A Week of Taking Cake

Oddly enough, as I write this, I'm sitting back in Kampala at Cafe Pap's having a mocha and eating forced bites of a friends chocolate cake as it is actually quite bigger than expected when ordered. But this is just one cake, one of many in an odd week of confections and surprises.

The first one perhaps should have been expected. It was my birthday after all, and there were hints and rumors of something happening that night as word leaked out throughout the office what the day signified for me. This mostly accompanied raised eyebrows and surprised expressions when they realized the extent of the number of these celebrations I'd seen behind me. Well, that and one completely unveiled threat of a caning from Jolly who felt she was informed of the holiday far too late for her own tastes. But that's good office humor, threats of beatings, being forced to walk back to America and other jovial signs of love. In another display, my young friend Tony (for those of you keeping track of our various Tony's, this one is the boy from the film who happens to be celebrating his own birthday tomorrow) walked in to my office, head bowed in deep respect as he addressed me with the traditional title of an elder, "Happy Birthday, Mzee." Of course he backed up immediately as the girls in the office laughed and he apologized unable to carry through with a good joke without laughing and apologizing, but the whole thing was quite entertaining. And the culprits behind the joke were immediately evident.

Back at home, the celebrations were less subtle, as I walked in to see the white board decorated with a decrepit old man and another Happy Birthday sign. To my complete surprise, as I have seen nothing of the sort since arriving in Gulu, Adam walks around the corner after dinner with a proper cake. Frosting and all, the thing glew with candles and pink inscription that read, wittily, "Happy Birthday Mzee!" Great minds. Several other nice surprises followed, as one girl gifted me with a hand-drawn birthday card with cartoon representations of everyone in the house. We had a grand time trying to figure out who was who and then I remembered that the truck came up from Kampala and had been laden down with a large box from my sister (sever other well-timed boxes would arrive over the next few days convincing everyone involved that I was actually quite well-loved back in the States.) We opened up dispersed some of the candy and gum, gooed over the picture of my young nephew playing the bass and his grossly misspelled accounting of an adventure in Mexico, and laughed about whether the pink backpacks were really for me or for the kids. (Of course, for those more revelry minded, we did retire to the best (only) pub in town for a couple (five or six) drinks that night and some sorts of celebrations—luckily the place was nearly empty that night so we didn't exactly mind our manners as much as we normally do when we're pretending to be the good Mzungus that we are.)

But this is the beginning. Two days later, another party, this one a bittersweet celebration of a much appreciated member of our team who was going home. Her boyfriend Tony (the one with the cows for those of you keeping track) held a grand celebration on the roof of his apartment with some of the best meat I've had in Gulu, plenty of refreshments and never ending hospitality. There was no cake there, but just before we left, we celebrated the birthday of one our great Danes (Julie, a girl from Denmark) with a cake that read, "Grow up Julie!" Apparently, it was her first store-bought birthday cake celebration which I'm not sure is a proud mark of distinction, but we took it as such. This one was actually considerably less dry and almost tasty as compared to the previous.

And of course it doesn't end there. Some short days later, we moved over to a local lady Betty's house. Betty is pretty much everyone's friend who we get to wave "Apwoyo" to as we come and leave from work. She invited us over for her birthday celebration. To be honest, I went bracing myself for a meal of posho (bland mashed maize bread) and maybe some rough, stringy chicken. Ashamedly, I was surprised by a wonderful meal of meaty, juicy chicken with a delicious sauce, tasty potatoes and pasta, with some of the largest bananas I've seen. After our feast, we brought out another cake and she declared it one of the happiest days she's had in some time. She saved half the cake to bring in to work the next day and share with her coworkers to display how grand a time she had the night previous and we all joked about when her next birthday would be (hopefully next week…)

The next cake, is really more one of those, "well doesn't that just take the cake" lame jokes, but I finished up the week by checking off one of the long-awaited African experiences off my list… Malaria. I knew I was in trouble when I woke up in the middle of the night really cold and noticed I had wrapped by sheet around me like a shroud. That can never be a good sign. After most of a day of work and a really ill-conceived half mile walk home I collapsed on the couch and hoped the boda driver I paid would actually return with water. A couple of days of sweating and watching the DVDs my friend had just sent for me, and I was starting to feel better. I had seriously considered trying to write a blog during the experience but then I decided even if it made any sense, it would just sound whiny.

So, no real profound revelations. I suppose there was some in there somewhere, but sadly they are buried by my sad attempts at humor and trying to get this thing out so I can get down to work. Sometime soon I'll talk about what I'm doing in Kamapala this weekend besides enjoying wireless internet and drinking mochas (and taking a few bites of cake).

A Pastoral Song

Monday, October 16, 2006

This weekend forced me to break from reports and resumes, filling the vacancies that I'd created through my lofty planning to find some refuge at the end of a boda ride to farm. My friend Tony, actually the boyfriend of a collegue, but we're all friends here, has been inviting me out to his farm to see his cows for weeks now and I finally gave way. I thought I was going out alone and woke up early, showered with the joy of finding the water cold, and when I came back my roomate was gearing up as well. So we took off, this time on the back of a motorcycle driven by Tony through small footpaths to avoid the pounding dust left by the lories on the main road. The tall grass smacked my legs and arms as wove around holes and people in the typical boda fashion. We spun through fields and even a eucalyptus grove with trees rushing past each side and drove into the country a while. Tony's farm started at a small gathering of huts where a couple of women were savagly beetings dried stalks, gleening the rice from the stems and gathering them on the ground. The first cow Tony showed, with such emmense pride, was his newly purchased milk cow. I'm not sure how polite it would be to state the price, so suffice to say that it cost considerably more than I have spent on anything out here, and Tony touched it and cared for it, giving her medicine and talking about his plans for the shed he'd built for her. When I ask Tony about his cows, if he is worried about them, or anything else he almost always responds, "So I love them so much." I couldn't imagine investing that, the money into something alive like that for my future. As I picture it, I would worry considerably about the wellbeing of these creatures whom I depended on for my own livelihood. The slightest sickness, a drought, anything like that would not only hurt them but threaten me as well. I was thinking about all of that as we walked past a couple of corrals to find where the cows had gathered. Tony walked up to the heardsman, an elderly man with his boy standing a few paces behind, quietly waiting for something that I couldn't imagine happening soon. The man was watching a cow who had seperated some from the others. Tony explained it had given birth several months early the previous night. The result, a crumpled head of bones and fur that must have at one time been a calf, lay in the grass next to a spot matted down showing that the cow had probably slept there the night before. The brown cow, still a mother by her own description occiasionally walked up to the folded body and licked it on occaision, seemingly attempting to clean it or provoke it out of sleep. When she wasn't tending her calf, she walked around in what Tony would describe as pain. The sad birth had also failed to force the entire placenta from the cow and resulted in her walking around with only half of it expunged from her body. I tried not to imagine the pain or the sadness of the event as I watched her attempt to relieve the situation. Thankfully, a process of water and salt eventually caused the mass to be pushed out and some respite was offered her. The salvation of all of this was that Tony was not a destitute rancher with only one or two cows to subsist on. He and his uncle had quite a herd and many of them were healthy and walking around the hills above us. The terror of what would be meant if that were not the case would have been so much worse, if all hope had been staked on that calf being born in January or December, on a new life providing new revenue. Instead, we were lucky, Tony and ourselves. We got to rest from that sight by walking up to the other cows and playing with one called coocoo ("chew chew"). Coocoo is a distinct favorite of another friend and for obvious reasons. She offers herself in quite a friendly disposition, eager to be pet, and eager to lick the hands and pants of anyone who wants to enjoy her company. The thick roughness of her tounge, almost sharp, made everyone laugh and almost forget. She allowed us to return to the huts and play a couple of rounds of convoy before heading off further down the road to enjoy a nice ride past the fading green at the end of the wet season. I was glad for her because I didn't have to think so much about life and death and pain, and I could just enjoy the ride and the rest for a while, even coughing through the dirt and the bumps in the road. All of us at Tony's farm The heardsman and his boy Tony Me and Coocoo

