tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12021456549205837182024-03-21T06:25:59.622-07:00You gone da? No, Ugandahphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-59365009576557143902011-05-26T15:13:00.000-07:002011-05-26T15:36:37.524-07:00out of africa"I had a farm in Africa" - perhaps, one of the things i miss most is beauty. i know that i glamorize it a bit, that i remember the good and forget the bad, but is that so wrong? is it so wrong to remember the greens and blues and grays of the rainy season? to remember the thatched grass huts build up in a circle, or the people living within. i can hear the rain as it falls through the sky and i know that somewhere a boy is hurrying to drive the cattle home or at least under one of the far reaching trees on the plains. at home, people have taken shelter under the overhangs of their houses, or are gathered together, eating lunch as a family in a hut that's open to the air and cool breeze that accompany the rains. they eat together the maize and beans and leafy greens which they themselves have grown. their own hands planted the seeds a season ago. they dug the field and tended to it, going out every morning and evening, because their very lives depend on it. they lift their heads to the heavens, knowing they can only do so much. if these rains weren't here, the food and life wouldn't be either. life isn't guaranteed. at times even, life relies on the lifeless, and all too often, life becomes that which it relies upon. there's a celebration then, under that open hut, a celebration of family and work and rain and of life itself. "When the gods are angry with us, they answer our prayers," and the comfort and security and life that we think will make us so much happier break us from the bond of celebration that accompanies a simple meal of beans and maize. thunder cracks over head, a dirt floor turns to slick mud under bare feet.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-18258199523518841582011-03-26T07:31:00.000-07:002011-03-26T07:57:35.047-07:00an endingBefore i came to Uganda I was captivated by the rareness and mysterious beauty of Africa. Even the idea of Africa brought to mind a primitiave substance, an untouched life and vibration, a purity that nowhere else in the world had. I pictured the roaring lion, the painted warrior, the tribal fire. <br /><br />Then i came to Africa. What I've seen is not what I expected. I haven't joined in the tribal hunt or trecked through the overgrown bush. I've ridden a bicycle through a town with electricity, taught Charles Dickens and Microsoft Word. I've watched soccer being broadcast from England and heard news coming from China. I guess what I expected was a land untouched, allowed to grow and change with the dynamics of its own rhythm. I thought I'd see a people unaware of the world and more aware of themselves than anyone I'd ever met.<br /><br />What I got was different. I got a school full of kids who wanted to know, who were willing to give me a chnace. I got a community who took me in, who laughed at me, but also laughed with me. I got a group of friends who invited me into their homes, who were willing to travel long distances with me so that i might just meet their friends and family. I got a village full of kids who yell my name in frightened ecstasy when I run by. I got a taste of foods, languages, and people I could never have imagined. <br /><br />What I'm trying to say is, I came out here because of a mystic, because of a circle of life I thought I was entering into. But it wasn't there, at least not for me, or how I expected. After two years of living in a place that's more or less completely different than what I dreamt, I've learned this: This place has that mystic, that rare beauty, and it's more present and more abundant than I had ever hoped.<br />_________________<br /><br />I'll tell you what Im afriad of. I mean, what I'm really fearful of. I'm afriad that, everyday countless people pass by me going to the market or to visit a friend in the village, and it's beautiful. I'm afriad that each evening the sun seems to set over this green and brown land where the dusk stirs up insects and the music of man can be heard just across the swamp. Every morning, the kids walk, or run, or wrestle towards school and when they get just past my gate they stop, peak through the bushes as the white man and think I can't see them. I'm afriad that every morning, without fail, the same, hideous-looking chicken comes up to my lawn, pecking for insects and defecating in the same place, and I scare him away. I'm afriad that there's something so kind and true and selfless in the way that people invite me into their homes, spend time talking with me, and are genuinelly happy when I get to meet their family. I'm afraid that all this is true...and that I'm missing it.<br /><br />As my time in Uganda draws to a close, I constantly find myself thinking of different places and different faces. I have to bring myself back to the here and now and try desperately to take hold of it while I still can. I begin to wonder if my mind and heart haven't been constantly wandering for the past two years. I listened to a man speak of place recently. He spoke about how we tend constantly to be looking for the "right place," or looking towards, "the next place," and all the time missing the fact that the best place for us, for now, is where we are. This isn't to breed complacency or lack of striving, but contentment, then appreciation, then peace.<br /><br />When I just stop for a few minutes, when I pull in my thoughts and let them rest on the now, I realize how <span style="font-style: italic;">amazing</span> this place is. <br /><br />I was on the bus the other day, looking around me, and realized what a love for color this place has. I was sitting in my standard soft green shirt and khaki trousers, but all around me were people in bright greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Heck, half the shops in town are painted either bright yellow or bright pink! There is life here in the midst of the seemingly toilsome monoteny of waking up, farming, caring for the house, and farming again. There's something unique. Maybe it has to do with the reliance and connection to the earth. Maybe it has to do with the family of eight or ten or twelve all staying together; all doing their part. I don't know. I don't claim to know why exactly or from where this subtle, sustained glow comes from. But i do know, that very soon, there a chance i wont get to see it anymore, and I desperately want it to take hold of me and change me while there's still time.