"I had a farm in Africa" - perhaps, one of the things i miss most is beauty. i know that i glamorize it a bit, that i remember the good and forget the bad, but is that so wrong? is it so wrong to remember the greens and blues and grays of the rainy season? to remember the thatched grass huts build up in a circle, or the people living within. i can hear the rain as it falls through the sky and i know that somewhere a boy is hurrying to drive the cattle home or at least under one of the far reaching trees on the plains. at home, people have taken shelter under the overhangs of their houses, or are gathered together, eating lunch as a family in a hut that's open to the air and cool breeze that accompany the rains. they eat together the maize and beans and leafy greens which they themselves have grown. their own hands planted the seeds a season ago. they dug the field and tended to it, going out every morning and evening, because their very lives depend on it. they lift their heads to the heavens, knowing they can only do so much. if these rains weren't here, the food and life wouldn't be either. life isn't guaranteed. at times even, life relies on the lifeless, and all too often, life becomes that which it relies upon. there's a celebration then, under that open hut, a celebration of family and work and rain and of life itself. "When the gods are angry with us, they answer our prayers," and the comfort and security and life that we think will make us so much happier break us from the bond of celebration that accompanies a simple meal of beans and maize. thunder cracks over head, a dirt floor turns to slick mud under bare feet.

Before i came to Uganda I was captivated by the rareness and mysterious beauty of Africa. Even the idea of Africa brought to mind a primitiave substance, an untouched life and vibration, a purity that nowhere else in the world had. I pictured the roaring lion, the painted warrior, the tribal fire.

Then i came to Africa. What I've seen is not what I expected. I haven't joined in the tribal hunt or trecked through the overgrown bush. I've ridden a bicycle through a town with electricity, taught Charles Dickens and Microsoft Word. I've watched soccer being broadcast from England and heard news coming from China. I guess what I expected was a land untouched, allowed to grow and change with the dynamics of its own rhythm. I thought I'd see a people unaware of the world and more aware of themselves than anyone I'd ever met.

What I got was different. I got a school full of kids who wanted to know, who were willing to give me a chnace. I got a community who took me in, who laughed at me, but also laughed with me. I got a group of friends who invited me into their homes, who were willing to travel long distances with me so that i might just meet their friends and family. I got a village full of kids who yell my name in frightened ecstasy when I run by. I got a taste of foods, languages, and people I could never have imagined.

What I'm trying to say is, I came out here because of a mystic, because of a circle of life I thought I was entering into. But it wasn't there, at least not for me, or how I expected. After two years of living in a place that's more or less completely different than what I dreamt, I've learned this: This place has that mystic, that rare beauty, and it's more present and more abundant than I had ever hoped.

_________________

I'll tell you what Im afriad of. I mean, what I'm really fearful of. I'm afriad that, everyday countless people pass by me going to the market or to visit a friend in the village, and it's beautiful. I'm afriad that each evening the sun seems to set over this green and brown land where the dusk stirs up insects and the music of man can be heard just across the swamp. Every morning, the kids walk, or run, or wrestle towards school and when they get just past my gate they stop, peak through the bushes as the white man and think I can't see them. I'm afriad that every morning, without fail, the same, hideous-looking chicken comes up to my lawn, pecking for insects and defecating in the same place, and I scare him away. I'm afriad that there's something so kind and true and selfless in the way that people invite me into their homes, spend time talking with me, and are genuinelly happy when I get to meet their family. I'm afraid that all this is true...and that I'm missing it.

As my time in Uganda draws to a close, I constantly find myself thinking of different places and different faces. I have to bring myself back to the here and now and try desperately to take hold of it while I still can. I begin to wonder if my mind and heart haven't been constantly wandering for the past two years. I listened to a man speak of place recently. He spoke about how we tend constantly to be looking for the "right place," or looking towards, "the next place," and all the time missing the fact that the best place for us, for now, is where we are. This isn't to breed complacency or lack of striving, but contentment, then appreciation, then peace.

When I just stop for a few minutes, when I pull in my thoughts and let them rest on the now, I realize how amazing this place is.

I was on the bus the other day, looking around me, and realized what a love for color this place has. I was sitting in my standard soft green shirt and khaki trousers, but all around me were people in bright greens, blues, yellows, and reds. Heck, half the shops in town are painted either bright yellow or bright pink! There is life here in the midst of the seemingly toilsome monoteny of waking up, farming, caring for the house, and farming again. There's something unique. Maybe it has to do with the reliance and connection to the earth. Maybe it has to do with the family of eight or ten or twelve all staying together; all doing their part. I don't know. I don't claim to know why exactly or from where this subtle, sustained glow comes from. But i do know, that very soon, there a chance i wont get to see it anymore, and I desperately want it to take hold of me and change me while there's still time.

When the students dance, they dance. Three drums in the center, a tall skinny one, a medium sized one, and a wide, fat one that's barely off the ground. Three different beats, coalescing into one rhythm, one movement.

A multicolored wrap from chest to knee circles each body. A ruffled cloth hangs down from behind the waist. Their shoes are off, the ground is hard and dusty underfoot. The medium sized drum begins, establishing the beat and so the type of dance. The faster the beat, the more the girls move and jump and bob. the other two drums join in. by this time, the dance is established. A leader has emerged from the group and directs the rest of the group where to go and what to do. Form a line here, now circle around the drums, now break into two. If one was to watch only the upper torso, the dance might look commonplace, rather reserved even. But the hips and the feet tell a different story. The bare feet pound the earth in unison. Two steps here, one there, jump, now back together. As they slam back to earth, the dust rises. It's an ankle high fog at first, but the dance continues. The fog rises, and soon, the cloud of dust is part of the dance, commanded up by the drums. All this time, hips flay in wild ecstasy. The ruffled fabric vibrates back and forth at a quickened, continuous rate, the multicolored wraps and fabrics blending into one wave of sound.

It's emotion. Some of it is scripted and directed by the leader, but the looks of happiness on the girls' faces reveals the truer tale, a tale of losing one's self to a higher feeling. Why is it they take so much pleasure in dancing, I wonder? Why is it they're able to revel in the heat and motion of the drum when so many other people, who are seemingly more "well-to-do" than these students, just aren't? I wonder what it is they're celebrating exactly. i mean, I know the purpose of the occasion, but what's the origin of the emotion? Where is this joy coming from?

Before a while, the dancers exit. The leader comes back into the center, and in one final beat, dictates the drums when to cease. Under the setting sun, the dancers have sweat and grown tired. But oddly, I get the sense that it's for us, the spectator's sake, that the dancers have stopped. I get the feeling they could have kept going, gone on into night in fact. But they concede for our sake. I guess I could write that when the drums stop the dancers snap out of the hypnotic trance and back into reality. Perhaps though, they've been in reality this whole time.

my little brother and i sat at a restaurant table facing a big window that looked out at one of the Shanghai malls. people passed. then more people passed. an endless river of persons, which the world had come to see as one body: china

we spent the new year in Shanghai visiting my father, and perhaps the most reoccurring inhabitant in my eyes was the reoccurring inhabitants. no matter where we went: the underground tram, the business and shopping centers, even just stepping out into the street, the people molded into one mass, each with his or her own destination, but moving there together.

In uganda, we have a few areas, especially in the capital that are like this; where one has to push and slide through if one wants to move. but it was different in Shanghai. In Uganda, no matter where you are, the busy city or the seemingly lonely village, there are eyes peering at you. Normally the eyes belong to a small boy or girl, silently and curiously looking from behind his mother or around some tall grasses. He's looking at this strange singularity he's never seen. You're interesting, whether you want to be or not. But in China, I wasn't interesting. Though we might have been the only three foreigners on the street or in the metro, no one seemed to notice. I could look around at all the surrounding eyes, and for the first time in a long time, none of those eyes were looking back. I don't know how I feel about this. It's peaceful, easy, but strangely individual and alone also, i think. Every one's doing his or her own thing, and you should too. Maybe i never noticed it before, but when you see that person looking at you, you realize they're silently inquiring, wondering about you, and though oftentimes it certainly seems invasive, like an attack on your privacy, before you know it, you're wondering about them too. You're aware of another, and maybe that's a good thing.

my brother and i spent a little over a week in Shanghai. we rode to the top of Pearl Tower and looked out at a city as vast and busy as I've even seen. Dad took us to The Bund, a cityscape stretched out across the entire horizon, bordered by the freight and steam slowly drifting off a snaking river. We climbed the stone steps of a Buddhist temple, lit incense, and watched as an aroma of ancient transcendence and unswerving devotion wafted through the shrines. We rode the underground metro to wherever it would take us: Shanghai University, the Museum of Science and Industry, a community of houses and shops where people much like us lived lives that probably weren't all that different either.

For lunch, Neeko and I would find the smallest noodle shop possible, point to the picture of what we wanted, and slurp noodles gripped between struggling chop sticks. For dinner, Dad would take us to eat at the best restaurants I've even eaten at (yes, even better than the peanut butter sandwich which served as my staple food for the past decade). Glistening chicken bathed in flavor, vegies cooked in garlic and butter, dumplings and Saki that made me smile in more ways than one!

But better than all, and continuing to be one of the most amazing facets of life no matter where it congeals, I got to spend time with my family. Riding the metro, watching TV, sprinting to the nearest restroom, it's always more with the fam. But the dumplings were a close second. Kung Pow!

About a week ago I got to be a part of one of the best things that i've experienced here so far. some amazing Peace Corps volunteers put together (through an impressive amount of planning and organization) a girls camp where 150ish freshman-aged girls from all over uganda came together for a week of life skills teaching, games, and empowerment. rather than tell you all the details, let me put down the website which was created for it, and if you have time, you can see pictures and read about the week-long event. Know though that when/if you see some of the pics, for a lot of these girls, it was their first time out of their home village, their first time to interact with girls from other parts of the country, and definitely their first time to interact with so many white people! campglowuganda.yolasite.com

my role was small at the camp and it was a blessing that i was even allowed to come. but because my responsibilities were small, i had time to just observe and to appreciate. What I saw was this: one person can matter. What i saw was individuals making a difference in the lives of others. Individuals teaching about malaria prevention, a leading cause of death in Uganda, and in the world. Individuals dancing and laughing with those of different tribes and languages. I saw individuals loving and upholding kids who otherwise might not get that love, who otherwise might not be told they're of value, they matter, and that they're worthy of love. There's a lot of cliche sayings about, "changing one person changes the world," or "if you touch the life of one, you touch the life of all," something like that. People generally accept them, though whether they accept them as true or simple niceties is uncertain. But is there really truth to these sayings? If not, does it matter? Is changing the world supposed to be one's goal, or is simply loving people enough? I don't know that the world was changed by the camp, or even the country, but I'd like to think the lives of 150 girls were changed, and that might be enough. I guess i don't even know what I mean by "enough." As if we have some quota to fill, some level of influence that we have to reach. Before I came here, I talked to someone about changing the world. i said that this was not my goal or my measuring stick to success. But perhaps it was. Perhaps, further underneath ideals which were already subterranean, i had this idea of changing the world. I might have failed in this regard. As my time gets closer to the end though, Im left with thinking, however ambiguous or even selfish it might be, "Did I do, enough?"

in a completely unrelated topic, Christmas is coming up. that means time to buy Christmas meat. the butchers will be bouncing, the shop-keepers smiling, and the cooking oil will be cracking as i drop 10,000 shillings to get a couple kilos of goat. worth it. but i guess, in a way, the fact the Christmas is coming up is not all that unrelated to the prior topic. I mean, as one man, Jesus made a difference. Though He might never have walked on Ugandan soil, the sons of the soil still know Him. I mean, ultimately, Christmas has nothing to do with Christmas meat. It's one man (no matter what people may or may not say about Him), making a difference. So as Christmas comes, make a difference, know you can and at the same time, don't have to, which makes it that much better. Treat yourself to some Christmas meat.

Sometimes, people here, in describing their understanding of the U.S., tell me things that are simply baffling, and leave me wondering where this information is coming from. "In the U.S., there are no black people, only visitors from Africa, and there is no land to farm on." Likewise, there are things I believed about Africa that turn out to be vastly incorrect. "In Africa, everyone is running around with no clothes on, toting spears, and not having an education (though this is misleading, our school watchman does have a spear with which he protects the school). Then, there are some things that turn out to be true, even if rare.

Imagine getting to work, or home, and having someone tell you, "Welcome back. Oh, by the way, there may be an enormous, venomous, angry snake somewhere in your bedroom. I thought I saw him go in there, but I couldn't find him. Have a good night!"

The other day, I was at school, when one of the teachers said, "Hey Hunter, look at that." I looked up, and over towards our administration building a few feet away, was the biggest, most existing snake I've seen outside a zoo. It was gray in color, probably six feet long (though it's possible my fear is exaggerating this number, I also think it might have been even larger), and in the process of inserting its fangs into the back of a frog. It saw us coming. A few people picked up stones. Someone ran to get a hoe. We got closer. As it saw us, it entered the administration building and, finding the headteacher's office at the back of the hall, slid underneath the door. That was the only way in, or out.

A few minutes later found about four of us, with sticks and bricks in hand, cautiously opening the headteacher's door. The headteacher was out of town, and what we found upon entering, were cabinets and bags and books, but no snake. As we lifted furniture and emptied bags, I was superficially prepared, armed with my brick, while internally thinking, "Boy, I might be in a little trouble here." But we couldn't find it. We searched everywhere, under desk and chair, and you wouldn't think a six foot snake would be hard to find, but it wasn't there. We lit a piece of tire on fire and tried to smoke it out. We stood, watching the door, waiting for it to come. It never came. "The ghost snake," some were saying. I knew I had seen it enter though, and felt foolish (and a little thankful) we couldn't find it. But what I kept thinking was, "Who's going to tell the headmistress there might be a snake in her office?" That's one welcome I hope never to get.