Prayers and Sausages

Monday, October 09, 2006

Honored Readers, "Top" Friends, Guests and Subscription Holders, thank you for coming to this blog, all protocols observed. Okay, that first bit may only be funny if you've ever sat through the incredulously formal beginnings to a Ugandan meeting of almost any sorts (including, for a while, until we explained the differences, the weekly staff wrap-ups we held in the office.) This last Sunday gave me the opportunity for a gathering where even that type of formality, however, might have seemed appropriate. Some of the staff and I took advantage of a trip down to Kampala to meet with the Boys to go to the Ugandan Parliament's National Prayer Breakfast. This is the mirrored occasion that happens in other countries where some of the religious elite gather with selected other guests and pray God's guidance in the ruling of a country. Also in attendance, and of far more importance than ourselves, was HE (His Excellency) Yoweri Museveni (the president of Uganda), Janet Museveni (first lady, Member of Parliament, and abstinence activist), the President of Burundi and several others. We arrived a little late and walked quickly past a considerable spread of food to learn that the main room was full and we would be ushered into an overflow area. Undeterred, we simply entered the main room anyway, and plopped down in the sparse empty seats we could find. Bobby, Tiffany, and myself were even lucky enough to find chairs all the same table, in the back corner with the artistes—singers, musicians and other accompanists for the celebration. To my immediate left and right were two brothers from Fort Portal, nephews to the Minister of Ethics, who were invited (almost entirely through the strength of that connection, I would imagine) to the reception to sing various songs. The two brothers combined to form an amazing duo, one mostly played guitar and sang some form of harmony while the other sounded off in a nice deep voice at times, but at other times slipped into one of his on-stage personas as the African Elvis. (I would have dearly loved to see the Elvis bit, but sadly it's not being performed anywhere in Kampala The highlight, in some ways, of the morning, came when these two got up to pay tribute to their illustrious leader by singing a ballad they composed for him called The Revolutionary. I tried to remain as respectful as I could throughout the proceedings, but when the warbling came in announcing the dates of various conquests from the revolutionary days and the Elvis voice rang out, hardly anyone who was paying attention (at least among the tables I was near in the back) could avoid some small laughter. It was an amazing situation where if I were to create a parody song for the event, I could think of nothing funnier than what actually happened. All of that of course was compunded by the fact that we couldn't actually go procure the food we walked past until about an hour into the ceremony when our table was finally allowed to serve ourselves. At this point, the eggs looked tired, the bacon cooked too fast, and the sausage generally unappatizing. currently.) But for all the moments of comedy, confusion, and even boredom at the incredibly long speaches that to my Western-adjusted ears seemed to go nowhere and be about less than what occured to some of the speakers earlier that day, it was an amazing event. If just for the simple fact of looking at the paper the next day that reads "Museveni says Prayer Works" and I would think, that's right, he did, I was there. For more reasons than that, though, I was glad I was there. Listening to the speaches offered some insight into the thoughts of these leaders. Hearing presidents discuss their personal prayer life with seeming honesty and candor opened up the hopes that God had some hand in guiding their decisions and reminds me that if these men take time to seek answers from higher sources than themselves, I should dedicate more of my own time to the same. The most inspiring parts came whenever anyone would touch on the theme of the morning, Peace and Reconciliation. Although many people danced around the issue in their speeches, it could be infered that at the base of these thoughts were grave concerns about the north. If peace is to occur, it will require forgiveness, if the country will move on, they will need to have the these thoughts forefront in their minds. The attentions that the people of this country must pay to ideas like what is expressed in Matthew, in the Sermon on the Mount, where we are called to forgive others before we ourselves are forgiven. This concept takes on so much more when you considered the weight of how others have tresspassed against them. In the context of debates circling the International Criminal Courts, amnesty for war crimes, and the inspiringly forgiving nature of Acholi reintroduction rituals. In my typically American nature, I can take all of this in through slef-reflection and comparison. What do I forgive people for, not writing, sending packages, being mean, stealing, selfishness, all of these things which plague us in our basic levels and which we let ekk out of oursleves because we are so consumed with preventing the larger sins that we can neglect these smaller ones. Of all the things I have to forgive others for, most are small examples of the trials I fail at any given moment of the day. Compared to the litany of sins committed against these people it is staggering what these speakers are saying, what can and should be forgiven for real peace to occur. Even without the egocentric comparisons, it is a vast thing to hear that prayer and forgiveness are central to a nation, or should be at least. These sentiments are said, and how often meant, I'm not sure, but offered at least, and I tried to hear them through the cultural dissonance and pray in my own fashion that it was real.

developing

Saturday, October 07, 2006

So this last night I finished a 36 page report on the implementation of the Schools for Schools program in Uganda. Sometimes I am still reeling from moving out here, other times still adjusting to not working for the volunteer program, and then I am often sitting and contemplating the enormity of the task I have--to coordinate the logistics for spending somewhere around 2 million dollars that we will receive from donors in the next year. Even now, kids in high schools around the US are gearing up to build this link. They are preparing fund-raising activities and we are building the infrastructure that will join them, hopefully utilizing technology to allow the students to see what their money is building, from even such distances, to meet in some small fashion, the thankful kids who receive thier help. If this sounds too much like propoganda or some sort of descriptive material, I'm sorry. I've been writing exactly such stuff for too long, staying up into the night and talking to many people during the day, trying to learn the finances of development, the logistics of construction, and even the opperations of electronics. Sometimes it seems like too much, but there is part of me, when I sit and look at the document I created, that thinks I might just pull it off. I don't really know how I'll do it, probably by hiring people that are actually well-qualified to the tasks and having them do all the grunt work, or some other such plan, but it will get done I think. In time, these schools will have clean water, better teaching ooportunities, adequate supplies, new buildings, and updated technology. Still seems odd to say it. And to think about it. I was reading before I came out here, and remembering back to the studies I've made until now, and it always amazes me that I'm applying some of those concepts, struggling for sustainability, appropriate development strategies and everything else. I don't really know what to say about it all, and my battery is dying anyway. Just wanted to let people know why I've been so busy lately.

