No bake recipes

No-Bake Salted Caramel Popcorn

1/2 cup unpopped kernels (or make 10 cups of the microwavable popcorn)
3/4 cup unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
heaping 1/2 tsp of sea salt
1/4 tsp baking soda

Preparation Instructions

1) Pop the popcorn as instructed by the packaging. Set aside in a large bowl.

2) In a medium-sized saucepan, heat the butter until melted and stir in the brown sugar. Bring to a boil for 3 minutes.

3) While the caramel is boiling, mix together the salt and baking soda. After 3 minutes of boiling has passed, add it in and stir till combined.

4) Take the saucepan off the heat and pour it in batches into the popcorn, stirring the popcorn after pouring the caramel in each time. 

Herbed Garlic Parmesan Focaccia

2 1/2 tsp active dry yeast

1 3/4 cup lukewarm water

2 tbsp olive oil

4 cups white flour

2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp dried rosemary

garlic salt

1/2 cup parmesan

extra olive oil for drizzling

Preparation Instructions

1. Add the yeast to the warm water and let activate for 10 minutes. Add in the olive oil.

2. Sift together the flour, salt, and rosemary. Add the wet and dry ingredients together in a stand mixer and use the dough hook tool to mix together the dough for 2-3 minutes.

3. Let the dough rise for two hours in a warm place, covered.

4. Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Punch the dough down, then divide into three different balls and place in three mini skillets, spreading out the dough to fill the skillets. Let rise for 20 minutes.

5. Use your fingers to make indents in the dough, then sprinkle with garlic salt and the parmesan. Drizzle with a tablespoon of olive oil on each skillet.

6. Bake for 15 minutes or until golden brown. If the top begins to burn, cover with aluminum foil.

Easy 30-Minute Pizza Dough II

• 
  3/4 cup warm water
• 
  2 tablespoons olive oil
• 
  1/2 teaspoon honey
• 
  1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
• 
  1 1/2 cups bread flour
• 
  1/2 cup whole wheat flour
• 2 teaspoons active dry yeast
• In a large bowl, place the warm water in first then the honey.
• Sprinkle the yeast on top, agitate the bowl slightly if you have to so the yeast gets immersed in the water. Wait 10-15 minutes or until foamy.
• Add the oil and salt.
• Blend in the flours and knead until elasticy, about 5 minutes or so.
• Cover with parchment paper or a dish towel and let rise for 20-30 minutes.
• Spray a cookie sheet, pizza stone, or round baking dish with cooking spray and put some dough in and you're set! I get about 3-4 little pizzas out of this amount of dough; it's thicker than my other pizza dough recipe.

How I make pizza.

The orange thing is the "stove" with hot charcoal in it. I take out some charcoal and put it in the silver pan. Then I put the pizza crust in the cast iron pan.

I put the cast iron pan on the stove.

Then on top I put the pot of hot charcoal so the top of the pizza bakes as well as the bottom.

These turkeys love the pizza.

The back yard, overlooking the garden.

Bathroom

This is the bathroom out back with a shower space. It is quite coveted in the neighborhood. Once I found a lady showering there. She thought I was not around.

This is the current unfinished bathroom. The hole in the far corner is where the water exits. We use the one outback. We will eventually install a toilet so that we don't have to go out at night for a short call. It's not safe to unbar the front door in the middle of the night.

Kitchen

The kind of frying pan and "scrubbie" typically found here. Scrubbie has seen its last day months ago but we combine them all and continue to use it. The frying pan was intolerable last time I was here 5 years ago. That is why I brought my cast iron pan.

This is the kitchen sink. And why is my toddler crying? Because her dress is wet.

The porch with the kitchen door at the end and the living room door open to the right.

The kitchen. It is an upgraded kitchen because it has a gas stove--even though the oven and all but one burner is inoperable. It has a roof and a floor and it is attached to the house. Most kitchens look like the one below. To me, this kitchen is such a mess I don't know where to begin to clean it. I suppose it could start with evicting that mother bird that keeps dropping it's babies onto the stove top. And the hundreds of ants--I have no idea what to do about those. I'm just glad I don't have to cook in the woods with firewood.

These are likely the worst pics of all but in them I have what is considered so much and am so rich (add to that my white skin) that I am in danger of getting robbed any night and I should put up a security fence with barbed wire that might cost me $5000, so that nobody comes and terrorizes me to steal that terrible frying pan pictured above. ...okay, so I'm only joking somewhat about someone stealing the frying pan but then again someone did steal the terrible wheelbarrow with no wheels. What the heck! Seriously, I don't know.

The house we live in now: before and after.

The living room: before.

The livingroom: after

The livingroom entry door.

Daddy sitting with his girls after dinner--washbasin in the background. Our "dining table" in front. Maybe it is not really just a living room.


The front porch.

Cute pics of the twins.

Gracie at Musana Camps

Gracie and Glory with Mommy.




On the porch drinking tea.


Pensive Glory.

Best friends.

How do people in poor countries run out of food?

If you’ve ever seen a picture of orphans, famine and felt sorry for those hungry kids and gotten out your wallets, you’ve responded quite appropriately and humanly to a needy situation. But have you ever wondered why these situations happen. How does someone run out of food? And how does it happen so quickly in many places in Africa or Asia.

How I lived in relationship with food in America is completely different than it is here, in Uganda. I started off on the farm where we canned the harvest in preparation for the winter. I came to learn how hard one needs to work in order to feed a large family for several months before one can plant and harvest again. And then I had to sort of forget about the harvesting and cooking from scratch process. Life became about getting food as fast as possible. I couldn’t enjoy the process of making good, nutritious food. It had to be cheap and plentiful and easy to make. Then I came to Uganda and at first food was as plentiful as it was in U.S. because my husband was prepared for us and the food we were accustomed to.

Gradually we adjusted to local food. It is different food. It was organic for sure. But there is nothing ornate or delicate about the food and how it is prepared here. No filigree patterns in the crust. Nothing ornate. Yams and cassava and beans are from the garden and cooked simply into starches and stew with a side of greens if you are lucky. Yesterday’s beef that was eaten at a last rite’s celebration was cooked with salt and a few stewed veggies and eaten voraciously by all. Nothing ornate. Nothing raving delicious, simply something to fill the belly. Not even a sprig of parsley or cilantro. It is as though the population is freshly out of starvation and the eating habits remain. As do the attitudes. While I badly miss the savory foods—tacos asada, burritos, shepherd’s pie, any pie at all—anytime someone posts a Facebook pic of their foodie find—I long for the flavors. But I’ve come to settle and be happy for the feeling of an empty tummy of simple food to fill it. Sure, there are supermarkets in Kampala that carry the Western food and for that you pay the White Person prices.

