Chapter XVIII

Friday, December 15, 2006

Finally the time came – time for the bride’s family to formally present her to the groom and his family. The youngest brother of the bride, Isaac, came for her and escorted us across the grass to where her mother and father, Rick, and other members of the family were standing. Patience was now crying and holding hands with Isaac on one side and me on the other. We drew close to the family and stood there, Patience near her mother and father, while speeches were made by the men of the family including Rick. The speeches, as usual, were long. The Groom and the men of his family walked across the lawn to us, and traditional words were said between the families. After this round of speeches, gifts were presented including several goats. After the gifts, more speeches (sigh), but then it was time to cut the cake. As this was the Give-Away, not the actual wedding, the brother of the bride, in this case Isaac, stood next to her and cut the cake with her. She told me later it is a tradition that lets the bride honor her family for nurturing her through her childhood and up to the time of her wedding. After Patience and Isaac made the first cut in the cake, the rest of the cake was cut into small pieces and Patience and I took the plate over to the groom’s section and (kneeling) presented pieces of cake to the groom and his family. After that, all the rest of the bridesmaids took cake to the rest of the guests, except Patience and I took it to her family and the Bishops who were in attendance. We then resumed our original seats and there was more entertainment. Patience was looking pretty drained by this time. It was quite an emotional day for her. As I sat there, alternately watching the dancers, looking up at the majestic scenery, watching the sun go down behind the mountains, I just couldn’t believe I was here doing this. I felt like I was in an adventure story, a story of someone else’s adventure, it just couldn’t be me in this totally foreign place participating in this completely alien cultural event. It was thrilling, like living out a dream. I looked over at Rick and Fr. David in their ceremonial robes, listened to the hissing sounds the dancers were making as they shook their spears and pointed them at us. I still don’t know what that dance signified, and why it was done at a wedding event. It seemed to me like a war dance with the drums and shakers and fierce looks and spears, grass and rattles tied around the ankles of the dancers. But then, it was over and time for us to process back to the house. We walked slowly through the wet grass (it had rained several times during the afternoon), up the stairs and into the house past all the food set out for the guests, and back into the little room. The door shut behind us. Now it was dark outside, and there was no power in the house. We changed out of the formal dresses in the dark with a lot of giggling and talking. I had a small flashlight with me, and we used it to open gifts and also make sure everyone had their own shoes etc. as all had been left in a big pile in the room when we changed for the ceremony. I was released from the bridal room again to go find my husband and have something to eat. The whole house was full of people and was lit by candles. The air was warm, shadows flickered on the walls and conversation was in a language I didn’t understand. By now, I was worn out and ready to go to sleep so I just sat in a chair against the wall and dozed until it was time to go home to Kabale to sleep quickly and get ready for the wedding the next day.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Today was the wedding of Patience and Emmanuel –long awaited. They met when they were children and their fathers, both Priests, worked at the same church in the town of Kabale. Since housing is provided on the church property for the clergy, the children of the two Priests played together. Somewhere along the line, Patience and Emmanuel fell in love. This love survived their families being transferred every few years to different parishes, some very far from each other. They waited until both of them had finished their schooling, well into their twenties. Patience received a diploma in Business Studies geared toward bank employment, and then she went to work for several years in order to help put her younger brothers and sisters through school. Emmanuel became a high-school teacher and was working in Kampala, a 7 hour drive from Kabale at the time of the wedding. He had already rented a small apartment in Kabale for them to move to when they were finally married. Patience had taken Rick and I there to see it several days before the wedding.

This morning dawned beautiful, birds singing, sky blue with white billowy clouds. And now it was back to the beauty salon to have yesterday’s hairdo taken down and today’s created. The tradition is for the entire bridal party from the bride to the flower girls to be prepared with hairdo, makeup and clothing right there at the salon. The place was crowded with women and girls getting ready for the wedding. The woman who owns the salon doubles as a hair dresser and tailor. She has a tiny bedroom in the back of the shop where she sleeps and also sews. She rents wedding dresses and outfits for bridesmaids and alters them to fit each person. The wedding was scheduled to begin at 11:00. Around 11:30 several cars arrived at the salon to pick up the bridal party. We piled into the vehicles, me with an 8 year old flower girl on my lap, and headed for the church. The wedding began promptly at 11:45 with a procession down the isle. The rest is a bit fuzzy in my head. I remember standing next to Patience, holding a microphone to her lips for her to recite her vows. I remember the choir sang beautiful music, and that one of the choir members had to sit down to nurse a baby in the middle of a song. At one point, I and the Best Man stood next to the bride and groom with offering baskets and the guests all came forward singing songs and placing money in the baskets for the Bride and Groom. The entire service was conducted in Rukiga, so I understood only intuitively what was being said. The only words I recognized were “Mukama (God),” and Patience and Emmanuel’s names. After the vows were said, rings exchanged, prayers said and messages given, the Bride and Groom stepped up to a table accompanied by their God-Parents to sign the wedding documents. This was quite a ceremony, concluding with Patience folding the wedding certificate and placing it in Emmanuel’s shirt pocket to much applause. And now, time for the recessional, in slow time. Then many pictures and piling back into the vehicles for the 30 minutes trip to the reception which would be held at the home of the Groom’s parents, Guster and Joyce. At this point, the Bride has become a part of the Groom’s family and the parents of the Bride do not attend the reception. So Rick and I were off to the reception without David and Constance. We were in separate cars, I still had the flower girl on my lap. It was a long ride, especially up the incredible 45 degree driveway to the house there at Kihara. We were ushered into the house and the Bridal party was directed to a small side room where we all sat shoulder to shoulder and were brought food. All the other guests would be eating outside from buffet tables. The whole yard was decorated with the traditional pavilions and folding chairs for all the guests, except the Bride & Groom, Best Man and Maid of Honor (me) had sofas to sit on and a long coffee table in front of us for drinks to sit on. So, after eating lunch, we processed slowly through an aisle of smiling guests, through wet grass, over a small rivulet running through the lawn, and to an arch of flowers with a ribbon stretched across the pathway. Here, Emmanuel and Patience cut the ribbon, signifying their entry into their new life. Cheers erupted, and we continued the procession on to where the sofas were, and took our seats. As we sat down, I looked around and realized there were several hundred people seated in chairs, standing, & sitting on the lawn. The sun was high overhead, slightly beginning it’s decent to afternoon. It was about 13:30 by now. Time for the speeches to begin. I looked over at Rick, sitting with Medard and Henry, one of Fr. David’s brothers, and we exchanged a smile. Here we were again, the only white faces, (we were later thanked for ‘adding some color to the celebration’) the only ones who didn’t understand the language being spoken, but feeling incredibly included and loved and so very blessed to be sharing this adventure together as husband and wife.

Guests continued to arrive and place gifts in the big pile next to the table that held the six wedding cakes. The Emcee took the microphone and began the afternoon with a relatively short speech. The reception had officially begun.

Chapter XVII

December 13, 2006

Today we went to St. John’s Bugongi. We had brought Christmas gifts for the kids – coloring books, crayons, rulers, colorful pencils, small kaleidoscopes, compasses and, best of all, soccer balls. When we arrived, there was a large group of mothers and children up on the hill near the church building. It looked like they were having a meeting or a class. As we got out of the car, the children saw us and broke away from the parents, came running down the hill and swarmed us. I had four little children holding on to my legs, putting their arms up to be held. I picked one of them up and he put his arms around me and hugged me tight. Then one of the little girls started pulling on my skirt – it was her turn. I put the little boy down and picked up the little girl. And so it went, child after child. I was just trying to walk up the hill towards the church where we were to have a visit with Fr. Francis, and children were all around me, crying to be picked up, hugging me, and I was overwhelmed with emotion and asking God, “what do these children see in me, a stranger, to make them do this?” And then I was humbled and grateful and overjoyed at the same time as the answer came, quietly, from the Lord, “they see Me.” Oh, how I have prayed for that again and again – that people could see the Savior through me, that I would be a reflection of His love to those I meet, that I could be a conduit of His grace, and be willing to give all the glory to Him. I could hardly see through the tears. I looked toward Rick, and saw that he was equally inundated, and my heart swelled with love for this man God has given me – a man who would share my love of Jesus, who loves children, who would quit smoking to be a better witness, who could walk these hills and love these people.
Both Rick and I were brought up in homes filled with bigotry. In my home, there was an ethnic slur-word for every group of people, but the worst was reserved for the black race. Rick came from the South where bigotry was a way of life. And the Lord sent us to Africa and filled us with incredible love for these black people! Way to go, God!!
As we arrived at the group of women, they broke into song – that amazing Ugandan type of song that needs no accompanying instruments except clapping hands. The voices harmonized and each song was about Jesus and His love and power. We were introduced to a young woman who was conducting the class, which turned out to be a class on parenting given by Compassion International. This international group guides mothers, from the time of pregnancy, on good nutrition and hygiene, infant and child care. They also sponsor some of the children to go to school and provide some medical help. It was a contribution from St. John’s, Roseville, California that built the Compassion International office that is on this property (St. John’s, Bugongi). These children were all obviously better dressed and cleaner and happier than most of the other children we had met. Thank God for groups like Compassion International, World Vision, Christian Children’s Fund and others. This day was such a blessing – a true mountain-top experience.