(As a necessary side note, I'm probably required to condemn the relentless and unprovoked killing of any animal, and there may, no doubt, be some reptilian-minded advocate that rests unhappy with our intention to kill, but a six foot snake near a school of kids mandates a hierarchy of action, and snake survival is not on the top of the list.)

All worked out though, thank God, and that night, as we left her office door open, the watchman said he saw a big snake moving off the compound, away from the office.

When I was younger, my mom used to read me this story about a caterpillar who started off small and worm-like, and who then proceeded to decimate this leaf in a scene of natural, allowable gluttony. He then took an postlunch nap, and awoke as a brilliant butterfly. The thing about caterpillars though, and the thing the book failed to mention, is that they're harbingers of pain and suffering. In Uganda, people are terrified of them. I would say that ants, snakes, and caterpillars are the three most feared organisms in the land. One type of caterpillar is large, about thumb-size, with brown and black hairs sticking out of it. Though i thankfully haven't experienced it yet (b/c I mercilessly kill every caterpillar I find), I heard those hairs burn like a thousand suns if they touch your skin. We might be sitting on the grass for a school assembly when all of a sudden, fifty girls get up screaming. A snake? no. A swarm of bees? Negative. Caterpillar on the move.

You ever watch a caterpillar move? it's kind of got this rolling, wavelike, undulation, where one end of it might be lifted in the air, and then it rolls forward, hitting again, the ground beneath (I think this is how it moves. As I said, i don't study them too long, im (and my biology professors and classmates might be ashamed of this ) more interested in eradication than observation at that point). Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel on a weekly basis. There are those days, weeks even, when I appreciate all that is about me. Im motivated to teach, start projects, and go to the roads and paths and speak the little local language i know. I'm patient with people, patient with myself, and generally happy and active. That's about the time the body pushes forward and that part of me that was so high, that enthusiasm and appreciation, is now scraping across the floor, burned by the friction that comes from a lack of understanding. I get angry at people, desiring only to be alone and in my house. I lack the motivation and even desire to be with the students. I almost search for reasons to be upset and exemplify the epitome of pride and blurred vision. In a word, I suck. Perhaps worst of all is this doubt that creeps in and this fear that Im going to come home and think. "I could have done better." I don't know what to do about this. Thankfully, God allows the caterpillar to move on, and in its turn, I find myself up again, breathing air that is fresh and filled with love. I appreciate the way my neighbor sometimes brings over sweet potatoes for me. I revel in the conversations I have with the farmhand, talking always about Manchester United football, and even appreciate the way the butt-naked kids (isn't that kid like twelve years old?!) playing in the swamp greet me in the local tongue.

I guess my only hope is that the caterpillar is constantly moving forward, towards a peaceful, loving, more accepting life, and that if seen by an on-looker, that person will be more merciful than I, and certainly more merciful than the girls I teach.

I was in uganda, eating grahm crackers crushed in milk when i realized, "Im in uganda, eating grahm crackers crushed in milk!" Sometimes, how good God is, and how amazing now is, eludes us amidst the constant drive for what's next. But other times, we're blessed to just stop and be in awe at what we're getting to experience, what we're getting to touch and learn and participate in.

Like the other day, we held a track competition between the freshmen and sophomore classes. Sure there were those who tried to opt out. "But Sir, we haven't been training." Or, "But Sir, Im fat from eating beans. I can't make it." But I wasn't hearing it. We gathered in the rutted, uneven pitch just next to the school's kitchen. the grass was mowed via bovine, which is to say, scattered and spotty at best, sometimes with knee-high weeds. But oh, the purity and natural elegance. The raw talent. They wind the corner, marked off by plastic chairs, of the 200, no time, no knowing exact distance, just speed, just flow. Or the peloton of the 1600. Girls who haven't been training, haven't been coached, jostling for position, hanging tight, breaking loose.

there's something to be said for those times when the grace of the being seems to illuminate, if not match, the grace of being. As i watched the students race, i saw something right, something good. but now, as i reflect on that scene, i wonder if the good wasn't just an accentuation of the good of just being here. im in Uganda!

It's definitely not exactly what i imagined. it's more, and it's less. I mean, a day here might look like such:

-wake up, read, run (get laughed at by about fifteen adults, but allow about sixty kids to laugh in a different manner while chasing me from behind (i usually smoke them though))

-bathe, go to school

-drink break tea, which is so hot i burn my tongue and then begin sweating because, "why am i drinking hot tea on the equator?"

-teach computer class to a bunch of girls who generally enjoy coming and learning (but enjoy even more trying to listen to music when i turn my back)

-teach some literature students about charles dickens, who perplexed me as a freshman but offers me a second chance here.

-eat beans

this is only up until lunch time! I mean, sure, there are many days when my enthusiasm about the above is...non existent. But perhaps that's why those times when i see what a blessing it is to be here, to be eating grahm crackers crushed in milk; when i get to stop and be amazed at how creative God is, perhaps that's why these days are so valuable.

"Higher"... "no, higher"..."okay, follow the joints, but be careful"..."That's bitter, so we throw that out"..."the head? Of course we keep the head. When I was younger my father used to tell me that the head would make me smarter, more successful in studies."

Thus, my first execution went.

It all started when a woman from across the road brought a chicken over as a present. At first, I thought about eggs and chicks and roosters strutting their stuff all over the lawn, but after discussing the matter with my neighbor, we both decided that raising the hen, allowing it time to lay and nest, just wasn't possible. the bird had to go.

A few days later, I found myself out by the burn pit, one foot on the hen's legs, another on the wings, my neighbor coaching me through the slaughter.

"neighbor, are you scared of a chicken?"

"Well," I replied, "not the chicken so much as the chicken's beak and it pecking my eyes out."

When the job was done, and the bird put down, there was only one thing to say to my neighbor:

"Dorcus, I'm a murderer!"

"Yes neighbor, yes you are."

Her lack of consoling though didn't sway me from the next procedure of preparation. The plucking, washing, and gutting. did my neighbor take satisfaction in my now soiled hands and condemned spirit? I think, perhaps too much. But a few hours later, as we ate chicken and cassava with some vegetables from the garden, that condemnation gave way to thankfulness. But if anyone ever gives me a goat or a bull for a present, Im going to let my neighbor take over.

There's a place in the Star Wars movies called cloud city, a place hovering in the clouds, neighbored not by grass and tree but by wisps and wind, stratus and nimbus. I was in this city not long ago.

A friend convinced me it would be a good idea to climb mt. Elgon in Eastern Uganda, approximately 14,000 feet up. I've never climbed a mountain before, unless of course Mackey Mountain counts, which rises probably 30 meters high from suburban Fort Wayne and which provides ample slope for sledding in the winter. With Elgon, I really didn't know what to expect. it's like the 11th highest peak in Africa with one of the largest bases of any mountain in the world. though I didn't know what to expect, 11 hours of climbing on day one quickly taught me.

Past village and farm, over rock, creek, and mud, we climbed. Every now and then I would remember to look up and around. "This is the primary forest," our guide said, "untouched by human hands."

What we passed was pure. Forests of bamboo bending down as if to have a look at us, blue mountain ridges off in the distance, Colubus monkeys jumped from tree to tree in an effort to escape our gaze. Or perhaps, just the opposite, to catch our gaze and let us know they were still here, still free. A bird perched on a branch above us. Black at first glance, but upon flight, revealing the truest red I've ever seen, it's wings covered with the untainted color. Untouched by human hands.

Still, we climbed.

We camped the first night, cooking macaroni and cheese over the fire, yielding to the sleepless mountain nights that cold air and hard ground thrust upon us. We would wake early the next day, climb to the summit, then climb 6 hours back down to another camp.

Cloud city was the place I wanted to live. There was something...transcendent about it all, living in the clouds. We we reached the peak, Wagagai, at 4321 meters, the transcendence returned. I took deep breathes of cumulus and stratus. The water from these heavenly bodies filled my lungs and i imagined them putting a light, mountain frost on the inside of my chest cavity. When the clouds moved on, they revealed the work below. valleys and hills, small ponds, and lands that spoke of an existence that neither relied on us nor held its beauty for our appreciation.

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?"

But earthly transcendence can only last so long, and as we climbed back down, the mountain reminded us that it's still wild, untamed. the rains came, the trail turned to mud and slop, and as we fell time and time again, our guide reminded us, "You're getting the Elgon experience."

Earlier this month, when hundreds of people were gathered in the capital to watch the world cup finals at a large, public venue, multiple bombs went off, taking the lives of many, injuring many more, and leaving an unexpectant country, not know what next to expect.

I wasn't in the vicinity of the blast, not anywhere near it in fact, so I cannot say what the atmosphere of the region was even like. Also, the few newspaper reports I saw were spotty with details, and extracting a sense of the general mood, other than that of grief, proved fruitless. But the next day, hours away from the scene, in the staff room at Ikwera Girls, I was able to listen as Ugandans faced the issue of their own land, their homes, being targeted by the malevolence of faceless people.

To some Ugandans, their country is a developing world. To others, Uganda is a third world. While some, I think, hesitantly view Uganda as a different world entirely. Surely the world they see on the screen, or in the paper, or listen about on the BBC is real, but real as Oxygen is real, magnetic fields, and ocean depths. Words carried by a far away wind from a far away land. This isn't to say that Ugandans don't have hopes and dreams of touching such lands, or exploring such depths, nor does is mean they lack national pride. It's just that, at times, it's hard to imagine what's so rarely seen.

After the blast though, I think for many, they were forced to see that Uganda is a part of this world, just as much as any other land, any other people. With this come the joys of togetherness, solidarity, cohesiveness, of knowing you've not been left behind. But also with this comes the fact that the scruples, the disputes, the wars of the masses, are now also your disputes, your wars. Lives that are lost are sometimes your own. "Terrorists are now in Uganda!" one colleague said. "This Al-Queda has come to Kampala." "They're targeting us!?"

Over the next few days, there would be discussions, comments, even arguments about what Uganda should do. "We should pull away from Somalia." "No, we have a responsibility to the African Union." "Does this responsibility take precedence over having a responsibility to Uganda?" I wonder if all countries don't face these questions as they view themselves, their place in the world. I think many Ugandans are still asking questions, and rightfully so. But whether or not they'll answer them in a way that leads them to be, "A part of this world" (to quote Merry Brandybuck (or was it Pippin Took?)) with all it's joys and hopes as well as confusions, pains, and downfalls, is perhaps on the brink of an answer.

Some days, i feel like doing absolutely nothing. Actually, it's not that I feel like doing nothing, it's that I don't feel like doing...something. Maybe that something is going to the market, or teaching, or laundry, bathing.

Our Wildlife Club meets on Fridays after classes, and boy oh boy, if I felt the club wouldn't have noticed the absence of the only white man in the group, I might not have been there. The reasons for my lack of enthusiasm vary. Maybe I feel like reading, maybe I don't feel like being stared at by every passing kid, maybe I don't feel like hearing, "Sir, you don't know how to dig," every time I pick up a hoe. I don't always know the reasons why I want to stay away, and alternately, I don't always know the reasons why I go. But somehow, I found myself ankle-deep in dirt digging around tomatoes with the Wildlife Club on Friday afternoon. We were weeding our tomatoes, which the students are then selling to the school for a small profit. At first, there were only three of us, but soon, more and more students came, and before long, we were working the field better than those two guys from, Of Mice and Men. With more people, generally comes a higher chance for critique, and soon enough I heard it (although said kindly!). "Sir, let me help you. You don't really know how to dig." As my Steinbeck-acquired confidence faltered, I prepared to defend myself (and ultimately give up the hoe). But before I could say much, another student spoke up. "Ah Sir, you're doing fine. You didn't even cut yourself like I did." Simple words. But I was grateful.

As I went on working, now assigned to picking up the cut weeds, I didn't say a lot. I listened. I heard the girls working. I heard the students laughing. I heard a group of kids enjoying themselves to a degree which I don't always understand how it's possible. There are many, myself again included, that look continually on what Africa doesn't have. But I think I tend to miss all that Africa does have; and apparently, all those things which aren't here, aren't prerequisites for happiness.

I kept working, silently. In about an hour we would call it a day. I would head back home, my feet caked in dirt, sweat all over my green, Indiana University t-shirt, and with a fairly high chance of having some parasitic insect residing somewhere on my body. But I also had a happiness that I perhaps wouldn't have had, had I stayed inside.

The World Cup. Where do I begin? Perhaps the best place is in the men's restroom at Ellis Park Stadium in Johannesburg on the night of the 18th.

As I stood at the stahl, taking care of business, some of the men next to me began to chant. "USA...USA...USA, USA, USA," and so we stood there, about thirty of us, some with our faces painted, some with U.S. flags draped around them like capes, some dressed as 18th century pioneers, and cheered for our country as about ten Slovenians tried fruitlessly to drowned us out.

I think that's it. I think that's a decent symbol of the type of character and pride the World Cup brings out. I don't know that I've ever felt so proud to be an American. As our national Anthem was played, my family and I screamed out the words at the top of our lungs, not to impress the British fans that surrounded us (and yes, one of my brothers did call them "Bloody Brits" in a small dispute we had), but because the World Cup brought out something deep within us, which I think might have been a pride, a thankfulness, a gratitude for the land we've been allowed to grow up in. I think a similar pride was felt in all the countrymen of the competing teams. We watched as English fans flicked us off in support for the Queen's land, heard Slovenians tell us Yanks to, "GO HOME," heard the echos of the Dutch as they boomed the voice of, "Holland...Holland...Holland" off the stadium walls, and got drenched in a shower of beer as Mexico celebrated a 2-0 victory over France.

