A Bit Jua Kali

Four and a half months later....

2011-09-13T23:14:00.000-07:00

The summer is over. I can't believe it - we spent up all the time in villages, on road trips, hanging out...I have no idea where the time went. Here are some random updates of the summer:

We did a few school programs, clinic outreaches, and things like that. One day we even had a sports day at the school nearest to us - it was fantastic. Best day ever.

The roads this year have been some of the worst I have ever seen. Last week we had to drive the long way round from Mbale - up past Moroto, a trip that took the better part of eight hours. At least we had tunes.

I've been able to spend a decent amount of time on my artwork, which has been great. Recently I've been doing studies in human proportions and things - just brushing up on basic skills.

Basically things here are back to their quiet, rhythmic usual ways.

(In some ways, India feels like a far-off dream that never really happened. Just about every day I'll remember something random from my trip and smile - I can't believe I was there. )

The first two weeks home.

2011-05-01T05:03:00.000-07:00

It seems that I've come home at the very beginning of rainy season - we're having occasional, short bursts of rain around 4pm just about every day. The grass is green. The dirt is dark. Puddles abound.

In the mornings, it's hot. By dinner, we're all in long sleeves and drinking hot coffee. All is beautiful and the weather's great.

We've done some pretty random things since I've been back. My first day was in Kampala we ran around the mall and were generally pretty weird. We sang on the roof and screamed "KA-KAAW!!!" at some cute children, who screamed back. We got indian food on the roof and I talked about my various exciting experiences of the past six months for hours. Then we got ice cream, pretended to model, tried to run eachother over with a suitcase, and were generally really strange. Quite a few people were watching us and laughing.

And that was just the first afternoon - I only got in at 1:30 pm. Amazing.

Since then, it's been hilarity and fun. Random movie nights. Making up exciting games involving food such as Onion Catch and Goldfish. In general, randomness. I'm enjoying acting like a strange and deranged five-year-old.

Go forth and be weird.

Back and away

2011-04-05T01:14:00.000-07:00

In ten days I'm going to get on a plane and fly away. Yes, I'm going back - back to being a present member of the Wright clan, mandazis, lesos, pikis, hilarious road trips in our crowded land cruiser, braided hair, mudding houses, in-your-face chicken, eating white ants and saying sindiyo all the time.

But away from salwar khameezes, dhal chawal, autos, dupattas, long afternoon trips to the bazaar, getting late-night domino's with my roommate, and saying, "अच्छा" all the time.

While I'm happy to go home, I'm sad to leave.

However, I just found out that I can write in Hindi on my blog, so that is fantastic.

शान्ति ,

रिचा

Oh Holi Night (Best. Night. Ever.)

2011-03-26T10:03:00.001-07:00

Twas the night before Holi,

And all through the streets

All the people were dancing

To hot Bollywood beats.

Colored powder they threw,

Making clouds in the air

That settled and stuck

In everyone’s hair.

A pale foreigner came,

Her camera in hand,

Not used to the dances

Of this India land.

They eagerly showed her

How to shrug to the beat.

How to wave her arms skyward,

How to kick with her feet.

She joined in the throwing

Of the colors so bright

Each neon shade flying

Lighting up the dark night.

Finally, off to bed

After hours of fun

Still excited, still eager

Of more color to come.

A Few Bollywood Stereotypes

2011-03-26T10:01:00.001-07:00

As of late, I have been watching a lot more Bollywood films than I usually would at home (And that’s saying something). In my viewings, a few patterns have started to emerge - film techniques and plot lines that come up in just about every movie. Not to say that I don’t love Bollywood – I totally do. But for all of my fellow die-hard Bollywood fans, I decided to compile a list of them, along with their frequency ratings. Let me know what you think.

The Zoom-In: This common Bollywood film technique is usually used to heighten the tension and bring the viewers a much closer shot of the pained expression on the actress/actors face. This CAN be a good thing, if used tastefully, but more than often, in your stereotypical Bollywood, it is NOT. I've seen zoom-ins so close you could see the mascara flaking off the heroine's over-made-up eyes.

Frequency rating: EVERY. SINGLE. MOVIE. (Guaranteed.)

The Instant Replay: This particularly painful effect is more of an emphatic one. I have seen it used to emphasize all kinds of scenes, such as a phone call, a house exploding, an intense conversation, a girl flipping her hair over her shoulder, a guy walking into a restaurant, three guys running through a gate, and many others.

Frequency rating: Just about every Bollywood I've ever seen.

The Mysterious Indoor Wind: It’s the climax of some deep and moving scene. They’re staring into each other’s eyes fervently, finally admitting their love. It’s all very deep and moving, but unfortunately, this is all interrupted when you realize that, although their hair is whipping dramatically, they are, in fact, inside.

Frequency rating: Depending on the genre of the movie and the length of the heroine/hero’s hair, it will most likely be present.

The Slow-Mo Spin : Inevitably, at some point in the movie, the female lead will, without a doubt, spin around in slow motion – usually while wearing some long flowing sari or skirt. Because that’s what love is all about.

Frequency rating: As I said, inevitable.

The Violent Hug: This fairly spontaneous embrace can occur between any members of the cast – two estranged lovers, the mother and daughter, two brothers, anyone. Usually it’ll happen right after some strange and semi-shocking plot point is discovered, or just because one of them is sad for some unspecific reason. The two characters will body slam together at such an incredible speed the audience will, most likely, totally not see it coming.

Frequency rating: Not as common as you’d think…depending on the genre of movie you’re watching. Be on the lookout for this awesome happening.

The Slow-Mo Staredown: What do you do when it’s love at first sight? (or second or third sight?) You gawk at them to the point of being totally creepy! Naturally, so important an event can only take place in slow motion. The one (usually the guy) stares at the girl while she giggles and flips her hair around, accompanied by a slow romantic soundtrack.

Frequency rating: Hilariously regular.

The Psych-Out Kiss: As Bollywood is famed for its lack of lip-to-lip kissing, the couples have to make do with hugging. More than often, they’ll look like they’re about to actually kiss….and then psych out with a peck on the cheek.

Frequency rating: If there’s a strong romance plot, it should be there.

The Dream Dance Sequence: This is the part of the movie where one half (or all) of the romantic couple is fantasizing about their soul mate. Usually some very strange things take place, with the two of them dancing around in some weird, unbelievable scenario – the rain, the 50’s, a train station, or whatever pertains to their particular fantasy. These are pretty entertaining, as sometimes you’re not really sure if what’s happening is part of the plot or not.

Frequency rating: Fairly common, in an awesome and exciting way.

There are so many more of these classic techniques - The Barely There Sari, The Spontaneous Dance Sequence, The Gorgeous Girl, and the unforgettable Cheezy Fight Scene – but they all kind of speak for themselves. So the next time you pick up a Bollywood, be on the lookout. Happy watching!

Where I've been.....

2011-03-07T23:11:00.000-08:00

So I started off here:

And had a layover here:

Visited a cathedral, drank GREAT coffee, and I was off again, to here:

Visited some great friends, went to some cool ruins, took our first auto, and celebrated Diwali!!!

Then got on a 9-hour train to Jaipur, where we saw more cool stuff.

Snake charmers, light shows, more ruins and temples. Fun times!

Back on the train.....

To Agra.

And we found some Engrish, naturally.

Spent some time in Delhi -

Went to a really cool park.

Made it up north, where I spent a while at the Children's Home.

The kids at dinner

Cooking at a friend's house

The view off the back of the hill

Then took a trip to Goa....

Met some amazing people, had some amazing memories, and headed back up to the cold and windy north, where I have now settled for the remainder of my time.

A view of one of the neighborhoods

Main Street

the kite flying festival, Pasan Panchpi

All is well.

So it's been a while.

2011-03-07T22:41:00.003-08:00

About two years ago, I bought a pair of shoes. I was at an Old Navy somewhere in New Jersey, where they had a two-pairs-for-a-dollar deal on flip flops. I got one black pair and one white. Naturally, I wore through the black ones within two months of buying them. The white ones, however, lay in my "town shoes" drawer along with my various Converse, while I wandered about the villages of Karamoja in sturdy leather slippers.

The flip flops did get some good memories in, though. All the times I’d spent sauntering up and down Mbale streets, laughing and talking with my sisters. Our many walks through the mall, all dressed up in our Kampala best. Not to mention the countless hikes they spent tied to my shoulder while I was ankle-deep in mud - Sipi, Namorupus, and Fort Portal. There are still melted welts all across the instep and heel from a time when they got too close to a campfire on a hiking trip. The soles are riddled with pockmarks from various thorns I picked up. For a while, I made it my personal goal to keep them white and scrubbed them clean after every adventure.