Most people are a day or two from starvation--often due to lack of planning but mostly due to the uselessness of planning. Planning and calculating is useless if rogue factors render them so. If there is no money from a job today, there is no food tonight. And mostly, people get paid or not at whim and will of employers and so many other rogue factors. Robbery is another major rogue factor. Someone comes and robs you clean. They take the money and the tools of your trade. You have to start from square one. Until you can gain some profits from somewhere, nobody eats and if you are lucky enough to have a garden you simply eat from there. Often people go to beg and borrow from someone who owes them or from a friend. It is easy to see where if war or unrest occurred, an entire population’s food production disappears. Even the 2011 elections in Uganda resulted in empty shelves in grocery stores because Indian owners left the country.

With the recent heists where Stephen’s businesses have been robbed clean then evicted without cause and the entire coffee harvest stolen, we’ve been down to two small meals a day. Being as budget minded as I am, I’ve been intentionally eating much less and skipping meals, while making sure the twins eat enough. The daily dinner involves working for it by harvesting beans from the garden and matoke from the trees, whatever has not been stolen. It feels like I’m being brought back to my roots were you eat only what you raise. The balance between consumption and production a precarious relationship.

In my home in the states, my cupboards full of preserved foods, caused my consumption to be divorced from my production. Production was a meaningless number hidden in the remittance line on my paycheck. I lived in a society trained to live in the realm of consumption, with no natural stops. In Uganda the natural stops involve the precarious nature of daily life. It is easy to understand how over-consumption and waste happen when people experience times of plenty. There is no way to preserve what one has in times of plenty. Use it or loose it. Canning is extremely expensive for a local budget: glass cans, lids and rings, cooking charcoal or gas or firewood. Saving money is mostly useless. Especially when there is a gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach. I still save money as much as I can because I can't get rid of that habit.

Running out of food to eat is like running out of gas. You know you should keep a full tank but when the funds are tight and you have to use the cash to pay for other stuff, you decide to go that short trip somewhere. You see you can go lower on the gas gauge. Money is tight again and you go even lower on E. Running out of food is like that. It's a long process of getting used to planning what's for dinner when the ingredients arrive on you doorstep at 7 pm. And when everyone in the country is doing the same and the precarious food distribution channels collapse...boom...then you have a crisis.

Sure, I'm far from starving but I've also never been near this edge of the slippery slope.

I wonder what is really happening.

This is a common thought as I live in a new culture, who uses a new language that I don't understand. I miss so much, I am sure.

But today I had to say this after trying again in 6 months to have a budget conversation with my husband a few days ago. How much money is coming in? From where and what are our numbers for each expense category.? Today was different though because my husband knows we have used up all my savings which I brought over 6 months ago. He knows there is 0 left. But this morning he was hatching a plan to revive his last remaining business. As he was doing so, he asked me, "Can I borrow money from you so we can beef up the business for December, so we can generate more income during the peak month?"

It's a great idea until you consider that the person who he is asking money of doesn't have any and he knows it. This is when I think, "What is really going on?"

And I realize I have no idea.

Today, the cupboards are bare. There is not a fresh veggie in the house to add to the rice or the matoke that is grown and stolen from our garden. I am lucky to have what the thieves don't want. I decide to skip lunch and put the girls to sleep instead. I hope they don't notice they missed lunch. I wonder how much more often I might have to do this? As I've been slowly trying to get my girls accustomed to skipping lunch. But by 6 pm they were screaming for food, so I cooked rice with the last of the scraps of meat bones and we ate the bones in lieu of the meat. I've never lived this close to zero and we seem to be ever closer to -0.

I wonder what is really going on.

I've just tried, unsuccessfully, to explain to my daughters why they should stop asking Daddy for the special food they like. It costs more money than the food that fills your belly longer. I am afraid he is buying treats with money we don't have or God knows where it comes from, just to make his daughters happy. I was telling the girls that, "we should eat the food we have rather than asking Daddy for treats like roadside fries and chapati. Daddy doesn't have money for all the treats."

They looked at me seriously and then broke into tears.

Theft

As if the events of the last 3 years weren’t hard enough, there were the pictures I took and kept and the videos capturing the moments I barely had time to savor of the twins’ birth and first 3 years. The pictures made the memory of the struggle so much easier to bear. Those videos captured the joyful moments. Two little girls in hyper mode before bedtime, hanging onto the crib rail for dear life as they jumped vigorously for 3 minutes, without missing a beat. If they would have let go, they would have launched themselves to the ceiling. Another video of double bath time in the double kitchen sink. They were 1.5 and auntie had just taught them how to splash water and they were both splashing as hard as they could. Another video of two yr old twins singing, “Ah-dee, Duh Day do do. Ah-dee Duh Day doo do.” One girl is seated at the dining table the other, Glory, is standing and swaying from side to side as was always her habit.

Even up to a month after the computer and my data was stolen; I could barely allow myself to think about it. My heart always sank at the thought and I felt hysterical crying welling in my chest at the loss. I had been sifting through the pictures and videos I had hurriedly downloaded for 3 years. In the 2 months I was in Uganda, I had been playing the videos and sorting the pictures, enjoying them and when I could, I showed a few to my husband who had missed the entire 3 years.  I had been preparing them for the “big download” and I had just discovered that my 1T. back-up hard drive had either been also stolen or had never made it in the bags going to Uganda. There was so much chaos at my house in the packing, it may not have made it. The other hard drive on which I had backed up all other photos from 15 years up to my pregnancy with the twins, somehow no longer has its cord to hook it up to the computer. It didn’t make it to Uganda either.

