go and do likewise

and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise
lessons from saint mary faustina

saint mary faustia kowalska

today’s gospel reading is one that is very familiar to me–and perhaps to many–luke 10:25-37, the parable of the good samaritan.

a lawyer comes to jesus and asks how he can inherit eternal life. jesus turns the question back on the lawyer, who knows what the law says, and quotes: “you shall love the lord your god with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’
jesus responds to the lawyer with a simply command “do this, and you will live.”

the lawyer, who i have to identify with here, needs more information–needs more guidance–and asks, “and who is my neighbour?”

it is here that we hear the story of the good samaritan from jesus. the priest and a levite make it a point to walk on the opposite side of the road from this man who has been beaten and lies along the road waiting either for help or to die. but then a samaritan was passing by–and rather than move to the other side of the road he comes near to the man. there are a out of verbs in the few verses that follow this movement by the samaritan.

the samaritan comes near,

went to him, bandaged his wounds, put him on his own animal,

brought him to an inn and tells the innkeeper to take care of him while he is away. thats a lot of doing.

using this teaching moment, jesus offers a small quiz to those listening to this interaction and story. he asks “which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

continuing in the style of the telling of this parable, jesus keeps throwing verbs around and gives a specific ‘take home’ for this story. “go and do likewise.”

it seems pretty simple. the samaritan offered mercy to his neighbour. and so should you.

and yet, i continually find myself questioning who my neighbour is, or not treating those who cross my path as i should be treating my neighbour. AND THEN i find myself confronted with someone who does show mercy to their neighbour like christ has called us to do. and i’m convicted and challenged to work to embrace the craziness of the holy spirit and be christ to my neighbour.
today is such a day.

i have this calendar on my office wall from “leadership” magazine, which is a catholic publication in uganda. the pictures on this calendar are nothing to be excited about, and i can’t say that the mission  for each month printed below the picture inspires me to greatness (or even mediocrity for that matter). so, why do i have this calendar hanging on my office wall then? there are three answers to that questions:
1) it was free. i like free.
2) the lectionary readings are printed on each day making it easier to just glance at the calendar to know the day’s readings (i’m lazy and need encouragement, what can i say)
3) saints feast days are printed above the lectionary readings. i like saints and feast days.
sometimes, i if i don’t know the saint whose feast day it is (i rarely know the saint…) and i have time/am willing to make time and am curious enough, i’ll google said saint after reading the lections for the day.

today was one of those days. i googled saint mary faustina fowalska after reading todays lections and was genuinely challenged/inspired by the intersections of today’s gospel reading and what i’ve learned in my ever-so-scholarly research.

saint mary faustina kowalska, born august 25 1905 (third of ten children) as helena kowalska in glowowiec, poland entered the convent on april 30, 1926 at age 21. (she had been turned down from several before she was finally accepted at congregation of the sisters of our lady of mercy…) upon entering the convent she took the name sister mary faustina of the blessed sacrament.

the first thing that really caught my attention about st. faustina was the following quote from the vatican website: “although her life was apparently insignificant, monotonous and dull, she hid within herself an extraordinary union with god.”

this captured my interest and kept me reading–and thats when i stumbled on the person who today will confront me with a true following of christ, showing mercy to neighbour and challenge to work on my own shortcomings and denials of the spirit’s movement.

during her mundane and so-called boring life in the convent  sister mary faustina focused on “contemplating and getting to know the mystery of god’s mercy” which helped her to “develop within [her] the attitude of child-like trust in god as well as mercy toward neighbours.”

pope john paul II canonized sister mary, an ordinary seemingly insignificant lady on 30 april 2000 as saint mary faustina. 30 april 2000 was the second sunday of easter, which, JPII said “from now on throughout the church will be called “divine mercy sunday”.” he named the second sunday of easter “divine mercy sunday” on the day he canonized saint faustina because of her dedication to and love for her neighbour–for the mercy she sought to communicate from christ to the world, to her neighbour.

her commitment to neighbour and mercy are evident in her many of her diary entries. in her diary, sr mary preserved her visions, conversations with jesus and mother mary and kept an account of her convictions/learnings.

she prayed, “o my jesus, each of your saints reflects one of your virtues; i desire to reflect your compassionate heart, full of mercy; i want to glorify it. let your mercy, o jesus, be impressed upon my heart and soul and this will be my badge in this and the future life.”

saint faustina's vision of christ as divine mercy. the red beam represents christ's blood, the eucharist... the white beam water, the renewal of baptism. all together, the divine mercy of christ for humanity.

later, no doubt feeling the effects of willingly entering into the broken heart of god [as evident in her prayer above] she writes,  “i feel tremendous pain when i see the sufferings of my neighbours. all my neighbours’ sufferings reverberate in my own heart; i carry their anguish in my heart in such a way that it physically destroys me. i would like all their sorrows to fall upon me, in order to relive my neighbour.”

i think JPII sums this up well in his canonization homily when he said, “this is the degree of compassion to which love leads, when it takes the love of god as its measure.”

and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise.
did jesus complain of compassion fatigue? maybe that is what sabbath is for.
and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise.
if it were only that easy.
and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise.
saint faustina was barely literate. and yet had a closely intimate relationship with christ.
and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise.
i think i get too caught up in education and learning to DO likewise. i’m pretty good about reading about doing likewise. and day dreaming about doing likewise. and wondering what “doing likewise would look like on the ground” but have a lot to learn about DOing likewise.
and who is my neighbour? …go and do likewise.
i want to do more of these things: be near, go to, bandage wounds,  take care…
as is pretty typical of my reflections, i seem to have ended up with more questions than answers. more things on my list rather than things checked off…

go and do likewise.

