It’s 10:23AM on a Thursday, a school day. Glancing out my window I watch as three cows methodically make they way across the grassy outcrop behind the house. With sticks in hand 2 barefoot boys follow behind, prodding them forward as the sun grows ever hotter in the light blue skies. These children should be in school.
Everywhere I go now, I am quick to notice the children. The little ones with torn and faded clothing. Those walking barefoot on the rocky terrain for long distances. The ones whose skeletal frames cannot be hidden by the shapeless material that falls over their bruised skin. The street children who spend their days huffing glue and gasoline instead of learning within the classroom. The kids who have never known the comfort of a warm and loving home. These are the ones my heart breaks for the most.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Salmonella
The irony of life never ceases to amaze me.
Taking lunch with some fellow Americans recently, I realized how enculturated I had become. Justifiably concerned over consuming produce, unclean water and ill-prepared food, the talk around the table turned to what should and should not be taken. Surprised to discover that I eat everything without a hint of concern it was reasoned that I must have grown accustomed to the food overseas.
Without realizing it I had slowly thrown caution to the wind part in the name of cultural sensitivity and part for survival. Beginning in Morocco, I quickly adapted the “eat with a smile and a prayer” mentality that helps one survive most less then suitable eating situations. Visiting families, especially those who are less affluent, has created some very interesting eating scenarios.
Living with local families has also meant eating the native fair, even though it is clear special preparations are usually made for the mzungu (white person). In Kenya the staple foods are Ugali (maize flour mixed with boiling water and stirred until it reaches a stiff dough like consistency), greens (NOT lettuce or anything resembling it), rice, beans and meat (beef, chicken, fish – when available and finances allow). I have also stopped regularly purchasing bottled water and instead just boil and purify the local water. One on desperate occasion I also took water from the borehole (well) and thankfully am still alive and well. I have been blessed and surprised by the overall health I have been enjoying these past few months.
Last week, however, I began to get sick. Not thinking much of it, I treated my symptoms and continued on with life. Several days later I received an urgent email from a friend informing me to destroy the cliff bars that had been sent as they may contain salmonella. As it turned out, the food I held in my hands had indeed been recalled. Tracing back the days, it wasn’t long before I realized that my symptoms lined up perfectly with when I began eating the contaminated food, with strong indications that I may indeed have salmonella. With little to do but wait it out, I cannot keep myself from laughing at the thought that with all the concern over food, it was the American food that was causing problems and not the treacherous local cuisine. Who would have thought?!
Taking lunch with some fellow Americans recently, I realized how enculturated I had become. Justifiably concerned over consuming produce, unclean water and ill-prepared food, the talk around the table turned to what should and should not be taken. Surprised to discover that I eat everything without a hint of concern it was reasoned that I must have grown accustomed to the food overseas.
Without realizing it I had slowly thrown caution to the wind part in the name of cultural sensitivity and part for survival. Beginning in Morocco, I quickly adapted the “eat with a smile and a prayer” mentality that helps one survive most less then suitable eating situations. Visiting families, especially those who are less affluent, has created some very interesting eating scenarios.
Living with local families has also meant eating the native fair, even though it is clear special preparations are usually made for the mzungu (white person). In Kenya the staple foods are Ugali (maize flour mixed with boiling water and stirred until it reaches a stiff dough like consistency), greens (NOT lettuce or anything resembling it), rice, beans and meat (beef, chicken, fish – when available and finances allow). I have also stopped regularly purchasing bottled water and instead just boil and purify the local water. One on desperate occasion I also took water from the borehole (well) and thankfully am still alive and well. I have been blessed and surprised by the overall health I have been enjoying these past few months.