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-22939795959500154392011-03-19T05:44:00.000-07:002011-03-19T06:26:42.368-07:00get jiggy with itWhen the students dance, they dance. Three drums in the center, a tall skinny one, a medium sized one, and a wide, fat one that's barely off the ground. Three different beats, coalescing into one rhythm, one movement.<br /><br />A multicolored wrap from chest to knee circles each body. A ruffled cloth hangs down from behind the waist. Their shoes are off, the ground is hard and dusty underfoot. The medium sized drum begins, establishing the beat and so the type of dance. The faster the beat, the more the girls move and jump and bob. the other two drums join in. by this time, the dance is established. A leader has emerged from the group and directs the rest of the group where to go and what to do. Form a line here, now circle around the drums, now break into two. If one was to watch only the upper torso, the dance might look commonplace, rather reserved even. But the hips and the feet tell a different story. The bare feet pound the earth in unison. Two steps here, one there, jump, now back together. As they slam back to earth, the dust rises. It's an ankle high fog at first, but the dance continues. The fog rises, and soon, the cloud of dust is part of the dance, commanded up by the drums. All this time, hips flay in wild ecstasy. The ruffled fabric vibrates back and forth at a quickened, continuous rate, the multicolored wraps and fabrics blending into one wave of sound.<br /><br />It's emotion. Some of it is scripted and directed by the leader, but the looks of happiness on the girls' faces reveals the truer tale, a tale of losing one's self to a higher feeling. Why is it they take so much pleasure in dancing, I wonder? Why is it they're able to revel in the heat and motion of the drum when so many other people, who are seemingly more "well-to-do" than these students, just aren't? I wonder what it is they're celebrating exactly. i mean, I know the purpose of the occasion, but what's the origin of the emotion? Where is this joy coming from?<br /><br />Before a while, the dancers exit. The leader comes back into the center, and in one final beat, dictates the drums when to cease. Under the setting sun, the dancers have sweat and grown tired. But oddly, I get the sense that it's for us, the spectator's sake, that the dancers have stopped. I get the feeling they could have kept going, gone on into night in fact. But they concede for our sake. I guess I could write that when the drums stop the dancers snap out of the hypnotic trance and back into reality. Perhaps though, they've been in reality this whole time.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-78022587325912805392011-01-24T06:35:00.000-08:002011-01-24T06:57:27.946-08:00Kung Pow Chickenmy little brother and i sat at a restaurant table facing a big window that looked out at one of the Shanghai malls. people passed. then more people passed. an endless river of persons, which the world had come to see as one body: china<br /><br />we spent the new year in Shanghai visiting my father, and perhaps the most reoccurring inhabitant in my eyes was the reoccurring inhabitants. no matter where we went: the underground tram, the business and shopping centers, even just stepping out into the street, the people molded into one mass, each with his or her own destination, but moving there together.<br /><br />In uganda, we have a few areas, especially in the capital that are like this; where one has to push and slide through if one wants to move. but it was different in Shanghai. In Uganda, no matter where you are, the busy city or the seemingly lonely village, there are eyes peering at you. Normally the eyes belong to a small boy or girl, silently and curiously looking from behind his mother or around some tall grasses. He's looking at this strange singularity he's never seen. You're interesting, whether you want to be or not. But in China, I wasn't interesting. Though we might have been the only three foreigners on the street or in the metro, no one seemed to notice. I could look around at all the surrounding eyes, and for the first time in a long time, none of those eyes were looking back. I don't know how I feel about this. It's peaceful, easy, but strangely individual and alone also, i think. Every one's doing his or her own thing, and you should too. Maybe i never noticed it before, but when you see that person looking at you, you realize they're silently inquiring, wondering about you, and though oftentimes it certainly seems invasive, like an attack on your privacy, before you know it, you're wondering about them too. You're aware of another, and maybe that's a good thing.<br /><br />my brother and i spent a little over a week in Shanghai. we rode to the top of Pearl Tower and looked out at a city as vast and busy as I've even seen. Dad took us to The Bund, a cityscape stretched out across the entire horizon, bordered by the freight and steam slowly drifting off a snaking river. We climbed the stone steps of a Buddhist temple, lit incense, and watched as an aroma of ancient transcendence and unswerving devotion wafted through the shrines. We rode the underground metro to wherever it would take us: Shanghai University, the Museum of Science and Industry, a community of houses and shops where people much like us lived lives that probably weren't all that different either. <br /><br />For lunch, Neeko and I would find the smallest noodle shop possible, point to the picture of what we wanted, and slurp noodles gripped between struggling chop sticks. For dinner, Dad would take us to eat at the best restaurants I've even eaten at (yes, even better than the peanut butter sandwich which served as my staple food for the past decade). Glistening chicken bathed in flavor, vegies cooked in garlic and butter, dumplings and Saki that made me smile in more ways than one!