A Year In Uganda

Exchange Rates

2008-06-24T05:13:00.000-07:00

Hopefully, everyone got the forward of the email from the Trust Fund, officially approving Okweyo. I went rummaging through the budget today, updating this and that, and re-evaluating our situation.

On April 25th, a Euro bought you 2,637 Ugandan shillings, and 40,000 of them bought us 105 million of them.

Today, a Euro buys us 2,519 shillings, and our budget has shrunk to UGX 100 million. Fluctuating currencies robbed us of: annual school fees for 15 kids, or two motorbikes, or money to facilitate 2.5 healing seminars.

...Probably we'll cut something less important.

We went to the same junior high...just saying...

2008-06-21T00:48:00.001-07:00

NY Times: On the Court and on the Trail, One Aide Looms Over Obama:

"He's quick and he's strong," Mr. Love said of Mr. Obama. "A lot of people still don't know that he's left-handed, so he can get to the basket and get his shot off, even though he's not the most explosive or tallest player on the court."

We were in 8th grade Science together, tried out for the same JV Basketball team (I made the first cut), and I played Varsity football and he didn't.

Still, Reggie, if you're looking for an economist, East Africa expert or spiritual advisor, you know we're still close...

An Exciting Night

2008-06-14T02:31:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened to me the other night. I'd been enjoying a nice conversation and meal with Rev. Patrick and his family at his house, just stone's throw from mine. Usually one of us has an excuse for me to stop by, food is brought out, and I'm happy to be eating dinner around a table with a family. The news was on, the kids were catching bugs by the flourescent light. Good times. I remembered from before there was a pretty big heifer with horns tied up somewhere near my path, and I was pretty relieved when I made out his glowing eyes and resting frame as I passed him. I must've let my guard down a bit, because I ran into the pitch black 3-year-old like someone had moved the couch around while I was out. "Oh! Sorry, sorry!", I said, as he/she stumbled humbly out of my way. "mmMMMPh" he/she responded.

Now, I can rarely pass towards home without stopping by the house of the archdeacon Rev. James Okoyo. Most nights you can find he, his wife, and some of the nieces and nephews he's taking care of, sitting outside taking supper or evening tea. And despite adamantly protesting that I had just left Patrick's having eaten my fill, I can't leave without doing some damage to a bowl of beans and millet bread. One of those nephews, David, recently got some school fees assistance from my good friend Elizabeth Duncan in Charlotte. That night we were doing some picking on the guitar, which David's become particularly keen on. While David and I are playing and eating, mom is lying by the candle light grabbing the slow trickle of white ants - insects with large white wings that come out of the ground searching for light after a big rains - settling near her light. Two households collecting insects, but this was small scale compared to what I'd find at home.

Just around the bend I enter the gate to the bishop's compound to find the entire front side of the house lit up like a rock show. Two of the house staff, Helen and Apiyo, are patrolling the walls with brooms and buckets in hand, and as the white ants swarm to a particular light, they swat them down, make them into a pile, and scoop them by the handful into the baskets! They invited me to try my hand at it, and I successfully nabbed a few of them, but they kept swarming my reflective head and neck, and I just couldn't cope with that.

The next day, you could see evidence of the magnitude of the infestation, or harvest, by the wings which littered the ground, not just where people had lights on, but everywhere. And those who had harvested them were ready to capitalize, drying thousands in the sun, then sorting them and roughing them until their wings fell off. The sell for about 500 shillings ($.33) per cupfull. When boiled and shaped, they make a meal not unlike hamburger patties with a salty soup, and with a gritty crunchiness from the exoskeletons and legs and such. It can be a satisfying meal if I can just shake the image of what it is I'm really eating. That's tough to do.

So, I got malaria.

2008-06-07T11:03:00.001-07:00

It was about Saturday, May 31st that I first started feeling dizzy and fatigued, and after a couple days feeling pretty lousy, I went to the hospital and it turned I had full-blown, no-joke malaria. My parasite count was serious and I was admitted that day.

From Tuesday to today Saturday, I mainly tried to keep down food so many kind people brought in. It wasn't my version of comfort food, but I helped down what I could, making sure to drink more water and juice than I really wanted. The quinine drip ran for four hours with a four hour break. All in all it was a miserable time, despite having a private room and self-contained bath

As scheduled, they discharged me today, and I traded an IV drip for tablets and home.

Thanks for all of your calls and prayers. You pulled me through a very lonely, miserable time.

Motorcycles and starry nights

2008-05-27T00:13:00.000-07:00

Last night we did say goodbye to Nick. Outside Kope (pron. copay, meaning "I have no problems") Cafe, we sat under the stars while a thunderstorm lit up the distance. No music - the iPods were all charging - just enjoying the cool, clean night air. We talked a little of home and what it'd be like, but mostly just enjoyed some laughs and a bite to eat. I think we've gleaned from our hosts a respect for today, that tomorrow will only present itself tomorrow.

Riding home at night is always a touch exhilirating and magical. Exhilirating, for the dark streets and open intersections of town, streets quiet and sparse, but carrying people to their night-time destinations. There's also the motivation to travel flawlessly, without a stall or fall, nothing to relinquish surprise to anyone who might be out late. Magical, for the cold air, unforgiving dirt roads with the same ruts and pitfalls as in daylight, but especially for the stars, which reach all the way to the horizon and which move right everytime I move left.

Afternoons at the Office

2008-05-10T06:43:00.000-07:00

I spend the bulk of my days at the diocesan office, if not because I have work there to do, then out of force of habit and the hope I can catch a ride with someone going someplace to do something. Afternoons at the office are usually pretty laid back affairs. We walk back from lunch around 2-2:30. There's usually some work to finish up - I don't mean I've been sitting on my duff this whole time - but when I arrive back at the office, there's at least one thing looming temptingly on the horizon: the mango tree.

It's mango season here in Northern Uganda. And mango trees...we have plenty of 'em. The hang a bit like apples, on their stem a few inches from the branch. When they're ripe (yellow, as seen above) they're also pretty easy to "shoot". Here I am, shooting mangos.

And these mangos are DELICOUS! I'm not entirely sure what mangos are like at home, but my hunch is that they're imported, reddish-purple or orange in color, and have a consistent texture, like a banana, not pulpy. These mangos are pulpy, juicy, sweet and tangy! And they're everywhere! I can't step outside my office without seeing two or three prime ones just lying on the ground, freshly fallen. Here, Susan demonstrates how to give in to the temptation. Abandon your desk, bring a chair outside, fill a basin with water (not shown), and prepare somewhere to collect your skins. You can find your first couple on the ground (mentioned above), and as many as you have time or energy to separate from the tree above you. Use a long stick to knock or hook them, or other fallen, unripe mangos to shoot them down (also above). Don't worry about being a loner; once you start, others will follow.

Developments for Okweyo

2008-04-26T05:16:00.000-07:00

It's a beautiful Saturday morning, I'm picking mango pulp from my teeth. They're now ripe, and everywhere. Best practices in Uganda are to plant a mango tree by your house and in your yard for the wonderfully cool and complete shade they provide. When they get big and fall, they hit your tin roof with enough force to give you a jolt, even if isn't your roof. Also this morning, this nice fella' here stopped by to greet me.

