The Life and Death of Baby X: A Bedtime Story

The following is a true account. It is based on what I saw, what I know and what I can only imagine.

Deep in the ferny mountains of Uganda there existed a rare creature, a feral woman that was born without a heart. Her empty cage of ribs held to a hollow space that throbbed with infinite vacancy. And when she would open her mouth to speak an embarrassing whistle was produced instead of words, exposing her handicap. You see, where her heart should have been there were only ventricles that were attached to a vat of peanut butter and jelly. Many would consider that a fine substitute, but the brutish woman hated sandwiches as she hated herself and everyone around her.

When she discovered her belly was expanding outward more and more, she hated that too. I will not go into much detail on who the father was or how this all came to be. I will just say that the father was either the farmer that lived around the corner from her or it was Larry Birkhead, but his people aren't returning any calls to confirm. Anyway, baby X thrived off the small amount of peanut butter and jelly inside of that cave, but it was not enough. The mother's emptiness echoed in the womb. Baby X knew if there was love in the world it would not ever be found with her. Thus, the baby pushed and kicked, begging to be unleashed to begin its search for love. And released it was, but several months too early.

Baby X was a girl, a very tiny girl. She was born in the back bathroom of Petrol station. The mother’s stifled whimpers were unnoticeable to those pumping their gas. For a moment when the mother picked up the newborn, she paused and quizzically stared at the baby like one would at a Sudoku puzzle. The world held its’ breath, maybe a miracle would happen and an inkling of maternal affection would spark. But that moment passed, and with it a sigh as the mother dropped the child down the latrine hole. Down, down, down baby X fell. She landed with a small and distant splash, signalling the deed was done. The perpetrator left the restroom hurriedly. Surely, you ask, the mother threw a remorseful glance over her shoulder? She did look back when crossing the street, but only sending a silent wish that baby X had landed bottom up.

She didn't get that wish. There at the base of that dank dark well- baby X survived. Her journey should have ended there in the deep tar pit where Van Gogh swirls of slime and sludge lapped at her tiny ankles. But floating in the fecal abyss, that slow-moving vortex, she held on. How or why?- that is beyond any imagination I could ever write from. When the narrow light from above was eclipsed by the moon of another she let out a weak warble, a cry for humanity to show some pity, redeem itself. Her call was answered and she was elevated to the light. Up, up, up she was raised out of the bowels of that hell.

But her hell on earth was not yet over. Her memories of that time were a shuffle and scramble of hot hands on her. Some were thick cushiony palms with hairy fingers, others were long and flat with bony knuckles. And as she was passed from one set to the next, she felt an urgency that would sweat out of the pores of her clutching cradle. These hands were afraid of her fragility. When the merry go round finally stopped, baby X found herself in a hospital room bed. She lay there day in and day out, which created a constellation of painful bed sores.

A few weeks later her body gave in, but her spirit refused. Even a blood transfusion was not enough to make her well. For every minute of every hour for several days a little droplet of blood was injected.

But as her breath grew fainter, the doctors would slowly exit the room one by one, never returning. And one last nurse who had taken a particular liking to the child came over and put a dab of chocolate on the baby’s tiny pursed lips. The nurse thought no harm in it, seeing as the child was on the way out might as well give it one taste of life's pleasures. The child had surely seen it's share of life's pain. The small sampling on the baby's petals melted to her palette. It sent a euphoric wave through her body, from her ears to her toes. The blissful shiver, barely noticeable, was an extended gesture of her gratitude for that parting gift. She had found kindness and was thankful. Shortly after, the wide African sky above smiled and swooped down sucking the child in like sweet lemonade. She let herself go with it, quietly and sweetly.

Michelle.

Her caregivers imparted her with a name. Michelle. It was a name quickly given and almost quickly forgotten. At the funeral, the pastor cleared his throat to begin his sermon, "We are gathered here to give a proper burial to...to...". Her name had slipped right out his head through his left ear and was making its way down the side of his dirtied button-down shirt. His eyes frantically searched his notes in hand. Someone saved him by whispering the answer. He finished the short speech directing it at a small group of gatherers that consisted mostly of paid diggers. They hung out by her open grave like a pack of bored porch dogs. Their hands flopped over the top of shovel handles. Their eyes shifting, ticking, glancing at their watches and wondering how long this will take before they can get to the nearest pub and catch the second half of the Arsenal vs. Manchester game. No tears were shed there. Although, the surrounding banana trees wept; their palm leaves swayed, sprinkling a patchwork of light on the ground. From her place in the high mosaic, baby X peered down and watched as her humble box lowered into the earth, then she turned back around and continued to stuff her face with finger sandwiches. She had a palmetto cheese in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly one in the other. The End.

You know that age-old riddle, "If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, then does it make a sound?" You can also ask, does a person really exist if they never have a name and no one ever knows them? I like to believe that every child has a purpose. I don’t have children, but if I did I would hug them. Tightly. And in between several "I love you’s”, I would repeat their name. A name can sometimes be the herald of our memory. It is a reminder that we have meaning and that we matter to someone in some way.

I will remember Michelle.

All's Quiet on the Eastern Front

Kelli and James have since departed and the days no longer play out like A Comedy of Errors. They read now like A Winter’s Tale, long with a pinch of melancholy. My dad tells me that I shouldn’t be in a third world country alone and I reply back by quoting some feminist line I might have read online or on the back of book somewhere. Later that night, when two thieves attempt to break into my apartment I think maybe my dad was right. I can handle it though.

When I walk the streets of Kampala, I overcompensate for my vulnerabilities by shooting off confidence and attitude like roman candles. I’ll admit it also helps to have your own personal theme song playing in your head when walking unaccompanied. I usually select something in the rap genre, a little rougher, maybe some DMX. I think somehow this puts an edge in my step. Maybe people will not want to mess with a girl that walks like an angry pirate, minus the cool parrot and peg-leg, although one of my legs is shorter than the other.

However, none of this seemed to hinder a man from deliberately getting off at my taxi stop just to hit on me. He followed me for a few steps and approached by opening with his top ten pick-up lines followed by the disappointing second act, the old number request. I responded with the usual- that I don’t own a cell phone here in Uganda. And of course right then the “mosquito” ring tone I chose emits from my backpack; My cell phone, which is happily nestled next to my malaria pills, buzzes, laughing at my humiliation. Besides that instance, I haven’t had any trouble living and working by myself. I actually enjoy it. I just imagine that I am Erin Brokovitch, or Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, minus the cleavage.

It’s funny, as self-reliant, self-assured and (insert all of those other positive self words) as I exude to be and at times possess, I own equal portions in weakness. These children remind me of that and that the very same ratio occurs in life. Life, you know- that crazy yin-yang pendulum thingy that inevitably keeps swinging to and fro, in our favor and against. When the balance tends to tip we hope that need does not spill over into greed, that despair will not sour the return of love. The children force me to recognize the frailty and preciousness in being.

And Joshua is an excellent example of that reminder. I walked into the babies’ home yesterday and was greeted by a new boy. Not greeted really, more like stared at. We locked eyes. My mouth opened, I was transfixed. His mouth mirrored mine, but only because he was too drained to close it. “This child came in yesterday,” some ominous voice behind me called out like an intercom. I didn’t turn to see who the voice box was. “He was found on someone’s door step, crying. As you can see he’s malnourished,” the voice box spoke again. I glanced down at his flesh, which apparently was abandoning him also, dried and withered; it drooped off his body escaping the bone. For an instant I was frightened of him. The sight of him paralyzed me. A lady holding him placed him in my arms. My hand grazed his back. His shoulder blades were jutting out like he was sprouting wings. I could feel my heart beating faster. Oh god, please don’t let me lose it. I have seen a lot in my few months here, can I please not lose it now. Not in front of all these nurses. His head pressed against my chest and I absorbed his helplessness; somewhere inside me it did a waltz with my own vulnerability. A huge knot welled in the back of my throat. I felt like I had swallowed a lego.

