The end.

I flew 38,000 feet above the Lybian Desert again; sat in an airborn capsule catapulting me back into the West. Four months ago I reread Salinger's Franny and Zooey. En route to Africa, Salinger's words resonated in my popping ears: "I go mostly because I'm tired as hell of getting up furious in the morning and going to bed furious at night. I go because I sit in judgment on every poor” person I know (Salinger, 139). I was tired of it because “there are nice things in the world- and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked. Always, always referring everything that happens right back to our own lousy egos” (Salinger, 152). I was fed up with judging myself, and judging others, without experience or legitimacy to back up any of the judgment. I was tired of working so hard for a joy that I know comes naturally if I don't get bogged down with my own fluff. Mostly though, I was ready. I left the summer in a calm place of preparedness. "The time has come" the Walrus told me, and off I went.

I dreamt of Africa. I did so growing up, and while I studied at Uganda Christian University, and have since my return. My presence there never really felt a part of me. When I was in fourth grade a woman visited Fitchville Baptist Church in Bozrah, Connecticut. She worked for a school in Kenya. She gave me a small, leather, flip-flop keychain. Seven years later my car keys flopped along with that piece of East Africa. A few years after that, it held my college dorm keys and meal card. It held the keys to my first apartment the summer before my Ugandan semester, before I left the keychain to come back to its origination myself. Walking off the plane onto the runway in August, the huge African, starlit sky engulfed me. Yet, it let me be. I went to Africa and was still following myself around. I shook my arms to attempt to feel what remained so far away. And as I left last Tuesday night, I again walked across that runway. Ached up into the starlit sky, and knew this was going to be hard.

Arriving in Uganda was simpler. Exciting. I left a place I love for a place I did not know. On Tuesday I left a place I love for a place I love. I wisper to myself: "live in the tension!" while I wonder if I'll ever live out of the tension again. "Displacement is not primarily something to do or to accomplish, but something to recognize” (Nouwen, 71).

My semester abroad made me feel like the snail in Issa’s haiku: O snail, Climb Mount Fugi, But slowly, slowly! (Kobayashi Issa). Even though the world felt smaller as I lived on the other side of it, the problems of the world did not. But, despite the mountain range, I realized the necessity of continuing the climb.

And I do not know what will come next. Well, that is a lie- I know that Christmas is next, is tomorrow. And then my last semester of Gordon. I know that right now I wear gloves as I type on the computer, so I'll soon leave this spot for a cozier one downstairs. I'll talk to my Mom and sit at the kitchen table that has made mention in this blog so many times. I like sitting at it. But more long-term, more wide-frame panoramic, how long I will stay or go? Will I do good or just be present? I stay right now because is the truest form of faithfulness available. If staying in six months is still the only blatant way to live what seems ought to come next, I hope I have the courage to do so. If flying off somewhere, whether it be Chicago or the Lybian Desert or Phnom Penh, I hope the same. I don't know if I believe in moments of epiphany or promise for changing the world any more. I do believe in following opportunities to give of myself- here and far, and wherever I end up. I desire to give of myself. Faithfully.

Thank you for being present with me through this semester. For following my thoughts and frustrations and sudden startling joys. My days home have been an amusing adventure in themselves already- as if the layover in Amsterdam was not amusing enough. Feel free to inquire as to things outside of my time as "a broad abroad." Like Ugandans would say: "you are most welcome."

Viruses and Exams

Reflecting on last week brings to mind viruses and exams: viruses rampant in computers, and starting an epidemic in Western Uganda; exams every other day, interspersed with study fests and last hurrahs. I’m halfway through my exams, “papers” in local coinage. If you have any good information on globalization or foreign aid in East Africa since independence, let me know.

This whole ending process is weird. If you figure out how to say goodbye or deal with last-times, fill me in on that too.

Half of our last weekend was spent sitting in, and on the porch of, a “salon.” Girls here “plait” there hair pretty regularly- braid or twist in fake hair to create different styles, lengths, etc. In twelve hours on Saturday I went from short, curly haired Kimberly to long, twisted haired Nassali. And just like it still doesn’t feel real to be here, the surreality of being home will be dizzying. Just like I am constantly thankful for the reminders that home exists and I’m still a part of it- letters from Mom, Yoda drawings from Aidan, and mere thoughts, dreams, of not feeling sick after each meal- my hair will be a temporary, tangible reminder at home that this was not all a dream. Arriving here was a process. Plaiting my hair was a tedious process. My return will be a process too. I shook my arms to attempt feeling this place four months ago. As I adjust back, take out my twists, and put on long sleeves, I’ll hug my mom and shake my arms, not only to warm up in the sudden winter cold, but to attempt to feel home anew.

I think it will feel like Red Rose tea at a kitchen table in Connecticut, bumping knees with mia madre, and receiving a long-missed bear hug from mio padre.

Dark Chocolate Confection

An amusing miscommunication during my last LiA interview on Wednesday: Apoka Alex and I could not connect on the number of children he supports. There was repeated discrepancy: 3, 2, 5, 4. Some questions often meet with confusion, but number of children had never previously been difficult to interpret. I wrote what I thought was the correct amount, and continued on with the survey. Then, when I finished the third of what I thought should be five children surveys I was told I was done.

“But, aren’t there two more?”

“Yes.”

“Well…may I also interview them?”

“I have another wife. They are with my other wife.”

The survey is specific to each household, and the discrepancy was that the two other children are a part of Alex’s other household. Like many Ugandan men, he is polygamous. Once again, Western assumptions slapped me in the face.

I handed in my final literature paper this week- had my last lit class with Prof. Mukakanya. He’s a wonderful, eclectic, elderly Ugandan man. He makes sounds of agreement that resemble Yoda and has sideburns that resemble the 1970s. On the first day of class he asked what previous interaction we each had with African literature, and upon hearing of my previous readings of Ngugi, Soyinka, Mukulu and the like, we had an immediate bond. It’s odd to begin the goodbyes.

I have a hard time staying involved when the goodbyes have begun, and we’re starting to receive information about handing in hangers and bed sheets. I’m fighting the inclination to check out emotionally. I’m not fighting it hard enough. The weather gets hotter, and the puddle I’m reduced to every day covets the winter approaching New England. Ugandan writing style and grade scale differ enough for me to dread my final exams. I’m done with LiA, and the next few weeks seem longer than necessary. I love it here, but if I have to leave, let’s get it over with.

