Quick Trip up to Kampala

I took a 3 day “hiatus” to return to Kampala to meet up with Kelly Christian. (Kelly grew up at my Church, St. John’s, and wanted to visit Tanzania, so we arranged that I would “collect” her in Kampala and deliver her at the Bishop’s house). She had been working with Solar Light for Africa, a Christian NGO that installed solar panels in remote villages, for the last 2 weeks. It was somewhat amusing to join the small world of these 23 students and spend 24 hours with the group. Most of the students had just graduated from high school or had just begun college. They had had a very comfortable, regulated trip with security guards, stayed in nice hotels the whole time, and ate only safe American food. Curfews at 10pm...They couldn’t even cross the street unsupervised. Everything was regulated and planned out for them. When I told them about what I had been doing over the last month, I think they were a bit surprised at the disparity between our experiences: almost dying on a motorcycle, crossing borders every week, traveling alone, sleeping and eating out in the bush without electricity, losing all my luggage, having to make all decisions regarding money, etc. They were great kids and they were having a ball the whole trip...jokes, fun and games. It was good to be around people that were enjoying themselves so much and took Africa with such lightness and optimism. I think I was getting a bit grounded down...assuming the worst in situations, yet stoic about everything. These kids made me see that I might be taking myself a bit too seriously and I should lighten up a bit.

Kelly’s team left the Entebbe airport (where the Last King of Scotland hostage crisis happened) on Friday evening, and Kelly and I got a free ride back up to Kampala. We were advised by the NGO to go to a new hotel in the posh hotel district. Kelly insisted on paying for everything while we were in Kampala since I was taking time to come out to bring her back to Tanzania, so it was nice not have to worry about money for a few days. The hotel was run by a bunch of Indian guys that were somewhat annoying and pushy. The room was very overpriced and small, but since we were tired as dogs and didn’t want to spend the time and money hiring another taxi and find another hotel we settled for this place.

We took motorcycles 5 minutes into the city. It was Kelly’s first moto ride, and I instructed the two motorcycle drivers to “go very slow...polay polay”!!! (slow in Swahili) They did and we inched along through the insane Kampala traffic. We got money out at the Bank and went to my favorite Indian restaurant again (the one I took Canon John and his family a couple weeks previous) and enjoyed a delicious dinner of Chicken masala, curry, nan, and a single beautiful beer. I hadn’t had any alcohol for a month, because the church here is vigorously against it and see it as sinful as theft. So I abstain for the sake of my brothers here, but when the opportunity comes up, I enjoy the fruit of the land.

After a somewhat stressful and frustrating morning with Indian hotel manager who treated us like children, but was completely incompetent with what he was doing, we boarded the bus to Bukoba Tanzania, and 2 cliff bars, 100 pages in my new novel King Solomon’s Mines, a rain storm, and 6 hours of rumbling noise we arrived into the arms of the Bishop and his family.

To make things comfortable and easier for Kelly’s transition out of posh life with her NGO, I have moved out of the guestroom to let her have own space. There is another little concrete house behind the main house where Fadihili stays, and Mama Josephine fixed me up a nice bed next to Fadihili’s bed. There’s a little bathroom, only accessible from the outside, next to my room that I now use...an old rusty bicycle folded in half is crumpled in the corner and other junk sits on one side of the room, while a pipe in the ground serves a general drain for showers and washing on the other side. I kind of like using it and enjoy the rustic feeling of it.

This morning we set off in the church mini van to go visit a church an hour away out in the bush. However 3 miles later, some dudes along side of the dusty dirt road shouted at us and pointed at the back tire...flat and hissing away. We got out, had some of the locals help the driver fix the tire, and then waited for the driver to drive back and switch cars. He pulled up to our little stranded group in a cloud of dust, revving the engine of the ancient Land Rover. We hulled down the dirt road...now late to church. Of course the church would not start until we had arrived, but of course we had to go through the formality of having breakfast at the pastor’s house before going to the church. The pastor was a jolly, roly-poly, pastor with two lazy eyes, and ran out to meet us in a big black robe with a white rope tied around his thick waist.

