Sharon just quoted Celine Dion.

My day started with me walking very slowly behind a little boy in sweet racer shades and Barbie sandals. I would normally pass him up, because we whites walk so dang fast, but I thought someone should babysit him. He looked to be about 5; his mom was walking a full 15 feet ahead of him, never turning around to even check on him. And this on one of those dangerous roads I mentioned. Man, what a difference from the world I'm used to; I still remember where exactly in the kitchen closet my Mom stored Charlie's velcrot wrist-leash.

I read some Hemingway last night; it was beautiful. I got home before everyone else, didn't know what to do myself, searched my suitcase for something that wasn't homework, and had a ball. When my mom came home, I was sitting on...a concrete slab? I don't even know what to call it. It was pretty dark outside. She said, "My baby!" and I'll admit: I loved that she called me baby. I also loved that her next words were, "You aren't reading in this light, are you?" because that is the one question my biological mom has probably asked me more than all other questions. I guess I like to read in the dark.

Last night was out-of-the-ordinary. Rebecca was gone til late, since she was at her friend's burial. And Mom left for about an hour because she was going to "visit the neighbors real quick." So there we were, me and Aida, watching Malcolm in the Middle. Finally, something other than dubbed-over Spanish jazz. When the TV gets fuzzy or goes out, Rebecca or Aida always does the following: pulls back the drapes, walks outside, adjusts the tree branch to which the satellite is attached, while looking through the open window at the TV. I got to do it last night. Every time I adjusted the branch, I would get to the doorstep and the TV would be fuzzy again. This happened 3 or 4 times; it was the hardest I have laughed with Aida. Even harder than when she impersonated Ghana's victory dance, and sings along with the Uganda Telecom commercial every...single...time.

As much as I am not a fan of matoke, I have not had it in three days, and, well, I can feel that something is missing. I want to hit myself for wanting some, because it tastes like nothing, except that it tastes like something you never want to taste again. So I can't really explain why I'm hoping we have some tonight.

I never noticed how censored, and for good reason, America's media is. Until I saw the news and the newspapers here. Dead, charred, bloody bodies from car accidents or Kenya's tribal wars...on the front page like it is nothing. I hadn't realized, until now, that the only dead body I've ever seen (that wasn't in a casket) was pretend, in a movie, on ER. Not real life.

I am taking a New Testament class for the second time in my life. Today, listening for the second time, just in a different country, about Matthew and Luke being so similar and having used Mark as a source, I wondered if I was wasting time and money. But through this class I learned something sweet about Matthew 18 that I had never realized before. (I have to share, because I'm just so excited: When Jesus is giving instructions about confronting your brother who has wronged you, He gives the appropriate steps. The last step, which is what you do if the brother continues to ignore you and his wrong, is to "treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector." I always thought this meant excommunicate him. But what in the world. Professor George Hope, who my new Ugandan friend Lydia whispered to me "has a big butt", reminded me of the way Jesus treated pagans and tax collectors: with the most incredible love imaginable. Dang). So I am glad I am still gaining from this class. As in, gaining relationships with Ugandans as well; Lydia abandoned her group of friends to befriend the Mzungu this morning. (But then she told me her philosophy that she doesn't think married people sin as much as single people do. This was after the professor said "fornication." I was speechless).

And Suzann, Vicky, and Franca I have also met from this class. (I mentioned this the first week). I joined them for tea this morning. As we walked to tea, they too mentioned the size of our thin professor's abnormally large behind. Hah. Suzann imitated his walk, too. Said she recently saw a man with hips, and he walks like a woman. Then she told me the Luganda word for wedgie. Unfortunately, all I remember is that it starts with a C.

Lunch time was incredible today. Betsy, Becca, and I sat at a free table, in order to leave room for Suzann and the gang; we were supposed to meet her there. Instead, though, Joshua and Tim, two Ugandan men, showed up. Joshua is known for befriending the USP kids; and you can tell. He is very Americanized. He brings hot sauce to pour over his beans and rice; he asked us if we liked hot stuff, Betsy said yes, and he said, "What sort of hot stuff do you mean? Food?" We lost it.
I heard him say Steadman, and saw that he was looking at the engraving in my Bible. He asked what the C was for. For a few minutes he wouldn't stop repeating, "Danielle Catherine Steadman" in a very pompous, elegant, Ugandan voice. They all informed me it was, indeed, a pompous name, and Joshua told me to "leave your specs on, Danielle Catherine Steadman," because apparently my name matches my glasses. When they said goodbye to us, he used my full name. It was a lot of fun, as was the entire conversation.

(This is not to say that I do not enjoy Stevie Lennox's preaching at IWU. His chapels have always been my favorite), but Sharon and I had a good laugh at chapel this morning. Rev. Michael Okwii got on the platform and preached about what? The first line of the Apostle's Creed. I wonder if this was the first of a series of sermons. If so, God's sense of humor is even stronger than I thought. And I've always thought it pretty strong.

Han Solo. This has nothing to do with Han Solo.

I’ll start on a light note; but I can’t promise it will stay there. It’s actually quite difficult to stay there.

But not only did I have some crazy, vivid, terrors-actually-in-the-room dreams last night, but around 3 o’clock I woke to scratches, clawing—I thought—starting to my right, circling my head, and reaching my left. Because I am more of the hide-under-the-covers-and-pretend-the-robber-isn’t-next-to-your-mattress sort of wimp, it took a lot for me to sit up, grab my flashlight, or “torch”, and search for what could’ve been a rat. It wasn’t a rat. It was my homework. A binder I had next to my pillow—falling and scraping against my mosquito net. I should stop sleeping with academics; that must be the problem.

For the more serious. I don’t know where to start. Maybe walking into my backyard on the way home from school. Hearing the usual “Mzungu, give me money,” from the neighbor-boy, and greeting my family in the yard. I eventually sat next to Rebecca, who told me her day had been sad. One of her college friends had just died of tetanus; she saw him only 2 weeks earlier, he talking about his future and how happy he was. She was telling me about tetanus, how people get vaccinated—but only after they get a wound that could have potential—and then the vaccination might last for mere months. Another reminder of how freaking good I have it. She told me how Africans live mainly by luck; you either live or you don’t. She asked me if I knew who Bono was—I’m thinking “Do I know Bono?!”—and then she quoted him, saying that “Africans lack emergency.” She said it is hard to convince them, even if someone dies right in front of them, that they need to check up on the wounds, etc. I can relate to that; it’s a pain to take vitamins. But here it matters—seeing the doctor or not seeing the doctor; it means another day.

Extending on Bono’s words, she said the road scene is similar (I already mentioned how dangerous travel/driving is here). Because much of the police “department” is corrupt, if a car hits a person, the police will bypass the person, not even checking their wellbeing, and try to catch up to the driver, threaten them, and get paid off to keep it silent. Neither do bystanders do anything to help the person, she said. If they hang around the scene, when the police return they will arrest someone beside the injured—“You are responsible.” I asked if there were ambulances. One per district, and she rarely sees it. When I asked her if people getting ran over—or “knocked”—was common, I already knew the answer. You should see the roads, how everyone drives. I thought my skirt was going to get caught in multiple spokes yesterday; and even walking in the grass, they’ll nearly push you off the road so they can stop and say Mzungu out the window.

To hear about medical care in Africa when you are not here—which was me last month—personally, I think it’s difficult to care or do anything about it. But after seeing the hospital—which I already talked about in detail—and realizing that getting even there is half the battle, yeah: Africa lacks emergency; and it hurts.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around her knees, leaned forward, and shook her head in disgust. “We are so stuck, just stuck here.” She told me this before, when she explained to me the educational systems in Africa (I can’t even touch on that; I’m still mulling it over, wishing it could be some other way). All I could say was sorry.

She broke up the depressing stuff to ask me more about my writing major, what I want to write about once I graduate, how they manage the classes—exams or what. After I answered, I asked her about electrical engineering, and how such classes are managed. She was talking about the things they invent for projects, and how that is all you really get to take with you once you leave university. Once you graduate, even resources are no more. “If you want to research, you cannot research. Our brains are being wasted. We just sit; we are stuck.” Essentially, the only libraries are in the universities—and these are only available to the students. (Dang! What we take for granted in America!)

I think this was the part where I tried to defend her, her country. The unbalance between her lack of opportunity and my endless supply, was already hovering over us, unsaid throughout many of our conversations. So I called it out.

I told her, opportunity or not, being stuck or not, Americans in general are not happy. I told her that wealth leaves the majority of the wealthy unsatisfied. I told her how self-centered the thinking of our country is. I told her, because of opportunity, because of technology, because of wealth, we think the world revolves around us, and essentially we need no one.

