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.

Infectious Joy

I apologise for not updating my blog as frequently as you and I would like. I have been regretfully lazy with writing as I am addictively finishing days with ‘switching off’ evenings.
So much happens too that when I dedicate the time for pen to paper, my head overflows and I can’t puzzle all that’s happened back together. Enough excuses : )

I am content not knowing where I’ll be or what I am going to do this year. I am still in Namuwongo, Kampala and have been working with Uganda Hands for Hope. I am helping establish a tailoring program for women living in the slum that is self sustainable, empowering and enables them to care for themselves and their families. I hope this will equip the women with valuable skills and a trade they can establish anywhere.

I need to grasp the truth that it’s not going to blossom by itself, I need to just run with it and that trial and error are learning leaps, without these how can there be success.

Finding stable market places for the products and consistent orders are my focus right now. This wasn’t what I thought I would be doing, sorting the accounts isn’t my highlight and sourcing of fabrics and all material items has reminded me of being in a stressful, uncontrolled, chaotic video game.

When buying fabrics I always went with another crazy enough person to push through the wild crowds, rummage through the street shops and then use your final energy to negotiate a locals price with. Last time I went by myself, unwise and regretful. I found myself distressingly lost, panicking from the men throwing their bodies and lips against the sides of my car and involved in my 3rd experience that week with police with their most familiar lines of – ‘your under arrest....were taking your car or your licence..’ but fabric being the symbolic victory was in the palm of my hands at the end...all is well that ends well.

I love the tailoring program and it has been an honour and joy to watch the women and the unfolding of the potential a tailoring program can deliver. The women are so beautiful with such unfathomable testimonies and strength. I feel as there is now a trustful friendship with the ladies, which is very meaningful.

Hands for Hope is an incredible organisation and I am constantly reminded of the vast help there offering to children and families who without this aid would be forgotten.
Being with the children you sometimes forget where they sleep each night. When I walk up the hill from the project and those inescapably, contagious smiling faces walk down to the slum I become rather emotional watching their precious feet about to step into such hell.

I helped an afternoon class and felt like I was learning so much through the kid’s dynamics between each other. Some of their work brought up there family members and life. I’m not us to sitting in a classroom and a child crying from death of parents or refugee life. Or children demanding more math equations and homework.
I was completely lost when a darling brought up her workbook for me to check, which she had been proudly writing a story in. Naively, I turned the page and her eyes sparkled with the prospect of my marking.

“My father died...my mother cannot work...my brother always cries....we were given 27 days before we are evicted because we cannot pay the rent...I’m praying for God...this is my life story”

How can I ‘grammatically check’ this through my teary eyes, heart pounding and not having the courage to look this girl in the eyes again for her ‘brilliant writing.’

My 2 lovely new house mates and I put on a ‘Uganda’s Got Talent’ show for the afternoon class they teach. The kids were tremendously excited and were planning their acts all week; it seemed they wished to fly with this moment of fame! There was traditional dance, singing by younger and older, break dancing, modelling and plays that the kids had written themselves and performed.

The talented written plays were in Lugandan so I didn’t understand them verbally but anyone could understand them visually. They were about situations from their life like housing problems, drunken fathers, not having money to pay the landlord and going through rubbish humps. Yet these were made somehow hilarious and all the kids and adults couldn’t stop laughing...All the kids were given medals. One of the girls was still wearing her medal around the school the other day : ) It was a very special and proud day for them, but I believe more so for us.

It is becoming colder and wetter now. Good and bad. Cold = rain = slum become worse than hell. The smell hits you like sewerage and from a distance you can see all the rubbish from the hills raining down the sea of people’s homes. The other night I kept waking up from the cold and thunder thinking of the people in the slum that tonight would not be able to sleep, that disease would be brewing everywhere, THEY would be freezing and homes would be flooding and collapsing with water and rubbish. And what can they do? Yet the following morning the kids are at the project running up as per usual with their infectious joy....

I have spent today researching all I can on the prospective of getting the tailoring products into fair trade shops in Sydney and hopefully have some wonderful ladies to host like ‘product’ parties....who would have thought partying could change Uganda! Ha I think it would be amazing awareness and a special personal connection between the maker and buyer...

Depending on how deep I look through my idea kaleidoscope I can overwhelm myself but we shall see....sometimes though it seems the impossible is more achievable than the possible.
Love x

my toes are grateful

The end of February has crept up... incomprehensible that I’ve been in Uganda for 6 weeks. Time seems to be leaving without saying goodbye and as an unpleasant surprise. Each day I feel I am peaking out into this stimulating and crazy town through a child’s eyes. I catch my heart beating faster and faster to the children I met, the corruption I see and the injustice I pass.

The more I see the harder I find to understand how and where to start. I would love a hope- filled answer to my persistent question of how our world has become so screwed up. I hate the knowledge of injustice and I hate seeing it.

I know I secretly thrive in Uganda off the craziness; the culture, functioning’s of people, life and the excitement of what each day is assured to deliver.