<br /><br />But better than all, and continuing to be one of the most amazing facets of life no matter where it congeals, I got to spend time with my family. Riding the metro, watching TV, sprinting to the nearest restroom, it's always more with the fam. But the dumplings were a close second. Kung Pow!hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-62853334918993847042010-12-16T04:30:00.000-08:002010-12-16T05:10:54.687-08:00Cut That MeatAbout 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<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-33256021996795285372010-11-27T03:02:00.000-08:002010-11-27T03:21:24.756-08:00friend to sheer khanSometimes, 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.<br /><br />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!"<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">the</span> biggest, most existing snake I've seen outside a zoo. It was gray in color, probably six <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">feet</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">headteacher's</span> office at the back of the hall, slid underneath the door. That was the only way in, or out.<br /><br />A few minutes later found about four of us, with sticks and bricks in hand, cautiously opening the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">headteacher's</span> 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. <br /><br />(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.)<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-2110655470554438812010-10-27T11:59:00.001-07:002010-10-27T12:24:38.102-07:00Lavar BurtonWhen 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-78018143731755666282010-10-02T03:15:00.000-07:002010-10-02T03:57:50.625-07:00grahm crackers and milkI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />It's definitely not exactly what i imagined. it's more, and it's less. I mean, a day here might look like such:<br />-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))<br />-bathe, go to school<br />-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?"<br />-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)<br />-teach some literature students about charles dickens, who perplexed me as a freshman but offers me a second chance here.<br />-eat beans<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-35502197466871320922010-09-11T03:20:00.000-07:002010-09-11T03:29:45.178-07:00KFC"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."<br /><br />Thus, my first execution went.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"neighbor, are you scared of a chicken?"<br />"Well," I replied, "not the chicken so much as the chicken's beak and it pecking my eyes out."<br /><br />When the job was done, and the bird put down, there was only one thing to say to my neighbor: <br />"Dorcus, I'm a murderer!"<br />"Yes neighbor, yes you are."<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-49090742737429348412010-09-01T04:06:00.000-07:002010-09-01T04:26:18.759-07:00CLOUD CITYThere'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Still, we climbed.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />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."hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-59907738928938279602010-07-31T03:07:00.000-07:002010-07-31T03:35:39.161-07:00the brinkEarlier 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!?"<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-78244824395030499002010-07-04T01:19:00.000-07:002010-07-04T01:33:06.044-07:00On Staying InsideSome 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">doesn't</span> have. But I think I tend to miss all that Africa <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> have; and apparently, all those things which aren't here, aren't prerequisites for happiness. <br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-40956953214665421062010-06-20T05:55:00.000-07:002010-06-20T06:26:45.434-07:00FootballThe 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-57757375845688221772010-06-06T00:59:00.000-07:002010-06-06T01:08:56.675-07:00Just Around the River's BendIn 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.<br /><br />Other times, it’s not.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Welcome Back, Welcome Back, Welcome Back<br /><br />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!hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-33187958255677880892010-05-03T00:21:00.000-07:002010-05-03T00:38:38.729-07:00sicknessI 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.<br /><br />Sometimes, I guess, I just wish His gifts felt a little better!<br /><br />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.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-33065948088031962732010-04-16T06:08:00.000-07:002010-04-16T06:14:23.466-07:00Just a little BitThat which I’ve come to enjoy:<br />-A dirt path stretched under foot as I run past cattle being herded and hut roof being thatched.<br />-Fresh milk.<br />-A cucumber from the garden after a run<br />-The ever present sound of Ugandans laughing<br />-Schoolboys in bright pink school uniforms<br />-The old moozay who sweeps my compound, speaks no English, but is always willing to sit with me for a while.<br />-An afternoon rainstorm on a tin roof.<br />-Electricity and running water.<br />-The lady who recognizes me in the market and sells me good tomatoes<br />-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.<br />-Milk tea<br />-Candlelight<br />-The British<br />-That strapping 30 chickens to the handlebars of your bicycle is perfectly acceptable.<br />-That I never see anyone wearing a Detroit Pistons t-shirt.<br />-The knowledge that people can live hard lives and still be happy.<br />-Mangos<br />-An encouraging word, from someone who goes out of their way to give it.<br />-Watching little kids jump up and down as they pump water from the well.<br />-Having no clue what Im doing, but struggling to do it well.