I arrived in India, where my shoes were no longer called slippers or flip flops, but instead, chappals. They got a nasty burn on the left heel my first week here from when I stepped on the smoldering remains of a Diwali cracker in Indore. Another time I had to take them off and leave them by the steps of the Taj Mahal among the many loafers and leather sandals of the other tourists, where I knew they wouldn't get stolen. When I was at the Children’s Home, they sustained further injury from the many games of tag and badminton we played in the gravel courtyard. I carried them for kilometers down the sands of Goa, relishing the fact that I didn’t have to wear shoes. One time they got washed away by the tide, and I had to run through the waves to bring them back. I wore them to a couple markets in Delhi, and around the town I’m living in as well.

I've long since given up trying to keep them white, so they've now assumed a kind of patchy light brown color. Now I wear them every day - to work, around the house, out shopping, and so on. The soles are now paper thin, so that I can feel every contour of whatever road I am walking on. Sometimes it's like wearing no shoes at all.

I really like those shoes. They’ve been pretty much everywhere I’ve been. They’re no longer my “town” shoes, because they aren’t exactly smart anymore. – they’ve become serious jua kali. Instead of on pikis, I now wear them in autos. Instead of with a tshirt and plaid shorts, I wear them with my salwar khameez and dupata.

And the stories just keep piling up.

And I'm off...

2010-10-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

You never really realize how beautiful a place is til you see it through the rear window of a car as you drive away.

Biscuits

2010-10-02T02:34:00.000-07:00

"Nakor(u)!!!"

"Yeah?"

"Come here!"

"What are you doing?"

"Biscuits! Come help us with the biscuits!"

A bunch of the girls that had been harvesting hibiscus, which they called "biscuits", from the field and were standing with full gunny sacks, getting ready to carry them back to the compound.

"Uuuhh....No, no," I said. "I don't think I can."

"Have you ever carried?" One of them mimed picking up the bag and setting it on her head.

"No, it isn't our custom."

They laughed at that one. "Okay. Then come here and help us lift them!"

That I could do. I stumbled through the tall brush - snagging my skirt on thorns the whole way - over to where they were standing. I passed around the customary handshake, and then, one by one, helped them lift their bags.They held the top, I lifted from the bottom, and together we'd get it up until it was balanced comfortably on the top of their heads. Since all of them had been carrying things in this way since they were small, they casually slouched on one leg, their massive bundles resting easily atop their heads. They laughed and joked as we got the bags settled, encouraging my feeble attempts.

"Can you carry the corn?" One pointed to several ears that lay in a basin. She pulled up the hem of her shirt, miming how I should carry them. "Kwangina. Like this." I picked them up and did so, feeling completely absurd - hauling six or seven ears of corn while they each had a huge bag of hibiscus flowers on their heads. Not to mention that none of the girls stood taller than my ear.

We walked along single file back to the compound, each of them swaying lithely as they walked, singing and joking, with me in the middle - stumbling and snickering, my satchel banging clumsily at my hip.

"Where is your place?" one of them asked me.

"There." I pointed to my banda, which we happened to be walking by at that time.

"No, I mean where is your home?"

"Here." We laughed. "BUT, I was born in America."

"America...America..." They passed around the word, tasting it.

"Do you like America?" A question loaded with implications.

"It is very cold. But the ground is rich, so the food grows fat and the people have much to eat."

"What does it look like?"

It was about here that I realized that this was the first time anyone had asked me about "my place". Usually I just tell about it, to make an interesting comparison or tell a story. But they wanted to hear about it! I turned around to see a line of expectant faces, the sun rolling off of the white gunny sacks and sweaty faces.

"Well..." I talked about buildings as tall as the hills and shops that you couldn't see the end of. I described the beaches, water so wide you could look out and see only water. I told them how fat the cows were, and how much milk they gave. I told them about green, green grass with no thorns, and snakes that wouldn't kill you. They were very happy to hear that there were some black people too in America - "So when you go there, you can still find some Karimojong and you will be happy because it will be like here!"

Not exactly......

I also told them how cold it was. And how different the people there were. I couldn't really explain everything - in fact, I could explain very little. They bore with my stumbling, awkward Ngakarimojong, supplying the necessary words when I forgot them. At the end of my long tale, one of them asked, "But you love here? Here is beautiful too? You look there and you see the mountain, and it is beautiful."

"Yes, I do love here. It is so beautiful. In my place in America, there are no mountains. Only land."

That settled it. "Then you stay here. You don't leave your mountains."

I laughed again, my gasping snicker sounding totally alien mixed with their ululating laughter. They tried to teach me how to laugh like them, which caused even more hilarity.

By this time, we were back on the compound. They tossed the laden sacks off of their heads with ease and joined the others who were peeling the hibiscus. I handed the corn back to one of the girls - "Take it," she said. "You like maize?"

"Yes, I like. Thank you." I took one of the ears.

"See, she took a small one." They grinned at me.

I pulled out my camera. The least I could do was offer them the treat of seeing their picture. I snapped a few, then asked the rest of them if they'd mind a picture. Naturally, they didn't mind in the least.

Cutting open the "biscuits" (in a pile in the center) to get out the seeds.

I asked them if it would be okay if I wrote about them in my "letter" to the people of America. I told them I would write a letter on the computer, and then the people of America would be able to see it. (Incidentally, I try to ask this of all I write about beforehand.)

"The people in America in the church want to see what the people of Karamoja look like! They want to hear about them!"

"It is good! It is very okay! Yes! Let them see the good people of Karamoja that their people are working with!"

People of America, the biscuit people are greeting you.

A little glimpse into our life

2010-09-29T22:43:00.000-07:00

This photo is, believe it or not, fairly candid. We were all cracking up at the one we'd just taken, in which we were making some epicly hilarious faces. Since they wouldn't appreciate me putting that one up, I figured a happy smiling shot was safe.

My two little friends...James on the left, Faith on the right. I honestly can't tell if James hates being tickled or loves it.

Off to the clinic.

It's here.

2010-09-29T05:41:00.000-07:00

Today as I made my daily trek down to the clinic, I realized something. As the sun beat down and the wind off of Mount Kadam whipped my skirt around my legs, I noticed that something was different. As I stepped into the icy water of the culvert and walked on dry rocks that for the past months had been entirely submerged, it definitely seemed like it had really come. Maybe not entirely, but it's close.

Yep. Dry season.

I'll discuss the book later.

2010-09-24T03:58:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading a very interesting book all about the problems with the Western world's relationship with "Africa". Aside from some geographical difficulties (referring to the region of problem as "Africa", when in fact, he seems to be dealing largely with the issues in East and South Africa), the book is, so far, very good. I've zizzed through a lot of it - partially because I know all the pre-argument facts, and partially because it makes me very sad to read all of those miserable statistics. People are dying, getting sick, and living in poverty. I've seen it with my own eyes and don't want to dwell on it any more than is necessary.

This book, however, falls in nicely with my readings in the book of Ephesians. In that particular letter, the writer, Paul, is primarily concerned with unity in the church - especially between Gentiles and Jews. He encourages them to treat all as equals, that Christ breaks all man-made barriers, and that we are called to love.

A big problem that I have observed living here in Uganda (not in "Africa") is divisions. Tribalism is a big problem. I was recently told that there are 42 recognised languages in Uganda - that's at least 42 tribes. Within those tribes are clans. Within those clans are families. Within those families are individuals that are feuding and distrustful of eachother. So many divisions! So many reasons to dislike and fight with eachother. In the book I'm reading, it said, "It is thought that Uganda, a smallish country of around 25 million people, could still probably feed the whole of Africa if commercially farmed." (Giles Bolton, Africa Doesn't Matter) That sentence, besides making me think "What does he mean by 'Africa'?" and "Yeah! Represent!!!!" also made me wonder how much potential this "smallish", wonderful little pearl could do if united.

But what does it say in Ephesians? "For he Himself (Christ) is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility...and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility." (ch.2, vs. 12-16) In Christ we are FREE of all of those barriers - those petty restraints. As a church, we are ONE. We are a whole body, the bride of Christ.

So how does this play out in a place where there are so many walls between people? Walls that have been built up over years and years of feuding? Walls that separate people that may have never heard the gospel? How do we build a church out of the broken-up people?

As foreigners/mzungus, we are so far outside of all the local "divisions" that we all just get clumped together in a pile labeled "white people". That can be a real asset. We're just some rich people from a place far, far away. We aren't really a part of the tribalistic structure - we have a category all our own.

For instance, one of my father's employees started a savings account with my mother. He is, as far as I know, entirely uneducated, and had very little scope of the actual amount he had saved. He would bring his little bit every so often, and my mother would keep a close record of how much that was. Why did he trust her? How did he know that she wouldn't sneak off some of his money on the side? Is there a chance that, in representing Christ, we mzungus are considered trustworthy?

I really hope so. Please pray for unity among the tribes here, and that our witness would shine out here - that our differences would be a help to our ministry and not a source of estrangement. May the church be ONE!

