Another Top Ten...

For the last several weeks, we have experienced power outages more often than ‘onages’… and I know that’s not a word, but here in Uganda, everything goes.

Being without electricity is good for some things…it challenges you to think of new and creative ways to do things like; dry your hair (those cute, next to worthless battery operated camping fans) cook, cool off, entertain yourself (no TV, radio, computer or lights...) and keep your food from spoiling. I haven’t figured out ways to do any of the other things, but in my ‘down time’ I did think of…

The Top 10 Reasons You Don’t Have Power in Uganda…

1. A lightning bolt wiped out the transformer
2. A driver hit the pole with the transformer
3. A storm took out the three electric poles
4. Someone stole the electric poles
5. Someone stole all the electrical cables from Kampala to Karamajong
6. The power company neglected to record your payments and is punishing you.
7. They are selling all the power to Kenya
8. There isn't enough water left in Lake Victoria to keep two dams running
9. The man at the main switch is gone, or sleeping, or talking to someone...
10. We had power yesterday. We have water today. What do you expect?

And by the way, the rates for electricity have gone up 40% this month.

A Lost Christmas Letter

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion;'" Lamentations 3:22-24

Hello! Abeeka bali batya?

Living on a different continent away from the people you know and love means meeting the kind of people you wouldn’t at home: people who will ask us about our night when they greet us in the morning and literally want to know about our night; people that want to shake our hand, just because we’re white; people who have fled their country because of war and genocide in theirs; children who never knew their parents; Taxi drivers, police officers, teachers, pastors, farmers, builders, bed makers, nurses…all who earn somewhere in the neighborhood of $1 - $3 dollars per day (and no, the cost of living isn’t cheap here); people who have a million questions about America and will shyly begin to ask us things like, "is it true that all Americans have cars?" "have homes?" "go to school?" (See, I’d be asking about bathrooms but that’s just because I know about them and miss them!) They want to know "how we walk in the snow, why we have Thanksgiving, what we do at Christmas, why the Kennedy family has so many problems, why we read, lay in the sun, and my all time favorite, "how many cows and goats did you get for your daughter when she married?"

We’ve met Roman Catholics, Protestants, Pentecostals, Born Agains and Muslims; About 20 percent believe in local religions, including a proliferation of old traditional customs centering on spirits, spirit possession, witchcraft, witchdoctors and child sacrifices. Really.

To watch the people here is quite amazing. Their heads will be from totally shaved to having several pounds of dreadlocks suspended in a cap. In the city everyone tries to dress "smart." The rest of the folks are somehow dressed in American’s hand-me-downs. Most children are in rags. Out in the bush, In the villages and in the IDP camps the women and children are naked, or raggedy, or in the traditional dress of busuiti’s or gomasi’s.

We’ve begun to know which young boys will be selling bizarre trinkets all along our drive into town; which old women will come out and sit alongside the road as the day begins to cool, selling her bananas, potatoes, matoke…which children will be walking up the steep hill past us early in the mornings, stopping only to throw rocks up into the immense Mango trees hoping for the prize of a mango to fall down for their breakfast as they head off to find water, or wood, or food before their long day at school. The occasional cow that breaks away from its tree and heads out down the middle of the road still causes us to laugh as it seeks an escape route.

Mainly there have been scores of people with kind hearts who have welcomed us into their homes and lives. They have shared and trusted us with their stories…there is a lot of pain in this country. We look around and see extreme poverty and hardships. But they say, "this mango is a gift from God; This morning’s rain was a shower of mercy upon us; My healthy child is a miracle. Perhaps tomorrow we will not have such things, but our hearts are so full of God's compassion. He is my portion."

The children whose sweet and adorable faces grace this years Christmas card are not the faces of our own kids that are far away from us this year. These are children that God has put into our lives that we’ve hugged, cried over, prayed for, prayed with. They have taught us to not "be consumed." With God’s grace, and all of you back in the states, we have been able to sow into their lives with health workshops for their families, school fees, beds, medical supplies and equipment for medical clinics, first aid training, food, mosquito nets and HUGE amounts of love and TLC. That’s what God’s been doing in less than three months! The near future holds more trainings, marriage conferences, a new medical clinic, latrine construction (thank God!), vocational trainings and some exciting economic development programs.