 

taxi!

one doesn’t hail a taxi in uganda- you jump out of the way as one zooms toward you and then leap in before it takes off again.

their ‘names’ are personally my favorite part about taxis (called matatus) and i have started a small fotographic collection of some of the more interesting ones…

i learned a lesson 26 years in coming from this particular taxi, that i’ve been taking sabbath on the WRONG DAY this entire time. thankfully the taxi in front of the “sat. is sabbath” taxi reminded me to give “glory to god” so i think it all evens out somehow.

masau!

 

a blown tire in the bush

i recently took the two visitors to a manyata (village)  to see first hand how “typical” karimajongs are living–and to meet some of the family members who live in this particular village.

my vehicle was in the shop getting a fuse changed, so i had asked my friend israel if i could borrow his land rover for the evening. in true hospitality he complied, leaving the keys to the vehicle at his home.
so, david and bruce (those visiting for the tour) and three of my friends piled into the land rover and drove out to the manyata for our visit. we had a tour, talked with a mama…the fellows took pictures and such. it was dusk, and therefore time to get out of the bush–so we headed back to the vehicle.
david and my friend grace decided to ride in the open back part of the vehicle, so they climbed up and i performed a lovely three-point turn (it was perfect, dad. perfect.) and was slowing moving toward the road when david started yelling from the back of the vehicle, and banging to get my attention. rolling to a stop, i stuck my head out the window to see what the problem could be. we had a flat tire. it was so flat that it was actually coming off the rim!
thankfully, the prior week israel had brought this vehicle over to jump-start my vehicle, so i knew where the tool box was…if i hadn’t had seen it i never would have guessed its location. (to reach said tool-box one has to take the actual driver’s seat out of the vehicle (yep out) and the box is underneath the seat. israel was well prepared and had a jack as well as the proper tire tools in said tool-box. praise the lord!
after some finagling the jack was finally under the proper axle and bruce was pumping away to raise the vehicle so we could change the tire. sadly, none of us had taken the size of the spring/shock into account. its quite large. we had pumped the jack all the way to the top to only raise the tire about a centimeter off the ground!
typically, one would just lower the jack, raise the extension and try again. which was totally our intention. however. we couldn’t get the jack to reverse motion. i was really sure that there was a switch, or a screw to release to reverse the motion (down!) but david and bruce weren’t finding one on the jack…
so i did what any self-respecting daughter would do: figure out what time it is in the midwest of the united states, and then called my dad. i asked how to reverse the motion on a jack, and he confirmed that there should be something to switch or loosen or something. (you are welcome for a great story to tell as you walked into your meeting, by the way…”my daughter just called from africa…”)
instead of getting down on the ground myself, i peered between the flat tire and the vehicle through to the jack on the ground. i saw the little nob we were aiming for, and promised my companions that we needed to turn that little nob and the jack would lower. i was somehow able to persuade david (who is ugandan, by the way) to climb on under and tinker with the nob until he was able to loosen the nob and lower the jack. we thought we had really achieved something great and were congratulating each other on our brilliance. but we weren’t out of the [bush] yet…
we managed to raise the extension of the jack and get the car back up in the air–and a workable height–david was working on getting the lug-nuts off the tire (yes, i realize that we should have loosened them BEFORE we had the car up in the air. i know, i know) but they were sort of stuck so he was actually pounding on the tool with a rock. (this is as bad of an idea as it sounds.)
all of this pounding, unsurprisingly, had caused the jack to shift and was now precariously sitting at an angle that was threatening to crash at any moment. our celebrations of genius quickly came to an end…
as quickly and safely as possible we lowered the jack (this took longer than perhaps it should have. we may have had a small discussion/debate regarding if we should have all those gathered help us push on the vehicle and remove the jack that way, or if we should really put someone’s head under this large vehicle that could potentially fall… we decided on the latter somehow.).
another debate ensued on how to move forward. one person wanted just put the jack back under the vehicle and try again, one wanted to put a large rock between the sand and the jack, one wanted to put a 2×4 between the axle and the jack. (this 2×4 that was brought to us was a mama’s pillow. yes, they use 2×4s as pillows in the village. comfy.)
at this point, i was no longer being listened to–and was getting frustrated but trying to enjoy the moment of surprise, enjoy the hospitality of the ENTIRE village that had gathered to watch the goings-on (i was given a cup of very fresh milk to drink in the meantime. yum.) and so i walked away with my friend martha.
grace had called a friend in town to come and help us out, and she had walked toward the road to flag him down and show him the way to the village, so we made our way towards her to keep her company. we found her a few dozen feet from the road with a few young men/older boys who were guarding her/keeping her company. so we joined the group and stood around in the dark looking towards town–watching for headlights.
yes, i walked away from my visitors and left them to mess with the car. in my defense, i don’t think they noticed i wasn’t there anymore. grace’s friend paul arrived in his truck and we all rode back to the scene of the flat-tire. paul was in possession of a better jack. he was able to quickly get the vehicle in the air, and get the tire off–and the spare tire on.
lets take a small break to discuss that even well-intended helping can have negative results. grace and david had taken the flat tire and THREW it in the back of the vehicle. which made the jack shift and everyone panicked.
the community flew into action and all hands were applied to the vehicle. it was quite easy to keep it off the ground with just a little effort from each of us. paul and bruce were able to get the jack back in place and the rest of us were relieved to not be holding up the land rover.
the new tire was navigated into position, the lug-nuts were tightened, and the vehicle lowered back to mother earth. we thanked our audience for joining, and for lifting the vehicle…(i also thanked them for my cup of milk) and we were off back to town.
after the fact i learned two interesting things: 1) with the headlights of both of our vehicles in the area, the mzees (older men/elders) thought that the updf (ugandan army) were coming to “disarm” them. they were frightened and were literally running away. (the updf, who is in karamoja to “protect” the people has a bad reputation for “disarming” unarmed persons–many people have been killed. we’re talking old persons and young children. ugh.)

