13 November 2009

Welcome to Hell, Part 1

It was a warm day. Warm, not hot, although my traveling buddy, Tred, would disagree. He’s from Wales, where it’s always cold, apparently. We’re sitting side-by-side in the front seat of a bus headed from Kampala, Uganda, to Nairobi, Kenya. In front of us is the huge windshield, which provides us with a great view of the passing green hills, speckled by the occasional colorful shops, goats, and naked children. Tred and I can hardly stop laughing at the crazy driver we got stuck with. He’s a huge man, easily 300 pounds—his humongous hands easily weigh at least 10 pounds apiece. And he’s got a loud, raspy voice, which hasn’t stopped invading the bus with its words and laughter since we got started. Luckily for me and Tred, neither of us speaks Swahili, so we can kind of tune him out.

I’d been looking forward to this trip for quite a long time. When most Americans say “Africa”, they are usually thinking about Kenya, with its amazing wildlife and beautiful landscapes—coasts and mountains, jungles and deserts. Now there are 53 other countries across this huge continent, the size of two North Americas, so I hadn’t yet had the chance to visit Kenya.

Now, after traveling for several hours, we were at the border between the two countries. As is the usual at customs and border stations, I anticipated a lengthy stop to get through the bureaucracy and miles of paperwork to go from one country to the next. I have to fill out an exit form for one country, an entry form for another, a visa application, etc. etc. etc. And as was expected, the process of leaving Uganda was a hassle. But, despite the border being in the middle of nowhere, the office had brand-new equipment to scan passports, and your eyes, and a couple rough personalities to go along with it. Despite having all the legal papers, I always have this subconscious fear that I will not be let out of or into the country I’m trying to. Borders can be quite intimidating, no matter how many times you’ve gone through them.

After a long wait, we got our passports stamped and proceeded through the border gate to the Kenyan customs office. I was quickly surprised at how efficient and easy it was on this side. Anyone who has traveled by land across Africa can appreciate this. There were staff telling you exactly where you needed to go. And we just had to fill out a simple form. Then, standing next to a free condom dispenser, I gave the extra friendly customs agent my passport, vaccination certificate, and $25 for the visa (down from $50 a few months earlier!). She was just happy we were coming in her country.

“So you’re from America, huh?” she said.
“Yeah”
“That’s Obama’s country! Thank you for coming! How long are you staying?” she asked.
“One week.”
“Well I’m gonna make your passport valid for 3 months, just in case you want to stay longer!”
And with a quick stamp in my passport, she handed it to me, and with a deep laugh from her bright smile, wished me a good stay. It was the easiest entry into any country I’ve ever had.

As we walked to the bus, we passed all kinds of vendors, selling everything from passport covers and boiled peanuts to cold sodas and colored cloth. And of course, there were the infamous money exchangers, who walk around with huge wads of various cash. “Do you need Kenya shillings?”
“No”
“We can exchange Uganda shillings.”
“No thanks.”
“What about British pounds?”
“I’m not British.” (I say with a jokingly disgusted look to Tred).
“We have Obama money!”
I laugh—you have to appreciate the creativity and persistence. Tred says, “I’m not American,” with a little disgust, then a smile.

As we approach the bus, a young boy of about 7 or 8 keeps telling us he wants food. He looks healthy, and I don’t have much money on me to give him. He keeps smiling and making the hand-to-mouth motion to emphasize what he’s asking for, and doesn’t believe the two mzungu’s (white people) that they have no money. I need to pee, so I ask our bus driver where the bathroom is. He motions in some random direction where the bathrooms are. So I ask the little boy where the bathrooms are, so he gladly shows me, probably expecting a tip. Although all I can give this boy today is attention.

We get back on the bus in our seats. I lean over to Tred and say, “It’s so nice to be in Kenya. I always get excited whenever I enter a country I’ve never been in!”
“Yeah, me too!”

As we drive on, we try to compare the differences between the two countries. It’s hard to notice anything at first. The only two differences were the shape of the water jugs people transported water in and the switch from “MTN” to “Safaricom” on our cell phones. After a couple hours, we arrived in the city of Kisumu. We stop here for lunch. It’s a bright city, on the banks of Lake Victoria. It’s also where Obama’s father was from, which many people happily and voluntarily pointed out to me. As I was still fasting today with my Muslim friends, I decided to skip lunch.

All politics aside, it was so neat to be in a place so proud of Obama. This is a country that just two years ago went through political violence because of a disagreement of presidential election results, resulting in many deaths. It’s also a country known for its corruption, especially in the government. For Kenyans, Obama represents a lot more than just “one of their brothers”. Sure, they’re excited a half-Kenyan became President, but it seems deeper than that, here, and all across Africa. He represents, just like George Bush did, the beacon on top of a government system that truly relies on the voice of the people. You know, I’m often asked when I am in the States what I appreciate most about being home. Honestly, democracy is probably the biggest thing I am most proud of. In America, we are truly blessed, regardless of how nasty and partisan our politics seem to get. We have a government that acts to help the people, not fill their pockets. For that, we should be thankful.

We get back on the bus behind Mr. Huge Hands and continue on our way. We both drift in and out of dazed consciousness, blurred by the constant view of the passing landscape. We can’t listen to music as the noise of the engine directly under us is too loud, not to mention Mr. Huge Hands’ continuous yelling and laughing at a seemingly imaginary audience. We approach our next stop, where we are again greeted by vendors, selling everything from swords to blankets. Up to this point, we have been traveling on relatively good roads. But as we turn onto the road to take us to Nairobi, I was blown away at the incredible condition of the road. It was in better condition than most interstates and highways in America! Clean, freshly painted, great signs and guardrails. It was incredible!

As we continued on in the Rift Valley, we passed through a game reserve, I see what appears to be a horse-shaped creature in front of us. As we got closer, I saw that it was a zebra, on the side of the road! I point it out to Tred, who’s half-asleep.
“Stop lying Cory. There’s no zebra,” he says in his strong British accent, pronouncing the e in zebra as a soft e, like in pet.
“No really, I saw a zeeebra,” I respond.
Then we pass a family of them. Tred was convinced, and I was excited—I’ve never seen one in the wild before! We then see a couple warthogs, which are probably my favorite wild animal.

Night fell, and I started to doze again. I woke up and all I saw were bright and colorful neon and plastic signs. We had made it to downtown Nairobi, an incredible city. We were passing right next to a huge shopping mall—Kenya is a far cry from Burkina Faso. We weaved around the busy streets with evening rush hour traffic, seeing the many vans, people, fashionable and walking with a purpose.. I was so excited to be in this bustling and vibrant city. With a population of 3 million, it is known as one of the wealthiest and modern cities in Africa.

It’s late, and we’re tired. So we meet up with Patrick, the Samaritan’s Purse cab driver we’ve arranged to come pick us up. He meets us, and takes to the Samaritan’s Purse apartment where we’ll be staying, which, as to my big surprise, is in one of the nicest apartment complexes I’ve ever seen! We make our way in, and quickly crash.

