first night in africa

After 21 hours of traveling, our plane has touched down in the Entebbe airport. I rub the sleep from my eyes, and grab my blue jansport backpack from the overhead bin. It is nearly midnight as my team and I make our way off the plane. We stop by the bathrooms, and then make our way to the line for customs. Humid air, mosquitos, and guards with guns are the first things I notice about Africa.

We make our way through customs, everyone so over-tired we are chattering and excited and talking nonsense. We find our luggage and walk outside. We meet the Africans who will soon become dear friends. They load our luggage into the bus and we all pile in, ready to make the 3 hour drive to Bugiri.

I stare at the clock at the front of the bus, it is 12:30 a.m. The Africans speak a language I do not understand as the driver starts the bus. I stare out the window. This is Africa. Reality hasn't really set in yet. The clock ticks as teammates talk. Someone in the backseat starts singing, and soon enough others join in. Molly sits on my left, Megan on my right. Alaina passes one earphone of her iPod back to Megan, and they listen to Alaina's boyfriend's hardcore music band (I would soon learn they'd do this lots throughout the entire trip).

It is 1 a.m. and Megan is falling asleep next to me. I look out of the window, staring into the dark. I smell Africa (a smell I cannot describe), wondering how I will get used to this smell. We pass small towns, and I see the small cement houses. I see the men sitting with their motorcycles. I see the bare lightbulbs hanging inside the small cement buildings that are painted yellow, inside people sit at the tables.

I am in Africa. I continue to stare out the window as we pass houses and trees and huts. I think of people back home, I think of all the family and friends who have supported me and encouraged me as I prepared to leave. I wonder if it's already possible to love a place, this place, even though I've only been here a mere 2 hours.

Time drags on, and I stare at the numbers on the clock. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, as does everyone else on the bus. When I open my eyes, we are pulling up to our house in Bugiri-- the place that will begin to feel like home. Our sweet African hosts unload the luggage (they're truly the greatest).

My team and I walk inside the house and sit at the table. I note the unlit lightbulb hanging from the ceiling above, the power has gone out. But somehow the bare bulb in the doorway is still lit up. My tired mind eventually comes to the conclusion that there must be a generator somewhere. The bulbs are connected by wires of some sort, one in each door way, leading all the way to our rooms (this is the only night they are there). Names are called and rooms are assigned. We bring our suitcases to the bedrooms, drop our stuff, and return to the front room.

Our hosts have prepared food for us to eat. It is now 4:30 a.m. We sit and introduce ourselves to the Africans, and them to us muzungus. I struggle to remember names and faces and family relations. We drink hot milk, we eat fried bananas, and other unfamiliar foods that we will be eating every day for the next 3 weeks. Finally we head to our rooms to go to sleep.

I rummage through my suitcase to find pajamas. I do not bother to brush my teeth tonight. Our room is the room with the door that leads to the bathroom. I shine my flashlight into the dark, surveying the small tile room with the squatty potty (the almost-flat toilet seat you squat over) and the small, little sink. Oh my goodness. Juggling a flashlight and toilet paper all while going to the bathroom proves to be a little tricky. Already I wish for my toilet back home, wondering how I will use this bathroom for the next month. Two days from now, the water will stop running. My team and I will have to use the long drop squatty pottys at the back of the courtyard-- the 'bathroom' that is a hole in the cement, filled with cockroaches.

I lay down in mine and Sara's bed. We tuck the mosquito net under the mattress. Are we doing this right? Everything is so new, so strange. Kasandra is already asleep in her bed when someone notices the spider in her mosquito net. We debate, "Do we wake her up and then kill the spider? What if we don't wake her up, and we miss, and the spider bites her? But what if, in waking her up, we scare the spider?" We end up waking Kasandra up, telling her not to move. She crawls carefully out of the mosquito net. Taking my bright pink flipflops, I smack the spider between them. Welcome to Africa.

We crawl back into our beds, re-tucking the mosquito netting under our mattresses. My eyes scan the green netting. I think of the now dead spider that was in Kasandra's bed, and my skin starts crawling. Keep us safe, dear Jesus. Please keep the bugs out. That dependency, it has started already.

I break out my journal, it is 5:30 a.m. A squeaking noise comes from the closed bathroom door, we wonder out loud what it is. We are just glad the door is closed, whatever 'it' is can stay in there. I stare at the ceiling, I cannot sleep. Alaina talks beside me, tired and shocked, "This... this is just crazy. I didn't think we would be living in this primitive of a place. This.. this is just crazy." I smile at her sweet Kentucky accent. I find comfort knowing someone else is slightly freaked out, that I am not alone. The lightbulb in the doorway stays on, but we do not mind, we are grateful to not be left in the dark.

