The Good Samaritan

Kampala, Uganda

Loneliness is a familiar companion during long travels far away from home. After the excitement of preparing to go abroad and the hustle and bustle of traveling, there comes a time when I find myself sitting alone in this new and strange place wondering what I will do next. After returning back from the field, I went to stay in a hotel by myself close to the UNICEF offices. I had the whole weekend ahead of me and no colleagues, friends, or familiar faces to go around with. It was really my first time in Kampala, as I had left for the field just two days after arriving to Uganda. I found myself in this big, bustling city, not knowing a soul around and realizing that no matter how I dress or what I do, I will stick out like a sore thumb. There was no escaping, only embracing. But sticking out in an unfamiliar place was not foreign to me—I had experienced it so many times before when I traveled and lived in Mexico.

On Sunday, I decided that my adventure for the day would be locating a Catholic Church where I could go to pray and attend Mass. I did a Google search the night before and located a parish called St. Jude Thaddeus Catholic Church, about 2 kilometers away from my hotel. I figured a good 30 minute walk to the church would allow me to see what was around as well as give me some exercise. However, the complicated walking route, coupled with the complete lack of road signage and my notoriously bad sense of direction, meant that one hour later I was still wandering around the streets, trying not to get run over by a vehicle and wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead. I was pathetically lost. I silently prayed, dear Lord, please lead me in the right direction.

I continued walking and walking. Finally, I decided I would surrender and accept a ride on a boda boda (motorcycle taxi). The first driver I spoke with knew little English and had no idea where I was asking him to take me. Then another driver approached me who spoke better English and I showed him on my Google map where I wanted to go. Even though I had negotiated a price that was one third of what he initially offered me for the ride, I later came to find out that I had still severely overpaid. Oh, the plight of the muzungu. Within just a couple minutes I was in front of the small Catholic Church on a bumpy dirt road. Praise the Lord, I made it! I paid the boda driver the extravagant fee, and then made my way into the church. The Mass had already started, but I was still in time for the communion. There were about ten rows of simple wooden benches on either side of the church that were filled with people. I found a spot in the back and sat down. A couple of chickens waddled in after me, but no one paid them any mind.

The priest was standing at the altar, which was covered in a green cloth for Ordinary Time, and featured a small wooden crucifix on the back wall, with two pictures of Jesus on either side. The Mass was given in the local language of Luganda. I didn’t understand anything that was being said, and I was clearly in a local part of town away from the urban sprawl. But at the sight of the cross and the face of Jesus, I immediately felt at home, and a sense of comfort washed over me. I also rejoiced in the fact that although I didn’t understand the language, I still understood everything that was happening in the Mass. Whether in Africa, Latin America, or the U.S., we are all united with the same order of the Mass, the same Scripture readings, and the same rituals. When the time came to receive the Eucharist, I proceeded to the altar. A few small children scampered in front of me. When I arrived to the priest he said, “The Body of Christ.” I received this spiritual food and I immediately felt nourished.

At the end of the Mass, the priest spoke in English to say that they welcome all their visitors to the church. He looked over in my direction and gestured as he said, “Including this one.” He asked my name and where I’m from, and then declared, “You’re most welcome.” With one more spirited song, complete with clapping and energetic singing accompanied by a variety of drums, people began to process out of the church. I intended to stay and pray, but I soon found myself surrounded by a small crowd of children. They smiled and stared at me as I spoke to them. Then two older men approached me to say hello and welcome me. One was called Emmanuel. He chatted with me and introduced me to the choir singers. We exchanged telephone numbers, and then I was about to leave when he invited me over into his home to meet his family.

I followed him through a narrow walkway behind the church and then entered into a small cement structure where there were two cushioned chairs and a small couch squeezed into this tiny space. A young adolescent girl sat on the couch cradling a chubby baby with bottle. Emmanuel invited me to sit in one of the cushioned chairs. Two younger children entered this space and sat on the floor next to me. Then another older man who called himself Moses entered the room. He was one of Emmanuel’s old friends from when they studied in the seminary together in Nairobi, Kenya. They both had gone to seminary back in the ‘90s, but neither finished. Emmanuel said he left after realizing it was not his calling to be a priest, while Moses had to drop out after becoming extremely ill from malaria and typhoid. Now Emmanuel is a caretaker for the small Catholic Church and works for a local travel agency, while Moses tends a small cocoa farm in a village about two hours away.

In a spirit of true hospitality, Emmanuel invited me to stay and have lunch, which I gladly accepted. His daughters served us the meal, which consisted of white rice, matooke (a popular Ugandan dish of cooked, mashed plantain bananas), and some broth with teeny tiny fishes inside. And, of course, a glass bottle of soda with a straw, a staple mealtime drink here in Uganda. I ate everything on my plate, both out of respect and hunger. I was happy to not be eating alone, and I was glad to have made a new friend. Of course, Emmanuel invited me to come back again, and said that he hoped I’d come back to Mass the next Sunday. He and Moses walked me back out to the street to catch a boda boda, who of course gave me the most fair price I’d been offered yet, thanks to my new friends who were standing nearby. With a warm handshake and a smile, I was off on the motorcycle back to the solitude of my hotel room, but with a smile on my face for the company with whom I’d just spent my Sunday afternoon. My new Ugandan friend, who had extended a hand of kindness to me, could not have known how his simple gesture had brought to an end, even if for just a few hours, my feelings of loneliness.