I mentioned that really, they were better off. When it all boils down to it, what’s going to matter in the end? I reminded her that Jesus slept on rocks—the Son of Man had no place to lay His head. In order to embrace life, to fully live, who even needs a house, let alone a mansion? Who needs a career? Sure, these things seem essential to survival; I’m not purposely being naïve. But what is Jesus going to ask us when we are done living? How many could you seat in your van? Or better yet, explain to me again, child, how you got your doctorate; I am so interested in hearing that story once more. Yeah right.

I told her about religion of the self running rampart in our country—essentially what I blogged about the other day: Africans being spiritual people, looking for a higher power, while so many of Americans worship themselves, and sometimes without even knowing it. And this is where it got incredibly good—if good is the right word.

(This is longer than I intended; apologies).

She mentioned a man from Brussels. I am geographically injured, so I have no idea where this is at. Somewhere in Europe, sure.

This man visited Uganda with some of her family members. This is what he told Rebecca:

“You Africans believe in God because that is all you have. You just want someone to come help you. Me, I don’t need God. I grew up with so many things—I am fine. You just hope there is more than this.” He is right, maybe, in the reasons. But of the two, his theology vs. Africa’s, well, guess who ends up winning in the end.

When Rebecca asked this Brussels man what he thought of Uganda, he squinted. Used the word “unsightly.” Another time he had complained to her, after he brought clothes for the people. Rebecca cracked up when she told me this:

“Danielle, so you know how when a person doesn’t have much, people think they cannot tell between what is good and what is bad. They give us old, ugly rags for clothes. He said, ‘I don’t understand you Africans. Who do you think you are?’ We may be the worst off, but we know what we want. We don’t need your clothies. No one is running around naked here, and if they are—they want to.” Rebecca always calls clothes “clothies,” and I love it. It was a hands-on example of why we shouldn’t donate hand-me-downs. These are people with taste, believe it or not. Our junk isn’t their treasure just because they have less.

She told me I was different from the Brussels man. “You, you. It takes a big, big heart to come here.” (But it sounded like “beeg beeg hot;” the accent is beautiful). “You come and live among us. For four months! They say, ‘Who wants to go live in Africa?’ and (claps hands) here you are!” I told her it wasn’t big hearts that drove us; it isn’t much sacrifice to come. I told her, “We think, or I think, ‘How could I not want to come?!’ You are so wonderful here, so loving, so different and amazing. It doesn’t take a big heart.”

She replied: “But you did not know what it is like here, and you came. You could not search the web. You could not search ‘the Surekenyas’ and see where we live, how we live and then decide. You could not get a list of what we eat and say no no no, I do not want that. But still you come. That is what says so much. Just coming.”

I still protested. Told her I was gaining more than I was sacrificing—that Brussels (that is how we then referred to the man) is a moron, and Uganda is not unsightly. It is wonderful, they are wonderful.

Rebecca: “But still. You must know you are different.”

This was a long conversation—but so rich; so I’m sorry, but there is still more. Feel free to stop, but I’m moving on.

We somehow—as if it’s hard to understand why—got on the subject of God. I’m not going to lie: talking with Rebecca about God is like sophomore year all over again, needing the sleep but staying up til four with Melissa, one of the wisest Christ-desiring gals around, to discuss this God of ours, and His amazing love and mysteries.

But we got on the subject of the difference between knowing and doing. (It was a trivial conversation that transferred to God). I told her my relationship with God has been a lot of that lately: me realizing I am growing distant from Him, but not knowing what to do about it, or not committing to do anything about it. I told her I think about it daily, run towards it daily, but still come up short in the “action” area. (Of course there isn’t a rule, a well-known formula on “How to Be where you want to be with God again.” Thank God.) I illustrated with my hands, pointing to myself for the Knowing, and holding my hand way out in front of me for the Doing. Knowing I need to get closer to God and actually Doing it. “I wish I could figure out the bridge.”

Rebecca reminded me of something I, of course, know so well, but forget to apply, to understand: “But we cannot build the bridge. We cannot do. God does.”

Of course I wasn’t thinking in terms of “works,” as in “good deeds.” But neither was she. We were talking about the conscious ways we pant for God, go after Him. Choosing to be focused on Him rather than on everything else that seems more enticing in a period of 24 hours. These were essentially Rebecca’s words:

“You know, there is a difference between leaving and surrendering. If someone drove a car into a house, and then walked away, they would be leaving the mess, and nothing would ever get better. But if the person drove into the house, got out of the car, and just stood there, waiting for someone who knew how to fix it, he would come, and everything would be fine. We are not supposed to struggle. We are not supposed to try and try to build our bridges. You are supposed to fold our arms and wait for Him to bring the supplies. He knows how to build the bridge. We do not.”
(I don't necessarily agree with the "not struggling" thing. Steinbeck's East of Eden taught me too much about the beauty of struggling between good and evil for me to forget so easily what I learned. But as she talked, I realized I really was trying to do it all myself, to fix and fill the gap that I had dug between me and God).

I mentioned how beautiful heaven’s logic is, in that in this world surrendering looks the same as “leaving it be.” But not according to God. People who don’t know God wouldn’t understand that surrendering, handing our lives and tries over into His hands, is actually active. In fact, it is the only form of “doing” we can do, successfully. Otherwise we’ll fail, fall short. Always.

“Waiting for Him to build the bridge. Danielle, this is trust.”

Whoa dang. Dang whoa. Take your pick. I know that Christ's blood, Omusaayi gwa, not only covers my sins, but also takes care of what I fail to do. "Falling short." But I too often forget that it is Christ Himself who bridges the two of us together. You'd think I would know this: for crying out loud, He was a carpenter.

I wish I could write how she sounded, what it looked like, in the dark, only seeing her teeth and one eyeball, from the light coming from the latrine and the moon.
The sights, the sounds of wisdom.
Every time I talk with Rebecca, I feel like God is elbowing my side. “This is why you are here. Listen.”

To accompany the aforesaid.

this is my crib. My crib and Rebecca's suitcase.











jerk. enough said.

Number 7, Cheese.

Meeting the many missionaries this past weekend revealed to me one thing (among others)...but one crucial thing: If I am serious about living in Africa one day, I must be willing to give up cheese. Talk about daggers through chests. Cheese is surely somewhere on my top ten list of priorities, and probably in many locations--such as, God #1, Everyone else # 2, Colby Jack # 3, Muenster # 4, sharp Cheddar # 5; I really wish I were joking. This is something I need to think long and hard about, the nearly inaccesability of cheese here in Africa. This is what makes me seriously consider Europe as a possible mission field.
I would have no trouble settling for Greece.

The upside, though, on the flipside of cheese, is: the family-man missionary we met, Mark, father of 4, said Africa was great for raising his children. He said it's a wonderland for them, for obvious reasons, as long as they keep the red mud and insects in moderation.
He also said he is respected a lot here, because of the number of kids he has. They told us that when an African finds out you're an only child, they say sorry. :) I think my 7-children plan will go over well here.
(Mom: the other missionary's wife, who just had a child, said that if she's ever in the states and pregnant, she will fly to Kampala to deliver the kid, because she was that crazy about the doctor. Who knew?)
I almost forgot. We visited one of the missionary's homes--the one I just mentioned about Kampala and delivery. Gorgeous, gorgeous home--and a great size. Beautiful yard, everything. What are the living expenses? 500 dollars a month, to rent. I can't believe this; crazy. What I meant to say, though, was: as you walked into their home, they had 4 clocks hanging, with the different time zones of their family members. It was the sweetest thing ever; I need to start buying clocks.

I forgot to mention the church service from this weekend. Words can't describe, really, so I'll keep it brief. There were so many "special music" slots. They love to sing--and dance! The kids were basically moon-walking, and with such rhythm. Jealousy right here.
The children performed two songs for us, really long songs--and they all had solos. So incredible.
Kyle, one of our guys, preached while a Ugandan man translated. It was such a sweet experience for us; I can't imagine how it was for him.

Two of the missions students here are engaged (they came that way; 2 weeks is quick). What is funny: Scott's family here told him they would be at the wedding. None of us knew what to think about that; Scott didn't know if they expected him to fly them in and all that jazz or what--so he just let it be. Last night they mentioned it again, so Scott said "I have to know if you're serious." They are. His African parents are planning on paying their way to the states, and staying with Scott's family (return the favor, right?), then leaving to visit other American friends once Scott and Betsy leave for their honeymoon. So hilarious, so wonderful.

Speaking of weddings, I get to attend one on Saturday. I didn't think I'd get the chance, for I am missing my sister's by a day. But weddings are constant here. Two other missions students have already been to one; they had to wear the traditional African dress. I'm a little scared about that. But pumped all the same.

I don't think I could ever complain about the bathroom situation here. Actually, "toilet." The bathroom is where you bathe; go figure (skating).
Hole or seat, doesn't matter: what is amazing is that the toilet paper rocks. As in, your main choices are pink or teal. You can't go wrong. White is boring in so many ways.

