Cut That Meat

About a week ago I got to be a part of one of the best things that i've experienced here so far. some amazing Peace Corps volunteers put together (through an impressive amount of planning and organization) a girls camp where 150ish freshman-aged girls from all over uganda came together for a week of life skills teaching, games, and empowerment. rather than tell you all the details, let me put down the website which was created for it, and if you have time, you can see pictures and read about the week-long event. Know though that when/if you see some of the pics, for a lot of these girls, it was their first time out of their home village, their first time to interact with girls from other parts of the country, and definitely their first time to interact with so many white people! campglowuganda.yolasite.com

my role was small at the camp and it was a blessing that i was even allowed to come. but because my responsibilities were small, i had time to just observe and to appreciate. What I saw was this: one person can matter. What i saw was individuals making a difference in the lives of others. Individuals teaching about malaria prevention, a leading cause of death in Uganda, and in the world. Individuals dancing and laughing with those of different tribes and languages. I saw individuals loving and upholding kids who otherwise might not get that love, who otherwise might not be told they're of value, they matter, and that they're worthy of love. There's a lot of cliche sayings about, "changing one person changes the world," or "if you touch the life of one, you touch the life of all," something like that. People generally accept them, though whether they accept them as true or simple niceties is uncertain. But is there really truth to these sayings? If not, does it matter? Is changing the world supposed to be one's goal, or is simply loving people enough? I don't know that the world was changed by the camp, or even the country, but I'd like to think the lives of 150 girls were changed, and that might be enough. I guess i don't even know what I mean by "enough." As if we have some quota to fill, some level of influence that we have to reach. Before I came here, I talked to someone about changing the world. i said that this was not my goal or my measuring stick to success. But perhaps it was. Perhaps, further underneath ideals which were already subterranean, i had this idea of changing the world. I might have failed in this regard. As my time gets closer to the end though, Im left with thinking, however ambiguous or even selfish it might be, "Did I do, enough?"

in a completely unrelated topic, Christmas is coming up. that means time to buy Christmas meat. the butchers will be bouncing, the shop-keepers smiling, and the cooking oil will be cracking as i drop 10,000 shillings to get a couple kilos of goat. worth it. but i guess, in a way, the fact the Christmas is coming up is not all that unrelated to the prior topic. I mean, as one man, Jesus made a difference. Though He might never have walked on Ugandan soil, the sons of the soil still know Him. I mean, ultimately, Christmas has nothing to do with Christmas meat. It's one man (no matter what people may or may not say about Him), making a difference. So as Christmas comes, make a difference, know you can and at the same time, don't have to, which makes it that much better. Treat yourself to some Christmas meat.

friend to sheer khan

Sometimes, people here, in describing their understanding of the U.S., tell me things that are simply baffling, and leave me wondering where this information is coming from. "In the U.S., there are no black people, only visitors from Africa, and there is no land to farm on." Likewise, there are things I believed about Africa that turn out to be vastly incorrect. "In Africa, everyone is running around with no clothes on, toting spears, and not having an education (though this is misleading, our school watchman does have a spear with which he protects the school). Then, there are some things that turn out to be true, even if rare.

Imagine getting to work, or home, and having someone tell you, "Welcome back. Oh, by the way, there may be an enormous, venomous, angry snake somewhere in your bedroom. I thought I saw him go in there, but I couldn't find him. Have a good night!"

The other day, I was at school, when one of the teachers said, "Hey Hunter, look at that." I looked up, and over towards our administration building a few feet away, was the biggest, most existing snake I've seen outside a zoo. It was gray in color, probably six feet long (though it's possible my fear is exaggerating this number, I also think it might have been even larger), and in the process of inserting its fangs into the back of a frog. It saw us coming. A few people picked up stones. Someone ran to get a hoe. We got closer. As it saw us, it entered the administration building and, finding the headteacher's office at the back of the hall, slid underneath the door. That was the only way in, or out.

A few minutes later found about four of us, with sticks and bricks in hand, cautiously opening the headteacher's door. The headteacher was out of town, and what we found upon entering, were cabinets and bags and books, but no snake. As we lifted furniture and emptied bags, I was superficially prepared, armed with my brick, while internally thinking, "Boy, I might be in a little trouble here." But we couldn't find it. We searched everywhere, under desk and chair, and you wouldn't think a six foot snake would be hard to find, but it wasn't there. We lit a piece of tire on fire and tried to smoke it out. We stood, watching the door, waiting for it to come. It never came. "The ghost snake," some were saying. I knew I had seen it enter though, and felt foolish (and a little thankful) we couldn't find it. But what I kept thinking was, "Who's going to tell the headmistress there might be a snake in her office?" That's one welcome I hope never to get.

