Christmas Time in Gulu

True, not your typical Christmas party like those at home.

This kind of party lasts all day--morning until the sun sets.

Things begin at "8:00 am sharp". I am starting to catch on and so I show up at 9:30. There are a few people around and one of the tents is halfway up.

I walk with Timothy's wife and daughter to visit an aunt. We stay there for an hour. I noticed a scar in the back of this elderly lady's head. She was attacked once by the LRA in her home, cut with a machete. They set her hut on fire and left her to die, but she escaped. I don't catch any of this when we are with her because they speak in Luo of which I still don't know much, but Joska tells me later on.

We return around 11:00 and things are beginning. We cover quite a bit in this Christmas celebration. We celebrate the purchase of the land, the launch of the Heifer program, the opening of the clinic, and the microfinance program. The ladies are displaying their beautiful handcrafts, the kids are dancing their traditional dances and I wish each one of you could be here to experience it because I can't do justice in words or pictures (although I tried, and have hundreds of pictures to share with you some time.) I was tired because I had been sick the previous two days but I couldn't sit and rest, there was too much to be taking in.

Oh, and besides all of these highlights, you also missed a few other things. We were planting a number of trees around the land in celebration of the purchase. I was speaking with my director while the speeches were continuing by the head of different organizations/churches in the area. Suddenly I heard my name. Indeed, it was my turn to plant a tree and make a speech. I was not told of this, of course. But I did my best to fit into this high context culture and tried to come up with a speech. I was also given a new name at this time--Ayee Rwot Akello. You can call me Akello for short (because that's probably the easiest for you to pronounce.)

I'm sure the entertainment for most of you would've continued as you would've watched about 40 kids surround me, wrap one of the traditional cloths around my waist and tried to teach me some of the traditional dances. (I'm still working on them.)

At one point, some small Christmas gifts appeared from somewhere for all of the kids. As they received them, a few of them would come to me and ask what they were for. How do you explain a slinky when there are no steps around? I pulled one smaller brick in front of a larger one and tried to explain it. I think my explanation failed but they smiled politely. A few girls came to me with a jar of playdough and asked what it was for, then a group of boys approached me and asked how to put this small airplane together. Some of the pieces were already broken but we made it work.

I'm glad we had a Christmas party because it doesn't seem like Christmas very much at all as the sun is still scorching me in the hot mid-day sun. I do, however, wake up to a number of Christmas songs most mornings coming from some unknown source in town. Yesterday it was Feliz Navidad. But the Christmas party reminded me of the Savior and the people He came for. I was reminded of our need for this Prince of Peace in each one of our lives, whether we've lived in a war zone or not--our need for Him is still the same.

Look, I'm using my education . . .

I’ve recently been revisiting some of my books on development theory as well as the journals I wrote for my capstone class.

I met a guy who works with the Mennonite Central Committee in Gulu the other day, specifically the Acholi Religious Leaders Peace Initiative. Speaking with him reminded me of how much I resonated with the Mennonite approach among the theories we studied.

The journal I found regarding the MCC challenged me to examine the way I’m thinking and living and see if it lines up to what I say I believe.

