A plane touches down in Entebbe, Uganda. Passengers remove their seat-belts and pull their belongings from the compartment boxes overhead. I sit quietly in my seat by the window, not really believing that the plane is on African soil. . .not completely understanding that soon, my feet will be, too. As I leave the plane and begin the descent down the stairs, I feel like the President of the United States whose arrival has been long anticipated and prepared for; I feel like I should be doing the Miss America wave. We are warmly greeted by Pastor George and several members of Elim Church before we board the bus to Kampala. It doesn't take long for the conversations around me to fade into distant chatter. I'm staring out the window, waiting for culture shock to set in. It never does, even though what I'm seeing is so different from what I'm used to. Houses nailed together haphazardly with gaps beween the boards that are so wide a hand could easily reach through; umbrellas so tattered and torn they can't possibly accomplish their job of providing shelter from the sun; shoeless, shirtless children; garbage in burn piles all over the streets; stray dogs wandering aimlessly and of course the red-orange dust. The remainder of the day passes in a surreal haze - room assignments, team bonding and warnings to pull the mosquito net down over our beds before we fall asleep.
Day 1 - I haven't eaten in over 24 hours and still I am not hungry - or perhaps I simply don't want to waste time eating. So I brush my teeth and board the bus. As we drive out of the city, the scene outside my window dramatically changes. Suddenly, we are on red dirt roads barely wide enough for the bus we are riding on and the houses are no longer made of slabs of wood, but of mud and grass. I shiver with excitement and anticipation, but I also wonder if I'll know quite what to do once we get to our destination. We depart the bus and I look around, breathe in the warm African air. There's a little boy across the street staring at me intently and when my eyes meet his, I smile and wave. Next thing I know, I'm being ushered into the school house, where 40 or so children are standing on the "stage" preparing to perform songs for us. I walk through the door and I can't move; can't even breathe. Because for three years, every time I've closed my eyes, it is their faces that I have seen. But my eyes aren't closed now. . .they're standing in front of me. As they sing songs of worship to the Lord, even the smallest of them praising Him in Spirit and truth, I fight back tears. And when they're finished and several of them come over to sit on my lap and hold my hands, everything and every one around me fades away. Several minutes later, I hear people shuffling to their feet and I'm being escorted by five or six children to their classroom. No desks, no chairs - just a small blackboard and some hand-written notes. Desiring deeply to be at their level, I bend to my knees. . .and 15 children sit on the floor around me. I wasn't expecting this and I'm not prepared. So we say our ABC's and count to ten. I could have stayed there, with those children, for eternity. But it's time to go and as we get back on the bus, a part of my heart doesn't come with me.
We visit several schools and orphanages throughout our stay in Uganda, and by the end of day one, I'm beginning to loathe my skin color. It's true what they say, if you want to be treated like a rock star, go to a third world country. At times, children ran alongside our bus, hitting the sides and grabbing our arms through open windows. At least once, we couldn't get off the bus for the number of children swarming the door. My heart melts every time a child grabs my hands - some just content to hold my pinky if there are already several small hands on mine. But I'm also plagued with thoughts of, "What makes me better than them?" and "Why do they value me more than they value their own people?" Mzungu - white person - someone of great wealth. I have no right to say it because I've always had everything I've ever needed, but I wish someone would tell them that America isn't as beautiful as it's made out to be.
Day 5 - I slept at Senga, an orphanage for street boys, last night. It's the closest I'll come to living like most of the people here do (at least on this trip), and still there is electricity. We take a boda-boda and then a cab back to Kampala; back to the slums of Kivulu. It's our second day here and a sadness consumes me because I know we won't be coming back. The past few days of laughing, playing and dancing have been joyous and wonderful. But today. . .today I want sit quietly holding one child on my lap. So I find a spot under the tarp covered shelter and lower myself to the red dirt. Yusef, a boy I met yesterday, sits beside me and puts my arm around his shoulders. Soon, we are sharing worship songs with one another - Yusef singing one in Lugandan then me singing one in English. We go back and forth for several songs until another boy sits down forlornly in a broken chair a few feet away. The wound on his leg has just been cleaned and wrapped by team members doing medical ministry. My heart breaks as I watch several boys walk by, each one poking and jeering at him. As a tear rolls down his face, I move to his side. Yusef follows. His English is poor, so Yusef translates for me. He is 13 years old and has been living on the streets for two weeks - both of his parents dead because of AIDS. He won't say anything more, just sits with his eyes cast down, not bothering to hide the tears. Not knowing what else to do, I pull him to his feet and wrap him in my arms. I'm shocked when I realize he's not fighting me; even more awe-struck when, as I loosen my grip to let go, he holds on tighter. By now, we're both crying. Who's going to take care of him, or 10-year old Yusef, or any of the other boys? Where is he going to sleep tonight? How will he get his next meal? Survival is entirely up to his own capabilities and often times that means stealing - an act that has severe consequences in Kampala. To make matters worse, police give out brutal lashings to anyone found sleeping on the street. He isn't protected by anyone from anything.
The boys walk us back to our bus; goodbye's are said over and over again. I know what this is doing to me; I don't even want to imagine what it's doing to them. I put on my "rock star" sunglasses to hide the tears that are falling like rain, wishing that I could disappear into the seat I'm sitting on. Sadness, anger, heartache. Yesterday as we walked through the slums, I remember thinking that I could see all of this, look into the faces of the people who live here and still walk away untouched. It would be so easy to get on the plane next week, fly back to America and pretend like these conditions don't exist. Even after today, I realize that I could block all the emotions but somehow that seems more exhausting than letting them run their course. Besides, I know they'll catch up with me eventually.
Day 6 - The next two days are "rest" days. Rest from what? I'll only be in Uganda for a total of 10 days; I can rest when I get home. Regardless, our driver is taking us to Jinja where we will stay with the Nesters, who have been living here for several years. Guards, a tall wrought iron gate and finally a large house - upper-middle class by American standards. My heart drops to my stomach. This isn't exactly what I pictured when I signed up for this trip. Can I go back to Kivulu? Sigh. I guess all I can do is make the most of it.
Day 11 - We spent the last three days in Uganda putting on a youth conference at Elim Church. Several countries were represented. Many of the girls tried to teach me how to African dance to no avail. I suppose that means I'll have to visit again soon. Starring out the window as we drive through Kampala one last time, I realize that I don't want to buy them new umbrellas. It sounds hateful even in my own head and I don't immediately understand why the thought occurs to me. But as I process it through, I realize that, simply, I don't want Africa to become "Americanized"/modernized. I love the simplicity of life that comes with not having access to so much stuff; I love that a few blown up balloons can satisfy a child for hours; I love the great faith those who believe in the Lord have; I love the smiling faces that greet me wherever I go despite the gross poverty most of them are accustomed to. Africa is beautiful - the people are beautiful - what they can offer us is significantly greater and far more important than what we can give to them.
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