the call

Today as I sat in church I barely heard a word of the sermon. Instead, an incident that happened earlier this week was replaying itself in my mind.

Last Wednesday was the last day of school. Students and teachers alike were ready to break out of the campus for the holidays; everyone was thankful it was only a half day. We had the loosely organized chaos of a "middle school Christmas party" followed by a short and sweet Christmas chapel. And then: freedom!

After lunch, I was itching to go out and about with some fellow female teachers. We decided to head downtown to go shopping at "Green Shops," a string of thrift-store shops scattered around Kampala. The idea is genius, really. The Green Shops staff go to sweating, bustling markets and scour them for the best used clothing items (mostly from the West). They clean them, put them on hangers, and staple price tags to them, only adding a few shillings to the market cost.

We had fun visiting a few Green Shops and finding great clothes for only a few dollars. Bags in hand, we began to walk back to one of the teachers' vehicles to drive out of the downtown and back to our own neighbourhood.

As we walked, we walked past a child. I can't tell how old he was, or even if he was really a boy or girl. He was malnourished. His head looked swollen and huge, teetering on a tiny neck. His sat on the sidewalk with his back against a concrete wall, his little body loosely covered in filthy rags. His hands rested on his lap, cupped together. He was silently, passively, begging.

We hardly noticed him, because crossing the street in downtown Kampala is quite an undertaking and takes one's full attention. After we had crossed, one of the teachers wanted to quickly stop in a store to buy a bottle of water. I waited on the sidewalk and found myself looking back at the begging child.

"Someone's watching him," one of the teachers said knowingly. She is an American who has lived here for two years and is married to a Kenyan. "Someone makes the kids beg and watches them to make sure they do."

Through the whizzing traffic I could see that the weak, silent child had fallen sideways, crumpled on the ground.

I felt angry, helpless. As we waited for our friend we spoke about how complicated it all was. How giving money to a child beggar actually fuels the exploitation of children; although well-intentioned, it often has the same effect that paying a prostitute has in fueling the sex industry. I was angry for a few minutes, and then I did something that I can add to the list of "never thought I'd do in Africa" things: I walked away.

Today in church the vision of that child, swollen head resting on the sidewalk, filled my mind. Why didn't I take two minutes and buy some food, cross the street again, and watch the kid eat? Surely, that can't be fueling child exploitation, can it? Why haven't I been more diligent about carrying bananas, or crackers, in my purse? What would have happened if I had just scooped that child up in my arms and taken him to a safe place? Would someone have stopped me?

Nothing is settled in my mind, nothing is clear. But images are burning into my brain. Conviction filled my heart to the point of tears. Quotes and Scripture rang in my mind:

"The need is the call."

Who said that, I can't remember. But maybe as I ask God what we're supposed to do with our lives, wringing our hands and waiting for some word from heaven, maybe the answer is staring me in the face. Find a need. Fill it.

And one of my favourite poems, "The Call," that I had framed in our bedroom at home, is breathing again and again in my spirit. Written by Amy Carmichael, a missionary to India who rescued children from temple prostitution. In her demure, Victorian way, she wrestled with some of the ugliest things that can be done to children. As you'll see in the poem, she uses soft metaphors instead of graphic imagery -- boats, lambs, a foaming sea. I love this poem because she is asking God difficult questions. You love children, Lord? You are all-powerful? Where are you? Do you see this innocence being trampled? Rescue them, call them, Lord, gather them up and bring them Home!
And then He responds and turns the question around on her, the very calling of her life:

"The Call"

Light of light, light of light
Lover of children, hear.
Shine, shine through the night
Lighten the cloudy fear.
Little boats drifting over the bar,
Little lambs lost in fields afar,
Where is no moon nor star;
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home.

Far on fell, far on fell
Wander the lambs that stray.
Far, far from harbour bell
Drift the small boats away.
Open to Thee are the paths of the sea;
All the world's corners are open to Thee.
Follow them where they be;
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home.

Deep to deep answereth now;
Dimly I see a Cross --
Thirst, wounds, thorn-crowned brow,
Stripping and utmost loss.
Over the bar the fret of the foam,
Rain on the fell where young lambs roam;
Lord, art Thou bidding me
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home? 

first world problems in the third world

I have to give Isaac credit for coining that phrase, but we've been using it often. It's a nice way to stop and realize that -- however frustrating -- most of our challenges adjusting to Uganda stem from the fact that we are coming from the first world. As much as we view ourselves as "poor students," we have to come to terms with the fact that here in Uganda we are considered wealthy.

Some first world problems in the third world: 

• When it's difficult to get the Internet, printer set-up, etc. to work properly on your computer, because your computer is a MacBook Pro and the software on it is "too new."
• When your iPhone is also "too new" and doesn't fit the older sized SIM card you just bought. 
• When you have to worry about being a target of petty theft, because you actually have valuables to protect. 
• When strangers frequently ask you for money.
• When you struggle to get used to living behind a compound wall, locked gate and barbed wire because, again, you actually have valuables to protect. 
•  When you have trouble finding places that can break the large bills you carry. (Seriously! Collecting small change is like a game here. If you pay with a large bill -- this can even be the equivalent of $8 -- it's not uncommon for a boda driver or shopkeeper to ask the people around them to help provide the change.) 
• When you want to have a good pity party, you have to be reminded of those less fortunate than you. One week Isaac and I were very stressed about finances and decided to walk to the supermarket to get our minds off of it. As we walked and talked about how "poor" we were, we were literally walking by small children in rags filling jerry cans with dirty water to drink. 
• When you have to "get used to" having house help/day guard. How strange to have someone in your home for a few days a week, in your space and touching your things. And doing your dishes and laundry and ironing and cleaning...

That's only a few off the top of my head, but there are so many more. 

First world problems in the third world. When we start to complain, we have to stop and get some perspective ... 

no mercy for thieves

Here in East Africa, we have gotten used to a compound wall, a locked gate, barbed wire and having a guard around 24/7. The "day guard" also functions as house help. Three days a week she's at our place, three days a week she's at our neighbours'. Her name is Eunice, a woman in her forties from the northern region of Uganda, close to the Sudanese border. She comes to our home and through the day she does our laundry, which is washed by hand, and ironing (you have to iron everything here, or else risk having mango flies lay eggs under your skin).

Today I was baking cookies and she was sitting in the living room ironing. We started chatting about various things. She told me about a man who was caught stealing near her home. The short version: the mob gathered, the man was beaten to death, jerry cans of fuel were poured on him, his body was lit on fire.

"If you have stolen, or even if you are caught attempting ..." Eunice shook her head. "My dear, your life will be over in seconds."

I asked if the police ever intervened. "They do," she said, "But if they are delayed, if they arrive too late, there is nothing they can do. It happens so quickly. When you have many people, one gathers wood, one gets fuel, one is beating ..."

