Stupid as Papyrus

Yesterday as we were on our way to Kampala for some needed grocery shopping and a meeting, I saw a patch of fire-blackened papyrus stubs. I was reminded of a saying I heard a couple of months ago. One of the priests used the phrase "stupid as papyrus" in his homily. Everybody laughed. I didn't get it, not at all.

Later Modest explained to me that sometimes when the wind blows through thick patches of papyrus in the swamp the friction of the papyrus stalks rubbing against each other sets the papyrus on fire. The papyrus is standing in the water of the swamp, but it burns anyway. It can't make use of the water to put out the fire. Hence the saying, "stupid as papyrus."

The traditional belief is that the local gods are upset--with the people or whatever--and set the papyrus on fire as a way of showing their displeasure. This explanation still works for some folks. Sounds just about as good as friction.

School Fees

On the last Sunday before we left Chicago the people of St. Ailbe sent us on our way with their blessings. In addition to their blessings, many people handed me cash. By the time we arrived home, I realized there was quite a bit of money stuffed my pockets. Some people gave me directions for using the money, others just handed me bills.

One of the biggest needs in this part of Uganda, and maybe the whole country, I'm not sure, is paying school fees. While supposedly there are free government-supported schools, most of the schools require payment of school fees. Even the government-supported schools have some costs for uniforms and such.

While people here are poor for the most part, their poverty is more about a lack of cash than a lack of food. Local folks are mostly farmers, subsistence farmers, but farmers who grow food. The climate is generally cooperative--warm weather year round with adequate rainfall in this part of the country. Their tool for farming is a hoe. No tractors. No plows. A hoe. They grow bananas, pineapple, avocados, maize (corn), beans, cassava, sweet potatoes, Irish potatoes, mangoes, cabbage, and tomatoes. There's probably other stuff as well, but these are the basics. Bananas are by far the largest crop. Matooke, made with those bananas, is the staple food. There are all kinds of scrawny chickens running around and cute goats tied to the roadside that serve as meat. While the diets of the poorest may not be balanced, there is generally enough food for survival and even health.

What people lack is cash. This makes the payment of school fees a challenge. Those who are better off will sell some goats or a cow and use the profits to pay their children's school fees. Those who have nothing to sell, well, their children often stay at home and work.

Supposedly there is universal primary education, but many children don't make it through primary. They have to work. For those who do graduate from primary and pass the government exams, there is no guarantee of secondary school. High school is not free.

The free schools are often not the best schools. They seldom have books. The children take notes. The classrooms are crowded--often over 90 children in a primary class. The government made a move (I don't know if it's a law or a policy) to set a MINIMUM class size of 35 children. The purpose is to cram as many kids a possible into a school. Even with all this, only 48% of the children graduate from 7th grade, the final grade here in primary school.

Here's the connection, I've used the cash people gave me to pay school fees for kids who could not otherwise attend school. Bry'Chell's school fees are reimbursed by the Fulbright Program, so the US government is paying for her schooling.

School fees aren't that much. The best primary school in the area, St. Patrick, charges 45,000 Ugandan Schillings a term. The school year is composed of three terms, that's 135,000 schillings for the year, about $72 for the whole year. I'm paying for about four kids right now. I say about four because for one girl, I'm paying half. Her family is poor, but her father works and has some cash income. However, there are six children, so schools fees for all of them are difficult to come by.

I've tried to be a good steward with the money people gave me. From my perspective, education is the best investment to make in the country. I can't do everything, and I've turned down more children than I've helped. But these four girls have another year of education because of the generosity of the people of St. Ailbe.

Thank you to all those who handed me cash. I've tried to put it to good use.

Anniversaries, Vows, Jubilees, and Meeting the President

Today started off way too early. Bry'Chell and I were up at 5 AM so we could leave the house by 5:45 AM to catch the 6 AM bus going to Sr. Loretta's Golden Jubilee as a Little Sister of St. Francis of Assisi. It was supposed to be a four hour drive each way.