Extraordinarily large-horned cattle, endless banana yellow shop fronts, constant dirty toes, fanatical transport means, even if that is strapping on your rollerblades and holding onto a van through intersections, a journal entry on my leg of a bike burn, proposals any woman would certainly fall blindly for ;), learning how to ride, showering outside in the rain, your toilet stability never having a normal day, electricity blowing through your grocery shop, stupid goats and being amusingly lost in translation.

The unsettledness, I despise. I love plans, daily or weekly goals and having a sense of completion at the end of the day. Africa seems to hate that about me and is determined that I change my ways before she change her’s.

I love living and breathing in the ‘realness’ here. That is what I love about Uganda. People don’t have this dysfunctional, brainwashed life plans that westerners become like slaves to. Always searching for more and more. Life is simple here. Ugandans live for the day and enjoy the little they are proud to own. That’s why I love to see them dance. Life is the essence to their dancing and singing. Music is the place where melody and tempo really does have the ability to cover or resolve volatile topics. I read somewhere, once upon a time –

“Poetry can get under the skin without your permission, and music can offer perspective or hope that might have been hidden before. And so the song becomes a vehicle to cover some serious ground. We need hope. Tell a good story with the way you live. What is the world you want?”

I love that.

My eye begins to twitch when I think of car purchasing. Corruption, dodgyness, frustrations and offensive white prices take over my vocabulary. I’ve considered travelling recklessly via bodas instead. But I know that’s the ‘wild’ side of me I must ignore and laugh at. :)

We have had 4 people looking out for cars for us. They would look at the cars, negotiate and then bring to us if it was good. We would drive, negotiate again. You never know the kms because they have all been tampered with and they can make a car sound amazing and a few weeks later it will be dropped into its early grave, which one would be weeping at.

The logistical tick off list when buying a car here is neither my friend nor familiar. Rego, number plates, Revenue Offices, log books, checking the legitimate state and ownership, past fines still connected are several conversations I have previously not had to experience in Sydney. After spending countless time and energy looking, on the verge of giving up and zero patience left, we thought we found our car. It took the 5th mechanic to enlighten us that the car we were convinced of was actually a heap of crap on wheels. Oh and bribes, sometimes my evil angel and sometimes the good. Everything’s for a reason right? I do believe we felt accomplished in our investigative skills and uncovered much to give us thrilling insight.

Through countless experiences I’ve discovered that when locals suggest to meet in 30 minutes it can mean up to 5 hours! That’s not me dramatically overreacting. That could to some mean ‘ill get in the shower in the next 30 minutes!’

If anyone knows anyone with an available house in Gulu, holla!

Between sourcing a car and accommodation, the logistics in-between and getting our feet in what we would like to be helping with in Gulu, we have been volunteering at an organisation called Uganda Hands for Hope. Run by a Brit who has been here for 7 years and is producing an organic, brilliant, inspiring and testimonial work.

Hands for Hope helps the most vulnerable children and families in the slum. This is done through a day program for infant children, schooling, a library, weekend reading classes, a holiday program for all kids, a small loan program and a tailoring place for women. There are around 150 children cared for.

Every time we go in the kids just go nuts. I fell like I’m going to get squashed by them all trying to hug and leap on me and be the one connected to a free hand. I don’t know how to process the things they say and how grateful they are. They say we put smiles on their face when really they bring more light and warmth to my heart than I could place on their precious beats. Anyway, when we first got there they grabbed our hand and brought us to one of the classrooms where they danced and sang it was so special...

There’s a kid who is blind due to being sick about a year ago I believe. He is 11 and is an amazing photographer. Yes, photos, which one would typically try and capture with one’s eyes.... I didn’t believe it till I saw his pictures. Steve, Jos bro who is completing a project here gave him his camera to take to the slum and said I’ll be back in the morning. He takes photos from what he hears. I could spend forever sitting there watching him. I feel privileged to be able to see him in his world. Chasing bugs, dancing to the noise outside, and putting his head in and out of range from the sun. Special. During one day I found him near some water. He pulled my hand down to sit and feel it with him. He would just laugh and patter at it : ) I would put droplets up his arm and he would squeal with laughter and excitement and then somehow do it back to me. He then got up and would throw the water up and jump quickly under it. One of those moments serially beautiful, rare and is capable of speaking a lifetime of feelings to your soul.

It is obvious someone attempted to steal the children’s innocence and character. I was dancing with a little girl, her dress flew a little by a twirl and I saw burn marks up her legs. Then I noticed the scars on her face. I couldn’t keep dancing I froze. She was 4 and I heard her story later and it is another uncountable one I cannot comprehend. Appears everyone here has a story of complete injustice. I couldn’t grasp at times when I would freeze seeing a scare or hear something and remembering these children’s stories yet here they were, with so much love beaming for each other and playful, in a bubble of safety. Good and bad thing that every time I hear someone’s story it’s like I’ve never heard anything before.