Last week, however, I began to get sick. Not thinking much of it, I treated my symptoms and continued on with life. Several days later I received an urgent email from a friend informing me to destroy the cliff bars that had been sent as they may contain salmonella. As it turned out, the food I held in my hands had indeed been recalled. Tracing back the days, it wasn’t long before I realized that my symptoms lined up perfectly with when I began eating the contaminated food, with strong indications that I may indeed have salmonella. With little to do but wait it out, I cannot keep myself from laughing at the thought that with all the concern over food, it was the American food that was causing problems and not the treacherous local cuisine. Who would have thought?!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Round Trip to Nairobi
A 24 hour trip with 17 hours on the road, the odds are already not in my favor…
As word spread throughout the day of my planned evening departure to Nairobi, the strange and busy city far, far away, concern mounted for the little blonde haired blue eyed American girl. Growing accustomed to the well meaning fuss of those with slightly less adventurous spirits I sat listening quietly with a smile. Undaunted I departed the quiet rural area of Webuye, catching the bus which was clearly running on African time. Always thinking ahead, Mama Rose had prepared mandas (East African doughnuts) by torchlight (flashlight) and packed enough to last the required two days journey. Waiting over an hour the Mudengo family sat with her, refusing to leave until she had safely boarded the bus.
Embarking the coach, a frantic attendant raced to greet the only mzungu (white person, thus incredibly easy to identify) explaining she had been most concerned over my whereabouts and was relieved to see that I was safe.
The journey from the far edge of the Western Province into the heart of Nairobi city was long and arduous with little sleep and thousands of bumps. Often feeling more like a popcorn kernel refusing to pop as it bounces around a pan, then a comfortable ride through the countryside, I arrived safely into town very groggy and well shaken.
Disembarking, I was startled to find an unfamiliar face calling my name. Walking forward seeking to verify information before proceeding, all thoughts were cut short when the all too awake little man began spouting warm welcomes and greetings on behalf of the Pastor who sent him to watch over me. Clearly enthused by the task, we sat safely within the warmth of the bus terminal waiting for daylight to break. News stories spun overhead of Obama (what else would this country, the motherland for Obama’s father, talk about), while my new friend eagerly informed me of all the wondrous aspects of the city, the country and ALL his friends from the States.
As the hour passed and the sun awoke we made our way across the heart of town to the restaurant of a small hotel where a local pastor from Webuye was staying. Being seated quickly by my guardian, he apologetically raced upstairs to inform the Pastor of our arrival. Waiting patiently I sat, trying to adjust to life in a major city. Making friends with the waitress who also happened to be from Webuye, I found myself sipping a complimentary cup of coffee with milk. On a short walk to the bathroom, I was stopped by the well-meaning waitress who inquired into the security of my bag which I had left sitting at the table under the watchful eye of the Pastor who had met me at the bus station. Assuring her that it was fine I continued on my way. Roughly twenty minutes later, this same waitress returned to once again check on my safety (and clearly my sanity) as she grilled me on my connection to this African man I was sitting with, during what would end up being about the only few minutes I found myself without supervision that day. Reassuring her that he was indeed a trusted friend she seemed satisfied, but continued to keep a close eye on my throughout my time there. Joined by Pastor Gideon and his friend John, the four of us ate our breakfasts of cereal with steaming hot milk (completely wrong in every sense of the word breakfast), before heading out to take care of business in the city.
Coming to Nairobi for only one reason, I was escorted to the Indian High Commission to look into a visa. Signing me in and instructing the guards to keep close watch over me (as I am young, female and liable to simply wander off…) I was ordered to wait at the consult until he returned to pick me. Arriving before the offices officially opened, I sat waiting, watching people come and go. An Indian lady soon stood beside me. Growing bored, I began asking her about her hometown in India. “I am from the southern part,” she coolly responded, clearly not intrigued by this young American thing sitting beside her. “From Bangalore?” I pushed harder. Noticeably surprised that I knew anything of Indian geography, she quickly spouted off a series of other southern Indian city inquisitive to discover the depth of my knowledge. [Sufficed to say, she wouldn’t have had to press much farther as I am still relative uninformed on the world of Southeast Asia.] By the time our short conversation ended, I had a new “Indian mother” and a welcome place in Nairobi.
