Chapter XIV
Chapter XIV
The Market
On the way back from Kisoro (Rwandan border) last Tuesday, we drove right into the thick of probably a few thousand people walking the roads. Some were falling-down drunk. Fr. David explained that Tuesday is market day and many people come to market, sell their wares, and then go get drunk. The closer we got to the market the more crowded it became until finally the car was parting a sea of people, cows, goats and chickens. Fr. David parked, we got out. Right next to the car a vendor was selling pieces of pineapple. All the husks were thrown into a trench next to the road and after a whole day (it was now 17:00) the smell of fermenting pineapple was very strong. We walked through the market place—it was an impromptu, flea-market type, set up and taken down every Tuesday. The lean-tos, poles and wares are all carried there and back on heavily laden bicycles and/or people’s heads. We watched as two women struggled to lift a load which they placed on the head of a third woman who then walked off with it like it was a pile of feathers.
As we wound our way through the maze of tents and people, I felt like I was lost in the Kasbah or some equally mysterious movie place long ago. Fr. David, of course, knew half the people there so there was s lot of stopping for hugs and short conversations. Fr. David has many brothers, sisters, cousins—full and half—as his father had five wives, and his grandfather had 38 women. So he is related in some way to half the town and surrounding area. People can marry within the tribe, but not within the same clan.
All over the ground were the wreathes of grass made by people to help balance loads on their heads. I guess they just leave them when they don’t need them anymore. All types of things were for sale—clothing, watches, chickens, pineapples, bananas, rock salt, and many things that will forever remain a mystery to me.
Joy and Bernard
Thursday evening we had late tea at the home of the Senior Warden of St. John’s, Bugongi. We drove through the village of Bugongi which never fails to be fascinating. The narrow, pot-holed road winds through the village, lined by combination shops/homes. Cows cross the road in front of us. Pigs root at trash heaps in the middle of intersections. Goats dart everywhere and chickens wander around. People sit or stand at various tasks in front of the houses—cooking, doing laundry, washing dishes. Children play with balls made of plastic bags wadded up and tied with strips of grass, or roll old bicycle tires down the road with sticks (a seemingly universal pastime for children). They wear all types of clothing from Notre Dame sweatshirts to Mickey Mouse tee-shirts (although they have never heard of Mickey Mouse or Notre Dame), ruffled organdy dresses hanging unbuttoned from thin shoulders. Some of the smaller children wear just a shirt, or nothing at all.
As we bounced through the village we received the ever present stares and calls of “Hey mzoongu—how are YOU?” as children ran to keep up with the car. Fr. David stopped the car a number of times to talk to people and hear the latest news. We finally arrived at Joy’s house. She was waiting at the door for us and was warmly welcoming as almost everyone has been. We walked up treacherous stone steps to the front door, my mind thinking “these stairs are definitely not disabled friendly!” As we entered the house, the first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. How eerie. The man was Bernard, Joy’s husband. Bernard had a stroke two years ago. He appeared in total control of his faculties and spoke with us about a number of subjects. His right side is paralyzed. Joy attended to him with obvious love and devotion while talking with us. She is a horticulturist who works at the place we saw the apple trees. She wanted us to taste some of the apples and compare them to American apples. They were superb! We talked about the differences in church structure between here and home. Evidently, Bernard was a pillar of the church before his stroke. He was head of the building committee, lay ministry coordinator and one other thing I forget. Fr. David was preparing to make him Senior Warden when the stroke occurred. The Senior Warden here is, Fr. David says, “a Priest without a collar,” in charge of the parish in the absence of the clergy. This confuses me as the Lay Reader also occupies much the same position as our Deacons do. So far I have seen Joy serve at the Altar, read announcements, clean up after chickens in front of the Altar, coordinate the harvest offering and other tasks, all in the same Sunday service.
When Bernard had the stroke, Fr. David decided to ask Joy to take the position. She has been a great blessing. Fr. David kept telling us how much he misses Bernard at the church. I asked if he could still at least attend services. Fr. David said no—because he goes through spells of being completely out of it—talking to dead people, wetting himself and saying some very inappropriate things. This surprised me because he was so lucid while we were visiting. How sad. It’s very fortunate that Joy is an educated woman who can get good employment or the family would be in much worse shape.
We had our tea and treats by candle light as it was a power-shedding night. Every other night the power goes off at 18:00 and returns at 22:00. So we have had every other dinner by the light of hurricane lamps and candles. I’m actually beginning to like it. No TV, no one can read or go disappear at a computer, we all just sit together talking or singing. Everyone looks soft and sweet in the semi darkness. I find myself having wild dreams of doing this at home—eating by candle light, doing the laundry outside and spreading it over the bushes to dry—but then a sort of sadness comes over me knowing that will never happen. When we get home we will return right back to our crazily busy lives filled with light and noise. Sigh. I wonder if it’s our cross to bear as the leaders in the world. The people here so much want the life improvements (physical that is) that technology brings—most of all the ability to keep clean—body, clothes, home—without back straining work. That is the main reason the women I have met would like what we have—indoor plumbing, hot water on tap, the ability to store perishables -the basic things we take for granted.
