Webale Okusima. (Thank you for appreciating).

Last night was neck-craning night. Jenny, you know my favorite time of day, when I’m not changing my mind by the hour. But do you know my favorite type of night sky? No, because I didn’t either until last night. But good guess.
When.the.clouds.are.so.freaking.white.and.bright.because.they.are.overlapping.the.moon.and.it.is.freaking.beautiful.

I noticed this because we were all outside “sending off” an unexpected visitor/dinner guest we had last night. Sam. Have I mentioned that the entire family goes outside to see someone off when they leave the house? It’s a beautiful, communal sort of thing.

Walking home last night was funny, because I break the fashion rules on a regular basis lately. Just get me on a plane already so I can wear what I want and not be laughed at.
But when you are breaking the fashion rules, you shouldn’t coincidentally pass the high school at the same moment hundreds of kids are pouring out the doors to walk home. Yikes.
See, you already know it is rainy season. Which means, walk to school in gum boots. The boots the Ugandans wear when they are gardening. Which also means, no matter what the roads or weather are like on the way home, you are still in gum boots. So it’s bright and sunny (sunny enough that people are carrying umbrellas to block the sun) and you are in rainboots. Oh. Well. They’re. Awesome.
The kids walking behind me kept laughing and saying, “Mzungu, you are smart,” smart in the “classily dressed” sense.
I told them “Osaga,” –“you are joking”—to show that I’m very well aware that what I’m wearing isn’t normal so leave me alone already. It’s bad enough being stared at all the way home, and asked for your contact because they’ve always wanted a pen pal. But when they laugh at you…oh well.

I kept walking. About 47 seconds after I yelled, “Osaga!” after them, 3 or 4 really young kids noticed me from their house and started running to the road.
“Oli mulunji,” one said.
And for the next block or so they all kept yelling, “Mzungu, oli mulunji!” over and over. I felt like God was wasting no time—only 47 seconds—to counteract the insults with compliments.
An older boy caught up with me:
“The children are commenting that you’re beautiful. Are you?”
(Hah: how do you answer that?) “I heard them.”
“You heard them. But did you understand?”
“Yes. Oli mulunji. I told them ‘Webale.’ (thank you) But they might just be making fun of these boots.”
“No. They are not making fun.”

I went home early last night to pack. To pack. A crazy infinitive: yikes.
It was the first time, I think, I’ve ever packed without music.
As I was packing, Suzan walked in the room and gave me a gift. She put a few fake flowers in an empty body lotion container. She said, “A remembrance. I want this to show you that I have loved you so much.”
When I got home, I had given Suzan a picture of us two. She screamed, leaped, and threw it in the air (it got bent this way). She ran to her room and put it in her photo album. First page.

Anyway, as I was packing I decided to leave a lot of stuff here. Lotions and sprays and books and things I don’t need anyway. When Nanteza got home, I gave them to her. As she hugged me, I was facing the dresser, and I noticed the poem I had put there hours before.
“Oh. I forgot. I wrote you a poem.”
She read it, laughing and crying. She thanked me a million times.
She was kneeling on the floor in front of me and I was sitting on the edge of my bed. Grabbing my hands, she started: “I love you so much. Thank you for…” Rebecca stopped and stared at the ceiling. “Every day I would come home…” She hung her head back to keep her tears in place—like when you are trying to catch your nosebleed. “How do I…Okay. You know how you feel on the days when Mackie is on?” (our favorite Spanish soap opera).

(I knew where she was going). “Yeah, I’m excited. All day.”
“Yeah.” (Wipes eyes, laughs nervously). “That is how I feel every day. Coming home and knowing that you are here. That you sleep in that bed, a few feet away from me.”

This girl. I love her so much, I’m going to miss her so much. I walk in our room hours later and she is still reading the poem, again and again. I am still numb. She sits in front of me and cries and I am numb because I am mixed. I want to hug my mom and hope she doesn’t let go for at least four minutes. I want to kiss my brother’s cheek, whose probably 3 times taller than he was when I left. And this is what I think about while I’m packing. I keep pushing Friday away, and I wonder if it is going to hit me.
But when I think that there is no Mom or Charlie for them to look forward to…that they have no mixed feelings, that in two days they will have nothing but an empty bed, an empty chair at the dinner table, that’s when things get blurry from full, wet eyes. They won’t get another student for four more months—and what then? How it must tax them…people regularly coming in and out of their lives. Gosh.

I wrote them all letters yesterday while in class. Brooke was talking about fair trade and missions, and I was telling Mom via letter that I don’t feel full Steadman anymore. And how crazy that is…that these are not just some people I met and lived with and loved for four months. A major part of me is Serukenya now. I have two families, two moms, two sisters. Which is my claim to Rebecca when she says I won’t come back to her. Just as I need to return to my family in Ohio, once I am there, given enough time, I will have to return to Mom and Nanteza and Aida and Irene and Suzan and Hannington. It’s something I didn’t expect, something I still can’t fully grasp. But something I praise, and stand in awe of, God for. He is so beautiful, and His heart is so full.

Switching subjects.

Two days ago. Two days ago I think most of us watching the news wished we were in a country that still thinks it’s morbid to show corpses. Or “not so” corpses anymore. Ashes, ashes, and twenty heaps that looked like charred rib cages. Baby rib cages.