<br /><br />That which I’ve come to detest:<br />-Flies<br />-Those who lack empathy and do not seek understanding, myself included.<br />-The smell of a hut foor that has just been smeared with cow manure<br />-Alcohol distilled from maize.<br />-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.<br />-The word, “munu”<br />-Goat testicles<br />-Sweating in bed.<br />-Not knowing.<br />-Feeling as if you’re always the butt of jokes.<br />-Having no privacy.<br />-Not being able to watch the Lord of the Rings marathon at Christmas time.<br />-Questioning whether relationships are genuine.<br />-Not having school mascots.<br />-Going an entire year without hearing someone say, “Boiler Up.”<br />-Not being able to hug the people I love.<br />-The British.<br />-Never seeing anyone sport a really good mohawk.<br />-Knowing God is near, and yet missing Him completely.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-36628724148000550622010-02-26T06:53:00.000-08:002010-02-26T06:58:44.758-08:00On Beans<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I got a Christmas card the other day from a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In it, she wrote, “Every place, culture, and community of people has their won special qualities.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As I read this, I was sitting outside my house under the shade cast by the overhanging of my tin roof. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thought about this statement, and wondered what qualities I was getting to experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just then, two girls rode by on their bicycles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Past them there was a dried field of maize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can remember just a few months ago when that maize was being planted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The field was dug by four women and a man, over the span of a few mornings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We haven’t had rain for months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Actually, we’ve had a good rainfall exactly once this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everything is dry and eagerly expecting the sky to burst open soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yesterday, it looked like that time had finally come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We heard a cracking overhead, and rain began to fall in large, solitary drops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was standing with one of the sisters and she began to shout for joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I asked her if she wanted to hurry and take cover, but she was too busy celebrating to take cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It looked now as if the heavens would tend her garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But the celebration was short lived as the drops ceased and the clouds blew elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just before I had come to my house to sit in the shade, I had been in the staff room at school eating lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The school provides lunch each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We eat posho (ground maize flour) every day except on Wednesdays, when we get goat meat also.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I put the posho on the bottom of my plate, then placed the beans on top, one scoop, two scoops, three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My plate was a mountain of beans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sometimes we have black beans, but this day, we had the red ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They were still hot, but I couldn’t wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I dove in, temporarily burning myself in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not one member of the staff complains about this culinary redundancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe they’re grateful, understanding, or just plain hungry, but people generally seem content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was trying to imagine his emotions, and the emotions of those around him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I would guess that he thinks that this state championship is the biggest thing in the world right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then I think about Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I think about the health center 800 meters away, where people are suffering with malaria and HIV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s midnight here, and the rain’s beginning to pound overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Finally, the dry season appears to have broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These people don’t know anything about Brock’s achievement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I however, am not one of these people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Instead, Im a third person perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know all too little about the dedication and commitment involved in Brock’s achievement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I know much about the hope of a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know that standing alone at the top can only mean on thing, you’re alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And if a joy of this nature cannot be felt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If a joy of this magnitude is told it’s “not important.