All Work and No Play

In addition to the late blog I'm just now posting (see "A Spot of Drought" below) I thought I'd throw on this lighter note as well.

Taking advantage of the amazing technology brought to you by none other than Steve Jobs himself--or more accurately, a sales associate located several thousand rungs on the corporate ladder below Herr Jobs, I thought I would bust out my new MacBook and share some of the pictures I've gathered with people. If you're looking for stunning physical beauty and all of the wonder that Africa can offer, than I can suggest a couple of other webpages because you'll find nothing like it here. Instead, just a couple of shots of me and my friends goofing off, and then one video preview of the short film we're making. So, prepare yourselves for Rent To Own IV and keep hopes in store for actually spiritually uplifting material to come at some foreign date...

I'm trying to upload the video to here, but if that fails, just check out the youtube site, and the showering photo should be in my album. Have fun and Happy Easter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0jAgQGED5c

A Spot of Drought

(originally written April 1st, 2007 - Gulu, Uganda)


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.

Happy Holliday

The trip mostly began and almost ended with me sitting in a bus wondering as my knees pushed into the seat in front of how I could sleep and how I managed to be sick at exactly this moment. But don’t let that paint anywhere near a picture that the journey wasn’t amazing beyond belief. The goodness of it all started when I learned I didn’t actually have malaria, just some random infection that we treated with medicine and I hoped would wear off as the bus tore down the road. Somewhere into the 36 hour trip from Kampala to Dar es Salaam, I guess it did—or at least I stopped paying attention to it. And even those hours weren’t horrible. We rode in relative comfort compared to the people we passed walking to their destination or those crammed into matatus or even shabbier busses. Each time the bus lurched I tried to look sidewise and if everyone else seemed unconcerned and peacefully trying to sleep in the limited space, not concerned that the only thing available to eat in the past day and a half was biscuits (cookies), chips (fries), and hard boiled eggs, then I tried to hold the similar lack of concern and enjoyed switching between reading, talking to my friends, sleeping, and staring out the window as the scenery grew more and more amazing as we passed through Kenya and Tanzania to the coast.

Somewhere in the chaos of arriving in Dar at two in the morning and scrambling around for some local money so we could buy anything (somehow Uganda had tricked me out of the idea of traveling with mainly American money, a useful trick traveling anywhere except the country I live in) I left the Lonely Planet in the cab. So, we didn’t really have a plan, except that we wanted to get to Zanzibar, spend some time on some beaches, and make it back to Arusha at some point to hit up a safari. We could have had the whole trip planned out easy, clean, and comfortable, but somehow Kevin and I convinced Kerri and Tiffany that it would be more fun taking the bus. That, combined with the notion that neither Kevin nor I could afford the flight and package deal options, we embarked and ended up on the coast without a guide book. As you might guess, everything turned out fine—better than fine, silly books.

At some point in time there will be pictures attached to this so that everyone can understand the brilliance of this place. Stowntown in Zanzibar presents a beautiful city on the coast that somehow even managed to awake in the recesses of my struggling mind the stories of Portuguese imperialism that stretched out from a few random classes. Whitewashed buildings crammed in close with alleys barely allowing walking passengers to pass by the ornate and imposing doors fill the streets. We set about enjoying the grand coffee, fresh seafood, and everything that the town offered for a short while before renting some motorcycles and heading off to the east coast, where we heard there were less tourists crowding the hotels and beaches. Being Christmas Eve, we followed the traditions of Kevin’s family and enjoyed a nice Italian meal at this place that held a wonderful collection of African art setting the background against Christmas Tree. Filled with pasta, we found a nice lapping beach and stuck our feet in salt water for the first time since months ago in San Diego and listened to lapping waves and sang carols as our feet squished in sand, laughing about how mostly anyone only knows the first verse of almost any carol and trying to figure out which is the best one. (“O, Holy Night” by most peoples’ reckoning, just to inform everyone, just that it gets to high and I can’t really sing it, but Lordie, the beauty of it is severe, “Fall on your knees, Hear the Angels’ voices, oh night divine)

The next day (Christmas Day) we tried to finish organizing and begin the vacation proper. On some points, we were not well informed, and after cruising across the island and pulling up on the east coast just as the sun went down behind us, we found all the guest houses were full, and most of them were so expensive we couldn’t afford them anyway. Somehow, we stumbled, as we often did throughout the trip, on some helpful friends who directed us towards a restaurant. We met our new friend, Aziz, there whose favorite pastime was helping tourists. He set us up in what I’m pretty sure was his room, led us to a Christmas feast filled with fresh caught marlin, vast quantities of fruit and sides and everything delicious while traditional dancers performed in front us and Aziz managed the whole thing for us for half price and basically we ate our full and danced a little bit, then retired for a quick night swim in the ridiculous water, off for “one-one” at a nice local spot with very few mzungus, and then to bed.