A bit outside of Kampala is a primary and secondary boarding school for excelling students. (My cousin Daniel—remember his send-off party—goes to the secondary school). Well, in the primary school, one of the girl’s dormitories burnt down in the night. “Was burnt down” places the blame on no one, but someone had to be to blame. The girls were locked in, the guards were mysteriously missing, and the single guard at the main gate refused to let anyone in. How. In. the. World. Can you stand at a locked gate with a burning building FULL OF CHILDREN behind you, and refuse to let anyone in, unless you were paid off? And where the hell is the fire brigade or the police? Such systems, or lack thereof, kill me. Kill kids, rather. Twenty “bodies”, twenty mourning families, and even moms of twins now without two daughters, gosh. It makes me so sick.

What also makes me sick is that if I were at home, in the US, the ocean would be big enough. I would think, “Gosh, that sucks,” and I would maybe think of it three times that day, in minute, depressed spurts. Depressed in the loosest sense.
But when tragedy is only kilometers away, when my cousin is at the neighboring school, when this is the elementary school my mom went to, it’s all so real. But just as real as it would have been had I been at home.
Circumstances stay open and unchanged. It’s our minds, our eyes, that don’t.

It's things like this that have me crane my neck toward the bright night clouds and thank God like crazy that I'm still breathing, that my family's still breathing, that my friends are still breathing. Until it's our turn.

Again switching subjects out of necessity/for the sake of sanity:

The sleepover went well. Very well. We had a ball, and Rebecca finally taught me Sudoku.
Becca—American Becca—had to use the latrine, so I escorted her there. I waited for her outside, and we talked. That’s when Mom came walking through the compound: “Are you having an overnight in the toilet?”
She asked why we were talking.
“Mom, why? Is it inappropriate?” (We’ve been wondering this, as, on campus, we carry on conversations stalls next to each other. Culturally okay or not?)
“Yes, it’s inappropriate. So so much.” Her voice got high and she was laughing at us.
I told her how we’ve wondered this on campus.
“But no. With toilets it is okay. But in the pit latrine? Do not open your mouth. You might catch a fly.”
(By the way, I’ll never again have a problem with portapotties. This I know. They are luxurious by comparison).

Another of Mom’s great lines that night:

We were watching a new soap opera, and this one Spanish man was pretty dang ticked at his daughter and the boy who got her pregnant. When I say dang ticked I mean his face was making movements I’ve never really seen before. Maybe because the shows are dubbed over…but his mouth was going crazy.
Mom: “Oh my! He’s going to eat them!”
Hah.

She had also told Becca that they have been trying to feed us so much so that we'll look like Bwindi. Bwindi mountain gorillas.

I forgot to mention, awhile back when I preached, that Mom came home talking about it. “Margaret told me you preached and preached so well.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I told her, ‘That’s my girl.’”
One of my favorite conversations with her.

Suzan—campus Suzan—met Rebecca this week. It was so wonderful to have the two of them meet. When they did, Rebecca hugged Suzan upon first meeting her and said, “Hello colormate.” Hah.
American Becca said, “Colormate. Like the pens?” Hah again.

Rebecca had met me at school so she could use my internet. We then went for smoothies. The walk home was the best part: Suzan, Erin, Becca, Rebecca, and I. We wanted to know their Luganda and English words for the different sorts of “gassing.” Which makes for interesting conversation, let me tell you. It lasted the majority of the twenty minutes and brought about the sort of laughter where you stop in the middle of the red dirt hoad, hold your knees, and are basically screaming, trying to catch breath. I don’t even remember what was so funny…Wait! I just asked Erin and she remembers:

Suzan, with her mouth, was imitating the different types of gassing (I feel like a 7 year old, totally embarrassed, typing this all out). She said, “This one is the escort,” and she made a machine gun, a subtle machine gun, noise. “And this the silencer, and this the atom bomb.”
But the part that made us scream: Rebecca was explaining to us that there’s really nothing you can do. It is natural and you can’t hold it in.
Suzan protested. “Unless you use super glue.”

(By the by, Friday night we are staying on campus, to leave early the next morning for Rwanda. I was placed in the same dorm as Vicky, Suzan, and Franka. Our last night together. God. is. good).

The plan for the next few days: Today I have lunch with my Sunday School supervisor; she sent me a text message saying she loves me, and I am invited to her home. So sweet.
Tonight is the farewell dinner. All 36 of us, each with a family (the non-missions students lived with families for 2 weeks early in the semester), and families of 10 or more. Crazy amounts of people. Tonight I will also give them all the gifts I brought for them.
(Last night Mom gave me a beautiful velvet black scroll with a blessing on it. So sweet, again).
Friday V-Money picks me up from my house at 4. I will have a final afternoon and lunch with my family.
And Saturday is Rwanda for 10 or so days.

I want to end the semester’s recordings by saying “Sign here.” (Rebecca’s way of saying “Told ya,” or "Way to go," accompanied by a high five). Because 5 or so of our group got in a matatu accident the other night. No one’s hurt, except for a bruise or something. But there was broken glass.

