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!