As might be expected, the bus didn't leave on time and it broke down in Kampala. However, in true Ugandan fashion, the mechanic fixed it on the spot and we were back on the road in 40 minutes, arriving only 30 minutes late. We arrived in time for the first reading of the liturgy. I'm told we missed some pre-mass dancing and all the bishops processing in. Oh well.

There was a significant police and military presence at the event since the president of Uganda was expected. They confiscated all the cameras as we were entering. I did not relinquish mine to the military guy, but I did give it to one of the sisters. The military and police are notoriously corrupt around here and I wanted to see my camera again. I trust the sisters, not the soldiers. I got my camera back.

It turns out that the celebration was not just for the jubilarians. It was also vows. Eight sisters took first vows and seven made perpetual vows. Of course, that's in addition to the seven who took first vows and the five to professed perpetual vows in December. There are lots of sisters in this country.

The Little Sisters of St. Francis of Assisi have been around for 85 years. They do a lot in the country--and all of East Africa. They have hospitals, schools and they work as social workers. There are all kinds of jokes that the little sisters aren't so little because they run so much stuff.

Unfortunately, I didn't get any pictures of the actual celebration because I didn't have my camera. I did get a picture with Sr. Loretta. I'll try to get it posted.

The liturgy was engaging. The choir was quite good and the sisters did some dancing at Offertory time. As are many celebrations here, it was outdoors. Why not? The weather was beautiful and the community chapel would not have held the crowd, so there were tents set up outside. I was escorted to a seat with a good view while Bry'Chell was left in the back. I could see which was an advantage, but I was also in the sun, so I got a bit burned--even with sunscreen. Bry'Chell couldn't see much of the action, but at least she was in the shade.

The archbishop seems like a nice guy, but he preached too long. I have it from several people that it was a great time for a nap. However, I sort of stand out in a Ugandan crowd, so I really couldn't doze.

The president showed up after the bishop's homily. Smart man. Although he had an entourage, as might be expected for the president of the country, he walked right by me on his way in and again on his way out, when he walked over and shook my hand. He asked me where I was from--I said the US, Chicago. He seemed impressed with Chicago. I really don't know why, unless it relates to all the media about Obama and Chicago. Actually, Chicago and Uganda are similar in many ways. In both places the real work gets done right before the election. If you want a road fixed or a pothole filled, election year is the time it will get done.

Turns out the president was invited by one of the Silver Jubilarians whose father helped out the president in the days before he was president and was fighting to overthrow Edi Amin. Don't get the idea that this president is any kind of saint. Let's just say his record is a bit checkered. As a guest in the country, I don't want to add much more.

After the celebration the sisters fed us. Religious from "other congregations" were fed with the priests. I was standing in line when this priest walks up and says--"Don't I know you from Chicago?"

If he knew I was from Chicago, he probably did know me. He did. Turns out he was one of the priests who came over to my house that fateful day to talk me into going to Uganda. He still had a picture on his camera of me and the group of priests. It was pretty funny. I'm sitting Uganda eating lunch looking at a picture of my living room in Chicago on someone else's camera. Too weird.

Today is the ninth anniversary of Judy Shanahan's death. I couldn't help thinking how much she would have enjoyed today. I suspect from her viewpoint, she's watching and enjoying all the action.

The Introduction Ceremony

Last Saturday Fr. Henry asked Bry'Chell and me if we wanted to go to an Introduction Ceremony. Sure, why not. The opportunity to witness an Introduction Ceremony is not an easy invitation to come by.

An Introduction Ceremony is the Traditional Buganda ceremony where the groom-to-be is introduced to the family of the bride-to-be. In the past this would have actually been the wedding. Once the guy was accepted by the bride's family and paid the bride price, (Yes, he paid for his wife!) they were married. Now it's more like the official engagement.

As with many things, it started off simply. Originally, the guy showed up with a few male relatives at the girl's house. (I say girl, not woman, because the bride was a girl, seldom a grown woman.) A friend or male relative spoke for him. The guy was mixed in with the other male relatives. The girl's aunt (her father's oldest sister) had to figure out which one was the husband-to-be. Once she identified him and said that he was OK, the guy paid the bride price and that was pretty much it. They gave gifts and had a meal to celebrate.

