Gratification

There is something almost gratifying about washing my clothes by hand. Here are the clothes that have walked with me through the dirt and dust, they too have been touched by greasy, dirty hands, and they have inevitably had my every meal wiped/spilled/splashed upon them…to clean these clothes requires a great deal of strength and a large amount of soap and water. Looking at the bucket of dirty water left behind by my freshly scrubbed clothes cleanses more than my wardrobe. 

I can’t help but think, “I did this.” I have cleaned so that I may start again. 

Very gratifying indeed. 

It’s too bad that drying them on the line always leaves them sort of crunchy…clean…but crunchy. 

With love,

Kristen

A series of journal thoughts...Part 5

Shit in this world.

Writer’s note: I wrote this during my third week, which was a week after the bus accident. I didn’t post it then because I didn’t want my already worried mother to become even more worried. However, it is even truer today as it was a month ago. Another note, parents might want to pre-screen this one before letting their kids read. 

It’s amazing to me that the more shit I witness in this world, the less it seems to affect me.

I pray that I will not someday become a bitter, untrusting old woman. I hope instead to reach old age as a compassionate and immensely understanding woman; a woman who sees the world through clear eyes… all the good and all the bad.

So far in life, I understand that each of us has the potential for both good and bad within us.  It seems as if we have control of our actions and therefore the ability to control whether good or bad behaviors prevail. Sometimes, this is something we cannot do alone. 

These beliefs became real to me on the way back from Queen Elizabeth National Park, when--in broad daylight-- I was awoken from a nap by the sudden stop of our vehicle and loud shouting in the distance. I looked out the front window to find a mob of people in the middle of the road about 100 yards ahead. All traffic stopped in both directions and at first, it was unclear what was going on. Then our driver stopped a man walking in our direction and we discovered the cause of commotion.

An act of what I have come to identify as, “village law” was taking place. Apparently, a man who was well known for committing frequent acts of robbery had stolen a vehicle. Villagers became fed-up with this behavior and decided to put an end to it. When I heard this, the scene in front of me became clearer. There were at least 100 men brandishing large sticks, metal poles, and even several thick cuts of timber. The weapons were moving up and down in two areas of the mob. Then, in an instant, as we watched the scene unfold, the crowd dispersed. They ran in every direction with huge satisfied grins plastered to their faces. Our driver told us they heard the police were on their way. 

As we drove along the newly cleared road, I saw the bloody, bashed in remains of the man—I saw the skeleton remains of his stolen vehicle—I saw what Ugandans refer to as, “a crime of justice.”

I saw humanity at its worst. 

I’d like to note two things. The first being for my mom, to know that as soon as I saw the mob, I instantly texted my cousin in Kampala so he knew we were en route, just in case we met trouble. The second note being that as I passed the dead “criminal” my mind couldn’t resist the image of our Lake Mburo driver who hit and killed a boda boda driver on our way back from the study tour. I couldn’t help but wonder how narrowly he had escaped the same fate that night. He too, “committed a crime” by killing the driver, and village law wanted to take his life for “justice.”

It seems almost ignorant not to have some kind of faith when in this type of environment. Even to believe that all things happen for a reason would make life here “make sense.” If you were to ask me to name the angels mentioned in the Bible, explain what the Wise Men brought to Jesus’ birth, or name even one Gospel, I’d probably give you a blank stare and a polite shrug (then, out of curiosity, ask Dan to explain the answer to me later.) Yet, I am certain that if you asked me whether or not there was a higher power, I can whole heartedly give you an honest, yes. 

My angels, (whom I like to believe are comprised of those who loved me and have passed away,) are constantly keeping my Mzungu tush out of trouble for good reason; there is a lot of shit in this world.

I find it is easier to tread through the world’s shit when someone bigger than me carries some of the burden with me. I can’t explain why good people do bad things. I can’t even explain why I have done and will probably continue to (occasional) do bad things. I can explain, if only to myself, that doing bad things doesn’t make me a bad person. I must weigh each of my decisions on the grounds of, “is this good, or is this bad. What are the consequences for me and those around me?” Sometimes I make the wrong decisions. Sometimes good people do bad things. 

