Hurray for Sr. Sanyu!

Shortly after I wrote the last post, I called Sr. Sanyu, the head mistress at the high school, to arrange a meeting and rode my bike down (literally, down the hill) to St. Mary's. Walking takes a good twenty minutes, but the bike ride takes less than ten. I'm riding more and more these days.

We met and I explained that one of her students was pregnant. I asked what the policy was about girls attending school while pregnant. She told me that the girl was welcome to come back, but that the other girls might tease her when they found out she was pregnant.

She also agreed to meet with the girl's parents. I really can't communicate much with the mother since she speaks mostly Luganda, but Sr. Sanyu can. The father's English is excellent, but sometimes we both miss cultural nuances that limit the effectiveness of our communication, especially when the topic is something as sensitive as a daughter's unexpected pregnancy. Sr. Sanyu will do better with both parents.

Hurray! The kid can go back to school! Without an education the child (girl or baby) has no life. She can dig in banana fields the rest of her life or she can stay in school and do something with her life. Given that she will have a child to care for, education becomes even more important.

Sr. Sanyu also told me that there's a regulation in place that in the case where a girl in Senior Four is pregnant, the parents are required to provide a midwife during exams in case the girl goes into labor. In Senior Four the students take the major national exams that pretty much decide their future. They're stressful. The midwife provision is just a safeguard.

After meeting with Sr. Sanyu, I called the dad to explain that his daughter could go back to school then I went to the girl's house and told her she could go back to school. She was pretty happy. I spoke to the mother a little bit and the girls translated where necessary. The mom was also glad her daughter can go back to school.

Let's hope the kid has the courage to withstand the teasing of her peers. I may personally wring some necks if they don't have the charity to keep their mouths shut.

Some Things Never Change

Because this blog is occasionally read by a few kids at Bry'Chell's school, I will leave out names to avoid spreading gossip. I may leave out some other details as well.

Tuesday I received a call from the father of one of Bry'Chell's classmates. He asked if I could talk with his daughter. Sure, I'll talk to anybody. He just found out she's pregnant. He's confused and worried.

The dad is a really nice guy. The daughter, while not in Bry'Chell's inner circle of friends, is still one of her friends. The girl has always struck me as nice, but easily influenced.

I went to see her yesterday. This is one sad kid. She just wants to go back to school. I don't know the policies on school attendance and pregnancy.

On one hand, she could have an abortion and be back in school in a couple of days with no one the wiser. It happens as much here as at home.

On the other hand, she could have her baby--but then I'm not sure what happens. Is she allowed back in school? Can she attend school while pregnant? I don't know, but I will find out.

I feel for the kid. She does not want an abortion. She wants to go to school. She does not like the boy who got her pregnant--at least not anymore.

I feel for her dad. He has hopes for all his children, including this daughter. This puts a damper on things.

I can't talk with the mom because she doesn't speak any English, but I'm sure this is especially tough on her. In Buganda society, a mother is held responsible for her daughter's actions. This must be rough on her.

One question. How the heck do I get involved in this stuff?

Milk

Bry'Chell and I are both big milk drinkers. Because we're taking Doxycycline for anti-malaria purposes, that puts a bit of a damper on our milk drinking. We take the medication in the morning and are not supposed to have milk for two hours since it can nullify the benefits of the medication. However, that alone wouldn't stop us from drinking a lot of milk.

When we arrived I found the ultra pasteurized stuff that comes in boxes and can sit on the shelf for six months without refrigeration. Cool, I figured our access to milk was solved. However, it tastes like it's been sitting in a box for six months.

Next I found the milk that comes in bags. It's pretty much the same stuff as at home. It's fresh, it's pasteurized and it tastes fine. The only problem is that I can only get it in Kampala which is two hours away. I get to Kampala for shopping a couple times a month if I'm lucky. Given the travel and the weather the milk doesn't last long. I have discovered several recipes for sour milk that I've put to good use when the milk doesn't last. It makes great pancakes and a wonderful chocolate cake. However, it doesn't give us many days of drinking fresh milk.

At Christmas time we were in the car with Father Henry when he stopped at a shop in the trading center and bought milk. This was the fresh local stuff. You can buy it boiled or unboiled. He bought it boiled. The unboiled stuff is raw milk.

