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| Porch-sitting is the essence of summer. | | |
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It was like a punch in the gut.
And I still haven't caught my breath.
And my stomach is still feeling the blow.
It hurts.
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| Bonding with Warthogs
Standing by the roadside, I wait for the bus that will take us on our last game drive.
Someone is snorting next to me. I look down. It’s a mother warthog with her babies – burnt orange mullets, dirt-covered tusks, leathery gray skin. They kneel on their forelegs in order to make the grass more accessible; they seem completely undisturbed by my presence.
With this encouragement, I decide to take a seat next to them. Why not? We’ve bonded.
Or not. As I bend my legs and near the curb, the mother warthog lowers her head.
This is it. I’m going to die by a warthog attack.
She charges towards me, and I jump up and leap forward into safety. This calms her, and she turns around to continue her dinner. Victorious.
As my heart begins beating again, I hear stifled laughter coming from a gate behind me. When I turn to look, the guards cover their mouths and attempt solemn looks. But when I crack a smile and it quickly breaks into laughter, they uncover their mouths and join me without restraint.
Making friends with the warthogs?
Not today. But maybe someday.
I’ll grow a mullet. And then we’ll truly bond.
Switzerland
It’s what I imagine Switzerland looks like. In the middle of Uganda.
Reminders of colonialism. Reminders of oppression. Reminders of the contrast between African reality and Western reality.
The staff members at the lodge are Ugandan. Serving rich white tourists. Who lounge by the pool. Who drive through the game park in their “safari vehicles” with digital cameras posed and big white noses covered by “safari hats” and a thick layer of sunscreen. Who drink their wine and eat food specially prepared for Western taste buds. Who are convinced that they are experiencing Africa and roughing it here. In Switzerland.
Simply using the pool and eating a nice dinner at this lodge makes me uncomfortable. I am thankful we are not staying here. Clearly we are not worthy of Switzerland. The way they treat us at dinner makes this quite clear – disdain in their eyes and contempt in their voices.
But we don’t care.
Give us a dirty lake in which to swim. Give us the top of a rickety van on which we can sit and drive through the game park with dirt beards developing on our white faces. Give us African tea and passion juice and serve us matoke, rice, and sweet potatoes.
Keep your Switzerland. Give us Africa. And we’ll be satisfied.
Leaving Home
The land is getting greener. The hills, taller. The landscape, more lush. My eyes have been locked to the scenery for some time now – drinking up every passing tree, animal, and mountain. It is extraordinary.
As we enter a small town, the bus begins to slow down. We have arrived at the border. Before us is Rwanda. Unfamiliar. Intimidating. Beautiful.
Behind us is Uganda. Familiar. Welcoming. Beautiful. It has become home here in Africa.
But now we must journey into a strange land. With foreign languages. And a horrific past that we will study in depth for the next three weeks.
I am reluctant to leave home. To leave my Uganda. As I attempt to make conversation with the officer at the border, and we have immense difficulties understanding one another, for he knows little English and I know nothing of French, I have a strong urge to turn and run. Back to Uganda. Back to my home.
But I am here. To make this unfamiliar land familiar to me. Despite the language barriers.
And to love this land. And its exquisite people. To learn of their suffering and sit with them in it. To make this place my home until we return to Uganda. Until we return home.
The Future
Smiling faces. Laughing lips. Tiny hands. Their little fingers interlocked with our own. Their innocent eyes staring into our blue ones. Beautiful children.
Without speaking the same language, we have become friends. They see us coming and run to us, full speed, giggling and yelling in French. We always hear them before we see them.
They simply take our hands and walk with us, smiling all the way.
I bring out my camera, and Manzi’s eyes light up. With my hands, I tell him to pose with another boy; they eagerly obey. When I take the picture, I show them the product, and they cry out in delight. I let Manzi hold the camera, and excitement overwhelms him, especially when I turn it on and show him how it works. He is captivated. With the camera as his eyes, he walks alongside me, pushing the button and giggling every few moments.
He takes pictures of a pole. Of a chicken. Of hands. Of friends. Of his reality. Of his life.
