Jina lako?

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“Jina lako?”  “What is your name?”  I repeated this Swahili phrase 33 times today as I met the boys and girls in the Ihungu Remand Home in Masindi (about 3 – 4 hours from Kampala, depending on traffic).  Because these teen prisoners have come from different parts of Uganda and speak a variety of languages, Swahili is the language that most of them have in common.  My task was to write down their name with a marker on a piece of paper that they could hold up as a name tag of sorts, while I took their photo.  One by one, they were released from the custody (prison dorm) so I could meet them.  Most of them knelt down in front of me as a sign of respect for authority.  I would shake their hand and encourage them to stand up so they could help me write their name (both African and Christian name) on the paper.  It was a challenge to spell names like Atugondeza and Owachgiu.  I tried to get them to smile for their photo, but some wouldn’t (I guess I would find it hard to smile if I were locked up).  Then, one by one, they would walk over to the tree under which Jim was waiting to interview them.  Today his task was to get basic information about them (name, age, date of arrest, charges, date of arrival at Ihungu, etc.).  In late June, Jim and a team of Pepperdine law students and lawyers, and Ugandan lawyers will come back to prepare their cases to go before the judge.  Some of these teenagers have only been waiting there a week, but others have been waiting two years to see a judge.  Ugandan law says that juveniles must not wait more than six months after arrest to see a judge, so these kids have been waiting too long already.

Ihungu Remand Home Custody (dormitory)

It was surreal to see Henry translating for Jim as he interviewed the prisoners.  It was a little over two years ago that Henry was doing the same translating for Jim with different group of prisoners at Ihungu, but at that time Henry was also a prisoner.  Praise God that justice was served and Henry was found innocent of the charges that initially put him in Ihungu, where he waited almost two years.  For almost two years now, he has been a free young man and has been able to continue his secondary studies in preparation for medical school.  Henry will be a fantastic doctor.  He will show his patients the same compassion he showed the prisoners he helped.  Today he was so encouraging to them and prayed a beautiful prayer for them before we left Ihungu.

Henry translating for Jim during interview with prisoner

Out in Namutamba (a town a couple of hours from Kampala), school children were being asked the same question I asked, “What is your name” but in Luganda it is “Erinnya lyo ggwe ani?”  The Gregston family and Jessica are staying in Namutamba, doing health screenings for three days.  The doctors saw over 200 kids today, so Jessica was kept busy, working in the pharmacy.  She has found that medical mission work is what she loves.

Jessica working at previous clinic pharmacy

Back in Kampala, Joshua and Jennifer were spending the day with Lindsey and Eden Doyle at our apartment, playing and swimming.  Today was Eden’s last day in Uganda, before heading to the U.S. tonight for the first time to meet the rest of her new family.  Eden’s adoption has been a very long process, with many ups and downs.  You can read the Doyle family’s blog at:  www.doyleadoption.wordpress.com.  We have been blessed by this family and by getting to know Eden.  Jim and I returned home tonight from Masindi just in time to say goodbye.  Before Lindsey and Eden got into the car to take them to the airport, our family gathered around them and I prayed for them.  My heart overflowed with joyful tears as we praised God for Eden and for her new family.  Eden is such a blessing.  But when she was born, her uncle named her Pichan (which means cursed).  It is hard to believe that someone would give a baby that name, but later the nurses caring for her gave her the new name Eden Hannah (which means delight and grace) and God has given her a new family who loves her and knows that she is God’s blessing to them.  Incidentally, Eden was born in Masindi, the town where Jim and I spent our day.

Joshua & Jennifer with Lindsey & Eden

As I sit at my computer, after everyone else has gone to bed, I am trying to wrap my brain around today.  But I can’t.  God has done “immeasureably more than we could ask or imagine.”  He just blows me away.  He rescued Henry.  He rescued Eden.  He rescued our family.  He has given us new names.  Henry’s name has changed from “prisoner” to “future doctor.”  Eden’s name has changed from “cursed” to “delight.”  I do not know our new names yet, but I know we have been changed.

I Hoped I Would Never Come Back

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Joline, Henry, and I awoke early Monday morning and set off north to Masindi with my court-assigned driver, Michael.  Our destination – the Ihungu Remand Home just outside of Masindi.  Masindi is a mid-sized town three hours north of Kampala and one hour east of Henry’s home town of Hoima.  Masindi once bustled with activity when the railroads were running, but it has now returned to being a relatively sleepy town in the center of Uganda.

This town will, however, always hold a special place in my heart, as it was the first town in Uganda I spent any amount of time in.  It is also the town where I met Henry.  I was a wide-eyed professor on a do-gooder tourist trip, and Henry was the hope-depleted Prime Minister (designated “Katikiro”) of the Ihungu Remand Home – the head prisoner of the 21 inmates at this juvenile detention center where juveniles are kept who are awaiting trial.  As I have written about before, Henry and I believe that our friendship was God ordained and meant to be for a lifetime.  I can say without hesitation or equivocation that if I had not met Henry on my first trip to Uganda in January of 2010, I would not be living in Uganda today.

So why, two days after Henry completed his first term at the top A-level program in the country, would we be returning to this prison?  Shortly after we arrived at Ihungu, Henry somberly declared, “I hoped I would never come back to this place.”  So why did we come back?

About a month ago, I was in Masindi (in conjunction with the Doyle legal guardianship matter I wrote about yesterday).  While there, I tracked down the probation officer/warden of Ihungu, whom we affectionately call “Mr. William.”  Mr. William and I had gotten to be close in 2010 because we shared something in common – a deep affection for, and an abiding belief in, Henry.  Mr. William told me that the inmate population of Ihungu had swollen to 33.  When the Pepperdine team of lawyers descended upon Ihungu in 2010, the prison had been at capacity with 21 inmates.  Accordingly, over the past few weeks, I had cleared my schedule and made arrangements to visit Ihungu to take an inventory of the types of cases that were there and how long the children had been imprisoned while awaiting trial.  Last week, I spoke with the High Court Judge assigned district and received his blessing and encouragement to figure out how to get these cases moved through the system.

During an earlier conversation with Henry, he had volunteered to help in my juvenile justice work if ever an opportunity arose.  Henry speaks five languages fluently and can manage his way through two more.  He also knows exactly what it is like to languish in a prison, clinging only to his Bible and his belief in God’s deliverance to those who wait for it.  Accordingly, when I asked Henry last week if he would be interested in joining me at Ihungu to meet with the prisoners, he didn’t hesitate get involved.  He remembered vividly the day with Bob Goff and John Niemeyer came to Ihungu in the late fall of 2009 and announced to the prisoners they would return with a team of lawyers to help the children get access to justice.  He remembered just how much hope that visit brought and the impact it had on the prisoners’ morale.  He wanted to be part of it this time.

