Above the nile

Sorry so long. But I've had some power and time issues. Right now it is morning. I've been up since 4:45 alone in a bar-- a familiar pace and time for me. This bar stands 100 ft above the Nile. It has no doors or glass in the windows. Tarps were dropped in the windows when they closed last night to keep the bats from inadvertatly flying in and crashing. But although I can't see them I know the falls are below. I hear them. That is where some will bungee jump today and I will test the rapids.
All is not work here . I am excited.

PS: I've some more posts that I will enter later. Just wanted to get something down.

Tick-Tock

Things are winding down here. Last night we had a meeting of the remaining teachers (half departed last week) to discuss what we needed to get done before Friday, our last night here. Since the students are all in test mode, I have taken to the library trying to find ways to be of service. I have been to visit the hospital and both St Jude and Mother Teresa's orphanges.

Today I am going to visit Thomas's home, meet his wife and baby. After, a one and a half hour boda ride (I am not looking forward to this, twice my twenty minute rides have resulted in a color in my urine that resembles dark tea) out to some villages for food and traditional dancing. Yesterday, at school, we had water buffalo--delicious. Today there is the promise of antelope; I am hoping for kob I've heard it's great.

Tomorrow I am to go to Adonga Edward's place. He and Okama hav told me they want to take me out to "a place" (always said with a wink and a laugh) where we can listen to music. I imagine just like going out with friends at home, drinking will be involved(not by me). During one of our earlier indoctrination sessions we were asked to write down different likes and dislikes in an attempt to get to know each other better. One of the topics was "favorite drink." My response: Coffee. Theirs: Ugandan Waragi--a local gin made from casava. Being attentive and a good guest, both have since received bottles of their favorite.

Monday, I continue grading exams. Tuesday, if lucky, it's the mentor program another trip to villages, this time to see families of abductees suffering from PTSD. Wednesday, we are having a workshop where I will try to outline a writer's workshop I brought but never got to implement.

I admit to having one foot emotionally out the door. I am working to stay present. However, I will not be surprised if upon my return I find I have one foot still in Uganda for some time.

A visit

My co-teacher, Edward, asked me to join him for a visit today to St Mary's Lacor Hospital where his sister-in-law had just given birth to a baby boy via C-section. I reluctantly agreed, because, unbeknownst to Edward, this is the place where baby Samuel was taken, the place about which I had heard horrific things.

What I found was a good place, a place where babies and the elderly were treated with kindness and care. We visited his sister-in-law, saw the baby--they called it "Muzunga", said it looked like me. Then he took me on a tour to the malaria and pnuemonia wards crowded with babies; to the cancer wards; HIV. Everywhere we went we met someone else he knew, always taking the time to exchange pleasantries. This is customary with the Acholi. They are a large, extended family. It is hell on timetables but with it comes a sense of peace, of comfort.

I gave the new mother a gift for her baby, "My son" we joked, and left the hospital thinking that the horror stories I had heard from my friends who had delivered Samuel's lifeless body were probably fueled as much by grief and frustration as any misdeeds on the behalf of the hospital.

On another note, today Weasel was arrested. He had gone back to an aunt's house and the police, waiting for him, entered to find him with a 'panga' (machete) at her throat. He is to be tried for attempted murder, burglary, and depending on what the teacher whose helmet was stolen does, possibly robbery. He is just 18.

Weasel

Yesterday, I went to school. No classes, but I proctored an exam. In the middle of the exam the head teacher came in with slips, receipts for all students whose dues had been paid in full. After passing them out, on this the last day of English for the year, those without receipts were told to "Get out. Don't come back." My unspoken thoughts were that the students should be allowed to complete the test and, if they still didnt pay, their grades could be withheld. However, should they come up with the money, their year wouldn't have been wasted. This was not to be, and 20 of my students--out of 91-- rose and left the class.

The exam ended and I gathered with the other teachers in their lounge where I heard what happened in one of the other classes. In that class--also one of mine--a boy named Weasel, a name given to him while an abductee soldier in the bush, was found to be among the non-payees. Asked to leave, he was adamant in his refusal. This disrespect so outraged the male teacher monitoring the class that he came to the defense of our female head teacher and began to beat the boy as he sat, defiantly refusing to give up his seat. Eventually, he rose, struck his attacker, and ran from the room, the teacher in pursuit.

But Weasel was too quick and disappeared around the corner. The teacher was forced to return to the lounge to vent his anger and frustration. Then one of the female teachers entered. She announced that Weasel had returned, he had gone to where the teacher kept his boda and had stolen his helmet. The teacher's lounge emptied and there was Weasel, at the borehole, pumping furiously, filling the teacher's helmet with water, and drinking from it. The compound was filled with shouting students astonished at the display, happy to be witness to it.

The teacher ran at Weasel, shouting. Weasel, crazy yes, but no fool, put the teacher's helmet on his head and stood ready to fight, throwing kicks that would make Chuck Norris proud. But the teacher was too big, too strong, and Weasel was forced to run off into the bush, helmet still on his head. The teacher, knowing that Weasel was now in his element, did not follow.

We went back into the lounge only to hear an eruption from the students in the coumpound. We walked out and there, off in the distance, atop a hill, stood Weasel, the helmet, his trophy, atop a long pole. He marched back and forth, the helmet going up and down. I knew that this would not go well for him. Hoping that a return of the helmet would ease things and remembering that I had a decent relationship wiht him, that maybe he would not perceive me as a threat, I asked the Head Boy if I could go out and get the helmet back. He said, "That one is crazy. If you go out there he will cut you." He added that he would send two fellow students and they would return with the helmet. Five minutes later they were back helmet in hand.