The smiles. The laughter. The hands. The eyes. These beautiful children. Snapshots of Rwanda’s future.
Hope and love in the innocent faces. The faces of the future.
The First Ten Minutes
I hear the hacking sound before I see its source. But I know what it is. And my stomach churns. My heartbeat quickens. My eyes fill with tears.
Surrounded by graves, by memorials, by reminders of the atrocities, I try to ignore the sound that is harassing my ears.
And then I see it. The sun is reflecting off of the metal. Grass flies into the air as the sharp blade whips it to shreds. The man uses his tool with skill and ease.
He stops suddenly, and I realize that I am staring, eyes watering, mouth open, look of horror plastered on my face. Our eyes meet. He must know my thoughts.
Thoughts of pain. Thoughts of inhumanity. Thoughts of suffering. Thoughts of terror. Thoughts of nightmares.
Thoughts of the unspeakable that must be spoken.
Thoughts of genocide.
We stand there like that, staring at one another, until his eyes break away, looking back to the grass and the work to be done. But he doesn’t begin his work again until I finally turn away, pulling myself from the horror of the moment. From the horror of that year. From the horror of those 100 days.
And this is only the beginning. Only the first day. Only the first ten minutes of our study.
I will face the pain and suffering every day for the next three weeks. And I am terrified as I walk away from the hacking sound.
Stomach churning. Heart pounding. Tears falling.
Red Shirt and Blue Shorts
A young boy in a red shirt and blue shorts.
With little black curls sprouting from his head.
Although he was only 3 years old, he had the eyes of an old man – wise and penetrating. And they lit up when he smiled and giggled, which he often did.
His favorite food was rice.
His favorite game was hide-and-seek.
He was his mother’s first child, and the pride of his father.
He was beautiful.
And now he is dead.
The last thing he saw was the terror in his mother’s eyes as she held him close to her.
His life was seized from him with one swipe of a machete.
And now he lays before me.
Still in his little red shirt and blue shorts.
With a few little black curls still sprouting from his skull.
Still beautiful.
But silent.
Yet he speaks to me in his silence – he shouts to me in his death.
Reminding me of our complacency, of our indifference.
We let him die.
The little boy in a red shirt and blue shorts.
Curled up, cowering, covering his head.
He will remain in this position, always, for everyone to see.
To be remembered forever.
Never to be forgotten.
Never to happen again.
Or so we proclaim.
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Homecoming
It feels like we’ve been driving forever. Stuffed in a bus, listening to Michael Jackson with two dead fish and a few live chickens.
But finally, Namirembe comes into view. Sweet, familiar Namirembe.
We’re home.
Our friends, the staff, come out to greet us. We’ve missed them. Their smiles, their jokes, their sincerity. They’re beautiful people. It is mutual love.
Things have changed since we left, but not significantly or negatively. Having the same room as before is a comfort – everything is so familiar, like home.
It’s wonderful to be back in Uganda.
At home in Africa.
Seeing the staff, our friends.
Making plans with Jumah.
Dancing and laughing with the Mango Boys.
Standing on our balcony overlooking the city.
Stuffing ourselves in a matatu.
And then bracing ourselves for the potholes.
And sucking in our breaths as we almost get hit…numerous times.
Having friendly conversations (in English) with strangers on the street.
Watching the sun set and the moon rise over the city.
Eating sweet potatoes and matoke and goat meat.
Speaking Luganda.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed these things.
And how familiar they had become to me.
Returning to Uganda is like coming home.
African-style.
History Lesson
The lights go down.
With popcorn in hand, I’m ready.
It’s surreal to be sitting in a movie theater in Kampala - immediately upon entering the theater, I leave Uganda.
And I return to America.
The movie begins.
I take one last glance around the theater to acknowledge the Ugandans around me, to remind myself of where I truly am.
But I quickly find that there is no need to make this extra effort to remind myself, for as the film transpires, the reactions of the people make it clear where we are.
