Shades over head, of blue and red...is this the end? Will you come back again?

Some days I close my eyes and I'm back...

It's my 18th birthday. And I'm sitting on Bosco's porch in Babu. She's nursing baby Kenneth and Becca and Rach are sitting just above me a few steps, carrying on a conversation with her and Jennifer. I'm at the bottom, sitting on a wobbly wooden stool next to a water hole while little boys fill yellow jericans with dirty water to do their chores. I'm being quiet as usual, and Bosco lectures me for it. I just smile. I'm surrounded by a dozen little Ugandan children and babies. It's like I'm something to marvel at. They are rubbing their arms and hands against mine...they think maybe the color of my skin will rub off onto theirs, and they too will be white. I am covered in some kind of lotion, they say. There are many whispers of "Auntie..." and "Mzungu...". It's cloudy out, but it's humid and hot. I'm wearing a bright striped shirt and brown shorts...for my party later on, and I have my big purple earrings in and sparkly white eyeshadow on my eyes and pink lip gloss. Apparently it was a mistake to do so before I went to the villages. The kids are amazed. It makes me laugh. They pat my hair and try to flatten the waves, but to no avail. They touch my nose ring, and my jewelry and ask me to give it to them, and say how pretty it is. They make fun of me in their languages, laughing with one another at me. But it doesn't bother me. Rachel tells them to shoo, but they stay...rooted to their dirt seats on the ground. They touch my pink lips, and ask how they are this color. They touch my painted toe nails...and my finger tips. I show them the palms of my hands, and then take theirs in mine and tell them, "They are the same, see?" and I trace the lines on theirs and mine. They laugh. They show off in front of me and then argue with one another. And then I open my eyes. I'm no longer there...but how I want to be. It's still so real to me. So vivid. Some nights I can't wait to go to sleep, because my dreams take me there...until I wake up.

"So tell me, what is our ending? Will it beautiful?"

My time here has now come to an end...I'm so sad and am really going to miss it, but it's time to head home and I'm ready. I'm so thankful for this experience, the people I've met, things I've seen, places I've been, food I've eaten, and memories I've made. It's all something I'll never forget. I'm not so sure why I was so blessed to have come here, but I am grateful and wouldn't trade it for anything. Hopefully I'll make it back, but who knows? There are so many other places to see and people to meet...but the friends I've made here have a special place in my heart and if I ever had the chance to come back, I'd snatch it up in a heart beat. However, we'll see where God leads next. But as for beautiful, miserable, wonderful, crazy Uganda, I'll love you forever.

"The place that I'm from and the place that I've been..."

I hate that these people are viewed so often as a statistic. Just another number. Just another population...just another category or classification. Or there's always the classic, "There are starving children in Africa!". That'll make you eat your veggies.

When Lillian gave birth to her fifth child, a son, and lost him twelve hours later at a crappy hospital in Jinja, she and her son were not just another statistic. They were real people, living and breathing, and feeling. I sat in her home as she collapsed to the ground, crying and weeping and calling out to God. And that's when I realized that people care about whether or not this "population" have a good job to care for their family or food on their table (or floor), but that's about the extent of it. And what's the real reasoning behind it all? Is it really from the heart, or more so from their conscience...about feeling good that they helped someone fill their belly with posho for the day? I know not everyone views these people in this way, but it hurts to sit there in someone's home and watch them rock back and forth with tears streaming down their face, while their friend holds their dead baby in their lap, wrapped in a white blanket, with eyes closed, as if it were still alive, just sleeping. Baby David would have been 2 months old this month.

When Betty got pregnant with Kymbi at the age of 22, and the father left her to fend for herself and her unborn son, she and Kymbi were not just another statistic. Betty was alone and afraid and had no way of caring for herself or her baby...but she kept him, she didn't abort when she so easily could have. Because she is a human being. She feels and she breathes. And now she has a beautiful boy, who lives and who breathes, even if sometimes a pain in her butt, and she has a job, because at the age of 23 with a newborn baby on her back, she walked to the porch of a stranger's home named Kim and knocked on the door, and just as she had prayed, this woman could help her. And she did.