How Jesus Might Do Development
The MCC Approach

Starting with such a title feeds right into what my friends have been mocking me about lately. They think I’m on the Mennonite train because it’s a trendy one. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is just a passing phase because they DO embody some things which are trendy to talk about but harder to live—social justice, peacemaking, living simply.
Regardless of my own commitment to living the Mennonite way, I really do think they’re on to something. I think their focus on Jesus’ life instead of just focusing on his death and resurrection (which it seems like many of us protestants/evangelicals might be guilty of at times) makes a noticeable difference in their ideas about and practices of development. Maybe it’s a stretch to say that Jesus would work for the Mennonite Central Committee if he had to make the choice, but I think there are some pretty clear marks that their way embodies much of the way he lived.
I wrote “freeing” in the column next to the paragraph that talked about how MCC doesn’t accept funding from USAID and that it “is not driven by timeframes or results, believing in the importance of intangible results that cannot be measured in quantifiable terms.” I’m not sure if the MCC always lives up to it but I’m convinced that as far as large development organizations go, they are probably a step ahead of the rest concerning qualitative results instead of quantitative. Although this is a flawed analogy, I would compare this particular philosophy quite easily to Jesus’ life. It’s commonly believed that Jesus’ actual ministry started when he was about 30 and lasted for about 1-3 years. (Sounds quite similar to an MCC field assignment J ). Surely Jesus came into contact with a lot of people during his few years of ministry, yet he kept a few close friends and invested much of his time and energy into a group of disciples who often didn’t really understand him or what he was saying.
This might be another stretch, but I think the Mennonite’s way of finding answers and solutions within the home culture and tradition is similar to the radical words of Jesus when he said that the Kingdom of God is not here nor there, but the Kingdom of God is within you. Whether it be development solutions or Church growth strategy, it is easy to see our human tendency for looking for an outside solution or the next greatest thing that has hit the bookshelves. There is a similarity in their search for within the person or within the group of people that speaks to the search for Shalom.
Without falling into a dangerous picture of development workers being the saviors of communities, I think MCC’s servanthood approach and minimizing of power differentials reflects Christ’s way. Again, the analogy is flawed because Jesus really was the Savior and actually did have power and authority because of his identity. Yet, Western born Mennonites really are born into a place of privilege and opportunity. They could easily follow the way of other development organizations and set their own budgets, drive their SUV’s, build a compound equipped with tennis courts and golf carts to drive to other expat houses (this is not an exaggeration, by the way). Instead, they emphasize a small stipend so as not to be set apart from the people they live with. In my class on Christology, we have discussed what the incarnation actually means. Not only did Christ not have to be born into a low income family instead of royalty, the fact that he even entered into this world is an emptying out of his power and privilege.
Although all of my analogies are flawed, if we were looking for the best development model according to Christ’s way, I feel like I could hold my own in defending the MCC.

Although I’m not living in a large compound or driving around an SUV, these words I wrote inside a classroom in Michigan last year still act as a mirror for me right now; I am looking at my reflection and realizing that what exists at the core of why I live the way I do is evident to those around me. And I wonder what those around me see . . .

Is it a love for God that drives me and is expressed by loving those around me? Or is it a desire to be successful, to be known, to be recognized that drives me . . . We think these motives are hidden well as we carry out our various activities but they, in fact, are very evident to those around us, and very evident to God.

Saturday (This is a really long one.)

“Our man has not yet come to sign this peace agreement,” Timothy said after getting off of the phone.
“Too bad we’re not more surprised,” I said.
“Yes, it’s not a big surprise.”

Joseph Kony has once again failed to sign the final peace agreement. And people here simply hope and pray he never comes back to Northern Uganda. They slowly continue to move out of the IDP camps, open up land, marry, raise children, and return to some sort of normalcy that they are long unfamiliar with.

And this is where we are tonight—watching a marriage begin.

Timothy was kind enough to offer me a ride back to Gulu on Saturday and I was very grateful. It meant getting a free ride that is fairly safe, smooth, and always very interesting. Timothy owns the place where I’m living in Gulu, he is the founder of Uganda Christian Business Partners, owner of a few companies, and seems to model business in its most redemptive state. He has encouraged so many around him to start businesses in order to care for themselves and their community.

Perhaps he gets this caring spirit from his mother.
After our long trip from Kampala and discussions about education systems, farmers markets, successful business practices, and life before the war, Timothy asked what my plans were upon returning to Gulu and I said I had none. He invited me to come along to his wife’s compound where a wedding was taking place.

We reached home and I quickly changed my clothes and we set off—but first we had to stop at his mother’s place. Timothy talked about how much he misses village life and what it was like before the war.

“The elders were so respected. I remember my grandfather moving through our compound, settling arguments and keeping order. Everyone respected the elders. But the war has changed that, these young people no longer even respect their elders.”

We reached his mother’s small beautiful compound. I wish I could’ve taken multiple photos of Timothy and his mother talking as well as their beautiful compound to share it with you but I knew then that I would have to describe this experience in words. It was getting dark, and flash photography seemed rather intrusive and highly inappropriate for the peaceful tone that settled on the place. We took tea, enjoyed the sunset, and Timothy talked about how his mother used to care for anyone passing through their village. Their compound was always a place you could stay, eat, and relax.

