Eight non ugandans in a van, one ugandan driver and one ugandan friend along for the ride. Heading up to Murchison Falls to see the water. No AC = windows open.
Sudden intense hot pain on my eyelid. So I slap myself. Miss. An invader has entered the van. Dylan, Rebekah and I are crowded in the back seat. Big shoulders and big hips = decreased mobility. Evil fly.
Karen and Stephanie in the second row join the battle. Five against one. Noy, Gilad, and Rebeca (a different one) slam windows shut.
Finally a kill.
Now apparently Tse Tse flies are resilient. We discovered this as a firm smack does not kill them, you then must squash them with a shoe. Otherwise they rise from the dead and bite again.
So windows open we continue along... till i notice something odd. We are being followed. Swarmed. The flies are coming. Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!Slam!Slam! six windows slid shut with finality.
Our driver, Meddy, stops the van, turns around and tells us that tse tse flies are attracted to the color white, red, and blue. (no i am not making this up) and that they like to chase the moving van. Yes, our van is white. Yes, all eight of us have on some article of red, white, or blue clothing.
His window and his friend's window are still rolled down. Now we know why. THEY ARE PERFECTLY SAFE!!!!
We continue driving, windows up, each one slowly melting. The swarm seems to be gone. Windows tentatively opened. Ahhh, sigh of relief. Cool air quickly envelopes our sweat covered bodies. We slow down for a rougher patch of road. SWARM!
Slam! Slam!Slam!Slam!Slam!Slam! Even Meddy and his friend roll their windows up. From this point on we work as a well oiled team; watching, slapping, slamming windows. We start keeping score. Flies: 1 Us:5.
Arriving at the falls we wait in the van. Melting from the heat. Hating these evil biting flies. Swarming, crawling, waiting to bite. Meddy turns around and asks why we aren't getting out. "The flies" is the simple reply from Noy. Once you stop moving they dont bite he says. Right. Maybe they dont bite him. We are color what?? oh, yeah, WHITE. They like color what?? Yep, white. No fair.
Two minutes pass. The heat is cooking us, boiling us really in all the humidity. We devise a plan: Open the one door, dash out like crazies, and run to the trees. Ready, set, DASH!
We make it to the trees, leaving Meddy to close the door since he seems to be safest.
Slap, swat, brush, the flies don't realize they aren't supposed to bite once we stop moving. Maybe Meddy forgot to tell them.
Park ranger comes along ready to lead the hike. "Don't mind the flies" he assures us. "In the 1930's they sprayed and the ones carrying the diseases all died".... How does he know? We are skeptical.
The hike to the falls made it all worth it though. Absolutely breathtaking.
How to survive Tse Tse flies: KILL THEM with a shoe or similarly firm object.
Don't ride in a white van. Don't wear red, white, or blue. And trust that if you get bitten, you won't die of sleeping sickness because in the 1930's "they" sprayed and the diseased ones all died.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
"We Don't Negotiate with Terrorists"
When we went to Fasha for the community outreach, Rebekah's phone was stolen. It was hard to take the loss in stride- feelings of distrust, frustration, and disappointment waved over our group.
The next day one of the uncles received a call from Rebekah's phone. It was the thief. He liked Uncle and offered to sell us the phone back for 50,000 shillings (remember, 2500 is the daily wage here in the village). The rate was "so low" as a favor to Uncle. Uncle talked him down to 30k, but said the phone had to be delivered before payment. And then my phone died. So phone-less we were left to the mercies of one of the teachers. He went to his home village. No phone.
We were sure of only one thing- we did not want to pay. The bad guy stole the phone and stealing is wrong.
The teacher finally returned three days later and was shocked we did not have the phone. "Why didn't you follow up?" he asked us. I didn't know whether to glare or roll my eyes. Doing both ruins the effect though...
So we borrowed a neighbors phone with only one bar of battery, put my sim card in, and hurriedly texted/called our families to let them know we were alive.
