The Neighborhood I

I have been trying to put into words the neighborhood surrounding the hilltop that I am staying. I could describe the children, some naked, others in their one, torn outfit, yelling Mzungu! Mzungu! (white person) as I travel past. I could describe the rich colours that make walking around a new corner sometimes wonderful; the non-manufactured “yards” with lush plants and vibrant flowers are beautiful and seem more lovely than the ones at home. I could describe the houses, either built with bricks and cement or mud and sticks, covered by branches or a tin roof. These houses, while each unique, are similar as you walk inside, most with dirt floors and a handful of rooms. I could describe each of these things further. But, I would rather spend time focusing on some individuals, my neighbors whom I have started to get to know. This is William.



He is around 80 years old, old enough to be my grandfather. (as I am writing this I realize that my grandfather is also named William. Hi Papa.) He has lived in and around this area most of his life. I met him one day as Geoffrey and I traveled to screen houses that we would bring supplies to. From the first moment of we met, he has been overjoyed to talk and share with me. The only problem is that he only speaks Lugandan. So, when I walked with him to his house a couple of weeks ago our conversation consisted of: Hello! How are you? Where are you going? And him singing different Lugandan songs interspersed with me pointing out different objects to translate.

William is not able to support anyone anymore as he is battling with his older age. This is his home, which he lives in by himself.





Here is what his main room looks like when I am sitting inside. He thankfully has nets, a water sanitizing system and, as you can see, a comfortable bed to sleep in. However, from the moment I step inside, it is harder to breathe as William does all his cooking on a fire that is in the room next to his bedroom. (Culturally, most people cook inside their house. However, with a new generation emerging, this practice is changing and people build separate cooking shelters.) William sits on his bed as we talk through his neighbor. He asks me about Canada, family, the children. I ask him about Uganda, family, and his heath. Uganda has changed a lot since he was young and he believes it is for the better.

As I mentioned in the outset, William is always happy to see me, explaining how it is an honor to have visitors, especially a mzungu. He and his daughter, who lives next door, insist that I take gifts of avacado and eggs whenever I leave. It would be very rude to refuse but I am finding it difficult as different people are giving me gifts, many not expecting anything in return. I try to give most of them away to people that need the food.

Luckily, the last time I went to visit, William’s neighbor, whose English is quite good, dropped by. I was able to ask a few more questions as we got to know each other. William has six sons. Five, tragically, have died of AIDS and one, also tragically, poisoned himself. A I said, he has one daughter. Her name is Ruth and she lives next door with her husband. She really wanted me to take her picture.






I found out, through all of this, there were a number a grandchildren left, unable to be cared for. But, luckily three of these children were taken in and actually living here at the children’s home! The two boys that are living here, Wasawa and Kato (literally: the older twin/younger twin), are great kids and two of my favourite. Kato



always has a smile on his face. When I chose teams for football (soccer) I usually try to get him on my team as he fights hard to get the ball and is the first one back to help out defend. I also love the fact that every time I pass to him and he turns it over or misses his shot he makes sure to say, “Sorry Uncle Shaun”. I keep trying to tell him it is fine..but he just doesn’t want to let me down.

Wasawa is a bit more reserved but also always has a huge grin. He is always willing to help and all the boys seem to like and respect him.



The third grandchild that is at the home here is Harriet, a beautiful, inspiring girl who is in the fight of her life with AIDS. I am going to hopefully write a separate blog just about her soon.

William’s family seems to be more of an exception than the rule with hardships. However, every family living in this area has been affected by AIDS one way or another. The reason why many of the kids are here is due to losing family members. This is one of the reasons why I enjoy exploring the neighborhood. Everyone has a story and, more and more as I am finding out, everyone is connected.

