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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.

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.

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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

To make a long story....long.

Last Sunday I woke up in the middle of the night to a very loud squeaking noise.  Let me first say that I am not a light sleeper.   This squeaking was less like that of a rusty door and more like a freight train. (Maybe I’m exaggerating a tad…but anyway). I knew exactly what it was.  A rat.  Like most American girls I am quite terrified of rats.  I could tell it was coming from exactly where my hidden stash of chocolate was located (please don’t be deceived and think that I have had an abundance of chocolate this summer, but since I went to Kampala last week I was able to snag a bar).  I figured it would quickly steal away my bar and be on its merry way.  Two hours later it was still squeaking and tears were rolling from my face.  Call it stupid, or silly, but I was truly scared.  I couldn’t move out of shear fright and I dare not call out to anyone for help since there were many babies in the house sound asleep.  I was literally praying that the sun would come up quicker.  Finally, after what seemed like eternity the noise stopped and I was able to fall asleep.  After talking to Willy about it the next morning he told me it probably wasn’t a rat but a cockroach.  So that night I begged just about everyone in the house to sleep with me.  I couldn’t bare another night trapped under my mosquito net alone with…whatever it was.  After quite a bit of pleading, Mama DuDu came in and we dozed off.  At about 12:30 a.m. her phone started ringing.  She talked for a few minutes in her local language and then she left the room. I thought nothing of it and dozed off.  A few minutes later I woke up to the sound of her crying outside my room. I got up to check on her and of course being the independent woman that she is she told me to go back to bed as she probably didn’t want me to see her crying (much like myself).  But of course, being the stubborn woman that I am told her I wasn’t going without her.  Once we got back into bed I began my interrogation.  She said that it was her husband (a very devote Muslim) who had called.  Mama DuDu left him a few months ago.  I won’t get into their conversation but it was so great to be able to comfort her, rub her back, and tell her that although it’s not what she believes, I know that God has a plan for her life and that if she trusts in Him all things will work for her good.  I really felt that God used those cockroaches the night before to terrorize me just so she would be sleeping with me that night.  Little did I know what was to come….

So. A few hours later I woke up again with an upset stomach.  It was nothing unbearable but quite uncomfortable.  After about 30 minutes of tossing and turning I realized it was a little worse than only stomach pain.  As I shot out of bed and ran to the bathroom I was a little too late – after getting sick all over myself and the floor I was in tears.  Mama DuDu was right behind me to help. I was embarrassed, frustrated, in pain, and wanting to be home all at the same time.   After vomiting the entire night Willy told me we should probably go to the hospital.  I assured him that it was probably just something I ate and I’d be fine shortly.  When my sickness failed to cease I agreed to go.  We went to a little clinic down the street where they tested my blood for Malaria.  I absolutely knew the test was going to come back negative.  I had been taking my Malaria pills, sleeping with my net, and had been bitten only a few times this entire summer.  But you can probably conclude that since I’m writing about it that it didn’t come back negative…Yep.  The test came back positive for Malaria parasites. 

This is what it says in my Passport Health traveler’s book about Malaria:

“Malaria is the most serious potential infectious risk for travelers to the tropics.  You can get infected with malaria if you are bitten (and it only takes one bite) by the female Anopheles mosquito which typically bites at night.  The malaria parasite quickly invade the liver and then the red blood cells, where they multiply.  When the red blood cells rupture, an attack of malaria occurs, serious illness and/or death can occur.”

I only knew two other things about Malaria. 1. When I left home someone told me Malaria stays with you forever, it never leaves your blood stream. 2. Two of Mama DuDu’s children died of “unknown causes” (probably Malaria). 

Comforting, huh?

I know that this sickness was allowed to me as a test.  I knew what the right was to react were and I knew what the wrong ways to react were.  I didn’t freak out, I didn’t curse God, I didn’t regret coming.  After crying for a few minutes I sought out the only thing that could comfort me – calling my mom.  Just kidding.  The Bible.  After reading a few passages to calm my spirits and taking my newly prescribed medication, I fell asleep.  I slept for about 48 hours straight. 

Thank Jesus I feel much better .  I just checked my e-mail and my mom said that she “has been seeking wise counsel about the situation and thinks I should come home early to fully recover.”  I’ve got 9 days left and I’ll be spending them here.  It’s been 5 days and I really do feel I’ve already recovered.  Even though I feel better, please pray for me.  Please pray for the parasite to completely leave my blood stream.  And just as serious, please pray that the cockroaches stay away from my room and I still haven’t been able to sleep through the night since.

Disaster Prayer Relief

We need your prayers, we need your letter writing, we need your calls, we need your help. This country is so corrupt for doing this and other countries are corrupt for letting it happen.  For the past few days the government has been demolishing houses in Nakawa and Naguru.  These are two areas of town right outside Kampala.  Today we went to Nakawa to help.  The church that I worship from Sunday, just three short days ago, will be torn down tomorrow.  Most of these people have absolutely no where to go.  They few that have family in distant villages have no transportation to get them there.  Their shops, their homes, their churches are gone or soon will be.  If they don’t leave they will beat, they will shoot, they will spray tear-gas.  This is outrageous.

Naguru is completely destroyed.

