Lyantonde Living

REALIZATIONS

UGANDA | Tuesday, 20 May 2014 | Views [185]

I just today realized why for 1,000s of years women wore dresses. It’s because when you have to pee in a pit it is so much easier than having to deal with pants. I have no idea if any evidence will back me up, but I dare you to tell me that it being easier to pee with a dress or skirt on had nothing to do with it.
Warning this is gross: Because our toilet is a pit toilet I was scared to go number 2 in it for fear that I might miss the hole, but I have since then figured it out and my “stomach” is much happier for it.
I am in love with a young boy who Eliza and I met on our walk today. He cannot be older than 16. We saw him riding his bike, and then a bit up the road we saw that his chain had come off of his gear. I helped him with the chain while Eliza held the bike. He was so thankful. He introduced himself, and though he spoke little English he was so sweet. He held onto my hand as he asked where we were from and were we were staying. We then said we needed to keep walking then headed up the road as he road off in the opposite direction. We saw him again later on. His chain had come off once again, except worse this time. I had to get my hands greasy as I tried to put the chain back onto the top of the gear (the last time it had come off the bottom). This would had been easier if he did not have a cover for the back of the gear so I could not reach all the way around. We then walked away as he talked to his neighbour. He caught up to us again, and walked and talked with us. He wanted to know where in America we were from. He told us about his family, and asked if we were sisters. He also mentioned Obama, whom everyone knows. He also mentioned President Bush. He asked us were we were working while we were in town, and told us he would visit us there next Sunday (he did programs there so he knew the location). He was one of the most genuinely sweet people I had ever met. He was so thankful for us helping him. He wanted to know who we were, and was curious. It is an experience I feel that I can never fully express, but though our interaction was short I feel that I will always remember him, and the connection. At that moment we were not Mzungu with a power and privilege complex, but three people walking along the side of the road who wanted to know each other. We had helped him and he was thankful. In return he had told us about his country, and his life living next to “the bush” as he called it. Words cannot describe this feeling.
The idea of power and privilege is still well and alive. Sunday we went to church. Eliza and I were introduced to the congregation. We stood at the front, and everyone told us that we were “most welcome” to be there. When we arrived our host family also told us that they were blessed to have Americans in their house, though I feel like the more blessed to be able to share their lives with them. Our mother Agnes is also one of the Sunday school teachers. I felt like undeserving royalty. They all smiled and laughed, as they danced. They looked as if they were the luckiest children in the world to preform for us. At the end the children could not wait to shake our hands. At the market children ran up to us and were excited to meet us. When we greeted them with “Wasazoti” (good morning) they each kneeled to greet us as a sign of respect. When we greeted an elderly women at Salama Shield today with the same greeting she kneeled as well. Before we could rise to kneel back she had already walked on. I should show her that respect, she owes me none, I have done nothing to deserve it. On our walk we also ran into a man who asked us for our emails. He told us he wanted to start an organization that worked on at home AIDs treatment, and wanted us to give him advice eventually because he believed we were the experts. We told him he knew more, and he does, but it was an odd perception.
Eliza and I left with her half way through the service to go to Sunday school with her so that the students could see the Mzungu. The children were ecstatic to get to meet us. They thought that we were odd, and extraordinary. I don’t know if that is true about us but they children were. I nearly cried as they sang and danced for us. Their voices and dances were amazing. I would choose a better word, but I don’t know if I could. They were lovely, and had such spirit. Some boys even played the drums. Eliza and I sang “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” to them. I then made up a song from Sunday School. It was about Noahs arc. I was proud I could think on my feet.
Heartbreaking stories do exist. There was a girl there who had been badly burnt, and could not walk. Her older sister carried her on her back. The older sister could have been no older than 7 and her sister 2. The church was raising money for the younger sister to have surgery to help her be able to walk. These two looked like they could have been on a humanitarian aid commercial meant to bring you to tears. Their closes were dirty and torn. They older girls dress was a dusty colour that used to be white or ivory. It hung off one shoulder exposing her nipple. Neither girl owned shoes. Yet the two of them smiled and seemed happy. At one point during a song the little one, who was on the ground, grabbed my hand and pulled me down with her giggling (she did not do this for any of the other 5 girls in my group, and seemed upset when Eliza held her). She giggled as she held onto my hand for a bit and looked at my pink skirt. When she let go her older sister made motions of opening her hand and moving them around her head. The younger sister imitated her. I then realized they wanted me to put on my sun hat. I had been holding it in my hand because we were in the shade. As I did this they squealed with joy, as the other children joined in laughing. At the time I smiled, but looking back it moves me to tears. The simple act of me putting on a hat, an action we would see as so common, so mundane, brought enormous smiles to these girl’s faces. Now I feel so (not to sound too religious), but blessed that I could bring happiness into their lives. It really puts perspective into what we see as happiness.
I have almost more in my suitcases than my host family has in their house. It makes me feel sick.
I am having trouble handling culture shock. Today Eliza and I were walking home and we accidentally walked through a family’s yard. There were five children and a mother. They were cooking on charcoal stoves, and had a small concrete house, that looked like there was nothing but some trash in it. It made me want to cry, that I have so much and many have so little. Today my host mother also bought us metal water bottles to take our juice to work in. She didn’t like us taking it in plastic water bottles.
Why some families have trouble letting their girls go to school. Bonita (my 15 year old sister) did not go to school today. She said there was no money for her to go today but she will go tomorrow. This broke my heart. I have so much and she has great aspirations to be a doctor. Her 14-year-old sister went to school. Bonita, though, also is vital to the way the house runs. She bathes her 6-year-old brother whom the family has dubbed “Chief.” Her mother also depends on her for everything. I am not sure why Agnes (the mother) depends upon her, and not the other siblings, but when I see the family working for three hours to make dinner, and Bonita playing a vital role to the survival of the family, I can see why families find it difficult to spare their daughters.
Family Relations are complicated. For the past few days Eliza and I have been trying to understand the relationships in the family. In the family photo album there is a 22-year-old girl in university. At home there is a 22-year-old boy and a 19-year-old boy. Eliza and I knew that the 22 year old was not our host parents’ son, but we were under the impression that the 19-year-old was. When Agnes told us yesterday that her first-born was a 16 year old girl already off to school we got confused. Today we found out that the older boy is a nephew who lives with them, and that the 19-year-old is the father’s son, but has a different mother. Eliza and I also had another bomb dropped on us. Our host father has another family. He spends a few nights a week with Agnes, and a few nights with his other wife. Tonight the father was with his other family, and the older boys actually talked to us, which they have not done yet.
The idea of the man being the head of the household is alive and well. Our host father rules the house. He rarely interacts with his children or wife unless it is to tell them to get or do something for him. Today at breakfast he moved a chair so that he could sit at the head of the table, and it was just Eliza, Agnes, and I.
My host mom is too nice. Today Eliza and I tracked through some mud. She washed the bottom of our shoes for us. She also packed us snacks, and juice, and bought us water bottles for our juice for tomorrow.