There are around 5 slums in Kampala, right on the city doorstep. The conditions are horrid and inhuman. Similar to conditions of the IDP camps really. And they have to pay rent to officials??? There is so much I can try and process in there and take in when these conditions are pretty unheard of. Again, like when I was in the IDP camps my head starts to go slightly crazy. I will never be able to understand that this is people’s homes today. That there life seems so invaluable, yet they are so valuable. That could be anyone.

We were in one of the ‘homes’ of a child in the program. He lives with his mum and sister; she’s 8 and does all the work now. The mum appeared like death, she had been suffering from Malaria for quite awhile. Obviously no funds for medicine to recover. I will never forget sitting in that shack with such a precious child playing at my feet and endeavouring to compose me to dance, the sister cooking dinner and the mum wearing a fear that spoke of the fate for all.

The smell was horrid and I was praying so hard I A. Wouldn’t throw up and B. Catch anything. I asked if she had been to doctors to check, she hadn’t. I looked at Sarah and could tell her head was spinning too. We said if she goes to the doctors and gets the medication we will pay. For about 2 minutes before I said anything it was like I was a hosting a screaming fit in my own head. “so u just going to buy everyone malaria medication hey’ that’s what everyone needs’ u can’t just start pulling at your pocket to every case’ if I do this one what about the next?’ but like Jo says u can’t look at the big picture sometimes. You have just got to start with the one in front. And I’m not here to save Africa either. You do what u can do and that ripples....

I could battle all day with myself among the overwhelming magnitude of the conditions for so many here and of where the hell to start. The point is if this woman didn’t receive the medicine, she would be leaving behind 2 more orphans in the slums very very soon. So to stop that it was $13.

$13.

So were currently living in a guesthouse with a Doctor (pom, religion = Enneagram test) and a lady (American, patriotic to say the least, ‘Obama’s mother’) love them both and it’s all a part of the experience right? Right?

My opinion = I would never call the Police here for help. We’ve experienced some corrupt
moments. At the moment were looking into NGO status for 2 orgs. Frustrating. Africa!

My toes have swept twice again through Gulu streets since being here. SERIAL! Gulu heat is insane and borderline unbearable!!! And the electricity...I failed to remember that...we didn’t have electricity for over 2 days...that’s an extensive time when you think about it... especially at night or during the day when u just want to stand in front of a fan!

We met Carl’s Trauma Rehabilitation Team, there so amazingly beautiful; there love just oozes out from under their pours. They spend about a week meeting local leaders and setting up and then go into IDP camps and for 2 weeks do a ‘Trauma Rehabilitation” program with them and then later do follow ups and hook them up with orgs and supplies etc and then start with the next camp...

The Living Hope Program has 900 war or AIDS affected, beautiful women. This is a 2 year program were they are sponsored, mentored/counselled and receive education. For the first few months they receive small bundles of food to assist but the focus is helping them to be self sustainable. There is a tailoring area, baking, jewellery, school, child centre for the babies to be looked after during the day, they are taught English as well and just general teaching of hygiene, farming, and looking after their health, food and mentally.

They launch each hopeful day with dancing and praying all together. I walked in and believe I would have had the biggest smile. I wanted to laugh and cry and try and take in where I was. Standing in front of so many women, I couldn’t begin to imagine what they have endured and here they are overflowing with joy.

They were so welcoming and kept calling me sister! We sat in the beginning session for the trauma rehab. This was done with the MOST affected by the LRA; most were married to Commanders and had spent many horrific years in the bush. I felt like I was in a bit of a dream walking in and joining the circle of about 30, my heart pounding! These women have had hell thrown in their face for years; carrying the scares, hurt and children as evidence. There was a girl of 15 with a 2 year old.. I couldn’t understand hardly anything due to being in there language and I only had bits and pieces translated but any woman can read through another woman’s tears and visually through her scares. Again, I can’t comprehend or process how why or anything and it makes me so sad and angry but seeing these women now...they do have hope, they love their babies regardless of how they were formed and whom their father was and they are so proud of what they are achieving and living now. And grateful. So grateful.

The lady beside me tapped me and I was a little startled as I knew these women were ‘the most affected’. Carl had mentioned he has had times with people from church who came in and do pampering and as soon as they begin these women weep. No one has ever touched them with love or acted through true love. So she tapped me and whispered ‘you are so very welcome and we thank you sister’ I couldn’t respond cause you know when you think u cant from emotion, she carried on saying ‘u know Acholi’ I laughed and said no, she said that’s ok, you’re here, you pray. We all with LRA for long time but now we’re getting help, she said she had actually been in the program for a few months and was beaming with this light in her appearance. She said she was married to a commander of the LRA for 6 years. Thats not just a figure or a period thats a bloody long horrific time. She was funny and telling me when certain people spoke of their character and ‘she stubborn but she cry soon’. It was interesting as well hearing of women gangs that formed in the bush. We took off in a 5 seater plane back to Kampala - it was awesome!
Adrenaline.

I feel at peace; Uganda as an unpredictable home.

Love x

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart." --Helen Keller