(As a necessary side note, I'm probably required to condemn the relentless and unprovoked killing of any animal, and there may, no doubt, be some reptilian-minded advocate that rests unhappy with our intention to kill, but a six foot snake near a school of kids mandates a hierarchy of action, and snake survival is not on the top of the list.)

All worked out though, thank God, and that night, as we left her office door open, the watchman said he saw a big snake moving off the compound, away from the office.

Lavar Burton

When I was younger, my mom used to read me this story about a caterpillar who started off small and worm-like, and who then proceeded to decimate this leaf in a scene of natural, allowable gluttony. He then took an postlunch nap, and awoke as a brilliant butterfly. The thing about caterpillars though, and the thing the book failed to mention, is that they're harbingers of pain and suffering. In Uganda, people are terrified of them. I would say that ants, snakes, and caterpillars are the three most feared organisms in the land. One type of caterpillar is large, about thumb-size, with brown and black hairs sticking out of it. Though i thankfully haven't experienced it yet (b/c I mercilessly kill every caterpillar I find), I heard those hairs burn like a thousand suns if they touch your skin. We might be sitting on the grass for a school assembly when all of a sudden, fifty girls get up screaming. A snake? no. A swarm of bees? Negative. Caterpillar on the move.

You ever watch a caterpillar move? it's kind of got this rolling, wavelike, undulation, where one end of it might be lifted in the air, and then it rolls forward, hitting again, the ground beneath (I think this is how it moves. As I said, i don't study them too long, im (and my biology professors and classmates might be ashamed of this ) more interested in eradication than observation at that point). Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel on a weekly basis. There are those days, weeks even, when I appreciate all that is about me. Im motivated to teach, start projects, and go to the roads and paths and speak the little local language i know. I'm patient with people, patient with myself, and generally happy and active. That's about the time the body pushes forward and that part of me that was so high, that enthusiasm and appreciation, is now scraping across the floor, burned by the friction that comes from a lack of understanding. I get angry at people, desiring only to be alone and in my house. I lack the motivation and even desire to be with the students. I almost search for reasons to be upset and exemplify the epitome of pride and blurred vision. In a word, I suck. Perhaps worst of all is this doubt that creeps in and this fear that Im going to come home and think. "I could have done better." I don't know what to do about this. Thankfully, God allows the caterpillar to move on, and in its turn, I find myself up again, breathing air that is fresh and filled with love. I appreciate the way my neighbor sometimes brings over sweet potatoes for me. I revel in the conversations I have with the farmhand, talking always about Manchester United football, and even appreciate the way the butt-naked kids (isn't that kid like twelve years old?!) playing in the swamp greet me in the local tongue.

I guess my only hope is that the caterpillar is constantly moving forward, towards a peaceful, loving, more accepting life, and that if seen by an on-looker, that person will be more merciful than I, and certainly more merciful than the girls I teach.

grahm crackers and milk

I was in uganda, eating grahm crackers crushed in milk when i realized, "Im in uganda, eating grahm crackers crushed in milk!" Sometimes, how good God is, and how amazing now is, eludes us amidst the constant drive for what's next. But other times, we're blessed to just stop and be in awe at what we're getting to experience, what we're getting to touch and learn and participate in.

Like the other day, we held a track competition between the freshmen and sophomore classes. Sure there were those who tried to opt out. "But Sir, we haven't been training." Or, "But Sir, Im fat from eating beans. I can't make it." But I wasn't hearing it. We gathered in the rutted, uneven pitch just next to the school's kitchen. the grass was mowed via bovine, which is to say, scattered and spotty at best, sometimes with knee-high weeds. But oh, the purity and natural elegance. The raw talent. They wind the corner, marked off by plastic chairs, of the 200, no time, no knowing exact distance, just speed, just flow. Or the peloton of the 1600. Girls who haven't been training, haven't been coached, jostling for position, hanging tight, breaking loose.

there's something to be said for those times when the grace of the being seems to illuminate, if not match, the grace of being. As i watched the students race, i saw something right, something good. but now, as i reflect on that scene, i wonder if the good wasn't just an accentuation of the good of just being here. im in Uganda!