Since the loss, I have taken only a handful of pictures of the girls growing up. I am afraid to savor any such memories. I am certain they will also be stolen. I also have no way to save them since my husband’s computer has zero memory left for such things and it has 0% battery life and is ready to succumb to its viruses any day. My life has changed in that I no longer feel I can savor any material thing. It is not a irrational thought especially in the light of my particular circumstance. I am not sure how many times someone entered the house in which we first lived to steal various things. My Cybershot camera was the first thing to disappear. Likely, the maid assisted in disappearing that item. The toys I brought for the girls slowly disappeared, piece by piece. Then there was the big heist. Where the modem, the laptop, the cell phones disappeared in the middle of the night. It was soon after the caretaker’s 10 yr old son came and called my daughters by name, while they were watching their favorite movie. He was invited into the livingroom of our living quarters by my 3 yr old daughters. Big mistake. There is no reason for a 10 yr old boy to be interested in the things of 3 yr old girls. He was there to look and see what was available for the taking.

When my husband asked me in a sleepy stupor where the computer was, I flipped out. What I had on the computer, flashed before my eyes. I ran outside in the dark and began running down the deserted street. My husband close behind begging me to stop that this was dangerous. I was beginning to feel hysterical. I replied, “I don’t care, my life is on that computer, let them kill me too, I don’t care.”

I was completely distraught. Even the police wondered, why should I care so much about this, “Things get stolen here all the time.” Then I began to learn about how in this large city of many people, the odds are in your favor for getting picked out of the crowd by an opportunist. This is could very well be an every day occurrence. Many people’s entire day is spent wandering the streets looking for targets like me to steal from. Where I lived, I could go the whole day without seeing one white person, so that made me the neighborhood target. Every day someone would try to steal from me wither it was the gas station attendant. The hip looking guy who followed me home, making sure he made friends with my girls. The maid. It doesn’t take much to calculate that if someone succeeded in stealing every day, soon I wouldn’t have anything left. The worst part of that is that even if I had nothing, people wouldn’t believe me and they would still try to steal or force something out of me. That by far was the worst feeling.

After the computer got stolen, we had repeated night time break in attempts. I would hear someone try the door. I would get up put on my glasses then hear footsteps run away as I approached the door. Sometimes there would be multiple attempts per night. They would pop the locks on the van and search through it, leaving the door ajar. I was so frazzled by the morning, I was about to go crazy. Even my husband was having nightmares of armed robbery. I would hide in my house all day, when I was there. I would often nap because the sleep was so sparse at night. Then there was the night again. From 2 am to 4 am were the attempt at theft hours. By 5 am, I would be wide awake and would use that opportunity to get outside and walk the neighborhood. I didn’t want to be seen as white. The fewer eyes, the better. During the day, I drove with the windows up in my van so nobody could see my color.

I talk about this candidly so that I can remember. I never wanted to hid my experiences or put too much of a theoretical framework on my encounters. Part of why I wanted to wait to fundraise or ask for missionary support was because of the way supporters alter the stories. When someone gets sent to the third world, as a missionary, the stories that come back are edited. Supporters may want to hear a particular toward success story but also those in the field may have skewed perceptions on what others might want to hear. I want to avoid all of that and as much as possible to see with naked eyes.

While some may think it disrespectful to the culture, or even racist, for me to talk so much about the theft problem, I find that I experience an aspect of it on a daily basis. Some may think it forgivable that this or that gets stolen. After all, I am rich compared to the person who stole this or that. This is a fallacy but also, it is impossible to live responsibly on a budget, if the very your work you are doing is disrupted by theft. Theft in general is a problem self identified by more reflective people in the Ugandan culture. I was listening to Ugandan radio and heard one commentator speak frankly about the necessity for instilling within people a value for creating and working for the common good as opposed to continually looking for a way to steal. “When one gets hired, they immediately perceive this to be an opportunity to steal.” I find this kind of thinking to be beyond crazy but the majority engage in it. I don’t quite know how to handle or think about the race issue added to the theft issue, however, it would be very helpful to have a serious discussion with someone about how this is or is not racism.

Perspectives on Gun Violence in East Africa.

I have long been aware of the violence in various places in Africa, before coming here. I just read this article yesterday, however. I must say, I have a different perspective on the entire state of affairs from the perspective of having lived here now for some months. This is exactly the place where I would love to hang out and take a swallow of the familiar in.

I go to Nakumatt (one of the stores that was shot up) all the time. My girls beg to go there. It is the Target/Kmart of East Africa.

http://foreignpolicy.com/2015/09/20/nairobi-kenya-westgate-mall-attack-al-shabab/

While I believe in the 2nd Amendment and it generally a good idea for Americans to be able to be armed to protect themselves, it appears to be a worse idea in light of recent school shooting and other such events. Ultimately, America will have to decide for itself whether or not they retain this particular out-living of the second amendment.

But for other nations, like Uganda, who's population and social dynamics are very different, I would venture to say that if a vast populace of common citizens were to own guns like US citizens, Uganda, perhaps even Africa, would turn into a blood bath. Various aspects of this article hint at the disaster in store for the common citizen to be armed.

(1) In the 2nd to last paragraph, it is said that the Kenyan army looted the place. They were caught on closed circuit TV. They also had a friendly fire shoot-out with the special anti-terrorist team in the mall because each team didn't know the other existed or was a part of the rescue operations. Lack of coordination was a culprit in making the situation worse than it had to be. Having hired guns who's priority is to capitalize personally whenever and wherever possible was a further insult to injury. That these factors foiled this rescue operation is a no brainer. This is modus operandi for most encounters in daily life in Uganda. Uncoordinated gun power is extremely deadly as a few victims of friendly fire found out. Further, so is a hired gun who has ulterior aspirations.

(2) There were a few lone responders who's ways of conducting themselves is comparable to those who carry in the US for protection and to exercise their 2nd Amendment rights. Nura was one of those people. But these type of free thinking self propelled individuals are few and far between in countries who's histories include colonization and dictators. The population redefines the term sheeple. Nura's first encounter at the mall included running into a group of armed soldiers "standing around." I've been through the security checks at Nakumatt. At best they are a joke. someone looks around in your car and waves you through. The security guards holding guns look like teenagers and occasionally beg for cash. This is merely another image of what guns look like in the hands of the average population in East Africa. Not to devalue these people, they have their gifts, however, independent thinking and creative problem solving and initiative is a rare commodity in a population beaten into submission by colonizing and dictatorial forces.

"You like a monkey!"