That was it, until the four, khaki-clad policemen arrived with their rifles and walked into the bush in search of Weasel. As of this typing he reamains at large. I hope he is safe and that there are many chicken coops for him to raid in his future.

Teaching Blues

I wish it was "teaching the blues" but it's not; I just received some disheartening news. Followers of this blog know that my stint here was set from the beginning: 6 weeks. The first week was indoctrination, the second was observation of my co-teacher, week three I got my feet wet, and last week I feel like I hit my stride.
So, last Friday I find out that they will be conducting the national exams throughout Gulu starting Wednesday next. I also learn that Monday and Tuesday of next week will basically be the students studying on their own. So, I had one week of teaching left.

Today I went to school and found that the Ministry of Education decided to up the exams to tomorrow. I am, for all intents and purposes, done as a teacher here.

I blew out of school and now sit in Cafe Larem overdosing on caffeine. I am trying to figure out what next. One possible task is to get involved in the mentoring program where I would go out to the IDP (Indigenous Displaced People) camps or villages and meet with the family of some of the former abductees, young men and women who still suffer from a multitude of post traumatic syndrome symptoms. Part of the problem is convincing parents that their kids still have a chance, that their poor performance in school is a product of their history not a demonstration of an inherent lack of ability. There are orphanages aplenty here, so....

I am also kicking around the idea of a roadtrip to Sudan or Congo but I am pretty sure I haven't the stomache to run the risk of not getting back in time for my plane home. I do not want this to deterioate into just a vacation.

Murchison Falls

Just a quick note from an exhausted man, to say, "Wow." Lion, and tigers, and bears, Oh my. This aint Kansas! We packed 14 people into 2 Land Rovers and headed out for a bumpy four hour drive to the Lake Albert arm of the Upper Nile (Blue or White? Help me all you 6th grade social studies kids) We caught the ferry across and got on a flatboat and took the 3.5 hour, 36 km (up and back) ride up the Nile to the falls. Along the way hippos, elephants, thousands of different types of antelope, warthogs, beautiful birds, giraffes, etc. Great.
After making the slow trip north along the edge of the river, coming within feet of these animals, we turned for home. I went up on the roof and enjoyed the breeze and setting sun, flat on my back. We got back to an open camp--no fence no guns--and were warned to keep all foodstuffs in our vehicles: Windows up. The warthogs with their fierce tusks roaming the camp and the babboons that jumped INTO cars that failed to heed the warning had us in full compliance.

Next day, 6:00 AM we go on camera safari, sitting atop the cars in search of Lion. We saw an incredible array of animals, some track, but the king, Like Elvis, had left the building.
I've got a ton of pictures but I am lame about this stuff (sort of like packing) when I get someone in my group to help me maybe I can go back and post post, ("Post post?" that can't be right) Anyway, just wanted to get something out there. Hope you are well.

My Wife

In most respects I think of myself as capable. However, when it comes to shopping and packing, slap a diaper on me. Here in Uganda, with the other teachers, I am the man to see. Need aspirin, Alleve? See Tim. Antihistmines, antidiarheals anti constipation? Tim's got you covered coming and going. Bandaids, skin cream, sunblock, baby wipes, sizzors, Qtips? I am your one stop place for shopping. Of course, I'd probably have arrived with one pair of skivvies and a pair of mismatched socks if it wasn't for my wife, Cathy Gallagher.

What she has provided for me goes far beyond mere creature comforts. She placed herself in the uncomfortable postion of caring for the house, our house, by herself during the Summer--a time when teachers have off and, traditionally, catch up on their honey-do lists. Not this Summer. Not for me anyway. I am here in Uganda having an adventure, expanding my horizons and, to some, playing the role of hero. Back home Cathy hears what a great thing I am doing. But without her, I am not here.

Today is my birthday. I am 57. This morning I woke at 5:00, got my coffee, and sat out in the backyard of our compound waiting for the sun to rise. In my hand was the birthday card Cathy packed for me, hidden in my luggage, wrapped in plastic to keep it dry. It is one of 7 she packed. One for the first day of each new week, one for my birthday, and one for July 30th--our fifth wedding anniversarry. Each one is the highlight of my week. For a moment every week I am alone with something that started with her, alone, inside her head. Make no mistake, every time I see something that takes my breath, my hand instinctively goes out for hers. She is the first thing I think of every morning, my last vision every night.

I have learned a lot here. But nothing is more clear to me than the fact that as great as this is, I'll never do anything like it again...unless she is with me.

Power Bar

The other day, about dusk, while walking home I encountered three boys, around seventeen, a few of the post-war disenfranchised. One of them shouted, “Mazunga, Give me one five hundred (a coin worth about 25c).” We are under direction not to give money. Our gift is the teaching experience, the care we give to the students. So, I said, “No.”
He shouted back, “But I am hungry.”
I said, “Then from now on I will carry food in by backpack; if you are hungry I will give some to you.”
He began to walk on, I continued home, thinking of Samuel, wondering abut the right and wrong of either option. But after about 10 steps I remembered a honey nut power bar in my knapsack. I turned and yelled, “Owobi! (“boy”- it does NOT have the same negative connotation here ).” He stopped and walked toward me, when he was about fifty feet away I flipped it to him.
“It is good. Sweet, “I yelled, and we parted.