It's definitely not exactly what i imagined. it's more, and it's less. I mean, a day here might look like such:
-wake up, read, run (get laughed at by about fifteen adults, but allow about sixty kids to laugh in a different manner while chasing me from behind (i usually smoke them though))
-bathe, go to school
-drink break tea, which is so hot i burn my tongue and then begin sweating because, "why am i drinking hot tea on the equator?"
-teach computer class to a bunch of girls who generally enjoy coming and learning (but enjoy even more trying to listen to music when i turn my back)
-teach some literature students about charles dickens, who perplexed me as a freshman but offers me a second chance here.
-eat beans

this is only up until lunch time! I mean, sure, there are many days when my enthusiasm about the above is...non existent. But perhaps that's why those times when i see what a blessing it is to be here, to be eating grahm crackers crushed in milk; when i get to stop and be amazed at how creative God is, perhaps that's why these days are so valuable.

KFC

"Higher"... "no, higher"..."okay, follow the joints, but be careful"..."That's bitter, so we throw that out"..."the head? Of course we keep the head. When I was younger my father used to tell me that the head would make me smarter, more successful in studies."

Thus, my first execution went.

It all started when a woman from across the road brought a chicken over as a present. At first, I thought about eggs and chicks and roosters strutting their stuff all over the lawn, but after discussing the matter with my neighbor, we both decided that raising the hen, allowing it time to lay and nest, just wasn't possible. the bird had to go.

A few days later, I found myself out by the burn pit, one foot on the hen's legs, another on the wings, my neighbor coaching me through the slaughter.

"neighbor, are you scared of a chicken?"
"Well," I replied, "not the chicken so much as the chicken's beak and it pecking my eyes out."

When the job was done, and the bird put down, there was only one thing to say to my neighbor:
"Dorcus, I'm a murderer!"
"Yes neighbor, yes you are."

Her lack of consoling though didn't sway me from the next procedure of preparation. The plucking, washing, and gutting. did my neighbor take satisfaction in my now soiled hands and condemned spirit? I think, perhaps too much. But a few hours later, as we ate chicken and cassava with some vegetables from the garden, that condemnation gave way to thankfulness. But if anyone ever gives me a goat or a bull for a present, Im going to let my neighbor take over.

CLOUD CITY

There's a place in the Star Wars movies called cloud city, a place hovering in the clouds, neighbored not by grass and tree but by wisps and wind, stratus and nimbus. I was in this city not long ago.

A friend convinced me it would be a good idea to climb mt. Elgon in Eastern Uganda, approximately 14,000 feet up. I've never climbed a mountain before, unless of course Mackey Mountain counts, which rises probably 30 meters high from suburban Fort Wayne and which provides ample slope for sledding in the winter. With Elgon, I really didn't know what to expect. it's like the 11th highest peak in Africa with one of the largest bases of any mountain in the world. though I didn't know what to expect, 11 hours of climbing on day one quickly taught me.

Past village and farm, over rock, creek, and mud, we climbed. Every now and then I would remember to look up and around. "This is the primary forest," our guide said, "untouched by human hands."

What we passed was pure. Forests of bamboo bending down as if to have a look at us, blue mountain ridges off in the distance, Colubus monkeys jumped from tree to tree in an effort to escape our gaze. Or perhaps, just the opposite, to catch our gaze and let us know they were still here, still free. A bird perched on a branch above us. Black at first glance, but upon flight, revealing the truest red I've ever seen, it's wings covered with the untainted color. Untouched by human hands.

Still, we climbed.

We camped the first night, cooking macaroni and cheese over the fire, yielding to the sleepless mountain nights that cold air and hard ground thrust upon us. We would wake early the next day, climb to the summit, then climb 6 hours back down to another camp.

Cloud city was the place I wanted to live. There was something...transcendent about it all, living in the clouds. We we reached the peak, Wagagai, at 4321 meters, the transcendence returned. I took deep breathes of cumulus and stratus. The water from these heavenly bodies filled my lungs and i imagined them putting a light, mountain frost on the inside of my chest cavity. When the clouds moved on, they revealed the work below. valleys and hills, small ponds, and lands that spoke of an existence that neither relied on us nor held its beauty for our appreciation.

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?"

But earthly transcendence can only last so long, and as we climbed back down, the mountain reminded us that it's still wild, untamed. the rains came, the trail turned to mud and slop, and as we fell time and time again, our guide reminded us, "You're getting the Elgon experience."

the brink

Earlier this month, when hundreds of people were gathered in the capital to watch the world cup finals at a large, public venue, multiple bombs went off, taking the lives of many, injuring many more, and leaving an unexpectant country, not know what next to expect.