This will be my last blog. (Saturday we leave for Rwanda, and after that is home sweet home). Thanks so much for reading and for caring about these people almost as much as I have. I feel like I’ve been able to share the feelings, and it’s a good, solid feeling. So, thanks. (If you think of it, we're openly welcoming prayers for safety home. Thanks). :)
I imagine much of my May will be pretty bored, and so I will be posting as many pictures as time allows—to make up for the sour internet and picture-loading abilities here. So, look out for that if you want, but if not: thanks again, and God’s speed.

Webale okusima.

Sign here.

Finally. These two took an hour. Don't expect more. :)

V.Money.










Erin and Becca at Bwindi.
Mountain gorillas would live in such mountains.

I. Miss. Corn. Dogs.

My arms on my pillow, Saturday night I texted Becca with, “BYOB: Bring Your Own Barbie!” because, heck yes, we’re having a slumber party Tuesday night. I feel like a kid again, having a sleepover. In Africa.
It’s not like the last sleepover I’ve had was in my childhood years. I guess it just seems so new, so “invigorating” because it is my first time asking this new mom “if Becca can please spend the night?” Hah. Mama Joyce’s response: Why not?

Betsy and Becca showed up for Marianne’s kasiki on Saturday. Becca stayed for a long while, and we—Rebecca, Becca, and I—had a blast in our room, drinking our sodas, eating our matoke. Every chance she got, Becca mouthed to me “I love your family,” and “Can I stay?” and next thing you know, Becca is telling my mom that she wants to run down the dirt road in a night gown, carrying a teddy bear, saying sleepover sleepover sleepover. Yeah. We’re immature.

Preparing for the kasiki was great. Nanteza (dang, I’ve been spelling her name wrong) was in her element. We sat together, for hours, squeezing juice. Nanteza takes her juice seriously. We were just about to start, had the blender all set up, but when she found out we didn’t have mangoes…she told me, “If there aren’t mangoes, I feel like it’s not my best. And I won’t have people drinking my juice when it’s not my best.” (Why I think the two Beccas hit it off so well, other than the name thing: I asked Mzungu Becca to guess which fruits Rebecca and I had blended. She guessed watermelon, mango, oranges, and passion fruit. The exact four, and not one mistake. Impressive).

As a sidenote, I really love (I’ve said this 13 times) how much a part of the family we really are. This week I noticed again how Mom refers to me, straight face, as her daughter. And we were talking about Scott, another student, the other night, and Mom referred to his hostmom as, simply, Scott’s mom. Minor details that I adore.
At the kasiki, the reverend talked in Luganda, of course. Then he stared at me for a while, as did everyone, and continued speaking in Luganda. As if I understood him.
Nanteza said he was telling me that, as the last born, I am the only daughter left of the Serukenyas who still has to have her kasiki. He said he hoped I would soon return to introduce my husband and hold the occasion at the house, inviting them all back. Nobody laughed; I think he was really counting on my kasiki.
(And Becca’s dad, as he took us from classroom to classroom at the high school to greet the kids, he too introduced us as his daughters and said, “Look: I can even produce these kinds!”)

It must have been the angle I was sitting in the compound, but on Saturday—for the first time—I noticed the climbability of our mango tree.
“Hey Mom, is it okay if I climb that?”
“Why not?”

So Sunday, after “napping”/talking for awhile with Nanteza in our room, I asked her if I could go climb the mango tree. She said no. It was slippery, from the rain—too dangerous. As she said no, I still slipped into my jean shorts anyhow, assuring her I wouldn’t die.
“But my young sister.” She rummaged through her closet, pulling out her own shorts. “I’m coming with you.”
Then she told me to put my skirt on over my shorts, so I would look smart. (Look, it’s been four months. Hand me a box of matches and I’m ready to…)
“No. I’m not wearing a skirt in that tree.”
She had pulled her skirt over her shorts, but she then said she didn’t want me to look zolo—crazy—all alone, so she too removed the skirt and wore the shorts.
All that to say: climbing the tree was awesome, and the view was sweet. Worth every moss stain.

Also on Sunday: I joined Nanteza to the saloon. It was classic, watching her sit there in her hair-heater-orb-thing. I sat next to her at some point, as she brought Friday (departure day) up again, and I spent minutes trying to convince her that I will come back and visit, I must come back and visit, and at this point, I have no other choice.
“Nanteza. Do you think I could have little dimpled, dark-haired kids running around in this world, and have them not meet their auntie Rebecca?” (She is always touching or commenting on my dimples and dark hair. Yesterday especially).
But she isn’t convinced, pinky-promise and all. She said, “You are beating my heart,” and pretended to be fist-fighting something. “Oh God, give me a tissue.”
“Beating your heart? But I’m telling you I will come back. I promise.”
She pointed to her tears: “You think these are coming only from my eyes?” She pointed at her heart.
Goodness. Friday is getting closer; and I don’t want to think about it.

And again on Sunday. Sunday night dinner. There was just something about the thick, purple g-nut sauce that I couldn’t handle. I only filled half a plate of the matoke and such, and still ate only half of that. But it was miserably depressing. I honestly sat there, some minutes with closed eyes, trying to pretend that instead of purple squashed bananas it tasted like one of the center square pieces of a pepperoni sheet pizza. Because A. sheet pizza tastes better than any sort of pizza, B. the center pieces of sheet pizza taste better than any sort of pizza, and C. 19 days and I can finally eat something that tastes better than everything here, really. Vainly, I don’t think I could stand another month.
(Becca has had a saying going since we’ve been here. For every meal: “If you think hard enough, this tastes like…” Again, you only walk away depressed).

