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.

Wanted

*** Just a quick note…I’ve added pictures to my previous blogs, so check them out if you’re interested. ***

This is almost like a continuation of the previous post. It’s funny because the weekend seemed so short, yet so much happened in it. In case you were intimidated by the last blog, don’t worry. This one’s going to be much more casual and a whole lot shorter.

After going to the Jinja hospital, we made the trek back to Kingfisher Resort to enjoy a little free time before supper that night. I was more than a little excited, to say the least, because this was going to be my first opportunity in two weeks to wear a pair of jeans. Crazy! My guess is I won’t have the opportunity to wear them again until my next IMME trip, so this was a very big deal for a girl who only ever wears jeans back home.

Then a group of us ventured down to Lake Victoria for a boat ride. When I’d first heard we could go on boat, I’d envisioned this wonderful paddle boat in my head with a lower deck for drinks and an upper deck for watching the beauty unfold around you. Then I remembered I was in Africa…

Our boat (pictured here) was basically a large canoe with a tent for shade and the smallest possible pull-start motor in the world. As we climbed in, Michelle (pictured here) and I kept joking we were going to capsize the boat or kill the motor in the middle of the lake and have to paddle back to shore. We made a stop at an island soon after starting our lake adventure and they man in charge told us to climb out. This seemed a little sketchy and we laughed that he was going to drive off and leave us as soon as we stepped off. Instead, he very kindly showed us a spot in the river that looked similar to a boiling pot of water. This, he claimed, was the source of the Nile River. Interesting, seeing as I’d already seen one source of the Nile that day. Who knows which one was real, but I guess it doesn’t really matter to me. Either way I saw the source of the Nile and that’s pretty cool.

After our quest on Lake Victoria and the Nile River, we headed back to Kingfisher and then it was off to supper. We went to this nice restaurant that served pizza and Indian food. I’d never had Indian food before, so I decided to order some chicken biriyani. It was good at first. Then I tried a piece of someone’s Indian pizza, which had the hottest pepper I’ve ever eaten in my life waiting just for me. I’m pretty sure my lips were numb for a good 10 minutes and after that my food just didn’t taste as good anymore. I do, however, love Indian Naan, which is kind of like a thick tortilla.

Sunday morning we went to a church in Jinja. I was so excited when I realized this was a real African church. Not that the one’s I’ve went to the last couple weeks weren’t real; they just didn’t have that distinctly African feel to them. This service was about 3 hours long, filled with numerous and random times of testimony and worship as well as contained several short sermons along with one long one. One of our IMME was responsible for the major sermon. How intimidating, especially when a translator was being used. But Charles did an amazing job. I was very impressed.

After church, we stopped for a quick bit to eat and headed for home. In a strange, unexpected way, I was actually very excited to be headed back to Mukono. I’d missed spending time with my family…attempting to help them cook and teaching them new card games after supper each night. Getting back was made all that much better when Kevin met us on the road. Her smile was so wide it could have easily stretched right off her face and she gleefully wrapped Cyndi and me both in a giant hug.

What a blessing…to be welcomed home not because you live there, but because you’re wanted there.

The Freedom of Choice

Is it possible for one weekend to be completely amazing and so unimaginably hard at the same time? For it is how I would classify my past weekend. A truly wonderfully experience, full of community and friendship, yet laced with moments of struggle, confusion, and interesting realizations about myself and the situation I find myself in.

I’m not sure if I’ve explained this before, but there are two different areas of educational focus in my study abroad program. One of them is the Ugandan Studies Emphasis, or USE. This section focuses on a more historical context and has only three weeks of homestay with a Ugandan family. The Intercultural Missions & Missiology Emphasis, or IMME, section has an emphasis on living overseas and ministry as well as has homestays for the entire four months. I am one of the fearless few who have dared the awkwardness and struggles of being IMME.

As a part of our program, this weekend the IMME students took a trip northeast to the Ugandan city of Jinja. This breathtaking place, with its view of Lake Victoria and the source of the Nile River, was the perfect weekend vacation for those of us looking for a chance to finally be American again. It would seem, however, that though God understood our need for a break, His plans over-road our own. Just when I started to feel American again, God would slam Uganda right in my face, reminding me that these wonderful Ugandan people have no escape from this, their life of poverty and struggle. I could run away by going back home to electricity, running water, paved roads, and buying what I want when I want. The large majority of these locals will never have that option...