These African people...the one's who are so often classified as living in poverty, of not having enough food...their children you view as clothingless babies walking around barefoot with flies on their faces, are not just pictures on the TV or in the book you're reading...they are breathing at this very moment, but even though they might not have every material possesion we own, they are happy, and they are somewhat content...and they are starving, or full, or sad, or angry, or hurting or laughing at this very moment. They're just like you and me. They're curious, obnoxious, quiet, loud, jerks or compassionate. They have the same mental capacity as you and me, they just speak a different language...live in a different culture, They're not ignorant because they speak broken English. And they're not unintelligent because they can't go to college...they're wise, and capable of getting through life. And even if they don't have a 9-5 job and 2.4 children and a dog and a mini van, they have Jesus. And that's always been enough for them. So why is it never enough for us? Because we've been raised in a society that teaches from a young age that you have to be wealthy to be happy and that God only blesses through monetary gain. You have to live like the rest of our "population" to get fullfillment out of life. And it's not true.

I'm not saying their life isn't hard. It is hard. But as far as I can tell, this is real life. This is the real world. And these are real people. Not a number in a textbook.

Merry Christmas!!!

I'm sitting here, freezing cold. I have jeans and socks on, and a long sleeve shirt and I'm still cold. And I bet it's only 60 degrees. These are the warmest clothes I have with me, but they're not helping. I'm in for it when I get back to AK.

Merry Christmas, from Uganda!

It feels so weird to say that...it definitely does not feel like the Holidays here. But I still love it. It was hard to be away from home, and people I love, but we also had a super amazing time here, we made spaghetti and exchanged gifts, listened to Christmas music and watched some movies. A couple friends from a couple other organizations here in Jinja came over Christmas Eve and we watched Rudolph and ate my Ugandan-ingrediant made Christmas sugar cookies with no icing, but cinamon sugar instead. They were pretty great, even if I do say so myself. haha

It's been forever since I've last written! I have been so busy and just haven't had the time or energy or right state of mind to sit down and write something out. I can hardly believe that I only have two and a half weeks left here...it's almost over, time has definitely flown. It feels like just the other day I was applying to come here, and now it's been another year. There have been instances lately, where I'm at a woman's house, and she will say to me, "You are leaving us!"...and before now that didn't really bother me...when they'd get on my tail for only staying 3 months and not one year...but now it makes me want to cry. I don't want to leave them...or their children, and the town, or this house...but at the same time, I am ready to go back to America. To Alaska.

I don't know if there's any way I can put into words (completely, though I've tried in this blog) my experiences here...or the people I've met, things I've seen, places I've been, food I've eaten, conversations I've had. It all seems to be tangled up in my mind, just a handful of a million memories that will stay with me forever, but stuff that I'll never be able to fully explain...except for in pictures, or in stories, but nothing will ever do it justice. Unless you were to come here for yourself.

I have made so many friends, Ugandan and Mzungu...I've learned new words, eaten new food, done new things...and most things I'll always remember...including the not-so-great things, like burning my leg right before my first boda ride. I have a scar to remember that by...and I don't really regret it. I'm going to miss certain women especially...like Sali and her daughters...Jacinta and her sons...Agnes and Annetti. I'm going to miss Betty and Kymbi insanely much. So many good times with them in their homes, laughing and just enjoying the other's company. Part of me is scared to leave them, because there's no way of knowing if I'll ever come back to this place...I want to, of course, but who knows?

Soon I'll be on a plane, flying over Africa, and then Europe, and then the Atlantic Ocean, and then the Continental US, and then Canada, and then I'll land in the frozen tundra that I love so stinking much. And I'll freeze to death, but I'll love it, because being cold is honestly something that I've missed while being here. The heat is nice, some of the time, just not when you take a shower in the morning and then an hour later it was completely pointless. But I'll miss that, too. I'm sure.

