Football and Families

Tonight as I write another chapter in this literary masterpiece a storm crashes and flashes overhead and my back feels a good few decades older. It is Sunday, and the week just gone has had its usual ups and downs. A definite up was getting involved in a family group of which I will write about shortly. A repetitive down is that life with the children is still an uphill struggle. My greatest problem this week has been with the two eldest children Moses and Susanna. Moses and I have become friends of sort and I have been working my usual brand of mischief on him with varying effectiveness. However the problem lies in when I have to assume the role of parent and ask him to do something. Because the bond we initially formed was quite a chummy one, whenever Uncle Dan asks Mo to do something he just doesn’t do it. I ask him again and he ignores me. So then I bring out the big guns, this always works, I foolishly assume. I straighten my back, hand on hip, disappointed look plastered upon face, best nagging note donned and say something loudly along the lines of, “Moses if I ask you to do something you do it” And it always works. Well no, it doesn’t really, but I wish it did. All I get in response is a cheeky look and more defiance.
And then there is Susanna. Susanna seems to have a Masters degree in answering back. The particular tactic I use with her is asking her calmly, looking her in the eyes and not backing down. Her tactics seem to be not backing down, looking me in the eyes and using as much volume as possible. More than once this week we have had stubborn staring contests involving shouting and whispering in various seriously annoying combinations. As I'm sure you can tell, this tactic of mine is just as successful, if not less so, then the one I use on Moses.
There has been a brief respite from the chaos of Clay life. This week I was invited to help out at a family group. Family groups are what the orphans join when they come to new hope. They make immediate friends, have a house, a job, an education and makeshift parents as well. Dotted around the edge of the new hope site are little rings of Bandas, or little round thatched roofed buildings. There is always a meeting room in the centre and bedrooms and cookhouses around the outside. The children of each house live and cook together, go out to work in the fields and most nights meet together for some kind of devotional time. My fellow salt and light friends, the Browns from Derby, have been given the responsibility of leading Calvary Family group. The Browns are great, really friendly, very welcoming, they have a more then healthy collection of Calvin and Hobbs of which I have made the most of at every possibility but best of all, and I mean this, they drink tea…from a tea pot. Tea is a myth at the Clays and Coffee seems to be an innovation only really discovered in the last week (much to my delight.) The browns however drink tea like a British family should, regularly. Not only that but they make it in a tea pot, none of this tea bag nonsense. And we have it with cake and in little cups…I could go on, I really could. Life without tea is difficult, and the Browns are clearly sent from God to New hope to be purveyors of quality tea. Among their less drinkable attributes the Brown are also very kind and offered for me to join them a few nights for digging and devotions.
So last Tuesday I turned up at the Browns house and had a cup of tea. Hallelujah. After this heaven sent drink was consumed I was informed that there was no digging today and instead we would be cleaning out chickens. Fine, I said, should be fun. And it was. Two girls showed me to the chicken house and I helped them sweep out all the chicken feathers and other things that enviably come off and out of chickens…or any living creature for that matter. I was directed to start in an enclosed corner and sweep towards the door. Within moments the dust was thick in the air and chicken…stuff, was doing likewise. I suddenly remembered as I began to sneeze that it is not uncommon in my family for its members to be slightly sensitive to both dust and chicken…paraphernalia. As the air got thicker breathing became slightly tighter and the sneezing got worse. The girls had a strange look on their faces. It wasn’t quite sympathy, certainly wasn’t annoyance. It was more along the lines of, “oh great, we broke another Muzungu” or maybe that was the chicken feathers talking. Anyhow I soldiered on and we got the job done without me fainting pathetically.