The next morning we wake up early, as we have a flight to catch. We’re going down to the coastal city of Mombasa, and were able to get a cheap flight. Patrick comes to take us to the airport. We get on the Kenya Airways plane, which has lion designs on the pillows, and take our seats for the short flight. As we’re flying, the captain tells us to look out the right window at Mount Kilimanjaro—the tallest peak in Africa. Its snow-covered peak towers high above the timid clouds, which seem to shy away from the mountain’s massive presence. Neither of us had seen this amazing beauty before, it was absolutely stunning.

We land at the airport, which looked like what I would picture to be on an island resort in a movie. Clean, small, but very professional. “Cute” is what I would call it, for lack of a better word. We make our way out, and decide to walk the 1 mile to the bus stop to catch a matatu, or minibus, to town. As we walk away from the airport, we pass under a sign that says “Barack Obama Road.” It’s nice to be living overseas and have the world appreciate America again. We caught a crowded matatu, and made our way into town. Following our travel guide, we found the hotel we wanted, and decided to relax for a few minutes.

We then set out to walk around this marvelous city. We passed under the famous ‘tusks’, and toured Fort Jesus, a former Portuguese fort from the late 1400s—still standing. We also walked around the city, and ended up getting extremely lost. We even passed a 400 year old mosque! I was enamored with the city! There was such diversity here! There were blacks, Arabs, Swahili (a race which resembles a cross between those two) and a lot of Indians. And no one seemed to care that I was white, a rarity in Africa.

That evening we had a nice dinner of local food, including sugar cane juice. I couldn’t wait for the next day—we were gonna go to the coast and see the famed white beaches of the Indian Ocean, an ocean I’ve never seen before!...

Coming up, hear about biking with gazelles, sea urchins in our feet, and the famous Carnivore restaurant!

18 October 2009

Home, Home on the Range

Three weeks. 7 countries. 9 airports. And countless bus stations. After all this, I have to say that I’m a little exhausted. But I’m also extremely lucky. Many people don’t even get to see more than the country they are born in.

I finished up my work in Uganda, and then headed to Kenya for a week’s vacation with my Welsh buddy Tred. We passed through Obama’s father’s home area, saw Mount Kilimanjaro, stood at the site of the 1998 U.S. Embassy bombing in Nairobi, and biked around zebras and giraffes at Hell’s Gate National Park. We even spent my birthday with a swim in the warm Indian Ocean near the port city of Mombasa before feasting at the Carnivore restaurant-a restaurant where they serve you unlimited amounts of all kinds of meat until you are stuffed. We ate for 4 hours!

After that, I took a long bus trip back to Uganda before boarding a plane to travel to Burkina to visit the village I used to live in. This Kenya --> Burkina trip took 5 days and required me to sleep in 5 different countries on 5 consecutive nights!

The continent of Africa is an amazing, vast area, of 52 very different countries. In fact, my flight from Uganda (in East Africa) to Mali (in West Africa, right beside Burkina Faso), is just as long as a trans-Atlantic flight from Europe to the States! My time spent in Uganda was wonderful, but very different than my time in Burkina.

As I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac in Bamako, the capital of Mali, the post-rain humidity surrounded me as the familiar smell of nearby cook fires and dust filled my nostrils. I was home again. As I made my way through customs and out into a taxi, the familiar sounds of the sing-song rhythm of the Jula language began to fill my ears. And once again, English slipped out of my mind as French instantly crept in. It was as if I had not spent 10 months away from this beautiful area of the world.

While in Uganda, I met some wonderful people, and learned and saw some amazing things. But I always felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because I never fully settled in one place. Maybe it was just because deep down I know that nowhere will live up to my wonderful time living in Burkina Faso.

I boarded a bus to take me back to Burkina, a trip that would take me into the following morning. As we drove along, we passed the familiar shea and mango trees, the bright green a stark contrast to the red clay they stuck out of. We passed the familiar mud huts with thatched roofs. And the familiar dry, flat landscape that follows for miles.

As we made it to the border town the following day, the policeman who was checking my passport remembered me. I remembered him too. The last time I passed through this border, he made me profess my love for Obama before allowing me to pass through.

I finally made it the town where my friends Zoom and Lassina were going to meet me with motorbikes to take me to the village. I got off the bus, and waited at the bus station. After a few minutes, the bright smile of my best friend Zoom arrived with a shiny new motorbike—his uncle’s.

After a while of catching up, we loaded up the motorbikes and headed for the village. It was so nice to be warm again! Uganda was comfortable, but chilly at times, and I (much to my mother’s dismay) love hot weather. My pores were crying out in joy at finally being able to work again!

After just over an hour (or 2 hours on a bicycle, something I all too well know), we made it back to the village. We started saying hi to everyone. It was so nice to be back, and it honestly was as if I’d never left. Sure, kids had grown some (too much if you ask me), and a few buildings here and there had changed, but the feeling was the same. The general attitude and character of the village hadn’t changed a bit.

I was so humbled at the welcome the village had given me. Just in the first afternoon, I had more visitors than I did during my Christmas visit to America last year. I quickly remembered why I loved this place so much. They make me feel like I am the most important person in their lives. I’m still trying to learn to love others with this same sense of urgency.

The only person who didn’t extend a warm welcome was Payjay, Zoom’s son, and my godson. He remembered me, and my voice, as we spoke several times on the phone in the 10 months I’d been gone. But he just happened to forget in his 2 year old little mind that I was white. So the sight of me scared him to death. He also was just getting over a bad cold, which as you know can make any youngster cranky. So it took us a few days before we were able to bond again.

As I sat there, in the warm West African sun, I realized that I was a very lucky individual. Where I was sitting had, in the two years I lived there, become home. Being back felt just like coming home, as much as coming back home to America. This may sound very strange, but it’s amazingly true.

I feel very young, as if I’m still a child in many ways. But I have been very fortunate in my short life to have experienced so much. I have lived in some very wonderful places, and met some really incredible people. I’ve made a lot of mistakes—learned from some, not from others.

When I left that beautiful mango-filled village last year, I walked away a changed man. The village had made an incredible impact on my life, and the people really had a profound impact on me. Never did I realize the difference that God had made in many of their lives through me. I was humbled to see this. A woman’s group I started as an enterprise group has now grown to over 50 women, all who have now received small loans to start small business ventures (no small task in corrupt governments). The theater group I helped form have continued to perform, and are getting requests from various villages to perform there. They even just recently received a large cash prize from the local health district!

Leaving this time was hard again, as I assume it always will be, no matter how many times I go back. Seeing Payjay’s confused face at why I have to leave will always be painful. And so will all the goodbyes with my loved ones in the village. They have opened themselves up to a relationship with someone far different from themselves, and risked loving me. I think we as Americans often think of all the help that we can provide the impoverished around the world. Sometimes, though, I think it is us that need the help. They may not have much, but they know how to love.