We watched Africa Cup of Nations last night--their massive "football" tournament. I couldn't believe I was in Africa, with the African commercials, and my African family. Because it all seems normal, similar to home. Aida got a kick out of imitating Ghana's victory dance; it was hilarious. I asked Huntington who he wanted to win. He told me Morocco are northern Africans, Arabs, and Ghana is in West Africa. So, obviously, he wanted Ghana to win. He laughed about this; but he laughs when he says anything and everything. Rebecca kept pointing out one of the players on Morocco's team, who apparently looked like a terrorist. The only word, strung in with her Luganda, that I could recognize was "Taliban."

Speaking of only one understandable word strung in with everything foreign to me, I was able to understand a conversation Huntington and Mom had last night, solely by nonverbal communication and one recognizable word. He came in holding pills. They talked back and forth, he pointed to his nose and his thigh, and I heard "boda-boda" in there somewhere. Boda-bodas, initially "border-borders" are motorbike taxis, not to be confused with motorcycles, which they call "picky-pickies." (Dad: change Leona's name to Picky-picky, please). Anyway, boda-bodas are ridiculously dangerous--and this is why the U.S. Embassy doesn't care if we Americans come in to Africa, sleep around, contract diseases, etc., as long as we don't ride the boda-bodas. Or so I'm told. What I gathered from Huntington's "mime": he had fallen off a boda-boda, hurt his nose and thigh, and that's what the pills were for. Afterwards, Mom translated. And, well, bingo.

Scott Hendricks (I'm sitting next to your sister right now), you wanted to know some of the characteristics of Katonda. :) I will email you more fully later (as I learn more), but one thing that's pretty sweet: the missionaries explained to us that the term "African atheist" is essentially an oxy-moron. That's not to say that everyone here knows Christ, but it says something about how receptive they are to all things spiritual. They are very spiritual people--which has a lot to do with their history with ancestral gods and spirits, witchcraft, etc. But on a good note: it isn't hard to convince them of Katonda, Yahweh, God. Ben, one of the missionaries, told us about a conversation he's had with many Africans. When they find out about the number of Americans who don't believe in God, they get so confused, and indignant. They find it so ignorant. "How could they not believe?!" He compared it to, if it's raining, saying, "It is not raining." Of course rain exists, and of course it is raining.
It makes sense, I suppose. Our country is so centered on the self, our ability and our scientific advances, etc. that allow us to provide for ourselves, to think so highly of ourselves. Here, Betsy's host family tells her, "If it doesn't rain, you don't get washed." Harsh. But really, they are dependent on Him, His presence and His provision are obvious to them, and God's existence is a no-brainer, ("E.T.C., E.T.C." as Professor Mukakanya would say).
I love how simple it all is. I wish we were more like them. They are absolutely right when they call our unbelief ignorant. God is as sure as fire, water: life, of course, wouldn't be possible without Him.

Maybe thunder is the workings of God's stomach.

I've decided my favorite "nature" part of Africa is the thunder. There is no contest.
Friday night in Jinja, it rocked like no other. It felt like an earthquake, and woke everyone up. Becca asked the next morning if we had heard it; I bet her America heard it.
But then I went home, to Mukono, and sure enough, they heard it there. A full hour away.
Separate storms? I don't know. But so amazing.

As was/is the Nile. Gorgeous, massive, incredible. We boated it. The first monkeys I saw in Africa were on the shore. And none of us was eaten by any croc. A good, full day.

We toured Jinja, the city that holds the source of the Nile, Lake Victoria. One of the missionaries here led the tour; his brother, another missionary, died here a few years ago. They tell us the most un-safe thing about Uganda is the driving, the roads. I've never seen anything like it; vehicles, not pedestrians, have the right of way.
Not to scare anyone, but just to give facts, Uganda is the second-most-dangerous country, car accident-wise. Aritrea? is number one.
But Vincent, our driver, is incredible. Grade A, no doubt about it. He doesn't even need lanes to keep us safe.

For part of the tour, we stopped at a hospital. It's one of those things you just don't believe, even while you're there, right in the middle of it. A tuberculosis ward, a malaria ward. It was the first time we greeted someone and I heard a "I am not so fine." It was heart-wrenching and overwhelming; in no way were we prepared for that. What is more, we had 10 or so minutes to spend there. It was like tourism--us parading around these people, saying hello, and having to leave. So dumb; it was horrible.
They wait for weeks, months--depending on how much money they have--in a bed. Some never even seeing a doctor. The nurses aren't there to care for them, only to keep house. The families have to do the caring. There was essentially a family gathered around most of the beds, holding the hands of their sisters, brothers, daughters as they slept, or shook, or coughed.
I can't really comprehend that this is going on only a flight away from a country who has the best medical care around. I feel like I could never know what true suffering is.

I went to bed at 7 last night. Skipped tea time, family time, dinner, everything. Jinja was great, sure, but too great. They gave us pizza. Sure, my body had no trouble adjusting to the African food. I bet these past two weeks my intestines have been saying, "Finally. The junk is gone." But it was just a 2-week tease, before I went back to pizza (but, really, how could I have passed it up?) I was comparing the entire weekend, complete with shower head, with a reward challenge straight from Survivor. But I forgot what happens after the reward challenge. Everyone's stomachs attack them.
Because I think life's details are funny, I'll share that I puked in the bag that originally held my mosquito net. Rebecca was such a doll, washing it out for me, getting me a bucket, etc. And I felt like an idiot, passing the family again and again, returning to the latrine like crazy.
When I wasn't feeling dizzy, I was thinking about Mom and her cold washcloths and ginger-ale and toast--not to mention laying my head on her lap. But immediately after, I was wishing Mom, Mama Joyce, would get home; I was missing her, a mother's care. (She had spent the day in Luwero, a district or so away).
Sure enough, I was in the middle of making full use of the bucket Rebecca gave me, when I heard her come in, and everyone's greetings to her. She came into my room, wrapped her arms around me, and brought me some strong tea, no sugar.
They took incredible care of me. Right now, I feel better for the most part.
But I think it will be awhile, even once I am home, to eat pizza again.
And now, I think I'll pass on drinking from the bottle of Nile water that Caroline collected for us. Even if she does treat it for 4 hours with an expert kit.

I called my family from the shore of the Nile. (Telling Rebecca this later, she noticed I didn't mention Christine, and so she asked me if I talked to her. Then I dreamt that Christine came to Africa and met my whole family). But the night I talked to them, I dreamt that my family was pulling in the driveway, I was back from Africa. As much as I miss home at times, the dream was a depressing one. I was glad I woke up to a mosquito net; I am glad I am here for four months. Two weeks, the length of an average missions trip, wouldn't be enough. I think it's laughable now, and completely naieve, to think that I used to think 10 days was an adequate stretch, a trip to make one an expert on a new culture. Or better yet, long enough to make a difference.
And maybe it is. But right now that just doesn't make any sense.

I think I mentioned last time a little boy who asked me to be his sponsor. He met me again this morning, took my hand, and asked me to pay his school fees. I admit that these are the times I hate being white, a target labeled "rich." A). We're not allowed to give any money. B). Would it really even help if I did? But he held my hand the entire way to school, told me he wanted to know where I lived, what my phone number was, and what time I got out of school. He had also mentioned, "You were late this morning."
I am sure Raymond (and Marvin, his friend) are harmless. No older than 8. But I still couldn't bring myself to give him any of that information, for reasons I think are both obvious yet un-namable.

I forgot to mention in the last blog one of the poignant things Rebecca said to me, when she was talking about the English turning up their noses. She told me, "When the queen visited, she wore her white gloves the whole time. She wouldn't even touch us."
The queen visited Uganda in the past year or so; I can't tell you how excited they all seemed. Posters of her face are still up everywhere, and they named a street in her honor.
But she couldn't even take off her gloves.

Death to ethnocentrism.

So, Mom, you're upset with the 10-year-old boys. Did I mention these rough-and-tumble kids were 3 girls, one boy? Seriously. Stop worrying about me walking home alone. First of all, I don't have much of a choice--and there are 11 other students doing the exact same thing. I don't know what you're picturing, but it's all in public. All homes are essentially outdoors--there will always be witnesses. And I think I've done enough assuring that I am safer here than I could be at home. I feel more uncomfortable walking next to Kicker's Bar on Lakeshore; no lie.

On my walk this morning, Gloria left her yard to meet me again. She asked me to remind her of my name; she has broken Uganda's winning streak of remembering names, but I forgive her because she's adorable. She asked if I would bring her sweets today. I told her I couldn't (we leave today for Jinja for the weekend), but would next time I pass. And so, her name is written on my hand; I need to go shopping.
Some promises are harder to keep. Some strides away from Gloria, I met two little boys. One of them stopped me, said he wanted to talk with me. He told me his father had died, and he asked me to be his sponsor. Such a commitment, which I'm not sure what it entails (besides going to his home, which he asked me to do), is too large. I don't even know.