We said our good-byes and moved on to the next compound. An elderly lady came out of one of the huts. She was bent over and seemingly trying to come to terms with her lack of mobility compared to her younger years, yet she was absolutely stunning. It reminded me of the lecture, I think it was Lauren Winner, gave on beauty at the January Series last year. She was not beautiful in the sense of what history she might hold in her small frame or the love that she poured out on her children or the suffering she must’ve experienced in her long life—she was simply beautiful.

This was Timothy’s other mother, his father’s first wife. He looked at me and laughed and knew I couldn’t understand, “but this is the way we grew up” he said. I should’ve told him I recently was trying to sensitize a couple of Americans who were working here to the benefits of polygamy and how the way missionaries entered the scene actually might’ve done more harm than good in some ways—especially when it comes to men taking responsibility of their children. I am still a proponent of monogamy, believe me. But when the missionaries emphasized one wife for each man, many of these men still continued to have girlfriends on the side or cheat on their wives. Yet if they fathered children with these women, instead of caring for them as family he would emphasize that he only had one wife and therefore was only responsible for her and her children.

Timothy listened to her tell him about the granddaughter who had committed suicide. He also explained to me that her son had been killed by the LRA on this compound and her grandson had been abducted at the same time. It’s hard to reconcile the papers I’ve written and books I’ve read about this conflict and finally be here and know families who have truly suffered through it.

We said our good-byes and moved on to the wedding. We arrived in this village compound just as it was becoming too dark to see very far in front of you. I wondered how this would work if no one could see anything. My questions were quickly answered when I heard the roar of a generator and two lightbulbs strung from trees flickered and then lit up the compound. We sat in some chairs under a tent between one of the huts and the small concrete rectangular house. Timothy explained the whole process to me including penalties of speaking out of turn and shaking your mother-in-laws hand.

The grooms family was in the house, discussing what they would bring to the wife’s family as a dowry. The wife’s family waited in the hut to hear their offer. At one point you saw the grooms family leave the house with their lantern, bags of soap, and other gift items. They walked single-file to the hut. They removed their shoes and crawled inside on their knees. The grooms family has to hold such high respect for the wife’s family that they can be fined for a number of things (such as looking at the ceiling or pleading or speaking out of turn.) And so we waited, friends and well-wishers. After a while most of the well-wishers became impatient and actually left. Timothy explained that quite often, a decision might be put on hold until morning if the offer wasn’t good enough.

We waited almost three hours when the grooms family all poured out of the hut again.

“Oh, this is a very bad sign, the wife’s family hasn’t accepted.”

I must admit, I was quite tired at this point and was ready to contribute what they still needed. A bar of soap? Sure, got it covered. But I think it had more to do with cows which I could do very little about. I found a baby to hold and actually fell asleep at one point in the chair while I was holding him.

The grooms family discussed among each other what to do and re-entered the hut. Perhaps 30 minutes or an hour later (I have no idea, I might’ve fallen asleep again), we heard the ululations by the brides aunt. This was a good sign—the offer was accepted.

This is when they started eating and celebrating together. It’s also the time Timothy took me home so I could sleep—I was exhausted.

And so life continues in Northern Uganda, despite a rebel leader who is unwilling to sign a peace agreement. People are being given in marriage, children are finishing exams, businesses are growing, and everyone hopes and prays that this place will never return to war.

Feels like home . . .

Two weeks in Gulu and it already feels like home. At least it’s beginning to.

This definitely didn’t happen right away. It seems like every day was overwhelming at first. And overwhelming in every sense of the word. The language seemed almost as unnatural to my tongue and pronunciation skills as French did for the one miserable semester I studied it. The sun completely scorched me those first few days. I knew no one and was living on my own, not to mention trying to cook. (My sisters would be so proud of me.) I was trying to find my way and figure out what in the world I was supposed to be doing and how I was supposed to communicate to a group of people who knew little English. (And Lord knows my Luo isn’t so good yet.) I was starting to ride my new motorbike around Gulu. (I just learned how to ride 2 weeks before I came to Uganda.) And then I made the mistake of looking at some pictures of my lovely niece and nephew and then heard their voices on the phone for a brief second. Maybe not the best idea.

