Okay, okay, I admit it. There were no trains involved in the making of this blog post. There were bicycles and boda-bodas (motorcycles) and lots and lots of big trucks, and unfortunately those don’t rhyme. Therefore, I’m sticking with trains. Deal with it.
I guess I could call this post “Planes, Narrow Lanes, and Automobiles”. Whatever. I’m moving on.
Whoever said “the third time’s a charm” obviously never experienced my third trip to the Village. “Charmed” is definitely not the word I would use to describe this day. I would use different words, words like “exhausting”, “longest day ever”, and “are we there yet?”
But as with any good story, this one has a happy ending, so it’s definitely worth telling.
This day actually began yesterday, as we boarded our overnight flight from London to Entebbe. Rachel and I were seated together, which was nice even if she spent most of the flight asleep. As desperately exhausted as I was – it was WAY past my bedtime at this point – I found myself unable to get more than 30 minutes of sleep at a time. Too cold, too hot, my back hurt, my feet were cramped, too excited…the list of excuses as to why my body wouldn’t just give up and give in was longer than the line for the ONE working lavatory.
We landed around 8:15 AM Uganda time, just after midnight Wednesday in the US. Between layovers and flight time, we had been traveling for over 36 hours, and we all felt it. We passed through immigration and customs fairly easily and began the adventure of gathering all our luggage. What started as a minor inconvenience of double checking every single bag on every single cart against our claim tags turned out to be a blessing in disguise as we discovered one bag that would have been overlooked and left behind. And in Africa, returning to the airport to pick up a forgotten bag is NOT a simple errand. It’s a two-day trip from one end of the country to the other. Definitely not a trip you want to make more than once.
Rose was there to greet us as we exited the airport. I don’t know how it’s possible, but that woman never ages and never looks anything less than beautiful. Her smile lights up her whole face, and her warmth and genuine joy to see us – whether for the first time, or for the first time in awhile – makes you feel as though you’re being welcomed home. She had arranged for two vans to pick us up – one to carry us and one to carry our luggage. Charles – a different Charles – would be driving the luggage van. Omar was the driver for our van.
Between Rose and the driver, there were 12 of us in that van for a good 7-8 hours.
The first hour is always fairly pleasant and easy, as we make our way from beautiful Entebbe and the shores of Lake Victoria toward Kampala. The next two hours are brutal, as we navigate through Kampala. Traffic stands still as boda-bodas and bicycles weave in and out and around. Every driver searches for an edge, an advantage, and it’s easy to become quite familiar with the passengers in the neighboring vehicle, perhaps even shake hands. Pedestrians choke the sidewalks and spill into the streets, creating a dangerous dance between man and machine. Fascinating as it is, driving through Kampala is the part of this journey I dread the most. Not the 18 hours of flight. Not the endless hours in the van, navigating narrow roads filled with potholes, or driving through the bush. Not the long layovers in drafty airports. No, it’s this 2-hour nightmare of noise, crowds, and pollution.
And then, there’s Mr. Tasty.
Located in Lugogo Mall, just outside the supermarket, Mr. Tasty is an oasis of the three c’s: chicken, chips, and CHAPATI! And inside the supermarket, there are COLD sodas. In REFRIGERATED cases, no less. Thank goodness for Mr. Tasty, Kampala’s one redeeming value.
Rose surprised us, however, purchasing our lunch from the supermarket deli. Though she offered to buy us sodas, we were all content with water from the van. To complete our box lunch, she picked up some green apples and a package of gooseberries for us to try.
We piled back in the van and distributed the boxes until everyone had their own. We lunched – at 11 AM – on fried chicken & fried chips (french fries) as the van jostled and bumped and squeezed its way out of the gridlock that is Kampala. Slowly, we began to see changes. Roads cleared. Buildings lessened. Traffic eased. Noise quieted.
And one by one, we all nodded off. Except for Omar, thankfully.