This was the Introduction Ceremony of Julie, the niece of Fr. Larry, a guy who went to St. John's Camarillo with Henry. Her fiance, Peter, was looking shy and nervous the whole time. They're both banker types.

Now, of course, the ceremony is much more elaborate. Each side has someone who speaks for their family. The girl's aunt still has to find the guy and the guy is still mixed in with a crowd of male friends and relatives. Now, however, there tend to be many more people involved. At this ceremony there were about eighty guests on the man's side--and about 150 on the woman's side.

There was a bunch of dancing--as in groups performing traditional dances. This was interspersed with commentary by the spokespersons from each family. Most of it I couldn't follow because it was in Luganda. The speaker for Peter's side was funny, even when I couldn't understand a word he was saying, he was funny. His humor was very physical, so words seemed superfluous.

Once the dancing was finished, groups of female relatives started processing out, some pretended to be the aunt until the real aunt arrived and picked out the guy. Some were aunts, just not the right one. This whole process took a couple of hours.

Finally the aunt came out. There were a bunch of questions and she went and found Peter. He came and sat in the front and the two commentators discussed his suitability. After deciding he was OK, Peter's sister gave the care of her brother to Julie. Now it was Julie's job to take care of Peter.

After the introduction, Peter's family started lining up to bring in the gifts--and what a line that was. There were probably a hundred or more baskets that were brought in procession. This was followed by a dining room set and a bicycle. The baskets contained food--fruit and vegetables-- and, of course, a few live chickens, a couple of goats and a butchered cow. Cases of pop and beer were also carried in. I have all kinds of pictures, but I haven't had much luck in uploading pictures lately. I've been trying to get pictures of Christmas and the Martyrs' shrine loaded for days now without any luck. I'll keep trying because words fail to convey the sheer amount of gifts that were carried in.

Pretty much everyone (except for Bry'Chell and me) were in traditional Buganda dress. I've already talked about the women's dress. The men were in a robe and a suit jacket. All the robes were about the same. They looked sort of like an alb with some embroidery in the front. Again, I have pictures. I'll try again to get them loaded.

The whole thing ended with a meal, but we had to leave so we wouldn't be out on the road too late. The roads are bad enough during the day, they're worse at night. It's better to get home early. Since the ceremony was in Kampala, that meant a two hour drive back to Nkozi.

Ants in the Oatmeal

It's time to take a break from culturally enlightening and educationally informative input. I'll write about the Introduction Ceremony later.

This morning Bry'Chell found ants in the oatmeal. Now, this isn't a surprise. We find ants everywhere all the time. At first, I had visions of Ant Bully going through my head every time I wiped out a line of ants. Now I don't.

I've tried to appreciate the ants. They're very efficient. They can completely dismantle a dead bug or crumb overnight. By the next morning the offending mass has completely disappeared along with the ant work crew. They're great team players.

My appreciation has worn thin. Ants apply this same principle of efficiency to anything they can attack in the pantry. Even Zip-Lock bags sometimes fail the test. I've seen ants wiggle through the zip part of Zip-Lock. I don't know if the zipper was not fastened securely or if the little buggers managed to loosen the seal or what, but they manage to get through somehow.

I've been on-line to find out how to get rid of ants. Maybe vinegar works in the US, but Ugandan ants must be of sturdier stock, because it only slows them down for an hour or two. My next step is to get my hands on some boric acid. I know it works for roaches. According to the web page I checked, the same principle applies to ants.

Back to the oatmeal. Bry'Chell was really disgusted to find ants in one of her favorite breakfast ingredients (eggs being her other favorite). I wasn't going to throw away a whole bag of oatmeal just because of a few ants. I went through the bag, and cleared out the ones I found then I made oatmeal muffins. I think I got all the ants. If not, oh well, the muffins have a little extra protein.

Uganda Martyrs Shrine

Fr. Henry had asked if Bry'Chell and I would like to attend an Introduction Ceremony, the traditional ceremony where a groom-to-be is introduced to the bride-to-be's family. Sure, I like pretty much anything that gives me a better understanding of the culture here.

