The Story of Another

One very ordinary day as we are driving out to the village, past banana groves, brick houses, and herds of goats, we see him standing there barefoot.  It is not such an unusual sight because there are many children that walk and stand along the roads leading to a village. We pass by him before we realize it. This one he is ours. He has been since he stole his way into my heart as a fun loving nursery school student. Back then, his eyes were full of laughter and practical jokes. Now at the cusp of 14, I see the ways in which he has wisdom beyond his years and I know that life has not always been easy. I stop and wonder if all our love is making any kind of difference. He has reason to believe he is not wanted or loved. Every time I write to him I remind him that he has value. That he is loved deeply by someone here on this earth. One time he wrote me a letter and expressed his thanks because I reminded him that he means something in this world. And I wasn’t sure quite what to do with the weight of that responsibility.

We stop the car and I call his name and he comes running, barefoot and wide eyed and he shows up at my window.  It has been hard work, but these days I can ask him basic questions in his native tongue. He tells me he is well and I leave him with a birthday card and some ginger biscuits and wonder if that is enough. I wonder if he will find the courage to discover his place in this world against so many odds. I wonder if he sees me on the sidelines cheering him on and believing in who he is.

Sometimes when living in among so much desperate need, it is easy to become blind and to no longer see what is right in front of my eyes. And yet, this child he somehow helps me to see. To see who he is and not just his circumstances. To see his beautiful soul and his vibrant smile. He reminds me that all of this, my days and my hours are about more than just the challenges that lie in front of me. It is also about entering into the story of another. 

Beauty in Broken and Hidden Places

Sometimes beauty sprawls out in front, a majestic waterfall, or a snow capped peak, impossible to pass by and not notice. Other times it is hidden, a simple bloom among thorns, perhaps painful to reach and easy to miss. I think my experience living in a foreign land has been much more representative of the latter. The beauty is deep, and there are hints of what is lovely, but sometimes it is hidden and the journey is painful.

I have been struggling lately with my inabilities to achieve in a place so foreign. Perhaps such a struggle showcases the very fickleness of my human nature, but I came from a place where I knew what it meant to be a high achiever. I was used to being good at things. I was used to working hard and doing well, to being at the top of the class, the investing deeply in things that mattered to me and having those things somehow work out. I have found that when I moved to a place where I don’t understand the customs, where I often misunderstand and am misunderstood, where doing simple tasks become increasingly difficult, I just feel somehow so unqualified. Yes it is true, that in the past year and a half I have learned to adapt, and my husband has been a wonderful buffer to all this chaos. I have learned to drive in chaotic traffic, to negotiate a price, and to buy from the market, sometimes even in the local language. And yet, I still feel somehow maimed because I cannot operate at the same capacity that I once did. It has been humbling and forever changing, and probably even good for me as hard as it has been. It has been a journey of putting to death who I once was and seeking to find beauty in dry and cracked places. This loss of myself has been hard to reconcile, and I often grieve who I used to be, but I am increasingly finding beauty in the place that I am.

And yesterday, I sat in a room of students, at the front among other volunteer instructors as the students had time to ask us any question they wanted. One student directed a question at me “How can I feel like I am good at something when there is so much I don’t know and I keep making mistakes, when I feel like I don’t know anything?”  Amen brother, somehow our souls feel this same kind of pain. I told him that there are so many days when I feel like I don’t know anything, but we must push on. We must find others who have stood before us to teach us, to encourage us and to show us the way. We must not get discouraged and want to quit when things get hard, because even if you work the same job for 50 years, although a level of comfort comes with gained experience, there are still days when you feel like you have no idea what you are doing. This is why we are engineers, because these road blocks give us opportunities not to give up, but to find a way around. Perhaps that student asked that question because I needed to hear my own answer even more than he did. Perhaps as the sun rises and the sun sets, I need to remind myself of that every single day. Perhaps I can tell these students that even as they struggle to find their way, so too do I, and that is ok. As I walk back to my room, I see it so clearly. A brilliant flash of purple hidden among the foliage. It is here among us, this hidden beauty. It is there displaying its brilliance, overcoming what tries to extinguish it. 

Valentines and Speaker Trucks

I suppose that when I left the familiar confines of my office I should have known.  That traffic would be bad that is. It was Valentines Day, and somehow that means crazier than normal traffic. But on that somewhat ordinary day, it didn't cross my mind. Now on my drive home from work, there is one short stretch of back roads that is very narrow.  It is only about a 15 m long stretch of road, but it is too narrow to fit two cars driving in opposite directions comfortably that is.  But I suppose I have somewhat assimilated, because I have become used to driving with less personal space and somehow manage to drive beside another car on that stretch without too much stress on a regular basis. But this, this was Valentines Day.  And before I begin this story I must explain one thing. . .