But then the second week came. I got to know my lovely neighbor girls, Lakisa Rebecca and Lanyero Tracy. They taught me a few words, we danced to some music on my ipod like Feist and Natasha Bedingfield. We found games to play when the electricity went out. They even ate some of my food I cooked (and politely tried to finish it.) They are by far one of the highlights of my days here. And now they’ve begun coming every day. (Which I’m still happy about at this point.)


I also started getting to know the community that I’ll be working with. I’ve spent some time with the Karin Parents Committee as we plan for our upcoming Christmas party (which you’re all invited to) and discussed business names for the handcrafts they’ve been making. This is what we’ve come up with:


I’ve been getting to know the kids as well, particularly a small group of them that tried out for a film that is being produced here by a team from Kampala. They’re also helping me learn the language, as slow as I may be.


Unfortunately I had to come back to Kampala for a few days to finish some work with the fundraising I started during my first month here. I was a bit annoyed because I felt like I was just settling into the place and then had to leave again. I was even more annoyed when a businesswoman who said she’d order 2000 Christmas cards from us (and was half the reason I traveled to Kampala) just decided to do her printing from Egypt instead. But it has still been a promising trip and now we have enough money for our Christmas party on the 12th of December. Besides this, I also get to spend Thanksgiving with some American friends at the University I studied at last year here in Uganda.

The trip was fairly uneventful, it took about 5-6 hours to get here from Gulu. I actually got a ride from a friend who’s working in Southern Sudan that I met a few weeks ago in Kampala. I think I’ll be getting a ride back from Timothy Jokenne and his wife on Friday. Keep praying for safe travel. The following is a blog post I wrote while in Gulu and decided not to post at that time because it seemed a bit depressing:

How much joy and how much sorrow can the heart contain?
How much joy and how much sorrow can a small country hold within her borders?

It seems as though the rule here is one of extremes. When there is joy and dancing and ululations here in Gulu, any festivity at home seems to pale in comparison. Yet when there is sorrow, the pain is overwhelming, tears of mourning are replaced with anger as one wonders what the point of such suffering could be. Really, is there always a point to every tragic event?

Hope, my director, was just sitting next to me as she received a call from her husband.
“Peter? Oh no, . . . oh . . . . Oh God.” She gasped, paused, gasped again.
“No . . . oh no. Let me come.”

Peter, a friendly young man who had only been married to his beautiful wife for two years just died in a car accident. It made me think of the man I saw on my way to Gulu who was killed right in front of us, on his bike. I wish I could forget this image. I’m sure he also had a family. As soon as it all happened, I wondered where his family was, how they would be told of his death. It was tragic, and so maddeningly wasteful all at the same time—it was simply because that truck was going too fast and driving wrecklessly.

If it’s not car accidents, it’s war. If it’s not war, it’s AIDS. If it’s not AIDS it’s some treatable disease that could’ve been cured with a small dose of medicine that costs less than a pack of gum, maybe less than a stick of gum.

I think of that verse about sorrow lasting for the night and joy coming in the morning and I try to believe in its truth, in its hope. I try to believe that this verse is not only true for those of us living in rich corners of the world, but that it is the same for Peter’s wife tonight.

I’m sorry for the despairing tone of this post. I don’t know how people aren’t exhausted here. Such extreme joy and extreme sorrow must be tiring after a while.

Well dear friends, the sun is hot right now and it’s been a long day of running around Kampala connecting with businesspeople and trying to raise some money. My director should be coming soon to deliver some paper I need to bring to the printer tomorrow for our Christmas cards. And then, I’ll be trying to come up with a dessert to bring to our Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m thankful for you. I’m so thankful for those of you who supported me in getting here—with your words, your finances, your prayers. I’m thankful for you faithful friends who continue to read these posts, as if I have something to say. I really am encouraged to know that you care enough about me to read a bit more about my life here.

And with that, I hope you Americans have a lovely Thanksgiving tomorrow. There’s so much to be thankful for.

It’s time to say Good-Bye.

Yes, the time is near to say good-bye to my most recent home. I must say, although it’s treated me well, I’m ready to leave and find my home in Gulu.

I had an unusually longer than expected stay at a backpackers hostel in Kampala. It’s a strange culture, the backpacker’s world—I dreamt often of the sociological studies I would do in such a place. It’s quite intriguing.

The worst part is forming a small family of other individual travelers and then slowly watching them leave, only to be the last one remaining.