Yesterday, while returning from the orphanage, I came upon a group of young men on a corner—about ten in all. I started to pass, one of them shouted, “Wait!” From the middle a young man emerged, he walked up to me, his hand extended, “Last night, that sweet was good. Thank you.”
I asked his name.
“Courageous Dennis,“ he said. He then told me a tale of abduction, escape, and how now life is not much better. He sleeps on the field at Pece Stadium with his friends for protection and scrambles for food every day.

I have heard too many such tales to be able to divine the truth of any of them, but as we stood shaking hands I told him he had a good name and hoped he could live up to it. I promised I would try to always have something in my bag. If he was hungry, if any of his friends were hungry, all they needed to do was ask.

Not sure how the program would react if they knew. I am sure I don’t care.

Rest in Peace

Yesterday, two year old Samuel was laid to rest. We from Invisible Children
did not attend the ceremony. Instead we went in shifts to the orphange and tended to the children so the ladies who work there, who have seen to Samuel's needs his entire life, could go to the funeral and say their good-byes. I do not know much about Samuel for sure. What I've heard is that his mother is alive and in the village. She is a widow, having lost her husband in the war. Samuel was placed here because she could not support him alone, but hoped, someday, to reunite with him. I also heard that he was a twin, but that his twin sister had died in childbirth. I believe his mother is now alone. I hope that someday her fervent prayer of reuniting with him is answered.

At the orphanage the kids played. My motorcycle helmet was a big hit. No, I don't have a motorcycle. I wear it as a passenger here because I know my wife would want me to. It seems I am the only passenger so equipped making me the target of more than a little bit of ridicule. One of my Ugandan co-teachers asked me why I wear the helmet. I told him "I promised my wife."
He responded, "In Uganda, the men decide what they will do."
I answered, "In my country, a man is a good as his word. Who we make the promise to is unimportant. Our word is our bond."
He left it at that. I'm not sure if it is because he has met others from my country who have already put the lie to my statement or, more likely, that he recognized a fellow goat and didn't desire to bang heads.

But, back to the kids: The young boys surrounded me and grabbed my helmet screaming, "Boda-boda, boda-boda!" They placed it in their heads. It shook about so big it spun like a frisbee. Undeterred, the wearer would grab his imaginary clutch and throtle, give the requisite 'brrrrmmm, brrrrrrm' and be off taking his imaginary fare for a ride while five or six of his friends ran screaming after. I flagged down one of the erstwhile drivers with the customary, "BODA." He stopped in front of me, and I straddled the 'bike' behind him, tapped him on the helmet, and we were off, running around the grounds until I tapped him again--exhausted--got off, 'paid' him, and left.

Meanwhile, Nathan played soccer with the older boys, Lindsay sang songs she taught them last year, Andy tossed a frisbee, Jennifer and Michelle read picture books to the littlest who were looking to nap.

The women of the orpahange returned and we started, one by one, to leave. Andy who had not been there the day of the incident asked me to show him where it happened. I took him there, and saw the large stone placed over the opening. Andy and I pulled it off and looked. Seeing the depth, Andy said, "Thank God for John's long arms."
We rolled the stone back where it was, and walked out to catch real bodas home.

The Pendulum Swings

I do not expect every day here to be a good one, but I was unprepared for yesterday.

Yesterday, at 2:00 PM, nine of us got into a van and headed off to St. Jude's orphanage. Twenty-five bumpy minutes later we arrived. The metal gate was opened by two boys, only five or six, who stopped playing soccer to let us in. As we piled out, the children gathered round, the boys shook hands and gave their names to all; the girls, demure, extended their hands, eyes bowed as they curtsied. The crowd dispersed, and the women in our group reached for the little runny-nosed infants who clung, smiling upward, to our legs. The older boys went back to their soccer game; the older girls returned to caring for the infants. Big John, all 6'11" of him, was the main attraction for the smallest. They gathered round to be raised up overhead, sitting in his oversized palm. One child who came to him clutching a ball was raised overhead to repeatedly, and unsuccessfully, try to put it through a netball hoop. Other childern played on slides and swings. It was nice.

In the midst of this I saw two boys run hurriedly around the back of one of the dormitories. They re-emerged at a run carrying a metal ladder. I am unsure if I felt the nervousness I remember now, or if it is a construct of the subsequent events, but a few minutes later there was a scream. One of the women came around the corner screaming, a baby had fallen into the open sewer. I ran around the corner and saw an opening, about 12" x 12". I looked in, and saw dark liquid about two and a half feet down, a few boards floating on it: no bubbles, no baby, just the screaming of all the children. One of the men was trying to manuever the too large ladder into the hole, in a panic turning it this way and that, repeating the process as if it would somehow fit, with each failure the chldren screamed louder. I looked for a pole to insert, as if the baby might somehow be able to extricate himself. Finally, Big John picked the man up and moved him aside. He dropped to the ground and stuck his head in the opening. Then he reached his arm in. His shoulder stretched and strained, and suddenly he struggled up. In his hand, by the ankle, was the motionless little boy, covered in cruel foulness, stomache distended; the children, the poor children, seeing this fell to the ground and pounded their fists.

Now the baby lay on the ground and two of our group--Min and Colleen--young girls who have trouble even eating the food here, dropped to the groud to clear the babies throat and administer CPR and mouth-to-mouth. I stood by, unable to do anything but pick up some of the young ones and try to comfort them. Collleen and Min's efforts were not being met with success. The TV show ending, two coughs and everything's better, did not come. They grabbed the infant and drove to the hospital, working on him the whole way, where he was pronounced dead.

We who stayed behind, tried to console the inconsolable. Some of the girls led in prayer. The woman who runs the orphanage said it would be better if we came back another time. The women in my group caught bodas back to the compound. I walked. I did not know the way, but knew the people who lived along the road could guide me. Right then, I needed guidance.

