Uganda, Uganda…wow, I don’t know
quite where to begin. My transition back
to Kampala has been so up-and-down that if you were to ask me what it’s been
like, my response would be totally dependent on the circumstances of that particular
day. Today I’m feeling pretty neutral,
so hopefully I can paint a fair picture of life here. J
Let’s start with the basics. I live in a small village called Busega,
about thirty minutes from the city center of Kampala. The ministry I am working with consists of a
home for girls, a home for boys, a primary school called Royal Hope Academy,
and some discipleship groups that normally meet at the girls’ house. I live in the boys’ house with another
missionary from the U.S. named Ashley.
We have our own room and bathroom, which is a HUGE blessing. Even though we have to share the room with a
family of cockroaches, we have more space and comfort than expected. In place of a shower, we have a tub where we
take bucket showers. It’s not too bad,
although we are currently out of water, so no showers today….
For the first couple weeks, the
boys in the house barely spoke to me but instead looked at me as though I were
an unwanted intruder. Our only
interactions were when one of them knocked on my door to notify me that a meal
was ready. At first, I didn’t understand
how the meal system worked here or whether or not I was supposed to be doing
something. I would simply hear a knock
on my door, but when I answered, “Yes?” or “Come in”, I received no
response. When I would open the door, I
would see that a meal had appeared on the kitchen table. The boys would all gather, mumble a prayer in
Luganda, eat, and then scatter. I
desperately wanted to speak with the cook and thank her or to speak more with
the boys, but instead I experienced mostly awkward silence. I felt incredibly out of place and never really
knew what was happening for probably two weeks or so. I was very thankful to have Ashley there with
me, but she was also new and didn’t know what was going on either.
Often, the boys, Ashley, and I all
paraded down to the girls’ house, a fifteen-minute walk from our house, and hung
out in their compound. Visits there were
nice, as their home is bigger and nicer and homier than ours. The girls usually received me with a bit more
warmth, so the vibe was a bit better, but I still felt overall unwanted and
confused.
Initially, my mornings began when
the music outside my window was blaring so loud that I could no longer stay
asleep. I think it’s fair to say that
our house is across the street from the most annoying bar in Kampala. They blare music nonstop, from early morning
until the wee hours of the night. Fortunately,
I’m getting better at falling asleep with the noise, but the first week was
miserable. I would just lie in bed,
feeling exhausted yet unable to sleep. I’m
sleeping normally now, but my current struggle is finding quiet time throughout
the day. When I want to quietly pray or
music, all I hear is the day’s tunes. Some
days it’s 50 Cent; some days it’s Celine Dion; sometimes it’s oldies; sometimes
it’s African or reggae. No matter what,
it’s annoying and nonstop. It’s so loud
that I feel like I am inside the bar when I am sitting in my room, even with
the door and windows closed. The noise
is maddening, but I’m trying really hard not to go crazy.
To be honest, I thought moving
back to Uganda would be an easy transition and was pretty upset when I discovered
quite the opposite. I wrongly figured it
would be smooth and simple to return to a familiar place after being all over
the globe for so many years. I thought
it would be quick to readjust, simple to make new friends, and easy to jump
back into my old life. However, the
reality is that my old life no longer exists.
So many of the people I once knew here have left the city – both foreigners
and Ugandans. It is bizarre to see a
familiar place with memories of specific people and to know I will likely never
spend time with those people here again.
The Kampala I knew seven years ago no longer exists either. There are new restaurants and stores people
refer to that I’ve never heard of. Some
places I do know have been renamed or
relocated, so I’m relearning old places. All the prices have drastically increased
since I left, so even though I feel like I should know Kampala’s money system,
I have to constantly ask questions to make sure I am not being ripped off. The independent girl who once knew the price
of every taxi, mango, and street purchase now knows nothing. Every day, it seems like I find another area
of this culture where I have to start over.
When I lived at an orphanage in
2006/7, the children were all from a northern tribe that spoke Acholi. However, the children I’m now living with
speak Luganda; therefore I am tackling a new language – a hard one. Every once and a while, I’ll understand a phrase
or sentence and get really excited. Then
I remember that I still have the vocabulary of a two year old at best. In 2011, I was teaching ESL at Cal State University;
now I have children teaching me the
most basic of words – like how to say “rice” or “please.” Any sense of pride is being daily knocked out
of me.