It took me a few weeks after we returned to decide to try it. A couple of weeks ago I finally bought some--boiled, of course. It's tastes good, it's local and it's inexpensive--800 Ush (about 40 cents) per liter.

The guy dips it out of a bucket into a plastic bag, ties a knot at the top and it's ready to go. I take it home and put it in the refrigerator. We've been drinking it for a few weeks and it's a big improvement over anything else.

Figures that it would take me six months to work out the details.

The Cathedral and the Kabaka

Yesterday the Cathedral at Lugazi was consecrated. Bry'Chell and I were invited. I went because I want to see as much of the country as I can while I'm here and that includes cathedral consecrations. Actually, I was as interested in seeing the countryside on the ride there as in the doings at the cathedral. Bry'Chell stayed home. She had been at a school party on Saturday and I figured another long day on Sunday would be too much with school on Monday. Bry'Chell does not like long church stuff. Neither do I, but I tolerate it better than she does.

The ceremony was several hours long and mostly in Luganda, so I only understood a little bit. Fortunately, there were programs available (for 2,000 Ush) that had the words and all the songs. It was handy to know what was coming next.

When we arrived, still in the countryside, we could see the cathedral, Queen of Peace, at the top of the hill with a mass of people streaming up the road. Although the cathedral is quite beautiful and large enough to hold about 2,500 people, don't think American or European cathedral, it doesn't look quite that finished. The structure, although very churchy is more open than most Western cathedrals--it's not necessary to provide protection from the cold--only the rain. Ventilation is more important than insulation.

When we walked up to the top of the hill, it was packed with people. We were ushered inside, at the back of the section where the sisters were seated. Interestingly, with the sisters were a mix of orphans, students, friends and male religious (although the guys had their own section).

I would guess there were probably three times as many people outside as inside. Tents were set up outside and the loudspeakers made the sound outside more audible than inside.

Present were the usual assortment, lots of bishops and priests, as well as the usual politicians and dignitaries. Instead of Knights of Columbus and Knights of Peter Claver, there are Buganda warriors with spears rather than swords.

Unfortunately, in Uganda there's this practice of giving speeches after the already too long church stuff. So after three hours of liturgy and ritual, we were subjected to another two hours of speeches. Ugandans expect this. The American in me gets really restless, really quickly. My attention span is not that long.

One interesting attendee was the Buganda King, the Kabaka. Uganda is made up of many tribal kingdoms. The country itself is an artificial colonial designation. People's real identity is with their tribe. Each tribe has some kind of leader--usually a king. The largest tribe is the Buganda. Their king is the Kabaka. People really, really look up to the Kabaka. He's their hero. I don't understand it and I probably never will.

The Kabaka was present. I'm sure he has ceremonial dress, but yesterday he was in a suit and tie. After the shindigs were over he walked through the crowd under a large umbrella with his retinue. People were pretty excited to see him. I was more curious than excited. Although, having seen both the president and the king, I can tell you that people were more excited about the king.

One nice thing about stuff in Uganda afterward they always feed you. After five plus hours in church I was hungry and glad for the food. As usual, it was good. I'm even beginning to appreciate matooke.

Lake Mburo National Park

Lake Mburo Park is beautiful. Most of the animals we've seen in Uganda we've also seen at the zoo in Chicago, but it's a whole different world to see them in their home territory. The geography is different from Nkozi. It's hillier and drier. There's lots of greenery, but the trees aren't as dense and there is more grass--more savanah type, but hilly.

This time we saw hippos, zebras, spring bucks, monkeys, buffalo and a bunch more birds. The zebras were the best. It was cool to see them grazing in herds. They seem to be quite curious, they looked up when we stopped to stare. Sometimes they ran when we drove up, but often they just looked up and kept on munching on the grass.

I do have one cool picture of a zebra crossing the road at a gallop. The picture catches the animal mid-stride. It's a great picture. Unfortunately I can't find it, but I have another cool zebra picture.

I'll try to post it, but I'm not only having trouble posting stuff, I'm having trouble downloading the pictures. I may have to save my current pictures to my flash drive, uninstall Zoom Browser and reinstall it. Right now I don't feel like doing all that.

We drove some distance in the park--maybe fifteen miles on dirt roads--to get to the lake itself. Sr. Elizabeth had packed a picnic for us, so once we arrived, we spread out the mats on the grass and got out the food.

