Uganda

After my week long trip to Uganda the internet was down for a week, and then I left for Mombasa for a week. So I'm a bit over three weeks behind in my posts, and apologize for the absence of updates. I will now begin the "catch-up" process, but before I can begin divulging the events of my trip to Uganda, I must first fill the reader in on the proceedings that took place before I left (over three weeks ago).

Three Fridays ago we had an “Intern Retreat,” whereby all the interns went over to Dave and Lucy’s place to spend the night. We played games (a lot of games), ate food (a lot of food) and watched movies (two…). It was a great bonding experience, much fun, and completely void of sleep.

The next day Festus, George, and I took a matatu into town from Dave and Lucy’s. They also assisted me in finding a place in which I could exchange shillings for US dollars. I would need to buy a visa at the border to enter Uganda, and as a US citizen they require US currency. Once we had completed this action George left to go home, and as I noticed I would miss the lunch at Church Army, took Festus to Big Chicken Inn for a delicious meal. By the time we finished I was feeling pretty exhausted, but, upon entering the Church Army compound, bumped into Benjamin. He reminded me that he, his girlfriend Grace, and I were to go into town for a pre-Easter dinner in an hour and a half. I went up to my room, showered, and took a power nap, before again heading back into town. We met Grace at Pizza Inn, and the feast began.

We ordered two large pizzas, chicken, fries, and three ‘bottomless’ cokes. Grace may have had two pieces of pizza, and the rest was left for Benjamin and I to devour. It was easily the largest amount of food I have eaten in a long time, and a point to refute those who believed I would be losing weight while in Africa…

On Easter Sunday Dave and Lucy picked me up from Church Army and we went to Christ Church. The service was much like any other, and there didn’t seem to be much of the hoopla (at least commercial hoopla) associated with the holiday in the States.

After Church I got Big Chicken in for the second day in a row! (I was going to be away for a week; I needed to store up…) with Lillian, and another girl from church named Harriet. During the meal I came to a realization: if you think our Easter traditions (Easter bunny, etc.) are normal, try explaining them to someone who has never heard of them before. It’s pretty weird…

Sunday night, I went to bed early to try and catch up on some of the sleep I had lost the night of the retreat, and woke up around noon on Monday (we had the day off). I got up, packed for Uganda, and waited to head out.

We met in the board room of the secretariat office for a hearty meal before departing on our 14+ hour journey to Kenya’s western neighbor.

The bus was scheduled to leave downtown Nairobi at 9pm, and after stowing away the luggage, and being waved through a metal detector we were on our way. We made two stops before reaching the boarder at around 5am. The seats, which had levers to recline, refused to do so, and the conditions of the road left any natural urge to sleep unattainable. The man-sized potholes seemed to be carved out just far enough apart from each other for an individual to be jostled from rest at the exact moment he or she comes within its reach.

Now in Ugandan territory we arrived at Church Army Uganda, some minutes after seven in the morning. We were fed a much needed breakfast and given a tour of the facility. Afterwards we boarded a privately hired matatu to continue our trek into the heart of the country where our destination town, Lira, was found; some four and a half hours away.

The road was extremely dusty, but the heat left no option other than the windows to be open wide. My hair was caked with dust, and wiping my forehead made my palms muddy. Along the way I was struck by the beauty of our surroundings. We had left formal homes many kilometers away and the only structures now seen were mud-walled, thatch- roofed “bandas,” or huts; generally huddled in small batches at the foot of one of the many small volcanic mounts. These free standing mini-mountains sprouted all along the horizon, and allowed for the otherwise flat, though green, land to conjure thoughts of fairytale dwellings.

At around what should have been 1:30-2:30pm (I lost track of time), we arrived in Lira, and the university where we were to spend the night. We took our belongings to our room (Benjamin and I were roommates) and went to a classroom for a meeting with the archdeacon of the Lang’o diocese to discuss the mission.