A couple of stories…

I traveled a half an hour into the bush to teach at a small church a couple of weeks ago. It is a unique experience to travel off the main drag as the roads are narrow, always dirt, and at every turn I’m sure that we are getting lost. But, amazingly, the boda (motorcycle) driver always seems to know where his is going and can find even the more remote locations. So, on that day, after I had finished teaching, I took a boda back to zunguay, the area I am living. The driver began to take me a completely different way than I had came (first red flag!) and the children began to look at me in shock (second red flag!). But, to my surprise, we ended up on the back side of the hill I am living what seemed like a full 15 minutes less than it took me to get there. I knew I had to use this boda driver again.
Also, traveling in the bush is unique in that the farther you go in the less likely it is that some of the locals have seen a Mzungu before, especially the younger children. The same night, there was one child, as we zipped past, that I could tell was staring at me and thinking as hard as he could. I heard, as we were just about to move out of earshot, probably the only English he could remember from school,

“Good Morning Mother!”

It was 7 pm….and, no, I am not his mother.



Some people in this area speak of their “good friends” from Canada. However, considering that almost everyone that was here on the trips were only here two weeks I am unsure how good of friends they were. That being said, the people here seem to remember a lot of details, almost memorizing everything the Canadian mzunugu said to them often exaggerating details. I was walking up the road one day when a boy said hello and began to speak with me in English, asking about his good friend Pastor Jon from Canada. I told him how Jon and his family was doing.

He then asked, “If I moved to Germany, would the people there kill me?”

“Umm…excuse me?”

He said, “There was this other friend who wanted to take me back home to Germany with him.”

“O.K.”

But, he went on, “My mom said that if I went with him, they would kill me.”

“Um….”

He continued, “What do you think? Would they kill me?”

“Um..why would the want to kill you?”

“That’s what I thought! I think my mom is lying to me. See you later!”



More to come….

Two Months In

Being halfway through my stay here is both encouraging and scary. It is encouraging in the fact that I feel at home at this point and scary that I only have two months left to learn and teach. I am only beginning to be seen as someone who lives here and not a visitor. I was at the market recently and was encouraged when someone started a conversation with me in Lugandan. When I said I didn’t understand, they were surprised as they commented that I looked like someone who has been here a few years. I still don’t know what a Mzungu looks like after a few years but, hey, I took it as a compliment..

To mark the halfway point I though I would empty out some things that have been tumbling around as I experience this unique culture.

Why did I give up playing soccer when I was young?

Black Mambas can be huge.

Why is Coke in glass bottles just that much better?

Ask questions. Lots of questions. Everywhere.

Why do we no longer build houses with front porches?

The amount you know of, or are trying to learn, a language seems to be correlated to the amount you are accepted by the culture.

How many fruits and vegetables does one really need to eat in a day?

We can learn a lot from Ugandans about conserving fuel.

Ants are incredibly adaptive.

What is a young, single guy doing in a culture that respects age and family?

Be in the present.

Humor does not translate well.

What does greed look like when you have next to nothing?

I still hate email skimming (even thought I am at times guilty of it).

Rain in Mpigi is like Snow in Vancouver.

Meat is a luxury.

They don’t kiss here?! but men hold hands regularly?

Be thankful Canadian preachers aren’t yellers.

I hate mosquitoes.

How much should we allow ourselves to be a slave to time and schedules?

Children are a gift.

How important is education in a country with extremely high unemployment?

I was addicted to media.

As one tries to love all of humanity, can it make it harder for them to love an individual person?

People are people.

What is our daily bread?

Local Delicacies

There are many dishes here in Uganda that I enjoy. Mitoke (mashed bananas), G-nut (a ground nut sauce), Pork, Rice, and Chipote (Panbread) are all starchy and delicious. The fresh fruits and vegetables, although limited, are good. Poscho (flour and water) and Casava (a local root) are not so enticing. However, there are a few unexpected delicacies that I have discovered.

Geoffery brought us a plate full of grasshoppers. By us, I mean Brent & myself. Brent is from the church in Canada and just finished a year in Egypt. He has been to Uganda a couple of times and came to visit and show his fiancé, Joy, what he loves. Anways, like I mentioned, Geoffery us brought these:




Here is Brent downing it. This was his first one.



They ended up being actually pretty good. After being cooked, they are crunchy and, as many insects, seemed to taste similar to chicken. I have thanked Geoffery a few times for the honor as I read that grasshoppers are considered a delicacy and, traditionally, were caught by the wife for her husband. The husband would, in turn, be expected to buy his wife a dress. Hmm…

The other day I was told some of the kids were catching grasshoppers, pulling off their legs and plopping them, still writhing, in their mouth like candy. I wonder if they would taste fresher that way? Only one way to find out, I guess.

