Rejected frustration

       A frail woman with arms the size of my wrist greeted us. She had a large belly,  almost looking pregnant, but she wasn't. Three of her four children gathered around us, two of whom, Samuel and Immaculate,we brought with us. Samuel was so happy, smiling at all times missing several of his top front teeth, he is 6 years old but looks more like 3 or 4. His older sister Immaculate was less outgoing. She wouldn't smile unless you were looking at her and was clearly struggling inside. Once I heard her story, I wondered how she could ever smile. 

The mother was widowed a few years ago. She is HIV-positive and also has a problem with her pancreas, which explained her bulging stomach. The surgery she needed cost a mere $150, but because she had no money she hadn't received it, only worsening her situation. 

When her husband died, she was kicked off the land by her brother-in-law. In Uganda it is very hard for women to obtain land; it always goes to the next available male in the family. So upon returning to her childhood land, she was welcomed by her uncle and his family who live there. That welcome was short-lived. 

Because she is so frail, she is unable to help provide food and is considered a burden. Her four children are also considered a burden. After being kicked off that land, she and her children went to her brother's house, and the same thing happened. 

This woman, who is clearly going to die, has been booted out of each home she should have been welcomed to. Her four children have been moved around with no stability, and no feeling of self-worth. The translators noted that because she has kids, this woman is considered more of a burden. No one wants to end up with those children when she dies. 

I'm pretty sure I cried right there. Looking at those children and their sweet faces, I wanted to snatch them up and bring them home. 

After visiting that family, my mind kept going back to one question: What do we even do? How can we fix this? What do you do? That is a question we were unable to answer. We left money for the woman to have her surgery, but realistically she will probably still die soon from AIDS. At that point there are four orphans who have no one to love them. The Carepoint will take on the responsibility of finding them caregivers. 

Over and over I heard stories of helplessness, most of which involved a widow caring for between five and 10 children on $1 to $2 a week. Sickness and starvation are a way of life. Each place we went, my heart was broken for a broken world. This is not how it was intended to be, you know. The hope is that one day it will all be restored.

Although my journey was sorrowful at some points, the greatest joy of all was meeting the little girl I have been sponsoring. 

Welcomed and wrecked

       Tiny huts appeared in the landscape amid the weeds and farmland as we drove down a red dirt path. Women and children were seen out in the fields and would wave as the van full of Mozungus (white people) passed by. As we neared the Carepoint, I wasn't sure what to expect. The excitement I had lost the night before was back. 

An orange concrete building appeared first, then a group of enthusiastic children. We could hear them from down the path even before we could see them. We climbed out of the van before two long lines of children, singing and dancing. "Ayalama," they sang. "Thank you," the very words I whispered to God as their voices filled my ears. 

An unexplainable joy came over me as I danced through the human tunnel with my fellow team members. As we made our way into the Carepoint building, the voices became stronger, bouncing off the concrete walls. I couldn't help it; I was crying, laughing, and smiling all at once. Their song changed from gratitude to greeting, "Welcome, visitors! We are happy to see you today." Their accents added and took away a few syllables to sing, "Wel-e-come, vistas." 

I had never felt so welcome anywhere in my life. A group of strangers quickly became instant friends. We introduced ourselves to the few hundred kids who spanned all ages. A few of their caregivers were also there to greet us. As I scanned the crowd I studied each of their faces, overwhelmed at the gorgeous smiles pointed back at me. 

Those of us on the team weren't anyone special, just everyday people who sponsor at least one child through the Children's HopeChest organization. There were nine of us in all, from Iowa, Minnesota and Colorado. We were each anxious to meet our "child." Some of us had the chance that week; others would have to wait a week for the next village. 

Our main task at hand was to play with the children. In Ugandan culture they are seen as a nuisance and are often neglected. In the short time we were there, I did all I could to love as many of these little ones as possible, most of whom are orphaned by one or both parents. 

We also planned to visit some of their homes, get photographs of each child to bring back for their sponsors, and hand out and designate some gifts to the children. 

I went on my first home visit with team leaders Dylan and Jen (Swenson) DeBruin. Workers from the Carepoint and the Bukedea HopeChest social worker came as well, to translate and offer advice. We had three children with us, two of whom were siblings. We walked through corn and potato fields, passed groups of huts and women carrying water jugs on their head.  As I walked further into the bush following the path marked out by the small feet walking ahead of me, I had no idea my world was about to wrecked. 