Idi Amin. He looks like a giant teddy bear on screen. Which is a description that is so vastly inappropriate that I cringe when it comes to my mind. This man, this teddy bear, killed over 300,000 Ugandans during his reign of terror.
And most of the audience had been there. Had experienced the pain. Had witnessed the terror. Had suffered through the violence.
As we watch the reenactment, the people scoff. The people laugh. The people cry.
And so do we. The mzungus.
My home in Africa is beautifully and painfully displayed on the screen before me. Beautifully because of the land and the people. Painfully because of the suffering and the atrocities.
My stomach is queasy. My heart hurts. And my eyes refuse to watch. As the teddy bear tortures and slaughters thousands.
This is the history of Uganda.
It’s a painful, terrible history.
A history I wish I could erase.
And with it, erase the pain, the suffering, the loss.
It is a history that cannot and must not happen again.
For the sake of these people.
For the sake of this country.
For the sake of my home.
Fumes
Lost in conversation, Melissa and I trek through the streets of Kampala. It is only when we are halfway down the street that I finally notice the dense crowds that are lingering. This street is normally rather deserted.
But I’m quickly distracted from this thought as my nose and throat begin to burn. And the burning sensation intensifies quickly. My eyes begin to water.
Wow, the fumes are really getting to me today. I agree with Melissa, surprised that the fumes are affecting me so severely, as they had never done so before.
Fumes. They are certainly fumes. But they are fumes of a different kind.
Tear gas.
When we return to Namirembe, we learn of the riots that took place on Parliament Road, the street on which we had been walking.
I’m excited.
I was tear-gassed.
Kind of.
The Colonialist
You can’t trust these people – they’re only looking out for themselves – they’ll drop you in a minute if it will benefit them.
An elderly British man generously offers us some wisdom with these words. Wisdom that makes my eyes go a little squinty and my face a little red.
Sir, may I ask, what do you mean by these people?
The locals. He says it in a very matter of fact way. As if my question was more ignorant than his comment.
He’s a very nice man, really, he is. But before we finish our conversation, I have decided that I never want to speak with him again.
It wouldn’t be healthy…for either of us.
Lucy the Bead-maker
Her arms are outstretched and a beautiful smile is on her face as she watches us stumble out of the matatu. Children are playing in the dirt all around her, but they stop everything they are doing when they see us. One little girl runs full force into Erica who laughs and takes her hand.
Already we can feel the joy that radiates from this family. From Lucy’s family. Lucy, the bead-maker. Lucy, our friend.
She embraces each one of us. I fear that I’ll break her little body when my arms envelop her. But looking around me at the seven children gazing curiously at us, I realize that this woman is much stronger than me.
A small shack made of bamboo and banana leaves is their sanctuary. She leads us in to pray together, beaming with pride. But before we have the chance to bow our heads, a man enters the church. Lucy’s husband. Nelson. Tall. Impressive. Intimidating. Yet inviting.
He leads us in prayer. An eloquent prayer. Of truth, of grace, of love.
And then we commence. We came here to commune. But we also came here to learn. To share. And Lucy, the bead-maker, is eager to teach us.
We sit in the little hut with Nelson, Lucy, and the seven children. Not crowded, but cozy. Content. As we roll the paper and watch the beads form, we sing songs. American songs. Ugandan songs. African songs.
I can’t help but think that this is the spirit of the early church. Fellowship. Communion. Prayer. Worship.
Humbly. Spontaneously. All in love.
The thunder begins. And the rain soon follows. It beats down steadily on the tin roof, echoing off of the mud walls of the small room.
But our singing continues.
And the beads still form.
And we are content.
Lucy, the bead-maker.
Nelson, the gentle reverend.
Seven beautiful children.
And six mzungu girls.
Listening to the rain under the shelter of a tin roof.
A Sense of Humor
I’ve heard it said that God has a sense of humor.
And I always thought that it was a strange phrase. Trite. Almost cliché.
But that phrase cemented itself in my mind as I found myself sitting, once again, across from the British man.
David. The colonialist.
I was only being polite, inquiring about his day, eager to move on after receiving the standard response.
But he was ready to talk.
