Midwife Clinic, Malagita

The Mini midwife writes,

Hi it’s me. I’m here to talk about my trip to Malagita. Mommy and I left super early to go to a prenatal day, there we would meet a lady named Christina, who runs the birth center called Good Samaritan. It is located deep in the back roads in the jungle. We took boda-bodas and I couldn’t help looking at the beautiful sunrise and the wind in my face as we zoomed past cars and trucks where we came to a crowded taxi park. The taxis were in the back of an outside market center. It was super crowded there, with the holidays and all. We practically had to squeeze through while people tried to sell us all kinds of things including shirts, live grasshoppers, and matoke. This was their home their work. I felt like I had stepped into another world. We finally reached our way back to where the taxi was parked. We sat down and it was another hour until we finally left for Malagita. While we waited, we bought hot chapatis from a vendor and ate them in the back of the taxi. We chatted with the local women waiting for the taxi to leave.

When we got there I got to meet Ms Christina. She is wonderful and does everything, takes care of her children,runs the birth center, practically stays up all night for 10 births at least, and doesn’t have a husband to take care of the children so she can rest. There wasn’t any body there yet so we waited around and I signed her guest book. When I signed it I felt important like I was finally a part of this place and now I can stay up with her and help woman give birth. She told me her story about how a midwife was needed, and she started school. Then on a trip to see the Nile River, she came across this small village where a laboring woman was struggling to get onto the crowded taxi she was riding on. She got off right there and has stayed there ever since. The birth center was crowded and her desk was unorganized, she has an ugly blue tablecloth over the desk because people used to write on the desk. The walls were dirty. Trash was piling over the makeshift "trashcan"-- a small box. While we waited for the village mothers to arrive I played with a couple of little girls, as anyone knows me, thought I would. The women began to arrive, they didn’t have appointments, just came whenever they could. My mom started prenatals. I was super excited. The mothers had small booklets instead of files, and you wrote the date at the top and then write how many weeks they were, then wrote their baby’s position, the baby’s heart rate. Easy. We did this over and over again. Each time a mother came in to the room with a smile excited. Then one mother came who’s book said she was around 24 weeks. My mom tried to feel for the baby’s position but couldn’t feel anything. Christina uses a device called a pinard to hear the baby’s heart rate. It is pretty old fashioned, more like a stethoscope than the modern Doppler my Mom is accustomed to using. She uses the pinard at Christina’s because it is best to use what the local birth attendants are using. So we looked for the baby’s heart rate using a pinard, but you really can’t hear a heart beat before 28 weeks with it. So Mom brought out her Doppler which is more accurate Unfortunately she still couldn’t find anything. So we called in Ms Christina for a second opinion and she couldn’t find anything. We told the gal to come back in a few weeks. Once she left we guessed that maybe she actually wasn’t pregnant after all. Can you imagine thinking you were pregnant for 24 weeks and in actuality you were not pregnant? We did more mothers, all the while a mother laid on the floor in very early labour. I felt super bad for her. The labour was too early for us to do anything though, so she just rested on the mat. Lots of young mother’s came,one mother was only fifteen. Some were eighteen, some were sixteen, the same age as my older sister. Just thinking of her lying there us checking up on her makes me feel bad for those young mothers. One young woman’s belly was super warm. We looked at her baby’s heart rate, and it was super high. I got worried, was the baby okay? We later figured out that she had a fever. We gave her medicine for the fever then sent her home. Then it started rain.

It got dark in the rooms, and drumming on the roof from the pouring rain outside made me a little anxious to go home. Hunger was creeping up on me since we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now 3:00. I was worried we couldn’t get home in time for dinner, since no taxis would be running in the rain. It was crowded in there with mother’s sitting on the porch waiting for the rain to stop. In Africa everything stops when it rains. Once it stopped pouring, we made our way out through the mud and got in another crowded taxi. It wasn’t the easiest trip, but sometimes that happens. Everything can’t always be easy, then there would be no excitement in things.

We Throw Mud at Birds

Marian invited us to her rice garden. Her mother is a single parent so they all work in the garden to sell rice to make money for school fees and food. She invited us there, early this morning, and so Dad, Dora and I woke up early, got on the back of a boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) with Marian. We started out on the paved roads but the pavement doesn’t get you everywhere so as suspected, we were soon on a dusty trail through the sugar cane fields. When the bodas could go no further, Marian led us through sweet potato bushes and corn stalks up and down steep, narrow paths. Finally we see her mother and elder sister near a soggy marsh full of tall green grass. Of course, it wasn’t grass at all, it was rice and we were just in time for harvesting.

Marian’s sister showed us how they harvest their rice. She hopped down off of the dirt dam that worked as a pathway, and splashed into the ankle-deep water without shoes. She hacked away at a few stalks with a short scythe but that wasn’t what we’d be helping with. And of course I mean the “royal we” because I would be behind the camera lens. Her mother led us over the dirt dam to the other, cleared side of the muddy field to demonstrate harvesting the rice from the stalk.