As evening approached, the hippos started making their way toward the lake. It's hard to imagine just how big they are. They're big and they don't tolerate any nonsense. Even lions won't attack a hippo, except from the rear and then they don't usually win.

A couple of the hippos were fighting--they caused quite a ruckus. It wasn't a big fight, just a little altercation, but with something the size of a hippo, it was pretty impressive.

There were park rangers hanging around with rifles. No one is allowed out without an armed guard, so the guards hang around the lake with their weapons in case any animal decides to taste the humans. None of them did.

We hung around until dusk and then headed back the way we came. We didn't get home until quite late. Once we got home the electricity went out. We decided the meant it was time to go to bed. We were more tired than hungry so we skipped supper.

Sister Elizabeth's Story

After her cousin finished his story about violence in the north, Sister Elizabeth added her own piece. Fortunately, this one did not involve death, although there have been sisters murdered--or as Sr. Elizabeth so accurately notes--martyred by Kony's Lord's Resistance Army (LRA).

Sister Elizabeth was a young sister living in a local convent when a group of Kony's LRA broke into the house. The soldiers asked the sisters if they would rather the soldiers shoot them or beat them. Since the rebels had shot and killed a priest in the neighborhood just a week previous, they said they would rather be beat.

As the soldiers were beating them with their guns, the sisters ran out of the house and climbed the fence. Some ran between the soldiers' legs and out the door. Once they climbed the fence, they went to the house of another community at a bit of a distance. They ended up staying there for over a year since it wasn't safe to go back to their house.

The rebels used their house as a base for their operations in the area. When the sisters returned, they found that the soldiers had burned furniture, doors and anything else they could lay their hands on as fuel for cooking. The house was totally destroyed.

Many sisters who have been in the north have experiences of trauma, torture and violence. It affects communities and their lives together. Still, it does not stop them from reaching out to others in the area who have also suffered.

Lake Mburo National Park and the Drive There

Looking at a map, the drive to Lake Mburo National Park doesn't look that long. Given the distance it should take about an hour and a half. Not so. The drive is more like three hours given the condition of the roads and the fact that the last fifteen to twenty miles are on a dirt road.

Sr. Elizabeth and her cousin, Fr. Aloysius, were our generous guides. Sr. Elizabeth had offered Fr. Aloysius' services again. He graciously accepted. This really is very kind of him. He teaches at the seminary all week and now he's driving from Kisube--about two hours each way--to cart a couple of tourists around.

I wanted to go to the park to see wildlife. Bry'Chell didn't want to go to the park, she wanted to go to the Sports Day at St. Mary's, her school. However, the trip to the park was planned weeks ago and the Sports Day just came to our attention two days before its arrival. Poor kid, she had to go see zebras, hippos and monkeys instead of hanging out with the kids she sees five days a week already.

First, we stopped by the Croc Farm--a place that doubles as a recreational site and a crocodile farm. It's close by and fascinating. The place raises 4,000 crocodiles. They're bred for their meat (tastes like chicken--honest, that's what the guide said) and their skin.

The picture shows Bry'Chell holding a small crocodile with Sr. Elizabeth looking on. It took a while to convince Bry'Chell to hold it. Notice, I am taking the picture, not holding a crocodile.

They have pens for everything from little bitty ones to the giants--Benjamin, Osama, and Melon. I'll try to load pictures, but as usual, that is going to be tedious. Allen, our guide, prodded Benjamin and Osama into opening their jaws for us--I was really glad they couldn't come over that concrete wall.

This brought up the conversation about how Idi Amin used to throw his enemies to the crocodiles. The place had at one time been something of a resort for him and his cronies. They used the crocodiles the way the Romans used the lions. Enough said.

Of course, for our guides this brought back memories of the past in Uganda. While Amin didn't appear to create too many nightmares for Elizabeth and Aloysius, his successors did. After Amin there were a series of presidents. Some were weak, some cruel, some both.

Aloysius was a young teenage boy home for holiday from the high school seminary visiting his family in the north in 1983 when the government soldiers attacked his village. Usually they could hear the shooting in the distance and head for the forest to hide.

This morning the soldiers surrounded the village and came in shooting. The soldiers shot his mom four times, shot his eleven year old sister and other family members and then came for him. The soldier had his rifle pointed right at Aloysius--close range--eye to eye--but when he pulled the trigger nothing happened. The soldier was out of bullets. He replaced the ammunition magazine and tried again--again nothing happened. That magazine was also empty. He called to another soldier, but that soldier was also out of ammo.