I also visited the family group on the Friday when I was lucky enough to catch one of the monthly big meals that goes on within the family. It was a whole family event including the preparation I was assigned at first to “sort rice”. Sort rice I thought, ha! That’s just Uncle Steve being silly! But lo and behold the few lads I was working with got a massive pot of rice, pored a generous amount onto a tray and started to sort though it. I discovered after a while they were taking little stones out that had somehow made it though the initial sorting process. It didn’t take long to sort all of it when I had help. The help however was few and far between. Uncle Dan being the new guy was obviously marked as a softy so as soon as Uncle Steve disappeared, they did likewise. I made some effort to get them back and make them work by dragging one or two back in head locks but as soon as I got down to some more good old rice sorting they were off again. Once the rice was sorted I tried my hand at cooking chapattis. Not entirely difficult and soon I was kicked off the stool by someone else who thought they could do a better job. I deceded to visit the chapatti rolling factory situated in the house and was impressed to watch them work. There was 5 girls rolling, buttering, and re rolling chapattis and gossiping loudly and incomprehensibly at the same time. One of them decided a little entertainment was in ordered so asked me to have a go. The remaining 4 girls looked at me with cheeky expressions just waiting for me to fail in some way so they could have a good laugh. Lucky for me my mother has trained me well in the art of rolling tortillas and rolling chapattis is much the same. I therefore took to the rolling like a duck to water, much the surprise and disappointment of the girls who regretfully went back to work.
After a solid two hours of meal preparation it was all ready, and after a stomach torturing 45 minutes of stalling and messing about, the children came, all ready to eat. It was a traditional Ugandan meal with nothing missing. There was (and I apologies for the spelling for those who are better informed than me) Matoke, ground nut sauce, potatoes in rice, cabbage, beef stew and of course the chapattis. It was my first time eating Matoke (Mat-oh-Kay) and overall it was a completely underwhelming experience. The only flavor I could find in the dry, solid goop was one obtained apparently from the banana leaf it always comes wrapped in. I don’t know the reason why it is always wrapped and presented so, but most unfortunately some time during the cooking process the leaves apparently get very hot and wet because by the time they reach your plate they smell not unlike week old grass on a compost heap. Said smell is very familiar to me because of my occupation, however, familiar or not, it isn’t a pleasant smell and it is an even worse flavor. The Matoke therefore was left until last in the unlikely event I was still hungry after everything else was eaten. That event however never came about because everything else was utterly delicious.
My next appointment with the family is Tuesday when I will hopefully get stuck into some digging and will also do my best to post this. Meanwhile everything else here is going ok. I have painted half of my room in the guest house yellow with a paint which makes my head feel a good few pounds lighter and makes the room look a lot more like an extrovert banana with something annoying to say. I didn’t choose the colour by the way. I hope you are all well and reading this hasn’t been a chore but rather more like a banana paint educed poetic dream.
God bless
Dan