Today I cradled a dark chocolate bar of an infant, confectious and curly haired. For an hour she drifted in and out of sleep, while I kept my hand on her back to make sure she was breathing- so tiny and fragile, I was nervous I’d break her. I was again visiting TAPP (see previous post), but for World AIDS Day this time. Several of us went to help at an event supporting and advertising AIDS treatment and prevention; supporting the end of “stigma and segregation.” We pinned red ribbons to women’s gomezi, served lunch and soda, and I cradled the infant while a Canadian doctor spoke about how HIV/AIDS is and is not spread. And I wondered how long this confection would survive; wondered if she is HIV/AIDS positive. Her presence there today means her mom probably is.

"Tumaini": Swahili for "hope"

I was a freshman. With the Gordon chapter of Amnesty International we showed "The Invisible Children," a documentary made by 3 guys who graduated college and went to Africa to "find something." What they found was a civil war that had been ravaging Northern Uganda for over 20 years. Now a senior, I am in Uganda, and visited the Invisible Children Bracelet Campaign office. It was surreal; standing outside a gate with the oh-so-familiar 'Invisible Children' lettering scrawled in white on black. We knocked, and entered to receive a tour of the offices, meet workers, all displaced from Gulu, and understand the organization more fully. It was encouraging. After my freshman year, critiques of the amount of advertising, and the quality of advertising, done by Invisible Children have sprung- a lot of money is spent. On the ground, the organization seems as sustainable and simplicity minded as possible though. And the ways that the Bracelet Campaign is not sustainable, are being addressed. The office we went to is completely Ugandan staffed. The workers we talked to are happy- thankful for a job with benefits. "Because of this, my sister and brother can attend to school." The walls are bare; the money goes to people, not decorations.
Two days later I visited another organization called TAPP: Tumaini AIDS Prevention Program. And it was even more exciting. TAPP is not only completely Ugandan staffed, but began out of a Ugandan man's acknowledgment of need, and desire for change. "Be the change to want to see in the world" and all that (Gandhi). TAPP's aim is to provide opportunities for women and children infected with HIV/AIDS, to reclaim identity and community. So often those infected are ostracized, sick, and unable to provide for themselves (or their children). There is jewelry making- providing income, as well as collaboration among the women who work together. There is a program for elderly women, raising funds to build 2 room homes, so that they have one room to live in and one to rent for income. There are children's programs- a school, sponsorship opportunities, etc. I walked with Patrick, the school's headmaster, for 15 minutes as I left the center to catch a matatu back to Mukono. He also leads MDD (music, dance, and drama), and allowed me to inquire about the effectiveness and sustainability of theatre here. He went to undergrad for "Community Theatre," and spoke highly of its potential. I asked if he thought me coming back here and getting involved in community theatre (specifically focused on social change) was attainable. He answered a hearty "yes." For those 15 minutes alone, the day's visit was worth it.

My time volunteering with LiA also continues to highlight my weeks. Walking through the Acholi Quarter in Banda, the IDP camp that most of the interviews are conducted in, is an intriguing combination of light and heavy. It lightens me in the good of the work, and weighs in its dank reality. Invisible Children, TAPP, and LiA- each pushes me to wonder how where I'll end up long-term and what I'll be doing. And how the heck will acting play in? I think of Franny and Zooey once again: "Somewhere along the line...you not only had a hankering to be an actor or actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to- be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier?"

Bathday.

That fetal-position-inducing bacteria in my intestines put me out of commission for several days, but I’ve been able to sit up for most of the daylight hours of this week, and finished the medicine last night. The bacteria also laid off substantially for my Sunday birthday, and I celebrated much more than I thought I would be able to. I went to sleep on Saturday night, resigned to a quiet passing of the next day. In an attempt to avoid the Ugandan tradition of regularly drenching the “bath-day” boy or girl, few people knew of its coming. Soon after I entered my final dreams as a 20 year old, I was awoken up by a group of fellow USP students singing though, who blindfolded me and led me outside in my pajamas, circled me around, and ended in the nearest kitchen. There were candles lit and an entire yogurt parfait bar. A surprise party for my Ugandan birthday! And I didn’t get drenched!

The next morning, Aimee, Sarah, and I headed into Kampala to go out to breakfast and finish shopping for friends and family. We caught the matatu (public taxi in the form of a 15 passenger van) per usual. Not until the matatu was venturing down Jinja Rd. did we realize there were also chickens aboard- 80 in total, shoved under seats and between feet, squawking and flapping occasionally. It was hilarious. One laid an egg. Even more hilarious was when they and their owner were dropped off just outside Kampala, and they were loaded onto two boda-bodas (public transport in the form of a motorcycle): attempt to imagine 40 live chickens tied by their feet in pairs, draped over the handle bars of a motorcycle. Amazing.

The day was good- we laughed at the public transportation system and our own glee over the anomaly of pancakes and coffee for breakfast. I finally bought gifts for the men in my life (Dad, brother, brother-in-law…). A definite birthday highlight was arriving back on campus in time to receive a phone call from the entirety of Fitchville Baptist Church, complete with a group crooning of “Happy Birthday.” Sick and a birthday made the Atlantic Ocean seem very big last week, but in a matter of a phone call I suddenly felt loved enough to suffice the distance.

Happy Thanksgiving! CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting) brought the Queen of England to Uganda this week, and also gave us a long weekend with Thursday and Friday as National CHOGM Holidays. We had a big Thanksgiving-ish dinner with the ex-patriots from the area. A Charlie Brown Christmas made up for the lack of stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Again I talked with love across the Atlantic, and felt a part of things far.

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for: international phone calls; Franny and Zooey (just read it for the 2^nd time this semester); Linus and the meaning of Christmas. I’m thankful for the continent of Africa- all its bigness and my smallness, and how often it reminds me of such. I’m thankful for the Atlantic Ocean, its reminder of distance, and what can cross it.

I hugged back.

A week ago I was sitting on a ferry with Aimee and Sarah, crossing the Equator and Lake Victoria to camp on the Ssese Islands. It docked on Kilangala and we walked down the white sand beach until it ended. Then we kept walking through the bush until we realized that perhaps the beach didn’t start back up again and turned around to set up our tent on the last patch of beach. Looking out at other islands and the sunset, I built a fire- years of camping with Uncle Stevie taught me well. We toasted bread for pb&j sandwiches, followed up by several rounds of marshmallows toasted to varying degrees of perfection. Saturday was our own self-proclaimed debrief time, reading and preparing for the final stretch of this semester. We collected extra wood for our beach fire that night and cuddled up to roast more marshmallows. At a point of quiet stillness, our heads leaned together and I wondered aloud: Since when are we old enough to be off camping by ourselves? In Africa? We are so far from home right now.

