Old Shoes

The sneakers were gently worn, not tattered and soiled like the embarrassment my running shoes inevitably become after months of jogging dusty trails, but they could not be described as new. Vaguely soiled, the blue hue muted, they had begun to lose their new shoe form, the stiffness softening appearing to mold to a certain pair of feet. My mother had probably worn them for a few weeks walking the paved hills of our neighborhood, her feet spinning round and round in them at the local Y. I recalled the sneakers very clearly, seeing them again in my mind when they became the unexpected topic of conversation an evening last week.

I was standing squeezed next to a cocktail table at the Natural History Museum in San Diego surrounded by docents and whalers, former teachers and biologist, my mother and dozens of other volunteers being thanked for their service with chicken fajitas and red table wine.

“And this is the daughter who just got back from Africa,” my mother said introducing me to her co-volunteers, a way of distinguishing me from my sisters – my social awkwardness seemingly not distinctive enough. The women were receptive and apparently interested in my journey and began asking about Uganda. What did the people eat? How did they cook? Where did they get their water? What do their homes look like? I explained the life that I had come to know, the daily rhythms that had become comfortable and routine. It would take hours to cook a meal of beans and posho or maize and potatoes, you fetch your own water (although I had plumbing), most villagers live in mud homes, the people in town usually dwell in blocks of simple brick construction.

“And is it strange to be back?” They asked.

Yes, it is. And then my mind began to drift.

As we stood around the cocktail table, my mom telling them about her trip to visit me, I thought of all the things they didn’t have - they, my Ugandan family and friends - their homes sparse and uncluttered, their lives devoid of material worth, that world far away and fading in my mind; and I considered all the things we have – we, my family and friends here in America - all the things bombarding us to be bought, all the things cluttering our homes and minds, that world sharpening back into focus before my eyes; and I remembered how happy I was and how happy they were not owning very much, unencumbered with possessions, living without incessant indulgence, without insatiable consumption, without the sickness of constant coveting that seeps insidiously, often unperceivably, into every pore.

And then my mom began telling the women about giving my Ugandan sister, Ester, a Clinique make-up bag, a free gift my mother received having bought magenta lipstick or grey eyeliner or the like, and how Ester’s whole face lit up when she received it and how she proudly carried the bright pink plastic container with her everywhere thereafter as a privileged American would a Prada handbag, and as my mom told the volunteers this I recalled the night she gave the bag to Ester, my mom saying to me, rather surprised, that if she knew Ester would like the bag so much she would have brought more, and I envisioned I am sure the same thing as my mother just then: a whole cabinet stuffed with similar toiletry bags collected over the years from department store make-up counters, all sitting under the sink perfectly unused.

And that’s when my mom told the women about the sneakers, those faded cobalt-stripped Nike sneakers, one of several pairs resting on the shelves in our laundry room. I knew my mom gave the sneakers to Beatrice, but I was not with them at the time, not knowing exactly what happened until the evening at the museum; or, maybe I did know and had forgotten; I had forgotten because it was unmemorable, an expected exchange, a normal response at the time, at a time when I was accustomed to living without and seeing others live the same.

Sipping wine from plastic cups, an intact dinosaur skeleton erect on the far side of the long, airy room, a gift shop just next to us with jewelry and pictures and sculptures (one abstract piece of soft black stone strangely similar to my African carving of a family standing in a circle holding hands, their arms turning indefinitely in unison), we stood around the cocktail table enjoying the day’s final light golden and dramatic falling through enormous windows; my mom said to the women:

“I gave one of the girls, Beatrice, my old sneakers. I gave them to her the night I was leaving because I didn’t really need them and I knew she would like them. I brought her into the bedroom so the other kids wouldn’t see and said, ‘Here, Beatrice. I want you to have these.’ She took the sneakers and then dropped to her knees. She grabbed my hand and began kissing it, saying over and over again, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you,' while tears streamed down her face.”

Old Shoes

Thank You and Looking Back

Another thank you from the kids to their friends helping them in America.




Below is the first video of the children showing the conditions we found them in and how their lives changed rapidly under our care. You can also go back and follow the story of their progress by clicking the "My Kids" label to the right, or clicking here.