As word spread throughout the day of my planned evening departure to Nairobi, the strange and busy city far, far away, concern mounted for the little blonde haired blue eyed American girl. Growing accustomed to the well meaning fuss of those with slightly less adventurous spirits I sat listening quietly with a smile. Undaunted I departed the quiet rural area of Webuye, catching the bus which was clearly running on African time. Always thinking ahead, Mama Rose had prepared mandas (East African doughnuts) by torchlight (flashlight) and packed enough to last the required two days journey. Waiting over an hour the Mudengo family sat with her, refusing to leave until she had safely boarded the bus.
Embarking the coach, a frantic attendant raced to greet the only mzungu (white person, thus incredibly easy to identify) explaining she had been most concerned over my whereabouts and was relieved to see that I was safe.
The journey from the far edge of the Western Province into the heart of Nairobi city was long and arduous with little sleep and thousands of bumps. Often feeling more like a popcorn kernel refusing to pop as it bounces around a pan, then a comfortable ride through the countryside, I arrived safely into town very groggy and well shaken.
Disembarking, I was startled to find an unfamiliar face calling my name. Walking forward seeking to verify information before proceeding, all thoughts were cut short when the all too awake little man began spouting warm welcomes and greetings on behalf of the Pastor who sent him to watch over me. Clearly enthused by the task, we sat safely within the warmth of the bus terminal waiting for daylight to break. News stories spun overhead of Obama (what else would this country, the motherland for Obama’s father, talk about), while my new friend eagerly informed me of all the wondrous aspects of the city, the country and ALL his friends from the States.
As the hour passed and the sun awoke we made our way across the heart of town to the restaurant of a small hotel where a local pastor from Webuye was staying. Being seated quickly by my guardian, he apologetically raced upstairs to inform the Pastor of our arrival. Waiting patiently I sat, trying to adjust to life in a major city. Making friends with the waitress who also happened to be from Webuye, I found myself sipping a complimentary cup of coffee with milk. On a short walk to the bathroom, I was stopped by the well-meaning waitress who inquired into the security of my bag which I had left sitting at the table under the watchful eye of the Pastor who had met me at the bus station. Assuring her that it was fine I continued on my way. Roughly twenty minutes later, this same waitress returned to once again check on my safety (and clearly my sanity) as she grilled me on my connection to this African man I was sitting with, during what would end up being about the only few minutes I found myself without supervision that day. Reassuring her that he was indeed a trusted friend she seemed satisfied, but continued to keep a close eye on my throughout my time there. Joined by Pastor Gideon and his friend John, the four of us ate our breakfasts of cereal with steaming hot milk (completely wrong in every sense of the word breakfast), before heading out to take care of business in the city.
Coming to Nairobi for only one reason, I was escorted to the Indian High Commission to look into a visa. Signing me in and instructing the guards to keep close watch over me (as I am young, female and liable to simply wander off…) I was ordered to wait at the consult until he returned to pick me. Arriving before the offices officially opened, I sat waiting, watching people come and go. An Indian lady soon stood beside me. Growing bored, I began asking her about her hometown in India. “I am from the southern part,” she coolly responded, clearly not intrigued by this young American thing sitting beside her. “From Bangalore?” I pushed harder. Noticeably surprised that I knew anything of Indian geography, she quickly spouted off a series of other southern Indian city inquisitive to discover the depth of my knowledge. [Sufficed to say, she wouldn’t have had to press much farther as I am still relative uninformed on the world of Southeast Asia.] By the time our short conversation ended, I had a new “Indian mother” and a welcome place in Nairobi.
The Indian High Commission proved to be even less agreeable in person then they were on the phone. Waiting in line, I had been casually informed that the office used to be quite friendly, but now everyone was angry. Making my way to the front I discovered that the process was going to be difficult then originally planned with additional paperwork, processing and waiting. I was gruffly instructed to return on Monday. Return? Do you have any idea how many hours it has taken me to get here?!? My mind was racing at the thought of repeating the grueling commute again, but his less than lenient face told me I would find no sympathy here. Stifling my cries of frustration I left the office and made my way back to the friendly guard station. Signing out I decided to wait for my babysitter outside.
