Sometimes I hesitate to write anything to you because I know how poorly I am able to convey all I have seen and felt. Sometimes I hesitate to write because the pain, joy, fear, or hope is still too much to share. Sometimes I hesitate to write because in writing I have to admit to, verbalize, and even re-experience that which I am either recovering from, or hiding from.
Sitting at the table here in Colorado, surrounded by Rebekah’s family, the movie Hairspray playing in the background, sipping on a glass of ice water and holding onto a warm cup of coffee in the other hand, I remain hesitant. Rebekah’s mom gently asks if either of us have written anything about being home yet, and I am ashamed to own that I have not.
So here it is: I miss my kids.
It is kind of a hollow feeling in my chest. If I forget to be here, my mind takes me there, and it gets hard to breathe. This should be old hat by now, having left Ug twice before, it should be no big deal. Weak. For the first time I have experienced full blown jet lag; the kind where the walls, floors, and furniture looks crooked- angled, and hard to lean on, walk on, and sit on. The kind where both Rebekah and I wake up at 1:30 in the morning, but pretend to sleep, not talking, not acknowledging the wide awake state until 5 am when it is acceptable to get out of bed. Yesterday we fought hard to stay awake all day. We were rewarded with waking up at 5:30 this morning. Finally, a night’s sleep.
Travel started at 3 am Wednesday morning. We woke up and quietly began our last minute preparation for leaving. After dressing we stripped our beds, stuffed our pj’s into our suitcases, and I went to wake our boys and girls. The boys were already awake, listening to the radio- I don’t think they slept.
By four we have carried our six bags, our four carry-ons, and our jackets up the hill to the truck. A small gathering has begun. The driver was told to be at the truck by 4:15 so we could leave. He is not there. I struggle to remain pleasant, to keep focused on the kids who are really struggling with our departure, to not become angry at the driver. By 5:30 he comes. No apologies. No explanation. We climb in the back of the truck, bracing ourselves for the cold mountain air that will soon grip our bodies. Various local teachers and neighbors looking for a free ride to town pile in. The driver begins flying down the mountain roads and now I am angry. Some kids have come with us to give us a “push” to town and now they are in danger along with us. He slams on the brakes to pick up a farmer with five sacks of potatoes. He charges the man a fee for transportation. I bang on the window and tell him to slow down. He makes a snarky comment about “time” and I take a deep breath. Now he is time conscious, now that we are sure to miss our bus for the day as we will reach town an hour late. He continues to stop along the way, picking up paying customers- something that is both inconsiderate and illegal.
We reach town after seven, the bus we wanted to take leaves at seven. We regroup, re-plan, and the kids unload the truck. Storing our luggage at the hostel we start walking looking for plan B- a car heading in the direction we want to go. Before heading to Kampala Thursday morning, we wanted to see some people in a town about an hour away. We had committed to meeting them at 8 am… we reached by 10 am.
The meeting concluded we return to Kabale town. The driver is still there, having spent the day driving around delivering the people and produce he picked up along the way. Rebekah and I had committed to paying for the truck fuel and had agreed on the amount with the head master. We give the driver the agreed on money for fuel and he calls the HM- not enough money according to him. He won’t admit that he used the fuel on personal errands, and is now demanding more money. I call the HM, we agree to add some more money, and I bring it out to the driver. He then demands money for lunch. That’s when I forgot to be loving and kind and just flipped. ENOUGH! He is demanding lunch money in Rukiga- speaking only in Rukiga, even though he speaks English. I call him out on his behavior; I tell him he was wrong for being late, for making us miss our bus, for endangering us and our children as he sped carelessly along the dangerous mountain roads. I told him I knew how much money he made that morning, and I knew that he was planning a similar act for the ride home and he could use that money for his lunch. I tell him if he wants to argue, he can argue in English or leave. The student he brought with him looks at me incredulously. He cracks a smile and then sternly tells the driver they should go. Rebekah is holding onto my arm telling me to calm down. I am not shouting. I am not waving my hands like a crazy, I am merely speaking truth. Enough is enough. As the driver and our student leave I take a deep breath. It is time to go home- time to stop being treated like a money bag, time to stop allowing people to do the wrong thing with no accountability.
The remainder of the day is filled with more goodbyes as we are still playing the role of the strong ones, hugging the crying kids, listening to last minute fears and worries, writing notes of encouragement, and touching base with everyone we needed to.
Thursday morning we are up at 6 in time to dress and head to the bus. The staff from the hostel is up early with us to carry our bags and escort us to the bus. They “have no words” but can only show us they are “friends” and will miss us by standing with us as we wait to load the bags and get on board. A sweet gesture made by genuinely sweet people.
After a 10 hour bus ride we reach Kampala and find a car to take us to the next hostel. We are tired and avoiding eye contact as both of us are near to tears. We go to bed early.
Friday we head into town to go to the dentist and run some errands. Kampala is hot. By lunch time we head back to the hostel and settle in for the night.
Saturday morning we are up early to head back into town to meet a driver at Watoto church. He volunteered to take us to Bbira village that morning for just the cost of fuel- a generous and kind thing to do. We went to Bbira to see my mom and dad’s sponsor child Richard.
Sunday is spent resting and repacking, preparing for Monday’s flight. For those of you who have flown internationally, you know that it is literally like time travelling, a bending of reality, speed is relative. It messes with you.
Now it is Thursday morning and I am just starting to feel settled – or at least feel less “in motion” which is nice. My thoughts turn towards home and towards family. My mind and heart turn inward as I struggle to grab hold of a life line as I am tossed about and overcome by waves of missing my kids, missing my family, loving being with Rebekah’s family, loving being in a place I am comfortable to call home and trying to look emotionally stable.
Another time I will look into what home and family is, but for today I will just take a moment to say- I am thankful.
Thankful for my family, my friends, my children, and for being in CO safe and sound. God’s Blessings to you.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Help cleaning up the kitchen- the boys cleared out all the shelves, swept, killed all spiders, reached in all the scary dark corners and saved the day. It was so great having their help and support for the last day of packing and moving out.
George, Jacob, Me, Richard, and the two little guys Kevin and Albert
Since 1999 Mom and Dad have been sponsoring Richard. In 2006 Connie and I went to visit him in Bbira Village just outside of Kampala. Before leaving UG Rebekah and I took the necessary steps to visit him again.
It was a short but sweet visit, he just finished his S4 exams so we were able to hear about the national exams from a different perspective than the students in our village. He hopes to be an accountant and assured me that the exams for that track were "more than" fair and he performs well. It was neat seeing how he has grown and talking about his home region- Kabale district. George and his twin sister Dorothy come from Kabale too, Jacob is Richard's biological brother, and the two little guys came from the Watoto Babies Home.
The older boys of course had to test our knowledge of Rukiga- and we had to tease them for speaking Lugandan and not pure Rukiga. It was a nice time of laughter and fellowship.
Watoto is doing a good work in Uganda. Check them out.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Farewell
The school year has come to a close- the P7s, and S4s are finished with their national exams. The S6’s are remaining with one week of national exams, and the remaining classes are waiting for their final report cards to be given Monday.
In September we had a farewell ceremony for the S4 and S6 classes as they prepared to leave school to go take their exams elsewhere. Two weeks after that we had a farewell service for the P7 “leavers” as they are called. Each service was sweet and exciting as the kids were being sent off towards the next phase of life and schooling.
On the 14th we had the final Farewell Celebration. The secondary students began their exams the week before, and were finishing up, packing to go home, and the primary students were sitting for their exams that week. Rebekah and I wanted to be sure to see all the kids before they went home for the long holiday- they won’t return to school until Feb 19th, after national elections have taken place. It was a fabulous day of presentations, songs, skits, dancing, and even a special lunch for the secondary students.
We worked with the choir the week before to teach them some new songs. The student led chapel was given song books with newer music in them, and the kids aren’t familiar with many of the songs. Rebekah and I taught them the ones we knew and then the choir presented four of them for the service. We had machines that day- the generator was fixed so we could use the projector and speakers. Rebekah and I made a powerpoint for the songs so everyone could sing along.