A note to my readers

To the faithful few
Again my thanks for reading this humble blog. I wish to point out that two entries have been published today due to a week and a half with no internet for various reasons. Enjoy and feel free to comment.
God bless
Dan

Who needs a motorbike anyway?

I write this post fresh from my first motorbike riding lesson. I must admit, to my shame, shame being a key feature in this post, that it was my first time operating a piece of machinery with a clutch. As it turns out riding a motorbike is not as easy as it looks, or at least not as easy for me. I can think of at least 3 likely readers of this post, the previously mentioned Uncle Richard springing easiest to mind, who will now be sitting with arms smugly crossed over inflated chests thinking, “Silly, lad, its as easy as falling over!” apparently for me the falling over, or rather off, is considerably easier.
When Dave suggested over some fascinating cabbage soup and rice that he teach me how to ride the motorbike I was thrilled. Sounds like great fun, so I agreed of course. After lunch I went over to the guest house and after fighting off the usual little people who wish to come in with me I got changed and ready for my lesson. I decided a quick prayer was in order, its not every day a chap gets to ride a motorbike for the first time and as issue of shear British pride, one wishes to get it right first time. With this in mind my prayer was along the lines of my hopping onto the bike, revving up the engine and speeding off into the sunset (still not for another 4 hours so I’m not sure where at came from…) to the applause of all those around. A short arrow was sent up regarding safety, but who needs safety when you have sunsets and applause?
I went up to find Dave and discovered that Musungu on a motorbike is what passes for entertainment around here as anyone within a certain range downed tools in order to watch the show. Dave gave me a cursory introduction to the various controls and I relied on my own limited know-how as to what they do. My Dad always taught me to never be afraid of asking questions no matter how stupid they might seem to you. It’s just better to know. I asked a few questions about things I probably should have known, and Dave ran me through the order of controls by which you start up the bike. Choke, kick-start, clutch, throttle, gear, release clutch…or something along those lines. I tried once or twice getting different things wrong each times until at last I had the bike going in neutral every time. During my various failed attempts to even start the thing my mind was a mess of “Clutch, no throttle, don’t throttle yet! Try the choke, how do I change gear, where is the clutch!!” Of course my mental picture of getting it right first time wasn’t helping; it was serving to make me feel slightly more incompetent with every failed try. The local Ugandans who had gathered together for the show were all standing looking somberly at the young white man. They all possessed looks on their faces that suggested they were wondering what exactly was wrong with this youth that he can’t even get it started. The looks didn’t help, neither did the slight giggles of surprise when I finally got the thing started.
Now in order to get the Bike out of neutral and into first gear you have to pull back on the throttle a little bit and tap the peddle by your left foot. I tried once or twice and stalled…I was getting good at that. Finally on my third try I did it. Helpfully no one mentioned that changing from neutral to second carries with it a kick, a quick jolt forward that the rider must quickly control in order to ride off into the sunset with applause ect. When I triumphantly changed gear I experienced said kick which had only fazed me for a second. Having ridden push bikes all my life I know if you get thrown back off the saddle for any reason you simply pull yourself up onto the saddle again by pulling gently on the handlebars. What had been explained to me and what I also happened to know was that pulling gently on the handlebars is also a perfect way of sending a motorbike forward. Unfortunately in the moment of the kick, this handy little nugget of information slipped my mind and I reacted on instinct, I pulled on the handlebars. The result of which, as Uncle Richard will chuckle to picture, was me pulling a spectacular “wheelie” whilst heading in the general direction of some rather long grass. This time I panicked a bit and again relied on instinct. If a bicycle was, for any reason, to behave in a similar manner the correct course of action is to apply your body weight to the front of the bike therefore forcing the bicycle down and back under control. Unfortunately at the moment I decided upon such an action I was almost horizontal with the bike still moving forward beneath me. I had to pull myself on top of the beast in order to tame it. I foolishly did the same as last time, pulled myself up on, that’s right, the handlebars. This time it half worked. The Bike regained two wheels on the ground but was traveling now even faster. Eventually after my failed attempts to stop the bike, I came off and landed hard on my shoulder with my left leg under the Bike.
I think my self respect came off the worst, followed by the Bike followed by myself. The damage to the bike is nothing a bit of TLC and a new clutch handle can’t fix and the leg and shoulder ache slightly but nothing a good nights sleep can’t fix. The self respect though has now retreated somewhere in the vicinity of the nearest toilet. I know I need to get back on the horse…that expression now holds a scary and not at all funny meaning for me…and I plan to as soon as the bike is ready to be mauled again. I must end this post here and attempt to deal with Becka. She is in floods of tears and refusing to let me anywhere near her because I decided waving a carving knife at her brothers and sisters was actually a bad idea, and took it off her.
All the best
Dan (Plus bruise to left shoulder, minus ambitious sunset notion)