Super embarrassing moment today in Uganda. The twins and I were hanging out outside of my husband's shop waiting for him when of course they draw a crowd of people wanting to talk to them. Now the back story is that they get super dirty here really fast because only a few things are paved and ground cover is not a necessity. Whenever they get really dirty, my husband gets upset and exclaims to them, "Look at yourselves! You are all messed up. You look like a monkey." So this older gentleman is talking to them and asking questions, trying to say hi and engage them. They look at him in his garden boots with mud on them and soil on his pants. And they say, "You like a monkey!" And yes he understood what they said to him. I just wanted to die--most Ugandan kids are meek and mild and barely say a peep to adults.

Starting Nursery School

Since everyone is sharing their kids’ first day of school stories, I figured our story might be interesting. 

Back in August I visited the director of an organization 1 km down the road, seeking a volunteer position. It is run by a European Lady called Mama Maria and has a Nursery School, Primary and Vocational School. The assistant director has been looking for a way to solve an over-all educational outcome problem, here in Uganda, where students don’t seem to graduate with critical thinking and problem solving skills. She has assigned me to look into the matter, observe classrooms, come up with some proposals as I assist in classrooms as a volunteer. Last week I started in the Nursery school ages 3-6. I also bring my 3.5 year old twins, which is a trial to overcome. The first week was great because the kids just play and the teachers prepare their classrooms and register students. The twins played great and I thought we had it down because they seemed to be working the crowd like rock-stars.

But this past Monday was when the classroom time started. And that was also when the problems started to crop up. Big assembly with 300 kids usually consisted of one teacher trying to keep the attention of all students, while I slowly became the side-show. My girls clung to me as half the assembly of kids slowly by slowly encircled us, watched us and then began touching the three of us. At least 10 little hands in my hair, grabbing my hands arms and just as many on my twins’. I can deal with it but my twins went insane. Mommy, there’s too many people! Stop touching me! After which it escalated into inconsolable screaming and kicking a biting as the Ugandan children laughed with glee. This happened several times during assembly and playground time, once another teacher had to rescue us by running at the kids with a raised stick, scolding loudly in Lluganda. (Yes, they do get beatings at home and the raised stick is a threat they listen to.) I told my husband that this is just the kid version of what happens to muzungo adults. The good thing is that this scenario only happens when I am with the twins. When they navigate the playground themselves, the kids who want to help them and be friendly to them will fight off the kids that touch them to antagonize them.

Being that this was a European funded organization, I had expected that these kids would be accustomed to white people. But I’ve asked and discovered that they have never had any white students in this school. On my first day there, the students were given a lecture on how to treat the new teacher and the two new girls. Some of it I didn’t quite understand. Then I saw the founder come to visit the school during playground time and I understood a bit where this behavior comes from. All 300 kids went screaming and running toward this woman, seeking a touch from her. She got completely mobbed. Hopefully, these kids get used to the feel of our hair and skin soon and we will no longer be such a target of curiosity.

Glory is absolutely ready to learn. She understood what letters she was supposed to write in her class of 60+ 3 yr olds. That evening she talked about how she was writing letters in school. Gracie was a bit more of a mess that day. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep and everything was upsetting to her. We actually had to escape early on the first day of classes. The girls were having an absolute meltdown on the playground when we tried to passively escape the mob of 100 kids who were chasing after us on the playground.

I’m excited for my new task here. I would love to develop a science and discovery type curriculum for this school. I’m just not sure where I will be taking my twins to nursery school though.

The maid that won’t leave.

So, when I got here, my husband had hired a maid to stay with us and help us out with daily tasks. This was in Kampala. For numerous reasons, one being that we could no longer afford a maid and two being that she assisted in disappearing a good number of things we brought from the U.S. and third that she was a teenager like teens everywhere who think that food, electricity and water come in endless free supply, we discontinued her services.

On the farm however, Stephen had hired a neighbor lady for the past 2 years to come and help with the cooking, cleaning and gardening since I was not here. Since I’ve come, Stephen has told her that her duties will be limited to the garden. He has told her several times and yesterday he told her again. Yet she has continued to show up and wash dishes and tried to cook with me but mostly she follows me around and watches me. I’m usually all about working with people and love having the company, however, maids are a huge security risk. This is what everyone has said. They steal things from you and also “sell” information about you to the armed robbers. After we were robbed the police cautioned us against having a maid.

One day after a sleepless night in Kampala, filled with footsteps outside and signs of people trying to break in, we arrived at the farmhouse in order to begin work on renovations. Suddenly, we had 3 people and their entourages all up in our house: the maid and 3 of her kids, a young man who Stephen had hired and also a third man who was beginning work on the concrete. They were in and out of every room. My purse with cash was there. I was bone tired. The kids were dragging off hammers and other implements which are extremely hard to buy in good quality here. I was ready to explode, so I took a walk to cool off. When I came back the situation had gotten even more out of control. The maid was painting the wall with her 3 yr old and also my 3 yr old twins. Each one had a brush full of paint. The paint was everywhere--all over the kids’ bodies and hair. And the kids who were trying to access their potty in the back of the car got the paint all over the car. My husband was running back and forth with a wild look in his eyes, trying to manage the situation. I exploded. “You need to get these people out of here,” I cried, tears of fatigue and frustration running down my face. "Get them out or I'm going to beat them away with a stick!"

And that is sort of how I have felt about the situation since. I do not want to have this maid around. She has a reputation in the neighborhood for theft. She has been caught a number of times. She has harvested and sold our matoke and told us that it was stolen. Once we were looking for a knife to use to cut up vegetables for lunch. We knew it was in the kitchen but we could not find it. At the time one of her kids was hanging out in the yard, so my husband told the kid to get his mom. She comes he asks her what has happened to this only knife we had to chop up food. She doesn’t respond. She pretends to look through the kitchen in search of it. After she thinks we are no longer looking, she walks back to her house and returns with it. This is an every week story—whether it is food that is missing or dishes or harvest, your hairbrush or your computer. And it is pretty “normal”. People tell me that this is how maids behave.

Yet here we have a maid, because we must have a maid. That is our lot in life. Even though she will not get paid—but likely she will collect her payment—she keeps coming back to sweep the porch and do anything householdish that she can get her hands on. It’s such an awkward situation.

Repairing and moving.

