Ross Kempsell Writes....

Kate Writes: I'm back in Uganda and I've got the JHN 6th formers with me - i've handed control of my blog over to them for the next 2 weeks - enjoy!

Ross Writes: It's 8.00 AM in Hoima and the Ugandan sun's already strong. Waking up under a mosquito net is still a novelty and for a brief moment its sinister shadow almost scares me. After eggs on toast we're away as promptly as possible to conduct a series of family visits: split up into small groups we begin on foot towards the households of families which KISS supports financially, or with whom it has particular connection. A few of us head towards the African sprawl of central Hoima town, the others, myself included, begin the trek uphill into the thick of the greenery which extends for miles around, truly as far as the eye can see. During our ascent we spot three nuns hitching a lift on the back of a Toyota pick-up (a vehicle ubiquitous in this part of the world), their habits gently fluttering in the warm breeze.

In the shadow of the hills we meet our guides. Giles and Chris are both KISS kids, now grown up. Everyone is introduced to one another, and our friends warn us of the long walk ahead. Giles tells us that first of all we're on our way to Laura's house, and careful to keep my footing on the dust track, I'm eager to talk to him further – we soon strike up a good rapport. Aware that this is my first chance at one-on-one conversation with a direct recipient of KISS support, I ask him about his life so far, and what his hopes are for the future. Giles goes to art school in Kampala. He discovered his talent for painting, drawing and sculpture whilst very young and has since been in love with creating things of true beauty, albeit by making the best use of the bare minimum of materials. Giles produces his work as often as his time allows and he's not short of inspiration amid the East African landscapes. And on the undulating side of a sun-baked hill, we talk about the still life tradition, Cezanne, Monet, and what it's like to visit the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square: and we're having a good laugh. For a second this is all utterly surreal. But I've already noticed that it's precisely this kind of local connection and highly personal engagement with the community which sets KISS apart, and makes it so effective in its work.

Crossing the brow of the hill, we see Laura's house. It's built from mud brick, with spaces for doors and shutters rather than windows – and it appears deserted. We wonder if there has been a miscommunication or a misunderstanding prior to our visit – nobody's home. About to move on, Anna, a girl of perhaps 16, appears reluctantly at the door and beckons us inside. Having western visitors is not easy. We're welcomed by her grandmother – Giles kindly translates from Runyoro, the local dialect. Whilst sharing embraces and high fives with the kids assembled in the entrance room, she begins to thank us so sincerely that I catch myself feeling quite awkward. She is dressed in traditional clothing. And soon we notice that her gesticulations and movements are always seemingly off-target: cataracts. A long pause in conversation allows a moment to know that inside this house, I'm realising my first experience of the reality of poverty. I look about me. There is one wooden chair, some hard wooden slats for beds, a tiny table, a hand-out mosquito net and literally nothing else. Nothing else in the entire house. The interior walls only reach half-way up the height of the outside ones; the corrugated roof is terracotta red with rust. The rooms are bare. A family of five live in this place, sharing the total floor space of perhaps quarter the size of a tennis court. Out back there is a patch of dusty earth, and then, beyond a few piles of rubbish and litter, nothing but the bush. And that is every single day of this family's life.

Approaching the midday, the sun and heat are most intense. I've drained my supply of bottled water a few hours earlier, so we stop by the wayside to purchase some mango juice, available at the impromptu trading posts which spring up at regular intervals. We visit Giles' family for a humbling lunch of Matoke (ground banana), potatoes, rice and stewed goat. The food is nothing less than delicious, being as it is so fresh and the very definition of organic. But the circumstances in which it is consumed are more than upsetting. Moving on to see Chris' family, we walk several miles. Meeting his mother, brother, and extended relatives, we receive another extensive and moving welcome. After talk of mutual friends from KISS in England, football, daily life, and God, we're outside into a small courtyard to meet the pigs and chickens. At this point I have to sit down and rest in the dust with the flies. Leaning against the mud bricks, a girl of about five, Sarah, confidently sits on my lap. I haven't realised she's been following me around since we arrived. Somewhere the sound-scape makes it obvious that Chris is chopping sugar cane with a machete: thwack, thwack, thwack. Sarah is fascinated with the hair on my arms – a seemingly new concept. She roughly pulls at the strands on the back of my hands and laughs hilariously at my melodramatic response. The sun's on our faces and I notice that her clothes are ragged. In fact, she really is dressed in rags. And the laughter stops as she whoops a fit of surprisingly deep and crackly coughs that can only be the inevitable manifestation of some underlying condition. She buries her head into my shoulder, caught somewhere between tears and joy.

In the evening, the group of us are all back together for a visit to another house. Accompanied by the tireless Fr Godfery, the curate of Hoima cathedral (and employee of KISS), it's a bumpy and exhilarating ride out to her place. The local children have assembled to welcome us, and this very rural setting is alive with their shouting, singing and waving. The house is again in a state of extreme poverty. We crowd inside. In the back room a frail woman is perched on the edge of an old mattress. Sophie. A diabetic with a wholly unreliable and insecure supply of insulin, she suffers the complications of her illness, recently having had awful lung problems. Diabetes has also sent her totally blind. Fr Godfery tells us that the first time KISS came into contact with Sophie, he took Kate to see her at 10PM one night, and together they resolved that the situation was so dire that immediate action must be taken. Having received emergency treatment in Kampala, Sophie has since been supported by KISS. Fr Godfery talks to her in Runyoro, explaining what she would be seeing if she could. I find witnessing this act of love especially intense. And as our time with Sophie draws to a close, Fr Godfery asks her if there's anything at all that we can change. She pauses to think for a moment. “Yes”, she says, “I'm sick of beans for dinner”. And her face breaks into a wide smile, and we laugh despite the pain. Just how strong do you have to be to be able to do that?

I wander back out into the front room as I can feel my pulse throbbing on the side of my head. I sit on the floor. A woman whom I hadn't noticed previously appears next to me and hands me a baby boy wrapped in swaddling clothes. Communicating by counting on fingers, his mother tells me he is 4 weeks old. Baby Brian is fast and soundly asleep, dribbling a little, but otherwise a perfect picture of peace. And then it's time to leave – the kids follow the truck for a while before fading away into the distance. Behind their smiling eyes, everywhere you turn in Hoima there is a story of suffering. Cradling baby Brian I am endlessly reminded of the utter insignificance of my own consumer-driven gripes, the difficulties and harsh realities of divine providence, and the heartbreaking iniquity of the world. And at that I'm overcome with a quiet wave of anger more than anything else. Yet at the same time, I know that it's either this suffering, this dusty room, Sophie's own private hell, with KISS - or exactly the same situation without any love at all.