The Crazy Adventures of an American Mzungu

There is but one option if you plan to travel from Kampala to Moroto, and it may leave any time between midnight and three in the morning. I mentally prepared myself for the bus to leave at three but physically prepared myself for midnight – the bus left at three. By midday, we finally left Soroti, the beginning of the final stretch of the journey (and at the time, the most agonizing due to road conditions). Here is where our story begins. About twenty minutes after leaving Soroti, I needed to make a short call (short/long call is Uganda code for needing a toilet… I’ll let you decide what the difference between the two may be). Each bump made the situation worse and my driver didn’t miss a single one down this developing road! “Okay Mary,” I said out loud (I sat in a single seat in the front of the bus, to my knowledge no one could hear my private conversations with myself, although I’m sure several did), “it’s time to get yourself a car!” This quickly became my mantra for the r

My first memory of  Benard  happened my first week in Jinja. I had arrived to do a year internship with Redeemer House Children’s Home. As a way to get to know the staff, the intern prior to me thought a good way for me to get to know the rest of the staff would be to have a game night. I am not a fan of games, but played anyway. The game was called 1-100. Everyone is racing to see who could write out the numbers one through one hundred the quickest. The trick is, there is only one pencil. I can’t remember all the rules, but the others are rolling dice to see who gets to have the pencil while you frantically write numbers. I also can’t remember who won – although, I am sure it wasn’t me. One thing I do remember was  Benard  enthusiastically cheating! He was so hyped up that he grabbed the pencil out of David’s hand, although it was clearly Esther’s turn! We all laughed so hard that night. I spent the rest of the year teasing him over this and he teased me over… well, I gave him plenty

They come to church every Sunday. The details of why they chose to walk through the doors vary with each woman represented. But at their core, they are searching for truth. They can bring nothing to the table, except themselves. They have little education. They have no money. They have nothing to offer. What a beautiful opportunity the church has to love these women with the love of Christ, teaching them the truth they may not even realize they hunger for. But this doesn’t happen. These women are invisible to the eyes of the leadership. If by chance they are seen, they are seen as a disturbance. Soon, they grow weary of being invisible and they stop coming, searching for truth and acceptance elsewhere. Although the faces change with the seasons, these women are always present. My eyes have recently been open to these beautiful women. Apuun, a friend of mine, started attending church. She professes to be a Muslim. As she continues to come, I am the only one who talks with her. I ha