Let me explain. On Friday afternoon, the IMME students loaded up onto the sweetest short bus around and headed for Jinja. When we got there, we were all pleasantly surprised by our accommodations. Kingfisher Resort was just that…a beautiful resort, complete with a real swimming pool, a view of Lake Victoria with access to the beach, and the cutest little bungalows for us to stay in. I think we spent the first 20 minutes there trying not to go completely insane in our excitement.

That night, we met with two missionaries over supper. Jesse and Bev are a couple in their mid-50’s who moved to Uganda eleven years ago to start a prison ministry. Though I have never been particularly drawn to prison ministries, the stories they told us tore at my heart. Ugandan prisons are very rough places. They have very small cells that are packed with ridiculous amounts of prisoners. Mattresses are not provided by the government, so unless the prisoners have family or friends to bring one for them, they are forced to sleep on the very dirty cement floor. People accused of any sort of crime are instantly considered guilty until proven innocent. This means people often spend years in prison just waiting for a trial. Then if proven innocent, they are released without apology or compensation. If proven guilty, time served is rarely considered when sentencing. What’s more, attempted armed robbery is considered heinous enough to deserve the death penalty. It could be thought that these people are criminals and brought these vicious prison sentences upon themselves…only that’s not always the case. In Uganda, when a person is placed in prison, it becomes quite easy for others to obtain their personal property. So, in many cases, people are framed by others as a way of robbing them of blind. This is commonly found with women caught in the practice of polygamy. When the husband dies from old age, one of the wives will often blame one of the other wives to avoid having to share the inheritance. And because of the system, innocent women spend years in prison with little or no hope. May God bless Jesse and Bev for bringing them the hope of Jesus Christ.

Late that night, a small group of us gathered in an open area of Kingfisher and had a time of worshiping our Daddy God. It was such a powerful experience. To finally have the group of us together in an informal setting was amazing, but to know that God was so alive within the small circle of us. What a blessing! Imagine my surprise when God decided to bless us even more. While singing, a young man around our age approached us and asked if he could join in. Of course we said yes. After a time, he asked us what we were doing in Jinja. After a quick explanation of our study abroad program, we mentioned that we were visiting missionaries here. It was then that he told us we had just found one. This is so like God…not only did we find a missionary, we found ourselves face to face with a member of The World Race. I think my heart stopped for a good 10 seconds when he said that. I have wanted to do the World Race since it’s beginning a few years ago. The World Race is an 11 month mission trip. Each month is spent in a different country, ministering to different people in different situations. It’s an intense, adventure-filled journey in Jesus Christ, as well around the world. Even more God, the guy we talked with knew a girl I know of from back home who is currently on the race as well. How big is God’s network around the world! I’m still baffled by this.

Saturday morning, we ventured further into the town of Jinja. We met with a group of missionaries who work with the surrounding of villages. A very creative group, they use a number of different avenues to reach the people for Christ. One of them is through a local coffee shop that becomes a church on Sundays. Following our meeting, one of them, a man named Bobby, took us on a spiritual tour of Jinja-town. What an amazing experience. Our first stop was at the source of the Nile River. I'm standing in front of it in the picture. It was very pretty and very unlike I’ve imagined the Nile in my head. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t in Egypt and it just wouldn’t look the same in Uganda. After learning a little about the history of Indians in Jinja at our second stop, we then ventured toward the lakeside.


Bobby took us to the largest boat club in Jinja. It was very nice and expensive looking. However, this was not the point of this stop. Right next to this big fancy building was this tiny fishermen’s town. The homes were small and dirty, formed from red-dirt bricks. Almost all of them lacked electricity and none were bigger than my living room back home. A large group of children were playing outside as we stepped off the bus and they were immediately drawn to us. As they milled about us, Bobby talked about the ministry of Jesus. Standing in between two separate worlds, he challenged us as to what world Jesus had chosen. It wasn’t the fancy boat club…it wasn’t the Pharisees. The Son of God came to earth to hang out with the fishermen…literally. His disciples were from among the lowest of the low. As I stood there among those little children, my heart broke for them as it never had before. I have seen children of poverty many times…but never has my heart broken the way it did that day. As tears streamed down my face, I thought of the life these precious babies lead every day. Not only must they face poverty, but Bobby also said that very bad cases of abuse are also common. Admits their struggles, they didn’t even have the love of their parents.