The group was originally supposed to number around 30, and was to then be divided into two in order to cover two different Ugandan regions. We were intended to visit Lira and Apac, each group spending a week in their respective region. However, the group that actually arrived in Uganda consisted of 11 members and was expected to cover the same range…

The team was comprised of eight Church Army Captains, four of whom were reverends, and three members of the secretariat, including myself. A Church Army Captain is an individual that has gone through three years of theological education at Carlile College, a thorough interview process, and has been formally commissioned by the Bishop of Nairobi and the General Secretary of Church Army Africa to, “Positively transform society” (no small task…). The members were: Rev. Capt. Daniel, a jovial middle aged man formerly in charge of organizing all mission activities for Church Army; Rev. Capt. Peter, the eldest member of the team; Rev. Capt. Louise, a female vicar of a church just outside of Mombasa, and the head of the Sunday school for the diocese in which her church belongs; Rev. (soon to be Capt.) Meshack, a cartoonish Tanzanian man wrapping up his third year at Carlile College; Capt. Benjamin, my flatmate, whom you may be surprised to learn is in fact a Captain; Capt. Peris, a young woman who was commissioned in the same class as Benjamin and moonlights as a gospel artist (I got to watch one of her music videos); Capt. Monica another young female captain who works in the same diocese as Peris; Capt. Agatha, a proud member of the Kikuyu tribe, who too works with the last two mentioned captains; Esther, the mastermind behind the mission, as well as the Church Army accountant; Joshua, the executive administrative assistant to the General Secretary; and me, the lowly intern.

After some discussion and debate it was determined that the best course of action would be to spend the first two days, as a group, in Lira, and the last two days in Apac, rather then divide the group with each half spending a week in the respective areas. The matter settled we had our dinner, and promptly fell asleep.

We awoke around 7am the next morning and were subdivided into groups of two (with the exception of my group having three, myself just a camera man). Each group of two (or 3) was then given an area within Lira which they were going to be staying in and evangelizing to. I was in a group with Benjamin and Rev. Capt. Louise. We were the first team to leave and climbed into a small car that was not capable of carrying all our equipment. The driver had to come back to pick up the rest of our luggage after dropping us in our new lodgings. We were sent to an area called, Ngetta. It was a farming region known for some of the most fertile soil in East Africa.

We were setup in an old British cotton plantation founded in the 1920’s. It was currently used as a farming research institute. The reverend in the area had a church on the institutes land, and was an avid farmer himself (being paid less than a dollar/day, it was quite beneficial to be able to produce his own food). Everything we ate during our stay, which was a disturbingly large amount, was grown within 500yds of the table we were eating it on.

Upon arrival a group of screaming women, making noises reminiscent of Xena, the warrior princes, encircled our car, wielding and waving tree branches; the traditional Ugandan welcome. As we got out of the car, each came and kneeled down at our feet, shook our hands and introduced themselves; the traditional Ugandan greeting.

We were taken to our rooms, and once we had settled in, we went out to meet the reverend to learn of our day’s activities. Reaching his homestead we informed that our intended vehicle for the day had broken down, and then were invited to a standard Ngetta breakfast: chicken, beef, potatoes (irish & sweet), cassava (a root that, to me, was like a mix between a potato and a banana), rice, groundnuts, avocados, matoke (a mashed potato-resembling dish made from bananas), delicious fried eggs, and cabbage, all washed down with some freshly squeezed passion fruit juice. Again, all the food was literally grown or raised in the pastor’s backyard.

The reverend was a calm middle aged man, whose parish oversaw the operation of 25 local churches. This means that nearly every day of every month he visits a different church to see how there operations are coming along. He told us of times that he would get up at 5am bike around the district doing ministry work, and come home at 1am, for weeks. It is surely work only possible by one who is called to do so.