The World Cup was more than I ever could have expected and my heart was entrenched in the game like I couldn't have anticipated. Nowhere was this as evident as in our last day in South Africa, where we sat right by the field as USA battled Slovenia. When the Yanks went down 1-0 with an early Slovenian goal, I was frustrated, angry even. Then, when they slid a second goal in, to go up 2-0, I was deflated. My family sat next to me, American flags on their backs and faces, vuvuzelas now resting silently on the ground. There were no answers at half-time. But what history remembers, sport sometimes reveals, and at the onset of the second half, the spirit of America swept through the stadium; a spirit of courage, discipline, and a never-say-die attitude. That's the sound that reverberated through the countless fans wearing red, white, and blue as our early second-half goal exploded in the back of the net. That's the aroma that wafted through Johannesburg as we tied the game with a late second-half goal, and that's the sight you could have seen had you looked into Ellis Park the night of the 18th when America struck a third straight goal in that same half. It's true, this last goal was called off on a weak foul call by the ref, but the spirit remained. As we walked out of the stadium, as red, white, and blue swamped the streets that cool evening, that's the spirit that flowed with us. For a 45 brief minutes, this spirit was accompanied by something else I've rarely seen. Absolute pandemonium!

In Deuteronomy 31:6 God says that He’ll never leave us nor forsake us. I’m left though, trying to catch this elusive God like a 3rd-grader trying to catch a cold the day before the science fair (in which case he does not catch the cold, but instead, his dad pumps him full of scientific jargon like, “luminescence” and “evaporation” and tells the kid to use these words, when the kid has a hard enough time trying to use the new stand-up urinals that were recently installed at school which were clearly put in with 6th graders in mind). All this to say, that sometimes it’s hard to see God.

Other times, it’s not.

This could easily be a page written about how my house got broken into a month ago, my belongings were stolen, and I was left with a feeling of dismay, discouragement, and disillusion. Instead, this is a page written about my neighbor, Mr. Okello Alex, and how God shows up big in people sometimes.

To make a long story short, over a month had passed since my home was robbed, and though I had moved on and accepted the loss of some belongings, my neighbor had not. Unbeknownst to me, Alex continued to keep an ear open about my missing things. He let my sadness and my frustration sink into his own heart and he prayed, and thought, and though he didn’t tell me, he talked to people and searched.

When God was with the people of Israel, He manifested Himself in fire and smoke. Then, He was seen in the flesh as Christ. I think today, at times, His Spirit manifests this presence in the actions and words of His servants. Sometimes these servants mess up and don’t display His glory, but other times, we se what’s it’s like to be…somehow greater than what we currently are.

Alex came over to my house one night, late. He said he needed to talk to me. “Hunter, tonight, with my own eyes, I have witnessed your things!” He told me he had found many of my stolen items. He told me about how he had tracked down the person who had taken them, and how he had gathered the authorities (a side note about the “authorities.” Now, my brothers are never too short on things to say about the authorities, and I’m sure they would have a heyday about the ones here. Let’s just say that as the report was being written and the account told, there was clearly a bottle of gin being passed around (at 10am) that made the story more than a little contradictory) to search the house. I think he may have been happier even that I was!

Sometimes you meet people, even if it’s only briefly, whose very presence is like a fire to frozen hands, breaking you free to move and think and dream and rejoice as you haven’t in a long time. I’m grateful to Alex for the things he’s helped recover. But more than that, I’m grateful FOR Alex, and that he would never ask a 3rd-grader to use the word luminescence.

Welcome Back, Welcome Back, Welcome Back

Right when I started teaching, a girl in the front, Monica Ruth, spoke up. “Sir,” she said. “I don’t think we should have class today. We’re not very happy.” “Why is that?” I asked. But she kept quiet. Then, fifty other girls began explaining it to me all at once. The girls hadn’t done an acceptable job mopping their class, and they hadn’t picked up the grass cuttings as they had been instructed to. So they were beaten. As I listened, I noticed about one-forth of the class were on the verge of tears, if not crying already. Some of the girls had welts on their arms and legs, but I think most were just kind of emotionally shaken. So what could I do? I told them to suck it up and get their algebra work out. Ha! I did not. We didn’t have class. But this is a problem. I mean, I know about “sparing the rod and spoiling the child,” and as I look back on my own childhood I note that I wasn't exactly "spared" very often, and that might have been a good thing. But where’s the line between instructing in love and releasing anger and pride on one’s pupils? The girls will be ok, but did they really learn what that person was trying to impress upon them? Or did they only learn anger and fear and resentment? My brother has been with me here for the past week, and it’s been great. We’ve been walking to the market, he’s been riding a bike on the village roads, and the amount we’ve both been sweating has caused me to be reminiscent about being a student of one, Coach Ed Fox in Carroll High School’s wrestling room. It’s been such a blessing having him here. But if he gets out of line, I know now which person to take him to to put him back on the right path!

I cringed as I lay on the hospital bed. One hand was hidden somewhere, buried by the sweat-covered sheets that lay on top of me. The other was resting in the hand of my nurse. In the coming days, I would be treated by people from Germany, Belgium, Zimbabwe, Uganda, Great Britain, and Holland, and I would learn that as sickness is universal, so too is a heart for the sick. I had graciously been able to travel down to Kampala with the help of an amazing friend and the Peace Corps. I checked into a room at one of the nicest and most able facilities in Uganda. A facility, that is perhaps better than the free facilities in the U.S., but nowhere near the nicest hospitals in the States. I had a fever that ebbed and flowed, showing itself glaring and menacing by night, but then calm and inviting by day. When the night would return, so too would a pounding headache, weak muscles, throbbing joints, dehydration, and at times, muscle spasms. "You family is far," my nurse said. "So for now, you'll be a part of mine." I wonder what it is that makes people selfless. I wonder if its what they've been taught and raised to do, or maybe, someone else was selfless and caring towards them, and they saw how good, how rich it is. Is it our true nature? Or is it the very antithesis of our nature, and so, obtained through trial and struggle. I wonder what it is that makes friends and family 8000 miles away, even people I've never met before, pray with all they have, for something they can't even see, can't even touch. Job said that he would praise God no matter what, no matter if God gave, or took away. Sometimes though, i wonder if i don't get confused on when God is taking away, and when He is giving. Has this past week and a half been a taking away? Of health, happiness, comfort, security, warmth. Or has God been giving me assurance, peace, realization of His love through others, a reminder of his awesome power.

Sometimes, I guess, I just wish His gifts felt a little better!

I can't thank Him enough, nor can I thank those people who prayed, showed concern, thought, or even called. I was diagnosed with African Tick Bite Fever. I guess, kind of a cool name once i get though the part where I felt like death. Each day gets a little better, and though I wish this trend of getting better would go on for the rest of my life, something tells me it wont. But when it shifts, I'm thankful to know I've got friends, family, and literally a world full of people I know who are good, and caring, selfless, and kind. Thanks.

That which I’ve come to enjoy:

-A dirt path stretched under foot as I run past cattle being herded and hut roof being thatched.

-Fresh milk.

-A cucumber from the garden after a run

-The ever present sound of Ugandans laughing

-Schoolboys in bright pink school uniforms

-The old moozay who sweeps my compound, speaks no English, but is always willing to sit with me for a while.

-An afternoon rainstorm on a tin roof.

-Electricity and running water.

-The lady who recognizes me in the market and sells me good tomatoes

-Seeing quadruple the amount of stars I thought were in the sky, and wondering if this is the same sky Abraham, Moses, and David watched.

-Milk tea

-Candlelight

-The British

-That strapping 30 chickens to the handlebars of your bicycle is perfectly acceptable.

-That I never see anyone wearing a Detroit Pistons t-shirt.

-The knowledge that people can live hard lives and still be happy.

-Mangos

-An encouraging word, from someone who goes out of their way to give it.

-Watching little kids jump up and down as they pump water from the well.

-Having no clue what Im doing, but struggling to do it well.

That which I’ve come to detest:

-Flies

-Those who lack empathy and do not seek understanding, myself included.

-The smell of a hut foor that has just been smeared with cow manure

-Alcohol distilled from maize.

-Adults who attempt to make their peers laugh by running with the white guy whom they don’t understand, because it’s easier to make fun than to care.

-The word, “munu”

-Goat testicles

-Sweating in bed.

-Not knowing.

-Feeling as if you’re always the butt of jokes.

-Having no privacy.

-Not being able to watch the Lord of the Rings marathon at Christmas time.

-Questioning whether relationships are genuine.

-Not having school mascots.

-Going an entire year without hearing someone say, “Boiler Up.”

-Not being able to hug the people I love.

-The British.

-Never seeing anyone sport a really good mohawk.

-Knowing God is near, and yet missing Him completely.

I got a cat. I’ve never been a cat person, and honestly, I don’t know why I got a cat. The other day, I literally had to save Gammoudi from a tree. As if I were both an old lady and a fireman, I struggled to get him down from a branch 20 feet up at midnight. It’s been all right though. Actually, right now I have two cats as I’m taking care of my friend Mike’s cat, Tiara, as well. They’ve taken over one room of my house, they eat eggs like that Japanese guy eats hotdogs, and Im able to converse with them about as well as I was able to converse with girls in the fifth grade, which means there’s not a lot of verbal communication back and forth between us. But, I like them, Im grateful for them, and if I can train Gammoudi to cook his own eggs and wash my dishes, we’ll be in business.

A few weeks ago, I got into a big argument with the administration at my school. I had been training with about 10 of the students to run a 5k race that one of my colleagues was hosting at a nearby school. The girls were running nearly every day with me (yes, I sprinted past them at the end), worked hard, and then at the last minute, the school told me they would not pay to transport the girls the 40 kilometers to the race. I was VERY upset. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have, and some things were said about me. I don’t know why I mention this, except to say that… it’s really hard to forgive sometimes. I know that I should, but I just… can’t. I feel like this probably isn’t an unusual circumstance by any means – getting into a disagreement with one’s superiors. I just don’t know why its so hard to do what I know I should, which is let go. As far as the race, the girls didn’t go, but they were able to get t-shirts from the race, so they were about as happy as could be. I guess it all worked out. Plus, I got to absolutely dominate some girls on our 2-mile runs, so I got that little confidence booster as well. Ha!

I got a Christmas card the other day from a friend.  In it, she wrote, “Every place, culture, and community of people has their won special qualities.”  As I read this, I was sitting outside my house under the shade cast by the overhanging of my tin roof.  I thought about this statement, and wondered what qualities I was getting to experience.  At the time, it was 95 degrees F, and the way I was swatting away flies looked as if I was creating a new dance routine for those dancing, magic brooms in fantasia.  Just then, two girls rode by on their bicycles.  They both had on the uniform of the school nearby, long green skirts and blue t-shirts (though the one girl had on a sweater…ridiculous).  They were probably headed to the well to fetch water, or maybe on their way home to start the charcoal fire and cook for a family of twelve.  Past them there was a dried field of maize.  I can remember just a few months ago when that maize was being planted.  The field was dug by four women and a man, over the span of a few mornings.  The field was weeded, planted, and after the rains came and the months past, harvested, leaving only a few, lonely stalks to become a dry, golden color, and whither to die.  We haven’t had rain for months.  Actually, we’ve had a good rainfall exactly once this year.   Everything is dry and eagerly expecting the sky to burst open soon.  Yesterday, it looked like that time had finally come.  We heard a cracking overhead, and rain began to fall in large, solitary drops.  I was standing with one of the sisters and she began to shout for joy.  I asked her if she wanted to hurry and take cover, but she was too busy celebrating to take cover.  It looked now as if the heavens would tend her garden.  But the celebration was short lived as the drops ceased and the clouds blew elsewhere.  Just before I had come to my house to sit in the shade, I had been in the staff room at school eating lunch.  The school provides lunch each day.  We eat posho (ground maize flour) every day except on Wednesdays, when we get goat meat also.  I put the posho on the bottom of my plate, then placed the beans on top, one scoop, two scoops, three.  My plate was a mountain of beans.  Sometimes we have black beans, but this day, we had the red ones.  They were still hot, but I couldn’t wait.  I dove in, temporarily burning myself in the process.  One might think that day after day of posho and beans would get tiring, tedious, tumultuous, and temporarily tasteless, but this is not the case.  Not one member of the staff complains about this culinary redundancy.  Maybe they’re grateful, understanding, or just plain hungry, but people generally seem content.  Perhaps this is one of those special qualities my friend was talking about in her letter, an understanding that things could be worse, even if they could be better also; to have to fetch water, endure 100 degree heat day after day, and the same meal, posho and beans, for lunch, and probably for dinner also, and be completely satisfied.   I found out recently that a kid at the high school I graduated from, a kid I know, just won the Indiana high school state wrestling championships.  I was thinking about what this kid (lets call him Brock-because that’s his name) might be thinking about that night as he goes to sleep.  I was trying to imagine his emotions, and the emotions of those around him.  I would guess that he thinks that this state championship is the biggest thing in the world right now.  I would guess that everyone he runs into right now has heard and congratulates him, and so, he might think that everyone around him has heard and cares and places value on this tremendous act of discipline and desire and, frankly, courage.  Then I think about Africa.  I think about the health center 800 meters away, where people are suffering with malaria and HIV.  It’s midnight here, and the rain’s beginning to pound overhead.  Finally, the dry season appears to have broken.  I think about the people all around who have waited on this rain, who rely on this rain, who would have gone hungry had this rain not come.  These people don’t know anything about Brock’s achievement.  Some people, if they were to hold these two up to the light, would make claim that a state championship pales in comparison to having the pertinence and emphasis that needs to be placed on those suffering in Africa.  Some would say that the elation of getting your hand raised in the air at the end of a wrestling match is not but a blinder to the dejection facing many people around the world.  I however, am not one of these people.  It is true that I am not one of these hungry or sick or dying, and Im thankful to God that neither is my family.  Instead, Im a third person perspective.  I know all too little about the dedication and commitment involved in Brock’s achievement.  But I know much about the hope of a dream.  I know that standing alone at the top can only mean on thing, you’re alone.  You’ve done what no one else could, and though frustration, pain, discouragement, and struggle seemed, at times, the only ones near, hope has now replaced that with an all-encompassing joy.  And if a joy of this nature cannot be felt.  If a joy of this magnitude is told it’s “not important.”  If a joy of this incomprehensibility is tried to be quieted and squashed, then I would ask, what is it that those who are sick have to pursue life for?  What is it that is worth hoping for?  This joy comes in different forms and in different arenas.  For Brock, I imagine, this joy has come to him within the arena of a gladiator’s coliseum, and he shouldn’t let anything or anybody take that joy or tell him it’s not significant or lasting.  Some might say that, compared to the oceans, the Nile is feeble and small.  But these people would be missing the power of the Nile’s many falls and rapids, the love of it storied past, the nourishment of its provisional present, and the flat fact that it’s because of the Nile that the oceans hold much of their greatness.  When Brock got his hand raised in that state championship match, thousands saw. But Im convinced that the shock waves of hope and inspiration that reverberated from that same action, can, and hopefully will, touch many, many more.  Though still, even if no one else saw, or knew, or heard, the action would be significant because of it’s meaning alone to one guy.  Do your thing Brock.  Africa supports it.  