My first stab at posting poetry.

2010-09-23T07:27:00.000-07:00

Old days
Smile.

Simple innocences
Whisper like grass-stems
Breaking
Crunchy leaves snap
Like fingers to a beat.

Dancing on hardwood floors
(Clunk-clunk)
Sliding with socks
On hand and foot
Boom
Hit the wall
Beatbreaker,
Soundmaker,
Slap!
Fighting, scratching,

Musicking the waves,
of half step, treble cleff.

Ngitomwonangikanikauni

2010-09-22T05:15:00.000-07:00

Ten-and-eight. Yep, that's me. Eighteen. When I was little, I wanted to be eighteen. When I was a preteen, I wanted to be eighteen. Yesterday, I wanted to be eighteen. And now I am.

So far, I've celebrated by
- eating scrambled eggs with maple syrup
- wearing a headband that I like
- getting a really cool necklace. Really.
- getting a really cool mug.
- making really good soup.
- running around in the rain in heels. (anna's heels, incidentally.)
- going through my 2007 - 08 scrapbook
- drinking real coffee. Twice.
- teaching Faith and James. I do that pretty much every day, but it was still pretty celebratory
- carrying a bag of maize across the overflowed culvert
- eating roasted maize on the way home from the clinic
- singing "The Gambler" at the TOP of my lungs on the way home

So far, so good. A lot of random things that were just kind of extra-fun. I do most of them every day, or at least once a week.

I've been told many times that being ridiculously excited about getting older is a passing phase. But guess what? Next year I'm going to be NINEteen. Even better.

A future dinner under Judgement.

2010-09-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

The one legged chicken is named Trixie.

That fact is funny enough in itself. The actual bird is a subject of immense hilarity. It hops along on one scrawny claw, it's other leg stub flapping uselessly as if the departed leg was still joined with it. Apparently 'Trixie' is the generally accepted name, 'Mary' being the second choice.

When I first met Trixie, she was hopping into the banda where I was teaching, squawking horribly. She managed to get stuck under the cabinet as we tried to chase her out, and had to be pulled out. We set her free and laughed until we cried at her funny little hops. I leaned against the doorframe, cracking up entirely at the poor crippled bird.

She went something like this: Hop. Squawk. Fall over. Scramble to feet- or rather, foot. Hop-hop. Flip out for no apparent reason and go hopping across the yard. Fall flat on beak.

A girl walked out of a nearby banda and stared at me in shock as I chuckled helplessly. She looked at the chicken and said to me in utter disgust, "See how it suffers."

Now, I'm not really sure how it could be in much torment. It just hops around and occasionally goes berserk, just like the other chickens. My laughter ceased, however, when I noticed that she was serious. The girl looked up at me, indignantly furious. "You can really see how God punishes."

I gave it up after that and went back to class. That poor chicken, to be under such judgement.

Party

2010-09-20T04:00:00.001-07:00

Little James turned three on Saturday, an event that was celebrated quietly at the house of Elisabeth and Kyalo on Saturday night. I dressed up a bit, figuring the gesture would be appreciated, and trudged through the mud and water down to the clinic.

I had been told dinner was at six, so I came early at six thirty to help with the setup. My outfit was duly admired and appreciated - by wearing nice clothes I was showing that I thought this was a special event. At seven, Kyalo sent Faith to get the other guests. They all came piling in and immediately segregated - men at the table, women on the benches by the wall. Kyalo offered thanks and we started up the buffet of chicken, rice, chapati, matooke, and beans (with eggplant!). According to custom, we ate as much as we possibly could - going into Unfillable Stomach mode. This wasn't hard, as Elisabeth's cooking is absolutely heavenly. Whoever says that African food is bland is sadly wrong. I decided to calm down after fourths.

A wonderful cake was presented, cut, and passed around. Tea cups followed, as did Elisabeth with a thermos of tea and the sugar. We chatted about various wild animals, and exchanged stories. James unwrapped his presents with much difficulty and immediately gave them away to the various guests, who smiled and thanked him, then slipped them back to Elisabeth.

Slowly, the various guests trickled out the door, until the remaining few decided to call it a night. We walked out, waving our goodnights to everyone, gumboots squelching deliciously on the path.

As I walked to dinner

2010-09-19T04:08:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I was walking to the clinic, I was hailed by a small shepherd boy I sort of know.

He called out: "Rachel! Hi!"

"Hi! How are you?"

"Fine! Give me your jacket!"

"No!"

"When will you give me clothes? When I come to your house?"

"No. I'm not giving you any clothes."

By now he was following me down the road.

"You will give me clothes tomorrow when I come to church."

"No. I told you, I'm not giving you any clothes."

"Then I won't come to church! I won't come if you don't give me anything!"

"Then don't come! God is angry with you if you only come to church to get something. You know why I go to church? I go because I love Jesus. His word says, 'Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.'"

"It is true."

"So will you come to church?"

"I'll come if you give me candy!"

I looked back and shook my finger at his gleaming smile.

Although it seemed that my haphazard Sunday school lecture was entirely wasted on him, I saw him in church this morning.

Save it for the shower.

2010-09-17T04:04:00.000-07:00

We all have that moment. That door-swings-open-and-you're-finally-home moment. You step up to the door and swing it wide, calling an end to whatever work you'd been up to at that point. Maybe a little bit of stress still hunkers over your shoulder, but you're home. You can now leave it behind you and relax.

For some, this is an exhilarating experience. Maybe you had a really good day and you're just ready to keep it going. You just can't contain that joy, that excitement. You just HAVE to burst it out and all over Creation - in song!

My advice to you is: Don't do it. Don't sing out your joy of finally being home. Hold it back. Restrain yourself. It doesn't matter if you're having a Whitney Houston moment - keep it together. Because there is ALWAYS someone nearby - whether it be in the house or outside - who, maybe, did not have such a great day and really doesn't want to hear how great yours was.

Or maybe that person is doing something that needs quiet. Say, your father is meeting with the Local Chairman. Or your sister is having piano lessons. Maybe your mom's just not feeling well. Either way, keep a lid on it. Hum if you really need to, but keep it quiet.

All this I say from a LOT of experience, particularly specific experiences, in fact. Trust me.

.

2010-09-16T04:16:00.000-07:00

I have an art studio.

Granted, sometimes it becomes a library, a research lab, pilates room, or (and most often) a coffee shop of some kind. But I like to think of it as my studio. I have canvas rolled and stacked, paintings hung from everywhere, and random statuettes and carvings that constantly serve as models. There is a MASSIVE pile of photography books on the desk - again, models. I have my watercolor, acrylic, and oil palettes propped up proudly to show the world that I'm cool like a real painter, plus my various stashes of brushes that kind of end up all over the room.

Lamp at just the right angle. A rug for sitting on while painting. A chair covered with a bright yellow wrap for when the rug thing gets old. I like to lie on the floor and let the ideas flow in, collecting in the drain of my mind.

Oh, and there's a bed in there too.

My biggest adventure yet

2010-09-09T03:54:00.000-07:00

This blog has, so far, largely been just a collection of stories - things that have happened in my life. I see nothing wrong with that, but I realized that it isn't very helpful when people want an actual update on what I'm doing. From now on, I'll try to actually write about what's going on.

So. I'm going to India. Some time around early November, so I can be there for Diwali. I'm not solid on the details yet, but I'm going.

I hope this is the last time I blog about blogging. Writing about what you're going to write about is a tad strange.

Rejection.

2010-09-06T22:49:00.000-07:00

An exciting way to have an adventure is to find an interesting way to do a fairly not-interesting thing. Rejecting is my current favorite - the dance craze, not as in actually rejecting anything. If we stop somewhere, I try to find an interesting thing to reject on. Or just some way to make the reject more interesting. (and, of course, all of these are going to be chronicled in the B.o.A., in case you were wondering.

So far, I have stopped, stepped and done the reject:
- On a trash heap
- While holding a banana over my head
- On an international monument
- While playing badminton
- On the trampoline
- On the carpet in the kitchen
- in the back of a pickup

Most of those aren't very interesting. But I'm going to keep trying.

Some Adventures

2010-09-06T07:36:00.000-07:00

Interesting things are constantly happening to me. I'm not sure why. All I know is that every experience I have is a chance to have another adventure.

And, of course, each one is now chronicled in the Book of Awesome.

Some of the latest:

131. Paged someone in a department store.
It was very exciting. I grinned like an idiot the entire time, even though I was trying to convince the guy that we really couldn't find Mary.

134. Jumped on a wet moon bounce that was slowly deflating.
Have you ever jumped on a moon bounce in the rain? It's definitely a hazardous sport, for it is almost impossible to land once you've jumped - your legs simply fly out from under you.