For those who haven’t collected rice from the swamp, it’s strikingly familiar to wheat but with more grass leaves. It has the grains at the top, long leaves protecting it and roots in the mud. When enough stalks have been gathered up, they put them all in a big pile, grab them in bushels and beat them on a tarp to remove the grains quickly instead of pulling them off by hand.

Another important job in harvesting is keeping the birds away. There was a woman sitting on the edge of the rice pit the whole time we were there, yelling and throwing things at the birds that would come to eat the unharvested rice. I didn’t fully understand her job till I saw a well-aimed mud clot shoo away a whole group of flying thieves. Dora and I learned the important body mechanics of throwing mud on sticks. The woman, Monica, would stick some wet, red mud on the end of a long stick. It took at bit of practice to stop flinging the mud at my feet but if you imagined throwing a fishing line towards the sky, the bit of mud would fly up, land in the field and frighten away the birds. Dora got it pretty high a couple of times; I got it a few times too. One of Marian’s sisters was very good at it. Every now and then, one of the girls would let out a shrill whistle. I asked, “Why do you make noises like the birds? Wouldn’t it be better to make a noise that scares them?” I cupped my hands over my mouth and barked, low and loud like my dog, Nana, does. They were surprised when I did that. Dogs and Ugandans are not friends here.  Most Ugandans are very afraid of dogs. They said the birds aren’t afraid of dogs because they can just fly away. So we introduced them to the Southern way of getting rid of pests. It’s basically translated as, “You! Go on and get!” but when said in the proper accent, it’s pronounced, “Yongit!” (YON-geet). They thought this was lots of fun though of course, their enunciation was a little off.

We took a short break and ate blackened corn and played with the clay that remains after the rice is harvested. Then it was time to see where the rice went next. After saying our goodbyes, we followed Marian down the train tracks that led from beyond Kampala to all the way to Kenya. It was so warm that I felt like my feet were going to be steamed in my black combat boots. Finally we reach our destination, the edge of Lake Victoria. Marian’s brother was there with previously collected rice, drying it out in the sun. After a few pictures, it was back up the hill, through the corn, sugar cane and rice.

A good time was had by all, we definitely learned a lot. Marian and her wonderful family are our ticket deeper into this rich culture, one garden trip at a time.

For the Record, I Won the Muddiest Shoes Award

On the 27th of November, I had a once in a life time opportunity to go to the all-night Worship Night Festival at the national stadium in Kampala with the current training school. When was I invited? The morning of the day we were to leave. But like a true missionary kid, I had my bag for the weekend packed in an hour. The last time I was in Kampala, it was 3am and we were driving back from the airport so I had no idea what to expect besides lots of driving to get there. The bus picked us up two hours late, true to African time. Dinner wasn’t available as were already late and by the time we got to our first destination, it was dark and we were tired. On the first night, we would visit the church that would be running the worship night and have a mini worship night, then we would go to a missionary lodge where we’d sleep, early the next morning we’d head to the stadium where the worship night is held. We’d help however we could and then the actual worship night would start at 6pm and end at 6am. We had a long weekend ahead of us. The head church was called Light the World Church and they were singing when we arrived. Though, since we were late, they were already in full swing. The atmosphere was incredible! The Holy Spirit was obviously there, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me as the music flooded my ears and the lights blinded my eyes. The stage was filled to almost overflowing with choir singers in bright colors dancing in perfect yet unchoreographed movements that flowed together like a fluid machine. Many songs were in Lugandan but it didn’t matter, the rhythm of the unknown words was as meaningful as the words I understood. They had a few speakers spread out between songs, probably to keep people from falling asleep. The last song was literally the word “Amen” over and over and the singers danced around the stage as we filed out to get back on the bus.

At the missionary lodge, they provided Rolexes (basically a fried egg rolled in a chapiti, which is sort of like a thick tortilla) and I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten a better meal at midnight. I shared a dorm with the only other three girls in the team and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light. We didn’t have to leave till 11am so I slept some more even though the turkey next door would not shut up!

When we got to the stadium, even though the church had been there most of the day, there was still work to be done. The team helped by setting up chairs and wiping them off and I flitted about taking pictures. I even got special access to go on the stage and the stands to get the shots I wanted. All was going fine until, rain. Rain is the enemy of anything productive in Uganda. When it rains, everything stops. So after the team spent all that time wiping down chairs, they would have to do it all over again when the torrents ceased. Until then, we hid under the stands. Our only prayer was that it wouldn’t rain when the worship started.