Working backwards from this weekend, Erin, Kyle, and I went to Kampala on Friday. What ended up being the purpose, the glory, of Kampala: Uchumi, a grocery store, sells plums. My favorite fruit. My favorite fruit that I’ve been thinking about as much as Oreos and Colby jack. It cost me more than a dollar; and I wish I could say that biting into it was bliss…but it wasn’t a very good one.
But I also bought a fresh red pepper, on impulse. Walking through the streets of this city, with orange hands, eating a red pepper: things you don’t think you’ll end up doing in Africa.

When we were ready to travel back to Mukono, some of the ladies at the market wished us luck; the matatu drivers were on strike. That’s when we started to understand why loads and loads of riot police, fully armed, kept passing us on the road.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to be walking in the same direction as the tear gas containers?” Kyle said.
Yes. Yes, of course it's a good idea.

And they were most definitely on strike. I crossed the street with closed eyes, and kneeled in the middle of the road—thrilled that I could make street angels and fear nothing. No traffic, no nothing. Just crowds and crowds of stranded people wishing they had transportation.

So we hired a private hire. He drove us to a Christian martyr’s shrine we wanted to visit, he agreed to stay with us for the hour we wanted to tour, and then he drove us to Mukono; twas nice. Twas nice until he told Kyle, “There are two of them. You have one, I have one.”
Thankfully, Kyle ruined any sort of Christian witness he had and said, “They are both mine.” Taking one for the team.

Thursday night was a very beautiful thing. Because the head-leader-man-guy of USP, Mark, and his wife had us mission students over for dinner. Which, translated, means: we’re going to feed you the best lasagna and salad and cake that you’ve ever freaking had, and you’re going to like it.
The best part, though. The very best part: V-Money joined us. As we were leaving, he stood (or kept jumping really) by the van with Scott and Betsy and me, and this is what basically went down for the next ten minutes:

V-Money: “How special am I? I just ate lasagna!”
Us: “Was it your first time?”
V-Money: “Yes! I am so special. I was the only black one in those walls. No one here knows lasagna. I tell you, I am special.”
We couldn’t argue with that. Later, when he was repeating this excitement to others, he didn’t refer to himself as “the only black one in those walls.” Instead he called himself the “charcoal-looking one.” Hah.

Because I want to soak up as much of Vincent as I can, I sat up front with him. Surely the best seat in the van—when he’s the driver.
We were driving out of the campus gates and the security guard waved at us, saying, “Hi Bazungu.” (white people, plural. Mzungu plural).
“Those are not their names,” Vincent said.
Finally.
There was something amazing, as simple as it was, about V-Money identifying with us whites. By defending our names, I felt as if he were admitting our friendship. Telling that man, I know these ones, and they are not merely Bazungu.
In fact, I accused him of loving us. And he didn’t protest.

Up front with V-Money, I then asked him how long he has been driving for UCU. He said four years, since our USP program started. Someone, then, asked if he remembered Dana as she returned this year as an intern (after being among the first guinea-pig USP students).
V-Money said of course he remembered her. “Anyway, there were only 7 of them then. The program was very new.”

My heart lifted and then sank in a matter of seconds. I was thrilled Vincent didn’t forget Dana, and I hoped he wouldn’t forget us. But then he said there were only 7 then. While now there are 36. Slim chance.
“Oh…Vincent, so you won’t remember us. There are so many.”
“Oh no. I always remember the IMME students. There are 12 of you. And we are always together.”
“So you will remember us?”
“You mean like Daniela? But I could not forget.”
And then, to prove it, he started listing all of the IMME kids’ names from last semester. He remembered indeed.

Another funny thing V-Money was caught saying in the van that night: (upon talking up a storm that he was the only black man eating lasagna) “You know, I joke. Some hate me because I joke. Besides, if you hate Vincent you are just tiring your brain.”
Amen.

And another: while up front, I tried convincing him that, if he ever had the chance, he needs to visit us in the U.S. “You would have 12 different places to stay.”
“Heck, if Vincent came to the U.S.,” someone said from the back, “He would go to Arizona with Brooke and we would all come to him.”
V-Money’s response: “Anyway, I need to see this Taco Bell.”
Hah. The rest of his response was hilarious, and the look on his face priceless. But I sat next to him, jotting in my notebook (in the dark) things like “If you hate Vincent, you are just…” so I wouldn’t forget, and he said, “Don’t write that one down. Don’t put what I said down there,” regarding his prediction of what it would be like to see the U.S.
And so I won’t share. But I feel like John when the angel tells him, “Don’t you write down what the seven thunders just said,” and he didn’t.
(V-Money = seven thunders. Always).

