Heather and I spent a few days in Kampala buying supplies and took an afternoon off to see a movie in the only theater in Uganda. I was excited to find “Thor” was playing and during the movie we almost forgot we were even in Uganda. Almost… because apparently it started raining outside and water began pouring into the theater from leaks on the roof making a few members of the audience have to change seats to avoid getting drenched. The sound of dripping water continued throughout most of the movie – just to remind us of where we were.
--PHD
Monday, July 18, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Taxis II
Another time I was in a taxi, we were driving through Luwero again when the person sitting shotgun started cracking up laughing. He yelled over to the driver who then halted the taxi, put it in reverse for 20 yards or so, and then stopped. The man in shotgun pointed into a nearby shop and soon the whole taxi was rolling with laughter about something I couldn’t discern in the shop. Then we drove off.
--PHD
--PHD
Friday, July 15, 2011
What's Cooking in the School Kitchen 1.0
Caroline is learning how to make soft pretzels!
Bread by Heather
Allen and Christine serve on the buffet line.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Bicycle Race
I had taken some visitors into Ntuuti on bikes to tour them around the villages, when a kid on a bike came up from behind me shouting, “Ofwono, Ofwono,” which is my Ugandan name (Ofwono was the tallest man to live
in Uganda). He was trying to pass me and I kept biking a bit faster, laughing at him as we went. Soon he surged forward passing me and the American visitors who were in front of us, also on bikes. Well I couldn’t let that stand so while he split to the left of the visitors I split to the right and began pumping my pedals ferociously, not to be beaten by a 10 year old in a bike race.
We flew past the visitors and were dodging potholes, children, and bodas (I had a distinct disadvantage being on the wrong side of the road) speeding through the village, both of us laughing the whole way.
And of course you are wondering… I defended the Mzungus that day winning the race pretty handedly.
--PHD
We flew past the visitors and were dodging potholes, children, and bodas (I had a distinct disadvantage being on the wrong side of the road) speeding through the village, both of us laughing the whole way.
And of course you are wondering… I defended the Mzungus that day winning the race pretty handedly.
--PHD
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Taxis - MicroStory
Not all of the stories from here in Uganda fit into larger
narratives. In fact, most are fun little things that just happen to collide into
life as you live it out here. So I thought I would share some these
“MicroStories” on a random basis. There will be more of these from both of Heather and I in the future. Below is the first installment.
--PHD
When I say taxi you may envision a little yellow car with a lighted sign of the roof. However that is not at all a Ugandan taxi. Instead envision one of those big ugly church vans, usually they are painted white with a blue checkerboard detailing pattern around the sides. Ugandans are piled in as deep as you can get them and goods are piled high on the roof-rack. They drive a “route” but you can hail one anywhere along that route and also tell them to stop anywhere along that route. You can even tell them to stop, do some quick purchases and hop right back in, that is, if you don’t mind a van full of other Ugandans rumbling while they wait for you.
So I (Patrick) was sitting in a taxi at the taxi park in Luwero, one stop on our way ultimately to Wobolenzi. Our driver was outside shouting at people, trying to round them up like a man working a carnival game. The taxi was mostly packed but there was certainly still room by Ugandan standards. The day was hot and random Ugandans would approach the taxi with goods like bananas, mystery meat on a stick (likely roadkill), or bottled water.
I noticed among the passengers the mild seat shifting and under the breath grumbling that indicates impatience. When Ugandans get frustrated they start making this sound with their tongue and teeth, sort of like when you suck the tongue from the roof of your mouth to make a clicking sound, it sort of sounds like a “tsk”. At first that sound could be heard first just here and there, but soon momentum grew it into a wave of tsking, grumbling and seat shifting rising up all around me. The next thing I knew, mutiny was on this taxi drivers hands as Ugandans began piling out and leaving the taxi for another one. The driver bounced around to all the deserters trying to convince them he would go right then but they just shook their heads. The driver surrendered, hopped in his taxi that was now barely half full and began to drive off.
Just outside of the taxi park several people were waiting for a taxi and he was quickly full before we even left Luwero.
On my return trip that same day I was about to hop into a taxi at the Wobolenzi taxi park when that same driver came running up to me and grabbed me by the arm. "I drove him down here today, this Mzungu is MINE!” he stated defiantly to all the Taxi drivers in the area. Shrugging because I really had no reason not to go with him I followed him back to his taxi.