And he still is, as I earnestly try to pay attention.
Yet I am distracted by God’s sense of humor.
Very funny.
Hilarious, in fact.
What’s this? I’m agreeing with him. I’m encouraging him. I’m offering him advice.
And he’s given me something to think about. And he’s offered me some valuable wisdom.
How did this happen?
While the hints of colonialism still surfaced, I can see the person, my fellow human being, my brother in Christ.
And I walk away feeling grateful for this meeting.
Yeah. Very funny, God.
What a sense of humor.
Sandwiches
It’s enough to make a girl want to take off her shoe and throw it at someone’s head.
Now, now. Would Jesus do that?
Did Jesus put up with cat calls? Kissing sounds? Marriage offers? And other, less virtuous offers?
With shouts of Mzungu? White girl? Oohs? And Aahs?
I suppose it’s not that bad. But walking into the city, alone, accentuates it, for there is no one else to share the attention.
But I’m on a mission.
With sandwich in hand, I march down the hill, into the crowded streets of Kampala. Searching for someone to whom I can offer this humble meal.
And I find her. She is sitting near the road. Hand held out. Waiting.
I walk over to her, and with a closer examination, I see that she is blind. So I take her hand in mine and place the sandwich in it, letting her feel it for a bit. With her other hand, she finds mine and holds it.
Weebale nyo, nyabo. She repeats this phrase of gratitude over and over and over again. And we remain there for a while, my hands folded around hers.
For this moment, it is worth the cat calls, the kissing sounds, and the urge to throw my shoe at someone.
For this is love.
Love on the crowded streets of Kampala.
| | |
| Two Left Feet
They’re preparing our skirts. Carefully tearing palm leaves in half length-wise. Tying them around our waists.
We’re about to dance.
But not simply any dance. We’re learning the dance of the Samia.
Stomp. Brush.
This is the step we need to master.
With my two left feet.
Maureen does it with grace and skill. The curves of her body are accentuated by her fluid movements. Her skirt rustles. She is one with the beat of the drum.
Hers is the example we must follow.
With my two left feet.
We watch her closely and attempt to imitate her. Three mzungus in palm skirts. One with two left feet. Heart beating fast. All eyes on us.
When Maureen turns around to check on our progress, her eyes widen. She’s noticed. I’m missing a right foot.
Leesa! That is good! You’ve mastered the step.
What.
I look down at my feet. One left. One right. It’s a miracle. I’m dancing. The dance of the Samia.
Skirt rustling. Drum beating. Stomp. Brush. I am one with the beat of the drum.
The Humble Sanctuary
From far-off in the distance, we hear the cries and the shouts. The voices lifted up to the heavens.
That’s where we’re going.
We turn off the orange dirt road and into the bush. A reprieve from the oppressive African sun.
And there it is. A small structure made of bamboo and banana leaves. Not much of a roof. Few chairs. But many beautiful people of God, sitting on the ground, standing, or crowded on one of the six benches.
As we near the humble church, heads turn. Whispering begins. Mzungus are here.
Three women in the front quickly arise from the only solid chairs in the area. I want to protest but, understanding the gesture and the deeply ingrained hospitality of the people, I refrain. And I sit. Feeling twenty eyes on my white skin.
The sermon is on holiness.
And love.
These people know love. I have experienced it first-hand. It is a selfless and gracious love. A love that stirs the heart.
These people know love. As we sing a Swahili hymn, the humble sanctuary is filled with it. Love for the Creator. Love for the Father. Love for the Holy One.
These people know love. I cannot escape it. The shy smile of a child. The warm gaze of a mother. The firm handshake of a man.
Love built this humble church. And it is beautiful.
Strike up the Band
The low, full sound of the bass drum begins.
The roll of the snare drum soon follows.
Then the trumpets sound.