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What is it that is worth hoping for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This joy comes in different forms and in different arenas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some might say that, compared to the oceans, the Nile is feeble and small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Do your thing Brock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Africa supports it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-39342887421801830902010-01-13T04:38:00.000-08:002010-01-13T05:19:24.273-08:00bottles and cans just clap your handsChristmas has come and passed. I saw apes. My aunt and brother came out! but really, we did see gorillas. we went <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">trekking</span> through the "impenetrable forest," jungle all around, thick, with no path, steep, muddy slopes, an unannounced humidity, and a guy named Sunday bushwhacking through <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">the</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">being</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">these</span> giant, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">docile</span>, rare, beautiful creatures <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">wer</span>e real. either that, or it was i who wasn't real. I wasn't really there, i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">was</span> still at home, watching this on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">the</span> screen. Yet, I know we were there. When the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">silverback</span> reached out his massive hand to tear down a tree and eat <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">the</span> leaves from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">the</span> top, I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">could</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">have</span> almost leaned over an<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">d whispered</span> in his ear, "Eat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Neeko</span>, 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">brother</span> flicking off some chimpanzees). But in all honesty, what magnificence. To look out through an opening in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">the</span> canopy and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">see</span> just vegetation, dense vegetation, all around, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">and</span> then to realize that within this blanket of green, lived such massive and mysterious animals as the gorillas we were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">standing</span> amidst...surreal. awe-invoking.<br /><br />new years...i don't <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">know</span> how to explain. i met some other <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">pc</span> volunteers in a part of the country with beautiful waterfalls and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">peacefulness</span>. i thought then, that the new years celebration would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">take</span> on this form as well. Yet, as midnight came, i found myself embracing about 30 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">ugandans</span> 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.<br /><br />though the celebration was loud, the new year has since been quiet. the students don't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">report</span> until <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">february</span> and many of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">teachers</span> that live <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">nearby</span> have gone to their home villages. I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">since have</span> realized that an African night <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">can</span> be brilliantly uncertain. The brilliance comes in with stars I've never seen and a sky that's governed by a depth <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">I've</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">never</span> saw until her round, black body ambled ably down the trunk i stood by.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-40819419283894858672009-12-22T03:22:00.000-08:002009-12-22T04:08:11.315-08:00---I haven't written in a while and i think there's a reason for that. the reason is not because of lack of internet, as i have had multiple opportunities in the past month of posting. i think, instead, that the reason is, steadiness. i didn't write about my life in the states, not because there weren't stories to share, but because it is my life, and perhaps i felt people wouldn't be interested in hearing of something that had been steadily moving on since september 13, 1984 ( i use steady in a loose sense as it has certainly had it's turbulence). but when i came here, that life, that steady movement (though at times chaotic) seemed interrupted, incongruous with normal movement, and so i wrote. but ive been here over 10 months now, i've been a part of marriage celebrations and death ceremonies, graduations and retirements, and it feels like life, steady, congruent, life. this is not to say that there aren't stories to share or that i wont continue to do my best to recall them, just that, at first, though i felt a little transplanted, maybe im starting to get the sense of having roots here in this fertile ugandan soil. <br /><br />now for a story! Christmas is coming, and how does a family that lives in a grass thatched hut celebrate? with fury. even just speaking to some of the people here, i think the whole week surrounding the 25th will be a big party. family will come from their various locations, there will be some gifts of sweets for the kids, and there will be meat! whenever there's meat it means there was a slaughtering, and whenever there's a slaughtering, aside from the butcher's place, there's a celebration. kind of makes the next trip to arby's to get a roast beef sandwich a little more enjoyable. though don't get me wrong, a beef-n-chedder sandwich is always a little exciting. <br /><br />speaking of celebrations, i spent quite a night a few weeks ago at a wedding ceremony. to make a short story out of a long night, lets just say i found myself drinking home-brewed wine out of a 10-gallon paint bucket using a 3 foot straw that was then used by 20 other men sitting in a circle around this same bucket. no, i do not condone this. <br /><br />What's in a name- here is a brief list of some of the names of the students in my class (they put the surname first):<br /><br />abeja oliver, abua scovia, acen lydia grace, aceng dorine, aceng jackline, acio nancy, achola rose mary, adit sandra, ajok flavia, ajwang teddy, akao babra, akello paska, akello sarah, akullo linda, akullo branda, akullu jackline, akullu sharron, alela gladys, among harriet, amuge eresta joan, amuno monica, angom robinah, apio brenda, apio immaculate, arao susan, atim leah, atim naume, atit loyce, atoo rebecca, atyang stella desire, tino racheal, koli hope, epol nighty.