There’s so much information to
take in that sometimes my brain feels like there’s no room for another
language. Since arriving, I’ve learned
the name of the nineteen kids living at the children’s homes, the names of
every teacher at Royal Hope Academy, and the name of all the missionaries
working here. I’ve learned how to
navigate the dirt road labyrinth I live inside to reach the girls’ home,
school, church, and the main road that grants me taxi access to the city. I am learning the ropes of a new ministry,
and now I’m trying to shove a gazillion new words into my overloaded mind. It’s tough.
When I originally planned to move
back to Kampala, I felt like I had already “paid my dues” to Uganda and wanted
to continue where I left off in 2007. In
2006/7, I was the only foreigner living in the orphanage; I ate all the local
food; I used squat toilets; I walked and took local transport; I had more
African friends than American friends.
It took me many months, but I gained the respect of the staff and
children at the orphanage, and they made me an honorary African. Yet, in this new village and ministry, no one
knows me. They don’t consider me an
African; I’m just some new white girl who showed up. I haven’t proven anything to them yet, and
they don’t know my motives or my heart.
I am realizing that this process will have to start all over again. It’s a long, slow, and humble one. So here we go again…
I am learning hard but valuable
lessons. I am forced to humble myself
constantly, being in the position of a learner all the time. Every day I am learning to surrender more pieces
of my life. I am remembering that
getting up and eating a breakfast I choose for myself is a luxury. I no longer can eat what I want or when I
want. It’s a blessing to have someone
who cooks for all of us, but I have no choice over my diet. We mostly eat carbs and carbs, with a side of
carbs. Some days I can get it all down;
others I can barely look at it. I would
love to cook for myself, but the tiny charcoal stove outside doesn’t give me
much freedom to do so.
I cannot move about the city
safely after dark. I can’t drive around
to meet up with friends. I don’t even
know how to make friends. I cannot
easily use Skype and communicate with the people I love the way I would
prefer. I cannot go to the church I want
to go to, and I don’t understand 90% of what is said in our village’s
church. No one can pronounce my name, so
I have to respond to a variety of names that aren’t my own. “Kaaaay-TEE” or “Kat-a-leen” is as close as it
gets.
I cannot dress in the clothes I
want to wear. Jeans are considered
sexually provocative in the village, and shorts are absolutely out of the
question. I can’t choose what I wear or
what I look like. I hate hate hate
wearing long skirts. I don’t feel like
Caitlin; I feel like a frumpy weirdo. It
may sound so trivial, but it’s hard. It’s
hard to not be in control of my life. I
have to surrender to a culture which doesn’t really make sense to me.
My life is not my own. It does not belong to me, nor has it ever
belonged to me. It’s easy to say that
our lives belong to the Lord when we still do whatever we want, when we are
comfortable, when we are allowed to make choices and feel like we have control
over what is happening in our lives. It
seems that no matter how much time I spend on the mission field, I am constantly
re-learning how to die to myself and to remember that my life is not my own.
But that brings me to the thing
that’s more important than all of the sacrifices – the thing that causes all of
these inconveniences to fade into the background. God called me here, and that means that there
is purpose in being here. There’s
purpose in eating weird foods and taking bucket showers and daily battling
cockroaches. It’s a purpose that I
cannot yet fully see; but slowly, slowly, slowly, more of it is unfolding. Like an onion, I keep peeling back layers and
am confident that I will ultimately fall in love with Uganda all over again as
more and more of its beauty is unveiled.
Some days, it’s still pretty hard, but I constantly remind myself that I
am meant to be here and that patient love yields much fruit in the end. Heidi Baker always says, “Love looks like
something,” and it’s true. Right now,
love looks like eating foods I don’t like and playing with kids and helping at
a school that really needs help and being patient with teenagers that have a
lot of walls up.