--PHD
--PHD
When I say taxi you may envision a little yellow car with a lighted sign of the roof. However that is not at all a Ugandan taxi. Instead envision one of those big ugly church vans, usually they are painted white with a blue checkerboard detailing pattern around the sides. Ugandans are piled in as deep as you can get them and goods are piled high on the roof-rack. They drive a “route” but you can hail one anywhere along that route and also tell them to stop anywhere along that route. You can even tell them to stop, do some quick purchases and hop right back in, that is, if you don’t mind a van full of other Ugandans rumbling while they wait for you.
So I (Patrick) was sitting in a taxi at the taxi park in Luwero, one stop on our way ultimately to Wobolenzi. Our driver was outside shouting at people, trying to round them up like a man working a carnival game. The taxi was mostly packed but there was certainly still room by Ugandan standards. The day was hot and random Ugandans would approach the taxi with goods like bananas, mystery meat on a stick (likely roadkill), or bottled water.
I noticed among the passengers the mild seat shifting and under the breath grumbling that indicates impatience. When Ugandans get frustrated they start making this sound with their tongue and teeth, sort of like when you suck the tongue from the roof of your mouth to make a clicking sound, it sort of sounds like a “tsk”. At first that sound could be heard first just here and there, but soon momentum grew it into a wave of tsking, grumbling and seat shifting rising up all around me. The next thing I knew, mutiny was on this taxi drivers hands as Ugandans began piling out and leaving the taxi for another one. The driver bounced around to all the deserters trying to convince them he would go right then but they just shook their heads. The driver surrendered, hopped in his taxi that was now barely half full and began to drive off.
Just outside of the taxi park several people were waiting for a taxi and he was quickly full before we even left Luwero.
On my return trip that same day I was about to hop into a taxi at the Wobolenzi taxi park when that same driver came running up to me and grabbed me by the arm. "I drove him down here today, this Mzungu is MINE!” he stated defiantly to all the Taxi drivers in the area. Shrugging because I really had no reason not to go with him I followed him back to his taxi.
--PHD
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Saddest Letter I Have Ever Written
Below is a letter sent out by my friend David Semeyn who is on staff at African Childrens Mission, a sister organization to AHI that is also located on the ranch. I think it gives some perspective on some of the financial struggles here in Uganda and got his permission to post it.
--PHD
--PHD
June 4, 2011
I wanted to send an update to each of you to let you know how my trip has been going. You will find specific prayer requests listed throughout the email.
Thank you for your much needed prayers.
Before I describe one of the saddest experiences I have ever had. I want to let you know that the work I have been doing with African Children's Mission (ACM) has been going very well. Each week I spend three days in remote villages teaching theology classes to 49 pastors and church leaders who have never had any training in Biblical studies. Not only have they not received training in Biblical studies, but like most Ugandans, many of them never completed high school. Despite their lower level of education, some of these students have served in church leadership positions for longer than I have been alive. I find it remarkable that the students faithfully attend Bible classes, in spite of the fact that many of them have not been in a formal classroom setting in years. Their love for God's Word and His glory supersedes their tribal differences and learning difficulties.
God has been clearly faithful to the work He started last summer with the Bible training programs. Though it is hard at times, there is nothing I would rather be doing than returning to the Bible training schools to help equip my brothers and sisters with the tools necessary to exegete Scripture and better serve their church congregations.
Please pray:
- That God will allow the students to truly grasp the information being taught.
- That the Holy Spirit would give the students understanding of the information, and help them to properly apply it to their particular contexts.
- Praise God that a shipment of reading glasses came in and now all of the Bible students can read their Bibles!
The saddest letter I have ever written:
If you do not know, one of African Children's Mission's (ACM's) main ministries is a feeding program which operates in the poorest of schools in one of the poorest districts in Uganda, East Africa. Last week, I helped compose and deliver a letter from African Children's Mission to seven schools. Though the letter was addressed to seven schools, ultimately it affects more than 3,300 students who attend the schools and their families.