On the 1^st of the month we moved out to the “farm” about 2 acres, where we will now live rent free. We are between Mukono and Kalagi. The process for getting here was a feat in endurance and it cost us over $1000 to get the house to where we don’t have to go out at night to go to the bathroom or where we can shower behind a locked door at night. But we needed to do it to conserve our income and insulate ourselves from being a small target in a big city of strangers, Kampala. Certainly, others who are white/American live in Kampala, however, they often live in gated communities with on duty security guards and such. We are pretty far below that level of income.

The house was in horrible condition when we started. Dust an inch thick. Lizard poop, hornets and ants everywhere. We still have to replace the front door as someone could just bust it down with little effort. My biggest concern is the layout of the place. After dark you cannot just shut the front door and continue your business inside. The sitting room, a bedroom and a bare floor bathroom are behind the far door. This consists of our living space. The kitchen is behind another doorway. Behind the near door is a third room where a 3^rd person often lives but it is vacant now. The bathroom is out back. After dark, often we sit on the lit patio eating or bathing the girls. It’s a fish bowl in the neighborhood. It reminds me of the scene in the movie Frozen where the family is in the woods and all they see in a perimeter around them is the whites of a hundred watching eyes.

We’ve since worked on the floor—replaced the crumbling concrete. I laid tiles till my fingers bled and my muscles ached—they still ache. We painted the walls. Shhh! Please don’t tell the neighbors because painted walls and tiles and a ceiling are signs that we are uber rich—and the minivan sitting outside. I was reluctant to get a vehicle but after considering what was most safe, we broke down and got one.

We are now moved in. The bathroom has yet to be completed and our clothes are in one big pile on the floor.

The endless stream of night visitors

I'm not sure what someone would do if they got an endless stream of night visitors. It seems like someone comes every night or several people come some nights. Last night I laid down and tried to sleep, we had one window glass open so the cool breeze could come through but I bolted upright when I heard a metal object hit the pavement. I went to the open window to investigate and heard footsteps hurry away. So, we slept in a hot stuffy room last night.

So, we don't sleep with the windows open much. Even though it has bars, it is too easy for someone to cut through the screens and work a desired object towards the window and then out.

When I say theft is bad here, it is pretty bad. The car doors have been hanging open in the morning at least 5 times in the last month. Our house was broken into and electronics stolen. We have since bought one padlock and have been using kitchen utensils to secure the other 2-3 spaces on the metal doors which one would also place a padlock. Three spots on a door to place 3 padlocks. Seems excessive but usually there is a provision for the thing that is necessary. Most people have curtains. Our curtains are at least 20 years old and they aren't the right size to cover the windows.

This morning I got up and saw someone had opened the back door key hole door in order to reach inside and test the locks.

A number of people I've met who have had some small encounters with Ugandans have at times talked about the theft problem. They sort of excuse these people, wave their hands and say, "Oh but they are so poor, that is why they steal."

I watched that theory out for a while. Certainly, there are many poor peasants who don't own their own land and they steal their neighbors fruit or matoke. However, the most serious robberies are performed by those who have purchased weapons. This is not a poor suffering individual. Additionally, the neighbor who likely stole our electronics has a very nice car, beautiful curtains which cover every corner of every window in his and his mother's home. Light bulbs in every outdoor socket which burn all night. (Most people with limited funds do not do this because of the energy costs.) They cook indoors which means they likely have a gas stove, while everyone else cooks outside on the charcoal bucket.

This is one among many instances. And I have come to dis-believe the theory that it is the poor who steal. It is actually the educated and the well off who make theft into a career. What would a poor illiterate person do with a laptop? If a poor person actually stole a laptop, it would only be through a knowledgeable handler. In that case, who is the one who is really stealing?

Every day multiple times a day, someone tries to steal something from me. I look at tracking devices int he states which help you "find your misplaced items" and I laugh. Here these would sell like hotcakes.

Accompanied Home

In light of recent events, I am sorry to assume the 30 something man with hippish looking attire was anything but well intentioned when he walked me home from the market today.

I went to the market to get charcoal to cook breakfast this morning. It's a short walk and the girls always love to accompany me. But walking single file with two toddlers is a learned process. Of course I get the usual fan-fare. People wanting to say hi to the twins etc. Up till recently, they have screamed at people and wanted to hide or run away. Because recently I have been bribing them, telling them that I would give them a treat if they shake people's hands. This morning however, I really didn't want them to shake this guy's hand. I guess he was working close by and came to try to get the girls' attention. Gracie gave it to him but Glory refused. Before I knew it he was holding Gracie on his shoulder--Gracie's favorite spot. I scratched my brain on how to get rid of this guy and couldn't think of much as I don't expect any young men to offer to carry my child home for me.

On the walk home I chatted with him a bit and looked him over as he did me I am sure.

He had sort of hip long shorts and a scarf like item around his neck to use as a sweat towel. It had a gaudy gold medallion on it the size of my fist. He had shades and hip shoes. A smallish beard that came down in a point. Smartly dressed for this culture and taste. He asked me if the girls had breakfast. I answered truthfully of course, saying, "No... I am getting charcoal so I can cook breakfast."

"You cook with charcoal? You don't use gas?!" he queried. "You don't have a maid to help with the kids?"

"Yes, I cook with charcoal and I take care of the kids myself."

"I don't believe you. This girl is telling me you are lying," he counters.

Here we go again, I thought. And I was even carrying the 3 handfuls of charcoal in a sack for all to see.

I began trying to figure out where I should lead him to pretend I live there. I can't walk past my house, as the girls will protest and give me away. I could cross the street and go past the store they like going to because they will willingly do that. So, that is what I did. Meanwhile, those who actually lived in the area peered at me oddly. But I shook him and he went back to where he came from.

My mind is spinning wondering what this is all about. Obviously, he is finding out where I live for a potential unannounced visit. He seems to be a vain guy, so I am sure he has to support that lifestyle somehow. He believes he has encountered someone with enough money for a hired maid and gas cooking. This doesn't look good. I am glad I am going to be moving out of this hotbed of thieves in a short week or two. I wonder if he is after my stuff or after the kids, since he tried and succeeded in establishing a connection with them?

Of note here: Preconceived conceptions are so strong that even if presented with evidence to the contrary, no one is convinced. This is how iron tight social status constructs are. You will fulfill your duties no matter what.

Mining: Sounds like a good way to get killed.