I held him for three hours. The other nurses said he would not sleep. I understood why. I rocked him very softly. He started to nod off and if I moved even an eyelash he would reawaken, eyes wide and searching. His weak hands would dig their soft fingertips into my arm, begging for me to not disappear. I am so sorry little man. I am so sorry.

I gazed at the top of his head and silently prayed, wishing somehow my words would descend upon him, forming shingles or plates of armor, protecting him. I don’t really pray much, but I did for him.

I kept it together at the babies’ center for the most part. Although, I didn’t make it all the way home. He resurfaced in my mind when I was at the supermarket. I was in the drink section grabbing a sprite and his face popped up, his little arms, little dangling legs. I don’t know. I guess it surprised me suddenly, overwhelming me like an asthma attack, clenching tighter and tighter with each inhale. I turned the corner and saw that the bread aisle was empty, so I stood there. And next to a dozen muffins, I quietly let it out.

After I was done I recomposed myself and went to check out.

And I thought Britney was Crazy

It’s been pretty quiet in my neighborhood ever since they removed the crazy lady that lived next door.

A couple nights ago it was not so peaceful. I woke up at 3AM. Normally, the only things that rouse me from my slumber are the mosquitoes that feast on my ankles as if they were at a buffet table. Seriously, I look like I have chicken pox with all my bites. I douse myself with Off Spray, but I think the mosquitoes just consider that a marinade. No, this time it was not bugs that stirred me. It was painfully loud screaming coming from the woman next door.

The yelling was so deafening she might as well have marched into my bedroom and crashed her cymbals into my ear. It sounded like a man was trying to calm her down, but she was going ballistic. She would ramble on in Lugandan and her voice would peak. It was as if she were practicing her scales. It’s similar to when your voice breaks when you attempt to sing along to a Mariah Carey song in your car. In any case, it was aggravating. After maybe an hour of this, I was about to walk over there and introduce my fists, but the noise quieted. I shoved my head under the pillow and fell back asleep.

Round 2 came four hours later with the same wild shrieking. I got out of bed. No use trying to sleep. I peered out my window. I hid behind the curtain trying to catch a peek of what was going on. A small cluster of neighbors had gathered and surrounded her home, investigating the commotion. Unlike me, they didn’t try to hide their voyeurism. How long could her ranting go on? Wouldn’t she grow tired of being crazy?

Well, apparently not. When I returned home later that night after spending the day in Kampala, she was still at it. The conflux of onlookers had grown. I tiptoed by her house. There were several Muslim men in a small group, discussing amongst themselves. I could see her in the window behind the bars shouting at her spectators. They had locked her in her home for fear that she might be a danger to others. Her hands wrapped around the bars, she thrashed her head wildly. She was pleading with the outside. From what I gathered by the murmuring crowd, she was insisting that there were evil spirits in her home. One person believed that her husband had left her. Someone else said that was not the case, because her husband lived next door with his second wife and family. No one really knew why she lost it. The Muslim community had encircled her and begged her to allow Allah to rid these evil spirits. I came up with a good idea that might calm her down. Why not just throw a really big blanket over her house? It always worked on my pet bird when I wanted it to go to sleep and stop chirping. I thought I might throw that suggestion into the hat.

My solution was not needed, because the next day her house was quiet. The crowd had left. Her windows closed and curtains drawn. I am not sure where she went. Now, the only sounds I hear from outside my window are the roosters.

P.S. I just got through typing this and I let out a blood curdling scream. And not because I too have gone insane, but because a GIGANTIC mouse just ran past me. And I am not talking cute Stuart Little type mouse, I am talking ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT A CAT type mouse. I think it ran into my room. There goes another night of sleeping peacefully.

Keeping the faith

Kelli and I found ourselves heading out east, again. We endured another five-hour van ride along a maze of great potholes. Once more, we past through what my lungs deemed must be a great dust bowl. This trip better be worth it. Our previous visit to Busia had been cut short and we wanted to spend more time with a man named Gerald and learn about his program called Radiant Love Caring Mission.



I have been filming a few of these organizations, such as Radiant Love, so I can include them on my website at www.projectsuubi.com. I want to make a commercial for each, showing the programs that are at work. I believe the visual blurb will be a better tool to get people to donate. All the funds that Project Suubi had raised were dispersed among groups within the first few weeks upon our arriving. All we offer now are our hands and hearts. I can help network an organization which might lead to possible funds, but I cannot personally bear money. Sometimes that does not sink in with people. Once the word “money” is mentioned at all, people’s eyes glaze over and a steady string of drool comes out their mouths.

To Ugandans, if you are a mzungu (white person) you must have money. It is just plain fact and cannot be disproved. Kelli and I frequently display our empty pockets, but that method is never successful. When volunteering, what we represent to Ugandans tends to work against us. As soon as we stepped out of the van we met trouble. The word had gotten around that we were meeting with Gerald, and other non-profits in the area were jealous of this. “They say I am stealing the mzungus away from them,” Gerald exclaimed to me when we arrived. I corrected him, “Don’t worry about it. We are not property or possessions that can be stolen. We can visit with whom we please.” I was a little dumbfounded by this unexpected situation. The non-profits were fighting over us like two kids deciding who gets to push the elevator button. I find this a strange mentality for any non-profit to have, especially ones that share the same goal. You don’t see PETA getting pissed because Greenpeace gets a large grant to fight poaching. This isn’t the space race, people. Who cares who helps the orphans first as long their helped? There should be some camaraderie in Busia between organizations. Unfortunately, there is not.

Gerald shuttled us into the back of a beat-up car and we set out to gather information on Radiant Love

Or not.

Gerald stopped the car on every corner and chatted up every passerby. He found reasons to lollygag. It began to dawn on me that he was showing us off. He wanted to be seen with Kelli and I, the mzungus, his mzungus. He was like one of those sixteen year old boys that cruise around mall parking lots proudly showing off their new Ford Mustang.

I finally got frustrated and cracked my whip. Our time was limited here. We needed to get down to business; no more pussyfooting around (by the way, “pussyfooting” has got to be the most ridiculous word ever). Anyway, we set off to visit four areas, each led by a different coordinator of Radiant Love. Some of the places we reached by foot, because there were no roads. When we crossed a rickety bridge, Gerald declared that we were the first mzungus to pass over into this land. Too bad, I left my flag at home.

In each area a massive amount of people had mobilized to greet us. Kelli and I repeated why we were there videotaping. I then recorded personal story after personal story. Women grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to them, “school fees, please, school fees,” they’d whisper in my ear. There were hundreds of children running around. They should be in class, but none of them can afford it.


At one stop there was young albino boy. When I shook his hand I could feel his burned raw skin and his ears and lips were severely chapped. Kelli grabbed the sunblock out of our bag and showed it to his grandmother. We tried to explain that he has no pigment, melanin, in his skin to protect him from the sun’s harmful rays. He needs special attention and should wear a hat and longer layers when playing in the sun. Kelli opened the bottle and smoothed the lotion on his peeling body. The other children formed a tight circle around her, inquisitively watching her strokes. As she finished, she put the sunblock in his hand and reminded him to use it everyday. Sadly, that lotion will most likely be passed around and emptied before nightfall.