Standing patiently people watching for several minutes, I soon found myself a great source of speculation with all heads turning as they passed me. One concerned lady stopped to ask if I needed assistance. I politely informed here that I was waiting for a friend. When that didn’t work, I lied and told her I was waiting for my driver to arrive and pick me up. Seemingly satisfied by this response she bid me farewell and disappeared around the corner. A few minutes quickly became an endless stream of waiting as my already exhausted system was growing faint from standing. Resolved to wait, I remained planted at my post, that is until an unwelcomed stranger began to take a particular interest in me. Nodding his approval my mind raced back to the streets and stares of Moroccan men. Repulsed I turned away and retreated toward the entrance of the building. Refusing to let this man win the battle of wills that had unofficially begun I remain outside with my back to the road and eyes pretending to study the intricacies of the plant before me. Feeling his stares lingering ever longer on my back, I grew disgusted and finally took refuge safely inside behind the guards desk. Time stood still as I waited until my chaperon finally returned.
Apologizing for the delay we made our way toward the Stanley Hotel and the center of town. In this manicured section of town that fell between the Hilton and Stanley Hotels, I found my people, the foreigners. It was also here that I found the only half decent bookstore in the area. Not finding either of the two items I needed, I did manage to walk away with two wonderful books I wanted.
Thrilled by the captive audience, my babysitter walked me up and down the streets of Nairobi giving me a guided tour of landmarks, well-known buildings and the history of everything Nairobi. When that conversation stalled, the ever popular game of compare the countries began. Needless to say, America does not have a staple food that EVERYONE eats daily, nor is there a consistent climate or one main crop! With the sun growing ever hotter, my guide asked if I wanted to rest for a while. Thankful for the opportunity to relax with my mission now complete for the day, I agreed. Pleased, he led me passed what I have lovingly named coffee shop row, to an office building of a friend so we could sit in the waiting room. My entire body screamed in protest as we were led into a stoic brick building that looked unchanged since the 70’s and I was shown to a plain awkward chair.
Rescue came in the form of a call, as my phone rang just outside the door to the office. Excusing myself, I stepped out into the hallway to talk. Exhausted and frustrated by the turn of events at the embassy, it was nice to hear a friendly voice. My boyfriend had called to check in on a brief break from work that day.
Finishing the conversation under the watchful eye of my guardian, I reasoned I was too exhausted and tired of the constant supervision to remain in Nairobi until 7:30 that evening to drive back to Webuye with the other pastors. Instead I asked to be taken to the shuttles (matatus – aka. glorified vans). Through my travels I have discovered that well meaning helpful locals are often harmful to the negotiating process, today was no exception. My guard secured the price (50 shillings higher then it should have been) and waited at my side until the vehicle departed.
Free at last we started and stopped all the way through the streets of Nairobi, finally discovering open road outside the city limits. Engrossed in my new purchase I happily lost myself in the pages of another’s life. Receiving a poke from behind, I cringed as I knew what was coming, the sign to shut the window was silently being passed along. Savoring my last breath of oxygen I begrudgingly slid the window shut. Trying to find joy in the 7 hour drive down the hot dusty bumpy road I focused my energies on the pleasantries of life. It was to no avail, as my mind raced and heart seethed with each passing kilometer. Knowing I was going to have to make the exhausting trip again 3 more times over the next week was not encouraging.
