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.