The purpose of the letter was to notify the schools that because of the nation's extreme inflation on food products, ACM would have to change the feeding program. The product that has affected the most people in the country is "posho." Posho is eaten by most Ugandans everyday; it is the main food that keeps these people alive. In the last year, the wholesale price of posho has risen by 66%. By God's grace, African Children's Mission has been able to continue feeding all 3,300 children in spite of the rising economic problem. In order to sustain the feeding program indefinitely, ACM has had to reduce the amount of food being served by 50%. Those affected by the change seem to understand its importance and have said, "A little is better than nothing. Thank you for what you can give."
It is hard to fully describe the positive impact the feeding program has on the children and their families, but I will try. Many children attend school simply so they can eat a free meal at lunch. Studies show that education is a key factor for one to successfully escape a life of poverty; if a 12 cent meal is an incentive to get one to attend school, it is a small price to pay. The one meal per day, provided by ACM, is often the only meal these children have. ACM teaches a weekly character development class at all seven of the schools. If the attendance drops, then that means that there are more kids who will miss the Bible-based character development classes; this may have the largest impact of all. Even if you have not spent time in a "fourth world" country, it is not hard to imagine the gravitational effects associated with cutting one's daily meal in half.
Please pray:
- That God will provide for the children through other means until ACM's feeding program is running at its normal capacity again.
- That the students will continue to attend school, even though the food incentive has been reduced.
- That people in Uganda would not think that the God of Christians is weak because a Christian organization has had to make cutbacks. My prayer is that during this hardship, the faith of the children and their parents will be strengthened and that God will be seen as the God who he truly is: Jehovah Jirah--the God who provides.
- Please pray that the people will find their delight and satisfaction in the true Bread (John 6:35), more than in the bread that spoils (John 6:27).
Please be praying for the listed items above. Please also be praising and thanking God for his goodness, faithfulness, and steadfast love He continues to show His people.
Please know that the purpose of this email is primarily to update you on what I am doing and to ask you for your continued prayer support. However, if you would like to make a tax deductable contribution to ACM to help with the feeding program, please see the address listed below. You may also donate online at africanchildrensmission.org. Note: At the current cost of food, $30 will pay for 250 meals & $120 will pay for 1,000 meals.
In Christ,
David Semeyn
African Children's Mission
P.O. Box 26470
Birmingham, AL 35260
africanchildrensmission.org
Monday, June 13, 2011
A loud crash came from the tree behind our porch. “What in the world?” I shouted, standing up and turning around. I had been sitting at the outside table reading when this startled me; birds crashed from trees, dancing and diving at each other all day long, but this must be one GIGANTIC bird. The tree was still trembling from whatever had hit it, when Heather came out of the house to see why I had cried out. Thunder rumbled in the far off and the sound of rain carried over the ranch valley echoing against the tin roofs of distant homes.
Sure enough, darting into the bush behind our water-heating fireplace, the shadow of a monkey bounced off. Heather had gotten a clear look but I had seen it too late and was sorely disappointed. Then suddenly the trees before us exploded into motion and I quickly realized this monkey was no stealthy thing. It crashed from tree to tree until it landed on a dead stump atop a termite hill not more than 10 yards away from us. It stared at us a long time, clutched to the trunk like some curious child.
Four days earlier Heather was standing in the living room of a large westerner house. Her husband lay in bed, sick with malaria, and so she found herself oddly having to operate alone. She was pleading with Wayne our landlord to replace the refrigerator in our home. The lack of a working fridge had been a thorn in our side since the day we arrived, and while there had been a temporary reprieve borrowing Wayne’s for a few weeks, that had ended and the old fridge had returned “fixed.” Only it wasn’t fixed. Our newest American friends David, Becca and Kade sat around the room listening to Heather’s plea to Wayne and Carlos.
It had been a tough few weeks: a staff member at AHI had been fired for sleeping with a student, a staff member that Heather and I had really grown to love and build a friendship with. We felt betrayed and hurt. What was worse was that it had been going on for months and many of the staff and students had known. The students had rightly been too afraid to come forward, but the staff had few valid excuses for their silence and yet could not seem to see the wrong of what they had done. In the light of these events we had learned more dark secrets about our African friends. Heather and I had grappled with how Christians could be so earnest with their words about loving Jesus but blind to living that out against any cultural norms (sound familiar?).