We deeply miss all of you that we know and love…who know, yet still love us! But God continues opening doors for us in Africa to touch and be touched by people and stories we would never have known. We hope that somehow in our sharing of them, you feel connected and part of their lives, part of their future. Drop us a line sometime…we’d love to know what’s going on in your lives too! Hope to see you all when we visit in July. Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year to you all!
Mwebale nnyo! (thank you very much)

With Much Love,
Mike and deb

note - our Christmas card and letter was mailed from Uganda over three weeks ago. But since no one has yet recieved it, we decided to post it!

Everyone Travels By Boat

I'm a chicken.
This does not come as a revelation to anyone who even sort of knows me.
Not this kind of chicken...

I watched the neighbor fatten this guy up for a few days before he mysteriously disappeared. I knew what was going to happen. I even tried to talk Mike into a late night rescue of the poor guy. But alas, he became Christmas dinner. I've stopped giving names to the chickens, cows, goats and roosters that hang out by our kitchen window. They will be someone's meal.

The kind of chicken I'm referring to is the new reputation I have in a fishing village across Lake Victoria that Mike and I visited earlier this week.

The fishing village is maybe 30 kilometers from Kampala.
By boat.
Have you seen the boats here? Well, truthfully I hadn't either, but that makes no difference. I've seen how other things are built and maintained.
And if the boats are ok, why did our host give us an option...by land or by sea?
I chose by road. I may have chosen wrong. I don't know how many kilometers it is by land; it can't be that many. By boat the trip was 15 minutes.

The journey began perfectly. It was a beautiful day, pretty much like all the days here. Many of the cities folks were still out in the villages visiting family for Christmas, so traffic jams were not a problem. The road was nicely paved and a pleasure to drive on. Mostly.

Just as we were moving along at a pretty good clip, Godfrey, our host let us know that we were about to turn on a road that was not “as nice.”

About 50 kilometres out of town, the pavement was turned off like a tap. We had turned onto a horribly washed-out dirt road.

You have to envision this…deep mud ruts ground into the red clay, loose stones that make you slide, boulders blocking clear areas that weren’t axel deep holes, parts washed out so much we weren’t sure if we were still on the road or a path through the jungle; twisting turns around hills on a path barely wide enough for one vehicle. We’ve been on some bad roads here, but this was so bad that no amount of skill, no weaving, no speed variation could dampen the blows.
The Big Horn was traveling in a controlled fall bouncing from spot to spot.

Bouncing up and down for over two hours of our trip kept us praying for a decent bathroom and soon. Though by the looks of our surroundings, it wasn’t promising.

After three and a half hours of spine wrenching insanity, we had arrived.

The Orphanage we pulled up to was like an oasis in the desert. Neatly built houses, grass covering the front yards…and there…gleaming in the sun, pit-latrines. The one they unlocked for us must have been a special “guest” bathroom as the others weren’t locked.
I don’t really want to imagine the others.

Immediately, those in charge of the orphanage we’d come to meet with began inquiring as to the method we traveled. Seems coming by land is simply unheard of. To avoid too many explanations, I simply answered, “I’m not very comfortable on the water.” (not a stretch, by the way)

By the time the director of the camp found us, a highly-educated, well spoken native Ugandan moving around the hills and rocks of the camp via wheel chair, my ‘fear’ had preceded me. He very seriously focused on Mike and asked, “Do you have a pool at home?” Mike replied, “In Florida we did.” “Well then, you must immediately cover it, for your wife is not comfortable on water.” I didn’t know what to make of his comments as this was the first time we had encountered a Ugandan with an American sense of humour.

December and January in Uganda is like the American’s “summer vacation.” So while on a break from school, this village was hosting a ‘summer camp.’ Some 5000 children are sponsored into one camp per year. They’re doing awesome work in this village. This particular day, a pastor was very boldly delivering a message on premarital sex, STD’s and HIV/AIDS. His candidness was even making me blush.

This village is run by a church just across the lake (had I opted to go via boat, I would have seen the church I was told…a few times), and sponsored by donors in Texas and California. The neatly built concrete and brick homes sat on tidy grounds, and inside were 3 bedrooms, a living room and an eating area. The homes hold 16 children and a house mama. The bunk beds were stacked three high.

The children currently living here are from 6 to 19 years of age; orphans, or children who do not have families able to care for them. Children that weren’t part of the camp this day were busy washing their clothes in wash tubs and hanging them to dry or preparing the mid-day meal in the kitchen houses (separate buildings to keep the smoke out of the main homes.) They were neatly dressed, clean, busy, and had clearly been around white people enough that few spent much time gawking at us.

