I want to be Mother Teresa, just not yet.

Plans change. It's normal.  In fact, not being open to change is a sign of naïveté.  If nothing changes, nothing happens.  In fact, you can fight change all you want, but it's going to happen anyway.  "Change is the only constant", as quoted by at least dozens of wise souls.  

Here's me being naïve: My biggest life dream was to travel to an African country, fall in love with it, form unfathomably beautiful bonds with it's people, be a teacher surrounded by adorable children in a thatch-roofed hut, and through my teaching and community service, make history book impact.  Here's that turning ironic: I wanted to come to Africa and make changes, and now that I'm here, those imminent changes have been revealed as personal. Suddenly, I renounce change.  

I left school, but that's okay because this trip--my ultimate, overly fantasized goal--was going to redirect me to my real life's purpose, which obviously was third-world service.  Maybe I'll become a skilled grant writer and raise millions of dollars for a supremely altruistic organization.  Or maybe I'll end up like famous Katie Davis over in Jinja and start my own NGO while being the best adoptive parent to a dozen African babies.  Whatever is revealed for my life path, it's going to be third-world related, it's going to manifest during this trip, and it's going to be phenomenal.

It's very important to be hopeful.  Having a positive outlook on the unknown future is healthy.  It gets unhealthy when we attach to these outcomes which we've dumped every fiber of hope into.  Because this attachment disallows for change.  And things change.  My extravagant ideals for this trip have crashed hard, and my attachment to those ideals have rendered me hopeless.  I'll back up briefly.

After speaking with several Peace Corps volunteers, locals, and other travelers, we've gotten a unanimous response: If Katy and I were to accomplish all that is so desperately needed by Taata Kids for it to attain any of its visions, we really would have to be here for well over one year.  Even then, our implemented changes and improvements would be drastically scaled down.  We're up against a culture that is very much content with a backward way of living, and without any hurry in allowing any kind of change.  Adding to this issue, our setup is two very inexperienced young women working with one very ignorantly distracted director of a barely functioning school.  His physical and mental presence is anywhere but at the school, and his somewhat lavish financial decisions and daily secret meetings unrelated to the school make us trust him less and less.  Throw into that setup a location that is well known as the dangerous part of a slum town surrounded by garbage and iron gates.  In a thirty minute period I saw a very young boy steal a piece of food and get chased down by two massive men who threw things at him to knock him down, and then a dog baring all ribs and innards through his matted fur hobbled on three legs up to me and followed me until he couldn't keep up anymore.  Then a guy around age 18 tried grabbing me and cracked up when I squirmed away. I hear children crying constantly and can't intrude into the homes to console them.  A few nights ago Katy and I swear we heard a gunshot, and the night before a woman was yelling and crying very close to our house.  

I wasn't naïve to the point of thinking living in a third-world country would be all rainbows and clean streets.  And I knew my heart was going to repeatedly break as my head spun over the turmoil and poverty.  So why don't I just suck it up, work hard, and eventually reap the benefits of the perseverance that I know exists within me in high volume?

I struggled to explain myself in an email sent out to my family about this change of plans.  They didn't all ask for it, but I was losing sleep over the lack of communication between them and my brain.  I admit to at least partially creating this feeling on my own, but I feel like everyone I know has used me as their fantasizing doll for doing something as storybook "inspirational" as helping poor kids in a third-world country. And now that, at least for August, that isn't the case, everyone who knows this change of plans is surely to be shocked and disappointed.  Disappointing anyone has always been my most crippling phobia, so I pleaded my case.  

I won't copy and paste the novel that I sent out to parents, siblings, aunts and close friends.  To sum it up, I'm choosing to take care of myself.  A few years ago I realized the profound impact my surrounding natural setting has on my mood, motivation, balance, and overall wellbeing.  One of my favorite quotes says, "The clearest energy comes to you when you find the spot on earth that most enlivens your physical being."  I've moved around a lot, and I know my clearest energy, when my vibrations are so high they're jumping off the charts, when I'm immersed in that euphoria of unshakable peace, is when I'm seaside.  Part of this global adventure, I secretly pondered, is to find that place on this earth which fills me with such energy.  That place that feels like I've finally come home.  That place where I just know I belong.  Perhaps my heart was planting subtle hints about this adventure's itinerary underneath my obsessive aspirations for NGO life.  Thank you, Heart. You now have my attention and submission.

In six days, we leave Taata Kids, Mbale and Uganda.  We have implemented some improvements for Taata Kids, in their classrooms and on their websites.  We've gained friendships and experiences that are bittersweet to leave, but this next experience, full of new friendships and experiences, beckons our hearts.  Moving to the Kenyan coast to volunteer at a Backpackers for a month makes my cells tingle with excitement, while making my ego reprimand me for being so selfish.  I want to watch the sun rise while meditating on the beach.  I want to practice yoga, matching my breath with the rolling waves.  I want to read and study my own interests in my hammock under palm trees.  I want to befriend locals, other travelers, and myself again.  But still, my head drowns in guilt.  I've held internal debates in my journal and out loud to Katy, sought advice from relatives and friends and books, and spent sleepless nights in tears.  Again coming to a unanimous consensus, I have the right to, the obligation to do whatever I want.  Yes, I still yearn to make people feel loved and important, and I still believe this is my life's purpose to be carried out in some form.  But first, I need to make myself feel loved and important.  I withdrew from school mostly due to my urgent need to give my brain and spirit some time to heal. Then I worked two jobs and put that "vacation" on hold, waiting for it to happen once I left. Then I left, and it got worse. My memory capabilities and everything else in my frontal cortex that was obviously deteriorating is only worsening.  And that is scaring me.  But I have the power to tend to this ailment, so I must exercise that power.

I know I can come back here or somewhere similar once I am more healed, prepared, and with an organization for more structure. Who knows, maybe after our Kenya leg we'll hook up with a fantastic NGO that also fits our needs.  Until then, im'ma do me.  No more outcome attachments, no more objection to change. I am going with the flow, all the way to the Indian Ocean.