You see I began yesterday with a secure belief in who I was. I had held my mother's hand when she passed, helped a woman out of a burning car. I believed in a time of crisis I could be counted on. I would be there: Always. Yesterday, I was not. For that, I am ashamed.

Later, Big John tried to console me, he said that life is a movie, not a photograph, that we must look at the sum of our lives and not individual events. I know the wisdom of this, but I also know I felt the pride that accompanied those good works, and just as I earned that pride, yesterday's shame was well-earned.

On my walk, I thought of my mother, how she was always there to volunteer her help. I also thought of my father. In particular, I remember his insistance in the power--the requirement even--of forgiveness. He often spoke of the need to forgive onself, without which we become paralyzed, unable to move forward. We must forgive oursleves our transgressions so that we can do better the next time.

Today there is a funeral for Samuel, the little boy. There are children to be cared for at the orphanage. Today, I am faced with being the man I want to be.
I am resolute.

Great Day

Today was terrific. It was graduation day, moving up day, the passing of the torch. Here in Gulu, the Senior 4's (AKA Seniors) have prefects, students who are in charge of the other students, who make sure they do their chores (here they sweep the rooms every day, pump 20,000 liters of water per day from the bore hole, police and chop the grass in compound by hand), and who act as intermediarys between students and administration. Any of you who've been following this blog are aware of the numerous and explosive student strikes that have occured at other schools this year. My school, St Mary's Lacor, has been trouble free.

I arrived at 8:00 AM, all the desks were in the compound, the students were cleaning the floors, sweeping the walks. Okama was complaining about how lazy today's students were, how difficult. I told him he sounded just like an American teacher. It seems the idea, "we behaved better when we were kids," repects no geographical boundaries.

At 9:00 we went to Catholic Mass where their accomplishments and futures would be blessed. It was a mix of the Roman Catholic ceremony I grew up with and African tribal dance and song. Much of it was beautiful...it was also three hours long.
Now, I haven't been inside a chuch for anything other than a funeral or wedding for a while. In fact, at the last funeral I attended, a friend of mine refused to sit next to me. It seems he was conviced the roof would open and lightning would rain down on me from the heavens and he didn't want to be collateral damage.

Afterwards, there was the ceremony, complete with picture snapping fathers and proud, weeping mothers. I was asked to make a short speech, which included stumbling through my limited Luo. There followed a sumptuous meal of chicken, beef, rice and bo (similar to spinach). The students ate, asked me to pose for pictures, and tried to get me to dance in the classroom-turned-disco that had been set up complete with DJ. Never have the words "I'm too old" come out of my mouth with such a smile.

I started making my exit, saying goodbyes when I was asked into the teacher's lounge. There the Ugandan teachers went over the top thanking me and Sarah for the new library and the girls new dormitory--both built by Invisible Children. I started to dismiss their gratitude, after all I am new to the program, but saw that they needed to be heard. I/we graciously accepted and promised to share their kindness with the rest. On my way home, on the back of a boda, I felt a renewed faith in good work. I felt part of something good.
Would it were always so.

Feeling welcome

Many of my relationships at home are marked by a bit of teasing, good natured jabs that sometimes miss the mark but are meant to be playful. Here, in this new environment people have been courteous, respectful of differences; but the happy quality of good-natured banter has, until recently, been missing.

Yesterday, in the teacher's lounge, that changed. At 57, I am the oldest of the teachers. There is a 20 year old student teacher. Olaye, who greets me with a puzzled smile every day. Yesterday, he got up the nerve to ask, "How old are you." He was astonished at my response, in no small part because the average life span in Uganda is 45.

He remarked, "57! You are almost dead! In three more years--if you are still alive--you will be just wasting food."
I told him it was my intention to waste food for a long time. I also reminded him that we were in a small room, that I weighed 100 kilos and he only 60, and if he did not behave, I would catch him and sit on him. The teachers loved the exchange and ribbed us about our parts in it for the rest of the day.

Later, the two teachers I have been working with asked me to join them in taking lunch off school grounds in the market. They were sick of beans. Although apprehensive, I agreed. As we started out, Adonga Edward took my hand, a sign of friendship in Uganda. We walked, hand-in-hand, swinging carefree. Soon, Okama William took my other hand, and we three men strode out across the street. It was warm, friendly. I suddenly felt like an innocent again. Their hands in mine evoked a feeling akin to my father's arm draped across my shoulder on the way to a game, my mother's hand toussling my hair as I studied at the dinner table, my sister's kiss or brother's hug after a too-long absence. Suddenly, 7,000 miles away from family, I felt a little of the warmth of home.

On another note, my post-dining experience at what I think of as "The Road Kill Cafe" has been, shall we say, unsettling.

"Our country"

I feel the need to clarify my statement of pride in my country. I am not a jingoist, do not stand at the ready to defend the actions of our government on those occasions when I believe they are wrong, often egregiously so. But there are 2 US'es: the United States represented by a government that often defines "American Interests" as things associated with the dollar and that which uses concepts of right and wrong as it's compass. Call me naive, an idealist, tell me that it was never so, that America was always about commerce--I don't care. I believe, make that "choose to beleive," in the other America, in the dream, the America of the history books I read while growing up. That people came here for freedom, that we are a country "of the people."