Here, there is an agricultural program in full swing, a medical clinic (with doors and windows, equipment and a real nurse), family garden plots where much of the families meals come from, schools, boreholes, a method for safe water, a generator which keeps some lights on and refrigeration of some foods.

Awesome. What were we doing here?

Before joining our host and his wife (both teachers at this school) for lunch in their sweet, humble home, about the size of one of your closets (and they care for three family members, have one baby and one on the way), Godfrey wanted to take us to visit the fishing village. We were feeling pretty good about this place! Lead on!

This time he gave me the choice of walking or driving. Which is funny only because there is NO way to get a vehicle through this area and down to the fishing village.

After about 10 minutes into our walk, we saw children running towards us…lots of children yelling “mzungus.” The children in Uganda always put a smile on our faces. They are beautiful, curious, and loveable. Except those that have never seen a white person. That happened on our drive in. A young girl about 10 got a glimpse of our white faces and with a horrified expression on her face, grabbed her baby sister and ran!

We were immediately guests of honour. Africa is like that. We arrive and instantly, betrayed by the color of our skin, are assumed to be members of the super-rich. It’s difficult to adjust to being a spectacle. White people here are loved as givers of gifts, misled by scammers, reviled for a history we didn’t condone, envied by the disenchanted motivated.

You must be careful to not develop an unintentional haughtiness because without question you are more knowledgeable and richer. That jab of uneasiness we feel is comforting, reminding us that this is unearned respect…not automatically due. It keeps us humble.

As we began walking through the village, time seemed to slip out of gear. Everything was happening in slow motion.

The children had grabbed hold of Mike and I. Two little girls had a death grip on each of my hands, and they weren’t letting go. They tried to shoo the other little girls away, but they weren’t easily dissuaded. The same was happening to Mike with the little boys of the village.

They all just wanted to put a hand on us. Just touch us. As I stood numbly, and helplessly staring at a young woman with scabbed over cuts and blue and purple swelled bruises all over her face, I felt one of the girls rubbing my arm; one putting her little hand up my sleeve. They wanted to touch our skin.

The pastor was speaking to the woman in a language we weren’t familiar with. She sat stoically, answering his questions, while keeping a suspicious eye on us.

The huts were partially washed away, some completely gone. The floors covered in cow dung, mixing with the odors of raw sewage, trash and dead fish was almost more than we could bear as we walked through.

These children had everything. That is if you count lice, ringworm, hookworm, scabies and malnutrition. I can’t deny that for a few minutes my mind was trying to think of ways to protect my skin and hair from the things oozing out of their skin and heads. As they desperately tried to communicate in their language, or with their eyes, or smiles, or curious expressions, you can’t help but fall in love with them.

The little girl who had grabbed my left hand apparently needed to run and fetch something. She and the little girl on my right had a brief conversation as she was moving my left hand into the other little girls hand. The pastor laughed and shared with me that she was getting her friend to “save her place” with my hand…not to let anyone else get my hand until she returned.

We could barely walk with the number of kids clinging on to us. Suddenly a wildly excited man came running over yelling something to the people and the pastor in a still unidentified language. The pastor talked with him for a moment before the young man moved away. He explained to us that the man was high on opium. Something available in the village. Home grown. He had cut off three fingers of his left hand, “just because he could.” Possibly the happiest man in the village.

He freaked me out a little when he came back up to me, grabbing my hands and shrieking something. The children all laughed. He seems to have made a joke. I was glad I didn’t understand. He was covered with sores and his eyes were yellow, red and glassy.

There is no school here. A couple of the fortunate ones are sponsored by the village down the hill to attend school; sometimes their mothers let them go. None of the children speak English. They don’t have medical clinics, beds, mosquito nets, medicine, soap, water, or enough food. They don’t know how to farm. It’s a fishing village.

The men beat the women, and the village people mind their own business. The men leave for months at a time to fish different waters, leaving the women and children to fend for themselves.

HIV/AIDS is rampant, as is every other illness and disease you can imagine.
The pastor grabs a few shillings from our host and buys some fish from one of the fishermen. The eyes of the dead fish blankly staring are remarkably like the eyes of most of the adults in the village.