The Metamorphosis

No, I am not dead. Although, I am quite sure I am not the same. I am dead in a way. Maybe I am slumbering in a cocoon a part of me having passed in a sense and I am preparing to be reborn. That sounds right. I am in pupa metamorphosing and will emerge imminently as something new, possibly entirely unrecognizable. I am hoping a butterfly. But it could be a monstrous vermin.

I have in fact arrived back in the States. Strange at first it seemed the acclimation process escaping me, maybe it a wives tale passed down through wild back-packer legend and imagination. How is it adjusting? People would ask seeing me for the first time to which I would inevitably respond it wasn’t a problem and boy was it nice to be clean and have consistent electricity and hot running water and, oh yes, it's also wonderful to be with old friends and family, fury and not. And maybe because I soon thereafter contracted what appears to be shingles and because soon thereafter my family and I flew from Cali to the Chi and rural Indiana for a reunion, maybe because of these reasons - sickness and constant change - I have been feeling a little not like myself, suffering from all sorts of time and space and cultural adjustments, from deficient civilization to Californication to White Sox Nation to Survivalist abomination, now I am just craving hibernation.

I don’t want to see a movie, I don’t want to visit the mall, I don’t want to drive my car, I don’t want to go too far. My world was so small for so long. Me waking in the morning to a quick wash from a basin of cold water, throwing on a shirt, one of a handful of choices, putting on some pants, one of maybe three choices, and walking a short distance to town and helping at the snack shop and looking after the kids and walking through town some more as all the townspeople spied me knowing where the muzungu was at every moment and all the while I had little to no idea what was happening on the outside, Michael Jackson’s death filtering down to me and every village in the world, and I heard about a health care package and Lady Gaga, but besides this and incessant reporting on the English Premier League (a Ugandan fixation) I didn’t have the first clue. And having been a news junkie up until about a year ago, and now again blessed (or is it cursed?) with constant awareness from an impolite 24-hour news cycle on television, internet, radio, and podcasts, I find myself not really wanting to pay attention, the world still something other, something outside my cocoon, spinning far too fast like an out of control toy top, making me dizzy and anxious and so I prefer to look away.

And I look away and ahead wondering when I will be ready to face things as I once did: jobs and news channels, malls and movies. And when, especially, will I be able to deal with choice? So many butters in the market and pastas and breads, and ice creams and juices, and dressings and jams, and chocolates and cheese, and Asian sauces and Mexican chilies, and gourmet mushrooms and packaged spinach, I almost can’t believe it, my grocery store exactly the same as it was a year ago, me very well remembering its contents and their locations, but it all a bit overwhelming after frequenting Ugandan shops with usually one choice of offerings, necessities like cooking oil, rice and beans.

And so I sit in my cocoon wondering, but not really worrying (as I am quite Africanized and Africans it can be said generally don’t waste their time worrying), wondering when the world won’t feel like it's spinning so madly and I will be ready for reentry, emerging maybe as a fluttering butterfly, or possibly a scuttering beetle; I am still not quite sure, but I have had much practice and learned quite well this past year how to wait patiently.

Five Angels Inspiration

As they inspired its inception and are its beneficiaries, the Snack Shop I established in Lugazi, in all its deep-fried divinity, in all its caloric splendor, has been rechristened the “Five Angels Snack Shop” in honor of my five African children – I also had to rename it as a way to secure ownership and disentangle myself from some people who didn’t have the best of intentions. Deciding upon the name was as simple as the process to officially rename it; African life can be blissfully easy at times: no legal hoops to jump, no rebranding prices to pay, no registration or red-tape to maneuver; I just had to change the names on signs.

And so some days back an artist hung from a ladder in our tiny shop as the cooks rolled dough, fried pastries, sautéed vegetables, as the townspeople, our customers, our regulars, lined up on our steps outside the counter and display case eyeing the samosas, donuts, pancakes and chapatti. I smiled amidst the chaos, sandwiched between the ladder and my busy cooks and our line of customers. At least things now are working; at least I will leave with a sense of accomplishment, a sense of service; peace of mind.

