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.