As we near the source of the music, I travel back home. To Ephrata. It’s September, and the smell of fried foods fills the air. I am twelve again, sitting on the cold pavement of the sidewalk, wrapped in a blanket and holding a Styrofoam cup of rich hot chocolate. As usual, I was too impatient, and the scalding drink burnt my tongue. But I don’t mind. The parade that marches on the street in front of me has me captivated. The batons. The cars. The clowns. The floats. But most importantly, the bands. Their music warms the chill night air, and sets feet to tapping. Here comes the percussion section. My favorite. I carefully watch rapid movements of the drumsticks as they stike the heads of the drums. Perfect synchronization. As I lean forward to get a closer examination, I feel a strong urge to leap up and join them in their drumming.
And that same urge is still within me as my mind returns to Uganda, and we arrive at our destination, the source of the music.
But this is no high school band in a town parade. It is a small group of mischievous, young boys. Boys who have seen and experienced enough in their short lives to qualify them as old men. Yet, despite their sufferings, they smile and laugh as they play their instruments and sway to the beat.
They call themselves the Mango Boys’ Brigade. And merely the sight of them brings a smile to my face. These former street boys, playing together, united as one to make music. Given another chance.
Their eyes sparkle and they eagerly offer their hands to us as we walk into the dilapidated courtyard. A small group of mzungus looking for more connections, deeper connections to Uganda. And we are certain to find it here with this group of warm, loving boys.
They strike up the band just for us. The first song is American. We recognize it and sing along, tapping our feet to the steady beat of the bass drum.
A Lugandan song is next. The beat is pleading for someone to dance. So one of the few young boys who isn’t playing rises to his feet. He moves beautifully with music, as seems to be innate with Ugandans. We cheer him on and clap for him.
Taking my eyes off of his fluid movements, I look back to the band for a few moments. And before I have time to react, I feel a hand on my wrist, pulling me to my feet.
He wants me to dance.
With my two left feet.
And then I remember the Samia and Maureen, and I begin to dance.
Cheers resound from the boys, as I throw back my head and laugh.
I am certain that I look a mzungu. Nothing like the gracefulness of a Ugandan. And yet I don’t mind. I embrace my mzungu-ness.
I am dancing, and through my clumsy movements, I am connected to the music.
I am connected to the Mango Boys.
I am connected to Uganda.
More Connections
I met him ten minutes ago.
And already he’s holding my hand.
Interlocking fingers.
I am surprisingly at ease.
Three weeks of becoming acquainted with the intimate ways of Ugandans, of seeing it and experiencing it for myself, has prepared me for this.
He keeps me close to his side with his firm grasp as we walk behind the rest of the group, back to the hill of peace.
When he drops my hand at one point in the conversation, he grasps my arm. When he releases his grip there, he throws his arm around my shoulder.
Always touching.
Always connected.
And when we reach Namirembe, where we must go our separate ways, he finally lets me go.
Finally…..
Strange.
As I walk at a distance from the rest of my peers, up the sparsely lit path to the guesthouse, I feel naked.
I feel lonely.
I feel disconnected.
Where is a hand I can hold?
Where is a shoulder on which I can lean?
Where is the pure contact that initially terrified me, but now I crave?
It is walking away from me, ever so slowly, into the dark Ugandan night.
The Painful Smile
On our walk back from the Food for the Hungry office, we meet many people on the road. The standard greetings, nothing out of the ordinary.
Until we meet her.
Good evening. Her eyes are shining and her smile bright as she opens her arms to us and offers us her knowledge of English.
I look at Abby, and we stop. Oli Otya.
She grabs my hand and begins speaking earnestly and quickly in Luganda. Though I didn’t think it was possible, her smile has increased in size. It looks painful.
Sorry to disappoint her, I shake my head. Only a little Luganda. Only a little.
But this doesn’t deter her as her grasp remains firm.
She looks around anxiously and spots a young man trudging up the dirt road. She calls to him in Luganda while still looking at me. Painful smile on her face.
This woman wants to know where you are staying. She wants your address. The young man graciously translates.
It seems to be the norm here. Get an address first, and then ask for a name…maybe.
She wants you to write it down for her.
But no on has a pen.
We stand in a circle, awkwardly staring at one another. Unaware of the next appropriate move. Painful smile still staring at me. Expectantly.
