Well it has been some time since I’ve sent out an update. Intentions are always good but there value not always evident when pen doesn’t hit the paper. It’s finding the time, emotional and head space to construct what my eyes have seen into words.

I will never understand Africa. I’ve learned what seems to be the difference between us and Africa is government, old cultures and communities, and belief in spiritual powers. That you must cover the whole story, not just investigate a horrid story and analyze why Africa is the way it is. Were in a get fast world so want the answer as fast as I can make toast. Handing money is certainly not the answer. We cannot develop Africa; it’s the locals that can save themselves. The underlying destructive pattern developed by westerners of giving to feel good. I cringe when I see whites bring in this element of actually catering to themselves. And anyone that calls themselves a Christian please don’t have the delusion that one has to depressingly martyr oneself, I don’t know how people have this idea of ‘duty’. Believing you can assist should be a fundament of what makes us human. Oh the cliché to love and be loved is the greatest gift holds true.

I would like to believe I am living for what I believe in, living my strengths, through my easily fascination and eye opening moments, waking up with hope and desire to serve the less fortunate. To play that small part in these modern day heroes lives and be amidst their enduring love character, which I respect and want to hold myself. I am fortunate to know as a twenty year old that I want to live deliberately.

I am glad to be disturbed to the workings of this world. I question the unformed direction of my immediate future as it seems an unreasonable abnormality of life. Our human nature and world ethics creates us to work hard and contribute to something personally important, when we dismiss this or replace it for comfort and safety we live with a growing discontent and ironically discomfort. God is in control and I thank him I am not. I don’t need to work it out or make sense of it. Period. Drink that peace up.

Where reasons are given, we don’t need faith. Where only darkness surrounds us, we have no means of seeing except by faith. -Elisabeth Elliot

So my plans? Unclear, what is evident is that Africa is a seductive addiction. Even with the complexity of affairs and corruption, lawless war with infected priesthoods that have the true saints misunderstood and oh the frustrations. It’s somewhat of an Eden, the freedom and authenticity.

I’m rambling.

So after 8 months in Kampala, I craved a change and new mind opening experiences. The beetles were correct, saying goodbye is the hardest word. The Tailoring Program went great and I was honored to see the women produce garments, skills and hope in a future career as a Tailor, producing self stability. It wasn’t till the last week that I saw how close these precious women had become to me and the degree in which I held the resources to easily assist them. It was a rush leading up to leaving as this was required with my new work in Nairobi, Kenya. I was glad to see before I left that the community in Kampala seemed to be at peace again with the remaining minor security in place after the devastating bomb attack's back in July. Discovering I had cerebral malaria and parasites during my last week’s was (politely) hell. Although it enlightened me to how the countless locals I had come into contact with during my time that had either one of these would have felt. It’s something I do not wish upon anyone and ticked off that frustration point of how easily it can be prevented and inexpensively it can be treated.

All of my emotions were tested in that last week in Kampala. The closest to me during my time endured horrid events and I realized I would never make that ‘change’ that I would personally feel satisfied with.

It was not a coincidence that my heart had to be broken once again to my new loved ones before I left. There was torrential rain which I knew deeply affected dwellers in the slum. On my 2^nd last day I went down to the Namuwongo slum one last time to say goodbye to my tailoring women. Gum boots would have been more effective than my flip flops as I sloshed through the disease entrapped mud. If the slum was more accommodating to rats before, this new scene was unfathomable.

Everywhere I passed people were trying to get back on their feet, trying to pull themselves back together, trying to carry on and once again, rebuild their lives. Masses of beautiful, vulnerable children, innocent yet their love stolen and deprived of essential human needs. Will they one day find the unknown reason of why this had to be their life? Why they were raised in dirt? Everywhere I turned I saw people rising gloriously above conditions that would paralyze and break most of us. It’s personally amusing that I perceive more hopelessness in Sydney.