Still moving backwards in the week, the night before this:

We were sitting at the dining table, laughing about something. And I really needed, for quite some time, to make a shortcall, but I was lazy. (By the way, shortcall—essentially needing to go #1, and longcall…you can guess…have cute meanings/translations in Nanteza’s book. She calls them local calls and international calls. And so, depending on which it is, she has told me as I leave the room, “Tell Mom I say Hi,” or, “Who are you going to call?” I love it. It reminds me of my dad’s “I hope everything comes out okay.”) ANYWAY. There we were at the table, I had a full bladder, and we were laughing. Such was our conversation:

ME: “I’m going to wet myself.”
(more laughter)
ME: (upon realizing this may be Greek to them) “Do you know what I mean when I say I’m going to wet myself?
MOM: “Well, I imagine you’re going to urinate in your cloth-ies.”
[Oh dang. I’m laughing again as I write it. It was the. Funniest. Thing.]

The neighbor kids have finally mastered my name. Four days left, and I am finally hearing, “Danielle! Danielle!” instead of “Mzungu! Mzungu!” (Jenny, they pronounce “Danielle”…Nanteza too…like our Russian study hall teacher from tenth grade. DONyell DONyell). Priceless, anyway. It’s beautiful to respond to your own name for once.

Last night (Monday night; yeah, I’m writing this in stages), I sat outside with Mom, eating sugar cane. She said she was going to miss me.
I agreed. And I mentioned that another daughter would come in September.
“Yes, but really. You always miss the particular ones. They are not all the same. You miss each one.”
I don’t think “miss” cuts it anymore. This isn’t summer camp. The van picks me up at 4 on Friday, with full suitcases that won’t be back next summer.
Minus thoughts of and longings for home, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks.

I want to mention one more cultural difference recently noticed, before I go: gentlemen, and what defines them.
See, in Bwindi, V-Money left a seat open and said a gentleman would sit there. Separately, Scott proceded to leave his own seat and open it for a girl. Scott is our extreme sort of gentleman, refusing to eat—even for minutes on end—until everyone is served, etc. etc. According to my culture, I, we, respect him for this. Greatly. It’s one of Jesus’ paradoxes; your respect, your leadership, comes not when you assume your authority, but when you make yourself lower than everyone else. When you wash your neighbor’s feet, when you make yourself last. Because that’s what He did for us. Anyway, Scott is a gentleman.
But when Vincent left a seat open “so a gentleman could sit there,” Brooke pointed to Scott’s sacrifice and told Vincent, “Gentlemen are different in our culture. A gentleman is the one who gives up his seat so ladies can sit.” Opposite.

I just walked back, in my muddy gum boots (rainy season has its perks), from the office. And I just handed Vincent my supply of Taco Bell sauce sent via mi mamasita. He wanted Taco Bell, he got Taco Bell.

No classes. Free time. Look at me go.

How all good stories start:

So, a guy named Fred stopped me on the road last week, while Sharon and I were walking home. He stopped me to ask if he could have a copy of my sermon. As he was writing down his email address in my notebook, he gave me the third degree. “Are you a pastor? How long have you been a Christian? Have you grown up in a Christian household?” As we walked away, I told Sharon that I felt like I was being interviewed for marriage. Especially when he asked my name, I told him, and he said, “Oh, but that is my favorite name.” Of course it is.

I saw Fred again two days ago. He chased me down while I was walking on campus, for I haven’t emailed the sermon yet. This time, he wanted my email address, “So I can recognize the address when it is sent.” Okay, Fred. While I was writing it down, he asked, “Do you have children?” No. “Are you married?” He pointed to one of my rings. What I have learned in Uganda: You want to say yes to this question, but you don’t want to lie. And so you’d rather the time space between the question and the answer would extend forever, because you know the moment you say No, nothing good will follow. But surprisingly, Fred stopped at No.

Walking to school this morning, it got more creative. I passed a man sitting in his car. Noninteresting enough, he said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” I replied.
He held a tin he was eating from, out the window and said, “Can you have some chicken?”
Hah.

Marianne’s kasiki is this Saturday. It is a sort of bridal shower, I think—but what happens is speeches and prayers, lessons for Marianne and Anthony on how to live together and build a loving home (though they already have three kids and a home to be sure…). Marianne is my mom’s daughter. Did I mention that this wedding takes place the day after I leave Mukono? Suck. Nanteeza is a bridesmaid, and I’m missing it.

Bwindi destroyed us. Eight of us 12—make that 9: Brooke is now sick too—came down with something. Some sort of dysentery for some, salmonella for me. Whatever it was we got, it had us all up on Tuesday nights at our respective homes, gripping banana trees for dear life while we wretched. Hah. It really did suck, though. Especially when Hannington and Mom heard me over the soap opera and came outside with some water to gargle and some ash to spread on the puke-covered ground. That’s when I told Mom the semester wouldn’t have been complete unless I ended it the way I began it.

My body has been crazy-weak, so I just want to sleep. Like last night. I borrowed Ratatouille from Dr. Button so the family could watch it. I took a “nap” at 8, asking Mom to wake me up at 9 if I was still sleeping. Next thing I know, Nanteeza is kneeling outside my mosquito net saying, “Danielle…supper,” at 10:48. Yikes.
Sleep is good, but the meds are working. And meds are good.

Because I was sick and went to school late yesterday, Nanteeza and I had yet another wonderful breakfast-table conversation. We talked for hours. It was basically a DTR, hah. I told her I really thought she was the reason I was supposed to be in Uganda—that I’ve learned so much from her and have loved our friendship extensively. She told me,
“Also me. I like you so much—to the extent that I get jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of you going home. I always think, ‘If I could lock this one up, I would. Shut the gate and don’t let her leave.’”
And I leave in 7 days.

