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. )

The first two weeks home.

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

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

Where I've been.....

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.

                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...

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

"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.

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.

My latest occupation.

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.

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.

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

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

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.