The path towards Esther and Rose’s house, 2 of the ladies about to graduate in the Tailoring Program was unrecognizable and at one point my flip flop was sucked in from the dirt. As I hopped around on one foot a child from a laughing crowd ran in to rescue this back out. There it was, once a block of metal sheet and mud formed in the shape of a room, completely collapsed, no longer anything standing, only rubble remaining. All earthly possessions gone. These ladies were invited to temporarily have a cramped shelter in a neighbor’s house. Rose a widow due to the LRA caring for now 6 children after her 14 year old daughter was taken due to ‘malnutrition’ and single Esther, this to them was just another setback. Their neighbors’ baby sitting outside during the rain was swept away into the swamp while the mother was helplessly trapped under her house’s roof. The last update which was 4 days after was that the baby was still not found. As Rose saw me approaching, she lovingly welcomed me and unarguably, demanded to wash my feet with their small water supply. Yes, holding in tears was nothing short of hard. I was relieved to do all I could and then leave these women’s circumstance in Hands for Hopes care that is currently sponsoring them to move, rent and any needs for several months. Again just one story.

It reminds me of how short life is and how disposable and seemingly less valuable some life is looked upon. My time in Uganda was priceless and I have memories that will forever touch my heart.

I am now settling into Nairobi working with Seed of Hope (www.seedofhope.info). Seed of Hope educates and provides training in businesses for vulnerable girls. Depending on finances and how my work pans out will be the answer to when I return which could be anytime, although I don’t feel ready for this just yet. I am working on a project called Crafted which has the goal of creating Seed of Hope to be self sustainable and supporting Graduates. This involves partnering with previous graduates and marketing there items locally and worldwide. I am really excited and value so many things in this new role!

I hope you are well, Love

Greetings,

I hope this finds you swell, thought I’d sit down and write of my life going on here to all you lovely people.

Those close to me know I can talk a lot so allow me to offer the option if you don’t want to read all of this to scroll to the bottom where you will find the asterisks.

The area I live in, Namuwongo, continuously fuels my mind. The residents buzzing around the clock, seeming to be without the need to sleep. The dirt, fumes, and intoxicating air whipping your face with a cancerous touch. Potholes, ditches and humps form a road, that weed out to shops, bars, homes and children dwelling in dirt and rubbish, imaginatively distinguishing this from their dirt and rubbish contraption of toys. Men riding on bicycles forever through the sun enduring the weight placed on the back for a couple of lousy cents, boda drivers keeping a chilled stand on their territory, then revving up their rusty, magically lasting exhausts to fight over the trip you wish to travel. Dingy shops bickering with light, supplied with items and customers only god knows how they make it through with. Markets beaming with colourful local life, congested with ladies beading, bunching fruit together and advertising anything oddly imaginable while in their groups of friends, local food stalls with the risk I know of all too well if I eat from, music blasting from distorted speakers spread out to accommodate you never being without this soul food and children everywhere in between.

This has become my home for the last 5 months while volunteering at Uganda Hands for Hope.

For those that don’t know of this org…..heres the low down on their empowering against all odds work. Hands for Hope works alongside children and families in a slum in Kampala, Uganda called Namuwongo.

The population in this slum is between 8 000 - 10 000 and growing constantly. Each resident a victim to extreme conditions of poverty and forecasted among the slums 90% of deaths which are preventable. Some have been there for a year, some 40 years, some born here. But all are not here by choice but politely put unfortunate circumstances of war, displacement, destruction or poverty.

The smell, horrid but nothing compared to the sight. Homes made of scraps, ironically temperamental and clustered, puzzled together with garbage and disease. The shelter fighting its foundations and stand through the mighty army of raindrops. When it frequently rains, water from the main roads and city soars down to the slum and tears the walls of the shelters down. Most live off less than a dollar a day and due to the desperation of poverty thus rivals crime and violence. Sanitary nonexistent. Opportunity and future realistically, seeming bleak. This is a slum.

The pain, loss and suffering I see is proof that maybe were meant for more, that peoples strength and resistance is supernatural. I’ve come to recognize residents don’t refer to their dwelling or house as home rather ‘the place they stay’. They then offer a guide- ‘near this rubbish hump, swamp or washing area.’ No house numbers, phones, identification or street signs for homes to near to 10 000 people. I’ve sarcastically asked for a map to a coworker after being lost in a maze of shelters. The next day I non coincidently read this

"It is not down in any map; true places never are." ~ Herman Melville

Hands for hope was set up to support children and families living here and offers education and sponsorship to over 140 children, conducts small loan programs, a medical clinic, tailoring project, Saturday reading classes, a holiday program and an afternoon class for the most vulnerable children next on the sponsorship list.

The beginning of my time here was received with slaps in the face by awareness. Tears I wished could be the releasing carriers of the pain that makes my heart beat. Each testimonial story was followed by another even more tragic. My head twisting to grasp in challenges, challenges by my own undiscovered preconceptions of humanity. I realized I had been injected with the kind of sadness that never leaves your bones.