The rain passed on and we went back to work until the sun started setting and the lights started to come on. Ms. Marg, who watches out for me like I was her own daughter, stretched her VIP status over me too so I got a front row seat to the proclaiming of God’s glory. The first choir was the same from the night before and I admired their ability to stay awake. The choir was bigger than I anticipated, it was so massive, half of them had to stand in the mud that the sun didn’t have time to dry (my shoes were filthy). I don’t believe I could ever fully worship like Africans do. God loves all kinds of worship, but I personally find the African’s dance absolutely exhilarating. One of the best songs that got people jumping went like this, “Jesus is Savior, He came down from heaven. When he landed, He landed in Israel. When there was trouble, He came down to Africa. So we must praise Him, praise Him in an African way!” When you first entered the stadium, they gave out white handkerchiefs. At first I didn’t understand why until the choir started waving them around. I looked behind me and the entire stadium was like an ocean of white flags, bright in the stage lights, waving surrender to the Almighty God. Truly a magnificent sight, the stands, the field, the stage, packed with people who were only there to worship. When the songs and dances slowed down, it was around midnight and I was already beginning to lose the battle to stay upright. I reminded myself to stay awake for the children’s choir, one of the reasons I was excited to come in the first place. When the children pranced up on stage, wearing tribal prints and big smiles, I was instantly enamored. They were excellent, singing and dancing with exciting joy. Then there were sermons and I found myself nodding off. At 3am, we agreed to go back underneath the stands where we left the bags and we found the rest of the team catching up on rest time. That’s we decided to start heading home. I was too thrilled because I couldn’t stay awake much longer.

I will never forget the experience, it was truly amazing. So many people in one place, filling the stadium with praise, it gave a perfect picture of God’s love for Africa and for the world, “so we must praise Him, praise Him in an African way!”

All You Need is Love… And Glitter, Charm and a Few Lugandan Phrases

My camera has made me more popular than anticipated. I don’t know it well enough as I’d like but I feel unprepared without it. My favorite place to photograph is in Jinja in the African Market and the taxi stage. There’s always so much to see, you never get tired of just looking around, especially through a viewfinder. The locals see me strolling about with my very professional-looking camera around my neck and soon I’ve got a mob, especially this last week. On a previous visit, I took many pictures of locals in their workplace there at the taxi stage. Dad had a few shots of these photos printed out for me to give out. This was both a blessing and a curse. I was blessed to see the looks on their faces when they recognized themselves as the picture was passed around and smiled at. It was a curse in the fact that now every walking adult within 10 feet is crowding me wanting their photo taken.

Pictures are huge here. There is no digital copy, no online album, if you can’t hold the photo paper in your hand, it doesn’t exist. I have been shown a multitude of photo albums and they will keep every photo they own. If it’s not in focus or someone blinked, it doesn’t matter. Those photos are their history and honestly, the only way they can keep track of what they actually look like.

Mom wanted me to video Liesel greeting people in Lugandan but I haven’t quite figured out recording yet. I still brought her around though as I was taking pictures of random people because they asked me to. Then a craze got started as a dried noodles vendor wanted a picture with my youngest sister. The ever-shining star she is barely flinched, she simply smiled at the camera like a professional. She definitely became a professional by the time the taxi was ready to leave. There was a small crowd gathered around Leisha’s snack stall, all wanting a photo with the little mzungu. People would either have her in their lap or hold her up or stand next to her like a character in a Disney park. On one occasion, she sat with three men on a bench. “Button!” I joked from behind my camera, “You should at least tell him your name before you sit on a strange man’s lap!” Cool as a cucumber, she turns and says, “Bampita Liesel.” Meaning, “I’m called Liesel.” Hearing their language come out of a six year old always makes them laugh, which makes for a great photo.

Many kids would be overwhelmed by a large crowd of strangers all wanting to shake her hand, pick her up and hear her use her Lugandan.  We can’t wait until she is nearly fluent.  We might have to hire an entourage by that point because all of Jinja will be talking about it.  She already makes an impression with her colorful outfits, sparkling bows and very long hair… but then she begins the traditional Luganda greetings and WOW.  I wish you could see their faces. They will ask her the same questions over and over and over just to hear her speak.  She is unfazed by this attention, just repeats herself countless times.  When it was time to go, she climbed up upon her front seat in the taxi bus like it was a throne, and exclaimed, “Tu genda waka!” (We are going home!) to the driver of the bus… who obliged her of course.  She rode all the way home waving to strangers who chuckled back and waved.

 Ugandans love to ask Liesel what she wants to be when she grows up because she always answers, “The First Lady” and that gets a roar of appreciation from the crowd.   After seeing her in action today, I will be proud to have these photos of her practicing her campaigning skills. Who is to say that after all this practice that she stops at just being the First Lady? We know she will do something amazing for the Lord someday and if that is the First Lady or even the President, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.  

The Mini Midwife writes:

Today’s African Moment: The Cow tries to come inside the house.

The cow was free AGAIN!!! I was inside when I heard Liesel yell, “COW!” I look outside and WOW there is a cow on our porch! Our friend Marian was here and she shuts our door just as it peers inside. She struggles to shut our door to lock it, but finally she wins over the cow and shuts our door. We wait a little while Marian was laughing and Xander is looking underneath the door. But finally it goes away. We later decide it was lonely…. It’s always fun to party with the Clarks.