The S1 class, who had Rebekah for a class teacher, presented two songs in the local language and a hilarious skit
We presented flash cards, books, and these really neat science books that Rebekah’s mom made and sent to us, and laminated “keyboards” that my mom sent, to the school to be put in the library for student use. The kids were thrilled. Earlier in the week I sat down with the sports prefect, a S5 boy they call “Pi” and taught him the proper way to wrap sports injuries. We presented ace bandages to Pi for all the footballers at school.
The head master gave a speech, the reverend gave a short speech, and we brought the service to a close. Before dismissing though, we had to present a song. I used the word “had” because we “had” to. You see, presentations are very important here. Ceremony is very important. Neither Rebekah nor I love presentations and ceremony, but we join in when absolutely necessary. This Sunday it was absolutely necessary for us to also present, because it was the last Sunday we would share with the children.
Here is the song we sang for the children:
All our bags are packed
We’re ready to go
We’re standing here on the floor
We hate to make you sad, and say goodbye
But the time has come
To say farewell
Stable’s waiting, he’s honkin’ the horn
Already we’re so lonesome we could cry
So hug us, and smile for us
Tell us you’ll remember us
Pray for us, and we will pray for you
Cause we’re leavin on a jet plane
Don’t know when we’ll be back again
Oh kids, we hate to go
So many times We’ve laughed and learned
Remember when we won football
We’ll always have those memories as we go
Every place we go, we’ll think of you
Each day that comes, we’ll pray for you
When we come back
We’ll see how much you’ve grown
So hug us, and smile for us
Tell us you’ll remember us
Pray for us, and we will pray for you
Cause we’re leavin on a jet plane
Don’t know when we’ll be back again
Oh kids, we hate to go
But we need to go
The choir and machine kids were great on Sunday. We asked them to be strong for us and help us smile and laugh the whole day through. After presenting our song, we showed a powerpoint photo album- pictures of all the kids from throughout the year.
After lunch I rounded up the S4 boys who had returned for the day at my request and we went down to the kitchen to pop 9 kilos of popcorn. Rebekah and I passed out popcorn to all the kids and we watched Hook together. A final afternoon of laughing, enjoying, and hugging on our kids.
In September we had a farewell ceremony for the S4 and S6 classes as they prepared to leave school to go take their exams elsewhere. Two weeks after that we had a farewell service for the P7 “leavers” as they are called. Each service was sweet and exciting as the kids were being sent off towards the next phase of life and schooling.
On the 14th we had the final Farewell Celebration. The secondary students began their exams the week before, and were finishing up, packing to go home, and the primary students were sitting for their exams that week. Rebekah and I wanted to be sure to see all the kids before they went home for the long holiday- they won’t return to school until Feb 19th, after national elections have taken place. It was a fabulous day of presentations, songs, skits, dancing, and even a special lunch for the secondary students.
We worked with the choir the week before to teach them some new songs. The student led chapel was given song books with newer music in them, and the kids aren’t familiar with many of the songs. Rebekah and I taught them the ones we knew and then the choir presented four of them for the service. We had machines that day- the generator was fixed so we could use the projector and speakers. Rebekah and I made a powerpoint for the songs so everyone could sing along.
The S1 class, who had Rebekah for a class teacher, presented two songs in the local language and a hilarious skit
We presented flash cards, books, and these really neat science books that Rebekah’s mom made and sent to us, and laminated “keyboards” that my mom sent, to the school to be put in the library for student use. The kids were thrilled. Earlier in the week I sat down with the sports prefect, a S5 boy they call “Pi” and taught him the proper way to wrap sports injuries. We presented ace bandages to Pi for all the footballers at school.
The head master gave a speech, the reverend gave a short speech, and we brought the service to a close. Before dismissing though, we had to present a song. I used the word “had” because we “had” to. You see, presentations are very important here. Ceremony is very important. Neither Rebekah nor I love presentations and ceremony, but we join in when absolutely necessary. This Sunday it was absolutely necessary for us to also present, because it was the last Sunday we would share with the children.
Here is the song we sang for the children:
All our bags are packed
We’re ready to go
We’re standing here on the floor
We hate to make you sad, and say goodbye
But the time has come
To say farewell
Stable’s waiting, he’s honkin’ the horn
Already we’re so lonesome we could cry
So hug us, and smile for us
Tell us you’ll remember us
Pray for us, and we will pray for you
Cause we’re leavin on a jet plane
Don’t know when we’ll be back again
Oh kids, we hate to go
So many times We’ve laughed and learned
Remember when we won football
We’ll always have those memories as we go
Every place we go, we’ll think of you
Each day that comes, we’ll pray for you
When we come back
We’ll see how much you’ve grown
So hug us, and smile for us
Tell us you’ll remember us
Pray for us, and we will pray for you
Cause we’re leavin on a jet plane
Don’t know when we’ll be back again
Oh kids, we hate to go
But we need to go
The choir and machine kids were great on Sunday. We asked them to be strong for us and help us smile and laugh the whole day through. After presenting our song, we showed a powerpoint photo album- pictures of all the kids from throughout the year.
After lunch I rounded up the S4 boys who had returned for the day at my request and we went down to the kitchen to pop 9 kilos of popcorn. Rebekah and I passed out popcorn to all the kids and we watched Hook together. A final afternoon of laughing, enjoying, and hugging on our kids.
The time has come for us to leave. It is earlier than I expected and planned for, but I know it is the right thing. Please pray for Rebekah and me as we travel this week. Our hearts are on ‘pause’ right now, we will need some time to process once we are home.
BA Squared
When Dylan came out to ug, he teasingly told me that he wasn’t sure I was really his sister. In his eyes I had changed a bit. Back in America, Before Africa (henceforth referred to as BA squared) I was a cleaning freak. My standards of cleanliness have evolved a bit on account of the general… conditions. For instance, I have only washed windows once. Icky spiders like to live in between the window and the bars (all windows are barred here) and the kids like to tap “hello” on them, so washing them weekly has been nixed.
BA squared, mom called me her little scientist as I would carefully examine the food on my plate each night. Generally it served the purpose of picking out the mushrooms; here it serves the purpose of picking out the weevils, sticks, and stones. (Apologies to my mom, and anyone else who serves me food in the future- it is now a fine tuned science)
BA squared my mindset was different. Being here has subtly shifted my inner dialogue. I say ‘subtly’ because unless I speak some things out loud, I don’t realize I am even entertaining different or wrong ideas. Today on the bus it was hot and crowded. My thrill for people watching has decreased as being a wallflower–people-watcher is no longer an option. When we reached our destination I pointed out an old man to Rebekah; he was skinny and short, his wrist bones were about half the size of mine. I told her that on the bus I had decided that if I had to marry here, I would marry a guy like him, so when he hit me I could maybe hit back. Have to pick a small guy so the beating wouldn’t be as bad. Upon admitting that, saying it out loud, I realized – something is wrong with me. Spousal abuse is not fine. Accepting the likelihood of being beaten is not fine. Picking a life partner based on size and strength to prevent beatings is not fine. Now you can stop worrying, once I admitted the craziness to Rebekah, I realized the craziness, and will not be settling, accepting, or dealing with an abusive anyone in my life.
BA squared I was a compulsive hand washer. I love clean hands. Now I walk across campus, brush my hands off on whatever skirt I happen to be wearing (clean or not) and join the kids for lunch or dinner. We eat with our hands. Then you wipe your hands on the grass. It makes them clean. Somehow.
BA squared I would tape a cup over any spider I would find and put a sticky note on the cup: JOB OPPORTUNITY. A certain brother shortage, cup shortage, and sticky note shortage means I just pretend they aren’t there- as long as they don’t move. For the extra large ones, a couple of my boys introduced me to the benefits of fire: a tall candle “pops” them and makes the webs crackle and disappear. I have not yet managed to pop any, but the kitchen has been cleaned out for me by fearless individuals.