It is amazing to me, still, that God could take some little guy from Kentucky, and use him in a far away village.

That is why, now, looking back, I feel so incredibly lucky. Many people often ask me how I do the kind of work I do, as if it is a sacrifice. Truth is, I don’t know how I couldn’t do it. I’m incredibly blessed to be able to work with the people that I do. For me, it would be a sacrifice not to do it. I have experienced so much in my short life, and can only imagine what God has planned for me for the future.

As I sit here, in Elizabethtown, KY, it is 40 degrees outside. I don’t know how much longer I can endure these frigid temperatures, but I am going to enjoy the time with my family as I look for the next adventure I can find myself in.

In the next email, I’ll tell you a little bit more about my time in Kenya.

21 August 2009

Water Filter Pictures

These are pictures of some families in one of the villages where we offer permanent cement water filter training. We help provide some of the materials, but they do all of the labor. All of the filters pictured here were built and transported to their homes (weighing about 200 lbs.!) by their new owners! The filters provide safe drinking water to families who have no other option than boiling water. Despite the fact that this area gets over 25% more rain each year than most parts of the continental U.S., lack of water infrastructure prevents these people from having much access to clean water.












14 August 2009

Moses and the (Fast-flowing) Nile...Part 2


Then Moses said we were ready to tackle the first rapid. He apparently had more confidence in us than we did ourselves. As we headed towards the first part of the waterfall, I got real excited (and for the first time, a little nervous)...

We made it over the first part of the waterfall rapid, and then we made it over the second part no problem. We started to cheer and look around. It was then that we realized Moses was gone—nowhere to be seen! After frantically looking around, we saw him. Clamoring disgracefully back into the boat, with his mischevious smile, he told us we’d thrown him out! Clearly not a good sign for the day.
We paddled on, beginning our 35 kilometer journey on this mighty river.

On the second rapid, the intense water caused Ruco’s family’s boat to buckle under its pressure, throwing them into the angry white water, giving them quite a ride! We feared we would do the same, but luckily (or unluckily) we made it through the rapid with no problem. Laughing at our other team’s misfortune, we continued on, tackling more rapids.


Moses explained to us that these were some of the most intense rapids in the world. Many were Class V, which means they are the most dangerous rapids you can legally go on. Unfortunately, he continued to explain, the Ugandan government is building a hydroelectric dam nearby the bridge from Jinja to the capital city of Kampala. Within a year, these rapids would all be flooded out. But hopefully it will provide more people with more affordable and accessible electricity.

As we continued to hit rapid after rapid, the excitement and suspense built—would we flip, or would we not? On a small Class II rapid (a ripple, really), we hit a wave at a strange angle that caused me to be thrown out of the boat. Not that I was really disappointed. As the kayaker came to rescue me and take me back to the boat, I had to ‘beach whale’ myself back in the boat. As if the humiliation of my flopping back in wasn’t enough, everyone was so surprised that I fell out on such a small rapid that they assumed it was on purpose. Humbly, I was ready to move on.

When we reached a deep area of the river after a couple more Class V rapids, Moses told us there were no rapids for a while, so we could swim. Sporting our life vests, we dove in, and then continued on a 2 kilometer free ride down the fast moving current. Bobbing up and down, getting caught in different currents, we passed by the wonderful green scenery, greeting kids who had come to the shore to see the passing white people.


Different whirlpools would teasingly grab us and spin us before releasing us to the mercy of the fast current. This was honestly one of the most amazing parts of the day. It was wonderful just free-floating at such a fast speed on this wide, deep part of the river. And it was one of those moments in life that you just never want to end.


But all good things must come to an end, so we climbed in the boat and feasted on a carb-loaded and delicious lunch of macaroni salad and seasoned potatoes.


After lunch, it was time to tackle some more rapids. The first one we came to was a breeze. Then we hit another one. If the last one was a breeze, this one was a full-blown tornado! This time, about halfway through the rapid, we flew up into the air, and came down hard in the middle of a huge wave. The next thing I knew, I was flipping upside down and hit the angry water head-first. I counted to 5, the length of time it takes for the life vest to bob back up. I came up quickly, looking for the flipped boat. But in a cruel joke, the violent water sucked me back under to show it wasn’t done releasing its anger on me. After what seemed like a lot longer than I’m sure it was, I finally came back up and shockingly saw the boat was upright and everyone was in it.


Apparently, the wave had bent the front right side of the boat underwater, but not flipped the whole boat. So only me and Amel, the British doctor sitting behind me, were forced out. After another kayak rescue and beach whale attempt, I realized I was now the envy of ‘Team Moses’. I had seen more adventure than they had. Humility gave way to pride. I still don’t know exactly how it happened, because it felt like the boat flipped. Moses had us all put our paddles in the middle and did a “Team Moses” high-five for ‘not dying,’ as he put it!

The day continued on, including some nice calm water where we had to paddle for several kilometers, something I always find relaxing. Almost in a quick time-travel back to my childhood, I dreamed I was on some wooden canoe, 5000 years ago, on my way to make some big discovery of the pyramids (although they truthfully were thousands of kilometers away).


We then hit another rapid. This one, Moses told us to squat down in the middle of the boat and hold onto the rope with both hands. If we were thrown out on this rapid, he said, we could easily die because of the rocks. As everyone immediately looked at me, I realized I had developed a reputation.


Then it was time for the last rapid. We had to walk along the shore for the first half of the this rapid, as it was Class VI (illegal). We walked barefoot along a small trail through the jungle for about 100 meters. Tred and myself had to go hide to take a ‘short call’. Arriving at a hidden spot at the top of a hill, I had an amazing view of the surrounding landscape. Green hills, trees, and the mighty force of a river carving its way through the dense landscape with little hesitation.

Then, we hopped into the boat and finished the last half for a great conclusion to the day. Tred, myself, and everyone else had determined to flip on this one. After all, we were already all soaked from swimming, the splashing, and for some of us, being thrown in. We even worked it out with Moses on the technique to force a flip. This was gonna be really cool, or really stupid, as this was a football field’s length of fast-churning, fuming, white water.


We hit the rapid hard. We paddled, turned around, paddled, splished, splashed, flew, landed, and soared our way through this last rapid. We didn’t manage to flip, which looking at the rapid afterwards, probably was a good thing.


Hard to believe it was over, we climbed our wet selves up a steep cliff to the awaiting minibus for a nice Coke and a ride back to the start for a steak dinner!


When we got back, we were surprised to find hundreds of people around our place. Apparently Bujagali Fals are quite the tourist attraction. Even school kids from around Uganda are bussed in to see the amazing falls we had survived earlier in the day.