Into the Bush We Go

As usual, I'm off playing with the raggedy, smiley, curious children and my camera. They crack up when I touch their hands or crouch down to take a picture of their adorable puppy. I am so strange to them. Behind me, Daa daa, Abraham's grandfather, shakes coffee beans in one hand while alternating chants and spews of his saliva onto Abraham's pride and joy, his "motorcar". Daa daa is blessing this magnificent machine and our travels, Katy confusedly explains to me.  Then Abraham's brother hands him a live chicken which we just saw the children chasing around the mud huts. It wasn't a game they were playing, they were sent to capture the symbol of blessings.  Daa daa and Jaa jaa also handed me a 1,000 shillings bill, which Abraham and I argued over my acceptance for several minutes. Another cultural blessing, he insists. Yes, it's only about 25 cents US, but still.  I literally just took money from the poor. 

Abraham announces that we shall be taking a shortcut to his parent's house. I'm in the back with the 98 year old, completely blind and nearly deaf daa daa clinging to my hand with trembling terror in his clammy hand and on his face.  The chicken squawks as it pops up next to my face with the same look of panic on its own.  Katy turns to snap a picture of the scene--Sheer madness.

Abraham has been wanting to take us to his hometown for weeks.  We had varied ideas on his adamancy toward this field trip, and it turns out our main query was correct--he wanted to show off his success to his hometown friends and family. He has nice clothes, the only motorcar in town (which everyone drools over like he's Doc in his DeLorean), and two muzungus! He's hit gold. What we did underestimate was the huge leap we were to be taking back in time once more. Now here we are, in the Iganga district, straight up in the bush.  Our first stop along the red dirt road is probably man's first version of a cul-de-sac.  Four mud huts make a circle, a little neighborhood for one man and his cornucopia of offspring.  This particular neighborhood is claimed by one of Abraham's 28 siblings (23 still living) and around ten of his fifteen children. His other wife lives a few cul-de-sacs over with the remaining children. Polygamy is the norm; One more way we feel like we've gone back in time. In the center of the cul-de-sac, under a large mango tree, an enclosed bamboo basket hangs.  They worship this oversized lampshade.  Maybe they put offerings of hopefully things other than mammals in this "altar".

Piled back in the motorcar, Abraham's sister-in-law starts up her ninja yodel of "ayy-yai-yai-yai-yai-yaiiiee!!!" one last time; A tribal cheerleader with babies on her hips instead of pom poms.  We begin our "shortcut" down a two foot wide path through a corn field, bouncing and rocking as the car plows over a family's precious cash crop.  The massive subwoofer in the little trunk comes to life for the first time due solely to the turbulence.  He lacks SO many things, yet he has subs to bump his three 30-second music samples.  Stereotypes exist for a reason, my friends.  Daa daa has a kung fu grip on the seat in front of him, and I'm wondering about his chances of an induced stroke.  Like a toddler on a road trip, Daa daa keeps asking Abraham, "Are we there yet??" 

The "road" is full of mounds and potholes that are more like mountains and valleys. We approach one particular ridge, and where any semi skilled driver would position his wheels on two higher areas, Abraham centers on the highest peak. We bottom out, then his front driver wheel dips into the adjoining valley. His brother happens to be riding his bike just behind us, and with his help and several ogling schoolchildren, the car is pushed back to a more level surface.  Katy and I slap the mob of children's hands as we head back into the teeter-totter, like we're their favorite band on tour.  Poor Daa daa probably soiled himself in that backseat.  The bird definitely did.

Abraham squeezes his car between several food stands at a market, nearly knocking down bicycles, boda bodas, and children. I suck in all limbs and belly, hoping to magically shrink the car with me as I brace for surely inevitable impact.  Thankfully, only some bananas were steamrolled.  How was this man given a license? 

We're told to get out and follow Abraham through an alley to the back of one of the shops.  But Daa daa is left in the sweltering car. I try and battle this very poor and very hazardous decision, but Abraham waves me off repeating, "Iss okay. Iss okay."  We enter a small cement courtyard, Abraham snags a makeshift bench and tells us to sit, I again express my concern for Daa daa, and then Abraham leaves.  A few children timidly peer their heads out of the surrounding houses/rooms, possibly Abraham's mother walks in and out without a word, and as always, we don't know what's going on. Reverting to our go-to for these daily moments of awkwardness, we pull out our cameras to begin the cute child photo shoot, Iganga edition.  

The kids here are like baby monkeys; Wary of your specie classification and intentions, but then once they inch closer and decide to trust you, they literally cling to you. Forever, if they were allowed.  Wilbur, probably around five years old, is the first kiddo to daringly approach us.  I take his picture, turn the camera around to show him the result, and after a satisfied giggle and a few words thrown over his shoulder at the others, the courtyard is instantly flooded.  Hand jive introductions partitioned until our hands began to swell, goofy dance parties, some ring around the rosies, and hundreds of pictures later, we're all best friends. A few little ones were able to squirm onto our laps, mine holding three all battling for any inch of my legs. After at least an hour I'm sore and numb all over. But kicking these giggle beans off my lap won't be happening as long as I can help it. I'm cherishing their heartbeats near my own as much as I know they're cherishing my mama bear hugs.  They stroke my hair, fidget with my necklace, and we exchange eye-locked smiles that zap intense vibes of joy and gratitude back and forth.  You are so important--a special gift that I and this world love more than you can imagine. I desperately hope my eyes convey any of this to them. Their smiles show me that at least some of that is received. 

Abraham's father lies inside on a thin twin mattress.  He can sit up for no more than ten minutes, noticeably frail and weak. He's been sick with cancer for the last 20 years, Abraham tells us. It's hard to look at him; He has four wives, has procreated nearly thirty times in a village hardly able to provide for a dozen people at best, and, as Abraham translated to us, is SO grateful to see that we are muzungus here to help a school and not teach "bad manners". Those bad manners being that homosexuality is actually okay and should be accepted.  In their culture, anyone who is homosexual and is revealed is chased, probably literally, out of town.  Apparently his father has heard of many white people coming to Uganda with the mission to preach such absurdity, and was assuming that was our purpose here as well.  I bit my tongue. Hard. All of this considered, as well as him being so obviously withering...Abraham asked me if I had anything to say-he knows well by now how much of a chatterbox I am-but I choose to just sit in silence. I'm out in the bush, facing one dying man of illness and another of very old age, unclothed, dirty children sit a few meters away, women are preparing too much food for me while their babies go hungry, and I'm supposed to keep a roughly translated conversation going. In a moment such as this, I can only handle silence.  Katy and I read each other's thoughts as we subconsciously agree on the dizzying effects of this day.

