Water, water.........not necessarily everywhere

Thunderstorms here usually seem to happen in the middle of the night heralding a period of sleeplessness maintained by crashing thunder and torrential rain. Today it waited until 6.30 when we awoke to the sound of distant thunder, and the skies which had promised dawn, darkening again as heavy spots of rain began to fall. Soon the heavens were open, with forks of lightning striking terrifyingly close to our house. The claps of thunder were awesome.

Sheltering in the porch we found our local mat and basket maker. He was delighted to be offered a cup of tea, a banana and refuge from the storm. We hope he also enjoyed Richard Strauss’s Alpine Symphony which we were playing in celebration of the thunder storm.

Anne and I arrived in Uganda last year in this same season of dramatic thunder storms and heavy rain. But the irony today is that, whilst we are experiencing frequent deluges, the UN is warning of drought in the Horn of Africa, including Karamoja in NE Uganda.

Here in Africa, water is king. Of course, that is true everywhere, but here it is much more obvious. Too much water, as in West Nile at the moment, and crops are ruined; too little, as in Karamoja, and the land remains arid and unproductive - both result in hunger and/or increased food costs.

Then there is the question of water quality. Water spells the difference between sickness and health, life and death. Here in NW Uganda many people still have to walk to the local river or spring to collect water where quality is far from certain. A spring or borehole protected by a concrete enclosure is best, but even this can be a source of disease. The college at Ringili has its own protected borehole, but there have been suspicions that this water-source may be responsible for cases of typhoid.

In Kuluva we are just over the hill from Ringili. Here we are blessed with a ready supply of water pumped from the hospital borehole to a tank in our house. Sometimes, though, even this runs out. Then we have to rely on 25 litre jerry cans. Lucy is a great asset as she transports these heavy yellow cans on her head from an alternative borehole on the site.

Having to decant water from jerry cans for every use is very tiring and annoying. It makes you think twice about having a shower (or a ‘pour’ as it actually is), or even flushing the loo. Water shortages can go on for days, and it is a great cause for celebration when we hear water beginning to pour into the tank in our roof once again. The only downside to this is that it tends to start in the middle of the night and wakes us up. It’s a bit like a thunder storm and torrential rain really.

We’ll see what the next 24 hours has in store for us.

A Week In The Life Of.........

It was about 7.45 am on Saturday morning when my phone rang. Normally we set the alarm for 6.45 but on Saturday Anne and I can have a lie-in. Sometimes one of us will get up to make a cup of tea, but otherwise we enjoy the chance to come to slowly - as slowly as possible. The sound of the phone was unwelcome. Who would ring at this time on a Saturday morning? I contemplated ignoring it, but reluctantly I negotiated the mosquito net to retrieve my phone from the living room. I’d left my glasses in the bedroom, so with some difficulty focussed on the screen to identify my anti-social caller – Robert Arua 2, it said.

I’d met Robert in December on our tour of the archdeaconries. He was a young pastor in a rural parish in the Arua Archdeaconry and a tutor at the Archdeaconry Training Centre. Robert had impressed both Anne and myself as a bright, enthusiastic and thoughtful pastor, so when someone suggested I should spend some time ‘shadowing’ a pastor in his parish for a few days, Robert came to mind and when I approached him he readily agreed. But that had been in May, four months before this phone call.

I answered the phone and heard a cheerful African voice at the other end. “Hello. I’ll meet you at Jaiko at 9.30 tomorrow morning. There’s a communion service at Omoo church at 11.00 and we’ll sort out the programme from there. Sorry not to be in touch earlier. I’ve been in Kampala. By the way, you are preaching.” My brain was only half in gear, but in the dim recesses of my memory I recalled my conversation with Robert and our agreement to get together at the end of August.

At 7.45 that Saturday morning I regretted the arrangement, but in the event, the week that followed was an experience I shall not quickly forget.

I met Robert at the Arua Archdeaconry HQ at Jaiko the following morning, and drove some 8 km along one of the worst roads I've encountered in Uganda, finally arriving at Omoo, one of the eight churches which make up Robert’s parish of Mingoro. Each church is in the charge of a Lay Reader, and this Sunday it was Omoo’s turn to have their pastor present to lead a communion service.

It transpired that the whole parish had been looking forward to my arrival because Robert had announced that I was coming some three months earlier. All eight Readers with their Churchwardens and other senior laity were present, and before the service began – summoned by the beating of a drum – we met together in a rondavel for a meal of beans, meat, rice, enya, a boiled egg and sweet tea.

With the exception of my sermon, the service was conducted entirely in Lugbara (the local language), but one of the chief wardens – a former policeman – had good English and was able to translate for me. Robert translated my sermon to the congregation which had steadily grown in number from about 50 to 250 during the first part of the service. Members of the congregation have to travel considerable distances by foot or bicycle to get to the church, so it’s not too surprising if they’re not all there at the beginning

I sat down after the sermon, to some extent relieved that my rather hastily-prepared offering was over. But towards the end of the service (about two hours later), I was surprised to be asked if I had another message for the church.......Ugandan Christians seem to have an insatiable appetite for listening to speakers and sermons, with absolutely no time limit on worship.

At about 2.00 pm the service finally ended and I was steered back to the little rondavel (via a large group of children from the service who wanted their photograph taken) for yet another meal of beans, meat, rice, enya, a boiled egg and sweet tea accompanied by much good humoured conversation in a mixture of Lugbara and English.

Towards the end of the meal I could hear people again gathering and the sound of drumming and singing coming from the church about 100 yards away. It was the start of the Fellowship Meeting. We made our way back to the church and took our places at the front. Singing and dancing were in full swing. From time to time the singing would give way to one of the church leaders speaking (or shouting) to the congregation. This would then be interrupted some few minutes later by someone else starting to sing – and more dancing into which one was propelled, like it or not. And at the end I was invited to come and deliver another message to the church.........

I left Omoo at around 5.30 pm, arriving home with much to think about and wondering what else the week might hold.