When in doubt, I seek council with someone who has more authority than me, who will--in the very least--share the burden left from the consequences of my decisions and the decisions of those around me.  

This concludes my blog-bombardment for the day. I hope I have intrigued, educated, inspired, or in the very least, amused you for today!

With love,

Kristen

A series of journal thoughts...Part 4

Give a little, it feels good.

"I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now and not defer it, for I will not pass this way again."

                                                            Quote taken from This is a Soul by Marilyn Berger

About a week ago, two students who live at the SAC Family came to visit. One boy’s backpack was broken, so I sewed it back together with the cheap sewing kit I bought at the last minute before leaving America. The other boy showed me his bag and it was beyond my amateur seamstress abilities…the zippers were “unhinged” and I could not easily get them back on track without doing more damage. The boy’s friend, Phillip nudged the boy, Dan, and told him in a whisper, “Tell her, she is nice, I know she will help.” Dan looked at me with a guilty, almost desperate face and said, “The man in town can fix it for 400 shillings…but I don’t have.” What a dilemma. 400 shillings is less than 20 cents USD. What if I gave him the money and word gets out that Bank of Kristen is open for business? What about those sad, innocent, pleading eyes…? Bank of Kristen is not unlimited…oh those eyes…400 shillings?

I gave him the shillings (I know. I’m weak.) But, I gave him two conditions, “1. Do not tell anyone I did this for you. I will deny it. 2. Come back to me when it is repaired so I can see.” 

My hope was that this would keep him honest. It did. He stopped by a week later with many, “Thank you, Madam…Thank you, Madam!” and a beautifully repaired bag to match a beautifully proud smile on his face. SO worth the 20 cents and any future beggars. 

I recently read a book called, “This is a Soul” by Marilyn Berger. It is the story of Dr. Rick Hodes’ work in Ethiopia. (I recommend it for a feel-good-read.) I think Dr. Hodes’ view on giving out money whenever people ask has changed my previous opinions. It used to be that I felt offended, even used whenever people request money here. When I think about the options for these orphans and needy children to approach an adult with a problem, I start to realize their situations are bleak. Who is going to pay 400 shillings for the backpack of a child who is not their own? If you made $3.00 USD a day, would you spend 20 cents on an orphan’s backpack? If food for your family cost $1.50 a day, would you still pay for that backpack? These numbers change for every family, and for every needy child, but the point remains the same. Who is going to help if I don’t? I think I need to be careful with giving money—there must be a lot of thought put in, and a lot of caution…I cannot be frivolous, or I will become “That Mzungu” who sets an unreasonable standard for all other Mzungus who come after me.

It is time to change all the same. In a child-by-child basis, I will make an effort to help when it is really needed. It is time for me to start being a better, less selfish Mzungu. 

Future kiddos should thank Dan for his sweet and genuinely grateful attitude towards my deed—Dr. Rick Hodes may have gotten me thinking about my actions, but little Dan has made me decide to change.          

A series of journal thoughts...Part 3

You are soft!

Several times in the last months, I have been told that I am “soft.” This word soft refers to a few things. 

I get hurt easily. I hit my limbs on doors as I walk through. I burn myself on candles and stoves. I walk through a gravel path and get a stone lodged into my heel (true story, lots of blood, scarred already, still not sure how it happened…) In short, I get hurt easily; I am soft.

The other reasons are more speculative, but in my understanding, it comes down to the fact that I’m white. My skin looks soft, even delicate to most Ugandans. Kids love to rub my arms, legs, and hair. They tell me my skin is softer than theirs; I don’t feel the difference though…guess I will take their word for it. 

I have also not been through enough hardship in my life to have tough skin…literally and figuratively. “We Ugandans, we endure,” is a commonly heard expression here….for good reason.  I have heard it at least a dozen times. How could they not endure if they want any chance of surviving? People get sick, injured, lose loved ones, get abandoned by husbands and parents, go hungry or thirsty for days…yet they endure. They are not soft. 

I however, am softer than Charmin Ultra toilet paper.

A series of journal thoughts...Part 2

Home 

Sometimes I feel like I can let myself forget I am in Africa. Obviously, the lack of water and power make it clear I am not in America, but aside from that…I feel comfortable here. Everyone and everything around me feels…right. The noise, the dust, the food, the people, the children, the roads, the work, the everything…I have abandoned that feeling of being a visitor in another person’s world, instead I have finally begun living in that world. 

