sparkly

I’m pretty sure that the Dubai airport is my favorite airport yet. I mean, I have been through many different airports and it seems like each one has something unique about it. Schippol International Airport in Amsterdam has an art museum in it, which is pretty cool. The airport in San Francisco has this awesome play area with blocks and Legos and a Fisher Price slide. It was really fun. We built really tall Lego towers. (Words from the wise: don’t try to slide down something when your legs are longer than it is. Then people come and yell at you.) I think all airports should have play areas. But I must say, nothing compared to the airport in Dubai. I tell you, those U.A.E.-ians have style. The airport’s just about the hugest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. When I first saw it, I immediately thought of the Mines of Moriah from the Fellowship of the Ring. But only because it was super duper tall with pillars. That was the only way it reminded me of the Mines of Moriah. This place was…well…I think the best word to describe it was sparkly. Everything was sparkly. And white. And clean. Even the pillars were sparkly.  My brothers and I were so entranced by their sparkliness that we went up and touched them, half expecting glitter to come off on our hands. And then we looked at our hands and they were what? Glittery. So what did we do? We put the glitter on our faces. Or rather, on Josh’s face. Poor kid.

It’s become sort of a tradition, now. Every time we go through that airport we rub the glitter off the pillars and put it on our faces. It really sounds very stupid and juvenile, but when you consider that every time we’ve arrived in that airport it’s been bookended by super long flights, is normally at like 2 A.M., and the airport is almost completely empty except for really bored customs people who are very happy for the amusement…our actions become more or less justified.

Poor bored customs people. I would hate to have that job. In other airports, they always look crabby and don’t really talk to me at all, but this last time going through Dubai, the guy did. When he took my passport and saw my name, he looked up at me with an excited smile on his face and said “Your name is Anna?” as if it was the most amazing thing he had ever heard. I answered, even though he had my passport so I didn’t really have to.  Then he grinned and said, ”Do you want me to tell you what your name means in Arabic?”

Um yes

“Anna. It means ‘I am’”

“So, I am Maria Tricarico.” I said, thinking it was the funniest thing. He looked at me strangely, as if he didn’t get it. Then he laughed, and I was glad because I was starting to feel the glitter on my face forming a great big “I am stupid” on my forehead. What can I say? I was tired. But let this be proof that customs dudes really do have a sense of humor.

like Jack and the Beanstalk...only not

I’m not much of a gardener. I mean, I have tried many times to plant and care for a garden which I suppose means I am dedicated, but I have yet to succeed in actually making anything grow. This, of course makes me very frustrated so that the next rainy season I try even harder and work even longer to find out and fix whatever’s wrong with what I was doing.

I have tried many things. I’ve watered it every spare moment of every day to see if water-lackage is the problem, but that just ended up drowning every living thing down to the smallest weed. I’ve composted the ground first, which attracted snakes. I’ve planted it in the shade, where the sun-loving plants shriveled. Then I planted it in the sun, which sucked ever nutrient out of the ground and burned every sprig of life up till nothing but thorns covered the dry ground.  I’ve experimented with different seeds only to discover that every seed package I had in my possession, had expired at least four years ago. I even found some tomato seeds that expired in September of 1995. Where did those come from?

So this past year, we decided that to try moving the garden to a completely different area where there had not been a garden since long before we moved here. It was part in the sun and part in the shade and was relatively flat and nothing else productive was being done with that specific patch of ground, so it seemed like a good idea. Mom, Josh, James and I collectively marked out the ground and built a fence of tree branches and chicken wire. Then we got out our two half-broken hoes and James and I set to work. I nearly killed myself trying to get the metal to dent the rock hard ground. So we waited a month and a half until it rained. Then we practically wrenched our arms out of their sockets as we discovered that the ground had the consistency of clay and stuck to the head of the hoe so that as you lifted it up over your head, huge clods of mud would come with it and consequently fall on your head, or fly back and hit Josh in the stomach at which point all work would cease and the whole thing would turn into a huge mud fight. We must’ve looked pretty funny, dancing around the “field”, moving as fast as tortoises while using the effort of the fastest hare to slog through the sticky mud, clay shoeing our feet and clothing our clothes.