When Brent was here last time he helped build a wooden fence that lines the road and separates the guest house and one of the children’s home. Much to his surprise there was a giant termite hill that had been growing for a year right beside it. The termite hills here are everywhere and can grow taller than me, up to 7-8 feet. This one was 3 feet and Brent decided to destroy it as the termites had already eaten at his work.



The demolition took place late afternoon by Brent and the man you see in the pic, Vincet, a older member of the church who works breaking rocks in a nearby quarry and grandfather to two of the girls in the children’s home. So, of course, after only about five minutes of work they were joined by a dozen of the children who wanted to help. Everyone watching was laughing as ever minute or so another kid would yelp as a termite attacked them. After an hour, the hill was no more.



Well, now, the reason that I took time to describe this happening is the process of destroying the infrastructure of the termite hill. If we just left it there then it would be rebuilt in a month. The queen needed to be found and killed. One way to do this is chemically. However, they had already destroyed the hill so the easiest was was to find her and remove her.


Here she is. Disgusting.



That night, there was a knock on the door. In walks Sam and Laurence with the queen, half of her abdomen missing, on a plate. “You, Eat”. They looked at Brent and I with eager expectation….

…It was…far and away…the worst thing I have eaten here. The texture, the smell, the head and legs still present. We had to stop after one bite. The boys were surprised as we told them that they could share the rest. But, after our insisting, they were content and left with this local delicacy back into the night.

Water

Geoffrey once told me a story about how he almost died as a young man. He was fishing on Lake Victoria and trying to travel from one port to another. A storm suddenly came upon the boat and tossed the vessel miles down the lake in fog. When they came ashore, the locals were amazed that they survived, pointing out to them the jagged rocks that protruded near the shore for miles. He truly believes God saved him that day. I asked, a bit perplexed, “Couldn’t you have swam to shore if the boat capsized?” Geoffrey laughed and replied, matter of factly, “Of course not, I can’t swim.”

Many Ugandans have never seen a river or lake, let alone been taught how to float in them. This was a shock to me, one who grew up around pools and lakes and was a lifeguard. In fact, last week in conversation I mentioned that I once worked saving people from drowning and the man I was speaking with looked at me like I was otherworldly.

So, when we took the older boys and girls down to Lake Victoria to see it up close they were in a state of shock. When I slowly walked them out on the dock they were nervous but curious. When I asked who had been near a large amount of water like this only a couple raised their hands. They spent most their time just looking down over the rails.





The day we took the boys it was quite windy and waves were crashing onto shore. It reminded me a bit of home and I decided to take off my shoes and walk in the waves as they were coming in and out. At this point, even the adults were adamant in telling me that I should not touch the water and the kids were telling me that I was going to die. Much to their surprise, I didn’t. After a few minutes of building castles that were destroyed by the waves and digging my feet into the sand, they decided to come closer, picking up rocks and shells that were strewn about. They were curious of the water and its contents. A few days later I found a collection of rocks and smooth glass in the boys home that they must have stuffed in their pockets to bring back.





That time at the beach I will never forget. It was simply outside of the scope of what I knew, the reality of growing up around water. I was reminded of baptism and the image of death and life that St. Paul uses, being immersed as if dying and being brought out as if you have new life. For Ugandans, this image is much more vivid. I remembered Scott telling me that when many of the church members here were baptized they had never gone under water. The prospect of death was in the back of their minds as they were lowered under the waves to a strange, dark, distorted world. There was never any real danger, but the uncertainty of coming back up was a reality.

I am also reminded of the story of Jesus calming the waters. When a storm quickly kicked up on the Sea of Galilee many of the disciples most likely did not know how to swim. I had forgotten just how much the raging sea represented chaos, darkness, death to them. What happened? Jesus brought order, light, life in the midst of despair.

Geoffery and Jack(fruit)

One of the great things about living here for a season is, obviously, the people you get to know. I have been able to spend a good amount of time with one of the pastors, Geoffrey, and thought I would ramble a bit about him.