Christmas has come and passed. I saw apes. My aunt and brother came out! but really, we did see gorillas. we went trekking through the "impenetrable forest," jungle all around, thick, with no path, steep, muddy slopes, an unannounced humidity, and a guy named Sunday bushwhacking through the growth with a small machete. After an hour of this, we saw them. A family of five. Videos ad television do a good job at relaying their likeness, but being that close to them, just a few feet away, it was surreal. honestly, it didn't seem real. I mean, it didn't seem like these giant, docile, rare, beautiful creatures were real. either that, or it was i who wasn't real. I wasn't really there, i was still at home, watching this on the screen. Yet, I know we were there. When the silverback reached out his massive hand to tear down a tree and eat the leaves from the top, I could have almost leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Eat Neeko, it'll save the trees." But all I could do instead was stand there, smiling, and manage to take a few photos now and then (yes, i did get a photo of a certain younger brother flicking off some chimpanzees). But in all honesty, what magnificence. To look out through an opening in the canopy and see just vegetation, dense vegetation, all around, and then to realize that within this blanket of green, lived such massive and mysterious animals as the gorillas we were standing amidst...surreal. awe-invoking.

new years...i don't know how to explain. i met some other pc volunteers in a part of the country with beautiful waterfalls and peacefulness. i thought then, that the new years celebration would take on this form as well. Yet, as midnight came, i found myself embracing about 30 ugandans in a local house party or something like it. i actually know exactly how we ended up there, and there's only one man to blame. i wont forget.

though the celebration was loud, the new year has since been quiet. the students don't report until february and many of the teachers that live nearby have gone to their home villages. I since have realized that an African night can be brilliantly uncertain. The brilliance comes in with stars I've never seen and a sky that's governed by a depth I've never noticed. The uncertainty comes when I realize, some nights, that I really don't know what's out there in that darkness. The noises aren't of those I grew up with. Knowledge of what's just passed my sight is, perhaps, as unknown as the fact that there was a 300 lb gorilla in a tree above me that I never saw until her round, black body ambled ably down the trunk i stood by.

I haven't written in a while and i think there's a reason for that. the reason is not because of lack of internet, as i have had multiple opportunities in the past month of posting. i think, instead, that the reason is, steadiness. i didn't write about my life in the states, not because there weren't stories to share, but because it is my life, and perhaps i felt people wouldn't be interested in hearing of something that had been steadily moving on since september 13, 1984 ( i use steady in a loose sense as it has certainly had it's turbulence). but when i came here, that life, that steady movement (though at times chaotic) seemed interrupted, incongruous with normal movement, and so i wrote. but ive been here over 10 months now, i've been a part of marriage celebrations and death ceremonies, graduations and retirements, and it feels like life, steady, congruent, life. this is not to say that there aren't stories to share or that i wont continue to do my best to recall them, just that, at first, though i felt a little transplanted, maybe im starting to get the sense of having roots here in this fertile ugandan soil.

now for a story! Christmas is coming, and how does a family that lives in a grass thatched hut celebrate? with fury. even just speaking to some of the people here, i think the whole week surrounding the 25th will be a big party. family will come from their various locations, there will be some gifts of sweets for the kids, and there will be meat! whenever there's meat it means there was a slaughtering, and whenever there's a slaughtering, aside from the butcher's place, there's a celebration. kind of makes the next trip to arby's to get a roast beef sandwich a little more enjoyable. though don't get me wrong, a beef-n-chedder sandwich is always a little exciting.

speaking of celebrations, i spent quite a night a few weeks ago at a wedding ceremony. to make a short story out of a long night, lets just say i found myself drinking home-brewed wine out of a 10-gallon paint bucket using a 3 foot straw that was then used by 20 other men sitting in a circle around this same bucket. no, i do not condone this.

What's in a name- here is a brief list of some of the names of the students in my class (they put the surname first):

abeja oliver, abua scovia, acen lydia grace, aceng dorine, aceng jackline, acio nancy, achola rose mary, adit sandra, ajok flavia, ajwang teddy, akao babra, akello paska, akello sarah, akullo linda, akullo branda, akullu jackline, akullu sharron, alela gladys, among harriet, amuge eresta joan, amuno monica, angom robinah, apio brenda, apio immaculate, arao susan, atim leah, atim naume, atit loyce, atoo rebecca, atyang stella desire, tino racheal, koli hope, epol nighty.

no, i was not being partial to one letter. yes, i would like you to pray for these girls. yes, there are about 60 more girls with surnames beginning with the letter "a" that i could have listed. (the boys typically have a surname that begins with "o")

We sat in a makeshift tent made just a few hours earlier using logs and a tarp. the side of the tent was open to the night air, but a thick darkness had fallen, such that all i could see were the glowing ambers of the fire a few feet away, and the faces of those immediately next to me, lit by the shine of the lantern. That i know of, there are only two circumstances in Uganda that cause someone to build a fire ouside their home; cooking and burial.

A few weeks earlier, our head-woman teacher had done to the hospital feeling ill. She was pregnant, and recently, hadn't even the strength to rise out of bed. The dependents that she took care of had recently been taking care of her. But the illness grew severe. Madame had no children of her own, she had given birth twice before, but both children had passed away before reaching even 1 year old. This was the third time she was pregnant and it seemed her body was rejecting this child, this offspring that is of so much value to the African culture.

At about 8pm, the sky now fully black, 300 girls begin to sing hymns and songs of praise at the home of the late Madame Rester. The songs are in Luo, and I pick only a few, random words; "pray for us", "peace", "Lord", "I believe". I think of the destination of these words, rising up from an unknown village in an unknown land, from lips that many never even think about, to a God that people spend their whole lives thinking about. It seems fitting that He should be the only one to hear and the only one whose gaze can pierce this dense night to view the hearts of all gathered.

We first heard, about a week ago, that Madame's baby had passed away while giving birth. The mother had lost a lot of blood. She was receiving transfusions, but her health and recovery were still hopeful. There were whispers of AIDS in the air though. People had gone to visit her, the school community gathered around to suport her, it even seemed she was doing better. A week later, I heard she was on life support. A day later, the vice principal called a meeting to say she had passed.

The fire was lit.

I don't know what to write about really. My thoughts are many, but lacking. I think about the care she received in the hospital and how blessed we are in the States. I think about how so many Ugandans want to see the U.S.A., and about how so few get the chance to go beyond the dirt roads of their village. I think about how some people must view the African people, as less civilized, less compassionate, and less immersed in the spirit; but then i remember the grief and sorrow and people affected by this death. I think about the deaths I've experienced in my own life and how death always seems so...permanently fake.

okay, i've got 12 minutes on the internet still. let's go:

i think it was thoreau that wrote "a weed is nothing more than a plant whose virtues have yet to be discovered" but aren't there weeds too. aren't there those things that tear and ripp and are fully bad? or can even the most vile of weeds, be used for good in even the smallest of ways? i take a look at a lot of the stuff around me, and oftentimes inside me for that matter, and it doesn't always look like a flower. or a plant of value and virtue.

i think it was jay z that wrote, "allow me to retort, you suckers are just now learning the stuff that we taught." does learning build on itself through generations, or are the lessons im learning lessons that others have known all along, lessons i could have read about, talked to them about, and then moved on to lessons yet unknown. are there lessons unknown. thank you jay-z for prompting these questions! ha!

a bride price (dowry) is common amongst village marriages here. i went to a bride pricing ceremony the other day. that was interesting. i was sitting in a manure covered hut for 3 hours listening to people talk about the value of this girl. i know im mentioning it only in brief, and it sounds as if it's all negative, and perhaps it is, but i think i need to give it some more thought first, and find out some more details.

there has been a wide range of activities and pleasures and struggles over these last weeks. i can't remember if i mentioned the life skills day we held at the school last month. a few other pc volunteers came to the school and taught the students about making beads, HIV/AIDS, women's sanitation, and goal setting. the volunteers were awesome and it was a pleasure to see the girls making bead necklaces out of magazines and to hear them singing songs while working. in the hiv/aids class, the girls asked questions that prompted thought and more questions. there are many myths that surround these topics and you could see them enlodged within some of the questions. "can having sex with a virgin cure hiv?" "does it cause immediate death?" "can bathing in milk prevent pregnancy?" the list of confusions and questions goes on. at first, maybe i thought these questions comically unreal. but don't we even have misconceptions? In 20 years, will we look on some of our own practices as unreasonably unsound? I think the questions reveal a great need and Im happy my friends were there to help.

we (the us peace corps-uganda) played the british volunteers in football/soccer one weekend. we might be the greatest team even assembled. the british had our backs against the wall early as they put in the first goal. however, we responded by putting in the next 5 goals. im going to use some foul language in the next sentence, so take the women and children away, but its necessary. i thought the british might beat the "bloody" piss out of us, but no sir, we dropped the chalupa on them.

we formed a wildlife club at school. so far, we've planted a bunch of flowers and planted some jackfruit trees (jackfruits are a delicious little item ive never seen in the states but wouldn't' mind picking up at krogers sometime).

i had an interesting conversation about the death sentence here in uganda. try these on for size: hanging, firing squad, and the recently abolished guillotine.

in the education system here, at the end of the high school years, all the students take national exams. its a pretty intense couple of weeks where students have about 2 exams a day which sometimes includes science practicals. all the students in uganda take the same exams at the same point in time. for example, on Tuesday, at 9am, all the seniors in uganda might be having a paper on the geography of e. africa. at 11am, the exam must be over, and then that paper is finished throughout the country. the result of these exams determines, not only whether or not the students can continue in their schooling, but also what subjects the students can study. if you really like English, but scored high in the sciences and not the arts, you may be required to study science. because of the impact these exams have on the future of the students, there is obviously a lot of tension and a lot of secrecy surrounding these exams. those who write the questions are actually locked in a resort following the completion of writing the exams to eliminate leaks on what the paper topics may be on. for example, if it came out that the biology practical was going to be on the parts of a flower, this would seriously alter the true results that may have occurred, as students are now all prepared for the flower.

the sciences tend to be a big struggle for our seniors. recently, some decided that the upcoming physics exam wasn't even worth studying for. instead, they broke school rules and left the compound while others studied. those who left...yeah, they were punished with the cane.

we've been talking about sex ed in some of my classes. when i was in 5th grade, mr. snyder talked to the class about wearing deodorant. i think i was a little awkward even then. boy, if i could have seen myself 15 years later and heard what i would be talking about at an all girls school, i definitely would have peed my pants.

there are people that need a ship. hurt, hungry, tired, full of anger, lust, pride, fear, sorrow...whatever. they need a ship to cross waters and get help in these endeavors. so you decide to build. you do this selflessly, for reasons that are pure and kind, unbiased, and without any hidden agenda. the problem is, you don't have any idea how to properly build a boat. the people see you building, they revel in ecstasy, they thank God for putting you there to help. their hopes are becoming reality. the day comes, the boat's complete, ostensibly it even looks seaworthy, almost even storm-tested. the people climb aboard, taking with, their pride, humbleness, anger, selflessness, uncertainty, and all the other belongings which are theirs. when they get out to sea though, out to the deepest depths, your workmanship, or lack there-of, shows. one leek, two, three, flowing water, wet ankles, knees, hips, and no life rafts. the water is cold, the expanse is far. what happens to you? your intentions were good. you did it for all the right reasons. but honestly, do these reasons mean...anything? you just killed women, children, men, and the heritage they may have one day left. your reasons are dull, flat, minuscule in comparison to the deadly ignorance your arrogance and "goodwill" let build that ship. because, the fact is, you had no business building. you are a fake. even though no one else stepped up to build, even though no one forced the people on that ship, your blame fails to lessen, fails to be clouded over by the title of this "volunteer humanitarian." you cost people hope. you cost people lives.

there are people who need a boat here. i don't know how to build one. yet, sometimes i feel like im trying. someone once wrote, "He who strives to be of use in this world soon burdens the people with his own insufficiency." i haven't figured these things out.

