A Banana Leaf Christmas
By: Heidi Cunningham
Gift I: Saints
There’s not always sparkling snow and steamy hot chocolate, or gigantic pine trees dressed in lights and dangling crafty ornaments. The beautifully decorated table of belly delights and taste bud treats may not be produced, and possibly your ears will not dance to their favorite “seasonal-songs”. Your feet may not sing their familiar steps. This year my gifts were not carefully wrapped in fancy papers or delicate bows. They were not pushed into my stocking or placed below a tree. This year Christmas had a different feel, and it came in July.
Some people say it takes a village to raise a child. My recent experience has been that it takes a village to find a self. Psalm 77:1-3 reads, “I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted. I remembered you, O God, and I groaned; I mused, and my spirit grew faint.”
I had graduated from college and didn’t have a job in the “chosen profession” that I had so adamantly prepared for. The job I had didn’t pay well or make me want to get up in the morning. I had left a man who loved me, and I was living in an over-priced apartment, and it seemed all of my friends were buying homes, getting married, or having babies. Even my sister was expecting, and I – I was doing nothing. Quite frankly I didn’t like my life very much at all. I was lost, confused and lonely. At night I closed my eyes hoping to wake up from the nightmare I had become all too familiar with – a nightmare referred to as “life”. I wasn’t sure what my purpose was, or why everything seemed to be such a challenging obstacle, and I had all but given up. I found myself crying out, begging for something to believe in. Imagine my surprise when the answer was delivered by a mouse.
Habitat for Humanity International (HFHI) is a nonprofit, ecumenical Christian housing ministry seeking to eliminate poverty housing and homelessness from the world, and make decent shelter a matter of conscience and action. HFHI invites people of all backgrounds, races and religions to build houses together in partnership with families in need. I am thankful they invited me. They’ve built more than 125,000 homes around the world. I beam proudly when I tell you that I assisted with the completion of one such house.
A mouse gracefully unveiled this hidden treasure: Slide . . . here came the website . . . swoosh, a screen appeared . . . dash, zip – the mouse pranced across the desktop and clicketty-click grabbed my eyes: Global Village Program.
The Global Village program is a series of short-term trips designed to provide an educational and spiritual experience within a cross-cultural environment. Through new relationships formed amongst team members, and with the host affiliate, participants have the opportunity to personally witness and contribute to HFHI’s efforts to eliminate substandard housing throughout the world. There are more than 1,900 active affiliates in 83 countries, including all 50 states, and my heart was racing at the very thought - a possibility to go far away to help someone a little less fortunate, an opportunity to wake from the nightmare and experience a dream. My cries had been heard.
Of all the places listed, I have no idea how I chose Africa, but I’m glad it all happened the way it did. Still, I find it hard to look my mother in the face, the one who hoped and prayed and wished I wouldn’t go, and tell her I didn’t want to come back. How do you possibly explain it when you yourself don’t understand? I don’t think that’s what she had in mind when she told me to “follow my heart”.
We were sitting in her living room and she said, “You’re somewhere else aren’t you?”
I fluttered back tears then tried the best I could to explain, “If I could have . . . I would have stayed longer.”
As hard as I try I just cannot explain the experience I had or the people I met, or the floating-above-ground feeling that it all gave me. It’s taken four months and twenty-two pages written and re-written again to finally start to digest what stopped my heart, made my head spin, and sent me for a loop-de-loop. Four months to figure out what propelled me halfway around the world, to find myself right back here in Minnesota wanting to sell everything I own to live out of a backpack.
It’s been anything but easy. It’s been time consuming, frustrating, exciting, stressful, and unbelievable all bundled into one intangible package - a package my dad helped me unwrap. He said, “Honey, if you’re meant to go, you’ll find a way,” then he helped me find it.
His advice was to pray. Praying is something I haven’t quite mastered. I usually pray just after I’ve done something incredibly naughty, or just about the time I find myself in a horrendous “pickle” I can’t seem to get out of. I wasn’t even sure anyone wanted to hear my prayers, but for once I took the advice of the wise man I know as my father, and I prayed. Well, I prayed and I worked my butt off. Those four years of college I wasn’t utilizing came in handy.