and

2) israel knew that the tire was bad before he allowed me to borrow his vehicle, but had sent it to be fixed. (he was actually out of town, making things more complicated). in my conversations with israel later, he said that the boy who was to fix the tire is still learning. and here is proof of that fact: there was a nail in the tire the first time it needed to be fixed    . said boy patched the tube of the tire  but failed to take the nail out. yes, you read that correctly: he failed to take the nail out of the tire. it was inevitable that it was going to go flat again.

as we say around here: TIA.

 

at least a thousand words

what once was

train tracks near soroti, uganda through my windshield.

 

OXFAM!

i lingered a little too long in bed this morning trying to finish reading a very interesting  novel and therefore did not have time to drink my coffee at home. this is an important element to the story that follows below. (for this human being to function properly she needs coffee. lots of it.)

being decidedly “old-fashioned” in various ways i have acquired an old-fashioned pen-pal. (she’s not really old-fashioned. or old, for that matter. so the pen-pal is not the object of the adjective of old-fashioned. the having  of an actual pen-pal to whom one writes handwritten letters and sends with a stamp instead of a click, is what is meant by “old-fashioned.”  just to clear that up.)

she is a fellow duke-grad who has recently moved to uganda as a part of her life of ministry.

while uganda is a “small” country, kampala is quite far from kotido, especially considering the road conditions (or lack thereof) and state of public transportation on said roads.

seconds after this conversation was had (via text message/sms, of course) i sat myself down to write my first installment card.

having written a heart-felt and delightful card (hum, maybe) i affixed a stamp that i had previously purchased in kampala and set out to find the post office. (yes, you are correct in wondering, “gee, haven’t you been in kotido for over nine months now? and you don’t know where the post office is?” it is not that i do not know WHERE the post office is, but it is really more of a question of WHEN is the post office open? i have never seen it open and no one really seems to be able to answer that question…)

i inquired after several people around my office and the diocese to ask if anyone else was going to the post office, of if they had the magic knowledge of when it would be open.  no one seemed to be planning to mail anything nor did anyone seem to know when the post office would be open. today, if ever…

i returned the letter to my office desk where i promptly forgot about it until friday around noon. i took the cute little card in hand and set off to the diocese’s development office which is larger and actually staffed. (i’ve been the only church of uganda employee around our offices since last thursday morning…) i was told that it would have to go by airplane (MAF which is the missionary aviation fellowship) to kampala and then be mailed from there.

i saw this slightly as defeat, since i have now affixed a stamp for a journey that will not be paid for by said stamp. drat. this is only compounded by the rigamarole i went through this morning to get said card onto said airplane headed to kampala today.

MAF comes to kotido every monday, wednesday and friday morning around 10:00–so this morning i headed with little card over to the development office to see if i could put it in with the things that they were sending, or if someone from the diocese was going to the airstrip and then i could just send it directly.

if only things were truly that easy.
the first time i ventured to the office, no one was there. so i was walking away when i heard rita talking to someone else. i whipped around and tried to catch her attention, but she was talking lively to someone else. nancy was coming up the path so she and i talked for a few minutes and i made my inquiry to her as well. she didn’t really have much to say on the matter to me, but clipped something off to rita in ngakarimajong that i didn’t really catch much of.

rita then ran over to the accounts office, came running back with some envelopes in hand and zipped past me into the development office. she flung open the cabinet (i should mention that rita is generally very calm and not prone to fling things about) and rummaged around for something.

when she turned around to face nancy and i again she had a cute yellow bag in her hands–she was shoving the envelopes in said cute yellow bag toward me and shouted, “OXFAM!”

i was too busy studying this sweet bag made from a yellow pillowcase with green letters about two inches tall hand-stitched to the outside that say “kotido” to realize that she was a) handing something to me and b) ordering me to take it to oxfam. stat.

after the shock subsided i took the bag and asked hesitantly,
“you… want… me… to…. take this… to… oxfam?”

“yes.” was the stereo reply i received from rita and nancy.

“check.”

it was at this point i remembered the coffee that was now probably unfortunately far too cool for my taste awaiting me on my desk. i hesitated between turning left for a trip to my office to grab my coffee (it wouldn’t be the first time i walked around kotido drinking my morning coffee out of a real coffee cup) or go straight towards the exit of the compound and towards oxfam.
while i was deciding i heard “OXFAM!” barked at me from the veranda of the development office, so option one it was. straight away. oxfam. here i go. on foot.

it was maybe 9:35 and already getting pretty hot. i was contemplating just going back for my vehicle and taking an adventure (with my coffee,thank you.) to the airstrip personally when an oxfam vehicle turned the corner and was coming towards me.