I sigh. I am in Africa. Everything feels so unfamiliar, so strange. I wonder how I will get used to it. If you had told me, in that moment, that before long this place would feel like home, I'd of thought you were crazy. Laying on the mattress, I think of home and all the things I already want to share with the loved ones I have left behind. My eyes close as the night sounds of Africa (radio music playing, voices talking, babies crying) come through the window. The unfamiliarity, the bathroom, being in Africa, it doesn't scare me like I thought it would. My heart is slightly unnerved, but mostly at peace. This.. this is Africa.

imagine africa

Imagine waking up every morning, and knowing you'll spend the day giving your love to children who don't always get that. Imagine saying prayers over sick people, and watching the healing (whether physical or in their hearts) take place. Imagine being content just spending your afternoon sitting outside with little kids. Imagine worshipping God and never, ever wanting to stop. Imagine walking outside and seeing a bunch of little children smiling at you, waiting for you. Imagine your heart breaking as you stand beside the bed of a severely burnt toddler. Imagine your days being filled with purpose. Imagine walking house-to-house and just talking to people simply because you want to know them. Imagine eating rice and noodles every day, at every meal. Imagine seeing children walk around barefoot, and that seeming normal. Imagine being cramped in a van with your teammates for 2 hours, imagine the bonding that takes place. Imagine your heart overflowing with His love. Imagine sitting in the back of a blue pick-up truck, praying for God to provide good white bread for dinner that night. Imagine seeking Him always- when things are good, and when things get difficult. Imagine starry night skies, the smell of burning trash, and mud huts. Imagine crowing chickens and wailing babies. Imagine falling asleep at night, exhausted from serving others all day. Imagine being in Africa.

things i love about africa [part 1]

Throughout my journal are lists, randomly spread out throughout the notebook, some entries longer than others. They're lists of the little moments in Africa that I love, the little things I never want to forget, the little moments that filled my heart with joy. Here's part one of many.

Things I love about Africa:
-heavy rain beating on the roof
-red dirt roads
-shouts of "Muzungu!"
-always holding a little one's hand
-the peace and joy that fill my heart
-dear friends to laugh and cry with
-peeing on cockroaches
-the gecko on our bedroom wall
-ankle length skirts
-hopes and dreams
-bumpy, squished van rides
-nighttime journaling with Alaina
-fresh mangos

Today, I miss the little moments. Today, if someone offered me a plane ticket to Uganda, I would pack a bag and be out the door in less than an hour. Today, I want to pick up kids off the street and cuddle them. Today, I want roosters to wake me up and crying babies to wail throughout the night. Today, I really, truly want to use a squatty potty (no joke). Today, I want to have dirt and grease in my hair. Today, I want to walk on red-dirt roads and feel that hot sunshine on my face. I'm not sure about tomorrow, but today I want to be in Africa.

my name is not muzungu

When you're white and in Africa, people generally tend to stare at you. They also tend to wave and call out, "Muzungu!" It's unnerving at first, but eventually you just get used to it. I use the word muzungu a lot, but realized I never actually explained what that means. Technically in the Ugandan language muzungu means 'wanderer', but really what the kids mean when they scream "Muzungu!" at you is 'white man'.

You walk down the dirt roads, and kids sitting on their front steps see you and wave. "Muzungu! Muzungu!" they cry. You drive through the villages, on your way back from ministry, and children see your van. "Muzungu! Muzungu!" they shout and wave at the vehicle driving by. You are in Africa, you are muzungu.

I remember the first day I was not called muzungu, but rather Anna. As cute as it is to be called muzungu by all the kids, eventually you get tired of it. It feels impersonal, you want to be known by your name. I sat in our eating room at our Africa-home. Some of my teammates and I were hanging out, I'm pretty sure we had just finished up a game of bananagrams. In Africa, the kids were almost always hanging around outside of our house. Staring in from the doorway, calling out to us, wanting to play. And the reality is that, as much as you love those kiddos, you can't always be out there playing with them.

I half-noticed the kids outside as I sat at the little wooden table. I kept thinking, "You should go out there and play with them." But I was so tired. The kids peaked in the door and through the windows, until one little voice called out, "Ana? Ana!"

The first time you hear children call you by your name, rather than muzungu, is a moment you will never forget. Suddenly, I was more than muzungu to them. I was Anna. It was personal, these kids knew my name now. They wanted me-Anna, not just me the muzungu. In that moment, my heart melted. Needless to say, I went outside with them.