BA squared you could say I was still a bit of a black and white kind of girl- something was right or it was wrong. Something was good or it was bad, I liked it or I did not like it at all. Now I feel fuzzy as shades of gray fog my mind. In the game of life I felt comfortable knowing the “rules” BA squared. Here though, the rules are different, and they change as you play. It is unsettling and it keeps you from forming a real black and white standard. That has been a hard change.
When I come home, be patient with me. I know being here has changed me, but it is hard to know how complete the changes are- so if you notice them give me grace. Change has always been hard, and being back home, in a place where I think of myself as unchanged, seeing and realizing the effects of being in Africa may be hard.
BA squared, mom called me her little scientist as I would carefully examine the food on my plate each night. Generally it served the purpose of picking out the mushrooms; here it serves the purpose of picking out the weevils, sticks, and stones. (Apologies to my mom, and anyone else who serves me food in the future- it is now a fine tuned science)
BA squared my mindset was different. Being here has subtly shifted my inner dialogue. I say ‘subtly’ because unless I speak some things out loud, I don’t realize I am even entertaining different or wrong ideas. Today on the bus it was hot and crowded. My thrill for people watching has decreased as being a wallflower–people-watcher is no longer an option. When we reached our destination I pointed out an old man to Rebekah; he was skinny and short, his wrist bones were about half the size of mine. I told her that on the bus I had decided that if I had to marry here, I would marry a guy like him, so when he hit me I could maybe hit back. Have to pick a small guy so the beating wouldn’t be as bad. Upon admitting that, saying it out loud, I realized – something is wrong with me. Spousal abuse is not fine. Accepting the likelihood of being beaten is not fine. Picking a life partner based on size and strength to prevent beatings is not fine. Now you can stop worrying, once I admitted the craziness to Rebekah, I realized the craziness, and will not be settling, accepting, or dealing with an abusive anyone in my life.
BA squared I was a compulsive hand washer. I love clean hands. Now I walk across campus, brush my hands off on whatever skirt I happen to be wearing (clean or not) and join the kids for lunch or dinner. We eat with our hands. Then you wipe your hands on the grass. It makes them clean. Somehow.
BA squared I would tape a cup over any spider I would find and put a sticky note on the cup: JOB OPPORTUNITY. A certain brother shortage, cup shortage, and sticky note shortage means I just pretend they aren’t there- as long as they don’t move. For the extra large ones, a couple of my boys introduced me to the benefits of fire: a tall candle “pops” them and makes the webs crackle and disappear. I have not yet managed to pop any, but the kitchen has been cleaned out for me by fearless individuals.
BA squared you could say I was still a bit of a black and white kind of girl- something was right or it was wrong. Something was good or it was bad, I liked it or I did not like it at all. Now I feel fuzzy as shades of gray fog my mind. In the game of life I felt comfortable knowing the “rules” BA squared. Here though, the rules are different, and they change as you play. It is unsettling and it keeps you from forming a real black and white standard. That has been a hard change.
When I come home, be patient with me. I know being here has changed me, but it is hard to know how complete the changes are- so if you notice them give me grace. Change has always been hard, and being back home, in a place where I think of myself as unchanged, seeing and realizing the effects of being in Africa may be hard.
Joshua
I am sitting at Edrisa drinking a cup of coffee and posting blogs. A dirty faced boy is tapping on the window from outside. He makes a face at me and I mimic him. He motions for me to come over, and I ignore the motions. A group comes in for lunch and the boy continues tapping. It is making the group uncomfortable. I give him the “mom look” and motion for him to leave. He goes.
Rebekah joins me and we decide to go see a friend who is next door. We go outside and the dirty faced boy is waiting. Rebekah greets him. She asks if he is still in school. You see, this dirty faced boy was a street kid who got picked by a visiting lady who chose him and one other to place with a family and put in school. Dirty faced boy has a name, it is Joshua. Now that we are outside I recognize him and feel bad for ignoring his earlier motions.
Joshua starts tearing up. We pull him aside and Rebekah asks again, is he still in school? No, not since September 21st.
Joshua proceeds to tell us this story: He and the other boy, called Moses, were picked by the lady and placed with a family who agreed to host them while they were in school. The family had children of their own and for a while things were good. One day the children were fighting and Joshua got in between them and pulled them apart. The older one had beaten the younger one. When the parents came home the children said Joshua had beaten them. He was given a warning. The kids began telling lies to the parents about the street boys- and it became too much for Joshua to bear. He wanted to leave. Moses wanted to stay.
Finally the parents decided that the street boys really were causing all the trouble and kicked them out. On September 21st on his way to school the lady told him not to come home that night. So he just goes back to the street. Moses joins him and they are soon resettled with the usual gang of street boys. Then Moses gets sick. For two weeks he is sick and then he doesn’t wake up. Malaria. Two of the older boys buy a casket and the kids go burry him outside town.
Rebekah and I exchange looks over Joshua’s head. We tell him we will find him later that day and that we are going to call a friend of ours who works with the street kids, a friend who knows Joshua too. He agrees to keep around the neighborhood so we can find him.
I feel like a jerk for ignoring Joshua earlier. I feel grief for the child who died on the street and was buried by children. I feel anger towards the family who sent the boys away. I feel inadequate.
We talk to one friend who has a local shop- he agrees to let Joshua come sweep the shop each day in exchange for 200 shillings and a banana and bun. We agree to pay Joshua’s wages and leave the first two weeks payment with the shop keeper. We contact our friend who works with the boys on the street and he says he will find Joshua the next day. We find Joshua hanging out with a familiar group of boys and decide to divide and conquer. Rebekah takes Joshua to go see the shop keeper and I take the five other boys to get chapattis.
The boys and I talk about little things as we walk, they know us but still don’t trust us. I tell them about Arizona and Colorado, they tell me about the hill top they are staying on. I try to convince them to try brown buns (cause they are healthier) and they tell me that chapats are really the best, so they should eat chapattis rather than buns.
After purchasing the chapattis we walk back to find Rebekah and Joshua. We sit on a curb and share the chapattis. We tell the boys we are proud of them for staying clean- they don’t have the usual signs of sniffing glue or smoking a local plant. They tell us it has been cold for them lately but they are staying together and building bon fires. We go our separate ways, encouraging the boys to look out for each other.
Rebekah and I head back to Edrisa. We know a guy there who also works with this group of boys and wanted to get some info from him. This guy is also called Moses, so when I tell him the story Joshua told us he laughs; “I am still alive, the boy was lying you”. I have to explain three times that Joshua did not say he died, rather a boy called Moses died. Adult Moses does not know of any street kid called Moses.
He knows the lady who picked Joshua, and according to him, two other boys (not one like Joshua told us). The boys were placed in a home in Feb and started schooling. They did really well for a while. Then they started fighting. Joshua started lighting fires and blaming other kids for them. He started hurting other kids. They moved Joshua to live with adult Moses’ father, a reverend who lives outside of town. Joshua kept running away. Three times Moses went to find him and bring him back. The fourth time Joshua told Moses to leave him alone.
For one hour Moses tells us a long, sad, and discouraging story involving Joshua. I know Moses really does have a heart for these street kids, but he is mistaken in this: Moses believes that the boys can just be good once they are in the group home. These kids are messed up. They have had to struggle to survive. Many of them have severe attachment disorders and psychosocial disorders. Telling them to be good just won’t work.
We cut our conversation short as the truck has come to take us back to the village. We head home with heavy hearts and heavy heads. Who do we believe? I feel sad as I realize that I accept and even expect Joshua to lie to us- he is in survival mode. We still don’t know if a kid really did die, or if Joshua was blatantly lying to us. We only hope he takes the job offered to him. At the wages we set up, he can earn enough to pay his own school fees in time for school to start next year.
