Plastic Bags

That’s all they wanted, a dozen stupid plastic bags. Yesterday, I was excited as we were giving out shirts and sandals sent from Canada to the kids here. It doesn’t seem like much but you know the cliché. Anyways, they were all excited as we somehow managed to hand out everything without getting trampled. The kids were all very thankful and polite as they looked over their new stuff.

As we were finishing up, Laurence came up to me and asked if he could have the two ripped plastic bags I had in my hand. I gave them to him, wondering what he was up to. The next thing I knew I was surrounded by the rest of the older boys asking if I had more. I assured them that I did back in the guest house and felt like the pied piper as I led them across the property. I grabbed a dozen, stored up from the last few shopping trips, and handed them out. I overheard one of the boys say esomero (school) when it hit me like a ton of bricks.

None of these boys had school packs. A few of the kids do and carry others’ supplies, but for the most part everyone just hopes it doesn’t rain. So, when I gave them the bags, they were ecstatic, unexpectedly more so than when they got the clothes. However, there was one boy, Frank, the youngest, who was visibly distraught. I asked Laurence what was the matter. He showed me where Frank’s bag was torn, right on the handle. I went back inside, found another, and saw Frank’s face light up as I gave him this new prize.

As soon as they were all satisfied, they ran off waiving their bags victoriously in the air. I was only able to snap one pick to remind myself the surreal scene that just took place. A dozen used plastic bags, that’s all they needed.





More to come...

Canadian Family Dycks

I had the privilege of going to visit a family from my home church that spent four months here in mpigi and are now spending three years at a large school/medical/community planning center in another district of the country. It was a privilege as it gave me time to talk with those who have shared this experience and, frankly, gave me some time to recharge. Jeff is the kind of guy that I can sit down and have a beer with, Shannon is very kind and a great cook, and their four kids are full of life but each in a unique way.

Here is Jeff with Kato (from Mpigi):



Here is Shan with Christine (from Mpigi) and their new daughter in the background:


Here is Shan with the kids at their home:



So, I traveled to their home last week, which involved three “taxi” transfers, chickens tied underfoot, and no English until Jeff picked me up halfway. Oh, I also experienced my first bone dry engine breakdown. Jeff had borrowed a truck that, I guess, the owner had not checked the coolant of in a long time. So, that was interesting.

The Dycks live at what I can only describe as a large compound. As I mentioned, it is a school for over 800 sponsored children, a trade school, a large medical clinic, and a community services center which includes a micro loan program. They are a bit more developed than here in mpigi and I was able to relax with hot water!, a freezer with food, and wireless internet. I apologize as I didn’t take many pics…



A couple of stories:

Jeff loves football and has played since he was young. He is in charge of all the building projects and, therefore, was invited to play on the builder’s football team. (That and he buys all the biscuits and drinks) When I was there they had a game against the teachers.

This is a big rivalry as Jeff explained to me that last game the teachers walked off the field because they felt the builders were putting a new player on the field who was a ringer (which he wasn’t). In response, after the referee settled the teachers down, the builders themselves walked off the field in protest. All over a friendly game, I love it!

So, normally I would root for the teachers except that the builders are considered the lesser class, the untrustworthy, the “bad guys”. This was apparent at the game as most of the 200 people watching were rooting for the teachers. So, I ended up rooting for the builders and, thanks to Jeff’s two goals, they won 3-0. Did I mention some players on their team don’t have shoes? It was a great night as all of us were laughing and having a good time.

Can you spot Jeff?

The second day I was there I was sitting under a tree reading when an older mzunugu man came running up shouting that there is a large fire and the bees are in danger of being destroyed. The bees? And you are who to order me to fight your forest fire?

Luckily, Jeff came over when he heard the commotion and explained, as he handed me a broomstick, that there was brushfire and the man had sponsored a honey project a couple of years back. He said I was welcome to relax as there were other people already on their way. “No way,” I told him, “count me in.”

