The Other Side of "Peachy Keen"

A few months ago I received the following sentiment tucked in an email from a long-time friend:

“Hey Mary - Hope you are doing as well as the newsletters sound :).” 

I assured her that life was as peachy-keen as the newsletters sounded--they don’t lie. We love what we do and are thankful and happy for the life we live in Uganda.

But, I had an experience this past week that was anything but enjoyable. So, in a transparent attempt to draw you into the varied aspects of life here in Uganda, let me share the OTHER side with you. It is a side that, quite frankly, doesn’t show it’s ugliness very often, and for that I am grateful. 

Here’s how it went down. 

As most of you know I spent the fourth week of May in Kenya with Aunt Ketty Okoth while she underwent her third week of radiation and chemotherapy treatments. It was a full week of meeting new people, navigating her care and the traffic of Nairobi, and summing up the week by getting all the finances and handover instructions in order for the staff member following me. I boarded the “Easy Coach” at 7 a.m. on Sunday the 18th and we departed Nairobi, all 33 of the passengers bound for Kampala, Uganda--a mere 13-15 hours away. The exact amount of travel time depends on the roads traversed, weather conditions, bus driver capability, other drivers (i.e. accidents on the road), inevitable jams due to subpar road conditions, and the timeliness of other passengers getting back to the bus after the visit to the facilities. So many variables--most of which I anticipated. 

One of which I did not.

We arrived at the Uganda/Kenya border in Busia sometime in the 4 p.m. hour. I’d been on a bus all day and I knew I had a few more hours, so the exact time wasn’t too important to me at that point. The police officers checked our luggage and pointed us to the immigration windows for our document check. I had made friends with the people sitting near me and we noticed one line was moving WAY faster than the other and made sure we got in the quick one. Indeed, the immigration officer in our line was completing the check on about five people in the same time it took the other officer to check only one person. When I handed my passport to the officer she began turning pages, but I assured her I had opened to the page with my most recent stamp. She kept perusing the entire passport. When I told her again that my most recent stamp was on page 11 she glanced at me and kept flipping pages. Then she said something about it not being acceptable and told me she’d have to get her supervisor. Guess who was her supervisor . . . yup, mr. inefficient in the other line. I don’t think the man had a grasp on the reality that he had a job because of us---he acted like everyone in his line, which now included me, were an interference on his personal time. He, without any emotion whatsoever, told me that my stamp was not valid for entering the country and I’d have to pay $50, end of story. “Next,” suddenly he was very interested in helping people in his line. I explained that I did not have $50 or any way to get $50. “Well, then you’ll have to stay in Kenya until you can pay. Next.” I looked at his colleague who actually showed compassion in her eyes. I began to tear up and said, “I was told by immigration that this stamp was ok for travel. It was given to me last week as an extension in order that I could make this very trip.” Mr. Personality responded, “Well, I’m an immigration officer, too, and I’m telling you it’s not valid.” My tears were turning into a river, “BUT I JUST WANT TO GO HOME AND I DON’T HAVE $50! LET ME GO HOME.” He looked to the next person and held out his hand to receive their documents, then he looked to me and said, “I’m busy.”

I was extremely emotional at this point. Alone at the border. In 17 years of marriage I hadn’t felt alone. Now, I felt very alone. No money and no way to get money. No place to stay and Geoff was six hours away. It began to rain. I went to my bus and told them immigration wasn’t letting me in the country and to leave. I then walked a little way down to the police to see if they would plead my case to the immigration officer. They acted like I’d known the stamp wasn’t valid for travel and flatly told me I’d have to stay until I paid. I saw that my bus hadn’t budged and  I went to tell them again to leave. The rain was pouring down pretty heavy now and I was getting soaked from head to toe--which also translates to a lot of mud. I’d called Geoff and he was trying to help me calm down, but I was intensely angry. The inefficiency of the immigration department was severely stealing my peace by stranding me in an unfamiliar place and they not only had no compassion on me, but acted as if their refusal to collectively, properly perform their duty was my fault.

I was uncontrollably crying at this point. Geoff asked me to take the phone to the officer, but he refused to receive the phone saying he was busy. I could see no way out of this situation. Geoff decided he would try to drive the six hours to bring me the money and pick me up. This meant I would be sitting there in the dark with strangers as bus after bus sifted through until midnight.

 Not a happy situation.

One police officer said, “Just call someone to send you money.” He acted like it was so easy for me to get money because I was white, as if I had no reason to cry because money was easy to come by for me. I stopped short in explaining my situation because I could see that the reality of my dilemma was lost on him--he could only see a rich mzungu who hadn’t a care in the world and 

my tears were a confusion to him.