One week later we are back in town. Our friend who works with the boys says he has spoken with Joshua. He knew a boy called Moses, but hasn’t seen him in a while. He has heard of a couple boys dying from Malaria recently. Joshua never came to work. The shop keeper gives us back the money. We see Joshua and he crosses the street to put some distance between us. We track him down anyway- I ask him why he didn’t go work. He just shakes his head.
I take a deep breath, say a little prayer, and watch him walk away.
Rebekah joins me and we decide to go see a friend who is next door. We go outside and the dirty faced boy is waiting. Rebekah greets him. She asks if he is still in school. You see, this dirty faced boy was a street kid who got picked by a visiting lady who chose him and one other to place with a family and put in school. Dirty faced boy has a name, it is Joshua. Now that we are outside I recognize him and feel bad for ignoring his earlier motions.
Joshua starts tearing up. We pull him aside and Rebekah asks again, is he still in school? No, not since September 21st.
Joshua proceeds to tell us this story: He and the other boy, called Moses, were picked by the lady and placed with a family who agreed to host them while they were in school. The family had children of their own and for a while things were good. One day the children were fighting and Joshua got in between them and pulled them apart. The older one had beaten the younger one. When the parents came home the children said Joshua had beaten them. He was given a warning. The kids began telling lies to the parents about the street boys- and it became too much for Joshua to bear. He wanted to leave. Moses wanted to stay.
Finally the parents decided that the street boys really were causing all the trouble and kicked them out. On September 21st on his way to school the lady told him not to come home that night. So he just goes back to the street. Moses joins him and they are soon resettled with the usual gang of street boys. Then Moses gets sick. For two weeks he is sick and then he doesn’t wake up. Malaria. Two of the older boys buy a casket and the kids go burry him outside town.
Rebekah and I exchange looks over Joshua’s head. We tell him we will find him later that day and that we are going to call a friend of ours who works with the street kids, a friend who knows Joshua too. He agrees to keep around the neighborhood so we can find him.
I feel like a jerk for ignoring Joshua earlier. I feel grief for the child who died on the street and was buried by children. I feel anger towards the family who sent the boys away. I feel inadequate.
We talk to one friend who has a local shop- he agrees to let Joshua come sweep the shop each day in exchange for 200 shillings and a banana and bun. We agree to pay Joshua’s wages and leave the first two weeks payment with the shop keeper. We contact our friend who works with the boys on the street and he says he will find Joshua the next day. We find Joshua hanging out with a familiar group of boys and decide to divide and conquer. Rebekah takes Joshua to go see the shop keeper and I take the five other boys to get chapattis.
The boys and I talk about little things as we walk, they know us but still don’t trust us. I tell them about Arizona and Colorado, they tell me about the hill top they are staying on. I try to convince them to try brown buns (cause they are healthier) and they tell me that chapats are really the best, so they should eat chapattis rather than buns.
After purchasing the chapattis we walk back to find Rebekah and Joshua. We sit on a curb and share the chapattis. We tell the boys we are proud of them for staying clean- they don’t have the usual signs of sniffing glue or smoking a local plant. They tell us it has been cold for them lately but they are staying together and building bon fires. We go our separate ways, encouraging the boys to look out for each other.
Rebekah and I head back to Edrisa. We know a guy there who also works with this group of boys and wanted to get some info from him. This guy is also called Moses, so when I tell him the story Joshua told us he laughs; “I am still alive, the boy was lying you”. I have to explain three times that Joshua did not say he died, rather a boy called Moses died. Adult Moses does not know of any street kid called Moses.
He knows the lady who picked Joshua, and according to him, two other boys (not one like Joshua told us). The boys were placed in a home in Feb and started schooling. They did really well for a while. Then they started fighting. Joshua started lighting fires and blaming other kids for them. He started hurting other kids. They moved Joshua to live with adult Moses’ father, a reverend who lives outside of town. Joshua kept running away. Three times Moses went to find him and bring him back. The fourth time Joshua told Moses to leave him alone.
For one hour Moses tells us a long, sad, and discouraging story involving Joshua. I know Moses really does have a heart for these street kids, but he is mistaken in this: Moses believes that the boys can just be good once they are in the group home. These kids are messed up. They have had to struggle to survive. Many of them have severe attachment disorders and psychosocial disorders. Telling them to be good just won’t work.
We cut our conversation short as the truck has come to take us back to the village. We head home with heavy hearts and heavy heads. Who do we believe? I feel sad as I realize that I accept and even expect Joshua to lie to us- he is in survival mode. We still don’t know if a kid really did die, or if Joshua was blatantly lying to us. We only hope he takes the job offered to him. At the wages we set up, he can earn enough to pay his own school fees in time for school to start next year.
One week later we are back in town. Our friend who works with the boys says he has spoken with Joshua. He knew a boy called Moses, but hasn’t seen him in a while. He has heard of a couple boys dying from Malaria recently. Joshua never came to work. The shop keeper gives us back the money. We see Joshua and he crosses the street to put some distance between us. We track him down anyway- I ask him why he didn’t go work. He just shakes his head.
I take a deep breath, say a little prayer, and watch him walk away.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Jump
Apologies to historians out there: I passed American History with an “A” but dates and details are fuzzy… Rebekah and I were talking by lantern light one evening and lit upon the topic of the progression of civilizations and society. As per usual, Rebekah had lots of well developed and articulated thoughts on the topic, and I had lots of scattered, vaguely interconnected, and generally jumbled thoughts on it. The combo of her brilliance, and my… eh… led to this blog topic: The Jump.
A long time ago people from Europe mostly, decided they weren’t afraid of change, hard work, or adventures, so they left their homes and moved to a new land. They found religious freedom and hardships as they explored their new home.
These challenges did not quench their spirit; they worked hard, shed blood, and fought to create a nation that reflected their hopes and dreams. Necessity, the mother of invention, gave birth to the creation of new farming methods, the development of machinery, and advances in religious and political freedoms.
The American agriculture based society gave way to the industrial revolution which lasted for a long time, and now we find ourselves in a technological era of sorts. Our history followed a sit, stand, walk, kind of progression. Our forefathers invested and we now reap the benefits and strive to follow in their example through discovery, invention, and progress.
A long time ago, on the continent of Africa, people from the west began immigrating in a south-easterly direction, driven by drought and the need for new grazing land. They met up with other people groups and continued their slow journey until they arrived in what is now called East Africa. Then a bunch of big European countries came in and discovered them and decided to protect them and mine for diamonds and minerals and wild animals and take advantage of the cheap labor. They drew lines on a map and divided the continent up and named the people groups they found and set out to civilize the natives. This was attempted through forced schooling, and a variety of religious teachings.
Years of subjugation and misguided attempts of helping, civil wars, ethnic cleansing, and the hardships that came from daily life destroyed the traditional cultural values and the spirits of the people groups. Necessity, the mother of charitable giving, gave birth to handouts, rationed food distribution and the rise of dictators.
The African hunter-gatherer society gave way to colonization and protectionism which lasted for a long time and now they find themselves in an era of handouts. Their history followed a walk, stand, sit kind of progression. The ancient knowledge of their forefathers was lost as the old generation died off, the middle generation was lost to AIDS, and the current generation is growing without parents. Substance farmers have cell phones but nothing to eat during the growing seasons. Children are given computers in generous giving-fests from the west, but have no potable water, electricity, let alone an understanding of what computers can do, or how they should be treated.
The Jump: agricultural society jumps to technological era- without the brain work, without the experimentation, without the sweat and tears. The ability to reason out why the phone, speaker, computer, or car won’t work is not there. The groundwork, the understanding of basic electricity, mechanics, or methods is not there.
My small brain wonders; are we again hindering the people we want to help? By not allowing them to think about new ways to do things, by just giving them the answers, do we keep them handicapped? Sharing knowledge and teaching is one thing, giving a child a computer is a totally different ball game.
A long time ago people from Europe mostly, decided they weren’t afraid of change, hard work, or adventures, so they left their homes and moved to a new land. They found religious freedom and hardships as they explored their new home.