I'd heard of this before. One day, on a boda ride home, Isaac even saw a man being chased by an angry mob. In that case, the traffic police were nearby and did intervene in time.

The longer I'm here, the more I realize how little I know and how much I don't understand. I like my world in black and white; here, things get gray pretty quickly.

I told Eunice that I could never imagine lighting anyone on fire.

"Thieves are not people," she said. "Somebody is working hard for years, and a thief just takes. If you work slow, you will go very far. But a thief wants things quickly. God has given you everything; your feet, your eyes, your hands. You should labor!"

She went on to remind me about an incident she had told me about shortly after we arrived here. Last spring, Eunice was attacked on her way home from work, in her own neighbourhood, and was robbed of what little money she had on her (about $4). She was strangled by a man and thought she was going to die; even now, she refuses to walk around at night.

As we talked, even through the language barrier she could sense my criticism of this form of justice. She agreed that it was not right, but she did try to make me understand.

"People are tired! They are tired of thieves. People themselves are suffering," she tapped her chest, trying to explain. "They carry anger with them. Even after I was tortured, my neighbour said, 'Eh! I wish I had seen the thief, the one who tortured you. I wish I had set upon him. Even had he killed me, at least one of us would have left this world.'"

How does a country wracked with desperate poverty, and lacking a reliable police force, regulate itself? Even with such fierce consequences, people still regularly take the risk and try to steal. If judgment wasn't so swift and so severe, wouldn't everything be stolen?

I remember when I had just arrived in Ghana in 2009, my first experience in Africa. My professor, a Ghanaian herself, slipped me a card with a name and phone number on it. "If you have any problems or ever feel unsafe, I have a cousin in the army that you can call," she assured me. I was shocked; it is so foreign to me to rely on your own connections, to provide your own physical barriers around your home, to pay for your own guard, because there is no public system protecting you.

I tried to explain to Eunice that at home, if I have a problem, I call 9-1-1 and even if I do not know the person, someone comes to help me. I know there are cynics who bemoan the police system in Canada, who whine about injustices or discrimination. I am glad for those cynics, I am glad for a free press that can print stories criticizing the government. But at the end of the day, being born in Canada is like winning the global lottery. Criticize the government, question the police, but please don't make ridiculous comparisons to other parts of the world. There is no comparison.

north american history according to middle schoolers

In my grade 7 World Geography class, we are just finishing our unit on Canada and the United States (Mexico gets lumped into the "Latin America" unit).

This morning over breakfast I marked my students' unit tests. I had to laugh at some of the answers given.

• "Before the Europeans arrived in North America, native life was pretty much built on nature and wildlife. They made clothing out of animal skins and used bones or elephant tusks to make weapons." 
• (Earlier in the unit, when presenting an immigration ad for Alaska, a student said, "All tribes are welcome in Alaska!" You can tell you're teaching in Africa when... students refer to elephants and tribalism!) 
• "Canada helped aid the US while the US fought in France to win the Cold War." 
• "Difference between Canada and the States: Canada has a smaller population. This is because Americans made lots of posters to attract many people." 
• "Similarity/Difference: Canada has less people than America. Fact: Almost or about less than 1 million. Similarity/Difference: More people in America. Fact: Over 1 million people." 
• And one poor girl's chart on similarities and differences in America vs. Canada: 
• "Canada continued in the slave trade. The US stopped slaved wanted Canada to stop to. Fact: Caused World War I." 
• "Canada wanted to get independence. The US never wanted Canada to get independence. Fact: Caused World War I." 
• "Population in Canada was less due to slaves running away. Fact: Less workers. Population in the US grew due to the slaves coming to their free country. Fact: High taxes."

Huh? 

I smile, shake my head, but if I think about it too long it gets a little depressing. Is this really how their brains are filtering what I'm saying at the front of the room? Thankfully, despite these funny errors, almost all the kids did really well on the test. I must have done something right .... right? 

middle school retreat

Last week was a short week. Instead of spending Thursday and Friday in class, middle school students and teachers went on a one-night getaway to a hotel on Lake Victoria. It was great to get out of the city, enjoy the cool breezes off the lake, and spend time with students in a different context.

Some highlights:

• Getting my own room. Now, I love Ms. Sinclair, the math teacher, but we were both pleasantly surprised when, after arriving at the resort, rooms were bumped around and we suddenly found ourselves with two separate rooms. 
• Sleeping on real pillows, with real blankets, on a real double bed. At home in Kansanga, Isaac and I sleep on a "Ugandan double" which is really a generous twin-sized bed. Although we do have sheets, we use sleeping bags as blankets and we sleep on the camping pillows that came with our sleeping bags (about the size of a dinner plate).
• Devotions with my small group of grade 7 girls. I'm growing to love my grade 7 girls, and we had some interesting discussions about the two chapel sessions.
• Kids got saved! Instead of sticking to her notes for the first chapel session, the chaplain felt led to stray from her plans and ended up giving a salvation message. Our normally fidgeting middle school students became quiet, and soon you could hear muffled crying coming from various spots in the audience. Several kids gave their lives to the Lord for the very first time, and others renewed their commitment to surrender everything to Jesus [me included!] 
• The slip and slide. Soap, water, tarp, hill, bruises, grass stains. Typical middle school fun. 
• The meals. I personally enjoy the Ugandan style of serving several carbs at once. Potatoes, rice and pasta? I'm in! 
• The bonfire on the lake. S'mores in Uganda ... Yum! It was also fun watching some of the students who had never roasted marshmallows or tried s'mores take part in a great North American tradition for the first time. "I put the chocolate here?" "Yes, Dueng." "And the marshmallow is going here?" "Yes, Sanmaek." [They came back for seconds.] 
• Wearing a sweater. That felt good. 

We were scheduled to leave the resort at 4:30 on Friday. We herded the kids out of the pool, got changed, packed everybody up, collected keys, and dutifully checked under beds and in drawers for crumpled socks and missing hairbrushes. The entire middle school was packed with their luggage waiting at the side of the road by 4:25. 

... and still waiting at 4:45. 

... and still waiting at 5:00. 

... waiting until we eventually left at 8:30. 

Why, you ask? I'm not entirely sure. Buses were sent to the wrong places, the right buses (when finally put on their way) got stuck in Kampala Friday evening traffic. 

What I do know is that I waited for four hours with middle schoolers. You can imagine -- actually, you probably can't. Hair braiding, storytelling, re-lighting the camp fire, singing, skipping stones on the lake, playing cops and robbers ... It was a long four hours, let me tell you. For the most part the kids handled it really well, although one girl had a meltdown and started sobbing while several others shrugged and said, "Why don't we just stay another night?" 

The buses finally came. We piled on. We lurched out of the driveway, almost getting stuck. We were finally on our way; a caravan led by the chaplain's car, followed by two buses, rumbling into the African night. 