<br /><br />no, i was not being partial to one letter. yes, i would like you to pray for these girls. yes, there are about 60 more girls with surnames beginning with the letter "a" that i could have listed. (the boys typically have a surname that begins with "o")hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-54891707642467237492009-11-11T01:04:00.000-08:002009-11-11T01:23:40.954-08:00fireWe sat in a makeshift tent made just a few hours earlier using logs and a tarp. the side of the tent was open to the night air, but a thick darkness had fallen, such that all i could see were the glowing ambers of the fire a few feet away, and the faces of those immediately next to me, lit by the shine of the lantern. That i know of, there are only two circumstances in Uganda that cause someone to build a fire ouside their home; cooking and burial. <br /><br />A few weeks earlier, our head-woman teacher had done to the hospital feeling ill. She was pregnant, and recently, hadn't even the strength to rise out of bed. The dependents that she took care of had recently been taking care of her. But the illness grew severe. Madame had no children of her own, she had given birth twice before, but both children had passed away before reaching even 1 year old. This was the third time she was pregnant and it seemed her body was rejecting this child, this offspring that is of so much value to the African culture.<br /><br />At about 8pm, the sky now fully black, 300 girls begin to sing hymns and songs of praise at the home of the late Madame Rester. The songs are in Luo, and I pick only a few, random words; "pray for us", "peace", "Lord", "I believe". I think of the destination of these words, rising up from an unknown village in an unknown land, from lips that many never even think about, to a God that people spend their whole lives thinking about. It seems fitting that He should be the only one to hear and the only one whose gaze can pierce this dense night to view the hearts of all gathered. <br /><br />We first heard, about a week ago, that Madame's baby had passed away while giving birth. The mother had lost a lot of blood. She was receiving transfusions, but her health and recovery were still hopeful. There were whispers of AIDS in the air though. People had gone to visit her, the school community gathered around to suport her, it even seemed she was doing better. A week later, I heard she was on life support. A day later, the vice principal called a meeting to say she had passed. <br /><br />The fire was lit.<br /><br />I don't know what to write about really. My thoughts are many, but lacking. I think about the care she received in the hospital and how blessed we are in the States. I think about how so many Ugandans want to see the U.S.A., and about how so few get the chance to go beyond the dirt roads of their village. I think about how some people must view the African people, as less civilized, less compassionate, and less immersed in the spirit; but then i remember the grief and sorrow and people affected by this death. I think about the deaths I've experienced in my own life and how death always seems so...permanently fake.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-77493083751096610712009-10-30T01:42:00.000-07:002009-10-31T10:30:58.407-07:00hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-12153662640547635652009-10-30T01:14:00.000-07:002009-10-30T01:34:53.050-07:00getting jiggy with itthere has been a wide range of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">activities</span> and pleasures and struggles over these last weeks. i can't remember if i mentioned the life skills day we held at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">the</span> school last month. a few other <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pc</span> volunteers came to the school and taught the students about making beads, HIV/AIDS, women's sanitation, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">and</span> goal setting. the volunteers were awesome and it was a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pleasure</span> to see the girls making bead necklaces out of magazines and to hear them singing songs while working. in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hiv</span>/aids class, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">the</span> girls asked questions <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">that</span> prompted thought and more questions. there are many myths that surround these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">topics</span> and you could see them <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">enlodged</span> within some of the questions. "can having sex with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">virgin</span> cure <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">hiv</span>?" "does it cause immediate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">death</span>?" "can <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">bathing</span> in milk prevent pregnancy?" the list of confusions and questions goes on. at first, maybe i thought these questions comically unreal. but don't we even have misconceptions? In 20 years, will we look on some of our own practices as unreasonably unsound? I think the questions reveal a great need and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Im</span> happy my friends were there to help.