Back outside, our meal is laid out: A mountain of matoké (mashed plantains which never agree with Katy or my digestive tracts), two heaping bowls of rice, a bowl of "cow...digestion...like'a dat...", two soups (oil mixtures), and our chicken friend.  A separate plate or fork are silly requests, so Katy and I maneuver the rice around to free up a bowl, which we fill with rice, mystery oil, and out of respect to our cook and host, a part of our chicken comrade.  Abraham gives a dramatic or possibly normal show of how to "eat like a soldier" as he slumps over his bowl and shovel-slurps the food into his mouth. Bottoms up! I'm throwing oily rice onto my lap, over my shoulder, possibly in my hair as I make a poor attempt at military feeding.  This scene is so strange for Katy and me that we can't help but alternate giggles, bursts of laughter, and sloppy eating as our facial expressions are set in befuddlement.  We each manage to tear off, chew and most importantly keep down small pieces of chicken.  Abraham throws one piece into our bowl which I swear contains the liver and maybe even the heart (biology dissections in high school were a long time ago).  He clues into our hesitancy and allows me to switch it out for a less nauseating piece.  

Meal time over, we say our thank yous and goodbyes to his family and the army of children.  Our grand exit isn't complete without a few more elements of oddity, though.  As we squish back into the car that's so obstructively parked and now with loads of corn and two more chickens imprisoned in the shoebox trunk space, an old man accosts me, pointing at his ear, mouth, and me. No words, just strange sign language.  I try getting into the car, and he blocks the door, continuing his gestures which I assume to be requests for money or food. Finally able to close the door, Abraham rolls my window down. Does he not realize what I'm dealing with over here?? The old man is tapping my head and reaching for who knows what inside the car, still miming his message to me which seems to be of paramount importance. As Abraham finally begins his reverse of destruction out of the market, the old man speaks! "Thank you" is all he says. 

We ride through the Iganga fields of rice, corn, and bananas. People of all ages stop to jaw drop at the muzungus whipping by in the motorcar, and dive out of the way as the lead foot driver seems to be aiming straight for them.  Bracing myself as Abraham once again badly executes driving over dirt mounds, surely wrecking his car, I'm thinking how greatly he would benefit from driving a Jeep Wrangler. He needs something to match his thoughtless driving style.  

We make it back to the main road, and I allow my breath to return.  I gaze lovingly at the sun creating massive silver linings as it turns blood red and slowly sets behind the banana trees.  Katy and I are usually barricaded into our house as the sun sets, so any time I get to see this time of day is therapy.  It's like heaven and earth have teamed up to speak directly to my heart, "All is well, my precious child." And in that moment peace fills me, pushing out any and all negativities. 

Having a Nile'd Time

Remember back in middle school when you studied that one big river which strangely flows from south to north, provided life to ancient Mesopotamia and the first documented irrigation system, and is a burial spot for some of the Buddha's ashes? Yes, the Nile River.  Personally, I categorized this water source with the "only to be read about and never seen" historical landmarks.  I mean, it's the NIle River. It's like the Rosetta Stone, preserved within a glass case where one can dream to travel to the site, pay the hefty museum fee, and stand behind a velvet rope just far enough away that the possibility of it being a hologram isn't inconceivable.  The Nile is a sacred gem.  Something that played a key role in some of this world's most well known religious and historical stories isn't something you can just casually walk up to.  Well, it turns out that Uganda is home to the source of this treasure, and I casually walked up to it.  I also casually practiced yoga next to it, casually read a book overlooking it, and casually cannon balled into it. 

The Nile's source lies in Jinja, about three hours west of our Mbale location.  We've heard so much talk from all the travelers we've met about this town; The shopping beats the capital city Kampala, the tourist attractions include whitewater rafting, ATVing, and bungee jumping, and the cherry on top, it's the source of the Great and Powerful Nile River.  Our budget doesn't allow for all but the last detail on that list to be our motivation for going, but carpe diem. We're going.

The charter buses here aren't very different from every other form of transportation.  They're crammed, smelly, tauntingly about to break down while parts of it crumble on and around you, and the drivers seem to think they're invincible baby ants set to light-speed.  All that aside, a bus is our most reliable and inexpensive option to Jinja. Even though we just returned from Sipi Falls less than five days ago, we're already revving for another adventure.  Feeling bold, we each don pants even though they're technically illegal. Not many laws are followed here anyway, and we seem to be the only muzungus following it ever.  Not today!  An obviously cracked out dude beckons to us as we approach the Elgon Flyer bus office, telling us to follow him if we are on the way to Jinja. We wave the ticking little man off, but then a woman at the Elgon Flyer desk tells us to follow him to the bus's location.  I guess he is wearing a company shirt, but that doesn't always mean anything.  Holding tightly to our bags and breath, we scurry down some alleyways and make it to the bus, which is also a busy market area.  Situated in our seats, even our bloodshot-eyed escort gets in on the action as he waves his own bag of peanuts at our window to sell to us.  "I think there's a hole in that peanut bag....yep, he just ate out of it. He tried to sell us HIS snack! Everything comes secondhand here."

About three hours later, the bus attendant warns us to get ready, we're entering Jinja.  The bus stops, we quickly scramble over and under legs and luggage, and step outside.  The bus is gone in seconds, and we are left on the side of the road with nothing but a few trees and boda boda drivers around.  We tell one of them our destination, argue over the price, and we're off without any solid confirmation on the price or if he knows where he's taking us.  It's quickly evident that he didn't actually listen to me when he tries to drop us at the wrong hostel and whines at the distance of the correct one.  Once more without agreeing on his desired price increase, we're whipping back out to the middle of nowhere and down another road.  We're soon skidding along a narrow and bumpy dirt road lined with dense jungle forests and relatively nice huts.  Jinja is already impressive.  I guess nature wanted us to slow down and smell the roses; the boda comes to a crawl and seconds later is refusing to budge.  We're out of gas.  The driver is able to turn it on again and tells us to wait for him to return, then speeds off hopefully toward a gas station.  Three toddlers run up, shouting something while waving their upturned palms.  Some schoolboys translate for us, they are demanding sweets.  Why do kids here ask white people for candy? Are there really travelers who give sugar to children with already rotting teeth?  My list of common sense items is quickly waning these days.