These challenges did not quench their spirit; they worked hard, shed blood, and fought to create a nation that reflected their hopes and dreams. Necessity, the mother of invention, gave birth to the creation of new farming methods, the development of machinery, and advances in religious and political freedoms.
The American agriculture based society gave way to the industrial revolution which lasted for a long time, and now we find ourselves in a technological era of sorts. Our history followed a sit, stand, walk, kind of progression. Our forefathers invested and we now reap the benefits and strive to follow in their example through discovery, invention, and progress.
A long time ago, on the continent of Africa, people from the west began immigrating in a south-easterly direction, driven by drought and the need for new grazing land. They met up with other people groups and continued their slow journey until they arrived in what is now called East Africa. Then a bunch of big European countries came in and discovered them and decided to protect them and mine for diamonds and minerals and wild animals and take advantage of the cheap labor. They drew lines on a map and divided the continent up and named the people groups they found and set out to civilize the natives. This was attempted through forced schooling, and a variety of religious teachings.
Years of subjugation and misguided attempts of helping, civil wars, ethnic cleansing, and the hardships that came from daily life destroyed the traditional cultural values and the spirits of the people groups. Necessity, the mother of charitable giving, gave birth to handouts, rationed food distribution and the rise of dictators.
The African hunter-gatherer society gave way to colonization and protectionism which lasted for a long time and now they find themselves in an era of handouts. Their history followed a walk, stand, sit kind of progression. The ancient knowledge of their forefathers was lost as the old generation died off, the middle generation was lost to AIDS, and the current generation is growing without parents. Substance farmers have cell phones but nothing to eat during the growing seasons. Children are given computers in generous giving-fests from the west, but have no potable water, electricity, let alone an understanding of what computers can do, or how they should be treated.
The Jump: agricultural society jumps to technological era- without the brain work, without the experimentation, without the sweat and tears. The ability to reason out why the phone, speaker, computer, or car won’t work is not there. The groundwork, the understanding of basic electricity, mechanics, or methods is not there.
My small brain wonders; are we again hindering the people we want to help? By not allowing them to think about new ways to do things, by just giving them the answers, do we keep them handicapped? Sharing knowledge and teaching is one thing, giving a child a computer is a totally different ball game.
Hiking down to the lake with some of the kids
Me, Boaz, Pheonah, and Bek: Boaz and Pheonah are cousins and they are great vocalists, i love hearing them sing with their other cousin Isaac- beautiful harmonies and traditional songs. I have known Boaz since 2006!
The clouds rise up from the lake and cover the mountains it is amazing to see... sorry the picture doesnt capture it entirely
Tradition
An odd assortment of expressions, ideas, and advice I have collected
Having a skirt made without a lining is like making g-nuts without salt. It just isn’t done.
So wear a skirt with a lining and a half slip. And salt your g-nuts.
If you go where they eat houseflies, then you too must eat houseflies.
When in Rome…
When two cows graze together, they must step in one another’s…
When living together you must know that irritations happen, but being together is better than being alone.
If a baby urinates on you, it means one of two things: 1) you will produce many children 2) you are well liked by children.
Please note, the average baby does not wear diapers here in the village, and birth control is almost nonexistent.
Please note, the average baby does not wear diapers here in the village, and birth control is almost nonexistent.
Many “dots” (freckles) mean many children. The big dots are boys, the small ones are girls.
As this rate, I am expected to bear over 100 children. We counted
As this rate, I am expected to bear over 100 children. We counted
Having a skirt made without a lining is like making g-nuts without salt. It just isn’t done.
So wear a skirt with a lining and a half slip. And salt your g-nuts.
If you go where they eat houseflies, then you too must eat houseflies.
When in Rome…
When two cows graze together, they must step in one another’s…
When living together you must know that irritations happen, but being together is better than being alone.
What Now, Bear Grylls?
I was first introduced to Bear by my college roomies. We spent many a day watching him survive in a variety of inhospitable climates. Using skills gained from his days in the British Special Forces, he now impresses the world on his tv show. Saturday mornings we girls would get up early and go “trekking through the wilderness of T-Town” usually led through ravines, alleys, drain pipes and backyards by Elyse. In a very BG like accent we would comment on the size of the road kill, the caveman drawings (locally referred to as ‘graffiti’) and the need to find a water source.
Fast forward to life in Ug. The first time I made the hike to the lake with Rebekah and her dad I was thrilled to hear… in a very BG like accent, commentary on scrambling up the sheer rock cliffs, finding a water source, and looking for something to eat. Reaching the lake successfully, a thought crossed my mind- “What now, Bear Grylls?” Yeah, that’s right, we survived in an inhospitable climate, found the water source, and had to deal with ‘hostile natives’ shouting at us, chasing us, and occasionally throwing things our direction. BG never has to deal with hostile natives.
Now on a regular basis you may hear “BG got nothin’ on me” said with just a touch of “I’m so cool” in our voices as we survive in the oft times inhospitable climate. For example, I have never seen BG have to fight off a hawk attack once he finds something to eat. Hawks in Kabale town are mean and have no fear. (Ask Dylan, he knows) After surviving yet another hawk sweeping down and trying to yank my rollex (breakfast burrito thing) out of my hand, I have learned to nonchalantly remove the talon marked section and continue eating. What now, Bear Grylls?
Rebekah has mastered the art of ‘catch and slam’ when swarmed by flying white ants. Flying white ants are about the size of flying wood roaches. They swarm and bombard you incessantly. Catch and slam involves catching the white ant that has decided to crawl down your shirt, up your skirt, across your head or lap, and slamming it to the ground. I have never seen Bear Grylls fight off swarming flying ants.
Now, Bear is cool, don’t get me wrong, but I think we win at the surviving game. Sure, he eats worms and bugs, but the boys I went to high school with did too. Here’s why we win: longevity.
Bear has to find water in drought conditions. We found a lasting water source during dry season and managed to bring water back to our place (with the help of strong boys and Dylan for a while. Day after day of hiking down to the water hole, fetching water from a marshy area, avoiding the cows, pigs, goats, and sheep, and ignoring the boys bathing in the water we needed to cook with.
Bear may face some uncomfortable nights under the stars, but after the show he gets to go home to a hot shower. We spent a month trying to sleep while staying in someone’s roach infested home. I do not use the term ‘infested’ lightly. Waking us night after night and finding a 3 inch roach on your head, in your sheets, or crawling across your body messes with you. We began to fear sleep, the sound of scurrying waking us up, keeping us exhausted. We survived not one or two nights with large crawly pests, mosquitoes, and rats, but a full month of such nights.
We like to joke; anyone can eat a grasshopper or worm a time or two, we sure have. Real surviving is spending an hour each day sorting weevils and larvae and rocks out of your rice before you wash and cook it. You know you are a pro when you scan your plate of food before partaking, looking for any sticks or rocks that escaped the initial sorting before you shove the unpalatable beans and posho in your mouth. We have learned which weeds can be eaten raw, and which ones you must cook and drain the juices from before eating. (Why? Because the juice contains cyanide)
And the final component; realizing that just because you are accused of horrific things, blamed for impossible circumstances, lied to and lied about, that you are not a worthless person. The elements are harsh enough, but the working conditions are harder. Real surviving is not just eating bugs. Real surviving is not becoming a victim, not giving in, and not forgetting to look for stones before eating your beans.
What Now, Bear Grylls?
Fast forward to life in Ug. The first time I made the hike to the lake with Rebekah and her dad I was thrilled to hear… in a very BG like accent, commentary on scrambling up the sheer rock cliffs, finding a water source, and looking for something to eat. Reaching the lake successfully, a thought crossed my mind- “What now, Bear Grylls?” Yeah, that’s right, we survived in an inhospitable climate, found the water source, and had to deal with ‘hostile natives’ shouting at us, chasing us, and occasionally throwing things our direction. BG never has to deal with hostile natives.