Zebra milk

I write this week’s entry on a laptop borrowed from a friend. I am using this ultra modern yet ridiculously oversized monstrosity as opposed to my simple, out of date but wonderfully compact computer because the cable which charges my battery decided to fall of a table and end its life. I have, therefore been without a laptop for half a week, feeling very far from civilization indeed. However there is a chance to make good of every situation, so I hereby blame all spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors to this unfamiliar keyboard rather than my plain incompetence.
Those of you now reading the second paragraph are obviously loyal enough that upon reading the title “Zebra milk” decided not to close this page on account of Dan just being silly again, I thank you but I feel an explanation is also in order. Yesterday we got a cow. The exciting thing about this cow, as I have explained countless time to all children under the age of 5, is that this one is a lady cow, which means she produces milk. So this morning over the freshly boiled milk and cereal Dave asked the kids what we should call the new cow. I had started the very same conversation with the three youngest the previous lunchtime and all I got in response was, “Cow”, “yeah Cow” and “that one!” (from Becka) Dave on the other hand got lucky. Suggestions over breakfast included Sarah, Mary, Hannah (I vetoed all three because Sarah is a rubbish cow name, there is an Aunty Mary at New Hope and, though it came from a place of love, Hannah referred to my older sister) Moses was coming up with the rudest things he could call the cow without getting a smack, a line which he nearly always fails to draw, and Daddy quickly silenced his son by giving him what was coming to him. Uncle Dan, being renowned for miles around for being a tease and winding little people up, was throwing names like Gertrude, Ethel or a good old traditional Gladys at Susanna and really getting on her nerves. I was trying ferociously to think of something witty, ironic or at least blindly silly to call the cow. I got lucky with the latter. I suggested calling the cow Zebra, because it’s black and white and vaguely horse shaped. While I laughed inwardly at my own utterly hilarious joke the name stuck with the kids. So Zebra it is. I think the best thing about the name is the seemingly endless possibility for comic manipulation. For example, tonight we drank Zebra milk, Uncle Alfred left to milk a Zebra, you can pass the Zebra milk, pour Zebra milk or, in most cases, spill Zebra milk all over the table. You can easily understand why today I feel like a comic genius.
My days so far this week have been uneventful. Raychs health has been going down hill recently which means she is staying at home more. Being the medical, and come to that, scientific no nothing that I am I wouldn’t be able to begin telling you what’s wrong with her, although I have heard exactly what the problem is first hand once and second hand about twenty times. What I can tell you is that she’s exhausted and has pulled out of doing anything non social for her own well being. She still does things around the house, as it is good to keep busy and motivated. However this means I have a lot of spare time on my hands because anything Dan can do, Mum can do better. Why have cuddle with Dan when Mum’s available. Why should Dan serve up lunch when Mum can do it? I am, as you may have guessed, temporarily out of a job. Although looking after the children was difficult, stressful and would drive me mad, at least I was occupied. It is for this very reason I am thankful for thanksgiving.
For all you who are, like me, unaware, the American holiday of thanksgiving is coming up soon, or at least the good folks at New Hope are celebrating it this coming Sunday. From what I have heard its really good fun with a big march around campus and people standing up in church to say what they’re thankful for. Tempted as I am to pay tribute to my Uncle Richard by turn up with the Union Jack draped over my shoulders in mock defiance of the American tradition I am looking forward to the event very much mainly because I have contributed to the celebrations. In an effort to keep my idle thumbs busy these past two weeks I have been commissioned by Jenny Danger to make a thanksgiving DVD to be shown on Sunday but also to be sent out to churches that support New Hope. This little project has seen me traveling all over new hope meeting people and generally being a pariah as I video people and what they are thankful for. On top of that I have received a steady flow of CDs containing pictures from various parties either because they are in a generous mood or they think if they donate enough photos to the cause my video camera and I will leave them alone for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless my job this past fortnight has been organizing the video interviews and photos before putting them all together with music and some technical whiz-pokery to make a DVD worthy of its many viewers. This morning I put the finishing touches to seven minutes of solid thankfulness ready to be given the thumbs up (or indeed down) from Miss Danger. Its been really good fun to do because its something I can use my gifting in and also get a chance to meet people and get out of the farm up to new hope a few times. Part of me hopes Jenny hates it so I’m kept furiously busy for the next few days as well!
Apart from the usual up and down, rain and sun, screaming or scarily quiet atmosphere of life on the farm, there is nothing more to say. Soon it will be time for me to say goodbye to the monstrosity I have used to make the DVD and write this as it is lunch time on the following day as I finish this off and the habitual beans and rice will soon be served. I hope you are all reading this in good health and life in the UK hasn’t dipped to a level of utter despair in my absence. I continue to enjoy the comments left and feel the effects of those praying, so thank you. God bless
Uncle Dan, (Plus tan, minus some body weight)

A quick note

Just to quickly say hi to anone who reads this regularly, i hope you enjoy readin this as much as i enjoy writing it. Please leave a comment on the site, its great to know whos reading and and what yu think. Also apparently there has been some confusion regarding the order each post was published. The mst recent is at the top and the first is at the bottom. God bless
Dan