Meanwhile, Mom randomly scattered a few pumpkin seeds on the other side of the compound without hope of much. Like Jack chucking the magic beans out his window.

Two months, third degree sunburns , four billion blisters, and five hundred kazillion hours of frustration later, a carefully prepared, organized, planted, replanted and re-replanted garden sat out in the baking sun…all of its neat lines and heaps and markings looking beautiful. When it rained, it looked like a melted ice tray with its stripes and plaids of little lakes here and there. The symmetry was killing me. At this point I was very frustrated with the fact that all it was was neatly arranged piles of dirt and that any plant life was gone. The cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant and green peppers had just not grown at all.  The corn had grown to a foot high, tasseled and then produced tiny cobs of corn (one kernel per cob). They were ultimately felled by termites. So the only things growing were about a fourth of the beans I had originally planted and random stalks of sorghum which I had not planted at all and just kind of appeared.

Then we went to the States for six weeks. Then we returned. The beans in the garden had shriveled up and died. The sorghum was ten feet high. Out of all the herbs planted, the dill was the only one that had survived (the only herb I have no clue what to do with had thrived to bush height). Nothing else in the garden looked even remotely alive. But way over in the far end of the compound, a forest of pumpkins towered over my tiny little garden, the vast shadow cast by its accomplishments eclipsing my formerly triumphant dill bush. I keep wondering if there are any magic harps or geese laying the golden eggs hidden under the huge umbrella-like leaves. Joyce had piled all the pumpkins she’d harvested while we were gone on our porch. There were 53 in all. I guess Mom has the green thumb.

 There are pumpkins piled and heaped in random places all around the house like under the bookshelves in the hallway and behind the dumbbells in Dad’s office. You can’t go anywhere without bumping into the golden devils. So I guess we’ll be eating pumpkin soup for a while. Flavored with…dill?

the de-molder

The house we live in is an old house that was bought by the mission from one of the local “big men” by the name of Timothy Lolem. The mission spent some time renovating it and making it suitable for living in before actually moving in in 2000. And since then the mission has expanded considerably. Not including the clinic and all its staff housing, three whole houses have been built as well as many smaller huts or bandas for visitors and MA’s etc, and loads of smaller projects are constantly going on. One such project is in progress at the moment.


The roof of our house is made of tin sheeting which makes for a very loud rain fall. I have often wished that we could have had just a flat concrete roof so it wouldn’t be so loud. You know, like the ones in the Bible where they have a staircase built into the wall so you can just climb up there anytime you want. I mean, how cool would that be to just be able to climb up there and hang out and do stuff. That would be so cool. Actually, over a portion of our house there is no tin roof so it is just flat concrete and we sometimes climb up there for trimming trees, tanning, and fetching things such as Frisbees, baseballs, basketballs, shoes, kittens, alligator skins, Jamie’s money belt…just things that we left, lobbed, forgot or hid up there. One of these flat areas is over the bathroom off the kitchen and because it is flat, when it rains the water sits in a stagnant pool up there. This did not seem to make that much of a difference until last rainy season when we noticed 1) water streaming down the wall inside the bathroom through a microscopic crack in the ceiling and 2) very large growths of mold in several places around the bathroom. The roof of Dad’s office was also like this and he too had found large areas of mold in his office. Because my dad especially, among other members of my family, is very allergic to mold, a solution to this problem was carefully thought out and executed by Mr. Wright. It seemed that the water had been seeping into the walls through the ceiling and so making it damp all the time. So a tin roof was built over Dad’s office to keep the rain off. And it has worked so far. Not only has it kept the mold away and prevented the office from flooding through the many cracks in the windows, it has also provided a shelter for various cats living in the vicinity.