Stopping unexpectedly for lunch, I remain planted by the car, willing our break to be short and our journey to continue without any other unauthorized stops. My desire was clearly not alone as two other women stayed behind as well. Trickling back, our matatu once again filled. Back on the road I found it hard to focus on anything but the slowly disappearing minutes. Feeling no closer to home then when we began I wondered if we would ever reach Eldoret. And then it happened, the all to familiar poke to the back of my exposed arm. Turning undoubtedly to face the threat of another ‘close the window’ sign, I was startled to find a pink note being pushed my way. Unfolding it I found a personal introduction and request for a meeting. Annoyed I slipped the piece of paper into the far pages of my book. Unable to forget the words I began to wonder if it was indeed for me. Nearly turning round to ask, I stopped myself with the sinking realization that it had been intended for me as I was the final person in line of hands it clearly passed through.
Hours later our drive ended, having reached Eldoret. However, I was still far from home. With specific instructions from my guardian back in Nairobi, the driver knew better then to simply abandon me. Intrusting me to the care of another, I was passed off yet again and forced to follow behind him as he wove in and out of the back streets of town toward the taxi stand.
Reaching the already filled matatu to Webuye, a frantic argument began between the conductors. Before the dust settled back to the ground, the full matatu had been reshuffled and I now found myself seated in the front row. My new self appointed protectorate 'graciously' agreed to pay my fair - in actuality he was using the money I already was forced to fork over and pocketing the extra for himself, what a gentlemen.
The bumpy 2 hour (I think) drive to Webuye seemed unending as light sky turned to blackness and I was finally deposited at the large junction near my house. Walking down the barely visible cracked dirt paths I edged my way home, thankful to be home, safe and back in the quietness of my small town. The DAY was over and I was finished.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Bed Bugs
Waking up this morning the day began in carnage as I set about systematically taking out the three assailants (aka. Mosquitoes) trapped in the clearly unprotective netting. Having considerably refined my locating and terminating skills these past few months the process took only seconds, but the findings were less than satisfactory as it was clear that they had been taken down post attack, meaning their mission had already been carried out. A bit disappointed I threw back the covers to begin my day, making the worst discovery of the morning. I was not alone. A large (nearly inch long) ant quickly found himself sailing through the air as I decided it was a good time for him to learn to fly off my bed. Thoroughly disgusted I moved toward the exit, but stopped instantly when I was met by the spiky backside of another creepy crawler. Hurling him to the floor I grabbed my shoe and delivered a crushing blow. Good Morning Africa, how I love thee.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
No Power, No Internet, No Blogs
Dear Family, Friends and Faithful Blog Readers
I am currently living in Webuye, Kenya, a town so small I have yet to find it on any maps. The town does have two internet cafes which occasionally work. That is great except for the fact that I don't live in town. Therefore communication is going to be far and few between for the next few weeks. If opportunity allows I will be certain to post. In the mean time know that I am safe and well.
If you would like to get a hold of me you can reach me on my US based number ending in the digits 0596. Thanks!
I am currently living in Webuye, Kenya, a town so small I have yet to find it on any maps. The town does have two internet cafes which occasionally work. That is great except for the fact that I don't live in town. Therefore communication is going to be far and few between for the next few weeks. If opportunity allows I will be certain to post. In the mean time know that I am safe and well.
If you would like to get a hold of me you can reach me on my US based number ending in the digits 0596. Thanks!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Kampala, UGANDA: Returning Home
Returning to Kampala, my home base for the past several months was a bittersweet experience. Entering into the city I expected to feel a sense of relief and comfort, but was instead met with an overwhelming emptiness. Without my Go-Ed team of 13 the city was simply not the same.
My time in the city passed quickly as I caught up with old friends, took care of some business that needed attending to and had some new adventures with a new friend. I spent most of my time there staying with Lulu, a girl I was connected to through the travel website couchsurfing. She is a native Ugandan who works as a journalist for one of the national papers. I had a lovely time getting to know her and her friends all of whom were also related to the media field. It was incredible to hear their stories and their views of the changing status of the country.
