I've always loved music and have often had a "soundtrack" of sorts to my life. Certain albums remind me of places I've been and different times in my life. Since coming back to the U.S., I have a theme song and since I'm feeling pretty exhausted and word-less tonight, here's the song. I recently discovered JJ Heller and highly recommend her other music too!
I’m sitting here in the London Heathrow airport with another 3 hours of my layover to go. I enjoyed the luxury of having two seats to myself on the flight from Kampala to London and my first action of re-entry into the Western world—buying a cup of Starbucks coffee. As I have traveled over the last week my movement from one world to another has been gradual; thank goodness.
First, the trip from Bundibugyo to Fort Portal. We exited the blazing heat and humidity and after the jaw-rattling 3 hour ride, we arrived in the cool of Fort Portal. Well, relative cool anyway. We moved from the road that has sharp rocks jutting out by 6 inches to the smooth newly widened gravel road and finally to tarmac and speed bumps. We moved from the place where we make everything from scratch to a place where there are 4—yes 4!—restaurants available. Anna and I enjoyed a morning adventure walk through the tea fields wet with dew; a walk that was free of stares, yells, and other people altogether.
From there, Pat and I entered world #3 as we traveled to Kampala. A city able to offer just about anything I could want and yet inescapably African. Pat and I enjoy pedicures at a fraction of the American cost and travel through the legendary “jams” on a variety of transportation including motorcycles, matatus, and her own personal car. I go shopping and we both meet with a politician for lunch. His desire to improve the lives of those living in Bundibugyo is encouraging but the stories of behind-the-scenes corruption is discouraging. Being surrounded by a group of 15 white tourists in a small craft shop is overwhelming to me and I hope my cultural tact is a bit better than theirs. I stifle the urge to yell “Mzungu!!” and am thankful I don’t have to travel in a herd in a white tour van.
From there, Pat and I enter the Entebbe airport, where the white face ratio increases yet again. I get on a plane and now find myself here—back in the 21st century, surrounded by the cultural diversity of Heathrow airport along with a good dose of consumerism. Hmmm. Currently, I feel mostly jet-lagged and frumpily rumpled next to fashionable London types.
It is strange to realize I sat in this same terminal 6 months ago, also jet-lagged and rumpled but also slightly terrified as I faced the reality of moving to an unknown and faraway land in East Africa. Now I sit here missing that place a bit already, excited to see family and friends, unsure of how unfamiliar my previous home will feel. I am praying for a smooth transition back into this modern world while realizing that I have changed and hoping that a large part of me will long to return to Bundibugyo. For now, I think I’ll finish my coffee, brush my teeth, and read my book until I take that final step back into the world of America.
Earlier this week I felt stretched thin and spent. I found myself thinking “I can’t give out anymore. I’m just too tired to keep giving and giving.” In this place, a day does not go by without several people knocking at our door making their requests. It can range from kids asking for playing cards to people needing money to start a new business or transport money to get to a relative’s funeral. It quickly becomes exhausting to sort through each one and know how best to say yes or no.
Anyway, on this particular morning I found myself asking my Father for strength and energy for the day, including its requests. And I threw in a little “and please surprise me with some kind of encouragement too”. I went to the health center and met up with my friend Bahati. After volunteering there, we walked back together and she invited me into her small shop where she sells everything from sugar to permanent markers.
We had a great time chatting and she offered me two Ugandan “pancakes” her sister had made. They were made from cassava flour and banana and then deep fried—definitely different from American pancakes. But they were tasty and we shared a mango juice box too. As I sat there, I realized the joy of receiving from a friend. I never thought I would be so happy to have someone offer me fried pancakes, free of charge!
Even more than the pancakes and mango juice, I think I was also especially blessed by a real relationship. A friendship free of demands or requests. I left Bahati’s shop encouraged and renewed to give of myself again and thankful for God’s answer to my quickly breathed prayer earlier in the morning.
With Bahati in front of her shop.