Since it worked for the office and we were still having the same problem in the bathroom, it seemed reasonable to deduct that this problem would have the same solution. So now, as I speak, Mr. Wright, Heather, James and Bobby are in the midst of building an extension onto the present tin roof so as to cover the flat roof over the bathroom. We are confident that this will affect a major improvement.

Random Thing: there is this huge monster crack in the wall of the same bathroom, actually in the shower. Our shower (as most showers are) is built into a corner of the room and the crack is at about eye level (my eye level) through both walls, so I can see all the way out into the courtyard while I’m taking a shower. It’s kind of cool and kind of creepy at the same time. That’s been caulked before and we’ll probably just caulk it shut again. Though really…I think it’s kind of cool. Like watching tv while you’re showering. I mean, not that much happens out in the courtyard at the time when I normally shower, but sometimes I see a bird or something. It’s pretty cool.

My two best friends

I have just returned from six weeks in the States and being back is strange and good at the same time. Strange because of all the time in America spent talking about what we would do with Kate and Em when they come next summer and with Anna Williams (my best friend) who hopes to come next year sometime. It has made me feel as if I was supposed to bring them with me but have mistakenly forgotten them in America. But I haven’t and that is what must be.


On Monday morning, having been in Uganda for barely three days, I opened my geometry book and forced my jetlagged brain to concentrate. Instead all I can concentrate on is the hum of the termites chewing through the wooden legs of my desk. Not 10 minutes in I hear the familiar shriek “ah Mayhaa!!”So I decide to leave my work for more important things. I hurry outside to the awaiting shrieking kid who is so energetically screaming the same noise over and over again. Akol is the one and a half year old son of our laundress Lucy. She has been bringing him to work with her since he was born. I have watched him learn to sit up, crawl, walk, run, jump, dance and more. My little brother Josh has a “shop” outside in an old shipping container where he set up a show of local crafts like hats and jewelry and stools etc. He likes to bring his ipod shuffle in there and blast the two songs he has on it where no one will yell at him and tell him to shut it off *clears throat*. And every once in a while Akol will wander over there and dance to the music, his chubby little legs bouncing and his adorable laugh ringing through the metal walls of the shipping container. He’s learning how to talk now too. He can say the Karimojong words for candy, food, phone and water. Oh, and the only name he says aside from “Mama”, which is a given, is “ah Mayhaa!” or something to that effect, which is his attempt at pronouncing my name. The adoring screeching noise that is actually produced is of course impossible to accurately represent using our alphabet, but it will have to do because it is the only alphabet I know.

Akol is my second best friend. He runs screaming to me when he sees me coming and tries to suffocate himself in my skirt while in the process of ripping my legs off. He pees on me occasionally and has a lot of fun going around the compound picking up sticks, leaves, stones and random pieces of metal and trash that he finds on the ground and testing to see which one creates the most panicked reaction on my part as he shoves them down his throat. He really is the most considerate of kids. I cannot tell you how many cramps I have gotten in my arms as a result of that little angel’s fickle mind. He can never decide if he wants to be held or put down and shrieks me deaf when I do the wrong thing. See? He is even helping me with practicing patience AND muscle-building at the same time. He really is a good best friend.

As I stand with this boy in my arms, his head nestled comfortably against my neck, I feel how good it is to be back. Every sensation welcoming me home. The smell of the air. The hot sun on my face. The mud between my toes. The buzz of the insects crawling through the rain-enriched earth. The chirping of the crickets clinging to the grass in the fields. The long fingernails of a tiny boy named Akol digging into my neck as he tries to strangle my necklace off me.

a way of seeing things

The Greek scholar Herodotus called Egypt “the gift of the Nile”. Argentina was named “the land of silver” by Spanish Explorers. Thailand ‘s official title is “Muang Thai” or “the land of the free”. Ireland is “the Emerald isle”. And Uganda, my Uganda, is called the “Pearl of Africa’.