15 December 2006

The day has finally arrived! The day of the beginning of the two-day wedding ceremony. Today’s ceremony is called the Give-Away. At this event, the bride is officially given away to the groom’s family. After a morning of preparation at the hair salon, we were all squeezed into the car and taken to the house at Nyabushabi where the ceremony was to be. Preparations had been going on all night long.
Last night, Fr. David took us there to see some of the things done to prepare. UNFORTUNATELY ☺, we arrived too late for me to witness the butchering of the cow and goats for the feast, which disappointed Fr. David, but I was able to see the mountains of firewood, the large pots of simmering foods already begun for a feast that would start the next day. There were stacks of green bananas to be peeled and steamed for matoke, mounds of Irish potatoes and sweet potatoes. Inside the house in one of the rooms were large pots containing the skins of the animals just butchered, and many pots of the sorghum “porridge” that is so popular here. Men were setting up pavilions and tables, women were preparing food, and everyone was talking and laughing and sharing the work. Children were running around caught up in the general feeling of celebration, and, of course, Rick was in the middle of them. It reminded me of times long ago when I was a child in Indiana and my father’s whole clan would come together for a holiday celebration or family reunion. I remember being one of the children seeing my cousins, a little giddy from the party atmosphere, allowed to stay up longer than usual, getting foods we didn’t get every day. I miss that. Constance and Patience would be staying here tonight while Fr. David, Rick and I went back to the Kabale house.
And now here we are the next afternoon. The grounds have been transformed with four pavilions in a large rectangle with a big grassy area in the middle. All the decorations are in the lime green and white colors selected by Patience. One pavilion was set aside for the groom’s clan, one for the bride’s clan, one for the bride and her party surrounded by many guests, and one to cover the cakes. It had been raining a lot the last few days and the ground was muddy, but the area where the pavilions were set up was grass. When we arrived, we went into the house to get dressed and then have lunch. Patience and I (the Matron of Honor) and the rest of the bridal party went into a small bedroom to dress. Much laughter accompanied my attempts to arrange the many layers of traditional clothing correctly, but fortunately, with help, I was finally dressed correctly. The bridal party would stay in the small room and have food brought to them while the bride’s family and guests visited and had lunch in the rest of the house. I, however, being a mzoong (white person, foreigner, special guest), was asked to leave the room and help to entertain the two Bishops in attendance. I walked out into the living room area to see Rick seated with the two Bishops. Rick was wearing the ceremonial garment reserved for the elders of the clan. Being an adopted Mugyes (moo-HESS), and Fr. David’s Best Man, he was one of the three honored to wear this garment. So, we visited with the Bishops until lunch was over and it was time for the ceremony to begin. I went back into the Bridal room, everyone else went outside to the pavilions for entertainment. Finally, we were summoned. Now, remember, I had no clue what was expected of me. Every time I asked someone, in the days preceding the Give-Away, “what will I be expected to do?” I was told with a smile, “don’t worry, you will know.” I was not confident with that advice but it appeared to be the only instruction I would get. Rick had attended a give-away last time we were here. His advice from his observations at that event was to “keep straightening the bride’s clothing and gaze at her adoringly the whole time.” This did not excite me. But no further directions were forthcoming from anywhere, so, as we started out the door for the procession, I handed it over to Jesus. (I do that a lot here!) All processions here are done in the traditional “bridal walk,” slow in other words. I am a fast walker and had to restrain myself from speed walking down the aisle at my own wedding. Out the door we marched, one inch at a time, down the steps, long filmy garments floating treacherously in the breeze. At the bottom of the steps the muddy, slippery ground lurked. Stepping gingerly onto the mud I turned to make sure Patience didn’t stumble, only to be told sternly by one of the other attendants that I should NEVER turn around while processing. So, I went even slower so Patience could be beside me where I could keep an eye on her. Little by little we approached the pathway created by the Mother’s Union – standing on either side for us to walk through them as they sang a joyous song to the bride. As we came out the other end of the pathway we processed across the lawn to the chairs set up for the bride and her party, and finally were seated. I breathed a sigh of relief – no one in the bridal party had fallen in the mud, sprained an ankle or lost a shoe. Now I could relax for awhile and look around. The majestic scenery of the Kigezi region was all around us - green, terraced hills, azure sky and white billowy clouds. Across the lawn behind where the pavilion coverings fluttered in the gentle breeze, on a hill, sat all the people who weren’t part of the 300 plus close family and friends. Thunder rumbled in the background, but no one worried because, here, it is considered a blessing if your event is rained upon. The atmosphere was festive, children ran barefoot on the grass, adults chatted and laughed together, and the bridal party sat appropriately staring solemnly ahead. Entertainment came in the form of traditional dancers who were extremely energetic and a lot of fun to watch. The dancer’s costumes all reflected the bridal color theme. I kept looking to see if Patience needed any “arranging,” but she continued to look perfectly beautiful, although I noticed she was clutching her little beaded purse very tightly.

Chapter XVI

09 December 2006 (Friday)

I am sitting the car, sweating, as several African mechanics, Rick and Fr. David try to figure out why the car quit running properly after the last giant speed bump crashed against the bottom of the car. (It turned out the speed bump knocked the fuel line loose and petrol was leaking out instead of getting to the engine. This happened several more times before we got home.)

We arrived at Entebbe on Tuesday evening and went to Medard’s house. As will happen often with plans here, Pastor Mike did not meet us at the airport as he had insisted he must, but he had made a hotel reservation for us which we declined in favor of staying with a friend. He was going to contact us the next day, but that never occurred. Wednesday morning, the car went into the “shop” for a few repairs. Those few repairs turned into shocks, brakes, calipers, replace a broken tie rod and a few other “little things.” That took two days and Fr. David had to stay there the whole time to monitor the work. Finally, Thursday evening, the repairs were done. We left about 09:30 Friday morning. However, nothing is ever as it seems here. We found out this morning we would be transporting a passenger, a family friend who wants to go home to Kabale for the wedding. That involved some extremely creative packing of the car to fit all of us and the luggage in. Then, since Fr. David doesn’t know the way from Medard’s house to other places in Kampala, we had to hire a driver to drive us to the tyre shop to get two new tyres (which turned into 3). This necessitated our passenger, Pamela (pronounced Pah MARE ah), to take a boda boda (bicycle taxi) to the place near the main highway where we would eventually end up. Off she went on the boda boda, off we went through the worst Kampala traffic I have seen yet. It took almost 1 ½ hours to go what was probably about 10 miles. At the tyre shop, Fr. David realized all the suitcases had been packed on top of the spare tyre in the trunk, so we unpacked it all there in the parking lot and repacked it when the work was finished. Finally, we were on the road – just a simple stop for petrol still needed. At the petrol station, they backed the back driver’s side tyre(one of the newly installed tyres!) up onto a cement block to tilt the car sideways, then several men rocked the car to make sure every last drop of petrol was squeezed into the tank. We then drove around a bit to locate Pamela and finally got on the road about 13:00. Only four hours to get out of town! But still time to make it to Kabale before dark – until that darn speed bump. So now I sit here with about 5 children hanging through the car window saying “hi – how are YOU?” I say, with a smile through clenched teeth, “I am FINE!”

11 December 2006

I have been reflecting on the importance of hospitality. I have always wondered why it is so highly prized in many cultures, especially in the Bible. Sure – it’s nice to be nice, to entertain people in your home, to offer friends and family a place to stay when they are visiting. It seems God put a certain desire in most people to want to offer hospitality – to sort of “show off” our homes and possessions and children and pets. But since being in Uganda a new meaning has become real to me. Sometimes, many times in past centuries, hospitality can be the difference between life and death. In desert cultures a person can die with no water or shelter, and a person refusing a traveler either of those things could be condemning that traveler to death. When I first moved to Phoenix, Arizona in the late 1960’s, there was a law on the books that stated it was illegal to refuse anyone a drink of water if they asked. Living there, I definitely understood that. Here and now though, on this trip, I have realized how different our experience would be if not for friends here and their hospitality. This culture is very different from ours. The people are friendly, but we have no way to know if something we say or do is offensive. We were all created the same, as tribal people. People who live together in societies develop traditions and rules to live by so there will be order and prosperity. When a stranger comes among them, people are naturally wary until they see if that person will be able to fit in and not create chaos by ignoring the rules and traditions. Hospitality plays an important part in helping to introduce strangers to a different society. The host is showing the community – see – this person is acceptable to me, I trust them and I am responsible for their actions while they are here. When we first came here to Uganda, Fr. David taught us some of the words to use to greet people, to say thank you, (there is no word in their language for “please”), etc. Because we were with him, others knew they should not try to overcharge us in the market. If we had just arrived at the airport on our own, we would have been at the mercy of many people’s hospitality – to be shown how to obtain transportation, where to change money, to find lodging, to even buy a meal. Because we had a host, all these things were made easier. We were under his protection. And because of that, we were able to begin serving God immediately instead of wasting a lot of time just learning our way around. And so, I have a new respect for the concept of hospitality.

