Feeding Them Fish...

Last Tuesday evening after a long day of doing a whole lot of nothing, Cyndi and I began our short trek home. As we walked, I noticed two small children, a girl and boy, on the path in front of us. Being that we were still on campus, I was a little confused as we don’t really see many children within the compound. As we walked passed them I heard a small voice softly call “Mzungu…” This is a common occurrence for any white person in Uganda, so I decided to turn smile, wave, and just keep walking. But as I went to turn back around after flashing my pearly whites, I heard the little girl say a simple phrase that shook me to the core.

What were those immortal words? “I need a sponsor…” I’m going to try to recount a portion of the conversation following her simple phrase as best I can. As my brain was going one hundred miles a minute, I didn’t really speak to the girl….Cyndi did almost all the talking, but it still continues to dumbfound me even today.

Little Girl: I need a sponsor.
Cyndi: Well…keep praying that you get one.
Little Girl: Will you find me one?
Cyndi: No…I can’t.
Little Girl: Why not?
Cyndi: Well…we don’t do that. What’s your name?
Little Girl: (I can’t actually remember her name, being that is was very African)
Cyndi: What’s his name? *motioning to the boy*
Little Girl: He is (I don’t remember his name either)
Cyndi: Is he your brother?
Little Girl: No…he’s my uncle.
Cyndi: How old are you?
Little Girl: I’m 10.
Cyndi: How old is he?
Little Girl: He’s five. We don’t have very much money.
Cyndi: We don’t have very much money either.
Little Girl: *giggles*
Cyndi: Why is that funny?
Little Girl: *hesitates* You’re white and all white people have money.
Cyndi: Some don’t have money.
Little Girl: *stares at Cyndi like she’s crazy*
Cyndi: Do you know of some Africans that have lots of money?
Little Girl: Yes
Cyndi: Well…just like there are some Africans that have lots of money, there are some white people who don’t have any money.
Little Girl: *giggles again* You do too have money. All white people are rich.

First off, I was just so surprised by the fact that this tiny girl (who looked about five, not ten) just walked up to us and asked us to get her a sponsor. For a very long time, I have loved the idea of sponsorship programs for African children. My own sister, Kevin, was sponsored last year. Her education depended completely on that sponsorship. In fact, we still aren’t sure if she’s going back to school this year for without a sponsorship my family cannot afford to send her.

However, a battle is waged within me. As I am definitely not a supporter of dependence on federal programs, I have a hard time with the issue of African dependence on foreign aid. If African children are taught from a young age that all they need is a sponsor, what are we teaching them? Like this little girl… She approached Cyndi and me only because we are white. If we had been two Ugandan women, she would have ignored us. This is because she has learned that mzungus give out free money that help pay school fees.

Her plight broke my heart that day…and continues to do so as I keep reliving this experience time and time again. Yet I want to be able to truly help her. Simply handing her a check would definitely be helpful…but it’s like that age old saying “give a man a fish…” You know how it goes.

I don’t know. I’m just really struggling with this. We are so wealthy in America in comparison. What’s couple few hundred dollars to us? To them…it could redefine their entire future. I could do so much for the people here with the miniscule amount found within my own bank account…yet would it really be helping them? Is it really plausible for Africa to live off foreign aid forever?

I would love some of your opinions on this fact. Let me know what you think.

Face to Face With Africa

Friday, February 6th, after a week of living with a bothersome stomach ache, the last thing I wanted to do was hope on a stifling bus and drive six hours south. IMME’s weekend trip to Rakai was something I had been looking forward to for weeks, for I love long road trips, but having a sick stomach had not been a part of my plans. Nevertheless, I sucked it up and boarded the bus.

The first 2 hours seemed to take forever as we putted our way through Kampala and its surrounding suburbs. After seeing row after depressing row of African housing, it was a relief to see the roadsides begin to clear, revealing the natural beauty of Uganda.

For some, even the thought of a long ride in a car makes them queasy. For me, thought, they tend to be therapeutic. Once we got beyond Kampala, I instantly began to feel much better. Praise Jesus! I was so thankful because I had not been excited about being sick during one of our fun weekends away.

About an hour or so outside of the Kampala suburbs, I began to notice a change in the scenery around us. Uganda’s luxurious green mountains began to flatten out into sparse plains, reminding me greatly of Kruger National Park in South African. Then, when I least expected it, we zipped past a fairly small sign that read quick simply “Equator.” I have finally returned to the Southern Hemisphere.