“what luck!” i thought. i waved the yellow bag in the air, thinking surely its the universal symbol for “this is a mail bag, you are going to the airstrip and should therefore take this with you, because you are a kind and wonderful human being.”

instead, the oxfam driver waved at me as if i had greeted him.

i waved/flailed at the driver as he approached (going at a fairly fast speed, i might say) and he took this for another, more energetic greeting and waved back.

i then had a flash of brilliance and made the “come here” gesture with my hand (arm straight out, palm down, make grabbing gesture with arm still straight out). and he stopped. (what luck!)

i walked up to the passenger side door and opened it before he had a chance to roll down the window–we went through the formality of greeting and i then inquired as to if he were indeed going to the airstrip and would he be ever-so-kind as to take this mail bag with him.

he said he wasn’t (crap) but picked up his walkie-talkie (sweet) and asked who was going and then asked if they would pass by the church of uganda compound for a passenger. he didn’t even say “mzungu” (white person) which won him, and thereby oxfam, major points in my book. i thanked him (probably more than i should have) and then walked back to the gate to await the newly redirected second oxfam vehicle.

the vehicle going to the airstrip, driven by a fellow i would shortly learn is called francis, actually beat me to the gate, so i ran the last few meters–becoming every more aware that i still have not had any coffee yet.

francis and i greeted each other and exchanged pleasantries before i asked the favor. he seemed a little disappointed that i wasn’t going to the airstrip, just this little bag of mail–sorry, dude.

with that, he was off to the airstrip with a little bag of mail headed for kampala and i was off to my office to finally have my coffee, which thankfully, wasn’t as cold as i was expecting it to be after all that drama. hurrah.

 

hands: one

angelina atyam with a frangipani flower,
lira-uganda

information on concerned parents association can be found here.

a wiki article is here.

to purchase the book “aboke girls” go here.

more reflections on hearing this story to come.

 

adventures in food: intsallment one, bus breakfast

its early–maybe 6:30 a.m.

i haven’t had breakfast.

or more importantly, coffee.

nevertheless, i’m wide awake, having just taken a boda all the way across kampala city to get to this bus and find a decent seat. these boda adventures are quite the wake up call…

i buy a soda (caffeinated, mind  you) from one of the young boys who wander the aisles of each bus in the park, clinking the bottle openers against the glass, hoping – i assume- that a pavlovian response from passengers will compel us to purchase 250ml of their wares…putting them that much closer to…what? school fees? new shoes? food for their families?

the soda is quickly finished and the bottle returned to the young man–it is then i begin to contemplate my growing hunger…

i turn down chapati, samosas… no one seems to be selling fruit this morning.

then, she appears. a woman bearing brown paper bags.

she is wearing a blue apron for the outdoor restaurant just outside the bus park– she shuffles up the aisle of the bus in ill-fitting shoes, quietly calling out the contents of her brown paper bags, music to my ears–to my stomach!

“chipsy…muchomo….chipsy…muchomo…”

a traveler's breakfast

inside the brown paper bag is a cavera (plastic bag) full of chips (french fries [freedom fries? no.]) little bits of roasted goat and a tiny little cavera full of tomato top up (gelatinous ketchup of east-africa).

a wee cavera of top up

the salty and greasy goodness was exactly what i needed to sustain me through the long bus ride to mbale and on to soroti. the salty and greasy goodness was also washed down with a second 250 ml of coke-a-cola. (it was cold. i couldn’t resist.)

who needs “fast food” when you can have “chipsy….muchomo…” brought to you in your bus seat by a lovely woman who calls you sister… who indeed.

 

karamoja math

the last time i did laundry in an act of knowing laziness i left the multicolored clothespins hanging helplessly on the laundry lines.

they have been bunched together

on the three lines by the strong karamoja winds

into an oddly colorful abacus

whose math

is

as mysterious to me

as the soft language i am trying to learn.

ejok a?

ejok.

ikitoverang dadaang.

 

the hostility of the karimajong became hospitality*1: an introduction ceremony

from very early in my time in karamoja i knew that i would be participating in the introduction ceremony for christine and francis.  i was not asked, i was told. i was not given an opportunity to demure or attempt humility at being ‘asked’ but ordered when and where to show up for events leading up to the introduction ceremony. i was happy to comply and be ordered around.

the first six months of this mzungu’s life in karamoja was peppered with preparations for the introduction–committee meetings after church nearly every sunday, learning how to bead with the other ‘maids’, getting to know the bride better, asking questions about the nature of an introduction ceremony and the culture surrounding it.*2

the bride (christine) is a karimajong from kotido, and the groom (francis) is ateso, from soroti. she is anglican and he is a part of the pentecostal assemblies of god church. not only were christine and francis stepping towards their own new life together, but they were pulling their tribes, their churches–their people–into a new relationship that is a far cry from the previous relationship the karimajong and ateso shared.*3

meetings were held after church nearly every sunday for these six months. it was a beautiful and inspirational thing to watch the church community come together as the family to plan and fund this introduction and wedding. all the maamas were christine’s maama. all the fathers were christine’s father. all the sisters her sisters… i was quickly enveloped in this family and given responsibilities, was expected to give my opinion and to contribute to the cause in some way.*4 with being a great eye into the family of this church and community it was also a quick entry for me into the family–into the community. here was a wiling able-bodied and eager warm-body, that is rarely ignored. i collected  phone numbers and names, learned where people live…who their families were…and became a part of the inner workings of the community.

most of the meetings were too long, boring and hot. many times i found myself contemplating my growling tummy and my growing caffeine headache… but there moments during these meetings, especially when christine was around for them, that reflected what i think the community of christ should look like: working together for a common cause; with love, respect and commitment to maintaining unity (even if that meant compromising).

