A Night On The Town

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

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)

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

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

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

Torn on Sunday

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

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.