It's been a busy and exciting week here in Gulu. First of all, amid much anticipation and fanfare (all on my end), my motorcycle has finally arrived. Aint she a bute'? Together with my trusty helmet (not pictured), we've been all about town and ventured to scenic spots not too far away, but not too near.

For two nights and one full day, Rev. Patrick and I travelled down to Lira, a Gulu-esque town about 2 hours south. As authors of one of five proposals hoping to be fast-tracked by the Trust Fund for Victims, we were invited to participate in a two-day workshop to learn about the workings of the TFV, sister org. of the Int'l Criminal Courts, and we can expect of one another. On day one, we learned that the mandate of the Trust Fund for victims exactly matched the goals as stated in Okweyo: Psychological Rehabilitation (our healing of memories seminars), Physical Rehabilitation (our connection to plastic surgery, prosthetics, etc.), and Material Support (our school fees and vocational training). In a brief one-on-one meeting Tuesday night, we learned of our initial support amount: 40,000 Euros, or about 1.05 million Ugandan shillings, or about $60,000. Immediately I went to my hotel room, pulled the budget up on my laptop, and began seeing what we could do with that. Nix the digital camera and motorbike, trim the funding the school fees and facilitator training for 1st year expectations. Viola! This thing is really going to happen, and it looks good! And we haven't even seen what other donors will contribute!

The next day we had another one-on-one (two-on-two) meeting. Budgeting for monitoring and assessment, contracts, schedules of dispersement and the like. But I can't, without sounding more than a little giddy, describe the energy, the excitement at that table. Partnering with TFV pro bono doctors, using the resulting small group communities to keep touch with long-term victim needs, and so on. They explained how excited they were about the project, and asked if they could begin some preliminary publicity about it (A call to the bishop confirmed they could). It seemed they couldn't wait to see our revisions, and we were just as excited to tell them we could have it by Monday. It looks like this thing really is going to happen.

So, that's what's happening here. No more jets or troop transports. No news from the bush. I'm out of propane for the stove, and so is the gas station is town. Lots of sandwiches. Good thing I've got good transport to town now.

As things here develop...

2008-04-14T11:48:00.000-07:00

Well, before I discuss juicy details from my time in South Africa (coming soon, hopefully), there've been many developments in the peace process between the LRA and government, which you can read more completely at www.monitor.co.ug

In brief, the final signatures to the comprehensive peace agreement were supposed to have been placed last Friday by Joseph Kony (LRA) and tomorrow by Ugandan president Yoweri Museveni. Saturday we learned that Kony had fired his chief negotiator and left the area to clear concerns he had with the agreement's provisions for his safety and financial well-being. The signing was then indefinitely post-poned.

Today we learned that Kony has killed eight of his senior commanders, supposedly on suspicion of subversion. This effectively halts the peace process, which has a deadline of April 15th.

Today at the office, I saw 3 pairs of MiG-23s and one MiG-21 (all excellent air-to-ground platforms) streak overhead. The airport is just north of us, and I think it's used as a navigational cue. Last night, 16 large lorries full of troops passed through Gulu, either stopping at the barracks or moving north.

There's nothing to fear for us. All the bad guys are in Sudan or Congo, and the three governments are cooperating. We're eager to see this end, and few of us are too worried about how that happens.

Hectic Travel

2008-04-07T09:53:00.001-07:00

I've made it to Umtata, South Africa, 3 hours northeast of Grahamstown along the N2, and home to the mission work of YASCer Jesse Zink, Jennie McConnachie and the African Medical Mission of Itipini founded by her and her late husband Chris in the early 80's. Jesse's phenomenal blog is linked on this blog. If Grahamstown was distinctly European, Umtata is distinctly African. To compare this region of South Africa, known as Transkei, to Uganda is delicate: Uganda, especially the north, has little infrastructure (dirt roads, spotty electricity), but village life, subsistence agriculture and tribal norms still flourish; Transkei has paved roads, stop lights, grocery stores, nearly every first-world amenity, yet substantial portions of the population live in crowded, filthy shanty-towns and ...well, I don't know how they provide for themselves.

But Umtata for me almost wasn't to be. I prefer to travel African style while in Africa, and that means taking the bus or taxi-bus in the town center that leaves whenever it fills up. African style travel is an asset when you prefer to let plans present themselves. Working against me that day was my cell phone, which parted ways sometime in Cape Town. Jesse was arriving in Umtata the same day from his vacation with his parents in Cape Town and knew I'd be arriving, but not when or how: today I'd be winging it.. Sunday morning I awoke, said good-bye to my hosts in Grahamstown, and walked with my bookbag and small duffle twenty minutes across the sleepy college campus and to the taxi-park on the edge of the township, whereupon I chatted up two men who were quite sure I'd have a hard time at finding a ride to Umtata today. The only way would be if I hitchhiked my way to East London or Kingwilliamstown, and connected from there. The guys couldn't have been nicer, as they found some discarded cardboard and began abbreviating my best bet in pen: K*W*T*, signs like I'd seen on the side of the road by countless coloureds and blacks, and not surprisingly no whites. Would you have turned back? I had a place to stay that night, and Monday could have worked, too.

I'm an international missionary, with eight hours of daylight in front of me, plenty of rand in my pocket to make things happen, and a functional understanding of the way it works down here. I'm going. And just as I was ready to swallow my pride and hoist high my plea for assistance, here comes a taxi-bus, empty and bound for Kingwilliamstown. An hour later the driver was making a connection for me to Umtata from the KWT taxi rink. Now, would Jesse be there?

As our fully-loaded taxi pulled out for Umtata, I was pleased we'd be there by 3 o'clock, well before my twilight deadline. The only questions were whether Jesse was getting my texts, and whether he'd be around to collect me. I arrived at the taxi rink excitedly looking for a tall, skinny white guy among hundreds of people who...well, weren't. And all I found was this measly pay phone. \

Me: Jesse! I'm at the taxi-rink!

Jesse: That's great! Me too! The one in East London, right?

Me: Uh, no in Umtata, where you live...

Jesse's plane was a little late arriving in East London from Cape Town, and my lack of cell phone led to a little confusion. Anyway, after a couple of phone calls to Jennie McConnachie by Jesse and myself, I was picked up within 15 minutes, and VERY relieved...

I'm having a blast still, as always, and look forward to telling you all more when I get home. Thanks again.

Acceptable Loss

2008-04-03T12:14:00.000-07:00

Hello Friends,

So no one worries, while in Cape Town my cell phone was stolen out of our rental car. I think a door was left unlocked (probably me) and we were thankful a cell phone and some loose change was all we lost. Apparently, Cape Town criminals don't appreciate Jack Johnson or Charles Mingus - clearly Matt and I still have work to do in our respective missions. I'll pick up a cheap cell phone soon (maybe tomorrow) and let everyone know what my new number is when I get to Uganda.