Tuesday we find ourselves safely in town despite the lack of technology. Rebekah and I go to the phone store to look for a replacement for me. They have two phones in stock. We pick the cheap one, tagged 29,900 and the sales lady quickly removes the tag, crumbles it, and informs us the real price is 89,900. Right.
Leaving the phone there we head back to the hostel to meet up with C, D, &S. Just around the corner is a popular meeting place for people from our place and we found Uncle there.
He is astonished we dont have the phone yet. "Why didn't you follow up?" he demands. Can you see our eyes twitching?? He gets on the phone, calls the local head honcho in Fasha who tells him the phone is now in Kacerere.
Let me give you a brief layout: We live in Kishanje. If you follow the road towards Kabale you reach Kacerere. It is like a 30 minute walk. Keep going and you reach Fasha about 40 minutes later.
In the villages there are elected people who serve as arbitrators in local disputes, there are maybe 5 in each village, rated according to authority. Uncle called the top dog in Fasha who then directed him to the top dog in Kacerere.
Now keep this in mind, for those of you familiar with southwest Az, we are talking like Benson, St David, Tombstone. Close proximity, everyone knows everyone else, or knows someone who does. We are pretty sure that everyone knows who took the phone, yet the thief is not being held accountable.
Rebekah wants her phone back. Uncle tells us the head honcho in Kacerere paid the 30 k, telling the delivery person he would get 20 more once we saw the phone.
We are worn down. We are almost complacent. We have forgotten that things can be wrong (like stealing a phone) rather than to be expected (like having your phone stolen). We are sure of only one thing- we want the phone back.
Dylan is having a hard time accepting all that is happening. He offered to help the thief change his mind. He offers to get the phone and have them pay us for the inconvenience. Hearing Uncle agree that 30k is fair, and that we will pay the additional money is almost too much for him.
Dylan sits beside us, takes off his hat, and in a slow drawl says "We don't negotiate with terrorists". Rebekah and I look at each other and laugh. How we have changed!! Not only were we negotiating, we were being given the responsibility for having the phone stolen. "You girls don't care about your things, otherwise you would have followed up on this issue and it would not even have been stolen in the first place" we were told. No argument from us. Hearing Dylan's take on the whole thing was a good reminder... we don't negotiate with terrorists! Stealing is wrong. The thief is the bad guy, not us.
We feel better about ourselves, having been reminded that we are not losers after all. Still dont have the phone though. When we head back to Kabale (we are traveling this week) we shall see if it is finally sorted out. We can hope, right?
The next day one of the uncles received a call from Rebekah's phone. It was the thief. He liked Uncle and offered to sell us the phone back for 50,000 shillings (remember, 2500 is the daily wage here in the village). The rate was "so low" as a favor to Uncle. Uncle talked him down to 30k, but said the phone had to be delivered before payment. And then my phone died. So phone-less we were left to the mercies of one of the teachers. He went to his home village. No phone.
We were sure of only one thing- we did not want to pay. The bad guy stole the phone and stealing is wrong.
The teacher finally returned three days later and was shocked we did not have the phone. "Why didn't you follow up?" he asked us. I didn't know whether to glare or roll my eyes. Doing both ruins the effect though...
So we borrowed a neighbors phone with only one bar of battery, put my sim card in, and hurriedly texted/called our families to let them know we were alive.
Tuesday we find ourselves safely in town despite the lack of technology. Rebekah and I go to the phone store to look for a replacement for me. They have two phones in stock. We pick the cheap one, tagged 29,900 and the sales lady quickly removes the tag, crumbles it, and informs us the real price is 89,900. Right.
Leaving the phone there we head back to the hostel to meet up with C, D, &S. Just around the corner is a popular meeting place for people from our place and we found Uncle there.
He is astonished we dont have the phone yet. "Why didn't you follow up?" he demands. Can you see our eyes twitching?? He gets on the phone, calls the local head honcho in Fasha who tells him the phone is now in Kacerere.
Let me give you a brief layout: We live in Kishanje. If you follow the road towards Kabale you reach Kacerere. It is like a 30 minute walk. Keep going and you reach Fasha about 40 minutes later.
