On the way there, we stop to go shopping - to buy supplies to make a ton of hot dogs, and to the market to pick up a stove, some charcoal and pots. The stove that Betty is currently cooking on is small, worn, and almost rusted through - it shouldn't be this hard for her to feed 18 boys each night. Back in Montreal, Stephanie's branch held a fundraiser in their office that raised a handful of cash, and with this we want to cook the boys lunch and see what we can do to upgrade the kitchen.
When we arrive, of course, the kids are thrilled to see us. It is the first time Michon and Dean are seeing the place and meeting the boys, and they have the same look on their faces that I'm sure I did when I first set foot in here. Betty nearly loses it when she sees the stove and the cooking implements.
We explain about the hot dogs - that they are not actually dog - which takes some convincing, especially for the kids who speak mainly in Luganda. We teach Betty and Milton how to cook them, and introduce everyone to mustard. So weird that something as simple as mustard is fascinating and needs explaining over here. The kids, once they know they are eating pork and not dog, go crazy for the hot dogs. We make sure to save some for those boys that are in school during the day.
The boys proudly show us their new beds - I guess some of our group, on a previous visit, have printed off some digital pictures for them, because each boy has taped a photo of himself to the wall by the bunk that he's claimed. The boys have also been creating some art - there are pencil drawings, self-portraits, or pictures of each other, also taped to the wall. Some of the boys are really quite talented as a matter of fact.
Instead of drawing himself or one of his roommates, one boy Ibra has drawn a picture of Osama Bin Laden, which is more than a little disturbing. It really makes me think that kids who miss out on a lot of love and learning at an early age are so vulnerable to 'evil'...it makes me understand how people fall prey to gangs, and cults, or the Taliban - they're all just searching for family, these outcasts. They want to belong somewhere. They are the perfect prey. These kids have been surviving all these years - in many ways they are tough as nails. When I see this drawing, it dawns on me how much these boys need counselling, one on one time, so desparately.
We wander to a music store nearby and pick up some CDs (all pirated) for the boys. One is 50 Cent, which we know will be a massive hit, and we are right. The boys go apeshit for it, and while the smiles and the dancing that ensue are inspirational and the happiness is real - I can't help but think there should be more to life than just hanging out with a ghetto blaster. These kids need structure.
One boy grabs my hand and asks if I am coming back tomorrow. I know that I'm not (back to teaching at the computer lab for me!), but I try to play up the fact that others from our group are. I tell him they are planning to make spaghetti, to play football with the boys, but his eyes have already dulled and I can feel him starting to withdraw. And wow, do I feel like a piece of crap. It makes me wonder how us leaving Uganda is going to affect these kids - they'll be back to the one meal a day they knew before, hope diminshed, very little to look forward to. I wish so much that we can do more for these boys.
In the taxi on the way back to our hostel at the end of the day, we are stopped for several minutes in traffic. A young boy, no older than four or five, stands outside our back window, at the side of the dirt road, hand outstretched. He says nothing, but watches this taxi full of mzungus intently. Dean finds a couple of coins and hands them to the boy through the open window. The kid remains pretty expressionless - he clutches the shillings in his palm and turns away - revealing a small infant, wrapped in a shawl, tied to his back. Three of us gasp. I see Dean tear up a little. It is unfathomable - this child, barely more than a toddler himself, in charge of a baby. What is his story? How many others like him are just down the road, ahead, around the corner? Nobody speaks for the next ten minutes. As our taxi rolls along we all simply stare out the window, glassy-eyed, transformed.
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