Morning showed us how dramatically beautiful the beach could be, with the finest white sand you could ever imagine coating your feet in beautiful powder on the beach and providing squishy, almost gooey cushioning as we walked out into the water, where you could swim at high tide, or walk out almost a mile with water up to barely your knees past seaweed farms and moored boats and other things stretching out to the horizon at low tide. It was amazing to stand several hundred feet off the shore and look back and around, out to the waves crashing on reef in the distance and back to the beach and to the water to either side occasionally dotted with people standing almost out of the water, the bright colors of the local clothing making almost miraculous imaged of women walking on water in the low tide. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and all of that with warm sun and cool breezes. Just a short distance down the beach from Paje, we found a smaller town of Jambiani almost neglected by the crowds and a great guest house right on the ocean where put up for a while with another new friend, Mumba, who seemed to only know Kevin’s name, but at least he sang it out with the most enthusiasm each time he came close to us.

We spent a couple of days on the beach before heading back to Stonetown for a boat ride, snorkeling through the coral reef with the brilliantly colored fish, up to the island with a hundred giant turtles, more scenic beaches, history spreading everywhere, and beauty beyond understanding. Sadly, thought we had to leave, although it was almost too easy to console ourselves with the idea that we were heading to Arusha. Once more past Kilimanjaro, and the bus ride made me think of a couple of months from now when I will try to organize a force of my friends to attempt the summit.
We were picked up in Arusha by Halidi, our guide, found a great place to sleep and in the mourning set off for Ngorongoro Crater our chef, Booga. Through broken communication, we tried to learn as much as we could about the animals, but more often than not just stood in awe. The combination of the joy of standing with your body perched outside of a Land Rover much like you must have always wanted to do as a child and then coming across patches of wildebeest, flamingoes, water buffalo, gazelles, elephant, lions, hippos, and all sorts of birds and other creatures while you are nestled inside a huge crater that once blew forth from a volcano but now filled with stretches of green and salt water lakes offered just about everything we could ask for in a safari. Once we moved on the Serengeti, I sometimes allowed myself to be lulled into the regularity of everything. Of course, there are hundreds of zebras and wildebeest migrating just to my left and right, of course there are patches of giraffe, and once barely a leopard’s head poking out from the tall grass. I’ve seen this all before in zoos, just never to this extent, all concentrated and free. But that human tendancy, to minimize and rationalize, comes crushing down in some moments, like when we rounded the corner and found a small pride of lions feasting upon the fresh kill of a hippo. This is certainly something the San Diego Zoological Society would not coordinate or even condone. This is reality happening just outside the brief confines of the vehicle, and I traveled through it only, bringing my society and preconceptions with me, not this other way around which I am used to. We are visitors in life and the world, here to observe and hopefully learn a little, but more so just to see and experience joy, to taste and see that God has created something good and shows us that He is somehow Good Himself, better than we could hope.

New Years came in a campsite on the savannah. For some reason, the different camps couldn’t break through social barriers to come together until just before midnight, when, thankfully, the discussion of the correct time brought everyone together. (With some small pride, I can say that it was our party that convinced people to bring their lanterns near ours for at least the simulation of a campfire in the center of our small gathering.) Most people had come somewhat equipped with beer and wine, so we all gathered together, guides and participants, raising bottles, cans, and glasses together and toasting the celebration of newness and life in the middle of one of the prime examples of both that we could hope to find on the planet. Then we went to bed, because everyone wanted to get up early with the sun and with the animals around us to catch them as they caught their breakfast and as the world woke to stretch and show us what it could of how it has lived since the beginning.