i read somewhere that, "if you leave out all the details, everyone's life is interesting." despite the validity, or lack there-of, of this statement, i think that subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, i've been trying to leave out some of the details in hopes of keeping this an interesting read, but i don't know if that's the most effective technique for displaying reality. im sitting in the township writing this. the township is a single stretch of dirt road, about a kilometer long, with single story buildings lined up on either side. the buildings are made of mudbrick, some concrete, and covered by rusted tin-rooves. though there are many shops, they tend to sell similar items. i don't know why the shops decide to open, and then sell the exact thing their neighbors are selling, but maybe it has something to do with why a Meijer opens, then a Walmart, then a Target in the same vicinity. or maybe it has nothing to do with this at all. the shops sell soap for laundry, eggs, 20 liter jerrycans, mugs, plates, pots, flour, and sometimes bread. at the end of the strip of buidings (or the beginning depending on how you look at it) is an open area where ladies sell fruits, vegetables, and a donut-type bread. on saturdays the town is alive with people and vendors from nearby towns. this is when i walk the 3km, or sometimes ride on the back rack of a bicycle, to town. Four, small sized tomatoes: 10 cents; head of cabbage: 25 cents; green pepper: 10 cents; 1 kilo of rice: 1 dollar and 50 cents; having thirty kids yell "munu" at you when you're trying to buy vegetables, so much so that you want to either elbow-drop them or choke them out: priceless.

school started again this week. the students arrived, ready for 3 months of school, with a mattress, a small bag of school uniforms, and a 4 x 2 x 2 metal container filled with books, pens, sesame seeds which will be grounded into paste, and "girl stuff." some of the girls show up with hair that's too long (against school policy). all of the girls must have shortly shaven heads. some teachers think the girls do this on purpose because when we send them back to town, 3 km's away, to get their hair cut, some girls take longer than expected. the teachers suspect this is because the girls are fraternizing with boys in township.

i wash my clothes by hand. even when i had a washing machine at my disposal i barely did laundry (thanks mom). now, without this modern convenience, my avoidance has only intensified. i find it quite easy to convince myself that, those pair of pants ive been wearing for days can't possibly be dirty. after all, if i can't see the dirt, it means there's obviously not enough dirt to cause problems. when the laundry basket does finally begin to withhold a small mountain on the verge of collapse, i get my 3 basins out, which double as my sink to wash dishes in, fill them up with water, then put in some powdered detergent that you can buy at the local duka (little shop set up by the roadside). to supplement the detergent i use a bar of soap which i scrub the clothes with, work into a lather, and transfer to the next basin (two for washing, one for rinsing). the first couple times i did laundry my neighbor would pass by, "Hunter," she would say, "There's no suds in that water you're washing with." everyone's a critic.

things have been a little crazy with the Peace Corps lately. We've had some changes in administrative positions, and some of these changes came clouded in ill-feelings, mystery, and politics. i don't think i know enough to feel one way or the other, but i think this is my first real experience with politics in the work place and knowing that people jobs can be threatened by rumor or a failure to adhere to certain desires of one's superiors.

sometimes, i do whats called, "culinary experimentation." this is when i go the kitchen, check out what's going on in there, and try to invent new dishes with combinations of foods that i've never tried before. honey spaghetti - not a winner. cocoa oats - not a winner.

A jubilant and tragic feature of this land is that in one instance, you can be amidst breathtaking beauty and silence-inspiring awe, and in the next, you confront horror and disbelief, and circumstances that lend themselves more to sorrow than to laughter or happiness.

The former came at the Nile.

How could I have ever hoped for the tranquility and power that came with rafting the Nile? At times, our raft drifted slowly on, kingfishers and egrets fished nearby, and the villagers washed their clothes on the river bank. THE NILE IS THEIR WASHING MACHINE! We sat on our boats eating pineapples and biscuit crackers as the current slowly pushed us through flat waters. I wonder if everyone thought about the Biblical and historical implications of such waters. There were also times through in which the water wasn't so flat! Over a 30 km stretch, we went through almost 12 rapids, 5 of which i think were class 5's (6 being the greatest). We went down an actual waterfall! we steered through rapids with names like ribcage, 50/50, easy rider, and badplace. then there was chop suey. at the base of a swell in chop suey, i looked up to see 4 feet of water above me, and coming down. the next thing i knew i was in the water, out of the boat, and wondering where i would be when i surfaced. our boat flipped once, we had multiple people fall out on other occasions, and it was exciting each time. as we finished the last rapid of the day, darkness came over the Nile, and as we walked to the trucks, a rain storm hit, adding force to the already unstoppable rapids. the scene 2,000 years earlier probably looked much the same.

then there's the tragedy.

the peace corps held a meeting in kampala in which someone from our communities was supposed to accompany us. we stayed for a few nights in a hotel and the time offered us a chance to get to know these community members a little better. one night, we started talking about the war that has been taking place for the past 22 years. we heard stories i could have never imagined, nor wanted to imagine, and hesitate even to write about. stories of abduction, rape, mutilation, forced cannibalism, and murder in ways no creature, other than man i suppose, would ever consider inflicting on another. as i write this, i question my intentions of recalling these things. sometimes i think people write about things like this to kind of say, "hey, look at what im a part of", in a braggart sort of way (this sounds horrible and yet i think it's true). I hope these aren't my intentions in writing this. i hope my intentions are to pass a message that there are people who are hurting so much and who live in a world invisible and unfathomable to most. i hope my other message is forgiveness, for the people here want to forgive (even writing about the forgiveness of such acts brings me chills). i believe they definitely want to move on. they aren't forgetting what happened, the reminders of lost homes, family members still missing, and mutilated bodies wont allow them, and they are still holding people accountable for their actions, but those whose bodies have been torn and ripped are forgiving. "how?" might be an appropriate question.

so the days go. days of brilliance, days of disgust, days that drift languidly by as our raft in the flat waters, days that come like the chop suey, that throw you, pull you under and leave you wondering where you are.

prior to typing this, I first penned it at my home. while writing, i was eating an enormous amount of rice with soy sauce. the reason i was eating so much rice was because i am now on a football team. I went to practice for the first time on monday thinking it would be a leisure time with some underdeveloped soccer being played. i did not bring cleats (boots). prior to arriving at the pitch though, i met the coach who promptly gave me shin guards, socks, and boots. uh oh, what had i gotten into? my skepticism was confirmed when, upon arriving at the pitch, we went through a 60 minute warm up routine in resemblance of a professional club. after the warmup, we began playing a game of keep-away, no goals. two hours later we stopped. i was absolutely gassed and highly considered sticking my face directly under the borehole and pumping water into my mouth. this i thankfully did not do, but i was soar, thirsty, tired, and hungry. so now, i am eating a "hungry man" portion of rice.

the school term ended friday. the girls went home for a 3 week holiday. i guess i don't even know where to begin in reflecting on my first term as a ugandan teacher. maybe the best way is to say that God is amazing and i wish i had done more to help the girls. What an incredible blessing to walk into a classroom with 45 ugandan girls (that is an incredibly small class size for uganda) and hear them say, "good morning, sir", ah, it's beautiful and I don't deserve it. then, when all the girls went home, i though, what if, in 2 years, they go home the same way, and i have done nothing to serve them, or love them, or prepare them for a healthier future? In the Bible it talks about Jesus feeding 5,000 with 5 loaves and 2 fish. but before he fed them, he told the disciples to feed them. he must have known they could not do it themselves. I believe, and I read this somewhere, that JC wanted the disciples to go to a source beyond themselves, mainly, Him. I know I can not help these girls myself, the need is too great, and i am too weak, and yet i haven't been so good at going to the source beyond myself.

most mornings, i get up at 7am, sweep my house (the dust in apac is...thick and prevalent, especially since we haven't seen rain since the Bush administration (that is not a political preference or point of attack, just a simile)). I sweep only my house. most ugandans sweep also their compound, clearing away the leaves, dust, and debris., but i do not. I don't because either my neighbor, Dorkus, does it, or this old man (moozai) named john who is a Karimojong (warrior tribe in northern Uganda). John is pretty much money. "Hey moozai, kop ango?" "Ko pe" (hey old man, what news? No news).

i think i may go raft the nile river tomorrow with some other PC volunteers. the last time i was rafting was down an Oregon river with two brothers on an inflatable air mattress. the nile should probably be fairly similar.

word to your mother.

Usually, i have something written ahead of posting to save time. today is not the case. maybe I should just begin my thoughts.

two weeks ago the school had a strike from the sophomore-level girls. they had grievances against some of the teachers and decided that until their demands were met, they were not going to partake in classes. as can be imagined, this disrupted the entire school. the girls did a little vandalism and one of their requests was that two of the teachers be handed over to them so they could cane them. i was not one of these, but my name was brought up as one of the teachers they were having qualms against. i don't know how really to tell this in a sensitive manner, because it really shocked and hurt me. the girls are amazing and somehow i...failed i guess. i don't know all the implications nor aspects of what happened, nor do i know what all i am to learn in this. a lot of people encouraged me and i really got a chance to talk seriously with a lot of the teachers and students so that was a positive. maybe im still a little dazed on the whole subject still. understand that i certainly am leaving out a lot of details, like the fact that the police had to come and girls were expelled, but that the general feel has been included. one of my colleagues here put it to me that perhaps this sort of rebellious stage is common in all girls. think about the most vicious girls in high school. her thoughts were that it tends to be the sophomore-junior level girls. maybe its got to do with some adolescence and rebellion, and the fact that the girls don't know how to manage those emotions in an acceptable manner, because in uganda, there is no acceptable manner. such emotions are crushed under physical and emotional pain. the girls really are good though. so amazing.

right now the girls are studying for end-of-term exams. the upper level girls (S6, which is right prior to attending the university if you perform well on the exams) just study day and night. one of them told me that they stopped even eating dinner as it took away from studies. i guess i will have to eat more to make up for it then!

about a month ago we sent students home who had not paid school fees. to my dismay, a lot of my students were included in this lot. one of these students is a girl who is not only really sweet, but really intelligent too. last week though I saw her on saturday and was thankful that her family had come up with the money for school fees so she could return. the next day though, she was gone. it turns out, she had gone through an elaborate scheme of bleaching and transferring data onto a bank slip all so that she could come to school. her family indeed could not pay. i thought about this, and its just amazing. these girls want to come to school so bad, and certainly not just for the social aspect of it. there is a desire here that i wonder if many have in the states. im sad, shocked, amazed, and delighted at this spirit, but frustrated too.

i have running water in my house, but as of late northern and eastern uganda have had a serious drought. im starting to see first hand what it means when the Bible talks about having a drought in the land and the seriousness of the matter. there is famine in the east, and talk of it in the north. because of the drought, the water in my house was gone for about a week. water is still available, but like other ugandans, i had to pump it and transfer it from the borehole (well). sometimes the kids will do this and just absolutely stockpile jerrycans full of water on their bicycles and then push it some good distance home. i suppose, in comparison to them, i am a big wimp. i would fill two jerrycans (20 L each) and then walk them to my house 3 minutes away. i didn't like doing this though and so I came up with the obvious conclusion that the only way to minimize my time at the borehole was to minimize my water consumption. my hygiene during that week...not good.

what i eat-i have no fridge. i laugh at the thought. bread lasts, at max, 5 days, fruit less, and vegetables more. rice and millet are my go-to foods as they keep a while and are not terribly expensive in the market. lately though, ive been on a bit of an egg craze and have been purchasing eggs like gang-busters from the lady down the road. she probably thinks ive got a pet snake. oh, speaking of which, i could have had a pet snake, had i not killed the one that i found in my bathroom one night. now all you animal lovers, don't hate me. i wanted to usher it outside, but i kept thinking that if for some reason i failed to get it outside that it would go directly under my bed and then i would have a hay-day trying to get it out. i smashed it with a wood board. when i get bread, my maz taught me to make some mean cinnamon sugar bread as well as some garlic bread so i've also been testing out my skills in that department lately. i tried to make cookie dough using some sugar, flour, and raw eggs...the turnout was not kind to me in the bowel region.

two of my best friends are getting married in two days. if they were getting married over here, matt would have to pay stac's family a couple cows, possibly some goats and chickens, and maybe some monetary gift also. i think you're getting off easy matty.

the premier league starts soon in the soccer/football world. that means a large percentage of my free time will now hopefully be spent talking under the mango tree about how great wayne rooney is and how real madrid is trying to buy their way to the championship. don't tell anyone, but i don't mind this fact one bit. frankly, i think its genius.

over and out

hi kids, it's been about a month since you've heard from this guy, and we've had a lot of action over here. the following post is actually from a letter i wrote to a family member. i hope that member will forgive me for giving her the same message twice, but i thought it worth posting (i may be wrong about this).