The Sense of Others (an interpretive dance)

It's disconcerting how comfortable I can get in a shell. Moving from home to the volunteer house to the office and back, riding through the town on my bike, stopping to talk to friends, conduct some small business, and being halted by particularly cute or persistent kids turns into an easy way to spend the days out here. I can rush from my fortresses of walls and guards through the busy streets protected by the exoticness of my appearances. These defenses can keep out real interaction at times. I notice all this, even as I speed down the road in my newly tuned-up bike with actual working gears so that every rut in the road becomes and exciting obstacle that must be overcome and dodging people, bikes, cares, bodas, and any other possible impediment rises a challenge that makes the morning ride to work an exhilarating affair. Through it all though, as I try to wave at the children who immerge from huts, bushes, houses, and crowds to wave at me and cry, "Muno, bye!" I notice the distance rising.

The distance can be defeated. It takes some effort, and even when I'm traveling around with a good friend and he is opening his life to me and I'm trying not to stare too wide-eyed or ask too many questions but to just be "friend" and not "mzungu," I still wonder how much that distance persists. But still I try.

This weekend offered some grand opportunities. First was a wicked boda ride through mud sloshing side streets and villages buried in the bush around town, off to the new location of my friend Simon's church, the Miracle Center of Gulu. The church had just moved from a location in town to a spot of land on the other side of what was sometimes a river (and it was such that day, causing some difficulty for parishioners coming from town.) The whole area was a tent erected on poles, a number of huts, and a small baking area in the back. As we got there, people were just moving in the generator and a few keyboards, preparing for the morning service. I tried so hard to not be awkward as I stood there with a number of people drastically aware that I was the only white person there early enough to witness the set-up. In truly overtly Christian and overtly conspicuous manner, I took advantage of opportunities for personal prayer to draw inside myself amid the growing crowd. But soon I could even in my shy self talk to some other people when Simon wasn't there, and before too long the service started, filled with amazing amounts of dancing and singing.

My old, good, possibly best friend Torben and I used to listen to music in junior high and I noticed an odd difference between us. Whenever we didn't know the words to a song, Torben would always try to make something up, hopefully something that made some small amount of sense—which wasn't too hard as many of the lyricists we listened too seemed to pride themselves on obscurity. His lyrics were even sometimes better than the original and I think somewhere in the recesses of memory I may sing them today in deference to the originals. As for myself, I genuinely tried to get at the words by just making noises approximating what I heard. To my ears it sounded close enough to the mumbling, screening, or whining coming out of the speakers and made about as much sense, even if it didn't have Torben's inspired genius of improvisation. Well, that little practice and ability served me well on Sunday. As the Acholi praise songs started blasting our of the speakers and the congregation, I could grasp only the basic sounds of the choruses and tried my best to accompany them, hoping at some similarity. I closely watched the gathered performers at the front of the tent, scanning them for every action and expression, each one giving a small understanding to the intents of the words I never quite heard and certainly failed to understand and repeat properly. I just hoped the sentiment would be there, that when I saw joy in front of me portrayed by the mixing numbers of singers and dancers, that I could bring forth some equal joy in my singing, or at least my intonations.

And then there was dancing. I began in with the same approach I normally throw at such movements during worship. There are those whose hands are held high above their heads, swaying to and fro, and those who favor, well, more subtle movements. Arguments can be made over shyness or even lack of spirituality but for whatever reasons, that's how it tends to go. In this arena I was conspicuous enough standing in front of the still filling crowd, and as the movements of the children and everyone else filled the tent, well, there's this point where the small movements I make to not stand out too much in stillness graduate to slight awkward mimicking of the motions around me, which then itself gives way to dancing. Then I remember that it's simple, that it's movement accompanied by music and meaning and that praise, if anything, is also embodied in this. All the actions that seem so standard to the dancing, jumping congregation try to coarse through me as well, and for the most part, from my limited perspective of myself, I seemed to be doing well enough. Enjoyed it at least.

Once the music ceased, a series of speakers led to a pastor who introduced a guest speaker. This week also accompanied a large missions group from Germany and other locations, being led by a pastor from the capital city of Kampala. He explained to the church how he had not been traveling to the north before and how he had not really known his country until he saw this part. "To the people who have survived this war, soon the world will come to you to see how it is that you have survived. In Kampala, there are many who do not know of the IDP camps. They fear Gulu, that if you are going to Gulu you are going to Kony and the rebels. They do not know of the singing and the dancing here. They do not sing and dance like that, it is they who are in camps."

That night held more speeches. I had to leave the service early, after only three or four hours, to run home, shower, and prepare for the first anniversary of Invisible Children in Gulu. We were holding a grand soiree at one of the nicer hotels in town where we had invited those who had helped us in all that we had accomplished. After a series of speeches where people announced our accomplishments including around 400 kids on scholarship and plans including the Schools for Schools program that I'm working on (more on that later), and even some smaller ones where my friend Katie was promoted Gulu District Chairperson for the evening to allow the actual LC5 to enjoy the evening more, we launched into dinner and dancing.

With the day bookending well, music and dancing to speeches to speeches to music and dancing, I had somehow returned to the consciousness of myself, and sat making conversation comfortably in the tables with a few others while the dancing ensued. All this until a number of persistent women forced my polite hand and brought me to grass serving as a dance floor. Whether through wine or simple good luck, the dances remained on levels of complications that even I could handle. Again, the lyrics could hide some of the meanings behind the song if it weren't for all the other signs. Some of them, dancing in circles and moving with specific, yet cryptic movements were beyond my discerning, but others offered easier targets. I figure that at one point, were I was lined up with all the other men, facing the women and pumping fists to the ground with considerable vigor as one or two of them shook their ways towards us, enticed one to follow them almost back to their line before releasing him back to his fellows offered a fairly obvious, even to those without any real training, a courtship dance. In which case, I'm told I performed quite well as I was escorted over a few times myself—all the while attempting on some levels to believe that the compliment was due to my amazing dancing abilities or at least my charm and not the novelty of the situation. Either way, after each time the music died, we all gathered around and laughed, clapping hands ourselves and with each other, glad to be there and dancing together.

The Beauty and the Mess of it All

Details and Beauty of the Whole Mess

I get a quiet moment here this weekend. Finally putting the porch on our house to good use, the fact that "power is here" lets me type, listen to music, and sit in the shade on an otherwise heated day. Not exactly a scorcher, but hot enough to make you glad for the shade and possibly a nice bottle of water. The light fills up the green yard and the red dust of the roads and the brick walls of our compound, just beyond which the traffic and people make just enough to fit in through the headphones and have that constant notice of where we are. The women practice singing somewhere near, perhaps the school across the street in a broken staccato of their various parts. I have heard this before. Once the fragments are placed together, the cohesive whole of the song has a specific beauty, but alone there are just these punctuated notes that may comprise of words, but all I hear are progressions, repeated and practiced, an unnatural and not entirely soothing but pleasant and fine accompaniment to the afternoon.

The previous night was busier. The weekend, as originally conceived, was calm, filled with cards with the boys and other pastimes. However the filming planned for earlier in the week was delayed following the typical Ugandan and IC-related inconveniences, mostly relating to power, proper equipment and other hiccups of the developing world. We started Saturday afternoon, rearranged a local library to fit the esthetics of the plans and began filming in our reconstructed library, smaller, brighter, more pronounced than the original with details melting away to inspire the students of the States to partner with students their own age, half a world away. We try to link them through the compassions to their struggles and the pronounced humanity of the Ugandan children we have met. We filmed progressions of empty rooms, tables, and shelves to fulfilled images of education as candlesticks melted away into computers.