I listened to plea after plea. One girl’s cheek had swollen to the size of cantaloupe. She was badly in need of a dentist. “Please, I cannot afford medical care,” her guardian implored. When we left the zone, I turned to Gerald. I tried to clarify that the people I have met seem to carry false hope that I will be the solution. This mistakenly implied responsibility cannot rest on my shoulders. I hope the video will bring in funds, but I will not physically be here to pass donations out. I could do my part and round up donations, but Radiant Love was going to have to be accountable for distributing. They will have to answer to these distress calls. I continued to question Gerald, is Radiant Love ready for that incredible responsibility? How will they decide who gets school fees and which child receives aid? These questions must be thoroughly considered before funds come in. He nodded and said he understood. But as the day wore on, all I saw were more people praying for relief. I had a lurking fear there was no program set up, no plan of action, no proposed solution.


We spent that night at Gerald’s house. His wife made a feast for dinner. She brought out plate after plate and sat them on the table in front of us. “If you do not eat, I will fight you,” she stated. I let out a chuckle thinking she was being humorous, but she shot me a serious glance. She wasn’t kidding. I gulped and wiped off my smile. She disappeared into the kitchen to fetch more plates. Kelli and I quickly looked around the room for a way out. I seriously considered dumping some of the food into my camera bag. After we cleaned three plates each, I unbuttoned my pants and sighed. “Eat more, eat more,” Gerald and his wife encouraged. You have got to be kidding me. Kelli distracted them with a long story and I used the old childhood tactic of pushing food around on the plate to make it appear like I had eaten a lot.

Right before bed, Gerald sat us down and requested that we help him find school sponsorship for his four children. They were already in school, but he wanted to place them in better boarding schools. There was a silence before I responded. Frankly, I was a little taken back that he would ask this of us, considering the number of children we met today that do not have the opportunity to ever see the inside of a classroom. I said I would try, but to remember that his children are lucky. They have two parents, their health, and can afford education. Kelli and I shared a glance. We have spent so much time together we no longer need to communicate verbally. We both knew that the other was nervous, for how can we trust him to not use the organization’s money on his own family.

We quietly sat there. I watched a mouse scurry over a mat that his child was laying on. I guess I can’t blame his request, really. You find that in a lot on non-profits the people that are running them are struggling and in need themselves. How can you begin help others if you can’t help yourself?


The next morning we woke up early. Kelli and I were heading back to Kampala that evening. If Radiant Love was an actual program and not just an idealistic afterthought I had to find out today. We traveled out to the fourth and final area. The director of that area, a man named Jimmy, was a little preoccupied because he had spent the majority of the night trying to find a doctor for his pregnant wife who had fallen dreadfully ill with malaria. Despite his troubles, he surprisingly still wore a smile when he met with us. He showed us the zone’s school and children’s center for the orphans. Plus, he took us to see land that was purchased for building a larger school and a farm. This is what I wanted to see, someone who had their act together.

Before we departed, Kelli and I sat down with all the coordinators in each of the zones. We went over our findings. There is an immediate need for schooling. If Radiant Love is fortunate enough to receive a $3000 donation, they can easily spend that on school fees for 10 children for one year. OR they could put that $3000 towards building a school that would educate many more children for many more years. We reiterated that the focus needs to be kept on long term results and not immediate consumptive needs.

We reviewed their project proposal/budget and made corrections. Night was upon us and it was time for us to bid adieu. We parted ways and I squished myself into the back of the van and prepared for yet another torturous ride home to Kampala. I practiced my yoga, contorting my body to find a comfortable seat position. Although that never happened, I did find comfort knowing that I had not lost complete faith in the Radiant Love program. These directors will come together and create accountability and responsibility. This organization will survive. Why am I so sure of this? Because they possess a rare empathy and understanding of what is going on. They face the very same challenges and fears, which has made them even more determined to fight for improvements.

I don't know any lullabies

I thought I knew a lot about babies. But I think the majority of my knowledge is collected from the mélange of late 80’s movies like Three Men and a Baby and Look Who’s Talking. What information I didn’t gather from John Travolta and Kirstie Alley I figured I would innately know being a woman.

But when the lady in charge of the Watoto Babies Home pointed to a door that two babies were behind and that I was solely responsible for their care over the next eight hours, I panicked. Of course, I gave a confident nod and shrugged, “Oh yeah, babies, no problem.” I strutted down the hall to the door nonchalantly like I do this kind of a thing on a daily basis. They should have Kelli do this, since she has more experience. I wonder if it’s too late to switch. I stepped into the room and closed the door quietly. No crying yet, so far so good. They were in their cribs- the prematures. These babies are not supposed to be in this world yet.

I leaned over and stared at them in their double-bunked cribs where a mosquito net was placed loosely over to protect them. “Keeeep sleeeeeping”, I said in a really slow voice, hoping I could maybe hypnotize them into not causing me trouble. I checked out the hanging charts next to them, I needed to record when I fed, bathed, changed, and weighed them. Simple. I turned around taking in the rest of the room. Now, I just need to kill time. Maybe I’ll just snoop through all the cabinets and drawers. Right as I had the great idea to see if I could turn two diapers into cool earmuffs, the first baby began to stir. I checked the chart again, this is a boy and his name is Joel. Okay, so first I need to bathe him. I hesitated when picking him up. This thing is so tiny. My two hands did a dance around his body, as I decided the best way to pick him up without his head popping off. I scooped him up and moved him to a table to undress him. My movements were slow and meticulous, like I was diffusing a bomb.

I renamed Joel, William. I hope he was fine with that, because that is what I accidentally kept calling him. I think I passed the test of bathing and changing with flying colors. However, making the bottle was like assembling a rocket. In the middle of calculating the appropriate mixture of formula and medicine, the other one woke up. Her name was Esther. I told her to wait in line, until I was done with William. She refused and tested her lung power on me by releasing a loud wail. William answered her call and joined in the chorus of crying. I now had two of smallest creatures in the world in my arms, bellowing. I picked up one bottle with my elbow and clutched the other with my chin.

Thank god for rocking chairs. They are the best invention in the world next to nail polish remover. I balanced William on my lap and Esther in my arms. I rocked them slowly as I tried to tell them a story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Funny, try as I might, I couldn’t remember any of the classic children’s stories. So in my rendition, the three bears were drag queens and there might have been a car chase and some aliens. Esther and William languidly listened and were peaceful for about fifteen minutes. For fifteen minutes I was in love with them. That is, until the whirlwind of changing and feeding began again. Our cycles of eating and sleeping are daily and newborns are every thirty minutes.

I was elated when my replacement finally arrived, because that was the most tiring 8 hours of my life. As I was heading out, I told the nurse that Esther needed a diaper change. I handed Esther over, as her diaper dam collapsed and released a river of pee down my shirt and leg. I think that was her way of saying that she would miss me.

I had to include this picture of Doctor Moses. If I was 35 and financially stable, I would adopt this kid in a heartbeat. I think they call him the Doctor because of this enormously large brain. He has Tuberculosis and looks a bit like a little frog. He loves music and playing drums. He is also a bit of an intellectual and an elitist. If the other one year olds are drinking from bottles, he will have his milk in a cup. If the others are eating mush, he insists on a banana. I appreciate his refined tastes. Other children would annoyingly pull off the hat or sunglasses I place on them, not Doctor Moses, he takes to sunglasses like a battered wife.

When you wish...

My mother called me yesterday. I was desperately trying to pick goat meat out from a deep crevasse between my teeth, when the phone rang. The arduous task of finding something that could substitute as floss was mentally consuming me. I was running amok, looking. Would my bracelet work or the edge of this business card I plan to never use? Maybe this iPod cord? My search was halted when I answered the phone. I brushed my mother off and asked that she call me later. I need ten more minutes to complete my mission against this piece of unrelenting, un-budging meat.