Much to my shame, a group of about 20 American tourists were standing on a cliff overlooking the falls, paying money to local Ugandans to dive in the rapids and try to make it out alive, with nothing more than an empty 20-liter water jug as a flotation device. Sometimes I think American tourists deserve the reputation that we have! Paying someone to kill themselves—great idea guys! At least they’ve got a picture to take back to America, as they all had bright flashy new cameras recording every death-defying moment they’d paid for.


I showered and changed clothes and went down to the reception. Waiting for my steak supper, I walked down to the river past the falls as the sun set over it. Its orange rays bounced off the water, reflecting a glow on everything around it. In the calm water, there were two boys slowly crossing on a wooden canoe. One boy was paddling in the back, and the other was laying down in the front, legs crossed and one hand behind his head, much like Moses must’ve done thousands of years ago on this same river. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are to live where they do.


P.S. Thanks to the kayaker of Equator Rafts for the pictures of us in the rafts!

06 August 2009

Moses and the (Fast-flowing) Nile...Part I

Growing up, one of the parts of the Bible that brought so much adventure to my young, wandering mind was the story of Moses. I loved how, as a baby, he took a joyride down the Nile in a basket, and ended up being able to be cared for by his mother, under the legal guardianship of the Pharaoh’s wife. To be honest, that’s a pretty awesome way to start a life.

The story of the Moses, and the subsequent history of life in Egypt, with the history of the Pyramids, and King Tut, have always been things that have fascinated me. So has the Nile.

The mighty Nile is the longest river in the world, and also happens to flow in reverse. Water in the Nile begins from Lake Victoria, in the city of Jinja (like ‘ginger’ with a thick Boston accent), Uganda, and then continues traveling through Sudan and then Egypt before spilling out into the Mediterranean Sea. It takes a reported 3 months for water to travel this long journey!

Luckily for me, at the early stages of the river, there are some amazing rapids. Some of the world’s best for white-water rafting. So you can imagine the temptation to hop into an inflatable raft and throw one’s life to the wind and take my own “Moses” journey. I had to do it!

I planned the trip with my Welsh colleague Tred over a long weekend. We had mentioned it to a couple other friends. So when the time came, there were a total of 7 of us. Me, Tred, our South African colleague Ruco, his American wife Kristi, and Ruco’s family who were in town visiting. We had booked the weekend with Equator Rafts, at a very reasonable $75 a piece, which included meals and lodging—the cheapest in the area.

We arrived in Jinja late Friday evening, and had a late supper at Ling Ling’s, one of the best Chinese restaurants I have ever been too. The sweet and sour chicken was like a little piece of heaven, especially since I mostly survive on rice, beans, and mashed plantains.

We then settled went to where we were staying. Me, Tred, and Ruco’s little brother got a dorm room, overlooking the Bujagali Falls. These falls would mark the beginning of our journey the following morning. Since we’d arrived at night, though, I couldn’t actually see the falls. But you can believe I heard them! I’ve kayaked and canoed on white water before, but never rafting. So this was definitely a new adventure for me! And rafting gives you the opportunity to go on much more difficult (and dangerous) rapids because of the nature of the boat. I was very excited!

I hadn’t seen my buddy Tred in a month and a half, so we had to catch up, and watch an episode of “The Office” (the Willy Wonka episode) on his laptop before turning into bed. Things like this are so much better when they’re with people you care about, eh?

I awoke early the next morning to the sound of rain on the tin roof, which was a big surprise since we’d been in the dry season for the last couple of months. Since no one else was awake, I put on my rain jacket and went for a walk--I had to see up close what we were going to be throwing ourselves into, literally. The falls were not falls as we think of, but more a long series of rapids and drops. The roaring sound of an oncoming army that I heard the previous night didn’t at all deceive what I actually saw.

We had a 9:30 breakfast call with our guide at the reception area down by the water. So we met up with everyone, including 4 others that would be joining our group of 7. After a nice breakfast of fresh pineapple and watermelon with some great local coffee, we got the lesson on how to put on our life vests and helmets. Enoch, the Ugandan doing the orientation, stressed the importance of this to our staying alive, which just added to our anticipation and excitement. We then walked about 200 yards to a little cove area to the side of the falls. We were split into two groups by two guides for two rafts. Ruco and Kristi and their family were assigned to Enoch’s boat. And me and Tred were assigned to the other boat, along with the 4 other out-of-towners who came for this adventure.

Our guide introduced himself to us. And his name? Moses! Would you believe it? What a coincidence! Not only would I finally be able to tackle the Nile, but I was doing it with Moses! He explained how he was born and “grew up on the banks of the Nile.” Moses was a short, small, and very dark-skinned man, with an infectious smile and an always-present and contagious excitement for the day. I was glad to be with him. We got in the boat, without trying to slip on the muddy and slippery rocks going down. My position was in the front, on the right.

In the calm water of the cove, we practiced our rowing techniques. As we looked nearby to the inevitable drop we would soon be going down, we were all mixed with excitement, regret, and a sudden urge to wet ourselves. There was talk of if we would flip in the rapids, or if we would get knocked out. Would it be possible to stay dry the whole day? (Secretly, though, staying dry was the last thing on my mind).

Then Moses answered the question. “Ok group, all move to one side. We’re going to practice how to get back in the boat after flipping.”

We all looked at each other. Moses answered our puzzled looks.

“Yes, we’re gonna flip right now!” he said with a mischievous grin.


So everyone moved to one side, and then after “1…2…3” we flipped over, on purpose. The water was surprisingly warm, and then we practiced how to climb back into the boat after flipping--a much more difficult task than one would imagine. There are two ways of doing this awkward move. You can either have someone pull you up by the shoulder pads of your life vest over the inflated hump. Or you can try to pull yourself up on the side. Either way, it puts you in a beached whale position—flopping around trying to roll back into the boat—leaving you sprawled out with arms and legs going everywhere as if you’re trying to swim on dry land. Any ounce of dignity we had went “overboard” when we did.

Then Moses said we were ready to tackle the first rapid. He apparently had more confidence in us than we did ourselves. As we headed towards the first part of the waterfall, I got real excited (and for the first time, a little nervous)...

Coming up...





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23 July 2009

A Positive Look at AIDS


AIDS. Just the mere mention of the word brings a variety of images and thoughts to people. Sympathy. Apathy. Maybe disgust. How does that feeling change when it affects someone you know or someone you care about?

I had been in Uganda only 2 weeks when I arrived in Buremba, a small village near the western border with Congo. I was doing one week rotations for a month and a half to better understand the work Samaritan’s Purse is doing in Uganda, before settling down in one place.

The night was just starting its disappearing act on the surrounding mountains as our Nissan pick-up arrived at our office in the hilltop village. Melanie, an American, was there to greet me. But before she could even say hi, a dark small child in her arms screamed “HOW ARE YOU!”-- almost a statement rather than a question. Happy at my unexpected welcome, I quickly grabbed his tiny extended hand, I responded in usual Ugandan fashion, “I’m fine.”