Perhaps the sharp reverberating pains that put me in a fetal position on my bed for a day and a half this week were the excuse I needed to curl up and feel young again. I cross the line from 2 decades to two decades and a year old this Sunday. In six months, somehow, I will be a college graduate. Really? Oh gosh, and I’ll be an auntie. In Luganda, the mother’s sisters are also referred to as mother. So, in four months, in the Buganda kingdom of Uganda, I’ll be a mother. Sheesh. More fetal position time.

“Franny now lay sleeping on her left side, facing into the back of the couch and the wall, her chin just grazing one of the several toss pillows all around her. Her mouth was closed, but only just. Her right hand, however, on the coverlet, was not merely closed but shut tight; the fingers were clenched, the thumb tucked in- it was as though, at twenty, she had checked back into the mute, fisty defenses of the nursery” (Franny and Zooey, 123).

Now I sit upright, and the antibiotic for the bacteria that might be hanging out in my intestines sits on my desk. And though I reserve the right to a good fetal position moment whenever necessary, I also embrace the exhausting joys of being here, so far from home and the nursery.

Through an enjoyable string of events (hooray for Aimee and her inclinations), I recently began to volunteer with a community center called Life in Africa (which does microfinance loans, craft sales, and community groups- all sustainable aid and change, organized by and for Ugandans). Once a week I go to either Banda or Ntenda and survey families (LiA members). The center is located in an Acholi IDP* camp and many of the members live in slum-like conditions. On Wednesday I surveyed Zuan Chandini who provides for her sisters five orphaned children. The 5 year old, second to youngest, is HIV positive. Even with the prevalent reality of HIV/AIDS here, the translator I was working with struggled to move to the next question after hearing of an infected toddler.

“Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who indeed knows why there can be comfort in a world of desolation? Now God be thanked that here is a beloved one who can lift up the heart in suffering, that one can play with a child in the face of such misery…Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? Who knows why the warm flesh of a child is such comfort…” (Cry, The Beloved Country, 56-7).

The experiences of the LiA work refuse to sink into my reality. I think asking questions of food intake, future goals, past experiences with child abduction, etc. put my emotions in a distanced state for the sake of sanity. Sitting in a mud room that is home to three adults and three children, with the walls covered in cardboard and newspaper soccer clippings, I attempt to acknowledge the depth of the interaction. Instead I am left with an inarticulate flow of facts. In return for two hours of questions Molly Kyomukama gave me half an ear of roasted corn and a hug. What else could I give her? I hugged her back.

(^ Molly)

*IDP: Internally Displaced Persons

Feelings change from want to must.

I do not recall the earliest point at which I dreamed about a hut in Africa. I ought to find the pictures Russell MacGregor drew of me in a “shack in Africa” from across Mr. Avila’s seventh grade History classroom. I think I still have one tucked in a drawer in Connecticut, drawn in red pen, where stick-figure me holds a playbill and smiles, posing in front of an African hut.

Imagining Russell’s artistry, I laughed nervously and placed my head in my hands as the truck turned off the main dirt road and began the 15 minute drive through the bush to my rural homestay. The driver rolled up the windows to keep snakes from coming in off the branches that hugged against the vehicle. Potbellied children could still be heard yelling, even through the closed windows, anticipating the tears I would soon receive from the two year old twins that became my niece and nephew, frightened at the anomaly of my white skin.

My life (thus far) felt as if it were culminating when I was suddenly ushered to my hut by Toto (Iteso for Mom). This clearing in the midst of African bush- a small compound of huts, a latrine, and several graves, was my home. Toto and Papa, a couple in their seventies, became yet another pair of parents. I was alone in my whiteness, and incredibly welcome in my self. And despite five days of diarrhea on a pit latrine, I crumbled when I rode back along those footpaths. Mercy and Opio had stopped crying at that point- stopped “fearing.” I cradled Mercy in my arms in the moments before leaving. Toto gave me millet flour we had pound and ground together. Ruth, my sister, gave me cookies I watched her fry earlier in the afternoon (they taste like fried shortbread cookies). Papa picked me a dozen oranges from the three trees that centered our compound. The taste of one lingers in my mouth now as I type.

It is difficult for me to summarize this experience. More difficult than any other portion of the semester has been. I arrived feeling as if it was about time I got there, and something inside me wondered what had taken so long. I left feeling, more than ever, the risk of forgetting. I cannot risk forgetting this place where my heart sat down and my arms stopped shaking. Where the lyrics Stevie gave me at the start of this semester inbreathed- “feelings change from want to must.” I must, even though I still do not quite know what.

I missed most of the jokes, but enjoyed the laughter. Most of my family spoke at least broken English, but when jesting, Iteso prevailed. I weeded cassava, dug potatoes and groundnuts, cleaned, roasted, and ground the groundnuts, ground millet, and carried water on my head from the boar hole. We ate everything with our hands, including beef, chicken, mud fish, silver fish, pork, and goat (which lead to the vomitous and diarrhea-ed proof that my stomach is actually having difficulty with digesting meat after two years and it’s not completely mental, as some have accused!). I visited a primary school and left wanting to build my own hut right there, teach at the school, and start a drama program for the girls to promote self-respect. We visited a neighboring compound, home to at least eleven orphan children, two of which are severely disabled. Every night after dinner, which we ate varying between 10 and 11:30 pm, we prayed and sang together. One song included the line “even militia bow before Him.”

I crumbled upon departure. Days later I continued to crumble, though less. And I will continue to pick up these pieces for a long time, but I hope I will not be able to gather them all. I do not want to recover from this. I feel as if I am on the decline to the semester- this rural departure was the beginning of the end, and I embrace that only in the promise that this semester will not end in me.

“Feelings change from want to must, so I push a meaning to it all.”

Glossary of Characters

Consistently present within the compound were:

Toto- Joyce is the mother of eleven children, eight of whom are still alive. The seven graves within our compound belong to her son, daughter-in-law, and five grandchildren than have been lost to “extended illness,” which means HIV/AIDS. Atop the strenuous nature of life for an African woman, she also distributes anti-malarial medicine to children of their village, attempting to lessen the depressing rate of avoidable infant mortality. Papa paid 20 cows and 8 goats in dowry for her.

Papa- Moses is a retired Primary School headmaster of 36 years, still passionate about education. I learned this is full when he took me to a “local” primary school (about a 30 minute walk through the bush), and upon arrival I found out I was about to talk to a group of P7 girls about such. The school we visited has about 1,900 students and 22 teachers. The P1 classroom I was ushered into barely had enough room for me to stand. I peered through the window-less window to watch the 75-100 first graders, in a classroom comparable in size to my 30 student classrooms from elementary school, sing me a song. They sat on the floor, laughing and singing and climbing on top of each other. There are no textbooks.