When we arrived in Masindi, we went straight to The Masindi Hotel where I had spent numerous late evenings and early mornings with other lawyers preparing the prisoners’ cases for trial.  I wanted to see whether the hotel was already booked during the time the next team of American and Ugandan lawyers would descend upon Masindi to dedicate five tiring days and sleepless nights preparing cases for trial.  Fortunately, the coast is clear for June 15-22, the likely dates of The Masindi Project II.  Since Joline had heard all about The Masindi Hotel and seen lots of pictures of the “war room” we created, we wandered around for a little while and took some pictures.  From there, we met up with Mr. William.  He and Henry exchanged warm hugs and were genuinely happy to see each other.  Mr. William jumped into our car and we all bumped and bounced out the horrible road to Ihungu.  Joline and I watched Henry closely as we arrived, hoping to catch a glimpse of the emotions he was experiencing.  It had been almost exactly two years since Henry was released and he had never been back.

“It is somehow different,” he said softly as the makeshift soccer field came into view.  The goalposts were gone that Henry had himself made from tree branches and nails he removed from the roof of the one-room warehouse he had called home for nearly two years.  In its place were a few cinder blocks.  Also missing from the field was the stone outhouse that had previously been in the field of play.  “It fell down about a year ago,” explained Mr. William in response to my inquiry.  As we turned the corner and the three stone buildings that made up Ihungu came into view, Henry gave a very Ugandan “Eh!” as he saw that other things had changed also, but much had stayed the same.  The maize (corn) plants had been cleared and a relatively fresh coat of paint had been applied to the building where the boys lived, but the rest of the structures were continuing to crumble and deteriorate.  Another thing I immediately noticed was that the distinctive, foreboding wooden door to the boys’ building that had figured so prominently in many of our initial pictures had been removed and replaced.  (More on that delightfully Bob Goff story in a later post).

Some of the male inmates were milling around outside in filthy, tattered, mismatched clothing as they cooked their morning porridge in the outdoor “kitchen.”  (The inmates at the Naguru Remand Home in Kampala wear clean uniforms).

Cooking in the "Kitchen"

Most of them stopped what they were doing and stared at us as we exited the vehicle.  Since we were with Mr. William, they must have known we were authorized to be there.  Joline and I slowly exited the vehicle and got her camera and my computer out.  I pointed out a few things to her from next to the car and then we looked around for Henry – he had been right next to us when we got out, but had disappeared.  We eventually found him with a group of prisoners, shaking their hands and introducing himself to them in their local languages.  After Joline I met several of the prisoners,, Mr. William retrieved the two girl prisoners and led us all into the boys’ building.

The boys’ building is about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide.  The floors and walls are concrete slabs and there are no windows, only small bar-filled rectangles on the walls near the twelve-foot high ceiling.  These rectangular holes have no screens, however, so the malaria-laden mosquitos have ready access to the prisoners.

Mr. William interpreted as I introduced myself, Joline, Michael, and Henry.

Talking to prisoners at Ihungu

The inmates seemed dutifully impressed that Henry had been Katikiro (Prime Minister) for almost two years and had left Ihungu two years earlier and was now back in school.  I explained that I had come with other lawyers two years ago and that I would be back with more lawyers in less than two months.  I described for them the information that we would be gathering on this visit and then what we would be doing when we returned.  They expressed their appreciation through a hand-clap pattern they all did in unison (they do this same thing at the Naguru Remand Home).

As we set up plastic chairs under the same tree that Henry and I had spent five days under more than two years ago, with him interpreting as I (and other lawyers) had interviewed Henry and his fellow inmates, Henry and I had a quiet moment.  “I hoped I would never come back to this place,” he said.  After a pause, though, he added, “I am glad I am here to help you.”

As we got started, Michael drove Mr. William back to town.  Starting with the two girls, we set up an assembly line, of sorts.  Joline wrote their names in large letters on a piece of paper and took a picture of them holding up their names, then escorted them to the chairs under the tree.  With Henry interpreting, I interviewed them and gathered some basic information – age, education level, crime charged, date and location of arrest, and date of arrival at Ihungu.  We also asked their favorite football (soccer) team – Manchester United handily beat Arsenal.

Midway through, Michael arrived back at Ihungu and he and Henry took turns interpreting.

Henry and Michael Interpreting

Michael has become more than a driver – he is a friend, and he relished the chance to participate in helping these children gain their freedom.  When all was said and done, we had a handful of murder cases, a handful of theft cases, and the rest were defilement (unlawful sex with a minor).  One had been at Ihungu for just over a week, a few had been there two years, and the rest were scattered in between.  To a person, they were exceedingly grateful to us for coming.  After we finished the interviews, which took a little less than three hours, we all gathered in the boys’ building again.  Before we said our goodbyes, Henry said a beautiful and moving prayer, asking God to protect and comfort the children while they waited for justice, and to forgive all of us when we fall short.  Another unison handclap from the grateful prisoners.

When we got outside, one of Henry’s fellow inmates from two years ago (Jabel) had arrived – Henry had told him we were coming.

Jim, Jabel, Mr. William, and Henry after lunch

They had an emotional reunion – they had been close and had been together for almost two years in Ihungu, with Jabel serving as Henry’s Chairman (#2 in command) during much of Henry’s reign as Katikiro.  From there, we all drove back to The Masindi Hotel for lunch.  I had called one of the prosecuting attorneys in Masindi last week, and he had agreed to meet me for lunch.  So Mr. William (we picked him up in town), the prosecutor, and I ate at one table, while Joline, Michael, Henry, and Jabel ate at the other.

Lunch could not have gone better.  Both Mr. William and the prosecutor fully embraced the idea of copying the pilot program we are running in Kampala and utilizing it in Masindi.  There are still some hoops to jump through to make it happen, but I am optimistic that the 33 inmates at Ihungu will soon be working their way through the justice system.  All in all, it was a great day.  One of the best parts of it was the fact that Joline and I got to work on a project in Africa together, which had not yet happened.

Coming Home . . . for the First Time

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We have been blessed to have Henry with us this weekend after we picked him up from school on Saturday at the end of his first term at the top secondary school in Uganda.  While we don’t have his grades yet, he worked very hard and gave his very best against the top students in the country.  He was near the top of his class on the only paper he has gotten back so far (in Physics).  On Saturday morning, our kids gave Henry a swimming lesson at our pool (he is learning to swim).  On Saturday afternoon, we took him to see the first movie he has ever seen at a theater.  It was supposed to be The Hunger Games, but the theater didn’t get it yet, so we saw Lorax instead.  To call it a poor substitute would be charitable.

