What reminds you of Aladdin.

Note:

1). This is probably the longest you'll ever read from me.
2). I had 8 pictures to go along with this, but at the last minute, the internet reminds me that it hates me, or hates you, or hates us both. I'm done trying. Sorry.

Takwenyo (yeko). How you greet in Kapchorwa.

It’s hard trying to learn two languages at once. And it’s hard realizing that only miles away in every direction is a different tribal language. It astounds me how many ways you can say “How are you?” and right now, I only know five. Two of them African. Language is a mystery.

Mystery sounds like misery if you say it fast enough. And maybe I am an exaggerator, but: misery is a word I thought of often while I was in Kapchorwa. I can’t even pinpoint why. But these are some of the more obvious:

1). I miss being in control of my choices. Being able to stop at one cup of tea and one banana, because frankly, I’m full. But, even though that cup of tea is the worst you’ve had, you are forced to drink two because Mama wants you to, and she wants you to have two bananas, no—one more, two more. Have five: and all you want to do is puke and then return to Mukono where they accept your stomach for who it is.

2). We had to pack lightly. And I stupidly left behind some necessities that I didn’t realize were necessities at the time. I will spare the details, but I had to get creative, fast.

3). I felt like I had to explain myself every time I needed to use the “restroom.” I would even be on my way there, walking, pink toilet paper roll in hand, and Mama would stop me: “Can you do the dishes first?”

“Is it okay if I just use the latrine really quickly?”

“Well, I would like you to do these dishes.”

“Alright,” and dishes take two hours and you swear you’ll pee your pants.

But other than those things, I really had no reason to complain. Especially because: Kapchorwa is the most beautiful place in the world. And that is not exaggerating. My host dad tried to take a picture of me gawking, the day he took me for a tour.

In Willoughby, I considered myself blessed to have Lake Erie at the end of my street. Beautiful, really: always. But at the end of David and Beatrice’s (my parents) road, is a cliff. A cliff that overlooks a hazy horizon of valleys and hills and valleys and hills and the mountain range of Mount Elgon, and incredible waterfalls. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stand at the edge of that cliff forever, the wind flapping my skirt and my whole life, reminding me of how great and massive and creative our God is.

There’s a scene—in fact, the background of the Menu Screen—in the new Pride and Prejudice, where Elizabeth is standing at the edge of a cliff, and the sun’s going crazy, highlighting everything with such beauty, as if it’s the world’s birthday. That’s what it was like.

Beatrice was my mom, David my dad, Faith my 11-year-old sister, Abraham (13?) I did not meet—he’s at boarding school—Israel is 6, Moses is 3, and Elizabeth (Favor) is 5 months.

It was fun to hike behind Israel and Moses. To see Israel lead Moses; it seemed backwards, but real.

I called Moses “Chelimo.” The Kapchorwans give their children two names: a Christian name and a name that indicates the happenings of the birth. Because Moses was born at 10 AM, which is the time for milking the cows, he is called “Chelimo,” which indicates that very thing. Favor was born while it was raining, so she is Cherop; and I forget the others. But Chelimo stuck with me—and that’s what I called him.

Chelimo was my favorite. Mainly because he was a mystery to me, an unknown adventure. Faith and Israel could speak English, though little. Favor, of course, couldn’t, but I didn’t expect her to. She doesn’t even speak Kopsabine (their language). But Chelimo—sure, he could talk. Just not my language.

I would forget this. He would have one-sided conversations with me all day, playing tag around the compound, him naked, me clothed, or sitting on my lap and playing with my face and hair. I took his talking for gibberish, baby talk. I remember the day I realized that he was speaking—it was me who couldn’t understand:

He was standing in the corner of the kitchen, and I was bending over, my face in his, to make faces and airplane(?) my lips like a motor. He said something in Kopsabine. Mama laughed and translated: “He just said, ‘Are you the calf? Are you going to lick me?’” I was slightly depressed that I was missing out on Chelimo’s sense of humor, because I didn’t know his language. His language that wasn’t baby talk after all.

Favor is beautiful. Black babies, I’ve decided, are more beautiful than white babies. When I wasn’t washing dishes, I guess my only rural work was taking care of her. We took to each other really well. I was thankful for this; too many African babies scream when they see us, taking us for ghosts or something.

Mama was always carrying Favor on her back. In a blanket, wrapped around her and tied to her front. She let me carry her this way too, but only for pictures’ sake. Disappointing. (They loved the camera, wanted pictures of everything).