Yes, there will always be poverty and war. Regardless of our worlds trials and errors to have established solutions to this by now. I question if there is endless injustice, corruption and screwed up leaders because as humans this inhumanity is overwhelmingly too much to handle and has gone on forever.

I believe my moment of outrage and sadness was indispensable. Reacting is part of what makes us human. This reaction I believe creates a privileged birth to fighting for advocacy, speaking up and acting on what is known to not be right. We do know we have the resources. I’m not disheartened, I’m not accepting.

I have misunderstood and been blinded by the grief to the characters of the residents here. Poverty is commonly looked down upon and focused on the pain. Yet, there admirable utilization of their hands building lives with the limited resources, along with their enduring heart, soul and strength are to be honored, praised and respected. Very nearly nothing in our lives is similar. And yet, we are the same, same needs, hunger, thirst, relationships, joy and desires I feel every day. They are the heroes, heroes of their own stories each day. It is true that life can be so rich, when you are living so poor.

Ive been spending my days working in their Tailoring Program focusing on finding markets and an income for the ladies involved. Ive been working with the Afternoon Program which is secretly my favourite class, each child is as adorable and as vulnerable as the next. The 30 gems that attended are aged between 6-15years old and each owns a remarkable, fighting life marked with lovable characters as varied and colourful as a rainbow. Showing a child how to hold a pencil right or a 14 year old her basic times tables, explaining why us expats wash our hands after the bathroom, dancing alongside children sharing their moments of happiness and being in there bubble of safety, love and joy for the time they are out of the slum. Comforting a child after a preventable death of their brother trying to hold in my tears while being hit with the whale of the mother, sharing their first pizza or giving them there first new sweater. These children will always be in my heart. They have become my family and the moments I have shared are unforgettable and treasured.

My most precious memory from this class was seeing one of the children whom just received the life changing news of sponsorship in school for his first day. My first day, 6 years old crying and not wanting my mum to leave. His first day, 13 years old, fatherless sitting in an unfamiliar exciting classroom full of hope from the door he has now entered. Wearing a clean shiny uniform and an inexpressible grateful smile.

Donations are given to our NGO to distribute to the community, I have spent endless days going through these and distributing them to the children, adults and local NGO’s. The gratitude I was able to witness from each child given an item was a privilege. Some got on their knees to thank you and I didn’t even donate the clothes.

******begin reading here if you’re skipping through******

I have started up a new tailoring program, the first lesson starts tomorrow. I am delighted to share that this is being done with 10 new women; each was a victim to war and escaped to the slum in search of ‘new life’. These women have witnessed things I cannot ever imagine, there children have the eyes of men and they bear the scars of war. The program will be going for the next 3 or so months till I leave. They are going to be trained in all basics of clothing for children, ladies and men so that at the end they will be able to start their own small businesses with successfully graduating with a new sewing machine. The interviews have seemed to be endless and the decisions and responsibility I have only been able to pray for discernment and strength for. It is hard comparing who is more vulnerable and in need of this opportunity. Each ladies story tragically different, full of loss, war and pain, yet testimonial hope for the future they know they deserve. I cannot wait to see how this will unfold. The excitement and inspiring willingness of two ladies stood out to me. One, a flied widow from Congo with 7 children that is barely scrapping by to feed them, working endlessly for a future for them to not be playing in rubbish humps and receiving the education they crave. The other, the women who showed me love and a light so bright while holding the photos of her teenage daughter that died that week, again preventable.

Finding a teacher that held the keys to the women’s tailoring success somewhat miraculously appeared and holds the characteristics of a saint, peace, love and help radiate from him and more experience than I could have imagined.

As unsettled as I sometimes can feel I am settled and feel bizarrely humorous at home for now. I am accommodating to cold water, charcoal stoves, unreliable electricity and mice that keep trying to move into my home uninvited. I miss my loved ones from home yet receive love from my brothers and sisters here I don’t know how to respond to. I’ve laughed till I cried, cried till I am comforted and overflowing with a mothers love, danced tirelessly to the beats of local music, joyously sang and danced in the sudden down pour and in some areas needed rain, ate local food I didn’t know was food and experienced an adrenaline of unexpected moments of realness in this beautiful world. Grateful.

I want to thank you for your love.