122. Took a wok on a piki. (clever pun, clever pun...)

126. Took a tour of a mosque, unveiled and in the mens' section during prayers.
The guy in question knew my father, so it was totally cool. Although I think the hajji was about to lose his chips entirely.

141. Found a World War monument entirely by accident.
This was only a few minutes ago. We were at the immiration office in Jinja and we noticed a strange pillar type thing in the middle of a field. We went to investigate, fighting our way through the thick greenery that was embracing its base. On it were the words "IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE TWO WORLD WARS." There were the dates too, but of course I can't remember those.

#127

2010-09-01T03:14:00.000-07:00

I put out two candles using my sweatpants.

That was last night. This morning, one of them could be found across the room from it's original place, and the other was splattered all over the floor.

I laughed so hard I snorted, drooled, choked, and fell over.

James.

2010-08-31T03:28:00.000-07:00

This kid is beyond hilarious. I can't get over it.

First, he replaces his "r" and "l" sounds with "n". Our English classes have been interesting - we learned about fnogs, honses, nions and enephants, plus the various colors of gneen, yennow, ned, onange, bnue, and punpne. Oh, and I am generally referred to as Nesho.

I have also been teaching him some random slang, just for kicks. Now, every morning when I come in, I say, "Jamesi! Wassap?" To which he will reply, "Nathin!!!" Sometimes he welcomes me with cries of "Nathin! Nathin! Nathin!"

James' eating habits are also a bit different. He likes to dip whatever he's eating into whatever he's drinking. This works with tea and pancakes. It does not work with bananas and water.

Today he tried to get some rice for me from the pan on the stove. It didn't go well. I ended up turning a blind eye to the chickens that snuck in to peck at the rice spilled all over the floor.

Science Class

2010-08-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

Me: "So, what do you eat?"

Faith: "Kenyans eat posho and beans and chicken and mutton and pork and - "

"What do other people eat?"

"The Karimojong eat porrige and greens. And cow."

"Yes, but what about the mzungus? What do they eat?"

After some thought: "Cookies!"

"Yeeesss....but what else?"

Another pondering moment.

"Chocolate cookies!"

I wish.

Day Two of Teaching.

2010-08-17T07:31:00.000-07:00

I'm learning Kiswahili, slowly by slowly. Wadio wadio. Pole pole.

Today we found out the one-legged chicken is named Trixie.

For Creative Art class, we were talking about different types of songs. For religious songs, we sang Cast Your Burdens and Father Abraham. For National Anthems, I sang the American national anthem. The kids told me it was "nice, but too long". I was surprised I even remembered it.

The scene was a strange one. Me, sitting in the plastic chair, screeching "Oh Say Can You See" over the blaring radio and squawks of Trixie, while my two charges watch in wonder at this weird mzungu.

My latest occupation.

2010-08-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

I am now teaching/tutoring Faith, the daughter of some of our clinic staff. She is a fabulously hilarious child. Our conversations today were enlightening and entertaining. Her little brother, James, climbed all over me and exclaimed loudly in Kiswahili, which Faith had to translate for me. We had all sorts of interesting classes and extracurricular activities, which included

- Science, during which we laughed at the chicken with one leg.

- English - we discussed the differences between wazungu and East Africans. (I say that because Faith is not, in fact, Ugandan, but is from Kenya.) James repeated every English word I said, no matter what it was - a promising student. Although, saying "Okay" about forty million times won't get him very far.

- Math, during which we danced to Wakka Wakka and Waving Flag. Both of the kids amazed me with their skills, James in particular.

- Christian Religious Education, which resulted into a fascinating talk about compassion.

We also had break. Faith informed me that we were to "eat a very delicious pancake."
We did. We also chased the various dogs away (and the chicken with one leg). We watched James wash his face for half an hour. We chatted in Kiswahili/English/Ngakarimojong with the slashers. We drank tea. And I think we all learned something. I shall return tomorrow.

I have a new name.

2010-08-07T10:01:00.000-07:00

I was visiting an HIV support group up in the hills of Moni, a suburb of Mbale. We rode pikis up the steep slopes of Wanale to reach a small brick-and-iron-sheet house beneath a mango tree. A group of women came running out to greet us, smiling and waving.

We wazungu entered the front room of the house and were seated on the chairs they had gotten for us. The rest of the women sat on mats around the room, each talking in various local dialects - Sabiny, Luganda, and Lugisu. Thankfully, we had a translator.

Each woman told her personal story of how AIDS had affected her life. Some had been rejected by friends and family members, forced out to live on their own. Others had been thrown out of their villages. They each told a story of sorrow and loss, each with a huge smile on their face. At the end of each, they would tell of how God had provided for them, whether that be through a friend or a stranger, miraculous or ordinary. For some, He had provided the means to get medecine. For others, He had used a friend to encourage them and take them in when everyone else rejected them.

At the end of their sharing, they asked us to introduce ourselves. I told them that I was living in Karamoja, etc, but forgot to mention my name. They asked what it was and I, embarassed, told them. "Rachel" is generally too much of a mouthful for most non-English speakers. I've tried "Raquel", "Rache", and many others - there's just something about those sounds that is difficult to pronounce.

The ladies decided that I needed a Luganda name. They seemed to pick one at random - that is, until I realized that one of the women there was giving me her name. Nelima. It means "when the fields lie fallow" or "hoeing". When I told them that that's what my Ngakarimojong name means, they laughed and said it must be God's will for me to be named that.

This brings me up to a thrilling total of nine names, birth certificate names included. Six Ugandan, three English.

The Book Currently Occupying My Back Pocket.

2010-07-30T02:16:00.000-07:00

I have started chronicling the interesting things that have happened to me in the form of a small notebook, which I christened A Record Of the Awesome Things Which I Have Done - a name that was soon shortened to The Book Of Awesome. Within it you will find a numbered list of fun/unusual/interesting things which have filled my life. Some are funny, others strange, and a few are quite sad and somber. Each is just a short note jotted down, just enough to spark my memory.

#4. I was three and a half years old. Our family was living in Eritrea, and we were taking a holiday down at Masaawa, a city by the Red Sea. I don't remember much, only details - the crinkly sand, the warm water reflecting the sky, and the quiet babble of voices in the distance.
There was a man walking his camel down the beach, giving people rides on it. One of our visitors rode it for a little while, and naturally I wanted to ride as well. The man switched the huge animal and it knelt. I was lifted up onto it and it stood - back legs first, front legs second - wobbily lifting me up. I clutched the wooden saddle and declared loudly that I was going to fall off. I didn't.
I remember looking out across the waves, the hot air tossing my clothes. I petted some of the camel's hump in front of me, hoping it was my friend, til the owner let me down again.

#120. My siblings and I were in Kampala with some friends at one of the supermarkets, generally going berserk. It was one of the really nice ones with aisles and everything. We ran/leapt around, picking up things for dinner (hot
dogs and bread) and having a hilarious time. We came around a corner into an aisle entirely filled with tomato products. We couldn't remember the last time we'd seen something so strange, so we decided to dance.
Too late did we notice the massive security camera pointing at us, and we dissolved into raucous laughter, collapsing over the ketchup and tomato paste.

#59. I walked through a shoestore barefoot. There isn't much more to say than that. The staff chased me down, trying to assuade a definitely potential customer.

#70 I was in an Indian supermarket (this one had aisles too, but far fewer. For those of you that know, it was Janam.) purchasing the usual necessities - chocolate, soda, etc. They had some Bollywood tunes on that I was generally tuning out, but suddenly it hit me. That "I know this song" moment. And indeed I did. It was a killer hit from one of my favorite Bolly's, Kal Ho Nal Ho (I'm sure you know the one). I started humming along as I waited for my groceries, then some additional percussing followed. The guy behind the counter began staring, as did the other attendants. When I reached him, he asked in a shocked whisper, "You know Bollywood?!?!?!"

These memories are thrilling to me, and I have noticed that this blog has been quite lacking as of late. Now, whenever I am dry of inspiration, I shall turn to The Book for ideas.

My favorite place

2010-07-22T09:08:00.000-07:00

Mbale is, if nothing else, a very interesting town. It has countless little shops in a very disorganized sort of order, from hardware stores to cosmetics to groceries. The owners of these shops always provide hilarious conversation whether it be related to your purchase or not.

Since I am a mzungu - white person - I am almost always overcharged. It's just how things go - part of the bartering process. Yesterday, someone charged me four times the going rate for a pair of shoes. Their reason - "You are white. I know you have money." I left immediately without the shoes.

This sometimes means that shopkeepers are more eager to do business with you. Your disinterest in their products may be taken for a sly pokerface in the game of bartering. Two weeks ago, I was shopping in the market, when spotted a bright yellow wrap and inquired the price. "Twenty-five." I attempted to leave it, not in the mood for bargaining. "Twenty! Okay, fifteen!" I still declined. "Ten! Nine!" Finally, the desperate storeowner came down to a reasonable price, pressing the material into my arms. I bought the wrap.