Henry at his first movie

If The Hunger Games is not released here next weekend, I’m afraid I will be “forced” to resume my pirating adventures.

Tomorrow, we are getting up early and taking Henry home.  On the way, however, we are going to spend some time in Masindi where Henry and I met — at the juvenile prison where Henry spent nearly two years of his life.  More on that visit in the next day or two.

But today’s post is about a very different homecoming – one that we (and many of you) have been praying about for several weeks.  Tomorrow (Monday), Lindsey Doyle is bringing Eden Hannah home.  I posted about the Doyles previously here.  Briefly, Eden’s birth mother is mentally ill and does not have even a minor grasp on reality.  Eden wasn’t expected to live after she was found, but was nursed back to health by a couple of American nurses before she was matched with the Doyles.  After several weeks in Uganda, the Doyles were granted legal guardianship over baby Eden in November.  Unfortunately, however, the US Embassy in Uganda sent their case to the Nairobi Embassy for further evaluation.  While the matter was pending in Nairobi, the Doyles had to return to Nashville to wait.  Eden was overwhelmed with love and protection by a remarkable family in Jinja while the Doyles waited for a ruling from Nairobi.  Unfortunately, the ruling came back unfavorable – the Nairobi office issued a Notice of Intent to Deny the visa application.  The problem revolved around the language used in the Ugandan judge’s legal guardianship order and its relation to American visa law.  Nothing was intrinsically wrong with the order – it said all of the right things for all of the right reasons – but the mental illness of the mother was not addressed in a way that allowed the US Embassy officials to determine that US laws were met.

Stalemate.

It is very difficult to get a revised ruling in Uganda in the less than a year, if ever.  After lots of prayer and a little well-timed encouragement at a God-orchestrated unofficial meeting, a new order was issued in time to meet the response deadline to the Embassy’s Notice of Intent to Deny.  We were all thrilled when on Monday, the US Embassy changed its position and issued its final decision – VISA APPLICATION GRANTED.

Lots of tears of celebration.

As I write this post, Lindsey and Eden are here at our apartment having a sleepover.

Lindsey and Eden Doyle with Jim

Tomorrow morning, they pick up their visa and tomorrow evening, they fly home to the rest of their family.  Praise God.  Thanks for all of your prayers on their behalf.

But I Don’t Want to be a Pirate

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Before coming to Uganda nearly three months ago, I had no intention of becoming a pirate.

I know pirates.  Some good friends of mine are pirates.  I am no pirate.  Of that, I was sure.  Now, nearly three months into our Ugandan adventure, I think I might be a pirate.

“But I don’t want to be a pirate.”

Those of you who are Seinfeld fans will immediately recognize the quote from the Puffy Shirt episode.  But my desire not to be a pirate has nothing to do with a large white blouse with a ridiculous number of ruffles.

The Puffy Shirt Episode

Let me start at the beginning.  During my first visit to Uganda over two years ago, I was walking through a market area in Kampala with Pepperdine alumnus John Napier and some others.  Someone approached us clandestinely and asked if we wanted to buy a movie.  John brushed him off nicely, and we continued to walk.

“What kind of movies was he trying to sell us?”  I inquired.

“You name it – they have old movies, classics, and movies still in the theater,” he explained.  “They are all pirated, though.  You cannot buy a legitimate movie in this whole country.  They simply don’t sell them.”

Curious, I asked him if he was a pirate.  He laughed and told me that he wrestled with what he would do early on, but had reached a compromise in his own mind after a few months in Uganda.  He would buy the pirated movies, but resolved to legitimize his purchase when he got back to the United States by buying or renting the same movie when he got back.  While it made sense to me, I must confess that the righteously indignant part of me winced a bit about what I perceived to be a healthy dose of rationalization.  I would never be a pirate, I thought, but didn’t say.

Fast forward to three weeks ago.  Joline and I went to see “Seeking Justice” at the local theatre (that’s how they spell it here).  It was a Nicolas Cage flick that was short on plot, long on action.  Afterward, we went to the grocery store to get some stuff before heading home.  Attached to the grocery store is a video store.  It doesn’t hurt to look, right?  In the store were a couple thousand American and Indian movies in what were clearly photocopied DVD jackets.  The disks themselves were blank DVDs with the name of the movie handwritten on them.

“Are these legitimate, legal movies?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” came Pinnochio’s reply.

On the counter was a three-ring binder with photocopied movie jackets in plastic page protectors.  “You have these movies also?” I asked.

“Yes, but they are behind the counter in the drawer.  You can look through the binder and tell me which ones you want,” said the man whose nose by now made Barry Manilow (or Squidward, for SpongeBob fans) look understated.

As I glanced through the binder, I noticed several movies that I really wanted to see, including Act of Valor.  I also noticed that “Seeking Justice” was in there – the movie we had just seen.

“How much for the movies?” I inquired.

“Five Thouthand shillings,” came the reply (that’s how they say thousand).

Two bucks.  My resolve began to weaken, but I caught myself and simply walked away.

One week later, temptation reappeared.  I was at a gas station with my driver when some dude knocked on my window.  I ignored him.  Lots of people knock on my window in Kampala.  They are usually kids with an outstretched arm, open hand, and a sad face.  “Sello.  Mzungu, you give me money,” they demand.  It is really sad, but giving them money guarantees that they will remain on the streets begging.  (I know that this sounds heartless, but I can assure you that we have thought through this thoroughly and are convinced that giving them money will ultimately harm more than help them and others in their position).

But this knock was from an adult, and he looked vaguely familiar.  He held up about twenty movies, and yelled “You want good movie, Mzungu?”  Was this the dude that approached me and Napier a couple years ago?  Couldn’t be, could it?  And yes, the top movie on the pile was . . . Act of Valor.  Against my better judgment, I rolled down my window.  He thrust the movies into my hands.

“How much for ‘Act of Valor?’”

“I give you discount price, Mzungu.  Five thouthand.”

“How do I know that this is a good copy?”

He pointed to the cover where the words “Clear Copy” were printed on the front.

Seeing that I was contemplating the purchase, he dropped the latest “Mission Impossible” onto my lap and said, “you buy this one too and I give you special price – ten thouthand.”

“How is that a special price,” I laughed.  “And this one doesn’t say ‘Clear Copy’ on the front.  Is this a clear copy?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know that?”

“You trust me, Mzungu.”

I almost cracked a rib laughing so hard, but ultimately the art of the deal got the better of me and I bought them both for eight thousand.  Looking back now, I think that was my first toke from the crack pipe.