My time in the city passed quickly as I caught up with old friends, took care of some business that needed attending to and had some new adventures with a new friend. I spent most of my time there staying with Lulu, a girl I was connected to through the travel website couchsurfing. She is a native Ugandan who works as a journalist for one of the national papers. I had a lovely time getting to know her and her friends all of whom were also related to the media field. It was incredible to hear their stories and their views of the changing status of the country.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Mbarara, UGANDA - Overview
Mbarara, UGANDA: (a bit of review) Having completed my Go-ED semester abroad program in Kampala (the capital of Uganda), I decided to stick around the country for a while and head down south to work with a local pastor and the school/orphanage they run. Pastor Emmy and his wonderful wife Sarah graciously invited me into their home to live for nearly a month, adding another to bring their current household to 13 (occasionally it actually reached up to 17 people).
Transitioning from living in “little America” with my 12 classmates from the States to living with a local family was a unique challenge. I was actually quite surprised by how lonely I felt residing with such a large family and realized after a few days that what I missed the most was the deep conversations I had been sharing with my peers for the last 4 months. Nearly every conversation was held in lunyankole unless a comment or question n was directed specifically at me. I completely understood, but longed to take part in the jokes and stories. Even though the family welcomed me in with open arms and was continually instructing me to make myself at home, the truth is, I always remained an outsider.
Within a week, I had a fairly good grasp on the city and getting myself from one place to another, in addition to navigating my way through the family unit and asserting my need to be treated as an active member of the family instead of a honored (helpless) white guest. The greatest joy of my time in Mbarara was spending time with the kids at the school.
The holidays had just begun and those children with living relatives had all returned to their respective villages, but nearly 40 kids had no family to call home, so they had no choice but to stay behind. Many of these beautiful and precious children were orphaned by disease, life circumstance and some even by choice. How a parent could ever abandon their child, I will never understand.
I wish I could say that I ministered to and blessed them in a mighty way, but I honestly feel like they touched my life in a more profound way then I ever could theirs. Thank you to all of those who sent cards, donations and prayers for the children. With all of your support we were able to provide each child with a brand new outfit for Christmas and supply them with a bountiful Christmas feast. The children were overjoyed when their crisp, colorful new clothes were placed into their hands and immediately raced off to try them on. The sea of color that washed over the dusty brown compound was breathtaking. They were also amazed to know that so many people from a country nearly half a world away cared so deeply about them. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for helping me to bless them and place a Christmas gift into each of their tiny hands. If it weren’t for your generosity, they would have had a very different Christmas.
In many ways I look back and question if Christmas really ever came for me. Located just below the Equator, I experienced a warm dusty Christmas morning without any of the traditional trimmings that signal in the holiday time of the year. Embracing the family’s Christmas tradition we all piled into the 14 passenger van and bumped along down the potholed speckled road to church. I was escorted to my usual seat in front (always where I love to sit…) where I was informed 20 minutes into the service that I would be delivering the Christmas message. [I should have known better]. Recovering from my initial shock I agreed a few minutes later and was given the grace and words to talk my way through a 35minute on the spot sermon. Welcome to ministry in Africa!
The remainder of my time in Mbarara is a bit of a blur as I split my days between teaching and playing with the kids at the school and traveling around with Pastor Emmy and Sarah. Perhaps one of the most memorable and surprising experiences came on my final day in southern Uganda, when I was asked to accompany a small party out to a village to help negotiate the cow price for an upcoming marriage [NO, it was not MY marriage!]. Pulling up to a decent sized home deep in a surrounding village we entered into the very formal marriage bargaining process that actually had a mediator and written out schedule, which was to be followed exactly! After each side presented their case over bottles of chilled coke, a heated bargaining process ensued, with tensions heightening after the males of the brides family left the room to confer. At long last the offer of 2 cows was accepted, all the male relatives were appeased and the feasting began. Then the ceremony naturally concluded with the introductions. Yes, you read that right, for some unknown reason, the introductions of everyone present was reserved for the final moments of our time together – why, I will never understand.
Other highlights from my time there included finally feeling like part of the family, successfully baking a cake withOUT an oven and going into the matatu (taxi) business with our driver Emmy on the 5 hour drive from Mbarara to Kampala.