And now for Heather all of that weight, burden and disappointment was resting squarely on the topic of a simple refrigerator. Standing in the living room pleading with Wayne it had all become too much and she just broke down in tears. Carlos jumped up to comfort, her offering a shoulder to cry on, assuring her it would be alright.
No one realized these tears were about a lot more than a kitchen appliance. Within the hour Carlos, David, Becca and Kade were back at our home helping Heather unpack all of the food from the fridge so it could be temporarily stored in the refrigerator at the conference center. They all had a light heart, laughing and trying to cheer Heather up, Carlos always good for a joke. Heather was already feeling better spending time with our new friends. Between them and the time we had spent with the team that had come from Bellevue earlier in the week, it had been a much needed “cultural escape” for a few days after the crisis of it all.
Carlos is Ugandan but has been working for Wayne since he was a boy, and is quite Westernized. He oversees all of African Childrens Mission property here on the ranch. David had just graduated from college and is here to do pastoral training out in the local towns during the summer before he begins seminary this Fall. Becca is also here for two months, preparing the way for her evangelism team that will be here in a few weeks. And Kade... Kade was a young “high school” grad (Homeschooler) from Arkansas (but originally California as I deduced by his name) who was here for three months just to experience being a missionary. Well that and to try to teach any Ugandan he could find how to play his sports passion, ultimate Frisbee (excited, Jason?).
I sat feebly out in our dining room listening to them recall what had happened at Wayne’s house while they packed. The burden clearly had not fully lifted from Heather and I felt guilty for being so useless struck with malaria and resting at home all day. It looked like it was about to rain so they hurried to gather any remaining food in a giant ice chest. Heather, genuinely concerned, asked Carlos if he wanted to make the walk now with rain approaching. Carlos scoffed at her, assuring all that it wouldn’t rain. So off Carlos, David, Becca and Kade went carrying the load of our food. It began to rain.
A couple nights later I lay in bed listening to the sound of rain against the tin roof as my body began to recover in earnest. My mind was churning and somewhere from sermons I had listened to in my sickness, books I had been reading, or just straight from the Holy Spirit a great truth was revealed to me. In America the great lie has become that God, and all things supernatural were simply fiction. That science and enlightenment had progressed beyond a need for such primitive ideas. But in Africa that would never work, with witch doctors and shamans exhibiting the supernatural often, and a lack of widespread education keeping high-minded science pretty distant from the average villager. So instead, the great lie in Africa is not that God is false, but that God, and particularly Jesus, is weak, petty, small. And so you put him in a box, and when desperate (and you are often desperate), you beg him to spit a few shillings (money) out for you, and that makes you a Christian. As that thought circulated in my mind, I started to grow angry. Because my Jesus is not small. My Jesus laid the foundations of this earth and he rides a white horse. His eyes burn like fire, he wears a robe dripping in the blood of his enemies, and in one hand he holds out ahead of him a mighty sword, and in the other hand he grips a rod of iron, and on his thigh is a tattoo that reads “KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS.” Then my anger turned to excitement, because showing THIS Jesus to people, in bible studies, in dinners, in life, was REALLY going to be fun. Now if only I could get a chance to see a monkey…
“What was it, Baby?” she asked, having not heard the crash indoors.
“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was big, it shook the whole…”
“PATRICK LOOK!” Heather erupted in excitement “It’s a baboon!”
Sure enough, darting into the bush behind our water-heating fireplace, the shadow of a monkey bounced off. Heather had gotten a clear look but I had seen it too late and was sorely disappointed. Then suddenly the trees before us exploded into motion and I quickly realized this monkey was no stealthy thing. It crashed from tree to tree until it landed on a dead stump atop a termite hill not more than 10 yards away from us. It stared at us a long time, clutched to the trunk like some curious child.
“Heather, get the camera…”
“I’m afraid it will move,” Heather whispered, and then as if on cue the baboon leaped away.Now Heather was the explosion of motion blasting into the house for the camera before all opportunity was lost. She raced back out fumbling the camera out of the bag, turning it on and ready to snap. Trees farther in the distance bounced into motion again and high in their tops we saw the funny creature blinking at us.
“I was praying God would show me something EXCITING!” Heather said with glee, the first real joy I had heard from her in the last few days.