The next day, I purposely drove to a video store I had seen when I was looking for apartments for the Pepperdine students who are coming to Kampala for the summer.  The store is on a narrow street in what is a poor excuse for a strip mall.  There is parking on the side of the street where the shops are, but not on the other side of the street because the street is otherwise too narrow to allow for traffic.  As I pulled into the only open space, a guy wearing a really baggy canvas orange vest (like the paperboys used to wear) approached me and told me that I would need to pay him to park there.  On his vest was scrawled “Parking Patrol.”  I had seen something similar before, and if it wasn’t legit, it was at least creative.  I gave him one thousand shillings and asked for a receipt.  After he gave me a puzzled look, I told him I was joking and walked into the store.

I will confess to feeling a little tentative and guilty (like the first time I entered a casino), but I entered the store nevertheless.  I had the scent and I was on the prowl for a fix.  The binder that this store had was twice as thick as the one in the grocery store.  In the end, I selected ten movies.  The cost – thirty thousand ($12).

When I went to pay, he waved me off and said, “you pay when you pick up the movies.  They will be ready in an hour,” he said as he pointed toward his computer and stack of blank DVDs.

Subtle, I thought.  He makes no pretense of being legitimate.  My conscience tried to cry out, but I rammed a sock in its throat.  “Shut it.  We are in Uganda – we have no choice,” I told my sputtering inner voice.

When I came back to pick up the movies, there was nowhere to park on the side of the street where the stores were, but there was a row of cars parked on the other side of the street, and they were straddling the curb – two-thirds of the car was on the sidewalk, and one-third in the street.  Monkey see, monkey do.  Parking Patrol Paper Boy jogged up to me and I slipped him another thousand shillings.  When I got back into the store, the previously blank DVDs were in clear plastic DVD wrappers with the names scribbled on them.  As I paid, my conscience spit out the sock and started to cuss at me, but I punched him in the stomach and paid the nice entrepreneur behind the counter.

When I got back into the car, I turned the ignition.  The engine turned over, but wouldn’t catch.  I tried it again.  And again.  And again.  “Told you, filthy sinner.  God is punishing you,” blurted my conscience.

Hook, uppercut, sidekick.  My conscience fell silent again.

I remembered that the car was very low on fuel, which is a constant in Uganda – no one fills up all the way with gas because they live from day to day and don’t want to get their tank syphoned by a thief.  I wondered if the angle of my car, which was pretty heavily leaning because I was mostly up on the raised sidewalk, might be depriving the engine of fuel.  So I summoned my inner Einstein and decided that since I was pointing downhill, I could put the car in neutral, take off the emergency brake, then start to roll forward.  I had just enough room to steer into the street without hitting the car in front of me.  So I did.  Miscalculations abounded.

First, without the car actually on, I had no power steering.  Had I not been eating steroids like Skittles, I wouldn’t have had the massive upper body strength necessary to crank the wheel enough to just barely miss the parked car in front of me.

Second, the downward gradient of the road was so slight that I quickly created a traffic jam behind me as I inched along futilely trying to start the car as I crawled forward.  No dice.

Third, without the car actually on, I had no power brakes.  As the downward gradient steepened (and just in time because the guy behind me nearly broke his wrist as he beat the crap out of his horn), I realized that I had no exit strategy.  I guess I thought it was going to work.  Cars to the left of me, cars to the right of me, honking cars behind me, intersection in front of me.  I won’t even start to tell you what word was going through my mind.  It rhymes with . . . well, you can guess.

As panic (and the steroids) kicked in, I was able to jam on the brake with both feet and drift into a driveway where there was a clearing near the bottom of the hill.  And no, it didn’t occur to me until writing this that I could have put on the hand emergency brake.

After my blood pressure returned to a level that allowed me to dial a phone, I called my driver and told him that the car wouldn’t start.  “No problem.  Just push the lock and unlock button on the keychain a few times.  It will then start.”  (Since my original car was in the shop, this was a rental and he had forgotten to tell me about this quirk).

It started right away, and I made it home with the pirate booty.  The kids were thrilled since most of the movies I got were for them, at least as far as you know.

So, am I a pirate?  Perhaps, but I have decided to follow the Napier rule.  We will destroy the movies before we come home.  Any movie we bought here and watched once, we will rent at home (and not watch it).  Any movie we watch more than once here, we will buy it when we get home.  I encourage anyone who reads this to hold me accountable for this.

One of my friends jokes that her spiritual gift is justification.  Perhaps it is contagious, matey.

Life Goes On

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Wise King Solomon said, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.” (Ecclesiastes 3: 1 – 2).

We are approaching the half-way point of our time in Uganda.  When we left our home, we told everyone that we would see them in six months.  We smiled and tried to pretend that everything would be just how we left it when we returned, but deep down we knew things would change.  Life goes on without us.  Babies are born, loved ones die, friends move away.  We should not be surprised, but somehow we are.

During our time in Uganda, we have missed the birth of our nephew Benjamin Gash and the death of Jim’s uncle Bob Koontz.

Our new nephew Benjamin Gash

We will also miss the move of the Perrin family to Texas.  These are just some of the births, deaths, and moves.  There are other friends who have experienced the joy of a new baby or the sorrow of the death of a loved-one.  Many Pepperdine friends are moving away from Malibu at the end of the school year, or moving back to Malibu after traveling abroad for the school year.  We won’t see this new Pepperdine tapestry until we return.

Children grow.  Birthdays are celebrated.  Four of us have celebrated our birthdays in Uganda.  But for me, the actual date of my birth did not seem so important this year.  We often meet children in Uganda who do not know their exact birth date because they were orphaned or abandoned.  So an approximate date has replaced their actual birth date.  Despite an accurate birth date, they continue to grow.  We have celebrated with some adopting families as they were granted permission to take their new children home.

Life goes on.  I get it.  Life does not revolve around me.  Death does not revolve around me.  Moves do not revolve around me.  I should not be surprised to find that things are different when I return home, but somehow I will be surprised.  Things have changed at home, but I haven’t been there to see the process.  My family and friends should also not be surprised to find that I am different when I return home, but somehow they will be surprised.  I have changed in Uganda, but they haven’t been here to see the process.

So there will be a lot of catching up to do when I return.  You will need to tell me what I’ve missed.  I will need to tell you what you’ve missed.  We will need to be patient with each other as we share the stories of our lives.  There will be times when we have to pause mid-story and say, “oh, sorry, you weren’t there when that happened.”

There is a time for everything.  We have missed some things.  You have missed some things.  But life goes on.  When we return home, there will be a time for us to talk, laugh, cry, pray, celebrate, share, and understand.