The Hot Springs
Yesterday we visited the Hot Springs. I don’t know how far away it is from Fr. David’s house. It took about 45 minutes of bumping over dirt roads to get there. It is further up the mountain than Kabale. We went through two small villages before we got there. What continues to amaze me is the amount of people lining the roads on their ways to and from home—gathering firewood, transporting chairs, jerry cans of water, 30 foot long poles, huge bags of potatoes, cases of soda or the empty bottles being returned—all either on the back of a bicycle, or on the head (many times with a baby tied onto the back also). People are walking along carrying out the business of life no matter how far into the hills you go.
When we arrived at the hot springs, the first thing I noticed were all the thatched roofs where “patients” had set up small tent-sized huts which they live in while there. People come here who have diseases—I don’t know exactly what range of diseases—which have failed to be cured any other way. How they get here if they are seriously ill I don’t know—it’s quite a strenuous trek from even the nearest village. But they come and stay here, soaking in the water at night and resting and eating during the day. Relatives visit them regularly and bring provisions. The government recently built them some latrines and one larger shelter. The spring itself bubbles up from the ground from under a rock. However, and I’ve never seen anything like this, a small regular stream runs parallel to the hot one. The area looks like its probably the beginning of one of the several marshy areas we’ve seen with many small streams trickling here and there and a lot of lush jungle-type vegetation. The people have ingeniously built a small dam from rocks to divert the cold stream into the hot stream to make the water a bearable temperature. They get their hot water for tea and coffee from the source of the hot spring. There were about 30 “patients” there today. Since I don’t speak Rukiga, I was unable to have any conversation with anyone, but I could feel the feelings of the place and the people and it was almost indescribable. To come to this muddy, damp place and live in a grass hut with a dirt floor and subsist on millet porridge and potatoes seems a strange way to get healed of something the hospital failed to heal. The people welcomed us, and we prayed for them for which they were very grateful. Who knows how God chooses to heal people! I will always retain this picture in my mind and heart. It was like coming to an African Pool of Siloam, only all the people are supporting and helping each other instead of fighting to be first into the pool. I pray fervently for the healing of those we saw today.
The Market
On the way back from Kisoro (Rwandan border) last Tuesday, we drove right into the thick of probably a few thousand people walking the roads. Some were falling-down drunk. Fr. David explained that Tuesday is market day and many people come to market, sell their wares, and then go get drunk. The closer we got to the market the more crowded it became until finally the car was parting a sea of people, cows, goats and chickens. Fr. David parked, we got out. Right next to the car a vendor was selling pieces of pineapple. All the husks were thrown into a trench next to the road and after a whole day (it was now 17:00) the smell of fermenting pineapple was very strong. We walked through the market place—it was an impromptu, flea-market type, set up and taken down every Tuesday. The lean-tos, poles and wares are all carried there and back on heavily laden bicycles and/or people’s heads. We watched as two women struggled to lift a load which they placed on the head of a third woman who then walked off with it like it was a pile of feathers.
As we wound our way through the maze of tents and people, I felt like I was lost in the Kasbah or some equally mysterious movie place long ago. Fr. David, of course, knew half the people there so there was s lot of stopping for hugs and short conversations. Fr. David has many brothers, sisters, cousins—full and half—as his father had five wives, and his grandfather had 38 women. So he is related in some way to half the town and surrounding area. People can marry within the tribe, but not within the same clan.
All over the ground were the wreathes of grass made by people to help balance loads on their heads. I guess they just leave them when they don’t need them anymore. All types of things were for sale—clothing, watches, chickens, pineapples, bananas, rock salt, and many things that will forever remain a mystery to me.
Joy and Bernard
Thursday evening we had late tea at the home of the Senior Warden of St. John’s, Bugongi. We drove through the village of Bugongi which never fails to be fascinating. The narrow, pot-holed road winds through the village, lined by combination shops/homes. Cows cross the road in front of us. Pigs root at trash heaps in the middle of intersections. Goats dart everywhere and chickens wander around. People sit or stand at various tasks in front of the houses—cooking, doing laundry, washing dishes. Children play with balls made of plastic bags wadded up and tied with strips of grass, or roll old bicycle tires down the road with sticks (a seemingly universal pastime for children). They wear all types of clothing from Notre Dame sweatshirts to Mickey Mouse tee-shirts (although they have never heard of Mickey Mouse or Notre Dame), ruffled organdy dresses hanging unbuttoned from thin shoulders. Some of the smaller children wear just a shirt, or nothing at all.
