One thing is to break my mind out of the regular system of spring, summer, winter, and fall. One thing out of many, but something that should be easier than the others. Then to replace those things with rainy, dry, rainy, and dry. We're just coming up on another transition here. The relatively wide and flat skies of the dry season that leave the country exposed to the drastic sun and contribute to the vast build up of dust everywhere is being replaced. The dust that gathered on shelves, windows, clothes, in huge dangerous rivers on the sides of the roads where I feared to take my motorcycle in case I lost control in the almost zero traction will still be there, but it will be diminished and will occasionally turn into flowing rivers than sitting pools of mud without warning. The skies are changing now. They're going back to those impossible canvases that greeted and amazed me when I first arrived where the clouds seemed to bend so low and yet reach up stretching to God in layers unimaginable outside of Renaissance paintings or maybe those educational sketches that describe every type of nimbus in one panorama of instruction. The return of that awesome sky offers a distinct pleasure where any time I'm caught up with some form of mendacity in my work, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of something completely beyond me by simply looking up. The world offers an easy reward and distraction.
This reward didn't come easily. Not that I hated the dry season. I did constantly wonder what possessed the insane minds of several guide book writers who warned against travel in any period except the months I lived through and called dry. They seemed to infer that scorching heat, dust that choked like pneumonia and seemed to carry an infectious allergen on every gust of wind, and endless painting of every surface with a dull red was preferable to occasional vast down-pouring that never seemed to last more than a half an hour and refreshed as much as any quick shower. Sure, I wasn't a huge fan of wading through pools and mud to get to work, but there is something remarkable about the storms rushing in and leaving with equal ferocity. I suppose both seasons have their benefits, but I'm glad to see water again.
Maybe it is something about growing up in the desert. I've always been entranced by water. Driving over the smallest river, I feel I have to watch it pass out the window, letting my eyes drink. When I lived by the sea, mostly I couldn't fathom the entirety of the ocean, and could never claim a native's attachment and kinship with it all, but who couldn't love watching it float there in its immensity or watching it consume the sun in a fiery spectacle. I like to think in more poetic moments that the prolonged drought (although don't believe me too much—the dry season over here just means it rains less, we still caught the refreshment of a few wettings on occasion, and this thought carries on to what I had started…) served as part of the reason for simultaneous drought of communication. Sure, there were vastly busy times as I expanded my work into two full time positions, both of which predominately included a need for abilities at bargaining and currency evaluation that I don't naturally posses. The times were also filled with emotional stress of decisions to be made at home, evaluations of life, and the typical Big Questions. And it all was combined in a time frame that precluded much escape for silent evaluation, prayer, or even just contemplation of Life, Beauty, and Joy. But it's more cohesive to join them all into this idea of the dryness, of life perpetuating its surroundings, something similar to globally natural scale of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny. And aren't those ideas, even of only partially true, more beautiful if you just accept them as such?
And so, for stories:
Along with a considerable drought that ate up our skies, we also suffered through a local energy crises that darkened our nights, or at least the bulbs and such, and also prevented the national water pumps from supplying our tanks. On one occasion, after about a week of finding methods of hygiene that didn't involve showers and then one ill-advised game of ultimate that left a group of us sweaty and in need of some cleaning, we were blessed with a brief drizzle. Inspired to take full advantage, I followed James and Kevin's lead and stood as those two, Adam, Jesse, and myself enjoyed a slightly more natural shower catching the runoff from the roof. We could toss the whole adventure into cleanliness or at least group bonding, but whatever the explanations, it did offer some interesting pictures that somehow found there way to all the San Diego office desktop backgrounds.
Seeking as much reprieve as possible, we thought that a nice break from the drought and work up North would be a large group retreat to Jinja. This works in part because a place in Jinja offered some teambuilding techniques similar to what I worked with at Outback Adventures at UCSD. Also comes in handy as we all seemed a little dry of sorts and Jinja offered to quench us with the source of the Nile River. Pouring out of Lake Victoria in inspiring amounts, and rushing below cliffs on which perched the dorms and cabins we relaxed in, the River gave us some extra relief and promised to fulfill any desires for water as it tried its best to drown us. After a series of meetings and initiatives, a few of us climbed into rafts and set off down the rapids some have called Grade Five and others just called big enough. For a half day trip, we managed to dump four times, and out guide was sufficiently proud of making us swim down a considerable portion of the river as he laughed down on us from the raft. It was a good time flying through the air, and coupled with moments of just watching the waters fly past or a few of my friends fall from considerable heights, dunking their heads into the water before bungee cords sprung them back up provided for enough additional entertainment. That and we found a Mexican restaurant, so all in all, not a bad time.
Apparently I was quite sated, however, as a few weeks afterward, I took advantage of Kevin's quick trip with a visiting friend and rushed off to Sipi Falls. I felt relieved at finally being able to see a bit of this country besides just the journey between Gulu and Kampala, a few jaunts to Pader, and the one trip to Tanzania. There's something about nature, especially—as I've noted to friends in the precious few personal emails I've sent out—something about looking down at water from a great height. One of the sad things missing from Gulu is honest terrain. It must have been something in our trips with my father, but despite basically growing up in a cityscape (even if it was placed in valley surrounded on all sides) I feel like I've grown more into the temperament of the mountains. I don't want to claim to much wild-man mountain wilderness or anything of the sort, but when I can scramble to the top of something and look down, there is something refreshing about that perspective that can set life in order. I have a friend who I feel gathers a similar emotion from the sea, and I'm sure people hold these things dear. Missing the mountains, I felt the return at the foothills of Mount Elgon and as I watched the waters cascade off one cliff and then another. Of course, this was all accentuated when we tied in and dropped a hundred meters, repelling ten feet from the crashing water to the base, but somehow it was the view from the top that stayed with me.
There are other stories, about people and accomplishments, and hopefully someday I will gather together enough of myself to tell them. Sometime after it all or after a good break, I can even launch into some descriptions of the work here, how it has offered challenges and fulfillment and struggles in so many different ways. Until then, I'm sorry that my correspondence drought has been so severe. I drastically love hearing from everyone and it's hard to not return love in kind. But there can sometimes be something exhausting about staring at a blank screen, like staring at a dry field. But, well, the rain is coming. And after hacking severely at the dry field beside our house for hours, I'm severely glad to feel the rain loosen and nourish the soil. Some foretelling of pride springs up when I think that soon, after our efforts, food might grow there. It was a lot of sweat that broke the ground when it was hard and dry, and blisters that rose, and dirt that caked, and all of these things. Not that the hard work is over, but this softer earth is exciting in its fertility and its newness.
As a side note, I'm sorry that I don't have many pictures to offer. My new computer should be coming soon and then I will try to gather photos from all of my friends to share. I'll try to put up some photos soon, at least the one of all of us getting clean.