Two business men approach, and the smile calls out to them.
They have a pen.
Quickly I write down my name and email address.
And contrary to what I thought possible, the painful smile widens still.
She hands me her name and phone number and bows repeatedly.
Weebale, nyabo. I give her the last bit of Luganda I know.
She cries out with joy and says goodbye, walking quickly with my email address clenched in her hand. Still speaking Luganda at a rapid pace. Still wearing the painful smile on her face.
Alone
It is my first time venturing into the city alone.
And I am not scared.
I am confident. And excited. This is the opportunity for which I have been anxiously awaiting.
As I start my descent down the steep hill from Namirembe, I call out greetings to people, and laugh with them as they answer me with surprise and delight.
So far, so good. A mzungu facing the chaotic streets of Kampala alone. No white centipede this time. No mzungu parade today. Just me.
A man greets me in Luganda. Oli otya?
Gendi, oli otya? I slow my pace a bit to await his reply.
His eyes widen. He becomes very serious. A strange, almost crazed, look is on his face. I love you, mzungu.
Oh boy. I pick up my pace again as I hear his steps close behind me.
Mzungu, wait. I love you. Where are you going? I will go with you. I love you.
The faster I walk, the more eager and the angrier he sounds. Holding my breath and hoping for the best, I sprint across the street – right in the path of a matatu. Everything goes black.
When I feel my feet hit the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, I open my eyes. I hadn’t realized I had closed them.
As I continue my quick pace into the city, I hear the angry calls of a man scorned.
Mzungu!
No white centipede. No mzungu parade. Just me. Braving the streets of Kampala.
Alone.
Amazing Grace
Finally, the opportunity to play a drum. But not the drum with which I’m familiar. No, this is Africa. Not much is familiar here.
In front of hundreds of people. All eyes on the mzungus. Watching. Waiting. Expecting.
After an hour and a half of vibrant, full music, of lively, extraordinary dancing, we stand on the stage of the church. It is our turn to entertain. To contribute. To worship.
Eighteen mzungus.
Four African drums.
Two microphones.
We begin the first song. Amazing Grace. I keep the beat as our voices fill the open air sanctuary.
Amazing Grace. How fitting. For it is by God’s grace that our contribution goes well. And it is the graciousness of the people that our offering is warmly accepted.
Amazing Grace. Something familiar in a strange place. I play along on an African drum. Something familiar in name, but strange in substance and function.
Yet the familiarity and strangeness meld into one as we raise our voices, united.
Amazing Grace.
Names
Rastah girl.
Lys.
Daughter.
Roomie.
Mukwano.
Hippy.
Mzungu.
Free-Spirit.
African.
American.
Beautiful Lady.
Sister.
Names are unavoidable.
Even in a foreign place, familiar ones follow you.
And new ones are made.
There must be some truth to them.
If they follow me across the ocean.
They must describe some aspect of my being.
Aspects of which I am aware.
And sometimes of which I am unaware.
I’ll take what truth I can extract from them.
And leave the rest behind me.
To remain on African soil.
Long after I have left.
With new names following me.
And old ones still haunting me.
Telling of a place that left its mark on me.
Not only in name.
But also in heart.
| | |
| A Mzungu Parade
Our first time into the city, and we are traveling all together. Marching in a mzungu parade. Single file through the swarms of people. Taking a deep breath and holding it in as we scramble across the street. Dodging boda-bodas and running from oncoming matatus. It’s a miracle when our feet hit the other side of the street, safe on the sidewalk.
We hear our first shouts of mzungu, shouts we will be immune to within a few days.
We get our first glimpse of the Friday market. The wooden sculptures, the art, the drums, the jewelry, the bags, and the people eager to sell their goods, to feed their families.
We handle our first stack of Ugandan shillings. And we feel rich. Because we are. We’re Americans.
We eat our first meal in Uganda. At Fang-Fang Restaurant. It’s Japanese. How appropriate.
With full stomachs, we make the journey back to Namirembe.
The white centipede, weaving its way through the busy Kampala streets.
Back to our hill of peace.
