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.