Here’s a small snapshot of some from my “family” that have already left:

· Steve, American guy drilling wells in Southern Sudan. Was supposed to come down to pick up a landcruiser that was “ready” only to find out it was far from ready for him to pick up. His trip down to Kampala turned into over a week and a half of waiting and negotiating.

· Naa’ma, Israeli girl who started a small Non-Profit in her past trip to Uganda. Came back to work with the kids and start a womens group. Hard to picture her petite self in the stories she told from her jobs in the Israeli required military service.

· Tony, 60 year old British guy who started a charity in England to link to a charity here in Uganda. I was sad to see him leave as we often ate our meals together, had good chats about politics, and people watched around the hostel (and often judged backpackers rather harshly.)

· Tyson, American guy who runs his own online business where a portion of profits are donated to entrepreneurs in Uganda through Kiva. Decided to come check out the entrepreneurs himself. Came up with a new business plan of what he would do in Uganda every morning it seemed.

· Gil, 21 year old guy from Tel Aviv who called me mum because I’m so old J. One of the last to leave and I was very sad to see him go. He’s been travelling by himself for quite a while now through Africa and had some great stories that only came out in time, and as if they were no big deal (like being detained by officials in Northeastern Uganda for four days, having a cavity search there, the whole deal.)

· Lindsay and Katie, two American sisters who came to work in an orphanage and had a bit of a disheartening experience. Ended up staying at the YWAM base where I first stayed five years ago. It was wonderful having these girls here and I wish they could’ve stayed longer.

· After most of these people were gone, I’ve also spent some time with an Australian couple. The guy is 52, the lady 42 and they’re travelling Africa for 2 years by motorcycle. Not only that, they’ve already done South America for two years by motorcycle (and from their stories, it also sounds like most of South and Central Asia as well.) They’re a lovely couple, live very inexpensively, and shared their guacamole on chapati with me numerous times.

· And did I mention the German guy who also joined us who is travelling the world on his bicycle? He’s already ridden his bicycle from Germany to Uganda. 11,000 kilometers, friends. You should hear his stories about following the Nile River through Sudan. He said the Sudanese people have so far been the friendliest and most hospitable.

One more story of someone I ran into at the hostel:
A Ugandan guy was playing pool with a friend and quickly stepped in my direction and asked if my name was Dana. I said yes, he nodded, turned and took his shot.
Shoot, this guy doesn’t even look familiar in the least bit. And he could tell that I couldn’t place him.
“Who are you?” No use pretending this time, it was obvious. But I’m still embarrassed because I’m usually pretty good at at least remembering faces if not names.
“You studied at UCU last year didn’t you?”
“Yes”. But I still couldn’t remember even meeting him. “Who were you friends with, or where did I meet you.”
“Don’t worry, I only met you once. I was playing a game of pool with some friends at UCU and you walked past by yourself. I asked if you wanted to play. You said you would, but you didn’t want to embarrass me in front of my friends. From then I remembered your name and face.”
I started laughing and said yup, sounds like something I’d say. Let that be my lesson—some people have great memories and remember the ridiculous things you say.

And now it’s almost time to leave. More than anything else, the people who work at the hostel have become like family and I’ll be sad to leave them.

Tonight is an all night election party at the hostel and it should be interesting to see who actually shows and how long people stay. In case you’re curious, I’d love to tell you who the rest of the world (of which I am in right now) would like to see in the Oval Office. I’ll give you one guess . . .

The other day I saw a cardboard life size cut-out of Barack Obama on the sidewalk where people could stop and get their picture taken with him. No joke.

With my end to my time in Kampala coming quickly, my new life in Gulu will begin. And I am ready. Not ready in the prepared sense, or as if I know what to expect. I’m just ready to be there.

And I hope to have even half as good internet connection as I’ve had here so I can tell you all about it.

Getting from Here to There.

True, the days have been busy at the office and around town. I’m starting to write my weekly reports and find my way in the organization. I’m making my way around Kampala and showing up on the doorsteps of different corporations asking them if they’re interested in buying some of our Christmas cards to help fund our annual Christmas festival in Gulu.
But I’ve mentioned to a few people at home that half of the exhaustion comes from simply travelling to work and back.
Each day is full of seemingly insignificant choices in transportation, yet I believe that they determine quite a bit.