Boda man returns (I guess we hadn't paid him anything yet) and we soon reach our destination, the Explorer River Camp.  Peter at the reception desk explains that all the dorm beds are booked, and just as I begin drawing my claws to pounce on him about our confirmed emails, he cuts me off with an upgrade to the safari tents for the honored dorm price.  Claws retracted, Peter's now a great friend.  We drop our bags in the tiny tent and race to the picnic benches overlooking a gorgeous sunset casting a peaceful glow on the mighty Nile.  Breathing it in, "wow"ing it out.

As night falls, the backpacker's reputation for poppin' nightlife is confirmed.  But...this place has a packed bookshelf and Katy has been pulling out her hair over her need for a new book to read.  I have a large selection of iBook samples to weed through for possible purchases, so the nerds retreat to bed with justification that we'll join the social scene tomorrow night.  Engrossment in Emerson, Wilde, and Iyengar comes in waves as the vibrating bass of trip hop makes my head sway and the American top 40 remixes make me giggle.  Our phrase of the weekend begins as I muse, "I can't believe we're listening to the Black Eyed Peas while reading spiritual books in a 'safari tent' next to the Nile River."  Many more "I can't believe we're _________________ by the Nile River" statements fill the following days.  Hoping at least some of the night's playlist recur tomorrow night, I'm filled with butterflies as I anticipate finally getting my dance on.  Even if Katy and I are the only ones getting down--such was the case many times back home, humorously serendipitous priming for moments like this, we'll say.

Saturday begins with taking a WARM shower! Back home, all my bathing tasks could easily fill an hour. Here I rub some Dr. Bronners all over, annnd I'm done.  Several more minutes pass as I just stand there, smiling.  Only because the Nile awaits me outside, I leave one splendor to head to another; Coffee WITH CREAM and a good book...by the Nile River! See what I mean? 

Katy and I head into town on a mission for some awesome Aladdin pants that we've been dreaming about since our couple hour stint in Kampala where a few muzungus walked by wearing said pants and looking WAY cool.  We realize we have entered quite the pickle after sifting through just two closet-sized shops.  We want too many Aladdin pants.  Girl problems.  Layers of elephants and tribal prints, elephants and flowers, plain pants with elephants just bordering the waistline and ankles....and each pattern in 15 different color combinations.  Ah! And tie dye! Oh boy...Using our deductive reasoning skills imprinted on every woman's DNA, "Well these pants say 'nighttime' while these pants say 'day!'" we exhaustedly decide on three pants each.  Breaking the bank at $20 for each trio, we aren't really sweating it.  Our sweet new pants are just too awesome. 

Sidenote: a top reason for loving our new pants was their contribution toward Ugandan women's small businesses.  Katy recently checked a tag on one of her pair (I didn't even know they had tags) and they're made in Thailand.  Where they're definitely even cheaper.  A good omen confirming our nearby destination post Africa? Let's go with that.

The rest of our town exploration entails free gallery tours of local artists' brightly colored paintings.  About 85% were of trippy looking elephants, but this Sloane never tires of those Sloanes (Russian for elephant).  One artist in particular has vibrant energy outshining all the colorful artwork.  Mike Labongo, local artist, DJ, and bboy.  Demonstrating all three areas of expertise, he finishes our meeting with the promise of free entry and drinks at Jinja's biggest nightclub where he DJs, which he assured us is always full of other muzungus.  We end up heading back to the hostel around 9:30, unwilling to chance any kind of transportation back down the dirt road any later than that.  We would have headed back much sooner, but the live music show set in a serene backyard garden cafe that was supposed to begin at 7:00 doesn't actually start until closer to 8:30.  We're about give up when they finally start strumming.  This eclectic quad of three locals on guitar and one Western European dude on the sax do their best to cover Sheryl Crow.  Then Bill Withers, then Bruno Mars.  Then right after I swear one of them had an identical voice to Tracy Chapman's "Give me one reason" begins.  Although there's more scatting than correct lyric recall, Bob Marley even makes the setlist.  So random, so silly, so Uganda.

Back at the hostel, we get down.  The place is packed, tables are stages to shirtless French soldiers and uncoordinated Americans, and many women are wearing neon colored wigs.  It's a hen night, it's explained.  Britain's term for a bachelorette party.  Talk about an epic sendoff!  Those who aren't yet belligerent balk and me and Katy jumping and spinning and oftentimes whacking the backs of heads in our usual hippie way.  Like that would stop us.  One dude springs onto a rafter and monkeys his way up and over to the opposite end of the room, tangling himself in lampshades and giving me and Katy heart attacks.  This monkeyman's name is Adam, a climber, whitewater kayaker, and avid traveler from Sweden.  With quirky confidence and infinite things to say in all kinds of cartoon voices, we quickly become a three man wolf pack. Cam, a forest restoration rep from D.C. vacationing for a couple days after a month of checking up on projects around the country joins our random group the following day.  With an addiction to outdoor hobbies and a mellow yellow Seattleite tone of voice, this Yale graduate east coaster added an exceptionally pleasing dry wit to our group.  Between his coy analogies and Adam's erratic banters, Katy and I spend the weekend crying with laughter.  From anyone else's perspective, we seem like lifetime friends traveling through together. Eating every meal together and spending hours swapping crazy travel ventures and silly childhood memories late into the night, we could have even convinced ourselves of such a relationship.  The dynamics of traveler friendships are seriously a beautiful thing.  

A row of shower stalls offset the pathway to the river's edge from the hostel, where each stall features a very short wall on the outer edge.  "Showers with a view", the structure reads.  The water down here isn't warm, but who would pass up an opportunity to bathe while gazing out at the Nile River?  Of course, Katy and I man our stalls just as a canoe packed with a local family floats by.  Meh, the women here pop their bosoms out all the time. When in Rome!  

Me being a water sign and Katy having the word 'aqua' in hers, our desire to jump into the river could not be abated. Cam joins us for our history book moment, I set the self-timer on a ledge, and then forget to keep time.  Hoping for the best, I yell, "Jump, jump, jump!!" and do my seriously thought out choice of cannonball into the warm water.  We didn't time the picture right, but our lunges at the water's edge is documentation enough.  It isn't like I'll ever be able to forget such an experience, anyway.