The people...the people are kind and unkind, selfless and selfish, misunderstood and full of misunderstanding, healthy and diseased, each day smiling and each day weeping. perhaps similar to how we are in the states, maybe though with some drastic, and not always desirable, extremes. it is so amazing getting to know families and personalities I could never before have imagined. it is an honor to begin to understand simple pleasures; talking under the mango tree, a bumpy ride through swamp lands, planting crops, or separating peanuts from their shells and skin (i think similar to Biblical references about separating the wheat from the chaff). these are good things that i tend to rush, but that the people here take time with and give importance to. no hurry. my heart has been moved to brokenness many times, both by joy and by pain, by events and happenings I don't claim to understand, nor do i know if i ever will; seeing the girls run, in full contentment, in a track race with no shoes and on an uneven grass track which they cut by hand; hearing the African harp and drums during the church services. but also, seeing 3 children on the street drinking dirt-filled water, hearing the countless stories of families that have lost children in what many would consider avoidable circumstances. i really am trying to get beyond myself, but this isn't always easy. there are days when i get angry. i get angry at the way the girls are treated-doing most the work, kneeling, standing, carrying water, eating last, preparing meals-while many men sit idly by. i get angry at how i think some people are only interested in what i can give them. i get angry at myself; why didn't i seek understanding? why didn't i help? why didn't i put that person before myself? what use am i? am i really even helping?...but there are days of amazement and happiness too. like the day 2 Ugandan men ran with me for 8 kilometers, or the day all the girls gave me high-fives as they finished their run, or the day i saw the little girl with the pink hibiscus flower staring at me-yellow pollen covering her dark face as she had been smelling the flower using the full-face technique! again, let me say that I'm not claiming to understand all, or any of this fully, but perhaps experience is a step towards this understanding.

on a different note, i had a 20 minute conversation with myself about whether, if Gatorade sponsored Uganda, if mango would be the official flavor or not.

we had our all-volunteer-conference last week near kampala. all 130ish volunteers gathered for 5 days of meeting, catching up, idea sharing, and refreshment. it was really an excellent time. prior to the meeting, our country director sent out an email saying this event was supposed to be professional. well, there's only one way i know how to be professional, so my buddy and i decided we had better sport mustaches for the event. let me say, once a shaved into this 'stach, i immediately began to creep myself out. at the meeting, we were paired up in groups for some activity and i was paired with a girl i had never met before. right away i could tell she did not want to be my partner. people, this is the type of racial profiling that will be our downfall.

we had the district track meet the other day. amazing. this would be equivalent to our regional meet at the high school level, where the students were trying to qualify for nationals. the track was grass, uneven, cut by hand, and prompted no complaints from the people. i saw some boys and girls put up incredible times, that college coaches would definitely be interested in. my favorite events were definitely the distance events, where one of the girls just went buck wild on the competition and absolutely dropped the hammer on some girls. besides that though, the high jump was amazing. there are no mats, so they just put down sand and then let the students jump over the bar however they can. as soon as the students hit the ground you could tell it hurt. one dude was bleeding, i think a couple wanted to cry...awesome!

let me end by reiterating the fact that i don't understand a lot, even of what i write. i observe, at times participate, but mostly question. maybe there's a lot for me to figure out. maybe i never will. but i at least want to try. i don't always do a great job at this.

First Day of Track Practice-

I woke at 5:15 am to the sound of the other coach calling me. The moon was still out. I yawned as I dressed and moved dazed out the door toward the dorms. I could hear murmurs as I neared, and as I turned the corner, 200 girls stood huddled, talking, waiting to run. They got up by choice. With some quick instruction from the head coach, we were off. One thing the coach said to the girls before we left was, "you're going to keep us entertained with some good music, right?" Yes, was the reply. I didn't really know what this meant. We began slowly at first, our feet shuffling to the sound of the coach's whistle in army like cadence. Beep...beep...beep...beep. Then came the music. Two hundred Ugandan girls began to sing out in versed cadence , again similar to that which one might hear from an army troop. We plodded on and on. The verses kept coming, moon beams continued to reveal our way down the dirt roads, and the girls continued running. In the States, every neighbor would have filed a serious noise ordinance against us, but here, the houses we passed seemed untouched, undisturbed by our cadence. I was surprised at how well they did. We walked/jogged for almost an hour, and most of the girls, I think, hadn't ran probably since football ended months before. The Ugandans just believe they can, or maybe they don't know they can't? All the girls either ran in beat-up sandals or barefoot. On the brick/dirt road, I don't know which one would be more difficult. No complaints though. No complaints about the road, the shoes, the time, nothing. How could I complain then either? I simply thanked God for the opportunity to experience a sight and sound that is so hidden, yet so beautiful. They even mentioned me in one of the songs, "kobi Paris, Paris, willi abolo, kobi Paris, Paris, willi abolo." (Mr. Paris, Mr. Paris, we're telling you to buy us some bananas!) Thank you God.

Okay, one more quick story:

One of the new aspects for me here is budgeting money. Let's just say, the first month I wasn't exactly "financially responsible" and found myself a little tight. Well, I had only a couple shillings, and had to make a game time decision about food for 2-3 weeks. I was in one of the cities, and happened to see some Arabian cereal. Well, I had to make a decision. Cereal, which may last...I don't know. Or rice, which would definitely last me 2 weeks.

Let's just say 2 days later my cereal was gone and I was thinking back to that rice I could have gotten.

Live and learn.

(I wrote another new post about my first day of school that is below this one, just thought I'd supplement a little)

My first day of teaching-

I didn't know what to expect. Out of 40 girls in my bio class (which is a really a low number considering the national average is, I think, 65, and I have seen a class of 120 students with one teacher), 10 were there. the rest, I think, are probably working the fields, helping their families find money to go to school. The Ugandan Ministry of Education hasn't payed the government teachers in 2 months. There is a lot of financial tension. I think there have been talks of protest. Still though, some of the students were there. They were dressed in the maroon and white school uniform which they'll wear each day. Their heads, all shaved. School policy. When I asked a question, they spoke softly, if at all. I don't think this is uncharacteristic for Ugandan women. Heads down, no eye contact, soft spoken. Is it right then that I ask them to look up and speak loudly, boldly? I think a fifth of my words are lost in my English accent. They giggle in groups. Is this a trait common to all girls? I don't know. When I step into the classroom, they're studying. If I was to dismiss class early, they would continue studying. What manner is this? I almost don't like it. I want to yell, "Go outside girls, go play and get into trouble." But that wouldn't help. It wouldn't help them get into the universities. So much emphasis is placed on their final exams. They have to do well or the university will pass them by. Is that all there is to hope for? University? Is that the sole reason we're studying? Isn't it hypocritical for me to chastise this way? Don't I greatly value the degree I have? So they study. They study in the morning, afternoon, and by the few electric bulbs which illuminate the classes at night. When the power isn't there, they study by lantern. These girls' work so hard. We were setting up a net-ball court (similar to handball) and after marking the dimensions, the girls began to dig the outline of the court with hoes. They keep up the compound, they sweep, sometimes I think they're a lot tougher than me. But this is what is expected of them, and I think, every student. Some try to sneak out of the compound at night. I'm secretly cheering for them when they try. But I'll stop them just the same. So soft spoken. So...timid, coy. Why? Is it lack of self-confidence? Is it simply custom and culture? How will they respond to this new, white teacher trying to get them to learn in a different manner than wrote memorization? Perhaps they'll rebel. Perhaps my next 2 years will be a fight to get someone, anyone, to voluntarily answer a question aloud. Bueller...Bueller...anyone...Bueller.

I've actually been teaching now a little over a week. Sometimes I feel like I'm doing a good job. Sometimes I think I stink it up. One of my classes asked me to sing a song for them one day. I did. Next time, Im going to hit them with the classic masterpiece "Regulators" by Mr. Warren G.

I teach two classes of what is 8th grade math, two classes of sophomore level biology, and 2 classes of 8th grade P.E. That's right kids, think of your gym teacher in school...that's me. I'll get a whistle, I'll make the kids do sprints, and heck, I'll probably have a presidential fitness test where if the kids can do 60 sit-ups in a minute they'll get a signed letter from the President! Names such as Mrs. Brooks, Mr. Her, A.C., Ed Morris, Stan Fraze, Ed Fox...the legends of gym class. Get my name ready for the record books!

The kids also asked me to tell them a story one night.

I told them about TP'ing houses and Halloween. I don't know if I'm a good teacher sometimes. In fact, I think sometimes Im a bad teacher.

I'll put my address again in case anyone wants to write. Even if I don't yet know you, I'll write back.

Hunter Paris, PCV

Ikwera Girls' S.S.

P.O. Box 54

Apac, Uganda

Peace up, A-town down

hp

I think this entry might be long. you don't have to read all of it at once. Heck, you don't have to read any of it ever. My new address is posted at the beginning in case any of you feel daring enough to drop a letter in the box with ts address posted on the front:

Hunter Paris, PCV

Ikwera Girls' s. s.

P.O. Box 54

Apac, Uganda

I have been at my site for over 2 weeks now. The students are currently on break until the end of May so I've had some time to meet the community, read, move into my house, think, run, and prepare for the coming term. I've also had time to cook. It is not an enormous secret that the main staple of my diet in the States came from either a bird named Sonny or a Leprechaun named Lucky. these friends did not travel with me though to uganda and i have been forced, in a good way, to begin cooking. my fist attempt came when i wanted to roast groudnuts (g-nuts). the bottom of the bowl i was using was completely charred beyond recovery. my second attempt, rice. slightly soggy ,sticking to burned bowl, but enjoyable taste. my third try, beans. after an hour of cooking i decided i didn't want to wait any longer and consumed beans that weren't quite hard, yet weren't quite soft. also, the beans had created a difficult film on my now burned bowl . since this time, i have had successes and failures, and i think my skin is beginning to smell like rice. but im learning. also, I can make a mean millet porridge.

my home is in the shape of two squares side by side. there is a wall though between the two such that in order to enter square two, you first must exit square one and go outside to the door of square two (its amazing how you can write something that you're pretty sure no one will understand, but because you see it in your own head it's justified to leave it written). in square one is my bed, desk, clothes, 10 spare bic pens, sink, and bathroom with toilet and shower. i am very thankful for all of these items. it is a great blessing to have the running water. in square two, i have a couch, books, chairs, and a separate room for my kitchen where i have a two burner gas stove set up that i think i forgot to turn the gas off of the other night, creating quite a smell in the kitchen, and probably an unsafe environment. also, in my bedroom, if you have sent me a letter i put your letter's envelope up on the wall. so if you want on the wall, do the right thing and write a letter!

in the past week, i have been blessed with the opportunity to get to know some of my fellow teachers at the school i am working at. most everyone i have met has been ostensibly very kind. this has prompted numerous thoughts and questions. the question, "why" comes back again and again. people have said they are happy i am here, some have been very kind, some have been very thoughtful, even when i have done seemingly nothing. so why? the hopeful side of me thinks that perhaps their kindness is a reflection of their true character. so far, i have seen the ugandans as a very friendly people, perhaps their warmth is an extension of this. the cynical side of me wonders if their kindness comes with a cost. does their outer warmth mask inner desires? do they want something from me? do they expect me to provide for them somehow? the fearful side of me wonders if i'll be able to meet their needs and expectations (i know that without God i will certainly fail, and that whatever good happens is because of Jesus). the humble side of me is simply enjoying the fact that each day, i am given the chance to meet a people i could never have dreamt of meeting. i know that i too am not without inner motivations, expectations, and desires. perhaps they too wonder of me.

soccer. soccer(which henceforth will be referred to as football) is an amazing sport. i have a book entitled "how soccer explains the world," and though i have not yet read it, i think i am beginning to understand it. the other day i was in a room (approximately the size of two Carroll high school classrooms) with 300 ugandan men, who, in uncharacteristic fashion, all had their shirts off and were screaming, cheering, and even arguing with each other. at 10:00pm we were watching manchester united vs. arsenal. european football. on the street, every 10th person is wearing a football jersey. kids play the game in back alleys with balls made from rolled up trash, and in very special occasions, you get to ride home on the back rack of a Hero bicycle, under the African night sky, on uganda's unnamed dirt roads, and think about the game you just saw, and the African man whose whole body went into gyrations when Christiano Ronaldo of Manchester put the ball into the back of the net from 30 yards out.

okay, i've got a little bit of extra time going here so i'll talk about running also. God has allowed me to run each morning so far and what a blessing it has been. do people stare? in abundance. do some people make comments? of coarse. but it's amazing. I haven't really found a circular route yet. their aren't a lot of roads which connect other roads. just one road going north-south, and one road going east -west. the roads are scattered with villages. i pass a group of thatched-roof huts. the women and children are already up, hoes in hand, preparing to head to the field for work. the huts pass by. im alone on dirt road with african swamp all around. another set of huts. another family heading to the field. someone says "ibuto aber." I reply, "abuto aber." this get snickers as it was a test to see if the munu knew the language. the sun is starting to come up. though i was cool at the start of the run, by the end i know i will heat up. i pass a school. currently vacant, but i wonder if, in 2 weeks, there will be hundreds of kids who yell as i pass. i don't dwell on the thought for long. im trying just to enjoy.

Northern Uganda-I heard from one of the volunteers here that the longest civil war in African history is the one that is currently going on in northern Uganda. Political factions have been fighting for years, people have been displaced, children have become soldiers and slaves to the sexual desires of many. Families have been torn and people have become enemies.

Years ago, the Peace Corps pulled it's presence out of northern Uganda. Until today. The rebel forces have been pushed largely into the Congo and Sudan, and parts that were before unsafe, have been deemed safe for travel and for livelihood. I have been given the special honor of being a part of the first group to go back to this land.

Aesthetically, northern Uganda may not be on top of all the traveling guides. The place is flat, dry, and in the dry season...hotter than a hornets nest. But I think the people may make this the greatest part of the country. I have only been here for 5 days, and so perhaps the best I can do is tell what I've heard from others, and what I've seen.

For many reasons, that may or may not be justified, the people of the north are not the same as the people from the south, east, and west. I was talking to a woman from southern uganda about the people from the north and she described them as people without human hearts. She said she feared them and that the war had made them a tough people. However, I have heard another side as well. I have heard they are a people of solidarity, that the war has formed bonds like brotherhood between a suffering people. I have heard that if there is only one fruit in a class of students, they will either share, or not eat. They often don't eat I think. This is the people that I have been given the opportunity to know. These are the people that I see right now as I look out the door, people cutting lumber, selling fruit, and carrying 30 chickens tied by there legs upside down on one bicycle. I can't wait. There is certainly some trepidation, but Im trying to trust God, trying not to mess up, and trying to really listen. I have no idea what will happen. I know that I am thankful for the encouragment of many.

On a similar note, I have moved into my house. On another post I will try to describe the housing, and maybe even post a picture, though that may never happen. For now, lets just say that I couldn't get my mosquito net hung up so I slept the first night with it wrapped around me like a blanket. Also, I've been eating a lot of peanut butter.