There are multitudes of what I shall call "speaker trucks" here in Uganda.  They are large delivery style trucks packed to the rafters with speakers that drive around and broadcast obnoxiously loud messages about various things.  They advertise upcoming events, give opinions on politics and a variety of other platforms.

On this day, Valentines Day, I was approaching the precarious narrow stretch and I saw a speaker truck approaching.  I decided to drive like a Canadian and politely wait until he passed before proceeding to the narrow stretch of road.  The two cars behind me apparently did not appreciate my Canadian style of driving because they became impatient and started honking.  So what's a girl to do but proceed.  I thought it would be ok, until I was about halfway through and suddenly I was feeling pinched for space.  So I did what any normal person would do and I stopped.  At this point, his gigantic speakers were at window level with my car and all I could hear was the pounding music coming out.  All of a sudden, dead silence.  And then a voice on the microphone "Madam, you proceed, it is ok" and before I knew it a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) driver got off his motorcycle to direct me.  I couldn't see where my tires were, but he could so I appreciated the effort.  And the gentleman in the speaker truck kept on giving me orders/encouragement such as "That is right Madam, you proceed"  "Yes, you keep proceeding" followed by "yes, yes"  "yes, you proceed."  I think my favourite part of all was the grand finale, when I had finally reached the end of the precarious stretch of road and he got o his microphone and said "Yes, you are welcome."  I thought he was proud of himself for giving me such good directions, but later I asked my husband what he meant and he thought he was appreciating my driving.  Whatever he meant, I feel as though there is no shortage of comic relief in the midst of seemingly ordinary events like this. I am sure the entire neighbourhood got entertainment out of watching the scared foreigner trying to navigate roads that were narrower than she was used to, all this with a running commentary from the speaker truck.

Moments of laughter and moments of kindness.  I do appreciate the willingness of the local people to direct and help me through.

One of the famed speaker trucks

The Yellow Jug

She takes my hand and leads me up the hill. In her other arm she carries the proverbial yellow jerry can. The bright hues of yellow smudged with iron laden dirt are gripped and carried by nearly every child in rural East Africa as they haul their family’s water supply back from the community well. This one, she takes my hand and leads me back to the home where she stays. They walk here three times a day, climb down the wide mouthed well and fill their buckets with water that will give them typhoid, and start the journey home. Somehow in the exhaustion of simply living in a place that is foreign, I find myself losing sight. The scene in front of me seemingly normal. I remind myself that this, it is not fair and yet, it is her reality. I don’t want to become blind to the heartbreaking realities that so often surround me and yet sometimes I am. Sometimes it is all too much and I don’t even realize I am walking along with my eyes closed to what is around me.

And yet, even still I remind myself that somehow in some small way I am part of her story. I know her name, and hopefully someday soon she won’t have to deal with water that gives her typhoid, or the risk of falling down the well. I type words on my screen, the reality of this life she lives made real in the body of a report, and I prepare for a conference call to discuss the technical findings. And yet beyond the mineral content and the bacteria counts, I remind myself that there is a girl with a name behind the words I type and the water chemistry I analyze. Behind every drawing that is drafted, behind every report that is crafted is a person who has a name.  Let’s just be honest here. I am not changing the world. They are. These people, they teach me, inspire me, and remind me to remember what is really important. They are generous, humble, and I have much to learn and remember.

Perhaps the notion of living in an African nation seems exciting. Romantic. Inspiring. In all there is to love here, perhaps there are moments in time that embody all of these lofty adjectives. But it is also so very ordinary. I get up and drive to the office still half asleep. Drink tea and eat snacks as I work. Go home, make dinner, sleep and do it all over again. And yet in the middle of all those ordinary moments there is somehow something extraordinary if I will remind myself to see it. There is a young girl with a name I know, who carries a yellow jug of water. People like her are written right in the middle of my story and somehow make it extraordinary. They are all around me, overcoming adversity, inspiring me, and reminding me the meaning of contentment. Of what it means to be still in the middle of this crazy world. These moments written right into the middle of all that is ordinary are what I hold onto. In the middle of all these hard and holy things, I must remind myself of this. There was this one time I stumbled my way up a mountain at 5,500 m. I thought I wouldn’t make it, and the girl behind me told me I needed to keep on going because difficult is not impossible. Somehow I made it to the top. I can do hard things. I can keep on running, because there is a girl with a yellow jug leading me onwards, reminding me to keep on going.