It’s hard to talk the children into releasing our hands and head back down the path to their homes as we start traveling the opposite direction. Just 10 minutes from hope. 10 minutes from civilization. 10 minutes from the 21st century.

We spent the rest of the evening trying not to think about them. But every night they’re in my dreams. I move between despair and seething at their condition. At the lack of assistance; the lack of care; the lack of opportunity.

We’ll visit them again soon. Probably by boat.

Hope

It's unbelievable how beautiful the children are here.

It's equally unbelievable how poor this country is.

We recently traveled to the northern sections of the country...up into Kitgum and Gulu, two of the hardest hit areas of the infamous Joseph Kony and his Lord's Resistance Army.

I can't really tell you how many villages, trade centers and districts are between here and there. Sometimes you're not certain you've left one and entered the next except that you see kids...hundreds of kids...in brightly colored school uniforms; and each village, district and trade center wear different colors.

It's an awesome site, for lots of reasons. First, the kids seem so happy. They're walking along all holding hands and talking animatedly. When they see us drive by, they all stop walking and begin waving and shouting, "hello mzungu...goodbye mzungu." The colors of their shirts and shorts are all strikingly bright and "happy!" If you get close though, you'll see how tattered they are. Kids will maybe have two uniforms for the school year, and they WILL be handed down the following year...many only have one.

But also, it's a sight we love because it means these children are going to school! Wipe out the school building, curriculum, books, teachers, etc., picture you have in your mind. It's very different here.

If there's actually a school "building" in the different villages it will be a mud building with no roof, or a leanto with a tin roof; sometimes it's a brick building that does look a bit like a school building as we know them, but will have no windows. Mostly, school out in the bush is under a mango tree.

Not all kids go to school though. School fees are typically more than most parents make in a whole year. While the country requires parents to send all children to school, some simply cannot afford it (and are at risk of being jailed) nor can Uganda enforce it. Ask why. Go ahead.

No one really knows how many kids are here...up until recently, there haven't been birth certificates, or any record of births! When we talked to former abductees of the LRA, young adults who were abducted and forced to serve in the army as young children, not one of them could tell us for certain how old they are now, or how old they were when they were abducted. They all sort of estimate their age. They simply don't know. They don't have "birthdays." Talk about being lost in the shuffle. Is it any wonder child sacrifices are so prominent here? Who knows the child existed in the first place? That's another whole story though.

While most children love attending school and see it as their way out of the poverty, there are just as many that don't have the opportunity. Their families think they need them more at home doing chores than their children need school. Life is hard in the bush. Really hard.

Those are the other kids you see on the side of road on your way to anywhere Uganda. There is water to be fetched from a borehole or river far away; there's firewood to find and cut, though in most areas the forests are depleted; there are cows to get to pasture (if a family is fortunate enough to have a cow or two,) clothes to wash (I think it's hard to do our laundry in the sink; imagine a washboard down by the river); there are younger siblings to care for.

For many kilometers as we were traveling north, the countryside was a beautiful, lush green. As I watched it change to a deep orange, I thought we had suddenly come to an area where there had been a fire, or everything was dead. But in looking closer, I realized everything was coated with a thick layer of clay colored dust. It stayed that way all the way into Kitgum. Breathing actually becomes difficult because of the thick dust.

I will never cease to be amazed at the women walking along the road carrying the most amazing things atop their heads; bananas, matooke, piles of laundry, baskets of vegetables, bundles of firewood, while at the same time balancing two jerry cans filled with water...and did I mention the baby on their backs? They make it look so easy! You often see young girls practicing this talent, so apparently it's not a skill you're born with...it takes a good deal of practice. It reminds me of my early schooldays when I was trying to learn to balance a book on my head to teach me good posture...I couldn't even do that!

These filled jerry cans weigh 45 pounds each! I was able to pick them up, sort of. Taking a step with them was another story...and if I had things on top of my head and a baby on my back, I would have to stop walking and pull out my cell phone begging Mike to come pick me up in the car. Not an option these ladies have. Life is hard in the village. Very hard.

Education, quality education equals hope here. But there are a lot of things wrong with the education system. Ask any teacher or administrator. Teachers have long hours and large classes (sometimes 200 students with one teacher and an aid), few resources, no books, little pay. Teachers make about about 200,000 shillings a month which is about $105 USD. Take out their "taxes" which is about 10% (no one knows what the tax is for or how it's spent) and figure in the cost of living (which is surprisingly high here) and they're in the hole a good 400,000 shillings per month. And these are the fortunate ones that were able to make it through Senior 6 and graduated from a "teachers college." Sigh. Sometimes it's overwhelming to even think about. Imagine if you were living it!