My mother agreed to call back, “That’s fine. I just wanted to say, really quickly, that I sent an email to Anderson Cooper and Ellen Degeneres about your blog and what you are doing…” I giggled. I would be lucky if an intern of those shows read the first five words of that email. Let’s just say if an intern did happen to read it and did hand it over to an assistant’s assistant of an assistant producer’s hairdresser. Um…that hairdresser would thank the intern kindly and use my mother’s printed email as Kleenex or origami paper and would fold it into the cute kangaroo shape. That is, if I am lucky. However, the thought of my mother taking time to send those emails warmed me. She’s cute. My mom finished her sentence hurriedly, “…and also…your granddad had a stroke and is in the hospital.”

…

I stopped and didn’t move a muscle, listening to the other end, frozen. There is nothing that socks me in the chest and yanks at my heart faster than listening to my mother’s voice begin to quiver over the phone. Hearing her stifled pain completely unzips me.

…

Now, that I have taken my moment, I am going to skip the emotional part. I should probably keep that to myself. I only mentioned it because when I got off the phone with her I got to thinking of my grandfather, my family, and the amazing places they have been in their lives. The memories collected and cherished. Their travels and experiences not only safeguarded in hundreds of overly stuffed photo albums, ones that I would finger through for hours as a child, but kept alive through reminiscences around dinner tables and Christmas trees. I too, am gathering my own life’s lessons and wonderful experiences here in Uganda. They will be my most treasured, always. Before I actually physically start to turn into Dr.Phil, or worse I explode into a million little emoticon fireworks, I just want to emphasize that I know I am a truly lucky girl.

I hope that the children I have met here should be as blessed as I have been. The other day a little girl took off my watch and she stared at it in amazement, when I showed her it had the indiglow feature she lit up more than my watch ever could. My watch somehow disappeared with her and now I wake up thinking it is 2pm when it’s actually 7am. However this is alright, because the kids here have nothing to play with. I see children cut the plastic water containers in half and use it as a make-shift sled. You should see how they play with a tire for hours.

So, I guess all of this leads me to the unveiling of my two to three year plan. Drum roll, please. I would like to give some special children of Uganda the time of their lives, if only for a week or two. I want to take them on a trip, and nowhere else in the world brings children more joy and happiness than Disney World. Now, could my friends in the age bracket of 20-30 that are reading refrain from shouting anything cynical at the computer screen. Shut up and think back when you were a kid. Remember a wonderful place you loved that had so much magic, even if for a limited time. And don’t say the library because 1) you are lying and 2) They don’t have those in Uganda either, so there.

Now, I will continue to network and fundraise for all organizations I have worked with, but this is just my large pet project. I think Julia Roberts sappily said it best in Steel Magnolias in that heart wrenching scene with Sally Fields, “ I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” The children chosen would be from an organization called Radiant Love Caring Mission in Busia. All are orphans living with HIV/AIDS, most terminally ill, and they are in desperate need of a little magic.

I could focus all my efforts on spreading the wealth over an entire village. Why not spend that money on food, shelter, or medicine? Like I said, I will continue to fundraise for those programs. But I have a different aim with this project- Joy. Covering the necessities is important to me, but so is bringing the children joy. Even if given shelter, these kids will still be spending their time playing with tires and raising other kids. I want to allow them a break from that stress and let them be children for a little while, even if for two weeks. Now, this will take a lot of planning. I would have to arrange health clearances for travel and RNs to come along. I would need to get sponsors for the kids. What better way to sponsor a child than coming to Orlando and being a mentor to them? Someone could actually meet their sponsored child and establish a big brother/big sister relationship. I need to work on weaseling Disney into donating pretty much everything. Ahhhh…but that is why I have given myself two to three years to pull it off. I am going to do it. You can call me crazy, but do so and then step aside.


***To all those that might read this would you keep my granddad in your prayers (including you, Anderson Cooper and Ellen Degeneres) his name is Bob Cook, my Papaw. Thank you.

UPDATE: Not that anyone is going to read this. But I realize taking a bunch of kids to Disney World is kinda silly, and there are other ways I can bring the children happiness. Plus, after researching on how to get visas for these kids I realize that I would ACTUALLY have to be Angelina Jolie. I am looking into changing my name so maybe I can fool the system.

Topsy Turvy in Tororro

Anthony, the director of the orphanage I am assisting with, had planned a week long trip to his home village in Tororo, in eastern Uganda. He wanted us to see the “real Africa” as he put it, as opposed to the city life which we have become accustomed to. Tororro is the area where he wants to eventually start another orphanage and community outreach organization. There are few non-profits in the region and the people have little help. I also made plans to take a day trip to visit a town nearby. I had met a wonderful man named Gerald that wanted me meet the children and widows of his home in Busia and videotape their stories. Anthony is our coordinator, since we are technically volunteering for him, he arranged with Gerald that we could be in Busia by late afternoon on Tuesday. We would spend the night there and visit Busia more the next day. It all worked out perfectly.

We hopped in a taxi and set out east. We made our way past the Nile, lush forests, and green plains. A family of baboons hopped onto the road. As we slowed to have a look, an aggressive male ran up to our window. I am not sure if he wanted to pump our gas or if he was soliciting us for a banana. In any case he stared me down long enough for me to take a nice photo. I continued to enjoy the scenic countryside out my car window. I had little idea of the chaos we were about to incur.

We reached Tororo and took bodas (motorbikes) into the slums, the first site. I guess I was expecting to ride up and find a few people hanging out, just chilling. Then maybe we would chat with some folks over goat kabobs. Or maybe we would talk about the last crappy Nigerian movie we saw on TV. Maybe even play a little Texas hold ‘em. All my conjectures were wrong.

As our bodas drew closer, I heard a cacophony of shouts and squeals that grew louder and more thunderous. Was there a soccer game going on? Nope. The howls were for us. A swarm of 400 children enveloped us as we pulled into the village. The women released some sort of Xena Warrior princess high-pitch shrieks. I got off the bike and passed through an ocean of children. They had never seen a white person before. I felt little hands grazing my arms and poking at my elbows. They were investigating my skin to see if the white would wipe off. The women came up and lowered to their knees while shaking my hand. The bowing was custom, but felt too subservient to me, so I tried to add my own little head bow. I think my head bow just made me seem like I had nervous tick. I was bowing so much I looked like bobble head you stick on your car dashboard.

Hundreds of people gathered to meet us. Their mouths open and their eyes wide in anticipation of my every move. I wish I had been warned of this large audience, I would have learned to juggle, swallow fire, or do some magic tricks. Something. Surely, I have got to be the biggest let down. I am just a klutz that makes a funny face every now and then that might warrant a giggle. But yet, we were the guests of honor here. They sat Kelli, James, and I down and performed songs, speeches, and dances for us. We spoke a little bit about why we were in Uganda, and then they cheered and hollered. They wanted desperately for us to be the answer that they have been looking for, the solution to their problems- the end to their poverty.

We left and were ushered to another village. Once again, we were greeted by hundreds. I felt as though I was campaigning for the presidency of Uganda. Everywhere we went there were hordes of people that wanted to shake my hand. I was welcomed with the same looks of wonderment. And after each place we visited, Anthony swept us away to another location. I kept glancing at my watch. Time was flying by and we still had to visit Gerald in Busia. But there were more locations were organized for us to see.

When we finally got to Busia it was around 4:30pm. And then Anthony surprised us by announcing that we had to be back in Kampala that night. Our time was limited to the next few hours, which posed a huge conflict because Gerald had scheduled us to visit 5 villages. At this point, I have come to the conclusion that if I gave the following logistical question to both Gerald and Anthony they would most likely fail. Grab your pencils kids and play along too, circle the answers that fit best!