Well go, dont wait or think

I sit under the mango tree in the front yard of my Namuwongo home. Enchanted notes flow over my fence; I look up and follow it back. “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you….”
Children are laughing merrily through the English then Lugandan version of the celebrated song and occasion. For this moment they are children, they are playing, they have security between themselves, their free and allowing the tune of this song be carried to where ever there rhythmical heart’s desire.
(Hand Raised)
I do solemnly swear to never again take for granted the following – hot water, electricity, gas, oven, microwave, washing machine, dishwashing machine and all other forms of easy living.
This week’s annoyance would be the lack of gas. Jade, (a close friend living here with me now) and I having been attempting to use the charcoal - small fire outside for our dinners. We got our 101 class from Felista the house girl and felt confident and proud that we were going to be sweet with this. Eating at 11:00pm that night after waiting hours and working up a sweat for pasta and some sauce however changed this confidence.
I still love being in Uganda, there is not a day that I don’t feel grateful for being here and my life. I am learning so much from the people here, as Africa’s Life Teachings student finding what matters most. I have seen poverty I cannot comprehend; yet these victims do not look at their situation as hopeless or walk around being sorry for themselves. They get on with life and work to have a better future for themselves and their children regardless of the situation.
Realizing that me being here isn’t about how I can help the vulnerable but how I can come alongside and support them in whatever way that means. Seeing them not as anything lower because of their wealth or ‘status’ but stronger than me. Looking at how much they can do with what is in their hands not how much is not. They are the bravest people I know.
Hands for Hope is such a genuine organization. Helping individuals, motivated by their hearts, hope and understanding of how they really help transform lives.
The tailoring program has certainly had some hick ups. At times seemed bleak and considered another path, like all things worth fighting for though. The easy thing would be to give up and flutter back to comfortable Oz. Sure I have these moments, when I do I walk back into the slum or talk to a child in the program and bamm! There’s my needed slap in the face. Regardless of some circumstances that have been, I don’t want to give up and I still see the potential of the program and women. This is Africa, so things aren’t going to flow the way I expect or would like always.
The big dilemma is finding a stable generating source of income and accommodating to the right market, long term sustainability for the women. Looking into a 4 month plan for the women to achieve all types of sewing items and at the end, they will graduate being deservingly rewarded with their own sewing machine. Then, after I leave they will hopefully have small business in the tailoring world.
Ive been working quite a lot on sorting through masses of donations and now figuring the best way and most needed to receive these general items. The other 2 crazies that make up with me our 3 Musketeer clan helped with this and also organizing and de-cluttering the teacher’s office – certainly not fun jobs. Especially when you discover ancient mice remains and then fear how many more you’re to find!
It feels very strange that im seeing people come into the org and leave and im staying on. Was very sad saying goodbye to my dear 2 friends that recently left and being an audience to the kids fare welling them. However small the act of what people do here, the huge significance and unforgettable, gratefulness from the children, amazes me.
I will never be able to try nor relate to children growing up here. Seeing a child pick and stare at a piece of pizza as if they were the first to find a mysterious treasure. Watching radiating joy and expressed squeals of excitement from young boys playing with a flat somewhat ‘soccer ball’ alongside rubbish humps. Or witnessing a child that just received their life changing news that they now have a sponsor. I was at the primary school this week and saw this child sitting in his unfamiliar new school chair. He was proudly wearing his uniform and a huge expecting, thankful smile. He is 12 and has finally been given the opportunity every child deserves to an education and meaning to a hopeful future.
Before I left for Egypt, I sold my car and am now experiencing life without this ease. There are positives in this lose, no more procedures of parking the car or having the kids standing on the side ledges as im trying to miss the ones running behind to park in the school. Then coming out of the school to find children taking the responsibility to ‘wash’ the large vehicle. (in other terms, painting and spreading the dirt around the car with clothes.) I can’t help but show them thankfulness for their willing care and thoughtfulness. They then nod delighted at the satisfaction of the work they have done.
With consent and recommendation from my parents, looks like im getting a motorbike : ) Maybe if I get short on cash ill take up being a boda boda driver….
I experienced my first visit to the downtown local markets with one of the teachers. This is where I now buy my fruit and vegetables for the wonderful local price. Whilst enjoying the new exciting surroundings and picking the food amidst the chaotic, bright crowds.
So you can help keep track of my mosquito attack war while writing this has just been updated to Brigitta -4. Mosquito – 0 booya!
It feels like I never left Kampala…I spent my first couple of days here settling in again and using the opportunity to soak up some hugs from the kids. I mean showing Jade all the projects…One of my favourite moments in my day is when I arrive at the office and stall outside the baby class. I can never hold in my excitement and I hear my voice bubbling with delight as I say hello to the precious faces gleaming with smiles. They respond in choir “good morning Brigitta, how are you?” it is the most delicate and treasurable moments.
I took Jade to visit the other school, I was also keen to see the missed children and the cook there has recently had a baby whom when I left was kept peacefully in an open suitcase during the day, he looked like a present. Ha… The children took their moments of fame out the front of the glistening expecting audience and sang songs. I love how much music is a part of life here! Of course, they had shown there talent and now the 2 Mzungu’s were to do the same. The girl I sat next to said with the straightest face of an old lady “well go, don’t wait or think, hurry you.” Ha The kids were in roars of laughter when Jade and I broke into a song with matching highly spectacular dance moves.
Days are quite unplanned at the moment till we have some more things in concrete with the tailoring so this week its been full of random times of paperwork, resuscitation classes, teaching, planning all things tailoring and the new job ive picked up of doing the Doc’s paper work….well im certainly not bored!
Till next time, stay in peace and love dear friends