In the villages there are elected people who serve as arbitrators in local disputes, there are maybe 5 in each village, rated according to authority. Uncle called the top dog in Fasha who then directed him to the top dog in Kacerere.
Now keep this in mind, for those of you familiar with southwest Az, we are talking like Benson, St David, Tombstone. Close proximity, everyone knows everyone else, or knows someone who does. We are pretty sure that everyone knows who took the phone, yet the thief is not being held accountable.
Rebekah wants her phone back. Uncle tells us the head honcho in Kacerere paid the 30 k, telling the delivery person he would get 20 more once we saw the phone.
We are worn down. We are almost complacent. We have forgotten that things can be wrong (like stealing a phone) rather than to be expected (like having your phone stolen). We are sure of only one thing- we want the phone back.
Dylan is having a hard time accepting all that is happening. He offered to help the thief change his mind. He offers to get the phone and have them pay us for the inconvenience. Hearing Uncle agree that 30k is fair, and that we will pay the additional money is almost too much for him.
Dylan sits beside us, takes off his hat, and in a slow drawl says "We don't negotiate with terrorists". Rebekah and I look at each other and laugh. How we have changed!! Not only were we negotiating, we were being given the responsibility for having the phone stolen. "You girls don't care about your things, otherwise you would have followed up on this issue and it would not even have been stolen in the first place" we were told. No argument from us. Hearing Dylan's take on the whole thing was a good reminder... we don't negotiate with terrorists! Stealing is wrong. The thief is the bad guy, not us.
We feel better about ourselves, having been reminded that we are not losers after all. Still dont have the phone though. When we head back to Kabale (we are traveling this week) we shall see if it is finally sorted out. We can hope, right?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Update from Uganda...
Hi Friends and Family:
It hasn't been 24-hours since I have been back from visiting Leah in Uganda, that I already don't miss her immeasurably and wish I was still with her. Two weeks just didn't seem like enough time, but God was so good in providing a way for us all to be together. First of all, we would like to extend a huge "THANK YOU!" to all those that supported our trip to see Leah and Bekah. We couldn't have done it without your support, love and words of encouragement. Our time with the girls was full of all sorts of emotions (some crying but mostly laughing), but we found incredible amounts of encouragement in seeing one another. Sharing details from the monotony of everyday life to the difficulty in choosing to serve Christ in dark places.
Being in Africa has revived Leah, and I couldn't take in just how much God has continued to mold and shape her. The kids that she is around every day adore her, and you can see in their eyes how much love they receive through Leah and Bekah. Both girls are working incredibly hard to be an active, adoring and intentional facet in each of the kids' lives and it truly shows. Please continue to pray Leah, Bekah and Dylan as they head off for a much needed "holiday" (aka a safari in Northern Uganda). Also pray for the school term as it started this week. And as always, please keep the girls' health in your prayers. Leah, asked that I update the blog with some pictures of what her life in Uganda looks like. A mixture of many things like cooking, doing laundry and watching football games at the local pitch. She also asked that I relay just how thankful she is for all the support you have given her the past couple of months, words simply do not relay how much it has meant to her.
Until we meet again,
Caylin
Power...
Eight boys, one Efandi, a rope, a plastic bag, three trips up the hill, three trips down to the guest house, two plastic bottles of fuel, and one generator are the necessary ingredients for “power” here at school.
Have I mentioned before that the school switched to solar power? The wiring does not reach our house, so Bekah and I are once again in the dark ages. I plugged my phone into the solar power outlet in the office, and somehow the battery got fried (RIP lovely phone). We weren’t willing to risk our computer batteries, camera batteries, or the other technology Caylin, Dylan and Shannon brought, so we sent one kid up the kill to ask to borrow a generator, and one kid down the hill to the guest house for the connecting cords. Two more trips each way and we finally had the fuel, cords, and generator.