14 December 2006

Today we visited St. Luke’s, the small church in higher up in the mountains near Lake Bunyoni. When we first arrived we were given refreshments in the home of the Lay Reader. His home is about the size of a U.S. living room, with dirt floors, two very small windows for light, no electricity or running water. We sat on one of the two wooden benches to drink our sodas and have some time to visit, and then walked up the hill from the house to the church. As we stood outside greeting people, we watched the men carry the wooden benches out of the Lay Reader’s house up the hill to the church so there would something for us to sit on in the church. I had been asked to give the message today. The first thing I noticed when we walked in was the addition of a brick pulpit that had not been there last time we visited. So, after much singing and dancing, I spoke to them about the awesome power of God, and the love He has for us, and how we should tell everyone about that power and love. Then there was more singing and dancing outside and then we took our leave of those beautiful people. As we traveled down the road, two women waved us to a stop near the side of the road because they had some wedding gifts for Patience. Fr. David got out and spoke to them. Rick was driving and I was in the front passenger seat, and we just talked to each other while Fr. David spoke to the women by the road. He opened the trunk of the car and put in the wedding gifts, we said goodbye and thanks to the women, and began the twisting, bumping, dusty drive back down to Kabale Town. As we drove, I could hear the bleating of goats by the few homes we passed. Then we started through an area where there were no homes. But I still kept hearing the bleating of a goat. It started to filter through my consciousness that there were no goats along the road anymore. I asked Rick, “do you hear a goat?” He said yes, that’s strange because there aren’t any along the road in this area. Suddenly it flashed in my mind – the two women Fr. David had been talking to had been holding a small goat on a rope. It came together – the goat was a wedding gift to Patience, and that goat was in the trunk of the car! My animal loving American heart crashed painfully into the African cultural wall – here, animals are either to eat or to perform some service for humans. There are no pets. I listened to the poor little goat bleating in what I imagined to be pain and terror in the trunk of the car and tried not to cry. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and I asked Fr. David, “Is there a live goat in the trunk of the car?” He said yes, it was a gift for Patience. I asked wouldn’t it die before we got it home? He said no, it would not die. I asked wasn’t it scared and in pain? He said, don’t worry, it will be fine. I kept repeating to myself, this is not Kansas anymore, shut up before you insult someone. But I began imagining the distance between where we were now and home, mentally ticking off the minutes before the little goat would be freed from the trunk. I calculated probably about 20 more minutes. Finally, we emerged from the mountain road to the main road of Kabale Town. Almost home, almost relief for the little goat! Just then, Fr. David said let’s stop at that hotel and have lunch. I couldn’t believe it! But I didn’t want to be rude so I decided to pretend there was no goat in the trunk until we were finished lunch. Finally, back in the car and headed home. But no, Fr. David said now let’s go visit the Bishop – he is expecting us this afternoon. WHAT ABOUT THE GOAT?! It wasn’t bleating anymore. It must have died of a heart attack brought on by the terror of being enclosed in the trunk of the car and being banged around on the mountain roads for miles. So again, I put it out of my mind while we visited the Bishop. Finally , four hours after we put the goat in the trunk, we arrived home. The trunk was opened, the goat was lifted out and placed on the ground where it immediately stretched and began eating grass like nothing had happened. Fr. David smiled at me and gave me a “see, I told you” look. Just another day on another planet.

Chapter XV

Chapter XV

It’s one of our last few days here, and the mixture of feelings – sadness about leaving, excitement about arriving home – has started. Yesterday, we went to a large cave way back on the side of a mountain. Walking into the cave made me feel like I had been transported into the Clan of the Cave Bear book. We had driven there which was an adventure in itself. We drove until the road ran out, and then drove down a footpath only about half as wide as the car. Even way out there, there was a crowd of children running after the car. Some of them followed us all the way to the cave. The cave has a huge mouth and a high roof that slopes gradually back about 30 feet. At the back wall there are two indentions, almost like alcoves. The roof is blackened by fires over the centuries. But what the cave has been used for in recent times was hiding out from Idi Amin. People running from his regime of horror would live there in the cave. It was really fascinating. We stayed for quite awhile, just lost in our own thoughts.
Later, when we got home, I noticed that I was feeling really itchy under the waistband of my skirt. REALLY itchy. I thought I had finally gotten a few mosquito bites. However, I woke up in the middle of the night with giant welt-like hives all over my body – scalp to toes. I took a benedryl, went back to sleep, and woke up with them all still there. I showed my arms to Fr. David and Fred. My arms were really broken out. Fr. David said nonchalantly something about one of his children used to get that way from eating potatoes. I thought – wow, he doesn’t seem very concerned. (I found out a few days later he had contacted a friend in Kampala about having me airlifted to a hospital, which is a bit OVER concerned). I kept monitoring myself, making sure I wasn’t wheezing or feeling constricted for air. No – no swelling of the throat or inside of the nose. All seemed to be on the outside. Weird, but extremely uncomfortable. Finally, I asked Fr. David to take me to a clinic to have it checked. So, off we went to a clinic in town. The door was open, but no one was there. So, after waiting for a few minutes, we left and went to another clinic. The Dr. wasn’t in, but the nurse looked at me and decided to give me a shot of hydro-cortisone. I thought that was a good idea. She also gave me some prednisone tablets to take, and some other tablets that didn’t say what they were so I didn’t take them (I found out later they were de-worming pills – worms can cause hives and other allergic reactions – yuck). So I got the shot, went home, took the pills, and woke up in the morning still covered with hives. We were supposed to go to a Revival that day and be guest preachers. I said I wasn’t going covered in horrible itchy hives, so Fr. David and Rick went off alone seeming rather irritated with my decision. When they got home, nothing had changed so I asked to go to the clinic again. This time, Fr. David called the Doctor (who is a friend of his) and arranged to have him meet us there. That seemed really great, until we got there and realized it was a power shedding night and there was no electricity in town. It was pitch black inside the clinic. The Doctor lit a lantern, took me in his office and held the lantern up to observe my hives. He agreed I had hives and gave me some more pills to take. I’ll have to admit, it’s a little scary to be ill in a foreign place, especially a Third World foreign place. Rick and I had a couple of Epi-pens with us incase he got stung by a bee, and I told him, if I start gasping for air, please use one of the Epi-pens on me. He said, well, he didn’t know if the side effects of the epinephrine might not be worse than the allergic reaction. At this point, his extreme analytical side almost put him in danger of being strangled by a wife crazed by itching hives and only wanting the reassurance that he would try to save my life if I began suffocating. But I remained calm and just slid an Epi-pen under my side of the mattress.
We were leaving in the morning for the drive to Kampala and the airport. When I woke up, the hives were receding finally, and we prepared to say our good-byes. We were unprepared for the formality of the good-byes. The family appeared, all dressed in beautiful clothes and bearing parting gifts we were totally not expecting. We wound up having to re-pack a whole suitcase. Several family members made very nice farewell speeches, and we all took pictures, hugged and cried. The family gathered around the car and prayed for us and sang a song. It was really wonderful. And then, we were off. I spent much of the next 7 hours in the car making a mental list of the things I’d rather endure than this car trip – bamboo under the fingernails, chemotherapy, Chinese water torture – and sticking my arm out the window to feel cool rain on the remaining hives.

September 4, 2006
And so, we are on the plane, flying over Newfoundland. We’ve been flying now for about 14 hours with one hour on the ground in Nairobi and one hour at the airport in Dubai. I wish they would hurry up and invent a transporter so we could beam places like on Star Trek. We have flown today over Kuwait, Iraq, Iran, Warsaw, Moscow and Oslo – unbelievable. While staring out the window over Iraq I prayed for our troops. Strange being on an Arab owned airliner considering the world situation. They are so blatant – all the maps of the Middle East on the air trip monitors contain not one reference to Israel! To them, it doesn’t deserve to exist. The newspapers carry articles about all the Jewish terrorists beating up on poor, defenseless Lebanon. It will be good to get home. I’m trying to just drift here because I’m getting that incredibly sad, depressed feeling that happens after all these hours squashed into this little space. Everything aches, and my mind has started ticking off all the things I have to jump right back into the minute we arrive. I’ve been away in a fairy-tale world for a month now – a place that seems almost magical to me right now. Africa, a place I never really had an interest in except maybe to see the history of Egypt. Uganda, a place I hardly new existed except in news reports about dictators and atrocities of people against each other, and terrible diseases like Ebola. No desire to ever go there. But God knew otherwise. He has given me a love for the country of Uganda, the people, the landscape, the strangeness. I’ve been fascinated by science fiction all my life, and always dreamed of visiting other planets and galaxies in God’s universe. I think this trip has been like that because it’s definitely a whole different world to me.

December 5, 2006

We are on our way back to Kabale to participate in the wedding of Patience and Emmanuel. My sense of excitement has become dulled by about 15 hours of flying and all that goes with it – swollen feet, hair that has somehow become greasy and stiff with no exposure to weather or exercise, heartburn, mind numbing boredom. Even the scenery from the window has become boring after a grand passage over the beautiful Alps that brought back fond memories of my trip to Europe with my daughter in 1985. After a brief time over Italy there became nothing to see but clouds. I drifted off for awhile and when I woke up and looked out I was momentarily confused. It still looked like just clouds, but they weren’t white. Stretching out interminably as far as I could see from 39,000 feet was sand colored – well – sand. Mostly flat with areas of clusters of dunes. Nothing green, nothing blue, nothing but sand. I think I have seen the Great Sahara Desert for the first time in my life. It is awesome and terrifying. So much nothingness.
I spent 18 years of my life living in the Sonoran desert. The Sonoran Desert teems with life. An experienced person could survive quite a while there. The Sahara is lifeless and vast. I began to think of life without Christ being like this. The sun was setting and since we were flying due South long dark shadows began creeping out from the dunes, pointing like long fingers toward the East. There was nothing else – no roads, nothing moving. The sun continued to set and the dun colored sand became gray, then maroon. So desolate, nothing to hope for, no landmarks. A small point of light appeared near the horizon. It seemed to be shining through a haze, reminding me of some of those glorious Phoenix sunsets when my children were little and we were building a house in the desert. I kept watching the light, the only point of reference I had seen in almost an hour. It seemed curiously symmetrical. And suddenly, it became clear. It was the moon, rising out of the desert like the sun rises other places. I have never seen this miracle before! The half disc of the moon, huge and glowing, wavering a little in the updrafts from the cooling desert, became larger and rounder and finally separated itself from the horizon to float free in the sky – a beautiful silver light – and just in the last lingering glow of daylight as the moon took over the watch from the sun, the bright sunlight reflecting off the moon revealed a long, winding river – probably the Nile, stretching gloriously through the barren desert – a river of life in the middle of death. And then there was just black sky and the full shining moon, a reminder that no matter what kind of desert we choose to make of our lives, there is a Light that shines and a River of Life to guide us and deliver us from the desert. I love you, Jesus!