I wasn't in the vicinity of the blast, not anywhere near it in fact, so I cannot say what the atmosphere of the region was even like. Also, the few newspaper reports I saw were spotty with details, and extracting a sense of the general mood, other than that of grief, proved fruitless. But the next day, hours away from the scene, in the staff room at Ikwera Girls, I was able to listen as Ugandans faced the issue of their own land, their homes, being targeted by the malevolence of faceless people.

To some Ugandans, their country is a developing world. To others, Uganda is a third world. While some, I think, hesitantly view Uganda as a different world entirely. Surely the world they see on the screen, or in the paper, or listen about on the BBC is real, but real as Oxygen is real, magnetic fields, and ocean depths. Words carried by a far away wind from a far away land. This isn't to say that Ugandans don't have hopes and dreams of touching such lands, or exploring such depths, nor does is mean they lack national pride. It's just that, at times, it's hard to imagine what's so rarely seen.

After the blast though, I think for many, they were forced to see that Uganda is a part of this world, just as much as any other land, any other people. With this come the joys of togetherness, solidarity, cohesiveness, of knowing you've not been left behind. But also with this comes the fact that the scruples, the disputes, the wars of the masses, are now also your disputes, your wars. Lives that are lost are sometimes your own. "Terrorists are now in Uganda!" one colleague said. "This Al-Queda has come to Kampala." "They're targeting us!?"

Over the next few days, there would be discussions, comments, even arguments about what Uganda should do. "We should pull away from Somalia." "No, we have a responsibility to the African Union." "Does this responsibility take precedence over having a responsibility to Uganda?" I wonder if all countries don't face these questions as they view themselves, their place in the world. I think many Ugandans are still asking questions, and rightfully so. But whether or not they'll answer them in a way that leads them to be, "A part of this world" (to quote Merry Brandybuck (or was it Pippin Took?)) with all it's joys and hopes as well as confusions, pains, and downfalls, is perhaps on the brink of an answer.

On Staying Inside

Some days, i feel like doing absolutely nothing. Actually, it's not that I feel like doing nothing, it's that I don't feel like doing...something. Maybe that something is going to the market, or teaching, or laundry, bathing.

Our Wildlife Club meets on Fridays after classes, and boy oh boy, if I felt the club wouldn't have noticed the absence of the only white man in the group, I might not have been there. The reasons for my lack of enthusiasm vary. Maybe I feel like reading, maybe I don't feel like being stared at by every passing kid, maybe I don't feel like hearing, "Sir, you don't know how to dig," every time I pick up a hoe. I don't always know the reasons why I want to stay away, and alternately, I don't always know the reasons why I go. But somehow, I found myself ankle-deep in dirt digging around tomatoes with the Wildlife Club on Friday afternoon. We were weeding our tomatoes, which the students are then selling to the school for a small profit. At first, there were only three of us, but soon, more and more students came, and before long, we were working the field better than those two guys from, Of Mice and Men. With more people, generally comes a higher chance for critique, and soon enough I heard it (although said kindly!). "Sir, let me help you. You don't really know how to dig." As my Steinbeck-acquired confidence faltered, I prepared to defend myself (and ultimately give up the hoe). But before I could say much, another student spoke up. "Ah Sir, you're doing fine. You didn't even cut yourself like I did." Simple words. But I was grateful.

As I went on working, now assigned to picking up the cut weeds, I didn't say a lot. I listened. I heard the girls working. I heard the students laughing. I heard a group of kids enjoying themselves to a degree which I don't always understand how it's possible. There are many, myself again included, that look continually on what Africa doesn't have. But I think I tend to miss all that Africa does have; and apparently, all those things which aren't here, aren't prerequisites for happiness.

I kept working, silently. In about an hour we would call it a day. I would head back home, my feet caked in dirt, sweat all over my green, Indiana University t-shirt, and with a fairly high chance of having some parasitic insect residing somewhere on my body. But I also had a happiness that I perhaps wouldn't have had, had I stayed inside.

Football

The World Cup. Where do I begin? Perhaps the best place is in the men's restroom at Ellis Park Stadium in Johannesburg on the night of the 18th.

As I stood at the stahl, taking care of business, some of the men next to me began to chant. "USA...USA...USA, USA, USA," and so we stood there, about thirty of us, some with our faces painted, some with U.S. flags draped around them like capes, some dressed as 18th century pioneers, and cheered for our country as about ten Slovenians tried fruitlessly to drowned us out.