Wanting to explore Jinja's market for local fruits our new friend Adam insisted we try, we nominate Patrick as our boda boda driver for the day.  He drops us off at a gas station next to a small entanglement of fruit and veggie stands.  We had assumed such a developed town would boast quite the marketplace.  Maybe it gets better the deeper we weave?  We want to pay him so we could take our time and he could be on his way, he wants to wait for us.  We tell him we might be a few hours, he insists.  About fifteen minutes later, we are ready to move on.  Smart man.  Patrick drives us to the Mezzanine hostel which we were told [features] stupendous tapas at the water's edge.  Again, he says he will wait for us.  It is kind of cool having a chauffeur all day. Plus, Patrick has been driving boda bodas for ten years and wears a helmet.  Gotta hang onto someone of that résumé. Our dinner at Mezzanine still makes my mouth water: Bacon wrapped dates stuffed with bleu cheese (and I don't even like bleu cheese) and a veggie and couscous medley.  Our waitress is a sport, or perhaps too thrown off not to go with it, as she takes pictures of us pretending to dine while wearing large, wooden tribal masks displayed on the post next to our table.  Genius comedy, right there.

The bartender sits at the empty bar (we are the only patrons) drinking a carafe of some dark, foamy liquid.  We ask him what it is, and he comes over and pours us half of it.  Coca-cola and coffee. Which tastes like coke...then coffee...then coke again.  He says he enjoys coming up with all sorts of new bar concoctions.  I'm sure his others are more enticing.  This soft spoken gentleman greatly impresses us.  He is from a very small village a little north of Mbale, working in Jinja to pay for university courses.  He is going to study hotel management first, then he'll go back for more degrees.  The cultural norm tends to be if one doesn't have the means for something, he/she will wait around until someone else completes the task or gives them a free ticket for it.  Michael, on the other hand, knows that nobody else will solve his problems for him, and is doing what it takes to fulfill his dreams on his own.  You go, Michael. 

After missing our bus back to Mbale Monday afternoon (the one time Africa time ceases to exist), we happily sign on for one more night at the hostel.  Soaking up one last night of entertaining conversations in the wolf pack, sinfully delicious burgers and smoothies, and tranquil vibes tangible in this place's atmosphere, my soul once more feels alive.  

It's Tuesday.  Cam is heading back to the States later that evening, Adam is heading to Kampala to meet up with his parents and sister at his family timeshare (his parents are traveling UN employees), and Katy and I are bussing back to Mbale.  The wolf pack is leaving the backpackers all on the same day-just like the package deal we seem to be. I like that.

The bus ride back to Mbale is awkward and confusing as per usual, featuring an encounter with the super sweet restaurant manager, Michael, who is heading home for the first time in two years just to get a few papers needed for school. Michael helps get us on a bus as it barely slows down.  We aren't even at a bus stop, just clumped near some shrubbery on the side of the road.  I don't have the heart to cut in front of the little old women shoving in front of me for a spot on the packed bus, which noticeably frustrates Michael.  The three of us are able to nab the last three open seats not too far apart. I like to think it's a reward for my kindness to the old ladies. There are more fits of anxiety attacks brought on by crazy driving, the bus breaking down into a cloud of smoke the minute Mbale is reached, and our boda boda driver seemingly taking off with my duffel bag as Katy and Michael chase after him and I stand there not comprehending.  Caliboo! Welcome back.

We found Eden.

"Paradise is where I am." Voltaire might have intended this to explain his capacity to be in such a state regardless of his outside surroundings, or maybe he wrote it while he was somewhere sublime.  Either way, this quotation sprung to my conscious as soon as I saw the waterfall.

It's my birthday.  I'm 23 years old.  Twenty three is an age that floats under the spectrum of significance.  Twenty two is just one year past the legal drinking age of 21, and 24 is approaching the halfway point of the rapidly fleeting decade of selfishness and fun.  At 22, you're still a kid. At 24, you'd better be living it up while you still can. At 23...meh.  Ironically, my 23rd birthday was the greatest birthday I have ever had. Why? Because on this day I found Eden.

Katy and I have been struggling to regain vitality throughout the frustrations in Mbale, and one tactic we have adopted is weekend getaways.  We've fantasized about exploring Sipi Falls, just an hour away, since we decided on Uganda as a destination.  A quick Google search revealed a very affordable hostel and invigorating images of trees, waterfalls, and bliss.  A couple email reservations later, we were committed.  My birthdays tended to fall on rather unfortunate times of my life, waning them of importance or the normal anticipated excitement.  This is the year that finally turned around.  We opted for a private hire (taxi) for safety and stability reasons, and gave ourselves an hour to pick up some goodies before jetting off.  Espresso over ice cream--yes, coffee AND dessert--jumpstarted our joy with more caffeine and sugar than we've had since our arrival, and a quick stop at the Happy Supermarket for wine, nutella, and peanut butter (makeshift Reeses, our favorite candy) set our jubilance level to 110%.  

In just under one hour our atmosphere changed from melancholy mayhem to lush, quiet, peace.  We threw our bags in our adorable little cabin, then skipped down to the reception area to take in every nook and cranny of our weekend home. Moses, a worker who showed us our room, mentioned the word "swing" down a path next to the reception.  I was off at a gallup before he could finish his sentence.  Undeniably the coolest swing ever, this bad boy was simply a piece of wood with two hanging ropes attached to one massive, beautiful tree.  I sat down, wrapped my trembling hands around the ropes, and looked out at jungle and waterfalls.  Katy joined me and we giggled and pointed and pumped the swing back and forth like we were six years old again.  This wasn't Moses' first rodeo. He grabbed our cameras and documented our elation from multiple angles and levels.  If I was told that I was confined to just that swing for the rest of my life, I would have responded with, "Thank you!" 

We ate chips with guacamole and salsa from one equally gorgeous viewpoint, then feasted on rice, veggies, and a bamboo shoot sauce from yet another cute table overlooking the mountainside.  I must have gushed, "Best birthday EVER!!" at least 15 times that day.  While eating the guac and chips earlier in the day, a perfectly sweet creature popped up from under our table.  Niet (pronounced Night) is about the size of a dog that should weigh about 45 pounds.  She probably weighed around 20 at most.  Just skin, bones, big ears and milky way eyes, our heartstrings connected instantly.  She's timid but brave as she carefully curled up at our feet and gently ate chips that we fed her.  Our dinner portions were so massive that I asked Moses if we could give the rest to Niet.  He consented with a smile, and I shot up to go find her.  Our new friend spent the whole night and morning curled up outside of our room, where I fell asleep scheming how to take her back to the US with me.