Aloysius' mother called to him to run. He stumbled up and began to run toward the forest. By now the soldier found some bullets and started shooting, but he missed. Aloysius made it to the woods. The soldiers didn't follow because they were afraid of a possible ambush. He hid until the soldiers left and then came back to the village.

Aloysius went to his mother and wanted to carry her to get medical care. His mother said that if he tried, the soldiers would catch up and kill them both. Besides, she wasn't going to survive. He should take his eleven year old sister and leave. She told him that at least he knew where she was so after the soldiers were really gone he could come back and bury her body. He tore his shirt to provide tourniquets to try to stop his mother's wounds from bleeding and left.

Aloysius carried his little sister who had been shot through the upper leg. She couldn't walk. She was heavy since he wasn't that much older or bigger than she was. She was bleeding heavily. Once they had some distance from the village, he used banana fiber to staunch the bleeding.

They walked for some distance and ran into some other soldiers. They also were government soldiers, but a different group. They quizzed Aloysius about who attacked them. Aloysius knew that if he gave the wrong answer they would kill him. He carefully answered that, no the soldiers who attacked their village were not the same force as these soldiers. They were dressed in the same uniform but they had different accents--it was the rebels who attacked them. This was not the case, but the government soldiers would kill any witnesses to their violence, so he if he wanted to live he'd better give the right answer. He did.

The soldiers directed him to another village. Aloysius put his sister down outside the village and went to check for help. In this village he found more signs of mayhem. He went in a house to find people dead and dying. Some had escaped, they came and told him to leave the village because the soldiers would be back. It wasn't safe. If they needed to rest, they should hide in the banana fields.

They did need to rest. They went to a banana field. Aloysius found some sacks which he filled with banana leaves to put under his sister. He covered her with more banana leaves--I guess for both warmth and camouflage. He left, promising to come back with some help.

Aloysius left and made it to a town. Here there were more government soldiers. Once again, they were quizzing him and were going to kill him when one of the soldiers noticed the logo on his shirt. He was wearing his school uniform shirt from the seminary. The soldier was from Kampala and knew the nearby seminary at Kisube. The shirt saved his life.

He found some people to help him get his sister to the hospital. They went back got his sister and laid her on a bicycle. Several people supported her using the bicycle as a cart and took her to Rubaga Hospital in Kampala. This was many miles away and they had to go slowly since his sister was in such great pain.

The hospital sent an ambulance back for his mother. She made to the hospital alive but died a few days later. His sister also died five days later.

Aloysius eventually found his surviving family members and made his way back to the seminary.

Elizabeth added her own story. I'll write about that later. I can only write so much at one time. It gets a bit intense. Don't worry, Sr. Elizabeth's story has a happier ending.

Lightning Bugs and Snaps

Lightning bugs and snaps are not related except that both have occurred recently. When we arrived in August Bry'Chell and I both noticed that Uganda seemed to be missing lightning bugs. Since I grew up in California where the only lightning bugs were in story books and summer visits to Midwest relatives, this wasn't a big deal. However, Bry'Chell being a native Midwesterner, missed her lightning bugs. Until Wednesday night.

Her English Literature teacher assigned three books to the class, but Bry'Chell didn't have the titles and authors. Missing the details of assignments is a pattern with Bry'Chell. It annoys me to no end. Usually it means a drive--or if I'm feeling particularly annoyed, a walk--to St. Ailbe's to get the missing work. Here it means a walk to St. Mary's. The distance is about the same only here Bry'Chell does it as a walk everyday--rain or shine. Wednesday she did it twice. We ate supper and headed out to St. Mary's. For Bry'Chell this meant changing back into her uniform since students are not allowed on the compound without their uniforms.

We arrived to be greeted by several of Bry'Chell's classmates--all boys and all boarders--who wanted to know why she was back. She explained and one of the boys walked us to Madam Irene's house (the teachers live on the compound). Madam Irene was pleased to see us--or at least she said she was--and I have no reason to think she was lying. She invited us in and apologized for her house being messy. Her house looked better than ours does on a good day.