Transitioning from living in “little America” with my 12 classmates from the States to living with a local family was a unique challenge. I was actually quite surprised by how lonely I felt residing with such a large family and realized after a few days that what I missed the most was the deep conversations I had been sharing with my peers for the last 4 months. Nearly every conversation was held in lunyankole unless a comment or question n was directed specifically at me. I completely understood, but longed to take part in the jokes and stories. Even though the family welcomed me in with open arms and was continually instructing me to make myself at home, the truth is, I always remained an outsider.
Within a week, I had a fairly good grasp on the city and getting myself from one place to another, in addition to navigating my way through the family unit and asserting my need to be treated as an active member of the family instead of a honored (helpless) white guest. The greatest joy of my time in Mbarara was spending time with the kids at the school.
The holidays had just begun and those children with living relatives had all returned to their respective villages, but nearly 40 kids had no family to call home, so they had no choice but to stay behind. Many of these beautiful and precious children were orphaned by disease, life circumstance and some even by choice. How a parent could ever abandon their child, I will never understand.
I wish I could say that I ministered to and blessed them in a mighty way, but I honestly feel like they touched my life in a more profound way then I ever could theirs. Thank you to all of those who sent cards, donations and prayers for the children. With all of your support we were able to provide each child with a brand new outfit for Christmas and supply them with a bountiful Christmas feast. The children were overjoyed when their crisp, colorful new clothes were placed into their hands and immediately raced off to try them on. The sea of color that washed over the dusty brown compound was breathtaking. They were also amazed to know that so many people from a country nearly half a world away cared so deeply about them. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for helping me to bless them and place a Christmas gift into each of their tiny hands. If it weren’t for your generosity, they would have had a very different Christmas.
In many ways I look back and question if Christmas really ever came for me. Located just below the Equator, I experienced a warm dusty Christmas morning without any of the traditional trimmings that signal in the holiday time of the year. Embracing the family’s Christmas tradition we all piled into the 14 passenger van and bumped along down the potholed speckled road to church. I was escorted to my usual seat in front (always where I love to sit…) where I was informed 20 minutes into the service that I would be delivering the Christmas message. [I should have known better]. Recovering from my initial shock I agreed a few minutes later and was given the grace and words to talk my way through a 35minute on the spot sermon. Welcome to ministry in Africa!
The remainder of my time in Mbarara is a bit of a blur as I split my days between teaching and playing with the kids at the school and traveling around with Pastor Emmy and Sarah. Perhaps one of the most memorable and surprising experiences came on my final day in southern Uganda, when I was asked to accompany a small party out to a village to help negotiate the cow price for an upcoming marriage [NO, it was not MY marriage!]. Pulling up to a decent sized home deep in a surrounding village we entered into the very formal marriage bargaining process that actually had a mediator and written out schedule, which was to be followed exactly! After each side presented their case over bottles of chilled coke, a heated bargaining process ensued, with tensions heightening after the males of the brides family left the room to confer. At long last the offer of 2 cows was accepted, all the male relatives were appeased and the feasting began. Then the ceremony naturally concluded with the introductions. Yes, you read that right, for some unknown reason, the introductions of everyone present was reserved for the final moments of our time together – why, I will never understand.
Other highlights from my time there included finally feeling like part of the family, successfully baking a cake withOUT an oven and going into the matatu (taxi) business with our driver Emmy on the 5 hour drive from Mbarara to Kampala.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Ritual Child Sacrifice
Walking through the front room this evening I was halted by the news report murmuring in the background. Alleged child sacrifice stopped. Not exactly the type of breaking news story I am used to hearing. Transfixed I stood watching as interviews and footage was shown of the boy, his mother and father who had arrived at her village home demanding his son. With no authority to refuse, the mother handed over her son who was supposedly to be taken to Kampala for some event, but was instead transported to a shrine for a ritual killing. Interrupted in process, the boys life was spared.