So we were off. Yes, there was a fire. And, yes, it was spreading. But, fortunately, it was almost out when we got there. And the brooms? I cannot stress this enough. Don’t try to fight a fire with a broom, especially just a broom handle. After the excitement, we had to laugh as we did see people breaking branches off of trees as they were heading towards the blaze but were too ignorant with our "tools". The branches worked much better.

What else did I learn as an ignorant mzunugu? Don’t fight fire while standing downwind. Also, trust your gut when another mzunugu comes running to you in a panic. The fire was at least a kilometer away from his prized bees.

Oh, Blog It...

Motorcycle Ride to Town...Still Alive
Waiting For The Internet To Work...Commonplace
The Power Going Out While Waiting...Frustating
Realizing You Forgot To Load Your Post on Your Memory Stick...Rrrggg

Only three weeks left, I can't believe it. Would love to hear from you. I know from conversations that people are reading the blog but, if you could, leave a comment to remind me I'm not just writing to myself!

It's been one of those days..

Clown Cars, Burials, & The Nile

When I got the opportunity to drive and see a new part of the country as well as to see the Nile river I knew I had to jump on the chance. So, last Sunday Nelson and I headed from Mpigi to Jinja.

Now, where to begin? This story has so many directions I can go with it as it was a wild day. Hmm… let’s start with the drive. Originally, it was Nelson and I driving together. Then, the day before, he asked me if his two sons could go. Later, Amos, the maintenance guy at the children’s home, said he had never been to Jinja and asked if he could come. So, 5 people, the car was full.

As I mentioned in my last post, Nelson lives in Kampala so we had to drive to get him. But, when I arrived at his house, his wife was also waiting. Tragically, her father had died the night before just outside of Jinja. So, a child sitting on a lap later and we were off.

Of course, this added some pressure as I had never driven in the capital before, a city with exactly two traffic lights. However, we somehow made it out and began traveling east. About 30 minutes in, Nelson turns to me and asks if we could give his wife’s sister a ride as she is on the way to Jinja. “Why not?” I thought and we stopped in the next town. So, another child sitting on a lap and we were off.

However, 100m ahead Nelson told me to stop. I guess his wife had seen another sister that was walking to catch a taxi. “Why not?” I thought again. A child on a lap, a child in the trunk, four adults in the back seat, and we were off.

We stopped for “eats”, which means we just stopped at the side of the road and 20 people in white coats came running up to our car with bottled water, mystery meat on a stick, and bbqed bananas in tow. We then traveled through a huge forest (Nelson’s words) that was 3km long and by the largest Coke plant and sugar cane plant in East Africa. We were almost in Jinga when we stopped again. Nelson gets out, disappears into a market, and comes back with another person. His brother, he tells me. A child on a lap, a child in the trunk, five adults in the back seat, and we were off.

The way back was much more comfortable as the kids, aunts, and mom were dropped off. However, driving back through a city of 1.5 million people in the dark was interesting to say the least. I only “almost” lost a side view mirror (thank you hinges). Some things I learned to watch out for in the future were three point turns in the middle of busy streets, broken down trucks blocking traffic for miles, and “suicidal” motorcycle drivers. Fun!



So, as we were in Jinja that day, I attended my first burial/mourning. For these, People come from all over and can spend several days. The body of the deceased is laid out in the house for all to see and wailing can be heard late into the night. It was difficult to experience at first. But, after a while, it just felt right. We tend to “stuff it” don’t we? We are asked to “be strong”. I remembered a teacher once telling me that people in cultures that openly mourn actually, in the long run, do better at dealing with loss. I was beginning to believe him. The memory of the shots on television of mothers in middle eastern countries weeping over the death of their children just got a lot less strange.

After we left the burial, we traveled to a local church at which I taught. Of course, because of the unexpected death, we were late and I was almost immediately whisked to the front. Oh, did I mention they wanted me to speak for an hour?! It actually turned out to be great fun and I was even able to experience the announcement of an engagement. You wouldn’t believe the screams of joy, people jumping up and down, and women literally fanning the soon to be bride as if to say she is too hot! Here are a couple of shots of the event:




Soon after we motored out of town we turned of the main road and went what seemed like forever down a unkept path. We ended up here, rapids near the source of the Nile.