Our “master electrician” who is an S4 boy pours the fuel in and discovers there is a leak. Two other boys are called over to lift the generator on one end as he unscrews the valve, blows the dirt/fuel out of the line, and reconnects. No dice. Still leaking the two again lift the generator up (away from the leak) and I am sent to look for a “cavela” a plastic bag. I come back with one and my master electrician proceeds to fashion a washer of sorts. Screwing in the valve and new washer, he motions for the boysto lay the generator back down. The Efandi (night guard) has now joined us, holding a scrap of rope which is requisitioned for the pull cord to start the motor. The two boys who lifted now hold the generator still. Master Electrician is ready at the throttle-switch-thing, two other boys begin winding the rope around the (insert technical term here for the protruding round thing that starts the motor when a rope is wound around it and yanked). A sixth boy is instructed to hold the torch for master electrician. Six yanks and rewinds later (as each boy has had his try) two additional boys are called over. By the tenth try the motor starts (yay!!) and then is turned off as master electrician discovers that the leak has again started, the valve knocked askew by the final rope yank.
This time it is the hose, so we go through the whole process of lifting, unscrewing, finding the left over plastic bag scraps and now fashioning a hose cover. Put it all back together, cross your fingers, wind the rope, yank.
POWER!
The boys scramble to untangle the cords, three running up two flights of stairs to the roof, three untangling, one sitting on the generator that is trying to run away, and one holding the flashlight . Cords connected on the roof, master electrician runs down the stairs and connects the cords directly into the generator. No plugs here, just striped wires that spark.
I laugh as the boys finish the task by using the rope to tie the generator to a tree. Eight boys, one Efandi, and lots of hard work to make sure their aunts have power for one night while visitors are here.
I really do have good kids.
Waiting...
I am not sure exactly what the word cacophony means, but it is the first word that comes to mind as I sit in the Kigali airport waiting for Flight 465 to arrive. After being in the village, this place of technology, these swarming masses of humanity, and the variety of language seems foreign. I feel like a country bumpkin, out of place and slightly overwhelmed. People from all over the world are here and I find myself falling into my old habit of people watching. I try to imagine where they are from, where they are going, who they are leaving behind, who they are joining.
Despite how out of place I feel, I take comfort in the one thing that does not change; a small girl is half laying on my lap, watching the same people I am. Some things don’t change. Children feel comfortable around me. I don’t speak her language, there has been no formal or even informal introduction, she just confidently leans on me as she takes a break from exploring with her older sisters.
The variety of garb is astounding. I see three different groups of nuns in their unique habits. Women in traditional clothing mingle through the crowds, patterns and wrap style different than what I am accustomed to. French girls in shorts (and I have to catch myself as I stare almost open mouthed- how my standards have changed after months of knees being taboo!) kiss their new friends goodbye. Time and fashion trends collide head on as I see grandmothers in tie-dye, young girls in jellie shoes (I remember them from my girlhood), bright colors, fall colors, boys in pink sweaters.
One line in and around the corner some doors I can only assume open for arrivals. I sit on the bench facing the line of departures. Rebekah and I arrived early thanks to the skilled driving of Musafiri. We budgeted time for public (bus) transport, but deciding to pick our friends with a taxi instead, we now wait. She goes off walking, ever walking. Minutes later Musa goes off on his own adventure, passing by every few minutes to check on me. Patrick knew him and arranged for him to bring us to the airport. Musa is a pro, having driven this trip many times, I get all turned around in my head just thinking about it. In Uganda they drive on one side of the road, in Rwanda the other…
There is a conspicuous absence of clocks. Time truly does move at a different pace here. Heaps more touching; in Uganda there is constant touch, gender segregated. I lose count of the cheek kiss greetings and the phrase “enchante” (or however that French word is spelled…). Sounds cliché, I know, but I watch with eyes wide open.
Perhaps this is ignorance, so feel free to judge if the next statement is too “USA-centric” and shallow. I am wondering if the touch factor has to do with the history of Rwanda, verses the history of Uganda. Rwanda had lots of French influence, which may have played a shaping role in the touch culture I am currently witness to. Uganda was a British protectorate, which may have played a shaping role in their touch culture. I can’t be sure though.
