Happy Birthday Momma Mallory

I'm starting to get very homesick. Today will be my 7th day away from "home". I miss my family.

I am however learning to adjust to the culture as I make a new home here in Uganda, and have truly come to love and appreciate the people. One tradition in particular that I think is worthy of that love is the way in which they address mothers. The surname of a woman who has children is hardly ever used. Instead, they are associated with and known by their children. For instance, in Lugazi, my mom would not be known as Lorie... she would be known as Momma Mallory.

Although in truth I have no idea why they do this, I like to think it closely relates to the fact that a parent's true accomplishments lie in the hands of their children. Well, today is my mother's birthday. And as much as I'd like to be home celebrating with her in person, I'm grateful to know that by serving in this capacity in a place where the need is great and the blessings are unparalleled, I am truly celebrating her life and legacy through my own.

So from there, I introduce the "Happy Birthday" team of African children from Lugazi, Uganda. Because really, it's all I have to say, and they do a much better job of it than I ever could, don't you think?...



Mom - Thank you for putting up with the stress and worriment of my being born and wanting to come to Africa. Here's to the new found gray hairs, the added worry lines, and the ever growing ulcer in your stomach, for my being here. I love you - and happy birthday.

Mary, Mukisa, Mzungu

Olyotya lye Africa! Ono Mallory, nabakyala oba Nabagereka Lugazi. Welabe neabo mzungu jendi. Mutwe kibegabegas vviivis n' bugeres. Kiku Nkima's kkapa Jambo!

Roughly translated, "Greetings from Africa! This is Mallory, queen of Lugazi. It is very beautiful here. The people in the village are so friendly. The Monkey's say hello!

disclaimer: The preceding Lugandan paragraph does not actually make any coherent sense at all. You would be put in an insane asylum if you repeated it here in Lugazi. A word for word literal English translation would be - "How are you, is, Africa! This is a, Mallory, Queen, Lugazi. Goodbye, woman, white person, I am fine. Head, shoulders, knees, and, toes. (Made up word), Monkey's, cat, and Hello(in Swahili)!

But hey.. no one can say I'm not at least trying!

I am loving it in Africa so far, but the natives here can't say my name. When I introduce myself I usually have to repeat MALLORY three times before they say, "Okay, you shall be Mary." Hm.
Just a few days ago a man named Richard gave me my official Lugandan name - Mukisa. It means "lucky" or "blessed". I laughed pretty hard before I informed him of the meaning of my English name Mallory - "unlucky". Very concerned, he replied, "Your parents have named you wrong."
Oh.
Here, I usually answer to the children screaming "Bonga Mzungu!" anyway, so no big.


This last weekend I was informed by the guys in my group that I earned 50 man points. I'm still not sure if this is a good thing. I earned those points three ways...
1. RAFTING THE NILE RIVER, with 12 huge rapids, most class 5!
2. By being the only PERSON in the boat willing to do a back flip off the raft.
3. By surviving.

All in all, I'd say my experience in Africa has been not only life changing, but apparently a gender changing one as well.
Yeah... I conquered that in a raft...

Never Eat Soggy Waffles

There are a few things in a girl's life worth remembering. Most of my "life lessons" originated in elementary school.

Being a twentysomething hopeful, still flirty and thriving, the following is not only embarrassing, but somewhat pathetic. Admittedly, I am geographically challenged and what's worse: Directionally illiterate. If it weren't for the phrase "Never Eat Soggy Waffles" I'd probably still be lost on some Utah side road. It's how I remember that East is directly to the right of North. You think I'm kidding.

It's a good thing though. I feel comforted, sitting here in London, 26 hours since I left Orem, incredibly sleep deprived, that I know which way is home. Silly, but important.

I have realized two things so far about myself since this journey... and they are this:

1. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. I thought I knew the ends of the phrase a "roller coaster of emotions"..... So naive.

So far this trip, I've been sick from nervousness, smiled uncontrollably with excitement, shed a tear for heartache, shed a tear for exhaustion, and breathed heavily into a brown paper bag just before landing in London from plain not-like-the flying-thing-ness.

Ah yes but I know.... as Frank (and later Michael) said. "The best is yet to come"

2. I really wish that life was one big moving walkway. You know, like the ones in the airport. That way, you're ensured movement, even when you haven't slept in 28 hours and it's all you can do to just keep standing upright.

The next time you hear from me I'll be in AFRICA! Here's to hellish flights and screwed up body routines. PEACE!

How To... Become a Glam-Granola Girl

I've done some soul searching. I decided it was time I embrace my true identity and accept that I have in fact become... a granola girl. I blame Don.
But it got me thinking. What if we could give my mom the ultimate daughter? So the question presents itself, what do you get when you cross a glamour queen with a granola girl?
BAM
(picture taken from www.glamgranola.com)

You get Glam-Granola Girl. (Note the dash)

So how do you achieve this imaginatively chic title? Behold...the answer:
You spend your summer helping impoverished children in Africa, but pack three silk head scarves, a manicure set, your red nail polish (in case, heaven forbid, you chip a nail building a new brick school), and a bottle of glitter to make the orphans sparkle. :)

My mission statement:
"I am intelligent, I am the substance behind the glitter, and I am quite extraordinary, actually, especially in my red open toed high heels and matching bandanna. I AM Glam-Granola girl." (www.glamgranola.com)

Following: Things I'm Not So Fond Of

#1 My mom calling me a granola girl.