Tata- Toto’s mother lives in a hut set apart from the rest. As Toto and Papa are in their seventies, I assume she is in her nineties. She is the picturesque, elderly, African woman. When not walking with her 6ft tall stick, she would crawl across the compound to greet me in the morning. She does not speak a syllable of English, but we still managed to have meager conversation. She was most typically seen peeling cassava, hand washing sheets, or slaughtering chickens.

Ruth- Toto and Papa’s “daughter in Christ,” a poor, single mother visiting to help farm, cook, and keep me company. Her husband left with her second daughter about a decade ago and she does not know where they are- she said she would not recognize her daughter. Her elder daughter, Juliet, is in P7 now though and Ruth continues to struggle to pay her school fees. Toto and Papa paid them while I was there as Ruth had no money, and without it Juliet would not continue. The fee was 5000 shillings, about $2.50.

Opio and Mercy- 2 year old twins; son and daughter of Betty, who is a teacher so she is often gone, even staying at the school overnight frequently. Betty was unwilling to allow their father to take a second wife, so he left them. Opio’s name is actually Emmanuel, but he is called the Iteso word for first born twin.

Check out new pictures through the facebook link.
Lovelove.

Boy Meets Blog

Remember the Boy Meets World episode when Corey and Topanga are on their honeymoon? They go to an exotic paradise of some kind (Hawaii, perhaps?) and Corey doesn’t want to leave. Ever. So they stay. Of course, by the end of the thirty minutes, with sufficient commercial break-age, he realizes vacation ceases to be such when it becomes perpetual. Topanga misses “home.” Tropical paradise became less exotic.

I look up at the trees here and remember (an incessant theme in my blog, perhaps) I’m in East Africa. Palm and banana leaves swept across the sunset outside Josephine Tucker (my dorm) and I didn’t notice until I looked at pictures. I often let this “exotic” escapade fall into mere school and life. I think of Corey and Topanga realizing how far vacation is from reality, and wonder if this experience will persist in the reality I am bound to re-enter in a mere two months.

Then I realize that Topanga’s name is Topanga. Where did that name come from and why did it take until now for me to realize its, well, weird?

Last Saturday I flew through the air over a Class 5 white water rapid called “Big Brother” when our raft flipped. Our instructor, Roberto, had never flipped a raft on that rapid in his six years of experience on the Nile. The next day I watched several USP students bungee jump 140ft, dipping their upper halves in the Nile as they climaxed (div-axed?) their initial decline. The jump is free if you do it naked. No one took the offer last weekend, but apparently it’s not a rare occurrence for the boaters below to hand the jumper a towel for modesty as they take the straps off their ankles.

In two days we leave for rural home stays. As Uganda’s population is 80% rural, it seems next week will be my first interaction with “typical” Uganda. I was told I will probably be in a hut, sleeping on a floor. I will definitely not have electricity or running water. I may be 30-45 kilometers from the nearest white person. Here I go…

Look your fill.

I sat on the banks of the Nile; wrote Linda a letter and listened to SongaDaySibs under a thatch-awning. SongaDay haunts me every time I try to concentrate. I turn on the iPod shuffle, inherited from that melodic sib, and attempt to read “Mission to Kala” for literature class, or write a letter to the ‘rents and suddenly mio fratello is strumming and humming in my ears. I hit the halfway point like a brick, lonely at the idea of returning to a continent and a campus that has gone on without me. My dear roommate Aimee is from California. Sarah, who’s frequent “meow” still kicks up my feet at the idea of an actual cat at my heels, is a Chicago chick. Goodbyes seem far away, until I think of how quickly and richly this time has already passed. And those new friends will at least be in the states, n’er mind Mercy, Florence, Nyio… So I find myself pining for home, but only because it seems safer than continuing to invest in what is bound to be left behind. The honeymoon is over. Now I’m choosing to love this, fearful of what leaving love will feel like. Within fear though, there is faith. In that letter written to Mom: “I can’t help but reflect on the past two year’s intensity…In spite of the intimidatingly open future I am bound to faith by what has been incessantly made manifest. Faith that, though unknown, the future is worth waiting for. I’m sitting under a thatch roof, looking out at Lake Victoria and the Nile, joyfully fearful at what could possibly come next.”

My arms are sore from planting grass at St. Stephen’s Primary School on Tuesday. I arrived to start my service project, and was presented with a large metal hoe and pointed toward a grassless red dirt area about a ½ basketball court. Hard, cracked, and dry dirt, aching to be dug and planted so the rag-clothed children could play barefooted on green rather than perpetual red. For the next thirty minutes eight year old boys put my hoe-digging ability to shame. Each girl who kneeled down to hand me a chunk of grass roots incited guilt that I would be bowed down to, simply because of my skin color. Kneeling is a strong form in this culture- my homestay siblings always kneeled when giving our parents anything- representing respect for those older or of “higher” stature. The grass-kneelers reminded me of saying “I love you” to my Southern campers a few summers ago, and receiving “yes maam” in reply. So, I remind myself that guilt is general and conviction is specific- this guilt is a superficial knee-jerk, and I need to accept ‘the kneel’ as oddly, but sincerely, kind.

When we ran out of grass to be planted the project paused until next week. The teacher supervising retrieved four badminton rackets and a birdie, handed them to me, and suddenly the 50 or so boys were clamoring to be the first to play. Yes, at least a 50 students to 4 rackets ratio, with one non-Luganda-speaking mzungu to organize. Thirty minutes later I was laughing amidst them all though, watching this somehow work, and remembered once again that I am in Africa. I stood on a hillside, amidst so many dark faces, looking out at the Mukono dusk, and wondered again how it is that I got here.

“Every evening as the sun went down, the distinct features of the village and surrounding forest merged in dark anonymity, and night spread across the sky like a great velvet cloth, yet scarcely more somber than the tropical undergrowth which it obscured. And every evening, watching this metamorphosis, I thought: look your fill. A darkening picture, perhaps; but look closely, you cannot risk forgetting it. When you remember it in after time, think of your pleasure at recalling every minutest detail, even the infinite gradations of shading in the evening sky, or the bird in the distant forest, sadly celebrating the faithlessness of each fickle day, like a boy weeping for his mother’s death. Think of the grey, neutral banana-trees, their sharp outlines melting into the darkness till they take on the semblance of ghosts. Think, last, of the moon, rising in splendid self-annunciation behind the tangled trees, unlooked-for and incredible, slowly climbing till she rode clear at least, tranquil as a goddess, gleaming, radiant” (Mission to Kala, 51).