As exciting as the prospect of going home really is, the prospect of driving out of Mukono, heading toward Rwanda, scares me. This morning Mom and I talked about differences in culture at breakfast (Uganda: be modest, cover your lower half—America: be modest, cover your upper half; Uganda: don’t say yes, just raise your eyebrows and grunt—America: say yes, or nod your head, or say “Mmmhmmm,” not just “Mmmm.”; Uganda: bend to pick something up…don’t squat, for squatting is shameful—America: squat when you pick something up…don’t bend, you’ll hurt your back…etc. etc.). Amidst this conversation Mom asked if I was looking forward to the Farewell Banquet planned for next Thursday. Looking forward to it?
Yeah, I cried at the breakfast table. Again.
Basically, I love this family, and there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I could stop it. They’re beautiful.

Only one more thing (and only 25 more days).

I wanted to mention another reason why this Dr. Scott is pretty dang sweet.

On Sunday, at the time of the offeratory, the whole auction business started again (just like in Kapchorwa). But it wasn't only eggs and greens, this time, that people put in the offering plate. There was a whole lot of eggplant, a whole lot of beans, and in came this girl carrying a massive pot of sweet potatoes on her head. And two pumpkins.
So, when they started to auction it off, our students started yelling prices in Luganda. Dr. Scott was giving them money to buy the food (again, the money goes to the church. People bring what they have and then they sell it). At first, I really didn't like this. I thought maybe there was a woman here or a woman there who came to church expecting to buy her family's meal for the day, at offeratory time. I thought, sure, we're giving the church money, but someone else could better use these beans or pumpkins. We don't need it. I tried to shake it off, and laugh with the rest of the church as the Mazungu bought and bought.

That's when Kyle leaned over to me--holding his basket of eggplant and avocados--and said, "Who do I give it to?" I asked him what he meant. He said Dr. Scott, the man who gave us all money to use to buy the food, told him to give it to whoever the Lord led him to. Next thing you know, there's Becca with her pumpkins, Betsy with her beans, and Kyle with his eggplant, walking around the church and handing this food to people. Incredible. I really really liked this doctor. He's incredible.

And Becca is our comic relief.

Sometime last week (the days now all blur together), Susan and I cooked together again.
Susan is so great, teaching me how to drum on my face and my rib cage (they really like drums here. All forms). She also tried teaching me how to whistle through my hands. Couldn't do it.
But I taught her how to whistle through your thumbs and a piece of grass. Of course she did it. First try.
In silence, I sliced the cabbage for awhile, while she poked the fire and matoke. For the sake of conversation, I asked her how many children she wanted to one day have. I'm glad I asked. We talked for an hour about Susan's future husband and children, and once again, culture slapped me in the face. She was telling me about the importance of taking a long time to get to know someone, just to make sure he's not putting on an act, and he really is a good egg. Sure, I could understand this. Until she said: "You see, if you marry quickly and don't take time, you might find he is one who, what? Who practices witchcraft, or one who does what? One who eats the firstborn."
I can't say that I've ever worried about that. It was intense.

A major stream of mail came in last week. Which means, Aunt Marilynne and Uncle Ernie's pictures came in. (My family loves looking at the pictures, especially those of my Great Grandma). Anyway, Marilynne and Ernie have this tiny Yorkie, I think. Either way, it's wearing a sweater in the picture.
When Rebecca got to this picture, she just stared for a few minutes. Blinking, with a dirty smirk on her face. I couldn't stop laughing, just to watch her silent first impression. She finally said, "This is what?"
I told her it was my aunt and uncle's dog.
"This is real? It isn't a teddy bear?"
No. It's a dog.
"You mean, God made this one?"
Yes. Yes, He did.
"So...this one is putting on clothes?"
It was wonderful.

Again, sometime last week, I had a great conversation with Vicky and Clare. (Clare is one of Vicky and Susan and Franca's dormmates, who always asks me when I'm going to give her the fire extinguisher I promised her). Anyway, Vicky was telling Clare that I was going to come back one day, and with my family. Clare said, "Vicky, you just want to steal her brother."
Vicky laughed and said he was too young. "Sure, he looks, what? Like a 25-year-old, but he is only 15. I don't want to be a sugar mummy."
(Have I mentioned the STOP CROSS-GENERATIONAL SEX billboards yet? The sugar daddy and mummy commercials? I guess it's one of the biggest ways AIDS is spread. So they combat it with massive billboards with a picture of a man, for instance, and the caption: "Do you want this man sleeping with your teenage daughter?.....Then why are you sleeping with his?"