Each morning I leave the hostel’s compound with a little bit of Swahili banter with the guard, who seems delighted that a Westerner knows a bit more than the typical “Jambo”. We greet each other, tell each other to have a nice day and “Tutaonana Baada Ya” (We will see each other later, Kiswahili)
Then I begin the walk down the hill from the hostel. Every morning there are boda boda drivers (motorcycle taxis) yelling from the bottom of the hill. “Yes! We go?” I shake my head no. A few mornings in a row, one particular man drives his motorcycle up and asks if I need a ride. I’ve already told him I’m going to Gulu soon so he greets me in Acholi. “Kopango?”
I answer “Kope”. But that’s all the Acholi I know so far, I have a lot to learn. He leaves, and I wonder if maybe one of these days I should just let him drive me to the taxi to give him a little extra income.
I reach a busier road which takes me to the main road where I will catch a taxi into town. I get a lot of stares, a lot of “Mzungu!” even though most of these people see a lot of Bazungu (white people) every day. We’re still a spectacle.
Depending on what time I leave, there is usually a pretty serious traffic jam so I have to wait a while for a taxi. One Ugandan guy in a BMW pulls up and rolls down his tinted window and winks, asking me if I want a ride. Hey man, it’s tempting, but I think I’ll stick with the lesson I learned from Sesame Street on how to say no to such offers from strangers.
I see a few Westerners occasionally in their big SUV’s with whatever NGO branded on the side of their vehicle as I’m waiting for a taxi. I wonder if they ever took public transportation or if they started out in that SUV. Then I wonder how much I can really judge them because I would probably opt for an SUV right about now too.
A taxi finally arrives, beeping its horn, with the “conductor” hanging out of the window pointing his finger down. Kampala. “Nakasero road?” I ask. “Yes, Nakasero”. Shoot. That means I’ll be walking a longer way this morning but I better take the chance I have to get into town.
I judge how the day is going to go by which kind of seat I get on the Matatu. If I get in the front, it’s going to be a good day. That means I don’t have to empty out of the van every time we make a stop so the person behind me can get out. I just get to sit and enjoy the scenery of the chaotic Kampala streets on a Weekday morning. If I get stuck in a “jumpseat” in the middle, it’s probably not going to be such a good day. They’re flimsy fold down seats that are usually angled in an awkward way that makes you feel like your hip might be out of joint by the time you get out of the vehicle.
And then there’s the whole part about asking the taxi to stop. If I don’t say “Masao Ssebo” (Stop Sir) loud enough, numerous other people feel the need to repeat my words until the conductor hears. Poor white girl in the back, can’t speak up for herself. This is another reason I like sitting by the driver, I know he’ll hear me in time.

When I get to downtown Kampala, this is where some of the harder decisions begin. Do I wait for another taxi (which seems a bit silly because it could take a while and it’s not so far to walk), do I take a boda (which is more intense than a theme park ride. Oh, and there’s no safety features. Oh, and I hate theme park rides.) Or do I walk.
I remember my Urban sociology class where we talked about how much the automobile has changed our culture, how we have become so very isolated from one another, and how there is much value in walking or riding a bike and interacting with those around you. I’ve decided to walk every morning except for one in the beginning, just to see if I could find the right taxi.
Walking the rest of the way may seem like no big deal but it is actually quite a heavy decision every morning. It means that I’m going to be a bit more tired and sweaty by the time I get there but more importantly, it means that I’m going to have to pass by the begging mothers and children. It means I might shamefully avoid them by crossing the street or turn my eyes from their gaze and their hand as I make my way to work. I hate this part and I feel completely helpless and white and privileged and ashamed. I also feel like blaming someone like Museveni or the churches on this busy road or the beggars themselves because surely there must be another way. I know that you’re not supposed to give money to begging people, I know that there is deception and corruption and unhealthy structures supported by this practice, but I still feel guilty. So then my mind is turning. If I gave, is it really to help the person or soothe my conscious? Maybe I should’ve risked taking the boda so I don’t have to go through this thought process . . .