I cannot risk forgetting this. Thanks for helping me set it down for remembrance sake.

Minuscule me.

I was the only mzungu (white person) at my friend Florence’s graduation party.

There was a monkey outside my bedroom window.

I took a matatu (taxi) by myself.

The sunset last night made me feel very small.

The stars that followed…I am minuscule.

There are points at which my heart screams and the words that escape are “We’re in Africa right now.”

I know college is the “easiest” time to travel- program, scholarships, educational excuse- but my current frustration is that I have college impeding on my attempt to merely exist in this place. Be present in this place. College also happens to be among the busiest and most confusing times of life (or so I hear). I don’t like dealing with the crunch of papers due next week. I don’t want to pull an all-nighter in Africa! I am thankful for the safety net of program and departure date, just like I was thankful for my brotherly safety net in New York City this summer. Leaving the city I hoped for the courage to move back without such safeties if ever I receive the chance though. Now I hope that someday I may work up the courage to exist outside myself in the ways this semester has pulled me to do, without a safety net.

I hope to exist someday.

Last Friday was a UCU graduation, and my friend Florence graduated First Class in Literature. Saturday I ate lunch at her apartment (beef and rice, yum) before going to “Rest Gardens” with Lucky, Mercy, and Grace to decorate for the graduation party. I blew up balloons and learned how to “make ribbons” for a few hours before donning a dress of Lucky’s and welcoming the guest of honor. As a thank you Florence again had me to her apartment: on Tuesday I sat amidst 6 or 7 Ugandan girls on the floor and ate lunch. Then Mercy fell asleep while I helped Lucky type a paper about the internet. When sleeping beauty arose, she and I walked backed to campus. We are sisters, Mercy and I, because both our fathers are pastors and our mothers are primary teachers.

That’s the kind of existing parade I want my papers to quick raining on. I know, I know- I wouldn’t have met Florence without studying here. None-the-less…

^ Mercy and I after we decorated, looking "smart" for the party.

^Florence and Lucky (the cap-and-gowned left to right) prepare to cut the cake.

MORE PICTURES.

More pictures have been posted:
http://gordon.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2018565&l=2aa05&id=68400086

There are also more in the last album, so check that out again too! (Pictures of...homestay family, more Rwanda, more friends, more precious children...)

Lovelove.

Home is where you take your tea.

Chats about spending four months in East Africa prevailed in my last weeks pre-departure.

Commonly asked question: “Are you nervous about anything?”

Immediate answer: “I’ll do a two week homestay within the first month. And I’m terrified.”

The homestay seemed an abyss of awkward forced social interaction. I imagined myself committing every cultural foe passé; imagined breaking down while struggling to bath with a bucket of cold water in the dark, desperate for a conversation without endless exhausting miscommunication. I didn’t feel as nauseous as I did that June day my songadaysib took a buzzer to my curls, but similar emotional waves crashed. And just like I knew I needed to shave my head because I was scared to do so, I came down on a neutral anticipatory calm the morning homestays began, realizing this was something I also needed to do because I was afraid of it.

“Hello Fear, how are you?” [shaking hands]

Now I am on the other side of homestays, back in my dorm room with my roommate Aimee and my tall white mosquito net. Again this semester gives me an opportunity to reflect on a mere portion of its whole; attempt to make some sense of all the individual moments and whispers each day rises and sets in. But then, of course me and my western worldview would try to make sense of the individual moments. How do I strip myself down to a shade cleaner than my JIK bleached whites, and see the past two weeks in the African eyes of community and participation, rather than individuality?

Western thought is built on the basic notion “I think, therefore I am.” Descartes kicked community in the bum and said we exist because we rationalize. Existence is in individual belief, in figuring out what one believes. The Descartes of African thought may be found in the African Proverb “I am because we are.” I participate, therefore I am. I have been able to talk about the communal focus of this culture for a long time- I studied it, rationalized it, and believed it. Ish. It takes participation to understand, to experience the reprioritization inherent Western understanding must undergo here. Community is not just emphasized. Relationships actually are the priority.

Traditional African thought believes relationships to be the most important aspect of life. What would happen if we were to interact with what we believe? In The Teaching Behind the Teaching Palmer asserts that “the distinction between “out there” and “in here” would disappear; we would discover that we are in the world and the world is within us; that truth is not a statement about reality but a living relationship between ourselves and the world.” As Linda would say, “the reality is” we live what we believe, and no matter how I talk about the importance of community and relationship, I live in a culture of rational thought and deadlines. And I continue to be very pro-rational, analytical thought, but my thoughts mean nothing unless expressed in the experiential nature of relationships. I think, therefore I participate, and therefore I am. I am because we are.

Friday night, my last official homestay night, we took family “snaps” (photos). Mom lent me a traditional Buganda dress, called a gomez, for the occasion. The sleeves of gomezi have princess puffs that are at least 3 inches tall. They are worn with a (often metallic) 8-10 inch thick belt tied around the hips and draping to the floor. And there is so much fabric. It was fun(ny). Participatory. Perhaps in that community of moments I participated in the belief that I belonged in those family photos; I participate, therefore I am Nassali. And I will continue to participate. On Sunday I visited Flavia at her hostel. She introduced me to her friends as her sister. Logically, okay, I'm not Flavia's sister. But on Sunday I was.

Pictoral Shenanigans.

I try and try and try to upload pictures onto blogspot but have failed and failed and failed. I am still hopeful that I will be able to post some eventually, and am attempting different options, but for now thanks for your patience. I do hope that my words have been able to paint some images for you. ALSO: I was JUST able to post some on facebook so you can check out pictures here: http://gordon.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2017982&l=ba7e9&id=68400086

Also a brief note before my battery dies: thank you for your responses. They are savored and rerereread. They are the majority of my minimal contact with anything off the east coast of Africa, and even though I absolutely love being here, I know coming back in three months will be made easier if I am not completely out of the loop. I'd also love to hear about your lives if ever you feel inclined to drop an email or a note. Don't let anyone get engaged, married, switch careers, move, be born, etc. without filling me in!

Another post summarizing the end of homestays is in the works. Lovelove.

The importance of being called.

