Saving Babies, Etc.

John Boscoe's Crapping face. (Yup, that's his name)

Handmade bears donated by Mother Bear (they were on the ground 2 minutes later, in favor of the digital camera)

Trash Talkin' Translation

Teaching Nutrition at the nursing college has been not only a great way to share my passion for nutrition, but also to win 34 new admirers. I get at least 5 invitations each time I teach to either: student's birthdays, sports events, church, dinners. I mean I knew I was a big deal, but really... So I decided to take them up on the invitation to play volleyball one evening. I made arrangements to bike out to the college and then spend the night at the convent next door (no, working with the Protestant organization has NOT driven me to extreme Catholicism, I won't be putting on a habit... yet) The nuns are great company, plus they make their own booze out of lemons- yes, my stay reeks of ulterior motives. After greeting the nuns, I head out to the volleyball field, where an intense game of volleyball ensues. Being a good 3-4 inches taller than the rest of the team, (which I used as a hands on, in class example of effects of malnutrition) I was at the net as the spiker. The saucy student on the other side began a fair amount of trash talking at the net, so late in the game, the score was close, the intensity high, and I spiked it into the Ugandan girl's face, then proceeded to yell "Nogaamba ki, hati??" or "What's up, now?" Which silenced the other team. I don't think that translates.....

Why don't white people have white ashes?

As a dutiful Catholic who happens to be teaching at a Catholic nursing college, where classes are scheduled around Ash Wednesday, I attended the service... along with 320 gradeschool children. I was somehow ushered into the side chapel, and found myself to be the only adult, as well as the only white person in the congregation. The usual things amused the surrounding children: the hair on my arms, playing "here is the church, here is the steeple", yes- I'm as white as cassava, yes, I can hear you when you speak Runyankore, no, I don't have money, sure you can come to America, etc, etc- all while the preists droned on about preparing ourselves for this Lenten season. Then came time for the receiving of the ashes- and a mad dash to the altar ensued, as if the ashes would run out. I get pushed and prodded, but end up being at the back of the line. As the marked children return, I strain, and can barely notice the black ashes on their equally black forheads. My turn finally arrives, and the preist scoops a generous amount of ashes and crosses my forehead- all of which is very familiar. What I wasn't prepared for was turning to face the congregation, and having the entire community burst into laughter at the contrast of the ashes on my forehead. To ashes we shall return..... after a few good laughs.