Salam wa aleikum

Maybe I should introduce myself now as Baby Spice? Shakira? Or a representative from Lonely Planet? The 3^rd was a masked identity we created without the Egyptian’s opinion…

I met up with a dear friend Jade the day before I was to fly to the enchanted land of Egypt. It was inevitable that we would discover a brilliant plan for her to come with me...dah…

8:00, 9:00, 10:00pm only 5 more hours to endure and stay awake till we flew. Why do I always choose the horrid flight hours to save some mullah? I was looking forward to having some time away in general and to think etc, also time for hot water, gas, clean feet and stable electricity. Our taxi arrives African time and were on a tight schedule to make our flight. About 45 minutes into the hour drive to the airport the taxi is slowly drifting to the side of the road…’sorry ma’am looks like were out of petrol’. Times like these I do not appreciate the blaze tune to the comments. Out the driver jumps with a jerry can and sprints into the black of night. Jade and I sit. Starring at the time ticking, the petrol light shining and the random unsafe feeling of the boda driver starring in on the 2 Mzungu’s in the car as he goes by at 2am.

Were speechless and appreciate the bugs buzzing’s not allowing the silence to exaggerate our fears. What can you do. The driver reappears with the fuel and off we go….

Arriving in Cairo felt rather bizarre as I am greeted by an Uncle I can hardly remember and the tiredness taking over my motion. We drive to our home for our time in Cairo, the Dutch Ambassadors residency. We are welcomed by a huge perfectly floral yard and magnificent house. I am too tired all that is going on and cannot register the new shiny surroundings so I go to sleep. I awake to the informing of dinner soon and greet my Aunty, the Dutch Ambassador in Cairo. It is amazing and a privilege to spend time with family who you hardly know and get to know them and their achievements. An unforgettable, special time sharing stories of family, some gone, some now older.

We were equipped with maps of everywhere and priceless information on the city we were about to explore. Starting with the Cairo Museum we quickly realized that we were quite different to locals and wore far less clothing on our body, especially our heads…

Egypt is amazing, excitingly rich in culture and history that is unfathomable. We somehow tackled all that we set out to see and do.

I love going to a new country and spending time in the hidden richness of local ‘hang outs’ and discovering the quirkiness of people and their culture. Its funny that people seem the same all around the world. Smoke from Shisha pipes filing lanes, old men drinking tea and enjoying an endless game of Backgammon chuckling over their historical jokes. Traditional food always served with a dish of ‘what could this do to my body, specifically bowls if I eat you?’ Dark allies overflowing with coffee shops and locals calling you in. Children playing with cats and covered in jewelry. Driving rules and roads nonexistent. Markets cramped with new delights and junk that somehow presents the unfamiliar culture that makes me feel I would really want it…

We went to a mosque and upon arrival we realized that maybe our appropriate dress wear wasn’t so appropriate after all…I was soon to discover I have very sexy ankles that should really be covered in public, so I was given a beautiful gown shall we say to do the amazing job of covering me head to toe. Lurking around corners and dark prayer rooms I felt I should be in a sequel for Harry Potter. All humorous moments aside, you do stand in awe at the history, beliefs, respect and architecture of the mosques.