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.

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIII


August 23, 2006

Wednesday was a memorable day. We went to meet the orphan’s group and their guardians at Emmanuel church. There have been so many children orphaned by AIDS. There are about 50 just at Emmanuel parish. Some of the women organized a support group for the orphans. They work to raise funds to send the children to school. It costs between $104.00 to $329.00 per year to send a child to school (includes fees, uniform, shoes, book bag, sweater) depending on the level in school. The kids introduced themselves, most painfully shy, one by one, telling us how happy they were to see us, how much they love Jesus, and how much they love school and the chance for an education. Rick and I spoke to them. We described the average day of a child at St. John’s School, talked about our kids and grandkids, told the caretakers how much we admire them for what they are doing. I really hope to inspire some interest in supporting this group when we get home.

The children sang us some songs and I sang a song for them. We then moved outside for dancing. These kids are incredible! Their dancing and singing was joyful, abandoned—they had fun. The girls challenged the caregivers, many of them grandparents, to dance and several of them did. It was a wonderful experience.

We then had tea at Fr. David’s house (the one there at the church grounds). From there we went to lunch at the Senior Warden’s home. The Senior Warden, Martin, lives at the family land. His father (who is 80 years old) who they call Mosay—a very reverent term for “old man -” greeted us effusively with hugs and slaps on the back and a huge smile. Martin presented his two little girls, Martha and Martina. The younger one came and sat on Rick’s lap. Martin’s twin brother, Frank, proudly brought out his pictures of his wife and 11 month old son. Their mother came and sat by the father—neither of them speak English so a translation marathon began. Mosay had so many questions about America. He had worked hard and built a wonderful house for his family. His sons treat him with obvious love and respect. In the back yard are the graves of another son and daughter-in-law who died from AIDS.

There were several guests there who had come to welcome us. One was a woman county council person who was elected as representative for women. Women have been liberated in Uganda by Christianity. The church encourages them to get education and encourages their husbands to support them. The AIDS epidemic (new cases) has been dramatically reduced due to the teaching of the church on faithful monogamy and abstinence before marriage. Their acceptance of Jesus has literally saved this country.

August 26, 2006

I am hiding in our room—the entire place is crawling with people preparing for the Introduction Ceremony and I’m feeling pretty useless. I’m having that too-familiar feeling of not wanting to get in the way but not wanting to appear lazy and unhelpful. The house has been painted, lawn scythed, mosquitoes sprayed, rooms washed. There is a man outside making decorations—well, trying to make squashed decorations look new. These will go on the tent. I’m beginning to wonder why I spent all day yesterday making decorations. Rick attended a Give-Away ceremony yesterday. Fr. David had Rick deliver a message and Rick described the whole ceremony to me. Sounds very nice.

Patience had a bit of a meltdown yesterday over some boutonnière type things she had someone make and
didn’t like the results. I wound up remaking them all and she appeared to be satisfied with them.

The “roll-with-the-punches” lifestyle here is hard for us Americans to adjust to. Yesterday, the Give-Away ceremony was to begin at 13:00. Rick was informed he would be giving the message as a guest preacher by overhearing a conversation between Fr. David and me through the window. At 12:30, Fr. David was still off on some errand. Rick was sitting in his suit and tie waiting to be collected and taken to the Give-Away. He had been ready for an hour. About 13:30, Fr. David returned and told Rick the family had called and they weren’t ready yet so they didn’t have to be there until 14:30. They left at 14:45.

This morning I was summoned at 08:30 by Emilly that I needed to go to the hair salon with Patience. I jumped up and got dressed in five minutes. When I walked into the living room, Emilly was calmly setting out tea and fruit and said Patience had left already, but would be returning soon because she couldn’t get her hair done yet due to a power outage. I remain waiting for her now at 10:30 wondering what I’m supposed to be doing. Rick is supposed to accompany Fr. David to the wedding ceremony (the people who had the Give-Away yesterday) and Fr. David said they had to leave at 10:00—English Time. Rick is dressed and ready to go, reading a book. Fr. David is gone somewhere. It’s 10:30. Either Fr. David forgot he asked Rick to go (distinct possibility), or African time has once again prevailed. Yes! At 11:00 Fr. David arrived, quickly donned his shirt and clerical collar, collected Rick, and they were off.

The Introduction Ceremony was scheduled to begin at 13:00 here at the house. At 11:00 when Fr. David and Rick left, Patience had still not returned. She finally showed up at about 11:15 and told me we had to get to the hair salon right away. So off we went. The hair experience was fascinating. Here, everyone is black and has African hair. Most women have their hair cut extremely short. At the hairdresser, there is no shampoo basin. The hair is not washed there, only styled. First, the hair is smoothed down to the head by a thick, oily substance that reminds me of axle grease. It is combed into the hair little by little until all the hair is smooth and glossy and plastered to the head. Then small tufts are picked back up and tied with string to form anchoring places for what happens next. After her hair is dried to a hard shell under the hair drier, the woman having her hair done selects a piece of artificial hair which is then sewed on to her glazed hair by first anchoring it in several places to the little tufts, and then using an actual needle and yarn to sew it on the rest of the way. Then the artificial hair is styled into a French twist, curls or whatever the client wants. This process all began for Patience at about 12:00. Remember, the Introduction was scheduled to begin at 13:00. Around 14:00, the hair was finally done and we went home to dress for the ceremony, which finally began around 14:45.

While we were at the salon, several large pavilions had been set up in the front yard, and all the living room furniture had been brought out of the house and placed under the pavilion. Rented folding chairs were set up, and a large grass mat. The groom’s clan, who had been waiting down the road for who knows how long, were now signaled to arrive. The rest of the guests began singing, and the groom’s clan walked solemnly down the road, through the gate and into the yard, taking their places on the sofas set up under the pavilion. Meanwhile, the bride and her entourage, including me (the Matron of Honor), were peeking out the window of the room we were sequestered in. When the groom’s family was all seated, we began our slow procession out the door and across the yard to the pavilion. The groom’s family, and all the guests, including my husband Rick, were seated in chairs or on sofas. The bride and her party got to sit on the ground on the grass mat and remain there, staring solemnly ahead and being careful not to smile, for a long time while many long speeches were made. Fortunately, by this time I had learned to put myself in a state of semi-hypnosis to avoid feeling my back and legs first hurting and then slowly going numb. Eventually it was time for the bride and the matron of honor to get up off the ground and proceed across the lawn to where the groom to be was comfortably seated on a sofa. We knelt in front of him, and Patience put a flower in his shirt pocket which is meant to show her clan that this is the man she will marry. Clapping and singing broke out as the bride and groom to be exchanged small gifts and Emmanuel (the groom) slipped the engagement ring on to Patience’s finger. It was then time to rise gracefully from our knees without tripping over the long flowing skirts and wraps, and proceed back to sit on the grass mat with our backs to the entertainment everyone else got to enjoy. When the time came, we got back up, proceeded into the house, and were sequestered in a room, food brought to us, and there we were to stay until the party broke up later. However, Patience released me so I could go see what the rest of the party was like since I was a rookie. There was a lot of food and laughter and friendship, and it was very enjoyable. The next morning when I woke up, all the furniture was back in the house, the house was spotless, and the yard was absent any sign of the chairs, pavilions and soda bottles from the evening before.

Chapter XII

Chapter XII


At home tonight, we had dinner as usual, and then Fred brought out the guitar and we had a time of family song and praise. I keep feeling like I’m in “Little House on the Prairie,” and it’s a good feeling. Neighbors just drop by any time and are invited in to share whatever we are doing—eating, singing, just talking. The yard is always being visited by someone’s chickens or by children looking for Rick and balloons. I am beginning to love the community. I enjoy sitting outside with the other women doing laundry or dishes (I have not joined them in “digging” yet—I think I’m a bit old and creaky for that.) Everyone just works and talks unhurriedly. Sometimes, during a break, someone will just lie down on one of the ever present mats and take a snooze. Even cooking in the kitchen over a charcoal fire on a dirt floor is good, because you are never alone to do it. All work is shared in a relaxed manner. Sometimes dinner is at 19:00, sometimes at 21:00. Breakfast is anywhere from 08:00 to 10:00. No one ever seems rushed and stressed. Work is harder, but always shared. What is really impressive is the amount of work people are willing to do for their churches. Most of the churches are physically built by the congregation. Bricks are made by hand and carried to the site on heads, foundations dug by hand, trees cut for trusses, earth moved by relay teams. People do extra work “digging” for others to make the money to buy other materials.