My time here in South Africa so far has been wonderful, and there's more still to come. I'm taking a bus from Grahamstown, where I am now, to Umtata to visit Jesse Zink (see his link on this blog) for a few days before finally flying home to Uganda.

Talk to you soon!

Vacation in South Africa

2008-04-01T02:15:00.001-07:00

I'm almost half-way through a 17-day vacation in South Africa, and since boarding the bus in Gulu on Easter Sunday I've yet to suffer a dull moment. Since my time in this Cape Town internet cafe is expensive, I'll cruise over the details.

Apparently my Ugandan visa expired back in November, but a little smoothe-talking in Entebbe paved the way. Fellow-YASCer and newly-ordained Episcopal priest Stephen Mazingo picked me up in Jo'burg, and drove me through the absoutely breathtaking a jaw-dropping beauty of the South African interior, especially the Free State. We arrived in Grahamstown at 10pm Monday of last week. Grahamstown is Chapel Hill, in short, except with a township and shanty town constantly visible in the distance. All of Monday amounted to culture shock. In Grahamstown, I enjoyed some western comforts and saw some beautiful natural sights. But the townships were always in the back of my mind, and to tour them and look down into town was, again in short, profound.

Sunday morning we finished our drive from Grahamstown to Cape Town and connected with my friend, Rev. Michael Lapsley with the Institute for the Healing of Memories, who pulled off a minor miracle by securing two tickets for Matt (fellow YASCer, based in Grahamstown) as guests of the Dean of the Cathedral for the Installation of Thabo Makgoba as the next Archbishop of the Province of Southern Africa. We must have made quite an impression, for as you can see we were front page material in the Cape Times the next day. The service was beautiful and extremely powerful. Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu was among the three who laid hands during the installment, and President Thabo Mbeki was humble and statesmen-like in his official greeting. Archbishop Makgoba spoke eloquently and with humility about the role of the church, and I felt honored and purposefully led to be present there.

Yesterday we hiked to the top of Lion's Head, which immediately overlooks Cape Town and the bays on every side - breathtaking. Today we're going to Robbens Island, where Nelson Mandela, as well a long history of freedom fighters of all kinds, was kept prisoner for twenty years. Every day seems to strive to out-do the last, and I'm having a blast.

Thank you all for the chance to be here.

Talk to you soon!

Substantive Quotes

2008-03-19T16:02:00.000-07:00

Remember in school, English class, when, in the normal course of reading passages in turn, you came across one you knew was bigger than the rest? "wherefore art thou, Romeo?" "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"... I could go on, maybe, but submit yours via the comments. Anyway...

I came across one of the biggies the other day:

I went to the wods because I wanted to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived....I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... -H.D. Thoreau

But he had already done himself one better. Here, on the limits of philanthropy

I do not value chiefly a man's uprightness and benevolence, which are, as it were, his stem and leaves. I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over from him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse. His goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, which costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious. This is charity that hides a multitude of sins.

My ACC Basketball Bracket

2008-03-13T11:52:00.001-07:00

Now you see my alma mater doesn't fair well. I hope I'm wrong, but when I fill out brackets, I'm in it to win it. UNC's Lawson has a bad hip and ankle; by day three the Dukies will roll.

2008 ACC Mens Basketball Tournament
*Courtesy of accbrackets.com*
Printed: 3/12/2008 10:37:44 AM
Pool:	ECM2008	Bracket:	BracketChamp
Pool Owner:	ps	Bracket Owner:	johncsimpson
Victory Margin (point difference) = 6

1st Round	Qtr Final	Semi-Final	Final	Champion

	North Carolina
Wake Forest		North Carolina
	Wake Forest
Florida State
			North Carolina
	Virginia Tech
Miami		Virginia Tech
	NC State
NC State
				Duke
	Duke
Georgia Tech		Duke
	Virginia
Virginia
			Duke
	Clemson
Maryland		Maryland
	Maryland
Boston College

Courtesy of accbrackets.com and Their Fine Sponsors

Visit us again soon at www.accbrackets.com

Dr. Rachael, Cow Whisperer

2008-03-13T10:57:00.000-07:00

So... It's close to dusk at the compound one night about a month ago, and I'm taking a stroll around the grounds seeing who's where doing what. Specifically, I was coming to check on one of the cows. The day before, we (others, not me) noticed that she was bloated, with a painful amount of air trapped in one of her stomachs, and subsequently tried a variety of ways to release some of that air. The first involved force-feeding soapy water, with the hope of dissolving whatever was trapping the gas. As an emergency measure, we (again, others) tried what I can only describe as driving a rod through the side of the cow in an attempt to puncture the stomach. Interestingly enough to me, this plan failed because the stake coud not puncture the tough hide.

It's a nice Friday evening, dusk settling in, and around back of the main house, there's a crowd around our poor, sick Bessy (name changed to protect the bovine). As I arrived, the Bishop warned "Eh, watch your step! This is what was removed from the stomach, 5 kilos of caveras (plastic bags)." After I stepped gingerly aside, I saw Rachael's blood-soaked hands reaching into the cow's left side, scissors and needle in hand, and a ten-inch hole out of which came those five kilos of caveras. (This is an interesting problem arising from a collision of old world and new. Caveras, while partially-banned by the government, are now used so profusely, they cover the ground in many places. And a problem absent in the western world - plastic ingestion by livestock - has emerged here.)

I was first just amazed at how calm the cow seemed to be, tied by a short leash to a power pole and with someone's hand in her side. Ample squirts of lidocaine are sufficient to do the trick here. Unfortunately, the needle available was not sufficient, being unable to pierce the tough rawhide (yee-haw), and Rachael caught a boda boda to town for something stronger. When she returned, having cleared the affected stomach of caveras and closed the succeeding layers of tissue, she began stitching the leather.

It was tough going, with each stitch requiring both hands and a lot of leverage, and she often had to rest as her hands tired. But she did it...well, almost. If you look below, you may notice the very last (bottom) stitch as the handiwork of yours truly. Now, I know what you're thinking, "How does he manage it all? Mission work, guitar playing, bovine surgery." I owe some of it to my extensive training, and my Leatherwork merit badge.

A Night On The Town

2008-02-23T05:35:00.001-08:00

So it's been awhile, hasn't it? Some combination of a workaday malaise and...well, you can call it either laziness or 'bloggers block' (that one's mine, in case you were wondering). But last night I wanted to share with you; it was both typical and exciting.

First a rundown of an afternoon in town: From the office, Rachael and I caught a ride to town in Care, Int'ls sporty Subaru sedan. This is real style in Gulu, somehow better than the LandRovers and Toyota trucks everyone's used to. After stopping by the ATM, we took a quarter-pint of vanilla ice cream ($1), both the best and worst bargain in Gulu. Then, since I hadn't eaten lunch (at 4pm) we went to an Indian-run restaurant called KPS where I had a delicious plate of chicken and chips/fries ($2). Rachael took a boda home, and I picked up a chocolate doughnut($.35) I'd seen in the bakery window and headed over to Kope Cafe, the local 'muzungu' dive where I'm always likely to see a familiar face. Daniel, an Acholi friend and co-worker, was meeting me there at 7 for a night on the town.

