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.