Sadly though, every adventure, even if it is just a small subset of a larger adventure seems to come to an end, and while we had probably spent too much money and nowhere near enough time in these wonderful places, we had to set home. Of course, this is Africa and nothing is easy. The bus we were told would be there was not only not there, but was also full beyond capacity (two things that I think can only simultaneously happen in Africa). Not having any idea how we would get home, we scrambled about, found a cheep place to stay, heard about a shuttle to Nairobi and that we might have better chances there to we went to sleep and then Kenya. I have heard all kinds of stories about Nairobi, so I knew to walk around always with enough of my mind conscious so that I could feel my pockets and the backpack to notice the slight change of weight caused by thieves and all these other horrible things. In the face of this, I have this to say. Nairobi was fantastic. There were great bookshops and coffee, a wonderful place, Uhuru Park, in the middle of town, some of the most interesting architecture I’ve seen, helpful people, and almost anything one could hope for, including decent food that isn’t too terribly expensive. Kevin and I became quite happy the bus mishap caused the delay so that we could enjoy the town for at least six hours instead of whipping through it as we would have originally done. But soon, even that time was finished, and we had to make it home.

It still seems odd to call Uganda home, to feel comfortable once I saw the buildings and banana trees and black red and yellow flags, once my phone started working again. Stranger still to breath easy in Kampala. I’m excited to feel Gulu again, the comfortable small town, but for now I am in the capital, waiting and working a little, enjoying, of course, coffee and wireless and trying to think of all of the small parts of the holiday that would make for interesting reading. I’m sure I’ve missed some pieces that would have been fun to read, or at least to write. While it’s sad to have missed some of the parties, all of the family gatherings with overstuffed tables, floors littered with torn paper, sleepy-eyed children, and all of those hallmark examples of holidays, this was a great one. I miss of course beyond description my family and friends, but still, the world is wide, and this is one more stretch of it I’ve seen. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Snapshots

(written December 21st, 2006 in Kampala, Uganda)

Even as I write this, I can't think of the last time I sat down to communicate something that wasn't directly involved with work. Maybe it hasn't been that long. A month or so, something along those lines and I shouldn't worry so much. The absence of my thoughts and recollections for the recent time doesn't necessarily mean that people where questioning the worth of the internet or anything—if it can't bring updates from Uganda, then what good is it. But still, as I haven't written hardly one personal letter in a considerable amount of time, I do feel slightly like I'm abandoning certain friends, people who I wish knew what was going on in my life, if just because when I can't see them and talk to them, then at least if they share second hand in these adventures then it's in some small way like still sharing life with them. After this, I have the daunting task of sending out the entire backlog of emails, but for now, I will attempt this concise abbreviation of the past month. As I can't accurately describe everything, and also as a tribute to the fact that I am finally admitting that my camera is gone, I've decided to try to represent the month in a series of images and brief descriptions. Hope it's fun.

The First Holiday

Thanksgiving in Gulu consisted of a farm-reared turkey given to us by our friend Tony, cranberry sauce and stuffing smuggled in from the States, plenty of sweet potatoes and whatever other approximations to traditional fare that we could make out with local ingredients. I had to work the first half of the day so I didn't get a chance to try my hand at preparing something close to pumpkin pie, but I did swing by the craft store on the way home to pick up several bottles of wine. At the time, the volunteer house held about twenty people, and we all gathered around, blessed my Margie as she visited Uganda for the first time and brought her amazing ability to cook with her. We tried to convince our own cook, Doreen, that she had to stay and take dinner with us, but she still doesn't think it is proper. We will keep trying. It's impressive the thanks people poor out when they are surrounded by need. At the traditional round of thanksgiving people tried to convey the mixture of gratitude, hurt, joy, and awe that the country brings out. The moments presented a mixture of sympathy and nostalgia where we tried to understand the position we stood in contrasting the world outside our gates. (This became comically poignant as I tried to explain the holiday to Ugandans. "Well, we pretty much gather together as a family, give thanks for our blessings, and then eat ourselves silly.") But the evening held a number of nice moments in our makeshift family. Tears were shed, food was eaten, wine was drunk, and thanks were definitely given.