Facilitation

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The Largest Currency in Uganda -- Worth $20

Lots of things frustrate me in Uganda – the lack of chocolate chips in this country, the lack of access to basic hygiene among a substantial portion of the population, the length of time it takes to get even the most simple tasks accomplished, etc.  But the most frustrating thing I have encountered here is “facilitation.”

In the United States, “facilitation” means “the act of making easier.”  In Uganda, however, “facilitation” means something entirely different.  As mentioned in an earlier post, Uganda is largely a cash-based society.  While the advent of Mobile Money (electronic transfer of funds via cell phone) is starting to make an impact on this, most transactions still use cold, hard cash.  Unfortunately, this includes transactions involving the government.  Accordingly, the opportunities for corruption are ubiquitous.  In fact, nearly one-third of the articles in yesterday’s local newspaper directly or indirectly concerned corruption and/or unaccounted for governmental funds.  Children are unable to attend school, starving, and dying of malaria because there are “insufficient funds” to provide basic services.  And don’t get me started on the two fighter jets that were recently purchased by the Ugandan government, which represented an embarrassingly high percentage of the government’s annual budget.

But “facilitation” is not corruption, at least not in the usual sense that word is used.  When government officials insist on being paid cash they keep themselves for tasks included in their job descriptions, that is corruption.  This type of corruption is rampant in various governmental departments, particularly the police.  For example, in order for the police to investigate the burglary of the Gregston’s apartment last month, the hotel management had to pay the officers to come out to the hotel.  It was extra to bring Rover, who supposedly could follow the scent of the burglar.  The hotel just learned on Thursday that the investigation was complete, but, alas, the hotel would have to pay another 280,000 Shillings to get the report.  This is corruption, plain and simple.  More subtle, however, is facilitation.

At Pepperdine, employees – from the top to the bottom – are reimbursed for expenses incurred in the course of their duties.  So when, for example, I travel to a conference on behalf of the University, I am reimbursed for my airfare, hotel room, rental car, etc.  I must, however, produce receipts (or an explanatory memorandum if I don’t have a receipt) for the expenses incurred.  I am given mileage reimbursement (approximately $.50 per mile) for the distance I need to travel to get to the airport.  This rate approximates the cost of fuel and wear and tear on the car, and is equivalent to a rate set by the government for governmental employees.  These same rules and rates apply to every single person in the University.

Things are quite different in Uganda.  Many government officials are provided a “facilitation” allowance for travel associated with their jobs.  Since receipts are exceedingly difficult to come by, and since most Ugandans don’t have either credit cards (governmental or personal) or extra cash to pay for expenses in advance of reimbursement, this facilitation is usually provided in advance.  And the amount of the facilitation is not tied to actual expenses incurred, and it varies (quite dramatically) depending upon the level of the governmental official.  So, for example, if a clerk needs to travel to Jinja (two hours away) to attend a conference and stay for a night, that clerk will receive a much smaller facilitation allowance that would, for example, a judge.  And, of course, no receipts are necessary, so some officials sleep in their cars in order to supplement their salaries.  Since the facilitation allowances are actually quite generous in relation to the officials’ salaries, there is a huge incentive to attend conferences and other official gatherings for all governmental officials.  This, in turn, leads to a breathtaking loss in productivity because officials are traveling at every opportunity.

I am not saying, however, that this type of facilitation is corruption.  It isn’t.  The law provides for a certain level of payment for a certain type of activity, so it all legal.  It is incredibly inefficient and terrible policy management, but it is not corrupt.

Another type of facilitation is, however, corrupt to the core, and it is both driving me crazy and threatening to have a serious impact on the long-term future of international adoption in Uganda.

I don’t want to get too deep into the intricacies of Ugandan family law, so suffice it to say that to get an order from the court allowing an international family to gain custody of a Ugandan orphan, a Ugandan official has to complete an investigation and prepare a report.  That official is paid a salary by the government and these investigations and reports are a recurring part of the official’s job.  In order to properly (and honestly) conduct the investigation, the official will be required to travel various places, including to the orphanage and to interview family members to ascertain to the true status of the child.  For this type of work, however, there is no government facilitation allowance, no government vehicle to use, and no government credit card to cover the out-of-pocket expenses associated with this travel.  This leaves the officials only a few options – pay the expenses out of their own pocket (ain’t happening), lie about making the visit (happens sometimes), or charge the adopting families via their Ugandan lawyers a facilitation fee in order to perform the necessary work (happens frequently).  Herein lies the problem. Money is being paid to government officials to perform tasks contained within their job descriptions that otherwise wouldn’t be performed.  No receipts are provided.  No mileage rates are used.  And the facilitation costs are completely unstandardized and seemingly unrelated to actual expenses incurred – official X charges 100,000 shillings ($40), and official Y charges 300,000 shillings for what seems to be the exact same work.

Would-be adoptive parents from the US (or elsewhere) don’t have any sense of any of this and pay what they are told to pay because the necessary investigation work otherwise won’t be completed.  Out of this quite distasteful scenario emerges claims that children are being “trafficked” because unjustifiable money is changing hands in conjunction with international adoptions.  For the record, this activity (in and of itself) doesn’t even remotely rise to the level of legitimate use of the “trafficking” terminology, but it is raising questions in lots of people’s minds about the whole international adoption arena in Uganda.  (To be fair, there are other questions being raised by some that are more serious than this facilitation problem, but the jury is still out on level of fraud in the system).

All of this is to say that there is still much work to do in this realm and I am gratified to be increasingly included and consulted in conjunction with challenges related to international adoption.  Many of the meetings and much of the work are taking place behind the scenes, so I won’t be writing about such meetings here.  I will say, however, that if you are considering (or if someone you know is considering) international adoption in Uganda, then please, please ask lots of questions of your lawyers and insist on doing everything honestly.  Do not pay any bribes at all, and do not pay facilitation fees beyond that which is reasonable.  Your Ugandan lawyers will be glad to answer your questions and will be glad to stand by your refusal to give in.  Don’t tell your lawyers to get it done, whatever the cost.  Every time an official is bribed or improperly facilitated, then the next family will be put into a worse position because the official will be expecting such a payment.  If things get out of control, then the whole process could be shut down.  It has happened in country after country recently.

And another thing, don’t come to Uganda and begin caring for the orphan child until all of your paperwork has been completed.  And if anything goes wrong, you may be here for a while, so count the cost in advance.

There are 2.5 million Ugandan orphans.  Last year, about 200 of them were taken back to the United States with their new families.  All indications are that this number could potentially double, or even triple, this next year.  While this represents only a tiny fraction of Ugandan orphans, each individual child is precious to God and deserves to have a loving family.  Things need to be done right or these kids will continue to languish in orphanages and never know the love of a family.

