John Paul took those of us who are left (Candice, Jon, LeeAnn, and me) on an excursion through downtown Kampala today. “Those of us who are left.” Sounds rather morose, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve been feeling more and more solemn these days, having said goodbye to all the dear children and most of my favorite people that I’ve been privileged to meet here. We are in the dreaded winding-down process, and we wish it would all go backwards, but . . . “Time marches on.”
However, regardless of our dwindled numbers and the awful overhanging knowledge that we all must leave soon, today was a very good day. Instead of our normal private hire, they allowed us to be adventurous and take the public transportation (matatu) for the first time in Uganda. I was, of course, remembering all the shaggy-carpeted walls and crammed seating inside many a matatu in Rwanda with my team there. John Paul was with us, and so we survived. The money transactions and banging on the roof confused me to no end, but a typical conversation attempting enlightenment on my part never got very far. They sounded a bit like this:
“But how do you know when you want out?” (There’s no sort of loudspeaker announcement of any sort as to where in the large city of Kampala the matatu is presently located, much less a posted notice of which stops are coming up next.) “How do you know when you’ve got to where you want to be?”
“Well, you bang on the roof, and they let you out.”
(Different approach) “So, how do you know how much it’s going to cost?”
“Well, from here to downtown, it’s 100 shillings.”
“Yes, but how do you know it’s going to cost 100 shillings?”
“Because that’s how much it costs to get from here to downtown.”
Needless to say, I never felt very enlightened. Alighting from the matatu because John Paul told us to get out (and we would otherwise have had no idea where we were!), we ambled our way through downtown. This lovely day, we visited the not-so-touristy places, with their wares colorfully overstocked on every available shelf, wall, and improvised table. The streets were crowded, even though it wasn’t the weekend, and at times we had to scrunch up our shoulders and squeeze through the crowd or risk losing each other. It reminded me of Hong Kong, and I loved it. When we were all tired and sweaty, we stopped for a cold drink at a small, fan-cooled “café.” Complete with American Country music playing in the background. “I hope you daaaaaaance . . .” It made me laugh.
We stopped for a short, impromptu visit of the children and adults at the Machindi choir training center. We literally just “happened to be in the neighborhood” and used that as a fun excuse to drop by. Then it was up the hill a short walk, past a lady with a monkey on her shoulder, to Mark and Sarah’s house. Mark is the principal at the MFL school, and he and his wife have been a help and blessing to us as much as time permitted them these last several weeks. We have appreciated them immensely - both for their hearts to serve You and their “Western-ness!” We sat down to a mouth-watering dinner of fried chicken, potatoes, and fresh salad with sunflower seeds and Ranch dressing (you cannot know how good that tastes until you’ve gone more than a month without them). And, as if that wasn’t enough, we later gathered around the living room coffee table for plates of still-steaming chocolate chip cookies and ice-cold milk. I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that many chocolate chip cookies all in one sitting before.
We talked on and on about our experience, gaining helpful insights from two white people who have lived in Africa three years now. They told us more about the school and what exactly it is Music for Life does here. And all the while, Seth, their two-year-old son, cavorted and giggled and interrupted and entertained like two year olds do. I walked away from the conversation with a clearer sense - I hope! - of what sort of struggles these dear children face on a day-to-day basis. It was both encouraging and heart-breaking at the same time. Rather like my time here in Africa. Deliriously happy and achingly wretched. But I thank You, God, for bringing here. I wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else in all the world.
