We don't need no stinkin plans.

My apologies to Mr. Bogart for misquoting his all-too-{mis}quotable line. But it just seems like every time I am going through something that almost seems too overwhelming, I meet or talk to someone who is going through the same/not exact thing! It seems too good to be true. Emotions run high, experiences are shared, and in that sharing of mutual experience, I somehow feel better, lighter even.

But what is really enlightening is when I realize that it's not that one kindred spirit that I can relate to and draw meaningful connections with, it's the majority of the human population. And with this realization I feel a little less alone, but a little less unique too. And I find that trade off a little disconcerting. This is the only way I can describe my reaction to this NYT Mag article, shared with me by the lovely Ms. Wirthlin.

So maybe I'm a twenty something, and emerging or not, I'm the last person to ask what's up with us. And while I can resonate with a lot of the issues in this piece from the NY Times, I am naturally prone to push back on even this mean-well attempt to figure "us" out. I think the minute someone does that, they defeat the whole point of "emergence." So no more labels or research, and please no more stages of development. Psych 101 is painful enough as it is.

Leave me to my hushed and hurried conversations over over-priced salads with my favorite friends, where we discover that we're discovering all the same things in completely different ways and still feel the comfort and familiarity of thinking we're the only ones who understand.

This very white woman's burden.

Aside from the neatly contrasting lines across my feet that reveal my all-terrain sandal of choice, I have no tan to speak of. 

chacos. duh.

My tan was one of the lesser of physical sacrifices made to my appearance this summer, that and my hair that grew out to frightening lengths and was photographed more than once in braids that look startlingly similar to a polygamist. I am indeed a very white woman. And like the gender-neutral man of William Easterly's acclaimed philosophical approach to international development, I am feeling guilty.

How does one gain weight in a third world country where 90% of the population doesn't have enough to eat?!?! I have been asking myself this question since I got home and the answer is simple. Matoke, posho, G'nut and oil. If you don't know what three of those things are, just be grateful. Oh yeah, and no scale or mirror. Regardless of any explanation, I still feel guilty and am determined to neither overeat nor waste food ever again. The End.

dear diary.

So, I'm 

Sort of.

I feel something akin to someone standing on the edge of a pool and dipping one toe in the water to make sure it's...palatable. The thing is, all of my friends are in there swimming. It's warm, and everyone looks to be having themselves a grand old time. I want to want to dive in head first. Yet for some reason I'm reluctant to jump back in as if by doing so I will wash off all of the memories and experiences I'm wearing on my sleeve. A sleeve which, by the way, is shall we say just a wee bit last season. I feel sheepish that I didn't leave it behind in the mountain of donations given to the branch in Jinja. For some deluded reason I thought it was cute at the time and that I might need something to wear when I got home, but now looking in the mirror on a daily basis (which is an adjustment in and of itself) I am reminded that oversized and horizontally striped polos from DI aren't a good look on anyone. I have yet to unpack my room, and it took me nearly a week to turn my phone back on. Objectively I know that by reconnecting with my "old" life I am by no means neglecting my summer in Uganda. But I guess a part of me is afraid to plug back into the social network and professional pipeline completely and by so doing disconnect from everything Africa. I'm just trying to process exactly what it is that I don't want to lose so that I can be sure not to let it get lost in the shuffle. And I've got a lot of shuffling to do. I need to find a job, grad program, hobby, purpose, SOMETHING. I need a plan, and for the first time in my carefully coordinated life, I don't have one. Which is scary and liberating all at the same time. I can feel overwhelmed by all the options or I can feel free. I can feel dejected by the rejection or grateful that I didn't take the logical next step on the track that never really felt right. Sure I have a lot of decisions to make, but I make decisions everyday, and with time, I will make these big ones too. I'm still not sure what I am going to do with my life, but I probably won't understand that completely until it's over. So for now, for today, I've decided to stop worrying about how I'm going to make sure I don't lose the meaning and lessons I learned this summer, because I'm pretty sure the only way they can truly be lost is if they are wasted on someone who never does anything of value ever again. Not to say this is the direction I'm heading, there is value in catching up on Mad Men, reading Hunger Games and rediscovering dairy in every one of its purest processed forms. I'm just sayin. The only way experience has any real value is if it is parlayed into progress. And the only way I'm going to progress is by simply putting one foot in front of the other. By jumping in.

So I was considering starting a new blog, since I am obviously no longer in Lugazi. But I decided to keep this one. At least for a while. Who knows, maybe when I finally reach some new plateau of personal achievement I will have something worthy of a new blog title. For now I think somehow this will keep me connected to a place where I discovered and rediscovered everything meaningful in life and serve as a reminder to live and work and love with as much passion and commitment as I did this summer.