I think that's it. I think that's a decent symbol of the type of character and pride the World Cup brings out. I don't know that I've ever felt so proud to be an American. As our national Anthem was played, my family and I screamed out the words at the top of our lungs, not to impress the British fans that surrounded us (and yes, one of my brothers did call them "Bloody Brits" in a small dispute we had), but because the World Cup brought out something deep within us, which I think might have been a pride, a thankfulness, a gratitude for the land we've been allowed to grow up in. I think a similar pride was felt in all the countrymen of the competing teams. We watched as English fans flicked us off in support for the Queen's land, heard Slovenians tell us Yanks to, "GO HOME," heard the echos of the Dutch as they boomed the voice of, "Holland...Holland...Holland" off the stadium walls, and got drenched in a shower of beer as Mexico celebrated a 2-0 victory over France.

The World Cup was more than I ever could have expected and my heart was entrenched in the game like I couldn't have anticipated. Nowhere was this as evident as in our last day in South Africa, where we sat right by the field as USA battled Slovenia. When the Yanks went down 1-0 with an early Slovenian goal, I was frustrated, angry even. Then, when they slid a second goal in, to go up 2-0, I was deflated. My family sat next to me, American flags on their backs and faces, vuvuzelas now resting silently on the ground. There were no answers at half-time. But what history remembers, sport sometimes reveals, and at the onset of the second half, the spirit of America swept through the stadium; a spirit of courage, discipline, and a never-say-die attitude. That's the sound that reverberated through the countless fans wearing red, white, and blue as our early second-half goal exploded in the back of the net. That's the aroma that wafted through Johannesburg as we tied the game with a late second-half goal, and that's the sight you could have seen had you looked into Ellis Park the night of the 18th when America struck a third straight goal in that same half. It's true, this last goal was called off on a weak foul call by the ref, but the spirit remained. As we walked out of the stadium, as red, white, and blue swamped the streets that cool evening, that's the spirit that flowed with us. For a 45 brief minutes, this spirit was accompanied by something else I've rarely seen. Absolute pandemonium!

Just Around the River's Bend

In Deuteronomy 31:6 God says that He’ll never leave us nor forsake us. I’m left though, trying to catch this elusive God like a 3rd-grader trying to catch a cold the day before the science fair (in which case he does not catch the cold, but instead, his dad pumps him full of scientific jargon like, “luminescence” and “evaporation” and tells the kid to use these words, when the kid has a hard enough time trying to use the new stand-up urinals that were recently installed at school which were clearly put in with 6th graders in mind). All this to say, that sometimes it’s hard to see God.

Other times, it’s not.

This could easily be a page written about how my house got broken into a month ago, my belongings were stolen, and I was left with a feeling of dismay, discouragement, and disillusion. Instead, this is a page written about my neighbor, Mr. Okello Alex, and how God shows up big in people sometimes.

To make a long story short, over a month had passed since my home was robbed, and though I had moved on and accepted the loss of some belongings, my neighbor had not. Unbeknownst to me, Alex continued to keep an ear open about my missing things. He let my sadness and my frustration sink into his own heart and he prayed, and thought, and though he didn’t tell me, he talked to people and searched.

When God was with the people of Israel, He manifested Himself in fire and smoke. Then, He was seen in the flesh as Christ. I think today, at times, His Spirit manifests this presence in the actions and words of His servants. Sometimes these servants mess up and don’t display His glory, but other times, we se what’s it’s like to be…somehow greater than what we currently are.

Alex came over to my house one night, late. He said he needed to talk to me. “Hunter, tonight, with my own eyes, I have witnessed your things!” He told me he had found many of my stolen items. He told me about how he had tracked down the person who had taken them, and how he had gathered the authorities (a side note about the “authorities.” Now, my brothers are never too short on things to say about the authorities, and I’m sure they would have a heyday about the ones here. Let’s just say that as the report was being written and the account told, there was clearly a bottle of gin being passed around (at 10am) that made the story more than a little contradictory) to search the house. I think he may have been happier even that I was!

Sometimes you meet people, even if it’s only briefly, whose very presence is like a fire to frozen hands, breaking you free to move and think and dream and rejoice as you haven’t in a long time. I’m grateful to Alex for the things he’s helped recover. But more than that, I’m grateful FOR Alex, and that he would never ask a 3rd-grader to use the word luminescence.