The nearest "munu/mzungu" to my house is about 40 km away. This is my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer. Mike is a former PC Volunteer from Kenya, and pretty much, he is money. Recently, Mike and I went to the nearest city to pick up some supplies, and to make a long story short, we wound up hiring a 70 year old man to push a wheelbarrow filled with 145 pounds of propane 800 meters up hill. He is a tough man. I am now sleeping in a place called "The Fortress" with this propane tank next to my head.

hp

okay, lets do this.

so two days ago we moved out of our homestays and headed to Kampala to swear in as official volunteers. This was a bittersweet time as it meant that I was nearing the time when I would go to site, but also, that I was leaving a family I had gotten to know over the past 8 weeks. As I left the Mayanja family I became aware that they had really taught much. I think that before, I had this underlying belief that somehow families in Uganda were different from american families because they were underdeveloped and dealt with all sorts of exotic diseases on a daily basis, so how could they have things like hopes and dreams? But I was so wrong. I saw hopes, dreams, sorrows, deaths, and familiy solidarity. also, I saw a woman who could easily snap the heads of two chickens while sifting rocks out of rice.

one day ago we had a meeting at the peace corps office and then were given 4 hours to buy essential items for our homes that we would need when we arrived at our sites. with these instructions, I purchased some heavy insecticide, cockroach-deterring chalk, mouse/rat poison, and a mosquito net. My friend from Kentucky purchased irish whiskey. That night, we had dinner at the hotel and met our site supervisors for the first time. My site is in northern uganda, and I will be teaching at a secondary school. Prior to this meeting that is the bulk of what I knew. My supervisor is named Sister Alobo. That's right kids, I will be teaching within a catholic mission. but hold on, there's more. Apparently, the ugandan ministry of education has recently requested that american males teach at all girls schools (for cultural awareness purposes maybe?). Well, the Peace Corps has answered that call. I have 3 brothers and no skill with talking to ladies, but as of tomorrow, I will be a teacher of 300+ girls from apach, uganda. unreal! God is so creative, and I am really excited.

today we swore in as volunteers in front of our supervisors and a representative from the U.S. embassy. many of the volunteers then went to their sites, but because our trip will be so long, we did not want to arrive at night, so we will wait until tomorrow morning to throw our stuff into a big van and head 7 hrs to the north. It's kind of cool when I talk about going to the north, it makes me feel like I am "from the north" like in Lord of the Rings. Speaking of Lord of the Rings, on Easter Monday the town of Wakiso had a special showing at the local theatre (which is not what you are thinking of) where they were showing all three movies back to back to back, with a live VJ interpreting of the microphone English --> Lugandan. They began this marathon at 8pm! Yes, I payed my 200 shillings. No, I did not make it through even the first fiilm. The place was packed though.

Tomorrow the four of us going to the north will throw our stuff on a van we rented and head up to the districts of apac and lira. i think I have said before that I am really proud to be a part of the group going to the north, but I have not yet really explained why. Today, will not be that day either. Hopefully, my next post will be about the north. That may be in quite a number of weeks though. During that time, I want people to think about why I may be excited to go to the north , and then post your thoughts. Unless your name is Neeko or Justen or Scot. Then do not post your thougts. also, if your name is Kurt (especially Kurt), then consider yourself black listed. actually, you know what, im thinking about the people that may be reading this (which I don't know why you would) and lets just go ahead and consider everyone blacklisted. unless you work for Briton or have birthed 4 boys (3 of which are suspect).

Oh, Sister Domitilla did tell me that the site where I am going is a swamp land and infested with mosquitoes. Good thing I picked up those supplies.

One last thought. Marc Buwalda once told me that if he were president he would require all people to listen to Idioteque by Radiohead. I recently was involved in a sort of party where I had control of the music. To begin the dream of Cardinal Buwalda, I played this song, which I love, to maybe 50 Ugandans. The result...not what I had hoped. Perhaps they aren't ready.

Let me first apologize for two reasons: 1) there is a blatant lack of consistency with the posting of messages. Im trying, sometimes though I just do not have access to the internet. 2) the postings of one, Justen Paris. The man is a mystery to me, I know that he is scared of me, but because Im not currently in the country, he thinks he can say whatever he wants. He is wrong though.

So I saw a dead cobra in the road the other day. Hmmm. Two days later I saw a moth the size of Allen County (the greatest county in Indiana, though our county emblem in Indianapolis is not as sweet as some of the other counties, but don't let this fool you)

I am aware that, for the most part, the bulk of my posts are somewhat superficial and rarely fail to crack the surface of thought and inquisition. This isn't by intention as much as just by the fact that I'm filled with questions (or what I feel may be questions) and cannot offer a lot of insight into answers or even developed thought at this point. It's like I've got this onion, and I'm trying to remove the skin to get at what's underneath, but the skin is jut endless, there's something keeping me from really getting at what I want to know, or even to ask.

I've been reading East of Eden as of late, and once I get passed the fact that the Chinese man reminds me of my college roommate at Hope and that the character Adam reminds me of a certain man I know named Adam, there is a theme that I wanted to ask about. Throughout the character interaction, there's this idea that the way we see people is not necessarily the way they really are, and that often, we simply see people how we want them to appear. If we want them to be good and perfect, we miss that they do wrong. If we want them to be bad, we let go of the good they do. Our underlying desire shapes them, more so even than truth. Im thinking about Africa. There is so much that I have seen, and so much that I want to see. There is so much that I want to know, I want to come to know God more. But how can I be certain that what I'm seeing is what's truly there? How do I, or you, know that what I am interpreting and coming to understand is honest, and not made up by me to confirm what I wanted to believe? I think this is a deeper question than I understand, perhaps even one that shouldn't be asked (are there questions that shouldn't be asked?)

I made a toilet cover out of banana leaves. It was awesome.

Okay, I tried to post pictures. It did not work. I am terrible with computers. Where is my mom? Where is Chelsea Buwalda? Oh look, an ice cream store.

Here's a quick debriefing of the previous couple of days:

5 days ago: I received some peanut butter from a volunteer I was visiting. I thought this great, and didn't think much about the fact that this was homemade peanut butter that was maybe 3 months old and currently residing in a soap container.

3 days ago: I was spending more time in the pit than a NASCAR crew member. It felt like ACDC was touring in my bowles. I came to know the latrine intimately, and it knew me. Also, in the midst of maybe my 10th trip to the pit I remembered that it had been brought to my attention that I really have not done a good job with corresponding my daily activities. Plus, I need to post some pictures.

1 day ago: I planned on remedying both of the aforementioned failures.

Now: I currently live with a host family in a small village in central Uganda. The family is made up of a mother, a son, two nieces, an aunt, and a man who we will call an uncle. They are really nice, and actually, when I was feeling a little less than par the other day, they offered to boil me up a weed growing in the back that they claimed was a natural remedy (i denied the first day, accepted the second). They also called to check on me and continually asked about me. I really have learned a lot from them and appreciate them greatly.

Everyday accept for Sunday, I will wake at around 6:30 am, read, brush my teeth, fake taking a shower, and have some morning tea. Then, I meet another of the volunteers and we walk to our training facility about 2 miles away. The morning walk is really great. It's cool, the plants are amazing, it's a great time to catch up, and the bugandan kids are heading to school so we get to say hi to them (or rather, they say hi to us, about a million times). From 8am-5pm the trainees (there are about 30 of us) go through classes in our respective languages, get cultural training, have discussions from current volunteers, and get training in our occupational setting. We have tea and lunch during this time, which means I get to dominate a plate full of rice, some greens, and some fruit that puts the licious in delicious. After 5, I usually start the walk home, though some of the trainees stay at the training site to practice language or just kind of hang out. Once home, I like to run, read, listen to some BBC, meet up with some of the other trainees, or just kind of sit on the wall of my homestay and talk to the family. Ugandans tend to eat dinner pretty late, and about around 9:30pm (which I think is early for them) we sit down do a dinner of beans, maize, rice, fruit, meat, or the like. I really do like the food. We do this each day, but on Saturdays, we typically spice it up a bit with a trip to Kampala or a visit to a volunteer's home. It is at this point that you need to know ahead of time whether or not you are going to eat a chicken on a stick that a vendor is sure to thrust in your window as you pass by. On Sundays I get to go to church, run, hopefully watch soccer, and wash my clothes. I am not good at washing my clothes. The 15 year old helps me, and to be honest, she should probably be getting paid. If the downy bear could be personified in someone, it might be her. She makes the clothes that clean.

So, this is the schedule. I think it will be pretty similar to this until at least late April when hopefully we will all be sworn in as volunteers and go to our respective sights. Of the 30 volunteers, we have been broken up into, I think, maybe 5 groups. There are 4 total people in my group, and we are leaning a language called Lango, which puts our general location in northern Uganda. The Peace Corps is kind of ambiguous when it comes to giving you an exact location, but I think this is probably for good reason. Also, I think I am going to fight my language trainer. He's been talking trash behind my back and I know it! I'm only kidding, I think. Once we go to our actual sights, we will hopefully be there for the next two years. We will be issued homes, and the homes vary greatly from sight to sight so I really don't know what to expect. Once I am there, I believe I will be teaching biology and chemistry at the high school level so Im pretty excited about that. Also, I want to put up a Lord of the Rings poster. I wonder if I'll be the first one ever to hang a LOTR poster up in an Ugandan home. I have to be in the top 100.

Alright, let me know if I wasn't clear on anything, and if you ever want me to put up some specific answer to a question please email me. Heck, email me anyway. Let me know if I can send you a letter. I think I like to send letters. It feels good to drop in the box and have the crowned crane carry it away.

My past week:

I traveled away from the Peace Corps training center for a couple of days to visit another volunteer. One may think that a four hour bus ride on Ugandan roads would be nightmarish, and to a certain extent you are correct (cramped, hot, people constantly trying to sell you a chicken on a stick), but to another extent, you would be terribly mistaken. Over the four hour trip we passed fields of tea, papyrus, and acre upon acre of sugar cane. We saw the great Lake Victoria, and the fabled River Nile. This was only the beginning of the trip though. The volunteer I went to visit lives in eastern Uganda and about 30 minutes away (by foot) from his home is a place with known rock paintings. You always hear about rock painting, and to tell you the truth these were faded and certainly not the works of the great Mark Kessler, but they had hidden power. Standing in front of of a work 2,000 years old, wondering who, what, why; there is an awe and mystery in it. Also, the rocks contained a natural xylophone where different rocks could be hit to produce these reverberating pitches that archaeologists think were used to call in cattle herders in times past. The rocks were a bit of a climb, but at the top, they offered a 360 degree view of Uganda. It was beautiful. The Peace Corps Volunteer's family had sent him some care packages, so that night, we sat in his living room talking African politics eating candy bars and trail mix. I think that it's times like these, more than any others so far, that I really realize what a blessing it is to be here, how I never could have imagined this. Then though, there are the times that you realize you really are in to something so bizarre, so unique, and so unbelievably exciting that you have to be thankful to God. The next night, we traveled to one of the major cities of Uganda to meet up with some other volunteers. In the midst of conversation, soccer got brought up and before I knew it, at midnight that night, I was sitting in a movie theater type building with wooden chairs watching live, European soccer (Man U vs. Inter Milan) with hundreds of screaming Ugandans who all definitely had a weird, soccer crush on Ronaldo but none of whom would have admitted it! I wish I could bottle that moment and let you all open it up and experience. I don't now do it justice. I don't really know how to end my blog entries. I don't really know how to write them either.

okay kids, this is what we've got going. that's right, im back. back in the saddle again. i've got limited time at this internet cafe here (i might have to strongarm to desk person for some more time) so what i was thinking was that i would simply record three experts from my journal in one new blog. forgive me if my grammer is lacking or if there are things here which you do not agree with as these are my thoughts only in the first 3 weeks and do not necessarily represent developed experiences. but maybe they do. we will see. also, my shift/caps button is off and on so i will be avoiding it like i avoided being tackled by number 27 in my days of middle school football.

1- The first night, arrival. we stepped off the plane, not into a terminal, but down a series of steps onto the tarmac. My first steps on African soil. The fist aspect I noticed was not the temperature of the air against my body, but the way the air felt as I breathed it in. It was warm and comforting the way I took it in. The air was thick with moisture such that I felt like little drops of water were forming inside my nostrils then slowly, silently fading back out to the air with my exhale. My body agree with these thoughts. As I slowly made my way towards customs i felt wrapped in this big warm blanket of mystery and arrival, like finally it had come. These were the first, overwhelming emotions that i took with me to customs. i levitated on these as i stood in line, waiting to give my passport to a man who had no idea what i was doing there, but would trust what i said...hopefully. As i stood in line, i wanted desperately to be back out in the warmth so i went back out the double doors that were near by. This time though, the overwhelming emotion came from sight. i looked up and saw a sky i had seen many times, but never before in such a manner. the stars were bright but just little specks in a larger ocean. what overwhelmed me was this ocean. looking up, i saw a sky, not blue, not even dark blue, but black. i do not know why, or if i'll ever see that again, but that night, the sky was a black bed sheet with tiny spots of light and a yellow, contented moon. we got through customs, received out luggage (which all but one received their luggage which is an amazing blessing and hopefully she will receive this soon) and met some very friendly peace corps directors who would take us 20 minutes by bus to the training site where we would spend the night. sitting shotgun (which is on the left side) in the bus next to our african driver i slid the window back and let my hand feel the breeze of our motion. This is when the african aroma blew in. as we passed villages and stretches of people out celebrating valentines day i caught the smell of what we passed. the smell was that of day old bread rolls and candles burnt down to the wax (no i do not understand this either). i don't know if this is accurate, it's just what the smell brought to my mind. it wasn't particularly pleasant nor was it repulsive. it just was. now though, i try to breath in that same smell and find it not there. i wonder if it was only for that day. it wasn't until just before bed that night that i caught the sound of africa...as i looked at the moon, and stars, and expanse of black, i heard the night. closer than any other of the previous sensations the sound resembled indiana. what was alive at night were the insects. they were active in sound. the night sounded similar to the crickets and cicadas that offer their call to the sinking sun back home. there were subtle differences though. a differing pitch here, a longer shrill there. these were the african bugs, calling out to their diminishing sun.