Four days earlier Heather was standing in the living room of a large westerner house. Her husband lay in bed, sick with malaria, and so she found herself oddly having to operate alone. She was pleading with Wayne our landlord to replace the refrigerator in our home. The lack of a working fridge had been a thorn in our side since the day we arrived, and while there had been a temporary reprieve borrowing Wayne’s for a few weeks, that had ended and the old fridge had returned “fixed.” Only it wasn’t fixed. Our newest American friends David, Becca and Kade sat around the room listening to Heather’s plea to Wayne and Carlos.
It had been a tough few weeks: a staff member at AHI had been fired for sleeping with a student, a staff member that Heather and I had really grown to love and build a friendship with. We felt betrayed and hurt. What was worse was that it had been going on for months and many of the staff and students had known. The students had rightly been too afraid to come forward, but the staff had few valid excuses for their silence and yet could not seem to see the wrong of what they had done. In the light of these events we had learned more dark secrets about our African friends. Heather and I had grappled with how Christians could be so earnest with their words about loving Jesus but blind to living that out against any cultural norms (sound familiar?).
And now for Heather all of that weight, burden and disappointment was resting squarely on the topic of a simple refrigerator. Standing in the living room pleading with Wayne it had all become too much and she just broke down in tears. Carlos jumped up to comfort, her offering a shoulder to cry on, assuring her it would be alright.
“I can’t stand to see a woman cry,” Wayne finally broke down and admitted. “We’ll get the fridge fixed.”
No one realized these tears were about a lot more than a kitchen appliance. Within the hour Carlos, David, Becca and Kade were back at our home helping Heather unpack all of the food from the fridge so it could be temporarily stored in the refrigerator at the conference center. They all had a light heart, laughing and trying to cheer Heather up, Carlos always good for a joke. Heather was already feeling better spending time with our new friends. Between them and the time we had spent with the team that had come from Bellevue earlier in the week, it had been a much needed “cultural escape” for a few days after the crisis of it all.
Carlos is Ugandan but has been working for Wayne since he was a boy, and is quite Westernized. He oversees all of African Childrens Mission property here on the ranch. David had just graduated from college and is here to do pastoral training out in the local towns during the summer before he begins seminary this Fall. Becca is also here for two months, preparing the way for her evangelism team that will be here in a few weeks. And Kade... Kade was a young “high school” grad (Homeschooler) from Arkansas (but originally California as I deduced by his name) who was here for three months just to experience being a missionary. Well that and to try to teach any Ugandan he could find how to play his sports passion, ultimate Frisbee (excited, Jason?).
I sat feebly out in our dining room listening to them recall what had happened at Wayne’s house while they packed. The burden clearly had not fully lifted from Heather and I felt guilty for being so useless struck with malaria and resting at home all day. It looked like it was about to rain so they hurried to gather any remaining food in a giant ice chest. Heather, genuinely concerned, asked Carlos if he wanted to make the walk now with rain approaching. Carlos scoffed at her, assuring all that it wouldn’t rain. So off Carlos, David, Becca and Kade went carrying the load of our food. It began to rain.
A couple nights later I lay in bed listening to the sound of rain against the tin roof as my body began to recover in earnest. My mind was churning and somewhere from sermons I had listened to in my sickness, books I had been reading, or just straight from the Holy Spirit a great truth was revealed to me. In America the great lie has become that God, and all things supernatural were simply fiction. That science and enlightenment had progressed beyond a need for such primitive ideas. But in Africa that would never work, with witch doctors and shamans exhibiting the supernatural often, and a lack of widespread education keeping high-minded science pretty distant from the average villager. So instead, the great lie in Africa is not that God is false, but that God, and particularly Jesus, is weak, petty, small. And so you put him in a box, and when desperate (and you are often desperate), you beg him to spit a few shillings (money) out for you, and that makes you a Christian. As that thought circulated in my mind, I started to grow angry. Because my Jesus is not small. My Jesus laid the foundations of this earth and he rides a white horse. His eyes burn like fire, he wears a robe dripping in the blood of his enemies, and in one hand he holds out ahead of him a mighty sword, and in the other hand he grips a rod of iron, and on his thigh is a tattoo that reads “KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS.” Then my anger turned to excitement, because showing THIS Jesus to people, in bible studies, in dinners, in life, was REALLY going to be fun. Now if only I could get a chance to see a monkey…
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