Another police officer and a passerby engaged in a conversation together about me. Not thinking I could understand what they were saying they shared freely their opinions to which I responded quite rudely, “If you want to know what is going on with me, ask ME, but don’t talk ABOUT me as if I can’t hear you.” To my surprise, the young gentlemen kindly apologized to me saying, “I’m very sorry.” His kindness made me realize how rude I’d been, but it didn’t keep me from being rude to the immigration officer whom I approached again with the phone so he could talk with Geoff. This time he received the phone, but only listened to half of what Geoff said before shoving the phone back in my hand. I made some comment as I walked away about how the man was the meanest and most uncaring I’d ever met. Those comments didn’t help the situation or make me feel any better, but my hatred for what was happening to me just kept producing venom.

This entire problem is an immigration issue. When we entered the country in October last year they gave us three months. We turned our passports in to the immigration department in January and are STILL waiting for my dependent’s pass on Geoff’s work visa. They delayed two months over the due date on Kevin and Acacia’s passes and when they finally granted theirs they back dated them AND charged us late fees. It seems they are playing the same game with mine. The late fees are hundreds of dollars on top of the hundreds we have to pay for the visa. When I realized that my passport being tied up in immigration was a hindrance for me traveling to help Aunt Ketty, I secured the extension, which I was told was valid for travel. 

Ha. 

Back to the border. Geoff and I were on the phone trying to work out what to do when I was approached by an employee of the bus company. He asked what was happening and I explained the situation. He told me to go with one of his representatives who would help me. All of my previous trips back and forth between buses and police officers took me past the money changers who were not shy about simply staring at the crying mzungu. Yet, when the bus company employee approached them about whether or not they could get me a $50 bill via mobile money, they were all ears. WHY HADN’T THEY SHOWN ME THE MONEY BEFORE??? They had seen what was going on, but never flashed anything but Ugandan and Kenyan shillings! Geoff was in Kiwoko at this point and said he would mobile money an amount equivalent to $50 to the money changer’s phone. Mobile money is a way that many people solve their crisis financial issues in this country, but my phone is not set up for the process. Thankfully, this shifting of Ugandan shillings via Geoff’s phone to the money changer’s phone took less than 5 minutes and I had a $50 bill in my hand and was on the way to the immigration officer’s window again. The compassionate officer quickly processed the stamp and handed me back my passport.

About an hour and a half after arriving at the border, and after a few more “Easy Coach” buses had arrived and departed, I managed to board the last Easy Coach of the night. I had cried so much and fretted so long that it took me a good hour to calm down. Looking out the window I was highly annoyed at “everything Ugandan” that my eyes fell upon. The cows and goats wandering chaotically in the town streets, carelessly driving boda boda and taxi drivers, people shuffling along dirt paths strewn with garbage, makeshift buildings with bent and torn sheet metal sides and roofs, and ladies lining the roadside with their sagiris full of roasting maize--set up amidst the dust and traffic. The dirt, dust, and basic survival mode of the environment disgusted me. I was ready to quit this country and I told Geoff so as we talked on the phone. I spoke with a raw harshness, “We come here to help care for the children they carelessly produce and then abandon and THIS is how they treat us!” He helped me with another perspective. “Mary, this is what we are here to combat. The sin that is so rampant in this society through corruption is what we are here to fight. We must expect opposition--it is the norm when you are fighting injustice.” I knew this intellectually, I just wish I could have responded without the intense anger when the injustice directly affected me! 

And this is what has bothered me ever since I cleared the border. I got sucked into the moment thinking I was fighting that mean, inefficient, uncaring immigration officer, the police and the people who stamped me with a bogus stamp the week before, rather than fighting the ultimate enemy of my life who enjoyed watching me squirm on a level I should have never engaged in. What happened to knowing that God is always with me and will never leave me--that because He is on my side, nothing can stand against me. What happened to trusting in Him in that moment? It disappoints me that I profess to trust Him in everything, but when that problem surfaced, I crumbled under it’s weight. And amidst it all I spoke some pretty rotten words to those who seemed to stand against me.

As I stared out the bus window smeared with the oils so profusely placed in the African hair that had leaned on it all day, I could only see the “stupid and ugly cows” and I struggled to gain peace. I feared I would not be able to regain my love for being in Uganda. And, to be honest, I haven’t fully regained it yet. It has been a week since that bus ride and border incident and I still feel quite wounded when I think of it. And truthfully, I could very easily quit this place and get on an airplane. But, as the week has progressed a softness and understanding has begun to rebuild in me. 

Begun, not completed.

When we traveled to Jinja a few days ago for the foreign staff retreat, I looked at the cows grazing aimlessly along the roadside and they didn’t seem so “stupid and ugly,” they were just cows doing what cows do. When we got home to our house after the retreat and I was greeted by the kids in David Family and the Okoth family and other random members of the New Hope Community, I realized afresh my love for the people of New Hope and the blessing it is to live here.

I still have an undercurrent of dissatisfaction and a disdain for the corrupt, inefficient systems that continue to crowd the halls of this society. If I think too long about them I begin to buy my ticket. So, I take it to the Lord in prayer and ask for His perspective and strength and peace.

It is a process and I pray earnestly that I will, in His strength, conquer anger and settle in peace again in this land.

And THAT, my friends, is the other side of “peachy keen.”