On my walk home from school the other night, I passed a little girl kicking a busted soccer ball around the ground. I joined her and kicked back. For the next half hour the two of us played volleyball in the middle of the road. I never even took my bookbag off (maybe I'm paranoid. Yeah, yeah I am). Four or five others joined us, just to watch and laugh. Before I left, I asked their names and said, "Nze Danielle. Not Mzungu. Danielle." I tried not to make it obvious that I walked away quickly, quick enough to get in the house, pull out my notebook, and write down their names before I forgot.
I passed Victo, the first girl I met, on my way to school the next day. She yelled, "Hi Mzungu!" and I greeted her with her name. As soon as I said Victo, the woman standing next to her started squealing and laughing. She turned behind her and yelled to another lady some Luganda sentence that had "Mzungu" and "Victo" in it. The same thing happened in the evening that night. And even though I keep reminding Victo of my name, Mzungu is still all I get. Whatever.
(The other ones are Olivia, Nanchent, Chalifa, Okabago, and Malcom Nansa. But pronunciation-decoding is all I had going for me).
The first night, after our volleyball game, they yelled after me, "Mzungu, get for us a ball!" I said okay, picturing the yellow and purple Nerfball just sitting in my suitcase. But I'm going to wait it out. I don't want them to see quick turn-around time and think "genie." No thanks.

Bwindi this weekend was incredible. Incredible if you close your eyes and try, really hard, to forget about the drive. Twelve-fourteen hours, each way, on the bumpiest, dustiest roads in the world, in a hot van with 15 others, when you can't move your bent knees even an inch. I've never felt more unsaved in my life. Thinking heathen thoughts--or at least joking about setting the van on fire--and surely complaining with biting sarcasm every chance I got. In other words, I really don't feel like myself in Africa. I seem to be growing more bitter by the day.

Other than the van-ride, I maybe take back what I said about Kapchorwa being the most beautiful place ever. Now it's quite the toss-up.
We slept, for 3 nights, beside a mountain that houses gorillas. Yeah, gorillas.
Gorillas we didn't see, sure--but gorillas that were there somewhere, and ready to see upon shelfing out 500 big ones. (On the opposite side of this mountain is Rwanda, and the precise place where "Gorillas in the Mist" was filmed. So I'm told).

Bwindi is where V-Money was born. And so I am not surprised by its beauty. (If I learned anything this weekend, one of the main things is that I will miss Vincent, our driver, as much as I'll miss my host family). He calls me the linguist. And I tell him he's one of my favorite Ugandans. [On our ride home on Monday, we stopped at his parents' home for lunch. Also awesome].

Our purpose in Bwindi was to meet with a certain Dr. Kellermann--"Dr. Scott"--from California. Some years back, he and his wife moved to Uganda and began their own mobile clinic, from a trailer or something. This weekend, seven or so years later, we are given a tour of an incredible hospital--with a newly built pediatrics ward and women & maternity ward, and an HIV ward, etc. etc. This guy is incredible--he surely made this missions-travel-trip the best of the 3, I think. Saturday morning he took us to Botwa? (or Batwa?), so we could meet and help the pygmies he works with. [I wouldn't have known they were pygmies if someone didn't remind me; they are simply shorter...not ridiculously short, which is the impression I used to get]. Anyway, it doesn't matter what they look like.
What matters is that we finally were able to DO something for once. For a few hours we finished building a mud house. Which, as Becca put it, is every five-year-old's dream. Yeah, it was awesome. Messy and awesome. Afterwards, we danced with them. By "we" I mean, I was still washing all the mud off of myself even by the time they finished. But we brought drums and guitars to the work-site, because they won't take you seriously unless you jam with them. Amazing.

I pulled Hope, one of the Bwindi women who works with Dr. Scott, aside to ask her about the house the particular pygmie family was living in before this new home we were building. (Wow--bad verb tense all throughout that, but I will not fix it). She showed it to me, right behind the one in the making. For a family of seven, there was this tiny tiny tent, big enough for maybe 3 people to sit comfortably, made of banana leaves. That was their home. Hope told me that it only costs $450 for the supplies and stuff (but soon it will be 600) to build one of the bamboo & mud homes--complete with tin roof--that we were building. She pointed this way and that, over the mountains and banana trees, to indicate the other countless pygmie families that Dr. Scott wants to help, but is just waiting for funds, donations, etc.
She took me into one of the other homes, where an infant was sleeping in a blanket, one 1/2 feet away from the fire pit--aka their kitchen. "They are suffering," she said. "Especially because the leaves don't make a proper roof. When it rains, it is useless--the floor is made of dirt."
Anyway, I don't know what to say about that, other than just to say it.

By the by, I like Hope so much. She was the best part of dinner that night (she sat right next to me; I got to hear about her husband and their all-J's family of seven [this is getting common; all of V-Money's children are D's]). Her husband teaches Literature at a faraway school on an island by some lake (a lake I think we visit after Rwanda). Anyway, she only sees him once a month. She was a good listener as I vented about needing to see everyone at home, and missing home like crazy.

Let's see. Sunday. Sunday was wonderful. We Americans have collectively agreed that this Sunday we met the best dancer in Uganda. A middle-aged man named Erik. I can't explain his dance skills, other than: if I had a jump-rope team, he would be on it; first pick. Like the languages, the dances vary from tribe to tribe. This one is the best thus far. Not only Erik, but the little girls. You should see them bust it out (I video-taped it, surely). He danced basically throughout the entire service, except for when I was preaching (even though, halfway through the sermon, they interrupted me with a hymn. Very random, very hilarious. I just clapped with them until they were done, and then continued). My translator, Richard, leaned over and said they were singing the hymn that coincided with the passage we read. Sweet.