Now on a regular basis you may hear “BG got nothin’ on me” said with just a touch of “I’m so cool” in our voices as we survive in the oft times inhospitable climate. For example, I have never seen BG have to fight off a hawk attack once he finds something to eat. Hawks in Kabale town are mean and have no fear. (Ask Dylan, he knows) After surviving yet another hawk sweeping down and trying to yank my rollex (breakfast burrito thing) out of my hand, I have learned to nonchalantly remove the talon marked section and continue eating. What now, Bear Grylls?
Rebekah has mastered the art of ‘catch and slam’ when swarmed by flying white ants. Flying white ants are about the size of flying wood roaches. They swarm and bombard you incessantly. Catch and slam involves catching the white ant that has decided to crawl down your shirt, up your skirt, across your head or lap, and slamming it to the ground. I have never seen Bear Grylls fight off swarming flying ants.
Now, Bear is cool, don’t get me wrong, but I think we win at the surviving game. Sure, he eats worms and bugs, but the boys I went to high school with did too. Here’s why we win: longevity.
Bear has to find water in drought conditions. We found a lasting water source during dry season and managed to bring water back to our place (with the help of strong boys and Dylan for a while. Day after day of hiking down to the water hole, fetching water from a marshy area, avoiding the cows, pigs, goats, and sheep, and ignoring the boys bathing in the water we needed to cook with.
Bear may face some uncomfortable nights under the stars, but after the show he gets to go home to a hot shower. We spent a month trying to sleep while staying in someone’s roach infested home. I do not use the term ‘infested’ lightly. Waking us night after night and finding a 3 inch roach on your head, in your sheets, or crawling across your body messes with you. We began to fear sleep, the sound of scurrying waking us up, keeping us exhausted. We survived not one or two nights with large crawly pests, mosquitoes, and rats, but a full month of such nights.
We like to joke; anyone can eat a grasshopper or worm a time or two, we sure have. Real surviving is spending an hour each day sorting weevils and larvae and rocks out of your rice before you wash and cook it. You know you are a pro when you scan your plate of food before partaking, looking for any sticks or rocks that escaped the initial sorting before you shove the unpalatable beans and posho in your mouth. We have learned which weeds can be eaten raw, and which ones you must cook and drain the juices from before eating. (Why? Because the juice contains cyanide)
And the final component; realizing that just because you are accused of horrific things, blamed for impossible circumstances, lied to and lied about, that you are not a worthless person. The elements are harsh enough, but the working conditions are harder. Real surviving is not just eating bugs. Real surviving is not becoming a victim, not giving in, and not forgetting to look for stones before eating your beans.
What Now, Bear Grylls?
THEY
The blame game, we all know it. In this boarding school full of adolescents it has been fine tuned and is played with ease. “They” stole it, “They” said, “They” will; “They” gets around. I think “They” is related to “Not Me” who we often find in America.
“They” is powerful. It intimidates. It bullies. It hurts.
One of the concepts I have been emphasizing with the kids is “responsibility”: accepting responsibility for the role you play, regardless of what “They” may say or do. It is not a popular idea. Thankfully, some of the kids are now grasping the concept, and are struggling with it. I am thankful for the struggle because I believe working out what you believe is important. I don’t want my kids accepting what I say as “true” without first testing it; just as I don’t want them accepting what “They” say as truth without testing it. (But let me add in full honesty, there are certainly some days when I want them to just believe or do what I say, “because”. However, on a higher level, I do want them to learn to ask questions rather than swallow everything hook, line, and sinker.)
There is an additional component to the average “not-me-itis” (or the “they-itis” as we find here) that exacerbates this condition: unfortunately I am having a hard time knowing what to call it.
On top of the usual and expected lack of desire to accept responsibility, you can find… again, terminology escapes me. Let me try and describe it.
Remember your place. You are a child. You are an orphan. You have no one. You have no value apart from what you can do for me. You are poor. You are a villager. You are ignorant. I have power over you. I am stronger than you. I am above you. You must behave according to your place; if you are uppity then I will make you pay. If you are not sufficiently appreciative for what I do for you, then I will stop doing for you until you remember who you are.
To this let us add…
Unless you are trained and/or have a certificate, you cannot do something: you can’t paint your house, you can’t drive a car, you can’t play an instrument, you can’t fix a machine, you can’t mend your clothes, you can’t do. Certificates and training cost money. If you don’t have money then you can’t get a certificate or learn a trade. If you don’t have money you can’t hire someone to type your paper (because unless you have a certificate, unless you have been officially trained, you can’t type your own papers).
Is the picture coming together? “They” become stronger and stronger as oppression through subjugation and ignorance creates a condition of fear and hopelessness.
Accepting responsibility indicates you have some form of autonomy. Autonomy within the children is not acceptable.
As I sit here typing out the thoughts that have been simmering in my mind, I feel sad. Am I doing the wrong thing by encouraging and expecting the kids to learn responsibility? Am I setting them up for future pain and clashes with the community?
Can it be possible that “They” are too strong; that there is nothing we can do to right the wrongs?
“They” is powerful. It intimidates. It bullies. It hurts.
One of the concepts I have been emphasizing with the kids is “responsibility”: accepting responsibility for the role you play, regardless of what “They” may say or do. It is not a popular idea. Thankfully, some of the kids are now grasping the concept, and are struggling with it. I am thankful for the struggle because I believe working out what you believe is important. I don’t want my kids accepting what I say as “true” without first testing it; just as I don’t want them accepting what “They” say as truth without testing it. (But let me add in full honesty, there are certainly some days when I want them to just believe or do what I say, “because”. However, on a higher level, I do want them to learn to ask questions rather than swallow everything hook, line, and sinker.)
There is an additional component to the average “not-me-itis” (or the “they-itis” as we find here) that exacerbates this condition: unfortunately I am having a hard time knowing what to call it.
On top of the usual and expected lack of desire to accept responsibility, you can find… again, terminology escapes me. Let me try and describe it.
Remember your place. You are a child. You are an orphan. You have no one. You have no value apart from what you can do for me. You are poor. You are a villager. You are ignorant. I have power over you. I am stronger than you. I am above you. You must behave according to your place; if you are uppity then I will make you pay. If you are not sufficiently appreciative for what I do for you, then I will stop doing for you until you remember who you are.
To this let us add…
Unless you are trained and/or have a certificate, you cannot do something: you can’t paint your house, you can’t drive a car, you can’t play an instrument, you can’t fix a machine, you can’t mend your clothes, you can’t do. Certificates and training cost money. If you don’t have money then you can’t get a certificate or learn a trade. If you don’t have money you can’t hire someone to type your paper (because unless you have a certificate, unless you have been officially trained, you can’t type your own papers).
Is the picture coming together? “They” become stronger and stronger as oppression through subjugation and ignorance creates a condition of fear and hopelessness.
Accepting responsibility indicates you have some form of autonomy. Autonomy within the children is not acceptable.
As I sit here typing out the thoughts that have been simmering in my mind, I feel sad. Am I doing the wrong thing by encouraging and expecting the kids to learn responsibility? Am I setting them up for future pain and clashes with the community?
Can it be possible that “They” are too strong; that there is nothing we can do to right the wrongs?
Charcoal
When our gas tank ran out unexpectedly one evening we weren’t too worried. Bekah borrowed our neighbor’s charcoal stove, called a sigiri, and I ran to get some of our boys to help us out. The boys carried the tank to the center to meet our favorite truck driver who was just reaching our village.
There are currently three drivers, plus the new school driver, who make the route from our village and the surrounding area to town. Sebegara is our favorite driver because he not only goes out of his way to pick us up from wherever we are in town, but he also never charges, or tried to charge a ‘mzungu’ rate. He calls us his friends and we always laugh when riding with him because he is a large strong man, who growls at children who call us ‘bazungu’ and shouts at rude people on our behalf.
We knew Sebegara would take care of the tank for us, so we left it in his capable hands. Here, you buy a gas tank, and exchange it for a full one when it is empty. Well…. Turns out there was no gas in Kabale town. Three days he carried it back and forth from town to the village on his route. The fourth day he left it at the station, with the money for the full tank. We were a bit worried about the integrity of the station employees, but one of our boys reassured us- they can’t steal, they know Sebegara so much, and they fear him. Good to know.