But even as we fetched water to give the cows, and as we hiked through the banana plantations so Mama could machete off the leaves, she would carry Favor. This woman didn’t rest.

I touched the cow’s utter and laughed. That’s as far as I got, milking-wise. Mama made it look so easy. But, really, they’re slippery. Slippery and hilarious.

I did kill a chicken. Not the way I imagined, and surely not the way you are imagining. I was sitting in a chair, talking to a neighbor. I guess I not only use my hands as I talk, but my legs too. I simply shifted my foot to the right, and Stella points to my foot and yells, “Chick!” I pick up my foot, and there it is. A baby chick. Flat and oozing, twitching its neck. I immediately apologized and felt bad, but that lasted a second. Then I couldn’t stop laughing.

They cooked me two chickens while I was there. A true honor. And they gave me the gizzard. Adeline, one of our leaders here who is a native of Kapchorwa, told us before we went: “If they give you the gizzard, eat it. It’s an honor. It’s for the visitor.” So I ate it, or so I thought: I ate as much of it as I thought was edible. But then Mama pointed to the remains and said, “This is the nicest part. For you, the visitor. You eat.” So I ate it all. The second time they gave me the gizzard, it wasn’t so bad. Rubbery, sure. But the power was out, so we ate to a kerosene lamp and I couldn’t see my food. It is better that way, I’ve decided.

Esther lived at the house too. I thought she was an older sister at first. Friday and Saturday I thought this. But on our walk home from church on Sunday, she told me she has only known the family a few months. She rents from them—yet they call her their daughter. Beautiful.

The first night, Esther asked me about my experience with Compassion International. I told her about Suhail, the little boy in India who Jenny and I sponsor together, and she was really interested. What I found out on Sunday: Esther works for Compassion here in Uganda. After church, we stayed for a few hours to work in the office. She had me type up some schedules and other information for her.

Why this matters: she showed me where in the churchyard the children come to play and learn on Saturdays. There were things that are much like monkey bars, and simply a bunch of land. She showed me the list of names, the Mazungu, who sponsor children who live in Kapchorwa. In Uganda. Walking back home, she waved to a little girl, and I told her takwenyo. Esther told me she was one of the Compassion kids.

You’re in America, sending 32 dollars a month that you don’t see tangibly translated to blessing for a child whose picture and letters you have, but nothing more. You’re never really sure if it’s real, if his life is being changed. But in Kapchorwa, I saw that it was real. It is real.

I’ve never before considered getting sunburnt while bathing. But we bathed outside, in a wooden stall thing. It worked out, having the sun there. I didn’t have enough room to pack a towel.

As far as the latrine goes, it had no door. Which made for nice bathroom time at night. Normally a bathroom view includes a tile floor and maybe a can of air freshener. Not in Africa. You get to watch the moon and the stars. And Faith. Faith escorted me to the bathroom, so I guess I wouldn’t get killed, and stood next to me the entire time. Privacy out the window, as she asked me how much matoke and coffee plants cost in the U.S.

Sunday morning church was nice. The offering was sweet and interesting. As the basket passed me, eggs accompanied the shillings. Someone also put a bundle of greens in there. Just like the old days. This is their income, their tithe. After everyone gave, they auctioned off the items, so the money would go to the church. Makes sense.

I mentioned the stars a bit, when I mentioned the bathroom. But it is also the scenery for the night-milking. So beautiful. They looked straight out of Lion King, really. Rather, I’m only saying that because that’s how all the USP students refer to the stars here. If you ask me, it’s more like Space Mountain. A ceiling you didn’t think could ever be real. We’re talking not just freckles here and there, but the kind of freckles you see on the people who are covered in freckles. All over the sky.

I noticed them most on the last night. I was walking back from Becca’s house (I had visited; I’ll mention that later) with her brother Isaac and my brother Israel, and the power was out. Everything black. The stars have never been so intense.

I hope you don’t need transitions. Because I am just writing as it comes, according to a list of single words, for remembrance sake.

I took a few-hours long walk with Mama, Favor, and Alfred (oh, I’ll get to him) one day. The best part was passing the water well (?), the water fetching area, where we met a woman named Esther. She invited me to church with her on Tuesday, the next day. I agreed. She said, “I will come collect you at two.” And she did. It was a fellowship of about twenty people tops, and it was wonderful. It started with only three of us: Esther, Rose, and me. Rose called herself my mother-in-law the whole time, especially when she found out I wanted 5-7 children. She told me I was an African, an African who needed to marry her son.