Madam Irene is the head of the English Department so she found the teacher she needed and he wrote down the list of books. Their lit teacher told them to get the books out of the school library, but there are about five books for fifty kids. I told Bry'Chell I would buy the books. They're supposed to read the abridged versions, but I think Bry'Chell is capable of reading the actual works.

The three books are: Unfulfilled Dream by Julius Ochwinyo, a Ugandan author, Weep Not Child by Ngugi WaThoingo, a Kenyan and Jane Eyre by, of course, Charlotte Bronte. I'm glad she's being exposed to some African authors.

On the way back, it was dark and we actually saw some lightning bugs. Bry'Chell noticed them first. I must have been spacing, because they were right there in front of us. It was pretty cool, lightning bugs in February.

Now about snaps. It seems that everyone always wants one of us, Bry'Chell or me, to take their pictures. It gets old, but it's a big deal to have pictures--snaps, as the locals say. Richard, the gardener, has asked me on several occasions to take his picture. Unless I'm really busy I do. Today Richard came by with some snaps of his own--of his three year old daughter. She's a cutie. I was touched that he bothered to share the pictures with me. It was a nice gesture.

Marie and the Chicken

A week ago Marie asked if we like "hen"--as before, translate that as chicken. Yes, of course we like chicken. I should know by now what will happen when I give that answer.

Yesterday Marie showed up with a live chicken. I explained that we really don't butcher our own chickens. I said this with words and what I hoped were gestures that indicated killing the chicken.I asked if she understood. She smiled, nodded and said "Yes."

One of my students gave me some clothes to give to local children. I figured Marie fit the bill. Other than her school uniform I see her in pretty much the same dress. I know she has more than one dress. She has her Sunday-go-to-church dress and the other one. Usually I see her in the other one. Of course, she has her school uniform, but that's for school. I invited her in to pick out some clothes. I told her she could pick out three things. She was pretty excited and picked out a dress and a terry cloth warm-up suit--top and bottoms. I also told her that her two sisters--Joyce and Rebbecca--could come over and pick out clothes.

Marie left with her new clothes and left the chicken on the floor--alive. Now, I don't exactly want the chicken wandering around the house for the next few days. What to do?

I gave Bry'Chell my phone and sent her over to Carol's house to have Carol--who speaks Luganda--call Richard, our gardener and competent chicken butcher. I figured if the call came from my phone, he would know it's from me and answer. Carol relayed the message and Richard rode up on his bicycle about fifteen minutes later.

I had the water boiled and ready this time. Richard took care of business and in no time had that chicken gutted, plucked and I put it in the refrigerator.

I may need to learn how to butcher and clean a chicken. It wasn't exactly part of my plan for the year. Oh well, I'm learning lots of things.

Shelling Beans

Tuesday I went to Kampala to take care of some business. The American Embassy had called to tell me that the Ugandan Immigration Office had some questions about my relationship with Bry'Chell and needed a letter from me explaining her presence with me. Turns out child trafficking is an issue in Uganda. My neighbor, who is from Tanzania, was taking her kids (Hakima, age 4 and Ieka, age 2) home to Tanzania for Christmas and was stopped at the airport. Her husband is from Uganda but the kids were born in Tanzania, so she had to justify how she came to be with the kids.

Fortunately, I have the papers I need to justify my custody of Bry'Chell. I wrote a letter explaining the situation and made copies of the Power of Attorney papers and the travel papers. (I've learned never to let originals out of my possession.) Catherine at the American Embassy said the letter looked good and the papers were helpful. They'll get back to me when it's all straightened out. Thank God for the American Embassy.

While I was in town I did some shopping, getting groceries I can't find in Nkozi. On the way back Paul, the driver stopped to buy some beans from a roadside stand. As a Muzungu, I would get charged more than Buganda folks, so I waited until Paul had negotiated the price and then I asked him if I could buy some beans as well. I paid the same price he did--3,000 Ush, about $1.50.

The beans were unshelled, so that means Bry'Chell and I had to shell them. I started, but there were a lot of beans. I left note for Bry'Chell asking her to shell some of the beans while I was teaching. I came home this morning to find all the beans shelled. Turns out Carol helped Bry'Chell shell the beans. Carol has way more experience than Bry'Chell and I do, she's a lot faster. They finished the whole bag. I came home to find a big pile of beans all shelled and ready to go. Hurray!