And then the bus lights in front of us were blinking. We were pulling over onto the side of the dirt street; we hadn't even reached the main road yet. 

The chaplain's vehicle had a flat tire. 

Half a dozen adults got out of the vehicles to try to help fix the problem. I stayed on my bus to supervise the students who were hopped up on the lollipops and chips we had given them in place of a proper supper. As the girls began to squawk out Justin Bieber songs and the boys began to scare each other by predicting that robbers would appear out of the tall African grass, I wondered what was taking so long. When the two other teachers finally returned to the bus, I found out. The car jack had broken, so it had taken men trying to lift the vehicle (heavy with luggage) and scraping away at the dirt beneath it to replace the tire. 

Finally, we were back on our way. We rolled into Heritage after 11:00pm, only about 5 hours behind schedule. 

TIA, right? 

This. is. Africa. 

the big question

The big question buzzing around Heritage right now is, "Will you be staying next year?" This question crops up again and again in conversations with other teachers, with our friends here, and between Isaac and I. There are only a few teachers who have signed on to a two-year contract; others are finishing up a two-year contract or only came here committed to one year. A few weeks ago Isaac and I were eating lunch with our neighbours and started rating the different teachers, guessing at the chance of them staying for another year.

"The Bogles? Hm ... maybe 67%."

"I give the Costleys 85%."

At this point, whether or not we stay for another year hinges on Isaac and what doors open for him. There are so many options that go through our minds, and it seems that every day I think a different one is "the best option." We could go back to Canada and start settling down. We could go deeper into the needs here in Africa, maybe to a place like Sudan. We could go to the Middle East or northern Canada to pay off our student loans. We could end up in Europe. We could stay here in Uganda, with me teaching at Heritage, for several more years.

This morning at church the sermon was based on the story of Abram and Hagar. Abram and his wife Sarai, growing tired of waiting on God's promise of a son and discouraged by their infertility, decide that Abram should sleep with Sarai's servant Hagar to build their family through her. The story is in many ways a warning, but there is also a thread of hope that runs through it.

The pastor spoke about how God can bless anything, even our blunders. The Bible is full of examples of God working through mistakes and detours. He is gracious, and He is the Redeemer. But when we choose to make our own plans, the blunders that follow will certainly have consequences.

Don't ask whether or not God can bless your plans. He can bless anything. Don't ask whether or not God will bless your plan -- He works together all things for the good of them that love Him.

Ask the big question: "God, is this Your plan?"

Perhaps that sounds simple, but it was a real light bulb moment for me sitting in the service. There are so many plans -- and I love to plan -- that could turn out well, that God could bless in the long run. Sometimes I construct carefully laid-out plans and just before stepping into them, put them before God and ask for His token of blessing. A surface stamp of approval.

But I need to stop and wait and listen. I need to ask, "What is Your plan?"

Right now there doesn't seem to be a clear answer about next year. I struggle with the silence of God, and try to fill that silence with my own voice. Maybe I will struggle with the answer, if it ever comes. Throwing your own plans out the window and truly saying "I will follow You wherever You lead me" is easier said than done.

A few weeks ago I was reading Isaiah 30 in my devotions. I was struck by verse 21: "Your own ears will hear Him. Right behind you a voice will say, 'This is the way you should go'..." Or, in the King James, "This is the way, walk ye in it."

I am asking God for faith to trust Him and wait on Him. Even as time passes and certain deadlines for decisions draw near, I felt like God was speaking through His word to comfort me. He will speak, answers will come, in His perfect timing.

a day downtown

Yesterday we ventured to downtown Kampala to do some shopping. We wanted to go to Owino market to check it out. Said to be the busiest market in Uganda, a cramped maze of stalls and canopies, a place where one in five people get robbed, we were curious to "experience" Owino.

Isaac and I, along with two female teachers, took bodas downtown. I told my boda driver that we were headed to Owino, because we had been told it was not to be missed.

"People say it is busy, busy, busy," I said. "They say that there are many thieves."

The boda driver laughed. "Ah! The thieves. Yes, many thieves. They can take the watch right off your arm. You must be very cautious."

I left my iPhone at home, and Isaac had our money divided in different zippered pockets in his shorts, with a stash hidden in his zippered belt just in case we did get robbed and needed money to get back home. He carried a backpack, but when we got to Owino he swung it in front of him.

On the boda ride downtown, the predictably unpredictable happened:

• Our friend Ashley's boda was hit by another boda who suddenly jutted out of a driveway. [No concept of "right of way."] He only hit the tire, and no damage was done. Thankfully the usual congestion meant slow speeds and no damage.
• At one point traffic came to a standstill because a truck had scraped into the side of a taxi, pushing it into the side of another taxi. The three vehicles were stuck together, and the passengers were casually climbing out of the windows, scurrying over the hoods and catching bodas to continue their journey. Because the accident had completely plugged traffic, our bodas (joined by a fleet of other bodas) told us to get off so they could walk alongside their motorcycles, push them onto the sidewalk, and walk them past them past the accident. Then they stopped, hopped back on, and motioned for us to do the same and we continued on our way.
• At one intersection my boda was stuck behind two taxis. Being one of the few lights, we were waiting for the light to change. When the light did change, one of the taxi drivers didn't notice and didn't move. My boda driver leaned forward and pounded on the back of the taxi to notify the driver. For some reason watching him reminded me of someone prompting a cow to move forward by tapping its hindquarters. 

Before entering Owino we first had to have our bags checked by armed police officers -- something that, since the terrorist attacks in Kenya, has become standard procedure. It seemed a little odd at Owino, since the market has many entrances and is pretty fluid.

We entered Owino, and it lived up to our expectations. Stacks of clothes, curtains, fabrics, anything and everything. Buckets of thick g-nut sauce and overflowing sacks of beans and spices. The stench of meat hanging in the heat turned my stomach. We had to be careful not to step on people's wares that were spread out on tarps -- from clothing to dried beans. One twelve-year-old vendor was actually lying on his pile of shoes taking a nap. As we journeyed deeper into Owino, the aisles narrowed and we were completely shaded by the vendors' canopies.

The piles of used clothing, with no obvious organization, seemed impossible to sort through. However, in Owino you have dozens of personal stylists who are sizing you up and suggesting pieces that they guess to be your style and know to be your size. Isaac was delighted by the stacks of T-shirts. Back home he makes a game out of finding T-shirts at thrift stores with strange and interesting slogans. He only visited one T-shirt booth and found, according to him, "gems."

Although the vendors were aggressive, they were pretty light-hearted and fun. Girls' blouses were thrown at me, and I was told to "buy them for my husband." At one point someone behind me draped a pair of pants over my shoulder in an effort to entice me to buy them.