But Esther held on to each of us and said the Lord joins us when two or more are gathered, so let’s do it. We prayed, we sang, and people kept coming in. Then there were drums, sweet drums. And testimonies. It was less Anglican than I have experienced in Uganda thus far, but I don’t know the denomination. But we all prayed on our own, out loud, in our own languages. And it was beautiful.

They invited me to greet them, in front. So I did, briefly. Said some Kopsabine words and thanked them for having me—and I thought I had fulfilled my duty. But after a woman gave a really long message, they asked me to share something with them. Esther said I had 10 minutes. It was fun; a man translated for me. I just talked about Psalm 131, what God is teaching me now, all that jazz.

After I spoke, the service was supposed to end. But it started raining pretty crazy-like, and as I said before, the world stops when it rains. So we all sat in there, they all gathered around me, and we talked. They wanted to know why Americans have so few children, and if there were poor people in America. “You mean…white people? Poor white people?” And Rose was astonished that there were drunkards in America too.

Anyway. This Tuesday afternoon was the highlight of my stay in Kapchorwa. I loved it.

I mentioned I went to Becca’s home. What happened was, Becca’s dad came over to drop off a cell phone to be charged, since we have electricity. And naturally, he stayed for tea. Leaving, he asked me, “What will I tell Becca when I see her?”

“Tell her I miss her and I will see her tomorrow.”

“Oh, but why don’t you just come with me and tell her yourself?”

So I went with him. Mama told me to greet her and hurry back.

An hour later, after some passion juice and g-nuts, I said I should probably get going. Becca’s dad said, “But no. We haven’t even had supper yet.”

What I love is that Becca speaks her mind, and hilariously. She told her dad, quite animatedly, that it was my last night with my family, and “You can’t kidnap her! I am very much against child abduction.” That’s that.

But another of my highlights. What a joy to see Becca; it felt illegal, talking to a Mzungu.

One of the days when my Mama was working at the school and I was home with no one who spoke English, an old woman visited. I’ve never been given such nasty looks. She even growled at me, and kept doing weird things with her mouth and eyes. I took Favor from her. Later, my grandmother had told Mama, surprised, that a Mzungu too can know how to keep a baby quiet and happy.

But that lady made me want to run.

Mama Beatrice and I visited her sister’s home. It was the first African hut I ever sat in. And yes, it was sweet. Small but nice. I could live in one, I think. Maybe.

I don’t want to talk too much about Alfred because it was just ridiculously awkward. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable and unsafe. It was one of the no-one-at-home-speaks-English-today days. All except Alfred. And he wanted to talk while we washed dishes. I don’t know, I won’t go into it, but he wanted me to bear his children. It wasn’t implied, but stated.

He was the reason I couldn’t wait to leave Kapchorwa.

They showered us students with gifts as we left. Vincent, V-Money, our bus driver, wouldn’t let Caroline keep the chicken, or the matoke bundle. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. Mama gave me 8 hard-boiled eggs and a funny shirt with a fuzz patch, whatever that is. Hours later, there our van was, pulling up to my familiar rode. Adeline had gotten a phone call from Mama apparently, left the van, and returned with a bottle of fresh honey for me. They really are so sweet.

Overall, I loved the conversations I had with Mama. She just said funny things all the time. Once, though, they said they wanted to give me Favor when I left. So I could take her to America. And that was awkward. Mama also thanked me for being willing to live with them: “Some people think what? They think black people will eat them.”

Some experiences of the other kids in Kapchorwa and Soroti:

Nikki and Holly’s mom, I guess, was quite the riot. Someone had said something to the girls about how they couldn’t fetch water with the rest of them. They think Mazungu can’t get dirty or do anything laborious. Their mom flipped out: “Are they not human? They too must eat! What, are they monkeys?”

And Emily and Allene had to go to a funeral in Soroti. The son of the woman who had died, though, spent the day drinking. Someone went to get him, brought him to the funeral, and everyone beat him with sticks. A dishonor to choose boozing over mourning.

And Todd. Oh, Todd. The one who everyone thinks is Jesus. A person can only take so much. In Kapchorwa, he told me, as people would call him Yesu, he started saying, “Oh hey, George Washington Carver.” Or, “How are you, Chris Rock?”

After two months of it, I think you’d understand. We’re getting snappier. We feel like caged animals. Just stared at, hollered at, told from motorcycles, “I need your love,” and of course, called Jesus.

