DUSTING OFF MY PANTS
Last blog, I wrote that Africa keeps me on my toes, this last week it knocked me flat on my butt. I was staying in Kampala last Monday night, planning on buying a ticket to Tanzania the next day. I was walking to a friend's house for dinner and was mugged. It was as if they knew that this was the day that I was carrying my camera, all the pictures I've taken, my ipod, etc... (I'd just come from the computer lab where I was trying to download pictures)-they got it all but I think they took something else that was of greater value. They took a sense of security that I have had all my life. I've been almost stupidly bold at points, trusting that I wouldn't be harmed. Now I look over my shoulder everywhere I go, am afraid to walk to my latrine at night, jump when people touch me and look at every male face here and wonder what malice they have in store for me. I have this bump on my head from the incident that won't seem to go away and every time I touch it, tears well up in my eyes as I wonder what kind of human would do this to me. But the truth is, it wasn't personal. Logic tells me that this could've happened in Sacramento or anywhere else I've lived. My heart knows that the best way to heal is to send love and forgiveness to the man that mugged me. My brain knows that material possessions can be replaced and I'm okay. I know that much worse things happen to people all the time. But today, I just want to sit on my mum's couch, eating tomato soup and toast and feel safe. Because I don't feel safe anymore and I don't know if I can get that back.

My friend Larry came out and got me after it happened, called the police, helped me do all the necessary things. Then all the Peace Corps girls stepped in, took me home , made me laugh, gave me Reeses Peanut Butter Cup Easter eggs. A policeman came to take my statement, took one look at the list of things robbed and asked for a bribe to help him in his 'investigations.' Should I write these things? The next morning I went to the American Embassy, reported what happened. The next day the head of security from the Embassy picked me up ,took me to the Police Station, had them write a report. Then he (Fred-the best man in Uganda) took me to Immigration and somehow I walked out with my passport and a special pass to stay in Uganda for 3 more months.

It took a week to sort everything out and at every step there was a friend or someone kind to help me out. I went back to Kiyunga and asked Madam Niger (who I think I'm starting to soften towards) if she had an extra key to my room. She started to respond, then started screaming and jumped out of her house into the courtyard. As we were talking a Black Mamba snake had wiggled it's way in front of her door. Everyone came running and pounded the snake to death with rocks. This all sounds kind of intense because IT WAS. But the weirdest thing is...it's not a six-month stint for the people who live here-Uganda is their life. As I waited at the embassy I heard them rejecting visa requests to hopeful Ugandans. They don't get to go home in August.

Sometimes it's hard to like being here, hard to feel kindly towards the people here. I wonder if a better person than I, would do it better, have a bigger heart...not feel sorry for themselves.

All of that said, this is the experience I wanted-not the mugging exactly but a taste of the world beyond my own. And this is all a part of it I think. I don't want to live a constantly safe, comfortable existence and always wonder how the other half live. But I think there are going to be inherent risks in taking chances. So the question is...am I still willing to take chances? Still willing to be daring and bold? And if my mind says yes, will my heart catch up and agree with it?

I went back to work for Bead for Life this week and feel so grateful to have work to do. We went to the Acholi quarter yesterday (the slums of Kampala) and exchanged school books, pens and pencils for beads. One of the ladies gave me a beautiful green necklace I admired. As I sorted pens into bundles of 12, I couldn't help but think-this isn't exactly saving lives. But then I looked at the women, heard them laughing and realized that these woman are now earning a living wage, supporting their families, doing work they can feel proud of. I keep wanting to do something big here, but maybe it truly is the little things, like counting pens into bundles of twelve, that make this worthwhile. That make being here okay.

So Africa knocked me on my butt. But I'm still here and it feels good to know that I can get up, dust off my pants and keep on going.