One man told me seriously, "Muzungu, I love you for real!" I just laughed and pointed to Isaac. "This one is my husband!" He bounced back, "What about your friend over there?" The female vendor beside him shook her head and laughed.

We didn't stay in Owino long, and I think if we had gone deeper into the market we could have easily gotten lost. As we tried to navigate our way out, the four of us got separated. Vendors shouted unsolicited directions, saying to our friend, "Your muzungu friends are up there waiting for you!"

We left Owino and walked a block away to a "Green Shops" location. I had never been there, but heard from a smartly dressed colleague that the shops have their employees scour Owino for the best clothes and then put them in an organized shop, complete with racks, hangers and changing rooms. They add a few shillings to each item, which still only comes to less than $4 for most items.

On this day, we didn't realize it, but the Green Shops were preparing to set out new stock on Monday. The stock that we could browse through was pretty well picked through and had little selection, but each item was only 1000 shillings (40 cents!). Each of us girls picked up at least one or two items by the end of the day. I got a dress and a belt for a grand total of 80 cents.

There are several Green Shops locations, and a middle-aged man behind us heard us trying to figure out directions to the other stores. He said, "I am going that way -- follow me!" He kindly brought us to four of the five Green Shops locations. After the first shop, it became clear that he was not really "going that way" -- he was escorting us and then patiently waiting for us to shop at each location.

When I thanked him for his kindness, he just smiled and said, "Maybe one day I will need directions and someone will help me!" We did offer to purchase a pair of shorts he had selected at one store (again -- a whopping 40 cents) but other than that he didn't ask for or accept any other tip. When we got to the last location, he just said, "Okay, I will leave you here" and left.

To begin our journey back home we picked up four bodas. Our fleet of bodas started out, but when big drops of rain began to splash down on us they, barking to each other in Luganda, pulled over in unison. In Uganda, it is entirely acceptable to pull over and wait out the rain.

The eight of us stood under an overhang and watched the downpour. We began to talk and joke with the boda drivers and other people finding shelter there.

"Are you born again?" one man asked me.

"Yes, I believe in Jesus," I said.

"You people who are born again, you can only take one woman," he said.

"Yes, that is true."

"Me?" one of the others piped in. "I am extra born again, so I can have more than one!"

My boda driver was a very serious Christian, carrying a worn New Testament in his shirt pocket. He shook his head and laughed at the one who claimed to be "extra" born again. He lamented to me about the many who claim to be Christians but don't follow Christ. He then turned to one of the other boda drivers and said, "This one is a Muslim! You should ask him to accept Jesus!" and then set about trying to convert his friend, preaching at him that Jesus is the only way to everlasting life.

After the rain stopped we piled back on our bodas. I reminded my driver that it was slippery and we should be very careful.

"Yes, you fear wounds," he laughed. "We will go slowly, slowly."

On the way home he decided to teach me some Luganda phrases (which meant quickly saying a phrase and expecting me to be able to repeat it) and inquiring about my family. He was surprised to learn I didn't have any children, and said that he himself had four.

"And now we are finished," he said. "Four is enough. Children, they are expensive, and it is not good to have too many if you cannot care for them."

"Yes," I agreed. "You want to make sure they have good food, and have good education."

He nodded, and I wondered if all those billboards with smiling African doctors or confident business women encouraging Ugandans to find their own "smart family planning solution" were having an effect.

Taken by a friend on another occasion ...
We are getting used to "the new normal" here in Uganda! 

By the time we got home from our adventure, I took a shower (after getting sprayed with mud on the boda ride!) and settled down on the couch to read a book. In a few minutes I had dozed off to sleep. Shopping Kampala had worn me out, I guess!

TIA ... This is Africa!

options

I have joined a "Cheza" class, which is African Zumba. Every Wednesday a few of us muzungu teachers assemble in the cafeteria; we clumsily dance, sweating to keep up with the Ugandan instructor, trying to ignore the fact that we are occasionally being gawked at [laughed at?] by Ugandan staff and sometimes students. [That's the worst -- to have a middle school student say the next day, "Miss, I saw you in the cafeteria dancing!"]

It's a good work-out, and it is a lot of fun.

A few weeks ago I was walking back from Cheza class and started walking alongside Godfrey, one of the local janitorial staff. We started talking and he began asking me about Cheza class and, more generally, muzungu interest in exercise.

"Back home in Canada," I said, "many people want to be skinny, skinny, skinny. Sometimes that is not healthy. But here -- what is it like here, Godfrey? I heard that in Uganda fat is good."

He thought for a moment. "In Uganda here, fat is good. Skinny can also be good. Here, there are options."

Options! That's a nice way to put it!

In downtown Kampala, there is a billboard with a shining, plump African woman smiling and eating fried chicken. The caption reads, "For chicks with big thighs."

Back home, such a slogan would never help you sell fried chicken! And such a woman -- healthy, but "overweight" by North American standards -- would probably never be found on a billboard, especially portrayed in an attractive light.

Here, there are options!

trip to sipi falls

This week is October Break! Wahoo! A week long break from the daily grind.

Even though marking and planning are going to happen over this break, Isaac and I wanted to start the break off with a little getaway. Now that we've settled into our home in Kansanga we've been itching to get out of the city and explore a little.

Now, as a missionary teacher and a full-time student our options are limited by a tight budget. So ... rustic it is!

We decided to go to Sipi Falls, which is just outside of (or just inside of?) Mt. Elgon National Park, which straddles the border between Uganda and Kenya. Two other families from the school decided to go as well.

A few points about our trip in case you, like me, are in Uganda, looking for a cheap getaway, and are having trouble finding accurate information:

• We were told that the trip to Sipi Falls from Kansanga would be 4 to 5 hours. The way there took us 7. We rented an entire matatu (van taxis) for the price of 300,000 shillings. The driver tried to drop us off in Mbale, saying that was the destination agreed upon, but we told him that if he would not be faithful to the agreement we would not pay him the full amount. He begrudgingly agreed and took us to Sipi Falls, after getting lost for over half an hour. The way home from Sipi Falls involved getting a matatu to Mbale (10,000shillings/person) and then a matatu from Mbale to Kansanga (about 240,000). The matatu that picked us from Sipi Falls could not take us directly to Kampala because it wasn't registered to drive that route. The way home took us about 5 or 6 hours.  