Sorry to be preachy, but there is quite a bit at stake here.  I will try to be funny in my next post.

Gulu 2012

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Many of you have seen or at least heard about the controversial film called “Kony 2012.”  If you don’t know anything about Joseph Kony and the terror his Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) unleashed on northern Uganda for 20 years, you might want to check out the video and get informed.  Click on this link if you want to watch “Kony 2012 Part 2” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_Ue6REkeTA.  A lot of people have criticized the filmakers because Kony is old news; he has not been active in Uganda for the past few years.  Why should we worry about him?  Well, the people of Gulu and the surrounding area lived in terror for years and are now suffering the aftermath of countless murders, abductions, mutalations, and torture.

When I found out that Gulu was one of the cities where we would do a medical mission trip with the Gregston family, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I had heard so much about the damage done by the LRA in that area that I sort of expected to see a lot of disfigured or injured people.  The week before going to Gulu, I had seen an article in the newspaper about a married couple who had overcome adversity.  The bride had been one of the LRA’s victims; her nose and lips had been cut off and she was forced to eat them.  She was so ashamed of her appearance that she didn’t believe she deserved to have someone love her, let alone marry her.  Her groom patiently courted her until she finally trusted that his love for her was real.  Many women are still living in shame for having parts cut off, or worse, done to them.

In Gulu, we did not see many people with scars on the outside, but we knew the scars were there on the inside.  Everyone there has suffered directly or indirectly – lost loved ones, lived in terror, were forced into hiding every night to avoid abduction, or were forced into the LRA as soldiers or sex slaves  . . .  the list is too long and gruesome.  Gulu is now a peaceful place and the people we met were joyful and filled with hope.  They no longer live in fear.  There are many great organizations in Gulu that are helping the people rebuild their shattered lives.

One such organization is St. Monica’s, which is run by Sister Rosemary.  Women are accepted “as they are” and are given a home for themselves and their children, vocational training (cooking and dressmaking), and hope for the future.  Some of these women were former LRA sex slaves (a couple of them were wives of Kony – it is believed that he had more than 80 wives).  Some of these women were not connected to the LRA, but were simply living in poverty and needed help learning how to support their children.  But at St. Monica’s, the focus is not on their past, but on their future.  As we toured the campus, Sister Rosemary showed us the daycare facilities (where the children stay while their mothers attend class), the playground, and the medical clinic (where the women and children, as well as community members outside the school, can come for care for a very small fee).  She also showed us the temporary shelter (large metal shipping containers) where hundreds of “invisible children” sought refuge nightly to avoid abduction.  This was just one of the many places children hid each night during the years of terror.

Sister Rosemary shows Jayne and Jennifer around St. Monica's

Women and children at St. Monica's

While in Gulu, we also visited the Gulu Referral Hospital, to help clean up the grounds (pick up trash) and minister to the patients.  It was such a blessing to be able to pray with the patients I visited.  When we entered the Medical Ward, we saw the hallways, which were used as another hiding place for the “night commuters.”

Restore Leadership Academy is leading the way in education in northern Uganda for secondary students.  This young school was started by Bob Goff to give kids a chance to restore their lives after living through the LRA years.  Many students are being sponsored through Restore International.  We had been looking forward to visiting for over two years.  This was Henry’s school.  He has already graduated, but his younger brother Joseph is still there, so we got to meet him for the first time.  We had met the rest of Henry’s family in Hoima in February, but Joseph was already beginning another school year.  So it was cool to meet the final member of Henry’s family.  It is remarkable to see how much alike they are in speech and expression.  After seeing Henry’s and Joseph’s photos on our fireplace mantle for years, it has been amazing to see them in person in Uganda.

Joseph with Gash family at Restore

We spent two and a half days at Gulu Bible Community Church doing health screenings for school children.  These kids are too young to remember Kony, but I’m sure they have been told about him.  Perhaps they have older siblings who know what it’s like to fear that you will be abducted in the night.  But the kids we saw live in a peaceful Gulu.  They are not afraid.  They do not have to hide at night.  They are full of hope for the future.

Jennifer measures height of children for health screenings

After our first day of screenings, we visited with Sandra, who is about Jennifer’s age.  She speaks english very well and is learning french.  This beautiful, bright young girl hopes to be a lawyer someday.  Sandra is the future of Gulu.

Jennifer and Sandra

I left Gulu feeling encouraged that hope is being restored to the people and there is a new generation growing up in peace and safety.  But we must never forget what Joseph Kony did to Uganda.  He must be brought to justice.  The LRA is currently active in other African countries near Uganda.  So when you hear about Kony and Invisible Children, don’t scoff and say that’s old news.  “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” – George Santayana

 

Separation Anxiety

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We recently passed the two-month marker on our African adventure and experienced another event that has caused me to start thinking about the sadness of separation and joyfulness of reunion.

On Monday, March 26th, we woke up to what we thought would be another “ordinary” day in Uganda as we kicked off the second one-third of our six-month adventure.  Within a few minutes, we realized that things had taken a decided turn for the worst.  At some point between 11:30 p.m. and 7:30 a.m., the Gregstons (our Twin Family) had been burglarized in their apartment immediately below ours.  While they slept, a thief had crawled in through a window of their ground-floor apartment and stolen a wad of cash, four laptops, and several other valuable electronic items, leaving through a sliding glass door.  Needless to say, this shook all of us up quite a bit.  You can read the Gregston’s post about it here.

Over the course of the next week, the Gregstons prayed about it and decided that they needed to move to a more secure apartment complex that was nearer to their home base for their medical mission work.  After having lived most waking moments with them for the past two months, we are experiencing a good bit of separation anxiety.  We understood their decision and will likely still see them quite often.  For the time being, since we are on the second floor, and since the place we are staying in beefed up its security measures following the break in, we are planning to stay put.

This week also marked the kick-off of the juvenile justice pilot programme (that is how they spell it here) that I have been working on, and those of us who are involved are pretty excited about the prospect of curing the separation anxiety that the juvenile inmates feel as they wait in prison (many of them for more than a year) for a chance to go to court.  Phase I of this programme is officially underway, and we just learned that the prosecution is going to dismiss one of the fourteen cases immediately because the evidence is insufficient to proceed.  One down, thirteen to go.

