Going Public

On our latest journey from Kampala to Bundibugyo Heidi and I made the decision to take public transportation. This is something I have only heard stories about... and most of them less than motivational to pursue this experience. We have heard about passengers being hit in the head by luggage that rattled off the over head racks, hoards of passengers quickly filing out as the bus teetered on the edge of the mountain, smelly seat mates, and as 2 single women there are always those questionable characters that one hopes to avoid. There are actually 2 modes of public transport. The first being a matatu which is like a slightly larger version of a minnie van that does not leave the bus lot until crammed full of passengers and possibly chickens or other live animals that one might want to transport. The matatu makes continual stops where ever its passengers want to be let off and new ones obtained. So a normally 8 hour journey could take easily 10... or more. The other option is the Kalita bus, which is the African version of grey hound (African meaning they add an extra row of seats along the aisle). Heidi and I opted for the latter in which at least we were assigned our own plastic coated, poorly padded seat.

The bus going to Bundibugyo town is scheduled to leave at 10 am. Wanting to secure a seat of our choice we arrived at about 8:45 (the second people to arrive). We found the bus. Heidi staked out our seats and I headed to the ticket booth to purchase our tickets. As I was boarding this man in a suit came up to me and asked where I was going. I was a bit wary and hesitated to say Bundibuyo to which he responded, “I know you”. He still wasn’t looking familiar, then he adds to my relief. “You are with World Harvest Mission, yes? My name is Wilson I work with SIL on Bible translation” I am still not sure if I ever met the guy before, but after that he kind of made it his mission to make sure that we were settled well on the bus. Turns out he was also hosting two SIL staff from the states that were going to visit the project in our little town of Nyahuka. He kept saying, “Yes, we go together.” So even though it was after 10 and the bus was still only about half full I was looking at the journey ahead with new optimism knowing God had his eye on us.

People slowly started to board. I was amazed at the kinds of things that were being loaded on. Two of the most bizarre being a ginormous metal door and a flat screen TV which was actually put in the fort of the bus in the aisle... in case those people weren’t feeling claustrophobic already. By 11:30 we pulled out, said goodbye to Kampala, and hit the open road. I was in a happy place with my ipod on, the warm breeze coming the window, just taking in all the lush greenness of the country in papyrus reeds, and banana trees. We passed towns with enthusiastically waving kids jumping up and down, big white smiles on brown faces, the smells charcoal fires, chipatti and meat roasting meat. I couldn’t wait to get to Mubende A.K.A. “In your face chicken place” home of the best chicken on a stick you will ever eat. Usually how this works is the vendors rush the car window stuffing skewers and other food items in your car window. Coming in on a bus is not much different, only our bus didn’t have low windows that opened. So I pushed my way through the mass exodus and took off up the street to try and get some fresh fried bananas, and chicken. The key is to put your hand close so you can makes sure there is still heat coming off. I made my purchases and muscled my way back saying a lot of no, I don’t want this and that and definitely not grasshoppers in a little plastic baggie. In your face chicken did not let me down and that wasn’t the end to our culinary delights along the way. We got samosas in Fort Portal from a little guy who hopped on the bus for a while. We even snatched up some of the last mangos of this season at another stop.

At Fort Portal we left the pavement behind for glorious mountains... and switchbacks. The mountains have become so green in our absence. The shades of green weren’t the only thing that had changed. The road is going through a widening and paving process. I have yet to see any pavement, but I will say they are moving a lot of dirt around. I freaked out a bit when we stopped and I watched dirt and rock pouring over the side of the looming cliff to the road in front of us. I felt some amount of ease when I realized there was a bull dozer of sorts up there pushing it down. Other than that, and the time and alarm came on and announced, “warning! acute turn” as the driver took a little to much advantage of the force of gravity going around a hair pin turn... oh and the incredible speed we hit on the straight away, I thought our driver did a great job and I was very pleased with our travel choice.

To top off our experience we arrived in Bundibugyo town before dark even and Lameck, a friend who works with agriculture and the goat project, met us with a car. All smiles and welcomes and hand shakes Lameck helped us get our dusty bags and cooler full of frozen Kampala food. We were home, or just about, and it felt good. We had done it. Made our way from Kampala to Bundibugyo on public. And I would so do it again.

A Time to Cry

I wrote this back in May right before we left for our mission wide retreat and realized I never posted... sorry for the delay :)

Friday evening we heard something outside that sounded like cheering for a football match going on. We stepped outside to investigate and realized it was more of a steady wailing. 30 year old Birahanga, a long time friend of previous missionaries had died. Birahanga was local primary school teacher husband and father of 2.

Saturday I went to my first Ugandan burial. There were literally hundreds of people gathered on the compound and around the house. Some were sitting on school benches brought in from across the road. Others sat on the ground on pieces of cloth. It started to rain and I was thankful to be seated under one of the 3 or so tarps hung up to the house. Inside the house people crying audibly, a generator hummed and music played on the rented sound system. I greeted my friend Usta and she handed over her tiny smily niece who I rocked for a while. Until the tarps started to tip gushing water and I had to move, seeing my other friend Bahati I moved close to her. After a time the music stopped and the speeches began. In a culture where many people do not know how to read the spoken word one of the ways they best show appreciation. Friends and relatives took turns sharing. Tears streamed down the faces of grown men as they morned this great and unexpected loss. The headmaster of the school were Birahanga taught promised to waive school fees for his children for the coming year. It is the African way to come around a family or community member in need.

After an hour or so of speeches and some words of encouragement from pastor Kisembo, we sang some of the Lubwisi songs from church on Sunday. Then we all got up and followed the rough wood casket to its resting place on the compound. There was more wailing. Birahanga’s wife had to be carried. It the crowd some just curled up on the ground and sobbed, the sea of people moving around them. Perhaps the most sobering thing about this burial was all the children present that were crying. Birahanga was a teacher and these shaken kid were students of his.

While witnessing all of this was a bit difficult, it was also beautiful. Pain and suffering is a real part of life. But not a reality that I have to face often. And definitely not something that I do well. But grief for a time is good for the soul. It is good to be vulnerable to need each other. Life here is all about community people are all deeply intertwined in each others lives. They invest in each other and bear each others burdens. It is risky to invest like this, every thing is more intense. In loving well they pay a price when there is loss. I have to ask myself a lot, am I willing to pay the price to love these people. To be hurt... but also to have the great joy of sharing life together, and of knowing God together. Only the good news of the gospel of Christ can bring me to the place where I can answer yes and jump in. I am thankful for another lesson from the Babwisi.