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....