That hand belongs to little Elijah* (name changed), our self-appointed ‘office child’. In his short life he has already experienced a lot of sadness. He was born to a mentally disturbed woman 3 years ago, although looking at his small frame would make you believe he joined this world more recently. One day, when Elijah was about 9 months, his mother was found lying on the side of the road near Buremba. Her little son was clinging to her breast.

She was taken to the small clinic in Buremba, but died shortly after of unknown causes. Even after her death she continued to give life, as Elijah drank the nourishment from her body, deceiving the doctors into thinking she was still alive.

Mentally ill people in Uganda, and generally all over sub-Saharan Africa, do not go to institutions like we are used to in the West. They tend to wander around, getting food from some compassionate person they happen to stumble upon. Elijah’s mom had stumbled upon the village of Buremba, and no one there knew who she was or where she was from. Now, here was this little boy, born to a “mad woman” as Ugandans say, now orphaned with no family.

Luckily, a notably large woman named Mariam happened to be at the clinic that day, and following Ugandan fashion to take in the needy with no questions, decided Elijah should become part of her family. Where else would he go?

Mariam took him into her home, and slowly fed his malnourished body back to good health.

AIDS, and the HIV virus that causes it, have frankly wreaked havoc around the world. It is something that is 100% preventable and treatable (not curable), but yet it affects millions around the world, and continues to infect many more.
It is believed the virus originated from Uganda, or somewhere in central Africa, somehow making its way from apes to humans, maybe through contaminated meat. Yet the first case was found in the US in 1981, believed to have come from Haiti.

Generally, when people think of AIDS, they think of the continent of Africa. A lot of media coverage has surrounded the epidemic of AIDS in Africa, especially with rock concerts and celebrity pictures. And there are many places in sub-Saharan Africa that have high AIDS rates, and are a huge burden on these countries’ economies—for healthcare, for the work not being done because so many infected are in their prime working ages. But AIDS isn’t a problem just in Africa. In fact, there are many countries (like Burkina Faso), where the national HIV rate is actually lower than certain areas of America. And many places in eastern Europe, like Ukraine, are reaching epidemic levels themselves that are at risk of, if not stopped, possibly killing an entire generation.

After finishing my month and a half rotation, I was assigned to come and work at the Household Water Project in Buremba for the remainder of my time here in Uganda. I was very excited at this, as I knew I would be able to spend a lot more time with Elijah. I had gotten close to him in the week that I was there.

Elijah is just one of those kids that seem to steal a little bit of the sunrise’s show every morning. When he sees you, he tries to keep his small mouth from opening wide to reveal the perfect white teeth inside—he knows that when he loses control of his smile, it takes several minutes to get it back. Some kids are just born with the joy of the Lord. Elijah is one of those children. He is honestly the first child that I have known that is sad when a tickle is over, and grabs my hand to his chest when I’ve stopped, so we can have another round of him laughing so hard he forgets to breathe.

When he’s with you, his mere presence makes the worst of days into the best. If a child with a history such as his can be so happy, what is my excuse? When he’s not practicing his English to me and mispronouncing my name as “Jophesy” (I go by Joseph in Uganda), he walks around the area of our office singing the tune to “This is the day that the Lord has made.” A humbling reminder .

You can imagine the dread that spread through me when we realized the possibility of him being infected with HIV. He had been having recurring thrush of the mouth, a common sign of HIV in children. And, with his conception quite possibly being the result of an unprotected rape, there was a good chance he could be infected.

He had never been tested, for obvious reasons. Results can be scary. But Elijah had continually been getting sick, with fevers, and we knew that if he was positive, the best option would be to get him started on treatment as quickly as possible to guarantee a longer, healthier life.

Uganda has been a great example of a country’s responsibility to combat the illness, especially in the developing world. The Ugandan government in recent years has made a big push to get everyone tested. Treatment for those infected is free for life, and a lot is being done to reduce the stigma associated with AIDS patients. In fact, many Ugandans brag about when they got tested, and have no problem revealing their status. Although statistics can often be hard to get, and even harder to understand, due to the work that has been done, the rate of new infections has dramatically dropped, and infected people getting treatment has increased. There is still more room to grow, but it is a start.

I first heard about AIDS in 1991 when Magic Johnson revealed his status and retired from basketball. I remember asking my mom what AIDS was and how one got it. Wondering how to answer this question to a 7-year old, she simply said, “He inappropriately touched some girls.”

As I grew older, I learned more about AIDS, and its effects on poor countries. I learned how it was transmitted, how to prevent it, and that in 2000, there were already 70 HIV-positive people in my home area alone.

I also heard the rhetoric in the church, that AIDS is simply a result of someone’s sin. In America, it was because of all the gays. In African countries, it was because of infidelity. There was a lot of talk about not supporting AIDS, because it was a punishment from God. Why should we support something that is prevented if people control themselves? Most charitable donations for medicine went to diseases that are completely ‘preventable’, like obesity and heart disease. Funny how we turn a blind eye on some of our own problems, huh? In fact, there was very little funding for HIV research until the 21st century, almost 20 years after the first documented case.

As I got older and started to do more research, I learned more about AIDS. I studied it, took classes on it, taught about it in middle schools, but I had never really been around someone with it.

Before moving to Burkina Faso in 2006, the Peace Corps asked me to take an AIDS course run by the American Red Cross. So I signed up and went on a cool spring morning to a classroom of about 13 people.

The teacher walked in shortly thereafter, and we began the class. It was a short class, just a couple hours, but I was shocked and angered by what she said. We had watched a few videos, and then she explained that in order to avoid getting infected, we should avoid all homosexuals and not eat with anyone infected! Seriously!

Well, you can imagine the reaction from the class. We all tried to calmly correct her, and she accepted our corrections, apologetically saying she was just a fill-in teacher. But what shocked me the most was how ignorant she, and so many others can be about the disease. In addition, why does it matter to so many people who others have sex with? We spend so much time hating others for things that are not really our business in the first place, that we continue to spread ignorance about problems like HIV. When we should all have a good understanding of the disease and try to move forward, like Ugandans.


Sex is a topic not discussed in the places it should be, like churches and homes. We avoid talks about sex, as if it doesn’t happen, despite the fact that there are almost 7 billion people in the world. They had to get here somehow, didn’t they? Frankly I think we should take more initiative and learn to talk about the spread of HIV. For example, instead of saying it is spread by bodily fluids (misleading people into thinking this includes spit and sweat), we should not be too immature to say things like semen, vaginal fluid, and blood. Education really is the key to understanding and stopping this problem.

I talked with Elijah’s guardian mother, and we set a date to go get him tested. After failing a couple times, as the local government run clinic is rife with corrupt health staff that often don’t show up for work, we decided to take him to the private clinic. The price for the test -- $2.50.