Rach and I went to visit Christine (one of many!)...the one with little Lucy, the other day at her home in Walukuba...we drank soda and mingled necklaces and talked with the TV going in the background...before now we didn't really know her story, but she opened up and told us all about her childhood in Gulu, and how at night they would walk to the town and sleep in the hospital on the floor, and one of many nights the Rebels came into town and were shooting up everything, so she slept under a bed that night hoping that maybe she wouldn't be killed in the chaos of it all. She was 12. Another night she was staying with her uncle (because some time before her father had been killed by the Rebels), aunt and her siblings (two of her older brothers had been taken by the rebels one night, out of their house, and she hasn't seen them since), and they came into town again, shooting at walls and houses and killing people and so she said they stayed under the bed for three hours until they were sure they were gone, and the next morning they found their neighbor, a single woman and her 2 year old daughter dead in their house...Christine says that sometimes at night she remembers these things and can't sleep. But whenever I am with her she is so happy and strong and full of life, and I can't even imagine going through half of what she has and just carrying on with life. She's beautiful. And I'm sure she's helped me more than I've helped her during my time here.

"If you're the bird, whenever we pretend it's summer, then I'm the worm..."

I'm sitting on our front porch with Rachel, we just got home from walking to Madh Vani and are drinking our juice. And listening to Ingrid Michaelson. The sun's setting. And we can hear the Muslim prayers. It's amazing and almost ridiculous how normal this feels.

Being here, sometimes I forget what the States are like. It's going to be strange going home in 35 days. Home to more culture shock...

George just got here. He usually rides his bike, but he left it here this morning when he went home, because it was pooring rain all morning and the roads were flooded. With water and red mud. The red mud that has stained my feet and for the life of me, will never come off. The rain woke me up. Pounding down on the shackles of our roof and hitting the metal water tank outside my bathroom window.

Every night I have extremely vivid dreams, that make sense at the time, and seem real at the time, but come morning I can't ever remember them. According to Becca, I sleep talk every night. My poor room mates. I don't know what makes me dream so much, it's not the same at home. But maybe it's just being here, in Africa. With all the different sounds at night...

Tonight we're eating Greek Pasta Salad as one of our community dinners...Rachel's making it, but I helped out a bit and we went to the super market and Madh Vani this morning to buy everything she needed. I can hardly wait to eat it. haha

Today Rachel S., Becca and I went to visit and drop off a birthing kit for one of the women, Sara, who lives in a different part of Danida, earlier today. One of her friends was there, a woman who use to be apart of Suubi, but is now in another program called Ptech. They're pretty similar, but one has been around longer. Neither of them speaks a lick of English, but Sara's friend Jimmy was at the house, visiting from one of the islands on Lake Victoria...I guess it's about a two hour boat ride away from the shore in Masese. Anyway, he speaks really great English and has just graduated from a Bible College in Kampala...and so he translated for us and then prayed when we left. Thanking God for each of us by name...and then stating that we had come from far away, "from even Colorado and Alasa-ka". I almost cracked up in the middle of the prayer, but had to tell myself it wasn't that funny and to calm down. It didn't work. So I sat there, holding Becca and Sara's hands and laughing silently to myself. I'm a terrible person.

Later on, Rachel 1, Rachel 2 and I went to visit Caroline in Walukuba...we took bodas, and I discovered that the boda who remembered me so well a month or so ago, was my driver. It was Sam! And all this time I have passed his boda station that is so close to our house, thinking that he was familiar and I had been meaning to ask him his name because I know he has fair prices and is trustworthy and knows his way around...and so now I know.

At Caroline's she fed us bananas and pumpkin and soda and we watched really hilariously ridiculous Ugandan music videos for two hours. It was fantastic...she gave us each a necklace and bracelet when we left...she has two children, Sara and Innocent, who are 10 and 7. All the kids here are on their Summer Holiday until February 1st, and so they were at home. They were a lot of fun and Sara was rather outgoing, dancing for us. Caroline was saying how she would rather be in the village (meaning in the North)...part of me doesn't understand this, because from what I can tell it is so much better here...but at the same time, part of me does understand. Because it's their home. The only reason most of the people who are here, are here, is because of the war that went on for so long there, and so they have had to leave their homes. The places they grew up in and were so familiar with, because of something they had no control over. I'm praying that eventually the north will be back to it's original state, when it was peaceful and such a happy place to be, filled with food and dancing, so that these women and people who loved it there so much, will be able to return to where their homes really are. With their grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and children and husbands and wives...people they love and are missing.