It was within those moments on the side of Lake Victoria, surrounded by excited children, that I realize what I had been missing. Though I have loved studying abroad in Africa, a part of me has remained unsettled. I hadn’t realized that the first two weeks, but now I am so aware of it. I love Africa…I love the people, the culture, the lifestyle. But something I miss so, so much about this particular experience is the lack of actual ministry. I used to think that maybe I would just live overseas because I know I’m not worthy of God’s calling…I lack so many skills that most missionaries possess. Yet now I know that just living here would never be enough. I hate that I’m not here with the sole purpose of ministry. It breaks my heart that there are people our there still clueless about the reality of God’s love for them…and I’m stuck here going to classes about the history of Ugandan politics. Awesome… But God keeps reminding me that everything will happen just in time. I can’t rush His timing. I can only keep pushing forward and wait on the Lord.

After saying goodbye to the fishermen’s children, we headed to an area of town dubbed Little Ting-Ting. This was a place were all the metal workers in Jinja worked. Crowded into this small area of tin roofed shops, men and women spend their days forming pop cans, towel hangers, and so much more. As Bobby led us around, stopping to talk to a number of them, I began to realize that though it was a very cool day in Jinja, Little Ting-Ting was almost stiflingly hot. I can’t even imagine being there on a normal African day… One man asked me if Obama was my king…my president. I just smiled and nodded, praying he wouldn’t ask me if I voted for him. Then, he said that Obama was his king too. This didn’t come as much surprise to me, being that I see paintings of President Obama all over the place and Ugandans often mention him. However it did make me wonder if any of them actually realize what he stands for. Also, I feel it’s quite important to note that it was in Little Ting-Ting that I received my first request for marriage. A man offered Bobby one chicken for me. One lousy uncoco (the Iteso word for chicken/s). Apparently I’m only worth about $5.00.

We ventured to the best government hospital in Jinja after leaving Little Ting-Ting. I was still feeling the emotional tide of the fishermen’s village, so going to my first African hospital was more than a little intimidating. Bobby would not allow us to go the ward with patients sick with AIDS or Tuberculosis, but I had the opportunity to visit the general woman’s ward. Simply walking into the ward was one of the most awkward and uncomfortable experiences thus far. Almost none of the women spoke English and they all just stared at me. I offered them comforting smiles, but I’m sure they were all wondering why a mzungu was there. As I walked around the room offering up prayers for the health of each of the patients, I became increasingly aware of how poor the hospital really was. In government hospitals in Uganda, a patient taken to a hospital may wait more than a week before even seeing a doctor. Then when they do, the doctor doesn’t even tell them what’s wrong or what medication they are receiving. Things we take for granted in hospitals in America, such as assistance with bathing, restroom use, and food service, are all up to the patient’s family in Ugandan hospitals. So, if a patient doesn’t have family, they do not get that care. The smell of urine was quite prominent while I was there. As I stood in the middle of the room, I’m sad to say I had the sudden urge to escape. I couldn’t process all that I had seen and felt throughout the short tour and I just wanted to run as far away from Uganda as I could possibly get.

Only Jesus held me fast in that place… He reminded me that though I had the ability to escape the actual experience, I would never be able to escape the emotions and memories of those people and places. That as I felt the urge to run as far and as fast as I could from that place, the women lying in those urine soaked beds…the men in those steaming metal shops…the children on the lake-side…none of them had the ability to do so. They were stuck in that place. Unlike me, they didn’t have a choice about where they were and what they were suffering. They just lived each day…looking for hope and peace.