I've been known to take pity on the pedicurists that roam the streets with their baskets of nail varnish and brushes, yelling, "Cutlet! Cutlet!" I'm not sure exactly what that is referring to, but they do excellent work. My toenails usually sport their expert handiwork.

The hairdressers are usually more than eager to try their hands at mzungu hair, so I am always welcome at the various salons around the town. The ladies always insist on plaiting my hair into the most ludicrous fashions possible, twisting my scalp till tears come to my eyes. Their various children find this most amusing, and sit and stare at me while I undergo horrible torture.

I have often wondered why the shoe market seems to be the place to get yelled at. So far, I have not compiled any viable theory, but the lure of hundreds of shoes and cheap trinkets is too strong for me to resist. On one particular corner, there is a very nice man who sells Obama flip-flops and is convinced that I am Chinese. I don't really mind it so much, but he really wants me to introduce him to Jackie Chan. I'm afraid I'm going to have to let him down.

The piki drivers are everywhere, trying to pick up passengers for their motorcycle taxi services. Mzungus are prime targets, so I am constantly pursued by a stream of motorbikes, with drivers all trying to get my attention. "We go?" they holler, even after I shake my head and keep walking. Once you do need a ride, all you have to do is stand by the curb and say, "Piki?" and they will appear, all jostling and trying to run over your toes in the process.

There's nothing like it anywhere else - walking down the crowded sidewalks at dusk, trying not to trip over the uneven concrete slabs with your arms full of groceries, the weariness of a good day setting in. I love it. I really do.

Mbale. Most likely my favorite place in Uganda. Possibly in the entire world.

It's amazing what can make someone's day

2010-07-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

The P. 1. class at Nakaale Primary School was having trouble paying attention, as usual. The one hundred plus kids sat/stood around the room on broken pieces of brick, benches and desks, each one fidgeting and chattering. Even the windowsills were full of squirming kids, each fighting for a seat. The cement dust that filled the air was causing the kids to cough and sneeze all over each other. The kids were all squabbling over the slates and slate chalk that were being passed out, fights that could only be broken up by a switch.

I stood at the front of the class, chalk in one hand, slate in the other, trying to properly demonstrate how to draw the letter "A". I had a switch tucked under one arm that I kept having to bring out and shake at the kids, banging the stick on the desks to try and keep order. None of them were listening.

"Lomongin! Listen! - No, Moses, stop that! Stop yelling, Petero! Emmy, sit down. Moses! Be quiet! Lomongin, I told you to be quiet!" and so on. My sisters roamed the classroom with switches and slates, trying to maintain order. The slate I was holding was giving me trouble. I was having to hold it over my head so that all the kids could see it, and still it wasn't big enough.

Inspiration struck. I handed my slate and chalk to Anna and dashed out of the classroom, skidding over the pitted, dusty walkway to the P.3 classroom. As I had suspected, the class was having "reading groups" and the teacher was nowhere to be seen. I pointed to a cracked piece of plywood that had been painted black - the blackboard - that was leaning against the wall in the front of the room. "Can I use this for P.1?" The kids looked at me askance, and I grabbed the plywood.

"You." I pointed, "And you. Carry this desk." Two of the P.3 boys rose and picked up the desk, following me out of the room.

As I entered the P.1 classroom, the plywood held over my head, the entire class leapt to its feet and burst into a simultaneous cheer: "YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!" I had the P.3 boys set the desk at the front of the room - amidst the clapping and cheering - and we set the plywood up on it, using a rock to keep it there. I turned to see all of the little P.1 kids on their feet, applauding and yelling, huge grins on every face. I assumed my stern teacher face, trying desperately to keep my authoritative air.

I raised my switch in the air and waved a hand. "Be quiet, sit down." The class complied, still beaming wholeheartedly. They sat like a hundred or so little angels, each one looking up at me expectantly. I turned back to the plywood - a ragged, chipped piece that sagged pathetically against the wall. I raised my piece of chalk and began, tucking my switch beneath one arm.

"This is the letter 'A'."

walking down the road.

2010-06-13T07:34:00.000-07:00

"Mzungu!"

Big round eyes set in an angelic face stare wonderingly up at me

Adorable little boy, waving frantically as I pass him on the street

A huge grin, spreading through his entire being

A smile tugs at my mouth as I try to be firm.

"My name is not mzungu."

"Ah!"

A derisive laugh comes from a pair of perfectly shaped lips.

"Give me money."

All of a sudden, that face isn't so beautiful.

"No."

The gorgeous child makes a crude hand gesture and runs off,

his mocking laughter rings in my ears as I hurry away,

my skin glowing in the noontime sun.

One of my many grandmothers.

2010-05-17T04:40:00.001-07:00

"Hello, mama," I said, "It's me, Nakor(u)."

Her sightless eyes shifted back and forth as her face broke into a huge smile. "Nakor(u)! How are you?"

"I am fine, grandmother. I have been sick for the past few days, but I'm getting better. I haven't seen you in a while - how is your place?"

"I've never seen you!" We laughed. "Our place is fine. The baby is well. My daughter" - here she reached out, grasping for her daughter's hand - "is fine."

"I'm going home now - my head is hurting. Greet all in Kopetatum."

"Yes, child, you go home and rest. You will get better. Greet everyone I haven't seen!"

I love her.

After Kopetatum village burned down last year, we went to see if we could help with the rebuilding. My dear "grandmother", Tata, who has no family save her daughter and granddaughter, was in need of some help. So I joined them in the mudding of the house. Her daughter, Namer, would carry water and dirt, I would mix it and carry it into the house, and Tata would throw it onto the frame that would support the mud walls.

After a while of bending over, her back became sore, so she took my hand and showed me how to throw the mud onto the walls properly. I took over for her for a while, so that she could go rest. I did what I considered to be a fairly good job, slapping huge chunks of mud into the spaces. Since the house had already been thatched, it was quite dark inside, so it wasn't an easy job for someone who relied on their eyes. The smoking remains of a fire only added to my discomfort, and soon I was sweating, aching, sooty, and covered in mud.

When Tata returned, she ran her hands over the walls. "No," she said. "You have to throw harder. It isn't going deep enough." She bent down and felt around for the mud pile, not knowing I was already bending over it. Our heads collided with a CRACK. Pain exploded in the back of my head and I fell forwards.

"Ai....aiee....." As the stars cleared from my vision, I turned and saw Tata clutching her forehead. "Sorry, Tata, sorry..." I said, still reeling.

She moved her hand out of the way and leaned towards me. "Is it bleeding?"

"No."

"Okay, good. " She put her hand on it again. "Aiee...."

When I was leaving, she thanked me. "You can't give us money."

"No, I can't."

"So you gave us your strength. Thank you for helping me. You are my daughter."

"Thank you, Tata. I am your daughter."

A Series of Notes I Jotted Down About Our Bible Study Today In Hopes to Write a Blog Based Upon, but Then Liked Them the Way They Were

2010-05-11T04:03:00.001-07:00

little baby girl on her sister's back
reaches out for me as we stood waiting in the village
grabbed my hand, turning the fingertips white
and I knew that I was caught
finally, she was pulled away
we walked together out of the village, avoiding the crabby cows
I led singing
as I held the pictures, she reached up a hand for me, toothless gums bared in a precious smile
I grinned back and took her hand
she toddled over, staggering precociously
clutched my skirt, tugging it dangerously
sent her back to her sister
I felt a little chubby weight hit my skirt, pulling it.
I look down, and she's wrapped around one of my legs, clutching my skirt in her chubby fists, smiling and smiling.
she loves me.
adoration in her eyes
Mary comes over and peels her off me
she stares into Mary's eyes, mesmerized by the blue, and we're able to get her off.

time for prayer.
Mr. Clawson stands before the children.
"Let's pray"
all of a sudden, a rumble of rocks and hooves.
bullfight
great hulking bodies in the sunlight, muscles quivering with every collision
jarring, hitting eachother
a white bull, triumphant, the black one lying down submissively, being shoved
over and over and over again.
kids shrieking
men yelling in dismay
throwing sticks and rocks.
cursing at their animals stupidity
the lowing of the cows, like a crowd at a game.
The white one trots off finally, horns held high.
The victor.
Is the black one hurt?
It still lies silently.
The men push it, it stands.
Neck lowered, it walks off slowly.

We herd the kids back to the tree.
"Let's pray."

we walk back through the overflowing culvert
stop and savour the icy water, grinning at each other
the public pool is open
brown bodies gleam in the murky water
we watch enviously - no bilharsia for us.
back home. Teatime.

It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.