most of our conversations involved funding–where was the money going to come from to keep francis’ family when they were in kotido–where was the funding going to come from to pay for petrol for the vehicles–where can we find money to pay for the gifts for the introduction? we were given a budget very early on, in maybe the second meeting of the committee, of everything that the bride and groom suspected would be needed (or wanted) for the wedding and introduction. this budget included things like the bride’s dress down to the how much it would cost for the bride’s nails to be done to the marriage certificate to two large celebration poppers for the reception…

members of the committee were invited to choose something to ’sponsor’ from the list. my housemate and i chose the wedding certificate and the poppers–something serious and something fun–and were prepared to happily donate for those things when the plan suddenly changed. (this is to be expected, just so you know.) the need shifted from these specific things to needing money for fuel for the vehicles bringing the grooms family and friends from soroti to karamoja for the introduction. after a short discussion kelly and i upped our contribution a bit and donated to the cause.

thanks to the generosity of the committee (who are the middle or upper class of kotido), the congregation (ranging from those who speak no english and had no money to donate to those who are more well off than all members of the committee put together) and the community (everyone knows and loves christine) the family of francis was transported to kotido, slept in the church of uganda’s guest house and was fed well by maama bishop (rose).

the night before the introduction there was a gathering for the two families, i think it involved a goat roast, at the guest house. kelly was feeling ill, so neither of us ended up going. (we also had no idea what time it was to start, if we were expected to be there, if we were to bring anything… no one we asked was really able to answer any of these questions for us–so we opted to stay home and speculate on the following days activities.)

in typical ugandan (east-african? african?) fashion we were not told the correct time to arrive for the events of the actual day of the introduction. we were told something like 7:00 a.m. and being westerners showed up pretty close to 7:00 a.m…. we wandered to the center armed with cameras and shod with our ugandan sandals (probably actually from kenya) as we were instructed to do. upon our arrival we were quickly handed arm-full upon arm-full of beads.

nancy!

sorts out beads for kelly and i

beads for the waist, beads for the neck, beads for the arms, beads for the head, beads for the ears…it was a slightly overwhelming experience for around 7:30 a.m.!

our friend rhoda walked us to the home of christine’s mother, where the introduction would be held. we arrived to find the bride-to-be in curlers sitting outside enjoying the sun and the company of her sisters. much to her chagrin, i took her ‘before’ picture as she lounged on a bench.

kelly and christine

kelly and i were ushered into a small house where we handed our beads over to some maamas who were gracious enough to help us figure out what in the world to do with all these beads…where do they go? how do we put them on? how do we untangle them? they expertly untangled and rearranged our borrowed waist beads and then wrapped them around our waiting waists–i felt a bit like a bobbin being wound for the sewing machine.

once we were beaded properly, from head to toe, we were given our new traditional skirts that had been made for the occasion as well as a new tank top to complete the outfit. we were dressed and ready to go by 10:00 as the other ladies trickled in–their sandals and shoes creating a mountain of footwear outside the door. this scene outside a home has become a sign of hospitality and friendship in the short time that i have been in uganda.

everyone was ready by around 11:00 including christine who was looking beautiful in her first outfit of the day. we were had milk-tea and mandazi around the time the ladies were through dressing and sat around chatting about the day and other such things you chat about with new friends.

once we were dressed in our introduction outfits we were not allowed to leave the room for fear of being seen by the grooms family or, heaven forbid, the groom himself! those who needed to venture out for whatever reason had to wrap a kikoi all around them so that the outfit did not show at all. one of christine’s sisters, florence, periodically would go out to see what was keeping the ceremony from going on… we had been waiting about five hours in this small room packed with women and a few visiting children and people were getting hot and antsy…

apparently, the negotiations between the would-be bride and groom’s family was taking much much longer than expected. even though things were arranged before hand, the conversation stretched far beyond the planned start time of the introduction as well right through the lunch hour–which was supposed to be the end of the ceremony (serving everyone lunch and bidding farewell).

someone made a call to the “outside” world and requested some chapati to be delivered to the ’starving’ maids in the house. some gracious friend of a friend went to town and bought out some chapati dealer so that we had something to eat–some crates of soda were also delivered–we were sustained.

suddenly things were on the move–the parents had come to a consensus and had moved out of their small discussion room, just next to our house, and were paying to get their shoes back (if shoes were left outside the house they were taken by the bride’s family/clan and they are not returned without a small fee–very puckish!). this thrust our little feminine-fleet to assemble ourselves into our four groups and get ready for the ceremony to get started!

all of us in the “skirts” group jumped to our feet and arranged ourselves in our very well rehearsed lines–we were tossed our shoes from the pile that had been moved from outside into our house (we didn’t want to pay!) and we stood in our two lines. waiting.

talk about hurry up and wait. we stood in our two lines for about twenty minutes before we were allowed to move outside into the deliciously warm sunshine–where we stood still long enough for me to no longer thing the sunshine was delicious but rather hot that day… finally finally finally the music came on and we in the first group were dancing our way out to be inspected by the groom’s family.

we came around the corner of the house and were funneled by the large crowds that did not fit under the two tents between the families tents. there was a large mat set out in front of the bride’s tent (facing the groom’s family tent) that we all kneeled on (in perfect unison, thank you) after we’d danced ourselves into position.

the m.c. then invited the groom and his family to see if the bride was among this group of women–”is she here?” “is that her?” “is it one of those buzungu (white people)?” the family approached each of us as we allowed them to inspect us. (there were maybe 10-15 of us in this group.)

inspection shot

my jawbone was scrutinized (i was told it was nice), my eyes gazed into (i was told they are pretty) and my hair inspected (it was found to be surprisingly soft). one member of francis’ family even poked my right arm. i would like to think he was surprised at the firmness of said arm and biceps…   maybe not. but maybe.