Being home now, I wish the children who shouted, "Muzungu! Muzungu!" at me were here. Their cries still echo in my ears, I can still see their excited little faces, I can imagine how they'd jump up and down and wave ecstatically. I miss hearing the word muzungu. I miss it so much, I may just start calling you that.

why i miss the squatty potty

I miss the squatty potty. How can I miss having a cement hole as my toilet? Perhaps I should explain: the squatty potty is so much more than just the squatty potty.

The squatty potty is one of the many ways you depend on God. As you squat over a hole, all you can do is pray, "God, get me through this. God give me strength." The squatty potty teaches you that He sustains you and supplies your strength. The squatty potty teaches you thankfulness-- for your toilet back home, and also for the squatty potty you have in your Africa-home. You see, when you visit a school and use a squatty potty where flies cover the walls, you find yourself thanking the Lord that your squatty potty at home only has cockroaches in it. The squatty potty shows you what the body of Christ is like. When there's that one night where the cockroaches won't crawl into the hole and you just can't do it, Megan goes first and pees on them for you, so that when it's your turn, they're already in the hole. The squatty potty bonds you with your team. That amazing group of girls go with you every night -Alaina, Summer, Megan. On that night where you keep saying, "I don't know if I can do this again." your girls stand outside the door saying, "Yes, you can." You bond over that stupid squatty potty. And it's absolutely beautiful.

And that, folks, is why I miss having a cement hole in the ground as my toilet.

school supplies and shoeless feet

 A box of school supplies -pencils, notebooks, crayons, pens- sits open on my bedroom floor. I sit, staring, longing. I close my eyes. I can see the children, their sweet faces. This box will go to children I have seen, children I have hugged, children I have played with, children I love. I finger the jump ropes in the box as I think of hopscotches drawn in the dirt. I remember the crumbling brick building, the way the children danced for us, how we sat under the trees and just hugged these precious little ones. I remember, and the tears fall.

My team went to a lot of schools while in Uganda, and it hurts to say that I cannot remember all the schools or the children. But there is one school that is forever engrained in my mind and on my heart-- Isaac's project, Message of Hope Ministries.

Their school is a crumbling brick building. 30 of the children who attend the school are orphans. They sleep in a separate building next to the school. Some of their blue bunk beds are not the traditional two beds high, but rather three beds. Two kids sleep on a bed, so 4-6 children sleep on one bunk bed. Not all the beds have mattresses. A shelf with cubby holes holds whatever possessions they have- a towel, a blanket, perhaps a change of clothes.

The school is made of crumbling bricks. Light comes only from the windows and doors. These children learn here. These children love school, they love learning. They don't own pencils or notebooks, they sit on benches, yet they can still learn. So unlike America.

When we arrived at the school, the first thing the children did was greet us. We introduced ourselves one-by-one, going around the group and saying our names. They greeted us with the sweetest little handclap I have ever heard. And then they took us outside, gave us lime green chairs to sit on. And they danced.

Let me tell you this: Africans can dance. Those little kids got rhythm and beat, it's in their blood. They put this muzungu to shame, let me tell you. They tried to teach us to dance once, and although we laughed and had a great time, muzungus just can't dance like the Africans. They danced and danced, they clapped, they sang. It was the sweetest gift.

We went to this school twice. We sat under the trees and played games- hand clapping games, dancing, singing songs. We played red-rover. We played capture the flag (note: African kiddos can really run fast) with our water bottles. We told them the story of David and Goliath, and Joshua and the walls of Jericho.

The kids swung from the rope that hung from one of the trees, patiently taking turns. They played on hopscotches drawn in the dirt. They own very little, but they were so content. You ask them if they have prayer requests, and they ask you to pray for them to get shoes. And to rebuild their school.

My closet alone has 10 pairs of shoes. 10 pairs of shoes for one person is far too many. I have the ability to pick a pair of shoes that match my outfit while kids in Africa walk on hot, dirty, rocky ground with bare feet. There is something terribly wrong with this picture.

I sit now at my desk, using my own computer. The rain beats against my windows, and I am thankful that they have screens and glass. But I think about the windows in Africa that don't have screens, or glass. When it rains, the water comes in through the windows of that school. Do the children get wet and cold? Does someone hug them when lightning strikes and thunder rolls? Are their blankets thick enough to keep them warm on a chilly night? Their bare feet walk on muddy grounds, do they have soap to wash them clean?