As if to be popped in between tall buildings, my eyes were popping out when there in front, was the Sphinx. We made our way closer and closer, pushing off the men bouncing up offering camel rides, proposals and tourist ‘must haves’. It felt as if I was watching my surroundings through the Discovery Channel.

We negotiate the camel trip and over my leg hops onto this quirky, camel. Camels are very humorous creatures and seem to resemble cartoon like facial expressions. You lean back and are surprised as they spring there back legs up and then forward allowing their front legs to straighten. The man whom we negotiated with motioned us to go while calling out ‘enjoy, pay me 80 000 when your back’.

There games never cease to amaze me and I argued back ‘no, we agreed 70 000’ as my camel is awkwardly walking away.

‘you pay 80 000 or you will not enjoy’ he firmly responded.

What can you do when you’re already mounted on this large animal? Of we embark, somewhat trotting over the unending, stretched desert hills in the blazing 45 degree heat. We reach the pyramids and have somehow convinced the tour guide that today he will let us climb one of the small pyramids, and allow that rule not to, slide by. It was incredible and breathtaking, standing on the pyramid it is hard soaking in the history and grandness of what you are on top of. We hurry back down as there the other Egyptian tour guides are fast approaching yelling in Arabic for us to get off. In true clumsy, un appropriate foot wear Brigitta style, I cut my foot and enjoy the next week cleaning out sand and dirt from every tourist site we enter into. A man comes to collect our ’80 000’ and after giving this he tries to argue that we need to pay 80 000 for the tour guide. We mockingly laugh this off. In anger and losing this battle he decides to drop jade and I in the middle of nowhere…Jade had mentioned she wanted to walk for a day in the desert (huh hmm) and this was going to be it…

We spent a day exploring Coptic Cairo, with unending temples, churches, grave yards and historical symbols.

The night life in Egypt is delightful. My Aunt and Uncle took us to a German Ballet which was so experimental and a wonderful experience. We had dinner on a small sailing boat on the Nile taking in all the lights and life off the sides of streets. Local market walks and Shisha sessions at night. But my favorite evening was going down town for a traditional Gypsy show that keeps the historical Egyptian music and rhythms alive. Room filled with antiques, tea cups snuggled into hands, tambourines being ‘tuned’ over a fire before the show and then vocals so unfamiliar and the beats adrenalin forcing you to join in on the movement.

We put on our backpackers badge and one of the house men set up the cheapest way to travel to Luxor for us. We know the plan but didn’t quite register the exhaustion of the unfolding of it…Our night train arrived at 2am instead of 12, and we were welcomed in Luxor by the 45 degree heat and men more annoying and persistence than one could have imagined. We started with the Temple of Luxor and Temple of Karnak then set off to find our hostel. The Bob Marley hostel, highly living up to the names expectations! We awoke at 5:30am and jumped on the fiery across the sea to the East side for our Hot Air balloon experience.

I felt like a 5 year old not being able to hold their excitement under their skin. The basket was dropped from the car and off the men went firing the air inside the balloon and then shooting the flames up. We were lifted and placed inside and up we went. Over the fields, houses, temples and Valley of the Kings and Queens. Surreal, unforgettable and looking positively at the situation amusing when trying to hold back the fear I asked ‘are we dropping at an alarmingly un-normal speed?’

‘landing positions’ the controller yelled and we were alerted he could not see into the distance and it would be very unsafe to continue forth so we must land right away. This meant some poor residents field below. Sure, a disappointment we weren’t up flying high for longer, yet every second we had was amazing and were happily surprised to receive a full refund! Damn, we just never got a tshirt ;)

We then spent the rest of the day conquering the sites of 8 different temples and tombs in the killing 50 degree heat. That night we boarded the local night train back to our loved and missed Palace. Due to corruption of ticket buying the day before, buying that night on the train was the best way around this. Tired, possible heat stroke and dehydration in goes the ear plugs, bag straps tightly around wrists we shut our eyes to sleep.