<br /><br />we (the us peace corps-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">uganda</span>) played the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">british</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">volunteers</span> in football/soccer one weekend. we might be the greatest team even assembled. the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">british</span> had our backs against <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">the</span> wall early as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">they</span> put in the first goal. however, we responded by putting in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">the</span> next 5 goals. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">im</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">going</span> to use some foul language in the next <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">sentence</span>, so take the women and children away, but its necessary. i thought the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">british</span> might beat <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">the</span> "bloody" piss out of us, but no sir, we dropped the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">chalupa</span> on them.<br /><br />we formed a wildlife club at school. so far, we've planted a bunch of flowers and planted some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">jackfruit</span> trees (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">jackfruits</span> are a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">delicious</span> little item <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">ive</span> never seen in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">the</span> states but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">wouldn't</span>' mind picking up at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">krogers</span> sometime).<br /><br />i had an interesting conversation about the death <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">sentence</span> here in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">uganda</span>. try these on for size: hanging, firing squad, and the recently abolished <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">guillotine</span>.<br /><br />in the education system here, at the end of the high <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">school</span> years, all <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">the</span> students take national exams. its a pretty intense couple of weeks where <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">students</span> have about 2 exams a day which sometimes includes science practicals. all <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">the</span> students in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">uganda</span> take the same exams at the same point in time. for example, on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Tuesday</span>, at 9am, all <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">the</span> seniors in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">uganda</span> might be having a paper on the geography of e. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">africa</span>. at 11am, the exam must be over, and then that paper is finished throughout the country. the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">result</span> of these exams determines, not only whether or not the students can continue in their schooling, but also what subjects <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">students</span> can study. if you really like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">English</span>, but scored high in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">sciences</span> and not the arts, you may be required to study science. because of the impact these exams have on the future of the students, there is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">obviously</span> a lot of tension and a lot of secrecy surrounding these exams. those <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">who</span> write the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">questions</span> are actually locked in a resort following the completion of writing the exams to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">eliminate</span> leaks on what the paper <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">topics</span> may be on. for example, if it came out that the biology practical was going to be on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">the</span> parts of a flower, this would seriously alter the true results that may have <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">occurred</span>, as students are now all prepared for the flower. <br /><br />the sciences tend to be a big struggle for our seniors. recently, some decided <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">that</span> the upcoming physics exam wasn't even worth studying for. instead, they broke school rules and left the compound <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">while</span> others studied. those who left...yeah, they were punished with the cane.<br /><br />we've been <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">talking</span> about sex ed in some of my classes. when i was in 5<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">th</span> grade, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">mr</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">snyder</span> talked to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">the</span> class about wearing deodorant. i think i was a little awkward even then. boy, if i could have seen myself 15 years later and heard what i would be talking about at an all girls school, i definitely would have peed my pants.