“Those who bring sunshine to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves.” It was a quote written on a card I once received, and it became the slogan for my campaign: Spread the Sunshine. I wrote letters asking for donations, sent out information packets to family, friends, neighbors, businesses, and old boyfriends - anyone who would take one got one. I sold crafts, furniture and most items I owned that someone would buy. I babysat and dog sat - I did everything I could think of that would get the money I needed.
My family, friends, and people who didn’t even know me found it in their hearts to help. Maybe they knew they were going to change lives, that they were giving much more than a donation, that they would give hope and grasp dreams. Maybe they just wanted to prove that anything, anything at all, is possible, because that’s what they did.
Many people asked if I was crazy, and wondered why I wanted to go to Africa. I didn’t know exactly what to say when they asked me why, but I did know that accepting the opportunity to live and work in a village in Africa would change me. I knew I would learn about poverty housing, development challenges, international economics, world cultures, HFHI’s mission and purpose, and I knew I would learn about myself.
At Christmas time I hear about angels and people declared saints. Well, this particular “Christmas” I met eleven “saints”. They overflowed with character, skill, talent and experiences. There were no visible halos or large fluffy wings, but in their presence I could just feel it – the energy that radiated off of them. They weren’t sent to Uganda simply to build houses. They were brought together to build lives and revive souls. Their palms stretched out and they offered their best to “the team”, the village, and to me.
At the time I began this holiday experience, I was not aware of any special talents I could contribute. In fact I feared I wouldn’t be good at building a home at all, and even worse I feared I would be in the way. I wasn’t sure I had anything to bring to “the offering”, so sheepishly I went forward prepared for the worst. My fears faded and the blessings came. Everything I needed was stuffed deep down inside right beneath my nose. It didn’t take long to conjure up what I was going to offer, because I had it with me all along. I just misplaced it for awhile. It was me, plain old Heidi. I would give of myself wholeheartedly, and the building would begin.
These magical blessings started with Wanda Smith, my mission leader who lives in Indiana. She found my application, suffered many e-mails, a lot of questions - even survived a few high-pitched squeals and thankyou thankyou thankyous, before inviting me to join the team. A guidance counselor who has led twelve missions to Africa (this was number 13), she impressed me with her experience and gave me the honor of being a part of something spectacular.
Santa may have seven reindeer, but Wanda had twelve hearts: David Diehle, Donald Woods, Bruce and Naomi Garbisch, Julie Antelman, George and Leslye Johnson, Alison McKechnie, Lonnie Rumig, Ruby Tam, and myself, Heidi Cunningham.
David, a very tall twenty-four year-old with brown, crazy, fro-like hair teaches 6th and 7th grade English and Gym class at a Catholic school in Chicago, IL. Donald, in his thirties, works as an IT Security Manager for a gigantic pharmaceutical company in Pennsylvania. Bruce, a fifty-four year-old family physician, and his sixteen year-old daughter, Naomi, come from Cook, MN. Julie, a sixty-eight year-old grandmother, works in Chicago at the National Opinion Research Center. George and Leslye reside near Washington D.C. where George works on new drug development for the National Cancer Institute, and Leslye on infectious diseases for the National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases. Alison and Lonnie originate from Canada. Alison works in human resources and Lonnie is a correctional officer. Ruby is a biotech in San Francisco, CA where she works in process and product development. I myself am a twenty-four year-old who at the time was working in a small office in Plymouth, MN.
When I go on a trip I know I’m going to learn something. I’ll learn something about the place I’m going to, the people or maybe about myself. I definitely learned a lot about myself, and I learned about love. Leslye and George taught me about loving one another. They are married, and while on our trip they celebrated their 34th wedding anniversary. Leslye is a diabetic. One night we were sitting around our lantern when Leslye “had an episode.” She started to ask a question and she couldn’t quite get it out. No one really knew what was wrong with her except George. He jumped up, ran to her room and got her juice. The meeting ended and Leslye went to lie down.
Lonnie taught the lesson of loving a stranger. A natural protector, he constantly made the team feel safe and secure. Of everyone, Lonnie “opened himself up” most. He made friends with some of the nationals, and he would sit on their porch drinking coffee and swapping stories. His girlfriend Allison demonstrated what it means to love to teach. She graced the team with her cheeky smile and with her talent for work and children. She made me believe in the mission and in myself.