‘Move, you’re in our seats’ I open one eye and there is the lady poking me an hour later saying this over and over again. We are informed that we don’t have reserved seats….?...you buy tickets on the train you are not assured of a seat number. We stroll the carriages, moody, craving sleep and comfort in search for a place to rest our heads. We find one seat and Jade and I share this space. One and a half hours go by and dejavu….were up now storming the train, with no patience or calmness for the men and offices pestering us. Jade excitingly holds my hand and is thrilled to share her discovery of a patch of train floor she saw earlier on. At this stage I wasn’t fussy yet an area between a man’s seat and the door to the connection of the train carriages roughly 1m by half a meter isn’t impressive…we settle and maneuver our bodies to cramp into this area for the rest of the night. I didn’t think it was possible to sleep were I did, nor did I think I ever would but desperate time’s right? We laughed ourselves to sleep.

Next destination – Dahab, The Red Sea. After well rested and living it up in the Embassy we are refreshed and are ready for the cheap way of doing things outside the Embassy again. After never needing our passports previously when we had travelled we carelessly thought it would be better to keep them locked up at the Embassy instead of having to constantly carry on us in the Red Sea. I know what so many of you would be thinking right now and Shushh ha I’ve learnt…This time we took the 12 hour bus and soon after departure were stopped by officials and walked off the bus as oh my we didn’t have our passports. The time we don’t….So we argue, they yell at each other in Arabic my ears perking in every time I hear ‘Australia’. The passengers on the bus now on one side with their eyes goggling out to the situation now outside as if to have placed the bus on a slant. I spoke the only thing I thought that could save us and that was confident spill on my Aunty being the Ambassador and knowing of all we are doing. We were let back on the bus without another word hahahaha…. This repeated 6 more times and I had my speech perfected by the end.

Dahab is stunningly beautiful and charming. On one side you have mountains painted up the sky and on the other you have the Red Sea, sparkling with her blue rays. It is a very chilled place and I could stay there for at least a month! I love that everywhere you eat you are seated on the ground immersed in cushions. We spent a whole day snorkeling our way through the Red Sea coral reefs in an area called The Blue Hole which in parts is 110metres deep! Yet we could surface the water and still touch coral and the majestic underwater world. The wonder of the detailed exquisite world down there is awe inspiring.

That evening, dressed in beach pants and ‘flip flops’ (safe word to use I realize more and more) we jumped on horses and off we went through the dark night along the street market, sand and then through the water. Perfect end to a perfect day! Although, my hesitations awoke after my horse was cantering along the sand in the decision to create a faster path and hated being controlled. ‘No insurance, paper work, medical assurance if anything was to happen…’

We finished our newly loved lifestyle in The Red Sea with a bike ride along the shores and between the mountains and sea.

Our last few days back in Cairo were full of more markets, eating (too much at every inappropriate hour), special night chats with my newly known and loved family members, finishing the emotionally inspiring book my Uncle wrote during their time in Sri Lanka and soaking up the dream lifestyle on a silver platter.

In the taxi ride to the airport, a tear made of gratitude and sadness dropped onto my top. Egypt was unforgettably special yet I know there is a whole world waiting for me, full of surprises!

Rwanda

On the 2nd of April a friend and I faced the dilemma of our Ugandan Visa’s quickly approaching the point of expire. I had wanted to use this predicament as an advantage and travel to Rwanda as I had read, heard and was impacted by what I knew of the 1994 Genocide. So we headed off, largely unaware of the history of this nation.

Freshly arrived driving through the city; streets so clean (in comparison to Kampala) the air unspoiled and the landscape of ‘a thousand hills’ was beautiful and refreshing. I was soon to be reminded of the tiredness accompanied to travelling to a new, unknown place can bring with the change of currency, unfamiliar ways and culture and history = emotionally draining.

A friend upon our return decided to see Rwanda for herself and I agree of how she described it as “Hills surround the city on every side, making it feel as though you are protected from anything beyond it, which as we said, is rather ironic.”

The Rwandan Genocide was the 1994 mass killing between the tribes of Hutu and Tutsi, an estimated 800,000 people over the course of approximately 100 days were killed.

Approaching the Rwanda Genocide Museum, we saw hundreds of what I assumed as locals, marked with a dash of purple material walking towards this site. I felt somewhat guilty as a tourist and disliked driving up to the site amidst a crowd of mourners, the car and our skin making us stand out. Being Easter and the genocide presence quite recent, this is a time of remembrance. We tried to stay out of way and split from the crowd to the museum, as the crowd went and mourned, burying remains of loved ones they are continually finding.
I was amazed and hauntingly enlightened at the information we soon after discovered. The scale of innocent killings, other countries involvement and assistance and how so many people of higher power than the locals tried to contact ‘outside’ help. These transcripts of radio calls, letters and other forms of despairing correspondence had clear evidence of what was occurring and were desperate cries for help. I read that if the UN had sent in 5000 troops the degree of the Genocide would not have occurred. Apologies after were of course given.