Amiable, the information help desk guy, has taken a shine to me. He keeps calling (who I don’t know) to check on the status of the flight I am waiting for. He tells Musa he is a lucky guy to travel with me and Rebekah. Musa laughs. My people watching is disrupted by Amiable now motioning me over. I stand, walk the three steps to the desk, and he tells me quietly that the expected arrival time is now three minutes earlier that the previous time he told me. He then breaks into discussion about culture. “In my culture, it is appropriate for me to tell you that I love you and you are a beautiful person” he opens with. “Even though I have known you for only five minutes I can tell you this, because in my culture it is fine.” Hmm. “In my culture, not only is it inappropriate, but it is also offensive and shows bad manners” I tell him as Rebekah walks up. She catches the end statement, and nods in affirmation “very bad manners” she chimes in. {we back each other up at all times, regardless of her lack of knowledge about the subject matter, she is bound to agree with me when I am lecturing about manners, as am I when the time comes for her to lecture} Amiable is not to be deterred. Rebekah again wanders off and I am left to hear all about his life goals, his charity work, and his offer to put me on Rwandan television, because I am beautiful. “Oh my, look at the time…” he is confused, as there are no clocks in sight, and I use the confusion to excuse myself and head to the gate where I think my lovely family will be arriving from.
African airports are something else. Lines are suggestions, and the rope dividers are obviously placed there so you can duck under them and run to greet your loved ones. My strict western upbringing inhibits my disregard for lines and order, so I wait patiently. Rebekah spots Dylan first; the tall one with the camouflaged hat. It has been a long wait but finally they come through the doors, down the line, and outside to my waiting arms. Great big hugs and we are off to find Musa at the car and head to Uganda, ready to begin our adventures.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
SO EXCITED
First an explanation: the school switched to solar power, so Rebekah and I are back in the dark ages as the wiring does not reach our place, and the generator is broken. And my computer is on the fritz... so I have not been typing any blogs. Oh, and somehow my flash drive is "full" even though there is nothing on it, so I cant bring pics to the internet cafe and load them...
Therefore: I have nothing insightful, brilliant, picturesque or funny to share
Only this:
I AM SO EXCITED
leaving in a few hours to go to Rwanda and PICK UP MY DYLAN, CAYLIN, and Shannon at the airport.
Yes, reinforcements are arriving TODAY.
Therefore: I have nothing insightful, brilliant, picturesque or funny to share
Only this:
I AM SO EXCITED
leaving in a few hours to go to Rwanda and PICK UP MY DYLAN, CAYLIN, and Shannon at the airport.
Yes, reinforcements are arriving TODAY.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Invasion
Our house is one large room, two bedrooms, and a bathing closet (hole in the floor where water drains). Outside the door connected to the front is our "kitchen". It is a cement room with shelves on two walls, our gas stove top rests on a wooden chair, facing the only window. We store our pots and pans, our dry goods, and canned goods in our kitchen.
Every morning I get up, unbolt the house door, and step out into the early morning light. I unlock the kitchen, take out two basins and begin washing dishes as I wait for the milk man to come.
One morning I heard something in the kitchen, before unlocking and opening. I debated, wait and call someone to open it with me, open it and see what was making all the noise? I mentally ran through the list of possibilities: rats, roaches, birds, a wild critter... Deciding I could handle all of those possibilities I unlocked the door and swung it open.
I was not prepared for the sight before me. The floor was covered with three trailing columns of large ants. They had launched a multi- front attack on our sac of dried beans.
Now I wasn't about to head in there without backup, so I went and found the Head Master (who is also our neighbor) and asked him for advice. He came immediately and beat the sac with a broom, then hauled the bag outside. We dumped the beans out on a bamboo mat and stared in amazement as the bean pile seemed to move as the ants swarmed.
Leaving the ants we returned to the kitchen to sweep it out and then pour parafin on the remaining ants, covering the entry ways and path ways. Apparently that is the trick for invading army ants; they dont like parafin.
Now we all know... if you find yourself facing an invading army of ants, get a broom and parafin and the battle will be won.
Every morning I get up, unbolt the house door, and step out into the early morning light. I unlock the kitchen, take out two basins and begin washing dishes as I wait for the milk man to come.