Though there is more to my weekend in Jinja, I fear I’ve already written a novel and a half. I’m going to go now, but I just hope that this has made you think even a little bit. As Americans, we have the freedom of choice. We can work where we want, live where we want, eat what we want, ect. But we are the minority in this world. For there are more out there who don’t have choices to make…they simply are…living each day as an act of survival. Even in Africa, I can’t even begin to imagine a life like that…

Tori and Cyndi's Sweatshop

I have officially survived my first full weekend as an African daughter. Though I was nervous about it a week ago, by Friday night I was excited to have the weekend at home with my Ugandan family. Slowly by slowly I have been becoming increasingly comfortable and closer to each of my family members. I was excited to see how they spend their days when Cyndi and I venture off to school each morning.

Saturday morning started around 8:00am. Our first order of business was laundry. My sister, Sarah, quickly assembled the four buckets of water we would need for this lovely chore. I must say I failed quite miserably, even with previous bucket washing experience, in comparison to Sarah’s amazing skill. I think she could outwash me ten articles of clothing to my one. My sister, Kevin, discovered the joys of my digital camera and carried it around everywhere, talking pictures of me, the clothes washing, our house, our siblings, herself, random children of the neighborhood, and so much more. It was interesting to look back through them all and try to figure out what, when, and where.

We had morning tea at around 11:00am. The milk tea that is so common to tea time here was the same as always…not exactly my favorite but not something I have to force down. But then I had the opportunity to try something new…a samosa! At first glance, they look like a triangle of deep-fried wheat bread, which is basically what it is. However, when I asked my family what it was, they said it was wheat with peas in the middle. Awesome…I basically despise peas, to say the least. But rather than insult them, I smiled and quickly took the smallest looking one. Not a minute later, I was silently kicking myself for that choice. I absolutely adore samosas! Even more than chipati…which is saying something. The stuff on the inside of the perfectly crispy fried bread didn’t taste like peas…it tasked more like beans and onions. In some ways, it was like eating a bowl of nachos in a tiny triangle of friend bread. So delicious!

Cyndi and I also got to help Sarah (pictured here) make matoke for dinner, which we ate at around 2:00pm. Our job was to cut the peels off the plantains. This might seem pretty straight-forward. However, when you have two very dull knives and a bunch of sticky, un-ripe bananas, it becomes a pretty interesting process. It was definitely fun though, mostly because Sarah and Kevin laughed at/with us the whole time.

The rest of the day was spent resting, as Mamma instructed Cyndi and me to do. She still tries to treat us as guest sometimes, and that was one of those times. So I spent the afternoon catching up on sleep (which was so wonderful!), reading, and journaling. It was very restful, which made Mamma very happy. She’s so funny.

Sunday morning, we went to an Anglican church near campus. I absolutely love watching Ugandans’ worship Daddy God. They are so happy about Him and aren’t afraid to show their love for Him. I really enjoyed going to the Cathedral, which is what the church is called. The pastor was passionate and knowledgeable. I learned so much simply from listening to his voice and watching his joy.

Sunday afternoon was spent much like Saturday afternoon…resting. Luckily, Cyndi (pictured here) had a brilliant idea to offer to hem some clothes for the family. It wasn’t long before I had joined in. Our family, specifically my brother Sam, had so much stuff that needed sewing. Cyndi and I joked we had opened our own sweatshop as more and more articles of clothing in need of patching appeared at our feet. It was good to feel needed. Being a guest has been nice, but I can’t wait until we are fully family rather than the white sisters that don’t do anything.

And now a new week has begun. I wonder what it will hold!


** The video below is a few of the little kids that live next door to me. Sarah told me they were playing wedding or something. If you watch all the way to the end, which you should because it's not too long, you can see the point when they realized I was watching them. They're so cute!

From the World, There is No Escape but Jesus.

Uganda is far more than simple grass huts and tiny villages. The thriving city of Kampala, located just an hour away from my home near Mukono, is a classic African city. With stores for designer clothes, fancy restaurants, and malls for the youth to spend their time in, this city still contains touches of Africa as a constant reminder that this is, in fact, Uganda. I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon in Kampala on Friday. After a week of eating rice and beans on a daily basis, I was more than ready to venture to this city in hopes of finding the closest pizza parlor.

