Lost in Kampala

Attending church in Kampala instantly took me (Kathleen) back to my childhood in Guam in the 60s.  The church compound is a series of white cinderblock buildings.  The main service is held in the largest building.  It is a small enough room, but because the windows are open and the property is right next to a very busy main road, the speaker must use a microphone in order for the congregation to hear him or her.  And even that doesn’t help when a “party bus” (our description—I don’t actually know what it is called—of a very tall bus with very loud speakers that drives through the streets either playing music or having someone shout over the speakers, saying who knows what) drives by.  The meeting stops until the party bus is out of earshot. 

The children have class in an open-air room (closed on three sides, open in the back).  Joe recognized most of what went on except for the primary songs sung in Luganda (one of the languages here).  The other children stared and giggled at him, but a few were brave enough to approach him.  One particularly friendly baby (maybe two years old?) repeatedly slapped Joe on the knee and stared intently at his face.  Joe thinks he was trying to see if Joe was real!

After church Dave took a wrong turn (which, incidentally, isn’t hard to do) and we ended up lost on dirt roads in a small village when the skies opened up in a tropical downpour.  Even the cows ran for cover under whatever small ledge they could find.  The roads turned to red rivers as he tried to navigate back to somewhere he recognized.  I suppose I should have been nervous, but I found it quite exhilarating.  I’m not sure the kids felt the same way.  I knew we would eventually find our way back.