The suns almost completely gone now...I can hear the crickets. And I'm sitting here thinking back on the last two months I have spent here...it doesn't feel like it was that long ago I arrived at this house. My time here has gone by so quickly...but at the same time, I feel like I have lived here forever. Like this is all I've ever known. These people, this house, this place. The food. The villages. The women and their children and husbands. I know my way around. I know where to catch a boda and where not to catch a boda. I know which Supermarket has good prices and who rips you off. I cross a street without the fear of getting hit by one of the many bodas, matatus and cars that could possibly run over me and would if they could, if I was in their way...and I walk fast, and I speak a little Acholi and I can commuicate with these people. I know where to buy pirated DVD's and CD's and where I can get chipote and rollexes and casava fries on the sides of the roads. But then I wonder if I have really had any affect on these women's lives. If they will remember me when I go, or if I will just be another mzungu to them. If their children will remember me. If I'll ever be able to come back to this place...if they love me like I have grown to love them. Or if I will be forgotten. If I'm showing them Jesus' love, or if all this time I've just been this stranger showing them random kindnesses. If they know how much I longed to come here and be with them. If they know how much I'll miss them and this place once I'm home. And I can't help but think maybe I didn't make that great of an impact on their life. But then I realize...it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if all my time here did was help one person, if all I did during my time here was brighten one child's day, that's good enough. If I showed one Ugandan the love of Jesus on this trip, then that's good enough for Him. Because that one Ugandan, is as important to Him as a whole multitude of people that maybe I didn't touch.

It's a riot...it's a parade....it's a wedding?

So I'm sitting here. Listening to jazz music from the 30's...probably. At Flavours.

Right now I'm thinking almost all the time about how much I wish I could just live here, but also how much I wish I was home already. It's a tough decision, trying to figure out whether or not to stay longer...

There's some kind of riot going on outside right now. Well, not a riot. I have no idea what's going on, but there are men speeding around on bodas, in circles and yelling and honking and waving stuff around. And there are whistels blowing. And I'm here on my own, and all us white people are just looking around at each other. It's making me a little nervous, but not too bad. It's also making me laugh to myself. It's like a circus, and kind of super ridiculous. And people are just walking around like it's just life. Like it's normal.

Oh wait, about 200 people just walked by, I think it's a parade or something...there's a marching band. And women and children and men.

I just asked Rita (one of the waitresses here who knows me quite well) what was going on. She said there's something about a member of parliment who just came in...or got married...or something.

I love Uganda.

Kampala, Kampala, Kampala!

A few days ago, Becca and I went to visit Sali. Not to pick favorites or anything but...she's one of my favorites. haha She's just wonderful. And her little girls Janelle and Charity are the sweetest things. Charity's only three months, but Janelle's 2 years old and has warmed up to me since my first visit and now just comes and sits in my lap and rubs my arm and looks up at my face every once ina while. This time she fell asleep in my lap. I could have held her all day. Not long after we had arrived, Sali's husband George came home from visiting his friend. We had never met him before, and inwardly I think we were both a little worried, 'cause it's almost like most Ugandan men and husbands have a bad rep because of how so many of the women are treated. But George was a breath of fresh air. He spoke great English, and him and Sali are both really young and fun to laugh with and talk to. He was just so in love with both his daughters and had no trouble taking care of baby Charity while Janelle was sleeping on my lap. He let Sali talk when she interrupted him. And then we all ate matoke together. I love them. And it was probably one of my most memorable visits.

Today, Kate and I visited with Jacinta. She has two little boys, that are near the same ages at Sali's daughters. Their names are O'Tim and Patrick (named after Kate's brother)...she made us matoke as well and we just hung out in her house and had a great time. She is very sweet and I love her to death. On the way to her house though, we were walking through Danida and were almost there, when this dog ran after us, growling and he nipped at Kate's ankle and almost got her, but missed by an inch. No exageration. We were kind of panicking, because we don't have our rabi's shots and also it would just suck to get attacked by some random mutt in a Ugandan village. He tried a few more times but the neighbor kids kept grabbing him away. He tried again when we left but failed...which made me happy. Not gonna lie.