I think I have officially committed a cardinal sin of the blog world, as I feel this entry is more of a journal entry merely moonlighting as a blog post. I guess there aren't really rules, but I do feel slightly hypocritical as I have done my fair share of blog stocking mocking, but hey, maybe this is my first big jump back into the real world, err, the online world, which ironically is kind of like the new real world. That's deep, which hurts my head. But everyone else IS doing it now. Next stop, twitter. Ok, I'm not really there yet. I am so obviously not an early adopter. So sue me, I crave nostalgia. If you are rolling your eyes at this, it's ok. And if I've made fun of your blog, I'm sorry. That's just bad manners, and karma, ma'bad. Seriously.

So to bring some cohesion to my ramblings, I will leave you with this little nugget, nay pearl, of wisdom from someone far wiser than I.

Constant development is the law of life, and a man who always tries to maintain his dogmas in order to appear consistent drives himself into a false position.
                                    --Mahandas Ghandi
  

Chicks and Chids.

So Ugandans pronounce their "ki" like "ch". Some examples are the popular name "Kizza," or the city "Kigali." Since the national language is English, most people are at least conversant, however there are a few pronunciation issues that don't always translate, like the ki/ch dilemma. Once I knew that Mr. Kizza and Mr. Chizza were in fact the same person, I started to understand and auto-interpret in my head. It wasn't too much of an issue until the chicken coop. I spent an entire conversation trying to determine if Paul was talking about baby chicks or orphans. The "chids" are so excited for the "chicks!" he would say. I would reply with some reference to picking up "chicks" in Kampala, and he would just look at me confused. Chicks! Chicks! Er, baby chickens. Awwwwwww. Now we understood each other. Other than some minor negotiations, the rest of the chicken coop building adventure was a blast.

It was literally the last project I started and the last thing I finished before leaving Uganda, and I was so excited to be able to see it through. The "chicks" are still on order and won't be arriving for another month or so, but they have this little beauty of a coop to come home to. I spent three glorious days out in the village of Buwala hanging out with the "chids" and building and grinding g-nut for dinner and it was pretty much heaven. Part of me was expecting to feel sad when I had to leave, but it was interesting how the only thing I felt was overwhelming satisfaction. This is why I came to Uganda. It is so fulfilling to be able to see tangible results to your work, and we aren't always lucky enough to see the fruits of our labor, so to speak, but in this situation I was able to see the structure as well as the smiles on the faces of 30 beautiful little "chids" that can't wait to raise some baby "chicks" to lay eggs. Hopefully this time next year our little coop will be a regular egg factory.

Sitting on the site of the future chicken coop!

Framing the coop

Cecily leveling the ground in her construction uniform.

Taking a break inside the new coop.

The coop is taking shape!

We've got a window!

Ok, I have to be honest, these guys did most of the work.

Collins didn't want to miss anything.

Neither did they.

I love this one of Rose & Paul.

Arrived at 6 a.m. Finished coop at 4 p.m. Phew.

love/hate

This IS a story with a happy ending. I'm trying to convince my self of this more than anyone else. But, in any event, this needs to be shared.

Remember Fahad? If not, he's right below this. Last Friday we went back to Rose & Paul's to begin construction on the chicken coop. I was like a kid on Christmas, I was so excited, in spite of the fact that we had to get up at 5 to meet the supply truck and construction workers. We headed off in the dark into the morning mist and through the Mabira forest on our way out to Buwala. I was so excited that things worked out with the coop (we'd faced a few challenges working things out), but I'm not going to lie, I was mostly excited to see my baby Fahad! It had been 2 weeks and I seriously missed the little guy. As we pulled up all of the kids came running out to greet us. All of the kids, except Fahad. He's a toddler, he must just be a little slow. I asked the kids, "Where's Fahad?" Everyone just shrugged their shoulders. One thing I've learned about kids here is they just don't ask questions. As I rounded the corner, I saw Paul with a distressed look on his face. My heart sank and I assumed the worst. "Last time I saw you I forgot to tell you some news. I'm so sorry. Fahad's mother came here last week and picked him up."

What? Unlike the orphans, I do ask questions.

Where is he? Why? Why did you let her take him? I was more than a little distressed. This woman abandoned him. She doesn't deserve him to have him back? Where was she all this time? Can she take care of him?

Wahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Then I paused. His mother came for him. She came back for him! Apparently, she wandered through the village searching for her baby until someone directed her to Paul. Initially he was harsh with her and refused to turn him over. She cried and apologized and begged for her baby. She was living with other family in a village 2 hours away and had walked back to Buwala to find her child. Rose intervened at this point, and mother to mother, talked to the woman until they could trust her sincerity in reclaiming the child. She agreed to bring him back if she was unable in anyway to care for him. She also asked if she could bring him back when it was time for school so that he could benefit from the school fees Rose & Paul provide. At this point in the story I was in tears.

Fahad was gone, but he was exactly where he needed to be. With his mother. And what a miracle. I have heard that people who have lost family never stop looking for them even though they know they are gone. Even though Fahad is young, I know he felt the loss of his mother. I know he looked for her face in every stranger that passed by. I can't imagine the joy that must have been felt during that sweet reunion. I am in awe of the parent/child bond and even though she might not be able to put him through school, she will be able to hold him during his formative years. Which is exactly what he needs.

I love Fahad.
I hate that his mother abandoned him.
I love that Rose and Paul cared for him.
I hate that I won't ever see him again.
I love that his mother will.

Bust a move.

Every time I watch one of those dance shows I can't help but rolling my eyes as grown men and women literally weep about how dance has changed their lives. Don't get me wrong, I love dancing, I mean really love it, and I probably should understand because to a certain extent that is how I feel about music. But in any event, I am not a "dancer" so I guess I just never "got it." Well, kind of like music and love, dance not only changes lives, but it doesn't do borders, and I witnessed this first hand out here. And it's a universal fact that black people straight up know how to move. It's pretty much ridiculous how coordinated and rhythmically blessed these people are.

Meet Kamya. He's one of the precious orphans that I have fallen in love with here in Uganda. He lives at the St. Paul & Rose orphanage that I've been blessed to spend a lot of time at this summer. When I first went out there I spotted this kid that is seriously too cute for words. Problem was, the smile you will see below wasn't there for the first few visits. Kamya was quiet, withdrawn and there was an emptiness in his eyes that can only be the result of enduring horrors that no child should ever experience. In spite of his lack of social skills, Kamya is special, and I was instantly drawn to him. I wanted him to smile, play with us, show off for the cameras like the other kids. But he just sat and watched, taking it all in, but giving nothing to show that he was there.


A week ago we spent that night out at Rose & Paul's as we'd promised we'd do before summer's end. A lot of the girls were heading home in a few days and they wanted to say good bye too. One of our volunteers, Carrie Brock, had some special news to deliver as well: She raised enough money to allow us to build Rose and Paul a chicken coop...a chicken coop for an orphanage means being able to pay school fees and medical bills. It is a godsend to these people and we don't think there is anyone more deserving than the kids out there. We packed up our bags and headed out there after the AIDS festival one Saturday afternoon and were greeted with the usual chorus of squealing and hugs that we are always greeted with. It's the best feeling in the world. We hiked through the farm of sweet potatoes and matoke with kids on our backs and hanging from our arms, ate dinner, sang and danced, played volley ball and then shared a special treat we had brought: smores! We collected sticks and taught them how to roast marshmellows and then smooshed them between coconut biscuits called Nice cookies. It was so fun. Of course I had my little buddy Fahad, who I absolutely adore, by my side, or more accurately, on my side, the whole evening. This little guy’s father died and left his mother alone to raise him. She got sick (probably mentally and physically) and left him on the side of the road when he was not quite two years old. He was brought to Rose & Paul after this and has been with him for a year. He was really sick the night that we stayed there and it was so hard for me to leave him because I was so worried about him. As I held him, all I kept thinking was how his mother could have let him go, let alone on the side of the road. What kind of desperation or hopelessness must this woman have felt to abandon her child? I can’t imagine, and I feel as much sympathy for her as I do love for this little boy who has melted my heart…luckily he is ok now!

But before I go, back to Kamya. After spending the evening praying with the kids (a story in and of itself for another time) reading to them, and watching Aladdin on the laptop, we went outside with glowsticks and had ourselves an all out dance party. We popped our earbuds into the kids ears and they set off dancing. Ipod dance parties are a favorite around our house in Lugazi…everyone marching to the beat of his or her own drum…or Ipod in this instance. We tried to make sure everyone got a turn, and I was surprised to see little Kamya eagerly awaiting his, as he usually stands back. Carrie gave Kamya her Ipod and set it to Britney Spears and I think and the rest is pretty much history. His little face lit up like the sun and he started dancing like you wouldn’t believe. I had déjà vu of old video footage of Michael Jackson dancing as a kid. You know when he was a little boy and he busted moves that no one had ever seen before? Well Kamya has never seen Michael Jackson, and I’ve never seen anyone dance like that. It was incredible. And the best part about it was the smile that lit up his face and the light that was on in his eyes. Gone was the empty despondent little orphan, and in his place a little dancing machine. The rest of the orphans began to crowd around and holler. We’ve never seen him dance like this before! And then Paul echoed, we’ve never even seen him dance at all before! It was a first for everyone, including Kamya. And that night, I got it. What all of those weepy dancers are talking about. Maybe it was the music, maybe the dancing, maybe the love waves we’d been trying to send him since we met him, but whatever it was, the light went on and I think Kamya’s going to be just fine. (video to come when I get back in the US of A)

Into the Wildness...