2010-05-06T02:52:00.000-07:00

"I wish I could go home," he said. "I love this country. I love it. But it's not home for me."
"Well, you could go home," Mma Ramotswe said. She nodded in the direction of the border, not far across a few miles of scrub bush, behind the hills. "You could go home now, couldn't you? There's nothing stopping you."
"That place is not home anymore," he said. "I left it so long ago, I don't feel at home there."
"And this place? Here?"
"It's where I live. But I can't ever belong here, can I? I will never be from this place. I will never be one of these people, no matter how long I stay. I'll always be an outsider."
She knew what he meant. It was all very well for her, she thought; she knew exactly where she came from and where she belonged, but there were many people who did not, who had been uprooted, forced out by need or victimisation, by being simply the wrong people in the wrong place. There were many such people in Africa, and they ate a very bitter fruit; they were extra, unwanted persons, like children who are not loved. '

-- "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive" by Alexander McCall Smith

The everlasting quandry I find myself in every moment of every day.

"I am a traveller.
You call me stranger.
No matter where I go,
I don't belong.
But, still my restless heart
Is ever moving
No matter where I am
I am at home."

Rainy Season lunch

2010-03-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

The rainy season has come. Finally. We dug out the garden, planted it, and set thorns around it. In the early mornings, the far-off yells of the men plowing the fields can be heard.

Yesterday morning, we noticed an abnormal amount of hawks and kites in the sky. "White ants," someone casually observed.

On my way to lunch, I was hailed by Maria and Josh Tricarico: "Rachel! Want to help us?!?!"

They were catching the many white ants that thickened the air around our mission. Naturally, I ran over and, seizing a kaveera (plastic bag), I joined their frantic attempts at catching the termites. We dashed about, arms and legs flapping, as we tried to snatch, net, and slap the elusive insects. Kipsy joined us after a while, and we each staked out a different termite hole to wait for the ants to fly out.

By the end, we had about 50 or so bugs. We all trooped into the main kitchen, sweaty and dusty, carrying our rustling kaveeras with pride.

Then came the question of how to prepare them. We'd all eaten and cooked white ants before, but couldn't remember how. We settled on frying them - preheating the pan for a quick, painless death. We dumped them into the pan with a little oil and watched them writhe for a split second, then lie still.

"What should we put in them?" someone asked.

We looked at eachother, then I suggested, "Indian termites?"

A little garam masala, some turmeric, ginger, garlic, coriander and cumin. Kipsy "accidentally" dumped in a bunch of thai seasoning as well. The kitchen was filled with the spicy smell, and we all started grinning in anticipation.

I turned off the stove and we lined up at the counter to get our rice and beans. We topped it off with our newfound delicacy and carried our heaped plates into the main room, showing them off to the fairly disgusted members of our mission. The four of us sat down at the table together and raised a spoonful of lunch.

"1....2...3..." We put them into our mouths and began chewing. At first, it was great - salty, spicy, mixing well with the rice and beans. Then I voiced what we were all thinking:

"Oh man....we forgot about the sand...we didn't wash them..."

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

A typical roadside conversation

2010-03-19T01:46:00.001-07:00

"Mzungu! I love you!"

"No, you don't!"

"Yes! I want to marry you!"

"Why?"

"Because....you are a white lady..."

Right. Great reason.

A Bit Brown.

2010-03-05T00:08:00.000-08:00

The latest question on everyone's mouth - "Whoa! Can she understand Ngakarimojong?"

To which I answer, "Yes, she can."

After the laughter settles, the second question - "Are you a Karimojong?"

"Uh...."

This is where one of my Karimojong friends breaks in : "Yes! Yes she is! See?"

Racism comes in many forms. It can be everything from someone screaming and spitting on you because of your skin color to a sidelong sneer and a clipped comment in the checkout line about how you apparently think you're better than everyone else. Recently I've been noticing it a lot more - perhaps it's because I'm getting older, but I've had more and more interactions where my skin color apparently made a lot of difference.

But then again, I am a Karimojong - or so they tell me. A real Karimojong. One who can grind corn, mud a house, carry a child and keep the wisecracks coming. And one who can laugh at any situation. Yes, I am a Karimojong. That's me. Nakor(u) Naris Nakim Angolere Kokoi Teresa. (I've been given countless names - most of which I can't remember. ) So why is there still so much trouble here? Why do I still get harassed?

Because I am white, I guess. To those that know me, I'm the in-between. They tell me I am not white and not black. And yet I am both. They tell me I am "a bit brown". They tell me that I am a true Karimojong inside, but my outside is white. I am between colors. A bit brown.

The Kampala Run

2009-12-04T03:39:00.000-08:00

The long drive all the way from Nakaale. Even as I type, I am sitting in our van in traffic - watching cars, trucks, pikis, pedestrians, bicyclists, lorries and hawkers pass us on this narrow Kampala road. So far today I have gone from a scenic, open savanna scattered with mud huts to the totally packed streets of Kampala. So diverse, yet so beautiful - each in its own way.

Nakaale - the open, free landscape. Constant breezes blowing to and fro. To the west of our house, a wide plain covered in acacias and thorn bushes. To the east, the empress Mt. Kadam and her foothills. At night, the pounding of drums fills the wind. In the daytime, the hot sun lashes down, scorching everything within its reach. Quiet, beautiful, and serene - a tribute to God's wonderful creation.

Kampala - a crowded, constantly bustling city. People everywhere. Vehicles pack the streets. Peddlers walk to and fro among the traffic, selling their wares at car windows. Stores crowd the streetsides, clustering together all along the roads. Pikis and bodas zip around the vehicles, often barely dodging accidents. Posters and signs advertizing everything from phone service to sugar are plastered all over trees, sidewalks, streetlamps, walls, and houses. At night, the heavy bass beats of discos echo through the buildings. During the day, the noise of thousands of voices speaking in all different languages fills the air. Cows, goats and chickens wander about the streets. Countless sounds, smells and sights.

My love of this place grows every day. The diversity, the beauty, the fascinating differences in cultures. Everywhere I look, I see something beautiful. God did a wonderful thing in bringing me here.

2009-03-31T02:13:00.000-07:00

There are many phonetic and linguistical differences between Ngakarimojong and English. Both cultures find the other language difficult to speak, partly because of their different phonetic sounds - sounds that the other culture is accustomed to speaking naturally.

For instance:
In Ngakarimojong, some letters are interchangeable - s and th, f and p, l and r. Most of this is just the fact that they can't really hear the difference. In English, there is a MAJOR difference if you switch out certain letters. "Put it there" becomes "Foot it there" and so on.
I love these little cultural differences. It makes life hilarious. E.g.....

It was a nice, sunny day in Karamoja. I was baking bread in our kitchen, sweat running down my face. As I set the dough aside to rise, I heard a strange noise coming in the window - a sort of garbled yelling.

I leaned out the kitchen door to hear my youngest sister's voice raised in song.

"Raaaaaaamen!!!" she sang as she skated across the cement pad. Her song was echoed by five Karimojong kids leaning against our chainlink fence -

"LLAAAAAMEEENNN!!!!!!" they cried.

I started to smile. Anna and Mary came to the door, along with Megan, our teacher. We all started laughing.

"Sister RAMEN!!!!" cried Kipsy as she swung around a pole.

"THIITHTA LLAMEN!!!!"

"How I love you!!!!"

"'OW AA RAV OOO!!!"

"Raa - amen!!!!"

"LAA-AMENNN!!!!!"

By this time, we were all entirely dying of laughter. Kipsy then proceeded to replace "Ramen" with all the names of her various siblings. We all stood in the kitchen, cracking up at their "Karimojonglish".

Kipsy slouched into Math class this morning, a disgruntled air about her.

"What's up, Kip?" I asked.

"Dude. The Lamen kids are outside again, and I want to go sing."

Her face broke into a bemused grin as she watched me collapse with laughter.

Like I said, it makes life hilarious.

heaven-sent comic relief

2009-03-16T01:25:00.000-07:00

We were driving through Kampala at night, going back to the house where we were staying. Conversation was at a minimum, and we all stared out the windows, earnestly wishing for the traffic to move more quickly.

Mary started giggling. "That lady stuck her tongue out at me!" she said, pointing out the window.

We all shushed her and resumed staring out at the traffic.

"No, really!" she insisted, pointing at a matatu (taxi) that was pulling up alongside us.

Sure enough, in the back seat, there was a middle-aged woman making faces at us, sticking out her tongue and waving her arms. They started giggling, and the rest of us couldn't help smiling. The matatu fell behind again, and we all burst into conversation - "Did you see that?" "What was she doing?"

A few minutes later, heralded by "Here she comes!" and "Look, look, there she is!"the matatu came alongside of us again, the woman still making faces at us. I smiled and waved, and she paused her antics to grin back momentarily before resuming the show. This time, we all laughed out loud until the traffic moved her out of sight.

The matatu passed us again and again, and every time the hilarity grew until we were gasping for breath. Even the parents were chuckling.