Ruby taught the beauty in loving to learn. Her thirst for knowledge was never quenched. Innocent by nature, she showed us how to fearlessly ask and ask and ask. I didn’t have to ask Donnie for his “love of laughter” presentation. It was a must for him. He cracked jokes, sang songs, and put on a shadow-show with wax figurines which he made from used mosquito candles. As much as Donnie’s love lesson came without coaxing, so did Wanda’s. She has a never-ending supply of energy and zest, an admirable passionate for every aspect of life.
Most important (at the time) of all my love lessons, was the lesson Julie and David taught me, to love myself. I was talking to Julie one day telling her that I worried I wasn’t much help building this home. She just looked at me and smiled. Then she said, “You are blessed with a talent to connect with people.” Later it was David who told me no one on the team would have gotten to know Betty (the head cook) if I hadn’t brought her “out of her shell”. Those two short, brief sentences taught me to look at myself, and smile. In this enchanted village where only roosters keep the time and worries last a day, the place where dancing feet march to the beat of a church drum down long dirt roads, through the maze of the market, to the field where footballs and cattle play, where bright yellow dresses, and beautiful brave voices seem to warm your coldest thoughts - I had been taught my purpose: To love and connect with people.
I may not have been the best brick layer and my homebuilding skills need some work, but when it came to the children, the women, the homeowners – I made a difference. I helped them laugh. I showed interest in their life and their culture, and I answered some of their questions about America. I asked them to teach me how to cook the dishes they serve, and to tell me about their customs. Much more than I helped them or taught them, I learned from them and grew. I was right there breathing the air, touching the people, wiping the orange dirt from my skin; but it didn’t seem real. It hardly seemed possible that I was in Africa being a part of what I had only seen in movies and read in books.
Gift II: Angels
I wasn’t dashing through the snow, or walking in a winter wonderland, and what I was building was not a frosty snowman. I didn’t get to slide down any ice shimmering hills, or hear sleigh bells ringing nearby, but the day was holy and “stars” were shining bright.
My eyes twinkled as they ping-ponged up and down, side to side, ricocheting off one object and onto the next: men with guns standing along the roads and in the villages, random cows and goats, people in the ditches picking crops and cutting grass with machetes, luscious green plants with beautifully colored flowers, and women working with their children bandaged to their back. I was astonished that the tightly wrapped cloth, knotted just above the women’s breast and just under her belly, would hold her child.
I had trouble focusing and processing the organized chaos in the streets of Kampala. Taxis (15 passenger vans), boda-bodas (small motorcycle-type-vehicles with passengers), bicycles, and people walking wove in and out of each other, so close a quarter could barely be slid between them. There were no street signs, and no speed limits in this country where transportation is an art. Wood piles, large crates, gigantic banana bunches, furniture – they are all transported on the back of a bicycle. The sun was hot and the day was long. The people didn’t sport a stocking caps upon their heads. Clothing, banana leaves, and water to drink, that’s what rests up at their top. The African culture, and their way of doing things, were different. Some would say not as advanced, but I was impressed and found it refreshing.
We stayed in the city of Kampala only one not-so-silent night before driving two-and-a-half hours to a small village. Music boomed, guard dogs barked, “baby-crying” birds squawked, and Hmong prayed, but I slept beneath the ceiling veil protected from the mosquitoes. When I awoke Timothy and Omar came. They’ve been the drivers for most of Wanda’s missions, and they delivered us to the village in Butansi sub-county in Naluwoli Parish in the district of Kamuli – it’s all a little confusing to me. I’m still not sure if the village name is Butansi, Naluwoli, Kantu or Bakusekamajja, but I didn’t need to know the name, because I will never forget the “face”.
When we arrived in the Kamuli district, where we went to the government offices, we were announced and “received”. We signed the guest book stating our names, where we were from, and our purpose for being there. Many people shook our hands and said, “You are welcome.”
After visiting the government offices we traveled into the village and enjoyed this amazing welcoming ceremony. Mouths gracefully glided up to earlobes and teeth peek-a-booed out from behind bashful hands. Beautiful brown children slowly became animated singing and dancing their welcome to us. Their bright sunshine school dresses made the announcement – in this village the light will shine.