After ‘breakfast’ we went outside to discover our new mode of transport: Motorbikes. Each of us had a driver and we had no choice but to hop on the back. We road about 10 miles weaving and turning and dodging people along the dusty dirt roads, before reaching our first destination. It was a Catholic elementary school. All of the pupils had been assembled underneath a large mango tree, and were anxiously awaiting the foreign speakers to come preach. We got off our bikes and I got out the camera. I was getting some wide angle establishment shots of the students when I heard someone yell, “Hey you! White man! Stop!” I turned to see a man standing with the principle, our drivers, the Reverend, Benjamin, and Louise. (I had separated myself from the group in order to get my desired shots.) I came over to learn that although the meeting had been cleared by the school board and the principle, the leader of the Parents Committee (the man who had yelled at me), objected whole heartedly to the session. He refused Anglicans to speak to the Catholic children, and ordered us to leave the premise. The principle came and apologized to us for the man’s actions, but said perhaps we should go. Having no desire to argue to preach, we got back on our bikes and were off to the next school.

What started off dubiously, proved to be largely successful by the end of the day. We went on to visit four other schools, often eating meals similar to our breakfast. Benjamin would preach powerfully to the older grades, while Louise who specialized in children ministry spoke with those that were younger. I did my best to capture all of the activities. During each of the speakers’ closing remarks they would do an “Alter Call,” asking any students (or teachers) present that had not yet received Jesus Christ in their hearts, as their personal savior, if they were willing to do so. The results were inspiring. I would estimate 30-35 students per school would go to be prayed over and invite Jesus to take control of their lives.

At some of the gatherings, students would prepare songs, or dances for us, and each meeting began with a thorough introduction. Every teacher introduced on the side of the school, every member of the entourage introduced on our side (including the drivers). When I would go up to speak, telling the students my name, where I come from, what I am doing in Africa, and encouraging them to open their hearts and minds to the preaching that was to follow, I was consecutively received with hilarity. Hardly any of the students could understand me, stating that 80% of my words and syllables are “swallowed,” and when I finished there would be a short pause before the group erupted into laughter. I required an English to English translator.

Getting back to our rooms at the institute I took a much needed shower. If I thought the matatu’s dust from the drive the previous day was bad, driving around on the back of a motorcycle through rural Uganda was worse. The water ran off me a dark brown for a good two minutes. After my shower, I did some reading and passed out.

Waking up confused (I had forgotten I was in Africa much less Uganda), I searched the room for clues. It came to me. I got dressed, met with the others, ate another feast the locals call breakfast, and we were again off on motorcycles to visit a fresh set of schools.

It is worth mentioning that any time we arrived in any location we were met by screaming women holding tree branches. One woman seemed to somehow pop out from behind every building at which we arrived. I’m not quite sure how it was accomplished, but I never ceased to be amazed.

We went around to about the same number of schools on the second day as we did the first, and were met with about the same level of success. God was at work, and I was getting great footage of it.

That night one of the church families had us over to their place for dinner. They sang us traditional welcome songs, some shared their testimonies, and they fed us a delicious meal. What it consisted of, however, remains a mystery. By the time all of the stories and singing came to an end the sun had gone down, and we were left with no light. We piled food on to our plates, and ate in faith. The result was a delicious, odd mixture of textures.

By the end of the meal I was exhausted from all of the travels and eating, and we were taken back to our rooms to sleep.

The following day we breakfasted, and were on our way to the bishop of northern Uganda’s home where we would take lunch before making our way to the region of Apac (pronounced Apach).

We ate yet another disconcertingly large meal, and it was suggested that the bishop had cooked a stork rather than a chicken, citing the size of the bones as key evidence for the accusation.

We took the bishop’s bus for the hour drive to Apac, dropping off a preacher here and there at schools along the way. They would join back up with us later.

The days that followed in Apac were about the same as those spent in Lira; eat, visit a school, eat, visit a school, eat, have lunch, visit a school, eat, and so on. But in Apac our nights were quite different from those in Lira. Here we had what were termed, “Open Air Crusades.” We lugged speakers, soundboards, generators, and many meters of cable to the various local gathering spots; usually some form of a market, and simply started preaching. I was amazed by the success of the crusades and the amount of people that actually stopped to listen. I couldn’t help but think how I would have reacted differently to such a commotion if it took place in the States…

Again there were alter calls, and many continued to come and welcome Jesus into their hearts.