after several looks over and perhaps one too many jokes about the “white jie” the groom announced that his bride was not in this group.we were then nicely chased away by the family–nice enough meaning that we were able to dance away, not run like some of the latter groups.

my vantage point for the remaining groups was mostly nonexistent. if by mostly i mean completely. i was able to see the remaining two groups that did not contain the bride dance out and be consumed by the crowds that would part for the groups to pass and then fill back in like a flowing stream only to part again to let them come back through when chased away. the chasing away of each group intensified with every group.

we were teased away–being told we were too young yet, and maybe in a few years we would find our groom–the second group teased a little but almost being accused of trying to fool the bride, and the third group (the last one before the bride) was sent back through the crowd at a lope–deceivers!

nancy!

finally it was time for christine’s group to go out. she was hidden within a group of women who were all already married–the formed a circle around here, hiding her from view. we could hear the m.c. narrating francis thinking he saw her, “is that her?” “no.” “maybe?” as soon as he found her, the shouting and celebrations began–all of us girls who had been out before now rushed out to celebrate that francis had found christine among all of the karimajong women. there was ululating and dancing and shouting and singing!

after the celebrations died down a bit (helped along by the m.c. encouraging people to please sit back down) the giving of gifts began. francis’ family and friends offered many things to christine and her family–mostly food stuffs from goats to apples to cans of coke.  the stream of gifts lasted for quite some time–and the goats brayed loudly through the entire process–either they knew their fates of a delicious feast a few days later or were just shy and did not like being in front of all of those people…

after the gift giving there were speeches, as is typical in uganda. they were also long, as is also typical in uganda. i was super pleased that we were able to miss out on this excitement (or lack thereof) because we were eating our 5:30 p.m. lunch so that we could serve a 7:00p.m. lunch to those gathered.

all of us who were participating in the introduction were also those to serve the food–we hauled tables from behind the tents into the center area, carried vats of posho, beans, meat, chapati and rice from the kitchen area to the tables where we set up shop and prepared to dole out our assigned food.

i served chapati–a greasy flat-bread that i don’t actually like very much. it was a easy thing to serve–and felt a bit like communion. not a lot, but a bit. there was random 1990’s worship music blaring during the serving, eating and cleaning up. kind of an odd combination to my american/western mind, but it is what it is, right?

after the serving and cleaning up, while people were still eating, the m.c. thanked everyone who participated in the introduction. kelly and i were the only ones who were made to come out in front of everyone. how embarrassing. we were introduced by our ngikarimajong names and called the “white jie”. he also told the ateso who were afoot that negotiations for our introduction and weddings were possible–and 500 cows for each of us was the beginning number. (thats a lot. and mostly impossible. thank god.) everyone (except maybe us) thought that was hysterical. i had a small chat with him later, saying that i hoped he was kidding (i cannot and do not speak for kelly…) and that some people did not think he was. which i found less amusing than he thought i should. thus is life. unfortunately.

more soda than i have had in one day since perhaps my days at slumber parties and girl-scout events was practically forced down my throat that evening–as it is rude to leave things behind. all food must be eaten and all drink consumed. so, get to it. i thought i was drowning. the food disappeared without me having to eat another piece of meat or force down another chapati. soda i can handle. sleep? who needs it…

the night ended with a lovely walk under the stars with caroline, a neighbor, as we escorted one another home.
    the breeze was cool and the stars brilliant. the walk a lovely slow, no worries pace and the conversation warm.

once home made sure to make photo-documentation of my beaded self before unwrapping all the beads from my body and washing off a long, dusty hot day of turning hostility to hospitality. a good day in karamoja. a good day, indeed.

me

_____
*1  this phrase was used by a member of the introduction organizing committee during our evaluation meeting a few days after the introduction. for more information about the historical hostilities between the karimajon and ateso is found below.
*2 there were also a lot of questions about hot the introduction ceremony was going to be ‘modernized’ and ‘christianized’ for this particular ceremony–not only the ones i asked, but the ones the community asked and then answered from within.
*3 while the ateso and karimajong tribes are related (the k’jong are refered to as the ‘grandfathers’ and the ateso as the ‘nephews’–these tribes as well as the masai, turkana and pokot of kenya all came from ethopia. the k’jong stopped first, here in the karamoja because they were tired of walking thereby dubbing them the grandfathers. the ateso, pokot and turkana went a bit further and are the nephews. the masai went the farthest and are considered the sons of the grandfathers.) they have a rough history of fighting over land and cattle. the ateso war was some time ago but lingering hostilities remain mostly in snide remarks and distrust.
*4 mostly monetarily, but that stereotype was quick to break as the group realized i was more likely and able to give my time and my physical resources than money…

 

my uganda driving permit: or how i made the ura my bitch

well. sorta.

the epic-drama of procuring my ugandan driving permit follows.
get ready to stand in line, be frustrated, take motorcycle taxis like its your job, and take one for the team care of the ugandan revenue authority and all its bureaucratic nonsense… its quite the ride/saga.

__

i thought i had been so clever. i had procured the paperwork that i thought i and even filling it out before going to where i thought i was supposed to go.

one mildly harrowing boda trip all the way out to nakawa to face technologies down, i was truly feeling smug when i saw how short the line was for the main window.

just to be on the safe side, i went to the information desk to make sure i was standing in the right line. i showed the nice lady my paper (singular) that i had filled out, saying that i already had the form and just wanted to stand in the proper line for a foreign exchange of licenses.

the woman behind the desk glanced at my paper (singular) and told me that i was i the wrong place.

crap.

she instructed me that i didn’t want to be at face technologies (yet) but at the ura (uganda revenue authority) which is somehow close by. grumble.

so i walked back outside to hire another boda–when i asked him if he knew where the ura was, he said yes. so i asked him again, to be sure.