I'm not sure if word has reached Gulu concerning exactly what defines a 'doughnut', but this was definitely just a dinner roll lovingly coated in very dark, bitter chocolate. Ok, I didn't really complain. Daniel rolled up about 6:30 and we headed out

So we're riding on his Yamaha DT motorbike, on our way to his house so he can change. Along the backstreets near his house, two goats enter the road. The first is a good judge of speed and briskly crosses. The second, like my sister driving, waits until we're almost upon him before sprinting. He doesn't make it across. We hit him (or her?), the wheel turns to the left, we're thrown to the right, me on top of Daniel, on the rocky dirt road now filled with amazed onlookers (not only is a muzungu passing through, on a DT - not a boda, but they just hit a goat and were thrown off). Fortunately, everything was fine, including the bike, the goat, and the passengers. We dusted ourselves off and headed to the show.

Across from Pece (peche) Stadium is a 5-story hotel, whose guests can presumably take in a free soccer match the one or two times a year a pro or semi-pro match may be played here. The first floor is all entertainment tonight. On the patio outside, by the street, a reggae band of unknown name or origin entertained a modest crowd of forty or fifty locals with hits from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube, with dancers in front and requests from the crowd (including Daniel's). The lead guitarist, dressed in Clark Kent's trousers, button-down shirt and tie, was clearly outclassing his mates. Very smooth, complicated licks he was playing while gazing off somewhere, like this was just what he did. His face didn't for a moment belie the music his hands were making.

So, that's a night in Gulu. Often the same, never ordinary.

Remembering Omarra

2008-02-03T23:47:00.000-08:00

Here is what I saw...
Our Monday at the office was cruising to a close. About 3pm, it was hot out. I was going between MS Hearts (the card game) and MS Word (the grant proposal). Rachael was at the computer next to me looking on the computer for dress designs she could make herself. "You know, if I make one I'll have to make three, don't you think? One for my Ph.D. (laughs), one for Omarra's graduation and one for his wedding." "Sure" I respond, "might as well make one for his Inauguration Ceromony as well." "Good idea!" It's always been clear that Rachael's drive to graduate from university, start lecturing and work at the diocese, and to apply to grad schools in America, was to give a better life to Omarra, her son, just a year old (pics and video from Sept.).

An older man burst into the room, out of breath, barely able with a whispering heave to beckon Rachael to follow him to the compound. A few seconds later, a girl from the bishop's compound runs up looking for Rev. Willy, to whom she explains what's going on. As they begin to leave I ask what's happening. "Omarra has fallen into water." "Well is he going to be OK?" I ask. "No, he's not OK, he has already fainted."

Reality came running, up the trail from the compound I take twice a day. Apiya, who helps around the main house and my own, with a bundle in her arms, desperation, panic and tears on her face, and two lifeless legs exposed under the blankets. Simultaneously, the Diocesan Sec. Rev. David and Rev. Willy climb into the truck without a word, Apiya enters, and the women climb in the back as it pulls out for the hospital. Rachael, who must have met Apiya along the way, came running just as the truck sped off, as inconsolable as any mother would be. As she and Job made their way to the hospital, everything was suddenly quiet at the Diocese, and we were left to realize what had just happened. Twenty minutes later, Pamela, the Information Officer's' assistant, emerges from her office. "He's passed away." She begins making her calls.

Here is what happened...
The compound is also a sort of free-range farm: cows, chickens, pigs, goats, guinea fowl. Omarra woke from his afternoon nap and walked outside, past the women doing chores and passing time in the kitchen. He found the bathtub by the pig pens, which served as the water trough for the animals, and fell in. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes before anyone began to wonder where he was, but that apparently was more than enough.

The truck that left for the hospital was back within the hour. The same women that rode in the truck, plus many more from the community, were gathering with the body in the living room. Wailing, singing, preparing. Meanwhile the men gathered in the front yard, on plastic chairs and straw mats, first to commiserate, and then to plan the funeral. Quickly a chairman was named from among the elders, and tasks and members divided into sub-committee. The money was collected and the work began, solemnely but urgently.

Back in the living room, the diocesan Health Coordinator embalmbed the body. The women wailed spontaneaously, earnestly, but also ceremonially, and the cries fell into hymns. Rachael was there, the focus of sympathy, but not the center of attention. She was the first mother among many mourning the death of a son.

Most of the men went home or to the burial site, to be used the next day. The women, including extended family and friends, slept in the living room, on the veranda, or by campfire in the front yard. They kept Rachael among them, sometimes consoling, but always present. That night stretched through one week of mourning.

Omarra was a beautiful child. He lived each day around family who loved him, and I think that allowed him to love and trust others all the more eagerly. The simplest of objects or gestures would return a smile that would just melt your heart; I know it did mine. I'm going to miss him. I looked forward to coming home from the office because I knew I could find him somewhere in the yard playing with Apiyo or Atim, splashing in his bathwater, or begging to see the pigs or lambs (which he vocalized with a snort or 'maa', respectively). And if judged by the number of unannounced visits to my house, he'd clearly be my best friend.

It's been a few weeks now since all this happened, and life has returned to normal. Rachael is taking a week in Kampala to get away from all-too-familiar sights. The December pictures on the website contain some great ones of Omarra at his 1st birthday party. He's every bit as playful as he looks in the pictures. That's how we'll remember him.

Encounters with Merton (updated)

2008-01-12T23:18:00.000-08:00

In this blog...

Merton on the bus home...
Dealing with solitude...
On Merton and dealing with Goals and Methods in the logical framework...

Christmas Vacation '07-'08 has finally concluded, and what a blast. For those who don't know, two fellow YASC missionaries, Matt Kellen and Jesse Zinc, flew up from South Africa to spend two weeks with me. Thankfully for both of us (writer and reader), Jesse has graciously given a full account of our adventures in Gulu and beyond. It's really good - long, but really good. In fact, it's so good I won't try to outdo it. But I do have a few reflections of my own.

After saying goodbye to Jesse and Matt and boarding the bus to Gulu, numbed by the din of Kampala's incessant buzz and baked in dust, smoke and scorching sun, I managed to finish Henri Nowen's Encounters with Merton, which I had been picking at for the better part of a month.

Merton was a trappist monk who focused his monastic life on solitude and living the contemplative life, and his writings have been a great complement to my missionary life here, recently. Solitude, as Matt and Jesse were able to affirm in our conversations, can be a new, imposing and strange fact of life for missionaries. Quite unexpectedly, I've found more encounters with solitude here than in any other time in my life, and learning how to live in that has been a real challenge. I think most westerners are uncomfortable with solitude (not just being alone, but alone with oneself, i.e. with the TV off), and especially solitude by circumstance and not by choice. It's often in the evening when others are eating with their families, or Saturdays and holidays, mornings and afternoons while waiting for evening plans.

One of Merton's important sights to me was that God speaks when we are silent, that my mind does not need to spin in order gain from or enjoy my solitude. And ultimately, that it is not a gift meant solely for our own spiritual growth, but like so many gifts of God, given so we may better listen and show compassion to those around us, especially those that normally confuse and anger us.