We arrived in glen and I spied a beautiful stone church with a bell tower overlooking a gentle slopping valley. “Is that the church?” I asked with some excitement. “No, that’s the Lutheran church.” It seems like all the nice churches around here are Lutheran. (Tanzania used to be a German colony). We pulled up to little makeshift tent with a cross made of sticks on it. It had no proper walls, just cloth and sticks and reeds to keep out the rain and wind, and soft grass on the dirt floor. We walked to the vestry, which we crammed with half a dozen clergy with their bags of robes and everyone, including the bishop, struggled into their vestments in the cramped little room, and then processed in to an exuberant congregation. They didn’t have much of church building, but boy they had the Spirit moving there! They began the service with a confirmation of a dozen children and received two women who had been Catholics, then after a few songs by the choir, I got up to preach on Matthew 7 and talked about spiritual fruit and how we can be fruitful Christians. They were a wonderfully responsive congregation and shouted “Amen” every now and then. It was very fun. Then we followed the Holy Communion service in the Tanzania prayer book (which is a direct translation of the 1662 Book of Common Prayer in Swahili...for those who care). Kelly and I got up and were presented with gifts from the church and the Mothers Union (a purple mat, a woven little bag full of peanuts that hung around our necks, and a cow hide with our names engraved on it). We gave some speeches and then went outside and with great pomp and ceremony laid the cornerstone of the stone church building they intend to build this coming year. They had made a plaque with the following painted on it: “The corner stone of this buildings is put by Mr. Benjamen Moore and Kelly Christian. On behalf of the fellow christens of St. John the Evangelist Anglican Church Philadelphia U.S.A. on 29th July 2007.” It was a great honor to participate in the ceremony.

We look forward to another busy week this coming week: visiting four churches tomorrow, preaching another sermon at one, then another confirmation service on Tuesday where I’ll preach again, and then heading out to Rwanda for a conference/revival meeting on Wednesday. I’ll be getting a new battery charger this weekend in Rwanda from my friends who are coming from Washington DC to the conference, so next week I’ll begin uploading pictures and hopefully videos.

Traveling with the bishop: Muleba, Tanzania

The bus ride down from Kampala Uganda to Bukoba Tanzania, seemed short and painless. Most of the time I was immersed in Kidnapped, which found in Kampala. I walked off the bus, and like whipped cream Bishop Jackton Lugamira stepped out of the crowd a few meters away with his purple shirt and his big smile. He had brought the whole family to the bus station to meet me: Josephine his wife, Fathili his son, and his daughter whose name I never quite memorized. He then headed out of the Bukoba heading south through the banana and green tea fields, catching up...them asking about friends in Philadelphia and I telling them about my adventures thus far.

We drooped down off the tarmac road after about 45 minutes on to a rough dirt road where they were still constructing the road. Then half and hour later we jolted into Muleba...the small town were the bishop lives and where the diocesan offices are. The bishop's house had a modest wall around and a gate which the driver jumped out and opened to let the mini van into. Bp. Jackton is currently renting his house as he makes plans to build a permanent one. The house has a nice living room with several couches and a TV in the corner...two exposed light bulbs hang from the ceiling are the room's light. A small hallway leads to the guestroom adjacent to small bathroom which is adjacent to the kitchen. I am currently staying in the guestroom which as electricity, a double bed, and mosquito net. I take bathes out of a red plastic basin filled with warm water carefully placed on top of the toilet and use a large measuring cup to rinse.

I have got a little routine going on, now that I've been here almost a week. Wake with sunrise, brush teeth from a water bottle, prayers, a breakfast (toast, instant coffee, papaya, porridge, and a hard boiled egg) then be whisked off to some meeting, church, or other visitation for the morning, have lunch out at where ever I am, sit through various meetings that inevitably are in Swahili (which I usually just have to sit through and daydream about whatever comes to mind), then I'm usually exhausted, come back home for an afternoon nap, take a walk around the neighborhood, take a bath, have a late dinner around 9pm, and chat with the family for a while and turn in to bed around 10. There it is.

I've really been enjoying my evening walks through acres of banana fields, then out along dirt roads, along the ridge of vast savanna plains, past mud thatched huts, and moving aside for the ringing of the bells of bicyclists on their way home from work. The sunset is beautiful and colors everything in a hue of gold and bronze, the blue sky fading from white to indigo blue, the crescent moon already high in the sky. I usually go with the bishop or his son Fathili, and we talk and muse about all sorts of things. Fathili, though he's 23, seems to be more like 19. He hasn't lived at home for more than a month since he was 13, so he barely knows his own family, and they treat him like a teenager. But I rarely meet someone so full of questions. We've talked for hours about witchcraft, virtual reality, US foreign policy, liberal theology, the Enlightenment, marriage, cultural identity, etc. He is very soft spoken and I often have to ask him to repeat what he's saying...he's very humble like his father, and he laughs a lot like his mother. It's quite relaxing to pass the gentle evenings outside and slowly watch the red dust stain my feet and sandals as we move along. There's no rush in Africa and extra time is one thing everyone has plenty of.