• There is a stop along the way where the matatu pulls to the side and you are swarmed by roadside vendors. African fast food! We got dinner on the way home this way, buying chicken on a stick, cold drinks and chipattes for only a few dollars. 
• We stayed at the Crow's Nest. It costs 20,000 shillings ($8) per person per night, and this includes tea, coffee and a banana in the morning. It is rustic (bring your own toilet paper to the latrine, just in case) but fairly clean. Mosquito nets, sheets, pillows (either lumpy or hard as a rock), and blankets are provided. The view is spectacular -- you can see all three waterfalls from your room! There is, surprisingly, hot water that runs from a tank heated by a fire at the top of the hill down to the shower hut. It takes a few minutes to get the hot water flowing, so once it starts if you have a group make sure they shower right after one another. 
• Staying at The Crow's Nest seems to make the hike to the falls much farther. There are other options, such as Lacam Lodge and Sipi River Resort that you can look into. We stopped at one of the lodges to use the washrooms and it is definitely a more luxurious option than the Crow's Nest. 
• One thing we didn't expect: bring a sweater! Although the sun was hot in the morning, it became quite cool in the evenings. 
• Take the time to walk up to the look out looking over the Rift Valley (on The Crow's Nest property, with only a wooden sign saying "Viewpoint" pointing it out). Be warned that some local young men will try to tell you that you need to pay, because you've crossed onto their land. Tell them that your guide at The Crow's Nest told you that you didn't need to pay, and that they should take the issue up with them. 
• We did two guided tours: the hike of the falls (with our group, it took over 4 hours) and the next day we did the coffee making tour (very interesting!) Our guide, George, was from one of the local villages with years of experience in tourism. He was very knowledgeable, sincere, and easy to understand. Each tour is 25,000 ($10) per person, but because we did two we negotiated it down to 20,000 per person (40,000 for both tours). He also didn't make us pay for the children. 
• Children: the kids that came with us were troopers. They are exceptional kids, and even the guide was impressed. However, the coffee tour was a lot more walking than we originally thought and by the end of that (the second day) the kids were starting to reach their limit and there were some meltdowns. Also, the ride to Sipi Falls and back (from Kampala) is another thing to consider if you have a family. 
• Meals at the Crow's Nest: we brought enough food and snacks so that we only had to purchase dinner. Even though the meals are listed individually on the menu, they come in family-style dishes. This was fun, because you got to try a little bit of everything. Ordering one meal per person was WAY too much food and we could not finish it. The next night, when we ordered only 8 meals (instead of 11), we found we got the same amounts of rice, spaghetti, matooke, etc. so once again we were unable to finish it all. 
• One the hike of Sipi Falls, you are able to swim (the water is frigid, but said to be parasite free) so bring swim shorts if you wish. We had a doctor with us, and he swam, so I figure it can't be that bad!



Isaac in the doorway of our room. 

• The people in the region speak local dialects but, as you are close to Kenya, they also speak Swahili. So if you know a few phrases you will certainly meet people along the hikes that you can say hello to! 

All in all, the scenery was spectacular, the hiking was a little rugged (bring good shoes and beware of slippery rocks!), and the accommodations were rustic but hospitable. 

And the grand total for my husband and I to go on a two-night getaway (transportation, accommodations, and food included) came in at a little under 300,000 shillings ($120). Not bad, not bad ...

Our view! 

Our guide and host, George 

Me on the hike. 

Latrine and shower house. 

Coffee! 

George winnowing the coffee beans taken from his garden (his home is in the background)

begging: to give or not to give?

One of the toughest things to deal with here is encounters with beggars -- children and adults alike. Women hold babies that are not their own, children ask for food or money, men with severe physical disabilities sit by the side of their road.

Sometimes kids in the neighbourhood or villages playfully demand, "Muzungu -- give me money!" (or water, or your watch) and it's easy to laugh and say, "I don't think so!" But many others are serious, and it is not a joke.

What should one do? Everything in you feels the need to give something, whether it be food or money. This article sheds light on how giving in to that impulse to hand over something, anything -- can actually be harmful. Generous tourists can unknowingly fuel a vicious criminal system of child trafficking. If you are ever going to travel to the third world (or even parts of the first world!) you should read this!

http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2013/09/giving_money_to_child_beggars_don_t_do_it.html 

visit to mulago hospital

Sharon, the wife of one of the Heritage math teachers, came to Uganda to help serve as a librarian at the school but also came with the distinct desire to become involved in hospital ministry. Since they arrived she has been looking for ways to connect or begin a hospital ministry. This led her to ask her house help, Domilee, about a possible contact with Mulago hospital in Kampala. Domilee responded that several ladies from her Ugandan church would love to be involved and already have a heart for such ministry. Although they can go and pray with patients, they simply do not have the resources to bring care packages, etc.

Domilee and Sharon decided to team up, connecting muzungu (white) women with local women to help minister at Mulago. Sharon and her husband have had people in the States donate money specifically for this purpose, and they have also given quite a bit out of their own pockets. They were able to put together at least 30 care packages, I would guess; crinkled black plastic bags with some essentials that the Ugandan women had suggested. Every care package had at least a bag of sugar, tea, and a bar of soap.

Today was the first time ministering at the hospital. Since it was a maiden voyage, Sharon was looking for several Heritage women to come along. The initial visit would be to see the place, see the needs, talk and pray with patients and speak to staff about the potential of volunteering on a monthly basis. Even though hospitals back in Canada make me a little uncomfortable, I figured I should go as a show of support.

We all met together at Sharon's home at the arranged time: 12:30. The muzungu women were all there promptly, but we ended up waiting around for almost an hour for our Ugandan counterparts. They had to leave church early to come, so when they did arrive they completely outdid us (as Ugandans often do) in their smart outfits compared to our practical "missionary" wear.

All of us -- 7 muzungus and 6 Ugandans -- piled into a matatu, or taxi, and headed to Mulago.  Along the way I learned that Mulago is the "public" hospital in Kampala. It's supposed to be free, but, as the Ugandan women put it, "That means you can sit there for free." To get any services or any medication you must scrape together some of your own cash. When you are in the hospital, it is up to your friends and relatives to feed you, bathe you, change your sheets, etc. While the family system in Uganda is strong, of course there are always those who have no one in their lives and are neglected.

When we pulled into the hospital, we saw another matatu by the doors with a wooden casket strapped on top of it.

We decided to visit one of the adult wards, thinking that the children's wards usually receive more care. We were each paired up with a Ugandan woman; my partner was a soft-spoken, but friendly woman named Annette. Armed with our black plastic bags, we entered the ward.

The ward was divided with men on one side and women on the other. In the centre was the nurse's station. The place was crowded. The walls were dirty. You could see that foam mattresses were sometimes soiled. People were sitting or lying on their hospital beds, eating matooke out of plastic bowls or trying to sleep. Mismatched sheets and blankets -- everything from Cinderella comforters to worn fleece -- covered the beds. Relatives held IV drips, or they were hung by rusty chains dangling from the ceiling. Some patients were lying on thin straw mats on the floor between beds.

I have to say, the family support was impressive. Most patients did have people around caring for and visiting them, and we had even arrived at the tail end of visiting hours. Children cared for sick mothers. Parents were there caring for children. Young men and women cared for sisters, aunts, uncles and grandparents. If there wasn't enough beds for patients, you could imagine where the relatives had to sit or sleep. Sometimes when we approached a raised hospital bed to speak with a patient, one or two relatives would pop out from underneath it where they had been eating or resting on a mat.