Most people in Nakawa are trying to quickly take apart their houses so they can sell the scraps or reconstruct a new house elsewhere.

 

The conditions of the area were bad enough before all of this started…

As I began to help this one woman take apart her home (shack) she said to me that we better move fast.  She explained that the woman she bought the land from was getting the police and telling them she was only renting the land and never bought it.  She told me she bought it with her hard earned money.  She built one room out of scrappy plywood and rusted sheet metal with her own hands.  As she made a fist and clentched her teeth she said she was “fighting until the end.” 

A few minutes later the police come and they started s small brawl as they literally pulled back and forth on pieces of the house.

This is Kathryn, as her husband was tearing down their house behind her she cooked the only food they had left for dinner.  After I had packed up a few of their belongings in a potato sack she offered me a big plate of (whatever it was).  Their entire lives were falling apart, they had few possessions to their name, and she was offering me the last of their food.  A moment I will never ever forget.

 Of course I didn’t take their food but I did love on them and hold them as they ate it.  This is Angel, one of Kathryn's daughters, I couldn't stop kissing her.  She smelled exactly like poop and her skin looked very diseased but making her laugh and putting a smile on her face made us both feel better.

 

This picture isn’t much but the story behind it is pretty cool.  As I was walking around taking pictures this one woman started yelling at me to stop.  She said if I took one more picture than she would come and beat me.  After I let her cool down a few hours I went back to her and her sisters to try and talk to them and make peace.   I’m not gonna lie – I was pretty scared. The one woman who said she would beat me didn’t talk to me at all (and was holding a huge hockey stick looking thing).  Her other sisters gave me maize to eat and we joked about them marrying my 15 year old brother (some of them could be his mother).  They were really thankful after I told them what I was doing with my summer –hearing their appreciation felt really good after knowing a few hours before they wanted to cane me.  After a little more coercing the other woman decided she wouldn’t attack.  As I was helping them tear down their outhouse for the timber in the doorway I asked her if she wanted to take a picture herself- and here it is. 

This little girl’s mother abandoned her.  She apparently hoped the neighbors would take her in (to where?).  The entire afternoon I was there she was crawling around peeing in the dirt where she was playing.  Why don’t I help her, you might ask? How? Where can I start? Who do I call? What do I do with all of the other children who need help?

The majority of the residents of this area were hard at work tearing down and emptying out so that all of their belongings don’t get squashed tomorrow.  This man, however, is completely crippled.  He got into an accident a few years ago and has been in his bed ever since.  Tomorrow morning at 8 we are heading to his house to get him out of there.

 Pray. Pray. Pray.  This is dangerous and scary.  Pray for me – for them – for this country.  Let’s see Him do miracles. 

God has blessed America

Disclaimer: I should first probably say I am not anti-America.  I love the United States.  I have come to love it more being here.  We do a lot of things right.  The "land of opportunity" has a whole new dimension to me now. In a lot of ways I can't wait to be back. 

Today, in Uganda, I celebrated America’s independence.  We didn’t have hamburgers, we didn’t have red white and blue streamers, we didn’t even have fireworks.  We did however have what a lot of Americans don’t have today- unity, love, and family.  After a long day of meetings and working at the PDN office we all headed over to Richmond’s mother’s  house.  We came baring hot dogs, chips, and baked beans (the closest things we could find to American food in the Ugandan supermarkets).  After meeting “Mama” and the rest of Richmond’s family we started the fire and the small charcoal stove to get our party started. 

As not one of us 3 young adults who had gathered from the United States were with any of our biological family, we all felt completely taken in by our new, very big, very loud, Ugandan family.  After a big meal that we shared with some of the neighborhood (it seemed to be a feeding the 5,000 with two loaves situation) we all sat around the fire to fellowship.  Arthur, Richmond’s brother, played the guitar while Lois played the African drum.  We sang praise songs until we couldn’t sing until longer.  After worshiping around the fire for a few hours we left with a prayer and a blessing.  It was really refreshing to pledge our allegiance to our Lord and creator instead of a piece of cloth with stars and stripes. 

Katanga Slum

I will never be the same.  I have aged more today than I have in the past 20 years preceding.  Today I visited the Katanga slum outside Kampala.  It is in all purposes of the word a big mess.  I visited 4 different families in the slum.  I sat in their houses, kissed their children, rubbed their feet, listened to their stories, and wiped away their tears.  I came to Uganda for today.  Each of the four families that I met with consisted of a widowed mother and her children.  Their husbands died of AIDS, cancer, and war. Not one family had less than 5 children.  Three out of four of the families had at least one family member with AIDS.  I didn’t need UNICEF to get me those statistics.  I could describe to you for pages about how horrible the conditions of this slum are but since pictures are worth a thousand words I’ll just let them do the talking. 

The slum is smack dab in the middle of a swampland.

This beautiful woman has AIDS and probably won't live much longer in the conditions she is living in. 

 On a lighter note - this man gave me a handful of grasshoppers...crickets?...They were delicious.

These girls put on clean clothes for the first time in their entire lives. 

There is only ONE organization doing (minimal) work in this slum.  Why is the church having parties with bounce houses and cotton candy machines when our brothers and sisters are living like this?