Today was my 22nd birthday; not the first birthday I spent away from home but the first celebrated in Africa. In many ways, a typical day but also made special by those who love and care about me. Just a few of the special parts of the day:
Waking up to fluffy pancakes made by Chef Anna. While meeting with Bundi Nutrition workers, Amy came to the door and sang a Happy Birthday solo. Opening a HUGE pile of cards that had been stacking up for weeks at the Bundibugyo Post Office; reminding me of the many loving friends and supporters I have in America. Discovering a waffle maker the Clarks had left behind, after Anna and I had been lamenting our inability to make waffles on Sunday morning. Birthday text messages from family at home; my 4 year old nephew suggested buying me make-up for my birthday and my 1 year old nephew distinctly said my name. Piling in the car, bumping our way to Bundibugyo, for a night out on the town. A true Ugandan feast at the Vanilla Hotel with more plates than could fit on the table. Good dinner conversation with team plus a new friend. A phone call from the Clark family, complete with a beautiful rendition of Happy Birthday as well. Chocolate cupcakes, a firework candle that shoots sparks which is probably illegal in the U.S., and yes, even plastic animals (a childhood cake tradition). To top it off, cheesecake made possible by the Jello company and the postal service delivering it from America. Beautiful gifts and a pair of elephant earrings to add to my growing collection. Piling back into the car, one last birthday phone call from Pat. A cool-ish breeze comes through the windows as we bump back to Nyahuka; Aidan’s little hand finds mine as he falls asleep in his carseat.
A great day thanks to friends and family in America and my new family here in Uganda. And what is the perfect end to a great birthday? A rat running down the hall while Anna and I hop and scream, shutting him into the back office and baiting him with a banana stuffed with rat poison. Bundibugyo Birthday complete.
Today was a truly cross-cultural experience as I entered the Stanbic Bank in Bundibugyo Town on a mission to become a signatory for the Bundi Nutrition account. Thankfully, John Clark was along to guide and help me jump through the bureaucratic hoops. Below is a (more or less) play-by-play recounting of the morning. See if you can find how the experience differs a bit from what might happen in the U.S.
First, I hop on the back of John’s motorcycle while wearing a skirt. We make our way to town on dusty dirt roads, attempting to avoid the jagged rocks sticking out of the dirt (which is much harder than it sounds). The ride is about 30 minutes long and I’m sure we pass cows, large trucks kicking up dust clouds, and kids yelling “How are you?!” but I don’t remember. I guess it is becoming normal to me? Maybe.
We arrive at the bank, slightly windblown, and find out that “the network is down” so we cannot withdraw funds, check our account balance, or make any changes like adding a new signatory. We decide to burn time—adding money to our electricity card so we have power at the mission, sitting at a little cafe eating chapatis and drinking hot tea.
Eventually we went back to the bank. The line of people had grown by a lot. Within minutes of standing in the line that never seemed to move, a woman comes and (by American standards) “cuts” in line. No one says anything. It seems to be a pretty typical thing here. You stand in line for a while, go run some errands, and then get back behind the guy you were behind before. No big deal.
When there are about six people in front of us in line, the person speaking to the teller ran into some kind of problem. The six people in front of us crowd around him, looking over his shoulder, all giving him advice. Banking privacy and security are defined a little differently here :) On a similar note, a man dressed entirely in yellow (think African version of Curious George’s caretaker minus the big hat) is crouched in a corner of the room with a huge pile of crushed bills, counting them out and creating piles, probably to deposit.
As we got closer to the front, the personal space factor diminished. For the last 30 minutes of waiting, an elderly woman behind me stood so close that her bag was resting on my body the whole time. I kept picturing the entire, winding line as human dominoes. Weird? Yes, but I had been standing in line for an hour with not much to do.
We finally reached the teller window. Victory! In order to withdraw cash, you have to write yourself a check. Which then has to be signed in 5 places and given the official stamp. Stamps and multiple signatures seem to be the name of the game here.
From there, we stepped into another line to request a provisional statement—a surprisingly quick and painless process! And then we went to the bank manager’s desk to turn in our paperwork and hopefully receive approval as a new signatory. We wait. And wait some more. And wait a little more. After about 30-45 minutes, he appears.
He rattles off a long list of documents that are required to process the request—3 passport photos, a signed letter from our local chairman, signed meeting minutes, filled out applications, and a photocopy of ID. Thankfully John has done this before and we have all of the above! The bank manager seems almost disappointed that we have everything and decides that my driver’s license is not a valid enough ID. My passport is in Kampala awaiting a work permit. Thankfully, I have a photocopy of the passport at home and he agrees to accept it and process the request when I bring it. Success!