Realizing we were in for the long haul, I asked our neighbor where to get charcoal, and asked if we could continue using the small stove. She referred us to our S6 students, so I asked one of them to sell me some charcoal. Charcoal is locally made, and some of the enterprising senior students took it upon themselves to make some. I don’t know if I have mentioned before, but our students generally take really good care of us. Any time I need something, even random weeds for supper, I can just ask and they will take care of it. The student told me one basin would last a week, and agreed to sell me a basin full of charcoal, rather than the usual massive burlap sack.
Day one: I start trying to light the fire at 11:30 in the morning. I have lit many fires in my lifetime; we have a fireplace at home. Generally I am competent. Generally things are not so very difficult when it comes to fire, cooking, etc… Now I know why the kids say you don’t use water to put out fires; Smokey Bear would find little work here. As soon as I would get a flame going and add some new wood, the fire would die. I decided to drench it in paraffin- nope, even soaked in the fuel the wood refused to burn. Let me clarify- you are supposed to use wood to start the fire and then add charcoal, or use plastic bags, cover the charcoal, and light the bags on fire. As burning plastic has been ingrained into me as a bad thing, I went for the traditional wood.
At 2:50 I finally served Rebekah scrambled eggs. As we ate, I informed her that we would be eating uncooked meals from that point forward. Three hours for scrambled eggs.
I go to bed that night hungry, tired, and thoroughly dejected.
Day two: I awake with renewed determination to best the tricky charcoal. New strategy: intermix charcoal with the wood, and get different wood. I go down to the school kitchen and collect the wood scraps that they don’t use in the fire- nice and dry. I soak them in paraffin; I mix what I guess to be an appropriate ratio of charcoal and wood. Nine matches later I have a fire. Lunch is served at a normal time, and I decide to be extravagant; keep feeding the fire with tiny bits of charcoal till it is time to cook dinner.
Day three: My two year old next door neighbor tattles on me to his mom- I spend too much time fanning the flame, trying to make the charcoal catch. I confess my struggles and she asks why I don’t just go down to the kitchen and get lit coals from their fires to start my fire. Oh.
Rebekah is getting sicker and sicker throughout this week, by day four she is nauseous and doesn’t want to eat anything. We can’t figure out what’s going on. As the week continues I take over all cooking duties and she sleeps when she is not teaching. Both of us are fighting headaches and head colds.
It dawns on me… smoke. At night, we were told to cook inside the house since it gets dark so early. Each night our house fills with the woodsy smell of campfire. We move the stove outside.
Then sad news: the gas station manager thinks they will never get gas. He sends the tank home with Sebegara empty. By now I am becoming more adapted to the charcoal stove, so I am only a bit despondent as I think of the hours of my life I am losing to the slow cooking process. We buy the massive sack of charcoal.
We have agreed to cook only twice a day now. Around 10:30 I go down to the kitchen with a funny piece of scrap metal I found and a cook scrapes lit coals from the fire for me to carry home. I boil our milk, boil water, and then I begin lunch. Cooking on the small sigiri takes much longer than cooking on the gas stove, and I have only the one ‘burner’. I am learning how to increase temperature by breaking the charcoal into small pieces and packing them tightly together.
Once we figured out the smoke was making Bek so sick, I took over all food duties. The house is shut up as tight as we can, and I cook on the far side of the small yard. I tie a bandana around my hair, and wrap myself in a large piece of fabric that I remove before going inside. The kids think it is hilarious. Whatever.
At night I cook dinner, and then boil water at the last possible moment to keep in a thermos for the morning.
My hands are often blackened by the charcoal, and my fingers are cut from the sharp pieces. I smell like a forest fire, and think my nose may be becoming less sensitive to smell from all the smoke- which is a good thing when you live with 140 adolescents who have an aversion to bathing. Rebekah is much better now that we stopped poisoning her.
And the gas? Still no gas in Kabale. I am not too worried though, the sack of charcoal we have is massive, seriously, I bet I could fit five small children in it. Acquiring life skills… some days harder than others.
There are currently three drivers, plus the new school driver, who make the route from our village and the surrounding area to town. Sebegara is our favorite driver because he not only goes out of his way to pick us up from wherever we are in town, but he also never charges, or tried to charge a ‘mzungu’ rate. He calls us his friends and we always laugh when riding with him because he is a large strong man, who growls at children who call us ‘bazungu’ and shouts at rude people on our behalf.
We knew Sebegara would take care of the tank for us, so we left it in his capable hands. Here, you buy a gas tank, and exchange it for a full one when it is empty. Well…. Turns out there was no gas in Kabale town. Three days he carried it back and forth from town to the village on his route. The fourth day he left it at the station, with the money for the full tank. We were a bit worried about the integrity of the station employees, but one of our boys reassured us- they can’t steal, they know Sebegara so much, and they fear him. Good to know.
Realizing we were in for the long haul, I asked our neighbor where to get charcoal, and asked if we could continue using the small stove. She referred us to our S6 students, so I asked one of them to sell me some charcoal. Charcoal is locally made, and some of the enterprising senior students took it upon themselves to make some. I don’t know if I have mentioned before, but our students generally take really good care of us. Any time I need something, even random weeds for supper, I can just ask and they will take care of it. The student told me one basin would last a week, and agreed to sell me a basin full of charcoal, rather than the usual massive burlap sack.
Day one: I start trying to light the fire at 11:30 in the morning. I have lit many fires in my lifetime; we have a fireplace at home. Generally I am competent. Generally things are not so very difficult when it comes to fire, cooking, etc… Now I know why the kids say you don’t use water to put out fires; Smokey Bear would find little work here. As soon as I would get a flame going and add some new wood, the fire would die. I decided to drench it in paraffin- nope, even soaked in the fuel the wood refused to burn. Let me clarify- you are supposed to use wood to start the fire and then add charcoal, or use plastic bags, cover the charcoal, and light the bags on fire. As burning plastic has been ingrained into me as a bad thing, I went for the traditional wood.
At 2:50 I finally served Rebekah scrambled eggs. As we ate, I informed her that we would be eating uncooked meals from that point forward. Three hours for scrambled eggs.
I go to bed that night hungry, tired, and thoroughly dejected.
Day two: I awake with renewed determination to best the tricky charcoal. New strategy: intermix charcoal with the wood, and get different wood. I go down to the school kitchen and collect the wood scraps that they don’t use in the fire- nice and dry. I soak them in paraffin; I mix what I guess to be an appropriate ratio of charcoal and wood. Nine matches later I have a fire. Lunch is served at a normal time, and I decide to be extravagant; keep feeding the fire with tiny bits of charcoal till it is time to cook dinner.
Day three: My two year old next door neighbor tattles on me to his mom- I spend too much time fanning the flame, trying to make the charcoal catch. I confess my struggles and she asks why I don’t just go down to the kitchen and get lit coals from their fires to start my fire. Oh.
Rebekah is getting sicker and sicker throughout this week, by day four she is nauseous and doesn’t want to eat anything. We can’t figure out what’s going on. As the week continues I take over all cooking duties and she sleeps when she is not teaching. Both of us are fighting headaches and head colds.
It dawns on me… smoke. At night, we were told to cook inside the house since it gets dark so early. Each night our house fills with the woodsy smell of campfire. We move the stove outside.
Then sad news: the gas station manager thinks they will never get gas. He sends the tank home with Sebegara empty. By now I am becoming more adapted to the charcoal stove, so I am only a bit despondent as I think of the hours of my life I am losing to the slow cooking process. We buy the massive sack of charcoal.
We have agreed to cook only twice a day now. Around 10:30 I go down to the kitchen with a funny piece of scrap metal I found and a cook scrapes lit coals from the fire for me to carry home. I boil our milk, boil water, and then I begin lunch. Cooking on the small sigiri takes much longer than cooking on the gas stove, and I have only the one ‘burner’. I am learning how to increase temperature by breaking the charcoal into small pieces and packing them tightly together.