Apple Cider Smells like Skittles

In exchange for the fantastic fish heads, we offered to invite Marian’s family of five for a good, American dish- Tacos! They arrived later than expected, but were very gracious and “looked smart”, as they say here when you look nice. They sat down and we set out place settings and taco toppings. This was our first mistake. Technically, our first mistake was not offering a washing basin to clean their hands, but we explained that we had a sink for exactly that purpose. But we shouldn’t have put out the toppings because they didn’t understand the concept and just ate the lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and our precious guacamole as appetizers! It wasn’t really a problem because we had more but it was difficult to explain how they would use the vegetables and cheese to fill their tortillas. Guests make their own food? Americans are odd.

We also gave them the “honored piece of beef”.  No, not the head of the cow!  We gave them the bone that was sitting in our new crockpot all morning.  The fat that clings to the bone is a Ugandan’s paradise, they practically licked it clean.  The only difference between the fish head gift and the cow bone gift is that we really didn’t want the cow bone.  Ugandans salivate at fish heads and were probably a bit jealous that we got to eat the “best part” of the fish… we really could have not cared any less what happened to the cow bone.  In fact, we would have thrown it away if we hadn’t known that they would be really offended that we didn’t offer them the best part.  So really, it was a win/win in this case.

For dessert, we bought a special treat from the Vocational Training School that the YWAM base hosts.  This school teaches girls how to do things like tailoring and cooking to help them to get better jobs.  We purchased from them a chocolate cake!  Ugandans love sweet foods, sometimes we joke that the real reason Marian visits us so often is because we have a continuous supply of Nutella on our shelves. We also brought out all the fixings, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and a packet of apple cider.  There was almost an order of how things were tasted.  We would make up the drink and it was passed around so everyone could have a sip, starting with Isha, the mother. None of them really liked coffee. We learned that the Lugandan word for coffee, “Kawa” is the same word for bitter. Then we showed them how the Americans make our coffee, lots of milk, sugar and chocolate! That got much better reception. American tea was next; we gave them Ugandan tea with lunch so now they got to try the flavors beyond ginger. Raspberry and chamomile were the two they chose and though Isha was extremely confused with tea bags, she seemed to enjoy raspberry best. “Apple Cider smells like squittles,” Marian says before she tastes the autumn drink. We had shared some Skittles with her from our care package but she can’t pronounce it quite right.

We learned our Lugandan nicknames when dishes were finished. Zoe is “Omukulu” (pronounced Oh-moo-koo-loo) or “Bhabha” meaning eldest. Dora is “Omusawo” (Oh-moo-saa-woh) meaning nurse. Xander is “Omusomesa” (Oh-moo-soh-meh-saa) meaning professor. Jax is “Enviiri Emwufu” (this one is harder to pronounce, En-vee-ree E-mew-foo) meaning red head. Liesel is “Epesa” (pronounced exactly like you think) meaning button, or our favorite, “Kima Kima” (Kee-ma Kee-ma) meaning monkey! In exchange, we taught them some classic boredom games like staring contests, arm wrestling, thumb war, etc. They are very strong! Then they had to leave so we got to practice our Lugandan goodbyes. We gave them some “Squittles” as a parting gift.

All in all, it was a good visit. We learned a lot about Ugandan culture in the few hours we spent together. We prayed for the relationship and the mother is Muslim. Jesus has plans for our families and it will probably involve a few more meals together. Maybe next time we’ll have pancakes…

"But it's talking to me..."

Hm, how to start this post? Let's begin by explaining how things are done here in Uganda.  First off, it's customary to go and visit people just because. For the host it is considered a great honor to have guests. When you have a guest from around town, it is a good day. When the guest is from a different town, it's very exciting. If your guest is from another part of the country, it's a big deal. From another country? People will be talking for weeks about how honored you are. Mom, Liesel, Dora and I went to Marian's house again. We over dressed on purpose, nice hair, nice earrings, to let them know this visit is important to us too. We meet Marian on the way there and she led us to her house. After we were all settled on their leopard-print sofas, they immediately asked about my ukulele, which I brought at Marian's request. She enjoys playing around on it and I'm doing my best to be encouraging but music is not her strong suit. While her older sister learned the C chord, Marian took us around Kakira to show us the best places for Mom to get groceries.

The meat stop she recommended was the same as the one we ate rollexs next to on our first trip to town. The butcher kept asking for my number. "The color of your skin means money" he said. Fifteen is an acceptable age to get married here, I've been proposed to twice already. Not to worry, I'm not saying yes anytime soon. I probably won't be returning to this stand alone though. After meat we purchased vegetables and chapati's.  Kids were following us everywhere as usual. Back at Marian's house, we see her mother frying up fish outside over the fire. The smell is almost intoxicating. This is a huge deal. Fish is not cheap and her family is not rich. We thank her graciously and go inside where I learn to cut matoke, a cross between a potato and a banana. Didn't slice off anything this time! Then it's time to eat...

Allow me to say, I knew it was coming. As soon as I knew it was fish I was mentally prepared. Maybe that was the only thing that kept me from fainting. We are truly the honoured guests, we each got a head. The head of the fish is the best part according to them. Liesel was the only one of us to not get a head because she is a small child. Instead, she received a huge part of the tail. Mom insisted she switch with one of Marian's sisters who got a smaller portion. A blank eye stared up at me from my floral porcelain bowl, surrounded by a helping of posho, greens, matoke and in a puddle of soup. I choose not to stare back and focus on the rest of my meal.