Now all I have to do is cook them. Beans here are better than beans in the US. For one thing they're a lot fresher. We were eating the beans from our garden, but they're gone now and the new crop is just coming up. The beans we have now will be enough until the new crop is ready.

Liz Humphreys and HUG

While we were on the Ssese Islands we met many people. One who stands out in my mind is Liz Humphreys. Liz directs a program called Help Children in Uganda--HUG for short. She's been in the Islands for six years.

Liz is the real deal. The program is not fancy. They educate and care for children who would otherwise not have anyone to educate or care for them. I've already mentioned that the Islands are poorer than the area around Nkozi. HUG reflects that.

The kids have it good--compared to their other options--which would be no school and no one to care for them. However, they still haul water--all the water they use--over a mile. Those Jerry cans are heavy. I can just about lift the big ones when they're full and here are kids, even little kids carrying full containers of water for over a mile. (OK, the littlest kids carry smaller containers.) This is drinking water, water for bathing, water for washing dishes and clothes, water for whatever you use water to do.

They have an outhouse--no indoor plumbing--and no toilet, just a hole to squat. They do not have dependable electricity. They have a small generator that runs when they can afford petrol. Otherwise they have no electricity. Theoretically the island has electricity, but the generator provided by the government for the island's electricity is too expensive to operate, so it doesn't.

It's one thing to live without creature comforts when you know no other option, but Liz is British. She's lived with the same creature comforts that other folks from developed countries expect. The kids have it good based on their experience, but I would have a hard time going the distance in their world. Once again, I'm a wimp.

Here in Nkozi we have hot and cold running water, a flush toilet and electricity. Yes, they go out from time to time, but just long enough to remind me to appreciate what we have.

HUG especially works with some of the distant islands. Many of these islands have no school. The kids just don't go to school. If parents can't afford the fees for boarding school, and there's no option to go to school where they live, the kids work.

Liz has helped get a couple of schools off the ground. She looking for a social worker to work with the three most distant islands. They're two or more hours away by boat. Oh yeah, it helps if you speak Luganda.

In Nkozi we're living in the lap of luxury compared to life for the people who live on the Ssese Islands.

Beautiful Islands, Monkeys, and Social Problems

Our visit to the Ssese Islands was a lot of fun, although fun might be the wrong word. It was interesting on many levels. Sometimes I wonder why I can't just go someplace and appreciate the scenery. No, I have to ask questions. I'm curious about people's lives.

First, the easy stuff. I wanted to go to the Ssese Islands because I was told we could see monkeys. I thought it would be cool to see monkeys in the wild. They were cool. We didn't have to go far to see them, just a little walk from our hotel. I'll try to post some pictures later. Picture posting has been a challenge lately. It took several tries to get the papyrus picture posted.

Last Monday, our first full day in Kalangala, the only real town (and I use the term loosely) on the island, Jude arranged for another boda-boda and we took a ride to the local parish church. It's more than just a church. It's a major compound. There's this huge church. Imagine riding through the country side seeing little houses--some brick, some mud, many unpainted clapboard style and suddenly you come into this clearing and there's this church that looks like it belongs in Chicago. The outside at least looks like it belongs in a major city. The inside looks more like other churches in Uganda--benches and some plank pews. It's beautiful, but more rustic looking on the inside. In addition to the church there is a an orphanage for boys, an orphanage for girls, a brand new medical clinic, a grammar school and high school, a large farm (by Ugandan standards), and a post high school technical training center--plus the usual rectory and convent.

On the front porch of what I think was the rectory, there are two European-looking women sewing on treadle sewing machines. Turns out they're German volunteers. One speaks no English, but the other one translates. I should have known by the way they were working that they were German. There's something very familiar about the focus they have on their work. They're making school uniforms for the girls in the orphanage.

The pastor comes out and we get the grand tour. The clinic is new and has just been build by a group of local people and German volunteers. I don't know the German connection, but German Catholics are connected with many projects in Uganda. The clinic is nice. The sister who's in charge comes out to greet us. She's happy to show us around, but she's also busy looking at something under a microscope, so I don't want to keep her from her work.

