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