The last chapter of Encounters, the one read on the heavily listing bus as the sun was setting, focused on Merton's study of Eastern teachings and what they point to in our own Christian tradition. Inevitably I'll fail in conveying the full meaning of Merton's and Chuang Tzu's writings, but let me give a couple illustration.

1) I had a long conversation with an American friend and aid worker here. At length we covered the many and complex challenges facing Northern Uganda. In rhetorical desparation she asked, "So what's the answer? How do we fix this?"

The more one seeks "the good" outside oneself as something to be acquired, the more one is faced with the necessity of discussing, studying, understanding, analyzing the nature of good. The more, therefore, one becomes involved in abstractions and in the confusion of divergent opnions. The more "the good" is objectively analyzed, the more it is treated as something to be attained by special virtuous techniques, the less real it becomes (...) until finally the mere study of the means becomes so demanding that all one's effort must be concentrated on this, and the end is forgotten... This is, in fact, nothing but organized despire..."
- Merton in The way of Chuang Tzu, 23

I think this applies equally well to the well-trained missionary coming from an organization, who may often wonder, "How do I grow the most from this experience?" (but certainly not me...)

2) Lastly, a story about some of the work I'm doing. As part of the grant proposal for the Okweyo Initiative (see past posts), I'm filling in a 'Logical Framework', a required part of the application. It's a matrix...more simply, it's a standardized way of showing how your planned actions achieve your stated goals. The rows include 'Goal', 'Purpose', 'Outputs' and 'Activities', the latter hopefully contributing to former. I was thining about what the 'goal' of Okweyo should be. I reckon our funders would like to see something like "Break cycles of violence, and increase economic and psycho-social health of victims." These sound like important keys to improving the lives of these people. Nowen points to Merton pointing to Chuang Tzu:

If you ask 'what ought to be done' and 'what ought not to be done' on earth to produce happiness, I answer that these questions do not have [a fixed and predetermined] answer" to suite every case. If one is in harmony with Tao - the cosmic Tao, "Great Tao" - the answer will make itself clear when the times comes to act, for then one will act not according to the human and conscious mode of deliberation, but to the divine and spontaneous mode of wu wei, which is the mode of action of Tao itself, and is therefore the source of all good.
-Merton in The Way of Chuang Tzu, 24

Fundamentally, as a church, our goal through the work of this initiative could be better stated "To authentically express our love for God by showing compassion for these victims." That's the goal, the details can come in their time.

Home For The Holidays

2008-01-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

The John-Matt-Jesse Show rolls from Kampala to Gulu.

The hope of any long-term missionary is that their host land becomes like home. Getting to show my town and play host to Jesse and Matt, fellow YASC missionaries serving in South Africa, may have sealed the deal.

For the last week, we've been living like summer campers or college students, packed into my modest bedroom during the night, and hoofing it to town for improv adventures during the day. Right now they're enjoying a couple days in Murchison National Park, hitching a ride with some students from Illinois.

Let's recap the highlights: The first night we spent in Kampala, hosted by the Bishop's son, Rev. Ali. His new house has a breathtaking view a Lake Victoria valley. The conversation was a breath of fresh air, reflections on common experiences, stories from our training in New York City, like a couple of veterans on R &R. We were giddy (if I may be so bold to attribute this word to them on their behalf) with being together again, traveling, adventuring, with no agenda but fun.

The view from our room the first night. Lake Victoria is under the mist on the left.

History seemed to follow us wherever we went. On Sunday, we met the children and grandchild of the first Bishop of Northern Uganda, who served during the mid fifties and early sixties. Over lunch, Jesse and Matt were brought up to speed on the recent history of the Acholi people. The next day we marched with Bishop Nelson and religious leaders of all faiths for continued peace in the region. Later that night, we rang in the New Year at Acholi Inn. Among the four to five hundred people present, the muzungus you see below (preparing to march for peace) were the first to break the ice on the dance floor, soon followed by several children, and later by several hundred Acholi. It was a big night. And don't worry, we were up the next morning early enough to phone loved ones at home as the New Year reached them.

Despite big plans for Tuesday - renting motorcycles to spend the night by the Nile's Karuma Falls - the terrible violence in Kenya and its ripple effect through East Africa meant gas stations were out of petrol. We would have to kick it local for a few days. We created our own agenda: rediscovered the homespun pleasure of pirated country music videos, explored the market (where donated clothing from home is resold), had a rare and amazing swim and poolside afternoon at Acholi Inn, and ended with a delicious meal.

Late Tuesday night, while reading news from Kenya, we realized one of our fellow YASCers whom we didn't get to meet at training is actually living in the heart of violence, 20 miles from Kisumu, where the infamous church-burning happened. Her blog reports she's very safe in a hospital compound. Please keep her and peace among Kenyans in your prayers.

I just got a call from Jesse and Matt. Their safari was as amazing as it was full of hijinx and mishaps. They've called me out to join them in Kampala for a few days to see the Ssese Islands. We'll see what happens...

The NY Times in Gulu

2007-12-25T22:35:00.001-08:00

Featured in the Health section of my daily NY Times e-mail, Food Scarcity and H.I.V. Interwoven in Uganda

Torn on Sunday

2007-12-16T01:20:00.001-08:00

I'm reflecting today on something I've been struggling with for about the last six weeks, now three months into my year here, the time for a missionary when novelty subsides one must really choose what the composition of one's life here will be. One of my big recurring struggles is what to do with my Sundays.

In the beginning, the choices were simple and obligatory. Visit this church today, meet the youth, be introduced, sit and smile while you hear a sermon you don't understand and sing songs you've never heard of. (The songs are easy to understand, since they're usually made up of one repeated phrase. Though, I haven't yet felt compelled to sing, for risk of seeming (and being) inauthenticly enthusiastic.) This repeats until I've at least made a couple of visits to the area churches, and visits with the Bishop to parishes around the diocese. Again, I stress that this was the easy part. I and others knew my role - guest and servant to the church - and I found my Sundays there to be both worshipful and a symbol of solidarity with the worldwide Communion.

But the time for introductions has ended. When (on occasion) I go to church, I go alone. When I arrive, heads turn. I sit in the back to avoid stares, but Acholi children (and a few adults) don't mind turning around to stare, or even moving to seats behind me so they don't have to crane their necks. And I'm quite sure weekly readings aren't from any lectionary found in my Prayer Book. (Though this is minor, it did strike a blow to that solidarity I was talking about).

So here's what's happening on Sundays now. I wake up, check e-mail, cook breakfast, listen to radio. And it's time. I have three options: throw on some clothes and walk down to St. Philips's Cathedral just down the road; hop on my bike and go to packed Christ Church in town; or pull out my prayer book for Morning Prayer on my porch, read the lectionary for today, and get an online sermon from St. Martin's back home.

For my spirtual money, option three is hard to beat. Much less stress and anxiety, no one stares at me, I get a sense of staying current with the church calendar (especially now in Advent), and a sermon that challenges and enlightens. But who ever heard of a missionary who didn't go to church with his host people? What missionary worth his (or her) salt doesn't come home singing the songs of worship of the people he's with?