Last Friday I was asked to go with the bishop to a confirmation service in a parish and preach. That was quite fun. Fathili translated for me. The church floor was made of soft hay, which everyone just nestled down into when the sermon began. Then on Sunday I preached at the main church in Muleba near the diocesan offices. I was at first a bit disturbed at how unresponsive everyone seemed. I would try to make a joke and no one would move. At the end of the service they had all of these donations given by the congregation: pineapples, papaya, a thick stock of sugar cane...which were then auctioned off right there in the sanctuary. I was a bit surprised at this raw capitalism (the church wanted to have cash instead of a bunch of fruit). But I was shocked when someone in the congregation bought be three small eggs. They brought the plastic bag up to where I was sitting. I was surprised and amused. Then someone bought me three papayas, now I was quite impressed. Then someone bought me a pineapple. I was honored. I thanked the congregation, since I couldn't tell you in particular had purchased the fruit for me.

This morning I accompanied the bishop to a meeting of Christian teachers where the bishop gave a lecture on Christian education and the need to be committed to the gospel even when it costs you something. I kind of spaced out most of the time since the bishop was speaking in Swahili and my translator would only mention what he was saying every 5 minutes or so.

I'm in Bukoba now, and don't expect to be back near an Internet location in the next few days. Signing off.

Last Day in Kampala, Uganda

This morning I spoke at the chapel at Uganda Christian University. The chapel itself was a charming room with gothic windows of red brick…a remnant of old British Theological Seminary that was built here in 1922. Maybe 150 students and professors showed up for the 7:30 a.m. meeting. I gave a brief 25 minute presentation on the relationship that liberalism will have with Uganda for the next generation. I hope that my word communicated adequately the great gravity of the situation I believe that East Africa is facing. After chapel, I had several young pastors, students, and professors come and ask for a transcript of the presentation and said it was thought provoking. I can at least be thankful for that.

Tomorrow I will be back on the bus heading south along Lake Victoria into Tanzania. I will be working with a newly consecrated bishop named Jackton Lugamira and his wife Josephine. I met them last February when they were visiting Philadelphia for one month, and traveled with them to Boston for a weekend. They are truly wonderful people and like parents to me. I don’t really know exactly what Bp. Jackton will be requesting me to do, but I am up for anything he throws at me.

I’ll write again from Bukoba.