Benjamin was to go on to a morning radio show early on the second day in Apac. He got up at 5:30am, and I wasn’t sleeping well, so I joined him to film the broadcast. We went to the station, and I filmed Benjamin’s bit, half awake, half asleep, when I heard something about America admist the language I did not understand. I arose from my quazi-slumber just in time to recognize the mic in front of me. Luckily the standardized introduction I had been using at the countless number of schools we had visited over the past couple of days was now burnt into my memory and I mindlessly recited it, tacking on an open invitation to join us at this particular evening’s crusade. The crisis of screwing up on a live radio broadcast averted we left to join the others for breakfast.

There was a running joke between myself and the captains on the trip that before each school presentation they would tell me that I was going to have to preach. So when Saturday night came, and I was informed I would be giving the sermon at one of the local churches the following morning, I laughed it off.

About an hour before we were to leave for the church it became clear it wasn’t a joke this time, and I frantically flipped through the gospels searching for a good topic. Settling on Matthew 7:15-23, I quickly prepared a lesson. When the service began (at 7am!) there were three people in the congregation and I was glad, and even laughed to myself that I had worried about it. By 7:15 there was over 50 members present. I gave the sermon and everything went surprisingly well. It was however, the first time I had seen a live chicken given as a tithe.

After the service I was graciously given three large eggs, and a quart of sim-sim paste (a relative of peanut butter made from sesame seeds), for my lesson.

After church we, of course, ate, and then came the weeks culminating activity: the final open air crusade. The one that had been promoted at every other event we had taken part in; it was to take place at the main church for the Lang’o dioceses. Around 300 people came, and it was one of the most powerful events I have ever attended.

The Holy Spirit was practically tangible, God's presence was known, and over 60 people came to Christ.

I captured the whole event and eagerly await being able to post segments (as well as some of the more than 850 pictures that were taken during the trip).

The next day we left Apac at 7am. We arrived in Nairobi the following day at 5am traveling nearly straight through. I arrived in my room at 6am. It was an amazing trip, and one I will not be forgetting any time soon… especially the amount of food consumed.

Due to the difference in time at 6am in Nairobi on April 13^th, 2010, it was one hour from my girlfriend, Maria’s 21^st Birthday (11pm April 12^th, 2010) in State College, Pa. I called her and wished her a wonderful twenty-first, and we were eventually disconnected due to the exhaustion of credit on my phone, just before my little sister was knocking on her door, with my gift (as was prearranged). Once, the phone call was over, I took a shower and slept the great majority of the day.

On Wednesday I had the Somali Service. Unfortunately, however, the number, again, was as small as possible without being nonexistent; the lonely digit, 1. It was, though, a quite informative meeting. Sarah (mother of the young translator, Abdi), the only Somali in attendance and I simply had a discussion and I learned the story of both how she came to Kenya, and her faith.

It was 1992 and she had just learned that she was pregnant. War was starting to break out in Somalia. One day some thugs came and robbed her and her husband’s store. Unsatisfied with the amount of money in the register they insisted more was hidden. Upon her husband’s denial, he was shot dead. It was then that Sarah decided she must leave the country. About eight months later she climbed into a small boat with too many other passengers and drifted out into the Indian Ocean. After 11 days at sea all food and water had been depleted. On day 14, a U.N. boat discovered them, brought them on board, and gave them food and drink. 10 days later her son, Abdi, was born in a Kenyan refugee camp.

They moved from camp, to camp. Eventually a Ugandan woman, who had befriended Sarah began telling her about Christianity. Over time Sarah’s heart came to accept Christ. She began teaching others in the camps, while Abdi attended school. Eventually her actions became known to those that did not think so highly of such activity. They came to her house, burned it down, beat her, and then had her jailed. Abdi, unaware, came home to a pile of smoldering ash, with his mother nowhere to be found. He stayed with a neighbor until she was released. Sarah made up her mind to leave the camp, and traveled to Nairobi where they currently reside, though officially they are not permitted to do so. Thus making it difficult, if not impossible, for Abdi, who is now 18, to attend school as his proper documentation remains at the camp.

We prayed together, and left.