2-it has been nearly 10 days in africa and though a part of me feels that these 10 days have gone by as the african cheetah runs, another part feels they have trodden as slowly as the ever present bull, and with as much enthusiasm. the lows have been low, such as the first night staying with my host family, sitting as the dinner table with a family that i did not know eating by the light of the kerosene lantern, wondering what they were thinking, who they were, and realizing that i too was a stranger to them, living in their house. that night, i lay motionless in my twin mattress, mosquito net overhead. not only did the darkness surround me physically but it grabbed for my soul and spirit as well. then there was the time in central uganda where i looked out onto the african hillside with the african sun blazing overhead. it was beautiful. i longed for someone to share it with, but there was no one. but as the lows have most assuredly been low, so too have the highs been high. last night i sat on the wall surrounding my host family's house and their young niece (who is maybe 6 years old) sat beside me. With my hand holding hers so she wouldn't fall, she and her unlce taught me words in lugandan. sun, star, moon, flower. dusk had brought in a night fog over the hills and with it came peace in what tomorrow would be a village full of unrest, joy, sorry, hunger, and happiness.

3-some key points after the first few weeks (these are generalizations that i understand do not apply to all, if any for that matter)

-the guy that sells rollex continues to rip me off, but these egg rollups are so good that he has power over me and i cannot refuse

-after slaughtering a chicken, put it in hot water to remove the feathers more readily

-there is a simply joy in riding down ugandan dirt roads on a one speed bike with helmet on and kids yelling at the strange looking muzungu on the bike

-one of the girls who lives in the same house is named flavia. her nick name is flava flav

-i received a shot for yellow fever and typhoid fever. this was never a life goal of mine and frankly freaks me out a bit

-taking a cold bath outside under the african night sky is...somehow special. in the midst of hunger, disease, and maybe even fear, it is crisp and cooling and peaceful

-central ugandan's have a dish called matooke at least once a day and sometimes twice. i cannot really describe it except to say that it is a main dish made of a type of cooked bananas with a consistency like mashed potatoes. i asked one of the members of my homestay what his favorite food was. Expecting a rare delicacy, i was surprised when he said, matooke. how could a dish he ate every day be his favorite? i think this describes a piece of the ugandans. they know what they have and they are grateful for it. maybe content is a better word? i don't know yet.

-some people the ugandan's like in a tremendous amount: president obama, celene dion, and mr. bean.

So I am sitting here in an internet cafe in Uganda...wow.

I really wish I could spend a long while writing and posting pictures of this first week, but honestly I didn't even know I would be able to get on the internet here, so I do not have the necessary time or equipment. I don't even know how I can briefly summarize the time thus far. This is how I will try:

I went running this morning. I woke up at 6:30 and went running around 6:45. The sun consistently rises by 7 and sets by 7, so I got up as the dawn was breaking over African soil. I stepped out of the compound we're currently staying at (until tomorrow when I go to live with a host African family for a bit. However, that will require a completely different email) to see the mist as it rose deafeningly from the Ugandan hillside. I stepped on to the red, fine, dirt Ugandan road and headed out to the nearby village. It took me a bit, but I learned to run on the right, as the traffic is reversed from ours and the motorcycle drivers like to sneak up on you. The road looks like a back dirt driveway that will eventually end, but just at the moment you think it time to turn around, the road will dip over a hill and open up into a community of houses and bustling people. I ran this morning, and a school of children ran too. I passed them on my way and what I received where bright waves and the occasional "muzungu," which is the local word for white person(which I have been called by about a million people). Again, I wish I could write in more detail, but my time is drawing to a close, and there is so much to tell. I do not know when I'll be able to post again as we are leaving this area tomorrow, but I cannot wait to tell of the flowers, the animals (the vervet monkeys are right outside our rooms), and perhaps the best part to far, the people.

I am sitting here in the New York airport, using a computer that I bought from a little girl when her parents were away. She sold it to me straight-up for a banana milkshake and 500 stickers of Hanna Montana (which of course I had on me).

Okay, that last part (everything after the word computer ) may not be entirely accurate. I am actually using a computer that a very nice woman in our Uganda group let me use. I would like to write extensively about the service registration but I don't really feel that I have enough time here. Lets just say that I was the only one who started bleeding during registration.

It went quite well though, but I did find out that internet use will be very limited for the first three or four months of training so I don't know when I will really get to sit down and do some serious typing (I wonder if olden-day authors and writers will be offended if I called this typing, "writing"?) There are people of all ages and all educations in the group, and they all seem very nice and unique. I did find out though that I need to write on here that my views are not necessarily the views of the U.S. Peace Corps and that my writings (I decided that olden-day authors would not be offended if I used the word writing) do not reflect the views or thoughts of this agency. So boom-shaka-laka-laka.

I wanted to say though that I feel so strong and am so grateful to God for the courage and resolve that He has without a doubt given me. This doesn't mean that this has been easy by any means, just that I know I am not alone. I am so grateful for all the prayers and encouragement also. Without you guys I would definitely not be in the airport right now drinking a delicious sweet tea that I bought from McDonald's after I discovered that the vitamin water was a bit more than I desired to pay.

Well, I don't know when the next time I'll be able to post is, but it's on to Africa, so lock up your children.

It is about 5 hours now until I board a plane and head off to...well, just off for now. I wish I could write in length about how I am feeling, but I am very tired, and still have much to do and think about and pray about.

Whitman wrote a poem entitled "I Sing The Body Electric," in which he writes, "I have perceiv'd that to be with those I like is enough,/ To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,/ To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,/ To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?/ I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea./ There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,/ All things please the soul, but these please the soul well."

I feel there is deep truth in this, and yet I feel like I am departing from this very truth. I feel as though I am immersed within this connectedness and closeness, and yet I am now fleeing it. Indeed, I already miss it.

Well, this next post comes with a slight bit of humility, as I apprehensively make public one of my biggest fears in going to Africa. I must say, this is not my largest source of anxiety, but I fear it none-the-less. This fear...is Siafu. Go ahead, take a google images search for Siafu and you will know what I'm talking about.

Now, it is not an enormous secret that I am afraid of ants. I don't like them. I don't like the idea of them. I think that for the most part, they are an unchecked, unbalanced group that will make the occasional appearance in children's books but that ultimately does exactly what they want. Let me ask you(the reader that I think may still be reading this but which I also realize may have left this site a while ago when they realized that Siafu was an ant and not the name of the next iceage) this question: What kind of creature is able to lift 10x more than it's body weight? (Just as a note, that's way more than Hollywood Hulk Hogan could lift in his prime, and just a tad more than David Girardot could lift in high school) What kind of organism can fly, and also spend a short amount of time actually surviving completely submerged under water? That's right, when you flush these babies down the toilet, they're not dead, in fact, at that point, they're probably planning their next attack on your favorite box of cereal, or maybe even your face. These are your everyday ants also, we haven't even gotten to Siafu yet.

Siafu are driver ants, and are found in eastern African nations such as Tanzania and the Congo. They don't have special toxins or stingers. They bite into you, then they never let go. This is like something straight out of a Hitchcock movie (Though I must profess that I don't think I've ever actually seen an entire Hitchcock movie. But I have seen clips from a movie of his about killer birds...that's weird stuff) Their bite has been paralleled with that of a pitbull. In Tanzania, they have been known to kill bugs yes, but also lions and even anteaters (if the anteaters aren't safe, we're all in for it). Legend has it that Siafu have even killed an elephant by crawling up it's trunk and then drilling into its brain. When these guys migrate (which they do by the millions (or at least by the hundreds of thousands)) African's refer to it as "Nature's Armageddon."

Now, I know what you're thinking. These facts are great, but come on now, they're just ants. It's this kind of dismissive thought that will lead to our downfall. It's the exact same attitude of ignorance and superiority that led to the Dust Bowl of the 1930's (I actually cannot substantiate this with any facts and I apologize to anyone who takes offense at this as the Dust Bowl really was a terrible time). As another addition to the abomination which is Siafu, I recently talked to my Aunt who spent two weeks in Tanzania. She informed me that in all her time there, she never even saw one ant. This, I'm sure, was intended to reassure me, but after some thought, I think the opposite may be true. After all, if these ants travel in packs by the millions, where are they? Shouldn't we at least be able to keep track of them? To think that somewhere, maybe right under my feet are a million ants with jaws like Tasmanian devils and appetites like John Candy (in the movie The Great Outdoors) is a disturbing thought.

As one final, brief note, I should mention that I understand the ecological importance of such creatures and am ultimately grateful for them. I would not have that God remove them, simply, that He would control their thoughts of making me part of their diet. Sleep tight, we're all in for it.

Communication:

Mail: The following is an attempt to relay my mailing address in Uganda for the first three months. I will be very grateful for any letter you can take the time to send. Yes, I think that I will have limited access to email and will definitely like receiving emails, but the tangible nature of receiving a letter is something that I would again be very grateful for.

My address for training (first 3 months):

Hunter Paris, PCT

P.O. Box 29348

Kampala, Uganda

Tricks to ensure package delivery: Scribble religious symbols and biblical quotes all over the outside of the box (I realize that with my brothers especially this request may backfire on me in an incredible manner) Superstitions run high, and even corrupt postal workers (which apparently corruption is a required characteristic for employment in the postal service-sorry maz) are wary of intercepting religious parcels. Maybe even write "Brother Hunter Paris" to heighten the effect. Another trick is to write in red ink. Red ink is sometimes reserved for the most official letters and so makes intruders wary. Perhaps the best way to have packages delivered though is to contact a PC volunteer or a guest of a volunteer that is in the states and preparing to head to Uganda and have them hand deliver it. Finding this person though will be on me.

Letters sent by airmail take a minimum of 3 weeks. Packages take longer. Packages went by surface mail may take up to 6 months. Some mail may never arrive. Number the letters (and I will number mine) so we know if one has been lost in the mailing process. Also, write "Airmail" and "Por Avion" on the envelopes. For packages it is best to keep it small and in a padded envelope so it will be treated as a letter. The mail service is sporadic so be flexible.

Telephone: My understanding is that making this type of international call in Uganda is feasible, but problematic. Not to mention, probably expensive. I think that it is far cheaper to call Uganda from the States than to call the States from Uganda. Maybe I will be able to find an available phone and pull the old collect-call trick where I yell really fast what number to call before they can charge me anything. I will look into this when I get over there.

Email: Again, my understanding is that more and more places in Uganda have internet cafes. I will do my best to access these, but think that if I am able to get on the internet even monthly that would probably be a surprise. Also, I have been informed that I will not have a whole lot of available time during my first 3 months of training to go to internet cafes so this rate may be less for the first couple of months.

Telekinesis: This is probably the best form of communication as there are no tariffs and embargoes are down right now. However, I must advise caution in the content of your thoughts because I know, at least for myself, if the government was to get a hold of my thoughts, there would be a lot of important secrets made public and my dreams of becoming a Miami Indian would probably be under heavy scrutiny.

So I'm going to Uganda. Right now is when I post something really profound and insightful about travel and uncertainty and the rewarding depths of service and risk, but I'm having a hard time getting past that first part where I'm going to Uganda. I'm going to Uganda? Oh Peaches.

Someone once, rather harshly, told me that brevity is the mother of wit. As a little preface to this blog perhaps I should mention that brevity is not likely to occur as I am constantly barraged with superfluous thoughts that bare little relevance but which command authorship, and wit is just as unlikely to occur. Understand, that within this blog there will likely be numerous little asides, which hopefully will illuminate whatever subject we're on, but which will more than likely only prove to leave the reader, as well as myself, lost as to where we started from. I think that's a reasonable preface.

About Uganda: what I keep thinking about is Job 1:21 When Job says, "The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised." I understand that my scenario is not even remotely similar to Job's, but at the same time, I know that when I step on that plane, a lot of things will be gone for me. I will have suddenly lost a lot (I understand that "lost" is probably not the best word, but it emphasizes my thoughts none the less), and the removal of such things will undoubtedly lead to great sorrow. At the same time though, I am beginning to see the tremendous blessings that I've been given over the past 24 years and my gratitude has grown substantially. I know that I will miss a lot about being in Fort Wayne(Which in my mind should have become our nations capital many years ago. I mean, look at the Old Fort. If that doesn't scream "Whitehouse," what does?), but I am so grateful to God for having allowed me to experience these. Christ is so good. I am starting to really see that. Along with Job 1:21 is the idea that though Job went through tremendous sorrow, he was faithful to God, and God blessed him for this faithfulness. I think that this may hold true for me as well (please understand that I am in no way trying to equate myself with Job, I simply see that he was true to God in a time of hardship, and this is of great desire to me). I believe that Uganda has the potential to be an incredible blessing. I simply want to be faithful during the coming time of sadness and open to whatever mystery I get into in the "Pearl of Africa." I honestly cannot do this without God. That isn't necessarily what some want to believe and hear, but it is the truth none the less.

As this is my first blog entry to my first blog ever, I would simply say that I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't even know if real people will actually read this. Maybe this blog site will post fictitious numbers about people actually viewing this site to make me feel better, and that may actually work. Also, it has become apparent to me that spell-check is nonexistent on this so please forgive any distracting errors that I will inevitably create. Ok, here we go.