Have I mentioned they say sorry a lot here? It is more a form of sympathy than apology. When you cough, they say sorry. If you drop something, they say sorry. (If you sneeze, they say nothing. I can't get out of the "God Bless You" habit, and they laugh every time). They use "thank you" in much the same way (it really is such a kind, beautiful culture in so many ways). They thank you for things not even related to them. For instance, you tell someone gyebale, or gyebale ko, when they are working hard (even if you don't know them and you pass them in the street, washing, or digging, or slashing the grass). Last night my friend Caroline's host-dad thanked her for having a curfew in America. Or they'll thank you for studying. No benefit to themselves. It's beautiful.

Beautiful, much like the past two nights' matoke. Two nights ago Aida made the most delicious batch of spinach I've ever had, and I drowned my matoke with it. Last night was an incredible eggplant sauce. Not only was I stomaching the matoke, I admit I wanted more.
I am enjoying eating hardboiled eggs. I always have, but here it seems more Cool Hand Luke-ish. No salt, no pepper, no symetrical slice down the middle. Whole and true.

My Luganda lessons hiked it up a notch last night. Rebecca was explaining verbs to me, and the different conjugations.
To laugh: okuseka
I am laughing: Nseka
Let us laugh/we are laughing: Tuseke.
He/she is laughing: aseka
So, much, fun.

Circumcision. That's not a word you write every day, in most cases. But I feel like I've already had 5 or 6 conversations about it. It might just be in the national anthem here.
For one, Rwanda just made a law or something, requiring all the Rwandan men to be circumcised, for the sake of combatting AIDS. They are beginning this venture with the children and military.
Also, there is a certain tribe or clan or something here that has a circumcision ritual. It is essentially the man's right of passage. (Maybe I don't know why I am sharing this info after all...oh well). There is a whole ritual, ceremony when the man is grown and ready. (I think it was Caroline or Kyle who recently saw the workings of the ceremony going on in Mukono the other day). The man, and a whole bunch of family and neighbors, run around dancing for a good long time (my mom gave me the impression they go door-to-door, and with instruments and jubilation). After awhile--that's a lot of dancing--the man can't feel much anyway. Then they circumcise him, in front of everyone. I don't know why I get such a kick out of this. Hah. Hah twice.
(I am in this room laughing out loud to myself as I write; my friend Melody just added to the story: for her African Traditional Religions class, she is required to go watch the ceremony. She just offered me an invitation. I think I'll pass).

The other night, Rebecca was picking my brain about what I thought of Africa. I was telling her my expectations, about what my friend J.E. said, having been here last summer. She asked me if he thought they were uncivilized and dirty; I felt so sick, again, of my culture and the countless reactions I got when I said I was going to Africa. The responses were much the same. I could count on one hand the people who thought it would be a great experience: my cousin Michael, my aunt Laurie, I won't keep going, but there weren't many. The majority would raise their eyebrows, flare nostrils, look disgusted and make jokes. Because, for some reason, we are convinced that America is the ultimate, everything else is primitive, unworthy. This makes me feel like I did when we flew over Sudan; flight attendant, I need a disposal bag, and quick. Honestly. It killed me to hear a girl, a wonderful, incredible, intelligent and WISE person assume, and assume correctly, that the Western world thinks of her and her people as not good enough. Please. She later told me, in a different conversation, why she wants to marry, specifically, a white American, as opposed to a white Englishman. She doesn't like the English. She has met too many of them, coming to America with her family who lives in London, who raise their eyebrows to her face, stick up their nose, and look at her as though she is dirty. If she only knew: Americans are much the same way; just not the ones she has met.

Can I just say that America is not the ultimate? It is more of the pretend version of life. (For the most part. Stereotyping isn't fair, I know). We think we need not only toilet seats to survive, but every cosmetic product imaginable, every paint shade and curtain style and brand name shoe, etc. I'm not saying we are horrible people for buying our corn instead of picking it, but why do we assume that these people who actually know how to survive, and know the purpose of life runs deeper than plumming and other luxuries, are primitive, lower than us?
I have only been here two weeks, and already I have met people whose company I am going to miss so much Saturday and half of Sunday when I travel to Jinja. I want to be with them all the time. They know how to love, how to live. They are some of the most Christ-like people I have ever met, and I have so much to learn from them.
When I mention I want to be a missionary, people ask where. Whenever I mention "possibly Africa," I am asked why in the world. "There are people in the states who need the help just as badly." Who says I want to go to Africa because they need my help? Maybe I need their help. Maybe we all do.
The thing is: we have so much to learn about God and about living that cannot be found in Cleveland. He is not only in America. He is in Ecuador, Egypt, Scotland.
In Uganda, His name is Katonda. It turns out He has characteristics I have never seen before. But they are prevalent in the people of Mukono, the people who have Katonda's name written all over them. And I'll tell you what, it sure beats a hot shower.

My sister gives me science lessons as we cook. Banana leaves are a good conduct (?) of heat.

It’s currently storming, and the rain smells fantastic. I don’t know what it reminds me of, just like jackfruit—I had jackfruit from our backyard yesterday; it tastes like candy, but I can’t remember what kind.

Everything is so inexpensive here. As in, for lunch today, I had a chipote (fried tortilla-like bread), 2 samosas (mini fried triangles), and a banana smoothie, all for less than 2 dollars. We went out to eat a few days ago; my meal, again, less than 2 dollars, tip included. I could get used to this. Frugal living.

My banana the other day cost like 5 cents; but it’s just plain awkward to buy a banana. I’ve tried pawning it off on others: “Who wants to have an intercultural experience and go buy me a banana?” It doesn’t work so well.

This minority thing takes some getting used to; it is more difficult than I would’ve guessed. (The power just went out: sweet). Anyway, I swear these four ten-year-olds were ready to jump me yesterday. I’ve noticed, thus far, they are the only group of kids who make their body language and vocal tones match the fact that they don’t approve of me. The other “Hi Mzungu!s” have been friendly enough. But these certain kids on my street do it in a taunting fashion, making faces, feigned-nice voices. On my walk home yesterday, they weren’t in their yard as usual. They were carrying their water cans home. They circled me, much like the hyenas circle Simba, and boasted their names at me. Hands on hips, smirks. The little boy went behind me, and I was waiting for him to snatch my bag; but he only pulled my water bottle out from the side. I smiled, told them to have a nice day, and retrieved my water bottle.

I’m not afraid of 10-year-olds, really, but even if they would try something, I don’t think I could ever defend myself in such a situation. Who would hit or shove a preteen? I just couldn’t.

My New Testament professor also reminded me this morning that I was the only white person in the room. He was simply telling a metaphor, a Mzungu being his main character, and she being a ditzy woman worried about money. Rows ahead of me, people turned and stared, to see how the Mzungu was taking it. I was suddenly feeling what the few-and-far-between black students from my high school must’ve been feeling, when the teacher wants to know their opinion on Jim Crow, etc. It wasn’t marvelous.

My sister Rebecca and I sat outside last night for a good two hours; we even missed tea time. She was peeling matoke, and I was picking the bad rice from the good. We watched the stars and talked about marriage. That morning she had told me, “My problem is, I don’t like black men.” I took it for a jovial remark; but she explained last night. I listened, dumbfounded and depressed, as she explained African marriage to me. How the wife has the same rank as the child. How the man pursues her before marriage, loving her, wooing her, treating her like, yes, how Christ loves the church, but once they get home, door closed, everything changes. Physical abuse is more than common, she said. “It comes easy, like breathing,” she told me. The women won’t divorce because, here, it is basically taboo. Humiliating—and still the woman would be blamed, for not being a good wife, and leaving her husband one option: abuse. Rebecca told me this is why she wasn’t yet married, why she didn’t want to get married, unless she married a Christian American man. She said even the Christian men here put their manhood before the church, before Christ and His guidelines. The pastors speak of the well-behaved wife, their submission, but don’t touch on the rest of what Paul said. Men loving their wives as Christ loves the church. I told her that not all white men were angels; our culture has those guys too. But she assured me that this was the rule in Africa. Engrained in the culture. And she would rather be single.

As she talked, I was imagining and planning future ministry here for the first time. I have been listening, looking, for direction. I want to know if God has been placing Uganda on my heart for the sake of these four months alone, or if He wants me to come back. So I’ve been asking, waiting. So as Rebecca talked, I longed for African, Ugandan, Mukono-an? men to understand what marriage means. I imagined a small group, growing larger, of African men being mentored by a Christian man who wouldn’t step on their culture, but would lead and disciple these men into humility, regardless of what their culture tells them. I was imagining my missionary family in Uganda. That’s not to say God is telling me to return—but it was a good feeling.