Here, everyone is always looking for their big break. People are always looking for someone else to pay for their lunch. I overheard in Café Javas the other day, one lady commenting to her friend, “Where is the money from the sale of your Mother’s house?” As in, that should take care of lunch, right? Not so fast.

In the process of seeing the inside workings of the mining land my husband’s family owns, I have learned first hand how the owners of this cursed property rarely see a cent. So, someone has found minerals worth mining! Excellent! Everyone starts to imagine how they might profit from this. When my husband told me this, I said, “Managing that project sounds like a good way to get killed!”

This week has been a case in point. Two people have been killed within the space of a week. One of them, a young man, was the son of a tenant. The other was a tenant. The young man was hacked to death with a machete. Money and the greed for money was involved. The young man’s friend was taken into custody. It was found out that the young man’s friend had stolen a motorcycle from 80 miles away and had brought it to the mine to help him make money. He became the primary suspect until the dead young man’s mother went to a witch doctor to purchase a spell to “kill the case.” The witch doctor went to the police and now the mother is also in custody.

The other individual who died was a male tenant who was either poisoned or died from juju, as the report says.

Dog-eat-dog

Having a hard time today. Being white and female cages me in much more than my free spirit would prefer. I went to Café Javas for an expensive cup of sanity and the familiar and I went alone. The security officer who checked my vehicle at the gate commented on my being alone, “You are alone?!”

“Yes, Thank you.”

“This is not safe,” he commented. “You need protection. I will protect you.”

Why did I have to say this but I did, “I will protect myself. Trust me. (Withering stare)”

For one, I am having a hard time with the way income is up and down and down down down, most of the time. Before I got here, I knew Stephen’s income was about $800/month. When I got here it dropped to $500/month. Now, it is $300/month. To me, it feels like the free market economy is blown completely wide open here, without stabilization buffers. 5% of the population is employed at an 8-5 job. The rest are running their own business and are in direct competition with each other to sell goods or services. Everyone is always in a mad scramble on a daily basis for getting their next meal. Income from one source dips and one must be agile enough to go and madly chase it from another source. If you are too kind. If you are not fierce, you will be crushed by the crowd.

I can’t track how the money comes in and goes. People here find it hard to keep an account of cash-flow in and out. I have a choice to either work together with Stephen on budget, which seems extremely hard for him and me because I rarely like what I find out in those discovery moments. OR I could simply make demands for what I want/need on a day-to-day and leave the how and where the money comes from to him (that seems like an undue burden on him). OR I could simply find my own source of income and skip thinking about what contributions I will get from him toward daily expenses.

In this struggle, I feel like I am constantly running into a barrier of a particular sort. Stephen has an extreme dedication to helping others and toward working for the benefit of his entire family and toward things he deems a project worthy of investment. When I am not here and sometimes even when I am here he will dedicate his whole day, forfeit breakfast, lunch and evening meal to making it happen. He will collapse late late at the end of the day and eat a small snack before falling into his bed and rising the next morning to do it all again. In that crazy cycle it is hard for me not to feel like I am the last investment on the list. Living in America, while he was in Uganda for the first 4 years of our marriage did not help him get a true feel of the absolute need I have for him to provide for our family’s well-being.

Aside: That cup of coffee/sanity cost $2. On a $300/month income it was 0.67% of my income.

The poor people.

I didn’t enter Africa on a mission trip or some other humanitarian outreach. I came with my husband, which puts me in an entirely different experience. In some ways it feels like I’m coming through the back door. I’m held at arms length—there’s fear and intimidation under the polite greetings. I came with my own limitations and needs. I didn’t come holding a banner saying, “Free help for all,” or “get saved here.” So, naturally people wonder and have no category under which to receive me and neither do I. Somehow that puts me through the back door and I see things the mission trips and delegates don’t see. The stories I cite below are just a small sampling of what I have seen so far. There are many more I've heard and encountered like them. If I would write them all out, they would fill 20 pages.

What worries me is the distinct difference between the poor people I see and the poor people I have heard about. I see the poor people and I wonder if I am seeing the same poor people as the ones who are seen on mission trips and humanitarian outreach. This is not some trumped up right wing monologue about how the poor are poor because they have done it to themselves or that they are poor because they are lazy. I never take that position. There are those who are genuinely poor because they are caught on the bottom side of a macroeconomic cycle. There are children, hundreds of them here who by no choice of theirs suffer from their parents’ choices or simply suffer the situation they were born into. For the powerless, I feel empathy and compassion. But mostly I don’t see or interact with these women and children. I see the people my husband interacts with and does business with. I see the people he works with and helps and quite frankly, I’m not so impressed.

Slowly, over the years, I have gotten the back-story on this or that person. There is the “cousin” who some years ago approached my husband about buying a taxi for him so he could make an income and make Stephen a profit as well. In concept it sounded good I’m sure but after financing this thing Stephen discovered the cousin was regularly loaning out the taxi to a third party for enough money to drink himself silly for the day. Meanwhile the third party would drive the taxi into the ground or into another vehicle so that it needed to sit in a repair shop for the next week all financed by the guess who—not the guys who did it! Everyone on the road knows to avoid taxis at all costs because the guys driving them are mere patsies who run when a serious incident occurs which implicates them, which makes for some horrible driving conditions because 50% of the vehicles on the road are taxis, who don’t care if they get into an accident. So, there is one system and rules which makes one person responsible for 3 people’s negligent behavior in the process toward the 3 people getting an income.

There is another relative who needed to make an income and wanted to have Stephen finance a brood of chickens for him. This involved building a chicken house but Stephen decided to build it on his own property so that at least he could retain the structure if all did not go well. Incidentally, one brood of chickens was raised and sold, after that not one coin was repaid to the financer nor was there ever another chicken raised.

There were some poor farmers “renting” the inheritance land in my husband’s family. They had been paying ground rent reluctantly for some years. But recently there had been interest in mining the area. The renters struck it big when they made a deal with the miners to turn their field into a miners quarry. The miners paid this poor farmer an equivalent of 40 million shillings for the privilege to mine. But when it came down to paying for ground rent to his landlord or even notifying the landlord that his property was being completely destroyed, the poor farmer couldn’t seem to cough up a single coin anymore. Although, one could point out that he was able to pay rent when he farmed. There were hints of a rumor going around about how he sat with the local council and police force and they all agreed how much of a cut/bribe every important person in the local community was supposed to get. (So, it may be a combination of 1,3,4 and 6 below).