Feel free to take a break. There is much time/many events to cover.

After Kapchorwa, we had some days to chill in Soroti. I wisely chose Betsy as my roommate, under the condition that we would fall asleep talking about all the foods we couldn’t wait to eat. It felt more like lust, going back and forth:

“Captain crunch berries.”

“Lasagna.”

“Confetti, vanilla cupcakes.”

“Cinnamon rolls. Pillsbury. Hot icing.”

It was a good time. The power went out and we ate honey from contraband cups and forks, in the dark.

The following day is still a blur, because they didn’t really prepare us for it. It wasn’t until we spent an afternoon with a bunch of people and got back on the van that we learned the place was raided by the LRA in 2003. There were mass graves we saw from the window, and we were told that some of the abducted children still haven’t been returned, and those who have, are suffering crazy trauma right about now.

The issue was treated much like September 11 is treated by us now. “That’s over now. That’s our past.” No one really wants to talk about it. It’s a reality, though. One of the Soroti kid’s host-dad showed her where they used to live, near the road, before they had to hide deeper in the bush, to avoid being killed or captured. Intense.

All 36-or-so of us left Soroti and the chill days to return to Kapchorwa for more debriefing/relaxing. We stayed in cabins at a retreat place that half-burned down the day before. Interesting. The cabin I stayed in was sweet—mainly because there were holes in it, and when there was a sweet windstorm Saturday night, I not only heard it, but felt it. It’s not often you feel the wind as you sleep.

Saturday we spent the day hiking up and down Kapchorwa’s almost-mountains and to all 3 of Sipi Falls’ waterfalls. It was a sure good time.

When we weren’t hiking, we were on top of the most beautiful cliff/mountain. Sharon and I spent much of our time up there, and called it Steaddricks, our names combined. We read African literature to each other up there, and watched the clouds—which seemed to be in reaching distance.

Saturday night, this same mountain was our star-gazing spot. For about 10 of us. We talked about New Kids on the Block and other things, and tried to find the constellations. Two slept up there—this, the night of the windstorm. Crazy jazz.

I feared sleepwalking right off of it.

The best part of the star-watching night: Kapchorwa has basically no electricity, save for a few select homes. Which means: one of the hills our cliff overlooked was completely black, except for about 7 lit-up houses. It was gorgeous, and reminded me of Aladdin. Which part? Who knows? But it reminded me of Aladdin.

Sunday morning this same mountain was our sanctuary for church service.

Amazing to sing songs about mountains, and God’s making of the mountains, on top of a mountain. These two hours are the culprits of my insane sunburn.

I don’t remember if I mentioned this earlier: but I missed my Mukono family like crazy. I don’t know how I will say goodbye to them in April.

I came home to new hairdos had by all, and I found out that Huntington is not Huntington, but Hannington. Which makes sense: Sharon couldn’t figure out why she overheard people calling him Hans. The name of my brother’s old turtle and my mom’s grandpa. Sweet.

And last night was amazing, if you can say that. Another hour and a half with Rebecca. I wrote a poem about it today.

I feel so inadequate, talking to her. As far as: I have no words to say, nothing that can ever measure up to encouragement. She hates her job. She wants out of Uganda, or at least out of a home that isn’t hers. She wants to leave the room that has 4 bunkbeds, one for each daughter who has already left and started her own life. She wants to feel and know that God is on her side, because it sure doesn’t seem like it. She shows me the oldest picture she has of herself. She is about four and frowning.

“I have always been sad. What makes you sad? Nothing.”

I don’t know the sadness that comes with Christians. Because it boggles me, I can’t understand it. How can Christ and unceasing sadness be in the same category. They can’t, or so I thought. With Him, I have only known boundless joy, joy that makes you feel like life is a dance, a wellspring. But she tells me God is far, and when, when will He do something for me?
And I come from the land of opportunity, the land that makes me unable to answer. Because these are circumstances I don’t know, circumstances I don’t understand.
She is wise, and she is wonderful, but she is sad. That three-letter word seems so much deeper and so much more binding than it first implies.

I have the bunkbed to her left. So now there are only two empty ones. Two empty reminders that Jackie and Josephine have left, are on their own, and Rebecca isn’t.
When I leave, there will be three again. How am I supposed to leave her? Hmm.
Listening and praying. I think that’s all I can do, really. As active as those are, they do seem inactive, and sometimes worthless. But they’re not. I know they’re not.