An African wedding

I write this post tonight after witnessing my very first African wedding. It was in fact a consummation, the couple were already married but wanted to do it again in church, but that not withstanding it was a full pull out all the stops affair. I enjoyed the experience so much I decided it merited a quick mention in the Blog.
The wedding was scheduled to start at 12 noon “sharp”. 12 noon sharp means some time around 2…if you want. So being the proud British people that we are we turned up bang on time at 12 noon. 2 hours later a couple of the congregation showed up in dribs and drabs and an hour later the bride finally arrived. It seems compulsory, or at least it comes highly recommended, that when the bride is walking down the isle you give it all you’ve got, screaming and waving your arms about in the air. Apparently if you fail to knock out the person on your right and left, its considered a failed experience all round. So the bride walks painfully slowly down the isle to various volumes of high pitch screaming in the place of “here comes the bride” played proudly on an organ. Moses decided fingers in ears were in order. I thought this was a marvelous idea though mum didn’t.
The service wasn’t completely free of western influences though. Like all of Uganda wherever you go you seem see little snippets of home rammed in your face. On the Drive from the airport to chez Clay I saw Wayne Rooney at least 5 times on a billboard. When it comes to the wedding, the bride wore what I would call a traditional white dress and the bridesmaids would have all fitted in in England. One quality of the service that could have done with some serious western attention (apart from the screaming) was the pastors talk. He was honoring the good old Ugandan tradition of talking until he physically could not stand anymore from exhaustion and the service is drawn to a close. For some reason if a talk is less than an hour and a half long it is deemed to be a poor show, and obviously not from God, otherwise it would be longer. Why say one word when 10 will do. This is something that gets on the Clays nerves no end. So much so that 40 minuets into the talk (what the talk was about I have no idea, he was speaking Luganda and the kind lady who offered to translate for this ignorant Musungu was so quiet and mumbled so much that I understood more of the preacher than her.) Dave and Raych decided enough was enough; in fact it was too much. They seem to feel strongly about the problem of preach lengths as I found out during a full frontal assault I received on the issue after I asked there opinion of how church was run here. Anyway we beat a hasty retreat and I instead spent the afternoon attempting to snooze whilst at the same time doing my best to ignore Jed who was throwing himself at the locked door trying to get in.
I think it’s worth mentioning here for my sympathies sake that we all have colds at the moment courtesy of young Jed who refuses to sneeze and cough away from food or with a hand over his mouth…thanks mate. After my failed siesta I discovered we were going to the reception which is a whole new ball park from the wedding! I arrived after the Clays as they neglected to mention it and I was not dressed for it. So after a brief walk in my now over dirty Sunday bests, I arrived at a makeshift reception hall made out of banana trees. The main structure was banana trunks and there were banana leaves draped on top. It’s an effective temporary shelter, Dave tells me, until you get a strong wind. I was seated at the back, a few rows from the family, and was immediately seat upon by lots of little shy black hands eager to see what a white boy feels like though not so eager to be caught in the act. I did what any British man would do, pretended there was nothing to feel and carried on as if I wasn’t being gently examined all over. The married couple was sitting at the front of the structure and everyone else was sitting around. There was a primitive sound system which a woman, who would have done very well at Butlins, was yelling unnecessarily into a tinny mike in an attempt to get the crowd going. The bride and groom then fed each other cake while the whole audience leant in watching eagerly the erupted into more joyous screams once the bite had been taken.
After this some songs were sung, some speeches were made (the speakers also having a really good go at wearing themselves unconscious by talking for as long as possible and repeating themselves wherever inappropriate to do so) the food was served. By this point I was starving and was prepared to eat whatever was put in from of me. What I got was rice and beef stew in a bowl, no fork. The lack of fork is fine, I had plenty of practice during a trip to Zambia to be fazed by missing cutlery. The fact the musungu had been handed a bowl with no fork however entertained the locals no end and one of Moses friends was kind enough to come over and say “Uncle Dan, No fork” to which I replied, “I know, I think can cope.” And I am proud to say I did…Ish. Most of the meat looked and tasted ok. A few pieces though were a little less meat, a little more internal organ and whilst I chewed a piece of meat I had deemed safe and contemplated where this strange looking chunk of meat had come from in a cow, another thought occurred, how do I know its cow. A dog walked past and I stopped chewing. I dismissed the silly notion of eating dog Korean style but my internal wellbeing jury found the organ guilty and was sentenced to not being eaten.
All in all it was good fun. The singing and drums were great, I even danced a bit, much the locals raucous amusement, but I can now feel my stomach examining my dinner and wondering quite what to do with it.
All in all this has been a good week. I'm still worried about looking after the kids as I seem to be fighting a losing battle most of the time. I am also still searching for something to occupy my mind besides the childcare. I get the impression the Clays are beginning to be sick of the sight of me by now so I am hoping and praying for opportunities to get up to New Hope and serve there however I can.
Also this week I played my first football match with some of the local guys. I was surprised I that I managed to get any ball possession at all, I even scored a few times. I thought of Jon Levenson, my long suffering mentor in all things football related and how many times he has witnessed my shocking performances in the past. Unfortunately for me, no one was around who will ever be present in England to bear witness to the greatest goal I have, and ever will score. Two perfect kick ups followed by an angelic volley landing in the top right corner. Completely accidental but very pleasing none the less.
And so until something of any vague interest happens worth writing about that is all I have to say. I hope this Blog finds you all well and that the steadily declining British temperature doesn’t treat you too badly. It is the day after the wedding as I sign off and following a day of solid rain the sky now looks golden pink as the sun races towards the horizon. God bless
Uncle Dan