My mind sits, wondering. I look at the box of school supplies and it makes my heart happy and sad. I imagine the smiles on the faces of those kids when they see jump ropes, when they have pencils to write with and paper to write on. Right now, I cannot be there to wrap my arms around these kids or to spend time with them and tell them that they are dearly loved. Right now, all I can do is send a box, send my love, and pray.

africa days

You lay -half awake, half asleep- on your thin mattress, your teammate sleeping beside you. Roosters crow outside your window (closing the window doesn't seem to ever keep the noise out). You open your eyes as you hear pots clanging together and the smell of smoke burns your nose. Your green mosquito net covers the entire bed, and you begin the chore of pulling it out from under the mattress, like you've done every morning for the past 3 weeks.

You rummage around the room trying to be quiet (though it really doesn't matter due to all the noise going on outside). Alas, after a long search, you've found the roll of toilet paper and head outside. With your sleep-crusted face, you step outside into bright African sunlight. It's 7 a.m., but the Africans have already been awake for 2 hours. When do they ever sleep? Your flip-flops smack against the cement as you walk to the end of the courtyard, smiling and saying good morning to the African faces you have come to know and care for. "How was de night?" they ask you. "Good, it was good." you reply, though that's not necessarily true.

The smell of the squatty potty makes your stomach churn as you unlatch the bright blue door. The door opens and you hold your breath. No cockroaches, please Lord, no cockroaches. Your eyes scan the small cement area. Cockroach free, score! You breathe a prayer of thankfulness.

Back in your room, your roommates begin to wake up. You rummage through your disorganized suitcase, looking for a skirt and shirt that don't smell that bad. You hardly notice the wrinkles as you pull on your shirt and straighten out your skirt. You wash your face with water from a water bottle. Washing the grease and sweat and sleep off your face has never felt so good. Thank you, Jesus, for the refreshing, cleansing feel of soap and water on my face. You grab your notebook and your Bible from the end of your bed. You always know exactly where they are, because you never go a day without both of them.

You sit in 'your' corner in the courtyard and your Bible falls open on your lap. You have never craved Scripture like this before. It's refreshing, encouraging, strengthening. You've never experienced this until now, and part of you is almost shocked at how the Word can come alive. You journal and you pray-- for strength, for energy, for joy, for patience, for love. You pray to be filled with Him, because you know that your own strength is not enough.

The Scripture reading and prayer journaling must come to an end (you could do this all day, it seems). Breakfast is ready (an hour later than expected). You walk into the eating/living room to see your team -the people you love dearly- passing around bread and cinnamon and sugar. Ahh yes, the normal African breakfast, complete with the tea your taste buds just can't seem to get used to. One of your leaders pulls out her guitar. The sweet sound of singing fills the room as you sing praises to The Almighty. This is my prayer in the desert, when all that's within me feels dry. This is my prayer in my hunger and need, my God is the God who provides.. I will bring praise.

"We go? We go now?" Pastor Thomas's voice echoes loudly in the room. "Yes, we are ready." We've been ready for an hour now, is what you're thinking. Teach me patience, Lord, teach me patience. In Africa, there is no such thing as being on time (or being late). You walk outside of the house and already children wait to greet you, to be loved, touched, held, played with. You and your teammates pile into the van-- squished rather closely together. Personal space has become a foreign concept.

The ride is bumpy and long, wind and dirt blow through the open van windows. Children and adults alike stare at you as you drive by. "Muzungu!" the children smile and wave. When you reach the school, you are already tired. But the children are so happy to see you, their smiles are contagious. Little children come up to you, one after the other, shaking your hand, "How are you? How are you?"

You join hands and sing, "Make a make a circle.." and eventually a (slightly warped) circle evolves. And then there you are- you and your teammates- standing in the middle of this sea of kids. And you start to dance, and sing, and clap. At first, you feel extremely awkward. What do people think of me? But that wears off eventually.

The morning is completed with a Bible story and you hug these children goodbye and climb back into the van. Hands reach up to the windows and you shake them and high-five them before the van pulls away. You see the children chasing after you and it brings a smile to your face. Thank You for these children, and for their joy. Bless these children, keep them safe in Your arms.

The ride home is long, you are tired and hungry. As your van pulls up to the house, a sea of children wave at you. You get out of the van and immediately there are tiny, sticky little fingers crawling all over you-- your arms, your skirt, your back, your shirt, your hair. How long have these children been waiting for us to get back? You are exhausted- mentally and physically. God, give me the strength. You sit on the dirt steps, and children pile onto your lap. You play hand clapping games for what seems like ever. Tiny fingers pull through your hair, braiding and re-braiding it.