Filming comprises a considerably detailed and cumbersome process. As the hours of the night passed away, the furniture maneuvered through numerous stages and rooms, the lights moved from one concentrated area to the next, the children came and went with the scenes, sitting in the corners and amusing themselves and us through the moments of waiting boredom. At one point, they all joined in singing Acholi praise songs, clapping and each performing the requisite motions to the songs. As I talked with them, taking a break from moving or lighting one thing or another, their stories flew out at me. Through everything they struggle against, we tell ourselves that schools offer the best chance. Through hunger and disease, violent histories and a lack of support, the idea is that education offers the mystical key to the ability to improve one's own lot. As a rule, you should be immediately suspicious of anything that smacks of a panacea. I wondered occasionally through the songs if the four to five hundred kids we put through school, taught in the new libraries and labs we plan to build, could grow into the leaders we hope can save their playmates that we left behind, unable to help them all. Still, though, you have to try.

The next day offered another program. After sleeping past the scheduled time to meet a friend and head off to his church, I woke to learn that Jan Egeland was in town and some people were heading off to hear the UN's Undersecretary General for Humanitarian Affairs—among other flashy titles—speak. We sat in a room crowded with other development workers, enjoying tea and biscuits and watching the man field questions about the direction of humanitarian efforts in the area. Questions ranging from interesting perspectives on the influence of the Karamajong in the conflict to the ubiquitous pondering of the appropriate course of action for the International Criminal Courts, and the possibilities of amnesty or justice for Joseph Kony and the direct link of that question to the entire prospects of the peace process. Sometimes seemingly unanswerable questions were deflected, other times acknowledgements were made, plans discussed, organizations of multilateral work, combining efforts, all the hopes of humanitarianism struggling to shine brightly through the discourse amid the chaos of international politics.

I hold onto some basic understanding of the history of this conflict. I can hold my own in discussions of causes and repercussions, bending through the dialogue not with great ease or impressive fortitude, but still with some small ability. I imagined today the aspects of that impressive title and the myriad of complications that lay underneath it. This one corner of history represents only "the most neglected humanitarian crises in the world," and yet there are others today. All the background minutia of this conflict represents information most of the world doesn't know, as a great portion of the world couldn't acknowledge even awareness of it. Among all the crises of our lives, like a hallway in our minds leading to troubled thoughts and awareness, each one only opens to another hallway with many doors closed and locked off due the information and understanding that we'll never have, limited as our perspectives are to ourselves. And these are just the crises of our lives, not even considering those of the rest of the population. Each little paragraph summary in the world news section of the paper represents not only an entire history behind the events, but also uncounted other conflicts that didn't even make the news cycle that night.

The depth of the issues we face should almost fill our thoughts and could almost paralyze our intentions. And what do you say after that. I'm here. I found something that speaks to me for whatever reasons—many of which are possibly chance or Fate, depending on the perspective. There's no real lesson for the great masses waiting to be inspired. Uganda itself, Africa as a whole, and the world in general are filled with stories crying out for action. The bleeding heart could perish from fluid loss at even a brief evaluation of it all in its entirety. But beyond all of that pessimism, a certain beauty arises when looking at the panorama of issues, representing as it stands more of a mosaic, completed with images of actual people each possessing their personal stories that cannot be composed in a wide angle lens. It sounds trite to say that the beauty of the conflict in northern Uganda lies in Tony and Boni as they sit around a card table calling each "Godzilla" and "Baboon." It seems overly spiritualized to infer that this is the view that God must have, viewing a crisis as a mingling of actual people each with their own histories as complex as the national one occurring around them. But I suppose the simplicity of the sentimentality behind those statements doesn't make them untrue. I just wonder how often Jan Egeland is afforded the vantage of that view in the brief days he spends in each surmounting crisis. I, myself, hardly take advantage of it enough, passing by numerous kids each walk to the house, but still I'm there, slapping down cards and trying to earn a place in the lives of a few of the kids.

Banners, Night, and Peace

A friend of mine just gathered with the uncounted masses right in the same square where I spent the Global Night Commute. The last time I spent any serious time on the red bricks of Portlands Pioneer Courthouse Square, I gathered with two thousand of my closest friends as we banded together with some large number of other cities, some large number of other cities and people numbering around seventy thousand in all in attempts to call attention to this conflict in northern Uganda and in hopes of ending the war. Even as I said it each night leading up to the event, desperately trying to talking to crowds of students, emboldening myself to inspire the youth, it sank in those overly self-aware recesses of awareness that, what the crap was I talking about, did I really think we could, anyone could, especially so far away and young, actually make such a difference in a war older than half the people gathering there. Did I? And so I thought about it, and I did, and formed the rhetoric to lay it out, to hopefully inspire people to greater things then they might try to do on their own, and I hoped that I was right and that five years from that day, everyone wouldnt look back ashamed at the dreams they were tricked into believing. But that, I guess, is what you do when you try to change the world, believe and ask others to do the same.

Believing in that brought me here, to Gulu. Here I get to try to affect the lives of these children, do all these things, make some difference, but now as I open the paper each day, as I talk with the people all around, I realize that I might be here at the opportune time to witness the beginning of this peace that we asked for. The headlines each day broadcast the latest developments in the peace talks. Some offer hesitant critiques of all the ways that the process could disintegrate before us while others offer hopeful pronouncements of the eventual end to the misery.

And those are just the more official aspects, not really reflecting the life we see every day. Each night as I walk out from the volunteer house or even making my way home from town, the beauty of the night impacts me. Brief shining moments of fireflies plant green glowing blips on the ground. The stretching, dancing fields in the wind stretch out barely perceptible beyond the edges of the black dark road. Above, brilliant stars and the hazy streak of the galaxy push through the occasional yet tall and luminous clouds that punctuate the night sky. And all of this is perceptible and enjoyable along the roads we walk without great fear. Just a year before, these streets were abandoned at night except by those beyond fear. Heading out just at dusk, we still meet a few night commuters, but the numbers of children fleeing that dark night seem minimal now. I take my steps home without wondering what lies in each dark crevice of the world. This is how peace can feel.

Just some days ago, streaming through the streets of Gulu, bicycles, boda-bodas, cars, and even people carried behind them large waving white flags. After the declared cease-fire where both government and rebels agreed on the platform of peace, and both pledged to set down weapons for the duration of the talks, the people of Gulu celebrated the best sign of the peace theyve been hoping for by waving these flags all over. Some were huge and trailing behind cars. On one bike, I couldnt even imagine how the person could see beyond the large flapping whiteness in front of him. Some were simple matters strapped on as sign that they believed in the peace process and were hopeful for finally an end to the horror theyve been living. We here at Invisible Children were granted a great honor by being asked by the Gulu government to supply the flags and be a part of the ceremony where they where handed out. Jolly, who some of you may remember from the film, kept remarking how this was the greatest thing she had seen in Gulu and how happy she was. I couldnt come close to her emotion as she saw the beginnings of what she has strived for years to see, her people brought to peace.