So, the question is always, what happened to the money that was earned? Often it disappears into thin air. My main concern is, what happened to the wife and children of the guy who handled the money? If you go to the village of the poor farmer, you will see others like him who have raked in just as much income or more. You will see their children and wives dressed in the same tattered, dirty clothes every day. You will see their lives have not improved much or at all.

Truth is I’m not sure what to think. I’m not sure what has happened to the money. I know I have just become quite a lot more skeptical about those doing the business deals and handling the money.

I’ve heard numerous back-stories behind where the money went. They range from mere vice to the ridiculous. Here’s the start to a list.

1. It disappeared at the local tavern.
2. It got distributed amongst the locals in last night’s gambling match.
3. It truly got stolen by someone. This happens way more often than it does in the US. Someone gets wind of the funds someone else is carrying. A gang of guys shows up with machetes to relieve him of his life savings. This might actually contribute to the “spend cash now” mentality because if you keep it, you will be relieved of it.
4. Someone swindled it. It’s a dog-eat-dog world where instead of watching television, people entertain themselves by creating live soap operas, involving all the intrigue and deception.
5. Ghosts came and stole it.
6. Not sure if this is ever a cited reason but the guy has 3 wives and 23 children. Wives and children tend to survive without income from the male species that sometime chooses to neglect or abandon.
7. An employee mishandled the money. My husband has repeatedly had a whole month’s worth of income disappear because an employee has either stolen it or was negligent and had it stolen from them.
8. Bad investment. I’m told of the story of a few family cousins who have repeatedly sold family property to someone else—including the very property under their relatives’ own homes. They get a down payment from someone and then disappear when title transfers are scheduled to take place.

The rampant taking of things one did not work for seems somehow involved in making people poor. Because somehow the taker in his taking becomes schooled in taking again and again. He creates a shortage in the life of the one he unexpectedly takes from, Sometimes the shortage is so severe, the one he steals from is completely ruined. The taker learns no work ethic. He does not encounter the value of a thing, through working for it. He begins a pattern for himself that has no positive consequences and creates expense in the lives of those he takes from. A farmer understands the value of work because he is consistently rewarded with harvest for work put into the ground. But here, I have known of farmers who have cut down their mango tree to save a crop of corn. The mango tree was like a pot of sweet irresistible bait for the entire village, who came to feast at the tree in a young cornfield. So, the farmer cut down the tree to save the corn. 

Greed and poverty. The two usually go hand in hand. Where-ever one finds extreme poverty, one also finds an intense amount of greed in the house next door. Greed causes the poverty and destruction of one's neighbor. Sometimes it destroys one's own family.

While I was in the US. I rarely had to worry about having things stolen from me. Most people have the same sorts of things and don't covet another person's stuff. That is the beauty of the middle class. Here, unless you have absolutely nothing, what you have more than likely will be taken from you. The maid we had, before she was relieved of her duties went through the house and took the things she most coveted, a phone battery, my husband's hair brush, little stuff which didn't matter too much. But I've noticed even the relatives come to your house and take this or that or go into you wallet and take a bill or two. But then there is the big stuff people take: land. I have never heard of so much land grabbing and stories of deceit and theft and ruin, and murder, with respect to land grabbing.

Thoughts on the destruction of a community.

I'm a chemist. I remember well the warnings my chemistry professors gave me on Mercury toxicity. They even told of a fellow professor who was working in the lab with a component of Mercury and had later been diagnosed with Mercury poisoning. Unfortunately, the period for treatment had passed and the professor died due to his exposure.

Mercury poisoning is extremely toxic because even parts per billion are lethal and destroy entire communities. Here is one article about detection in the human body as well as symptoms.

https://labtestsonline.org/understanding/analytes/mercury/tab/test/

The following article is about reducing environmental impact by reducing concentrations of mercury in aqueous solutions. It also touches on airborne contaminants.

http://www.nist.gov/tip/wp/pswp/upload/137_aqueous_phase_mercury_removal_strategies.pdf

This is merely the tip of the iceberg. Social, economic, communal and environmental concerns are daunting at this point in this micro-situation which seems to mirror all the other micro-situations of artisan mining in Africa and Asia.

Ultimately, I stand by helpless watching from a distance as a community embraces its own destruction gleefully. Joyfully. Somehow, it smacks of perfect evil, of greed.

I spoke with a young man from the community who is originally from the community pictured here. He has his degrees and is employed by an organization that monitors oil companies across Uganda, who are drilling for oil, ensuring that they do not destroy native habitat in the process of extracting oil. I asked him about this new development in his community. He responded, "Yes my father is a leader in this community and the caretaker of this property. But I am but a child in the eyes of my people and they would only say I am trying to keep them from gaining any wealth should I protest in any way at all about the artisan mining."

What does one solitary person do to stand up against the crush of a whole village of extremely eager people as well as more powerful greedy people stand waiting to exploit those people?

Documenting the destruction of a community.

Aqueous mercury baths emptied to run down the hillside into the swampy areas of the community.

A barefoot child carrying harvest walks through the path of waste drainage.

The ore that everyone is stumbling over to get their hands on the profits.

Panning in pools of aqueous mercury.

A shanty town of services supporting the miners has erupted overnight. The small rural population of farmers now supports 20,000+ extra people. As of now, the locals clasp their hands in glee as they speak of their good fortune and grab any piece of residual wealth they can get from the flow of capital. Who is to blame them, poor as they have been?

Carrying the burden of wealth.

Drama.

There is one thing Ugandans like a lot that Stephen and I try to measure our exposure to. I’m sure if it were the right kind of drama, we would get involved like everyone else but for now, I’ve asked Stephen to distance himself from especially the family drama.

For example, one Sunday, I warily sent Stephen off to a “family meeting” which was supposed to start at 10 am but he didn’t arrive till noon. At 3:30 pm he was still there and at 9:00 pm I began to worry whether somebody had gotten killed in an altercation. The topic of the meeting was to present to extended family the things the 3 uncles had been working on with respect to business and establishing the Family Foundation. The Family Foundation’s intent is to instead of chopping up the family inheritance into 3 then 100 different pieces, they keep it conjoined and run the properties as a company.