My homestay family calls me ‘Nissali.’ My peers here call me ‘Kimberly.’ My phone vibrates to its “Liszt” ring tone and I hear ‘Kimi’ called to from a kitchen table in Bozrah, Connecticut. The story of Genesis accounts a God calling his very creation into being- inbreathing life and calling forth purpose. My homestay Mom asked to be called by her first name. It was her mother’s name. Perhaps in the breathing forth of “Deborah” I call into being her mother within her- pull out the strength and love Deborah desires to reflect of her namesake.

Is a different self called to being with each name that resounds in my direction? Am I more clever when called Nissali and more studious when called Kimberly? I find that I feel more serious in response to Kimberly, but I think that is more a reflection of what “Kimberly Dawn!” meant on the rare occasion I heard the tight tone of reprimand growing up. I find my innards growing warm and cozy at the incantation of Kimi, but because the voice that most often calls it forth is the woman that carried me forth into being, and the kitchen table from whence it come stands in the presence of tea cup memories. Years of confessions, consolations, and cohering resonate in that kitchen incantation.

Children on Kampala Road say “bye.” Somewhere in translation the general populous of children lost “hi” but caught “bye,” so they wave hello and say goodbye as I nod my head and walk forward. The even more personal of the impish beings skittering in their holy threads yell “mzungu” or “give us dollars.” What are they attempting to call out of me? I don’t think they really just want my American dollars or meager, though humorous, attempt at a Luganda “hello, how are you?”

“Oli otya nnyabo?”

I fell on the way home. Apparently the red dirt called me forth. If it hadn’t been for Sarah’s presence, I would have been cozily dropped into the cement crevice of the drainage ditch that runs between the road and the walking path. Instead I just wiped out on the uneven terrain, and Sarah and I laughed at our selves while I patted the red dirt off my right side before assessing the damage on my leg. Its relatively minor- no worries. Would Nassali, named for cleverness, misstep in such a way though? Would Kimi from Connecticut be walking along Kampala Road in Mukono, Uganda?

I contemplate the self that is being daily called into being. My self. I attempt to imagine how the simultaneous selves within me are merging into a gelatinous mass of unity in a place so far outside any self I have ever experienced before. Arriving in Entebbe over a month ago was surreal. The disconnect between me and here was that I was still following myself around. I came all the way to East Africa, and I’m still here. What pieces of me will I find here and how am I fragmented into places so far from the kitchen in Connecticut?

"I bought you a fried fish!"

Last night was full of firefly moments- moments I wanted to catch in a jar and keep because they let off light I'm desperate to hold onto. But if I keep them closed in they'll die. So I'll let them out here, let them fly and breath, and let myself keep moving too.

Fireflies: The moment mom laughed and threw her arms around me when I asked how she met dad. The quiet span of time spent fingers-intertwined with her as we walked back in the dark from buying sugar and bread. Song and prayer every night with mom and dad in the sitting room, when mom closes her eyes and does motions with her hands to "Go tell it on the mountain." Last night dad after the song spoke of how the day has "come to end," and we must be thankful for the moments that will never come again.

After dinner, before song time, I asked dad what his first impression of mom was. He said she "advised" him- he admired and respected her. They have never "quarreled." When one offends the other, they go into the bedroom, say so quietly, apologize, and move on. "We never quarrel." Do you realize how dynamically counter-cultural that is here? Men pay for their brides, a "bride-price." They are often encouraged to hit their wives- people believe it shows they truly love them. Yet these temporary parents of mine advise one another and discuss their offenses.

There are some moments I am ready to leave behind before they even come though, often occurring at supper time. Two nights ago Dad got home and pulled out a small black plastic bag, the same size as that in which he carried home a chocolate bar for me on my first day of classes this week. But this time when he handed it to me, I did not feel a cool hard square of milk chocolate. I felt the hot, slimy exterior of a freshly fried whole fish. "I bought you a fried fish!" Mom put it on a plate in the middle of our table and ripped off a side with her hands to place in front of me. Scales and all. Its open mouth gapped in my direction while I ate its side and my sister Flavia sucked on its tail. I woke up the next morning still tasting fish, still burping fish. Last night he came home, yippee!, with four chicken legs. I ate a leg of chicken and my stomach gurgled to sleep angrily. I keep having the slimy mental image of chicken in my hands and my mouth. Oh, but Stevie and Danny will be proud. And it shouldn't take that long for me to adjust back to ingesting animals, right?

Nassali of the Chima clan.

Saturday morning meant the embarking on two weeks of living with a family in Mukono. With Meema’s duffle bag and a jerry can of clean water I was dropped at Deborah and James doorstep. Sarah and Grace met the van and took my belongings before I even knew they were there. I followed their scurrying, past the crumbling front steps, and was soon cozy with Sarah on the couch in the sitting room hearing of the “Angels” singing trio she and her friends have at Mukono High School. Milly snuggled in to share how she likes literature and writing stories about helping friends who have AIDS, and welcoming refugees from the North. And it really did seem to all happen that quickly- arriving to belonging in a matter of blinks.

Flavia, Winnie, Isaac, Sarah, Milly, and Grace are my sisters and brothers (four girls, two boys- can you guess which names belong to the boys?). Within my first three days with the Nyonyi’s they have all left for boarding school. Sarah left notes in places we are still discovering for us though, and most of the schools are easily within visiting range. I plan on thanking Sarah for the notes in person when I stop by her school on my way home soon.

Monday evening was my first 40 minute walk back home from campus and Grace ran to meet me as I walked down the last dirt path. Arm-in-arm we past one of the hogs. There are at least three oinkers that I see regularly- one pink, one black, and one a polka-dotted mix. On my way to campus in the morning they are usually wallowing prostrate in the mud, and greet me with a hearty trill. Do they know they are greeting Nassali, named for the cleverest woman in the tribe? That is my Chima clan name, given by my homestay Daddy on Sunday morning after I brought him his tea. Homestay mom likes me to bring Dad his meals, as he is always pleased with my attempts at Luganda (the language) and Buganda customs. Interesting note: supper is eaten much later here than the 5- 6:45 time slot at Gordon. Gordon’s dinner is comparable to our evening tea. We ate past 10 pm both Saturday and Sunday, but since the school week started it has been served by 9. And I am thankful.

In response to the several comments I’ve received surprised at perceived bitterness and frustration, I want to quote part of a previous post: “I fumed with fact after distressing fact. Then I was pressed back into my place by the reminder that it is easier to get angry than be humbled.” I would argue that I have never been as constantly bitter or frustrated in my posts as Caleb would like to assert. I hope that I have presented the hope and joy and beauty I experience daily alongside sadness and frustration. I know I have no right to bitterness or anger- only humility and commitment. Nor did it take coming to East Africa for me to feel much of what I have felt. I am reminded more than I make discoveries; affirmed in ideas where reserved hopes of being wrong hid. I do not think I have been kicking the fridge of blundering foreign policy and atrocities, even though I repeatedly stub my toes. I hope I have just been attempting to open the fridge door, and even though I braced myself, have been surprised by how cold the air is. Shiver.