Football Unites the Nations
New Adidas sneakers running alongside little bare feet.
Crumbling bricks as goal posts.
A crowd of locals gawking at the football-playing mzungus.
Laughter and cheers.
I’m having the time of my life running through the tall grass and tripping on the uneven ground as I do my best to keep up with the boys.
Their shouts of Mzungu motivate me.
It is exhilarating.
When the ball soars through the air towards me, I jump to head it.
Perfect.
Oh! Nice header, Mzungu! A bystander cheers.
I smile. Weebale.
Shock and laughter follows. A female, football-playing, Luganda-speaking Mzungu.
You don’t see that everyday.
This is the connection for which I was searching. Unity in football. Fellowship on the field.
You don’t see that everyday either.
River Master
Our guide, the River Master, Tutu, sits calmly in the back of our raft. He knows this part of the river better than anyone. He’s grown up in these waters.
The waters of the Nile.
We take rapid after rapid, carefully listening to the commands of the River Master. We get down into the raft when necessary. We row hard when necessary. And we hold our breath when necessary.
It is invigorating.
When our raft flips, the water consumes us. I take the rapid in merely my life jacket and my helmet, swirling around, being carried away by the rushing current.
Finally, I see the raft and the River Master standing on top of it, jumping up and down, as if it was a trampoline. I swim over to him and find only two other classmates who made it. One of them wears a look of utter panic, sheer terror, slapping the water like a drowning child…even with her life jacket faithfully keeping her afloat.
After we flip the raft back to its normal position, we pile into the raft and begin searching for the others. They’re easy to find, dispersed among the rafts and kayaks.
Some loved the adventure and are craving more. Others look like they’re about to be sick.
We talk excitedly of our personal experiences of flying through the air or getting trapped under the raft. The River Master sits solemnly in the back, perched on his throne. Silent. Watching. Listening.
And I join him in his silence when I look to the banks of the river and see a mother with her children, washing her clothing with a baby tied to her back.
We float by, life jackets, helmets, oars, on a big, blue raft. Using the river as sport, as leisure. While on the banks of the Nile, a mother and her playful children live out another day – washing clothes, gathering water. Using the river out of necessity. Using the river for life.
The juxtaposition of two worlds.
On one river.
Here, on the Nile.
Silent.
Watching.
Listening.
Love
I love you, Muzungu!
Watch where you’re walking.
Look straight ahead.
Muzungu, will you marry me?
Don’t loose the white centipede.
Be friendly, but not too friendly.
Muzungu, hello!
Oli Otya.
The standard reaction of shock and pleasure.
He grabs my hand to shake it.
Bulungi. Oli Otya?
Bulungi.
Greeting complete.
I try to pull away, but his grasp is strong and unrelenting.
I’m surrounded now.
I have to go.
No Muzungu. Stay. What is your name?
A white hand grabs my shoulder.
Saved.
Kevin pulls me away, claiming me for his own, as shouts of Muzungu, I love you, continue to echo through the market.
The Least of These
We follow Jehosophats down the steep hill that leads to the crowded streets of Kampala. Down from the hill of peace. Down to the city of chaos.
Today we leave for Busia. To see “the real Uganda.” To meet Jumah’s family. To immerse ourselves in Samia culture.
But first we must find Jumah, somewhere within the maddening crowds of Kampala.
As we near the pre-arranged meeting spot, we pass two people, a man and a woman, sitting on the pavement, staring hopelessly into nothing.
As you did to the least of these…
Abby and I take out our bananas, our snacks for the long trip, and offer them to the man and woman, hiding a coin in each of our hands. The man stares at me blankly, so I set the banana and the coin next to him on the hot pavement and reluctantly walk away.
There is Jumah, across the street, with Jehosophats and the rest of the group, familiar in the midst the swarm of strangers.
When I reach the corner, Jumah smiles.
Lyssa. My Sister. You are still my sister?
Always, Jumah. And you are still my brother?
Forever.
I smile and look away, to where the man is still sitting. But he’s no loner staring hopelessly. Instead, he is eating a banana and gazing at a coin that rests in his crippled hand.