Researching the incident further I discovered that this case was only the tip of an ever growing ice burg in Uganda. A quick internet search brought up related articles such as “100 children go missing in one month”.
Sifting through the information it was disturbing to run across statistics and remarks such as the following paraphrase of why children go missing:
Several reasons children go missing – sacrifice, human trafficking, family breakups, child torture by stepmothers, child labour, negative peer pressure, and child neglect.
I was also surprised to discover that according to reports, the majority of children disappear at night and during holiday time. Not as surprising, but still saddening, many children who do go missing are often taken from rural villages where there is an extreme shortage of jobs and the economic downturn has made life nearly unbearable. Frequently a result of trafficking with the children being promised productive futures in major cities such as Kampala, few children ever see the prosperous promised life.
Apparently money is at the heart of the rise in child sacrifices as well. “The phenomenon of child sacrifice is mainly linked to some witch doctors who persuade their clients to bring along human body parts for use in macabre rituals allegedly as part of a get-rich-scheme.” According to reports, there have been 15 alleged children sacrificed from January to October. It is thoroughly sickening what some people will do for money.
Thankfully though, the majority of Ugandans are equally appalled by this practice and measures are being taken to severely prosecute offenders. Vigilanty justice is more often then not carried out before the police ever arrive as mobs of angry citizens enact an ‘eye for an eye’ legal system so to speak.
Even more troubling (if one could really weigh any of this on a scale) is the fact that these killings and selections are often carried out by family members. In one report a perpetrator was given 50,000 USH (just over $25 USD) to produce a child, so he handed over his own nephew.
Sitting here in this nation I wonder what more I could be doing to help stop this practice beside simply spreading awareness. I am shaken by the realization that there is nothing I can do (well, at least in the final 5 days I am here) as the majority of Ugandan’s cannot even keep this from occurring. General consensus seems to be that if you can intimate the potential killers by making public examples of those already convicted then the rates will drop. I would argue that what really needs to happen is a rethinking of beliefs and practices.
Researching the incident further I discovered that this case was only the tip of an ever growing ice burg in Uganda. A quick internet search brought up related articles such as “100 children go missing in one month”.
Sifting through the information it was disturbing to run across statistics and remarks such as the following paraphrase of why children go missing:
Several reasons children go missing – sacrifice, human trafficking, family breakups, child torture by stepmothers, child labour, negative peer pressure, and child neglect.
I was also surprised to discover that according to reports, the majority of children disappear at night and during holiday time. Not as surprising, but still saddening, many children who do go missing are often taken from rural villages where there is an extreme shortage of jobs and the economic downturn has made life nearly unbearable. Frequently a result of trafficking with the children being promised productive futures in major cities such as Kampala, few children ever see the prosperous promised life.
Apparently money is at the heart of the rise in child sacrifices as well. “The phenomenon of child sacrifice is mainly linked to some witch doctors who persuade their clients to bring along human body parts for use in macabre rituals allegedly as part of a get-rich-scheme.” According to reports, there have been 15 alleged children sacrificed from January to October. It is thoroughly sickening what some people will do for money.
Thankfully though, the majority of Ugandans are equally appalled by this practice and measures are being taken to severely prosecute offenders. Vigilanty justice is more often then not carried out before the police ever arrive as mobs of angry citizens enact an ‘eye for an eye’ legal system so to speak.
Even more troubling (if one could really weigh any of this on a scale) is the fact that these killings and selections are often carried out by family members. In one report a perpetrator was given 50,000 USH (just over $25 USD) to produce a child, so he handed over his own nephew.
Sitting here in this nation I wonder what more I could be doing to help stop this practice beside simply spreading awareness. I am shaken by the realization that there is nothing I can do (well, at least in the final 5 days I am here) as the majority of Ugandan’s cannot even keep this from occurring. General consensus seems to be that if you can intimate the potential killers by making public examples of those already convicted then the rates will drop. I would argue that what really needs to happen is a rethinking of beliefs and practices.
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