We met Moses at 8:00 AM, itching to begin our hike.  There are three waterfalls: The first at the very top is the second largest at 85 meters, the second, at 75 meters, has a cave underneath to explore and an area to stand as the pelting water chills your skin and enlivens every cell in your body.  The third waterfall is the largest at 100 meters, and is the main one visible from every inch of the hostel's location on the opposing mountainside.  In between each waterfall are thick and expansive farming fields, sporadic hut houses, sparkling creeks, and two frolicking blonde girls.  I imagined what I confidently felt it was like back in Jurassic Park days, as well as what it would be like to be a Silverback Gorilla clunking through the brush.  Every centimeter of this expansive hike is pure magic.  We walked through tree tunnels formed by coffee trees, banana trees, plantain trees, maize, pea plants, and wildflowers each found within a ten foot radius.  Then we'd turn a corner to find a mud hut with children playing something looking like foursquare, just like kids back home in suburbia.  Moses stopped occasionally to show us different plants used for medicine, first aid, and even natural toilet paper.  I asked Moses if he ever tires of taking people on these tours.  He looks at me like I'm joking. How could anyone tire of strolls through the Garden of Eden?

Katy and I met a group of Peace Corps volunteers also exploring Sipi for a weekend getaway.  They had all been in Uganda for about eight months, and thus had mounds of advice and stories to share with us.  One member of the group was 50-something year old Robin from Olympia, Washington.  She had an om symbol on one hand and a dove on the opposite wrist.  Yeah, we liked Robin.  Our takeaway from the group is that in order to accomplish anything, such as our challenges with the schools they're each working with and with Taata Kids, one must rely on forming relationships with the people.  Then, convince them that your improvement ideas were their own.  Also, we were correct in that all of it takes time. Like years.  So our decision to change our project to a website makeover and a few other smaller tasks was more than reasonable.

Two guys in the cabin next to us further confirmed our resolutions and wonderings.  They're medical students from UBC, an hour from Bellingham, working in a hospital here for about a month.  Their advice: scale your project objectives way, way down. And change your mindset to be content with those small accomplishments as substantial still.  Bluntly and deservedly a shot to my ego, one of them kept telling me, "You can't save Uganda. And it's naive to think so."  I'm happy to report that this is finally starting to sink in. After seeing several shooting stars cascade across the hypnotizing sky feeling just barely out of arm's reach, we thanked our new friends and turned in.  Friendship dynamics while traveling are funny; you instantly open up and reveal many of your deepest secrets and closeted weaknesses, form inside jokes that usually take years of close friendship to manifest, then say casual goodbyes like you'll see each other tomorrow, even though you're likely to never see them again.  These people claim a spot on the shelf of your heart, though.  Regardless of our backgrounds or reasons for traveling, we are here. In this foreign place. Stumbling through all the poor translations and mishaps that are the main ingredients in these adventures.  We are all so brave for embarking on this endeavor called travel, and that is our connection.  Then our intentions to come together for comfort, advice, release, and always plenty of laughter form life-impacting bonds.  Facebook and email make things pretty easy, too.

Katy and I also spent the weekend trying to tap into our heart's guidance.  This is always infinitely easier out in nature.  Although many things about ourselves were realized, such as it being crucial to our wellness to be near water sources and natural beauty, more questions and uncertainties bubbled up.  I'm constantly searching for that formula or published psychology study confirming the why's and how's of my and everyone's thoughts and actions.  Considering there not being such a formula for something...ouch, says my ego.  But my heart kept gently whispering the same advice: Just let go. Take care of yourself, and trust the rest.

The only other time I was so aware of my blissful spirit and the euphoric energy vibrating through my body, where I knew what it was like to be 100% present and 110% alive, was when I hiked the Sahale Arm back home.   After that hike I was worried such a high would be very hard to experience again.  Less than one year later, I've once again been transported, mind, body and soul, to nirvana on earth.  Happy birthday to me.

Slowly, slowly.

It's been one of those months that has flown by while lasting forever.  The more time we spent at the school, the harder it all got to handle. Abraham was hardly there-nobody seems to ever know where he is.  The teachers spend their time meandering around, delegating students to take turns leading the 100th recitation of counting from one to ten, or the worst--physically and verbally abusing the children.  

Each teacher has a small yet sturdy stick that is used to cane hands and shins more often than as a pointer at the blackboard.  They twist the kids' ears, pinch their backs, and slap their heads.  Our favorite and only relatively qualified teacher, Mr. Godfrey, even discussed the definition of abuse in his social studies lesson.  Apparently it's completely fine if its purpose is discipline.  It shows that the adult cares about the child's knowledge and practice of good manners.  One teacher of the baby class hit a four year old girl so hard that the baby fell to the ground.  This same teacher laughingly called a toddler stupid when he struggled to catch a soccer ball much too large for his tiny arms.  Another teacher of P3 smiled and started to laugh as she chased a crying girl, whipping the girl's shins as Katy and I unsuccessfully racked our brains for any possible reasoning behind the punishment.  We had noticed this use of corporal punishment before, and a little research revealed a nationwide ban of its use back in 2006.  However, only one school adheres to it, and cases of hospitalization and even death due to corporal punishment in schools flooded the search results.  Many of those schools are in or close to Mbale, and one death was reported just two weeks prior.  After Katy and I witnessed the P3 teacher visibly gaining pleasure from her monstrous act, we got up and headed home without a word.  

We decided that we would not remain at this school for another day unless Abraham and the staff were willing to put an end to the abuse.  Fundraising for such an institution was in no way acceptable in our consciouses.  Understanding the use of corporal punishment stemming from their culture and simple lack of knowledge of any alternative strategies, we got to work preparing our case.  To our surprise, Abraham agreed to allowing us to help implement change without hesitation.  On Monday we were going to deliver our presentation at the weekly staff meeting. 