Amos, Nelson, and his brother stood and stared at the rapids for quite a long time. They had never seen water like this, the power and volume was overwhelming. The were shocked even further when they saw guys who, if paid a few dollars, would go over the rapids while clinging to an empty jerry can. I had to drag them away after an hour as the sun was setting. It was a marathon day, but one I will never forget.





A story…

I never mentioned this, but a few weeks ago one of the youth in the area got funding to film a music video for his album. So, the whole church community got involved and practiced acting and dancing for days on end. They filmed all over the area and this week the time had arrived to unveil the edited video that would hopefully go into rotation on Ugandan television. I was planning for something “interesting”.


The video was set to premiere on the property at 5:00. I hurried to finish the teaching I was doing as people began to slowly trickle in. 5:30, 6:00, 6:30 rolled by without any video. There must have been 100 people there but no one seemed to mind. About an hour in, music began to play and a small boy, no older than 3, began to dance on the stage. He was amazing and everyone stood and cheered for him. He must have danced for a half an hour without pulling out the same move twice. Once he finished, almost as if was organized, 50 people began a dance party in the back of the building that lasted for an hour.

At 7:00, an announcement was made that the video would be there “soon”, maybe five minutes. So, we waited another half an hour and decided to go up for dinner and for a child to run up to get us when the video arrived. At 8:30, a full three and half hours after the advertised time, the videos started.

The reason I say videos is that I guess people don’t make one video, they make a video for each song on the album! The first two videos I got what I planned for. The third wasn’t bad and the last one had something to do with staying in school or you will end up as a farmer for the rest of your life, a good lesson I guess. For some reason, much of the cinema was footage from a film about a white Jesus interspersed with traditional dancing, guys busting a move with their shirts off, and older women in traditional clothing. However, after seeing some local videos on television since then, it was definitely above par.

I think what I will remember most is the waiting, how no one seemed to care, and the random dance party, where everyone found something fun to do. A different culture, for sure.


More to come…

Mpigitown Community

Ah, the second post for today. I thought I would make up for last week. Here is the building where the Mpigitown Church meets.





Simply put, I love it. I enjoy meeting there and I love looking out to the sky while singing and praying. It is great squeezing in on benches and having children come to sit with you. I love the openness as you can hear what is happening inside from down on the main street. People come up and look through the cracks in the wood to see what is happening. It is strange, but practical, that a cow grazes out front (no need to cut the grass or fertilize it!). The dirt floors are humbling and I am beginning to grow a dislike for carpeted church meeting places.

Yesterday, I was teaching and learning from the “youth” here. (The youth is age 19-30) We met for over three hours, which is normal. But, what happened next, is something I will never forget. After about half of the people left, a few of the “youth” began to teach me how to use the base drum. This turned into what I can only describe to Canadians as a dance party. There are traditional dances from every tribe in Uganda and each one has a different song. So, they danced and danced. Then, one of the wives left and came back in with a giant bucket that she proceeded to dish out of. It was pork and, as I explained in a previous post, an honor to eat as meat is scarce. So, I pitched in and bought a case of sodas. Everyone cheered and hollered. We had a great time partaking together and we even invited a couple people we ran into on the street on the way to get drinks.



This was fellowship. I learned a lot from their love and generosity. What would this look like in Canada? Can’t we be so boring sometimes, especially as the church! Like I said, it was a joy filled evening that I will never forget.

This is Nelson, the pastor of the church in town. He is in his 50’s but looks in his 30’s. It is humbling to be teaching him to say the least. The picture I took is of his family in Kampala, where they live. Nelson commutes out this way as the live on government sponsored land and have free rent. It is always a state of restlessness, though, as the government can come in anytime and take the land from the people and simply demolish the houses.




Both Nelson and his wife, Irene, speak excellent English. She especially fluent and corrects him sometimes when he translates for me. As you can see, they have five children. The youngest, Joseph, is always at my side when I go to visit, even though he doesn’t understand much English. All the kids are in school and Nelson and I are going to visit a couple of them at boarding school when we go to Jinga, a city on the Nile River.