When nothing else but my rolley-poley fish head is left, I start behind the gills where I can see meat and work my way around, pulling out bones as I go. It tastes fantastic, maybe a little slimy but what are you gonna to do? Now it's just the face. Marian is next to me and says, "This too" and pulls out the jaw to reveal the inner mouth and other organs, probably the brain we deduced later. I take it like a champ and plop the whole thing into my mouth. It has good flavor as long as you don't think about what you're eating.

My Mom is eating faster then me, she gets to the face first. "Now what?" she asks. The mother gestures (she doesn't speak much English) by putting it in her mouth and sucking. There's a moment of silence as the Americans take it in. “But... but, it's talking to me. See?" and she uses her fork to animates it's mouth, "Please don't eat me." Everyone laughs at this but the inevitability remains. If we don't eat everything, it's an insult beyond compare. We watch our Mom, 9% looking for technique, 91% terror-stricken for when we must complete the task ourselves.  Face first, Mr. Fish enters her mouth where he stays there for quite some time. Mom pulls bones out as we await her verdict in stony silence. "Not bad" escapes her mostly full mouth. I look down at my own plate. "I wouldn't lie to you," Mom says, "just eat it". I pick it up then drop it again because my body realized what it was doing and refused. I try again, look at the little guy then take the plunge.

To whomever may find themselves in this great honor, it's really not that bad. It tastes like fish. If you suck with enough velocity, everything goes down rather smoothly as long as you're conscious of the bones. I take it out and was shocked at how much I had actually eaten. I put it back in to finish it off, less daunted now. Then.... it happens.  I taste a pea. Well, it doesn't taste like a pea, it just feels like one. I didn't know there were peas. Mom doesn't really like peas, I wonder why she didn't say anything. Maybe she just ate it too quickly. It's harder than a pea, kinda dense inside. Probably it wasn't cooked long enough. How did they even get peas into this thing anyway?

All of this crossed my mind in a matter of seconds. I'm sure you've figured it out, but it took me a minute. "Don't make a face.", I instructed myself... and really once I got over it I was kind of proud.  It's not everyday that one eats eyeballs. It is a real victory for me because I just don't do gross.  And especially body parts.  Ick.  Africa is flooding my fears one at a time, first spiders, now eyeballs. Chimpanzees shouldn't be a tough one but I'd like to see how I'll get over clowns.

We thanked them most graciously again and invited them over for lunch a few weeks from now. Maybe we'll have tacos. They gave us another fish to take home for the rest of the family, another huge deal. And now Dad can be the honored one.

How To Take a Cold Shower with Long Hair

Dad wrote about this, I know. But see, his description, though well explained and completely accurate, left out a major detail. He has no hair, therefore, he doesn't have to wash it. Girls do. So now we give it over to girl with the longest hair, Liesel.

HI! This is Liesel. First, I would turn the cold water on and dunk my head in. I lean over to make sure it doesn't drip down my back because it's cold. Zoe or Dora help me put the shampoo in my hair and wash it really well. Then I dunk my head in the water again. I splash a little bit of water on myself and then scrub myself with the my favorite soap. Then my whole body goes in the water and I hold my breath to make sure it doesn't get in my mouth. And then I would turn the water off. And then I would comb my hair. And then I would get on my clothes, of course. So that's it.

Some days, when we have the time, we boil water and mix it with cold water in a bucket and bathe that way. But that's another story to be told another time. No little girls were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Transported Teen Writes: Trying My Hand at Sugarcane

Marian is one of my first friends here. We both enjoy crafts, drawing and "shoetags" (their word for nail polish). As we talk, we have cultural exchanges. Sometimes I forget most people in rural areas have no connection outside of Uganda. In America the internet gives us a widow to other places, like the post you're reading right now. Watching Africa on YouTube is rather lacking. It doesn't give you the feel of Africa, the excitement of their worship, the racket of rain pounding a tin roof through the night or the chatter of exotic birds in the morning. The window only works one-way. Marian and I have created a bridge, I share something American and she teaches me about Uganda. I get to explain hamburgers and she shares Ugandan expressions. She was shocked that we live down the road from an enormous plantation but never eaten sugarcane. So she brought some over.

Like a fancy chef from Benihana, she skinned, chopped and sliced the bamboo stalk in a matter of seconds. Swoop, chop, ka-chunk, perfect. Then the pivotal moment of failure comes as she hands me the knife. Let's just say, my obviously superb knife skills are unrefined for African cuisine. Swoop, slice, oops, ow. The knife attacked my thumb. It's fine, a mere flesh wound, but it proves the fact that even though we've been here for almost a month, we are not yet experts.