Welcome Back, Welcome Back, Welcome Back

Right when I started teaching, a girl in the front, Monica Ruth, spoke up. “Sir,” she said. “I don’t think we should have class today. We’re not very happy.” “Why is that?” I asked. But she kept quiet. Then, fifty other girls began explaining it to me all at once. The girls hadn’t done an acceptable job mopping their class, and they hadn’t picked up the grass cuttings as they had been instructed to. So they were beaten. As I listened, I noticed about one-forth of the class were on the verge of tears, if not crying already. Some of the girls had welts on their arms and legs, but I think most were just kind of emotionally shaken. So what could I do? I told them to suck it up and get their algebra work out. Ha! I did not. We didn’t have class. But this is a problem. I mean, I know about “sparing the rod and spoiling the child,” and as I look back on my own childhood I note that I wasn't exactly "spared" very often, and that might have been a good thing. But where’s the line between instructing in love and releasing anger and pride on one’s pupils? The girls will be ok, but did they really learn what that person was trying to impress upon them? Or did they only learn anger and fear and resentment? My brother has been with me here for the past week, and it’s been great. We’ve been walking to the market, he’s been riding a bike on the village roads, and the amount we’ve both been sweating has caused me to be reminiscent about being a student of one, Coach Ed Fox in Carroll High School’s wrestling room. It’s been such a blessing having him here. But if he gets out of line, I know now which person to take him to to put him back on the right path!

sickness

I cringed as I lay on the hospital bed. One hand was hidden somewhere, buried by the sweat-covered sheets that lay on top of me. The other was resting in the hand of my nurse. In the coming days, I would be treated by people from Germany, Belgium, Zimbabwe, Uganda, Great Britain, and Holland, and I would learn that as sickness is universal, so too is a heart for the sick. I had graciously been able to travel down to Kampala with the help of an amazing friend and the Peace Corps. I checked into a room at one of the nicest and most able facilities in Uganda. A facility, that is perhaps better than the free facilities in the U.S., but nowhere near the nicest hospitals in the States. I had a fever that ebbed and flowed, showing itself glaring and menacing by night, but then calm and inviting by day. When the night would return, so too would a pounding headache, weak muscles, throbbing joints, dehydration, and at times, muscle spasms. "You family is far," my nurse said. "So for now, you'll be a part of mine." I wonder what it is that makes people selfless. I wonder if its what they've been taught and raised to do, or maybe, someone else was selfless and caring towards them, and they saw how good, how rich it is. Is it our true nature? Or is it the very antithesis of our nature, and so, obtained through trial and struggle. I wonder what it is that makes friends and family 8000 miles away, even people I've never met before, pray with all they have, for something they can't even see, can't even touch. Job said that he would praise God no matter what, no matter if God gave, or took away. Sometimes though, i wonder if i don't get confused on when God is taking away, and when He is giving. Has this past week and a half been a taking away? Of health, happiness, comfort, security, warmth. Or has God been giving me assurance, peace, realization of His love through others, a reminder of his awesome power.

Sometimes, I guess, I just wish His gifts felt a little better!

I can't thank Him enough, nor can I thank those people who prayed, showed concern, thought, or even called. I was diagnosed with African Tick Bite Fever. I guess, kind of a cool name once i get though the part where I felt like death. Each day gets a little better, and though I wish this trend of getting better would go on for the rest of my life, something tells me it wont. But when it shifts, I'm thankful to know I've got friends, family, and literally a world full of people I know who are good, and caring, selfless, and kind. Thanks.

Just a little Bit

That which I’ve come to enjoy:
-A dirt path stretched under foot as I run past cattle being herded and hut roof being thatched.
-Fresh milk.
-A cucumber from the garden after a run
-The ever present sound of Ugandans laughing
-Schoolboys in bright pink school uniforms
-The old moozay who sweeps my compound, speaks no English, but is always willing to sit with me for a while.
-An afternoon rainstorm on a tin roof.
-Electricity and running water.
-The lady who recognizes me in the market and sells me good tomatoes
-Seeing quadruple the amount of stars I thought were in the sky, and wondering if this is the same sky Abraham, Moses, and David watched.
-Milk tea
-Candlelight
-The British
-That strapping 30 chickens to the handlebars of your bicycle is perfectly acceptable.
-That I never see anyone wearing a Detroit Pistons t-shirt.
-The knowledge that people can live hard lives and still be happy.
-Mangos
-An encouraging word, from someone who goes out of their way to give it.
-Watching little kids jump up and down as they pump water from the well.
-Having no clue what Im doing, but struggling to do it well.

That which I’ve come to detest:
-Flies
-Those who lack empathy and do not seek understanding, myself included.
-The smell of a hut foor that has just been smeared with cow manure
-Alcohol distilled from maize.
-Adults who attempt to make their peers laugh by running with the white guy whom they don’t understand, because it’s easier to make fun than to care.
-The word, “munu”
-Goat testicles
-Sweating in bed.
-Not knowing.
-Feeling as if you’re always the butt of jokes.
-Having no privacy.
-Not being able to watch the Lord of the Rings marathon at Christmas time.
-Questioning whether relationships are genuine.
-Not having school mascots.
-Going an entire year without hearing someone say, “Boiler Up.”
-Not being able to hug the people I love.
-The British.
-Never seeing anyone sport a really good mohawk.
-Knowing God is near, and yet missing Him completely.