There are still those who flood gossip and headlines with dour outlooks. Every day we can encounter the numerous reasons why this, too, might fail. The ICC still holds the indictment against the LRA leaders. Those leaders refuse to leave the bush until amnesty is given. The international community is at odds as to how to proceed from here. But each day that we get to enjoy the scenery of Gulu at night, each time I can tell the people I meet in Kampala that I do not fear walking the streets, each time I see children who do not cower with the idea of abduction, rape, and other violence, it seems like a small victory and enough for today. I hope we can see this continue, that a real, lasting peace will come. Until then, I am trying to stay hopeful. All of you who have been involved until now, thank you for giving this vision to me and this hope to the people here. Please continue doing everything youve done.

Anf Finally A Home

(originally written Aug 29, 2006)

In case nobody's been keeping track, my vagabondry has left me homeless for neigh on nine months now. Ever since mid December when I loaded all my stuff into my car and headed out for Arizona (what a destination to have begun all of this) from San Diego, I've been borrowing the place I sleep every night. Of course, in more philosophical terms, we are none of us owners of our space, despite whatever deeds we hold. But still something in us longs for permanancy. And that stability was one of the things I was looking forward to about Africa. Finally, I would have a home, a place to rest my head and bed to call my own.

Sometime last week I rolled into Gulu. For those who have only seen visions of the town through a certain film, I could try to flush it out for you, but doing so may also take a year. It is a small town though, I can walk to every place within it and have been getting around mostly by that and a bike that I acquired from Jared. The most common conveyance for most people are "boda bodas," small 50cc motorcycles that jet through small holes in the traffic, taxiing people around for anywhere from 25 to 50 cents. Despite all the warning and training I've had, I do take these on occaision, wisping about the town even in shorts and Reefs, imagening my father cringe as I remember his warnings about motorcycles and flip-flops, and almost each time imagening impending doom as we might collide with a bicycle, a large truck, a woman carefully balancing large loads on her head, or any number of obstacles, including large muddy holes in the ground. But it's a good time and away we go. Most of the locals are used to seeing us honkeys ("muzungo" in swahili or "muno" in the local language as it's screamed by the children I pass) being carted around either in these bodas or secure in white Land Cruisers. They think it's great to see white people walking, quite funny to see me on my bike, and they found it downright hilarious when I borrowed a boda on my own and set off through town. (Of course, the hilarity was greatly increased as I slowed in front of a popular hang-out for local boda drivers and proceded to stall the bike, having to kick it several times to get it going again, red faced, sweaty, and fully embarrassed.)

But to get to my new home--it's a nice place. Sometime I will have to post pictures. There are several actually, one for us staff, meagerly equiped in which we rarely spend time beyond sleeping, and one for the volunteers. The volunteer house is occaisionally packed with travelers using it as a hostel, and holds the service of most meals, so that's where we hang out. In the off hours, we can be found on the back patio sitting around kerosene lanterns or candles, or even when the electricity is abundant, occaisionally we crowd around a lone laptop and watch a smuggled DVD. The best hours are outside, especially as dusk arises and the sun releases its assault. We sit there just as the mosquitos start to bite, talking and playing cards. (The current favorite game is one imparted by Tony and Boni called "Convoy" the only card game the locals play. Since learning it I have tried to see if I would be invited to play by local boda drivers, but haven't been successful yet. I'm sure I'd loose, but wouldn't it be grand to just win one hand?)

And we have a monkey. I believe there's a line in a song. Haven't you always wanted a monkey? (Actually I know it's a line, it's from Barenaked Ladies, "If I had a Million Dollars" and we actually have two monkeys. We just don't like one of them, so we often refer to them by only describing the one we like.)

There's a million other facts and stories that I'd love to relate, but they come slowly to me now. I will try to fill these pages with them throughout the next span of time. Until then, I'll consider myself somewhat caught up. Assuming I get regular internet access soon, this will try to be, shall we say, regular.

As a side note, for those of you bent on spending lots of cash, I do have a cell phone now and while I'm far too poor to call the States with it, receiving calls is free, so if you're interested, ask away. My secretary will screen the requests based on a ten point system and hopefully you'll then be granted acess.

6:09 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove

They Call Me Lokon, or something like that

(originally written Aug 25, 2006)


Stepping off the plane back into Africa was amazing. You get those stair style exits, and not the encompassing tubes that bring you from the plane to the terminal in an effort to keep you from the outside world and lock you into the airport as its own state and entity. Right off the plane, I'm standing there on the tarmac, in Africa, in Uganda. It looks, feels, and smells like Africa, even in the dark, from what I remember of being here years ago. I walked to the terminal with considerable excitement, queued up for my visa, and nervously wlaked out of the airport to meet Emmy, the man who was to meet me there. I've never really met this man before, but I've watched his wife, Jolly, on the film many times so I was hoping that I would somehow recognize him, or that maybe he would be holding one of those papers with my name on it to make me feel official. I had originally thought I would be easy to pick out from the crown in Entebbe Airport, but most of my flight consisted of Europeans and Americans in a way that almost felt odd until I learned that the next week was the first day of classes in the American school.
To add a fun bit of adventure, it took several minutes of walking around the airport for me to fully realize that Emmy was not going to be meeting me. Luckily, I had the phone number of another girl in country and I just had to figure out how to get change when all the exchange places were closed for the night. I was helped with directions from a friendly cab driver who eventually just let me borrow his phone as I tried to tell everyone that, no, I was comming in today, right now in fact, and not tommorrow. Eventually, we just decided to let the cab driver take me into Kampala to Emmy's house. Now, I've heard about these drivers. I've been warned about the speeds they drive on shabby roads, the tendancy to pass on a two lane road in the face of oncomming traffic barely missing the madly honking truck headed straight for them. So, I was braced somewhat for all of that (but I forgot I'd be sitting on the left side of the car and we'd be driving on the left as well) and just tried to enjoy the experience. We flew past people in the crazy dark night, telling them fervently with the horn, I'm passing you, stay out of the way. The driver edged the taxi into spaces between large vans and oncomming cars pulling similar maneuvers heading the other way, with a calm ease that actually allowed me to trust him and simply attempt to enjoy the ride and talk with him about life in Uganda. But we made it safely to the amazing house where Emmy proved one of the most hospitable hosts I've ever had, to the point were I could not refuse him taking tea despite the fact that I was sure that I should probably sleep soon and try to adjust being almost on the exact other side of the world.
I had a great few days in Kampala. I would head out in the day sometimes with Jason, Bobby, Laren, and Katie as they gathered some more shots for upcomming projects and tried to learn as much about the area as possible. When hanging around the house, I would play with Emmy's two boys who have an incredible love for fake punching while supplying sound effects with a quick fist to your own chest. While we were out at a place called Life in Africa, the original site for making the Invisible Children bracelets, doing some filming, the kind folks there--largely a group of Acholi from the north who moved down to Kampala--decided it was wrong that I should be moving to Gulu without an Acholi name, and so one man thought about it for a while and came back with "Lokwon" or possibly "Lokon" or even possibly "Lakon" (I had not yet learned the trick of carrying a book to right down the new words I learned in Lwo, the Acholi language.) The name means "helper," and I'm pretty sure comes from the image of me holding ladders, film equipment, and other things for the boys throughout the day, but it also I think works nicely for what I want to do here. All I really want to do is help, to help the people in the States make it over here and have them provide help for efforts of the Ugandan people here. So, I'll stick with it. I've seen some people shop around for names, and it's trully hillarious how the Acholi people give them out, it can sometimes be the most flippant occurance. I've seen boys named "Michael Jackson" and it is not an irregular occurance to have a pregnant woman ask one of us what to name her child. A few of my friends here have children in the town and around named after them. And so (despite the probable improper spelling) for some purposes, my name here is Lokwon Chris.
One day, I was sitting in the house in Kampala, talking with Okello Forever, a young man who helps around the house in the daytime and watches the gate of the compound at night as I waited for Seth and Ryan to come in so we would all head up to Gulu. We were having a fun conversation about any number of random things and he starts telling me about his home. His two brothers up in Gulu whom he tries to support with work in Kampala to pay their school fees. His parents who are gone. His time in school up there, as he tended goats and pigs to pay the fees until one day theives took his goats, and another day the rebels stole his pigs. At this point, I was shocked to find myself wishing we could return to the fun casual talking we were having earlier. I had watched the film so many times that these stories were familiar to me, they were the reason I was here, and yet I knew that, so did I need to here more of them, or couldn't we just be friends and friendly. I saw where it was going. Another day, the rebels came back to his town and he was abducted. Luckily, his journey in the bush only lasted one week before a UPDF (Ugandan military) force ambushed the rebels and he ran away, escaping by diving into a rushing a river and being carried downstream. Everything in his story was told so perfectly, in the same tone as any other tale, and I was reminded that it wasn't just about fun and interesting people and adventure. There was so much pain in this country that pain didn't even register as such any more, it came more as just something that happened in life.
And so we talked for a while more as I fumbled with what you could possibly ever say to something like that, and the next day we left, or tried to. It actually took quite some time of manuevering through the crowded bus park, Seth, Ryan, and myself waiting for the bus to Gulu which never came with everyone thinking it was quite the sight (especially Ryan who towers over most people), returning home, back the next day, and then up north. But we got to see Forever again, and Emmy and the boys, and hope that until we could provide any real susbtantial help, that friendship and talking was enough, and playing, and being there and trying to show something that looks like love.