Kampala, Uganda

Friday July 13 I took a trip out to the site of where 42 royal servants were tortured and burned alive, wrapped up in reeds. The first missionaries to Uganda strategically targeted the servants of the royal family to make in roads into the Buganda Kingdom. However, the old benevolent king who was sympathetic to Christianity died, and his son took power and killed off the monotheists: Protestants, Catholics, and a few Muslims. The site was pretty interesting and had a bunch of clay figures to try to "reenact" the scene. The tree where they were tortured has huge gashes where pilgrims to the shrine teared the bark away to keep as relics of the saints. Pope John Paul made a visit to the site, and it remains an important Catholic site of martyrdom. Beside the site sits a small struggling Anglican seminary. 70 students, 5 full time faculty work diligently in the woods there to further education and develop the future church leaders of Uganda. Going back later that afternoon to Uganda Christian University was like going from grey to a burst of color and life. The University is only 15 years old, but is bursting at the seems and is already the 2nd largest University in Uganda. The atmosphere around the campus is one of progress, hope, and excitement for the future. The students are stylish and attempt to be cosmopolitan in their own way. They speak in English in their conversations rather than their local dialects. They hope to be the movers and shakers of the next generation to move Uganda into a brighter future. It is encouraging to be here in such a place of great hope and potential. But I see also so much innocence here too. Their grasp of Western culture is still quite idealistic and naive. Though most hold to strong evangelical Christian beliefs they are inadequately prepared to face the onslaught of liberal ideology and postmodern deconstructionism. If given time, it would butcher them. I expressed my concern to Canon John who agreed with me, and suggested that I give a talk open to the student body on the subject. I quickly agreed. I'm scheduled to address the student body on Tuesday morning. Saturday July 14 Canon John is an exceptionally loving and devout man. He went to seminary back when Amin was president and suffered persecution in the 1970s. Most of his classmates that he had in seminary are now bishops or vicars of large parishes. And though he is a canon (someone whose job it is to guard the church against unsound doctrine), he doesn't have the social status that many of his colleagues have. But he continues to life a life committed to the Church and to Christ. Canon John has a habit of taking orphaned boys and tucking them up under his wing and helping them get off the ground. According to tribal tradition, if a man wants to marry a woman, he goes to the woman's home before the tribal elders to ask if he can marry her. If permitted, a huge party ensues and the couple is considered lawfully married. Now for modern Ugandan Christians they continue to follow this tradition, but more with the function of being a formal engagement. On Saturday we drove 4 hours on terrible roads out to Eastern Uganda to a small town called Mbale. One of Canon John's orphan boys was getting married and had to go to his fiance's town to go through the ritual before the elders. Somehow I got roped into being an honored guest and part of the groom's entourage. The men all wore these long robes with blazers over the top, and the women wore clothing resembling saris. We processed in to the meeting and sat in plastic chairs under a weathered canopy. There was a masters of ceremony with a cordless microphone who paced back and forth making jokes and trying to get a reluctant crowd to clap. After a series of rituals of having different sets of women come out of the house and finding the bride, then the women finding the groom among the guests, another long set of long speeches were made with introductions were made of all the VIP guests who were present: 5 clergymen, 1 doctor and his wife, aunts and uncles, grandparents, ect. ect. I was beginning to fade when they finally announced dinner. The VIP guests all went inside the house to have dinner, while the rest of the 200 people ate outside. We left surprisingly quickly (it is my observation that Africans are especially good at greetings and introductions, but quite negligent and poor at farewells. You could sit down for a whole afternoon with someone, and then just get up and leave without saying goodbye, and nobody thinks twice). We then drove the 4 hours back to Kampala. Sunday July 15 Canon John sent me with his driver in the University Land Cruiser to church. I arrived at Namirembe Cathedral as the choir was singing and asking for money to go to Nairobi to compete in a choir competition. The service was good, however I somehow completely spaced out for the entire monotone sermon an old Chaplin gave on Abraham's faith. I met the curate of the cathedral who invited me to his home for a short visit. He used to be an instructor working for Uganda Airlines, and then got a call one day from the Archbishop of Uganda enlisting him into the ranks of the clergy. He followed orders and is now posted at the cathedral.I then made the 10 minute jaunt across town to All Saints Cathedral and met the vicar. I was a bit surprised to find that the vicar was a woman. Very sharp, very composed, with a gentle seriousness about here. She was wearing a white alb (a robe) with a hood draping down her back, and modest high heels. She was articulate and careful. She had worked in South Africa for 13 years in an all white parish. She told me some stories of how she and her husband, a fellow priest, had tried to bridge the gap left after the apartheid. Though I said nothing, the question of what I should do about a devout Anglican woman vicar pounded my head. I don't believe that women are called into the priesthood, and I believe that it is cultural pressures, not Scriptural pressures that brought women into the priesthood. But like it or not, here they are. They are sincere. They are competent. They are loving. They are usually quite effective and efficient. And they are parts of Anglican provinces that I am in communion. For goodness sake, the Archbishop of Rwanda approves of women in the priesthood. I suppose it is a question to wrestle with more in the coming years. When I went up for communion during the service that followed our conversation, I intentionally received the elements from the male provost...just to be on the safe side. After the service at All Saints I spent some time int he provost's office chatting and exchanging our stories of how we got be both sitting there together. I headed back to Canon John's house for the afternoon to take a much needed nap and rest up. I offered to take Canon John, his wife Joy, and his daughter Hannah out for dinner at an delicious Indian restaurant. Canon John made satisfied humming noises, and polite comments about how good it tasted. Hannah put on her 19 year old self-conscious air of indifference on, and periodically texted messages to her friends. Joy had never had Indian food before, and her eyes kept darting suspiciously between the curries and the nan wondering what to make of it all. When she took the last bit, she finally said, "I think I have just gotten used to the spices! I like it. I think I will come back to this place. Soon!" I couldn't really tell if she meant it, or if she was trying to make me feel better about taking her to a strange restaurant, but we left with full stomachs and smiles.

The Motorcycle from Hell: Kampala, Uganda

NOTE: Since I don't have a battery charger for my camera at present (it was in my baggage that was lost) I will not be posting any pictures on the blog since it takes juice to upload. I would rather save the juice to take more pictures and then post them later.

The bus ride from Kigali to Kampala seemed to roll on and on. Just when I was quite sure that we were nearing Kampala and that the hillsides were being more populated...the bus would plunge into another valley of vegetation and "bush". The bus left from Kigali at 9am and didn't arrive in Kampala until 6pm. I staggered off the bus in the evening light and looked for Canon John who I had emailed to meet me at the bus stop.

He was no where to be found. So I called his cell phone from a payphone.

"Canon John, how are you?"
"Fine...where are you?"
"I'm at the bus station in Kampala."
"Now?"
"Yes...I've just arrived."
"I thought you said you would come tomorrow in your email!"
"Oh, sorry...no. I came today. What should I do?"
"Well you should take a taxi to Uganda Christian University."
"Okay, how long should it take to get there?"
"Maybe 30 minutes because of the jam."
"Okay, see you soon!"
"Bye."