If you know anything about my little sister, who is a glitz and glamorous sort of girl, you know it's hard to be fashionably related to her. My sweet mother made the observation that while I was wearing a conservative, plain outfit and had just ordered Chaco's for Africa, my sister was wearing dolce and gabbana (which in my defense, the right click dictionary doesn't even recognize) and had just ordered gucci shoes.

She made the comment and I quote, "It's so funny how my daughters are so different. One is so glamorous and girly and the other one is sort of turning into a granola girl." Thank you mom. At least you used the word girl, hence revealing my true gender identity. I know it gets sort of confusing what with all the plain white tees and sandals.

Holy Snot UK...

Well, I finished my vaccinations and took out a second mortgage on my future home. I'm all set for about 200 years. Am I ready?... Yeah... I refer to Africa like this: An unstable, never ending journey on a boat that is constantly rocking side to side. Only this time, there IS no sleeping master that will wake up at any second to calm it down. To sum up. Insert clean, abrasive language here ---->

Also, while on this rocking ship, I was able to book my ticket through Hell. Yes that's right Hell.

On July 15th at 8 am, I get on a 7 hour flight to Chicago where I will meet my plane buddy James Brown and have a "get to know you" layover for 4 1/2 hours. (Not that kind of layover)

I will cross the Pacific for the first time in my life on an 8 hour flight to London where we will have an excruciciting (yes I just made that word up) 9 hour layover and by this time.... it MIGHT BE that kind of layover.

It's an 8 hour and 25 minute flight from London to Nairobi where, that's right, we'll have a 6 1/2 hour LAYOVER. Dam(n) airlines anyway.

And finally, it's a 1 hour flight from Nairobi to Entebbe where our Country Directors will pick us up and drive 2 hours to Lugazi, Uganda. That's the part where I kiss the ground and swear I'm never doing that again.

I'll save you the brain cells, it's going to take me 46 hours and 25 minutes to get there!!!

Oh. And also. SURPRISE. 6 weeks later, I do it again. Only this time, it's an 18 hour layover in London where I intend to find my future husband, (calm down Don, we live in Utah), and frolic through the fog.

But plans were interrupted with the discovery that apparently, frolicking requires a VISA. And finding your husband requires a whole different kind of VISA. Boy was I not prepared for that crap. Between the biometric fingerprint scanning, "weak dollar" fees, and potentially revealing slash required information (such as the exact time my mother was conceived and how long it takes me to run the 5k)... I decided that the UK needs to bloody calm down. I mean bloody *hell*.

In other directly related news, I am in the process of creating a flier for our HELP Uganda benefit concert on September 25th. The following is a result of permanent markers, a scanner, the paint program, and lots of wasted paid company time. I'd ask you what you think, but I just reread this paragraph and now realize that I am handicapped.

Murphy: The Eighth Dwarf

Today, being Friday the 13th, I thought I would "ode" to its brilliant existence. What better way to celebrate than with a list of, "Things I learned today!" (Note the exclamation point... and explore the possibility of it being a punctuated outlet for sarcastic inhibition).

1. The fear of Friday the 13th is called Paraskavedekatriaphobia. No. I'm not making this up.

2. My first name, Mallory, originated in France and directly translates into "Unlucky". You think I'm kidding. (Just another reason to hate the French. It's a bittersweet complicated relationship, and even with counseling, it doesn't look good.)

4. My last name, Hurst, on the other hand means woodland hill or grove. Which has a completely pleasant, fairytale undertone. Thank you first name for screwing that up. And also for giving me an irrational and highly irreversible development of Hylophobia.

5. The man who made a pass at me the other day was in fact Warren Jeffs. Apparently his thirteenth wife just left him. No thank you. Also, FYI Warren, I was not impressed with the unenthusiastic manner in which you bolstered the audacity to tarnish my once shiny soul. I found it pitiless and vindictive. (Or at least my thesaurus did, I think originally I found it mean and hurtful)
It's okay Flora, I said No. You're STILL the most attractive of the wives.

6. Murphy's Law was initiated on Friday, October 13, 1913, when a large iron fell out of a tree and landed on Murph's head (Also the birth place of the term "Irony"). Which, depending on if you followed the link, may or may not be true.

6.1. I am a frequent on Murphy’s "To Do" list. I mean, come on man! (or woman as I am inclined to believe) Maybe Murphy's Law is God's way of getting back at you for all the little sins you commit, you know, like making fun of polygamist sects.
Side note: I don't know WHY the term "making fun" has such a negative connotation.

Regardless...In light of number 6.1., and in reflecting on the impact it has had on my otherwise cheerful nature, I have made a rather monumental decision. In the name of correct analogies and direct correlations, I imagined into existence Murphy: The All Encompassing Eighth Dwarf. A distant cousin to both Oscar the Grouch and Eeyore.
That way, in the future, when I’m trying to relate my disposition to that of one of the seven dwarves I am not limited to Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Happy, Sneezy or Doc. And now, neither are you. You’re welcome.

God Bless you and your shiny soul. May Warren Jeff's never meet you.