July 12

July 12
Scovia, Happiness, Viola and I went to Kampala yesterday. Scovia told me the night before that we would leave right after breakfast. In true Ugandan style however, she, Viola and Alica started washing clothes at about 9:30AM and finished at 1230PM. At 145PM they were dressed and ready to go. There seems to be no sense of time in this culture. There is certainly no sense of urgency.

The ride to Kampala was once again awful. The dust and dirt that came through the windows was overwhelming. At times I just closed my eyes and held my breath. Once in Kampala there is less dust and dirt, but the air is black/yellow. Even Scovia commented that she was “worried about her nose” and kept the baby’s head covered whenever possible.

Kampala is a giant stinking mass of humanity. A human gumball. A gum wad that smells of body odor, diesel fuel, pollution and dust. There were times that I literally could not move on the sidewalk. No stoplights, no street or traffic signs, gazillions of cars and bikes and motorcycles and humans. Once or twice I felt myself start to panic in the gridlock of humanity. In one place there was space 3 feet wide that ran for about a block. One side was lined with sheets of tin where a wall had once been. On the other side was a tall brick wall that looked as tho it could have crumbled any minute (and it was here that I thought of Isaac saying so many buildings in Kampala have fallen down!) We walked through this long, dusty passageway in the heat with people coming the other direction AND the ever present surprise 3-foot deep holes in the ground to jump over). I started to panic but got myself under control. There was no getting out of this human quagmire anywhere in Kampala. My backpack was opened twice (sorry fellas, the money is in a money belt ON me!). I was grabbed and pulled and screamed at by what Scovia referred to as “a mad woman”. Scovia finally grabbed my other arm and pulled me behind a truck until the woman wandered off (more likely she was pushed some direction).

There are posters on every telephone pole and building side. Two of my favorites were plentiful: “Get an American Sponsor (followed by a telephone number)” and “Shape Your Bum”.

To get back to Mukono one must go to the Taxi Park and find a taxi . The taxi park is 200+ vans parked in no particular order, in a tiny area, with little space between vehicles. The vans aren’t even parked in rows. They are just in there any way they can fit themselves. After squeezing ourselves between vehicles and rows for 20 minutes we found one going to Mukono. Once the van is at LEAST full, one sits there until the driver can pull out. The driver pulls out by honking, threatening, cutting off other vans and people between the vans. Our driver starts singing the Ugandan national anthem and everyone laughs.

Once on the road we see a military blockade ahead and the driver pulled a quick right to a detour around them. Whenever one sees a sign that says “No Stopping, No Parking, No Photographs” you know the military is nearby somewhere and steer clear. More dust and smoke on the long ride home. The scene on both sides of the road are an unending parade of babies, toddlers, smoke, poverty, dirt, trash, babies, toddlers, more toddlers, horrendous poverty…I blew my nose and it blew black snot.

The Catholic Church as big here, as is the Morman Church and about 20 others.. The Morman Church is in fact the only building around that has grass on the property rather than red dirt and mud. Here is my message for the Catholic and Morman churches (I don’t know what the Muslims are saying), and all other churches who come to Africa spread the Good Word: Until you are ready to commit to living here FOREVER, have yourselves entire litters of children, and live on a Ugandan’s salary, stop denouncing family planning and telling these people that children are a gift from God. Twelve children and no way to feed them is no gift. Of course missionaries will always be welcome everywhere that abject poverty is prevalent. If I were a Ugandan living in what can only be described as dehumanizing conditions, I too would embrace any concept that allowed me to believe that there was a better life waiting for me somewhere. In fact I would be in a hurry for it.

We got off the taxi in Mukono and I hired two boda bodas to take us to the village. Viola and I were on one, and Scovia and the baby on the other. Viola and I passed by a truck that had men standing on top throwing shovelfuls of oiled dirt to the street below, to fill potholes. As our boda drove alongside, we were treated to a shovel full of oily dirt over our heads. That truly capped off the day.

If I didn’t have to go back through Kampala to get to Entebbe and the airport tonight, I would go home.

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By the way, it is morning now and I have bathed and blown the black snot out of my nose. My hair is still full of dirt but having had a rest, I am no longer ready to come homeJ