Arriving in the village and living there for two weeks . . . it was this indescribable feeling. Fingers reached up to the clouds and moved side to side brushing hello. Like toys in a Nutcracker production, the children wound themselves up and shuffled to the road cackling and carrying on about the visitors, the “mazungas” (white people). Women young and old, folded down upon bended knees, lifting their arms to shake our hands. Men stopped working and gave a head shake or flashed some pearly whites. The First Lady, Miss America, the most popular girl in my graduating class - I doubted any of them knew what this felt like.
There was no electricity; no television, telephone, refrigerator – none of the conveniences I was used to at home. Of course there were things I missed, but I was happy to forget “the clock”. I gladly retired my watch, because the “sunshine people” didn’t wear a watch. They had no clock. They got up in the morning when the rooster crowed. They ate lunch when the rooster crowed. They went to bed after the sun set. They didn’t tick-tock their moments away. On their way to work they asked each other, “how are you?”, and they stopped to listen to the reply. There was no hurry-hurry rush-rush, gotta-go gotta-get-this-and-that-and-the-other-thing done, now, right-now - sorry, talk to you later. Not keeping track of time was wonderful. I didn’t worry about yesterday or tomorrow, or who was waiting for me, because they knew I would get there when the time was right. I walked a long road to work, and along the way I meet neighbors and the members of the community.
One of the greatest things about this mission was the people that I met. Joanne is a twenty-four year-old woman who works for National Habitat for Humanity in Kampala. She accompanied us to the village and stayed until we were settled in. One day she giggled a delightful belly chuckle and said, “hm . . . you are more and more Ugandan every day.” I took that as a great compliment, because the people in Uganda are absolutely beautiful. They praise life and let their spirit celebrate freely. It sings and dances, “mmmms” and “hmmmmms” all over the place, whenever and wherever it wants. And when I say dances, I mean really dances shakin’ shakin’ all over the place in every direction. It’s awesome. Some of the children in the village tried to teach me how to dance, but I must have been rejoicing to a different tune, because my body wasn’t going in the same directions as theirs (smile).
There were teachers, and there were managers. Wilson is a member of HFH Uganda at the Butansi-Kamuli affiliate. He was a manager. He assisted with most aspects of our trip. Wilson, Stephen, David, Dinah, and Reverend Charles took care of our needs. In every action, every smile, every gesture, every meal, every possible way, these people made us feel welcome. I was impressed and touched by their efforts.
I worked on house #34. Prior to this the only homes I had ever built were made of cards, gingerbread or candy, but they were constructed with care. House #34, for homeowner George, was built with more precision and love than any of the homes I had mastered.
Each day I heard the Wanda-produced caca-doodle-doo outside my sleeping corridors. Since I conducted my solar bag showers and tupperware sponge baths in the afternoon, I would dress, brush my teeth, visit the latrine and prepare for breakfast. While eating banana cakes, dry bread, mango or papaya, and drinking tea our team would discuss the agenda for the day. Then, our work group would walk the dirt road to George’s place.
Typically George was not ready for us (smile), but he always welcomed us with a grin and had a warm greeting - “Good morning Heid (he had a difficult time pronouncing my name)”.
“Hi George,” I would giggle, bopping over to give him a hug.
During this self-proclaimed holiday of mine, our team did not perform any well known symphonies or popular seasonal plays. However, each of us did play a part in George’s masterpiece. I found my spot in line where one by one we passed bricks. I marched into place and began the mixing, “plopping”, or evening of mortar. I precisely pointed, and perfectly “plumb bobbed”. George and the nationals led, and I graciously followed.
I did not indulge in hot apple cider or any eggnog, but I did enjoy tea. Just as I have my holiday traditions, theirs were tea drinking and proper eating customs, one of which was to wash your hands before each meal. One person would hold the soap and wash tub, and another person would pour water over my hands as I cleansed them. Once I washed, I was ready.
Tea time was similar to going to my grandmother’s. Usually just a few hours after I had eaten breakfast or lunch we had tea. This often meant I wasn’t extremely hungry, but no matter what – I was not allowed to say no to tea. I tried, but there was no success.