Dora and I got invited to her house Tuesday. We met her mother, older sister, younger sister and baby brother. Her simple brick house had no windows so it was very dark. The living room was already very small, no bigger than an average bathroom, but it was also the kitchen sink storage and dining room. Apparently it's a thing here, when you have visitors to show them your family photo albums. After meeting the family, we discovered more cultural exchanges by watching the Avengers movie translated to Lugandan. Later language lessons with her mother included phrases like, Wasuze otya, good morning. We removed dried corn off the cob for grounding into posho powder. They were kind enough to feed us lunch. It was a very traditional Ugandan menu: potatoes, cabbage and posho. As much as we are indifferent about posho, theirs was much better then what we're used to on the base. We also snacked on popcorn, more sugarcane and blacked corn kernels which tasted like little salty rocks yet were surprisingly good. Then it was time for Dora and I to leave, next time I'll bring my camera. It was fun to hang out with my friend and her natural teaching spirit is what I need most, just don't ask me to cut the cane.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Dora Clark, the Mini Midwife writes about her first trip off the YWAM base.

I walked along side of my family, up the short hill to the entrance of the Youth With A Mission base where we currently live. We were headed for the first time to the nearby village called Kakira. I started thinking what will Kakira look like? Will it be poor? How poor?

The road is long and winding, made of red dirt. Corn is all we see, and mountains. I am tired and hot, this elevation takes it out of you. I look to the right and see that we’re higher than I thought. No wonder I am tired. There are big orange colored puddles on the ground. I try to dodge them, but the recent rains have made everything slippery. Boda- Boda’s (otherwise known as motorcycles) rush around us. There are no traffic laws here really and the “right of way” does not exist for people walking. Sometimes the Bodas almost take Liesel with them or nearly run into her as she dodges out of the way. 

We stop to take a family photo, how strange we must look to the black people who are slowly walking past, staring at us. You know, we are just some white people just standing on the side of the road taking pictures with a very expensive camera. We have to take this quick because cars drive by and again we are big white targets. After pictures, (this takes a little while) we continue walking. Corn, corn, corn, and guess what? CORN! 

After what seems like one hour we start seeing houses, but that means there is ten more minutes until we get to town. Children are playing outside when we start hearing them shout, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” Mzungu means white person in Luganda. We smile and wave, smile and wave, like royalty. They pour out everywhere, in all various stages of dress (or undress, as it were) The place smells, don’t breath through your nose, I have to tell myself. Everywhere there are colorful buildings and no white people besides us for miles around it seems. I long to play with the children; it looks like they are playing with sticks and make-believe. I should keep with my family because those who know me will know that I will just keep playing with children and never come home. 

I hold out my hand for one of the children to grab. A boy with a red ripped shirt comes to my side. His smile spreads from ear to ear; it looks like he is gloating as he looks back to his friends. Not long after children begin to follow us, chattering away in a language I do not have any hope of understanding. People look at us with strange expressions; but when I smile they smile back. People are also selling things outside, no food though, just dirty, used clothing. We walk to a small shop to buy a soda for our lunch. We definitely can’t fit in this shack so we stand outside. There are two boys behind the counter. They look to be about 10 or 12 with no adult in sight. 

After buying our glass bottles of soda pop, we walk through the mud into a very small, crowded, passage way filled with shack-like looking shops. They look more like lemonade stands than shops. There is an awning with MEAT hanging from the tin roof of the wooden shop. On the dirty wooden shelf, there is various cuts of meat just lying there, baking in the African sun. Behind the shelf, there is a man with a large knife hacking away at some beef on a very dirty stump. We squeeze past him and the flies buzz around. On the concrete next to him is a man cooking something on a large metal drum that smells delicious. Is this where we’re going to get lunch? Apparently we are eating a kind of breakfast burrito called a “Rollex”. It is made with chapatti, an Indian flatbread and vegetables and eggs cooked inside.

We wait patiently for our rollexs amidst the stares of the locals. My Dad asks my Mom to go find some laundry soap in the “shops” nearby. I bounce up and down, volunteering my services to escort her. We squeeze past the meat man and his hanging merchandise. We walk past more brightly colored stores. I look at people who do not look very friendly. We get many stares and not many smiles. We dodge the muddy places, puddles, and people. 

We walk through an open gate where there are lots more people. We begin to ask where there might be laundry soap. They don’t understand the word laundry. No wonder they keep shaking their heads! So we ask for clothes soap, pantomiming washing clothes by hand. At this point, they gesture towards a shop where women are standing. We ask them for clothes soap they shake their heads no. We are very confused because this is the shop that we were shown. We walk around the shop where there are bars on the window. We ask for clothes soap again even though this seems like the same shop we were in just the other side of it. This time a nice man says to the person in the shop “Omo” and the store man hands him some laundry soap! The man hands it to us. We give the store man money, “Thank you! Thank you!” we tell him. It seems as if there is very few places that you can walk in and get what you want in Uganda. Most places you have to ask for the product by name.

We head back to our lunch, again dodging chickens, mud and staring people. As we’re nearing the breakfast burrito place we walk past another meat man, his meat is a gray color. It does not look good at all. We find our family sitting on the concrete and eating. I take a bite of my Rollex; I think I am tasting heaven. YUM! This is delicious! 