…So have you done to me.
A Blue Handprint
Bathroom break.
Well, not really “bathroom.” More like “squat-in-the-bush” break.
My blue shirt is orange.
I laugh as I stumble out of the matatu and join other passengers near the back of the vehicle.
One man is watching as Jumah tries to brush dust from my shirt, and I, with a smile, assure him that it’s useless.
How do you find the dust? The man is wearing a playful smirk.
Oh, it’s not that bad. I don’t mind it.
His eyes widen, and he lets out a deep laugh.
You ask a Ugandan who has lived here his whole life about the dust, and he will complain, complain, complain. But you, American, say that it’s not so bad!
The other men join him in laughter and some women click their tongues and shake their heads in disbelief.
When he slaps me on the back, a thick cloud of orange dust rises into the air.
And I have a blue handprint on my orange shirt.
Swamp Song
Big black boots sloshing through the swamp.
My skirt hiked up above my knees. A taboo. But I don’t care.
I’m on a mission.
A fish pond that will unite a community.
A fish pond that will change the course of a village.
A fish pond that will save lives.
The land on which we stand will determine the future of these people.
And I want to be a part of it.
This land, these people, have been a blessing to me.
I desire to be a blessing to them in return.
How can I help?
What can I do?
As I slosh through the swampy waters.
Big black boots.
Hiked-up skirt.
Heart overflowing with love.
Clean, White Hands
A rusted knife waiting to be used.
Clean, white hands asking to be dirty.
Cassava needing to be peeled.
This is my chance.
And I won’t take no for an answer.
After pleading for some time, they concede and allow me to take up a knife and a cassava and try my untrained, American hands at doing some Ugandan work.
I’m clumsy at first, but I eventually enter into a rhythm.
Mama is pleased that we like to work.
And I am pleased that, as their guests, they allowed us to work.
We sit in a circle, chopping, peeling, and collecting.
Language barriers aside, we are one as we work together.
A rusted knife being used.
Dirty, orange hands finally satisfied.
Two Realities
It began with a smile and two tiny hands outstretched.
Waiting for love.
Waiting for recognition.
We’re Americans. Two hands, palms up.
Waiting to be slapped.
We think we are introducing the game to them – an American tradition.
We’re wrong.
Quickly we’re demoted from teachers to students as the young girls teach us Swahili songs and hand-slapping rhythms to accompany them.
Smiles light the rapidly darkening sky.
And giggles add richness to the songs and rhythms.
Someone takes out a jump rope.
Double dutch.
My childhood here in Africa.
Two realities brought together in a simple rope.
Two realities, so distinct, so different, and yet interconnected.
Two realities united into one, here, under the African sunset.
Chicken Run
The matatu is put-put-puttering.
We’re slowing.
And pulling to the side of the road.
And groaning.
And tsking.
This matatu is finished.
But we’ve barely begun our four-hour journey home.
So now we must stand and wait for a matatu that will carry us the rest of the way.
God willing.
Everyone files out of the vehicle. I am last.
As I maneuver around seats, I accidentally kick a green bag out of the matatu.
It’s running away!
And squawking?
And the man whose bag it is chases it down the road.
Laughter is thick in the air.
But the perturbed face of the man stifles it.
I apologize.
And then quickly turn away as a smile steals its way onto my face.
And a quiet giggle soon follows.
Only in Africa.
Storms
It was daylight just a moment ago.
But now, the sky is black. Sitting in our open-air hut, listening to Dr. Mpagi’s deep, rhythmic voice, we are forced to turn on the lights so we can see what we’re writing.
The wind is cold, chilling my entire body.
The thunder begins. It resounds in the distance, dark and ominous, threatening and beautiful.
The rain is soon to follow. No drizzling, just steady, heavy rain right from the start. It pounds the ground. It beats the roof. It’s relentless.
Flashes of lightening illuminate the sky and strengthen the thunder, getting louder with every flicker of light.
I feel a drop of water hit my arm. And then a steady trickle begins.
The roof is leaking.
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