As a side he said we could go to Namugongo, the site of the Uganda Martyrs shrine. I've been wanting to get there since we've been in Uganda. The shrine is just east of Kampala. Since the feast of the martyrs falls on my birthday, I've always had some interest in them. Besides, how can I not like a place where my birthday is a national holiday?

Living and working in an African American community in Chicago, the martyrs offer fairly modern (OK, the 1800s) example of black saints, young black saints since they range in age from 14 to about 35. They're useful when I teach the Confirmation class at St. Ailbe and need examples of saints. They're young, they're black, what's not to like? OK, they died horrific deaths.

The basilica is built in the form of a traditional Ugandan house. Inside the main altar is built over the site where the martyrs were burned to death. Outside there are two shrines. One shows Kizito, the youngest of the martyrs, being instructed by Charles Lwanga. The other shrine shows in graphic detail, Charles Lwanda wrapped in sticks being roasted over a fire. The fire was set to burn him starting with his feet so that he would stay alive and feel the pain. It's pretty ghastly.

In the US, the Ugandan Martyrs are known as Charles Lwanga and the Ugandan Martyrs, with the other twenty-two being sort of anonymous. Here each of the martyrs is known by name. Many men in the country have the name of one or another of the martyrs and many schools and parishes are named after them. Kizito, the youngest, is especially popular as a name for boys and primary schools. Of course, since boys grow into men, there are many men with the name Kizito.

Boxing Day and Mom's 80th Birthday

In the British tradition, the day after Christmas is a public holiday in Uganda known as Boxing Day. No one I spoke with seemed to know the origins of the term, but with a little Internet search I found it. It's a day when gifts are given to the less fortunate. The day is also known as St. Stephen's Day for the feast day of the first Christian martyr. For me, it's my mom's birthday. This year is a big one--80.

Once again, the day started with mass. While the church wasn't packed today, all the seats were taken. This is not the same as saying the church was full since the back third of the church doesn't have seats. When the seats are filled, people spread mats on the floor and sit on their mats.

I tried to sit in an obscure pew, but the catechist motioned me forward to sit in the sanctuary. I would have ignored him, but then he would have sent someone to get me. I sat up front.

There were actually more people in church when we arrived today than on Christmas Day. When we pulled up in the car the now familiar beating of the drum began, summoning the faithful. The drum serves the same purpose as church bells at home.

The catechist had told Fr. Henry that there would be a few baptisms, like maybe five. Right. Henry asked the parents of those who were to be baptized to bring their children forward. Over thirty babies and a few toddlers were brought to the front. I've never seen that many infants in one place outside of a maternity ward.

Moms and dads were dressed in their best and babies were in their baptismal finery. "Best" varies from traditional Buganda dress--the Gomesi--for the women and the men in their robes and suit jackets to thoroughly modern fashions that would blend in on the south side of Chicago. The men's traditional clothes look more comfortable than the women's traditional dresses--why am I not surprised?

Most of the babies were quiet, looking totally disinterested in the whole affair. As might be expected, some were howling their little hearts out. Surprisingly, the howlers didn't set off the rest of them.

Fr. Henry went around to each one in turn--signing them with the sign of the cross, anointing them with oil, baptizing them with water poured from an enameled metal cup into a basin, doing the thing with the white cloth and finally, passing the candle telling them to keep the light of Christ burning brightly until the day of judgment--or whenever.

Today, Henry had sent Dominic, a local teacher, to sit with me as a translator. Besides translating key points, he explained that people wanted Fr. Henry to baptize their children since he came from the community, sort of local-boy-does-good. They consider it an honor to have Fr. Henry baptize their little ones.

Christmas time is a popular time to have children baptized since many family members have come home from the city (translation: Kampala). Finally, many people bring their babies home from places like Kampala to have their children baptized in their home parish. All told, this makes for lots of baptisms.

I remembered my camera, so I took a few pictures and had my picture taken with other folks, including a group of women in traditional dress. I'll try to post some once I get them downloaded. After a minimum of protesting, Bry’Chell took the picture.