Question 1) If you have scheduled Lauren to visit six villages with over 400 people in each village and they are all at least 30 minutes or more apart from each other, what can you deduce?

A. It would take more than a few hours to visit all of them.
B. It would not be wise to tell all the villages that Lauren is coming at the same time.
C. Due to the large number of people give Lauren more than 15 minutes to meet everyone
D. It might be a good idea to inform Lauren, so she can tell you’re crazy and that is too much to do in one day.
E. None of the above
F. If you circle “E” you are an idiot.
G. If you circled “F” you are a bigger idiot


I should have known something like this would happen. Some of the people I have met here have no concept of time. We first discovered this when we would make appointments at a particular time and the person we were expecting would arrive a good three hours later. In the States, it’s embarrassing to be over 15 minutes late. I am told that it’s common in Uganda to arrive a few hours tardy.

Nonetheless, we hurried to the first village. Greet, shake, and smile. Repeat. Greet, shake, and smile. Repeat. We were spending 15 minutes at each place. I didn’t like this rushed cycle one bit. When we got to one of the last villages, the night was swallowing up the sun. Gerald informed me that these people had been waiting since 9am to meet us. I was led to the inside of a large circle of people, and a man stepped forward to speak to me. “Where have you been? Most of the people have left because they have waited so long for you?” he loudly proclaimed for all ears. I looked around at the hundreds of faces staring at me. This might be the most awkward guilt trip of my life. There is nothing more excrutiatingly torturous then being blamed for something that is completely out of your control. I looked to Anthony to maybe pick up a little of some of the blame and save me. No use, he stared blankly also awaiting my response. I composed myself. I spoke as the man translated my apology for the crowd.

Anthony began ushering us out to get back to Kampala, but not just before a woman stepped forward and appealed for me to give her a minute to speak. The light was fading quickly; I squinted my eyes to see her face, and held up my camera. In a low raspy, almost inaudible, voice she recounted how two of her husbands have died of AIDS, and her community threw her out when they found out she too had AIDS. “I now look after five children, and none of them are mine,” she struggled to say in gruff whisper. BLEEP BEEP. Just then my camera cut off, the battery had died. Shit. I pretended to keep filming. I didn’t want to put my camera down, because I knew she wanted to be heard so badly; her words to be recorded, kept in memory somewhere. I let her finish. I was pissed at how this day had turned out, but I told myself I would meet her again. I have to.

I made a promise to return to Busia and spend several days so I can meet every single person and give them the time they deserve. We had met over 3,000 people that day. I was exhausted and disappointed at how everything had been managed. So… I guess the moral of this story is: When in Uganda and making travel plans, always assume there has been a communication breakdown at every level. AND never give specific times when making arrangements, because people will show up three hours later or eight hours earlier. Give time frames. For example: I will meet you for lunch between Tuesday and Thursday.

Now that all is said and done, I better start saving my money if I am to single-handedly save all of eastern Uganda.

“F”… is for Food Poisoning

I have been reluctant to eat the meat here. I am not assuming that the meat in the United States is any better prepared or processed. Okay, never mind, I will assume that, only because here in Uganda I see the livestock out my window, so I know the manner in which it is handled. If you believe the saying that, “you are what you eat”, and I eat the meat here…then I would be a cow; a cow that ate a milk carton, poop, and half a shoe.

I don’t want to be poop and half a shoe.

So, I refrained from eating things that walk until two nights ago. Dinner was cooked for us. I hesitated when putting that tiny morsel of beef on top of my rice and posho, but it was the size of a cube of cheese. It looked up at me and in a squeaky voice said, “Lauren, I am just a wee tender bite and I look juicy…eat me.” Oh, alright.

Big mistake. Three hours later, I was hugging porcelain. My body became an accordion, compressing and bellowing, but not releasing beautiful music. I heaved and I hoed. I squeezed and wrung myself out to dry.

A few days later and ten pounds lighter, I weakly stumbled out the door and went to Sanyu Babies’ Home. I heard about this place online (one of the few places you can find on the net). There is a noticeable difference that being on the web will afford an organization. The home had a surplus of volunteers and was the cleanest and most well-endowed place I have come across. They take in babies found in garbage heaps, taxi parks, and that have been left on the side of roads. I walked through the cheerfully painted rooms and greeted the little itty bitties; the month olds and the year olds. I got to the room with all two year olds and a toddler in a chair reached out to me. I gave him my finger and he used it to pull himself off his seat. He stood and clung to my shins stabilizing himself. He began to sway back and forth, requesting a slow dance with me. I obliged and sang to him.

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you’re young at heart

And if you should survive to 105
Look at all youll derive out of being alive

Then here is the best part

You have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart

I was unaware, until that moment, that I knew the lyrics to any Frank Sinatra songs. After our dance, he left me for a narcissistic two year old who was by the mirror, staring at her reflection. Fine, leave me for the younger woman.

After I left Sanyu Babies’ Home, I went to Molly and Paul’s School for the Disadvantaged. I had promised to help them out when I had free time. School begins in February in Uganda, so they needed all the help they could get with preparing for classes. Most schools here are similar to non-profits. They do not get funding from the city, as our American schools do. They fundraise through various means to cover the cost of tuition for children and teachers’ salaries. When the money is not raised they lay teachers off and send kids home. Sad.

For lunch I took a break and ate at nearby restaurant. In the background there was an old television playing a made for T.V. movie, some sappy inner city school drama. You know the scenario- white teacher goes to an inner city school and tells the kids to put down their fists and pick up their books. Blah blah blah, it ain’t easy being a thug…blah blah blah, happy ending. At least the students in that movie have a blackboard, writing utensils, and a roof over their school. The students in that movie had a choice- to learn or not learn. In Kampala, so many children sit at home wishing they had that choice.

When I returned to the school I sat with some of the teachers and made learning tools by cutting the alphabet out of old cardboard boxes. The headmistress was astonished I could freehand the letters without the need for a ruler. She pointed this out to the others. I quickly hid my letter “h” under some scraps. I had messed up the letter’s arch and it now looked like a hieroglyphic. I didn’t want her lose faith in my talents.

We used every scrap piece of cardboard on the table. Nothing was to go to waste. It’s funny, coming from a world where the longer a job title is the more valuable people feel, I was humbled to be sitting there cutting the letter “j” out of an old stained banana box. I kept cutting, knowing my letter was indispensable.

Enjala Enuma

In the Western world we are never idle. We check email, text message, watch American Idol, read a novel, and contemplate metaphysics-all at the same time. But here, in the “Pearl of Africa”, the electricity goes out at 5pm and entertaining ourselves becomes difficult. We gather around a single candle and after we exhaust all our usual conversational topics we digress to quintessential elementary games- 20 Questions, I Spy or What I would Spy if I we had electricity?

Those are my nights. Exciting, right? The daytime over the past few days has not faired better. We have had some time off, so we busied ourselves by going to some tourist attractions. I would not really call them attractions, per se. We went to what might have been a museum. The jury is still out on that one. I think we were the first visitors in a decade. They had one section dedicated to… the Olympics? And all that was exhibited were a few high-gloss 5X7 pictures from the most recent Olympics in Sydney. Why these pictures had enough historical value to be placed in museum is beyond me.

We also went to Entebbe Zoo. But I refuse to talk about the zoo. I’d rather delete this blog altogether than talk about how silly the little monkeys were. Your blog reader consolation prize topic will be…

ORPHANS!