Meanwhile, desperation for some peace and quiet in nature took over.  We ended up discovering the backyard of the Mt. Elgon Hotel on the other side of town.  Nobody shouting "Muzungu!", no cars or boda bodas threatening to run us over, a scenery of dust and trash replaced with thick green grass and trees, and for the first time since arriving in Mbale, QUIET.  Our blankets were laid under a beautiful tree, a packed picnic of bananas and peanut butter and two wine spritzers were set out, and our bodies melted into the serenity.  We also met Callie, a fellow American volunteer on her third trip to Uganda.  She told us that every time she comes here, she doesn't think she'll make it through the first month.  After that, she can't fathom leaving.  I dubbed her my omen of hope as I prayed for this to be the case for me as well.  

Sunday brought us another day-long adventure.  Madame Sulaina, Taata Kids' headmistress, took us to her church.  The building is much smaller and more traditional than Abraham's warehouse church.  The lead pastor is an older woman with a face perfectly resembling Suga Mama on Disney's Proud Family cartoon. You should probably take a minute to Google image her, it'll enhance this story.

Moving on, this lead pastor's ending topic was the issue of productivity, or lack thereof, in Uganda.  She detailed her point with a scenario from her visit to Switzerland.  She missed her train, so she decided to wait for another coming in five minutes and on the same side of the station instead of taking another coming in two minutes but on the other side of the platform.  Locals questioned her decision, pleading for an explanation to validate her waiting five minutes when she could just wait two.  "What difference do three extra minutes make??" she said with a throw of her hands. "In Uganda, you can wait three extra DAYS for your train!" But their reaction, she continued to explain, demonstrates the importance of time in other cultures.  It isn't that Ugandans lack money or resources, it's that they lack an appreciation of time.  Things get done so much faster in other cultures simply because those people embrace time being of the essence.  Ugandans need to adopt this same perspective on time and how they spend it.  This whole spiel very much surprised me as a chosen church sermon. First world cultures are often stressing the importance of slowing down, and here the stress is on speeding up.  Still, I liked what Suga Mama was saying. Aaaamen, sista! 

"We shall take a shortcut back.  We must cross a small bridge and there aren't any ropes to hold. S'it okay?" Sulaina asked us.  Katy and I have crossed some logs in our day, we got this.  Through corn fields and around a small river, this shortcut reminded me of corn mazes around Halloween time back home. How ridiculous such a concept would seem to these people, I mused.  We reached the bridge. It was three small logs laid parallel and about ten feet above a small river.  After being warned that some spots are loose and shakey, Sulaina grabbed my camera to document what I'm sure she anticipated to be a hilarious spectacle.  She's right, I halted at one spot in the middle where there didn't seem to be any sturdy placement for either feet to continue onward.  I considered crawling the rest of the way, but ended up opting for a semi hopscotch maneuver as I lunged for a tree branch near the end.  Cake.  The women that had gathered around all cheered for me and Katy.  Anything we do is impressive here. I'm sure if I were to do a cartwheel they'd lose it.  

*I did do one around our neighbor kids; They cheered for me like I had just been named President.

Our presentation to the staff was a slight success.  We made packets for everyone that outlined points from the ban and national Constitution in favor of stopping the abuse, as well as the detriments to the children, classrooms, and school success if the abuse were to continue, the improvements if the staff were to adopt alternative methods, and some new methods to try.  Their first task, if they accepted, was to create a list of classroom norms, or rules, created mostly by the students themselves.  This way the children have authority in deciding how their environment will be run, and coinciding motivation to follow rules which THEY agreed upon.  Katy and I would then create these lists on plywood posters for them to display in their rooms at all times.  It's little, but if done well, will begin drastic transformation toward a much safer, healthier, and happier school environment.  The teachers accepted, or rather, Abraham accepted for them.  It was very difficult to reexplain to the teachers the next day that these rules needed to be STUDENT-made, but I am so happy to say that the lists were overall a success and the posters are displayed every day. Very small progress, but progress nonetheless. Like the locals here always say, "Slowly, slowly".

Strength Building

While staying at the Backpackers, our new friend the Human Rights Lawyer told us stories about his heart-wrenching experiences in different African countries.  There are many villages where rape, especially of adolescent girls, is so commonplace that all locals expect it and most men admit to committing it.  Today, Katy and I found out the real reason why everyone has stressed to us to remain in our room once night falls.  We are living in one of those places.  

Madame Sulaina took us around the town to meet with a few families and guardians of children under the vulnerable or orphan status at Taata.  Our first stop was at the house of little Loyce, a stunning nine year old whose smile captivated me.  Loyce lives with her single mother and three other siblings.  Her mother, also stunning, has only one limb that grew correctly, leaving her unable to do much of anything as she sits on the street corner day after day, waiting for a "good samaritan" to give her money.  Loyce's older sister and their mother both have newborn babies.  Loyce's older sister is 14 years old.  She was raped last year by a drunk man.  Loyce's mother gets around by an old lawn chair strapped to two bike wheels, which her older sister pushes while her baby is strapped to her back.  I've seen Loyce's mother, older sister, and their two babies at Taata picking her up at the end of the day a couple times, and each time both women smiled pure kindness and joy right into me.  Everyone in the family possesses that captivating smile that makes you want to hug them in gratitude for reminding you that life is beautiful, like they are.  Sitting in the tiny mud cave that the mother struggles to pay monthly rent for, and hearing how Loyce's mother and older sister came to have children, my head spun and my breath ceased.  How many of these children running around are also the product of such torture? Is it happening around me now, while I sleep safely?  Is it just a matter of time for sweet little Loyce?  How can these girls, everyone here, still smile so cheerfully and with such apparent innocence?  Images of the horrendous scene irrepressibly flashed around my mind, along with images of me fighting off her attacker--and I would.  I wanted to scoop up every child and rescue them from such eminent danger, and also take my switchblade to every man's genitals.  This just cannot be. 

After Loyce's older sister showed us the route to the next house, I turned to see her skipping away.  This fourteen year old child has undergone more pain than I can fathom ever recovering from--she's been brutally robbed of her youth and virginity, yet she smiles and skips like she really is just a pre-teen girl.  How-just how can this be??

We walked silently to the next house as I tried to push down vomit and tears, semi-restraining myself from pinning every man we passed as one of those attackers.