In general, I have found people to be incredibly warm and welcoming. It was even more so at church.

After church Fr. Henry took us--several nieces and nephews, Bry’Chell and I--back to the house while he had a meeting with the Board of Directors of the parish health center. I'll say more about the health center in another blog. The meeting lasted longer than he expected so I had some time to go for a walk.

Pontian, Fr. Henry's ward, and I went for a walk. Pontian went to the high school seminary for "O" level but then Fr. Henry decided he should go to a co-ed school for "A" level. Basically, "O" level is the first four years of high school (8th grade through 11th) and "A" level is the last two years.

Pontian was not happy about leaving the seminary, even for a couple of years. I don't know Henry's logic--whether academic or just social--but I think it's a wise choice. The kid needs to be around girls. He's as normal a teenage boy as you'd find, but being around girls as an equal is healthy for a young man who wants to be a priest.

Pontian is pretty focused. He told me that the parish priest took him to his new school and told the girls to keep their hands off him because he was going to be a priest. The girls, of course, thought that was pretty funny and proceeded to tease him to no end. He, in turn, encouraged them to become altar servers and to attend mass more often. In the mean time, they've become friends.

I told him that I though it was good for him to be around girls. If he was going to be a priest he'd better know how to relate to women as human beings or he'd be in trouble since more than half of his congregation would be women. Strangely enough, he seemed to believe me.

Pontian is an orphan. Both his parents died while he was very young. I don't know the whole story, but he asked Fr. Henry to be his guardian some years ago. Henry agreed.

This is no small responsibility. Henry has several of his own nieces and nephews who have lost parents. I know he helps his own family as much as he can. His mom is elderly and frail, but still, he's taken responsibility for another child. This means he pays Pontian's school fees at boarding school and sees that he's taken care of during school breaks. Of course, he also keeps the boy on the straight and narrow.

Henry's family has taken Pontian in as one of their own. At first I thought he was another nephew, he's treated the same as all the other boys. He's not family by blood, but the family has taken him as one of their own.

When we returned from our walk it was lunch time. Once again, we ate leftovers, pretty much the same pattern as at home.

After lunch Pontian asked me if I would go with him to the family cemetery to pray for family members who were buried there. Sure, why not, I'll pray for anybody. I figured it would be Pontian and me. Not so, by the time we headed off it was a regular procession of probably a dozen people. I prayed and lead the others in the usual Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be. After the prayers and a moment of silence people started pulling weeds from around the grave sites. I asked Gerard, being the eldest present, about some of those who were buried.

First, was Gerard's father who is also Henry's father, their father's first wife, who didn't have any children, five of Gerard and Henry's siblings and five of Gerard's children. The children who had died ranged in age from 3 to 27. Several had died while they were away at school--either primary or secondary school. One of the siblings was Henry's immediate older brother. He died at age 39 and left behind 16 children. One of them, Timothy, was present. He was a student at Makerere University, but had to drop out for lack of funds. He hopes to go back but needs financial help. There is no financial aid here, only private sponsors. He doesn't have one. Because of the way the course work is set up, it's not realistic to work and go to school at the same time. University is three years and students take seven classes at a time.

Henry was stuck in his meeting longer than he expected, so he didn't get lunch until he returned about 4 PM. By the time he ate, packed and stowed everything in the car, it was after 5. Several nieces and nephews wanted rides--actually needed rides--since there is no taxi (read: mini-bus) service to their village. Henry's car is a Toyota RAV4. It seats five. There were seven of us and a ton of luggage in the car. Four crammed in the back and Bry’Chell on a pillow between the bucket seats in the front. It was cozy to say the least. Add to that twenty miles of rutted dirt road before we reached the highway (read: paved two-lane, pot-hole-studded road) and you have quite an experience.

When we arrived back in Nkozi after dropping off the assorted passengers, the power was out. Joy. We'd been gone since Wednesday so this meant no hot water. I had turned off the water heaters before we left. Oh well, I heated up left-over tuna casserole on one of the gas burners and we ate by candle light.