One time a few of us walked away from tea and went to play at the football field. A child was sent to tell us it was time for tea. Another time while working on George’s home, I walked out to the road to play with some of the “pupils” (children). George walked up to inform me it was tea time. “No thanks George,” I said. George smiled and took me by the hand, “Yes Heid come for tea”. There is no skipping out on tea (smile).
During tea time the nationals sat separate from us (the HFH team members). For me it was kind of like sitting at the “kiddy” table and wondering what they were doing at the “grown-up” table, so one day I asked George why it was set up like this. He explained that we were honored guests. At my request the next day we all sat together. It was uncomfortably quiet, and I realized that the nationals were very uneasy. It was later brought to my attention that not only was tea and meal time a moment for them to relax and be without us, most of the men were not accustomed to eating with women. In their culture they eat separately. Most of them don’t work with women either, so this was a big adjustment. Once this was pointed out to me I told George we didn’t have to eat together.
George replied, “Oh no Heid, we will eat together. Everyone wants to eat together,” so we did. As the days passed and we spent more and more tea breaks and lunch times together, it became more comfortable and enjoyable, and being able to sit under one orange-tarped roof made me very happy. We had good company and good food.
My favorite thing to eat there was samosa. It’s this triangular-shaped fried pastry of sorts that has beans, and peas, and all sorts of yummy things inside it. Betty (the head cook at our work site) made the best samosa I had on my entire trip.
Betty is a very interesting woman. She was married at the age of 15 and has six children. Her husband is a teacher. One of her children, Jonah, came to the work site with her each day. I wanted nothing more than to hold him in my lap and give him a huge hug, but he was very shy. The more time I spent at the work site the closer Jonah got. Eventually I held him, hugged him, played games with him, and loved every moment his small hand would find mine.
Each morning when I arrived at the work site, just before I gave them a huge hug, I would shout, “Good Morning Betty, Good Morning Jonah!” I had been told that Africans are not the most “huggy” people. They shake hands a lot. They also hold hands while talking, so it’s not uncommon to see two men walking down the street holding hands. However, I’m a “huggy” person. I love hugs and I love to give hugs, and sometimes I’m so excited I can’t help but hug someone. Needless to say, a lot of Africans got hugged!
My request to have all of us together at meals, was not the only one I made. I also wanted to spend a day cooking with Betty. I was honored to have the opportunity to do just that. One day instead of working on the home, I worked in the cooking area. I learned how to make “G-nut” sauce. It’s a ground nut sauce kind of like a runny peanut butter. To make just that sauce, it took what seemed like hours. I had to cook the nuts, grind the nuts, and mix the nuts with water and oil. It doesn’t sound hard, but without a blender or a mixer it was a bit more difficult than I anticipated.
It takes a really long time to prepare meals and just as I finished up the first meal, it was time to start the second. Lunch and dinner meals were quite large. They consisted of things such as rice, beans, chicken, soup, cabbage and fish. There’s not a ton of variety in the food and there are no spices. After two-and-a-half weeks of the same dishes we all missed the variety of the food back home.
One day while in town I did have some popcorn. It was nothing special, in fact had I been home I would have declared it stale and thrown it out, but since it was something different from what I had been eating it was a treat. Another treat was my cold soda. Wanda had rented a generator to run a small fridge and we all got cold sodas. We had bottled water and soda available the entire trip, but a cold soda - that was delicious. Cold sodas and peanut butter cookies, they became my consumption highlight.
Julie has a daughter who lives in Kampala. One afternoon she drove out for a visit. As a surprise she made us peanut butter cookies. Nothing fancy, no sprinkles, nuts, or chunky chocolate pieces - I wouldn’t have picked the peanut butter cookies if there were any other options, but there were not. They were the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.
Preparing meals kept the women very busy. Men do not cook in Uganda, and when I told Betty that some men in America cook, she roared with laughter. Betty also roared with laughter when George told her about “The Rooster”.
One day while eating lunch I was talking to homeowner George and his brother Mathias about the rooster, and how noisy it is in the morning. The strange look on George and Mathias’ faces, told me they didn’t understand a word I was saying. So, I said, “Rooster” and bent my arms, shoving my hands beneath my armpits . . .“you know, rooster, Ba-gock!,” I tried to explain, as I stood up shuffling one foot into the dirt, lifting it up to my bottom, and repeating the action with the other foot. Finally, I pointed at one of the crazy birds wandering around. George and Mathias raised their eyebrows and clapped their hands laughing – they understood. I don’t remember what word they use to describe a rooster, but it is not “rooster”.