The bigger problem is that I know where the answer takes me. I have a hunch that if I invested time going regularly to one church that the stares would subside and the songs would become familiar. With a little help in interpretation I'd become familiar with what the church is trying to do, and be able to offer what I bring, just like everyone else.

But, so far, the porch looks awfully friendly.

Death of Otti

2007-12-10T05:45:00.000-08:00

Otti, then second-in-command of LRA, and major asset in hope for peace, was apparently killed in October. A story in government-leaning New Vision newspaper, here.

Murchison Falls

2007-12-02T10:04:00.000-08:00

I present to you Murchison Falls, in the National Park of the same name, a three hour drive from Gulu. This is the Nile River, about 150 miles or so from its source, Lake Victoria. No still picture or video will substitute being there beside it, but you'll get both soon on the website.

The crew you see here are from Invisible Children except myself. Some IC friends I've made graciously invited me, and I'm very glad they did. Aside from the boat safari and optional 1-hour hike to the top of the falls, we took a sunrise safari through the park grounds (I riding atop the Land Cruiser) and saw giraffes, warthogs, impala, hippos, elephants, crested cranes (national bird) and....(drumroll) not one, but two prides of lions, at a range of about 15 feet. An amazing two days. I might throw in some stories about it soon.

Lastly, congratulations to my sister, Molly, who was confirmed today at St. Martin's, Charlotte.

John Simpson
Missionary, Diocese of N. Uganda
www.ecm-raleigh.org/ecm-raleigh/Uganda

Up From South Africa...

2007-11-16T22:28:00.001-08:00

Rev. Michael Lapsley, from the Institute of the Healing of Memories in Cape Town, is here in Gulu for three days of sessions with victims of the LRA war who've, like him, been maimed by the violence of others.

He spoke at the TEAM (Towards Effective Anglican Mission) conference in Boksburg, South Africa in March of this year. And if you subscribe to the Episcopal Life podcast, you'll find his speech appears right after that of Rt. Rev. Nelson Onono-Onweng, my bishop and host (I live in his compound). As this conference was going on in Africa, in North Carolina the possibility of spending a year in Northern Uganda, and under Bishop Onono-Onweng, became real. These two podcasts framed in my mind what I wanted my mission to be.

Rev. Michael Lapsley: I highly commend to you his words and story.

Support Your International Missionary...

2007-11-16T21:35:00.001-08:00

... on a fixed dollar-denominated salary: Keep the dollar strrrong!

At Least It's Not Y2K

2007-11-05T07:26:00.000-08:00

In a conversation recently with some extension staff at the diocesan office, the subject of cell phones came up, and the quick rise of such in Northern Uganda. In the year 2000, not a cell phone was to be found here in Gulu, save maybe some exhorbitantly expensive satellite phones. And this made me think about how different my missionary experience would be if I'd been here back then instead of today. Here are a few observations:

Cell phones these days are as cheap as $30 and no contracts. A line, in the form of a SIM card, is as cheap as $2, and minutes are pay-as-you-go. This means within a day or two of arriving here, I was able to get a line, text home, and receive calls. Now I get at least 2 calls a day from home with no pressure to keep it short. What an outlet...
As I type this I'm streaming radio from home, CarTalk actually, using an internet phone on loan from a friend. It costs about $50 a month, and allows me to get news, email friends, and search for resources helpful to my work. And I can do this from home or office.
It's about a 20-minute walk to anywhere I need to be in town, to reach any friends from work. The cell phone let's me holler at other 'muzungus' in the area (and let's them spread the word about new people here), and keeps me in touch with diocesan staff who are often less than part-time and quite scattered at any point during the day.

These are just a few things that, if now was then, would dramatically change my missionary experience.

Ants Marching

2007-10-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

Ever seen Tremors? Kevin Bacon, circa 1990? Allow me to refresh: Kevin and some pals are in a deserted desert town, when huge subterranean worms come and try to eat them. Remember how it made you pick your feet off the floor, put cherished belongings on high shelves, or at all costs remain on stepping stones or paved surfaces to avoid touching bare earth, possible sending seismic signals to the giant beasts?!? I never had these side-effects from watching the movies (of course), but from a far more serious and scientifically plausible demon.

It all began on a Friday dusk. I was relaxing in my hammock, doing some reading, being amazed at the complete serenity in which I'd managed to place myself. As the light faded, as it so quickly does at this latitude, I unhooked the carabiners, draped the parachute nylon over my back and retreated for nightfall, supper, and the nightly lighting game I play with the local flying insects.

Barbara (seen here), my girl back home, was leaving for the weekend and I wanted to have her call me before she left, but the cell phone was nowhere to be found. I would try to use the computer, but the power is out and the laptop is about dead. Aha! It must have fallen out while I was in the hammock. With flashlights a group of us look around the backyard, dodging the slumbering cows and the output of their day. No dice. We even try calling it, nothing.

Just as I'm working my way around the side of the house, I feel it. It's never the first one that you feel. He's always halfway up your leg by the time the first bite comes. First on your foot, then immediately anywhere else they might be. Safari ants, small, black, hunters. I jumped, swatted, ran to the house. Off with my sandals and pants, I vigorously rub down my feet, calves and thighs, seeing five or six fall to the floor. I stomp, hard. Turn the pants inside out and shake them out further, two more fall out. It's hard not to panic. They're now in my room. Is every corpse accounted for? Under the bed? My shoes? OK...painful, yet laughable. Step somewhere you shouldn't and you sometimes get ants in your pants.

Dinner is ready and I've talked to Barbara. The one place I didn't look, in the balled up hammock, was right where it was. On the porch we enjoy chicken, beans and rice, and a nice long chat. It's getting late, time to turn in.

My first thought was that I had tracked in more than I originally thought, and the first bite brought back all the anger and fear, feelings I thought I'd put away for the evening. But as Job and Sylvia ran into my room, my heart sank a lot more. From my bathroom were thousands on thousands of safari ants, marching along both adjecent walls. They entered the house just a few yards from where I'd been bitten earlier. We moved to the kitchen and saw what you see in this picture, and again the same thing in Job's bathroom. I started imaginig sleeping in the main house and tediously (and painfully) de-anting all my belongings.

Quickly, Job pulls together a plan. The safari ants hate parafin, and this seems to be our only course. We fill a wash basin with parafin from our lanterns and water to cut it, and sprinkle the stuff around the house. First to block their advance, which was by now threatening stacks of clothes and exits, then to drive them back. Their lines of advance were clear columns, finding them was easy, and a few shakes of the soaked broom to turn them around. Victory seemed within reach when we realized we were out of parafin, and dangerously exposed to counter-attack. Unfortunately, there are few places open at 10pm which sell parafin, but fortunately, it's right beside a pub. Now, I can't say if it was benevolent environmentalism, procrastination, or exhaustion (not plausible), but through our inaction we decided to let the ants make an organized retreat and recover their dead and wounded, while we enjoyed cold drinks.