Finally, the matatu pulled over to unload, and our van burst into cries of, "Aw,
man!" and "That was hilarious!" We then started doing imitations of her more funny moments, and everyone was soon laughing again.

I glimpsed a dark hand raised above the traffic, waving goodbye, and I waved back until I could see it no longer.

Giving Thanks

2009-01-19T03:51:00.000-08:00

For every year that I can remember, it has drizzled on Christmas Eve. This year was no exception, and when it came I danced barefoot in the yard while the dogs snuffled bewilderdly at me.

Unfortunately, this also means that the blow-dried air finally has some moisture to soak up and keep us all nice and toasty warm. After months of burning, chapping and peeling, even the slightest humidity was unbearable. Our Christmas was pleasantly lethargic, for we all decided that napping was the best acitvity for the day. I, unfortunately, had a terrible sore throat that kept me out of action for most of the day. (We found out later that I had strep throat)

Christmas dinner was at four o' clock. The food was wonderful, and we all smiled and laughed at each other over our heaped plates. Afterwards, most of the women went out to visit the dance that was going on, but I chose to remain behind.

Em Tricarico and I went back over to my house, where we made a pot of tea and went up to the observation deck on the top of my house. There we sat, the cool breeze dancing through our hair, as we listened to the birds chirping and watched the sun plunge beneath the horizon, splashing color all over the clouds.

There are some evenings where the sunset is a brilliant collage of color, all reds, golds and purples. Other evenings, the sun blazes gold as it sets, brilliant and beautiful. My favorite, however, is when the sun sets as a single ruby, dropping into the waters of the African horizon.

It was fitting, I think, that on Christmas night, when miles away other families are watching the snow pile up, worrying about the icy roads, that I was sitting on our roof, watching the gorgeous African sunset over the savannah. This evening, the skyline featured a glowing golden bauble dropping from the sky's tree to land and shatter on the floor, sending up bits of colored wrapping paper all over the clouds. As it hit the horizon, it sent up a great wave of gold, beams of light streaming out over the sky. The clouds were splattered with bits of smeary color, dimming slowly.

We talked for a time, then sat silently, contemplating the gorgeous theatre playing out before us. "This is nice," one of us said.

"Yeah...this is nice." the other returned.

We went on like this for a while, sipping our tea. We'd brewed it African chai style with plenty of tea masala - a spice mix made specifically for tea. It is impossible to translate the joy of tea masala to those who've never tasted it's spicy, rich, biting flavor. All in all, any experience in which one has their feet up and a mug of chai in hand is a thoroughly pleasant one.

"And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good." (Genesis 1:31)

A poolside Christmas

2008-12-22T06:06:00.000-08:00

Our family had a great time this past week at our annual mission retreat. It was a
fun time of swimming, shopping, eating and fellowship. Every morning and
evening, we would gather for hymn singing and worship, but most of every day
was spent in the pool. It's a rare treat to go swimming here, and we wanted to
enjoy every minute of it.

On our last evening, we gathered after dinner to sing some Christmas carols. I
dragged myself out of the pool to play guitar accompaniement, and sat shivering and dripping in the middle of the conference hall with my parents. We tuned up our instruments, and soon had the room echoing with praise. I tried to keep a steady rhythm as my mom caught up the melody in her violin and my dad decorated it with complicated picking from his guitar. The music soared through the room, sending shivers down my back.

Partway through our caroling, a woman walked in with her two children. One of the pastors pulled up some chairs for her and she joined in our singing. I personally think the singing got significantly louder at that point, for we realized that the others at the hotel could hear us.

It was then that I realized how much Christmas really means. No matter where you are, people can lay down their weapons and rejoice together. Everyone can identify with the sound of Christmas carols and the joy associated with them. It's not a season of gifts and tinsel. It's a season of love.

Sitting there in that conference room, listening to the shivering echoes as the joyful carols reverberated through the room, I was struck by the awesome mercy of our Father. John 3:16 rang through my head as if someone was sitting next to me shouting it in my ear.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son
That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish
But have everlasting life."

Rejoice, rejoice. Emmanuel has come to thee, O Israel.

2008-12-11T06:48:00.000-08:00

As I walked through the village the other day, calling the children for Bible study, I happened across the sister-in-law of one of our guards. She was grinding corn in the shade of her hut, laughing and talking with the other women who were working with her. When she saw me approaching, she cried out and threw herself on the sun-baked ground in front of my feet, raising little clouds of dust where she landed.

The women sitting nearby laughed and asked her what she was doing. She replied, still lying facedown in the dirt in front of me, "This is the white woman who prayed for me at the clinic! She healed me!"

Shocked, I knelt next to her. "No, it wasn't me who healed you, it wasn't me!" I said over and over again, trying to get her to listen.

Meanwhile, the children who had assembled for the Bible study gathered around to see what the commotion was. My translator joined them, and began helping me reason with her.

"God healed you," we said, "It was not any white person's prayer."

For a little while she resisted, but eventually she listened to our pleading.

"Oh," she said.

She rose and brushed herself off, then shook our hands and proceeded with us to the Bible study, a huge, gleaming smile on her face smeared with dust and sweat.

By The Grace

2008-11-26T05:46:00.000-08:00

We were cruising down the dusty dirt road, swerving and bouncing over potholes. All of us were laughing and talking, our early Thanksgiving dinner still heavy in our stomachs. I was sitting right behind the driver's seat, playing music on our laptop while discussing various bands and singers with my parents and sister.

I heard my mom yell and I clutched the computer as my dad slammed on the brakes. The sound of our car horn filled my ears as we skidded forward, our wheels locked. I looked up through the windshield to see a pair of t-shirt clad shoulders smash into the glass with a dull, heart-stopping crunch. The man's head cracked into the already smashed glass as his bicycle flipped under the car.

My dad leapt out of the now stopped car and ran over to the man, who leapt to his feet and immediately started demanding money. The rest of us in the car breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God for his amazing grace.

My dad took the man to the police station, where there was much argumentation over what really happened. The man seemed convinced that we had tried to kill him. One of the police officers said, "If that man had wanted to kill you, he would have killed you properly!"As it turns out, he got away with a large bruise and a scratch.

His bicycle and our windshield were not so lucky.

2008-11-13T09:55:00.000-08:00

All of the white people I have observed driving will firmly grab the stick shift and thrust it back and forth by the top of the handle, jarring the car into whatever gear he or she thinks most necessary at that point in time. While watching our ambulance driver, I noticed that he gently cradles the side of the handle in his hand, and only grips it firmly when he is changing gears. Even then, however, he will keep his hand on the side, never resting his palm on the top of the stick shift.

It was on the way to Tokora hospital with a handful of sick babies and their various parents in the back of our Land Rover that I made this comparison. I was going to visit little Lomongin at the hospital where he had been transferred. I hadn't been to the hospital since we arrived in Karamoja in 2000, eight years ago.

We pulled up outside of a large, one-story building. I was surprised to see many patients lying outside on mats or blankets. The nurse from our clinic, Abura, explained, "They want to be outside".

I inquired as to the whereabouts of Lomongin, but was surprised and delighted to hear that he had been discharged. The woman at the desk refused to specify, but she said his condition was determined 'stable'. Whether he was discharged on hospice or not I don't know. I can only hope he had recovered enough to not need the care of the hospital.

The nurse from our clinic, Abura, gave me a tour of the hospital. We visited the pediatric ward. It was all empty, save one tiny baby lying on a bed, a quinine drip attached to his head. His mother sat next to him, and Abura asked her some questions about the time the baby had been on the drip, where they were from, etc. That gave me time to take pictures of the hospital's caved-in roof, the mosquito nets held up by sticks tied to the beds, and the many mattress-less beds.

We then ventured to the maternity ward, in which there was a door off to the side with a clumsy sign written on a scrap of posterboard in marker:
LAUBOR ROOM

( I didn't spell that wrong)

There were only two women in the room, one of whom was talking animatedly with someone outside in what sounded like a Southwestern Ugandan dialect. The other was a young Karimojong girl who sat, staring out the window. I remembered what one of my Karimojong friends had told me - "They send you to Tokora to die."

This girl obviously seemed to believe that.

We went on to visit the men's ward. It was relatively full compared to the other two. For every man in a bed, there was a wife and young child on the floor next to them. One man, wrapped entirely in a blanket, was sitting with his back to me. I thought he must be a young boy or something, for his head and neck were unusually slim for a fully grown man.

As he turned around, I realized that I was terribly wrong.

Bloodshot eyes stared out at me from a ghastly skull-like face. His cheeks were completely sunken in so that the cheekbones jutted out like knives. He raised a hand in greeting, and I saw that it was literally skin and bone, every phalanx visible in horrible detail.