I considered to take a private taxi, but thought that it would charge too much for a 30 minute trip, and thought, "I've been sitting in a bus for 9 hours...maybe I should take one of these motorcycle taxis. It would be fun and cheap and faster than a taxi because of the jam."

Unfortunately, all my intuitions were wrong on this one.

I found a motorcycle driver who said he knew where Uganda Christian University was and would take me there for $1. I jumped on the back and we went zipping through the golden orange light through Kampala.

He slowed down at a sign that said, "Uganda University".
"No," I said, "It's Uganda Christian University." He asked someone on the street where it was and they said, "Oh, yes that is far. You should take a taxi."
My driver said that he would take me there for 40,000 shillings (around $25). I knew that was a lot, but I was impatient and wanted to get there soon.
"How much is a taxi?" I asked.
"It will take you a long time. A long time. I will take you." If he had answered my question I would have found out that it was only 2,000 shillings.

We headed down into the city center to an ATM and get some cash and then off out of the city. I was pretty tired at this point, and hadn't had lunch or dinner. It was dark by now and I was dehydrated.

My driver was quite a crazy one..."like the devil was chasing him" I thought. He would pass on the left and then on the right, and pass into incoming traffic. He would fly by pedestrians walking by...one time he hit one of them with his mirror, and another time full on hit one in the city. This didn't build much trust in the man or his driving. In addition...we can no helmets.

We went speeding out of town in the direction of the university and it didn't take long of him screeching on his breaks, nearly hitting bicycles and other motorcycles, and being hit by cars and I began to feel a bit nervous. We flew down a hill where there had been some water flowing across and felt the motorcycle weave, like we were on ice. The billowing clouds of unfiltered exhaust poured over the road from huge diesel trucks and soon I began to feel a bit light headed. It was pitch dark now and the incessant oncoming lights, the potholes, the insanity of it all...well I was scared. I don't usually get scared very easy...but I think this was enough. I felt completely vulnerable. I was completely lost. Didn't know if this driver knew where he was going. Worried I was paying him too much. Thought there was a good chance I would die out on this dusty, dirty road being hit by some huge dump truck. What could I do?

I didn't have any choice but to put my head down and wait. I began to pray. And pray I did. I prayed the Kyrie Elison over and over and over...probably a thousand times "Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy." I was terrified, but I knew I had to be brave and hold out.

We went on and on and all I wanted in the whole world was to get there, and number two was to get off that death trap of a bike. We finally slowed and stopped. I felt like a rag doll who had just been pummelled a dozen times by an angry girl. I hardly realized we had stopped. My driver began to talk to a man on another motorcycle in some language. The other man kept looking me up and down with these sly eyes of his...very amused that this foolish white kid had tried to take motorcycle to Uganda Christian University.

"What does he say?" I asked my driver.
With snake like movements he told my driver that he would show us there it was if we gave him 1,000 shillings.
"What are you saying...that we are lost and you don't' know how to get there?" I shouted over the din of passing trucks and cars. My driver pretended not to hear.
"I am not paying more money!" I said.
"Okay, I will pay," said my driver.
"This is not good. I feel sick!" I said. I thought about just getting off the bike and going and laying down in some ditch in the fetal position.
"You want to stop?
"No, no," that wouldn't help the situation in the least. I had to press on. "Let's go."

We turned around and headed back towards Kampala. I began to feel hints of panic rising in me...what if this snaky man was up to no good...what if I'll never get there...what if I die and no one will find me... But as these thoughts and emotions screamed to be released, I fought them all down. I had to think clearly and keep my wits about me.

Finally I saw a sign for Uganda Christian University. It was as if I was in a dream and didn't believe it was really there. I slowly got off the bike. It had been over an hour riding on that thing. My legs were stiff and my body ached. I gave the driver 30,000 shillings. "I didn't like that trip...you didn't know where you were going and it took too long!" The driver wouldn't accept the money.
"We agreed on 40,000. That was what we negotiated." He was right. I had agreed to the outrageous price and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I handed him the 40,000 shillings and walked off rudely without saying thank you.

I stumbled into the library at the University and said I was there to meet Canon John. The librarian was a kind man. He called Canon John and arranged for me to stay that the guesthouse on campus. We walked to the guesthouse and I fell in a heap on the couch. My head was spinning and I was dizzy. I kept thanking the Lord that I was alive. It was like a near death experience. I had some water, and Canon John came with some food for me.

I went to bed that night exhausted, but so happy to be alive and so happy to be in a safe place again.

The next day, I spent the day touring around the campus with Canon John, who is a professor there, meeting faculty and students, and getting the campus tour. We went to the chapel and Canon John introduced me to the student body.