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-41606562919135275662009-10-05T09:55:00.000-07:002009-10-05T09:57:00.553-07:00<div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a 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/></a></div>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-21719467029427413062009-09-25T03:36:00.000-07:002009-09-25T03:57:32.980-07:00just jonesinthere are people that need a ship. hurt, hungry, tired, full of anger, lust, pride, fear, sorrow...whatever. they need a ship to cross waters and get help in these endeavors. so you decide to build. you do this selflessly, for reasons that are pure and kind, unbiased, and without any hidden agenda. the problem is, you don't have any idea how to properly build a boat. the people see you building, they revel in ecstasy, they thank God for putting you there to help. their hopes are becoming reality. the day comes, the boat's complete, ostensibly it even looks seaworthy, almost even storm-tested. the people climb aboard, taking with, their pride, humbleness, anger, selflessness, uncertainty, and all the other belongings which are theirs. when they get out to sea though, out to the deepest depths, your workmanship, or lack there-of, shows. one leek, two, three, flowing water, wet ankles, knees, hips, and no life rafts. the water is cold, the expanse is far. what happens to you? your intentions were good. you did it for all the right reasons. but honestly, do these reasons mean...anything? you just killed women, children, men, and the heritage they may have one day left. your reasons are dull, flat, minuscule in comparison to the deadly ignorance your arrogance and "goodwill" let build that ship. because, the fact is, you had no business building. you are a fake. even though no one else stepped up to build, even though no one forced the people on that ship, your blame fails to lessen, fails to be clouded over by the title of this "volunteer humanitarian." you cost people hope. you cost people lives.<br /><br />there are people who need a boat here. i don't know how to build one. yet, sometimes i feel like im trying. someone once wrote, "He who strives to be of use in this world soon burdens the people with his own insufficiency." i haven't figured these things out.<br /><br />i read somewhere that, "if you leave out all the details, everyone's life is interesting." despite the validity, or lack there-of, of this statement, i think that subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, i've been trying to leave out some of the details in hopes of keeping this an interesting read, but i don't know if that's the most effective technique for displaying reality. im sitting in the township writing this. the township is a single stretch of dirt road, about a kilometer long, with single story buildings lined up on either side. the buildings are made of mudbrick, some concrete, and covered by rusted tin-rooves. though there are many shops, they tend to sell similar items. i don't know why the shops decide to open, and then sell the exact thing their neighbors are selling, but maybe it has something to do with why a Meijer opens, then a Walmart, then a Target in the same vicinity. or maybe it has nothing to do with this at all. the shops sell soap for laundry, eggs, 20 liter jerrycans, mugs, plates, pots, flour, and sometimes bread. at the end of the strip of buidings (or the beginning depending on how you look at it) is an open area where ladies sell fruits, vegetables, and a donut-type bread. on saturdays the town is alive with people and vendors from nearby towns. this is when i walk the 3km, or sometimes ride on the back rack of a bicycle, to town. Four, small sized tomatoes: 10 cents; head of cabbage: 25 cents; green pepper: 10 cents; 1 kilo of rice: 1 dollar and 50 cents; having thirty kids yell "munu" at you when you're trying to buy vegetables, so much so that you want to either elbow-drop them or choke them out: priceless.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1202145654920583718.post-30417288957448214882009-09-09T23:27:00.000-07:002009-09-10T00:04:31.098-07:00wind in the willowsschool started again this week. the students arrived, ready for 3 months of school, with a mattress, a small bag of school uniforms, and a 4 x 2 x 2 metal container filled with books, pens, sesame seeds which will be grounded into paste, and "girl stuff." some of the girls show up with hair that's too long (against school policy). all of the girls must have shortly shaven heads. some teachers think the girls do this on purpose because when we send them back to town, 3 km's away, to get their hair cut, some girls take longer than expected. the teachers suspect this is because the girls are fraternizing with boys in township.<br /><br />i wash my clothes by hand. even when i had a washing machine at my disposal i barely did laundry (thanks mom). now, without this modern convenience, my avoidance has only intensified. i find it quite easy to convince myself that, those pair of pants ive been wearing for days can't possibly be dirty. after all, if i can't see the dirt, it means there's obviously not enough dirt to cause problems. when the laundry basket does finally begin to withhold a small mountain on the verge of collapse, i get my 3 basins out, which double as my sink to wash dishes in, fill them up with water, then put in some powdered detergent that you can buy at the local duka (little shop set up by the roadside). to supplement the detergent i use a bar of soap which i scrub the clothes with, work into a lather, and transfer to the next basin (two for washing, one for rinsing). the first couple times i did laundry my neighbor would pass by, "Hunter," she would say, "There's no suds in that water you're washing with." everyone's a critic.<br /><br />things have been a little crazy with the Peace Corps lately. We've had some changes in administrative positions, and some of these changes came clouded in ill-feelings, mystery, and politics. i don't think i know enough to feel one way or the other, but i think this is my first real experience with politics in the work place and knowing that people jobs can be threatened by rumor or a failure to adhere to certain desires of one's superiors.<br /><br />sometimes, i do whats called, "culinary experimentation." this is when i go the kitchen, check out what's going on in there, and try to invent new dishes with combinations of foods that i've never tried before. honey spaghetti - not a winner. cocoa oats - not a winner.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17294496148287254855noreply@blogger.com1