I am here now representing that America--the people--the good people I know back home. The other teachers here with me have embraced the experience: we walk where we can; we eat posho and beans, casava, and Irish; we shower once a week to conserve precious water. But, there is another America presence here in the form of the US embassy. The 12 biggest cars in Uganda belong to the US embassy. Every day these gleaming white vehicles are scrubbed clean of the red dust that is Uganda. More water is used for each of these vehicles than by a family of four. I think of the women that walk the dusty roads to the bore hole to pump the water into the yellow, 23 litre jerrycans, then pick them up and place these 40 lb burdens on their heads and return to their homes, often to repeat the trip for more, for a sick neighbor, for laundry.

I have never been inside the US Embassy compound. My cynicism leads me to imagine hot water and sumptuous meals, clean sheets and flush toilets. I am not jealous, I am confused. I understand the need for security--last weeks bombing brought that home. But the ostentatious display of wealth, the thoughtless waste in a place where need is met at every glance seems misguided at best. It is if the idea of advertisement over caring has won, "See us. We are rich. That proves our way is better." If I were Ugandan, I believe my reaction might be one of resentment. Anger.

I admit to a certain geo-political naivtee. But I believe more long term good is to be derived from an atitude that demonstrates the belief that we have what we have because of an accident of birth as much anything else, that we are here to share our surplus because we can, and because it is right.

Razor Wire

The compound were I reside is secure--at least it feels secure--with walls over a foot thick and almost 10 feet high. On top of the front wall are broken bottles, secured in cement, their jagged edges sticking up in the sky, Coke and Pepsi side-by-side forming a protective barrier. Atop the side walls, razor wire, loop upon loop of nastiness--think Sing Sing, Bedford Women's, or any penitentiary movie you've ever seen.

However, I do not feel caged in. I know this is meant to provide us with an increase in security. I know this because the same wire circles elementary shools, hospitals, orphanages and, yes, even some churches--grim reminder of the nature of the LRA and the danger they posed.

We also have a guard house in the compound. There, just in front on a folding chair, or walking the compound is a guard armed with a sawed-off shotgun. During the 4th of July celebration, there were two walking about. No offense to the guards, but these men do little to make me feel more secure. While they bring with them no feeling of malevelance, I am not comforted.

The Office is Closed

Today when I looked at the paper, I saw the number of dead from yesterdays bombing has risen from 65 to 75. Amongst the dead was an Invisible Children roadie--someone who went from college to college in the US trying to raise funds for Ugandan student scholarships. His name was Nate. He was 24. He had been associated with IC for the last two years. I am new to the program and never had the priveledge of meeting him, but several at the main office knew him; today they mourn.

Last night, at the compound, we had a meeting of the 25 teachers to discuss what had happened. Questions were raised as to whether on not the publicity would help to make us more visible as possible targets, potential trouble when we travel back through Kampala to leave, and possible new safety precautions we need to take. Several changes are to occur in our program: teachers that previously resided Monday through Friday outside Gulu will now be picked up and returned to the compound every night--an hour plus drive over dusty, bumpy roads; we are not to travel out at night; our activities are to be restricted to going to school and then returning home. While only temporary, and undeniably appropriate, several of us (myself included) now must excuse ourselves from aready arranged visits to homes and villages. However, I find I am incredibly impressed with the men and women with whom I am now associated. No-one suggested leaving. No-one cried tears other than tears of sorrow. Instead, there was firm resolve to redouble our efforts, to be better, stronger at what we do, to continue to put a good face on the program, our country, ourselves.

Today at school, the Ugandan teachers came to me and offerd sympathy for my loss. I was amazed. I felt then and feel now, the shoe should be on the other foot. I thanked them, but made my best effort to return the sympathy. After all, had Uganda not lost 74 of their brave citizens? I knew none of them either, but today, my heart goes out to all their families.

"Only the Dead..."

While walking, a local fell in step with me. We began a discussion about Gulu, Uganda, the conflict, the current needs of the community. He made a statement that stuck with me, “The conflict is over now for two years.” I thought about this, and although I knew what he meant, that the violence had ended, it seems to me that the conflict is far from over. I asked him what the biggest problem in Gulu region is now. He said, “Land wranglers!” Now that the LRA has left the country many of the 100,000 displaced have returned to—-or have tried to return to-—their homes. It seems that frequently, in their absence, others have occupied their homes. There is little paperwork re. deeds and ownership. Often the outcome of disputes hinges on other returning neighbors who can lend credence to claims. Unfortunately, those who took the land often arrived in groups and have relatives living nearby willing to swear to their rights of ownership. Another issue is that there are times when the property was previously used by the LRA as a camp settlement and the water source has been completely depleted. Without water, the land cannot be occupied.

The courts are crowded to the point of stagnancy with attempts to find resolution to these claims. Wisdom is needed and it seems Solomon is unavailable. Meanwhile, a man convinced against his will remains unconvinced. Should there not be some form of equitable decision regarding these claims, the seed will have been planted for a renewal of open conflict.

Plato said, “Only the dead know the end of war.” As I listen to the sad names of the survivors, as I watch the dismembered walk the streets or drive by the orphanages, I know the truth of that. In the south, the schools frequently send 10% of their students on to government college determined by national testing. Here in Gulu, the numbers are 1 in 60. Boys in school often cannot attend because they are the head of the household and, in this agrarian society, must tend their fields. Girls must take care of babies---their own, their sisters, their mothers—-and have a high drop-out rate. How many generations of Gulu will be affected by that which has taken place? While I feel the need to root out the wrong, I also know that stirring ashes often results in new flame.

In the meantime, last night in Kampala, 65 people were killed by terrorist explosions.