The Next Day

Today we spent all day bumping over dirt roads I will euphemistically describe as ruts and potholes with ribbons of road winding randomly through them. We drove a total of about 75 miles. We were gone from 10:00 in the morning until 18:00 in the evening—in search of Pygmies. We drove up up up, all around the circumference of Lake Bunyonyi. I hope to someday find the words to describe the grandeur of the scenery. The words from “How Great Thou Art” kept going through my minds. “I feel the breeze, I see the mountain’s grandeur—my God, how great Thou art!” I have never been anywhere like this. Hawaii and Colorado blended into one incredible place. All the mountainsides are decorated with different patches of cultivation—all done by hand with picks and hoes. There is always someone to be seen working in the soil, and sometimes stretched out on a blanket taking a break. They grow Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes, dodo (spinach-like greens), cassava, ground nuts, tomatoes, squash and onions mostly. Bananas grow all around but there are also banana plantations. Up here at the higher elevations, probably about 8,000 feet, were some beautiful trees with flaming red flowers and no leaves—just a great bloom of the scarlet flowers. When the flowers die and fall off the leaves return. When the leaves fall (twice per year), the flowers return. While driving around one end of the lake, Rick spotted some animals playing in the water. We stopped to check them out. They were playing almost like dolphins, about 8 or 9 of them we counted. They most resembled otters, but Fr. David said he had never seen them before so I’ll have to do some research to find out what they are. The lake was down a big hill from us, and, of course, we had forgotten the binoculars so we didn’t ever get a really good look.
We stopped at several small villages to ask where the Pygmies were today. We finally came to a strange little village where many of the Pygmies stay when they come in from the bush. We walked into the little village which consisted of about three streets in all lined with tiny rooms -some shops, some sleeping places. We bought some cokes. When you buy a soda here you have to drink it on the spot and give the bottle back. They are the glass type with the tops that have to be taken off with a bottle opener. There are bottle caps scattered all over the ground everywhere, and they are collected by children as playthings, or to make things with such as musical instruments. We were surrounded on all sides by both Pygmies and regular people. The Pygmies were taller than I expected. Fr. David explained that, because of the ready availability of alcohol mostly, a lot of cross-breeding has taken place resulting in an average height increase. Most were about my height (5 feet). Most were some level of drunk and asking for money to buy more drinks. Fr. David told them they could have some money if they danced for us. Two of them accepted the offer. They danced, he gave them some coins and one of them literally ran to the nearest bar with the rest cheering him on. The other was an older man with a lame foot. He was wearing the most ragged clothing I think I have seen yet, no shoes and a walking stick taller than he was. He looked like a character from a fairy tale. The feelings going through me at this time were powerful—danger, curiosity, other-worldliness. Not for the first time this trip I felt like I was in a Star Wars movie, somewhere in a distant galaxy long ago. We drove on further and there found a group of very small Pygmies. All were caked in dirt, clothing torn, no attempt whatsoever to wash despite plentiful water. No shoes, feet crusted with dirt, legs looking like animal hides—pitted and cracked. They were in the process of bringing in “poached” bamboo to sell for the money to by alcohol. Cutting bamboo is against the law due to environmental concerns. The bamboo forest is the home of the Mountain Gorillas, and the bamboo is also a national resource. The Pygmies cut and sell it illegally. The Diocese of Kigezi has built them houses to live in, but they seldom use them. The say they don’t want houses, they want money. But when they have money, they spend it on drinking—both men and women. Food is actually plentiful in Uganda if you are willing to do the work to grow it or at least pick it. Almost all the people I’ve met in Uganda are hard working, intelligent people who want to improve their lives through education and technology. The Pygmies, however, seem to be this society’s professional victims. The want to be given the parts of civilization they want, but they don’t want to become civilized to get it. They want to come out of the bush when they feel like it, be given food, shelter and money to get drunk, and then sink back away into the trees when they feel like it.
This group saw we had a camera and immediately began complaining and hiding their faces. I respectfully put away the camera because I thought they had a cultural taboo or fear of photographs. However, that wasn’t it. They said I shouldn’t be able to take their pictures, sell them “for millions” in the U.S., and they get nothing for it. If I wanted their picture, I had to pay them. I asked Fr. David what he would suggest and he said to absolutely not give them any money. Then he told them if they wanted their pictures taken, they would have to pay US. They got very indignant and snorted and stomped around. One woman, who was very pregnant, gave me a nasty look and walked across the road and flopped down on the ground and just stared at us. Fr. David spoke to them for awhile longer and then we left to drive through the bamboo forest. It was beautiful, so different from anything I’ve seen before.
We stopped on the way back to buy some roasted maize from a guy who was just sitting on the roadside out in the middle of nowhere roasting maize. It’s a delicious snack, takes forever to chew and eat and probably very good for dieters. On the road home we stopped at the little church in Bwindi that was Fr. David’s first parish after he was ordained. The church he found when he got there was about the size of two large living rooms put together constructed of mud walls, dirt floor and no furniture except the altar and a couple of chairs for the clergy. When Fr. David saw it he immediately began construction of a new building. The people sold crops and worked for other people to raise the money for any supplies they couldn’t make themselves. They built a beautiful brick (adobe) church with windows and an altar rail, chrism and pulpit. Half of the floor has been concreted and there are pews. It’s really very amazing. The Bishop is coming next month to consecrate and name the new church. It will be named St. John’s. Rev. Christmas, the priest who took the parish when Fr. David was transferred to a different parish, told us in glowing terms how beholden they are to Fr. David for all he did when he was there. Then he showed us where the people are moving mounds of earth out of the way to make a courtyard for when the Bishop comes. The people seem so tireless and joyful in spite of all they’ve been through. Rev. Christmas told us about his little one year old boy, Miracle, who has lost an eye to cancer and may lose the other one also. We prayed with him and his wife before we left.
When we finally got home we were so covered in dust and dirt that even a cold bath was welcome!

Chapter XI

Chapter XI

This morning we went to church at St. John’s Bugongi. The church became packed over the course of about an hour as people trickled in. It’s a long walk for most of them. There was a Baptism, and then the family of the child came forward to give a special offering and receive another blessing. Then there were the readings , prayer, & Rick’s sermon. Rick’s testimony was well received. When he was finished the congregation burst into a song that Fr. David told me they sing whenever they have been particularly touched by the message. Then came a very very long time of announcements and introductions. During the announcement time they read letters they have received from other parishes, introduce everyone from anywhere who is visiting and let them have a moment to speak. An American Episcopal priest would probably be overcome with a spell of swooning long before it was over.☺ I led a few songs, and then it was time for the Offertory. What an incredible offering time! Today was the harvest celebration (sorghum) and people were bringing their first fruits to the Altar. People came forward in groups (clans) all competing to give the best offering. As each clan was called, they would go out the side door, collect their offerings that had been left outside, and process down the aisle with them. Woman after woman with baskets of sorghum on their heads, men with chickens, eggs, cabbages and long stalks of sugar cane came forward, singing and praising God. At one point, a chicken got loose and pooped right in front of the Altar. The Senior Warden hurried forward with a piece of paper to clean up the mess. Fr. Frances calmly picked up the chicken and put it back with the rest of the offerings. After that part of the offering was over, I announced that the guitar I had played during the songs I led was to become a gift to St. John’s Bugongi from St. John’s Roseville. Wild applause broke out, singing and dancing in the aisle, and Fr. Frances laid the guitar on the altar with the rest of the offerings. I was quite overwhelmed by the response.

Meanwhile, a cute little girl about 2 1/2 yrs.old wandered up to me and crawled into my lap. She spent about 15 minutes touching my face and hair and staring at me. Then she just climbed down and wandered away. As the offering progressed, the singing and dancing continued. When the service was over and we had mingled with a lot of people and shaken a lot of hands, we walked up another mountain to the home of Fr. Frances for tea and lunch with his family. There was tea and biscuits (muffins) and bananas, chicken stew, g-nut sauce and matoke. We were each given a bottle of water which was much appreciated. There were also roasted ground nuts (g-nuts) which are very wonderful. After the dishes were cleared away, there were introductions and a talk by the Senior Warden which was translated by Fr. David. The Senior Warden’s name is Joy. I have found you can guess 80% of the women’s names by just going through the fruits of the Spirit until you get to it. After that, people began wandering out, until suddenly Fr. Jonathon took the guitar (which had been brought to Fr. Frances’ house) out of the case and started playing a local song. It was then I remembered that Ron Thomson had given Johathan a guitar last time he visited us. Fr. Jonathan knows the C, F, and G chords, and those seem to work fine for most of the songs they sing. As soon as he started playing and singing, the room magically filled with people—many who not been there originally. The singing and dancing began and was wonderful as usual. After three songs, Jonathan put away the guitar and we had a time of prayer and then it was time to go. But we were not going home just yet. We were going to go visit Morrie, the sister of Fr. David. Morrie lives up yet another Mount Everest just past the Mount Kilamanjaro that Fr. Frances lives on. When we arrived at her house, they were just having lunch and were going to offer us some but thank God Fr. David explained we had just eaten. I thought I would lose weight here! All we do is eat, and no one asks if you want more—they just observe what you choose and keep your plate filled with it until you leave some. Fortunately, I have figured this out and I only take a little of what I want and never clean the plate. Maybe this way I’ll at least not GAIN anything. We had a nice visit with Morrie, then rapelled (just kidding—we hiked) back down the mountain to the car. On the way home we stopped in Bugongi at the home of Dorothy Clark’s pen pal, Patience. She wasn’t there but the rest of her family was and they all knew who Dorothy is and asked about her and sent their greetings. I gave the mother of Patience the gift from Dorothy to pass along. The mother had just returned home from a goiter surgery. It’s hard to believe people still suffer from such a preventable condition. I have seen several people with large goiters. We finally arrived home about 17:00 and had a nice family evening.