As I do these things, I find more
and more experiences that make being here worth it. The boys who initially looked so distrusting
of me are slowly warming up to my presence in their home. What first seemed an impossible feat is
looking more and more possible. The boys
and I have found things to talk, laugh, and joke about. The vibe in the house has transformed from
horribly awkward to tolerable to comfortable.
Every day, it feels a bit closer to family. Last night, we had a family meeting where
Ashley and I volunteered to be assigned a chore to help out around the
house. We explained to the boys that we
were no longer guests but part of their family, so we want to be treated as
equals – even if it means doing extra work.
In a culture where white people are often put on an unmerited pedestal,
I think it’s good for the boys to see us serving them. One of the boys said he was surprised and
impressed when he found out that Ashley and I hand washed our own clothes. Clearly, there are a lot of false perceptions
that need to change and cultural damage that needs to be undone. So maybe love even looks like doing dishes or
cleaning our own clothes instead of paying an African to wash them. And as I learn what love looks like here, slowly,
slowly, slowly, I’m seeing walls come down.
I am thankful to say that the initial skepticism of the boys is turning
into respect, and I hope that one day that respect will even turn into genuine love.
I’ve continued to visit the
girls’ house as well, and several of them are already pretty open. One of the girls, fifteen-year-old Gloria,
has become my personal Luganda teacher.
Whenever I enter the house, all of the girls greet me with, “Good
morning, Auntie.” However, Gloria greets
me, “Hello, my student,” as she giggles wildly to herself. She has given me tests and says I am her top
student. (Well, I guess I’m her only student).
On the cover of my notebook, she wrote my name and her name and “Top
Class,” which is the equivalent of nursery school level in the U.S. Gloria thinks that’s pretty funny, and we’ve
had a great time learning and teaching together. After our regular Luganda sessions started, I
overheard that Gloria is often teased by the other kids for being bad at
English. They make fun of her and treat
her like she’s stupid. Yet, she is the
one who reached out to me and is trying to help me learn her language. I had no idea just how much it meant to her
to be put in the position of the one teaching – to be the one who knows and
understands information. After finding
out about the teasing, it means that much more to me every time I see Gloria’s
face light up when she calls me her student.
I’m getting to know other kids
too, slowly but surely. It seems like
playing games is the way to their hearts, and being unafraid to look like a
fool is the way to go. I’ve also
connected with Auntie Tendo, the cook and auntie at our house, despite initial
language barriers. Even though she
barely speaks English, and I barely speak Luganda, we spent over an hour
together the other night cooking dinner for the boys. She instructed me through a mix of English,
Luganda, and charades, and we cooked a delicious meal together while singing
Celine Dion and using the mingling stick as a microphone. I don’t care how stupid I look anymore. I already look ridiculous here. I might as well have fun and make other
people laugh while I’m doing it.
When I’m not at the houses, I’ve
mainly been working at Royal Hope Academy, our primary school. Our younger boys and girls will attend
classes there when the school term begins in a couple weeks, as well as
hundreds of underprivileged children from the community. To say there’s a lot of work to be done is a
massive understatement. We’ve spent the
last couple weeks doing teacher training in preparation for the term, and it’s
been eye-opening to see the minimal level of education required to be an
educator yourself. Ashley is a teacher
back in the States, so both of us will be checking in with the teachers
throughout the term and hopefully doing some individual tutoring for struggling
students as well. This is the first time
Iris has had long-term volunteers helping with the school and ministry, so I am
excited to see what we can accomplish during our time here.
All in all, even though I began
my time in Kampala feeling out of place and rejected, things are beginning to
shift to a place of acceptance. When the
school term begins, we’ll really be in full swing, and I’m sure I’ll find my niche. Between the boys’ and girls’ homes, school,
community discipleship, and administrative work, I’m pretty sure I’ll find ways
to stay busy around here! I am
constantly dreaming of the future as well, knowing that this ministry is a
jumping off point into something more permanent. My ultimate dream is to start my own home for
children, so as I learn from the Iris staff and children, I always keep that in
mind.
This season is a time to learn,
to serve, to laugh, to dream, and to love.
It’s certainly full of challenges but equally full of hope.