After 5 hours, the banking for Bundi Nutrition seems to be in order. I hop onto the back of John’s motorcycle again and we make our way back to Nyahuka with the equatorial sun beating down. A few months ago, I probably would have thought it had been a long and frustrating process with little merit in the end. And while it did take a lot of time to do something seemingly simple, I understand the importance of it today.
Being able to withdraw those funds from America in a Stanbic bank on a dirt road in rural Uganda is going to save lives. As the dry season continues and food becomes scarce, malnourished children will be hungry, lose weight, and be less able to fight common sicknesses here like malaria or diarrhea. The Bundi Nutrition programs provide important food supplements that will keep these children alive or at least give them a fighting chance. So while the process of banking here in Bundibugyo is different, I am thankful for the system that provides funds for programs that save the lives of children here.
On most Sundays here in Bundibugyo, I attend the church that is right outside our door, Bundimulinga Presbyterian Church. But it is always fun to visit other churches in the area and yesterday was one of those days. Anna and I walked to New Life Bubandi yesterday morning. It’s a really pretty walk and the further we went, the more the “traffic” decreased. Now that dry season is here, everyday is blazing hot but it was still pleasant at 9 am and it was nice to stop and greet smiling elderly women as we went.
The church service was fairly typical. We arrived at 10:30, after being told that it started at 10. The service began around 11. The church building is a small, concrete rectangle with a tin roof and a dirt floor with a few wooden benches inside. We were greeted warmly and worship began, accompanied by drums.
As people trickled in and we sang, I was blessed by the true worship surrounding me. The believers in that building had real joy. As I’ve dealt with my health issues, it is easy to become self-focused and lose my joy and faith. But these believers reminded me yesterday that you can still worship amidst difficulty and it can mean so much more when struggling to maintain joy.
My favorite song from yesterday was Okwesigwa Kwaawe (Great is Your Faithfulness). The translation isn’t exact but I’m going to write the chorus lyrics below. The tune and tempo are a lot different than the Great is Thy Faithfulness I grew up with but it is beautiful.
Okwesigwa Kwaawe
Okwesigwa Kwaawe, Ai Yesu, Bukya, Bukya Kuloho
Your Faithfulness, oh Jesus, is Always, Always There
Koona Eki Ndukwetaaga, Omukono Gwaawe, Taata, Gukakimpa
All that I Need, Your Hand, Father, Gives Me
I wish I could record sound and post it here. I’m sure there is some way to do that but I’m not tech savvy and our bandwidth is slow. I live in Bundibugyo, as you know. It’s waaaaaay out in rural Western Uganda. Ugandans hear that I live out here and they often seem baffled; we really live in the sticks. You would think because it is such a remote location that it would be peaceful, quiet, and full of rainforest nature noises like you hear on those Bose sound machines. Nope.
Currently there is some kind of party going on outside our house. Maybe a political candidate drove through? I’m really not sure. But whatever happened, someone got their hands on several vuvuzelas. Since then, there have been spontaneous outbursts of bleating. At one point there was even a rhythm going on where the vuvuzelas honked and a car horn echoed back. It gets quiet for about 30 seconds…maybe they’re finished? Nope. One straggler starts up again and the chorus begins.
This is just one instance :) There is a goat pen close to my bedroom window that often holds sick goats who need care from one of our extension workers. Lately there has been one with “flu”. It has been sneezing non-stop. I never knew goats could sneeze. They often start bleating in the middle of the night too for no apparent reason.
Other fun noises: motorcycle horns beeping, big trucks barreling down the road, music that reaches our house all the way from downtown Nyahuka, our neighbor’s radio (often playing random American hits from the 1990s), bats screeching at night, our dogs rustling around (probably hunting) at night under my window, and the ever present “Majungu!” yelled by kids anytime I exit my house and walk down the street.
Bundibugyo is far from a quiet place. Even the nature noises can be overwhelming at times. But I do find myself liking other characteristics of it’s “country-ness”. I love that I can see the stars at night, that the air is fresh, that the sun coming up over the mountains is breath-taking, the green-ness of the banana leaves. And there are times when I wake up in the middle of the night and hear a wonderful thing—silence.