Acoli Names

The Acoli people all have two names, one given at birth, and a Christian name received when baptised: Adonga Edward, Okelo Francis, Otim Patrick, etc. The Acholi names are not unlike Native American names in that they can be translated and have a meaning in English (I've mentioned Adaonga already--'Born without Father').

As I start trying to do the impossible, become familiar with my 400 students names, I ask them to translate the Acoli for me. At times I find it hard to not react. So many of the names are about the incidents that were going on during the comnflict. I find that many of my students were abducted, or their parents were, They had family members killed or saw neighbors lose their lives. Now, they are asked to return to normalcy. Part of that process includes an attempt to put the past behind them. Unfortunately, they carry today and forever--even those with no physical injuries--a harsh reminder of their past in the form of their names: "Strife," "Hardship," "Running Away," "Trouble," and "Burden," to name a few. I think back to my childhood, how I hated my name Timothy, how I wished I'd had a hard sound, a manly sound--Jack, Patrick--anything but Timothy.
I know now that "a Rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I know for me that is true. As I look at the smiling faces telling me their names so laden with the memories of a nightmare endured and nightmares to come, I hope it is true for them as well.

First Class

I know my teaching schedule. Some of it is set in stone, and some, I must decide if I can do. The three sections that I am committed to teach are all 80 minute blocks that meet three times a week each. Class size ranges from 90 to 70 students, a total of 240. My co-teacher also teaches at the nearby seminary and has invited me to join him in teaching those two sections, 55 each, as well. The director of my school also teaches Geography and he has invited me to take over the class next week to lead a unit in “The Geography of NY.” He has asked that I speak specifically to NYC, the problems associated with such a large population in such a limited space, and the solutions (read “attempts to solve”) same. I already know I will do this. The idea of being able to talk about where I live, warts and all, is very appealing. So, in all, I may have 400 students…400 papers to read…400 tests to correct. I come from a middle school in Ct. where I had 118 students. Other teachers there with 130 complained of the unreasonable workload. I know the weight of what I had, I try to grapple with the task before me and wonder if I am out of my weight class.

Monday we had our first class. I was to be introduced to the 90 and then sit in the back, to observe. Instead, Edward engages me immediately. The class is to read a two page portion of a play. There are four parts. I will have the lead. Afterwards, the students read the play to themselves and pick out the words that are new to them. We compile a list, and the students are requested to use context clues and root words to try and discern meaning. As they work and stumble, Edward asks me to assist. I stand and try to illustrate with words what these foreign things mean. Two of the words lead to the English concept of onomatopoeia. I stand and begin to exaggerate the word croak as in “The frog croaks. Crooooak, crooooak." The students laugh. “Rumble” is next, and I ask them to think of thunder in the distance. "It goes, 'rumble, rrrrumble.'" Pop, hiss, plop, all follow. But it is when I point to me zipper and go “zzzzzip” that I bring down the house.

The teacher then has the students enter a competition. Three groups four will read the play and the students will vote which group and which individuals did the best. In the last group there is a boy, a tall gangly boy. He has the most lines. He stumbles at almost every line. The students laugh. As his stumbles continue their laughter gets louder, bolder, until Edward is forced to intercede, reprimanding them. They sit and vote. We talk about the concepts within the play, within it’s action, but I cannot shake my thought of the boy and what has happened to him. I stand and begin of speak of courage. I ask them to define courage. They offer suggestions the closest being, “without fear.” I congratulate their efforts and paraphrase Shakespeare: All men have fears, but those who face their fears have courage as well. I tell them that I was afraid to leave my home, to come here. But I did, and I am--and will be--a better man for it. I tell them to try to do that which they are unsure they can, that courage is a required ingredient in greatness. To go outside your comfort zone. To stand and read when you know it will be hard is a wonderful thing. I wish them all courage. I sneak a look at the boy who struggled. He is looking up eyes bright, wide open. He is smiling.

Mysterious Ways

Prior to leaving I was advised that I would need to wear close-toed leather shoes at school. Selecting an older pair was suggested since they would get beat up. As I rummaged around in my closet, I found an old pair of brown shoes that were my father’s, Edward’s. He was my greatest influence, the best teacher I've known. He died last year. I know he would love to come to Africa, to be here with me as I undertake what may be the best thing I ever do in teaching.

So now I am wearing them as I meet my co-teacher, I wear them as I go the orphanage, I wear them as I go to the seminary where I will also teach. I am sure it would please him. Coincidently, my co-teacher, like me, is 57. His name is also Edward, Adonga Edward. Adonga means “Father has died.” The head of the school’s Acoli name is Otim which means “Born of the wilderness.” I tell them my name is Tim and am told it means Wilderness. Anyone who knew me when, knows that I was in a wilderness of my own making for much of my life. My Father, Edward, played a major part in leading me out of that. Now I am come to Uganda, and a fatherless man named Edward and a man named “Of the Wilderness” will serve as my guides.

It appears I did not need the brown shoes after all.

Land mines

Just prior to getting out of bed this morning I heard the sound of explosions. I ask the others at breakfast what it was. The consensus is landmines being set off. Stories follow of signs in the campssaying "WARNING, Landmine are;" of bodas being stopped by soldiers because a new group has been found along the road and they must be set off; of students in classes missing arms, legs, because they were playing...being children...just outside playing.

Sitting here eating breakfast, I know I haven't moved, but I suddenly find myself feeling much farther away from home.