On the legal guardianship front, the top-notch attorneys for the Doyle family filed yesterday the formal response to the US Embassy’s prior unfavorable notification with respect to their attempts to bring home baby Eden.  I have posted about them before here, and their heart-wrenching blog is here.  Eden just turned one last month and has been here in Uganda separated from the Doyles (who were granted a legal guardianship order over Eden in November).  I just learned that the Doyles have boarded a plane and are on their way to Uganda right now.  It will be good to meet them in person after having exchanged countless e-mails with them and having spoken with them on the phone several times.  Please be praying that the US Embassy will rule quickly and favorably so that they will never have to be separated from Eden again.

Late last week, I met another family from Atlanta who is here in Uganda in conjunction with their hoped-for adoption of three orphan siblings.  After the Skype conference call between the Ugandan attorneys and American attorneys I wrote about here, the family’s Ugandan attorney realized that the way the events were playing out could potentially put the family in a very difficult position with the US Embassy after the Ugandan court was awarded legal guardianship over the children to the family.  Accordingly, their Ugandan attorney had them contact me, and I connected them with the American attorneys who are now working with this family to ensure that the right procedures are followed between now and their application to the US Embassy for a visa.  It is heartening to see tangible evidence that the connection between the Ugandan and American lawyers is paying dividends for these orphan kids and the would-be adoptive families.

Finally, our family’s separation anxiety from the United States was temporarily diminished when Shane Michael (one of my former students and colleagues here in Uganda) brought back a few bags of chocolate chips after a brief trip he made to the United States.  We knew we were missing chocolate chips, but didn’t know how much until we were able to make a fresh batch of Nestle’s Tollhouse cookies.

Meeting old and new friends

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“Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other is gold.”  Does that ring a bell for anyone?  That line from a song from childhood keeps going through my head, but I don’t remember where I learned it.

One of the best parts of living in Uganda has been meeting up with old friends and making new friends.  The past couple of weeks have been packed with friend meetings.

One night, we went to dinner with Bob Goff and his group of friends, visiting from America.  We like to say that it’s all Bob’s fault that we moved to Uganda!  Bob has encouraged many to visit Uganda for their first time, which leads to their second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. time.  We enjoyed visiting with our old friend Bob and making new friends.  It turns out we are all FOB (Friends of Bob).

Another night, we went to dinner with the Fitzpatrick family (an American family we just met a couple of weeks ago, who is here to get custody of their new son Job).  We celebrated their oldest daughter’s birthday and their three kids got to hang out with our three kids and the Gregstons’ three kids.  When we said goodbye that night, we hoped not to see them again in Uganda (because we are praying the process will finish quickly and they will get to go home).  They just flew home last night.  We do plan on seeing them back in southern California (it turns out we only live about 20 minutes from each other).

Fitzpatrick, Gash, & Gregston kids

A week ago Saturday, we got to see Henry again at his new school for Sports Day (like our Field Day with lots of sports competitions between the students).  It was good to support Henry and his “house” (think Harry Potter).  He is doing well in his pre-med courses and he continues to make new friends of his own at school.

Jessica & Henry

Last Sunday after church, we went to the food court at the mall in Kampala to meet with a young man named Ahamed, who is sponsored by Jim’s aunt and uncle (Don and Kay Koontz).  They had asked if we could meet with him and take him shopping with the money they sent with us for him.  As we talked, we found out that Ahamed is the same age as Joshua (14), he loves studying history, and hopes to be a lawyer.  He is living in a very poor area of the city with his mother Elizabeth (who is HIV positive) and his six-year-old sister Phoebe (who does not attend school because the family does not have money for school fees, and she doesn’t have a sponsor).  He has another sister named Irene who is eleven and is sponsored, so she can go to a boarding school.  Ahamed has to walk one hour each way to go to church at the Kampala Church of Christ and two hours each way to go to school.  So he was really happy to get a new pair of shoes (in addition to a soccer ball, dictionary, and a bunch of food items for him and his family).

Ahamed with new shoes and ball

 

Gash kids with Ahamed

Ahamed with mother and sister

As we visited with Ahamed and Isaac (the church administrator who accompanied him to the mall), some other members from their church came to the food court for lunch.  As it turns out, we had many friends in common with them.  Here is a photo of our kids with them.  Do you recognize any of them?  Maybe you are a link between us and these new friends.

Gash kids with Kampala Church of Christ members (past & present)

Some people would not bother trying to make new friends, knowing you would only be living in a new place for six months.  But in Uganda, making new friends is a part of daily life.  We are glad to be part of this life.  Our lives are richer because of our old and new friends.

Ghana Be A Long Trip

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I knew Thursday was Ghana be a long day, but I wasn’t smart enough to realize the half of it when I woke up that morning.  Joline and the kids left on Wednesday with the Gregstons for Gulu, so I was alone Wednesday night, but for only part of the night.  My driver picked me up at 3:15 a.m. on Thursday to take me to the airport for a quick trip Ghana.

The church we attend on campus at Pepperdine partially supports a Christian school founded and run by one of our Pepperdine alums, Joseph Dzamesi (pronounced Jah-muh-see).  The Missions Committee at the church asked me to journey from Uganda to Ghana to visit Joseph and the school to provide them with some encouragement.  This also provided the perfect opportunity to visit one of our law alums, Stanley Ahorlu, who helps coordinate the summer program Pepperdine Law has with the Ghana Supreme Court for two of our students.  Stanley was also going to try to introduce me to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Ghana if he was in.  (Both Joseph and Stanley are from Ghana and returned a few years after they graduated).

Other than the fact that I was a bit tired, the trip started off well.  I arrived at the airport in plenty of time to catch my 5:10 a.m. flight.  Things quickly went south.  As he leafed through my passport, the guy behind the Kenya Airways ticket counter said, “Where is your visa to enter Ghana – I don’t see it in here.”

I just stared stupidly at him as I mentally beat the crap out of myself for not even having thought about a visa.  I have no idea why it never occurred to me, but it didn’t.  Not even for a moment, not even once.  “Um, I’m Ghana get one at the airport in Ghana when I arrive,” I said, more as a question than as an answer.

He looked at me like I was a moron, then proved it – “You didn’t go the Ghana embassy here in Kampala to get one before you boarded the plane?  It is very quick and easy.”

The only comeback I could muster in reply was a goofy embarrassed stare and the word, “no.”

He handed me my boarding pass as he shook his head and pointed to the boarding gate, confident, I am sure, that I would be back in Kampala sooner than I was scheduled to be.  As I walked to the gate, I contemplated my options.  First, I could postpone my trip and beg for a refund of the nearly $1,000 ticket.  But Joseph was traveling the three hours from his hometown to the airport and had moved his schedule around to accommodate my visit.  Besides, what would be my excuse to Kenya Airways – I am too stupid to plan ahead (though I purchased the ticket nearly a month ago) so please give me money back?  Second, I could press ahead and see if I could talk my way into Ghana.  After all, Uganda allows visitors to buy entry visas at the airport.  Surely Ghana does also, right?  I decided to press forward.