Annette and I began going around to pray and talk with people. Annette did most of the talking. Even though I could not understand what was being said in Lugandan, it was obvious that her easy smile and genuine care brought comfort to the patients. She tried to translate occasional bits of information, but her own English was limited. For the most part I smiled (patients seemed surprised to see a muzungu there to visit them), held care packages for her, and laid hands on people while she prayed for them. A few people opted not to be prayed for, so we chatted with them and left a care package; Annette would simply explain to me, "They are not born again." Some patients and their relatives prayed with us in earnest, muttering Amens to Annette's petitions. One young woman, suffering from kidney problems, and her mother were there from Kenya so they did not speak Lugandan. Annette asked me to pray with them in English so that they could understand. I couldn't help but think of my own sister, also a young adult, who was in the hospital for kidney problems just a few years ago.

At one point we came to a small figure on a bed under a sheet. I assumed it was a child -- maybe eleven or twelve years old? She was very weak; her eyes were closed and she only moaned softly, turning her head.

Annette spoke with a female relative standing beside the bed.

"She is suffering from the HIV," Annette told me, motioning to the figure on the bed.

"How old is she?" I asked. Annette looked confused. "How many years?" I repeated.

"Ten years," the translation came back.

"She is ten years old?"

Annette turned back to the woman and corrected her misunderstanding. After a rapid flow of Lugandan back and forth she told me, "No. She has been suffering from HIV for ten years. She is thirty-six years old."

This woman was skeletal. Her face and arms looked like skin stretched over bone. Her hands looked too large for her tiny wrists. I was thankful for the sheet, but even through it I could see that thin legs protruded from hip bones and pelvis. Wilted breasts were the only sign, to me, that she was a woman and not a child.

It was surreal, to hear about AIDS on TV and then to be standing over a woman dying of the disease in a stale hospital ward.

Annette prayed softly over her, even though she did not open her eyes. As we walked away she said, "She is not born again. God help us."

Another pair on our team approached a man lying in his bed with his eyes closed. They tried to gently rouse him, and then realized with a start that he was dead. On our way back out of the ward we saw that the nurses had put a sheet over him.

We passed out the rest of our care packages; by the time we turned to the men's ward, we only had a few left. We prayed and spoke with a few of the male patients and I watched Annette discreetly give each of them a crumpled 1000 shilling bill from her purse (about 40 cents US).

I was humbled at the generosity and ministry of my Ugandan sisters in Christ. I had a package of Gorillos (a corn chip snack, about 20 cents to buy) in my purse that I had been saving for later, since I had skipped lunch. I knew I couldn't leave with it, so I sought out a child I had seen earlier to give it to; for myself, more than anything.

We stopped to give the nurses a gift as well. When Sharon had asked the Ugandan women how we could bless the nurses, they immediately responded: "Towels!" The nurses were happy with their bright, fluffy towels and were encouraged by our conversation and prayers with them.

I thought that I would come home and cry -- because I found the hospital much more upsetting than any of the babies' homes --  but instead it was a strangely numbing experience. An "experience" sounds like such a wrong way to put it. It feels a little pathetic to go there, to be a spectator to suffering, and then be concerned about how it has affected you.

Sickness is always -- at home and abroad -- one of those things where you can only sit with people in their suffering, pray with them, and say sincerely, "I'm sorry."

jigger clinic

Stephanie with kids waiting to get jiggers removed. 

Today we had the pleasure of meeting a wonderful missionary couple, Stevan and Stephanie, who live on an island on Lake Victoria. They are busy ministering to the people in the village around them in so many ways.

On the same property as their home, there is a medical clinic whose primary purpose is to be a birthing centre for the area, since so many mothers and babies in the community were dying in childbirth. They also support the school that is nearby, providing a breakfast program that, the school headmaster tells them, has totally changed the kids during the day. The students are alert and they now play after school until dark -- something he had not seen the children doing when they were coming to school hungry. In the summertime they run a Saturday feeding program. There are plans to begin a wool-dying centre to teach the women in the area a trade, as well as a woodworking shop for the men. The list goes on ...

In their sixties, this couple came to the village in January. They served as pastors in California for years. Although Stephanie always felt called to the mission field, her husband was adamant that he "was a pastor, not a missionary." On a short term missions trip to Uganda in 2010, Stevan literally heard God calling him to serve as a missionary while driving through the Kampala slums. Within three months they had miraculously raised enough money and were back in Uganda.

Since coming to the village they have faced their fair share of hardships. They have had malaria twice. They have watched the cost of projects creep way past the initial prediction. They have learned to trust God, and have watched God provide money month by month. They have transformed the un-livable little mission house into a cozy home [even though they still don't have electricity].

And yet they have such a wonderful attitude. They were both so bright and welcoming, and wanted to hear about us. Instead of going on about the troubles they've had, they were eager to tell us about the Muslim woman who gave her heart to Jesus last week; after delivering her baby at the clinic, the woman demanded to know what religion they had -- whatever it was, she wanted it to! It was clear that, in spite of all the frustrations they've had, they are fixed on their true purpose: to share Jesus.

The particular reason we were there today was to help with their monthly jigger clinic for the surrounding community. What are jiggers, you ask? As I understand it, they are small flea-like creatures that burrow into your skin and lay sacs of eggs. They are painful, and if left untreated they can become infected and actually cause death. People get jiggers by having dirt floor in their homes; the dry, dark environment is the perfect breeding ground for jiggers. Each month Stevan and Stephanie run a jigger clinic. The Ugandan nurse (who will soon be leaving to train as a doctor) hands out educational pamphlets in Lugandan to teach the people how to prevent jiggers. The children's feet are washed, jiggers are dug out, the wounds are cleaned, and band-aids with cartoon characters are applied (a thoughtful donation from a church in the States!)

After having coffee and banana bread with Stevan and Stephanie, some of the men in our group helped put a roof on the small shelter that they use to run their feeding program. The rest of us played with neighbourhood children, waiting for our jigger clinic patients to arrive. Finally we realized that most of the kids playing with us had jiggers, so we began washing feet and digging out jiggers [okay, let's be honest -- I only washed feet! The description of a white sac of eggs that usually breaks open during removal and leaves a hole turned my stomach!]

Isaac helping fix the roof, and telling me not to take his picture :) 

Most of the kids spoke little English, which made it a little difficult to give instructions. It also explained the initial miscommunication: the kids that we were playing with had probably been sent by their parents to get their jiggers removed, but they had decided they would rather play and we didn't realize they were the jigger patients we were waiting for. Somehow, though, between our scraps of Luganda, their scraps of English, and other kids who acted as translators we got the basic messages across and a few jiggers out before we left.