On a lighter note, we kept watching the stars, and saw a plane. She told me she used to think the planes were travelling stars, stopping by all the other ones for a visit.

On an even lighter note, I’m going to share some of my friend Betsy’s experiences. Her homestay experience has been, well, interesting. Her family seems much different than everyone else’s. The poor girl. But: recently she’s been collecting some great stories. Such as, watching her goat give birth; sharing a couch with a rat yesterday, no one saying a word except, “Do you know what that is, Betsy?”; staring upwards last night at the top of her mosquito net, seeing the rat chill right above her, making its own hammock; waking up to three lizards in the same hammock. And the best of all: last night she returned from school, went into her room, and her host-sister (age 19) was busy throwing metal spoons on the ground and laughing hysterically. When Betsy asked what she was doing, she said her high school teacher had told her, “This is how Chinese people name their children.” She kept throwing the spoon, shouting Chinese-sounding words, and laughing. Amazing.

Aida roasted some g-nuts for us last night. And Dad, I thought of you—told them you eat peanuts every night. I recommend heating them, shells and all, over the stove. They were so warm, soft, fantastic. After the marriage conversation, Aida joined us with the g-nuts, and Rebecca asked me how many children I wanted. When it came to Aida’s turn, I found out she has a child already! A little boy named Ibrahim. I never knew. Aida lives with us; she is our housegirl. Now I’m wondering, desperately, sadly, if she has a family elsewhere, and this is merely her profession. I can’t imagine when she would ever see her son; maybe while I am at school.

I thought I was done, but Becca just reminded me of Community Worship (chapel) today. My goodness. The music, very African, the beautiful voices, the excitement: it was what I was imagining when I thought of African church (that’s not to say I’m not enjoying my more traditional, Anglican one). I think the two American girls in front of me were crying; you wouldn’t blame them.

Waking up to my alarm is useless. Really, I have no excuse. I get an average of 8 hours of sleep, which is double my norm at IWU. (This semester seems it will be a breeze. A breeze that smells like a mix of manure and palm trees). But this morning was another pathetic thread in my waking pattern: my watch goes off at 6:30. I shut it off. Wake up at 7:05 with the rooster.

An agricultural sort of snooze; I think I’ll bring one back with me.

"So I took her to the swamp." --Professor Daniel Button

There's a cheesy quote in Extreme Days, a ridiculous nearly pointless movie, that says something like, "There are those times that make you stop and say, "Yeah."' Now that I've typed it, I realize that isn't even worthy to quote. But regardless: I am loving the random moments that make me stop, that catch my breath. A lot of them involve the sky; the plus of going to the bathroom outdoors.

Last night's moon was macaroni-and-cheese yellow, with yellow rays coming off of it (the moon can have rays? apparently), and it was being half-swallowed by the clouds. That was almost as beautiful as this morning, walking to the bathroom, and seeing orange and pink and yellow but in a fashion that Ohio can't even mimic. This, of course, is going on above monstrous green, misty hills. The best part was the walk back from the bathroom, because the colors were already faded and most the beauty was gone. I was thankful for the timing of it all, those 3 minutes of sunrise that couldn't be repeated. Here one second, gone the next. I imagine I'll feel this way in May, boarding the plane.

Another "Yeah" moment was in class this morning. I am constantly, foolishly, putting myself in situations that make me awfully uncomfortable, but ones I know I'll be thankful for in the end. Surprisingly, this program has us in classes with all American students. Talk about disappointing. We had the option, though, of taking one class with Ugandans, outside of the Program. I chose New Testament, which I've already taken and so won't get credit for, but I knew I'd regret it in May if I went to Uganda to have class with people from Arkansas and Minnesota. Anyway, I've been dreading the "small group" section of this class all week, simply because the education system in Uganda is different, very laidback, and I didn't even know where the class was held--it was all up in the air. I've mentioned the stress of this to God in passing, but tried to ignore the class was coming today.
I somehow found my way to the class, even though 7 Ugandans ignored me completely when I asked if I was in the right place. Awkward. But it was amazing; God is so good. The first thing the tutor of the tutorial said was, "People, I too was a backrow person, but unless you have Ebola or something highly contagious, please move forward." Classic: an Ebola joke in the first 30 seconds.
Then he asked a girl to pray out loud, she sort of protested, but he insisted, and we sat there in silence, waiting with our eyes closed. Then she said she was Muslim. Interesting.
To shorten the story, I am going to love this class. So far it's been scaring me to death, a regret in the making, but now I am thankful.

Walking home from school last night, I was passing a little girl. We Mazungu (plural form of Mzungu) in general, walk fast. But yesterday I knew I was walking in the h'ordeuvre of a monstrous thunderstorm; the sky was black and it was starting. So I power-walked. Passing the girl who looked to be holding a folded-up pillowcase, she greeted me, so I slowed to walk with her. She looked about 8. We greeted, she didn't know much English, so we walked in silence before I told her goodbye, to have a good day. A few seconds later, me in front of her, she said, "Mzungu, where are you going?" I love that they ask this so openly. Strangers in America don't ask you this; you'd get raised eyebrows and no response, or a "None of your business." So we walked together again. Then she asked me, "Have you seen my baby?" So that's what was in what I thought was a pillowcase. She told me it was her brother Alfred. I guess I was just shocked and touched that this 8-year-old was walking the streets of Mukono holding an infant. (This isn't to imply they skip childhood, and on to responsibility here. There is a range of different lifestyles. My nephew Daniel brought PlayStation to our house the other day--this the same one with the cellphone). She also taught me a new word, gyendi: it means, "I am alright," or rather "just there." As in, still breathing. I think I prefer bulungi, the response that means "I am fine, doing well."
The girl's name is Gloria, and I saw her again this morning. She was in her yard and yelled and ran after me. I was disappointed at first to have no children in my family; but I'm digging the neighborhood kids.

My missions class is interesting. As is every other topic of missions we discuss here. I feel in the minority, with some unconventional idea of what it means to be a missionary. I get nauseous when I hear missionaries number off how many people they have converted, though I want nothing more than people to come to know Christ. But I feel like being a missionary isn't about converting people. And it's not always about bringing the Gospel to people who don't know Christ. If we love and serve people for a specific reason--so they come to know God--this feels fake to me. Ingenuine, manipulated love. If people come to know God through our love and relationship, awesome--but shouldn't relationship be the priority? It was Jesus' priority.
I don't know. Sometimes missions contexts frustrate me, because no one really agrees. I'm called a humanitarian.

There really isn't much more to say.
Except:
1). I'm loving my family more and more each day. It will be hard to leave. It is easy to understand why, in only the week I've been here, two of their past American host-students have already called them, called "home" to talk with the family. I really hope I can come back; I'm still trying to hear and listen to see if this is the place God wants me, future-wise.
2). This weekend the missions students are going to Jinja, where Lake Victoria is (a man just got eaten by a crocodile there a few days ago. Yikes). We will be talking with missionaries here; I'm pretty stoked.
3). I am learning Luganda a lot quicker and more efficiently than I expected. My family is so encouraging and helpful.
4). I realize that writing here daily is cumbersome. And unnecessary, especially as I have little updates. More than anything, it is my form of journaling. So please don't feel obligated to read, or feel badly if you don't.

Charlie, I'll drink from the Nile if you give me ten bucks.

What part of loose stool don't you understand?

Perhaps writing daily is a bit extensive. However, it is completely necessary when you spend your afternoon going to the market, getting lost, finding yourself in a completely different town with no cell phone and two friends, one of whom had taken a laxative; suddenly phrases such as, “We’re lost? Are you crapping me?” become more than ironic.

I bought a banana and a tomato in town. My bagged lunch for tomorrow; finally, variety.

I don’t think we have to be conservative as we set out to be. The only pants I have here are jeans I wore on the plane. My sister asked me yesterday if I only brought skirts, and another sister wears jeans. As I said yesterday, my dress was shorter than usual yesterday: it reached just below my knee caps. “You have nice legs,” my mom told me. “Your skirts are normally so long, I can’t see them.” Hah.

I’ve learned that raised eyebrows essentially translate to a headnod. Accompanied by a grunt. It came across as rude to me at first, and I kept repeating my questions, waiting for a nod or an answer. But it’s all in the eyebrows.

Another difference: Ugandans are so friendly that their language doesn’t include a standard, bland greeting, as in “Hello” or “Hi.” So when you say hello, they say “I am fine, how are you?” It doesn’t fail. What a beautiful culture, needing to care and ask how someone is; such is the purpose of their greeting.

Francis’ son Martin kneeled to me yesterday. He circled the entire room that way, kneeling and giving you his hand. I suppose it is practice; weddings, proposals, etc. aren’t difficult to come by here.