“i need to go to the ura, you know it?”

“yes madam.”

“you know where ura is?”

“yes.”

“okay, we go.”

we got back out to the main road (oh, i don’t know, 100 meters away from were we just started) and he stops and asks some other boda drivers where the ura is. they point back toward kampala so he turns that way–only to stop at every.single.boda.stage. for the next few kilometers. asking if he is going the right way.

we finally make it to the ura complex, where he is not allowed to take his motorcycle beyond the gate, so i pay him and walk into the madness that is the ura compound.

i have no idea where i am, or what i’m doing.
and what should one do in this situation?
stop another woman and ask her for help.

only, i didn’t see any women.
so i asked some random well-dressed-dude to help me out.

he pointed me in the right direction–but at this point i felt like the lost boda driver because i would go about 15 feet and ask someone else for directions because there are several different departments in this one massive building that used to be a train depot of some sort.

i finally found the proper room with all the lines in it that i would need to stand in, and stood in the one i thought looked like the one i should be in. (the fellow in front of me had the same paper (singular, still) in his hand so i figured i was on the right track. thank the lord for the powers of observation!)

i stood in this line for maybe forty minutes.
and i should mention that standing in line in uganda is not like standing in line in the united states.

in the states people like their personal space–leaving plenty of room behind and in front–and god forbid if you should ever get close enough to touch!

but not here. we were packed up against each other, so as to discourage cutting. i guess. or just lack of desire for personal space. (nature or nurture? a different thought for a different day, perhaps.)

so i’m standing there smashed between two blokes and reading the most recent copy of “the nation” that had just come from the states and practicing my patience.

no one is actually behind the counter we are waiting in line for, but this doesn’t seem to bother anyone, so i don’t let it bother me either. i trust that someone has to know what they are doing, and it sure as heck isn’t me–so i’ll just follow the mass mob.

this was a good idea.

suddenly, with no discernible warning, the line crushed forward (i was not prepared for this, i was deep into an article on green-socialism and what obama can do about it. fascinating stuff.) and took me with it.

a woman had appeared behind the counter and was taking papers as people shoved them toward her. the line had pretty much deteriorated at this point.

so, in the spirit of “when in rome-do as the romans do” i disregarded the line and pressed forward toward the counter with my paper in front of me and clutching my purse to my body.

i triumphantly handed the woman my paper (single, remember) and stood there looking at her, waiting for instruction.

she handed it back and pointed to the long counter to my left.

i was defeated. “what.”
she pointed and said “fill the other form first.”
and i was then pushed aside by the rest of the line behind me.
at least it was in the direction of the counter i needed…

at this counter there were four lines.
i took a moment to collect my thoughts and create a plan of attack for finding this mystery form that i needed.

i was ready to take the plunge when i felt someone tap on my arm. i turned to my left to see who it was–and it was a security guard on duty. he handed me a piece of paper and said “i think you need this.”

and he was correct. he had observed the whole scene and decided to help me out. while standing there he also told me to attach a picture with the “staple machine” to the form he had just given me.
thankfully i had brought a passport picture with me (thanks gann!) so was able to do that before getting back in line.
i filled the form out while waiting in line again, much to the amusement to those around me.

i was told more than once to go outside to the table to fill the form and then come back and get in line.
i think my actual response to some well meaning individual was “like hell!”

i finally reached the front of this line again and was waiting to hand the lovely lady my papers (PLURAL) again. she had taken several from the people in front of me and was entering their data into the computer.

she handed a stack of papers from the previous group to someone waiting in line who turned around and began reading names–then people would take their paperwork.

the lady soon printed out more forms for all of the people she’d entered data for–which she practically crumpled in a ball and handed through her little window to whomever grabbed the string of papers first.

i then handed her my paper and watched the fellow who’d taken the papers from her struggle to tear them apart along the shoddy perforation without ripping the papers and also read the names on them. however, once he found his own, he handed the stack to the next nearest person and disappeared somewhere.

my forms were in with the next set–the gentleman who was reading this groups of papers totally butchered my name and looked embarrassed about it. i consoled him by saying there is no way i’d be able to stand there and read all of their names. so he shouldn’t worry.

we were then given our string of papers to separate and pass out as well–someone with a sense of humor handed me the long line of papers so i looked through them, found mine, separated it out from the rest (of course it was right in the middle of about fifty!) and handed each side of the remaining papers to two people standing near me.

i gave the chuckling group of men a smile and trotted away.

ha.

after this incident i got outside and asked my friend the security guard what i was supposed to do next. he told me to go down the hill to the bank to pay a fee, then to come back up here.

awesome.

so i walked down to the bank to stand in line with the same fifty people i’d been standing in line with all morning.
however, standing in line at the bank seems to be more civilized. people actually regarded the lines and conversations were subdued and quiet. it was also air conditioned in the bank–

all of this was a welcome change from the warehouse feel of the previous building where people were shouting at one another and carrying on conversations from one side of the room to the other.

i paid my fee, plus the bank charge (bleh) and then trudged back up the hill to the same room as before. mercy.

i had the pleasure standing with the same people in line yet again (i’d finished the socialism article by this point and had moved on to beginning my egypt travel guide) in the line just next to the one we’d been in not so long ago.