Most of the time we were there, though, we didn't need a whole lot of English. Frisbees, soccer balls, smiles and bubbles don't require a whole lot of translation!

Babu: A seven yeard old boy I had played Frisbee with (scary thought: me teaching someone else how to Frisbee) and practiced English with. He had jiggers and fungus. I washed his feet (with gloves!!!) so that he could get the jiggers removed. 

grade 7 devotions

Since Heritage is a Christian school, part of my duties as the grade 7 homeroom teacher is to lead them in a 15 minute devotional every morning. On one of the first days I was here I asked them to anonymously write down topics or questions they have that they would like addressed in devotions this year. Here are some of the responses:

• (a single word in carefully folded paper): angels 
• Who brought homosexuality to the world? 
• What does the Bible say about the Sabbath? 
• Why did God get angry and kill so many people? He was supposed to love everyone and WE are SUPPOSED to follow his example. 
• I thought a Bible is full of God's words and it talks more about God's kingdom only. But why is it that in Song of Songs, its really full of love things? And why is it that God uses people who do wrong things instead of doing good things? Where is heaven? 
• How did people learn to write? [huh???] 
• About not being a fan but a follower.
• About God's love 'n' grace.
• How old was Jesus when he died? 
• How does hell look like?

Fifteen minutes in the morning, after scrambling around to prepare for lessons: Go! 

We're going to start reading Andy Stanley's Since Nobody's Perfect ... How Good is Good Enough? which the grade 8 homeroom teacher recommended. Maybe that will be a good start ... 

perspective

Isaac is away at Uganda Martyrs University tonight, where he has a dorm room. Thankfully his classes are aren't scattered throughout the week, so he'll only be gone for two nights a week. I realized suddenly that, although only about an hour's drive apart, we're in different hemispheres :) The equator cuts right across the highway he takes on his route to school.

Another bit of perspective I got tonight: I was walking along the dirt road we live on to pick up yogurt, milk and a phone calling card. I bought yogurt and milk (a small amount, in a bag) and the total was 4300 shillings. 1000 shillings is about 40 cents American. I pulled out a 10,000 shilling note (the equivalent of 4 dollars American). My change should have been 5700, or a little over $2.

This small shopkeeper did not have $2 in change. He asked me to please wait a moment while he left and went to other shopkeepers asking for the change.

You realize how little people live on here when $4 is a big bill to break ...

teaching: week 1

Tomorrow will mark one week since the school year began. I can already tell that time is going to fly, and in about two seconds I'll be saying, "Have a good October Break!"

[Yeah, that's right fellow Canadians ... we get a week off in October and a Spring Break -- keep in mind school started on August 15!]

My first week as a real teacher ... In the calm before the storm, I carefully tried to decorate my classroom and organize myself. Greeting parents and students, introducing myself as "Mrs. Shelley," on that first day felt very strange. Almost an out-of-body experience. A part of me felt like I could better relate to the nervous, skinny middle school student in the desk than to the seasoned teachers in the staff room.

Since then, I've allowed the whirlwind that is made up of three middle school grades rip through my carefully set up classroom. In only a week, they've broken it in and made it feel like a proper classroom -- a mixture of organization and chaos.

I teach the following four classes: grade 6 Language Arts, grade 7 Language Arts, grade 8 Language Arts and grade 7 World Geography. I also have the grade 7 class for morning devotions and advisory (a study hall period at the end of the day). They are the group I spend the most time with; they are fun, they are loud, they are antsy and there are more boys than girls. I'm already rearranging lessons and units to make them more hands-on! (Salt dough maps, here we come!)

So, who are the students that sit in front me every day?

I am amazed at how truly international this school is. During teacher orientation I was already impressed: my colleagues come from the States (Alaska to Florida!), Canada, the Netherlands, Congo, Uganda, Sudan, and the UK. I have students from literally all over the world -- the Philippines, India, Korea, Canada, America, Europe, Australia, Ethiopia, South Africa, Colombia, South Sudan, and Nigeria.

My students speak French, Spanish, Danish, Arabic, Korean, Luganda, Swahili and a host of African languages I had not even heard of. (When I asked the question: "What languages do you speak or understand?" some of them had to stop and count on their hands to keep track!)

Besides where they are from, my students have been all over the world. I asked them to write down the places they've lived, not just visited, and I couldn't believe how many countries some of them have experienced at such a young age. Their social backgrounds and reasons for being here are very different. Some are here for the Christian foundation, others are here for the academics. Many come from missionary families, while others are from prominent Ugandan families.

Some of my students' parents work for NGOs, while others work for international companies. In one class two boys (who had some of the longest lists of "places lived" -- including hotspots like Kosovo, Rwanda, Sudan, Somalia) shared that both of their fathers work for the UN.

[Yay -- I get to teach them World Geography!]

My students also come from different academic backgrounds. Many of the missionary kids have been at least partially homeschooled, and the children from around the world all come from different academic systems. I've had one student tell me he read Macbeth in grade 7, while other students -- refugees from neighbouring African countries -- have had little formal schooling.

Wherever they are from, all of my students are, above all, middle schoolers. They are awkward, funny, emotional and goofy. They are stressed about their homework and obsessed with what their peers think. They are pressured by parents, pushed around by older siblings, and have power over younger siblings. When asked to anonymously write down topics or questions they would like addressed in devotions, the boys snicker and giggle and hint at a "certain three-letter topic."

...They also stink after gym class.

Yup, at the end of the day they're all just middle schoolers.

that time all the teachers got sick

Well, it's hit. That moment that Uganda stops shaking your hand and gives you a punch in the stomach. Literally.

We all knew it was coming, and that it would probably be within the first month. Our bodies have bravely faced all the new germs and the different climate, water and food. Besides a bit of adjusting, over the past two weeks we have remained medically stable.

But our bodies just realized we're not on a two-week missions trip. Our bodies seem to have declared a mutiny.

Over the past four days teachers have been dropping like flies. My turn came on Friday evening. I felt fine after the first two days of school and a group of us were heading out to a local restaurant to celebrate the end of our first "week." As we began walking, I felt occasional twirls in my stomach but there was no major discomfort until after we had eaten.

By the time we got back, let's just say I was in a hurry to get home. My upset stomach persisted through the night, and I was up at least three or four times. While I wasn't surprised by an upset stomach, I was troubled by the sharp spasms of pain I was having in my middle and upper abdomen. They would only last a few seconds, but they would take my breath away. On Saturday morning, as it wasn't getting any better, I mentioned it to Terri, the school's go-to woman for any teacher troubles. (She's fantastic!)

Terri arranged a drive for me right away to get me to the Surgery. What is the Surgery, you ask? Good question. One of the first days we were here, Isaac and I were shocked to hear Terri say: "And if you get sick, we'll take you straight to the Surgery." A little drastic, we thought. I guess it's a British thing to call it "the Surgery" -- it's simply the name of the medical clinic in the area.