Excursion – Finally, a Break

Shortly after Thanksgiving, I moved my weekend to accommodate a trip two new friends were making for Rwanda. In the midst of the hectic schedule that continued to consume me at the office, I tried to search for some sanity in a respite. These girls were heading off to visit the new Partners in Health hospital (of Paul Farmer and Mountains Beyond Mountains fame) and I decided it sounded like a nice difference from computer staring and price negotiating. That and they thought it would be much safer to actually travel with a guy who could hopefully ward off some undesirables with his mere (and might I say, incredibly masculine) presence. So I packed off with my two new wives (easiest way to explain the situation and get cheaper hotel rooms) for Rwanda.

Before we left though, there was a short stay in Kampala, at a tourist hostel, Backpackers. I had stayed their for about a week the last time and the comfort and relaxed atmosphere seemed more promising than traveling back and forth to Jolly's house all the time. The staff actually remembered me, which is a great feeling when you walk into a place and everyone exclaims, "Chris! You have been lost!" But the lodgers also add to the experience. Such as I am with names, I'll dish out the descriptions. The Australian couple who just barely managed to beat me at bottle cap poker. The Dutch guy whose been living there for months trying to do some research except that it's taken almost his entire allotted time to just get the paperwork finished—he had two weeks left when he could finally start conducting the work. The French guy who felt he had stayed too long, but couldn't leave because he was pretty sure he picked up a local parasite but couldn't actually bring himself to see a doctor so he spent every day agonizing over the decision. Add those to all the other randoms, and it doesn't even bother me so much to have the same conversation every day (Where are you from? How long have you been here? What are you doing?)

After a rollercoaster inspired bus ride, we finally reached Rwanda. At first I was worried because my visa had expired and I shouldn't technically have been allowed to leave the country. When the first guard spent most of the time looking at the cover of passport, however, I felt better. The third guard, however, actually noticed and I thought was going to make me bribe him, but he just chastised me for a little while and I was on my way. The country itself was amazing. The verdant hills everywhere covered with agriculture that stretched up into the air and met with the always impressive African sky struck me right away. The clouds even on the distant horizon seemed to be a part of the landscape and awed in a way that I've only found the sky here to be able to do. Everywhere was green and beauty. Add that to the fact that the roads were decent, better than decent, good even, and Rwanda becomes an amazing country. The people we met on buses were equally beautiful and kind (although those we met in town, especially taxi drivers were, well, lets just say harmless would be an improvement—although I'm sure some small part of that was our miserable abilities at French, but still, when the guy couldn't figure out how to go back to where he picked us up, we were worried.)

It's difficult to think about this country. I don't want to characterize it by a tragedy. If I lived there, if I called it home, I wouldn't want people automatically associating my home with genocide. At one point, you can't help but think of it as you pass people on the road and wonder what had happened, how it could have passed, and what they are doing now with that history living behind them. We didn't see the genocide memorial, and I had no interest in visiting the school that still held hundreds of bodies piled, dusted in lime, and skulls organized uniformly. It's not that I didn't want to think about it, but I wanted to have more to say about Rwanda than death. The place seemed so alive to me, with farms and people living and laughing everywhere that I was wary of it. Maybe I should have allowed more of the reality of the history to enter my thoughts about the place, maybe I distanced myself from it. It could be obvious to say, but I find it hard to know what to do when faced with something beyond comprehension. So, I just go and see.

The hospital was located in a small town down a number of different dirt roads. We got there by bringing along a paper with the name written on it and just pointing. We would get out of one taxi (for those who don't know them, they are small vans designed to pack 14 people, but we did cap out at 23 one time) and point to the paper. The taxi drivers would then indicate a different taxi and we'd climb in, just pointing all the way. After most of the day, we stopped and realized we were there, a nice decorated building with a huge sign baring the symbol of hands joining and the words Partners in Health. Someday years from now, when I have actually finished school, to obtain some small version of the success of Paul Farmer, to have created an institution that not only provides quality care, but to the most needy, and in a way that enables them to continue the provisions to others so that entire regions are revitalized and healthy, to leave in your wake beautiful clinics and hospitals (this one even had a koi pond) and the smiling, vibrant faces of ones malnourished children near death, just to work in a place like that, to provide quality care, seems like a dream. They staff of the hospital took some time out of their obviously hectic schedules to show us around, seeming surprised that we managed to show up, and even outfitted us with bread, cheese, and raisins before we found another taxi and made our way back home.