One morning I heard something in the kitchen, before unlocking and opening. I debated, wait and call someone to open it with me, open it and see what was making all the noise? I mentally ran through the list of possibilities: rats, roaches, birds, a wild critter... Deciding I could handle all of those possibilities I unlocked the door and swung it open.
I was not prepared for the sight before me. The floor was covered with three trailing columns of large ants. They had launched a multi- front attack on our sac of dried beans.
Now I wasn't about to head in there without backup, so I went and found the Head Master (who is also our neighbor) and asked him for advice. He came immediately and beat the sac with a broom, then hauled the bag outside. We dumped the beans out on a bamboo mat and stared in amazement as the bean pile seemed to move as the ants swarmed.
Leaving the ants we returned to the kitchen to sweep it out and then pour parafin on the remaining ants, covering the entry ways and path ways. Apparently that is the trick for invading army ants; they dont like parafin.
Now we all know... if you find yourself facing an invading army of ants, get a broom and parafin and the battle will be won.
Bug Attack
Some days I doubt. Everything. Some days I find myself on the verge of throwing in the towel and calling it quits. Then I remember how being a type A personality, quitting is not really an option. You judge yourself too harshly when you quit, why? because quitting is failing.
In town again after yet another wicked bug attack. It is frustrating really, never having been a sickly person before, I find myself more often feeling icky than feeling well since moving here. Rebekah is once again the strong one as I am once again rendered useless. At least this time it wasn't so bad as before.
First time the bugs got me we went to the local private hospital where the doctor told me I was sick because I was not used to the climate, and the nurse informed me that I did not have any veins. Drawing blood was going to be a challenge as whites have smaller veins located in different places. And you cant see veins in whites. Even in my delirious state, I knew that sounded ridiculous.
This time I started the meds in the village, and we went to the free public hospital. A friend of ours is a lab tech there and met us at the gate, walked us through the confusing corridors and got us set for seeing the doc. The doc asked normal doctor questions, wrote an order for blood work, and off we went to find our friend to get blood drawn. I was a bit nervous about the whole blood thing... but he tied the tourniquet, and said I have prominent veins. Excellent. Maybe they have become used to Africa and switched locations...
All this hooplala of traveling back and forth to town because I have gotten seriously sick really disturbs me. I don't know that I could honestly say I have ever been low maintenance, but this is high maintenance, even for me.
I begin doubting, do I belong here? Am I really this much of a pansy? Then I think about how lame it sounds to complain about only 8 months, as if that is a long time, as if it is such a big deal, and I tell myself to suck it up and stop complaining. Maybe that is what doubt really is, complaining... focusing on myself rather than others.
In town again after yet another wicked bug attack. It is frustrating really, never having been a sickly person before, I find myself more often feeling icky than feeling well since moving here. Rebekah is once again the strong one as I am once again rendered useless. At least this time it wasn't so bad as before.
First time the bugs got me we went to the local private hospital where the doctor told me I was sick because I was not used to the climate, and the nurse informed me that I did not have any veins. Drawing blood was going to be a challenge as whites have smaller veins located in different places. And you cant see veins in whites. Even in my delirious state, I knew that sounded ridiculous.
This time I started the meds in the village, and we went to the free public hospital. A friend of ours is a lab tech there and met us at the gate, walked us through the confusing corridors and got us set for seeing the doc. The doc asked normal doctor questions, wrote an order for blood work, and off we went to find our friend to get blood drawn. I was a bit nervous about the whole blood thing... but he tied the tourniquet, and said I have prominent veins. Excellent. Maybe they have become used to Africa and switched locations...
All this hooplala of traveling back and forth to town because I have gotten seriously sick really disturbs me. I don't know that I could honestly say I have ever been low maintenance, but this is high maintenance, even for me.
I begin doubting, do I belong here? Am I really this much of a pansy? Then I think about how lame it sounds to complain about only 8 months, as if that is a long time, as if it is such a big deal, and I tell myself to suck it up and stop complaining. Maybe that is what doubt really is, complaining... focusing on myself rather than others.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)