First there’s Irene. She is an older girl, maybe fourteen years old, and loves to bring me things. And I love to receive them. Yesterday she gave me beautiful jewelry and a purse that she handmade. She sells these items on the side to help pay for her schooling fees. After overcoming our astonishment at her fine craftsmanship, Kelli and I immediately commissioned her to make all our souvenir gifts for friends and family. Subsequently, this commission will pay off her tuition for a year. This is a picture of Irene in the red dress. I look like a leprechaun in this picture, it’s okay, I am dealing with it.

Next, there’s Emma. I am not totally sure if it’s Emma or Emmer, boy or girl. Most of the children have shaved heads and it becomes hard to discern sex. In most cases, I would look at what one is wearing to point me in the direction of gender. This method does not work here. Most of the children have only a few outfits and if a boy receives a donated shirt that fits but also happens to have a big pink Barbie face slapped on it, then the big pink Barbie shirt he shall wear. I have nicknamed Emma, “The Mayor”, because she/he is a tiny little Napoleon that has no idea of her size or age. She bulldozes her way into a group of children and blathers as if she dictating an important decree. She will then leave abruptly to go attend a council meeting, or do cartwheels. Everyone, no matter the age, listens to her. I listen to her. She will sit me down and proceed to go on a ten minute diatribe in Lugandan, all the time knowing that I do not understand a word she is saying. I just nod and smile. Nod and smile.

(The Mayor is on the far left)

Another kid that makes me smile is Little Matt Damon. I don’t know what his actual name is, but if Matt Damon ever shrunk to the size of a 9 year old and was African, he would look exactly like this kid. Sometimes when I watch him dance in the school yard, I feel like I am watching a scene from The Bourne Identity.

Finally, there is David Livingston (aka The Yes Man). He is not an orphan. He’s a 6 year old that lives next door to us. He thinks the proximity of our homes gives him full rights and permission to enter our abode whenever he pleases. He will casually stroll into our bedroom in the morning. I requested that if he is going to barge right in, he might as well do the polite thing and make me some morning coffee. I get the feeling that my request might have fallen on deaf ears, because unfortunately all he can say is “yes”. Since I am a woman that does not like to hear “no” our friendship is blooming.

Besides David Livingston, there are bunch of neighborhood kids that knock on our door. Not because we are really fascinating, but because we have 180 computers in our living room and they want to play games. We are trying to set up a Computer Training Center for disadvantaged youth. However, we have yet to raise all the funds for the space and desks for the program, so they sit in our living room. Lots of little boys come by to play computer games. One day, after they had finished playing and left, I found this on the ground….


Um, all I can say is…no. I don’t want to imagine why these boys had this picture. And by the number 14 at the top it looks to me like a trading card. Can I trade Rika the spandex fitness instructor for your Ursula the Norwegian massage therapist?

I love kids.

Kyoto Maybe Later

When you enter Kampala your olfactory and respiratory organs are attacked by the thick layer of exhaust from the taxis and tidal waves of dust and effluviums. The vehicles definitely do not have to pass smog checks. And my lungs and nasal passages are made to suffer as I hack up strange black stuff.

I can only guess that when it comes to any concerns for global warming, Uganda signed the revised version of the Kyoto Protocol Amendment. They signed the Kyoto Were a Developing Country So Lay off Treaty. I thought the Los Angeles air was terrible, but compared to Kampala, that air is like a nice hike up a mountain during the springtime.

If the smog does not bother you than surely the visible build up of trash will. When I recently cleaned the apartment, I went to dump the trash and looked around for an outside trashcan. I was instructed to just dump the trash in front and we would burn it later. Wh-wh-wh-what? (I did a cartoonish double-take) Burn trash?!!! This was not just a suggestion because we’re too lazy to buy a trashcan. No, everyone here burns their trash. They have to burn it because there is no trash pick up. You burn everything. Plastic. Toxic cans. Everything. And when the trash refuses to burn you become a pyromaniac and sit there with your match until it does burn.

Growing up in Alabama, we had this Auntie Litter cartoon on television. She had litterbugs merrily dance and sing to educate children to think twice before rolling down your car window and chucking out your juice box. So needless to say, I was conditioned. When I finished a piece of candy here I held onto the wrapper for three days, because I had no place to throw it away.

No one has a place to throw away their trash . The streets build with clutter and the remnants get picked at by marabou storks. If there was an Ark, these birds should have definitely been left off of it. What pigeons are to Americans, the marabou storks are to Ugandans. Think giant-sized hunchback Jim Hensen muppet pigeons with wrinkly bald heads and googly eyes and you have an idea of these creatures.

Going to Gulu

This week has been long, so I apologize because this blog entry is lengthy and scattered. It will not be my best. Anyway, the beginning of the week we went to a Mango orphanage in Kampala that housed several children from the Gulu area, a northern district in Uganda. When we met the director of the orphanage, he warned us that these children come from a war-torn area and they have to deal with the psychological consequences. The children have a lot of anger, fear and confusion. The orphanage focuses the children’s energies towards something positive and healing, like song and dance. The kids sang songs pleading for the war’s end, “Enough is Enough, No More War, Bring Peace on Earth.” After we left the orphanage we scheduled a trip to visit the Gulu area and see for ourselves the devastating effects that the LRA rebels have had on Uganda.

Who are the LRA and what war am I talking about? Brief background: The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) is a rebel group that refused to recognize the Ugandan government and have committed atrocities by kidnapping, raping, and maiming civilians, primarily children. In the northern districts of Gulu and Kitgum, the LRA kidnap children and recruit them for their guerilla army. Their young captive recruits undergo abominable rites of passage into their army. They force these traumatized children to kill or be killed. Some children are made to drink and bathe in blood, and others are used for target practice. The LRA direct their violent wrath on children to underscore the government’s weakness in protecting the Ugandan people. In response to the attacks the government created displacement camps, and relocated over 500,000 people to these guarded areas.

We wanted to see these camps and what programs were at work to aid these children. So, we left behind the packed streets of Kampala and were entering the open fields of northern Uganda. Ah, Africa. Goodbye crumbling shacks, hello mud huts with straw roofs. In the back of my head I had a flashing image of a passage I read in a Fodor’s’ Travel Guide to Uganda…it read something like, “It is strongly advised that you avoid travel to Northern Uganda.” That message was now neon-red and screaming at me. What was I doing going to Gulu!? I guess it’s too late to turn back now. (I know that you have figured out that if I am writing this now I am most likely still alive. I was trying to create an element of suspense, people. Sigh. I don't think it worked)

When we arrived in Gulu we first met with some non-profits in the area that were to be our escorts through the camps. These local organizations had hesitations in showing us around. The camps had opened up to white visitors before; white people who made empty promises. They were referring to the students that came and filmed Invisible Children. I reassured them I was only going to be filming their programs. I was interested in the ground organizations at work and not to exploit some child’s sob story to fulfill my aspirations of appearing on Oprah.

I further restored their confidence in my intentions by offering to include their organizations on my website. Most of the small non-profits in Gulu do not have websites and they all desperately need money. I told them I could put videos on my Project Suubi website illustrating their programs and include their contact information for prospective donors, networking their names in the States. These promises I know I can keep. I cannot promise money; I cannot financially provide. Sometimes they look at me and they see white, but what they really see is green. They think they smell money, but what they really smell is my body odor from sweating so much in this friggin country. I have to remind them I don’t have a job.