Reining myself in

I tell myself: Look. See. Remain objective. But I cannot deny who I am. As I walk every day from the Invisible Children compound to town, I pass villagers sitting in front of hundreds of buildings no bigger than the shed that provides winter protection for our outdoor furniture. In the majority of them, plumbing is non-existent. Some are made of bamboo reeds lashed together, some out of old planks nailed to sapling straps, there are a few made of the brick that dotted the trip. Roofs are usually corrugated steel. Then there are the round houses, plaster walls covered by thatch roofs. As I walk by these people they look at me with curiosity. They shout “Apwoyo” (hello) or”Munu” “Muzunga” (white one). I answer “Apwoyo” and they laugh. I am told it is my accent. The way things are said changes the meaning. Apparently, I’ve been calling them “rabbits.”

I think of these homes. None of them would be allowed to stand in the states. None could have been put up in the first place. I find I am emotionally in two places: Half of me feels pity, "How do these poor people survive?” the other half is filled with admiration, “These incredibly resourceful people, the can handle anything that comes their way!” I struggle to remain in the middle, remember they are people, just people. Both pity and admiration serves to infantilize, an exercise in ego.

I continue to walk, heading for the market. I see a man without legs. He is sitting in a construct that resembles a wheelchair, but only in purpose. The part that houses his backside looks to be made out of half a square washtub sitting in a shopping cart with the front cut out. Leading the way are bicycle handlebars, gears and pedal. He is smiling as he hand pedals past me. He shouts, “Munu, Apwoyo.” I answer, “Acoli, Apwoyo.”
He laughs.

School Violence

On the ride to Gulu, a story was relayed to me about a riot at one of the schools. I must preface it by giving you an understanding of the economics of the schools here. The students take their meals at school. Those past a certain age pay. Payment is made in a lump sum at the beginning of the tri-mester terms: Don’t pay, you do not attend. This creates a certain level of expectation as to what will be offered. Meals usually are a combination of posho--a sticky, dry, white corn and water paste--and beans. Infrequently offered--so quite a treat--is meat, usually goat of cicken. On bad days the food consists of a porridge that offers no protein and less flavor.

It is not infrequent that schools will have rewards for teams or classes at the end of term for achieiving a significant goal. At one school, the custom was, if they won the end of term athletics, they would receive a goat. Last year, the students won but the budget was depleted, and the principal/headmaster had to announce that there would be no goat forthcoming this year. The students were angry, they refused to go to class. The headmaster came out and threatened them; they still refused. He came out again and told them to go to class and they responded by going to a nearby thicket and tearing it down. They took the long, thin sticks that was once the thicket, and proceded to cane the headmaster.

This story is not presented as fact. I pass it along to provide a base line because subsequent events have lent it creedence. You see, our group of teachers is to be divided, some sent out to camps and some to remain in city. Two days ago, we learned that one of the camps is no longer an option. Four teachers slated to go there will be forced to alter their plans. At that camp, the team lost their athletic finals--an event they were expected to win. The students, looking to place blame for their defeat, pointed to the fact that for the last week they had only received porridge. They considered this the equivalent of a contractual violation. In their minds they lost beacuse they did not receive the foodstuffs that would keep them strong. Althought corruption exists here like everywhere, they had no proof that the funds for food had been stolen, nevertheless, they needed to blame someone. The headmaster provided a good target. They stoned him. The school is now closed, As of this typing, I don't know if he survived.

This news has caused me to look in the Ugandan papers to see if what I am hearing is real. In Friday's Ugandan Daily Monitor, there is an article about a school of 762 in Isingiro being closed after jerrycans of gasoline were found in dormitories, part of a plot to burn the school down. Another school of 1300 in Ngawna is now closed after the students burned the administration building to the ground. But, the one I found most troubling was the news that 180 students were suspended in Mbarra after they attempting to lynch their headmaster....Suspended? Lynched? I wonder, just what does it take to get expelled?

I remind myself not to judge, but the fact that my father was a principal makes it hard.

Some observations

I feel I need to flesh out my description of the country. While I have still seen very little, what I have seen is worth noting. It is the rainy season here. Violent storms are rare I'm told, although those that do occur can produce hail that is spectacular and rip off the roofs of houses. The contruction outside Kampala is mostly 1 story. Those buildings in city under construction share a common thing not seen in the US--the scaffolding outside the building, often six stories high, is made out of wood: pine, eucalyptus, bamboo. There are round crossboards, 3-4 on each level to stand on, making working on them something that requires a sure-footed balance I lack.

As we leave the city, the overwhelming color, red, is diminished. Think Sedona without the buttes and mesas (Uganda is relatively flat, a plateau at about 4,000 ft). Now with the city fading behind, the sky stetches out forever, a light pastel blue dotted with flat-bottomed clouds with huge collums of white cotton piled on high. I am made to think of paintings I've seen of rocky coastlines with the surf blasting high in the air, the image frozen yet full of water and potential violence.

The road stretches out in front, a long straight ribbon of red, an orange corona hovering over it. To the side, green, low brush dotted with banana, pineapple and mango trees, some with bright red and yellow flowers. There are tree farms (I am sure these provide the foundations for the scaffolding I mentioned), and houses, homes, all along the road. Only one deep, but every 100 feet or so another structure. I ask Big John, who has come here 4 straight years, to explain the ownership of land. He tell me that anyone can get a plot of land from the gov't, and if they make it produce, it is theirs. That explains the piles of red clay in some spots without a building, the piles of bricks in others. The people make their own houses including the building materials for them. Those already occupied all have chickens, and tethered cattle and goats--for some reason staining to get out of the lush green and onto the road. Corn, banana trees, Irish and sweet potato, greens, zucchini and squash all take the place of what would be yards in the states. Functionality is all.