Our latrine is outside, across the small cement courtyard we share with the neighbors. I love using it at night. I did not foresee experiencing joy in the need to unbolt the back door to use a pit latrine, with my headlamp aglow and toilet paper in hand. But the view shivers with radiance resonant of David Crowder: “I look into black skies strewn with shimmering dots of light - nights with stars that sometimes seem to hum and buzz with word of their maker. Moonlight you can feel on your skin if you pay really close attention …a touch of remembrance that the sun is shining just as bright as ever and dawn is coming.” No really, you should use a pit latrine at night sometime in East Africa, you won’t regret it.

spring up a well

This semester has already freed me to be more fully myself. Excused from any form of history or back story, I find myself singing more. Dancing more. Quieting my frustration, and laughing more. We laugh a lot. It is a precious commodity to the emotional welfare of this wonderfully draining semester.

The last ten days were spent in the beauty of Rwanda. With green mountains towering overhead and mounds of rice piling on my plate at every meal, we visited churches, sat with speakers varying from the Bishop of Gahini, representatives of World Relief and Cards From Africa, legal reps from the Gacaca Court System, the Mufti and Reverend Emmanuel Gatera. Each day was full, and I paint a mere sliver of reflection here.

Rwanda is best known for the 1994 genocide of more than 1 million people. Less publicly known is the way genocide was rehearsed in the years leading up to the “Final Solution,” with the exile of 700,000 Tutsis 1959-1973 (result of ethnic cleansing encouraged by Belgian colonists), and the “mini- genocides” that occurred: October 1990, January 1991, February 1991, March 1992, August 1992, January 1993, March 1993, February 1994. The political world knew genocide was coming and on 6 April 1994 it was instant. Among the most disturbing things I learned were of the churches, convents, and schools turned into killing centers. Pastors herded their congregations into house after house of God, to purposefully turn around and watch death win: Nyarubuye, Kibungo- 20,000 dead; Nyamata, Buyesera- 10,000 dead; Nyange- 2,000 bulldozed with church. The genocide left over 300,000 orphans, with over 85,000 children at heads of their households. At least 500,000 women were raped by men known to be HIV/AIDS positive.

General Dallaire, UN General in Rwanda, estimated that as few as 5,000 troops could stop the genocide. Instead, by fall of 1994, refugee camps bulged with over 2 million people.

Ibyangywe na jenoside. Devestation.

I fumed with fact after distressing fact. Then I was pressed back into my place by the reminder that it is easier to get angry than be humbled. I shook my arms and turned my eyes upward to see the life that shunts forward in the mountainous beauty of Rwanda. The depth of the wound Rwandans unveil for those willing to peer testifies to their unconquerable hope. Their need for us to move forward in humble recognition that we take part in the very crime that caused genocide in Rwanda and continues to cause it all over the world: the crime of self-interest.

Leaving The Murambi Memorial Centre I wrote in my journal:

I see my mannerisms mirrored in those of the Rwandan genocide victims: sleeping hands curled quietly under a face, just the way I drift away each evening. But these quiet hands are white laced with lime, and this face is not gently drifting into rest. Hundreds of bodies, room after room, of white skeletons. Rid of the skin that deemed them fit to die.

This place is so beautiful- each ride gasps at the landscape. Yet, it is not the beauty of the mountains that seek out God in me. It is the depth of pain. A yearning for some relief to the struggle to stand in the knowledge of such evil. The presence of such evil.

All I can smell is lime. All I can see is white. Empty sockets stare at me.

I left Rwanda the same in at least one way- in awe of the country’s beauty. The same mix of surprise, joy, and frustration at each “mzungu” I hear yelled in my direction. The same admiration for each man or woman carrying a world unknown to me atop their head.

And that is what so much comes down to- this is a world far and wide unknown to me- over my head and I’m without the neck to lift the weight. Still my heart aches to try though, prods my hands and feet to move forward in placing bits and pieces above my snow-white complexion. Like the snail that climbs Mount Fuji, I urge to continue breathing in these volcanic Rwandan mountains, but slowly, slowly.

Atop Monkey Hill

^Mukono under a hazy African sunrise.
^A very tall tree I am fond of, even despite its lack of monkey fellas.

Who paved the roads?

Who started the fight between the red dirt and the pavement? Paved the roads, and left the people to watch the land take it back, eating the edges away, slowly ingesting its space back into itself?

We went to the US Embassy today. It was the first place I have been since Amsterdam that had air conditioning, never mind the fully paved and marked roads, manicured gardens, and carpeted floors. In front of the embassy we walked on a clean sidewalk. Yesterday, in Mukono, we maneuvered our sandals over dirt, trash, gravel, and around goats Now, I do enjoy the humor of the animals wandering aimlessly. I particularly enjoy the baby goats, although the chicken that lives on the other girl dorm's porch freaks me out. The juxtaposition is between the landscaping though, and not the animals.

The people at the embassy were very nice, and very willing to tell us all the programs and all the money America is giving Uganda. All the ways America is stopping world terror. But why do Americans need pavement and gardens in a place where civil war has ravished the north for over 20 years? Flower gardens where people lack food? Why do the small farmers need to be organized so they can eventually sell their crops to "large American companies?" Is that really connotative to a localized, community based, society?

I know that I can reflect Adah, a character from The Poisonwood Bible. I harbor bitterness, that is not mine to own, against things I know far from fully. So I pressed my lips together, and now ask my questions to the internet rather than the nice government worker. The dichotomy of US and Uganda pushed me to a contemplative ride back from Kampala though, and suddenly the joy of being here mingled with the reality of the people we passed. Naked children are adorable until you wonder why they are not wearing clothes. Is it because they are just cute, or because they don't have any? The hillside of huts and tin-roofed shacks are exotic until one recalls that that hillside is home to thousands. Cold showers, mosquito nets, and piles upon piles of rice are fine for me. I leave on December 19. I have a lock on my door. I have a Mom who can send me the pajama shirt I left on the continent that my skin keeps reminding me I am from.

I am thankful for all I have been given- resources, opportunities, security. But I hope I can turn my simultaneous guilt into something more useful than bitterness.

Pumpkin spice.