The Gulu non-profits were excited at the networking prospects and willingly took us to the first camp. They pointed out current projects happening and I absorbed all information. As we walked through the camp, a labyrinth of mud huts, I looked over my shoulder and realized the number of children following behind me was increasing. I had become a pied piper with my own personal parade. I turned around and greeted them, “Hey.” “Hey,” they all repeated. Wow, what a friendly bunch. Then it dawned on me that they didn’t understand a word I was saying. They were just happily repeating in unison. “Copycats,” I shouted, testing them. “Copycats,” they repeated again. A mischevious smile spread across my face at the possibilities of my new discovery. “Lauren is Queen.” “Lauren is Queen,” they shouted back. “Kelli stinks.” “Kelli stinks,” they yelled louder, loud enough for Kelli to pop her head around a hut corner and shake her head at me.

That wasn’t the only fun game I played with the kids. There’s the one where I swing my arms around violently and sporadically, while dancing in place. Most of them fall to the ground laughing at that. But little do they know that’s not a dance, I am just swatting at flies and mosquitoes hovering around me. Another personal favorite game of mine is the one where I try to inconspicuously hide my digital camera after it’s been spotted in my hand. They love having their picture taken and their relentless enthusiasm for being my next photographic subjects always wears my batteries out faster than my cameras.

While we were touring around the camp with the children, an older man saw that I was filming and came over and grabbed me by the arm. He led me to a muddy fountain area that is the camp’s drinking supply. It’s a water source that also is not constantly available. He looked down at the water and looked up at me. He was trying to communicate that he wanted me to film this insanitary condition. This camp had the hardest of living conditions, but there were improvements being made here. The Dream Center, one non-profit, had installed bread ovens and was teaching camp women how to sew and sell clothes. Another organization had donated dairy cows. The wheels toward self-sustainability were a turnin’!

We left Gulu today and returned to Kampala. I was leaving Gulu knowing there was progress happening. Good hardworking people were making a difference. I came and left Gulu at a period of time when they are waiting to exhale. The LRA have agreed to peace talks, but peace has not been discussed yet. And as the bus drove further and further into southern Uganda, I could finally exhale. I will wait along with the rest of the country to see if this war will end and the people of Gulu can finally return to their homes.

P.S. I really wanted to write a lot more right now, like about how the guy in front of me on the bus ride back pulled a live chicken out from overhead storage and ended up dumping an entire box of chicken feed on a passenger’s head below. Or about how a group of pickpockets stole James’s wallet and almost stole mine. But alas, my attention is waning. I am now too distracted by the kaleidoscope of sunburn lines that the previous days have left on my arm. I would kill for aloe vera! That and maybe a bath tub filled with Purell Anti-bacterial hand gel.

Clean up on aisle 1 at the Jesus Saves Supermarket

My first sunday here I attended a church service at the Calvery Chapel, only because it was sort of an obligation. (Mom- I know you are jumping up and down with joy at this admittance.) It's the first time I have attended a service in maybe a good decade. But I was quickly reminded why I took such a long sabbatical. I think I woke up an hour later when pastor Brian, a young white guy probably from someplace like Kentucky, was warning his congregation about the impeding threat the mormons have on Ugandan souls if their lies aren't combatted.

When I stepped out of the chapel I yawned. And then I yawned again. I did get a satisfaction in seeing Ugandans come together in a organized fashion for the service. Finally, some organization. Something was accomplished. Why can't that same energy be focused on other things, say, street sanitation or medical care?

Uganda is developed when it comes to faith. When the first missionaries came into Uganda in 1875, the Kingdom of Buganda and their beliefs in a benign creator made it easy for Christianity to carve its territory. Uganda was the first country to declare itself a Christian nation at the turn of the 19th century.

Today, Jesus is everywhere. Literally. Even the stores and markets share his name. The "Jesus Saves Supermarket", "God is Great Minibus", "God is Able Household Items"(even though they weren't able to provide me any one of the items I needed) . If Jesus is not on storefront awnings or signs then Jesus is on the tip of everyones' tongue. I have been interrogated on many occasions and usually it takes me by surprise. "Are you born again?" strangers ask me. Sometimes I pretend I didn't hear the question or avoid it by getting distracted by something visually interesting in the distance. I'd do anything to bypass that question and the slew of others that are to follow no matter if my answer is yes or no.

The vigorous faith of people here perplexes me so much that I decided to attend another service. This time at a different place, next to the Kijaansi children's center. Nothing but locals there. It's a tiny open brick chapel with nothing but dirt floors and wooden benches for seating, but I would advise caution on seating the benches tend to collapse. The chapel was filled with mainly children and the service was spoken completely in Lugandan. So...I didn't understand a word. Three young women stood and walked to the front and began to sing. Everyone joined in. A man on large drums kept the beat. One older girl, who I will call Beth because it will drive me crazy to keep calling her older girl, began to sing a solo.

The song was long, like close to an hour long. But the children in the front rows danced in place and turned and laughed at me, the silly white girl trying to sing in Lugandan. A girl crawled on her stomach into the chapel, like I said the chapel is open and has no doors, her legs were swollen and she was unable to walk. She propelled herself forward using her hands and pulled herself onto a bench and joined in the song, not missing a beat.

The shouts and claps grew louder. "Higher, higher," were the only english words I could decipher. Beth, the soloist, dropped to her knees on the dirt floor and closed her eyes while singing. Clap, Clap. "Higher, Higher". The room was shaking with voices. Beth then stopped singing and abruptly turned away from us. She put her face to the brick wall, hiding it, too overcome with emotion. One of the other singers stepped in for her. The drum beats softened and our voices went into a decresendo and then silence.

Beth has severe untreated asthma and had been hospitalized three times for near-fatal attacks. And here she was, she had sung joyfully at the top of her lungs for over an hour. I looked down at my hands they were throbbing and red from the clapping. But the pain was nice. It reminded me that I had my hands and that they work. I was thankful right then. And I think Beth was too. Then at that moment, a toddler on the first row, barely old enough to walk, stumbled over to Beth and patted the dirt off Beth's knees. It was a very strange gesture for someone so young. Beth, turned back around, wiped her tears, grabbed the little one's hand and they both returned to their seat.

I could say, that for a moment, it all made perfect sense.

We piled in to a dinky Japanese minivan and set off for Jinja. These van taxis are the other major form of transportation here in Uganda. You slide back the van door to a jungle of plastic covered leopard print. They are only supposed to seat 12 but they defy the laws of physics and shovel 17 people in there. I tend to introduce myself to the person next to me because as they pick people up along the road I end up in that strangers lap. And when I say masaw, which means "stop here" , everyone in the taxi laughs at my butchering of the Lugandan language.

We arrived in Jinja, a town an hour east of Kampala, and it is a garden of Eden. The grass is greener. The trees are larger. The Nile is...nileier? We made our way down to the source of the Nile! I really wanted to breath it all in and enjoy it's beauty but the malaria pill I had taken this morning was taking its toll on my stomach. I also was nervous because this Nile guide-man had my video camera and was not giving it back. I originally gave it to him because he offered to videotape us. I though it was a nice gesture at first, but now he had taken it around some rock corner and was hunched down whispering into it like Gollum.

Two of the people in our group bent down to the nile and scooped up the water and slurped it up. They looked at me to follow suit. I stepped down and leaned forward and smelled algae. I can't go for that. Nooo-OOO-oo. No can do. A hand dipping would have to suffice.

We went further down to Bulgali falls.There are crazy men there that will swim the falls with no life vests. I taped one guy swim down, all the while thinking that if he drowns my footage was guaranteed to be featured on YouTube.

Last stop in Jinja was Bethesda International. The second orphanage we are to be staying at. When the gate to Bethesda opened to us I was immediately tackled by little boy who squeezed me with a hug. In the corner of my eye I noticed a row of turkeys on the lawn, making a conga line underneath a tree branch. The orphanage was out of a story book, a huge mansion, Victorian almost. There are 55 kids that live there with two foster parents. They have a school that is nearby that is almost finished. The older kids are making the bricks to complete it. We made arrangements for our volunteer stay. Exciting. I wouldn't mind making some bricks. I need to work on my triceps anyway.