He then took me back into Kampala for the afternoon. He had a meeting at the Nambarimbee Cathedral and we had lunch on the veranda of the cathedral guesthouse overlooking Kampala.

We went into town to look for a battery charger for my camera, but found that it would cost 150,000 shillings, over $100. I thought I'd pass.

Canon John gave me an extra phone he had for me to use while I am in Africa, so that miscommunication (like what led to my motorcycle fiasco) wouldn't happen again.

I moved from the guesthouse into Canon John's comfortable, but modest, house for the duration of my stay in Uganda.

Hotel on the Lake: Gahini Diocese, Rwanda

The 2 hour ride up to Gahini Dioese from Kigali was beautiful. The banana trees, the terraced farms, the mud huts, the green hills...all just beautiful. I sat next to a Rwandan woman who was a judge near Gahini and who was returning from business in Kigali. We got to talking and she kept asking me things like, "So do you pray for other people?" and "So why are you an Anglican". She was quite sharp and seemed curious about Christianity.

The Diocese of Gahani stretches several hundred square kilometers, and includes dozens of small villages and markets. It's a very rural area, and few people even have money to travel to Kigali. The diocesan offices are in the small village of Gahini on a stretch of property that lumbers up the hill out of a large lake. The cathedral, the hospital, several schools and a rehabilitation center, and the diocesan office are all set on top of the hill, while the hotel "The Seeds of Peace Guesthouse" is located right on the shore of the lake with a beautiful view. The bishop there, Bp. Alexis, is a well traveled, smart, talkative, visionary type of man. He escorted me into his modest office for a brief visit when I arrived and set out my itenerary for the next several days: staying with a group of Australians in a newly built house right on the lake, spending time around Gahini, and taking a trip out to Kabaza on Sunday.

The 9 Aussies were mostly older folk in there late fifties and quite a delightful bunch. They came from a small Anglican parish near Melbourne, and were quite happy to answer my questions about Australian history. They were always making little jokes and were very committed to working in the hospital and around the diocese. Most of my time in Gahini was spent with this group.

Saturday I spent the entire day resting. After a wild week of traveling and trying to get back on my feet after loosing my luggage, I desperately needed a rest. I read, chatted with the Aussies, took a nap, and went for a swim in the lake. The food at the guesthouse is fantastic and we had sit down toilets and hot showers. Very comfortable accommodations. The bishop was of the opinion that all white people must staying in Western standard accommodations in Africa.

Then on Sunday I met up with Pastor Sanah and took the bus out to Kabaza parish. Pastor Sanah is a delightful man with an easy laugh, a decent grasp of English, and a warm disposition. We got off the bus and two bicycles were waiting for us. We hopped on and a few minutes later entered a plateau where a good sized mud building with a white cross stood. We went to the back of the building in a roofless mud room where Pastor Sanah changed into his vestments, and then we processed, with the two other catechists, into the church. The church was going bonkers. There were probably around 300 people packed in, all singing and clapping and dancing...and staring at me. I was the first white person to enter their church...ever. And probably the first white person in their village for several years. We sat in the front and listened to a few choirs sing (the churches have multiple choirs here instead of one...politics perhaps...I don't know exactly). I stood and gave a short greeting, which was then followed by more singing. There wasn't anything in the way of liturgy in the church, probably due to illiteracy and lack of resources for prayer books. I then gave a sermon on Romans 6, on the Christian life in Christ: unity, submission, and in grace, which was translated by Pastor Sanah.

We had a nice lunch in Pastor Sanah's house of rice, beef, and soup. I took a short rest, and then we spent the rest of the evening wandering around the village stopping into people's houses to chat. Before leaving every place we went to Pastor Sanah asked me to pray for the family. That was quite a blessing and an honor. We visited the foreman (who was constructing Pastor Sanah's new house), a family who lived in a small mud hut surrounded by banana trees, a group of young people, an old woman who had stomach ulcers, a gentleman who had had his leg cut off in the genocide, and the headmaster of the primary school. Many people wanted to know about what Americans ate and how things were different. I tried to tell them that they were blessed in many ways that American aren't. I told them that even though Americans are rich, we are very lonely and isolated from one another. Our community isn't half of what they have.

I decided to stay the night at Pastor Sanah's house and had a nice little bed (sticks for springs) in the storeroom of his mud brick house. I stared up at the ceiling at the tin roof with all its holes that looked like stars. Funny that the Medievals thought that the stars were pin pricks in the roof of heaven.