Normally, every meal we have had in Uganda is posho, which tastes like a flavorless sponge, some thin spaghetti noodles with no sauce, and beans. That’s it, so this was a big treat. For once, I am stuffed afterwards. 

Then it’s time to go home, so we decide to get a taxi. The taxis are long buses that are always packed full of people before they will leave. It took a while for people to load in it, so Zoe took that opportunity to take photos of the village. Finally the bus seems full, but we didn’t move. Then, two more people squeeze in- a mother and little girl. The mother squeezed in the second row and the little girl on my mother’s lap. Things sure get cozy here in Africa. 

We left KaKira, with full stomachs, crammed into hot dirty vans and a whole new way of life to ponder.

Monday, August 4, 2014

The Transported Teen Writes:

How I Became a Mzungu Manicurist and My First Impressions of Uganda

“So I said to my girlfriend, ‘My stars, I bet people sure are interesting. I’m sure you get to meet lots of interesting people.’ Now let’s dip our mani’s in the water”

-Bugs Bunny impersonating a manicurist

The scenery is not what I expected. I thought it would be more jungle, like Belize, where Dora and I visited two years ago. It’s actually a bit like home, minus the mountains, there’s tall weeds, tall trees but every now and then you’ll find the occasional exotic plant, random cow or bird who does monkey impressions. It seems pretty normal on base but once you get high enough, the view is incredible! If you’ve seen The Lion King, you’ll remember the part when Simba and Timon and Pumba meet. They show Simba the view from a tremendous mountain and all the jungle is laid out around them like a tropical paradise. The similarities are striking. The only difference is how Lake Victoria dominates the territory, blue as the sky and almost as big. The sight reminds you of God’s magnificence, taller than the mountains, deeper than the lakes.

Our house is quite comfortable considering the circumstances. It resembles a large storage shed, completely concrete and with two broken, wood frame windows, and with furniture in it. Our bathrooms have actual toilets! One who has not used a squatty-potty could not possibly understand the joy this gives me. So far, I have not had to use one and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible though I know that dream may be short-lived. The kid’s room has animals and food painted around the top of the walls like crown molding. Maybe the artist only had a vague impression of what food looks like because the bananas are similar to bird feet and the pineapple could be mistaken for a very fat carrot.

Mom describes the afternoon heat as wearing clothes fresh from the dryer on a spring day. It’s warm but not swelteringly uncomfortable. The weather is almost always the same with the exception of an occasional rain. I think I’ve learned the true meaning of torrents. The rain falls in waves, just a little, then a lot, little, lot, little, lot, etc. We’ve only had a few nights of showers but the rainy season is on its way. It gets dark very fast! The sun starts setting at 6’o’clock so it’s black outside by 7 and it will stay that way all year long since we are directly on the equator. 

We went to the small village of Kakira on Sunday for lunch. Needless to say, I was shocked. The image I had produced in my brain and reality were extremely contrary. When Dad said we were going there for rollexs, I knew there wasn’t going to be anything fancy, maybe a rinky-dink little vendor? In all actuality, it was in the back roads of the back alleyways, smokey and muddy, outside. While we ate our lunch on the cement stoop we had a perfect view of the “meat shop” (which was nothing more than a stand with racks of hanging meat shrouded in flies and a man hacking away on a dirty stump) right next door. The smell that radiated from our chapatti and egg lunch made it worth it. Either that or I was very hungry. Probably both.

I did expect the staring but not the magnitude of it. Many of the looks were distasteful, like we smelt rancid. We did get the occasional smile out of an adult here and there; but the children, oh the children, they loved us. Running out of their homes, calling to one another and us, either bashful or ridiculous at the point of my camera lens. Some grabbed Dora’s outstretched hands and followed us everywhere. They even sat on a tire and watched us eat, occasionally teasing one another or hitting their friends with sticks. The smile on Dora’s face radiated and I knew her heart was home.

I’ve met many Ugandans but so far I’ve only talked with three my age. Almost every Ugandan we’ve talked to has said, “You are welcome here.” On Thursday, a local girl, Maria came over to greet us. Maria sells homemade earrings in the market. She likes drawing, singing and dancing. We found that cards are the easiest games to play because they don’t require a lot of communication. I showed her my favorite game, called Snap, and she really liked it! But we really started to relate when she asked about my painted toenails. After her toes were a lovely shade of neon green, Viola came over, and I did her nails (blue with sparkles) and we played more Snap. We laughed a lot and I’m glad we found something we could all do. On Friday, Viola came back and brought Sarah, asking for her nails done too (pink and lavender, she’s on the right). Viola also needed a touch-up but then she decided for a completely different color (green, teal and pink, she’s on the left). And then we played Snap again; Viola is very good at it. I wouldn’t call us “fast friends”, and there’s no way they could replace my besties back in America. We still have lots of differences to overcome, language for example (they call nail polish “shoetags”. I don’t know how it’s spelled but that’s how it’s pronounced). Right now, all that’s connecting us is hot pink, teal and glitter. But for right now, that’s good enough for me.