It feels as if we've been here for days, but the wick on my pumpkin spice candle tells it was just lit for the first time. We just got here this morning, less than 10 hours ago, and although my bag is unpacked, guitar is tuned, and mosquito net hung, this is still all new, in an odd, comfy way. This is the time when homesickness could lurk into our quiet moments; when the shadows on the mosquito net suddenly begin to creep rather than cascade. The net still makes me feel like an African princess though, and reminds me that I am in fact in Uganda. The length of my wick still brings pinching excitement that I have four months left of this adventure. It has but begun.

Today we climbed Monkey Hill at the back of campus, after my first meal of rice and beans and sweet potato in the open air dining hall. I saw little old men jumping from branches, only they had long black tails and the gray wisps of hair was actually fur. At the top of Monkey Hill (about a 15 minute hike) we heard men yelling and singing. Atop the hill we heard men's voices yelling incoherent sounds, alongside beautiful songs in Lugandan. One of our cluster felt ill at ease, worried that some sort of unwelcoming ritual hid in the brush. Walking further we saw a lone boy, singing sweetly to the lookout over Mukono. Inquiring we found the story of three friends, who come to the woods just below the peak of Monkey Hill everyday to "train their voices." They yell for up to 7 hours, attempting to acquire the raspy sound of young Ugandan pop music. Each hopes for super-stardom.
"Someday I will make audios, videos, and discs. And then I will also be a superstar."
We stood for a Gospel Reggae concert of two songs from one of the trio, probably about 18 years old. He used a stick as a microphone. We clapped as he smiled sweetly and confidently.

I also took my first shower on campus today. I guess everything I did since 11 am today has been my "first on campus." None-the-less, I took my first shower, and it was cold. I washed one appendage at a time. But again, I'm clean and cozy. Safe and sound. Breathing in pumpkin spice and banana trees.

Pictures:
^Amy and I at our Kampala guest house room, cuddly under a mosquito net. We became roommates on the first night rather randomly and were then assigned to each other here on campus as well. And we were both glad.
^Our room at UCU (on campus), pre-setup. This is what we saw when we unlocked the door.

^From another angle. Now we each have a top bunk, leaving the bottom two open for storage/seat-age. The curtains are hung, as well as our nets. Amy is journaling under hers right now.

Officially a muzungu.

The "distance to destination" dropped to 0 kilometers on the plane screen, and suddenly the emotions that have been lurking quietly about in my stomach rushed out. A smile crept over my face and has not said so-long since. Walking in Kampala today I repeatedly shook my arms, wondering if it would feel less unreal. It remains incredibly surreal.

The flights were long and tiring. Oh, so long. There was a casino in the Amsterdam airport, and trash cans with "Dank U" on the lids. The Entebbe airport was tiny. We walked off the plane, down dramatic stairways, and onto the landing strip under a big African sky. Orange suitcase and mini-guitar case came off the last truck load of luggage (relief!). Last night and tonight we are staying in guest houses in Kampala. I'm in Uganda. I'm sleeping under a mosquito net. I walked on busy, red dirt, city streets today, past the Ugandan National Theatre.

[fervent shake of the arms]

The group consists of 30 students staying in dorms at UCU, and 9 living in home stays for the entirety of the semester. Already we are disappointed that there will be some separation within the group, because we are enjoying each other so much. Matt, the tall, nice boy Mom asked to protect me at the airport, already articulated to the group how exciting it has been to be surrounded with passionate people attempting the live purposefully. Even when some are honest that they do not know why they came here, it seems everyone is asking for a difficult semester- yearnings for growth and change. It is unmistakable that this place will change us.

Today we, pre-Kampala, went to the tombs of Buganda, where the kings of the Bugandan tribe are buried. Here's the DL: Buganda is a tribe (The unified republic of Uganda is made up of tribes). Then within the tribes there are clans, such as "Grasshopper." They are called mugandas. The Bugandan tribe speaks Lugandan. So, our tour guide was a Bugandan Ugandan, from the "Grasshopper" muganda, who speaks Lugandan. Yep.

Leaving the tombs we stood across the street from a cluster of precious Ugandan kids. One boy was wearing a bow tie. A littler one of the bunch shouted "muzungu!" to get our attention. I waved. He yelled "muzungu! You come. You come here!" And "here" sounded like 'he-ah.' I apologetically shook my head no and boarded the bus. I guess I am officially a muzungu though. A muzungu in Uganda who speaks English. I'll work on getting that to rhyme a bit better.

I have a mere few minutes left, so picture time:

^The view from the guest house I'm at. That's Lake Victoria back there!!^On the bus ride to the Bugandan tombs. (Danny from Olivet to my right)

Out of time- more to come in later days. I lovelovelove you.

Bängala!

In twenty days I will be driving toward the Washington Dulles Int'l airport. KLM Royal Dutch Airline will welcome my modest packages and I will climb aboard their aircraft, from which I will take aerial pictures of the capital's lights and then compare them with those of Amsterdam. Then I'll take a brief hiatus from flying to wonder if Entebbe will have light.

Not only does today mark 20-days-pre-departure; I also finished my first USP assignment and am halfway through my vaccinations. My left arm is incredibly sore from a tetanus shot, muting my right arm's Yellow Fever ache. Tetanus, Diphtheria, and Yellow Fever are done, as well as my TB test. Friday is Hepatitis A and Polio. Hallelujah for Malaria and Typhoid pills.

My first assignment was a book much of my family and extended family passed around a few years ago, but I somehow missed. Kingsolver received rave reviews, including the New York Times Bestseller list for The Poisonwood Bible and it was a worthy first assignment. I'll leave you with one such worthy quote:
"I rock back and forth on my chair like a baby, craving so many impossible things: justice, forgiveness, redemption. I crave to stop bearing all the wounds of this place on my own narrow body. But I also want to be a person who stays, who goes on feeling anguish where anguish is due. I want to belong somewhere, damn it. To scrub the hundred years' war off this white skin till there's nothing left and I can walk out among my neighbors wearing raw sinew and bone, like they do" (474).

Preparation.

In order to exist fully somewhere I courageously neglect elsewhere. Freshman year of college I learned, among other things, that it's difficult to exist in multiple places at once (college has proved to be full of such startling epiphanies). I lose nearly all contact with non-utterly-vital people from home while at school and vice versa.

Entering the final stretch pre-departure for Uganda, it feels blatant that this quiet, ironically secluded summer in NYC may be training for the seclusion I'm bound to feel in east Africa. So, I entertain solitude. Working as a camp counselor last summer reared me well to work as a RA. Hopefully my last month on the east side of this continent will prove as fruitful.