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.

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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.