I got a cat. I’ve never been a cat person, and honestly, I don’t know why I got a cat. The other day, I literally had to save Gammoudi from a tree. As if I were both an old lady and a fireman, I struggled to get him down from a branch 20 feet up at midnight. It’s been all right though. Actually, right now I have two cats as I’m taking care of my friend Mike’s cat, Tiara, as well. They’ve taken over one room of my house, they eat eggs like that Japanese guy eats hotdogs, and Im able to converse with them about as well as I was able to converse with girls in the fifth grade, which means there’s not a lot of verbal communication back and forth between us. But, I like them, Im grateful for them, and if I can train Gammoudi to cook his own eggs and wash my dishes, we’ll be in business.

A few weeks ago, I got into a big argument with the administration at my school. I had been training with about 10 of the students to run a 5k race that one of my colleagues was hosting at a nearby school. The girls were running nearly every day with me (yes, I sprinted past them at the end), worked hard, and then at the last minute, the school told me they would not pay to transport the girls the 40 kilometers to the race. I was VERY upset. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have, and some things were said about me. I don’t know why I mention this, except to say that… it’s really hard to forgive sometimes. I know that I should, but I just… can’t. I feel like this probably isn’t an unusual circumstance by any means – getting into a disagreement with one’s superiors. I just don’t know why its so hard to do what I know I should, which is let go. As far as the race, the girls didn’t go, but they were able to get t-shirts from the race, so they were about as happy as could be. I guess it all worked out. Plus, I got to absolutely dominate some girls on our 2-mile runs, so I got that little confidence booster as well. Ha!

On Beans

I got a Christmas card the other day from a friend.  In it, she wrote, “Every place, culture, and community of people has their won special qualities.”  As I read this, I was sitting outside my house under the shade cast by the overhanging of my tin roof.  I thought about this statement, and wondered what qualities I was getting to experience.  At the time, it was 95 degrees F, and the way I was swatting away flies looked as if I was creating a new dance routine for those dancing, magic brooms in fantasia.  Just then, two girls rode by on their bicycles.  They both had on the uniform of the school nearby, long green skirts and blue t-shirts (though the one girl had on a sweater…ridiculous).  They were probably headed to the well to fetch water, or maybe on their way home to start the charcoal fire and cook for a family of twelve.  Past them there was a dried field of maize.  I can remember just a few months ago when that maize was being planted.  The field was dug by four women and a man, over the span of a few mornings.  The field was weeded, planted, and after the rains came and the months past, harvested, leaving only a few, lonely stalks to become a dry, golden color, and whither to die.  We haven’t had rain for months.  Actually, we’ve had a good rainfall exactly once this year.   Everything is dry and eagerly expecting the sky to burst open soon.  Yesterday, it looked like that time had finally come.  We heard a cracking overhead, and rain began to fall in large, solitary drops.  I was standing with one of the sisters and she began to shout for joy.  I asked her if she wanted to hurry and take cover, but she was too busy celebrating to take cover.  It looked now as if the heavens would tend her garden.  But the celebration was short lived as the drops ceased and the clouds blew elsewhere.  Just before I had come to my house to sit in the shade, I had been in the staff room at school eating lunch.  The school provides lunch each day.  We eat posho (ground maize flour) every day except on Wednesdays, when we get goat meat also.  I put the posho on the bottom of my plate, then placed the beans on top, one scoop, two scoops, three.  My plate was a mountain of beans.  Sometimes we have black beans, but this day, we had the red ones.  They were still hot, but I couldn’t wait.  I dove in, temporarily burning myself in the process.  One might think that day after day of posho and beans would get tiring, tedious, tumultuous, and temporarily tasteless, but this is not the case.  Not one member of the staff complains about this culinary redundancy.  Maybe they’re grateful, understanding, or just plain hungry, but people generally seem content.  Perhaps this is one of those special qualities my friend was talking about in her letter, an understanding that things could be worse, even if they could be better also; to have to fetch water, endure 100 degree heat day after day, and the same meal, posho and beans, for lunch, and probably for dinner also, and be completely satisfied.