Many nights after completing my work I would go to the football field. David, Donald and Naomi would play football or baseball, and I would play with the kids. This was my favorite time, because this was when we sang “Katwe Shime”.
The ritual started early on during our stay. I was watching a football game and the children had gathered across from me. Slowly, one by one, they slid themselves over to me. I think they were attracted to, and curious about, my light skin and blonde hair. Like a bug to a light they got closer and closer and closer until they sat in my lap and rested their hands upon me. Not knowing if they understood English, I smiled at them and asked about the songs they had sung. That’s all it took to produce my “caroling” choir.
Smiling at them I’d ask, “Will you sing?”
“Yes,” they quietly responded.
Wrinkling my nose and looking confused I questioned, “I can’t hear you . . . do you want to sing?”
They shouted, “Yes!”
My forehead crinkled, I raised my brows, asking a final time, “Do you want to sing?”
Their hands and abdomen squeezed tightly, they proclaimed, “Yes!!”
“Ok then, KATWE SHIME . . .” I would belt out the words with my carolers, “KATWE SHIME FENA, ASHEMEREREWE, BUULI MUNTU YENA, HABITAT WETUSE . . .,” and as everyone heard us coming they would gather near our corridors. My caroling choir paraded down the dirt road brighter and more famous than the Holidazzle as we performed for our spectators. Long after I ran out of breath, they would still be singing and clapping as if they were performing for the King himself. My ears were never so pleased. My mind tried desperately to record it, and I still hear those children singing that song and clapping their hands. I can feel my feet dancing down that path surrounded by smiles, and I remember when I was a Queen.
Gift III: A Path
The boughs of holly, ringing salvation bells, fuzzy red hats, and Santa and his helpers were nowhere in sight, but there was shopping to be done. On Fridays the village has a local market where you gather to buy and sell goods. You can purchase food, clothing, and cooking utensils – all sorts of things. I attended the market just to “take it all in”.
One Friday while I was there three men stood just on the other side of the dirt road, directly across from me. One of them clenched a bottle in a paper sack. Another straddled a bicycle with an upside-down chicken roped to the handle bars. The third man stood with his weight on one leg, his other leg bent, and his hands crossed at his chest. He had a disgusted look upon his face. It appeared he was not in the “holiday spirit”. As I was people watching, so was he. Our team provided the nationals with a lot of “people watching” moments. One of my personably most notable moments was when we traveled to a nearby market.
Piled in the back of a truck, I’m sure we looked as out of place as a truck full of Africans in tribal gear would look back home. Betty accompanied us on this remarkable adventure which brought us to a market near the Nile. Her beautiful sequined dress reflecting the sun in rainbows, told me she was proud to go with us. On the way there we saw four monkeys in the road. We all stood up and scurried about, trying to see them as they retreated into the trees. When we passed beneath the trees, I could see them looking at us through the leafy camouflage. Before reaching the market we stopped along the Nile at a fisherman’s landing. It began to rain and we took shelter in an abandoned building with some nationals arriving from the other side of the river. The cattle bathed and grazed, and their herder glanced from close by. The rain let up and we continued on our way. After visiting the market we regrouped and ventured back to the village, but before we arrive it started to pour. It was a cold, clothes-sticking-to-your-body rain, and Betty sheltered me from it. She used some cloth from her beautiful dress to cover me. As Faruke (our driver in the village) drove steadily to get us home, I smiled beneath the rainbows.
You can only drive so fast on dirt roads in the rain. Driving isn’t the only task the rain complicates. Walking to church also proved to be a challenge. On Sundays the rooster gets some assistance. The beating of a drum called us to church. Almost no one was on time, but by the time the service had ended the church had filled. I was walking the muddy path to the church when I almost fell on my “bum”. Looking up at some green parrots I lost my footing, but managed to slip and slide my way to my place on the hard wooden bench.