Lunch is ready and so you stand up and peel children from you as you head inside. Rice and macarone, again. You imagine the taste of a turkey sandwich-- toasted whole wheat bread, green lettuce, cold turkey meat from the deli. You sip your warm water from your plastic Aqua Sipi bottle. The plate of fresh mangos and pineapples gets passed around the room. You can't remember what it's like to eat at a table, balancing a plate on your knees has become so normal.

The afternoon is warm and sticky as you lay on your mattress, talking to your roommates. You talk of home, and the families that you miss. You talk about how you're so sick and tired of crowing chickens. Someone tells a joke (it may or may not have involved something about a muffin) and the room is filled with laughter. You read Scripture to each other, strengthening and encouraging. This is the body of Christ. You pull the small bag of goldfish out of your suitcase. You've been holding off, trying to save these until you were absolutely desperate for them. The bag is passed around the room and smiles spread across faces. Goldfish crackers have never tasted so delicious. Thank You for cheesy goldfish that taste like home, and friends to share them with. 

You head out for afternoon ministry-- going house-to-house in the community, talking to the people, and praying for them. You walk the streets, being careful to avoid the cow dung and careful not to trip over the rocks and bumps in the road (or get hit by the bicycles flying by). The children, they follow you everywhere. You sit and talk with people- the woman who owns a sewing shop, the man who plants maize for his family, the Muslim women. You walk the streets, see the mud houses, the children's shoeless feet, and you want to cry. Are you here God, even in the midst of this? You see the joy in the children's eyes, the friendliness of the people. Yes, I see You God. You are here, You have not left these people alone.

2 hours pass and it is 6:00. You come home for the day and you are utterly exhausted. You kick your dust-coated shoes off and lay on the mattress, sticky and dirty. You pull out your package of wipes, this is your shower for the day. Thank you, Lord, for citrus-y smelling baby wipes. Behind your neck, in your ears, your face, your arms, your nose.. the dirt doesn't stop coming off. Clean is an unknown feeling these days. Your roommates sit beside you, doing the same thing. You compare your dirty wipes, seeing who is the dirtiest and who used the most wipes. Eventually you call it quits, that's as clean as you're getting.

You lay down on your mattress, counting down the hours until bedtime. It is 7:00 and dinner preparations have yet to get started. This is Africa, you learn to be flexible. You gather with your team back in the eating room. You can hear the children outside, calling the names of those in your group. Don't their parents wonder where they are at? Jesus, keep them safe. You worship. You pray. You debrief the day.

Dinner comes around 10:00- macarone and rice. Chips (or french fries as we call them in America) if you are lucky. Usually cabbage. And some form of meat, most likely a chicken one of the members of your team killed earlier in the day. The Africans get a kick out of seeing the little white girls kill chickens. You are so tired you can barely taste what is going into your mouth. Tonight it is a struggle to keep your eyes open. The power flickers and goes out, someone comes in with a lantern. Its warm, yellowish-red glow is comforting.

You head to your room, groping in the dark trying to find your flashlight. You find it, and thus begins the search for the toilet paper. You and your teammates make your nightly trip to the squatty potty. You open the door and mentally prepare yourself for the cockroaches you know will be in there this time. The blue door opens again, and you walk up the steps. I can't do this again. God, I can't do this. Help me. The encouraging voices of some of your teammates (the girls you have come to love so dearly) surround you as you close the door. You pray as you stand (fine, let's keep it real- you squat) there, peeing on the antennas of the cockroaches. God don't let them crawl back up, please don't let them crawl back up.

You walk back to your room to grab your toothbrush and water bottle. Tonight you actually do brush your teeth, the minty freshness burns your mouth. You crawl into bed and tuck the mosquito net underneath the mattress again, leaving one end open so your friend can get in when she's done journaling outside. Thank you for her, Lord. Thank you for her patience, and kindness. A smile spreads across your face as you think of how you will probably roll onto her in the middle of the night, and she will push you off of her. And you will play fight in the morning, pretending to be incredibly irritated at sharing a bed when, in fact, you don't mind at all. Sharing a bed only brings you closer.

You turn your flashlight on as you pull out your journal and Bible. You write, by the light of the flashlight, about the day, about how you miss home, about the things you love in Africa, about what God is teaching you, about how God is changing you. You write and write, but it seems like you can't record it all down. There's so much you have to say, but your fingers are tired. It's midnight -or after- and your mind cannot think anymore.

You turn the flashlight off. The sounds of Africa surround you- music, people talking a language you don't understand, a baby crying. You close your eyes. Thank You for the strength to make it through another day, thank You for these children, thank You for our hosts, thank You for my team. Thank You Lord for Africa.