A joyous yelp rang out through the weeds as I followed Levi into his grandmother's arms. The aged woman was greeting us with an overabundance of happiness. She kissed my cheeks as she shook my hand and hugged my neck. Jen and Dylan had met her last December when they visited the Carepoint. At that time the team felt led to purchase her a new hut. That would explain her joy! She and Levi showed off their new home and the old one, which was being torn apart and recycled into a small kitchen. Dylan began recording a video to share the story. That's when I first began to realize how ridiculous my life has been up to this point. 

Seventy-five dollars. 75 U.S. dollars. That's how much it cost to purchase Levi's grandmother a brand-new hut. "How is that even possible?" I thought to myself. That's a new pair of jeans, a weekly grocery run, or even an occasional night out in the city. My throat began to well up. 

When she shared how much money she earns per week, I wanted to cry. "$1 to $2 a week," the translator explained. 

I've heard of people living on $2 per day, and I thought that was bad. But a whole week's wages? That is literally pocket change to me. I thought of all the purses and coin jars in my house that have collected my "spare" change. I felt sick. The caring "taata" (grandmother) was so pleased with us, but I felt cheap. 

As we left her home and ventured a few more kilometers, we came to the most heartbreaking story I'd ever heard.

A journey begins

It hit me. Like a brick wall, it hit me. My first taste, and smell, of the country I so longed to visit. Urine. That's the smell that permeated the air as I walked out of the Entebbe airport and entered Uganda, "The Pearl of Africa." 

  The sky was dark, and so were the people. Two guards stood outside the airport door, armed with machine guns. I followed my team members into the black night, trying not to step in anything wet. With no lights and people scrambling to find their vehicles, the moment seemed to stop for just a second. I took it in with a deep breath, and a glimpse of fear came and went quickly. It was as if someone snapped his fingers and awoke me from this dreamlike episode. 

"Welcome to Africa!" I thought, and continued to make my way toward the 12-passenger van we would rely on for the next two weeks.

  After a long drive, two plane rides and a layover that totaled 27 hours of travel, my eager anticipation for my first trip oversees turned to pure exhaustion. Despite my sleep deprivation, as we drove through the streets of Entebbe I wanted to see everything. The roads were filled with people and a vibrant night life. Cars lined the roadways, and honks rang out almost systematically.

  Our first night was spent in a hotel just 20 minutes from the airport. We ate dinner once we arrived, although it was nearly 11 p.m., and we all felt stuffed from the very efficient flight attendants who continually brought us food. The first meal was a foreshadowing of what was to come, rice, beans, baked chicken, and potatoes. 

  After sleeping under a mosquito net for the first time, I awoke early, ready for the day. I drank coffee on the beach of Lake Victoria, located directly across from the hotel. The waters rushed the shore like an ocean and even the giant bugs hanging in the air couldn't ruin the moment for me. Monkeys met us outside the hotel to give us all a good laugh as we began our journey north. 

  We spent the day traveling through Kampala, the capital city; Jinja, another larger city; and into the rural parts of Uganda. The poverty was greater than I imagined. Tin shacks piled on top of one another lined the streets and up the hills. Trash was thrown everywhere as children and animals alike stood knee-deep, searching. My heart had already begun to hurt as I gazed out the window of the van for five hours. Poverty like this doesn't exist in America. If it does, we should be ashamed. As anywhere, socio-economic classes exist within the borders of Uganda. Behind the tin shacks were small concrete homes with small lawns. As I scanned the landscape back, the homes became bigger and more beautiful. The ones atop the highest hills were most elaborate. I wanted to ask how anyone could possibly live there, looking down at the starving. It made me angry, and then I remembered we do the same thing here. Instead of living directly behind the have-nots, we separate ourselves into special neighborhoods. If we don't see the poverty, we can't feel guilty. 

  My eyes were open and ready to learn, to soak up the culture as much as possible. The roads were bumpy and almost nonexistent past a certain point. People drove on both sides of the road, on the shoulder, wherever. The biggest vehicle has the right-of-way, and all others should view their honks as a warning. 

  We arrived at our next hotel in Soroti, where we would stay the following four nights. The next day we would visit our first village, Bukedea. I couldn't wait for the best part of the trip to start. Anxious, I slept.