The walk to the nearby clinic was somber. In fact, I was surprised how easy it was to take him. He showed many of the signs of HIV, and a test would merely let us know what already was. We arrived at the clinic, talked a couple things over with the nurse, and then he took an alcohol swab, cleaned Elijah’s dusty arm, and pricked him with the needle.

Now I know many adults that have a very hard time getting blood drawn. So it must be traumatic for a 3 year old. Elijah immediately started crying and trying with his free hand to pry the nurse’s hand away. We calmed him, and after a few long seconds, they had the blood they needed..

I made Elijah give me our trademark fist bump, and a smile came to his face as the passing dusty wind dried his big tears. They said it would take about an hour to get the results

We walked back to our office with his guardian, and she returned to her nearby restaurant. It was 10:50. I realized the next hour would be the longest hour of my life. We put a band-aid on Elijah’s arm, and then I hopped on my computer and started working. I tried to keep myself distracted, but every time I looked at the clock it just seemed to be going by slower and slower.

11:05…

11:15…

11:20…

Finally, at 11:45, it was time to go. This time, the walk seemed much longer than when we first took him an hour ago. Every step was a step towards the inevitable bad news. A thousand reasons why I should turn around and go back with the easy current of ignorance of his status, but one good reason why I should continue.

Few words were spoken, and we arrived at the clinic. The nurse, Adam, gave us the paper and said the other nurse would be with us shortly. I looked at it. Gibberish, at best, was all I saw. Next to his status was “CHR”. None of us had a clue what that meant.
The other nurse, Innocent (seriously his name), grabbed the paper, looked at us, and said, “Negative.”
“What?” we asked, wanting to make sure that we had heard correctly.
“He’s negative. Elijah is negative, he doesn’t have HIV. Congratulations.”

A wave of emotion swept over me. I had convinced myself so much that he was positive, that it was a huge surprise, albeit pleasant. It was such a huge relief I could barely hold back the inundation of emotions going through my mind. All we could manage to say, was, “Well, that’s good. Praise God!”

You know, I have studied a lot about AIDS, worked on AIDS outreach activities, and known people that are HIV positive. But this is the first time it affected someone I care deeply about. Elijah doesn’t have any real parents, so there are many of us that fill in that void for him. If he had been positive, we would have dealt with it. I don’t know what it’s like to have a loved one infected with the death sentence. And hopefully, I will never have to know. But regardless, millions of people around the world are suffering. Science is working on a cure and a vaccine, but have not yet found either. So in the meantime, we should be educated about this disease, which is not just in Africa.

We need to be smart. And regardless of what people do in the bedroom, AIDS is not a punishment. We all sin. And many people, like children, have nothing to do with their status. There are other ways of getting HIV than sex. And even if it was, all of us struggle in life (hence the aforementioned obesity and heart disease problems in America). Plus, AIDS is everywhere, in every community around the world. Let’s join together to stop this epidemic from continuing to spread.

11 July 2009

What the Heck Am I Doing? (Part 2)



(continued after having ‘gone fishing’…)

Later on that evening, another livestock professional, Isaac, joins us, and we travel about an hour and a half to visit a bee farm which is used to harvest honey. In this particular case, Samaritan’s Purse provides 3 Kenyan beehives to a farmer who has met the qualifications, who will use those hives to attract bees, sell honey, and reimburse the price of the hives. Samaritan’s Purse can then take the money and buy 3 new hives to give to someone else, who will then do the same thing. But in order to work with the bees, we have to wait till the sun goes down because the bees are out pollinating in the daytime, and at dusk they are returning, and are too ‘hostile’ if we try to mess with them, so I’m told.

So Isaac, the SP bee expert, explains to me the many fascinating facts about bees. Like, for instance, the queen bee is simply an average female worker bee who has been fed on ‘royal jelly’ since birth, a diet different than given to other female bees, which stay small and live shorter lives. Or like the sad fact that male bees only live to the age of a few months when they can mate with the queen bee. However, the ‘act’ of impregnating the queen bee is, how should I say, quite ‘exhausting’, because they automatically die after the fact. Poor guys.

So after learning all about bees and beehives and the sad life of a male bee, we sit down to eat some jack fruit, something Ugandans say is unique to Uganda (although a quick search on Google says otherwise). The tree itself resembles a cashew tree, but the fruit is huge, about the size of an elongated basketball, and is the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s pea green and covered in lumps. But oh the joy of what’s inside! The fruit tastes like a mixture of mango, papaya, and banana. So we peal open the jack fruit and pick through the tofu-like texture and enjoy the heavenly treat. Then, after eating more than we probably should have, we scrub our hands and mouths because of the glue-like residue that is left after eating the fruit.

Then we have to put on our safety suits. You all have seen them, the body-suit with a screen on the face that makes you look like you just stepped off of a space ship. The process starts by putting on the body part of the suit, which has elastics around the ankles and wrists, which will tightly cover the protective gloves and rubber boots I then put on after. I then put on a straw hat, whose purpose is to keep the screen away from my face, and is much too small for my head, and then the hood is zipped up to the screen. The white hood that is now pointing up on all three of us strangely reminds me of a time best forgotten in America’s history. Ironically, I’m in the place where the victims of men in those suits were originally taken from.

“Don’t let the screen touch your face, or the bees will sting right through it!” I’m beginning to, once again, ask myself what the heck I’m doing here. They get the ‘smoker’ ready, which they tell me is used to calm the bees. However, they use dried cow manure as fuel for the smoke. While I have full trust in Isaac and the beekeeper, the last thing in the world that would ever calm me down is the smell of burning cow manure. So we enter the mud, chicken wire and tin roof structure where the noisy bees are all getting tucked in for the night. Isaac starts to ‘smoke’ the first hive, and the surprisingly non-manure smelling smoke instantly surrounds us, stinging my throat but not making me cough, reminding me of the time much earlier in my life when I tried a cigarette for the first time.

My job is to hold the cell phone, which has a small flashlight on the end (one of the greatest ideas ever, Nokia, we should have that in America!) so that the two others can do their work. The beekeeper opens up the tin lid of the first wooden hive, and instantly the bees get really angry, slightly ‘calm’ from the smoke, or so I’m told. But they immediately start flying around us, and landing on my face screen. Now, I have been stung many times in my life, the product of growing up in the country and my parents (rightfully so) not letting us play much Nintendo or watch much TV. I’m not too afraid of bees, or so I thought. Until they start landing on the screen on my face and surrounding all three of us with their noisy wings. All of a sudden I don’t have as much confidence in my suit, and all I can think about is trying to keep my big nose from touching the screen. Getting stung on your ankle or arm is one thing, getting stung on your nose is another.

As Isaac continues to spread cow manure particles in the air, I take a look inside the hive, expecting something very intricate, with colors and mazes. It’s quite simple, though. It’s just a row of about 15 honeycombs exactly the same width apart. Lifting out one of the combs, the beekeeper takes a paintbrush and brushes the bees off the comb to take a closer look at it. He shows me how to see if the honey is ready or not, by the color of the wax coating on the comb. He then pulls out a few more, and I look inside.