Since it was Mom's 80th birthday, I tried to call. I guessed that she and Dad would be at my sister Kathy's house, but it was too early in the morning and they had yet to arrive. I told Kathy I would call at 7 PM. That meant 6 AM our time, so I went to bed.

Christmas Day Revisited

Christmas Day was memorable in many ways. It was one of the few Christmas Days in my adult memory when I didn't help with meal preparations or clean-up in some way. I didn't even help clear the table. That was sort of weird for me and I felt like a bit of a bum.

The meal was a real feast, all cooked over an open fire. Since there were about fifty people present, the quantities were massive. I've never seen so much matooke in one place. Matooke is traditionally steamed in banana leaves which are wrapped around the matooke. Matooke, for those who may not remember, is cooked bananas. Check out the link if you want more details. Of course, it was served with ground nut sauce. Since I despise peanut butter, it would be reasonable to assume I don't like ground nut sauce, but it tastes nothing like peanut butter and I really do like it.

It gets a little embarrassing to be treated as the guest of honor, but once again Bry'Chell and I were seated at a table with a few other adults, which can only be described as the head table, although it would be more accurate to say it was the only table. The other family members were seated on mats or in chairs under a canopy or under a tree. It's fair to say everyone looked comfortable and happy.

The weather was warm and sunny, although things clouded over for a while and it rained. The rain wasn't much. It did help cool off the day and cut down the dust which made for a nice change.

After the meal, Bry'Chell, Immaculate (a grand niece of Fr. Henry's) and another girl headed off for a walk. They left about 4:00 PM with instructions to be back before dark. From what Bry'Chell said, they walked quite a distance. It's a good mile and a half to the church and I know they walked to the local trading center, probably another two or more miles beyond the church and back again.

In typical adolescent fashion, they made it back just as it was getting dark. On the way back they had stopped to play volleyball with some other kids.

I spent the afternoon chatting with other adults or staring off into space when the conversation shifted to Luganda.

Gerard, Fr. Henry's older brother and the one who lives on the family land, told his sons and nephews to wash the dishes since the women had cooked. That might not sound like much, but in a VERY patriarchal society, this was an incredibly egalitarian move.

After the meal Henry and some of his nephews strung up lights and set up music for dancing and listening. I listened. The children danced, even the little ones. Once evening turned into night some of the teens joined in the dancing. Bry'Chell returned in time for some dancing and a turn at being DJ.

Bry'Chell is developing a real appreciation for local music, both the more traditional and the pop music. As she says, Ugandans listen to American music, but Americans don't know Ugandan music and artists. We're going to try to get some music on CDs or tapes to bring home.

We had another light meal late in the evening. Like at home, it was leftovers from earlier in the day. They were just as good the second time around.

I gave Fr. Henry's mom one of the pictures of Mother Theodore that Jody made for me. The family pretty Catholic, so I thought she would like it. I'll try to take a picture of it and put it on the blog. It's not the holy card picture, but a mixed media composition that I really like.

The living room and dining room had family pictures, pictures of Jesus and Mary, and soccer posters. Oh yeah, there was a picture of the bishop. I suspect all say something about family interests and values.

The guest room where Bry'Chell and I stayed had two twin bed, complete with mosquito nets and linoleum on the floor which is a step above the bare concrete at our own house.

The house has solar panels which power the electric lights and a black-and-white television in the evening. There's indoor plumbing, although no piped-in hot water. It's a very comfortable house with the usual corrugated metal roof.

It was a long day and when we finally went to bed we were pretty whipped.

Christmas Day

Christmas Day was a bit different this year. We were at Fr. Henry's house outside a small rural village. It's beautiful country, lush green rolling hills as far as I could see.

As usual, I woke up fairly early on Christmas morning but instead of hearing kids telling each other to be quiet so they don't wake up the adults, I heard women outside beginning to prepare Christmas dinner over an open fire. I heard chickens squawking, but I don't know if they were the ones in the process of becoming our dinner, or just some of the chickens that were running around. Bry'Chell slept through everything until I actually woke her.