Tomorrow I'll share some stories from The IDP Camps (Internally Displaced People's Camps) we went into. Devastating. But let me leave you with, there IS hope on this continent. People want to believe that. And people like YOU who are reading this and supporting this ministry or others in Africa are helping to spread that hope. We've been so blessed to spread that hope in concrete ways to so many because of YOU! Thank you!

Target...Mzungu Driving A Car

Yesterday was a good day. A very good day.

After searching for a vehicle for six weeks and losing all the deals because Barclay's Bank in Uganda "lost" TWO wires from our U.S.Bank for over THREE weeks with little concern, we finally landed our funds and vehicle.

We've definitely learned a lot as we've had to maneuver around town via boda bodas, feet and overcrowded matatu's.

Last Friday night on our way home via taxi after the Global Leadership Summit, Mike and I were left somewhat dumbstruck as our little driver, Noah, stopped the taxi, put the emergency brake on (thank goodness...we were practically looking straight up at the sky from the backseat) jumped out and hopped on a boda boda and took off. He didn't say anything to us...he didn't even look back. Cars continued to "whiz" past us (that was for affect; there's not really a lot of whizzing going on during rush hour...the traffic is always jammed). Mike and I were just sitting in the backseat wondering "now what?" Mike took it in stride and spent the time thumbing through the days newspaper. I did what any wise person would do...I began text messaging my kids...just in case.

About ten minutes later, the boda boda returned with our driver carrying a water bottle partially full of petrol. He dumped it in, climbed back in and off we continued. Nothing weird about taxis always running out of gas here.

We were feeling pretty good about the Summit. Leadership training is something vastly needed in this country. And there we had been, in a room full of 2000 leaders and pastors from all over Uganda. All wondering what this country needed to do to be the great country it should and could be. There was hope in the conference room. And there were even a couple of local success stories.

There is a long history of ethnic massacres and civil war in Uganda. Strangers have been killing strangers, neighbors have been killing neighbors. And after more than 20 years, there are hundreds of thousands of people dead, more than a million still displaced from their homes and livelihood. Whole families have been destroyed.

Agriculture, electricity, the country's infrastructure-roads, to say nothing of banks and businesses still have not recovered. And even if they had, where are the teachers? Where are the mentors and leaders? The couple of short years that people have tried to return to life outside the IDP Camps and the total support from the UN and benevolent aid are not enough years to adequately train up this next generation who remain to make this country function and great.

So...today was a bad day.

It started out great; a fruitful meeting at the Parliament with the MP from Manafwa, arranged by a Pastor friend. On our way to take the Pastor to catch his bus that would drive him back to Mbale, we were hit with one of the ugly realities of Uganda.

We're a target. We're mzungas after all. That simply spells money. I'm not as ticked about this whole situation as I was a couple of hours ago...the bleeding heart part of me now is saying, "these people have been oppressed for so long, they see a flash of opportunity and they just take it."

So picture this...there's Mike (mzungu)in a suit and tie driving a decent looking vehicle. The opportunity was just too much for this very young, 12 year old looking cop. There are a lot of police here. They remind me a bit of glorified school patrol guards. They're on foot, most don't carry guns (thank God), they don't even have a badge identifying them as police. They "direct" traffic with the use of a whistle, day or night...nothing on them to illuminate them or keep them safe.

We're at a traffic light, the second we've seen in this large city, when this little cop runs up to our car and tells Mike to pull over. "Pull up there and pull over," he says. Mike and Pastor exchange looks. I'm quiet in the backseat hoping that whatever this is, it's quick. I've had to use the restroom for nearly 2 hours now.

Pastor was immediately apologetic for Mike's actions...whatever they were. "He's new. This is his first day to drive here." The cop is not concerned with this. He's smiling; Mike returns the smile, but I can tell from the tenseness of the pastor that this is not going well. "I will have to teach him a lesson. He needs to learn a lesson. You say he is new driving here. Well I will have to teach him. I will have to punish him." What the heck does THAT mean, I'm thinking?

I've heard stories. People have told us that we would be pulled over; for no reason other than we're white. "Don't pay" those same people have told us. "If you do, you will be marked and every cop will pull you over." Oh come on...really? Cops actually want you to buy your way out of going to jail? Which is the only alternative I might add here.