Isaac tells me that no matter how hard you try, you can never find the queen. The other bees hide her really well. They don’t want to lose the life source of the hive. Although, if she is attacked by a ‘spy’ bee from another hive, it only takes 3 days to make a new queen apparently. Talk about quick turnover.

Now, I have to be honest, I’m really trying to figure out how I got myself into this mess by this point. I’m told my suit will protect me, but I have thousands of bees angrily flying around me trying to figure out how to sneak into my suit and ambush me. Despite the nylon material of the suit, the bees can somehow stick to it, mainly accumulating around my butt. The beekeeper says they are attracted to human pheromones, naturally coming out of the butt. I try to find the humor in this, but there are literally a hundred bees clinging on to dear life in a region of my body where, let’s just say, a sting would really hurt. So I tell myself I will laugh about it later.

With his cow dung apparatus in hand, Isaac says, “Can I smoke you?”

“I don’t know, can you?” I ask him.

If he sprays the cow dung smoke at my butt, the bees will dissipate, he says. So he sprays the cow manure smoke at my rear. Talk about what goes around, comes around!

We move to another hive, and look at three more, as the beekeeper observes the bees and harvests honey, with nothing more than a tiny flashlight on the end of a Nokia phone. After we are done with that, we move outside and inspect the combs that we have taken off. We still keep our suits on. I have seen pictures of people working with hives, and after watching “The Secret Life of Bees” with my mom a few months ago, I have been even more interested in trying this out. And now that I have, all I can think about is how I’m ready to take this racist deathtrap spacesuit off of me and run away. But I can’t, just yet, as the beekeeper asks me to hold the little light as he inspects the honeycombs before we can leave. After that is done, Isaac smokes us all again. And then we take turns using avocado branches and a paintbrush to wipe off the bees still clinging to our hindquarters, among other places.

As we start to walk away, it sounds to me like a bee is inside my suit. I think to myself I must be going crazy. Surely this spaceman outfit is bee-proof. Then I see it, the brave little soul, on the inside of my face mask right above my right eye. Talk about panic. I take my hands and squish him, praying I kill him with my over sized gloves without letting him sting me in the face.

Then I hear the same sound again! And then I see it, the dead bee’s best friend, that little follower! So he suffers the same fate. By this time, I am hollering at Isaac that I have bees on the inside of my suit. Who knows how many?!? My heart is beating like a racehorse as I know that the bees will all sting me at once in some organized conspiracy.

“Hang on, let me come unzip you!” The way these suits are made, they are zipped and unzipped from the outside. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t about to rip it off in some Hulk Hogan-like charade. But Isaac comes and unzips me and I am out of that suit in no time!

WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING HERE?!?!

I counted at least 10 little buggers flying around the inside of my suit. I have no idea how I didn’t get stung. But I can say that working with bees is not something I feel God has called me to do as a lifelong career.

We take off all our gloves and things. Somehow I seem to be the only one lucky enough to have gotten intimate with the bees. After a few minutes, Isaac calls me over.

Through Isaac’s translating, the beekeeper hands me a honeycomb and tells me to enjoy! I know this is a sacrifice for him, as honey is expensive and he will be able to sell it for a hefty profit. But he is thankful for my coming and helping him, and wants me to share in the spoils. I take the sticky, drippy honeycomb and put it in my mouth. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was one of the most amazing tastes I have ever had. Fresh from the hive! And all made possible because of a small loan. Because it is so sweet, I cannot finish my portion. So the beekeeper tears off a large banana leaf and wraps up the rest for me to take with me.

This is why I’ve come here, this is why I risk being attacked by angry bees. This man is happy, and able to supplement his income, and is so grateful that he is sharing his profit with me.

As we get in the truck and drive away, the cool air bringing with it drowsiness, Isaac speaks up and tells me to be careful. The bees can cling to the inside of my clothes, unknowingly to me, and sleep for a while. Even after an hour and a half drive, they can wake up and sting me!

The joy starts to fade away as I again ask myself the question that has been plaguing me all day. Until the honeycomb starts to leak out of the banana leaf onto my hand and I get to taste again the sweetness of my work.
Cory Fish
Samaritan's Purse
P.O. Box 21810
Kampala, UGANDA
P.S. Happy Birthday to my Mom on June 29!

11 June 2009

Men are the Same

**Please be aware that this story deals with violence and may be uncomfortable for some to read.

There are some things that should just never happen to anyone. Some things that are so awful that it is hard to imagine they actually ever happened. Some things that there are really no words to comfort those affected, or to make anyone else understand. Recently, I went to a place where one such thing happened.

The sun was just finishing its days work and starting to let the brown earth cool as George and I cleared over a hill on a motorbike, revealing before us miles and miles of a dusky flat green plain. We are about a mile away from the village of Barlonya, in northern Uganda.

“What does ‘Barlonya’ mean?” I ask George, my Ugandan counterpart in this week of monitoring AIDS education groups.

“Field of richness,” he replies.

He is taking me to this village about 7 kilometers from the village of Ogur where we are staying. He says it is important for foreigners to understand problems in other countries, especially places the rest of the world turns its back to. A way for the cries of the powerless to be heard.

Northern Uganda has been recovering from the effects of a recent civil war. But by civil war, it politically had nothing to do with the majority of Ugandans, and very few initiated any fighting. What was happening was a group of rebels, called the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) began attacking many villages to try to take over the country. They terrorized people and abducted children to be soldiers. As a result, most people fled to IDP (internally displaced people) refugee camps, protected by the Ugandan military. They were refugees in their own country. Anyone found outside of these camps risked being abducted, raped, and/or killed by the rebels.

One of these camps used to be found in Barlonya, which was the site of a major attack on innocent civilians by the LRA in 2004, one of the bloodiest days of the war. George is taking me to the memorial site in Barlonya, along with the mass grave, that were constructed by soldiers and the Ugandan government after the attack.

Our motorcycle reaches the middle of town where there are several groups of 10-15 men standing around chatting, telling about their day’s adventures, no doubt. Being a white man attracts the stares of many, something I am still uncomfortable with, despite the fact that it hasn’t changed in 3 years. Their stares seem to ask me where I am from and why in the world I am in their village. I start to ask myself the same question.

I feel ashamed, embarrassed almost. What do they think of me? Do they think I’m a wealthy tourist coming to see the horrors that happened? Why do I deserve to come see this memorial? I didn’t suffer anything for it. My life has been relatively easy, and is obvious by the still-new clothes from Target I’m wearing and the 10 pounds of extra fat I could do with getting rid of. Their life has been a struggle. Mine hasn’t. But George assures me these people think none of these things—they’re just indifferent to it all.