One of my favorite sayings of all time is "When in Rome..." It's like "chill out, go with the flow, live in the moment, absorb your surroundings," all rolled into one terse little adage. I say it a lot, and let's be honest, usually just to be funny. But obviously right now I could not be farther figuratively or literally from Rome. And Africans take things, especially words, quite literally. Well, on our safari a couple of weeks ago, I learned a new little maxim that is much more applicable to my surroundings. Let me start at the beginning.

I can't think of anything more synonymous with tourism in Africa than a safari, and you better believe I wasn't going to go home without experiencing one for myself. Only problem is they are expensive. You know you're in trouble when prices are quoted in US Dollars...no exchange rate necessary. We researched several companies and settled on Red Chili's Big 5 Game Safari in Murchison Falls, Uganda. We're started off from their hostel in Kampala and drove about 8 hours north to the Murchison Falls National Reserve, home to abundant, although diminished populations of African wildlife. It was astonishing to learn that over the past 100 years the natural herds of elephants, zebras, lions, cheetahs and giraffes had been reduced to about 10% of their former and sizable glory, but thanks to the conservation efforts of the game parks and some steep prices for park entry, some of the animal populations are recovering. Depending on luck we would have a good chance to see lions, cheetahs, hippos, rhinos, elephants, giraffes, water buck and kob (antelope). After venturing through miles of tse tse fly filled reserve, and a stop at the beautiful and intense Murchison Falls (think thousands of gallons of Nile river water converging), we reached our campsite with a beautiful view of Lake Victoria.

We woke up really early the next morning and headed down to the Nile to cross our Safari truck over to the game park. Apparently animals wake up really early, and we didn’t want to miss prime viewing hours. We reached the river just in time to take in the most breathtaking sunrise I’ve ever seen. Words can't really do it justice, and neither will this photo, but at least you can get an idea.

As we headed up the trails into the park, I had one of my surreal “I’m in Africa moments. Whoa.” Craning my neck out of the open roof of our safari van, it would have been such a waste to not capitalize on this perfectly good opportunity to start narrating the trek in an Australian accent. Bear Grils would have been proud. I’m sure our driver and guide have never been more annoyed. But in any event, not five minutes had gone by before we were stuck in some mud trying to go up a hill. Everyone pile out of the safari van and push. Now, covered in mud and standing along the trail, we figured we might as well look around a bit. No worries, there’s just a herd of giraffes to our right, munching some leaves for breakfast! Crikey! Just a few minutes prior, we had agreed as a group that there’d be no squealing of any sort. Just imagine how many animals you could drive away with a van full of 8 girls screaming “OMG, a baby elephant! That is soooo cute!” And by agreed as a group I mean that as the fearless leader of the group, I made a no screaming rule. 

Back to present scene, herd of giraffes, cue Ally: “Giraffes! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkk!” as she covered her mouth with her hand. Imagine if we hadn’t made the rule. There were indeed about 20 or so giraffes off in the distance. Apparently they're considered the most majestic of the animals, and with they're long regal necks, I can see why. At this point our van was un-stuck and it was time to continue our journey. Back to the van we trudged. As we started to climb in, we tried scraping our boots on the rail and kicking them off against the side of the van. The guide looked at us in dismay and exclaimed, “You’re in the Wildness! There’s no need to be clean!” Indeed! And from that moment on, we embraced our wild safari selves and continued on our jungle trek through the plains and bush of Murchison falls in complete stealth, and of course covered in mud. We saw lots of animals. 

They were majestic and proud, and everything I imagined them to be, and well worth the exorbitant price tag in American Dollars. After returning from the initial game trek, we headed out on a real jungle cruise; a boat ride on the Nile to see alligators and hippos and the base of Murchison Falls. A relaxing and breath taking way to conclude an epic day in Africa. 

So next time you waste precious time scraping mud off your boots when you could be scouting lions, just remember: when you’re in the wildness, there’s no need to be clean.