As we bounced through the village we received the ever present stares and calls of “Hey mzoongu—how are YOU?” as children ran to keep up with the car. Fr. David stopped the car a number of times to talk to people and hear the latest news. We finally arrived at Joy’s house. She was waiting at the door for us and was warmly welcoming as almost everyone has been. We walked up treacherous stone steps to the front door, my mind thinking “these stairs are definitely not disabled friendly!” As we entered the house, the first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. How eerie. The man was Bernard, Joy’s husband. Bernard had a stroke two years ago. He appeared in total control of his faculties and spoke with us about a number of subjects. His right side is paralyzed. Joy attended to him with obvious love and devotion while talking with us. She is a horticulturist who works at the place we saw the apple trees. She wanted us to taste some of the apples and compare them to American apples. They were superb! We talked about the differences in church structure between here and home. Evidently, Bernard was a pillar of the church before his stroke. He was head of the building committee, lay ministry coordinator and one other thing I forget. Fr. David was preparing to make him Senior Warden when the stroke occurred. The Senior Warden here is, Fr. David says, “a Priest without a collar,” in charge of the parish in the absence of the clergy. This confuses me as the Lay Reader also occupies much the same position as our Deacons do. So far I have seen Joy serve at the Altar, read announcements, clean up after chickens in front of the Altar, coordinate the harvest offering and other tasks, all in the same Sunday service.
When Bernard had the stroke, Fr. David decided to ask Joy to take the position. She has been a great blessing. Fr. David kept telling us how much he misses Bernard at the church. I asked if he could still at least attend services. Fr. David said no—because he goes through spells of being completely out of it—talking to dead people, wetting himself and saying some very inappropriate things. This surprised me because he was so lucid while we were visiting. How sad. It’s very fortunate that Joy is an educated woman who can get good employment or the family would be in much worse shape.
We had our tea and treats by candle light as it was a power-shedding night. Every other night the power goes off at 18:00 and returns at 22:00. So we have had every other dinner by the light of hurricane lamps and candles. I’m actually beginning to like it. No TV, no one can read or go disappear at a computer, we all just sit together talking or singing. Everyone looks soft and sweet in the semi darkness. I find myself having wild dreams of doing this at home—eating by candle light, doing the laundry outside and spreading it over the bushes to dry—but then a sort of sadness comes over me knowing that will never happen. When we get home we will return right back to our crazily busy lives filled with light and noise. Sigh. I wonder if it’s our cross to bear as the leaders in the world. The people here so much want the life improvements (physical that is) that technology brings—most of all the ability to keep clean—body, clothes, home—without back straining work. That is the main reason the women I have met would like what we have—indoor plumbing, hot water on tap, the ability to store perishables -the basic things we take for granted.
The Hot Springs
Yesterday we visited the Hot Springs. I don’t know how far away it is from Fr. David’s house. It took about 45 minutes of bumping over dirt roads to get there. It is further up the mountain than Kabale. We went through two small villages before we got there. What continues to amaze me is the amount of people lining the roads on their ways to and from home—gathering firewood, transporting chairs, jerry cans of water, 30 foot long poles, huge bags of potatoes, cases of soda or the empty bottles being returned—all either on the back of a bicycle, or on the head (many times with a baby tied onto the back also). People are walking along carrying out the business of life no matter how far into the hills you go.
When we arrived at the hot springs, the first thing I noticed were all the thatched roofs where “patients” had set up small tent-sized huts which they live in while there. People come here who have diseases—I don’t know exactly what range of diseases—which have failed to be cured any other way. How they get here if they are seriously ill I don’t know—it’s quite a strenuous trek from even the nearest village. But they come and stay here, soaking in the water at night and resting and eating during the day. Relatives visit them regularly and bring provisions. The government recently built them some latrines and one larger shelter. The spring itself bubbles up from the ground from under a rock. However, and I’ve never seen anything like this, a small regular stream runs parallel to the hot one. The area looks like its probably the beginning of one of the several marshy areas we’ve seen with many small streams trickling here and there and a lot of lush jungle-type vegetation. The people have ingeniously built a small dam from rocks to divert the cold stream into the hot stream to make the water a bearable temperature. They get their hot water for tea and coffee from the source of the hot spring. There were about 30 “patients” there today. Since I don’t speak Rukiga, I was unable to have any conversation with anyone, but I could feel the feelings of the place and the people and it was almost indescribable. To come to this muddy, damp place and live in a grass hut with a dirt floor and subsist on millet porridge and potatoes seems a strange way to get healed of something the hospital failed to heal. The people welcomed us, and we prayed for them for which they were very grateful. Who knows how God chooses to heal people! I will always retain this picture in my mind and heart. It was like coming to an African Pool of Siloam, only all the people are supporting and helping each other instead of fighting to be first into the pool. I pray fervently for the healing of those we saw today.
Labels: Uganda Chronicles
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