I was so disturbed by his appearance that it took me a while to muster up the courage to speak to him. I greeted him and walked cautiously over to his bed. As I reached his bedside, I glanced down and noticed a tiny little baby lying wrapped up in a blanket on the floor next to him. I asked, "Is this your child?"

He said yes, she was.

I asked her name.

His hollow eyes glowed with love, and a smile creased the skin stretched across his face. "Tiyan", he whispered "Tiyan."

We talked some more and I told him I would pray for him. He thanked me and I left, feeling a horrible empty sadness for the man and his tiny daughter.

I visited the hospital again today and no one could tell me where he was. Someone else was in his bed, and there was no sign of him or his daughter anywhere.

2008-11-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

It was about 2:59 pm. I was sitting in my room on the computer, listening to my ipod while typing an email. It had been another "grueling" day at the clinic. I took another sip of my home-brewed vanilla latte, and while doing so glanced at the clock and noticed that I was almost late.

A few minutes later I was running out the door, dressed in my 'village skirt', heading for the main compound to pick up the pictures for the bible study at the largest village in our area, Moru Athia. I walked down the dusty path, greeting all who passed, and, whether or not I had ever seen them before in my life, they all knew my name. I splashed and kicked through the gleaming river which had run over the road, then slipped and skidded through some of the muddier parts of the path.

As I reached the turn off of the main road onto the dirt path, I saw a few of my faithful attendees at the borehole, pumping til their jerrycans overflowed full of preciously clean water. There was a tiny little girl at the pump, leaping up and down to give the handle the momentemum it needed to bring forth the water. It was an unmercifully hot day, with the sun beating it's whiplike rays down on my Caucasian skin. I asked her if I could have some water. She grinned from ear to ear, nodding frantically, and jerked the creaky handle up and down with renewed vigor. I gathered up some of the gleaming water in one hand and splashed it over my face, then proceeded to drink my fill.

In return, I carried her jerrycan - overflowing with every step - back to the village. As we walked, we accumulated an admiring crowd of shepherd boys, girls on their way back from the borehole, and sheep. As we neared the village, I noticed a crowd of men in intense discussion by a tree outside of the village. At first glance, it seemed an important meeting of some sort. At second glance - a card game.

We walked through the village, calling the usual, "Potu akilip! Ngidwe daadang!" or "Come for prayers! All the children!" The enthusiatic kids soon joined in the calling, and some of the older ones ran into homes and came back out carrying little children. I started humming one of our praise songs, "Potu Ikinyariatae" (Come, You Are Called), and a few of the children started picking it up. Pretty soon our single-file line was belting out the catchy song, marching through the convoluded dirt-and-cowpie path until we came out the opposite side of the village to a large tamarind tree, our customary meeting place.

We continued singing as more and more children poured out of the village, little girls hitching up their skirts as they ran, while boys grasped their blankets and walking sticks, all making valiant attempts to keep their clothing about them. Finally, when I asked if they would like to sing some more or have the story, they chose the latter.

This week's feature was 'Joseph Gets Sold into Slavery'. They loved Joseph's coat, and one of the shepherd boys jokingly asked me where he could get a blanket like that one of Joseph. When Joseph's brothers threw him into the pit, there was much sympathetic shaking of heads and quiet 'tsk tsk's. Overall, they did rather well for a crowd of about eighty kids sitting on top of eachother amidst heaps of jagged stone, swatting the plentiful flies that crowded their sweaty faces.

Then it was vitamin time. A while ago, we started handing out vitamins for good behavior, and they soon became a regular part of the bible study routine. The kids call them "etamtam", which means "sweets" or candy in their language. (originally from Kiswahili decent - etamu-tamu = sweet-sweet) Unfortuately, this week we were about forty sweets short. So one of the older boys and I broke each one into at least three pieces and handed them out to the mob of frantic children. Once they were gone, I gave the empty bottle to the aforesaid older boy who had been exceedingly helpful in crowd control. He was completely ecstatic.

As my translator and I walked back down the pebbly maram road, I noticed one of the children from my bible study sitting by the road a little way off, obviously collapsing with fatigue. He stood up and picked up a gunny sack half-full of maize and lifted it to his head, staggering under the weight. We caught up with him and relieved him of his burden by transferring it to the top of my head. Pretty soon he was skipping along next to me, clutching my sweaty hand in his, a gap-toothed smile adorning his face. All the skipping made it even harder for me to balance the precarious bundle, which was leaking the occasional kernel out of it's loosely tied opening.

We finally got the troublesome corn to 'emachine', the grinding mill. Every eye in the place was staring at the white girl trying to carry a ridiculously small amount of maize on her head. I set it on the ground next to the child, whose tiny chest was puffed out with pride as he slowly looked around to make sure everyone knew that the emusugut girl had carried his maize for him. I shook hands with a few people, then hitchhiked back home on our mission ambulance just as the sun began to hang a deep yellow over the horizon.

2008-11-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

I was just finishing up my work at the clinic - tallying receipts, recording drug orders - when a family came rushing in. The sweat pouring down their faces told me that they had run a long way, and as I took their medical book, I saw that they had run for about two miles, from a place called Alamacar (the c makes a 'ch' sound). The mother of the family was carrying a child of about eight on her back, tied on with a dirty blanket. They were all hysterical and out of breath. I asked, "Is this the sick child?"

The father answered an emphatic, "Yes, he's very sick! Please, help us, he can't move his neck, he's very sick..."

I froze. A stiff neck is the sign of a critical case of meninghitis. I looked at the child, who was grimacing with pain, and, though he was hanging precariously from his mother's back, was holding his head straight upright.

I checked them in and let them go on, then finished tallying up the receipts, including one for the child's IV medicine. I got up to leave, and noticed one of the nurses tying on a mask around his mouth and nose. This confirmed my theory of the child's condition, so I walked over to the hallway between the pharmacy and the nurses' offices that serves as our ER.

The family - his father, mother, brother, aunt and baby cousin - was crowded around the child, who was still wrapped in the ragged blanket and lying on the table. The nurse was preparing an IV carefully, and stepped forwards, blocking my view, so I ventured around the back of the pharmacy, so as to come around the other side.

It was then that it hit me. I walked over to one of the many staff members who was relaxing against the sink for cleaning slides and asked, "Do you think it would be okay if I prayed with them?

He said, "Yes, that would be very good."

I walked over to the family and stumbled out a few broken Ngakarimojong phrases, hoping I was saying what I meant. They nodded and murmured quiet thanks.

We all watched silently as the nurse inserted the IV into the child's arm. It was then that I noticed that his mother was cradling his head in one hand, with another on his forehead. She stood protectively over him, gazing down at his face, smoothing the sweat off of his brow. Once the IV was in place, the nurse stepped back and the father took the child's hand with the IV in it in his own. I stepped up into their little circle and asked if they would like to pray. They all nodded and said yes. I called over one of the translators and began to pray.

Once I finished, I thanked them and told them I would keep praying. So I ask you who read this to also call out to God for this child. His name is Lomongin. Meninghitis is a serious disease, and we had a bad epidemic a few years ago that killed many. A stiff neck is a dangerous sign, and usually people who get that far don't make it.

Please, pray for this child.

(Note: I wrote this a while ago. He has since been discharged from the hospital, thanks be to God. Continued prayers will be appreciated, however.)

Mysterious Ways

2008-10-31T08:12:00.000-07:00

I recently took up a volunteer job as a receptionist at our medical clinic. I work in the afternoons, when there aren't many patients, especially after about 2:00pm. So the other clinic staff and I spend that time hanging out, discussing the latest news, favorite football teams, and whatever else comes to mind.

Yesterday it was a particularly slow day. I had brought along a battered copy of the Two Towers, and read it while sitting at the reception desk, leaning out of the sun and into the shade. The tin metal roof of the reception/waiting area was amplifying the equatorial sun until sweat ran like water off of everyone's skin. The staff members - mostly male - lounged around on the half-wall of the area, chatting leisurely. One of the nurse's five year old daughter climbed up onto the wall in between her father and a young man, who were chatting amiably. The girl pointed to a carved bone cross the young man wore around his neck. "What is that?" she asked.

He answered simply, "The cross."

Her five-year-old brow furrowed in confusion. "What's a cross?"

He glanced back down at her, then turned and bent down so he was eye-to-eye with her. He took hold of the cross and began to tell her the story of the Good News. His soft, melodious voice filled the room and soon almost everyone was listening.

The Two Towers was soon forgotten. I gazed, mesmerized, as he told the story of our Saviour's woe. It lasted for only a few minutes, but I was completely spell-bound, staring over the top of my book at the story-teller and the listener. As soon as he finished the brief rendition of the glorious resurrection, he glanced around and noticed his audience. He looked over at me and I was shaken out of my trance. I blushed and grinned sheepishly at him. He smiled back and pointed at me, saying to the girl, "See, even the white people know this story."