I returned back to Gahini Monday morning and spent the afternoon interviewing the bishop and visiting the hospital. After a nice dinner of meatballs, I said goodbye to my Australian friends and went to bed. I got a ride back to Kigali with the bishop, who had to come down for a meeting of the house of bishops, bought some shampoo and my bus ticket to Kampala and then went to an internet cafe.

I'll spend the night at the cathedral tonight and leave for Kampala tomorrow.

Angilcan Cathedral: Kigali, Rwanda

The flight to Kigali Rwanda was quite uneventful. After landing, going through customs, and getting some money exchanged, I meandered from the parking lot to the road and hailed a motorcycle. I jumped on, put on the green helmet and sped off. That's the nice thing about not having a lot of luggage...you can ride motorcycles around instead of taxis and save yourself a load of money.

I arrived at the Anglican Cathedral and was in the process of booking a room when I saw the Archbishop of Rwanda slowly driving his car away down the drive way. I waved to him and went out to greet him.

"Hello, from America", I said overjoyed at seeing my first familiar face.

"Hello," he said hesitantly not remembering me and not really knowing what to do with me, but knowing he had to do something. I quickly told him of why I was here and what I was doing in Rwanda. He went back to the reception desk and talked for a while to the receptionist and had me booked in a nicer room. He then invited me to get into his car. He started the engine, drove about twenty feet, and slowly stopped the engine. He walked me up to the "Faith House" and into a nice living room where two white girls were sitting at the table eating lunch. I immediately recognized them as two girls I had met in Washington DC a few months prior and I knew they had been planing on traveling during the same approximate time. Archbishop was glad to see that I knew them.

"Have you eaten, Archbishop?" the girls asked. Archbishop was apparently Archbishop Kolini's nickname around the cathedral.

Archbishop slowly sat. "I have been eating for 60 years." He smiled at his joke and the girls giggled. He looked much the same since I last saw him a year ago. He didn't have his bishop's ring on, and was waring a leafy Hawaiian shirt. His nicely trimmed mustache perhaps had a few more speckles of white. We all sat and talked for a while and I told them about how I had lost my luggage. "I'll give you a driver tomorrow to take you to the market to get new clothes", Archbishop told me.

The girls, Brittany and Laura, were from the Church of the Resurrection (an Anglican church in DC), and were there visiting their sister church. We went to dinner that night at "The New Cactus", a nice restaurant on the top of a hill over looking part of the city. It was nice to spend some time with some acquaintances and relax after a somewhat stressful day.

That night I slept like a babe, and woke the next morning to go shopping for clothing I would need. I had breakfast with another Anglican group from Virginia who were there to visit their sister church. They were a bit older than me...all four were married but traveling without their spouses. They tired me out a bit.

I was given a "driver", whom I never really learned his name, who drove me off in one of the church trucks. He only spoke French, Swahili, and Kinyarwanda, so we never had more than a few words spoken back and forth. But he got me around the whole city...money at the bank, ducking through the maze of stall through crowds of hawkers, and got me even found me an electrical outlet adapter. I got back to the hotel, washed my clothes in the bathroom sink, and lay down for a bit.

Britney and Laura invited me again to go out to dinner at a nice Indian restaurant. We met up with a couple of American girls who were teachers at an International School in Kigali. The four girls talked up a storm. I barely got three sentences in the whole two hours we were there. But it was good food and all the waiters were dressed in exotic Indian costumes. Quite amusing.

I was coming down with a cold that night, and though I had packed plenty of vitamins and aspirin, they were in my bag. So I suffered through a restless night. I was feeling anxious that I would get sick out in the bush with no medicine and no one to help me. I didn't feel very excited about being here with no bag. It has made things harder and less comfortable. I have to wear new clothes, don't have my battery charger for my camera (I'm hoping I'll find another one in Kampala), and it's kind of thrown my balance off. So it's made me more reliant upon God and has taught me not to trust in my own strength. I kept praying, "When I am weak, you are strong", but it didn't sound too attractive.

This morning I spent sometime hanging out with kids at the daycare at the Cathedral, packed my things, and was ready to pay my bill when the receptionist told me that Archbishop wanted to pay for me. I went up to his office and thanked him and told him I'd be back sometime next week for a short time. I threw all my stuff into a big plastic bag, threw it over my shoulder, hailed a motorcycle and got a ride into town where I'm typing this to you.

In a few minutes I'll be leaving this internet cafe to go find a bus that will take me north up to Gahini Diocese where I will be meeting with Bishop Alexis and perhaps tomorrow meet some of the people at our new sister church. Then I'll be back in Kigali on Tuesday or Wednesday, when I'll write you next.

Let me back up a bit and let you about my day in London. I was able to meet up (providentially) with the Krueger family who had a layover the same day I did in London. They were the family that I spent with when I lived in Kenya last year. It was SO good to see them excited about returning to America and have them tell me the news of what has happened in the past year on the farm.