Next Morning

When we got up, Fr. David was gone. He had gone to the Bishop’s office to see why the Bishop had called. I realized he drove all the way over there because he was out of air time on his phone. Rick and I talked and decided to give him some money for phone time and a few other things. It’s unbelievable how little money he has. He is supported solely by the offerings of the congregation which he splits with the Lay Reader. Since being switched to Emmanuel from St. John’s, his income has been reduced drastically. Emmanuel is a much poorer church. St. John’s is actually pretty well off. It is very close to town and many of the parishioners are council members, doctors, teachers etc. whereas at Emmanuel most are poor subsistance farmers and laborers. Fr. David and his family supplement their income by selling eggs, sweet potatoes and baskets. He is building a shop in front of the house near the road with the intention of more easily selling the eggs and sweet potatoes they grow. There are little home shops all up and down the roads. Some sell laundry soap, some sell sugar, some sell phone air time. When you need something, you just walk over to the the neighbor who sells it.

After breakfast, we went into the village to attend the funeral of a well-known university professor. The church was packed. The funeral began at 12:00 and was to last three hours. We arrived around 13:00. We were ushered up to the front to sit with the clergy once again. I think it will be nice to get home and fade back into the background. After two very lengthy speeches, Fr.David said it was time to leave. I guess it’s acceptable to come late and leave early although it made me feel guilty.

From the funeral we went to lunch at a local hotel. We were the only people in the place except for one other table. We ordered, then the lunch rush hit. We waited and waited while everyone else was served. I began to get an idea of what it must feel like to be ignored and discriminated against. (Although that was not the case here). I thought of being a black person in the South in the 1940-50’s, being ignored like a non-person. The range of emotions I felt was a learning experience. I was angry at first, which faded into embarassment, and then almost a feeling of self-loathing. It was very fascinating and made me sad for the people who suffer through this all the time in many places in the world. Finally, after about an hour, they brought the food. Turns out they didn’t have the sausage I ordered so they sent someone to buy some and it took longer than they expected. The food was very good. Fr. David, being himself, during this entire time kept getting up and going outside to greet people he knows, but we are now used to his ways. He is just full of energy and love (although he can get very irritated at times.)

After lunch we went to the phone company to ask why the new phone we just had installed was demanding a password before it would let anyone call. No one seemed to know, but they told us there was a guy who would be standing in front of another store around the corner who could come out and explain it if we would pick him up and give him a ride to the house. He was not there, so we just went home and the problem remains unsolved at this time.

Chapter X

Chapter X
Yesterday we had a fun and relaxing day. We went to Bushale Island (pronounced Boo shar’ ee). We drove to Lake Bunyonyi. As we drove down to the waterfront there was a street market going on—kind of like a huge flea market. We drove right through the middle of it, people, goats, cows and bicycles parting before us like the Red Sea. We parked right in front of the little ticket stand, walked down and got on a large, covered canoe. This one had a motor. They made us wear annoying life jackets, but I guess I should be glad. As we pulled away from the dock I noticed Fr. David holding on to both sides of the boat, as white-knuckled as he can get. Rick noticed also and asked, “Do you know how to swim, Fr. David?” Fr. David said no—he can’t swim. I then became very grateful for the life jackets. The ride over was delightful. The weather was its usual perfection, not hot, not cold, plenty of sunshine but big fluffy white clouds floating in the sky. I put my hand over the side into the lake. The water was cool, not cold, probably perfect for swimming. Native people were paddling back and forth across the lake in dug-out canoes. Everyone smiled and waved. Some boats had bicycles on board, others a mother and several children. Fr. David pointed out several churches on the different islands (the lake has 28 in all) and also pointed out a school he had attended as a child. When we got to Bushale, we got out of the boat and began climbing (we’re always climbing here) up to the restaurant and information center at the top. There we learned we needed to order lunch now, then go hiking around the island, and then come back and the food would be ready. So we ordered and went hiking. At one point I was standing looking through the trees filled with colorful birds with the water sparkling in the distance when I heard Fr. David behind me say, “Now, do you see how sweet is Africa?” I certainly do see how sweet this part is—I’m reserving judgment on the parts I haven’t experienced. This country is what Winston Churchill called The Pearl in Africa’s Crown,” and Kigezi has been called “The Switzerland of Africa.” The scenery is breathtaking—soaring mountains, pine trees and banana trees growing together, weather that is never really hot or really cold, a night sky that dazzles the eye and the senses. And the island is the kind you think of when you imagine a tropical island paradise. However, there are no animals on the island, only birds. They are trying to keep the island ecologically pure so they don’t allow anything brought in that doesn’t grow there naturally. The Diocese of Kigezi oversees the island. Bushale used to have a hospital on it that cared for lepers who resided on the next island over. The leper colony and hospital operated from the early 1900s until 1962. Now, most of the income from tourism to the island goes to help AIDS widows and orphans from the area. The island has cabins and tents for rent and there was a group of people there from England. The ‘gift shop” contained various hand-crafted items made by area widows and the money from the sales helps them support their families. We arrived back from our hike about one hour later. The food wasn’t ready for another half hour after that.
On the drive back up from the water it was the same as on the way there, lots of horn honking and people and animals getting out of the way. Once a cow came so close to the car on my side she brushed the side mirror and smashed it against the side of the car. I could reach out and run my hand over her back. On the road home we stopped by St. Andrews and met Reverend Ernst who told us all about Fr. David founding the church. After that we visited St. Marks which Fr. David helped to build when he was still a stonemason before he was called to the priesthood. At St. Mark’s the Arch Deacon resides. The lay reader showed me some more locally made musical instruments. We sang a song together—”Joy to the World” which was fun singing during August. From there we came home. Just as we arrived home, the telephone company truck pulled up to make arrangements to install the phone we had ordered to make it possible for Fr. David to use the Internet. They were prepared to do it right away, but it was a “power shedding” night and the power was off from 18:00 to 22:00 and it was 18:30, so they will be back in the morning.
The past two nights we have also been treated to African produced movies. Now that Fr. David has a DVD player, Fred has brought home rented movies twice. The stories have both been about sin and its consequences. The plots are pure drama with lots of sobbing and fainting. But God is at the center. It’s been fun and interesting.
The next morning.
Aah—nothing like a cold “bath” in the morning, standing in a little plastic basin trying to get everything clean
without falling out of the “tub.” I have visions going through my mind of my naked body sprawled out on the concrete floor in a pool of soapy water, one foot still stuck in the basin, having to be rescued by my hysterically laughing hosts. Needless to say, every move is made very carefully. Today, as I looked out the bathroom window, I was greeted by a goat calmly munching the shrub outside the window about two feet from my face. The acoustics in the house are such that when people talk in the living room, it sounds like they are right outside the bathroom window (which is open and has no glass, screen or curtains). It took a while to get used to that and not leap across the slippery, wet cement floor for something to cover up with each time I heard someone say something.
As I was getting dressed, the drums began, announcing it’s Sunday morning and time for the local church service to begin in about one hour. What is it about drums that stirs the blood with both excitement and maybe a little bit of fear? Probably TV shows about Tarzan, or old Cowboy and Indian movies where the drums always meant the explorers/missionaries/settlers were about to be brutally slaughtered by the locals. Here, in this century, the drums are a summons to gather for an event—usually a joyful event like church or a wedding.
Yesterday, we went to meet the parents of Emmanuel (husband-to-be of Patience). Joyce and Guster live about 15 miles from Kabale in a region called Kihoro. How we made it to the house without four-wheel drive I am still pondering. The home is in a location people would pay bundles to live in. It’s on a hill overlooking some of the best scenery I’ve seen yet, and that’s going some. Mountains march in lines in all directions. They are covered with the unlikely mixture of banana groves, pine trees and cassava plants. Flowers grow all around the house—geraniums, coleus plants, flowering poinsettias, bottle brush, lilies—things I have never seen growing naturally together before. Guster wanted to show us his land. We hiked up a steep hillside as he explained about this being his land over here, over there is his brother’s land. Here is where land is set aside for his two sons to build on if they wish. The Ugandan’s only asset is his land, handed down for generations. Many of them have sold almost all their land to pay for school fees for their children. After hiking back down the mountain, we had a delightful lunch (you guessed it—matoke, meat stew, beans, rice and cabbage) in a room with a soft breeze blowing in the windows and little bright yellow birds hopping part way in the door to see if we had dropped anything for them. Guster’s 90-year-old father sat in a chair by the door and was brought a skewer of roasted liver which was all he wanted to eat. Father (name unpronounceable by me) is still extremely mobile and alert for his age. Somehow, he and Rick connected as ex-military men. Father doesn’t speak any English, but with a little interpretation we found out he was with the Royal African Rifle Corp (for England) in WWII. When we were leaving, he and Rick saluted each other. It was very touching. Before we got in the car they presented us with a big bag of freshly picked bananas, and Joyce gave me a beautiful basket woven with the words (in Rukiga) “Jesus Heals.” When we got home, Patience was impatiently waiting to hear all about the visit. She has never been to the home of her future in-laws.