A Brief European Stint

(originally written Aug 22, 2006)

While some of you might be scanning this fro great tales of daring and wonder in the African realms, I have to warn you that, as of now, we're not there yet. While I am defintely here in Gulu, safe and getting acquainted with the amazing people and the town, I have for some reason chosen to publish these thoughts in serial format, opening with, appropriately, chapter one.

It having been quite some time since I stuffed myself into the tin box of a transatlantic flight, I was quite eager to get off the ground, enjoy the free drinks, nearly endless peanuts, in-flight entertainment, and discussions with fellow world travellers. And for about four or five hours, that little box in the seat in front of me suited nicely. Then bordem sets in. Maybe there is something about being a guy my age that makes people uneasy about opening up in conversation, or maybe it was because I was rutenely sat next to men even older than myself who occupied their own flights quickly with books and earphones, but I never really got the chance to talk with my fellow travellers. I sat there, occaisionally bursting with the realization of my new adventure, eager to share it with people and hear their own adventures. (Some of this might have been aimed at the fact that I could say, "Well, yes, a couple of weeks in Paris sounds trully exciting, have I mentioned I'm moving to Africa?" but who can tell.) But no, they were quite absorbed by trying to determine if Tom Cruise would accomplish this impossible mission of his (not quite sure how that turned out as I fell asleep each of the three times I watched that particular film on that long day.) I even had complimentary DVDs that would accompany my stories, but sadly few were interested.

I had talked with a friend earlier amidst all the travelling chaos and wondered that maybe not being allowed any carry on bags might not be such a bad thing. Perhaps then we might be forced to interact. I would overcome my desire to not interupt people who seemed quite content not talking to me, and they would be forced, through boredom, to find something interesting to do, even if it meant listening to the unkempt guy next to them and his silly African exploits. Oh well, even London will soon return to normal, if it hasn't already and people with have their books and iPods and everything safe.

But all of that aside, I soon (well, not soon, really, but after some time) made it to Amsterdam and was allowed a few hours of roaming about the city before the next flight. Sure, it was six in the morning and the main activity was street cleaners washing away evidence of reveleries of the previous night, and sure I had made the poor choice of shorts and Reefs as travelling clothes. (In my defense, I was going from sunny San Diego, to intensly sunny Uganda, and besides the Spanish tourists on the same train to the city with the same mistake had to suffer through the decision of chanclas as travel gear, making jokes and complaining all the way.) A little cold and wet, I still got to walk around a European ciy again. I remembered for a while the great squares with towering buildings, which--on a day that wasn't blanketed in gloom--would have made great pictures. There was also those European girls, so attractive and yet serious in their long dark colored coats as they sped by on bicycles. But good coffee from one of the few open bakeries, and breif talks with people before I headed back would have to satisfy.

The oddest moment came as I walked through the old Dutch buildings built by the imperialistic arm of the old country. Shops proudly displayed the rich assortment of diamonds and wealth. Perhaps it was the dark sky, but my destination made me dwell on the misery these shops had casued through the years. The lives wasted as diamonds were ripped from the earth in the mines of Africa. Disturbed, I wandered through the streets carrying a fresh dose of caucasian guilt to propell me along. My time ended and I had to hurry back. Showing the grace of the situation, those notions are easily swept away by the humanity of the place here. As I entered Africa and was greated by the people there, as the days came by and I saw everyone working, there are better impulses to be driven by that bury the guilt. Europeans, Africans, Americans, and everyone strive towards something great here. But all that will have to wait.

Tune in tommorrow for the next dose. Well, actually, given the situation here with internet and even electricity proving quite elusive companions, it will most likely be quite beyond tommorrow before we in our story even get to Kampala, much less Gulu. But soon and sometime, if not then.

Off to Africa

Only several hours remain, and theoretically I will fill some of them with sleep. The days been grand--running off to Flood, selling a bit of merchandise and screaming across a parking lot to Ryan "I'll see you in Africa!" then simply hanging out and enjoying my temporary home here before paddling over to the Ben Harper concert and paddling back to the remnants of music and the sky lit up by fireworks from Sea World on warm, flat water of San Diego Bay. All I have left is laundry, packing, a brief respite, and then a plane ride that will take about 40 hours, all told.

People ask me all the time, aren't you excited to be going to Africa? And I am. I'll be there for a year, living in Gulu, Uganda, trying to do some small good in an area that's been torn apart by war for twenty years and is only currently getting a small breath of peace which may vanish at any moment. So, yes there's a lot of excitement there, but also quite a large number of other things. A friend of mine who leaves the day after me described it as, "every emotion to an exaggerated degree." It seems like people want me to respond as if I've won some dream vacation and almost explode in jubilation as if Bob Barker had just called my name (I know this is more what seems than anything else, but still) but I can't react like that. I'm going to see heartache and struggle, to work insanely hard, to live in a way I can't find here, and to try to make a difference. So, before I head out, I wanted to offer everyone something, especially those of you who have supported me in so many ways. I'm not sure how well I've explained what I'm doing, so I'll try to do that, and any number of other things.