Monday, August 4, 2014

The Mini Midwife, Dora, writes,

I woke up Monday morning at 5:15 to take my last hot shower. As my mom braided my hair like we do whenever we go on a trip, I realized that I was going to Uganda today! I feel like there’s a deep deep never-ending hole and I am falling through it. No, no, no…  It’s not happening, it’s just a normal day right? The Bunches haven’t arrived yet. The anticipation is horrible, like I am in a show but my family hasn’t arrived yet and it’s two minutes till it starts. Finally Sarah arrives to take us to the airport.  Are we really leaving her? She has been with us as long as I can remember- taken trips with us across the country and for the last three years has only lived a few steps away.

We’re leaving a sister behind; and I’m not so sure I can stand that.

Now we’re all gathered on the porch, our van is loaded. But there’s another problem, our beloved dog, Nana. We can’t take her with us, so we have to say goodbye.   Our family dog, our guard dog, our peanut butter eater. The boys say a quick goodbye after some pictures with Nana, and load up in our van. The girls say a longer goodbye all petting and cuddling her. I didn’t think I was going to cry, after all she has really been Zoe’s dog. But, I did. Why did we have to leave so many people behind? How will this turn out for the better with everyone being separated?

Zoe rides in the back of the van on the way to Dallas- her head on her knees weeping.  It is hard to see my family hurting, but we all know that God has a plan for us and sometimes that plan means we have to sacrifice some things.

We arrive at the Dallas airport. Now it’s time to say goodbye to Sarah and her clan. This is it-- our sister, and my brother-in-law, Aaron and my nephews, Levi, Joel, and Seth.  I start to cry, really it is more like wailing. It feels like someone ripped my heart into tiny pieces and stepped on them.  As we wander into security they watch us leave, we are all trying to dry our tears but we keep sobbing at random times. At one point the security guard asks my Mom if she is okay.  She smiles bleakly and explains that we are saying goodbye.

There is loads of anxiety and excitement mixed up inside of me as we board the plane.  The plane is two stories high! It’s close to dinner, and while I wait for it to arrive I decide to watch a movie, that you’re allowed to watch for free! Our flight attendant has a bit of a British accent, and so does everyone else. We’re after all on British Airlines. Every time they speak I start talking in a British accent. At some point the lights dim and it is time to sleep; I toss and turn in my uncomfortable seat. There’s noise and lights go on and off as our seat neighbors attempt to get comfortable.  It’s obviously late, maybe I got some sleep in? I look over and notice Xander is sleeping, so is Jax. In the seats in front of us, Zoe, Mommy, and Liesel all appear to be sleeping. Now I am frustrated. I am a big boiling volcano; if one more thing sets me off I will explode. I ask Zoe to help me fall asleep. She instructs me to curl up. So I try but one leg keeps slipping! Rah!!!!!  I try and try, every time getting more and more frustrated. It seems hours before I fall asleep. I wake up…. Groggy….  We’re still in the plane.

When we get off the plane in London we have to carry our backpacks, it’s a big weight on my shoulders, and it’s hard to breathe. Now everyone has a British accent. I love listening to them, crisp and wonderful!  We wander throughout the airport, looking for security. The security lady talks to us like we’re two year olds! We scramble to get all the items checked through the checkpoint and we get away from her as quick as possible.

On the plane, everyone is really nice and polite. I rotate between movie, coloring book, and kindle.

After 8 hours, Xander and I begin to count down the minutes until we get to see our father. Only 59 minutes left! I am so excited!! What will Uganda look like? Will the people there like me? I will have to wait and see.

Then my mother tells me there is a big storm. The airplane icon on our animated map begins to turn another way. So we are delayed… What? NO! Now there’s another hour until we get to see our father…  I feel like all my hopes and dreams have been shattered.  So I wait, and wait, and wait….

Finally we are landing! I can barely see through the velvet darkness outside our plane window, but I know we’re almost there! My excitement is even bigger and better than it was before! It’s almost like when you have to build a tower but then it falls down, but you pick it back up and learn from your mistakes. We land. I am very close now; I feel like dancing. We all jump up as soon as the seatbelt sign is turned off. Why can’t these people move faster? Can’t they see I want to see my Daddy? And this thing is heavy. I feel like tapping my foot impatiently…. The line begins to move. I get closer and closer to the front of the airplane.

We walk out of the plane into the airport, I am here… In AFRICA!!!!! I feel so different, like a tourist, and the employee behind the counter looks at me like I am… After checking through to customs, we scramble for our luggage, it takes a while because we have 15 pieces of luggage to find… I want to see my Father! For a moment it looks as if we have lost one piece of luggage but soon we find it. Yes! I feel like a mission accomplished! We race to see Daddy! We race through the white door… There he stands smiling and beaming, arms open wide---Liesel runs to him. If I wasn’t holding luggage I would have done the same.

We’re finally here. What is the new plan? The new goal? I don’t know. I am just relieved to finally be home.  I will have to trust God for today and let Him guide us towards His plan for us in the future.