Now the 3 uncles have come into some potentially lucrative operations and these meetings have come to be attended very heavily by cousins and extended family. The 3 uncles are still alive and carry the burden of decisions and Stephen is involved because he is helping them actualize their ambitions. Stephen loves to build things, organizations, foundations, business ventures, etc. He would do this for free for the rest of his life if he could and he’d be happy as a clam but it isn’t really conducive to raising a family, when the bread winner runs around doing things for people for free during working hours.

The meeting was well attended because people had gotten wind of the potentially lucrative operations. It got really exciting as the kids to these 3 men and those of the 2 deceased men jumped up and demanded a share of their inheritance with passion and conviction. They accused those working on the project of stealing from them. They made impassioned suggestions and shared their expert opinions—everyone trying to outdo the other in demonstrating their contribution through lip service.

Eventually people just left the meeting. I didn’t go because it would have been a waste of time, since it was all in Lluganda and the translator would have been sure to forget he/she was translating for me. My wedding details were decided in this manner. Eventually, I simply told my husband, “look whoever is paying for this or that decision, may make the decisions on that detail.” Eventually, we made the decisions on pretty much all the details.”

So, the drama continues. Let it continue as long as it doesn’t distract me from my work, I say. Even a few days ago, I was the driver, taking my twins and a van load of drama story telling men out to the property of interest, to serve court summons to people who didn’t want to pay rent to their landlords. They were serving eviction summons to men who were not too poor to pay rent but rather too greedy to pay a portion of their incredible profits to the landholders, who’s land they were definitely destroying in the process of profiting. Very involved story behind that one. Oh, the stories I could tell. Stories of intrigue and passion and demons and spirits and poisonings and bewitchings.

Broken Bread

I had a win this morning. One twin comes to me with a broken bread--a major offense, usually resulting in a meltdown and refusal to eat the offensive pieces of broken bread. I told her to come here and open her mouth. In mock horror, I told her I found broken bread in there. Then I pretended to look into her tummy and told her I found broken bread in there too. Since she loves jokes and fun, she laughed and ate her broken bread.

Mobility means adventures.

So, now that we have a car, we can go on adventures, right!? Husband came home, Wednesday of last week at about noon saying, “Get dressed! We are buying a car today and you are driving.”

Yeah! My house arrest is over! Yeah I get to drive where there doesn't appear to be any traffic laws.

It is essentially a work vehicle which will take Stephen to all the places he needs to go to manage this or that project/business/whatever. Managing the family property in Bukuya now requires another level of scrutiny, so, ease of movement has become much more necessary.

Only, one small issue. I am the only one with a drivers license. Here we drive on the left side of the road. Driver’s controls all switched around. So, I have to drive in this madness. Saturday, I experienced the range of madness that exists out there. There is Kampala and Jinja Road that leads from Kampala. This road is traffic jam central. Then there is the road that runs from Kaligi to Mukuno. My husband’s home and gardens are on this road as well as one of his businesses. This road is paved but very dangerous because since it was paved the edges of the road have receded and broken off, many places have deep ravines you could fall into and the road itself is only wide enough for one car to pass in many places. Additionally, it is heavily used by cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians. Then there is the road from Mukuno to Kisoga and Katosi. It is not paved. However, there is currently a company working on constructing a paved road through there. On Saturday we drove all these roads.

When I drive I have to get Stephen to tell me what the traffic laws are in the moment. It’s been quite the married life experience. On the road from Mukuno to Katosi after a rain, I’m driving through a stretch that has been flattened by the construction company and it is simply a wide stretch of slick red mud.

Stephen tells me, “drive in the middle of the road” I look at this span and respond, “Where is the middle? It all looks like the middle.”

On the way back from Mukono to Kaligi, after an excellent dinner at a neat, nice place with wide open spaces and freshly washed windows--This feels amazing in a place where grit and dirt and dust are the norm—Stephen tells me, “I’m going to drive the Mukono to Kaligi Road.” The cops aren’t out and somebody who knows the road should drive it in the dusk/dark. I was relived and happily took the passenger’s seat and buckled everyone in. Then he started driving that road. Naturally Stephen is trying to avoid a head on collision on the right, while a train of cars drive with their brights on. On the left side, where I am sitting, I see the pavement end and a ravine approaching me head on. I scream brace my arms and legs and we bounce hard into a pothole. Then there is the motorcycle we are about to hit and the guy on a bicycle who is barely visible next to the blinding headlights of oncoming traffic.

The twins are in the back, “Mommy, why you screaming? Mommy, you scared? It’s really bumpy.”

Sorry girls, “Mommy just scared. It’s okay. Sorry, honey. I’ll relax and just let you drive.”

Only problem is that I wasn’t drunk nor did I close my eyes. Not even 2 minutes later…I’m screaming again.

The next ravine approached, this one was much deeper and I screamed again as there is this terrible thud and a long, horrible scraping noise, as we come off the road completely and land in somebody’s grassy yard. Somehow we avoided the cycles and the people or they avoided us.

I’m panting. My heart is pounding. And Stephen is getting out of the car and telling me that I am going to drive. I agree. I get out and the car doesn’t appear to be broken. I had to calm down a bit before pulling out on the road again and obviously something was wrong. We pulled off again on a fat muddy space in front of a dark building and realize we have a flat tire. We assess the situation and realize our new to us minivan’s back hatch-back door doesn’t open and the nut to release the spare tire is in that door frame and we don’t have a jack. Otherwise, I was getting the tools out to get this done. So, Stephen took a motorcycle back to Mukono to get a mechanic to help us. The mechanic brought his own jack and worked through the issues. We examined the tire and there was a 2 inch tear in the sidewall of the tire.

What did this cost? I saw money coming out of the wallet left right and center but was afraid to ask.

Dinner for 4: 28,000 UGX = $8.50

What the mechanic said he was charging for the job when Stephen got him at the shop: 3,000 UGX = $ 1

What the mechanic charged after he found a Muzungo in the car: 11,000 UGX = $3.34

Lesson learned: priceless

We proceeded down the road much more cautiously. I told Stephen, “I don’t care how slow people think I am, I prefer that to an accident, someone killed, a fine or a broken car. Because all that is a whole lot more expensive and terrible. We are lucky that we just had a flat. Also, we are not going to drive this road at night until we are seasoned at driving it during the day. And we need to take defensive driving lessons.