Work

After this was a long period of typing, talking, and other things. Less interesting than some activities. Let's just leave it at that. But this is part of the reason why nobody has heard much from me.

The Second Holiday

As the Christmas season approaches in Gulu, it's drastically different from what I am used to. This much should be obvious, but the forms the differences took surprised me. The first thing was that they have Christmas trees, but they are simply green deciduous bushes that are all over. The most drastic is that Christmas represents a period of high crime. In the weekly security report, the last sentence read something like, "We must remember to be specifically on our guard as we go through this festive period." But we are enjoying it. At the staff Christmas party, we introduced the white elephant gift concept, although calling it Pick and Pass, and watched as our staff struggled vigorously over stealing tea cups and other small niceties from each other, laughing all the way. For us, the actual holiday will be spent somewhere, we're still not sure where, but are considering Tanzania.

Side Out

Just before most of the NGOs broke for the holiday, War Child decided to hold a huge volleyball tournament and BBQ. This was slightly annoying at first, because we wanted to hold a BBQ, but couldn't do so now as it would be copying. But the staff was so excited at the prospect of the tournament that everything was consumed by practicing and preparing. We even had t-shirts made for the team and they debated the actual rules for considerable stretches. In the end, we performed well, but I think War Child had a head start on us. We took fourth place, which actually turned out to be the best, because while first through third received nice trophies, we got a goat, which we will roast in the new year. You can't eat a trophy.

The End of Planning

Months now have been spent in debate, discussion, and hours typing and retyping. When I first started at Schools for Schools we were handed a vision. There were only the first steps made towards making this vision a reality, and many of those I have taken back in the ensuing months. In December, the Roadies for the next Invisible Children National Tour came through Gulu and we were told to have a project for them. This would be the first thing Schools for Schools has actually done. Suddenly we went from talking to doing, I had been negotiating with contractors, suppliers, politicians, business men, guards, and anyone else who knew more about my job than I did (which in various capacities could include most of the population of Gulu) trying to put all those specific pieces of knowledge into one comprehensive plan. Then, one day, it all came together, I had a gathering of workers one side, some fresh-faced mzungu girls on the other, and Jolly standing in front of all of us with a huge sledgehammer, made all the more humorous as she carried both the hammer and her nine months of pregnancy with equal determination. We filmed as she swung the hammer leaving small dents in a laboratory wall and Katie sang out, "Jolly swung the hammer, and the wall came tumbling down." The building should have been condemned but students have been working in the laboratory long after the mortar shells had cracked the wall, the windows had been broken and removed, and termites had all but destroyed the windows and doors. With the swing of the hammer, we began. By lunchtime, the wall was down and reconstruction had begun. By the end of the week, new windows, doors, and cabinets were being installed. In the new year, when the students return, they will find to their surprise, and almost new building. As we move forward, we will install plumbing, central gas, and enough chemicals and science apparatus to allow for the practical knowledge that science demands to avail itself.

Sometimes it's hard to think that you're going anywhere. Especially in Africa, when the first through tenth attempts usually bring with them some degree of failure. I was trying to grow accustomed to this, that things don't work smoothly. It's hard to work when you know what you're planning will not happen, that in the morning, something will occur that will make you change everything, call in reinforcements, change strategies, and force contracts to be fulfilled. I had been practicing at this for months, and I was nervous how it would play out in action, and how I could do that and finish my final assessments of ten schools at the same time. As it happens, things slowly work themselves to some form of a conclusion. It probably takes more trust and faith than I can generally muster. Something else to work on, I suppose.

Elsewise

I'm sure I've neglected things, nice moments like finally getting a full fleet of motorcycles and driving around town with freedom and wind blowing past me. The rains in the dry season. The coming and going of various new friends. The joys of parasites. A wonderful night spent coaxing a roaring fire in the middle of a hand-made pottery kiln. More than a couple of truly nice conversations. Seeing a movie, the new Bond, after numerous months, in a theater, with popcorn and everything, although feeling horribly ill and sweating and sleeping throughout. But I suppose there has been enough for now. Life is full, if tiring, frustrating, and confusing at times. But for now, that will do nicely, I suppose.

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.

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