A brief explanation of my next year. This plan is much more of a rough draft. It runs the distinct risk of changing drastically once I actually get to Uganda, talk to people there, and see what the situation is. But it began simply. When I was traveling around the country showing the film Invisible Children, one of the most frustrating questions for me was, "How can I go there and help?" I had no answer other than, "There are a lot of organizations doing great work, go google them." This frustrating answer collided with some ideas I had been mulling about regarding mission trips and how people respond when providing aid in developing nations. Too often, it seemed like groups from the United States would roll into somewhere, drop whatever grand scheme they had concocted (building clinics, churches, whatever, or holding clinics, talking to people, any number of solutions which sound amazing initially) and then leave. The people in the country are left with a solution they didn't create which is often a temporary fix, and an idea that all help comes from the foreign locales. So, I tried to think of what I can do, and I'm still trying. I'm reading as much as I can (thank you for some of the great book suggestions) and trying to wrap my head around a relational solution. So here's what I've got now. In Uganda, there are a ton of small organizations, many of them completely ran by Ugandans that are doing amazing work trying to build up the country in the wake of violence, disease, and poverty. I want to go to these places and help them--figure out what they need, what they would do if only they had more people and money, and then find resources from our support base in the US and fill those needs. Through this, I will find short term jobs for those who want to come to Uganda, and hopefully build serious lasting relationships between small groups here that can send out a couple of folks a year and the small groups there that desperately need some help. It's a simple idea and I'm not sure how it will work exactly or how it might change some of the problems I've witnessed, but it's something that I have the chance to try, and that--given the history of the conflict--is amazing enough that I'll gladly give a year for it.

Of course, all this could change drastically once I get on the ground and see how things are going there, talk with the doctors working hard in the clinics, watch the children playing, and all of those things that happen in real life and not in the trappings of my theories. And also, who knows how my abilities and knowledge will stack up against the challenge. I can honestly that without even exerting the first effort towards doing something like assessing the AIDS situation in Gulu, I am intimidated and humbled by the task. I can read all I get my hands, talk to experts, and pray but we will see just what I am actually able to accomplish in a year. And so we get the whole "rough draft" qualifier of my plans.

I should probably let these thoughts continue as I sleep but I just want to quickly thank everyone who helped me get here, ready to go. All those who drove me, prayed for me, bought things, and gave money, I hope I can make your efforts worth it. Now, if you're feeling like you'd just like to do even more, I can help with that. I still need about $1,000 to recover from the plain ticket. Once I get to Uganda, everything is taken care of by Invisible Children, but part of the deal is that I cover the trip. I want to send as much money as possible to the kids who need the help, so if anyone can help out, or knows people who can, or just wants to put a can on their desk at work, I would really appreciate it. Any donations are tax deductible if you send them to the IC office with my name on the memo:

Invisible Children
1810 Gillespie Way, Ste. 205
El Cajon, CA
92020

And one last thought. I know my publicist/sister will forward this on to anyone I missed, but please everyone else do the same.
I should have internet in the house in Gulu, Uganda, so I'll try to keep up with all of you if I can. Please be patient but respond as often as you can, I'll miss everyone quite a bit. If for whatever reason, the internet is too fancy for you, you can also send things to the house at this address:

Invisible Children
PO Box 1123
Gulu, Uganda

Thanks again everyone.

Report from the Snort Fort

Our minds are captured by the great and small alike. After touring through the Pacific Northwest with towering redwoods, the Golden Gate, and the vast Pacific greating me every morning, I headed east to quainter locals. Perhaps it is because of my upbringing, or the idea that my family came from such a place, but the idea of these small towns has always seemed more than slightly romantic to me, so that each time I head to North Dakota (of the three times I've done so now) to visit where my family calls home with a more nostalgic tone than that which they use for their residence, it calls up a Wobegon, or a Hill Valley, or at least a Stars Hollow. But it's a tangible thing to, where my father lives in the house of his family, where my aunt lives down the street from both Grandma and Grandpa, where my parents met and in some future tense, where the hint of my life began.
We began in Fargo, don't you know, and headed out to Climax, Minnisota. To reassure even even Anne, who is from the state herself, yes Climax is a real place, and yes their slogan is "Climax, MN--More than a Feeling!" It's a fun place though, from what little I know of it. The last time I was there, over Christmas, we had a bit of excitement during the celebrations as my aunt was gazing out the window and noticed a strange car pass by. Several phone calls later, the identity of the driver confirmed as visiting relatives, we settled back into the holiday, but the day was slightly ruffled after that. This time was only slightly less eventful as I happened to show up on the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and we all had a rousing round of Birthday Bingo, from which I walked away with some Silly Putty as a consillation prize.
But time was spent in other places as well. After a brief sojurn to South Dakota, driving sort of past the home of Laura Ingles Wilder, we made it to Park River, North Dakota, where a good chunk of my family can be traced back to. It's a nice town, pictured below, with one real main street, one school for all ages, an annoying bell that sounds for lunch and dinner times as well as for ten o'clock to serve notice that all the kids should move in off the street. Just outside of the town limits, on private land, my father took us out to his hunting shack. The whole thing was a slavage-built operation designed to barely house a couple of men for the season, just hidden in the woods off the side of the fields, next to a river that cuts through the mostly flat land offering a brief moment of terrain. In search of a beaver dam I heard about, I headed into the woods and up the game trails. While I never really saw much trace of beaver, I kept being distracted by some butterfly or another floating pass, a frog jumping around in the undergrowth, a deer rushing away at the incessent loudness of my clomping through the grass, and high-banked winding river that cast me back to the words of Annie Dillard as she discussed the beauty, the pleanty, and the profigacy of the wild. Comming out of the thickets and standing in the spread of the green cropland, waving just so in the wind, patterns dancing on the verdant matting, another book and other thoughts sprung to mind. I was currently pouring through The End of Poverty, by Jeffery Sachs, and thinking about the solutions needed in Uganda. The image of starving people filling that incredibly fertile land in another continent cast against the thoughts of myself plumping up nicely in this time of rest and feeling the breeze as it whipped through the grains. It wasn't really a flood of guilt at the providence given to me, but more a continued pushing into the investigation of what is enough, what brings contentment, and what breeds greed. I have mentioned briefly before, the struggles with doubt, as I feared my plans falling apart only to find my every need accounted for and life falling easily into line. Somehow the thoughts of feeding the masses of a country from the growing bounty around me echoed and attempted to complete these thoughts.
Also in the town, we walked into a large building that once held a church, but now housed a small family and a glassworks shop. The artisan was constructing a series of tiles as we came in, interupted his work to simply admire the beauty and sadly not purchase the slightest piece. But he entertained us for a while, discussing his craft, his house, family, and life. He offered me one of the most amazing things I've heard in a while as he explained that costumers have displayed a tendancy of large towards more simple patterns and that the natural prairie art that he tended to produced was now valued all over the country. His theory behind this was simple. After the ravages of attacks and war, our country has been left with a pure desire for simple order that comforts in its beauty instead of the chaos that titillated us before. The people who look at his work, he's noticed are seeking a soothing gentility that he's happy to provide, as he's found the same thing moving from California to this distant town where he can obtain a house for the prices his friends find on cars. His family feels safe and comfortable, he has found provision and satisfaction.
Not that any of this hints towards some upcomming move on my part. By no means am I heading out for green acres to call my home, but I can still try to appreciate it. I can look for what my father sees in it, as he returned after a great many and a few difficult years away, and what my mother found in an entirely different location but all smacking of the same thing. It's nice to think of, and maybe someday I'll find myself there or somewhere like it, hopefully closer to the coast, but those days are far off, and there's many other fashions of contenment and comfort to find between now and then.