We approach the memorial, surrounded by concrete slab that is the mass grave. It resembles a curving sidewalk. 400 bodies lie underneath it. Maybe 450, no way to tell. Even more rotted in the woods around.

The memorial is large, and comprised of several white tile steps leading up to a platform with a wide concrete pillar on it, resembling a large headstone. We pull up in the opening of the line of mass graves which appears to make a wide circle around the memorial. I am not sure how to act in this situation, where to step, what to say, how to look. But chickens and goats are walking around this large circle. And people are walking around, almost oblivious to the memorial, simply stepping on the grave as if it simply part of the landscape. A small hurdle to get over while carrying water to their house. Maybe they’ve just moved on. Maybe they feel that it’s easier to step over the grave than move around it, as if doing so would bring back memories of the atrocities they encountered 5 years ago.

We approach the memorial and step up to look at the small brass plaque that is in the middle of pillar/headstone on the memorial. The plaque reads, “In loving memory of the 121 innocent civilians who—”

George interrupts me, “The government is embarrassed by its military’s inaction in defending the people, so they’ve minimized the number so it’s not quite as big.”

If they wrote a more accurate number, it would just make their mistake even bigger.

“They even chose an odd number to make it look like it wasn’t even rounded!” he says.

But the people don’t seem to care. Most of them have more things to worry about, like moving on with their lives.

As George is telling me about what happened, two boys ride up on a bicycle to see what this white guy is doing at their memorial. The one who is pedaling is black as night, but with an innocent face. The one riding on the back is lighter-skinned and looks more mischevious. I ask George to translate some things for me that I want to ask.

So I proceed to ask them if they were around when there was the attack. They both said yes, and started to tell us what happened.

A man from the camp had gone out to the bush to check on some locally-made beehives that he keeps in some trees. When he got close, he found the rebel army eating his honey, so he rushed back to the camp to inform the government army that the rebels were on their way.

Although it is believed the rebels were planning to attack the village at night, the boys say the rebels must have seen the man and rushed to attack the village before the army had time to assemble or people had time to escape.

“What time of day did they attack?” I ask

“Right about now” they say. A chill runs down my spine.

“Right over there on behind that hill,” the boys point to where the rebels came from, the opposite direction from where we came.

The rebels shot a few bombs at the area where the government soldier’s barracks were, then separated into three groups to attack the village. Armed with machetes, guns, and torches, they forced people into their mud homes with thatched roofs and then lit them on fire. Ripping babies from mother’s arms and throwing them, along with many elderly into the burning buildings, it was clear the rebels were trying to kill everyone. People who tried to escape were shot at, or whacked with machetes.

People had only two options, burn to death or get shot at while trying to come out of the burning homes.

“How did you get away?” I hesitantly asked the boys.

“I just ran when I first heard the attack,” said the dark one. “I just ran. Some of the child soldiers tried to grab me and hit me with their machetes but I was able to get away because of all the people.”

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“I just ran along the main road all the way to Ogur. I didn’t stop, not even once.”

Another chill runs through me as I realize that is the same road that I just came down, in the opposite direction, with the ease of a motorcycle. It’s 7 kilometers.

“Do you see all shea trees around?” the boy asks me.

I do see them all, and am quite surprised at the large number of shea trees around because I haven’t seen many of them in this area.

“People would hide behind the trees as they were running so they wouldn’t get shot,” the boy says.

George says Barlonya gets its name because of the rich soil that is here, making it easy for shea trees to grow, among other things. I don’t want to look at the ground, though, as if doing so would force me to see the rivers of blood that must have flowed 5 years ago.

George asks the boy if he lost anyone in the attack.

The boy looks away, appearing to try to remember. Maybe he’s just trying to forget. With a soft voice, and a tear forming in his eye, he replies, “Yes, I lost my father. He was shot by the rebels.” Luckily the rest of his family made it away safely, although he says his mother has never been the same. Sadly, most other people of Barlonya have similar stories. Many fathers, and mothers, and best friends, and cousins, and people’s favorite shopkeepers—over 400 of them—unnecessarily lost their lives that day. I don’t really know what to say, not that anything I could possibly say would be of any possible benefit to this boy.

“How old are you?” I ask him.

“13”, which means he was a mere 8 years old when all of this happened.

An eery feeling sweeps over me again. I knew what I was coming to see, and had heard the story before, but being here, in the blood-soaked soil, reality seems to hit. As I look out at the mass grave, George tells me that the after the attack the government soldiers grabbed all the bodies and simply buried them, 4-5 people high, in a trench, in order to try to hide their mistake in not reacting to the attack and allowing so many people to fail. Maybe the people stepping on it are showing an act of rebellion.

As I look closer at the white concrete contrasting to the dark soil, I realize it is not a circle, but just two sides bending about halfway past the memorial. As I look closer, I notice the two sides of the mass grave resemble two arms, open as if asking for something. Asking for mercy. Or possibly forgiveness. Or perhaps just reaching out to God because there was nothing else to hold onto.

George asks me if I’m ready to go, which I am. The sun is almost gone now, and we thank the boys for talking with us. I take one last look at the memorial, almost in disbelief, and climb onto the motorcycle as we drive away.

The shea trees now are silhouetted against the evening sky, reminding me of how I’m easily riding away down this same path the boy had to run for his life on just a few years ago.

As we ride along, I think to myself how awful some people can become. Joseph Kony, the leader of the LRA, says that his army is trying to take over in the name of Jesus Christ because God told him to do so to enforce the Ten Commandments. I wonder if people in this area view all Christians like this, the same way that so many Americans view all Muslims based on the attacks of a few terrorists. Kony, much like Osama bin Laden, claims that the Lord has instructed him to do these awful things.

As we continue, we come to the village between Barlonya and Ogur. It is called Cooromo, which George tells me means “Men are the same.” Are they? How could one man do so much harm to so many? Would we in America do the same? Then I think to myself, we often have. We can call it many things, and say we do it for many reasons, but many innocent women and children have died in the wars that my country has engaged in, most recently Iraq. Some wars are justified (to some anyway), but the truth is that war really just ends up in many deaths, and in recent history (like Barlonya or Iraq), the deaths of those not at all involved in the struggle. Maybe all men really are the same, at least without God's help.

As we approach Ogur, I am glad to be removed from Barlonya. It is painful to be there, to realize that you are standing where so many people brutally lost their lives. But I also feel guilty for even thinking that. I hopefully will never know what pain these people went through. And my pain at hearing it will never take the place of the pain they experienced.

But I do find comfort and hope knowing that this is far behind them. And they have moved on, out of necessity. The war was officially over about 2 years ago, and most people in this area have started their lives over. Kony is no longer in Uganda, he has moved onto Sudan and the Congo. But his effect still stains the memory of thousands, and after today, one more. And all I can think to myself is, this should never happen to anyone.

Cory Fish

Samaritan's Purse

P.O. Box 21810

Kampala, UGANDA

+256 783 594 830