I can’t help but think and relate this to horrendous, unspoken situations in the world today.

I could not and cannot digest this nor comprehend. I search for a solution in some form or string to understanding so much. The faces worldwide that is everyday being slayed to an undeserved, evil death are not shown. And the mother’s heart that was once beating alongside her son’s is silent.

The two memorial churches we visited I will never forget…
-Ntarama Genocide Memorial
Churches were thought of as a place of safety so the pursued took refuge in churches, thinking the militia would not get in and kill them in a place usually thought of as a sanctuary. At the Ntarama site 5000 people were killed. Upon entrance there are the skulls and bones of these victims. The prints on the skulls clearly show signs of the trauma that killed them. Among the mass of skulls you see fragile small tops of children’s skulls.

The victims clothing hangs from the roof and is draped, covering the walls. The precious few items they were wearing at the time are piled at the front of the church. It’s hard to fathom seeing someone’s glasses, shoes, rosemary beads, wallets, keys, children’s socks, the last remnants of what they clenched or wore when the grenades blew in, the ruthless Rwandan brothers flooded in and the machetes started massacring. Sitting on the pews of those before who sat in fear of what was about to take place, praying desperate prayers which I can only think would feel helpless. My feet aligned were there’s would have shock.

Outside the once mantled room belonging to the priest was still housing a broken chair, table, bibles and paper work.

-The Nyamata Genocide Memorial Site

This church was also a haven for the frightened people who fled hoping to escape death. 10,000 were killed here, there are 12 survivors.
We were greeted by a gentleman by the name of Charles. Charles walked us through the church, telling the story of the massacre that had taken place here, how the blood was still on the wall, splattered on the roof, the gunshots in the door, walls and ceiling. 'I think the killers thought it was like a party' Charles said. The people inside heard the killers coming from afar banging drums and chanting joyously towards the church and then breaking down the door.

He told us of the storyline of the killings, the mockery and stunning cruelty used by the killers, every now and again stopping in pain, as if biting his lip and then bringing himself to continue.

“They took 5 of the highly known intellects and tied them around this post, here they had there ‘wisdom’ bashed out with a hammer. They then mocked the dead bodies to rise up and walk out if they had a brain.”
“Are you bored? Do you want to play football?” One smirked to the crowd “let me go get you a ball” he returned throwing a head of one of the victims towards them. They chopped of arms and waved them in front of the crowd singing ‘were waving goodbye to you cockroaches for good’

Charles went on “there was a Hutu lady brought here and told to kill her husband, a Tutsi. She refused so they took her to the front, laying her on this alter. From here they ‘removed’ the sin from her using a machete, removing her unborn child in the process.”

We followed Charles to the area the children were together. I cannot bring myself to write these stories. We walk the pews, draped with the victims’ clothes and belongings, past the blood stained alter, the skulls underneath the church and then outside walking underground to the masses of skulls, coffins and body parts. The stench hitting you in the face and the thousands of bones nearly touching your own.

I couldn’t cry. Maybe because it is too unfathomable.

I sit outside talking with Charles. I ask the common question of how long he has been in Rwanda. He nervously puts his hands under the table and looks past my face into the distance. In a trembled voice he reply’s “I was one of the twelve that survived the genocide in this church”

I was speechless and recalled the bizarre moments Charles delivered during the ‘tour’. Charles at the age of 8, was victim to not only being there and watching and hearing the screeches of his whole family being killed but now living with terror he witnessed. Charles brother smeared him with his blood before he died. Charles pretended to be dead and for three days he tried not to move as the killers intermittently probed bodies to see if anyone was still alive. He then went to a swamp and stayed for 31 days, waiting by the last words of his brother “I will meet you here” Charles was later found and brought to an orphanage.

Charles spoke of the reconciliation process and despite all, he seems at peace. Which to me seems impossible, yet Charles is a remarkable man whom I will never forget nor take for granted hearing his story.

I sit here now in the airport waiting for my flight back to Uganda, I cannot comprehend all I have seen and heard nor do I think I ever will. Rwanda seems to have come a very long way, the whole nation is rebuilding in every way. There is hope, motivation and some pure miracle of forgiveness.