We pull over. Mike and the Pastor hop out. Again, there I am...sitting in the backseat of a car, parked on a hill, quickly surrounded by people staring at me. I whip out my phone thinking, "Surely there must be someone I can call to report this outrage." There's no one. It's only 3:00 am in Florida. I doubt if any of my kids are awake. And what could they do anyway? So I text message my friend in Kitgum and say, "Mike has been pulled over by the police." "Was he using his cell phone?" she asked? "No. They want to 'teach him a lesson' to the tune of 50,000 Shillings." "Politics, huh?" she responded, and continued with, "That's ridiculous. I would have told the cop off and left." It crossed my mind, but he had Mike's drivers license for one thing. Wisely, I was told to stay in the vehicle. If I wasn't so concerned about getting to a bathroom, and soon, I would have gotten out and told him off.

What is amazing (there are so many things)is that the cop so brazenly, with such entitlement and authority told Mike, "this will cost you 50,000 Shillings." Mike responded with, "no" and the cop responded with, "then I will call my supervisor and take you to jail and let the court decide." (like that works here either.) Mike told him to call his authority over...which of course he would not. Something was spoken back and forth in Luganda between the Pastor and the cop...and then he was escorted back to the car. At that point, the pastor handed the cop the money. Mike and I both sat there with our mouths hanging open. We reimbursed the pastor and got him to his bus. We were livid that we were such targets and it was ok with everyone.

In a country where the people have been squeezed and oppressed for, well, as far back as I can find, where 70% are hungry because they can only afford one meal a day (maybe), is it any wonder they learn to survive on corruption?

Many of the working class people here make less than $2 a day. I'm talking about the security people, taxi's, street police. Is it any wonder they try to squeeze the mzungu's?

I'm certainly not condoning "extortion"...but it makes us understand it a bit. When people in authority positions, like police, see corruption commonly occur across the continent, aren't they being raised to believe it's ok? The way to do business? The only way to prosper? WHERE will the leadership come from to EVER pull this country out of the jaws of poverty and corruption?

A Continent Displaced By Civil Wars

The news is dismal. You watch CNN, right?

There have been special live break-in reports to the already bad news coverage to cover even more bad news. Now it's the DR of the Congo.

Pushed out by rebel forces led by Laurent Nkunda, thousands of Congolese locals are fleeing to Kisoro District in Southwest Ugandan and Nakivale, along the DRC border to already over-crowded "camps"...no, not the kind we send our kids to over summer vacation. The kind with no food, no water, no shelter, no shade, no jobs, no crops, no medical care, no school.

As of last night when we went to bed, the number of people that have left their villages and homes looking for safety and protection from the rebel forces have hit over 1,000,000.

After seeing the aftermath of these civil wars up close and personal, I can only sit, numb, as I watch more unfold...and not too many miles away from where I sit in relative comfort and peace.

It seems so impossible at times. What's the biggest need? What do you do first? Do you feed the people? Give them clean water? A safe place to call home? Health care? A job? First Aid? A bath? Some answers? A government that works?

How do we give them a future?

The first and biggest thing that stand between us and a future for the people of Uganda, or Sudan, or the DR of the Congo, is the belief that such a future IS possible. If we stop believing it is possible, we'll have nothing to aim for. And if we fail to aim, we are guaranteed not to get there.

A better future for the people here IS possible because it's NOT IMpossible!

Granted, this recent crisis unfolding in the DR of the Congo needs troops on the ground regaining peace in a place that I'm not sure even remembers what peace looks like. But past that, there is hope for a future, and it has nothing to do with putting band aids on the gaping wounds of the people.

Beyond this, the problems that exist in the villages and districts need discussion with the people of the villages and districts. Not the kind of discussion where a bunch of aid workers and governments express their opinions.

But an engaged discussion where we're forced to ask ourselves, "How can we engage these folks in creating a future for themselves?" Who knows better what they need than those in need?

When we focus on creating the future of these areas, and we consider engaging the people in the discussions in a very real way, we begin to recognize the importance of listening, empathizing and collaborating well together. We're not here to do the things we think are important, but in hearing the needs of the people, and working with them with integrity and respect.