I should've expected it, but it seems there's a symbiosis, a quid pro quo, between safari ants and humans, for when we returned we found them cleared from the interior of the house, but quite busy carrying termites out of the rafters of our humble home. Again an altruistic streak hit us and we decided to let them finish up. I slept well, but with the mosquito netting tucked into the mattress, and flip flops on my desk (with the flat soles for efficient stomping). In the morning the were gone. An empty trail pointed my attention to the next house down the street, and a girl washing clothes. Just then she slapped her back, calmly scooped up her siblings and gathered the clothes.

Health Center II, Oberabic

2007-10-19T03:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to be the first ever patient at the new Health Center at Oberabic (trans. 'Five Mosquitoes') in Amuru District. The focus should be on the community that came together to voice their needs, the Diocese for helping organize and mobilize the idea, and MAP Int'l., based in Georgia, for funding constuction. It was a day of celebration, full of music, dancing, soda, visiting foreigners; it was a day for standing up! All I wanted was to lay down...

The back seat of the Toyota LandCruiser is a cramped place, not the second row with doors and leg room, but the cargo area, the very back, with the fold down seats for children, the one you enter through the rear hatch. This, combined with the predictably poor roads, the constant acceleration, braking, pothole dipping, then again accelerating, created some unpleasantly funny tummy feelings. By the time we arrived to the procession, lined with dancers, proud mothers, and soldiers (marching along by coincidence), I was definitely not feeling so hot.

I didn't lose my cookies. I wasn't the first patient of Oberabic, but I couldn't resist the hook line. I did have a wonderful time though. Among the diocesan staff riding with me (in more comfortable seats): Bishop Nelson; the Diocesan Secretary, Rev. David Onyach; Information Officer, Rev. Willy Akena; and a journalist from Gulu, I was just along for the ride. Rev. David was the MC, Bishope Nelson shared special-guest honors with the president of MAP Int'l, and we were treated to traditional Acholi song and dance groups, whose songs celebrated the day and the promise a health clinic within a day's walk would provide to these people.

Bishop Nelson told the story of his trip here just a few years ago, maybe 2004, to the attendees. The car got them only as far as the site we were at today. To get to the village further up the road, they had to walk with Army escorts a further 5 miles up the road. LRA soldiers were in the village when they arrived, but that night they shared the village, all resting peacefully. This story illustrates just how fresh the reality of conflict is in the collective memory. The health clinic, in a way, is born of that conflict, since it serves the surrounding camps of displaced people. The clinic is a permanent presence to people for whom even the temporary has become permenant. I don't know how the health clinic will fit in to their future given the need to move out of the camps, where sustenance comes from relief, back home, or whatever that once meant to someone.

The State of Things in N. Uganda

2007-10-15T01:08:00.000-07:00

For one month now I've been living and working in Gulu, capital of a district which for the previous twenty years was the pitch of a brutal civil war, an insurgency of resourceful, relentless bush fighters who kidnapped and raped wherever they could reach, and a government counter-insurgency that was at times equally brutal in suppressing rebellion. Here in Gulu, the battlefield was everywhere outside city center, which housed government army barracks. The diocesan office, from which I write to you now, was once a rebel headquarters. Every road I pass on today was at some point a rebel supply route or ambush. Nothing outside the very core of the city was safe from pillage or abduction.

Today, the LRA are in Congo and Southern Sudan, and peace talks with the government of Uganda and the ICC are stalled in Stage Three of a five part process. Ninety percent of the people are still in IDP camps, fearful of the returning home to isolation and lacking basic services (schools, medical, etc.)

Gulu town today has the look of a bustling regional center in a developing country, and it is. What is often harder to see are the scars of conflict and social upheaval. In fact, life in Gulu town, according to many residents, refused to bend to the realities of war. Even night life continued in the roughest of times, as people resigned themselves to the fact that death was a constant and unavoidable presence (like taxes). (Also I'll comment more on the night life when I've had a little more of it.)

I don't fully understand yet the state people are in, or have a sense of what they've been through. For many, I think there is only to live on and rebuild; that's the only reality now. I think their masks are strong, and built on pride and self-reliance. Maybe it's that a terrible reality has come crashing down, and we live now in jubilee, in the real presence of God's grace.

The next four months I spend here will be spent on three things: 1) gathering trainers and their funding for a Youth Entrepreneurship Workshop, 2) a diocesan youth festival scheduled for December focused on healing, 3) reconnecting churches to their nearest Anglican schools, and training their youth leaders. Right now, most of my time has been spent (somewhat unproductively) in the office, building contacts and relationships, and forming a vision for what the diocesan youth program can be, though, again, I'm only in the office for now.

Your support: your prayers, e-mails, Skype calls, care packages, words of conversations with others about life here; all these things encourage me when life seems lonely and the work seems elusive. Talk to you soon.

Calling a Kid a kid

2007-10-08T01:11:00.000-07:00

I wake up in the morning to many sounds: trucks pulling out of the compound, roosters crowing, the bells of the Cathedral, the banging of a metal pole at the school next door signifying it's time for something, cows mooing, crickes chirping, exotic birds cawing, and kids screaming.

Yes, here in Uganda, and on this very compound, we raise goats, and I'm pretty sure that goats and lambs are male and female, and that their young are called kids. (If I'm wrong, just let it go. You don't have to post anything dramatic or hurtful.) Anyways, I quickly learned the connection between kids of humans and kids of goats/lambs: they sound exactly alike when they cry. There, a fun fact to impress your friends with.

I have some fun things to post about this week, if I get to it.

The State of Things in N. Uganda
The Story of Charles and Lawrence (you're intrigued by the ambiguity), and
At Least it's not Y2K

Hopefully, also soon will be an e-mail to my list-serve, the YASC list-serve, and whoever I can think of that I know would like to read it but has somehow failed to be on either.

Tomorrow is Independence Day here in Uganda, celebrating 45 years of independence from the British Empire (even though some I speak to say the Brits weren't so bad, and their departure has had ambibuous results). So in light of probable celebration on Tuesday, the diocesan pre-emptively gave us today off as well. Vive Uganda!

A Sunday of Celebration

2007-09-30T23:47:00.000-07:00

This, my third Sunday in Gulu, is a special day. Rachael, youngest daughter of Bishop Onono-Onweng, has received her doctorate in Veterinary Medicine from Makerere University. She is a 25 year-old single-mother, and one of only two women in a class of 50.

In St. Philip's Cathedral, only a few hundred meters from the bishop's compound and my house, we are baptizing her son, Omarra, and celebrating her success. The preparations of many weeks, involving family, diocesan staff, and the church community, are put in motion at sunrise, and the feeling is electric. Livestock are carted for the feast, dancers arrive en masse (photo), honorees and clergy are decked out in their very best.

Everyone has arrived at the Cathedral when the procession from the compound begins, fifty dancers with drums and ceremonial garb, singing, proudly presenting their kijiras (the high-pitched yells you'll hear in the video), leading the way for the bishop and his daughter, dressed in full academic regalia.