Chapter IX

Chapter IX
Kabale Town
The streets are lined with small shops. Shops of the same type congregate so it’s almost like the whole town is one big department store. A block of textile shops, brightly dyed and patterned yards of material hanging in front, is adjacent to a block of garment stores, tailors sitting outside peddling away on manual sewing machines (immune to power outages). Then comes a block of household item stores, a block of furniture stores (the furniture being constructed on the sidewalk in front of the shops, rain or shine), a block of stationers, a block of parts stores for electrical and plumbing. Interspersed at odd intervals are tea rooms, hotels, and drugstores (some for humans, some for animals), video rentals and office services (copies, faxes, print-outs etc.) One store specializes in drums, a big item here. All different sizes and sounds of drums and some other types of musical instruments. The names of the shops and restaurants are interesting. There is the Big Bite restaurant, specializing in both African and Indian food. There is Amazing Grace textile shop, Jehovah Jireh Stationers,. There are a couple of internet cafés, the post office, telephone company and banks (complete with rifle-toting guards). In the middle of town is the food market with rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables and butcher shops interspersed with a few little variety stalls where laundry soap, toothpaste, toilet paper etc. can be purchased. Goats, chickens, pigs and cows wander the streets intermingling with people walking, bicycles and motorcycles and cars and trucks honking at the rest to get out of the way. There are no stop signs or marked lanes (or pavement) and a lot of potholes. There are open trenches where water lines are being repaired, or where something was dug up long ago and the hole was never refilled. The town has several trash heaps that are grazed by goats and cows in between trash burnings. It can get very aromatic.
The people are mostly friendly and curious about us. We have seen a total of 11 white people in the past 10 days. We saw a woman with a little boy about 4 years old who had a mop of platinum blonde hair and very white skin. All the little African children were laughing and pointing at him as they walked by. I don’t think they were being mean—they are just fascinated by white skin and light hair.
We went to an internet café because I wanted to check my email. You go in, get in line and wait your turn, hoping the person who vacates a computer when it’s your turn was using one that was less than three years old. The one I got had a keyboard with all the letters worn off and painted back on with white-out. It took me quite awhile to get my small message typed as the keys kept sticking. Fortunately, it’s very inexpensive so the 40 minutes it took me to send two short messages only cost me less than $1.00.
Patience
Patience, Fr. David’s daughter and my pen-pal, is beautiful inside and out. She is expressive, loving, intelligent and just mischievous enough to be really fun to be with. She works very hard but still takes time to dream. She is looking forward to her marriage, especially having children. (Both which have already occurred by the time of this newsletter article). She loves Jesus so much. The evening I gave her the wedding gifts from several parishioners which contained cash, she began praising God. She had not known where the money for her wedding dress would come from and had been praying about it. She said she was awake part of the night praising God for these generous gifts and the people who gave them. Yesterday, Patience and I went shopping to look for a dress for me to wear at the Introduction Ceremony. I love the clothes here and wish I could buy a lot of them! They are beautiful and comfortable at the same time, and made for people with actual bodies. At one shop, Patience tried on a wedding gown. She was stunning! She wants to know all about our wedding customs and other things in the U.S. She loves to dream and plan for the future, and hopes to have a job soon. Her future husband, Emmanuel, is a high school teacher. They grew up together and really love each other. Patience is the oldest of 7 children and worked to help several of the rest of them through school after she finished her education. All the children, ranging from 28 to 12, seem very close and compatible.
Constance
Constance is Fr. David’s wife. She doesn’t speak English which is a big disappointment to me because I would love to talk to her about so many things. I know she shares the frustration. She has been such a loving and enthusiastic hostess. She and Fr. David are obviously still as much in love as they were when they got married 32 years ago, when he was 16 and she was 17. She became a Christian first and he followed her later. They have been through a lot together including the SIDS death of their first child. I hope so much he can bring her to visit some day. Then I can spoil her for a couple of weeks. She certainly deserves it.
Fruit Trees
Yesterday we went to visit an agricultural research station where they are working on growing fruit not native to the area like apples, pears and peaches. Most of trees looked dead—no leaves. But then the researcher/guide, Dennis, told us that the trees here at the Equator have to be manually exfoliated twice per year to trick them into thinking it’s time to begin preparing for a new crop. Because there are no seasons here the trees don’t know when to do what. I found that fascinating.
Frustration
I also experienced what it feels like to be foiled at every turn. I have been trying to find ways to get some cash in this town. The bank’s won’t take any charge cards and my ATM cards are rejected in the local ATM machines. So I thought maybe I could go on line and wire myself some money like I wire donations to Fr. David. Well, after waiting 35 minutes for a computer, I called up Golden 1 and signed on to my account with the intention of sending an email asking the bank to wire me some money—but NO—the web browser used by the Internet Café in Kabale, Uganda, is not one recognized by Golden 1 in Sacramento, California. So then I went through all the contortions to do an online transfer through Western Union. This took 15 minutes, mostly of waiting while the slow slow SLOW computer processed each step. Finally—the last step– push send to initiate the transfer. But—NO, they cannot process my request because, in order to wire myself money from my own account I have to be physically present in the U.S. to do it. Too bad I can’t just beam home, wire the money to Africa, and beam back real quick to pick it up at Western Union. So I explained the situation to Patience, who had been patiently waiting for me during all this time. I decided to call my son Joe and humbly say, “I know I’m the Mom and you’re the (42 year old) kid, but HELP—please send money. But it’s not that easy. First I have to go to a place that sells air time so I can put the time into Fr. David’s cell phone so I can call Joe. The time costs 1000 UGS per minute—about 75 cents American. So I bought 10 minutes worth of time with my rapidly diminishing bankroll. Then I had to wait for it to be a reasonable hour in California before I could call due to the 10 hour time difference. I wrote everything down so I could give all the information to Joe in 10 minutes, always keeping in mind that the line could abort in 2 minutes or whenever it decides to. I got through, the line stayed good for 9 whole minutes and now I’m waiting to find out if it worked. I know God has some kind of lesson in this for me.

Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII
Today when I stepped out on the porch to greet the morning, there on the concrete sat a little girl with a shaved head. She was dressed in a very filthy dress and no shoes . She was just sitting there, scratching her leg. She kept staring at me. When I went back into the house to write in my journal, she followed me and sat on the sofa across from me and continued to stare at me. I went to the bedroom and got her some paper and colored pencils. I drew a smiley face and handed her another pencil and pointed to her (she spoke no English). She drew a smiley face. I drew a flower—she copied it. I drew a house—she copied it. But she would not make an original drawing, nor would she use a pencil other than the one I had actually handed her. Finally, Fr. David came into the room and I asked him to explain it to her. She said she would try to do it herself, but she never did. Fr. David explained that her parents had both recently been diagnosed HIV positive, and were are already ill. I just sat there, looking at her, beyond any rational feeling, a great heaviness inside of me.

It’s interesting—I feel only love and acceptance and friendship coming from the people here. I am treated as an equal, they don’t feel either inferior or superior to me. This is a different experience for me because most of the cross-cultural/cross-racial contact I have had both in and out of the States has been one or the other, never so equal. The Ugandans welcome suggestions on how to do things easier. They take the suggestion if they like it and graciously reject it if they don’t, but there is no sullen reference to “white man’s ways,” or feeling we are being patronizing. I listen to them and learn from them about many things, and they are also eager to for new knowledge. They ­want to come out of the Third World and they have no intention of giving up their essential selves to do it. They are confident and intelligent, and they accept the fact that we are 150 years ahead of them in the sciences and technologies and want to learn. They know their country has been held back by tribal conflict, dictators and corruption, but the current President has led them out of that and they love him. I think the big difference is that the majority of the people have embraced Jesus Christ as the Way, the Truth and the Life. I don’t know what the British Missionaries did differently than the American Missionaries, but whatever it was, the people remember them with gratitude for bringing Jesus to them.

The only sullen looks I have seen have been on the faces of teen-agers, and even that has been rare (and no different than here at home.) There is, in certain places, the attitude common in many other countries that all Americans are rich. I have been asked for money several times—I just say “sorry,” as Fr. David told me to, and that is it. No hateful looks or sullen remarks (at least obvious to me). They find it amusing that all the different groups in the U.S. call themselves “something-American” instead of just “American.”

Today we went to visit the border of Uganda/Rwanda. This was a very poignant experience. The border was like most—money exchangers, venders, insurance sellers, trucks lined up along the way waiting to be searched. We were in the mountains, and a small stream flowing through the hills marked the border separating Uganda and Rwanda. Police with guns stood around. There was a big metal swinging gate on each side and a sort of DMZ in between. We walked through there into Rwanda. Fr. David had to speak with a guard and get permission to cross. I felt a little nervous. Rwanda is supposedly at peace right now, but I couldn’t help feeling the feelings of all who had streamed across this border trying to escape the genocide. Uganda sent troops into Rwanda to help during that time. I could feel fear, helplessness, hopelessness, hunger and thirst and so much crushing grief. I wanted to scream. But it’s over for now, and I pray it never happens again.