Tips for Haggling in Kampala

My tips for haggling. Pay attention. Heed my warnings. Take my advice.

1. Send someone who is not a muzungu in to haggle. Once they see my face the price inevitably is tripled.

2. If you don't have anyone good to haggle for you then at least come in firm with your offer. Firm, I tell you. I try to keep my voice in my lower register when I make my offer. It's my serious business voice.

3. If they don't accept your firm offer act like the merchandise smells funny or is slightly slimy and then pretend to walk away. That technique is guaranteed to knock off 1/3 of the price.

4. If all else fails hold an unannouced staring contest with the vendor. Say nothing. When they ask, "What's wrong with you?"...keep staring...and then flare your nostrils really wide and wet your pants. They will then most likely give you the merchandise for free. It worked for me.

Project Suubiless: Confusion and Corruption

Money. Oh, how it makes the world go around. The currency here is Ugandan shillings and at the airport they gave me millions of them. The exchange rate is 2,000 UGshillings for every dollar. I don't care, anything over four zeros immediately adopts the value of monopoly money to me. I want to throw it up in the air like confetti. Why not ten zeros or a billion? So needless to say when a motel clerk asks me for 40,000 shillings a night for a week's stay, there is a lot of stress to compute that into dollars and find out how badly he is trying to hoodwink me. I also try not to look incredibly dorky counting on my fingers.

Now, when I mention motel clerk that shouldn't imply we are living in the lap of luxury. In fact, our pad of the week has no electricity, warm water, and the mice tell me my bedtime stories. We probably would have had a much finer time at the place we were SUPPOSED to be staying. The Lweza Training Center, sweet sweet sanctuary amongst a canopy of trees. I has previously wired a downpayment to secure our reservation and on arrival was told they were booked. I popped into Lweza to get my $150 dollars back. The lady at the desk gave me her best Ugandan attitude and told me no money had ever been put down in my name. "You must be confused. A man named Anthony placed it in my name," I retorted. "No, if so, then he should have a receipt," she replied. I had a sinking feeling Anthony might have kept that money. When I mentioned it to Anthony alone, he didn't have the reciept. I didn't press the issue. I cut my losses and looked at it as though I was paying for a really good tour guide. The sinking feeling persits in my stomach.

Moving on. I made the suggestion that we really should get internet set up for our personal use. If OCA is at a standstill until we get more funds (9,000 to finish the children's center and 9,000 to finish the computer training center) then we better start looking up grants. Grant searching takes up a LOT of internet time and the only internet access available here are in internet cafes. Side note: The internet cafes are everywhere. One on every corner. And if you want to see what a girl looks like screaming at a computer come find me in one of these cafes, where they use dial-up and it takes forty minutes to open up the homepage.
We began our search at the main internet/cellphone service providers in Uganda. All the quotes were the same around $1100 for intial start up!!! *@###$%FF!! Sorry, mom. BUT WHAT? Something crazy is going on here. In America, it costs like $180 for inital start up and like $20 bucks a month, not $170. Who is paying off who to make sure that people never get connected? I guess if people could afford it, the major business of these internet cafes would go under.

I was frustrated when we drove out of Kampala. We came to a stoplight, one of the first, if the only one I think I have seen here. James informed me that this stoplight along with several large hotels were quickly built for the arrival of the Queen and a Commonwealth meeting. Sadly, these hotels were turn into dilapidated castles because no one will be able to afford to stay there. What a waste. And as for the stoplight...everyone drives through it. But if the traffic patrol were to stop someone, don't worry, they can easily be bribed. Where are the rules? The code of ethics has given way to an every man for himself mentality.

It's hard to work with that way of thinking. Did you ever play Sim City, Empire, or Civilization? The game where you try to build a city and your decisions will make it grow and flourish into larger cities. Well, I'd like to see if you could build anything if the city is already established, there's a 80% unemployment rate, and the government only embezzles. Hey game programmers, make that version. Ugandan Sim City.

Chances are that version would never work. What good can I really do here or anyone really do? I understand why most volunteers stay two weeks. The "hug-and-gos" as I like to call them. Maybe they have the right idea. Maybe I will just take the rest of my money and treat a bunch of kids to a nice dinner like goat kabobs (what I actually had for dinner last night) and then call it a day and go home. Or if I can't trust anyone I should just do it all myself. Like Oprah. Start my own school or orphanage. Unlike Oprah, I don't need forty million to do it. I could swing it with $20,000...or 87 kajabazillion shillings.

DAY 1

So much has happened that I do not think I have the energy to go over all of it. We woke up early. REALLY early. Thanks jet lag. We were going to take our first day easy. You know, spend some time unpacking and getting aquainted with our surroundings. Instead we decided to go straight to the children's center and check out the site that is to be the fruit of all our efforts.

Anthony Onyango (the orphanage director) and James (the Austrailian volunteer) arrived with four boda-bodas, which are dinky motobike taxis from hell. They are one of the major forms of transportation around here. I find that the experience of riding on the back of one these must be similar to skydiving with your own handmade parachute. Meaning: there is a large chance of death. The boda drivers are speed demons down rocky roads. I prayed that I wouldn't die on my very first day.

While getting closer to god on these bodas, I also managed to finally take in my surroundings. When we first arrived we came in at night, so my imagination filled in what I could not see of Entebbe and Kampala. My first glimpse of Uganda and my words here will not do my images justice: Chaos. Shacks. Packed Streets. Hills. Goats, bulls, chickens running amuck. Children. So many children. Little girl kicking kitten. Little naked baby crawling across the street with no guardian in sight. Hanging carcasses. And tons of eyes. All eyes staring at three white people on bodas driving by. "Mzungu, Mzungu," white girl white girl, they would shout.

We arrived to the Kijjansi Chidren's center and I was astonished. It is comprised of three brick dormitories that will eventually sleep thirty-two children a piece. That is, when they finally have doors and flooring and running water...yeah, it's basically a brick fortress right now. There is one school room/church and office. Anthony's office consists of an open room and stack of a few folders that sit in a dusty corner. This orphanage is far from complete. It is more like a foster care placement program as of now.

I don't see how they keep up with all these kids. I sat on the field next to the school room and children seemed to appear and dissappear with each breath. And the kids were fascinated with us. I answered questions of the ones that spoke reasonably good english. The little little ones wanted to hold my hand and glued themselves to my legs. The 8-10 year olds wanted to touch and braid my hair. The older children wanted to re-braid my hair properly.

The stares continued when we finally left. I was starting to wonder where all the white people were. I know they are here somewhere. I saw a bunch of them on the plane and in the airport. Where were they all hiding?

Answer: The mall. We went to lunch at a rather large and impressively developed mall. When you go to the foodcourt, I learned that the food comes to you. Here, you sit down and are bombarded by people and menus. I buckled under the pressure of one aggressive guy and ordered humus. The end.

Finally, because I have to end this soon, we planned out what all four of us will be doing over the next couple of weeks. Here it goes:

1) Trip to Mango (another orphanage located in city of Kampala)
2) Trip to Jinja (Southeast Uganda. Source of the nile. Check out several orphanages there)
3) Trip to Gulu (Northern Uganda. War torn area. Please don't panic mom)
4) Trip to Tororro district (I thought Kampala was rural. Tororro is what the Ugandans consider rural. Oh, boy.)

These trips will help us gather information on how everyone else is running their programs. Hopefully, we can learn a lot because we are starting from scratch with OCA. I am overwhelmed.