Africa. It is like a land from a faery tale. Foreign. Frightening. Fantasy-like. Unknown. Undefined. Mysterious. Intriguing. It has remained distant to many people for years on end. People shrink from it as they shrink from something terrifying and unfamiliar. Mud. Malaria. Flies. Cow Dung. Thorns. Crude huts with thatched roofs. Naked children with gleaming white teeth as strong as a tigress’s. Cannibals. Spears. Lions. Snakes. Deserts. And truly, those who believe in the thorny, cannibal infested desert wasteland have every right to be frightened, mystified, to want to keep as far away as possible. To not want to explore the unexplored.

People call Africa “the Dark continent”. Why? Because all they have seen is this darkness. They have never seen the incredible wonder and beauty of it all. They have never seen the beautiful snow-capped mountain ranges, or the colorful rainforests rich with life. They have never felt the Saharan wind in their hair or the sweet Karimojong rain on their faces. The Kalahari is not just a dry death trap unable to sustain life…it is a beautiful landmark and an incredible wonder of the natural world, home to countless content (as well as man can be content) bushmen and their families. Africa could just as well be called the land of beauty. I cannot describe to you the feeling of awe and wonder I feel as I watch a thunder storm rolling in across the savannah, or the deep red sun sinking behind the rolling foothills to the west of Mt. Kadaam, an ancient volcano that can be seen from my backyard.

Uganda is the Pearl of Africa. It is beautiful. Every speck of dust. Every fleck of mud. Every red tipped thorn and yellow striped snake is beautiful. If you look at a map of Africa, of the entire continent, and get a good sense of all the ins and outs, ups and down, gentle curves and jutting points of all the coasts, you will see that. Look at the rivers and lakes, the mountain ranges fringing the deep fertile valleys. Look at the deserts and the oases. Look at it all. On the right side of the continent—the eastern side—just about halfway down the coast, on the equator, there is a very large lake. It is this that is the beating, living heart of Africa. And from this heart flows a mighty river, reaching up towards the Mediterranean Sea, sustaining all life that dares to exist above it. Rivulets of water stretch out like fingers straining to touch the driest seas of sand, the loneliest valleys, and the most forsaken hilltops. It is just above this heart, this source of sustenance, that there is Uganda.

I have lived in Uganda for 5 ½ years now, almost 6. I have seen a lot of pain and suffering and fear in the lives of the people around me. Darkness does exist, I am not denying that. No mother should have to keep herself as unattached as possible from her child so as to feel as little pain as possible when he/she dies of hunger or sickness. No child should have to fall asleep without knowing if their father would come home alive from raiding the enemy’s cows. No human being should have to go through life without a hope of heaven and everlasting life after death. But things are being done about these things. Charity organizations such as the World Food Program and Samaritan’s Purse are seeking to find a resolution to world hunger. There are countless treatments for malaria and other diseases and illnesses. Clinics run by missionaries and do-gooders are rapidly spreading across the continent. The spread of the Gospel by missionaries, though a slow and difficult labor, is possible by the mercy of God. Nothing is impossible with God. In fact, everything is impossible WITHOUT God. The poor efforts of WFP count for nothing if they do not go about it in the right way . Every sick child shall die if God does not provide the cure. The eyes of the people will not see Christ as their savior unless God enables them to see.

God has really blessed me. He has given me the most beautiful place of Earth to call my home. The dirty faces on the hungry children should not be seen simply as characters in a faery tale to be pitied, but as real people with real minds and hearts and souls to be loved as brothers and sisters in this family of humanity. Their lives and their customs should not be viewed as a wall between our two cultures, but as an opportunity to learn more about Him and His creation. Through his mercy, God has allowed me to see the light that He has shown through the restricting title of the “Dark Continent” so as to catch a glimpse of the hidden beauty of Uganda…a glimpse of the PEARL of Africa...