Once we figured out the smoke was making Bek so sick, I took over all food duties. The house is shut up as tight as we can, and I cook on the far side of the small yard. I tie a bandana around my hair, and wrap myself in a large piece of fabric that I remove before going inside. The kids think it is hilarious. Whatever.
At night I cook dinner, and then boil water at the last possible moment to keep in a thermos for the morning.
My hands are often blackened by the charcoal, and my fingers are cut from the sharp pieces. I smell like a forest fire, and think my nose may be becoming less sensitive to smell from all the smoke- which is a good thing when you live with 140 adolescents who have an aversion to bathing. Rebekah is much better now that we stopped poisoning her.
And the gas? Still no gas in Kabale. I am not too worried though, the sack of charcoal we have is massive, seriously, I bet I could fit five small children in it. Acquiring life skills… some days harder than others.
The Problem of "Being Mzungu"
I was talking to a local community leader the other day (or rather he was talking and I was listening with the expected silence) and he brought up for the third time his view that I should marry from this place. As far as he can see it, there is just one problem: I need to ‘get over’ being mzungu.
The first time he explained this to me I thought I was misunderstanding him, so I laughed it off (not in his company, mind you!). The second time I felt a flash of irritation as he again told me “You could stay here forever, marry from this place, produce children, and continue your work in the village. You only need to get over being mzungu.”
Now again he tells me his view- I would be allowed to stay forever if I just stop being mzungu. This time he says it in front of other people.
Being Mzungu. What does that even mean? Am I to change the color of my skin? I have already changed my mode of dress, how I speak, the language I listen for, the food I eat, and the country I live in. Is skin color the only remaining change to effectively stop “being mzungu”? No. I am beginning to understand that in this instance, “being mzungu” means so much more.
I can kindly retrain young children to call me by my name rather than by a label. I can firmly insist the older kids and young adults address me with “nyabo” (madam) before I will respond to them. I can explain to teachers why saying “Welcome visitor” is polite, rather than “greet the mzungu”. But the real issue is not eradicating the word “mzungu”; it is fighting the label “mzungu”.
With labels come a set of expectations. “Mzungu” carries a connotation of “otherness” (as in not from here, not one of us), “wealth” (as everyone who is not African is rich), “excitement” (as seeing a circus show- the thrill of looking at the odd) and even of “fear” (as some children are threatened with “if you don’t stop crying, the mzungu will eat you”).
Now for the skeptics, let me assure you- I am not a brilliant or even an average anthropologist, nor do I claim to be a linguist. These expectations listed above are gathered from multiple (probably hundreds) of interactions where they are explained to me. Also, I have personally overheard mothers and older siblings using me as a threat to discipline.
Was the community leader talking about the generally accepted expectations of being ‘a mzungu’, or was he referring to something else? I believe he was referring to the deeper issues of “being mzungu”.
He is wise enough not to expect me to change the color of my skin, but rather to insist I change my world view. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
The problem of being mzungu is that I did not grow from this place, that is to say, my early years of formation were not spent in this culture, and therefore my perspective, my ideas, and even my beliefs are not in line with the accepted cultural standards. (For clarification, I am not generalizing “Ugandan culture” but rather speaking of the localized cultural standards of this particular group and region.) If the price for “being allowed” to stay in Uganda is a complete surrender of my world view, it is a cost too high to bear. Women are not property; they cannot be treated as animals. Girls have value- as individuals, not as future money bringers through dowry. Children are precious. Women and children are capable of unique ideas and should be allowed to speak them. The prosperity gospel is a lie; it rains on the just and the unjust. It is not better to remain silent when you see a wrong; injustice affects us all. It is not wrong to have a healthy appreciation for the skills I have gained throughout my life: yes, I can read and write. I have completed university. I know how to drive. I do have some knowledge about basic car maintenance, electronics, and first aid. It is not being proud to admit these things, nor should I deny their existence so these men don’t feel insecure or threatened. I was born and raised in a place that values hard work. I saw first had my father and mother working jobs to provide and care for us- jobs that would be considered ‘beneath them’ by people here. I can never condone laziness for any reason, least of all for pride- if you are hungry, work.
Ironically, the world view this leader wants me to surrender is that which in part, led me to Uganda. If I accepted and conformed to the view that I am not responsible for things that happen, that life happens to me and I just need to survive, that the government should be responsible for maintaining roads, our houses, feeding us, and providing for each and every need, and that as a female, God never intended for me to go beyond producing children, then would I be in Uganda?
Such is the problem of “being mzungu”.
The first time he explained this to me I thought I was misunderstanding him, so I laughed it off (not in his company, mind you!). The second time I felt a flash of irritation as he again told me “You could stay here forever, marry from this place, produce children, and continue your work in the village. You only need to get over being mzungu.”
Now again he tells me his view- I would be allowed to stay forever if I just stop being mzungu. This time he says it in front of other people.
Being Mzungu. What does that even mean? Am I to change the color of my skin? I have already changed my mode of dress, how I speak, the language I listen for, the food I eat, and the country I live in. Is skin color the only remaining change to effectively stop “being mzungu”? No. I am beginning to understand that in this instance, “being mzungu” means so much more.
I can kindly retrain young children to call me by my name rather than by a label. I can firmly insist the older kids and young adults address me with “nyabo” (madam) before I will respond to them. I can explain to teachers why saying “Welcome visitor” is polite, rather than “greet the mzungu”. But the real issue is not eradicating the word “mzungu”; it is fighting the label “mzungu”.
With labels come a set of expectations. “Mzungu” carries a connotation of “otherness” (as in not from here, not one of us), “wealth” (as everyone who is not African is rich), “excitement” (as seeing a circus show- the thrill of looking at the odd) and even of “fear” (as some children are threatened with “if you don’t stop crying, the mzungu will eat you”).
Now for the skeptics, let me assure you- I am not a brilliant or even an average anthropologist, nor do I claim to be a linguist. These expectations listed above are gathered from multiple (probably hundreds) of interactions where they are explained to me. Also, I have personally overheard mothers and older siblings using me as a threat to discipline.
Was the community leader talking about the generally accepted expectations of being ‘a mzungu’, or was he referring to something else? I believe he was referring to the deeper issues of “being mzungu”.
He is wise enough not to expect me to change the color of my skin, but rather to insist I change my world view. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
The problem of being mzungu is that I did not grow from this place, that is to say, my early years of formation were not spent in this culture, and therefore my perspective, my ideas, and even my beliefs are not in line with the accepted cultural standards. (For clarification, I am not generalizing “Ugandan culture” but rather speaking of the localized cultural standards of this particular group and region.) If the price for “being allowed” to stay in Uganda is a complete surrender of my world view, it is a cost too high to bear. Women are not property; they cannot be treated as animals. Girls have value- as individuals, not as future money bringers through dowry. Children are precious. Women and children are capable of unique ideas and should be allowed to speak them. The prosperity gospel is a lie; it rains on the just and the unjust. It is not better to remain silent when you see a wrong; injustice affects us all. It is not wrong to have a healthy appreciation for the skills I have gained throughout my life: yes, I can read and write. I have completed university. I know how to drive. I do have some knowledge about basic car maintenance, electronics, and first aid. It is not being proud to admit these things, nor should I deny their existence so these men don’t feel insecure or threatened. I was born and raised in a place that values hard work. I saw first had my father and mother working jobs to provide and care for us- jobs that would be considered ‘beneath them’ by people here. I can never condone laziness for any reason, least of all for pride- if you are hungry, work.
Ironically, the world view this leader wants me to surrender is that which in part, led me to Uganda. If I accepted and conformed to the view that I am not responsible for things that happen, that life happens to me and I just need to survive, that the government should be responsible for maintaining roads, our houses, feeding us, and providing for each and every need, and that as a female, God never intended for me to go beyond producing children, then would I be in Uganda?
Such is the problem of “being mzungu”.
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