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.