The hour ride to Kampala was hot to say the least. The sun had decided to shine full force, never mind that I had been super brilliant that day and decided to wear black, and forty people in a bus made it beyond stuffy. Katie and I found this billboard (pictured here) more than fitting. It was such a relief to climb off the bus. After a death-defying scramble across busy streets, due to the fact that pedestrians do not have the right of way, I found myself in a mall called Garden City. My first emotion? Excitement to see other mzungus!

In East Africa, mzungu means “white person.” It’s a phrase I hear all the time. Some locals use it semi-discreetly by whispering the word to a friend and pointing me out. Others use it as if it were my first name…”Hi, mzungu! How are you today?!” I’ve decided this is one of the many things that are very different from back home. In America, if a parent sees their child staring at someone different from themselves, whether it is because of the color of their skin or another reason, the parent is quick to reprimand the child. In Uganda, this could not be more opposite. I was walking home last week and I literally saw a mother turn her baby around and point at me while softly saying mzungu. At the mall, I found myself doing this. I think I stood and stared at a group of mzungus for a good five minutes before I realized what I was doing.

After excitedly walking to the food court of the mall, I realized that even food courts are not the same world-wide. Apparently in Uganda, you sit like a normal restaurant and someone comes to take your order. It was definitely a little awkward because I had to keep turning people down until the place I wanted food from approached me. I had never been so excited to order a pepperoni pizza in my entire life. It was different from American pizza, but it was pizza none-the-less.

Then Katie and I, along with two other USPers, decided we wanted out of the civilized African mall so we ventured forth to a craft market a couple blocks away. The road we followed to the market was busy, but seemed safe so we had little worries. The market was cute and the people were so kind. We bought a few things and learned a new way to fix our hair before heading back to meet the main group at Garden City. However, as we approached the main road (pictured here) that would take us there, I noticed a large gathering of people…one that had not been there an hour and a half earlier.

Curious but not nervous, we kept walking…until I noticed the soldiers. It was then that I began to realize that almost everyone on the street, minus the soldiers and the four of us, looked decidedly Muslim. I very quickly came to a stop, causing the girls around me to also stop. Then, out of nowhere a man appeared and answered the question I was too afraid to ask. “It’s a demonstration,” he said, “They are killing our Muslim brothers in Israel and we stand against that.” Numbly, I nodded my head and smiled, unsure of what else to do. In my head, I was thinking at a hundred miles a minute. This was an anti-Israel demonstration…we were all Americans…America is generally known to be pro-Israel…the people demonstrating were Muslims…we were all Christians…they were Africans…we were all mzungus, which made it impossible to blend in…this has the potential of becoming dangerous…

The four of us moved a few feet away and spoke quietly, trying to decide what to do. Our options consisted of waiting it out from a distance and possibly being late to meet the group or walk right past the rally on the way to mall and be on time. I strongly urged the group to wait it out, being that we were only a few yards away from the Uganda Christian University bus we had rode to Kampala on and we all had cell phones. Katie, however, had different ideas and simply started walking toward the mall, forcing us to either be left behind or follow her. She told me later it wasn’t until we were practically directly beside the demonstration that she noticed the soldiers. Then, she started all but running. The crowd was so thick it was hard to keep up with her as we shot past the demonstration and headed for the safety of the mall.

Looking back, God was definitely with us. Though it was a very peaceful demonstration that was over in less than thirty minutes and I do not believe we were actually in any real danger, it was definitely an emotion-stirring experience. And through it God gave me this amazing calm. It was like He told me we were all going to be okay. The fact that I was in a foreign country with a history of violence, surrounded by people who have not always been accepting of Christians made the situation much more frightening than a similar experience in American may have been, but God wanted us to experience it here. He wanted us to see the struggles of others and feel compassion for a people different than ourselves. And so many struggles became apparent to me through this: the struggles Israel, the struggles of Palestine, the struggles of Ugandan police and soldiers, the struggles of Ugandan citizens, the struggles of us, as Americans in this uncertain land and time. Thank you, Father God for giving me this experience, for it is one experience/lesson I will not soon forget.

After meeting up with the group and a quick ice cream break (pictured here), we soon headed for Mukono. I was happy to have had the opportunity to experience the joys of civilization once again, but was content to be on my way “home.” A weekend full of new experiences and family-bonding was in my future and I was going to make the most of it.

P.S. Tori misses her favorite roomate, Tära. :)