By the time we finally reached Rakai 2 hours later, the mountains had returned. Expecting the end of our journey, I was surprised when we turned onto a very bumpy dirt road and drove further south for another hour. Apparently the tiny village of Kibaale (pronounced Che-ball-e) was our true destination. Found there is a large compound called the Kibaale Community Center. Run by five amazing missionaries from Vancouver, Canada, we were able to spend our entire weekend befriending those wonderful people learning about their ministry.

The center began as a primary school for orphans, but has become much more than that. With a medical center, large primary and secondary schools, child sponsorship and water purification programs, it completely amazed me to learn it is supported solely by one private school in Canada. It was the missionaries (who are only 27-35 years old) that amazed me the most, though. They continually showed me just how easy it would be to make a home…a life…in a rural African village. They were so at home there, and as such, made us feel very at home as well.

One couple had four young children, ages 8-1 ½. The youngest was a Ugandan girl name Mazi (pronounced ma-z) they were in the process of adopting. She was absolutely adorable and watching her dance or simply holding her close became a joy for many of us.

It was their oldest son, though, that stole my heart. Eight year old Joel has clever mind and a sense of humor he has yet to understand. After noticing the school playground, I decided there could be nothing more exciting at that moment than to go play on it. It was after I stood on the top of the tiny slide and yelled “I’m the queen of the world!” that he promptly informed me I wasn’t very good at being an adult. Later, I saw him point me out to his father, whispering “You see that one? She’s just a big kid.”

When we found out there was a nearby mountain we could climb that would allow us to see Tanzania in the distance, for it was only 14 miles away, a small group of us grabbed our camera cases and began the journey up. Joel was appointed as our trail leader. As we trekked the half mile to the base of the mountain, I couldn’t help but be amazed that we were a group of touristy Americans following an 8 year old on a crazy hike up an African mountain. When asked why his father didn’t take us, though, Joel replied incredulously “have you seen how old my dad is?!”

The mountain was insanely steep and climbing it was like death, but to reach the top and turn around to enjoy the view before us was so worth it. Before us lay a gorgeous Ugandan valley, the mountains of Tanzania peeking at us from across the way. Because we stood on the peak of the mountain, on the other side of the mountain we were also able to see an amazing view of Lake Victoria.

As we took in the glory, I nonchalantly made the comment that we were standing face to face with Africa. Jokingly Michelle decided to only way to be face to face with Africa was to lie face-down in the dirt...which Joel promptly demonstrated, throwing us into a hysterical fit of giggles. After millions of pictures and gaining vibrant sunburns, we all headed back down to a relaxing evening with the missionaries.

Sunday morning welcomed us all with the joyous option to sleep in…which never happens here. After breakfast, we walked into the village of Kibaale for a typical rural African church service. It was a beautiful service, filled with an obvious devotion to God. We sang for near an hour, in both their native tongue and English. Something that struck me the most, though, was when the pastor announced it was time for special music. A young man and woman came up to sing a song he had written. It was beautiful and very touching. Then, after they sat down I waited expectantly for the sermon to start. But instead of that, another girl came up to sing….then a group of young girls…then a group of students from the local Islamic school…then two women… Their special music time lasted almost as long as our worship time…and it was so beautiful. Their special music time wasn’t a time of showing off the best voices in their congregation or a time filler to make sure the whole service is at least an hour long. Their special music time was just that…special. It was a time for people to go up and bless Daddy God with the talent he bestowed upon them…a time or worship…and it was all about Him. What a striking difference to what is so often seen in our American churches.

And it was so convicting to me personally. I love to sing…but not by myself. My younger sister has a beautiful voice that is much stronger than mine, so I have always felt that it is easier to sing with her or to just let her sing alone because she is so much better at it than me. But God doesn’t care what I sound like, for He created me just as I am and loves my voice exactly as it is. He just wants to hear my praises to Him. This reminds me of when my pastor from home sang a special song for church right before I left. She has always been self-conscious of her singing abilities. But God told her to sing a specific song at church, so she did….and it was one of the most beautiful specials I have ever heard for it was her obedience to God that shown through her actions.

What a beautiful reminder from God…found tucked within the mountains of rural Uganda.

Spaghetti + Ugandans = Failure?

In a land of rice and beans…or matoke and groundnut sauce (which is an interesting purple color and tastes similar to watered down peanut butter)…or rice and g-nut sauce…or matoke and beans… it seemed logically that my Ugandan family would have been as excited for something new as I have been for the past three weeks. So this past weekend Cyndi and I decided to share a little American food with our Ugandan family. Interestingly enough, our “American” food consisted of Mexican quesadillas, Italian spaghetti and French bread. The only thing remotely American we made was no-bake cookies.