The other day, I came home after being out working/visiting all day…something in me clicked and I realized that I felt like I came home.  The same feeling I get when I approach exit 252 towards Bellingham…the same feeling I get when I walk up the driveway of my parent’s house and my dog, Bear starts barking. Ahhh…I’m home.

 

Home is not a place, it’s a feeling. 

A series of journal thoughts...Part 1

I have been writing my pre-blog entries in my journal for the last few weeks...I realized today that I haven't posted any of them. This entry starts a series that I will post today...

Power

Between this trip and the last, I had let myself forget about the loneliness that comes while in Uganda. I forgot what it feels like to be the only white person in a room full of people speaking another language. This time around, I am living by myself in an apartment. I have wonderful neighbors, many visitors, and I am usually with people for most of every day. However, when night falls, I must close my door to protect from unwanted visitors (mosquitos, rats, and wanderers) which closes me off from the outside world at around 7:00 each night. When there is no power, I feel an oftentimes overwhelming sense of loneliness. 

Light can fill all the nooks and crannies of my apartment. It wards off and reveals unwanted creepy crawlers. It surrounds me like a blanket of warmth. 

Without the power, I cannot be on the internet connecting to my loved ones. Without the light I must use lanterns or candles to cook, wash dishes, bathe, and read. Individually, none of these tasks is too inconvenient without power…but together, I find it is very frustrating just to get along; as if my eyes just want more…if I could just have it be a little brighter, everything would be fine. Candles and lanterns just don’t compare to a light bulb.  

On the bright side, Megu Mi and I have finally started hanging out. She was over the other night chatting and the power went off…she practically read my mind as I switched on my lantern when she said, “Wow…when it blacks out and I’m with company it isn’t so bad. Kind of cozy even…” I couldn’t agree more. She does Yoga during the blackouts; I think I’m going to start joining her!     

Easter Sunday

This weekend has been wonderful. It is a four day weekend, since Easter is a big deal here. I’ve spent a lot of time with the kids next door. We watched the safari portion of my world traveler movies; they seemed enthralled. I went to market on Friday with Nurse Miriam and bought tomatoes, onions, garlic, green bell peppers, pineapples, lettuce, sugar cane, and sodas for Easter with the kids at SAC Family. (By the way, I haven’t talked about this yet, but SAC Family is a home where a group of 26 students from Mustard Seed Academy primary school live. These students are very special; they are either orphans or children who have been saved from a bad home life. It would be hard to identify these children as kids with a sad past, because they are all so incredibly cheerful all the time.)

On Saturday night, my new friend Megu Mi (a JICA worker from Japan; JICA is Japan’s Peace Corps equivalent) who lives in my apartment complex and I went to dinner with George in the next town over. They serve cold beer—our main motivation for going. While we were paying the bill, I realized their fridge was also full of at least 12 other beer varieties—Guinness was among them. This was a wonderful realization, because Megu Mi and I had just discussed how we miss dark frothy beers…so this was like the fates aligning for us! Keep in mind, when you live in a rural village in East Africa, things like cold Guinness hold the equivalent to winning the lottery. I’m hardly exaggerating. We asked if we could get two to go…the waitress said not unless we had two glass bottles to exchange…we did not, so we offered to pay double…she said no, sorry…we were devastated…she offered (probably out of pity for our forlorn faces) to pour the beer into plastic bottles….Megu Mi and I exchanged a look of mixed satisfaction, curiosity, and something that can only be described as, “Oh Uganda!” and said yes, please pour our cold Guinness into recycled plastic bottles. To be honest, until writing this down on paper, I hadn’t even thought about whether they were used bottles—I highly doubt she poured out perfectly good water for us…gross…glad I take daily multi-vitamins! Despite the potentially infectious consequences of this decision, we walked out of there pretty pleased with ourselves. 