So then I put in a days work at the office or around town visiting businesses, maybe risking a bit by taking a boda here or there (I’ll spare the details in case my parents are reading, which I’m pretty sure they’re actually some of my most faithful subscribers. J )

Then I start the journey back. Who I am surrounded by depends on what time I leave the office. If I leave at about 5:00 pm I’m surrounded by a bunch of school kids, which is probably my favorite time. There’s something about their presence that takes the edge off maneuvering the streets.

“Luzabelo! Luzabelo!” That’s my taxi. Took me a day to figure out that stood for Luzira and Bugolobi, the direction I need to travel in. I’m pretty excited because there’s an empty front seat. I get in and wait for the taxi to fill so we can leave.

“Yes, my dear. You are very beautiful . . .” Oh boy, here we go. This is my taxi driver starting in on me.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“American?”
“Yeah.”
“You see, I’m looking for a beautiful American wife.”
“Good luck with that, man.”
He laughs.
“But you see, you’re very beautiful.”
“So then do I get a free lift?”
He keeps laughing. “No, no.”
“Well I guess I’m not beautiful enough then . . .”
He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
He makes similar comments the rest of the way back, cracks up when I know some cocky things to reply with in Lugandan, and I keep asking if I get a free ride. Doesn’t happen, they still take my 700 shillings.

I get off the taxi, cross the busy street and make my way up the hill to the hostel. I see a mother trying to rewrap her baby and carry her umbrella as well as a bag of stuff. I ask if she needs any help.
“Yes, thank you sister.”
So we walk together and talk a little until I branch off to go up the second hill.
As I pass through the gate, the guard asks me in Kiswahili how work was and how the day was. I reply and ask him the same.

This account is a pretty average day. Yesterday was different because one of these kids who was begging me followed me for a while and I ended up sitting with him and buying him dinner and talking to him for a while. I didn’t get home until quite a bit later. And I was a bit of a wreck, but that story is for a whole other series of blogs.

The first few days . . .

October 8, pm

Yes, it’s all a bit surreal right now, being back in Uganda for about two hours.
It hasn’t even been a year since I stepped in (and out) of Entebbe airport.
I remember wondering why it would take so long to get to Uganda going through Brussels this time. It’s because it didn’t say on my itinerary that it was Entebbe “via one stop in Burundi”.
I’m also asking the question all over again of whether or not its better to travel alone or in a group. If you know me well, I’m not a big fan of traveling with larger groups of Americans. Yes, I’m one of those people who think they are seasoned enough in the international scene to be embarrassed by stereotypical loud and obnoxious Americans, especially when I’m associated with them. It’s one of my more shameful tendencies, I promise I’m trying to work on it. (At least I’m honest.)
Tonight I’m thinking it might not be the worst thing in the world to be traveling with a group of people, even if its just someone to share in the absurdity. Everything went incredibly smoothly when I came in regarding buying a visa and getting my luggage quickly (mind you, there were a few tears in my bag upon receiving it, I hope it doesn’t completely fall apart before I leave.)
However, after walking out into the area where you look for that special sign with your name on it (my hostel was supposed to be picking me up), indeed, there was no sign saying “Dana”. Thankfully, there was an MTN (cell phone network) store open where I could buy a SIM card and some airtime. Unfortunately, my cell phone was so dead it was going to need a long time to charge. Meanwhile, all of these guys were offering me a taxi ride into town, which I am very used to saying no to, because surely, my hostel would be picking me up.
One of the coordinators for airport transportation saw that I was looking for a ride and offered an airport taxi. He said the driver would even let me use his phone if mine wasn’t charged and I needed to contact my ride. I was thankful for the offer and called the Red Chilli Hideaway.
“Yes, my name is Dana and I called earlier this week to book an airport pick up.”
“Uhhhh, can you get a taxi from the airport?”
“I’d rather not since I booked a ride from you and I was hoping someone was already on the way.”
“One moment.” *Lots of background noise for over a minute, keep in mind I’m still on the other drivers phone.
Another voice is there. “Yes, hello? Do you mind getting a taxi from the airport?”
I had no choice. Now this turned out to be a lot more legit than what I’m used to at Entebbe airport and the ride to the location went very smoothly. My taxi driver was very thoughtful and offered to stop and get some food on the way to the hostel, which I declined since I was still sort of full from the airplane meals. (Sick.)
If you’re traveling to Uganda, I wouldn’t really recommend the Red Chilli Hideaway. For some reason, it’s not quite as nice as I remember it being 5 years ago. Perhaps I’ll feel differently about it in the morning.
I walked into the reception area at about 11:45 and told the guy my name as he looked at the books. I booked a single room instead of staying in the dorm so I could spread my things out and have a lock on the door this first night.
“Yes, ahhhh, your room that you have booked has been having some electricity problems.”
Oh boy, Dana’s been traveling for 24 hours straight and is trying to be as civil as possible.“And what else is available?”
“Well there are the dorms, and there is a twin room, but that will be 35,000.”
Of course it will be. Charge me 10,000 more for a room upon arriving after not picking me up at the airport. Awesome. Oh well, at least I have electricity so I can plug in this phone and call home. That’s worth the extra.
Not the case. Electricity means there is a lightbulb, but no outlets.
I rushed back to the reception to try and quickly plug in the phone. They were trying to shoo me out because it was midnight and they were closing. I convinced them to let me plug it in for a bit.
So I finally plugged it in and it turned on and I tried to write a text to my parents because I didn’t have enough airtime to call. The T9 option was on, however, and I couldn’t remember how to use it nor how to turn it off. And then I couldn’t remember if it was just triple 0 to dial out of Uganda or if I was missing a step.