I've had the pleasure of Omarra's company many times in my three weeks in Uganda. His smile is infectious, loves ripping table cloths off, and loves throwing my dominoes against the floor and around the room! Today he is baptized, marked as Christ's own forever, but this is not quite enough to remove the look of terror and bewilderment the day has caused him so far. After celebrating the baptism with joyous song, we hear a synopsis of Rachel's life, a sermon from a newly-minted clergywoman sporting her cap and gown, and a series of prayers for their future success and our own confession and salvation. (I take this all on faith in my interpreter; my Acholi is not that good yet.)

It's now almost 1pm, and it's time for the reception, just down the road at Gulu High School. We're lead again by the dancers, celebrating, stomping, and ceremonially clearing the way with spears and shields for the honored guests. Now I talked to the Bishop beforehand, and while the invitation does say lunch comes early in the proceedings, I know otherwise. No one's getting a free lunch without paying their dues first! But what a treat: so many great performances by the drummers and dancers, a comedy act, speeches by important people from Rachel's past (again, I can only assume they were amazing).

It was a gratifying experience and a long day. I've asked mom and dad to take notes for my Welcome Home Celebration. We'll see.

This is my first post since arriving in Gulu. I'll try to fill in the blanks soon on how I'm acclamating and what I hope for in the coming months. Thanks for listening.

Traveling Day

2007-09-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

12:20p - Tearful round of hugs with the family, Barbara and Lucy. Dad, Mom, and Molly showed proud smiles amidst escaping tears. Robbie was joking and well-wishing; "Live Free or Die Hard", he advises. Barbara was grieving; we are letting go of our best friends.

12:48p - Take off, Goodbye Charlotte. We come 180 from runway heading, and I get my first daylight glimpse of KCLT. See ya in 365! I'm tired, after a long night of packing, crying and talking, but I'm saving my sleep for the next leg.

2:20p - Touch down Michigan (Detroit). Big, juicy bacon cheeseburger at Max and Erma's (love it...). I'm in traveling mode now. Not missing home yet, nor excited about coming adventures, just getting from points A to E. Feeling a little guilty about it.

3:00p - Walk the concourse, failingly hunting for a gift for the bishop. The airport has a beautiful fountain, though. The NWA WorldTraveler desk wasn't caving in to my sob story to use their internet. Begrudgingly I fork over money for the airport service. But I get to talk at length to the whole family and Barbara. She and I plan a transatlantic compline for 9pm. Just before my flight leaves, I give myself a quick and dirty shave in the men's room. Missed some spots, but it'll do. Gotta look good for the Bish.

7:45p - Joe, sitting to my right, is an architecture professor at Va. Tech, traveling to Berlin to give his students a semester-long tour of Europe (where the history comes from). Good guy. 3,928 miles to Amsterdam. Goodnight.

9:00p - Compline, as scheduled, using the collects most familiar to Camp Henry.

3:00a+6 - Touchdown, Amster Amster DamDamDam! Everyone speaks English, hard to tell I've travelled to a new continent, except people smoke in the terminal, and all their gate desk computers are old. There's also smoking on the tarmac. Everyone saw a 747 engulfed in flames as we taxied to our gate! Oh those Dutch. I leave Barbara a voice mail, sing her a verse from "Grand Musician from Amsterdam", and retrieve my e-mail.

4:15a+6 - It's off to Nairobi, in a 747! Smooth ride. I had the fish (anyone seen Airplane?). Wrote some e-mails to be sent later. They showed an episode of The Simpsons, then Scrubs, God bless 'em. I had an aisle seat, which sucked because I was dying to see Europe and the Med. Sea from the air. I walked over to an Emergency door window in time to see the African coast quickly turn to endless desert. Sounds like a boring sight, but without seeing the ground go by, it feels like I blink my eyes, the scenery changes, but I haven't gone anywhere.

12: 14p+7 - Land in Nairobi. It's dark. A nice man named Victor works in a small terminal shop making calls for people. I phone the diocesan office to report all's well. Bishop Nelson is retiring in 2009, so I see an East African Bird Guide that looks up to the task, and box of chocolate seashells, the gift that can't go wrong (unless it melts). A nice Ugandan and I discuss flight details at the Entebbe flight gate. I'm excited and in good spirits!

3:15p+7 - As we taxi to leave Nairobi, I switch to an empty window seat, beside none other than the nice man I'd spoken to earlier at the gate. There's literally nothing to see but darkness after five minutes flight time, despite clear skies.

4:20p+7 - Welcome to Uganda! We walked 300 yards down the tarmac to enter customs. Visa cleared, and for only $50, $100 less than I expected. The room has a dim, flourescent lighting, a theme I should grow used to. My luggage is some of the last to come out, and I nearly miss meeting Rev. Ali - his sign read "Simson David" - but the Sky Cap graciously called him on his own cell phone, and he answered a few feet away. We rode quietly through the dark night, familiar home to him, a new world to me. At Lueza Conference Center we arrived around 1am, were greeted by some late-night staff, and I was introduced to bug-netting and power outages (later proven to be a recurring theme), but I'm thrilled to finally be here. Sadly, despite hopes to the contrary, there is no phone and no internet, and the idea of going to bed without letting loved ones know I've arrived safely pains me. But I sleep well.

The Pieces Falling in Place

2007-08-21T21:53:00.000-07:00

Tonight I learned that the last of the fundraising money has come in, and this is a tremendous relief! The process was haphazard, done through e-mail and bulk-rate mailings, but at every turn people were exceedingly generous. Thank you all.

Speaking of e-mails, my State buddy Andy tells me my e-mail went to his Junk folder because "Uganda" was in the subject line, and all the creative work spaces and "flex time" at Google couldn't distinguish my call for support from a Nigerian bank-laundering scheme. Kudos to you if you suffered this fate and still made it to this page. All you missed were some articulate prose and instructions to send a blank e-mail to JohnInUganda-subscribe@googlegroups.com if you'd like to join the monthly list-serve.

In other news, the departure date is September 9th! In the meantime, the details of closing up life here for a year weigh more heavily on my mind every day. The last three weeks at home will have a feel of anything but normality, but can I expect anything else?

Opening Remarks

2007-07-18T08:19:00.000-07:00

Two months have passed since my missions training in New York City, two months spent playing and suffering, singing and praying, planning and improvising at Camp Henry on Lake Logan in the gorgeous mountains of North Carolina. And in a month I'll be on my way to Gulu, in northern Uganda, once a regional center in a land of subsistence farming, now a hub to at least six camps for internally displaced peoples (IDPs) and the various aid groups and non-government organizations (NGOs) serving them.

So...if all this is news to you, hit up the Fundraising link, then click on Fundraising letter, and all will (more or less) be revealed. Though, whoever you are, if you've made it to this page, you've played some role in my life, and so you make up some part of the path that will carry me to Gulu.

The links on the left take you back to the site where you started, where hopefully there'll be photos, news on my current happenings, hopefully some audio content, too. I hope to diligently post to this blog, because I hope to make you all a part of my ministry by taking you to the places I go and telling some of what I see and do. Thanks for coming with me, and stay tuned for updates on preparations and good-byes.

Peace