When we got up--some time after the women began cooking--Fr. Henry had heated water for us to take a shower. Don't think of standing under a shower head with steaming water pouring out. Think a basin with hot water on a stool in the shower stall. If you want water out of the shower head, it will be cold. Still, Henry heated water for us every morning and evening so we could wash. He was a very kind and accommodating host.

Once we were up and moving, it was time for mass. No surprises here. Christmas morning mass is one tradition that was no different here than at home. OK, it was a little different. When we arrived at the church someone started beating the drum telling people that the priest--Fr. Henry--had arrived. The church had just a few people when we walked in, but they started arriving in droves.

By the time mass started, the church was half full, by the time of the first reading the church was full. By homily time the church was packed and the kids started spilling over onto the mats around the altar. I would guess there were about a thousand people in the church.

Unlike Midnight mass, when I sat as anonymously as the only white person in a Ugandan congregation can, Christmas morning I was invited to sit up in the sanctuary. This was meant to be an honor, which I understood and respected, but it also served the purpose of keeping people from turning around to stare at me. Now they could stare to their hearts content without appearing to be ignoring the liturgy.

After mass, Fr. Henry dropped Bry'Chell and I along with several nieces and nephews back at the house while he went to another outstation to say another mass.

We hung around. Well, Bry'Chell went to our room and buried her nose in a book while I did my best to chat with Fr. Henry's mom who doesn't speak English--that's not entirely true, she could greet me in English, but that's about it. Strange as it might sound, the language barrier was not as insurmountable as it might sound. All the children and grandchildren speak English and were kind enough to translate when I looked totally lost and confused.

Henry's older brother arrived and had all kinds of questions about American politics beginning with Obama and covering the entire structure of American government. I'm glad I paid attention in sixth grade school civics. Of course, helping Bry'Chell in social studies the past few years was probably more useful. We covered the three branches of government with all the balance of power stuff. We talked about how elections worked--although I managed to skip the electoral college--how laws get passed including how vetoes work and what the Supreme Court does. He found it more interesting than I did. I was fascinated that he cared. During this conversation the eldest brother and a few adult nephews drifted in. They were either being very polite or actually cared, but they sure listened.

When Henry returned at about three in the afternoon, we ate. We had chicken and goat, matooke, rice and potatoes. There was beer and pop to drink. Since I don't care for pop, I was very happy with a beer. I won't go into detail about the beer, except to say that Ugandan beer is good.

Of all the things I've mentioned, there has been no mention of presents because there weren't any. They weren't completely absent, but there was no pile of gifts under the tree. There was no mad ripping of wrapping paper. There was a small--very small--artificial tree in one corner of the living room that was decorated with a few balloons. Bry' Chell and I did each exchange a gift in our room before we went out for breakfast. She gave me earrings. I have her a necklace with her initial on it carved out of bone.

I'll continue with a second installment since it's late and I need to get to bed.

Midnight Mass

Last night, as we were driving into Kitongo, Fr. Henry greeted the local catechist who going the other way on his bicycle. The catechist informed Fr. Henry that he had Midnight Mass. He had known that he had two masses the next day, but the information about Midnight Mass was new. He told the catechist he would be a little late, but that he would be there.

Midnight Mass, which like many places at home was not at midnight, but rather 9 PM, and started when Fr. Henry arrived. As soon as we pulled up, the drum started beating, letting people know that mass would be beginning shortly.

The church was lit by candles and lanterns, not for mood, but because there was no electricity. It felt much closer to the original Christmas than my usual urban/suburban experience. There were a bunch of kids sitting in the front. They listened with more attention to Fr. Henry's homily than many American kids would give to Saturday morning cartoons.

The church is simple, very rustic, but beautiful. As usual, the kneelers were not padded. I've sort of become used to that, I haven't seen a padded kneeler since I arrive here, not even in the cathedral. Personally, I would be happy to stand, but kneeling seems to be the custom here, and I'm not going to argue.

The mass was in Luganda, so I didn't understand a word, except when Fr. Henry interjected a bit of English for my benefit. Other than the readings, the difference in language is no big deal. I pretty much know how the mass goes.