Geoffrey lives on the property here with his wife, Rose, and his three children Issac, Esther, and Praise (the one in the pic below). They live in a one room house that is essentially a bunk bed and a queen bed. You can see in the pic the space that they have. But, despite the size, Geoffrey is always so inviting and I have spent many times talking with him in there. His joy is infectious and is a testament to how one can find the things in life that truly are important.



Geoffrey is the lead pastor of the church here and he is whom I travel with to different homes in the community. On Monday nights there is a time of prayer, teaching, and food at rotating houses. On other days we simply go visiting. These moments have been humbling but have brought so much perspective. What do you discuss with someone whose life consists of finding food for the day? What do you say to someone who explains how their house almost burnt down last year and they lost everything? Our go to in Canada is “what do you do for work?” Here the unemployment is upwards of 75%. Most of these places consist of grandparents and/or widows and many children. I will post some pics and some more stories about these times soon.



Anyway, back to Geoffrey. He is an avid English reader and consumes the paper whenever I pick it up for him. The other day he noticed that I was just finishing Anna Karenin, a 1,000 page Russian novel, and wanted to “check it out”. He also is a farmer and a cook. His family lives a lot off of the crops grown here on the property and he had me over for dinner the other night. It was great food and I felt honored that they would share what little they had. The meat was especially good and I have asked for him to tell me the next time he is making it so he can teach me. (A quick sidenote: Meat is something that is very rarely eaten here, maybe once a week or once or twice a month. This has been something I have had to get used to as us Canadians can have it upwards of once or twice a day!)

So, Geoffrey and I are quickly becoming friends and, using his words to describe how I feel, “I have learned so much, thank you so very much.” The picture below is one I took walking down a path to the houses in the community. If you have ever met Geoffrey, you know that he is lanky, and walks “dramatically” with long strides and long, swinging arms. It’s funny how it’s the little things you realize you won’t forget and connect the people that have visited here.



When we were doing one of the care and compassion days, handing out mattresses, food, soap, etc..we would ask how far we would have to walk with the supplies if the truck wouldn’t go any farther. I had heard that Geoffrey, with his long strides, misjudges how long it would take for us mere mortals to get somewhere. SO, being clever, I decided to ask him distance, not time. The first time we stopped he said 200m and what seemed about ½ km later we were there. The next time stop I questioned him how far again. He said. “Maybe…half a kilometer.” I asked, “What if we are walking slowly?” He replied, “A kilometer.”



Jack(fruit)hangs of many trees on the property here. It is quite large and is covered in uncomfortable spikes. One of the first things I noticed was that every day the children were up in the trees knocking on these things with their ears up against them. I was confused until I asked one the children and they showed me that they are seeing if the jackfruit is ripe. If it is, they quickly gather a few others to help them get it down and hike it over to the tree near the kitchen. They strut triumphantly as they are surrounded by all the other children, pushing, watching, hoping to get a good place in line. One of the older boys then cuts up the fruit and hands out the pieces. There is enough for all 50+ kids with some left over.





A few things I have noticed during this circus. The jackfruit can be very sweet, a combination of honeydew, watermelon, and …something entirely different. It is very good but is a bit of a sacrifice eating it as there is a syrupy layer that is worse than sap to get off your hands. The next few hours are a pain if you need to write, type, etc. The kids use leaves to wipe it, but it never seems to work.

Everything rests on the skills of the child testing the fruit before they pick it. The other day one of the children was berated by the others because they had picked a prime jackfruit too early and they were all left with a bland flavor. They have it only, maybe, once a week so it is a big deal to them. I don’t speak Ugandan but it seems that they give the poor “tester” a piece of their mind for a while.

The children line up quickly (as shown in the pic) because Alex and Joseph haven’t quite got the equal cutting down right yet and everyone knows it. The first kids get large pieces and it is only after about 20 kids that it is realized that the pieces need to be smaller. Also, they lose track of the kids as some run off to hoover their piece and come back pretending that they hadn’t got anything yet. I have been thinking about stepping in but I notice that the “moms” don’t and it is interesting watching the policing evolve. Alex just started cutting up 20-30 pieces before he hands them out and it seems to be helping.

Thank you again for all the encouraging messages. The internet has been down in town and it has been raining so I apologize for the delay. The next post will be in 3-4 days hopefully.

-Shaun