It all reinforces the economics of transportation. Without the road the people cannot get to and from the locations where social services exist, and for those that produce from their small plots an excess, they provide access to markets.

All for now.

I try again

Sorry for the delay. No electricity, no internet, plenty of frustration. Hike out to internet cafes only to get timed out or no connection. Anyway, after going about 60 hours without sleep (sorry, can’t sleep on a plane), landing in Entebbe, driving to Kampala (there’s a city you don’t need to visit), we finally make it to a hostel. Of course that‘s not to sleep. The director of the operation has determined that both we and the program will be better served if we stay awake until night, an attempt to jump start our sleep rhythms to Gulu time. I struggle to stay awake as we head out to dinner to an Indian restaurant. While at the table I fall out at least 20 times, only for a second or two. I am pretty confident no one catches my short--all too short--catnaps.

We place our order and wait…and wait…and wait…. Even though we are the only table, it takes 2 hours for the food to arrive. When I ask when we might be able to expect it to land on the table, I am told in a phrase I will learn to dread, “Welcome to Africa,” a catch-all for anything that doesn’t work. We don’t finish the meal until 11:00, at which point I am not sure I’ll survive my first day, let alone 7 weeks.
Next day, up at 8:00, and it’s 14 of us piled into a bus off to Gulu-—a 6 hour drive.

Every where I go I am met with the same question, “How do you find Africa.” I have no answer. I fell like I have not been in Africa; I have been traveling. I’ve been in buses, airports, planes, but this thing called Africa is still out there waiting for me. (Check that. There are some things that I’ve noticed: the birds are huge, exotic--not blue jays, the noise-makers in the trees are monkeys and baboons not squirrels.)

One thing I must mention is the traffic. I am convinced that very few NYC cabbies could survive here. The streets, mostly dirt, are populated with boda-bodas, little 100cc motorcycles. The equivalent of taxis, you hop on the back and they take off ignoring lanes, cars, buses, other boda-bodas. They drive up on the edge, into the gutter, the wrong way, they bob and weave like motorized versions of Barry Sanders. I see some of these little vehicles with 4 full grown men on them. Women wearing skirts must, because of modesty, ride side saddle. Forget traffic lights or stop signs: No such animals. The rule of the road is, “The bigger vehicle has the right of way.” So, get off or get dumped. The other difference re traffic, a positive one, is the complete lack of road rage. For some reason this chaos all seems to work. It makes me incredible uneasy, the thought that I will have to ride on the back of one of these every day, to and from school, is unsettling, but I have to admit, it works.

The long ride to Gulu takes us past the Nile, swollen from the recent rains, tumbling rapids—rapids that I will soon try. Along the side of the road are baboons. The males are huge, equipped with long teeth and lion’s manes they are very imposing. As we approach a family, the driver feigns running them over. The male steps out challenging the bus to a game of chicken, the driver laughs and pulls off and the baboon, triumphant, chases us down the road screeching his victory.
There follows the tale from the driver about his most recent trip, in a mutate, a smaller bus, with 8 passengers….he hit a hippo. The hippo walked away. I imagine some metaphor to what has taken place recently here can be drawn, to the ability of these people to survive the every day turmoil that makes up their lives, but I’ll leave that up to you

layover in Londan

12 hours in Heathrow. We got out of the airport for a while, did all the touristy things: Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus. I think London, at least what I saw of it, is vying for a new nickname, "City of Cleavage. I am going from a place where the women make it a point of wearing as little as possible to a place where showing a knee is considered blasphemous.

We return, no sleep, virtually on empty, to an, "I can't find my passport" meltdown by one of my fellow travelers. Phone calls to embassy and the subway system to no avail. The only recourse was, "Why don't you chek your bag once more?"
Surprise, surprise--crisis ended.
Their calling our flight. Gotta go.

I'm finally going

I leave today, 9:30 PM from JFK. An eight hour flight will take me to London for a 12 hour stopover, then up in the air for another 8 hours until we reach Entebbe. I've known about the trip since I was accepted by The Invisible Children Teacher Exchange Program December 17th of last year, but, like death, it seemed so distant it wasn't real for me.
Along the way I've gotten shots for meningitis, polio, mumps, tetanus, yellow fever, Hepatitis A & B (a series of 3 each) and typhoid; I've picked up my 60 days of anti-virals to protect against malaria; been issued guidelines on how to behave, "Don't go out alone, but don't go out in groups."; read Ugandan papers, poetry and books; and had the occasional nightmare (snakes in the bed, plane goes down in flames). Luckily, I've also been the recipient of a constant stream of e mails from the teachers who are in the group that preceded us, full of joy, of wonder. They convey a sense of wanting us to be there with them already so we can share in this wonderful experience. But too many weeks of mowing the lawn, weeding the garden, too many birthdays and graduation parties, too much life here in NY for me to allow my mind to go to Uganda.
No, it didn't become real for me until last week-end, Father's day week-end, when I sat with my three step-daughters and my wife for a send-off dinner. There, the three girls handed me a card, a Father's Day card. Unless you've been a step-parent, it may be difficult to grasp how big that is. Although I never tried to supplant their Dad, that doesn't mean it always felt like that to them. I took the card signed by all three, opened it, and saw though blurred vision the three signatures all preceded by the word, "Love." I looked at their mother, my wife, saw her tears--some happy for me, some, no doubt, sad that the girl's father wasn't still alive-- and suddenly I felt the weight of leaving.
So, I leave tonight on my next step in life. I am excited, scared. But as I look at what I am leaving and where I was before, I am confident that no matter what is out there, I will learn from it and come back a richer man.