in line two (where we were now) we handed our papers to the fellow behind the desk who looked them over, asked for the receipt from the bank, stamped everything and pointed us to the next line (that would be line three) just next to this one.

so i stood in that line as well.
i hand my papers to this fellow behind the counter who asked for my receipt, stamped everything again and then sent me to the long counter on the left side of the room. again.

only this time i knew where to stand (someone else in line three let me know. thanks.)

i pressed my way to the counter, disregarding this line (no one else seemed to be paying it any heed) and handed my very-stamped paperwork and receipt to the man behind the counter.

he took all of my things and asked me for my american permit.
so i dug around in  my purse and handed it to him.

he took everything and disappeared around the corner somewhere–much to the chagrin of the other members of my line… he was gone for about five minutes but did eventually come back.

he handed everything back to me and asked for my work permit.

crap. crap. crap.

i’d given my only photocopy to the bank manager in kotido so he wouldn’t shut my account, and therefore didn’t have a copy of it on me. i didn’t even have my passport on me so he could make a copy.

crap. crap. crap.

so he tells me that he can do nothing for me until i bring the work permit.

luckily, god loves me, and i was meeting gann for lunch pretty soon–so i called her and asked for a copy of my work permit.

i hoped another boda back to lugogo for our delightful lunch–stowed my work permit copy safely in  my planner–and then caught yet another boda toward nakawa for my new home, the ura.

(at this point i’d started calling the ura bureaucratic hell and even asked my boda driver to take me to bureaucratic hell know that he would probably just think he didn’t understand my english. “wangee?” (what?) he asked… so i asked for the ura, and we were off.

i bee-lined for the line i’d left about an hour before, determined to get as much done as possible on this permit. (it also looked like rain, and riding a boda in the rain was just not on my list of things to do that day.)

the dude saw me coming and took my things over the heads of those in front of me (sorry. but not really.) he stapled it all together, stamped every piece of paper and said “three days.”

this took a total of about thirty seconds.

i stood there in shock. did that really just take half a minute?
what does “three days” mean?
so i asked about the three days part.

perhaps the fellow thought i was an idiot, or that my english was bad (scoff) so he said really slowly as if talking to a small child, “THREEEEEE. DAAAAAYS.”

so i thanked him in luganda, still not knowing what in the world three days means, and then asked, in the same tone he’d just spoken to me in, “WHAAAATTTT ABOUTTT THREEEE DAYS?”

this drove the point home and he spoke to me like a human being, and told me that in three days time (thursday) i could go to face technologies for my “snap” to be taken and to do my other paper work.

so i left. knowing that i’d accomplished all i could do until THURSDAY.

i boaded back to the house and took what i found to be a well deserved nap!

fast forward to thursday mid-morning:

i had been in katikamu for a few days and took a taxi back to kampala and went directly to the office so as to not have to traipse all around tarnation (kampala) with my luggage. next stop–face technologies.

i haggled with the boda driver for an extended 10 minute period and finally reached a price i felt okay with (still more than i should have paid. ugh.) and arrived at face technologies after a close call involving a mini-bus full of white people and a matatu (local taxi).

i went directly to information again since this served me well on my last visit.

i was instructed to the longish line outside, so i went and stood in it.

all of my paper work was taken and i was told to have a seat along the benches and wait for my name to be called.

i had only figured out one clue on my nation crossword puzzle by the time my “name” was called. (he skipped everything and just called me “freeman” but who can blame him?)

he handed me my papers and told me to stand outside room ‘J’.
so i did.
once inside room ‘J’ i sat down across from a fellow who took a long time to look at my papers and then took a long time to look at my face.
he asked me a lot of questions that had nothing to do with my driving permit and nothing to do with anything pertinent to receiving this permit.
in short, he was chatting me up.

my responses were mostly all lies or half-truths. like- i’m an artist living in karamoja to make sand sculptures and learn beading. or-i’m actually engaged to a massive man named mac from new zeland who can bench press a full grown cow. right.

he took my picture about fourteen times, none of which turned out well… he asked me which one i wanted to use for my permit so i chose the one that i thought was the least awful. he did some fiddling on the computer, asked me if he could come visit me in karamoja, and finally printed my paperwork, handed it to me and instructed me to stand in line at counters 1-4.

while standing in line at counters 1-4 i noticed that he did not use the picture i chose. punk.

finally reaching the counter i handed my paperwork to a lady who looked it all over, asked me a few questions–tapped around on the computer, stamped every document and scrap of paper i had, printed another copy (that looked exactly the same as the one i had just received) of my forms, stamped them–and sent me to stand in line for counters 5-9. so i did.

at this counter the lady took both sets of papers, scribbled on them, tapped about on the computer, stamped every single page and told me to go stand in line for counters 10-12. so i did.

this was the best counter.
i walked right up to it and was just asked for money.
which i gave the lady.
who gave me a receipt and said that my permit would be ready in one weeks time.

having had been given a heads up on this situation i had a letter okaying someone else to pick up my permit–so we had a short conversation about how to handle that, she complimented my earrings, and i was on my way.

a week later i received a text that my permit had been picked up successfully and it was traveling back to kotido with someone else coming this way.

so i have a uganda permit in my hot little hands.
i will never complain about the dmv in the states again.
at least for a while.
after all of that, i wonder if it will even ever come in handy. i know that “following the rules” is a good idea–and if anyone ever demands to see it i won’t be sent to jail for not having one. but one does have to wonder…

here for your enjoyment, a dr-ed version of my permit–i had way too much fun doing this on this site.