Next we go to the girls' orphanage. Sister Vincent, the sister in charge, is not going to let me get away without some kind of donation. I don't blame her. She's trying to feed twenty-nine girls on a prayer and a promise. Yes, they have the food on the farm, but that doesn't cover everything. She's got a rich Muzungu (all Muzungus are rich), sister or not, on her hands and she's not going to let me go without extracting something from me. She's actually very gracious about it, but not subtle. If I was trying to feed, clothe and house twenty-nine girls, I wouldn't be subtle either. I gave her some money. If some people don't receive gifts when I come home it's because I'm a sucker for nuns with orphans.

The major industry on the island is fishing. Many boys and young men come to the island to work. They come without any family. The ratio of men to women is two-to-one or even greater. That leads to prostitution. (Bad boys.) Young girls, often orphans, are brought to the island with the promise of jobs. The jobs they are promised don't exist, but they have no money to get back to the mainland, so they're stuck and the men who brought them over make them work as prostitutes. Not pleasant, but true. The cycle begins. Due to the prostitution, there's a high rate of HIV/AIDS. Because of HIV/AIDS, there are a large number of orphans. Because there are many orphans and little work for girls and women, there is a high rate of poverty. The cycle continues.

Sister Vincent is trying to break the cycle. Her girls go to school and learn a trade. They work on the farm so they can become self-sufficient. She's tough, but she has to be. The dorms are clean and neat, but not fancy. The rooms are crammed with bunk beds and the girls hang their clothes on pegs by their beds. There's no need for dressers, the girls don't have that many clothes.

After the parish we went back to town and had lunch. Including pop, I think it cost about a dollar each. Bry'Chell had beans and chapattis. I had matooke and fish. It was good.

Later in the afternoon we went to a fishing village. The men fish at night, so by late afternoon they're starting to get ready to go out. The boats are wooden. They look like they're built on the island. Think biblical. Think Peter and John out fishing on the lake. These are not modern boats. Again, I have some pictures. With any luck I can get them posted, but not tonight.

We walked along the shore for a while. There were fishermen picking hooks out of the nets that washed up on the shore. They lose hooks all the time, but when the wind shifts, stuff washes up on the shore. With luck, they can find hooks.

As we walked, we could see this really nice house. Turns out the guy who owns it is Belgian. He runs a home for girls who have been sexually abused. He has no professional qualifications. There are eight teenage girls living there. The locals don't think he's legit. I think they're right. Enough said. At home I would know what to do. Here I don't, but I'm going to find out.

Later that night we went out to dinner. This time we went to the expensive place. Dinner was five dollars each. We hit the big time. This place had a big-screen television. At first it had on the news, but, since we were the only one's there, we asked and they changed the channel to cartoons. Sponge Bob Square Pants. Bry'Chell was in heaven. She hasn't seen cartoons in five months. The service was slow, so she had lots of time to watch Sponge Bob and companions. That was her favorite part of the trip.

As we were walking back a large truck came barreling down the road. Jude commented that they were smuggling lumber. There's major illegal deforestation going on and they smuggle the lumber out at night. That's one way to avoid taxes.

There's more to these islands than monkeys.

Richard and the Chicken: Part II

Saturday morning, Richard was at the door with the chicken in one hand and a machete in the other. Like many local people, he doesn't knock on the door, he just stands there and waits for someone to notice. (The front door is wire-reinforced frosted glass). The chicken was still breathing and had all its feathers.

I opened the door and he asked for a knife and water. Fortunately, I know that boiling water makes the feathers easier to pull out, so I understood why he needed the water. It's not like he said--could I please have a sharp knife and some boiling water. He doesn't speak that much English. He just said--"Knife, water," held up the chicken and smiled. I got the knife and started the tea kettle.

Two little kids who live on campus were following him--I guess witnessing the chicken being butchered was their morning entertainment--better than Saturday morning cartoons.

Richard went out back and took care of business. I took him the water when it had boiled and he was already half done. I boiled some more and he finished the job.

I was going to roast the chicken last night, but we didn't have any electricity and the oven is electric, so we will have chicken for supper when Bry'Chell gets home from her first day of the new school year. It's either going to be chicken and mashed potatoes or chicken fajitas. I might go for the fajitas since that will involve taking the chicken off the bone. It will look less like the original animal which may be a good thing for Bry'Chell.

Bry'Chell has actually threatened to become vegetarian. I doubt that she will, but I wouldn't object. I tend to think it's good to understand where your food comes from. I'm as much of a city kid as anyone, but I figure if you're going to eat meat it is helpful to understand that it doesn't originate in a Saran wrapped package at Jewel.