After church, we went to dancing Erik's home for lunch. Many people gave speeches (speeches come with every event here, impromptu or not), and they fed us well. As we were leaving, Erik's son, maybe 6 or 7--wearing a dress suit far too big for him, the belt hanging all the way to his feet--walked in the sitting room carrying a live chicken. He handed it to Brooke, our leader, and said, "We love you and we thank you. This is a gift for you." Yeah, our chicken--Jerry Seinfeld II--rode on top of the van, his feet tied to a spare tire, all 14 hours.
(Monday morning, as we were leaving, somehow his feet got untied. He escaped the box. The attempt to catch him lasted far too long, and consisted of Todd chasing him down a main road, carrying a branch). Gifts that run away. Another sweet part of Africa [this reminds me of Clare's comment to me last week. Sitting in Vicky's room, Clare told me she wished I had more free weekends. Because her mom really really wanted Clare to bring a white person home to their village. "She wanted to give you a goat," she said.
I gotta say--I have no idea how I would've responded. How I would've held it on the matatu. Crazy.

Anyway, not too long after Erik's son gave Brooke the chicken, we all went in their front yard to dance some more. It was a whole lot of fun. Dusty, all of us imitating a jump-rope sort of dance, with a whole lot of stomping, but fun. Once we thought we were done, half of us made it to the van, but Richard came over to me and Betsy and said, "Do you still like the dancing?"
"Yes," Betsy said.
"Sure?" Richard said. "You do?"
"Yes," Betsy said.
As he walked away, excited, I couldn't stop laughing. Because the communication barrier was apparent; what Richard meant was, "Do you still want to dance?" So, surely, Richard yelled something in the Rikiga language that meant, "One more song," and we danced some more.

Erin and Becca and I spent most of our time pretending to be Steve Erwin tracking gorillas. We tackled each other from behind bushes in the forest trails. What I learned, and what Becca learned more than any of us, is that it's really really hard to climb a tree in a skirt. The blasted dress code.

Sunday night, after singing Luganda songs around the dinner table with V-Money, Erin, Sharon, Becca and I sat under the stars. "Munyenye nyinji nnyo," ("the stars are very many"), we told Vincent. He laughed and said we must email him when we are home.

Under the stars, I taught the girls my favorite Luganda song I told you about a long long time ago. "Tunakuwaki ffe," I am guessing it is called. They learned it well, and we danced around for awhile, singing it. Becca eventually went to bed, and the three of us sat out there watching. The stars were not only SO CLEAR that we could see the star dust...like the wispy extra specs that I don't think I've ever seen, but we caught two shooting ones. It was beautiful, so so beautiful. Especially knowing there were silverbacks only blocks away from us.

What I also learned this weekend: my professor, Dr. Button--his wife, Rosie, has a speaking part, as a hostage, in the movie "Last King of Scotland." And the little girl she is holding in the scene? The little girl who didn't understand/didn't even like my batman joke. (The doctor in Mukono who is supposed to take care of us Americans if/when we get sick, he is the newspaper reporter in this same movie). I should watch it or something.

Speaking of sick, we've all been, basically, this past weekend. Each night, on the dot, everybody. Everybody but Melody, really, but Melody had the meds. Thank you, Melody.
I have sort of been sick since last Thursday, though. Last Thursday as in, maybe two weeks ago. I've just been hoping it will go away. I think it will.

The last thing I learned this weekend: how very much I did not plan on building friendships with Americans this semester (I forgot, I guess, that I wouldn't be alone here); and how very much I love them all; and how very much I am going to miss them.
The worst seat on the bus, I think, is the seat I sat in for the last 14 hours. Only because, it is generally agreed that the 2nd row has the worst feet space. And the middle seat is the worst of that row because you have no window to lean on, and/or stick your head out of when you think you're going to hurl.
Thus, Becca and I grew a lot closer this trip. Not only did her IPOD make the way a whole lot more bearable, but the girl didn't protest when I lay/laid/lied? on every bit of her. Her shoulder, her lap. At the end of the trip, I apologized and thanked her for being my body pillow. My back on her lap, I looked up at her and said, "I just wanted to be comfortable, you know?"
"No, I wouldn't know. I haven't been comfortable this whole trip."
I think she was sort of serious. But very Christ-like. She surely took one for the team. And we're better friends because of it.

Before I go, one last thing. Becca and I walked to Mukono High School today to meet with her dad. Her dad is the headmaster of the school (and the president of the rotary club--the rotary club that my family friend, John, wanted me to visit a few weeks back). He showed us around. What I mean by that is, yes, he took us to every classroom, one by one, and introduced us as his daughters. And we had to address them. Impromptu, of course. (When in doubt, speak in Luganda. They love it).
John is trying to see if the rotary club at home would be willing to help sponsor a project alongside the Rotary Club in Mukono. Hence the purpose of today's trip. Becca's dad (he calls her Baker, even when he writes her name) showed us around to help give me an idea of their needs and what they do. They need a clean water source; so far, they daily lorry it in.
Anyway, it was incredible. Becca's dad, Julius, is the sweetest man in town.

Also: all my classes are basically done. Finals are this week and next.
It's crazy, how fast it's going.
But I'm really really okay with that.

To clarify.

That's not April Fools.
Todd really did shave his beard.

Now we don't have "Yesu." We have Kirk Cameron.