We parted ways, and I had the afternoon to spend hanging out in the London airport. I glimpsed a "Multi-faith prayer room" and my curiosity got the best of me. I took a peak and found a white washed room with some Muslims on prayer rugs and others sleeping on the benches. I was needing some quite time myself, so I ventured into the room. A bit uncomfortable at first, at least it was a nice place of peace and quite after a frantic day in the city and airport. I was right in the middle of translating some of Acts of out of my Greek New Testament, when one of the Muslims said, "Ah...it's our time for prayer..." I gave him a blank look. I knew what was going on in his head. Here I was a Christian and him a Muslim and we were both non-universalistic, but were both thrown into a relativistic "multi-faith room" which is somewhat absurd, and we both saw the irony. I wasn't in a mosic (spell check didn't help me here) and therefore he couldn't throw me out. I just said, "I'll stay here", and pointed to my book. So I continued to read my Greek while they were humming their "Allah Ak-bar"... It was a bit of cultural experience.

So as I said in the previous post, my bags didn't get sent from London. Somewhere between Terminal 3 and Terminal 4 in the labyrinth of London Heathrow sits my little blue bag with the purple ribbon. The guy at the Nairobi airport said that there was a 90% chance that my bags would come the following morning. So I changed my flight to Rwanda (for no extra cost) and planned to spend the night in Nairobi, collect my bag and fly to Rwanda.

The two ways to get into the city are either taxi ($15) or bus (80 cents). Since I wasn't in a rush I decided to try the bus. After about an hour of stop and go traffic with honking, smog, smushed up against anther dude, I was reconsidering my decision. Finally I got dropped off downtown Nairobi. I know the city enough to find the hotel I stayed in a year ago, and book myself a room for the night.

I was exhausted so I decided to take a shower, but soon found that the cold water wasn't working. So I tried to take a shower with boiling hot water. That will probably never happen to me again in Africa. Usually its always ice cold showers.

I fell into bed and was out for 4 hours. Woke, walked across the street to buy some muffins for dinner and then went back to the room, watched some CNN and then fell asleep at 9. Three hours later I was awake again and couldn't sleep the rest of the night. So I spent 6 hours laying in bed resting, reading, thinking, and processing.

After morning prayers I packed up my small backpack with all my worldly possessions and went to have breakfast downstairs. Eggs, juice, coffee, toast, and a weird looking sausage later I was out the door into the chaos of the morning commute. I took the bus again in the morning, but the traffic was smooth as silk and got there in half the time as before.

I walked into the baggage claim area quite anxious and taut with anticipation. "Good morning, I'm back again" I told the clerk behind the desk. "I've come to see if my bag came on this mornings flight." He took my luggage stub and punched in a few things on his computer. "No, we don't have it in our system. You could look around the terminal to see if you can find it." I methodically walked through the terminal, hoping, wishing, praying that I would find my precious bag of clothes. But nothing. A few times I thought I saw it but it wasn't it.

I finally gave up hope and came to write you this...

So now I'm in Africa for 2 months with only a small backpack of things. I still don't really want to believe it, but I've got to get it into my head that I'm not going to get it back until I return to Nairobi at the end of August. There wasn't anything in my bag that I can't live without, but it will require a few trips to the store to buy some clothes, shampoo, sun block, etc. They said that if/when my bag arrives in Nairobi, they will lock it up and I can collect it when I return in August to take it back with me to America.

Who knows why this would happen to me. It's not much help speculating. But I am reminded of how much I find security in things, and how much I depend on things. We should all realize how blessed we are with the things that we have. I certainly am thankful for my little bag of my camera, shirt, socks, books, and credit card!

Next stop: Kigali, Rwanda!

Touchdown: Nairobi

After a red eye flight, a day spent wandering around London, and another red eye flight I've arrived in Nairobi. The familiar scent, the Kenyan accents, the cool cloudy weather was a pleasant blessing.

I waited for my bag until they didn't have any more bags left to unload and they notified me that my bag wasn't put on the plane in London. So I prepared to leave my bag and hit the road with just my carry on backpack. Just for kicks I looked into when they thought it would arrive and how much it would be to change my ticket to Rwanda. To make a tedious story short...I'll be staying the night in Nairobi tonight, hopefully getting my bag tomorrow and in Rwanda my tomorrow afternoon. I figure the wait is worth having my stuff. It would be more money to have to buy all new clothes out here.

Otherwise things are good and pleasant. I'm excited about this trip but it isn't a very emotional excitement. It's more like a peace and joy to be doing the things you love to do and be in the places where you love to be.