I have enjoyed these last few weeks paying my dues, putting in my time at the shop; watching the new business slowly settle into place, problems ironing themselves out with no small amount of work on my part and Ester’s and her half-brother’s, Ivan; us trying out different business models: making chapatti from another location to cut energy costs, purchasing ingredients in bulk from market in Kampala, increasing the prices of some products. And with all the trials and errors and weeks and months of uncertainty, the sacrifices and toil have paid off: for the month of March we will have finally made a significant profit – one which indicates that the few thousand dollars I invested in start-up costs for the shop (with my kind donors’ money) for items including a gas cooker, deep fryer, refrigerator, furniture, etc., will pay for itself in a little more than a year’s time. (And this is where I sigh deeply with relief, deflating like a worn beach ball.)

Now that I feel more secure I can look back and say that I’ve enjoyed the process of getting the business off the ground, watching its progress, sure and shaky at times; I can say I’ve taken pleasure in the rough moments as well as the little shiny ones: me working alongside Ester and the cooks, rolling dough for chapatti, my garments sprinkled with flour, greeting customers, Hi muzunugu! the townspeople say as they watch me amused by my attempts at preparing African food and me watching their eyes light up as they grasp their favorite snacks wrapped in paper wet with hot oil.

This welcoming, the town’s warm reception to the shop has been a pleasant surprise, a sincere source of pride and happiness for me: not only are the children being helped through the business, but otherwise out-of-work women are employed and the town is appreciatively benefiting from delicious products and quality services. In fact, one of our biggest problems in the opening months was meeting demand, especially with our beloved chapattis: unique and sticky, thick and buttery.

And so the little shop hums in the town centre, churning out oily creations and sugary delights; its location and goods well known by the townspeople. I mentioned the shop’s stature to Ester the other day, people know where it is? Everyone knows where it is?

She nodded, smiling broadly, proud to work there, proud to supervise, proud to reap its benefits, “Yes, everyone knows where it is. Everyone knows the snack shop.”

Amenah, one of our cooks, and her daughter Samiya


Florence, another cook, frying pancakes


Me and Samiya - another picture of the baby just because she is so damn cute


Richard rolling the dough for pancakes


Ester and the kids hanging at the Shop

Impressions Sugary Sublime

Here are some recent images from around the sugar company in Lugazi.


A woman walking at dusk along a sugar company road


Fighting peacocks - the birds are brought from India and roam the plantation property


Flowering gardens are common along the central grounds


Factory at sunset

Negatives as Positives

I was sitting in the shop one evening a few weeks ago when the normally quiet and unruffled Ester suddenly widened her eyes and told me she just remembered she needed to tell me something.

“Last night little Sylvia told me that the father used to inject them in the village.”

“What?” I said my eyes widening as big as hers.

She repeated herself. Then my head began spinning.

Into my mind flooded all the stupid things the father had done out of ignorance and poverty and possible madness. And into my mind also wandered the public service announcement I saw with Ester some months back on TV: a doctor cautioning a family against using the same needle when administering medication to different family members.

“Can you imagine one family using the same needle?” Ester had said laughing.

Yeah, now I could.

“I am guessing that the father reused the needles?” I asked Ester.

“Yeah, I asked the kids and they said he kept the same ones in the house.” I looked at her in disbelief.

“Did he use them on himself too?”

“That is what Sylvia said.”

I dropped my head into my hands. The father was HIV positive.

We had the two youngest tested for HIV the first day we took them in several months ago suspicious that they might be infected as the mother had recently passed from the disease and the little ones were so sick. Richard had also been tested in the summer prior to his surgery; all were negative.

“Okay. Tonight ask the kids the last time the father injected them. Be sure to ask them if he did it when they visited during Christmas. We need to rule out the possibility of him doing it since we took them last June.”

Ester nodded. She understood the importance of the time frame: HIV will sometimes not show up on tests until six months after becoming infected. Ester questioned the kids and to our relief they said the dad hadn’t injected them recently. Now it was time to test them.

