Four and a half months later....

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. )

Biscuits

"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

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.

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.

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!

Ngitomwonangikanikauni

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.

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

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

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.

James.

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

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.

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.

It's amazing what can make someone's day

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'."

The Kampala Run

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.