So hopefully my parents got a text message, misspelled, saying “I an here.” My phone died and they turned the lights off and now I’m back in my little room with no outlets, wide awake with a computer about to die. It’s 1:00 am Uganda time and 6:00 pm Michigan time and I’m hoping I’ve got some good books and that I don’t sleep past 10:00 because that’s check out time and they’ll probably make me pay more.

I’m happy to be back in Uganda but I’ll probably be happier to greet her in the morning. (And maybe I’ll also feel better about Red Chilli Hideaway.)

October 9 & 10
Its true, I felt quite differently in the morning. This is because I found the bathroom around the corner and it had warm water. Pretty wonderful. Red Chilli Hideaway, not so bad after all.

I spent the first half of the morning in Kampala running a few errands and then continually got more excited as I thought of going to Mukono and seeing all of these people from my semester that I grew to love.

I was not disappointed in the least bit. Seriously, I’ve been able to see so many people in the last two days here in Mukono, I had forgotten how many people I loved during my time here! The best part was shocking everyone, most people had no idea I was coming. Everyone was so dramatic in their own way.

My first visit was Divine, the girl I worked with regularly during my semester in Uganda. (Also the smiling girl in the orange, in the picture at the top of the page.) I worked with her on beginning the alphabet, counting, and English. Since I left she has joined the new daycare on campus and has been learning so much. I was walking toward her house in hopes that she was still there and it hadn’t been torn down to make way for the new library. And there she was, on the same step we used to sit on for hours.

“Divine!” I called as I approached and both her and her mom stopped. Then huge smiles. Then her mom, Peace, “I can’t . . . believe my eyes . . .” Divine was just giggling and saying, “Come, come!” It was SO good to see them. Divine pulled out her school work and started showing me what she’d been learning.

As I was sitting with her, my dear friend Brenda walked by. She was on her phone, stopped in her tracks pointed at me, quickly finished her conversation and came running. She spent some time with both of us and then told me she wasn’t going to tell the other girls because she wanted them to be surprised just like her.
I wandered over to the Dining Hall later on, looking in the general direction of where my friends used to sit and suddenly heard my name behind me, it was said with an unsure tone, like she was hoping she wasn’t wrong. (Which my friend Eve thought all along. She kept saying, “I was going to laugh so hard when you were calling her name and some other girl turned around!”) Shabaan and Eve were two of the girls I missed the most. Their surprise and reaction carried on the rest of the night as they ushered me around to surprise people and tell them the story of how they first saw me in the DH and they had just been talking about our USP group earlier that day.

. . . . Oh, and so it begins. I have five minutes left for internet (even pricey "fast" internet) and I've got to post this.

I wish I could tell you every story about the people I was able to see in the last two days, it was seriously WONDERFUL. I was able to stay at my Host family's house last night also. It was like coming home.

Okay, peace for now, love you all, and hopefully this updating thing happens regularly but from what I continue to hear about internet access in Gulu, this may be unlikely.

Til next time,

Dana