Rebecca promised me a testimony about singing and praise. Sure enough, I got one. I asked her about it after dinner. After washing up, we sat in our room for a good hour; I was in awe of the conversation the entire time. I won’t put down the details, but she was describing me her college years and how incredibly close she had gotten to the Holy Spirit. She started her relationship with the Holy Spirit by simply making herself aware of His presence: greeting Him in the morning, setting Him a plate at lunch, etc. The rest of her stories were incredible—so challenging. She talked about the feeling you have when you know you’re not the only one in the room. She compared it to a blindman—sure, he can’t see when a person has left the room, but he can sense it. Rebecca gushed about how she felt Him always with her. I love the way she communicates too—she is so animated: putting her head in her hands and squealing, saying how much she misses Him, how she doesn’t know what she did wrong to make Him leave. It was breaking my heart. I started telling her about something C.S. Lewis had said in Screwtape Letters, of course giving the disclaimer that Lewis isn’t God, Screwtape isn’t Scripture. But Lewis writes from the perspective of one demon to another—the more experienced one giving lessons to the newby, giving him tips on how to trip a Christian up, get him distracted from God. I told her that at one point, the young/inexperienced demon is so glad, so proud of himself, because the Christian seems to be in a slump: he can’t sense God’s presence anymore. He isn’t as “on fire,” for God or as Rebecca put it, “hot”, as he once was. The demon thinks he is making progress, yet the older demon laughs at him; the paraphrase is something like “You fool! There is nothing more dangerous to us than when a Christian no longer feels God’s presence, yet follows Him anyway. God created His humans with seasons, just as He did the earth. You idiot, this is natural for him to go through a slump. The peak is just around the corner. So don’t you give up; you haven’t won yet. You are losing.” The look on Rebecca’s face was incredible; she sighed and shrieked. “So he’s coming back!” I can’t explain the overwhelming community, communion, that was going on in that room. God was stretching me, reminding me of the slump I too am in, and reminding me that it takes effort to know Him. He reminded me that I rarely give the Holy Spirit the attention He deserves; He is the part of the Trinity I most forget about. And at the same time He was showing Rebecca that just because we can’t feel God for a time, doesn’t mean we’re doing anything wrong. It is natural; and it is necessary for growth, to run after something by faith and not feeling. I was so happy with Him, so proud of Him, for mutually growing us both. Two different cultures, a bunkbed apart.

Needless to say, I told the Holy Spirit Good Morning today; I clenched my hand on the way to school, as if He were holding it; and I stared at the empty chair in front of me in History class, and smiled.

I’m not crazy. I’m just learning from a sister’s story.

A hippo is naked.

Twice in one day. I realized throughout History class that I had forgotten so much. Such as:

During my newstime with Huntington and Rebecca, sometime before they asked me if there was a singular form of "news," a man came on the news with the name "Okello Okello." I instantly thought of one of Charlie's friends, Jacob Jacobs. We all laughed, especially Rebecca. She thought it was horrible: "At least call him Okello squared," she said.

I haven't had any sign of sickness yet, though I feel like it's waiting to pounce, like it has a quota to meet. It wouldn't be fair if I transferred conditions so quickly and so easily. I feel I should get sick, for the sake of some sort of equilibrium. Yet I feel fine.

I'm finding it is so hard to be myself. My family is a completely happy one, joking all the time. But still: it is difficult for me to be my ridiculous self. Jenny, here is where I miss you so much. :) Perhaps you're the only one I can fully be myself around, pretending we are Spanish horsemen as we drive to and from school. But if I pulled out fake reigns at the dinner table, I'm not sure they would laugh. No, they would laugh. But later they would discuss the crazy American who would hopefully never return.
Outside of the home, it is still hard. Being somewhere where I don't know many. My refuge is Sharon and a certain Becca, as immature as I am.

My history professor wanted to know today if our migits--he called them maggots--really existed, or if they were just for TV. He wanted to know if we had anything like Pygmies.

Rebecca doesn't know the day she was born, which I find sad. She has chosen one for the sake of documents, and she celebrates it on a different day--she adopted the birthday of an American girl they hosted in the past.

I find a lot, even in my own family, many children with different mothers. Men really do keep more than one wife. It is interesting to not only see it on the American side, but to hear Rebecca say, "I don't like how my culture thinks." I can't imagine a world where it's normal and accepted to share your husband, and yet I'm living in one right now.

I thought I would die from smoke inhalation the other day. The outdoor kitchen is an enclosed room, and this is where we build the fires. Dang, it was a scene from a firefighting movie. Rebecca bent down to avoid the smoke. I followed suit, but still couldn't breathe in any way. I don't think I like the fireroom very much.

I forgot to mention that yesterday John and my sisters were discussing 24 and Ally McBiel. Something other than Spanish soaps!

Rebecca reads transformers for a job. After church we went to the market, and I saw her always looking at the sky. She was looking at the wires. She told me that is how she knows her way around: the wires are her landmarks. She tried explaining different volts and things to me. So smart.

My mom was explaining the concept of clans to me Friday. Baganda, a certain region/people group where I am at, has its own clans. You can't marry from your clan, and your clans are very tight bonds. They are all named after animals, yet her clan is an African animal that looks like a lemur? and I don't know the name. She said I need a clan and a name; I will most likely be in the monkey clan, she said, because her daughters were, and I will essentially adopt their place in the family. Monkey may have been my last choice, but hey: I'm glad I get a clan.

I find myself day-dreaming of ho-hos.

On Knees and Kneeling.

My phonetic spelling gets the best of me. I ridiculously wrote "quagala" down as love in my notebook and to...everyone. It's kwagala. I saw it in a hymn yesterday and felt completely dumb for thinking qu- would be common here. Oh no. But double j's and double d's and gye-, this is the norm.

The hymns are helping a lot as I learn the language. I have only been here a week, and I feel I know so much—well, not so much, but a good deal. I like to think of four months, and how much I will know. Hopefully enough to return some day and find my way home, so Christine can come with and meet my family. (I keep finding your hidden notes, Chris: thanks). J

Mom, you asked about starches. Every meal is essentially matoke, tasteless bananas smooshed and cooked, and rice. I dreamt about the food the other night. That my mom, my biological Ohio mom, met Aida, who cooks, and asked her about my nutrition. I also dreamt about a certain taco dip my aunt Sharon makes. But then I wake up to another day of fish I need to de-bone and de-spine myself, scraping the fin aside to the corner of my plate.

We had some noodles last night, and I felt like I was in Heaven. But then we had cake, made by my sister Rose who makes cakes commercially, and I realized Heaven is as high as you can go, so the noodle-Heaven must’ve been a farce. I have never had such excellent cake. She said there was cinnamon and nutmeg in it…and the icing was so thick and amazing. I wish this were the staple; matoke can take a hike.

I helped Aida peel/slice the matoke the other night. It was essentially a laughing session at myself. The sap stained my hands brown, and Rebecca pointed out that I was her color now. I told her I should cover myself in matoke before I walk to school, then the kids won’t call me Mzungu. She said they still would.

The power just went out; this is becoming the norm.

I’ve been able to talk more with Huntington. This is my 30-something, I think-year-old brother. The hardest Ugandan, Bagandan, to understand, if you ask me. But Friday night we watched the news together with Rebecca, and conversation was more steady. A goateed policeman came on the TV and Rebecca said he looks like a thief. Huntington explained to me she said this because of the goatee. Then he told me about a universal contest that was held recently, the world in search of the best beard. He told me a man from Spain won, and a man from Liverpool took second. He got such a kick out of this. Later we did dishes together. It was more of him teaching me the African way of doing it, but I think he assumed I didn’t know how to do dishes at all: “At home, do you just put them in the sink?” It was funny.

Sometime before the news, we were watching music videos—as in Snoop Dogg. Mom walked by and said matter-of-factly, “He dances like a woman,” and well, I lost it.

I am not collecting mosquito bites, as I would have guessed, but rather canker sores. In class the other day, one of our leaders was listing off side effects to certain malaria meds. Doxy-something gives you nausea and crazy dreams, and I’m thinking, “Fools. Why would you take Doxy?” Then he said Malarone, mine, gives you mouth sores. Revelation.

All of Saturday I essentially spent at church. My sister Sara was confirmed in the morning, and from 4-8 we listened/sang along with Christmas carols. Yes, Christmas carols. People are still greeting me with Happy New Year. I suppose only us Americans are in a hurry to wave goodbye to the holidays, which for so long, I thought they were calling “Holy Day.” Until I asked what Holy Day was, and they laughed. During the confirmation, the row in front of me was filled with children—one of them being very attentive to me. She turned around to pet my face and my hair during prayer time. “Child, we are praying!” my mom said.

It was dark walking home from the Christmas carols. Though it was a nice view and the lit-up hills looked like a scene from Aladdin, I was scared to death. There are no street lights, so I feel less safe. Possibly because the cars and boda-bodas drive nearly over your toes, there being no sidewalks or lanes and barely any good roads.