“It is not Habitat who brought us here. It is not we ourselves who brought us here. It is God who brought us here.” This came from Wanda’s lips, and I believed every word. It was honest and full of truth.
Truth is not always easy, and the truth remains that I am proud of who I am, but there were many times during this “banana leaf Christmas” that I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed for what these heavenly creatures, these forgiving angels, didn’t have that I do. I was embarrassed that so easily I had gotten overwhelmed, and bellyached about my nightmare life, while they battle the darkness without a whisper. No hot showers or elaborate meals, and some without a job or a bicycle, yet they praise God every day. They thank him for the food they are blessed with, and the dirt homes where they live. They rejoiced while I had cursed the hand I did not think helped me. I don’t believe they ever stare at the footprints in the sand with bewilderment, because they know whose feet left the prints. They didn’t question the opportunities they don’t have, and I didn’t realizing the ones that I do.
“I am looking at teachers, physicians, chemists, doctors . . . but it will never happen for them,” Bruce said while we were visiting one of the schools. There was talent all around. In the village one child made an amplifier out of a plastic jug, an old radio, and some wire he found, and it worked. Another designed a cornstalk AK47 toy gun. There was also a boy who made a paper camera. When he pulled on one part of it, another part would move like the shutter of a camera. He ran ahead of us on the path to the football field, stopped, turned around and “took a picture” just as he had seen all of us doing.
I had brought some pictures of my family and season changes. The nationals enjoyed looking at them. They just looked through them again and again, and asked a lot of questions about my life and what it’s like in America.
I didn’t tell them that I have hot water to take a shower. That I don’t bathe from a tupperware tub. I left out that I sit on a seat when I go to the bathroom, eliminating the challenge of having to balance amongst spiders and insects. I didn’t mention my car or cell phone, and I secretly hid the wide variety of foods, spices, clothing, and appliances I have.
When they asked me what it’s like, “I said it’s nice, but it’s nice here too.” I don’t know if one lifestyle is better or harder than the other – certainly not everyone in America has it easy. I have no idea how I would feel if I lived there, and came to visit here. What I did know was that I was excited to have my hair plaited (braided), to wear a special African dress to house dedication, to eat the food they prepared with such care, and to build, dance and sing with them. I was honored to take part in their culture and learn about their customs, and as hard as it was for me to get to Uganda, it was more difficult to leave.
The day of house dedications I sang, ate, and celebrated. I stayed up late into the night dancing by the light of a flashlight trying hard to savor every moment. All too soon the flashlights turned off, the children went home, and I retired to my sleeping bag – good byes would come too soon.
When we first arrived to the village the sun had smiled upon us. During our departure the skies sadly wept. There were no songs or amazing dances. Most of the adults and children stayed inside, but not Betty. In her tan button-down blouse and long skirt she walked in the rain, the burnt-orange dirt crept up her flip-flops. She came anyway.
“I didn’t sleep all night, because I knew you were leaving and I will not see you again,” she said looking away from me.
I tried hard, but I could not clinch my teeth tight enough, or roll my eyes high enough to delay the tears. The tears consoled each other in my bottom lids, and hung their heads as they slid down my cheek. I embraced the small woman I had not known three weeks earlier, and hugged her tight. Feeling like something had just suffocated the breath right out of me, I wanted more than anything to tell her she was wrong, to tell her I would be back - but I didn’t know that was true. Most likely it was not, so I didn’t say anything. I blew out a puckered grin, and painfully let go. The rest of my goodbyes were quick and unloving – it just hurt too much, so I hopped into the taxi and left homes, memories and friends behind.
I can’t think of anything better I could have done with three weeks of my life. In Africa, at night, I didn’t just see the bold bright star, I saw every tiny little dust speck of a star. It was breath-stopping and unforgettable, and I realized the sun shines even in the darkness.
I didn’t expect to find myself in the smiles and songs in Africa, or to be sent barefooted angels who dress in tattered clothing and ride “clinkety” bicycles. I was pleasantly surprised when they snuck up to the window of my heart and ever so gently opened the window to let my very soul out to dance, to sing, to build, and to believe. I was incredibly humbled when amongst the banana leaves the “chocolate angels” sang and danced me back onto my path, a path that recently brought me to Africa.
Biography of Heidi Cunningham