Fitfully, we slept. Draped over backpacks we were holding in our laps. Slumped atop the seat back in front of us. Or sitting upright, doing the head-forward, head-back flip flop. Good times. At least the breeze was cool – almost cold, really, on the open stretches when Omar could floor it to speeds of up to 80 km/h – and the countryside was peaceful. As the landscape changed from the lush, tropical greens of Entebbe to the harsh reds and browns of the north, we noticed other changes, too. The highway from Kampala – that wide, smooth, well-maintained ribbon of concrete – gradually became narrower and narrower, until it was barely two lanes wide. Deep gouges on the edges began to negate any semblance of a shoulder. Potholes appeared, making high-speed travel both treacherous and impractical. And eventually, finally, mercifully, no road at all.
The home stretch.
That 3 km stretch of road from the town center of Mile Aborro to a thriving village of HOPE. A village where children await, children who have been carrying pieces of my heart for the past 21 months, 2 weeks, 3 days and 4 hours.
A village I have dreamed about returning to.
The van could not move fast enough. If I’d been allowed, I would have jumped out the window and run the entire way down that stretch of dirt road, even in my flimsy flip-flops.
And then, all of a sudden, we were there.
As we rounded the corner past the security station, we could see glimpses of royal blue and white: the school uniform of the students of Village of Hope Primary School. A sea of brown arms and legs and faces poked out from those uniforms, and though I knew the exponential growth – nearly 200 students currently, up from 72 on my last trip – to see it firsthand was beyond anything I could have prepared myself for. Tears of joy, of gratitude, of disbelief and amazement filled my eyes as I saw children of ALL shapes and sizes, from very young children to older teenagers, lined up side by side to welcome “the visitors.”
Mama Rose is always the first to receive a greeting. Mother to every single child under the care of Village of Hope, as well as to her own son, she is the shining star of these children’s lives.
We climbed out of the van and the children quickly moved in front of our dining area to present us with a welcoming program. They sang a welcome song and said each of our names. When they said mine, several children waved. They remembered me! My heart soared. If they only knew how much I remembered them. And here we were, together again. It was almost too much to take in.
Unfortunately, the hugs of greeting I was prepared to distribute had to wait. As soon as they finished, the children had to return to school.
This gave us a few minutes to unload our bags and get settled into our huts. We separated our belongings into what we needed and what would be donated or used while we were there. Elizabeth and I unpacked and organized the teaching materials to be prepared for whenever we would start our lessons. The seven girls shared one hut with 3 sets of bunk beds and 1 solo bed. The 3 boys were in another hut next to the dining “hall”. We ended up storing most of our unneeded items there: donated clothes, sports equipment, s’mores kits.
As we unpacked, we discovered that we had all anticipated much snacking on this trip: beef jerky, cereal, peanut butter, crackers, granola bars, trail mix, dried fruit, flavor mixes for our water bottles, coffee, and even a few treats of twizzlers, skittles, swedish fish and tootsie rolls. The “coffee table” in our hut became the local 7-11 and snack central for our team. And while it seemed overwhelming, I knew from experience there wouldn’t be much left by the time we packed up to go home.
By the time we were done, so were the children, and we had a few moments to share before dinner.
Quite honestly, I have absolutely NO memory of this picture being taken, or even of where we were. By this point, it had been 52 hours since I’d even seen a bed, and even longer since I’d slept in one, and had spent more than half that time in transit of some sort. I’m surprised I’m sitting upright.
We enjoyed our first dinner of beans and rice around the campfire. The cool evening air settled around us as we laughed over our adventures of the day and looked forward to the activities ahead. Around 9, the joyful sounds of singing and clapping wafted up from the schoolhouse as the children closed their day with a time of worship and prayer. Tired as we were, we managed to walk down and listen to their passionate petitions as they poured out their hearts before their Lord and King. Hugs of a but maber (good night) wished sweet dreams to both of us before our pathways diverged.
The sights, the sounds, the smells…the best medicine for a weary heart. Exhausted but happy, I climbed into bed for an early goodnight. Draped under a canopy of mosquito netting, I listened for a moment to the gentle hum of my fan in the corner of my bed as it circulated cool air around me. The lullaby of the African night quieted my spirit and soothed my weary mind. Stretched out full-length – just because I could – I relished this moment: that beautiful space where the grueling travel is behind, and a clean slate of possibility extends ahead, uncharted, unknown, unrealized. A place where dreams are born. A place of unlimited potential.
Yes, Lord. Here am I. Send me.