Early on Easter morning, I got dressed in my traditional Ugandan dress and a touch of mascara, both things I have reserved for special occasions. I went with George to drop the food at the SAC Family house. The plan was for me to go with some of the kids to the second mass as St. Jude’s church. When I got to the house, the only non-Muslim kid who didn’t go to church yet was Frank; one of the only kids who had yet to, “warm” to me. This worried me a little, because I had mentally been prepped for the older, chattier kids to be with me during mass—mostly for me to follow their lead seeing as I’ve never been to a Catholic service before. George assured me that when Frank and I arrived at the church, we could find the other kids and chances were high that they’d want to attend mass again just to sit with me. Phew. When we got to church, I found another SAC kid who stepped outside after communion, Geoffrey (I know him from the Luganda lessons he likes to give me after school) and I asked him if he was willing to attend the second mass with us. A nearby man (who was apparently listening) said, “No second. Only one for Easter. Many people at one. They go cook now.” Great, here I am all dressed up with nowhere to go! Even though we showed up for this apparently non-existent service on time, we still stood outside waiting for the first mass to end for an hour so that we could walk back with the other kids. I should mention that this entire time, I was trying to get Frank to talk to me…actually I was trying to get Frank to even look in my general direction. No luck. When the service finally ended, we met Lillian (the school’s social worker who lives in the SAC Family compound) and the rest of the Catholic SAC kids attending today’s service. As we began to walk together, one of the kids reached for my hand and Frank shoved him aside, grabbed my hand and gave me a, “okay, let’s go” look. Well…okay! From that moment on, he was literally glued to me for the rest of the day.

Frank and I when he decided we should be attached for the day.

We were met with a very welcoming reception upon return to the house. I got to spend the rest of my morning and afternoon playing, talking, and doing chores with the children. They are so loving; to me, to each other, and to their pseudo-parents. But, I sort of had a panic rise inside me when I walked in to the house and realized that I would be spending an entire day with children who didn’t own a single game…what were we going to do? Silly Kristen…I have spent many a day babysitting and my instincts/experience jolted alive to bring us at least a dozen games to occupy our day. I taught them how to play rock, paper, scissors, we had a few rounds of eye-ball tag (thanks again little KP!), we taught each other different musical sounds (I introduced snapping to them with an awed reception), we played a few “slap the table” games, we danced, we sang, I washed dishes with the older girls, and of course, we took pictures. I’d like to repeat for emphasis that Frank either held my hand or sat/laid on my lap through all 6 hours of this.

The girls peeling Matooke before I left for church: 

One of about 25 photos taken by the boys. All of them have fingers on the lens...haha

Our meal was wonderful—the soda was a huge success. As George says, “any meal with soda is a good meal!” It reminds me that the little things should be appreciated too. Around 3:00, George took me home (Frank was literally begging me to take him with me to, “live at your home forever!” Oh, I seriously considered it. I think he is at least 8 years old, which make me way too young to be his Mama….but oh I thought about it.) 

George and I stopped at the nursery school campus to purchase eggs from the poultry project on the way home (I like to get eggs from here because the proceeds go to the school; they are also fresh and yummy.) My plan was to hard-boil them as soon as I got back, but the girls from next door wanted to spend time with me, since I was “lost all day,” so I sat with them on my veranda for a long time chatting. As I sat there, wedged between these three young ladies, I realized my skin was badly sun burned, every muscle in my body ached, and my mind was going blank while they talked….The SAC kids had exhausted me! I excused myself from my veranda-snuggle party, locked my door, and despite the fact that it wasn’t even 5:00 yet…I laid down to sleep….for almost two hours! 

When I awoke, I finally boiled some eggs, peeled some “Irish” (aka potatoes,) and started peeling and cooking some fresh local beans. I got creative and mixed tomatoes, onions, Lawrey’s seasoning, and a dash of Cumin to the beans…and voila, my Easter feast was ready.  

After I ate dinner with the company of my iTunes playlist, Megu Mi came over to watch The Help on my laptop and drink our well-earned water bottle Guinness from the night before. The movie preceded a long discussion about racism, our roles in Uganda, and general observations about life. We talked with the slight buzz of our drinks until well after midnight.

I present to you: Water bottle Guinness. Thank you, Uganda.

When I look at everything I did this Easter, I realize a better day could not have come if I had planned it.    

With love,
Kristen