A few pictures:

Main Street, Park River. (notice the complete lack of stop lights)


a wonderful, and yet possibly deadly, combination of merry-go-round, see-saw, and swing set that just wouldn't be allowed in any suburban area I know

My father at the hunting shack.

and these are just for fun

My sisters and I quite some time ago.

A portrait of my grandmother I made at age, well, very young.

Reason Number 25 Why Oregon is a Great State

A quick warning. Some of you may be expecting stuff about Africa here. Bear with me, I don't leave for there for about a month yet, so you'll have to deal with my ramblings about the States for a little while yet. Sorry.

Some of this is backtracking. Actually, almost all of it. I've already talked about the long-term results of this trip, but I felt like going back into it, revisiting the coast from the plains of South Dakota where I sit in a hotel room, decked out again in suit-styled fashion for some reason or another and I'm thinking back to when I could see the ocean. So what better thing to do than bring you all with me.
To begin, I cannot begin to describe how it felt on my poor fractured eyes to gaze into Oregon again after punishing them severely with a month of Arizona summer and the brown and the glare and the dust. For those of you who do not know, there are moments in Arizona (those moments are called "every day") when even as late as five o'clock it is upwards of a hundred degrees. So off I go at the airport in Portland, still kicking around in shorts and Reefs, and I'm actually a little cold, how grand, then I am bathed in the cool green of the lush life there, especially as we headed off to to rose gardens and I walked around relieving my afflicted eyes and getting some use out of my poor, dull nose. (I should mention here that the we in all of this is myself and Ashley, a good friend from Oregon who I conjoled into letting me use her car for this roadtrip and to keeping me company the whole way, what a doll.)
Of course, while Portland was grand and all, the point of this trip (beyond the real point, which was to make it to San Francisco and interview for medical school) was to make it to the coast and live by the ocean again, for at least a short while. We started in Newport, finangling a haircut out of Ashley's mom and paying her back with a couple of hours of work in a local tourist shop where despite being forbidden to do so by the crew I did talk to a few people and pretended I knew answers to questions about local lore. At one point I answered a question correctly even about "authentic glass floats" but only because I had asked the same one about an hour before. Good times.
To sum up, the rest of the trip was basically simply filled with beautiful sunshine, winding coastal roads, camping at night, and a couple of great days playing tourists in San Francisco walking miles all the time and resolutely missing our ferry because I failed to notice it was actually supposed to be a bus. I must say a few great things about our host there, called up a few weeks before, and to my pleasure, my friend Lyra came through and offered up her mother's house as a place for me to stay. Now Cecelia was a perfect host, having cookies for us when we arrived, making dinner for us even though we came home so late, and just incredibly pleasant the whole time. I'm dreadfully sorry that all of the hosts I've had over the past few months don't get the same write-up, but I have the time for this one so I'm taking it. I might have even worked my way into an offer to have a room to rent once I make it back to the area for school in a year.
The whole trip was such a relief. I had spent some time in Arizona worrying about the state of affairs, and in one swell foop, on a beautiful day I managed to arrainge a year off for the trip to Africa, what should be a solid admittance into school the following year, time to go to Nate's wedding, and even a place to live when I return. And I spent time worrying for some reason. I should take this and learn it, that God comes through, and I have nothing to want for. Of course, I can already feel the concern building up for other areas, "But, yeah, what about this, how in the world will this area of my life be taken care of." For those of you who might not know me well, welcome to my stubborn self.
The morale of the story is simple. If you ever have to go to an important event like an interview, it's always best to pad a couple of days on either side for a brilliant road trip aling the coast with camping, music, food, and a solid friend. It helps if she's cute, but I don't suppose it's absolutely necissary.



- a quick note to all my nosy family, this is a pre-emptive "We are friends, that is all."

The Next Step Is a Doozie

(This is a reprint of a mass email, so sorry if you're reading this twice)

So, I've consulted a number of you on your thoughts regarding some decisions I've had to make about my recent and distant future and to some exclaimation or another, I've come to a conclusion. I'm sure some of you will be disspointed and some will be elated, but I've mulled over all the advice, attempted to pray about the decision, and come to a decent conclusion while I was interviewing for medical school in San Francisco last week. I had a great time there (which I'll probably write about in a later blog), appreciated the school, loved the staff, and when they offered me a decent chance to enroll in the upcomming year of school or to accept an offer for next year, I choose to wait one year, which pushes me back to the class of 2011. This also opens up the opportunity to take the offer made by Invisible Children and spend the next year in Uganda. So, I'm off. I'll be leaving in August.

For those of you who have no idea what offer I'm talking about, after traveling around the country for several months raising awareness about the crisis in northern Uganda, I've become overwhelmed (or possibly just whelmed, as I tried to explain to everyone at the Global Night Commute) by the possibilities of all that can be done there. (If for some reason, I haven't explained all this to you, please check out www.invisiblechildren.com.) As awareness grows and even as opponents begin to discuss peace once again, this time on the ground in the Sudan, the urgency to act strikes me as great. I have the chance now to go into the country and establish something. As the movement spreads across this country through continued grassroots efforts and the appearance of the feature length film, and as the possibility for peace grows over there, a large contigent of the youth here will want to have connections over there. Some will want to go for themselves, others will want to establish real relationships with people and organizations to enact the most benifit they can. I have been offered the chance to go to Uganda and try to create the program that will build those opportunities and those relationships through the Invisible Children organization.

I have alot of ideas of what this could look like and fears that I want to prevent. Hopefully, in the year that I have, I will be able to help others there and work with Ugandan organizations to create a viable, productive reality out of all of this. And, of course, it promises to be an amazing time as well. I will miss so many of you, but I will try to keep in contact as I can through the wonders of the information superhighway, as I have tried in the past. There will always be this account, also the MySpace account, and also a new blog for those of you who don't have MySpace at www.ckargel.blogger.com. Throughout these mechanisms, hopefully I can share the adventure with everyone and maintain what relationships I've built already.

Now, if you're in for even more involvement in the fun, while I have some means, and Invisible Children will be supplying everything I need in country, I will still require some small support to get me to Uganda and such. Please understand, that whatever I do not raise will be made up by the organization, but as they are supported by donations, it will come from that resource and go to me instead of other programs aimed at assisting the children of Uganda. If you can help by any means, I would greatly appreciate whatever you can offer. You can send whatever support that can be mustered to my sister's address, where most everything pertaining to me ends up these days, at:
1964 E Intrepid Ave
Mesa, AZ, 85204.

Thank you all so much for the support I've recieved so far on my journeys. I will most likely be in San Diego for a month yet and hopefully can see some of you before I leave. Please respond as you can, and I'll try to do the same.