Nelson is who I travel into the bush with. He seems to know everyone. Actually, he is described by Geoffrey as (cue Schwarzenegger voice) “The Mobilizer”. He is always full of energy and excited for our “programs”. Everything is a program here. If you want to ask what someone is doing that day, you ask them what their program is. I learned this early on as I didn’t want a translator up front during church services. I explained this to Geoffery several times to no avail. Scott then suggested to tell him that it was my “program” to listen without a translator. The next Sunday, no translator.

A couple of stories…

Football with the boys has been even more enjoyable recently. We laugh a lot and I am going to miss it immensely when I leave. I have even started to play a bit with the little ones as they come back from school early. I keep forgetting that they are 4,5,6 years old as they play like they are teenagers.

So, I said we laugh a lot more. Mainly, we are now able to laugh at each other when we mess up. Sometimes the boys (or myself) shoot way off target. Sometimes they (or I) miss the ball completely. The other day, one boy missed and ripped his pants. Another missed and fell right on his butt.

Also, I have taught them a new phrase, “he is sleeping”. During one of our games I shot it from the other end of the field as I realized that the goalie was lying on the ground. He scrambled to catch up to the incoming ball but to no avail. I said, “the goalie was sleeping” and it is now used whenever someone is not paying attention.





So, the story. Last weekend it was a tie game, 3-3. The sun was going down and we didn’t have much time. I stretched a pass to one of the strikers who almost scored but a defender kicked the ball out at the last second. So, we had a throw in near the goal. The kids always try to get me to throw in as I can throw the farthest. I am glad I did this time, as it gave me a perfect view for what happened next.

I saw Laurence running the front of the goal and I heaved the ball as hard as I could at his feet. He turned to kick it when suddenly a white chicken came out of nowhere onto the field, almost as if it was chasing the ball. Well, Laurence booted what he thought was the winning goal. Instead, we heard a loud squawk as a mass of feathers went flying into the air. We must have all laughed for the next five minutes as the sun continued to set.



I feel strange carrying around a camera here. I never did at home and it makes me feel like I am a tourist. As well, it is dangerous to take pics in certain places as someone will either try to steal your camera or ask for money because they are in your picture. This is why I want to share about the craziness of the taxi park and its hundreds of vans but only have some “hidden” pics so far. This is also why I am having trouble taking pictures of town here. I think I might take some on Thursday as I will be hiring a boda. We can zoom off if anyone comes to confront me.

So, that being said, the kids here love the camera. It is hard to get a pic in without them posing. Now, with digital camera displays, they all want to see themselves as well. This fact has led me to befriend some kids that seemed to want nothing to do with me. Shafik is one of those kids. Whenever I would talk to him he would shy away. However, one day I went and sat beside him on a log. I pulled out my camera and took a picture of us together. I showed him the shot and his face changed instantly. He began to laugh and talk with me. Now, whenever I see him, he comes up to me and says hello. Here is the pic of “Fiki” and I.





More to come…

Seasons

Uganda has two seasons, the wet season and the dry season. We are now in the dry season which means HOT weather, minimal rain and water conservation. In the past, the property has had a problem with a shortage of water and so, this year, someone donated enough money to put in an ingenious water system.





When I tell people that, in Canada, we have four seasons they are shocked. When I tell them we only have one growing season, they are even more amazed. How do we survive? they ask. Here, they have two growing seasons and so, as students are finishing college courses, they are heading home to work. I met a man, David, as I was walking through the trails yesterday who was home and working at, as Geoffery humorously puts it, crop betrothment. He was tilling the field so his mother and grandmother could pick food to eat in the next months. It is difficult seeing someone like David who works so hard and is still struggling for money for school. I come across this situation almost every day. It also makes me think of a post a few weeks ago where I asked, “How important is higher education in a society where there is extremely high unemployment?” Even if David graduates from college there is no guarantee he will get a job.

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