So a couple of Saturdays ago as the three youngest, Rachel, Sylvia and Beatrice, played on the patio outside the Snack Shop in late morning sun, excited as usual to be at a shop they knew was established for them, their photos decorating the walls for all in town to see, Mama Ester finished a few tasks at the business before they departed for the hospital; the kids not knowing where they were going and what was about to happen.

“I’ll meet you here when you get back,” I said to her, anxious to get the results.

A couple hours later they returned, Ester climbing the shop’s steps with an even face, the girls in tow, the two youngest looking as if they recently shed tears.

“They are okay?” I asked uneasily. She nodded smiling.

“Good,” I sighed handing the little ones some pancakes for their troubles.

Meanwhile, Richard was having small procedure at the end of the week; the doctor was to remove a piece of bone for biopsy.

“Ask them for another HIV test while they are doing the procedure,” I told Ester.

A week later Richard and Ester returned from the hospital. Ester said the procedure went well, but the boy was in pain. I frowned; ineffective pain meds were all African hospitals could offer.

“Did they get the HIV results?” I asked her.

“Yes. He is negative.”

“Good,” I said deflating with relief.

Now it was time for Aggie’s test. I was concerned about my oldest since we recently had to chase off some boyfriends and previous to us taking her in, she had been chased off by her father to be married to an older man. It was becoming too difficult to coordinate taking her to the hospital without removing her from school, which she attended until the evenings Monday through Friday and half the day Saturday.

“We need to get Aggie tested now. We can’t keep putting this off. Let’s just take her to the lab here in town,” I finally said to Ester a few evenings ago. Soon thereafter Aggie showed up to the Snack Shop on her way home from school, darkness spreading against the sky.

“Aggie. Before you go home, you come with me,” I said to her. She followed me to the lab, sat down, and yelled and squirmed as the technician stuck the needle into the crook of her arm. I tried asking her about the recent running competitions at school to distract her. She had proudly announced to me when she saw me at the shop that she was selected to run on behalf of the school in a meet taking place in Mbale – a district about a four hour’s drive away.

“You got to go because you were the fastest?” I had asked excitedly. She smiled bashfully and nodded.

“Very good, Aggie!” I was very proud of her, never mind the fact that she was a sixteen year-old running against eleven year-olds.

But as the needle hung from her arm for several long moments she couldn’t remember why she was so excited about running for her school and getting to ride on a bus for probably the second time in her life, the first just a few months ago when she went to Entebbe as part of a class trip to see the zoo and airport, and I tried to forget for those long moments as the needle pulled her blood, watching red flood into the tube, why we were there in that eight by eight foot lab with the stinking latrines in the courtyard just outside, and I tried to forget for the thirty minutes thereafter, waiting dully for the test results, just as I had tried to forget all those previous weeks, this belittling my assurance, reproaching my peace of mind, and I didn’t realize how anxious I was until the little woman in the lab handed me the results and I looked down at the handwritten notes and ran outside, bounding across the center of town for some 50 yards, splashing through the soggy red soil, running up the crumbling shop steps, shoving the paper in Ester’s face, her brow furrowing as she read it aloud, “Agnes. Female. 16 years. Bloo-“

“No! Read the bottom!”

“HIV Negative!” She says her face spread in a huge smile.

“Yes! HIV Negative! They are all negative!” I practically yelled.

“Yes! That is so good! So good.”

Kids playing at Shop before HIV tests - and yes, B2 is wearing a Black to the Future T-shirt! ;)

School Daze

It has been scorching hot here these last two days, coinciding with this week's "fielding" activities at the local school whereby the schoolchildren forgo their regular classroom learning and participate in track and field events. Some of you have been curious as to what the classes and schools look like, so below are some pictures. You can see more of them at my flickr page.

Jumping rope during break time


School yard and latrines


There are signs painted and erected all over the schools here reminding the children how to behave. Some are actually quite amusing, others are sobering reminders of the unique challenges the children here face.


Kids hanging out in classroom doorway - there are usually several classrooms in one concrete block.


Kids don't have their own chairs and desks - they are usually crammed together on benches.


Race time!