Sunday, July 2
Currently: Guest House Balcony, Kampala: 8am
I guess I can choose 1 of 3 options as to why I ended up in Fort Portal. 1) I'm a sucker who simply can't say no to desperation; 2) It was chance; 3) God. Maybe God knew I wouldn't say no, so He rigged it up that Mark would be in the same city on the other side of the world at the same time. And then He changed our plans. Neither Mark or I know why things went the way they did. I now sit here three days after returning to Kampala, trying to figure out God's purposes in all of this. I don't know. Fort Portal was an experience, though. After five hours of driving on what could possibly be the best road in Uganda, we arrived at the local government leader's office. Our mission for the trip: meet the leaders and check out the work that David and his wife Linda had been doing the villages through the organization. After engaging in some small talk with the government officials, we hopped in David's Toyota Corolla and headed to the villages. Roads do not exist, so we went offroading along the foot paths, traveling from house to house. The organization has been working on providing goats and pigs for the villagers for financial and physical assistance. Our first stop was Dorothy's place. She lived in a typical village house: small, 20' x 10', mud enclosed, tin-roofed building. The mud was cracking off the house, revealing it's supporting latchwork of bamboo sticks. Dorothy lived with two orphaned boys and an elderly lady. And Dorothy was crippled. Here the kids did not smile. All four of them sat on the back step of the house, waiting for the westerner to arrive. The westerner arrived, shook hands, attempted conversation and was quickly led away to check on the pigs. They were alive and well. And so, like the Canadian tourist I had just become, we walked away from the pigs, past the family to the car where we drove to the next project house. And at each house we stopped at, the westerner was told about the tragic situation of those living within its walls, and how more funds were needed to better their lives.
I, the westerner, appeared to have dollar bills dancing around my head. I had become the sole target of a fundraiser, representing the material wealth that is North America to the material poverty that is Africa.
Midday, we stopped for lunch at a local house, where I was treated to the new tastes of millet (sp?) and chicken gizzard. My stomach held firm. Following a few more house visits and fund requests, we came to another project. Along a dusty Ugandan road was a small brick-making operation by some of the youth of the village. Here, before funds were even available, a young man by the name of Robert had organized a mini operation. And through a little ingenuity, an elderly man had built a water system and mud stomping machine to help in the process. It was my highlight of the day. Here were people putting their minds to work without financial assistance. Of course, the fund request came, but it game me an opportunity to understand a concept brought up at the conference -- the best resource is the mind. Ingenuity, practicality...thought had gone into this operation. It was here that I saw hope for Africa. A young man and an elderly man had put their minds to work to give them purpose. Asking for an opportunity to speak, I commended the two for putting their minds to work, for working together, for not waiting for the funds. And to the crowd that was gathered, I daringly advised them that their minds and their hearts is where to start progress, not with outside funds. I pray those words do not fall on deaf ears.
With that said, the crowds dispersed and we headed for our home in Fort Portal. We stayed with Charles, a youth pastor in the local Anglican church, and his wife. It was a joy to stay with this couple, he an amazing man of God. ...hard to describe. The next day we visited the local market where everything from soap to cows were being sold. It is here that the tradesman, the crafters, entrepreneurs and farmers gather to buy and sell, eeking out a living on their hard labours. Following the spectacle, David and Linda dropped me off outside of the Anglican church to walk home while they visited a family. As I walked back to the house, I noticed a small cemetery behind the church. About 12 gravestones covered the small plot, dating from as far back as 1906. One grave was for the first black Bishop in North, East and South Africa. As I left the graveyard, I seemed to have walked onto a scene from a movie. Walking past the church, I heard the sound of a small choir resonating from inside its walls. Curious, I removed my hat and walked into the tail end of a time of fellowship. As the service ended, the people joined in song as they greeted eachother and left the sanctuary. I spent some time with the dean, who greeted me, and returned home with Perez, a local, and Sandra, a friend of the family and missionary from Colorado. Some of the neighbourhood kids were playing in the front yard as we returned. While they played, and while we talked, I picked up a girl about 2 years old and held her in my arms. She was as content as could be, so I wasn't too keen on letting her go. After a while, we went inside where Sandra and Charles showed some of the pictures of their work, and the children left for their own homes. At 9pm, we had bread and tea. An hour later, we had supper. We ate our meal under the glow of an oil lamp as the rolling brownouts had left Fort Portal in the dark. By 11pm, supper was over and it was time for a shower. Running water is not existent there, so my shower consisted of a bucket of water, a washcloth and soap.
The following day consisted of more visiting, more fund requests, more chicken gizzard, and a party in my...er, Ginger & Mark's honour. There were speeches, there were dramas, there was dancing and there were songs dedicated to Ginger and Mark. The villagers had prepared so long for their arrival that it just made sense to sing their songs as practiced. None of us had planned a last minute change. It was a privilege to observe the event as it played out, to speak on behalf of Ginger and Mark, and to receive gifts on their behalf. I'm glad the hen was for David. The final drama gave a clear and disheartening picture of how the villagers viewed their own situation. While tsks of acknowledgment echoed beside my years, I watched as a poor father confronted the fact that his daughter had become pregnant..a direct result of his inability to provide for her education. This, followed by the monologue of the mother as she confronts the beast, whose name is 'Poverty'.
It now leaves me with the question: will a people who see themselves as poor ever recognize the riches they have in their mind and their heart?
The drama was meant to break my heart over the state of their poverty. It didn't. What breaks my heart is that they see me as their only solution. Western money will not solve the poverty of Africa. This I have heard from the church leaders of Africa. This I have come to know from my experiences in Fort Portal. How can a fatalistic people ever see past their material poverty? By recognizing that the root of the poverty is in their minds. To quote Darrow Miller in "Discipling Nations", the mindset I have seen in Fort Portal is this: " 'I am poor. I will always be poor, and there is nothing I can do about it.' (fatalism) Or, as many say today, 'I am poor because others made me poor. They are going to have to solve my problem. I cannot' ".
So now, today -- Sunday -- this leaves me with the question: what do I, as a North American white Christian male do about the poverty in Africa? How can I support them without supporting their mindset of poverty and need for Western money? How does an entire nation come to recognize the wealth in their minds? In Uganda, I have observed this: a country desperately trying to become 'Westernized' by culture, by wealth, and by religion. I see a country not economically or infrastructurally capable of obtaining this goal...and in fact, I fear them achieving it. The western world has lost our path...and we are leading the rest of the world astray. I saw more joy in Uganda than I have ever seen in Canada.
I see in Africa a people who have so much unrecognized, unacknowledged potential, only being told by the parent what it should do, how it should do it, and then given an allowance to do only what the parent wants and thinks is best for the child. And while these discussions take place, I have seen in Northern Uganda a people at war with itself. But it was there, in Kitgum, at the FHI base that I saw hope for Africa. A people determined to not be wiped out. A people determined to see change, to see lives transformed -- not by money, because money would have no use there -- but by recognizing one's own potential to create change. By recognizing that a healthy spiritual life is not the end all and be all. It's where one starts the process of renewing the mind, the heart, the soul and strength. There is hope for Africa. Pray for it.
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