However, we had my husband, Rick, the police magnet, with us. The same Rick who got a ticket at the airport one time for going eleven miles per hour in a ten mile per hour speed zone. On the way back to the Ugandan border Rick was taking a picture of people loading bags of flour into a truck. Suddenly, a guy on a motorcycle started yelling at him and motioning to put the camera away. We had to go be detained while explaining why we were there. Then they questioned Fr. David alone, then Rick alone (I guess I didn’t count). Rick had just changed the tape in the camera, so there was very little on it. The guy (still don’t know exactly what his role was) started telling Rick he had no permission to take pictures and therefore it’s a security violation and there is a fine for that. Rick said if it was a security risk, he would gladly surrender the film to Police Guy. Police Guy was then stumped, for if Rick surrendered the film to him, there was no reason to detain and fine him. He was stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. Two more Police Guys were then consulted. After much discussion, we were told to go without surrendering the film or paying a fine. So that was our excitement for that day.

In the evening, we went to dinner at the Bishop’s home. We arrived around 19:00 (7:00 p.m.) English Time. The Bishop and his family live in a house provided by the Diocese. It’s very nice, and in a good, clean, quiet part of town but only about a 15 minute drive from Fr. David’s house. The Bishop’s two teen-aged kids came out to wash our hands in the formal tradition. Then we went into the dining room, all sat down at the table, the Bishop said a prayer for the food, we picked up our spoons and —– the lights went out and we were plunged into total darkness. We all started laughing. Then the Bishop reached over his shoulder and flipped a switch and a light came on in the middle of the dining room ceiling. He said the house has solar backup of one light in each room. So, I thought to myself, we are at the Bishop’s home—wonder what will be for dinner? We had some delicious cream of potato soup and bread first. Hmm—different so far from everywhere else. After the soup out came—chicken, G-nut sauce, matoke, rice, cabbage and passion fruit juice. Sigh. However, it was good, and the fellowship was wonderful. Bishop George’s wife, Laura, is a beautiful and gracious lady. She told me about their trip to the UK. I asked her what she liked most about England. I was surprised and humbled that she said “the cleanliness.”

We visited two hospitals over the last week. The first was Kabale Hospital where Constance’s mother (since I can’t pronounce her name, I’ll call her Grandma) is a heart patient. What it means here to be a heart patient I don’t know. Her ankles are swollen and blotchy and she is somewhere between 80 and 90 years old. When we first arrived in the complex the first thing I saw was many people sitting on their mattresses outside on the lawn. Families were visiting, all sitting around on the grass near the patient having brought food and drink to share with the patient. Many of the patients and their families knew Fr. David and we stopped to pray with many people. Grandma was sitting on the second lawn surrounded by several children and grandchildren. She was beautiful, dressed in a gold khaftan and matching headdress, her eyes sharp. She reached out her hands to me like she had known me all her life. I felt instant love for her. Somehow we managed to communicate through the language barrier. Fr. David asked me to lead the prayers for Grandma. When we left her, we began visiting the wards. The conditions in the hospital are appalling. Each ward contains about 20 beds, 10 on each side. There is plenty of light from the windows, and fresh air as the doors and windows are kept open. The beds are about 1940 models and the mattresses are like futon mattresses with all varieties of donated bedding. Cleanliness is as good as it can be with the doors and windows (no screens) open and people always moving the mattresses back and forth from the lawn to the wards. IV poles are rusted and some have wheels missing and list drunkenly to one side. I have no idea where patients go to use the toilet (all patients have to bring their own toilet paper in order to be admitted.) There are two rooms in the basement for the “insane” patients. There is a TB ward and an AIDS ward. The Female Ward is for labor and delivery. The hospital laundry is several women washing outside in laundry basins and hanging the clothing on a line or spreading it out on the grass to dry. The second hospital we visited was relatively more modern. The doors and windows are still screenless and open, IV poles still rusty, walls and floors still dirty, but there is access to better equipment. A new clinic has been built recently next door to the hospital and is a dental and eye clinic. There we saw clean floors and walls, sterilizing equipment, modern dental chairs—but the X-Rays are hung on a rack on the front lawn to dry. This hospital was built and is still funded by the Diocese or Kigezi, Truro Episcopal Church in Virginia, and the Lyons Club. We walked up an earthen ramp to the second floor where we met Jonathon, the hospital administrator. He is very proud of “his” hospital, and gave us a good thorough tour. I almost feel reluctant to write my impressions of the hospitals because I know they are doing the best they can with what they have. I am just overwhelmed with the difference. I feel like I walked through a time portal to the 19th century when I walked into these hospitals.

Chapter VII

Chapter VII
How can I describe the wonder of last night and today?
Last night we came to the church which Fr. David is now pastoring—Emmanuel. He has been here for several months now and the people all love him. As we came to a certain point in the road on the way here, Fr. David began to honk the horn of the car. At every turn children came running crying “Reverenda, Reverenda!” This continued until we arrived at the church. It was barely still light out and still they ran to the side of the road to greet us.
When we arrived, we went into the house provided for Fr. David and his family. It’s actually a very spacious house—just no running water or power of any kind. The people were waiting. Some were wardens and Vestry, some were people who had come from his Parish before St. John’s, Bugongi, in Bwindi. Bwindi is where the Impenetrable Forest is where the gorillas live. These people came down the mountain (on foot) to honor Fr. David in the presence of his guests (us). Each person brought a basket of sorghum to make the ever present “porridge.” The porridge is what I imagine meade must have tasted like in the Middle Ages. And they drink it like water. The taste is very sour, a little beer-like, but non-alcoholic. I can barely tolerate drinking it, but each time is a bit easier. Rick can not tolerate it at all so I drank a little from his glass too so he wouldn’t be insulting anyone. After the sorghum fellowship came dinner. Sweet potatoes, rice, beans, meat stew. Constance and some other women had spent the night at the house preparing this welcoming for us.
After dinner while they were cleaning up, Rick wound up with a bunch of the children on his knee as usual. We were just laughing, trading smiles over the language barrier. Suddenly there were drums beating outside. The sound brought a thrill to my heart. All kinds of thoughts started playing through my mind like scenes from a movie. Here we were, out in the middle of nowhere in a dark house with only a few candles for light. Then the drums began to play. What century was I in—what planet was I on? The drums were mesmerizing. Fr. David leaned over to tell us the drums were to announce to all the surrounding people that the church service tomorrow would be different than usual and have guests (us). They played for about 15 minutes. It was hard to stay in the now. I began thinking about the first missionaries who came here. They met a fearsome people who didn’t already know Jesus. They didn’t have Fr. David with them. How did they feel in the near dark, surrounded by people so different, listening to those people speak in a language they couldn't understand, the drums beating. It must have been terrifying even though they had faith.
My reflection was cut short as a drum began to beat inside the house. From another room came Constance, dancing. She was followed by the other women. They poured into the room, dancing a dance you need to be an athlete to dance. Soon some of the men joined in, then the children. It was unbelievable. I felt so caught up in it, surrounded by joy and energy. The dancing went on and on. The room began to fill with the scent of all the dancing bodies but what would normally bother me didn’t—the feeling of elation continued. Every so often someone who spoke English would whisper in my ear the meaning of the words being sung. They were all songs of welcome and love and joy in knowing Jesus. When it was time to leave later, we said our farewells and walked outside. All I could say was “Oh—my God!” Because the mantle of stars that was flung across the sky was surreal. The sky was filled, the Milky Way was bright. I couldn’t find any familiar constellations. I couldn’t look down. I found myself with hands raised up to the stars thinking “the heavens declare the majesty of the Lord.”
Today we went to Emmanuel church. When we were there last night it was dark so we couldn’t actually see the church since it has no electricity. Today was the day I was supposed to deliver the sermon and also provide the music. I have to admit I was really nervous. I had begun to write something to say, then the Lord woke me up in the middle of the night and said not to plan anything, to let Him do it. My control-freak self is being thrown into the Refiner’s fire daily here. We got dressed, ate breakfast (eggs & bread) and prepared to leave. Fr. David had said church begins at 10:00. We actually began around 11:00, but this appears to be normal procedure here. If you need to be somewhere at a precise time, like an appointment with the Bishop, you say 10:00 “English Time.” All else is African Time and subject to flexibility.
When we arrived we were swarmed with happy faces and outstretched hands. We went to Fr. David’s office, slowly. It is kept locked with a padlock. It’s actually a very nice office and there is a matching room across the Narthex where the vestments are kept and vesting takes place. Anything we didn’t want to bring into the church with us we would leave locked in the office. When everyone was vested who needed to be, we gathered for the procession. Rick and I processed and had to sit in the visitor’s chairs up near the altar. The pews up there behind and across from us were for the youth when they are here. Today it was a special day—Mother’s Union Day. The Mother’s Union elders sat in front with us and the rest sat in the front pews. The Mother’s Union all wear uniforms to church—beautiful white dresses with blue sashes, and everyone has a blue and white necklace. They also all wear a Mother’s Union pin. One woman asked if Daughters of the King wear uniforms. I showed her my cross and said, “only this.” She lifted my cross and touched it to her pin and make a kissing sound and smiled at me. It was one of those moments I will always remember.
After the processional hymn we had some prayers and then the Mother’s Union sang a song for us. All songs are accompanied by some type of hand-held instrument and some type of dance. We had the readings, and then it was my turn to lead a the congregation in song. Fr. David’s son, Fred, and a few others joined me and we sang “Amazing Grace.” Then the congregation began