It Is Very Far

My plan was to walk to Mukono taking the back road, which is different than the way we take in taxis and on bodas. As I was leaving Noah’s Ark, I asked one of the security guards how to get there, just to make sure, and then asked how far it was.

“Oh, it is very far,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly. Well, I don’t know what Ugandans consider “very far,” so I decided to go that direction anyway in hopes that what seemed very far to them would be some good exercise for me.

About half a mile down the road, I ran into my new friend, Grace. She is a sweet girl with a gorgeous smile and goes to one of the secondary schools down the road. I stopped to talk for a bit, and then asked Grace how far it would be to walk to Mukono in the direction I was heading.

“Oh, it is very far,” she said smiling. Not disapproving, but she seemed amused that I was going to try.

Shortly after Grace’s house, I turned down a road that was new to me but would supposedly take me into Mukono in a very long time. Amid the many high-pitched shouts of, “Hi, mzungu!” I heard a woman’s voice yell, “Auntie!” She came running across the road and asked where I was going. I told her I was just going for a walk but hoped I might end up in Mukono. Then of course I had to ask her how far it was.

“Oh, it is very far,” she said, shaking her head like the security guard. (I’m not kidding or taking literary license here—they all gave me the exact same answer.) I was starting to accept the fact that I was going to have to walk all the way back to Noah’s Ark, past the compound to the main road, and get a boda from there to get into town to buy toilet paper, which is really all I needed anyway. But I had already come that far, so why not just see if I could make it the rest of the way?

A few minutes and a wrong turn later, I fully came to terms with the fact that I would not be walking to Mukono that day. I turned around as un-awkwardly as possible (because it always looks weird to walk with a purpose down a road, then for no apparent reason turn around and walk with just as much purpose in the opposite direction) and began backtracking.

A boy sitting at the road’s edge yelled hello, so I crossed the road and knelt down to say hi. At that instant, four girls from a nearby fruit stand came running over and surrounded me. One of them took my hand in hers, staring at it and touching it all over. We talked and laughed for a bit, and then they said some kids by the fruit stand were calling for me to come over, so I followed.

The girls led me past their stand stocked with pineapples and tomatoes and lemons to the back of a mud hut where a young woman was cooking. She was rolling out dough with an empty glass bottle and then cutting out circles with an upside-down cup the way Dad used to make biscuits. Then she put the circles in hot oil until they turned a dark golden-brown and looked almost like hamburger patties. She called them pancakes.

After we had been introduced, I took some pictures of Christine and explained to her that this is way different than how we make pancakes in America. The girls quickly gave me two, one to eat immediately and one to take home with me for later. I was a little worried about my digestive system being able to handle something made on a wooden board behind a mud hut, but deciding it would be better to get sick than offend these sweet girls, I took a bite. It was awful.

The oldest girl of the bunch took my camera out of my hand. She started by taking a few random pictures, and then went into full-photographer mode. She told us who was going to be in each picture, where to stand, and even positioned our arms and heads exactly how she wanted them. I couldn’t understand most of what she was saying, but what did that matter?

After a few minutes, some of the younger girls told me I needed to meet their neighbor who was lame and had no food. We made our way around their hut and away from the road to a small brick house with a man sitting outside. Our photographer had me kneel down next to him for a picture before the girls took my hand again, helped me up, and led me along a path around that house, further into what you might call their neighborhood. It was a narrow dirt path with small brick houses on all sides and a garden in the middle.

Our next stop was at another lame neighbor’s house. He was also sitting outside his empty doorway, perched on a red brick. The photography continued and we somehow collected a few more children.

One of the boys to join us was the first baby born in the Noah’s Ark clinic. His mom was so excited about him being the first that she actually named the little boy Papa Peter, so now this little three-year-old is called Papa and I find it quite funny.

Next on the agenda was for me to learn how to dig. The girls demonstrated with the hoe and then showed me patches of the garden they wanted me to do. They all stood around and examined what I was doing, and I think my digging met with general approval.

As soon as the garden looked slightly better, the kids led me to a nearby shop where a woman was selling sweeties. I bought suckers for the ten or so kids surrounding me and then we walked back to the second man’s house for a big, candy-filled family photo before I was to be on my way.

As we were saying our goodbyes, the three oldest girls asked me to bring them back to America with me in December. The term would be over so they wouldn’t miss any studies, they assured me. I could only smile affectionately at the thought of bringing three 12-year-old Ugandan girls back home to Wisconsin with me in the chill of winter. They had no idea what they were asking! Then again, I have very little idea what they are asking to escape from.

I assured them I would come visit again, and the whole group of them walked me partway down the road and sent me off with lots of high fives and hugs.

Reflection: Today I spend two hours in the life of some girls from the village, only to leave at the end and walk back to my own life. I am spending three months living a life of luxury on the Ugandan scale, only to pack up and resume my “normal” life when I’m done. Isn’t this the kind of attitude I have despised for years? I rationalize that because this is what their lives have always been, they don’t need to pick up and leave as badly as I do, but have I ever considered that maybe they need it even more? Do I want to go home more out of calling or comfort? I don’t know what to do, but I don’t want to do nothing.

God, help me.

God, help them.

God... help us.