[Warning: next paragraph may be considered oversharing.]

Long story short ... I went to the Surgery, I was told I had to produce a stool sample, I couldn't bring myself to produce a stool sample (despite all my problems in the previous 24 hours, and despite the squats Isaac suggested that I do), I went back the next day with a sample ... Turns out there was a bacterial infection in my guts. When your immune system is depressed, due to stress or jet lag or being overwork, the natural balance of yeast in your intestines can get out of whack. So ... problem identified, problem solved (or so it seems at this point).

Today at school (Monday) I felt fine but a total of six teachers were out. Several of them had almost the exact same experience that I did. Although Heritage has a substitute system (and a very flexible principal who can jump into almost any class), because people were dropping during the day things got a little out of hand.

At one point I was sitting in my room about to enjoy my prep period when a fellow teacher poked her head in on the way to her class: "Hey, do you have a class now?"

"No, why?"

"Uh... the grade eights are sitting in the science lab without a teacher. Do you know who's subbing?"

"No, but I'll go look."

I went and looked. No one to be found. So I taught science :) Good times. One of my high school teachers must have done something right, since so much came back to me. DDT, concentration up the food chain, acid rain ... oh yeah, I was in the zone. (not).

At the end of class one of the students thanked me for the wonderful lesson. (Okay, I have to tell the whole truth --  he's a new student and apparently he thanked all of his teachers after every lesson.) Another student told me I'm a good science teacher. I told her not to tell anyone else that!

Here's hoping that everyone else is on the mend.

good question

Last week we went to Calvary Chapel in Kampala, along with fellow teachers from Heritage who attend there.

The music was amazing, the service was good. A little long, a little hot ... I won't lie to you! I'm also not sure that navigating public transit downtown on Sunday really preserves it as a day of rest. Since we have such a strong Christian community in Heritage, we think we might church-hop a bit to check out the scene here in Uganda. Next week: Watoto!

The pastor at Calvary Chapel posed a good question, though, which continues to return to my mind:

"Does your life make anyone hungrier to know the Lord Jesus?" 

Hm ...

videoclip: walking the pipeline

The shortcut to the Super-Super market -- walk across the swamp via the pipeline! I admit, the walk doesn't look that scary ... a nice thick pipe, not too far up ... what's the worst that could happen?

Well, perhaps the photos below will help you understand why I'm a little nervous about falling off the pipe and into the swamp: Here's a shot of Wayne, the science teacher, holding up something he found in his science room: a black mamba snake preserved in a water container. Although this one's dead, apparently live ones -- along with their friends green mambas and even cobras -- have been found on school grounds, staff compounds, and especially the swamp.

communal justice

Odd little experience that we had the other day ...

We drove into town with one of the Heritage teachers. He is one of the few brave enough to own a vehicle and drive himself around Kampala roads.

We were in a typical traffic situation, with cars tightly lined up and bodas weaving in and out of traffic. We were at a full stop at one point, and our friend had to reverse. He didn't realize there was a boda driver right behind him (he was probably almost touching the vehicle to begin with!), and when he reversed he bumped the boda. He really only bumped the tire and no damage was done.

The boda driver drove right up beside the driver's window.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry about that," our friend apologized, leaning out of the window.

"Do not say you're sorry!" the boda driver shouted. "Do not say you are sorry! You hit me! You hit me!"

He may have thought it was his lucky day -- being hit by a muzungu!

And this is where the communal justice steps in ...

Other boda drivers who had been idling by, waiting for passengers, had seen the entire situation unfold. Nearby shopkeepers had also been watching. Pedestrians, shopkeepers, boda drivers ... they all weighed in.

"No, no, you are fine. No damage was done," they all said.

The boda driver who had been hit tried again. He wheeled in front of our vehicle and stopped there, trying to force us to stay put so he could have a chance to prove any damage.

"No, no, no." The self-appointed jury would not have it. "No, there is no damage." They waved, dismissing the boda driver's frantic attempts to prove his case. Frustrated, the  boda driver realized his case was closed and drove away. The spectators turned back to our vehicle and declared, "You can go."

And so we went, back en route to the supermarket.

gift

On Monday night we had a lovely barbecue at Heritage House with all of the new teachers and returning teachers who have already arrived.

At the barbecue I met a small four-year old boy named Gift, who is deaf and has cerebral palsy. He is from the babies' home close by, where one of the teachers (Cheryl Lynn) is very involved. Previously, the thirty to forty children (aged 0-5) at the babies' home never went outside the compound walls. As a result, they were terrified of their surroundings and didn't know how to function in the city. This also meant that the workers never got a break.

Cheryl Lynn pushed for this to change, and now each worker takes two children home to their village for a month or so. Last year over Christmas, Gift was one of the children left over because no worker wanted to take him home with them due to his special needs. Cheryl Lynn offered to have him stay with her family (she has seven children of her own!) over the holidays. Over that time, Cheryl Lynn's house help, a Ugandan woman, decided she wanted to adopt Gift. While this woman goes through the adoption process and Cheryl Lynn helps her get set up to care for Gift, he is staying with Cheryl Lynn's family. This is how Gift ended up at the staff barbecue.

Gift's story shows another layer of our experience here. It is hard to grapple with the desperate poverty that surrounds us here. When we go into town we are told to ignore beggars -- giving money is not sustainable and will only cause mayhem. When I watched commercials in Canada about "the hungry children of Africa" did I think I would sidestep a young boy holding out his hand for money? Did I think I would fix my eyes ahead of me when women holding babies try to beg through the bus window? I'm told some of the women actually borrow babies to beg with, but even that sad fact points to real desperation.

While I know that my first year of teaching will consume most of my time, and that by teaching at Heritage I am helping missionaries be able to stay in Uganda, I would like to volunteer in some capacity, to feel that I am helping in a meaningful, concrete way. One of the teachers visits the slums every Saturday and helps with a Bible lesson and feeding program, while Cheryl Lynn has offered to bring me to the babies' home.

I keep referring back to my experience in Ghana (I'm sure Isaac is getting sick of me mentioning it!). While there are many similarities, there are a lot of differences as well. In Ghana, I was in a small town. Here, we are on the outskirts of Kampala. This means we have access to things I didn't have in Ghana (like this Internet at home!), but, like any city, it also means that we can't possibly get to know everyone and, as a result, it feels more dangerous. 

From my immediate experience it also seems that the poverty here is much more desperate. I don't remember seeing so many people openly begging, even in Accra. I don't know if this is true, because my experience in Ghana is limited and I've only been here for five days! Just my own thoughts ... We've been so preoccupied with getting ourselves comfortable here, that meeting Gift was a sharp reminder of the greater needs that surround us.