My mom translates the message for me, and tells me what passage we’re reading from, so I can follow along in English. Because I need to be intent on hearing her, and she is sitting next to me, I’ve noticed one of the most incredible things thus far. She has blue eyes. Her pupils are big and dark, but the outer rim, the color part, most definitely blue. Dark blue. I can’t comprehend it; but it makes it difficult to pay attention to what she’s saying.

At her birthday party yesterday, the family was great. Kids everywhere, and my brothers and sisters whom I feel should be my aunts and uncles. Marianne reminds me a whole lot of my Aunt Laurie. They just look so similar, just different colors. She is getting married soon; my mom told me I might be here for the wedding.

It was awkward at first, not really knowing anyone, and the people I do know, only knowing them for a week. But my sister Josephine’s husband John befriended me and asked a lot about Cleveland. He talked about when he was in the states, and asked me about Writing and what my family thought of me coming here. It is interesting and ironic explaining to someone that Americans think it is so dangerous here, and how laughable it really is. I feel much safer here, really. I explained to him how I can stop here and ask two men for directions, but I wouldn't think of it at home. America, I'm noticing, is much more dangerous. The heart and mentality of the people is just so different here, but correct, in order, the way it should be: humble and selfless. (I'm not pointing fingers; I too am American).
John took pictures of everyone, saying, “This will go on Facebook.” If that wasn’t surprising enough, my nephew? I guess, Daniel, has his own cellphone. My family is one of the more Western ones, I’m gathering. Complete with leather couch.

Speaking of Daniel, a woman named Ruth who I met yesterday at church, asked me to repeat my name about 4 times. She kept giving me a confused, almost disgusted, sort of look. “Like in the Bible?” I told her yes, only the girl version, and then I feared she thought I might be saying “girl virgin.” Awkward. Anyway, Daniel is pronounced as Danielle here anyway, which makes everything confusing, and might possibly make them think my parents were very confused.

The children are so respectful and obedient here. Everyone respects their elders a great deal, children or not. As in, the 30-year-olds entering the house yesterday, kneeled when greeting my mom. This happens a lot as we walk to church or school together. If she greets a child or vice versa, the child kneels where he’s at.

Walking to school today was awkward, before Sharon and Caroline’s dad, the Reverend, picked me up in his car (Caroline tore her ACL). My dress goes to my knees, but borderline: just to my knees. Though I was completely modest by America’s standards, I kept pulling it down to cover more of my legs. The looks I got were reasonable to their culture. Dana, one of the interns here, said someone came into her house on a Saturday and told her to cover her knees; she wasn’t very happy. On the contrary, from the waist up, that sort of modesty, doesn’t really matter here. One of the guys here said dinnertime was very awkward for him recently, sitting next to his mom with half of her upperhalf exposed. That’s as nicely as I can put it. If she would have been showing her thighs, though, oh my goodness. Now that would have been unacceptable.

Before I left for school this morning, Rebecca and I had a long conversation about singing voices. She couldn’t understand how I would say my voice is bad, horrible. “Horrible is a very strong word,” she said, laughing. I told her she has never heard me sing, and that horrible is the perfect word. She went on to explain that we can have different color and different hair for certain purposes of God (“my skin black so I can survive the sun, and your skin white so you can survive…I don’t know, so you can survive something. And you have nice, full hair to keep you warm, but it would be too hot for me.”) Then she said that voice is one of the constants, something God gives to all of us so we can praise Him. She told me my voice is unique, no one else has it, and that’s why it is good, and that is why the world will stop to listen to it. She told me that before Satan got kicked out of Heaven, he was the best singing angel (I’ll have to read up on this—there is so much I forget), and it was his boasting that got him in trouble. “He still thinks he’s the best singer, and he goes about boasting. That’s why we all need to sing and show him he is not the best. When we praise, God joins us.” It was a wonderful conversation. She told me she had a specific testimony about it she would tell me when I get home from school. While at times I dread returning to a matoke meal, I never dread returning to my family. And today I have a testimony to look forward to. Amazing.

Lookee, lookee.

An average walk to class.


I told you it looked like French dressing.

Bigger in Africa.

I don't remember if I've said this yet or not, so sorry if I have (you may skip to the next paragraph, in that case, or in any case, a suitcase even). Anyway, everything is so much bigger and majestic here. The clouds are so incredibly massive, as is the sky. And I wish pictures would do it justice, or even film. All I can say is: "You must go to Africa and see the sky." I have no idea why it's like this, and it's not just my imagination. This observation has been confirmed by many. Like the thunderstorm last night. Torr-en-tial. The rain is a million times harder, the thunder that much louder....yes, I feel I have said this before. Maybe it is worth saying twice.

Have I mentioned we don't eat until 10? Mom, I wanted you to know that, a sort of dare to hold dinner off til eleven, see what happens. (Yes, I've said this too).

New things:

I feel like I will have to pee for the rest of my life. A lovely first sentence I’m sure you appreciate. I think it’s the tea. Tea time like crazy, being a former British colony and all.

My classes are great. Yesterday, in African Literature, we all had to stand in front of the room and introduce ourselves and our experience with Literature. Our Ugandan professor clapped, and excitedly, after each person, yelling, “You are most welcome!” I am thankful to have a literature class, though I miss Dr. Brown and my writing classes already. Besides, Patrick Mukakanya is a whole lot harder to say than Mary Brown. I really might regress to third grade, call him Dr. M.

We didn’t have fish; this is tonight. Last night, my mom made my plate, perhaps noticing how little my portions usually are. “You must get strong,” she said. Huntington then flexed his muscles and laughed, “Strong like an African.” And as I ate, I kept picturing the carbs expand in my intestines; and I am normally not worried about this.

Sunday is my host mom’s birthday. She said I will get to meet the whole family that day, because “my children want to celebrate their mother getting old.” I’m excited, and look forward to seeing how they celebrate birthdays. Maybe with maize. I had corn on the cob last night, which they called maize, and I ate it without butter and salt (though they offered the American her choice). It was excellent.

Church is also Sunday; Sharon’s host dad is third in command, a reverend, at my church. It will be fun to share this experience together.

I am astonished with how happy the Ugandans are when they wake up. I am never a grumpy morning person, but being an American, I thought I was in the minority. Not here. Susan, who I met last night, and who slept above me, smiled over the top of the bunk bed this morning and said, “Good morning, how are you?” with such joy. And Susan is just one example. [When I met Susan last night, we shook hands and didn’t let go for about 5 minutes. This takes getting used to, but I enjoyed the friendliness. It could’ve been awkward, but they don’t make it awkward. She just smiled and kept asking me, “How is your life?”]

When they say how are you? it isn’t like a question, I noticed. It is a sing-song statement, which makes sense that Oliotya? which essentially means how are you (when you’re speaking to children, informally) doesn’t sound like a question either. The rhythm, the song, in their voices is beautiful. I hope I take it home with me.

That's what I'm talking about.

Where in the world should I start. Probably right above the equator; that would seem appropriate. I will try to make a quick catch-up attempt.

The flight made me want to slap myself for ever wanting to be a missionary. Long drives are bad enough, and when there’s no Journey or Johnny Cash to strum the steering wheel to, well, I end up puking somewhere in Sudan. I kept thinking about the two words: four months, and wondering what the heck I got myself into.

But then I walked down the plane steps onto Entebbe airport, and dang: I remembered why I was on the plane in the first place. Right away Africa, and night Africa, had a distinct smell. Distinct can be synonymous with beautiful.

We stayed in a convent the first night; that’s what I’m talking about. Mosquito nets are great; I am the 8-year-old who loved sleeping in forts. And this fort is not only see-through, but keeps me padded against malaria. My host-sister Rebecca, 26, pointed above my head the first day to show me the mosquitos. “Have you ever seen one?” When I told her that I have not only seen one, but seen many, and been bitten many times, her mouth literally dropped, and she put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my. This is news,” she said.

I live with the Surekenyas. We live in a village called upper Nabuti. My mother is Joyce, my sisters Rebecca and Sara, my “workgirl?” (that is how I was introduced to her) Aida, a cousin Irene, brothers Huntington and Martin. Frances is the milkman and yesterday I met his toddler, another Martin. The goat doesn’t have a name, and neither does the week-old calf. But my cow’s name is Quagala, which means love. So, Katonda quagala means “God is love.” Katonda is the only word I recognize when we read from the Luganda Bible as a family each night, and as we sang Luganda hymns around the dinner table. This part of the night is my favorite. Our discussions are so intellectual and challenging, straight from something like a Dave Smith Bible class. They know the Bible so well.