 

I found out recently that a kid at the high school I graduated from, a kid I know, just won the Indiana high school state wrestling championships.  I was thinking about what this kid (lets call him Brock-because that’s his name) might be thinking about that night as he goes to sleep.  I was trying to imagine his emotions, and the emotions of those around him.  I would guess that he thinks that this state championship is the biggest thing in the world right now.  I would guess that everyone he runs into right now has heard and congratulates him, and so, he might think that everyone around him has heard and cares and places value on this tremendous act of discipline and desire and, frankly, courage.  Then I think about Africa.  I think about the health center 800 meters away, where people are suffering with malaria and HIV.  It’s midnight here, and the rain’s beginning to pound overhead.  Finally, the dry season appears to have broken.  I think about the people all around who have waited on this rain, who rely on this rain, who would have gone hungry had this rain not come.  These people don’t know anything about Brock’s achievement.  Some people, if they were to hold these two up to the light, would make claim that a state championship pales in comparison to having the pertinence and emphasis that needs to be placed on those suffering in Africa.  Some would say that the elation of getting your hand raised in the air at the end of a wrestling match is not but a blinder to the dejection facing many people around the world.  I however, am not one of these people.  It is true that I am not one of these hungry or sick or dying, and Im thankful to God that neither is my family.  Instead, Im a third person perspective.  I know all too little about the dedication and commitment involved in Brock’s achievement.  But I know much about the hope of a dream.  I know that standing alone at the top can only mean on thing, you’re alone.  You’ve done what no one else could, and though frustration, pain, discouragement, and struggle seemed, at times, the only ones near, hope has now replaced that with an all-encompassing joy.  And if a joy of this nature cannot be felt.  If a joy of this magnitude is told it’s “not important.”  If a joy of this incomprehensibility is tried to be quieted and squashed, then I would ask, what is it that those who are sick have to pursue life for?  What is it that is worth hoping for?  This joy comes in different forms and in different arenas.  For Brock, I imagine, this joy has come to him within the arena of a gladiator’s coliseum, and he shouldn’t let anything or anybody take that joy or tell him it’s not significant or lasting.  Some might say that, compared to the oceans, the Nile is feeble and small.  But these people would be missing the power of the Nile’s many falls and rapids, the love of it storied past, the nourishment of its provisional present, and the flat fact that it’s because of the Nile that the oceans hold much of their greatness.  When Brock got his hand raised in that state championship match, thousands saw. But Im convinced that the shock waves of hope and inspiration that reverberated from that same action, can, and hopefully will, touch many, many more.  Though still, even if no one else saw, or knew, or heard, the action would be significant because of it’s meaning alone to one guy.  Do your thing Brock.  Africa supports it.  

bottles and cans just clap your hands

Christmas has come and passed. I saw apes. My aunt and brother came out! but really, we did see gorillas. we went trekking through the "impenetrable forest," jungle all around, thick, with no path, steep, muddy slopes, an unannounced humidity, and a guy named Sunday bushwhacking through the growth with a small machete. After an hour of this, we saw them. A family of five. Videos ad television do a good job at relaying their likeness, but being that close to them, just a few feet away, it was surreal. honestly, it didn't seem real. I mean, it didn't seem like these giant, docile, rare, beautiful creatures were real. either that, or it was i who wasn't real. I wasn't really there, i was still at home, watching this on the screen. Yet, I know we were there. When the silverback reached out his massive hand to tear down a tree and eat the leaves from the top, I could have almost leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Eat Neeko, it'll save the trees." But all I could do instead was stand there, smiling, and manage to take a few photos now and then (yes, i did get a photo of a certain younger brother flicking off some chimpanzees). But in all honesty, what magnificence. To look out through an opening in the canopy and see just vegetation, dense vegetation, all around, and then to realize that within this blanket of green, lived such massive and mysterious animals as the gorillas we were standing amidst...surreal. awe-invoking.

new years...i don't know how to explain. i met some other pc volunteers in a part of the country with beautiful waterfalls and peacefulness. i thought then, that the new years celebration would take on this form as well. Yet, as midnight came, i found myself embracing about 30 ugandans in a local house party or something like it. i actually know exactly how we ended up there, and there's only one man to blame. i wont forget.

though the celebration was loud, the new year has since been quiet. the students don't report until february and many of the teachers that live nearby have gone to their home villages. I since have realized that an African night can be brilliantly uncertain. The brilliance comes in with stars I've never seen and a sky that's governed by a depth I've never noticed. The uncertainty comes when I realize, some nights, that I really don't know what's out there in that darkness. The noises aren't of those I grew up with. Knowledge of what's just passed my sight is, perhaps, as unknown as the fact that there was a 300 lb gorilla in a tree above me that I never saw until her round, black body ambled ably down the trunk i stood by.