Yesterday we went to Kampala to ship necklaces and run a few errands. We left at 6:45 in the morning and got there about three hours later. I just drank madh vani juice and listened to Regina Spektor the whole way...it was bliss, because of how early in the morning it was. No heat. Only the breeze from the drivers open window. We hire a driver when we go to Kampala or Entebbe, and we either take a van, or a car. But there were 5 of us yesterday (Rachel S., Becca, Rachel, Me and Monday), so we ended up taking the van. We were all super impressed and kind of in awe of how nice it was. Though later we decided, in America, it's totally ghetto.

Once we arrived, we took Rachel and Monday to one of the hospitals and dropped them off, so that Rachel could try and get this surgery for Monday's nasal polyps figured out. Still no luck I guess, after spending the entire day in two different hospitals, it almost looked like a dead end, but I guess there's still hope. You'll have to read Rach's blog. :)

We headed to one of the bigger, nicer hotels (that I can't remember the name of), because there's a FedEx inside and that's where we ship from. That didn't take long, but while we were there I needed to use the restroom, so I walked down a flight of stairs and low and behold...a REAL bathroom. Mylanta. Not four peices of canvas tied around sticks and a hole in the ground. We are very blessed to have a real bathroom at home on Magwa. But this was like one back in the States. Happy day. Also, a man from FedEx was surprised when he asked us where we were from and we said America. He said we looked Brazilian. We all three agreed it was a compliment. haha

Afterwards, Becca, Rachel and I went to this amaaazing cafe in the middle of Kampala called 1000 Cups. Again, I felt like I was at home. I had this wonderful African Spiced Tea and Coconut Bread...and then once we were finished eating (and watching CNN! Which was weird), we looked around about a million craft shops...ones that were connected to the cafe, and then about a million more across the street, until Hanza, our driver, came and picked us up in the luxurious ghetto van.

Next we went to this place called Cafe Pap, which is a great resturaunt...Rachel and I ordered American food and it was fantastic. Becca got Mexican. I really liked it there, I'm thinking we'll go back next time we're in Kampala. For sure...and then we headed to this HUGE market, and wondered down this one road until we found the place we were looking for. Which was this specific tailor shop that Herman, one of the Epoh tailors had told us about, so that we could go pick up scraps for the bags they make (sounds easy, right?)...the entire road was nothing but tailor shops. It took us about an hour, of running around and being bombarded by all these Ugandans who wanted us to buy their scraps and most of whom just didn't get what it was we were looking for. Eventually we did, but it was crazy. And we ended up in this multiple story building, which was dark and stuffy and loud and just too...real.

Rachel called and we went and picked her and Monday up on the street of this place called Uganda House, and then headed to a couple market places to pick up seed beads, pliers and colored papers. You seriously have to be on the ball when you walk around down-town Kampala. I mean, you have to be on the ball when you walk around Jinja, but Kampala's about 5 times bigger. haha You might get trampled. Or something. I definitely came this close to getting hit by a matotu...which is a van they use as a taxi here. They're everywhere, and remember I said pedestrians don't have the right of way? So when I say I almost got hit, I mean like, it touched me as it was rounding a corner, and I jumped out of the way and then the driver yelled at me and pointed his finger saying, "Hey you!". I was tempted to stick out my tounge and go, "Hey you!". But I didn't.

Once we were out of the madness of the streets and the market place and the insane matotu drivers and back in the safety of the luxurious ghetto van and our talented driver Hanza, we went to this super market. And when I say super market, I don't mean the ones that are like the little hole-in-the-wall-mom&pop-shops here...I mean it was almost like, a mall. It was in a mall. And they had Christmas trees. CHRISTMAS TREES. And they had Jiff. Like, Jiff. People, real peanutbutter! I defintely bought some.

It took us almost 5 hours to get home...we just laughed and talked and sat in traffic for hours and it was an adventure, to say the least. Yesterday was so much more intense than I probably just let on. But so much fun. So much fun.