The next house was home to two Taata students whose mother is blind and father is mentally ill.  They don't have a phone, and their children have been absent from school all week, so there wasn't any way to give them a heads up of our visit.  They weren't home, so Sulaina said we will try again next week.  In our last house visit, we met with a father who can't find work and a mother who barely puts food on the table with her job as a maid.  Their mud hut was cramped, and a cockroach struggled to get off of its back on the floor next to me as these parents explained their challenges.  Sulaina translated our questions for us, our final one being what they would like most from us and Taata Kids.  The father, previously silent as he gripped his battered Bible (written in English even though he couldn't speak a word of it), said he wanted us to provide him with capital to open up a tailor shop.  This threw us off a little.  He said he tried to find work and couldn't, but had he given up since he didn't find one he liked? Hoping he'd just hold out until he somehow got the money to fund his entrepreneurial visions?  How much of these people's strife is due to lack of resources and how much is due to culturally-instilled laziness?  

Emotionally spent while simultaneously reeling in heated frustration, we slowly walked back to school.  The rest of the day drew out many more emotions in both Katy and myself.  Abraham and I painfully  re-budgeted our monthly expenses, as the language barrier and his habit of repeating his thrice summarized unnecessary sentences drove us both to raise our voices a little.  Fueled by Loyce's family story and how Abraham bosses poor Sulaina around (culturally-instilled, I know), it took a lot to hold back from challenging this mindset of gender inequality.  "Sulaina might wipe your ass, but I am not going to succumb to being treated like your inferior" I said with my eyes as my mouth forced a smile.  

After another meeting with the Board of Directors that ran very much on Africa time, Abraham, Madame Jackline, Katy and I ran through town to buy a few necessities for our new eating arrangements.  At last, Katy and I were dropped off at home, free to finally work on releasing the weight of this day.  Katy, my Keeper of Calm, reasoned, "Maybe this is a test. To see how strong we are." I'm glad she said that.  And then the storm came.  We ran outside, dancing in the cleansing rain, spinning and giggling and taking in every fiber of that moment to wash away the day.  We turned back to the house to see Steven, the security guard, laughing at these two psycho girls out in the downpour while the rest of the town was for once completely indoors.  The three of us stood on the porch, watching the lighting turn the whole sky lavender, and our lizard friends eat their massive insect dinners.  We learned that Ugandan people also  indulge in these flying delicacies.  One woman visiting the maid filled a cup with these guys, showing it to me proudly as she stated, "Now you see, THIS is Africa".  Katy and I still squealed and scampered every time they flew too closely.  Everyone laughed at each other-well mostly at me and Katy-as we played with bugs and lizards like little kids, and I could feel everybody's spirits lighten.  Katy and I needed this silly night with new friends; times like tonight are paramount in a place like this.

Switching Gears (Kind of)

I see so many government schools around here. They have soccer fields, cement buildings, the vast majority of students have in tact uniforms and book bags...why are they so much more successful? I know the government gives some money, and maybe the students that attend are from more well-off families that can afford tuition. I had to know the reason, so I asked the Headmistress (principal) of Taata, Madame Sulaina. She  explained to me today that the differences are: Government school teachers get paid year-round whereas they only get paid for the hours they work in private schools. There isn't any tuition for government schools and at private schools families have to make a "contribution" each term, unless the children meet the categories of orphan or vulnerable child.  Like aforementioned, the grounds are much nicer and developed in government schools as well. So, why would anyone choose a private school, then?? Sulaina said it's because the quality of teaching is much better in private schools. From what I've noted in my classroom observations, this baffles me. I really can't imagine how the education must be at the government schools.  

This led to another worry--if Taata is supposed to stand out for quality education, among everything else this school needs, it desperately needs an intervention in teaching methods.  It appears that although I haven't completed my teaching degree yet, I have still studied the trade much more than any of these teachers, including Madame Sulaina.  Their program is only two years long, and I'm seeing demonstrations of how teaching was decades ago in the States; Students "learn" by rote memorization, the teachers discipline by caning with sticks or twisting children's ears, and there isn't any one-on-one time provided.  In one lesson I saw, the teacher must have hit each student at least twice, one time making them all hold out their palms and she came around whacking each and every one.  One girl was falsely accused of being distracting and got her ear yanked, which she caressed through silent tears for a while after.  In a lesson Katy saw, the teacher made the students count from one to twenty over and over again for over an hour.  Many of them tried to count past 20, but the teacher stopped them and redirected them back to one, the only increase being a demand for louder recitation.  Visual cues weren't even used accurately, so the kids didn't see which number on the board matched with the one they were screaming.  

There is one teacher, Mr. Godfrey, who instructs grades three and four.  He is exemplary.  He nails methods that I was trained in as the most effective, and he is solely made up of love and care for these children.  He even hangs out at the school on Saturdays, giving his students extra learning time and a safe environment for one more day each week.  I think all of the other teachers should redo their training wherever Godfrey went.  Or choose another profession since it's crystal clear that they wish they were anywhere but at school and with children.  

So, what do I do about this?  Watching children miss out on learning and therefore betterment of livelihood makes my heart sink.  But it looks like teachers are highly respected, and I don't want to cross any lines.  Then again, if this school doesn't provide quality education then why should we raise thousands of dollars for it?  Why should we set up partnerships to establish recurring financial support?  Why should it succeed?  Katy and I spent all of last night stressing over this dilemma.  By the end of the overwhelmed, frustrated discussion, it became clear to us that our main project here might not be fundraising.  It might be renovating Taata's teaching methods.  We thought about implementing after school one-on-one literacy tutoring since it's clear most of the students are sliding by while remaining illiterate.  We could even do this during the lessons, since the kids spend more time goofing off and punching each other than involved in a lesson.  We also considered rounding up all the teachers for a day long seminar where we give them a crash course on better teaching strategies that have substantially higher success rates.  Everything that we want to do for this problem sounds like cake for someone who studied the field intensely for four years.  But seeing as my memory is that of a 90 year old with Alzheimer's, preparing for and implementing all of this is going to be a scary challenge.  I withdrew from school for many reasons, and getting back into what I recently ran away from is going to require a lot of courage and "goosefraba" breathing.  

We ended our discussion with the decision to research and buy books that will help Abraham and his staff learn how to carry out this skyscraper of tasks ahead of them in a 21st century manner.  THEY need the skills required, since we are only here for a quick blink.  We are also going to work toward our ideas to help the educational system within the school.  It is my Goliath, and I WILL fix my slingshot.  It is our new priority.  However, we are still tied into this massive fundraiser, switching to a new bank and account, online donation method setup--and the 15 subtasks within--and at least beginning partnership programs.  "Africa time" is just not acceptable for these next few months.