I get home from school around 7, which is my curfew. The walk is about 25 minutes, though I wish it were longer. The trend for us American students is to gain at least 10 pounds from all the starch. So I admit, I went to bed hungry last night, for I am carefully watching my portions. I will train myself to eat less. The food is alright, though. Beans and rice and matoke (oh goodness…fried bananas…tasteless, no thank you) are the staple foods. But we don’t eat staples, believe it or not. My family has great sauce, meaty—but bony—sauce that I drench everything in, and then I can get over the blandness. The way they cook is incredible; I helped Rebecca last night. To capture enough steam, they cook their stuff in banana leaves.

At 7, we have tea (it’s amazing—and usually Quagala supplies our milk). They drink tea about 3 times a day, I think. With tea we sometimes snack, like groundnuts. After tea—and much Luganda talk (I am learning; they love to teach me)—we have prayer/devotion time. Then we watch TV; they just roll it to the kitchen table and usually watch while we eat. Mainly Spanish soap operas. One of the soap operas has a man named Francisco. All 3 episodes I saw focused on him luring a girl Mackie. So shamelessly, though—as in, his only compliment for her was “You are so beautiful,” or “You are so beautiful,” or “You are so beautiful, so you must sleep with me.” I finally said, “Francisco just says the same thing over and over,” and the whole family laughed. Huntington said, “Look, she knows Luganda!” Because, right before me, like 3 seconds before, Rebecca had said something in Luganda, and apparently, I had repeated her, but in English, and had no idea. It was great.

We don’t eat until around 10 at night. This is the norm. Dinner is when food is ready, period.

Yes, the bathroom is in the backyard (but who can complain to seeing the African sun rise over the hills on your walk to pee?), and yes they are essentially two stalls. What are in the stalls? A whole in the cement. Not too bad, but your aim must be good, and you are sure to increase your leg muscle strength. Positives, I suppose.

I wash in a basin. A green bowl, really—and it’s much easier than I thought it would be. I don’t miss showering—until I will need to shave.

I wake up to roosters and fall asleep to reggae or some sort of music or race going on outside. They stay up late here.

The dirt is red and beautiful—it smells wonderful, and everything is so colorful! And when it rains (essentially, daily, despite it is dry season), the roads turn to rivers of French dressing. Seriously.

The people are so friendly, so hospitable. I can’t say enough how much at home I feel with my family. I return to hugs and Rebecca holds my hands (here, men and men hold hands and women and women. Totally normal) and asks about my day. I couldn’t feel this welcome as a guest in America, that’s for sure.

I got lost walking back to school on the first day, even though my mom walked me to school and I wrote down directions. I guess I forgot that my directional sense is just as bad in a different hemisphere—I still need to make note of landmarks. Some people watched in amusement, and I said, “You can tell I’m lost, can’t you?” but kept walking, because they seemed pleased with this white girl, mzungu, being clueless. So I found someone friendly (and really, this is the norm), and these were two young men, Peterson and Mosa. I gave them the name of my village and my family members, and luckily Mosa was my neighbor and Peterson the grandson of my mom (but do I believe this? I don’t know. Here, extended family is immediate. Rebecca is really my mom’s niece, but she calls her Mommy and lives with her—this is the norm). When I want to figure out who is who, I have to ask, “Biological?” and usually they laugh and say no. Anyway, Mosa and Peterson showed me the way home; I was quite far away. Neither of them offered me marriage, thankfully. The conversation was wonderful. It was Steven, a student, who asked me the next day, “Are you married?” and when I said no, “Then why must you return home?” When I told him I had family there, he said, “Yes, but you need another family too. And maybe a family in Uganda.” Hah. I just shook his hand. Steven wasn’t my type; too forward.

I showed my family the pictures I brought. They gawked at frozen Niagara Falls, and Rebecca said we were the cutest family she’s ever seen. But the picture of Charlie I showed her has him drinking out of the dog bowl, so I am sure she was just being nice. When I walk into our room dressed in the morning, she says “Smart.” Which means nicely dressed, classy. I love the way she says it, how they say everything, really.

Campus is freaking beautiful. Classes are essentially outside, everything is so open. My missions class is even in a hut. :) It is so hilly here, so you can see the full horizon (everything here seems so much more wide and majestic) and hills upon hills filled with colorful buildings and trees. And that is just the view from the cafeteria. Yesterday at the cafeteria, I was taking my plate to the return bins and these two little boys came running up to me and my friend Betsy. They smiled wide and took our plates, then poured our remaining food in the sacks they were carrying. Then they helped themselves to the rest of the food in the bins. I didn’t know how to feel…I was grateful I had food left over for them, but then ashamed that I had to feel grateful for such a thing. There was no shame involved; that’s just how they got their food. They must target us mzungus, for we can never finish our plates with how much they give us.

On my walk home last night, little kids chanted and clapped, “Mzungu! Mzungu! Mzungu!” as I passed. It was more awkward than amazing—weird, being the minority. We are told we all look the same. Sounds about right.

There is so much to catch up on, so many wonderful experiences so far, I don’t know what to say. Except, I never thought I would be a foreign exchange student. The only white kid in my New Testament out of 80 some students. The professor kept saying “pooz pooz” until I realized he was saying “Gospels.” I was so confused when we had to break up into certain groups, and neither did I have a book. I finally found the right group and they all kept turning around to look and me at smile, but in a making fun sort of way, I felt. Until Suzann started asking me questions, to see if I was in the right place. After class she and her friends (Ivan, Frederick, Vicky, Franca, Eunice, etc.) took me to the place where I could get my books, and talked to the man in charge for me, and explained my situation. Suzann even went to the front of the line for me. So hospitable. They constantly say, “You are most welcome!” and carry conversations as if they’ve known you for years. I met a woman on campus, who says she is the grandmother of the campus or Mukono (the town) or something, named Robina. I met her very casually. I didn’t expect her to remember my name. Yet she does. Just like, when I arrived at my home the first day, Rebecca pulled out photos the last host student had brought from Boston. Rebecca pointed to all of her family members and told me how they were related to their host sister. They are intentional, though it comes naturally I think, to genuinely care about people.

Last night Rebecca and I stayed outside to wash my shoes (clean shoes and feet are so important here, just like dressing nicely). It was dark, the stars ridiculously huge, and Rebecca described—and acted out—a dream she had. I told her (I’m interrupting to say Robina just walked in the room I am in, and she remembered my name)…so I told Rebecca a verse in Isaiah that her dream reminded me of. She told me God often speaks to her in her dreams, but this dream had stumped her. When I mentioned the passage, it aligned with what she had prayed for before she went to bed. How amazing that God crosses cultures as He does, to bring unity in His family. So amazing.

“God is amazing” is what my mom said at breakfast (bananas are so much sweeter here, and egg yolk much whiter) the night after it rained, hard. We need rain, or else it is a far walk to the wells. We have a massive, yes MASSIVE tin water tank/tower in the backyard, and it went from empty to full in a few hours. Rebecca told me last night her reasons for loving rain: number one being it reminds her of God’s unconditional love, for rain falls on both the good and the bad. This is more profound than my and Rebecca’s first conversation. We were watching Smallville and I explained to her Kryptonite and some things from original superman, including Christopher Reeve and his unfortunate horsebackriding. But I love and value our conversations. They are always smiling, always laughing, and even when it’s in Luganda and I don’t know what they’re saying, it is hard not to laugh with them.

As long as this stay here is—and trust me, I am constantly reminded and sometimes overwhelmed with such long months—I know already why I am here. And it can’t really be put into words. Other than, quagala is abundant here. Life is abundant. And children actually smile when you wave or even look at them. When Peterson asked me on our walk home what I thought of Uganda and when I gushed about its greatness and my longing of coming for so long, he said, “That is just like us, wanting so bad to come to America.” I wish I would’ve asked him why. I might’ve even said, “Why in the hell would you ever want a thing like that?” Because, really, if it weren’t for loved ones back home, I could stand the basin and the latrine—the cement hole—and give up returning. Maybe Steven’s marriage offer is still up for grabs. I will look for him on campus tomorrow. (On second thought, we are having fish tonight. And so far other students who have been given fish…well, not only is there no tartar sauce and no breading, but let’s just have gills and all, why don’t we? Don’t even bother removing the head. I like to make eye contact with my meal. Yikes).

Until next time.

Some Luganda phrases:

Olyotya? (How are you?)

Bulungi (I am fine).

I wonder what their word is for “more than fine. Much much much more than fine.”

P.S. Mom, don’t worry. I was joking about Steven. I will be sure to refuse, even with dowry.

I might not be able to write very often....

Missing jeans already...hello skirts and adDRESSes.

I've been asked about my address there. Turns out, I've had one all along. And didn't even know it.
Here it is:

Danielle Steadman, Uganda Studies Programme
Uganda Christian University
P.O. Box 4
Mukono, UGANDA

(Yep. That's how we cross the ocean, Mr. Postman).

Two days to go, and words can't describe my excitement.
Thank you, Jesus.