After filling out my exit documents between the ticket counter and gate at the Entebbe, Uganda aiport, I approached the immigration booth.  I handed my passport and boarding pass to the nice lady behind the counter.  “Ghana fly to Ghana, huh?”  Flip, flip, flip.  “Where is your visa?”

“Ghana get it when I arrive,” I said with much more confidence than before.

Same surprised look that betrayed a hint of pity for the idiot standing in front her.  She mumbled something like, “Not my problem” and stamped my passport.

The one-hour flight to Kenya where I would lay over for three hours was uneventful, though I will confess to feeling a mounting sense of dread about what would happen when I arrived in Ghana.  In Kenya, I found a lounge with internet and logged on to the Ghana immigration website.  Near the top of the page was the following notification:

“All foreigners entering Ghana, unless covered by para 3(1) require Entry Visas. Entry Visas must be obtained prior to arrival in Ghana and may be obtained from a Ghana Embassy, High Commission or Consulate abroad.”

Crap.

My eyes frantically scanned down the page for any potential exceptions.  This is all I found:

“Referals (for British Diplomatic Missions and Consulates)

I. Entry Visas may be issued in accordance with the Visa Regime to the following categories of persons without reference to Accra.

1. Members of Diplomatic and Foreign Consular officers “de carriere” travelling to or through Ghana on official business.”

So there I sat in Kenya, about two hours before my six-hour flight to Ghana, once again trying to figure out if I would get on a flight back to Kampala and admit failure or just press ahead and see if I could talk my way in.  Then I remembered something.

When Bob Goff came to Kampala, he brought with him some cool new business cards for me, which named me Chief of Staff to the Uganda Consulate.  Bob is Uganda Consulate.

New Business Cards

Even though the exception explicitly contemplated British Consulates, I figured it was worth a try.  I tried to channel my inner Bob Goff to figure out what he would do.  I concluded that Bob would smile, be really charming, and tell the truth when he arrived at the Ghana Airport.  I decided to give it a shot.

When I boarded the plane, I instantly realized there was a problem of a different kind.  My boarding pass had me in Seat 22G, but there were only three seats on each side of the center aisle: A, B, C on the right, and D, E, and F on the left.  The stewardess apologized and said the G really should have said “D” (I always try to get an aisle seat so I have more room to work on my laptop).  Well, when I got to 22G, there was rather large Kenyan woman in my seat.  The middle seat next to her was open and there was a purse on the window seat.  She saw me looking at the seat she was occupying and at my boarding pass and said, “I am sitting here, you can sit somewhere else.”  Before I could question her, the stewardess said over the intercom, “We need to leave so just take any available seat – don’t worry about sitting in your assigned seat.”  Big Kenyan lady gives me a wide grin and smugly says, “You heard her, just take any open seat.  This one is not open.”

My blood pressure spiked, but I tried to maintain control.  “Is the seat next to you open?”  She just shrugged and looked the other way.  By this time, the passengers waiting behind me started grumbling at me to take a seat, so I squeezed by her and started to sit in the middle seat.

“Whose purse is that in the window seat?” I politely asked through gritted teeth.

“It’s mine.  I am saving that seat for a friend who is coming.”

My turn to sport a wide grin and smugly say, “You heard the stewardess.  Any open seat . . .”  I handed the purse to her and plopped down into the aisle seat and gave her devious smile.  She was not pleased.

Just after we took off, she started to doze off.  “Excuse me.  What is the time difference between Kenya and Ghana?”  The next three times she fell asleep, I woke her up so I could use the bathroom.  The last time I got in, I knocked her hot coffee all over her lap and then laughed in her face.  OK, so maybe I didn’t wake her up, never used the restroom, and never spilled coffee on her but I sure wanted to.  Is that wrong?

Once we arrived in Ghana, I took a deep breath, put on a smile and strode confidently to the immigration booth.  I handed the officer my passport and my two Ugandan business cards – one showing I worked for the Ugandan High Court and the other showing I was a “diplomat.”

Flip, flip, flip.  “Where is your visa?”

“I don’t have one yet; I need to get one here,” I said with every ounce of confidence I could muster.

“We do not issue visas at the airport; you must get them before you arrive.”  He made no effort to mask his exasperation.

I pointed to my business cards, and said, “I work for the High Court of Uganda and I am here for one day.  I plan to meet with Chief Justice Dotse later this afternoon.  I would like a diplomatic visa, please.”  All of this was entirely true.

“Where is your diplomatic passport?”

“I don’t have one,” I said as I again pointed to my business cards as if they were magical.

He sighed and instructed me to stand to the side as he consulted with another officer.  A few minutes later, the other officer called me over and said, “You should have gotten a visa before you came.  Make sure you do so next time.”

Whew.

Joseph was waiting for me outside and he took me to see Stanley, the law alum.  They were old friends from the years they overlapped at Pepperdine.  (They were two of three Ghanaians at Pepperdine in the late 1990s).  After our meeting with Stanley, we headed north to Joseph’s hometown of Ho.  (And yes, I giggled the first time I heard the name.  I am not just an idiot, I am also immature).  Unfortunately, the Supreme Court Justice unexpectedly had to leave town, so I never had a chance to meet with him.

Joseph has a wonderful family – Jennifer is his wife and his three kids are Justin (6), Jason (4), and Janelle (1).  They cooked a fantastic Ghanaian meal of chicken curry, rice, fried plantains, avocado, and pineapple.  Since Ghana is three hours earlier than Uganda, I was beat and turned in early.  I also got up early to finish preparing my fifteen-minute devotional/sermon to the five hundred kids at the Sonrise Christian High School that Joseph started and now runs.  This school is only about six years old, but is already the top-ranked private school in Northern Ghana.

Worship Time at Sonrise Christian High School

After a tour of the school, we headed back to Ghana’s capital city, Accra, which is noticeably more developed than Kampala, Uganda.  The roads are much wider and very well paved, unlike in Kampala.  The buildings are also bigger and newer, and everything is much cleaner.  Several years ago, boda bodas (motorcycle taxis) were banned, so everything seems much more orderly.  Given its deep water port, Ghana has a huge shipping industry that powers its growing economy.  It is also only one of a small handful of African countries with single-digit inflation, and is one of only a few African countries where there has been a peaceful transfer of power after democratic elections.  I am confident that I will be back to Ghana in the next few years.

Fortunately, the redeye trip home went by quickly, thanks to some well-timed pharmaceutical assistance.