The inspiration for quesadilla’s came from my lovely sister, Sarah. It wasn’t long after moving into my home that I learned Sarah had never tasted cheese. In my American home, that is borderline sacrilegious. So on Friday, I promptly bought some cheddar cheese for her to try. It was after further examination of this cheese, which looked and smelled nothing like our cheddar, that Cyndi and I decided maybe we should make quesadillas. This way if the cheese was nasty, we’d at least still be able to enjoy eating a little chipati. It was unbelievably fun making our quesadillas for a pre-supper snack that night. Joyfully, they turned out much better than I thought they would after taking a smell of that odd cheese. Mama Toto told us if they had the money to afford cheese, she’d make them every day. It cost 2,500 shillings…$1.25.

On Saturday, Cyndi, Sarah, Kevin, and I headed to town to do a little shopping for the meal Cyndi and I were going to prepare for Sunday night…American/Italian spaghetti. After a mad search of Mukono on Saturday afternoon, looking for anything remotely similar to the things necessary for marinara sauce, we were more than ready to give our family a taste of American, and ourselves a taste of home.

Sunday, I awoke eager with excitement. Not only would I be cooking and eating spaghetti for supper, I would also be attending my first Catholic service with my family. As a Protestant, this was already quite an interesting experience. It was made even more interesting, however, by a random man walking into the church half-way through the sermon, talking loudly in Luganda. Being that I don’t speak Luganda, I have no idea what his purpose was, but all it took was for a male member of the congregation to stand up and walk towards him for the man to quickly turn and leave.

Following church, Cyndi and I happily set to work preparing the no-bake cookies. Never have they smelled so wonderful. Yay for gooey, chocolaty goodness! For Cyndi, no-bakes are a family favorite. For me, no-bakes remind me of my younger sister. Making them was interesting for the both of us, for we love our Ugandan family…but at the same time it made us long for the people we love so much back home.

Preparing the spaghetti…I don’t even know where to begin. Thinking back, a part of me wants to cry from embarrassment (for I usually do know what I’m doing in a kitchen) while the other part of me just wants to laugh hysterically.

First, my family likes to eat around 9pm. This means when they are preparing the 5-7 different dishes we have each night, they have to start cooking no later than 6pm to get it all cooked in time. When Toto told us we should start preparing at 6, Cyndi and I looked at each other in panic. If we started preparing our food at 6, we would have been eating at 7:30 at the latest. So we attempted to do everything as slowly as possible. It was actually quick comically. For as I was attempting to slow the process of cooking the spaghetti sauce, I was only able to accomplish basically burning the onions, peppers, and garlic I was trying to sauté. The picture of Sarah and me was taken during the burning process... After adding the tomato paste, I had to keep removing it from the heat and putting it back on so it would stay warm, but not burn.

Step three: spaghetti noodles. Being that I come from a family of 6 and am used to cooking meals for them, you would think I would know how many noodles it would take to feed 7 people. However, Cyndi talking it my ear did little to assist me in this process. After boiling a large pot of water, which took almost an hour to accomplish over our little wood fire, I added two packages of spaghetti noodles to the steaming pot. Unsure if that would feed our family, for Ugandans love their seconds, I called Cyndi into the kitchen for her opinion on the amount of noodles. Ten minutes and two more packages of noodles later, I was attempting not to laugh hysterically as I attempted to stir the heaping pot of noodles. When I asked Sarah for her assistance to move the food to the table, the shock in her eyes when she spied the mountain of spaghetti in the pan was almost more than I could take.

After a prayer for the meal, Cyndi explained a little about the American meal we’d prepared then scooped up a large helping for Toto, complete with a steaming slice of crumbling garlic French bread. Then each of our siblings came forward…taking very small portions in comparison to their normal supper experience. Cyndi and I, however, both piled our plates high with the delicious smelling food. As we ate, Cyndi noted we had barely made a dent in our enormous pile of noodles, joking we’d be eating the stuff for the next week and a half. Embarrassed by the fact that we could afford to buy that many noodles for one sitting while my family couldn’t afford to buy that much in a week’s time, it was then that I realized Joshua and Kevin weren’t really eating the spaghetti sauce. Apparently Cyndi and I hadn’t thought to ask if anyone didn’t like tomatoes…oops. Thankfully they loved the garlic bread. My brother, Sam, made me feel much better when he took a very large helping of spaghetti and sauce. I’m not sure if he actually liked it or if he just felt sorry for us…but it made me feel better none-the-less.

By the time Monday night rolled around, I was so ready to return to our predictable rice, beans, and cabbage supper. Not that I didn’t enjoy eating American food and being able to share that with my family…but I was more than a little relieved to know that no one would be going to bed hungry.

Maybe Cyndi and I will try cooking for them again someday. Before we do, though, I know we’ll be sure to check if anyone else hates tomatoes.