I think perhaps God is trying to teach this lesson to Mike and me in a very interesting way. We have been stuck together 24/7...lots of times without any other personal contact from anyone else...or power, or Internet, or television, or news, or music. You get the picture.

The wire of our funds to purchase a vehicle (the only real way to get around here) has been floating around somewhere in CyberUgandaBankHell for three weeks. This has added to our frustration, lack of getting things done, and general crabbiness.

We have, during this time, spent many hours talking about things we want to do here. Sometimes one of us has to say, "I'm not sure I agree with that. Help me understand it. Is that making our resources work in a way that creates a future for the people?"

This practice surely will make us better able to create decisions together with the people whose futures we're trying to better. It is making us learn to "play well together" and hear one another, even if our ideas might be different.

We want to help build programs with the core being ownership by the people whose futures depend on them, using their own human and physical resources.

And that's at least part of the answer. Bringing the people into the decisions of what they need. Getting them involved by sharing what they have...allowing them to feel ownership of the problems, and the solutions.

And when our wire finally shows up and we're able to get a vehicle and hit the road, we'll be doing so with a renewed vision to hear the needs of the people, and acting on them. We're thinking maybe we should begin with the banking industry. But even Mike and I don't, on our very best day, have the energy or stamina to take this on!

Note* Not that I was kidding about the bath...it's one thing I'd kind of want...but reports here say that the UN made its first delivery of aid since AUGUST...and it was soap. Soap to the people who are literally starving to death.

Ahhh...The Sounds of Africa

I wish you could hear the sounds of Africa in the morning. It really is the most extraordinary time.

There are birds calling that I can't quite come close to identifying or describing their beautiful songs. They're hidden somewhere in the giant mango trees that surround us...the same trees that will come alive with movement in a little while as the kids amble off to school or off to run errands. You'll see them looking around for things to throw up into the trees hoping to get lucky enough to hit something that will knock the delicious fruit to the ground for them. But for now, the birds know they're safe up there eating.

Their calls are answered by the monkeys who still seem to evade me. Even though I hear they're crazy wild around here, I've only been able to spot one...once.

The weather is cool in the morning with a refreshing breeze off of Lake Victoria - a view not far to the - oh, right - I'm even more directionally challenged here than anywhere I've been.

You hear sheep naying all around, and on this early Saturday morning, the cars haven't quite begun their obnoxious cacaphony of horns honking and loud mufflers and matutu drivers sticking their heads out the doors calling to folks who might prefer to pay the USG500 instead of climbing the hill by foot.

The lunatic rooster who has the messed up alarm clock is joined about 30 minutes after he wakes me by at least 20 more. The cows and goats chime in, though they seem to wake later...guess they need to pace themselves for that long day of grazing they have ahead of them. The dogs, thank God, have finally gone to sleep somewhere after barking all night long.

This morning I watch a little boy...or girl, you can never be sure by the way they're dressed, stumble out of the snugness of his bed to wander over to their outhouse. Many houses around us are not "self-contained," or...there's no bathroom inside. A question you'll learn to ask when looking for a guest house (hotels here).

He was pushing hard against the door which refused to budge...then started doing a little dance. I felt a tiny bit intrusive, sort of syping on him; but it's fascinating to watch people! Finally, after several minutes, an older sister slowly makes her way out, words are exchanged in luganda, then a slap returned by a punch. Some things are the same everywhere, huh?

I also decided the little dancing one must be a girl. A little boy would have thought nothing of going right there.

The smells in the morning are nice too. The evening breeze seems to blow the diesel odors away and for a little bit, it's almost fresh air. Even the haze is gone early.

The sky is painted these incredible hues of pinks over Lake Victoria where the sun is beginning to rise (oh!! perhaps the Lake is east of us?) And just before it hits the sky full-blown, you begin to see the smoke all around from the women starting their charcoal fires for the first meal of the day for their families.

And so it begins...this day in Africa. In the amount of time I've sat writing this, the day has come fully alive around me. The birds and cows and rosters are now the background sounds, replaced by cars and horns, the blaring of some radio station somewhere...the mosque up the hill, drums somewhere in a distant village, someone practicing the flute, the sounds of mops splashing the nights worth of dust off pavement and kitchen floors...the swooshing of water as the women and children begin their tasks of scrubbing laundry.

If it weren't for the fact that I so love the quiet noises early in the morning before Africa wakes up, I'd probably hunt down the lunatic rooster with the messed up alarm clock and eat him myself.